Escape From Meriden: A Night of Chaos, Courage & Completely Unexpected Joy

The Journey Begins: A Train, a Storm, and a Bus Going the Wrong Way

The adventure really began long before I ever reached Meriden.

With weather warnings flashing across the country, train delays were popping up everywhere. One friend, Mike Aisbitt, messaged to say he was leaving nine hours early “just to be safe,” which admittedly rattled me a little. But I didn’t have much choice, I’d booked a bargain train ticket with no flexibility, so all I could do was show up, board near 6PM, and hope the universe was feeling kind.

Miraculously, it was. Every one of my trains ran on time.

Normally I’d hop off at Hampton-in-Arden and walk the three miles into Meriden, but two jolly, overly excited runners sitting behind me on the train mentioned they were getting off at Birmingham International and taking a bus straight to registration. Considering the heavy rain hammering against the windows, their plan sounded like pure genius.

So off the train I went, following these two happy souls towards the bus stop. And then something surreal began to happen. From different trains, platforms, and directions, runners began appearing one by one, their excited, trainer-clad feet all converging on the same spot. Within minutes, a whole swarm of us were standing there in clusters, exchanging plans, laughing nervously, buzzing with excitement. We were so wrapped up in the magic of the adventure ahead that we seemed blissfully unaware of the storm warnings looming over us.

The bus arrived, fashionably late, and we piled on. Three pounds tapped onto my phone felt like an absolute bargain compared to a drenched three-mile trudge.

As we pulled away, I allowed myself to settle. My perfectly crafted plan was simple: a warm bag of salty chips from the chip shop, carried to registration, where I’d pick up my tracker and then find a quiet corner to lie down for a couple of hours. A tiny pocket of calm before the chaos. A moment to breathe. My life is a life I love, messy, busy, full-on, but even I know when I need a small break.

The bus was filled with all kinds of runners: bold ones already in shorts, cautious ones zipped into leggings, the sensible few ready in full waterproofs. Me? I was sitting in my old holey trackies, scheduled for retirement as soon as I changed into my kit.

Then the commotion started.

A ripple of raised voices at the front. Someone trying to tell the driver he’d missed a turn. More voices. More urgency. And then the slowly dawning realisation spreading through the bus: he hadn’t just missed a turn… he’d missed a whole diversion due to flooding and was now hurtling down the motorway in the completely wrong direction.

Moments later, we were pulled over on the hard shoulder and the driver evacuated the bus.

I sat there, squeezed between bags and bodies, fear crawling up my spine. Inside, I cracked. My stomach flipped. My anxiety spiked, and the early tremors of my movement disorder began to kick in. The two runners behind me, who I recognised from God’s Own Backyard Ultra, became my lifeline. I looked to them for reassurance and mirrored their calm, steady composure long enough to remind myself: this is not something any of us can control. Just ride through it.

We didn’t know where we were going, but we knew one thing for certain: it was not the very short 15-minute journey to Meriden.

Eventually the driver climbed back aboard, and a few runners helped guide him back toward Birmingham Airport bus station, the place he’d decided to return to.

And it’s right about then that my phone buzzed.

A message from Mark: "We've had a brakedown" Registration: Fifteen Minutes, One Missing Runner, and the Midnight Countdown; By the time the bus chaos finally resolved itself, we pulled into registration with just fifteen minutes to spare. A whole crowd of previously lost runners were suddenly very found, spilling into the right space at the right time, buzzing with the kind of chaotic energy only an event like Escape from Meriden can create.

I joined the queue for registration, where the always-adorable Dave immediately friendly-bullied me into a photo with the Escape crow, out especially for this special-edition Meriden. I struck a pose that perfectly captured the uncertainty and discomfort bubbling inside me.

I got hugs from familiar faces, people I only ever cross paths with at events like this, those odd but lovely friendships that exist purely in headtorches, rain, and finish lines.

But one face was missing.

Mark’s.

And his was, theoretically, the most important one I needed to see.

I spoke to the race director, Richard. It was clear Mark wasn’t going to make the midnight start. With the breakdown, he was somewhere out there wrestling with a car that had chosen the worst possible moment to give up on life.

It was agreed: I’d head to the start, wait at the stone cross, and hope for news. Even if it meant standing in the rain, watching others disappear into the night.

So I walked to the Meridian Cross, the exact middle of England, the point where every runner begins their escape. As I stepped into the circle of excitement, the atmosphere hit me like a wave: flashing headlights cutting through darkness, the rising murmur of anticipation, the hum of nervous laughter, waterproofs rustling in the wind.

The countdown began.

Ten… nine… eight…

Each number echoing through the wet night.

Three… two… one…

And then, like a flock of startled birds, around 250 escapees erupted into motion, scattering into the darkness in every direction imaginable. North, south, east, west, headtorches bobbing away like tiny stars fleeing across the landscape.

I stood perfectly still.

Watching everyone else run off into the night.

Waiting for Mark.

Waiting to see how our escape would begin. Waiting at the Cross: A Phone Box, a Race Mum, and a Decision

After the last of the headtorches vanished into the dark, I ducked away from the drizzle toward a very fashionable red phone box I’d spotted earlier. It looked like the perfect temporary shelter, dry, iconic, and just eccentric enough to suit the tone of the evening so far.

But before I could slip inside, Rachel appeared.

Rachel, the unofficial race mum of every event Richard puts on, has this uncanny ability to scoop up strays and sort out chaos with a smile. She waved me toward her car without hesitation, insisting I sit somewhere warm while we waited for instructions. I was grateful, sometimes you don’t realise how cold you are until someone opens a car door and offers you heat.

