Last Place Never Felt So Good: Running the Madeira Ultra

12th March 2026 | Words by Sophie Ranson

Land mass has long dictated human adventure. Whether tackling cross-continental routes or circumnavigating topological features, the tossings and turnings of tectonic plates have churned out challenges tempting humans for millennia. So, when I was asked to run the length of Madeira – all 104km of it – how could I say no?

What I love about this race is that it started with another. In 2023, I raced Salomon’s Ring of Steall Skyrace in Glencoe, Scotland. There I met London-based ultra runner, Oisín Ruben. He flew down the descents, overtaking me, while I marched up inclines, overtaking him. This criss-crossing cemented a friendship that made it to the ’gram, ready for another run meet, which only came to fruition two years later at the 104km Ultra Madeira race in October 2025.

“You in?” he asked, only a couple of months before.

Me, undertrained yet hill-hungry: *Replies with screen shot of race entry*

And here’s where my story lies. While Oisín breezed through the course, finishing in just over 18 hours, I experienced my most cutting race yet, scraping by the final cutoff time to finish last place. Last place. Gulp. I’d become accustomed to finishing in the top 10, so it would be easy to berate myself for such a turn of events, but now I see it as nothing but a monumental celebration of my body and the community born from the sport. Let’s break it down.

Into the Madeiran Night

Ultra Madeira is one of multiple cross-island ultras that occur annually, reflecting a trail running culture very much rooted in the region. Mild weather, mountains and endless trail routes: it’s the perfect breeding ground for growing sport participation.

Like many ultra races, this started late – or early, depending on your view. At 21:45, participants gathered for the bus to race start at Museu da Baleia, Caniçal. Located on the east side of the island, this same town would welcome back participants upon their finish – whether racing the full distance or shorter races of 61km, 30km or 15km.

Many had warned me of the ‘low-key’-ness of the event. With no clear signage and only a handful of participants at the unsuspecting meet point, I started to understand why. Thoughts on that quickly fizzled when Oisín and his friends arrived. We caught up on life and I met some other runners including the weapon that is Manon Laprune, who went on to finish second and who, like me, had completed the London to Brighton 100km earlier that year. Small world. Also around was Amy Walker. She only started ultra running around her fortieth birthday; her lightness to life was infectious.

We boarded the bus. Chats continued, apprehension brewed. Mindful of the hour and a half bus ride ahead and not wanting to overeat before the race, fuelling had proved tricky. By the time we arrived at the race start, Ponta do Pargo Lighthouse, I had a headache and felt nauseous. Not ideal conditions before the mammoth task ahead.

This spiralled into the worst pre-race anxiety I’d ever experienced, wrapped up with acute awareness I had completed my flattest training block ever. My longest run: a 50km race along the Thames Path, which, as you can imagine, is painfully flat and a far cry from the 5,464 metres I was expected to ascend during this course. But having grown up running up and down mountains in Scotland, and having completed many ultras already, I thought I’d be able to wing it. Ha.

Many an 80s ballad blared out on two speakers, juxtaposing nervous faces among the sparse runners. I found it amusing. It was the antithesis of major events such as the London Marathon, with their big crowds and festival-like race starts. But this is what many, including myself, find endearing about ultras: it’s road running’s plaid-shirt-wearing, laid-back cousin.

At midnight, the gun went off and so did we. Anxiety subsided as I eased into the eerie quiet of the night. Only the pitter patter of shoes on the tarmac to pierce the silence, and the occasional cheering of families and friends supporting their loved ones.

Trails soon began. Finally, I thought. Road running isn’t my jam. But it wasn’t long before I realised my decade-old headtorch wasn’t my jam either. It was exactly that. A decade-old headtorch with barely enough brightness to see my own feet, let alone the gnarly paths unfolding before me.

I eventually settled into the run, finding the unique exhilaration that comes with running while others sleep. You notice different things. Sounds, lights, movement. It feels like questing, like play. The first aid station was seven miles in. A mixture of cakes, fruit and juice awaited. I bid adieu to any nutrition plan I had meticulously crafted over the previous months and guzzled down what I could.

Replenished, I returned to the trail. Reflective markers kept runners on track – mostly. In the early stages, any runner who took a wrong turn had the benefit of still being surrounded by other runners to call them back after taking a wrong turn. I was grateful it hadn’t happened to me. Until it did.

