I have a confession to make: I had no business being at this race.
I have always been quite realistic about my capabilities as an ultra runner, which are average at best…but I am lucky to have taken part in and finish some fairly iconic (long) races, such as Grand Union Canal, Thames Ring 250, even the Arc of Attrition and the Spine Challenger. But I was hugely out of my depth at the UTS 50, and so I apologise if what you are about to read becomes a bit of a moan about climbing mountains, climbing sheer rock faces, looking up at mountains I’m about to climb, struggling to descend mountains I’ve just climbed, and then bloody climbing yet more mountains.
So, this report will probably be most useful for people that are thinking of entering this race, based on the rhapsodoxical language everyone is using about how beautiful the course is. I can’t disagree with that, it had some of the most stunning views I’ve seen, but unfortunately to enjoy the view, I had to restart my heart with a portable defibrillator (at the top of a mountain) and put on my oxygen mask just to reach enough consciousness to be aware of my surroundings. Let’s face it I was a ‘Casualty’ opening sequence just waiting to happen.
Anyway, where was I? My training had been pretty consistent in the few months running up to UTS. A consistent 40-50 miles per week, done on the pancake flat part of Kent where I live. I did make a few trips to the cliffs in Folkestone that saw most of my training for Spine Challenger in January, but probably only enough to ease my conscience, rather than turn me into Killian Jornet. I was fit,  healthy and well rested, but apart from that I suspect Mr Blobby would have had a similar experience.
Before I go any further, I will answer the question you’re all asking….where was John? My running buddy for the last few ultras was supposed to be doing the 100 miles version (whereas I was just doing the easy 50), but he had had to drop out due to being a big old ‘fraidy-cat. His exact words were “I’m just too scared to run this big bad race; I’d like you to stay at home with me so we can wash our hair and paint our toenails together.” Ummmm, well it was something like that anyway.
Unfortunately, that meant that with John having to pull out, I had to decide whether to carry on by myself. It was rather like when one person pulls out of a suicide pact, the other person carries on for sheer bloody-mindedness (rather than they especially want to kill themselves, but they would feel silly pulling out just because the other person did.)
So Friday found me driving to Wales, in beautiful sunshine, under blue skies, with enough cheese rolls to feed me until Sunday night.

My itinerary was simple…drive to Wales on Friday and register. Sleep in a local B&B, and start the 50 mile race at 5am Saturday. Finish sometime during the evening/night, and get some sleep a the B&B, before a hearty breakfast at 8am and driving back to leafy Kent in time for tea and kippers and a bottle of cheap red wine. Obviously I didn’t know how long the race was going to take, but I’ve done flattish 50 milers before in about 9 hours, and lumpy ones in the Lake District in about 12, so I thought the absolute worst case scenario was taking about 17-19 hours, getting me to bed for my beauty sleep by midnight at the latest.
I probably should provide a quick bit of detail about the course that made the race so enticing. It had never been held before, so there was quite a lot of ‘unknowns’. Michael Jones, the race director, did an amazing organising job, and quite frankly the whole experience ran smoother than a few city marathons I’ve done. There was a regular FaceBook presence that kept the race on the agenda, and every question (and there were lots!) was answered in good humour very quickly. Overall, it was a master-class in how an ultra should be organised.
The 50 mile course had about 18500 feet of elevation (that’s about 6000m). To put that into perspective, Snowdon is about 1085m high, so that meant going up & down Snowden 6 times. Or to put it another way, a standard flight of stairs is 12 feet (according to Google), so the race is about 1541 flights of stairs.
There is a lovely route description that makes it all sound like a walk in the park:

