It started, as these things often do, with something faintly ridiculous.

A quiet walk to the start through a perfectly kept park in Lahti, birds doing their thing, locals out with their dogs, and me… helping myself to a handful of poo bags from a public dispenser. Not for their intended purpose, I should add — more of a “just in case” insurance policy for later out in the wilderness. You never quite know, do you?

That was the tone set, really. Calm, civilised, slightly odd.

And then, quite suddenly, it wasn’t.

We gathered at the running track of FC Lahti, where the race would begin with a lap round the pitch. A nice, gentle start, you might think. Something to ease us in.

Except looming behind one end of the ground were the ski jumps.

Not just any ski jumps. Proper ones. The kind that make you question not only your own life choices, but those of anyone who has ever willingly launched themselves off them. They dominated the skyline, towering over the goalposts like something out of a Bond film.

We jogged our little lap, pretending all was normal.

Then we headed out.

And immediately went up.

Not a gentle incline. Not a polite introduction. Just… up. Straight out of town, into the unknown, climbing as if we’d personally offended Finland and it was having none of it. The junior ski jumps came into view not long after, and if they were meant to be less intimidating, nobody had told them. They looked just as terrifying, just on a slightly smaller scale.

It didn’t take long before the scenery opened up. Meadows, grassland, wild flowers doing their thing, the sort of place you’d happily wander through on a Sunday afternoon with absolutely no urgency whatsoever.

This was not that.

Because as quickly as it opened, it changed again.

Into the forest.

And this is where things slowed right down.

The ground underfoot turned into a mess of rocks and roots, all intertwined like some sort of natural obstacle course designed specifically to trip you up. You couldn’t look ahead for more than a second or two without risking an ankle, so your world shrank to the next step, and the one after that.

Progress became… negotiable.

Frustratingly slow. Stop-start. Careful. Every step placed rather than taken. The kind of running where you finish a section and wonder how on earth it took that long to go such a short distance.

But then you’d glance up, just briefly, and remember where you were.

Birch trees. Endless birch trees. Brilliant white trunks stretching out in every direction, covered in that fresh, lime green burst of new leaves that only seems to exist for a few fleeting weeks each year. It felt… clean. New. Like the place had just been switched on.

Then, as if Finland decided variety was overrated, it turned into pine.

Lots of pine.

So much pine.

Trees as far as you could see, the ground beneath occasionally carpeted in yellow aconites, bright and cheerful, as if trying to distract you from the fact you were picking your way through what could only be described as ankle-breaking territory.

And just when you’d settled into that, it changed again.

A commercial forestry section. If the earlier forest had felt alive, this felt… stripped. Acres of stumps, stretching out in all directions. Quiet, desolate, slightly eerie. A reminder that nature here isn’t just something to admire — it’s something that’s used.

Then back again. Forest. Lakes in the distance. Vast, still, untouched. Not a sign of anyone being there. Ever. It felt like you were running through somewhere that didn’t particularly care whether you were there or not.

Which, to be fair, it probably didn’t.

What it did have, though, was air.

Proper air.

Clean, crisp, fresh in a way that’s hard to describe without sounding like you’ve joined some kind of wellness retreat. You could almost taste it. Every breath felt like it was doing you some good, even as your legs quietly questioned your judgement.

Then came the ski slope.

A proper one.

Up we went, directly underneath the lift, staring up at what felt like an unnecessary amount of incline. There was a moment, about three-quarters of the way up, where a path peeled off to the left. Relief doesn’t quite cover it. I’m not entirely convinced I’d have made it all the way to the top otherwise.

And then, of course, down.

Which was, somehow, just as bad. Big rocks scattered across the slope, the size of footballs, waiting patiently to ruin your day. Picking a route down felt like a game of chance. Choose wrong, and you’d know about it.

After all that, the final few kilometres of Day 1 were almost… kind.

Flat. Runnable. The sort of terrain where you could actually remember what running felt like. Until, right near the end, a few bumps crept back in, just to remind you who was in charge.

Crossing the line felt good. Not dramatic. Just… satisfying.

And then I had five hot dogs.

No explanation needed, really.

The finish area was something else. Local volunteers, many of them wearing hoops of wild flowers on their heads, smiling, welcoming, seemingly delighted we’d all turned up to run through their backyard. It was one of those moments where you realise the event isn’t just about the runners.

Inside the marquee, there were familiar faces. A few people I’d shared the desert with in Ultra X Morocco about six months earlier. Slightly less sand this time, a few more trees, but the same knowing looks. The same “what are we doing now then?” conversations.

Bed came early.

Or at least, that was the plan.

I’d booked camping. That was the deal. But somewhere between finishing and wandering about looking slightly dazed, I’d been upgraded. A cabin. A proper bed.

A result of enormous proportions.

I lay down for a quick nap.

Woke up the next morning.

That was that.

No bugs. No mosquitoes. No being eaten alive by whatever lives around Finnish lakes at night. The campers, I gather, had a slightly different experience. I slept through the lot, blissfully unaware.

Day 2 felt different from the off. Still woodland, still winding, but with a sense that we were gradually heading back towards civilisation. More walkers. More bikers. People just out enjoying the trails.

And the thing was — nobody asked.

Nobody stopped you to say, “What are you doing?” or “Is this a race?” They just nodded, maybe smiled, and carried on. As if a group of slightly tired-looking runners making their way through the forest was entirely normal.

Which, out there, it probably is.

The run in towards the finish was a long, straight stretch alongside the lake. The kind of finish that lets you take it in. No tricks. No surprises. Just a steady line towards the harbour, knowing you’re about done.

And then it was over.

No drama. No collapse. Just that quiet, satisfied feeling again.

The “after-party” was in a local bar just round the corner from my hotel, which was fortunate, because the idea of walking any real distance at that point wasn’t overly appealing. A massive burger, chips, a Coke, and then a slow drift into conversation.

People I hadn’t seen all weekend suddenly appeared. That’s the thing about being towards the back — you miss a lot of faces during the race, but they all turn up at the end.

The volunteers were there too. Properly part of it. Not just helpers, but participants in their own way. You got the sense they’d enjoyed it just as much as we had. Maybe more — they didn’t have to run it.

Some had family helping out. Parents of competitors, mucking in, topping up water, cheering people through. There was something quite special about that. It didn’t feel like a big, corporate event. It felt… personal.

Somewhere along the way, I’d also managed to come first in my age category.

Which sounds impressive.

Until you realise I was the only one in it.

Still. A win’s a win.

I’ll take it.