The cold morning was full of focused looks, forced laughter, and small, quick steps. I wasn’t sure what I was doing here. I followed the example of the others, and I checked my gear once more. Simon, the starter, called us together to give us the race briefing.

“This year”, he announced, “you must also do a bit of orienteering with five posts along the way.” As if running 100 kilometres in the hills of mid-Jutland wasn’t enough, I thought. “For the first 33 kilometres we’re sending you on a loop, guided by the gpx files in your watch, before you join the 60 km route for seven kilometres. Then at 40 km, there’s another loop into the hills for 12 km or so before you just need to follow the flags the next 47 km to the goal. Easy.

“This year, we’ll strictly enforce the 5pm cutoff at Ry at the 71 km aid station, so make sure you get there before. Good luck,” he smiled. “We start in two minutes.”

I asked myself if I was ready for this. My longest run ever was 54km. During training I hadn’t done more than 750 metres of vertical. The 100 kms and 2,400 meters of climbing that Simon has estimated for the route was a massive increase on that. Getting halfway I was sure I could do. After that I was running on tankful of hope.

Driving over from Copenhagen the previous day, I had had a bit of a mental wobble, not feeling worthy to even attempt the race. But I had run most of the hardest trail races in Denmark over the last year. I had run the North Coast Ultra 30K, the Hammer Trail 50K, the South Coast Ultra 50K, Thy Trail Marathon and, most recently, the North Coast Ultra 50K. And I had followed my training program down to a T. I had earned my starting place.

There was also a bigger, on-going worry. My tummy. I had had strong nausea and diarrhea during the last two races. My attempts to follow a high carb fueling strategy had gone completely awry. At Thy I had run the last couple of hours with intense nausea, preventing any eating, ending in some serious bonk for the last 10 K.

Even more awful was NCU where I had to pull out after 32K (the dreaded DNF = Did Not Finish), stomach cramps and diarrhoea forcing me to dive into the forest every kilometre from km 25, painting a bush brown, and becoming far too well acquainted with the feel of moss and leaves on my bottom. But I wouldn’t be here today if I didn’t have a new plan.

I would run the 100 Km on sugar water, jam and bananas. The sugar water was Maurten’s caffeinated 80g carb drink mix that I would pour into my water bottles. The jam was the High 5 gels. And the bananas were on offer at the five aid stations and would hopefully settle my tummy down. I was going for about 110g of carbs and one litre of fluid per hour topped up with salt and electrolyte pills.

As the clock struck 6, Simon led us off. I started slowly, running at the back. I didn’t want to go out too fast and turn the last half into a hellish slog like at South Coast Ultra or Thy Trail. I focused on following the runner in front on the narrow single track, powerwalking up the hills and running down, overtaking some people while others overtook me, us runners soon finding our internal pecking order. I wasn’t too worried about pecking orders; the real test would only be past halfway.

The first 10 kms felt like a dreamy haze.  I just focused on where to put my feet, left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot. Hydrating, taking a gel, making sure all the equipment was working well. I was carrying two litres of fluid, all my gels and drink mix for the first 70k plus my poles; the weight was sitting good so far.

I had heard that in other years, the 100k route was quite muddy. This year, we hadn’t had much rain, and the tracks were dry and smooth so far. Rain was expected around 3 pm, so we’d see how that would change the route.

The first water point came up at 11 kms. I faffed about getting the drink mix into the bottles, spending about five minutes at the aid station, grabbing half a banana and some gummies, before running on. Initially alone, I soon caught up with two other runners.

For those who haven’t long trail runs before, one of the most beautiful things are the friendships you make out on the trail. The support and encouragement complete strangers give each other with kindness and compassion never cease to amaze me. I also find these teams, built on-the-fly, a great help mentally, providing security, friendship and banter.

My new friends and I were well matched in terms of speed and age, all in our early 50s. We even managed to share our names, which doesn’t always happen. Jesper was a couple of years older than me and looked strong. Maria was a local and had in previous years helped set the route and knew every turn, a big improvement on the beeps for left and right from our watches that was only accurate to 20 meters or so. She looked in fine fettle too.

