I sit down to write this blog one week after I finished a 1,053 mile run from Lands End to John O’Groats and one year since I was driven away from my life in Yorkshire having told me then boss that I wanted to kill myself. Exactly one year since the worst mental health crisis of my life. Exactly one year since I stopped drinking alcohol in a last-ditch attempt to save my own life. I wrote about that experience last year. It still frightens me to read about it now. It's exactly one year since I couldn’t bear to even think about living another day, and now I have run over 1000 miles in 35.

I should be feeling epic. I should be feeling like I have conquered the world, risen like a phoenix from the flames, like I am doing everything right but in all honesty I don’t. I have yet to get my head around the enormity of the achievement and I have yet to get my head around the enormity of the change in me over the past 12 months. This is not just about a big run. It’s about a lot more than that.

Ultimately the Run Britannia Test Pilot was just that - a test. It was me testing this Allie against that Allie. It was a way for me to physically prove to myself that I had recovered. And in a way it did. More specifically, it proved to me that although I am recovering, I will probably always be recovering. It proved to me that I need to accept there will always be tests and I will always be tested by my own mind and body. But the biggest thing it proved is that there is hope. Hope is real and it works. Hope is what got me to the start line, hope is what got me to the finish line. Hope is what got me 1,053 miles and over 89,000ft of “hills” from Land’s End to John O’Groats. This is a story of hope, pain, joy, love, fear and absolute belief that I would NOT, at any point, give up and get in the van.

*Our little faces on day one. We look so clean and young.*

The thing I need to make clear before I even start on those amazing 5 weeks, is that before this adventure, during this adventure and even in the worst, darkest most physically and mentally painful times, at no point did I ever give in to the belief I would not finish it. I thought about it, but I never believed it and I never gave in to it. I was not getting in that van. The only way would be medical intervention and I was going to do everything I could to avoid that.

Despite me writing a blog to the contrary about a month before the event, it turns out that finishing Run Britannia, running every single step of that route, was, in my head, completely non-negotiable from the start. It turns out that I believed I was going to finish it from the moment that the idea was formed over three years ago. From that belief came the hard work, the consistency in training, the consistency in execution and, in the last 12 months, the drive for me to get better, stay sober and fucking sort myself out. And preface those statements with “it turns out” for a reason.

The weirdest thing about this is that I only realised that I believed I would finish it after I’d finished it, when I got back. I only realised what a concrete belief it was when I was done, when people asked me how I did it. Not getting in the van was so ingrained in my brain that I honestly didn’t know it was there until after the event. That’s fucking mad. And it’s also a secret power.

“Without commitment, you’ll never start, but more importantly, without consistency, you’ll never finish. It’s not easy…..So, keep working, keep striving, never give up, fall down seven times, get up eight. Ease is a greater threat to progress than hardship. So keep moving, keep growing, keep learning. See you at work.” Denzel Washington

I could write this blog and include every single detail of the run, but I won’t. Nobody has time for that shit, and I don’t want reading this to become and endurance event in itself. Instead, I have broken down the route and what happened into five briefish week descriptions and tried to include some helpful bits for anyone doing it in future or doing something similar. I am a coach and I do run workshops on this stuff, so I’m not going to give away all my secrets here, but what I do want is for people to read this and think ‘fuck me I could actually do that’. Because you CAN do it. If you want to do it, if you can commit to being consistent in training, you can push through the ‘can’t be bothered, I might wing it’ bullshit that our brains throw at us, you, sitting there, reading this, YOU can absolutely do it.

None of the runners who started this journey were professional endurance athletes. There were seven of us. Without sounding like a total dick, I’d put myself out there as the most experienced when it comes to multi-days and long distance. The rest of the team comprised of Lorna (mother of one, fast multi-marathon runner, one 100 miler under her belt, one multi day event), Ross (dad of two young kids, high pressure job, 100 mile runner) Amanda (youngest of the group, award winning short distance track runner) Rachel (eldest of the group, recently menopausal, 100 mile runner) Martyn (pretty fast walker with experience of multi-day hikes and ultras) and Joe (literally ran his first marathon in lockdown, zero experience of multi-days). We also had our project manager and route planner James (aka Jimmy C) who is a super quick short distance runner with some ultra and multi day experience. He decided to give the entire route a go as well because YOLO etc.

*Whole squad on the SWCP: L-R James, Martyn, Amanda, Joe, Ross, Lorna, Rachel, Moi.*

Although nobody (including me) had experience with anything like this at all, everyone stood at that start line a hero. Not all of them made it, but they all started. And they had all prepared. You cannot just rock up to something like this having done a marathon or two and think it will be OK. It won’t. If you’re going to do it, do it properly. I reckon that a year is enough time to train for Run Brit from a marathon or ultra-background, 18 months from zero. But you HAVE to commit and you have to believe and you have to be absolutely honest with yourself. It is not easy. It’s over 1000 miles, it takes 35 days, and it is not on nice flat roads. The event is the icing on the cake, You have to make the fucking cake. And that takes time.

It's not just the running that’s the issue. The running, if you have trained, is relatively easy. You just run. That is all you have to do every day. Just run. It’s the being way from home, sharing space, food, emotions and just everything really with other people. It’s about how you cope with pain and minor injury. You WILL get injured, probably only something minor and irritatingly painful, but no matter who you are or how fit you are there will be an injury. It’s about being with other people all the time (apart from for a few hours a day when you’re running or on the toilet) It’s about the admin (the admin is SO important). It about relationships within the group and your relationship with yourself. It’s about your attitude. It’s about kindness and tolerance. If you are the sort of person who doesn’t give a shit about or respect other people, this is most definitely NOT for you. It’s about checking your ego, it’s about having time for others and being kind, it’s about managing yourself when you are in the most horrendous physical or emotional pain. It’s about so much more than just the running. The running is the running. The overall experience and the people are what makes this the adventure of a lifetime. There is a lot to learn.

