Running on the Edge: Mel Brandon at the World Champs

An interview with Mel Brandon following her unforgettable race at the 2025 World Long Trail Championships in Canfranc, Spain. Mel knew the first half of the course, but beyond that, the second half was a mystery. Steep switchbacks, technical descents, and fading daylight would test every ounce of her strength, skill, and determination...

Q: Mel, let’s start with the buildup. How would you describe the months leading up to Worlds?

Mel: The buildup definitely wasn’t smooth. In fact, it was probably the period where I’ve had the most injuries ever. As soon as I found out I’d been selected, I was elated. After Faultline, to earn the black singlet and represent New Zealand, that’s huge! My first instinct was, right, I’m going to train harder than ever. But that led to a chain of injuries...knee tendonitis, hip flexor tendonitis, and then calf tightness just two weeks before leaving.

So the buildup became more about managing than executing a perfect plan. Andrew and I spent a lot of time working around issues, adjusting sessions, and keeping the aerobic engine going through biking and strength work. Strength training became a big shift for me. After Faultline, I realised my aerobic fitness was fine, but my body wasn’t strong enough to handle the punishment.

When I could run, the key was back-to-back long runs. We’d target something like 30 km on Saturday followed by 50 km Sunday, or swap the order. It was like cramming for an exam but trying to be smart about it.

As a mum, those big runs were logistically tough. I’d be gone most of the day. Every time you plan a run, you’re thinking about the kids, always putting them first and fitting training around their needs.

Q: The fundraising and logistics must have been another layer.

Mel: Huge. I’m a solo mum with a mortgage so the financial side was a big stress. I’m so grateful to individuals who stepped up, to my work who helped arrange fundraisers, and to the club, Wellington Scottish (particularly Anna and Marianne). They covered about half the cost. I even thought about selling my caravan and car to make it work. Timing-wise, that was something I’d been considering anyway, but it was still a tough call.

And then there was the emotional side. I’d never been away from work or my kids for three weeks. That felt massive. I had to just trust it would be okay. I set up a WhatsApp group with the kids and lowered my expectations. When I came back, the house was still standing, the kids were alive, and the car wasn’t written off. That was a win!

Q: Let’s talk about Spain. What was travel and arrival like?

Mel: The travel was long. I don’t love long-haul. I went via LA and had the usual delays and chaos with luggage there. Then Madrid, where it was mid-30s temps straight off the plane. Immediately I thought, holy moly, this heat is going to be a factor. After a night there I caught the train to Zaragoza, where our team manager Sean picked us up and drove us 90 minutes to Canfranc.

Canfranc is this gorgeous little town tucked into the Pyrenees. The train station dominates the town. This grand, old building now turned boutique hotel. Big mountains lining this valley on all sides.

For the first six nights, half the team stayed in this little villa together. Tiny rooms, one fridge, one pantry for everyone. It was cramped but pretty funny. Every evening before dinner we’d meet with the team managers to sort logistics, rides to the supermarket, training plans, recces.

Q: What were your first impressions of the course?

Mel: I’d studied the profile so I knew there’d be big climbs and descents. But it didn’t really hit me until I was out there. The first recce I did was a middle section on the French side. It was the afternoon, still 30 degrees, and I was jet lagged. I only ran about 8 km but it was enough. It was steep, rocky, relentless. You had to keep your eyes locked on the trail the whole time. One lapse and you’d twist an ankle.

The altitude was noticeable too. I knew I was fit, but my legs felt heavy. I’d run or power hike for a bit, then get out of breath much quicker than expected. The terrain was just so different from home. Tip Track is steep, but here you had huge boulders, loose rocks, and even using poles required careful placement in the crevices. It was quite a shock.

One of the downhill recces ended early because of lightning, hail, and thunder. The weather swung from 30 °C to 5 °C in a couple of days. It really kept us guessing what race day might bring. Then some of the team got sick with COVID and flu. There was definitely some tension in the camp that week.

Q: Talk us through the start of the race.

Mel: Race morning was cool and crisp which was perfect after coming out of a New Zealand winter. The start line was chaos. It was meant to be one runner per country on the line, but in reality it was every person for themselves. I was worried about getting trapped behind the bottleneck at the bridge after the initial road section, so I positioned myself a bit further forward.

