Ultra Milano Sanremo – A Sign of Punk

It took me almost a year after winning the 48-hour race (K6 Ultra) in Konstantinovy Lázně before I stood at the start of another road ultra. After three previous trail projects in Israel, America, and Oman, I found myself with insufficient training and lingering doubts, but my appetite for the road was stronger than ever. After four years, I set off once again for Milan.

For those readers unfamiliar with it, the Ultra Milano Sanremo is a 285km road ultra—more of a family or punk type, if you will—where about 60 runners participate each year. Not everyone dares to tackle such a distance! The route has only four checkpoints, unlike events like the Spartathlon, which has runners supported at every moment. Personally, I find the UMS more challenging than the Spartathlon, not only because of the extra distance, but also due to the tricky navigation— the GPX from the organizers is notoriously inaccurate, and the markings are minimal.

Given the circumstances, I set only one goal for myself: to finish (within 48 hours if possible). My first attempt resulted in a time of 45:30, and the second ended with me stumbling to the finish line injured, just before the limit, in 47:30— during which the last 100 km was all walking. So here we go…

Our trusty expedition vehicle, a VW Caravelle (thanks a lot, Kilpi!), has welcomed one additional member this time—a runner. Alongside the traditional Squadra Azzurra support (since we’re off to Italy, right?), consisting of Petr Faldyna and Patrik Činčiala, we’ve got Petr Chytil joining us. After battling injuries and illness, and with almost no training, he’s attempting the near impossible. It will be even tougher because he can only be supported when our crew can manage it; supporting two runners over such a long distance is a monumental task. Still, we’re all in this together to help each other out.

The van’s packed, ensuring comfort for the crew and runners alike. It’s Wednesday night, and our long journey begins. Petr takes the wheel, while Patrik rides on the passenger seat, and Petr Ch. and I lounge in relative comfort in the back. Before I drift off to sleep, I treat myself to a can of beer—after all, this is our “vacation.” In the morning, I take over driving when Peter needs a nap. Before reaching our accommodation, I briefly meet the rest of the expedition party (Tereza, Kristýna, Hana, and Tonda) at the Milan airport. Everything gets set up in the two-storey apartment we’ve rented for one night. After a pre-start talk—this time featuring just us two runners—followed by a few evening beers and preparation for our early morning departure, it’s time for bed.

The morning of April 14 is frantic, but I still manage to kneel for two imodiums; this has become a kind of pre-start ritual for me. We pack our things into the car and are about to leave when Patrik remembers a pack of Pilsner left in the fridge. We can’t leave that behind—this drink is vital to our expedition’s success. As Patrik rushes back to the apartment, I snap a photo with Petr Ch. When suddenly my mobile rings, it’s Patrik—he’s stuck in the elevator and can’t get it to work. Not fun! There’s a genuine risk we might miss the start due to traffic (even though it’s only about 7 kilometers to the start). Miraculously, we manage to get the elevator working, hop in the car, and roll out.

We wrangle through some minijams, arriving at the parking lot about 15 minutes before the start. We leave Peter Ch. and the support crew to tend to the car and dash to the starting line. As we arrive, Peter Ch. gets called up to the start line (at UMS, they announce each runner by name). I must have missed mine, so I mingle among those already announced. Then, the spotter spots me and, with visible relief, he ushers me out of the crowd and around the barriers, calling me forward out of order. I’ve never started a race this last-minute. The downside is that I didn’t have time to eat or drink (I didn’t even bring water)! The support team and I are scheduled to meet in 3 hours, so I know it won’t be an easy start to the race. On the plus side, I have no time to worry. Soon after the guys arrive, the countdown begins, and we take our first steps at 9:30.

The weather is superb—sunny, with temperatures hovering around 18 to 20 degrees. No rain in the forecast, which is a great relief. The first part of the route follows the classic straight canal path—it’s an endless stretch that I’d describe as somewhat monotonous. I spot Peter Ch. at the beginning, but then I move ahead. It’s not that I’m trying to chase fast runners; I simply prefer the solitude without the chatter.

Speaking of strategy, I’m determined to maintain a pace of six minutes per kilometer for as long as possible, ideally at least for the first 100 km. I keep a close watch on my watch and pace over the first twenty kilometers. I’m cautious not to overdo it, yet I also don’t want to drag my feet. This focus helps distract me from the monotony of the route. I get passed by a bunch of runners, and it feels like I’m in the latter half of the field. But I’ve been here before and don’t intend to repeat my previous mistakes of a fast opener. It does irk me a bit when all types of runners speed past me, including “pensioners”, but I manage to keep my thoughts in check.

