To read Part One, click here – To read Part Two, click here. LL

“Wow. Your internal dialogue is really quite negative, have you noticed that?”

Yeah. I had, actually. In writing Part One and Part Two it occurred to me how much of that negative self-talk I had to edit out and cut from my drafts.

Fuck.

***

Viana do Castelo was the first time I saw other ‘pilgrims’. Normal, sensible looking pilgrims. The sort that start their day in the morning and walk 20km or so to their next albergue. Leisurely enjoying, rather than enduring.

Some of them called out as I passed them, “are you running all the way?” “Slow down man!”

I ran past two younger guys on bikes who pedalled harder to catch up, who asked what I was doing … and were blown away that my plan was to run the whole way.” I found myself racing them (yes, they were on bikes), and somehow smashed my GoPro in the process. Maybe I should have slowed down.

My next big landmark was the boat crossing at the border in Caminha. Around 25-30 km away. My boat to Spain was booked for 11:30am.

***

My best friend died recently. His passing has shaken a lot of deep shit up. In returning to this draft I realized that there were through lines between me deciding to do this run, and how I have lived my life to this point. The arresting shock of heart-breaking grief finally put some sort of clarity in my mind.

Today I found myself telling my beloved that I don’t believe she respects my thoughts, opinions, or the way I think. Is that true? Or is the real truth that I feel that way about myself?

What have I done with my life? What defines me?

I have lived a life of rich experiences— but achieved nothing.

Today, whilst leaving the house with a hundred things on my mind I ran over my 12 week old puppy with the car – by some miracle, she’s fine. Today I missed a memo that my son had a soccer game – he was gutted that I wasn’t there. I did manage to order a new dishwasher … albeit after months of being asked to do so, and multiple failed attempts later – is that an achievement?

I quit the corporate ladder that I had barely started to ascend for a life behind the lens – I never got my big magazine cover or gold-standard client. I commentated on a few big competitions and was relatively sought after … but I bailed on that before climbing joined the olympics and faded out of that scene. I never fully committed to training for a hard boulder or route or expedition when I climbed. I traveled with one of the best athletes in the sport and amounted to not much more than some fun memories, a couple of flings, and some cool photographs. I have never won a race, nor raced in a way I’ve been proud of — bowing out of competition without ever giving myself a proper chance. I bagged a few ‘low bar’ FKT’s that mean nothing. I tell myself that I’m an excellent DJ and that the big gigs will come, but still play the same venues to lukewarm crowds and hope for the best. I dug myself some pretty deep financial holes of which I’m still trying to find my way out of.

I do my best to be a good father. For years I have been healing the wounds of my own childhood in order to show up better for theirs. And yet still I find myself snapping back into old patterns, unearthing old energies.

I try to be a good partner. I did read the book. I went to some therapy sessions. Still, time and time again I go around the same cycle and spiral and show up in my mother-wounded-masculine … fragile at best. Not the man she wants or needs.

My pattern of self limiting is so fucking clear — with this run, I said the words I wanted to be true, “doing it for the journey”, “finishing is the goal”, etc. And yet the internal dialogue was inherently negative. I called the series A FOOLS ERRAND for fucks sake.

There is a part of me that doesn’t want to believe that it’s impossible to do the impossible, it’s a part of me that is grossly out of touch with reality – why do I think that I can defy all odds? Could I have got that magazine cover? Could I have been an Olympic commentator? Could I have won the race? Could I?

I have been told I am special, but I don’t allow myself to believe that, to fulfill it. Because I am grading myself against the impossible. Who the fuck can run hundreds of kilometers untrained, unprepared, unplanned, on a whim? Meghan offered that by not tempering my expectations of myself I am not allowing myself to reach my highest capacity; by not grounding in the reality of today, I am literally setting myself up to question the special that is actually there.

Self love? Now that’s a concept.

***

Trotting out of Viana do Castelo I had 80km under my belt (and a phenomenal avocado toast). Rest and light stretching meant my body felt totally different to how I had arrived. I was able to pick up the cadence again. I dispatched 10km at a reasonable clip … and then the sun rose that bit higher in the sky. Breakfast wore off. My body started to tighten up … again.

I told myself if I could keep up a reasonable pace I could make the 12:30 crossing, realizing the 11:30 that was no longer achievable, but my steady trot had now turned to more of a power hike, driven forward only by my poles and bullish stubbornness. Involuntary grunting noises and groans surprised me as they sporadically escaped from my mouth. This was deeper and more painful than an ache or niggle. I was really hurting.

My pace slowed further still, the sun baked me and the trail. My left calf felt more and more like a brick. I wasn’t even going to make the 1:30pm crossing … how was it that I was moving so slowly?

Limping woefully into Caminha I saw a mini-market on the roadside and ducked in, hopeful that I would find a miracle, or at least something to keep me moving. A pack of 6 sorbet popsicles, two almost-ripe peaches, and a bottle of room temp sparkling water was all I could muster in my deeply fatigued state … I offered popsicles to hikers on the street, nobody took me up on my offer. I ate all six with ease. The icy tang giving me the deepest brain freeze I’ve ever had.

I finally arrived at the boat dock at 14:04 … seventeen hours and forty nine minutes since leaving Porto. I had twenty six minutes until the next boat left for Spain. I lay on the pilgrims bench and closed my eyes, for twenty minutes, telling myself that I would make my decision after a brief moment of shut eye. My phone alarm woke me. I sat up sluggishly. The boat was docked, loading next to me. And without a second thought I stopped the activity timer on my watch.

No fucking way. I am done. So done. I thought to myself.

***

I took off my shoes and socks and dropped my feet into the water. The cool of the Rio Minho was immediate and total. The boat had already disappeared from view. Spain was right there, on the other side. Close enough to swim to, entirely unreachable. I stared across the water.

I don’t know how long I sat there. Long enough for the water to stop feeling cold. Long enough to stop thinking about cadence and crossing times and how many kilometres were left. Long enough to just be a beaten-down man sitting at a rivers edge with desperately sore legs and no particular reason to move.

The Uber to the station took seven minutes. The Flixbus to Porto took an hour and thirty-ish minutes.