Once we started, it was a short stretch of road, then straight into technical trail and immediately into climbing. The first climb, up La Moletta, set the tone. The poles became useless near the top and it turned into actual rock climbing. I remember thinking, “This is nothing like my usual races.” But as the sun came up, the mountains were bathed in light and it felt pretty special.

The descents were another story. People were absolutely flying down these steep, loose rocky slopes. I was cautious , partly because of the terrain, partly because my knees were already feeling it after that first descent. I kept stepping aside to let people through, then tried to hang on behind, but the speed and agility some of the Europeans had on the downhills was incredible.

Q: The cut-offs became a big part of your race. What happened at the 64 km aid station?

Mel: Ah, yes, the moment. I’d written down the cut-offs beforehand but, to be honest, I’d mentally filed them away as irrelevant. I didn’t think they’d apply to me. I knew I wasn’t going to be in the top half, but I didn’t think I’d be near the back either. Rookie mistake!

After the first manned aid station, there was this brutal 25 km stretch...long climbs, exposed ridgelines, real sky-running stuff. At one point we were on a narrow ridge with sheer drops either side. One of my teammates got vertigo there as it was that extreme. Progress through this section was so slow. You’re scrambling on hands and feet to get over peaks, then picking your way carefully down the other side.

Coming into the 64 km aid station, the second manned station, I heard the Kiwi crew shouting “Go Mel!” from a distance. I thought they were just cheering. As I got closer the tone changed, it wasn’t encouragement, it was urgency. I had less than two minutes to get in and, most importantly, out or I’d be cut.

The aid station was inside a big ski building with different countries’ tables forming a maze. I just kept yelling, “Show me the way out!” because I knew the clock was ticking. I didn’t refill properly and a quick-thinking teammate shoved three full bottles of Tailwind into my arms, and I sprinted out. I made it over the next timing mat with 33 seconds to spare and then threw all bottles in my arms on to the ground so I could load up my vest. That was the real wake-up call! Suddenly the race wasn’t just about terrain, it was a race against the clock.

Q: The final third of the race was absolutely dramatic — 122 switchbacks, darkness closing in, and the clock ticking. Can you take us through that section physically and mentally?

Mel: The second-to-last climb honestly felt like it went on forever, but I didn’t actually mind the climbs by that point. Physically, they were taxing on the body, but mentally they were straightforward. You put your head down, keep moving, no technical trickery to deal with. By then it was just sheer determination to finish.

There were a couple of other runners near me who would drift in and out. Someone would get tired and drop back, then catch me again, and we’d leapfrog a bit. The heat of the day had finally broken, and as we climbed up onto the peaks it suddenly turned bitterly cold. One minute you’re baking in the sun, the next you’re exposed on a ridgeline with icy wind whipping across.

Every decision counts at that point and I stopped briefly to get my jacket out. I knew stopping would cost time, but not stopping would cost more. So I pulled it on, zipped up, and kept moving as the light started to fade.

There was a small aid station at the base of the final climb. I got there late in the day, and that’s where I grabbed my headtorch and got myself sorted for the night section. The volunteers were fantastic, really helpful, offering me food and drink...but I was already watching the clock. I remember saying, “No, I need to go,” because I knew time was tight.

Starting the last climb in the dark, I actually found it easier to follow the course markers. In daylight, the mountains are just huge rockfaces with no clear trail. At night, the reflective markers caught the torchlight, and it was like following breadcrumbs into the darkness. I was on my own for most of this section, just my breathing, my poles, and the odd dots of other headtorches ahead of me.

Despite everything, I was still enjoying it in a strange way. The scenery had been so epic all day, and I kept reminding myself, I’m in Spain, racing for New Zealand...how lucky am I to be here? I was tired, my knees were sore, but my mindset was positive. I’d become so used to the poles by this stage that I settled into a rhythm, just power hiking as fast as I could.

I calculated that I needed to reach the top by 9:00 p.m. to have enough time for the final descent. I hit the summit at about 9:06 p.m. Pitch black. No views anymore, just forest down below. I switched gears completely and started hammering downhill. At that point, I didn’t care about the state of my knees, it was all about the clock.

