100km. My First Ultra. This really did come about after some rather questionable decision-making.

And then as we crossed the start line at dawn, the words:

“Only 20 parkruns to go.”

That was Rob, right on the start line of Race to the Stones, 6:20 in the morning, longest day of the year, three of us about to head off on my first ever Ultra. One hundred kilometres. No prior experience. No real idea what that actually meant.

Just… enthusiasm.

Possibly a little too much of it.

There’s a certain logic, if you can call it that, in going big for your first attempt. If you’re going to do something daft, you may as well commit properly. None of this easing yourself in with a gentle 50km. No, straight in. One hundred. In one go.

At the time, it felt entirely reasonable.

Looking back… I’m not so sure.

The plan was simple enough.

Start early. Keep moving. Get it done before darkness. No need for headtorches, just a long day out in the countryside. What could possibly go wrong?

Quite a lot, as it turns out.

We set off as a three. Myself, Alan — who knew what he was doing — and Rob, who was about to demonstrate that quite convincingly. The idea was to stick together, get round as a group, share the experience.

That lasted until Checkpoint 1.

At which point Rob disappeared off into the distance, clearly having decided that “20 parkruns” didn’t need to be taken quite so literally.

And so it became two.

Alan and I.

The first part of the route lulls you in a bit. You find a rhythm, get comfortable, start thinking, “this isn’t so bad, actually.” Someone, maybe ten miles in, even had the cheek to say, “not enough hills.”

That comment stayed with me.

Because the course designers clearly heard it too — and decided to correct the issue in the second half.

Underfoot, it was never quite straightforward.

A mix of flint, clay, loose rock — the kind of terrain that doesn’t let you settle. Always slightly awkward. Always just uncomfortable enough to remind you that this isn’t a jog round the park. You’re constantly adjusting, placing your feet carefully, never quite able to switch off.

It wears you down, slowly.

Not dramatically. Just… persistently.

By the halfway point, you’re still moving well enough. Tired, yes, but functional. Still talking. Still vaguely enjoying yourself. Still under the illusion that you’ve got this under control.

Then the second half begins.

And everything changes.

It gets bumpier. Rougher. Hillier. The kind of hills that don’t look too bad until you’re on them, and then just keep going a bit longer than you’d like. Over and over again.

One bloke told us this section was easier.

We never believed him.

Another had apparently run the last 60km as a “training run” and described it as fun. Quite what his definition of misery looks like, I dread to think.

Somewhere around the 75km mark, things turn.

Not physically — that’s been happening for a while — but mentally.

It becomes a grind.

A proper one.

The sort where your legs are no longer negotiating, just complaining. Loudly. Constantly. Every step a small argument. The kind of effort that reduces your running to what can only be described as an “awkward shuffle.”

That’s the only way to describe the final 25km.

Not running. Not walking. Just… getting through.

The checkpoints become both a blessing and a trap.

There’s food everywhere. Proper food. Sandwiches, fruit, chocolate, crisps — a feast, really. And it’s tempting to stop. Sit down. Take a moment.

Don’t.

Stopping is a mistake.

We learned quickly: grab what you need and keep moving. Eat on the go. Because once you stop, getting going again is a negotiation your legs are not interested in having.

And at that stage, you don’t have much left to bargain with.

There was one checkpoint — number 5 or 7, I’ve no idea by that point — which required a detour. A mile down a farm track, then back again. Something to do with permissions, land access, all very reasonable.

We asked someone coming back: “Is it worth it?”

“No.”

That was enough for us.

We carried on. No need to add extra miles for an “iffy” stop.

Navigation, to be fair, was excellent. Remarkably so.

No wrong turns. Not one.

Although there were moments — long stretches where markers seemed few and far between — where doubt crept in. You start questioning yourself. “Is this right?” “Have we missed something?”

We hadn’t.

But in those moments, another marker wouldn’t have gone amiss. Not for direction — just for reassurance.

The countryside did its best to lift the mood.

Wildflowers. Birdlife. The occasional lazy river meandering alongside the route, inviting you to stop, sit, just watch it for a while. And sometimes we did. Briefly.

Little pauses. Not long enough to seize up, just enough to remind yourself why you were out there in the first place.

Although, to be honest, there were plenty of moments where that question had a very simple answer:

“What the heck am I doing?”

Followed immediately by:

“I chose this.”

And then:

“I just want it to end.”

We’d started at 6:20am.

The aim had been to finish before darkness.

We failed.

By the time we hit the final section, headtorches were on. That soft, fading light of a long summer’s day replaced by the narrow beam in front of your feet. It felt… fitting, in a way. Like the day had finally caught up with us.

The final loop takes you around Avebury Stone Circle. A place of huge historical significance. Impressive. Ancient. Meaningful.

Or at least, it is under normal circumstances.

After 98 kilometres, in the twilight, shuffling your way round the last few miles, it’s… less impactful.

We didn’t care.

At all.

Fifteen and a half hours after setting off, we crossed the line.

No sprint finish. No dramatic collapse. Just a quiet, exhausted crossing, medal placed round the neck, and an almost immediate forgetting of how bad it had felt just moments before.

That’s the strange thing.

The pain disappears.

Almost instantly.

Replaced by something else entirely.

We’d been picked up at 4am that morning. It had been a long day. A very long day.

The race is point-to-point, so with one car at the start and one at the finish, we still had the small matter of getting back. The drive took over an hour. Sitting there, barely able to move, watching the miles tick by in the car…

It hit home just how far we’d actually travelled.

On foot.

At the finish, I was absolutely certain of one thing.

I would never do another Ultra.

One was enough. Box ticked. Done. No need to revisit that particular brand of madness ever again.

Of course, two years later I’d be signing up for a five-day event in Nepal.

But that’s another story.

For now, this remains my one and only non-stop 100km.

A personal best, technically.

And one that, if I’m being honest, is likely to stand for the rest of my life.

Not because I couldn’t beat it.

But because I’m not entirely sure I want to.