I entered the MUT 100km race a while back, Iām not entirely sure why. I mean it was something that I wanted to do, and I was excited by it, but I didnāt really have a concise and clear reason as to why I entered.
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Itās also the thing that many people asked when they found out that I was going to do it. And āto finishā really isnāt an adequate response. This is a little piece of writing about why I would do something like this, and why you could too. Not in a motivational, "Just Do Itā - Shia Labeouf kind of way, but trying to shed some light and clarity on running 100km as a normal human with a life outside of running.
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Letās take it right back: I started running around April 2021. I had run quite a lot during School days due to hockey - but after matriculating in 2012 I hardly ran, and was rather dismissive of it. I got back into it after hiking the Otter Trail and wanting to spend more time in the mountains, and quickly fell in love with trail running around Cape Town.
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Look - yes Iām waffling here, but I feel that itās good context. Stay with me here, itās going somewhere. Next comes Damo, a dear friend is the next important character to introduce here.
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So thereās two ways to run an ultra marathon:
- A-Type science: measure everything. Calculate your sweat rates to know how much electrolytes to drink per hour, VO2 max, resting heart rates, Zone 2, 75km weeks, HRV monitoring, sleep tracking, lactate thresholds and so on and so forth.
- Damoās way: love being in the mountains, always have fun, donāt run every day, take in the views, use you mind more than your body, everything is an adventure, laugh and enjoy the experience.
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Yes, if you want to win races - option 1 is probably what youāre going to choose. Yet I donāt think that most people want to win races, they just want to move with ease through beautiful mountains for a long time. And they want to have a life that contains other joys, people, activities and work.
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I canāt really remember my first run with Damo. Although I do remember the first time I went fast packing with him. Iāll give you the very short version here: we set off from Sanddrif in the Cederberg late (6pm) in the middle of winter with a massive cold front coming in. Rain hit at 9pm (sideways, freezing rain) and we made it to Sleeppad hut at 11pm. We were rained in until 2pm the next day (with some snow to be seen). We went up Sneeuberg the next day. Not according to plan, but one of the most memorable adventures of my life.
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Since then he led me on other fastpacking and running trips around the country. Then I planned a few. My natural A-Type predisposition balanced and tamed by his adventurous and intuitive way of doing things. Something that I believe was the key to the MUT 100k.
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Damo has done a number of 100 milers, and supporting him through UTCT (for which he hardly trained in most peopleās eyes) I could see how it was his mind that kept him going. And it got me thinking, maybe ultra marathons can basically just be a mental game?
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Alright - thatās the preamble done. Grab a tea/coffee/beer.
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I had a fairly strong running base coming into 2025: had run a handful of marathons, the UTCT 55km and UTD 64km. For UTD I was deep into a year long ITB struggle and just power hiked the whole thing. Something that I think everyone should try - youād be surprised how fast you can go if you consistently fast hike at less than 12 minutes/km (which is the cutoff for most ultras).
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Training for MUT 100k looked like this:
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- Pretty much nothing over 25km in a week
- One long week where we went to the Cederberg for the āGreatest Easter Egg Hunt of All Timeā and ran 73km over three days
- I ran every week - even if just once or twice
- I tried to do 10 minutes of kettle bell exercise after each run
- I went to the gym a few times in the last two months before the race
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I did some strength training: with kettle bells at home for 10 minutes after a run, and then went to the gym about 7 times in the last two months. This helped so much, I feel like you get more bang for your buck with strength training than you think.
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All in all - I didnāt train incredibly hard. I just tried to live my life, do an activity every day. Surf, hike, socialise, work, sleep well. Basically, just an active life.
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I listened to a podcast called Science of Ultra, which had some nuggets of wisdom in there. Much of it is A-Type anxiety inducing science from coaches, but the episodes that Shawn just monologs about his Buddhist-esque running philosophy is truly gold.
