Race Report: Norn Iron 100 2026
“If you want to go fast, go alone.
If you want to go far, go together.”
Like many sayings that survive long enough to become clichés, there’s usually a truth to them being the reason that they endure.
I’ve always considered myself as a solitary runner. Don’t get me wrong, joining a running cub and the community that it’s given me will forever remain one of my life’s greatest decisions, but that said, most of my training miles are covered alone or in very sparse company. I genuinely enjoy the quiet that comes with disappearing into the trees for a few hours with nothing but my thoughts for company. Running has always been, in many ways, an escape and a place to think,
Every now and again though, I’m reminded of what can be achieved when you’re surrounded by the right people.
This year’s Norn Iron 100 was one such reminder.
Sitting alone on the bus to the start line in Ballintoy, I rested my head against the cool glass of the window and watched the rain patter against the other side. In the half-awake haze of an early morning start, I mentally rehearsed the race to come. I’d spent weeks walking the course virtually and making notes;
Distances between aid stations.
Shoe change points.
Fuelling tempo markers.
Small mental milestones I’d scattered along the 106 miles of coastline, roads, bogs and forests.
I was also relishing running on home soil for a change.
Most of my longer races have taken place in England or Europe, so there was something comforting about being able to throw everything into the car for the journey north-west without having to decide which comforts would have to be sacrificed to an airline baggage allowance.
By the time we disembarked the bus in Ballintoy, the rain had subsided and left behind a sky veiled in cloud and a cool temperature hung on a gentle sea breeze. Perfect conditions.
With drop bags dropped and GPS trackers fitted, 79 runners set off towards Ballintoy Harbour and onto the beach.
The opening section of the course would follow the causeway coast west-ward, and before long we were scrambling over rocks still slick from the retreating tide before winding our way along it’s beaches, cliff paths and rolling coastal terrain, all the while sharing a passing greeting with the many folks taking part in a charity walk along the same route.
It’s hard not to be humbled by the scale and scenery of the north coast. It’s a landscape comprised of vast skies, endless sea and cliffs that dwarf even the endeavour we were trying to accomplish.
Reaching the first aid station at Portballintrae, I made a quick stop at the loo and continued on my way. As the miles passed beneath my feet and Portrush and Portstewart drifted by, I found myself reflecting on the many summer holidays we used ti take up there when I was a boy.I smiled inwardly at what 9 year old Mark would make of the scene. I suspect he would struggle to understand why anyone would voluntarily run 106 miles when there were beaches to explore and early-morning milkshakes from the ice cream shop to be had.
Eventually, the coast line gave way to the first long road section of the course, and I made the first of 3 shoe changes on the Shore Road before the journey through Coleraine. I had my road shoes fastened to the back of my race pack, since the shoe change points I’d settled on didn’t align with the course’s bag drop points. With my shoes changed, the difference was immediate, I felt smooth and efficient again as we passed Ulster University.
It was around this point I would fall in with Paul, a stellar runner with a list of race finishes I one day hope to match, who was also taking on the course for the first time. Paul, it turns out, knows 90% of the people in my life that aren’t me. From my closest running confidents to fellow running club members, even my boss.
Not to spoil the remainder of this story, but Paul and I would go on from here to conquer the remainder of this journey together. We would cover every conversation imaginable, from our favourite footballers to Lord of the Rings and how it’s impossible to eat a Goodfellas pizza and not burn the roof of your mouth. I have no doubt in my mind that I couldn’t have done it without him.
Reaching the first bag drop at Articlave Orange Hall, we were greeted with applause from the We Run Wild team. I should say at this point that the team of volunteers at each aid station set an exemplary standard. Each arriving runner would be met with enthusiasm, encouragement and a willingness to help in any way possible. From refilling water bottles to fetching warm food, nothing seemed too much trouble.
I swapped out my socks for fresh ones, the ever-changing terrain made keeping one’s feet in good condition a priority. (There’s still sand in those socks by the way.)
Back on our way, Bishops Road felt like it would go on forever. Once we finally reached the left turn at Binevenagh, I jumped back into my trail shoes for the incoming terrain. I’d built this next section up in my head to be where I’d break the back of this challenge, from here it would be roughly 75km before I’d make my final shoe change for the road section to the finish.
The only solid goal I’d had for the race was to clear the Binevenagh section of the course and reach halfway before the daylight would fade. We managed this comfortably, but our descent would bring with it a different challenge.
As we made our way down, the rain had began gradually before growing in intensity and felt like it was there to stay. As we made our way up Windchill Road, the river of water running back towards us was deep enough to wash over the toes of our shoes.
Mentally, this would prove to be the lowest point of the journey., I was soaked through and beginning to shiver while running. As the relentless rain pounded the road and my shoulders, the walls of my resolve collapsed and my mind began to spiral thinking about what this could mean for the rest of the race.
What if this rain continues all night?
What if the temperature drops before I dry off?
What if this will end my race?
Running an ultramarathon has a remarkable way of shrinking your entire world until ti only contains your immediate surroundings. In that moment, my race was 106 miles in distance, it was one rainstorm long.
Nearing the next aid station, we quietly hoped for even a moment’s shelter, but were left wanting. One of the volunteer held an umbrella over me while I rummaged in the search of a dry long sleeve layer, only to realise that I’d forgotten to put it in the waterproof bag with my leggings and it was completely saturated with rainwater. I wrung it out and put it on anyway, hoping the heat generated from my already soaked body would dry it out under my coat.
