I hadn’t raced properly in a while, so obviously the sensible reintroduction was a 50-miler in February followed by a 100 mile (my first race at this distance) 6 weeks later, in April.
What could possibly go wrong?
At the time, my knee had been grumbling constantly. Proper injury drama, you know that annoying background noise where every run starts with, “Ah yes, there you are again.” Add in a ridiculously busy diary and trying to fit training around life felt harder than the races themselves.
So when Jon told me the focus between the two events needed to be rest and recovery, it genuinely messed with my head a bit… in an “absolutely not” kind of way. I know he was right, but endurance athletes aren’t exactly known for being emotionally stable about rest days.
Part of me was convinced that if I stopped training for five minutes, all fitness would evaporate instantly, I’d end up doubling my bodyweight and I’d forget how to run entirely. I’ve spent the last 8 years convincing myself that doing more is always the answer, so every bit of this recovery period just felt wrong!
The 50-miler itself was absolute chaos. After what can only be described as what felt like the longest, wettest winter ever, it was a complete and utter mud fest. The kind where every step feels like the ground is actively trying to steal your shoes. Not ideal when you function on half a vestibular system anyway. There were sections where I genuinely had no idea whether I was running or just desperately trying not to fall over. I spent most of it wading through slop, sliding sideways through the fields and along tow paths wondering if this technically counted as trail running or some sort of low-budget winter survival exercise. I finished, without being timed out or being totally broken. This had been my goal. In fact, I felt like I could have carried on. It was at this point that I knew we were go for the 100, because at no point before that finish line did it feel anywhere near doable.
Anyway, 6 weeks came and went (a little too quickly!) and despite all the knee worries beforehand, the 100 arrived… and bizarrely, the knee was completely pain free the entire time.
I still don’t understand it. My knee complains during normal life, moans on short runs, grumbles going up and downstairs… yet apparently running 100 miles was absolutely fine. Makes no sense whatsoever.
The first 40-ish miles actually felt really good. Suspiciously good. I was really enjoying pain-free running for the first time in a long time!! Maybe (now having a comfortable 4 and a half hour buffer in the bank) I even started getting a bit too confident, which in ultras is normally the first warning sign that things are about to unravel spectacularly.
And unravel they did.
At some point my stomach decided it wanted no further involvement in the event. All the carefully thought out and practised nutrition suddenly became completely disgusting. Gels? Gross. Real food? Absolutely not. So my fuelling strategy deteriorated into ginger biscuits and black coffee picked up at a checkpoint, crushed up salt and vinegar crisps and flat coke.
Honestly, if there are any sports nutrition companies reading this, you’re welcome. Clearly there’s a gap in the market for “desperate ultra runner cuisine.”
Then came the blister. Not just a normal blister either. A massive, one in a place I have literally never blistered before in my life. It first appeared 8 miles in and I thought I’d dealt with it, but by 75 miles it had ballooned and the blister plaster I’d put on it was now compromising the circulation to the offending toe. The learning point, never assume and keep an eye on your feet!
Eventually I had to drain it, which was every bit as unpleasant as it sounds. There’s something very humbling about stabbing your own foot in the middle of an ultra while eating crisps for survival. From that point every step felt like someone was sticking a hot poker in the end of my running shoe.
After that, the cut-offs started getting very tight. The second half had become less “race” and more surviving checkpoint to checkpoint (and at times mile to mile!) with ongoing negotiations between my body and the clock. I honestly don’t think I’d have finished without my friend, Aimee, pacing me through those final miles. She kept me moving, kept me laughing and tolerated a truly concerning level of hallucinations and nonsense from me by that stage of the race.
Actually, the humour on events like this is half the survival strategy. When everyone’s exhausted, filthy, sleep deprived and slightly delirious, the conversations become increasingly bizarre. On this point, I owe a massive thanks to my crew as well for staying awake until ridiculous hours, dealing with all my drama and somehow still managing to keep morale high.
And Paul… I will never, ever look at a cowbell the same way again. If you know, you know.
Looking back now, neither race was pretty, polished or particularly graceful, but I think that’s partly why they meant so much. It reminded me that ultras aren’t always about feeling strong. Sometimes it’s just about problem solving your way forwards one ridiculous situation at a time… with a flat coke in hand and a support crew willing to laugh at your suffering!
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