6. Gotland 511 km Run: An Epic Road Trip Without a Car
If the sign-up page of an event speaks of a journey rather than a race, as well as the exploration of inner space, the attention of someone is immediately caught. I love to operate at the intersection of running, adventure, self-autonomy, and the philosophical and spiritual rewards such intense journeys can provide—preferably in the most extreme circumstances.
Running as a Vehicle
Running, to me, has always been like a vehicle. Some focus primarily on the running itself, seeking to optimize their stride, beat records, or loop endlessly around tracks. My relationship with running has been slightly different—certainly not about beating times or endless optimization. To me, it has always been this invaluable, perhaps priceless, vehicle to travel to incredible places, see some of our precious world on foot, face adventure, and experience self-inflicted adversity and suffering (the important distinction is in the self-inflicted, as I consider this a luxurious asset and privilege). Most of all, it is a way to learn something about life, the people in it, culture, myself, and the landscapes and history around us.
Running as a vehicle, therefore, means the running itself is perhaps a secondary objective, whereas the experience becomes primary. That is why the concept of this race—like a vacation without a car—was so appealing. It was a chance to, for once, go all in. I think this might be true for many participants, as many reported this journey to be life-changing or revolutionary, even without reaching the finish line. That is how deeply this event carves itself into everyone’s soul.
It was also no surprise that multiple finishers from last year and the year before came back—a testimony to the deep, inseparable bond formed with the event and the island. Finishers get a personal Gotland stone with their name and time engraved on it, and there is a “graveyard” of stones waiting to be claimed when a runner finishes in subsequent years (after a DNF). I find it a beautiful tradition; the island does not forget those runners, and their personal stone (and story) just patiently waits for their return.
A Pilgrimage on the Road
Perhaps, therefore, this shouldn’t be classified as a race, but rather as a pilgrimage. The words “live like a vagabond around the island” are so fitting, or perhaps in Americana and literary terms: “life on the road.” This is no new concept; for centuries, people have attempted transcontinental walks or runs, some more successfully than others (see the ultrarunning history podcast by Davy Crockett about Dakota Bob, who gave lectures about his transcontinental walks in various towns and got stamps from local mayors, but primarily took the train).
For such “creative” artists, there was no place in the Gotland run. The classical ultrarunner who expects fully stocked aid stations every 20–30 km, a medical team, and a support system would also come up empty-handed here. This was, after all, a masterclass in self-sufficiency. Aid or “angel” stations were sometimes over 100 km apart, where you had to source your own supplies. Most shops closed after 17:00, and during the night sections, you would be lucky to find only some water available at local churches.
Heavy packs were, in my opinion, the safest strategy. Those who packed lightly could move faster but risked hypothermia, dehydration, or hunger on the course.
The eye of the Storm
Meanwhile, a raging storm hit the island. Cars were destroyed by falling trees, road signs disappeared, and trampolines flew through the air. While some trail runners I know complain on Facebook that aid stations during UTMB events are poorly stocked, I remember running over 100 km to an angel station dreaming about a fresh cup of coffee, only to find the filter coffee pot empty. C’est la vie. Those are the most valuable lessons in ultrarunning. You cannot always get what you want, and sometimes that is exactly what you need. Or, as the Germans would say: “Das Leben ist kein Ponyhof” (Life is no pony farm).
I am primarily interested in the meaning and definition of adventure—it is a main theme on this website. Here, I figured that if one completely exhausts oneself physically, there is more room for the metaphysical. That is to say, through extreme exhaustion, we allow our souls to be set free. During this journey, I realized that this contradiction is, after all, one of the core components of adventure. As some mountaineers once pointed out so vividly: enlightenment is not found on a full stomach (Conrad Anker). This event set the perfect playground for this experiment, and I was ready to exhaust myself to the core.
Unchaining the Mind
The run was based on the annual Vol State 500K in humid Tennessee and had the blessings of Gary Cantrell (a.k.a. Lazarus Lake). Our ever-friendly race director, Peter Schröder, was kind enough to bring the run to Europe after completing the Vol State 500K himself. Unsurprisingly, it started and ended in a prison. Prisons also form a central theme in Lazarus Lake’s Barkley Marathons; the well-informed reader will recall that the idea for that race was inspired by the 1977 escape of James Earl Ray (who was convicted for the assassination of Martin Luther King Jr.) from the nearby Brushy Mountain State Penitentiary. Ray covered only about 8 miles (13 km) after escaping for 54 hours in the state park.
The question of being “crewed” or “screwed” (as in the Vol State 500K) was irrelevant here, as we would all be screwed—retrospectively, some just a bit more than others, yet all on a special, individual quest. No pacers and no supporters were allowed, and external help could only be accepted if it was offered to runners by local “angels.”
The shackles and ties that bind most of us to a “civilized life” full of responsibility and expectations—perhaps with an illusionary sense of social security, as if there are any guarantees in this life—disappear for most of the event, if not the entire time. Only during such extreme runs can we, on rare occasions, cast them off and unchain those invisible shackles—unshaved and unshowered, of course. I believe this is good to do sometimes. Perspective is everything, especially during life on the road.
Conversations on the Road
I recall a specific occasion during the first 24 hours of the run.
A friendly, well-dressed gentleman wearing a nice watch came into the restaurant. At first, I thought he might ask the runners to sit somewhere else. It was chaotic, with sports bars, gels, charging cables, socks, and dirty shoes scattered everywhere. But he was not bothered by this; he was interested in the why.
“What is the philosophy?” he asked. “What moves these remarkable, perhaps somewhat exotic creatures?”
This was true human interest, displayed by his thoughtful follow-up questions. I really appreciated his genuine and heartfelt curiosity. That is how I got to know most Swedes: curious, friendly, and with a true appreciation for endurance sports and feats.
Funnily enough, so early in the race, there was still a small urge in me to confirm that I am a member of society too.
“I work in a hospital, but I needed this as my shot of adventure to stay in balance,” I told the older gentleman, feeling somewhat tired already.
Retrospectively, I think if I had met him three days later—by then unshaved, in worn-out clothes and shoes—I would have let that comment slip. I would have simply said that I am living this adventure, leaving the work connotation out of it entirely. This was my life now, and I loved it. Nothing before it, nothing after it—as always during life on the road. For a moment, I was not a doctor in an emergency setting, but a true vagabond. My roots were irrelevant; here, I just was. And it felt so good.
The Fårö Loop
We searched the island for food, calories, and enough water to avoid heatstroke. I experienced some mild symptoms on Day 2, running the island of Fårö in the heat of the day without a single moment of shade. For the art-house fans among us: Fårö was the island where the famous movie director Ingmar Bergman lived and found his inspiration, who in turn inspired my favorite movie director of all time: Andrei Tarkovsky.