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Mentally there was training too. I canāt underestimate meditation enough when it comes to training the mind. The Waking Up app really is a fantastic resource here. I ended my job at the end of April and was stress free in May, which meant that I was going into the race calm. The week before I went up to my parents in Knysna and slept for 10 - 12 hours a night, probably something that did more good than running 60km per week could ever do.
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Itās 4am, Cait and I are driving to the start, listening to the worldās most unhinged playlist. The week before I had made a collaborate playlist and asked friends to add any songs that they choose that would help get me through when times got hard. Safe to say that the most rogue, disjointed and powerful playlist in history was born.
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Start line - vibes are high. A tiny crescent moon in the night sky. You know the drill, countdown and everyone starts running.
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At risk of this becoming a book Iām going to just hit the highlights, you can fill in the blanks with:
- I was running or hiking
- Looking at the beautiful Outeniqua mountain
- Chatting with people
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Weāre nearing the end of the first long climb. The body is feeling good. Poles are out and Iām marching up the final few hundred meters before we crest the mountains that hug George. The sun is going to rise any moment now and the energy amongst the runners is tangible.
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Dawn breaks. The sky is clear, itās warm - everything is perfect. The top of the mountain comes into view and there are some spectators at the top: huge vibe. Except they donāt seem to be interested in the runners, which is peculiar. I honestly couldnāt imagine why they would be up here at sunrise on a Saturday morning, somewhat put off by all the runners coming past. I get closer and the sight gets more bizarre: four middle aged men driving remote control Land Cruisers and other scale replicas of their dream vehicles over a small rock and filming one another.
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With a smile I sneak a photo as I go past:
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At the bottom of the descent is the first aid station at 15km. Robert le Brun (Brundle) is commentating on the microphone here and always ensures an enormous vibe. Brundle got Damo into running longer races, so I kind of view him as the proxy Grand Uncle of my running career. He catches on to the fact that itās my birthday today (oh, did I mention that it was my birthday) and sends me off with a song.
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Itās just endless mountains and trail. Something of a mixture between the Drakensberg and Cederberg. Undulating green with with fynbos as far as the eye can see.
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Itās runnable, like very runnable. Trail running in Cape Town is so technical that when youāre faced with a trail without ankle breaking loose rocks or sheer ledges it feels almost like a different sport.
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I plodded along at a consistent pace. Running the flats and gentle descents and power hiking the climbs.
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Herold wines is the next aid station. And where I kind of where I found the aid station rhythm that continued for the rest of the race. Cait, my parents, brother and Dan were there to greet me. Cait had baked the famous cardamon cake and I sat down amongst them and we had an excited conversation about what had happened thus far. Cait came into her own as my super support team and forced me to eat a couple toasted cheese and tomato sandwiches. Refilled water, with a new tailwind sachet in the bladder and revive in the flasks. After about twenty minutes I bid them farewell and headed off into the looming mountains. Dan had spoke about a climb called āDizzy Heightsā that I was about to do, and she had done in the 60km race in previous years. It loomed in the distance.
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After a while our trail converged with another trail and with it came a herd of runners doing the marathon. The climb began and I slotted into line behind the hundreds of runners and the kilometres floated by.
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Photos can never truly capture the feeling of a trail like this. Snaking up an impossibly steep face with a seemingly sheer drop always on your side. Yet a path that instills confidence in every step.
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Itās warm but not hot. A piercing blue sky overhead. Probably as good as conditions can get.
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I chatted with a few people running the marathon, one stands out: after following closely behind one guy for some time I asked how he was doing. The noise that came out his mouth resembled a monster from the depths of hell. A rasping low grumble which must have burnt his infected throat with every syllable. Keeping his sentences brief he told me that we was very sick but having a great time. I wished him health and quickly overtook him for fear of infection.
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I follow friendly Amanda down the endless gradual descent from Dizzy Heights. The path feels like a bed of moss, springy underfoot. We chat about everything from running to haircuts. With a wave she runs off. We merge with another group and excitedly mutter short phrases, I get carried along at a fast pace down the beautiful trail by their enthusiasm. I can clearly remember their shoes and calves, but probably didnāt look at any of their faces - funny, that.
