On a point-to-point course, the 60, 85 and 100k distances take ultramarathon runners into some of the country’s most stunning scenery, through lush rainforests and along four tranquil lakes, past clear streams and gushing waterfalls. The field has become highly competitive in recent years, and attracted over 400 international runners from 38 countries in February 2016. Since Dylan Bowman’s spectacular win in 2015, the number of competitors from the USA doubled to 45.

This year, however, conditions were the most difficult in the race’s history. Parts of the course, which is usually considered fast, were turned into slippery slides by all-day rain, and more people than ever dropped down to the 60k distance. Elite runners also struggled. “It was a very tough day,” said Colorado’s Jason Schlarb. “There were places where I had to take caution. I think it slowed everybody down a bit.” Schlarb also had a collision with a log in the first 10k, bruising his left quad. “It’s not the most painful race I’ve ever had, but I’ve never had to deal with feeling poorly so early on and carrying through.”

At 103k, the course was also longer than usual. Schlarb still finished a strong sixth in 9:16:48, coming in first among the USA runners. Overall winner Jonas Buud, from Sweden, set a blistering speed on a difficult day, finishing in 8:00:53, while New Zealand’s Fiona Hayvice took out the women’s title at 10:34:26. “The times were really impressive, especially with the extra kilometers from last year’s course,” Schlarb said.

Fellow American ultramarathon runner Michael Wardian finished 15 minutes after Schlarb, in seventh place. “The top field was awesome. Jonas was the guy to beat and none of us did that. He was definitely pushing the pace early on,” Wardian said. Making it to the first aid station in second place, the 41-year-old Virginian hit a low later on and temporarily dropped out of the top 10, desperate for some calories. He finally found some CLIF Bloks on the trail – accidentally lost by New Zealand’s Vajin Armstrong, who finished fifth. “They were really good. I totally ate his leftovers. I’m not very particular to where the calories come from,” Wardian laughed.

Not making it onto the podium this year just gives him motivation to come back next year. “I love this course; I think it gives you a lot of different terrains. It forces you to challenge yourself, running fast on technical trail, getting over the roots and rocks,” Wardian observed. “Most of all, it’s the organization and volunteers and people that make it just insanely cool.”

Aid stations were stocked with fruit, sandwiches, pizza, salty snacks and energy foods. In accessible places, spectators braved the rain for hours to cheer on runners, while dozens of signs along the way featured song lyrics, poetry, uplifting mantras or just “Run, you dirty animals.” Ahead of the Star Wars-themed aid station ultramarathon runners were treated to Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader lookalikes dramatically battling it out with light sabers.

Despite having become a big and international race with 1250 competitors, the Tarawera hasn’t lost the warm and familiar feel of a small race. Organizer Paul Charteris and race director Tim Day waited out until well after midnight to give even the last finishers a big hug and their wood-carved medals.

There were very few female runners from the USA this year – so that has to change. New Zealand is a long way away, but the Tarawera offers more than a race. There are many free and purchasable cultural experiences in the program, from a traditional Maori welcome, scenic boat cruise and special Maori dinner, to a run through a geyser field. February is also within the best travel time for the country. One of the world’s most beautiful one-day hikes, the Tongariro Crossing, through active volcanic landscape and past The Lord of the Rings’ Mount Doom, is just a bus ride away.

Accommodation in Rotorua ranges from basic accommodations to luxury hotels and resorts, and the town has its own airport. It’s also easy to book a four-hour bus ride with InterCity from Auckland for around USD 25. Air New Zealand has direct flights to Auckland from Houston, Los Angeles, San Francisco and Vancouver. And for anyone who was worried – that distinct smell lingers only in the city, and not on the trails.

This article was published in UltraRunning Magazine on April 19, 2016.

Dangling skeletons, boozed-up volunteers and a blow-up sex doll. The Javelina Jundred in Arizona with its 100 mile and 100 kilometre distances is a cross between an ultra and a Halloween party, with runners sporting anything from elaborate dresses to the minimalist mankini look. There was, after all, a “best ass” award to compete for. Seeing all those characters running through the moon-like landscape of the Sonoran Desert transports you into some sort of surreal ultrarunning dreamscape.

