From mentally quitting in the chair to winning in it.

It’s been a couple of weeks since I crossed the line as last person standing at the Solace Performance Backyard Ultra. Only now has life and work loosened their grip enough to let me sit down and actually write about it. That delay feels fitting, in a strange way, because this recap was never really about winning. It’s about a wall I’d slammed into three times before, finally knocked down on the fourth attempt. And the oddly quiet, almost accidental way the race handed me a win I wasn’t even really chasing.

This was Solace Performances first backyard ultra. Participants were encouraged to set-up on the Friday, the day before. I took up this offer and arrived Friday lunch time and bagged a sort after pitch right behind the starting corral.

Of course, I couldn’t just set up and relax. I’d upgraded my shelter for this race, and the moment it was up, I hated it. So I drove home, grabbed my trustworthy shelter I’ve used all season, and swapped it out. Not the smoothest start to a weekend built on patience, but it taught me something. “Nothing new on race day” apparently extends to support kit too.

Pitch secured and camp built. I headed home again to rest and do a last-minute food shop, the unglamorous bit nobody puts in the highlight reel, but the bit that quietly decides how your race actually goes.

Race morning ran like clockwork. Registration from 7:30am, briefing at 9:30, a prompt 10am start. I was self-sufficient for this one, no crew, so I spent the morning laying out my food, drink and essentials exactly where I could reach them from my chair. Every second not spent hunting for a gel or a spare pair of socks is a second you get to spend resting instead, and twenty hours into a backyard ultra, that adds up fast.

The start corral and basecamp were well organised, and filling up fast ahead of the briefing. Bib collected, tracker strapped to my wrist, and I was ready for yard one.

Anyone who’s asked me about this format before has probably heard my golden rule. Never go in with a target. This time, I broke my own rule, for good reason. Three times recently I’d reached the 25-yard mark of a backyard ultra and stopped, or quit, if I’m honest with myself. Physically I’d been fine the next day, every time, more than fine, which told me my legs weren’t the problem. It was a mental block, a barrier in my head at yard 25, and I kept looking for a way out. This time I knew it was coming, and I wasn’t going to listen.

My motto for the race was blunt. “25 Yards! Don’t be shit.” Not poetry, but it did the job, a reminder that 25 yards was just a number, and I could get past it with the right attitude. The full Don’t Be Shit strategy included. Start every yard, break it into phases, stay consistent out on the course, keep my heart rate under 140bpm, smile and actually enjoy it, and if I got back to camp with time to spare, eat, drink, and get back on the start line. Whatever happens, don’t quit in the chair. Simple to write down. Considerably harder to live by at 3am.

On yard one, I resisted the urge to get swept up in start-line adrenaline, I was planning to be out there all weekend, after all. So, I started dead last in the corral, took it easier than easy felt, and walked a good chunk of it to get familiar with the turns, test my footing, and start building my mini phases for later. I wanted to be the grey man. Unnoticed, unbothered, blending into the background.

Happy with how the first yard went, even if it came in a touch quicker than planned, I started catching up with mates and chatting to runners I’d never met. It’s funny how many different strategies people bring to something so simple, start on the hour, finish within the hour, repeat, but it’s the repetition and the boredom that breaks most people, long before their body actually gives up.

Mentally, I chop my yards into chunks, and for this race I went with fives. With 25 yards as my real target, that gave me five smaller races instead of one impossible one. After each chunk of five, I’d change socks, swap shoes and change clothes, then eat something substantial. Pizza, or a pie, the kind of food that would look deeply unglamorous in anyone else’s race report. After every single yard, I’d eat a little and drink, and I started carrying a flexi-flask loaded with electrolytes and a few carbs out onto the course itself. It worked so well I’ve already decided it’s my blueprint for every race from here on.

Out on the yards, my tactic was simple at first. Run the paths, walk the grass. The grass was long and the footing genuinely risky early on, so that wasn’t a hard call. Rain kept threatening all day, and my jacket spent the day going on and off like a bad joke, just to keep me dry enough.

Yard 9 was when the headtorches came out, as the sun dipped below the hedges. I love running through the night, always have, I thrive through the dark hours, so hitting that little milestone felt good, a reminder that somewhere on the other side of 10 or 11 hours of darkness, the sun would come back up and I’d be closing in on 24 hours and 100 miles.

By the time we completed yard 14, it was nearly midnight. Basecamp was still buzzing, supporters up, music still playing, the atmosphere holding strong even as the field quietly thinning out. 111 runners had started this race. By midnight, only 43 were left. More than half the field was already done, and my real race hadn’t even started yet.

Yard 15 marked the 100km point, and it claimed another 21 runners happy to call it there, 22 of us left. Yard 16 took six more, down to 16. Then, somewhere around yard 20, the sun finally came up on a new day, and only seven of us remained.

All seven of us looked strong, properly strong, and we proved it by sticking together all the way to the start of yard 24, the 100-mile mark. We congratulated each other and set off into it together, the sun properly up now, the warmth returning, and the crowd getting louder with every yard as nearby events stopped what they were doing to cheer us home.

We all completed yard 24. Then, somewhat to my surprise, all seven of us lined back up for yard 25. Normally the 24-hour mark is where people draw the line, happy with 100 miles, they call it a day. Not this lot.