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The Tierkop aid station appears and I can hear the music. Iām 43km in. When I arrive there must have been about forty people under the stretch tent and I immediately feel like Iām at a festival. One of the aid station workers comes up to me and offers me a chair promising to come back with my drop bag. When she returns she squats downs and introduces herself as Cindy, then promptly takes care of my every need.
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Iām feeling absolutely frothing with excitement, dopamine, confusion and fun. By some luck or chance pretty much everyone I know running either the marathon or 60km races suddenly appear in the crowd - Iām now convinced that Iām at a festival. Eli snaps this photo.
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After a few excited conversations with friends about how our respective races are going Cindy comes back, looks me in the eye and says āEATā pushing a mince jaffle and cup of soup into my hand.
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Thank goodness for my A-Type moment of putting everything in my drop bag in named ziplock bags. Otherwise I probably wonāt have been able to leave Tierkop with all the necessary things.
Between chatting with me, other runners and force feeding me; Cindy manages to strike the balance between nurturing maternal mountain mother and military commando. We chat about life, she forces me to eat, she encourages me to take what I need from the drop bag, she forces me to eat, she checks how Iām doing, more eating, then she says - āok get out of here, you didnāt enter the race to sit here all dayā. After a little more faffing I get up to leave - Iāve got a ~40km loop ahead before coming back to the Tierkop aid station - she winks and says āsee you in 10 minutesā.
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Thus begins the longest 10 minutes of my life.
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It was about 15km to the next aid station, and the route splits off from the marathon and 60km routes heading North East above Wilderness. This part of the route has the least elevation, and it turns out to be a calm and peaceful after the chaotic frenzy of joining the marathon on Dizzy Heights.
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The course is perfectly marked: the 100k and Miler go different and then come back at this point but there is no ambiguity as to which path you should take. The flora begin to change to Milkwoods and coastal forest thickets, the paths and gentle and meandering. I link up with a guy named Stefan and we chat about all things as we cruise down to the Garden Route Dam.
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The sun is getting closer to setting now. Stefan and I break out of the forest surrounding the dam and are thrown into the most peculiar of biomes: a George residential suburb. Objectively a very beautiful place to live, close to nature, large plots - sounds of family life drift through the air. I had been in the mountains for about 12 hours at this point and this was the first time that I was back in the human world. Itās now 57km in and weāre nearing the Dikkop aid station.
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Luckily Cait is in the distance, bubbling with excitement. She breaks the suburban spell that was slowly being cast over me. We chat and stroll together for the last few hundred meters to the aid station.
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Dikkop was a psychological challenge, potentially the biggest of the run for some people. After many hours and nearly 60km in the mountains - youāre shoved straight back into proximity to comforts, people and urban life. Thereās a 100k runner sitting next to me named Bianca. We work out that sheās trying to pull out due to nausea, potentially lured by the proximity to home. There is a support team member, a Scottish/Irish women, who was - without Cindyās tact - aggressively bullying her into getting up and continuing. There should be more Cindyās in this world.
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Cait did a remarkable job of forcing down a few mince jaffles. I managed to resist one potato that I didnāt deem well cooked enough. Cait had been an incredible support crew at Herold Wines and Dikkop: providing vibes, helping get through the admin, forcing me to eat and matching or exceeding my enthusiasm every time.
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Nutrition is a big part of these long runs. And something that the A-Type approach can turn into an anxiety inducing optimisation task. I feel like I nailed it on this run, by doing this:
- having a tailwind in the 1.5L bladder and trying to finish it every 15km (which was the average distance between aid stations)
- Eating as much whole foods at the aid station as possible (think like 2 toasted sandwiches, a banana and potato at each aid station)
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A hug and a kiss farewell to Cait - I would next see her at the finish. I nail the dad joke of the century and run off smugly into the orange evening. Bianca had left the aid station just before me and I would not see her again. I checked the results and she finished strong (maybe the tough love from the Scottish/Irish person worked for her in the end).
