Redemption | Arc of Attrition 2026 Race Recap

363 times around the sun, and it was that time again.

Time to pack the car, head west, and take on what is widely renowned as the toughest 100-miler in the UK.

The infamous Arc of Attrition - a route that has been lingering in the back of my head since a DNF in 2025.

With a whole year thinking what could have been, what I could have done differently, and rueing the grim combo of piss-poor-prep and blind naivety; it was time to make a return.

More prepared and dialled in than ever before. What unfolded to be the craziest experience of my life to date.

Grab a cuppa and get comfy. It’s going to be a long one…

The Pres

Every runner taking on the 100 miler was on the same routine.

Met Office. Kernow Weather Team. Facebook Group. Rinse and repeat.

As race week progressed to its epic conclusion, the news of Storm Ingrid and a progressively worsening forecast looked to add a whole new dimension to the toughest of courses at the best of times.

Alerts turned to weather warnings - which explicitly stated to “avoid exposed coastal areas” due to winds flirting around the 40-50mph mark. Gusts up to 70. Fruity.

After parking up at Porthtowan Eco Park nice and early, I headed into the race village - an impressive cul-de-sac of marquees that were holding on for dear life with the winds of Ingrid starting to pick up.

At this point, excitement was still the overarching feeling holding the room - with a sinister undertone of fear that would develop as the morning would go on.

Before long, we hopped on the coach journey down to the small village Coverack which played host to the iconic start of the Arc - and where my beloved Granny Gripper lived for many happy years.

Many locations along the route are very special to the Gripper Family - which is one of the reasons why the Arc was more than just a race.

As we approached our final destination, the atmosphere on the coach deteriorated from excitement to weather-induced nerves; headed into the eye of the storm as conditions went from bad to worse.

A soundtrack of howling wind and rain against the backdrop of angry 10-15ft seas pummeling the small fishing village to within an inch of its life greeted us as we got off the coach.

The long wait (~1hr) before Kick Off meant it was into full waterproof gear and attempted shelter to avoid getting too cold on the start line. Gripped by a sense of genuine fear I’ve never felt on a start line, it was a question of holding nerve, getting the final few calories in, and telling myself over and over again.

Don’t get blown off the cliff…

Coverack to Porthleven | 0-25mi

The wind prevented the iconic blue flare leadout, but it was still a spectacular first 400m - hugging the coast road as it swept past the beach, up towards the harbour past the Paris. It was here where I saw the unmistakable figure of my old man for the first time - standing next to mum, leg cocked, booming at the top of his voice. Hidden in the locker since he retired 7 years ago.

We proceeded to head up the coast path - coming to a temporary halt as the 400-odd runners filtered through a bottleneck joining the trail.

The conga line of a cramped field gently plodded through the first few miles along Coverack Head, snaking along the muddy clifftops that mark the outermost edge of the Lizard Peninsula. As with the start of many trail races, the single-track footpath limited much in the way of speed - but as most of us have a propensity to steam it too quickly out of the blocks, it was probably a good thing to ease into the race over the first 5 miles or so.

With the storm peaking between 1300-1600 - the first 3 hours of the race - it was a question of getting the head down and cracking on in the face of 50mph winds and sporadic downpours.

I remembered much of the first 11 miles from last year - a beautiful yet boggy section that seemingly followed a pattern: steep up, steep down, steep up, steep down, into a wee cove, repeat.

We passed through Poltesco, Cadgwith and Church Coves, and it wasn’t long before we had sight of the most southerly location of mainland Britain - and CP1 - at Lizard Point.

It was a quick turnaround for me, keen to stay in rhythm and get as much distance covered before losing daylight - so a brief hustle at the checkpoint and it was back out to face the elements.

In my head, I wanted to see my family at Mullion roughly halfway into the 14 mile stretch to CP2 by dark, so I pushed pace on instinct and kept on track despite the muddy paths. A few miles of easy flow to feel, and I had climbed out of Mullion Cove to the sight and tune of the Gripper contingent: much-needed before being plunged into darkness for the 16 hours to follow.

