Logging my first run of 2025
The New Year is not yet five hours old. Just twelve hours earlier
I had completed a marathon. 26.2 miles across the south of London from Richmond
upon Thames to my home in Lewisham. Now I was preparing to run another one. Back-to-back
marathons over New Year.
This had become a tradition. Book end the year with
marathons. A tradition that was a year old. In other words, I did it last year,
so now I have to do it every year. I wasn’t alone in this though. My equally
obsessed running friend Matt Shimwell ran with me last year and is joining me
again to welcome in 2025.
Yesterday we had taken the train to Richmond on Thames and
then followed a section of the Capital Ring home. The Capital Ring is unsurprisingly
just what it describes, a circular route around London. It takes in many of the
city’s plentiful green spaces and passes close to both our respective homes.
Four years ago Matt and I had set out together to run the
whole 78 miles of the Capital Ring together. In one go. It’s how we met. I was
moving to London from Folkestone on the south coast. I didn’t know anyone in
the area, so looked up local running groups on social media as a way to meet
new people. A post in one of these groups caught my attention. A guy was
planning to run the Capital Ring and wondered if anyone wanted to join him.
Always up for a challenge I replied saying I would be interested.
Six months later I was living in Hither Green, Lewisham.
Matt and I had met once. A short jog around the local park to check that we
could put up with each other and that it was a serious plan. It seemed like it
was on, Covid lockdown rules permitting.
On October 19th 2020 we met up again for a 4am
start, aiming to complete the Capital Ring. That run cemented our friendship –
it was make or break to be honest. He finished the complete distance at 23:30
that night. I had to pull out after 50 miles with sickness and knee pain.
Back then we had run the ring clockwise with the first
stretch in the dark taking us towards Richmond upon Thames. This time we ran
this section in reverse. We climbed to Richmond Park and stopped to watch the
deer. Wimbledon Common with its famous windmill was next before passing the famous
tennis club. Three commons – Wandsworth, Tooting and Streatham – brought us to
Crystal Palace, home of the famed dinosaur sculptures. From there the Green
Chain* route linked up smaller local parks back to home in Hither Green.
*The Green Chain is a 50-mile route joining green spaces
together within south-east London. It incorporates parks, woodland, fields, commons,
pocket parks, river trails and alleys. There are eleven sections that branch
out in different directions meaning that it seems to crop up all over the
place.
Fast forward twelve hours during which I showered, ate and
slept. It was now 5:00 am on New Year’s Day. People are making their way home
from all night parties. Others are about to wake to a serious hangover. The
sensible ones are about to have a long lie in and relaxed start to the year. I am
lacing up my trainers.
Matt arrived a few minutes later and took the opportunity to
remove his long-sleeved jacket. “It’s really mild” he advised. I could see the
sweat on his head already. Despite the darkness there was a distinct feel of
autumn. The wind was gusting strongly, but it was dry and neither of us needed
more than a t-shirt beneath our back packs.
I put my jacked it my bag. “Ready?” I asked.
“Let’s do it.” He agreed. I started my watch, and we were
off.
I should mention here that this was also the first stage of
a training plan. There were just eleven weeks to go before we attempted our
next big challenge – the Wainwright Coast to Coast path. 192 miles across the
north of England in five days from St Bees in Cumbria to Robin’s Hood Bay in Yorkshire.
We would be carrying everything with us on that run and so I
had filled my bag with a large quantity of clothing and added a log for weight.
Yes, a log. I needed something heavy, and it was the first thing that came to
hand. I removed it from the pile next to the wood burner and swaddled it in a
towel to prevent chafing or splinters. I named him Sir Log as it was going to
be a slog. A couple of pork pies, an apple, salt tablets and two flasks of
water (one with electrolytes) completed the kit.
We set off through the illuminated suburban terraced
streets. Foxes skulked by and eyeballed us warily. There were few other signs
of life. Birds still slept, the dawn chorus remained hours away. The roads
eerily deserted. Christmas lights blinked on and off and inflatable snowmen and
Santas sagged sleepily.
“Doesn’t it feel good to be starting the year like this.” I
said smugly.
“Yes, while everyone else is still recovering from a late
night. “Agreed Matt. “What time did you get to bed in the end?”
“I was in bed just after nine and lights out by ten.” Not
something my younger self would have been impressed by. Now in my peak years
(40’s are peak years right?) it was a badge of honour. “Woke up when the
fireworks all went off, but then fell back to sleep enjoying my warm bed and
not having to worry about the train home.”
This smug exchange was a repeat of last year. Part of the
tradition. There would be another bout of smugness when we finished.
