Issue 20 - Supported by INOV8

In THIS ISSUE Women, Bodies and Ultrarunning / Annapurna Marathon / Around the World With Rhino Boy / Last Annual Vol State Road Race / Journey Running Pioneers / 380km of Swiss Peaks / Leadville / My First Ultra DNF / The Bootleg Hangman The Lap / Garments Don’t Provide Warmth! / The Two Towers and more...

ULT a R [uhl-truh] adjective

Going beyond what is usual or ordinary; excessive; extreme.

We’re hitting a couple of major milestones with ULTRA over the next few months. When we started, back in August 2015, I had no idea if we would make more than one issue, and yet here we are with the 20th.

Also next August will mark our 10th anniversary. Issue 1 was published when Barack Obama was still president of the USA, Britain was still a year away from the Brexit referendum and Covid and Lockdown were not yet buzzwords to enter our lexicon. Oh, for simpler times.

We set out all that time ago to create a beautiful journal to allow ultrarunners to share stories. To glue the various ultra communities together, to celebrate the landscape upon which we run, to revel in the adventure, and to demystify our wonderful sport to those who don’t yet understand it. I think we’ve done that pretty successfully, via the words, pictures and illustrations of the ultrarunning community, all bound up in a wonderful keepsake that lands on your doormats twice a year (or pinging into your inbox if you’re reading the Digital Edition). Along the way we’ve made great friends and picked up some amazing followers from around the world.

But we’re not done yet. There are stories being made all the time. Tales of ordinary people like you and I, doing extraordinary things. That’s where the magic of this sport lies. Hopefully we’ll still be around for another 10 years, another 20 issues, to keep on sharing your tales of adventure, of endurance, and of community.

— Andy Nuttall, Editor

SWISSPEaKS 380 THE TWO /22 /34 TOWERS annaPURna MaRaTHOn /46 /56 THE LaP TOR DES GEanTS /70 /76 LEaDVILLE SaLZBURG /86 THE BOOTLEG HAnGMan /91 LaST annUaL VOL STATE /8

RACES

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JOURnEY RUnnInG PIOnEERS /28 /32 GEaR aDVICE ULTRa FILTHY /40 WOMEn, BODIES anD ULTRaRUnnInG /54 I’VE HaD a GOOD RUn... /62 /64 RaIn STOPPED PLaY RHInO BOY /68 WHaT’S In MY BaG? /16

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SWISS PEAKS

From glacier to lake in the Swisspeaks 380 Words and Photos: Liz ‘Buffy’ Hopkins

Where do I start? My first experience of Swisspeaks was back in 2022 when I entered the 170km race with my husband Neil. We started well but lost a lot of time crossing a technical mountain pass and were timed out at 75km. We vowed to come back, especially since we wanted to see the section between Finhaut and Bouveret.

Fast-forward two years, and I was standing on the start line of the now 380km race, alone. My wonderful husband sadly passed away from cancer in June 2023, and I had promised since that day that I would run the race all the way to the finish, with him in my heart.

I’m not a novice when it comes to Alpine races, I’ve done a fair few now, some have been DNFs but I’ve a good experience base. Nothing had been over 100 miles though. As I stood chatting to my fellow runners, my nerves were on edge. Was I going to be among the 48% of finishers?

Oberwald to Eisten I stood on the start line a little overwhelmed. I was surrounded by people who were way more experienced than me, many having attempted this race before and failed. I spoke to a few people I had met online leading up to the race, including Gavin who was running the race for the first time, and my friend Mark Thompson who had already run 300km to get here as part of the Swisspeaks 660 race. Mark tried to calm my fears.

But I was nervous.

We started at 10am on Sunday and ran through the town and soon down to a walk up a steep road. It was hot already. The first climb was relatively small and so I climbed easily to just above the treeline, and soon we were descending fast towards our first aid station at Ulrichen. On the descent, I chatted to a UK-based Australian runner called Jaey, and two lovely Swedish sisters who I’d met on the train.

The aid station was boiling, so I filled my bottles and tried to eat as much as I could, homemade cakes and some fruit. Soon I was climbing again, chatting to two UK runners, Andrew and David. As we headed up, I passed Jaey who was having some issues with the altitude, he said his head was spinning. I was worried for his race.

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Again, this was a relatively small climb and soon we were descending back down the valley. The heat was oppressive and I was sweating loads. I was starting to worry about eating as it’s always difficult in the heat.

We soon started climbing steeply to the little church at Reckingen, our second aid station. Here I could just about eat some fruit, some cheese and salty cured meat and sat on the bench to cool down. It was busy so I didn’t stay long.

The next climb was the first big ascent of the race, easy at first along a river, where I chatted to Tim, a runner on the 660.

Soon the path steepened, and I mean steep! The altitude and the heat made for hard work as we climbed up to 2,650m over the Chummefurgge Pass. As we got to the top, a view appeared that blew my mind and I cried a few tears, relieved that I had got to the top. The sun was starting to dip now and the mountains looked fantastic. I ran off the top with a spring in my step towards the next aid station, arriving hungry enough for some chilli. It was here I met Ying, a lady who I’d had the pleasure to run with for a while at Gran Trail Courmayeur in July. We then set off down to Fiesch, the first lifebase at 50km. It was dark by the time I reached the huge suspension bridge across the valley bottom. I was quite happy about this as it’s a huge drop!

I reached Fiesch in 11.5 hours, well ahead of the cutoff, had some pasta, cleaned myself off with some wet wipes, and was on my way within 45 mins.

Here is where things started getting a bit blurry! It was a dark, steep climb through trees, no switchbacks, just straight up the mountain. Mark passed me here, he’d had a nap at Fiesch. He was flying, and after a brief chat he was gone into the night. We climbed to the 2,560m summit of Safischpass and started to descend the other side. It wasn’t particularly technical once we were off the top, and soon my mind started to wander and I found myself feeling pretty sleepy. Unusual as it was the first night. I arrived at the Fleschbode aid station and a kind volunteer saw I was sleepy and showed me to a comfy bunk. I asked to be woken after an hour, but sleep never came in the end as I couldn’t switch off the sound of other people. It was nice to have a rest though, and as

I returned to the eating area for some pasta and soup, it was starting to get light. Tim came in as I was leaving, he was in desperate need of some sleep. We exchanged a few words and I was back on my way.

The next pass was 2,600m, I really can’t remember much, except arriving at the aid station at Giw, where they had overnight oats to die for. I ate loads here, cheese and meat and met back up with Kati, one of the sisters. She was enjoying a beer! I think Austin, a US runner I was yo-yoing with was here too, as was Brian, a Canadian runner with whom I would continue to yo-yo.

I left the aid station with a few hallucinations starting to creep in. I saw two big dogs guarding a motorbike.

I was wary until I realised only the motorbike was real.

Or was it?

Soon I was descending to Eisten, the second lifebase at 105km. I reached it in 32 hrs, bang on the time I intended and hours ahead of the cutoff.

I stopped to eat, I can’t remember what. I had a shower which was amazing, put on clean clothes and set myself down in a gym to sleep.

But sleep didn’t come...

Eisten to Grimentz I climbed up off the mattress after 45 mins of trying to sleep. I wanted a massage but the queue was too long.

My quads were already starting to feel a bit tired, and that worried me. I sorted my stuff and left the Eisten lifebase in the dark, on my own. The next section to the Grimentz lifebase, 53km away, had three massive climbs and two of the highest passes of the race. I can’t remember much about the 1,000m climb to Hannigalp, except it was dark and steep. I was, however, climbing well.

I remember talking to a French runner who had run TdG a few times, he assured me the legs get accustomed to the climbs and descents after a few days. We will see.

I ran down into Zurn See and through St Niklaus to the CP at Jungu. I think it was here that I had fresh pancakes with chargrilled orange stuffed with chocolate!

The volunteers were making up recipes! I remember Austin being here, and also Ying. We started back up the massive 1,700m climb to Augstbordpass at nearly 2,900m. I passed Ying, who had tried to grab 10 minutes sleep on a rock. As we climbed further, we looked back at a stunning sunrise over the huge 4,000m peaks on the opposite side of the valley. The trail became lost in huge boulderfields, and it was hard to stay upright in my tired state. As the landscape lightened, my hallucinations became huge. Boulders became anything but: massive figures on the hillside and villages that didn’t exist.

And people everywhere. I reached the summit and started the technical descent, being chased by a giant man in a blue knitted jumper with massive hands!

I worked out it was now Tuesday morning. I still hadn’t slept in 48 hours.

At the bottom of the descent, we arrived at the next checkpoint, Blüomatt. It was a farm building but very welcoming. They had raclette, the first one I’d had. I had two servings, with omelette as well. As I sat eating, Jaey

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appeared from the hayloft sleeping upstairs! He must have passed me. I was so pleased to see him doing so well after his early dizziness.

I had also caught up with Philippe, a runner who was on the 660. He has run every edition of the race I think, and is famous for his little guitar strapped to his pole, and his lovely singing. I would continue to see Philippe at most CPs through the race.

I nipped upstairs to put my head down but it was cold, the blankets itchy and I just wasn’t sleepy. So I put on some sun cream and left in the warmth of the morning for another 1,000m climb to Forclettaz Pass.

The climb was uneventful, I can’t remember much. I can remember passing a mountain farm and some runners were sleeping on the soft grass. I though it was a great idea but climbed on. Soon though, sleepiness was starting to catch up so I lay on a rock, set my alarm and closed my eyes.

Nothing, wide awake. I now started to have the first doubts about finishing. I was super tired but couldn’t seem to switch off and sleep. I carried on up the climb, thankfully less technical than the last. I had put my music on and a special song came over the headphones.

Guiding Light by Mumford and Sons. It is special as it’s my song for Neil. With this, a little butterfly landed on my hand. I stood there crying. I was shattered but Neil was sending me that sign that I wasn’t going to quit, I was to get back into gear and get on with it. I knew from that moment I was going to finish.

I reached the top, Kati was there, and I suddenly felt fab.

Count On Me by Chase and Status on the headphones and I practically sprinted down the descent on legs that felt so fresh. Such are the highs and lows of these races.

I reached the CP at Tsahélet, next to a farm. They had raclette so I had another two servings. I couldn’t sleep, but I could damn well eat! Jam waffles for afters. The volunteer here, Jack, having unofficially run the first part of the 660 and then the 360 to here, was working the CP until all the runners were through, then he continued to the finish! Amazing. He was so cheerful. I saw Austin Brian and Jaey here too. Kati headed on down. She didn’t stop anywhere for long.

I ran through the pastures with Austin, chatting made the miles pass easier and we were soon down onto a road, passing Kati. They had put a diversion here as a bridge was missing, and we arrived at the Grimentz lifebase to be told the cutoff had been extended by an hour as had the Thyon one. I was miles ahead anyway.

I grabbed some food and sat down next to Jaey and his wife Marie who was crewing him. I think I had a shower.

I can’t remember if I tried to sleep. There were two Norwegians who I had started to yo yo with. Magnus and Ketil, they were running the 660 together. I saw Tim again. He had lost his poles when I saw him at Bluomatt.

Now his foot was very sore and he was calling time on his race. I felt awful for him. I went to fill my bottles and next thing, I was having a nosebleed! This freaked me out as I never get nosebleeds. Marie calmed me down.

It was just the altitude and dry air.

Grimentz to Thyon I can’t remember if it was daylight or darkness when I left Grimentz. To be honest, the next few hours are a complete blur. There was a big climb out of the lifebase, but I really don’t have any recollection of it. It was to the highest point of the race, Col de Torrent at 2,916m, I’m pretty sure I reached the top with Austin and possibly Jaey and Ying, but I’m not sure. I do remember reaching a CP in a lovely restaurant on the descent. Ying was here, she was trying to catch a few zzzz’s lying on the seat under a very neatly laid table. I tried the same but the only person sleeping was the restaurant owner.

They had some amazing cheesy potato pie. That went down a treat. As I left, Austin was outside, asking which way. I think we then started running down together. We ran all the way down to the little town of Evolène. There was a CP here and I desperately wanted to sleep, but there weren’t any beds. Marie was here too, crewing for Jaey, so we all decided to sleep on the benches outside, put on all our waterproofs and hope for the best.

Jaey and myself got lucky with a soft patio set, Austin had a wooden bench. I put my music on, a kind volunteer put a blanket over me and I finally dropped off to sleep. I think it was now late Tuesday night.

After an hour, Marie woke us up. I probably had about 45 mins of very light sleep but felt ok. The three of us decided to leave together for Col de la Meina, and so we headed back into the night for the 1,200m climb, in the hope that we would see the Grande Dixence dam at first light on the other side of the Col. The climb was relatively straightforward though a ski area, and as we descended the other side in the early dawn, the valley was full of a temperature inversion cloud, so no dam to be seen. We had lost Jaey on the way up, but it was light now so we cracked on with the descent and relatively small climb to the next lifebase at Thyon. The sun came up, we chatted loads, the miles skipped by and we reached what we thought was the lifebase. Instead, a cheerful chap asked if we had enough water and told us it was another 3km. Austin became convinced that the farmers were fed up with the runners and the guy had sent us past the aid station, he was seeing all sorts and definitely needed some sleep. I felt ok, I was hungry though. Soon enough, we arrived at the Thyon lifebase, it was the best macaroni cheese I’ve ever had. Soaked in olive oil, followed by overnight oats and a shower, and 45 mins of actual sleep. I had a blister dressed here, and Philippe was singing a song, a surreal experience!

I didn’t see Kati at Thyon. I later found out she had taken a nap beside the trail in the dark, and had been passed by the sweepers. They hadn’t seen her! When she woke, all the flags were gone, and so she had to rely on GPX, she missed the cutoff at Thyon.

Thyon to Salvan I left the lifebase with Austin, it was easy trails through a ski area and we soon arrived at the next CP. We dragged chairs up to the table and feasted on sausage and cheese and all things nice. The next climb was 1,000m, to the 2,700m Col de Chassoure, it was steep and technical, possibly the toughest yet. Thankfully, the descent was less so and we ran downwards, on easier paths, soon picking up a wide track. Downwards until

we checked the watch and realised the group of us had gone the wrong way. Back up and onto the correct path, we looked across at others who’s done the same.

The descent down into Lourtier is rather hazy from that point. I can’t remember the CP here at all.

We headed back uphill through the forest, there was a little bit of rain in the air. The climb to Cabane Brunet seemed to take for ever. I was tired again now. Soon we arrived, and it had definitely started raining now. As we got there, Scott, a runner I had chatted to earlier in the race, said that there was a bad storm coming and Fenêtre d’Arpette had been taken out of the race! This is the col that took Neil and myself so long to cross in 2022.

I was pretty happy with that decision! The refuge was warm and quiet, Magnus and Ketil were sleeping here, under the tables. Brian was getting ready to leave and Philippe was here too. Jaey leapfrogged us at Thyon and came downstairs from his sleep, not knowing where the hell he was. I headed upstairs to the bunks, nobody else was in there, and I crashed out for another hour.

Best sleep yet.

When I woke, I could hear the rain hammering down outside. Then the thunder. It was just starting to get light on Thursday morning.

We put on all our waterproofs and I left with Austin.

We were in a for a wet day. I had run this section to the next CP at Prassurny in 2022, It wasn’t particularly difficult although there was a very long 1,800m descent to Orsières. We trudged through the puddles and the thunderclaps towards the high ridgeline to Mont Brulé.

There is a fantastic view up here but today, it was just clouds. The descent started easily enough but was super slippery, then onto access roads to the high pastures, where we were able to run. Soon though, we were descending steep muddy trails through the woods, and staying upright was difficult. I fell loads, Austin too. He hit his head on a log. He was asking the symptoms of concussion. I listed them and realised they were probably the same as how we were both feeling anyway. As we neared the valley bottom, we caught up with a Turkish runner, he was the same guy we’d been running with when we had gone wrong the day before.

Austin joked that wouldn’t follow him again. We last saw him playing with an electric fence!.

We passed through Orsières and started the steep climb to the CP. The river in the valley bottom was raging, full of brown water from the storm.

Arriving at the CP, we were greated by a warm room, and Jaey was here too with Marie. Magnus and Ketil too.

The atmosphere was jovial, almost like a party. I think everyone was just glad to be in the dry. I had polenta with turkey, it was delicious. Marie was dressing Jaey’s feet on one side, Ketil’s partner was sorting his feet out on the other, and Austin and myself were eating in the middle!

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Everyone finally left, as did we. The next section was up to Champex-Lac, then the diversion around Fenêtre d’Arpette, via the TMB route to Col de la Forclaz. It proved harder than we both thought, and we were both now talking gibberish. Austin thought we had to do laps around a lake, and I was obsessed with the knot in my hair. We missed the turning for the CP completely, and had to double-back down a road to get there. We passed Jaey, Ketil and Magnus as they were just leaving.

I ate everything on the table as everyone else watched the cows fighting with each other in the pasture outside.

The farmer was very proud of his queens of the meadow.

We didn’t stay long. There was another shortish 500m climb before the long descent into the Salvan lifebase, and we both wanted to get there as soon as possible.

The climb was steep but soon we were descending even more steeply through the forest. 1,100m straight down on wet soggy feet. A few 170 runners came past but it was pretty lonely and the mists turned to darkness. Austin was moving faster than me and said he would carry on to get his feet looked at. My feet were on fire, they hurt so much. He took a wrong turn, I corrected him. I could still see his headlight as we descended into the abyss, then it was gone. The runners behind me disappeared too. I became convinced I had missed a turn, although I was still following flags. I saw lights of a town through the trees on the opposite side of the valley, then they too were gone. I hit the bottom and crossed a bridge, then started climbing steeply. This really was the pit of hell, I was now convinced I was climbing up the next mountain and I’d missed the lifebase. I hit rock bottom here, I was crying but kept moving. I couldn’t stay here. Eventually, I came out of the forest into a carpark, the lifebase was in front of me. I was sobbing now because I truly thought the skin on my feet was torn, such was the pain. I didn’t even see Austin sat on the bench! A volunteer carried my bag inside and said I had 45mins to cutoff...

WHAT! At Thyon, I had asked about the next cutoffs and been told they had all been extended to the finish. Now this wasn’t the case apparently, and the CP was a scene of chaos. Marie came over and I sobbed again.

