THE Sleepwalker Midnight Marathon is unlike any other running event around.

For a starter, it's not often that you run over the treacherous Brecon Beacons in South Wales in the middle of the night, and you won't find too many long-distance trail races at this time of day.

This was race 59 in the series of 80, and it will go down for me as the most painful and the most boring race of the year.

Running over the Brecon Beacons sounds like a delightful, enchanting experience, but when you are running with a headtorch and can barely see a few feet in front of you for hour after hour, it becomes monotonous.

About 50 runners set out from the village hall at Talybont on Usk at 9pm. This was the date of the Autumn Equinox. Beforehand, we each had our kit checked to ensure we were wearing trail shoes, carrying a headtorch with spare batteries, waterproofs, maps, survival bag, whistle, and spare clothing including hat and gloves.

The messages from the race organisers are mixed. We have been warned it is not a map-reading exercise, but then at the pre-race briefing it is clear it is going to be essential, and I was worried. My map reading is basic.

As we set off by the canal in this quiet Welsh village, a couple of runners hared on. For some bizarre reason, I found myself leading the second group for three miles uphill. Little did they know I had no idea where we were going.

After a while, the group broke up. We found ourself working our way along forest paths and trails.

I fell several times and hurt myself quite badly. With a headtorch as a guide, it was hard to pick out the way.

Soon the group had whittled its way down to three, and we passed a couple of checkpoints manned by mountain rescue teams who counted us all by.

I wasn't enjoying the run one bit. Whereas in daylight you could enjoy the spectacular scenery and bask in the sheer wilderness, in the dark it was claustrophobic and dull.

We climbed 2,000 feet to the highest point of the race, a climb I made by myself having felt the need to push on and chase a couple of runners whose lights I could see in the distance.

The descent was as equally treacherous as the ascent. Several times I took a tumble. My arms and knees were bleeding, my face ached having born the brunt of a couple of full-impact falls.

Hour after hour we ran, and finally, chasing the two runners ahead of me, we hit the canal path for home.

The falls had damaged my Garmin watch which measured distance, so as I became detached from the two runners, so my mind became fatigued, along with my body at the distance yet to run. Little did I know that the finish was close to home.

I was hurting. My whole body ached and hurt, really hurt. Finally, the finish at the village hall beckoned and exhausted I crossed the line - well, there was a guy with a clipboard standing outside the hall who asked me what number I was.

I had finished 11th from 50 runners in 3hrs 54mins.

Afterwards, everyone was speaking in glowing tones about the race. How taxing the challenge was, how wonderful the camerdarie, how exhilarating it was to finish. I could only be thankful I had finished.

For some, the race was going to take up to ten hours. I just wanted to get home and go to bed.

This was, without doubt, my most painful and dullest race of the year.