Seventeen hours and forty nine minutes of effort to arrive … and less than two hours to get back. I sat in the front seat of the bus and stared out of the window, trying to make sense of it. I couldn’t. I’d run all that way to escape a feeling, and yet there it was, sat right next to me. And it hadn’t even broken a sweat. The landscape flew by in reverse. All those kilometres … the cobbled streets, the airport perimeter, the beach, the Roman bridge, the forest trails, the shite espresso, the sunrise energy — all of it reduced to motorway, headrest and the rumbling hum of the engine.

I ran 110km. I did not run to Santiago de Compostela. Both of those things are true.

I am still not entirely sure which one matters more.

Writing this it dawned on me that stopping the watch is just another item on an ever-growing list. Another thing I started and didn’t finish. The magazine cover I never got. The Olympic commentary I shied away from. The races I never gave myself a chance in. A Fool’s Errand — I named it that before I’d even started. Maybe I always knew.

***

On March 12th, 2026, my best friend took his own life.

I’ve been sitting with that sentence for a while now, trying to find a way to write it that makes it easier to read. There isn’t one.

Tom was one of the people who knew me best. The cliché kind of friend where the conversation picks up exactly where it left off, every time, no matter how long it had been. He was a joy of a human, sparkly-eyed and beaming grin. I assumed Tom would always be there.

I was already returning to this draft when I found out. Already attempting to pull at the thread of wrapping up what this run meant, what the self-limiting meant, what any of it meant. And then suddenly I found myself sitting with a question I didn’t know how to hold.

What the fuck does any of this even matter?

I don’t have an answer.

Tom was my first running buddy. Our friendship was forged in climbing, but we ran to get fitter for our adventures on the crags of the Lake District and our sport trips to the continent. We would be up early several mornings per week, before the rest of the town was awake. Often in the pissing rain, in our short shorts and t-shirts, lungs bursting on the muddy fells behind Kendal. We would pause to do yoga in the woods, and then we’d keep running, faux racing each other back into town, laughing and yelping.

What I know is this: he is gone, and I am still here in a Tom-shaped-vacuum.

The thing I always knew is that this run was always much more than a run. I didn’t make it to Santiago, I stopped the watch, took off my shoes, and put my feet in the river at the edge of a country. I believed in the impossible, and then remembered it was impossible.

I don’t know if this makes me a fool. I don’t know if it makes me special. I don’t know if I have ever got close to what I was capable of, or if I ever will. I don’t know if I’ve been running in the wrong direction my whole life, or if there even is a wrong direction.

But I am still here. I kept moving. And for now, that has to be enough.

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“I could leave tonight.”

… and the silence of my lonely morning was broken.

I shovelled a belated and somewhat hefty breakfast into my face, knowing full well that any attempts at carb-loading mere hours before attempting to run 270km to Santiago de Compostela were almost entirely futile, all the while making sure that there was not a single crumb of my bougie, hippy-store-bought granola left in my bowl.

Impulsive as I can be, I learned early in life that I am exceptionally good at pulling things off at the last minute. Whether it’s cranking out an all nighter, or flying by the seat of my pants, I do it really well. In the same instant that I had the thought to leave that very evening, it had already evolved from the thought into a decision. I started figuring out what I would need to even begin attempting something like the Caminho do Costa.

All of the running essentials I would need were already taken care of (clothes, shoes, pack, normal gear), and so my list looked like this:

1. A Credencial de Peregrino (aka Crendencial, more on this in a moment)

2. Electrolytes and calories (to supplement what I already had)

3. A GPX route (a digital file to load into my InReach for tracking and my phone for navigation)

I was short on calories, and I was short on electrolytes, and I figured out that a running store on the suburban outskirts of Porto was going to be my best bet for bridging the gap. As I buckled into the sauna-like rental car wildfire smoke blurred the horizon muddy grey-brown, the humid air was sticky on the skin.

After a somewhat unsuccessful visit to the running store I ventured into central Porto to pick up the item that held the least practical use but most significance for this journey. My Credencial. This is the ‘pilgrims passport’, a cardstock pamphlet with blank spaces for stamps.

After waiting in line for 30 minutes outside the cathedral I picked up my card at the desk, and dropped a few extra euros so I could do a whistle-stop tour of the building. I’d waited in line after all.

Sundown Start Line

In the melee of last minute logistical prep it had occurred to me that I would need a way to get back to Porto after completing my run (duh) and recalling the ubiquitous FlixBuses that traverse the continent I looked into a possible route. There were direct connections between Santiago de Compostela and Porto a few times per day, so that made the return leg easy. I would ditch the rental in the parking garage at the bus station and uber my arse to the Se cathedral, a 15 minute meander into central Porto.

Several hours later I was hunched half-inside the trunk of the sweaty rental at the bus station. I checked through my running vest one last time, stashed a small bag of spare clothes, towel and spare water under the drivers seat, and called my uber. Waiting on the curb the heat was still intense despite it being well into the seven o’clock hour.

I walked up the stone steps to the front of the Se cathedral and sat for a few moments, taking in the atmosphere. Hordes of tourists were wrapping up their day. Sunset-lit cafes and bars were serving up iced drinks to the thirsty throngs. The city was humming. The bells chimed for 8pm. I wasn’t quite ready to leave my stone-step perch.

A familiar feeling of a mildly anxious energy was pulsing through my torso. My legs felt loose and limber despite my awareness of that certain tension in me, not nerves per se, more of an anticipatory energy, equal parts let’s fucking do this and why the fuck are you doing this?.

Standing up into a couple of deep, slow, full-lung breaths, I loaded the route on my InReach, and readied my watch and phone to start recording and navigating. I slowly rotated 360º on the spot, absorbing the moment and my surroundings one final time – 8:14pm. One more minute. Only a fool would start on an odd minute.

8.15pm. OK. Let’s have it.

Not Too Fast, Ya Daft Bastard

All of the Camino Santiago routes are marked with yellow painted arrows and iterations of different yellow-on-blue scallop shell symbols – where route variations converge and diverge there is generally some sort of signage to indicate where to go, the idea being that each route is easily navigable without modern tools, because it’s old as fuck. The pilgrims weren’t rocking Komoot turn-by-turn navigation on their iPhone back in the day. Keen to find a balance between following the signs, and also not fucking up my nav, I trotted through Porto, eyes peeled for clues, my phone talking at me prompting upcoming decision points.

