Crater Rim Ultra 2025 Race Report

The night before the Crater Rim Ultra, I was tucked up in bed by 9:30pm with grand plans for a solid pre-race sleep. My 3:45am alarm loomed, so obviously I was still staring at the ceiling at 12:30am, having worked my way through every sleep meditation Spotify could offer. Eventually though, around 1am, sleep found me — three blissful hours of dead-to-the-world rest. Not ideal, but pretty standard for me on race night. Not sure why I expected anything different this time round.

4am came and I dragged myself out of bed. My kit was laid out, bottles full of electrolytes chilling in the fridge, trail bag and drop bag waiting expectantly on the table. All that stood between me and the start line was forcing down porridge at this completely unreasonable hour, chugging a coffee, and convincing my half-asleep body that this was a good idea.

5am and just about to leave

I arrived at Hansen Park at 5:20am, slightly early because pre-race stress is not my vibe. Soon enough we were on the bus to Lyttelton, and then herded onto the boat for our crossing to Diamond Harbour. The morning was calm, the sky dark with the first hint of sunrise on the horizon, and I somehow ended up at the back of the boat with perfect views. I was so relieved to be here, in this moment, finally, after such a build-up of training and preparation.

At the rugby club, the buzz was contagious — people chatting, laughing, organising drop bags, doing final gear checks, and then queueing for those last nervous pre-race pees at the portaloos. But then it was briefing time and we were at the start line before I knew it. And of course, I forgot to start my watch. Rookie move. Crisis averted and luckily only 100m lost, I settled into the pack and began the slow uphill road section towards the start of the Mount Herbert track.

Waiting to start, just as the sun rose above the hill.

The Mount Herbert trail wound through grassy, cattle paddocks and over countless stiles which caused short queues but nothing impactful. Although it was the longest climb of the day, I’d rather tackle it with fresh legs than tired ones. Poles out, a steady rhythm, and a few chats with strangers-turned-allies, the kind of instant connection that only the promise of shared suffering brings, meant that the uphill slog passed quickly and was over within an hour and a half.

One of the many stiles of the day. Still feeling easy at this point ...

At the top, I breathed a sigh of relief and ran on with purpose, head down, making sure not to trip on the uneven ground. A woman ahead of me suddenly threw out her arm and said, “Look how beautiful that is!” I slowed down momentarily and looked up — she was right. I’d been so focused on my feet that I’d almost missed the view, the blue sky served as the backdrop for the opposite side of the crater rim in the distance, the ocean in between a beautiful blue. “This is why we do this!” she called, and I couldn’t help but agree, thankful she had reminded me why I really do this crazy stuff.

The view I almost missed!

The next few kilometres were pure joy — gentle downhill singletrack, flowing and fast. Then came the mud. So much mud. Ankle-deep, bum-splattering, laughter-inducing mud. By the time I hit Packhorse Hut I was gloriously filthy. In a world where we are expected to remain clean and presentable at all times, the trail allows me to embrace my primal self — and it’s when I feel most alive.

At Gebbies Pass, the first aid station, I felt strong. The volunteers were amazing; smiling, efficient, total legends under pressure helping so many hot, sweaty, runners stay alive. I swapped out nutrition, refilled bottles, thanked them all and moved on to face “The Bastard” — a 2.5km road climb that can’t quite decide if it’s runnable or not. I alternated between a jog and a brisk power walk, settling in mentally and preparing to embrace ‘the suck’ that was to come.

Technical single track on the way to Packhorse hut. Muddy and rocky, its definitely a place to watch your feet and take your time

“The Suck” came in the form of the Waibls Farm Track — a short, brutal uphill climb, every bit as nasty as I remembered. This is where the 30-kilometre Bellbird race starts and I shook my head at what a horrendous ‘warm-up’ that would be for any race. It felt never ending, definitely harder than the Mount Herbert climb. Once over it, finally, I found myself mostly alone, moving slowly toward Hoon Hay Reserve car park. That was my toughest stretch — tired legs, sore toes, and ultra maths that didn’t seem to be adding up to my goal time. I focused on eating, drinking, and accepting that mild discomfort was now my travel companion.

By the time I hit Worsleys Spur, the crowd was back and their energy lifted me after the last mentally tough section. But then came the cruel joke of the course, the descent you immediately have to climb back up. Whoever decided to add that section definitely has a dark sense of humour (I have to say I get it — it is kinda funny … but only if you know it's coming LOL). Luckily I had trained on this section and was mentally prepared. It’s a boring stretch — the trail is meh, not even the views along this bit are particularly good — so it’s a head-down, bum-up jobbie. Don’t overthink it, just get it done!

Worsley Spur behind me, I felt a weight lift. The hardest climbs were over, and I was back on familiar trails — my training playground. Seeing my husband and son at Sign of the Kiwi gave me a boost. I had a mild grumble that it wasn’t any easier than last year, but of course, pushing for a faster time meant it never would be. We laughed about needing jetpacks or wings and I ran off feeling tired but positive, looking forward to the finish line which was now feeling almost tangible.

Some easy single track on the way to Sugarloaf reserve

The next section flowed. My body, tired but strong, knew what to do. At Castle Rock Corner, I hit the turnaround and started the descent home. My legs were heavy, feet sore, but I was still moving well — until BOOM, with only 4 kilometres to go a stitch hit me in my side like a knife to the ribs. It was sharp, breath-stealing, and nausea-inducing. I slowed, tried every trick — deep breathing, arms above head, pleading with the universe. Then my IT band decided to join the party and brought with it a knife to my knee. Great. The finish time that I had been on track for slipped from my grasp.

I hobbled down Rogers Track like a lopsided banana, knife pains still in my ribs and knee, urging myself to just get to the flat where I was confident the pains would ease.

Finally, the trail flattened out. My body relaxed, rhythm returned, and I ran that last stretch of road on sheer determination. Turning into Hansen Park, I spotted friends cheering me on and my smile from ear to ear was genuine … as was my desire to remove my shoes and sit my butt on a chair. 

By the time I crossed the line to the encouragement of all who lined the finish chute, the pain had faded into the background noise of accomplishment. It didn’t matter anymore because although I had missed my goal time by six minutes, I had still managed to swipe 42 minutes off my last year’s time and placed 8th in my age category. 

After 53 kilometres of hills, mud, and sweat, I’d done it — and it had been another ultra day full of reminders of why I love this sport: the people, the challenge, and those fleeting moments when exhaustion meets pure joy. When I set my goal time earlier in the year I had suspected it could be a two year project as I know the most significant progress happens year on year rather than month on month. 

Finally the finish line!

Every race teaches me something new, about patience, resilience, and how much joy can live inside discomfort. Crater Rim reminded me that progress isn’t always smooth or linear, nor is it guaranteed, but it’s always worth attempting.  It’s why I love this sport and why I created Wild Runner Coaching, to help others find confidence and joy in their own training journeys, whether that’s an ultra or a first trail run. Here’s to more muddy shoes, sunrise starts, and the wild adventure that trail running always promises.