How to Make a Hardcore Race Even Harder: A Race Through Poland reflections.

Words by Anton Lasy - Photography provided by Race Through Poland (See Credits)

Credit: tadek.ciechanowski

Ultra-endurance events like Race Through Poland always seem to arrive suddenly and unexpectedly, even though they’ve been the one thing you’ve been focusing on and preparing for over a long period of time.

I know it sounds contradictory and confusing—because it is. And I know why. These events are almost impossible to fully prepare for due to the sheer number of variables and their unpredictability, even for someone with experience.

So there I was, sitting on a train to Polanica-Zdrój, less than 20 hours before the start. After months of route planning, research, and mental preparation, I was finally on my way to the adventure.

But before I continue, here’s a brief description of the race itself:

Race Through Poland (RTPL) is a fully self-supported, free-route event. You’re given a start line, a finish line, and four mandatory Control Points (CPs) with a parcours around each. How you connect them is entirely up to you. As a self-supported race, it follows the usual rules: no drafting, no outside support, no pre-booked accommodation, etc.

One distinct feature of RTPL is the total ban on national roads, as well as a few specific restricted roads. You’re only allowed to use roads with three digits or higher, and of course, any gravel, singletrack, or dirt detours you might want to take. This alone, in my opinion, makes RTPL a unique event in the ultra scene. The strict rules (which are actively monitored and enforced) push you into places you’d likely never end up otherwise.

This year, we had an additional layer of difficulty. Race director Pawel Puławski required riders to avoid any roads or trails inside two major nature reserves around CP3, except those officially marked as part of the parcours. Failure to comply meant immediate disqualification.

This made route planning especially delicate and critical.

My final route came to 1,578 km with 25,070 m of elevation gain. As you can see, this was a very hilly course. Most riders had similar numbers, with slight variations depending on how they balanced distance vs. climbing, or whether they included some borderline bushwhacking.

In reality, the numbers ended up a bit different... but more on that later.

Journey to the Start Line

My journey to the start wasn’t as long or painful as it might be for someone coming from Western Europe, but still, it was a solid 6-hour train ride followed by a 10 km pedal to the start area.

The first thing you do, of course, is check into your accommodation. Then it’s a rush to the race site for registration. Despite a 2-hour train delay, I made it just in time for the race briefing. Registration was quick, and the bike check was thorough.

Now it was time to soak up the atmosphere, and oh boy, what a vibe. RTPL has cultivated one of the strongest, warmest pre-race communities I’ve experienced. You feel like you’re part of something big, yet underground and intimate at the same time.

After a couple of hours of smiling, chatting, reconnecting with old friends, and making new ones, I returned to my apartment, and that’s when the nerves kicked in:

• “I need to mix my maltodextrin.”

• “I still haven’t repacked everything.”

• “I need to be in bed already, starts at 5 a.m. for goodness’ sake!”

  
  

While I cooked up my gels and frantically stuffed my face with the last carbs I could find, I thought about my race plan, or at least the outline of one.

Credit: bite.of.me

Follo

Race Plan

This was the time I wanted to try a more “classic” ultra-endurance tactic: a full 24-hour push from the start, no sleep, then gradually introducing micro-naps and short sleep sessions.

On paper, it looked solid. I knew I could go 24 hours at a good pace with no sleep. What I didn’t know was how I’d handle the 48-hour aftermath. But I was open to experimentation, still learning what my body can and can’t do.

Nutrition-wise, my plan was to rely mostly on gels for the first 24 hours, then start incorporating normal food. Of course, weather and other variables always mess with plans like these. And boy, was I wrong about how this would go. You’ll see.

Day 1: The First 24 Hours

The day promised to be magnificent: sunny skies, not a cloud in sight. Unfortunately, it was still cold, with a sharp, unpleasant wind. But as long as it’s dry and sunny, I’ll take it.

We began the first starting parcours all together, fresh, excited… and as usual, a bit too fast. I stuck to a conservative pace, carefully keeping my power low in Z2, despite the early climbing. I let a lot of people pass me.

Once we cleared the start parcours, the field spread out quickly as riders began following their own transitions.

