Stage 1 of the MDS 120 Jordan (6th Edition) began long before sunrise, with competitors leaving their Dead Sea hotels at 03:30 for the journey south to the spectacular desert landscapes of Wadi Rum. The scale and diversity of the event was evident from the outset, with nearly 600 participants representing 30 countries, and an impressive 51% female participation.
The race got underway at 09:30, a relatively late start, and the heat was already making its presence felt. Competitors faced a 27km opening stage featuring two checkpoints, providing a demanding introduction to the race ahead.
One of the defining characteristics of Stage 1 was the abundance of soft sand, a surface that always comes as a shock to the system, particularly on the first day of a multi-stage race. Progress can feel frustratingly slow as every step sinks beneath the feet, demanding considerably more energy than firmer terrain.
While challenging underfoot, the scenery more than compensated. The route wound through the dramatic mountains and desert landscapes that make this part of Jordan so unique. Throughout the day, runners were treated to epic views as the course passed towering rock formations and vast open spaces.
In the men’s race, Jordan’s Salameh Alaqra set the early pace and led the field to the first checkpoint. However, as the stage unfolded, Frenchman Mahé Freydier and Spain’s Antonio Tostón moved to the front. Freydier ultimately claimed victory in a winning time of 2:37, with Tostón finishing second and Alaqra completing the podium in third place.
The women’s race was dominated by Héline De Souza, who produced a commanding performance to finish in 3:09:42. She was in a class of her own, crossing the line a remarkable 46 minutes ahead of second-placed Audrey Roynard, with Laure Masson securing third place.
As the sun began to set, many runners were still making their way along the course, highlighting the demanding nature of the terrain. Wadi Rum is unquestionably beautiful, but its soft sands and rugged landscapes ensure every kilometre must be earned.
With Stage 1 complete, participants settle into the realities of self-sufficiency, spending their first night in camp tents beneath what is hoped will be a spectacular blanket of stars.
Attention now turns to Stage 2, where competitors will choose between 20km, 40km or 60km route options as the adventure across Jordan continues.
Stage 3 of the MDS 120 Morocco and the MDS Handi 2026 delivered everything that makes the Marathon des Sables so special: challenge, determination, teamwork and unforgettable emotion.
The day began with two starts. At 05:30, the bulk of the MDS 120 field and all MDS Handi teams set off into the Moroccan landscape. An hour later, at 06:30, the top 50 runners launched their pursuit from behind, adding an extra layer of excitement to the stage.
In one of the most inspiring moments of the race so far, the MDS Handi teams were outstanding from the very beginning. Charging through the early kilometres and into the most technical section of the course after CP1, they found themselves at the front of the race. It was a remarkable display of determination, commitment and teamwork. Every obstacle demanded complete trust between team members, and when opportunities arose, MDS 120 runners stepped in to help, pulling on the “Hope Ropes” or assisting through difficult sections using the framework and specialised handles. It was a powerful demonstration of the spirit that defines the Marathon des Sables.
Conditions offered some relief compared to previous days. Cooler temperatures, increased cloud cover and even the occasional drop of rain provided welcome respite. But this is still the Sahara, and whenever the sun broke through, the heat quickly reminded runners where they were.
At the front of the MDS 120 race, Rachid El Morabity once again controlled proceedings with the confidence and experience of a champion. Behind him, Louis Godemon and Selim Deterpigny worked hard in pursuit, but El Morabity remained firmly in command throughout the day.
The women’s race produced an exciting battle. Laura Dumortier set an aggressive early pace and led the charge during the opening stages. However, Sylvie Van Baelen patiently closed the gap, moved into the lead and then steadily extended her advantage to secure a memorable stage victory. Marie Kirton completed the podium after another strong performance.
Across the other race formats, victory in the MDS 100 went to Maxime Kerisit and Kristel Verheyen, while the MDS 70 honours were claimed by Erk Renes and Ilenia Taurian.
Yet the results only tell part of the story.
For the athletes of MDS Handi, Stage 3 was far more than a race. It was a journey into the unknown, filled with challenges that tested both body and mind. The 16 teams each brought something unique and special to Morocco, creating moments that inspired everyone fortunate enough to witness them. Their courage, resilience and collective spirit transformed the day into something far greater than competition.
As the finish line came into view, emotions overflowed. Medals were placed around weary necks, tears of joy mixed with laughter, and memories were created that will last a lifetime.
What a race. What an adventure. And for MDS Handi, a truly historic chapter that will remain in the hearts of all who shared the experience.
The fifth edition of the MDS Morocco 120 and the second edition of the MDS Handi began in spectacular fashion today, with runners greeted by a stunning desert sunrise and the promise of an unforgettable adventure ahead.