…..after a brief stop at the Bron-y-Fedw Uchaf Farm, runner’s ascend and descend Snowdon via the classic Ranger and Rhyd-Ddu paths.  Leaving Rhyd-Ddu Outdoor Centre, the trail largely follows the Paddy Buckley Round to Moel Hebog, traversing technical ridges and epic climbs. A technical descent to Beddgelert leads runners to the next aid station, before a pleasant jog alongside Glaslyn River. Following a short road section, it’s back to business with a long slog up to the characterful Cnicht, before a possibly slippery descent back to Nant Gwynant Cafe……
Strangely it doesn’t mention the mountains much. I should explain the term ‘technical’.
This is another word for ‘dangerous’.
I don’t care what anyone tells me, when someone says “there’s a bit of a technical section here” what they mean is that you are going up vertically (and might die) or down something so steep that the mountain goats rope themselves together.
So, after a relaxing 6 hour drive, I got to Llanberis and was easily able to park just outside The Heights, race HQ. A slick registration desk, manned by lots of orange T-shirted smilers, saw me through kit check and out the other side in record time. The free technical T-shirt was red, my favourite colour for running in (much easier for the rescue helicopter to see you) so that was alright. I had a quick drink in the bar, and saw all the 100 mile racers getting ready to set off. They looked hard-core….stringy and muscular, with the battle-hardened faces of Spartans (was what I thought, as I sipped my coke and tried not to stare at them).
I didn’t stay around to watch them head off, but then quickly headed off to the B&B to get myself sorted and something to eat.
A quick life tip here…when you book on Booking.com, and it tells you that your B&B is only 1.3 miles away from race HQ, make sure that the 1.3 mile is not ‘as the crow flies’ and there isn’t a massive lake between the B&B and race HQ that you have to drive round. 20 minutes later, I’m at the B&B and settled. A quick drive to Bethesda to get some dinner and I walked into the most Welsh pub in Wales, as I stepped through the front door the music stopped, the pool players brandished their cues, the dog woke up and growled and the guy ordering his pint (in Welsh, obviously) turned round and looked me up and down before grabbing a huge leek and whacking me over the head with it.
The next pub was completely empty, and as I chatted to the barman while waiting for my food, picking bits of broken leek out of my hair, it turned out this pub had only just opened for business and so was yet to be invaded by mad Welsh people. I ate alone. Phew!
I slept well back at the B&B, and woke raring to go at 3.30am. Cheese rolls and coffee for breakfast, and we congregated at race HQ in the dim light of 4.30am, bleary eyed but awake. Unusually, there was a quiet nervousness around the runners that I didn’t really understand until afterwards…I think everyone else had a much better idea of what to expect.
After a quick safety briefing (and entirely inaudible to the wimps like me at the back) we set off.

I was happily trotting along towards the rear, and as the trail headed in to the hills and the sun came up, you could tell it was going to be a great day. There was rain forecast for noon, but in Wales that is to be expected, as well as some wet underfoot.
I was carrying my poles (cheat-sticks) as I ran, but by perhaps mile 3 I saw that a lot of people were unpacking theirs before what looked like our first serious climb. I, always happy to follow the crowd, did the same and I was thankful I did as the grassy hill needed some serious grip to get up it. I took a few pictures of these first few climbs, and they were lovely, and went back and forth with a few of the other runners.

There still wasn’t much conversation between runners, probably because it’s difficult to talk while fighting for oxygen, but I took the opportunity to strike up a conversation with a runner that overtook me while on a flat section who had an Ironman tattoo like me. My opening gambit, perhaps unwisely, was to loudly exclaim how happy I was to see someone else with the tattoo, as then everyone else would have another person to take the piss out of. (My tattoo, although earned with two Ironman races, was more about my mid-life “I want a tattoo” crisis than anything else). It turns out that Liz though her tattoo was a badge of honour and she was about as far from a mid-life crisis as she could be. She’d done some superb races and after a bit of chat she left me far behind, finishing way ahead of me.

After 9.5 miles, and a mere 2460 feet of climbing, we reached the first aid station after a long gently sloping road descent that had everyone trotting along like it was a road race. Lovely! The aid station (always a good indicator of the guts of a race) was superb, serving a variety of sandwiches and bits, as well as Doritos! For people that know me, Doritos are the food of champions, and my go-to recovery nutrient. I had to physically restrain myself from spending the rest of the day there.
A quick turn around and onto the next leg, only 6 miles and 1850 feet of elevation. Hardly worth bothering with really, and in fact I remember very little about this leg, due to the paralysing awfulness of later sections.

