Kepler Challenge 2025 — Race Report

Standing on the start line of the Kepler Challenge, I knew just how lucky I was to be there. Simply getting a spot is an achievement in itself. On the day event registrations opened, back in July, I’d been perched in front of my laptop at 6:30am, ethernet cable plugged in like I was preparing for NASA-level operations. I had triple-checked my EventPlus password, placed my credit card beside me like a loaded weapon, and watched the clock tick over from 6:29:59 to 6:30:00.

Heart racing. Enter. Click. Click. Name. Details. Payment. Submit. At 6:32am I let out a huge sigh of relief: my entry was confirmed. At 6:34am: my friend messaged explaining that she was waitlisted. Later she learned she was 184th on that list. That’s how in demand spaces are for the Kepler challenge.

Now I’ve become one of the lucky ones to have run it, I completely understand why. The course, the atmosphere, and the loyalty are off the charts. One woman I spoke to was on her 18th Kepler, cheerfully admitting she now has to chase cut-offs but keeps coming back for more, and when she can’t run it anymore, she plans to volunteer. That vibe runs deep throughout this event and was echoed in different magnitudes to many whom I spoke to.

Pre- Race life juggling and a long journey!

The week before the race was the usual juggle of life and prep. My body felt good, though I was a little nervous. I'd had only seven weeks between two ultra-distance races, having raced for a PB at the Crater Rim Ultra back in October. It was the closest I’d ever run two ultras before so there were some definite unknowns in the mix.

I split the drive from Christchurch to Te Anau over two days, staying in Omarama on Thursday, sleeping comfortably on a mattress in the back of my car overnight, and then cruising through the final 4 hour drive and into Te Anau on Friday. It worked perfectly and kept stress levels low. I was loving life, enjoying my solo adventure - so much time to think and just be. 

I wandered around the event centre and hung with my colleague and the owners of the Further Faster crew who were busy selling last minute pieces of mandatory kit and nutrition to those in need. I was revelling in the pre-race buzz and riding high on the energy of the event before finally accepting that I needed to check in to my accommodation, get myself organised, and attempt an early night. The intentions were good at least.

I was in bed by 8:30pm, feeling relaxed and excited, but of course that meant nothing. Race-eve insomnia struck again and I saw midnight come and go … still awake. The 4am alarm that I knew was set on my phone alarm tormented me silently as I tossed and turned until eventually sleep came. When the alarm did go off I somehow awoke feeling better than I deserved. Alarm silenced, I got out of bed for breakfast, coffee, kit and shoes before grabbing my car keys and hitting the road.

Driving along the lake toward the start line, the sky was crystal clear and the moon hung over the mountains, spectacularly large and movie-like. I considered pulling over for a photo, but no picture could have captured it. A mental snapshot would have to do.

Start Line: Cool Air, Clear Skies, Big Energy

As the moon sank and the sun began to rise, I stood on the start line shivering in the crisp air knowing the clear skies and the low winds pointed to perfect running day conditions.

A few minutes before start time we shuffled into the chute. The countdown began. And then 450 of us were moving forward, funnelling onto the track.

I realised quickly that I’d placed myself too far back, which made the first few kilometres frustratingly slow, there was just no room to pass and my running felt slow and jilted. I consoled myself with the fact that 60km is a long way and maybe being boxed in here preserved the energy that would later save me on the climb.

Those first 5ish kilometres of the trail wound through the forest and were mostly flat, rooty, and an easy start to the day. The many feet in front of me made it difficult to see the roots and stumps approaching and I nearly tripped a few times. Quickly we arrived at the first aid station signalling that the real work was about to begin, and the trail changed from flat to uphill.

The Climb: Poles Out and Eyes Up

The moment the climb started, I pulled my poles from my quiver, Katniss Everdeen style, and steadied my mind and breath as I knew it was time for the long grind of a relentless uphill. The pack stretched out here and passing became easier. Pole, step. Pole, step. A steady rhythm against a gradient that was never cruel but never kind. And it went on. And on. And on.

It isn’t the steepness that makes Kepler’s climb hard. It’s the sheer length … around 20 kilometres of uphill. Using poles meant I had to be mindful about fuelling; hands occupied, brain distracted, it's easy to not be proactive and stick to the nutrition plan but I forced myself to stay on top of it.

Eventually, after seemingly endless amounts of switchbacks, I emerged above the treeline onto a wide ridgeline where the gradient eased and running became possible again. The views exploded into life, layers of dark-green Fiordland bush, sharp rocky peaks still dusted with snow, blue sky stretching forever, the dark blue lake at the base of the mountains. It was everything I’d hoped for.

I pushed on toward Luxmore Hut, hearing cowbells and cheering before I saw the building itself. The place was alive, full of people, volunteers dressed as minions; and it had an energy that felt like a party where everyone suddenly realised they were late for a train; chaos, urgency, and glee tangled together.

A mandatory gear check is done here and I emptied my pack haphazardly in front of a volunteer who ticked me off. Then, pack re-stuffed as haphazardly as it had been un-stuffed, I made my way around the back of the hut… straight into two cheeky Kea (the world's only alpine parrot) and yet another stretch of uphill. Classic.

A few minutes later, I came across three inflatable animals offering shots of tequila to the runners as we passed. You seriously couldn’t make this stuff up. Not sure who actually feels like drinking tequila mid uphill grind, sounds like a vom-fest to me LOL,  but massive kudos to the inflatable animals for continuing the party spirit. “No tequila for me,” I said. “But I would love a selfie.”

Selfie accomplished, I turned around to face the trail again which sidled around the mountain, still trending uphill before a glorious reprieve came in the form of some single track downhill. Naively I thought that most of the uphill was done by this point and I settled into this downhill like a party goer settles into their ecstasy high, but alas, as soon as it had begun it was over and more uphill trails were thrown at me. 