We took the ferry to the Island of Fårö, ran the roughly 60 km loop, and took the ferry back to Gotland. I found this objectively to be the hardest loop, as it took place in the blazing heat of the day with almost no shade. It was also the only time a Swede was unfriendly to me, when I called the ferry personnel in the middle of the night to request a return ferry and they told me, somewhat annoyed, that I had called 15 minutes too early! I felt like an Englishman in New York yet again.
After exactly 24 hours, I was around 110 km in. Objectively, I was doing well, sitting one day ahead of the cut-off (which required a minimum of 51 km per day), but subjectively, a growing discontent was brewing. The long, monotonous roads, the endless treeline without much variation, and the mosquitoes wore on me. So it goes.
It was hard growing into the adventure. I always thought my running profile was that of an endurance runner who loved mountain landscapes—a mountain runner, perhaps—and I always felt most alive on mountain ridges at night, in swamps, or on steep downhills. Heck, we immigrated to live in the Alps, and here I was in the flatlands again, just like in Holland. The mountains might sound more exhausting, but for this type of running, the flat roads of Gotland can be at least as challenging. You miss the variety, the distraction of changing extreme landscapes, and the impulse and adrenaline of technical terrain.
Redefining the terminology of adventure
But with each step, it got better. Hope arrived.
That is how you slowly grow into an adventure. With every passing night, you become more a part of it, and it starts to grow on you. I am not sure if I was faster each day, but I certainly started to feel stronger and more determined to hang in there. I had called my wife, Lotti, on Days 1 and 2, saying I hadn’t found my mojo or flow yet. I was also bothered by the amount of asphalt and the lack of shade. (I had signed up for this race super excited without reading the fine print, believing it was primarily a trail race!) Long, flat roads, trees for hours, and none of the excitement of big uphills, downhills, or mountain towns were tough on me. But on Day 3, it changed. I was still on the road, and this epic adventure was unfolding more and more.
This is what I am most proud of strategy-wise in this race: I was able to change my mindset and definition of adventure on the go. Before, my definition had been rather rigid and inflexible. I believed that my best adventures had to involve crossing snowstorms in -20 degrees with deep snow.
But this was an adventure too! Just a different one. I had more than 400 km of unforgiving, hot asphalt before me, and without a solid strategy, it could destroy my joints, ankles, and shins. This was the new reality. The adventure entailed keeping my energy, calories, and fluids up in a self-sufficient fashion while protecting my body. Realizing this change of mindset absorbed me completely into the epic adventure, and after 48 hours, I never questioned it again or looked back. I loved it now. My mojo and flow had found a second life.
The art of suffering, blisters and the toll of asphalt
On Day 3, the physical suffering started. I developed a massive blister on my small left toe with immense fluid buildup and macerated skin on top. I punctured it as sterilely as I could. Normally I carry sterile needles, but those were not allowed on the plane. I disinfected my race bib pins as meticulously as possible and punctured the blister as close to the base of the toe as I could. In resource-limited settings, you sometimes have to be creative and accept the suboptimal; I simply had to relieve the immense pressure.
Two days later, it caused me a lot of stress as the pain progressed and the toe turned red. I was afraid of an infection (the overpacker that I am luckily carried antibiotics that could counteract a skin infection), but it fortunately turned out to be a mechanical problem from the little toe hitting the toe box, rather than inflammation or a stress fracture. By then, I was so sleep-deprived that a minor worry could be amplified a hundredfold. Sometimes a medical background can be a disadvantage; you have always seen the worst-case scenarios. Extreme sleep deprivation clouds one’s capability for judgment. I think those who have run these distances will know exactly what I am talking about, and it is always good to try to stay composed, even if it is not always possible—and that is okay.
I am also very familiar (unfortunately) with the concept of trench foot, having run 300+ km races with insane amounts of rain, swamp, or snow. That feels like stabbing knives in its worst stages. But here, I was introduced to a new kind of pain: endless asphalt pounding. This pain is not as bad as neuropathic pain; it is mechanical pain, which can be partly self-limiting. Still, near the end, I needed a 30-minute break to massage my feet and give them a rest as the pain progressed. By this stage, I had demolished my new shoes; the outsole was entirely gone, and I was grinding away the foam.
But overall, I felt proud. I knew my body could handle 420 km of alpine terrain without injury, but it felt incredibly encouraging to know it could also handle 511 km of asphalt without structural damage. I think my breaks, foot care, and massages every 3–4 hours were key. I also didn’t want to leave Sweden injured, as we have a 300 km mountain project coming up in September. During such distances, a minor issue can become a catastrophe or a race-ending injury hundreds of kilometers down the line.
Could I have been faster and slept less? Probably. Would it have increased my injury risk? Most likely. There is always a trade-off in everything we do. Seeking shelter during the worst of the storm—running only the first two hours and the last two to three hours of it (luckily, I had my Mammut Eiger Extreme jacket with me)—was, I think, a wise call considering the danger and intensity of the weather. Funnily enough, I felt most alive during the storm; I finally felt like I was back in my element.
Moments of Lightness
There were many small moments that broke up the monotony of life on the road. To illustrate how minor occurrences can illuminate the spirit after being alone for days: a dog popped up out of nowhere. Silently but enthusiastically, he paved the trail ahead of me. I instantly felt better.
It reminded me of Milan Kundera’s analogy of the lightness and heaviness of being. There was a lot of heaviness of being during this run, but this dog was my lightness, as if he was meant to be there. Unsurprisingly, Kundera once wrote:
“Dogs are our link to paradise. They don’t know evil or jealousy or discontent. To sit with a dog on a hillside on a glorious afternoon is to be back in Eden, where doing nothing was not boring—it was peace.”
For a second, in the midst of extreme exhaustion, it really felt just like that.
Then there were the many locals offering water or asking friendly questions about the adventure. Locals came out at 5:00 AM when you arrived at their angel stations, offering freshly baked cookies. If this concept teaches you one thing, it is the cardinal rule of such events: never underestimate the kindness of strangers. One day, you might be dependent on it too. It is a powerful and grounding realization.
It is the small things, too: spotting an old-timer Saab that closely resembled the one I drive back in the Alps gave me a huge morale boost, as silly as it sounds. The soul looks for inspiration in its surroundings at all times.
The People of the Island
No great narrative is complete without the incredible characters who make it happen, so here we go.
There was Peter, who experienced the Vol State 500K first-hand and brought those experiences back to Gotland. He would now, for the first time, experience his own master plan. To him, it was preparation for the iconic Balaton Supermarathon in Hungary, while still delivering an epic run.
And then there were, of course, the Kindgren brothers. How can we not mention them? They are the spine, heart, and soul of the event. Calm, composed, and charismatic, as always—the literal anchor in the storm. A cigarette lit while wearing a field jacket, with a camera always nearby: an iconic sight. Henrik Kindgren popped up as a surprise to encourage me. He was shocked by the sheer size of my pack, as usual, and told me it was only 15 kilometers to Visby. Meeting him gave me a massive confidence boost. They, too, were awake for almost ten days. Their family confirmed they were slowly getting tired… and how could they not? All the runners are incredibly thankful to them. There is no event without the backbone of the organization, which they truly were (and are). Those are the type of guys you want in your corner during a crisis. They allowed for full autonomy and self-sufficiency, even in the worst of the weather. This is, of course, in line with the philosophy of Gary Cantrell—his races are not canceled for forest fires or extreme hailstorms (once, a participant walked out of Frozen Head State Park looking like he had been severely beaten up by multiple guys in a bar, only to find out it was just the hail—true story!). The organization was exceptional and remarkably clear in all communications.