The next aid station was a cheery set of tables laden with food (again) that I got to about 9am, just as it was starting to get warm. I took off my thin waterproof jacket, as I heard a tall American ask about the progress of the 100 mile runners who had set off 12 hours before us. Usually they would be expected to be catching up to us about now, for the best runners, but so far there was no sign of them.
After a 5 minute pit-stop, for some coke and a cheese & pickle sandwich, I set off on the next leg, which was only 7.1 miles but had a whopping 2890 feet of climb, including our first Snowden ascent, up the ranger path. I was about halfway up Snowden, trying desperately to tell myself I was having fun, when the reality began to sink in of what I had let myself in for. Snowden is a lovely walk, with excited kids and a panting wife (as I had done once in half term), but it’s rather different when I was feeling the need to push hard up a slope that was simply exhausting. The mind gremlins started to work their magic, and I was swiftly convincing myself that the sensible thing to do would be to seriously think about not only this race, but the summer race I have planned (Lakeland 100 if you’re interested) and in fact my entire running ‘career’.

Rather luckily, at this stage I met Adrian, the tall American from the last checkpoint. We chatted our way up Snowden, both admitting to a few ‘doubts’ at this early stage. Adrian was a great conversationalist, and has an amazing running CV, twice finishing UTMB and going back for more this year, as well as having completed Marathon des Sables just 3 weeks ago. He was an amazing climber, and while I had to work out where to put each foot on rocky climbs so that I didn’t break an ankle, he would glide upwards as if he was on an escalator. Adrian had been to the top of Snowden by various routes a number of times, and I happily chatted away to him all the way to the top, and past all the tourists flapping up the last part. Adrian asked if I wanted to go into the café at the top, but I was so happy to get to the top of the damn thing I was keen to push on. There was no particular excitement at having reached the top, as we knew we would be back to the top before the end of the race.

We descended a long technical descent, which was the first time I could really keep up with Adrian as I had gravity and about 10 kgs on my side. We clambered over a few rocky parts, with me learning more about Adrian…owns his own business, likes shopping in Tesco (especially Finest cookies), his family, his love of Salterns, his mountain climbing hobby before he took up running….he was great company. I only hope I entertained him as much to take his mind off the pain.
And there was pain. The constant clambering was preventing any kind of rhythm on the descent, and meant I was stretching my legs in ways they had not been used to. I suspect that runners used to such terrain would wonder what the fuss was about, but I was struggling. Adrian started to take a few painkillers for his legs that were cramping up, which didn’t bode well for him. There were no other runners in sight as we descended to the third checkpoint, although a few had overtaken us on the climb.
The third checkpoint was at 22.5 miles in, so was about halfway. We reached it at noon, so 7 hours to cover the distance – very slow but another 10 hours would have us finished about midnight which was a pleasant thought.
The last 7.1 miles had taken 2 hours 40 minutes, which wasn’t so good, and said more about the size of ascent (vertical 2890ft) than the distance travelled. We had completed 7200 ft of climb, with 11000ft left….which meant the remaining 27.5 miles would be appalling. It was a good job I was far too knackered to look at the remaining distance / climbing, or I would have had serious doubts.
This checkpoint was a chance for hot soup and access to drop bags. We had all been given an excellent Silva 24 litre dry-bag at registration (which is actually a really practical freebie) and somehow I was reunited with mine in seconds (imagine 150 identical black drop-bags, marked with small race numbers and you can see the organisation involved here!). I changed my socks, and wondered about taking some of the warmer clothes I had packed into my drop bag with me (including my hard-shell windproof coat). In the end I didn’t as it was a beautiful warm day, but with hindsight this was incredibly stupid, as the remainder of the race stretched ahead and a change in weather conditions would have put an end to the race for me.
Adrian and I left the checkpoint after 20 minutes, full of energy, soup and good feelings. As we left, I pulled out the details of the next leg, which told us we had 8.3 miles to go and 3828 ft of climb.
Hang on………the previous leg (up Snowden) had destroyed my legs, and taken over 2.5 hours to travel 7.1 miles. This leg was a just mile further…and another 1000 feet of climb. Oh shit.
NEXT CHAPTER: THE SECTION OF DOOM
It’s important at this stage that I emphasise everything seemed to be going quite well that day, albeit a bit slowly. We were still on for a midnight finish, and although I’d experienced a few dark moments climbing Snowden I was quite cheerful. My legs were feeling it, but I had no trouble and was moving quite smoothly.
By the next checkpoint I was a shell-shocked mess, repairing a broken pole, and spending 20 minutes just sitting to gather myself and rest my legs. I would be surrounded by runners in exactly the same mind-set, of “WTF was that last section all about?!”