With high temperatures forecast throughout the day, organisers made the decision to bring the start forward by 1 hour and 30 minutes, sending participants on their way at 06:30 rather than the planned 08:00. It proved to be a wise move. Even before dawn, the warmth of the Moroccan desert could already be felt following a very hot night where sleeping bags remained largely untouched across the bivouac.
As the first light spread across the landscape, more than 600 participants gathered at the start line. There was excitement, nervous energy and anticipation in equal measure. For some, this was the beginning of a long-awaited personal challenge. For others, a chance to return to the desert they love. Six hundred people, six hundred stories, all heading into the same vast and beautiful terrain.
Stage 1 covered 24 kilometres for the runners tackling the 70 km, 100 km and 120 km race formats, while the 16 MDS Handi teams faced an 18.1 km course. Three checkpoints were positioned along the route, offering welcome opportunities for water, support and encouragement as temperatures steadily climbed.
The MDS Handi teams once again sat at the heart of the event. Their determination, teamwork and spirit inspired everyone around them throughout the day. Through the “Hope Ropes” initiative, runners from the main race are able to join the effort and help propel the teams forward, creating powerful moments of connection across the course.
Adding an extra competitive element, each Handi team faced its own challenge before Checkpoint 2. Around 300 metres from the checkpoint, assisting runners stepped aside, leaving the Handi athlete to continue alone. Those who successfully completed the section independently earned a ten-minute time bonus deduction. It is a simple concept, but one that highlights determination, courage and personal achievement in a very special way.
At the front of the race, Morocco’s own Rachid El Morabity once again showed why he is known as the “Desert King”. Running with his usual calm authority, he claimed the stage victory in 2:03:46. Louis Godemon crossed the line next, 3 minutes and 12 seconds behind, while Selim Deterpigny completed the men’s podium at 5 minutes and 54 seconds.
The women’s race produced its own memorable story. Marie Kirton ran strongly throughout to secure the stage win in 2:39:55, but not without drama. In the closing kilometres, a two-inch thorn pierced her shoe and repeatedly stabbed her foot with every stride. Forced to stop, she carefully removed the thorn before continuing on her way. It was a small but powerful reminder that in the desert, even the tiniest obstacle can become a significant challenge. Good footwear matters.
Sylvie Van Baelen finished second, 5 minutes and 21 seconds behind Kirton, while Laura Dumortier rounded out the podium a further 3 minutes and 23 seconds later.
The Handi teams were equally impressive. The team of Aubin Barillon completing the course in 02:16:47 – full Handi results (here)
As runners returned to the bivouac throughout the afternoon, the effects of the heat were clear, but so too were the smiles, stories and sense of accomplishment. Stage 1 delivered everything the desert is known for: challenging conditions, remarkable landscapes, personal battles and moments of inspiration.
It was a hot day. An inspiring day. And a fitting start to four days of racing in the heart of Morocco.
Henriette’s story is one of obsessive discipline, deliberate practice and a willingness to reject the conventional path. Competitive, fiercely self-reliant and prepared to put in the work when nobody is watching. But there is much more to her story than results.
From obstacle course racing and an early connection with Tromsø that involved her honeymoon, through races such as the Ring of Steel, skyrunning and the World Championships, Henriette steadily built her way into the elite of the sport. A period of serious health issues interrupted that progression, but her return produced a remarkable run of performances – including 6th at OCC and CCC, 6th at Lavaredo 80K, victory at Templiers 47K, a winter Bob Graham Round record of 17:55 across 106 km and 42 peaks, 3rd at Trofeo Kima, victory at UTS 50K, and back-to-back Transgrancanaria wins in 2025 and 2026.
But the results are only part of the conversation.
We talk about leaving a corporate career as an auditor to become a full-time runner, the role Norway has played in shaping her – from the Romsdal mountains and local races to brutal weather and hugely varied terrain.
We also get into some of the less comfortable subjects in elite sport: women’s health and RED-S, body shape and what ‘healthy’ actually means, sponsorship and the freedom to make your own choices, shoe selection, common sense and decision-making, and the pressures surrounding UTMB and the modern ultra-running landscape.
Henriette is refreshingly honest, no BS and unafraid to speak about subjects that many athletes avoid. Through the Ascend Trail, Arc’teryx, her new partnership with Raide Research and the Sufferfest film, she is also building something beyond simply being a professional runner.
An outlier, certainly. But perhaps more importantly, someone prepared to question the rules, take responsibility for her own decisions and find her own way through the sport.
Often described as the world championships of trail and mountain running, it remains the sport’s biggest stage. For elite athletes, it is the pinnacle. A race that demands years of discipline, dedication and unwavering commitment.
Of course, every runner on the start line faces the same mountains and the same distance. But at the front of the field, there is often far more at stake than a finish time. Careers, sponsorships, reputations and legacies can all be influenced by a single day in Chamonix.
