Running Coast to Coast: third pebble lucky?

Every story needs a resolution – whether positive or negative. Both of my attempts to run Coast to Coast (183 miles from St Bees to Robin Hood’s Bay) were unsuccessful, but I still took some important lessons I wanted to share. Selfishly the writing process also helps me to find closure. Lots of people have kindly showered me with praise for how far I DID run. Running/hobbling 124 miles was impressive for sure: but that wasn’t my goal, and I know I’m capable of more. We can’t improve without reflecting and learning from our mistakes, so I hope you find this useful.

My first attempt in July ended prematurely at Kirkby Stephen, after suffering a seizure in the support van after a planned 30-minute nap. I was 78 miles and 21 hours in, ahead of schedule, and everything had been going well. As a childhood epileptic that was one thing I never bargained for after 17+ years without a seizure.

Life is no dress rehearsal. But I saw this as a positive opportunity to hone lessons and adjust the plan. I set a new date for the 16th August almost immediately, even with more medical investigations pending, on the likelihood that everything would be fine. Without advance notice I wouldn’t find a support team in the peak summer holiday season, and I needed to take advantage of personal momentum and longer daylight hours. Over the next 6 weeks I reviewed the plan and spoke to lots of people to be as informed as I realistically could. I started on epilepsy medication, saw a consultant neurologist and after various tests they concluded it likely wasn’t epilepsy after all, and gave me the green light to go ahead on a risk-reward basis. After all, every adventure brings an element of risk. The only downside was that I didn’t really have time to test any of these new ideas, with only two long-ish runs of 2:30 beforehand to keep the legs fresh.

In hindsight my first attempt had almost been destined to fail after a hectic six weeks. The Sunday before my first attempt I had flown back from speaking at a conference in Eindhoven and was utterly exhausted. This time I was chilling eating a salad on my garden patio after a gentle spin in the sun for ice cream and a dip in the local river. It felt like everything was working in my favour: I had a week to prepare and bank sleep, instead of 5:00am alarms to speak at conferences the day before.

I was almost looking forward to it. The night before I had two separate messages on social media, one asking whether it was wise to attempt this so soon after my seizure, another thanking me for the inspiration (after collapsing suddenly during a run recently). Both were well intended, but unfortunately timed given my anxiety was already on hyper-drive for potential risks. But, for the record, trying to run circa 300km isn’t particularly wise to begin with…

Back at St Bees there was a strong feeling of déjà vu. My Dad and stepmum Debbie had kindly volunteered for road support duties once again, with my girlfriend Harriet and mate Rich joining in later too. In keeping with the tradition of picking up a pebble and depositing on the eastern coast, I ditched the old pebble and picked up a new one for a fresh start. The weather was perfect, almost identical to the first time. Dad hugged me with a tear in his eye. Whether through pride or trepidation, he inspired me to start running in the first place, so it was all his fault anyway!

I was joined by Josh on the first leg, one of our Mind Over Mountains fundraisers, who was the perfect company to burn off my nervous energy. It was even more inspiring considering he’d had <2 hours sleep after an A&E visit with his young son the night before. I noticed my pace had dropped for the first leg, and I lost my appetite to eat the planned food. But I had a long time to settle in and it was too soon to panic. Inevitably things are going to wrong in an ultramarathon. You and your team become problem solvers in motion. When you’re struggling from the outset: you know you’re in for a long shift.

The first mistake was using my previous run as the benchmark for everything. Using past experiences can be helpful to give us confidence. But no two runs are the same and constantly comparing my situation to how I felt six weeks earlier wasn’t helpful, especially considering last time I’d ended up in an ambulance. However I’ll keep referring to the first attempt, purely to highlight how we can all have a bad day in the office. That’s the joy of adventure and ultra-running!

Dan took over in Ennerdale for a lovely stretch along the water and gravel tracks through the woods. It took a weight of willpower not to throw myself in bubbling waterfalls on the climb up to Honister. The sun was out and we marvelled at how lucky we were to spend our Friday here, and chatting away the miles distracted me from the increasing nausea and gastric discomfort that had me dashing for the bushes in frequent intervals.

Fuelling had been the most obvious area to improve since the first attempt. After speaking to lots of other runners and countless blogs, it still swung back around to the conclusion of ‘eat lots, drink lots, everyone is different’ which really wasn’t the precision I was hoping for. I worked with a sports dietician and now had all my food measured and allocated in bags per leg to remove the guesswork and inevitable under-fuelling before.