The first climb was tough, but manageable and finished on a rocky peak that really made you feel like you’d got to the top.

Ahead were ridges, with steep drops on either side, which you could see peaked further on. If I had looked more closely at the course profile, I’d have seen this section had 6 distinct peaks, with the last being the highest by far.

So every time you reached a peak, instead of being able to look forward (?) to a long descent, you descended just enough to start to hurt, and then you were going up again. I would lose Adrian on each climb, and then catch him up as he struggled with cramping legs on the descent. The second or third peak on this leg was a proper ‘technical’ scramble (as fell runners call them) or a f*cking mountain rock face climb, without ropes or crash helmet.

This last part, which was the final photo I took of the whole course, was so far out of my comfort zone as to be akin to landing a 747 on an aircraft carrier in outer space. It was quite simple: going back was too far, going forward was (just marginally) more attractive, but probably a lot more damaging to myself. Anyway, enough of the dramatics…I did it, and got to the other side of the climb to find Adrian sitting waiting for me (bless him) as he waited for his latest painkillers to kick in.
I remember a long rocky descent as we both tried to look ahead and understand which of the horrific ridges up ahead we would be climbing next. I think this interlude involved the discussion about the British school system, immigration system, and Slatterns. At some point on the descent one of my poles (cheap but very strong) decided to break the locking mechanism, meaning the damn thing wouldn’t stay at its normal extended length, but telescopically condensed to being about thigh height. My poles were a life saver on the climbs, giving more purchase and push uphill, and kept me on my unsteady feet going downhill, so this was quite a problem. At the next aid station I was able to peel some duct tape off it (which had marked it as mine) and secure the joint which held until the end, luckily.  My second pole did exactly the same towards the end, which was just great!
The next peak naturally turned out to be the biggest one yet, and there wee some runners having a few minutes rest at the bottom. The route led up alongside a long drystone wall that stretched into the mist at the top, and just seemed to head for heaven. It was on this climb I started having to stop every 10 or 15 minutes, just to get my heart rate down and oxygen debt back to something normal. It isn’t really possible to put into words how long that climb went on for, or what was going through my mind. It started drizzling and I put on my waterproof, in the hope that the drizzle would not turn into anything stronger.
Lots of technical scrambling / rock climbing later, another huge boggy descent, and the fourth aid station came into view. I was a broken man (like my pole, coincidentally).
The last aid station had been a brisk affair, with all runners business-like and everyone keen to keep faffing to a minimum.  5.5 hours later, 8.3 miles and 3828 feet later, I think there was now a strong sense of “I-just-want-to-survive” in the room. It was after 5pm, and it would be dusk in 3 hours. We had all lost the whole afternoon on one section, and had another 3 legs to go. All thoughts of a midnight finish had gone out of my head, and to be fair, I was not thinking of quitting, but I wasn’t really thinking of anything rationally at that point.
Immediately on entering, I was accosted by a young girl who asked if I’d like some soup or a drink, which was absolutely wonderful. It was like coming home.
