It’s Not Always Alright On The Night – My Hardmoors 110 Beatdown

31st May, Filey Brigg. 07:00. Sun’s up, breeze is cool, and the buzz is real. I step out the van feeling confident-ish. First stop: registration and kit check.

Mandatory kit roulette begins. They call out “foil blanket.” My brain: Of course it’s the one thing I left behind… even though I literally had it laid out, ready to pack. Maybe it grew legs. Maybe it’s now living a happy life with that sock I lost last year.

Luckily, the Hardmoors crew are used to this kind of idiocy. New blanket purchased. Crisis averted. Definitely not an omen… unless you’re into that sort of thing. (Cue “Omen” by The Prodigy).

Pre-race vibes: Route visualising. Tactical toilet trips. Awkward banter about what’s to come. And then the infamous Jon Steele pre-race sermon. Bang — we’re off.

It’s hot. Like, “sweating-through-my-soul” hot. And it’s only getting worse. I’ve got my hydration plan, extra water (which now weighs roughly the same as a car battery), and all my usual fuelling kit — salty snacks, sweet stuff, the works. Drop bags are locked and loaded, aiming for unsupported glory.

Scarborough slides by. Sweat still flowing like Niagara. But pacing is steady, and I’m fuelling like a pro — hourly feedings, liquid calories, alternating between sweet and savoury to keep the taste buds (and stomach) happy.

Then: Ravenscar. And the bloody flies.

Biblical plague-level flies. Swarming, buzzing, invading every orifice. I get to the checkpoint looking like a man who fought a bee hive and lost. I joke to Jon about the extra protein, but inside I’m screaming, "Its all your fault Jon".

Cup of tea, wet wipe to the face (divine), restock, reload, and away I go. Bag now weighs as much as regret. Next up: Robin Hood’s Bay — and this is where the wheels start to come off.

Cramp. First calf. Then both calves. Then hamstrings. Then adductors. It’s like every muscle got the same WhatsApp message: “Let’s ruin this guy’s day.”

I tried all the usual tricks — electrolytes, salty food, walk-run shuffle. Nothing worked. Muscles started spasming like they were trying to escape my body. On top of that, both knees — already held together with KT tape, knee sleeves and stubbornness — started joining the party.

Painkillers in, resolve dwindling. Training had been compromised post-HM55. I’d been cycling instead of running due to knee issues. And clearly, I hadn’t acclimatised to the heat. Not ideal prep for a 110-mile crucible.

Whitby, Sandsend, Runswick Bay. Still moving, but barely. By the time I hit Runswick, 40 miles and 10 hours deep, it wasn’t a question of “can I finish?” It was, “should I even try?”

Answer: No. DNF.

But here’s the thing: 40 miles is still a big day out. And quitting doesn’t mean failure. It means learning. Here's what I'm taking forward:

Lessons Served (extra salty):

1. Get a crew. Even just for moral support and snacks that haven’t been sat on.

2. Don’t race unless you’re 100%. Hope is not a strategy.

3. Train for the heat. Seriously. Sweat more in training so you suffer less in the race.

4. Know the route. All of it. No guessing games.

5. Have a really strong WHY. It’ll be the only thing keeping you going at mile 70.

6. Hard miles matter. There’s no cheat code.

7. Use pacers who get you. Not just someone fit, but someone mentally in sync.

8. Don’t get cocky. The 110 eats egos for breakfast.

9. Regular body maintenance. Sports massage, mobility, all that stuff you say you’ll do but don’t.

The Hardmoors 110 handed me my ass. Second time this has happened in a long ultra-running career and both times on 100 milers. But it hasn’t broken me. If anything, I want it more. This DNF just adds fuel to the fire — and maybe next time, a foil blanket will actually make it into my bag.

Run Strong, Run Long, Run Better

John Withinshaw Running Coach

JDW Fitness