Seoul 100K – A dream in the city of ten million
The 24-hour race in Roja is behind me, and somehow, the desire to run has vanished - nothing seems able to match that kind of fun or adventure. Well, except for one thing, though it feels almost unreachable. Last autumn, the Seoul 100 km race caught my eye. I don’t even understand why or how. What’s wrong with me? Instead of clinging to my newly regained, halfway decent shape, I’m already looking for ways to put it at risk again. 109 km with 4,800 meters of elevation gain, in a completely different world, has quietly taken root in my mind.
I don’t like leaving my comfort zone. Others might not see its limits, but I do - and I never cross them. It may look like I’m pushing myself - not even close. This is my comfort zone, and each adventure only makes me crave the next.
I keep asking myself: why not? First, it’s halfway across the world, and it’s expensive. Second, it’s a completely different environment and culture - a place where people speak and write in a language I’ve never encountered. And finally, I can’t possibly do it alone. My husband, Mr. Veips, has no interest in going to Korea in September. He already has enough international trips of his own and can’t get that much time off. How am I supposed to find a travel companion crazy enough? Nobody seems interested. Who would care about a race in Korea that hardly anyone has even heard of?
Thankfully, the adventure isn’t over before it even begins. I find a pair of listening ears in the most unexpected person. With less than three months to go, I meet someone spontaneous enough to say “yes” in a heartbeat. I run into Ilze Limanāne at the Stirnu Buks trail run in Buse - I haven’t seen her in ages. One word leads to another, and three days later, we are both already signed up for my dream race in Seoul. All that remains is to break the news to my coach, and the preparation for this epic adventure can finally begin.
I see it not just as a 100+ km mountain run, but as one big event: exploring the city and catching at least a glimpse of its mysterious culture. I dive into race reports and video reviews, but also traveler stories about Seoul and podcasts on Korean history and society. The more I learn, the more fascinating it becomes. Sometimes I get so caught up that I worry the real thing might disappoint me - that my expectations are too high.
Of course, planning Seoul sightseeing isn’t enough - my training plan has gotten a bit more serious too, and I’m now a regular guest on the trails of Sigulda. Just before leaving, the Namejs training camp pops up, throwing my training schedule a little off balance, but in the end - I’ll take only what’s already in me to the mountains of Seoul. You can’t pick up any miracles at the last moment.
I have no idea how many of the 28.5 cutoff hours I’ll actually use, so I’m not sure how many gels I’ll need on the course. I haven’t done a mountain race longer than 100 km in six years. And of course, I kind of enjoy that small tinge of suspense - can I still even pull this off?
We’re traveling light, flying only with carry-on, so a lot of decisions make themselves - no room for poles, only fourteen energy gels fit in the liquids bag. One more gets tossed into the suitcase, maybe no one will notice. No space for cosmetics. I’ll just buy everything there. Air France carry-on is smaller than I’m used to, so I’m packing just two running outfits - one for training, one for racing, one pair of trail shoes, the mandatory gear, two dresses for sightseeing, and a swimsuit for the rooftop hot tub at the hotel. What else could I possibly need?
Oh my, I’ve never flown this far in my life. First a 2.5 hour hop to Paris, then about 12 hours straight to Incheon Airport in Korea. Honestly, running that whole time would feel easier. We land at the crack of dawn, and all we need to do is follow the directions ChatGPT gave us on how to get to the city. It’s unbelievably simple and cheap - buy a transport card and walk through the right doors at the right time.
We get a little tangled in our metro skills and overshoot the right stop, but finding our way back isn’t complicated at all. Just when it seems like we might be lost, there’s always a helpful map on the wall showing where we are and how to get back on track.
The first impression of the locals is… peculiar. I think we’ve hit rush hour, when office workers are on their way to work. They look like cyborgs - dressed alike, eyes glued to their phones. But overall they’re all incredibly beautiful, almost like fairy-tale creatures. One detail truly puzzles me though - you don’t see a single child anywhere.
The city doesn’t exactly greet us with warmth. Stepping out of the metro tunnel, we enter a light drizzle that threatens to turn into proper rain. We need to get to the hotel, drop our things, and head to the organizers’ office to pick up our race numbers, since there’s no expo here. Locals get their bibs and goodies by mail, but foreigners have to fetch them in person. I’m a bit nervous about this, since one woman’s race report mentioned she spent two days looking for the place and barely found it. But honestly, how hard can it be with both the address and floor number given?
Then there’s the question of food. I’m terrified of eating something that might jeopardize my race. I’ve had bad experiences with that before (which is exactly why no report was ever written about the Tenerife Blue Trail I did in spring). But we have Ilze, and she fears nothing. More than that - if she doesn’t eat soon, things will get ugly.
Luckily, since it’s still early, all the eateries we pass are closed, much to my relief - until we stumble upon a very sketchy-looking place. It’s empty, but open. Well, whatever will be, will be. I do have a whole stack of Smecta packets with me, after all. Ramyeon, tteokbokki, gimbap - and cola on top, as if tomorrow didn’t exist. The last two are actually quite tasty, but Ilze’s soup, honestly, I won’t even comment on what’s floating in it. Oh right, and kimchi and pickled radish - you can put those on anything, and they’re truly excellent. I simply go with the flow.
There’s nothing to do but go with the flow in the streets, too. The drizzle has turned into a proper downpour, the streets are flooding, and with nowhere to go until three o’clock we just have to keep walking. By the time we finally reach a shop selling umbrellas, we’ve already managed to visit a random museum along the way and get thoroughly soaked. Well then, ready to go fetch our bibs.