Needless to say, the race had a somewhat different atmosphere than The Bear 100 Mile in Utah, which I did five weeks earlier. In Utah, over 60% of the population are Mormon, and the Bear starts on a Friday to keep Sunday free for religious reasons. When I asked for a massage at Javelina, the therapist responded by warmly stumbling into my arms and greeting me like an old friend, after keeping himself energised with vodka throughout the evening. I didn’t care as long as he still had enough coordination to do something about that excruciating pain in my right foot, lower back and hip flexor, and the massage was great. However, I did steer clear of another drunken volunteer who was dancing with the sex doll. It looked a little too sad to be motivating.

Javelina is a good race if you’re in bad physical shape – nothing much can go wrong and it’s easy to drop out at headquarters if you prefer an early night. Initially I hadn’t been keen, thinking I much preferred the more purist style of ultras. But I had the opportunity to get a lift there with Bruce LaBelle, which turned into a great little road trip, and the social side of it sounded fun. I also thought doing the 100k might be a good recovery event after my first 100 miler, given that I could walk the whole distance if I wanted – the cut-off is 29 hours.

After escaping physically unscathed from the Bear, with not even as much as a blister, I’d done my back in while having fun volunteering at the Overlook Endurance Runs. Helping out with course marking, sorting aid station provisions, making soup and volunteering on the day was a great experience, but I hadn’t realised that setting up a finish line area is like moving house. I overdid it lifting boxes and my lower back was giving me grief for the next two weeks. I also hadn’t stretched since the Bear, smart me, which didn’t help. It resulted in me never having been in as much physical pain during an ultra as at Javelina. The posture and gait I adopted to ease my back and knee pain soon put me in trouble with my hip flexors and I strained a muscle in my foot on the rocky course. None of it worried me much, though. Mentally, I was feeling quite at peace. I was sure I wasn’t causing any permanent damage (or I always imagine I am sure with my background in sports injury therapies). I just ran the first loop to get at least some running in and mostly walked the other three.

Limping quite noticeably the last two rounds, a woman put a hand on my shoulder in passing and warmly said something about me showing the most determination of all. It was a sweet gesture, that kindly indicated that I was looking a mess. Despite physical discomfort, I still really enjoyed that headspace where time just seems to stretch, and memories and emotions flow through, rather than being rigidly in place. People passed, and then it was just me and that warm, soft night again.

What stayed with me wasn’t the party atmosphere, but the night falling over the desert, the silhouettes of the Saguaro cacti stretching their arms against the darkening orange and blue sky. The sound of what I first thought were people hollering when a huge moon rose, only to realize we were far from any aid station and I was in fact hearing coyotes. Not all people had greeted each other at daytime, but as the night stretched on, everyone greeted, as if they were in desperate need for these short little exchanges, those few warm words of encouragement in the light of two headlamps before heading off into the darkness again, alone.

I finished in the small hours in a time of 20:45 with no familiar face around, finding a lift with another runner to the hotel where friend and highly accomplished ultrarunner Tammy Massie had kindly invited me to crash in her and her pacer Juliette Cleaves Brundige’s room. Tammy, ever determined and having finished before me, got up again soon after to cheer on the last runners coming in. Juliette and I opted for breakfast instead. Recovery tasted of frozen yoghurt and painkillers. That night, all three of us nursed our aching legs in a shared Phoenix motel room while happily sipping fireball whiskey and admiring the 80s fashion in reruns of Miami Vice – a weekend just like summer camp for ultrarunners.

In some places, streams had diverted onto trails, turning them into creeks. Sometimes the mud was so deep that you had to worry about losing a shoe in it and some downhills were so slippery that moving forward reminded of an unstable skiing experience. And there’s a reason you have to qualify for this race — the 101k distance from Courmayeur to Chamonix includes 6100m accumulated positive altitude change.

