Winter Downs 200

200 miles by foot. People ask me why, and my answer will always be the same: Because the world is so loud and the extra mile is never crowded. And also, why not? I would rather endure mile 180 over and over than be stuck on the Central Line in London in peak hour.

There is a certain raw beauty to be derived from the pain we experience during these long endurance feats. We live in a society where we pop a pill if we feel less than stellar. How does anyone call that living?

The devil whispered in my ear: "You are not strong enough to withstand the storm." I whispered back: "I am the storm."

I still remember the moment I signed up for Winter Downs back in December 2023. The inagural edition had just wrapped up and I wanted to take part in the next one. It was a decision that felt simultaneously exhilarating and rather daunting. Committing to this race was not just about running; it was about pushing my limits and finding out who I truly was on the other side of discomfort.

Months of training were about to culminate in this test. Every mile logged, every headlamp-lit early morning run, every uphill push that tested more than just my legs — they were all for this.

Could I endure a challenge of this calibre?

Registration at Juniper Hall.

I was really impressed by how thorough the kit check was. Nothing got a free pass: watches, head torches, and even the taped seams of waterproof trousers were scrutinised. Did we have the right charging cables? Did they work? Was the GPS locked and loaded? Centurion were not messing about. With no aid stations along the route and just three life bases spread across the 200 miles — Blackboys Village Hall at mile 49, Truleigh YHA at 92, and the Sustainability Centre at 137 — they were making sure we had the gear to look after ourselves out there.

We were then handed our bib numbers, plus a spare in case the original one broke, and a tracker was strapped to our packs. We also received a beautiful print of the course by Owen Delaney, a talented illustrator known for mapping races with love and care. I have a framed map of every Centurion race I have ever done at home and was hoping to be able to do the same with the Winter Downs 200.

Powered by curiosity

Fast forward to Wednesday, 11 December, my birthday! And the start of the biggest adventure of my life: a 200 mile continuous trail run.

It was 7.18am.

Inside the hall, there was a strange kind of stillness. Not silence exactly, but a hushed energy, like the calm before a storm. The lights were soft, the air warm, and the space filled with the gentle rustling of waterproofs, the clink of flasks, the low murmur of conversation. Familiar faces dotted the room — volunteers, fellow runners, crew members — people I had shared trails with before. There was comfort in that, even as the scale of what lay ahead began to settle in my chest like a weight.

Then we were called outside.

Seventy-three hardy souls stood behind the big Centurion arch, ready to embark on the up-to-96-hour adventure ahead.

Before letting us go, Race Director James Elson dedicated a short, heartfelt speech to Steve Chamberlain, who had tragically passed away during a training run earlier in the year. Steve was supposed to be amongst us that day, and in a way, he still was. His spirit lingered, reminding us of the preciousness of life and the community that surrounds these events.

Then came the briefing. No fanfare. No drama. Just facts. Weather. Terrain. Cut-offs. Safety. We all listened closely, some nodding, others sipping tea or finishing a banana. I watched as people checked their packs for the third or fourth time, tightening straps, adjusting clothing, and glancing down at their feet as if they were trying to preempt how much they would hurt later.

There was a sense of solidarity, but also solitude. We were all preparing to run the same course but to have our own private experience of it. I stood there, wondering how many days I would be out there. Three? Four? How much would I sleep? Would I break?

And then came the countdown. It was time.

10...

9...

8...

The countdown gave me goosebumps.

3...

2...

1...

And just like that, we were off.

Cheered on by volunteers and supporters, we made our way out of the grounds. We quickly took a left turn and started climbing up the north face of Box Hill. The lead pack took off at a pace I knew better than to chase. I let them go and found my rhythm in the mid-pack.

The first few miles flew by, and I spent them chatting with various other runners. I am normally pretty good with names, but the names of most of the souls I ran with early in the race, escape me. I do remember Chris and Deepak, as I was leap-frogging with those two for a good 60 miles or so.

Hap-hap-happy!

Featuring the birthday hat.

11 miles in, I saw my crew for a quick topper-upper of Tailwind and Active Root. I grabbed a hug and got rid of some empty gel wrappers, picked up some fresh gels and chews, and got on my way again. I passed Rachel Fawcett and Zoe Murphy’s crew, Spencer and Brian, who both gave me a high five. Little moments of familiarity like that go a long way.

I had an excellent little trailside dream team lined up to crew me: Frank & Krysia on the Wednesday, Rachel & Sarah on the Thursday, Simon & Jules on the Friday and Frank & Holly on the Saturday. Lucky is an understatement. I will never be able to thank them enough for everything they did for me.

Soon I found myself running with a chap called Wes. The conversations helped the miles melt away. Before we knew it, we were at Limpsfield Chart: 22 miles down, 178 to go. I inhaled an egg & cress sandwich like it was the best thing I had ever tasted, followed it with rice pudding, topped up my Tailwind, and moved on. Wes was walking with a pot noodle and I smiled, said goodbye, and pushed on.

There is something oddly comforting about those familiar little rituals mid-race.

Happiness is a birthday hat on your head,

a dinosaur in the pocket of your pack

and an egg & cress sandwich in your hand. Wes is just behind me.

Next up: the cow field I had been dreading. And now I was on my own!

A few weeks earlier on a training recce, I had entered this exact cow field full of naive confidence, only to discover that the exit gate on the far side was completely blocked... by a small army of thirty cows.

At first, they simply stood there, watching me. Curiously. I, being the ever-optimistic animal lover, thought maybe I could gently usher my way through. I even reached out to stroke the lead cow, hoping to charm her with a pat on the head like she was a golden retriever or something.

Bad idea.

She stepped forward. I stepped back. She continued coming forward, now faster. I panicked and turned around, my back now facing the cows. The rest of the herd, apparently invested in this budding confrontation, began to follow. Slowly at first. Then quicker. I knew better than to run from cows — I really did — but my legs did not care.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I was full-on sprinting back to the gate I had emerged from initially, i.e., the wrong way. So were they. My life flashed before my eyes in reverse as I tore across the field, cows thundering behind me like an agricultural horror film.

