31h30 of harmony - A first 100M in Finland
In 2025, I do not even make it to the start line. Pneumonia stops me in my tracks. But I do not hold any bitterness about it. Of course, this is the second race for which training has led me to fall ill, after September 2024, and I think I will not register again. I would rather accept the idea that this story may end there.
And then, in January 2026, things change. I have a "free" ticket, and above all this 18-week plan, inspired by Inov-8, makes perfect sense for the winter months in Finland. When it is -15°C, long bike rides become complicated, even unrealistic. This preparation, by contrast, gives me an ideal framework to keep building toward a 1200 km ride in June. My motivation is first and foremost pragmatic. It becomes even more real when Philippe agrees to accompany me.
His presence counts almost as much as my weeks of training. He accompanies me in a motorhome, with a form of discreet loyalty that reassures without intruding. In such a long adventure, human communion weighs almost as much as physical preparation. Knowing that a friendly presence is waiting for me, following me, and supporting me profoundly changes the way you go through the effort.
Of course, not everything goes according to plan. Despite all the preparation, I still end up forgetting some equipment. The most absurd episode remains this call to Ian on Wednesday evening at 11 p.m., from Varkaus where we spend the night, to ask him to bring me two flask caps. He has just returned from Berlin and is already flying back to Ruka at 8 a.m. on Thursday. In hindsight, this oversight says a lot about what is already at stake: from that moment on, the preparation fades into the background and the race starts to take up all the space. I will have to deal with what I have, not with what I could have had. On Thursday afternoon, after picking up my bib, we have an ice cream with Ian and Philippe. At that moment, my feeling is very clear: I feel as if I am about to jump from a plane without a parachute. And yet, it does not scare me. On the contrary, there is a form of calm certainty, as if vertigo were simply part of the experience to come.
Friday, 6:45 a.m., I wake up. The objective is simple: leave around 7:15 a.m. and park the motorhome near the start. I cover every possible friction point with Vaseline. Philippe puts kinesiology tape on my neck and lower back, where the pack might rub. I swallow my flan and a little coffee that he has prepared. The flasks are filled, and we leave. The day before, we had spotted a parking area, and at 7:30 a.m. there is no difficulty in finding a place for the motorhome. The atmosphere is already warm, though. I have to squeeze through to join the line and the 350 participants. A final hug with Philippe, then the wait for the start. I still have time to greet a few friends. I turn on my watch, tighten my poles, and I am ready.
The beginning is almost ideal, but in a very particular way: I do not run the first 25 kilometres, I power-hike all of them. On average, I move almost as fast as many participants who run on the flat and downhill, then walk uphill. The downside is that, to overtake them and get back into my rhythm on the climbs, I have to make a lot of muscular effort. At the 25-kilometre mark, I am 25 minutes ahead of my plan. I am still very fresh, but my muscles are already saturated. Just before the aid station, I run 300 metres on a slight downhill to relax, after calling my wife Liisa, to whom I owe a great deal for making it possible for me to be there, while my sensations are still good. I see the camper van in the parking lot: I know Philippe is waiting for me, despite my early pace. But he has forgotten to fill the flasks. And I do not have the lucidity to drink enough water, even though it is noon, the temperature is high, and we are heading out again for 31 kilometres without refuelling.
The 31-kilometre section between Basecamp and Oulanka is divided into two very different parts. The first 15 kilometres are still quite technical, with stretches of narrow singletrack, especially rooty this year, particularly along the river where the terrain is usually muddy. My plan is clear: again, not to run this section, then to accelerate on the next 16 kilometres, which are much more runnable. But the heat decides otherwise. It is 25-26°C. After 40 kilometres, I feel my stomach irritated by the sugar, and I only have sweet food with me. I cannot find a rhythm anymore: either I run too fast or I walk. My cycling experience helps me not to panic. I know it will eventually pass, and that I must reach Oulanka as quickly as possible. That Friday afternoon, a typical heat storm breaks out, with hail. I do not cover myself: I am so hot that the storm almost does me a favour by cooling me down. I call Philippe to prepare a shock treatment for me: a protein shake and a cheese sandwich. I arrive in Oulanka in 8h43, still in line with my plan, and above all before 6 p.m., the start time of the 56 km. I manage to do it without losing any places since Basecamp.
I leave reinvigorated. I even put NOK cream back on my feet. It is less hot, the terrain is more runnable, and I now have dry sausages with me: all this is enough to give me some momentum. I run eight kilometres with ease. That is when I meet the leader for the first time. At first, I think he has taken the wrong path, before realising that he is already on the way back, forty kilometres ahead. The sight dents my morale a little, but in my category I am doing well. And in the ten technical kilometres that follow, I even feel that I stand out from the crowd, simply because I walk faster than the others. On the other hand, I do not manage the finish into Napapiiri well. The thirty-minute stop in Oulanka has shifted my GPS, and I finish the last three kilometres in hypoglycaemia, even though I have everything I need to eat. When I arrive at the aid station, I am no longer really lucid. It takes me five minutes just to sit down with my bowl of riisipuuro. I struggle even to pour myself a glass of Coke. Physically, nothing serious; mentally, though, I need a break. So I close my eyes to help my mind restart.
