Czechia Backyard Ultra – Riding the “Trend Wave(?)”

Backyard ultra, a popular trend of late. Although I don’t usually ride the fashion waves, a lack of racing opportunities and pure curiosity brought me to the chateau garden in Holešov in mid-November. The abundant participation of friends and acquaintances made it a worthwhile experience.

For the uninitiated, the backyard format requires participants to run 100 miles in 24 hours. Running occurs in increments of one hour, with a circuit of approximately 6.7 miles to be completed in that time. You run a lap and must wait for the next full hour before you can start the next one. You can’t run ahead, and you can’t be late. You have to line up at the start on the hour. The last one standing wins; everyone else technically has a DNF.

At a six-mile pace, that gives 42 minutes of running and 18 minutes of rest. At least at the beginning; as time goes on and fatigue sets in, the run gets longer, and the rest gets shorter. Of course, rest includes everything from changing clothes to eating to handling necessities and maybe even sleeping. So, let’s get on with it.

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It’s November 17, about 6:30 AM. The pre-start preparations take place at home because it’s a 40-minute drive to the start. So I have some divine peace to use the toilet and deal with my pre-race jitters. I’ve been keeping a steadfast eye on the weather all month, and when the bad forecasts get even worse, I console myself with the thought that maybe they’ll be wrong. Well, it doesn’t look very inviting this morning. It’s not raining, but the low clouds and unpleasant weather aren’t encouraging me to head outside. At half past seven, my friend and colleague Zdenek picks me up; he succumbed to my insistence and took the plunge to join this self-destructive endeavor. It’s worth mentioning that my preparation, or rather my packing for the race, began the day before—it looked like I was getting ready for at least 14 days in Antarctica. Well, it’s true that those who are prepared are not at risk, right?

If early morning Olomouc looks grim, it looks even worse as we approach Holešov. It’s easy to rant about the weather in a heated car, but we know we’ll face a harsh reality soon. On the bright side, the organizers promise a heated tent, so hopefully, it won’t be all that bad. It starts dripping when we arrive, but that doesn’t last long.

The circuit in the chateau park resembles a cyclocross course after the previous rainy days—complete with puddles, mud, and even more mud along the trail deep in the park. Well, we’ll know the reality only on the first lap. The tent is indeed heated and spacious, though for about 90 runners, along with all the gear and support, there isn’t much room. We’re wise to arrive well ahead of time, claiming a good spot, unpacking our chairs, and preparing for the long hours ahead.

In line with the positive alcohol experience from Milan Sanremo, I’m equipped with a bottle of Jameson and a supply of beers. Soon, my friends Petr Chytil and Dusan Fojtik arrive in the tent; by then, I’ve already had one beer in me, and the bottle of whiskey is open—thankfully, the drink is just ready to be drunk. I offer around to others, but nobody bites; everyone seems to want to save themselves. Time slowly ticks away; the start is at 10, so we check out the refreshments, toilets, and other facilities the organizers have prepared for us. At half past nine, it’s time to get dressed. I attend the pre-start talk, but it’s cold outside and we already know all the information. So, I head back to the tent before it wraps up.

Three minutes before the start, there’s a whistle blowing and, at the same time, a gong from the TV in the tent displaying all the important information. Two minutes, one minute—the whistle and gong each time. We’re heading to the start. It’s like every other race—full of runners, full of support and friends, smiling faces. We’ll see how we fare in 24 hours, or rather sooner, as I suspect at least half the participants will last only about 12 hours, if not less. I don’t really have a big plan—I don’t know what my opponents will throw at me, and how I’ll hold up; maybe I’ll manage 48 hours? That’s the time I can usually stay awake without sleep.

The whistle sends the crowd into motion. Some of the speedsters take off at a high pace, which I think is complete nonsense. I opt for a slow trot, chatting with friends and soaking up the atmosphere. The terrain around the chateau is relatively easy, with just a puddle here and there. We do a meandering loop around the ponds, run through the start again, head straight to the end of the park, turn around, and in the next section, we have ourselves a mini mud bath. The first lap is still manageable, but it’s clear to me that the next few laps will only worsen due to hundreds of shoes leaving their mark. Instead of easy asphalt, it’s going to feel like cross-country. The stretch of asphalt mile is my reward for dirty shoes and wet feet. Back the same way, and I’m at the finish line in 42 minutes.