The pressure is immense.
At the same time, the sport continues to evolve. Races are getting faster and faster. Training standards are rising. Recovery windows seem smaller. The margin between success and failure is increasingly narrow, and for those who aspire to a top-10 finish at the sport’s most competitive events, operating close to the edge is becoming a necessity rather than a choice.
It is a delicate tightrope to walk.
Every year, some of the sport’s biggest names fail to make the start line. Injury is nothing new. Katie Schide’s absence through long-term injury is one example. Others arrive hoping their final preparations will be enough, only to realise in the closing stages that the risk outweighs the reward. The withdrawals of Kilian Jornet, Jim Walmsley, Tom Evans and Ruth Croft significantly changed what may have been one of the strongest UTMB fields ever assembled.
Then there are the factors no training plan can fully control.
Illness swept through parts of UTMB week. Henriette Albon’s stomach issues before the start were one example, but as the races unfolded it became clear others were also walking a fine line between competing and recovering. Some started with hope and determination, only to discover very early that 2026 was simply not their year. Adriana Moser was one such example.
And then there is a different question altogether. Can athletes still have multiple peak performances in a single season?
Several elite runners arrived in Chamonix after already producing exceptional results elsewhere in 2026. Vincent Bouillard and Courtney Dauwalter had both raced and raced well earlier in the year. Yet UTMB, raced at unprecedented pace and intensity, may have represented one challenge too far. Not because they lacked ability, but because even the best athletes have limits.
The same thought applies to Francesco Puppi and Jennifer Lichter. Both have enjoyed remarkable seasons and both finished in the top five at the 2026 CCC. Outstanding performances by any measure.
But had they arrived completely fresh, fully recovered and without the physical and mental demands of Western States in their legs, would they have finished on the podium? Could they even have won?
The answer is impossible to know. Yet the question itself feels increasingly relevant.
From the outside, the life of a professional trail runner can seem ideal. Your passion becomes your profession. You travel the world. You compete in extraordinary places.
But when passion becomes a job, expectations inevitably follow. Results matter. Contracts matter. Visibility matters. The need to perform creates pressure.
Respected coach Paul Lind once said, “You can only take water from the well so many times.” It’s a simple statement, but perhaps one that resonates more strongly than ever.
At UTMB 2026, Ben Dhiman ran an astonishing time 18:16, and two other athletes also broke 19 hours. Yes, the course was adjusted, but the significance remains. Times once considered unimaginable are now becoming reality. Dhiman prepared for UTMB meticulously and in the process, ran Transvulcania and 90km Du Mont-Blanc as tune ups, he placed 5th and 2nd respectively, I wonder, was there disappointment at not winning both, or, more importantly, where they just stepping stones to the big W at the one that mattered?
Trail running is changing.
The image of ultra running as a relaxed community of dirtbags, hippies and adventurers still exists and, importantly, remains part of its soul. But at the elite level, the sport is becoming increasingly professional, increasingly competitive and increasingly unforgiving.
Miao Yao offers a fascinating glimpse into this evolution.
Earlier in 2026, she won CDH at HOKA Val d’Aran in 13:04:34 without using poles. Her reasoning was simple. She now views races around the 100-kilometre distance, CCC included, as fast-running events rather than traditional mountain ultras. To prepare, she focused accordingly. She even used Sierre-Zinal, a brutal 31-kilometre mountain race, as a speed-focused tune-up before CCC.
A former CCC champion herself, Miao went on to battle fellow former winners Toni McCann and Yngvild Kasperson for third place, later admitting it was a day of real struggle.
That, perhaps, says everything.
The barriers are moving.
Just as the four-minute mile, the two-hour marathon and now the sub-20-hour UTMB once seemed out of reach, the moment something is proven possible, expectations shift. Athletes adapt. Coaches adapt. Training adapts.
The new standard becomes the starting point.
So where does the sport go in 2027?
Many elite athletes have already responded by racing less. One or perhaps two major targets have become the model. Everything else is planned around arriving at those races healthy, fresh and fully prepared.
Yet exceptions still exist.
Rachel Entrekin’s 2026 season has been extraordinary. Victory at Coldwater Rumble 100, third place at Chianti behind Courtney Dauwalter and Yngvild Kasperson, outright victory at Cocodona 250, and then second place at UTMB.
It is difficult not to admire such achievements.
But it also raises another question.
Is it sustainable?
Rachel may be uniquely gifted. Some athletes appear capable of recovering and performing at levels others simply cannot match. Yet history repeatedly shows that athletes who burn brightest often do not burn longest.
That is not criticism. It is observation.
Perhaps the biggest story from UTMB 2026 is not who won, who lost or who withdrew.