WEEK ONE – LANDS END TO BRISTOL via Portreath, Padstow, Bude, Bideford, Exmoor and Bridgewater.

Miles: 245

Elevation: 26,592 ft

Known route highlights: The South West Coast Path, Tintagel Castle, the All England Coast Path, East Mendip Way, Cheddar Gorge

Crew: Jim (Rat Race), Abby (Rat Race), Nick (Medic), Hannah (Medic)

Week one was the highest mileage and the longest week - 7 days running before we reached a rest day. This was primarily to allow us to finish in Bristol but also to knacker us out a bit and prevent any silly fast running behaviour – and it did just that. Standing at the start line at Lands’ End we were like a group of nervous teenagers at the disco. Nobody had a fucking clue what was about to happen. But it was about to happen. And it did.

The first three days were glorious running along the top of the South West Coast path – following the second half of the Arc of Attrition route (including the bit where I DNF’d) and occasionally coming out onto the roads then dipping back in. It was absolutely stunning – the weather was amazing and the views were beautiful. The pit stops were set up on beaches or cliff tops with views of crystal clear waters – it was like being on holiday, all be it a really hard holiday with loads of running. In the evenings we stayed primarily in Youth Hostels – I cannot recommend them enough. They were brilliant. We would either get food out or the crew would cook huge meals for us. We’d be tucked up in bed by 8 or 9pm. We would be up every single day at 6.30am, medic surgery at 7am, breakfast at 7.30am and in the van to the start of where we had finished the day before by 8am. Nobody was ever late. Nobody ever complained about this and everyone got their shit together every morning without fail. That in itself was amazing.

Above: Looking fresh on the SWCP in week one

We had to be super organised in the mornings as we were moving accommodation most days which meant getting bags packed and stacked in the vehicle, separating drop bags for the day, and having personal kit ready the night before. I cannot stress how important the admin routine is. You cannot be the person that holds everyone else up – it’s just not acceptable. Get your admin game down to a tee and you will be OK. Do not disrespect other people’s time and energy – be on time, all the time.

I got a lot of questions about navigation. We were given the route as a GPX file every day and put it on our watches – it was up to us to navigate. We all had the OS maps app on our phone as well and I also loaded the route onto that. This was so if there was a problem with the route on the watch, I could find another way round it. It was a test pilot event – we were bound to find stuff wrong, roads closed or trails unpassable. On some occasions we could take a shortcut if we found one, or a long cut if we wanted to do more trail than road. I studied the map every night before bed so I knew what to expect. We were out there trying to find the best possible route for the people doing the event in 2023 and beyond, so sometimes we would split up and do slight deviations on the route James had given us and report back at the end of the day. Sometime James would ask us to “do a shortcut”. This wasn’t always a short cut. This became known as a Jimmy C Special and would often result in some pretty hefty insults being thrown at him via whatsapp. It may well have “looked good on the satellite image” but more often than not it was not a shortcut worth taking. Or even a shortcut at all. And the satellite image was from 3 years ago.

The first few days running (three sets of 36 miles…) were actually OK. We were all full of beans, it was mega hilly and we were fresh. Day four came in slightly shorter at 27 miles, marking the crossing from Cornwall into Devon. At this point the group was running at different paces, leaving the hills and hitting roads meant we would run for big stretches on our own, so I was super chuffed that one of my clients Maria came along to run with me that day. It made a massive difference. That was the day that it started to feel like this was a real thing. It was only day four. We had another three days of running before we could stop. I was already fucking tired.

Injuries started in week one. It was feet and ankles that went first – with the medics doing a great job with ice and strapping every evening and morning. I was doing OK. My back was fucking KILLING me but I’m fairly sure that was carrying weight (2 litres of water and full mandatory kit) and sleeping in weird beds. It was sorted out pretty quick by physio on the rest day. It was the only complaint I had. I was super lucky. Others weren’t so lucky. Looking at the boys ever expanding ankles made me feel a bit sick, but everyone ran on regardless.

Above: Moving towards Devon and Somerset with ever changing weather and terrain

The South West Coast Path gave way to Devon’s country roads and then, on day 5, Exmoor. Exmoor bought its own unique June weather – pissing rain, fog and wind. It was a bit of a surprise. As was seeing my mate Spike, his wife Amy and their glorious dog Rocky standing in the middle of a very wet moor with snacks. Thanks guys! It also bought with it it’s bogs and zero visibility. My favourite type of running, just not on a 35-day 1000 mile event. Day Six saw us hitting North Somerset and the Quantoks with more en-route support from Paul – a BBR mate who came along and provided jelly babies and cheese. And then the final day of the week, day 7 – East Somerset, Cheddar and Bristol. 46 miles. A total bastard of a day. Highly emotional for me as I ran through places I had lived and knew well. It hits you when you get to a place you know. “Fuck me, I have just run from Lands End to where I used to live. Now I’m going to have a massive cry”.

Of all the counties, Somerset is the worst for maintaining its public rights of way and there are some pretty aggressive farmers who really don’t want you on their land, so put cows there, using them as kind of oversize guard dogs. A lot of navigation errors on my part meant I did 3-5 miles more than everyone else on a few days. I say navigation errors – I mean skirting round fields to avoid those bastard cows.

Cheddar Gorge was beautiful and brutal and also host to Spike who had come out again to run a part of the route that was on a trail we used to run together when I lived there. Him being there made such a difference. My heart filled up and before I knew it, I was at the Clifton Suspension bridge. I had run to fucking Bristol. I had run from Lands End to Bristol. And finally I had a day off.