Somehow, miraculously, I reached the gate and vaulted over just as the stampede closed in, breathless and wild-eyed, with about five meters to spare. I then had to navigate a two-mile detour around the field to get back on course.

But thankfully, that was then.

’’Hellooooo!’’

This time? No cows. Not a single one. Perhaps they were off doing festive cow things. It was December after all. I crossed the field in silence and solitude, heart rate blessedly low, and chuckled quietly to myself.

Maria: 1. Cows: 0.

It was one of those classic English countryside moments; soft ground underfoot, the sounds of animals in the distance, and a sky that was beginning to melt into dusk.

Shortly after, I passed through civilisation and Forest Row crew point, to more rice pudding, a thick slice of Krysia’s homemade malt loaf slathered in butter, and Frank’s happy face emergining from a nearby chip shop, asking if I wanted some chips, which was both wonderfully absurd and awfully kind.

’’I am OK, buddy, but thank you — so much!’’

Rice pudding and buttered malt loaf = winner!

Malt loaf demolished. Rice pudding inhaled. Head torch on. A little red blinker clipped to the back of my pack. Into the dark, I go.

Embracing the dark

It was pitch black now, and I was running alone through Ashdown Forest. In the distance, I spotted a trio of runners — their head torches blinking like tiny stars in the gloom. They were slightly off course but they quickly corrected their path.

There were no course markings in this race; we had to do the navigation ourselves. I overtook the boys and could not help but hum a tune, singing my way through the thickening woods, the sound of my own voice keeping me company in the isolation.

Some hours later, though I could not say exactly how many, as time and memory had started to blur and fold in on themselves, Krysia appeared like a beacon to guide me to the car. Crew location number four, Kings Standing Car Park. No kings were standing there, mind. She did not walk with me — strict race rules — but her presence alone helped stitch the edges of my tired mind back together.

I was handed a warm pot noodle which I took gratefully, eating as I walked on. Nom-nom-nom. I did not want to waste any time there as I was cold, and sitting down would make that feeling worse.

Next up: Blackboys Village Hall, my drop bag, and the warmth of being indoors. I was excited to change my socks. My feet had been slogging through nearly 50 miles of mud and 11 hours on the move. They had earned a small moment of luxury.

We had to remove our shoes before entering the hall and leave our poles by the door, which meant muddy hands by the time I stepped back outside. Nothing like rinsing your hands with ice-cold hose water when you are 49 miles into a 200-mile race and the only thing ahead is dark, whispering woodland.

Inside, I quickly changed my socks and top, gave my phone a brief charge, and got myself ready to go again. No food this time, but a bit of light banter with the volunteers brightened the mood. Still, I could not shake the looming thought about the flooded section up ahead, near Chiddingly. It sat in my mind like a warning sign.

Simon and I during a recce in October.

Now, a lot darker, colder, and alone.

There it was.

The path had become a river, cold water creeping above my ankles as I picked my way through it, alone. It was pitch black, the world reduced to the beam of my head torch. I kept to the left, remembering a small detail from a recent recce. Funny how the brain holds onto these tiny nuggets of survival, little lifelines in the dark.

With eyes glued to the moon, I wandered between breath and shadow.

Cold water, warm support

At Berwick, my crew were fast asleep in the car, and I nearly missed them. I had arrived well ahead of schedule — 62 miles in and moving better than expected. I asked other crews in the car park if this was the right spot, knowing the next stretch would take me up and over the hills before dropping into Alfriston. It was.

I spotted Frank’s car towards the back of the car park, walked over, and knocked on the window. Inside: Krysia and Frank, cold out, mouths wide open. Bless them. They quickly came to and sprang into action — peanut crisps, a soft flask topper-upper, a few solid hugs — and with a cheerful, ’’See you at Firle!’’, they sent me on my way.

Caked in mud, cheeks full of peanut crisps.

Frank searching my pack for the spare

head torch battery for a swapsie!

The wind was picking up now, and I found myself catching up to a guy named Dave, who was running the event unsupported. I took off my birthday hat. It was nearly midnight!

Dave and I kept leapfrogging each other up the hill, and I told him he was more than welcome to help himself to snacks when we reached my crew at Firle. I vividly remember how we stopped to put on our windproof jackets, both of us fumbling in the wind, trying to get them on. It was very cold at this point.

By the time we got to Firle, Dave grabbed some Coke and topped up his flask with water. He was so grateful, and I was so pleased that I could support him, thanks to my crew. He plodded on while I stayed back and ate some food.

As I descended down to Southease, I ran with a small pack of people. I believe it was Dave, Chris, and Deepak. We took turns leading, and a couple of heavier songs on my playlist spurred me into the front on two occasions.

Deepak and I were alone by the time we approached the train tracks at the bottom of the hill, but I had to stop for a wee, so he continued on his own. Unsure whether the rules were the same as the SDW100, where runners have to use the stairs up and over the station rather than crossing the tracks, I told Deepak to take the stairs, just in case. No point in risking a time penalty this far in.

Three hours later, I arrived at Housedean Farm. I was now 78 miles deep and so ready for a nap. I had been on the move for nearly 21 hours and it was just shy of 5am. I changed my socks before jumping in the car and borrowed Krysia’s noise-cancelling headphones since my earplugs were nowhere to be found. I managed to drift in and out of sleep for 30 minutes, though I got startled a few times — Krysia was watching the race coverage on Instagram, without knowing her headphones were connected.

Hearing James Elson’s voice talk about the race so loud and clear in my sleep-deprived state was not the vibe (sorry James!). For a second, I genuinely thought he was there with me in the car.

A quick sock change before the car nap.

Now fully awake, I felt much better. Despite a short and pretty broken sleep, the body was grateful for the rest. I had a nice climb up ahead, so I chose to not add any more layers even though I was shaking like a leaf when I left the crew.