Perhaps it is that the sport has reached another turning point.
The demands are higher than ever before. The competition is deeper than ever before. The rewards are greater than ever before.
But so too are the risks.
As trail running enters this new era, the question may no longer be how fast athletes can go.
Instead, the more important question might be this:
How long can they sustain it?
And in the pursuit of ever-faster times and ever-greater performances, what is the true cost of repeatedly going back to the well?
I am in the 60-69 age category, when did that happen?
My mind rejected the numbers every time someone said it.
You are in the 60-69 age category?
Sixty was someone else. Men in magazines. Men sitting on benches talking about what they used to do. Not me!
Inside, I still have the enthusiasm of a runner. However, my knees, unfortunately, disagree.
Years of running have gradually been negotiated away. First the long races disappeared. Then the hard intervals. Then the weekly mileage declined. The extra kilograms arrived quietly, one at a time, not enough to alarm me, but enough to make every climb a little steeper.
Running has given way to mostly hiking. It wasn’t surrender. At least that’s what I told myself.
I am still out on the mountains, still moving through the forests and across the ridges. I am strong, bloody stubborn Abelone will say, and I can hike for hours. I can still suffer. Importantly, I can still stand on summits that many younger men never reached.
Did I believe there was a plateau ahead. A place where the decline would stop. A place where fitness would maybe even return?
The graph in my mind always flattened out eventually, even if it never quite returned to where it had once been.
Then came Hylja Vertical 600.
Five km’s with six hundred meters of climbing – on paper, a race perfectly suited for me! No downhill to trash the knees, just up and the possibility to get in the red zone, stay there and push all the way to the line.
Short enough to hurt. Long enough to expose the truth.
And the truth not only came but hurts…
As I climbed, younger runners drifted away from me immediately. Some sailed past. Others simply maintained a pace I could no longer reach or dream of. I wasn’t surprised, I would be a fool to have expected otherwise.
My heart worked harder than I remembered. My lungs were in my mouth. It hurt in a way that was no longer reassuring. My legs answered more slowly than they once had despite my poles facilitating forward momentum. What had once been my strength, now felt like stubborn determination.
There was no humiliation in my run externally. No catastrophe. I finished. But inside, there was a quiet revelation that no matter how much I fool myself with positive thoughts, my good times are gone.
Standing there, breathing heavily and staring back down the mountain, I realized that for years I have been misreading the story of aging.
I had thought of my decline as a temporary descent followed by a shelf of stability. Perhaps even a small rise if I worked hard enough.
But the trails behind me in Hylja told a different story.
There will be good days and bad days ahead. Strong adventures and weaker ones, and yes, a few surprises, perhaps.
But the overall direction will never reverse now. The line will continue downward until the end.
These are not new thoughts, my mind has struggled for the last two years with my decline after an injury while running in Spain. I was aware of the lack of running, the increased pain, the gain in weight, but, I could hide the truth somewhere with an illusion of positive outward display – the Hylja finish line changed that and cemented the decline as a fact on a result sheet.
There is no need to keep mourning the man I have been. The older I get, the better I was.
The runner in my thirties has gone.
The runner in my forties has gone.
Even the runner in my fifties is now slipping into memory.
But the hiker standing on the mountain is still here. Still moving. Still climbing. Still capable of wonder.
I looked out across the valley from Hylja, the mountains of Rondane in the distance. The same mountains I had fastpacked through with Abelone just a month ago – covering 208km’s in 5-days – the landscape unchanged and indifferent to my age.
For the first time, I understood that life had quietly shifted from becoming to appreciating. When I was young, every run was an investment in a stronger future, a better and faster me.
Now, is every hike an acknowledgement of a diminishing one?
Does that make each step more valuable?
Am I no longer running toward a better version of myself?
I guess, I am simply grateful to still be on the trail. Loving the landscape. Loving the isolation. Loving the adventure. Where time and distance actually means nothing.
I will never outrun aging, and neither will you! The goal is to keep moving long enough to learn how to live and accept it.
The days before the 2026 edition of Transvulcania felt eerily familiar. Wet streets in Los Llanos. Low clouds wrapping themselves around the ridgelines above El Paso. Moisture hanging heavy in the pine forest. Conversations in cafés and hotel lobbies kept drifting back to the same thought: please not again.
After the severe weather that disrupted the 2025 race, there was a quiet anxiety around La Palma in the build-up to this year’s event. Transvulcania is already one of the most demanding ultras in the world when conditions are good. When the island turns hostile, it becomes something else entirely.
But sometime during the night before the start, the mountain changed its mind.