Above: End of week one heading towards Bristol.

Days off sound like a great thing but they are a double-edged sword. Getting up at 6am every day had started to become normal, so lay ins were out of the question and I tended to wake up absolutely starving. We had physios available on all rest days and my appointment was usually early so I would get up, find some food and get poked and proded for a bit by someone I didn’t know. I was also attempting to work on rest days which was in hindsight a BIG mistake. If you’re planning on using these days to work, don’t. You need all the rest and downtime you can get. Rest days are funny. You want to run – you actually do. The less you move the worse you feel so I would recommend some gentle recovery exercise – swimming or walking followed by a massive lunch and an afternoon nap. This strategy tended to work.

Then there’s the admin – laundry, shopping for stuff you may have run out of, repacking and planning for your week. Rest days are just days off running, they are not days off life. Some people had friends and family visit. Spike came to see me for lunch in Bristol, but I found socialising hard – I was just exhausted. Use rest days as they are intended – eating, napping and watching shit TV. Get your admin in order early (even on rest days I sorted my bag the night before) and maximise on refuelling and feeling positive about the week ahead. I found looking at the route and finding places I was excited about going made me feel more positive about the endless miles ahead of us. We had also now done the highest milage week – we wouldn’t have to run for seven days in a row again. Just six.

*End of week one in the shadow of Clifton suspension bridge*

WEEK TWO – BRISTOL TO WHITTLE LE WOODS (PRESTON) via Monmouth, Hay-on-Wye, Bishops Castle, Ellesemere, Frodsham, Whittle Le Woods

Miles: 223

Elevation: 20,610

Known route highlights: The Severn Bridge, Severn Way, Wales Coast Path, Tintern Abbey, Wye Valley Way, Beacons Way, The Black Mountains, Offas Dyke Path, Shropshire Way, Trans Pennine Trail, Sankley Canal Trail, West Pennine Way.

Crew: Olivia (Rat Race), Gill (Volunteer), Nick (Medic), Hannah (Medic)

Generally I’d wake up the day after rest day and feel awful. This feeling only lasts for half an hour – just push through it. It feels like that most mornings TBH and only gets worse as the days goes on but after rest days its super bad. I’d sit on the toilet and have a word with myself and cry. You have a job to do. That job is to run. Crack on. Do not get in the van.

On this occasion, we were going to Wales which made the day a bit more palatable. Crossing borders is super exciting – it’s a proper marker of how far you’ve come and a massive boost. Even county borders are brilliant.

The week started beautifully with the Severn Bridge crossing, more pals joining us en-route (thanks Russ!) and trots along the Wye Valley Way and Wales Coast path until we got to Offas Dyke – which we stayed on for a long, long time. You don’t do all of it, but you do a good chunk – including the ascent up and over the Black Mountains – probably one of my most memorable and favouritist days of the whole trip. It was clear and beautiful on the ascent and from the first summit the whole of Wales lay before us in glorious technicolour.

Above: And into Wales!

We could see the whole of the Breacon Beacons including Pen-Y-Fan from up there – just astonishing. This part of the trail is decent mountain running with no phone signal so it was a case of taking all weather kit up and being sensible. It was just an epic day. It was the first day I felt really, really tired – a feeling I’d get used to but also a day I wont forget. I come alive in the mountains. That tired feeling - you acknowledge it and move on

I was still messing about with nutrition to try and get it right. Food wise I was living off Mountain Fuel Morning Fuel. Without wanting to sound like a Slim Fast advert, I was having a shake with milk for breakfast and then one for lunch and a proper dinner. It was actually a shake at each pit stop throughout the day. Generally there were three pitstops a day – four if it was a super long day. That’s a lot of milk. Pit stops were spaced every 10 ish miles. Breakfast was a shake and two pieces of toast with jam – or a waffle/pancake if I could get it, pit stops were shakes with a shot of expresso thrown in, and in between stops I was munching down Mountain Fuel gels – the jellies and the chia ones. Then there were the fruit pastilles. I was going through a family bag every two days. Without my fruit pastilles I wouldn’t be here. I owe it all to Rowntrees.

I hate gels and sweets and don’t generally use them, but this technique seemed to be working and my “eat real food’ rule had gone out the window in week one. I just couldn’t hold it down after lunch. It would try and come out of me one way or another. Occasionally I’d have a donut and later I ate more Mars Bars than anyone should in a lifetime, but it was all about trial and error in the first few weeks and I found that overall the shake/gels/sweets thing was working for me. At the end of every day I’d drink about a pint of chocolate milk and then have a massive three course dinner with huge puddings. Evening times were my time to refuel. However, I never actually nailed the nutrition. My stomach was a mess for the last two weeks. I was drinking 4-6 litres of water a day - I only drank water and the occasional flat soft drink while running – and I also took 3 salt tabs with caffeine a day and then an extra one before I went to bed. It wasn’t perfect but it was working.

Above: Onto Offas Dyke and those views from the Black Mountains

Back to the route. Day 10-11 were beautiful and fun and full of trails. On Day 11 I got a call from ultra-legend and all round great human Scott Jenkins – he was in the area and came out to see me, running 9 miles and chatting shit until we reached the end of the day. It was SO nice to see him. Do not underestimate the power of people coming to see you – it can turn your day around, and did for me on many occasions. Massive thanks to Scott and Abby for taking time out to do that.

Day 12 should have been 38 miles but it was actually 41. It was killer for a number of reasons, mainly the cows. The fucking cows. Some twatty farmer had put a load of young bullocks on the Severn Way – a public footpath – with NO notices or warnings. I got to the field first, and as soon as I was over the fence they started to charge me. Not walking towards me, running towards me, horns down. I left the field the way I’d come in pretty fucking quickly, and texted the group to warn them – we did this a lot, always texting the group to warn of wrong turns, big stingers or murderous cows (or just to make fat jokes about Joe) and suggesting alternatives if we had found one. It tended to work well. Except when it didn’t.