Chris took over in Borrowdale for the next slog/climb over to Grasmere. Chris has supported many of my challenges and runs support shifts like it’s the weekly Parkrun. One day we’ll go for a normal run to prove that I’m actually capable of running! A passing American hiker joked we were cheating and needed some rocks in our packs: “Where you guys headin’?” he asked – “Robin Hood’s Bay” I laughed.

Chris also isn’t afraid to tell me straight when it’s needed: “Make sure you finish all that water before we reach the top of this pass”. The reality is that eating and drinking makes things feel worse, but not eating and drinking makes things even worse. I ransacked a fateful unlocked Portaloo as we began the next climb over to Patterdale. (Dear owner of the Portaloo: please contact me so I can make a donation).

Two Northern Traverse veterans Krystal and Kirsty joined me from Patterdale for the biggest climb of the journey over Kidsty Pike. The wind was fierce and headtorches came on with a brief glimpse of a full moon as we dropped down to Haweswater, chatting and bashing our way bracken and the never-ending ‘Haweswater Ultramarathon’.

By Shap I was close to wretching as I forced down a Katsu Curry Rice pot. Normally I’m like a Labrador, so going off food is a clear sign that something is amiss. My legs had also seized up and I was an hour behind, despite similar conditions and effort levels. I was joined by Peter who had come all the way from the North East to accompany me to Kirkby Stephen. The running community is brilliantly selfless. Peter was endlessly patient and upbeat as I struggled to sustain a run or conversation, repeatedly nodding off and eventually falling into sheep s**t for added insult. Last time I’d felt sleepy but had shuffled across to Kirkby in much better order. A couple of 10-minute power naps in Rich’s car gave a boost for an hour or so before falling asleep again. Looking at the tracker, Rich noticed we’d had a mini power nap on the spot of ‘Robin Hood’s Grave’. This was probably my downfall…

Getting past Kirkby Stephen was a major milestone from an anxiety perspective, given what happened before. Only then could the new adventure really start. I was joined by the brilliantly patient Rich, who navigated the best route through the infamous peat bogs, and Meg the Pointer, who amused herself chasing grouse through the heather. I apologised for the pace but Rich was just pleased to be outside. It was a beautiful morning in the Yorkshire Dales and the sunrise invigorated me somewhat, even if my legs failed to wake up. I had another doze at Keld before some foot repair and hobbling on. I had thoroughly enjoyed recceing this section through the old mines and gravel roads because it was superbly runnable. Frustratingly, my legs refused to sustain more than an intermittent shuffle today. But I could still move, once Rich produced a needle out of nowhere for some further trail-side blister surgery.

I’ve always lived by the rule that you need a ‘good’ reason to quit – not just because you’re hurting a bit or in pain. Last time I didn’t have this choice and having a seizure made the decision for me. For now I didn’t have a ‘good’ reason and having support runners waiting further ahead kept me going.

In retrospect I’m embarrassed to look through my photos from the adventure. Drew, Carlos and Rich did a superb job – but I look utterly miserable in most of the photos! Friends often comment how I’m always smiling when running. Even in pain I can force a smile, I’m happy and grateful to be there. This time I struggled to hide how I was really feeling, and looked more like a poster boy from an Imodium advert.

We dropped down into Reeth, and with some tuna pasta and re-lubed feet I pushed on through the fields to seize the dwindling daylight. I was now alone for the next leg, but as an introvert I welcomed some quiet time with my music playlist to check in with myself. Hitting the 100-mile mark gave me a second wind and this next chunk suddenly felt manageable. I was now in unknown territory, further than I’d ran before, but for the first time it started to feel possible. I’m not sure what changed at Reeth but for the first time since Shap my legs agreed to shuffle/run once more. The crew leapfrogged to keep me company, but I gently nudged them onwards to savour my last chance of solitude. After listening to Kirsty and Krystal recalling hallucinations on their own run, I was very grateful for Rich waiting on the other side of a dark forest…

Ross the nightshift ninja had driven all the way from Glasgow and was waiting at Richmond despite me turning up 5 hours behind schedule. What a legend. He had volunteered for the toughest support slot given I was struggling to run or stay awake, never mind engage in meaningful conversation.