We were at the same time aware that running marathons back
to back over New year is not something the majority of people would envy. In
fact, they would be well within their rights to see us running and feel smug
that they had enjoyed a great night out with friends and were now tucked up in
a warm, dry bed.
Despite being mild there was a gusty breeze. Storm warnings
were in place. Hogmanay had been cancelled in Scotland and the high winds and
rain were on their way south. They were expected to hit around 10am. We hoped
to have most of the run done by then.
The plan was to head to the Thames north of us before
following it eastward to Erith (wind assisted). We would then return through
various woods and parks, sticking to the Green Chain as much as possible back
to home.
Blackheath is a high point above the Thames. A vast flat
area of grassland cris crossed by paths, cycle paths and roads. We arrived
there with the wind at our backs and enjoyed being propelled across while
following the trail of Victorian lampposts, their warm glow reflected in the
surface of the ponds where ducks and geese drifted sleepily.
The clouds, lit from below by the city’s artificial glow, scudded
overhead racing towards the coast beyond the Thames Estuary.
I felt good considering the mileage in my legs. A niggle in
my left knee was annoying but not concerning. My shoulders were complaining
about the weight, but that was to be expected. I would have to get used to it
with five long days carrying all my kit coming soon.
The empty roads began to descend to sea level once we
reached Charlton Park. Before long the Thames River was in sight. Ten shiny
silver, metallic shark fin gates towered above the water. The Thames Barrier. Amber
spotlights along the 520m span revealed a muddy bankside and a low tide heading
out to sea.
The water surging past us had travelled from its source in the
Cotswolds over 200 miles away. Springs bubbled up from Limestone aquifers and
made their way through chalk streams, increasing in volume as the Thames (or
Isis as it is sometimes known) flowed west to east across England. At Teddington
Lock the river became tidal passing through numerous man-made locks and under 28
bridges before reaching the Barrier before us. Later it would disgorge into the
North Sea.
With the gusting wind and tide leading the way we joined in
heading east along the Thames Path. The first birds were beginning to stir. A
robin trilled and crows circling above let out less inspiring caws. The north bank
of the estuary was lit brightly by hundreds of blinding white lights. An
industrial zone of factories and shipping. There was little movement, the
lights probably serving more as a security feature. On our southern bank
apartment blocks towered overhead. Some lights glowed in the windows above, but
otherwise stillness.
No people, and no toilets.
“I need to stop for a moment.” I said.
“Already?” Matt laughed.
“Just look the other way, I won’t be long. I have paper.”
“Here, borrow my head torch.”
I crawled into a thicket above the mudflats. Squatting down I
did what I needed to do. Not easy with a dodgy knee. Not easy with good knees.
The problem with running so early in the morning is the lack
of time to ensure you are fully ‘prepared’. Not that most runners I meet are
prudish. I’ll never forget my first Great North Run. I don’t remember it for
the experience of running 13.1 miles through Newcastle and Gateshead, the
cheering crowds, crossing the Tyne Bridge as the Red Arrows flew above, that
long awaited finishing straight along the coast. No, my most distinct memory of
that day is standing in the pen at the start and seeing dozens of runners,
women as well as men, squatting on the hill beside us relieving themselves.
“All done.” I announced proudly and we were off again. My
knee still hurt and I knew it was getting worse. It was manageable though. The
miles were passing and we took time to walk occasionally. It wasn’t a race.
Housing gave way to industry as we approached Crossness
Pumping Station.
“Wow, smell that!” exclaimed Matt, forgetting that I have no
sense of smell. “The stink of sh*t”
“I don’t know what you’re complaining about.” I replied.
“Oh, yeah. Sorry.” He apologised.
I have anosmia meaning that I was born without a sense of
smell. Sadly, it means I can’t enjoy pleasant aromas either, but at times like
this I’m grateful.
“Maybe we should rest here for a minute.” I joked. Matt
didn’t laugh. He must have been holding his breath.
Despite the pungent odour reportedly emanating from the
location, the pumping station is an impressive sight. Built in the mid-19th
Century it is now a Grade 1 listed building famous for its ornamental cast
ironwork. This original station is no longer in use, but sewage treatment
continues on site.
The river curved south past giant conveyer belts and ugly manufacturing plants. The fence to our right let out a wail as the wind blew at speed through the wire mesh. The sky was beginning to lighten but the leaden sky meant there would be no sunrise to herald the new year.
“We must be turning off soon?” I suggested.
Sure enough a mile or so later we turned away from the river.
The Thames continued its course towards the Queen Elizabeth Bridge. Two red
lights, one on the top of each tower, marked its location a few miles
downstream.
