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Jungle Ultra 2018

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It has taken me a long time to write this post.

Not because I forgot the Jungle Ultra, but because I’m still trying to understand what it meant to me.

The Jungle Ultra is a 230km self-sufficient ultramarathon through the Peruvian Amazon. Five stages. Heat, humidity, river crossings, mud, insects, isolation, exhaustion and very little comfort. Everything you need for the week is carried on your back.

People often ask why anyone would do something like that.

I’m not sure there’s ever a simple answer.

When I first attempted the Jungle in 2016, I failed. At the time that hurt badly. I had finished other ultras, back-to-back marathons and long endurance events, but the Jungle broke me. Coming home after failing felt harder than the race itself.

So in 2018 I went back.

Not to prove I was stronger than the Jungle.
Not to conquer it.
Just to see if I could meet it differently.

The strange thing about endurance events is that eventually they stop being about running. They become about honesty. About what happens when exhaustion strips away distraction, noise and performance.

Somewhere in the middle of the Jungle, during endless rain and mud, another runner asked me about the date on my race number: 16.6.11.

That was the day KatieAnn was born and died.

She lived for just under twelve hours.

Even now, years later, I still carry her with me when I run. Maybe that sounds strange to some people, but grief has its own geography. Certain miles, certain landscapes, certain moments open doors inside you.

The Jungle did that constantly.

There were moments of incredible beauty. Running through clouds of mist as the rainforest woke up. The sound of birds before sunrise. Villages appearing out of nowhere. Children cheering runners through deep mud. Standing under freezing water trying to cool a body that felt close to overheating.

And there were darker moments too.

Moments where the mind gets very quiet and very honest.

Out there, stripped of normal life, titles, jobs and routines, you realise how little separates strength from vulnerability. Many of the people drawn to races like this are carrying something. Loss. Fear. Grief. Questions they cannot answer in ordinary life.

I think perhaps that is part of why we go.

Not to escape ourselves.
But to meet ourselves more clearly.

Finishing the Jungle Ultra in 2018 remains one of the hardest things I have ever done. But strangely, it no longer feels important because of the finish line.

What stays with me now are the smaller moments:
shared silence,
kindness between exhausted strangers,
the feeling of continuing forward one difficult step at a time,
and the reminder that human beings are capable of far more than we think.

Looking back now, I realise the Jungle was never just about endurance.

It was about learning that suffering and beauty can exist beside each other.
That grief can travel with us without destroying us.
And that sometimes the bravest thing a person can do is simply keep moving forward.

Jungle Ultra — Knowing When to Stop

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It’s taken me a few weeks to write this post.

I think part of me needed some distance from the Jungle Ultra before I could properly process what happened out there.

For anyone who doesn’t know, the Jungle Ultra is a 230km self-sufficient ultramarathon through the Peruvian Amazon. Five stages through heat, humidity, rivers, mud and terrain that never really lets you settle.

And this year, around 10km into Stage 5, my race ended.

At the time I was devastated.

After months of training and preparation, I had travelled across the world to stand on the start line of one of the hardest endurance races on the planet, only to withdraw before the finish.

The Jungle is relentless.

The heat never really leaves you. Your feet are constantly wet. Small issues quickly become serious problems. Sleep becomes limited, food becomes functional and your body slowly starts to break down day after day.

By the end of Stage 3 I was already struggling badly.

I spent the morning of Stage 5 debating whether I should even start. Deep down, I knew something wasn’t right. My body had reached a point where continuing was no longer about determination or mental strength. It had become something else — stubbornness at any cost.

About 10km into the stage I stopped moving forward and had to make the hardest decision of the race:
to withdraw.

Everything in me wanted to keep going.

I’ve always believed in pushing through difficult moments. In endurance sport you learn very quickly that pain is temporary and that most limits are negotiable. Usually, if you keep moving forward long enough, things improve.

But this felt different.

Looking back now, maybe one of the real lessons of endurance is learning the difference between discomfort and damage. Between courage and denial.

For the first few days after the race I found it hard to look at the photos or even talk about the experience. I felt like I had unfinished business in the Jungle.

But with a bit of distance, my perspective has started to shift.

Over the course of that week I saw extraordinary things:
people helping each other through impossible conditions,
runners continuing despite injuries and exhaustion,
moments of humour in the middle of suffering,
and landscapes so beautiful they almost didn’t feel real.

The Jungle strips life back to basics.

Eat. Move. Recover. Continue.

Somewhere along the way, all the normal noise disappears.

At the medal ceremony I had already made my decision.

I didn’t accept a finisher’s medal because, in my mind, I hadn’t finished. Sitting there watching the other runners receive theirs, I realised something very clearly:
I was coming back.

Not because I wanted revenge on the Jungle.
Not because I needed to prove something to anyone else.

But because I needed to prove to myself that I had it in me.

Right now I still don’t know whether going back is a good idea or a stupid one.

But I know this experience changed me.

And strangely, one of the things I keep coming back to is that failure isn’t always clean or dramatic. Sometimes it’s quiet. Sometimes it’s simply reaching a point where your body says “enough” and having to listen.

What I do know is this:
sometimes strength is continuing forward,
and sometimes strength is knowing when you can’t.

And maybe real strength is being willing to return anyway.