Adrian took his shoes and socks off to try and dry his feet out, which were beginning to suffer from the ill effects of the MdS 3 weeks previously. My feet were in decent shape, but my legs- especially the front and rear of my thighs- were simply throbbing as the blood tried in vain to repair the damage.
There was a whole pile of broken poles in the corner. And the rest of the room was full of broken runners (boom tish!).
I had a couple of bowls of soup, as did Adrian, and told myself (at 5.51pm) that I needed to be leaving by 6pm or I would start to stiffen up (and never want to leave). Adrian had a bit of knowledge of the next couple of legs, and was trying (unsuccessfully) to describe the technical (dangerous) bits as being over quite quickly. Although that was what I needed to hear, I didn’t believe him for a second.
I left by myself, knowing Adrian would catch up easily on the first long ascent, and enjoyed a long flattish trail alongside a river, which was lovely. But all too soon it came to an end and the climbing started. As if the path wasn’t hard enough, some farmer had locked all the gates shut, so you had to climb them – easy on a normal day, but absolute torture to wrench yourself up to waist height and over the top.
As I was carrying on, toward the top of the first high peak, a runner appeared coming towards me. He was running quite smoothly, and had a race number on his front, so was clearly in some kind of trouble. As he went past me, he said he didn’t fancy the climb up ahead, so had decided to turn round and retire at the previous checkpoint.
So, let’s be clear…he was clearly still in good shape (running well downhill etc.) but he would prefer to run at least an hour back to the previous aid station than face the climbing ahead. He had already gone through some really challenging sections, but what was ahead was so unbelievably difficult he wouldn’t even risk it. Of all the things designed to freak my head out, this was it. Steve (the runner) gave me and everyone else I spoke to that he had passed a complete mind-enema as every negative thought I had been suppressing suddenly came to the front and poured out of me.
I had been travelling for about 2 hours when I saw Steve, and it was only perhaps 20 minutes later that I came to the peak that had turned him round. The markers simply went up the side of three semi-vertical slabs of granite, to perhaps 30 feet up in the air. Beyond that point you couldn’t really see what happened, but while you could maybe pull yourself up the slabs, there was no easy obvious way to get down…it was a one-way decision.
This particular section (I was to find out later) was called Cnight, and is known as “The Welsh Matterhorn”.  Bloody hell.
Naturally, at that point I did the obvious thing and had a sit down to check I was really expected to climb this. The markers were all in place, so there really wasn’t any doubt, but it seemed prudent to check. Also, I would wait for someone to catch up to me that knew how on earth to climb this without injuring themselves. Sure enough, two runners soon turned up who had also seen Steve (the retiring runner) and were as worried as me.
However, one of them was made of strong stuff, as he stowed his poles away and made ready to climb. Rather more reluctantly his companion did the same, and really really reluctantly, I made mine as easy to carry as possible and readied myself for rock climbing.
The first guy went up quite easily, and then his friend rather less easily. I just about made it, but much more slowly, as I would plan my next few hand and feet holds before progressing. By the time I reached the top of the three slabs, the two guys had gone quite a distance ahead, and I would soon be on my own again.