The runners were just as inspirational. I met too many to mention them all, but here are some of those remarkable souls: my roommates in the prison, Conny, a dairy worker wearing an iconic yellow Swedish hat who dreamed of early retirement and described this adventure as “entertainment at its finest,” and Oskar, who, when I asked how much he planned to run, answered “I don’t know,” only to crush the course and finish in second place! We met him at the ferry stop when he had already completed the loop from Fårö. There was Mr. Ritella, who set an incredible course record of 3 days, 9 hours, and 22 minutes. If we didn’t know how talented he is, that time would almost make it look like a vacation with a car. Huge congratulations! There was the front pack with Viktor (who managed to come in third with a very solid performance) and Jenny (Queen of the Road, who considered this a wonderful birthday gift). Petra, who was incredibly fast (and warned Oliver not to run the uphill!). Marco from Germany—we bonded over our heavy packs and speaking the same language. I am 100% sure he will finish next year! The super-kind Christian from Austria (my neighbor), who unfortunately got injured but ran incredibly fast during the first half. His stone will soon return to him, I am 100% sure, given his talent. He displayed great sportsmanship, encouraging runners long after his own race was over. Tomasz from Poland, who ran an incredible race and was a contender for a podium spot but unfortunately got caught in the worst of the storm. Ida, always enthusiastic and with an optimistic spirit, who crushed it as the youngest participant. Filip, who was kind enough to share his knowledge about Gotland during the first half—someone who really digs adventure and the outdoors. Marathon Mia and Marie, two incredibly strong women who had finished the race before, and whom I was lucky enough to share a pizza with. Karen, who famously quoted Forrest Gump at the finish. Peter, the Dutch Gotland veteran, who ran an extremely solid race with a heavy pack. Always great to chat with at the angel stations. Henrik, who power-napped as if his life depended on it but never gave up. Christer, who was strong enough to make it back to the prison despite accidentally drinking contaminated water at a church. Johan and Micael, finishing together as brothers with true teamwork. Steven and Kevin, the ever-friendly and funny Americans whom I hope to see on the trail again soon! Next time, I will call the Bonkline too! Peter, with whom I shared a passion for alpine Mammut jackets and a love for the Alps.
And, of course, a special mention to Oliver, who told me he had never run more than 15 km before and still finished the loop! When I drove with a friend to Tofta Beach, I saw him tackling the last 14 km of the race. We gave each other a hug—a very emotional moment. I could see that hollow, deprived “ultra look” in his eyes, but at the same time, an absolute determination to finish as the last man standing despite the pain.
Breaking the 500 km Barrier
The Gotland 511 km run also signified the breaking of a specific mental barrier. I had previously crossed the wonderful 400 km mark during an alpine FKT on the Goldsteig Nordroute, but could I cross the magical 500 km barrier? After all, it was perhaps just a theoretical construct in my mind.
At kilometer 499, Kurt Vonnegut crossed my mind:
“I mean, this day is as real as any day we’re going to live, and yet we have an ideal (such as the 500k barrier) that we’re headed for other days, then for other days… And this is it. This is all there is. And I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, ‘If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.’”
I shed a tear. I crossed the magical 500 km mark, and the same joy filled my heart as when I crossed the 400 km barrier for the first time. A fictional line and border in my mind had been broken. Life was full of possibility again. But there was also a slight hint of melancholy, which I guess is normal when you reach your goals and dreams. What is left to chase?
This was like an epic road trip you wish would never end—a vacation without a car—and at the finish line, I was genuinely sad that it was over. While my primary focus will remain on the mountains and rugged trails, such as the Winter Spine Race and various 300–500 km mountain races, I would love to re-experience this style of running, perhaps in the USA. To be continued!
Thank you, Gotland, and everyone involved. I will never forget you!
5. Searching for a Heart of Gold: 415 km & 147 Hours on the Wild Goldsteig Nordroute
“a golden ultrarunning adventure with a golden team.” That’s how I described it the moment we finally touched the bridge in Passau.
The start of the adventure
Monday, June 9th, at 10:00 AM, the clock started in Marktredwitz—a typical Bavarian town with a square decorated with Zunftzeichen (guild signs) and figures attached to the Maibaum (Maypole). Ahead lay over 400 kilometers of the rugged, wild, and unforgiving Goldsteig toward Passau. The night before, we ate pizza and pasta, carb-loading to the max, and tried on our custom-made “Golden Team” shirts.
The early miles began with Gabrielle ten Velde by my side, while her mother, Jeanette Isendoorn, managed our mobile basecamp. The trails were fast, winding past beautiful fortresses and lakes. Gabrielle brought her infectious energy, and I focused on enjoying the moment rather than dwelling on the distance. That presence is what truly creates “flow.”
It made for a relatively fast opening 80 km. However, the terrain would soon change drastically. Jeanette’s camper felt like a five-star hotel, stocked with fresh blueberries (my favorite summer snack), cold cola, and even freshly brewed coffee by Barista Meister van Tongeren. As the days passed, the terrain grew increasingly technical.
The endless ridge
The Goldsteig is a high-altitude journey along the “Green Roof of Europe,” following the historic Iron Curtain and the “High Ridge” that divides two nations. The Nordroute (North Route) isn’t just about the distance; it’s about the Kammvariante (the ridge variant), which keeps you high on the peaks, tracing the border between Germany (Bavaria) and the Czech Republic (Bohemia).
The route is famous for its “string of pearls”—a sequence of peaks over 1,000 meters known as Tausender. We summited icons like the Großer Falkenstein, the Rachel, and the Lusen, each offering a jagged, rocky landscape that feels more like the Alps than a central German forest. Running the “North” means running the wilder side.
As we pushed through the Bavarian Forest National Park, the trail often sat just meters from the Czech border. Once past Furth im Wald, the route transforms into the Kammvariante. This is where the bulk of the 11,600m of ascent is found. You are effectively “combing” the summits, hitting peak after peak. The Eight Peaks Ridge between Eck and the Großer Arber is a wonderful sequence, including the Mühlriegel (1,080m), Ödriegel (1,156m), Schwarzeck (1,238m), and Enzian (1,285m).
The section from Großer Falkenstein (1,315m) to Großer Rachel (1,453m) is particularly challenging, involving a deep drop into the valley before a massive climb back to the Rachel summit. My favorite part followed after: the Lusen (1,373m) and the Blockmeer. The ascent to the Lusen is defined by the Himmelsleiter (Ladder to Heaven), a staircase of giant granite boulders. The descent through the Blockmeer (sea of rocks) is technical—especially on fatigued legs.