This was my yard. The one I actually had to get through. All seven of us lined up, and all seven of us completed it. Somewhere out on that loop, I felt something shift, a quiet confidence that the 25-yard wall had only ever been in my head, never in my legs.

Three runners ended their race after yard 25, which left four of us to fight it out: Cal, Conner, Rob, and me. All four of us were deep into new personal-best territory for the format. Phenomenal running, all round.

I set off on yard 26 with something I hadn’t expected. Renewed energy. The tiredness that comes from zero sleep seemed to just switch off, and I bounced round that yard with an actual smile on my face, because I was now standing in new personal-best territory for the backyard ultra format, with my head torch charging in the tent and no urge whatsoever to stop.

Yard 27 came and went with no one dropping, though it was noticeably, eerily quiet out there, four of us strung out across the field, each running our own private race. Rob decided yard 27 was his limit, rang the bell, and we gave him the send-off he’d earned. Down to three. Cal, Conner and me. A quick handshake on the whistle, and we were off for yard 28.

Moving alone out on the course, I started wondering just how far I could actually take this. I’d already smashed through my real target, the mental wall at 25, and 27 hours in, I still felt fresh, heart rate low, legs still moving. I set my sights on yard 30, the 200km mark, as the next thing to chase.

I should mention. This edition of the Solace BYU had a yard cap of 40 yards, decided by a straight shoot-out, first one back from the final yard wins. So, my new goal became simple. Get to 40, throw in a fast yard at the end if I could, and see what happened. If I won, I won. But by this point I’d already done what I came to do, so anything past 25 was pure bonus.

Yard 28 came and went quickly, rinse and repeat, three whistles, two whistles, one, into the corral, and off again for yard 29 on the bell. This one felt good. I bounced round the course alone the whole way. Cal was a couple of minutes ahead and I watched him turn for the finish; on my way back, I passed Conner and gave him some encouragement to keep pushing.

Yard 29 turned out to be my fastest of the entire race. 42 minutes, which still sounds crazy to me even now. I was speeding up, 29 hours in, buzzing about the idea of actually reaching 40 yards in the middle of the night.

Something felt different as I crossed the line for yard 29. Normally the whole camp cheers every finisher home with shouts to go one more. This time, it was just my partner and my sister-in-law clapping. It felt strange, off, somehow. I clocked Cal and his team deep in conversation with the race director as I jogged past, but I didn’t think much of it. I headed to my tent to eat and get ready for yard 30.

I’d just sat down in my chair when one of the race directors came in to tell me they’d made the tough call to disqualify Cal. His crew had run a section of the course alongside him, which counts as pacing and outside assistance, against the rules, however innocently it happened.

Cal came to tell me himself, and all I felt was gutted for him. He’d looked so strong out there, and I’d genuinely thought the two of us could push each other all the way to 40. It wasn’t malicious on his part, this was his first backyard ultra, and twenty-nine hours in, your judgement isn’t exactly sharp. If he’d fully known the rule, he’d have told his crew to stay well clear and he’d have been fine. But that’s the rule. Nobody’s allowed on the course with you, however good the intentions.

That left two of us: Conner and me. While I was getting ready for yard 30, I heard applause rolling in from the finish line. Conner, coming in from the yard. I looked at my watch and did some quick mental maths and worked out that since I’d passed him, he’d completed the field loop (what I call phase three of my yard) in five minutes flat, against my eleven. For a second I couldn’t tell if he’d found another gear and was pushing on with me, or if he’d decided that was enough and turned back for the finish for good.

I put my shoes back on, filled my bottle, pulled my cap on. Then people started drifting into my tent to congratulate me. I had no idea what was going on at first, so I started making my way toward the corral anyway. That’s when Brad, the race director, found me and told me straight. I’d won.

Cal had been disqualified after yard 29, which meant his result stood at 28 completed yards. Conner had decided he was done and come back to the finish without completing yard 29, so his result was also 28. I’d completed yard 29, one more yard than either of them, which meant I didn’t even need to go back out for a victory lap. I was last person standing, and I hadn’t even realised it yet.

Happy? Completely. This was my second win of the season, and funnily enough, winning was never really the target going in. Gutted? A little, yes. I wanted to find out where my next wall actually was, whether that was 30 yards, 40 yards or even something further out. I had plenty left in the tank, so I still don’t know how far I can go. That’s probably a good problem to have.

Looking back on it, what gets me most isn’t the win itself, it’s the shape of the thing. Going from quitting in the chair three times to winning in the chair, almost by accident, in the space of one race. Not exactly the heroic finish-line sprint I’d have scripted for myself or the way in which I’d liked to have won. But then, 25 yards was never going to be beaten by a sprint. It was always going to be beaten by showing up, chunk by chunk, yard by yard, and trusting the process to take care of the outcome. At the ripe old age of 45, still not knowing where my limits are. I’ll take it, every time.

A big thank you to my Partner and Sister-in-law for coming out to support me for a couple of yards and thank you to mates Josh & Taylor from MOAR who came out to show their support as well.

A final word for Brad and the whole Solace Performance team. Thank you. Running a first-ever backyard ultra is no small thing, and it showed, from the Friday pitch-up through to an atmosphere that was still going strong at midnight. The basecamp, the course, the way a tough call like Cal’s was handled fairly and openly, it all felt properly thought through for a debut event.

If you fancy testing your own wall, wherever yours happens to be, get the next Solace BYU in your calendar. Maybe I’ll be back to defend my title…