Race Report: Maverick Peaks Merlin 2025

There’s a certain kind of peace that comes with knowing yourself.

Not in some sweeping, cinematic sense, but rather a quiet, functional belief in one's own abilities. The kind of knowing that tells you when to hold back, when to push yourself and when to stop asking questions and simply move forward.

When running ultra marathons in particular, there’s always going to be something you can’t predict: weather, terrain, effort, your own mind. You can't know everything that's going to happen, but you can know how you’ll respond.

That kind of knowledge is earned the hard way, through days like this one.

100km through the Peak District. Nothing to prove, just your own self perceptions to test.

My alarm was set for 5am, but pre race nerves woke me at twenty past four and left me to watch the remaining minutes count down.

05:00

Time to rise and get the day moving.

Every race is different, but the morning rituals remain the same. Familiar and mechanical like muscle memory.

I now move through them half asleep, like turning the pages of a well-worn book whose ending I could recite word for word.

05:55

I slung my packed race vest over my shoulders, adjusted a few items that didn’t sit quite right, and began the descent from the cottage towards Bakewell Showground.

The Saturday morning weather extended a perfect greeting.

A cool breeze carried the chorus of birds.

A muted sky stretched overhead, a veil just thick enough to shield us from the sun's gaze.

It was roughly a kilometre from the cottage to the start line.

I've come to value these pre race walks. If I'm honest, I rely on them in some ways. They give me a moment to greet my doubts, and then step beyond them.

Out of my everyday self and into the other one, the one shaped for challenge, for grit and for silence. 

I had no grand ambition for this race beyond running “well” and finishing. In the days before leaving home, many had asked if I had any inclination how long it would take me to reach the finish. My ambitious prediction was 15, maybe 14 hours, with the likely reality being closer to 16. 

Between the distance, terrain, weather, and any number of other variables, trying to predict these things sometimes feels like guessing what mood the sea will be in. Still, despite the inevitable uncontrollables, I felt I'd assessed my chances fairly soundly.

The starting area was calm, one of the quietest pre-race atmospheres I’ve experienced.

I wondered if perhaps it was on account of this being the inaugural 100km event, or maybe everyone simply knew what was coming.

2,800 metres of elevation.

Up, down, around, and over the namesake peaks of the district.

The ridgeline loomed above us, circling the showground from which we’d soon set off.

A quiet, confident opponent. Broad backed and patient, with time and size on his side. 

At precisely just after 6:30;

The cowbell rang.

The effort through the first 20k would prove to be ambitious. I found myself clinging to the tail end of the front pack, somewhere just behind the early breakaway group. The morning humidity was beginning to have its say and I struggled to calm my elevated heart rate.

Despite the elevated effort, I felt fine (for now.) Though I knew that holding this pace would come at a cost later on. So I backed off, dropped down through the gears until the numbers on my watch looked more like the ones I was used to seeing in training.

Effort is the currency exchanged here, not pace and split times.

And you can’t bluff your way through that transaction either. If you overspend early, you’ll pay interest for the rest of the day.

It wasn’t until after the third aid station, around 27km in, that I started to settle.

Heart rate down.

Legs loosening up.

Mind focused.

Descending towards Ladybower Reservoir, I slipped into that familiar altered state.

A stillness beneath the strain.

No room for judgement, neither praise nor criticism, just motion and breath.

Then, at around 38km, a familiar face, my dear old friend Adam.

We'd gone to school together but, like most classmates, we hadn’t seen each other in over a decade.

We walked a short stretch together, trying to stuff ten years of catch-up into half a kilometre.

A welcome lift to my spirits.

Aid Station 4 marked the start of the real race.

The climbs sharpened. The descents got meaner.

And right on cue, the weather turned.

Wind. Rain. Slippery, technical footing. Legs that felt twice their weight.

The course had woken up and turned wild, hurling its weather like a well wielded weapon, each blow a test of the resolve we carried. 

Reaching Aid Station 5 felt like a proper milestone.

We were now over halfway, and this was the drop bag stop, a small mercy.