There was no other route on OS Maps – it was this way or no way, so I skirted the cows field and then trespassed through an adjacent field, fighting my way through nettles and spiky trees, always keeping the cows in eyesight in the field next door. The only thing separating us was a line of very spiky trees. I was going to have to return to their field to get over the fence at the end of it, but I wasn’t doing that until the last possible minute.

Then I saw them moving again, at speed, back towards the gate I had hurriedly jumped over to escape. Fuck. Lorna and Martyn hadn’t got the message. Seeing my opportunity, I ran as fast as I could back into their field and hid in a tree line at the end. The minute I got into that tree line I realised it was where the cows came to hide from the sun – it was a cow safe haven! Fuck! And there was a barbed wire fence bigger than me preventing me getting to the safety of the field ahead of me. I pretty much shit myself when I turned round and saw the cows thundering back in my direction. But this time they were chasing something else. And that something was Martyn.

Martyn was giving Usain Bolt a run for his money on pace, sticks in the air, head down and the cows were chasing him. The noise was horrendous – thundering hooves like a thousand racehorses. I could see Lorna on the other side of the fence shouting at him. She’s obviously made it to safety before they had charged. I looked at the fence in front of me, all wrapped round branches with only a foot between each spikey wire panel – I had to get through it or over it NOW. The cows were headed in the direction of the trees and if they didn’t kill Martyn I was scared they’d come for me.

I threw my bag over and somehow slithered between the barbed wire and entangled trees – the insides of my legs cut to ribbons as I tried to straddle the fence. When I got to the other side, I ran to where Lorna was. Martyn had just made it over the gate and was hyperventilating and shaky. All the colour had left his face and he looked like he might pass out. It had been utterly fucking terrifying. Properly scary. We watched as the rest of the group approached behind the cows who had, as predicted, headed into the cow safe haven of the trees. We rang them individually and talked them all through how to avoid the cows on the phone making sure they all got through safely and providing cow distraction where necessary. Nobody died. But it shook the whole group.

The rest of the day was muted. We were all really shaken by what had happened. I’ve since emailed the council in charge of that part of the Severn Way about this. I’ve had no reply. But if my mum had attempted to cross that part of the Severn Way (a public footpath!) she would have been killed. No doubt about it. A really fucking awful experience that made us all the more wary of how dangerous cows can be. We avoided them for the rest of the week, adding miles and making life a bit more difficult. One cow charged, twice shy.

I knew I was seeing Pickle on Day 12 – it was a Sunday and Julius had driven up to have a run and meet me for a bit. 6 miles from the end of that day, a day that had taken so much out of us, her little face appeared at the end of the trail and I just fell to bits. My shins had started to hurt, and I was so tired, but there was her little face. I fell on the floor and cuddled her and cried and cried and cried and then ran the last 6 miles with her and Julius. She gave me a cuddle and said hello to everyone, but then had to go home. I was seeing her for a whole day on rest day, but it still hurt loads to say goodbye to her. She is the love of my life.

Day 13 consisted of mainly road for 35 miles and day 14 was another monster – 41 miles taking in the sights of Warrington, Wigan, Rubgy, Preston and all the white van men they had to offer. Has hanging out of a van shouting at women ever actually resulted in marriage?? Answers on a postcard please. I was joined by a couple of my best girl pals Sarah and Cara for the whole final day before rest day. This was literally a gift sent from heaven.

Above: Some of the more beautiful parts of Wigan and Rugby. And Lorna having a lovely time.

Despite my shin getting worse and worse and worse, having company made the miles tick by a lot quicker than they otherwise would have done and we did have a lovely time – it was also Cara’s longest ever distance run – what a fucking legend! By the end of the day my shin was ON FIRE. I’d taken all the drugs and none of them had worked. We had a rest day the next day, so I decided to just wish it better – a known ultrarunning remedy - and get some physio. It didn’t matter anyway. My dog was coming to see me for a whole 24 hours, so I didn’t care about anything else.

The hotel we had for rest day had a spa and pool which was amazing. Getting achy legs in a hot room is a very good idea. I saw physio who said my shin pain was tendon related rather than anything more sinister, so Volterol it was. Nothing else I could do apart from strap it or not strap it and just run on in ridiculous pain. He reckoned it would take about 3 weeks rest to sort itself out. I had three weeks more running to do. My shin pain became my constant companion. He can sit there with depression as the person I hate hanging out with the most.

Above: Pickle being the goodest emotional support dog.

Having Pickle was amazing. I shared my bed with her that night and both me and Lorna had the best night’s sleep. In the morning I woke up and she was spooning Lorna. It was very, very cute. She’s just my best girl. Now I was to be parted from her for three weeks. My heart broke a bit. But I had a job to do. And I was NOT getting in the van.

*“I WANT TO SEE THE MEDIC!” Careful what you wish for, Joe.*

WEEK THREE – PRESTON TO ABINGTON via Lancaster, Kendal, Penrith, Carlisle, Lockerbie, Abington

Miles: 186

Elevation: 10,699

Known route highlights: Wye Aquaduct, Morcombe Sands, The Lake District esp. Harter Fell, Gretna Green Border Crossing, Lanarkshire and Camping!

Crew: Jaques (Volunteer), Jools (Volunteer), Dave (Medic)

Day 16 marked the halfway point in the journey, mileage wise at least. We had done just over 500 miles. We had lost three runners – Ross, Amanda and Rachel had all had to take time out due to injury – Ross had been to A&E for a scan on his leg which thankfully showed no breaks, but meant some proper rehab was needed. There were now only four of us still in the long game with the others jumping in and out for miles when they could and desperately trying to rehab themselves in the meantime. We were exhausted. We had been running back to back ultras for two weeks now and still had three weeks to go. The mileage for this week was less but it was still mileage. For me, this week was a low point, especially as it contained so much road and canal. I hate road, I hate canal.

