Ultra-Trail Małopolska (177km / 9200m+), Mszana Dolna, 23.-25.5.2025
My First 100-Miler
Ultra-Trail Małopolska – a place where time flows
like in a parallel universe. Where memories become the present. Where if it’s
not raining, it’s snowing, and you hallucinate even without magic mushrooms.
This is where mud was invented. Slimy mud, slippery mud, black mud, brown mud,
sticky mud, wet mud, semi-dry mud, mud with rocks, mud with branches, mud with
water, mud without water, innocent-looking mud and backstabbing mud, mud with
snow, mud with rain. Mud uphill and mud downhill. Meadow mud, road mud, stream
mud, forest mud. A place where even downhills somehow feel like uphills, where
you're always going either straight up or straight down (up). The place where I
ran my first ever 100-miler.
Pre-Race Chaos, Panic, and Mild Electronics Crisis
On the way to the race, I realize I’ve packed the wrong
cables for charging my phone and watch (USC connector, but my power bank only
has USB inputs). Cue the scavenger hunt for an electronics store while we
brainstorm whether it's better to look for a new cable, an adapter, or... who
knows what. Like proper nuclear physicists, we deduce that the adapter doesn’t
actually charge anything, Garmin cables are a rare species, and the best bet is
to just buy a new power bank. I get one with ports A, B, C, D... and probably E
through Z if you look hard enough. We charge it as fast as we can, and I barely
make it to race check-in on time.
I forget my poles in the car, accidentally pack my Driver’s
license instead of my ID (mandatory equipment), forget to grease up my feet
with Vaseline, don’t manage to eat – barely choke down two bananas. Katka saves
the day by bringing me my poles, the DL-for-ID mix-up is somehow accepted, and
just like that, nothing’s stopping me from starting. Spoiler: I may have
brought the wrong Garmin charging cable… but at least I’ll lose it later in the
woods. Oh yes, things are just getting spicy...
Night One
The race kicks off at 5 PM. After the countdown, the organizer
yells, “Super, lećcie i bawcie się dobrze!” (Fly and have fun!) Well,
I’m not sure about flying, but I’m definitely here for the fun.
The first 20 km to the Kasina Wielka aid station zoom by. My
feet are wet after the first few hundred meters. The trail takes us through
forests and meadows, through Kasina Mała and up and down two Lubogoszcz peaks.
The drizzle finally stops, and the temperature is perfect for running. Mud is
absolutely everywhere.
I hear that the first woman is also first overall, the
second is somewhere ahead, and the third and I keep leapfrogging. She’s clearly
in racing mode – I’m not. I want to go my pace, keep an energy buffer.
Eventually, she pulls away and disappears from sight. In Kasina, Katka meets me
with her trademark over-the-top support energy, restocks my supplies, boosts my
morale, and sends me flying toward the next kilometers.
We won’t see each other again until the third aid station, 36 km away, since the second one – Pod Szczebelom – isn’t accessible by car.
I get swallowed by the wet woods, the conga line of runners
thins out, and from here on, I’m mostly alone. Darkness falls. I strap on my
headlamp and run through the night trails. It feels like I’m running the
Javornícka, or Hriňovská, or Východniarska 100, it feels like coming home. Out of nowhere, familiar
memories bubble up – I’m in my element. I love running through the forest at
night.
At the top of Lubomir, a massive observatory looms out of
the dark in eerie silence. I remember it from route scouting photos. Along the
trail, little roadside chapels with statues of Mary and burning candles keep
popping up. Creepy as hell at night…
After a few more climbs, I reach the second aid station at
43 km – Pod Szczebelom. They’ve got campfire-roasted potatoes and other
goodies. I dig in. I need the fuel – the legendary Szczebel is up next.
Everyone talks about it the way we talk about the Súľov ridge on the BBU back
home. The climb is steep and looooong.
I bump into a group from some other hiking event – fully
loaded with big packs and race numbers strapped to their backpacks. I slowly
overtake them one by one until I suddenly find myself on top. Huh. That wasn’t
so bad. Not sure what all the fuss was about.
But then comes Luboń Wielki before the next aid station, and that one feels way worse. Both up and down.
At the foot of Luboń Wielki lies Rabka Zaryte – the third
aid station at 56th km – and Katka the Support Hero is there too! Yassss!