Those switchbacks… there were so many. They were tight, almost horizontal in places, and it felt like I wasn’t making any progress. I could see the faint glow of the massive train station in the valley below, the finish! However it didn’t seem to get any closer no matter how fast I went. I glanced at my watch a couple of times: 9:17, then 9:36. After that point I had this sinking feeling... I’m running hard but I’m not getting down fast enough.

The trail was unforgiving. Even with the headtorch, you couldn’t take your eyes off the ground for a second. If I needed to check my watch, I had to slow down just to avoid tripping. Every foot placement mattered. A twisted ankle here and the race would be over. I kept chanting to myself, focus, focus, focus. It became a rhythm. Run the corners tight, keep your cadence high, don’t look up, don’t make a mistake.

Then, about halfway down, I hit a herd of cows, four of them! And not normal New Zealand cows, big, with big horns, blocking the trail. They weren’t budging. I didn’t have time to negotiate with cows. So I bush-bashed straight down a super-steep bank on hands and feet, clawing my way around them to get back on the trail below. It was chaotic, but it worked.

At around 9:46, my headtorch beeped and dropped to its dimmer setting. I remember thinking, Oh my gosh… now I’m racing the battery too. I’d assumed it had 12 hours, but on full power it was four. I started problem-solving on the run, If it dies completely, what’s Plan B? I had my phone, but it was wrapped in mandatory waterproof plastic inside my vest, under my quiver and poles. To get it out would mean stopping, unclipping, unpacking, finding the phone, rewrapping, reattaching… easily a minute. I wasn’t sure I’d have that time. So I just kept running, praying the dim setting would last. I kept thinking You might make it. You might miss it by 10 seconds. But you have to give yourself every possible chance. I refused to give up for even a second.

And then the light died completely. One moment dim, the next, total blackness. I came to a complete stop as it was pitch black and I couldn’t see the trail at all. I knew I was close to the road, but I didn’t dare take a step blind on that terrain. I yelled into the darkness, “My light’s gone! Help! Can I borrow your light?”

I saw two lights, one behind, another off to the side. The one behind was probably another runner, the one to the side was a marshal. They both moved closer and the marshal shone his light across just enough for me to make out the trail and the exit. I picked my way forward slowly, heart pounding, knowing I’d just lost maybe 30 seconds standing there.

When I hit the tarmac, I knew exactly where I was. One corner left before the road section into town. I heard cowbells and Kiwi voices yelling, “You’ve got two minutes!” I just went for it. No holding back.

I crossed the line with 93 seconds to spare. Later I realised my chip time started about 30 seconds after the gun, so I probably had a little buffer. But in that moment, I didn’t know. It was utter relief...not just personal relief, but knowing my finish counted for the team. That had been in my mind the whole descent, don’t just do it for yourself, do it for New Zealand, for everyone who helped you get here.

I found out afterward that the team and supporters had been tracking my splits and genuinely thought I wasn’t going to make it. Our team manager, Karen, told me she got a few extra grey hairs that night. (Coach, back home in Tawa, didn't sleep a wink). There was a big Kiwi contingent waiting at the finish, even at 10 p.m., and they were just buzzing. Michael Sutton later wrote that my finish was one of his highlights of the whole event, which is pretty special.

Q: Looking back, how did this race test you differently compared to other ultras you’ve done?

Mel: Without a doubt, it was the technical descents. I knew going into it that this would be my biggest challenge, and that proved to be true. I could definitely improve in that area...more strength work, and just more practice on technical downhill terrain. The endurance was there, my mindset held up well, but those descents tested me in a way I hadn’t experienced before.

Q: And there probably aren’t many places in New Zealand where you can train for that, right?

Mel: No, not really. Maybe some alpine stuff here and there, but it’s different. In New Zealand it’s often rooty and slippery, which brings its own challenges, but in Spain it was just loose rock, totally different underfoot. It’s difficult to replicate that kind of terrain at home.

Q: Do you think being a bit older, with the life experience you have, gave you any advantages out there?

Mel: Yes, I think so. As you get older you get better at problem solving on the fly, and you don’t fall apart mentally when things don’t go your way. You just keep going. My whole philosophy in life is that everything is a learning experience.