The talk that Google Maps doesn’t work here is exaggerated. You can type in an address - it just doesn’t give directions, but you can figure those out yourself. I also have this local app, Naver Maps, but I never really make friends with it. Meanwhile, Ilze’s phone buzzes with a flood warning. Perfect. What might that do to the race trails? Crossing a bridge, we notice the stream below has overflowed onto the sidewalks, rushing over with muddy water. And we realize - this is actually part of the course. Shortly before the finish we’ll be running right down there where the water is churning. Fun times ahead!
The rain and the long walk leave us tired, but we find the right building and office without a hitch. We even get confirmation that we’re the first runners from Latvia. Isn’t that nice?
The way back is more pleasant - the rain has eased up. We sit down for iced coffee, watch a local protest with a small army of policemen, and taste a croissant filled with sweet red bean paste. Now this I don’t understand - why on earth are red beans considered dessert? Later we learn that protests here are nothing unusual, more like a common pastime. There’s always someone protesting something.
We also decide to swing by the starting square. Right now preparations for a concert are underway, and on stage a group of K-pop boys are rehearsing. Maybe we’ll catch a glimpse again later during an evening jog. So many impressions - and this is only half of day one! Finally, we check into our hotel. Ahead lie two days of sightseeing, walking, and a couple of training runs before the main event. Who knows, maybe we’ll even spot a child somewhere, since today we saw none. Not that I’m particularly interested in kids - it’s just odd that there aren’t any.
The pre-race evening doesn’t go according to plan at all. Before bed we rush out to hunt for rain ponchos, since the organizers have decreed they’re mandatory at the start. I also buy sleeves, as the forecast shows cooler temperatures than expected. Why didn’t I pack a long-sleeved shirt? Though our bags are ready, sleep won’t come. Even when I doze off for a moment, Ilze’s tossing on the other side of the bed wakes me again. I keep telling myself that lying down without sleeping still counts as rest - at least for the body. What’s wrong with me, is this just nerves? Suddenly my stomach twists and nausea hits. Oh no, not again! As quietly as possible, I sneak to the bathroom to sulk and down some Smecta. When I return, Ilze is awake, and we continue our restless tossing in the huge hotel bed without really sleeping.
Half past three - time to get up. Ready or not, the start is at 5:00 sharp. My stomach seems calm. A quick yogurt for breakfast, poncho over both clothes and pack - I’m set to go. The rain is pouring. Other runners join us on the short walk, less than a kilometer to the start area. Ilze admits to telling her husband she wouldn’t be racing. What nonsense - I doubt anyone believed her. I don’t take it seriously.
We hand in some soggy forms, signing God knows what, then toss our new ponchos into the trash, shuffle around for a bit, and line up at the start. We watch the official warm-up indifferently from the side. Plenty of time to both warm up and cool down on the trail itself. The weather is just fierce enough to make 100 km in the mountains sound like the very last thing anyone would want right now. And then comes the countdown, in clear English. Go!
The first kilometer is calm. We run along the road, the traffic has been closed. Not that there would be much to close - it’s insanely early and completely dark. No need for the headlamp yet, the streetlights are more than enough.
After turning off the main road, the course becomes noticeably steeper, and at some points I already start questioning the point of running. There’s no sense in burning out my legs right at the beginning. Sometimes I switch to walking, but overall I just go with an easy, unforced run. Ilze slowly but steadily pulls away. That’s fine - I definitely didn’t plan on tearing myself apart trying to keep up with her.
The course winds through narrow streets and yards until it leads us into a park. The park feels oddly familiar. Of course - we were here on the second day’s excursion: “Buam-Dong: Seoul's hidden gem.” The guide had claimed this was a wonderful, underrated neighborhood unknown to most tourists. Ha! Well, the race course goes right through it - maybe not so unknown after all. And here we run straight through the majestic gates in Seoul’s old fortress wall. If I remember correctly, the guide called them the “Small North Gate.” There’s a cute ceiling painting inside the gate. Opinions differ whether the figures on it are phoenixes or chickens. I say phoenixes - I’ve never seen such strange-looking chickens. That thought keeps me amused as the course climbs along a narrow street, parallel to the wall. Phoenixes, case closed.
Do I start thinking at some point that running here is a bit boring? Well then, the course brightens things up - it dives through a small gate in the wall straight into a staircase that, of course, goes sharply uphill. Oof! At first my legs hold, but then they quickly start to tire. Up and up - was there supposed to be such a huge climb this early in the elevation profile? People start overtaking me. Why am I always so hopeless on climbs? It really gets in the way of enjoying my dreams. Luckily, before I completely burn out, the stairs change direction, and I can happily charge downhill. Now it’s my turn to overtake! Someone really put in effort to build such a crazy number of stairs here. But ugh, soon they turn uphill again. From time to time there are little “stair pockets” where runners stop to adjust clothes. Yes, I want one too. I need to take off my rain jacket and headlamp. I can’t tell if the rain has stopped, but the air is wet - and I’m soaked anyway, jacket or not.
I’m starting to feel like I’ve been stuck in this first section too long. What about the cut-off times? Should I be worried already? The stairs briefly give way to a muddy, rocky trail - surprisingly runnable. Then one of the rocks trips me, and to my horror I fall forward. Ha! But I manage to pull off a perfect save - landing flat, absorbing the fall with my arms, and the only thing I bang is my left shoulder. Fantastic! A fall, but no damage to my knees. Honestly, I couldn’t ask for more. At this rate, I should probably buy a lottery ticket today.
A bit over 11 km done. By feel, it should be at least twice that. Finally, another downhill leads into a packed aid station. So crowded that I can barely fight my way to the table to pour myself a cup of cola. Well, not real cola, but it’ll do. I pour another to take along and shuffle past the aid station to eat a gel and shake some stones out of my shoes. You never know with the Cutoff Dragon (In Latvian we jokingly call the race cutoff time the Kontrolpūķis - literally, the ‘Cutoff Dragon’ that chases you if you slow down) it might just snap its jaws shut right in your face. The next section promises about 10 km with some serious elevation.