The third woman is also there, but the moment I arrive, she
quickly packs up and takes off. My shoes have a brand new muddy brown finish,
my feet are soaked, and I’m covered in dirt up to my ears. Katka asks what I
want. I stare blankly. I don’t know what I am supposed to be wanting 😂
Thankfully, she takes charge: refills my water, brings me
coffee, tea, dry shoes and socks. There’s also couscous with sauce and more
goodies. I eat, drink, change – my feet are waterlogged and small blisters are
starting to form. Sweet relief to finally clean them, slap on some Vaseline,
and slip into dry socks and shoes. Bliss. I feel reborn.
I grab snacks and gels from my drop bag and head off through
Królewska Góra into the sleeping streets of Rabka-Zdrój. (Note to Tina: the
carousel was closed, so no ride for me.)
We now link up with the Główny Szlak Beskidzki. The night
fades, a new day is born. At 4 AM, the birds start chirping like crazy. I stash
away my headlamp.
The Day Between Night and Night
The section leading to the next checkpoint is relatively
short and less demanding than the previous ones—but just as muddy and wet.
Within the hour, my feet are in exactly the same state as before the change of
shoes. Katka and I couldn’t tell from the map whether it was accessible by car,
so we weren’t sure if we’d meet again. I was planning to recharge my
electronics there—just in case my phone or watch decided to pull a “surprise,
I’m dead!” moment later on.
It starts raining, the air grows chilly. I arrive at the
fourth checkpoint—Obidowa, kilometer 67—and lo and behold, there’s
Katka’s car… and Katka herself, sweetly snoozing inside 😄.
I don’t have the heart to wake her. Why should I? I’ve got everything I need. I
eat at a little booth set up for us runners (they’ve got soup and other
goodies), sit for a bit, rest, and then plan to head on. It’s enough for me
that she was there, even if absent-minded. I tell the volunteer that a Slovak
lady might come looking for me, so please tell her I’ve already left. She was
sleeping so adorably I couldn’t wake her. Oh—and I forgot to charge my
electronics. Oops.
Climbing up, I wonder if maybe I should have woken
her. What if she suffocates in the car? What if there’s some kind of deadly gas
leak? I quickly chase off this horror-movie thought and instead record some
cheerful video greetings for my Instagram girl gang. Then I notice my phone
battery is weirdly low. I plug it into a power bank, and bam—moisture
detected, disconnect immediately. Great. I try to wipe it, dry it, coax
it—but not much luck in this rain 😬. Just then, I spot the
second girl and her partner coming back down the trail, looking
half-frozen. Confused, I ask if I’m on the right path. They say yes—but they’re
dropping out. Why? “Because there’s snow up there.” I’m like… WTF? You’ve
never run in snow before? (I didn’t say that out loud—just in my head.)
They tell me to put on gloves if I have them. I don’t—yet. I’m still comfy.
I continue on, thinking about what those two meant. My phone
is draining fast, and now even my watch is nearing empty.
The trail is actually stunning here—if you ignore the
omnipresent mud. It’s lined with blueberry bushes, the old ones rust-colored,
the young ones bright green—a fresh, vivid contrast. And then—snowflakes. At
first, it’s magical, like in a fairy tale... until it’s not. The snow thickens,
air thins, wind bites. That lovely mud now has a wet snow layer on top. My feet
are soaked and freezing. Running is impossible. I carefully hike on, fully
immersed in this hostile, wintry wilderness. Now I understand what those two meant
and why they gave up.
At the top, wrapped in fog and flurries, looms the Schronisko PTTK on Trubacz. A few determined hikers in ponchos wander around. I try to warm up
by moving. I’ve added gloves, buff, two jackets, and a hood. My phone still
refuses to charge. For the first—and only—time, the thought of quitting crosses
my mind. I can’t continue with a dead phone. It’s mandatory gear, and more
importantly, I’d be nuts to go on in this weather with no connection to the
world.
I try to think rationally. I’m fine. Just whining 😂.
So I make a deal with myself: if the phone starts charging, I’ll keep going.
Secretly, I really want it to work—so I won’t have to come back next
year for a redo.
Deep in these thoughts, I shuffle across snowy, soggy
meadows past Trubacz and descend to friendlier altitudes. The wind eases, the
blizzard softens into flirty snowflakes, and I instantly feel more optimistic.