So what does any sensible non-rock-climber do? At the next tricky part, I sat and waited for the next passing runner who hopefully would have mean I didn’t die alone. Sure enough, along came Adrian to save the day (and me) with his experience and wisdom. I’ll not repeat his first words to me, but they rhymed with “ducking dangerous”, so that was all right.
Although we got over this particular peak just as dusk was falling, everyone behind would be doing it in the dark, a far harder proposition. The markers on the whole route were superb, bright reflective orange sticks with ribbons at the top to catch the attention, but even so they were spaced out every 50 metres or so on the climbs and the route between them wasn’t obvious. In the dark it would rely on someone’s experience or luck to choose the right way.
The only memorable thing about the descent in the dark, apart from how bloody dark it was, was that we were joined by Keith, a softly spoken Welsh guy, who clearly had the climbing abilities of a monkey (unlike mine of a hippo). We joined up as the darkness fell, as it was simply common sense to have a third set of eyes looking out for markers. We paused for a few minutes in one place while Keith changed his head-torch over, and then promptly lost the route, path and markers, ending up coming down the side of the slope in roughly the right direction. The sense of relief as we joined up with the markers and path again was palpable.
The last section, a mere 2665 feet of climbing across 10.5 miles (but probably 3 of those miles were along the river at the start) had taken another massive 5 hours or so. The aid station we finally arrived at was outside, which was a bit of a shame, but manned by some absolute superstar volunteers who took a lot of complaining about the course from the survivors of the last section.
I got some more soup and a fabulous sit down, whereupon my legs just gently shut down……throbbing, aching, little cramps, you name it, my legs did it. Adrian took his shoes and socks off again, and the soles of his feet looked poached. Keith sat across from us, and assumed the flopped position of exhaustion. I wish I’d taken some pictures.
A couple of guys from Jersey came in, who had flown over previously and recce’d the final 20 miles (we were currently at about mile 41). They announced they were dropping out, despite only having another 10ish miles to go. Oh dear, that must mean they know what is up ahead (and knowing what I know now, I can understand why they dropped out).
After a restorative 20 or 30 minutes, we refilled water bottles and set off again. Adrian knew the route up ahead, and was trying to ‘manage my expectations’ of how hard it would be by saying it was the last hard section (only 2820 feet of climb in 4.9 miles) and once this was over the last section was much easier. In fact, once this next leg was done, the remaining final section was easy….I think I remember he said. Famous last words.
The next section was like something out of a nightmare. Once we got to the scramble parts (i.e. rock climbing) Adrian would be forging upwards, with Keith following behind (but even Keith was slowing a bit) and I would be bringing up the far rear. It is to their credit that they went slow enough I could keep them in sight as we climbed. Near the peaks, if you looked upwards you could see the reflective markers high above, suggesting huge climbs ahead. It was grim.
There were a couple of places Keith and I just waited for Adrian to work out a route across and up the rocks, before trying to copy his path, literally trusting him to get us up there safely. Despite it being midnight it was not particularly cold or windy, which I am thankful for…if the weather had been against us I would not have rated our chances on the slippery rocks.
In the early hours Adrian started to complain of feeling dizzy, probably a combination of the hard concentration and lack of food, so finally I could do something useful, offering him some of my boiled sweets – I knew I had come along for something!
Another 2 runners caught us up, the lead one being very skilful and showing the second runner the best way to go (much as Adrian was doing for me). We teamed up for a while, making a slow route to the next checkpoint. 4.9 miles had taken most of the night.
As the ground levelled out and we approached the checkpoint in the far distance ahead we could see some faint lights impossibly high in the distance. They were, according to Adrian, runners on the final ascent of Snowden, or even on the final descent. They looked so far away, and so high up, they could have been on the International Space Station.
The checkpoint was a simple affair of a jeep and three chairs and a gazebo. We gratefully sank into the three chairs, while the other 2 runners carried straight on. Sitting in that chair, I began to have a sense it was all a dream, as that was the only way to describe what I had just done. Adrian and Keith were in pretty good spirits (considering) but I was just out of it.
I had a cup of lemonade, but was promptly sick 6 times on the ground beside my chair. It says something to my state of exhaustion, I didn’t even feel the need to get up, but just leant over the left arm of my chair to vomit all over the floor. It was a good job we were outside; as it was mostly liquid and had soaked in by the time we left.
Regular readers of my race reports will be well accustomed to my amusing stomach antics on ultras, and I am so used to being sick it doesn’t really disrupt me anymore. I just get it over with, and carry on. Which is what I did this time too, after apologising to the two aid station volunteers that had to spend the next few hours in the company of my stomach contents on the floor.
As we set off, with a little bit of chivvying from Adrian to get me moving, I consoled myself with the thought that this was it – the last leg, the final climb, and then home. It was a mere 7 miles to get to the finish, the car, a shower, bed then breakfast. It was a lovely thought.  Perhaps I underestimated the 2400 feet of climbing we still had to do.
I think we were all in good spirits as we left, shattered but cheerful. We had one more climb up Snowden here, up the miners track (which I knew nothing about) and then down the long shallow descent to Llanberis.
But this climb was a killer. I had to keep requesting a quick stop so I could lie on the ground and sort out my breathing to try to relax my legs a bit, which Adrian and Keith did (with infinite patience).
I would like to say, after a few hours of hard climbing, we got to the top of the path and I was rejuvenated, but hours upon hours had taken their toll, and the top of Snowden was a bit of a blur to me. It was dawn, the sun was just coming over the far mountains, and early morning walkers were at the peak to capture the best views…..but all I could think of was getting to the end and sitting down.

