Day 3 of attempting to run the North Coast 500

An honest account of the day 3 struggles.

I had another terrible night of sleep, which surprised me. By this point, I assumed my body would be so wrecked that I’d just crash. But no. The night sweats were relentless, and it took me ages to drift off. Still, I woke up fewer times than the night before, so I clung to that small win.

The alarm went off at 4 a.m., and I was up without question. Rebecca helped me get sorted and by now, we had the morning routine down. The swelling in my feet had reduced, they’d dried out overnight, and looked pretty much back to normal. I was out the door by 4:45.

I had a 15-minute walk planned to give myself time to eat my Squares bar and start running by 5 a.m. Thankfully, the rain had finally stopped and from what I remember, the wind had eased off.

The first stretch was a massive descent, which also helped me appreciate just how big the previous night’s climb had been. I hadn’t seen it in the dark. I was headed toward Ullapool, feeling strong, focused, and motivated. A little stiff, yes, but ready to make up miles. The record was still on my mind… doing it for the girls, proving I was an athlete, not just a "female" athlete. Not second best.

I was flying. No lie. I stuck to walking while eating, but my running pace averaged under 5:30/km. I had my tunes on, I felt light and free on the downhills, and though my hip was giving a little niggle, it wasn’t anything worrying. Mentally, I was in a good place.

About 17km in, I stopped at the motorhome for a toilet break. We’d held off on medication to keep my system functioning as normally as possible during a long event, but it was time for the Imodium (runners, you know). I couldn’t lose another day to that.

I got going again. I felt a bit nauseous but figured that was normal by this stage. I stopped once more for a final urgent toilet break and, on leaving the motorhome, I threw up. Again, not entirely unusual in endurance events.

The next 30 minutes are a blur. It was only after debriefing with my coach that I remembered throwing up. I think I stumbled or tripped, probably over my own feet, classic Saz, and we think that’s when I badly injured my shin, though it was presenting as hip pain. I remember walking, gasping for air, wanting so badly to stop. When I saw Doug next, I was sobbing. Just 30 minutes earlier, I’d been flying. Now I was in pieces.

I took some time in the motorhome to reset. I didn’t know what was wrong, which made it worse. In hindsight, it was the pain that completely overwhelmed me, and I guess my subconscious would have realised what that meant even if I wasn’t aware of it at the time. The second motorhome joined us, and Rebecca got ready to bike beside me. The new goal: make it to Ullapool.

The pain made everything harder, especially managing the sensory overload.

I want to share this part in depth because I hope it helps others feel seen in their own experiences.

As soon as I stepped out of the safety of the van, the constant stream of cars zooming by, over and over, became overwhelming. A high verge on one side amplified the noise, and knowing someone was behind me on a bike for protection felt like both a blessing and a curse. It helped slow the traffic, which was a relief, but it also added another layer to the sensory overload, not that I could express that at the time.

I could feel myself stimming, struggling to regulate my nervous system. My threat response was fully activated, and there seemed to be no way to calm it while I was still out there in the traffic. Every car that passed felt like it was brushing my shoulder and shouting in my ear. The verge seemed endless, trapping and echoing the sounds, making it all worse. I couldn’t shift my focus, and as my body temperature began to rise, the urge to bang my head on something, anything, grew stronger. Not in a self-harming way, but as part of an autistic meltdown.

Externally, nothing had changed from the previous days. In fact, conditions were better- the rain had stopped, and I’d already dealt with busy roads. But this time, it was just too much.

I had to get off the road. I could feel the stress and anxiety radiating from some of my crew. I understood it, but it only made me try harder to hide what I was feeling. Yet there was no hiding it.

I tried so hard to suppress the meltdown. I couldn’t let it fully happen because I didn’t want anyone to see me that way. And somewhere inside, I knew that the energy and time a full-blown meltdown would take would only push me further from finishing.

I spent some time in the van, and my crew held me tightly to help ground me and regulate my nervous system. Alongside stimming and using my grounding techniques, I managed to calm down, remarkably quickly for me, but even that was draining. It took a lot of energy not just to regulate, but to allow myself to unmask, even briefly, and let go in the way I so badly needed to.

I ended up taking two hours in the van to rest and get some sleep. At first, I hadn’t wanted to stay there because I could still hear the traffic outside, which continued to distress me. I just wanted to escape the noise completely, but I put on my headphones and got a little bit sleep.

Somehow, I got going again. Looking back I have no idea how.

I walked into Ullapool and saw my first dog in 200 miles !!! A much-needed lift. I was walking, but I was moving. I hadn’t let on how much pain I was in (that becomes a running theme for the next day and a half).

The scenery was beautiful. I was slow, but I was progressing. I tried running on the flatter parts, which, if you know the NC, aren’t many. Just rolling hills.

Time was becoming abstract. I had no sense of it anymore. Not really during the day, and really when there was a change in light, early morning or approaching dusk.

Some key things I remember from that stretch:

• I started my period. Apparently common in high-stress endurance events, but unexpected and, honestly, annoying. Just another thing to deal with. I couldn’t control that, only how I responded.
  
  

• I believed I could control the weather by keeping my long-sleeved top on. If I took it off, it would rain. I had convinced myself I had this level of power lol. So I overheated for a while. It makes me laugh now.
  
  

• I saw more dogs and stopped to pet them. Moral boost.
  
  

• I gave up chasing the overall record. It was too much pressure. I shifted focus to giving the best performance I could.
  
  

• I called someone from my support team (the only person I spoke to outside the crew and strangers on the route) for a pep talk about letting the record go.
  
  

• I got a bit grumpy. No surprise there.
  
  

• There was a cute team walk with Doug, Molly, Rebecca, and my dad before they had dinner and handed over to the nightshift.

  

  
  
  

Then the night shift began. These moments stick more clearly in my mind I think probably because of the change in crew and energy.

I was hurting. Badly. But I didn’t communicate it.

I’d used poles most of Day 3 ( I’ve since been told they are apparently not allowed by Guinness World Records, which I didn’t know, so I wouldn't have gotten a record even if I had finished…but I do need to check this). By nightfall, the poles were the only thing helping me maintain a rhythm. I’d gotten into a habit of counting “1 to 8” in my head like a metronome, which, annoyingly, I still catch myself doing when walking now, but the first 2 weeks post-event, I was doing this loads.

Doug joined me on and off, helping me stay distracted and moving. The views were once again stunning. I regret not taking photos, but they’re snapped in my memory.

The biggest drama that night? I dropped an AirPod. I hadn’t realised it was gone. I had to take my hood down to hear Doug better, which I think must have dislodged it. By the time I noticed, it was too late. Doug found it… but it had been run over. RIP.

Toward the end of the night, I just wanted to reach the motorhome. The closer I got, the more I struggled mentally. If I’d had five more hours to go, I might’ve been fine, but almost being there made it worse.

Doug stuck with me for the final stretch, especially after catching me walking backwards down a hill. I’d been hiding the pain, but downhill was agony and I was walking faster backwards on descents.

When I finally got to the motorhome, I just wanted to crawl into bed. I was sensory overloaded and probably not the most polite or good company, despite trying. I used baby wipes instead of facing a cold shower and got into bed as fast as I could, completely done in and hoping that rest would dull the pain ready for whatever day 4 brought….

Was I ready though ????