A rotating symphony
As the days blurred together, the crew became a rotating symphony of support. Sebastiaan van Tongeren braved the first three nights with me, battling the darkness and the fatigue that creeps in once the sun sets. I recall taking some vague photos on a ridge with steel cables; luckily, we were still fresh enough that it was all smiles.
Sebastiaan set a new personal distance record and ran incredibly strong all week. The first long climb we tackled together served as a stern warning of what was to come. When Gabrielle and Jeanette had to depart, Erik Kemper stepped in without missing a beat, providing both miles on the trail and a sanctuary in his camper for precious power naps. Seeing him again was a massive morale boost. He even surprised us with iced coffee, latte and ice cream in the middle of nowhere!
The Arber and “No-Man’s Land”
The climb toward the Großer Arber (1,456m) was a tough one, made harder by trail diversions and the relentless sun. We hit the summit during the peak heat of the day. Despite constant drinking, I began to feel dehydrated. Sebastian and I took this climb together; it was beautiful, yet felt never-ending. We even added some accidental miles due to tricky navigation.
We daydreamed about a mountain hut with cold cola that never seemed to appear. Although a 1,456m peak might sound small compared to the Alps, in this terrain—and with sleep deprivation—it felt like a serious challenge. To illustrate the heat: Erik suddenly popped up topless, wearing nothing but tiny running shorts, to cheer us on.
When we finally reached a hut, we ordered multiple rounds of Kaiserschmarrn, desserts, and full meals. The waitress laughed as the orders kept coming, but we were just three mountain runners in a massive calorie deficit, refueling as fast as we could. Crossing the Arber is a sensory overload: the trees thin out, and the views stretch deep into Bohemia. Standing on a large boulder at the summit with Erik and Sebastiaan, we felt on top of the world. Nature gave us a fresh injection of endless energy. We played “Wackelkontakt” until it became our anthem and we continued. But summer had its own plans. With temperatures steadily climbing above 25°C, the heat felt heavy and our packs heavier still. The mountain ridges were exposed, and shade was a luxury we rarely found—basically limited to the wooden huts that, by then, felt like Finnish saunas.
The true test of spirit came during a remote 50km stretch. There were no aid stations and no easy exits. We could not reach the RV at all for supplies. This was the section I worried about most of all, especially since it was so isolated that no one could reach us once we were on the ridge. We decided to sleep a bit longer than planned and hit the ridge just before sunrise so it would still be cool out. The sleep did wonders, and I felt better than ever as the pace picked up. My wife, Lotti, joined me for this brutal section, which was a real challenge but Lotti kept her head cool, going above and beyond. She carried a large backpack filled with liters of water through the heat on those exposed granite ridges without complaining once. She was the reason I stayed moving when the temperatures threatened to boil my resolve.
On these granite ridges, water is scarce. Lotti’s effort carrying liters of water in the midday sun was really the difference between a finish and a DNF and I was so extremely grateful she was there. I felt mentally so much better because of it. We had to stay mentally strong the entire day; after a whole day in the burning sun, we made it to a mountain hut only to find a sign saying they were renovating (!!) in the middle of summer. Then we descended for hours to a lake where we expected a kiosk, only to find there was absolutely nothing there. It is not all physical; it is mostly about being mentally flexible.
The stairway to heaven
The highlight of the entire tour came near the end. It was a beautiful summer evening, and Lotti and I were on our way to the Lusen, a mountain built of rocks. Here was the Himmelsleiter, literally translated as the “stairway to heaven.” As we were climbing up those stairs to heaven, the evening sun was setting low and sunset was approaching. Suddenly, Smetana’s Má Vlast hit my playlist, and I started crying. Those were not tears of exhaustion, and they were not tears of pain. Those were tears because I felt deeply connected to the area, the nature, the mountains, my soul, and subsequently my body. Most of all, it made me think of my late grandfather. It was the masterpiece played at his funeral, signifying the journey to the afterlife. I thought about how magical it was that this Himmelsleiter was also connecting life and death in this very moment. You often hear runners talk about exactly those moments; in between all the pain, there is suddenly this flash of pure beauty. This was pure beauty. We didn’t just run the Goldsteig; we lived it.
Up at the top, I wasn’t lonely. Erik was waiting with a big smile, looking incredibly happy. I could not hold back my tears anymore and I didn’t care to, either. Erik also enjoyed the incredible sunset at the Gipfelkreuz. What a contrast! I had been alone in the forest for up to five days, but here on this mountain top, families had come together alongside young lovers and friends alike, all to watch this incredible sunset. Normally I don’t like big crowds in nature, but after all that isolation, it made me happy to see everyone enjoying it just as much.
The final miles
For those watching at home, I was a moving dot on a map; for me, I was a soul moving through one of Europe’s most beautiful wildernesses. Recording over 400km on a single device is a battle of its own. While Strava struggled with the dense forest canopy and GPS glitches, our “Legendstracking” beacons never wavered. Overall, it was a fantastic experience. The nature was wild and rugged, and the highest peak at 1456 meters was impressive.
My legs were heavy, but my heart was full. You don’t run 400km alone; you run it on the fuel of unconditional support. To Lotti, Gab, Jet, Seb, and Erik—the Golden Ultra Team—this FKT belongs to all of us. You carried me when the trail tried to break me. We didn’t just follow the gold markings; we found the gold in the bond we built out there. This FKT wasn’t a solo effort—it was a logistical feat managed by the Golden Ultra Team. From the early miles with Gabrielle and Jeanette in the camper to the long nights with Sebastiaan and the mid-week rescue from Erik, as well as Lotti joining me during the most isolated section, this was a journey.
Standing on the bridge in Passau on Sunday at 13:09, looking back toward the mountains we had just traversed, the feeling wasn’t just relief—it was awe. We didn’t just run across a landscape; we ran through history, along a border that once divided Europe, and on a trail that finally brought us home. The Goldsteig Nordroute isn’t just a trail; it’s a journey across the “Green Roof of Europe.” It follows the spine of the Bavarian Forest, tracing the high ridges where Germany meets the Czech Republic. In June 2026, we set out to see how fast we could traverse this wild, rugged corridor. It was a golden adventure!
4. The Centurion Sea to Sea 300km Ultra- 95 hours of proper, brutal British ultrarunning fueled by an incredible community
Thursday evening, 24+ hours after finishing the Centurion Sea to Sea 300 km, I am standing in the AO Arena in downtown Manchester during the Premier League Darts with a dear friend from London. The only physical clue linking me to the race now was the prominent cut under my nose, caused by the ongoing, relentless wind that pierced my skin. I added Vaseline before the race, but it is a gentle reminder that sometimes we should just embrace the marks of rougher nature rather than fighting it. I stopped cursing my feet a long time ago on those long adventures, too. Acceptance sometimes is the key.