I was scared that my feet would be too bad to carry on, and I didn’t want to quit. I washed them off and went to medical. They were badly macerated, so they bandaged them and I put clean socks and dry shoes on. I changed my damp top, grabbed some batteries from my pack and headed out with my drop bag with 10 minutes to spare. I hadn’t had time to eat anything.

It was 1am on Friday morning, and I’d had one and a half hours of broken sleep since I woke on Sunday morning...

Salvan to the finish If the descent into the pit of despair at Salvan was the lowest point of my race, the climb back out of that pit was probably the most difficult. Austin met me as I was leaving and we climbed through the steep streets trying to find the flags. There was another diversion here, and we couldn’t rely on gpx. Every bench had a runner on it, trying to catch the sleep they couldn’t get in Salvan.

I was annoyed about the cutoff. We were relying on volunteers telling us the right information, there was no official text message and so it was all starting to get confusing. 170 and 380 runners were following the same

path, but we became worried that we had taken the wrong way as we didn’t know this. Austin had also been told that a CP was closed and he was convinced it was the next one at Salanfe.

We headed back into a gorge on a series of steep wooded steps and bridges. They were really slippery in the wet, although it had now stopped raining. We climbed ever upwards, I was stressing because there was no way I could make it to the CP beyond Salanfe if it was closed. Balme was at least another 15km beyond and it was 13km to Salanfe. Austin was totally convinced it was closed. I was now moving very slowly, totally out of calories. I had a few bars in my pack but just didn’t want to eat them. I wanted proper food.

Once out of the gorge, Austin forged ahead, which was our agreement if one started lagging. I carried on up on easier trails. I’m sure I was sleepwalking. I became aware of a huge wall to my left and realised I’d reached the Salanfe dam. The CP was close. Was it open though.

I turned a corner and there it was, welcoming runners with hot potatoes, pizza and warm drinks. Austin was there, he was apologetic but it wasn’t his fault. It was bad communications. I ate and took a bed behind the curtain, set my alarm for 2 hrs hence and tried to get some sleep. I think I had an hour of broken sleep.

I woke just as daylight was arriving. I had some more tea, a bit more food and stepped outside to the most magnificent view of the race. This was the place I had waited two years to see.

Today was going to be a great day!

I started off around the huge lake and hit the sunshine.

I stood at the side of the path, stripped off my baselayer and leggings, put my skirt back on and headed off to Col de Susanfe a new person. There was a spring in my step as I headed through a technical section of chains and short scrambles. Soon I was standing on the lunar landscape of Col de Susanfe, surrounded by massive limestone cliffs. I was in my element. I used to be a climber. This was my environment.

I took my phone out for some photos, and wrestling my hand out of the loop of my pole, bang, I managed to lever my finger and dislocate the base of it. Ouch.

It banged straight back in but then kept going weird; I couldn’t form a fist and certainly couldn’t hold my pole.

I’d obviously damaged the ligaments. It had gone pop.

I wrapped it with my buff, stashed my poles and headed off the top. A bad finger wasn’t going to stop me now.

Down past the Susanfe refuge, in a most beautiful valley, I still felt on top of the world. I passed Linda, a Czech runner. I hadn’t met her before. Soon I was heading down the most technical part of the entire race, a narrow path literally down the side of a cliff. Equipped with chains to the left which I couldn’t use with my hand. Not to worry, climber mode activated and I was soon descending fast. I needed to be off here before the 100K runners came through, or I would be forever sidestepping.

Soon enough, I hit the pastures below and was running into the Balme CP. Yes, I was still running on day 6!

As I arrived, Austin was sat at the table! I had caught him, and Brian. What had taken Austin six hours had just taken me four and a half. I was five hours ahead of the cutoff again!

I ate so much here, and a very kind volunteer helped me with my feet, which thankfully had dried, but I had a new blister. I left before Austin, he would catch me as I still couldn’t use my poles. I felt like the race was plain sailing now, easy walking trails to the finish. I was on the opposite high to the low of the night before. I was on holiday! Austin caught me and we stopped for a Fanta in a little restaurant.

Then up and over the Col de Portes de L’Hiver and the descent down into Morgins, the final lifebase. It wasn’t particularly steep, but suddenly I became aware that my right quad was a bit sore. Nevermind, I’ll get a massage.

As we arrived in Morgins, it was dark. We were hours ahead of the 5am cutoff. I don’t think it was much later than 1Opm. The lifebase was in an old hotel, it was rather run down, like the hotel in The Shining. A volunteer carried my bag up two flights of stairs and deposited it in a room.

It was at this point I had my weirdest experience yet.

I became totally convinced I’d been here before, met the same chap and had the same conversation. Someone had mentioned déjà vu earlier in the race. I was now experiencing it full on. I kept telling myself I’d never been here before, but it was very convincing. I had a shower, put on clean clothes and went downstairs for some food. Austin had already crashed out but we agreed to leave at 1am.

I had a massage on my sore quad and someone looked at my hand. It was sore and swollen but they said it was just soft tissue damage. I had my feet sorted. I couldn’t believe I had got away with the maceration. I had a couple of sore blisters but nothing too bad, and only on my right foot.

It was probably 11.30pm before my head hit the bare mattress. I’d unpacked my tiny sleeping bag and I was gone. I woke not knowing where I was at half past midnight and headed back downstairs for food. I had another massage as my quad was still sore. It was going to be a problem and so I decided I’d use my poles even if my hand hurt. Austin wasn’t ready and so I left without him at about 1.15am There were 26 miles to go. I enjoyed the initial few miles, it was hard and painful going downhill but nothing was too high or too steep. All the big climbs were behind us now. I reached a small summit on my own, turned off my headtorch and stood looking at the millions of stars. The Milky Way was clear across the sky. Further on, I looked down at the lights of Montreux along the banks of Lake Geneva, and our finish line. The trails became easier and the last dawn of the race started to break over the mountains. Soon, I found myself struggling hard to keep my eyes open. I’m sure I sleepwalked to the next CP.

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I met an English chap waiting for a 100K runner. He noticed the Cotswold Way buff on my wrist, he’d run the race too. He said he’d see me at the CP. I arrived at the Blancsex CP and sat on the bench eating raclette with potato rosti. It was amazing. They were playing Nirvana’s Nevermind and I sat there singing and eating my second helping of raclette. I had a bowl full of fruit. Austin appeared, he’d finally caught me up.

It was nice to see him again. He looked as tired as I felt and took a bed in the tent behind.

The English guy appeared and asked if I needed any help. He said I had 10 mins to get out by the 9am cutoff!

This scared me until he realised I was on the 380 not the 100K! He apologised profusely, bless him! I left before Austin, he was still asleep. I now had a 400m descent then an equal climb back up to the next CP at Taney.

As I descended on easy tracks, I was once again falling asleep on my feet, and soon I was passed by the first marathon runner.

Hot on his heels filming was Chin, a runner on the 360.

I don’t know where he got the energy! Austin caught me on the climb up to Taney and was just leaving as I arrived. I had stopped in a bar to buy an ice lollie. It was fantastic. I had the famous creamed mushrooms and bread crust here. The aid station was very quiet, the marathon runners having a table across the road. I saw some camp beds but I just wanted to get to the finish now. The final climb up to Pass de Lovenex, another 400m was all that was between me and Le Bouveret.

The climb was easy at first, along an access track.

Runners were passing me frequently now, their legs so fresh after only a few miles. I was now really struggling to stay awake, and nearly passed out cold, my head spinning. I sat on a rock and someone asked if I was ok.

Eventually, the path steepened, it was hot, and hard work but had woken me up.

There were a couple of zig zags to go, I looked behind me and Courtney Dauwalter was right there! Not a hallucination, she was running the 70K. I offered some words of encouragement and told her I’d borrowed her pain cave. She beckoned me to fall in behind!

I felt humbled!

She was soon gone out of sight. I reached the top, I’d wanted to spend a few moments here. I’d climbed to this point from the other side with Neil in 2022. I was feeling a bit emotional, but a marathon runner was being sick at the top so I didn’t stop.

The descent was steep and very loose. I had runners pushing past me, which I was finding annoying. They would have to be patient. I fell over and just sat there, too tired and fed up to get up. Two kind ladies picked me back up and further down, two British runners gave me some chocolate.

Eventually, I got down onto easy ground. I passed Luca Papi, he’d already finished the 660 and was out spectating. I was sure this had happened before.

Déjà vu again. I was nearly at the last CP when Linda came flying up behind me, crying. Her husband

appeared and said we only had three hours to do the last 10km. They thought the cutoff was 7.30pm. I told them it was midnight but they weren’t having any of it.

I let them carry on. I knew I was right.

I had another two portions of raclette at the last CP, and was cheered as I left for the finish. We had another steep little climb, then endless downhill, which was pretty muddy before I hit the tarmac of Le Bouveret. The finish was right there, I could touch it. But no, they sent us half a mile out of town to cross the railway line to come back to the same point. I’d already passed the 400km mark! I passed the small bars to cheers, and soon was walking down the jetty to the finish. Loads of people were cheering, I’m not sure I was actually taking it in.

I crossed the line in 154hrs 25mins. I’d had four hours of broken sleep and I felt nothing. This race had taken my mind and body to places I never knew existed, but I really just felt numb, such was my fatigue. It was a strange feeling after such a huge race. Chin was there, he had finished a few hours before. He sat me down on a chair. I didn’t know how he was still so energetic!

He said he was just going to stay here eating!

I headed off to get my bags. I knew there was a place to sleep. Turned out it was a nuclear war bunker. As if my head wasn’t messed up enough already, this was my worst nightmare. Water running out of pipes and it was pretty filthy. I was so tired, I slept anyway. Not proper sleep, too tired for that!

On the Sunday morning, we all attended the awards ceremony. It was great to see everyone again. Austin, Jaey and Marie, Brian, Mark, Gavin, Chin, Scott, Linda, Philippe, Andrew and David, Magnus and Ketit who had run the whole 660 together. Ying wasn’t there unfortunately, she had missed an earlier cutoff.

I was called up onto the podium as third female vet Eventually, everyone was called up onto the stage and awarded their medal and a nice windproof jacket.

A little smile came over my face. Neil would have been so proud. I was a Swisspeaks 380 finisher.

— Liz is 52 and has been running for 12 years. She is mum to a cat, a collie and two horses. She started running ultras in 2015 and ran her first Alpine race, TDS, in 2016.

As well as running many 100-mile races in the UK, Liz has returned to the Alps every year for races including Lavaredo, Gran Trail Courmeyeur and Swiss Irontrail.

She drinks enough tea to challenge Damo, and her favourite food is cheese - which is why she enjoys the European aid stations so much!

Journey Running Pioneers Historian Andy Milroy reflects on the evolution of the ultra marathon, going back 250 years to the journey runners Words: Andy Milroy

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Journey runs have a long history, and in many ways such runs have pioneered the sport of ultrarunning.

Although solo runs go back into the annals of history, one of the first to have a long-term impact on the sport was achieved by the famous English pedestrian Foster Powell. In September of 1773 he walked from London to York and back - some 396 miles - in less than six days, ushering in the height of the pedestrian era. Perhaps more significantly it marked the beginning of competition to see how much distance could be covered in six days. In July of 1803 a Captain Robertson walked from Brighton to London and back in 45 hours, and repeated the feat in November of that year, covering the first 53 miles from Brighton to Westminster Bridge in 14 hours, from which the world-renowned London to Brighton race evolved.

However, it was an American who was to carve an entire career out of his solo journey performances. In 1861, at age 21, Edward Payson Weston set out to walk from Boston to Washington to attend the inauguration of Abraham Lincoln. Delayed by heavy snow, Weston missed the inauguration, but he nonetheless averaged 51 miles per day over the 453-mile course. His professional career took off in 1867 when he completed a walk from Portland, Maine to Chicago, some 1,326 miles in 25 days (not walking on Sundays) for a $10,000 wager. The New York Times referred to him as “the most remarkable and successful pedestrian that the world has ever seen.”

Into the early 1870s Weston made a series of well publicised walks against the clock. Four hundred miles in five days was accomplished, and then in 1874 he made a series of attempts to achieve the widely regarded as impossible feat of walking 500 miles in six days (the maximum period of allowable non-stop activity between Victorian Sundays). A professional, he made sure the public paid to see these attempts, and so they were held on a track. In 1874, in one of the major turning points in ultra history, Weston finally achieved that distance. The publicity generated immediately inspired others to become pedestrians. Daniel O’Leary, an Irish door-to-door book salesman, quickly established his ultra walking credentials and challenged Weston. He defeated him. Thus, the six-day race was born.

Although professional six-day racing died out in the early years of the twentieth century, Weston was still fit and active. He had spent much of his time on solo feats against time or long point-to-point walks. In 1883 he had walked 5,000 miles in 100 consecutive working days, excluding Sundays. He and Daniel O’Leary continued to churn out solo point-to-point marks for many years.

In 1902 O’Leary walked from Boston to Albany, some 187 miles in 45 hours, and in 1904 went from New York City to Toronto, 535 miles in nine days. Weston kept himself busy as well. In 1906 he walked from Philadelphia to New York in less than 24 hours at age 67, and the following year

improved upon his famous walk of 1867, from Portland, Maine to Chicago, covering the 1,345 miles in 24 days and 19 hours, faster than his 1867 performance. In 1908 he walked from San Francisco to Los Angeles, 512 miles in twelve days. At 71 he walked across America, from New York to San Francisco, in 105 days for the 3,895 miles. Dissatisfied with this performance, the following year he walked from Santa Monica to New York in 77 days. His final great feat came in 1913, when at 75 he walked the 1,546 miles from New York to Minneapolis in 61 days. It is perhaps deeply symbolic that Weston’s walking career was finally ended when he was hit by an automobile in 1927. Others were inspired by the performances of Weston and O’Leary. Soon after Weston’s arrival in Chicago, after his journey on foot from Portland in 1907, French-American Albert Corey ran 91.6 miles from Milwaukee to Chicago in 18hrs 37m. Corey had previously taken part in long point-to-point events in France.

In 1928 and 1929 C.C. Pyle organised the famous “Bunion Derby” stage races across the US. What is not often mentioned is that Abraham Monteverde walked from New York to San Francisco in 79 days, 10 hours in 1926, which perhaps gave Pyle the original idea for his event. Between the two Pyle races, in 1928 Lin Dilks used solo runs to keep in shape. He had set out to run from Newcastle to Erie, covering 63 miles in 9:57, and reached 82 miles in 13:14 before being forced to retire from the attempt. Pete Gavuzzi, one of the leading contenders in both Pyle races, undertook a solo run from John O’Groats to Land’s End in the UK. Perhaps hearing of the Pyle races, Australian Alf Robinson ran from Sydney to Melbourne in 1931, some 563 miles along the Hume Highway, in 12 days and 13 hours.

In the late 1950s, Britain was gripped by a spate of solo point- to-point walks, which stemmed from the performances of the eccentric Russian-born walker, Barbara Moore. This led in 1960 to the Butlin Great Walk race from John O’Groats to Lands End. Brian Pilbeam ran from Sydney to Melbourne (557 miles) in 11 days, 23 hours in May of 1967. In 1978 Tony Rafferty improved upon Pilbeam’s time, and New Zealander John Hughes bettered that in 1981. The first Sydney to Melbourne race took place three years later. Meanwhile, in August of 1974, Californian Gordy Ainsleigh found himself without a mount in the annual Tevis Cup 100 Mile horse race from Lake Tahoe to Auburn, and thus ran and walked the course in 23 hours and 24 minutes. From this journey the Western States 100 Mile was born. In 1982 a group of five British runners set out to run from Athens to Sparta.

From this journey run, the Spartathlon was born. ­— Andy Millroy is a writer and historian

Peter Gavuzzi Land’s End - John O’Groats 1929

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SWIFT ® RL

THE WITCHING TOWER Andy Nuttall takes on a 33-mile night race through the Surrey Hills Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty.

Words: Andy Nuttall Photos: Pete Hammond

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“Hey mate, are you OK?” “Yeah, you go on mate, I’m fine.”

I wasn’t fine. I was 28 miles into a 33-mile race and I’d fallen over. I just couldn’t bear the circumstance. It was my first fall during the race, it was pitch dark as it had been since the start at 8pm, and I was tracking a guy who was fast-walking. He looked strong, but he had a pronounced limp and I wanted to catch up and check he was OK. I’d had a solid race so far, Jeffing away as planned and feeling good about getting to the finish by 4am, against a 5am cut-off.

I confidently approached the guy, to within about 20 metres or so, running along a narrow channel on a single track. I was just about to confidently call his name to make sure he knew I was there, and confidently ask him if he was alright. I was, after all, confident. So much so that I confidently tripped on a sturdy rock and fell to the ground. The limping chap stopped his strong stride, and started back towards me. The tables had turned, and I felt a bit daft. I was lying sideways across the track with my bum in the channel.

“I’m fine, really. Thanks though.”

The chap seemed satisfied I was okay, and turned to carry on. I had gashed my left knee, but this wasn’t the problem – just a flesh wound, as the Black Knight would have it. No, the problem was that both my calves were wracked with cramp.

But let’s go back a few weeks. It was the summer, and I’d spent a few months under the spell of a new coach who majored on strength and conditioning. It’s all a plot to try to conquer the Dragon’s Back Race next year, on the fifth time of asking. The definition of madness is trying something again and again and expecting a different result, so I decided this time to run less frequently, and spend a lot more time and effort on strength work.

The Two Towers race, a recent initiative by Surreybased Canary Trail Events, was a return to racing for me after a year away. Just over 50K, 33-ish miles, nine hours to do it in. I’d been strength training for a few months and running some decent distances – up to 20 miles across various terrains, flat and hills, I was fuelling well, drinking loads, had relatively few problems throughout training, and I was feeling good.

Imagine my surprise, then, when I felt the first twinge of cramp, in both calves, at about seven miles. I’d preloaded with sodium and had a regular plan for salt capsules, and I was drinking well, so I knew it wasn’t an imbalance issue. So what was it? Seven miles! I can do that in my sleep. Could it be the cold? I was wearing shorts, as I generally do unless the temperature drops into minus double figures, as I run hot – even in Arctic Finland at -35 degrees a decade ago I somehow managed to sweat like a stuck pig.

