Thankfully, I’ve got Strava breadcrumbs, other runners’ race reports and a few blurry photos to jog my memory (pun intended). So, grab a cuppa, settle into your comfiest chair, and join me as I attempt to piece together this epic tale of endurance, elevation and occasional existential crisis.

For about a year, I’d been quietly following local running legend Matthew Dalton. The man is a machine. I was lucky enough to run with him a few times, and he’s the kind of guy who encourages you to do things that sound like a good idea at the time…until you’re knee-deep in mud, 40 miles from civilisation, questioning your life choices. Under his gentle nudging, or peer pressure, I signed up for a 100K, then three different 100-milers. Naturally, the next step was obvious: a 200-mile race.

When I saw Matthew had entered the 2024 Wild Horse 200, I became a dot-watching addict. I followed his progress like it was a Netflix drama. And somewhere between cheering him on and losing sleep over his GPS signal, I started to believe I could do it too.

So, in October 2024, I took the plunge and bought my ticket to the pain cave. I scoured the internet for a 200-mile training plan, found one that didn’t look like it was written by a cyborg and stuck it on the fridge.

Winter training on Dartmoor, with its moody skies, boggy trails and surprise sheep, turned out to be the perfect prep for the Wild Horse 200. It had the climbs, the weather and the soul-searching solitude. All I needed now was a bit of courage, a lot of snacks and a very forgiving family.

START to CP1 – Too Fast, Too Furious

Ah, the start line: where dreams are born, common sense dies, and pacing plans go to be ignored. Fuelled by nerves, excitement and the magnetic pull of fellow runners, I blasted off like a caffeinated greyhound. Somewhere in the first 32 miles, I accidentally set PRs for 30K, marathon and 50K. Oops.

But hey, I was in a race! If I was going to blow up, I’d do it in style. Shoutout to Henry S, Stuart Q, and Brogan M for the early miles and good vibes.

CP1 to CP2 – Into the Black Mountains (and Slightly More Sensible Decisions)

Post-CP1, I had a stern word with myself and dialled it back, helped along by the steep climbs and the sun turning up the heat. The Black Mountains were stunning, brutal and humbling. I ran solo for most of this stretch, arriving at CP2 after 11.5 hours of glorious Type 2 fun.

CP2 to CP3 – Wind in My Anorak

This is where I met Lizzie G—part mountain goat, part motivational podcast. She could run, chat and somehow summon her voice on the wind before overtaking me. The undulating ridgelines were pure joy, like being a kid again, arms outstretched, pretending to fly. Magic.

CP3 to CP4 – Starry Skies and No Sleep

CP3 had a sleep station, but I scoffed at it. I pressed on through a peaceful, star-studded night. No hallucinations yet, just four hours of quiet plodding and cosmic wonder.

CP4 to CP5 – The Happy Bus Rolls In

2 a.m. and 100 miles in. Halfway! I was tired, a bit lonely, and then—bam! Enter Rory, a sleep-deprived legend who sparked back to life mid-chat and ran like Jim Walmsley. We picked up Jodie, who was deep in the “Death March” phase, and formed a merry band of misfits rolling down to Talybont Reservoir.

The canal stretch? Mentally draining. But CP5 had beds, and I finally slept. Rory went on to finish 5th. Hero.

CP5 to CP6 – Solitude and Streams

Another long one—25 miles mostly solo. I was in good spirits, navigating well, and dunking my hat in every stream like it was a spa day. The climb after Storey Arms was a beast, but I kept moving. Slowly. Steadily. Sweatily.

CP6 to CP7 – Hallucinations, Headlamps and Heroic Help

Night two. Things got weird. The terrain was gnarly, I was exhausted, and then—hallucinations. My headtorch dimmed, my watch died and I was fumbling with a GPS the size of a brick.

Enter Henry D and his pacer, literal beacons of light. I clung to them like a lost puppy, bladder bursting, for 30 uncomfortable minutes. CP7 had real beds. I snored.

CP7 to CP8 – Cruel Climbs and a Welsh Breakfast

The climb out of CP7 was rude. But the descent was kind, and I was over 75% done. I ran when I could, shuffled when I couldn’t and made it to the next sleep station where angels disguised as volunteers served me a full Welsh breakfast. Two hours of blissful sleep followed. Heaven.

CP8 to CP9 – Lamb Tales and Flying Friends

Refreshed, I trotted on. A local chap offered me water and regaled me with a tale of camping, Pot Noodles, and...lamb murder. As you do.

Brogan zoomed past me like a rocket—she’d go on to finish 10th. Lizzie, ever the metronome, maintained her lead over me and finished 16th. Legends, both.

CP9 to Finish – Guardians of the Galaxy and the Final Push

CP9 was a solo spa experience. Volunteers pampered me, I napped in a PE cupboard and then—rain. For the first time, the waterproofs came out.

Fuelled by Pot Noodle curry, I cranked up my Guardians of the Galaxy playlist and ran like I was chasing a PB. Until I hit sand. Sand is evil.

But the finish line was near. I saw the sub-70-hour time within reach, hit the gas and crossed the line in 69 hours and 40 minutes, and in 17th position!

Waiting for me? Paula and Wilson—my biggest cheerleaders, who changed all their plans because I’d exceeded even my own wildest expectations.

What’s Next? (Besides a Long Nap)

So, what’s next for a 53-year-old bloke with a once-broken ankle, a fridge-based training plan, no coach, no crew and no pacers? Apparently,more of the same!

If this race taught me anything, it’s that you don’t need a fancy setup to do something extraordinary. You just need commitment, consistency, and a slightly questionable sense of what counts as a good idea. Will I change anything for my next race? Probably not. If it isn’t broken, don’t fix it.

I feel incredibly lucky to be able to do what I do. I hope my journey inspires the students and staff at South Dartmoor Community College to chase something they love—whether it’s running, painting, coding, or competitive cheese rolling—and to stick with it long enough to see themselves improve.

I didn’t see anyone who looked like me at the Wild Horse 200, and that matters. Representation matters. I hope some of my fellow BTR (Black Trail Runners) crew will be inspired to show up, take up space and show the world that our communities belong on these trails too.

Next up? The Jurassic Extinction 100 along the South West Coast Path, 21–22 June 2025. Because apparently, I’ve decided that running along cliffs for 100 miles is a good way to spend a weekend.

Final Thoughts

This race was a rollercoaster of highs, lows, laughs and hallucinations. I ran too fast, talked to the stars, bonded with strangers and found strength I didn’t know I had. Would I do it again? Ask me after a nap!