This was the hardest day of my life. It started at 9pm on Friday on a coach full of ultrarunners.

*After-note: I didn’t intend this to be a long post, but the flashbacks returned as I wrote. At least it reflects the slow-drip torture of a 71-mile run…*

The journey from Inverness to Fort William took nearly three hours and I didn’t get a minute of sleep thanks to conversations about running and Scotland (two things that keep me sane), pre-run excitement and a beautiful sunset over Loch Ness. At FW we bundled into a village hall where I did the registration admin, faffed about and attempted to sleep behind the stage curtain. Again I was unsuccessful, this time due to the unforgivingly cold, hard floor, blasé babble of seasoned runners and absurd consciousness of the strangers laying around me.

During the race brief I noted that the average age of the headtorch and buff-clad runners was probably about 50. After last year’s 50-miler this didn’t fill me with confidence – as far as ultrarunning is concerned, age seems to be a virtue. We shuffled our way into the cool, black Highland air and started the run at 1am.

Mile 0-7: Canal, boredom

I thought that darkness, excitement and running in a big pack would make the first part fly by. I was wrong. This section went along a long stretch of canal, which meant that it was flat, even and monotonous – my worst nightmare. I wasn’t used to running that slowly (about 10-10.5mins/mile), my legs felt heavy, I couldn’t shake off heartburn, my right calf felt tight already and I was conscious of every footstep around me. The only scenery was the heels of the runners in front of me, lit by my headtorch as I chased my own shadow.

Mile 7-11: Trail, the only fun I had that day

The route crossed the canal and thankfully took me along an enjoyable section of rooty forest singletrack. I paced myself on the person in front of me and focused on the twisty, undulating path through trees and ferns, trying not to be too jealous of a group of bemused, beer-drinking, fire-poking lochside campers. The first checkpoint was a bit further on than I expected, and I grabbed my first dropbag without stopping. Jelly snake number one perked me up a little. Heartburn persisted.

Mile 11-20: Gravel, pain

I was acutely aware that I’d already been in pain for a while, mainly in my right calf but also general discomfort everywhere else from padding along the boringly samey surface. This section was a long drag along wide, pine forest-lined gravel tracks which rollercoastered up and down along the north bank of imaginatively named Loch Lochy, whose still, black water crept into view below high braes as the sun made its reluctant way up. Heartburn persisted.

Mile 20-27: Forest, regret

At checkpoint two I grabbed my drop bag and carried on, fuelled by a second jelly snake and a pocketful of nuts and dried fruit. My memory of this section is a bit hazy, I just remember hating everything. I think the path changed from gravel to muddyish dirt to road to hilly forest track. Heartburn was overtaken by general pain.

Mile 27-32: Lochs, hopelessness

I remember the miles before checkpoint three vividly. A flat, straight gravel section that ran along Laggan Lochs and Loch Oich and stretched endlessly into the distance. As a trailrunner who loves uneven terrain and doesn’t want to be able to see more than a few feet in front at a time, I hated every step and every breath. Given how I felt, the thought of making even 40 miles was hopeless. The runners had strung out a long way apart by this point, and I didn’t see another person for a long, long time.

After what felt like forever I reached checkpoint three. I was glad for the company and the snacks, but the midges were relentless, every part of my legs hurt already and I was grumpy.

Mile 32-54: Mountains, under-appreciation

I stopped shortly after checkpoint three to plaster a blister that I’d ignored for way too long, which had all but destroyed a little toe. Blisters became my biggest issue, which was frustrating as they didn’t bother me at all during last year’s 50-miler, and although superficial they’re debilitatingly painful. I checked my distance way too often and tried to block out the pain of every step.

These long miles along “the high road” were unenjoyable and kind of blurry in my memory, so I’m definitely not doing the scenery justice. I think this was the most varied, wild and beautiful bit, but I’ve never appreciated such a stunning place less. The trail became undulating and twisty, through lush green forest, hillside heathland overlooking vast Loch Ness with its mountainous backdroup, more green forest, and past the golden fields of huge, sprawling farms.

I was pleased to make 50 miles, given how much I was struggling, and at checkpoint 6 I thought about how I could throw in the towel satisfied in the knowledge that I’d run further than ever before. But I could still walk, so I knew that I couldn’t live with myself if I gave up, and I limped along a few miles of Drumnadrochit pavement towards what would be the hardest few hours of my life to date.

Miles 54-62: Forest, torture

The road out of the town was long, straight and boring, and even a jelly snake did little to lift my spirits. Then came the woods and the hallucinations. The sun shone patchily through the tall, dark pines and I think the woods were beautiful, but everything was eerily still. Shadows moved around in my peripheral vision, and I saw all kinds of animals. I’ve never properly hallucinated before and I was amazed at how real they were – at one point I was totally convinced there was a baby hare on the path, which turned out to be a bramble, and I saw lions, bears, dogs… etc. I decided that if a forest demon came to snatch me away, I’d be glad for it as I could stop running.

