The Possible Dream

All images by the award-winning David Miller

Charging towards that mythical, tatty yellow gate, under the 60-hour cut-off, with a crowd cheering me in. It’s what heady running dreams – my biggest running dream – is made of. But living out the bare facts of my fantasy, a few days ago in Frozen Head State Park, Tennessee, was for me instead a Barkley Marathons nightmare. A repeat one. Though what happened next changed everything.

I ruddy loved my Barkley debut in 2023. I felt so lucky to be a part of this notorious, mysterious and exclusive race. Though I didn’t finish five loops, I was proud to be the 19th runner since the race began in 1986 to start one. But frustrated, too. Because unlike all the others, along with Canadian legend Gary Robbins, I haven’t finished one. Sleep-deprivation-induced confusion came between me and locating a book I had ripped a page from just two hours earlier (even if realistically I didn’t have enough time to complete the loop). In March 2024 I was back to make amends.

As well as physical training and tweaking my nutrition (thanks Renee McGregor), navigation was the obvious area to improve. So I completed the Mountain Leader qualification, enjoyed some winter orienteering races and solo night outings, contour-bothering in woods using the Usynligo app. My great friend, Canada’s five-time Barker, Jodi Isenor (check out his amazing Crooked Tail Folk Art), who crewed me in 2023, was incredibly generous with his time, setting me Barkley exams.

I don’t like feeling ethically compromised by flying to Tennessee, but it’s ace to be back in a place that already stirs great emotion, like the Alps and Pennines have done. Sharing digs with Small European Woman, Very Daring Shorts Guy, Konrad Rawlik and Arturas Volianskis, we hang out with The Canadians; Jodi and his wife Karine (who has recklessly volunteered to crew me), plus a likeable young Ukrainian named Ihor Verys. On a wonderful pre-Barkley brekkie at Kelly Farm, the infectiously energetic Gary Robbins (the Tea Dodger’s crew) nearly changes the course of Barkley history before it happens with some wild go-kart driving.

Camp has a warm, old friends catching up, vibe. Tellingly, Carl Laniak does registrations for the first time instead of Laz, we sign waivers "to say the race isn't responsible for returning our bodies" and learn the course has a new section that goes just off our maps – for which we’re supplied a small square of new map. There are now 15 books instead of 12, with seven new ones. This year's theme: "If we did this to dogs, they'd throw us in jail".

A night start feels inevitable, so when a couple of long blasts go up at around 3am I’m fully dressed by the time it’s confirmed as a car alarm. Then the real conch blows at 4.17am. Tea. Banana porridge. Tea. A cigarette is lit.

The pace is hot and there's the usual feeding frenzy at book one, with 20-plus runners wrestling for their page. It’s really stressful. I want to be polite (I'm British after all) and allow others to go first, but I could lose precious minutes and was at the book before most of them. The new Bald Knob book takes 10 minutes to find and allows everyone to regroup again.

This year, probably because of the increasingly strong and better-prepared athletes here, we're in a group of maybe 15 for much of loop one. While sunrise brings blood orange skies, the Tea Dodger and I agree we don't much like the big group and he plans to push on Little Hell. But first there's the new Rusty Spoon section.

Is the Barkley the world's toughest race? In a word, yes. But that's reductive and misses the point. To me, the Barkley is fundamentally a celebration of the magnificence of raw human spirit, of attempting to do something that may be impossible. But the glory is in the striving, the struggle, the endeavour, in having the courage to try, knowing failure is the most likely outcome.

What makes this challenge so tough, above all, is the terrain. Frozen Head not only hates you but actively tries to hurt you. “If you have not been ‘out there’,” said Laz in a post-race Facebook post, “Your mind cannot create an image of just how hard it is nor of the sheer horror that is that course.”

There's unparalleled vert, around 14,000ft per loop (so five loops is 70,000ft, double UTMB or Everest and plenty more than any other 100-mile race). And crucially it’s very steep vert, with knees often waist high or higher. Most of the route is off-trail, on a carpet of loose, brown leaves, underneath sometimes dirt, sometimes rock, sometimes no idea. You grab at branches as they whiz by on the freefalll downs, playing Russian roulette as many snap off in your hand.

Head-height sawbriars lunge at your neck like vampires on Rat Jaw. There are frequent ‘high walls’, natural cliffs (I did a little roly-poly off one of them) where usually there’s a safe-ish route down, up or around somewhere. You just need to remember where and find it. There’s a disused prison, we follow a tunnel under, abandoned mining works, random cables and gas infrastructure. Frozen Head is a hostile but oddly beautiful mix of hurty wilderness, grungy industrialisation and penal history.

We're sliding, slipping, tripping, kicking ouchy things, getting cut and scratched, bashed and bruised. By the end of loop one, those of us in shorts look like we’ve been dragged down a road in a motorcycle accident. You yelp or swear out loud once an hour, which blends into the audio backdrop of the constant swishing of leaves and crackling of breaking branches.

The new Rusty Spoon bit is the worst landscape I've ever tried to move through, hate-you terrain on steroids. It wasn't uncommon to be off trail, halfway up something precariously steep, on hands and knees, pinned down by briars, with a feeling you’re about to fall.