I was very excited for the sunrise. That golden hour is everything. It cracks you open and brings you a newfound energy and appreciation for life.

But, it was mid-December, so alas, no sunrise. Just a slow, grey unfurling of the sky. The kind of light that does not so much appear as it leaks in — like someone dimmed up a very cold lamp. Everything looked washed out, tired. Same as me, really.

I pulled my hood together, shoved a gel into my mouth, and kept moving.

A slow unfolding

The next stretch was pretty uneventful. A few hours of low light and lower thoughts. The landscape did not change much: rolling fields, a few kissing gates, and mud that seemed to stick more to my soul than to my shoes.

I was moving steadily, not fast, not slow — just enough to keep the chill from crawling too deep into my bones. I saw the odd headtorch flicker ahead or behind, but mostly it was just me, the rhythm of my feet, and the whisper of wind through hedgerows.

Then came the moment that nearly brought me undone. Krysia and Frank were now in view, just up ahead. Emotions were raw, close to the surface. A ’sunrise’ reunion at Clayton Windmills, and I felt my chest tighten — not from fatigue, but from gratitude. This was the end of their crew stint. Bravo, you two. I felt very well looked after!

Hugs were stolen and rice pudding was consumed.

I was told Rachel would meet me at the Summer Down car park, only a few miles from Clayton. Maybe not with supplies, but at least with a hug. Those emotional pick-me-ups are sometimes more vital than food.

I was not entirely sure where that crew point was, but after crossing the road past Saddlescombe Farm, I saw the signpost. Summer Down Car Park. No Rachel in sight. Oh, well. Maybe she would meet me at Devil’s Dyke instead. I plodded on.

I am okay, mum

I had a bit of a climb up ahead, so I pulled out my phone and rang my mum. She had been anxious ever since I told her about the race. 200 miles is an absolutely bonkers undertaking and sounded like pure madness to her, and in fairness, she was not wrong.

I was nearly 89 miles in and we chatted for 10 minutes or so. I reassured her that I was feeling good, told her about the adventure so far — the people, the scenery, and the weird little joys you find in the suffering — and said I would call her again when I finished.

She received regular updates from my crew throughout, which helped her feel part of the journey, even from afar. I am so lucky to have so many good people in my life. Gratitude is an understatement.

Team work makes the dream work.

And the mum less worried!

At the top, I passed more cows. Lots of them. Nonchalant and unimpressed. None of them seemed bothered, so neither was I. I was en route to Truleigh YHA now, life base one of three. I was wondering what was on the menu. Food and sleep were welcome. I had been running for nearly 26 hours at this point.

Somehow Truleigh felt maddeningly far away. I checked my own progress against the race tracker obsessively. Another mile?! The idea of warm food and a change of clothes became a kind of mental carrot.

Left foot.

Right foot.

Left foot.

Right foot.

Uphill.

Downhill.

A familiar corner...

Oooooooooo, is that it?

Yes!

Truleigh!

Sweet, sweet Truleigh.

I was not entirely sure where to enter. The front of the building was half construction site, half cryptic puzzle. Someone kindly pointed me in the direction of the door, and I shuffled in, caked in mud and resembling something feral.

I was politely asked to remove my shoes and drop my poles by the door, like some kind of muddy pilgrim arriving at a temple. Up the stairs I went, quads grumbling with each step. No shock there, I was 92 miles in now.

My drop bag was handed to me like a sacred relic, and I was asked what I wanted to eat. Baked potatoes were on the menu. But not just any potatoes — sweet potatoes. Jackpot.

I asked for one loaded with baked beans and it was divine. I do not know what it is about warm food mid-ultra, but it basically rewires your entire sense of joy. That sweet potato might as well have been Michelin-starred. I enjoyed my dinner (breakfast?) in the company of Allie Bailey, who had caught me up. She was not planning on sleeping at Truleigh, so we never saw each other again.

I gathered the essentials for a quick sleep: clean clothes, chargers, general life support. I was led to a room with an actual bed — a bed! — and changed into something that did not feel like it had been through a war zone.

My ’drop bag note’ to myself.

It was for the latter stages of the race

such as Truleigh, 92 miles,

and Sustainability, 137 miles.

I plugged in all my electronics like some sort of high-stakes pit stop and climbed under the covers. I was expecting to have to crawl into my sleeping bag but at Hotel Truleigh, they had fluffy duvets! I wrapped myself up like a human burrito and yet, somehow, I was still shivering. The body is a confusing creature.

The sleep was... patchy.

I drifted in and out of sleep for maybe an hour, brain looping on one totally irrational fear: that my watch might glitch, and the activity end. The horror. The sheer absurdity of how much that mattered in the moment. I mean, really, who cares?

But at the time, in that place, it felt like the most important thing in the world. Alas, the watch and activity were both fine.

Warm blueberry pancakes

I was getting ready to leave just as Magda arrived. It was really nice to see her, she looked in good spirits too. We both sat down in a chair by the door, her peeling off her muddy shoes to go inside, me wrestling mine back on to go back outside. Not the nicest feeling, even with fresh socks. Plural, mind you: liner and waterproof. The works.

A cat wandered in. Real or hallucinated, it was insistent — demanding strokes, weaving between legs like it owned the place. Sean had just left; Chris and I followed not long after. I wished Magda a peaceful sleep and stepped out onto the South Downs Way again.

The sequence was starting to blur by now, hours folding into each other like creased pages, but I do remember that somewhere near Amberley, the mud turned biblical. Thick, sucking, relentless. Every step felt like a negotiation with the earth.

At this point, it was the three of us: Sean, Chris, and me, trudging through it together. My legs felt like they were working completely independently, and barely well. Sean and I were wrecked. Walking downhill made us howl with laughter, not because anything was funny, but because the pain was just... absurd.

Standing still was not an option, it only made things worse.

So we moved.

Because that is what you do in that situation.

I believe there is something deep and metaphorical about the idea of running through pain like the endurance of discomfort contains meaning beyond angry nerve endings.

