Beyond Comfort

In the Autumn edition of RunMag, Leigh de Necker wrote about her 100-mile journey at Ultra Trail Cape Town. Here is a deeper, personal look behind the scenes through the lens of her support crew.

Somewhere in the middle of a herd of 168 runners, I stood at the start line of my first 100-miler feeling tiny, inexperienced, and completely out of my depth.

People often ask why I wanted to take on something as big as a 100-miler. The truth is, I didn't want to repeat distances I already knew I could do. I'd run UTCT 55km and 100km before. I knew those versions of myself. The 100-miler, though, sat firmly in the unknown – and that was exactly the point.

My partner, Ryan, often speaks about setting goals you don't believe you can achieve, because that's where real growth happens. Growth doesn't come from comfort or familiarity; it comes from digging deep, sacrificing and forcing yourself beyond what feels safe. That idea has always resonated with me. I've long been curious about what my body and mind are truly capable of, and I didn't feel like I'd found that ceiling yet. This race was my attempt to edge closer to it – not just as a runner, but as a person.

Knowing what a challenge this would be, I approached the build-up with intention. I brought on a coach, Brendan Lombard, and followed a far more structured and focused training programme than I had before. Even so, preparing for a first 100-miler is consuming – mentally, physically, emotionally. When you step into something you've never done before, with no real sense of how your body or mind will respond, the unknown takes up space. It's terrifying and exciting in equal measure.

Balancing that preparation with work made it even harder. I work full-time, travel occasionally, and parts of my job are physically demanding, so training had to be squeezed into already full days. I felt as prepared as I realistically could be – but I also knew going into the race that it might be too much, too soon.

Friday night vibes

The energy at the Gardens Rugby Club start was electric – a swirling mix of nerves and excitement from the 167 souls around me. At 5pm sharp the gun went, nerves vanished, and I flipped straight into focus mode: start slow, settle the heart rate, control the breathing, find a rhythm.

The first 8km were hot. The sun lingered above the Atlantic Seaboard just to roast us properly on the way to Signal Hill and the first aid station (8km).

There I got a smug "I told you so" from Ryan when I realised sunblock had indeed been necessary. Luckily the mountain's shadow soon swallowed us, and after one last burst of love from family and friends at Kloof Nek, we plunged into the night.

Climbing Kloof Corner was pure vibes: cowbells, cheers, hugs and "well dones" from friends and total strangers – the final hit of energy before sunset. I had a slightly-too-long stop at Platteklip stream (some bloke decided my collapsible cup was the perfect tool to drink the mountain dry), then faced the relentless slog up Platteklip Gorge.

I actually felt strong, desperate to tick off the biggest climb quickly. The higher I got, the darker and mistier it became – and the louder the Scottish music echoing through the gorge. I was worried I was hallucinating far too early, but I eventually stumbled upon a man in a kilt playing the bagpipes in the dark, in the mist. Bizarre, but weirdly cool. It definitely beats the flip-flop brigade blasting gangster rap on Saturday mornings.

At the top (21km) I braced for the forecasted gale. Jacket on, gloves on, head down into thick mist – visibility about three metres. Thankfully the wind never went full apocalyptic.

A quick pee at Maclear's Beacon, past the giant triangular cairn, and suddenly the mist lifted to reveal a sleeping city below and shadowed mountain silhouettes waiting far in the distance.

Midnight magic, and pain

The technical shuffle down to Llandudno Ravine at night demands 100% focus; I was hyperalert and made it to the Llandudno aid station (38km) just before midnight. Fanie, Bron, Mom, Taryn, Jess and Matt were all there screaming for me. Brigitte hopped in as my first pacer to shepherd me through the night. I was still weirdly cheerful and chatty – when I wasn't wrestling with four Salticrax that took a solid 90 minutes to choke down.

We crossed Sandy Bay (no naked gentlemen at that hour, thank goodness) and started the climb towards Rocket Road, where at least six scorpions put in an appearance. A scramble up Suther Peak gave me a moment to look back at the headtorches twinkling like slow-moving bright stars against the midnight mountain. I felt awake and positive, and I genuinely soaked up the magic of being on the mountain in the dead of night.

Then, on the Karbonkelberg descent (45km), a sharp pain flared behind my knee – the opening episode of what was to become a 110km+ suffer-fest.

I prayed it was temporary. Initially I thought ITB – which would have been game over. Brigitte stayed upbeat, insisting we'd strap it at the next aid station and everything would be fine. We limped into the Hout Bay aid station (54km) at 2am – a proper ghost town until we hit the beach and inevitably got wet feet. The glowing Garmin arch and LED-lit path felt like heaven.