I had been wearing the same shoes for the entire trip – the Invo8 Parkclaw G280. They’re a hybrid shoe that transitions from road to trail and had performed amazingly well. While other people constantly changed shoes at pitstops, I wore the same ones the whole time. I had no blisters, no foot pain and a very slight injury that was painful but not life threatning and nothing to do with shoes. I managed, however, to snag the magic shoes on a rock and on day 18 performed some emergency surgery on them with glue, KT tape and stitching. They were still totally fine to run in, but the hole was letting in gravel. I was worried. I wanted them to last the whole 1000 miles, but the further we got into the north the less likely it was I would be able to find replacements. I messaged the guys at INOV8 and they dropped me a fresh pair when we got to Kendal, just in case. Turns out that was a genius move. Those shoes went on to do 750 miles before the bottoms of them wore right down – not the fault of the shoe in any way. Week three was very heavily on road based, and the Parkclaw is not a road shoe, it’s a hybrid shoe. I didn’t want to be heading into Scotland with no grip, so put the new pair on in week four. I’m still wearing them today. Hands down the best shoe I have ever worn and in my opinion all you need for this adventure. Who doesn’t go through two pairs of shoes on a 1000 mile run? I went through a pair and a half.

Above: Seems like all we do is mess about and lay down…. we did do some running as well….

After the hell of the roads and canal on days 16 and 17, day 18 was a diamond in the rough. A whole day in the Lake District. It was just GLORIOUS. An epic route through Longsledale and Sadgill then up and over Harter Fell on a beautiful summer’s day – I was in my element. All the tiredness and exhaustion melted away as I hit those hills, it’s where I do my best work and I LOVED it. It’s amazing what a change in environment can do, but it was short lived. I also found a rams head complete with horns that I stowed in my bag and ran with for 7 miles. It was the first of many dead things I would pick up and take home. I called him Alfred. He will live in my living room.

Day 19 was 25 miles of road from Penrith to Carlisle, nothing to report here part from an incident I had in someone’s front garden that we don’t go into for legal reasons, and then on day 20 we did it. We made it to Scotland.

Above: And into the Lakes!

I can’t describe the feeling. Running into Scotland still sort of means more to me than getting to John O’Groats. It was just the most amazing feeling. It was such a moment. There were some tears, some cuddles. We waited just south of Gretna Green for the whole team (including those who were injured to get out the van) and all ran to the sign together. This was a team effort whether people were running or not. The strength and support in the group and from the crew that week was imperative to the success of the mission.

Above: Dem Scotland feels!

I feel like we all let our guard down a bit. We had such a long way to go but it almost felt like we had made it. We toasted our effort with the first of very, very many IRN BRU’s and then it was onwards for the final push towards rest day – 38 miles from Lockerbie to Abington. The night before our final day we camped. In tents. I’d been dreading it, but it was actually super good fun. I think I like camping again now. Those doing the event next year, you won’t be camping. Wipe that sweat from your brow right now.

Day 21 was by far the worst day for me. The WORST. Option one – 32 miles on an A road. Option two, 38 Miles with 16 of them being on trail, and 18 of them being on the same A road. I took option two, and along with Joe set off for some much needed trail time – albeit longer mileage than everyone else. I couldn’t bear the idea of more road. Trail exhausts you more, has more hills and takes longer but I just fucking hate roads.

After 16 miles of lush Scottish green, we hit the A road and my day fell apart. It ran alongside the A74(M). It was relentless. It was hard. It was awful. I don’t know how people to LEJOG on the roads – fucking psychopaths. The smell and sight of the roadkill, the sound of the traffic – I just fucking hated it. But there is no other way. You have days like this. There is no other way. My stomach had been playing up all week and my anxiety at being on the roads didn’t help. I was jumping into bushes every two miles and end up retching into a drain in front of a bemused truck driver. Somewhere along that route I accidently left a small bag containing toilet paper, hand wipes and a bottle of sex lube alongside the entire contents of my stomach. I pity the person that finds it.

When I got in that day I’d had enough. Martyn gave me a cuddle and I whinged at everyone about how shit everything was. They listened and were kind. I gave myself a talking to. I hate this side of me. It inevitable that some days you feel shit, but that day I felt REALLY shit. It was a low. I just had to get it out of my system. It passed. It always does. And now we had a day off. And I needed a day off to do a Bailey reset. I was lucky to be doing this. I always tried to remind myself of that fact.

Before I sign of on this week I want to just say a huge thank you to our week three crew. Jools and Jaques went above and beyond the call of duty and were hands down two of the nicest, kindest and most organised people I have ever met. I’ll never forget you guys. You were a ray of light in that week, thank you.

Above: More pics from Week 3 - we did have all the LOLs, it wasn’t that bad.

WEEK FOUR – ABINGTON TO FORT AUGUSTUS via Strathvlyde Park, Milngavie, Rowardennan, Bridge of Orchy, Fort William, Fort Augustus.

Miles: 189

Elevation: 16,357

Known route highlights: The ENTIRE West Highland Way, The Great Glen Way, Glencoe, Loch Lomand, Loch Ness, the Caledonaian Way, the Tunnocks bakery!

Crew: Brydie (Rat Race), Rob (Rat Race), Dave (Medic)

This was it – we were properly in Scotland. After a day off and realising I would never have to run on that fucking A road again, I got my shit together and got excited again. Don’t get me wrong I was KNACKERED. My shin pain was constant, and my stomach was a mess most of the time but I fucking love Scotland and now I was getting the chance to run the entire West Highland Way in one go. What a total privilege.

