There’s a particular kind of silence you only find deep in the mountains. The kind that follows you like a shadow when the runners have thinned out, the sun has gone, and your body is beginning to forget how to move forward. I met that silence in the Highlands on June 6th, somewhere around mile 72, after nearly 20 hours on my feet. It was both terrifying and strangely beautiful.
I signed up for the GB Ultras Scotland 100 not to tick a box or chase a medal, but to see what I was made of. I wanted to push myself to a place where comfort couldn’t follow. And I found it, about 72 miles in, soaked to the bone, freezing, and humbled by the landscape.
The day began as the Highlands intended: sideways rain, heavy clouds, and wind that felt like it had something personal against us. My shoes, my only pair, were wet almost immediately. Not damp. Not “I’ll dry out soon” wet. Fully, irreversibly saturated. The kind of wet that squelches with every step, the kind that makes blisters inevitable.
But I was still smiling. There’s something about the early miles in a big race, before the suffering really sets in, that’s intoxicating. The trail was stunning in that wild, untamed way only Scotland can offer: jagged ridgelines, moody skies, and vast, open spaces that remind you how small you are. That beauty stayed with me, even when everything else started to fade.
Then came the midges.
I’d heard about them, of course, but nothing prepared me for the reality: clouds of them, relentless, crawling into every exposed inch of skin, swarming your face, your hands, your sanity. You can’t outrun them. You just keep moving, one foot in front of the other, hoping you find wind, or salvation, around the next bend.
As day slipped into night, the trail got quieter, the cold set in deeper, and my mind began to blur. I realized I’d made some big mistakes: my fuelling had been inconsistent; I hadn’t trained as seriously as the distance demanded; and I’d spent too much of the early race trying to match other runners’ paces instead of running my own rhythm. The price for those choices came due somewhere past mile 60.
By mile 72, I was done.
Not broken, not injured, just finished. My body had given everything it had. My hands were numb. I couldn’t keep warm. I couldn’t think clearly. I knew that continuing meant risking something more than pride. So I stopped. Quietly. Without drama. Just a few words to my crew, a final look at the trail, and that was it.
It’s easy to tie your sense of success to the finish line. To believe that “Did Not Finish” equals “Did Not Achieve.” But I walked away from this race with more than I ever expected. I didn’t get the buckle, but I got something better: lessons I’ll carry into every ultra to come.
I learned to pack more than one pair of shoes. To respect the cold, especially in the early hours of the morning when the temperature drops and your brain goes quiet. To eat even when I don’t feel like eating. To prepare like the mountains are watching. And, maybe most importantly, to run my race, not someone else’s.
Would I go back? Without hesitation. Because even though I didn’t reach mile 100, I reached something else, something harder to name but more important to me. I reached the edge I came looking for. And when the trail finally said “not today,” I listened.
Some runs end with medals. Some end with muddy shoes in the back of a car, a thousand-yard stare, and the quiet knowledge that you gave it everything you had.
I’ll be back. With dry socks, a better plan, and unfinished business. Until then, I’ll hold those 72 miles close.
