I had the good fortune to have quite a serious crash on my road bike earlier this year. You see, I finally managed to finish the South Downs Way 100 (SDW100), on my third attempt, but it had never actually been part of the plan. After an abysmal year of running in 2024, with two DNFs at the 100-mile distance, I planned to swap my studs for cleats by entering the Fred Whitton with a group of fellow NLFRs, but a little bump in the road had other ideas.
Making use of fitness
Thankfully, I’d come off relatively unscathed; I suffered a fair bit of road rash and a few cuts and bruises, but nothing was broken, and it certainly could have been a lot worse. I’d spent a good proportion of the winter months in my freezing garage on my Wattbike, so I was determined not to let my fitness go to waste, but I also didn’t fancy hurtling down the infamous Fred Whitton descents on an untested carbon frame just three weeks after my crash. What to do? Suddenly, from somewhere deep in my subconscious, a demon reared its ugly head. What about the South Downs Way 100? Could I really make it work in just eight weeks? I immediately jumped online and went to the Centurion Running website, to my horror, there were still places left.
2022 and 2024 attempts
Now, the South Downs Way 100 and I have history, one which goes all the way back to 2022. I first entered the event on my 40th birthday, hoping to go from one decade to the next in style. I barely made it to marathon distance that year before my hip flared up and abruptly stopped proceedings. After licking my wounds for a year, I was back again in 2024. This time, I paid the price for emptying the tank at the Fellsman six weeks earlier. I made it to 45 miles before throwing in the towel once again.
PictureL Matt racing the SDW100 back in 2022
So, you see, literally nothing about entering this race made sense; I’d not only failed to finish on my last two attempts, I was yet to even make it to half-way! What made me think things would be so different this year? But that’s exactly what I love about ultra-running, and the 100-mile distance in particular, literally none of it makes sense. So, I did what any self-respecting, mature adult would do, and returned obsessively to the race page on the Centurion website over the course of the next week (come on, we’ve all been there!!). Then I closed my eyes and quickly hit ‘purchase’. There was no going back now. The stakes were high, and I’d rolled the dice with reckless abandon.
Picture: ‘Ultra-running legend’ and the 2024 winner Dan Lawson leading from the front with Matt just behind.
After the adrenaline had subsided, I was left with that nagging question. Why did I think things would be different this year? After all, they did have to be different; I certainly wasn’t prepared to DNF this race a third time in a row. There was no way I could be in better physical shape than 2022, and with just eight weeks until race day I didn’t have enough time to train properly anyway. I needed another tactic. I remembered reading somewhere that the reason so many amateur marathon runners can resurrect themselves for a dramatic sprint finish at the end of the race is because the mind slams the brakes on way before the body reaches its physical limit. It was tenuous at best, but if I couldn’t train my body, maybe I could trick my mind. But how exactly?
Learnings from last time
I started to think back to my two previous attempts. Two things stood out very clearly to me. The first was the ease with which I’d be able to leave the race on both occasions. As soon as things got difficult, I’d simply been able to phone my partner, Jo, and get a lift out of there. Come to think of it, a very similar thing happened at the Lakeland 100 in 2024. I’d naively booked an Airbnb ‘conveniently’ located at mile 93 on the course. I would literally run right past it. Of course, in the blink of an eye, I was sat at the kitchen table with a cup of tea and my feet up. Maybe that was it then; I simply needed to cut the lifeline back to the surface.
So, on Friday morning before the race, I packed the car and set off for Winchester, on my own. It felt slightly strange driving for hours, registering, and setting up camp in the event field, all on my own. The South Downs Way 100 is very much a beginner’s 100-miler in the sense that in models itself on the traditional American races, like Leadville or the Western States. These races are littered with fully stocked aid stations, runners are permitted support crews, and pacers can join them from the half-way point. Then it dawned on me. Just because I’d come on my own, didn’t mean I had to be on my own. There were over 500 other runners starting this thing with me, not to mention the hordes of spectators and crew members along the way.
And this leads me onto my second abiding memory of those first two failed outings on the South Downs Way; the strange silence and sense of loneliness that had accompanied both of those attempts. I’d started, quickly, and then I’d finished almost without speaking to anyone. I’ve always run towards the front of the race, where it’s very much game on, with a few words or nods of recognition shared between runners at best. I recall when I pulled out in 2022, I had opportunity to watch the whole race come past that checkpoint whilst I sat on the grass feeling sorry for myself, and the difference in attitude was stark; the solemn, serious faces of the front runners were soon replaced with the smiles and laughter of those behind them. Ultra races are very much like a mullet in this respect; business at the front, party at the back.
On reflection, there’s little wonder that these solitary experiences had ended in failure. When you’re locked in a constant dialogue with your own thoughts for hours on end, there’s only ever going to be one winner, however mentally strong you are. My second tactic was a simple one; I’d take marginally longer in the checkpoints to smile and engage with the amazing volunteers and, when I had the opportunity, I’d ask other runners how they were doing. It was time to join the party.
