Fresh off my first year of ultra-racing in 2025, I was eager to saturate my 2026 calendar as quickly as possible. I didn’t have to look far; the inaugural Further Lostways was set to kick off in the South West of England—a mere three-hour drive from where I grew up.
Despite having months to prepare, the lead-up was predictably frantic. My friend Tony and I eventually bustled down the A-roads, arriving just in time to register and collect our trackers. There had been whispers of a mandatory bivvy at the start line on Cosdon Beacon, but once we reached our basecamp at The Oxenham Arms, it was clear most riders had opted for local hotels. They were wise to chase a final night of quality slumber before the weekend’s inevitable sleep deprivation. Sixty quid later, we were indoors "carb-piling" and obsessively tinkering with our setups.
*a littering of disposable images that I took during the race feature throughout the article, plus a bunch of polished shots from Tom Hill, Alan Danby, Restrap and Joe Williams
The Ascent
Fast forward seven hours: we were back in the car, scouting the main road for a discreet spot to abandon the vehicle for a few days. While we’d managed a few hours of warmth in a real bed, we hadn't accounted for the gruelling 3km slog up to the summit’s trig point. In true fashion, we reached the peak with only minutes to spare—and our feet already soaked. The dim glow of the sun approached, riders milling about at swapping stories at 5:50AM.
There was no formal countdown. Camille finished the rider briefing and at 6AM, simply announced, "GO." Because the start location had been kept secret until the night before, the actual timed route began a few miles away from our gathering point.
Confusion rippled through the group regarding the quickest descent back to the road. I certainly wasn't keen on retracing the path we’d just climbed. A few riders dropped in confidently, and the rest of us followed suit.
I’d opted for 40mm tires. With a terrain split of 70% tarmac and 30% gravel, I knew I’d be spending significant time on the road. During that initial descent, the divide between the mountain bikers and the gravel purists was stark. As my first race of the season, I was unsure of my form, but having spent the winter clocking serious miles, I was secretly gunning for a top-ten finish. Lofty goals, for sure.
The Strategy
The plan was simple: maintain a high-intensity pace for several days. I was aiming for Zone 2 power on the flats, pushing into Upper Zone 2/Zone 3 on the climbs, and coasting the descents to recover. Whether this would hold up remained to be seen.
As the pack splintered and riders settled into their respective grooves, I immediately began second-guessing my gear. I had stripped the aero-bars off the bike at the last minute, assuming the high-hedged, winding lanes of Devon and Cornwall would render them useless. Had I scrutinised the route more closely, I would have spotted the long, exposed stretches connecting the single-track sections. If I were to do this again, the bars would be non-negotiable.
Into the Cornish Coast
The day warmed up rapidly, with temperatures climbing into the double digits. I’ve been remarkably lucky with UK weather during ultras, and this was no exception. I was grateful to ditch the layers as I pressed toward Widemouth on the Cornish coast.
Determined to curb my reputation as a ‘faffer,’ I vowed to minimise unnecessary stoppages. No more losing time to song-swapping, tracker-checking, or constant snacking. I carried enough calories to cover the first 150km, a strategy that held until Newquay, where I finally succumbed to the call of meal deals and winegums—which quickly became the primary fuel source for the race.
I caught glimpses of other riders along the way: some were clinical and efficient in their resupplies, while others looked wide-eyed and salt-encrusted, perhaps having gone a little hard out the gate.
The First Night
Feeling strong on well-tapered legs, I pushed through the balmy evening, navigating the tin mines before Sennen. I resisted the urge to relax as the sun dipped, instead ‘chewing my stem’ to gain ground. By the time I hit Penzance, I was fuelled to the gills and moved quickly to tackle The Lizard. The terrain there was a brutal rhythm of rutted hoofprints and sun-baked mud.
Sleep is always elusive on the first night, especially when I'm buzzing on caffeine, so I bypassed the ‘Red Ambo’ (Coca-Cola) and rode straight into the fatigue. It paid off; by 1:00 AM, I found a bus shelter and was out cold before my head even hit the wooden bench.
An hour later, the shrill trill of my Garmin jolted me awake. My logic was flawed: I hadn’t felt tired during Further Elements (a 500km ride), so I figured a mere hour would suffice for 750km at a higher average speed.