Starting in Mickleham, a village of 1,800 Surrey acres, many of them uphill due to the proximity of the Box Hill massif, or the “Box Hill to Reigate Escarpment” as it’s officially called. I prefer my name. Either way, it’s lumpy, and so the route from the village hall was flat for a few metres before the first uphill began. Gosh, it was cold.

Thankfully while the ground was saturated due to a few months’ rainfall landing on it in the past three days, the air was rain-free throughout the race, so all we had to contend with was the refrigerated nature of the temperature rather than the warmth-sapping moisture of monsoon-like rain.

Up to Mickleham Downs, confirming there are plenty of complementary Ups, and then down through Juniper Wood to the A24, a normally incredibly busy highway that was beginning to wind down for the evening ahead of a sedate Sunday. We’d cross this road using the safety of the underpass twice during the race, and this time was followed by a long haul up the road past the Stepping Stones – the pub, not the stones themselves.

The pub and the stones are confusingly quite a distance apart, and on the opposite side of the A24. It feels a bit like when someone calls their house something like ‘Sea View’ but they’re miles inland. I’m going to be generous and assume there’s some historical link, although I can’t find one.

The route then went past the enormous piles that are Norbury House and Polesden Lacey, before crossing Ranmore Common Road. I know this area really well, but at 10pm on a Saturday night combined with the early onset of cramp I just didn’t recognise the road crossing, although I was welcomed into the first checkpoint where I grabbed a few crisps, reloaded with water, and then on my way. I was at about nine miles at this point.

Running with crampy legs is a curious thing. It feels like your muscles are tense all the time and really springy, as though you’re running on blades. Where normally your posterior chain would be helping propel you it feels like some elastic force is pinging each leg forwards. I tried to run as normally as possible, focusing on the landload-lever-lift form and getting my legs far out of the back as possible. The cramp was inhibiting but I was controlling it.

The route then got quite marshy according to my map, and thankfully a boardwalk helped keep me dry across the majority of it because with all the recent rain the area resembled less a marsh and more a mangrove swamp. I say ‘majority’ was covered with boardwalk because when the boardwalk ended it was still quite slippery, and despite my best efforts I managed to fall knee-deep into a hole full of muddy water. And you can guess what happens when you plunge two slightly crampy calves into cold water! They seized up, and took quite some time to get going again.

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The lovely Greensand Way awaited, a route that I’ve run dozens if not hundreds of times. It’s a nice soft surface, under cover of trees and so relatively dry. Then came the long haul up Leith Hill towards Leith Hill Tower; the first of the two towers constituting the name of the race. There was a gathering of people up there having a quick breather, and as I approached they disappeared and I followed them, happy to hang on someone’s coat tails for a while.

I love running on my own. I quite like running with other people, particularly for short distances, but for long runs I treasure the time alone. I can run at my own pace, I can count steps and determine when I’m going to run and when I’m walking. I found the night running particularly cathartic; it had been a long time since I’d run any real distance through the night. With the head torch focused on the trail ahead it became a hypnotic, dream-like experience. I always felt I knew where I was, and what I was doing, but I had a totally clear head, nothing of my normal life entered into it. I was in the moment for a good deal of this race, and I felt great!

Heading down the ‘Telegraph Road’ as it’s called, a mile-long very straight path around Holmbury St Mary, I came across a Hungarian runner called Eszter, and we ran into checkpoint 2 together. She was doing okay but losing her way a little bit; her main head torch had broken so she was on her spare, and she was worried what would happen if the battery on that ran out.

I was still on battery one of my Petzl Nao+ (unbelievably it lasted the whole eight hours of my race) and I had brought two spare batteries – so I lent her my little Petzl Bindi as a backup to her backup, but we ran together anyway.

It transpired that Eszter had run an ultramarathon the previous weekend, and was due to run Edinburgh to Glasgow the following weekend; not only that but she was due in at work at 7am that morning. She had also run an ultra every weekend for the last three years, travelling all over Europe; she’s absolutely hooked. She was great company and we pushed each other on – I was a little quicker up the hills, and she was absolutely smashing the downhills, we were running really fast down some of the longer slopes and I think we both had a wonderful time chatting and run/walking. Most of the time I forgot about my cramping legs, and I really felt like I was in control of them.

Over the A25 this time and up into Abinger Roughs, and then up towards Ranmore Common again where we reached Checkpoint 3, and I barely stopped except to get some water – but Eszter wanted to stay a bit longer to get something to eat and sort herself out. I wanted to get moving but I knew she would catch me up, and she did – around the second visit to the Stepping Stones area and the climb up Box Hill. She knew that she wasn’t going to go well up those steps so she shooed me on up and I left her behind, again expecting her to catch me up on the gentle down towards Juniper Hall and the second tower of the race. I climbed the steps surprisingly easily and ran with another chap for a while, always expecting Eszter but she never came.

Just after the tower was the singletrack and the fall incident that I mentioned earlier. I got a bit disorientated and lost the path for a while. I wandered around looking for a glow stick or a bit of tape in the trees, and then saw a head torch behind me. I called out – “Is that you, Eszter?”. A very deep voice confirmed that it was, and I thought for a moment I might be hallucinating – and ran towards the torch and the voice. Turned out it was a man called Kester. I mean, what are the chances?

He told me he had passed a lady on the way up Box Hill steps, she was moving slowly but looking strong, so I didn’t worry and ran well with Kester down to Headley Lane and then up the hateful hill known as Satan’s Staircase. And with good reason. Although nowhere near as long or as big a climb as Box Hill, the steps themselves are quite higgledy-piggledy, oddly placed and some much higher than others – so it’s a proper brute particularly this far into a race. But we knew that at the top of those, it was literally all downhill from there – albeit down a slippery chalk slope – into Mickleham, through the churchyard and into the village hall for a lovely reception from Allan and the team, a medal and some snacks. Eszter made it a few minutes after.

All in all, a lovely race and such an unusual experience starting and finishing in the dark. I drove home and had a bath at 7am, then tried to treat the day like jetlag – spend as much of it awake as I could, and then sleep at the usual time. It actually took me a couple of days to recover but I had really happy memories of the run and the people I met, and could now look forward to more strength and conditioning, and Tour de Helvellyn in December. What a life we live!

— Andy Nuttall is editor of ULTRA.

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GEAR

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Garments don’t provide warmth!

Food, drink and your body metabolism do!

Words: Mike Parsons Images: Clique Images & Sivasankara Reddy Garment layers are not and never can be a turnkey solution to keeping warm and dry like for example when using a car in all weathers. Cars are governed by masses of legislation and test standards and you are required to pass a driving test and older cars must have an annual MOT test. The car windscreen wasn’t sold to you as ‘breathable’ like just about all garments are; so after jumping into your car you know to simply switch on the windscreen vent or the heater!

The outdoors and mountains are largely legislation and certification free for you to enjoy and learn from your mistakes as to what your garments do and don’t do! Only items designated PPE, Personal Protective Equipment are subject to legal standards and bear the CEN and UIAA mark. These items are largely helmets, harnesses, ropes, and associated hardware, karabiners, belay plates and so on. Only sleeping bags have a CEN rating, which is given in temperature bands. However, whether your bag keeps you warm in the conditions you encounter depends on the rating of your ground pad/Karrimat (conduction) and whether you are in an enclosed space or a draughty tent (convection).

Experience is what you gain after the first few times you really need it! Understanding basic science and your body metabolism will accelerate your on-hill learning.

Misunderstandings are rife because of the marketing claims of the outdoor brands. The emergence of event rules for gear and layers for two-day MMs began in the early 70s when I was first competing. As time went on and I became more involved with the organisation, we improved the rule details as a means of ensuring that competitors who were coming from road marathons were properly equipped.

Fundamentally, when out in the wilds and without sun, the only source of warmth is food and drink! Your garments conserve it until you, as the proactive wearer, choose to release it.

Your metabolism (marked ‘M’ in the diagram) is the mechanism whereby food and drink are converted into glycogen to power your muscles and heat. Activity work rate and hydration level determines how well this heat is moved around your body by blood circulation. The fitter you are the higher the proportion of glycogen output and less heat output.

However, the metabolism within your body only functions within a narrow range of temperatures.

If your core temperature drops, your hypothalamus actuates vasoconstriction, and your hands and feet go cold. Hence, Granny’s old advice, ‘If your hands are cold, put your hat on,’ is technically correct. Hypothermia isn’t simply about becoming cold; it is when your core temperature has dropped to the level at which you cannot metabolise food and drink.

Garments provide the means of controlling heat loss.

Our graphic shows the many different types and areas and contact points of heat loss or gain you have to deal with to be able to make your ‘mobile environment’ a comfortable place, almost regardless of external conditions.

SUN WIND CONVECTION

DIRECT ULTRAVIOLET RADIATION REFLECTED INFRARED RADIATION

CONVECTION

EVAPORATION OF PERSPIRATION CLOTHING LAYERS

INFRARED RADIATION INTO SPACE

BREATHING

METABOLISM Food and water intake - fuel Activity level - how fast your engine is working Blood flow - heat is distributed

CONDUCTION

SNOW AND ICE

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INFRARED RADIATION FROM THE SURROUNDINGS

Heat losses occur from five key actions, both passive and active. All five require skills based on an understanding of fitness and human physiology, nutrition, 24-hour temperature and weather fluctuations, clothing choice and, most critically, how to use the layers of your choice.

Carrying out all aspects well is a high skill level, which we call PERFORMANCE LAYERING.

By conduction

where surfaces touch. When using poles, watch that the handles are well insulated and if they are aluminium, be aware that this metal absorbs heat better than almost anything, so gloves may be needed sooner than usual.

By convection

By sweating

which causes evaporative cooling. As temperatures rise then base layer makers are beginning to claim their latest treatment keeps you cool. Ignore this and ensure you have a loose fitting wind shirt ready for use in higher temperatures. Making use of what evolution provided us with, evaporation cooling is vital.

a little when you move within your garments but mainly by wind. (The weather forecasters take wind speeds into account when giving temperatures by saying ‘feels like’, which is technically known as the wind-chill factor.)

British weather is not usually considered severe by comparison with other areas of the world. However rain accompanied by wind of 30/40 mph is more difficult and dangerous to handle than minus 35C but little wind.

By radiation

By respiration

For more information, read our book Keeping Dry and Staying Warm:

but this is usually small. Don’t be confused by the use of Alu foil blankets given out to you as you finish some road events. In these circumstances for a very short period the foil will reflect your radiated heat. However used in other circumstances, like sitting on it, aluminium conducts heat very well indeed.

through your mouth and nose. amazon.co.uk/dp/1916283004 — Mike Parsons, co-founder outdoorgearcoach.co.uk Formerly owner/innovator at Karrimor and founder of OMM, competitor in 45 x 2 day MMs. Runner, bike rider, skier, climber, with activities on all 7 continents.

ULTRA “Did you know I had a book out?” I thought it was time during the conversation to mention it. Dating apps are awkward; giving too much away without sounding weird is hard. I sent a link as I chatted with this lady. She seemed nice, and was interested in my writing.

I was interested, and slightly nervous, to hear what she thought. I wasn’t expecting her to read it, but maybe look at the reviews and get the general gist. I went for a run, and a couple of hours later, I returned to see if she had any comments on it.

She’d unmatched me.

So that’s kind of how this “return to ultrarunning” is going for me.

Since my article last issue, I’ve entered three 50-mile races. I’ve had one DNS, one DNF and a finish. The finish on the North Downs Way 50 was amazing, the first time in a long time I’ve just enjoyed doing a long run from start to finish. I was hoping I’d be able to excitedly report to a friend how I’d owned a shiny new FKT, and I took on the EPIC 9.7-mile Clay Way from Bromham to Ridgemont in Bedfordshire. Alas we completed the run, and I duly blogged and recorded all the details and submitted to the FKT overlords, only to be told, “Nah, we only really publish, you know, ‘real’ FKTs.”

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How do you balance the excitement and potential of dating with the blood, sweat and tears of ultrarunning?

James Adams doesn’t know either.

So there was that, too.

I started in the middle here, so you may be confused as to what this article is about. I used to be an ultrarunner, I ran lots of big races and wrote blogs about it; back before either of those things were cool. I have spent most of a decade out of the scene and am keen to return.

But coming back is much harder than starting, it seems.

I have a fair bit of spare time now, and in a previous life, I’d be running miles in my sleep. But I am struggling to get going. When I was running lots, I imagined I was Sisyphus but actually enjoying rolling the rock. It gets easier and smaller the more you move it.

But now that rock is sat in my garage, up against a wall and covered in slime. It’s impossible to get it going again.

But there have been some green shoots. Over the summer I did my first ‘running holiday’ for about 15 years.

I went to Tenerife and ran around some volcanic trails for 10 days. It was wonderful.

I also took part in a friend’s charity fundraiser. Well, in fact, I prompted him to “go big” on the challenge. He was raising money for the Thames Valley Air Ambulance who saved the life of his wife in a car crash last year.

FILTHY He was initially planning on running a half marathon with the usual Just Giving link, but I suggested doing some relay around Bedfordshire, so we did that. 43 miles broken up across 40 people running. It was amazing to be part of, and fundraising targets were smashed.

I used to always think of stuff like that.

Actually, I still do think of stuff like that. It felt good.

I dropped out of the Chiltern Wonderland 50 at the first checkpoint, securing last place as no one else dropped before then. I got the meat wagon all to myself, heading back to the race HQ in Goring and then had a six-hour wait until my friend finished.

It ended up being a really nice day.

I chatted to the volunteers and the race organisers.

It was funny when the conversation got onto the Piece of String race – which, if you don’t know, was an ultrarace I organised with Centurion a decade ago and the people I didn’t know that whole thing was my idea. I got talking to someone new on the scene, she had just read Born to Run and was then all set to go full ultra. Signing up to all the races, looking forward to those Saharan Plains, those A lpine vistas, breaking in a spectacular sunrise on some North American lunar landscape.

But that’s not what gets you, is it? Not for me anyway.

The beauty of this sport is found at the side of a canal in the arse end of Bletchley at 2am on a Sunday morning.

Keeping yourself warm by jogging on the spot, to maybe distract some aggressive-looking swans that look like they want to steal the soggy sausage rolls that are going to fuel the runners into Paddington.

Maybe that’s the key? Hearts and Minds rather than Shock and Awe. Coming back a little bit from different directions is better than one big statement. Not that I am capable of any kind of statement so far.

So, back to the slow grind of trying to get that rock moving again, Sisyphus. And in-between that, I can maybe work on my dating profile.

“My Perfect Sunday”: Waking up at 4:30am to get a replacement bus service to a community centre in Crockletown, to then spend eight hours wading through muck and cow shit, causing my nether regions to bleed, a Sunday roast and then maybe pass out in my own filth on the sofa watching something on Netflix.

Form an orderly queue, ladies.

— James used to be the famousest ultrarunner in the known universe, but now he’s struggling to be in the top three James’ in the village of Great Denham.

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UP A HILL, DOWN A MOUNTAIN What makes an ultra, ultra, asks Greg Ashley Words: Greg Ashley Photos: Ankit Manandhar

“When is a marathon an ultra?”, “Never”, I hear people yell. But how about if you have to walk to the start from the finish? Erm, perhaps. How about if the walk is six days, how about if you have to walk uphill to the start from the finish? Spicy, I hear you say. “How about if the start is at 4,100m and you finish at 2,000m?” Okay, that sort of counts.

For five days this was the plan, we would walk approx 5-6km a day to slowly acclimatise to the altitude.

The terrain was rigorous but the views made it worthwhile, as did the greeting from the lodge owners every afternoon when we arrived. There was a sense of camaraderie among fellow trekkers on the ABC trail, astounded as to what lay ahead of us.

These are the conversations I’m having with myself while sleeping in a tea house in the Himalayan mountain village of Ghandruk. I can’t seem to nod off, it could be the chicken fried rice and tomato soup I’ve just had for dinner, the noise from a tea house below where locals are celebrating a birthday, or it could be because I’m at 2,000m and I’m excited.

You could set your clock by the weather, the day would dawn clear and sunny, and soon become stiflingly hot with a deep blue sky overhead punctuated by sheer white tipped gigantic mountains all around. By midday the cloud would roll in slowly; by mid afternoon spots of rain would appear followed an hour later by a torrential downpour lasting a couple of hours, then the clouds would dip as quickly as they arrived and the sun set on a clear evening.

I’m back in Nepal. It’s my third visit in six months, first time was to do a marvellous triathlon based in the lakeside city of Pokhara the — Himalaya Xtri Extreme triathlon — the second time was to do the six day 220km Annapurna ultra, also based in Pokhara but starting from the village of Lwang, and now for this.

Day 5 and we arrived at MBC, Machhapuchhare base camp, just an hour’s walk from ABC but also just below 4,000m. It’s important to have a night here before going on to ABC, I slept like a log before making that trek, and before I knew it we arrived at ABC.

I wasn’t planning on coming again.

Then I found out it’s the same people who organised the Himalayan Xtri also organise the Annapurna marathon.

I was tempted but couldn’t really justify another trip...

Fast forward four weeks, and my plane touches down in Nepal having enjoyed a flight from rainy Birmingham via Doha to a swelteringly hot Kathmandu. Getting to Nepal doesn’t have to be expensive, pick the right flight with a decent layover and it becomes quite reasonable.

Then it’s a case of what do you do once you’re here. The organisers offer a full package for runners, I had used that for the triathlon and it was superb value, so I opted again for that. Basically once you land in Nepal that’s it, all hotels, teahouses, internal flights and transfers are included and even better, it includes a six-day trek to Annapurna base camp (ABC), the start of the marathon. You trek from the finish to the start over the six days, slowly acclimatising to the altitude. You get a guide, a porter, breakfast, lunch and evening meals and a comfy bed in high Himalayan villages with stunning views. It’s such great value and prepares you superbly for the race.

We set off from Ghandruk on day 1, passing through villages with simply stunning views of the surrounding 8,000m mountains. Up and down we went, you soon realise there’s going to be a hell of a lot of uphill on a downhill marathon.

The ascents and descents I found tough, sometimes it’s lovely forest track; other times it’s steps, the dreaded steps, long winding ascents and steep sharp descents.

On day 1 we walked 11km and enjoyed an overnight stay in one of the many lodges on the ABC trek walk.

