100-Miler Experience Notes – Part 4: Race Day Breakdown

The 4 legs of 100 Miles – Nerves, lessons & grit on the trail

Registration & The Start Line

I’ve done my fair share of ultras and IronMans — enough to know the usual rhythm: registration two days before, kit check the day before, and then you turn up half an hour before the start, calm and collected.

Not this time.

Registration for the Autumn 100 opened at 7 a.m. on race day, with the start at 9 a.m. Two hours of standing around before attempting to run 100 miles — in October, in the UK — isn’t exactly ideal.

When I arrived at the main hall (which would later become our race HQ between legs), I dropped my bag, got my bib… and immediately realised two things:
1️⃣ My name was spelled wrong.
2️⃣ The emergency number listed wasn’t up-to-date.

Back when I registered, I wasn’t in a relationship — so my friend was my contact. That had since changed (lucky me 🩵). My boyfriend was outside waiting for me, so I sent one of the most “me” WhatsApps ever:

“Hey mate, IMPORTANT! I’m just about to start a 100-mile race. You’re still my emergency contact, but my boyfriend’s here now. Here’s his number. If they call you, please call him. Cheers!”

A completely normal Saturday message if you’re in my circle :)

Then, as I scanned the hall, I saw them — elite runners I’ve followed for years on Instagram. I’d qualified for the same race as them?! Tears, a deep breath, a hug from my boyfriend, and a quiet moment to ground myself.

We walked to the next village for the start line. A small joy: only 15% of the runners were women, so there was no queue at the women’s toilet. That was a new experience ;)

After nearly two hours waiting, the countdown began: 10… 9… 8… Goosebumps…even now whilst I am writing this. People cheering. A wave goodbye to my boyfriend. And then we were off.

I couldn’t help but wonder how the next 28 hours would shape me.

Leg 1 – Along the river Thames (Miles 0–26)

As always, the start felt a little cramped, but this time the energy was calm — no one sprinting off, no loud chatter. We all knew this was a long game.

The Thames Path was stunning: grand riverside houses, glass dining rooms floating over the water, rows of boats and pubs along the banks. The course was listed as 80% trail and 20% road — but it felt like the opposite. Lots of tarmac, cobblestones, and village lanes.

Still, it was bliss. The rhythm, the fresh air, the sound of footsteps. I felt my love for running returning, mile by mile.

Every time I saw my boyfriend on the roadside, it lifted me.

Leg 1 reignited something in me — that quiet, steady joy of moving forward in nature.

Before I knew it, I was back in Goring, ready to refuel, change, and head back out. (The changing experience? Let’s just say: not my highlight. More on that in my other article about race logistics.)

Leg 2 – Pain & Persistence (Miles 26–52)

Off again, this time on the opposite side of the Thames. The first checkpoint came surprisingly quickly — which threw me off a bit, mentally. Because it meant the next checkpoint will be a very long way. My left leg started to give in, the same issue I’d been dealing with since June. The hip, the alignment, the compensation.

Then came the blisters. Big, burning, angry ones — all around my feet. I love my Topo Athletics, but this was their first ultra test.

I ran out of water and hobbled through open fields and rolling hills in the forest. The pain was sharp and relentless — every step became growing agony.

And then I saw him again — my boyfriend on the roadside — and for a few moments, everything felt lighter. That emotional boost is hard to describe.

The darkness was approaching fast. Headtorch on. Layers added. And then… battle mode.

Hours alone in the dark forest and strange noises in the distance. I put on a soothing podcast for the first time ever during a run, just to quiet my mind.

I was in agony — sending voice messages to my boyfriend between checkpoints, half-updates, half pep talks.

When I reached the next checkpoint, they told me:

“You’re still 2 hours ahead of cut-off.”

I couldn’t believe it. Pride and disbelief mixed with exhaustion.

And yet… my mind whispered: You’ve done enough. Stop after this leg. But another voice inside said: You wanted to see who you are when things get really hard. Well, here you are.

So I changed, ate, grabbed my poles, and headed out again.

Leg 3 – The Night Battle (Miles 52–57)

Poles out, rain coming down, and the next 7 miles uphill. I was moving slowly — hobbling, breathing through the pain — but I was still moving.

Seeing runners coming back down the hill, I kept repeating: “Great job!” Each one felt like a beacon of hope in the dark.

Then I heard a voice behind me: “How you doing?” I thought it was another runner and replied, “Well, as good as it gets in this race. You’re doing great, how are you?” And he said, “I’m the sweeper. You’re the last one on the course now.”

Boom. It hit me like a wave. When you’re out there for so many hours, alone, in the dark, and rain, you completely loose any sense of time, distance, orientation.

Happy tears. Relief. Pride. Sadness. All at once.

I asked my boyfriend to meet me at the next checkpoint. It was windy, cold, and raining hard. When I arrived, I cried — and the volunteers, absolute angels, sat with me until he came.

When we got into the van, I went into shock the first time — teeth chattering, body shaking uncontrollably. It happened again later at the Airbnb. My boyfriend wrapped me in blankets, made me a recovery shake, and helped me breathe. Gradually, I came back to myself, smiling. Bless him.

Reflections – What it really means to show up

Only 62% of runners finished the full 100 miles that weekend. I am in absolute awe of every single one of them — and of everyone who stood at that start line.

Whether you ran 13 hours, 28 hours, or didn’t make it to the end this time — you’re part of something bigger.

Because ultra trail running isn’t just what we do. It’s who we are. It’s a lifestyle. A way of living and how you see life. At least for me.

We pour our hearts, souls, time, and money into this sport — and in return, it teaches us everything about resilience, surrender, and spirit.

I’ll be back at that starting line one day. I know I can do it. And I will do.

For now, I’m proud. Proud that I stood there. Proud that I kept going. Proud that I found joy again, even in pain.