UTMB CCC: Fuelled by family and friends…and odd socks

The ballot for the UTMB CCC opened on the 6th of January – my bucket list race.

As I logged onto my computer, I remember thinking there was no chance of getting a spot through the ballot process – the race had previously been cancelled due to COVID and there would be heaps of rolled over entries.  I entered my details and clicked submit, something flashed up on my screen.

Automatic entry.


I clicked the back button and refreshed the page.

Automatic entry – I had enough ITRA (International Trail Running Association) points from previous race placings to qualify…as elite.


The same.

I proceeded.

I was in.


100km, 6,100m. At altitude. Across three countries.


And so, the training began.

I felt strong – even through Winter: early mornings, cold mornings, dark mornings. I absolutely loved it. As with any increase in volume though, I picked up some niggles that I needed to work through

Then five weeks out from the race, COVID struck and I lost two weeks of training…- and maybe some lung capacity. But I knew that I’d built a strong enough base to get me through it… right?


The mountains were like nothing I’ve ever seen before – beautiful monsters that look like they’d been painted into the backdrop of the mountain village.

The town itself was alive and buzzing with race vibes, runners, music. Life.

It was magical.

I was there with my mum, sister and brother too, which made it even more magical.

The question kept coming up – did I have a goal? A time?

I was up against probably the toughest terrain of my life and some of the best runners in the world, but I also wanted to enjoy it and have fun. So I would aim for sub-20 and hope for something like 16-18 hours if all went to plan (spoiler alert: it never goes to plan). My main goal was just to finish, which seemed like a feat in itself.

Plenty of opportunity to fall over… which is one of my favourite party tricks in a race like this.

The race itself consisted of five mountains across Italy, Switzerland and France over 100km with 6100m elevation – the first and last mountains were the biggest climbs with some long and technical (and sometimes steep) descents.


It would be hard for sure – but given how much I loved ascents, it was almost my ideal race.

I also had to consider altitude – Chamonix was already 1,000m above sea level and the climbs would take me to above 2,500m, just to make it that little bit harder.  We could already feel it when we arrived.

The night before, we sat down and planned the race. My family would join me at the start line and then chase me through the Alps on shuttle buses to meet me at 54km, 70km and 81km.

Amazing – such an incredible boost to the race.

Suddenly race day was here.

The race didn’t start until 9am – but the start line was in Courmayeur, Italy and our shuttle bus left Chamonix at 5.45am.


So we were up at 4.30am, aiming to leave the house at 5.15am to get to the bus.

Coffee, mobility, laughs with the sleepy family.

Excitement brewed.

I had checked and triple checked the point where the shuttle buses left from, worried about dragging my family out so early already.

We arrived at the location – it was empty.

“You’re looking for race shuttle buses?”

I nodded in horror, waiting for him to confirm I’d taken my family to the wrong location.

He circled on a map where they actually left from.

“About a 15 minute walk.”

It was already 5.35am.

We didn’t have 15 minutes.


My heart sank.

What had I done?

“We better move.”


We started to jog – even my mum was jogging. A beautifully panicked warm up as such.

I went ahead, hoping if I found the buses I could at least stall them.


Seven minutes later and I was there with my brother in tow. I didn’t even know he could run.

But Imogen had stayed with mum, who was already struggling with the altitude, let alone running in it.

God I felt awful. What if she didn’t make it to the bus in time?

I wanted nothing more than to watch the sunrise with them in Italy and share the start of the race.

“We have others coming but we went to the wrong location.” I said to one marshal.

“That is ok, get on any bus, there will be more.”

Some hope.

Please let her make it.

Another two buses arrived.

And then so did my mum.

I think I cried.

We jumped on the bus, all a little exhausted and shell-shocked but all incredibly grateful.

Sunrise in Courmayeur was stunning as we chilled for a few hours before the start of the race – eating our pre-made breakfast, drinking beautiful Italian coffee and, ahem, queuing for the toilets multiple times.

8.40am – we made our way to the start line via a jumping photo next to the race sign.


Hundreds of people – runners, supporters, TV, media, photographers.

I was in the first wave – the first few hundred of the 2,200 racing.

I found where I thought I was supposed to be according to my bib number, chatted to family, tried to relax.

“You.” A race volunteer pointed at me. “You are in the wrong section. You need to be at the front.”

But I liked where I was.

I followed him and he took me literally to the start line.

Oh dear.

The elite wave indeed.

I looked around me and wondered whether I was:

a) the only one with a body fat percentage over 15%

b) the only one wearing odd football socks because they were nice colours

c) the only one carrying enough potatoes to feed a small army even though it made my pack that little bit bulkier.

I felt small in a very big pond of very good athletes.

“Smile Jess, just enjoy this incredible moment.” Imogen must’ve sensed my nerves.

She was right. So right.

Fake it until you make it.

I smiled and waved at the cameras, took a few deep breaths and chatted to a few runners around me.

This wasn’t about the other runners.

This was what the last few months of training – the sacrifices, the dedication, the 100km+ weeks I’d put my body through. 

This was my moment.

My race.

My coach had told me the first half of the race was a warm up to the second half – and who doesn’t love a good 50km warm up? I needed to not go out hard, save energy in the legs for the final three climbs – especially the last steep ascent and final descent back into Chamonix.

I needed to pace myself.

The countdown began and I said my goodbyes to the family.

“See you in Champex-Lac.”

I smiled, the thought made me so happy.

And then we were off, downhill on the road, at pace.


And before I knew it, we’d hit the gradual climb that would take us to the trail, and to the first big climb.

I needed to get ahead a little, to try and avoid the bottleneck I’d been warned about.

God damn it was humid though and I felt the pangs of a headache gnaw at me from the altitude. I was also sweating more than I normally do.

We’d run maybe 2km when the people around me started to get their poles out, still on concrete.

I figured I should get them out while we were gently creeping up and still moving.

Another kilometre or so and we hit a trail and I could see where the climb was going – a zig zag up a mountain. Stunning.

I took a photo, then a selfie – and noticed how beetroot red my face was.

I was overheating.

I stopped, took my layers off (the thermal seemed like a good idea at the time). T-shirt only, drank water.


And the views as we climbed, golly.


Single track, and a queue. But a moving queue. This would form a perfect pacing for me, I wouldn’t go out too hard on the first climb – because I couldn’t.

I chatted to a few people, then realised most people were already in their pain cave on the climb, surely someone loved climbing as much as me?

I managed a few overtakes as we zig zagged up – my legs felt good. The altitude made the breathing that little bit harder as I ascended but I took deep breaths and just kept moving.

Golly what a climb.

I put some music on – motivation. Pushed harder as the pack spread out a little bit.

This was fun.

This was beautiful.

It was actually so beautiful I just wanted to stop and take photos.

Over an hour of climbing had passed, I’d cooled down, found a good pace, managed a few more overtakes where there were two single tracks side by side, and avoided some falling rocks from runners above.


Then suddenly we were at Tete de la Tronche.

The top?

The top.

The first 10km of climbing was done and I was on track at two hours.

I filled up water and ate a CLIF bar as I moved, not wanting to rest for too long so early on.

“Jessica Short, let’s go get it.” Said one of the volunteers.

I do love having names on bibs.

I smiled, let’s indeed.

The next section was flat and then into downhill – beautiful single track with views over the vast mountains of Italy and Switzerland.

I put my poles away and cruised down, found a running pack at a good pace and we ran through the mountains. Some technical, some just nice.


But then.



I looked ahead and could see the clouds had darkened and were rolling towards us.


The rain was light at first, refreshing – especially after overheating earlier. But I watched as a wall of rain headed our way across the mountain.

This was it.

I continued on, resisting the urge to put on my waterproof (mainly because I hate wearing waterproofs).

Then it turned heavier, so quickly. And almost sideways as the wind that brought the rain to us whipped us too.

Thanks wind.

I stopped – we all did, and put our waterproofs on and I grabbed my poles back out to provide some stability.

It didn’t occur to me to put my waterproof over my pack which proceeded to get soaked through (goodbye powerpack, hello soggy potatoes).

I tried not to think about the thunder, or getting hit by lightning.

The single track quickly turned from dirt to mud to rivers and I tried multiple times to take photos or videos of how crazy it was – but my phone was too wet to even unlock at that point.

In fact, I was too wet, soaked – my feet, my clothes, there was not one dry part of me.


It was harder too, running in the mud and water, balancing. Energy consuming.

I slowed – mostly to prevent a face plant.

There was very little I could do except hope that the rain passed soon and I could dry off during the rest of the run.

I hit the small but steep descent that would take me down to the first proper aid station – with food and energy drinks, and some shelter.

And then just like that the rain stopped, and cleared, as if nothing had happened. Leaving only soaking wet trails and soaking wet runners.

The aid station – Checkpoint 2: Arnouva.

I’d hit 26km in four hours – super happy with the pacing and timing, despite the slog through the rain and wet trails. I was on track for 16 hours.

The aid station was buzzing full of people swapping wet clothes, readjusting soaking packs, and eating.

I looked at the food – a selection of biscuits, cheese and meats. Nothing that was Jess friendly.

Oh dear.

Having suffered through gastro during a race in America – and never wanting to experience that discomfort again, I thought it best to stick with my soggy potatoes.

They were very soggy.

I did a body check – all felt good, if not a little wet. The headache had subsided as I’d adjusted to the altitude.

I left the aid station, still soaking wet, knowing I was heading for the second climb up Grand Col Ferret (the Italian / Swiss border) – approximately 5km of steep-ish ascent followed by 20km of descent.


The climb was steep but switch-backy and more beautiful single trails. With the storm passing over the views were even better – spectacular, in fact. Huge mountains, the biggest I’d seen – we were surrounded by them but also on one of them.

I was in heaven.

The top of Grand Col Ferret did not disappoint – such incredible views of Italy and Switzerland, I wanted to cry. Others around me were also stunned to silence, happy, content. The climb was so worth it.

I knew now was the real challenge for me – the long 20km+ descent into Switzerland.

I had practised my downhill, strengthened my ankles, and was more than happy to take a face plant or too along the way. I just hoped my body would be able to hold up.

I began with a gradual descent at first along a single track with views of mountains for miles. Gradual at first then building speed, but not wanting to completely trash my quads for the rest of the race.

I felt so strong.

I hit a check point a few kilometres later but didn’t stop, continuing on the beautiful single track.

It took my breath away.

The first 10km of down was absolute bliss, and at 40km we hit the beautiful Swiss town of La Fouly – and an aid station.

I knew I could feel the beginnings of what I had self diagnosed as bursitis in my left foot (disclaimer: not bursitis, a neuroma) start to make itself known with the continued impact of the downhill.

I’d expected it, and I knew I could manage that pain. I also knew everything would start hurting a little over the next few hours. Nothing would hurt as much as everything else at some point.


I only stopped briefly, wanting to keep the momentum of feeling good and heading down towards Champex-Lac where my family would (hopefully) be.

I grabbed a cup of coke and headed out, devouring another CLIF bar – berry flavour.

But I could only manage half.


Nausea hit.

Was it the bar…or my body?

I put the bar away and continued onto a forested single track that cut into the mountain edge, quite narrow, and sometimes quite technical. And a very steep cliff to my right.

Don’t fall Jess – or fall left at least.

Just don’t fall.


But then.

Flashes of pain in my knee.


I stopped, gritted my teeth.


More pain, familiar – like someone was axing the side of my knee.


I kicked the dirt in frustration.

I had done everything the physio had told me since my last 100km – the strengthening, the stretching, massage, cupping.


I was close to having a hissy fit right there.

I was coming undone.


“Come on Jess.”

A few deep breaths.

If it was back, I knew it would mostly be on the downhills, and I was most of the part through the largest one.

I also had poles – I could use them to take the pressure off my knee for sure.

I could do this.

I had this.

I continued on as the pain flashed intermittently through my knee whenever I bent it too much.

I focussed on the scenery – and trying not to fall off the side of a cliff or face plant.

At 48km we hit another beautiful Swiss town – Praz de Fort, I shuffled myself down the road and through the streets with people cheering us along.

I love people.

It was a fabulous feeling and it was absolutely beautiful. The foot and knee pain was almost forgotten.

I also knew a climb was coming – the climb to Champex-Lac and to family, and food and a little bit of rest.

I could do this.

The climb did not disappoint – no pain in my foot or my knee.

I was back.

I picked up the pace to make up for the lost time on the downhill.

I’d hit 50km.


Just under eight hours.

I was still on track for 16 hours.

Although I knew in my heart that I might not be able to maintain my current pace with the ITB issues, if I couldn’t run the descents.

I pushed down the frustration and continued the climb.

Then I saw them.

Flashes of orange and black – the other half of the pair of socks I was wearing.


I choked.

I found myself trying to breath and run whilst trying to hold back tears. 


I stopped and took a few breaths.

Then I called her name.


I ran towards her.

I don’t know who was more excited to see the other.

She had a million questions, and we discussed the race, the ITB and foot issues.

“You’re smashing it.”


We turned a corner and suddenly I saw my brother – beer in hand, and my mum – paintbrush in hand, sitting waiting for me.

It was almost too much.

More excitement.

Lots of hugs.



More strength.

I headed into the Champex-Lac aid station. It was one of the larger ones and the first one you were allowed a support crew person in with you, and where supporters could look on…and support.

Imogen met me there.

“What do you need?”

A beer would be good.

I took my pack off and sat down for the first time in over eight hours.

God that felt good.

I grabbed coke and bananas, and tried to eat more potatoes. Anything, but I could feel the nausea creep in.

Then I knew why.

My period had arrived.



Luckily, I had packed provisions.

But now I knew the real battle was on.

I wouldn’t be able to curl up in a ball and take some painkillers to stop the cramps or lie down to deal with the nausea and lethargy I knew so well every month.

Would my muscles suffer? Is that why my ITB has started hurting? Would it affect my joints? I knew it had already affected my appetite.

46km left.

“Jess, you can totally do it. You’re strong.”

My voice of semi-reason (except when Processco is involved), Imogen.

I could, and I bloody well would.

I was ok.

And suddenly we were laughing at it all.

What else could the world throw at me?

I re-strapped my ankle and stretched my legs as she told me about their day, a welcome distraction.

We left the crew section to find my brother and mum – who happened to have a plate of hot chips.

The world was good again.

We hugged and laughed some more.

Imogen and Duncan headed out with me as I left the aid station and ran along the lake, knowing it would remain flat for a while before we headed up again.

I could do flat, and I could do up.

“I’ll see you in Trient.” Imogen said as I left them.

I was beyond happy knowing that.

We said our goodbyes and it was all I could do not to cry again, just to make running that little bit harder.

And so I began, slow at first, finding my rhythm again after sitting down.

The next aid station was in 12km – almost at the top of the climb. My focus was to get there.

The flat was beautiful – along the river, then we climbed into beautiful countryside and I could feel the sun beginning to set.

I saw signs on the trail, warning us of herds of cattle and I had to laugh.

I pushed down the waves of cramps and nausea, put some music on and just kept moving.


Then I saw them – literally herds of cattle.

All wearing cowbells that sounded in the wind or with movement.

I wasn’t sure whether it was eerie or comforting.

Welcome distractions.

Suddenly I had reached the top of the climb – La Giete, another aid station with the tunes blaring.

I tried another bar, managed half, and a gel and block. My appetite was gone with my stomach in knots, but I knew I needed calories. I tried my potatoes, less soggy now. No good, it might have been the first time in my life I did not want to eat potatoes. More gels and blocks it was.

I stopped briefly to chat to the volunteers, all so happy and encouraging, then left to begin the 5km of descent down to Trient.

Oh, the descent.

We were on a single track again, narrow, interspersed with roots and rocks that made it quite technical.

The flashes of pain were back – less flashy in fact and more constant.

Almost unbearable, but not quite.

I leaned on my poles, used them as much as I could to take the weight of my right knee, almost to the detriment of the pain in my left foot which now started to throb.

I laughed.

Because what else could I do?

I tried various different techniques – probably much to the amusement of other runners.

Straight legged seemed to work the best but be the least effective at actually moving forward.

Stop it Jess.

So I just ran, gently, through the pain. And focussed on the trails, and getting to Trient, to Imogen.

And the beginnings of sunset, oh the sunset.

Darkness began to creep and the stubbornness in me refused to put on a head torch until it literally became too dangerous to continue – I had found a rhythm and didn’t want to disrupt it.

But the light from my head torch was amazing, lighting up the forest and the trails in such a beautiful way, highlighting the features I would be navigating even more clearly than in the daytime.


My god the descent, which should’ve been fast (or faster) felt so slow. Was I being too cautious?

Every now and then I would pick up speed and be reminded why I was slowing.


Race stopping, breath taking pain.

I remembered why I was going slower.

I hit 70km, I knew I was close.

I crossed a bridge and saw the familiar socks.






We talked about the various ailments of my body as we headed towards the aid station tent.

We laughed as I realised I might have strained my right tricep from using the poles so much to take the pressure off my knee – that would surely be a first in ultrarunning.

And golly the aid station.

Music and dancing and food and laughter.

It was all you could ask for at an aid station.

Except prosecco of course.