Time for the first serious climb. Without any ceremony, The mildly sloping gravel path soon gives way to a cruelly steep, rocky climb. Sometimes a small stream runs right down it - because, well, why not? We’re in a kind of overgrown, vividly green ravine, and it’s impossible to tell how high we still have to climb - just a tangled mess of leaves above. Now and then a river flashes between the trees below, but the climb is so brutal I don’t even want to waste energy on taking photos.
I’m surprised that after all this time I’m still surrounded by a dense flow of people. Usually, by this point, my runs have turned quite solitary. Oddly enough, no one seems particularly eager to overtake me. I feel like I’m sticking to the very edge of the trail - surely it’s not that hard to pass me? My pace is dropping fast, so from time to time I step aside and even sit down on a rock, just to let the more serious climbers pass me.
A bad example is contagious. Every time I sit, I seem to tempt someone else to do the same. I don’t let more than ten people pass before forcing myself up again. I’m in some damn hole. A pit of suffering. Is there even a way out of it? How come it’s this hard already, so early on? I keep checking my watch - only the elevation gain catches my eye. I know this trail shouldn’t go higher than 700 meters, but that number is creeping up painfully slow.
For a while now, I’ve been haunted by an intrusive menthol smell. It’s practically suffocating. What on earth is going on? Soon we reach an old city wall, slip through a small gate, and there’s the source of the stench - volunteers are spraying what must be some kind of cooling aerosol onto runners’ tortured bodies. No, thanks - I may be tortured, but I don’t need that. I hurry away.
The trail follows the old wall as it winds neatly upward along the ridge. Of course - where else, since those 700 meters still aren’t done? It should be only about 120 more, but the trail keeps disappointing. It’s brutally technical, full of huge, uneven stones, and sometimes it even goes sharply downhill, just to make sure we don’t hit that magic number too soon. Occasionally there’s a breathtaking view, but the fog - or is it a low cloud? - hides most of it.
On one of the steep descents, I painfully smash my knee against that same historic wall. It was built centuries ago by slaves, but now it’s been beautifully restored - and lies in wait for unsuspecting knees. That’s a first for me - not tripping and scraping my knee like an idiot, but slamming it straight into a cultural heritage site. Classy. And painful. I tell myself it could’ve been worse - falling here would hurt more.
Honestly, I don’t know how much longer I could’ve endured if the torturous ascent hadn’t finally turned into a descent. Normally, I love downhills - really love them and I’m good at them. But this one’s a killer. Is it even safe to rush down here? Total madness! I’m reckless enough to overtake anyone who hesitates for even a second at the sight of a menacing rock.
Just to make things more interesting, tourists have started appearing on the trail. Not many yet, but they somehow always occupy the best line. I’ve also noticed that my Hokas slip shamelessly on the big stones. Luckily, I always manage to get away with nothing worse than a quick scare.
Up ahead looms a huge rock - maybe it deserves to be called a cliff. To get on top, I have to climb straight up. There are a few cheerful people at the top. I have no idea what their role is. A girl tells me to look around at the beautiful view and warns that the rocks ahead are very slippery. She’s right - the view is gorgeous. I pull out my phone for an awkward selfie, but one of the volunteers, or maybe just a passerby offers to take my photo. Perfect!
Then it’s back to balancing on a knife’s edge. I’m not made for trails like this. It’s terrifying. At one point I freeze completely, waiting for another runner to see how they get through. Apparently, the options are either to slide uncontrollably down a huge slick rock or to squeeze through a gap that honestly looks narrower than my backside. I choose the second and barely wriggle through. That would’ve been something - getting stuck mid-race, right?
The trail gradually becomes more runnable, and I grow bolder. There are more tourists now - groups of old men, groups of old women, barefoot wanderers, and solo travelers. Most are coming the opposite way. They often shout the familiar encouragement: “Fighting!” raising a fist as they do. Usually cheerful, but sometimes so aggressive it startles me. I’m focused on the tricky downhill, not exactly seeking eye contact. What am I supposed to reply? I grin from ear to ear, sometimes answering “Fighting!” back, sometimes “Thank you,” and sometimes just smile. Is that the right etiquette? I’ll have to find out.
I’m picking up speed, and I love it. Then I pass a runner sitting on the ground, his arm covered in blood. He refuses help, but the sight makes me treat the terrain ahead with new respect. Nothing here is free - you have to earn every step, watch your footing, and run smart.
Cheering and cowbells ring ahead - the checkpoint! I drink everything in sight: green liquid, white liquid, fake cola, nibble on tiny cookies from the organizers’ table, and of course, take a gel. Toilet? A sign says it’s 50 meters away. Fifty meters? Off the course? No way. I’ll wait. There are plenty of public restrooms in these park-like woods anyway.
The next stretch promises to be a relief - gently rolling hills for 9 km. Leaving the checkpoint, we cross a street. A man in a green vest makes sure we don’t dash across on red, then whistles loudly and stops traffic so I can go.
I start craving a chat with someone, but no listening ears appear - English doesn’t seem too popular here. We enter a park - like a hilly little forest within the city. Apartment towers peek through the trees - a kind of local Ziepniekkalns vibe - and there are benches and outdoor gym equipment everywhere. I’m mostly scanning for toilet signs. They exist, but the trail ignores them. When I finally find one, it’s taped off with yellow ribbons. Really? So we filthy animals don’t sneak in? I’m about to burst - and there aren’t even any bushes!
