GUEST BLOG V.1 - TIGER KING - Jillian’s story of her first Ultra marathon.

Hello friends, this week we will shine the spotlight on a Flowerboy OG. Jillian has been around a while. Even before we added the 10km distance. Her mum still gets out for runs and Jill has been putting an bruising on the pavement for a long time. She recently started exploring the trail side and if you have ever had the opportunity to enjoy some miles with Jill you know the energy she brings. We were so proud to see her get a podium at her first Ultra Race.  A casual 65 KM around a 74,000 year old lake in North Sumatra. It’s a great read and such a pleasure to share her reflections with our community. Enjoy and hope to catch you for a run and coffee soon.

It’s 4am, my driver Adel Trump is sitting mere centimeters from the wheel in order to reach the pedals. She says “Party music or calm music?” 
“Calm music please.” 
Dancing Queen blares out of the speakers, and we are off to the race site.

I didn’t have much in the way of expectation, or even knowledge, of this trail - just the understanding that Trail of the Kings would be UTMB’s first foray in Indonesia – the premier organization’s esteem drawing me to get on a few planes and ferries. Caldera Toba - Adel informs it is indeed a caldera, not a crater, since it’s larger than 2km - is the world’s largest volcanic lake. Formed 74,000 years ago during a supervolcano eruption, the blanketing ash created a volcanic winter lasting 6-10 years. What remains now is a large island, surrounded by an even larger lake, surrounded by Northern Sumatra - steeped in local legend. 

The race was to be pretty straight forward – 65 kilometers with 3 major climbs and descents, the first being Pusuk Buhit - the holy mountain for the Batak people of Lake Toba. A giant lingering on the edge of the lake, crowned with clouds, it’s easy to imagine the first Batak king, half human/ half tiger, descending down from heaven. Legend goes he stayed on that summit, meditating for 3 years, in order to gain the wisdom needed to become fully human and climb down. Such is the reverence for their first “Tiger King,” that locals will never say the word tiger when describing the rare cat – only Opung - grandfather.

Apart from a vest that felt dauntingly heavy, the race got off to an inspiring start. The first two aid stations and major climb felt exhilarating, and I was closing in on the woman in 2nd place. I told myself to race like I’m winning - no pressure, no overexertion, just pushing for myself only. However, somewhere between kilometers 22-30 it started falling apart. My stomach was so distended - every sip of tailwind or squeeze of gu led to more tension. Every time I tried to run, the bloating and cramping drained my energy. On the second descent runners began to pass me, and I found myself at a loss for how I was in this state. I had stuck to the exact fueling plan many of us use, and I hadn’t introduced anything new to my system either. I sat at the 5th aid station for 25 minutes, halfway through the race, watching runner after runner come and go, many were women. Teary eyed that my race had collapsed in on me, unable to refuel, I took some antacids the confused medic found. I was completely unsure how the hell I can finish this race if I can’t even drink without pain. Out of anger I told myself to get to the next aid station 12 kilometers away, even if I have to walk. The promise of at least making my mom proud being my remaining motivation to not quit. With the podium out of sight, a belly medicated, and a few km of walking under my belt, we approached the last major climb and I slowly felt familiar to myself. I was able to pass a few people and once the top flattened out my legs begged me to run.

The next few kilometers were pure joy - stunning steep farmland hills dotted with waterfalls and buffalo, dropping down to lake side stone roads housing traditional Batak tombs - and a body hungry to keep going. The next aid station I threw a bucket of water over me, switched tailwind for flat coke, and sped off. Within a few km I was at a slow inclined road and I saw my chance – @maryconnacher’s words of wisdom playing in my head: “no one out there is going to be faster than you on a road.” That stretch saw me pass everyone who had caught me in my worst. While I was unsure where I stood in the race, I was so overcome with gratitude that I finally had the chance to run the race I planned to, that I didn’t really care. By the final aid station no one was around. A quick text from @noahszabo  “keep pushing dude, you’re flying” was the hint I needed, and I hit the last 9 km with a tear in my eye. Endurancing running is strange in that it doesn’t at all feel like anything I accomplished, but more so what my body accomplished. My relationship with my body on most days, like so many others, is tenuous at best. But as the motorbike led me through the last 2 km of waterfront city – my legs at their normal road speed - I was overcome with pride that running has become my natural state, something my silly skeleton begs to do. I gave a blister laden sprint through the finish to find out I had cinched 3rd and indeed made my mom proud. And somehow turned my dad into a UTMB superfan. I saw Adel moments later and we shared a celebratory hug. I’m not sure what caused my midrace breakdown – all signs point to overfueling and maybe excessive salt. I’m also not sure who is to credit for my random recovery – my mom thinks it’s my dear aunt who just passed this year, my friends think it’s the locals who never missed a chance to cheer and shout “Horas! (Hello, blessings!)” Some less fun folks might think it was the antacids. No matter what the cause or cure, ultra races are long stories like any other with chapters and plot, collapses and comebacks. You can’t judge your race apart from the current couple of kilometers you find yourself in. Any attempt to be hypervigilant of those around you makes it immediately miserable. The parables it teaches you for real life are blatantly obvious. I have nothing but high praise for this trail - scenically stunning, incredibly well marked, and lots of safety staff surely make it the best trail race in Indonesia. Cute kids yelling “sister, where you from?” are just a bonus. But to be fair I haven’t run any of the others and maybe feeling like an alien on a dystopian lava field is pretty great too. While I promised some strangers I would be back next year, I did have a moment sitting in the tent after, blood in my pee, shaking, watching a man get taken away on a stretcher, where I thought “fuck this is actually really dangerous.” And maybe I don’t need to have dangerous hobbies when I’m perfectly happy on a road. But then I thought, I’ll never be two thousand meters high on a holy mountain running down through clouds, arms spread, listening to Stay Fly… during a road race. So maybe I will be back. Either way Lake Toba is not to be missed, and I hope many more of us Bali folk will take a trip to this lesser known jewel. They have banana boats and jet skis too.