It's bloody brilliant. Apart from that new bit.

The Barkley would still be perfectly doable for the determined, with fair cutoffs. But they're not fair. They time out world class athletes. We have to self-navigate and find mockingly-titled tomes hidden in tree cavities and under rocks. But there's barely enough time to find them all and as you get tired, you make mistakes. You can speed up, to get round quicker, to try and make time for rest and/or create a cushion for errors, but accelerating makes those same mistakes – and tiredness – more likely. If you keep it nice and steady, you may not tire as fast, but probably won’t get round in time. It's a catch 22, the perfect running torture. The Barkley isn't impossible, evidently. But it’s only just possible.

By the Fire Tower, the only place crew and media can spectate, a group of six has edged away. Despite losing time to new books, we touch the yellow gate after eight and a half hours. It’s a strong start.

*That moment of relief when Laz counts 15 pages*

Karine is sensationally efficient and despite a full clothing change, pasta, pineapple, ginger ale and tea, I’m back out in under 10 minutes (even if that rascal Robbins gives me stick for being slow). With John, Ihor and two-time Tor des Glaciers-winner, lion-haired Sébastien Raichon (I’m flattered he remembers me from Aosta) for a counterclockwise loop. John starts his trademark grunts early, on the Chimney Top Trail, but never seems to slow when he's suffering.

While we’re climbing Rat Jaw in the heat, from nowhere, Jasmin appears close behind and we cheer. Sébastien silently takes control of navigating the already infamous Rusty Spoon section. We’ve only experienced it once, coming the other way, yet he glides balletically between sawbriar thickets and high walls as if following invisible trail markers. We exchange glances of “wow” and collectively congratulate him at the bottom. Without him, we never find those same lines again.

Towards the end of the loop, in the dark, running downhill on some candy-ass trails, Sébastien sings in French. It’s melodically beautiful, surreal and a perfect Barkley moment, even before I learn it was The Impossible Dream:

"This is my quest, to follow that star, no matter how hopeless, no matter how far..." (I’ve always loved the Carter USM version).

John, Ihor, Jasmin and I reach camp well within 20 hours and agree on another quick transition. My plan is two efficient laps, then concentrate on really learning the route, leading to books, growing my independence.

I navigate most of the Stallion Mountain section without disaster, though the new book nine costs us time. We spy a huge hog on the Zipline, which gallops away uphill like a mountain lion. Then another, being attacked by two large dogs, with no owners in sight.

*I fantasised about water drop at the Fire Tower all the way up Rat Jaw*

In the dark, a gap starts to grow between John at the front and Jasmin at the back and I feel torn. I stick with Jasmin initially, till she insists I shouldn’t wait for her. I offer a vegan KitKat, as she’s not eating, had a painful fall on a rock and has a horrible cough, too. We’re concerned.

The three of us finish loop three in 31:36, on a second warm afternoon. The heat of the day affects me and it takes me a couple of hours to recover. There have been nav errors, more than you’d imagine, but usually corrected quickly by John. We’re in a great spot. But loop four is notoriously when things fall apart. Indeed it will take me over 14 hours.

Back Out There, we meet Guillaume Calmettes, who finished loop one with only 14 pages, so went heroically back out to get the missing one, which he's found. Despite these wonderful anecdotes of human spirit, there is a little less wonder and joy in each loop for me this year. Second time around, the sense of “Wow, it’s Barkley” has lessened and it just feels hard.

Sleepiness is rising, mistakes increasing. We get topographically befuddled on Meatgrinder and around Bird in the dark, and in my drowsiness I start to distrust the other two’s judgement (ironic considering they’ve done most of the nav), don't make the effort to catch them and decide to do my own thing. It’s about time I did anyway.

I see Jared Campbell and Greig Hamilton at book one, the latter wide awake and full of questions, because he’s still on New Zealand time. For the fifth loop, John had offered to go whichever direction most helps Ihor and I finish and the majority of Barkers feel clockwise is easier. It’s a huge, self-sacrificing gesture that speaks volumes about his character, especially considering our (friendly) rivalry. Though now I've lost John.

I arrive back in Camp in the dark one minute behind Greig. Much as he seems like a great guy, the Kiwi is a threat to my clockwise loop five and as I knock back a Pot Noodle, choc oat milk and tea, he questions my intentions. As I debate what to do with Jodi, and just as Jasmin (phew) arrives in Camp, John awakes from a power nap in the nick of time. We both get to the gate ahead of Greig, John taking counterclockwise, me clockwise (phew again).

I’m buzzing. It may be around 4am and I’ve had no sleep for… I’m not sure how many nights. But I’m on a hallowed loop five of the Barkley Marathons, this time with enough time to finish, 13 and a half hours.

*Trying to distract Greig by getting my nips out*

By my moderate standards, I nail the climb and book one. The next bit is tricky. Where to descend from the coal bench? I start down, quickly realise it’s wrong, go back and continue. This feels right. Steeply down, off trail, in woods, in the dark. I spy the Flume of Doom (probably) to my left. Good sign. My compass bearing wants to pull me right though. Really? I move that way some, but feel confident I’ll hit my catching feature, Phillips Creek, at the bottom anyway, then just move south along it to book two. It’s a deliberate overshoot.