But the deal still stands.
At the fifth checkpoint—Przełęcz Knurowska, km 88—I
brief Katka on the situation. While I eat and change clothes, she uses some car
voodoo (read: engine + heater) to dry my phone and get it charging. I’m
saved. They have pancakes here, cheesy pastries with vegan spreads, cakes,
and more. I load my plate—twice.
Katka tells me I passed the third girl while she was also
sleeping at Obidowa—so I overtook her without even knowing. But she arrives
shortly after, and while I’m stuffing my face and tending to gear, she’s
already off again. Still, I refuse to get pulled into a race. What will be,
will be. My main goal is to finish strong healthy. Who knows what my body will
do after 100–120 km anyway?
I plug in my phone to the power bank and pack the charger
for my watch, planning to switch to that once the phone is full. The rain
stops, a bit of sunshine peeks through. I’m in a much better state of mind.
Physically, I still feel great—Miško’s training is paying off. I think about
all the long runs after hard intervals, all the hours and miles in the dark
winter streets of my little village, the snowy trudge runs, the adventures with
Katka and the Ultragirls, and that Ultra Kras race I did right in the middle of
heavy training. All the wanderings I love so much and was looking forward to
here—though I did imagine myself running in a skirt and tank top, not
layered in jackets, buffs, and gloves. Oh well.
On the next climb, I catch up to the third girl and reassure
her she’ll probably pass me again. She says, “Yeah, we’ll chase each other.”
But we never meet again.
After a while, I check my phone—it’s charged. Time to juice
up the watch. I turn my pack inside out three times, but the charger cable is
gone. I must’ve left it in the car by accident. The long, rolling muddy
kilometers of the GSB trail take me to the giant lookout tower on Lubań.
The final push to it is steep, rocky, muddy, and full of hikers. From Lubań, I
backtrack slightly then descend on a steep, muddy, overgrown path to the sixth
checkpoint.
Somewhere in there, I miss a turn. But I can see on the map
that the stream I’m trudging down runs parallel to the trail. And really—what’s
the difference? Mud, water, branches, rocks… the effect is the same.
I reconnect with the trail 200 meters lower and soon arrive
at Ochotnica Dolna, km 106. Katica Supportica greets me from afar,
yelling that I’m first woman. Apparently, the first disappeared from the
map. I assume it’s a GPS glitch—she’ll probably reappear. They have a
phenomenal tortilla wrap with risotto here, and other goodies (except the
coffee—it’s yuck). I scald my mouth with boiling tea, grab my drop bag, and
swap out gels and snacks, prepping for the longest leg ahead—24 km to the next
checkpoint.
We must charge the watch. We tear the car apart
looking for the cable. Nothing. I’m sure I packed it. I must have
dropped it somewhere in the woods while fiddling with the power bank and phone.
Fantastic. My only charging cable. Our only hope: Katka will try to find
one at the next aid station. Meanwhile, I try to Jedi-mind-trick my watch into
staying alive.
The entire next section, I obsess about my dying watch and
possible backup plans if Katka can’t find a charger. Track with Strava? Borrow
Katka’s watch? Something, anything… I really don’t want my first 100-miler
split into two Strava runs - because what isn't on Strava, didn't happen 😁. At least it’s a distraction from the fatigue and
pain.
I turn off the watch’s navigation to save battery and follow
trail markers, double-checking the route on mapy.com on my phone when needed.
But I’m losing focus and get lost twice among the two Gorce peaks. Still—this
place is gorgeous. Rolling hills behind and ahead, glimpses of blue sky, the
sun finally warming my face.
As I descend to the seventh checkpoint, the pain in my
bruised toes from endless stomping becomes unbearable. Time for a shoe change.
Bless my past self for bringing three pairs.
The descent is endless, wet, and painful. A kilometer or so
before the aid station, I’m on asphalt that stretches forever. Then suddenly as
I approach the aid station, I hear Katka shouting in the distance: "Give
me the watchhhhh!" She managed to borrow a charger from another support team!
Bless them and her.
I run up to her and in the nick of time plug the
watch into the borrowed cable and power bank. It shows 1%—ONE PERCENT battery.
Shit, that was close... It balks at first, but finally agrees to charge. I
could cry with relief.