My phone rang.

It was Mark.

“RAC are saying 5 a.m. at the earliest,” he said. “You’ll have to get going. I’ll come find you when the car’s fixed.”

Not a chance.

It didn’t take me even a breath to know that wasn’t happening. We’d planned this adventure for almost a year. This was meant to be our escape, our shared madness, our story. I wasn’t starting a single step without my partner in crime.

I relayed the message to Richard, the race director, and after a bit of conversation, a plan emerged. Rachel, ever the guardian angel of runaway runners, agreed to drive me out to Mark’s stranded car along with both of our trackers.

The idea was simple: once the car was fixed, we would return together to the Meridian Cross, the true start point, and begin our escape properly. Late, soaked, stressed, but together.

And so that’s exactly what we set out to do. The Mad Professor Fix: String, Rain, and a Very Fraught Drive

Fifteen minutes later, Rachel dropped me at Mark’s stranded car. Josh, Mark’s son and the night’s designated driver, looked like a mad professor mid-experiment, all frantic energy and improvised problem-solving, the kind of chaos that somehow feels both alarming and impressive.

After a quick, tight hug with Mark, I was ushered into the back seat of the warm car and encouraged to get comfortable. Josh was on a mission. A proper, laser-focused mission: fix the car.

As it turned out, the window wipers had failed completely. In the middle of torrential rain. During a weather warning. A small weak point had snapped and without functioning wipers, driving was impossible. Visibility was zero. The car wasn’t moving another inch until Josh figured out a solution.

Josh appeared at my window with a blanket, a kindness that felt enormous in that moment, and Mark suggested I try to get my head down. But there was no chance. The atmosphere was far too manic, too electric. My mind buzzed as I watched the two of them deep in mechanical improvisation.

Bits of string appeared. Doors opened and shut. Muttered calculations were exchanged. A system began to form.

And then, somehow, as if we’d stumbled into a low-budget remake of MacGyver, Josh had rigged up a manual windscreen-wiper system using string threaded through both front windows. One line began at Josh’s window, looped around the wiper on the driver’s side, passed across the bonnet to the passenger-side wiper, and re-entered through Mark’s window.

Tests were done, tentative tugs, small sweeps across the glass. And to our disbelief, it worked. If they both pulled in rhythm, the wipers moved well enough to clear just enough rain for a short drive.

Meriden was only 13 minutes away.

So sleep was abandoned. Seatbelts clicked into place with more conviction than I’ve ever heard in my life. And trust, whether I liked it or not, was placed firmly in Josh’s hands.

We set off.

I sat in the back seat, eyes glued to the tiny crescent of visibility on the windscreen, the only clear patch Josh could see through. He drove with complete calmness, confident and steady, masterfully judging the dark, wet road ahead. Every few seconds I’d watch him pull the string toward himself, the wiper dragging across the glass, then see Mark pull it back, like an odd, tense, rhythmical duet.

And despite the sick, cold knot in my stomach, I found myself quietly amused at the sheer absurdity of it all, as if we’d stumbled into an episode somewhere between Laurel & Hardy and the Chuckle Brothers. To me… to you… to me… to you…

Eventually, the familiar “Meriden” turning sign appeared through the rain.

Relief washed over me. We turned onto the road I usually walk from Hampton-in-Arden. I finally allowed myself to relax, leaning back, eyes softening, breath slowing.

And just as I exhaled,

the string snapped.

The silence that filled the car was instant. Heavy. Loud. The sharpest, most breathless quiet I think I’ve ever heard. The Snap, the Lay-By, and the Panic

When the string snapped, Mark immediately pointed out a lay-by up ahead, or at least what he hoped was a lay-by through the tiny sliver of visibility left on the windscreen. Somehow, with astonishing calmness and skill, Josh eased the car over. I still don’t quite understand how he managed it. It was like watching someone land a plane blindfolded.

As soon as we stopped, the world around me tilted.

The panic attack hit fast, that crushing, breath-stealing wave that doesn’t ask permission. Everything blurred at the edges. What I do know is this: I have no idea how Josh fixed it. Truly, none.

Mark stayed inside the car, while Josh stepped out into the pouring rain and somehow managed a quick fix that felt nothing short of miraculous.

Somehow, he managed to re-rig the string system well enough to get the car moving again. And with the same quiet competence he’d shown all night, he guided us safely into Meriden and straight to a nearby car park.

As we unbuckled, Mark rang the RAC and cancelled the RAC. With the car now functioning, albeit held together with string and sheer stubborn determination, there was no need for anyone else to brave the weather on our behalf. Not that in fact, they seemed in any rush to do so.

Josh planned to stay in the car park for the night, waiting out the rain so he could drive home safely come morning. The crisis, unbelievably, was behind us.

And after everything , the bus, the rain, the wipers, the panic, we were finally in Meriden.

Exactly where we needed to be, to begin our escape.

1:27 a.m. — Two Dots on the Quietest Start Line in Meriden

By the time everything was sorted, it was 1:27 a.m. exactly.

And there we were: two tiny solo dots standing on what was undoubtedly the quietest Escape from Meriden start line the village had ever seen.

No countdown. No swarm of runners. No headtorches disappearing into the night.

Just me and Mark, the stone cross, and the gentle hush of a sleeping village.

We snapped a quick selfie, half for proof, half for the satisfaction of knowing we’d actually made it here against all the odds, and then off we trotted into the darkness, buzzing with a mix of disbelief and excitement. It didn’t matter that we were starting late, or that the official launch had long passed. We’d made it .Together. And that was what mattered.

