Location: Jersey, Channel Islands – where the north coast tries to kill your quads, the sheep judge your pacing, and the terrain flips between postcard-pretty and soul-destroying without warning.

Distance: 40 miles (64.88km because pain likes precision)

Finish time: 10:21hrs

Checkpoints: Devil’s Hole, Wolf’s Lair, St Catherine’s (turnaround), Les Landes (Finish)

Terrain: Cliffs, trails, steps sent by Satan

Shoes: Still technically attached, mud-coloured.

Morale: See-sawing violently

Nutrition: Remarkably well executed

Hydration: Spot on

Injuries: IT band, enemy of joy

Finish status: Somewhere between “respectable” and “how am I still moving?”

 

Km 0–15: Hope Springs Eternal

Ah, the start. That beautiful moment when you think, "40 miles? What could possibly go wrong!" Spirits: high (yet feeling nervous). Legs: chirpy. Reality: nowhere in sight.

The rain had politely arrived, the sun had RSVP’d ‘maybe’, and the temperature was doing its best impression of a polite British summer.  The start to Devil’s Hole was as scenic as it was unforgiving – coastal drops to one side, suspiciously aggressive gorse to the other.

So far, so good. Smiling as I entered the Devils Hole Checkpoint, the crew smiled back the way you do at someone about to learn a hard lesson.

 

Km 16-30: Nature’s Middle Finger

Enter: The Hills. These weren't so much climbs as vertical regrets. My legs filed an official complaint to HR (Hamstrings & Resentment). The steps. So many steps. Uneven, unpredictable, and designed, I’m convinced, by someone who hates knees.  The trail got technical; mud, roots, rocks and overgrown paths where I briefly thought I’d stumbled into a jungle-based escape room. I executed an elegant move called Trip-and-Swear that earned the approval of a nearby pigeon.

I’d settled into a solid rhythm and I was staying well hydrated despite the rolling terrain. The Wolf’s Lair marshal told me I looked “fresh" - which I now understand is code for “you look like you're clinging to a lie.”

St Catherine’s halfway point was glorious: cheers, legendary volunteers, snacks, hydration, and the momentary delusion that I was halfway done and still feeling fine. It was time to head back!

 

Km 31-42: The IT band uprising

Shortly after leaving St Catherine’s (the half way turnaround point), my IT bands decided they’d had quite enough of this nonsense. A tightness developed that soon became a stabbing reminder that running is bad for you.

From that point on, running became… negotiable. I managed short bursts – mostly uphill -And the steps... there is simply no palatable word for those evil little beasts. EVERY. SINGLE. STEP. WAS. AGONY. I slapped on a brave face and jog-walk-limped into the Wolf’s Lair checkpoint, where the crew were throwing encouragement like confetti. On the outside, I was all thumbs-up and forced grins. On the inside? Quietly crying and composing my resignation letter to running as a concept.

 

Km 43-55: Hallucination Alley

At this point, I was in what ultra runners call “the deep miles” – when time stops making sense and you’re unsure if you’re sweating or crying. Both, probably. The rain had started again and the overgrown plants were mopping up water into my squelching shoes. I was saturated! Hobbling up to the last Checkpoint I was greeted with shouts of encouragement! I was emotional but I knew this was the last checkpoint before the end so that in itself provided me with enough energy to crack on!

My pace dropped significantly, but I kept moving.  Painkillers kicked in, and I briefly floated through a metaphysical moment where I discussed the meaning of life with myself. (Apparently, it involves swearing, Tailwind and hot cross buns.)

Coming down Greve de Lecq hill, I faced a new horror: steep descent. Then I remembered seeing a guy walk backwards on a treadmill once, and figured, why not? I went down backwards like a confused crab—and it worked. My husband met me at the bottom. I was reborn. Temporarily.

A marshal told me to “break it down into chunks,” which I did. That advice is now known in our household as The Siouville Gospel.

 

Km 51-64: The final countdown - Triumph and tears

The final Km's back towards Grosnez was slow, stiff, and packed full of grit. Any movement was powered by sheer stubbornness, adrenaline some very questionable life choices.

I knew I was close, but my IT band had checked out completely, so I walked most of it with short, defiant jogs when I could manage.  The last 5km towards Battery Moltke and then around the race course were a blur! To be able to see the finish line and yet have another 5 agonising km's meant I had to dig deep to find the strength to keep going. A fellow runner and friend ran part of the last section with me - absolute legend! And then – finally – the finish. Was it just me, or did that last furlong stretch like a Netflix series with too many episodes? The further I ran, the longer it got—as if the finish line was playing hard to get.

This was it – the grand finale after months of training, dodging responsibilities, negotiating with family, injuries, managing a stressful job, navigating the wonders of perimenopause pretending this was ‘just a hobby,’ and questioning my sanity at least once a week. And somehow, against all odds (and my IT bands), I’d actually done it.

 A small but energetic crowd was there, cowbells going off like I’d won the Olympics, and someone handed me a medal and a cola – which, in that moment, tasted like the nectar of the gods and poor decisions. My job was done.

A massive thank you to all who supported me - Coach Rik, my family, friends and the trail running community!

Final Thoughts:

• The Jersey North Coast is stunning, brutal, and unreasonably vertical.
• Nutrition and hydration were dialled in perfectly – small victories!

The IT band is now on my enemies list.