Chris, somehow, tapped into another gear and took off with Laura, who was sitting in whatever position I was supposed to be chasing. Fifth, maybe? It would have been cool to catch her, but we were barely past mile 100, just brushing up against halfway. No point getting fixated on placings now. I let it go. That was a job for future Maria.

Sean pushed ahead, shuffling into a jog and cackling like a madman. I followed, reduced to a weird sideways crab-walk that, strangely, worked. Then he looked back and grinned, ’’Maria, is this not what you came for?’’

Yes, Sean. Yes, it is.

And just like that, I started running again.

Suddenly, the trail became road, and ahead I spotted a woman with braids and a cap taking photos as I approached. Rach!!! Insert a very teary-eyed emoji here.

101 miles in and still smiling!

Washington crew location brought redemption: Rachel, pot noodles, and warm blueberry pancakes. I could have cried. Possibly did.

The trail bites back

It was getting dark again. Second night, here we come.

My right foot had started to ache in a strange, insistent way. Not a blister, not muscle. It felt deep. Bone-y. Oh no. Was I about to lose my ankle? I needed that to get through the next hundred miles. I decided I would take a proper look at Bignor. For now, it was a case of feel-it-but-do-not-panic.

The night settled hard. A thick mist hung low over the path, swallowing my head torch beam and reducing visibility to about a meter. Everything became hazy and dreamlike, like I was running through a fogged-up memory.

The climb up to Bignor felt never-ending and lonely, so I called my friend Paul Christian, just to hear a human voice that was not echoing inside my own skull. His voice was like a balm: comforting, steady. Sometimes, just knowing someone is on the other end of the line makes all the difference.

At what I thought was the top of Bignor, I could not find Rachel and Sarah right away and for a brief second, I thought I had missed them. The mist was so thick that we could barely see a couple of meters ahead, the fog reducing our head torch beams to faint glimmers. I called Rach, and she and Sarah found me soon after.

Shoes off, foot examined. Verdict: still functional.

A quick change of socks, paracetamol to numb the perceived pain, and a fresh pair of shoes — a whole size up! I was now 112 miles in and this was the first, and last, time I changed my shoes.

Green light.

Crack on.

Somewhere between Bignor and Cocking, I spoke with Simon on the phone. He was out on the course too — running the Winter Downs 100, which had kicked off six hours after my race, starting at what was roughly the halfway mark of mine: muddy Amberley.

Now, he was near enough finished. He told me he had dropped his little toy dinosaur... oh, no. I had one too, they were our race mascots. Long Boy was still in my pack, poking his head out to keep me company in the darker moments.

Simon seemed to be spiralling inward, asking for silence without actually saying it. I left him to think his thoughts and returned to my own.

I felt uneasy running the stretch between Bignor Hill and Cocking. I was scared, but at the same time, I knew there was nothing to be scared of. On my right-hand side, there was what seemed like an endless stretch of dark woods. I could see an elephant. Then another. I am pretty sure there was a troll in there too.

As seen in the crew group chat.

At Cocking crew location, I was wrapped up in my dry robe and curled into the warm cocoon of Rachel’s car where I slept for 30 minutes. Bliss. Elephants and trolls no more.

I was still on the South Downs Way, a trail I had run many a time before. Yet, in the dead of the night, 38 hours into the race, it felt like a place I had only dreamed about. Out there, in the darkness, time became meaningless. It could have been 7pm or 3am — there was no telling. The South Downs Way was both familiar and foreign.

Everything blurs when your body is broken and your mind is wide open.

Fireflies & pumas

Harting came and went in a blur of sheep. Their eyes caught the light of my head torch and glowed like tiny fireflies scattered across the hills surrounding me. Hundreds of them, blinking and flickering in the mist. Surreal. Beautiful.

I was running again, and running well. One of those rare pockets of flow that just arrive, no explanation needed.

Up ahead was Harting Down crew location and my wonderful friends. God, I really am so lucky to have these incredible people in my life. They were a welcome sight — bundled in warm layers, head torches bobbing, voices bright against the cold. Hands reached out with flasks and food, words I could not quite process but felt deeply.

From the bottom of my heart, thank you.

I did not stop there for long. Just long enough to consume a caffeine chew, have a swig of something warm, and a brief exchange of half-laughter and concerned eyes. Their presence hit like a flare in the fog: grounding, necessary, fleeting. Then I was gone again, swallowed back into the dark.

At Queen Elisabeth Country Park, things took a bit of a turn. Biological urgency hit, and I had to make an impromptu roadside stop. Nature, meet nature. Just as I was pulling myself back together, I saw a deer — or at least, I think it was a deer. In my foggy brain, it looked suspiciously like a puma. We had a full-on stare-off before it bounced off into the dark, thoroughly unimpressed.

Time had folded in on itself. I could not tell if I had been out for ten hours or ten days. Every hill felt like a déjà vu, every turn both familiar and completely new. I kept waiting for a landmark, a sign, a clue — anything to mark progress — but the night just stretched on, endless and unreadable. I was not sure if I was chasing the finish or if the finish was quietly moving away from me.

Then, at the bottom of the next hill, I found Frank and Rachel.

YAY.

Frank had kindly made me a coffee with milk — with milk! — oh, no. I like my coffee black. I grimaced as I took a sip but drank it anyway. Caffeine is powerful when you are over 43 hours into a 200-mile adventure, be that with or without milk.

I was hungry for company, and made that very clear, but alas, this is a very lonely race. However, to my luck, suddenly, I heard the familiar tip-tap sound from a pair of poles... another runner appeared out of the dark woods. It was Michael. The timing! I was thrilled. We headed towards Butser Hill together, and that long, exposed climb was made slightly more manageable by a little conversation and a lot of commiseration.

Then came the Sustainability Centre. Heaven in the form of walls and a door. Drew was there. So was a serving of beef lasagne and a whole two hours of sleep. In a bed, in my own room! Hotel Sustainability was even better than Hotel Truleigh.