Day 23 into Motherwell was mostly quiet roads - I got my head down and smashed it out. It’s funny how you can do that after fuck knows how many ultras when you really hate roads. Day 24 took us on more roads, through the nice bits of Glasgow on the canals and out to Milngavie. We spent a night in the most beautiful YHA at Rowardennan before starting the West Highland Way on day 25.

When you have a mini project inside a big project it makes things easier and more fun. Having three days on a known route that most people walk in a week or two made things exciting again and the WHW did not disappoint. I’d had a message earlier in the week from Debbie Martin-Consani – one of my heroes, winner of the Spine Race in 2022 and someone that is basically like the ultrarunning Beyonce to me. She was training for Badwater 135 and wanted to join us for a bit of running on day 25. I was gobsmacked, starstruck and a bit scared. How the fuck would I keep up with her? She was a legend! I doubted she would turn up. But she did. And it was such a treat.

For the time Debbie was there my shin stayed totally silent, pace picked up and we just had a lovely time. The minute she left, the pain was back. I basically need her there all the time – she’s like a Scottish fell fairy. But more seriously this is how the brain works – a little distraction and the pain melts away. It can be music, people, chatting on the phone, anything. Running hurts sometimes. It is painful sometimes. You do just have to crack the fuck on if you want to achieve something like this. If it didn’t hurt, and it wasn’t hard, every fucker would do it. Know the difference between a whingery and an injury and have a word with yourself. I had to do that most days.

Above: A few outakes from the start of the week

Days 26 and 27 were incredible and brutal in equal measure. Day 26 saw us continue on the WHW towards the bridge of Orchy and my god did it rain. All day. Heavy Scottish rain. I went through all three waterproofs and two pairs of trousers. It was cold as well. The wind made it feel cold. This is why you need winter kit as well as summer kit. My shin was agony. Halfway through the day my brother called and as I was chatting away, hoofing it up another massive hill another call came through. It was Rob from HQ. He’d noticed my tracker vanishing off route - I had been so distracted chatting to Olly that I had gone totally the wrong way up a huge hill I didn’t need to go up….for two miles.

Instead of doing the right thing (backtrack to where you went wrong) I decided to take a shortcut down the bogs and cross the river at the bottom of the valley to get on the right side of it and back on route. There was a bridge two miles back I should have crossed. Fuck that, I am an adventurer, I’ll do it my way. AKA the wrong way.

The bogs were awful – some of them waist deep - but I was having an adventure and it took my mind off the shin. When I reached the bottom of the valley, the river was (of course) raging. I walked down it and tried to find a crossing point, but it was just too deep and too fast. I’ve done courses – I know when a river is dangerous. If I’d have fallen and bashed my head, I would probably have drowned. It was a no from me. There was no other bridge indicated on OS map. Just the original one two miles away in the other direction. Dickhead.

I ended up trudging back through pathless bogs all the way to the bridge I should have crossed – losing about two hours and adding about 5 miles. Note: DO NOT TRY AND TAKE SHORTCUTS THAT AREN’T GUARANTEED. I was very cold, very wet and very late.

Above: The West Highland Way serves up the goods and I get to run with a legend!

By the end of that day I was reduced to a walk for the first time on the trip. The shin felt like it was slowly breaking through my skin and the rain was just hideous. I had a little cry. It was just a lot, but there was no way I was giving up. No way. When I got to the end point I found Lorna semi naked in a underpass with Joe holding her bra and poles. To this day I have no idea what was going on in that underpass. Apparently she was “just getting changed…..”

Day 27 was a total contrast to the day before. Drugs and Voltarol were holding me together. I was in a lot of fucking pain, but it was pain that wasn’t going to kill me or break me, it was just pain. Anyway, we were headed to Glencoe – up the Devils Staircase and down the other side. Utterly beautiful. Remote and brutal. One of my favourite places on earth. A place that had be clouded in emotional trauma from the last time I’d been there. This is a good point I’ve not yet made. This trip was shrouded in some pretty shitty memories for reasons I am not going into here. There were times I just ran along in tears remembering stuff that I never want to think about again. It was a cleansing mission. I took back my places, I took back my pride and confidence, I took back my respect for myself every time I passed a place with a past. I rewrote my story. I am grateful for the opportunity to do that.

I absolutely LOVED day 27. Yes, I was still in pain but the views, the rain, the wind, the hostile beauty of Scotland got me through. But, by the end of the day I was in tears again. The fucking pain was just too much. I remembered something Joe had said to me a day or so ago. When we were talking about how to get over injuries, he said (tounge firmly in cheek) that he’d “scared the pain away” by running REALLY fast on his dodgy ankle. So that’s what I did. As I rounded Ben Nevis and the trail stretched down into Fort William I HAMMERED it down the hill. Fuck you shin. FUCK. YOU. JUST FUCK OFF. And you know what? It worked.

Above: It’s impossible to capture Glencoe on an iPhone. You have to go there.

It’s a very odd feeling finishing something as epic as the West Highland Way but not having finished the week. One more day. Day 27 took us north along the Great Glen way to Fort Augustus. The shin behaved. I put my foot down and got the day done – running 33 miles in the rain along quiet roads and beside lochs, bangers in my ears and the knowledge there was a rest day coming in my chest. Then, in the last 4 miles it hit me. I had fucking done it. I had one week of this left. I had finished week four.

