2014 was meant to be all about going ultra.

My friends Val, Paul and I had trained all summer. We’d learned how to run through mud without losing a shoe. How to run in the dark, while stargazing. How to navigate like a ninja. Or at least, how to get a little less lost a little less often.

We’d braved big dogs and little dogs. And we’d come to understand just how menacing a cow can be.

Then less than two weeks before the ultra, the event was cancelled.

We were stunned. We couldn’t quite believe it, half wondering if it was a hoax. How could it all have been for nothing?

Then Paul suggested: ‘Fancy doing the route anyway? F*@k ‘em!’

So a plan formed. Val’s partner Phil volunteered to be at the check points for us, with food and water. Our ultra dream was still alive. Just.

The next 10 days were a bit weird. We were tapering for the race that wasn’t, and it was hard to stay motivated. But as the day got closer, excitement began to build again.

The week of the ultra started off with heavy rain. We were keeping fingers crossed that it would be dry for Friday, but there’d be no way to avoid the mud.

By Thursday evening, we were ready. Instructions, maps, plasters, glide, torches and snackables all packed. Then an almighty storm hit. Thunder, lightning, the works. Mud run it was, then.

The ultra that wasn’t

As Friday morning dawned, the rain cleared. There were still some dark, heavy clouds over the hills but the forecast promised a decent day.

We set off from Taunton not long after sunrise, hoping to finish while there was still some daylight left. As Phil drove us to the start in West Bagborough, the tension in the car was palpable. We all felt the same mix of excitement, anticipation and sheer terror.

The route ran in four stages of differing lengths between West Bagborough and the finish at Knowstone, taking us from the Quantock Hills, across the Vale of Taunton, over the Brendans and into Exmoor and North Devon, with check points at Monksilver, Luxborough and Winsford. Although we were doing our own run, we really wanted to make the cutoffs for the original race – roughly three hours to Monksilver, then two hours each to complete the two shortest legs from Monksilver to Luxborough, and Luxborough to Winsford.

A check on the time and a few photos in front of the Rising Sun, the start of the route, and we were off. No fuss. No fanfare.

At the start at West Bagborough – feeling nervous (Photo: Phil Wilson)

We headed downhill on the main road through the village, before turning off onto a footpath that would bring us up on to the West Deane Way.

We were all quite nervy at this point, worried about keeping a good pace but not going off too fast. We each had different strategies for breaking down the scarily big run into more digestible chunks. Paul was looking on it as two 18 milers, because 18 miles was a distance he knew he could comfortably do. Val and I just focused on one leg of the route at a time.

The footpath gave way to lumpy, muddy fields. My dodgy ankle was playing on my mind, so I concentrated on where I was landing my feet to keep it safe.

Despite the dark clouds that were still hanging around, the weather was warm and sticky, and we soon had to peel off our jackets.

The first six miles would take us mostly over fields, with a few country lanes and woodland thrown in. The overnight rain was still lying heavy on the grass, and our shoes were soon soaked through.

The dry summer trails that we’d trained on had turned into churned up mud runs. And each time we entered or left a field, we had to negotiate a stile. I hadn’t really noticed the stiles when we were training, but they seemed to have been breeding since our last run. There were hundreds of them! And the rain and damp had made them treacherously slippy. My foot slid right out from under me on one. After that, I climbed them more gingerly.

And had my legs shrunk or had the stiles grown taller? After struggling to clamber over one particularly high one, I felt my left hamstring pull. Not good.

We ticked off the landmarks as we went. Over the West Somerset Railway line, keeping an ear open for steam trains. Skirting carefully round the foul-smelling bog where Paul had nearly lost his shoe in the summer. Through the church yard in the pretty little Quantocks village of Lydeard St Lawrence.

Stiles. Mud. More stiles. More mud.

At six miles, we reached the B-road that would take us all the way to the first checkpoint at Monksilver. The cross country route had slowed us down and we were hoping to make up a bit of time.

Four miles of running on tarmac felt heavy going after the trails. The road rolled up and down, snaking in tight bends. With no pavement, the passing traffic felt too close for comfort at times. The day was getting hotter, but we picked up speed and arrived at the Notley Arms in Monksilver easily inside the cut off.

No sign of Phil but we guessed he’d been held up and had gone straight on to the next check point. Val persuaded a random delivery guy to take a photo of us outside the pub. Paul left a chalk mark on the road, our pre-arranged signal for Phil in case we reached a check point before he did, and we set off again.

First checkpoint – Monksilver (Photo: random delivery guy)

Straight out of Monksilver we joined the Coleridge Way and hit the Brendans, our first serious bit of hills since the start. After the road, it felt good to get onto forest track, even if it did mean a long uphill slog. The narrow trail widened as we climbed through Bird’s Hill woods, up and up and up. Nettles and stones gave way to tree roots, and the time we’d made up on the road was starting to slip away. But at least the temperature had cooled. And we’d left the stiles behind. For now.

