Northburn 100 - 2025
Originally posted on LinkedIn, March 26, 2025
Faces in the rocky landscape and voices in the scrub were the subtle and somewhat strangely welcome hallucinations that greeted me as I ran the last few kilometres toward the Northburn 100 mile race finish line. After 160 gruelling kilometres and 30 hours without sleep these imaginary sights and sounds are to be expected. Over the years I've seen cats and black panthers, competitors lying in the ditches and witches in the trees.
Buddies!
Lap 1 is the entrée.
An easy 50k, well maybe not, but compared to the next 110k it's a walk in the park. Starting at 6am with the 42k, 50k, 100k and 100 mile runners there is always a buzz. Gradually the field starts to stretch out as the runners find their pace and the sun climbs into the sky. I chat to a second-time miler who is there with her boyfriend (both early 60s at a guess and a bit competitive). Josiah, first time 100k but eyes on the miler. A French girl who has decided to take up running whilst she is living in New Zealand. I spend a while running with Patrick, a trail runner from Invercargill who I've met a few times but never spoken to at length.
Trail ultra etiquette states that you can chat to someone for a while then break off, only to resume the conversation a few hours later. Everyone has highs and lows, speeds up and slows down so you will more than likely catch up at some other point. When Charli, Shannon and I started chatting late the first 50k we found that our pace was rather similar. It was easy enough to stick together for what ended up being almost a full day.
Lap 2 is the main course.
By the end of the second lap the field starts to thin. Patrick drops off at 75kms with an injury, the 42k and 50k runners are done and the 100k runners are winding down. There's about a 30% or more DNF (Did Not Finish) rate at Northburn. It really gets tough as the sun goes down and the weather starts to deteriorate. Rain and wind move through the course and progressively get worse. It's not absolutely terrible weather but bad enough to require additional clothing and gloves.
Reaching Mount Horne in the second half of the lap is an achievement. It feels very distant and high up when looking to where the sky should be. Coming down the other side and seeing Cromwell in the distance is just as daunting. It's a long haul in the dark but so nice to make it back to base for some new socks and a pot of noodles, plus a bit of chocolate milk. Great to have a lovely wife as crew, she knows what I need.
Lap 3 is a very large desert and I've done my best to save room.
The marquee at the base isn't exactly luxurious but it is tempting to stay a while, which doesn't happen. With 110km in our legs at just after midnight, my two new friends and I set out into the night. We take turns leading up the massive climbs and carefully descending the rocky ascents sometimes talking, other times silent for hours just digging deep. Often wondering how deep that digging can go.
It's eerie looking up into the night sky and seeing the torches of your fellow runners kilometres away, either behind or ahead of you but somewhere in the mountains. Often the trail isn't clear due to reflectors and markers being blown away but generally a few minutes searching gets you back on track. The most you can do a lot of the time is to just put one foot in front of the other, run when you can and eat if possible. It's difficult to to consume calories in the night, your body struggles leaving you lacking energy as you sip on Coke and chew gummy snakes. We all take turns feeling less than optimal, no details.
The lap of despair is always one of my lowest points in the race. Starting near the top of the mountains (1400m) and dropping by 700 meters only to climb back up is one hell of a feat at 3 in the morning. There's no shame in a tear and thoughts of stopping for a while. By now we've got jackets on and I slip into my wet weather trousers for the last 35k. The wind is howling and the rain is peaking. The sunrise we had dreamt of didn't happen and the sky barely gets a little lighter behind dark clouds. We make our way out in silence toward leaning rock for the last time.
Whilst I had spent almost 24 hours running with my new buddies, Shannon and Charli, I was now on my own for this last 25k stint. At the high point on the last lap the weather had reached a crescendo, with the wind whipping the rain to sting my bare face. Time to put my foot down and with the blessing of my friends, meet them at the finish line. 500 meters climbing and a little over a half marathon is nothing when you're 26 hours deep into Northburn. But at the time you're left questioning a lot of things.
As I descend a few hundred metres the rain starts to subside. I get a hug from a buddy at an aid station. Strip off my wet weather gear a little later and jam it into my soaking race vest. All of my clothing is wet but it's starting to get warmer. Brewery marks the start of the last 500m climb up to bicycle wheel, which is the biggest kick in the guts if you don't expect it. I have warned Shannon and Charli.
I descend the last 7kms on badly blistered feet, feeling 2 blisters painfully burst under the pounding of my feet. The relief of the finish line being just around the corner brings tears to my eyes. I've chucked on my headphones and I'm blocking out the pain, singing quite loudly now but nobody's around and I don't care.
Crossing the line I swear I'll never run again, let alone run Northburn. It's fantastic to see my wife and kids and the sun is out. I've completed my third Northburn miler. Both Shannon and Charli arrive soon after, not far apart. Shannon is questioning the race director's motives. Charli's parents are glad she had some friends to accompany her through the night.
The next day is prize giving. Limping athletes make their way up to collect their well-earned buckles. Nobody looks fresh. Some will come back next year but for most, once is enough.