About six hours in, I had a strange craving for something that wasn’t a gel. Conveniently, I was near a big city and stopped for an espresso and a sandwich. Not the fastest pit stop, but it felt necessary, and maybe there was a reason. Normally, I can ride 12 hours nonstop, no problem.

Around hour eight, I reached the first mandatory parcour leading to CP1. Like all RTPL parcours, it was tough; this one took me six hours to complete. In just 117 km, it packed more than 2,600 m of climbing, including some brutal hike-a-bike sections on 20 %+ gravel grades.

By the time I rolled into CP1, I’d been riding for 15 hours, covering roughly 280 km and racking up 4,760 m of elevation. It was 19:30 and, thankfully, the kitchen was still open. A hot meal had never tasted better. I rested briefly, topped up water, and set off into the unknown.

Nightfall and Cold Reality

This was the real beginning of the race: the night shift. With it came cold, fatigue, and the kind of isolation that can get under your skin. I took a quick gravel descent from CP1 and crossed into the Czech side. Darkness set in fast. Every layer I had, overshoes, down jacket, rain jacket, went on. It still wasn’t enough.

By hour 20, I was in a remote area with nothing around. Tiny villages, a few buildings, all dark. I started to worry about hypothermia, my greatest fear. My body couldn’t stay warm. Power dropped, morale followed.

At 2 a.m., I rode into a small town. I heard voices, laughter, and people partying in the distance. Guided by the sound, I rolled toward a small bar and what looked like a hotel. My heart lifted—until the woman inside told me they were closing. No room. No warm place to wait. Just a flat “No.”

Credit: tadek.ciechanowski

Desperate, I wandered until I found a residential building with an open entrance. I slipped inside, found a spot under the stairs on the underground floor, and embraced the life of the homeless. I deployed my bivy and passed out cold on the concrete floor.

I spent three hours there, drifting in and out of sleep. At one point, I accidentally squirted gel everywhere, coating my bibs in sticky goop. Not the most restorative recovery…

Day 2 — Damage Control

At dawn, I packed up swiftly and moved on. I wasn’t feeling great, but at least better than the night before. Probably an illusion, thanks to the first light. After 35 km, I finally found a working gas station. Until then, I’d been surviving on gels and cookie scraps. Coffee. 7 Days croissants. Cold sandwiches. A backpack full of snacks and a mandatory Red Bull.

Just as I was rolling out, I spotted a KFC that had just opened. I caved. I needed those carbs.

What followed was a flat transition across fields and fast roads. But after the junk food, I had a massive insulin crash. I could barely turn the pedals. My eyes were closing. Time for a power nap, dead in the middle of a random field, lulled by the wind and birds.

I woke up 20 minutes later to a stronger, chillier wind.

Felt slightly better, packed the bivy, and moved forward. But from this point on, the weather took a sharp turn and changed everything that was to come.

Just as the first rain shower began, I was entering a fairly large town, about 47 km from the CP2 parcours. I was roughly 32 hours into the race at that point. I’d slept maybe two hours total, and the time I spent in that basement didn’t seem to count for much. It hadn’t restored me in any meaningful way.

After yet another supermarket stop, I took a moment to assess my condition. I was completely drained, and now it was raining heavily. The forecast suggested the rain would pass after 8 p.m., so I made a calculated call: wait it out and recover at the same time. I quickly checked into a hotel and grabbed six hours of proper sleep, preparing for the inevitable night shift toward CP2. It felt like a smart, well-optimised decision, killing two birds with one stone: stay dry and recover.

In hindsight, pushing through the first night was a massive mistake. That 30-hour ride without proper sleep, compounded by sloppy nutrition, had taken a real toll.

But as predicted, the evening turned magical. The rain cleared, the skies opened up, and the air felt fresh and warm. My legs started to come back to life. My morale was high.

The only downside was knowing I had another 45 km just to get to the start of the CP2 parcours. It was a little disheartening, but I accepted it with a sense of calm. The roads were quiet, the traffic non-existent, and the evening surprisingly mild for that hour.

