The plan was beautiful in its simplicity. 50 kilometres of rugged single-track trail. A targeted 5-hour finish. A highly disciplined strategy calculated a week before 🙂
Instead, the universe decided to test my absolute resolve in a 5-hour-and-31-minute furnace.
If you are a runner, you know the exact feeling of a perfect race build-up. The training blocks are ticked off, the long weekend runs are in the bank, and the taper leaves you feeling like a coiled spring. My goal was sub-5, a milestone I knew was entirely within my physical capability. What I didn’t account for—and what no spreadsheet can ever truly prepare you for—was the weather turning the mountain trail into a giant, open-air oven.
By the 9:00 AM start, the air was already heavy, thick, and completely still. There was no morning breeze, just a clear blue sky that offered absolutely no protection. As the race director blew the starting horn, a blur of race vests and hydration packs charged onto the dirt path.
A Masterclass in Flawless Logistics and Perfect Decisions
For the first 35 kilometres, I felt like a tactical mastermind.
As an experienced runner, I knew exactly how to handle my ego on race morning. While other runners went out far too fast, fueled by early morning adrenaline, I checked my pace and let them go. I stuck rigidly to my script. Every single decision I made out there was completely spot-on. I drank my electrolytes on a strict 35-minute timer, forced down my energy gels every half hour, and let my legs find a steady, rhythmic flow over the technical terrain.
Even my kit choice was flawless. From my shoes handling the loose debris to my hydration vest sitting perfectly without a single hot spot of chafing, my gear setup worked exactly as intended.
A massive shoutout has to go to the race organization here—they were absolutely brilliant from start to finish. In brutal conditions like these, poor logistics do not just ruin a race; they become genuinely dangerous. But the course marking was a work of art. Every sharp turn, hidden tree root, and fork in the trail was so perfectly flagged that you couldn’t lose your way if you tried.
And the aid stations? Absolute lifelines. The volunteers were operating like an elite motorsport pit crew. They didn’t just hand out water; they aggressively shoved crushed ice down our sports vests, drenched our heads with freezing cold sponges, and cheered with an enthusiasm that made you feel like you were leading the Olympic final. Because the race execution was flawless, I spent this middle third picking off crumbling runners one by one. Everything was going entirely to plan.
Suffering in the Oven
Then, around kilometre 40, the trail fought back. The heat didn’t just feel warm anymore; it felt heavy, suffocating, and deeply personal.
The sun had climbed to its peak, reflecting blinding light and radiating heat directly off the baked dirt and exposed shale. My heart rate spiked into the red zone, and the sheer atmospheric heat made the air feel thick enough to chew. The math in my head started getting a little muddy. I watched the minutes tick away, knowing the 5-hour target was slowly slipping out of reach because the relentless weather demanded a small tax on every single mile.
This is the exact moment where an ultramarathon transforms into a pure mental war against the elements. The heat was brutal, and the suffering was real, but all those years of building a strong running foundation paid off. My legs actually felt remarkably good. The fitness was right where it needed to be, my muscles weren’t failing me, and my stride never collapsed. Because my kit and nutrition decisions had been so perfect early on, there were no cramps, no blisters, and no physical breakdowns—just the pure, grinding friction of racing through a furnace.
I didn’t stop, and I didn’t slow down to a crawl. I just locked eyes on the next tree, the next rock, and kept pushing through the heatwave.
5:31:00 — Job Done
Crossing that finish line 31 minutes later than my dream time should have felt like a disappointment. In reality, it brought a wave of pure relief and intense pride.
When you run in the wild, the terrain and the elements always get the final say. On a cool, crisp autumn morning, that 5-hour barrier would have fallen easily. But ultra running isn’t about finding ideal conditions; it’s about managing the unique crisis you are given on the day.
I took on 50 brutal trail kilometres, survived an absolute scorcher, and got the job done with plenty of gas left in the tank. The salt lines on my face are real, but the legs survived the battle completely intact thanks to flawless execution from start to finish.
On to the next one—hopefully with a little bit more shade.