K85 – IATF 2025: Into the Night, Into the Mountains, Into Myself

Posted On July 12, 2025

There’s a quiet truth I’ve come to know out on the trails: if you truly, deeply want something—if your soul aches for it—you’ll find a way to get there. It won’t always be pretty. It definitely won’t be easy. But your willpower becomes your compass, and your heart does the climbing.

We rolled into the Stubai Valley on April 30th—Thorsten, Thomas, Bene, and me. The mountains were already whispering promises of adventure. Thorsten kicked things off with the Vertical Run on May 1st: 7 kilometers and a brutal 1300 meters of elevation gain. He crushed it in just over an hour. The kids and I rode the cable car and train up to cheer him on. They were wide-eyed, overwhelmed by the crowd, the music, the sheer energy—but you could see the spark in their eyes. At some point it was too much, but that’s not so important.

Then came my turn. Midnight, May 3rd: the 85-kilometer Ultra Trail around Innsbruck, with nearly 3,600 meters of elevation gain. A wild, raw mountain adventure. I hadn’t trained for this distance. Life—kids, work, real-world rhythm—meant I topped out at 60 km in training. I didn’t know if I could finish. But I had to try. You don’t grow by staying in your comfort zone.

The day before the race, Thorsten was off on another run, and I stayed home with the kids. I did my best to rest—snuck in a nap while they slept—and kept the afternoon slow and quiet. By evening, it was go time. I took the bus from Stubai Tal to Innsbruck Hauptbahnhof, then walked 1.5 km to the starting point at Landestheater in Innsbruck. Arrived at 10 PM, nerves buzzing.

It was a strange kind of calm in that space—runners scattered across the room, some stretching, others asleep in corners, earbuds in, lost in their own mental rituals. I tried to stay grounded. Then—panic—I lost my phone. 25 minutes before the start. My heart dropped. No phone meant no race. But trail angels are real: someone found it and turned it in. Crisis averted.

At 11 PM I ate a sandwich. In hindsight, probably a bad idea. But by midnight, it didn’t matter anymore. The countdown ended, and I stepped into the dark.

The night was magic. I had been looking forward to this—running through the silence, wrapped in darkness, the forest alive with its own kind of music. I wasn’t afraid. I was alive. My headlamp cut through the night, but I barely noticed time passing. It felt like the stars were running with me.

But the stomach pain hit early—kilometer one. I considered dropping at the first aid station at km 13. The discomfort was intense. But I noticed something: downhills helped. So I listened to my body, adjusted, and kept going. Sometimes, you don’t need to fight. You just need to flow.

I started out too fast, and I paid for it. But I was never in this for speed. I was in it for the journey, for the wild, soul-expanding freedom that only trail running can give.

The first 50 kilometers were manageable—nothing I hadn’t faced before. I found my rhythm, the trail underfoot felt familiar, and even the stomach pain that had haunted me earlier began to fade, until it was barely there.

But around kilometer 55, the mountain began to test me for real. That’s when I saw Thorsten and the kids for the first time on the course. Just seeing them brought tears to my eyes. I almost broke. I told them, “I can’t anymore.” My knees were screaming, and my energy felt like it had been sucked out by the mountains themselves. But I kept moving. I didn’t start the race to give up on the way.

Then the knee pain became sharp, real. The descents, normally my favourite playground, turned brutal. Every step downhill was like fire through my legs. Around km 60 at Herzsee, I crossed paths with Thorsten, Thomas, and Bene again. The kids and I shared some Haribo—probably the sweetest moment of the day. It gave me something simple and joyful to hold on to.

The trail had me spiraling between pain and perseverance. I saw them again on the descent—Thorsten and the kids hiking, all smiles and cheers. And once more after Hall, around km 70. I was nearly empty, running only on stubbornness. But seeing them again—it was like a refill for the soul. I held onto that energy, and though my pace was slow, I didn’t stop.

The knee pain didn’t let up. I had to wrap the right one tight, just to stop it from feeling like it would give out completely. I love downhills—usually they’re my moment to fly. The trail was easy, but my legs couldn’t dance down it like they used to. That was hard to swallow. Frustrating.

It was hot, but I was so deep into the pain I barely noticed. Honestly, it was one less thing to complain about.

The last two kilometers felt endless, but then—100 meters from the finish line—somewhere deep inside, I found a final kick of speed. And when I crossed the line… it was surreal. I had actually done it. 85 kilometers. 3,600 meters of elevation gain. My batteries were completely empty.

But I know what made it real: the mind was set on finishing, and the body had no choice but to obey. And then it was Thorsten, Thomas and Bene on the way, cheering up for me.

Still, I made a promise to myself and my body that day—never again without proper training. And I’m keeping that promise. Yes, I proved I could push through and go the distance, even unprepared. But it shouldn’t be this way. Not every time. I want to respect the mountains, and my body, by being ready. I want to give myself the chance to grow stronger, smarter, and more capable for the wild dreams I still carry with me.

Because I’m not done. Not even close.

Disclaimer: Some of the content on this blog is created with the help of AI to save time and spark ideas, but everything is reviewed and shaped by a real person. We do our best to keep info accurate, but always double-check trail conditions, weather, and local rules before heading out.

Stay safe and enjoy the adventure!