Somewhere in the Middle of the Woods, Alone in the Dark
The temperature had dropped below freezing, and my breath started forming clouds. The only sound was the crunch of my footsteps on the frozen ground. My headlamp casts a narrow beam ahead, lighting up the next step on a trail that had long since blurred into endless climbs and quad-killing descents.
I had been running for hours. My legs burned. My arms ached from gripping my new poles way too tight. My mind bounced between exhilaration and exhaustion. And yet—despite the suffering, despite the fatigue settling into my bones—this, right here, felt like exactly where I needed to be.
The Big Leap: From Roads to Trails, From Comfort to Chaos
Rewind 18 months, and I was a different person. I wasn’t a trail runner. I wasn’t even a real runner. I was just a guy trying to claw his way out of bad habits—105 kg (230+ lbs), smoking a pack of cigarettes a day, and staring down the looming challenge of my first marathon.
The idea of trail running? Ridiculous.
The idea of running at night, through mountains, for distances most people wouldn’t even drive for fun? Completely absurd.
But something shifted. That marathon—those grueling 5 hours and 24 minutes of struggle (literally 6 minutes before the “cut off”)—taught me something unexpected. Running wasn’t just about the race itself. It wasn’t just about checking off a goal. It was a force of transformation. A structure. A way to rebuild myself—not just physically, but mentally.
And so, the moment my marathon ended, I found myself looking for the next mountain to climb instead of stopping.
Enter: Ultra Trail Snowdonia 100K.
102 kilometers. 6,300+ meters of elevation. 32 hours to finish. No guarantees. No easy way out.
The decision was made impulsively, but in hindsight, it was inevitable.
The Hardest Training Week Yet: 60+ Miles, 6,000+ Feet of Elevation
And that brings us here—to this week, my hardest training week yet. The plan was ambitious:
- A 50K solo trail run through the Dutch mud in Leenderbos, navigating solely by GPX.
- A 33K night trail race in Belgium, with 1,800m of brutal elevation gain, run in complete darkness with nothing but reflective markers to guide the way.
Both within six days.
If I ever doubted my decision to run Snowdonia, this week would either confirm my madness or prove I had what it takes.
The 50K Leenderbos Ultra: Alone in the Mud
Saturday morning. Freezing cold. My car’s windshield wipers scraped away the layer of frost as I made my way toward the start of my longest solo run yet.
For the first time ever, I wouldn’t have friends running alongside me during a race. No one to chat with. No one to pace me. Just me, my gear, my Garmin, and 50+ kilometers of muddy trails.
By kilometer four, I was soaked in mud. I had tried to leap over the first few puddles, skipping like some overenthusiastic rabbit—until a fellow runner laughed and said, “Yeah, that’s cute. But in 20k, you won’t even try. Just go through.”
She was right.
By kilometer ten, I had given in completely—charging through knee-deep water, feeling the cold seep through my shoes, accepting the mess as part of the experience. It was liberating.
Navigation was another challenge. With no marked course, I had to trust my GPX, constantly glancing down to ensure I was still on the right path. And when I fell too far behind, I found myself utterly alone—no runners ahead, no markers, just my instincts and the occasional encouraging beep from my watch.
At 25K, the pain cave opened its doors.
At 35K, I had officially moved in.
Trail running, I learned, wasn’t like road running. You don’t just switch off your brain and cruise—every step requires focus—watching for roots, rocks, and unexpected dips. Every slight misstep had the potential to send me sprawling. My mind hurt as much as my legs.
And yet, somehow, I finished strong in 6 hours and 37 minutes, faster than expected. My legs felt like burnt-out tree stumps, but my mind was buzzing.
This was the first real test. And I had passed.
The 33K Night Trail: Welcome to the Dark Side
Fast forward six days. Different location. Different challenge.
This time, I wouldn’t be running alone—but I might as well have been.
The Belgian Ardennes at night is a different beast.
It’s not just dark. It’s oppressive.
The start was chaotic—heads of insanely fast Belgians and Frenchmen bobbing in the expanding distance as we surged forward. Immediately, I knew I was outmatched.
The first descent hit hard, a brutal quad-pounding drop that sent people flying down the hill at breakneck speed. The adrenaline was intense, but my friend and I held back. This wasn’t about speed. It was about survival.
The climbs? Ridiculous.
Six full ascents, some nearly vertical, scrambling over loose terrain, slipping on frozen mud. Poles became my best friends. Except—mine were too long. I realized quickly that I had no idea how to use them properly, leaning on them too much, burning out my upper body. By the halfway mark, my arms were screaming almost as much as my legs.
Then there was the navigation.
Unlike the 50K, no GPX this time—just reflective markers hanging from trees. Easy enough in theory, but in practice? Terrifying.
Several times, I lost sight of them. Panic set in.
Were we off course?
Were we heading the wrong way?
Would we have to climb back up that last insane descent?
More than once, I whistled into the darkness, hoping someone ahead would respond and confirm we were still on track. Most of the time, I was alone, so no one answered. I had to rely on myself. Sometimes, the sense of isolation was profound—it was just a few of us, the night, and the sound of our own breathing.
At 25K, I was wrecked.
At 30K, I was reborn.
The final climb—not too steep, but endless, brutal, it was a battle. But as we reached the summit, and the faint glow of the finish line appeared in the distance, something clicked. I just ran.
The pain didn’t matter anymore.
I ran towards the finish, arms pumping, heart hammering, crossing the line in one final push of pure defiance.
At the finish line was a party tent with hundreds of hungry Belgians who were laughingly feasting, smoking, drinking, and singing their way deep into the night.
This party was too much sensory overload for my taste. I needed a burger, so off we went to the trusted Arches for nuggies and burgers.
What This Week Taught Me
Two races. Two extremes.
One week that changed everything.
I learned that trail running is more than just endurance. It’s about resilience, patience, and trusting yourself.
I learned that navigation is a skill, and I need to master it before Snowdonia.
I learned that running at night is a different beast—and backup lights are a necessity.
I learned that poles can save you or break you—and I need to figure out how to use them properly.
I learned that no amount of training can fully prepare me for Snowdonia—but I can damn well try.
And most importantly, I learned this:
The mountain doesn’t care about your plans. It doesn’t care about your struggles. It only asks one question—can you keep moving forward?
And my answer?
Yes. Always.
Next stop: Snowdonia.