Never Forget by Take That came on my headphones and I just fell to bits. It’s so cheesy but that song man, those lyrics. When you’re tired and emotional stuff like that sends you over the edge. There’s even a line that says “feel I’ve walked 1000 miles” in that song. But the reason it got me was the not forgetting bit. The not forgetting how ill I was, how fucked up I was and how broken I was just 12 months earlier. And now this. You’re running the length of the UK and you have one week left. It was a big moment. A big moment for me, alone on a canal heading into Fort Augustus. I pulled myself together and finished the day a snotty mess.

Above: Starting the Great Glen Way.

WEEK FIVE – FORT AUGUSTUS to JOHN O’GROATS via Kiltarlity, Lubfearn, Lairg, Kinbrace, Mybster and John O‘Groats

Miles: 204

Elevation: 14,947

Known route highlights: Not a lot of famous ones – you’re in the Badlands now. Great Glen Way (high version), lots of long straight roads, lots of big fucking hills, the Loch Choire Estate, Duncansby Stacks, Duncansby lighthouse, loads and loads of deer and JOG!

Crew: Brydie (Rat Race), Kim (Volunteer), Steve (Medic)

The whole group had talked about this week for so long. Some of us had re-named it the glory lap, some of us were acting like it would be easy. It was neither a glory lap or easy and maybe we hadn’t thought about how hard it would be. So near yet so far. We still had four of us who had run every step – Lorna, Martyn, Joe and myself. Amanda had rejoined the group after her brief exile due to Covid and Ross was managing his injury super well and had managed all of Scotland so far. Rachel was doing everything she could, hopping in the van between checkpoints to get a head start walking the bits she couldn’t run and James was on the road to recovery after he rolled his ankle and took time out in week three. Nobody had gone home. We were still in it together. We had just all had different journeys. Anyone doing this in future take note – injury does not mean it’s all over, it just means you take a different journey. You can bounce back. The way everyone handled their injuries astonished me. I very much doubt I would have been so positive had mine been worse.

We had chatted about how we would feel on the last day and already taken the decision to finish as a team, meeting at the lighthouse car park and walking/running in together. It wasn’t even a decision; it was just the natural way to do it. Never have I been part of a team of strangers who had got on so well. Everyone was just brilliant. There had been no issues at all and I have never laughed as much as I did in those 35 days. This was an amazing group of people and they made the whole thing not only tolerable but also do-able. Take note of this future Run brit participants. Your relationships with your peers, your behaviour towards them and your ability to communicate with kindness, patience and rationality is the backbone of this event. You need them and they need you. Be the kindest person you can be every single day.

Above: Final week - Onwards to JOG.

Day 30 was more of the Great Glen Way and we were offered another choice. The high road or the low road. I chose high because I like hills and am an idiot. Or at least I used to like hills before I’d run up every single one in Scotland. It was BEAUTIFUL. Immense views of Loch Ness made the agonising climbs worth it. My shin behaved, all was fine. Day 31 was the opposite. There was nothing physically wrong with me I was just exhausted and very very emotional. At checkpoint one I took myself into the van for a cry. I wanted to go home but I didn’t. I was scared of it ending but I wanted it to end SO much. I think this is why I didn’t get upset at JOG – I did it all in the week leading up to it. I had my cry, stopped and then got on with the job – another 31 miles done. Day 32 was different again – I felt immensely strong and cracked out a proper pace across 38 miles. The further north we got the more remote it got, the closer the end was. Three days left. I had no idea what my body was doing at this point, but it was still working.

Day 33 served us a curveball. After 11 miles of road, we swung a right at Crask onto a private estate – the Loch Choire Estate. 50 square miles of bogs, lochs, rocks, mountains and utter remote beauty. The minute we hit the trail I knew Lorna would be in trouble.

Lorna had been struggling with various injuries for days but she’s like me – she would not give up. I knew the bogs would be too much for her already fragile legs. I got as far in as I could without sending the message that this was bog territory and should be treated with care if people were injured. The bogs weren’t ending so I sent the message.

Above: The Loch Choire Estate. A bargain at £4.5 million.

The reception was patchy at best so I continued on having my own adventure on the terrain I love the most waiting for people to reply. Surprise mountains gave way to views over epic lochs with not a soul in sight. We hardly saw anyone that week part from the loggers driving their huge trucks and that day I saw nobody. It was magical. In this terrain it’s hard to get the vehicles in for pitstops so they were few and far between. After 20 miles I got to the pitstop and asked after Lorna. She’d gone. She’d fallen in the bog section and could no longer bear weight on her leg. I felt absolutely gutted for her. 950 miles in and fucked over by injury. That’s how this goes. You’re OK until you’re not OK anymore. Only three completers remained. Nobody was safe until the very last step.

Lorna was taken to A&E for a scan and given crutches (anything to not carry her own bag at the airport). For her it was game over. But at least I had my head of crew back……..

Day 34 (or Christmas Eve as we were calling it) took us 35 miles from Kinbrace to Mybster along fire trails and through forests, our only company being the hundreds of deer running across unending moors. It was just epic. No other humans, just us. My brain was fighting to get it’s shit chat in, but I was having none of it. I just wanted to suck it all up. We had one day left. I was going to fucking do this.

In hindsight, I feel like I left a part of me out on the trails as we crossed the UK. Part of me I didn’t need anymore. I found controlling what I was telling myself a lot easier than I had done previously. It was almost like laying a demon to rest. That’s quite a magical thing. The shit chat turned silent. I was running the length of the UK.

Above: It’s bleak up north…..

Day 35 – the final day, our Christmas day.

What can I say? We all started this day – everyone apart from hop a long Lorna. We ran alone, not together. I think we all had to process it in our own ways. Some of us had run the entire thing, some of us had run parts, some of us had be catastrophically injured and missed days, but all of us had been on a 35-day journey we would never forget. We all had our own thoughts that day – I can only report back on mine. I was CONVINCED that I would cry at the end. Convinced. But I didn’t. I cried the whole way there, on and off, but not at the end.