I filled my water, drank coke, stretched.

“Have you eaten?”

Sort of?

We tried bananas and that seemed to be ok – although even the 8-10 pieces I managed probably only really made up one whole banana. It would do.

I gave myself ten more minutes at the station. I wasn’t sure whether I needed that time physically or mentally, more.

My legs were restless, my knee hurt and my foot was in full flare up. But what else do you expect at 70km and 4600m elevation?

The stomach cramps and nausea had become less regular, which I was super grateful for.

Mentally I was in a good place, I was happy despite everything. My body, despite its shortcomings, felt strong,

And I was so grateful for Imogen and the volunteers and vibes.

The pain was all manageable.

The ten minutes was bliss – relaxing with Imogen as she told me about the shuttle bus chaos and her dinner and wine.

Oh wine.

We looked at the remaining profile of the race.

Two more climbs to go, 30km. I knew the last climb was one of them was the steepest and considered the hardest.

But climbs were good – I could do them, no pain and fast. It would just be the descent down into Chamonix that would hurt, like a bitch.

We discussed painkillers – a somewhat sensitive topic in ultrarunning due to the dehydration your body is already facing and the extra strain the painkillers would be placing on your kidneys.

If I needed too, we reasoned, I would take some prior to the last descent.

My ten minutes was up and I gathered my pack and water and we headed outside.

My sister watched as I began to move my body out of its stiffness, slowly warming into a jog.


She sounded serious.

“You know you can stop if you need to, if it hurts too much.”

There was never any doubt in my mind that I would stop. And she knew that too – but I also knew she had to ask.

I’d thought about this a lot before the race, and I don’t know what it would’ve taken to stop me – maybe a broken bone? But I knew I’d run through that before and it hadn’t stopped me.

This was my dream race.

Maybe nothing.

And maybe we knew that.

I wanted to finish strong, the way I’d started, the way I felt.

We laughed as my shuffle turned into a more acceptable form of running.

“I’m ok.”

“See you at Vallorcine in a few hours.”

My heart almost exploded.

I headed off into the darkness – the next climb out of Switzerland and into France.

It was very similar to the first climb – a zig zag up a mountain.

I think I was the only one running up it at that point. And lunging. Moving, fast.

I felt good.

I was revived.

Almost home.

I moved past a few people, trying to encourage them, everyone in their own pain cave.

We hit the top – a mini station.

“You’re at the top, well done! Enjoy the down.”

I cringed and wished there was more up.

This was my first descent in the dark as I entered back into France.

Reduced again to walking and not sure whether the pain in my knee or foot was now greater. Maybe they were equal. I reminded myself to take on some more gels and blocks.

I felt slow.

I was slow.

It was almost disheartening as those I’d pass on the way up, skipped past me on the way down.

I reasoned with myself that, in the dark, I probably wouldn’t be going much faster for fear of face planting anyway.

I gritted my teeth and continued, occasionally catching my breath as my knee flexed a little too much and the nauseating pain shook me.


I could hear Vallorcine, could see the lights.

Almost there.

I yawned.

Midnight – well past my bedtime.

A tunnel.





“I wasn’t expecting you so soon.”

Well, that was a good sign at least.

The aid station was electric – but there was a moodiness about it as it was clear people were struggling. The dark, the tiredness, the pain?

I felt nothing but hope and excitement.

I sat on the floor to rest my legs and ate what I could of bananas and gels as Imogen told me about her evening – and how she’d randomly assembled everything she needed to get a 45-minute nap on the floor in the corner of the aid station, with a sleep meditation for full ambience (and an alarm to make sure she got up before I arrived).

So much laughter.

“One more climb Jess. One more descent.”

I nodded.

An 8km climb, some flat at the top then down 6km into Chamonix.

It would be hell on my knee. And my foot. Well, on everything really. 

But that finish line was getting closer and closer.

I could taste the Prosecco.

We said our goodbyes as she walked me out onto the trail, then turned to get her final shuttle bus to the finish.

Headtorch on.

I was suddenly hit by another wave of nausea and cramps, and crouched and waited a few minutes until it passed.

I laughed – it was some effort to get back up from the crouching position.


Come on legs.

I had this.

My shuffle turned into a march, and I grew strength as I climbed – a gentle slope at first along a grassed trail.

I could see the mountain ahead – golly it was big.

1860m big – 5 x Emily Spur climbs.

I crossed a road, and the climb began.

Steep and rocky.

Almost too steep and rocky for poles.


I passed a few people, careful not to go too hard.

I looked up and wondered whether the lights I could see far up ahead were people’s head torches or stars.

They moved.

Head torches.


Head down.


Get up there.

Climb climb climb.

I climbed sections that had to physically be climbed, rock climbing with no ropes or harness.

Bit of a kicker after 85km.

But it was so fun.

I think I was the only person at that point having fun and enjoying the climb.

But golly it was never ending.

I put my music on and just kept moving.

Almost there.

It was maybe an hour? Maybe two.

Then undulating for 3km – not so fun.

I slowed.

I tried not to get frustrated with myself, with my body.

The pain.

You’re fine Jess.

My head torch blinked three times.



Complete. Darkness.

I took a moment just to look around me – the stars, the lights of Vallorcine, other head torches.



That was all the goodness I needed, the reflection.

I took out my other head torch – not quite so strong but I knew from here my speed would be somewhat limited anyway.

My stomach rumbled.


That was a good sign – my body was working; had overcome the cramps.

Maybe some normality.

I hit La Flegere – the peak.

All the climbing had been done.

This was the final aid station before the descent into Chamonix.

The finish line.

I took the painkillers and a caffeine gel.



I hit the down.

Well, in a slow and calm fashion.

But I definitely picked up speed as the lights of Chamonix came into view.

I slowed only really on the technical sections to pick a path of least resistance and least impact on my knee and foot. But it was such a long descent and there were moments I had to stop to catch my breath to overcome the pain as the painkillers started to kick in.

Almost there Jess.

It didn’t feel like I had run 95km.

Issues aside, my legs and lungs felt strong.

It was so bittersweet.

But I would get in under 20 hours – the ultimate aim. Despite everything my body had thrown at me.

Soon the steep descents and switchbacks flattened and my heart fluttered.



One last climb – over a bridge.



A friend from Bright.

She was there, I wasn’t hallucinating.



“I can’t stop, otherwise I won’t start again.”

And so she ran with me onto the flat, towards the finish. I had never seen her run.


1km to go.

99km down, 1km to go.

I packed my poles away.

There were people there, in the early hours of the morning.

Still out, still cheering.

The town was still alive.


My brother.

And Imogen.

Their smiles.


Now, that was overwhelming.

I was so so proud of them. Of us.

They ran with me, videoing my final kilometre.

“Mum’s at the finish line.”

I wanted to cry again.

Pure happiness.

Pure gratitude.

I picked up the pace.


The finish.



The line.

We’d done it.


I stopped my watch – 99.96km. Erm.

Nothing in me wanted to do the final 40m.


I saw my mum.

More hugs.


A finish line jumping photo, then we moved away from the finish line to the big screen.

More hugs.

And Prosecco.

Hells yes.

Finally, I took my shoes and socks off – the pressure was too much.

My feet looked mummified.

More laughing.

I finally succumbed to some finish line salami, knowing I needed to eat something (although I do believe Prosecco is a food group…).

And we hung around to watch a few more runners come in, with our Prosecco. Together.

No more running.

Just the matter of a 1km walk home.

The Prosecco would help with that.


I was blown away.

The most stunning of all races.

The most technical.

Maybe the most painful.

But the most fun.

The most love and laughter.

The most humbling.

Definitely the best.

I owed everything to the people who supported me in person and from far and wide across the world, (THANK YOU).

The race belonged to them.

And then the serious discussion…I was dirty as hell, but exhausted.

Did I really need to shower before I slept?

The looks from my family confirmed my fears.

I would have to stay on my feet a little longer…

And next? Rest?


Or maybe the multi-day 4 Peaks Challenge in November…


Surf Coast Century 100km: Just Dancing

My first 100km race – ten times 10km. Ten of them.


A 4.00am start – the usual mobility and taping, all the coffee, a pre-cooked breakfast, and a lot of toilet stops.

5.30am and I was suddenly at the start line, nerves in my stomach. But the atmosphere was great, the beach looked amazing – the sun rising over the waves.

I was happy.

Then I remembered 100km was minutes away.

Holy moly.

I messaged my family in England and friends in Aus. My mum replied almost instantly, asking me why on Earth I would do 100km – I didn’t have a logical answer.

But I felt good. My body felt good.

And we were off.

We knew we had an out and back 5km West along the beach, before we would return and pass the start line again. Simon and I ran together at a comfortable pace (ie his warm up pace). We laughed, more excited than nervous.

Along the hard sand then up onto the Surf Coast Walk, simply stunning as the sun continued to rise. We turned back onto the beach towards the start line again, passed the supporters and crowds.

My name came across the speaker “Is that Jessica Short doing 100km?”

I laughed and waved in confirmation. Yes, I am that mad.

Then the legendary Bartholomew family cheered me on as I passed them, having run this leg with them as a team a few years ago. I could’ve stopped right there and been happy with my day.

We continued along the beach and up onto the Surf Coast Walk the other way towards Torquay.

Simon upped his pace, waved his goodbye, and headed off on his own chase and race while I held a comfortable 5:15min/km pace. Trying not to go out too hard. It’s a marathon(s), not a sprint.

And we all continued for a few kms, chatting and swapping in and out of places, enjoy fresh legs and good vibes.

At about 10km I had my first gel. Still managing to nearly choke on it as I ran, inhaled and struggled to breath.


We were taken down onto the beach, onto relatively hard sand and I could see the rocks ahead, remembering how slippery and sharp they had been a few years ago.

But gosh I was happy, the sun and sea on my right and a cool breeze and some gentle flat running.

Then we hit them.


They were hard to navigate, slippery and sharp and my pace dropped significantly as I tried to find a rhythm. I was tentative, making sure each rock was secured before I transferred weight between my feet – worried about my ankles.

It was probably the first time I felt a little… disheartened as I watched others skip over the rocks like they were still running on sand.

I tried fast feet and was rewarded with a slip onto a sharp rock that made my knee bleed.

Patience Jess.

There was no point in injuring myself 10km into 100. Deep breath, I remembered the view; drew strength from the sun, and continued, manging to pick up some speed on the larger boulders.

Me and another runner came to a section where it looked like there was a high route and a low route and a choice between getting wet feet and climbing a little.

Naturally I chose to keep my feet dry and climbed, while the other runner chose the low route.

It felt fine until suddenly I was a little higher than I felt comfortable…and crawling on my hands and knee on a ledge.

Surely this was too dangerous to put in the race?

Yes Jess, it was.

I persevered, crossing over a gap in the ledge where one wrong foot and a slip would sent me five metres onto some jagged rocks below.


“Are you ok?” Said the other runner, clearly relieved he’d made the right choice.

I nodded as I cleared the gap and continued on my hands and feet along the ledge, surely there would be a down somewhere.

There wasn’t. Only a steep drop.


“Do you need a hand?”

Some common sense would be nice.

“No, I’ll just go back, but thank you”

And there I was, shuffling backwards on my hands and knees before balancing precariously over the gap of doom and back down into the safety of the lower rocks.

I no longer cared if my feet got wet.

I shook my head and chose to laugh at myself – that was silly.


I continued on the rocks – nothing could be quite as bad as the ledge and so I was happy with dipping in and out of the rocks, on the sand and in the sea.

I had wet shoes – but I knew the first aid station at 21km was nearby and I had spare shoes and socks there.

After what seemed like hours of running on rocks (but most likely only around 20-30 minutes), I was directed up the steps off the beach and back onto the Surf Coast Walk, grateful.

I could see the aid station up ahead.

Runners started to run towards me – on their out and back from the aid station, the leaders.

Crikey they were fast.

I smiled and cheered them on.

I came across a toilet block, and it seemed surreal to me that I could actually stop and use a proper toilet during a race.

So I did.

Luxury indeed.

I almost took a wrong turn out of the toilets, but luckily saw a runner run past me in the right direction – the opposite direction to the lookout I was heading towards.


The aid station atmosphere was amazing – and it felt so damn good to have people there, food there, music.


I was directed towards the bag drop area, excited by the potatoes I had waiting there (it’s the little things).

I changed my shoes and socks, checked the taping on my ankles.


A fifth of the way through the race – on track for my 12 hours, if not faster.

So far I was happy with my time and my body – although I was getting some tenderness around my hips that I wouldn’t expect to feel until at least 40km.

So, I stretched as I ate my potatoes and repacked my bag with new gels.

And then I was off again, back along the Surf Coast Walk that I’d just run along – cheering on the runners that were heading towards the aid station.

Golly this was fun.

I was now entering Leg 2 of the race – the only leg I hadn’t done in previous races. From the research I knew that it was relatively flat and would take us into the mountain bike trails of Angelsea, and back towards the start where we would then head out towards Aireys Inlet for the final 50km.

The vibes were so good, runners had spread into their packs and chatted as they swapped positions on the undulating trails.


It was at around 35km that things started to go downhill. Something felt wrong. A pain beginning to develop down the outside of my right knee.

I chose to ignore it, run through it – focussing more on the scenery and the trails.

But mild panic was setting in.

I knew what it was, I just kept telling myself that it wasn’t.

Iliotibial band (ITB) syndrome.

It had flared up before in the Lara Pinta multi day race four years ago – on the last day, the longest run I had ever done at that point (30km). Crippling.

I knew the pain.

We headed into the mountain bike trails and I could feel myself slow as the pain increased and the sharp stabs down the outside of my knee occurred more frequently.

It literally stopped me in my tracks a few times.

I knew I was in trouble.

But I continued, putting my music on to help me focus.

It worked to an extent – until I got to 40km and the pain was unbearable. Not too bad on the ups, manageable (only mild agony) on the flats, but impossible on any sort of downs without keeping my right leg straight. Every single footstep was painful.


I slowed more.

Runners passed me, asking if I was ok, I smiled and nodded, wished them good luck.

Then I did the only thing a twin could do… I called my sister in Hong Kong.

“Jess! Are you ok?” Excitement.

I didn’t realise until I heard her voice how much I wasn’t.

I couldn’t answer.

It dawned on her pretty quickly that something was wrong.

“What’s happened?”

“My ITB.” I managed, through a strained voice, pained voice.

Don’t cry Jess.

“Oh Jess.”

She knew.

The last time we had run 50km together in this very race she had suffered with crippling ITB pain for the last 15km. There had been plenty of tears, but we had gotten through it together.  

“I’m okay.”

Was I? I could feel tears forming.

I continued running, and talking, and crying.

Golly that was hard.

“Jess stop. Just stop”

And I did. And suddenly talking became easier – because I wasn’t trying to breath and cry and talk all at the same time.

We laughed and that was all I needed.

 I explained the race so far, my rock climbing attempt and then the pain.

“Jess you know you can stop if you need too, you shouldn’t run through 60km of pain.”

I shook my head, blinked away the tears.


I couldn’t stop.

Could I?

My heart hurt.

No Jess.

You’ve got this.

She waited for my answer.

A deep breath.

“I am never giving up wine again – look at what happens when I do.”

We laughed, and chatted more, about silly things that took my mind off the pain and the dilemma.

We said our goodbyes as I was coming up to the 49km aid station – almost halfway. I told her I’d call her after I’d stretched and sorted myself out.

Thank bloody hell for Imogen.

It also made me realise I had people – even though they weren’t physically there. And maybe being on my phone took away from the experience of the race, but by golly I needed them.

A friend messaged me, without even knowing what was happening: 

“Run when you can

Walk if you have to

Crawl if you must

But never give up”

She was so right.

I checked my watch – 5 hours 26 at 49km. I was still on for under 12 hours.


It felt strange knowing I was only halfway and yet I’d been running for over 5 hours. 100km was a long way.

I knew deep down any hope of getting a time I wanted was quickly fading as the pain increased – I would need to put my pride aside and walk if I needed too.

But get it done.

I entered the aid station – again super grateful for the people and the atmosphere there.

I found my dropped bag in the sea of other runners’ bags, and took my time to empty my race vest of used gels and potato bags and put new ones in. I stretched and chatted to other runners, wishing I’d bought my theragun, or a roller – anything.

It felt like everything moved in slow motion as I took time to think.

My plans had changed.

I was no longer chasing a time, now the aim was just to finish – which I recognised was an achievement in itself.

I ate my potatoes, as if that would magically soothe the hurt.

Then I remembered I had painkillers in my bag – for emergencies. Was this an emergency? I rationalised that it was, and that I would drink plenty of water to try to negate the toxins I was throwing into my body, which was already working really really hard.

Then I also remembered I was in the middle of a race, on the surf coast, surrounded by beautiful trails and incredible runners.

From the stretching alone (and maybe the magical potatoes), the pain temporarily subsided, and I jogged out of the aid station.

I knew I could do this.

A friend called, offering advice on how to strap my knees to ease the ITB pain.


So I did, and it did.

And I was grateful all over again for the people.

The last half of the 100km was the 50km I had done twice before – I knew this course, knew the trails and the elevation. Beautiful.