I could not have been more wrong.
The Wall
I felt deceptively refreshed as I rolled through Stithians. The single-track was abysmal—essentially one continuous, boggy puddle. I spent the early hours using my bike as a crutch, skirting the edges of the mire in a futile attempt to keep my feet dry.
By sunrise, I was desperate for my circadian rhythm to kick in. I was 24 hours deep without caffeine, so I finally popped a few pills. Shortly after, I was caught by Ron and Harry. Two riders I had been switching places with the day prior. Both had made much wiser sleep choices—one in a hotel, the other with four hours in a shelter. Harry mentioned we were sitting in 2nd and 3rd place. I was stunned, but the adrenaline was short-lived. My pace cratered, and they slowly ebbed away into the distance.
The plan was disintegrating. Midday arrived, and no amount of caffeine or sugar could fix the exhaustion. Worse yet, I couldn't sleep in the daylight. I spent the afternoon in a state of purgatory, desperately trying to nap under the sun to no avail.
The Final Push
By sunset, my mind finally realigned with my legs. Whether it was sheer willpower, calories catching up or 90s boom-bap, I was back in the game. I crossed paths with organiser Alex McCormack at a petrol station near Brixham; his dose of moral support was exactly what I needed.
The momentum was quickly halted when I snapped my chain on an A-road. I managed a quick fix despite my putty mind, but then made a rookie mistake: I forgot to check the tide times. I rode all the way down to the coast at Bigbury-On-Sea only to find the tidal road impassable, forcing a gruelling 5km detour back up the hill.
I spent the evening dawdling through Dartmouth, paralysed by indecision over where to sleep. In the rapidly dropping temperature, I found a gap in the wall of a stately home and a pile of dry leaves under some forlorn trees. I rolled out my layers, set a timer for 3:00 AM, and enjoyed two hours of frosty, broken sleep.
The Home Stretch
On the final day, I checked the tracker. 4th! I was still holding on. The rider behind me was only 30km away—a seasoned athlete much stronger than myself. I found an extra gear. I guzzled calories, cranked the "Rock and Heavies" playlist, and charged into the bogs.
With my phone at 9% battery, the music soon died, leaving me in the black silence of a frosted Dartmoor. The cold was a blessing in disguise; I had to move fast to stay warm. The hardened ground actually made the boggy moor easier to traverse. After a few adrenaline-spiking encounters with kamikaze sheep on the descents, the sun finally rose at 7:00 AM to reward my efforts with a buzz of awareness.
It was well needed as the final climbs were savage—specifically a 20% gradient outside Widecombe that seemed to defy physics. I reached into my hydration vest, scavenging for any stray calories, breakfasting on leftover sandwiches and the ever-present sugary relief.
The Mechanical
At Manaton, with only 15km of off-road and a final 40km stretch remaining, I let some air out of my tyres to ease the rolling. It was a mistake. In my haste on a rocky descent, I bottomed out the rims. Ten minutes later, I was riding on a rear flat.
I pumped it up with my leccie pump, but it was flat again within minutes. My phone was dead, my pump battery was dwindling ( I previously realised I’d forgotten my manual hand pump in the pre-race chaos). I finally located the "snakebite" puncture on the sidewall. It wouldn't seal. In a last-ditch effort, I jammed a plug into the tire. It held. God save Dynaplug (It’s still holding now, 3 weeks later!).
The final 40km were a pure slog. The usual bike computer lies, claiming only 90m of climbing remained when there were actually over 600m. That coupled with the constant thought of the closing riders made it an arduous task.
I finally rolled into the finish at 1:00 PM on the Sunday.
There is nothing quite like a daylight finish—the relief of the welcome party and the chance to babble delirious excuses to anyone who will listen.
Further Lostways was a joy
Final Stats
- 4th Place
- 754km
- 13,503m elevation.
I still haven't mastered the art of sleeping enough, but perhaps I’ll learn my lesson in two weeks at the Dales Divide?
The Kit Check:
Here’s a little video below of the setup I decided to use for the race:
Race Recap Reel
Some snippets of delerium mid race
