Running for a long time is fine. Running fast for a long time, I’ve just realised, is much harder.

I’m only a quarter of the way into the race, and already my mind is wandering back to the pub I was in a couple of weeks ago. When all this was comfortably in the future.

---

Matt frowns at me over his pint. “I just don’t understand why anyone would run in circles for 24 hours.”

I glance at him then look at the grubby brown wall behind. Flicking my eyes back, I reply with a grimace. “It’s hard to explain.”

“I mean, surely you want to just sit down after a while, it’s not like you’re getting somewhere?”

“That’s true,” I admit. “It was a difficult thing to realise when I first did one of these races.”

“So what’s the point?”

“Mostly I want to see if I can run further than I ever have in 24 hours, and have a nice time while I’m doing it.”

“How will you keep going though? It seems like it’s more of a mental challenge than a physical one?”

“Well,” I pause, swirling the warm dregs of beer around my glass. “You really need to have a very good why.”

Matt just laughs. “What the fuck does that mean?” He stands up. “Don’t answer, I’m getting more beers.”

---

It’s a simple enough concept. Runners have 24 hours to cover as much distance as they can. We change direction every 4 hours to give our legs some sort of balance. No navigation, nothing to carry. You can stop and sleep if you want, but the clock just keeps on ticking. The furthest anyone has run in this race’s history is 268.3K (166.7 miles) by Donald Ritchie in 1991; the current world record is 319.6K (198.6 miles) set by Aleksandr Sorokin in 2022. Most people are happy to hit 161K (100 miles).

---

I’ve been on the start line for plenty of races over the years, and this is always one of my favourites. A midday start, the sun is shining. Everyone is nervous but friendly. Nobody really dashes off, even though we’re on a 400-metre running track nestled next to the woods of Tooting Bec Common. A few do, of course, the excitement just a bit too much for them. They’ll slow down eventually, they always do. I’m moving a bit too fast, but as long as I’m at the bottom of the leaderboard when they update it in an hour, I’ll know I’m on plan.

Trix smiles and waves from our little camp as I pass her after about a minute. She’s laid the table out with a huge selection of different bars and snacks. Water bottles filled and colour coded. The gazebo seems like overkill in this lovely late summer sunshine, but this is the first time she’s going to support me for the full race and I want her to be as comfortable as possible.

---

After 6 hours, the guy who went out at a sub-3-hour marathon pace is vomiting into the infield. He’s slowed down a bit, though still looks determined to keep going.

George, who went out slightly slower, but still ridiculously fast, is scampering around and doesn’t even appear to be sweating. I shake my head in disbelief and carry on, keeping to my slow and consistent movement. “I am the tortoise,” I tell myself.

Every half an hour I have a little snack and a drink. Trix is always waiting with something nice, as well as a cheery smile and thumbs-up.

Everyone has a target and it’s usually 200K. I’m no different, hoping to beat my best performance of 196K. It’s easy to plan a target pace; it’s a very different thing to actually run it. Right now I don’t need a plan to know I’m not moving quickly enough.

I’ve been eating and drinking regularly. Walking a little bit every half an hour. Nothing really hurts, I’ve got enough energy. Some dude who looks like he’s escaped from a desert island (one with a very good running kit shop) trundles past me, looking pretty happy.

The test that I’ve told nobody about is whether I can endure all of the things my body and mind throw out telling me to slow down or stop. To overcome all that and beat my target. I never give up; failing to finish is just that, a failure. How do I find the mental fuel I need to hit an arbitrary target though? This is new.

The attention I used to get from being the sort of person who did these “crazy races” was once enough, but over the past year something shifted inside me. A layer of friction between me and the world dissolved. The part of me that cares what other people think shrank, contracted into such a tiny little voice that I can’t hear it and have even forgotten what it sounds like. I do notice the absence of it; nothing has filled that space. The gap is one of calm, of sunlight bouncing off leaves and bees. The smell of dry London parks that reminds me of being five again, walking with my dad on Ealing Common.

Thinking of Dad reminds me of the last time I saw him, lying cold in that hospital bed. All the tubes and wires removed, the bleeping machines apologetically silent. I felt so helpless.

---

Around 10pm Ian turns up and starts doing pace and target projections. “Pace is good, very consistent, but you could move a bit faster.”

Well, I could, but I’m not sure I want to; there is a long way to go yet.

“If you pick it up a bit, then you’ll hit 100K at midnight, that’s a solid first half.”

Dammit. How on earth am I going to run a faster second half in a 24-hour race? It just doesn’t seem feasible.

“Excellent going, you’ve picked up 15 seconds a lap, hold that pace.”

I give Ian a thumbs-up and keep moving. We met through our finance jobs and bonded over running. His wife is there as well, giving little waves of encouragement. My body and mind have clicked into a new groove. I allow myself to be steered by Ian and his stopwatch. Trix keeps an eye on me and hands me some electrolytes.

