6 Inches of Adventure
race report
6 inch trail ultra - december 2026
by david martin
The 6 Inch Ultra, held every December in Western Australia, is a tradition, an institution.
It’s 46 km (23 km if you’re doing the “3 Inch”) from North Dandalup to Dwellingup along a section of the Munda Biddi, meaning “path through the forest” in the Noongar language spoken in the South West of WA.
The name and the trail are a perfect fit. Designed primarily for mountain biking, the route has fewer obstacles and a nice flowing shape to it, which means you can hold a good pace and rhythm once you find it.
This was my second time on the course, and for me it was different. Since my first attempt, I had put together a full ultra year, over 700 km of ultra-distance racing. Three milers under the belt, a bit of arrogance had crept in. “What’s a simple 47 km?” I thought. Even my non-running friends chimed in with similar comments.
When I talk about running, which is frequently, I also talk about respect. Respect for the event, for yourself, for the volunteers and organisers, and for the rules that exist to protect you and keep you safe. I came across a quote recently, unrelated to running but perfect all the same: “Fearlessness, tempered by a fear of failure.” That really sums up how I try to approach ultra events.
For me, this year’s “6 Inch” felt too easy, at least before the start. I had finished the brutal Feral Pig Miler only six weeks earlier and, despite a sore knee from getting back to training too soon, I figured I could push through. After all, I had done three milers.
Spoiler alert, humble pie was consumed.
Getting There Is Half the Battle
The first challenge is always the start time. I parked my car at the finish line in Dwellingup and caught the organised coach back to the start. With a 4:30 a.m. start, the coach leaves at 3 a.m., meaning a 1:30 a.m. alarm, a 1:45 a.m. departure, and an attempt to fall asleep around 3 p.m. the afternoon before.
So I got everything done early on Saturday, avoided coffee, and aimed for rest. I actually did fairly well, but left the house a bit late and made it to the coach collection point with only four minutes to spare.
We rolled into North Dandalup Hall where those needing to do their gear checks, while the rest of us hung around looking for familiar faces. Compared to last year, I wasn’t the wide-eyed newbie anymore, I actually knew people. A good bunch from the Ultra Series were there: Andy and Dell, Bianca, Felix, Glen, and Alexis. “Big Kev” was nowhere to be seen, probably arranged his own lift and squeezed in more sleep, the cheeky sod.
Around 4:15, David Kennedy (RD) started shooing people back onto the coach to head to the start, the infamous Gold Mine Hill.
It was cold. Luckily Andy and Dell had found a blanket somewhere, and we all huddled together like penguins waiting for sunrise.
When the event starts, that collective discomfort disappears. The nervous chatter, the yahooing, the energy of a start line full of like-minded lunatics, you just can’t beat that atmosphere.
The race briefing was classic: “I’ll keep it simple, head south, don’t get lost, and I’ll see you in Dwellingup in a few hours.”
With around 430 entrants across the two distances, the odds of getting lost or stuck are pretty slim anyway.
The Race
The race kicks off with a brutal climb up Gold Mine Hill. It’s a shocking way to start, much like Yaberoo but longer. Most people hike, the leaders run. A solid hiking pace gets you up in ten to fifteen minutes.
At the top, I was still walking with the same pack, my knee reminding me of its existence. I hadn’t decided how hard to push, I had a 200 miler coming up in April and didn’t want to risk it.
After about five minutes of walking, I asked myself, why bother driving all this way in the middle of the night just to walk 47 km? So I took off.
Over the course of the year, I had conditioned myself to sit around 6–8 km/h for long stretches, but on this course, with its eight hour cutoff, that was too tight. I needed to push a little harder to buy some breathing room. Fear of failure, a slice of ego, and a touch of arrogance pushed me through the first half, hitting the 23 km aid station about twelve minutes faster than last year. I was happy. My knee wasn’t.
After refilling bottles and a quick stop under ten minutes, getting moving again was, let's say, unpleasant.
That’s when another decision came back to bite me, I hadn’t brought trekking poles. “It’s only 47 km,” I’d told myself. “Who needs poles for that?” Well, apparently people with sore knees and common sense.
With no poles, I shuffled on, trying to hang with Alexis, who had caught up after I broke away from the walking pack earlier.
By then, I knew I was probably walking most of the back half. At 5 km/h, I’d barely make it in thirty minutes before the cutoff, far too tight for comfort. I’ve never, touch wood, DNF’d a race. It’s something I’m proud of and determined to protect.
So I kept moving, shuffling when I could, jogging sometimes, walking when I had to.
The next aid station at 34 km was a much-needed relief. But to earn it, you climb the Escalator, which after last year’s earthworks was carved up with ruts and loose footing. The out-and-back just before it had some nasty descents that cost me three stumbles in as many minutes. The course was teaching me a necessary lesson, respect.
I made the 34 km aid station in about four hours. A PB was off the table, now it was all about surviving and finishing. Someone had Panadol, I took two down with a mouthful of Coke, topped up my bottles, and headed back out with Andy and a few others.
Andy, being Andy, had sped ahead earlier “to eat his sardines in peace.” No judgment here, we’re all a bit eccentric in the Ultra scene.
With his sardines demolished and the tin ditched at the aid station, we moved off again. Within about ten minutes I was off the back, shuffling alone again and nursing the knee. Once the Panadol kicked in around five kilometres from the end, I was back to running stretches.
I chatted with a few people along the way, including one bloke I tried to convince to take on the Delirious Miler next year. We were also dodging the occasional mountain biker shooting past, a good reminder that while this trail is brilliant to run on, it was made for bikes first.
The final stretch was kind. I managed to run a decent pace for the last three kilometres and came in with about forty minutes to spare.
As I tell my kids, safety first, finishing second, winning third. I’m glad I didn’t have to test that order this time.
Reflections
Almost four weeks later, as I move into week three of my 200 mile campaign, the knee’s nearly back to 100 percent thanks to physio and some structured recovery.
It’s funny, this sport humbles you fast. One race can make you feel unbreakable, the next can take the wind straight out of you. But that’s part of the magic.
And if you’ve read this far, stop for a second and pat yourself on the back. You’re part of an incredible community, filled with wild, generous, slightly unhinged humans who show up, give everything, and look out for each other. That makes you pretty amazing too.
So yes, I’ll be back this year, probably with a bit more respect, and maybe some trekking poles.
share this
IN OTHER NEWS
