Chris Moon remembers one of his toughest races

www.westhighlandwayrace.org

Milngavie North of Glasgow June 2010

Past midnight it’s just Saturday morning and sensible people are sleeping; the runners just want to go. Head torches dance like Christmas tree lights in Milngavie Station car park. I finish my interview with the cheerful host from the BBC Adventure show whose encouraging astonishment that I’m going to attempt the path along Loch Lomond then the scree like tracks of the West Highland Way makes me realise he’s walked it. I banish any thoughts of whether or not I can make it in the time limit and get ready to put my best foot forward.

The horn goes and we’re off, thank God. The air’s full of Skin So Soft midge repellent. It’s a mass of Gucci running kit, reflective stripes, halogen head torches and most of the blokes are wearing stupid girly ladies scarves on their head like hippies- ridiculous posers! After three hours of hard night running on the tracks and paths the first blue light of dawn gives hope, the marshal opens the footpath gate and warns of road traffic. I spot my support crew and beg them to make me a stupid posy ladies scarf thing because the midges have landed in my hair and eaten most of my sodding head.

Back up the track, through the dark woods and endlessly up the false horizons of Conic Hill. I’m going to complain to Alex Salmond, someone’s cocked up; this is a mountain not a hill. Although there’s not much point, he’ll be too busy to have time to listen. Near the top a wave of nausea, stump pain and fatigue drowns me. Suddenly a beautiful blonde woman jumps out from behind a rock and asks ‘Can you talk to me?’ I pinch myself, this isn’t the first time I’ve hallucinated on an ultra.

Ouch! ‘Certainly’

A cameraman appears. ‘I’m with the BBC Adventure Show. How are you feeling?’

‘Absolutely Ace!’

As the interview ends I’m just about to ask her if she’ll bathe me and anoint me with oils if I finish in under thirty six hours, when I realise the fatigue and exertion must be getting to me and making me behave inappropriately. I come to my senses and realise I can’t her ask that because I can see another runner coming over the hill and if I’m not off now he’ll over take me.

Nobody likes the steep descent off Conic hill, especially me because my running blade can turn into a ski. I take it steady, if I fall I could puncture the sleeve holding my leg on- that would be bad admin. When I get to the end of the slippery, rocky eroded step bit I’m so overjoyed I make a screaming noise like a girl, except louder and dash downhill through the woods to the checkpoint, where the marshal tells me three in front of me have dropped out. He advises caution alongside Loch Lomond, ‘could tricky’.

The path is rocky and in places a scramble. I’ve put my hook on to get three points of contact. After a few hours we’re in the rocky zone and the lady behind me chats. She’s very well spoken and says it’s her first time, but she’s supported friends from her running club for years. She says she’s been up here most weekends for the last year training and asks me how long I’ve been training. I decide not to admit five years and say ‘I started jogging in the park a few weeks ago’ to which she replies ‘stop winding me up you tosser.’

It’s a single track path and there’s no room to pass. She says running for twelve hours is getting to her, she’s feeling sick, I know how she feels; my stomach’s as rough as a bear’s bottom and not nearly as nice smelling. I climb rough steps cut into a large boulder and put my hook on the top to lever myself up. Suddenly it slips making a noise like a GPMG being cocked, I fall back, but this is too much for my dodgy stomach, there’s an involuntary blast of foul guff from my backside and I feel orgasmic relief, particularly as I manage to avoid following through. To my horror I glance behind and see her face is an inch from my backside. The marshal was right this stretch is tricky.

I am mortified. I profusely apologise and bite my lip for an hour every time the raucous laughter bursts out too loud. There are only some things you can learn being a one armed on legged ultra runner- and this is one of the ultimate truths- when a man no longer thinks farting is funny he’s tired of life.

I stagger down the path, now alone, but quite able to understand why no one would want to run behind me. I’m wobbling slightly, but still going strong. Ahead I can see the van ‘London Mountain Rescue’ I think it’s really impressive they’ve travelled all the way up from London to support us, but then again I suppose you’d have to as there aren’t many mountains in London.

I blast on through a gentle drizzle, the weather’s perfect and breeze picks up keeping the midges away. I reach the next check point and realise I must be more tired than I thought, the van actually says ‘Lomond (as in Loch Lomond) not London Mountain Rescue’

I’m now running with two identical twins, well I don’t suppose there would be three would there? Or could you have three? Now there’s a thought. One of them has just won a 24 hour track race in Germany; good. They’ve done this five times before and say you can only learn about it by doing it. Average first time finish is about thirty two hours. I now begin to suspect the stretch after the dreaded Devil’s staircase is tougher than I thought and as the fatigue washes over me I realise I’m not going to be as quick as I’d hoped, but the aim is to finish.

