reboot blog

Race Report: A Rainy Muddy Ultra That Tested My Grit

The forecast had been unsettled all week, but the rain arrived with commitment on race morning. By the time I reached the trailhead outside Melbourne, the car park was a churned mixture of clay, puddles and nervous runners trying to keep their shoes clean for another five minutes. Nobody believed that would last.

I had trained for distance, hills and tired legs. I had not fully prepared for a course that would change personality every few kilometres. This was a rainy muddy ultra in the fullest sense: slippery descents, sodden socks, cold hands and a steady argument between ambition and common sense.

Before The Start, Confidence Was Cheap

The race briefing made the conditions clear. Several creek crossings were higher than expected, volunteers had marked a few alternate lines, and runners were advised to follow the course markings rather than trust familiar tracks. The event team had also confirmed that the route was being run under the relevant land access and national park arrangements. In Australia, trail races cannot simply appear wherever there is attractive bushland; permits, land managers, insurance and participant safety requirements all matter.

I appreciated the directness. The Bureau of Meteorology forecast showed more rain moving through, and the radar on my phone looked like a grey blanket approaching from the west. Still, the starting area had the usual pre-race energy: instant coffee in paper cups, runners comparing poles, and a few people insisting their old shoes were “good enough for anything”.

My plan was conservative. I would hold back on the first climb, eat early and walk steep sections before fatigue made the decision for me. The target was a steady day rather than an impressive split. That sounded sensible at the start, although the first kilometre encouraged exactly the opposite behaviour.

The Course Changed Underfoot

The opening section was runnable, with firm gravel and broad fire trails leading into wet eucalyptus forest. Within half an hour, the surface narrowed into single track. The mud was not uniform. Some patches had the soft, harmless feel of garden soil; others swallowed half a shoe and held it there while the rest of my body continued forward.

The first real descent exposed every weakness in my footing. My poles helped with balance, but they could not make a slick root less slick. I began placing each step deliberately, looking two metres ahead instead of staring at the runner in front. A few people passed me with the confidence of mountain goats. I let them go. In those conditions, speed was often just a different form of risk.

By the second aid station, the rain had soaked through my gloves and the course markings were harder to spot through the dripping branches. Volunteers were doing excellent work, shouting directions and warning us about a deep rut near a creek crossing. The usual Australian trail concerns were present too: slippery rocks, fallen branches and the possibility of snakes seeking dry ground, although the cold, wet morning kept that particular anxiety mostly theoretical.

The track eventually became a series of puddles connected by mud. Avoiding them wasted energy, so I stopped trying. Once my shoes were wet, the goal shifted from staying dry to keeping my feet moving and preventing hot spots. That small mental adjustment made the middle section far easier.

Fuel, Focus, And Small Decisions

I started eating after about forty minutes, alternating between a carbohydrate drink, gels and small pieces of banana from the aid stations. The local event food was simple and familiar rather than elaborate: water, electrolyte mix, fruit, lollies and savoury snacks. That suited me. In cold rain, I found that solid food was easier to tolerate than relying entirely on sweet gels.

The biggest mistake came just before halfway. I felt strong on a runnable fire trail and increased the pace without noticing. My heart rate climbed, my breathing became less relaxed, and I spent the next climb paying for a decision that had gained almost no time. Endurance racing has a way of turning tiny acts of impatience into long negotiations.

At the halfway checkpoint, I took the time to refill, change gloves and inspect my feet. One heel was beginning to sting, so I applied lubricant and adjusted the lacing. The stop cost several minutes, but it probably saved much more. I also checked the course updates on the race board. A short section had been redirected around a flooded crossing, adding distance but reducing exposure to fast-moving water.

The second half became a practice in narrowing attention. I stopped thinking about the finish and focused on the next marker, the next mouthful, and the next stable patch of ground. That approach resembles long work projects more than it resembles heroic sport. Progress came from repeating useful actions while refusing to dramatise every uncomfortable moment.

The Kit And Habits Worth Repeating

My gear was not glamorous, but most of it worked. A lightweight waterproof shell kept the rain from becoming a constant drain on body temperature, while a cap stopped water running directly into my eyes. My trail shoes had a moderately aggressive tread, though the clay eventually overwhelmed any promise of perfect grip. Before future races, I would also compare local availability and sizing through trail gear specialists rather than leaving an important purchase until the week before the event.

The items I would pack again are straightforward:

The habits mattered as much as the equipment. I kept my phone in a waterproof pouch, took photos only at safe stopping points and followed the event’s instructions around private property and closed areas. Australian races often cross a mixture of public reserve, state-managed land and private access roads, so wandering off course is more than a navigation mistake.

The routines I would repeat are just as practical:

That last point was the most important. Rain changes traction, visibility, clothing weight and decision-making. It also changes the time required at aid stations. A finish-time plan built for dry conditions is not a plan; it is a wish wearing numbers.

The Finish Was A Measure Of Adaptation

The final ten kilometres were a slow contest between tired muscles and stubborn optimism. My quads had lost their spring, and every downhill required concentration. I passed runners who had gone out too hard, then watched two of them catch me again after I spent too long picking a cautious line through a boggy section. The race kept moving around us, rewarding patience in one place and decisiveness in another.

Near the finish, the trail opened onto a wet grass field. Spectators stood in rain jackets and muddy boots, clapping as runners emerged from the trees. I wanted to run strongly for the last few hundred metres, but the ground was slick enough that I chose a controlled shuffle. There was no value in turning a successful ultra into a fall beside the finish arch.

Crossing the line felt less like defeating the weather than accepting it. The result was slower than my original dry-course estimate, yet the experience was more valuable because it demanded adjustments at every level: pace, kit, fuelling, navigation and expectations. Grit was not a dramatic surge near the end. It was the decision to keep making sensible choices after the day stopped feeling enjoyable.

Back at the car, I removed muddy shoes, changed into dry clothes and found a hot coffee from a nearby roving van. That small Australian race-day ritual felt luxurious. The practical takeaway was simple: for a wet trail ultra, protect your feet, fuel before fatigue, slow down before the course forces you to, and measure success by the quality of your decisions as much as by the time on the watch.