Our first hours in darkness that followed had an air of intimidation - broken only by fellow runners and their beams. The large surf pounded the cliffs and beaches just metres from where we were running - adding upward and horizontal spray to meteorological barrage.

The slow trudge across Loe Bar meant we weren’t too far from the safety of CP2 - and sure enough, a couple of miles later, the trail gave way to asphalt on the approach to Porthleven.

Porthleven to Penzance | 25-40mi

CP2 had more of a buzz about it than the first - support crews tending to their runners, and Arc Angels doing their thing making sure everyone was okay and seen to. With the night well and truly set in, I wanted to take a bit more time here to grab a quick brew and a few PB+J sarnies to warm up the body before a longer section to Penzance.

It was here I met Lloyd from Run4Adventure - a YouTuber who documents a load of races I have done in the past, providing me with invaluable insights as part of preparations. Nice to see a familiar face on the media team!

We chatted for a quick 5; the typical optimistic exchange of one ultra runner to another - a comment about how ‘fresh’ the legs are feeling, comments about how nasty the night was looking etc etc.

I made for the trail once more, climbing out of Porthleven and back onto the coast path. The following 10 miles or so were relatively uneventful as I found a solid rhythm on much more runnable trails than the first 25.

The relative shelter and drop in wind at Praa Sands buoyed us further towards the dreaded road section at Marazion - 4 or 5 miles out from the Penzance CP.

It was here where things really started going Pete Tong last year - so I took great pleasure in taking to the tarmac with equipment all in check, and feeling dialled in on a dime. My feet had suffered badly at this point in 2025, yet now they felt fresh as a daisy in comparison.

As such, I decided to open up, get some (relative) speed clocked before the aid station. I had gone into the race very differently to normal - deciding against a strict race plan, and instead running entirely to feel/intuition.

The miles ticked off much faster than last year - a stark antithesis to the sombre death march that ended my race last year. The body felt good, and I thanked my lucky stars that I had taken training more seriously this year.

A mundane plod along the promenade was made rather exciting with the angry sea rearing its head at regular intervals on a particularly high tide.

Every minute or so I would see yet another monster wave  pelt it into the sea wall, creating a dramatic scene that I’ve only ever seen on a screen. I think I would have shat myself a wee bit had I known this would be the state of play, but in full waterproof gear it made for a rather fun interlude before clocking into Penzance RFC and CP3.

Penzance to Land’s End | 40-55mi

This was where the race began. Fuelling up here came in the form of hot chips and a brew - and a 15 minute break was followed by the nasty 15 mile section to Porthcurno.

I teamed up with a few of the lads who I had been playing leapfrog with on the previous section for the first few miles of road to Newlyn and Mousehole.

This included Gordon, an Arc Legend from last year who I had met on at registration and stayed in touch with sense - and Dan, again from last year, who was one of the people helping me tape my bag after it split on the start line.

Gordon is now a 2 time Gold Buckle holder - and both Dan and I got our Redemption Arc this year…

Approaching 2200 on the clock, what seemed like a lifetime of tarmac gave way for muddy trails again. This section was the only part of the course that was unknown territory - but from all the pre-race research, I knew we were in for some serious sauce.

On the approach to Lamorna, I had the first major challenge of the race - a snapped pole. On what seemed like a fairly innocuous bit of path, I planted my left pole - slipped, and put all my weight on it.

Having been on the move for nearly 10 hours at this point, it was disheartening to say the least - I had been using them from about mile 5 so as to get into rhythm early and save the legs. Losing them with 55 miles, and the most technical sections of the course to go was far from ideal.

I cracked on in vain with a singular pole - feeling very much like a cold, wet Gandalf - the broken one stowed in the pack. But it wasn’t long before the other one followed suit. 

Although the lack of stability from the poles slowed us down massively, I got over the boulders at St Loy despite having been dropped by Dan and Co.

One particularly shit-the-bed moment saw me slide down a rock trying to negotiate the jaunty angles of stones - only to shine my torch below to reveal a sheer 50m drop into the angry sea.