Fifteen kilometers in, my mouth begins to feel parched. I had hoped that there would be a mini checkpoint like in previous years—where I could grab some water—after ten kilometers, but nothing this time. At least the wind is blowing, providing a bit of freshness. The field spreads out, and the order settles down. Gradually, I stop checking my watch so closely, I’ve found my rhythm, and I’m settling into ultra mode.

At twenty-five kilometers, I meet up with the support crew for the first time, later than I’d hoped, but just in time as I’m feeling quite thirsty. I chug down a pint of Coke, as I’m not hungry yet. Since I’m feeling good, we agree to meet every 8 to 10 kilometers from here on. I start keeping an eye out for Pavia, the first point of interest beyond the straight cycle path. Given the minimalist signage and inaccurate GPX track, I find myself following fellow runners I’ve caught up with—relying on them to guide me through the town. This turns out to be a good decision; after I take the lead, they call me out twice for straying off course. With a sigh of relief, I charge onto a bridge that I remember because there is an aesthetically pleasing historic bridge to the left that I had seen before.

Beyond Pavia, I’m faced with a straight stretch along a packed main road, trying to avoid falling into a ditch while dodging trucks that clearly don’t appreciate runners on the road. I keep my pace, but the scenery remains unchanged, and the road is agonizingly straight, with only a few bends to break the monotony. The only bright spot is when I meet up with the support team (who is now switching back and forth between me and Peter Ch.), during which I grab a quick soy soup and wash it down with a chilled can of Pilsner.

Petr has brought a portable fridge in the car, which means I have the advantage of cold drinks. I take this opportunity to change my shoes, as my Achilles tendon is starting to hurt in the On Running Cloud Ace, and I’m feeling some blister coming as well. So I switch to my Saucony Triumph 19. I’m eagerly anticipating the first checkpoint, Casteggio, at kilometer 50.

I complete the first segment in exactly 5 hours, right on schedule. The checkpoint is in a different place than in the past, which catches me off guard. I grab another cold Pilsner from the car, check in with the boys, pick up a sandwich, and settle on a bench to refuel. A fellow runner across from me inquires about where I’m from and what I’m drinking. When I reply, “the Czech Republic” and “beer,” he doesn’t seem to be surprised. The sandwich is a challenge to chew—terribly hard—and after a while, I get up, refill my Coke, and head back on my way.

The next checkpoint, Ovada, awaits at about kilometer 120. I’m feeling the first signs of elevation as the scenery remains pretty much the same. I pass through the towns of Voghera, Tortona, and Novi Ligure, each with variations in the route that leave me a little uncertain. Suddenly, before Tortona, I find myself gripped by my first significant crisis. I take a step, feeling weak in the legs while my eyes feel heavy. It’s a bit early to be drowsy. I start to worry that my steady pace and good mood might be coming to an end. Meeting up with Peter and Patrik proves beneficial; I manage to eat something, wash it down with a coke, and most importantly, add another beer. I walk a little while longer, and as my strength returns, I start running again. The sun begins to set behind Novi Ligure, casting a darkening shadow, and I accept the fact that more straight stretches lie ahead before reaching the hills (at last!). After eight hours, I grab my headlamp and enjoy one last half can of beer before darkness sets in. Hydration has been spot on so far.

As night begins to envelop me, I’m jolted from my lethargy by the frequent honking and flashing lights from drivers. Apparently, they aren’t used to seeing runners on the road with headlamps. Not wanting to stir up any trouble, I lower my light and gesture with open hands, expressing my regret instead of resorting to a typical nasty gesture.

I’ve been running solo for quite some time now, and while I’ve stopped tracking who I’ve passed, I’m aware that I’ve outpaced more runners than have surpassed me.

I’m nearly within the sight of Ovada, only about 10 kilometers away when another wave of fatigue hits me. My eyelids feel heavy, and I begin to feel very tired. Sure, it’s not surprising; I’ve only taken brief rests along the way. My calf also starts to bother me, and I am left to ponder which issue to address first. I decide to apply my usual remedy and reach out to my crew: I munch on two pieces of toasted bread and sip on some cold beer. This combination proves effective once again. After a mile of walking, I find my footing and start running uphill. We agree that the team will let me run at my own pace and that they’ll meet me at the next checkpoint.

After 13 hours and 40 minutes, I reach Ovada just after 11 PM, alone as a runner. Feeling quite hungry at this point, I order soup and pasta and take refuge in the warmth of a pastry shop, as the evening has turned chilly. Soon, Patrik and Petr arrive to check on me. The food lifts my spirits significantly, and even though I feel a bit cold, the evening air isn’t frigid, so I decline a jacket for now. My legs don’t hurt, and after about 15 minutes, I realize that lingering here any longer isn’t productive. It’s time to continue towards the hills, which involve crossing a mountain range and navigating through a final tunnel. Just a kilometer after the checkpoint, Peter hands me a jacket to keep warm. We agree to shorten our intervals to 6 kilometers.

At long last, I’m starting to enjoy this. Until the tunnel, I run almost the entire time. Where I had previously walked slowly in the past two editions, my energy is revitalized now. As a result, I extend the running intervals to allow the guys some much-needed rest. I find myself forced to pause halfway up the hill when I have to wait 10 minutes at a railway crossing. Resisting the urge to cross against the flashing red, I remind myself that there are cameras everywhere—I won’t chance it.

Occasionally, I run through small towns, with a wild river winding darkly nearby. I can estimate the distance to the tunnel, and I’m surprised when it unexpectedly comes into view. It must be it—but when the GPX path leads me left before the entrance, I follow it. After 100 meters, I realize I’ve taken the wrong route. I turn around and run through the tunnel. As I descend, I spot my crew, and since I only need a quick drink, I continue on without any delay. I have a 12 km run to the next checkpoint, which is around kilometer 160. Though I feel like I’m flying downhill, reviews of the footage later reveal I’m barely holding onto my 6:00 pace. But hey, running is running!

As dawn breaks, I reach the Voltri checkpoint at a quarter to five. It’s located right in town. The support team stays outside while I venture in. It resembles a skating rink—I notice the nets, but overall it’s smaller than our home rink. Finding no satisfying food options, I settle for an iced tea, a refreshing change from the endless cola and beer I’ve consumed. When the local staff realize I’m a foreigner and lack the energy for small talk, they ignore me. I snag a few olives and a piece of salami, deciding not to waste any more time. Inadvertently, I glimpse the timesheet and am amazed to discover that I’m in fifth place.

With 120 kilometers to go, I stay cautious despite how good things look. My time is comparable to previous years, and this is typically where I encounter issues. However, the sea and elevated terrain await me all the way to the finish, and the views should make it worthwhile.

Meeting the support team now feels routine. We set 10-kilometer intervals; I have a Coke each time, a bit of beer now and then, but my appetite tampers down as I don’t feel terribly hungry. The road meanders for many kilometers, alternating between gentle inclines and declines, always leading to a town at the end. I jog along the beach promenade, but it’s early morning, so aside from a few early risers, I encounter little foot traffic. Aside from the occasional steep section where I take a walking break, I’m running comfortably. The fact that I’m holding a decent position is always in the back of my mind, and I remind myself not to get overconfident, as there are many kilometers left to cover—this is a true mental test.

By midday, I reach Pietra Ligure, another checkpoint at kilometer 215. At this stop, I’m thrilled to reunite with the entire support crew. We all gather inside, and while I drink and nibble on a few olives, I’m not particularly hungry for anything more. A brief chat recharges me with mental strength, fueled by the presence of so many supporters dedicated to my journey. It’s uplifting, but I can’t linger too long; my motivation urges me to keep moving. With a realization that I might need to walk a bit, I calculate in my head that even if I do slow down, I could still aim for a sub-forty-hour finish.

After saying my goodbyes, I remind myself not to skip out on a celebratory beer. It feels like I’ve embraced a sort of “Tour de Beer” attitude.

I notice on the intermediate results list that the two runners ahead of me are closer than I thought. Indeed, during the ascent toward Albenga, I pass one female runner. She runs bravely up the main road, while I’ve opted to run alongside the barriers to stay safe. Curious, I inquire if she’s a fellow competitor, but she assures me that she is. However, I express my concern about the danger of running amid traffic, yet it’s clear she doesn’t seem too bothered. Within moments, she vanishes from sight. Now in fourth place, I feel invincible, and thankfully, no impending crisis hampers my progress. I spot a pair ahead—a runner and a pacer—and realize that I still have strength to spare. As we approach kilometer 250, the race kicks into high gear. With so many kilometers behind us, it’s nearly impossible for either of us to gauge the other’s physical or mental state, but I feel the momentum of energy surging through me.

The climb toward Imperia is steep. Normally, I would walk it, but today I’m managing to run partway. An internal psychological battle commences—every time I catch sight of my two competitors, I push myself to run (and they take notice). Whenever I lose sight of them around a bend, I allow myself to walk. To them, it appears as a seamless run, but in reality, it’s a careful strategy on my part. With about 25 kilometers left to the finish line, I prepare to make my move. Just before reaching the summit, I catch up to my pacing rival. I feel energized as my pace picks up, pushing myself not to glance back lest it be perceived as weakness. I power through Imperia and ascend another steep hill, this time opting to walk for a moment to regain my strength. Halfway up one of the winding inclines, I check behind me—there’s no runner within a two-kilometer radius, which brings me a sigh of relief.

The weather has been cooperative thus far, but suddenly dark clouds swirl ominously overhead. I haven’t encountered such foreboding weather in quite some time. I meet with my crew wherever possible; as access to the path becomes trickier, I retrieve a Hurricane jacket from Petr for protection should a storm break. Now, I’m aware there’s a long tunnel about 15 kilometers before the finish, and once I pass through, a beautiful cycle path will lead me home. By around 7 PM, I enter the tunnel. Before that, I navigate through the confusing labyrinth of one of the towns, which adds another layer of exhaustion. I spot the entrance to the bike path sooner than expected—it’s a newly added section— and when a fence momentarily holds me back, I scale down the incline, noting a faint green UMS directional sign on the road. Just then, Petr calls out to me under a bridge—I nearly missed them! I hand over my extra gear and inquire about my next route; my mental clarity is starting to wane.

I know this part well. I pass through a couple of smaller tunnels, and I’m now in third place, pushing myself hard out of fear that someone might catch up. I begin to feel lightheaded and pressure on my chest, acknowledging that I might be pushing myself a bit too hard. During the last check-in with Petr and Patrik, I lose patience and ask Petr to check the online tracking. He assures me that the runner I overtook before is ten kilometers behind, with a two-hour gap! A huge weight lifts off my shoulders. I slip into a very relaxed jog. Darkness has fully descended and I can see the lights of Sanremo sparkling in the distance. But there are still a few kilometers to cover along a winding route toward the finish line. By the time I finally arrive in the town itself, it’s completely dark.

I expect to be swept up by the lively music usually echoing along the finish line on the beach, but tonight it’s strangely silent. At the entry to the beach, I meet Petr, Patrik, and Tereza.

The storm that had been threatening came after all, knocking out electronics, lighting, and the usual finish line gear. My finish is intimate, but I don’t mind the quiet.

As I run up to the water, I sink to my knees and scoop it up, marking the end of my journey after 35 hours and 26 minutes. I’ve crossed the finish line a full 10 hours earlier than my personal best, and I’ve secured third place overall!

The result, time, and the entire experience of this race have left me pleasantly surprised. It feels as if I completed a continuous run (rather than a hike interspersed with running) with only two minor crises. I finished the race almost with a smile on my face, just three hours behind the first-place runner and two hours behind the second. I realize the fatigue at this finish line feels much lighter than in previous races—perhaps I didn’t push myself as hard as I could, and there are still reserves waiting to be tapped into…

×××

However, there’s another chapter to this story, as Petr Chytil still battles on the course—16 hours behind me. For a moment, we consider going after him in the evening, but we’re all too worn out for that. Instead, we plan to catch up with him the next morning at around 9:00. I experience firsthand what it’s like to provide support during the UMS—it’s incredibly challenging! There’s little access to the route, parking is nearly impossible, and tracking the runner is difficult due to outdated GPS data. Nevertheless, Peter Ch. and I cross paths three times, once delivering him hot soup. Despite how he had described himself as feeling exhausted, he looks surprisingly good. We let him relish those final ten kilometers in all its glory, with an awards ceremony scheduled for noon. We hurry back to give him a warm welcome at the beach at 12:30, marking the end of 51 hours of effort.

Final word:

In terms of results, although I didn’t enter this race expecting much, it has turned out to be one of my biggest successes so far, and I finished in excellent time. I find myself pondering what contributed to this achievement. I had much less training this time around. As my friend Zdeněk Votava later told me, it may simply be because I didn’t start the race fatigued from prior training. Or perhaps all the beer I consumed along the way did the trick… Who knows?

Acknowledgements:

First and foremost, I extend heartfelt thanks to Petr Faldyna for his unwavering support in every aspect, complemented by the constant help of my son Patrik. You both sacrificed sleep while I ran my heart out—thank you for that! Additional thanks to the rest of the team, Tereza, Hana, Tonda, and Kristýna, for their mental support, and a huge shoutout to Petr Chytil for the fun moments shared during our journey, along with heartfelt congratulations for his finish.

I also want to express gratitude to Kilpi for providing the gear and lending the van, making this entire experience much more manageable.

Equipment:

• Kilpi: Comfy shorts, Dimaro shirt, Leape shirt, Tirano light jacket, Hurricane jacket
• Outdoor Research: Cap (OR)
• Tabio: Pro Finger Socks
• Saucony Triumph 19 shoes (the Cloud Ace didn’t work for me)

         

Article category: Firstpage, SportArticle