I'm at the start. It's 23:50. There are an awful lot of people this year. The race keeps getting more popular, and the announcement of a 5000 € prize pot for a broken record has lined up the strongest athletes right at the front. Everyone on the start line wants to be part of “that year the record fell”. Me too. As luck would have it (or not), that's exactly what happened to me with the men in 2025 and with the women this year. I join the queue, but right at the very back, because I'm late and the starting funnel is already packed. I tell myself it doesn't matter – this year I've decided to run for the fun of it, without caring where exactly I am.
But, bu-ut, buuuuut… my whole being is screaming inside that I haven't belonged right at the back for a long time. However much I play the I-couldn't-care-less card, I did train seriously – even if it was a far cry from the structured sessions with a real coach of previous years. Only I feel terribly awkward pushing in front of people. I feel awful, as if I'm outside a doctor's surgery and I'm one of those “I just need to ask something quickly” types. So I deploy a tactic: I start looking for familiar faces further up. That way I get to go and say hello, and I swap my position for one further forward at the same time. Thank goodness running is a social sport and over the years I've made loads of friends among runners, so what with all the hellos I got a good way up front.
As I'm passing a little group of strangers, I overhear someone say: “That one's ASICS, she runs really well.” It may not have been exactly that, but that's how I heard it. And it charges me up no end. Thank you, stranger, for the rating! At times out on the course I remember your words and they give me strength.
The gun goes and I'm off. In theory I know what pace I need to hold to finish in around 12 hours – several experienced people who'd trained for different time blocks told me. But I go the way that feels good. I'm going too fast, I know it. I'm well aware that later in the game this could come back to bite me. But I don't particularly care. Whatever happens, happens. This year I'm starting with no expectations, with an open heart, and I'll run the way my body wants to. And my body keeps going forward, while my brain is focused on one single thought: “Don't fall apart before Kladnitsa! If you don't fall apart there, you'll finish!” Well, I didn't fall apart.
In fact I'm running really well. I find the pace I'm comfortable at and plod along at it. At times there are people around me, at times I'm completely alone. Afterwards I found out that Tsetsi, who I'd been swapping places with every now and then last year, was running right behind me on this stretch this year. At Kladnitsa I stop only for water and cucumber and carry straight on. That's where I bump into Julien. Up to that point he'd been pacing Emo from West Park, but Emo had dropped out. Julien, who's a terrific runner, makes me an unexpected offer – to be my pacer. He asks what time I want to finish in, so he can bring me home. I trust him, but myself – not so much. There's far too much road ahead for me to set him a pace that, on top of everything, I'll then have to stick to. I turn him down on the grounds that today I've come out just to have fun. I tell him that even though he's quite far back right now, he has a real chance of going under 10 hours, never mind that he's in the 11-12-hour crowd. And off he goes. In the end he finishes in 9:50 – an astonishing result, considering how slow he was over the first 25 kilometres!
I set off towards Studena Dam. On the way I pass Pirin Galov, who for yet another year has set up his own mini (actually – mega!) support station with cracking music and lights. Pirin, I sincerely hope the race organisers take a leaf out of your book! This year, in terms of attitude and support from the volunteers at the official aid stations, the edition was one of the most disappointing.
On the way to Studena everything's fine, except the temperature. For a few years now I've just naturally been warm all the time, and this year I'm downright hot. My hopes that the temperatures around the dam and after it will drop turn out to be a complete mirage. As a veteran of the brutal 2021 edition, I subconsciously expect mud, but the course is bone dry. I reach the station, pour myself some water, grab yet another cucumber and head off towards Bosnek, after which comes the dreaded climb to Chuypetlovo. But I've got a tactic ready there to trick my head: I'll run 700 metres and walk 300. While I'm busy watching my watch and calculating when the precious 700 metres are up so I can walk a bit, before I know it I've covered a whole 11 kilometres! At Chuypetlovo I'm greeted by a huge queue for water. I look around hoping for coffee, but there isn't any. Or maybe there is, but there are so many people that I have zero motivation to waste time at this station.
They pour me some water and I'm off straight away.
The climb to Smilyo begins, and after it comes the long descent to Yarlovo. Somewhere around there, around the 50th kilometre, the Sila BG station pops up in front of me. I'm met by smiling young people blasting loud music and handing out electrolytes and gels. I take a gel and an energy drink. I have a few sips on the spot and give it back to the volunteers – there's simply no way I can carry two bottles in my hands, and the next official station isn't until Yarlovo, with nowhere to throw it away en route. We take a few poser photos and I'm back on the course. To my enormous dismay, though, all the way to Yarlovo I see plastic bottles from the station and empty gel wrappers strewn about. People, why?!
On the descent I come across a young lad – it's his first Vitosha. He gets terribly excited when I tell him it's my seventh. He decides to run with me, because I tell him that last year I finished in 12:03, and that's exactly the time he's chasing. But I can see he's got a lot of strength in him, and I tell him straight to push on ahead and not worry about my pace. His chances of a much better time are huge. The boy shoots off. I don't know how he got on, because I didn't remember his number, but I sincerely hope he hit his target, since I didn't run into him anywhere until the end. A little after him I come across my beloved Pamela – we exchange a few words and I carry on. I reach the Yarlovo checkpoint at the 59th kilometre, and after that I go through the village itself. This is the moment I ring Pesho to tell him everything's fine and I feel good.