The descent seems longer than I recall though. And when I reach the bottom, the terrain isn’t what remember. Hmmm. I find a river, but it doesn’t fit the one on the map. Rising panic. Then a bigger river, but it’s going east-west when it should be south-north. It dawns on me: I’m off the map.

"You fucking muppet. You've cocked it up again. You'll be a laughing stock".

I'm deflated. But it's not over yet. I follow a river going south, which I hope is Phillips Creek, but undergrowth gets in the way. I find another one going south, but it has a huge pipe in it and is barely flowing. I find two jeep roads, but they don't go anywhere helpful.

Thankfully, it gets light and I climb the nearest mountain, which turns out to put me on... Jury Ridge! I wasn't a million miles away. I dash down some candy-ass trail to the cursed book, turn round and start back up again. But that whole mishap has cost me too much time. I need about 10 hours for the rest of the loop. I only have eight.

It's some consolation to learn later that not only did two very experienced navigators make the same mistake as me this year, but two 2024 finishers did likewise in previous years. It's not the nav errors that cost you necessarily. The key is realising and correcting them quickly, which is what John's so good at. I’m trying to prove you don’t need to be a scientist or engineer to complete Barkley. But so far I’m just reinforcing that view.

I owe it to Karine (who's been just amazing, even timing each teabag to the specified 93 seconds), Jodi, John and everyone who's helped me, to get some more pages and save some face. I also remember Gary's advice that race day is the only chance we have to recce the course for future attempts and I don't want to waste this precious time, like last year. So I continue.

But urgency seeps away. Things hurt. I'm sleepy. On Meatgrinder I lie down for a snooze. It may be 10 minutes. It may be two hours. I see Greig and Jared again at book four. Really, Laz wants us to return to camp when we know we won't finish and I'm running out of time.

*A last swig of choc oat milk before loop five*

Coming down the switchbacks on Bird I’m gripped by a fresh anxiety. What if I’m the last out here and everyone’s waiting for me? What if they all think I’m a Barkley finisher as I come in? What if Laz is angry I didn’t come in sooner? I feel pretty raw. Four loops last time felt like a relative success. This time it’s failure.

I hear cheers ahead. Someone else must be finishing? But no, are they cheering... me? They know I failed. (I wasn’t seen at the Fire Tower, plus I’m coming from the wrong direction.) But they’re still cheering. I don’t deserve it, so I do a thumbs-down gesture as I run. It doesn’t stop them. They should be laughing at me. They’re not. They're doing the opposite. I feel undeserving, but so grateful. It’s really moving. Thank you. Gated communities aren’t always so bad.

I chat with Laz at the gate, then get a whole load of hugs. Gary’s hugs are amazing (“How are you?” he asks at breakfast the next day. "Oh, you know…" I say unwittingly. "I do! I really, really do!" he laughs). But Joe McConaughy’s might be even better. A stirringly somber Taps is played. But all that after I ask, “Has Jasmin finished?”

Not yet. John and Ihor have, but that never seemed in doubt. Absolutely remarkable from the Ukrainian debutant, who prepared so thoroughly, and the tea dodger is best in class at this stuff. They’re both extraordinary climbers, strong navigators and brill people to share adventures with.

We wait. Most think Jasmin didn’t come through the Fire Tower with enough time left.

The understated Jared touches the gate.

Greig touches the gate.

Sébastien comes in. Like me he doesn't have all the pages and doesn't look like he wants applause. But he's earned it. What a Barkley debut. He joins a very exclusive Barkley club, with Gary and me.

We continue to wait.

10 minutes to go...

Conversations are along the lines of, “Well, it’ll still be an amazing achievement…”

Five minutes to go…

With about four to go someone shouts, “Runner!”

All eyes turn hopefully down the road. But it’s John’s oldest son, wearing red, the same as Jasmin, running about. It’s crushing. It’s the hope that kills you.

Three minutes left. But he looks excited, still. He’s waving his arms… at us? Could it be? Really?

It is! It’s Jasmin!

She’s maybe two minutes away, but running hard, uphill.

It’s going to be close. Too close? Not another Gary Robbins moment, please, not with Gary here to watch.

I run towards her, down the side. She has two minutes.

Her skin is yellow-grey. Her eyes don’t look human. They’re focused on one thing only. She runs…

She collapses over the gate and tumbles to the floor amid riotous cheers.

There can’t be a dry eye in the Camp ground and my self-pity is instantly banished.

Seeing Karel Sabe finish the year before with seven minutes to spare (like Jasmin and John, at his third attempt) was the greatest sporting thing I’ve seen live. This is even better, for both drama and what it means. This is history.

A week later, I still get sweaty eyes every time I think about it.

Nosh I brought from the UK:
Yorkshire Gold teabags
Branston pickle
Pot Noodle
3x Salt & vinegar Hula Hoops
33Fuel Protein Powder & Daily Greens
Veloforte bars, chews and electrolytes
Quadruple Strength Summer Fruits squash and Jelly Babies (for the Tea Dodger)

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