Leaving Lyrkia at 92 miles, en route to the dreaded 1200 metre mountain, it was relatively flat for a few miles and I was enjoying the dark and coolness.  Then it started to climb and I was forced for hike.  The climb went on for-like-ever.  Zig-zagging.  Every time I looked up there was more. Around a corner, and more. But the time I reached the "base of the mountain" (98miles) checkpoint, most of the ascent had been tackled.

Pic by Adrian Bratty Kouyoufas

I sat down for longer than I should have.  Actually I shouldn't have sat down at all.  Sitting on the job is not something I would condone in any race, but this wasn't a race against anyone other than myself.   Plus  I wasn't exactly bouncing at the prospect of the feck off climb in front of me.

I changed socks and popped some blisters with the pin from my race number - classy lassy.   And then the GM appeared.  I was so happy to see her, as I thought I'd have company for the climb.  My brain took a while to register that we was wearing a down jacket and a very sad face, and had obviously dropped out.

I took a base layer, as stopping had caused me to chill quickly, and off I went.  I lasted about seven minutes with the layer.  The climb wasn't quite the drama I thought it would be.  As usual, mountains always look bigger than they actually are. In reality it was only a 30 minute stomp, with a few sways and couple of stumbles back.

I declined the offer of a comfy seat and blanket at the summit and headed straight down.  The descent was worse than the ascent.  A steep bed of scree and a defunct brain was not a good combo.  After sliding and toe-tripping on a few rocks, I decided to cut my loses and walk.  Looking around, everyone else had reached the same conclusion.

At the next checkpoint, I realised I'd seen the same twin lads at practically every station for over 100 miles.  I don't even know who they were supporting, but their encouragement was fabulous.  Even if they only words we exchanged were "bravo" and "thank you".

For the next few miles I was leap-frogging with a chap who was wearing what can only be described as a shell suit.  It was quite apparent that he was getting upset about getting overtaken with a female. We exchanged no words or glances, just the mutual annoyance that we couldn't shake each other off. I won.

I then went past Traci Fablo, Team USA and world 48-hour record holder.  On any given day that would be a running career highlight, but it wasn't a fair race.  She was struggling with injury and would later drop.

Arriving at Nestini (106), I saw that Paddy had dropped and joined Marco and Sharon.  I picked up some supplies and despite the fact that I was enjoying the chat and social interaction, they threw me out.

The next 20 miles were all a bit of a blur.  It started to rain.  I was still warm, so continued to kick about in my vest.   At CP53 an official seemed quite concerned and asked me if I need a raincoat to which I replied "No, I'm Scottish".  He found this so funny he took to Facebook. I couldn't work out how everyone seemed to know about it.

As I slowed, became increasingly incoherent and was soaked through, I did start to cool down.  At the CP60 I sent Marco to car the for a change of clothes.  Whilst huddled in door way, Mike Wardian's brother asked if I'd passed a skinny guy with a beard.  I did try to speak to Mike at a previous CP, but he was on another planet.  I told Mike's brother that he was really far gone and he might want to go get him.  He informed me that he would never drop out.  He was wrong.  I  later learned that he had chafing that would make every man cry at the sight of it.

There's a lot of climbing between 120 and 135  miles.  A lot, for tired legs.  I was wandering up a never ending hill along a road side.  It wasn't even a hard shoulder, just extra tarmac.  Lorries were trundling past and spraying me water, but the honking horns and howls of "bravo"  kept me awake. And smiling.  They were no race signs and I was starting to panic.  Up and up with no reassurance that I was going in the right direction.   I think I would have rather lived there than retrace my steps.  I was so relieved to finally get to a lonely CP and signs of race life.


After the climb, I was overheating inside my jacket and being on the warm side was making me slow down.  I needed some freshness so went back to bare arms even though we were being hit by a thunder and lightening storm.  Scottish, right?

The best thing about the race were the people. From Athens all the way to Sparta, the people of Greece go nuts for this race.  They love it.  Kids were out of schools high-fiving and asking for autographs, office workers were out cheering, people were hanging out of windows or out in the street taking pictures.