The rock littered track of Glen Falloch is tough on my prosthesis. It needs a level surface to work effectively. After hours of jolting I realise my stumps one big sore bit, time for a leg change to the put the pressure somewhere else. I decide the best strategy is to speed march the rocky bits; which is probably forty miles.

Darkness is falling fast. I can understand why people find Glencoe eerie. As I approach I see pockets of snow on the mountains on the west side. Ewan and David from our running club Strathaven Striders (a drinking club with a running problem) have joined me as their runner, a veteran with six good times, had a stomach problem and pulled out. I’m grateful they’re helping me now, the prospect of the feared Devil’s Staircase as darkness falls is daunting.

Like most difficult issues in life – when we face them they stop being difficult and once on it Devil’s staircase is nothing like as bad as feared, although Ewan accuses me of being crabby on the way up because I’m not chatting. Sorry- haven’t got enough breath to climb, let alone talk! Going down the other side is a never ending nightmare. I trip and fall a few times, but fortunately manage to break my fall by landing on my face.

Race rules say you should pair up or be accompanied at night. Great opportunity for a laugh. It helps to have someone to talk to when your falling asleep on your feet and to get to  Kinlochleven is your only focus, because if you can make it there you can finish. I stagger on and promise myself a ten minute sleep in the support car.  I’ve never felt so tired even though it’s only two nights, this is ridiculous I’ve been up for six days before. It feels as if I’ve been staggering around the town forever, but it’s minutes. I sit in the car for a second, get nudged and told it’s ten minutes. The sleep worked, I’m elated so’s the runner, or perhaps I should say fellow limper next to me. We keep joyously keep repeating ‘less than a marathon to go’.

I’m not sure if the distance and transition into dawn is slow, fast or never ending.  The final checkpoint and only seven miles to go! Nevis forest is beautiful and I see a huge black otter on the track. He must have followed a stream up from the River Nevis. I get my running leg on for a sprint finish (okay possibly a slight exaggeration) and finish with my support crew; so thanks Ewan, Dave, Gary and Rob. I’d never have done it without you.

After I finished I must admit I was in bits. If you think it’s mad for a one armed, one legged bloke to run a mountain race of 95 miles with a 36 hour cut off then think about this- Only a fool would finish the West Highland Way Race and say I conquered the hills, the stones and glens, but what I can say is I went there, trained hard, became part of a team effort, did by my best and in so doing conquered something that limited me.

What did I learn? Apart from some technical and prosthetic things which will make me faster next time I have to say I’ve travelled the world and done many ultras and this is one of the toughest so far.  Isn’t it ironic? Been all over the world and this one was right on my doorstep. What a blast! The moral of the story for me, which I hope will be of some use to you, is best explained by asking this question: What opportunities do we have close to home, in front of our eyes that need work, effort and enthusiasm to become great?

I wish you all the best with your challenges whatever they might be.

Best Chris

The Civil War’s still dribbling blood in the border areas. It seems a wound that might never heal. After the elections the United Nations have withdrawn proclaiming success; in some places there’s still a fight for money and power. The Khmer Rouge soldiers are fierce jungle fighters underestimated by everyone except those who come into contact with them, few prisoners have survived the experience.

The KR have been pushed back into jungle strongholds after a Vietnamese invasion ousting them from power in 1979, there’s been nearly twenty years of civil war. The frontlines border the forest. They fund their war selling gems and wood. I run a demining operation based in Mongol Borei for the HALO Trust. http://www.halotrust.org/ We’re clearing large areas of land that used to be villages so people can go home.  No evidence of previous habitation exists, the wood and bamboo huts burned in the fighting, people fled to camps on the Thai border. Now

I visit the ICRC http://www.icrc.org/  hospital every week to talk to people injured by mines so we deploy teams for the maximum humanitarian benefit. The concrete ward has walls four feet high then a gap to allow the breeze under the extended roof which keeps out the monsoon rain. I glance at the clipboard at the base of his bed his name is Somonn. He was injured near Anlong Venn, probably a soldier. I’m not allowed to read his notes, patient confidentiality, but I can see and smell he’s dying.

His flesh only just covers his bones. He’s lying on a reed mat on the metal frame bed. His sweat drenched body is covered in scabs; punctured like a pin cushion and a lemon scrapped for zest. He must have been close to a large blast. Fragments of the ground, small stones have pitted his body. He’s covered in sweat and fighting a fever that’s winning.