A Wrong Turn

It was a classic case of taking the left fork when I should have taken the right. But you see, when you enter flow state, running feels so good it doesn't matter what direction you’re doing it in. For whatever reason, a state of nirvana had found me as Baz Lurhmann’s ‘Sunscreen’ lyric, “the race is long, but in the end it’s only with yourself,” romantically played on loop in my head – interrupted occasionally with Dylan Thomas’s, “Do not go gentle into that good night,” voiced, of course, by Sir Michael Caine’s character in Interstellar… don’t ask.

I was twenty miles in and feeling glorious. Maybe I really can just wing ultramarathons now? Colossal windmills festooned the path, their vivid red lights dancing above me. Head torches bobbed in the distance, behind and in front. Until they didn’t.

A quick look at my phone to confirm my suspicions: I was running in the wrong direction. I ran back the way I came, desperately seeking a bobbing headlight to aim for. Forwards, backwards, sideways: any would do. Ah, there’s one. Two, three, five. I caught up with the other runners, not quite sure how much time this side quest had cost me, but later realising it added an additional 8-10km to my race.

No matter. I had made it to the second aid station. Set up among remote, derelict farm buildings, what this aid station lacked in glamour it made up for in more cake, fruit and juice. Man, food tastes good after mountain miles. Back onto the track, I knew the next section was mostly downhill with an aid station waiting at the next town. But it never came. And that downhill went on forever. I tripped and slid my way down endless miles of meandering descent. The cruelty – and beauty – of Madeira’s landscape is that, in clear conditions, you can often see your end point, deceptively close though in reality very far. The lights of the next town shone below, flirting with me but promising nothing. And when the trail did eventually end and reach the edge of town, endless pavements took its place, snaking down stairs after stairs after stairs.

Inadequately trained, my legs couldn’t handle it. Fire began to burn my muscles – IT band syndrome, I would soon discover after returning to my home in the UK post-race – slowing me down as I took crab-like steps down the remaining stairs.

Finally, I arrived at sea level. My running poles – built for providing stability when tackling mountain ascent and descent – became my crutches on flat tarmac. Please, oh please, let a garishly yellow aid station sign make itself known. And then it did.

I shovelled down plates of pasta and pondered my life choices. Amy arrived soon after, carrying a cheeriness I couldn’t mirror. Sorry, Amy. After refilling my flasks, I turned away from the comfort of food and people, towards the next section of the route. How regrettable it felt. Performative, even. Of course I know that was the direction I should continue, but I now questioned whether I could. Legs ruined, morale obliterated: I felt defeated. No, Soph, you cannot just wing an ultramarathon. Lacking my usual bravado and lust for adventure, I could only deduce that I was done. Concluído.

This might just become the first race I won’t finish, I realised.

Facing up to a DNF

For many ultra runners, a DNF (Did Not Finish) is almost a rite of passage. Even elites have to make these difficult decisions, sometimes 100+ miles into multiday races. Yet shame persisted as I grappled with the fact this would be my first DNF. I let the pre-imagined judgement of others, and judgement of myself, swallow me.

In racing – and in life – resilience is a fortress built over time. A wall built brick by brick with every race or hard thing you do. You learn to have little words with yourself in these moments, to strengthen your defences for when the mind demons come, reminding yourself that this feeling is fleeting. Or that it is just that: a feeling. Having taken a multi-year hiatus from sport in the years prior, I guess my wall had crumbled somewhat. I had nothing to give. That’s the story I told myself anyway.

This feeling, this level of hopelessness, I’d only experienced once before. It was 2019 and I was around 30-40 miles into a 71-mile race along the Great Glen Way. My Dad was thankfully there to spur me on, providing an extra layer of defence against the mind demons. But this time I was alone.

Sometimes I carry little notes in my running pack in anticipation of these moments – gestures from a past, more optimistic Sophie, but what did she know? It was 06.30. A soft sunrise began to peek through the hills as I continued to feign optimism and walk towards the outskirts of the town, sobbing as the mind demons built up their arguments for why I should turn back to the aid station and pull out. I fetched my phone from my running pack and turned airplane mode off. I’ll call my Dad. Cry to him instead of the quiet void of dawn. Signal returned and I realised my support network had been there all along. Ping, ping, ping, ping. A string of notifications came through at once: mixtures of supportive messages and voice notes from him. Like me, my Dad had been up in the dead of night, except he was at his home in Scotland, championing me when I couldn’t champion myself.