The path rolls up and down, a pleasant, human-scale rhythm. If not for my bladder, I’d call it a perfect day. Overall, this section is light and enjoyable. I pass a guy whose poles just drag behind him - that image sticks with me. But this is supposed to be the easy bit!
The park trails turn into meadow paths. Chestnuts have fallen to the ground, spiky and fierce-looking compared to ours back home. The pleasant path leads into a built-up neighborhood where, for several kilometers, I can finally run properly again. It’s gotten quite hot. My watch beeps for 31 km and, to my surprise, checkpoint number three is already here. Hmm, I expected it to be about a kilometer later.
I’m urged to go to the mandatory gear check table, but I refuse until I’ve made it to the toilet. Luckily, there’s one right here - no need to walk an extra fifty meters. Of course, that doesn’t get me out of the gear check. The moment I step out of the toilet, I’m escorted straight to the control table. I’ve got everything. For once, I even remember where I stuffed each item. Here, the volunteers speak English, and they ask where I’m from and how I even heard about this race. The woman tells me she’s volunteered at many events, even in the U.S., but she’s never met a Latvian trail runner before. I want to tell her there are actually plenty of us, but then I remember that our whole country has less than two million people, and the percentage of trail runners is probably microscopic. So I just smile awkwardly. And, technically speaking - has she really seen a Latvian trail runner? Just because I’m bumbling along the trails doesn’t automatically make me one.
The next section, nine kilometers with the second-biggest climb of the race, makes me a bit uneasy. Maybe I should pick real food instead of a gel this time - they’re offering something warm here. Said and done. I grab a bowl of noodles and squeeze myself into a spot at the crowded table. Hmm. Something’s off - everyone else’s bowls look different. Ah, right, I probably should’ve gotten some broth poured over my noodle brick by the busy cooks. A cheerful man ladles some soup from a huge pot - oh, it’s got meat in it. Oh well, let it be. There are also various sauces on the table, but I decide not to play stomach roulette in the middle of an ultra. The meal’s actually quite nice, not even spicy. I’m not sure how clumsy my chopstick skills look from the outside, but I manage just fine and feel oddly proud of myself. Alright, bring on that mountain!
The road starts climbing, but it’s paved and not too steep - like the serpentine road up to Krimulda. Only this one seems endless. Still, that’s fine, as long as it stays this gentle. I fall in behind a small group and follow their pace - until I get bored. Koreans, it seems, aren’t big fans of getting their feet wet. At one wider river crossing, a traffic jam has formed at a narrow line of stepping stones - a delicate balancing act for anyone who wants to stay dry. Nope, I’m not wasting time waiting in line. Balance isn’t my strong suit anyway. I’d probably end up in the water and splash everyone around me. So I follow a brave guy who just wades through the shallow river. Refreshing - actually kind of nice - though my shoes instantly fill with gravel. That gravel’s been grinding for ages. I forgot to shake it out at the last checkpoint. Weird - no other race has ever filled my shoes with this much grit. Gaiters would’ve been a blessing.
We pass through majestic old city gates again. The river is crossed several more times, but those you can hop across on stones. The path uphill turns into a narrow, steep rocky trail. I’m struggling. This time I follow the bad example of those sitting on rocks by the trail and join them. At least I can eat a gel while I’m down here. Runners keep flowing past in an endless stream. Alright, fine - I’m not letting everyone pass. Time to drag myself up again. My watch says there’s just a bit more to go before I can enjoy the downhill. “Go, go, go!” a group of young people are cheering at the top. I spread my arms and shout back, “Trust me, this is me going!” No need to prove anything - the downhill’s coming. I’ll be flying soon enough!
Yeah, right. Downhill. I run where I can, but the trail is insanely technical. If I ever thought I knew what “technical” meant, today’s teaching me a lot. Why does everything have to be so damn steep? Why are the rocks so huge? Why can’t the trail just turn once in a while? And why can’t I just stop whining and keep moving? Out of nowhere, the trail opens up to a road, and organizers point me in the right direction. Aha, this must be the reverse section leading to checkpoint four. It’s a pleasant, runnable stretch and beautiful, too. I can watch both the oncoming runners and the rushing mountain river beside us.
At the checkpoint, nothing really appeals. With mild disgust, I realize I don’t even need to refill my hydration system. I’m clearly not drinking enough. The only thing that goes down well is orange juice. I gulp glass after glass. Even Coke doesn’t tempt me. Finally spotting an empty chair, I sit down to shake the gravel out of my shoes. That should buy me a few quiet kilometers. Alright, no more time-wasting - let’s go.
The reverse section is runnable, but the next one - thirteen kilometers with a long climb at the start - is looming ahead. Did I mention I’m terrible at climbing? I start ascending and within minutes I’m in despair. I chat for a while with a woman who’s just hiking - uphill, of course. After a bit, I find my next pity rock and collapse onto it. Runner, my foot. A man with a long-distance bib runs the opposite direction - what’s going on? Turns out he skipped the reverse section and didn’t check in at the last checkpoint. What a shame.
I pull myself together and continue to crawl upward. And by “crawl,” I mean barely shuffle. The trail is so steep that sometimes it’s easier to brace myself with my hands on the rocks. Even without poles, I’ve done a lot of pushing, holding, and occasionally hanging on - mostly on the downhills. Maybe poles would’ve just been in the way. So many people are coming down. Even old folks. Then this trail can’t be that bad, right? Ugh. I catch up with the hiking lady again. “I don’t like this game anymore!” I whine. I drop my heavy self onto another pity rock - and notice a girl pointing a camera at me. I tell her it’s going to be a horrible picture, but she assures me it’s a video. Ha! Well, a horrible video is definitely better.