There are delicious sandwiches here—spread, cheese,
pickles—and other treats. I change into dry clothes, load up, and Katka
babysits the watch while giving me her watch with the course loaded for
navigation. I’ll keep mine just tracking the distance to save what little battery it has
recharged.
The plan is to try charging it again at the next checkpoint.
Honestly… isn’t Katka basically a nuclear physicist in
disguise?
After essential maintenance, I head off to the next leg with
a watch on each wrist like some ultra-running baller. My fresh Altra
Lone Peak 9+ shoes feel like heaven. My toes stop throbbing, all the little
bones and tendons sigh with relief. My energy is fading, but I’m still moving
forward.
Step by step, toward the next aid station—that’s the motto
of today’s adventure. Soon, I’ll be climbing back up to Trubacz via Kudłoń,
and this time… it’ll be night. Will the snow still be waiting for me there? The
first woman never reappeared on the map—turns out she DNF’d. The second girl?
She’s about 5km behind me.
Night Two
A pretty, steep, stone-stepped educational trail leads me up
to a stunning blueberry meadow with an old wooden hut sitting right in the
middle. It looks like a scene straight out of The Sun Rises Over Prašivá – a
classic Slovak film. The sun has already set, but the pink afterglow is still
putting on a full-blown light show. I finally stop to take some actual
photos—it’s been a while.
Everything is silent. Utter peace and quiet. I’m completely
alone. I love it here.
After a few moments of meadowy evening zen, the forest
swallows me up again. I turn on my headlamp, retie my shoes—first too loose,
then too tight, finally just right. The long forest section ahead brings the
first real sleep crisis. My eyelids droop, I’m swaying side to side like a
zombie, steps are wobbly, and my brain is seconds away from full shutdown.
I stare blankly into the headlamp beam and try to micro-nap
while walking. They say it’s possible 😅 but I’m scared I’ll
just tip over. I slam a caffeine gel instead and wait for the fog in my head to
clear.
Slowly but surely, I reach the summit. Headlamps of 100K
runners flicker in the distance. No more snow here, but the cold is biting. I
put on gloves, both jackets, buff, hat. Frozen grass crunches underfoot, I suck
in icy air and sip on freezingly cold water from my soft flasks. Mud? Still
there. Still nasty. Nothing’s changed.
The meadow path is full of deep, slick puddles and ruts. A
lonely, shadowy Schronisko stands silently in the dark. I skirt around it, and
ahead lies a not so easy 7-kilometer descent to checkpoint 8—Obidowa, 149 km
in.
I thought I’d seen it all by now. I truly believed the
trails couldn’t get any steeper, slicker, or more horrific. But oh, they can.
This course still has some tricks up its dirty, muddy sleeve.
Here’s where the hallucinations begin.
I see runners changing clothes behind trees. Random
buildings that definitely don’t exist. German
shepherds laying on the ground here and there. Other nonsense. My exhausted brain is painting a surreal, spooky
picture over the already weird reality of this endless night.
Swearing like a sailor, I somehow slide, stumble, and splash
my way down the disgusting, waterlogged, rock-and-branch-filled gully and
finally reach the parking lot. And there it is—Katka’s car. And in it, Katuška
Supportuška, peacefully sleeping once again. Total déjà vu.
But this time, I have explicit instructions: wake her up. A
command is a command. Reluctantly, I do. We head into the heated little aid
station hut. Katka works her magic, borrowing a Garmin cable from some 100K
runners hanging around, and one of them kindly lends it to us. Thank you,
cosmic forces, for sending these angels.
Katka’s own watch dies shortly after—heroic sacrifice! I
chug coffee, soup, and various delicious snacks. The caffeine combo (gel +
coffee) kicks in, and I feel surprisingly okay again. No desire to sleep. I’m
scared that if I stop, my muscles will freeze up in this cold and I’ll start
shivering uncontrollably. No thanks.
I head back into the dark and the cold. My watch is now
charged to 50%—enough to navigate me all the way to the finish. Hopefully.
The section to the final checkpoint is relatively easy, but I’m just so tired that everything feels like a chore. I’m shuffle-jogging through woods and past houses, over small hills rolling above Rabka. It’s slowly starting to get light.
Last time I passed through here, it was also just before
dawn. I realize I’ve come so far—and there are only about 13 km left to
go (note to Tina: the carnival rides still weren’t running, so no joyrides for
me).