The path just kept on climbing, and each time we thought we could see the top, another stretch of uphill would appear, but at last we reached the summit. Our reward was a lovely long downhill stretch through beautiful woodland, watching out for tree root booby traps.

I was feeling strong at this point, and keen to push on. We’d settled into a nice rhythm, and the ankle was behaving itself. Coming up was one of my favourite bits of the route – the long, relatively flat (yes, please!), forest trail through Pit Wood that would bring us into Roadwater.

But before we could get there, we had to navigate through a field of cows. There’s something deeply scary about cows. It’s not just about their size. But the way they look at you. Like an alsation, sizing you up for dinner.

One large beast in particular seemed to take exception to us being on her territory and started mooing angrily. Fortunately she seemed satisfied with just making threatening noises and didn’t feel the need to get any closer, but it was unnerving. We kept running, on the basis that getting as far away from her as quickly as possible seemed like a good idea.

It was only when we’d left her behind, with angry bellows still following us, that Val and Paul confirmed that yes, that was no cow. That was a BULL. Relief all round that we’d made it safely through the field, and that we didn’t have to come back the same way.

Then a minor set back. The Forestry Commission had closed the trail through Pit Wood that day to do ‘foresty work’, and we’d have to do a detour along the road. I felt slightly gutted, but at least it wouldn’t take us too far off our route.

By the time we reached Roadwater, we’d covered a bit less than 15 miles. My hamstring was still feeling uncomfortable but nothing too problematic. Now my dodgy ankle started to make its presence felt. Every time my foot landed, I could feel a pain in the ligament.

I focused on keeping my ankles as relaxed as possible, and the pain faded.

As we left Roadwater behind, we headed back into the woods, up a steep, stony, trail that was hard work for tired legs. Val started feeling a bit queasy, so we slowed our pace, chatting and munching on cakes, nuts and fruit.

Once over the hill, we reached the trail that descended through a seemingly endless series of gates down into Luxborough. Nearly 18 miles done and almost half way, but the final sharp downhill also brought back my ankle pain.

Outside the Royal Oak in Luxborough, not only was Phil waiting for us, but he’d laid out the car boot with all kinds of goodies. As we chatted, I topped up my hydration pack, which was running low by this point, and grabbed some crisps and flapjack.

Luxborough – and a chance to grab some food and drink (Photo: Phil Wilson)

Val had recovered and spirits were high although we were starting to tire. And we knew the next leg to Winsford was pretty lumpy.

The steep uphill started as soon as we left Luxborough. And so did the gunshots. They sounded very close by, in the woods somewhere to our left, and all around us, pheasants were flying out of the trees in panic. Up ahead, we saw a large fox trotting briskly across the road before disappearing into the undergrowth on the other side, perhaps driven out into the open in broad daylight by the noise.

There’s something quite disconcerting about running through the countryside with the sound of a shotgun firing nearby, but we took comfort in the fact that shooting joggers is poor form and probably illegal, and pushed on.

Heading off down a track to Newcombe Farm, we picked up the Coleridge Way signs again. And we climbed. And we climbed. And we climbed. The track became a footpath. The footpath became a mudpath. The mudpath became a fast flowing stream, until at last we turned off across the fields. Still climbing. But at least we’d left the gunfire behind.

The sky had gradually been getting darker, and the wind picked up as we ran. By the time we reached the top of Lype Hill, it was blowing a proper gale and rain didn’t look far off. The temperature had plummeted. Back on with the jackets, clinging on to them as the wind tried to rip them out of our hands.

Heading back down, we ran through field after field of sheep. Sheep aren’t menacing at all. As soon as you get anywhere near them, they just scamper away.

Running through the last field, Val spotted one in trouble. It was stuck on its back, legs waving helplessly in the air, in a big pile of its own mess. It was clearly in distress and wasn’t going anywhere without some help.

Approaching the sheep with caution, we tried to work out the best way to get it back upright without getting whacked by one of its flailing legs. At last, Val and Paul got in a good position, and gave it a heave. It was surprisingly heavy, but finally they managed to roll it back onto its feet again. It trotted away quickly with nothing but a dirty rear end to show it had been in any bother.

What with the sheep rescue and all the climbing, we were now way behind on pace, but still looking good to make the cut off time. Coming up was another four mile stretch of road, mostly downhill, that would lead us into Winsford, our last checkpoint. A chance to make up some more time, but my ankle was complaining loudly again as soon as the downhills got too steep and now Paul’s knee started causing him pain. Add to that Val’s back hurting her on the uphills and progress for those last few miles was slow. It was a huge relief to arrive in Winsford, nearly 25 miles done, and still with at least 20 minutes to spare.