Even in those last switchbacks when I genuinely didn’t know if I’d make the cut-off, I had this internal conversation, You might not make it, and if that happens, you’ll be gutted, but you’ll learn from it. It’ll shape you somehow. That perspective helped keep me calm and focused.

Q: If you could go back and give yourself one piece of advice on the start line, what would it be?

Mel: Two big things. First, be more aware of the cut-off times. I definitely could have pushed the pace earlier, particularly before the 64 km checkpoint. I had plenty of energy and aerobic fitness left, but I lost time on those technical descents. If I’d been more conscious of how tight it would get, I’d have adjusted sooner.

Second, know my headtorch settings properly! I assumed it had 12 hours of battery life, but I’d been running it on full power. I ended up with about four hours. That miscalculation nearly cost me the finish. Those were two avoidable mistakes.

Q: What do you hope your kids will take away from watching you take on something like this?

Mel: That’s such a good question. I hope they see that you can set a big goal, commit to it fully, and give it absolutely everything, even if you don’t know for sure how it’ll play out. I want them to know that you don’t go after things half-heartedly.

They watched me train through injuries, bike when I couldn’t run, and stay positive even when things weren’t going smoothly. I hope they understand that anything worthwhile requires dedication and hard work.

And more than that, I hope that if they ever face big challenges in their own lives, they’ll remember this and think, Mum did something really tough. Maybe I can too. That’s a big motivator for me as that legacy is theirs as much as it is mine.

Q: What lessons or experiences from this race will you carry forward into your future running and life in general?

Mel: Doing something that pushes you beyond your comfort zone really puts other things into perspective. This was the hardest, toughest event I’ve ever done. Before this, I thought a miler (100 miles) was beyond me. Now I’m not so sure. If I can survive 122 switchbacks in the dark, loose rock descents, and tight cut-offs in the Pyrenees, then a miler on terrain that suits me better suddenly feels achievable. It’s opened my mind.

Q: Finally, what would you say to other masters runners or parents who dream of taking on a challenge like this but feel like it’s out of reach?

Mel: It’s so easy as a parent and a masters runner to put everyone else first...your kids, your work, your responsibilities. That’s natural. But going after your own big goals sets a powerful example for your children. It shows them that it’s okay, even positive, to pursue something for yourself, even if it involves sacrifices and time away.

My advice would be, go for it. You only get a few opportunities like this in life. At this event there were actually more masters athletes than I expected, and it really reinforced that endurance and mindset, both of which often improve with age, are huge assets. It’s absolutely achievable.

Q: And what’s next for you?

Mel: Nothing massive straight away, maybe a sneaky Wellington Mountain Champs for some redemption ;-). Mostly I want to respect my body after the year I’ve had with injuries. I’ll do some biking for enjoyment and some shorter races, things like that. Then hopefully Faultline Miler next April. We’ll see!

Final Thoughts & Author’s Note

As a coach, you get used to seeing plans derailed. Injuries happen, fitness ebbs and flows, life steps in. But every now and then, an athlete reminds you why you love this sport in the first place. Mel’s run at Canfranc did exactly that.

The months leading up to it were a balancing act between ambition and restraint. We spent weeks adjusting, rebuilding, and finding ways to keep the dream alive. She could have backed off a dozen times, but she never did. That quiet persistence became the foundation for everything that followed.

Out on the course, the race was as much psychological as physical. The Pyrenees demanded patience on the climbs, bravery on the descents, and constant calculation as the cut-offs loomed. When the race turned into a sprint against daylight and battery life, Mel’s years of experience, calm thinking, and refusal to quit took over. It wasn’t just fitness that got her across the line, it was judgment, composure, and the ability to keep solving problems while her world narrowed to a beam of failing light.

Finishing with ninety-three seconds to spare will always make a great headline, but what mattered more was the way she handled each small decision that kept her race alive. Every choice, when to stop for the jacket, when to push, when to ask for help, added up to one of the most courageous finishes I’ve seen.

If Mel’s story inspired you, and you’re ready to see what structured, evidence-based coaching can do for your running, I’m currently taking on new athletes. You’ll train using the same proven systems, principles, and workouts that helped Mel reach the top of the world.
Get in touch at andrew@awruncoach.co.nz Let’s get to work.

— Andrew Wharton, Coach