I also ring Nia – she'll be waiting for me at the 75th kilometre to pace me, so it's time for her to catch the bus to the agreed spot. Both of them tell me I'm doing well – somewhere between 14th and 17th place. But I can't quite make out what they're saying, and anyway, the whole time the standings are something I'm not remotely interested in.
I reach the station in the village itself and immediately notice the difference from previous years. Somehow it seems smaller and quieter this time. The volunteers' mood is rather downbeat. It makes me feel a bit rubbish. Fine, I'm coming through here yet again and I don't need much outside motivation. But lots of other people are battling this place for the first time and they definitely need a bit of encouragement and a smile. I pour myself some water, take the obligatory cucumber and three jelly sweets, and press on. Next comes my most hated section – the climb up to Yarema. Last year it was exactly here that my spirits sank, and back then I swore I'd come out specially to train on it.
Blah, blah. I trained on nothing.
This year I didn't set foot on a single section of the course before the start. These 6-7 kilometres always have a terribly depressing effect on me. I'm neither running nor walking – the correct expression is “dragging myself”, literally. All around me there's nothing but heat, endless meadows and people overtaking me like I'm a stationary train.
Eventually I get up the precious little hill and the descent begins. Somewhere there, in the middle of nowhere, I see a little boy with a box of chocolates. It was so sweet! I thank him and his parents, scoff one sweet temptation and, with fresh strength, I'm now running downhill. I know there's a bit of tarmac ahead, and after it – nearly 2-3 kilometres in the “enchanted forest” on a steep downhill, just before the Brezite station.
Here I lengthen my stride and floor it. I eat up the kilometres quickly, rush through the station with yet another water and cucumber. The next stop will be Tsarevi Koshari, 2 km on, where Nia will be waiting for me. I can't wait any more.
I see her on the road – she's waiting for me. I'm so happy to see her! Around her I spot other friendly faces too, among them our Zornitsa, who's come to pace a friend of hers from the same spot. My heart filled with warmth. This will always be my favourite station. The station of friendship.
I suppose there's no need to explain what followed. You all know Nia, but for those who don't – she's a champion at heart. For her it's a real pleasure to compete with people and to win. Her first line to me is a point-blank execution: “Vancheva, you're twelfth! There are two women ahead of you who came through 15-20 minutes ago. Our goal is to catch them, overtake them and go sub 12.”
In any other circumstances I'd have argued, but at this moment I just know there's no point. I'm also well aware that once Nia's said it, it'll happen – even if she has to tow me all the way to Boyana!
Well, she didn't have to drag me – we ran pretty well! In fact at the start the pace was unexpectedly fast for me. Somewhere after we'd caught and passed the ladies in question, things calmed down a bit. And so it went until the 92nd kilometre, where they tell us we've only got 5 km left.
Nia's quick sums send us towards a finishing time of around 11:55. While we're jogging along calmly, thinking a mere 3 kilometres separate us from the end, Tsetsi unexpectedly appears ahead of us on a bike. He throws us into a flap with the news that there are actually about 4 kilometres and a bit left to the finish!
Not since the ASICS team get-together in Velingrad had I seen Nia as tense as she was the moment she heard that. And did this woman start running…
All I can hear is her shouting ahead of me: “Vancheva, come on, I'm begging you, just a little more!” And off she went, running like mad! Nia is literally flying in front of me… Tsetsi, who decides to escort us on the bike, puts on Italian hits for me, which I love. I'll remember the last kilometres as the ones where I wanted them to let “my soul sing with just a guitar”.
We're in Boyana now, hurtling down the cobbles past Boyana Church like lunatics. Out of nowhere, without meaning to, I suddenly think of Eleonore of Bulgaria – a woman I admire enormously and whose grave is there, in its churchyard.
It's strange how, after 98 km, the thoughts in your head fly faster than your legs, and in unknown directions. And with a kilometre and a half to go, Dimon comes towards me too. He starts telling me where to step and where not to, that right there there were some broken paving slabs. I'm listening and saying something back, at which Nia turns round and starts telling us off for talking.
We both shut up.
All you can hear is “Libertaaaaa” and my breathing. I see the traffic lights. They're green for the cars and I'm gutted that I'll lose time waiting. But! A few police officers stop the traffic and now nothing can stop me. I'm flying (in my own mind, at least). Last kilometre, 800 m, 700 m… 300 m and there's the bend to the finish. I see Viki from ASICS, who's shouting my name, and a bit after that I see Zhoro, my running mate from West Park. He's come all the way here, and that's an event in itself! 50 m… 20… 10… 0! Nia and I cross the finish line. I stare in disbelief. I did it – 11:54:48. I've just broken a barrier that 7 years ago I thought was impossible.
Well done, Ani. You really do run well!