I changed out of every single item I was wearing and put on some fresh layers. Plugged in my phone, my watch. Napped hard.

Two hours later, a gentle knock on the door and a soft voice woke me. A kind volunteer stood patiently, ready to help. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, peeled myself off the bed, and got slowly dressed, feeling a little nauseous. I called Simon, my voice still thick with sleep but full of relief — he was my anchor, a steady presence I could count on even in the quietest moments.

After brushing my teeth, I shuffled downstairs. The volunteer smiled warmly and carried my bag for me, a small kindness that made the pause in the journey feel a little less heavy.

Breakfast time. I was given a cuppa and had a moment of quiet relief. I sipped on the warm, sugary tea and forced down a bit of toast with jam, while riding the wave of nausea. When it finally loosened its grip, a surge of determination took its place. 137 miles behind me, now just 63 miles between me and Juniper Hall.

Let’s go!

If only it was Yorkshire Biscuit Tea!

I had timed the nap well. Dawn broke, the first strokes of light folding into the trail. Ahead of me: eight hours of glorious daylight.

The morning lifted my spirits. I was running and singing, legs ticking over, making me feel borderline joyful. Somewhere near Old Winchester Hill, Laura’s husband pointed me in the direction of the crew point in a car park, just off the path. Without him, I would have completely missed it.

Also, when did I overtake Laura?

At the crew point, Jules and Frank were ready with warm porridge and a cold NOCCO. The porridge warmed me from the inside out, while the NOCCO gave me a quick, refreshing burst of energy. It was a perfect pitstop, and for a moment, I could just enjoy the feeling of being taken care of before I hit the trail again.

After a quick but satisfying pause, I pushed on. The trail led me up a cambered hill, a small challenge but nothing I could not handle. It was not a brutal climb, but the uneven surface forced me to stay focused, my legs fighting to maintain rhythm.

As I crested the hill, I spotted a man up ahead. He was wearing a WD200 bib and moving steadily. We exchanged a few words, our conversation a brief, welcome distraction from the monotony. Little did we know, we would end up spending the majority of the next 12 hours side by side.

We carried on together and fell into a comfortable rhythm as we made our way towards Beaconhill Beeches, a place I knew would offer a little relief from the endless stretch of trail. It felt good to have someone to share part of the journey with.

Endurance in the daylight

I arrived at Beaconhill Beeches 30 minutes ahead of schedule, with Paulo right beside me. Simon had planned to surprise me at this crew point, but I had beaten him to it.

Hungry, I grabbed a ham & cheese sandwich, only to drop it on the ground shortly after. It was now slightly muddy, but I was not about to waste it. Survival mode does not have time for five-second rules.

Paulo, quick to seize a good moment, grabbed half the sandwich from me without hesitation. Just like Dave, he too was running unsupported and was not shy about helping himself to whatever my crew had on offer — crisps, drinks, you name it. It was a bit of a laugh, a light-hearted moment amid the long haul.

We spent no more than 5 minutes at Beaconhill Beeches, just enough time to refuel and briefly catch up with Jules. Time was ticking and we needed to keep moving. We set off together, leaving the crew point behind and heading into the next stretch of the race.

By now, we were 145 miles in. The trail unfolded before us and we took turns leading the way, the silence occasionally broken by a few exchanged words.

Not long into the next segment, we spotted Wes up ahead. He was moving well, with a smooth stride. We all ran together for a little while. Then, just as Paulo and I were getting comfortable, Wes kicked it up a notch. Before we knew it, he was out of sight, disappearing into the distance like we were standing still. He was moving effortlessly, zooming ahead while Paulo and I stuck to our steady pace. That was the last time we saw him. He ended up finishing a full six hours ahead of me!

I pulled my phone out of my pocket and saw a voice note from Mike at work. It was a huge pick-me-up. My colleagues had been following my progress on the tracker, and hearing Mike’s encouraging message lifted my spirits and made me emotional. They were all tracking me during work hours, cheering me on from afar. Aw...

I was deep into the rhythm now, that quiet momentum where time both stretches and disappears.

Left foot.

Right foot.

Left foot.

Right foot.

Nothing else exists in those moments but the sound of your own movement — breath syncing with effort, thought dissolving into the simplicity of forward motion.

We came upon a bridge and I recognised it instantly from a recent recce, it was one of the many diversions. Funny how the brain clings to those small geographical anchors, little markers that say, ’’Yes, you have been here before. You are not lost.’’

We paused beneath it, grateful for the momentary shelter from the wind and the weight of the miles.

I slumped down onto the ground and balanced myself on the curb. I dug through my pocket like it was a lucky dip at a school fair and pulled out a Freddo — slightly squashed, the wrapper clinging to the chocolate in a way that felt almost comforting. I passed one to Paulo, and for a few minutes, we sat there like two kids on a playground, unwrapping joy in 18-gram form.

In a world drunk on choosing the easy way, be a driving force that celebrates resilience and embraces the suck.

You are going to hurt very bad for quite some time for some little intangible shift in your character, a quiet reordering of who you are that no one else will see, but you will feel it forever. Which is probably what makes 200 miles one of the greatest practises of delayed gratification. You walk into the pain, knowing it will not yield quickly, and hoping the version of you that emerges on the other side is somehow... cleaner. Sharper. More yourself.

After our little Freddo moment, we carried on. No big declaration, just a mutual nod and a silent agreement to keep going. Next up was Bishops Sutton, and Simon! I was so excited I could cry. But first: more miles.

The trail between us and the next crew point unfolded gently at first, winding through quiet stretches of the Wayfarer’s Walk. It was a modest trail — not dramatic, not technical, but it held a kind of quiet resilience. And lots of mud. Rolling farmland gave way to narrow hedged paths, the kind that make you feel like you are sliding between the seams of the countryside. There was beauty in it, even if my legs were too tired to name it.