Right here, the contrast couldn’t be bigger. 20,000 people crowded here in one central place, after I had spent days alone in solitude during long, cold, rainy nights with storms, hail, snow, cold bogs, extreme sleep deprivation (a maximum of 120 minutes of sleep during a time period of almost 100 hours), and swamps. In dark forests while sleepwalking and napping in thorny bushes. Even texting to say I would briefly stop cost effort. They would not understand here, in the large city, and that is okay. We don’t do this for understanding; we have long surpassed the normal, socially acceptable phase of running, but do it because the soul asks for it.
A Shared Solitude
Yet, I will immediately clarify: the proposal of this stark contrast is hugely flawed, as in fact, although geographically spending much time alone, I never felt alone.
First of all, there were the selfless guardian angels that were tracking our progress from a headquarters meticulously, 24 hours a day, four days in a row. Just think about it. I find it a beautiful idea. I am a small radiating dot here in the middle of nowhere, linked to the outside world and civilization by just my tracker. I move, therefore I exist. But someone is looking from above over my shoulder to see that all make their pilgrimage safely in this isolated terrain.
Secondly, there was a very strong camaraderie in our group, with a special shoutout to a fine young man named Alex, with whom I ran the first 48 hours. Thirdly, we had a WhatsApp with loved ones and dear ones that followed and shared pictures from home.
Don’t Look Back in Anger
I wonder what happened in the last 100 hours. The dart matches progress, but my mind keeps going back to this unforgettable adventure. All those festive people here in the arena, most of them with some alcohol in their system and dressed up as lobsters, chickens, or bananas (this was not a hallucination), sing the famous and iconic song from Oasis together, which also caused me goosebumps—albeit mostly because it reminds me of our adventure:
“As we’re walking on by Her soul slides away
But don’t look back in anger I heard you say
Take me to the place where you go
Where nobody knows If it’s night or day”
Maybe in those moving lyrics, specifically given the significance for the city of Manchester, the key to this race was found.
The first 48 hours could—totally understandably—be met with some anger. Hailing winds, gales, storms, snow, wind that would blow you off the trail, soaked feet, starting maceration. Blisters. Trench foot. All those messages of people who could not continue due to broken feet despite their intense training and preparations. Cooling down. Fellow runners with hypothermia. Switching layers because you never got the temperature just right. If you got discouraged, your soul could slip away. Nature sure didn’t give us the best hand of cards to start with. But that is where the charm and adaptation start.
But just as the hopeful tune in the song, the pride, and the working-class roots of it, I knew that if we would hang in there and fight the “heavy first weekend,” better days would come. We just had to work humbly and effectively. And don’t look back in anger. And as we would be running by, our soul couldn’t slip by.
This became the core of the philosophy for Alex and me. We make it in one part through the storm, where unfortunately most people will drop out, then things will slowly get better. We should not blow our reserves, as Robin Hood’s Bay is still awfully far away. In the meantime, Alex showed me the regional peaks with so much enthusiasm I started believing he was secretly a relative of Alfred Wainwright. If you ever consider a new career, Alex, this might be it for you!
The Journey Across the Coast and Country, The Departure: St Bees
At 9:00 AM on Saturday, we started in St Bees, where I paid a little homage to A. Wainwright, full of curiosity and anticipation of what his mistress (especially the Lake District) would bring the next few days. Here, I dipped my toe in the Irish Sea and refused to pick up a pebble as a self-supported runner due to the sheer weight of my pack (Kirsty rightfully called this out at the finish!). As you cross the entire country—two coasts and two seas—it is tradition to dip your toe in both the Irish and North Sea. I find it beautiful symbolism and, in the words of James, the race organizer: “I am running it self-supported and only to dip my toe in the North Sea afterwards and soak it all in.” I could not phrase it better!
I gave my wife a hug and a big kiss after our lovely mini-holiday in Manchester. I would meet her in the Alps again. Off we go! Finally, after months of dreaming about the race. Despite the huge disappointment of the cancelled race, it is happening after all! And only retrospectively did we come to the conclusion that this format was much more special than any organized original race—but more about that later.
From the start on, Alex was running slightly faster than I was used to so early in such a long ultra, but my gut feeling told me we would make a good team. And it was right. We ran the first 48 hours together.
Managing the Self in the Swamp
Before the race, James immediately shared what I hoped for during the first digital briefing. This is not the old race (Ourea Events unfortunately ceased trading two weeks before the event, and luckily Centurion jumped in to save the day—after permission). It sounded like music to my ears. More self-sufficiency, more adventure, more risk. His calm, professional attitude towards the race was really helpful, giving us a lot of autonomy but also making clear what it takes.
After this briefing, I got my heaviest pack out (40L Ultimate Direction FP) and started packing my full Spine gear that I need in Winter 2027. Just to be sure, I bought some Yaktrax on the way, as I left my aggressive spikes at home. After the Pandurensteig, I knew that my gear would hold up in temperatures of up to -15°C easily while also being able to bivy in deep snow in case of emergency. Better be heavy and slow was my philosophy, rather than light and undercooled, which could quickly become a reason for a DNF. I recoated all my jackets for the feared British weather.
James rightfully made it very clear: out there, you have to be able to manage yourself. The longer I am in the sport, the more I appreciate events where you have to manage yourself instead of the other way around. The trail was too long for me to be disciplined enough to write a chronological stage-by-step report (and there are already great ones out there!), but there were many crucial sections where you had to manage yourself in order to stay in the race.
I hit the worst part of the trail exactly around midnight: Ravenseat. There were hardly any trails, partly destroyed by quads with horse tracks everywhere, and I had to navigate in knee-deep mud all night. There was water everywhere. Is there a trail? Am I navigating poorly? No, I was exactly on the line. It cannot be me; it just seems nonexistent in this no-man’s-land. I kept falling in the bogs, and one time it was so bad that I lost my balance and fell backwards in the swamp with the big backpack. Fully submerged in the water. I had to force myself out with all the power left in my body. My brain worked quite funnily in the middle of the night there, as I had the horrible image of being kicked off my airplane on the way back because I now officially looked like a Black Swamp Monster covered in peat and mud.
Another time, my shoe was sucked into the bog. I was afraid I had to continue with one shoe, as I didn’t have the luxury of a backup pair or a camper van. Before Orton, the rain was so extreme. I had to speed up, despite being tired, because a slowing pace would cause hypothermia. Here, I was grateful I brought two sets of everything (including down jackets, as the first down was now fully soaked—a very bad omen and not a situation you want to be in), and I finally felt that carrying “another adult” on my back started paying off (that is how the pack felt). And then there was the last night, where I fell asleep without noticing it myself.
The true Heart of Ultrarunning and Humanity
But most importantly, the events that ran this week were outstanding. Let me clarify it for those that were not part of the magic. Call me an old soul, but my main critique of our current society has always been that I believe sometimes our material development goes faster than our spiritual one.