An 18-minute break feels luxurious. As planned, I strip down to my waste (to avoid sweating into my clothes), put on my softshell jacket, and since I don’t need to eat or drink anything, I at least take a sip of Jameson. We chat, and before we know it, round two arrives. What follows is pretty much the same as the opening lap. At least now, in addition to sipping Jameson, I’ll drink half a Pilsner during the second break. I hear whispers from the sidelines that I shouldn’t overdo it…

Lap three. Steady pace. I know it’s going to be a mess. 42 minutes—strip, softshell, drink, sit. I’ve got a box of clothes in front of me that I’m using as a table for my legs. I’m sitting quietly in my beach chair when suddenly, there’s the sound of fabric tearing. I sink down, nearly to the floor. It takes me a moment to realize what’s happened. The fabric didn’t hold up, and the chair is now a useless piece of junk. That’s a problem because the thought of spending my downtime sitting on a bench against the tent wall isn’t appealing. But then the whistle blows again, and it’s off to the start. On the way, I grumble about my misfortune to my friend, who, luckily, has an extra chair in the car. Hooray, that’s a lifesaver!

The clock ticks on, the laps continue to pile up, and basically, nothing major is happening. However, judging by the general atmosphere in the tent, it’s clear that the fun is slowly coming to an end. The bell marking the end for one of the runners hasn’t sounded much yet, but that’s about to change. By the fifth lap, a crisis—both physical and mental—starts to settle in on me. A measly thirty miles in, and I’m ready to call it quits. I’m letting out groans like an old actress, and while Petr and Zdenek (and others) joke that I’m acting, I genuinely can’t muster the energy to sing. The situation gradually stabilizes, but I’m starting to feel that enduring just 24 hours might be a challenge.

After about nine hours, around seven in the evening, darkness falls. The weather holds out, it’s cold, but it’s not raining, and that’s the main thing. I’m still running in shorts, with a Ninja and a Tirano jacket. It’s a significant change from the past when I’d be bundled up in three layers in these temperatures. My mates make fun of me for being in climacterium. Well, maybe there’s something to that. Anyway, on lap 10, I’m pleased and relieved to say that my engine finally kicked in. After seventy kilometers, that always seems to happen. First comes the torment, then at around sixty to seventy, the drive kicks into high gear. My running times remain consistent, but it’s all good—I’m enjoying the frosty night illuminated by my headlamp, with the occasional star peeking out from behind the clouds. Except that later, I convert my shorts into full-length running pants, thinking, “because it is no need to overdo the freezing air bath?”

The ranks of runners are starting to thin. Unfortunately, Dusan drops out due to health problems that resemble a heart attack. Dusan really doesn’t look well, and I’m not surprised he doesn’t respond positively to suggestions like “forget this, let’s push for the next lap.” I still manage to keep up my ritual of changing clothes—I always stay dry, which is crucial in these temperatures. By my standards, I’m still feeling light. In contrast, Zdenek is beginning to sag during breaks. It’s surprising because it’s relatively warm in the tent, and Zdenek is generally more resistant to the cold than I am.

Fifteen hours and at the 100-k mark, our group has lost another runner—Petr Chytil has been running on the razor’s edge for a few laps before he finally crashes at one in the morning. Zdenek, sitting next to me, grumbles that it’s crazy, that he’s cold, and that he’s about to drop out. But it’s clear to me that he won’t bow out before his pals from Ladermon in Olomouc. Despite feeling quite tired, I’m relatively enjoying the experience—or rather, I’m starting to enjoy it. After all the persuasion, the Ladermons leave us after the 16th lap, and Zdenek follows on the 18th (he refuses to submit to my insistence that it’s too soon to call it a night). I’m very sorry to see him go because he still looks fresh. That leaves only eighteen of us left on the track.

And then it’s back to the classic routine: lap plus minus for the same time, sit down, drink. My alcohol binge doesn’t turn out as planned, resulting in heartburn. I’ll have a bite here and there, but I’m far from hungry. Plus, despite swallowing two Imodium, I find myself contemplating a rendezvous with the toilet, which I’d rather avoid because that would eat up all my break time. Petr Chytil and Zdeněk doze off, and I end up waking them after almost every lap. It truly is the middle of the night.

