Centurion Thames Path 100 mile - Race Report

Debut 100-miler

Search the phrase '“This Too Shall Pass”, and the internet will inform you that it’s an ancient Persian proverb emphasising the impermanence of all things, good and bad, suggesting that difficult times don’t last, and that even joyful moments are temporary.

I’m sure the Persian Elders had ultra-running in mind when they spoke such wisdom as I’ve not found any adage as apt as that one when applied to this sometimes brutal, and sometimes joyful, ‘sport’.

The idea of a 100-mile race has been on the cards for a couple of years; we knew our running journey, expanding ever since its genesis in the Mendip Hills during the Covid Pandemic, has eventually been leading to this. After completing two 100km races (Race to the Stones 2023 and its sister race Race to the King in 2024), Dad and I had little else to turn.

The Centurion Thames Path 100 was chosen - for it’s well-known bountiful aid stations for as much as its familiarity - if you know me in real life, you may know that Dad and I have ran the entire length, Source to Sea over 10 days, and then I wrote a book on it. Due to its flat nature, as rivers tend to be, it also seemed suitable for a pair of first-timers, too.

Training was taken seriously, Dad and I both building significant bases early in the year, and both surviving various injury scares. The idea of aiming for a sub-24 hour finish was agreed upon, though the real target - to finish at all.

At 9am on Saturday 3rd May, 300 runners toed the line - a race against time - all aiming to reach the finish at Oxford before the clock struck 3pm on Sunday - a cut-off of 30 hours.

Dad had spent considerable time during the taper weeks designing a dynamic schedule - quicker in the first half and then slower in the second - that would allow us to finish before 9am the following day. For the first 20 miles we kept the pace, heading though Walton-on-Thames, Wraysbury, Runneymede, Staines and Windsor, and at times gaining a mile or so advantage on the imaginary broom-wagon hot on on our tail.

And hot it was - despite a slight reduction in the forecast the day before, the peak of the days’ temperature still pushed through 24 degrees, making running uncomfortable and hydration difficult.

After 30 miles, the first few chinks in the armour slowly started to reveal themselves. It was hot, and by then, we’d been running for a shade over 6 hours. I topped up water bottles with electrolyte solution and we cracked on though the next miles were tough - Dad and I seemingly both suffering at the same time - unable to inject the necessary positive energy needed to pull the other out of the slump.

Shortly upstream of Maidenhead I hit my lowest point in the entire race. I entirely lost resolve before I pulled myself together, almost starting to cry as I let the size of the task ahead of me almost get the better of me. Fortunately, I could still eat, and a mixture of fruit and my homemade energy gels (60g carbs!) were keeping me well nutritionalised.

Even more fortunately, the ancient Persians were correct, and my low spell, which lasted a couple of hours, slowly started to slip away as the miles to the next aid station (Cookham Reach) slowly started to recede. Further nourishment was taken on, and five minutes of rest was taken, which did wonders for my aforementioned battered-resolve and I felt stronger heading into a new stretch. Unfortunately, good times, like the bad, are just as likely to be fleeting, and within a few miles, the tough times had soon returned and I was dreaming of the halfway checkpoint at Henley.

Dad had been dealing with his own struggles, and between 35 - 45 miles, we’d managed to lose a substantial amount of time against our planned schedule. We made a brave decision to scrap it, instead deciding to run on feel and vibes, which felt like an incredible mental weight suddenly lifted off our shoulders.

The remaining miles to Henley (52.2) offered little resistance, and we reached the midway aid station in a time of 11 hours and 32 minutes. Hot food, and hot drinks, were offered here, and I took advantage of this slowly pick at some plain pasta and I was surprised that I was able to stomach not only this, but a small cup of small tea as well. Not wanting to leave the warmth and security of the Henley encampment, we proceeded to stay slightly longer than half an hour, the respite from the repetitive striking of our feet on tarmac and trail a brief but welcome one.

Leaving Henley, the Thames Path 100 route calls for a diversion into a forest above the town. Fortunately, we’d conducted reconnaissance on this very section not two months prior and accordingly, we’d brought our cheat sticks. At the half-way point, drop-bags are afforded to runners, allowing athletes a range of supplies of their own choosing. Dad and I had thought carefully and maximised this opportunity, opting to change footwear - road shoes in the first half, predominantly on tarmac, to trail for the second half - along with a fresh shirt and other additional layers.

Brother Matthew had been present at both Henley and then Reading, employed as Crew Chief helping the boys with necessary tasks at a number of aid stations from Henley onwards. From organising kit to refilling water bottles, BM’s timing and presence was a vital resource on which to draw from out on the trails. After seeing BM at Reading, he drove ahead for a few hours sleep in the car at Benson, and we’d progress slowly on our trail, aiming to meet at around 5am.

Those who have run 100 mile races before say that the real task starts at 60 miles - you’re in far enough to be experiencing real aches and pains, but you’ve still got 40 miles left to run, so the battle becomes more mental than physical, in a way.

