Second Time Around the Winter Downs

Guest blog post by Kevin Munt

As I sit in the cold alpine air sipping coffee and eating warm buttered toast. My view is filled with the eastern range of the angular spike filled ridges of the Mont Blanc massif, set against a blue curtained background. Searingly sharp burning sensations travel at regular intervals up random toes. Hot wire being applied and then pushed in by a sadistic torturer. ‘You will answer my questions, why do you do this?’ ‘Who are you running from?’ ‘Why were you on the run for four nights?’ ‘Why were you at Juniper Hall?’ ‘Who are the mysterious Centurion organisation?’ ‘Is their leader called James Elson?’ Suddenly I am in a scene from SAS Who Dares Wins.

Having just completed the Centurion Winter Downs, no scrap that. Having completed both the Centurion Winter Downs 200’s and my forth two hundred miler in twenty months, I am enjoying some relaxing rest and recovery in the home of less palatable ultra running organisation UTMB.

Some of my family are out enjoying the first lift openings of the ski season while I wince at just
standing barefoot. Crying out at having a tissue placed on my horrible ugly blistered and bloated
excuse for feet. Just the thought of trying to clamp a ski boot on to them makes me think of the gestapo. I am a broken man, a physically broken man not a mentally broken man. The type of broken that comes from running, running? No scrap that, speed hiking two hundred and four miles over six thousand meters of elevation in the middle of winter in eighty-six very dark hours. Sleep washes over me constantly and I just give in to it, I lay on my lovely duvet covered bed in my warm pine clad room. Enjoying the feeling of soft human comfort. Diametrically opposed to the position I was in two nights ago, lying in the foetal position on a bed of dry oak leaves in a hedgerow somewhere between Hinton Ampner and Arlesford. So completely overcome by sleep that lying in a damp field on a cold December night was more than acceptable behaviour. I nodded off and immediately jerked awake, nod off again, jerk awake again. Oh, the one that must be obeyed, I must text him/her they James and Nici, let them know I am sleeping on the trail. No get up keep going you are wasting time there is a race to be ‘run’. Up and on. So it’s it true that a quick doze can trick the brain. I seem to be moving as if I have had a reasonable spell of sleep. It doesn’t last long.

In all my four two hundred milers I have miserably failed to crack the sleep code. I have had a sleep plan for every one. My approach to all of them has been to run/travel for the first 30 hours at least and then see when the sleep deprivation creeps in. When it does, sleep depending on facilities made available by the race organisation or on the trail. During the Northern Traverse, my first two hundred (yes I know it’s 190, when you have done four I will let you split hairs), I encountered what I dubbed the ‘Clash Paradox’ ‘should I stay or should I go now’. Should I keep moving forward at a slower pace or should I sleep/rest and move faster later?

The secret, according to Robbie Britton, seems to be to get at least twenty minutes sleep, better still forty minutes, which affords one REM cycle. Twenty minutes of ‘The sidewinder sleeps tonight’ would do it for me anyway. I have always intended to adopt this approach but always ended up running until so tired that even forty minutes won’t hack it. This results in more like two hours being needed to stop me being hired for a remake of Micheal Jackson’s Thriller. I ended up ‘staying’ and staying far too long at both Truliegh Hill YHA (Your Hanging Around) and the ‘non’-Sustainability Centre.

As Mike Tyson once said, ‘everyone has a plan until they get punched in the face’. The Tyson
throwing punches in my face being the Vanguard’s Way (VGW), pumped up in all it’s winter muddy agricultural evil. VGW it’s muscles of solid Wealden clay holding you rooted to its canvas while it throws right crosses, left hooks and upper cuts at will, every blow finding its target. There are at
least 40 rounds/miles of this pugilistic battle. So I was punched non-stop for the best part of
twelve hours. We all were, all of us who chose to climb in the ring. There is a big difference in
some of the fighters though, many were new to the ring, a few, like me, were going in knowing
fully who was coming at us out of the red corner. A year on and VGW was even stronger and
tougher. Keeping us in the middle of the ring, not letting us move to the ropes and hang on.
Rooting our feet to the spot, stopping us using our footwork to dance away. Unfortunately many were knocked out or retired hurt later having been drained completely by the fight. My advice if you are considering running this race is be very aware of the evil that lies within VGW, he fights a very, very dirty fight.