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The sun is setting. The course circumnavigates the Garden Route Dam, meaning itās a completely flat jeep track. Itās easy and blissful.
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Iām walking while digesting, rummaging through my bag looking for my head torch when Josh calls. We have a cute little chat about everything and nothing.
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Head torch comes on, so too the base layer and Iām ready to lock into the night. I think that if the race where to have ended now I would have been left wanting something more - running into the night is a powerful experience. Your world shrinks to the strength of your head torch and youāre alone with your body.
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Iām moving quickly now, but not running much, itās more of a fast hike. I move through a beautiful forest, which quickly surrounds and encloses. Itās playlist time: earphones in, and the weirdest selection of songs causes the kilometres to fly by.
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I give Damo a call at some point - just to say thank you for getting me into this wild world of mountain running. I tell him how itās gone, very positively - not yet knowing that itās about to get utterly brutal. He imparts some wisdom (read about it at the end of this piece). The call is ended by the tree cover and I sink back once again into my small world consisting of a few square meters of ground, bodily sensation, the mind and whatever unhinged song happens to be playing.
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My mind went pretty quiet at this point. Egoic thoughts almost entirely stopped. Physical sensations, my visual field and sounds were pretty much my entire experience. Presence felt effortless and observing everything without judgement was the status quo. There was a little pain in my right knee from the oncoming ITB - but to be honest pain is something that you sign up for with these long runs. It was easy to just watch the pain move and change over time. I could adjust my gait to the point where it would disappear, coming back again on steeper descents.
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I suspect that for many people, pain is binary: youāre either in pain or not in pain. And then if youāre in pain things are wrong and you must stop, all the alarm bells comes on in the mind and the negative thoughts follow closely behind. I try to view pain as more of a spectrum. Like the temperature gauge in a car - if you follow my analogy - a cold car is no pain, and redlining hot is the most pain you could experience. You drive a car, happily, with the temperature gauge at like 20%. If you hit 100% you should stop driving. The same goes for your body, you can run just fine with a bit of pain. If you view any pain in the same way you view an overheating car, then youāre not ever going to run. Just monitor the pain, watch it change and move. If itās located in one specific area and gets more and more intense over time, then something is probably wrong. But if it travels around an area and stays manageable - thatās pretty normal. Just be aware of it and be kind to it.
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I arrive at the next aid station Groeneweide. 72km in and the end is suddenly in sight, itās just a weekend run away now and at this rate Iām going to finish around midnight. Or so I think. Itās a cute aid station, nestled in the forest with a simple stretch tent, a few 4x4s, a speaker playing golden oldies and a few camp chairs around a table. The night is warm and one of the volunteers comes up to greet me.
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I ask him to do two things:
- Force feed me
- Kick me out after 20 minutes
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I choose the most uncomfortable chair (which will make leaving easier) and have a cup of coffee. There are five other people at the aid station - who I was with in the beginning of the race - a crew of four British doctors working at the George hospital and two South African colleagues. Theyāre all in their thirties and full of excitement and banter. They talk of the ātriple threatā which will get them through what is to come: a monster energy that they were given at Dikkop, a potato and a Panado. Iām offered a sip of Monster on account of it being my birthday, it tastes like a mango vape. They ask me if Iām ready for the climb to come - I havenāt really studied the route profile and say I prefer not to know. They wish me luck and set off ahead of me.
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The most remarkable thing about this crew of five doctors is that they all managed to stay together the entire 100km. They pulled each other along the entire way and finished together. They deserve more than a medal. Maybe the triple threat is something we should all get behind.
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I get kicked out of Groeneweide after twenty minutes and head off into the night, spirits high. Itās 13km to Tierkop and Iām so excited to see Cindy again. Thirteen kilometres doesnāt feel too long, I put the playlist on and pick up the pace.