As it was, we were pleasantly surprised with how the overnight section turned out. After Reading was Pangbourne, and we stopped here for another cup of tea before leaving 10 minutes later. It was cold, yes, and we’d layered up substantially, but considering where we were (metaphorically) before reaching Henley, we were moving well and enjoying the activity.

Above Pangbourne, the Thames Path heads through a small wood before dropping back down to the river side. The path is entirely enclosed and Dad was unfortunate enough to snag a root in the darkness, causing him to stumble and fall. Major injuries didn’t materialise, fortunately, but he had hit his head so we stopped for several minutes to let any shock subside before we carried on again. After this, we backed off our pace - any further incidents in the dark could spell an end to the journey, and with now less than 30 miles to go this would be unfathomable.

After Reading, the aid stations were relatively close to one another - only a few miles out of Pangbourne were we approaching our next stop at Goring (73 miles). There are drop-bags available here (though crew cannot attend) so we refreshed some of our kit and then once again topped up our bottles and were soon out into the quiet village and then back on the riverside path.

Next up was Wallingford, a further 5 or 6 miles upstream. ‘They’ say it’s darkest before dawn, but heading through the quiet villages of Streatley and Moulsford, we could swear we could see the sky overhead starting to lighten. Or was this just clouds reflecting the night-time illumination of Reading and Oxford? Either way, there was hope, and we headed on, occasionally passing by another runner but by now going long stretches without seeing anyone else.

Just before we reached Wallingford (5am) the dawn had become impossible to ignore, and we were treated to a fantastic dawn chorus as the birds slowly began to wake up. We knocked our head torches off soon after and now it truly did feel like we were in the endgame - less than 20 miles to go. Of course, more tea was taken at the Wallingford aid stop - now that the schedule had been binned, we did probably spend a bit longer at each stop, but we were enjoying the experience, were only racing to finish, so if I couldn’t enjoy a cup of tea every 8 or 9 miles, what was I doing?

I’d swapped my shoes at halfway (replacing my Hoka roads with my Nike trails). Soon after Wallingford was Benson - crews were allowed to attend here. During the night, my shoes had become wet when going through a rather muddy patch (we knew about this and had recce’d it). We found BM shortly after 5.30am with kit laid out and my shoes ready, now opting to switch back to my roads for the final 18 or so miles. The path would be hard-packed from here, so dry shoes over optimum grip seemed to be a sensible play.

From here, there were two aid stations left - Clifton Hampden 9 miles away, and then Lower Radley, a further 9 miles beyond that. It got a bit confusing - the aid station distance markers seemingly not matching their actual positions on the GPX file. This was frustrating - I definitely did not want to run any further than I had to, and I’d rather my know my exact position so I could work out the remaining distance. Unfortunately that proved harder than it needed to be, especially as a volunteer at Clifton Hampden then said the final aid stop (L. Radley) was “probably closer to 10 miles than 9, but lets go with 9”.

Anyhow, there wasn’t anything we could really do about that aside from grumble a bit, so we did that, and when we were finished, cracked on. These were slow miles - seemingly repeating environment with very little stimulus. By now the 24 hour point had come and gone and were looking forward to the end.

Since Reading, really, we’d felt relatively good. We were moving, still eating, and in high spirits. As the remaining few miles ebbed away, we started to slip back into a place of difficulty. Dad had got quite tired at the Clifton Hampden aid stop and at around Abingdon I hit a spot of bother, too. Good things don’t last, you see.

I couldn’t work out if I was too hot or too cold, and I didn’t know whether my heart rate was too low either (at one point it was 85, which seems low). From Abingdon to Lower Radley we plugged away, now just walking, desperate to reach the final aid stop. We reached this but only AFTER ticking through the 100-mile barrier on our watches - seemingly this event would be long.

At Lower Radley I asked for some electrolytes, and was persuaded by a kind volunteer to have some watermelon. I didn’t like the sound of it but acquiesced, and this, coupled with the extra hydration, seemed to do the trick. Brother Matthew joined us again, this time in an official capacity as a ‘pacer’, and joined us for the remaining 4.5 miles to Oxford.

This too longer than it should have - by now we were reduced to all but a walk, though we did manage to elevate that to a slow shuffle down the finishing chute and across the line. Our total time: 27 hours and 39 minutes.

The setup around the finish is good with hot drinks and food on offer (though the hot water had run out (our fault, for our tardiness)), so we enjoyed the hospitality for a bit and watched a few other runners finish their odyssey before making our way home (thanks to BM for driving).

A huge shout out to Centurion for a well organised race, not least to the volunteers who give up their time and energy to help get you through. The biggest thanks to BM who we always saw when we needed to the most, as well giving up his sleep and effort to help get us over the line.

A million lessons learnt, most far too technical or boring to recount here, so I’ll save you the time.

Will we do another? We both agreed, circa 10 miles to go, that this was it. Though, Never say Never.

Next up for me: The Breakheart Backyard Ultra in Gloucestershire in June.