I had also suggested James add a few miles onto the final day in order to take us past Duncansby Stacks and lighthouse. Not a popular suggestion, but defo the right one. This is the most North Easterly point in the UK and an iconic sight – three huge stacks reaching out into the north sea with the Pentland firth to its north west and the Moray firth to its south. It would mean we had run from the most south westerly tip of the UK to the most north easterly. Not a lot of people do that. Behind the Duncansby lighthouse, Orkney stretches out to the north and 2 miles to the west sits the John O’Groats sign and the end of our adventure.

Above: The final stretch towards the finish. Duncansby Stacks in all their glory.

We met in the lighthouse car park and walked the last two miles in together. It was a very strange feeling. We knew it was the end but there weren’t any major emotions, not that were shown anyway. There was just the usual taking the piss and laughing at each other. We had started together and we finished together, every person having had their own unique journey but all of us sharing this incredible experience, the highs, the lows and everything in the middle. We had done it. We’d all had different journeys, we’d all run/walked/crawled/ridden different mileage but we had done it. We toasted our success with alcohol free beer and Nosecco – Did I mention NOBODY was drinking on this trip?! And that was it. It was done.

*“Photos look better when you run!” The whole squad together (minus Lorna who couldn’t actually walk) taking it home….*

I felt totally numb when we finished. I felt like I just wanted to go home. Nothing changed. I was the same person (minus some emotional baggage I had firmly left on the trail). I’m not sure what I expected. On paper I had just achieved a once in a lifetime accolade, something very few people ever do and a world first on that route, coming in at almost 200 miles further than your average Lejoggers route with a fuck tonne more ascent (a cool 89,000ft) this was not your average Lands End of John O’Groats. I had run the equivalent of 42 marathons in 35 days (or 6.3 years worth of parkruns in 35 days if that’s your thing). Why did I not feel different?

I’ll tell you why. Because thinking that something outside of you will make you feel different won’t work. Feeling different comes from inside you not outside you.

It has taken me a week to start feeling like I can appreciate what my mind and body did and to realise despite my numbness standing at the sign, I have indeed come out of this a slightly different person on the inside. I am still not totally there yet with accepting it or even believing it. Writing this blog has helped, time will help but it’s a mind fuck. It’s a colossal achievement and I am incredibly proud to have finished it, but I am still processing what completing it means. I do have a little insight. The event did not change my life. The journey to it did.

The journey towards Run Britannia was long and very complicated for me. It may well be the same for you. It involved learning to like myself and trust myself. It involved giving myself time to run, time to rest, time to recover and time to learn and making these things a priority. It involved turning up as the person I wanted to be when I finished. It involved working hard to get well physically and mentally. It involved knowing without knowing I would not give up unless there was medical intervention. That belief and that hope is fucking powerful. That is a superpower. If I can do that with an event like this what else can I do it with?

The journey involved having respect for myself and my body and my mind. That’s something I have never had before. Allowing myself to feel things without medicating those feelings with alcohol – anger, frustration, even pain – allowing those feelings and knowing they are not forever. They pass. They are human, they are normal. I do not think I would have completed this is I had still been drinking. I’m not sure I would still be here had I still been drinking.

During the event I sometimes felt like I was making this journey look easy. I was told I was on a few occasions. I always try and be super honest on social media but I stop short of videoing me throwing up or shitting myself on the A74(M).

Above - The reality, most mornings. All totally knackered.

I want to tell you it was NOT easy. There were those mornings I would cry on the toilet because I was just so tired that I didn’t know if I could get my kit on. But I did get my kit on. There were times I WAS shitting in bushes (and allegedly gardens) and throwing up in drains. Those times passed. There were times I didn’t want to do it anymore. But I did do it. There were even times where I got so fucked off that I thought about drinking. But I did not drink. I got in moods, I snapped at people (and promptly apologised), I had a fucking horrible time some of the time. But I did it. I ran the length of the UK, and I would do it again.

There is so much more to this story, but I’m going to leave it here because it’s become a bit of a dissertation. I want to thank every member of the Rat Race team that helped crew, put the route together and look after us. You were integral to the success of the mission and I cannot thank you enough. But mostly I want to thank my fellow adventurers Martyn, Ross, Joe, Amanda, Rachel, Lorna and James. The greatest group of people I could have wished to share this with. Without their constant support, piss taking, nicknames, terrible jokes, fluffing in the van, hugs, punches in the arm and reassurance, this would have been awful. They made the trip of a lifetime just that – the trip of a lifetime. Guys, every single one of you is exceptional and I am privileged to have spent that time with you. I will cherish it forever.

And to anyone reading this that thinks “could I do that?” Yes, you probably could. But you HAVE to put in the work. You have to show up. If you choose to take it on, it is the greatest thing you will ever do, but you cannot wing this one. The UK is a beautiful place – get out and see it and learn something about yourself in the process. Run the length of it. Do something incredible with your life. You can sign up or get info here. If you’re looking for a coach, you know where I am.

To those taking it on in 2023, 24 and beyond I salute you. You are in for such an incredible experience. Get the work done. You owe it to yourself to turn up as prepared as you possibly can. Sort your admin, get strong and know this. After training, your relationships with the other members of the team are the single most important factor in getting you from one end of the country to the other. Leave your ego at home. Make friends for life.

If you have ANY questions about Run Brit I am always at the end of the email. Drop me an email here.

What’s next for me? Dragons Back – the worlds toughest mountain race. In seven weeks, I go again.

I leave you with this. A classic quote from Dame Gary Barlow. Someday soon this will be someone else’s dream. Maybe one day, it will be yours.

Never forget where you've come here from
Never pretend that it's all real
Someday soon this will all be someone else's dream
This will be someone else's dream

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