I walk towards him to ask where he’d been blown up and my friend Fernanda Calado, the Spanish ICRC head nurse, standing in the corner shakes her head gently and tries to smile. She’s seen so many people die, which is hard because she joined ICRC to stop that. She says she never wants to grow old she just wants to keep nursing with ICRC, maybe she has. Rest in peace (Sadly a few years later she was shot in her bed in Chechnya- see http://www.icrc.org/eng/resources/documents/misc/57jnbg.htm  )

I think at least I can say something kind to him and be a friendly face before he dies. To my horror I see his legs are amputated high up and a two year old and four year old are sitting where they should be. Their deep eyes are hopeless and sad. He grips my hand like a drowning man grabs something that floats and keeps saying ‘How will I feed my children?’

I’m proud of my three years on operations as an officer in the British Army; but I’m lost. He squeezes my hand and I realise when we’re dying all we need is love and hope. I feel totally inadequate to help him and ask for assistance from the big man upstairs. There are no atheists in battlefield and there’s nothing to lose by asking.

Then a random thought arrives, I responded to a request a few weeks ago and went to the JRS Centre http://www.jrs.net/ to clear unexploded shells. They helped disabled Cambodians earn a living by becoming mechanics or woodcarvers. I was moved by the simple goodness of the people I met and how hopeless life must be for the disabled who get no help.

My time as a prisoner of the Khmer Rouge taught me. You have to believe you can make it or you don’t stand a chance. So I keep saying ‘you have to believe you’re going to make it. I know some good people who will teach you to be a wood carver. Finally he relaxes his grip and something strange happens. I get a feeling he’s going to be alright. So I get back to work I’ve got no time to mess about.

The next day Fernanda tells me much to everyone’s astonishment he’s survived the night and they think he’ll make it. I contact Kike (now Bishop of Battambang) at JRS and know they’ll take care of him.

South Africa 1995

I’m lying in intensive care wired up to heart monitors and numerous other monitoring systems. The surgeon tells me I’m the only patient he’s ever seen survive with such a small amount of blood. I just had my lower right arm and leg amputated, but in no way am I a victim because I chose to clear landmines. My sympathy is with those who live in mine affected areas who have no choice. Ironically I was blown up doing the least dangerous thing I ever did, walking in the middle of a cleared area, but shit happens to us all in life. The important thing is to wipe it off and crack on, because no one wants to be next to somebody who’s got it stuck to them.

A nurse comes in clutching a handful of taxes and hands them to me saying ‘the wonders of modern communication-your friends in Cambodia have heard you were injured yesterday and these have arrived for you.’

As I thank her I look at the top one and see the symbol of the Dove, it’s from Kike at JRS; he’s written on behalf of Somonn. ‘Dear Chris, sorry to hear you were injured. I hope your injuries heal fast. My life is great now, I’ve learned to be a wood carver and I’m teaching others to do the same. I need to build a school here. Good wishes for fast healing.’

There’s an opportunity in every crisis if we choose to see that way. One of the reasons I lived was because I was very fit. I’ll run the London Marathon next year and raise money for Somonn to build a small school at JRS.

Epilogue

I successfully completed the London Marathon less than a year after leaving hospital in 1996. Subsequently I’ve run many of the world’s toughest ultra-marathons and I’ve done two 1000 mile charity runs; I’m told I was one of the first amputees running ultra-distance. Thanks to the support of Oxfam and my friends and family we raised enough for the new building.

I have met up again with Somonn many times and his courage, determination and refusal to give up in the face of adversity are truly inspirational. He sold everything he owned (including his house) to pay for his medical treatment. In his first year at JRS he was given money to buy food. He saved the money and ate the food everybody else threw away for a year to get enough money to buy a plot of land for a house. When I ran the length of Cambodia he pushed his wheel chair alongside me ‘till his hands bleed.

During these harsh economic times it’s easy to focus on what we don’t have, but during this festive season it might be helpful to be thankful for what we do have, arms and legs being one small example. We all know there are people much worse off than us, that might not help us feel better if we’re having a tough time but if we ask what do we have in our lives that we take for granted and what internal resources do we have that we don’t really use? Then it might help because I believe we will have the capacity to go one step beyond limits. So I wish you a happy, peaceful and restful Christmas which invigorates you for a great new year, after all tomorrow’s another day…

Merry Christmas

Picture December 2011 Chris and Somonn at JRS woodcarving school