Race report: My first ultra on a technical single track

Signing up for my first ultra combined confidence with optimism. I had completed road half marathons and long trail runs around Melbourne, but I had never remained responsible for staying upright, fed and sensible across 50 kilometres. The race ran through the Dandenong Ranges east of the city, where runners passed through eucalyptus forest, scrub and repeated climbs instead of joining a fast road pack.

The course covered 50 kilometres and roughly 1,300 metres of elevation. Most of it followed narrow singletrack, with roots, loose stones and slick sections that made a smooth stride impossible. Aid stations appeared every eight to ten kilometres, while the route included exposed climbs where the tree cover disappeared and no support was visible for long stretches.

My target was to finish inside the nine-hour cutoff without walking the entire distance, preferably with enough energy to eat and speak normally afterwards. I treated the race as a sequence of ten-kilometre problems rather than one 50-kilometre test. That plan was sound until the terrain and my own pace complicated it.

Preparation focused on terrain rather than distance

Over six weeks, I replaced one steady road run each weekend with a hilly trail outing, adding stair repeats around Melbourne’s eastern suburbs and a 24-kilometre route with more than 900 metres of vertical gain. Long runs finished with brisk downhill running, because the Dandenongs reward efficient feet on the descents. I also practised filling flasks, changing socks and eating a gel in the dark.

I downloaded the route map, printed a small course note and walked two unfamiliar junctions on foot. The reconnaissance showed why pacing mattered: several climbs looked harmless on the profile but steepened near the top, while the marked track occasionally crossed a creek bed hidden by ferns. For an Australian race, checking fire bans and access notices mattered as much as studying pace data; a trail can close quickly when conditions change.

Australian summer shaped the aid strategy

The start was scheduled for 6:15 a.m., when the forecast promised 27°C and a high near 35°C. That is manageable for a road event, but warm forest, still air and a long time between aid stations make thirst easy to underestimate. I left home with a full water bottle and planned to refill early rather than celebrate every checkpoint.

Support tables carried the familiar Australian race-day spread of orange juice, sports drink, gels, salted pretzels and watermelon, plus plenty of ice. I used the ice without embarrassment, carrying a soft flask and two refill points in a small running vest. The drinks were ordinary supermarket basics rather than exotic fuel, which suited my stomach. Drinking at every station, even when I felt fine, kept the later fatigue from arriving as a surprise.

Like many Australian trail events, the race shared its corridors with walkers and mountain bikers. Volunteers reminded us to follow the posted priority signs, give way at blind corners and stay behind the course tape, even when a tempting connector looked shorter. It was a simple version of trail etiquette: leave the route exactly as the organisers intend because the same narrow tracks remain a community recreation space throughout the year.

The middle hours exposed my opening pace

I covered the first 12 kilometres in 1 hour 9 minutes, faster than my conservative plan. The early singletrack was runnable, and other runners moved steadily, so matching them felt effortless. My heart rate was higher than it should have been, but I ignored it because the clock looked good and the next climb appeared manageable. Looking back, this was where the race was quietly lost.

By 22 kilometres, my pace had slowed and the gaps to the runners behind had opened. Climb sections had become short walks, while descents demanded care rather than speed. At an aid station I sat down for four minutes and felt alarm when a runner I had passed two hours earlier came through. Stopping briefly was still better than forcing an effort that would produce another early finish and a slower tail.

At 34 kilometres, I rolled my right ankle on a root hidden under leaf litter. It was not a serious sprain, but sharp pain appeared on every off-camber step and made descents awkward. I shortened my stride, used both poles and accepted a walking pace for the next climb. Instead of hiding the problem, I told the aid-station volunteer, checked the remaining distance and made a simple decision: finish the next five kilometres without another stop.

Gear helped when decisions stayed simple

My trail shoes were the right choice, but the thin socks I had bought from a Melbourne trail shop were not. Heat and grit caused a blister by 27 kilometres, and I changed socks at the 30-kilometre drop bag, adding tape before the damaged area worsened. The spare pair, ordinary merino socks from an Australian outdoor retailer, mattered more than any specialised accessory.

My vest held a 1.5-litre reservoir, a 500-millilitre soft flask, gels, a basic phone and a small first-aid kit. Before the race, I had browsed a range of activity tracker bracelets and ordered a simple wrist band to monitor movement between aid stations, though the watch on my wrist remained more useful for pace. Carrying less would have felt better, but the reservoir gave me confidence that I could keep drinking when heat and effort reduced my judgement.

Finishing changed my approach to endurance

I crossed the finish in 8 hours 3 minutes, 57 minutes inside the cutoff. The final kilometre felt cautious rather than triumphant: my legs were heavy, my mouth was dry and I had to remind myself to keep moving through a flat section that should have been easy. Yet the clock, timing chip and volunteers’ cheers confirmed what my body had negotiated over the previous eight hours. It was a modest-looking number on paper and an enormous personal milestone.

The race gave me a clearer view of long-term execution. Fresh enthusiasm had carried me into an opening pace that consumed the margin I would need later; steady recovery, sensible refuelling and honest decisions created the margin that remained. This carries beyond sport. A demanding project can lose hours to small early commitments, while regular course corrections protect the outcome. Patience was not passive here. It was the method that allowed me to keep making good choices when everything became uncomfortable.

The lessons from the Dandenongs were practical: train on the terrain you will actually race, respect Australian fire-season logistics, refill before thirst arrives and adjust when the first plan no longer fits the ground. Technical footing rewards patience because it punishes urgency in two ways. It raises the risk of a fall, and it drains energy long before the finish.

What I want to remember is the quiet arithmetic of the day. I finished because early speed left me enough margin to slow down, and because I treated discomfort as information rather than an instruction to abandon the plan. The durable lesson was simple: respect the ground, preserve your margin and keep making the next sensible choice.