I seriously need a miracle. I can’t move. Somewhere in my pack, I’ve got headphones - would music help? But I was saving that trick for later. And honestly, I’m too lazy to start digging through my bag now. I’m just… done. God, help me get through this! And yet, I feel a bit guilty asking for help. I’m the one who keeps signing up for these messes I can’t handle. Willingly. What is wrong with me?
Suddenly, I hear encouragement from behind, spoken in a well-placed voice, in clear English. Oh, that’s something new. No way - I’m not letting this slip. It’s a Korean gentleman, though we don’t introduce ourselves right away. Still, we manage to keep up an interesting conversation, and before I even realize it, the top of the hill is there. Well, okay, there’s still a little bit left to scramble up vertically, but the view is worth it. Time to take a few photos.
Getting down from this spot is tricky too, but if I hold on with both hands, I manage.
At last, I can breathe freely - the path finally runs only downhill. My newly acquired trail companion hasn’t abandoned me yet, so it’s time for introductions. His name has two parts, both of which I fail miserably to pronounce, and he graciously allows me to call him K.H. Running together with someone at last feels like a breath of fresh air. The hardships dissolve, and life seems beautiful again. I can tell the downhills aren’t his strong side, so I deliberately slow myself down. I’m here to enjoy this event, right? And besides - this might be my only chance to actually converse with a Korean person. And he’s so cool! He’s done a lot of epic races and has even more planned - absolutely insane.
Time flies as we laugh and chat about the bright and dark sides of running. Turns out, I can still make an impression on this side of the globe - K.H.’s hearty laughter echoes through the trees as I recount the saga of the talking backpack and the lost shoes at the Transgrancanaria 360 race. I know I can be a handful, so I diplomatically tell him that if I get on his nerves, he should just say so and I’ll back off. Ha! Right. I have absolutely no intention of letting him go. I’ve got way too much to say.
As we keep running, I notice K.H. falling behind. Oh, come on - is he already tired of me? But a downhill is a downhill, so I stop holding back, figuring I’ll give the guy some privacy - he’ll certainly catch me on the next climb. Finally, the steep section is behind me, and I enter a park. Oh, a bench! Time to dump the gravel from my shoes and wait for K.H. But he’s nowhere to be seen. Fine then - I’ll move on.
The trail leads back into the city - though technically, it probably never really left it. The street runs past shops and café tables, where some runners are already sitting, enjoying refreshments. I stop at a traffic light. No matter how empty the street looks, crossing on red in Seoul feels like a sin. “Caught you!” calls K.H., arriving just in time. What a delightful turn - I thought our conversation was far from over. I tell him that watching those runners relax with their drinks looks awfully tempting, and he suggests turning back and joining them. Hmm, why not?
In the small shop, you can buy pretty much anything. I’m craving ice cream, but I can’t make sense of the local options. I buy the same one as my trail buddy. He also grabs a cup of ice and a packet of black coffee. He pours it into the ice - and voilà, a miracle boost for weary ultrarunners. Wow! I never imagined black coffee with ice could feel this revitalizing. It even wipes away the lingering taste of gels. Pure genius - a trick to remember.
My ice cream, however, turns into a bit of a fiasco. I peel off the wrapper and take a bite - rock hard, utterly tasteless, like a block of plastic. Ah, of course - it is plastic. The trick is to break off the cap, warm it in your hands, and slowly sip the icy liquid inside. In my surprise, I even drop it to the ground. “You won’t eat it if you don’t roll it in the dirt first,” my great-grandmother used to say. Yeah… I probably look like a total savage right now. We continue on our way, enjoying our “ice cream.” It’s starting to feel like a pleasant stroll through the park. The conversation makes time fly, and soon it seems the next checkpoint can’t be far.
The 5th checkpoint is basically the halfway mark. Fifty-three kilometers is less than half, but most of the climbing is behind us. We were allowed to send drop bags here, but I didn’t bother. My trail companion, however, is ambitious - planning to change every single piece of clothing and footwear. Seriously? Who does that? They’ll be soaked again in a few kilometers. I don’t hesitate to call it a silly waste of time. Why did I even speak? K.H. decides to compromise and only swaps his socks. Instantly, I regret not convincing him to stick to his original plan. My feet are practically indestructible - they never blister - but not everyone’s are. Guilt calls for a bowl of noodles.
I try to shovel some food into myself, but it doesn’t really go down. Half a portion of instant noodles and a bit of Coke will have to do. It would be smart to charge my watch, but I can’t muster the energy to dig through my pack.
Time to head out again. The next section doesn’t promise any massive climbs, just endless little ups and downs for 13 kilometers - plus darkness as a bonus. The route follows a road. Strangely long. K.H. wants to run. I can barely move, but I grit my teeth and do it anyway - I don’t want to lose the company or admit I’m the weak one. I feel like I’ll collapse any moment. My legs tangle, and it doesn’t take long before I trip and fall. My trail companion proves a hero — he shoots out an arm and steadies me just in time. Phew! My knees are fine, but the sudden strain triggers a cramp. I stop to stretch it out, which helps. I’m ready to continue pretending to be a runner.
We pass through a park, only to find the pink marking ribbon gone. Completely vanished. Luckily K.H. has the GPS route loaded on his watch. A street crossing remains, and after a brief hesitation, we spot a pedestrian bridge — that must be it. The pink ribbons reappear on the other side. I shudder to imagine navigating this section alone. K.H. has saved me three times already today.
We enter another park, which, with the coming darkness, slowly and inevitably turns into a torturous labyrinth with no apparent exit. The climbs are just steep enough to break your spirit, and the descents are always too short to rest. Whenever there’s a well-lit path - that’s definitely not ours. I’ve reached the point where I need to learn a local swear word. K.H. refuses at first, but I manage to persuade him, and soon I’m hissing a Korean “sh” word straight into the hateful trail. In return, I teach him “idritvaikociņ.” Since he doesn’t seem exactly the swearing type, it is a suitable word - after all, it doesn’t mean anything. He nails the pronunciation.
