Kullamannen Sprint Ultra 2024

Two Checkpoints and One Airborne Phase with a Hard Landing

The previously relatively compact field immediately spreads out dramatically; the chatter from earlier gives way to a tense silence as we climb the hill. Only the first part—about 200 meters—is quite steep; after that, it follows the entire ridge and descends to the coast at Arild. On this section, we noticeably gained positions and recognized a few faces who had overtaken us before Mölle.

Now, we follow the Skåneleden along the water to the first aid station (AS). Those unfamiliar with the area encounter the wild trail for the first time, winding along the water over fields of broken stone, sandy patches, and marshy meadows with rickety bridges and livestock gates. It becomes more demanding, and from here on, one must pay much closer attention to the ground; otherwise, injury—or even race-ending mishaps—await. A stone can quickly slip sideways under your shoe, or you might step into a gap or hole, and that’s it. Even this night, this section will see a number of DNFs due to exactly such accidents. Falls are not rare at Kullamannen—they are the norm.

At kilometer 24.4, we reach Svanshall, the first AS at the harbor. A few tables, drinks, and two boxes of Swedish pastries loaded with sugar and oats await. I refill one of my two bottles with Squeezy Energy Drink powder from my belt and grab some cookies. Joe finishes at the same time, and after about 30 seconds, we’re on our way again. I like that. I’m quite competitive and don’t like wasting time, especially not so soon after just 24K.

Joe seems to have developed a love affair with the Swedish cookies, inhaling them; he asks if I have any left. I gladly hand him one since I’m not a fan of so much butter and sugar. Less than two minutes later, my stomach protests: “Hands off that stuff!” Fifteen minutes of rumbling, and it’s okay again. Lesson learned. Our race plan is still going well. We continue at a relaxed pace of about 6:15 per kilometer along the bay to the large AS 2, where our drop bags await.

In the marshy terrain, a few groups of runners have gathered, hopping over countless muddy puddles. Ahead of me runs Joe, still proud of his snow-white, nearly new Salomon trail shoes. Correction: he was proud. The next mud puddle belongs to him, and now it’s finally over with pristine shoes. The one after that is mine, and I feel water seeping into my shoe.

We cross a long but quite delicate hanging bridge made of aluminum panels over a river. If four people walk across out of sync, the bridge can lose its stability and start to tip. Unpleasant, especially when you can follow in slow motion what’s about to happen. Fortunately, the bridge ends before any disaster occurs.

We climb a slope, run 50 meters along a main road, then dive back into the trail. Shortly afterward, we disappear into a dark forest. For the last two kilometers, I had set the pace for the group but now let Joe take the lead again, feeling I had been going too fast. The forest floor is covered in thick leaf litter, obscuring the ground. Tricky running conditions, as there are often scattered stones.

I now notice something in my right eye—probably an eyelash or dirt. My right vision is blurry, affecting depth perception. In the dim light, it’s a real handicap.

While I’m still figuring out the problem and overtaking the group ahead, I crash into a root hidden in the leaves, which treacherously trips me from behind. The airborne phase was surprisingly elegant, spinning right over the longitudinal axis. The landing, however, resembled a Lufthansa plane’s touchdown the previous day in Gothenburg: hard and wobbly! Especially hard on my right elbow, which hit another root specializing, apparently, in dispatching trail runners. First thought: it’s broken for sure! Darkness surrounds me, and light flashes sync with the pain. My Petzl headlamp flew off my head but survived intact.

Joe witnessed the most unpleasant part of my performance from the moment I landed and asks about my condition. I can only manage a “I’m fine!” and keep running while checking for fractures with my left hand. Nothing obvious. My arm barely moves without pain, but there’s no choice. I’ll have to examine it properly at AS 2.

The eye problem is becoming annoying. What on earth is in there? It doesn’t hurt, but the vision isn’t usable.

I can clearly see a suddenly passing runner—a Viking shieldmaiden, Lagertha-style (from the TV series Vikings). Blonde braids, athletic, short shorts, far less dressed than we are. Impressive.

We slightly slow our pace, and Joe calculates a 6:30 pace to AS 2. Surprising me—I had planned 6:20. At kilometer 33, we both seem to hit a low point—a typical distance for lows, as any long-distance runner knows. After two kilometers, I’m past it; Joe still struggles and now has another need: a bathroom break. Not convenient for me, as I don’t want two stops. I delay him with the classic parental question: “Can you hold it a little longer?” He agrees, and we continue. New plan: handle it during an incline, where the pace is naturally slower, so we don’t lose sight of the group. The urgency grows, and after about ten minutes, I give in to Joe before he gets too aggressive with his back, letting the overtaken group pass again. At least we stay near the end of the group and quickly get back in the race.

About a kilometer before AS 2, we enter a creepy young birch forest, particularly dark and bare. As the lead runner of our group, I expect a fall any moment and lift my legs higher than necessary. In the forest, a few figures with lights appear silently; maybe to carry fallen runners or guide the lost. Or perhaps foraging for hallucinogenic mushrooms at 2:30 a.m.

After leaving this forest of lost souls, we approach what looks like a highly organized AS. A glance at the watch confirms it: almost 45K done. Warm food, lots of supplies, our drop bags, and seats await.

The covered area has numerous benches, where 40–50 runners lounge—eating, drinking, changing, or coping with the threshold of exhaustion. While I scout and find my drop bag, Karina appears, eyes wet, visibly upset. She tells me about two ankle rolls and shows her swollen ankle. It looks painful. The medic gave her the choice: continue at your own risk (bad idea) or DNF. I can only offer a comforting hug and confirm that withdrawing is the wiser choice here. The remaining distance is challenging; she would never reach the finish with this injury. Joe joins us briefly, and we coordinate.

The drop bag is quickly emptied and reorganized. I swap the battery of the Petzl Nao RL, which still had charge, but I want to avoid carrying unnecessary weight—so it goes back into the drop bag. A bag of Krupuk (shrimp chips) is my secret weapon. The warm food section is skipped to save time, a decision that will cost me later.

Joe changes layers next to me and, as expected, decides to continue at his own pace. Totally understandable; after five days running together in the Wadi Rum desert race, we know there are no hard feelings. From now on, we are likely running alone—a tough proposition at night over such distances. I quickly leave AS 2, drop off my sealed bag, and plunge back into the night: solo mode engaged.