There’s something wonderfully symmetrical about life sometimes. The first time I attempted the Sri Chinmoy Self-Transcendence 24 Hour Race in Battersea Park, it was the year after my son was born. This year, for perfect narrative balance, I thought I’d give it another go the year after my daughter arrived. What could possibly go wrong with that logic?
Spoiler alert: absolutely everything.
The Tale of Two Preparations
My first attempt was laughably casual in hindsight. I remember doing the occasional hour-long treadmill session and somehow managing to amble my way through 24 hours of continuous movement. This time, I was determined to do things properly. I enlisted my running coach and, embarrassingly, had to start from absolute scratch – I hadn’t run in several months.
Over three months, he patiently rebuilt me from someone who could barely manage 40 minutes of running into something resembling a functioning endurance athlete. I hadn’t run in several months due to work commitments. We fell into a wonderful pattern: Mondays for speed work, Wednesdays for mixed training, and Fridays for volume. Much of this training happened on the treadmill, and it turns out I respond rather well to the monotony of running on the spot.
The training culminated in an eight-hour, 43-mile treadmill run – without any music or television for company. I believe the cool kids call it “rawdogging”! I even dimmed the lights for the last couple of hours to simulate night-time running. If that doesn’t prepare you for the mental torture of 24-hour racing, nothing will.
Race Day: The Best Laid Plans
I rocked up to Battersea feeling supremely confident. Same crew as last time, better preparation, and crucially, I’d learned from my previous mistake of charging off like I was attempting a half marathon PB. This time, I was going to be sensible. Keep the pace low, keep the heart rate controlled, and save something for the inevitable dark hours.
The first few hours were chilled out. I was having lovely conversations with fellow competitors, maintaining my conservative pace, and feeling rather pleased with myself. I really thought I was going to hit my primary distance objective. I remember telling someone that the first hour was still just a warm-up, and even at three hours in, I felt like I was just getting started.
By three and a half hours in, I was just done with energy gels. I was desperate for real food that wasn’t sugary. My stomach was gurgling, and I could feel liquid sloshing around inside. I knew I’d probably be okay – the beauty of this race is that you’re never more than 200 metres from a portaloo – but I was getting increasingly concerned that if I couldn’t get enough carbs on board, I wouldn’t be able to perform. I was trying to hit the perfect triangle of carbohydrates, liquids, and electrolytes, but failing spectacularly.
My nutrition was also rebelling spectacularly. I’d been religiously consuming Precision Hydration and Fuel’s clever chew bars – 60 grams of carbs per hour for the first three or four hours – but my stomach had had enough of the chemicals. The race organisers’ food tent became my salvation, along with their recommended active ginger root drink. Let’s just say I was very windy afterwards.
The Shoe Intervention
That’s when Shankara, the race organiser and owner of a running shop, approached me with what can only be described as a mid-race biomechanical intervention. “As someone who sells running shoes for a living,” she said, “I’m very concerned about your overpronation. You’re over-pronating by about 45 degrees.”
Six hours into a 24-hour race, and I’m getting a gait analysis! I dutifully changed shoes at the six-hour mark and didn’t immediately feel better, but I knew I’d made the right decision listening to Shankara. Though it took about 15 minutes for my feet and body to get used to the new posture, I was perfectly happy with the shoes for the rest of the race.
What I’d discovered by chance just two weeks before the race during a routine physio appointment was that my glutes don’t fire properly when I run, leading to overcompensation by my hip flexors. For years, I’d known that my hip flexors always ended up really sore after long runs, but it was only the physio who explained that they were overcompensating for my lazy glutes – and that’s why they get so sore. With only two weeks to race day, there wasn’t nearly enough time to fix it!
To counter this, I focused on maintaining an ultra shuffle to avoid overworking those hip flexors. By about seven and a half hours, they started to give way anyway, and I transitioned into what I can only describe as “speed waddling” around the course. Quite the spectacle, I’m sure.
When Night Falls
As sunset arrived and the floodlights illuminated the track, I realised I was getting properly tired. The early evening had brought increasingly strong winds, and I watched gazebos being blown away and stuck on a tennis court fence.
As we approached midnight, I was getting very tired. I wouldn’t say I was hallucinating, but I was definitely seeing things that weren’t actually there. Running in lane one, I noticed that lanes three and four had transformed into treacherous trenches that I needed to avoid falling into.
At one point, I was so tired I literally fell asleep whilst running and jolted awake whilst still moving around the track. Sleep deprivation was becoming an issue, even though I was only 12 hours into the race.
The Witching Hours
As we reached midnight, the atmosphere became more subdued. The weather continued to deteriorate, and my crew had to periodically instruct me to add another layer as the temperature dropped and the wind picked up. Heads were down, and I told my crew to get some sleep. I quite enjoyed running my own race without being judged by my support team, but I could feel myself getting slower and slower as my hip flexors seized up entirely.
By 3 AM, I was reduced to a slow waddle. That’s when I witnessed something that perfectly encapsulated the brutality of this event. The first female competitor had slowed dramatically and was clearly cold. I watched her entire support team surround her, trying to warm her fingers up with what looked like warm water whilst she sat outside in the cold wind, still wearing shorts.
It seemed like there might have been better ways to warm her up quickly. When she was eventually withdrawn and her crew departed, I realised this race was starting to beat its competitors into submission.
Rock Bottom
I was wearing most of my layers by the early hours of the morning. I was slowly waddling and I was so exhausted and still feared that I would completely fall asleep and face plant on the track. I hopped into the back of my car, which we’d arranged to lie flat, set a timer for 20 minutes, and elevated my legs to get some blood flow back. When I returned to the track, I was plodding at about 2 mph. The maths was brutal – I wasn’t going to hit my primary or secondary distance objectives.