I had originally scheduled a full hour sleep at Richmond, but I was keen to crack on and catch up with schedule, especially with Ross waiting so patiently. At the same time, the consensus said that 15-20 min naps seemed to be the sweet spot. With a short doze and some Cherry Coca-Cola, I stumbled onwards into the night. The next section was an infuriating patchwork of roads and skirting edges of ploughed farmer fields. The uneven surface twisted my feet with yelps of pain. I can’t even imagine how bad it was during the April race.

I can recall very little from the early hours, which makes it even harder to understand what went wrong. I was hallucinating and thought a hedge was a Rhino. I messaged ahead to ask for an extra coffee stop. Harriet and Rich’s headtorches appeared like an illusion up the country lane and I was convinced they were on top of a bridge. At one point we met a junction and I saw the frontage of a grand building, with signs to an ‘Edale Hotel’. I also heard a sudden patter of footsteps behind me and turned round startled to find nobody there. I’m pretty sure Ross saw none of these things…

Every attempt to jog was halted by falling asleep and swaying across the road. We eventually decided that sleeping properly in the van was a better idea than taking 5 mins on grass verges. My biggest concern was a very dry mouth and feeling of thirst which didn’t seem to satiate despite drinking 1.5 litres, on a cool evening and mostly flat terrain. At the same time my body gave mixed signals – peeing clear and frequently, diving into the bushes in regular explosive intervals, with pangs of hunger and a craving for salty foods. Nothing made sense. When I’d experienced the seizure the paramedics had suggested an electrolyte imbalance, so now I was really starting to freak out. We stopped the tracker and Rich took me ahead to Danby Wiske where Harriet was trying to grab an hour of sleep.

We troubleshooted the hydration dilemma in the van, contacting my dietician Catherine and various friends for a more logical opinion – but most normal people aren’t awake at 5am on a Sunday morning.

I repeatedly fell asleep mid-sentence before a 45-minute snooze. I opened my eyes and began talking erratically to Harriet about oranges, mosques, my newsletter and language barriers. This delirium became even weirder when she asked my name and I answered “Alexander”. I only get called Alexander when I’m at the Doctors or in serious trouble from my mum. I also answered her name as ‘Hazza D’ – which I’ve never called her once in our relationship. My eyes were open but I wasn’t really there, and started to giggle and ask ‘whyyy?’ when she started crying in concern about my state. I have zero recollection of this possessed nap, and it was no wonder making a rational decision was so difficult.

Given my current pace, I knew I had at least another 20 hours and if I didn’t get on top of this hydration situation that things could get much more serious. Finishing in 90 hours would always be better than not finishing at all and I’m fortunate to be self-employed and could take a week if I needed – but I knew my support crew needed to get back to work on Monday. I knew I couldn’t complete the final stage without them, nor would I want to. One big lesson was having a bigger buffer zone, especially when the target was ambitious to start with.

All the while I deliberated with Rich and Harriet, with sudden dizzy episodes forcing me to elevate my legs, whilst knowing my support runners were still waiting in the dark for an update and I already felt guilty considering many had travelled over especially and stayed the night before. It was good counsel not to make a decision in the van: so we drove back to where I had stopped my tracker and tried walking, hoping it would reignite the fire. It always takes time to warm the engine back up, but I just knew it wasn’t going to happen. Rich has seen me at my worst on previous adventures and is one of my closest friends: his honest opinion was that the challenge was over. After 44 hours and 15 minutes, I stopped the watch.

I wasn’t just sad for the challenge being over, missing a perfect opportunity and conditions, and wasting the time of everyone who had supported me. But I was also reinforcing the doubts I’d been grappling with for months about my identity and whether I’m still cut out for such adventures. It’s been four years since I last completed a big challenge, and I was desperate to regain my confidence and enjoyment in them.

People kindly told me to ‘look after myself’. But let’s face it: we don’t run ultra marathons for longevity. On paper it’s a sadistic, glorified form of self-harm. One protective factor for my mental health is that I segment my life into four pillars. 2024 hasn’t been my year for adventure, but I’m grateful my work, charity and personal life have kept me positively busy. I recently lost my driving licence for 12 months after the initial seizure. So now I’m back to cycling everywhere again. Could this be another challenge idea in the making? There’s an opportunity or obstacle: it depends which way you look.

Now… where’s that pebble?

View my route on Strava here>

If you’ve been inspired by the journey you can help me achieve one thing – to raise £3,000 for Mind Over Mountains. Please donate here on JustGiving if you’re able! https://www.justgiving.com/page/northerntraverse