A few miles in, a cluster of headtorches appeared ahead of us, bobbing toward us through the rain. As they got closer, I blinked in surprise, I recognised them. It was Nikki from the Flanci community, along with two other escapees I knew through the same tribe.

They’d somehow managed to follow their GPS three miles in the wrong direction and were now retracing their steps back toward the actual route.

For a brief moment, in the middle of that dark, wet countryside, it felt like we were all part of some surreal, soggy reunion, a handful of familiar faces crossing paths in the chaos of night, each on our own strange misadventure.

Seeing them lifted our spirits more than I expected. For those first few miles, starting late and alone, it had felt like we were on some side quest of our own creation, a pair of stragglers chasing the shadows of the 250 runners who’d already vanished into the night.

But crossing paths with Nikki and the others made us feel connected again. Part of the bigger adventure. Part of the Escape.

It wasn’t long before we spotted more headtorches ahead , this time belonging to two chained escapees. Yes, chained. It’s an actual option in the event: runners literally linked together for the entire duration. Their silhouettes bobbed side by side, the chain between them catching the faint glow of their lights as they moved. We exchanged a few cheerful words, shared a laugh at the sheer absurdity of all of us being out there in such weather, and then trotted on, pushing back into the darkness with renewed energy.

For the first time that night, it felt like the adventure was truly underway.

Into the Floods — A Fear Faced, a Hand Held

We bobbed through the glow of streetlights and back out into narrow country lanes, our headtorches slicing through the dark.

Muddy fields swallowed our feet with every step, each one wetter and soggier than the last. The torrential rain had turned entire stretches of countryside into temporary lakes, and more than once we found ourselves wading through water well past our ankles.

Every path became a judgment call: Do we chance it? Do we detour? It was less an escape across England and more a series of improvised survival decisions.

The next pair of headtorches we spotted helped me through a part of the route I genuinely never believed I’d manage.

As we approached a quiet lane, we were stunned by the surreal scale of the flooding ahead. Two lights in the distance, the chained escapees we’d passed earlier — were wading calmly through water that looked far too deep for comfort.

Now is probably a good time to emphasise something important: I am terrified of drowning.

Anything above ankle height, if it’s not in a controlled environment, sends fear twisting up my spine. The idea of stepping into unknown, murky water in the middle of the night is the stuff of my nightmares.

And yet here I was, staring at what looked like an endless river stretching across the road, two chained silhouettes trudging through it like some surreal guideposts.

I looked at Mark, my face no doubt broadcasting every ounce of my panic.

“There’s no diversion round,” he said.

There was, of course, but taking it would add miles and hours we simply didn’t want. Not after everything we’d already overcome to start.

“Is it safe?” I asked, though I already knew the answer didn’t matter. I looked down at my already swamp-soaked shoes, then up at the pair ahead. If they were still moving, I decided, then so could I.

So we stepped in. First my ankles disappeared. Then my shins. Then my knees.

I reached for Mark’s hand and he let me grab on tight. My quads vanished beneath the dark water. I kept my eyes locked on the escapees ahead, like they were the last lighthouse in a storm.

Then the water reached my bum cheeks, a sensation far less entertaining than it sounds, and a single thought flashed through my mind: This is how hypothermia starts.

But we kept going. Step by slow step. Until the water began to drop again.

We sloshed forward, crossed a narrow swirling channel that tried to unbalance us, dipped briefly into a second deep section, and finally emerged onto a quiet lane, as if nothing had happened.

The moment we stepped out of the water, warmth hit us like a blessing.

“My legs feel amazing!” Mark said, delighted at the ice-bath effect.

I could not relate. I couldn’t feel my legs. I could barely breathe. My heart thumped so loudly it drowned out everything else, except the shaky, hysterical laughter that bubbled up from somewhere deep inside. Relief does strange things to a person.

But I’d done it. I’d walked through one of my biggest fears. Hand in hand with a friend who refused to let me go.

The March to Parkrun — Mud, Miles, and a Friendly Face

Saturday mornings are parkrun mornings, always have been, and I normally share them with my dad. Mark knows this. He knows how much those miles mean to me, and he’d cleverly factored a parkrun into our Escape route as a little treat, a comforting piece of routine nestled inside the madness of the night.

Around 6 a.m., after hours of trudging through the dark, we checked our pace against the distance left. Mark had guesstimated parkrun to be around the 30 mile marker, and it looked like it was actually closer then predicted. So we kept things steady and unhurried, entertaining ourselves as we splashed through flooded fields and boggy marshes. Every time a road section finally de-squished our socks, we’d immediately dive into another field and undo all the progress, returning to mud-soaked feet in seconds. At some point you stop fighting it. Acceptance becomes survival.

Despite the cold, despite the wet, despite the insanity of it all, our spirits were high.

Our movement settled into a lovely rhythm :power-march the ups, run the downs and flats. It was the perfect pace, enough to keep us warm, enough to keep us talking, enough to keep the energy flowing.

Around 7:30 a.m., Mark glanced at his watch and updated me on the distance.

“It’s less than a parkrun to parkrun.” I announced gleefully.

His friend Charlotte was meeting us there, so we decided to walk the rest of the way in. Better to arrive steadily than stand shivering at the start line waiting for the clock to hit nine.

As we approached Ibstock, the elusive Sence Valley parkrun location, a familiar shape to Mark appeared through the soft morning light. It was Charlotte, Mark’s childhood school friend and now running companion.

