Introduction/Motivation: I’ve volunteered as a Physiotherapist on over ten of Beyond the Ultimate’s multi-stage races, but the Highland Ultra in Knoydart has always held something more. It was the first race I supported back in 2021, and I returned for several years after that. Last year, I missed it for the first time, and that absence made me realise just how much the place, and the event, had come to mean to me.

So this year, I signed up as a runner. At first, it was curiosity that drove me, the desire to experience the event from the other side. But in the weeks leading up to the race, life shifted. I lost two remarkable people, including my much-loved grandfather. And suddenly, the challenge took on new meaning. What began as a personal and professional goal became something more emotional and layered, an attempt to honor, to process, and to reconnect. The experience wasn’t what I expected. It was harder. Quieter. More confronting. But ultimately, it gave me more than I could have asked for. And it’s changed the way I show up, in my work, and in myself.

**Day One:** **The heavy pack.**

When I arrived in Knoydart, everything looked the same, the rugged coastline, the familiar basecamp, the buzz of nervous runners. But this time, I was the one with the race number. The one with the pack. It all felt strangely intimate, like stepping into a story I thought I knew, only to realise I’d never truly lived it. That night, everything felt heightened. Kit checks and briefings blurred by. Beneath it all, I could feel something tightening. My pack felt heavy, physically, yes, but also emotionally. A strange indigestion crept in, deep in my belly and into my back. Not painful, just... off. I couldn’t shake it. As night fell and I crawled into my tent, the unease grew. I didn’t sleep. Not even a little. I lay there in the dark, surrounded by the quiet breathing and occasional snores of other runners, wondering how they all seemed so calm. A panic attack flickered at the edges. I recognised it for what it was and felt a wave of frustration with myself. I didn’t feel nervous, not consciously. I was excited to be there. But my body had other ideas. It felt like a tug-of-war between versions of myself, one calm and grounded, the other tangled and wired. I kept it hidden, just, but by morning I already felt drained. Distant. Not quite myself.

Race day: Noisy Silance.

The first 20km were more of a challenge than I’d expected. It was a hot day, unusually so for the Highlands, and although I passed a few people early on, once the pack began to spread out, I found myself completely alone. No one ahead, no one behind. It quickly started to feel like I was at the very back. My plan had been to run as much of this early section as possible, I knew it was the ‘most runnable’ part of the whole race. But the bogs were energy-sapping, and the solitude gave space for intrusive thoughts to creep in: You’re already struggling. You’ve still got over 100km to go. Adding to the weight of it all was the fact I’d started the race on two nights of little to no sleep. By the time I reached the first checkpoint, nearly 20km in, my energy was already wavering. Not because I wasn’t fit enough, but because the mental load was really testing me. I was moving well, but thinking too hard. Doubting. Comparing. That’s often the part people don’t train for, the mental side of fatigue.

Day One (continued): The Ego, the Knee, and the Lessons

I left the first checkpoint thinking I’d reset mentally, but the dynamic on the trail had shifted. I kept catching up to other runners, only to see them pull ahead again. Each time I lost ground, the frustration grew. I hadn’t come here to compete, but I couldn’t shake the feeling I was falling behind. I pushed harder than I’d planned. Rationally, I knew better, I’ve said the words “run your own race” countless times to others. But something else had crept in: an urgency not to be last, not to feel left out. The funny thing was, I wasn’t even near the back, but feeling isolated made it seem that way. Sometimes, our minds create stories that don’t match reality. It wasn’t about performance. It was about perception.

As a physio, this moment stayed with me, not just personally, but professionally. I’m currently looking into how training characteristics like volume, rest, progression, and cadence relate to injury risk in ultramarathon runners. But being out there reminded me how much our decisions on race day aren’t just based on metrics or pain thresholds. Sometimes, they’re emotional. And that emotional layer can shape physical outcomes in ways we cant yet fully quantify.