The week prior, whilst out running trails in the Serra do Porto, I sent a voice note to my dear friend Sam Hill, suggesting that I was kinda-sorta toying with the idea of running this route. My first hope was that he would be spontaneously and brilliantly on board for the impromptu adventure. My second hope was that he would try and talk me out of it.

Sam is a highly accomplished ultra-runner and a brilliant photographer based in Switzerland. Our relationship spans almost two decades, and during that time we have made more-than-our-fair-share of poor decisions and made some lifelong memories in the process. Sam was unable to fulfil my first hope. In confirming that attempting a run of this magnitude without any training was a fucking terrible idea — while somehow managing not to call me an idiot — he went some way to fulfilling my second hope. I can always count on Sam.

The further out of Porto you get, the more ‘local’ it gets, and the trendy bars become local-hole-in-the-wall type spots and cafes and commnuties. Mildly inebriated workers raised eyebrows as my fully laden figure trotted past their tables, bathed in amber from the setting sun. Cigarette smoke, warm beer, and car exhausts perfumed the way. I passed chapels and churches, filled with praying parishioners (yes, on a Monday), and peered through doors and windows wondering where I might collect my first stamp for my credencial.

I had an urge to run fast, to start strong while I was fresh … nevertheless I held back, consciously keeping my pace to a fast-jog, knowing that anything more than a 10 minute mile, on an untrained, unprepared body, was a surefire way to blow my shit up.

The fading sunset turned the sky to more subtle blue and gold hues – I crossed a footbridge dating back to 1258 AD –that’s pretty fuckin’ old– frog-croak echoed around from the banks below, the same way I am sure it has since long before that bridge was built. Twilight turned to darkness and city turned to suburb turned to countryside.

Running along the cobbled country roads, my senses would be assaulted periodically by the stench of sweating dumpsters. And then the unmistakable tang of jet fuel? I was nearing the airport. Contouring the perimeter fence I could hear the engines of passenger planes readying for take off, blocked from view by hangars and berms. The route took me to the end of the runway as one jet took off right over my head. A small owl perched on the uppermost line of barbed wire on the boundary fence, unbothered by my presence, unbothered by the aircraft. Another yellow arrow revealed itself in the light of my headlamp ahead. I checked my watch. 22:01. I kept running.

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Out In The Countryside

After a couple of hours I felt firmly established in the countryside. I stopped at a spigot above an old trough to fill my bottles. Wafts of agricultural fertiliser hung in the air. Following ancient roadways between towns and villages, each one peppered with religious shrines, candles dripping wax in their soot lined cubbies, I was reminded of the fact that this was more than just a directional line on a map. Rather it was a path filled with history and meaning.

Street lighting was now limited to my arrival and departure from each of these locales. My headlamp provided the only illumination otherwise, it’s narrow beam my field of vision. Sprinkler systems doused the fields that I passed between, my route trending north and west toward the coast eventually meant that I would catch faint whiffs of ocean salt on the breeze.

There were three people in total that I had discussed the run with ahead of my departure. Sam (as mentioned above), Meg, my ever-supportive partner, and Meg’s ex-husband, Anthony who had joined us for a few days in Porto. Anthony, an accomplished former college athlete, had boldly proclaimed that it “…is a fucking ridiculous idea”, which I will openly admit had tickled a little corner of my ego that made me want to go for it even more.

I knew I was going into this endeavour grossly under prepared, yet even still, when the first feelings of fatigue started to hit at km 27 (17 miles ish) I was equal parts surprised and downhearted.

How in gods name am I going to pull off 50km … never mind 250?!

The self-doubt was pervasive and penetrating. This is a mistake. My knees were creaking and my hips felt off. My trail shoes were comfortable, sure, but I had not accounted for how much of the route was going to be paved. Should I have worn my road shoes??? The repetitive pavement pounding was already taking its toll.

“Don’t hurt yourself, ok?”

Meg’s precautionary words echoed in my mind.

Pain is part of the process – I reassured myself.

For the four months prior my running volume had been embarrassingly low. Back in March I had been invited to run a Backyard Ultra (my first) at short notice and had dropped +40 miles in brutal conditions without any training (noticing a theme?). During one week in June I hadn’t even clocked 5 miles. My heart had been heavy and I hadn’t been able to find consistency or momentum. I was paying the price now.

Late Night Express-o

Crossing a bridge over the Rio Ave, I arrived into my first larger town since leaving Porto, Vila do Conde. I looked at my watch. It was just before 11:30pm. Three hours in. I decided that this would be a decent moment to pause for my first short break.

The Praça de Republica was still very much awake in stark contrast to the sleepy country villages I had already crossed through. A busy bar at the far end of the plaza had tables and seats outside, which felt preferable given I was already sweat-soaked and probably quite fragrant. One table stood empty between a group of four or five young folk, no older than 19 or 20, dealing cards; and a pair of men, probably in their late 50’s or 60’s. Both tables were deep in conversation, with cigarettes smouldering from lips and ashtray. The server eyed me curiously as I took off my running pack and sat down with stiff legs.

Boa noite. Um expresso. Un água com gás. Por favor.

Pretty much the extent of my Portuguese.

The espresso tasted like shit but I immediately felt the wave of caffeine in my system. The minerality of the bubbly water was a welcome change after a few hours of electrolyte slurping. I fired off a coupe of replies to texts that were waiting on my phone.

Sipping the iced water I looked around me. I wondered if my table neighbours were wondering why I was sat there sweating. Could they smell me? Were they questioning why I was clad in running gear at 23:30 on a Monday in August?

I remembered that nobody in that square could give a single whiff of shit who I am or what I am doing. That the fact I was about to get up and continue running right now was of zero relevance or consequence to them, or really, anyone … None of this matters. But for some reason I reconciled that it did matter to me.

Standing from the table to limber up my legs and hips, it occurred to me that once I left Vila do Conde there was very little chance I would encounter anyone or anything open for business, perhaps until morning. My route would now take me to the coast proper, following the edge of the beach from Povoa de Varzim for a good 7 or 8 km (~5 miles).