She walked toward us with the brightest smile, and for a moment it felt like the entire messy, muddy, chaotic night had been leading exactly to this: a reunion at dawn.

Two sleep-deprived runners shuffling through the finish of a long, wet night, and Charlotte, the most energetic burst of colour and personality I had ever met before, greeting me with a warm hug as if we’d known each other for years.

We had plenty of time, so we made a quick, glorious detour to the Co-op.

In my sleep-deprived state, it felt like entering a palace. Hot hash browns, hummus, and beetroot wraps were purchased with the enthusiasm of someone who hadn’t seen real food in hours. And then,the true luxury, a toilet. With a door. And hot water. Honestly, it felt like we’d stumbled into a five-star spa.

Fed, warmed, and feeling vaguely human again, we headed on to parkrun.

Only to find…

it was cancelled.

Called off thanks to the same biblical weather we’d been trudging through all night. We stood there staring at the empty course, no volunteers, no runners, not even the faintest sign of a start line, and it genuinely felt like the universe was having a gentle laugh at our expense.

After all that planning, all that timing, all that mud…of course parkrun was cancelled.

After the obligatory “parkrun-not-parkrun” selfie because if the event’s cancelled, the selfie at least becomes more important, Charlotte joined us for a short stretch along our route.

Her loud, infectious positivity seemed to ooze straight into our legs. Our steps felt lighter. The rhythm returned. The daylight brought ease to our movement, and the relentless rain softened into a gentle drizzle.

Between the glow of the morning, the warmth of that brief companionship, and the unexpected Co-op breakfast, we found ourselves moving with purpose again. We ticked off a string of good-paced miles, almost hopping along our route without too much trouble. For the first time in hours, the journey felt straightforward.

“No more floods to cross,” Mark said cheerfully. “That’s all behind us now.”

It felt reassuring, almost too good to question.

Our next target was Mark’s house, roughly around the 65mile point. The plan was simple: reach it around early evening, refuel, warm up, change into fresh kit, and tackle the next portion of the route feeling renewed. The thought of dry clothes and hot food sharpened my focus. It gave me something tangible to aim for, a warm beacon after a very long, very chaotic beginning.

A Whisper of Pain — The Beginning of the Unravelling

But somewhere in that stretch of smoother miles, a quiet shift began.

At first it was just a whisper in my right foot, a tightening I recognised far too well.

It’s an issue that’s been creeping in over the past few months, almost mimicking shin splints, but never quite ticking the boxes for a clean diagnosis.

A frustrating almost-injury, lingering in that grey zone where nothing is officially wrong… yet something most definitely isn’t right.

The ache started as a gentle warning, a tightening along the shin, and I stopped briefly, then periodically, to massage it. Not dramatically, not in panic, just enough to release the tension and keep it from stiffening into something unmanageable.

I knew from experience: if it fully locked up, if the tendons decided to seize, that would be it. Game over.

The pain was very present, humming beneath every step, but I was strangely calm about it. Accepting I could still move and it wasn’t worsening quickly. As long as I could keep moving, I told myself, everything was fine.

Inclines, though, even the smallest ones, delivered sharp, intense stabs that stole my breath. Thankfully, the terrain was kind and mostly gentle, just enough downward slopes to keep us flowing forward without too much extra strain.

It wasn’t stopping me. But it was there.

A quiet, persistent reminder that my body was beginning to negotiate with the adventure.

The Wrong Turn, the Dead End, and the Twenty-Second Power Nap

The terrain began to shift again as the morning wore on. Pavements gave way to quieter country lanes, and soon those, too, dissolved into trail footpaths that twisted between hedgerows and fields. It was a beautiful change, softer underfoot, calmer, more natural, but also more unpredictable.

One particular trail took us down a long, winding descent that felt promising at first… until it abruptly dumped us into a dead end.

No gate. No stile. No continuing path. Just the edge of a farmyard and a very clear no public access sign staring us down.

We could literally see the road a stone’s throw away, agonisingly close, but entirely unreachable from where we stood. There was nothing to do but sigh, turn around, and retrace the entire downhill stretch we’d just committed to… now heading back up.

The climb back to the lane was slow and annoying as my shin tightened again with each step. When we finally reached the top and rejoined the road, we spotted the farmer. Mark crossed over for a friendly chat, hoping for insight into the path’s unexpected disappearance.

I leaned against the low wall by the roadside and let my body sag into the stillness.

A twenty-second power nap behind my eyelids.

A few deep breaths.

A moment of stretching to loosen the pain

.A sit-down that felt like the softest mercy.

Then another twenty seconds of eyes closed, just enough to reset the system.

By the time Mark returned, cheerful as ever, I’d gathered myself enough to push off the wall, take one steadying breath, and set off again.

It was small moments like that, tiny pockets of rest in the middle of relentless motion, that quietly kept me going.

Backpacks, Co-op Pit Stops & The Joy of Dry Socks

We carried everything we needed on our backs, food, layers, waterproofs, gels, socks, hope, and we stopped periodically at larger Co-ops for something more substantial than a quick snack. Those pit stops became tiny lifelines, little oases of warmth and normality in the middle of our soggy escape.

These Co-op stops continued to feel like a full spa retreat. Warm, bright, offering salvation in the form of calories and comfort.

I ducked into the disabled toilet, and I sat on the floor peeling off my sodden socks, letting the cool air hit my wrinkled skin before sliding into a glorious, dry pair. A splash of warm water on my face, a quick top change, and suddenly I felt human again, or at least, human enough to keep moving forward with purpose.