Dinner can be anything you fancy, often I had garlic soup to start, mainly because it’s supposed to help with altitude sickness, followed by dal bhat, a local meal of rice, lentils, and potatoes, occasionally some meat and a lovely spiced soup, or I had egg and chips…

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We had a couple of days to acclimatise to the altitude and change in weather, drizzle and low cloud drifted in and out and the temperature would plummet every night. We all congregated in the large dining rooms and hour by hour more people would arrive, dal bhat, chips and Masala tea were constantly on tap.

On the 3rd June (the race is alway held on the 3rd as this was the date Annapurna was climbed for the first time), the race was to start at 07:00 prompt. My Nepalese roommates rose early, 04:30, I tried to sleep till 05:30 but gave up and staggered to the dining hall for porridge and tea. There was suddenly a lot of chatter. I looked around and the clouds had cleared as the sun came up, the snow-capped peaks all around us shimmering in an early morning pink glow. We stood outside and drank it all in.

7am was closing in and I’d packed my bag and handed it to the porters to take back to the finish, my running pack was laden with gels and treats.

We made our way to the start, the famous Annapurna Base camp sign, 80 hardy souls lined up.

A young runner came up to me. I recognised him as my guide from my previous trip and he had guided me around the half marathon route when I competed in the triathlon.

He gave me my most inspirational speech before a race, “Gregory, be careful you are very old.” With those words ringing in my ears, the gun went and we were off.

I’d had no idea on what time to expect, I’d walked up at approx 2-2.5mph and thought, I should be able to run 3-4mph so I should get it done in six to seven hours, hopefully in before the afternoon rains came… the best laid plans etc.

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The 1st few kilometres were great, slightly downhill, nice wide-ish tracks. We ran past MBC and then it started.

Path and tracks I’d walked up comfortably were just, for me, unrunnable - large boulders, steep scree, then kilometres of downhill with boulders punctuated by steps, the dreaded steps, uneven, and different heights.

Thankfully I’d brought poles which helped with the slow forward progress.

The Nepalese, on the other hand, sprinted past, undaunted by the terrain, skipping from step to step, boulder to boulder. My average speed plummeted.

It dawned on me that this was going to take around 10 hours. My heart sank.

I readjusted my mindset, it is what it is, you aren’t here for a win or a PB, just enjoy it.

The aid stations were a absolute joy, set up in local tea houses with a full plethora of delights and a cheering crowd. I stopped and posed for and took pictures galore, the fact that there was Europeans intrigued them and also made them proud that we had come a long way to support and enjoy their race.

The hours ticked by and the clouds slowly rolled in.

The terrain hadn’t changed, up and down we went, still the snow peaks loomed over us. I was slowing considerably, I kept slipping on the now leafy terrain; I was down to 2.5mph average, but the kilometres were slowly ticking off. We went through Chhomrong after an endless climb up steps, the path evened out and I knew I could shuffle along with just 1km more of long technical descent. As we neared the checkpoint the heavens opened, it was too warm to put on a rain jacket but I was concerned about getting cold. I dove into the teahouse for a Coke and invigorating hot masala tea, secretly hoping the rain would ease, but if anything it got heavier. A group of Nepalese went straight through the checkpoint, so I jumped in with them. The descent was treacherous, the rocks and boulders now covered in leaves were so slippery; my poles kept getting stuck in holes but I needed them or I’d fall. We stopped for a bit of cake, and the other runners pointed at my shoes and socks - they were covered in leeches.

A firm brush with leaves and they were eventually gone.

We carried on down the endless descent in silence, the jungle gloom slowly lifted as we came out into the valley, locals had gathered with drink and snacks and cheered us in.

I knew we were now on Jeep roads, a fairly long uphill but then a nice flat and gentle descent to the finish, I was as last jogging and it felt good. I tagged on the back of my wee group and we got each other up the hill. We hit the final aid station at Uri and you can see Ghandruk across the valley. It’s only 1km as the crow flies but we had to circle the valley which made it 5km.

I was shuffling along quite nicely, on the slight downhill, gravel, sandy Jeep track, or so I thought. Two local lads, were making their way to the race hotel for an afterrace party, they were smart and buzzing and walked past me at a fair pace shouting encouragement as they went. I tried to keep up as we made our way into Ghandruk, past the race hotel with all the other runners outside enjoying a nice cold ice beer, shouting and cheering me on. Some had enjoyed the local Gurkha beer far too much, but to be fair they had been finished for four hours…

The local sports field came into view, the announcer woke up the crowd to the fact that I was approaching the finish, cheers and shouts greeted my arrival on to the blue carpet and through the finishing tape. 10 hours 40 minutes for a marathon. I’ve done Ironman triathlons not that much slower, but I was so pleased I’d done it and before nightfall.

Congratulatory hands slapped my back and shook my hand, a nurse grabbed me by the hand and sat me down and checked my blood pressure and heart rate, and eager hands gave me food and drink.

I took it all in and glanced up as the pink sun dipped over the still snow-capped Himalayas. Job done.

That evening after a shower and a meal, the presentations took place. Every finisher was invited up to the stage to collect a medal and certificate. It was a raucous affair; beer has been consumed, but unlike other events I’ve done everyone is hobbling - even the winners - a sure sign this is one of the toughest marathons in the world.

Get yourself entered and do it, you won’t ever regret it. Friendships will be made and images that will live in your memory for a lifetime. More importantly you’ll fall in love with Nepal and its people, they are simply the loveliest people on this planet.

— Greg Ashley is 58, and was lucky enough to take early retirement after 40 years on the London Underground.

He is a cyclist-turned-triathlete-turned-runner, still doing brilliantly average at all three.

Women, bodies and ultrarunning In an excerpt from her book The Path We Run: A Personal History of Women’s Ultrarunning, Jen Benson explores the balance between women and men in long endurance running events.

Words: Jen Benson. Pictures: David Miller

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Materially, our bodies are in a state of constant flux: health and illness, breakdown and repair; a balancing act in the quiet struggle for survival. Embodied beings as we are, perhaps our minds aren’t so different, inseparable even, as we live, love and age while navigating the uncertain line between darkness and light. We are both old and new, carrying so much of our past with us and yet creating and recreating ourselves as we go.

Having carried and given birth to two children; having in various accidents fractured my collarbone, spine, pelvis, femur and ribs; having run on most days for the past 20 years . . . I am only too aware of the weight of my past – the writing of my history on my body. Eyed through the lens of one who has, like all women, spent a lifetime being carefully schooled in the art of how we should look, I experience my body both objectively – the visible changes brought about by time and gravity, the right shoulder that is noticeably shorter than my left due to the overlap and fusion of snapped bones – and subjectively, in the succession of niggling aches, pains and numbness that forms my daily experience of myself.

My body has become, in Gilleard’s words, a series of ‘normal abnormalities’. Perhaps my mind has, too: the scars run no less deep.

As a female from birth, I can expect to be, on average, shorter, weaker, slower, and (also related to my body but less obviously so) poorer than males of a similar level of health and fitness. My different sex hormones mean my muscles are smaller and produce less power; my lungs suck less oxygen out of the air and my heart pumps less of this oxygen around my body. My pelvic arrangement prioritizes childbearing over the most direct transmission of forces from my gluteal muscles to my legs. In my forties I also know that, like a classic car, I’ll have lost a few horsepower simply through the ageing process. With loss of elasticity, gaps start to appear; things begin to rattle.

Over almost every test of athletic prowess, I would be expected to finish behind men and people younger than myself with a similar level of fitness. But only up to a point. The point at which things change is the portal to the world of ultradistance sport.

The world of ultrarunning is a place of uprising. It’s a place where those with slightly different sets of athletic skills can flourish and even dominate. It’s a place where our psychology doesn’t just support our physiology, it carries it along.

At distances up to the marathon, elite male runners are between 10 and 12 per cent faster than females. At 100 miles, this percentage reduces to about 8 per cent. But it depends on the race – at the Western States in 2023, Courtney Dauwalter’s time as the winning woman was only just over 3 per cent slower than that of Tom Evans, who won the men’s race. The difficulty, when it comes to comparing performances over longer distances, especially when mountains and trails are concerned, is that over all those miles and all those hours of running, there are so many variables – far more than on a track or road. To compare times directly, they need to be on the same course on the same day, with the same depth of field in the women’s and men’s races. If we simply use

retrospective data – results from the past – to make up our minds and set our expectations for the future, we’re never going to capture the full complexity or exciting possibilities of this picture.

There are plenty of examples of women outperforming men by a big margin in really long, really hard races.

In October 2017, Courtney won the Tahoe 240-mile race outright in 57 hours 55 minutes, beating second place (first male) by 10 hours. There’s Jasmin Paris’s dominant 2019 Spine Race victory; Samatha Amend’s (now Hudson- Figuera) overall win at the 2022 Grand Union Canal Race, 145 miles between Birmingham and London in the UK; and Camille Herron’s outright win at the 2022 Jackpot 100, which was also the US National Championship, by almost 30 minutes. And these performances aren’t new. In 1989, US runner Ann Trason won the Sri Chinmoy USA 24-Hour National Championship outright, covering 143 miles and 139 metres and, in the process, beating one of the strongest male fields in the history of 24-hour racing. In 2002 and 2003 another American, Pam Reed, took the overall win at the infamous Badwater ultramarathon, running 135 miles through Death Valley. While not definitive, these performances at least open the door to conversations around males not necessarily being dominant in longer endurance challenges due to their inherent sex- based advantage.

While there are many vocal opponents of the idea that, when it comes to ultrarunning, female runners might one day close the gap with males, I remain openminded. And I’m not the only one. Here are some of the reasons why.

Firstly, the practical considerations. There are far fewer women than men in ultrarunning, right through the ranks from first-timers to elites. So, if we’re looking at elite runners, who might only toe the line in a couple of 100-mile+ distance races each year, the probability of a world-class female runner being on the start line is much lower than that of a world-class male runner. In road and track ultras, where the number of variables is relatively low, genetically lucky males might be expected to maintain their physiological advantage over females and other males. But the longer the race and the more variables there are – weather, sleep deprivation, fuelling and hydration, navigation, altitude, temperature extremes and so on – the more opportunity there is to develop a skill set that narrows the physiological gap. During the 2019 Spine Race, Jasmin Paris famously dropped male competitor Eugeni Roselló Solé after they’d been running together for many miles as she knew she was the better navigator.

It doesn’t matter how fast you’re running if you’re not going in the right direction.

In a recent report compiled by RunRepeat.com and the International Association of Ultrarunners (IAU), researchers explored the trends in ultrarunning over the past 23 years. After analysing 5,010,730 results from 15,451 ultrarunning events – the largest analysis ever done on the sport – they came up with some interesting findings. These included the observation that, based on this sample, female ultrarunners are faster than male ultrarunners at distances over 195 miles. As the researchers noted:

“The longer the distance the shorter the gender pace gap. In 5Ks men run 17.9% faster than women, at marathon distance the difference is just 11.1%, 100-mile races see the difference shrink to just 0.25%, and above 195 miles, women are actually 0.6% faster than men.”

This finding is particularly surprising given that participation rates drop dramatically for women as the distances get longer. At races of up to 80 kilometres (50 miles), women make up between 20 per cent and 50 per cent of entrants, depending on the race. Above that distance, this drops to just 16 per cent, reducing as the distance increases. In an online article, British ultrarunner Robbie Briton analysed competitor numbers from the 2018 UTMB races, finding a similar pattern, with female entrants comprising: 9.5% at the 170-kilometre (106-mile) Ultra- Trail du Mont Blanc (UTMB) 11.4% at the 119-kilometre (74-mile) Sur les Traces des Ducs de Savoie (TDS) 17% at the 101-kilometre (63 -mile) Courmayeur– Champex–Chamonix (CCC) 23.1% at the 57-kilometre (35-mile) Orsières– Champex– Chamonix (OCC) The RunRepeat report isn’t the whole story, and neither does it promise to be. It’s simply a gathering of past data, not a controlled research study. It doesn’t separate results out into those held on the roads and track, where women might have more of a physiological disadvantage, and those held in open country where a far wider skill set can be brought to the race. And yet it does offer an interesting insight into the state of ultrarunning at a moment in time; and as simply as report of results – no more and no less – it provides some indication of what may be possible in the future.

Within ultrarunning, there are some who voice concern that women’s participation in the sport would be negatively impacted if, in certain circumstances, the sex difference between female and male were to disappear.

They fear that women’s podiums might cease to exist; and that races and results could be presented as overall finish times and places, rather than by gender.

I hope this is unlikely, as it would clearly be detrimental to both women’s and men’s ultrarunning; but I also

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think there’s room to celebrate the intriguing puzzle of ultrarunning and the potential for women – and indeed everyone – to bring their unique skill set to the fore to reduce the gap created by pure physiological prowess.

Women’s races and women’s results should absolutely be celebrated and protected for women, but is there not still some fun to be had – and huge strength and satisfaction to be taken – from being able to beat at least the vast majority of the boys?

Female runners may also have some interesting physiological advantages over males in longer races, especially those at altitude, according to research conducted by Dr Nick Tiller, an exercise scientist at Harbor-UCLA, columnist for UltraRunning magazine, writer and author. In his co-authored 2021 and 2022 papers, ‘Do Sex Differences in Physiology Confer a Female Advantage in Ultra-Endurance Sport?’ and ‘Sexspecific Physiological Responses to Ultramarathon’, he and a team of researchers investigated various physiological parameters in male and female timematched runners at the 170k UTMB and how these changed over the course of the race.

The research found that female athletes exhibited numerous physiological traits that might confer an advantage in ultra-endurance challenges, including greater fatigue resistance, greater substrate efficiency and lower energy requirements. The negative effects of running an ultramarathon at altitude also appeared to happen less frequently and with a smaller effect size in female participants compared with males.

However, findings showed downsides of being female, too, including having a lower oxygen-carrying capacity, increased prevalence of GI distress and the potential effects of sex hormones on cellular function and injury risk.

The researchers highlight the small number of female participants in ultramarathons relative to males, meaning there’s a far smaller field to choose from, whether you’re conducting research or picking winners.

It would also appear that the advantages of being female are most prominent over the longest distances, where currently the gap in participation is greatest. The article concludes: “Crucially, the advantageous traits may only manifest as ergogenic in the extreme endurance events which, paradoxically, are those that females less often contest.’ It recommends that ‘the title question should be revisited in the coming years, when/if the number of female participants increases.”

Nick kindly agrees to chat about his research and I ask him about the current gap between male and female performances.

“In running overall, depending on the research you’re looking at, it’s somewhere between 5 and 10 per cent,’ he says. ‘But if you look at long-distance swimming, females overall are faster than males, which is interesting. In long- distance cycling it’s closer, too. But in running, it’s the ultras that are closest.”

One of the things that excites me about ultras, and especially longer ultras in remote places, is that with such a small pace gap, optimizing everything else we do – nutrition and hydration, kit choice, navigation and self-care – can quickly make up for any inherent sex-based differences. I’m interested to know, from Nick’s perspective, where he thinks women could focus their attention to exploit this potential. ‘It’s an important point that there are so many more variables in ultramarathon running than in other sports. In most other running distances, it’s a physiological endeavour.

If you think about a 1,500m race [almost a mile], about 75 per cent of performance can be predicted

by VO2max [oxygen uptake] – you have to have a high VO2max. And it’s very similar in marathon running – the best females will never beat the best males in marathon running because it’s too heavily dependent on maximal aerobic capacities, and males just have bigger lungs and bigger cardiovascular systems. In ultra, not only is VO2max less important – it’s still a factor, it’s still a predictive variable – but there are so many other things going on that it only takes a wrong kit choice; blisters, which wouldn’t have so much of an effect over shorter distances, could easily make a 10 per cent difference; gastrointestinal distress and gut trainability; carbohydrate choice; whether your running pack is too tight, which over 100 miles might cause respiratory fatigue; how well you tolerate the heat; how much hill training you’ve done; whether you’re using poles . . . There are all these different factors that mesh into this multifactorial predictive model, which I doubt will ever be possible to map out. It’s just much more unpredictable. So that’s an important point, that there are so many different things that can give you an advantage or a disadvantage in ultras, that it’s feasible that one small decision can increase or decrease the gap.’

It’s a similar story for increased age in ultrarunning, which confers both advantages and disadvantages for performance. Nick references a 2018 review paper

by Beat Knechtle and Pantelis Nikolaidis, who looked at both the demographics of ultrarunning and the negative physiological effects the sport has on its participants.

The researchers found that as the duration of a race increased, so too did the age at which runners reached their peak performance. Over 6 hours, the mean age of peak performance was 34 years, rising to 44 years over 24 hours and 47 years over 48 hours. Harvey Lewis, record holder of the Backyard Ultra format of ultramarathon racing with 450 miles, was 47 when he set the record in 2023. Perhaps I really do have my best years still to come in ultrarunning. Nick has some interesting thoughts around the potential impacts of increasing female participation in ultrarunning from the current 10–20 per cent average. It could, he suggests, increase the depth of the field and make females more competitive; or it could reduce the average time, making the average gap larger. Because one possibility is that the females who currently run ultras, and particularly the longer ultras, are self-selecting as the strongest and toughest, knowing they’ll be competing against mostly males and taking into account the sociocultural aspects that go into that as well. So, it’s possible that the females currently competing in ultra don’t represent

female runners more generally. We agree that the only way to answer this question is for more women to try ultrarunning.

Talking with Nick also gets me thinking about the other ways those without the physiological advantages of the fastest men can close the gap in events that require such a broad skill set to compete in. As I reflect on Jasmin Paris’s achievements, it strikes me that her outstanding navigation skills and race strategy have also played a big part in her successes. Lacking confidence in navigation is an issue for many people, but in particular for women. It’s nothing to do with how our brains work; but, like driving – especially in the past – from a sociocultural perspective it seems to more often be men who take the lead. Jasmin often talks about growing up hiking in the mountains with her family and going on multiday adventures with her brother. Navigation and self-management in remote environments are things she’s simply always done. If we want to help more women achieve their dreams and their potential in ultramarathons, but also more generally in the world of outdoor adventure, it seems vital to equip all children with these basic skills.