Still, I’m struggling. We keep sitting on benches more and more often. Our pace is painfully slow, and the kilometers creep by. I’m hungry, but even swallowing a gel is a real struggle. K.H. offers me an energy bar. It looks suspicious - of course, red beans. What is it with these people and beans? No, thanks. But I do accept a salt tablet - because taking unmarked white capsules from newly met strangers in the dark forest seems perfectly normal for ultrarunners.
There are also talking poles here - scary, heart-stopping machines or something. You’re shuffling through the dark forest, lost in your thoughts, when suddenly a pole by the trail flashes and starts shouting at you in Korean. Scary stuff! After one particularly brutal climb, the trail opens up to an incredible view - Seoul at night, shining in all its glory. Wow! It's a city of ten million - ten Rigas! That’s unimaginable.
The beauty doesn’t last long though. Soon we’re back in the dark forest of despair. My trail buddy is getting sleepy. I, on the other hand, feel worse by the minute. I’m desperately waiting for the next checkpoint - maybe there will be some miraculous food to fix me. Right now, I can’t eat anything, even the thought makes me nauseous. After what feels like endless kilometers, I’m sure the checkpoint must be near - but there’s still no sign of it. I dream of a convenience store, but K.H. crushes my hopes, saying there won’t be one on this section, only after the big climb in the next. Wait - that next climb doesn’t even look that big. Apparently, it’s the steepest in the entire course. Oh no. I can barely move as it is. I don’t want any “steepest climbs.” Fine, I’ll deal with it when it comes. Finally, the 6th checkpoint is here - time to see if I can get anything down at all.
The checkpoint is packed to the brim - not a single free chair in sight. I gather my things under my arms and hobble off to some distant benches. No noodles here, but there are rice balls. I grab one, along with a banana and a bottle of orange juice. K.H. quickly finishes his meal and stretches out on the next bench for a ten‑minute nap.
I, meanwhile, nibble at the rice ball, washing it down with orange juice. This is rough. The sticky lump of rice challenges my gag reflex like nothing else. I manage maybe a fifth of it before giving up. Desperate for calories, I force down a whole banana and chase it with glass after glass of orange juice. It’s getting chilly. I put on my rain jacket. Why on earth didn’t I pack a long‑sleeve?
I call home, whining to Edijs about how terrible everything is. He says the tracking system predicts I’ll reach the next checkpoint in four hours. Four hours?! No way that can’t be right! My trail buddy wakes up - time to go! Oh joy... I jump up - and sprint to the edge of a ditch to violently rid myself of dinner. Orange juice, banana, rice, more juice - a full‑blown fountain show in reverse order. Well then. At least one thing’s certain: it’s true what they say - a banana tastes exactly the same both ways. I wipe my mouth, then my hair, then my hands on my sides. Pure elegance. K.H. looks worried. Damn. I feel awful that he has to witness this spectacle. He runs off to get the medics. That’s not a good sign. The worst thing you can do in an ultra is let a medic catch you vomiting. That I’ve heard. Pull yourself together, woman! I pull myself together. I stop vomiting. I start shivering. Great.
K.H. leads me to the medics. They try to guide me toward their car. I weakly protest, insisting I want to keep going. But since I’m trembling like a leaf, I don’t exactly sound convincing. They assure me I can warm up in the ambulance and, if I still feel like it afterward, I’ll be free to continue. Which can mean only one thing - it’s time to say goodbye to my wonderful trail buddy. I thank him from the bottom of my heart and wish him luck. He thanks me back and even gives me a hug. I do my best not to cry.
Inside the ambulance, I’m told to lie down. They wrap me in a blanket and press a heating pack into my hands. What now? The doctor asks how I feel and what I’d like to do next. I admit I’m feeling a bit better and want to keep going. She bursts out laughing and tells me she can’t let that happen. Excuse me, what?
They check my blood pressure and temperature - both are elevated. Oops.
“But that can happen in ultras, right?” I ask, trying to hide my rising panic. She just smiles. I think I’m in trouble. The doctor tells me to rest for a bit and leaves. When she returns, she brings a barrage of questions - does this hurt, does that hurt, do I feel dizzy, have I been sick recently? No, no, and no. I do my best to sound lively and coherent. Still, every conversation ends up looping back to the same point - the dance goes like this:
“What would you like to do next?”
“I’d like to continue.”
“I can’t let you do that.”
I can’t afford to quit here. Not now. I didn’t fly halfway across the world to just give up. Would anyone - friends, family, colleagues - ever believe that it was truly that bad? Me, unable to continue? Even if they did, Mr. Veips definitely wouldn’t. And I wouldn’t believe it myself by tomorrow - or in an hour. I have to get out of here. I’ll figure out how to keep going later. First, I need to convince these kind doctors that I’m perfectly fine.
From time to time, another medic brings me a small cup with something to drink. The first one - no idea what that was. The second turns out to be warm honey water. I express genuine delight and say it reminds me of childhood. They laugh and tell me they drink it for hangovers.
Meanwhile, time is slipping away, and panic starts creeping in - what if they really don’t let me go? To cover it up, I start cracking jokes left and right. Either I’m funny or completely delirious, because the doctors keep laughing.
The main doctor points at my hands - my nails are completely blue. She admits she has no idea what that even means. Oh wow, they are blue. Never seen that before. Better keep them hidden under the blanket. I keep shamelessly lying, insisting that I’m feeling fantastic and ready to get back out there. I can tell she’s starting to soften. Good - keep going. I promise that if things get bad, I’ll call a taxi and head back to the hotel. (Truth be told, I have no idea how I’d actually manage that from the middle of the forest, but maybe she doesn’t know that.)
