My first 24-hour ultra and the lessons on pacing

Until I entered this event, my longest continuous effort was a 50-kilometre trail race, which felt more like a respectable limit than a training target. The 24-hour race was a different proposition: distance was secondary, the clock did the deciding, and every stop carried a cost in the final result. I signed up with a deliberately modest goal of staying upright, moving when I could, and making it to the closing bell.

The course was a 5.2-kilometre loop through parkland and residential streets on Melbourne’s western edge. An aid station beside the community hall meant I passed it every lap, while the official 7pm start and 7pm finish let me run through one full Australian summer day. That schedule sounded helpful until I realised the hard part would arrive with daylight, traffic and rising heat.

I arrived nervous but overprepared, with a running pack, spare socks, headlamp, number bib and a bag containing far more food than I intended to eat. My plan was to run easily, replace what I drank, and take a short sleep before sunrise. The plan made sense on paper; at midnight, when a single lap felt longer than the previous three, it felt like a list of problems waiting to happen.

I finished at 6:58pm with 163.8 kilometres recorded and a blister on one heel that I had ignored for too long. The distance had never been my target, so reaching it felt satisfying, yet the race exposed a clear weakness: I started too quickly, then spent too much of the second half trying to recover time I had lost in the first. The failure was not fitness alone. It was pacing.

The first six hours felt almost too easy

By 1am I had covered 42 kilometres and felt as if the night was slipping away. The loop looked forgiving, the temperature was mild, and I repeatedly found myself increasing the pace whenever I returned to the aid station. My legs were not failing, so I mistook smoothness for sustainability. In a 24-hour ultra, feeling good early is useful evidence, but it is not proof that the effort is cheap.

The mistake became obvious at midnight, when the distance was near 74 kilometres but I was already alternating between running and a weary shuffle. I had covered almost half of my eventual total in less than a quarter of the available time. Nothing dramatic had happened; the early kilometres had simply been spent too quickly. I began leaving the aid station with less urgency, which immediately made the loop feel calmer and more controlled.

The dark brought a different kind of tired

Once the temperature dropped, tiredness moved from my legs into my attention. The headlamp picked out kerbs, painted lines and the sharp edges of path markings that seemed to multiply after midnight. A light drizzle settled over Melbourne, and the familiar suburbs looked unfamiliar under a narrow circle of light. I found myself listening for footsteps behind me, even though other runners were spread around the loop.

Fatigue at night also magnified small problems. My heel began rubbing, music that usually helped became irritating, and every trip to the aid station required more mental effort than it should have. I stopped trying to solve all of those issues at once. I walked the final section into the station, drank, checked my feet and started again without drama. The walk was not a failure of pacing; it was a way of keeping the next lap simple.

The short sleep that almost backfired

My first serious error of judgement was delaying sleep. At 3:30am, I had passed 100 kilometres and was slowing on every loop. I had planned a power nap at midnight, but used that time to keep moving. By the time I finally stopped, my decision-making had become noticeably poorer: I could not decide whether to eat, change a sock or begin the next lap. I sat beside the hall for 22 minutes and set an alarm.

Waking did not produce an instant recovery. My mouth was dry, my calves cramped and my legs felt heavier than before. Sleep gave me clearer judgement, but I had treated it as optional rather than part of pacing. A scheduled short sleep can protect decision-making; an improvised nap after exhaustion may cost more at the restart. Ten easy minutes to walk, drink and settle made a noticeable difference.

Melbourne’s daylight exposed the early decision

Sunrise found me near 112 kilometres, and Melbourne’s summer began presenting its harder side. The overnight cool eased, a northerly wind pushed against the exposed parkland, and the temperature climbed towards the low thirties. The shared paths became busier with cyclists, dog walkers and people heading to work. Keeping an eye on bikes while running on narrow sections became part of the job.

My pace dropped, and for a while I resisted accepting the change. I had built the early kilometres around a faster rhythm, so the slower daylight loop felt like evidence that I was falling behind. I switched from chasing a target pace to managing effort in segments: run until the aid station, walk for a drink, then run again. A damp bandana, regular fluids and shorter efforts protected my stride and kept discomfort from becoming a crisis.

Fuelling the clock rather than chasing kilometres

By breakfast, my appetite had narrowed to the thought of food without the desire to eat it. I had brought muesli bars, gels and rice balls, yet the thought of another gel made me nauseous. The aid table offered a familiar Australian spread: Milo, bananas, supermarket muesli bars, soft bread with jelly and sultanas. The food was easier to tolerate, and I ate slowly while walking rather than forcing a large meal after sitting down.

From there, I settled into small feeds every 30 to 40 minutes and drank according to thirst, using an electrolyte drink rather than plain water alone. I also walked the final part of each loop while checking my feet and swallowing something. The aid station became part of my pacing. Standing, drinking and eating created a regular rhythm, so I no longer viewed every stop as lost time. Arriving at the next loop under control did more for the total than trying to run faster.

The pacing rule I kept

At the final bell, I had covered 163.8 kilometres and was still able to hobble back to the community hall. My feet were a mess, and I had lost count of how many times I had questioned whether another lap was possible. The organisers had started a sausage sizzle, a familiar Australian race-day ritual, and the smell of grilled onions made the finish feel strangely ordinary. Other runners sat under the shade, comparing distances and describing the parts of the course they would remember differently.

The clearest lesson was that speed in the opening hours was not the same as good pacing. I had confused a fast start with a prepared one, ignored early fatigue and treated sleep as something to earn. I also tried to make up time through effort, when the better response was to reduce the cost of each kilometre. My strongest loops were not especially fast; they were the ones where I arrived at the aid station with enough control to make another sensible decision.

The same pattern appears in long professional projects. A frantic opening phase can look productive while consuming the energy and attention needed for steady execution. A sustainable pace, regular pauses and recovery before it becomes urgent are not signs of low ambition. They are what allow difficult work to continue when novelty disappears and the middle phase becomes uncomfortable.

My practical takeaway is deliberately unglamorous: keep the opening effort below what pride wants, eat and drink on schedule, and take planned sleep before exhaustion ruins judgement. The strongest pace in a 24-hour ultra is the one that leaves enough in reserve to keep moving when the race becomes difficult.