I started to reorganise my pack a little, redistributing the load, I rolled my hips and stood up and down on my tip toes. The rest had been worth it. The caffeine had done the job. I was ready for the next stretch.

Waiting For The Night Buzz

Onward. The beachfront was packed full of people. Fluorescent lights, gelato stands and euro-pop were not what I had been expecting after midnight. Tourists filled the narrow pavement and I felt extremely out of place once again. I crossed my way to the beach side of the street, where I figured a cycle lane might be a safer option for me. A thousand metres or so of intense noise and light behind me, the energy calmed, holidayers still wandered around, likely back to their Atlantic-view tower-block hotels that I was passing beneath. The percussive sound of ocean waves crashing onto the sandy beach to my left was hypnotic and familiar, the white noise drowning out the euro-pop behind me. I couldn’t see the ocean, but the inky blackness beyond the froth on the shoreline told me it was there. Unexpectedly I found myself running off the pavement and onto the sand, hard left toward the shore.

I stopped above the tideline. Dipped my hands into the Atlantic. Flicked the droplets onto my face. Inhaled the brackish air. Allowed the sound to consume me. It was primal and instinctive and fulfilling. Like even just arriving there at the water was some sort of pilgrimage itself.

Returning to the promenade I removed my shoes and socks to clean out the sand. Promenade turned to rope-lined, wooden boardwalk, that steered away from the shoreline between dunes and fields, eventually giving way to the cobbled paths and asphalt roads once more.

Time between settlements seemed to get longer and darker, and more lonely. Arriving into a village now was a silent endeavour, the night pierced only by the odd guard dog wondering who the fuck was trotting past their front gate at this godforsaken hour. No backlit curtains, or visible TV screens were in the windows to catch my attention.

Trail markers also seemed to get more sparse, although I realised that I wasn’t necessarily able to trust my instinct to that end, because on more than occasion I had seen nothing, only to point the beam of my head torch a few metres to one side and see a glaringly obvious clamshell.

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Trees A Crowd

The forest snuck up on me. I hadn’t noticed it on the map when I was previewing the route the day before, and there wasn’t really any mention of it in the materials I had. Perhaps during the day its a non-mention, barely even forest at all, but the tall trees and dense undergrowth definitely felt imposing and intimidating when I entered after several hours of open air. My path through was a clearcut, dusty trial, which was a welcome change from the cobble and asphalt.

I whipped out my poles and shifted down a gear to a slower jog in an attempt to correct my gait where the soreness had earlier set in, the slower pace allowing my body to enjoy the feel of the softer forest floor, and my senses the chance to attune to my new surroundings.

In the beam of my headlamp a shiny reflection on a tree ahead caught my eye. Nearing the trunk I realised it was another shrine but this one had a different feeling about it. It was packed with photos and memories, trinkets and notes. I checked my watch. 02:37am. I was exactly 30 miles in. Circling the tree, on the backside was a small shelf with an ink pad and a stamp.

MY FIRST STAMP FOR MY CREDENCIAL.

I proudly pressed the rubber onto the card and scribbled the time alongside it. Next to the stamps were necklaces adorned with small gold (plastic) clam shells. I put one on.

My eyes were drawn to a sign that read,

On the way to Santiago, you are never alone.

The words struck me. For a fleeting moment I felt less alone. The painful start to my day almost a distant memory. My heart sank. Somehow the words, combined with that ‘purpose’ now gave me a sense of collective pressure. As though the thousands that had passed before me were willing me on, expectantly. As though my reason for being here removed my choice in the matter. Those words, equal parts comforting and burdensome.

Reality Bath

The pains that had set in around 30 km were now starting to become properly bothersome. The darkness of the night wasn’t helping. Running solo through the night does something to your psyche.

I traded a few voice memos with two dear friends in California who knew about the family gathering I’d been uninvited from and were checking in on me. They were equal parts concerned and baffled when I told them what I was doing. The messages broke the silence, but they didn’t bring any particular comfort. My mind was back in the empty campo house I’d left behind.

They reminded me what I was running from, rather than where I was running to.

Some time around 5am I entered another forested section. This time on proper single track trail, rutted, rocky and laden with tree roots. My aching body skipped over and around each obstacle with an energy that didn’t match what I was really feeling, the novelty of dirt underfoot, technical trail, my forte, giving me an extra spring in my step. Still in total darkness, I followed trial markers to a roman footbridge, one I had read about and seen pictures, a stunning picturesque location crossing Rio Neiva. There was no view at 05:00. I recorded a video of the eerie crossing, took in the sounds of the babbling river below as I jogged across the stones, and made my way up the hill on the other side. A toad crossed my path. I bade him good morning, although in hindsight he definitely speaks Portuguese. Idiot.

The trail continued, flowier and more fun now, mostly downhill, I let out a few audible cheers of joy, the differing movement feeling easeful and fun. I adore trails. A few minutes of running without thinking about the pain and instead enjoying a flow state. Emerging from the trees I hit asphalt once more. A road, still silent in the early morning met my feet. My body instantly snapped back to the more rigid painful movement pattern. I kept my poles in hand, their place on my pack had rubbed the skin red raw, drawing blood, and I figured they’d be more useful for lightening the load on my body than causing more damage.

06:30. Taking note of the map on my phone, the fatigue in my legs, and the hunger in my belly, I surmised that it would be a reasonably intelligent idea to stop for breakfast. The only stops I had made all night were the espresso in Vila do Conde, and brief pauses to fill up water when I found it or check my navigation when I couldn’t see a way marker. Several miles ahead of me was Viana do Castelo. Another historic town, larger than everything I had passed through the night. If I was going to get a decent breakfast anywhere, it would be there.

The Illusion of Sunrise

Normally the rising sun provides a new sense of optimism and a dose of energy on overnight runs, but this morning it felt like a reminder of how far I still had to go. I was approaching 80km. Eighty. By any honest appraisal, I was in a shit state, and had no business considering even 100km. Two hundred and seventy was, as Anthony had put it, “a fucking ridiculous idea”.