But this was part of what I’d signed up for – and the UTMB series is a world-famous event around Mont Blanc through three countries and heart-stopping scenery — winning the lottery to take part is a privilege, and whinging about it seems out of place. Why would I not enjoy it and why keep going if it’s no fun?

Mainly, neither my body nor my head were up for it.

I’d rolled my ankle badly three weeks earlier and was wearing an ankle brace, had trained a pitiful average of about 20k a week for the three months since the NorthFace100, had just gone through a relationship breakup, moved house, renovated while working, and felt completely wiped out.

If it had been any other race, I would have cancelled. But it was the UTMB series CCC, which you need to qualify for and then win the lottery to take part.

And — most of all — my mum had decided to support me for the first time at a race. I was immensely grateful for this, and a little scared, unsure of whether her presence would make running easier or harder. I hadn’t lived with her since age 13 and feeling supported wasn’t a sensation I naturally associated with her.

I crossed the start line with nearly 2,000 runners ahead of me and there wasn’t much running for the first two hours, just a long line of people as far as the eye could see.

We shuffled our way up mountain sides like a determined procession of ants. At one point, as we were filing onto a single track from a wider road, there was complete standstill for at least 20 minutes.

The race felt commercial compared to the smaller trail races I’d come to love. There was a lot of expensive new gear flashing about, but I saw little of the social fun and camaraderie normally shared at trail runs.

I even saw someone going out of his way to hinder another runner from passing, several times, even though we were at the back of the pack. If that guy blocking the way was doing so because he wanted to win, he really needed to hurry up.

The views were beautiful but I felt frustrated and my mind wasn’t in a good place. The breakup saga was running loops in my head, my ankle hurt with every uneven step, and come nighttime, I was feeling truly miserable.

With the lack of normal camaraderie on the trail, all I wanted was to catch up with my mum at Champex-Lac aid station, get a hug and some supplies and warm clothes from her to replace the ones that were now wet despite the rain jacket.

When I finally arrived and searched high and low for her, I received a text learning that her bus was running too late for her to get there in time.

The exhaustion of ultra running can make one emotionally vulnerable and bring up a range of unprocessed old feelings, and as I drudged on through the rain and mud feeling cold in my wet gear, I was certain that my mother, who was spending her day chasing after me in a bus, didn’t care enough about me to be there when I needed her. Highly embarrassing in hindsight.

At some stage though I made my peace with the situation and stopped thinking that if this event wasn’t fun like other runs I’d done, or if the interactions and support I wished for weren’t there, it was going wrong.

Each race has its own challenges and all I had to do was to figure out how, not whether, to deal with those particular ones at hand. They say running while tired is good training for the next race. Moving forward while tired, sad and frustrated is also really good training, especially mentally.

As I came into Trient aid station, my mum shrieked with excitement on seeing me, being glad to have finally caught me. We gave each other a big hug and were so happy that a man standing next to us just watched us with a big smile on his face.

She was as bright as she could be at 2am. I was worried about her and told her to head back and get some sleep.

“I’ll be okay, I feel good,” my 68-year-old mother said in an upbeat mood.

And indeed, hours later, I saw her again at Vallorcine aid station, having stayed up all night traveling about to support me, with only small naps while waiting. That’s pretty impressive.

By sunrise, there was only one big climb and descend left to tackle and I was in awe of the mountain tops towering over the morning mist as if they were floating on a white lake.

I thought of mum waiting at the finish, and my friend Manuel Hartl who’d driven down from Frankfurt to meet me after the race.  Things were looking up. Once I was over the last climb, I ran all the way to Chamonix in happy anticipation of seeing them.

At 25:33:38, I made it with less than an hour to spare before the cut-off. But I’d been lucky to avoid further injury in difficult and slippery terrain and persisted despite feeling down.

Also, the experience and shared time in Chamonix around the race strengthened the bond between my mum and me, at least for a while, and that’s very precious.

At the official post-race dinner, she looked incredibly pleased among all the runners and developed an interest in the sport. Soon she told me I should be doing more front-foot running like Scott Jurek.