Energy bites from the backpack were fine for topping up the tank, but the body occasionally demanded something more solid, more real, more grounding. Those proper snacks kept us steady, kept the fog of fatigue at bay, kept our legs ticking over mile after mile.

And things really were looking promising.

We were over halfway to Mark’s house. The air felt softer. The paths were blessedly drier. And we found ourselves weaving along a lovely trail lined with dog walkers and groups of children pedalling their bikes, the world finally behaving like a normal Saturday morning.

We ducked into a quiet corner for a much-needed wild wee — a tiny act of rebellion against the night we’d come through — and when we regrouped, something felt lighter.

The rain had finally eased.The ground was firm beneath our feet.We were moving well.And for the first time in hours, we felt genuinely good.

“Hell with it,” we decided.

Off came the waterproofs — heavy, clinging, chafing — and we stripped down to what we normally ran in: shorts that freed the legs, fabric that didn’t stick or rub or cling. The kind of kit that feels like movement, not restriction.

It was a small act, but a liberating one.

A declaration that, for now at least, we were warm, dry-ish, and in control again.

The Seven-Minute Joke & the Flood That Laughed Back

“I feel great,” I announced, far too confidently, squeezing the last remains of a rhubarb gel into my mouth and making sure I was topping up on carbs before I ran out. Prevention over panic, my new motto.

“That’ll do me for at least… seven minutes,” I joked, earning a laugh from Mark as we set off running down the trail. Spirits were high. We chatted excitedly about the next section of the route, the one that would lead straight to Mark’s house. Now that we were closer to his home turf, he recognised the paths and connections, pointing out where the lines on the GPX matched the world around us.

Everything felt aligned.

But we didn’t get seven minutes. We didn’t even get three.

As the trail curved past an old, unused railway line, we rounded a corner and stopped dead in our tracks.

In front of us lay more floods. Deep. Still. Dreaded.

We stared. Shared some words of choice and stared again.

The universe was clearly not done with its little jokes.

Mark pulled out his phone, scanning the map for detours, alternatives, miracles. But I’d had enough.

Stuff this, I thought.

Without a word, I pulled my waterproofs back on. Mark followed suit. The decision wasn’t even spoken, it simply happened. We were crossing. End of discussion.

I stepped forward, running poles out, testing the murky water ahead with each placement like a blind person reading the ground. But fear didn’t fill me this time. There was no rising dread, no trembling hesitation.

There was only determination. Pure, stubborn, slightly manic determination.

Every step forward meant one step closer to Mark’s house. One step closer to rest. One step closer to the box I’d posted to myself earlier in the week, a box filled with chocolate, comfort, and warm dry kit.

And absolutely nothing, not the water, not the mud, not the English rain that had been trying to break us since midnight, was going to stop me getting to that box.

Not today.

The Flood That Finally Said “No”

The water met my ankles. Then my calves. Then my quads.

And then, very quickly, my waist.

I’d barely taken ten steps.

It was deeper than it looked. Much deeper. And the real problem became obvious almost instantly: the ground sloped downhill toward a dark tunnel beneath the old railway, and the path didn’t rise again until well after the tunnel.

At the rate the water was rising, my neckline would be under before I reached the midpoint.

I stopped. Turned. Looked back at Mark.

Mark, unlike me, had taken a far more sensible approach. He’d barely stepped into the water, just enough to test it, and now stood calmly with his phone out, analysing route options with the patience of a man who knows exactly how ridiculous this situation is.

“We can make it,” I said, with the confidence of someone who absolutely knew we could not.

His expression said everything. A quiet chorus of no, absolutely not, don’t be ridiculous, and please get out of the swamp echoed from his face without him speaking a word.

Reality clicked into place.

I turned back, trudging toward him. With only a few steps, the water dropped away from my torso, my thighs emerged, then my knees, until I stumbled gratefully back onto firmer ground.

As I peeled off my waterproofs again, I realised the water had been far murkier than the earlier floods, full of silt, mud, and tiny bits of debris that had seeped through the leg openings. My legs were coated in grime, dotted with flecks of leaves and broken bits of tree like I’d rolled through a compost bin.

It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t heroic. It wasn’t even funny yet.

But it was real.

And it was the first undeniable sign that the day had shifted direction — whether we wanted it to or not.

Brambles, Railings & the Kind of Decisions Only Tired Legs Make

We detoured away from the flooded trail, cutting across a series of fields toward the sound of the road. The route was anything but graceful, ducking (well, Mark ducking, me crouching awkwardly) under low branches, pushing through bushes, snagging on brambles that clung to us like they wanted to come along for the adventure too. We stumbled across a waymarker for The Essex Country Council Trail, which made absolutely no sense, given that we were nowhere near Essex. Answers on a postcard for that mystery!

Eventually, through the tangle of green, we spotted salvation ahead: a wonderfully ordinary, gloriously dry road, just beyond a metal railing.

Mark climbed over with the ease of someone who had slept in the last 24 hours.

I, on the other hand, needed a moment.

My shorts were soaked and uncooperative, my legs stiffening again, and my energy stores were starting to fray at the edges. I scanned the railing for a spot my short legs could manage without adding more indignity to an already questionable morning.

I picked what looked like the perfect spot…and immediately realised it was the highest part of the railing.

I struggled. I limped. I grunted. I hauled myself over like a very determined sack of potatoes.

When I my feet finally hit the ground on the other side, Mark was looking at me with an expression that sat somewhere between confusion and amusement.

“You chose the highest bit,” he said, half laughing.