Just before checkpoint two (around 40km in), my right knee began to hurt, it was quite an acute pain but only on the downhills, the very terrain I usually enjoy. It caught me completely off guard. In training, I’d never had knee issues; in fact, I’d felt quietly smug about how well I handled descents. But now, only partway through day one, it was clear this pain wasn’t a passing niggle. I wasn’t sure if it was from a fall earlier in the race, running slightly faster than usual, or simply the unfamiliar terrain. The Scottish bogs were nothing like the trails I trained on in North Wales. I was falling more often, working harder to stabilise, and unknowingly placing more load through my lower limbs. All of it may have contributed.

Then came another mental spiral: Had I done the wrong training? Had I underestimated the terrain? Was all that preparation for nothing?

I knew that if I didn’t manage the pain carefully, I risked not finishing. And suddenly, I realised I wouldn’t be running this race the way I’d envisioned. My days were going to be much longer. My plans had to change. The race had just started asking something different of me.

From a rehab perspective, these moments matter. We often focus so much on structured programs, but adaptability, the ability to reassess, recalibrate, and stay mentally engaged when plans fall apart seems to be a crucial success factor. It wasn’t a catastrophic injury, but it shifted everything. And that shift brought a wave of frustration I had to work hard not to carry with me.

Checkpoint Two: Shared Strides
By the time I reached the second checkpoint, I was in a pretty grim mood. Around me, runners were chatting, laughing, refueling, but I just couldn’t bring myself to join in. I was fed up with my own company, but at the same time, I didn’t want to risk passing on my bad energy to anyone else. So, I quickly refilled my bottles and cracked on, thinking the sooner I got to camp, the sooner I could recover. Spoiler: that plan didn’t work.

Alongside the frustration with my knee, I was also carrying a simmering anger. It wasn’t just about the race, it was tied to grief I’d been holding onto. Before the race, I thought that anger might fuel me. But I quickly realised my brain doesn’t thrive on anger. Instead of pushing me forward, it made me tense and distracted, less able to focus on what really mattered. It’s funny how sometimes we try to use our hardest emotions as tools, only to find that what really moves us forward is something gentler - celebrating small wins, connecting with others, and embracing the moment.

Not long after, a fellow medic and friend Sam caught up with me. He’d had his own tough day and suggested we stick together for the final stretch. His company was a relief and I actually felt more settled with him there. We didn’t need to say much, but I realised how much I’d been craving connection.

As a physio, I’ve always known the power of shared exercise, that’s why I love group classes way more than a standard gym environment. Since finishing the race, I’ve even started attending a running club. Somehow, though, I hadn’t really thought about an ultra-marathon that way. That last 10km showed me it’s exactly the same. Having someone to share the experience with, even just quietly beside you, makes the tough moments easier. It’s not about pushing harder or faster, it’s about not carrying the load alone. We took our time, shared snacks, swapped stories, and crossed the line together. Not with triumph, but with something better - solidarity.

Day Two: Resetting Expectations
I woke up the next morning feeling like I hadn’t slept at all – the usual busy brain stuff. My body was a bit sore, but it was the mental exhaustion that weighed heavier. The course ahead was the toughest of the three days, with bigger climbs, more exposed terrain, and a long, technical descent I knew my knee wouldn’t enjoy. I wasn’t here to perform. My only goal had ever been to complete the race, stay present, and experience what it felt like to be on the other side of the medic tent. But still, I’d imagined it looking a little different to this. Thankfully, the knee pain wasn’t there first thing in the morning, a small reassurance that this probably wasn’t something serious. Still, I had to think carefully: Was this discomfort something I could manage sensibly, or was I risking turning it into something more significant? Would pushing through put my ability to do what I enjoy after the race at risk? And if so, was that worth it? These are the same questions I guide my clients through all the time, and now I was answering them for myself. I’ve seen runners push through pain, and I often wonder where determination ends and stubborn foolishness begins, risking injuries that could take months or longer to heal.

