This May I finished the North Downs Way 50, and I didn’t.

The last time I crossed the finish line at a Centurion race was September 2017, at the Chiltern Wonderland 50. A month later at the fourth and final race of that year’s 50 Mile Grand Slam, I had one ten mile lap of the Wendover Woods 50 left between me and the dinner plate sized Grand Slam medal I’d been working for basically all year. And just like that, my body gave up.

Since then I’ve had a fair few DNS’s – they’re so much worse than a DNF but you have to know when it’s not right to put yourself and others at unreasonable risk – and one timeout at the South Downs Way 50 a couple of years ago. I was so ready for redemption.

Working with the marvellous Eddie Sutton I’ve been gradually building up my endurance with the aim of getting that elusive 100 mile finish. Of course, to even get a 100 mile START I would need to have completed a 50+ mile qualifying race, and I finally got that in September 2024 with the Norman 100km, bidding a fond goodbye to SVN in the process. (More on that another day). I was so proud, even though it took me the best part of 24 hours and involved a lot of lying flat on the floor to quell my overwhelming nausea. It gave me the confidence that, with enough time, I could finish the distance. And more importantly, I could problem solve, deal with the dark, battle on, not give up.

Now, I had to get a bit quicker. I needed a Centurion challenge. And I needed another crack at a finisher’s medal.

In the run up to this year’s North Downs Way 50 I had picked up a sub 6-hour 50k at Queen of the Suburbs in March – one of my strongest performances to date and over 2 hours faster than 2024 – logged a couple more off road marathons to keep the volume ticking over, and I was feeling good. Like, almost old me again. I found the two products that my stomach can just about cope with, I had a pacing plan and a fuelling plan I knew I could stick to, and ten years of experience under my belt. Most of all, I had the fire back. I REALLY WANTED this finish.

In a very first-day-of-school moment Andy dropped me off at the leisure centre in Farnham, let me wipe my snotty nose on his shoulder, and wished me good luck. Centurion head honcho James Elson gave me a hug just before the briefing to show appreciation for my lucky QPR shirt – I promised myself I’d wear it if the Under 23’s won their cup final game – and I trotted towards the starting line with the rest of wave 2. All my nerves, all my anxiety just melted. I was going to do this.

But.

Right from the off I was battling constant nausea. I mean constant. Knowing that I had to had to HAD TO keep fuel going in every twenty minutes and trigger another wave or risk crashing out altogether, I realised early on that this was going to be about grit and discipline. Circular breathing and Veloforte chews. Don’t think about how long was left.

All I could focus on was

breathe in
get to the next checkpoint
puff out

over and over

If that sounds melodramatic, let me explain emetophobia to you. It’s irrational, obviously. The roiling tornado in my stomach is more than discomfort; it spins me off kilter, like vertigo. Rationally I know that being sick is no big deal but that doesn’t stop me from feeling like I’m going to die. Compound that with the fact that nausea greets me every morning and rears its head at the worst possible moments. So all things considered, running 50 hilly miles in the heat is kind of a stupid idea.

At least I have the experience to know that nausea sucks but underfuelling is ten times worse. As torturous as it was I stuck to the fuelling plan, 60g carbs an hour spread over 20 minute gaps. All my calories were in my vest, so there was no reason to risk eating something that would make things worse and no reason to dither at the checkpoints. The gamble paid off for a while – by the time I approached the Stepping Stones checkpoint at mile 24 I was in a rhythm, my stomach had settled, and I got to see the ray of sunshine that is supervolunteer Laure.

The next eight miles were all about climbing and all in the high heat of the day. Box Hill, Colley Hill, Reigate Hill. The worst climb of the day was behind me but the nausea wasn’t – with about a mile to go to the next checkpoint, getting dizzy and with the sun beating down, I couldn’t hold back any longer. One thing I have learned is that yes it’s gross and terrifying and no you don’t die and yes it’s always absolutely fine afterwards, as long as you do the one thing that seems entirely counterintuitive and immediately eat. The glamour of trail running. Puke and rally. Keep going.

A hug from Jem at the 32 mile checkpoint and a quick refill of my water bottles and I was straight back on the trail. At this point I had just under an hour in hand over the cutoffs, but by the time I reached Caterham six miles later that cushion was down to half an hour and at the final checkpoint at Botley Hill I got in with just ten minutes to spare. Fitness, fatigue, speed – none of those were a problem. It was simply that every time I tried to run my stomach turned into a washing machine. And yet… I was having a blast.