I hoped we could form a team that could last to the end, joking with them that I was staying at the back, so I could overtake them in the sprint for the goal line. We soon hit some serious vert. Maria and I got our poles out, Jesper looking enviously at them.

As we went up the angry-looking hill, Maria explained: “You know, Simon, the guy that started us off?”

“Yeah, he looked familiar,” I said.

“Did you know that he has the world-record for Everesting and that it was set on this very hill?” she asked. I had recently heard of Everesting for the first time. It meant picking a hill and then going up it (and down) until you had climbed 8848 meters.

“Wow, that’s crazy. He must be hard as stone,” I said, my breathing a bit ragged from the climb. I couldn’t imagine doing this climb 202 times in a row, like Simon had.

“He might be but I’m not. I feel quite a bit of pressure from the 71K cutoff at Ry,” Maria admitted, Jesper and I panting our agreement. We agreed that there was nothing for it but put our heads down. We had started well. I had kept to plan, keeping the pulse below 145 bpm, well below threshold and any kind of blow-up territory. I felt good, no niggles so far.

Soon we summitted, and I led us off down the hill, opening up the gas. I love running down, gravity being my friend. Then it was up again, Maria guiding us to almost invisible paths that Jesper and I would have struggled to find on our watches.

Time passed quickly in the good company. About four hours in, we reached the second aid station, having already done 1,000m vert of the 2200-2400 promised. I had taken off ahead of the other two a kilometre or so ahead of the aid station so that I had more time to refill my bottles; I didn’t want them to wait for me.

Maria had her husband there and Jesper his wife. As they were talking and doing the last checks, I told them that I would run ahead to find a place to pee. In previous races, I had only felt the need to pee at the start of a race. But this time, perhaps due to my increased intake of fluid for the carbs from the drink mix, I had to go already for the second time.

As I ran out of the aid station and turned the corner, I was surprised to see a bunch of other runners streaking past me. I asked a few of them and it turned out to be the 60 km runner that had only started at 10 am, 15 minutes previously. A bit disconcerting after the relative quiet of the previous four hours.

After finishing my pee, saw what I thought was Maria’s blue bandana running ahead of me. I tried to keep up but lost her. This 60 km race was also the Danish championships in long trail, so the first many absolutely flew by me.

I ran hard trying to keep up and after some kilometres the constant overtaking started to slow down. Where were Maria and Jesper? I started to realize that it probably wasn’t Maria that I had seen but someone else in a blue bandana. I had well and truly lost them with no other 100km runners in sight. Damn, it looked like that on the next gpx loop, I would be on my own. I wished I had practiced more with the watch. Nothing for it but to keep moving and make a plan.

At 40 km, the 100km route turned off right while the 60km crowd went left. I walked up the hill, thinking about Maria and Jesper, hoping they would catch up, all the while replenishing fluids, carbs, electrolytes and salt. The Vaseline also came out as I had some beginning chafing where the elastic band in my shorts met my thighs. I took the opportunity to again apply it liberally to where else chafing might occur.

My legs were ok with some expected muscle soreness, reminding me that I could have done more strength training. I put that thought away and focused. Left foot, right foot. Get through the next kilometre.

After maybe ten minutes of walking and no Maria and Jesper, I started running again, following the directions of my watch. Through a little village and then into the forest, up towards what looked like a proper hill. I saw some other runners up on the hill and sped up, following the hairpin turns, hoping to catch them for some company. After a few minutes I looked down and saw Jesper below me. Delighted I yelled down:

“Hey, great to see you?”

A bit surprised he looked up, calling back: “Hey, we lost you.”

“You’ll catch me up soon, Jesper. Where’s Maria?”

“She had a crisis when we ran into all the 60km runners.” Oh no. As we were going in opposite directions, Jesper and I lost touch. I really hoped Maria got her mojo back.

