Why I Race: Pain, People, and the Pull of the Trail

Three Reminders I Keep Coming Back To (Especially Right Now)

Lately, I’ve needed to remind myself of a few things and maybe they’ll resonate with you too:

1. Cut the news.
The news isn’t really news anymore, it’s noise. A 24/7 stream of fear, outrage, and distraction disguised as information. Social media’s even worse. Both hijack your attention, hijack your mood, and distort your view of reality. I’m done with the drip-feed. A weekly summary with thoughtful analysis? Fine. But endless updates? No thanks.

2. Move every day.
Some of the most meaningful connections in my life were built through sport and movement. Rugby, football, running, cycling, the gym. Staying active keeps me grounded and injury-free. I can’t prevent everything, but I can control my habits: stretching, resting, avoiding ego lifts. When I move daily, I stay strong enough to do the things that matter to me.

3. Eat like you want to feel.
I’m not a health nut. I like chocolate. I eat fast food. But when I overdo it, I feel awful immediately. When I’m moving more, I naturally crave better fuel. Most bad choices come when I don’t plan ahead. Like grabbing McDonald's on a long drive. When I prep, I feel better. It’s simple, but not easy: eat well to live well.

Race Report: Maverick 23km Trail – The Purbecks

This weekend, I ran my first race in years, a 23km trail challenge along the Jurassic Coast. It was tough, beautiful, and exactly what I needed.

The route wound through the Purbecks: steep climbs, dramatic coastline, and descents that dared you to go full send. I came in with no pressure, just a plan to treat it as a training run for my upcoming marathon.

The Calm Before the Climb

I arrived early so early I had time to stop at Corfe Castle and fly my drone before the tourists arrived. Breakfast was simple: overnight oats, banana, coffee. I read in the car for 45 minutes. The perfect quiet preparation before the storm.

The Mental Game

The hardest part of racing isn’t physical, it’s mental. It’s convincing yourself to lean into discomfort. To voluntarily choose two hours of effort that hurts. Before the race, I told myself I’d take it easy. Treat it like a long training run. Enjoy the views, stay relaxed, save my energy.

That plan lasted four kilometres.

I’d started near the back of a 370-person wave, and something switched on as soon as we set off. I began overtaking runners, one by one, then by the dozen. By the time we reached the sweeping downhill near Dancing Ledge, I was flying. I must’ve passed a hundred people on that descent alone.

Something about running hard downhill unlocked a part of me I hadn’t accessed in a while. It took me back to 2021, living in the Yorkshire Dales, days spent barreling down fells, chasing older, faster runners who moved like mountain goats, dancing over the rocks with grace I could only admire.

I’ve never been a mountain goat. My style’s more bull-in-a-fellside. Heavy-footed but I’d consider it determined. Those years taught me how to push on, regardless of how far you have left to climb. How to keep going when the hill says stop. That memory kicked in, and so did the race.

I found I was passing groups of runners on the climbs, while many hit a mental wall near steep inclines, for me, overtaking offered a surge of energy, almost physical fuel. That’s one reason racing among hundreds feels completely different from solo long runs. I love those solo outings. The headspace, the freedom to wander in thought. But the collective momentum of a pack has its own magic and effect on mindset.

Music has always played a key role in pushing me forward. It makes the race feel cinematic, especially with the sea and cliffs as a backdrop. For the first half, I alternated between an Afrobeat essentials playlist, Enter Now Brightness by Nadia Reid, and my go-to on-repeat: Automatic by The Lumineers.

I ran without my phone, just smartwatch, wireless headphones, and the music carrying me. Sometimes I crave a tech detox, but in those moments I feel grateful to be alive in 2025, running with wireless headphones to any song I want.

At the 10km mark, the race had spread thin. No more weaving through crowds. Just me and a few others strung out along the trail. I tucked in behind two runners, letting them set the pace as we climbed Hounstout Cliff. It’s a brutal, unrelenting ascent overlooking the curve of Chapman’s Pool. We pressed on toward the village of Kingston, legs burning, the coastline at our backs.

Eventually, we left the wind-whipped cliff tops and entered a quiet, shaded wood. I took out my headphones to run with no music. Just my breath, footfall, and the effort of the final 13km. I wanted to be present. To feel the strain in my lungs, the drive in my legs, and the strange joy of pushing right up to the edge.

From Kingston, I emptied the tank.

The long gravel descent begged for speed, and I let gravity take over. When I run fast downhill, it’s the closest I get to flying. When body and terrain align, and the finish still feels just out of reach. Everything clicks. My movement felt effortless, like years of training distilled into a single motion.

I powered past the Square and Compass, my favourite local pub, greeted by cheers from early patrons sipping morning pints in the garden. The pub hadn’t even opened! I flew by the final aid station without stopping. Just 5km to go, and I felt strong.

At 21.1km, the half marathon ticked over, but the finish line wasn’t quite there. Just under 2km to go. The final stretch along the Priest’s Way was smooth and flowing. Fast, familiar, and mentally energising. Knowing the end was close added further energy to my stride.

The finish line came into view. A bell rang. People cheered. I crossed, spent and smiling. I came in 23rd overall in 2:04:30, with 519m of climbing behind me.

Someone hung a medal around my neck. I grabbed an alcohol-free beer, soaked in the moment, took of my drenched t-shirt and found a quiet spot to recover on my back.

A few months ago, I joined a local running club called Sole Clinic. I don’t know many people yet, but that didn’t matter. They welcomed me into the group photo like one of their own. We sat on the grass, stretched, shared stories, and talked life over post-race beers.

What I felt wasn’t just exhaustion or pride, it was belonging. The quiet joy of a day well spent.