Finally, the doctor says that if I really mean to continue, I have to leave now - the checkpoint is closing any minute. Oh, bless you! I promise anything she wants me to promise, thank her in Korean, and slip off into the darkness.
My enthusiasm fades the moment I disappear from the checkpoint’s line of sight. I feel worse than shit. The last thing I want now is to keep pretending to be a trail runner, stuck in this wretched forest. I’m cold, queasy, and completely drained. How am I supposed to get up that steep hill when I haven’t eaten a thing? On top of everything, I’ve lost an hour and fifteen minutes at that checkpoint, and this ordeal is starting to feel like another round of fleeing from the Cutoff Dragon.
The climb starts gently, but soon I’m trapped on a steep, rocky trail. Just deal with it! I climb a stretch, then collapse onto a rock, a bit further, and I do it again. The more I climb and the less I sit, the sooner this misery will end. Lights flicker both ahead and behind me. Strangely, I’m still not the last. From above, I hear solitary cheers - someone must have reached the summit. Good news, because the shouts sound fairly close. About twelve kilometers to the next checkpoint. After this peak, no horrors are expected. At the top, the treacherous trail gives way to neat steps. I wouldn’t have thought that could make me happy. While the trail descends, I can even run a little. But once it reaches the sleepy, isolated neighborhood below, running is impossible. My stomach feels twisted around a rock, but overall I’m not feeling overwhelmingly bad anymore. Perhaps the rest in the ambulance helped?
I march on, briskly. The road twists sharply and stretches along an old railway line. Straight and endless. Not a shop in sight. The conditions would be perfect for running, yet I can only walk. A shame. Occasionally someone passes me, so at least I’m not last. Ahead, I catch up to another group, so the situation isn’t hopeless. Still, the checkpoint’s time limit worries me. Can I make it? Time stretches like elastic. Barbed-wire fences line the way. Perhaps there are military buildings here. In the dark, this area doesn’t feel like a place for leisurely strolls.
Finally, I reach a train depot. There are decorations around, but the area still doesn’t seem particularly inhabited. The trail finally winds into a residential neighborhood. Civilized elements grow denser until I stop at a traffic light. A volunteer says there’s a little over two kilometers to the checkpoint, and there’s plenty of time. Incredible - I made it through and survived. Volunteers are stationed at several more traffic lights in this completely sleepy part of the city. It’s about 1:00 a.m. Why are these solitary volunteers even here? To watch us cross streets? To make sure we don’t feel forgotten?
Finally, I spot a small convenience store at the roadside. I’ve been waiting for it forever! I rush inside. There are plenty of runners. Someone’s heating food, another is shopping, as if the checkpoint isn’t just ten minutes ahead. I get flustered, nothing appeals to me - in fact, everything I see challenges my gag reflex. What was I even looking for here? I can’t imagine eating. Ice coffee! That taste has been haunting me since midday. But no, it wouldn’t be wise - I need to force some calories in, not just coffee. I find the nastiest, sweetest coffee concoction in the fridge. I also grab mango juice and a gel candy.
At the checkout, I almost burst into tears - I didn’t bring my credit card! I usually pay with my watch, but right now it’s playing its swan song and is about to die. There’s also a card in my phone, but for some reason that function isn’t working. I give my watch one last try, and it doesn’t let me down.
I’ve finished off the overly sweet coffee by the time I get to the checkpoint. I sit down and stare blankly at a single spot. I don’t want anything. Two hours have passed since I escaped the medics. How did I get here so quickly? A kind elderly man brings me a whole handful of rice cakes. I force myself to try one. It’s tolerable until I bite into the filling. Red beans! Seriously? Before they hit the asphalt, I snap to my senses and bolt from the checkpoint. The taste lingers unpleasantly. Maybe the mango juice will help? No, it tastes foul.
Ahead is the last climb and a mere eight kilometers to the 8th checkpoint. Somehow, I manage to swallow and keep two gummy bears down. Bring it on - I’m ready for whatever comes next.
The path is smooth and climbs gently upward. I don’t feel weak at all. I step briskly, keeping a lively pace. On either side, dark forests loom like walls, broken now and then by eerie noises from hidden drainage systems. I focus, anxious not to miss any trail markers. Through the trees, Seoul glimmers in the night. Around me lies a city of ten million, yet in this dark mountain I feel utterly alone.
Not quite alone, though - two pairs of shiny little eyes peer at me from the roadside. Kittens. What are you doing here, little friends? They seem uninterested in me now, playing dangerously close to the cliff’s edge. Something moves on the path ahead - a large animal? No, it’s an old man grumbling to himself, probably blinded by my headlamp. Strange hour for a walk.
I pass a small viewing area with benches, where a few runners have settled for a nap. The cityscape glows as always. Just when I start to feel the climb might go on forever, the trail dives into the forest again and strikes steep stairs. They seem endless, steps lined with reflective strips, shining golden in my headlamp. As far as I can see, the golden staircase stretches upward. And just when I think it must end, it twists and continues, higher still. The easy climb is long gone. I pause on a bench at the viewpoint, captivated by the view of the city. The river is visible now.
A whole line of determined runners catches up and overtakes me. I gather myself and latch onto their pace. Finally, I’m no longer alone. On the next descent, I pass them again. The golden stairs return. The trail promises more up and down segments - frustrating but beautiful, with postcard-perfect city views appearing again and again. The uphill stretches wear me down while the downhills demand extreme caution. On another scary downhill, I meet an American runner. We exchange a few words. Chatting would be nice, but he’s painfully slow. I want to run, as the path finally leads convincingly downward. I move past several more runners and arrive at a brightly lit park.
