A fire smoked at the end of a long runway. A sign pointed towards the 'Docks', and as I glanced over in the agonising heat I saw an oil platform, and next to the runway several filthy and stinking burned out tankers. On the other side were seven train carriages, smashed and partly burned with their discarded engines lying rusted in the old British Rail colours. A lark trilled overhead, momentarily distracting me from the endless rows of smashed up and burned out cars. The stark reality of two charred high rise concrete flats with piles of rubble at their base brought me back in to the real world. A hill runners paradise?

'Outside', the beautiful tree lined lanes of the Cotswolds soothed my spirit, as I escaped to walk Ben the evening before. I blocked 'Inside' out of my mind as I strolled for miles through tiny villages with ancient names such as Aston Magna. The countryside was flush with early summer colours and scents, a long way ahead of Scotland. The smell of history was as strong as that of burning oil and plastic 'Inside'.

The home international 100km Championships at Europe's largest Fire Service Training College at Moreton In Marsh, not far from Oxford. This is why I was here.

At the end of five hours drive on Saturday, I was pleasantly surprised to see what a beautiful area the race was set in. I wound my way through Moreton which lies like a model 'English Village', and the verdant rolling countryside beckoned me to explore its array of tiny hedge lined roads. Mature trees, bursting with colour towered over little lanes and ancient houses, and the village church bell struck loudly, breaking the evening tranquillity. Then it all changed. I turned in to the Fire Service Training College, where the race was to be held, and was stopped by Officials and barriers and told, 'No dogs allowed', which I of course ignored. If I have to suffer a 100km race in this God forsaken place- you can put up with my dog!

Having been ushered to the campus administration office, I was pushed in the way of Bowels House. Maybe the 'e' and the 'l' were actually the other way round to spell Bowles, but my former reading of the word fitted the whole sinister place much better.

It was a huge mistake to reccy the course the evening before as it gave me nightmares. As I entered the College's 'Fire Ground', where practical fire fighting training occurs, the charred discarded vehicles and old burned out tower blocks made me shiver. It was both violently ugly and sinister. My child hood fear of fire crept out to make me very uncomfortable. The all pervading smell of oil made me feel sick.

After breakfast at 6:30 the next morning, the sun was already up. My car thermometer read 15 degrees, even at this time. 8 o'clock came. The dreaded time. I lined up along side about 60 other runners and was aware that I was by far the youngest. I didn't want to be here. I couldn't do it. The acid in my stomach crept in to my throat. ………' and may you all finish', the referee ended his speech. I missed the beginning of his announcement, I was lost in another world. I didn't want this. Take me away. Take me away, please.

The sun shone, and the few remaining clouds left the sky. I couldn't comprehend the task ahead of me, but I knew one thing. I couldn't do it. There were no rivers, no burns, no lochs, no sphagnum moss, no heather, no bog myrtle and no mountains to make me feel a tiny insignificant dot. Just tarmac. No shade. Just tarmac. Searing hot sun…. and the depressing sights of Fire. Just tarmac. 4km loops, and 25 of them. 25 of them. 25 of them. 25 of them. No. No. I can't do this. Take me away.

I set off too fast. I must have known it at the time, but I just wanted it to be over. My first few laps were done in about 17:30, where as I should have been nearer 19 or 20 minutes. After leaving the 'contact point' where the team managers are allowed to pass you food and drink the pain began on the wide open tarmac, set out in places to represent motorways and runways for Fire training. I ran on the rough grass verge to get some relief from the crushing tarmac. Then the section that killed me off. I got the better of it 16 times. I fought it, but it was stronger. It killed me. The long straight mile of charred flats, oil tankers and the train, all sitting stinking of burning oil. Smoke still poured across the course from the fire at the end of The Straight. So shocking that it should have been allowed to burn that day.

I spoke to some folk on the way round to learn of their history in ultra and their philosophy of the whole 'laps on tarmac' thing. The psychology. "I'm only here because the British trail running championships are canceled with F&M", one guy joked. "Me too", I replied, "I should be running over the Paps of Jura now at the Island Peaks race then sailing across the sea to Arran" …."Bet you'd rather be on the hills, Kate"…. various spectators yelled as I groaned of boredom on each passing. "I'd rather be anywhere", I thought.

The laps are a blur now, but I remember nearly giving up at 10. I felt angry. Why was I doing this? I had no ambition to do a 100km. There was no will there. No pang in my heart that leapt at the thought of the end of the 25th lap. No pride in what I was doing. I just thought it was plain stupid, running in circles. Not like that adrenaline rush of reaching the next check on the WHW. At one, all alone with nature. Just you, the woods, lochs and rivers. Never bored. Here, none of the camaraderie between your support team and all the other runners. Just not the same. This isn't to say the Scottish support didn't do a fantastic job. They put every thing in to helping us all. But there was nothing they could do about the Tarmac. Or the Stench.

It just wasn't for me, but having decided to do something, its very rare for me to quit. But at the end of lap 17, my body came first. One runner from the Welsh men's team had already collapsed right in front of me from heat exhaustion, and had to be taken off the course by ambulance. Nine more laps might not sound much to complete this hellish task, but it's 3 hours more running in 26+ degrees and there was no way I could put up with the indescribable boredom and depression of the course. I could not do it, and more to the point I WOULD not do it. I had passed through the marathon distance in 3:11 and 50km in 3:51. I swore with anger and cried with defeat. It had beaten me. Nothing beats me. I had to admit that I was not of strong enough material to do something I hated.

I had lapped the other Scottish ladies runner, Carol Cadger of Perth Strathtay Hariers, at lap 16. She is a dedicated and experienced ultra runner, but quit too. She was very sick and couldn't tolerate the heat. Our men were beginning to quit as well. Another friend had his lap numbers queried by the organisers who accused him of doing one less lap then he had. This was too much to bear, and he gave up. You simply can't handle anything negative on this mindless, soul destroying exercise.

I had failed. I was both surprised and ashamed of myself. I cleaned my self up, apologised for wasting people's time, collected Ben, and left.