I am delighted to get hugged and then ‘kit checked’ by Sophie Bennett. Second female last year and one of my favourite up beat ultra females. No concessions given Sophie takes the kit check very seriously, watched over by over Mother superior Nici. I scrape through and get my photo taken for the record. It’s just like getting arrested..er I imagine.

I sleep with a Portuguese guy called Paulo but that’s another story.

Grey fat bellied clouds hang heavy over Juniper Hall, thankfully holding on to their load. A small
infantry of well trained and equipped athletes are briefed and ready for action. Steve Chamberlain, a sadly fallen member of the detail is remembered. Steve is my ‘why’ for this one. A Dragon’s Back Race and Spine finisher, as well as a corporate combatant for justice, Steve was a great inspiration to many in our small Ultra running community. This one was to carry Steve’s memory around and get his unfinished business done.

At 08:00 we are released straight onto the steep climb of the north face of Box Hill. Poles are unleashed into action gaining the benefits of being a quadruped from the off. Besides the locomotive advantage of their propulsion, having a possible four points of contact during the course of the race saved me from many a potential fall. The weapon of choice against the clay monster VGW.

At Colley Hill I am complimented on my Green Runners badge affixed to my pack by safety pins. “Your local to Farnham aren’t you?” It’s Andrew Heaney, fellow Greenie and near ultra neighbour who I have never meet before. We bad mouth the UTMB organisation, lament the Arc and deride corporate involvement in ‘our’ sport. Nothing like running with a kindred spirit to pass the time away. Andrew slowly moves away into the distance never to be seen by me again. Andrew is on his way to finishing an incredible fifteen hours ahead of me.

To change things up and add another layer to the test I am un-crewed this year. So as I reach
Limpsfield Chart at mile twenty-two, I put on my best forlorn look as I need water. The first crew
van I arrive at is manned by a lovely bloke who immediately breaks out the bottled water for me. Also offering me some great looking fried potatoes, I decline not wanting to reduce his lunch. I think of Lizzie who was here crewing me at this location last year. Reaching these crew ‘memory’ points was always going to make going solo much harder.

This is where the Vanguards Way starts to get ugly. I reach Eden Brook, that is thankfully living up to its name this year. Flowing casually beneath its two wooden bridges. No long distance wading this time, that should pull back some time over last year.

Sometime in the late afternoon I am drifting along through a forest trail when my phone rings. It’s James Elson “Hi James” I say as if expecting some social chat. “Kevin are you aware you are about 600 metres off trail”, oh no I wasn’t. ‘Don’t worry just retrace your steps and take a left”, “we will keep an eye on you”, very nice to know but also very embarrassing. Well it gets worse, instead of doing as instructed by the Race Director I decide for some inexplicable reason that there is a short cut across to the path I have missed. So I get further confused but eventually find my way back to the VGW and the signposting I remember passing, but instead of turning off left I continue retracing my way back up the VGW (which I just can’t get enough of). I realise my second mistake and just as I access the OS maps app the phone rings again it’s James. Needless to say I did exactly what he said and was back on route. That is the first time I have ever been called by race HQ to stop me going way off course. I am in the middle of quaint old East Sussex on a path that is probably used by families and dog walkers and I am lost. The shame nags at me, humbled I trot on looking at my watch trace much more often.

The head torch is strapped on well before Forest Row and it’s refuelling stop at the CoOp. Out into the Ashdown Forest and the real mud fest begins. Somewhere out there in the forest on a small road crossing I am met by a Head torch heading up a hill on the road toward me. It had clearly gone the wrong way as I am going straight on. I ask its owner if they had gone far off course. According to race HQ John had been off course for two hours! His Garmin watch having given up providing a close up route direction. Happy for the company I offered to navigate for John but I would be much slower than him. Of course he had no real option and was very grateful for the offer.