I took some paracetamol over breakfast and made a deal with my body: I’d pay attention. Pain isn’t always a stop sign, but it is a message, and I was listening. I’d arranged to walk the first stretch with someone else who was adjusting their own plan. We started out together, slow and steady, but the first big climb came quickly, and so did the pain. Before long, we’d separated. No fall-out. Just different paces, different needs. And that landed harder than I expected. I wasn’t injured in the classic sense. But the reality hit me: I was going to spend the next 10 hours mostly alone. I hadn’t expected company the whole way, but I hadn’t quite reckoned with the emotional toll of being left with my own thoughts or left behind, even when that wasn’t the intention.

Day Two (continued): Moving Through the Middle

The day unfolded slowly. I moved steadily but cautiously, especially on the descents. My knee held up, uncomfortable but not worsening, which was a relief. Eventually, I found a steady rhythm alongside a couple of other runners, more walkers by this point, who matched my pace. We moved together comfortably, sometimes chatting, sometimes silent. The conversation helped lift morale and gave the day shape, breaking up the monotony. But the silence was just as valuable, giving me space to think, process, and simply be, without the constant hum of race logistics: Where am I on the course? Am I on track? Did I miss a flag?

Later in the day, I teamed up with Rachel, a runner who had become a good friend by that point. We spent the majority of the day together, both managing pain, hers more constant and intense than mine. We’d both been taking paracetamol earlier, but our stomachs had had enough. The combination of electrolytes, sugary snacks, and painkillers had turned into a recipe for nausea. So, we made the call: no more paracetamol. It wasn’t an easy decision, the pain was hard to ignore but fuelling properly was more important if we wanted to finish the day safely.

That shared movement, whether spoken or unspoken, made the miles easier. But as the day wore on, around 40km in, staying mentally sharp became harder. I was eating and drinking regularly, but everything felt dulled. My footing slowed, and I began second-guessing instincts I’d normally trust. At one point, I offered to lead and quickly missed a course marker. Thankfully, Rachel caught it. It wasn’t dramatic, but it hit home how this kind of fatigue can lead to small mistakes, ones that might have gone unnoticed if I’d been alone. In that moment, having her nearby didn’t just lift morale, it added a layer of safety.

By the time we got back to camp, we were so tired it was hard to take in the applause as we crossed the line. It’s hard to explain - genuinely appreciated, but we had no social capacity left. I worried we might seem rude by not sticking around, but I’ve realised most people understand. At that point, it’s less about celebration and more about recovery.

Back at Camp: Beyond the Ultimate - What Comes After

The relief of arriving at camp was sadly short lived. Yes, I’d stopped moving, but in many ways, the real work was just beginning. There was still so much to navigate: rehydrating, forcing down dehydrated food, cleaning kit, tending to feet, repacking bags, checking the route for tomorrow, swatting away midges. Even washing came with its own challenge, the stream was shallow and full of leeches. A necessary reset, but not exactly relaxing.

Camp life sounds simple: eat, wash, rest. But when you’re completely depleted, everything fragments. I kept starting tasks and forgetting what I was doing halfway through. My brain felt scrambled. The sun was still out, people were sharing stories and enjoying the warm evening, but I felt detached, not quite part of it. Even basic questions like “How was your day?” felt difficult to answer. I didn’t want to lie, but I also didn’t want to puncture anyone else’s bubble of positivity. Every time I admitted I hadn’t enjoyed it, that I’d found it brutal, I saw a flicker of surprise, like I was offering the wrong response. That sense of disconnect stuck with me.

As a physio, I’m used to thinking about recovery in physical terms like mobility, fuelling, rest. But this reminded me that recovery is more layered. Sometimes the hardest part isn’t the pain or the fatigue, it’s regulating your emotions when you’re completely spent. That’s something I’ll carry into future events, especially in a clinical role. I’ll try to hold more space for this part - the emotional fallout, the processing and mental load that comes after the physical one. Not just “How’s your body?” but “How was that for you?”

