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In life, we often find ourselves undertaking tasks so outlandishly challenging that the absurdity becomes heroic.

Take my solo drive to Italy in an old Fiat Panda with a racing bike last year, or more recently, convincing my friend Josy Hayes to join me in a 111-mile ultramarathon run. This is what friends do, right? They pull you into crazy adventures for a good cause.

You may well have read about this race in Stroud Times in the run-up (get it?) to the event. Basically, Josy and I decided to participate in the Warwickshire Ring Canal Race, with Josy raising funds for St Rose’s in Stroud, a special needs school that has been invaluable to Josy’s daughter, Amalie. Fourteen-year-old Amalie suffered significant brain damage from a severe illness as a baby, and St Rose’s has been the family’s lifeline in ways that most of us can’t even begin to imagine. 

And so, when I asked Josy if she wanted to run 111 miles with me, she thought of using it to raise funds for St Roses and never hesitated. And I tell you what, that was a brave move. Josy’s longest run was a marathon from 20 years previous, and even though she’s so strong in body and mind, the task was huge. Running an ultramarathon is like living life in fast-forward: breaking monumental tasks into manageable pieces, focusing on each step rather than the daunting distance ahead. Our preparation involved meticulous planning of our timings, nutrition, and essentials to carry, extending over nine months of intense training. At our peak, we were logging about 300 miles a month. It was exhausting. I swear, when it comes to ultra running, you need a medal for the training alone. And Josy did all this while caring for her disabled daughter daily, lifting her physically, soothing her emotionally.

Prep done and last-minute injuries taped up, and on June 29th, we stood at Coventry Canal Basin, ready to run what was effectively just over four back-to-back marathons. My God. Our stomachs were in knots, and we kept cracking jokes to cover the fear. Joining us was Josy’s brother James, a seasoned ultrarunner who had flown from his home from Spain despite recently recovering from an illness and nursing a foot injury. The race began at 8 am with 33 hours to cover the 111 miles. Every 26 miles, we had brief checkpoint breaks to refresh, tape our feet, and momentarily feel human.

The race wasn’t just a physical challenge; it was a mental battle, too. The heat was unexpectedly high, but we’d trained for it. By the first checkpoint at 26 miles, one competitor had already tapped out, yet feeling fresh, the three of us pressed on to the second checkpoint 25 miles away, falling into the “ultra shuffle,” a walk-run movement to cover long distances efficiently. Everything was going well, and the laughs flowed until they didn’t. James’s injury flared up, and Josy’s calf began to trouble her.

As the miles stomped by, I found myself leading and pacing us, torn between waiting for my team and risking timing out or pressing on to ensure at least one of us finished. It was getting to 8 pm by now. The clock was ticking. 

Checkpoint two and 49.1 miles came, and James had to drop out due to immense pain. Given his prior illness and injury, his effort was nothing short of heroic. Josy was also struggling in the second stage. The ultra-marathon required military-like focus at checkpoints, something Josy wasn’t used to. I had to keep pushing her, even when it felt harsh, to keep us both in the race. It challenged us. We felt broken and strong all at the same time. It’s the strangest and most empowering experience, to know you can test your limits, to see what you’re made of.

The night running phase added another layer of complexity, especially as a woman running alone on a canal. I ended up buddying up with Tim and Darren, two incredible night runners we met along the way. But things weren’t smooth. At one point, I had to leave Josy behind at a checkpoint to catch up with Tim and Darren so I wouldn’t be timed out of the race and I’d still know where the lads were so we could run with them through the night. This is the kind of thing male runners don’t have to consider. That decision dilemma, for me, was one of the toughest moments. Josy got lost but eventually found her way back, helped by other crew members. Absolute relief! My friend was safe, and we were back on track! And then, things took a bad turn. 

Darren had to pull out, an old broken back injury too painful. Then, guided only by small head torches as the black of the night sunk in along the canalside, I began to experience severe nausea and dizziness for two hours straight while still moving. We were now eight miles from the 4 am checkpoint. Tim suggested we run to make it on time, but my body was shutting down. I had a heart condition, I had to be careful. I was broken, gutted, but I had to call it. I wasn’t safe, and it’s hard to decide that when you’re so close, when you’ve trained so much, come so far. But that’s what we did, we’d come so far, so, so far. 

And so, we stopped, having run 70 miles. While waiting for the event directors to pick us up, we huddled under a single foil blanket in the rain, exhausted and shivering. Laughs, tears. Despite not completing the 111 miles (89 runners began, only 42 finished), the journey was a testament to the incredible support from volunteers, fellow runners, Josy’s family, my daughters, our friends, and our coach, Penny. Our adventure was a profound reminder of the strength derived from community. 

Even though we didn’t finish the race, the effort, preparation, and perseverance were monumental achievements in their own right. And that’s what makes the absurdity heroic, when you decide to do something that, so often, feels impossible. But the impossible really is possible. Especially when it’s for a good cause. 

You can still donate to Josy’s fundraising page for St Roses’s School here: