Hlučínská 24ka: Lost Around the Lake
The Hlučín 24-Hour Race – “Like, sure, I know it,” I probably would have told myself a while ago, “but I’m saving my energy for something else…” Not this year. Still, a 24-hour race is a 24-hour race, no matter where it’s run. And since returning to this “peculiar region” (Ostrava) is always a pleasure, it didn’t take long to let myself be talked into participating.
“So, what’s the plan?” I hear. “Well, at least two hundred [kilometers], right?” I tell myself—or rather, I want to tell myself. My form over the last few months, rather than pointing to this goal, deep down makes me realize that a 100-miler should really be the baseline target.
Since I don’t intend to underestimate preparation and sleep this time around, my buddy Zdeněk and I head out a day early. Instead of spending the night in a tent like his friends are enjoying, we opt for the comfort of a guesthouse. Arriving at the venue is made pleasant by the sunshine and getting familiar with the loop. We help pitch the mega-tent for Zdeněk’s colleagues, go through registration, and after buying supplies, we all meet up at the pub—for food and, obviously, beer, because I don’t intend to be that responsible with my prep. However, we cut off the beer supply before I get too thirsty for more, and since we hit the sack right after ten, things are looking good for the next day.
But I wake up constantly throughout the night, and the icing on the cake after getting up in the morning is a double bowel evacuation, which feels like it’s going to be followed by a few more. So I decide to save the situation with some Imodium (unlike at previous events). Arriving at the start less than 30 minutes before kickoff is ideal. The weather is cooperating; it’s still a bit chilly, but I leave my jacket behind. Whether it’s a big or a small race, the starting-line jitters are always the same. I just want it to start already. Exactly at 9:00 AM, we take off.
The tactics are simple: run as long as possible and don’t push too hard. So, a 6-minute pace for how many of the first kilometers? I have absolutely no idea. With my signature “Fíča” (Phidippides race) shirt, I stand out in the crowd like an orange devil. The first lap is exploratory—and it’s not bad! The bike path is nice, running around the gravel pit isn’t boring—though I have no illusions, this feeling can’t possibly last the full 24 hours.
I gradually settle into a routine—here and there I chat with friends and acquaintances on the course, but slowly I retreat into my own bubble, just the way I like it. I’m knocking out laps at a pace of about 6:10/km (including stops), so realistically a bit faster. I’m fueling up on Vysočina salami and pouring a Czech coke (Kofola) down my throat. The temperature is starting to rise, and the first pit stop in the tent after a marathon (and 7 laps) comes in really handy. I replenish what I sweated out and keep everything under 5 minutes. At the same time, I change my shoes because the Sauconys are starting to rub my pinky toes raw, and I ditch the Fíča shirt too. I have 3 beers waiting in the tent, but it’s about 50°C inside, and the temperature of the beer is closer to freshly brewed tea, so I decide to pass on that pleasure.
I crawl out of the tent; it’s 1:30 PM and the heat is starting to bite. Plus, people are starting to gather by the gravel pit because there’s a “Witches’ Night” (Walpurgis Night) event this afternoon and evening, so there is (and will be) no shortage of sarcastic remarks. I tell myself that once I get sick of this, I’ll just sit down at the pub garden at the end of the lap and have a beer (but that never happens).
The laps go by, and the only change is that I start grabbing refreshments at the two stations on the course as well. One is at 1.5 km and the other at 4 km. I’m maintaining a steady, machine-like pace, but feeling the creeping fatigue in my legs, I know it’s going to hurt soon. Another routine forms: I take the section without people a bit slower, and the section with people (who are showing up in droves for the Witches’ Night) a bit faster—”cause I don’t want to look like an idiot”…
I’ve got two marathons clocked in at 8:40, which isn’t bad. But at the second pit stop, after taking my supplements, I take a 15-minute break because I’m starting to boil over, even though evening is setting in. I’m looking forward to the sunset. The laps after the pit stop, however, make it very clear that playtime is over. My pace drops to 7:00/km first, then even worse, and to top it off, I start walking here and there. On the bright side, there is an exceptionally beautiful sunset that makes the effort and pain totally worth it.
Darkness falls. The number of runners (and walkers) on the loop begins to drop. Around 11:00 PM, at the end of the 20th lap, I bump into Zdeněk. I’ve just about had enough, and although I’m not super sleepy, we agree to catch 20 minutes of sleep in the tent. And, failing to learn from past experiences (from MOAB), I crawl under the blanket sweaty, so within moments I’m shivering from the cold. I opt to put on my ninja warm stuff and my Hurricane jacket, but I keep the shorts on—because I packed for this race so incredibly well that I didn’t bring any long pants at all.
With eating, the break stretches to 30 minutes, and I’m starting to suspect that even though I’m ahead of schedule, the 200 km mark ain’t happening unless a miracle occurs. I head back out into the night, determined to see if my legs will get moving again. Nope, they didn’t. I try to refuel, adding chocolate alongside the salami and Kofola, but it seems my legs couldn’t care less. Until now, there’s been no wind—but it was just the calm before the storm. The forecast says it’s going to be windy. Hopefully, they’re wrong.
They weren’t. Between 1:00 and 2:00 AM, a massive gale breaks out. The timekeepers’ tent flies away, the aid stations wisely pack up their tents, and the staff huddle in their cars to stay warm. A lap now takes me about an hour. It feels like the wind wants to blow us completely away. A few times, I feel like I’m moving backward instead of forward. I’m freezing my ass off; bare legs are far from ideal. After every lap, I warm up for a bit in the big tent and pour hot tea down my throat instead of Kofola. I come to the conclusion that just hitting the 100-mile mark at this snail’s pace will be a success.
I grit my teeth. If my body isn’t working, my head better be. They can’t both fail. So I keep pushing hard, ignoring the cold. The wind finally dies down towards morning. Dawn breaks. I have 3.5 hours left, and two laps to go to hit 100 miles. I run here and there, but mostly I’m just enjoying the solitude, the silence (and some pissed-off meditation).
Final lap to the 100-miler. Well, at least it’s something—and halfway through, I tell myself I’m not just going to sit around at the finish line for an hour and fifteen minutes doing nothing. So I’ll do one more walking lap—with a bonus quick trip to the port-a-john at 1.5 km, because those 2 kilos of watermelon I devoured over half a day finally wanted to find their way out. I actually run the final section of the lap, just for the feeling, and at the finish line, I’m surprisingly greeted by my usual support crew, Petr and his partner, who came out to watch.
They tell me I look like I haven’t even run at all… Yeah, yeah, if I hadn’t slacked off so much, I could have placed better than the “potato” [4th place]—though to be honest, I’d be ashamed to stand on the podium after a performance like that.
Race Stats:
- Distance: 175 km on the watch
- Time: 23:30
- Result: 4th place
It wasn’t that bad (and where else can you burn 13,000 calories in a day?), but I’m looking forward to doing something soon that will fulfill me more – Next stop: Okinawa. Different roads, different suffering.
Thanks to everyone who kept their fingers crossed for me!