Facing homeward meant the wind was now a foe rather than our
friend. After a brief battering we were soon able to slip into woodland where
we were protected from the worst of the gales. The bare branches overhead bent
and swung in the wind. The roar of the gusts through the tree limbs was our
soundscape. A few trees had recently fallen. The ground was thick with crisp
leaves. The trail was soft but dry due to a rainless spell. We were thankful
for that.
Small woodland birds including wrens, great tits and
chaffinches darted through the brambles and holly bushes. Jays and Magpies
swooped through the undergrowth ahead of us, white flashes in the fading gloom.
Branches caused us to duck our heads, while roots kept us on our toes. You have
to look ahead, up and down seemingly all at the same time. It’s amazing how the
brain managed all this information while simultaneously regulating the heart,
lungs, arms, legs and other bodily functions.
For the first time since Blackheath elevation became a
factor. Frank’s Wood, Lesnes Abbey Woods and Bostall Woods provided a
counterpoint to the three commons of the day before. Rather than flat, open
expanses we were contending with narrow, winding, hilly trails that steadily
climbed.
I love this type of running. Surrounded by nature, mindful,
present, technical terrain. Just a shame about the pain that had now spread
across my kneecap.
“How’s the knee?” Matt asked regularly.
“Fine” I always replied “It’ll get me home.”
I hoped it would. I knew I was risking losing a few days of
running, but I also knew I had been overdoing it and would continue to push too
hard unless forced by circumstance to rest. This was a warning.
Exiting Bostall Woods onto the Heath the darkness had
lifted. Not that it was particularly bright, but we could see the path before
us. We also noticed the wind had increased and the rain was starting.
Thankfully it wasn’t too hard and there was no need to layer up.
We battled on into the squall. “I could do with an English
breakfast right now.” I salivated.
“Black pudding.” Matt added without the need for verbs.
“And a coffee…” I sighed.
The best we could do was a sausage roll and a Mars bar each.
A salt tablet and a sip of electrolyte wasn’t any match for an oat latte, bacon
and egg, but we had to keep fuelled.
The home stretch. Passing across Winn’s Common we began to
climb again, more steeply this time. Hands on legs, it was uphill for the next
few miles through Shrewsbury Park and to the summit of Shooter’s Hill. We took
a moment to look back at the view below of the River Thames and the factories
that we had recently passed.
“Not quite the Lake District is it?” I commented
“No, these climbs are going to feel like flats compared to
that.” Matt acknowledged. “Still, we’ll get some more training runs in before
March and we’ll have all day to complete the runs. We’ve just got to enjoy it.”
“We’ll be fine.” I hedged. “I can imagine future us laughing
their heads off right now.”
With less than ten miles to go I knew that my knee would
hold out. I hadn’t managed to run it off, but it hadn’t got any worse. Nothing
some ice and a rest wouldn’t sort out.
Oxleas Wood was familiar territory and all downhill towards
Eltham. This is a route I have done dozens of times. In some ways this
familiarity makes it easier. I know I’m close to home. In other ways it is
tougher. I know how far away I am from home.
Walking breaks became more frequent as did Matt’s apologies.
I knew he felt he was slowing us down.
“Can we walk? Sorry.”
“It’s not about time.” I assured him. “In fact when we do
the Coast to Coast we will need to pace ourselves. Walking breaks and eating
regularly will be vital.”
“Sorry. You’re right” he apologised again.
It’s a habit. Since I first ran with him on that Capital Ring
adventure he has continuously apologised. None more so than when I paced the
last 25 miles of his 100 miler. To be fair he was suffering. Almost 24 hours of
hilly running will do that to you.
“Sorry” he would say every 30 seconds or so.
“Why are you apologising?” I asked.
“Sorry” he would reply.
It is now a running joke, literally and figuratively. He
gets his own back mind you. My failure to open any of the gates we came across
on that run has also become a constant source of mockery. I often wonder what
other competitors thought seeing the fresh pacer waiting for the exhausted
runner to hobble past, open the gate and allow him to pass through.
“You only had one job” he often reminds me.
Once past Eltham Palace and across the A20 we were on home
turf. My knee was painful, but I’d made it. The forecasted rain hadn’t yet
arrived (in two hours it would come with a vengeance.)
2025 was only eleven hours old and we had already run a
marathon. I told you there would be more smugness. I wished Matt Happy New Year
and headed home with my log.
Once showered and changed, I sat down with the coffee I had
craved since Lesnes Abbey Woods and placed a packet of frozen peas on my knee. The
wind howled through the gaps in the sash windows. The rain began to pelt the
glass. Darkness had descended once more despite sunset still being four hours
away. It had turned colder. I removed
the peas and stood up. I took Sir Log out of my backpack, thanked him for his
company that morning, placed him in the wood burner and lit a match.