Paulo and I kept moving steadily, taking turns leading without saying we were. We were way past the point of needing to narrate everything. Conversation came and went in waves — small observations, shared frustrations, and the occasional laugh about how ridiculous everything had become. My stomach grumbled at the thought of hot food. I think his did too.

By the time we reached Bishops Sutton, it felt like arriving on another planet; like stepping into a warm bath after days in the cold. It had been a long stretch since I had last seen Simon — Wednesday at 8am, when this whole ridiculous thing started. Now it was Friday at 2pm. The relief was deep and wide. Jules was there too, and the comfort of familiar faces in the middle of nowhere made me feel, for the first time in a long while, like I was not surviving. I was living.

For the first time in hours, I felt myself exhale.

Simon had everything laid out, his boot open like a tiny mobile kitchen. He had clearly been thinking about this. He did not miss a beat — hands full of snacks, bottles, extra layers if I needed them. He hugged me like he meant it and then got straight to work. Paulo was folded into the mix like he had always been part of our little crew. Simon welcomed him without hesitation, no fuss. That is just the kind of person he is.

From Old Winchester Hill crew location.

The trail from Bishops Sutton to Alton was longer than I remembered from the recce. Paulo and I had now moved onto St. Swithun’s Way, the chalky path crunching beneath our feet. It curved through villages that looked like postcards: flint cottages, frost-laced hedges, wisps of chimney smoke curling into the greying sky.

But I was not sightseeing anymore. I was locked into the rhytmn now.

Forward motion, one foot, then the other. Ever so often, we would pause to sip or snack or simply check-in:

’’Are you alright?’’

’’Yeah, I am good.’’

Relentless forward emotion

It was one of those in-between moments that the light shifted. I glanced up and spotted a thick plume of smoke on the horizon. Not from a fire — from a train. A steam train. Big and colourful and impossible to ignore.

We stood for a moment, watching it ease into Alton like something out of a dream, our legs momentarily forgetting they were tired. It was surreal. The kind of moment that makes you question how much of your brain is still firing properly.

We dropped down onto the high street and then, there was Simon again. His station was already up and running. I swear he could run an ultra of his own with the way he crewed.

He handed me a bowl of hoops & hot dogs — and the combination of childhood nostalgia and comfort hit just right. Warm, soft, easy to swallow. Rocket fuel. Paulo had his sandwich order fulfilled too. Simon had phoned me earlier, taking our food orders like some kind of trail concierge.

That man was part crew, part miracle.

Sore feet were attended to. Dry socks applied. Hot drinks appeared like magic and Lucozade poured like fine wine. Simon was not just looking after me; he was looking after us. Paulo, technically unsupported, had been adopted into our tiny travelling circus, and Simon did not even blink.

We did not linger long — that was the deal. In and out. But in that short window, I felt lifted, held, recharged. And then were off again. Off to burn negative thoughts to the ground with uncomfortable action.

Moving up through Alton town, I could feel every step reverberate through the soles of my feet. The pain had settled into something deep and dull now. Not sharp, not persistent, more like an ache that belonged to someone else but had decided to live in my body for a while.

Ten minutes later, Paulo and I were still winding our way up through the high street, heads down, locked into that post-pit-stop momentum, when Simon popped up again. We had forgotten to take a photo and he was not about to let that slide. It made me laugh. Of course, he came back. It was such a Simon thing to do.

Simon, me and Paulo.

’’See you in Farnham!’’

Then came the horse field.

Now, normally, I love animals. But that horse — and the cows from day one — had rattled me in the past. We entered the field in darkness. My headtorch carved a thick white tunnel through the night, and at first, I saw nothing. Just the glimt of wet grass, the shadow of a fence.

Then, all of a sudden — the horse’s backside, illuminated in the beam.

Oh, no.

He was just standing there. Unbothered, but still. I slowed instantly. Every muscle in my body remembered.

The last time I had crossed this field, also in the dark, that same horse had gone absolutely mental. Galloping, bucking, charging across the field like it was starring in some equine action film. Not tonight, thankfully. No drama. This time, I made sure to walk slowly around the side of the field, careful to not set him off. Paulo followed suit, silently and slowly. We passed through without incident. The relief.

I knew Laura was close behind. Always strong, always steady. And even though I was moving well, part of me still could not quite shake the thought of her catching me. It was irrational, maybe, but also completely human. After so many miles, 174 to be exact, the brain latches onto anything — real or imagined — to keep pushing forward.

I ran hard towards Farnham, fuelled by hoops & hot dogs, adrenaline, and that quiet kind of urgency you cannot fake. Paulo struggled to keep up.

Then... my phone rang, connecting through my headphones. I did not know who it was until I answered and heard a familiar voice: Paul Christian! Happy and a little slurred, calling on his way home from the office Christmas party.

It was one of those beautiful surreal moments that happen only in races like this. One life bleeding into another. He was tipsy and cheerful; I was exhausted and elated. We laughed. It made me feel so normal, so tethered to the world outside of this madness. I felt good.

PC in our Trail Maggots group chat.

We chatted for a little while before we hung up, as I approached the car park of Waitrose in Farnham — the next crew point. Another tiny milestone ticked off.

The midnight shift, pt. 3

It was now approaching midnight, although I had no concept of time. I had some more hoops & hot dogs, but could not really stomach it. Had some Lucozade in lieu. Now, nature called urgently, but there were no toilets in sight.

Simon kindly offered to escort me to the nearest ’facilities’, which turned out to be a bush just off the trail. There we were, me awkwardly trying to squat behind a shrub, Simon standing guard like a true champion.

Farnham. 178 miles deep.

Now, a little lighter.

Paulo turned up moments later, and could barely stay awake on his feet. Simon said he was more than welcome to curl up in the back of his car, which he did. I laced up and pushed on into the dark. Now alone. I was still moving well, surprisingly well, and set off at pace.

Just after passing the North Downs Way trailhead, I came upon a tree. It was not vertical, it was horizontal. A massive fallen trunk sprawled across the trail. The only way was up and over. I hesitated, but thankfully, the legs cooperated. I climbed over it with the kind of focused ease that comes only after 180 miles of effort, when your body has no choice but to keep working.