Race morning arrived cool, calm, and almost impossibly perfect for running. The clouds remained, softening the exposure and keeping temperatures under control. Light rain fell in sections of the course, enough to settle the dust and compact the volcanic terrain without turning the trails heavy. Then, later in the day, the sun appeared just enough to illuminate the island’s dramatic ridges and descents without ever becoming oppressive.
What followed was extraordinary.
On a course as iconic and historically difficult as Transvulcania, improvements in winning times have been marginal. The 2026 edition changed that. They forced you to stop, rewind the race in your mind, and ask what exactly happened on this mountain.
Part of the answer was written into the terrain itself. The volcanic sand that usually defines sections of Transvulcania can often feel like running through ash, loose, decomposed, energy-draining. This year, after days of moisture, much of it had compacted making for considerably faster progress. Athletes were finding traction where they normally lose it. Climbs became more efficient. Descents became faster and more confident. Across an ultra-distance race, where every micro-adjustment compounds over hours, the effect was enormous and this is without doubt where a percentage the course record pace came from.
But conditions alone do not explain the magnitude of what happened.
Trail running has evolved at breathtaking speed over the last few years, and this edition felt like the clearest demonstration yet of just how professional the sport has become. Today’s elite athletes arrive with race plans built from meticulous course analysis, power data, nutrition precision, altitude blocks, recovery protocols, sleep tracking, and sports science that would have seemed excessive not long ago. Shoes are faster. Fueling is smarter. Preparation is more specific. Nothing is left to chance anymore.
And perhaps most importantly, the depth of talent is exploding.
Before race week, much of the attention was placed on the Kenyan athletes and the possibility of records in the Vertical and Uphill races. They dominated the VK and Half with superb performances of speed, agility and technical prowess. Records in the marathon also fell. Pre-race, while reviewing the Ultra field, one thing became impossible to ignore: the density at the front – twenty men capable of producing what, in previous years, would have been considered a top-ten all-time performance on this course. That changes everything about how a race unfolds.
No one can afford patience anymore.
Running conservatively no longer guarantees a podium, or even relevance. Athletes who, only a few years ago, would have comfortably placed inside the top five are now finishing much further down despite running historically fast times. The level has risen so dramatically that simply surviving the course is no longer enough. To compete at the front now requires relentless pressure from the opening climb.
And that pressure was visible everywhere.
Women’s Race
The women’s race embodied that intensity perfectly. A stacked field featuring Blandine L’Hirondel, Lucy Bartholomew, Ekaterina Mityaeva and returning two-time champion Emelie Forsberg exploded from the opening kilometers. Blandine took control on the climb from the start to Los Canarios and then onward toward Deseadas and beyond. Yet the race never settled. Lucy refused to let the gap grow, eventually catching Blandine at Roque de los Muchachos after 50 kilometers and very briefly taking the lead. The Frenchwoman responded brilliantly on the descent, with what must of been a masterclass performance, reclaiming the lead before Tazacorte and ultimately storming to victory in 7:43:47 — an astonishing 19 minutes faster than the previous course record by Ruth Croft. Lucy also finished well inside the old mark in 7:49:26 after one of the finest races of her career, incredible as she openly admits, she is terrible downhill… Emelie completed one of the stories of the weekend by returning to the Transvulcania podium in third.
Men’s Race
Damien Humbert set a ferocious early pace, but the race soon evolved into an all-out battle between David Sinclair, Petter Engdahl, Ben Dhiman, Andreas Reiterer, and Nadir Maguet across the volcanic spine of La Palma. David and Petter traded control high in the mountains after El Pilar, Petter stronger on the climbs, David faster on the descents. Reaching Roque de los Muchachos almost stride for stride, David unleashed a devastating descent toward Tazacorte that finally broke Petter, no doubt mindful of the final sting in the tail, the climb from Tazacorte Puerto to the finish that almost certainly would suit Petter. David reached Los Llanos in 6:32:24, smashing the long-standing course record by an astonishing 20 minutes in what he later called, ‘the race of his life!’ Behind him, Petter, and Nadir also finished well under the previous record, while an incredible six men broke Luís Alberto Hernando’s legendary mark that had stood for over a decade. Petter went on to say at the finish, ‘He (David) was just so fast on the descent, I couldn’t keep up.’
That is often how records truly fall, not through perfect pacing alone, but through confrontation. Through athletes refusing to let rivals settle into comfort. Through races that demand risk instead of caution. Blandine L’Hirondel was already under record pace, yet Lucy Bartholomew stayed close enough deep into the race to force another level from her. Petter Engdahl tried to stay attached to David Sinclair, pushing the pace high enough that Sinclair himself had to keep squeezing every possible second from the course to finally break away. It created the kind of racing that transforms performances from impressive into historic. Every athlete elevated the others.