But everything was about to change, again.

Third Night - Pushing the Limit

In less than four hours, I reached the CP2 parcours. Little did I know that one of the most miserable nights of my life was about to begin.

That parcours, by many accounts, not just mine, was the most brutal of the entire race. It was long and relentless: 121 km with over 3,000 meters of elevation gain. To make matters worse, it was Sunday, and resupply options throughout the day had been far from ideal. I wasn’t stocked with as much food as I’d wanted, and water was becoming a serious concern. I was low and heading deep into the wilderness. Thankfully, somewhere high up in the mountains, I stumbled upon a random water source. It felt like a small miracle, and it secured my ride, at least for now.

I was climbing slowly. The rain made a prompt return, of course, a theme for the night: wet, dense forest, endless steep ascents, and mud. Mud absolutely everywhere.

Credit: tadek.ciechanowski

At some point, that familiar sinking feeling returned. I was utterly drained, eyes refusing to stay open. Then, as if summoned by desperation, I spotted a woodshed directly on the trail. The only dry place in the entire universe, it seemed. Without hesitation, I ducked under the roof, slid into my bivy, and set an alarm for 20 minutes.

I didn’t wake up to the alarm; I woke up to shivers. It was cold, wet, and eerily quiet. That oppressive feeling hovered over me again, and my inner demons stirred. But I was halfway up a steep gravel climb, and I knew that once I got moving again, I could hold it together.

So I continued to climb, slowly but steadily, grinding my way toward CP2. The low point, the real nadir of that night, hit around 5 a.m. I was in too much pain to ride, reduced to walking until the ibuprofen finally kicked in.

I arrived at CP2 around noon. In the last two hours, I caught a second wind, partly fuelled by adrenaline after catching and dropping a few other riders on the parcours, and partly thanks to a divine stop at a little café run by a lovely German grandma: proper coffee and pastries, finally.

The entire night and early morning had been a wet, rainy, fog-drenched ordeal. The descents were intense, high-speed, low-visibility, requiring full focus. Honestly, I kind of enjoyed it. At least it kept my mind locked in.

CP2 was a welcome sight: familiar faces, warm smiles, encouragement, and friendly chatter. I charged my Di2, sat down for a proper warm dinner at the mountaintop restaurant, and let myself relax for a moment. The sun had finally come out. It was warming up. It was time to move again, onto the long transition toward CP3.

At this point, I was 55 hours into the race, with roughly 9 hours of sleep in total. The upcoming transition would cover around 350 km and nearly 6,000 meters of climbing.

As soon as I rolled out of CP2, the fatigue hammer hit me again, hard. The price of that heroic push through the night was catching up. I stopped for a kebab somewhere, but everything was slow: my movements, my thoughts, my reflexes.

I found myself riding on a main road out of the city, the only viable route south, apparently. It was jammed with traffic. Trucks, buses, cars, narrow lanes and nowhere to hide. A few near-misses. Drivers were agitated. So was I.

With the weight of fatigue and sleep deprivation pressing down, it became unbearable. I started rerouting in the field, trying to find quieter roads. But the price of those reroutes was rising, more distance, more elevation. Even some of the so-called “minor” roads turned out to be unpredictably busy and sketchy.

Credit: tadek.ciechanowski

Eventually, I had to stop for another nap, in a ditch this time. And that’s when I made a conscious decision: I had to let go. No more pushing blindly. I needed to recover and reset, or I’d risk not finishing at all.

I found a decent hotel about 30 km away, booked a room, and rolled in. It was still early evening, and I’d only managed 50 km since CP2. But I didn’t care. I had dinner, went straight to bed, and let the hope of a new day carry me forward.

Day 4

My stop time here was almost ridiculous; I rolled out at 5 a.m., making it nearly a 12-hour break. But I was at peace with the decision. It’s not like things had been going smoothly anyway.

The strange part was how I felt once I started riding again. I mean, I had slept, but the emptiness was still there, no power, no spark. I started to panic a bit. “What was even the point of this?” But I’ve learned over time that in races like this, nothing works instantly, not food, not rest, not even sleep, everything arrives with a delay, and the deeper into the effort you are, the longer that delay becomes.