Those next five miles were a grind. Switching between power-hiking and jogging. Anything to keep forward momentum. On a good day, I can knock out 5 miles in 30 minutes, no problem. Five gruelling miles and a total of seventy minutes later I cross the Ponte Eiffel (yep, same crew that did the tower) over the Limia River into Viana Do Castelo. One bakery a single block off the route caught my eye. Padarias Vianense was my spot.

Food On The Fly

The woman behind the counter didn’t hide her expression when I entered. In google-translate-Portuguese I explained I had run from Porto and had been running all night. That I needed food and coffee and a rest.

My pace had quickened slightly when I arrived into the town, the smell of fresh baked pastries and breads hung thick in the air and the idea of breakfast becoming an imminent reality put energy into my legs that I had failed to realise was there.

Somewhat bewildered, the kind lady baker recommended the heartiest breakfast sandwich they had. She pointed me at their freshwater spigot behind the counter for whatever I needed. At least two coffees made their way to my table … again, tasting like shit, but necessary. I was dripping sweat. My gear was caked in salty tide marks, and was also dripping. Slumped outside, a growing puddle was forming on the tiles beneath my plastic chair.

While demolishing the avocado, eggs and toast I wondered how it would sit in my stomach later. Meg’s name lit up my phone: “How’s your body?”

Shifting the position of my legs my quads siezed into the beginning of a cramp and then released.

“Body is hurting”, I responded.

“You going to go the distance?”

…

A fly landed on the lip of my plate.

Local folk came and went from the bakery with their fresh bread for the day.

I thousand yard stared down the road, then turned my gaze to the strewn gear and soaked clothes on the chairs and table around me. I put my attention to my watch (the progress so far) and my mapping app (the route to come).

80km done. 11.5 hours. 170km and at least another 30 hours to go.

The next target after leaving Viana do Castelo would be to get to Caminha. A port village on the northernmost border of Portugal. Where, if I was going to continue, I would need to catch one of the hourly boats across the mouth of the Rio Minho / Río Miño into Spain.

I has been sitting for over thirty minutes and I didn’t want to move. The ambient temperature was already starting to rise, the cool of the dawn being replaced by the inevitable and punishing heat of the day.

I had a decision to make.

***

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I’m not the kind of person who is uncomfortable in their own company. In fact, on the contrary I often describe myself as an Extroverted Introvert. I take solace and recharge during quiet solo periods. I find flow and creativity in my own space and my own energy. However, waking on this particular Monday, it felt like something different. It felt like a problem.

In the two weeks prior I had known this day would come. I knew that I would be flying solo for week three of four at our country escape in The Douro while the rest of my family was gathering in Comporta, a gathering that I had been uninvited from. I had toyed with a couple of different ideas, a side-vacation of my own in southern Portugal, or house-sitting for a friend near Lisboa and exploring a new village both sounded fun. I drafted a running tour of mountains in central Portugal that felt appealing; true to myself.

Waking on that uncomfortably sweaty Monday morning, I had not made my choice. I justified my indecision in part because of the present and evolving wildfire situation in central and northern Portugal; in part because of some undesirable financial constraints; and in part (probably the most part), because decision anxiety and analysis paralysis can be very real struggles with a brain that is wired like mine. Waking alone, I was reminded that I had to do something.

A seed.

During the first week of our trip, by random chance (although, is anything random these days?) I was served a video of Tibetan Bön pilgrims completing their Kora. I hadn’t heard of it so immediately got to reading. The Kora is a sacred pilgrimage, a fifty mile loop around Mount Kailash, embodying prayer, purification and transformation. When completed in its most traditional sense, it includes prostration, often taking months to complete. My curiosity piqued, first reading about the Buddhist and Hindu interpretations of the same pilgrimage (they walk in the opposite direction and for different reasons) … that rabbit hole led me to other recognised walking pilgrimages observed by pious folk globally over the last thousand years or so: the Shikoku Henro in Japan, the annual Arbain in Iraq … and then … arguably the most structured and well documented walking pilgrimage in the world, the Camino Santiago.

Dating back to the ninth century, the Camino Santiago is a pilgrimage to the supposed burial place of Saint James the Greater. The most popular version of this is the Camino Frances (through France), followed next by the Camino Português, and several other variations. Diving deeper I learned, (would you believe it?!) … the majority of pilgrims begin the Camino Português in Porto. Just 25 minutes away from our aforementioned Douro retreat.

Joining the dots.

Nothing is a coincidence. Nothing happens by accident. I genuinely believe that everything comes up for a reason, we just haven’t necessarily figured out what that reason is in the moment. Sometimes we never do. Meghan completed her own pilgrimage just last month1. Embarking on a multi-day Vision Quest in New Mexico following the Native American Dakota tradition … we talked about it a lot. I was blown away by what she shared of her experience, and deeply impressed by how she handled the whole thing. Of course pilgrimages were in my sphere of thought.

There I was sat reading about pilgrimages, within spitting distance of the start of one of the most iconic pilgrimages in the world. There I was ruminating and trying to figure out a plan for what would unquestionably be a tough week separated from my family.

And just like that, the idea is brewing.

But why pilgrimage? Remember the family gathering I had been uninvited from? It’s a longer story than I want or need to go into … the point is … it felt shit, and I realised there were some big feelings that needed to be processed. Beyond that, I have been in a state of reflection, healing, and growth since the beginning of the year, a time of which there is still much to be metabolised. There remains many questions I am asking of myself, with many answers to be found. I wanted to find a way to turn that ache into something useful; I was searching for a method to allow myself the space to transmute the feelings, and transform some of those questions into meaningful answers. I wanted to grant myself the emotional space and the permission to move through all of it.

Based on my reading, pilgrimages represent different things depending on the culture or religion in which they originate. For example, within Islam a pilgrimage such as the Hajj is about unity, obedience, and purification. Within Buddhism, the Shikoku is rooted in mindfulness, awakening and enlightenment. The pilgrimage of the Camino Santiago is anchored in a history of repentance and penance, with a sprinkling of devotion and hoping for a miracle (aren’t we all?).

