69 miles of Autumn

Usually, at the start of a 100-miler, you can feel the energy pulsing through you and the crowd. Nerves, excitement, a quiet before the storm. But not this time.

I stood on the start line of the Autumn 100 and felt... nothing.

No butterflies.

No spike in heart rate.

Not even fear.

Just a hollow calm.

Not because I thought I was above it, or because 100-mile races no longer mattered. They absolutely do. They always will. It was just... I felt numb. And tired, in a way that went deeper than the body, somewhere quieter, harder to name.

You can be numb yet happy at the same time.

Lucky number 245 and 341!

2025 had been a big year. I had had a lot going on both personally and professionally, stress had been piling up, sleep had been patchy, and my mind rarely quiet. After five 100-milers and one 200-miler, the idea of running far did not scare me anymore. But it also did not light anything up inside me.

I stood on the start line out of habit, out of hope, maybe out of stubbornness. Wanting to care, but struggling to feel much at all.

Still, I lined up at the start of the Autumn 100. Only my story this time was not 100 miles. My story was 69. And I think that is still worth telling.

Heavy legs and a heavier mind

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.

My central nervous system had never really settled after that race; I had been stuck in what felt like a fight-or-flight mode ever since. Months of nights with poor sleep. Higher-than-usual heart rate. Life stress piling up. Run, no proper recovery, repeat. I would show up, but it always felt like I was one step behind my own body.

Was the 200 still lingering? Possibly. I had heard it took some souls years to recover from that distance.

Winter Downs 200 in December 2024 - after nearly 74 hours on the move.

Part of me wondered if I even deserved to stand at that start line. But I signed up because I remembered that being able to choose to suffer is a privilege. It rewires you. And you do not turn your back on that lightly.

Centurion’s Autumn 100 is beautiful in its simplicity. Four out-and-back legs, each 25 miles, all leading back to Goring Village Hall. 50 miles on the Thames Path and 50 miles on the Ridgeway. Flat river trails, gentle chalky climbs, farmland, and ancient woodland. A cross of suffering. A path through struggle, carved mile by mile into muscle and mind.

Every return to Goring was a check-in: refuel, repack, questioning yourself quietly — do I still want this?

Leg 1 | Goring - Little Wittenham - Goring

Mile 0 to 25.

I began the race with Simon. Standing together at the start was grounding. Having my whole world beside me in that moment was comforting beyond words. We did not plan to run together; the pace would quickly pull us apart. But starting together mattered. That shared step, that mutual presence, reminded me that I was not alone, even before the miles stretched ahead.

Then we set off. I ran on, feeling good, pushing the earlier miles to avoid the early bottlenecks. My strategy for leg one was 9 minutes run, 1 minute walk, but I started with 29 minutes run, 1 minute walk to get a head start and find some clear trail.

236 curious souls on their way towards Little Wittenham.

Rolling fields stretched out in front of me. At one point, Simon called to tell me that the cows in the field ahead were calm. I am quite scared of cows, so it was really sweet and reassuring. Once I got closer, I briefly buddied up with some runners behind me, their presence helping me navigate the cows safely.

Wallingford aid station came and went. I did not stop. I ran on and made my way up through Benson, where Simon’s parents were cheering on the runners at the waterfront café. I stopped for a quick hug, a moment of warmth and support that carried me forward.

On towards Little Wittenham and the turnaround point, I spotted Simon in the field just before the turn. Perfect timing — Pierre was there, the race photographer, and the moment was captured forever in a photo... or three. Cute.

Simon and I embraced each other, a quiet exchange of love and encouragement, before he carried on back toward Goring and I continued up to the aid station at Little Wittenham.

We Are All We Need.

On my way back to Goring, I was still moving well, my rhythm steady, my legs feeling strong. But somewhere around mile 23, the first shadow crept in. Not pain. Not injury. Just... flatness. The dull whisper of why am I doing this?

Two more miles to Goring.

Two more miles and then I get to reset.

I thought to myself, ’’Maybe I will stop there. Maybe I will just hand back my bib number and tracker, and spend the rest of the day as personal cheerleader for Simon.’’

Then the village hall appeared, and with it, Ally — my coach, my friend, someone who knows the way I breathe when I am lying. She ushered me over to a seat with my drop bag and made sure I had everything I needed. No drama. Just calm competency.

Then she looked at me properly.

’’Are you okay?’’

’’Yes.’’ I said, slightly teary-eyed. I was not.

My throat tightened. I wanted to cry. I wanted to say I was done. I wanted to lie on the floor and let it all stop. But somewhere beneath the exhaustion and the numbness, something small and stubborn whispered: Not yet.

I was not done. Not yet.

I stood back up. Ally hugged me.

