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 it penetrated three Gore-Tex layers, including the very heavy Montane Ajax jacket. 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.
Running stones, the need to travel to Dubai or Abu Dhabi to enter certain events in my beloved Alps, fancy finish lines with fireworks and spotlights, the newest gear with bold slogans like “the hardest footrace on earth” (with tents and Wi-Fi, really?), and a dance evening with a cocktail gala the night before… while, with a bit of luck, they also try to sell you a Romanian car with seven years of guarantee. Don’t get me wrong, to each their own, and I don’t want to downplay it—there are the most incredible athletes in the world there—but for me, it does not fully encapsulate the true essence of a self-supported adventure. And that is exactly what I search for (and found here 😀 ).
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 Nicky).
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, Krissy 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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