Journal
Trail report Sörmlands 100 Trail Festival | 21km
It’s been a few days since I ran the half marathon at the Sörmlands 100 Trail Festival 2024, but I wanted to share how it went down. Maybe "trail report" isn't the right term for a two-hour run. I guess it’s a series of moments.
We traveled from Amsterdam to Stockholm on Friday, the day before the race. After landing, we rented a car and drove to Nyköping, where our hotel was. That night, we visited the brewery where the race would start, soaking in the atmosphere, getting a taste of what tomorrow would bring.
Race day. I’m standing in a crowd, instructions echoing in Swedish around me. I don’t understand a word, but the signal is clear as soon as the horn blows. My plan was to start strong but steady, keeping a pace around 5:30 minutes per kilometer on the asphalt. But as usual, running in a group makes you feel the pull to push harder. I ended up clocking the first stretch at about 5 minutes per kilometer, sticking with the pack as we left the sleepy town of Nyköping behind.
The first hill hit me with the truth: I'm not properly trained for this. Amsterdam is too flat. I’m running in my Hoka Clifton 9s—road shoes. But; so far, so good. We cross farmlands and small hills, and at one point, a group of cows gets split in two, startled by our intrusion. They run with us for a bit. I try to take a video, but I’m too caught up in the moment to capture it properly.
Soon, we enter the forest, and my shoes start to feel like the wrong choice. The trail begins after a, for my Dutch standards, tough climb in the full sun—definitely not my favourite conditions. My watch says I’m running 5 minutes per kilometer. Before the race, I turned off the heart rate display to avoid freaking out. Later, I’d find out I was already pushing into the 190s.
We reach a small ski slope, descending to the first checkpoint, about 6 km in. I grab a cup of water, a sports drink, and keep moving. We run through more forest and fields, past holiday homes. I take my first gel. The details are hazy. I was too focused on hating myself for downing that water too quickly.
On a long open stretch of asphalt, I have my first conversation. A guy says something in Swedish. “I speak English, sorry,” I reply. I have been running directly behind him since the start of the race. He seems like a local—lots of people cheering for him along the route. Maybe we’re passing his kid now. He tells me, “A lot of uphill.” I admit I didn’t prepare for this. He says he didn’t expect it either. Another hill looms ahead, the steepest so far. At the top, I look back, and he’s started walking.
This part is covered in trees, and the technical trail begins. I’m leading my pack of about ten runners. We cross a golf course. I think things are going well, but then it hits me: this is the turning point. Everything shifts to hard mode. I’m not an experienced trail runner, and my Cliftons aren’t made for this.
The trail feels like waves—uphill, downhill—and my heart is pounding. I start hearing footsteps behind me. I move aside to let some faster runners pass and take my first gel. Now I’m alone, trying to keep up with my former group, but I fall hard over some big rocks. I get up quickly—watch intact, no obvious injuries. I'm stunned by my lack of preparation. Can I keep going? I check my phone and see messages from my girlfriend, but my vision is blurry. I text her that I fell hard. I think about quitting. Did I say that? I tuck my phone away and start running again, slower now. It’s beautiful here, but I’m not enjoying it much after the fall. I wish I took more photos and videos, but I need to stay focused on the trail.
I hear people behind me—no one there. It’s dense forest; maybe the next group is close. I pick up the pace as it flattens out. I cross a small bridge over a creek and slip, barely catching myself before falling into the swampy water. I keep running, slower still.
The trail widens and finally, I spot the last runner from the group in front of me, he’s older than me. He lets me pass, and suddenly, I feel full of energy again. Must be the caffeine kicking in from that gel. But then, in an open, muddy section, I slip and fall again. I get up and tell him I'm okay. We keep running on the edge of a farmland, next to a small creek. I slow down—I don’t want to fall twice in front of the same guy.
Second checkpoint. I down two cups of water and take a minute to collect myself. Back to running, and it’s wide open here. I take another gel. The sun’s beating down from the right, so I twist my cap, hoping for some shade. I’m behind the guy I passed earlier, with another runner just behind me. We form a little train. At some point, the guy in front turns around and mutters something in Swedish. He’s had enough. I stay with the other runner, and we pick up the pace.
We see a runner on the ground, stretching. My running mate offers help in Swedish, but we keep going when the guy waves him off. We run side by side, not saying a word. I like this. The trail isn’t technical anymore, and the hills aren’t so steep. The asphalt is a welcome relief. We keep matching each other’s pace—6:04 every time I glance at my watch.
We pass some runners, and some pass us. The trail winds through what seems like a holiday park, or maybe it’s just a neighbourhood, next to a lake. After a while, the route becomes unclear to me. My running partner breaks the silence: “Straight,” he says, pointing at his watch. I spot some runners in the distance in front of us, and we follow. I mention it’s nice to run together, keeping each other’s pace. He agrees.
We continue in silence. At the 16 km mark, I reach for my third gel. He does the same. We run.
At 19 or 20 kilometers, there’s another hill. Asphalt, but steep. We pass two other runners walking, then we start walking ourselves. Too tired to keep running uphill. We reach the top and begin running again. We descend, thinking this is the final stretch. We run along a lake, almost there—or so we thought. Another hill appears. My watch says 400 meters left. We push on. It’s tough.
Not a high hill, but there are people cheering. We enter the campsite where the finish line waits. My running partner speeds up, and I suggest we race to the end. He agrees, and we sprint together. We cross the finish in the same second. I’m 51st; he’s 52nd.
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