At the 8th checkpoint, I’m greeted with cheers. A little moment that meant the world. The volunteers here are wonderful. One of the runners sitting at the tables recognizes me from when I was pulled into the ambulance. Well, I survived, and I caught you! I sit down and stare at the table. I don’t want anything. My attention is caught by the pear juice. There was nothing like it anywhere else. I give it a try - works! I drink several glasses and set off again. The Live Trail app predicts I won’t make it to the finish on time. How can an app lie so badly? I’ll be on time even if I crawl there. Plenty of time in hand. Ahead lies another 13 km stretch, pleasantly flat.
The trail quickly leads to the Han River, which this section follows. The view, of course, is stunning. If I regretted missing a boat ride on the river the other day, I now make up for it - my personal “Starlight cruise.” My first landmark is the iconic Lotte Tower, on the river’s left bank a little ahead. I must get past it. The pace is slow, I can’t imagine running, and I don’t even try. With roughly a half marathon still ahead, I decide I’m not in running form and save that for later. I march briskly and feel strong.
It’s almost 5 a.m., and the riverfront is surprisingly lively. Runners, cyclists, and groups of elderly people working out. Why are they up so early? Normally, I’d be in bed. A young man beside me alternates running and walking, but as soon as he steps into a walk, I pass him in moments. My method seems more effective, especially when I overtake a slow-moving female runner. One of the runners overtaking me scolds me sharply. I don’t understand a word, but I suppose I shouldn’t be wandering in the bike lane. Where did that even come from all of a sudden? I shyly find my way back to the sidewalk.
A pair of curious eyes watches me. What’s that? A little creature shuffling around at the base of some stairs by the overpass. A raccoon! Of course. Why not a raccoon in the middle of the city.
Morning has come, daylight is rising. Time to start thinking about how to wrap up this thrilling activity. How far could the next checkpoint be?
There’s a bridge to cross. A girl with poles walks ahead of me. I pass her, turn back, and decide maybe it’s time for a chat. I have to slow down - she’s in no hurry at all. But really, where do we have to rush? She tells me I should try TransJeju - it’s a much easier ultramarathon. Hmm, K.H. said the same thing. Before signing up for this Seoul100k, I hesitated between the two. The tricky logistics scared me off, but if locals praise it that much, maybe my future plans are already taking shape. Wait, first things first - I still need to finish this ultra. And look, the long-awaited 9th checkpoint is finally here!
We sit beside a big bowl of cold water filled with floating energy drink pouches. These - and, of course, plain water, maybe some other drinks - are all that’s available here. Since the last checkpoint, I’ve managed to consume only four gummy bears and a few sips of water. I really should eat something. I don’t feel like anything, though. My new companion downs her drink and praises it enthusiastically - apparently, it’s amazing. I don’t want one, but if I could somehow keep it down, maybe the final stretch would be easier. I pick a yellow one and squeeze it empty. The taste... well, better think bright thoughts about home. Bright thoughts don’t help at all - I leap up and barely make it behind the tent corner just in time, when the fountain show resumes. I puke and puke - did I even drink that much? The other runners watch me indifferently, sipping the same energy drinks. Bon appétit, everyone. My companion has already gone ahead. I wipe my hands on my sides and set off again. My hair will dry by itself - the sun’s already getting warm.
Only 8.5 km to go. I can do that... can’t I? Maybe a few calories from that doomed drink stuck around, because I’m suddenly eager enough to run to catch up with the girl from before. Once I do, I slow back to walking - she’s not running anymore. Do I really want to talk more than I want to finish? I don’t know. Ahead lies the path along Cheonggyecheon. Every evening before, we’d come to this beautiful promenade to run or just stroll. The little stream is perfectly kept, decorated, full of charming details - one of my brightest impressions of Seoul. Especially at night, with all the lights and sounds. But now it’s early morning, and the promenade belongs mostly to runners doing their morning sessions. As much as I enjoy chatting with someone, it’s time for me to go. I say goodbye and run the next six kilometers. No idea where the energy’s coming from. In a few sunny patches I switch to walking, but overtaking some of those who’d passed me before feels like good motivation not to quit. When I finally see the waterfall wall, tears spring to my eyes - it’s clear the promenade is ending as well as this journey. Only the final stretch to Gwanghwamun Square remains.
The stairs lead up to the street - crowds everywhere, since another marathon is happening in the city at the same time. Traffic is closed, and to reach the actual finish line I have to go through the metro - a confusing maze, packed with people, way too complicated for my exhausted brain. I don’t understand anything, it feels like a nightmare. When I finally emerge, I’ve already gone past the finish line and have to circle back to enter from the right side. Done.
As high as my spirits were at the end of the promenade, that’s how indifferent I feel now. And rightly so - the real finish was over there, this one’s just a photo spot. Someone hangs a medal around my neck. My energy crashes instantly, leaving just enough to keep me from faceplanting among the cheerful crowd. I look like a zombie with a medal. I grab my post‑race souvenirs and drag myself toward the hotel, pushing through hundreds of smiling runners waiting for their own start in the parallel marathon. Yes indeed - running never ends.
Oh yes, the medal. Here it is.
An unforgettable adventure, but for me - an unbelievably hard one. Breathtaking views in a ten‑million city, where tidy park paths alternate with challenging stone trails, while ancient fortress walls and hills meet modern city skylines. Covering 109 km with no less than 4,800 meters of elevation still doesn’t feel like seeing enough of it. This place is enchanting. Truly unforgettable. The difficulty and brief discomforts fade quickly, but the vivid impressions remain.