Round the corner from the aid station, I was steeling myself for a miserable night ahead, and then I met Walter.
Walter was crewing his nephew from a camper van that he had fitted out himself. Seeing the state I was in, he offered me a seat in the van and made me a cup of tea.
In that moment, I was renewed.
The tea warmed me and the conversation steadied me, interrupting the spiral I was rapidly falling down. One simple act from a gentleman I’d never met and I was back off the ropes.
I regrouped with Paul and we continued into the gathering darkness. Mercifully, the rain had eased away and left us in a brief stillness. As we crossed the wind farm, the wind, which had spent most of the morning making life difficult, suddenly began to dry us as we crossed the high ground.
Throughout the race I had been checking in with Joanne, my ultra running wing woman. Taking my phone off airplane mode, I was relieved to see a message from her saying we shouldn’t face anymore rain after midnight, which lifted out spirits significantly.
The night hours passed in the strange way they often do in ultras.
Conversation drifted between the profound and the ridiculous, and the miles accumulate almost unnoticed. At one point, Paul and I were devoted a surprising amount of energy into establishing a definitive ranking of the Lord of the Rings trilogy, some debates are too important to be interrupted by minor concerns like sleep deprivation.
Reaching the second bag drop at Kevin Lynch’s Hurling Club in Dungiven felt like a big win, we actually ran past the turn turn in for it while in conversation and had to double back a hundred meters or so.
Met with a welcome every bit as warm as in Articlave, we were glad of the enthusiasm as much as the shelter.
A chair, a bowl of pasta, fresh socks and a Pot Noodle.
It’s remarkable how a 106 mile race can recalibrate your understanding of luxury. Before setting off again, I got a photo with Johnny, the nephew of PRC members Paul and Ruth, proving the would yet again to be very small indeed.
The growing daylight brought with it renewed optimism. We knew there was still work to be done, several steep climbs and sections of bogland were still to be faced, but this was the first time that a finish felt conceivable rather than theoretical.
The bogs themselves were very bit as awkward as you might imagine. Progress across them was less a matter of fitness and more a matter of judgement, with each foot placement carrying the possibility of disappearing ankle-deep into marsh and emerging with a fresh appreciation for dry socks.
As we pressed onward, discussing everything and nothing in equal measure, the morning light continued to lift our spirits as we descended to the aid station at Moneyneany.
Gathering ourselves over a couple of Jaffa cakes, we knew there was only one significant climb left before the final shoe change, and it didn’t disappoint. Each bend in the road would reveal an even steeper gradient that the one that preceded it, it was clear the course had no intention of going quietly into that good night. We leaned on our poles and got to work.
There wasn’t much left in the way of elegance by this stage, just persistence that sustained us across the last bog section and the descent to the Glenelly Road.
Pulling on my road shoes for the final time felt like crossing an invisible threshold. The hills and bogland that had dominated so much of the previous day and night were finally behind us, and although the better part of 20 miles remained between us and Gortin, there was comfort in knowing the terrain would spring any more surprises on us.
By now our feet ware beginning to protest with increasing conviction, and every mile now required a little more negotiation than the one before it.
Throughout the race, Paul’s wife Stacey had been leapfrogging us with supplies, encouragement and the ever welcome opportunity to gather ourselves. As with Paul, I hadn’t met Stacey before this race, but her kindness and generosity never ceased to lift my spirits. Shortly after meeting Stacey so Paul could swap his to his road shoes, we were passed by Nichole Abma, leading the Norn Iron Mini race that had started earlier that morning with a level of ease that we, in our current condition, were appreciatively resentful of. Later still, along the Corramore Road, Rachel, my club mate who at the time was second female in the Mini, came gliding past us. Rachel’s infectious positivity and enthusiasm managed to lifter our spirits as she simultaneously disappeared up the long road ahead of us.
That’s the thing about these long races.
The challenge itself may be individual, but the experience rarely is.
As the final hours unfolded, Paul and I found ourselves doing less talking and simply sharing the work. Having a good running partner isn’t about constant conversation or endless positivity. It’s about knowing that somebody is standing in the same trench as you are. Somebody whose feet hurt just as much as yours. Somebody fighting the same battles and having the same doubts.
Eventually, finally, mercifully the final descent appeared and before long;
the Gortin town sign,
The left turn at Beltrim Crescent,
Along the back of the football pitch,
And up the path to the finish.
After more than 29 hours on the move, the challenge that had occupied so much of my attention for months was finally behind us.
29:36:18
Throughout my preparations, I’d estimated that I would need somewhere in the region of 30 hours to complete the course, and finishing comfortably inside that prediction is probably the thing I’m most proud of. Not because of the time itself, but because it represents an honest assessment of my own capabilities.
Waiting at the finish line were my family, fellow competitors, supporters and many of the people who had become part of this story.
I even got the chance to thank Walter again.
Ultra running isn’t different because of the distance you cover. It’s not the mountains or the weather or the time on your feet that set it apart from anything else.
It’s different because of the people.
Competitors. Volunteers. Crews. Supporters.
Many of the people I’ve written about here had never met me before this weekend, yet every one of them treated me like one of their own, and my accomplishment in part belongs to them.
To Paul, it was a privilege to share the course with you.
To Gary, Gillian and everyone involved in We Run Wild, thank you for hosting anent that was every bit as challenging, memorable and rewarding as it’s reputation suggested.