In a world where corporate interest and profit are central, those two events of the weekend (Centurion and the Community Traverse) proved something way more valuable. Quite frankly, I would go as far as to say they restored my faith in humanity. This was for the people, by the people. A passion project. Back to the roots. Nothing to be gained financially, but so much spiritually and emotionally. My heart is full.
“And once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain: When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.” — Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore
We entered as individuals; we left the storm as a family. With our own stories of the trails, our own victories and tragedies, our very personal hopes and fears. Just as in life, we have our own trajectory, but we are deeply connected to the cause, to the vision.
I sensed this beyond the trail. My friend drove from London to the finish to have a pint with me in the pub after the race, when two tourists entered. They asked about the coastal path and the bartender immediately told them that some folks do it fast. He shared the exact FKT and course record time as if it were as much common knowledge as the number of days in a year. When I asked (as a foreigner) if it was Damian Hall, he almost looked at me as if I asked something beyond obvious.
Perhaps I romanticize this, but this is how I imagine it was back in the day. No internet, and in a local, stormy pub, local folklore about mythical figures facing storms to cross long stretches was born. Perhaps told by a sailor. It is woven into the DNA of the region. I love this about the UK. They breathe ultrarunning here—outdoors, with a rich history of fell running and epic rounds (BGR, etc.). For such a loop, you could wake me up at night (I know you are reading this, Ed!).
The Hidden Acts of Goodness
And this passion, this heartbeat, was carried by each of the volunteers I met. On the trail, I got emotional, remembering a line from the novelist George Eliot (Middlemarch):
“For the growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life.”
What I mean by this is that small, selfless acts can change the world. The stories are mostly hidden, out of plain sight, in the deep shadows of the night, in isolated stretches of the trail. But for the runner, they change a race, or perhaps—let me overstretch here—a life. So, I will not let those stories be hidden, as I think the trail running world should hear about them. They are a beacon of hope in an increasingly more egocentric world.
I am thinking about Rhys fixing my absolutely destroyed feet with a scalpel; Hannah doing groceries for the runners days before; James who throws an event with all risks involved; being all-in nevertheless and the team of CT (including Kitty, David, and Keiran) calling me in the middle of the night to warn me of an extremely dangerous highway crossing or convincing me to have a cup of warm tea despite my stubbornness to not go inside initially. They kept us moving, often without us realizing it.
The Final Stretch and The North Sea
Back to the Oasis song in the AO Arena. 20,000 people are chanting now, full volume, from their chests:
“Take me to the place where you go Where nobody knows If it’s night or day”
It would not be a fair report without also mentioning the extreme lows. I would argue I am fairly good with sleep deprivation; I need this skill in my job as a doctor in the emergency unit to function with hardly any sleep, and I have done quite some runs of this distance before. But with the extremely heavy backpack, it would only be common sense that in this weather, sooner or later the cutoffs (at 100 hours) would come closer.
It led to the fact that during the fourth night, the Oasis lyrics unfortunately turned into reality: it felt like a place where nobody knew if it would be night or day. I’ll leave the details out, but that last dark forest did become rather scary after all, in a way I have not experienced during previous ultramarathons (not even during the 415k Goldsteig). For the Spine, I will have to optimize my sleep strategy because I prefer not to enter such a forest again (metaphorically).
After leaving the dark forest, the sun started rising and I was hopeful again. Supportive messages started pouring in. It seemed like I would make it across the country. The messages were so uplifting (and funny: “I love that he now has to tell people he ran 180 miles on April Fool’s Day” — by Nici).
Then I saw the North Sea. I could not believe I just crossed the UK! Frank was cheering me on from the window of the hotel; Kirsty—with her contagious energy—waited for me at the finish, how nice! And legend Alex made his way down from the hotel to celebrate together. It felt so good having everyone there.
One of the most random finish photos was taken there retrospectively, because when Alex told me about a zombie he saw in the swamp and I told him about a similar experience, Kristy took a photo. Only later did we see we were sitting next to a “ghost tour” sign that was taking place that evening. We had our fair share already and kindly declined.
Despite all the discomfort endured, we kept the little fire burning. Even the biggest hailstorm in the UK could not extinguish it. Yes, you can cross a country. Yes, you can run from coast to coast. Yes, also self-supported with a 40-liter backpack. You just have to love adventure and expeditions. Because the conclusion is always the easiest afterwards, as a famous poet once exclaimed:
“What lies behind us and what lies before us are small matters compared to what lies within us.”
In those 100 hours, I met so many incredible individuals who carried a lot of that close to their heart, deep inside them. We came out of the storm, and things will never be the same as before the storm again. Those who were there will understand, those in that other arena.
3. Pandurensteig 180k in the Heart of alpine Winter: when everything is unexpectedly frozen to the core except for the curiosity of two dear running friends involved in ultra running in extreme environments
Introduction:
The reasons for our actions often remain unclear. Most of the time, we cannot rationalize why something fascinates us. But sometimes, if you dig deep enough, even the adverse trade-offs become enjoyable during obscure outings. Did this adventure confirm that?
-13°C steadily at night, and freezing temperatures during daylight too. Everything seemed impassable. Did the weather warning not to stay outside for long not apply to runners? Our water bottles were frozen most of the time, and even the “This is Food” yogurt drink turned into solid ice, making it impossible to extract from the plastic bottle.
It must have been the poorly chosen literature in the weeks before. The Art of Suffering? Who comes up with something like that as a title? Well, those were the ice warriors—the Poles—who made suffering in harsh environments something to simply endure. It was their trademark. It caught my attention straight away. Why not get a very small taste of the hardships they describe? my mind raced. As long as everything was white and ice cold, without escape (powernapping outside in the snow had to be a requirement), we could maybe experience a tiny fraction of what they went through for months on end. But what were we doing out there exactly? Surely it wasn’t a race. And most of all, it wasn’t a trail run.
In the meantime, Sebastiaan turned around and changed the tone of his voice, indicating a sincere question was about to follow.
“When I save this activity on Strava, what do I call it?”
“I don’t know,” I answered, shrugging my shoulders.
A couple of years ago, when I ran 50k in 5.5 hours on flat trails during a race in Salland, this question would have been easily answered: trail running, I would have exclaimed passionately. I would have answered without giving it too much thought. During organized 100 milers and 200+ km races, I would have leaned toward ultrarunning, perhaps. But here, in this moment—knee-deep in the snow, moving uphill at maybe 2–3 km/h—I had lost the plot of what we were actually doing. And I think that is why we secretly love it.
It is something to feel, to experience, but without defining it. It is exactly where we belong, freezing in the dark. Civilization and all her trivialities feel far away. Here, survival is more important than progress, minimizing risks more important than moving elegantly forward. The clock is not the most important factor—we have bigger worries as we speak.
It is a misconception that the limits of human endurance are only tested on flat race tracks at high speeds with a stopwatch. I think we were partly about to prove that in this snowy, cold mess that never seemed to end. Endurance running, expedition-style movement, a survival march? Perhaps we should not define the things we love so rigidly—especially if it feels right and is good for the soul.