Winsford – final checkpoint! (Photo: Phil Wilson)

We stayed a while at the check point, eating and drinking and trying not to think about the last leg of our journey. More than 11 miles across Exmoor. The hilliest, most technically challenging part of the route. Even on fresh legs, it had taken us 3 hours. Now our legs were tired and sore. And we were running 10 miles further than any of us had done before.

At this point, the doubts were really creeping in and thoughts of dropping out was starting to play heavily on my mind. I was struggling on the downhills, and there were lots of steep descents to come. What if my ankle went while we were far from help? What if I was the weak link and ended up wrecking everybody else’s run? The end seemed impossibly far away.

I don’t know if Paul and Val were having similar doubts, but no one mentioned giving up. We talked as if we took it for granted that we’d finish. So I decided to carry on, and take it one mile at a time.

Time for a quick photo in front of the Rising Sun. Yes, another Rising Sun. And we set off for the last time, just before 3 o’clock.

Winsford – looking nervous again (Photo – Phil Wilson)

The last leg started with another long slog of an uphill, this time a mile and a half of ascent on tarmac road, into Exmoor proper. Val pointed out that we just had to run a bit over three parkruns. Weirdly, this didn’t help.

The weather forecast had promised heavy rain around this time. As we headed out on the open moor, the first raindrops started to fall, and it looked as though the last leg of our journey would be a soggy one. But the threatened downpour didn’t materialise.

Despite our tiredness, the miles seemed to be steadily ticking by. Before too long we found ourselves at the Tarr Steps, a bridge of heavy stone slabs across the river Barle, which legend has it was built by the devil. The Steps were rebuilt a couple of years ago after half of the slabs got washed away in heavy rain. They looked pretty solid now, but we crossed them with care.

We reached 30 miles, further than we’d ever run, and crossed the border into Devon. At this point, I was thinking that if I’d done my 50K as originally planned, I’d only have a mile and a half to go, instead of another six. Now we just had two park runs left to do. Weirdly, it still didn’t help. Even more weirdly, Val was developing a craving for gin and tonic.

Up another big hill, then we turned off onto the Two Moors Way, ascending steeply up onto the moors, along a narrow, rocky path covered in spiky gorse. Nice.

I’m not sure at what point the doubts started to fad and realisation hit that we really were going to do this thing, but by the time we’d crossed the moors and reached road again, we had less than four miles to go. We’d finish, even if we had to do those last miles crawling on the ground.

We were walking the steep uphills, and I still had to slow down for the big downhills, but we were making steady progress. It was getting harder each time to start running again after walking, but apart from my ankle and the tiredness in my legs, I was surprised how good I felt. I focused on keeping good alignment and not letting my posture collapse.

My Garmin finally gave up the ghost, so frustratingly I couldn’t watch those last few miles tick down. Instead, I had to keep bugging Val and Paul. ‘Are we there yet?’ ‘No.’ ‘Are we there yet?’ ‘No.’

The tiredness was getting to Val. When I asked her yet again how much further we had to go, she tried to talk. Then gave up and just waved her Garmin at me.

Into the final couple of miles and the rain that had been threatening for a while finally started to fall. It was getting dark when we hit woodland and we donned our head torches. Even with the extra light, the mud and uneven ground made the going tough and that last leg seemed to drag on forever. Val would have to wait a little longer for her gin and tonic. At long last, though, we hit the last mean little uphill into Knowstone.

We felt strangely flat as we arrived in front of the Masons Arms and the finish at around 6.15 in the evening, more than 10 hours after we’d started. We’d run the whole route, this time in one day, but we were too tired to feel much emotion.

Phil was waiting for us in his car, and we all bundled into the pub, half expecting to get thrown straight out again. Val, Paul and I looked a state – drenched from the rain and covered in mud. But they welcomed us in, while we tried hard not to get mud on their nice rug.

Realisation of what we’d achieved slowly started sinking in as we sat round the table, Val finally clutching her gin and tonic, Paul with a pint and me with my cup of tea. The still functioning Garmins measured our route as somewhere between 36.5 and 37.5 miles, so we decided to split the difference and call it 37. We were still smiling and we could still walk. Just about. Job done.

And then Phil pulled out a medal for each of us, made of chocolate and decorated with ‘WDW 2014 – Finisher’. The perfect end to an epic day 😊

I just want to end by saying huge, heartfelt thanks to Val and Paul. This adventure wouldn’t have been a fraction of the fun it was without you. Big thanks too to Phil for being our travelling aid station and one-man support team, and without whom the ultra that wasn’t could never have been.