Andy Hood.

Race to the Stones: 100K of Mud, Thunder, Cones, and Questionable Pizza

The Fugees once sang “Ready or Not,” which felt personally directed at me as I rocked up to Race to the Stones (RTTS) a mere six weeks after my last 100K. My training plan, to put it mildly, had gone rogue. A mid-block illness knocked me sideways, and then—because taper discipline is a myth—I went for a spontaneous trail run instead of sensibly sitting still. But as the Fugees said: Ready or not, here I come, and apparently so did my poor life choices.

I don’t remember how RTTS first crossed my radar—probably Instagram, where every mountain looks heroic and every runner looks like they’re gently glowing. The event is a 100K trot along the ancient Ridgeway, winding through prehistoric landscapes where you can almost hear a T-Rex roar… or possibly just a runner dry-heaving after an ill-advised blackcurrant gel.

RTTS offers several options: day 1 (50K), day 2 (50K), or the full 100K in one go. Naturally, I, along with around 900 other people who also need hobbies, chose the whole enchilada.

The Start: A Toilet Queue and a Little Light Rule-Bending

I stayed near Avebury the night before, where the wonderful Ben from Elderbrook House got up at 4am to make me porridge. That’s not service—that’s sainthood. Unfortunately, my iPhone decided to sabotage the morning by refusing to charge past 80%. Nothing says “ultra-runner in the wild” like rebooting your phone while muttering curses before dawn.

After parking at the finish, I hopped on the coach to the start in Lewknor (a place no one on Earth had heard of until this race). I also promptly crashed the 7:30am start wave instead of my assigned 8:50. I felt like a schoolboy hiding behind the bike sheds—except instead of trying to kiss someone from Miss Peachy’s class, I was trying to avoid extra hours of darkness.

Thunder, Lightning, and the Great Gel Debacle

The first 8K went smoothly. Then the skies opened like a furious weather god was going through a breakup. Thunder, lightning, sideways rain, the whole shebang. My Proviz jacket performed heroically; my Hoka Speedgoats kept my feet dry; and a man beside me wrung out his socks with the despair of someone doing laundry in hell.

The pit stops—randomly spaced between 8–15K—offered snacks, medics, and an enormous supply of High5 blackcurrant gels, a flavour I’m convinced they found at the back of the warehouse next to an expired packet of space food.

People, Views, Beans, and Jelly Babies

The Ridgeway is stunning: wide-open countryside, fields of broad beans and corn, and views stretching further than your will to live at kilometre 87. Families waiting in car parks cheered for every runner and one heroic girl handed out jelly babies—fuel of the ultra-running gods.

I ran with the names of people affected by cancer pinned to my pack—a practice I’ve carried from previous events. I met many who had submitted names, and those conversations powered me through the hardest kilometres. If you were one of them: thank you. Truly.

The Mind Games Begin

At 75K I played the “just a parkrun” game. At 90K: “just 10K—piece of cake!” At 92K I met The Mud. Thick, rutted, ankle-hungry mud. My language deteriorated rapidly.

The Infamous Cone of Despair

Approaching 98K, riding that sweet “nearly-finished” high, I noticed runners coming towards me. My brain, which at that point couldn’t have handled a toddler’s picture book plot, panicked. Had they finished? Were they running home again?

No. It was The Cone.

A literal traffic cone. With two race stewards in deck chairs guarding it. We had to run around it and back the way we came to get to the finish. No stones. No fanfare. Just a cone. Stone… cone… someone clearly thought this was clever.

When I asked, “Where are the stones?” the steward pointed limply into the darkness and grunted, “Over there.” Inspiring stuff.

The Finish: Meh.

There was some clapping, a medal, a photographer ready to sell me my own face later—and then pizza so bland it could have been a cardboard tribute act. The car park had no exit signs, the toilets were feral, and I’m fairly sure someone used the toilet walls as a political blog.

Compared to the immaculate London 2 Brighton event just six weeks prior, RTTS felt… tired. Past its prime. Lacking the magic.

But the People? Amazing.

Shoutout to young Austin in Ogbourne St George, handing out sweets with a handmade sign and a huge smile. I gave him a well-earned £5. Austin, you absolute legend—never lose that kindness.

Final Verdict

The landscape was spectacular, the runners inspiring, the mud character-building… but I won’t be running RTTS again. Not unless they replace the cone with actual stones—and maybe invest in pizza that tastes like food.