In fact, the next leg was my favourite of all – single track and mountains and just pure running bliss.

I quickly found myself along a wide fire trail that I could see went a long way…then up, a long way. Well, maybe after this bit…

Happy with my taping and the ease of pain on the ups, I began the climb.



I jogged as much as I could on the climbs, the upwards nature not putting too much pressure on my knee.

It was the downs that stopped me in my tracks, the flickers of pain taking my breath away. Like someone chopping an axe into your knee. Maybe.  


I made it to the top of the hill in good time, passing others on my way up – back onto the Surf Coast Walk.

Oh, the views. Aireys Inlet was in the distance and the bright blue sea was smiling at me on my right. The sun was glorious too, although becoming a little hot.  

I began the descent – gradual enough to not hurt too much but it definitely wasn’t my fastest.

The only thing that seemed to stop that pain was to dance, or shuffle, or move in a different way to running that didn’t put that pressure on my knee in that forward motion. The Dosey Doe was  definitely a winner.

And so the dancing began.

I knew I was coming to a long strength of relatively flat trails and tried to push the pace a little.

My knee decided otherwise as the pain transferred to the inside too.


I slowed again to a fast shuffle (I like to think it was a running swagger) that seemed to work relatively effectively on the flat.

At that point there weren’t too many runners around me, and I was grateful to have some music to focus on.

I entered my favourite part of the race – beautiful single track climbing gently up a small mountain.

Oh the climb.

I was now able to go a little faster, and even got back to over taking a few people as the pain seemed to subside.

This was fun again – even when it became steeper and harder on my lungs. I remembered again why I loved the trails, and running, and racing.

I took a gel, and also remembered again why I shouldn’t take gels on the ups as I struggled to breath between inhaling the gel.

I reached for my salt tablets – they weren’t where I left them.

I checked again in more pockets.


Then I realised I must’ve emptied them out at the last aid station.


Well, that was silly.

Not much I could do about it, but luckily I became distracted as my watched ticked over to 64km – this was officially the longest I’d ever run.

I might have squealed. And if I could’ve, I’d have done a jig for sure.

I reached the summit of the mountain, so happy. But I knew the downhill might be a different story.

Maybe I had become used to the pain, maybe it was the painkillers, or maybe the adjusted way I was now running meant the downhill didn’t hurt as badly as I thought it would. Flickers of pain every few minutes to remind me that there was still an issue, but otherwise I took it easy down the hill but moved faster than I thought I would be able to.

I also knew that there was an aid station at 77km where I could stretch and eat the meal I’d cooked the night before – which was actually becoming less and less appealing.

It did occur to me that at any point during the race I could actually stop and stretch, but I also knew if I did that it would take longer and longer to get back up and start running again. Even without the injury.

I knew there was a part of me did just want to lie down and stop – the rational and logical part of me.

Luckily that part of me is very small.

At that point my family were just waking up in England.

“Jess are you still running??”

I laughed, they had had a whole night’s sleep since talking to me, and here I was still out running.

“I don’t think you could call it running…but yes I’m still out here” I replied. And we chatted.

At 70km I did a body check – everything was understandably a little achy in some shape or form. My hips were a little sore and I had a blister on my little toe of my right foot, but my feet and ankles felt surprisingly good. Overall, knee aside, I was good.

I felt good.

So what then?

Disappointment maybe.

No Jess.

I wasn’t going to allow myself to throw a pity party (even though had definitely picked up some new dance moves during the race).

I was here, and I was grateful to be here.

Come on Jess.

My sister called again – maybe to check on me, or maybe she could sense my slight unease.

Either way I was grateful as she told me about her day and distracted me as the downhill now seemed to get more painful and I was forced to stop a few times just to catch my breath from the sharpness of it. I knew she could hear people passing me, asking if I was ok.

“Jess. Are you okay?”

“I could do with a beer.”

She laughed.

“I’m a little tired.”

“You’re allowed to be and you’re doing so well. Does anything else hurt except your knee?”

I told her about my one blister, and we both laughed.

I knew I was coming up to another big aid station where I could properly lie down and stretch, redo my knee taping and actually eat a full decent meal.

Of course, none of that actually went to plan.

The aid station atmosphere was even more electric and the people were so so happy and cheery it was just amazing. There was water, electrolytes, a kitchen with hot food – everything you could dream of.

I went over to my bag and a friend who was supporting another runner came over and started to chat as I got my food out. Day-old potato tuna, avocado and egg no longer seemed appealing to me for some reason, but I managed a few bites as we chatted about the race.

I admit I got distracted talking and not having to move, and time slipped away where I should have been stretching and refuelling, knowing I didn’t want to stay at the aid station for too long.

I said my goodbyes, grabbed some lollies and said hello to a few other runners I recognised.

My legs thanked me for the rest as they allowed me to run pain free for a couple of minutes before the ITB pain kicked in again.

I think I growled when it did.

There was a little bit more single track that would take us out towards a reservoir, fire trail and the forgotten hill (which I remembered).

At around 80km I exited the forest back into civilisation – roads and houses.

I was faced with a large steep concrete hill down to the next part of the race.

It was there that I created my half shuffle dance to get down. My right leg stayed completely straight and only the left bent and I fell into a strange rhythm as I cruised down trying to appear as normal as possible.

I failed.

In fact I laughed so hard at myself that I stopped and took a video to send to my family.

I think my mum was horrified.

“Trying walking backwards?” My sister suggested.

And I did, and to some extent it worked – there was no pain, but the chance of falling over and causing other injuries was slightly elevated. Plus, I think it scared the other runners.

I got to the bottom intact (pride aside) and continued in a similar shuffle along the road towards Aireys Inlet.

My watch said 85km – and was on 2% battery. Oops.

I got my phone out and started my Strava for the last 15km, stopping my watch and saving the run. 5,689 calories.

Yes please. How many Proseccos was that?

I was back near the ocean again, running along the river towards a bridge…that I remembered we had to climb under.

I wasn’t sure how that would go.

But it was a nice change to bend the legs in a different way and squat down under the river.

A low hissing sound made me stop in my tracks, and my first thought was that it was a hissing cat.

A hissing cat. Under a bridge.

I quickly realised it was in fact my race vest brushing against the ceiling of the bridge floor.

That made so much more sense.

I was out and shuffling towards the last aid station at 86km. 14km to go.

My gosh I was grateful when I saw the Coke.

I maybe downed three cups apologetically before asking whether there was any vodka to add to the fourth one.

Apparently not.

I had a few potatoes and lollies and made sure I stretched fully on the grass.

“Not long now, and a beautiful section on the beach too.”

I smiled and nodded, not sure anyone would describe running on sand after 86km beautiful – but I very much appreciated her enthusiasm and thanked her.

And I was off towards Aireys Inlet lighthouse – one of my favourite lighthouses (I LOVE lighthouses for everything they symbolise), happy despite the pain. Moving forwards.

The climb to the lighthouse was gentle and forgiving and I made sure to stop and appreciate the views at the top before continuing along the road for a while.

With my swagger.

After maybe 3km we turned off the road and on the Surf Coast Walk again – I knew where we were headed, and I wondered whether the beach would be forgiving of my knee or not.

It was at exactly 90km as I headed down the steps to the beach that I felt my blister on my little toe burst. Ugh.

I thought nothing of it until that part of my shoe slowly began to turn red.


A blood blister then.

The first few steps were painful and I laughed at myself.

I wasn’t going to be defeated by a blister.

I continued, still fascinated by the colour of my white shoe turning red.

Just to take my mind off the blister, 90km was also at the point that bending my right leg at all actually became a little too painful. And so the shuffle I had created on the steep downhill had now become my… general shuffle.

I arrived at the beach.

I couldn’t remember whether it was 4km or 7km on the beach.

Did it matter?

I wondered whether to wash my feet in the sea.

No time for that Jess, you’re almost home.

I began the run – could see for miles, other runners in the distance still on the beach.

I picked a pace and stuck to it, with no watch I had no idea how fast (or slow) I was going and I was actually pretty grateful for it.

There was a pack of runners spread out around me who were all running the same pace, and we swapped in and out of positions as the last 95km took its toll on our bodies.

But by golly, there was no denying how beautiful it was to be there.

I’m not sure how long we were running but at last there was an arrow to some stairs to take us back onto the trail before one final stint on the beach.

Almost home Jess.

The Surf Coast Walk section was undulating, painful.

There were almost tears and definitely a few stops when my right knee bent without my consent. The pain.

There may have been some swearing.

I took a caffeine gel, hoping that would allow me to go a little harder.

A harder shuffle. A harder swagger.

Come on Jess.

I couldn’t even imagine what it would be like to finish – not having to run anymore. What did that even feel like?

I ran past the Surf Club – knew it would take me down onto the beach and not far from the finish line.

So grateful.

I pushed myself into the closest thing I could muster to a run along the beach for the final km, and eventually I found myself at the left turn off the beach, to the finish line.

About 100m ahead of me I could see a photographer, standing on the other side of a small ocean river that had formed.


Cold cold water.

I ran through it and stopped in the middle.

Bloody hell that felt good.

I don’t know how long I was there for, just enjoying the feeling. I could’ve stayed there forever.

“Erm, you’re 500m from the end.” The photographer reminded me.


I reluctantly left the water and made my way onto the boardwalk that would take me to the finish.

400m to go.


I almost felt nauseous.

I wanted a strong finish and so I moved faster – not elegantly, and still no ability to bend my right knee. The swagger sprint.

I turned and saw the line.


A beautiful crowd of cheering people. Friends, other runners, volunteers.

Just beautiful people.

I crossed the line.





I had done it.

13 hours 46 minutes.

And I could stop running.

I found my friends who swiftly poured me a half steine of beer – the most welcome and best tasting beer in the world. I chatted to other runners, stole hot chips off them, everyone was so happy to be at the finish line.

I got a few high fives too – those that had passed me and my swagger were unsure I would finish.

It was never not an option.

The evening was spent doing (not enough) stretching and talking about the race. Trying my hardest to eat normal food, but instead settling for multiple glasses of red wine.

Antioxidants, right?

Was I happy? Of course.

Could I do better? I would like to this so.

Would I do it again? Hells yes.


And next?

I’m going to give the 4 Peaks a red hot crack in a few weeks (injured shoulder allowing).

I’m blown away and EXCITED as well to confirm that I’ve managed to secure automatic qualification (and therefore no ballot) into the UTMB 100km in Chamonix in August – with enough points from the Alpine Challenge and Surf Coast Century to secure my spot. This is a big 2022 goal for me and my race bucket list – and only 6,100m of elevation…


But I have 32 weeks…

GSER: The Reckless Ragdoll

I hadn’t originally signed up for the Great Southern Endurance Run – which took the 28km runners up it. I’d told everyone how beautiful it was because I’d hiked it a few weeks before.

But then FOMO crept in, why wasn’t I running it if it was so good?


Because I had the Surf Coast Century 100km in three weeks, because my breathing still wasn’t right and I was relying on a daily preventer inhaler, because I was still carrying some winter (ahem, Prosecco) weight.

Because of a million reasons…

But none that could stop the pull of wanting to race again. After so many months.

I pondered (stared into space a lot – which is actually no change from my normal self), entries had closed the Sunday before.

So I emailed the Directors on the Tuesday – if they let me enter late, I’d do it.

They replied within five minutes.

I was in.



Holy moly.

I didn’t tell my coach.

What was my plan? Was I racing or just running?

A combination of both, maybe. Push myself but not kill myself. No injuries.

No injuries, Jess.

I did things a little differently leading up to the race: I’d already told myself I’d give up wine until after the 100km (don’t worry there will be a glass bottle of prosecco waiting on the finish line…), and so why not just give up drink completely in the lead up to this race? And why not rest a few days before too? So that’s what happened.

Golly, that was hard.

Race day was upon me, and I woke to a clear head. I ate sweet potato, beets and eggs. And coffe-ed, all the coffee. Mobilised, journaled and meditated.

All before 5.30am.

We got to the start line around 6.15am – nervous excitement hung in the air, everyone was clearly excited to be back racing, regardless of the fact that it had rained all day Friday and was supposed to rain all day Saturday. There were still smiles all round.

I did something else I don’t usually do – a warm up jog. Slowly, trying to get my legs working and breathing under control. I did some skips, some jigs. Realised how silly I looked and headed to get ready. Feeling ready.

The course would take us out 5km along the rail trail to the trout farm, then the climb – the wall: 4km of pure steep up. I think I was the only one excited about that. We would then traverse across to Mount Feathertop – not summiting due to the inclement weather, before dropping down a gradual (but rocky) descent along Bungalow Spur back to the start where we would run a short out-and-back.

The perfect course. Steep up, gradual down. Trails, mountains, adventure.

I took a Gu gel – the only ones I could get hold of before the race. Crickey, it was like drinking a warm milkshake. Kinda nice though.

And suddenly we were off, my heartbeat pounding in my ears, adrenaline running through my body.

A race.

I tried not to get excited, to hold back on the flat, pick a pace.

But golly.

A race.

I looked at my watch – 4.10min/km.


But I felt good, my breathing felt good. Finally.

I dropped back, remembering I had the 100km in a few weeks. I would need my legs for that. 4.30min/km.


The 5km seemed quite endless, until finally we hit grass and 2km of undulating trails that would take us to the wall and the climb.

We were guided across a log that I had previously bum-shuffled across over a wide river – grateful for a rope that was able to provide balance to shuffle across…on my feet.

And then the climb.


4km of steep up to the MUMC hut. Through the trees, through the clouds.

I began.

I was soon behind two girls.

“Let me know if you want to pass.” said the leader.

We both wanted to, so she stepped aside and the girl ahead of me passed her.

I was just about to do the same, literally right behind the girl who had stepped aside. Right there. 

She hopped back onto the trail in front of me.

“You have to be right on my back if you want to pass, otherwise we’ll be in synergy.”

I was so confused.

I don’t think I could’ve been any closer to her.

And what if I wanted to be in synergy? That sounded fun.

I stayed silent, let five minutes pass, then tried again – making sure I was almost hugging her before I asked again.

Then I was off, on my mission: the mountain.

I lunged, pushed myself off my knees, climbed, sang, swore. There was a lot of talking to myself.

I loved every second.

I passed the 100-mile sweepers. 100 miles, six loops of what I was doing. That took my breath away.

More climbing and passing a few more people, remembering at certain points to stop and enjoy the view – even though the cloud obscured most of it. Still so beautiful.

It was about an hour in that I had some potatoes. As per previous efforts during races, I nearly choked on the potatoes as I tried to inhale air into my lungs and eat at the same time.


I took a gel too, which wasn’t any more successful.

I laughed at myself.

We had been advised that when we arrived at the MUMC hut, we would need to stop and put our layers on, that there was wind and rain and coldness.

And I could feel it.

The temperature was dropping, faster, with every step. And the wind picking up.


I arrived at the hut to the wind which literally took my breath away.

2.5km of this.

I put my gloves and buff on…which seemed silly given I was still in my shorts.


The beauty of the single track along the side of the mountain took my mind off the weather, the views were still magical.

I was grateful – even when the wind whipped at my bare legs and forced the air out of my lungs.

The mountains were alive that was for sure.

I continued on, picking up the pace after the steep climb, kind of happy to be on the flat undulating trails.

I could see Federation Hut.

And now the downhill.

Oh, the downhill. My nemesis.

I had watched a YouTube video on how to run technical downhill the night before. The tips?

Fast feet – which I knew and had been practising (if on the spot counts…).

Be reckless.

Oh dear.

Like a rag doll.

Double oh dear.

I watched in awe of these people literally throwing themselves down steep technical rocky trails – and smiling whilst they did it.


If they can do it then so can I, right?

And the reckless ragdoll was born, so to speak.

I took a caffeine gel, a little more successfully than last time.

The first part of Bungalow Spur down I find quite rocky and rutty, hard to navigate at speed.

But I figured I’d try and loosen my body, took smaller steps and just leant forward and went…just like that.

And it worked, I picked up pace and found some sort of weird rhythm, flailing my arms around (yes, like a ragdoll).

And just like that I survived the first part of the descent. Granted not the fastest, but fast for me and that was enough.

I passed more 100km people that I knew “fourth girl Jess!”

Did that matter? Was I chasing?

Golly gosh, no. I was surviving (this bit anyway), and I wasn’t pushing myself.

I’d thought about what I wanted to achieve prior to the race. A good time? Top 5? I had seen the other competitors at the start line and knew that would be tough.

I had decided: happiness with my running. Comfortable going into my first 100km. And maybe under 4 hours would be nice.

No racing, no chasing.

Just run strong.

I continued as the descent flattened out and I was able to go faster and actually began to enjoy it.

But I kept getting caught in the beauty of the mountains and my surroundings.

Focus Jess, be a reckless ragdoll.

It was at that moment that my foot decided to kick a rather large rock.

There was literally no time between me being upright and me hurtling towards the ground. I didn’t even have time to swear.

My right knee took the brunt of the fall, catching on other rocks. And then in really fast slow motion, my body just automatically tucked, and suddenly I was rolling.

The ninja had returned.

Before I knew it, I was standing up again – in the ready stance.

Ready for what?

