The year is 2020, and I have no idea what I'm getting myself into.
Vaseto talks me into signing up for his favourite race – Vitosha 100 km. And with nothing but the odd jog in the park and not an ounce of sense, I do it. I buy poles, a backpack, seamless socks, I make sandwiches as if I'm going to spend the winter up the mountain, 2 bottles of water, chocolate, nuts, and I line up at the start in Boyana.
18 hours and 15 minutes later I'm back in Boyana, body wrecked, aching everywhere, but with a mind so clear: "God, I've just done 100 km in less than a day, and I'd pictured it taking me a week."
That was the beginning of a masochistic love I can't describe. It has to be lived.
Fast-forward to 2024. My fifth Vitosha 100, where, partly through bad luck, partly through carelessness, partly through stupidity and overconfidence, I get badly injured. At around 20 km I go over on an ankle that has already been broken and operated on twice. It hurts like hell, but the adrenaline dulls the pain, and stupidity, overconfidence and the urge to do it in 12 hours make me pull off my sleeve, strap it into a tight compress and push on. The result, of course, isn't long in coming: as I claw my way along, half limping, half jogging, I tear the ankle ligaments. I find myself around the 50th km on a leg where every step is a knife in my brain. I cry from anger, pain and helplessness, I cry when runners pass me and say, "If you walk here, you won't finish, run," I cry when I see Zori, who has come to collect me, and with her help I drag myself to her car at the 60th km. You know the rest.
The new year comes, and I decide that this year I won't do my usual races, I'll try something new. I swapped Spring 360 – 6 hours for the Sri Chinmoy marathon and was already looking around for a replacement for the Loop. But it… it is stronger than anything. On 1 April at midnight (when registration opens) I was one of the first to sign up. And of course, that's when it all started.
I came down with flu and spent 7 days without running, my son had an operation and running became the bare minimum. Then May came and I had a kidney attack, which had me licking my wounds for about two weeks, then I had a child graduating, oh, excuses galore. My first relatively long run was 34 km on 1 June, and then one of 36 km on 8 June. Enough! Whoever's trained, has trained. I'll go on memory and the base I'd built up over the months of marathon training that Militsa had set me.
But I'm scared, really scared. I kid myself that I'm scared of falling, of getting injured, but later I realise I'm scared of failure. Of giving up somewhere along the way that I want so badly to cover, and not just cover, but do well on. I want to file last year's memory somewhere under "lessons I didn't want, but which taught me". And here I am, 22 June at midnight. At the start with about 1,200 other people. So many acquaintances and friends. You could cut the tension in the air with a knife, everyone wrapped up in their own thoughts and worries. People are chatting to each other, but you can tell from miles away that their minds are already out on the course. Vaseto and I take a photo for luck (happy tenth Vitosha to him) and lose ourselves in the crowd.
5-4-3-2-1-go.
I set off easy, as easy as it can be when the euphoria of hundreds of runners has swept you up. I try not to rush (my new tactic, supposedly, for a successful finish), but at the same time I really don't want to end up on the singletrack between Vladaya and Kladnitsa with another 100 people in the queue. I did end up there, but in pleasant company. Niki, whom I bump into every year at different places on the course, and this year was no exception. Somewhere around Marchaevo the man leading the group takes a wrong turn, and about 30 of us behind him go wrong with him. It costs us a few minutes to get our bearings and back on the course, where we run into another group of about 30 runners. Among them Vasko and Vadim.
And so, on a narrow little path full of roots and stones, in the dark, about 50 of us run in single file with no way of overtaking. And here comes the stretch between Rudartsi and Kladnitsa.
The scene of my demise last year.
My heart is pounding. I can't see a thing, because the person in front of me is very close and I can't see what's coming. A stone? A root? At the same time it's so dusty that, against the light of the head torches, it looks as if fine snow is falling into your eyes and you can't see anything at all. I fall, my bottle goes flying. Vadim, who's behind me, picks me up and hands it to me. I'm fine, but I'm shaking all over. It all happens in seconds, since dozens of runners are pressing from behind and there's no time to look around. I feel pain in my knee, but faint. We carry on.
A kilometre later I fall again. This time a lot harder, on the other knee. I want to howl, but I hold it in. I get up quickly, but I'm feeling a quiet horror.
Vasko, from behind, informs me that I'm not allowed any more falls. Basically, as they say in computer games, I'm on one bar of health.
Vadim offers to go in front of me. He takes off his head torch and, as he runs ahead of me, lights up my feet, announcing every obstacle that follows. A tree here, a kerb there, a root here, a bigger root here.
I don't fall again. We reach Kladnitsa (23 km). My knees look like they've been in a battle. I don't want to look at them, because I can barely hold myself together not to cry and stop. I don't stay at the aid station to wait for Vasko and Vadim. I hurry on, to beat the fear, and I manage it. Shortly before Studena my head torch starts blinking to say it's out of charge. I have to slow down, because damn it, I didn't bring a spare, and the light is so weak I can barely see. Stupid, Ani, stupid. Niki and his friends catch up with me again, and I run after them, using their light. At the Studena aid station I part ways with them too. Next comes 12 km of uphill tarmac to Chuypetlovo. This bit I know: you have to run it. It's horrible, but I have to. And I run gently, at a piggy trot, just so I don't stop.