Nick’s great, a knowledgeable male ally for female runners, and his work is incredibly important. However, even though he’s softly spoken and thoroughly considers every point before making it, how is it that the loudest voice in female ultrarunning physiology is a man’s? I’m keen to talk to some women working in sport and exercise science, so I send out some emails to the women whose papers I’ve read and who I see presenting at conferences. But I get no replies. Nick’s given me a few names to contact, but again I can’t get in touch with them. Eventually, a physiologist replies, referring me to one of her male colleagues, who is, in her words, ‘more of an expert in this area’. I ask a friend of mine who has a PhD in running biomechanics if she’d chat with me about the differences in the biomechanics of male and female runners. I know this friend would do anything to help, but she tells me she doesn’t feel her expertise in this specific area is good enough. I think of the men who certainly shouldn’t claim to be experts in running biomechanics but have nonetheless written books and given talks on everything from barefoot and forefoot running to the art of running that we humans have somehow ‘lost’. How is it that they’re happy to put themselves and their opinions out into the world when women who would be considered real experts in the subject shrink from the spotlight? When it comes to the gap between females and males, perhaps there are similarities between the worlds of sport and science. *** Watching the 2020 documentary Picture a Scientist, it hits me like a wall. A wall that shouldn’t be there.

The statistics are stark: in the US, 50 per cent of undergraduate students in STEM (science, technology, engineering and maths) are women. As we move through masters, PhD and postdoctoral levels, this percentage gradually declines until we reach the workplace, where only 29 per cent of positions in STEM subjects are held by women. For black women, the percentage is even lower and showing some worrying trends. A 2023 report by the Education Trust suggests

that the percentage of black women awarded PhDs in STEM subjects decreased from 1.3 per cent to 1.1 per cent between 2010 and 2019.

The mechanism by which women are lost from sciencerelated fields over the course of their careers has been termed ‘the leaky pipeline’. Women in science are, in the words of one male interviewee in the documentary, walking into a headwind that doesn’t exist for men. Intentional and overt gender- and sexbased discrimination and sexual harassment are the tip of an iceberg. But beneath that iceberg lurk the far more difficult to quantify daily instances of implicit bias, whereby the unconscious decisions we all make, based on conditioning and association – in this case, the kinds of jobs and lives that we unconsciously associate with females and males – help to shape and determine the trajectory of people’s lives.

I’ve worked in sports science for a long time, but, like so many others, have struggled to make it fit in terms both of the requirements of a life as a parent and simply feeling at home in a male-dominated field. My first attempt at a PhD ended after my daughter was born as trying to combine research and childcare just didn’t feel possible. Completing a PhD then felt like something I’d failed at – a niggling, unfinished yet important project – so, a decade later, I decided to apply again.

This time, I was interested in the more experiential side of running: I was fascinated by the lived experiences of distance runners rather than the biomechanical forces and pressures the sport involves. So, instead of looking at the location and frequency of running injuries, I wanted to know what being injured meant to runners – what running gave them and what injury took away.

I applied for a few advertised PhDs, hoping to find one that worked for me as someone who needed to fit my studies around work, childcare and inability to drive. It felt like a long shot, but if I didn’t try I’d never know.

I attended a number of interviews in which I wasn’t successful. In one, I was even asked whether I was planning on having any more children. But eventually, I found my place, thanks to a female academic who believed I could complete a PhD despite personal circumstances far removed from those of a typical postgraduate student. It’s an opportunity that has changed my life, and one I’m grateful for every day.

As I contact women in sport science now, I’m struck by something that feels fundamental. Women in areas of sport science where greater numbers of women are currently working – psychology, sociology, even philosophy – are more than happy to chat. Those in the more male-dominated fields – physiology, biomechanics – either don’t reply or suggest I speak to a male colleague. I don’t blame them in the slightest. On many occasions in the past, both in person and online, I’ve been talked over, edged out, even shouted down by a more numerous, more established group of men.

My response has been to give up defending myself, or trying to make myself heard, and instead retreat to a place of safe anonymity, my head firmly below the parapet.

As I’m exploring the dynamics and disappearance of women from STEM subjects further, I spot an invitation

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to take part in a survey by Dr Emma Cowley, whose Invisible Sportswomen project aims to highlight the sex data gap in sport and exercise science research. Emma’s 2021 paper, co-authored with three other women and published in the journal Women in Sport and Physical Activity, reviewed around 5,261 publications, with 12,511,386 participants included in the analyses. Overall, 63 per cent of publications included both males and females; but, while 31 per cent included only males, just 6 per cent included only females. An analysis of all the participants included found that 66 per cent were male, whereas only 34 per cent were female.

‘The problem is,’ Emma says, ‘we know there are differences between males and females, but we don’t know where and how – or even if – these differences should affect recommendations for health, training and performance. There might be a difference in an area, or there might not; and currently, because the data on females isn’t there, we just don’t know.’

As the paper indicates, because females remain significantly underrepresented within sport and exercise science research, there’s a real danger that conclusions drawn from current research might be applicable to only one sex.

Emma’s latest research explores the difficulties and barriers that exist for women in sport and exercise academia, and why so many women disappear from academia rather than progressing through the ranks as men do. The focus group I’m invited to participate in has been organized to discuss this phenomenon and we spend an hour sharing our experiences, from the assumption that women are expected to drop work commitments to provide childcare, whereas with men it’s often the other way around, to having to adopt a more ‘male’ persona to be taken seriously.

I leave the meeting thinking it’s far less about women and men than about the narratives and expectations we all carry around with us, that structure the worlds we inhabit and that so profoundly affect our own and others’ experiences and opportunities. In a way, it’s depressing, finding ourselves in a male-dominated world where everything from architecture to personal protective equipment is designed to suit men, and women can often feel at most like an afterthought.

But this status quo exists because for decades it’s been predominantly men – and predominantly white, educated, wealthy, able- bodied men – who have been out there creating it. For any inequity, change starts with noticing and acknowledging it exists. Then we can get on with making meaningful changes. ­— Jen Benson is a runner, writer and mum of two. She has completed over 50 marathons and ultramarathons, as well as triathlons, adventure races and other longdistance epics. She has a master’s degree in sport and exercise medicine and is a PhD researcher exploring the phenomenology of running. With her husband, Sim, she has co-authored several books including Wild Running, Smart Running and Short Runs in Beautiful Places. The Path We Run is published by Octopus Books, £20 from all good booksellers.

It’s not just about the kilometres, it’s also about passion.

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16 YEARS, 9 MONTHS, & 10 DAYS My first ultramarathon journey Words: Sam Glasgow Photos: “Jumpy” James Kirby

Balancing GCSE exams with ultramarathon training isn’t exactly normal, but for me, it became part of my everyday routine. I’m Sam Glasgow, a 16-year-old from Belfast, Northern Ireland, and I’ve just completed my first ultramarathon, “The Lap”. When my dad’s best friend Davy Newell invited my mum, dad, and me to take part in his 75km race around Lake Windermere, I didn’t hesitate for a second. Inspired by the likes of David Goggins, who often pops up on my TikTok and Instagram, I was eager to take on the challenge — even if I had no idea what I was getting myself into.

“The Lap” is exactly what it sounds like: a lap around Lake Windermere, the biggest lake in England. It’s 75 km long and involves 2,500 metres of elevation — a distance I definitely underestimated at the start. At 16, I was just keen to push myself and see how far I could go. My dad’s best friend Davy has been his adventure accomplice since childhood, I grew up listening to their stories of adventures such as the Four Peak challenge, climbing expeditions around the world, summiting mountains like Mont Blanc and Kilimanjaro, and being involved in the Seven Magnificent Marathons project with Blind Dave Healy, completing seven marathons in seven continents in seven days. These men probably know more about each other than most people know their child. Now both in their 50th year, it was time for a new challenge. Davy’s event has quickly gained a glowing reputation among other ultras in the UK; he describes the race as “the beautiful ultra” while others resort to “brutal”.

Before I talk about training, let me backtrack a bit. I didn’t grow up as a runner. In fact, I spent most of my childhood on rugby pitches. Rugby had been my life since I was five, and I got pretty serious about it from the age of 11. Gym sessions, after-school practices — I was always there. But then, in September 2021, during my first post-COVID game, I dislocated my kneecap.

What followed was 15 months of rehab, a couple of setbacks, and eventually surgery. I did return to rugby, but the love I had for it wasn’t the same anymore.

In June 2023, I made the decision to stop playing rugby altogether.

Around this time, Davy made his offer for “The Lap”. With no more rugby and a need for something new to focus on, I jumped at the opportunity with both my mum and dad deciding to make the commitment as well. At first, my training was pretty relaxed — just a couple of 5km runs here and there. But on January 1st, my dad Phil, who has vast experience in putting together training plans through his career in sport, realised the short amount of time we had left, 37 weeks to be exact, and then suddenly, time started to feel like it was slipping away.

I’d never heard of terms like “tempo runs” or “easy pace,” but I quickly got used to the lingo. My first 10km run took me an hour — not impressive, but it was a start. I also picked up hockey, which introduced me to a whole new level of fitness. Running became a daily thing, with sprints and time trials thrown into the mix. My first half marathon came on April 21st, with a time of 2 hours and 15 minutes. It felt like a long way from running an ultra, but it was progress.

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Then came exam season. My first GCSE exam was on May 8th, and over the next two months, I sat through 24 exams. Running had to take a back seat though my dad still managed to drag me out for a few long runs when I probably should’ve been revising. By this point, I had done a couple of half marathons and stretched to a 30km run — definitely not the typical revision strategy.

Once my exams were over, I was free to focus on training. That’s when I hit one of my lowest points. I was 17km into a 30km run when my hip started to cramp.

By 23km, the pain was almost unbearable. Stuck in the middle of an industrial estate, I had no choice but to keep going. It took four hours to finish, and I remember feeling completely defeated. Confidence was at an alltime low.

But as the summer went on, things improved. By the end of August, my dad and I completed a 42km run along the Causeway Coast, starting at the Carrick-aRede rope bridge and finishing in Portstewart. The views were stunning — Giant’s Causeway, Royal Portrush golf course — it was a far cry from the dull industrial roads I’d been running on before. That run gave me the boost I needed.

As race day approached, the nerves started to kick in. Most of my friends at school knew about the ultramarathon by this point, and the pressure was real.

We took the ferry over to the Lake District and had a four-hour drive down, which, looking back, was the easiest part of the whole weekend. Carb-loading? Not a problem for a 16-year-old.

Race morning didn’t start great. My pre-race nerves were so bad I ended up losing my breakfast. But once we arrived at the start line and saw 800 other runners ready to take on the challenge, I felt a bit better. Sure, 75km is a crazy distance, but I wasn’t alone. One thing that I was really nervous about was my lack of local knowledge, having not explored the Lake District before, we didn’t have very many ideas of what hills were coming up. In some ways though this actually helped us as there wasn’t an anticipation of the pain soon to come.

The weather didn’t help. It rained all morning until about 2pm, but The Lap has some of the best feed stations you can imagine — perfect for a teenager like me. Halfway through, we got pizza, and it wasn’t just any pizza. It was quality stuff, and trust me at this point I’m a connoisseur. Seeing my brother and sister at the halfway point gave me a huge lift too, and hearing that my mum was doing well motivated me even more. One thing that really sets The Lap apart is how brilliantly it is waymarked; not once did we get lost or have any doubts about direction. Seemingly, every time you looked for a sign, one appeared. This allowed me to zone out and focus fully on the running, and enjoy the beautiful scenery the Lake District had to offer.

The second half of the race was all about ticking down the miles left. The big climbs of Wansfell and Loughrigg were brutal, but surprisingly, I felt okay. My dad and I tackled the first fell, flew down into Ambleside, where we were met by lots of spectators who encouraged us to keep running, and then we faced the second. For the first time ever, I found myself wishing for more uphill sections — the downhills were wrecking my quads.

The last 17km were the hardest. I’d watched YouTube videos of people flying through this part of the race, but it felt like it dragged on forever for me. By the time we reached the final feed station, 5km from the finish, I was exhausted. But Davy was there, cheering us on, and claiming the last stretch was “wee buns.” That gave us the push we needed.

The final 2km felt surreal. My dad and I talked about all the tough runs, the cramps, and the struggles we’d faced during training. Then, as the light began to fade, so did the distance left. We turned up the pace — well, what felt like a fast pace, but was really a 7-minute-perkilometre jog — and crossed the finish line. My brother Charlie, my sister Izzy, and Davy were there waiting for us. After 14 hours and 8 minutes, I’d completed my first ultramarathon at 16.

Something this training cycle and the many podcasts listened to along the way has taught me is that “the man who loves walking, will walk further than the man who loves the destination”. From this journey, I have learnt to fall in love with the process, the inconveniences and the fun.

I’m incredibly grateful to Davy Newell for giving me the chance to run “The Lap”, an absolutely fantastic event, as not many ultras allow under18s to compete. Thanks also to the incredible marshals who kept our spirits up along the way.

To my siblings, Charlie and Izzy, thanks for putting up with endless talk about running. To my mum and to my dad, thank you for putting up with me for 14 hours and for all of those long training runs.

I couldn’t have done it without you.

What’s next? I’m not sure yet. But I know for sure this won’t be my last ultramarathon.

— Sam is currently studying for his A levels and is starting to learn to drive. Training is continuing, with a new 10k PB achieved just two weeks after The Lap. He hopes to return to do The Lap in the clockwise direction when his exam schedule allows him to. Other goals include completing a GR route and doing an Ironman.

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I’ve Had a Good Run… Have you ever had one of those days when all the stars align, and you have the perfect run? For Tim Laney it was the Hardrock 100 in 2005…

Words: Tim Laney Photo: Bailey Anselme It all started with a little niggle on Day 1 of the OMM. Renowned as one of the toughest races anywhere, the Hardrock is held every July in the San Juan Mountains in SW Colorado. The route covers 102 miles on little-visited prospector trails, traversing 13 high (and often snowcovered!) passes, with a total ascent of over 10,000m and visiting remote valleys, derelict gold mines and hot springs en route. Only 125 runners, chosen by lottery, set off from the small town of Silverton each year in a real test of mountaineering and endurance running.

In 2004 I had attained a qualifying time at the Leadville 100, so I thought I’d try my luck and enter the Hardrock on the offchance of a place - and much to my surprise, I got in. So there I was on the 2005 Silverton start line with 124 other runners. On the words “Get out of here!” we were off.

The race heads straight out into the most awesome wild country, climbing over steep forested ridges and traversing rocky slopes above still-frozen tarns to the first checkpoint at Cunningham Gulch. I came through in the second group of runners, allegedly saying “This is f***ing amazing!” to my lovely wife as I waded the river, grabbed some food and ran on up the flanks of Green Mountain, and past old mine workings on Buffalo Boy Ridge. I was running alone now, following the flagged route, when suddenly the leading group of runners appeared from my right. They’d gone off trail and had taken a good while to make up the ground, so I was first down a steep snowfield and into the second checkpoint at Maggie Gulch. I stayed with them for another few miles, but the pace and the heat of the day were getting to me so by the time I got to the first main aid station at Pole Creek I was feeling pretty ragged, and began to lose ground. Fortunately, the aid stations had been warned of my need for tea (with milk!) so by the time I sat down a mug was put in my hands along with soup and noodles.

The next section was a struggle up a long track in the heat of the day, and I was feeling really rough, trying to get enough liquid and food in. I was dreading the 1,200m climb onto Handies Peak, at 4,250m the highest point on the route. But then something strange happened: the weight dropped off my legs, and I climbed that mountain with ease, taking back a load of places. My legs felt fresh, too, on the long descent into Grouse Gulch for my next cup of tea, just the eighth runner to go through. I didn’t sit down, but continued straight on up the next climb and down a long narrow path traversing the steep sides of Bear Canyon down to the halfway point in Ouray.

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From here on I was being paced by Billy from Tennessee, who I’d met the week before on a course-marking day.

He’d been top of the wait list for the run and had missed out on a place, but was eager to see the route anyway.

We chattered our way up a long track into Engineer Basin, passing other runners in the pitch dark, and climbed the long snowfield on a knotted rope to the highest aid station on the route, Kroger’s Kanteen, just three chairs in the rock cleft of Virginius Pass. The food there was Mexican-themed and a shot of tequila was offered (and taken!) to give a bit of Dutch courage for the huge steep rocky descent into Telluride.

With only 27 miles left to go I had made it up to 3rd place (had I but known it!) as I set off up into the dark of the next valley. The long trail up to Oscar’s Pass wasn’t well marked and we must have missed a turn, so ended up descending a steep gully slightly off the main route into Chapman Gulch for a breakfast of tea and cold roast potatoes. The new day bought a sparkling view of the snow-covered peaks all around, as well as the long climb up onto Grant-Swamp Pass up a steep slope of icy snow and loose scree. I was so happy to make the top I just hugged Billy in delight. We had an amazing run down grassy slopes to the ice-covered Island Lake and across the steep flower-strewn Kamm Traverse, before the last big climb up around Putnam Basin.

I felt so great - the day was beautiful, the temperature was perfect, the scenery was just amazing and I was running like a dream down the long last valley towards the finish. Just one river to cross and two miles back into town. I hadn’t bargained for two other runners passing me on the short climb out of the river bed, and it was just too late to pull anything back before the final descent to the famed Hardrock boulder. “And it’s this year’s fastest Brit” came from the race commentary team as I kissed the rock and took my place on the sofa next to it. Billy got us a couple of beers and we sat in the shade enjoying the scene. More beers and a second breakfast duly appeared. What a great run… 5th in the Hardrock, 1st V40 and 1st overseas runner - I was delighted!

That was very much the best race I think I ever ran.

A combination of the amazing setting in those rough, tough mountains, the support from Billy and Pam, and the incredible organisation of the race. I’d been lucky enough to have had a good time to acclimatise to the altitude before the race, running and hiking the mountains, so I was well-prepared for the challenge.

Everything came right on the day.

— Tim is a sometime mountain marathon and ultrarunner with far too many years of running behind him. He’s up and running again at the moment - but for how long?

For the first time After thousands of miles of successful ultrarunning, what does it feel like to get that first DNF?

Words & photos: Andy Persson My race had been going fine, my pacing steady as planned, swept along by the crowds, boosted by the cheers from the sides of the road. The run was all but done, over 90% of it complete, but as I reached the last mile, everything changed. Dizziness swept over me and my legs buckled like spaghetti. The next thing I knew I was being helped to my feet and I completed the last mile to the finish in an ambulance.