I actually googled what the oldest human pilgrimages were … and whilst there aren’t written accounts, there is archeological evidence2 to support the idea that we humans have been making pilgrimages for tens of millennia. And it got me to thinking, haven’t we been walking toward something since the outset of our existence? Perhaps this is what we are meant to be doing. Is that why it feels so true, so right, so utterly good when I just run and run and run? Outside of the religious context I was feeling into a broader purpose around the notion of ‘pilgrimage’. The metaphor of literally walking (or running … subtle foreshadowing) with intention, toward something, through physical difficulty, and on the other side arriving or emerging fulfilled, and transformed. Whether rooted in religion or not, it strikes me as a practice of embodied meaning-making, elevating movement beyond simple ‘exercise’, adding real, profound depth. In fact, it feels entirely human. Humans have told stories, and idolised the journey for as long as any of us can remember.

A decision.

I needed to decide on a plan, otherwise I’d spend the next god-knows-how-long staring into the abyss, or even worse, into my phone … getting progressively more anxious and more annoyed that I wasn’t with my family. I needed direction. It was time to make a choice.

I had already returned to the Douro, meaning the southern vacation and house sitting were off the table. I had my two running options … a tour of the central mountains, or a long run to Santiago de Compostela.

The wildfires had not eased up, more were cropping up in the exact region of central Portugal that I had scouted online for my ‘tour’. Temperatures were uncomfortably over 100ºF each day, and unpredictable wind conditions were shifting daily. Blazes were igniting to the north, dangerously close to the Central Route of the Camino. The very route that had caught my attention, cutting through the heartland of Portugal, northward through hills and forests and countryside. Attempting either would be a fool’s errand. Attempting either would be dangerous.

One of the things I love most about going down rabbit holes is the weird and wonderful information that implants itself in my brain while I am down there. Something I retained when reading about the Camino Santiago, or rather the Caminho Português, is that it is not just one route. In fact there are THREE variations of the route that leave from Porto, Portugal, reuniting at Redondela, Spain and onward to Santiago de Compostela. In addition to the Central route, there is also the Coastal route, and the Litoral route. An aspirant pilgrim should be forgiven for being misled by the name of the ‘Coastal route’. The Caminho Português da Costa, as it is named locally, follows the contours and shapes of the coastline rather than hugging it, which the third Litoral route actually does. Could one of these be a feasible option? I asked myself. I reopened a browser tab for a blog I’d been reading by Stingy Nomads3 and quickly dived into the alternative options.

The Coastal route is a modern revival and fresh interpretation of the original, with an ever growing infrastructure and increasing throughput of pilgrims since the turn of the 20th century. It caresses the shore a few times before cutting back inland, and for much of the route the coast is out of sight. Importantly, one of the main distinctions between these last-minute options was that the Coastal route is signposted and equipped as an official trail of the Camino Santiago, whereas the Litoral route is only partially signposted, and therefore more open to interpretation and requiring more intentional navigation. For this adventure I was seeking the former, not the latter.

It had to be this.

Laying there in bed, on that Monday morning, I became aware of a growing sense within me that this choice was an illusion. That it had to be this way. That I was destined to be running the Caminho da Costa. I recalculated the rough mental maths … the additional time I might spend on the route … where I would cross the border and what that would look like … the time it would take to travel back to Porto … when I needed to be back in Comporta to pick up the family … I had my answer and it amounted to one conclusion: If I was genuinely serious about this I would need to leave today. Ooof. That felt like a stretch.

I sat up in bed. Sweat beading on my skin. The air now thick with the stench of scorched earth. I allowed myself to be wholly present with how utterly lonely I felt in the house in that very moment. I wanted to run the fuck away from that.

What about the weather? Hells teeth it was hot and it was only 07:15. I opened my forecast app to alerts of excessive heat warnings, with projected highs of 41ºC / 106ºF in Porto. No fucking way am I starting a run in those temperatures. 25km of running in 35ºC eleven days before ended with me seriously dehydrated. 10km in 36ºC three days before had me dizzy and dangerously close to passing out on the trail. Plus, there are a bunch of things I am going to need if I am actually going to get on the Camino Santiago …

“I could leave tonight?!”

I had spoken the words out loud. They broke the silence. And with that, a decision was made.

It’s not fast. It’s not clean. Neither are you.

Get over it.

Tired of sports nutrition that tastes like sadness and boiled running socks?

Sick of fueling plans written by coaches who live in places like Boulder (or anywhere, to be honest), who wear oversized sunnies, visors and clearly hate joy?

Introducing … the Suero System™: the only hydration and fueling system scientifically* developed for runners that are attempting questionable and audacious goals … e.g. run all of the streets in a large municipality in the high-desert of central Mexico.

(*by a man who once ate a whole mega bag of haribo strawbs mid-ultra and ascended temporarily to the astral plane *ahem* me)

THE SYSTEM

1. Electrolit®

Don’t get lit. Get ElectroLIT with +800% of your daily recommended potassium and 0% of your dignity – this statement is not FDA approved.

Flavours include:

• Fresa-Kiwi Fuck Up – 100% don’t recommend

• Coco Existencial (limited edition) – like coconut water, without the coconut, or the water

• Frambuesa Azul – who the fuck wants normal raspberries when you can have BLUE RASPBERRIES?

• Manzana Madness – apple juice, without the apple, or the juice

• Electric Cucumber – low key the best flavor, desperately hard to find, not going to lie I actually like this one

Each bottle should be consumed as fast as possible, to avoid aftertaste, preferably before leaving the store, or in an urgent squatting motion in the shade of a tree, or failing that behind a parked bocho. Chug and ascend. Brain freeze? You’re welcome.

2. Mazapán Power Rounds™

Compact. Crumbly. Calorically chaotic.
Each unit of Mazapán delivers an instant glucose spike followed by 6-8 minutes of peanut-dust coughing. There is also the added benefit of finding remnants of it on your clothing, in your beard (hey ladies), and under your fingernails for several hours to come. This enables a paced distribution of the calories. Right?

Mazapán is now fortified with magnesium (based on conjecture) for maximum performance improvements and comes wrapped in regret-proof plastic that is impossible to open without crushing the peanut surprise between your sweaty fingers. It’s an all around sensory treat.