It’s in these moments where it’s imperative to pause for a second to gather your thoughts. I felt an immediate pang of fear course through my body at the alarmingly close call. But after taking a moment, I got dialled back into the task at hand and made for Porthcurno.

After about an hour, the slippery steps up from Porthcurno beach to Minnack loomed above: a near-vertical ascent up to one of the most recognisable attractions in Cornwall.

Hands on thighs, driving up the stony staircase, the weather started to close in; with the driving rain dancing in the wind on the steep approach to the CP. At the crest, a marquee holding on for dear life in the face of Ingrid’s miserly mood stood strong ahead.

Aware that Land’s End, and the comfort of an indoor checkpoint and access to the dropbag, was less than 5 miles down the trail - and with the weather showing no signs of improving, I settled for a quick brew and headed back out into the darkness.

The clock had ticked over into Saturday unbeknownst to me. After losing the poles, splitting a soft flask, and nearly falling to a nasty conclusion, the previous section began to take its toll mentally.

My mind started playing tricks as the trail gradually transitioned from west to north. Every now and then, a wispy mane of a pony cropped up by the trail - only to vanish as I got closer in a sleep-deprived illusion.

A family of 4 donning bright yellow fisherman’s jackets popped up 100yds ahead on the trail - again, disappearing under the cover of night when I slowed to a march in anticipation of letting them pass.

I knew I was cooked - and concluded that I was to take my time resetting the system when I got to the safety of Land’s End. After what seemed like an age, I saw a beacon of light in the distance - the only thing to penetrate the eternal blackness of the night.

With the brain weathering a period of serious haywire, this sight of the CP less than a mile away gave us a spur of hope, egging us into a half decent pace for the first time in a long while. Run hard into the CP. Gather the thoughts. Go again.

Land’s End to Pendeen | 55-65mi

The air reeked of exhaustion in the Lands End Hotel - with a pungent undercurrent of damp feet.

As with every CP on the route, I was greeted to a small crowd of ever-optimistic Arc Angels - who, true to the name, did everything they could to make me as comfortable as possible as I settled into the warmth.

My drop bag was a welcome sight, having maxed out all of my base layers in an attempt to stay warm and dry. The full change of clothes combined with the copious amounts of tea and chilli, made us feel like a new person.

For the final few miles, my head torch had been flickering every now and then - a minor irritation that, when knackered, prangs you out big time. As such, I opted for the secondary head torch moving into the 10 mile section to Pendeen.

As I exited the CP, I started to head back the way I came before being redirected by a marshal - post-food delirium. The wind had picked up again, and having torn my leggings to shreds falling all over the joint in the previous section, I opted for the waterproof trousers.

Yet the steady descent down from Land’s End gave voice to a tearing noise that I knew wasn’t good. Sat unused in my pack for the last 3 years (I never usually run in anything other than shorts), it was their time to shine - yet when called upon, they failed miserably.

Shorts it was. 

The 9-ish miles that followed went largely without incident - or maybe they did. Who knows. One of those sections where many details have vacated memory.

The only thing I can recall was how bad the weather was. There was definitely a mile or so of road in the mix where I remember getting kicked in the nuts by strong gusts and heavy rain - and marked the first time my feet started to get a bit spicy following a harsh, rocky section underfoot.

After a few hours, the intermittent flash of Pendeen Watch gave us hope of reaching safety and rest. The path got harsher underfoot, and the mile approach into the CP felt agonising in the midst of early morning exhaustion; the carrot delicately dangling in the form of the lighthouse flashes.

Eventually, the familiar sight of a marquee shrouded in floodlight welcomed us into Pendeen.

65 miles in, and a shade over 16 hours deep.

Pendeen to Lelant | 65-82mi

Upon entering the CP, I hadn’t realised how cold I was - stuck in a trance of focus overnight that meant bodily awareness fell by the wayside in favour of moving forward.

I started shaking uncontrollably, and my body temperature had dropped significantly as soon as I sat down. I plonked myself on the chair next to a heater, chain-drinking warm tea, in an attempt to get some heat back in the system.