I did a body check, ankles were fine, shoulders were fine.

I was fine.

I looked around to see whether anyone had witnessed such an incredible….dance?

No, no one.

I laughed out loud.

My knee suddenly started throbbing and I looked down.

Bright red blood.


I looked closer.

Just superficial holes, worse than it looked.

I continued, stretching out my body just to check I was ok.

A girl flew by me at an incredible speed. Just dancing down the trail.

“Follow me!”

Well, why not?

So I tried, picked up the pace again, flailed my arms and became reckless.

I must’ve kept her in my sight for all of five minutes before I lost her – I had a lot of work to do to get to that speed.

But I continued down, the reckless ragdoll.

Kilometres passed and I wondered how my quads would feel tomorrow, wondered how long I could keep focussed and not fall again.

And a part of me waited for more people to overtake.

But it never happened, and that to me was a small win.

Then I recognised where I was – the end of the trail, and onto the road.

Holy cow. Only one fall and some decent speed. No real injuries.

So happy.

I continued down the road, knowing we were running past the finish line to complete a 1.5km out- and-back, back towards the trout farm.

I could hear the finish, see the finish. And maybe my body felt that we should be finishing, as it tired, ached.

Oh dear.

And it wasn’t just me.

Runners on the out-and-back had started to walk – we had climbed the mountain, and the real wall we faced was the concrete.

I pushed on, almost there.

I looked at my watch: 3 hours and 10 minutes. Yikes.

Third and fourth girl passed me coming the other way – on their way to the finish. And a small part of me, tiny, wondered whether I could push myself and catch them.

That feeling quickly went.

No Jess, no chasing, no racing.

I got to the turn around point, where the photographer seemed more intent on photographing my knee than me running.

So I jumped for the photo.

Sorry legs.

Last push back, last 1km.

Golly it was hard.

The concrete was so hard on my already tired body.

Come on Jess.


Somewhere I found the energy and picked up the pace.

The finish.

3 hours 18 minutes.

Happy, so happy.

High fives and hugs and a jumping photo.

I washed my legs in the cold water of the nearby river before we watched and cheered on the other runners coming in.

God, it felt good to be back.

And next?

I run my first 100km in 5 days…


The Alpine Challenge 60km: Beauty and the… Brumbies

I knew I wasn’t ready – physically, and maybe not even mentally.

But I knew I wanted to do something…something challenging.

So, it was between the Buffalo Stampede 42km or the Alpine Challenge 60km.

My coach – knowing I was questioning my form – told me to choose the course I preferred rather than the race itself. The Alpine Challenge 60km it was then – up and over the Alpine High Plains.


But could I actually run 60km?

Only one way to find out…

Race Day

I woke just before 5am, before my alarm. Nerves or excitement – or maybe a combination of both.

The race started at 8.30am in Falls Creek and I wanted to make sure I had time to do… everything, to check and re-check, to re-read the map and instructions of the race, and to make sure I ate enough.

I’d pre-cooked my race potatoes and breakfast eggs and sat down to have the usual coffee, beetroot, sweet potato and pre boiled eggs while looking at the map of the race. The first 10km was a descent – steep in places, followed by a 10km ascent to get to the high plains. The remaining 40km was undulating.

Golly, it seemed like a long way.

I mobilised my body until I thought I was overstretching all my limb, and then journaled about how I was feeling until I couldn’t write anymore without causing muscle fatigue in my arm J

Nerves indeed.

I also knew that once I got home everything would be hurting – whether it was my heart or my body. So, I prepared my firepit, ready to be lit, and prepped some dinner and snacks for after the race.

And put some Prosecco in the fridge, of course.

During the drive over to Falls Creek I stopped at Sullivan’s Lookout – a favourite lookout of mine over Mount Beauty. I took a moment, a few breaths.

Just run Jess, do what you love.

I arrived to blue skies and other runners, all looking as excited and nervous as me.

Gear checks, more potatoes, both ankles strapped, and I was at the start line.

We counted down together and we were off, running down the road towards Packhorse, a 5km mountain bike trail. Single trail.

I’d been advised to get ahead before we hit the trail as it would bottleneck, so I let my legs carry me forward and down.

As we entered Packhorse I joined a pack of guys, aiming to keep up with them, or at least keep them in my sight.

This was fast.

We jumped and weaved over and around rocks and obstacles, until I eventually lost them, and I was alone.


The trail was beautiful and quite technical, and I wondered how mountain bikers actually biked up it.

I did a body check – legs felt good, lungs felt good. My brain felt slightly overwhelmed by what was to come, especially as my watch vibrated: 1km down. 59km more to go….


Eventually, I exited out of Packhorse and crossed the road, passing a volunteer who directed me towards a fire trail ahead.

“Crikey you did that fast.”

Initially distracted by the fact that I’d found another human being that used the word crikey, I looked at my watch: 5km in 29 minutes. Fast for trail, and perhaps for the start of a 60km race.  

I nodded at him.

But it was bloody fun though.

The next 5km of trail was a rough descent – rocky and scree-ey(?) and incredibly steep in parts.

Much slower than the first 5km.

I heard someone behind me panting, before he passed me.

“Who needs toenails anyway.” He commented.


But I do like mine.

We continued almost together, slowing on the steeper sections until we got to the bottom, to crossroads.

My first map reading, and also a check on the written instructions.


He nodded in agreement and we turned, then hit a small ascent and I left him with his toenails…or lack of.

A few hundred metres later I hit a river…. I mean, maybe it was a creek, but it was pretty wide and pretty deep.

I stopped and looked, and looked again.

No clear crossing.


Straight through then.

Thigh deep. I wondered whether there was a bridge I hadn’t seen, but the water was refreshing anyhow.

10km in.

I took a gel and a salt tablet – it wasn’t the best idea to take the beautifully sweet gel first, then the bitter salt tablet after. The taste remained in my mouth until I took the next gel. Hmmm.  

Now the ascent.

On the elevation map I’d looked at it had shown this as a steep ascent – my favourite.

But no no.

It zig zagged upwards. Not steep, just that awkward amount of gradient that you’re not quite sure whether to run or lunge.

10km of it.


And so I began. Running at first, then lunging.

I’d actually read (at least a million) articles on the pros and cons of ascending on gradient of less than 26%. It all came down to personal preference of whether you would rather sacrifice energy expenditure and run, or sacrifice muscle expenditure and lunge. The recommendations generally leant towards doing a combo.

So, the dancing began, and I swapped every few minutes between lunging and running.

I came to a guy who I’d lost on Packhorse, then another, and passed them as they walked and shuffled – they weren’t overly happy with life at that moment.

I could feel myself getting higher and higher – surely near the top. And frost appeared on the ground, definitely near the top.

I passed a runner with poles and we chatted.

“This is my second ever trail run. I didn’t realise it would be so hard.”


I stayed with him for a while, until we hit what looked like the lead up to a flatter ridge line across the Alpine Plains. I wished him luck – the hard part was done.


The views took my breath away and I must’ve taken a million photos right there of the contrasting green grass, the frost, the blue skies and the mountains.

Oh, the mountains.

I felt like I was home.

But also in a race, Jess.

I continued on – single track along a ridge line, surrounding by beauty and mountains.

So happy.

And also, potato time.

Literally all my favourite things in one place (minus the prosecco…).

22km in and my legs felt good.

I knew there was a check point in a few kms up the small ascent ahead of me, where I could stock up on electrolytes and some more carbs. I’d only managed to fit three bags of potatoes in my pack with all the mandatory gear.

I saw someone running towards me and my adrenaline kicked in – something had happened? I couldn’t have been going the wrong way, surely? And I couldn’t be hallucinating yet…

Then I realised. “Simon!”

I knew him – volunteering for the race this weekend because he was unable to run due to injury, but out on his own run.

He reached me and turned and ran next to me, slowing to my pace. It was so good to talk to someone after almost three hours of running mostly solo.

“You’re first female, and fifth overall.”

Eek. I knew there were no females ahead of me, but not that I was fifth overall.

Come on legs.

We reached the check point full of beautifully cheery people – one of my favourite things about ultra runs: the people.

I had actually planned on getting to the check point at around 3 hours 30mins, but had reached it at 3 hours almost on the dot.


I filled up on electrolytes and bananas, allowing myself a few minutes to recharge before I set off, continuing along the ridge line.

It was too beautiful.

So, I video called my twin sister in Hong Kong because she would love this, because one day when were allowed to fly, I would bring her here to do this again. Together.  

We chatted and laughed before she told me to focus on the race.

I ran, alone along the single track, along a few dusty 4WD tracks. Thinking, singing (it happened), planning. There were tough sections – shrubbery where you couldn’t quite see the trail you were running on, and single track that was so narrow you had to literally put one foot in front of the other. Both instances forced me to slow down.

I checked my map and the instructions when I wasn’t sure, as we were told the course wasn’t marked overly well in places.

Another body check – my hips were feeling tender but that had always happened at anything over 25km. My ankles were fine, which I was grateful for.

 My pace drifted between 5.35min/km and 6.00min/km which I was happy about.

An ascent through some beautiful but rocky single track took me to 30km – halfway. Three and a half hours in.

I did a combination of the jig and the robot dance (sometimes it’s actually a bonus of ultra runs that there are rarely people around you….)

I looked at my time – could I do seven hours? I wondered.

The next check point came along, and I filled my water and ate a packet of chips – which I hadn’t planned on but just happened. And felt good.

“That way?” I pointed right.

“Erm no, that’s a car park. You go that way.” She pointed left.

Good one, Jess.

I set off onto more single track before hitting a crossroad.

I checked the map, and the instructions. Not overly clear until I saw a single track across from me and continued.


Then the pain started.

And not in any of my usual places (i.e. all over).

In my heel – it suddenly felt like I was running with a nail in my heel.

Not overly pleasant.

I continued on, hoping it would go away. But the single track had been covered in a plastic cover to make it more walkable, I guess? Compounding the pain in my heel on every strike.

Could I do this for another 23km?

I reasoned with myself that I’d run 50km on a broken foot before (not recommended)… surely, I could do this, and maybe it would ease.

So, I tried to ignore it and adjusted my foot placement to the point where it must’ve looked like I was running with a swagger.

Rocking it, I’m sure.

It was a lot though.

My mind battled with itself, should I take painkillers? We’ve always been told to err on the side of caution using painkillers in ultra-running – placing too much stress on your already overworked kidneys.

1km later I stopped.

I would take the risk.

Painkillers and a gel and some salt. A beautiful concoction of…everything I needed right then.

I continued on with my swagger, waiting for them all to kick in.

I kept my mind busy, focussing on the views and the mountains, aware that my pace had dropped but still shuffling through. I couldn’t afford to go to a dark place right now.

Mountains mountains mountains.


“Only 18km to go.” I told myself in an overly cheery voice. Almost to my own annoyance.

I hit a crossroads next to a red roofed hut with five different options to go down. I could see one pink flag across a bridge on the aqueduct. Surely it had to be that way – but then was it left, or right?

I looked at the instructions which warned that this was where runners usually got lost.


I studied the map, which looked to go right, towards Cape Hut. Follow the poles – there were poles.

So I crossed the bridge over the aqueduct and went right with the poles, along the aqueduct – a 4WD track.

Flatter, less pain in the heel.

After a few minutes I stopped.

There was something in my gut.

Something not right.

I must’ve gone 800m, maybe 1km.

This wasn’t right.

I looked for Cape Hut, checked the map again.

I was heading the wrong way, away from Cape Hut.

Panic and disbelief.

I turned, looked back at where I had come from.


I picked up the pace and ran back.

Sh*t sh*t sh*t.

A couple of minutes later I was back at the red roof hut, so confused. I couldn’t see any other runners, couldn’t see any routes. I read the map again and re-read the instructions:

Cross the aqueduct and follow the numbered pole line to Pole 333 (check your map—many runners go the wrong way here). Watch out for brumbies in this area

Something else occurred to me: I didn’t know what a brumbie was. Was I about to be attacked by one? I looked around, not overly sure what I was looking for.

I felt beaten.

I called Paul, the Race Director, and explained where I was.

“Follow the poles, not the ones along the aqueduct. Not along a road.”

I could only see roads. He could sense my frustration.

“Stand in front of the hut door and directly in front of you is a trail, follow those poles into the grass, you’re aiming for Pole 333.”

At that moment the sun seemed to suddenly shine on an impossible-to-see single track across the road in front of me, the start of it obscured by overgrown grass. And there were poles.

I thanked Paul and ended the call.

I felt so stupid, so disappointed in myself.

There was at least one sob before I started running again into the single track, and if I could’ve lifted my foot high enough, I would definitely have stamped it in annoyance.

How much time had I lost? Not just from going wrong but the time spent looking for the right way and on the phone to Paul. 20 minutes? 30 maybe?

How many people had passed me in that time?

Had I given away the lead?


I was in the middle of a pity party for one.

I needed to find strength again, so I called Imogen who was out on her own run.

“I got lost.”

I explained what had happened and I could hear my voice going more and more high pitched. She could sense my frustration, could probably hear that I was almost in tears.

“It’s fine Jess, it doesn’t matter. You’re on the right track now, just keep on running. This is your race.”

There was so much positivity in her words.

“Remember where you are.”

And then I did.

The mountains.

I was lucky enough to be in the middle of the most beautiful mountains, able to run over and around them.

Nothing else mattered.

Bring present in the mountains mattered.

I thanked her and left her to her run.

Then I realised something else – my heel had stopped hurting.

Whether the painkillers had kicked in or whether the forced ‘rest’ had helped.

I laughed, finally. Happy again. Almost annoyed that I’d let myself become so caught up in getting lost. 

I focussed on the course – marshy and rocky so a little tricky, but a nice change to the plastic or road.

I looked at the poles and realised they were all numbered and counting down towards pole 333 – where the next aid station was at 47.5km.

No brumbies in sight either – although I wouldn’t have known if there were.

The pole numbers were getting lower and I could suddenly see the check point. I checked my watch which was on 49km. So, I’d maybe gone 2km off course?

Then I remembered it didn’t matter.

There were two guys at the check point with the biggest smiles I’d ever seen. Legends.

I refuelled with electrolytes and chips and we chatted for a few minutes about the race, the mountains, the day, getting lost.

But I refused to ask them what a brumbie was.

They did confirm that I was maybe the seventh or eighth 60km runner to come through the station – and the first girl so far. So, a couple of the guys had passed me when I went off course.

Was that a relief? Did that change things?

I didn’t think so.

I was pain free, on the right track and a few km away from completing the longest race I’d ever run.

I was happy, and I was so grateful.

“So, this way?” I pointed to a single track.

“Erm, no it’s this way.” One of the guys pointed to the pink flags that lined the course.

We laughed and I set off.

More marsh and rock but a descent this time, and without the pain in my heel the ninja tap dancing came back as I picked up the pace.

I also realised I had ignored my nutrition during the panic of getting lost and took a gel and a salt tablet. Still the wrong way round.

The course turned right onto a 4WD track that looked familiar – similar to when I’d camped at Pretty Valley Pondage and run around the trails there.


A gradual ascent and I caught up with one of the guys that must’ve passed me when I went off track.

He did a double take.

“I got lost.”


Yeah, but I didn’t get eaten by brumbies so I’m winning.

More 4WD track, more views.

More gratitude.

I continued on and watched as my watch ticked over to 54km – officially the longest I’d ever run for.

I checked my body and sure it hurt all over, but there was nothing outstandingly painful anymore.

I hit the Pretty Valley check point just behind another guy and filled up on water in my plastic cup. I knew the bladder in my pack was empty but didn’t think I had the mental or physical skills, or patience, to stop a refill it. Which was a bit silly really.  

The guy manning the check point pointed to a mountain in the distance.

“That’s where you’re headed. Out and back up and down.”

I looked.

Mt McKay.


I actually didn’t believe him, thought he must’ve had it wrong. Who would put a mountain in a race in the last 5km of a 60km? I checked the instructions.


Another gel, with caffeine, as I started back running ahead of the other guy who I think continued to stare at Mt McKay in disbelief for a little while longer.

I thought about what finishing the race would feel like, how it would feel to stop running. I was almost seven hours in now – I couldn’t even remember what not running felt like anymore.

I continued, and suddenly I was at the bottom of Mt McKay with a 4WD road going pretty steeply up it. I was actually grateful for the change in stride and pace as I started to lunge up it.

And then for the first time I thought about how near the second-place female might be, whether I had done enough to maintain a decent lead, or whether she would appear on this out and back. I looked back at the trail we had come from and could see no one but the guy I’d passed at the check point.

Would this be my first ultra-trail win? I decided not to get ahead of myself – a lot could still happen between now and the finish line.

Almost anything in fact.

The climb felt so good, I almost wanted to just stay in the lunge positions a little longer each time, and maybe just enjoy the view a little too.

I was also aware that I needed water and didn’t have any.


Maybe there was some at the top.

A small single track off the road took us to the hut at the top where I met a guy taking a photo of it.

“Do we need photo evidence?” I asked.

“Nah, just letting my wife know where I am.”

Of course.

I wondered how many more stupid questions I had left in me.

I took a photo anyway and touched the door. No water in sight.