PRO TIP: accidentally inhale it (or intentionally snort it) to unlock third-eye transcendent runner mode. (PRO-PRO TIP: Don’t.)

3. Frutas de Abuela™ Energy Bricks

Remember that grandparent or teacher that told you ‘fruit is all sugar’? Turns out they had no idea what they were talking about, unless they were talking about these:

The Suero System™ is meticulously crafted with whole slices of fruit, crystallized in only the most processed sugar, to create the ultimate candy fruit snack – and just because the sugar isn’t going to burn slow, doesn’t mean this will affect your glycemic index, because every Energy Brick is infused with the slow-burning spirit of every Méxican abuela who told their grandkids, and their neighbors grandkids, and anyone who would listen, that you should NEVER take a cold shower on a hot day because you will get sick and die.
Flavours include:

• Tejocote Torment

• Papaya Nausea

• Tońos Orange

• Piña Colina

Each one is nigh-on-impossible to chew, and guaranteed to stick in your molars for the duration of a 50k. Sustained energy? Maybe. Emotional support? Possibly. Diabetes if you have too many*? Definitely.

*too many could be as many as one

PLUS! Bonus Gear, coming soon:

Sticky Pockets (patent pending)

Map of Tienditas with Cold Electrolit (spoiler: all of them)

TESTIMONIALS:

“I was bonking hard at kilometer 4 of my 10k. One sip of Coco Electrolit and I hallucinated a horse that told me to finish.”
— César G., ultrarunner and self-taught electrolytician

“I inhaled a mazapán while descending from Tres Cruces. I wept openly. It was the best run of my life, and I PR’d a strava segment.”
— Mariela T., 5-time finisher of the Reforma, who may or may not exist

“I ran an entire 100 miler fuelled only by Frutas de Abuela. I now spend thousands per year in insurance co-pays for insulin and blood sugar monitoring. I regret nothing.”
— Ann Ominous

The Suero System™
It’s not fast. It’s not clean. But neither are you.
Now available exclusively at gas stations, farmacias, and from your tía’s purse.

DISCLAIMER

The Suero System™ is not officially recognised by any governing body, sports nutritionist, or sane person. While Electrolit, Mazapán, and whole candied fruits may bring you joy, a pseudo-hallucinogenic trip from artificial colorings, and a wild sugar high, they are not a substitute for balanced nutrition, hydration science, or common sense. Please consult a real nutritionist, or at the absolute least, a runner who has finished an ultra without vomiting in a ditch (good luck finding one of those). You are responsible for your own body, your own choices, and whatever ends up melted at the bottom of your running vest or shorts pockets. Ye be warned.

No runners or models were harmed in the making of the images you saw in this article.

Thank f*ck for generative imaging.

It was my first run after being sidelined for nearly three weeks with a bladder infection. Forced pauses like this make me itch for movement — and somehow they also strip away my confidence. How far can I go? Is that too much? Will I be ok there on my own? What is my escape plan if it all goes tits up? Confidence is a muscle too, it turns out. And mine, when it comes to exploring on foot at least, was out of shape.

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Santa Teresita — or to give it its full title, Santa Teresita de Don Diego — is not the friendliest patch of San Miguel de Allende. That is to say, it isn’t the friendliest patch if you're on two legs and moving at a decent clip. Maybe it’s the proximity to the freeway. Maybe it’s the rural, tight-knit nature of the place. Maybe it’s because just sixty years ago, only eleven people lived here — and now there are close to two thousand. Whatever the reason, the energy was off. With my own self-doubt hanging in the air, and the sideways looks from a few locals, it felt like I was somewhere I wasn’t supposed to be.

And the dogs could feel it.

I’m not bullshitting — I passed close to 100 dogs in the space of 70 minutes this morning, and a good 75% of them made it abundantly-fucking-clear that this runner was categorically, unequivocally not welcome. Some of them stood and stared me down as I passed their territory, most barked aggressively … a handful eyed me and trotted in my direction with purpose, seeing me off. Two separate packs went full menace: snarling, snapping … attacking … mere centimeters from putting teeth on dusty legs (mine).

I was recording a short video describing what it means for me and the project to explore unmapped streets, taking in the Buenos Dias of a man working on his property, music blaring out of his home, down a beautiful, tree-covered camino, when the worst of the encounters unfolded … it looked and sounded like this:

[trigger warning, these dogs get scary pretty quick — I had to meet their aggression with the same energy for my safety, I did not in any way touch or harm the dogs]

The adrenaline was full-body. The primal kind. If you have ever experienced it you’ll know what I mean. Everything happens so fast, and … simultaneously, so slow — I became aware of every minuscule detail around me as my senses sharpened to enable only one thing: survival. I looked back at the heart rate monitor once I got home. My heart rate went from ~110bpm (my normal for the pace at altitude) to ~146bpm (my normal HR for harder efforts) in the space of about 5 seconds … and I had stoppped running. It brings to mind how much of running safely in places like this truly depends on one’s ability to stay fully-present.

Between dog dodging, I did manage to cover some ground. 50% of the colonia is now completed and I will pull together a full Neighborhood Watch piece on it when it’s 100% done. I passed kilns gently smoldering their smoke into the early morning air. Brickwork still being manufactured the old-fashioned way. Sweat. Clay. Fire. I would catch whiffs of woodsmoke, and then lungfuls of burning plastic. The smell shifted constantly, and with it, my awareness. One moment grounded, the next holding my breath waiting for the lick of a breeze to clear the air. It's wild how quickly I flick between states out here — alert … soft … spooked … enchanted.

At the bottom of Santa Teresita is the Prese de Allende, and between the town and the presa is the CPKC trans-continental railway line. Trotting along silently in the dust I heard the tracks hissing with distant vibration and the familiar honk of an air horn, blaring in the distance. I paused to watch the train thundering past, reminded of how vast and moving this country is — literally and figuratively.

The roads of Santa Teresita are 85% dirt and at least half were so rutted they’d challenge a decent ATV. This is trail running, folks, I’m telling you. ‘Every Single Street’ can feel like such a misleading title for this project at times. And yet with the terrain: houses. Life. Kids on their way to school. People getting on.