At Rabka-Zaryte, 169 km, I have some couscous,
coffee, and who knows what else. Katulienka Supportienka sees me off into the
final stage.
Sunday Morning: The Finish Line is Near
It’s properly cold now, but at least the sun’s finally
out—though still weak and shy. Thirteen kilometers might sound easy, but not
when they pack in over 1000 meters of vertical, one of the steepest
climbs, and two of the most brutal descents on the whole course. One last
caffeine gel for the road—I need all the help I can get.
I start climbing toward Luboń Wielki, but from a
different direction than we descended the previous morning. Just below the
summit, we hit a boulder field—Polish-style “Kriváň from Wish.” It’s borderline
scrambling on all fours. But the views? Absolutely majestic. Snow-covered
Polish Tatras glowing in the distance.
I’m climbing alongside the same group of 100K runners who lent us the Garmin cable the night before.
At the summit (roughly the 150th one, emotionally), I
prepare myself for the descent into Przełęcz Glisne—a section I
remembered as steep and scary from previous morning's climb. But in the dark, things always feel worse than
they are. It was steep, sure, but manageable, even with tired legs.
Next up: the final climb to Szczebel. The incline is
mellow, the trail less muddy and I'm progressing slowly but surely, starting to feel beyond excited. I picture the finish line,
the timing arch, stopping my watch… and finally being done.
I try to ignore the runners changing
clothes in the trees and the phantom buildings and dogs and just push uphill, up, up, UP!
At the top, I hit turbo mode, overtake my 100K buddies
(which probably, to an independent observer, looked more like crawling, let’s be honest. But there are no independent observers here, so let's smash this Scszebel downhil). One of them yells,
“Watch out—it’s steep!” I shout back, “Okay, okay, I will!”
It is steep. But I’ve seen worse today.
I do my best to hobble down with care—no falling on the home
stretch. And then… it hits me. I finally understand why this descent is the
stuff of legend and why they talk about it like we do about our infamous Súľov Ridge at the BBU. Totally
vertical. Technical. Muddy. I clock a new personal record: 30 minutes per
kilometer. Hugging trees. Clinging to roots. Cursing, using the most
horrible Slovak swear words.
I want to curl into a ball and just roll down the hill. Like—this is how you end a 170 km race?! No chance of zoning out or cruising to the end. We need to be entertained to the very last bit, don't we...
But then—I hear it. A stream! Streams mean you're almost down. I somehow roll/stumble/crawl to the bottom and suddenly, I’m back on the path we started Friday night. I don’t remember any of it, did we really run through here?
The final two kilometers to Pension Szczebel are
powered by pure will. And then—I hear her.
Katinka Supportinka is shouting from the gate.
And I’m FLOODED with endorphins like never before.
The final meters through the finish corridor are
emotional—just like the finish itself.
I did it. I made it. My first 100-miler.
In conditions I absolutely loathe.
But I didn’t give up.
And that’s thanks in huge part to Katka, my golden girl, who was there
through it all—fixing the unfixable, lifting my spirits, cheering me on, making
me laugh. Katka, from the bottom of my heart: thank you for spontaneously
signing up to be my support crew, for being absolutely wonderful, and for
helping me finish this madness so we don’t have to come back here next year for
a rematch 😅
Right after the finish, the race director thoroughly checks my mandatory gear—and I’ve got everything, luckily. Phew. Dry? Not really. My feet are still completely soaked.
But you know what?
Despite forgetting to lube up at the start, I finished with just a few tiny
blisters, some minor scrapes, one blood-stained nail on the left big toe and
nothing else serious. Sure, every muscle in my legs hurts—but that’s about it.
Then comes the holy trinity: shower, sunshine chill
session while waiting for the second-place woman, awards ceremony, a glorious
lunch at Bestwin Resto Bar, and the drive back past the snowy Polish
Tatras.
And that, my friends, is that.
Thank you to my coach Miško, who worked with me the past six months—his training plan clearly paid off. The fatigue hit way later than usual, and my body handled a mileage volume it had never seen before. Tough workouts work!
Thank you to the organizers for an amazing race—well-stocked
aid stations, impeccable trail marking.
Thank you to the volunteers for the care, the encouragement,
the kindness. You were all amazing.
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