Slowly, I began to feel better. Slowly, I started to run.

Defences Back Up

If the Duffer Brothers were to write this scene à la Stranger Things, I have no doubt Kate Bush would also serenade this moment. Defences back up, my determination was reloading. I’ll at least get to the aid station at Pico do Areerio. With renowned ethereal views, this was Madeira’s highest peak (1,818m). Thanks to the island’s almost-as-renowned cloud cover, I had missed out on seeing it on a previous Madera trip earlier in the year, so there was no way I was leaving this island without seeing it again.

I can do hard things. I can finish this race.

I ran, enjoying a newfound optimism that grew with every step. Nothing was going to stop me. What do we say to the stray dog showing its teeth, obscuring my path and threatening death? Not today, buddy, not today.

I marched up the next slice of ascent. I was determined, yet semi-conscious that while I’d experienced a reawakening, my legs had not. They were still very much fried. But on I went, step by step. Running up that hill. Cloudbusting.

Occasionally I stopped to bask in the views. I would soon realise this was to become cardinal sin. After calculating how much longer I had to reach the next aid station before the cut off time – a factor I’ve fortunately never had to worry about in previous races, always being well within the limits – I realised I was in trouble. Even if I wanted to, could I actually make it?

A Race Against the Clock

That’s when the race aim switched gears. Rather than simply finishing, it was a battle against aid station cutoffs. So, for the next twelve hours, with Baz Luhrmann and Michael Caine out of mind (thank goodness – though love you, Sir Mike), I became fixated on nothing but mile averages, constantly calculating my speed to make sure I could stay in the race.

I darted in and out of aid stations. More cake guzzling. More Obrigadas and Muito obrigadas to the legendary aid station volunteers, who would bandage me up and mask my pain with painkillers and heat spray. Each time, I returned to the trail as quickly as I could.

It didn’t even matter that Pico do Areerio was obscured under cloud cover in the end. I had one job: keep moving forward. Scrambling up steep rocky ascents, navigating rope-strung, hillside paths and traversing misty mountaintops, on I went.

But my legs. Oh, my legs. I couldn’t ignore them any longer. Previous remedies now proved redundant. Sharp pains rattled my every step. Eventually I lost the ability to run completely, even on the flats, which meant I had to surrender to walking the remainder of the race with still over a quarter of the way to go.

Any runners I now encountered were all in the same desperate silence, mustering whatever strength they had to keep going. My own mustering paid off. I had achieved my mini goal of reaching Portela, the last timed aid station. All I had to do was finish the race in the total remaining time (up to 26 hours). I allowed myself to relax, but this was at the cost of my adrenaline – my last temporary shield against the excruciating leg pain – subsiding.

My body screamed. Cake guzzling this time round became a teary affair, with aid station support looking on concerned. “I’m fine, really,” I mumbled through some very British tears. I had wanted to avoid another section of night running, but here I was. Pitch black fell around me once more, with only my less-than-jammy head torch to light the way.

The last aid station, Funduras, bookmarked the remaining eight miles (~13km). Two short sections to go. I can do this. But the path was far from ideal, particularly with two defunct legs. Along slippery, muddy terrain, the track quickly narrowed into dark, thick forest. I could no longer see or hear other runners. Fear sunk in as the mind demons started to stir again.

Headlights soon emerged behind me. Company! Three runners caught up. I listened as banter bubbled between them. How joyous they were, I thought, even after all this time out on the course. It didn’t matter that it was in Portuguese, which I don’t speak, or that I wasn’t participating. Their high spirits provided comfort. Safety.

As I repeatedly slipped in the mud, one realised the extent of my struggle as I navigated the path in the poor light. He walked in front, using his own headtorch to light the way. He switched to English and our conversations became a welcome distraction. His name was Tiago, Madeira-raised and a veteran trail runner. Except he wasn’t running this race. He was part of the sweeper crew. They all were. And having swept their sweepy way to me, this could only mean one thing: I was the last runner.

Last Runner Standing

I’m not sure Tiago and co. will ever quite appreciate the extent of my gratitude for their presence. I could switch off from the constant calculations. Legs moved on autopilot and I allowed my mind to drift between conversations. The forest became less intimidating, more wondrous. I looked out at the foliage and saw faces. Trippy trees and curious gnome-like creatures. Ah, my first race hallucinations. How fun. Hallucinations are a common occurrence for long-distance runners, though sometimes not so pleasant; often a sign of extreme exhaustion.