Sometimes the most important parts don’t happen on the course. People don’t sign up for these things just to feel good - they come for the reckoning, the reset. And when I’m supporting them, I want to meet them there. No gloss. No forced positivity. Just honesty, and the space to unpack it.

That night, I stayed up waiting for the final runners to come in. I was exhausted and desperate to climb into my sleeping bag and be horizontal but one of them was my buddy Sam who I’d left behind earlier in the day. I wasn’t sure if I was waiting to support him, or to ease my own guilt. Maybe both. I just knew I didn’t want him to arrive to silence.

We tend to think of the finish line as the end of the day. But really, it’s just a change of pace. What comes beyond that, the processing, the resetting, the human side of recovery is its own kind of endurance.

Day Three: The Long Walk Home.

On the final morning, there was a noticeable shift. My body was still sore, but the relief was immense. Just 24km left. That felt doable, even if we walked the whole way. There had never been any pressure around pace or time, and by now, the expectations I’d carried at the start had mostly fallen away too. The slightly later start gave us a little breathing room. I set off with others, and for the first time, everything felt more relaxed. No urgency, no tension. Just an understanding that we’d get there however we needed to. We moved slowly, talking, pausing often. And for the first time, I felt present. I had space to notice the landscape again, the mossy hillsides, the sea breeze, the light shifting on the loch. I laughed. I asked questions. I listened. It felt less like an ultramarathon and more like a long walk with friends.

Somewhere on the descent, we passed a group of hikers. They cheered us on, which was kind, if a bit surreal. We didn’t feel like people worth cheering for. One woman caught my eye, and I instantly recognised her face, though I couldn’t place it. Before I had time to think, I blurted out, “I know you!” She looked surprised. “Are you a physio?” I asked. “I used to be,” she said. “Inverness?” Her face lit up. “Yes!” It was Katie, my placement mentor from 15 years ago. She used to pick me up every morning during my student placement, and we’d drive out in her 4x4 to see children in remote Highland communities. She was the first physio I really looked up to: outdoorsy, active, relaxed, compassionate. Someone who made me feel like there was a place for me in the profession. I hadn’t thought of her in years, but in that moment, it all came rushing back. She asked what I was doing now, and I told her I’d followed a similar path, starting with rotations in London, then moving North in search of more space and a life closer to the outdoors. Now I was about to start something new: launching my own Physiotherapy business down in Poole.

She smiled warmly. It felt like a full-circle moment, standing on the hillside, both at different stages of our lives, weathered by the highland elements, speaking to someone who had shaped the earliest steps in my career and sharing where the path had taken us. As we continued down the trail, I walked quietly, letting the moment settle. That brief encounter was grounding and offered something I hadn’t known I needed: perspective. Not just on the past three days, but on the fifteen years that had led me here. It helped me step back, soften, be a little kinder to myself, and appreciate the bigger picture.

Left to right: Christie, Becky and Rachel

The final few kilometres eased us gently toward the finish. Even with my knee, I didn’t mind. Crossing the line wasn’t dramatic. No flood of emotion. No elation. Just relief, a few hugs, and simple acknowledgements. We told each other we were proud. And I meant it, I really was proud of them. I didn’t quite feel it for myself yet. But I trusted it might come later.

That evening, people gradually reappeared in the communal space. Tired bodies draped in warm layers, the buzz of conversation slowly rebuilding. We were served proper hot food, real meals that felt amazing after long hours on our feet. I’d brought a bottle of Scottish whisky, saved especially for this moment. I cracked it open and poured a few drams. A nod to the effort, the connection, the grit. A gentle cheers to our accomplishment. For me, a cheers to my good old papa who’d been on my mind every step of the way.

Later that night, we gathered at the pub. Beers flowing, traditional music, even knitting! (you’ve got to be there). Stories began to surface. I didn’t feel ready to talk much, but the atmosphere helped. I remember telling Kris (the race director, and someone who has become a great friend) how hard I’d found it, not the distance, but the emotional side. He just nodded and said, “Yeah, but you still did it.” That landed more deeply than I expected.