It was a sunny but cold morning. I kept rerouting in pursuit of quieter, safer roads. Red Bulls were going down one after another, mixed with cookies and Snickers bars, childhood dreams turned into ultra-distance fuel.

And then, around 8 a.m., the void lifted. The energy that had been buried somewhere deep inside finally broke through. Suddenly, I was sharp, focused, on a mission. Every move felt precise, quick resupplies, efficient pacing, constant eating, everything dialled in.

It turned into a fast, focused day. I covered nearly 320 km and climbed 6,000 meters, arriving at CP3 just before sunset, around 8 p.m. A warm dinner welcomed me, and I even managed to catch up to most of the riders who had passed me during the night before.

Interestingly, CP3 wasn’t placed at the end of the parcours, as is typical, but right in the middle. There was still about 30 km to go, including a brutal, endless climb up to the top of Dreisessel, 1,323 meters above sea level, followed by an insanely steep gravel descent into Austria, where my route continued.

There was no way I was tackling 15% gravel pitches in the dark, and I definitely didn’t want to be stuck on top of a 1,300-meter mountain in the freezing night air. So I found a place not far from CP3 and stayed put until dawn.

Day 5

Recharged and refreshed, I continued the CP3 parcours all the way to the summit. I got lucky, the sun finally broke through, and with the first (and only) rays of daylight that day, the view from the top was absolutely spectacular. I could see the entire Bohemian Plain stretching out before me, wild and untouched, its vastness breathtaking.

A few minutes to soak it all in, a couple of deep breaths, a few photos, and then down I went, hurtling through a fast, steep gravel descent into Austrian territory. After some rolling hills and one huge pass, I crossed back into Czechia, where my route led deeper into the country, towards the looming CP4.

Credit: Adrian Crapciu

But first, a little obstacle: a lake blocking my path. Two options lay ahead: either take a 15 km detour around it or wait 15 minutes for the ferry to carry me across. Obviously, I took the ferry. It was around 9 a.m., and I’d already covered about 60 km, including a few big climbs. I was feeling pretty drained at that point.

Once on the other side, I lazily walked into a cosy, expensive café. Maybe that’s exactly what I needed, a fancy breakfast to make me feel human again. Sure, I was stinky and dirty, but I was alive. Sitting there, savouring the warmth and normalcy, gave me a much-needed mental reset.

Mentally, this day proved to be one of the toughest. The distance to CP4 was immense; I still had over 400 km to cover, and it felt like I was barely getting started. The thought of it weighed on me throughout the day. The transition route itself was pretty uninspiring: rolling hills, endless fields, and constant traffic. I had to reroute a couple of times to dodge cars, adding even more distance and, sometimes, extra climbs.

I set a goal for the day, a big city about 220 km from the lake where I caught the ferry. The first half of the day was slow and low on morale, but the closer I got to that city, the faster I became. Part of the urgency was driven by a forecast for a huge thunderstorm; I needed to get there before the downpour hit.

As usual, though, the storm caught me just 5 km from my destination. It was brutal enough to soak me through and through, drenching everything, including the clothes stuffed in my bag.

I dashed into a hotel, trailing water everywhere. Thankfully, the staff were incredibly understanding and supportive. They helped me stash my bike, which by then looked more like a mud pile, set up a charging spot for my Di2, and most importantly, took all my clothes for washing and drying! They could only return my laundry the next morning, not before 7 a.m., which left me no choice; I simply couldn’t continue riding, soaked like that.

At least breakfast was remarkable (and pricey, for them) because, of course, I went for three portions of everything.

Navigating the public spaces barefoot, wearing just my Patagonia jacket and wrapped in a towel was quite the funny sight, I must say.

Day 6

That morning, I finally saw a distance number I could live with. My goal was simple: get to CP4 no matter what. It was 230 km of transition riding plus the CP4 parcours, two gigantic climbs, including the highest elevation point of the race, the mountain Praděd. That meant nearly 2,000 meters of elevation gain in a 50 km stretch.