’’Off you go. See you in 5 hours.’’

So, I did. I got on my way. Out the door, onto leg two, holding myself together by a thread and a rhythm.

Time: 4 hours, 29 minutes and 14 seconds. A couple of minutes quicker than in 2022.

Leg 2 | Goring - Swyncombe - Goring

Mile 25 to 50.

Leg two started with a feeling I had not expected this early on: heavy legs and an even heavier mind.

About two miles in, I fell into an even deeper trench of grumpiness. There was no sharp pain, no injury, just a low, dull cloud of I really cannot be bothered.

My mind wandered inward, to a place I did not enjoy. I turned up my music, but it did not help. It was background noise, not motivation. I ran, I walked, I sulked while running. Thoughts of quitting whispered: Maybe I will stop at 50 kilometres.

Keep going, little one.

But then I realised — I would have to run back to Goring to tap out. Unless I wanted to drop at North Stoke or Swyncombe and wait hours for the sweeper bus. Logistically, quitting was harder than continuing. So, I decided to continue.

I ran mostly alone, with just my music and my breathing for company. Every footstep had to be intentional. I focused on form, cadence, and keeping my mind from drifting into those negative spirals. Into those dark corners of the brain.

The world narrowed to the trail, the feet, the breath. Ever so often, I either passed a runner or was overtaken, and a nod, a smile, or a whispered well done was shared between us. Brief human contact in an otherwise solitary slog.

Then came a reminder of perspective.

Somewhere before North Stoke, my phone rang. It was Simon. He told me, calmly and matter-of-factly, that he was pulling from the race.

His body had started speaking in a language he knew well. No dramatic pain, no direct injury, but a warning. He said there was no point in making things worse. And he sounded... peaceful. Certain. No regret, no defeat — just acceptance. He had done what he could, and that was enough. He was going to make his way back to Goring and then offer to volunteer until I was finished. What a hero.

I told him I was proud. Because I was. Knowing when to stop is its own kind of courage.

We hung up and I kept moving, alone again, but somehow steadier. If he could bow out with grace, I could carry on with purpose. At least for now.

How far you can run is proportionate to

how long you are willing to suffer for.

At North Stoke aid station, I knew I needed salt. I had been thinking about the crisps I did not eat back at Goring for over an hour. How can something so trivial occupy your mind so much? I went in, grabbed some crisps, and sat down in a chair for a moment. A volunteer called out, ’’Smile, Maria!’’, but I could not. I just sat there, staring into the void. Sorry, buddy.

Next stop: Swyncombe.

I could have turned right and returned to Goring, which was just four miles away. But instead, I made a conscious choice of turning left, up towards Swyncombe, the turnaround point on this leg. My stubbornness had won again.

After over eight miles of grumpiness, the tide turned. Those salty potato slices had saved me. I had somehow dug myself out of the hole, the pace now gradually picking up. If in doubt, eat.

Grim’s Ditch appeared. Rolling hills, chalky paths, tree roots. Finally. My favourite kind of trail. The hills felt almost welcome. My focus sharpened again. The trail gave me purpose. The legs knew what to do. My mind followed. I laughed quietly, a tiny celebration of making it through the fog.

I ran pretty much all the way to Swyncombe, but as I inched closer, an unfamiliar pain popped up like an urgent notification. Had my toenail just fallen off inside my shoe? My stomach knotted. I would have to look at it properly when I stopped at the aid station.

A couple of miles later, I peeled off my shoe and sock. It was a blister, sitting stubbornly under the nail. Yuck. Having never had to deal with foot issues before, I hesitated. What now? A volunteer offered me some tape, which I gratefully accepted, and I wrapped it around my fallen soldier. Back into the shoe it went. The pain was still present, but manageable. I pushed it to the back of my mind, behind rhythm and breath and purpose.

Running back through Grim’s Ditch was wonderful. My stride had changed; I was gliding again. Soon, darkness would fall and I was excited. I have always loved running in the dark. There is a certain serenity to it, a narrowing of the world to just feet, breath, and the path ahead.

Oh, hello!

Back at North Stoke, I put on my head torch. Dusk was turning into twilight and I did not want to fumble about in a field while the trail disappeared into shadows before me.

Before I knew it, I was back in Goring.

By the end of this leg, I felt restored. Not completely, but enough.

Accumulated time: 10 hours, 13 minutes and 13 seconds. My second fastest time at the 50-mile distance. Moving alright despite the despair earlier on...

Leg 3 | Goring - Chain Hill - Goring

Mile 50 to 75.

The Ridgeway, level two.

The extra mile is never crowded.