I reached the top, following my watch directions like a hound with a scent in its nose. I soon reached a steep descent which I hammered down. In my enthusiasm, I must have lost the scent because my watch started beeping angrily. It looked like I could reconnect with the right route on the bottom but as I got there, I couldn’t seem to get back on track, running around in circles, the hound now chasing its tail. In my searching I met a family walking in the forest several times.

Finally, their little son asked: “Why are you running past us all the time?”

“I’m lost, my friend,” I admitted, laughing.

I realised that it was the height curves that had me confused. Walking back up the hill I finally got back on the right trail, having lost half a dozen minutes to my aimless wanderings. Going up the steepest hill of the day, I saw Jesper ahead of me. He clearly had found the correct route, overtaking me in the process. I was delighted to reconnect and he was kind enough to wait on the top. We ran the next six kilometres together to the aid station, chatting and noting that we would now for sure make the 5 pm cutoff at Ry.

As we pulled into the aid station, we were only just over halfway, at 53K. I did my bottles, took some bananas and gummies. Good news was that we were now back on the marked course with all 60K runners well ahead of us. Maria’s husband was there and gave us the welcome news that she had gotten going again but was half an hour behind us. Jesper sat with his wife and didn’t look like he would go anytime soon.

“Hey Jesper. I’ll start going up the hill slowly. Catch me up, ok?” I said and he nodded. I hoped he would make it. The light rain that had been forecast now started up, the fine drizzle no problem so far. As I made the top, there was no Jesper but instead a beautiful view. I took a couple of selfies to send to the family and then galloped the downhill. As I reached the bottom, I saw a couple of runners ahead. Looked like the Norwegians I had chatted with briefly at around 5K.

Now the real race started. The inner mental one. Managing solutions and spirit, when first smaller muscles started hurting or something went wrong with the plan. Keeping my mood high, staying positive; that was how I would finish. Consciously, I gave myself permission to release all thoughts and hopes about finishing times. It was my training that would decide how quick I would go, not my willpower. My best finishing time had already been decided over the last three months’ training.

Going up the next hill, the Norwegians pulled away. I didn’t see them again for a while. Coming up was one of the highlights of the run, the climb up to the Himmelbjerget (translates as the “Sky Mountain”), one of the higher points in Denmark with its majestic 147 meters above sea level. Simon didn’t send us the easy way up, oh no, he had decided to send us over whatever little knoll was in the area before finally putting us into Himmelbjerget’s main approach.

The climb was quite runnable, but I nonetheless power-walked it to the top. 60km in now. I stopped for another selfie, gawked upon by tourists covering up in rain jackets, sheltering from the lightly blowing rain, before running down the other side.

Annoyingly, the path down had wide steps, which didn’t overlap with my gait. I tried to run on the side, where I could lengthen my stride and flew down. A thought hit me: “Oooh, this actually looks quite slippery…” and a second later my legs slid out under me. I fell like a log, rolling off the path.

I just managed to stop myself, desperately jamming my elbows and feet into the ground, stopping inches from a tree trunk that would surely have done some damage to my ribs. I quickly got up and did a quick damage assessment.

It was difficult to see with all the dirt on my hand, arms and legs, covered in miniature bits of leaves. There seemed to be no real bleeding. No broken bones either. My poles were ok. I brushed myself off best I could and ran on, my thoughts everywhere. I took the speed of any descent from then on as soon as there was a sliver of mud. Ok, right foot, left foot. Smile.

I still had more than 10 kms to Ry and this next bit was going to be the hardest. On the next uphill, the longest of the day, I caught up to the Norwegians. We soon chatted away, taking my mind off the fall. Ole and Erlan, as they were called, were two young Norwegians keen for a 100 km run. With no opportunities in Norway, they came down to try this one. They looked strong. We harmonica’ed a bit as they were faster than me uphill and I kept catching up with them on the downhills.

I wasn’t feeling so fresh anymore. The legs were getting heavier. Previously unfelt and unknown muscles in the thighs were cramping. Only 5 km to Ry and my drop bag, I told myself. The last bit to Ry was mostly a long descent which Ole, Erlan and I ran together, arriving in Ry after 10 hours on the trails. The last bit had been tough.