The golf course came next. I knew this stretch of the trail well. The North Downs Way. But then, my watch suddenly crashed, showing the dreaded blue Garmin triangle only to come back to life and showing me I was over 16,000 kilometres off course.

Huh? Is this real?

Was I dreaming?

Just sleep-deprived?

Disoriented?

All of the above?

I paused, heart thumping, but reminded myself — this was the North Downs Way. I knew the way.

Or at least, I thought I did.

I pressed on with confidence, taking a right turn down a road that looked very familiar. But, the darkness and many miles distorted everything. A house I had passed dozens of times before was now strange and unfamiliar... because I was off course and had never seen said house before. A recent storm had pulled trees down and scattered the path with obstacles.

I called Simon. I was scared.

He answered, his voice soft with fatigue — he had every right to be exhausted. He had just run 100 miles himself, from Wednesday afternoon into Thursday, followed by a few hours of sleep in a hotel before showing up to crew me on the Friday. And now, in the early hours of Saturday, he was staying up with me on the phone, even though he had work in the morning. This man was superhuman.

He guided me back on track. I recognised the trail again and ran on, his voice keeping me company through my headphones. A kissing gate appeared, and a signed warned: ’’Beware of bull in field.’’

Really?

I turned my head, flicked the head torch to full beam and shone the light in every direction, scanning the field for said bull. Then a big, bull-shaped bum appeared, to the left of where I was. Ah. Thankfully, I had to go the other way.

I ran on, turning my head every couple of seconds to make sure he had not seen me and followed. I reached the gate on the other side and knew I was clear. Phew. Why are animals so much scarier when you have not slept?

Simon talked me through the next section ahead, one he knew well from his own race. He had done it in daylight the day before. I was now picking my way through it in the pitch black. The contrast felt absurd. Trees loomed like shadows, roots twisted underfoot, and nothing looked the way it should.

An even bigger tree was blocking the path down the side of the golf course. There was no way around, only over or under. Under was not an option; the water on the trail was so high I would have had to swim.

’’I think I am going to panic.’’ I barked.

But Simon stayed with me, guiding me forward, mile by mile. He took me onto the golf course, running parallel to the trail, only to make me pop back out onto said trail some hundred metres further along.

He stayed on the line until I crested the final hill above Puttenham. From there, I could just let go and run downhill into the village, to my crew — now Jules, Frank and Holly. Simon’s stint had ended in Farnham. We said goodnight and I wished him a sweet sleep, with beautiful dreams. Then we hung up. I turned my music up loud.

Left foot.

Right foot.

Left foot.

Right foot.

I reached the crew in Puttenham and was instantly met with warm, familiar faces. Steady, kind, already tuned in. Simon had phoned ahead after we hung up, letting them know I was a little shaken. They knew not to smother, just be there. A hot drink was pressed into my hands. Jules wrapped an arm around my shoulders for a brief moment — no words needed.

I felt held, and for a second, it was almost too much.

The Puttenham safety point was not too far away. I was going to press on and have a small break there rather than on the dark road in the village.

Shortly after, the cricket club appeared in the distance. A small group of volunteers greeted me outside, warm and generous, offering smiles and hot drinks. Their kindness cut through the cold, but it also made it dangerously easy to stay too long.

Inside, it was blissfully warm — too warm. I slipped into the bathroom, and for a moment, I considered not coming back out. When I did, I had to wrestle the door open like it was trying to keep me inside. Everything in me wanted to sit down, to sleep. But I also knew: I could not. Not yet.

184 miles down. 16 to go. Plus the loose.

I was tired to the bone and the thought of heading into the next stretch alone hit hard. Paulo and Michael were behind me still, and as much as I did not want to face the darkness by myself, I knew waiting too long would undo me. We were also only allowed 60 minutes at this safety point. I hovered on the edge of leaving, stalling. And just as I was finally pushing through the door and back into the cold night, they arrived. A few words were shared and then I was off again.

The next miles are a blur of fatigue and fragments of unreality. Somewhere deep in the woods, I saw ten beavers and a police horse — not to mention the human in a rabbit costume — all just standing there, looking at me. None of them were real. My brain was slipping sideways, weaving dreams into the trail. I had to sing aloud to stay awake. I was stumbling, craving rest more than anything. I set my sight on St. Martha’s. If I could just get there, I could sleep.

But even that was not straightforward. According to my GPS and the tracker, I was there, but I could not find Frank. I circled the trails like a sleepwalker, unsure of what was real and what was imagined. Everything felt muted, eerie, suspended in that dreamlike haze that hits when you are 69 hours deep with no proper sleep.

Eventually, we found each other, and I collapsed onto the back seat of the car. I wrapped myself in my dry robe, kicked off my muddy shoes, and closed my eyes, shivering.

When I woke, I was starving — empty to my bones — but the pot noodles the team had made for me felt impossible. Too much. Too salty. Too complicated. I asked for a Flow Gel instead. They were still going down well, still packing the carbs and calories I needed. It would have to do.

Now, 190 miles in, there were only ten miles to go.

That was it.

Ten miles.

I set off up the hill immediately, desperate to shake off the cold. I sang to keep myself awake; sometimes quietly to myself, sometimes out loud into the trees. Anything to stay alert, to feel present. My voice felt like a tether to the world.

Where the body breaks, the will begins

Some twenty minutes later, Newlands Corner appeared through the trees like a mirage; a little island of warmth in the dark. There were Frank and Holly, standing with a fold-out chair, a steaming bowl of porridge, and a cold NOCCO. Energy in all forms. Exactly what I needed.

Now somewhat warm again from my little jog over from St. Martha’s, I sank into the chair and inhaled the porridge. Thick, sweet, perfect. I could not even tell you what flavour it was. Probably plain. Possibly magic.

