The Rat Race: Isle of Arran – Brutality, Beauty, and What Broke Me Open

This weekend was less of a race and more of a reckoning. 

The Rat Race Ultra on the Isle of Arran calls itself “Scotland in Miniature.” I now know what that means: breathtaking beauty and complete brutality - compressed into two days of madness. 

Day One: Forests, Bogs & False Confidence 

Day one lured me in. 
High energy. Coastal trails. Forest paths. Deep bogs that sucked at my feet and made me laugh out loud. It was messy and wild, but I was in flow. Moving through the southern end of the island, I felt strong - playful, even. The trails kept shifting underfoot and I was dancing through them, sun on my skin. 

But it was all a trick. 

Because day two was coming for me. 

Day Two: The Fall and the Fight 

Woke up shattered. 

 
Nothing in the tank, tired legs. That voice creeping in: “You don’t have it today.” But I started anyway. And then we hit the first mountain, Massif. 

Oh, Massif. 
We climbed and climbed - legs burning, the cold air biting. We crossed the ridge and it was honestly breathtaking. 
That “top of the world” feeling. Sweeping views that made you forget your name. For a second, I felt like I was flying…. 

And yet - I was drained. 

 
It was that bittersweet paradox: you’re somewhere spectacular, but your body wants to shut down. 

After the descent, we followed a coastal path that dragged on endlessly. My mood went to an all time low, dark thoughts, I was empty. No rhythm, no reserve. 

And then came  Goatfell. 

Goatfell: The Grit 

Goatfell was technical. Sharp. rogue. 
There was no space for daydreams here, no time to be think about the pain - every footstep mattered. Boulders, loose rocks and exposed ledges that demanded presence. You had to earn every metre. It was the kind of climb that forces your body to rise while your brain tries to tap out. 

But something shifted. 

Maybe it was the adrenaline. 
Maybe it was the mountain humbling me. 

But my energy came back. 

Somewhere up there, scrambling over rocks and pushing through pain, I realised: this is why I run. Not for medals. Not for miles. 
For these quiet, defiant moments when you meet yourself on the edge - and choose to keep going. 

The Truth I Brought Home 

• This race broke me down - then rebuilt me. 

• Presence is power. You don’t spiral when every step counts. 

• You don’t need to feel strong to be strong. 

• The real finish line isn’t physical - it’s emotional. 

I finished the descent with a group of strangers who had become quiet companions. No small talk. Just relief. Gratitude. Something deeper than pride. 

Why It Mattered More Than a Medal 

The Isle of Arran Ultra mirrored what I’ve been building quietly: 
The VA Hub Ltd. 
A rogue life. 
Freedom. 

It reminded me that pain and purpose can co-exist. That the path to building something real - a business, a new identity, a life on your terms - will always include a Massif and a Goatfell. 

But if you trust yourself… 
If you keep moving… 
The views are worth it. I promise!