Dawn begins to break. A new day greets us without rain, and there are even patches of blue sky. I’ve survived the early morning crisis, during which my head started nodding off while I rested. It’s eight o’clock, and I’ve completed 22 hours. For reasons unclear to me, I convince myself to aim for the full 24 hours, thinking I’ll treat myself to a shower and a beer afterward. But it’s just a bit of self-soothing, as I know that’s probably not going to happen. There are ten of us still left in the race after a full day of continuous running.

I’m surprised to discover that my double dose of Imodium is wearing off, so I devote an entire break to a toilet visit. That’s the joy of backyard running—you go to relieve yourself, and there’s no time for anything else. Plus, you’re still stressed about getting up again at the full hour to start the next lap. With every lap, someone else drops out, and I start to think there might be some good results from all this because I definitely don’t feel like finishing just yet. During breaks, I mostly just sit, as I don’t need food or drink at this pace, so I occupy myself with staring at the screen and interacting with my loyal fans who are supporting me via the online stream. For their sake alone, I can’t afford to sneak off for a beer before it’s all over.

The clock continues to tick as the field thins. By 2 PM, there are five of us left; by 4 PM, there are only four remaining. After two hundred kilometers, I can indeed feel my exhaustion setting in. While I sit in my armchair during a break around four in the afternoon, I’m pleasantly surprised when my supporter, Petr Faldyna, and his entourage appear on the scene. Just in time!

I’ve been grappling with motivation and fatigue, and the only thing keeping me “alive” is the online support from my faithful viewers, who are watching me on a grainy quality video feed. With a sense of amusement and immense gratitude, I watch as his supporter routine kicks in—”What do you need? Sit down, I’ll grab you this and that,” just like any other well-organized event. As he helps me into my jacket, I can only imagine how bizarre it must look to someone unfamiliar with our situation and customs. Petr is on site for three laps, providing a pleasant diversion.

After the thirtieth lap, it’s clear I can’t go any further. So, I tell myself I’m done, but my supporters insist otherwise. After the next lap, Ondra Velička, still running like a robotic machine, finishes the thirty-first lap. Then he says, “That’s enough.” That leaves just the two of us. Supporter Petr has already left. Darkness falls once again. My remaining opponent has a team to support his physical and mental well-being; I have only my son Patrik.

One, two, three laps pass, and my pace begins to slacken. I can still maintain a run of about 50 minutes, with 10 minutes for a break, which feels insufficient. I realize that under these circumstances, further suffering seems pointless. I have to focus not just on my running but also on everything else—my opponent always has everything ready. I know that the best Czech performance is 35 hours. It’s before 8 PM, and I mutter to myself that I still need to grab an evening beer before the pub closes. So, I inform the main organizer that I’ll take one more lap so that the winner can reach 36 hours and thus set the best Czech performance, and then I’ll call it a day.

And so it goes. Although I’m not nearly as devastated as I’d hoped to be, after thirty-five hours, I stride down the aisle formed by the spectators present and ring the death knell.

I’m done. With 234 kilometers in my legs, I take home 2nd place. I accept my medal (according to the rules, all participants except the winner technically have a DNF) and head for a celebratory shower with great gusto. After that, Patrik and I quickly hop into the car and drive to the hotel, and of course, to the pub. This time, two beers are more than enough, and since there’s no more cooking involved, we retreat to our room, where around eleven, I finally fall into a sweet sleep, feeling satisfied with the event and proud of a job well done.

Statistics:

• 2nd place overall
• 35 hours, 238 km (GPS)
• mathed the best Czech backyard ultra performance up to that point
• 3x Pilsner Urquell, 3x shots of Jameson, 1x magical pink pill

Final word:

Every performance, whether good or not-so-good, wouldn’t be possible without the support of people who (hopefully) care. So I extend my warm thanks for the help (and of course, the order doesn’t reflect the importance of each contribution) to Patrik, Tereza, Hanka, Tonda, Peter, Renata, Zdeněk (who didn’t leave me alone), and all the other friends and acquaintances who made this journey enjoyable.

Vybavení:

• Kilpi Tirano, Hurricane, Gears, Jager, Ninja, Hosio, and others
• Luciferlights headlamp
• Molecular Hydrogen by H2 Europe
• Saucony Triumph 19 shoes

Article category: Blog, Firstpage, SportArticle