Race Report: UTMB Chianti Ultra Trail 2025

There’s a strange kind of pressure that comes from being well-prepared.
I must admit, it’s a pressure I’d never really known before.

This time, I’d done everything right.

The training block was solid and consistent. The long runs were long, the climbs were steep, and even my foam roller saw some action. I should’ve felt calm. Confident. And in some ways, I did.

But in others, it felt like I’d built a quiet trap for myself. One made of spreadsheets, Strava graphs, and the unspoken belief that effort must equal outcome. Preparation is supposed to free you. But I’d forgotten that it also removes your excuses.

When you show up knowing you’ve done the work, there’s nothing left to hide behind. And that kind of exposure carries its own weight.

As I stood on the start line of the Chianti Ultra Trail, 75 kilometres of rolling Tuscan countryside, rain-slicked trails, and climbs that seemed to go up forever, I carried that weight with me. Not just the expectation to perform, but the need to prove that all the work had been worth it.

That I had been worth it.

Of course, ultras have a way of laughing at our best-laid plans. And this one, with its muddy descents and calf-burning climbs, was no different.

What follows is the story of how it all unfolded, and what I learned when control gave way to surrender, somewhere deep in the hills of Italian wine country.

Saturday 22nd March

A 4:00 a.m. start for a 5:15 shuttle.

At this point, I could probably go through my race morning rituals with my eyes closed.
The first hours of race mornings have come to feel less like the beginning of a long-awaited challenge and more like an opportunity to step out of my everyday existence, into a state of being that’s simpler, and less complicated.

The 40-minute drive meandering through the vineyards gave us time to assess the day’s conditions through the early morning fog. Heavy rain greeted us, not unlike the countless County Armagh mornings I’d spent training back home.

It was oddly comforting. A reminder that I knew how to suffer in these conditions.

I had feared a repeat of last year’s Rome Marathon, which happened just a week ago, actually, where scorching heat left me feeling worse than I ever had at any finish line. But this time, the grey skies felt like an ally. Something wild and moody, whose temperament I could trust.

As we arrived in Radda, the fog lifted with the morning light. The rolling Tuscan hills stepped forward to greet us, not as a postcard-perfect backdrop, but as a worthy adversary, ready for all contenders.

7:00 a.m.

The horns sounded.

Flares ignited.

We were off.

We descended from the town and quickly left firm ground behind. The first 11 kilometres were a messy prelude of what was to come. We’d been warned about the recent rainfall in the region, but I wasn’t prepared for just how slick and unstable the terrain would be. Greasy, clay-like mud clung to everything, and a few early bottlenecks slowed progress more than I’d hoped.

It took some resolve not to spiral into doubt...

“What if the whole course is like this?”

My confidence soon returned as we transitioned to gravel tracks, flanked by tidy rows of grapevines inching their way toward the spring sun.

I’ll say this about my first UTMB experience: the aid stations were unlike anything I’d ever seen.
Prosciutto, pasta, bread dripping in olive oil — one even offered red wine, as if to remind us we were still in Italy, even while suffering.

I didn’t partake, but I’ll admit it was briefly tempting.

A gentle descent brought us through beautifully manicured vineyards, where the countryside rolled out before us and the trees lining the trail stood in perfect symmetry.

The late morning gloom hung thick but gentle, shielding us from the sun and giving the day an unexpected sense of home.

Approaching the marathon mark and the third aid station, I could feel the weight of the day starting to settle into my body.
Not in my legs, surprisingly, they still turned over with quiet determination, but in my shoulders.

The hiking poles, so vital on the steep climbs and slick descents, were exacting a price I hadn’t fully accounted for.
What began as faint murmurs of discomfort had grown into full-throated protests with every uphill push.

Long before race day, I’d done my homework.
I studied the elevation charts, traced the course map with tired eyes late at night, and found a YouTube video from last year’s race that became something of a daily ritual.

The runner’s narration was in Italian, a language I don’t speak, but no matter. His images spoke clearly enough. I watched him climb, descend, stumble, and persevere.

I knew where I would need to conserve energy, where I reckoned I’d be strong, and where I’d have to dig deep.

The stretch between 50 and 60 kilometres was, without doubt, the most brutal part of the course.
A sustained, punishing climb I had anticipated and trained for.

We gained close to 700 metres in just five kilometres.
My shoulders were now screaming. (Three days later, they still are, by the way.)

It was during that climb, in the midst of the greatest adversity, that I drew the most confidence from my preparations.

It felt like a kind of reckoning.

This was why I’d refused to settle for less than 1,000m of elevation in every training week.
Why each run featured rep after rep of the closest hills to home.
Why I’d forced myself out in the cold and the dark and the rain, even when my legs were already heavy from a week of high mileage.

If I could offer just one piece of advice to anyone standing on the edge of their first ultramarathon, it would be this:

Patience and Presence.

Two quiet companions that will carry you farther than any training plan ever could.

Patience - to hold back when the start line crowd surges forward, to stay steady when your pace begins to slip, and to trust that falling behind isn’t the same as falling short.

Presence - to anchor yourself in the climb, even when your legs burn and your mind begins to wander.
To know that how you feel in this moment is not how you’ll feel forever.
The trail will turn. The pain will pass. The light will change.

And most of all, presence to notice the small victories:
The shared smile at an aid station.
The hush of the trees.
The simple miracle of forward motion.

The ones that never show up on a results sheet, but stay with you long after the finish line fades.

Almost a hundred people have offered me kind words since this race.
Not one of them asked how fast I was.

So yes, set a goal. Chase it if you must.
But don’t let it blind you to the beauty of the experience itself.
There’s more on offer out there than just a number on a clock.

Don’t miss it.

Reaching the final aid station atop the mountain felt like conquering something deeper than terrain.
And to my surprise, I found another gear on the descent.

My legs, though battered, still had something left.
My shoulders were wrecked. The climbs had nearly undone me.
But mentally, something had shifted.

There’s a moment, if you’re lucky, where your doubt gives way to a kind of quiet certainty.
Not bravado.
Just calm.

The moment you realise you’re going to finish.
That you have what it takes, not because everything went to plan, but because you adapted when it didn’t.

Gliding down from the fog-shrouded mountain, I felt that.

Five kilometres to go, and the sun had now set.
I’d hoped to finish in under 12 hours, but despite my best efforts, I was forced to reach for my head torch for the final hour of my journey.

The finish felt close, a tired determination willing it to flicker into view through the dusk-hung silhouette of the countryside.

One last trudge through the mud, that ever-present companion, brought us to the final kilometre.

Solid pavement returned beneath our feet, a strange and welcome feeling after so many hours of slipping and sliding.
Spurred on by the proximity of the finish, we descended through the narrow streets and tunnels of Radda, the same ones that had seen us off that morning, now softened by memory and fatigue.

A final sharp kick.
And then, the finish line.
Glowing against the dark, rising through the mist like a mirage made real.

The day was won.

It wasn’t a perfect race.
I slipped.
I stumbled.
I doubted.

There were climbs that made me question my life choices, descents that felt more like controlled falling, and moments when the mud threatened to swallow both my shoes and my confidence.

But I kept moving.
And maybe that’s the whole point.

All the training, all the preparation, it was never meant to guarantee a smooth day.

It never could.

What it gave me was something quieter, more enduring:
The resilience to keep going when things got harder than I expected.
And the clarity to realise that this race was never about proving I was good enough.

It was about remembering that I already was.

This wasn’t the race I had imagined.
But it was the race that showed up.
And I met it, mud and all.