Fanie, Bron, Jess and Matt were waiting with encouragement, a foot wash and fresh shoes.

Next came the climb up Blackburn Ravine. Brigitte's chronic insomnia turned out to be a superpower – she was wide awake when I nearly took a wrong turn heading prematurely towards Noordhoek. The leg actually felt okay on the ups, so I clung to the hope that if I could just manage the downs I'd survive. A distant "woohoo" echoing through the silence told us runners ahead had reached the top of the climb; we weren't far behind.

A far south dawn

That next stretch became one of my favourite parts of the entire race. We entered a perfectly still Silvermine as the sky bled from black to red to orange, then descended into Kalk Bay through a sea of bright pink watsonias standing proud above the charred earth from the recent fires.

I rolled into the Kalk Bay aid station (72km) on a sunrise high. Bronwyn armed with mieliebrood, Ryan ready with my morning cup of tea, Fanie filming, Justin ringing his cow bell, and Cleo ready with anti-chafe, sunblock and fresh pacing legs.

I had a flatter reprieve through Fish Hoek, then went up Elsie's Peak and across some awkward terrain to Blackhill (83km), where Kat, Gina, Nate and Justin (plus bell) were waiting. There was lots of stop-start running after that as I tried to bank kilometres on the flat bits while managing pain and energy. The summer southeaster had properly kicked in, so battling a headwind felt pointless. Cleo and I death-marched toward Simon's Town, while my feet began whispering about blisters.

At the Simon's Town aid station (92km) I strapped every hot spot I could find. The heat was now adding to that discomfort. I took my time – Mom spoon-feeding me like a toddler while I patched myself together, surrounded by a circle of friends and family who somehow knew exactly which snacks, words and vibes I needed.

Straight out of the aid station we faced a staircase that looked like the direct route to the second floor of heaven. I moaned the entire way up. Cleo laughed and encouraged. At the top? More stairs. Eventually we reached a derelict old naval base that could have been the set of a horror film. We saluted Just Nuisance's grave several times (apparently failing to do so curses you to DNF), then shuffled on to Scarborough.

Soft beach sand made running impossible and the leg despised it. It's frustrating when you feel like you could run but it's simply not worth the cost. Still, I was on new trails with insane ocean views, and slowly the sound of Justin's bell grew louder.

Mom, Taryn and Ry were waiting at the Scarborough aid station. I brushed my teeth (bliss), slapped an ice bandana round my neck, and discovered I was on 99.9km – edging on my longest run ever.

Noordhoek meltdown

Kommetjie (112km) hit me like a freight train. I'm not quite sure where I lost it, but that was the point everything unravelled. Longest distance ever, escalating leg pain, and suddenly the idea of not finishing became terrifyingly real. I stopped noticing the views; my soul checked out.

The endless windy trudge across Noordhoek beach, staring up at a brooding Chapman's Peak with clouds whipping around the summit and knowing there was still a full marathon of technical trail beyond it… I turned to Cleo with tears streaming and said, "I think I'm tapping out at the next aid station. I'm done."

Her reply was instant: "Absolutely not, friendy! It's meant to hurt. That's the whole point. You've got this."

Cue a spectacular 30-minute ugly-cry meltdown at the Noordhoek aid station (118km). While I could see the concern and sympathy in the faces of my tribe of supporters, not once was I offered the DNF option. Instead I got hugs, a seat, sand-filled shoes removed, swollen blistered feet plunged into cool soapy lavender water and gently sponged by my mom while my sister put a cold towel on my neck. Ryan had clearly briefed everyone.

They knew me well enough to know exactly what I needed – tough love, quiet compassion and zero permission to stop. I trusted them implicitly; if they thought I could keep going without wrecking myself long-term, then I could. My experience at this aid station was not just a significant moment for me in the race, but it was significant in my life.

To see so many people so invested in this journey and challenge I had taken on was so heart-warming. I may not have acknowledged them the way I would have wanted to in that moment, but I hope each person there knows that I saw them, drew strength from each and every one of them and it was this strength, gratitude and the whole-hearted trust I had in them that motivated me to carry on despite no fibre of my body wanting to. The race was no longer my race – it was OUR race and I wanted to make them proud!

Into another night

Leg now screaming on ups, downs and everything in-between, I accepted I couldn't run another step. The only way to the finish was to walk the final 50km.

Enter Chris – the most patient human on earth and exactly the right person for the corpse-revival job. He'd baked brownies as a motivator for the trek ahead, carried a pharmacy of snacks, litres of water, and documented every low (there were many) and every elusive high with his camera. We climbed into the swirling 70km/h wind on Chapman's Peak. By that stage the gale barely registered on my misery scale. After 24 hours on my feet I started getting desperately sleepy.