Phew, checkpoint one reached and in good time, with it my dropbag with all its goodies. Delighted, I rummaged around my bag, replenished supplies, changed my wet t-shit and headband and set off after fifteen minutes. The Norwegians were still faffing about, but I assumed they would soon catch up to me.

Coming out of the aid station, I first walked and then jogged. As the legs and mind felt unexpectedly good, I sped up. I ran hard on the flats for the next eight or nine kilometres. Around kilometre 80, the legs ran out of spark. I was full of positive mental energy, but without fully realizing, I think that is where I finally lost the mental battle. I should have run but allowed myself to powerwalk. My excuse was that it was getting super muddy, and I didn’t want to have another big fall.

An hour later, I got out of the forest and onto a road which would take me to the last aid station at km 88. I ran a bit, encouraged with passing cars honking and waving, and bystanders clapping. At the aid station, I joked with the attendants, petted a big dog, filled up my bottles and ate banana and gummies.

I checked my watch. I was already at 2,600meters of vert. Before starting, I had looked at the map, noting what looked like a flatter bit towards goal after this aid station.

“So”, I asked the attendants, “It’s pretty easy from here-on in, right? Just a small hill and then all down?”

They shook their heads sadly. “Not really. There are a few big bumps.”

“That isn’t really what I wanted to hear,” I said sad-eyed, and they laughed kindly at my poor joke.

Not much for it. I grabbed my poles and started walking. Only way to finish is to start. I turned the corner and soon found a place to take my 10^th piss of the run. I wasn’t sure exactly why I was going so much. Maybe the combination of fluid and caffeine created some extra urgency. As I looked up from the final shake, I saw an ugly-looking, naked hill. Of course I had to crest that one. Looked like there was another one behind it too.

Head down, poles up, I powerwalked up the hill, silently repeating “Relentless Forward Progress” to myself. At the top I briefly enjoyed the view, noting the black clouds in the horizon. They looked like they were giving off some rain. The forecast had forgotten to mention them. As I crested the next naked hill, the rain started coming down in heavy sheets, alongside some hail, soaking me to the bone. I started laughing. Of course this would happen too. Thank God I had run all winter in much worse conditions.

The trails were getting really muddy and slippery. And I was also really bonking by now, my thighs leaden, cement-like and painful. Power walking was fine, but my legs seemed completely empty for energy whenever I built up the courage to run, my breathing quickly turning laboured. I kept repeating like a mantra: “Relentless Forward Progress” or “You’ve got this.” ”Left foot, right foot. Just focus on the next kilometre.”

Head down, poles up, I powerwalked up the hill, silently repeating “Relentless Forward Progress” to myself. At the top I briefly enjoyed the view, noting the black clouds in the horizon. They looked like they were giving off some rain. The forecast had forgotten to mention them. As I crested the next naked hill, the rain started coming down in heavy sheets, alongside some hail, soaking me to the bone. I started laughing. Of course this would happen too. Thank God I had run all winter in much worse conditions.

The trails were getting really muddy and slippery. And I was also really bonking by now, my thighs leaden, cement-like and painful. Power walking was fine, but my legs seemed completely empty for energy whenever I built up the courage to run, my breathing quickly turning laboured. I kept repeating like a mantra: “Relentless Forward Progress” or “You’ve got this.” ”Left foot, right foot. Just focus on the next kilometre.”

This was exactly what I had done my mental training for. The last week before the race I had spent 30 minutes every morning meditating. I had also consciously tried to get into the famed pain cave by putting myself into situation of intense muscular pain and seeing how long I could hold it. Now was the time to remind myself why I was running this race. It was love.

I know this sounds crazy. How can suffering be love? In my experience, we can all be loving when life is easy and going our way. It is when life is tough, when we are stressed and hurt, that it is difficult to be kind and loving. So my goal today was to stay as positive, kind and loving through all this suffering, a transferable skill that I could bring back to the rest of my life. One that would benefit my wife and my children and, hopefully, everyone I meet.

