Around one in the morning on the second night of BTR Ultra, I realized I was surrounded by spectators.
One stood quietly by the ditch. Another leaned against a fence post a few yards ahead.
I gave them a polite nod.
They didn’t nod back.
When my headlamp beam cut through the darkness, the spectator on the left turned out to be an overgrown banana plant. The figure by the fence was an abandoned plastic chair. A little farther up, two marshals waiting to cheer me on became a parked motorcycle and a rusted road sign. After more than twenty-eight hours of black volcanic dust, mud, and climbing, my sleep-starved brain had decided reality was too lonely and invented a crowd.
I took a short power nap on a wooden bench at Alengkong. When I opened my eyes, the imaginary fans were gone.
The rest of the mountain, however, was still waiting.
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| BTR Ultra 2026 |
I started at 6:00 PM on Friday with a color-coded spreadsheet promising a neat 27-hour finish by Saturday night. Instead, I crossed the timing mat at approximately 3:12 AM on Sunday, in 33 hours, 12 minutes, and 25 seconds.
Between Friday’s sunset and Sunday’s dawn lay three volcanic peaks, an underfueled climb, a tropical downpour, one reckless downhill, knees that went on strike, and a humbling lesson in resilience. This is how it unfolded, segment by segment.
The Plan: 27 Hours, If All Went Well
Before the race, I was a master of theoretical endurance.
I had mapped out all 106 kilometers and 7,200 meters of elevation gain with executive precision. The spreadsheet had target paces, heart-rate zones, hydration schedules, and an aid-station fueling matrix. For daytime running, I swore by the golden rule: find something salty, something sugary, and something icy cold.
I even left a strict note for my future self: Do not touch the soy milk until after the finish line.
Spreadsheets are comforting. They give you the illusion of control. Sitting at home with fresh legs, it’s easy to believe that when the trail turns to volcanic scree or knee-deep mud, you’ll simply stick to Section 4, Column B.
The volcanoes of Bali, as it turned out, had other plans.
Start to Culali: Summiting Mount Batur in the Dark
The race began at 6:00 PM on Friday as twilight faded over Kintamani.
The opening 10 kilometers offered no gentle warm-up. They sent us straight up to the summit crater of Mount Batur. We climbed through the dark, headlamps forming a snaking ribbon of light across black sand and jagged volcanic rock, before descending the crater rim toward Culali.
My strategy was disciplined patience: stay in Zone 2, ignore the eager runners flying past on fresh legs, and sip my isotonic mix at a steady cadence. At Culali, I grabbed a wedge of watermelon and a banana. Light, clean, controlled.
Standing on Batur’s windy rim with the whole race ahead was breathtaking. But an ultra doesn’t reward early bravado. One volcano in the first two hours meant very little when two more giants were waiting in the dark.
Culali to Tanjakan Cinta: A Little Room to Run
From Culali, the trail smoothed out and let my legs settle into a natural, rolling stride.
I reached Tanjakan Cinta in 3 hours and 9 minutes, roughly thirty minutes ahead of schedule. The night air had turned crisp. At the aid station, steam rose over the comforting sounds of a generator and the smell of boiled potatoes and warm green bean soup. I dipped the potatoes in rock salt, drank the soup, and felt quietly confident.
My legs felt responsive. My gut was happy. The plan was holding.
Being ahead of schedule at an early checkpoint is intoxicating. Experience whispers a caution: when you think you’re beating the trail, it may just mean the mountain hasn’t started asking much of you yet.