My trail angel Cat and her trusty companion Mabeldog had dropped by partway through the stretch to wish me luck and reassure me on my timings – there’s a reason I call her a trail angel – but I knew that if I wanted to get that medal I was going to have to keep going as fast as I could possibly manage, and that meant dealing with my nausea demons for two more hours. I could keep them at bay when I walked, but when I walked I was wasting valuable minutes, possibly seconds – so no walking if I could help it. James had just arrived as I left Botley Hill, ready to sweep the final leg of the course, and shortly afterwards both he and Frank caught me up.

Frank’s story was even more woeful than mine. He’d taken a bad tumble before Caterham and was hobbling, walking poles for legs. But he was moving with purpose. It turned out that he had been on the verge of dropping at Botley Hill when James persuaded him he still had time to make it. I had a companion for the death march to the end. And that’s when the magic happened.

I’ve made this sound awful I know – and I can’t pretend the experience wasn’t attritional, because it obviously was. What made the day was the Centurion team and volunteers: their passion, their encouragement, their professionalism even, and when you spend an hour in James’ company you can see why that ethos runs through everything that Centurion do. We chatted for ages about our mutual love of a wonky little club from West London, about having both had season tickets in R Block, about awaydays, about Stan Bowles in the Springbok pub. About ex-Ranger Eze scoring the winner for Palace in the FA Cup Final just minutes before. James couldn’t help or pace us, but he encouraged us every step of the way, called out the times as we went, kept us going. Both Frank and moved as quickly as possible but once we got past the last steep climb it was clear that we were cutting it fine.

And then we got to the endless, soul destroying fields section. I remembered these from my last run here in 2017; they are deceptively slow because despite being flat they’re heavily rutted and a real energy drainer. James‘ timechecks came through with increasing urgency: you’ve got 2 miles left and 24 minutes to do it in, you need to run, you can do this. The last half mile would be on a road and downhill. After that point I was vaguely aware of James’ voice behind us but I didn’t know what he was saying. All I could think was – MOVE.

As soon as we got to the road I put the afterburners on and dropped an 8:59 pace for the last half mile. There would be seconds in it. Seconds only matter when they’re the wrong side of the cutoff, I thought. Moved into intervals pace. Drove forward from my knees. Turned left into the playing fields. Up the grass hill. Saw the finish arch. Saw people cheering us in. Heard people cheering us in. Felt the breath dragged out of my lungs as I sprinted for the line.

saw the clock

saw a thirteen

saw that I was just over

found myself saying no no no

went for it anyway

a finish line is a finish line

BIG LEAP

done.

Almost straight into Nici Griffin’s arms. Frank right behind me. Twenty seconds over the cutoff.

If anyone came close to breaking my heart that day it was Nici – she approached us with dread, started to explain that she was sorry, it was the worst part of her job, she had to tell us that… and I said I know, it’s fine. Please don’t be sorry. Finally let myself drop to the floor. Just like that: no more nausea. No more attrition. Nothing more to do.

Of course I was disappointed – I am, still – but I remember nothing but gratitude and pride from that moment. It may have been a DNF but I felt like an Olympian. This is why the trail running community is so special. I felt no compunction about being twenty seconds from a medal – even if I’d been offered one I’d have refused it, I knew the breaks when I signed up. The challenge was to finish in 13 hours and I didn’t. That’s what makes it worth it.

Only once I got home, scrolling through Instagram, did I realise that James had been filming the last ten minutes of the race. My husband couldn’t bear to watch. I couldn’t tear my eyes away.

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The main reason I’m not upset is that this isn’t an end for me. In many ways it’s a much bigger confidence boost even than the 100km I finished just 8 months before – this was never about just getting to the end, but getting there with purpose. The North Downs Way 50 2025 was one more step towards getting back to ultra fitness on a journey that arguably started back at the end of 2017. You could even say it started with my first NDW100 DNF in 2015. That journey will finish when I finally get that 100 mile buckle. And I will, even if it takes me 100 tries.

What’s more, that lucky QPR shirt will be with me when I do.

I can’t thank James, Nici, Drew and the Centurion team enough for a brilliant day. If you want to know what you’re made of, do a Centurion race. I promise you, you’ll not regret it.