An hour or so later, about 93 km in, I saw runners ahead, moving slowly. Perhaps some 100k runners in trouble, I thought, trying to catch them up for some company.

It was two 60K runners that had on purpose taken all the time offered them with their 12-hour cutoff. Anders was helping Stephanie, his wife, complete her first ultra. Anders was gregarious while Stephanie was keeping her head down, trying not to fall in the very muddy conditions that also had me on my backside once or twice.

As we walked, ran and chatted, I told them how meaningful it had been to run my son’s first half marathon with him the previous weekend. Anders told me how Stephanie, their oldest son, and he had been running every day for 2,000 days. They had even been asked to be on a tv-program where they had been named Denmark’s healthiest family. They were good company.

At about km 96, another 100km runner came from behind and overtook us. I had planned to hang out with Denmark’s healthiest family but the overtaking runner nudged me out of that. I increased my walking speed, hobbled down some downhills and, thankfully, soon hit the outskirts of Silkeborg. As I looked at my watch, it showed that, incredibly, there was still 1,77 terrible kilometres remaining. It was equal to a short segment on my normal morning run but now seemed terrifyingly long. I agreed with myself that I would run every 200 metres and then walk 100, until I reached goal.  

As I got within 600 metres of goal, I heard someone calling my name from behind me. Had Anders and Stephanie caught up to me? No, joy of joys, it was my friend Ole who was there supporting some 60K running friends. He had been sitting at the restaurant so he could look out for me. It made me so happy to see him. He walked with me for a bit and the last 300 metres to goal were a breeze after that infusion of energy.

I crossed the goal line at 9.10 pm, after 15 hours and 3,196 meters of vertical, so happy with everyone that had stayed to applaud us remaining runners in. Simon gave me a much-needed hug and sent me off to get a beer. I sat down completely shattered, looking forlornly at the beer and complimentary chili con carne. My mind was still on the trail. I wanted to go out and applaud the others in, but all I could do was just sit.

Jesper came in a few minutes after me, I was so happy for him. The Norwegians arrived soon after. Jesper sat down with his chili, and we chatted tiredly. I joked with some other runners that they could have my remaining gels for dessert.

Suddenly, I got very cold and walked to the car, shaking.  As I opened the car boot, with the thought of the warm car making me smile, a sickening realization hit me. I had forgotten the dropbag in the goal area. I walked the longest, hardest, ouchiest 300 yards of my life back to get the bag.

As I got back to the car, I surveyed myself as I sat down. I had scratches everywhere and, like after a good night partying, I had no idea how I had gotten them. I peeled off my shoes, the smell making me gag. I had a flashback to when I had eaten Surstrømming, the famous Swedish rotten fish.

With great difficulty, I managed to get my compression socks off, quickly encasing them and my equally smelly shoes in a plastic bag. It was difficult to see through the grime on my feet but my left-most two toenails and one on the right were black and likely to fall off. I was thankful that everything had stayed whole. My knees, ankles, and feet. And my muscles, that while sometimes cramping and now definitely sore like never before, didn’t seize up. My fuelling plan worked perfectly. Almost everything went well.

I drove carefully back to my friends’ place where I was staying, sneaking in at 10.30 pm. I downed a bunch of pain killers, realizing that I probably wouldn’t get much sleep. It took me past 3 pm to fall asleep. After three hours of fretful snoozing, I groggily had breakfast with Tue and Angelika and their children, Erik and Lea. We talked about the race. I mentioned that my first marathon in Berlin had been a horrible experience.

Erik, their 10-year-old son, asked me: “Why was running Berlin such a bad experience?”

“Well,” I answered, “once I found out that I couldn’t reach the time I was going for, I was consumed by negative thoughts. It was like my thoughts ate me. In life, we pick our thoughts, whether positive or negative. As Marcus Aurelis said: The happiness of your life depends on the quality of your thoughts. So be careful which thoughts you pick.”

Thanks to everyone organizing and crewing the Julsø Race for a wonderful experience.