I do picnic runs, literally, trotting along with self-baked banana bread in my pack and taking 11 hours for my favourite 48k run, enjoying the wildlife, the flowers and trees, and stopping to listen to the lyrebirds or water gurgling in a nearby creek.

At the Miwok 100k Trail Run in California’s Marine Headlands near San Francisco, however, I had to hurry up, as the cut-off is 15:30 hours. After all my slow training, I didn’t know if would manage and am glad I didn’t check the cut-off earlier. I might not have attempted it otherwise.

When I applied, I was dealing with some health issues and felt pretty down in general. Then a running friend came to the rescue, more accidentally than planned – Steve Reagan.

Steve frequently struggles with injuries that keep him from running but not from talking everyone he meets into trying for more than they think they can achieve.

I had bumped into Steve in 2008 in Mongolia at a trail race, that offered a 42k loop and an optional 58k add-on, for those crazy people who wanted to run a 100k.

I’d only ever done one road marathon before and wanted to try my first trail marathon. But Steve, sitting there in his Western States 100 Mile finisher t-shirt, is the sort of guy who can make any trail adventure, no matter how mad, sound sensible.

The day before the race, Steve explained to me that if I signed up for the 100k distance, I would be allowed to continue beyond 42k loop to see how far I could go while still getting my 42 finisher shirt (terribly important).

However, if I remained signed up for the marathon distance, I would not be allowed to continue for insurance purposes.

“You’ve already done 42k, now you can see if you can perhaps get a little further, 45k, 50k?,” he ventured.

That made sense, right? Try something new. I switched to the 100k and finished – in first place. Not with a winning time, it took me 17 hours, but there were only three women and one dropped out due to injury. Not a bad introduction to ultrarunning.

Late last year then, Steve contacted me to alert me of an approaching deadline to enter the Miwok 100k lottery, an outstandingly picturesque and hilly trail race with views of the Golden Gate Bridge. I got in and couldn’t believe my luck. It gave me a massive boost and a newfound excitement for (slow) running.

In his element, Steve then also talked me into signing up for the Western States training camp. Given that the chance of getting into the actual race via lottery is about 5% at first try, the training camp is a great way to experience much of those beautiful trails over three days of fun – including aid stations, bus transport to the start and lots of great, and some legendary, people.

Further, Steve also got me in touch with his friend Erika French-Arnold, who was so generous to organise a pacer for Miwok for me, her friend Sean McPherson. Well, all this was too good an opportunity to pass up and I booked my flights.

And then I realised that the overall cut-off at Miwok was 15:30. Whoops.

My last two 100k races, the NorthFace 100 in Australia and the Mont Blanc CCC in Europe had taken me 19 and 25 hours respectively, and even my fastest time of 17 hours in Mongolia I’d have to improve by 1.5 hours to finish Miwok.

I had two options – either go at my usual slow pace and miss the cut-off (not good) or go at a much faster pace and blow up later (also not good). But I had over three months. What would happen if I trained more, joined some speed session with UpCoaching in the Blue Mountains and give it a shot?

I started doing two back-to-back slow, long runs and a half hour speed session a week, plus swimming. Then I worked out splits to have short-term goals during the race and loaded a playlist onto an iPod engraved with “no pain, no cake” – a gift from German friend and Ironman finisher Manuel Hartl.

Come race day, I indeed didn’t stop to smell the wildflowers, take photos or sit down to munch banana bread. And although I remember some of the stunning views along the coast and the great volunteers, much of the day went by in a blur.

But that doesn’t mean having any less of an experience.

Sometimes when traveling with family as a kid, I got so attached to a beautiful landscape that I didn’t want to leave. I’d stand at my favorite spot and breath deeply, imagining how the oxygen that had touched everything in that area would enter my lungs and cells, and become part of me forever.

I thought that way, I would never have to feel separate from a place that was dear to me, because we’d had shared the same air and become part of each other.

I still feel like that when I run. I might not remember all I see, but those are only the conscious memories. When the last bit of energy leaves me but I keep going, it feels as if I reenergize from the natural environment around me and become part of it. It’s a good feeling. I’m not missing anything running – I’m experiencing it in a different way.