The descent was…fast. I caught up and passed the guy, staying low and taking my little tap-dancing steps.

At the bottom I pulled out my instructions, confused.

Follow the flags through the scrub…



I wondered whether scrubs had anything to do with brumbies.

I turned to the guy behind me and pointed down the road.

“This way?”

He shook his head and laughed and pointed straight across the road, where the tiny pick flags led through what I could imagine is a scrub.

One more stupid question then Jess.

We entered the scrub together, ascending through shrubbery and rocks, but nice enough single trail.

“Paul likes to throw in a hill for the last few kms.” The guy said.

He also just threw in a mountain.

We held a steady pace together until we hit the 4WD track again, the start of the mountain bike trails, and I pulled away slightly.

There was a small sign by the side of the road.

2km to go.

2km until no more running.

I wasn’t sure how I felt about that, or how my body would feel.

I was just over seven and a half hours with maybe only 20 minutes maximum of human interaction. The rest had been spent in my head. Planning, thinking, life administrating, good memories, bad memories, more good memories.

So many questions. What would I have done differently? Could I have gone faster?

Focus Jess.

Just finish.

At 1km we were directed off the 4WD track and down into grass that cut straight down through the mountain bike trails.

Surely not.

There wasn’t a trail as such, only squashed grass from the runners that had already finished, and it was lumpy and hard to see where to put my feet.

Focus Jess.

A guy appeared.


I knew I must be near the finish.

We chatted as I ran past, and I could hear the cow bells and people at the finish line.

Real people.

And then it came into view, the finish line I’d left over seven and a half hours ago.

I sped up towards it, so happy.

So happy.

I’d made it.

60km (Ahem, 63km).

First female.

Fifth overall.

So grateful.

I took off my pack, took off my shoes.

Unsure what to do with myself.

Restless legs.

People started talking to me about the race – other runners, volunteers, and we exchanged stories.

I tried to stretch my legs, but every muscle was on the border of cramping – even my shoulders.

Beer instead then – which tasted so good after seven hours of potatoes, bananas gels and salt tablets.


I found out that the presentations were going to be held on the Sunday when I wasn’t around.

My last two ultra-races I had come third and second, with no presentations allowed due to COVID-19. And now I was going to miss this one.

I put any pride aside and jumped (erm, literally had to be lifted) onto the empty podium alone, with my horseshoe trophy. Happy.

Race learnings? So many, but here goes:

  1. People are amazing and can pull you out of dark dark places. Seek out those people and drag them along for the journey.
  2. Learn as much about the race as possible: the terrain, the course, everything. (I now know what brumbies and scrubs are…).
  3. Always take a moment, or multiple moments, to appreciate what you are doing and where you are doing it. Because it is awesome.

And next?

The big one will be the Surf Coast Century 100km in September.


But next up is the Wandi Cross – 3,000m elevation in 21km…


Buffalo Stampede: Fast and furious, but still glorious

Evening races have never been my jam – the last time I participated I almost swore I’d never do it again. The anticipation throughout the day is a killer, and I can never quite get the nutrition right. 

The 10km Buffalo Stampede, however, was upon us (ahem, more like 12.6km). Short, but tough: up Emily Spur and down some of the double black mountain bike trails of Bright.


But why not? I hadn’t raced a shorter distance for a while and there were plenty of people I knew doing it… it was also a good test for my ankle for the impending 60km Alpine Challenge. It could be fun, right?

The race.

The event atmosphere was electric – music, runners and good vibes. Good times.

I took a caffeine gel, my ankle strapped. I was ready.

And suddenly 5pm came and we were off – facing 3.5km of flat trail before the climb up Emily Spur.

We were running and it was fast – for trail. I was with a pack – mostly girls. 4.25min/km.

Holy moly.

But my stubbornness to stay with the pack overrode any race plan I’d had (cruise the flats, smash the up and go careful on the downs).

Even when I couldn’t contain or control my breathing, I just kept going.

Suddenly there were conflicting thoughts going through my head – my race prep had been poor, maybe I’d eaten too much that day, or maybe I just wasn’t cut out for faster races anymore.

I rationalised with myself: I was only 3.5km in, you can hold this.

And so I did, somehow. I managed to find a comfortably uncomfortable rhythm in my stride and my breathing.

I was not racing to win – I’d seen who I was up against and seen most of them sprint off at the start. This was more about proving to myself that I could still go faster and shorter. And maybe find some pleasure in evening races. Maybe.

We continued along at pace – through campsites, over bridges, along the river. All beautiful.

I knew the trails, and I knew that we were coming to the Emily.

For various reasons I’d already done Emily Spur twice that week (again, questioning my race prep…). It’s one of my favourite runs (‘runs’) – different grades of climbs, beautiful views and multiple choices to get back down to the bottom.

Hello Emily.

We started the climb.

Some around me slowed (as most would given the gradient), and I took the opportunity to try and push forward and gain some ground before the downhill that I knew would slow me down.

Cue aggressive lunging.

Emily Spur is a jaggered and steep 1.5km long firetail leading up to Mystic Hill Launch Pad. Many break the length of the climb down into sections of either quarters or thirds to make it easier on the mind and body to tackle.

As we ascended I noticed my breathing was still an issue and I was taking huge breaths just to try and get enough oxygen into my lungs to account for the steepness of the climb.

Head down. Get up.

I passed a few people and we exchanged words of encouragement – everyone in their own little pain cave trying to push through.

Having done the climb a fair few times, I know you have a fair amount of time to try and distract yourself from the lactic acid build in your legs, and the burn in your lungs – especially without music. So, I thought about the race, and at this point I figured I might even be third female – (which explained the inability to breath properly). I knew there were many close behind me though; I could hear them and knew they were strong runners.

Could I hold third? Was I even third? Could I even breathe?

I decided to think about something else.

Post-race Prosecco.

Happy, I continued on up.

I stopped once to look at the view as the sunset on us – a reminder of how lucky we were to be doing this.

We hit Gaps Jump (I think it’s called that, but I may also have made that up. There’s a jump there, and it has a gap in it so…) and I knew this was the final part. The final up.

Part of that excited me, part of that terrified me.

We were reaching the downhill.

Everyone has their weakness, I know that.

(one of) Mine is on the downhill. Which surprises me because I used to not be too bad at it. But maybe too many falls, sprains, near misses (hello trees)…or maybe I had just become too cautious and risk adverse?  Either way, they were no longer my friend.

I could see the top – see people I knew. Legends, who had made the climb to support runners when they most needed it.

They cheered and shouted support.

That, coupled with the sun setting over Mystic Hill, I almost wanted to cry. A reminder of the beauty of trail running, nature and people in general.

“Small steps and get low on the downhill” one of the girls supporting commented – she could clearly read the panic in my face at what was to come.

I nodded.

I could do this.

I ran across the top of Mystic Hill with the sun setting before me – and more beautiful people, cheering.

I could do this.

World Cup Downhill is a double black mountain bike trail that defies me how anyone could possibly ride down without a) hitting a tree b) coming off at any of the multiple humongous drops c) being absolutely terrified and running away. Huge kudos.

I began the descent as the darkness of the forest encapsulated me.

“Small steps” I repeated, and managed to find a rhythm in between the drops and roots. Small fast steps.

Like a ninja.

Be a ninja Jess.

I found a pace in the zig zagging of the trail that I was comfortable with – fast enough to not feel like it was slow motion, slow enough to feel in control. Tap dancing almost.

A happy tap-dancing ninja indeed.

The expected happened – people caught me.

First one of the guys I’d overtaken on Emily and I watched in awe as he almost jigged merrily down the steep trail.

Then a girl; the girl I knew had been the closest behind me on Emily spur.

I stepped to the side and let her pass.

She was flying.

Had I lost third? Was I even third? Did it even matter?

I decided it didn’t.

Finishing without injury mattered, improving my downhill just a little bit mattered.

The tap-dancing ninja.

I continued.

And something strange happened – I began to enjoy it, picking up speed where I could and sliding down on my backside when I needed too. It was actually fun.

I got to the bottom of World Cup DH, pleased with the effort (but also pleased it was over) and ran towards Down DJ – another mountain bike trail that was more forgiving that World Cup with large open trails, less roots and drops and less steep.

It was also beginning to get darker not only as I descended deeper into the forest, but as the sun properly set – not quite enough to get my head torch out, but enough to appreciate the beauty and peace of the forest at night.

Erm Jess, you’re in a race.


So, I started and was able to go faster and let loose a little more on the easier trails. Still taking smaller steps and staying low – still present and watching the trail.

Golly this was fun.

The huge berms on Down DJ are mildly terrifying on a bike, but to run become like a big adventure playground, fun and fast.

So happy.

I realised there was no one around me – those who had overtaken me on World Cup had long gone, and those who I had managed to pass on Emily appeared to be some way off.

Alone with the forest and the trails.

An overwhelming gratefulness settled in me.

I was nearing the bottom of Down DJ when I could feel my legs become just that little bit heavier. And it occurred to me I’d been running for almost an hour – my body needed fuel.

A gel. Berry. Done.

Sugar coursed through me and I could feel my legs come back to life (I don’t actually think it happens that quickly, most likely the placebo effect…)

Down DJ was suddenly over and straight into Grevid’s Way (via a link track maybe? I just followed the pink ribbons) – it was flatter but more rooty. Darker still.

But. I had done the descent, survived, enjoyed – and not as slow as I thought I would’ve.

Single track now, beautiful single track, undulating.

My favourite.

I laughed a lot I think, and made a few noises that I can’t even describe. The trails were awesome.

And then I was back out in the open, at the bottom of Emily Spur where we had started the climb – more people cheering.

It was almost a shock to be back in civilisation.

3.5km to go. Flat.

I had energy – I could go.

So I did.

Not as hard as the beginning 3.5km. A slightly more comfortable 4.35min/km, not dictated by others.

Across a bridge, back through the campsite.


I turned my head torch on, holding it to light my path. 

A sign – 1km to go.

I pushed. Could taste the Prosecco.

I heard the event finish – the atmosphere, music, people.


I mustered up what sprint I had left and crossed the line to familiar faces.

1 hour 20 minutes.

13th overall and 4th female.

I was happy.

I was exhausted.

I was grateful.

Ooo, free beer.

I caught up with others – those that had finished already, those that had come to watch. And we watched as more runners came in.


I took away three things from the race:

  1. Run your own race – otherwise it could ruin you
  2. Trust yourself and your body’s capabilities (and become a tap-dancing ninja if needed)
  3. Be present – always. Be where your feet are

Hello Prosecco.

And next?

My longest run so far – the 60km Alpine Challenge.

It’ll be tough for sure. But watching other runners smashing out the 10km, 75km and the 42km over the Buffalo Stampede weekend, I have learned so much about what tough truly means – and what strength truly looks like.

I am inspired.


Warburton Trail Fest: The highs, the lows and the blows…

I hadn’t raced a multi-day since Lara Pinta in 2017 – which is strange because to this day it’s been one of my favourite racing experiences.

I’d raced at the Warburton festival in 2020 and managed to take 2nd place in the Donna Double (22km) despite spraining my ankle at 17km. I wanted to do better this year, and hurt myself less. So, I signed up for the multi-day madness: 50km-22km-9km.

Of course.

With the exception of a mountain bike crash that ruined my bike and my hamstring, the training had gone really well – so I felt good going into the weekend.

Even when our Airbnb turned out to be a dorm with bunk beds and I opted to sleep on a trundle in the porch. It’s all part of the experience, right?

Compact but efficient, I laid out all my race gear.


Saturday: Lumberjack 50km

I set my alarm for 5.45am but I was awake at 5am. Excited? Maybe, but also the porch didn’t have any curtains so I woke in a state of terror, which is also a great alarm clock.

I was up, eating my pre-cooked eggs and sweet potato with beetroot. And of course a coffee.

With my bag packed, I put on my new Salmon S/Lab Sense 8 trail shoes – they felt like gloves on my feet. I wondered whether I could moonwalk in them (I tried; I can’t).

We left at 6.20am; nervous energy in the car as we drove the 25 minutes to the start line.

The sun was rising as racers got ready, mingled and did their last-minute checks.

And so did I: toilet trip(s), gel checks and of course my #potatopower check.


I thought about the race.

The aim – without knowing the course – was to get under six hours, ideally five and a half hours, and try to run without stopping, unless I needed more energy at an aid station…or fell over.

As with all multi day races I also knew it was important to not go out too hard on the first one – so pacing myself was essential.

We were treated to the legendary Beau Miles starting the race by chopping through a piece of wood with an axe.

No, really…

Then suddenly we were off.

As always, I tried not to look ahead of me, or count the women, the men. This was my race. My first race of 2021.

The Warburton trails are very different to Bright, or the You Yangs – thicker mud on the floor, ferns either side of the trail and a rain forest that towers above you allowing only glimpses of sunlight.

Quite magical.


We started off fast and I had to stop myself so I wasn’t running under 5 minute kilometres, knowing the first 12km was relatively flat just undulating.

My legs felt good. A little tight – maybe from the bike crash maybe from the (failed attempt in decreasing) strength training – most likely from a combo of both.

But I was happy.

I ran onto my first wooden section and suddenly felt like Bambi on ice, slipping and almost ending up going over the side – we had been warned in the race briefing that the wood was slippery.

There was definitely flailing. Maybe a squeal.

I laughed at myself and continued, cautiously, almost stamping across it to avoid slipping again.

45 minutes in and I took a gel.

Clearly out of practice, I completely missed my mouth and emptied the contents onto my right leg.

A little baffled at my incompetence I pulled another one out of my race pack and successfully navigated the simplicity of eating a gel.

“Focus Jess”

And so I did for the remainder of the undulating trail, passing people and being passed. Enjoying the event atmopshere and the people as always.

There were a fair few fallen trees strewn across the track and I found myself constantly having to decide whether jumping over or squatting under would be less taxing on my body – and always feeling like I’d made the wrong choice regardless.

I thought about what position I might be in; I assumed there had been quite a few females ahead of me in the start line – I’d already seen Lucy Bartholomew speed towards the front of the pack when the wood had been chopped. Legend.

Maybe I was top five? Or top ten?

And maybe it didn’t matter.

I hit the first aid station (not literally) and decided not to stop. Mostly because I didn’t think I needed to, but also I didn’t know exactly where my mask and portable cup were that were required at aid stations.

Then the hill.

So steep it almost blocked out the sky.

I think I was the only one who was happy.

I started the lunging, catching up with some of those that had overtaken me. The track was slightly wider but still muddy and leafy.

I hit the 1:30 mark during the climb, which meant potato time.

Without thinking (common theme here) I put the potatoes straight into my mouth, forgetting that I would in fact also need to breathe.

And my feet refused to stop the climb.

So suddenly I was half suffocating on potato but refusing to stop to deal with it.

Luckily no one was around to see the terrified and confused look on my face as I continued to eat and choke on the potatoes.

The ordeal ended and I took a few deeper breaths and picked up the pace.

Eventually, after what seemed like forever (maybe also due to my near death potatoe choking experience), I reached the top of the climb. Relieved for my legs.

I continued on, allowing them to get used to the flat once again.

Single trail in the magical forest.

My legs must have been a little tired as I began to trip on fallen branches on the track. Or maybe it was just the amount of fallen branches there were on the track.

Suddenly I saw a runner come towards me.


Had I gone the wrong way?

I asked him if he was ok, and he looked at me a little strangely and nodded. I wondered whether he was going back for a fallen friend, rationalised that that was the only explanation. How nice of him.

Then another runner came towards me.

More panic.

Then it hit me (not a tree this time).

I was on an out and back.

I had forgotten, or thought it would have been clearer. But maybe I had missed it.

I arrived at another aid station – the main section of the out and back, where we would continue on to the famous Ada tree before returning to this station and heading off in a different way.

“Great work – you’re the second female!”

Oh shit.

Unexpected. Really unexpected.

It’s a bit of a mixed bag of feelings when you hear you’re doing better than you thought. Happy, obviously, but nervous. A little terrified in fact.

The pressure? The fact that a podium spot was now mine to lose?


I smiled regardless and continued onto fire trail, wondering how far away the Ada tree was – nd how far away third place was. And forth. And fifth…

More people – volunteers. Legends. Cheering us on.

More gels and potatoes – eaten with a bit more dignity this time.

And more slippery wood covered in chicken wire, to trick you into continuing to run on it.


The Ada tree. Beautiful, huge.

The turning point of the out and back, and soon the start of the downhill.

30km in.

I was relieved that, by studying the elevation for all of two seconds, it looked like a gradual downhill. Less likely to fall over, less likely to sprain an ankle.

What the elevation (obviously) didn’t show was the terrain – freshly cut ferns that now lay on the track, offering little support and almost as much slipperiness as the wood, parts were on a sideways slope which is always going to be awkward to run on.

But the hardest part was more fallen branches and trees – thousands I think (maybe ten).

The trees had fallen across the path in regular enough intervals to just get up some speed then have to stop and climb over or clamber under.

And the branches, oh my.

Little pointy traps. If you didn’t lift your feet up high enough you would surely kick them.

And I did, often.

