The Drogo 10
And at last, that finish line feeling!
I have finished a race in 2025!
By chance, I had a day off working as a Christmas elf on 16th November, and already had the date marked in my calendar for the Drogo 10, a 10 mile fell race in Devon. Him and I had stumbled across it last year when we were there for my birthday weekend, it seemed fun, and he said I should do it next year. I’d also randomly but joyously seen Adharanand Finn speed past in the final mile of the race exactly as we stepped onto the trail, and that seemed like a good omen. Yes, it might be fun.
For the entire week of the race I was a bag of nerves. There was a lot to contend with. I hadn’t finish a race at all since the Cotswold Way Relay in July 2024, I hadn’t run a sub-ultra race since then either, I didn’t know and couldn’t remember how any of that feels. I hadn’t even done a Parkrun since Christmas Day. What sort of effort was appropriate? It is both my strength and my downfall that I will not take it easy. I will get caught up in the race and give my competitors an honest game. But hadn’t that been enjoyable enough for me to keep going back for more, once upon a time?
I remember, now: you know you’re running at the appropriate effort if you’re certain you’re going to quit the sport, but not until the race is over. It’s hard enough that you’re definitely taking up paddle-boarding instead, but not so hard that you’re walking off the course right there and then. There should be no extraneous thought, unless you need it, such as to remember that it is in fact joyful to be alive, the woods are beautiful, other people are funny, and this is something you’ve chosen to do with good reason. That reason may be foggy in the moment, but it is enough to know that it exists.
I started the race too far back, eagerly sandbagging*, and spent the next few kilometres snaking around other people. I thought I’d make my big move on the first big uphill - my comfort zone, my happy place! - I’d pick off all of the other women there, leaping up the grade with alacrity. But the “hill” kept on going for longer than I had hoped, it got steeper than I expected, and the rocks kept slipping under my feet. I conceded to a walk. I chatted to a woman I’d so recently overtaken about my hubris and she said she’d thought I must be a proper runner as I zipped past. Oh, how I laughed.
Adharanand had told me that it’s not really a 10 mile race, it looks after itself, you go down, and up, down and up, with some flatter bits inbetween. He was so right - the miles passed without me really realising, I wasn’t counting off splits like a road race. It’s just that the effort and agony was a constant glare, rather than the hazy mist I’d chosen to believe it could be. But don’t hold back. Don’t hold back. Can you push harder? Can you push harder and deal with the next miles as they come? How deep can you go, how neatly can you match your effort to the course and still give a sprint finish at the end?
I love all that. I love it. I love biding my time behind other runners, I love keeping people off my back, I love breaking and making elastic bonds. I loved, as I hiked up those hills and flew down the trails, knowing that my ultra legs could take me. I used to use downhills to recover, now I knew that my quads were strong enough to take and recover from the pounding. I had to catch the woman with the yellow jacket. I had to choose my moment wisely.
She caught me on the flat, I caught her back, she scrabbled, scratched and clawed ahead of me on the final climb when I was begging my mountain-trained legs to keep driving into the ground, to keep propelling me on for this final stretch. She finished 20 seconds ahead of me in the end. I thanked and congratulated her at the finish line, telling her how much I enjoyed racing with her. She didn’t return the sentiment, but that’s okay: it’s possible I’d been a bit annoying saying “well done!” with utmost chirpiness each of the umpteen times we passed each other.
I sprinted through the finish line, nipping infront of a man at the last second, with an enormous grin on my face. I’d wanted to throw up in a bush moments ago. I wanted to pass out now. But I was happy. I collected my medal - A MEDAL! AT LAST! - and enjoyed a cosy coffee with others in the cafe, marinading in the warm glow of pride and a shared, silly adventure. My time was faster than the upper echelons of what I had been expecting to run, and despite being so certain I was quitting running entirely during the race, I was easing into the idea that if running could also make me feel this glittery, maybe it’s not so bad after all? Maybe I’d race again. Maybe I’d even do this exact race again?
I have completely forgotten the pain, the wheezing, the lung scraping, eye-watering effort of it all. I remember earnest, honest, fortifying time outside amongst funny and like-minded people. I remember a challenge. I remember holding my coaster - my medal - in my hands the whole way home in the car, napping with it softly resting in my lap, the face of it reminding me that despite the year of bad luck in ultras, I can do hard things, and I can see them through to a finish line. I hope my DNF spell is broken. Things happen that are out of my control, of course, as they have done this year, so we’ll just see. But the Drogo 10 will always have a really special place in my heart.
*sandbagging is when you say you’re going to run a much slower time than you and everyone knows you’re capable of.
