u/Sharp-Ad-3253

This was full and a week old.

Strava

About 18 months ago I tried to run home for Christmas from London to my parents’ house near Manchester (~300km). I completely underestimated how psychologically difficult it is to move forwards for two nights in a row, got lost in a muddy field near Leicester, and eventually admitted defeat and got picked up by my dad. It was 180kms and around 24hrs of running but ultimately was a failure.

I felt like the limiting factors on the challenge were not insurmountable. I gave up at a very low ebb of motivation but always wondered how far I’d have got with a second wind. So for the next 6 months I analysed all the areas I could improve to provide me with a much higher chance of success. I improved on my kit, my nutrition, the season, the time of departure and the support. I made a go fund me page to raise charity funds, told all my friends and colleagues I would attempt it that weekend to increase my social pressure and set off at 9pm Friday evening after work.

The route was Piccadilly Circus to Manchester Piccadilly. I left after work on Friday evening because I needed to finish in time to get the train home and still function at work on Monday. Another option would have been to take some annual leave and depart at sunrise, this is likely more optimal but I reasoned that smashing through a nighttime in the first 12 hrs would give me a psychological accomplishment early on. From experience I know that the hr before sunrise is by far the hardest so tackling this in the first 10 hrs woukd be better than the 20th hr.

This time I tried to remove as many stupid problems as possible. On the failed attempt I’d basically packed like someone fleeing a natural disaster. My bag weighed a ton, I was carrying multiple cheap headtorches plus spare batteries, and my fuelling strategy was mostly 40 gels and “hopefully there’s a McDonald’s soon to refill water” and when there wasn’t and I had to take a detour to find an open petrol station I took another motivation hit.

This time:
- proper Salomon running pack
- carb drink instead of only water
- one excellent headtorch with a battery that lasted days
- parents crewing me in a campervan every 10–15km (the biggest change)
- my mum preparing a rotation of meals/snacks so I’d keep eating without getting sick of anything

The difference was massive. It still hurt, obviously, but at least the suffering had a bit more structure to it.
My wife ran the first 7km with me despite having a foot injury at the time, which was a very nice way to start. It also made the next stretch unexpectedly grim once she turned back and I carried on alone into the dark. There’s something uniquely lonely about setting off on a huge run at night while normal Friday evening life is happening around you.

The first night actually went pretty smoothly. Then Saturday became one very long continuous day of eating, jogging, refilling bottles, and trying not to think too hard about how far away Manchester still was. This stretch of the route is almost exclusively busy A roads which are visually uninteresting and require a low level of concentration to avoid cars and not stumble on the uneven pavements. Tackling this stretch in the day meant it was heavily busy which I certainly would regret.

At around 200km I hit a weird mental wall. I’d spent ages fantasising about getting under 100km to go, but when it finally happened I did not get the euphoria and motivation I was banking on. I realised that “only 100km left” is still an absurd sentence. It was coming up to night 2 and I’d been running for over 24 hrs now and awake for 36. My legs were tired for sure but it was really my brain begging me for some shut eye that became the biggest stumbling block. By this time I had had a few 10/15 min sleeps during my refuelling breaks. My parents had noticed a decline in progress and were increasingly concerned about permitting me too much rest time. They of course were also sleep deprived by now as well.

By about 3–5am on Sunday morning, somewhere past Leicester (where I’d failed the first attempt), I was barely functioning. I’d been awake for nearly two days and couldn’t keep my eyes open while moving. I kept begging my mum to let me sleep properly instead of taking the 10-minute naps we’d been using.
Eventually they let me sleep for one whole hour in the campervan.

It genuinely felt like rebooting a broken computer. I got up, suddenly felt almost normal again, and ran probably my strongest 20km of the whole weekend. The sun rose and the scenario transitioned from the relentlessly repeatative grey sections of Leicestershire and Northamptonshire to the rolling hills of Derbyshire. I felt like I had entered the gates to northern England, a long long way from central London where my journey began.
.

I asked my parents what they thought I should do to get through the remaining stretch given my diminishing progress
My mum said:
“I have absolutely no idea. I’ve never run 100km.”

This was exact the thing I needed to hear. She was right, it was me who had to run ever step and it was me who knew how it felt to run 100km. I’d done a dozen times already by then. The overall distance was messing with my head more than the actual running itself. You don’t run 100km constantly thinking about how long to go - you take it 5/10 km at a time.

My motivation dragged me through the sunny morning and all the way through Derbyshire and Cheshire to Macclesfield. At that point it finally started to feel not just possible but inevitable.

Macclesfield — my childhood town was the final false summit. I picked up what turned out to be a stress fracture with 25km remaining. I was no longer able to translate surges of motivation into steady footsteps. It was now a series of defiant stubborn limping carrying me forward. I was desperate to finish so I could stop the torture in my legs. I was fully aware with every step I was adding days and weeks to the recovery of whatever injury had infected my shin. At this point I was willing to take the hit.

The final stretched dragged on and on but as the midday gave way to late afternoon I found myself stumbling upon the footsteps outside Manchester Piccadilly. I had finally finished the 300km from London to Manchester (298.9km + 1.1km I added in running around the station)
My parents handed me a bottle of champagne at the station, we took some photos, and then I immediately got on a train home feeling absolutely nothing except relief that I could finally stop moving.

Main takeaway: once you get beyond a certain distance, tiny logistical details matter way more than fitness. Running ultra distances allows time for you to ride many peaks and many troughs. It’s no longer about pure speed or pure fitness - theres a large element of strategy, decision making and grit. One hour of sleep can feel medically transformative.

EDIT: there have been some qs about my elapsed time.
The elapsed time is the same as the ‘moving time’ from Strava. On Garmin these metrics are:

Start time 20:51 Friday
End time 18:08 Sunday

Total time: 45:16
Active time: 32:58
Rest time 12:17 (refuelling in campervan / 2-3hrs actual sleep time)
Moving time 33:39
Elapsed time 45:17

Run time: 28:49
Walk time: 5:13
Idle time 11:13

FKT link: https://fastestknowntime.com/fkt/william-mckim-smith-london-manchester-uk-piccadilly-circus-manchester-piccadilly-2025-07-27

Been rewatching season 1 recently.

What does Mark mean when he says this?

Side note, I hadn’t realised/ remembered season 1 has so many of the most memorable quotes and moments in all of peep show. It has quite a different feel to the later seasons, and Mark and Jez look so young!