Blackboys at forty-nine miles in was once again a welcome sight, even though it seems to take an age to get there. There is a road sign to the village which gives false hope. You don’t go that way as you haven’t covered enough mud yet to deserve a rest! Once at the Village Hall I am asked to remove my boots at the door. Of course I get this and it is a very sensible part of the logistics of keeping the place clean. I also want to get the bloody things off my suffering feet. My La Sportiva Cyclon GTX with their zipped built in gator are not going to unzip caked in VGW snot. The volunteer suddenly remembers that there is a tap down the side of the hall, and my boots are soon off a labeled. If feel smug that now everyone is being offered this additional service.

John goes off to try and persuade his watch to be a team player, while I get the other side of thick vegetable soup and nann bread. An hour and forty minutes later, (no sock change, not needed) we are out in the damp misty air once more. John joining me as his watch continues to no not show him the way home. He does have OS maps but this involves a lot of looking at your phone. Now in normal life this comes naturally to the modern human, in fact it is all a lot of humans seem to do. However, in winter darkness, carrying your survival on your back, while balancing on on a blancmange, that is spread over a jelly, while trying to run it does not. John is a really nice guy, (not sure why I always say this when referring to ultra runners, It should just be a given from now on) and we work together in our battle with the VGW.

Somewhere near, I am going to say Lower Dicker, I don’t really have a clue but it’s a funny name, there is a Mount (Un) Pleasant Farm. It’s land is made up of the worst type of Wealden clay that the farmer somehow managed to form into the strongest adhesive know to man. He should be selling the patent to 3M. Fuck me! (not apologising). Now I know a bit about soils and their structure but I have never come across anything like this stuff before. Then bugger me (not apologising) the bloody sadist had ploughed the next vast expanse of contact adhesive, turning it into human fly paper!

John and I continue on, popping our legs out of glue like we are doing high leg warm drills for
what feels like miles. Eventually we arrive at Berwick Station and head straight for the platform benches. We slump down and get stuck into some energy replenishment. John accesses his charging phone to find the the charger has not been working. I offer him my charger but I think this is the last technical straw that breaks the camels back. John says he is retiring, I want to persuade him to continue but can feel that he is resigned to a DNF. He would be mainly reliant on me and have to travel far slower than his capabilities. A technical KO, not what anyone wants as a DNF. We bump fists in the middle of the railway crossing, wish each other well and I am off alone. While I was at Berwick station I bumped into Simon Bennett, a WD200 finisher last year who is crewing for Arnold Gad-Briggs. Arnold was sat at Juniper Hall when I finished last year. He had had to drop out at one hundred and fifty-five miles and had remembered me finishing . I had run around the track at Battersea for 24 hours with Simon in the Sri Chinmoy event in September. Oh the connectivity of it all.

It is still dark, my legs are battered and so are my waterproof trousers which look like un-fried
haddock fillets. I am many hours in (I really don’t remember) and alone once more. Okay focus,
next target point Alfriston and the end of the clay monster’s den. Oh the joy of that hard right turn up, onto the South Downs Way and and all its gentle southern softnesses. Pillows of soft down land fescue grasses lovingly caressing my aching feet. It’s funny how the mind filters out all the sharp flint and loose chalk accents and descents. I become more and more drained by the climbing and descending. I sink deeper into a tiredness and a rare negativity overcomes me. I hate the VGW, what am I putting myself through this again for?

Long on the head-torch and still dark I am getting near to Friel Down. This was a Lizzie support stop last year, oh if she was there this year she could drive me home. It is going to be very tough just passing through it this time. Fifty meters out from the gate into the car park an runner goes through the gate.

“Is that Kev?”
At first I think it is Sophie as she is volunteering.
Then, “oh there you are” It’s Lizzie
“Oh my God what are you doing here”
“Giving you some support, what do you need I have everything”
“I need you to drive me home I have had it”
“I didn’t drive all the way out here to drive you home, get in the car. Remember you are doing this for Steve what would he do?”

I now feel ashamed and a bit stupid. I do as I am told. Eat a pot noodle, drink coffee and get
replenished with water and coke.

Let me tell you about Elizabeth Gatherer. She joined Hart Road Runners about five years ago and at the first training session I meet her she come up to me as says that she hears I am ultra runner and that she is going to be the first female to complete the Barkley Marathons. Now good coaches do not squash ambition, so I had to hold back my true thoughts. Anyway it turns out that Lizzie is a force of nature and fully lives up to her Instagram moniker of Ultra-Mad-Lizzie. This woman just can’t get enough of the Ultra scene, hence appearing on the remote South Downs in the early hours of the morning in mid December to help a pensioner get round two hundred very slow miles. Also don’t be fooled into thinking Lizzie is still naive, she was first female at the 2023 Beacons Way 100, holds the female record for the Gwynn Harris round and during Storm Bert in November won the Copthorne 100 outright as the only person left standing. Lizzie has stuck to her convictions and her passion for Ultra running.

There is no doubt that she saved me frying my bacon up on Firle Beacon. (I will say sorry for that one.)

I am soon kicked out of the car and sent on my way with a new resolve to get that second belt
buckle and properly do it for Steve. Lizzie says that she is going to meet me again on the top of
Bignor Hill which will be well into the second night. I head off to Truliegh Hill YHA and the first chance to get some sleep. Out over the exposed Downs I am caught trudging by Karen Doak (yes loveliness is now a given). Karen tells me that she has worked it out that at this pace we will be at Truliegh Hill by three-thirty Thursday afternoon. Before dark! This gives me a tremendous lift and I tell her this. Karen says, yes you looked like you needed a lift. See, lovely people. I use Karen as my pacer for as long as possible and get to the luxury 5 star YHA by a quarter to four. These ‘Life Bases’ take on a different level of comfort in the context of the two hundred mile ultra. I luxuriate in the comfort of it all a get two hours sleep in a room on my own. One advantage of being at the back end of the race. After charging batteries of all types I faff and faff some more. I talk to Brigitte Groves a volunteer about my faffing she seems to find it very amusing. Brigitte tells me to stop faffing and get on with it. About three and a half hours of faffing later and I am back out on the head-torch.

The road out of Truliegh Hill is a long gradual descent and I flow over it really easily. This puts me a great mindset and I am very positive about this next section out to Bignor Hill. I take the right onto the chalky track and descend down towards the road about a kilometre away. Nearing the road at the end I look at my watch, oh shit! I missed a field gate. Now I am not sure if I should continue to the road or retrace my route. Being an overly law abiding citizen I chose the latter and climb the near one kilometre back up the hill to the gate. My positive mood soon gone.

I cross the river Adur and head up through Botolphs out onto the open downs in misty drizzle. On and on, up and up to Bignor Hill and the crew point where Lizzie will be waiting..I hope. I have been alone for ages but I can now see I am being hunted down by three head torches. After what seems an age crossing a flint strewn field I am greeted by Lizzie and climb into her car, it’s about two thirty on Friday morning. “The wildlife up here is amazing, she says, “I have seen Muntjac deer, have you seen anything?”. “Just a baby elephant”. I had, just after the Butoloph pig farm. It was standing right next to the fence line on my side of the fence. I just ignored it too tired and too experienced in sleep deprivation to find it out of the ordinary.

Lizzie got me fed and watered again and helped me get back into my race pack and OMM chest
pack. I had only ever used this on the Northern Traverse and found it to be very handy for stowing stuff and accessibility to food. My nose bag of delights. The problem is that the chest pack attaches to your race vest and it is a bit of a faff getting it on and off. No sooner had I got it on than I was overcome with needing a rapid number two poo. This is where crewing goes above a beyond the call of duty. Lizzie didn’t hesitate help me back out of my packs, shoving a toilet roll in one hand and a plastic bag for the used paper in the other . I launched myself off into the nearest bracken and and was soon relived. Upon my return Lizzie though nothing of taking the contents of the poo paper bag and telling me to get going. I provide this delightful little scene purely to illustrate how great Lizzie is, as well as what great crew are prepared to suffer to aid their runners achieve there aim.