The 2025 race
So, with these two aces in my back pocket, I started the South Downs Way 100 for the third (and final?) time at 5:30am on Saturday 14th June. I started steady, very steady. I let a good pack of runners go up the trail ahead of me, despite all my best instincts to the contrary, and I started to count down the miles. Soon, the landmarks from my two previous attempts started to roll past; the two loops of the Matterley Bowl, the incredible natural amphitheater which hosts the event start, the first Iron Age Hill Fort at Old Winchester Hill, the sweeping descent down Butser Hill into Queen Elizabeth Country Park, the patch of grass by checkpoint three where I’d sat for a few hours waiting for a lift in 2022, the checkpoint at mile 45 where I’d eaten countless new potatoes as I sat…you’ve guessed it…waiting for a lift when pulled the pin last year.
Pitcure: Matt racing in this year’s SDW100
And then, suddenly, just like that, I was in uncharted territory, but the same invasive thoughts started to pop into my head. They’d taken a little longer this time, but sure enough, my brain didn’t like what was happening, and it was trying to muscle in on the action. Luckily, my two aces came to my rescue. Even in its most anxious projections, my brain couldn’t conjure a scenario where pulling out was preferable to continuing; I’d be waiting at least 12 hours, if not more, at the checkpoint for the dreaded sweeper bus, and I didn’t even want to think how much a taxi to Eastbourne would cost. What’s more, I’d managed to find some companions along the way.
I’d first passed one of the front running ladies, Helen, at around mile 33, coming up the first significant climb on the route out of the checkpoint at Cocking. She was clearly struggling in the heat and going backwards, so I asked her if she was OK. We shared the next 10 miles or so and continued to yo-yo back and forth all day long, sharing words of encouragement almost until the finish. And then there was Will. I was dawdling a little bit longer than usual in the checkpoint at Saddlescombe Farm at around mile 70. One of the volunteers had just persuaded me to sprinkle a bit of salt on my slice of watermelon and it was bowling my tiny little mind! Will came into the checkpoint hot, and promptly left. I quickly decided that this was a train I needed to jump on.
Finish
And so, we fast forward to the final ‘big’ climb on the route out of the checkpoint at Southease up onto Itford Hill. Will and I had been chatting since Saddlescombe, and it was taking me an implausibly long time to name my favourite album of all time as we made our way slowly up the chalk escarpment. The sun was finally starting to set, and darkness was descending upon the Downs, when something truly incredible happened. I came alive. It was like someone had given me back my legs, and this was no shuffle; I was running properly again. I simply can’t understate just how good it feels to be moving well at the end of an ultra. When you’ve been grinding it out for nearly 15 hours, since 5:30 am, even 9 minute/miles feel like you’re flying. I felt like I was in a video game charging along in a narrow beam of light, while all around me there was a zombie apocalypse of runners staggering to finish. My legs were having a party all of their own, and this time, my brain wasn’t invited! I must have made up at least 10 places, if not more, in those final 20 miles and, with each step, the realisation that I was actually going to finish this thing became stronger and stronger.
From the final checkpoint in Jevington, the route climbs one last time to a trig point, just three miles from the finish in Eastbourne. In fact, if you stop and look carefully, you can clearly see the lights of Eastbourne Sports Park below you and the lap of the running track which forms the last 400 meters of the race. I stopped momentarily, took a breath, and then plunged down into the darkness towards the finish.
Those last three miles will always be some of the most memorable I’ll ever run. Since my first DNF in 2022, I’d obsessively watched videos of people running the South Downs Way on Youtube, so you can imagine just how good it felt to actually step onto that running track and run those last 400 meters to the finish. This was something I’d imagined hundreds of times, and now I was actually doing it, IRL! I ran strongly to finish in a time of 19.01.36.
Reflections
When I sat down and looked at my splits after the race, I was completely shocked. Predictably, my fastest mile was mile 1, at 7:58. But my second fastest mile? You’ve guessed it, mile 100, in 8:11, and I did the 400 meters of the track in 1:39. In fact, when I looked more closely, I’d actually run a negative split by some twenty minutes or so. Now, I’m telling you all this, not because it’s impressive, or that these times are important in any way, but because at almost any point in the race up until those last 22 miles, this would have seemed completely improbable, if not impossible. I was dead and buried when I sat down for a cup of tea at Washington at halfway, and I’d pretty much resolved myself to marching it in if I had to.
And herein lies the real addiction of ultra-running, because if I think back to all of my experiences on the South Downs Way since 2022, good and bad, I’ve learned two important lessons; first, if you commit fully and fearlessly to something, and plan for your success rather than your failure, who knows what you might be able to achieve. And secondly, and perhaps most importantly, that these endeavors ultimately mean nothing without people to share them with. Life is really about those we bring along for the ride.
So, thank you little bump in the road for correcting my course. Without you, I may never have had the courage to try.
Oh, and in case you’re wondering, it’s Leftism by Leftfield.
