Below is an excerpt from Frank Henning’s race report on the Legends Trail 350, a demanding 350-kilometer winter ultramarathon through Belgium’s Ardennes region. Henning is currently three-quarters of the way through the Legends Trail Grand Slam, having completed both the Great Escape 200K and Bello Gallico 200K. To complete the series, he must finish a minimum of 34 laps at Another One Bites the Dust, a backyard ultra scheduled for this summer.
Read the full Legends Trail 350 race report.
It’s strange how the perception of time seems to bend during these long trail races. These distances are so hard to grasp. At times, it almost feels like you’re stuck in something that doesn’t move. A bit like a black hole. Covering distance starts to feel endless. You stop keeping track. Time just… disappears.
Only later do you realize how much has actually happened. It feels like you’ve lived a lifetime of highs and lows in just a couple of days. Time is relative. It felt that way.
Kilometers flew by as I yo-yoed for some time with Matej Arnus, who told stories about Tor Des Glaciers. On the flats, I was faster, but on the technical downhill trails, he showed incredible skill. After a while, I reached a perfect tarmac stretch to loosen up the legs. As we passed through Naze, I saw the safety team in the distance. Waving and yelling as I came closer. Laughing and joking, I high-fived all of them. They were exactly the boost I needed. They told me I still looked good. Although I didn’t feel that way.
The trail went up. From a distance, I saw someone walking bent to one side. I ran towards him, hoping to cheer him up. It was Olav Sammelius. “Olav, what happened to you?” He told me he had fallen into cold water. Others had to pull him out. His back hurt so much he couldn’t walk straight anymore. I didn’t know what to say. I said goodbye and continued. By this time, even the strong runners were dropping. The race was eating DNF’s for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
Photo: Berend-Jan Bel
It suddenly struck me, I felt lonely. I had been alone since I left Ran behind. I remembered how I had defined loneliness before the race: an inability to connect. Out here, that thought felt heavier. I came here with a reason. To find a why. Why do I do this? Why do I choose this kind of suffering? In daily life, I often ask myself the same question. What am I supposed to do here? There are moments I don’t know what I’m supposed to do here.
The trail kept climbing as the forest slowly closed in around me, the scent of pine trees and the ground covered in deep green moss. And still, that question lingered. Without really knowing why, I thought of my mother. I lost her to cancer eight years ago, when I was 23. Losing her changed the course of my life. As I looked around the forest once more, I couldn’t understand why the feeling stayed. Life was everywhere. And still, something in me kept reaching for her. I know death is an inevitable part of life. I had told myself that many times. But it never changed anything. A part of me never quite felt the same.
In that moment, I just wished she could see me now.
I kept looking around, as if the forest might hold an answer. The same trees, the same trail, and yet something felt different. I couldn’t quite place it. The air felt heavier, or maybe it was something in me. I slowed for a moment, listening, noticing, as if I had missed something that had been there all along.
I looked around again. The forest felt different. For a moment, I just stood there. And then I felt it, in the life around me, in the trees, in the moss, in the air I was breathing. She was there, holding me. For a moment, everything softened. Tears came, and without thinking, I started running uphill. The trail kept rising, endlessly, it seemed. I ran harder, a storm of emotion burning inside me as I pushed upward.
And at the top, I caught a glimpse of the why I had been searching for. Through all the hurt and heartache I carry, it had been there all along. Nothing loved is ever lost.
It stayed with me. I kept running.
Read the rest of A Legends Trail Story.