And then there was another story woven beautifully into the weekend. Ten years after her victories on this island, two-time champion Emelie Forsberg returned to Transvulcania once again. But this time the story was different. No longer the young athlete who dominated these volcanic trails a decade ago, she arrived as a wife, a mother of three children, and still managed to stand on the podium once more. In a weekend obsessed with speed, records, and the future of the sport, her performance carried something equally powerful – perspective. A reminder that greatness in trail running is not only measured in minutes and records, but also in longevity, resilience, and the ability to return to the same mountain years later and still belong among the very best.
The 2026 Transvulcania was not simply a fast edition blessed by good weather. It felt like a glimpse into the future of trail running, deeper, more professional, more aggressive, and faster than anything we have seen before.
And for those lucky enough to witness it unfold across the volcanic spine of La Palma, it was unforgettable.
Four races, eight records, men and women triumphant on the iconic trails of La Palma, what does the future hold? With the 2027 race date already set for Transvulcania, anticipation is already high.
There is a quiet but important question emerging in the wake of the 40th edition of the MDS Legendary. It is not really about numbers, though numbers have triggered it. It is about identity.
For the first time, the The Legendary introduced a 100-kilometer stage, stretching the total distance to around 270 kilometers. On paper, it feels like a natural evolution. In an era where ultrarunning continues to expand its limits, 100 kilometers carries a certain symbolic weight. It is round, definitive, and globally understood. To say you ran 100 kilometres in a single stage across the Sahara Desert resonates in a way that 82 or 86 kilometres never quite does. The number alone tells a story.
And yet, those who experienced it know that numbers rarely tell the whole story.
This particular 100-kilometer stage was, by design or necessity, more runnable. The terrain was flatter, rockier, less technical. There were fewer dunes to swallow momentum, fewer jagged ridges to force careful foot placement, fewer of those long, grinding climbs. It was a different kind of test. Not easier, necessarily, but different in character. More continuous. More rhythmic. Perhaps, for some, more honest in its simplicity.
The long stage of MDS Legendary has always been the soul of the race. It is where the MDS reveals what it truly is. In previous editions, that revelation came not just from distance, but from terrain. Runners would find themselves deep in dune fields. They would climb djebels. Cross stark, exposed and unforgiving ridges. Landmarks like Djebel El Otfal were not just features on a map; they became physical and mental thresholds.
Previously, the long day has hovered closer to 80 kilometers. Shorter on paper, perhaps, but rarely in experience. Difficulty was layered, not linear. Progress was negotiated, not simply measured.
So what happens when the balance shifts?
A 100-kilometre stage invites a different kind of effort. It rewards efficiency, pacing, and the ability to keep moving. It aligns, in many ways, with the broader evolution of ultrarunning, where speed over long distances has become a defining metric. There is a purity to that. But the desert and stage racing is different, very different.
But the desert has never been about fairness.
The Sahara Desert is indifferent to rhythm. It breaks it. The desert messes with the mind as much as stride. Its difficulty has always been irregular. That unpredictability is not an obstacle to the race; it is the race. Remove too much of it, and something subtle begins to change. The experience becomes more controlled, more measurable.
This is not to suggest that the 100-kilometer stage lacks merit, the opposite. For many runners, it represents a clear and compelling challenge. It simplifies the narrative: one stage, one hundred kilometres, one continuous effort across an immense landscape. From a PR and communication point of view, MDS Legendary 40th edition was defined by a 100km stage.
And yet, one wonders what is remembered more vividly.
Is it the satisfaction of reaching a numerical milestone, or the fragmented, almost surreal memories of moving through varied and hostile terrain? The slow, grinding ascent of a ridge at dusk. The disorientation of a night crossing through dunes that all look the same. The way the body adapts not just to distance, but to constant change.
Perhaps the real question is not whether 100 kilometers is too long, or 80 kilometres too short.
It is whether distance alone should define the hardest day of the race.
There is a compelling argument that the future of MDS Legendary does not need to choose so rigidly. Ideally, the distance of the long stage should or could be defined by the terrain and route – dunes could return, not as a token gesture but as a meaningful section, a djebel could once again stand as a decisive moment within the stage. Should ebb and flow, forcing runners to constantly adapt rather than settle into a single rhythm?
Such an approach would blur the distinction between distance and difficulty, bringing them back into conversation with one another.
Because in the end, the enduring appeal of The Legendary has never been rooted solely in how far it goes. It lies in how it feels while you are out there, somewhere between checkpoints, when the landscape dictates terms and the idea of “running” becomes something much more complex.
The introduction of a 100-kilometer stage has opened a new chapter for the MDS. Whether that chapter continues, or gives way to something less obvious but more nuanced, is not merely a question of logistics. It is a question of philosophy.