When I arrive in Napapiiri, I am still in roughly the same position, but I leave having gained thirty places, despite a stop that was far from exceptional. Above all, I note one thing: I am not the worst off. I want to leave before 10 p.m., before the start of the 86 km. I do not manage it, but I still set off with a little margin over the next wave. The start is difficult: my muscles are stiff. Then, within two kilometres, everything falls back into place. I am warmed up, headphones on. On the four boardwalk sections, I still meet participants from the 166 who are finishing their first half, while runners from the 86 km catch up with me. On these boards, it is difficult to cross or overtake. On the longest section, I try to speed up a little to avoid having a large group from the 86 clustered behind me. Bad strategy: I lose my balance and stumble. Very kindly, the participants behind me offer to help. The fall triggers small cramps in my calves, and I have to let them pass. But this is also where the tipping point arrives. Once the cramps fade, my legs become lighter. We are about to enter the more technical part, the one where I walk as fast as the participants in the 86 km. I settle into the group, listen to the music, and focus on my footsteps. Everything is fine. I even arrive in great shape for the eight kilometres into Oulanka. I end up taking the lead of the group all the way to the aid station. The participants of the 86 km are both admiring and grateful for that final pacing. On this section, I gain another twenty places.
Shortly before 3 a.m., Philippe welcomes me for the second time in Oulanka. And, paradoxically, I am in better shape than ten hours earlier. However, when it is time to change my socks, I see the state of my left ankle. We will have to calm things down. I put on more compressive socks, and I choose more stable shoes, the Salomon Genesis, instead of the Ultra Glide. At that moment, I still think I can run ten to fifteen kilometres at most. I swallow a new protein shake and eat some tabbouleh in the camper. Then I leave for the last third.
This last third begins like the other sections: slowly. After a thirty-minute stop, getting moving again requires a little patience. But I have put on dry clothes, and at least I do not feel cold when I step out of the camper. After two kilometres, I am able to run again. The terrain is very runnable, not too rooty, so I take advantage of it, knowing it will not last. I am accompanied by participants from the 86 km, happy to have a pacer who does not go too fast, and we encourage each other. Everything goes well until the first technical descent.
There, we are caught by a group from the 86 who clearly do not like being slowed down. With my ankle, I do not want to take any risks. One of them jostles me while passing on the left, and I land in the rocks. In the fall, I cut open my elbow, forearm, and knee, and I feel pain in my hip. Beyond the fall itself, the lack of respect annoys me, especially since the runner does not even stop, and my straight three-section pole no longer locks in the unfolded position. I leave looking for a solution. Then I get annoyed again with another group from the 86 km: none of them wants to stop, even for a second, to give me the roll of tape from the top of my pack. Finally, someone agrees. I tape the joint and, pulling with all my strength, I manage to lock the pole back into its extended position.
The adrenaline, and the fact that my body is in survival mode, erase any potential pain. I continue one step at a time, careful not to fall again. Leaning heavily on my poles, I get through the entire technical section and the passage along the river. But I am still trapped by the lag in my watch GPS, caused by the earlier stops. I drift a little, without much motivation, over the last two kilometres to Basecamp. I have no idea what time it is. The aid station is calm, and I think the 34 km runners have already left. In reality, I am there before 10 a.m. and they have not started yet. It is also at this moment that I understand the powder in my flasks has mixed badly: I have only been drinking water. That explains the craving at the end, because I have eaten only a few dry sausages. So I rehydrate, rinse my flasks properly, check that the powder mixes well, and leave with enough gels and chews to eat for what feels like an eternity, because I have not consumed them for 80 kilometres.
I approach the last twenty-five kilometres in the same way: one step at a time. I could still run a little, but I am well aware that I have about five hours of effort left. It would not change much, except perhaps to make the situation worse. So I manage until the long descent to Konttainen. It is the first time, in three participations, that I am still able to race there.
I meet Philippe there at 1:30 p.m. He has been waiting for me since 4 a.m. He wants to give me many things; I only want enough water for the last two hours. I attack the last seven kilometres in the same way, because it works. Four kilometres from the finish, on a very technical descent made slippery by the many passages of the 56 and 86 km runners, a participant is motionless, clinging to the rope. I do not need the rope with my poles. I swerve to pass and put all my weight on my already damaged pole. This time, it gives way for good. I will finish with only one. It slows me down a little, but nothing catastrophic. Just after that, a storm breaks out. It gives a final epic dimension to the end of the race, especially on the climb to Valtavaara, with the summit swept by the storm. Again, I do not get dressed: within two minutes we are soaked anyway. I am a little cold. I have the GPS point for the finish, so I do not get trapped by the remaining distance; in any case, I know this end of the course. There are five of us from the 166 arriving together. I approach the last two kilometres in last position. There is still one kilometre of climbing, then the descent to the finish. Despite my single pole, I can see that I will catch two of them on the climb. I give everything I have left. My heart rate rises again to 170 bpm after more than 31 hours of effort. When I reach them, I ask if we are finishing together. They signal for me to go. So I forget about my damaged ankle. I run to the finish. In the picture, you can see my soaked T-shirt and my flasks hanging loose, like a final sign of the fight.
Philippe is there. I stay on the line to congratulate the two participants who arrive just after me. The other two join us. All five of us congratulate one another, aware that we have been crossing paths at the aid stations since the first passage through Oulanka, and aware too of what it means to be at the finish of an edition where, unfortunately, more than 200 starters do not finish. Philippe turns photographer and takes us one by one in front of the finishers' sign. At that moment, everything is aligned. I am at peace between my body and my mind, with the simple feeling of being in exactly the right place. This is not the fulfilment of a dream, nor a spectacular victory. It is something deeper and calmer: the satisfaction of having arrived at the start healthy, and of having finished without compromising either my family life or my work. On Paris-Brest-Paris, I found myself. On this 166 km, I finish without losing myself.
[Strava](https://www.strava.com/activities/18621130054)