I donned a fresh base layer and my club vest (because one simply must represent) and refilled the fuel stores in my vest.

“Just a marathon to go,” I told myself.

“And we do run those all the time…”

The stretch to Aid Station 6 was the longest we'd face, distance and otherwise.

18 kilometres of exposed, undulating ridgeline, lashed by wind, scoured by rain.

No shelter, no stillness. Just a long slow march, your force of will against the weather.

By the time we began to descend back into shelter of the woods, the rain had left the rocks slick and the footing treacherous. Not ideal for fresh legs let alone those carrying 70 kilometres of effort and fatigue.

Those 18km took three and a half hours.

My calves were tight. Sore to touch.

Once things levelled out, I chose to walk a stretch in an attempt to let my legs recover.

The biggest climbs were now conquered, but there was still 30km between me and the finish line. And that’s no small number when you’re feeling like your shoes are full of gravel and the tendons in your legs are auditioning for a string quartet.

Aid Station 6 was a sight for sore everything.

The volunteers were brilliant all day, but something about this one hit differently.

I felt actual relief.

There was still a ways to go and work to do, but the worst was behind.

Just two 13km stages left.

A glass of wine and a comfortable chair now close enough to imagine.

But I wasn’t there yet.

The strategy now was to focus on running the runnable sections and walking the rest. Protecting what strength I had left for the final push.

The pain had become so constant it no longer registered.

One of those background things like breath or heartbeat.

My feet hurt, my legs were stiff. My shoulders aching from the weight of the pack after what had now been 14 hours.

88km. Final aid station.

A final, quick stop. No time to linger.

Aid stations are necessary mercies, but they are also treacherous.

They will offer you warmth, softness and reprieve from the elements, and then ask you to choose discomfort and carry on.

Having studied the course before race day, I knew there was a hefty climb of roughly 150 metres in the final 10k.

I didn't realise it was 3km long.

This was a low point. Mentally, it took everything to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

Your doubts and emotions hurl themselves against the door you've sealed them behind, while you lean against it, shoulder pressed, trying to hold the line between collapse and resolve.

The knowledge that this was the final climb was comforting as I pressed on into the evening.

Then, another boost.

Joanne and Meadow appeared. Clubmates who’d raced earlier in the day, now standing by the trail, giving that lift only familiar faces can.

Joanne had completed the 55km race just hours earlier. Her own hard day already behind her. Meadow, fresh from the 28km event, had finished as second female overall. Both had earned their rest, yet here they stood, waiting, watching, cheering.

They offered grounding words of encouragement, gentle pointers on what lay ahead. A warning about the course's final sting. A reminder to hold something in reserve. The kind of insight that only comes from having been out there themselves.

I hate clichés. Passionately.

But I’ll admit, for a moment, I believed in the notion that people show up when you most need them.

Adam earlier. Joanne and Meadow now.

But that’s enough of that…

The light was fading and so was I, but the finish was finally within reach.

I knew by now I’d finish in under 16 hours, my prediction manifested. I just needed to get there.

The final mile tipped gently down toward Bakewell, familiar ground now blurred by fatigue. I willed my legs to give one last effort, and they answered with everything they had left.

I've come to use the final half kilometre of these races to rid myself of all the emotion I've held at bay over the race.

Relief at finishing, anger at my mistakes, pride in finishing strong.

I crossed the line in just under 15 hours and 47 minutes, right about where I thought I would.

No drama. No revelation. Just a quiet, steady confirmation: I knew what I had and I knew how to manage it.

A fair prediction for a fair fight.

I knew what I had and what I'd ultimately be capable of on my best day, but I also trusted what I'd be able to achieve when the course and conditions have their say as well.

I was nervous about this race. Not necessarily because of the challenge it posed (though it turns out that would've been well founded) but because there's now nothing between me and the preparation for my first 100 mile race in October.

There’s a long road ahead. A bigger race and heavier days.

But I leave this one not with triumph but with trust: trust in my footing when things become slippery, in my breath when it falters and in my mind when the way forward pushes back.  

For now though, I'm off to make some beer, and figure out how exactly to run for 28 hours.