Perhaps the answer does not lie in fixing the distance at all. Perhaps the long stage should remain fluid, shaped not by a number, but by intent. Its success measured not in kilometers, but in the quality of the challenge it delivers. A truly great long stage is one that is beautiful, demanding, and just uncertain enough to unsettle even the most prepared runner—one that tests the body, certainly, but leaves its deeper mark on the mind.
For years, entering a race has felt simple. You find an event, sign up, pay the fee, and start training. The idea that anything might go wrong rarely enters your mind, certainly from a business point of view. Of course, you may have a change of personal circumstances, an injury for example – but, the race not happening, that is rarely a consideration. Advance payments have been part of the fabric of the sport for so long that most people barely register them as a risk.
But when something disrupts that pattern, even once, it has a way of shifting how we think. For the majority, these moments feel less like a crisis and more like a quiet recalibration. A warning sign! It’s not a collapse of trust – but more a subtle change in thinking. However, if you are a runner who has made payments and lost everything – trust will be eroded and this has a huge impact in forward thinking.
In the past, Covid an exception, most runners didn’t question where their money sat after they entered a race. It was understood, implicitly, that the event would take place and that the organiser would manage whatever sat behind the scenes. The mechanics of cash flow, margins, and risk were invisible. What mattered was the start line.
Now, that invisibility has thinned a little.
It’s unlikely that large numbers of runners will suddenly start combing through company filings or attempting to assess balance sheets and viability of a company. That level of scrutiny belongs to a minority. But something more gentle may well take hold:
A hesitation before committing far in advance.
A second glance at unusually heavy discounts.
A quiet preference for organisers with a long, steady track record.
But, as recent events have shown, established and track record is not a guarantee.
Trust will still exist, but it may become more selective.
For runners, there are also a few simple ways to reduce exposure without losing the ability to plan ahead. Insurance is the most obvious, particularly for higher-cost or international events, where cancellation cover can soften the financial hit if something goes wrong. Paying by credit card rather than debit can offer an extra layer of protection too, especially in the UK where consumer protections may allow you to reclaim funds in certain situations. Beyond that, a more risk-aware approach can help.
Hotels, travel and logistics will almost certainly be looked at with more scrutiny and less commitment. For example, using specific websites that allow booking of hotels and/ or travel where cancellations, with no impact, can be made almost days before being needed.
We may well be looking at a substantial shift in thinking, and this will impact on event organizers.
At the same time, the reality for organizers hasn’t changed. If anything, it has become more exposed. Events are expensive to stage, and most of those costs arrive early. Permits, insurance, equipment, staffing, logistics. Long before a runner crosses a start line, much of the financial commitment has already been made.
Advance entry fees are not a convenience – they are, in many cases, the mechanism that makes the event possible at all. So, what is going to happen if the runner changes the approach to booking and commitment.
That creates a delicate balance. Runners want certainty – we love to secure a place, plan ahead and formulate a plan. Organizers need commitment. If one side begins to hesitate, even slightly, the effects ripple outward.
Cash flow tightens.
Planning becomes less predictable.
Decisions get pushed later.
In a system that often works twelve months ahead, even small delays in confidence can create friction.
There is a risk, at least in the short term, of instability. Not dramatic or immediate, but enough to be felt. Smaller events and newer organisers are likely to feel it most.
Yet there is another side to this. This could be turned into a positive.
Moments like this can prompt a more sustainable way of operating. Organisers may become more cautious about expansion, more disciplined in managing costs, and more focused on building financial resilience rather than chasing rapid growth.
Runners, in turn, may make more deliberate choices about where and when they commit their money. A slightly more informed participant base, paired with more transparent and measured organizers, could strengthen the ecosystem over time.
But there is something worth preserving too.
Endurance sport has always run, in part, on goodwill. There is an unspoken agreement between organiser and participant. You trust that the event will be there. They trust that you will commit early enough to help make it happen. Strip that away entirely, and something important is lost.
The likely outcome sits somewhere in between. Not a collapse of confidence, but a tempering of it. People may pause, think, and choose a little more carefully.
Organizers may work harder to earn that early commitment.
Advance payments will still happen.
Races will still fill.
Plans will still be made months, even years, in advance.
But perhaps with a slightly clearer understanding, on both sides, of what sits beneath the surface.
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And then, just like that, overnight, A cancellation of Tenerife Bluetrail by UTMB – this brings a different kind of reality into focus. Here, there’s no financial mismanagement or organisational failure to question. It’s simply the fact that some things sit beyond anyone’s control. Safety has to come first. But the impact is still real.
Travel has happened, runner’s are in hotels, months of training has been shaped around a single date, and then, overnight, it’s gone.
Nature hits, this comes under Force Majeure – is a contractual clause freeing parties from liability when extraordinary, uncontrollable events, such as natural disasters, wars, or pandemics, make fulfilling obligations impossible – situations like this may well add another layer to how people think about committing to events in the future.
