Parts of the race felt harder than the 200-miler. The rational part of me knows that it cannot possibly be true. The version of me climbing out of Swyncombe would disagree.

Since the 200-mile race in December, my motivation had been… missing. Not misplaced. Not gently dozing. Gone. Training happened, but not with the spark I was used to.

This was not just a race. It was a pilgrimage into the depths of self - a quiet celebration of resilience and an ode to the wild places still left inside us.