Embracing the Beautiful Uncertainty of Ultra Running

You know that moment when you catch yourself saying something completely mental and wonder how you got there? Yeah, that happened to me last week when I casually mentioned to someone that I'm planning to run 100 miles next year. One hundred. Miles. On foot. Voluntarily.

The look they gave me was the same one you'd give someone who just announced they're planning to lick a cactus for fun.

Let's rewind a bit. Not too long ago, I was the sort of person who drove to the corner shop because walking seemed like unnecessary effort. Then, through a series of questionable life choices and what I can only assume was temporary insanity, I decided to start running.

The progression was innocent enough: 5K, 10K, half marathon, full marathon. Each one felt impossible until it wasn't. But somewhere along the line, my brain started playing tricks on me. Instead of thinking "26.2 miles is plenty, thanks," it started whispering things like "but what if you went a bit further?"

That whisper is dangerous. That whisper is how you end up signing up for a 50K.

My first 50K was supposed to be a one-off. A bucket list item. Something to tick off and then return to sensible distances like 10Ks where you can still feel your legs afterwards.

Except I finished it. And worse, I enjoyed it.

Then I signed up for another one this year. Because apparently, I'm the sort of person who thinks "I know what would make this better, doing it again but with more confidence and better snacks."

Here's the problem with finishing races: it gives you ideas. Specifically, it gives you the idea that you might be capable of more than you originally thought. This is how next year's plan evolved into two 50-mile races.

Fifty miles is where things get properly weird. It's not just a longer run, it's a different sport entirely. It's where you start carrying more food than some people pack for a weekend trip. It's where your biggest concern isn't whether you'll finish, but whether your stomach will still be speaking to you by mile 30.

The plan is to space these out across the year. The first one will be my education, I'll learn exactly how many different ways a human body can complain when asked to move continuously for 12+ hours. The second will be where I apply those lessons, assuming I haven't developed a healthy fear of very long distances by then.

But here's where the story takes a turn toward complete madness. Because I've finished every race I've entered so far, I've developed what might generously be called "overconfidence" and what my more honest friends call "delusions of adequacy."

The solution? Sign up for something where failure isn't just possible, it's statistically likely.

I entered the Ultra Scotland 100, that's a 100-mile race.

A hundred miles is the distance where even saying the number feels ridiculous. It's roughly the distance from Edinburgh to Glasgow (and then back again), except instead of taking a sensible train, I'm planning to get there using only my legs and an alarming amount of stubbornness.

The best part? I'm giving myself 50/50 odds of actually finishing it.

That 50/50 chance isn't pessimism, it's liberation. For the first time, I'm choosing a challenge where success isn't expected. Where showing up is already an achievement. Where every mile covered is a bonus rather than an obligation.

The completion rates for 100-milers hover around 60-70%, depending on which race you pick and whether the weather gods are feeling merciful. These aren't great odds if you're the sort of person who likes guarantees. But they're perfect if you're the sort of person who's gotten a bit too comfortable with always finishing what they start.

Training for a 100-mile race when your longest run to date is 31 miles is like preparing for a conversation in a language you don't speak. You can study the grammar and memorise some useful phrases, but you won't really know what you're dealing with until you're in the middle of it, desperately trying to communicate with your rebellious digestive system at 3 AM.

The physical training is the obvious bit: more miles, longer runs, figuring out how to eat solid food when you've been moving for 12 hours and your taste buds have gone on strike. But the mental preparation is where it gets interesting, learning to be okay with feeling terrible, to find entertainment in discomfort, and to keep putting one foot in front of the other when every reasonable part of your brain is filing a formal complaint.

People ask why anyone would want to run 100 miles, as if there's supposed to be a sensible answer. There isn't one, which is precisely the point. In a world where most challenges come with instruction manuals and success metrics, there's something wonderfully absurd about deliberately choosing uncertainty.

The 100-mile race isn't about proving anything to anyone. It's about discovering what happens when you venture into territory where your usual coping mechanisms don't work, where success isn't guaranteed, and where failure is not just possible but educational.

So here I am, planning a year that includes two 50-mile races and one 100-mile adventure that may or may not end with me questioning all my life choices. The 50-milers will teach me what I need to know about sustained suffering and advanced snack management. The 100-miler will teach me... well, that remains to be seen.

Will I finish the 100-miler? Maybe. Will I learn something important about persistence, preparation, and the curious mathematics of forward motion? Almost certainly. Will I have a collection of stories that sound completely mental when told at dinner parties? Absolutely.

And in a sport where the greatest victories often come disguised as the most spectacular failures, maybe that's exactly the kind of success worth chasing.

The starting line awaits, along with the delightful uncertainty of having absolutely no idea what I'm getting myself into.

I just wonder what happens if I finish the 100 miles...?