A plump woman, dressed in a patchwork pinafore, with a wrap of colorful fabric covering her hair stood stoutly on her porch, flanked by two men, all three of them eyeing me just as suspiciously as some of the dogs had done. They watched me as I lingered to admire a butterfly … then yelled out asking what I wanted.

Estoy mirando una mariposa, I told them, with my best local accent, and my most disarming smile.

They looked at each other, an eyebrow raised on each of their faces. I heard one of the men, shovel in hand, splutter, ¿Quién chingados es este güey?

Roger that. I resumed running.

Three weeks of being sidelined, and talking to countless folks about this project, and it seems not only had I lost confidence, but I had forgotten how much presence it takes to run somewhere unfamiliar and potentially hostile. How much of myself I must give to the act of paying attention. To terrain, to navigating turns, to people, to energy, to animals (animals that don’t speak your language but very much have something to say).

Sometimes we get teeth. Sometimes we get butterflies. This morning I got both.

Twice I attempted to run during the worst of it — looking back I think it was sheer force of habit, and an unhealthy helping of denial. Both times I made it less than half a mile before the pressure and stabbing sensation in my lower abdomen took my breath away, forcing me to take note. On one of those runs, in the middle of a brutally hot day, Iwould keep ducking into the shade of a mesquite tree, sweating as much from the discomfort in my abdomen and lower back as the heat of the day. I stopped to piss four times in a single mile stretch and barely passed anything. A piss-poor attempt at a pee stop, that was more resemblant a leaky garden hose. Each time I tried it felt like pouring boiling water (pee) through a sieve of glass splinters (my urethra). I am not bullshitting you, it was agony.

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The infection started as a low-grade discomfort, and in all honesty I’m not 100% sure how or why. There was a bit of an ache below the belt line, and a weird feeling when I peed. I’m very body aware and in tune with myself, even so, I didn’t think much of it and figured it would pass. Then came the urgency, the burning, the deep and unannounced exhaustion. My urine was cloudy and dark. Within a couple of days, I could barely walk up the stairs without feeling like my whole body was about to collapse into a four hour nap. The pain in my kidneys radiated into my upper back and legs, a deep dull ache that felt as though I’d run back-to-back ultra’s every day for a week. In reality I’d barely moved. My system decided, politely but firmly that I was going to listen.

I did try to push through. In the first instance I sought natural remedies and herbs and teas that might clear whatever was going on out of my system. Of course I did. And anyone that’s had a bladder infection will tell you, this isn’t the kind of thing one out-stubborns. I wasn’t battling muscular fatigue or a drop in motivation. I was fighting an invisible war of the immune system. Bacteria: 1. Lonsdale: 0.

Three weeks have since passed with no real movement. I’ve consumed liters and liters and liters of water, downed a small wheelbarrows worth of D-Mannose pills, (eventually) swallowed strong antibiotics … and I’ve learned a lesson — again — that rest is not the enemy — with a stark reminder that healing has its own pace. The body always wins.

I’m finally feeling as thought it’s on its way out. Yesterday I walked five miles. Not fast. Not strong. But I was moving freely. And for two and a half days I’ve peed without grimacing. That’s novel. It’s yet another reminder that health is not a given — it’s a gift. One I won’t take for granted again. (Until the next time I do.)

I’ve had enough of these moments now to know they’re part of the deal. You want to run every street in San Miguel de Allende? You’d better be ready for dogs. And cobblestones. And construction sand piles, random parades, low-hanging wires, and the occasional "wait... is this still a road?"

But that’s kind of the point.

This is a project to run every single street—and I mean that in the loosest, dustiest, most obsessively inclusive sense possible. Not just the paved roads in centro, but the dirt filled lanes out in the colonias. The caminos through the ranchos. The roads that exist on no map but are undeniably there. The dead ends. The trails-that-might-be-roads. The roads-that-might-be-trails. If my legs can carry me across it, it counts.

From Town Project to Full-Scale Madness

When I first had the idea, I assumed it would be a manageable series of loops and zig-zags around town. I pulled up San Miguel de Allende on Google Maps, saw the compact tangle of colonial streets, and thought: Yeah, I can run all that.

Then I discovered CityStrides, which uses OpenStreetMap data to track street completion. When they added San Miguel de Allende, they didn’t just include the town—they mapped the entire municipio. That means 594 square miles of high desert, mountains, rural villages, and road networks that veer between ancient and imaginary.

Suddenly I wasn’t running “every street in San Miguel.” I was running every street in the municipality of San Miguel de Allende, which includes places I’ve never heard of and, in some cases, can barely find.

And honestly, that made it even better.

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Why Do This?

Because maps lie. Or, perhaps more kindly—they omit.

Maps show what someone decided was worth showing. One thing I have learned in all my years of running and traveling and exploring … there are always more streets. More paths. More stories. Running is how I uncover them.

This project is part physical challenge, part mapping exercise, and part meditation on place. I want to know San Miguel—not just as a romanticized picturesque town, but as a living, sprawling, contradictory, dust-kissed piece of land. I want to see the places that tourists don’t go. I want to see the places that even most locals don’t go. I want to learn what the city smells like at sunrise in different colonias. I want to discover the hidden abarrotes and taquerias that don’t even have a name.

Running every street is a way of refusing to let the known shape of a place be the only shape.

What This Substack Will Be

I’ll be sharing:

• Stories from specific runs: the good, the weird, the dusty, and even the muddy

• Neighborhood profiles: history, vibes, flora, fauna, and feral dogs

• Pro tips for navigating cobblestones, altitude, and rural roads

• Gear notes from the adventures

• Reflections on movement, mapping, and madness

Some posts will be informative. Others will be light and ridiculous. All of it will be real, and all of it will be rooted in the slow work of getting to know a place on foot.

Let’s Effin Go

I’m already deep in. As of this writing, I’ve logged hundreds of kilometers, dozens of hours, and exactly zero serious injuries (though I have come close—ask me about the rogue curb in La Lejona).

I’ll be uploading GPS tracks, building out a live coverage map, and sharing pieces of the journey here as it unfolds.

Thanks for being here. Let’s find the streets nobody’s looking at.

– LL

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