Reflections:

What Endurance Really Means

When I signed up for the Highland Ultra, I told myself it was about curiosity. About stepping into the shoes of the people I usually support. About seeing the race from the inside - not as a medic this time, but as a participant. And that was all true. But I hadn’t anticipated how deeply it would challenge my sense of self, physically and emotionally.

I didn’t arrive at the finish line overwhelmed with pride. I didn’t feel triumphant. I felt raw, disoriented, and still in the middle of something I hadn’t quite processed. It wasn’t the storybook arc of struggle to elation. It was something murkier. More human.

Maybe that’s what endurance really is. Not performance. Not personal bests. But the capacity to keep going when things don’t feel good. To move forward when your plan falls apart. To stay engaged even when the version of yourself you’d hoped would show up… doesn’t.

Familiar Struggles, New Perspective

As a physiotherapist, I talk often about recovery, adaptability, and building resilience. But this race reminded me that resilience doesn’t always look like pushing through. Sometimes it’s about softening. Listening. Letting go. Making space for who’s really there and not punishing that person for falling short of who you thought they’d be.

What surprised me most was how many of the struggles I faced mirrored what I hear every day in clinic: the tension between expectations and reality, the guilt of slowing down, the fear of falling behind, the craving for connection while needing space. These aren’t just race-day emotions. They show up in recovery, in rehab, in everyday life. And understanding them from the inside has shifted how I think about support and how I offer it.

I’ll carry this experience forward not just as a personal story, but as part of how I view my work. When I support clients in pain, navigating setbacks, or stuck in that messy middle space where progress feels impossible, I’ll remember what it felt like to be there myself. Uncertain. Imperfect. And still moving.

Panic, Presence, and Perspective

I’d told myself I was ready for this race, but the truth was, I was carrying a lot under the surface. And it showed up in unexpected ways: the panic attacks the night before the race, the rising wave of fear that doesn’t listen to reason. It caught me off guard, not because I’m unfamiliar with panic, but because I hadn’t expected it here. I was excited. I’d trained. I was ready. And still, my body had other plans.

Strangely, once the race began, the panic never returned. It’s only now, with hindsight, that I understand why. Panic lives in anticipation, in the pressure to perform, in the imagined version of what something is ‘supposed’ to be. But once moving, there isn’t as much space for that. Just terrain. Just presence. Just the next step. That grounded me when nothing else did. I didn’t feel calm. But I wasn’t afraid anymore.

Now I know: the fear of how something might feel is often worse than the thing itself. And sometimes, the best way to meet it isn’t to fight - it’s to move through.

“Would You Do It Again?”

In the weeks after the Highland Ultra, people kept asking, “Would you do it again?” My answer was immediate, almost defensive: “Absolutely not. It was awful.” I couldn’t imagine choosing to go through it again. I didn’t feel proud. I didn’t feel like myself. I hadn’t shown up the way I wanted to, physically or emotionally.

But then someone said something that stayed with me:
“If you could do that, feeling the way you did… imagine what you could do when you’re feeling good.”

If I could complete an ultramarathon while carrying grief, anger, exhaustion, doubt, and pain. If I could still choose to connect, to keep going, to show up - then maybe strength wasn’t in how I ran, but in the fact that I didn’t turn away from any of it.

I’ve learned that growth doesn’t come from being heroic. It comes from being honest with yourself, with others, and with the reality of what it takes to keep going. And I think that’s what Kris meant when he said,
“Yeah, but you still did it.”

Beyond the Finish Line

Maybe that’s what these events really offer - not just the chance to test what your body can do, but the opportunity to find out who you are when things fall apart… and who you might become, step by step, if you keep going anyway.

The pride came slowly. The clarity is still arriving.
But the honesty? That’s what I’ll take with me.
And so, the seed has been sown.

From the medic tent to the start line: A Physiotherapists personal reflection on running the highland ultra and re-discovering endurance and resilience in motion.