Newlands Corner also doubled as a safety point; a checkpoint where Centrion volunteers made sure runners and crews were holding it together, at least on the surface. There were two volunteers on duty, calm and alert, and it was comforting to know someone was keeping an eye on the edges of the race.

Paulo and Michael arrived just as I was wrapping up. We headed out together, shuffling off into the dark. But soon after, I put music on and drifted inward. Way, way inward. I found something there — the smallest spark — and from it, I was able to jog. Then run. Properly run. I felt myself pulling away again. I could not see their head torches anymore. I was on my own.

Music on.

Focus locked.

I had a text from Paul Martin, saying he would be out on the trail near Ranmore Common in the early hours with his dog Roxy, hoping to catch me and cheer me on. The thought of a friendly face ahead pulled me forward.

But Ranmore Common — my god. It felt like the longest stretch of trail in the world. Where did it end? How was there that much mud? It was one step forward, two steps back. Where was Paul? Where was Roxy? That stretch felt like it swallowed hours. Endless mud, roots, uphill, downhill, more mud, more roots. Every step was a negotiation; a small act of war with the underfoot conditions.

Then came the blow. A phone call saying I might be penalised. A crew overlap. Two cars in the same car park. Something so small, so seemingly innocent, and yet it stung deeply. I had worked so hard to do everything right, to get to this point. This was out of my control. And rules are rules.

Relentless forward commotion... with a dash of anger.

Shortly after, I could see Paul and Roxy in the distance. Paul was walking leisurely, Roxy trotting loyally at his side. I must have looked wild; mud-streaked, semi-broken, only half human. But they did not flinch. They just smiled. They reminded me of who I was and why I was there.

Paul, Roxy, and a rather feral version of Maria!

Thank you so much for coming to see me.

Next up: Denbies. The last crew location of the race. I was nearly home.

Frank and Holly were waiting, their smiles like floodlights in the early light. They had warm porridge for me, again, and the remainder of my NOCCO from Newlands — the perfect combo. I inhaled the porridge. It sat warm in my belly, and the NOCCO gave me just enough of a kick to believe I could finish strong.

Less than 5 miles to go.

I checked my phone. A message from Ally.

Aw...

Home stretch.

I ran every step to the bottom of Box Hill. Somehow, my body had found a new gear. The climb up Box was a steady, strong hike — no longer a struggle, but a closing statement. Each step was deliberate, strong, and purposeful.

At the top, I paused. The morning had broken. The view stretched out in front of me like a reward. Was that the sun I could see flirting with me behind those clouds? I took a deep breath. One long, grateful breath. For my body. For my mind. For the chance to do this all.

Next stop: Juniper Hall. And the end of this incredible journey.

Lose Yourself by Eminem started playing in my ears, in my bones, and will forever be the soundtrack of this race for me:

’’Look...

If you had one shot or one opportunity,

To seize everything you ever wanted, One moment,

Would you capture it, or just let it slip?’’

I launched down the hill like I was flying. Poles in hand, legs still turning over, wings unfolding. I passed thirty hikers on the descent, laughing out loud with the absurdity of it all.

Somehow, I earned a Strava crown on the segment there. Crowns are rewarded to the fastest runner completing the segment. What? After 200 miles. How?

Left foot.

Right foot.

Left foot.

Right foot.

Repeat.

That is how.

I paused briefly near Broadwood’s Tower, now clear of hikers. And there she was: Juniper Hall. The finish line.

Was I really ready to stop?

One last downhill.

One last push.

Then, my phone rang, connecting through my head phones. It was Simon. He had been tracking me all morning and wanted to be there when I crossed the line. He was unable to be there physically, due to work. But still, he was there. In my ears. In my heart.

’’I want to get under 74 hours! Can I do that? What is the time?’’ I asked, urgency rising.

’’You will be fine.’’ he said calmly, ’’You have got 6 minutes. And you are so strong. I am immensely proud of you.’’

I was still running hard, running with a purpose. Down the final slope, then a right turn onto level ground. I could hear the cheers. Oh my god — I was back. Back where it had all started, some three days earlier.

I turned the corner, saw the arch, and lengthened my stride. Sprint mode: activated.

I crossed the line in 73 hours, 57 minutes, and 46 seconds.

Madness.

200 freaking miles - by foot!

But the numbers did not matter. Not really. What mattered was the quiet resolve. The refusal to stop. The beavers and the pot noodles and the cold car naps. The way the trail had cracked me open, and somehow, filled me with something new.

Something fierce.

Something free.

I can do anything now.

How far you can run is proportionate to how long you can suffer. It is complicated to rationalise an irrational act like running for almost seventy four hours through the woods with an intense focus on preventing yourself from throwing up on your shoes.

Juniper Hall, 14th of December 2024. Jules, Krysia, me, Frank & Holly.

Missing from photo:

Simon, Rachel and Sarah.

Not all heroes wear capes!

The stats?

212 miles. Or, 342 kilometres for my fellow metric wankers.

73 hours, 57 minutes and 46 seconds.

26 hours of daylight and 48 hours of darkness.

5th female and 2nd in my age category, but there were only 11 women on the start line so this is hardly anything to brag about. I am secrectly hoping this post inspires more women to toe the start line of these kind of distances. If I can, so can you!

22nd overall of 73 starters and 47 finishers. I think there is a higher level of brag-factor in this.

A total of 4 hours and 40 minutes of sleep:

• 30 minutes in the car at Housedean Farm at 78 miles. 20 hours and 52 minutes into the race

• 60-ish minutes in a bed (!) at Truleigh YHA at 92 miles. 26 hours and 2 minutes into the race

• 30 minutes in the car at Cocking at 119 miles. 38 hours and 6 minutes into the race

• 2 hours at Sustainability Centre at 137 miles. 44 hours and 50 minutes into the race

• 40 minutes in the car at St. Martha’s at 190 miles. 68 hours and 28 minutes into the race

This race will forever stand as proof of what I am capable of when I refuse to fold. A quiet, stubborn testament to the strength that lies deep within me.

To my crew, my body, and my mind — THANK YOU!