It suddenly turns cold, which, however, brings me tremendous pleasure. Since I turned 40 I've felt that heat and I don't get on at all. My head torch is barely shining and I don't recognise people, but they recognise me. While I'm in my tarmac trance I hear, "Go on, Vancheva!" I can't place the voice, but I say thanks. Later this voice catches up with me. It turns out to be Tsetsi, who, as well as running, goes round schools motivating the little ones to do sport and has his own YouTube channel. We cross paths a few more times until Yarlovo (62 km), where we finally part.
My most dreadful stretch begins: Yarlovo–Yarema. Some meadows, some climbs, a complete lack of any desire to run. I walk. Here time has stopped. I'm barely moving. In my head I'm making plans to come back next year specially to train on this stretch, which is always so hard for me. Quite a few people pass me, among them Snezhi, whom I'd crossed paths with a few hours earlier and who had done a brilliant training block for this race, but bad luck stopped her from being a lot further ahead. We chat, and somehow these kilometres, few as they are, pass a touch more easily. I'm overtaken by my beloved Desi and Pamela, who has come to be her support for the last 35 kilometres. Desi waves at me to start running, and, half running, half walking, I climb the last ascent before Yarema. From there it's downhill and then tarmac. Here my legs took on a life of their own. They remembered all the marathon training. My watch shows that I covered the next almost 4 km at an average pace of 5:10 – true, there was a downhill, but in my case that's more terrifying than helpful.
At this "breakneck" speed I take a slight wrong turn at Plana, and instead of ending up on the left side of the river, I'm on the right. I only realise because Kriso, lurking in the bushes to take photos, shouts that I've strayed a bit and will add another 2–3 metres on top to get round.
But every cloud has a silver lining: I've got some really lovely photos among the flowering bushes by the river.
Next comes a short stretch of tarmac and the meadow from which you can see Tsareva Mahala and the start of the Philosophical Segment (it's called that because it's the last 23–24 km. The most runnable, but that's usually where your body gives up on you, and if your brain isn't there to push, it's incredibly hard to get through). This is usually where the pacers of a good many runners wait, to give them a bit of speed and freshness.
I admit it, I love this place. Every time I see the dozens of people who have got up at some ungodly hour, or not slept at all, to be there and support their person and everyone else who passes, something grips me by the throat and my eyes fill with tears.
I see lots of familiar faces, among them my favourite runner, whom I sincerely admire – Geri Malcheva, who tells me to get a move on because my friend is 20 minutes behind me.
You see, we have a game going with a mutual runner friend: a long time ago the two of us had an unspoken battle in a race, and ever since there's been this feeling that the two of us are racing each other.
But among all these friendly faces, I see what I'm looking for and what I've been longing for these last 20 km. Nia! My Nia, who's been waiting for me there since 7:30 (for the record – I got there at 9:20, but Niyka, next year I'll try to be there at 8:30). For those of you who don't know her, I want to tell you that Her being out in the back of beyond at 7:30 is a huge achievement, because at that time she's usually sweetly asleep.
She steps in front of me and we agree: we'll run easy, walk the climbs, and get there when we get there. I already know I'm doing relatively well and just need to finish it. She, however, knows I'm 12th, that the 12 hours aren't a pipe dream, we just have to push.
And off we go. At first she starts with the tactic of overtaking the people in front of us, but that doesn't work on me. I haven't an ounce of competitive spite and it can't motivate me, but I run after her all the same. One after another, people still fall beneath her feet, and so beneath mine.
Nia, though, has an ambition: she's going to get me into the top 10, even if it costs her a fall and three attempts at getting lost. A champion is a champion, even when she's pacing. Except that we don't come across a single blessed woman. Nia gives it more gas, and I can't take another ounce.
…And then we see her, a woman running somewhere up ahead with her pacer. I, of course, ease off – I really don't fancy chasing women after 90 km – but my pacer is clever. She has plenty of experience with Capricorns and knows she has to strike at what's dearest – the Ego. And she does it in style: instead of pushing me, she starts repeating, "I'm so proud of you. You're doing brilliantly. You're one hell of a machine."
I have no idea how many times she said she was proud of me, I only know that over the next kilometres I was at times overtaking her. It was as if I'd grown wings. Final result: 9th among the women, my fastest last 23 km so far, and 12:03:30 for 100 km. The 12 hours are not a Pipe Dream.
Next to the 6:56 of the alien Hristo Tsvetkov and the 9:13 of the phenomenal Monika Filipova, my 12 hours look like a stroll round Vitosha, but they weren't, oh, they really weren't. This was my rematch and my medicine.
P.S. There are so many people who believed in me and supported me, and I thank you. Pesho, Niki, Bobi, Mum, my sister (who surprised me at the start and the finish), Militsa (who believed – no, actually knew – what I'm capable of), Zhoro, Didi, the Frontrunners and the dozens of people who wrote to me and wished me luck.
All of you showed me that shared fear is cured by shared faith. 🩷
Photos: KrisoK Photography, Mitakis Photos