I stared at him. Then at the railing. And then laughter took over, that slightly delirious, overtired kind of laugh that spills out when you’re too exhausted to pretend anything is sensible anymore.

Because honestly? He was right. It made zero sense. And tiredness was clearly beginning to override my decision-making processes.

But we were over the railing. We were back on solid ground. And we were still moving.

Even if our brains had clocked out a couple of miles back.

Tired Souls, Tired Soles — But Still Moving Forward

Tiredness settled into us fully from that moment on, for me not just in my legs which with experience becomes manageable , but deep in my soles and souls alike. It crept into every joint, every muscle, every thought that required more than half a second of clarity. The kind of tiredness that doesn’t shout, but quietly fogs the edges of everything.

But even so, our pace held.

We stuck to our plan with stubborn commitment: run the downs and flats, walk the ups with purpose. A simple rhythm, predictable and grounding, something steady to cling to when the rest of the day felt unpredictable and strange.

Our running sections became quiet moments of shared momentum, feet tapping forward in unspoken agreement. Our uphill marches were focused, almost meditative, heads down, breathing steady, keeping the wheels turning.

We were tired, yes. But we were still moving. Still working together. Still pushing toward Mark’s house, toward warmth, food, dry kit, and the comfort of knowing we’d made it through the worst of what the day could throw at us.

Strangely, almost insultingly, that last water encounter seemed to help my shins. The cold had numbed my foot enough to mute the sharpest edges of pain, though it left me wrestling with the sting of developing chilblains instead. Still, there was nothing I could do about it. Acceptance had become its own kind of strategy.

We carried on.

And then, like a tiny miracle dropped into the middle of our fatigue, we found a coffee shop.

Real coffee. Hot coffee. The first caffeine I’d tasted since Friday morning.

We slurped it down like it was liquid gold, and for a brief, blissful moment, I felt a sparkle of magic return, a small ignition of energy deep in the place exhaustion likes to hollow out.

The coffee shop also reignited our hunt for another essential luxury: a toilet with a door.

Being in a built-up area again meant we actually had options, and we located a public loo slightly off-route. While Mark changed back into his shorts outside, I used the brief stop to stretch out my shins, trying to soothe the pain now creeping back in with renewed stubbornness.

When we stepped out again, I took over navigation — just for a moment — and confidently directed us back toward the route.

Our Strava maps later revealed a perfect little loop of utter confusion. A circle drawn by tired feet, tired eyes, and the only portion of the day I attempted to navigate.

Which explains… absolutely everything about me when it comes to navigation.

The Long, Slow Slog Toward Mark’s House

From there, it became a tired slog to Mark’s house.

We were coherent, technically, but exhausted in that deep, bone-dragging way that makes the world feel slightly tilted. Our bodies were still functioning more than they had any right to. They moved on autopilot, sticking faithfully to our rhythm: run the flats and downs, march the ups with purpose.

But our speech? That was another story entirely.

Words slipped out slurred at the edges, sentences losing their middles, thoughts drifting off mid-air. If anyone had tried to hold a conversation with us, they might easily have assumed we were wandering home from a night at the pub rather than from a 60 odd mile escape across half of England.

We weren’t drunk. Just tired. Very, very tired.

But still moving. Still holding onto the goal ahead. Still believing we’d make it to Mark’s house before anything stopped us. My eyes began closing on me,those slow, dangerous blinks where the world fades for a fraction too long. The kind that hint at micro-sleeps, the body’s final warning that it’s running on fumes. I wondered if Mark was fighting the same quiet battle beside me.

So I spoke. About anything. Everything.

I let every stray thought become a sentence, anything to keep my brain awake, to tether myself to consciousness with conversation.

Being close to Mark’s home gave me something new to talk about, the local trails he runs, the loops he takes on early mornings, the routes he knows like muscle memory. It helped, painting images with words, keeping my mind warm and busy as the miles ticked down.

And the closer we got, the more vivid the image of Mark’s house became in my mind.

I clung to it like a lifeline.

The hot shower. My favourite running outfit waiting for me. The big bar of chocolate my hormonal, period-swollen belly was practically chanting for. Dry kit. Warmth. A sofa that could mimic a bed. A moment to stop.

All of it carefully packed into the box I had posted to myself earlier in the week — the perfect survival kit of comfort and calories — waiting for me at Mark’s house like a reward for everything we had pushed through.

That box was my hope. My treat. My light at the end of this wild, messy, rain-soaked tunnel.

And then Mark said the words:

“Your box never arrived.” The Box That Never Arrived — and the Moment My Inner Chimp Took Over

A lot of emotions hit me in the single second that followed.

Shock. Disbelief. Heartbreak. Rage. Confusion. Exhaustion. All layered on top of each other like the world’s worst mille-feuille.

I honestly don’t know what words actually left my mouth, if any, but I do know this:

my inner chimp came out swinging.

Not violently, not outwardly dramatic, but in that internal, primal meltdown kind of way…

The little voice inside that had been clinging onto the promise of that box, the chocolate, the comfort, the warm kit, the reward for surviving the night, suddenly snapped every branch of composure it had been hanging from.

That box had been my holy grail. My treat. My safety net. My hope in cardboard form.

And now it was… nowhere.

Part of me wanted to cry. Part of me wanted to swear loudly into the sky. Part of me wanted to lie face-down on the pavement and let the world swallow me whole.

What actually happened was probably somewhere between stunned silence and incoherent muttering, but emotionally?

Oh, the chimp was raging. Mark explained, gently, that he hadn’t wanted to tell me sooner. Half because he’d still been holding onto a thread of hope that the post might somehow deliver before we arrived…and half because he knew, he knew, how much that box meant to me.

