From Extreme Adventures to Everyday Movement
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Time to read 10 min
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The weather was terrible the day I ran from Durness to Tongue. It was a 30 mile stretch traversing the north coast of Scotland, around the very tip of the Highlands.
My plan was to reach the village of Tongue before the small shop there shut at 5pm, pick up some supplies and carry on until I found a good spot for wild camping. I didn’t anticipate this being an issue. It’s a remote area and Scotland’s ‘right to roam’ laws mean you can legally camp on any unenclosed land.
I’d set off early that morning, giving myself plenty of time. The whole route to Tongue was on the road. A little dull, but comfortingly predictable, no rough terrain to tackle. And the rain - which started off as a drizzle, and increased steadily as the day wore on - was even a nice change. The day before had been too hot, draining in itself. A friendly Dutch couple, travelling around Scotland in their motorhome, had stopped and given me a carton of orange juice from their fridge though. An unexpected kindness, one of many I’d experienced over the preceding months.
This was my third long day in a row though. 25 miles in the heat to Durness, another 28 miles the day before that. My legs were heavy and my shoulders ached from the pack I was carrying. The miles were ticking by slowly, unlike the hours which were coming too fast.
1pm came, then 2pm, 3pm. I checked the map. Tongue was still too far away. It was looking less and less likely that I would make it to the shop in time.
Several drivers wound down their window as they passed.
“Need a lift?” they asked, as I trudged along.
I was desperate to say yes but I knew that it would feel like cheating, that I’d be annoyed at myself tomorrow.
“No, thanks, I’m okay,” I replied, faking a smile as I felt the rain soak through my waterproofs.
I considered my options. I had some oats in my bag, but I’d finished the peanut butter that morning and I didn’t have any fuel for my stove either. At least water wouldn’t be a problem - I had a filter with me, and there were plenty of puddles around I could fill up from.
Cold oats and puddle water. Yum.
At least I wouldn’t starve. Looking around though, I started to worry about finding a spot to pitch my tent. As far as I could see on either side of the road, the ground was absolutely sodden, covered in deep standing water.
Cold oats and puddle water for dinner. Camping in a marsh. Soaking wet gear to put back on tomorrow. I resigned myself to what was looking like a pretty miserable evening.
Then I remembered seeing a campsite on the map, just after you crossed the causeway over the Kyle of Tongue. Okay, so it wouldn’t solve the dinner problem and I’d still be in my tent, but at least I could have a hot shower, fill up with fresh water, and perhaps the camping field wouldn’t be quite as wet as the drenched heather moorlands.
Mood slightly improved, I attempted to pick up the pace slightly. 5pm, 6pm, 7pm. I crossed the causeway just before eight and saw what had to be the campsite on the other side. Except it wasn’t just a campsite - there was a large building too.
It was then that I recalled, with absolute joy, that there was a hostel too. I hurried along, my running shoes squelching with every step, hoping and praying that they’d have a spare bed for me.
“You’re lucky, I was just about to close up,” said the receptionist when I walked through the door.
Then she made all of my dreams come true. They had one bed left in a female dorm. And not only that, but they had a well-stocked shop. I bought a microwave Thai green curry, a bag of chocolate buttons and a beer, and rented a towel, thanking the woman endlessly whilst dripping all over the reception desk.
Less than 30 minutes later I was sitting by an open fire in the hostel lounge, warm in my spare clothes with the wet ones hanging in the drying room, eating curry and drinking a beer and feeling unbelievably grateful.
That was 10 years ago now, and I’ve still never enjoyed a hot shower, a microwave meal and a bed in a room full of snoring strangers so much.
At the time, I was seven months into my 5,000 mile run around the coast of Great Britain, with another three months still to go. I was doing it self-supported, carrying all my gear on my back, and in the end I was the first woman and youngest person to complete a full lap of the British coast.
It was an adventure that I was completely and utterly unqualified to embark on. When I tell people that I ran 5,000 miles, they tend to get the wrong idea about my athletic abilities. I wasn’t one of the sporty kids growing up - my brother used to go to athletics training and play football, while I would beg to be taken to McDonald’s for a Happy Meal. As a teenager, I was much more interested in making sure that my hair didn’t get wet than I was in any type of physical activity.
I started running when I was at university. I realised doing some exercise might be good for me, and liked the fact that running was essentially free. I couldn’t run for more than two minutes at first but kept plugging away, until eventually I managed half an hour. That genuinely felt like a kind of magic - I’d never experienced something going from being completely impossible to actually possible, so tangibly and so quickly. I started reading running blogs, and they eventually led me to the world of ultramarathons and long-distance adventures. The sorts of things I didn’t realise people did, before this. Who knew that it was possible to cycle around the whole globe on a push bike?
A few years later I was working in London, my first proper job after university. I was miserable, working stupidly long hours for stupidly little money, living with a roommate who never did the dishes, dating a man who wasn’t very nice to me and crying on the bus to work every day. A cliche adventure origin story, but true enough.
One day at work, I was looking at a map of Britain, and the idea of completing a lap of the coast came to me almost fully formed. I remembered all those other people’s amazing challenges I’d read about and thought, well, they’re just people like me. Perhaps I could do something like that too?