The worst of the branches caught my left foot and not only scraped all the way down from my toe to my ankle, but also sent my forward moving foot suddenly backwards. Which, when your body is also moving forwards, never ends well. 

I managed to flail enough that I caught myself before crashing to the floor.

But the pain was so much that I wanted to kick something.

Then I realised I had.

So I stamped in protest instead.

Did it help? Who knows.

I continued, wary. Weary.

This was hard.

There was negative self-talk, probably some swearing as I balanced the ferns, the branches and the unforgiving sideways slope of the track.

But I was getting lower, closer to the roads and ground level.

Then I heard it, a women’s voice behind me. Close. Third place female.

I knew who it was too. Assuming Lucy had taken the lead, it was Vic – the woman who had taken first place ahead of me at Surf Coast Century by a massive 30 minutes in my last 50km.

She had caught me on my rather poor effort of a descent, that I’d mostly spent kicking fallen trees.

But suddenly I was at the bottom and I didn’t care. I was happy to be on road.

41km in. My race.

I didn’t care.

But crikey it was hot. No shade on the road.

I looked at my watch and realised I could actually get under five hours if I kept going at this pace. A new goal.

Another aid station and the volunteer there asked me if I wanted anything.

“Glass of wine?”

We laughed.

I continued on and caught up with another runner who had stopped at the aid station and we chatted about the race, about our bodies – good conversation after over 4 hours that felt like I was on my own.

We got to the river crossing and I knew Vic was right behind me, I stepped aside knowing I wanted to take my time in the river, revive my muscles.

Oh, the water.

It was delightful. I wanted to dive in.

I exited just behind her and we chatted for a while then she moved into a comfortable pace just ahead of me. And maybe I just let her. Resigned to it.

We ran through a caravan park where most people must’ve thought we were mad. Some cheered.

We hit the 46km mark. My legs felt fine, heavy for good reason, but for some reason my glutes just hurt.

Vic was less than 100m ahead. I thought about whether I would have the energy for any sort of sprint finish to catch her, then I realised two things:

1.  I wasn’t focussing on the right thing, and that was not what this race was about

2. I didn’t have the energy anyway.

We came out of the caravan park and onto the river trail, and suddenly I could here the event village – the finish line.

Under 5 hours.

Something stupid in me chased the noise, the finish, the impending feeling of no longer running on tired legs.


I ran straight towards it, through a gate that seemed to be in a silly position given there was a race going on.

And then I realised.

I’d come in the wrong way.

I watched as some of the men were finishing, coming through the finish line opposite me. The opposite way.

I’d taken a wrong turn somewhere.

I asked someone who looked official and he looked at me, mortified.

“You’ve missed the bridge turning, go back to the bridge and turn left and left again.”

Go back?


I wanted to cry, or stop. Or both.

I think I stamped my foot again.


I started to move my legs again, back towards the bridge. I wasn’t sure which bridge or how far.

A guy had followed me and I shouted for him to turn around.

We ran back to the bridge together and crossed it, and realised how long the out and back was to get to the finish.

I wondered too, whether another female would have passed me and I’d stupidly given up a podium position.

Maybe it was the anger or the adrenaline, but my legs had a new lease of life and I picked up the pace.

Was under five hours still possible? I looked at my watch.

Probably not.

I ran past a bridge, hoping there would be arrows that took me up over it and back towards the finish line.

No arrows. I almost threw a tantru. Almost.

The next bridge surely.


So so happy.

I crossed it.

Home stretch.

49km and five hours ticked over.

I was too tired to be angry at myself.

Maybe too happy too – I hadn’t stopped, I hadn’t fallen (completely).

I passed some runners of the 25km race as we hit some steps, none of us managing them particularly well.

We laughed.

I could hear the finish line again.

I went faster (I probably didn’t)

The finish line.

I sprinted (no extra speed was gained).

5 hours and 2 minutes.

Holy cow.

I was happy.

I didn’t care about the wrong turn, or the placing.

I was just happy.

But it was confirmed anyway – third place behind Lucy and Vic. Both legends. I was stoked.

So happy.

I sat in the river, soaking up the soothing feeling, then tried to keep moving on post-run restless legs.

And then?

Food time.

And maybe a drink or two.

Then all the stretching.

Donna Double – 22km

The second race of the weekend wasn’t until 8.30am the following day. In my eyes that’s a sleep: I woke at 7am.

I tried to get out of the trundle bed – my body resisted.

Everything hurt a little bit. I stretched, mobilised, stretched some more. I cooked breakfast and thought about the race, the mountain.

My nemesis.

This time last year I had raced up Donna, and down again before I’d caught my foot on something at 17km and badly sprained my ankle, my face almost clipping a tree on my way to the ground. It was spectacular.

Because I was 5km from the finish – on flat – I had decided to continue and somehow claimed second place. But the feeling of my ankle making that right angle shape – the pain – was still with me, still on my mind (does it ever go away?).

For that reason, my game plan for the multi day madness was to go harder (‘harder’) on the 50km and 9km night run and cruise the 22km – take the downhill easy and just finish. That was the plan anyway.

This time I chose to wear Salomon Speedcross 5’s – a slightly wider base that I figured would help both push me up the climb, and stabilise me on the descent.

I took a second to stare at the tape I knew I should use to strap my ankle. But for some reason chose not too – maybe I thought I didn’t need it if I was just going to cruise.

We made our way down to the start, for fresh coffee and to watch the first wave go off at 8.00am.

Then 8.30am was upon me.



And we were off and suddenly my legs were moving, slowly, one foot in front of the other.

Slow. Achey.

I felt myself drop to the back as we turned onto the flatness of the river, needing time to warm up and loosen up properly.

Two problems surfaced very quickly – my right ITB flickered in pain, and my left knee…well it just hurt.

Oh dear.

I continued, cruising along the flat, hoping that the pain would subside on the ascents.

And we hit it – the steepest road in….maybe the world? It felt like the world.

But by golly it made me happy.

My legs stopped aching – the pain in my knees disappeared.

Hello up.

And soon I was over taking and passing people who had so easily moved ahead of me on the flat.

We came off the road and onto single track, undulating but still ascending. I passed the point I’d fallen over last year and could only smile, reminding myself to be careful.

And then we hit the vertical kilometre.

Potato time – and a caffeine gel. More successfully eaten than yesterday.


All the lunging.

I joined a pack of runners and lunged with them, then passed them, and passed Vic – pretty certain I would see her again at some point.

My legs felt quite wonderful.  

Eventually I was out of the climb and onto fire trail – undulating and a little tricky on the knees. My pace slowed and I wished I was back on the vert as the ITB pain flickered again.

I wondered how it would go on the down. How my ankles would.

No point over thinking. Just run.

I continued – motivated by the fact that I knew I was near the loop at the top, and hit single track again. Narrow and the path covered by ferns leaning over it.

This is where I knew I needed to be careful. Take small steps, small careful steps.

The top.

An aid station.

“You’re the first girl!”

Holy moly.

Definitely unexpected.

Less pressure today – in a way I knew the ground I would make up on the ascent would easily be undone by the caution I needed to take on the way down.

Either way I was happy, and grateful. 

I passed friends as I started my descent, again into single track with rocks as obstacles and the ferns still innocently flailing across the path – just enough so it was tricky to see foot placement.

I kept telling myself – lean forwards and take small steps. On repeat. I was looking at the path as much as possible, leaping (that’s definitely an exaggeration) over the rocks.

I was surprised that my ITB pain seemed to have subsided.

This was ok, I could do this.

Then, a fern. Or something.

Something that I wouldn’t have suspected would have been my undoing.



Firstly, in my ankle – that awful right angle feeling, then just pain.

And my hand?

So confusing.

So devastating.

The impact of the twist of my ankle had sent me face first into the ferns on my right where I stayed for a few micro seconds, absorbing what had just happened.

Was my race over? Was my weekend over?

I rolled onto my back, noticing the blood on my arm and shoulder.

I looked at my watch (and yes, I stopped it).


I turned my hand over, expecting there to be a large cut, or something.

Nothing – it just hurt. Maybe I’d high fived the ground on the way down, or slapped it in anger. 

I tried to stand up and my ankle gave way again, sending me further into the ferns.

A runner stopped.

From the depths of the ferns I told him I was fine, to continue his race.

Then another stopped.

Without question they clambered into the ferns and pulled me up.

I wanted to hug them.

But I also wanted to cry.

I thanked them and told them to go, and so they left me.

More passed me, could tell from the dirt and the blood I’d taken a fall – always stopping to check I was ok. It blunted my devastation a little.

A breath.

I knew.

I could feel the angry pulsing of my ankle.

The shooting pains weren’t easing, and I was too far from the finish – too high up the mountain to continue on the steep down that I knew was coming. That would savage my sprained ankle.

My race was over – my weekend was over.

Another breath.

That was ok, because it had to be.

The universe had a reason.

“Are you okay?”

A voice, not a runner.


I looked up to see a medic.

“They sent me to help you get down to the aid station.”


Did I mention I love trail runners?

I nodded, unsure of my voice. And returned her smile.

“Thank you.”

We debated whether the aid station at the top of Donna was closer, but decided the down was easier with most of it being fire trail.

“Do you want to use my poles?”


“No thank you, I should be ok”

We started walking, slowly, and chatting.

But the pain.

I stopped – had a word with myself, and my pride.

“Can I use your poles?”

And so there I was, 2km down from the top of Mt Donna Buang, using a pole as a walking stick and beginning the slow descent down to the aid station.

The anger was subsiding, and I was more so grateful than anything. For the people. For the outdoors.

Karen, a Sport Scientist, told me not to take painkillers because of the toll on my kidneys, especially after the 50km yesterday.

“What about wine?”

“It’s an analgesic so….”

I took that as a yes. 

I was lucky enough that a friend was nearby to meet me at the aid station.

We drove back to the event village to watch the runners come in and I crawled straight in the river to try and cool the inflammation a little.

I reflected on whether I could’ve done anything different. Strapped the ankle? Yes. But I’d always found that the strapping became loose after a couple of kilometres anyway.

Been more careful? Probably not, I already felt like I was tip toeing down the mountain, focussed.

Maybe it was just not my time. Maybe it was third time lucky next year.

It would take some journaling and meditation to calm my soul.

But right then I was just grateful to have run any amount.

And I also knew there a bottle of prosecco waiting for me in the fridge.

And next?

Recovery – not just from the sprain, but also the 50km.

And practice – more downhill training, more ankle strengthening.

Then Buffalo Stampede? and maybe the Alpine Challenge 60km? And then sometime in May…maybe my first 100km?

Because why not?


Surf Coast Century 50km: Redemption

My first race since March, and I really didn’t expect it to turn out the way it did…

After weeks of not knowing whether it would go ahead, Surf Coast Century 50km was upon us. Different rules to last year, to any year: limited support crew and crowds, different start location, adjusted aid station rules. Different everything, just like everything else this year.

Either way, I was grateful that racing was back on.

I had worked hard to recover from the shin splints and various other foot issues after a few back-to-back virtual races and little rest… a learning in itself that even in stage 4 lockdown there was such a thing as too much. 

But I felt good, just residual foot niggles.

The biggest change for me was that I’d be running it alone, without Imogen. Last year’s race experience would be hard to top. Oh and also, I’d be running it without a broken metatarsal, which would be nice 😊

I was excited. Beyond excited.

I tried to rest for the race, but the lure of mountain biking and some strength training (sorry coach) got the best of me. I promised myself that Thursday and Friday would be complete rest days – for my feet that is… not necessarily for my liver…

I picked up my race bib on the Friday night. There was a buzz and an excitement, other runners, all grateful, all excited.

I loved it.

Race Day: Butterflies for breakfast

I was up early (5am) to make coffee and eat the breakfast I’d made the night before. Sweet potatoes, beetroot and eggs. Hello race day breakfast, I’ve missed you.

I mobilised everywhere – but had forgotten my roller so couldn’t roll out my calves or ITBs. Eek. I also strapped both ankles (I knew these were my weakest points, especially on the downhills), which I’m sure woke the rest of the house up.

I packed my race vest full of mandatory gear, potatoes and gels. And then I repacked It maybe three more times and made sure my food and salt were fully accessible.

The race plan? Run the flats comfortably uncomfortable, cruise on the downhills and then aggressive lunging on the up hills.

The nutrition plan? Eat every 45 minutes – swapping between a caffeine gel and a normal gel with salted potatoes and a salt packet (yep, like the ones you find in pubs… because that’s where I found them).

I was ready… and it was only 6.15am, and the race didn’t start until 7.30am. Righto.

I drove the ten minutes to Anglesea and found a park near the start line – Coogoorah Reserve.

It was pretty cold (because it was 6.30am), so I chose to wear my running jumper, knowing I would probably be too hot in the first ten minutes – always a tough one for me (I’m English, always cold…)

The start line was just being set up and there were a few people around stretching and prepping. I sat down, put on a guided meditation to calm the butterflies in my stomach.

Race day butterflies. Hello stranger.

Runners were starting in two-minute waves, organised by what you thought your predicted finish time would be. I was hoping for six hours so I was in Wave 2.

7.30am and Wave 1 left. I made myself not look at how many women were in the wave – I reminded myself I was not chasing them (…but also, it was my fourth nervous toilet trip)

Two minutes.

I lined up, no music, just me and Wave 2, and the trails.

We were off. I think my first few steps with either skipping or jigging – which was silly considering I was trying to protect my ankles.

Five minutes in and my legs felt good and I increased my pace, almost to the front of the wave, trying not to get excited. And yes, I was already overheating with my jumper on, but too stubborn to take it off.

Two girls up ahead of me, I passed them and suddenly I was at the front of Wave 2.

We hit beautiful single track and I picked up my pace, trying to remind myself that I was out here for at least six hours. At least.

Uh oh.

Suddenly there were runners in front of me: Wave 1.

Me and another female (let’s call her Rachel) had caught them, and we weaved past them.

We hit downhill and Rachel passed me. I held back and chatted to some of the Wave 1 runners – some new, some returning. We laughed and swapped stories.

Then came the hill, the big one. One that looked like it went into the clouds.

I caught up with Rachel, and we passed another as we climbed. The change in pace was welcome.

The views from the top – sweeping coastal sealine with my favourite lighthouse ahead – were worth the climb.

It was photo time for everyone there.

For the next 10km Rachel and I swapped places like we were dancing, her passing me on the downhill (where I was basically trying watching every step I took which actually takes a lot of focus and time…) and me passing her on the ups.

At 45 minutes, I was on a downhill (of all places) and decided to have my first round of potatoes – trying to eat them while concentrating on my line, the path, the rocks.

So naturally, I started choking.

Huge fail.

I laughed and tried again – this time with more breaths in-between bites. A bit more successful.

We hit fire trail then we turned into more single track… and a climb.

I passed Rachel again, and told her I would see on the next down, we laughed. But that was the last time we danced together. So to speak. .

My dream trail: Beautiful single track through beautiful forest, so grateful.

At that point everything felt ok, I could feel a blister on my right foot emerging to remind me that I probably butchered my ankle strapping in the darkness this morning.

Generally, when I don’t listen to music when I’m running, I talk to myself. A lot. Mostly telling myself to pay attention or be present, sometimes to tell myself off (for not taking enough breaths between potatoes for example). This was no different.

The climb continued and I passed another runner from Wave 1, another female.

Her breathing was… well she sounded like she was in labour? Although more controlled maybe, either way very loud.

We’ll call her Donna.  

Distracted, I tried to pull away, which I think only made her increase her speed so we would run together. Which in turn made her breath louder.

So, I figured, if you can’t beat them join them, right? I focussed on my breathing; breathing from the stomach (as so many podcasts have told me too), and suddenly my breathing drowned out hers – and we were in labour together.

Or something.

19km: we hit the first manned check point.

The volunteers (who are amazing people) placed a heaped teaspoon of Tailwind in my cup of water. And Donna ran straight past me, not stopping and not looking back.


Game on then Donna (purely in my head of course)

I downed my Tailwind and thanked the volunteers then hurried on.

We entered more single-track forest, and I found Donna and overtook her. Thanking the Tailwind and brief rest for the extra wings, and also grateful to escape the sound of the breathing and head into the tranquillity of the forest.

Good Memories

I was finding it strange that I didn’t recognise any of the course from last year – maybe it was because Imogen and I was talking or laughing, or maybe my mind had compartmentalised the memory of running on a broken foot for seven hours. Maybe both.

But then I hit it: the spot where Imogen had clipped a tree root last year and face planted so hard and so fast into the ground that we had spent five minutes in hysterics.

I laughed, motivated. And then called her and we laughed together, even from where she was in Hong Kong – about to head off on her own 50km race.

I hit more fire trail and more elevation, and we remembered the section I was running through.

I wished so badly she was beside me. Next time.

She asked me how I was and I realised I hadn’t checked in with myself for a while. I remembered the blister I’d felt, had now gone. I was over 20km in, everything was starting to hurt a little bit – my hips and feet mostly. But nothing too bad. Yet.

We said our goodbyes and good lucks and I continued to climb up the hill I was on, heading back into rocky single track, up and up gradually.