He worried it would hit my mood hard. Slow us down. Knock me sideways. He wasn’t wrong.

While my insides were imploding, the chimp flinging emotional furniture around my skull,my human side tried to hold it together. To speak like a grown-up. To stay rational.

I think I managed something along the lines of: “Oh well… can’t be helped.”

But inside?

I crumbled.

Properly crumbled.

Anxiety swept in like a cold tide, thoughts growing louder and sharper with every step:

You can’t carry on without that box. You don’t have your dry kit. You don’t have your medication. You don’t have proper food. You don’t even have dry underwear for god’s sake.

It wasn’t just a parcel anymore. It was everything; physically, mentally, emotionally, that I’d been promising myself for the last however-many hours.

A symbol of relief. A lighthouse. A half way house of comfort waiting for me at Mark’s house.

And now it was gone.

I kept walking, but mentally? Something inside me cracked. And once that crack appeared, the pain, the real pain, finally found its chance to seep in. Warmth, Welcome & a Moment to Breathe

We reached Mark’s village after a long, dragging climb and a short, weary jog along the lane. As we rounded the final corner, two figures appeared, Mark’s aunty and her partner, cheering us on with a kind of unexpected enthusiasm that cut straight through the fog of fatigue.

It was the warmest welcome into Mark’s world I could have imagined.

When we reached the house, Alison, Mark’s wife, opened the door, and a gust of warmth spilled out into the cold air. And there she stood, looking fresh and hygienically wonderful compared to the state of the two swamp creatures she’d just let in.

We stepped inside, and the relief was immediate. My body sagged with gratitude.

I swapped my wet, mud-heavy clothes for a cosy dressing gown and was guided to the shower. The moment the hot water hit my skin, everything inside me seemed to melt, the cold, the fear, the pain, the grime. It was clumsy and fumbly and actually rather glorious.

While I ate a hot meal, real, warm food that tasted like absolute salvation, I noticed Alison had whisked my sodden kit straight into the washing machine. Minutes later, she had everything drying on their pre-warmed radiators, which were so hot they felt like industrial heaters designed specifically to save broken runners.

Charlotte arrived soon after, ready to join us for the next stretch. She brought KT tape, and I carefully wrapped my shins, hoping it would lend me the support and strength I’d need for what was still ahead.

We took ten short minutes to close our eyes, sleeping, breathing, letting our bodies soften for a moment. Then we repacked our bags, refreshed our layers, and stood in the hallway ready to face the cold again.

We were halfway. We were fed. We were warm. And despite everything, we felt ready to tackle the next part of our escape.

Back Into the Night — A Flicker of Excitement Before the Fall

Heading back out into the cold evening air, I felt strangely renewed.

In fact, I was so excited heading out that I actually started bobbing up and down like an over-caffeinated meerkat, telling Mark with absolute sincerity just how ready I felt for the next stretch.

The company of Charlotte breathed life into the miles immediately. Her chatter, her brightness, her effortless energy, it lifted the whole atmosphere. Our conversations flowed, our steps felt light, and for a little while, it truly felt like the second half of our escape was blooming with possibility.

But that little bob of excitement? I had no idea it was the start of the end.

We pushed on, settling back into our rhythm as the light faded and the world softened again into evening.

At first, it was Mark who wavered.

A tough spell crept over him, a foggy, quiet exhaustion that dulled his pace and tightened his face. You could see the fatigue taking hold, that familiar mental fog that tries to dissolve your motivation from the inside out.

But he kept moving. Step by step. Focused. Steady. A stubbornness in his stride that refused to let the darkness consume him.

Charlotte led us through the dusky lanes with confidence, talking just enough to keep us connected, choosing paths with the ease of someone who had saved just enough energy for navigation and coaxing.

Slowly, gradually, Mark began to lift out of the fog. His breathing steadied. His steps regained their purpose. His awareness sharpened.

Just as he emerged…I began to fall.

It was my foot, or rather, the foot I had been quietly negotiating with all day.

The pain shifted from background noise to something sharper, louder, more insistent. A new kind of wrongness crept in, spreading in pulses through the muscles and tendons like a warning siren starting to sing.

Without fully realising it, I began to use my right pole as a leg, planting it with every step, mimicking the movement of my foot, trying to offload the weight and strain any way I could.

It was subtle at first. Then obvious. Then unavoidable.

Every step became a conversation between pain and willpower, and pain was starting to dominate the dialogue.

The night stretched ahead of us, but the ground beneath my feet had changed.

Something was shifting. And not for the better. Ten Miles of Slowing Down — and the Beginning of the End

The ten miles that followed after leaving Mark’s house became slower and slower with every passing step. My foot simply wouldn’t regain any mobility. I’d hoped the rest, the food, the warmth, the tape, all of it, would buy me a second wind. But instead, the opposite happened.

I hadn’t realised how dramatically our pace had dropped until the cold began to overwhelm me. We weren’t just slowing. We were stalling.

It became painfully clear something had shifted past the point of stubbornness alone.

Mark and I began to talk through the options.

I knew, deeply, wholeheartedly, how special it would be for him to hit 100 miles. It would be a milestone, a confidence-rebuilder, a quiet victory. A quieter truth tugged at me: I felt like I was letting him down.

Not because he ever made me feel that way, in fact, he did the opposite, but because my body was breaking at the exact moment an opportunity had opened for him. A moment where he should have been able to reach that hundred miles… and I was the one slowing us to a painful crawl.