I was also grateful for exchanging with every single runner who overtook me, whom I overtook or who was coming the other way, either a “Well done!”, “Good job!”, or a “Great work!”. On what other occasion to you get to hear and say that all day long?

I was glad to see my friend Steve at several aid stations, to give me a hug and encourage me on and wait for me at the finish line.

He looked after me when my body had realised the race was over and didn’t feel like moving anymore and made sure I washed any potential poison oak off me that is prevalent on parts of the trail.

I was grateful for the smiles and encouragement from the aid station volunteers, and I was so happy to experience having a pacer for the first time ever, Sean McPherson, whom I’d never met before and who still journeyed to the race to support a stranger.

The camaraderie in the ultrarunning community blows me away again and again. And what difference it made to have him with me the last 20k, to run together and know he was there to help me keep moving and finish.

Taking deep breaths on such days gives me more than stopping to smell the roses. It feels like living through a condensed form of life’s highs and lows, while learning to handle them with the help of nature, friends and supportive connection.

As I run, I feel deeply grateful for my health and strength, and for all those utterly kind and inspiring people out there – be it those running, volunteering, crewing, organizing the race or making it all happen in some other way.

Sometimes it’s good to train less, take care of injuries, and take a rest. But sometimes, doing what one loves is healthier than to keep shrinking away in the face of whatever drags one down.

And in the end, I finishing Miwok in 14 hours and 12 minutes. For some days after, I was the happiest person I could possibly be.

It was still dark as we gathered at the start banner of the Mongolia Sunrise to Sunset race. I hopped from foot to foot to stay warm, struggling to take in the reality of

where I was. I’d been fevering towards this moment for so long, horri ed when I developed a foot injury, and eternally relieved when, a couple of months beforehand, it subsided.

I’d originally only signed to the shorter,
42k, marathon race. But last evening I’d spontaneously, madly, changed my registration to the 100k, ultra race. I can’t say what made me change my mind, 42k was the farthest I’d run before. Perhaps I just got carried away by the atmosphere in our camp. The runners doing the 100k amazed me and I desperately wanted, at least for a while, to feel I was one of them. Those down for the marathon are not allowed

to continue past 42k. To give myself the choice I joined the 100k batch.

Running in the dark 

At 4 AM we were off. Flash lights ickered between the trees as we entered the dark forest, carefully stepping over tree root, the
trail still wet from overnight rain. The drums that had woken us that morning still played in mind, and I let them, anything to avoid facing the fact that I’d have to keep going for the next 17 hours.

The Sunrise to Sunset race is often described as the world’s most beautiful ultramarathon, and I certainly can’t imagine a more picturesque route. It runs along Lake Hovsgol in northern Mongolia, near the Siberian border – Mountains, lush, green forest, and grasslands

surround the lake making the National Park a paradise for runners.

I kept to a slow pace from the off, thinking of the two long, steep climbs later in the course. Once out of the trees it became lighter and
the going was easier for about 10k on a level track through green elds with trees to both sides. The lake shimmered through the trees and chatter and laughter rose up among the runners, who, like me, seemed in good spirits, full of energy amid the magical surroundings.

I got chatting to the runner alongside me, Henning Voss from Germany. We kept a steady pace with the help of his GPS watch. It stopped us surging ahead and wasting energy we’d need later. Together we approached the rst climb, up to Chichee Pass, as the sun rose over the lake. The road wound its way up the mountainside, revealing more of the lake below, re ecting the early

morning sky. It was breathtaking. And chilly. The wind was hitting us directly now and I was glad I’d worn tights under my running pants.

Watchful horsemen 

Every so often there’d be a Mongolian horseman at the roadside noting our race numbers, or pointing us in the right direction. We’d sing out the Mongolian greeting, similar sounding to ‘sun benno’, which always raised a wide smile.

I took a salt capsule every 45 minutes and lots of sips of water. The cookies at the aid station were disgusting, so I stuck to energy gels from my backpack. As the road became steeper and the trees sparser I used a tip from one
of the runners back at the camp, ‘Never take slower steps on hills, just shorter ones’.