I looked at my watch: 25km and 2.5 hours in, I was making good time. Really good time. I was a little worried I’d gone out too fast – but that quickly disappeared and I continued.

I hit the next check point: 27km and more volunteers and some supporters and crew.

I decided I was ok to go on, to grab more Tailwind and do a Donna and head straight through.

I think that’s when (and probably why) the pain started to get worse. Everywhere.

I’d expected my feet and ankles to hurt, but it was my hips that started to hurt the most, maybe from the elevation, or maybe from the way I was crouching on the downhills to stabilise myself – maybe both? Probably both.

There was pain in my ITBs too – only on the downhills, and I regretted again forgetting my foam roller.

I expected that though – pain everywhere from the waist below, to kick in from at least halfway.

This was now both a physical and mental battle.

To take my mind off it I had another round of potatoes (did I mention I love potatoes?) …and some salt straight from the packet.


But my mind was distracted.

I came out of the single track, passed a runner and headed up another long fire track. I promised myself I would stretch at the top.

And I did.

Crouching, stretching, swinging, whatever I thought my body would need to keep moving.

Bad Memories (kind of)

I was soon on the Great Ocean Walk track next to the sea. Photo worthy. And a welcome breeze in the humidity, still too stubborn to take my jumper off.

We were heading towards Aireys Inlet, to the lighthouse.


Crikey. The down was really starting to hurt my knees – my ITBs threatened to flare up like they had two years ago during Lara Pinta. Excruciating.

I was grateful to hit the flat and the bridge to cross the Great Ocean Road – we were directed to go under.

A welcome change in using my arms instead of my legs as I rocked climbed along the underside of the bridge. I was more than tempted to jump into the water.

The next check point: 35km.

The women asked what I needed. New legs. But I settled for Tailwind and ducked into a hip opening stretch as they asked me about the race.


But I knew the beach was coming, and that was where we fell apart a little last year – my broken foot and Imogen’s ITB pain on soft sand were almost race-ending. It was only the thought of prosecco, and lots of hugs, that kept us going.

“At least the beach is flat” one of the women pointed out.

Excellent point.

Back onto the Great Ocean Walk trail, up a little, past the lighthouse then down towards the beach. There were tourists, clapping and cheering, probably not expecting to see weary, beaten-up runners on their travels.

They were epic.


My ITBs felt like they were being dragged back and forth across bone with every downhill step… which I actually think they were.

I got to the bottom of a hill (walking backwards which was amazing but may have looked a little strange) and tried to stretch my ITBs out, then squatted into a hip opening stretch – which was immediately followed by the threat of cramp in the front of my shins. Which is strange, because there’s not a lot of muscle there to cramp.

I continued on, knowing I was only 10km away. I found a pack of other runners, who were also struggling a little. We played tag with each other, stopping to stretch out and then catching up as others stopped. It was quite beautiful. The pain train indeed.

Magical Music

I was on four hours and coming up to 42km – the beach. We were heading down to the beach.

I needed music.

Slash came on and I continued, happier.

I reflected on the fact that I hadn’t fallen yet, had I been too cautious? Was my caution causing the pain?

It was, of course, at that moment I slipped down a step, my heel not quite planting firmly on it.

I’m not sure how I’d describe the noise I made, but it was unique. Maybe like a cockatoo.

I managed to catch myself in something like a ninja fighting stance, which must have looked like I was getting ready to beat up the steps that had tripped me.

I laughed, and the relief was welcome. Technically not a fall.

The beach.

The sand …was hard. And the breeze off the sea was …nice?

The beach was comfortable. I had music, and the beach goers were bloody brilliant at cheering us on. This was so different to last year.

I could also see the storm that was predicted coming in in the form of dark clouds, and I was grateful we had started early, and that I was nearing the finish.

The pack ran within maybe 30 metres of each other. On the occasions that I stopped to stretch or performed a slightly exaggerated (slow motion) walking lunge, they were there.

“Come on Jess, don’t let us beat you.”

So much love for them.

The 4km on the beach went quickly.

We came off the beach, up more stairs, which gave my legs some more stretching. Roads now, and we continued, passing each other still as we continued to stretch and rest and run.

I reached a downhill so steep that I had to stop and walk backwards again because of the pain in my knees and hips. Which was a welcome reprieve from the pounding of running. I laughed at myself, and I’m sure the others did too.

One of the guys caught up (I mean it was hard not too – I was walking backwards).

“Don’t stop, we’re almost there”

He was right. We were.

I took a caffeine gel, hoping it would get me through the last few kms.

The End…or the beginning…

We turned back onto the beach, and that was when I realised we were actually almost there: 50km, not the 52.9km we had run last year.  

My heart filled with joy and the pain floated out of my body.

We were 2km away from finishing.

I took my music out and we ran, almost together.

People on the beach cheered.

“You’re the first female we’ve seen in ages!”

I nodded to them; I hadn’t even thought about that – or wondered about who was ahead of me.

I guess I’d found out soon…

We came off the beach, one of the pack was ahead of me, one was behind. Close enough, but not too close that we would cross the line together.

I could hear the cowbells, the event HQ.

The finish.

I picked up the pace as much as my legs would allow – still in shock that we were so close, and I turned the corner and could suddenly see the crowds.

I looked at my watch; I was 10 seconds from 5 hours.

Could I make under five hours?

I started to sprint and my legs literally laughed at me.

No chance.

The home straight – I was so happy, I think I almost cried.

The people, the line.

I crossed it, stopped my watch.

Words cannot describe how grateful I was.

“And hear is our second-place female.”



They were looking at me.

“Really?” Nods to confirm.


I laughed, and the Event Director came over to me and we chatted.

I regrouped with the pack, thanked them, then tried to find a place to stretch. Or just lie down.


I started to stretch, unable to find a comfortable position to put my legs, and was overcome with dizziness.

Not good – not experienced before.

I took out the rest of my potatoes and realised I’d only eaten maybe a third of what I was supposed to eat.


I found juice and water, and was stopped by a woman.

“I just wanted to tell you, I saw you out there and you looked so strong, it was amazing. Well done”

That was obviously in the first part of the race.

I wanted to hug her, but I thought I might collapse onto her. So, I thanked her.

So grateful for people. These people.

I had missed these people so much.

Then suddenly there were friends, with beer. And burgers.

And prosecco – lots of prosecco.


And next?

As much as the pain was towards the end – my engine was fine and my mind (though sometimes questionable) was intact. It was all manageable and, with practice and patience (and remembering my foam roller), I know I can go faster. Maybe even further. Faster further.

Buffalo Sunriser 60km in February it is then – only 4000m elevation, so what could possibly go wrong….?


Bright Run Fest: 10 days of 10kms

I’d given myself an ‘easy week’ leading up to the running Festival, but after two days of rest I was itching to get back, which was a bad idea. Because something in my calf was hurting and I prayed it wasn’t shin splints. So, I rested. And waited.

And then Friday finally came.

Day 1: Happiness.

I mobilised, had my beetroot juice and coffee on my balcony and journaled. Excited.

A slow warm up told me that the problem with my calf hadn’t gone away, but actually got less painful when my speed increased. Right then, faster it was then.  

And I was off, down the Upfield bike path. I hit Princes Park – early enough to not be busy, and glorious sunshine. Happy.

I continued, trying only to look at my heart rate and not my pace, enjoying. Just running.

I jumped out of Princes Park and onto the Capital City Trail, suddenly I was on 6km already – only 4km to go. A huge difference from the 13kms I’d been running last week (for UTMB Virtual), where 6km wasn’t even halfway.


At 8km my brain went into overdrive. Only 2km left so of course I should pick up the pace, right? So I did, regardless of the sudden hills I came across at the Merri Creek Trail.

500m was an all-out sprint. I realised I had no control over my legs, they just went.

10km and done 45:11 minutes. Not too bad for the first run. Not too uncomfortable.

Coffee and the walk home in the sunshine. Best way to start the day.

Home to yoga and a cold bath.


But grateful.

Friday night. I had my one day of wine I’ve given myself per week over a zoom call with my twin sister in Hong Kong. As with me and wine, somehow the whole bottle magically disappeared.

Day 2: I’ve never said I had any common sense.

Day 2 was upon me and I chose a different route: just Merri Creek up to Hardings Bridge then down past Arthurton Road. A loop I often used for some speed work, and the tiniest sections of trail I could access within my 5km radius.

I did actually have a game plan for the ten days – to run one day ‘faster’, then the next day slower, to ensure I lasted the ten days.

But this was not to be. The route, though a little hillier and more ‘technical’ (erm… much more technical compared to just concrete, but the only way I get my trail fix). I landed on exactly the same time as Day 1: 45:11. Very happy.

I realised I’d bonked a little bit at 7km, not sure whether it was the wine (unlikely – I always see this is carb loading with added antioxidants), or just that I needed to fuel my runs differently given that  they were faster than normal.

At 8km though my legs kicked in and the sprint home happened… and so did some bodyweight exercises consisting of burpees, air squats and sit ups.  150 of each of them to be precise.

I’ve never said I have any common sense.

Yoga, cold bath. Gin.


Saturday, a friend’s birthday (Zoom) gin tasting. Five bottles of 50ml of beautiful gin.


Day 3: Crikey.

I expected to feel more than a little dusty (we didn’t really stop after the tasting). But my 9pm (ahem, actually 8.30pm…) bed time and the ten hours of sleep I had given my body seemed to have worked. Hello Sunday sleep-in.

Awake, mobility, coffee and more coffee, and the decision to fuel – sweet potato and beetroot juice. And water to negate the dehydration of yesterday.

Merri Creek, Princes Park then home, the opposite direction to day one.

60 seconds of strides and warm up seemed to ease the calf / shin pain in my right leg. Seemed to.

I was going to take it slowly, but I hit the Merri Creek and felt good, picked up the pace, felt the sun on my skin and Slash playing in my ears. Happy.

I hit Merri Creek and realised I was going quicker than day one and day two. Oops. But I continued and again, picked up the pace at 8km, then 9km and then suddenly I was sprinting up the Upfield bike path, grateful for the lack of traffic.

10km in 44:17. Crikey. I laughed. Not fast by some people’s standards I’m sure, but four minutes off my PB. And I’d felt comfortable. Maybe ten hours of sleep was the secret, or maybe gin was.

I stopped for an Acoustico coffee. Put on a podcast and shuffled home within my hour.

Happy Sunday (until I got back in the ice bath).

Day 4: It’s the little things.

I promised myself I’d go easy – just chill. Not look at my watch and just enjoy.

I paid extra attention to my calves, rolling them out, aware that the pain was still there front and back.

More strides, and some dosey does (haha is that what you call them?)… I’ve only done line dancing once in my life*

(*this is a lie)

I hadn’t eaten this time but took a Koda gel when I hit Princes Park, banana. One of my favourites, that seemed to do the trick. No walls were hit.

Zig zags of Princes Park, not too busy, beautiful sunshine.

I took myself out of Princes Park and back to Upfield just in time for a train to turn all the lights to green for me. It’s the little things.

281 Project coffee, podcast, and shuffle home.

Day 4 done.

Day 5: A huge wind tunnel.

The wind that kept me up through the night – that I knew would continue into the morning – was howling. Strong. Everything rattled.

I drank my coffee and ate some pan-fried pumpkin as fuel, while I watched a bright red sunrise appear then quickly disappear, swept away by the wind.


I decided to mix up the 10km this session, by adding in 15 x 1-minute effort and 1 min tempo, for both my body and my sanity. And because Tuesday’s were my usual speed sessions and I like to stick to plans 🙂

I shouldn’t have though. I should have reconsidered the wind.

The first 2km was a warm-up along streets – anything North-facing was a wind tunnel, so I zig zagged my way to Allard Park that leads to the Merri Creek.

Holy Moly.

The oval was an open battlefield against the wind, and I think I almost got blown off it.

I persevered, ducked down onto the Creek itself in seek of shelter, and started my first effort.

So far so good, body felt good.

My right calf felt ok, and my speed for the efforts felt comfortably uncomfortable as I’d expected.

Further up and I could see the Creek was closed, trees blown over maybe? Directions to the road, up and more up until I was eventually diverted onto Nicholson Street.

A huge north-facing wind tunnel.

I dug deep and pushed on, not knowing how long I had to endure the wind pushing me backwards.

Forever apparently – or at least that’s how long that section took.

I saw the diversion route pointing back down to the trail, and my jazz hands came out in excitement.

Once back on track the efforts continued. My lungs were trying to catch up with my pace as they recovered from the street running.

Suddenly I was on 5km, and 22 minutes. Not as bad as I thought, given the wind.

I continued, tried to find something flat but failed. Undulating would have to do.

I headed South, the wind behind me, and I enjoyed the brief sensation of flying before I turned back into the fury of the wind.

8km. Usually where I was able to pick up the pace for the sprint finish.

Not today.

After 1km, I literally felt like I wasn’t moving, wasn’t gaining ground.

I ducked off the Creek into a street, ran along it. This was better.

I continued, sheltered. 400m to go.

I was faced with either Allard Park hill or heading back down the street and facing the wind.

I chose the wind and started my slow motion 400m run.

Forever passed, and I hit 10km.

Under 45 minutes.

I was surprised to say the least.

Day 5 done. Halfway.

Sorry legs.

And lungs.

Day 6: I’m getting better at not screaming.

I did a body check, everything felt good except the twinge in my calf. Twinge? More like a mild stabbing. But only during the first 30-60 seconds of warm up again.

My options within my 5km are quite limited; parts of the Upfield track north are closed due to track works and to try and find 10 different runs that don’t involve too much road (and therefore traffic) was going to be a challenge.

So today I decided to choose my favourite route of the five I’d already run, knowing that my body had endured enough in the last five days – especially the wind yesterday. Merri Creek, Capital City, Princes Park.

Beetroot juice, mobility, coffee and a gel – in that order.

I was off, so grateful for the lack of wind.

My body felt good, really good actually so I picked up the pace. Just a little.

I sprinted for any green man at the traffic lights I saw – and the ones I missed I ran up and down the pavement (yes like a madman) until I could get across.

Princes Park was beautiful, sunny, not too busy.

I looked at my watch again, 8km.


Time to pick it up (forgetting I already had).


Under five minutes to go Jess, keep going. Faster.


43:58 – my fastest time so far.

Not expected.

I spent the 2.5km home jogging to a coffee shop then walking home listening to Chasing Excellence. Happy.

Until I got into the ice bath of course.

But I’m getting better at not screaming.

That day I also managed some gymnastics and strength work because I felt like my body was missing movements that didn’t involve running.

The gymnastics largely involved upper body, and the intention with the strength was the same, or at least to go lighter on the weights. But whenever I program deadlifts… somehow, they just end up really quite heavy.

Sorry legs.

Day 7: Madness.

I hadn’t slept well (well – my sleep app had told me I hadn’t slept well) And I think I figured things would start to hurt more from today, start to get slower.

I spent a little longer on mobility, then rolling my calves to try and ease the building pain. There was tenderness around my right Achilles, which made me think (hope) it hadn’t been or wasn’t the shin splints I originally thought.

Beetroot juice, coffee (I even made a second cup but decided against it) and my Koda banana gel.


The plan today (as is always on a Thursday) was a tempo session – warm up during the 1km to Clissold Park, then run 2km laps with increasing speed on each lap.

I wasn’t sure whether it was a good idea – either to do laps again after the mental battle I’d endured doing the same for the UTMB race, or to try and get faster on tired legs.

I reasoned with myself that I wouldn’t clock watch, I would increase speed by feel.


I started off by easing my body into running. Feeling out the aches and twinges and trying to stretch my calves out a little.

I got to the track and maintained the warm up pace, reasoning with myself that I probably need to start slower if I was going to increase efforts.

The park was beautiful, lively with people walking their dogs and sunshine.

I looked at my watch after the second lap. 5km and 24 minutes.

I was behind.

Was I? Didn’t I need to go a little slower to start? Yes.

Either way, I picked up the pace for the third lap – my body felt good, my lungs felt good. Everything was ok, or more than ok.

It’s strange how you notice the smallest elevations when you’re trying to do a tempo sessions and running through the same park multiple times – the smallest inclines become mountains to avoid. Or maybe that’s me.

By lap four I had caught up with myself, and as usual at 8km I nodded to myself, most likely spoke to myself. Time to go.

At 9km I realised I could actually get a faster time than yesterday, which was madness to me.

Limp Bizkit came on (don’t ask). Game on.

My version of sprinting probably looked like someone else’s casual jog at that point. But I felt like I was flying.

Faster (again, probably still a casual jog).



Fastest time yet.


I stopped, checked my watch. Thanked my body.

The jog home was a slow jog in the sunshine, again happy to be out and have run and to have felt good running.

Yoga, longer holds, deeper breathing.

The bath – deeper than normal (it’s really when it hits my belly button that I lose my sh*t for some reason).

And then some upper body strength training with Imogen.

Because why not?

As the day went on my legs became stiffer, and I wasn’t sure whether it was the strength training, or the weights – or both.

I did some more stretching, and rubbing and rolling.

The shin pain had shifted round to the back of my calf – which almost confirmed it wasn’t shin splints – and just some muscular knotting. Did it though?