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What proceeds is the hardest 10km Iāve ever gone through. We start with the worldās longest jeep track ascent which goes up ~450m in 5km, it winds its way into the night - the head torches of the British crew always just in the distance. Climbing this was fine, but it took it out of me.
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As I hit the summit the route goes onto a single track path, although Iām not sure I can call it a path. Loose sand and rock aimed directly down and it drops the 450m in 1.5km. The descent hurts, the ITB comes back strong and I awkwardly slide and step my way down. I take a fall and slide a meter or so, which brings on a rush of adrenalin which actually does wonders for my concentration and I make it to the bottom unscathed.
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Using ropes to get down the last few meters we hit Kaaimans river. Here too are ropes to guide you across the slippery rocks, by some miracle I get across with dry shoes. The ropes continue up the near vertical slope on the other side of the river and begins the most challenging climb of the race (and my life). Itās 450m up again in 1km. A ladder would be helpful here. Iāve done 80km and over 3000m of vertical climbing and my body is tired.
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The poles save me up this hill. I plant them as far ahead as possible, put my body weight on them and take a few small steps with the feet to bring my body slowly. Then repeat, for what feels like forever. My mind doesnāt turn negative here, it actually just feels comical how hard it is. I take regular breaks, leaning against my poles and looking back at the descent into Kaaimans on the other side of the valley. There are several lights from other runners coming down, if only they knew what was in store for them.
The comical feeling crescendos into laughter when the middle aged, grizzled guy behind me start yelling āFUUUUCKā into the night ever 10 or so minutes. Thereās something cathartic knowing that others are going through the same thing.
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Time did weird things during the race. An hour with pass by in the blink of an eye, 10 hours would take a life time.
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This climb was a lifetime in itās own way. When I finally reach the top there is a proud sign displaying the name of the climb: āGODFATHERā rubbing it in with capital letters.
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Over the summit and Iām suddenly back at Tierkop. Except itās an entirely different experience to the last time I was here. The music is replaced with silence. What was hoards of marathon runners are now three exhausted 100k runners with their tails between their legs. Only three aid station workers remain, I look around for Cindy.
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āHey Suger Plumā (or something like that) she says from a chair in the darkness near a gas heater.
āHoly shit Cindy that was the wildest ten minutes of my lifeā (It had been more than eight hours) - She gets me a chair and some soup and comes to sit down next to me.
ā25km to go, youāve got thisā - offering me soup and starting to make a coffee.
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The grizzled āFUCKā guy pulls in and lets rip his catch phrase for the last time. Thereās a quiet acknowledgement of what weāve all been through and then silence. Which is promptly broken when a 100 miler runner comes in and starts making a lot of noise, none of which makes any sense. I donāt think english was his first language, but Iām certain that he was intending to speak it. Most of the noises out his mouth were mono-syllabic noises that had a mumble rap cadence to them. A volunteer shepards him around and he goes quiet again. Heās done another ~60km more than I have and started 17 hours before me, I canāt imagine where his mind is at.
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Cindy locks into maternal mountain mother mode: food, warmth, time to go. I tell her that sheās been my favourite person of the event and she gives me a hug. I follow two guys out for the last stretch and the volunteers begin to cheer: one of the two had called it quits at this point last year, vomiting his guts out. āBetter than last year - go finish itā they call as he jogs off into the night.
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The lights of the stadium burn bright against the city: the end. The route planners obviously had more up their sleeve, because over the next 25km they edged us closer to the stadium by taking us through as many hills and valleys as possible. The path is technical with many tree roots and we go slowly.
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I lock in to a chat with a guy who hat been going at a similar pace to me over the last six or so hours. Heās hurting but proud of himself. He takes a sit down on the dam wall to let a few tears out, I let him take the moment in solitude and continue on.
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Cait had done the adorable thing of compiling voicenotes from friends which I start to listen to. Laughter and tears are brought forth. I follow the feet of the two guys I left Tierkop with, in a quick march through the dense forest on the lower regions of George Peak.
