Anggriawan Sugianto

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.

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.

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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.

Tanjakan Cinta to Gunung Abang: Thinking Ahead

The climb toward the lower slopes of Gunung Abang was quiet, rhythmic, and meditative.

Tree roots formed natural stairs through the cool forest mist. The only soundtrack was the crunch of volcanic soil beneath my shoes. I reached the Abang checkpoint at 4 hours and 57 minutes, still twenty-eight minutes ahead of target.

I sat down for warm rice and chicken soto. The hot broth cut through the midnight chill, bringing salt, warmth, and calories. I was ticking boxes, looking after my engine, moving with purpose.

Looking back, I loved the idea of eating rice. I was very good at planning it.

Which makes what I did at the next checkpoint all the more frustrating.

Gunung Abang to Puregai: A Promising Arrival

The descent toward Puregai gave my joints a shake, but everything was holding together.

I crossed the timing mat at Puregai in 7 hours, 20 minutes, and 18 seconds—about forty minutes ahead of my 27-hour schedule. It was 1:20 AM on Saturday. By all accounts, I was flying.

Puregai was supposed to be the launchpad. Ahead was the undisputed titan of the island: Gunung Agung. My spreadsheet had warned me in bold: Eat real food. Fill the tank. You cannot climb this on empty.

Then I committed a classic ultra mistake: because I felt good, I thought I could get away with eating less.

I took a few casual bites, lingered, convinced myself a gel in my vest would make up the difference, and headed back into the night.

It was a small, careless mistake. The mountain gave me hours to regret it.

Puregai to Gunung Agung: The Summit and the Missing Rice

The climb toward the summit of Gunung Agung was an endless, vertical wall.

The trail tipped sharply upward, turning into a hands-on-knees scramble through rock and thinning air. At 3:30 AM, in the freezing depths of the night, I squeezed down an espresso gel and leaned heavily on my poles. My headlamp revealed nothing but a dark incline. Without enough slow-burning carbohydrates in my system, my muscles felt hollow and weak.

When you’re crawling up a mountain on empty, listening to the wind howl across the ridge while your stomach growls, you don’t think about heroic grit. You think, with vivid clarity, about the bowl of warm rice you casually walked away from hours earlier.

And yet, when I finally crested the summit ridge of Mount Agung, the suffering paused.

Morning light was breaking across Bali. From the island’s highest point, the caldera opened beneath me: Mount Abang in the middle distance, the crater of Mount Batur beyond it, and Lake Batur gleaming in the sun. It was breathtaking and peaceful—a fleeting reminder of why we put ourselves through these absurd journeys.

Gunung Agung to Cegi: The Quad Annihilator

The awe at the summit was followed immediately by gravity’s tax.

In my plan, I’d nicknamed this section the “Quad Annihilator.” The descent of more than 2,000 vertical meters toward Cegi Village earned every syllable. Each landing sent a jolt through my knees as my quads braked again and again. Dust billowed into my shoes.

By the time I stumbled into Cegi, the clock had delivered its verdict. The section from Puregai had taken 7 hours and 40 minutes. My plan had allowed 5 hours and 15.

I arrived at 15:01:07 elapsed—more than two hours behind schedule. The cool morning was gone, my forty-minute cushion had vanished, and my quads were trembling.

I sat on a wooden bench, washed the dust from my mouth, and let the truth sink in. The spreadsheet race was over. Now came the real one.

Cegi to Jatituhu: Back to the Basics

With the time goal slipping away, the race became wonderfully simple.

The sun climbed higher, radiating heat across the exposed terrain. At Jatituhu, I stopped checking the clock and started focusing on the basics: salty cassava chips, cold Coca-Cola, salt capsules on schedule, and cold water poured over my head.

When your grand finish-line fantasy evaporates, you have a choice: mourn the minutes you’ve lost, or figure out how to put one foot in front of the other for the next kilometer.

I chose the chips. Then I kept moving.

Jatituhu to Trunyan: Torrential Rain on Mount Abang

If Agung was a test of vertical climbing, the section to Trunyan was a trial by water and earth.

This segment tackled the steep, jungle-covered summit ridge of Mount Abang, with nearly 1,500 meters of climbing. Just as we ground our way up into the dense canopy, the skies opened.