I head off into yet more darkness towards the Queen Elizabeth Country Park. Thankfully the darkness abates giving way to more layers of grey which is only just better than black. Although the light of a new day has arrived I do not get the expected energy lift. Last year I enjoyed the sun on Harting Down a revelled in the joy of running over is springy turf. This year the power in the legs matches the heavy greyness of the day. My feet were now having far too much to say, with each step getting more and more painful. I slowed and slowed all the way to QECP, taking a long time to reach the lower track into the visitor centre. I am meet once again by Lizzie who was in her usual positive mood but did comment on how slow I had become. I felt for her as I am sure she had lots of other plans for her day. Of course she was there because she wanted to be and I was supposed to be un-crewed so no expectations.

Into the visitor centre, where Lizzie had already pre-ordered an carton of chips and an oat milk
cappuccino. Inside, tucking into what looked like a full meal was Arnold along with Sonny Peart,
another WD200 finisher last year, who was crewing for him. Arnold had caught me at Bignor Hill and passed me, when I was caught short passing something else. While I downed my chips and coffee Lizzie gave me a pep talk about speeding up and getting across to the Sustainability Centre (four miles) in less than two hours. It worked I went mad, one hour and four minutes. Delighted I sent her photographic proof.

Oh boy did the Sustainability Centre suck me in and hold me down. If the YHA was the Ritz this
was the Savoy. Five hours I was there, with three hours in bed. I took my first look at my feet, they were raging. I decided to tape them up, put on normal socks and switch to La Sportiva Cyclon’s, in other words non-waterproof shoes. I know the route home very well from here and was looking forward to running it at a faster pace than I had been maintaining.

I cracked on but as soon as night fell and we were back on the head torch the sleep gremlins took hold. I slowed again but am sure I made better time out to Bishops Sutton. Here I get another surprise, in the Village Hall car park is Angela and her Veedub. Lizzie’s universe keeps on giving. Angela makes me a tea and a cheese roll and I am off again. I make better progress than last year across Ropley, Four Marks and Chawton and into Alton for day light. There is Angela again in Alton High Street, I jump in the van and get twenty minutes sleep before she times her return perfectly brining coffee and danish swirl. It goes down a treat. I have been very pleased with my ability and capacity to eat, never feeling nauseous. The additional sleep over last year is definitely a factor in this.

On my way into my favourite town, I often run over to Farnham from my home for coffee and
cake, I am surprised by another HRR member Caroline Dobbin who gives me a tea from a flask
and more snacks. Caroline tells me that there are more club members planning to meet me in
Farnham, so in high spirits I set off once more. Once in Farnham I am met by Matt Port and his
fiancé Trudie and they walk with me to the sign that marks the start of the North Downs Way. Just a marathon distance to cover. Something comes over me and I fly across to Puttenham and I mean properly run it. When I look up the splits I am only a few seconds slower than Martin Wilson the race winner. Later I realise that he covered this section in the dark, but hey he needs a handicap.

When I get to the permanently flooded section at Farnham Golf Club there is a huge Oak tree
fallen across the path. The only way to get past this poor fallen giant is to scramble up a steep
bank. Firstly I test the water depth with my poles, there is a drainage channel at the side of the path that goes down almost the full depth of a pole. I am able to put my long legs to good use and scramble up the bank, straddle the huge trunk, test the water in the drop the other side then lower myself into the water on the other side. A bit more deep wading and I get out of the flood, jog a hundred meters or so and come across a guy hurling gear out of his bag onto the floor. He is soaked from head to foot and obviously not a happy bunny. His name is Tim Maloney, luckily he lives in nearby Tongham and has his wife with him. Tim tells me he fell head first into the water and completely submerged with all his kit. I suggest he get his emergency base layers out of his dry bag as this is clearly an emergency. He seems to calm down and says he will be fine once he gets himself sorted.

