Anggriawan Sugianto

It was supposed to be the grand finale. The last battle in my 2025 ultra trail saga—a year packed with challenge and grit. Three 100K ultras in eight weeks. One race each month. I was tired, yes, but more than that, I was determined. This was the moment to seal the deal. Siksorogo Lawu Ultra 80K. The last dance of the year.

Campground Sekipan, Tawangmangu

I’m no stranger to this race. Not at all. My story with SLU began in 2023, a modest 30K that introduced me gently to the wild trails. It didn’t end there. I came back stronger, wilder, wetter in 2024. The rain never let up; it poured like the sky was determined to wash away every ounce of my hope. I slipped, I tripped, I fought. Yet I finished. Barely.

The 2024 race stats tell a brutal story. From 44 starters in the 120K only 6 finished, a gut-wrenching 14%. The 80K field saw just 51 of 145 make it through, about 35%. And the 50K? Even that, with nearly half dropping out. The median finish times crept close to cut-off, inching like shadows waiting to claim the weak.

Flag-off times laid out a rhythm, a precarious dance with darkness and daylight. Midnight for the longest, early mornings for the rest. These are not casual starts. They are invitations to suffer under the indifferent stars.

Then came 2025.

This year, something had shifted. The numbers were better. 23 finishers of 57 in the 120K, that’s 40%. The 80K grew to 65% finishers, and the 50K even higher. More runners standing tall, more stories of grit written into mountain dust.

Even the median finish times edged slower than 2024, but still comfortably under the cut-offs. That small difference means everything. Because every second counts when the body screams for mercy.

And, yes, the flag-off times in 2025 changed too. The 120K started on Friday night, earlier than before, the 80K at midnight, chasing night’s last breath, and the 50K at 5 a.m. No more leisurely dawn departures. This was battle mode.

I started the 80K race at midnight, and for a while, the weather was on my side—calm, cool, nothing to slow me down. But as dawn broke, the rain came back, softly at first, then more insistently. It soaked the trails, turning the descent at Mount Lawu via Cetho into a slick, treacherous ribbon of mud and leaves.

Uphill via Cemoro Kandang

The path twisted and slid beneath my feet like a slippery snake. I lost count of how many times I fell—each tumble a reminder that no matter how well you prepare, nature always has the final say.

Each plunge was a punch to my pride, to my spirit. A test of resolve. The kind that whispers in your ear, “Maybe this is enough.” And that whisper was loud. Too loud.

Downhill via Cetho

When I arrived at the WS Cetho dropbag, I sought one simple comfort: water. To wash the grime off not just my body but my mind. But there was none. The bathrooms were dry, bone dry.

In that moment, I teetered at the edge. Contemplating a DNF. The words tasted bitter. And honest. Sometimes the simplest things—the absence of water—can shake a mountain runner’s faith.

But then, as if on cue, kindness appeared in the form of locals who let me use their shower. Water, warmth, a moment of grace in a brutal race.

This kindness rekindled a fire. A reminder that none of us run alone. The muddy trails, the aches, the doubts. They are carried by shoulders bigger than our own.

Tawangmangu

I pulled myself up, literally and figuratively, pushed through the mud and the mental fog, and finished strong.

Walking across that finish line, every ache singing, every muscle a witness, I understood what it meant to be “The Last King.” Not because I was the fastest or the strongest. But because I stayed when quitting was the easiest option.

And here, I’ll let you in on a little secret. It’s the question that echoed louder than rain and fatigue combined: “Capek itu apa?” What is tired, really?

Is tired the body hanging on by a thread? The mind screaming stop? Or is tired just a whisper, a mischievous ghost that wants to trick us into giving up?

I learned that tiredness is a state of mind. It’s a challenge disguised as defeat. And the only way forward is acknowledging it, and saying, “Thanks, but no thanks.”

If I can stand here today, soaked and muddy, with blistered feet and a heart full of stories, then so can you.

Because endurance isn’t about perfection. It’s about persistence. It’s about getting up one more time than you fall. It’s about dancing your last dance with pride, even when the music’s fading.

So, here’s to SLU 2025: the mud, the rain, the falls, the kindness, the finish line. Here’s to being human. Vulnerable, stubborn, hopeful. And above all, here’s to every “last king” writing their story, one step at a time.