My experience at the Great North Run confirmed for me what I had always known: I wasn’t, never had been and never would be a runner. Persuaded by a friend to run for his charity, I’d joined him and several others in Newcastle to take on the half marathon, a challenge I had always thought would be beyond me. My spell in the medical tent proved my point.

Ten years later, in my mid forties, I was persuaded by another friend to take part in a coastal marathon in Cornwall. He was fresh back from completing the Mont Blanc marathon and keen to enlist a few of us other school dads into his new hobby. I was beginning to wonder if I should enrol in an assertiveness course to learn to say no, but the time I finished, hobbling through cramp and shuffling up the last hill with another dad, our kids struggling to move slowly enough to accompany us to the finish line. The sense of achievement, though,

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ran deep and left me with a taste for more. Gradually I ventured into the realm of ultras, dipping my toe in with the Green Man, local to me in Bristol, then Country to Capital. The ensuing process will be familiar to any ultra runner: complete a challenge, notice a bigger challenge, think that’s way beyond me, start questioning if I actually could complete it, sign up, complete it, notice a bigger challenge… ad infinitum, or at least ad mortem.

As the list of completed ultras grew, so did the length of the runs. I was gradually building a running CV I felt proud of: a number of hundred milers and 24-hour races including wins at The Joust and Thunder Run; the Arc of Attrition; KACR (145 miles); Spartathlon (153 miles); Dragon’s Back (186 miles); The Tunnel Ultra (200 miles); Severn Challenge (210 miles); Thames Ring (250 miles); Trans Sweden (340 miles); Three Peaks Ultra (450 miles); South West Coast Path (630 miles); and JOGLE (860 miles). Since delving into the ultra world, I had also managed to keep a clean sheet of DNFs. I saw a Facebook post once that stated if you never DNFd, then you weren’t entering the right races. I resisted responding for fear of sounding smug, but I didn’t subscribe to this view. From what I had observed, DNFs didn’t generally result from choosing the right races, but either from lack of preparation or from a willingness to quit and usually a combination of both. I made a point of entering races or taking on challenges that I gave

myself a 50/50 chance of finishing, then committing to the training and starting on the day with the attitude that dropping out was not even an option. One of the key elements of training was making it appropriate.

For JOGLE, I spent three months doing 100 mile weeks; Dragon’s Back involved endless hours of hill reps; and saunas and running in six layers of clothing paved the way to Sparta.

So now, 15 years on from dragging myself around the Cornish coast, I was contemplating the task that lay ahead of me, taking on the beast that is the Tor des Geants. Advertised as 330km long with 24,000m of elevation gain, it is commonly accepted that both of these figures are understatements of the actual enormity of the challenge. As with Spartathlon the previous year, I had got lucky with the ballot and was straight in on my first attempt.

The race had given me a useful distraction from another personal mountain I was due to be climbing soon. Earlier in the year, prompted by a sense that things in my body didn’t feel right, a home test led to a blood test at the GPs, an MRI and then a biopsy which confirmed I had advanced local prostate cancer. The initial descent into various worst case scenarios gradually gave way to greater optimism as I immersed myself in research and informing myself. The prognosis looked good.

I had caught it in time for it to be treated with surgery which should remove the cancer along with the whole of my prostate, which up until now I had blissfully taken for granted and couldn’t even tell you what purpose it was serving me. Still, despite the hope, there remained the shadow of the C word hanging over me and the prospect of a considerable operation ahead. So the Tor became something to focus on and now here I was, in Courmayeur, along with 1,000 others waiting for the signal to send us up the first of more than 20 mountains.

20 or so hours. The first climb took us up 1,300m to over 2,000m and an introduction to the impact of altitude.

It was the one factor that had remained an unknown for me coming into the race, with little opportunity to acclimatise. Over the course of the next few mountains I would discover the decelerating and debilitating effect of the reduced oxygen. Legs became leaden, my headlight and nausea gradually engulfed me. At the first aid station, food offerings consisted primarily of lumps of cheese and processed ham. Conscious of the scarcity of anything much edible in my backpack and wanting to capitalise on my stomach’s current receptiveness to food, I gorged myself on it before setting off on the next climb. Standing under the edge of the gazebo as we were about to leave, the canvas above my head reached one of those tipping points when it decided to deposit the contents of the water that had collected, in a sudden deluge that landed on top of me, running down my neck and reaching any parts of my body that had not yet managed to get wet.

The climbs were relentless, steep and seemingly never-ending, punctuated by glances up at the trail of climbers plotting a line up the mountainside ahead.

Finally we would reach a peak, a cairn, a few moments to catch our breath before descending the other side, occasionally running but even on the downhills frequently reduced to a walk by the technicality of the trail. At times rocky, at times reduced to clinging to a rope as we edged round a precarious ledge then as the path took us lower, breaking free into a run towards the checkpoint in an alpine town at the foot of the mountain. As night drew in on the first day, I had teamed up with Bea and, though her pace was faster than mine, the camaraderie helped pass the time and when she pushed on, we would meet up at the next peak or aid station and set off together again.

Before coming out to Italy, I had connected online with a few others doing the race. Gary was local to me and we had met up for a couple of training runs, including an overnighter in the Brecon Beacons with a two-hour bivvy break. Lou, who I had met on JOGLE eight years ago, had arrived a couple of days before me. Bea made up our gang of four and, after waving Gary off in the first wave, the three of us set off two hours later, at midday.

As the night drew in and head torches were fished from our packs, the temperature started to drop and I began counting down the kilometres to the first life base, where my drop bag held the promise of a towel and a dry set of clothes. We arrived in Volgrisenche at around 3am and spent half an hour eating, washing, changing and stocking up the packs with a more sensible selection of clothing layers. Added into the mix was a five-minute sleep slumped over a table and then we left the life base feeling like new people at the start of a fresh day.

The first couple of miles took us through the town, streets lined with well-wishers, cheering us out on our way into the Alps. As we climbed the initial ascent, the forecasted rain began to shed its first drops. The higher we reached, the colder it got and I started to question my decision to save weight and pack lightly. I had left extra thermal layers and my heavier duty waterproof jacket in my drop bag which I would not be seeing for another

The next stage would lead us up and down three mountains, the last of the trio taking us to 3,200m and the highest peak of the race. Not long after we set off, the first light began to appear with the assurance of a drier day ahead. I am always amazed at how some people remember every twist and turn of a race and can recount their journey, complete with names for places and chronological descriptions of terrain. All that

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remains in my head is a blur of images of one foot in front of the other, willing myself up or leaning into the down.

Nothing much changed until I was descending the second peak of the day when I noticed a sharp twinge in my chest. I monitored it as I continued, the shooting pains subsiding to a dull ache across my breast bones.

By the time I reached the aid station in Eaux Rousse, I knew my race was over. The last time I had experienced this, a call to 111 sent me straight to A and E followed by a diagnosis of pericarditis. I knew chest pain was something you don’t mess with, even if it ends up a false alarm. Heading out in the dark for another eight hours up and down a mountain on my own was not an option. So as I arrived in the tent, I asked if there was anyone medical, knowing this was the death knell to my hopes of becoming a Geant. The swiftness of their response was impressive, with a nurse on hand to lead me into the side tent followed shortly by a doctor taking various readings. Before I knew it I was in an ambulance, strapped to a bed with oxygen tubes up my nose.

It felt overly dramatic given that I wasn’t feeling too bad and the wait for the ambulance had eased the pain in my chest, but I was happy to put myself in their hands and just do what I was told. After a white knuckle, blue light ride through the mountain roads we arrived at the hospital in Aosta and I was wheeled in on my trolley and left in the waiting room, occasionally attended to by a doctor and more people taking readings. As I lay there, it felt like a dress rehearsal for my upcoming surgery. For the first time, it all felt real that in a matter of weeks I would be back in a similar sanitised setting, waiting to yield myself to the anaesthetic and the surgeon’s knife.

I waited there overnight, slipping in and out of sleep.

Finally, in the morning I was wheeled into another room and the doctor ran me through the results of my tests.

Nothing to worry about, no signs of a pericarditis return.

I was just running a fever, and the chest pains were likely down to the altitude and the exertion.

A few hours later I was back in Courmayeur, collecting my drop bag surrounded by other subdued individuals contemplating their early exits. As I had only made it round a quarter of the Tor, I now had several days ahead of me to fill before my return home. Four days, in fact, to process this new DNF experience, four days to watch people running through the streets, up the ramp to the finish line, thinking ‘that could have been me.’ My initial response was a dive into despair. For the first day I was convinced my running days were over.

I felt no desire ever to take part in anything ever again.

Ever. In those moments it almost felt like there was some destiny in it all. The symmetry was so neat; a handful of

exhilarating running experiences sandwiched between two ambulance-enhanced DNFs. As the days wore on, these feelings wore off, helped by the fact I was able to share the experience with friends. Lou had dropped out before me and Bea had continued, but ultimately got timed out 200km into the race. Meanwhile Gary was still out there, and his wife arrived on the Wednesday to support him. When I ran Spartathlon last year, a good friend, Karl, had to drop out halfway through the race. I knew how disappointed he would have been and yet the abiding memory I have of my run up the streets of Sparta to the statue of King Leonides, was of Karl standing there, cheering me in, celebrating my finish, with no sign of how his own experience had affected him. For me, that level of grace in the face of disappointment, was equal to any running feat I witnessed that week and was something I hoped I could emulate when my time came. And now my time had come, so I made the conscious decision to park my self-pity and enjoy with others their moments of triumph.

In particular, Gary was still out on the course, battling through all weathers. With Bea’s retirement, we had a chauffeur and made it out to a couple of aid stations to meet him and offer moral support as he faced the last couple of gruelling days towards the finish. Then, late on the Saturday night, we waited at the edge of the town to accompany him on his final weary few hundred metres. Having some insight into what he had been through to reach this point, I felt emotional as he crossed the line and was struck by how much vicarious satisfaction I could find in his success.

Now, a few weeks on, I am still waiting for my imminent call-up from the hospital. While I intend to come through this and continue to trouble the trails for many more years, my brush with cancer has put several things into a new perspective. Awareness of the fragility of life can make you more appreciative of it and help you value what is most important. When all is said and done, a run is just a run and a DNF is just a DNF. — Andy is a counsellor doing walk and talk therapy in Bristol. He loves taking on a variety of ultrarunning challenges, filming them as he goes, from road to trails, mountains to tunnels and backyards to crossing countries.

Facebook: andyontherun

Rain stopped play With 200 runners travelling to your mountain race in the Swiss Alps, the last thing you want is the weather throwing a flood and landslide in your direction.

Words: Roger Nosworthy and Bridget Funnell Photos: UTMR Throughout the first part of a week in September, runners drift in for the various UTMR races, ready to run from the tiny village of Grächen, touring the Monte Rosa massif via a variety of loops and distances. The Stage race covers 170K over four days while the ultra offers the same distance in one brutal hit; then there’s the baby races, although fearsome babies they are, the 60K and the 23K Berglauf. All races are meticulously checked and marked

by Lizzy Hawker, the organiser, and a trusted band of flag bearers, their quivers packed with hundreds of flags to carefully mark each section of all routes.

On this particular Wednesday in this particular week of 2024, at 6:30am there is a quiet buzz in the Grächen town square where the runners nervously await the race start. All is fine.

Fast-forward a half-day or so to Wednesday evening.

Stage 1 is complete, and all the runners are safely in their Zermatt hotels.

Those of us on the outside at this point witness huge, ominous black clouds hovering over the valley, and then the rain begins. Biblical quantities of fresh water falls from the sky over the next few hours. In turn the water, meandering its way into the massif, joining its sister molecules in the glacial ice and snow, finding paths of least resistance and worming its way into the granite gneiss and separating its bands, which in turn causes immense rock falls, landslides and flooding, which in turn erases perfectly good, highly accessible roads and pathways. A bridge is wiped out by a mudslide.

For a race about to make use of those roads and pathways, this is bad news.

Many of the UTMR runners, now replete with food and done for the day, slumber on, unaware of what is happening.

Bruno Ruppen, the mayor of Saas-Grund, closes the entire Saas valley until further notice, although any witnesses will observe that it’s actually the flippin’ great boulders bouncing down the mountainside and raging torrents bursting river banks that really did this official work.

Apparently a few people had been killed a couple of months earlier in the area in similar storms, which brings safety to the forefront and is a sobering reminder of

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our tiny place in the planet’s system. It is obvious that entering the Saas valley or going over the glacier into Italy is not going to happen.

Stage 2, and the 170K Ultra, are cancelled, but Lizzy is determined to keep the 200 runners in the Stage race as best as possible. At such a late stage hotels, food, transport etc had all been paid.

Lizzy immediately starts developing a plan. How do you traverse an untraversable mountain valley? The answer: by bus. Actually, many buses. She hires coaches, at an obscene cost, to whisk 200 runners from the Stage 1 finish to Gressoney, in Italy, so they could start Stage 3 on time. Which they do.

The Stage 4 route also requires a change of plan, with the Saas valley still closed, so an alternative 20K route is organised in Italy for day 4 of the Stage race. Of course the overall route is circular, so the coaches are also commandeered to transport all the runners back to Grächen by coach in time for the finish celebrations.

Looking back on the four days, these observers can testify that the costs were crippling. Lizzy isn’t going to retire on the proceeds of this year, that’s for sure. What she did was amazing. It was humbling to watch her, with her vast knowledge and love of the mountains, work with her core team to quickly design, check and mark a completely new 50+K race with a Grächen start and finish, providing almost 4,000 metres of ascent, to replace the planned 60K, to give the rest of the runners the best possible workout.

Naturally a few people were disappointed that plans had to change, that this wasn’t the exact race they had trained for. But under the circumstances, anyone who knows the mountains understands and was immensely appreciative of all the efforts of Lizzy and her special team of volunteers.

Next year’s date for you awesome mountain people, runners and volunteers... 3rd to 6th September 2025. ­— Bridge and Rog, aka The FunWorthys, are passionate about mountain running and travelling to obscure/ hidden places. They both completed the UTMR Zero edition and the first edition of the stage race. The soulfulness of the event now draws them back as volunteers every year.

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What would you do if you found out your best friends were in trouble? Whatever it takes, right? Well, that’s how Chris Green feels about rhinos, and runs the world to raise awareness for their plight. Andy Nuttall spoke with him.

Photos: Will Roberts I first came across Chris Green, aka Rhino Boy, earlier this year at one of the Canary Trail races, the looped, slightly beery, Beer 21, in Surrey. We were just there as a band, entertainment for the charity party in the evening, and so milling around setting up kit. Some local onlookers were baffled that they had seen this guy running the race in a rhino suit. I made the assumption that in this case a ‘suit’ would be a funny hat or just a horn attached with a piece of elastic, and asked the kids to let me know when he appeared again.

“He’s here! He’s here!” they cried from outside the hall, and excitedly ran in followed by a guy in a rhino suit.

Hellfire, this was a proper get-up, a full-on, all-over body thing with a floating head. Really, really cool. And yet really bloody hot, I would imagine, on a summer’s day in Surrey running a looped race that involved hills and beer drinking.

I caught him at the end, when he’d finished, and asked him a few questions – and the answers just made me want to turn this into an article and let you folks know about him too.

First of all, why are you dressed as a rhino?

I’ve loved them since I was just a little boy, when during a family trip to Kenya I was lucky enough to see one for the first time. I have to admit I felt I little scared at first. Being so small, they seemed so big! It crossed right in front of me, like some armoured tank moving into position. Head tilted down and two great horns pointing up to the sky. It was more like something from a movie.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a speeding ball of energy burst out of the bushes. It was the rhino’s baby, the cutest thing I’d ever laid eyes on. It sprinted straight up and rested its head on the leg of its mum. Who in turn, gently and tenderly, nuzzled up to her calf. That was it, all fear had gone! From that very moment I had become a lover of all things rhino.

Sadly, all these years later, I am scared all over again as there are now so few rhinos left in the wild. Sightings like this have become very rare. So much so, that of the five species of rhino, three are classified as “Critically Endangered”. Hunted and killed for their horn. Rapidly losing their natural habitat and the space they need to thrive. Whole species of rhinos are on the brink of extinction, unless we act! So, for the last 15 years I have been campaigning for the charity Save The Rhino International. Travelling all over and running events, more often than not in a huge rhino costume.

All to help my ‘best friends,’ and help raise awareness to their plight.

What kind of races do you run? Surely not ultras, while dressed as a rhino?

To date, I’ve run 165 marathons and ultramarathons, and of those 102 have been as a rhino. I like to call them Rhinothons. To be honest, these days I feel way more rhino than human! It’s funny because the very first time I ever ran in the rhino costume, at the London Marathon in 2009, I can still remember thinking “OMG! This is so hard!” And I wasn’t sure I was going to complete even one marathon as a rhino, let alone 100!!! Marathons are very hard at the best of times as we know, but in the costume they can seem impossible!

What’s the costume like to run in?

Everything hurts while you run. Your arms hurt holding up the rhino’s head, your back hurts leaning forward the whole time, and your legs hurt carrying 10kgs of weight for hours on end! You can’t see a lot looking out of the costume, and with all the rustling of the suit you can’t hear much either! But you know what, helping Rhinos is worth the pain!

And I always say I will keep running as long as there are rhinos that need saving. One of my favourite mottos is that we should all “be more rhino,” as rhinos are peaceful and gentle and, to me, represent everything in this world we need to protect. So I’ve worked hard, and saved and trained so hard, to be able to take the rhino throughout the country and all over the world. I’ve followed my heart from New York to Nairobi, Edinburgh to London, to try to get everyone behind this campaign to help Save the Rhino. Having amazing adventures and doing so many things that I never thought would be possible.

I’m so proudly now named by Save the Rhino as their official Ambassador. I’ve written a children’s book, I’ve danced as a rhino, brought JFK airport to a standstill as a rhino, climbed mountains as a rhino! I’ve run marathons in the snow and ice in the winter, and in 30 degree heat in the summer when I thought I was going to melt. I’ve run in gale force winds on high up cliffs and waded through knee-deep mud in the pouring rain.

I’ve charged across the Yorkshire 3 Peak challenge, stampeded around Bovington Tank Museum late at night, and even once ran (or rather got repeatedly stuck) during a marathon round an old prison.

