Part 2 ended with a kiss on my mam’s cheek and a promise: get through this next section and you’re there. It’s 1.15am — 66 miles done, 34 to go — and I’ve been moving for 19 hours. Ahead rise the Black Mountains: steep, exposed, and stitched with sneaky turns that vanish at the edge of a headtorch. This is the section that breaks people. It could break me. But I’m still moving. At Penwyllt Car Park I fell in with two runners who had finished this race twice before; we agreed to stick together through the Black Mountains and stepped off at 1.15am.
We left Penwyllt Car Park at 1.15am together — me and two runners who’d already finished this race twice — and worked through the first three miles as we approached the climb. This was fine, and I appreciated their navigation — there were some sneaky turns that were especially hard to notice in the dark. As we reached the bottom of the climb I took the lead, stomping my way up. Head down and go. I know I’m better at going up than down, so I tried to make as much progress here as possible.
After a mile or so of non-stop uphill, I turned around and their headlights were — or at least looked — miles away in the distance. I realised I was alone, climbing the mountain at 2 a.m. in the pitch black. An eerie, lonely feeling washed over me, and yet there was serenity too. I powered on; heart pounding, legs and lungs screaming. It was like they said: I’d think I was up, then the trail would head down again, then back up for what felt like forever.
As I reached the top I was filled with dread for the descent. For the first time I felt like I was done. 130 km in and I was feeling sorry for myself. I started making up excuses to quit: I’ll make it to the next checkpoint and call it a day. My knee and ankle are swollen and no one will care. I kept telling myself this as I hobbled down to the penultimate checkpoint.
But a strange thing happened as I got closer. Another voice came back at me: Are you really going to give up this close? Let everyone down? No. By the time I reached the checkpoint I’d won the battle again. I was tired, sore, slightly delirious — but I knew I had this in the bag. I sat down, gave myself 15 minutes, ate some cheese on toast and a chocolate bar, calmed down, and got ready to go. I’d beaten my mind at this point, and that felt good.
Leaving the checkpoint for the penultimate section, I knew it would be hard and I was incredibly sore, but I also knew I had to get to the final checkpoint. There was no way I was stopping there. I powered on, joined by a fellow runner, and we shared the entire section together — chatting and adventuring, exhausted but weirdly happy. It ended up being comfortable, if slow, and the night gave way to a beautiful morning through the mountains, light cracking the valleys and waking my spirit.
Crew note — from Mam
Watching your 21-year-old run 100 miles across the Beacons is equal parts pride and fear. This is a range where the SAS train, a place that saw over a hundred rescues in 2024. At 1:15 a.m. at Penwyllt, he was hobbling and said he couldn’t go on; every instinct in me wanted to scoop him up and take him home, while another part of me knew I had to back his dream. I told him I’d see him at sunrise — five hours and eleven miles away — and watched him step into the Black Mountains with only a headtorch and two equally mad runners for company. Two hundred and twenty started; only seventy would finish. At first light I spotted him cresting the ridge — I knew it was Edison by the gait, the legs, the knees long before I could see his face — and when he reached us the exhaustion on him was total, and so was the joy.
Suddenly I was rolling into the final checkpoint. It was 7 a.m. I had been running for 25 hours, awake for 28, and I was happy — buzzing, even. I felt so close while still being 25 km away. Usually my Sunday long run, and yet it felt like nothing. I saw my girls, got myself sorted calmly without wasting time, and I was ready. I knew I had this. There was no way I was failing. I wasn’t going to let everyone down. Come on, I kept telling myself. One step at a time — that’s all I need to do.
The last section looked easy on the elevation profile: 25–26 km with ~300 m of climb. Easy, I’d thought before the race. I guess I’d forgotten how destroyed I’d feel physically by then. Mentally, though, I was strong. Navigation was tricky and the rolling hills made progress slow. Running was pretty unbearable, but I stomped as hard as I could.
A runner overtook me and shouted back, “Only a half marathon to go!” I laughed to myself at how ridiculous it is that a half marathon now seems short. I soldiered on, working with other runners who were struggling like me — and we struggled together.
With 10 km to go I was so ready to be done — exhausted and in massive pain.
Crew note — roadside, 10 km to go
We’d been up and on the go since 4 a.m. the day before. We’d crossed goodness‑knows‑how‑many miles over the Beacons, got lost, turned around, been scared, stressed and joyful. We spent the night in the car, wrapped in blankets, snatching sleep. The constant fear and worry for Edison’s safety and headspace was exhausting. Watching him leave checkpoint 10 with 16 miles to go was heartbreaking — he looked broken — and all we wanted was to help him get to the finish. Thankfully Angharad, our chief map‑reader, found a spot where the race route dropped onto a country lane in the middle of nowhere for about a mile, between mountain tracks. We went there. If all we could do was shout, cheer and offer water, that’s what we’d do; anything to give him a boost. Time stopped meaning anything. We watched his dot on the tracker and felt every step with him. Familiar runners came past and we cheered, rang bells, offered every bit of encouragement we had. They were all exhausted and facing the last 10 km (6 miles). I couldn’t sit still any longer and walked up the road until I saw him — jogging/walking with a teammate — looking, if I’m honest, bloody awful.
That’s when my team were there again, waiting by a road. The most amazing surprise: some food, a drink, and a readjustment of my attitude, and I was happy again.
As I came down the last mountain the pain in my knee and ankle was surreal. There were 6 km to go. I was moving like a snail, but I was moving. The final 5 km were flat, and I told myself: run 500 m, walk 500 m. I did that, then ran a full kilometre — and then another.
Suddenly there were only 500 m to go to Llangattock. I’d made it. I saw the sign for the rugby club and told myself to run it in — give it everything. My sister ran through the village with me, a moment I’ll never forget. I crossed the line after 31 hours and 6 minutes. Broken, exhausted, emotional, relieved.
Once again everyone was at the finish. Gratitude filled my heart and pride filled me up. A dream I’ve had for years was realised, and that will never be taken away from me.
It will take a while for the achievement to settle in. We’re often guilty of rushing to what’s next. I’m making a point of crediting myself for what I’ve done, and being grateful for my body, my support network, and my life. Almost two weeks on, I’m still tired physically and mentally. My motivation isn’t back yet — and that’s okay. It’s going to take a while, and when I’m ready to go again I’ll be back better than before. For now I’m going to relax a little. I love testing myself, and it makes me better every single time.
