Running 200 Miles: An Ultra Marathon Experience

Last year, I found myself caught in a lightning storm while running 100 miles around Mount Kosciusko. I chatted with another runner during the chaos, and she mentioned a race in Western Australia that was even longer. “You have to do that!” she urged. “The food is amazing, and people have shared some pretty horrendous toe photos.”

Intrigued, I learned that this race, known as Delirious West, involved completing a 200-mile run in one go.

So why run 200 miles? For me, it’s about the adventure and uncovering new layers of myself.

Ultra marathons, longer than the standard 42km marathon, are gaining traction. These races typically range from 50km to 100km, and some even extend to 100 miles (or 160km), with 200 miles (340km) being a peculiar subset. While marathons often take about three to four hours, a 100km race can stretch to around 15 hours, and a 200-mile run? Well, that can exceed 100 hours.

Australia once had three 200-mile races—the sunny south, the unpredictable east, and the anxious west—each usually attracting around 50 to 100 participants. This year, only the Delirious West remained.

The race format is straightforward. I’ve been running 200 miles along the Bibbulmun Track from Northcliff to Albany, although I rerouted this year due to bushfires. Along the course, there are about 20 aid stations.

Most runners aim to catch a few hours of sleep each night, but others manage barely any. It’s a mix of running and hiking. Yet, aside from the obvious challenges, there’s no secret formula—just keep moving forward.

I’ve heard that consistency is key. In early 2025, I often began my training runs at 4 am, tackling 5 to 6 hours of running up and down a steep 400m hill by the Yarra River in Melbourne. But as for the actual race, it felt like stepping into the unknown.

We kicked off on a Wednesday morning underneath a massive tingle tree in a grove of towering gum trees. Just a few hours before the race, nerves were high. I adjusted my gear, made some last-minute changes to my backpack, and shared a anxious laugh with a fellow runner. I thought to myself, “Let’s just get to the first aid station.”

By 10 am, we were off. The trail was enveloped in cheers, and it felt like a relief. The first 100 km zigzagged through lush, humid forests and along sandy beach dunes. The hills weren’t steep, but the dragging sand could sap your energy quickly. Our group pushed ahead, celebrating each milestone.

Just before dawn on Thursday morning, after around 18 hours of running, I finally reached my first sleeping spot. I lay down, but my mind wouldn’t settle. On the bright side, the waffles were outstanding.

In the next segment, I attempted a couple of “stain naps.” There was a humorous sign saying, “Don’t mind me, I’m just taking a dirty nap.” I set it down beside the trail and attempted to rest on the forest floor, yet my mind was still buzzing.

However, lying down did bring a brief respite, and as I resumed my jog beneath the towering trees, I felt buoyed by the sights around me. The environment transitioned from forest to farmland to majestic cliffs by the sea. At a notable aid station near the cliffs, I felt a rush, realizing I was nearing halfway as I jogged along a moonlit beach. A jet skier greeted me at the estuary, and I hopped on for a quick ride across the water, leaping back onto the sand.

The second night fell, and I arrived at an aid station called Peaceful Bay. Exhausted and pained, I finally collapsed onto a camp bed and dozed off.

About 40 minutes later, around 1 am, I jumped back up, energized and eager to continue.

Having been on the move for around 35 hours by this point, I was nearing the end of my second night. It started to feel like a job; strangely enough, it felt right. I felt more robust on day three than on day one. After hitting several aid stations, my legs were responding well. But as I entered the third night, the experience grew surreal. I ran along a coastal road, observing a massive spider weaving webs, and found a cobweb enmeshed in my hair. There were tiny frogs everywhere, and I worried I might accidentally step on one. Hallucinations began creeping in.

Oddly enough, I lost track of why I was even racing and began mulling over deeper questions about purpose—am I exploring the path or conducting research? Logically, I should have rested, but I kept pressing on.

About 20 km from the finish, I hit a wall. By that point, I had run around 310 km and had barely stopped, clocking in around 64 hours. I felt physically drained, and my mind was spiraling as I grappled with feelings of despair.

Then, something clicked. I decided to break the remaining distance into 100m segments. I kept asking myself, “Can I do the next 100m?” and the answer was always yes, so I carried on.

I finally crossed the finish line in Albany at 7:45 am—almost three days after I’d begun. I clocked in at 69 hours, securing third place.

I took on this challenge to discover more about who I am. It was incredible to find out what I was capable of.

And yes, I’ll admit, I didn’t like those toe photos one bit.