Field Notes · The unglamorous bits

The bits that don't make Strava.

Tents. Kit chaos. Sunburn. Foot rot. Sleep deprivation. The small, gory, gloriously stupid details nobody warns you about — and the ones I wish someone had told me first.

— Why this page exists

What follows is not a brochure. It's the bits I wish I'd seen before my first race. The tent you'll share with strangers, who will become friends for life. The kit you'll pile up and despair at. The face you'll pull at hour fifteen. The hand-written nutrition spreadsheet that becomes your religion for a week.

You will question your decisions. You will look ridiculous. At times, the ground will genuinely smell better than you do. And yet — you'll keep going.

If any of it puts you off, you're probably making the right call. If it makes you smile — even slightly — keep reading.

/01Sleeping

Your luxury suite.

Filed
Multiple races

Average sleep
4–6 hours

Average dignity
Day 1: intact
Day 5: gone

Welcome to multi-stage ultras, where your luxury suite is roughly two square feet of flat ground — if you're lucky — and shared with five strangers, four of whom snore.

You'll learn to identify your sleeping mat by touch in the dark. You'll get surprisingly good at putting on socks while lying down. By day three, the ground genuinely smells better than you do, and that's fine.

The first night, you'll lie awake wondering what you've done. The last night, you'll lie awake because you know it's nearly over.

Inside a multi-stage race tent, sleeping bags spread across the floor, kit piled at the edges — Tent · day five

Inside a multi-stage race tent, sleeping mats laid out, kit beginning to spread — Day 1 · still hopeful

Tent with organised kit, race bib 42, water bottles lined up — The illusion of order

A pile of jumbled kit, sleeping bags, water bottles, dry bags — Day 5 · pure chaos

"By day four you'll start having full conversations with your kit pile.
By day six the kit pile will start answering." — A field observation

/02The Kit

Everything you need. On your back.

Total weight
8 kg+

Mandatory items
~30+

Items you'll regret packing
Always at least 3

Self-supported means you carry everything. Sleeping bag. Mattress. A week of food. Salt tablets. The blister kit you swear you won't need. The blister kit you will absolutely need on day two.

You'll lay it all out a week before and feel briefly competent. Then you'll repack it eleven times. Add things. Take them out. Add them back in. Arrive at the start line and realise you forgot something basic — like a teaspoon — and decide it's probably character building.

The kit photos make it look calm. Intentional. Controlled.

The reality is piles. Sub-piles. A ziplock bag of mystery powder. And at least one item you don't remember packing but are now fully responsible for carrying across a desert.

Multi-day race food prepped in ziplock bags laid out across a treadmill, with a hand-written daily nutrition plan — Treadmill · doing other duties

Full self-supported race kit laid out: pack, sleeping bag, food, mandatory equipment — The kit, organised

Nutrition for 7 days laid out: gels, dehydrated meals, oats, hand-written daily plan — 7 days of fuel

Daily food bags being packed into ziplocks alongside a hand-written calorie spreadsheet — Day-by-day · calorie maths

/03The Middle

Somewhere in the middle.

Status report
Mid-stage

Decision-making
Questionable

Smell
Worsening

Morale
Fluctuating

Still moving
Yes

There's always a point where this stops being a good idea.

It's usually not dramatic. No injury. No big moment. Just a slow, creeping certainty that you could be literally anywhere else and life would be easier.

You'll do maths. How far left. How long it would take to just… stop. You'll convince yourself you're being sensible.

Then you'll eat something, drink something, stand up again — and carry on like nothing happened.

This will repeat. Multiple times. Daily.

Lisa mid-stage at RTP Namibia 2024, sweat-stained, exhausted, race bib 38, in 50°C heat under a race tent — Namibia · RTP · 2024 · 50°C+

"Strong case for quitting. Weak follow-through.
Eat. Walk. Reconsider life choices. Repeat." — A field observation

/04The Face

Paying to look like this.

Cost
Substantial

Frequency
Repeatedly

Intervention
Pending

This is what the inside of a multi-stage ultra looks like when it makes it to the surface. Wind. Sun. Salt. Dust. And the faint surprise of still being upright on day five.

None of these photos are flattering. That's the point. If your race photos look glossy, you either weren't trying very hard — or you've found a much better photographer than I ever have.

At some point around day three, you'll notice it in other people first — the same look on every face. Then you'll realise you look exactly the same. That's normal.

Slightly stripped back. Less polished. More useful. You'll understand why later.

Hair blown wild over a face mid-race, head down, kit on — HOT · turn off the oven

Cold and exhausted in a tent, hooded jacket pulled up, glasses on — COLD · the other extreme

A knee with extensive purple and yellow bruising — BATTERED & BRUISED · my left leg doesn't like me

Cuts and grazes down a leg, dried blood, war wounds from a race — BATTERED & BRUISED · my left leg doesn't like me

"This seemed like a better idea on the sofa." — Lessons from the field

Still reading?

Then you're probably ready.

If none of this put you off — or even better, if some of it made you grin — that's a good sign. The kind of person who can laugh at the gory bits is the kind of person who finishes.

Let's talk about your race →