I had trained over hilly terrain back home and I made good progress over the pass. It was the down-hills that worried me, and what they’d
do to my knees and ankles. I slowed down to put the least stress on my joints and imagined myself running like jelly. My joints seemed grateful for my vivid imagination.

Wet feet 

In the valley we were greeted by a muddy
trail through the woods. All jumping over big puddles and sinking into wet ground, drenching my shoes. Looking out for the green dots on tree trunks marking the way, we ran and slid through the mud. Then I slipped and fell full length into it. “You should have told me you were going to do that! I’d have taken a photo”, shouted Kenneth Koh from Singapore who had
a camera with him. I burst out laughing. The joke gave me a lift and, once again, I felt in good company, having fun, and it was good to realise that 25k were already behind us.

A short stop at the aid station in the valley, and then off again over green grass, avoiding horse and yak dung. We were running through larch forest along the dried out bed of the Ongolog River, which lies between the two mountains on the course. I could feel the strain the downhill run had put on my quads and was jogging very slowly.

Circling the Ovoo 

Once the trail crossed the dry river bed, we had to nd our way through undergrowth, and then the second climb began. It seemed relentless. Tree trunks and thorny bushes blocked the narrow trail and the mossy ground seemed to absorb all the momentum of my step.

Running was impossible, so I kept a steady walking pace. I knew I’d soon feel so out of breath that my head would tell me I couldn’t nish. And I knew I needed to trust I’d recover once I made it over Khirvesteg Pass just ahead. The mountain views were spectacular and got more beautiful the higher we climbed, but I could only concentrate on my breath and thought of little else. Once at the pass though, I couldn’t help but admire the view stretching far across the mountain ranges surrounding the lake.

Here some runners stopped to walk three times around the Ovoo, which is little more than a mound of twigs and rocks placed by locals to mark the pass and honour the mountain. This Mongolian custom is said to bring luck, and we needed as much of that as we could get.

Halfway down the other side was another water station where grateful runners gathered for a quick drink. Ahead, meadows and soft hills stretched to the horizon. We were past 30k now and what was of cially the hardest part of the ultramaraton was behind us.

I waved Henning good-bye when I saw him ying down the slope. I had overtaken him on the hills, but he had been faster on the slopes and there were no steep mountains left to catch up with him again.

The marathon mark 

The trail was at now, but the long track back to the camp, where the 42k course ends, was tiring. Part of it was through forest, most through elds sprinkled with owers and the occasional group of horses watching our efforts along the way. The group I was running with soon became too fast for me and I ran on my own for a while. Then co-organiser of this race, Dr Tyler Pike, caught up with me. A Sinologist at Sydney University and manager of a yoga studio, he was part of the small group of friends that set up this non-pro t event ten years ago.

The race money is invested in environmental projects protecting the national park the trail runs through. I love the way the race was created to open the beauty of Mongolia to runners from around the world, while helping to protect this unique part of the planet for many more to experience.

That rst 42k took me six and a half hours – three hours longer than my Sydney marathon time, which I was pretty disconcerted by. Tyler, on the other hand, was still raring to go. He asked if I was going to carry on, or leave it at the 42k. “For a little while, see how far I get,” I told him and we continued through the gate together.

Leaping mental barriers 

Some soup and dry socks later I decided I had enough energy left to keep going a little longer. I set my sights on the 50k mark at most. The day was perfect, a little cloudy, not too hot, and dry. The lake was to my left now and the road wound its way along the water. I was still running with Tyler, and we chatted away as birds twittered around us.

I usually train alone and I enjoyed having company for a change. 55k came and went and I was surprised to nd myself still going. I was lucky to have Tyler with me, having organised and run the race every year, he knew the course by heart. I’d been worried about getting lost in a forest that is also home to wolves. Now I had a guide and a very experienced running buddy with me.