This is not a loss of trust in organizers but a growing awareness that even well-run races carry external risks that are sometimes beyond everyone’s control.
In that sense, this situation doesn’t contradict the earlier discussion, it deepens it. The question is no longer just “can this event go ahead?” but also “what happens if it can’t, for reasons no one can control?”
Will this nudge runners toward a more flexible approach? Not out of fear, but out of a clearer understanding that certainty, in endurance sport as in nature, has always been a little fragile.
Stage 1 of the 2026 The Coastal Challenge Costa Rica set the tone in the way it always does. It reminded everyone, very quickly, that Costa Rica plays by its own rules.
The day began long before sunrise. At 02:30, alarms cut through the darkness as runners gathered for a 03:30 departure, quiet conversations, nervous energy. There is something uniquely disorienting about starting a race day in the middle of the night, especially when the real work will not begin for several more hours. The long drive to the coast and Quepos was filled with anticipation and the kind of silence that comes when athletes are saving energy and thoughts for later.
By the time the start line finally came into view, just after 08:00, the sun was already making its presence known. The heat and humidity were not waiting for anyone. They never do. Stage 1 has a reputation, and once again it lived up to it. Starting late in the morning is always a challenge here. Bodies are not yet adapted, pacing plans are optimistic, and the Costa Rican climate is unforgiving if respect is not shown early.
From the beach start, the course wasted no time in revealing its character. Soft sand gave way to gravel roads, then into dense rainforest where the air felt heavier with every step. Climbs were sharp and relentless, descents technical and punishing on tired legs, and water crossings offered brief moments of relief before the heat closed in again. This was not a gentle introduction. This was pure Costa Rica.
In the Expedition race, Ramon Rosello took control early and never let it slip. He dictated the pace with confidence, moving smoothly through the terrain while others struggled to find rhythm. By the latter stages of the course, he had opened a substantial gap, finishing in a commanding 3:57:03. Behind him, Jon Shield fought hard in the conditions, crossing the line in 4:14:02. It was a clear statement from Rosello on a day where patience and experience mattered as much as speed.
Attention had been on Erick Aguirro going into the stage, with many expecting him to lead the day. However, a lingering injury told its own story. Though still competitive, Aguirro was unable to respond when the pace lifted, eventually finishing fourth behind Jesus Cerdas. On a course like this, even the smallest physical issue is magnified. Stage 1 has a way of exposing weaknesses, and there is little room to hide when the heat begins to bite.
In the women’s Expedition race, Denise Zelaya delivered a strong and controlled performance. She handled the conditions well, maintaining focus and discipline as others faded, to cross the line in 4:47:47. Janina Beck followed in 5:19:25, digging deep through the final kilometres as the accumulated fatigue of the day took hold. Both athletes showed the importance of measured pacing on a stage where ambition can quickly turn into survival.
The Adventure race brought its own drama and determination. Toni Clark led the women with a time of 4:29:41, showing resilience and strength across the varied terrain. For the men, Sammy Francis topped the standings in 3:45:28, navigating the course with efficiency and confidence. Across both races, the story was the same. Those who respected the day were rewarded. Those who did not paid for it.
Stage 1 is always tough, but it is especially brutal because the runners are not yet adapted to the environment. The heat punishes fast starts. The humidity steals energy quietly and persistently. Even seasoned athletes find themselves recalibrating expectations within the first hour. This year was no different. Faces at the finish told the story clearly. Relief, exhaustion, and a newfound respect for what lies ahead.
Costa Rica is at the heart of this race, not just as a location, but as a character in its own right. The diversity of the landscape is extraordinary. One moment you are running along the coastline with the Pacific at your side, the next you are climbing through thick jungle where the sounds of wildlife surround you. The beauty is undeniable, but it comes with a cost. Every climb, every descent, every humid kilometre demands something in return.
As runners made their way into Rafiki Lodge, recovery became the immediate focus. Cooling down, rehydrating, and reflecting on lessons learned. Many arrived with sore legs and humbled minds. Stage 1 has a habit of reshaping race strategies, and this year it was no exception. There was a shared understanding among competitors that the race had truly begun.
Tomorrow brings Stage 2, and with it, a much earlier start for the Expedition runners. Those early hours promise more comfortable conditions, at least by Costa Rican standards. The heat will still come, but later. For now, the priority is rest, refuelling, and preparation. The Coastal Challenge is not won on the first day, but it can certainly be lost.
Stage 1 from Quepos to Rafiki Lodge delivered everything it promised. Heat, humidity, challenge, and beauty in equal measure. It reminded everyone why this race is so highly regarded, and why Costa Rica demands respect. The journey has only just begun, and already it has left its mark.