Leg three was that extra mile. The part of the race where people go quiet, the euphoria of the start has worn off, and the finish is still impossibly far away. Oh, and this stretch of trail feels uphill in both directions.

At this point, I was with Fern. We had buddied up. We were hiking more than we were running but having company was very welcome at this stage. We had been leapfrogging each other all day, but never actually shared any miles. Until now. We were chatting away before she overtook me as I stopped for a wee. I then overtook her, and we kept that going for a while.

East Ilsley aid station came and went. 56 miles down, 44 miles to go. Urgh. I stopped briefly, stuffing my face with some more life-saving salty little potato slices, hoping for the same relief and a second — or third? — wind I had got back at North Stoke on leg two.

The out-and-back layout meant seeing runners coming toward me from the turnaround up ahead, seven-ish miles away. Lots of little headlights bobbing in the dark. I said well done to almost everyone I passed, and they returned the sentiment. Those brief connections became little lifelines, lifting me out of the endless loop of my own thoughts.

The next stop on the journey would be Chain Hill. 62 miles into the race, 100 kilometres. It seemed so far away and I started to think about just how long I would still have left out there if I decided to continue to 100 miles. Time is abstract during ultras and Chain Hill was deceptive in its simplicity.

Running happy, on leg two, earlier in the day.

The rain came in, much sooner than it was expected. I stopped to put on my waterproof jacket and kept moving to stay warm. It was not cold yet but the wind was slowly picking up. Alone, yes, but acutely aware of everything around me: the faint smell of grass and soil, the rustle of leaves, the muted crunch of my own footsteps on the chalky path. Those sensory details became anchors, little reminders that I was there, moving forward, alive in the moment.

At last, the aid station appeared. Chain Hill. 100 kilometres done. Much further than I thought I would reach during my wobble at mile 23. I felt a relief, but also a strange pull of melancholy. My bottles were topped up, I had some more crisps, a cup of Pepsi and then the sweeper bus arrived. I asked a volunteer if I could get on it. Mostly as a joke, but also, how nice would it be to throw in the towel there? Had I not already done enough steps? The volunteer refused to let me get on the bus. So, on I went, into the night, into the cold, into the solitude once more.

Music filled the gaps, sometimes drowned out by wind or the slap of shoes on trail, but always present, always steady. My mind drifted briefly — funny thoughts, old memories, tiny worries, the absurdity of the foghorn-like fart I had performed near the aid station earlier. Not on purpose, of course. It kind of just happened. I chuckled quietly to myself, a private moment in the middle of the miles.

It was somewhere around there that I knew I was done. My quads were trashed and I could no longer bring myself to run. Not even the downhills, the parts of the race I enjoy the most. And I was freezing and now wearing all my layers. I had to run to stay warm.

I called Simon and asked him if he could pick me up from East Ilsley. Was he able to drive there? He went to speak with one of the Centurion staff and got the what3words location. He then called me back and said he could be there in 18 minutes. Was I sure? I was a mile away and walking, so it was perfect timing. Yes, please, honey.

Content with my decision, I plodded on. Knowing I could soon sit down and take off the pack that had chafed me for nearly 16 hours was a comforting thought. My collarbones were sore too.

I reached East Ilsley at 69 miles, paused my watch and handed in my tracker. The maths did not add up to 100 that day, but that did not bother me. In a sense, I was proud to have honoured my limits.

Beautiful autumnal conditions.

We are so lucky to live in a world where there are Octobers.

I ran the Autumn 100 back in 2022 and had earned a buckle then. If I was to finish the race this year, I would have aimed for a One Day buckle, awarded to anyone completing the course in under 24 hours. That time was slowly becoming out of reach and I was not keen on an eight-hour return trip to Reading, which would have required my wonderful pacer, coach and friend Ally to walk a marathon with a moany toddler — see: 34-year-old woman with sore legs and a wobbly mind — starting at 3am. Reading is not that exciting.

Sometimes the body whispers. Sometimes it shouts. Here, it whispered: You are okay. You are just... done. Not injured. Not broken. Just finished in a different way.

Total time spent on the trail: 16 hours, 1 minute and 25 seconds. That day, it was enough.

The grace of stopping

For now? I need a break. No more 100 milers. No more 200 milers. I want slow mornings, reformer pilates classes, walks without a watch, sleep. I want the kind of quiet that lets my body and mind wander without expectation.

The long stuff will wait. It always does. And maybe that is the lesson — sometimes finishing is not about crossing a line, but about knowing when enough is enough. There is grace in stopping, in listening, in permitting yourself to rest.

For now, I will pause and let the shoes collect some dust, let the muscles ease, let the heart catch up with the mind. Tomorrow, I will be ready. Not for another ultra, but for whatever life asks of me next.

Until next time.

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