As we reached 60k, keeping going was getting seriously tough. I tried to focus on the smell of the grass and bushes, the deep green of the trees, the fresh air. The hardest part was not the physical challenge, I felt surprisingly well. But my brain was convinced that I should not be able to carry on. I reminded myself of something I’d once read: ‘People who say something cannot be done should not disturb those who are doing it.’ and kept trying to distract my mind to allow my body to continue. Every time I pushed through a wave of exhaustion, I found new energy, in the sounds around me, or the words of my running buddy.

A day out in the sun 

At 70k I hit the worst energy low yet. I could not even imagine doing another kilometre.
was when Tyler reckoned it was time for a little sprint. I knew I’d done better than I ever could’ve dreamed. But this seemed laughable, against any form of common sense! But I didn’t want to fall behind Tyler’s positive and relaxed attitude had made it easier for me to pretend that I was not really doing an ultramarathon, but having a nice day out in the sun and I didn’t want to part with him. I gave it a go and amazed myself by being able to keep up.

We were running between bushes, along a soft grass trail, past the occasional nomad tent. Sometimes dogs followed us for a while, barking, and dropping behind when we didn’t show intention to approach their homes. I kept my eyes on Tyler’s shoes in front of me to remind myself of what I was supposed to do, run. All I had to do was put one foot in front of the other. My mind could only operate on the time span it took to lift one foot, and let it touch the ground again. I had no idea what reserves Tyler was drawing on to make it look so effortless.

After 80k my body seemed to settle for a sense of constant pain, while my mind had found its peace in the situation. There were some hills to clamber up, but the track was fairly easy, sometimes across lush meadows or through forest where the smell of wood and the constant birdsong provided pleasant distractions. I felt happy, content with having very few thoughts drifting randomly through my head. Tyler had developed hip pain, but it didn’t seem to faze him.

Being watched 

I continued to force my legs into an awkward hobble and somehow managed to keep up. I had blisters and, not having expected to get this far, hadn’t deposited fresh socks at any of the aid stations. Tyler kindly gave me his spare pair. Sometimes, when I was struggling along trying to catch up, a young boy on a horse would follow me to make sure I was alright. It was nice to know people were looking out for me.

It was like nerve signals between brain and muscles had to ght their way through thick jelly and would occasionally manage to bubble through. Every time they did, my legs just gave in. But still the sights around us kept me going, like the rainbow that suddenly spanned across the lake through the evening sky. It seemed a good omen, for the rst time I began thinking I might actually finish this race.

Yaks had been a reliable audience throughout, but now, so close to the end, I found myself worried that they wouldn’t stay as peaceful as they seemed. Some of them were right next to the trail near the water and their impressive horns made me uncomfortable. I imagined the ridiculous situation of making it to 95k just to get run over by a yak.

Then I saw something that blew me away. White reindeer. They were calmly standing at the lakeside as we passed. Resting under tall trees, it seemed unreal, like a fairy tale. I was in awe and full
of gratitude to have seen something so beautiful. I asked Tyler if he’d seen them too, to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating.

Journey’s end 

The last few kilometres seemed like a whole marathon, even though we slowed to a walk for most of it. We made our way over elds, along the water edge, the lake to our right looking dark in the evening light. The sun had set now, and the cold added to exhaustion. I was immensely glad to have company, fearing that, if left alone, I might just be overcome by the temptation to curl up at the roadside and sleep.

Finally, camp came in sight. I could hear cheering. “Let’s start running again,” said Tyler. “Forget it”, I laughed, assuming he was joking. “The trick is to run faster than you think you can” Tyler said. And it worked. We crossed the nish line running and interlocking arms for the last steps.

I checked my time. 17 hours exactly. When someone told me I was the rst woman to nish I could barely believe it. Other runners and the support team gathered to welcome us and the hugs they gave us seemed the most well earned embraces ever. I was bursting with pride and yet felt incredibly vulnerable at the same time.

My journey was at an end. I’d achieved something I’d never thought possible in a land so beautiful it felt like a dream. And now, at last, I could rest.

This article was published in British running magazine Running Free in the summer of 2008. I don’t think the magazine is still published today.