But what was to come next was magic and totally worth all that uphill … the ridgeline. 

The Ridgeline: Pure Magic

The ridgeline was simply stunning. One of the most satisfying sections of running I’ve ever experienced although it still had way more uphill than down so was not easy running by any stretch of the imagination. Beautiful - yes. Easy - no. But those panoramic views were so worth it and are the kind that really speaks to your soul.

The ridgeline itself stretched before me for what seemed like kilometres. I’m not sure how long I spent on this section but it was longer than I had expected and easily the best bit of the race for me. In that moment, running along that ridge, I knew there was nowhere else I was supposed to be.

Then suddenly: metal stairs. Hundreds of them. Down, down, down. I took them as quickly as possible but carefully, all I could think was how much they would hurt if I fell.

Stairs done, the trail returned under my feet pitching sharply downwards and heading back towards the bush. It was time to stow the poles and get on with the mammoth descent ahead, letting gravity take over and do some of the work for a change.

The Descent: 1000m Down and Loving It

I flowed through switchback after switchback, watching the landscape shift from rocky alpine terrain back into dense rainforest. Trees, punga, moss, ferns, lichens, surrounded me, all lush and alive, an ecosystem where plants grow on plants due to the sheer amount of rain that falls here each year. An abundance of life and diversity. I ran with reckless abandonment, enjoying the effortless rhythm of my feet as I descended 1000m in just a few short kilometres. 

Quickly, too quickly, (I was enjoying myself) I reached Iris Burn Hut, which was buzzing with runners and volunteers. I refilled my bottles, and set off knowing the hardest mental test was now ahead … 30 kilometres of almost entirely flat running.

The Long Flat: Welcome to the Pain Cave

Flat terrain sounds easy, but after 1600m of climbing and a huge descent, my legs were already feeling it. My body was strong, and now I needed the other kind of strength—the stubborn, irrational, deep-down kind that can only be found in the mind.

I put on music and tried to find a rhythm. I looked at my watch and 500 metres had passed. Seriously? Demoralised and quickly coming off the high I had felt from that glorious downhill I decided to break up with Garmin and not look again at the distance for as long as I possibly could - which is easier said than done.

I tucked in with a small group and we ran like a silent train through the forest, each of us alone in our thoughts or perhaps already deep in our own pain caves. For 6–7 kilometres I floated in and out of a flow state. For the most part it was peaceful, almost meditative, but I could feel the niggles creeping in - nothing concerning - just enough to push the flow state further from my grasp.

But by about 38km, I was locked into the pain cave. I embraced it as best as I could - this is where ultra runners grow after all. Bruised toes, aching adductors, and my lower back absolutely letting me know what they thought of my life choices. I wasn’t worried about the pain per se, but I was slightly horrified how early it had crept in. I still had over 20 kilometres to go. I pushed it to the back of my mind as best as I could, knowing deep down that it wasn’t going to stop me. The pain and I just had to co-exist for a while.

The survivalist part of my brain whispered: You could walk, you know.

My rational mind replied: You’re fine. You can push. You want this.

Over the next few kilometres I latched onto an unexpected mantra: “Unless you’re dying or it’s uphill; you run.” Granted, it’s not poetic, nor particularly insightful but it was remarkably effective. So I ran.

I focused on the forest, the river when it cropped up beside me, the sunlight as it filtered through the canopy. Anything to stay present and not spiral into dread about the distance left.

Eventually I conceded and took two paracetamol, and within 20 minutes my back eased and I found a little relief.

Then suddenly, after Garmin and I had become acquaintances once again my watch showed I had under 10km to go. Single digits. The end was close.

Final Push: The Longest Five Kilometres of My Life

The next few kilometres stretched on forever, but I was still able to take the small downhills with reckless joy proving my legs were not in the state my brain was perceiving, and step by step I slowly reeled in the finish.

With 5km to go, I told myself; you can always run 5km, it’s just one parkrun, you've got this. My legs disagreed, but my stubbornness won.

The final kilometre  was even harder and felt like I was wading through peanut butter. I had given this course everything I had and now the resilience, the strength and the energy I had had was waning. I broke it into 100m chunks until I heard it, the sound of faint cowbells, cheers, and the MC calling runners home.

I rounded a corner, hit the concrete control gates, was funnelled into the chute, and ran toward the finish line through a blur of noise, colour, and pure emotion, my poor screaming toes preparing to rejoice.

Finally I crossed that line and received my medal and the offer of a seat which were both gratefully received. As I took a seat the waves of relief, exhaustion and pride washed over me. I knew I had left it all out on the course, it hadn’t been easy but ultra running isn’t supposed to be easy, that's what makes it such an adventure. We never know what will happen on race day but in that moment I felt so lucky and grateful for my body and all the people around me that makes chasing my crazy dreams possible.

Another ultra done.

One of the most beautiful yet. And absolutely worth every one of the 78,000 steps I took that day..

after thoughts

Kepler Challenge lived up to every bit of its reputation. Stunning, brutal, generous, humbling. If you ever get the chance to run it, take that chance, you won't regret it. The mountains, the people, and the spirit of this race are something special, and I feel incredibly lucky to have been part of it.

It was a race that reminded me how far I’ve come with ultra-running. I’m now starting to shift from just finishing races to chasing personal performance goals. Reaching this point has taken years of attempts, mistakes, and learning the hard way. It brings me so much joy to now offer to help others and with Wild Runner Coaching, you don’t have to make quite as many mistakes as I did. I want to help runners push their limits, hit their goals, and still feel strong, healthy, and proud in the days post-race. Just like I did when finishing Kepler.

If you’d like to chat more about your goals and explore the possibility of working together then do reach out to me, I’d love to chat.