Charlotte was still with us, moving steadily, bright and strong, and I knew full well she could easily support him through those last miles.

I said as much. Told him she could get him there. Told him he deserved it.

But Mark shook his head.

“This is our adventure,” he said firmly. “Carrying on without you isn’t an option.”

Hearing that stung, not because it was unkind, but because it was too kind. Too loyal. Too much weight on my shoulders when my body was the one failing us.

I knew, quietly, honestly, that my foot didn’t have another fifteen miles in it. Probably not even ten. Maybe not even five. But I wasn’t ready to say it out loud yet. I wasn’t ready to give up. I wasn’t ready to let the adventure end.

So I pushed.

But it wasn’t pushing in the brave, triumphant sense. There was no grit-fuelled comeback. No second wind. No hidden reserve.

I didn’t find pace. I didn’t find strength. I simply found a way to move forward, painfully, reluctantly, mechanically.

Every step was a win. And every win hurt. Losing Navigation, Losing Control — and the Moment Mark Called It

Navigation began to fail us. Our tired brains slipped further out of sync with the lines on the map, and we took a few wrong turns, nothing dramatic, but enough to show us that things were… slipping away.

I said it out loud, more to convince myself than anyone else:

“We need to get this together.”

But no matter how much I wanted to, my body and my mind just couldn’t.

We turned onto a public footpath between two fields, weaving through the large puddles that glistened darkly under our headtorches. Charlotte was getting cold, her fresh, fast legs weren’t built for the trundle of a sore ultra runner who was no longer moving slowly… but simply broken.

Then a light appeared ahead. A man’s silhouette moving toward us, his shape growing clearer in the gloom. He wore a long yellow coat with a white, translucent poncho over it, carrying a bag that swung slightly at his side.

“Who wears yellow coats?” I blurted. “Dexter does. That character from YOU does. Murderers do. Attackers. Dodgy souls in the night.”

I said it loudly, unfiltered, fully convinced for a moment that we had wandered into the middle of a crime scene. Another clear sign my brain had quietly exited the sanity of the world a few miles back.

The man passed with a polite nod. Not a murderer. Not a villain. Just a person walking in the dark.

But the moment stuck with me, a marker of how far gone I really was.

It wasn’t long after that when Mark called it.

He called it because I wasn’t humble enough, or perhaps honest enough, to call it myself.

He saw the truth I was too stubborn, too emotional, too broken to say out loud.

He let me off the hook gently, kindly, in the only way he knew how.

And I didn’t argue. My protest had been left miles behind us. Tears were already tracking silently down my face as I wrestled with the decision I could no longer fight.

I hadn’t just lost the ability to push on. I had lost the argument with myself.

And that was the hardest part of all. Calling It… But Not Quite Ending It

You’d think that calling it would be the end of the adventure. But of course, in true Escape from Meriden fashion, it wasn’t.

At the end of the track, Charlotte booked an Uber. It took a while to arrive, and in that waiting time the cold seized me completely. I shook so violently that Mark tried layering me with everything he carried, jackets, gloves, anything to buffer the chills rattling through my bones.

When the car finally pulled up, we were beyond grateful for the blast of warm air and the heated seats. I slumped into the back beside Charlotte, Mark taking the front.

I drifted in and out of consciousness, the kind of broken, jolting half-sleep that comes when the body has used up every reserve. At one point I blinked awake to see Charlotte’s concerned face looking back at me.

And then I realised why.

The Uber driver, who we are still not convinced held an actual licence, was driving at full speed down the wrong side of the road. He breezed past red lights with the casual disregard of a man playing Grand Theft Auto instead of transporting real humans.

I stared in confusion at first, wondering if my senses were failing me. But they weren’t. Not even slightly.

Mark said a few strategically firm words from the front seat, trying to coax the driver back onto the correct side of the universe. The driver’s excuse?

“I don’t know this area.”

Fantastic.

But somehow, miraculously, bafflingly, we reached Mark’s driveway in one piece.

We climbed out of the car in a stunned haze. All three of us stood there, processing, before quiet chuckles of disbelief bubbled out. The only reaction we were capable of after a night like that.

Charlotte made a swift and sensible escape back into her car towards home . And Mark and I trundled inside, limp with exhaustion and relief. When everything finally stopped, the running, the pushing, the cold, the chaos, what hit me hardest wasn’t the pain or the disappointment.

It was the gratitude.

For Mark, who refused to leave me behind. For Charlotte, who lifted us with her bright, unwavering energy. For the unexpected support, like Daz Bentley at 3am who drove out just to cheer us on, for Alison giving me her dressing gown without question and washing my sanitarily questionable kit, those who helped without asking, for the ridiculous moments that kept us laughing, and for the reminder that adventure isn’t measured by miles escaped, but by the stories, the people, and the moments stitched along the way.

Yes, the journey ended sooner than planned. Yes, my body chose the full stop long before my mind wanted it to. And yes, I cried, I crumbled, I spiralled, I broke.

But I also escaped. Not just from Meriden, but from the noise of life, the pressure I’ve been carrying, the heaviness that’s been sitting quietly behind my ribs for months.

For a little while, I handed control to someone else, trusted the route, the company, the moment. And that, more than the distance, is what I needed.

We didn’t get the miles I hoped for.

But I hope Mark agrees that we got something better: a night of chaos, friendship, resilience, and memories that will stay with me far longer than any GPX line ever could.

And as endings go, that’s more than enough. I could tell you I finished this blog while sat in Minor Injuries unit, clutching a cup of coffee so awful it should be classed as a second injury… but some things are better left unsaid.