What’s the furthest you’ve run dressed as a rhino?

The furthest I ever ran as a rhino is 50 miles, and it took me nearly 12 hours. But I’ve also run the fastest marathon in the world ever… well the fastest ever marathon dressed as a mammal, to be exact! And that was in 4:06 at the London Marathon. This was one of

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three Guinness World Records that I’ve been able to achieve over the years, although my best gorilla friend pipped my half marathon record, so now I’m down to two. But I’m proud to have made it into the Guinness World Record book!

But do you know what, I was only able to do all of this because I love rhinos so much and because I’ve followed my heart to do everything possible to help them. And all of this just goes to show what we can all achieve if we put all of our efforts into something! If you work hard and train hard and try hard we can all do things we might once have thought impossible.

What’s the furthest you’ve travelled to run with the costume?

I ran in Africa, just over the last few weeks. I never imagined all those years ago, when I ran my first Rhinothon, of all the adventures I would have as “Rhino Boy Chris”. I certainly never dreamed I would have the opportunity to take the rhino ‘home’ to Africa. I cannot tell you what a profoundly emotional experience it was to be there. To run wild and free with the animals I love so much, and beside the brave rangers who put their lives on the line every day to protect them. It’s the absolute joy and privilege of my life to get to take on so many rhino challenges and to get to spend so much time surrounded by so many smiles.

Everywhere the rhino goes we get the warmest welcomes, and people have always been so generous in their reception and in their donations for the campaign.

My current fundraising is well over £26,000.

Huge grins and laughter are the ultimate tonic and the rhino definitely brings out the big kid in everyone.

That’s why I try and make each challenge as much fun as possible. Throughout the pandemic, for example, even when lockdowns restricted so many fundraising opportunities, I tried to dream up new ways of maintaining momentum. Whether it was the rhino taking on a virtual Kilimanjaro climb in my home, or writing my children’s book Matumaini: The Rhinos’ Hope. It’s available from Amazon and Waterstones, and I use it to help my fundraising for Save the Rhino, while donating as many copies as possible to various children’s charities.

What’s the book about?

Matumaini is the Swahili word for hope, and it’s my hope that the book will inspire a love of rhinos in the next generation and be a huge force for good. As such it’s my little book full of hope! I think that’s one of the most important things for me; I see the book and the running in the rhino costume as a great opportunity to spread happiness and rhino joy. So many times people have said how much the rhino has inspired them in regards to their own challenges, and the causes closest to their hearts.

I believe that 99.9% of people are awesome! They want so badly to help in so many of the world’s problems, but often get overwhelmed and wonder what difference they can make. Well, if I have learned one thing, it’s anything IS possible when we all work together. I couldn’t have accomplished anything without the kindness, care and support of so many incredible friends and family.

I love the fact that in turn the rhino seems to be helping others, and other charities and causes, along the way. I’m proud to be a Save the Rhinos Ambassador, but the rhino itself has also been adopted by the 100 Marathon Club as their Club Ambassador and a symbol of perseverance, courage and commitment.

So it’s a massive honour, the extent to which the running community has got behind the rhino.

One of the best things about being an Ambassador for Save the Rhino, however, are the many school visits I get to make these days. On every occasion the children’s pure enthusiasm is just so wonderful. They are so full of questions and ideas which always shows how much they care, and again it fills my heart with so much hope for the future. Their energy is infectious and after every visit I feel ready for anything and quite frankly, ready to win a marathon!

The children I met out in Africa whilst running 230km through five different conservancies had the same effect and have so inspired me. As have those incredible Rangers I mentioned who stand on the frontline to protect so many precious, yet sadly endangered, species. I heard so much while I was there of their sacrifices and I am truly humbled. The rhino is an ‘umbrella species’ which means they are an integral part of the wider environment, and any threat to them is a threat to an entire ecosystem. So Save the Rhino is working tirelessly to not only look after this magnificent species, but also to support the brave Rangers and to better the lives of all the local communities, so that everyone has a vested interest and love for the animals. This means that saving rhinos is also benefiting wider conservation, preserving the environment and improving people’s lives. I LOVE Rhinos, but as you can see, this is so much more besides. So go on, follow your hearts, be more rhino and come and help me help SAVE THE RHINO! What’s next for Rhino Boy? After all my experiences in Africa, having seen firsthand the positive effect Save the Rhino International is having there, and hearing so much of the sacrifices of those brave Ranger heroes, I’m more determined than ever to keep going.

In October the Rhino and I will be running a 50K ultra along the spectacular Jurassic Coast, then in November, we will be trying to break out of Dorchester prison with all the other running inmates at the Green Mile Marathon, before we join all our Canary friends again to take on 50K at the Copthorne Races. After that… well, the Rhino and I intend on spreading the message far and wide with lots more international events to come in 2025. One thing’s for sure: there is no stopping this stampeding rhino on full charge!

— Chris Green is 49 years old (which is a lot in rhino years!), and is a Save the Rhino Ambassador, a children’s author and pretty much a full-time Rhino these days.

To date, he has run 102 marathons as a rhino and has no intention to stop until all rhinos are safe.

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Pack it up, pack it in...

Kim Collison shows us what’s in his bag We are now in Autumn and heading full bore towards Winter, so I now take a little bit more time to make sure I don’t get caught out when packing for a run on the fells. I’m making an assessment on what to carry depending on the weather forecast, how remote, high and far I’m going on my runs.

My minimum kit for a run around my local Lake District Fells will be a lightweight waterproof top and bottoms, whistle, mobile phone, 1 pair of gloves, beanie, GPS wristwatch, survival bag and wound dressing. Which on a good weather day will keep me warm enough while I wait for a local rescue.

However, with the weather so changeable at this time of year. I will often carry a lot more and make changes in the weight of items I’m carrying. Upgrading my waterproof to a Gore-Tex running jacket or even a heavier still hiking weight jacket in the foulest of weather. A PrimaLoft insulated jacket like my new favourite La Sportiva Aequililbrium Insulation Hoody is almost certain to go in the bag. I have been grateful on many occasions to be carrying this item or similar on my fell adventures.

If going further afield and for a longer day out, I will often carry an extra base layer, warm & waterproof mittens, spare beanie, foil blanket or poncho on top of my basic kit. Being able to slide into a dry base layer and warm PrimaLoft has on the few occasions saved me from hypothermia and enabled me to continue a run or self-extract to a warm car. I will often add a two person emergency shelter to long runs or bad weather runs at this time of year. They can make a big difference if needing to look after a casualty while you wait for mountain rescue.

All this kit will be carried in one of my La Sportiva vests, or if I need more capacity or training for the Spine then I will carry a striped-down Ultimate Direction Fast Pack bag. Anything I want kept dry will go into a 5L dry bag.

Finally with daylight now at a premium I will be either wearing or carrying a Petzl Nao RL or Swift RL and backing it up with a small Bindi for any charging mishaps. Don’t forget to pack plenty of food supplies to replenish those calories you are burning through.

— Kim is a prominent and successful ultrarunner and fellrunner. He has a number of high-profile wins under his belt including The Fellsman (twice), Lakeland 50, Hardmoors 55, Lakeland Trails 110km, Lakes in a Day and Arc of Attrition. He has broken the Winter Bob Graham record, Lakeland Fells 24-hour record, Paddy Buckley record and the 24-hour Munro record, not to mention the Northern Traverse. He’s represented Great Britain and Northern Ireland at the Adventure Racing World Championship and the World Trail Running Championships. Kim is still pushing boundaries and clocking up successes on the trails, as well as running a successful coaching business

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A BIT OF LEAD IN THE PENCIL

Robbie Britton takes a swing at one of the most revered 100-mile races in the US.

Words: Robbie Britton Photos: Precision Fuel and Hydration When starting out in ultramarathons there were a few races that were written into the folklore of the sport.

Comrades, Western States, Round Rotherham and Leadville, to name a few. When the opportunity came up to run the “Race Across the Sky” this summer, it was an easy decision.

A small group of us runners banded together, for runs, to find good coffee, and to watch the entire extended editions of the Lord of the Rings series as part of a taper, a technique often left off the key taper advice of “reduce volume, maintain frequency and intensity, but increase LOTR.”

If you ignore the 1973 Downsman Hundred in the UK, then America invented 100-mile trail running and they do a good job of it. Whenever I’ve travelled to the US one thing is always clear, on the West side of the country at least, the trails are runnable and fast. They suit me.

Our wee core group included Rich Ingram, Benjamin “Mel” Melisi, Maddie Wighardt and Tyler Ogg, all with our own goals and obstacles ahead. Would we all make it to the finish line and get our buckles?

Leadville is one of the most iconic 100 mile races in the world. James Elson is still wearing the hat he got from the race in 2011 (mainly because it’s a cool hat I think) and I have fond memories of chasing that hat across the volcanic landscape of Iceland when it fell off of James’ head. It’s on the bucket list.

What makes Leadville so special then? Two things really.

The altitude and the story. The altitude is a fun part, with the start being above 3,000m, the high point at 3,800m on Hope Pass and the low point being a Londonerfriendly 2,800m. The race would mean more time above 3,000m than I had spent in my entire life so far (one climbing of Mont Blanc du Tacul and some time at the Aiguille du Midi, enjoying the view).

Then there is the story. In the 1980s the mining town of Leadville, that had once been one of the wealthiest in the US, had lost its industry, its identity, and had one of the highest unemployment rates in the country.

It resonates heavily with our new home in Coggiola, Italy, which has a similar story but linked to the textile industry and Fila.

In 1983 Ken Clouber and Merilee Maupin founded the Leadville Trail 100 Run, and the rest is history. The run isn’t even the biggest event any more, but the whole series brings in thousands of runner and bikers to the town throughout the year.

So, two weeks before the start, there I was. Staying in the Inn the Clouds hostel with a whole bunch of mountain bikers and a few runners, all hoping some time up high would help with the distinct lack of air in the race itself.

Initially the idea of staying in a hostel with a load of other people who might be ill was not a fun idea, but it turned out to be the best decision of the whole trip. The community between the athletes, first with the bikers all there for their own 100-mile race on a very similar course, then with the runners all there with their own goals and ambitions, was brilliant.

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The time spent in the build-up with others, experiencing some of the different elements of US life and culture, made the trip what it was. Come race week the gang from Precision Fuel and Hydration were in town too, so friends new and old came together to tackle the challenges ahead.

Now the 100-mile race itself isn’t the most technical of running. Much to some people’s amusement and against some advice, I planned on wearing my road shoes for the bulk of the event. Not just any road shoes either, but the same pair of Nike Alphafly I had worn for the World 24hr Champs in December 2023. They had 254km in them from that race, and then easily another 3-400 miles over the course of the year training.

Testing another pair out in the mountains of Italy, France and Leadville beforehand, I planned for the worst case scenario. If one bubble popped, what happened? I was a bit wonky, but still fast. Maybe not ideal for 100 miles, but to the next crew point, fine. How about if I popped all four? Well actually that was less unbalanced, so maybe a better option if one did pop. What about the carbon plates cracking or snapping? Turns out that doesn’t make a huge difference either.

How technical was the race? I wanted to recce a lot, and given it’s an out and back there is only 50 miles you need to see, but it was taper time. In the end I saw the first and last section, the famous Powerline climb and… that was about it. There’s a good few videos on YouTube and one of my athletes I coach, Ry Webb, had raced the year before so I picked his brains too.

I made the decision to swap into my Hoka Speedgoats at the foot of the Hope Pass climb. You go from 2,800m up to 3,800m, see some hard-working llamas, descend to the other side for the 50 mile CP at Winfield, and then return back up, suffering in the heat and altitude together. As soon as I hit that climb I was glad I swapped.

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It took about 60 seconds to change the shoes, but I would have lost a whole lot more if I’d worn the Alphas on the loose, rocky mountain trails, especially on the back side. Descending back to Twin Lakes on the way home I made up way more than a couple of minutes on the descent with a charge down the mountain.

One of the other differences with US 100-milers is the use of pacers, so I had the pleasure of company for the tougher moments of the race with Don Reichert and PF&H founder Andy Blow. They got to listen to me complain about my stomach and jog slowly along the trail with me, lucky chaps.

At this point in the race, in sixth position and hoping for the usual carnage ahead that every year at Leadville sees, my racing was effectively finished. Sixth place came at 51 miles, and that is where I stayed until the finish. With hopes of running under 17 hours, and that maybe being good enough for the podium, the front of the race disappeared at a rate of knots in the first few miles. On a dirt road leaving Leadville a lead pack with multiple former winners, people chasing the course record, and a bunch of other decent athletes got away from me.

Coming back to Outward Bound with 24 miles to go apparently people were closing behind, but the Powerline was coming up and I was determined to climb this well. A four-minute gap behind stretched to a 20-minute one and actually on the final section with Don around Turquoise Lake we even caught a chunk on those ahead. The final stretch is a looong dirt road, and you can see any head torches ahead and behind, so the motivation waned a little knowing the position was safe.

The finish line came into view, and the realisation that being in a top bunk in the hostel was going to be problematic came to the top my mind. In the end it didn’t matter, as I went back to the finish to see Mel and the others finish.

At the time I thought I was letting the win go, as one of the ten people would stick it, but I thought the podium might still be up for grabs. I was running sub 6:30 for the first mile and that was spicy enough for my liking. Would I go off faster in future? For sure, but on the first time here I was going to respect the race, the altitude and the cost of the whole trip by not blowing up early doors.

It wasn’t long before I was running alongside one of the fastest men ever on the course, Rob Krar, who had raced the 100 miles on bike the week before too, and that felt fine for me. We were actually ahead of his splits from his Leadville PB. There was a little bit of a fan boy moment for me as well. That’s bloody Rob Krar!

A few runners came back as each section went on, the uphills turning out to be a stronger point for me and each CP I was going as expected, a little closer to the front, but hearing that the lead was stretching away.

After 65 miles on the way back I took a painkiller for my knee. I’ve had two knee surgeries over the years and I think it had become a preventative measure that I maybe didn’t need. Kneed, maybe? It backfired as it shut down my stomach and I bloated out like a little hot air balloon.

I could keep eating the PF&H gels as it was painful but bearable, but drinking became a real issue as the fluid just sat on my stomach and was really uncomfortable.

With hindsight it was a bad move, but it had become a psychological crutch in the years beforehand and this was an important moment for my reflection.

17:56:31 was good enough for 6th place, and the course record had gone to David Roche at the front with Adrian Macdonald and Ryan Montgomery all running stellar times to complete the podium.

Not one for race bling I will have to say the sub-25 hour buckle at Leadville is a shiny monster of a memento, and I was drawn to it like a magpie. It’s pretty sweet. I might even buy a belt one day to wear it, but the size of the thing would look ridiculous on me.

Everyone from our gang in the hostel finished, with Mel and Rich a little over their sub 25-hour goals, Maddie not having the race she wanted after being 3rd in 2023, but toughing it out, and a huge mention to Tyler, who battled within ten minutes of the cut-offs from about 40 miles onwards. The stress that must have caused and the determination he showed to get the job done was inspiring. He was one of the last to finish, but gave it absolutely everything on the day.

Would I go back? For sure. It’s a beautiful area, a fast race that suits me and the people were great. 2025 has a focus of 24hr running for me, but as Ken said at the end of the awards “Only three things matter in life, your family, your religion and the Leadville 100.” As an atheist with no kids, I guess I best go back then.

— Robbie Britton is an ultra-distance coach and athlete with an MSc in Performance Coaching and a Post-grad diploma in Sports Nutrition. He holds the British record for 24 hours with 277.4km, and is based in Northern Italy at the Coggiola Endurance Centre.

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WIEN WIL I SEE YOU AGAIN? Emma Harrison is alive with the sound of Fuschlsee, which isn’t as rude as it sounds.

Words: Emma Harrison Photos: Stock images from Fuschlsee region and Emma Harrison

When I think of Austria I think of The Sound of Music, which is probably just as annoying for an Austrian as it is for a Scot being recognised only by the mention of the Loch Ness Monster. Austria doesn’t seem to be a stand-out destination for British trail runners, and it’s interesting to contemplate why. It’s probably because it’s being overshadowed by places like Chamonix, with its ridiculously good marketing worldwide, its offering of trail camps and its well-known waymarked short and long-distance routes making it high on a trail runners hit list. Not to mention that even non-runners have heard of the UTMB race. In my opinion, Austria is the underdog, and it’s had some great developments over the years to entice runners – the Mozart 100 which is part of the UTMB series, and the popular Adidas Terrex Infinite Trails giving ‘SalzburgerLand’ a place on the map. Any excuse to research trail running destinations and I’m there – I just had to find out more about the place and after visiting, I now realise it’s much more than just a couple of events – it’s a trail-running, mountain-running haven, and a great one at that.

Adventures of Fuschlsee Packing my trail gear, I travelled from London over to Salzburg. Surrounded by lakes and mountains, it felt like the pre-alps, with the more mountainous regions to the south of Salzburg. The city (where Mozart was invented) has hills surrounding it crying out to be climbed, and the best bit is they aren’t too far away. But I had my eyes on a nearby town called Fuschlsee and all the mountaintops I could see as I got closer. I was sceptical as I generally love bigger, more dramatic areas but I soon learnt that although the mountain heights aren’t soaring, what they lack in height in this region is made up of accessible climbs, gorgeous landscapes, and a great variation of trails with enough look-out points over lakes to last a lifetime.

Lake Fuschl is one of many lakes in the area which is why it’s known as the Austrian ‘Lake District’. The water is drinkable making this perfect for lazy post-run hydration – I’m kidding, but you can drink the water which I found quite amusing because I tried it – my way of helping to save the planet by not buying plastic bottles! There is a lovely seven-mile running loop round the lake which is a great introduction to the area, circumnavigating its way round turquoise waters with stunning viewpoints.

Being able to run and take pictures is an absolute must for this so don’t expect a fast ride.

One of the best things about this area is the lack of tourists around the place, where even peak months are relatively quiet, which is great for tranquil running and a rest all at the same time if that’s possible. I’m a big running holiday fan – generally because this means I can spend my mornings out on the trails exploring, and the afternoons drinking local beer and tasting the local food all in the name of research. I think they work hand in hand, and Fuschlsee packed a punch for all my favourite things – plus, I’m a sucker for a beautiful mountain and lake combo.