What I do know is that I am getting closer to what we ultimately chase: raw, unfiltered adventure that provides no sugarcoating. Back then, I didn’t know I would be accepted to the Winter Spine in ’27, but retrospectively, this turned out to be perfect training. Those environments are unforgiving and do not leave room for trivial errors.
Real adventures never go according to plan, though. I looked at similar routes done in the past; the Marienweg we did with Gabrielle looked very similar on paper—175 km and 3000 m, some snow, and winter temperatures. We did it in approximately 37 hours. I figured that the 180k with 4000 m of elevation could be done in roughly the same time.
Boy, was I wrong.
40 hours in, I felt sorry for Sebastian (as I had clearly misjudged the circumstances—Sebastian was as strong as ever) and apologized for the route not unfolding as planned. During the Marienweg, there were large sections that could be run, and only a few snowy parts in the mountains. Here, in the Bayerischer Wald, it was a totally different scenario. Knee-deep snow with a frozen layer on top kept our feet wet all the time (which starts to hurt after a while), and there were mostly no tracks. This meant we had to pave the path ourselves, like a snow shovel, and every step cost extra energy—energy that was already being used just to maintain body temperature.
Shoe into the snow, put it down, drag it out. Repeat.
The one time I thought I saw a track, I followed it up the mountain, only to end in frustration. It turned out to be animal tracks that I had misjudged due to sleep deprivation, and I had to retrace the entire stretch. I questioned why we do this at all and pledged never to do it again (as I am writing this from a warm leather sofa, I know this promise will expire within 24 hours as we begin planning a similar adventure).
But there were gorgeous moments too. At one point, Sebastian said the air looked different. We soon realized the green and red shades dancing in the sky were aurora borealis. He suggested we stop for a photo. I was tired and cold and wanted to keep moving, but I’m so glad he insisted. What the naked eye saw, the camera saw tenfold. It turned into one of the most epic pictures of the adventure. I pulled out my phone and texted my wife, risking frozen fingers. She sent me a picture from our balcony—she could see the same phenomenon above the Alps. We felt incredibly connected. Sometimes the most magical moments come completely unannounced.
When there wasn’t deep snow, the trail was covered in icy slabs—ice you could slide down on. We had to put spikes on and off constantly. One time I fell on my hip, but luckily nothing serious happened. I made a note to bring a carabiner next time so I could easily attach the spikes to my pack. Putting them on and off turned out to be an annoying hassle, especially at night, and I caught us occasionally crossing icy sections without them simply because we were too tired. A compromise I want to avoid in the future.
The second night was not the best. We power-napped on a steep hill despite temperatures below -10°C. Seb complained once that he was literally sliding down the mountain in his sleeping bag, but it turned out to be the right call. The steepness meant less snow. The next eight hours, we only had ankle-deep snow—not a place for a power nap if you want to avoid freezing. Our instincts were right that time.
More than 55 hours into the run, after another apology for the route and pace, something wonderful happened. Sebastian turned to me with a smile I can only describe as a kid in a candy store who has just done something slightly naughty—eyes twinkling.
“Daniel,” he said, “actually, I’m glad the project is not over yet. I can’t wait to fight our way through the third night.”
A huge relief fell off my shoulders. The atmosphere was all-in—we were committed to pushing into the third ice-cold night.
Just before darkness fell, we grabbed some bread and coffee at a bakery and met a few local senior chaps. A false sense of hope appeared on the horizon. “The section to Passau should be fast and easy,” they said. “You’ll be there in no time.”
We thought this was our home stretch. It wasn’t.
The real trouble—and danger—was waiting for us, paradoxically not high in the mountains, but on the flattest section of the trail. We imagined an evening finish at the hotel. Instead, we struggled through the last night, so sleep-deprived and cold that we forgot the name of the trail.
The third night was strange. We followed a river, but everything—plants, reeds, stones—was deeply frozen under thick snow. It often looked like an apocalyptic, lifeless white world. At times, it became monotone and frustrating, and I missed the variety of small towns or lights you usually see during ultras. Yet at other times, it felt strangely beautiful—as if we were the last people on Earth. Sebastian remained calm and composed, as always.
Funnily enough, we also started receiving heartfelt messages telling us it would soon be over—that we would have warm tea and a comfortable bed. While meant as encouragement, it didn’t quite match our reality. The finish line is not the only goal. This is something only those who have suffered through an adventure truly understand. Pure flow. Everything stripped away. A goal pursued relentlessly—sometimes emotionally, sometimes stoically. It builds an intensity that becomes part of you. When it ends, it doesn’t always bring relief. Sometimes it brings longing—a strange burden that logic alone cannot explain. Perhaps this is where the term post-adventure blues comes from.
For hours, we saw no one. When cars passed late at night, people would sometimes stop and ask if we needed help, offering food out of concern. These encounters often became humorous—we had to convince them we were out there voluntarily. One of the most absurd moments came when the hotel called Sebastian to confirm his credit card details. Surrounded by darkness and ice, with no sign of civilization, there it was—the credit card—our last fragile connection to society.
At one point during the third night, over 60 hours in, I became dangerously cold and drowsy. My coordination deteriorated. Despite wearing seven layers, I needed an eight. Sebastiaan: “Daniel became quiet. He forgot the trailname more often. Both wearing every piece of clothing we brought, options were scarce. What do you do at 01.00 in the middle of a frozen forest? ‘Do you want my down jacket?’ ‘No’, he assured me, ‘I’m ok’. Being such an experienced runner, I believed him at first. However, he wasn’t himself anymore. Too slow, too quiet. I looked him in the eye, he looked dazed, far away. Hypothermia. At that moment, my doubt faded: he needed my down jacket more than I did. Unable to take off his hard shell, I saw the extent of his discoordination. Taking over and helping him through felt like a true brotherly moment. Now move! It took 30 minutes, but then he started chatting again. Welcome back my man. Only 4 more hours of slow, cold progress.“
We finished high on a hill above Passau after navigating incorrectly in the final kilometers. No euphoria—just the reality of -13°C, a long walk to the hotel, soaked feet, and no taxi at 5:00 a.m. Sebastian lay down on the street in his sleeping bag while we waited. My fingers tingled with mild frostbite (which disappeared after a while luckily). The teamwork made all the difference. We eventually reached the hotel, slept for two hours, had breakfast, and went our separate ways—Sebastian had to catch his flight. No victory dinner, no celebration—just the raw aftermath of what we had endured.
Only later, in daylight, did the absurdity truly sink in. The streets of Passau felt overwhelming after days of isolation. It may not have been our longest run or the one with the most elevation gain, but the deep snow and brutal cold made it one of the most extreme.
There can be no highs without deep lows. This adventure guaranteed suffering and tested the spirit. And perhaps, in the end, the spontaneous magic of the aurora and the unbreakable bond of two mates was the true art of it all.