Ignorance was bliss, I think. I didn’t take into account those people’s experience or fitness levels. I couldn’t really comprehend quite how far 5,000 miles was, had no idea how it would feel to put one foot in front of the other for months on end.
But excited by the thought of trying, I set about planning my own big adventure, like all the ones I’d followed so avidly.
What I learned was that you don’t have to be a super athlete to run a long way. You just have to keep plodding away, however slowly, past the point where everybody else has given up.
I set off on November 1st 2015, starting with single digit miles each day and steadily increasing to marathon distance and more. I was amazed by how quickly my body adapted but I guess it makes sense - humans are evolved to run, walk and hunt, after all, not sit at a desk all day.
There were boring bits, hard bits, scary bits, very, very rainy bits. But there were also so many incredible moments - running through a herd of wild ponies on Exmoor, cresting a hill to see a cloud inversion below, deserted beaches, seeing the seasons change before my eyes, chance encounters with strangers who became friends.
Then it was over. 5,000 miles over the course of ten months. I’d done it, despite the doubts of my family and friends, plenty of people I’d met along the way too, and myself, often.
Something I soon learned is that you might have only just completed the biggest achievement of your life, but people will immediately start asking, “what’s next?”.
I think they wanted me to immediately announce another exciting challenge. I didn’t feel ready though, and anyway, I’d completely run out of money. I accepted another job in London, moved in with one of my best friends and enjoyed normal life for a while. I loved cooking my own meals again, having more than two t-shirts to choose from each morning and sleeping in my own bed each night.
But as the months passed, I started to not feel quite right. It was a foggy feeling, my brain lacking clarity somehow, constantly sluggish, always tired.
It took me longer than it should have to realise what was wrong. I’d gone from spending all day, every day outside, immersed in nature and green spaces, moving my body, absorbing Vitamin D and producing endorphins - all things that are so well documented to be beneficial for our physical and mental health - to getting almost no fresh air or exercise at all. Now, I sat in a windowless office all day, eyes fixed to multiple screens, commuted home on a packed underground train and spent my weekends in the pub… of course I wasn’t feeling great.
I knew that I didn’t want to go off on another 10-month long run, but something had to change. I started trying to find a middleground.
It was hard, at first. It turned out that my approach to running and fitness was very all or nothing. Although I was running before the coast, I’d never been good at sticking to a training plan or creating consistent, good habits.
I recruited a running coach to help. I saw him in person once a week for a strength and conditioning session, and he wrote me a training plan to follow the rest of the time. The accountability built discipline - knowing I’d have to explain my lame excuse for bailing on a run inevitably got me out of the door.
I tried to fit more movement into the little pockets of my day-to-day too. I dusted off my old bike and started cycling to work. I went for a lunchtime walk every day. Simple changes that made the biggest difference. I found it wasn’t about conjuring up extra time, but instead making the most of the time I already had.
And as I got fitter again, I was able to start saying yes more.
I said yes meeting friends for runs before work, seeing more sunrises than I ever had before. Just a few miles and a coffee beforehand managed to lift an entire day in the office.
I said yes to spontaneously cycling 90 miles to see my parents for the weekend, when the trains were cancelled. The ride itself was a comedy of errors - flat tyres, navigation fails, arriving hours later than planned - but it turned a derailed plan into a memorable day.
(Photo: 90 mile cycle to visit my parents)
I said yes to crewing a friend taking on their own running challenge. We spent weekends scouting the route through Dartmoor National Park - wild, remote, beautiful - and then stayed up for 24 hours straight feeding him bananas and managing blisters.
(Photo: Exploring Dartmoor with friends)
I said yes to spending a week in the French Alps doing the 105-mile Tour du Mont Blanc with my dad. We packed light and moved as quickly as we could, sleeping in mountain refuge dorms and eating endless amounts of cheese.
(Photo: Tour du Mont Blanc 2018 with my Dad)
I said yes to running a road marathon, quietly enjoying the satisfaction of following a training plan and ticking off those hard sessions.
(Photo: Valencia Marathon 2018)
All of these moments, some bigger and some smaller, taking place before and after work, or at weekends, or during annual leave - together they combined to create a life I loved, one which could exist alongside also building a career, visiting my grandma, trying to be a good friend and wearing clean socks each day.
Running around the coast of Britain was the most amazing experience, one I feel unbelievably lucky to have had. But the best things about it - moving, being outside, connecting with others - they could exist in the everyday too.
There’s something else that can exist in the everyday too, and that’s an appreciation of the small things.
That evening in Tongue, the unbridled joy I felt sitting in that armchair by the fire after a long day outside - if I could bottle up that feeling, I’d be a millionaire.
The things that we take completely for granted in our normal lives - a hot shower, a cold glass of water, a dry pair of socks - take on a new quality when enjoyed after a little self-inflicted hardship. In a world where we’re constantly chasing bigger, shinier, better things, what could be more worthwhile than activities that make us really, truly, deeply appreciate something as simple as a cup of tea?
That gratitude doesn’t just come after a long day battling the elements in the Scottish Highlands though. I feel it almost as keenly after a short run before work, coming home, stripping off my sweaty gear, rinsing off under a stream of scalding hot water, putting on a cosy sweater, making breakfast…
How amazing is it that we can have that feeling every single day, if we want it?
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