The final section was brutal. Always another hill to climb, forest section to tackle and dune to ascend. Pain would come in waves and my morale had withered, but Tiago kept assuring me we’d make it. My newfound crew, which had now grown by an additional three or four folk – more race volunteers – would step in occasionally to support me, sometimes literally nudging me up steep inclines. Once I was even scooped up by my race vest, like a rag doll in an arcade claw machine, as we descended a particularly technical hill. If not for them, I probably would have curled up in a ball on a lonely dune, equally lonely. Thanks to them, however, on I went.

Nearly two hours after leaving the final aid station, I finished the race. At this point, close to 2am, most supporters and other runners had surrendered to their beds (quite rightly). But I didn’t need an audience. I was just happy to have actually done it. I completed Ultra Madeira.

Third on the Podium. Last Across the Line.

Despite finishing last overall, I learned I had placed on the podium: third female. For the first time ever, I was summoned to an award ceremony, which would take place the next day. My thoughts immediately fluttered to whether I deserved this, but too tired to dwell on it for too long, I, too, surrendered to my bed.

The next day, legs barely functioning, I hobbled the 500 metres from my Airbnb to the town centre for the ceremony. I reconvened with Manon, Amy and other runners. I learned that many had also faced their own battles: around 50% of entrants DNFd (did not finish), with the aid station cutoff times catching most people out. I’d never heard of this level of DNFing: the highest of any race I’ve known – besides The Barkley Marathons, of course.

I collected my awards – third overall, third in my age category – took photos and celebrated, though shame settled in once again. Soph, you don’t deserve this.

I continued to let these types of thoughts swirl around my mind. But these were challenged by a poem I found in Josh Lynott’s A Note To the Runners, a running poetry book, which I serendipitously discovered in a tiny coffee shop in Santa Cruz the next day. It read: 

Run to the places you don’t belong,
put your feet on start lines, on ridge lines, on finish lines.
Put your feet where people tell you shouldn’t, couldn’t.
Put your feet in places where you have no choice
but to reinvent yourself.
There was a time when they didn’t belong there either.
But you wouldn’t know that.
If you don’t run in places you don’t belong,
someone else will.
And they don’t belong there either.

The fact is – podium or DNF – I had already made the courageous decision of showing up. I showed up in the places I didn’t belong.

Running to the Places We Don't Belong

Female participation in ultra running is already low, and it remains a largely privileged sport in many other ways. Ever-increasing race entry fees on top of the cost of travel and accommodation creates additional barriers. So, in an arena where the odds were already stacked against me, I still decided to put my toes behind the start line. Like all the other runners who participated, I dared to believe that I could.

I’m rebelling against this overwhelming narrative that’s grown alongside running’s rise, one shaped predominantly by the binary: the numbers, the finish or not finish, first place or last place. There’s a place for these things, of course, but when we constantly reach for PBs and Strava kudos, we forget to celebrate our adventures for whatever they are, however they unfold.

Ultrarunning isn’t glamorous. Contrary to what social media tells us, it can be spit-, sick- and snot-filled. It forces you to meet depths of yourself that might have otherwise remained hidden in the humdrum of the day to day. But pockets of loveliness lurk within.

It’s the cake guzzling after astonishingly ascending two mountain peaks before sunrise. It’s the community. The camaraderie between strangers, perhaps leading to crossovers in future races. The volunteers that spur you on. The cacophony of hearty Portuguese voices haloing you to the finish line, providing safety when it’s dark – inside the mind as well as out. It’s the unexpected unravelling of events from adventures your former self may never quite have thought possible. And sometimes, it’s seeing a gnome or three in the woods.

In some ways, it would be nice to send this story back to the editor with a neat narrative about how the race was hard, but the pretty views pulled me through and I triumphed. But Madeira’s volcanic trails challenged me in new ways. It brought me face to face with failure for the first time in a race, and I am richer for it.

So I, Sophie Ranson, will continue to run to the places I don’t belong. And I hope you do, too.

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Sophie Ranson is a freelance writer and researcher with a specialist interest in environment, health and sports subjects. An experienced ultra runner, wild swimmer and yoga teacher, she splits her time between London and Scotland’s Cairngorms.