2. Ring O’ Fire 130 , a non-stop, 130-mile (209 km) race in Wales: what do stormy cliffs at night, Johnny Cash & the UK-ultracommunity have in common?
The Ring O’ Fire 130 is a non-stop, 130-mile (209 km) endurance ultramarathon that circumnavigates the entire coastline of the Isle of Anglesey (Ynys Môn) in North Wales, UK, with circa 4000 height meters. The wild terrain includes sandy & pebble beaches and rugged, steep cliff-tops. They allowed for an extra challenge during stormy nighttime navigation.
We started in Holyhead on 29.08.2025 after an inspiring speech by a gentleman in traditional, historical clothing (see photo). The DJ played “Ring of Fire” by Johnny Cash. By the end of the epic adventure, the song would have a totally different meaning to me personally, but more about that later. After ringing the bell, we were launched into the adventure. We had 55 hours to complete a full loop around Anglesey—how you would divide the run was totally up to yourself, and there were large parts that needed self-sufficiency. With the tough weather during the second night, this time window was more than welcome. The first section we ran together with the runners of the Firelighter 50 . I recall the first 24 hours being relatively sunny and the miles flew by due to the gorgeous scenery. During the second day, the winds were slowly becoming more aggressive and the rain came pouring down. Now more than 30 hours into the race, it was harder to stay warm and keep the temperatures up. By now, I teamed up with Christoph Harreither, an austrian ultra veteran. It was nice that we could speak German and talk about Bavaria and Austria. It is a small world after all. The second night was tough; it was harder to keep the speed up, and it continued raining. The main challenge was, however, related to the heavy winds. The sand would blow up and it would be impossible to see where you were. Almost as if you were navigating blindly. I am glad we could tackle the sections on those cliffs at night together, as a misstep here or a navigational error could be fatal. Another really cool aspect about the race was finding the book pages (see photo), perhaps a little nod to the Barkley Marathons. They were not very difficult to find, after all, but the mental burden was always present. Due to sleep deprivation, the focus decreased and missing a book page would result in a time penalty, and missing more pages would result in a DNF. Having this in the back of my mind, kept me extra focused. Runners, until the race is run was the mantra. After the stormy second night, the next day looked much more promising. Sunshine, beautiful scenery (although a lot of prominent villas were now built on the cliffs and I nostalgically started longing for the more isolated, rugged cliffs of the hours before). But there was the realisation that the finish was near. I had some blisters and some leg cramps (nothing serious), so Christoph went ahead and finished a little bit earlier. I finished after 52:28:13 hours. I mainly lost time during the second night, when the heavy winds slowed down our movements. Very grateful I met so many nice runners, and also a big thank you to all the wonderful volunteers. They were the soul of this event. The UK ultra-running spirit is as alive as ever, and I keep coming back to such events because of the wonderful, supportive atmosphere. The hospitality in Wales is unparalleled. We are all in it together. At the finish line, “Ring of Fire” played again, and I had some more time to talk to the very friendly volunteers. Nick Wishart told me about his epic adventures and his love for the Region. There, in the sun with this beautiful view and a beer in my hand, I fully understood. The dark cold night was already long forgotten. I had the best Seaweed Ale / Beer while cheering on the other runners.
After being back in Manchester, a large crowded city, the metropolitan vibes unfortunately, kicked in. It was raining heavily. The sky was grey and I was feeling hungry and tired. the Ring of Fire suddenly played when I connected my headphones to Bluetooth. I reflected on the epic adventure and got goosebumps. A large smile appeared and I started singing along in the busy streets.
Love is a burning thing
And it makes a fiery ring
Bound by wild desire
I fell into a ring of fire
I went down, down, down, and the flames went higher
And it burns, burns, burns,
The ring of fire.
In this moment, the lyrics hit me. 100%. It all made sense in that moment.
My love for running was as present as ever.
The fiery ring was the Anglesey coastal path.
My wild desire was the passion for ultrarunning, and out of all places in the world, it brought me to Wales. The same desire was also there in the ultrarunning community.
I fell into the ring, launched into the adventure. There was no more going back.
The flames, for a while, went high, as did the very strong wind current.
My legs burned, burned, burned.
But the human spirit and team effort went higher.
Thank you for everything Wales, it seemed that I came back with a medal and a new song in my playlist.
But the heart knows, we returned with much more.
The Ring O’ Fire!
- Juliana Trail FKT: an unforgettable adventure including a snowstorm (!) during the Juliana Trail (SLO/IT) – circa 270 km with 7500 hm
Juliana Trail FKT – Late November 2021
Distance: 270 km | Duration: 4 days | Conditions: Sun, heavy rain, deep snow
We started on 23-11-2021 at 12:00 local time in Kranjska Gora, at the official Juliana Trail starting point (Restaurant, Pizzeria, Hotel Kotnik). From there, we ran a full loop around Triglav National Park, finishing at the same location. This project became one of the most memorable projects we have been involved in, as we got hit by a snowstorm, which was actually fully unexpected and something we did not take into account in November. We slept on the frozen ground and fought extreme sleep deprivation.
Team & Support:
- Erik Kemper: logistics, RV support, ran all night sections with me (100 km).
- Lotti Podzimek: ran the first 37 km and an additional 10 km later.
- RV use: supplies, meals, and short power naps.
Due to late-November closures, we found almost no hikers or open cafes along the trail. There have been places where we felt alone, not seeing people for days. Also, there were many sections without cell phone reception. We were truly off the grid. Luckily, a few places were still open: we had bread and coffee in Bovec and a strudel in Bohinj. This season is primarily for ski preparations, so locals recommend summer or spring for this route. We, however, enjoyed the isolation, wilderness, and rough weather (and are used to being called crazy :)).
Weather & Conditions:
- Three days in, heavy snow hit near the Slovenia–Italy border, slowing progress and making navigation challenging.
- Temperatures dropped below freezing at night.
- Continuous rain preceded the snow, adding to the expedition feel.
Navigation & Safety:
- Followed the official Juliana Trail app and Komoot GPX as closely as possible.
- Tracked via Legends Trackings BV (3-minute intervals). Recorded the run on Strava.
- Some sections were unsafe or illegal to cross in winter:
- Stage 11 near Tolmin: closed due to construction and falling rock hazards. We took a parallel route.
- Predil Pass: heavy snow and avalanche risk made the official route unsafe. We followed the recommended regional road.
- Minor Komoot GPX detours were skipped when they led to empty fields or closed facilities.
Summary:
This route is stunning and rewarding, particularly with winter’s added challenge. It’s suitable for experienced runners; winter alpine experience is mandatory. Snow and freezing temperatures can make sections dangerous, so caution is essential. Late November offers a mix of isolation and adventure, but conditions can change rapidly and can become dangerous in an instant.
“Great is the victory, but the friendship of all is greater.” – Emil Zatopek
Cheers,
Daniel
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