Back into the car I went, this time sitting in the front seat for another 30 minutes, then returning to the back. I was utterly destroyed. That was my lowest point in the race, and I was so exhausted that I simply fell asleep.
My crew, despite explicit instructions to push me out of the car, thought I was done. They let me sleep for about two and a half hours. When I finally stirred, we had a chat, and I was presented with three options: get out and run, leave entirely, or just see what I could do.
I wasn’t convinced, but I knew I had to leave the warmth of the car to visit the portaloo. As I prepared to head out, I looked at the WhatsApp group that had been created for the race, filled with messages of support and people saying how proud they were of what I was doing.
Something just flicked in my head. I wasn’t going down like that.
The Resurrection
I redid the maths and realised that if I could move faster than 2 mph, I still had something to fight for. With only four and a half hours left in the race, I got out of the car. It wasn’t cold anymore, so I wasn’t freezing, and I started moving around the track again – but running.
The lap counters acknowledge every competitor as they pass, shouting your name and offering encouragement. As I crossed the line, one of them bellowed, “Hey! He’s back in the race!” I immediately headed to the race organisers’ food tent and shovelled breakfast food, feeling genuinely energised. After a few more laps, as I slowly shed the extra layers I’d been wearing, more staff and runners noticed I was back in the game.
My nutrition plan finally started to come together. I was taking a lot more carbohydrate sources from the food tent, including bagels and sandwiches with jam and with cheese. I’d realised that I could stomach the occasional chew bar if I followed it quickly with some chemically Doritos, just to cover the flavour of the chew bar. I also quite enjoyed the odd cube of cheese, just to cleanse the palate. I also found my Copella apple juice – even as it warmed up in the sun, its 11 grams of carbs per 100ml hit the spot, and so did Mr Kipling apple pies at 35g carbs per mini pie. Apples for the win!
Looking around, it was like The Walking Dead. Even some of the top runners had slowed to zombie-like shuffles, and others were just walking. Somehow, my muscles had benefited from those two and a half to three hours of complete rest, and I was running again – properly running.
Finding Another Gear
I ran for an hour and then realised I had a third objective I could still achieve: beating my previous distance. I walked until I hit that milestone, and with just under three hours remaining, I picked up the pace again.
Every step from that point was a personal best and the furthest I’d ever run. Yes, I acknowledge I wasn’t running as far as those who’d been moving non-stop, but that break, going through that dark place and emerging on the other side as daylight returned, felt transformative.
As the sun came up and started shining on us properly, I felt unstoppable. When the crowds began returning for the final hours, I started moving even faster.
The Final Push
I kept putting down mile after mile – every four laps was just under a mile. Another runner mentioned I was heading for a decent figure, and they were right. In the last 90 minutes, someone’s support team had arrived and created a proper party atmosphere, playing music loudly and taking requests.
Along the outside 100-metre stretch, I was absorbed by the music and naturally picked up the pace with every lap. More people came to visit me, and I remembered how the same supporters had watched me waddle and walk during my previous attempt. This time, I was running – really running – and picking up speed.
The Unexpected Finish
When the race finished after exactly 24 hours, I’d run 10% further than my previous attempt, despite not moving for about three hours in total. It’s the beautiful paradox of these events – I didn’t hit my primary or secondary objectives, but in the spirit of the Self-Transcendence race series, I dug deep and found something different about myself that simply wouldn’t say no.
My crew told me afterwards that they were amazed because when I had that lightbulb moment, they weren’t trying to convince me to go out. I just said, “Suppose I’d better start plodding,” laced up my shoes, and off I went. They weren’t even out of the car for another 20-30 minutes.
I felt genuinely happy. I was overcoming adversity and finding meaning in a race I thought was lost.
Ultimately, that’s what the Self-Transcendence race series is all about – not just running further than you thought possible, but discovering that when everything seems lost, there’s always another gear to find.
I would like to thank Shankara, the Sri Chinmoy Marathon Team, all of the volunteers, as well as my crew and everyone else’s crews and supporters who helped create such a fun atmosphere, particularly on the Saturday night and Sunday morning. I have a lot of running friends, and none of them have ever expressed an interest in the 24-hour race. But if you’re reading this and you’re sat on the fence, my recommendation is go for it!
Epilogue
So it’s been just over a day since I finished my 24-hour race, and I’m slowly feeling human again. When I got home, I saw my family, got clean, ate, and slept like a baby for a solid twelve hours. Even today, I managed a good hour and a half nap without much trying.
I’ve found myself gravitating towards spicy food and meats – likely in response to a bland carb-heavy diet over the last several weeks of training.
When I got home and I was lying on my bed, I tried raising my legs off the bed. My left leg could go up a little, but try as I might, my right leg could not be lifted an inch. The muscles that had tired out lifting my legs throughout the race had said “no more!” It would take more than a day till I could lift my right leg again!
What’s sore? Well that’s interesting. It’s almost a crash course in the muscle chains. When one muscle group gives out, the next set compensates, and so on. Being right-dominant, I noticed that everything from my hip flexors through to my obliques are sore. The outside of my left quad is delicate to the touch – I guess I must have caused a bit of damage there.
But was it worth it? The pain, the mental games, then more pain? Absolutely! I’m already thinking about what I would do better next time. I’d focus more on diverse carbs, I would see a physio months in advance, and I would get gait analysis rather than relying on generic reviews and AI-based content for my choice of track shoes! And I would possibly take the day before off, check into a hotel, draw the blinds, and bank a LOT of sleep – it didn’t help going into the race after a hectic work week.
Keep digging deeper,
GeekintheHills
Geek in the Hills 