Day 8: Do you know how hard it is to get out of bed with legs like planks?

Blue skies and a little bit of wind. Knowing the weather was going to turn to crap over the weekend, I wanted to end at my favourite place for some yoga and meditation before returning to the daily grind.

Upfield, Princes Park to Merri Creek.

Hello Friday.

When I woke my legs still felt stiff, like planks. Do you know how hard it is to get out of bed with legs as planks?

Well, I do.

Mobility – I jumped on my spin bike to loosen up.


Coffee and gel (not together, although banana coffee actually sounds quite nice)

The warm up still felt like I was running with straight legs, toy soldier style. But as my mind relaxed into it, so did my body.

And I was off.

I hit a few traffic lights, which led to me running up and down the pavement until it was clear to cross. I put it down as agility training.

Princes Park, oh my so busy. So busy. People running on both sides at me.

More agility training.

One lap and I was out, onto the Capital City Trail, more traffic lights, more agility training.

Beautiful sunshine.

Before I knew it, I was at 8km and 35 ish minutes.


I picked up the pace, my legs felt strong.

I had a choice between a steep descent or a gradual descent onto the Merri Creek. I chose gradual, and suddenly realised as I picked up my pace that this was where I needed to reign in my stride, shorten it and tip my body forwards – I’d sprained one to many ankles on long strides down a hill, essentially exposing my outstretched ankles at their weakest point, with little support.

Short strides, leaning forwards.

Less steep descent, 1km to go.

I took off.

The river was beside me, the sun gleaming off it. I was happy.

Happy to run, and happy to almost finish.



My fastest time, which again baffled me. But I went with it.

Yoga in the sun, bliss.

Some meditation.

More bliss.

Happy Friday.

And Friday always has a place for gin.

Happier Friday.

Day 9: Shut up, Jess.

I knew a storm was coming, BOM radar said 95% chance of rain from 10m, which had shifted overnight to 95% chance of rain from 7am.

I’d set my alarm for 6.15am to assess the damage, but for some reason I was awake at 5.30am, waiting for daylight? Waiting for the storm.

I was awake, so I figured I might as well get up and get out when it was light enough.

Mobility, rolling the calves – they felt tight but I had spent some time massaging them the night before. (yes, even after the gin)


A cola gel – not my favourite, and I made a ‘why am I eating sugar at 6am face’ which didn’t disappear for at least five minutes.

I stepped out onto my balcony, reasoned with myself that it was light enough to run safely.

I was off.

My route had changed – not knowing whether Merri Creek had been flooded with the rain overnight,  I headed towards Princes Park.

I had it to myself, the trail, Brunswick. Beautifully eerie.

Still, I managed to mistime a traffic light and run circles up and down the street. There were cars out this early at least.

I hit Princes Park, other runners, maybe five in total.

The lights were on and the sun was rising, it was almost romantic.

No sign of the rain so I picked up the pace – the sooner I finished the less chance of rain and wind beating me up.

The East side of the park was great but turning to face West then North was headwind galore. I knuckled down, tried to maintain my pace. Just slightly uncomfortable. 

And I continued, in the slight humidity, clouds looming. Spits of rain.

Back down the East side, 7km.

I hit 8km turning back up North, the wind grew stronger, the storm closer.

Marilyn Manson came on. Game on.

I pushed through, got to the top of the park.

Realised my time – I could go under 43 minutes… no wait, under 42 minutes.

More power.

Down the East, the lights, the sunrising, the romance.

Shut up, Jess.

I was near sprint. That’s what I felt like.



I checked and checked again.

90 seconds away from my PB.

90 seconds – with 8 days of running behind me.



Farmers shuffle home to a Science of Ultra podcast.

No coffee shops open this early. The only fail of the morning.

Longer yoga, longer bath.

All the breakfast.

Day 10: I did a little jig.

The rain through the night confirmed that I wouldn’t be running the Merri Creek for my last run – there would be flooding for sure.

Safest option? Same as yesterday.

Physically, a good route. Mentally, a battle to repeat.

I was awake before my alarm, which may or may not have had something to do with the wine from the night before.


Mobility. I creaked. My calves – or my right calf – was on fire. Just a little, maybe embers. Enough for me to notice.

I warmed up for 100m. My calves weren’t really playing ball. Less like embers, more like tiny little fires.

I persisted. And started.

Upfield path was fairly empty, so it surprised me to meet traffic each time I hit a road. Grrr.

Finally, I was at Princes Park, free. No traffic lights, but lots of people.

I kept my head and down and pushed through. Less wind today and I was so grateful. More colour in the sky.

Last day, I told myself repeatedly.

I felt heavy though, or heavier than yesterday. But I still felt like I was going ok.

I passed a few runners a few times, we smiled, appreciated each other’s efforts.

I knew this course now… and I also knew I didn’t want to run it for a few weeks after this.

Yes, I was grateful it was flat. But I craved the trails, the mountains, the air. Maybe not on day 10 of a ten-day race though.

I remained grateful.

At 8km I moved to go faster. Moved.

I think I did.

Go faster I mean, I definitely moved.

I knew the last km was going to be painful, from experience. From multi-day races. When you’re so close, yet so far.

I tried to push through.

When I say I tried, I mean I did. With everything I had left in my legs. I pushed.

I even changed my song – which never happens – to Skrillex, for my last km.

Game on.

I looked at the time, realising I was going to be outside the 42 minutes, but inside 43 if I continued (I had wanted between 42 and 44 minutes for my last day).

Son 43 minutes sounded pretty good.

Last 500m. I stupidly thought I’d turn around and head back towards home.

Head wind.

I changed my mind very quickly and suddenly didn’t care how far I was from home. Turned back around and continued.

People must’ve thought I was mad – mostly because I was chastising myself out loud.

I continued.


All out sprint.


42:57. Second fastest time.


I stopped.

I looked around, wanting to high five someone, anyone.

Not going to happen.

I did a jig.

Yes, you read that correctly.

Farmers shuffle home to a Nike Trained podcast.

So grateful.

So mangled.


Long bath.


Happy Sunday.

First place female, first place overall.


UTMB Virtual 50km Race

It’s been almost a year since I ran my first 50km race (Surf Coast Century in Australia with Jessica Short), which was a beautiful and brutal experience. I remember very vividly the excitement, atmosphere and the feeling of crossing the finish line.

The UTMB Virtual 50km in Hong Kong would be very different. It would be solo. It would be more elevation. There would be no aid stations. No finish line. No twin sister. It would also be 30 degrees and 85% humidity.

For most parts, it would be hell…

4am: I was up for mobility and coffee with Jess in Australia (and our new rescue pup Zeus, who enjoyed the downward dog on my yoga mat )

5am: I started the run with 15km on Hong Kong’s waterfront which was amazing. Cool, quiet and flat, with the sun and city rising around me. My legs felt good and I felt ready for what was ahead (spoiler alert: I wasn’t)

Feeling ready on the waterfront

15km: I made a quick pit stop at home to change my shoes and refill water, before heading up to the Bowen Road and then Parkview. The next 15km felt pretty dreamy. I had the trails to myself and most importantly, someone had run before me and cleared the way of spiders. Yey. Even Violet hill didn’t feel as violent as it usually does.

Feeling less ready on Violet Hill.

30km: I hit The Twins, twice. And this is really where things started to fall apart. I’d been making pretty good progress on the kms until that point. But the Twins made me think that my Garmin was broken, because the kms stopped moving (I don’t know why this was such a surprise: I’ve done the twins so many times before). I lay on the floor at the top of Twin 1 in a metaphorical pain cave.

32km: I made a pit stop at Repulse Bay and picked up 2litres of water and four bottles of Lucozade.

32.2km: I vomited Lucozade

33km: Back at Tze Kong Bridge I took the single trail towards Tai Tam Reservoir, which is one of my favourite, before hitting the steep concrete incline towards Quarry Pass. Up and up and up and up. And very little shade. The sun was fully out, and the humidity was high

40km / 1,500m+: my Garmin started blinking low battery so I knew I had to crack on and get this done, or the race wouldn’t register. So, I altered the last 10km of the course to do hill repeats on Mount Parker. Hill repeats. After 40km. Talk about pain cave. And existential crisis. And self-yodelling.

45km / 2,000m+: My Garmin was still blinking at me. The hill repeats hurt. I had to lie down in the shade every couple of kms. But I was close.

48km / 2,300m+: Garmin on 5% battery. I was at the top of Mount Parker and just started running in 50m loops. It rained, I think. I’m pretty sure I was swearing the whole way. Lucy and Jess were the steady voices in my head (aka on whatsapp) telling me to just keep going. Because I honestly thought about stopping. At 48km.

50km / 2,500m+: I’m pretty sure I burst into tears and then realised that a guy had been watching my entire 2km mania . It hurt all over. I had to lie down. I couldn’t speak on the phone.


 50km: I was at the top of a mountain. In a place where taxis couldn’t reach me. I had to walk 5km back down. Farmers shuffle. Pain cave.

5pm: Epsom salt bath. Burgers. Restless legs but a dawning sense of achievement (somewhere in the fog). I had finished.

UTMB Race results: 3rd in category, 7th female overall, 59th (out of 3,501).

Worth all the pain.

ATG Vertical Challenge – max elevation in Stage 4 lockdown

I’d love to say that when I was asked to join a team for the Asia Trail Girls Vertical Challenge, I didn’t know I would be in Stage 4 lockdown.

But no, I knew. I knew I’d only have one hour of power to smash out as much elevation as I could, within a 5km radius of my house.

I do thrive on challenges (especially in lockdown… and in winter). They give me the motivation I need to get out of my warm cosy bed, throw on my sports gear and get out into the cold dark morning (via some mobility, journaling and a really strong coffee, of course).

And if there’s a team involved? Accountability shoots up and I’m usually awake even before the alarm goes off

(…this is gin-dependent).


The challenge was: teams of four, based around Asia, trying to complete as much elevation between them in ten days.

Imogen called me to ask if I would join two of the girls she regularly climbed the trails of Hong Kong with – I was definitely keen, my only doubt was that I would hold them back because I couldn’t get to the trails in Victoria.

We discussed. And I joined anyway. Super grateful.

I did some research, googled hills and steps around me (steps generally give you more bang for your buck on the elevation front) and asked a few running groups.

Suggestions came in: Hope street, a 400m stretch of road from Mooney Valley Creek Trail to Melville Road. I plotted it out – up to 27m gain for every 400m effort. Not a mountain, but enough.

I also had Allard Park where I usually did my hills training.

Game on.

On the first day of the challenge I had to contend with the small matter of a (flat) 10km virtual race to do (Lululemon SeaWheeze). One big fat spoonful of overload anyone? Oops.

The run went reasonably well – my optimism in trying to get a PB was a little skewed given the two hours of workouts I’d done the day before (running, Crossfit and Nike Training), and the zero rest days before that.

Optimism is always good though: I realised with only 600m to go that I wasn’t going to get my PB. 600m. That was a good enough effort for me (sub 40 mins, I’ll get you next time).

Feeling a little bad that the 10km only gave me 35m elevation I headed home to complete some steps and step ups in my apartment…for 4km, for 45 minutes.

All the sweat and some really quite tender calve muscles…

Day 1 done.

On Day 2 I thought I’d try this Hope Street to see what it felt like.

I can tell you, there was nothing hopeful about it. Long and steep.

Hope Street, no Hope

I started, leaning forwards, pushing off with small steps on the slight incline.

Angry music on. Not so bad.

I tried to fly down the hill as fast as possible – sometimes closing my eyes and imagining I was back on the trails (not advisable on a road).

50 minutes later I reached 10km of up and down – 12 hill repeats? My legs were done.

So of course, I went home and did some more steps and step ups inside. Juist for fun.   

Mondays are usually my rest days. But when there’s a challenge on…there’s no rest


My calves were pretty sore from the 2000% increase in hill training, so I rolled them out and put more focus on them in my morning mobility.

I woke and biked out to Allard Park, and the climbing began – around 220m of path up to the lookout point, and the view of Melbourne CBD is always beautiful incentive.

Views worth climbing for

55 minutes done and then home… for more steps, which I broke into two twenty-minute sessions. For the sake of my legs, and my sanity.

This time it was podcasts that got me through and I was able to zone out and tune in to voices (a mild risk of distraction and face planting, but I took my chances).

For some reason – maybe because it was my rest day and I was going rogue – I also chose to do Crossfit that evening.

Luckily, it was mostly arms. But in the bath afterwards there was a moment when I thought I might not actually be able to pull my body out of it….

The bath must’ve helped though (and staying in it longer because I couldn’t get out), because there was less pain in my calves afterwards.

Or maybe it was just masked by the pain everywhere else.

Day 4 – Tuesday, was hills with a friend. A real person to talk to (at 1.5m distance).

The session was shorter (I don’t think she would train with me again if I made her do a full hour).

More steps and step ups.

Yoga, rolling, cold baths.

Calves getting used to it now – or just giving up the protest.

Six days to go. Eek.

By Day 5 I was craving some flat running… anything. Just flat.

So, I rationalised with myself that I could take a day off, be ‘normal’. Run normal.

I chose the Mona Fartlek – my favourite workout. Short efforts, short recoveries – but lots of them.

I finished it, exhilarated (and exhausted).

And I found myself at the bottom of Allard Hill.

I sighed. Might as well.

And so the climbs began again; long at first, then shorter, then the steepest part I could find over and over again. Was I addicted? Maybe.

I looked at my watch: I had eight minutes to get home before my hour was up. I left the hills and the view, left the pain in my lungs and legs.

I was happy.

When I got home, naturally I did some steps and step ups.

Confirmed. Addicted.

Day 6.

When the alarm went off, I rationalised again with myself that I could take a rest day. Should take a rest day.

I peeked outside, blue skies.

Not today.

Suddenly I was up, mobilising, journaling, drinking my pre-run coffee.


Then suddenly I was at the bottom of Hope Street with 400m of uphill in front of me.

I started, with angry music, and angry calves. But the sun, the sun was rising, the rays broke onto my skin, pushing me to go faster, to run towards it. Beautifulness.

Sunrise on Hope Street

10km, and I was done. Beautifully done.


The steps and step ups waited until lunchtime, then suddenly I’d done 3km of them.

Legs ached, arms ached (erm, jealous?).

Day six was done.

By Day 7 I actually think my legs were used to the hills, or maybe I just hurt all over even more.

I needed to mix it up so I went out to Allard Park. I knew I had 40 minutes (plus time to get there and back). So the first ten I went up and down 80m, steady pace. For the second 10 I swapped to a shorter steeper hill that I considered just rolling down on many occasions. For the third 10-minute set, I went back to the 80m. The last one – and I have no idea why I put this last – I went up to the 160m mark on the hill, the top.

Allard Park hill


Home, strength. Work. Steps. Work.


Day 8 was my biggest day. The government introduced a new ruling that meant we could drive to where we train, so I could get to Fairfield (literally just within my 5km radius). I was so excited by the change of scenery.

From the top of the steps I could see the trails in the distance, the beautiful trails I had biked and run so many times on the other side of the river.


Today though, I had 100 beautiful steps from the river to the top.

All the steps

There was one other girl doing them – either as training or punishment (we can never be sure right?). I promised myself I wouldn’t compete with her….

…but when you haven’t had any competition for months you pretty much make competition out of anything (or is that just me?), I chased her, passed her (safely) and began again.

24 repeats. 2400 steps. 40 minutes. Heart pumping, full of blood and full of joy, to be outside near trails.

Home. Breakfast, more step ups. Water. Then a crossfit charge WOD which included over 1,000 step ups.

1,600m elevation.

Sorry legs.

I took every opportunity throughout the rest of the day to duck down to the floor and get into pigeon pose + the world’s greatest stretch + corpse pose (my favourite). Anything I thought would be give my legs more life for the last two days…. not to mention the 75km virtual UTMB challenge I had planned for the following week. 

Sunday, Day 9. The home straight.

Torrential rain.

I waited.

More rain.

Steps it was.

One hour up and down up and down.

In all honesty it was supposed to be 30 minutes, but the podcast I was listening to was so damn good I forgot, and continued. (thank you Chasing Excellence)


Second breakfast.

My legs were twitching for some flat running (they definitely weren’t, but I was), so I took myself out for a very chilled 7km.

A few tweaks and twinges, but otherwise happy.

Home to do steps… nothing left in my legs.

No steps.

Bath. Epsom salts. Aromatherapy oils, anything.

Day 10: the final day!!

I gave myself a beautiful sleep in…and even managed to turn off the alarm and sleep more.

Double training takes its toll. Hills take their toll.

Suddenly I was up and coffee-d, I had journaled and meditated, and found myself doing steps again, with my podcasts, followed by another one. Until I had done 5km of steps.


Lunchtime came. More steps. Up to 8km.

Was I satisfied? I rationalised with myself that I would do some more later, after work.

I went to make lunch, realised squatting down to get my saucepan out of the cupboard would take a while for me to get back up from.

No more steps.

Challenge completed.


So grateful.

75km over five days starts tomorrow.

Our team managed 44,450m elevation, coming in second female team and 20th overall.

The results

So proud.

So grateful.

And next?

UTMB starts tomorrow…