Within minutes, hard-packed dirt had become a rushing brown torrent of slick mud, wet roots, and treacherous drop-offs. Each uphill step slid back half a step. On the technical descents, I clutched bamboo stalks and slid down clay banks, drenched and shivering in the mountain wind.

I reached Trunyan at 22 hours and 38 minutes, nearly three hours behind my planned cumulative schedule.

Soaked to the bone and muddy from shins to shoulders, I drank hot soup at the checkpoint. My 27-hour goal had drowned on Mount Abang. But I was still moving forward.

Trunyan to Pedahan: Too Much Enthusiasm

Leaving Trunyan, the trail led onto a long, paved downhill road toward Pedahan.

After hours of slipping in mud and picking my way across wet roots, smooth asphalt felt like a gift. It seemed to invite me to claw back time, feel fast again, and run like a real athlete instead of a cautious hiker.

I leaned forward, opened my stride, and hammered down the road with reckless, glorious speed.

My quads took note. They filed a formal complaint, waited until I’d climbed into Pedahan and crossed the flat section that followed, and then detonated.

A sharp pain flared beneath my kneecaps. My steady stride became a stiff, comical limp. I’d never had knee pain that severe. I had to stop, lean on my poles, and take painkillers just to keep my legs bending.

I’d bought fifteen minutes of downhill speed. My joints were charging compound interest.

Pedahan to Alengkong: A Crowd of Trees

Night fell for the second time.

Going into a second night without sleep does strange, creative things to the mind. Your headlamp turns the darkness into a tiny theater of optical illusions. By midnight, every stump looked like someone waiting by the trail, every burnt fence post like a marshal pointing the way, and a cluster of rocks like hikers chatting.

I found myself whispering polite greetings to roadside shrubs before realizing I was talking to foliage.

I reached Alengkong at 28 hours and 52 minutes, my brain spinning. I didn’t need another gel; I needed a reset. I found a wooden bench, set an alarm, curled up with my hydration vest as a pillow, and took a short power nap.

When I woke, the fog in my head had lifted. The imaginary spectators were gone. There were only quiet, dark trees beneath the mountain sky.

Sometimes the most productive decision in an ultra isn’t to push harder. It’s to stop and reset.

Alengkong to Songan: Past the Target, Still Moving

The journey from Alengkong down toward Songan was pure mechanical stubbornness.

My knees protested every step of the descent, so I relied heavily on my poles to brake my weight. I reached Songan at 31 hours and 35 minutes—more than six hours past the finish time promised by my spreadsheet.

By then, there was no frustration left. At that stage of an ultra, ego and fatigue seem to cancel each other out, leaving only quiet determination.

The clock didn’t matter anymore. The only thing that mattered was covering the ground that remained.

Songan to the Finish: Sunday Morning Relief

The final stretch took about 1 hour and 37 minutes.

In the quiet of Sunday morning, after thirty-three hours on my feet, I rounded the final turn and saw the floodlights of the finish arch glowing near the hot springs.

There was no sprint. Just a steady, grateful jog across the timing mat as the scanner beeped: 33:12:25.

98th overall. 84th male. 56th in my age group.

I sat on the ground, untied my muddy shoes, and rested my forehead on my knees. I’d missed my target by six hours. I’d botched my fueling, trashed my quads on the paved road, endured a torrential drenching on Mount Abang, and held conversations with tropical shrubs.

And yet, in the cold morning air, I felt completely full. I had stood on Batur’s summit in the dark, watched the sunrise from Agung, battled through Abang’s mud, and found a way to bring myself home.

The Rice, the Downhill, and the Nap

If I had to carry three lessons away from those 33 hours, they’d be these:

• Eat the rice before the mountain demands it. Good intentions don’t fuel your muscles. When you have the chance to eat real food, take it.
• Beware the easy downhill. Speed on pavement feels good in the moment, but the impact may catch up with you kilometers later.
• Don’t underestimate a reset. When my mind started seeing people in the trees, a short nap helped me clear the fog and keep going.

My deepest gratitude goes to the tireless volunteers who stood through two cold nights with hot soup; the race organizers who pieced together this magnificent beast of a course; my fellow runners, who shared words of encouragement in the dark; and my family, whose patience makes these wild pursuits possible.

I went to BTR Ultra chasing a 27-hour plan. I came home with a 33-hour story, a few scars, and a much deeper respect for the mountain.

Next time, though, I’m eating the whole bowl of rice.