The descent was an exercise in pain management, with the gentle slope lending itself to allowing gravity to pull you forward and using your feet to brake with each step, however this slammed your ruined toes to the front of the shoe, and battered the soles of your feet, so it was an awkward shuffle all the way down. As if that wasn’t bad enough, it was 5am and the sleep monsters started to play havoc with my brain, sending me to sleep even as I walked down the hill over the rough terrain. I wasn’t the only one, and Adrian and Keith both confirmed they were feeling the same.
It turned out that Keith, who had done some pretty tough ultras in South Wales, was only doing the race as he had been given the entry by his wife for his birthday. Although I met her after the race and she seemed extremely nice, I’d be a bit worried if she gives him a shark-diving trip next or suggests he tries base jumping next.
And then we were near the end. A painful very steep bit of road at the bottom of Snowden, and through the town. The finish was a suitably understated affair, with a couple of volunteers and a dog.
The three of us had finished in about 26 hours, at 7am, which is a spectacularly long time to go 50 miles. I can hold my head up though, as I consider myself bloody lucky to finish (and be alive) and I have Adrian and Keith to thank for that.
Inside race HQ there were a few runners sitting and staring into space, contemplating being alive and nursing a cup of tea. There was food on offer, which sounded great, but at that stage I just wanted to get to the B&B and have a shower and sleep. Keith’s wife turned up with coffee for him (hope she hadn’t poisoned it) and Adrian went in search of food.
As sometimes happens with me, I went from physically and mentally shattered to being full of beans, and quickly got my stuff together to return to my car. I was lucky to cadge a lift from a volunteer to get to the car park in double-quick time, and got to the B&B in time for a shower,  breakfast and a sleep. Magic.
The drive back was long but uneventful, due mainly to the fact I had to keep pulling into every service station for a sleep, but 10 hours later I was home unscathed and opening my first celebratory beer & Doritos. Phew!
So, in summary, what would I say about this race? It’s absolutely stunning, with views that I suspect you simply can’t get on many other UK races. Unfortunately that also means you have to destroy yourself in the process. If that’s your thing then go ahead. Once was enough for me. I finished 124th out of 166 starters. Of the 47 that started the 100 mile version, only 13 finished. I have no doubt this race will go from strength to strength as the nations appetite for challenging runs seems to grow.
I cannot praise Michael Jones (RD) and the rest of the volunteers enough; it was a master-class in race organising from beginning to end. From my own personal perspective, there’s very little you could do to improve my race experience without a steam roller to flatten the course a little.  I probably should mention that this race didn’t have a medal, which I have absolutely no problem with, getting a very useful dry-bag & technical T-shirt instead.  Hopefully a few more races will follow suit.
I’d like to thank Adrian and Keith for getting me round, and being so patient when I was suffering. Everyone has low points on these races, but seldom have I been so physically exhausted for so long…without the need to keep up with them I probably would still be out there.
Thanks to my family, for their never ending patience and forgiveness for the time I spend doing these things. Especially my wife Claire, who doesn’t try to stop me even when she knows I’m mad. Love you Claire.
And finally, I’d like to apologise to my legs, which are still twitchy and sore a full 9 days since I finished, surely a record for me. I promise never to return to Wales (for any reason) without a set of poles made from unobtainium that will definitely not break.
God, this race hurt.
Thanks for reading, now go outside and enjoy some sunshine.