Anggriawan Sugianto

The silence at 10 PM in Selo, Boyolali is not like other silences. It's not the quiet of sleep. It's thick, wet, and heavy—the kind of quiet that happens when a sleeping volcano is watching you from inside the clouds.

I stood at the start line of Merapi 360°, looked at my watch, then looked down the dark road ahead. Seventy-seven kilometers of asphalt stretched into nothing. No trails. No rocks to trip over. Just me, my shoes, and a giant mountain that hadn't moved in a very long time.

I told myself this would be easy. I told myself wrong.

Running to Finish Line @ Merapi 360º

What I Planned vs. What Happened

I usually run on dirt. I love the rocky climbs of trails, the switchbacks, the way your body has to think about every step. BDG Ultra and Siksorogo Lawu Ultra—those are my home. So I looked at Merapi 360° and thought: This will be simple. Just a road race. A chance to build fitness before my bigger race, BTS Ultra 170K, in a few months.

I thought of it as a training run. Something controlled. Something safe.

The mountain laughed.

The Map That Didn't Match the Road

Before the race, I tried to load the GPS file onto my watch. Amazfit, Coros, Garmin—nothing worked. So I did what I call "GPS laundering": uploaded it to Strava, downloaded it again, and finally got it onto my watch. It worked, but something was wrong with the map.

The GPS showed straight lines between points. The actual road was never straight.

This became a problem at 2 AM, when I was running through Boyolali/Klaten/Sleman in the dark. At every corner, I had to stop and look for a red painted arrow on the road. In the darkness, those arrows were nearly invisible. I would slow down, squint, wonder if I was lost, then see it: a faded red line pointing me forward.

Later, I thought about this. In my business, I see the same thing happen. You have a plan that looks perfect on paper. Clean lines. Clear directions. But when people actually try to use it—when they're tired, scared, and it's 2 AM—the plan falls apart. The arrows that seemed so clear in the office are invisible in real life.

The difference is that when a business plan is broken, people lose money. When a GPS is broken and you're running at night, you lose time. Both hurt, but one is more honest about it.

The Moment Everything Changed

For the first 20 kilometers, I felt good. I was running at a pace I could sustain—about 6 minutes per kilometer. I felt fast. I felt like I had this.

Then I did the math.

There was a cutoff point at kilometer 47.7. I had to reach it by 4:00 AM, or I would be pulled from the race. When I checked my watch around kilometer 30, I realized: I was not going to make it if I ran slow. Not even close.

My "training run" turned into a fight for survival.

I started to run harder. My heart was beating so fast I could feel it in my throat. I passed other runners. I pushed up the hills. I could see the numbers on my watch changing, getting closer to that 4:00 AM deadline. At kilometer 47.7, my smartwatch time was 3:58 AM. Two minutes to spare. Two minutes.

There were two other runners with me—Arbi and Aldy. We looked at each other, breathing hard, happy to still be in the race. We were ready for the aid station. We needed water. We needed food.

But there was nothing there.

We kept running. After two more kilometers, we finally found the aid station. It was 4:10 AM. We were "late" according to the original cutoff time.

I should have been angry. I thought about being angry. But then I saw what had happened: the race organizers had extended the cutoff time because earlier aid stations had run out of nutrition. They had made a decision to save runners.

The Choice I Made

At kilometer 50, I had a moment where I could go two directions:

One: Get angry about the wrong distance, the missing aid station, the lost time. Blame the race. Push through and try to "make up time."

Two: Stop. Breathe. Reset.

I chose to stop.

I sat down for 36 minutes. I changed my socks. I washed the dirt off my feet. I ate real food. I drank water slowly. I let my body rest.

Here's the truth that took me years to learn: sometimes the smartest thing you can do is stop pushing.

I have made many mistakes in my life and in my business. Most of them came from a place of "I've already spent time on this, so I need to keep going." This is a dangerous lie. Just because you are halfway through something does not mean you should finish it the same way.

That 36-minute rest was not wasted time. It was the best investment of the entire race. Without it, I would not have finished.

The Sun Comes Up

As the morning light started to show, Merapi showed its real teeth.

The flat road became hilly. Not just small hills—steep climbs of 90 meters every single kilometer. The air got hot. The humidity was crushing, like running inside a wet blanket.

By kilometer 65, I stopped running. I started doing what I call the "survival shuffle"—a slow walk-jog hybrid where your feet barely leave the ground. My steps per minute dropped below 120. Every three kilometers, I would reach an aid station and look for one thing: a cold sponge.

I am not joking. A cold, wet piece of foam became the most important thing in my world. I would squeeze it over my head, and for 20 seconds, I would feel alive again.

At kilometer 30, I wanted to win. At kilometer 70, I wanted a wet sponge. However, no sponge available in this race. This is not failure. This is learning what you actually need.

Running Toward the Finish

I finished 10th in the morning light. My legs were a bit heavy. My mind was clear.

Within a few days, I wrote to the race director. I told him what went well: the registration was fast and easy. The volunteers were kind. People cared.

I also told him what was hard: the arrows were too faint. The GPS lines were straight but the roads were curved. The first/second aid stations ran out of food. The kilometer markers did not match the GPS.

I did not write this to complain. I wrote this because I believe in improvement. I want the next runner to see clear arrows at 2 AM. I want them to have enough food at the aid station. I want them to have a real GPS route that matches the real road.

When you finish something hard, you have something valuable: the truth of what actually happened. That truth is worth sharing. It helps the next person.

What I Know Now

Was Merapi 360° the "easy training run" I planned? No. Not even close.

It was messy. It was harder than I expected. The map did not match the road. The aid station was not where it should be. My plan fell apart by kilometer 30.

But I learned something important: a good plan is not one that never breaks. A good plan is one where, when it breaks, you can still finish.

I survived because I stopped being stubborn at kilometer 50. I survived because I appreciated a cold sponge at kilometer 70. I survived because other runners were kind, and because race organizers made hard choices to help us.

Now I am ready for BTR Ultra 100K. Not because I have a perfect plan. But because I know what to do when the plan falls apart.

To Merapi: thank you for the lessons. Thank you for not moving.

To my legs: you did good. Rest now.

To the next runner: the arrows are faint, but they are there. Look carefully. And bring extra food.