I can't imagine running alongside a main motor route in the UK in the dead of night, and getting positive encouragements from drivers.  I did have a few close shaves on the country roads because we were running into the traffic, but the vast majority were very respectful.

The worst thing about the race was being alone with my thoughts.  For obvious safety reasons earphones aren't aloud, so no music.    There was just no switch off.  I just had numbers - miles covered, time, distance to next CP, miles per hour, closing time, miles to go - going around in my head constantly.


You know when you're in a race and you can cover 5 miles without even thinking about it?  Well, that didn't happen in this race.  I was aware of every single mile.  I decided to pick up my sleeves at the next checkpoint.  Not only because it was pissing down, but it meant I could also so cover my Garmin.

I got to CP68, but couldn't see Marco.  The hire car was there, but there was no sign of him.  So I started running up and down the road shouting his name.  As I was looking slightly demented and official came out to help.  Then Marco appeared from behind the rocks with a smile and a pack of baby wipes under his arm.  It's all about timing.

Sleeves on.  Garmin covered.  Don't peek.  That's got to be at least two miles... Ah 0.36 miles! Although at the pace I was moving, I was looking at 30 hours.  Considerably better than the 35 hours I was calculating at no so long ago.

The road to Sparta is very undulating and the space to run is very narrow, but I kept chipping away at it.  Walking the inclines and trying to get some life into my legs on the downhill.

At CP71  I stared at the sign trying to mentally convert 12 km into miles.  One the stewards asked if she could help and explained what I was trying to do, to which she informed me 12km was 10 miles. I just left it and pushed on.

I met Marco at the last support point with only 6 miles to go and took few sips of coke.  On paper, the last few miles look amazing.  An absolute flying finish.  But wow, my ITB and glutes were not happy about it.  In hindsight I was completely out of it.  I hadn't really taken in any calories in the last 20 miles.  In my head I wasn't hungry and I was in the final stages, so therefore I was fine. Emphasis on: In my head. 

 

I could see Sparta, but I seemed like a very long way away.  And I just knew that statue was going to be at the other side of town.  Guaranteed.  I was trying to do that positive - Just-think-about-what-you've-achieved thing, by my head was having none of it.  With 5km to go Fergie went past in the car screaming like a crazy man, just before I hit CP73 on the outskirts of town.

 

Some kids started to cycle alongside me, but even though got scared and fecked off.  So I shuffled at what felt like a glacial pace, but I'm probably being generous there.  I past a petrol station and a road...and then stopped.  Where to now?  There was a bridge, but I couldn't see anything past that.  Of course there were no race signs, because there was no deviation from running in a straight line!  But I wasn't of sane mind at that point.  I was trying to signal to passing cars to ask directions, but I must have looked NUTS.  Then one of the officials spotted me flapping about and came running towards me.  The final CP was hidden behind a tree covered roundabout.

 

I crossed the chip mat and picked up my Union Jack.  I was on my way now.  A lovely lady biked alongside me and I'll never know how she managed to keep balance at the pace I was going.  We talked about the fabulous support from the Greek people and she told me how she used to come out as a kid and run the finishers in.  I asked her how far it was to the statue and she said 1km.  I knew it was a 1.5 miles, so I don't even know why I asked.   She left me in the capable hands of a group of young children on bikes and went back to the checkpoint.

 

30hrs 36 mins.  5th lady, 34 overall.  First female Brit. 2nd overall

My conversation with the kids went...What's your name: "Debbie" "Beddie?" Debbie" Gebby?" "Yes".

Followed by "How far?" "Not long".  Two minutes later "How far?" "Not long".

Then we turned right into the street where the statue was waiting at the end.  I did seem like forever, but it was a great forever.  I was treated like a hero.  Even as I type this, I can still feel it and hear it.

That moment when I reached for Leonidas foot...just phenomenal.

I get it now.  It is truly special.  There's no other race like it. For the majority, it's not about time or position. The next day the only thing strangers asked was whether you finished or not.  It's all that matters.

That race I was never, ever going to do?  Well, I did it.  And it's the best race in the world.