I found a sheltered overhang; I lay down, arm over my eyes and asked for 10 minutes. I didn't properly sleep, but hearing the ocean and runners asking "Is she okay?" while Chris answered with zero conviction "She's fine" (despite being the furthest from "fine" I'd ever been) somehow recharged me enough to keep shuffling.

Darkness fell again, matching my mood on Vlakkenburg as I continued into night two. I sat to dig out my headtorch and cried – pain, frustration, dread of what still lay ahead. Not being able to run any more was soul-destroying. Runners cruised past me on jeep track while I leaned on poles like a 90-year-old.

Eventually we reached the Alphen aid station (144km) where my army waited. I went straight onto a med bed. Chris had warned Ryan the leg was getting worse, so Brandon – a physio I'd met just weeks earlier – abandoned the Springboks rugby game to buy strapping and tape me up. Diagnosis: not ITB (huge relief), just an angry calf muscle. While this didn't help the ever-increasing pain, it gave me peace of mind that I was unlikely doing long-term damage.

Despite yet another tear-soaked meltdown and being ready to quit again, once more my people refused to let me. Sleep-deprived and incoherent, I couldn't articulate what I needed any more, but they knew: through teary eyes I saw Ryan and Chris packing my bag, through the noise and bustle I heard Matt and Taryn wrestling with my headtorch battery. Mom encouraged me to eat,

Taryn got protective and defensive when anyone came too close, Brigitte sat beside me reminding me "only 20km – that's just a training run", and Kat waved me off while Jess documented the chaos and emotion with her camera. Each fell into the perfect role and together their belief carried me when mine was long gone.

Vasbyt to the finish

Freshly strapped and pole-crutching, I waddled toward Newlands Forest – my home turf that suddenly felt alien and endless. Midnight surprise: Justin and Cleo cheering alone in a dark car park like horror-movie extras welcoming a zombie. Four hundred stairs later I begged another nap, head on knees.

I was getting wobbly, stumbling constantly, Chris catching me more and more. One hundred metres from the next aid station an enormous blister across the ball of my foot burst with a spectacular stab of pain. "That's it, I'm done."

I limped into the Newlands Picnic aid station (157km) to Sean Robson's comforting hug, collapsed into a chair, and – surprise – cried again. I couldn't stomach food; even a carb drink threatened a reappearance. Taryn threw a blanket over me, Mom brought noodle soup (the perfect thing I didn't know I needed), and a medic padded and bandaged my shredded feet. It was 2am; my crew looked as broken as I felt, yet still desperate for me to finish.

Then came the Blockhouse climb at 3am in a black southeaster after 34 hours – grim doesn't cover it. Chris physically held me upright as gusts tried to hurl us off the mountain. That final 6km into a howling headwind broke me completely. I rotated between moaning, groaning and sobbing. Those 6km felt like 60. Every step on the technical descent sent fire through burst blisters.

Just after 5am on Sunday morning I walked across the finish line (168.42km) into the arms of my sleep-deprived, rule-breaking, defiant tribe who had ignored the "crew not allowed" instructions due to dangerous winds. I still can't describe exactly how I felt – not relief, not joy, just numb. The one emotion I could name, though, was overwhelming gratitude for those humans.

I would love to say it was a wonderful race and I loved every minute. I didn't. It was brutal and I hated most of it.

But I am so incredibly proud of finishing – of pushing through relentless pain and soul-destroying frustration for hour after hour. It was transformative. And of all the uncertainties in life, one thing is now crystal clear to me: with that formidable tribe of humans in my corner, I can take on anything.

I have a long history of overuse injuries, and I tend to be someone whose mind is often stronger than her body. When I commit to a goal, I sometimes lose sight of what's rational and push harder than I should. Ultra running has a way of revealing where your limits are – often only after you've crossed them.

What I initially thought during the race was ITB or a calf strain later turned out to be a popliteus tendinopathy. In hindsight, I'm not sure there's anything obvious I could have done differently. Given my injury history, work demands and training load, I believe my preparation was as smart as it could have been. Sometimes the reality is simply that the body isn't ready yet – even if the mind is.

Would I recommend a 100-miler?

Yes, but with honesty. It demands far more than physical fitness. It requires patience, humility, resilience, and a willingness to sit with discomfort for a very long time. It also demands a strong support system. I would do it again, but differently: with more gradual progression, more patience, and even greater respect for the fine line between ambition and longevity.

This race broke me open. I didn't love it, and I don't romanticise the suffering I experienced. But it showed me exactly what I'm capable of – especially when I allow myself to lean on others. And that lesson, more than the distance or the finish line, is the one that will stay with me.