The steep, pine-wooded section turned into a long, undulating few miles of gravel track edged by dense firs and desolate heathland. Painfully conscious that I still had ten miles to go, I tried singing to myself in a desperate attempt to conquer the suffocating feeling of loneliness, futility and despair. I passed a murky, black pond and had to tell myself that the white, bloated face I saw in it (a la Lord of the Rings, Two Towers, the dead marshes) wasn’t real. That was the least “cool” hallucination.

Miles 62-66: More forest, more torture

A lot more agony later and I limped into checkpoint six, grateful (for once) for human interaction, a bag of soggy nuts and my final jelly snake. The midges were out in full force so I didn’t hang around, and I left for the final and most agonisingly painful few miles of my life.

Shortly after the checkpoint the path took me through a dense, low tunnel of trees and past the creepiest café I’ve ever seen. It was tucked away and signposted with eerily bright, scruffy, handmade signs – despite the pain I had to stop and take a picture:

Then there was a road section that went on and on, surrounded by countryside which seemed very desolate under the dark grey sky. The race organisers had kindly spray-painted “the never-ending forest” on the road to inform distraught runners that the worst was yet to come. Eventually it did, and road turned into heathery moorland, which turned gradually into tall, dark, dense pine forest.

Miles 66-71: Despair

These were the worst few hours of my life, despite passing a red deer and a red squirrel with a blonde tail (I have blurry photo evidence). I slowed to a walk because my hip flexors had become so tight and painful that they rebelled and refused to let me lift my legs, my feet were on fire, my joints felt shot to pieces and every muscle in my legs had all but seized up. For most of the race my pace was okay, until it wasn’t. By this point I probably averaged 18-20 minutes/mile.

My phone died along with my love for life, although I didn’t regret saving my last scrap of battery for a photo of a squirrel over a potentially life-saving phone call. I checked my Garmin obsessively and experienced something entirely new and unexpected – tears of hopelessness, desperation and agony streamed down my face.

The trees thickened and closed in on me in a crushingly dark, straight tunnel. Then came the creepiest hallucination yet: a tall, slim man in a grey suit with a Donnie Darko-esque rabbit’s head at about mile 68, who turned out to be a tree. I’ve never moved so agonisingly slowly in my life, or felt more helpless.

I genuinely considered collapsing and waiting for someone to find me, and thought that if I died first I’d be happy that I put in 100% and the pain would stop. Then I felt light-headed, sick and dizzy, wondered if I was going into shock, and dug around in my bag for my emergency energy gel. I couldn’t find it (later on I found it easily) so stuffed a handful of salted cashews and dried fruit into my mouth and forced myself to carry on.

I don’t know how I got through that forest, but after what felt like a lifetime I dragged myself out and found myself overlooking Inverness. The Proclaimers were playing right next to the stadium at the finish line (where the bus left from the previous night) and I could hear them. Encouraged, I carried on and descended unbelievably slowly to the town, resisting the urge to beg the 70-something year old runner who jogged past me for help.

I’ve never been so relieved to see concrete and tarmac, but was soon devastated by the realisation that the finish was still a mile away. I peeled off shoes, socks and (inadvertently) skin and shuffled into the flipflops I’d been carrying since Drumnadrochit. Garmin died. Another runner caught me up and I could see the pity in his eyes as he stopped and talked to me as I shuffled along the pavement, inch by inch. I dramatically insisted that he leave me, and as he went off a pedestrian actually offered to get his car and drive me to the finish line – that’s how near-death I looked (and felt).

I think some more runners passed me but I can’t really remember, and eventually the last one caught me up, accompanied by the two “sweepers” appointed to run with the last runner. One sweeper stayed with me as I shuffled along pavement, hedge-lined path and along the final, impossibly painful section of straight, flat, boring canal, while the other overtook.

After yet another lifetime we reached the stadium. I was relieved beyond words, in unbearable pain and incredibly embarrassed by all the people waiting to cheer the last runner round the three-quarter lap of the running track – compulsory and something to do with Scottish ultra rules. Somehow I made it round, moving like someone who’d never walked before and fuelled by desperation for the embarrassment and the pain to stop, and stumbled agonisingly over the finish line. In last place.

I’m probably the most competitive person on the planet (thanks to my wind-up merchant of a father) and I didn’t even care. I’d felt such extreme pain, frustration, hopelessness, desperation, loneliness and exhaustion that I was just numb; I felt a vague sense of happiness and relief, but I was too physically, mentally and emotionally tired to really feel anything.

Conclusion

This couldn’t have been more different from last year’s 50-mile Peak District ultra. The terrain was more even, less undulating and less twisty. The weather was overwhelmingly grey, unpleasantly humid and occasionally drizzly. I didn’t really make friends to run with – last year I was convinced that was what got me over the finish line. I’ve never seen so few people over such a long distance or felt such crushing loneliness. There were fewer checkpoints, lots of dark forest, hideously long, straight flat sections and the infamous Scottish midges. I got blisters quite quickly, whereas last year I somehow avoided them. Running always come with peaks and troughs, but the peaks made up 5% of the race and the troughs 95%. Basically, every aspect of the race was shit. Apart from the jelly snakes.

Yet somehow I don’t think it’ll be the last race in my remarkably un-illustrious ultrarunning career.