This weekend I lined up for the Runway 100, a 100-mile ultramarathon made up of 15 loops of 6.8 miles each around Manston Airport in Kent. Ten minutes from my house, flat as a pancake, and about as scenic as a car park. I had originally planned to treat it as a “see how far I can go” kind of day, but in the week leading up to it I decided to give the full 100 a proper go, courtesy of come encouragement from my wife. I had my kit dialled, food prepped, sleep sorted, and a loony friend lined up to pace me through the night. Everything was set.

Then Storm Amy hit. With gusts over 45mph, Manston, a wide exposed expanse of runway, turned into a wind tunnel. From the first lap the gusts hit hard, and by the second lap I was struggling to breathe running directly into it. I pulled my buff over my mouth just to get air in, sunglasses on to stop my contact lenses from literally being blown out of my eyes (a first), and quickly realised this was going to be as much a mental battle as a physical one.

From lap 3, the run became an absolute grind. The loops felt endless and so monotonous. There was no coast, no woodland, no mountains, no scenery — just tarmac, wind, and the constant sound of wind ripping through my ears. The runners were also quite spaced out, so it wasn’t the most sociable race, with no one to chat to and share the misery. Over the next couple of hours, I quickly realised I’m a point-to-point runner through and through; I need to feel like I’m moving somewhere, seeing change, discovering terrain. The format of this race, combined with the winds, made it really hard to find motivation. Even the music I had playing started to annoy me, as I attempted to drown out the white-noise of the wind in my ears.

By just over 51km I knew I was done. My body was fine, just the usual hip tightness and a bit of piriformis ache. But my mind wasn’t in it. I wasn’t enjoying a single minute, and that’s a big part of why I run. I also had one eye on next week, a trip to Crete where I’ll get to run proper trails in the heat and hills; and I knew that finishing this 100, in these conditions, would definitely compromise my legs for that adventure. I also couldn’t help but think that having completed the South Downs 100km only four weeks ago played a part too; perhaps I was still carrying a bit of fatigue, even if I didn’t feel it going in.

The combination of the exposed setting, relentless loops, and the ease of being able to drive home ten minutes away all nudged me toward making the call to stop…. Even so, an ultramarathon on a Saturday morning in its own right — just over 51km — was still good training.

Even though I called it, there were moments of inspiration around me. It was great to experience being amongst a group of dedicated ultra runners. There were people of all shapes, ages, and sizes, many wearing t-shirts from previous 100-milers, all out there grinding away. It really reaffirmed how much of ultra-running is mental. The ability to keep moving when there’s nothing to stimulate you — no scenery, no crowd, just you and the wind — is a rare kind of toughness. I have huge admiration for anyone who can do that, especially in such a stark and monotonous environment as Manston Airport!

So yes, I DNF’d. But I’m completely at peace with it. I learned a lot about what drives me, what doesn’t, and the kinds of races that truly excite me.

I’d rather fail chasing something I love than finish something that doesn’t light me up.

Next stop: Crete.