The infamous 17 mile leg to Lelant that followed is known for taking souls - so it was vital that I went into it feeling as good as can be after getting pelted by Cornwall’s Finest for 16 hours.

I knew what I was in for having recced the route as part of the Lighthouse Marathon in November - and, in the absence of poles, I was dreading it. With about an hour of darkness left to endure, I left Pendeen and hopped back on the coast path headed for the Badlands.

What followed for the next 5 hours was pure misery. Less than half a mile down the road from the CP, and the path started rapidly deteriorating - switching seamlessly between ankle-deep bog water and shin-deep mud. All while negotiating the steepest inclines and descents of the entire course.

Having been fairly runnable in November, two additional months of nasty weather had rendered the section barely walkable. Any attempt to get into rhythm was thwarted by the ghastly conditions underfoot; and the lack of poles meant I was hitting the deck much more than I would like 70 miles into a race.

First light brought no improvement - if anything, it made the situation even more miserable. Miles and miles of headland stretched out ahead, with full knowledge that each one would deliver yet more sharp climbs and slippery slopes.

I reevaluated amidst the sufferfest - that was, it doesn’t matter how long it takes. Just get to St Ives in one piece. Pace slowed to a deathly waddle, but every step brought us one closer to the end of this hell hole.

It was a surprisingly welcome sight to see the boulders at Zennor head after 3 or 4 hours of pootling along, knowing that when planting your foot you were getting exactly what you expected.

Alas, the final 2 or 3 miles of the Badlands ground my soul to the finest of powders - and I plodded into Porthmeor after 5 hours of the rawest suffering I have had in my running career; dejected, exhausted and questioning my life choices. 

On the approach to Tate St Ives, I heard the familiar tones of cousin Ruth; the sight of whom brought us to tears within seconds. All it took was the familiar face of a Gripper to tip us over the edge.

A quick exchange with Ruthie, and it was back on the way to Lelant. With 1 of my 3 soft flasks splitting overnight during one of many falls, the fluid stores had dried up; and I was keen to get into the Lelant CP a few miles down the road as quickly as possible.

It felt liberating to be able to actually run once more - albeit incredibly slowly - as the terrain transitioned from the tarmac of Porthmeor, to the cobbles of St Ives, and back on to muddy-yet-runnable trails through Porth Kidney.

Before too long, the dunes that run parallel with the trainline appeared - knowing the CP was just a mile down the road. Spurred by this thought, I got a nice pace on to Lelant.

Nonetheless, we had made it. Back of the race broken. Game on.

Lelant to Portreath | 82-96mi

I entered the CP non-verbal and delirious having suffered no end on the previous section - but after 4 or 5 slices of fresh pizza, lots of tea and a wee pep talk with an Arc Angel, I left about 10 minutes later feeling like a new man.

Encouraged by the prospect of seeing my folks at Godrevy 7 miles down the road, I shook off the wooden tightness and cracked on with a steady pace.

Having got through the Badlands without any major injuries, I had worked out in my head that sub-30 was pretty much in the bag - but with the improvement in terrain and the head back on a level, I wanted to try and empty the tank to get the best result possible on the final 20 miles.

The route took us through North Quay at Hayle, and onto the Dunes of Doom - which didn’t seem too doom-y as the weather had turned in our favour. Although the wind was still a bit spicy, the rain was holding off; which again meant that a half decent pace was easy to come by.

I floated through the dunes with this second wind, and the familiar sight of Godrevy came much quicker than expected. One of the locations on the course that has so much personal meaning, the sight of Lula - formerly the Godrevy Cafe - brought with it a fair chunk of emotion.

A quick bite to eat in the CP followed by a brief catch up with the rents, and it was onwards to Portreath. The ascent and about turn on Godrevy Head then delivered a largely runnable section - where the elevation profile allowed for yet another sustained bout of steady pace.

