Last Soul Ultra

T-7: The breaking point before the start

A week before the race, I was already running on empty. From Sunday to Monday, I slept fifteen hours straight — my body’s desperate attempt to recover from weeks of organizational stress and unresolved issues. Tuesday was spent entirely in Stuttgart, leaving no room for rest or mental preparation as my mind was consumed by event logistics rather than racing. 

Early on I was certain that I would never again try to be both organizer and participant. Although my team spoke of “earned pressure,” I felt more like a moving target than an athlete between internal expectations and external demands. It seemed as if everyone were waiting for me to fail. 

T-1: The day before chaos

The day before the race felt like anything but the calm before the storm. I picked up my crew member, Chris, at noon and tried to catch up on everything I had neglected over the past few days. We went for a quick trip to REWE, which turned into a full-blown shopping spree, driven by the fear of forgetting something essential. Due to traffic keeping us from reaching the race location on time, we detoured to Bochum to unpack and pre-cook meals. Meanwhile, my phone buzzed incessantly with organizational calls, causing my head to spin.

By evening, I tried to mentally prepare for what was to come. I decided to edit the final vlog and watched the Texas documentary until 11:30 p.m., in an attempt to shift my focus from logistics to racing. But the chaos lingered, and the tension in my chest made it hard to relax.

Raceday: The start of something bigger

We woke at 5 a.m., packed the van, and picked up our second crew member, Aaron. The sky greeted us with a sunrise and a rainbow, creating a surreal contrast to the storm of thoughts in my head. While setting up camp, we realized we had forgotten a few tactical items, which my family later brought. The weather was colder and wetter than expected, adding to my unease.

Between livestream duties and last-minute preparations, focus was difficult to come by. Eventually, Aleks’ crew pulled me aside, fed me porridge, and shielded me in a tent. For the first time that morning, I felt a sense of calm. Ten minutes before the start, I prayed and read Aleks’ favorite poem. In that moment, everything else fell away, and I was locked in.

The race begins

Our pacing plan, created the night before, followed world-champion splits. We divided the race in three different temporal zones as follows: red rounds were slow (48–51 minutes), yellow steady (44–48), and green fast (40–42). After my stomach collapsed at the Texas race after 24 hours, caution was non-negotiable. So the strategy was simple: start conservatively with five red rounds to let the body adapt and test digestion.

Early digestion issues and distant toilets cost me time, but by round six, I found my rhythm. Muscle fatigue showed up quickly, particularly in my calves and hamstrings and physio work began sooner than planned. As the sun set, I started transitioning into yellow rounds. 

Night 1: The battle with rest

My plan was straightforward: run fast, eat, and sleep as much as possible. As nutrition was steady, consisting of sweet bread with jam, nuts, dried fruits, and instant meals, the first two night rounds went smoothly. However  with adrenaline keeping me wired, sleep refused to come. Around midnight, I finally managed to rest, though my legs struggled with the 42-minute rounds. I decided to slow down, which helped physically. But mentally I hit a wall. Weeks of pressure, doubt, and exhaustion were catching up, and my body screamed for mercy. 

Mental low point and pain management

Up to the 100 km mark, the field remained strong, and there were no major dropouts. My left knee, however, was completely locked, forcing a camp-side team meeting. Physios diagnosed classic overuse, and my morale plummeted.

Then Aleks, who had dropped out in round 12 due to stomach issues, returned in order to crew for me. The moment I broke down crying in the tent became a turning point. Together, Aleks and I decided: if we were going to suffer, everyone else would too. No more tears — a mindset shift occurred. 

Day 2: Finding rhythm again

The second day brought steadier energy. I started enjoying small moments again, even video-calling friends like Lucy and Jack, and my girlfriend. As spectators arrived the race atmosphere grew livelier. What had felt like an endless nightmare began to feel like an event again. But most of the time highs are followed by lows, and the second night would test me harder than ever. 

Night 2: When reality slips away

By midnight, sleep deprivation hit full force. When I started hallucinating, talking to myself, solving imaginary puzzles, and visualizing cameramen hiding in trees and ditches, each round became a mental labyrinth.

Yet, as the sun rose, a wave of strength returned. Around 320 km in, only three runners remained: Ello, Pierre, and me. After round 40, Pierre dropped out, leaving just the two of us. 

Day 3: Pain, gratitude, and purpose

As day three arrived, my body was destroyed. While Ello ran like a metronome, seemingly unfazed,  my left leg was nearly useless.  Somehow, as I reached round 50, new energy emerged. I saw the crowd, their signs, the support. A young girl held a “Go Kim” sign and coach Pawel returned. My focus shifted from victory to gratitude and the atmosphere was electric. Leaving me feel peace — maybe even surrender — but also deep appreciation. 

Night 3: Descent Into Madness

Then came the final night. As always, the higher the high, the deeper the fall. My pace collapsed after round 57. Sleep deprivation, hallucinations, and pain spiraled. Each round was slower than the last. By round 63, I could barely stay upright. Everyone assumed it was over. I called Aleks, who feared for my safety. I called my girlfriend, who was relieved I might stop. But I refused. “I’ll run until I collapse.”

Rounds 64 to 66 became a blur of pain and fragmented consciousness. My desperate plan: two slow rounds, then one fast into sunrise. Perhaps Ello would break before I did.

Night 3: Descent into madness

Then came the final night. As always, the higher the high, the deeper the fall. My pace collapsed after round 57. Sleep deprivation, hallucinations, and pain spiraled. Each round was slower than the last. By round 63, I could barely stay upright. Everyone assumed it was over. After I called Aleks, who feared for my safety, I called my girlfriend, who was relieved I might stop. But I refused. “I’ll run until I collapse.”

Rounds 64 to 66 became a blur of pain and fragmented consciousness. I came up with a rather desperate plan: two slow rounds, then one fast into sunrise. Perhaps Ello would break before I did. 

Round 67: The final push

As I started round 67, hope flickered since I noticed Ello missing from his usual checkpoints. His crew cheered me on, mistaking me for Ello and unaware of the fact I was still in the fight. Finally reaching the final stretch, I heard clapping and saw fireworks. It hit me all at once: I had actually won.

Crossing the finish line was overwhelming. I hugged Ello and his crew, then my own: Aleks, Chris, Aaron, and Pawel. This wasn’t just my victory — it was ours.

Aftermath: The price of victory

After the race, my body completely shut down. I had to be carried to interviews, then to the ambulance. In the hospital, my blood and inflammation markers were critically low. Days later, the swelling faded, but my left knee remained immobile. Even now, I await MRI results. 

The most important thing I learned during those 67 hours and rounds of pain, pressure and purpose is that the people around you matter most. Without my crew, family members and friends I would not have made it a single round further. I learned that our bodies and souls are separate forces. While our body sets limits, our soul drives us forward and you should respect both equally. Finally I was taught that you should never underestimate recovery.