But the first headache wasn’t climbing, it was the wind. Cold, cruel, and relentless, it blasted right in my face all day. The day felt sluggish and uneven. Sometimes I rode well, other times I felt like a potato.

My plan was to conserve everything I had for the mountain climbs, to push hard once the parcours began. Execution wasn’t perfect, I was sloppy with resupplies, again, but I managed to keep eating until the parcours started around 7 p.m. Then, somehow, I summoned a solid 200 watts on the climbs, catching riders who had passed me while I was resting at the hotel earlier. Of course, it came at a cost.

By the time I hit the steep, muddy gravel section of the final climb to Praděd, my power dropped sharply, and muscle pain returned. I caught up with another rider, and together we slowly rolled into CP4.

Like all the control points, I was lucky to arrive while the kitchen was still open. But this one stood out, warm, welcoming, with staff and volunteers who stayed late just for us. Free tea on request and hot food available to purchase, it felt like a small sanctuary.

Fueled and encouraged, I felt bold again. “Time to bring it home,” I thought. Only the last stretch remained, about 120 km to the finish. I restocked on Snickers bars and energy drinks, took care of all the usual body maintenance and hygiene, and rode off into the night.

And oh boy, how cold that night was. We were on top of a massive mountain at 2 a.m., facing a long, wet descent to the next transition. I layered every piece of clothing I had and began the downhill.

It felt endless. I was begging for a climb just to generate some warmth. By the time I reached the bottom, I’d lost all the heat my body had.

I won’t exaggerate when I say this night was the toughest mental pit I’ve ever fallen into. Once the climb began, it was painfully clear I wasn’t going anywhere fast. The pedals barely turned. I shoved bars into my mouth, downed an entire litre of energy drink, and somehow forced my body over that hill.

But after that climb, the last parcours section loomed, a massive mountain pass back into Poland, with several long climbs afterwards. The weather turned bad again. A light drizzle started, summits vanished into foggy clouds, and water splashing from the road soaked my feet once more.

Uphills became excruciatingly slow, sometimes forcing me to walk when energy ran out. Downhills were treacherous in the wet, and exhaustion from sleep deprivation made it worse. I caught myself with closed eyes while descending; terrifying. At one point, I slipped in mud and fell, scraping my knee and freezing in agonising pain. For a few minutes, I couldn’t use my left leg, but adrenaline kicked in, and I got it moving again. I ignored the blood and pain. The finish was so close.

When I finally hit a random town, I found the nearest bench in a park and passed out right there, ignoring the curious looks from nearby residents. Twenty minutes later, a garbage collector woke me up, and I staggered on, still in a daze, slowed by an unrelenting force.

It was that bad. On one climb, I walked and recorded a 20-minute monologue about quitting ultracycling, how it’s stupid and pointless.

It was an experiment. I got data points. 

I realised I NEED a consistent sleep schedule, not much, but consistent.

But everything has an end. And here I was, riding into the finish line in pouring rain, soaked and shattered.

1600 km, 26.931 m of elevation gain!

6 days, 6 hours, 2 minutes.

Credit: bite.of.me

Foll

Epilogue

What always fascinates me is how, when something like this ends, you expect to just fall down on the grass and lose all consciousness, but instead, you smile, laugh, and hug everyone, and everyone hugs you back. This is the essence of ultra-endurance racing: the community. And here, at Race Through Poland, Piko (Pawel Puławski) achieved something absolutely magical. He nailed the very idea of ultra racing, connecting incredible places on the map and people in minds and hearts. Understanding, brave, and bold souls who just know. They know how it was, no matter how fast or slow they went. They know. And together, we laugh and share incredible stories of our hardships. How we achieved the unthinkable. We did it together, even though sometimes isolated, but in our hearts, we stayed connected. We explored a part of the world. We breathed freedom, freedom of our own decisions, freedom of being alive, part of nature, with the wind, with water from the skies, the heat of the day, the cold of the night. With embarrassment and weakness, with strength and perseverance.

At the end of the day, what will you remember about your life? You will remember those smiles. You will remember the mountains and yourself, standing on the top of the world.