A few miles out from Portreath, a couple of the front runners in the 50 steamed past us at a blistering pace. As they passed, the increased incidence in human interaction meant the miles went by with relative ease. The descent into the aid station was met with yet another appearance from the parents - for the final time before the finish line.

It was happening. The end was in sight. 

A monkey that had been on my mind every day for the past year was about to get off my back.

Portreath to Porthtowan | 96-101mi

Saturday at 1619, I got into the final CP at Portreath. With the afternoon light beginning to show signs of fading, I didn’t want to hang around.

The steep climb up the road and out of Portreath brought back memories of last year - where I had met Gordon to catch up on his last leg of the race. The fact I had made it myself this time of asking got us in the feels once more - as was becoming a regular occurrence for the final fifth of the race.

The legs began to feel heavy as the path hugged the cliffs of Tin Country. I could almost feel them scream out at the sight of The Bitches; 2 sets of steep, slippery steps etched into the cliffs ahead.

Part of me began to rethink the strategy of running hard from Godrevy purely for pride; but nonetheless, the agonising staircases got negotiated. Very carefully, I should add, as doing so on heavily fatigued legs is a recipe for disaster when not taken with caution.

The ‘miles left’ on the Garmin ticked down to one solitary mile as clifftop moorland gave way to the road that took us down into the village of Porthtowan; the sight of which lit a fire in the belly.

This marked not only the approach to the finish line, but where I fell in love with surfing 18-odd years ago. It felt entirely apt that I would be finishing the journey of my life in a place that holds so many happy memories.

I made the journey up Beach Road as the light began to fade - only to be met by the wonderful Leah, the Arc Angel who had consoled me after pulling out at Penzance last year.

With an exhaustion-fuelled lack of vocabulary, I kept it brief - to which I got the best response possible in the form of the warmest of hugs.

For me, this was probably the highlight of my race. Leah had spent a long time with me last year, and had ultimately convinced me to make it back for a second crack of the whip. A wave of the most intense gratitude at the kindness of strangers washed over us, and she sent me on my way with a simple sentiment: “go finish the job and enjoy every single second”.

Sure enough, after one final, sickeningly spicy climb to finish the legs off, the hill crested to a wash of UTMB blues at the Finish Line. 

Of course, the ego managed to fuel a sprint finish over the line - a moment of uncontrollable elation that will stay with me forever. What made it even more special was hearing my parents over the wind and blaring PA System - a journey on the coast path, and over the past year, very much shared by them.

28 hours and 47 minutes after shitting myself on the start line (figuratively…) - we were back at the finish.

Broken, but wholly satisfied with the most brutal adventure in my life to date.

The Afters

Crossing the line was met with a considerable fanfare of photographers, UTMB media and volunteers; and, as with most races, a fair amount of “what the fuck kind of shoes did you just run in”-s.

Tracker cut off, buckle in hand, I was informed there was a Scottish bloke waiting for me in the dropbag tent. It had to be my first port of call. Sure enough, the bright-blue-bearded figure of Mr Urquhart stood with his second Gold Buckle ready for a debrief.

It was a full circle moment chatting to Gordon - one typical in Ultra where we shared stories of suffering, followed by the psychopathic suggestion of coming back next year to do it all over again.

I left Gordon to revel in the race village, and then the folks - saying I’d meet them back at my Aunt and Uncle’s in a few hours - before taking a quick nap in the car and heading home to the warmth and comfort of Windrush.

A quick debrief with the Cornish Grippers, and it was straight into the sack for a well earned kip.

The Final Word

The Arc was undoubtedly my wildest adventure yet.

Everything from the weather, to the terrain, to a few genuine near-death experiences made for an unforgettable 29 hours on the trail.

A course that will inevitably draw me back at some stage for a crack at sub-24 and the elusive Black Buckle - but as for next year, I think I will take a pass. Maybe…

A huge thank you to all of the organisers at UTMB and volunteers that made this beautifully brutal event possible. Amidst all the dangers of running the coast path in a named storm, the fact that there were no major incidents is a testament to how well run it was this year.

For now, though, The Tunnel calls…