I stayed in a lovely hotel called Hotel Jakob – a sportspecific hotel tailored for triathletes. I had never stayed in a hotel designed for athletes, and I think they may have just ruined all my future hotel experiences because it was so amazing! They offer a daily laundry service for extra smelly training gear, post-work-out snacks throughout the day and a five-course meal based on athlete nutrition for a very reasonable price every evening. That way, I could pretend to be a professional athlete and could walk around the place like I was with no bat of an eyelash, or so I pretended. Not only that, but the place was flooded with Garmin goodies and running socks, and the owner had a clear obsession with road bikes. Canyon road bikes were available to hire for a very reasonable price, each with Garmin’s already loaded with routes – my parting suggestion was to do the same for runners and I would book in every year.

However, they do run trail camps at the hotel once a year, and I was lucky enough to head off for a run with one of the owners of the trail camps on my trip.

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Local Trails Local trail runner, Lukas, was able to showcase some of the runnable region to me. As an endurance running coach, I clearly couldn’t hold the pace due to the excessive amount of buffet breakfast I’d consumed that morning at the hotel (I used this as a great excuse), but we headed up to a nearby hill, Zwolferhorn. This is quite a famous run that overlooks Wolfgangsee Lake, and like most mountain areas, it was mainly all uphill, but you’ve got to earn the locally made lemonade (highly recommended) at the top in the mountain hut so all was forgiven. The trails go on for miles and you can easily get yourself lost in them, in every great way possible. You can always see the hills in the distance, and the added extra of seeing so many lakes on the high points made this a really special place. The route wasn’t flooded with trail runners, but perhaps this will be different in a couple of years once word gets round.

Though I must admit there was something quite nice about being the only runner in these places – it felt like it was my own little slice of Austria.

The routes are nothing short of lovely – grassy, easygoing tracks, but technical in parts – just enough to keep the trails interesting. It’s easy to combine many of the mountain tops together to make a big outing, and I’d love to go back to run them all in one go. Plus, it’s super easy to be able to plot all these trails as they’ve been done so many times before. There’s a popular ‘four mountains, three lakes’ trail walk and this can easily be run over a couple of days. There’s even the possibility of teaming up with a luggage transfer service so you don’t need to carry your bags. For me, I like the escapism of living the simple life of fastpacking these long-distance routes with the huts as accommodation – two pairs of pants you can turn inside out, a comb and a bar of mini soap – bingo, but each to their own, it’s just nice there’s a service there should you wish to use it.

If running to catch a sunset is your bag, Ellmaustein is a popular hill to run or walk up from the village and you’ll likely get a cracking red sunset over the lake – granted there may be a fair few other runner friends sharing your precious moment, but it’s beautiful nonetheless.

The local Austrians have a super tradition of taking up meats, cheeses and bread and you can’t be a party pooper so join in the fun. The other popular hill, Schober, is a must if you’re staying in Fuschlesee. It’s probably the most prominent in the area and you see it from most angles when you’re out and about. If you’re anything like me, you just have to climb up it otherwise it will bug you for your entire trip so I really loved being able to head up there for sunrise. You could easily run from the Lake with a headtorch, head up the rough path and suddenly you’ll feel on top of the clouds which is exactly where you are. I headed up with a coffee and cheesecake and would highly recommend doing the same!

Lastly, Fibling is a hill that overlooks the lake and is a really fun gradual run up to a large cross, perfect for sunsets. The weather was set out for rain, but I couldn’t resist popping myself up on my final morning in the area and I’m so glad I did. I always smile at the trails in the Alps as they aren’t full of heather like back home in Scotland and skipping over black and yellow lizards and flying down the waymarked hills felt pretty indulgent and the greedy in me just wants to experience even more.

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This area is pretty well known now for the Mozart 100 race and this entails running a lot of the routes I’ve mentioned. Mozart 100 would give a great perspective of the area and how much climbing is involved in the area’s day runs and the race is now firmly on my wish list.

There’s also a great-looking long-distance trail through the whole of Salzkammergut region called “Bergeseen Trail” meaning Lakes and Mountains trail. This is a 370km trail and for walkers, it’s split into 23 stages – it meanders its way through three different states and you’ll see a whopping 35 lakes on the route, walk over a mountain range and cross 15 summits so not bad for the Summit Bag stats, so count me in.

I had planned this trip based on researching Salzburg and its neighbouring areas and wasn’t totally sure what to expect. The verdict – Fuschsee is a great place to pick for a running holiday with so many trails right on the doorstep. As it’s a relatively small area, it’s not completely overwhelming to plan and I’m desperate to go back for the longer-distance routes. There are some fantastic multi-day trip itineraries, and the scenery is epic. Very importantly, the bakeries are also memorable, and the extra half a stone I came away with as a souvenir was thanks to all the Austrian cakes on offer and the bread I quite quickly became worryingly addicted to. Incidentally, the smoked fish restaurant by the side of the lake was the best fish I’ve ever tasted, so I will be taking my trail shoes back to the Fuschlsee region with the knowledge of the best trails to venture on as well as where to find the best fish (Schloss Fuschl Fischerei) With extremely friendly locals, I felt welcome as a runner and it is somewhere I will always recommend for both beginner trail runners and all those interested in longerdistance running. My Ultimate Austrian trail adventure did not disappoint and my final recommendation would be not to forget to replenish yourself with plenty of chocolate Sacher torte cake and everyone’s winner.

— Emma likes to think of herself as a mountain goat, usually found in the Scottish Highlands. Ridgeline running is her passion, mountains, and will always run for beer and crisps. Long-distance running has a big place in her heart, and exploring the world’s best trails is her priority!

Austrian Trail Camps salzburgerland.com/en/fuschl-am-see

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Enter Hangman Who needs exotic locations?

Sometimes your perfect race is much closer to home writes Kev Webber Words and photos: Kev Webber

There are many amazing races around the world, but is there a race that you have run and then fallen in love with?

I have run so many ultras in Canada, Morocco, Cambodia, Jordan, Spain, and Albania, just to name a few, but for me I had love at first sight - or perhaps first step - when I ran the Hangman Ultra in Longparish, UK. I had been diagnosed with terminal prostate cancer a couple of years earlier, and told that I may only live two more years. I entered the inaugural race in 2017, not knowing if I would start, finish, or ever run again after. It’s an out-and-back race, run over rolling hills, predominantly along the Test Way, to a huge hangman’s gibbet.

You may think an out-and-back is dull, but everything looks different the other way round and you get the bonus of seeing the faster runners as they zoom back past you, and in turn you see the slower runners when you plod past them. It’s a race that is run for the love of running: low entry fee, minimal carbon footprint, and home-made soup to die for when you finish.

I remember thinking, when I finished, that if this is my last ever race then what a race to go out on!

Next year came along, and in-between I had run iconic races like the 6633 Arctic Ultra, Fire and Ice, and the MDS but to be on the start line in Longparish again signified another year of living and running with it. I was there again in 2019, having just finished The Camino De Santiago, and was all set for my fourth run of The Hangman when Covid hit. The race was cancelled, but as it meant so much to me I ran it with a mate unsupported, another joyous year of life lived.

2021 it was officially on again so another great run, more home-made soup and another year of life.

No race in 2022, again, but instead I was ‘unfaithful’ and ran a lesser 24-hour race. No offence to that event, but all the time I ran I thought “I should be in Longparish.”

In 2023 both the race and I were back, more high-fives to the faster and slower runners, and as ever the legendary soup.

This year, sadly for understandable logistical reasons, The Hangman was cancelled. Vowing never to be unfaithful again, my friend Andy and I agreed to run it anyway. The problem this year was that the forecast was hot weather, and I didn’t fancy carrying five litres of water (there are no taps or shops en route) but then an old friend Mick said he was coming to cheer us off on the race. I explained it was off, and asked him if he could do me a massive favour? The favour was to get to the gibbet turnaround point with another 2.5 litres of water each. Surprisingly he said yes, so The Hangman was back on for us .

It was great to run along the now-familiar paths and tracks, passing chocolate box thatched cottages and churches. The usual array of cows, horses and sheep had to be negotiated, but that’s just what the British countryside is all about, with stunning views frequently in our sight line.

There was a slight concern that we would get to the halfway point out of water with Mick nowhere to be seen, but we need not have worried, a short stop for a chat and cool down, refill and off again to another sub-seven hour finish (that’s good for me BTW!) for the 53k.

Running at my pace of course means I never get a winner’s trophy, but I had a cunning plan this year - I made my own, and awarded it jointly to Andy and me as we crossed the finish line together. No soup, but big smiles and a vow to return again in 2025 whether the race is officially on or not.

The Hangman has officially been run five times and I have done all those and two more so I guess no one will ever beat that as long as I keep on living and running the course on the third Saturday every August. Maybe I will see you there next time, so you too can fall in love! ­— Kev Webber is an ultrarunner and author of Dead Man Running. He was diagnosed with terminal cancer in 2014.

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IT MUST BE LAVS

While the Barkley Marathons gets all the attention around the world, one of Laz’s other races still challenges people good and hard. Welcome to the Last Annual Vol State Race.

Words: Pernilla Otto Photos: Jennifer Thorsen

Lavs is a 314-mile (about 500km) long adventure across Tennessee in the United States. Starting in Dorena Missouri, where the race starts with the race organiser Laz lighting his cigarette, we runners get on a ferry that takes us to Hickman in Kentucky, then we run into Tennessee. We cross the whole of Tennessee and at the end of the adventure we are briefly in Alabama before we finish in Castle Rock Georgia.

There are two categories: an unsupported ‘screwed’, and a crewed that has its own support car. However, both categories compete in the same class. I was screwed, and had to rely on shops and the angel stations that private people had set up, lovely people who invested free time and money in setting up depots for us; everything from a single cooler bag with different drinks in it to large tents with mattresses, drinks and food. Then there were ‘road angels’, also private individuals, who drove around in cars and handed out water. So even if you were unsupported, there was plenty of access to fluids and the opportunity to rest.

I had felt a little worried about the nights when it comes to safety. I usually never feel scared when I run at night, but this was a different country. I was also worried about stray aggressive dogs.

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The first evening after dark, I met a woman at an angel station in a farmers market in Dresden. I was going to ask if she wanted some company out in the dark, but felt silly; she looked so professional and I thought that she probably wanted to run by herself.

But a few kilometres later in the dark, quite worried, with my pepper spray in my hand, I saw a headlamp approaching. It was the woman from the station. It turned out that she was happy to have company. We ended up keeping each other company throughout the race except for the end when my feet completely gave up and she wanted to push on.

It’s difficult to write a race report about a race like this, so I’ve split it up into different categories.

APPROACH: My plan was to get around 10 miles the first day, just walk the first two or three days to acclimatise to the heat and then try to run at night. I managed the 10 miles but never got started with running; well, just a little bit during the last two days when it hurt less to have a jog-like movement...

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FEET: I was warned that this was the foot blister paradise and that you should train how to take care of your feet. My tactic was to lubricate with Inotyol ointment which is more viscous than for example Sportslick and also anti-bacterial. But, in the heat, it was very liquid.

I gave up the fight pretty quickly, and my feet got blisters during the first day. I taped my feet, as is common among American runners, but it didn’t work. What worked best was to lubricate with Vaseline. The last few days it was so painful that it blackened my eyes and the sweat was pouring. Before the last 18km I cut open my shoes on the sides, to ease the pain there caused by overcompensating due to my front pads being full of blisters.

SLEEP: My plan was to sleep after about 48 hours; I usually can’t sleep before then. After that sleep, three to four hours in the afternoon when it was hottest outside. Then power naps at night if needed. But after joining up with Dawn my plan changed a bit; she wanted to sleep at the Gleason fire station. There they had air mattresses and showers, pizza and snacks. My original plan was to fill up with water and snacks and then jog on. I had to choose between sleeping three hours and having the company of Dawn, or going out on my own. I chose company. We didn’t make up our minds to wait for each other, but we woke up at the same time. Unfortunately I could probably only sleep the last hour as there was so much noise, and a group of runners chose to sit next to me and talk!!

We tried to sleep three hours during the day and jog at night. But it happened that we had to sleep longer at night than planned.

One night we stayed in a hotel as we couldn’t find a station, and my friend really needed to sleep. We showered and rinsed clothes, and got three hours of sleep. Otherwise we slept in all these wonderful places that private individuals, as well as companies and fire stations and churches, arranged. Most of the time, they showed up at just the right time, just when we urgently needed to sleep or fill up on drinks. We also slept 15 minutes in a climbing frame, on the veranda outside churches, behind gas stations, and on the hard shoulder.

ENERGY AND DRINK: The plan before was to get a good sit-down meal every day. But we didn’t always succeed. Several days we realised: “Oh, we’ve only lived on Gatorade, snacks and candy”. The best food was at Subway; three times we managed to eat there, usually a good tuna sandwich. A few times we managed to eat breakfast, and then it was toast with fried egg. I, who have been a pescetarian for many years, vegetarian most years, gave up and ate hamburgers that were cooked for us at the stations. It was to choose between eating bread with vegetables or filling up with both carbohydrates, vitamins and protein in the form of meat. I also got a pizza slice with meat. It has taken almost two weeks for my stomach to recover after the race. Did I mention that I got sick to my stomach two days before the race?

DRINKS: I had two 500ml water bottles in my backpack and often one in my hand. I drank a lot of water, Coke, Gatorade and something that I never drink otherwise: Red Bull.

Red Bull with watermelon flavour with LOTS of ice tasted heavenly good, and that was often what I had for a breakfast drink. I drank two or three of these a day.

HEAT: I have no idea how hot it was, but reports came that the heat was over 40 degrees one day. I’d guess that the temperature ranged between 32-42 degrees during the race. Add to that, an insane humidity. I have heard from two sources that this race is tougher than Badwater because of the moisture, and that at Badwater you have a support car that provides you with water and ice. A Brazilian I met had run Badwater, and when I said that she was tough to have run that race, she replied: “Badwater muuuuch easier, you get ice and water all the time, luxury!”

I have heard that Simon from the company Umara heat-trained in a wood-fired sauna three times a week for an hour for five weeks, and that worked perfectly! When I went to the sauna, I didn’t add any extra electrolytes afterwards, and during the race I didn’t think much about salt intake. Only twice in an hour did I feel that the balance was a bit crazy. Otherwise, the peeing worked great. The body had learned: Pernilla sweats like a pig so we make sure not to let out so much salt.

I also cooled myself down with ice cubes as soon as we got hold of it.

I bought a cheap umbrella that made a good sun protector during the hottest moments. On the hottest day, we had to sit in the shade for a few minutes every hour or so. I didn’t burn anything since I applied sunscreen every day.

SAFETY AND FEAR OF DOGS: My biggest fear before this race was not the heat or the biggest actual threat - cars - but stray dogs which are very common in Tennessee. But luckily there were no incidents, and while dogs bark and could look very scary, they stayed inside their property even if there was no fence.

In fact a lovely thing happened that involved a stray dog. Early one morning we were going to sleep for an hour behind a gas station. As we were about to tuck into our rescue blankets and sleeping bags, a dog barked at us, about 30 metres away. A scary fighting dog mix. I was terrified. Dawn talked to the dog, who started wagging his tail frantically and walking towards us, limping. It was an old dog that looked like an old man. He was overjoyed to have company, and of course he fell in love with me who didn’t want to touch him.

I got lots of wet kisses and he almost tried to crawl into the rescue blanket. He lay down above my head and with a thud he put his heavy head on my cheek.

After a while he walked a bit away and lay down and watched us. Nice memory.

The real danger, as I said, was cars, American cars are big. The roads we were on often had very small - and sometimes hardly any - hard shoulder. The best was when we walked on the highways where we had hard shoulders larger than a road lane. It was impossible to relax, you had to be prepared to jump out onto the grass. Sometimes it almost felt like they wanted to run over us. The most considerate were the truck drivers, they almost always gave us space, which is lucky as American trucks are indescribably large.

ROADKILLS: I don’t know how many dead armadillos, deer, frogs, snakes, raccoons and cows that we passed/stepped over! The stench was indescribable!!

PERSONAL SAFETY: It was scary to run at night, even when there were two of us. I often ran with my pepper spray in my hand, a slow car on a desolate road at night and my heart rate went up, but it was always some kind person who wanted to give water. But they didn’t know that. Sometimes there was a blacked-out car on the side of the road and just as we walked past the window was rolled down... another runners’ support...

We were walking through a town late one night, and were warned that we shouldn’t do it as two lonely women. But we had no choice. It went well even though we were completely exhausted afterwards, among other things white power music was played loudly from some distant speakers.

PEOPLE: Oh, what wonderful people I met, lovely competitors that I met every now and then during the race, and all these unknown people who helped us! Like the woman at a gas station who had paid for my pizza that I ordered while picking up a drink! The boy Connor who went around with his mom and handed out popsicles!

We were lucky that he came by twice on the hottest day. The young man who worked at a gas station at night who came out and talked to us when we sat outside the station. He told me how he was changing his life for the better, quitting smoking both this and that. Started running, had his first workout. He gave us each a banana. There is hope for humanity! All wonderful people who had angel stations! Yes, I can go on indefinitely.

And then Laz, aka Gary Cantrell, Sandra Cantrell, Carl Laniak etc who make sure that us fools get our fill when it comes to crazy adventures. A big thank you!

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OH YES, HOW DID IT GO?: When I planned the race from home, even though I knew that it was not possible to plan for it, The Plan was to make it to the finish line in six days. Then changed The Plan just to make it to the finish line. The Real Plan actually took me to the finish line in 7 days 13 hours and 21 minutes. Ninth lady and 39th place overall!

It was a great feeling when I walked the last two kilometres towards the finish after going up some awesome climbs. I walked through a corn field at dusk with an orange/purple sky, and when I reached the goal it had gotten dark, and Laz, Sandra, Carl, and Jeff were sitting there in a small marquee waiting for me.

I had a nice time with them before Jeff drove me to the hotel.

I said to my friend Tobbe before I left: “This will be the last time in the US, unless you want me as support”...

But already my partner and I are signed up for HOTS, even more difficult and adventurous... ­— Pernilla has been running for 16 years and still enjoys it, especially running outdoors. She lives with her family in Sweden.

AUTUMN 2024 / £11.99