A 50-Miler Where I Overcame a Mid-Race Crisis

The plan looked sensible on paper: arrive rested, run the opening kilometres conservatively, eat before I felt hungry, and keep the effort controlled until the final third. The race was an 80-kilometre trail event through the Blue Mountains, with long sandstone ridgelines, technical descents and enough climbing to punish an optimistic pace. I had trained for a steady day, not a dramatic one.

The first half unfolded almost exactly as expected. The weather was cool by Australian standards, the track was dry, and the early light turned the gums silver above the valley. I settled into a rhythm with two runners from Canberra, sharing quiet stretches and the occasional “Good on ya” with people heading in the opposite direction.

Then, around the 48-kilometre mark, that rhythm disappeared. My stomach tightened, my legs felt hollow, and every rise seemed steeper than the last. I was walking sections I had planned to run and calculating how many hours remained. This was the mid-race crisis I had spent years trying to avoid.

What changed the day was not a sudden burst of fitness. It was a sequence of small decisions: slowing down properly, taking in simple food, checking the actual problem, and committing to the next aid station rather than the finish line. The experience gave me a clearer lesson about endurance than any perfect training session could have provided.

The Build-Up Was Quietly Solid

My preparation had been consistent rather than spectacular. Over twelve weeks, I built from roughly 60 kilometres per week to the low 90s, with most of the running on trails and one longer outing every second weekend. I included back-to-back sessions, such as 28 kilometres on Saturday followed by 18 kilometres on Sunday, because fatigue management mattered more to me than chasing a single heroic long run.

The training also included plenty of ordinary compromises. Work ran late, a couple of sessions moved to the treadmill, and one planned long run became a wet shuffle around the local park. That was useful in its own way. An ultra is rarely a clean demonstration of athletic ability; it is a test of how well a person can continue making reasonable choices when conditions become inconvenient.

I kept the final week deliberately simple. There was no frantic fitness test and no sudden increase in carbohydrates that left me uncomfortable. I reduced the volume, ate familiar meals, prepared my mandatory gear and checked the weather several times. In Australia, race logistics can change quickly with heat, fire danger or a sudden cold front, so preparation includes more than choosing the right shoes.

The Opening Hours Felt Almost Too Easy

The start was busy but relaxed. There were runners chasing qualifying points, runners treating the event as a personal adventure and plenty of experienced people who looked entirely uninterested in proving anything during the first hour. I carried two soft flasks, a small bottle of electrolyte mix and enough food to reach the first major checkpoint.

My effort was guided by breathing and terrain rather than pace. On runnable fire trail, I held back when the group accelerated. On climbs, I walked early and kept my heart rate under control. The race passed through familiar Blue Mountains scenery: eucalyptus forest, exposed rock shelves and narrow sections where everyone formed a patient single-file line.

At 25 kilometres, I felt fresh enough to question whether I had been too cautious. That thought is dangerous in a long race because it invites a new plan based on temporary confidence. I stayed with the original approach and ate half a rice cake, some banana and a gel spread across the next hour. The goal was to arrive at halfway with options.

The Crisis Arrived Without Drama

The first warning was a loss of interest in food. I had been eating roughly every 35 minutes, but the next gel seemed unappealing and the texture of my rice cake suddenly felt wrong. I took a few mouthfuls of water and continued, assuming the problem would pass. Instead, my pace began to fade.

At 45 kilometres, I was still moving well enough to pretend nothing serious was happening. Three kilometres later, the pretence stopped working. I was light-headed on a climb, my quads were twitching, and I had become irritable about small things: a loose shoelace, a crowded corner, the sound of my own breathing. The trail had not changed. My ability to deal with it had.

I reached the aid station in a poor state and sat down longer than I intended. A volunteer offered the sort of practical care common at Australian trail races: cold water, a calm voice and a direct reminder to eat something that resembled real food. I drank broth, took a few salted crackers and waited ten minutes before deciding whether to continue.

A Smaller Plan Turned the Day Around

The mistake was treating the crisis as a verdict on the whole race. I was thinking about the remaining 32 kilometres, the cutoff, the climb after the next checkpoint and the possibility of a very long walk. That mental load made every decision feel expensive.

I replaced it with a short operating plan. I would leave the aid station, walk every significant climb, jog the flats, drink regularly and reach the next checkpoint before reassessing. I stopped trying to hit a pace target. My only performance measure was whether I could keep moving without making the stomach problem worse.

The change was gradual. The crackers stayed down, then a few bites of banana, followed by small sips of electrolyte drink. After several kilometres, I managed a piece of a peanut butter sandwich. I was still moving slowly, but the fog lifted enough for me to notice the landscape again. A volunteer at a later station called me “mate” and asked whether I wanted ice; that small exchange helped restore a sense of being part of the event rather than trapped inside my own discomfort.

The Final Section Became Manageable

Once I passed 60 kilometres, the race became a series of uncomplicated tasks. I refilled both bottles, changed my socks and checked the hot spot on my heel before it became a blister. The extra minutes at the checkpoint were worthwhile because they prevented a problem that would have cost much more later.

I also started running with a different group. We did not stay together formally, but our pace matched. On the descents, one runner called out loose rocks; on the climbs, nobody apologised for walking. That quiet cooperation is one of the best features of trail running. A competitive event can still feel generous, especially when everyone understands that the hard part is shared.

The last ten kilometres were not fast, though they felt purposeful. I ran the sections I could run, walked before my form collapsed and kept eating small portions. The finish line arrived in the late afternoon, with tired cheers, muddy shoes and the unmistakable relief of seeing a race number come off. My time was slower than the optimistic target I had written down, but the result felt earned.

What I Would Carry Into the Next Ultra

The biggest lesson was about fuelling before the crisis becomes obvious. I had been disciplined early, yet I still allowed a few missed calories and an unsettled stomach to develop into a major problem. Next time, I will carry more savoury options and treat the first sign of food aversion as information rather than something to ignore.

I will also plan recovery with the same care as the race. The day after, I walked for twenty minutes, ate a proper breakfast and resisted the urge to judge my performance while exhausted. By the third day, the legs felt much better, but the deeper fatigue lasted longer. A 50-mile effort draws on sleep, concentration and mood as much as it draws on muscle.

For readers who enjoy the practical detail of endurance events, I have collected similar reflections in these race reports, including the planning decisions that look minor before the start and become important late in the day. The useful pattern is rarely a perfect race. It is the adjustment that keeps a difficult race from becoming an unnecessary failure.

The event also reinforced a professional lesson. When a project is behind schedule, the answer is rarely to stare at the entire remaining workload and demand more motivation. Reduce the horizon, identify the constraint and complete the next useful action. On the trail, that meant reaching the next checkpoint. At work, it might mean finishing one section, making one decision or removing one blocker.

A mid-race crisis does not always require courage in the dramatic sense. Sometimes it requires accepting that the original plan has expired, then building a smaller plan that matches reality. What I want to remember from this 50-miler is simple: when the finish feels too far away, solve the next kilometre with patience, food and honest attention.