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Between the voicenotes, the playlist and the wobbly footsteps of the guy who vomited his way into a DNF (did not finish) last year, Iām endlessly entertained. Every 10 minutes or so he seems to lose complete motor coordination and stumble into a bush or tree. Only to pull himself together and continue his quick march.
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The nonsense-talking miler guy catches up and begins to talk to me. Only by gesturing to his ā100 mileā race tag and saying āsleepy sleepy whaleā do I kind of get what heās trying to communicate. I encourage him to follow me, which is does for a while before disappearing again. He finishes the race about five minutes after me and I never see him again - but often think of him. I know that if I ever do a 100 miler I will have to stop someone and tell them that Iām a sleepy sleepy whale.
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I think that I stopped blinking at this point. It was a peculiar experience.
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Finally off the mountain and into the George green belt (think Alphen trail of George). 2km from the end is the last aid station. A few teenagers hit me with weirdly strong 2am energy - try force a beer and pizza down my throat and send me off with a cow bell. I give the pizza to a security guard and realise that the day is almost over.
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Cait and Dan start cheering from distance. Theyāve walked down from the stadium. Itās wonderful to see them and we excitedly walk the last few hundred meters in together.
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Itās a strange combination between a solo endeavour which is made so much better with support. I could have done it without Cait at the aid stations - but it would have been far less enjoyable.
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The three of us march up the final stretch to the stadium. Itās a surreal experience. Two young children are peering over the wall of the stadium: āwhy arenāt you runningā they taunt. Iāve got no dad jokes left.
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And just like that itās over. The longest adventure of my life. Cait, Dan and Simon are at the finish. Itās somehow still a big vibe in the stadium and we take a moment. It was a beautiful day, and my weirdest birthday to date.
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This is mostly as a reference for myself, the next time I decide to do something like this - but maybe someone else will find it helpful:
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Food
- Whole, real food over gel ever time. Eat as much as you can at each aid station
- Even though youāre craving sugar, salty food is what your body needs (although a code coke does go down well when itās hot - write it off against needing caffeine)
- A tailwind sachet in 1.5L of water ever 15km keeps the mind and body incredibly sharp
Drink
- Revive is the electrolyte that agrees best with me. Put one in each soft flask
- Coffee is great, just have it black
Pace
- When running: run as slowly as possible
- When hiking: hike as quickly as possible
- Iām never going to race these things, so power hiking is actually a secret weapon. Try start doing it as early into the race as possible - by the end everyone near you is going to be walking like drunk babies anyway, so keep some gas in the tank to finish strong
Training
- You can run 100km with not much more than 20km per week training - donāt give up your life for these events
- Weight training is vital - get into the habit of doing it after ever run and at least a few times a week
- Stretching/yoga - I wish I had done more
- Train you mind more than your body - itās the thing that will ultimately get you through and allow you to enjoy the experience
- Just do something active every day - it doesnāt have to be running
- Choose the stairs over lifts
- Resting and sleeping the week before probably does more good than running ever would (you canāt be unemployed during each ultra, but try prioritise it sleep the week before the next one)
When youāre on the run
- Just enjoy it - thatās why you signed up in the first place
- Use poles - four legs are better than two
- Change your socks a few time (I only had two blisters at the end - a great success)
- Get really wide, roomy shoes - your feet will swell
- Music is great at night
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First and foremost it is a privilege to be able to do this. To have a body able to run and walk. To be in the mountains. To have a mind that views doing these things as a peak experience in life. I donāt take it for granted, and this is actually wisdom imparted on Damo by Brundle, then passed on to me in the phone call we had that night. Itās a huge privilege that I wonāt take for granted and will honour and respect.
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To be able to spend the whole day in the mountains, on a beautiful trail is something that I love. And to do this for longer than Iāve done in the past was a core reason for signing up to this distance. And it might be the reason I end up doing something longer in the future.
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Itās physical meditation. To live purely in experience, in your body for an extended period of time. To view everything simply as experience, not judging things as good or bad, but just watching it go by.
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The beautiful mountains.
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