I press on to Puttenham where in the village I get another surprise visit from another club mate Matt Harper. Matt finished the WD200 last year so it was really good to see him, gain his encouragement and his mince pie. I press on to the final interim aid station at the cricket club. It is warm cosy and welcoming inside. I stay too long allowing the mainly dried out Tim to arrive along with Arnold and Richard Whitaker. The fast running has further ruined my feet and I struggle to get going.

Back into darkness for a forth time, up past the peaceful St Martha’s church standing all holly over the twinkling lights far below. The deep sandy tracks out to Newlands really get right at my feet. At last I get onto the grassy field out to Newlands Corner, drifting along in my own little peace, when I hear my name called far off behind me. I ignore it, I can’t have been Kev. Then it comes again louder, I turn and up above me is a pizza delivery woman replete with warm box. This woman is just unbelievable, having missed me at a car park three miles back Lizzie has run after me carrying a pizza. All this while made up ready for a Christmas party night out. Dean Karnazes eat you heart out, this is the best pizza delivery ever. I kneel down and tuck in, folding four more slices into supplied tin foil for later. Lizzie sends me off with yet more shouts of encouragement, she then has to run back the three miles she came by.

I reach Newlands Corner where I am carefully escorted across the very busy A25 by a very caring female volunteer. Honestly the Centurion volunteers are just incredible, due to complete fatigue, okay I am an emotional guy, I tear up as she sees me off into the dark woods of Netherlands. This next section becomes the most painful of the whole race for me. I try to run/walk but starting to run is so painful on my feet that it is better to keep running. I run until I am so fatigued I have to stop and then plummet into the pain cave once more. Somewhere in the forest on Netley Heath the foot pain is so intense I nearly faint. What a state to get into. I want to stop take everything off my feet and walk it in bare foot. Of course there is too much flint and tree root to kick to make this a feasible solution. I go to slacken my shoes off as much as possible but of course I did that ages ago. ‘Just get the fuck on with it and get it over with!’ The journey over Hackhurst Downs and White Downs takes forever. Eventually I get out onto the road and into the very surreal Denbies Vineyard and its wide concrete road. Without all the hazards and mud I manage to trot along, constant distracted by messages from Lizzie and Hannah Hall who are dot watching at their party. I get on to a nice flat down hill on grass and just keep going. In the distance I see a building all lit up and decorated for Christmas. For some unreasonable reason I think it is a Centurion crew point. Then my phone rings “Are you enjoying your run though Denbies, because you have missed a turn, take the next left to rejoin the route” “Yes Nikki”. Three times on one race this is getting very embarrassing.

In no time at all I am out onto the delightful out and back on the A24, over the river Mole, via the bridge and onto the Box Hill steps and the last climb. I actually felt that I made a speedy job of the steps as the climb did not hurt my feet, the descent from the tower above Juniper Hall was a different matter however. At the tower the sky was clear and very fittingly an almost full moon shone brightly. I thanked Steve for his help getting us around. Cursed him for getting me into this mess as well. I am sure he would have found it funny that I was going through this again. Then it was down to the Centurion Arch and that second belt buckle. I did my signature heal clicking jump at the finish and nearly wiped out half of the reception team, as usual. (I actually got round the whole course without falling over which is very unusual for me).

It is now forty-eight hours since I started writing this and I still haven’t left the apartment. Picking it up and putting it down as the memories returned. The snow outside has turned to rain and Le Houches looks less and less like a ski resort. Having disclosed all about my race the torturer has thankfully now left me alone. My feet are less painful but still swollen, I am still sleeping at will and it is a beautiful sleep. Lizzie, Angela and Caroline thank you so so much. James, Nici and all at Centurion and the wonderful Centurion community of volunteers you are just brilliant.

Steve, never forgotten, you are on the Spine next with Nicola McNally.