One distraction is finding out people’s names by trying to remember their race number and find it on the leaderboard without stopping. I keep forgetting the number of the guy with the most impressive calves I’ve ever seen, pure muscle and sinew. They’d be a very fine motivational poster. I have a few conversations with other admirers, which help to distract us for a few laps.

Suddenly I spot Emiel, and he’s not running. He’s walking the wrong way and at the side of the track. He’s been moving so well, I wonder what’s happened, but just keep moving. He was someone else’s crew last year and kindly helped me out too. I’m sad to see him stop.

“Calves” is still hammering out an aggressive pace, but a few others have quietly hobbled off into the darkness. George isn’t one of them, surely he can’t hold that speed for another 12 hours? “Run your own race,” I tell myself. It’s the only way to stay sane.

Understandably, Ian and his wife head off for some sleep. I wave goodbye and notice a slight sense of loss as they leave the main gate. I still can’t really understand why they came at all; it doesn’t seem like a very exciting spectator sport.

It starts to rain as we approach the hardest part of the entire race: 3am.

“Do you want some music?” Trix shouts as I splash past. Lifting one hand, palm facing her. I call, “No thanks.” Pulling my hood tighter around my face I wonder what the point of all this is.

“Are you sure?” She asks as I come round the corner a few minutes later. I shake my head. It’s not that I don’t like music, it’s just a bit distracting. Not in the great British tradition of “The Glory of Suffering” or anything like that. It just stops me from closely monitoring my pain and energy levels, as well as my general emotional state.

Three minutes later I’m back. “Actually, that’s a really good idea. Can you find me an ’80s rock playlist, please?”

Her friend Oscar turned up an hour ago, they’re steadily working their way through the bag of biltong that I’ve yet to be interested in.

I’m not exactly dancing along in the rain, but I’m singing loudly and for now all my other thoughts have gone for a rest. Double thumbs-up to Trix.

Oscar spent his summer building himself a fixie bike from various spare parts. That and his willingness to sit in the rain for hours with Trix means he’s more than OK in my books. I remember what I got up to when I was 15 on a Saturday night and there was a lot more cider involved. I know who I’d rather was hanging out with my daughter right now.

“That was a slow one,” Trix shouts with a worried look.

“Yeah, my stomach isn’t great.” I’m moving quickly when I’m on the track, but I’m having to visit the toilet way too often. When you start having to stop, it’s as if some part of you starts looking for more reasons to stop again.

“Shuffle up, I’ve got bits of track inside my shoe, they’re really annoying me.” Another five minutes lost.

“There’s no way I’m getting to 200K now.” I shrug. “Don’t forget you always speed up at the end,” Trix says encouragingly. That’s true, usually anyway.

The rain has finally given way to a murky sort of light, and the gaps in the tents are easier to notice. The dark and rain have taken their toll and the track is noticeably more roomy. Just six hours left. Enough time to pick up the pace, though my right ankle keeps getting painfully stuck. It demands stretching and massage.

Catching sight of myself in the toilet mirror, I’m surprised to see I don’t look as wasted as I expected. It’s true that I’m not as chipper and chatty as usual, but it doesn’t feel like I’m in some horrible dark place either.

“You could just call it a day, you know,” I tell my reflection. “Nobody cares how far you’ve run, you don’t even really care either. Why are you doing this?”

---

Ian’s back. “New goal: four marathons. And you’re only two laps behind Robinson Crusoe. He’s walking; just keep an eye on him and you’ll pick up one more spot.”

George is still moving gracefully, well on his way to 250K, looking as fresh as if he’s about to do a parkrun.

My body hurts now, but I do what I’m told: I pick up the pace, walk less.

I see Finbarr (another finance running friend) appear at the main gate. “Insane effort, mate, you’re looking strong.” I smile and wave and somehow my feet don’t seem to hurt as much.

Trix tells me that Zoe and Billy are on their way, ready to cheer us all on for the final hour. Zoe doesn’t understand why I do this race either, but after all these years together she’s got used to the annual routine.

As inviting as my chair looks, and as annoying as the fresh gravel feels in my shoes, I just smile and keep on moving.

The countdown to midday begins. We all have our little numbered sandbags to mark our own personal finish line. Everybody crumples to the ground when the air horn blasts out.

George covers 254K (157.8 miles), the seventh-furthest distance in the 37-year history of the race. Dean, the sub-3 marathon guy nails 200K (124 miles); Calves is sadly nowhere to be seen. I didn’t quite catch the wild-haired Robinson Crusoe lookalike, but I ran 169K (105 miles), putting me in 20th place of 56 starters (18 dropped out). Emiel tells me that he didn’t manage to get his head around how different this was to his usual trail ultras. He’s already planning his return.

Billy rushes over for a big sweaty hug. I bury my face in his soft fur, then look up to see Zoe and Trix all fresh and smiley. “Well done!” they call out. I creakily stand up for more hugs. I look around the sunny track, now full of tired-looking runners and crew, all spilling out of their little stations onto the lanes.

“Thank you,” I say to the girls. “Now I really need to sit down.”