Deep Japan Ultra 80K: Everything Went Wrong, But I Wouldn't Change a Thing
- Alex
- Jul 1
- 14 min read
Why I Keep Entering Races Like This
This wasn't just another trail race. At 80 kilometres with roughly 4,000 metres of elevation gain, this was my first real ultra marathon. Sure, I've run marathons before and I'd raced plenty of long trail events, but this one was different. Once you start talking about running through the night and spending twelve, thirteen or fourteen hours out in the mountains, the physical side of things almost becomes secondary.
Obviously your body has to be fit enough to cover the distance, but ultras are won and lost in the mind. And although I didn't think my body was in the best shape it had ever been, I believed my mind was ready. And for a race like this, that mattered more than anything.
Another Weekend, Another Rural Japanese Town
Like every race weekend, it all started at Tokyo Station.
By now, Sebastian and I have developed a bit of a tradition. We grab a coffee, pick out an ekiben for the train ride and spend the next couple of hours talking about the race ahead, life, business or whatever else happens to come up.
The week before we'd travelled more than three hours to Kaga Spa in the Ishikawa Prefecture for another UTMB World Series race. This trip was much shorter.
Less than 90 minutes on the Shinkansen brought us to Echigo-Yuzawa before we jumped onto a tiny local train that wound its way through the countryside towards Uonuma.
The Shinkansen gets you from one major city to another incredibly quickly, but it's those smaller local trains that remind you just how much of Japan exists outside Tokyo, Osaka and Kyoto. Rice fields stretch out in every direction, little stations appear every few minutes and you pass tiny farming communities that most tourists will never even know exist.
Once we arrived, we picked up our rental car and were greeted by several incredibly friendly ladies at the Toyota Rent-a-Car office. One thing I've noticed travelling around regional Japan is just how welcoming everyone is. People genuinely seem happy that you've made the effort to visit their town, and those fun little interactions always become part of the trip.
Of course, before doing anything else, it was time to eat.
Teishoku, Bakeries and "Carb Loading"
One thing Sebastian and I seem to do before every race is find a local teishoku restaurant.
Partly because it's healthy and gives you a bit of everything, but also because once you get out into regional Japan, there aren't exactly endless options. Sure, you can usually find ramen or tonkatsu, but before a race I don't really feel like smashing a giant bowl of noodles or a heap of fried food.
A good Japanese lunch set just ticks every box. You get rice, miso soup, salad, pickles, some sort of meat and/or fish, and usually a few little side dishes. I've said it before, but I think teishoku is one of the best ways to experience everyday Japanese food, and I don't think I've ever walked away from one disappointed.
Of course, after eating what was probably the healthiest meal of the weekend, we immediately undid all of our good work by finding the nearest bakery. We jokingly called it "carb loading," but in reality it was just an excuse to buy way too many baked goods. Between us we must have eaten six or seven different pastries! But, I wasn't complaining.
The standout for me was easily the bun filled with sweet red bean paste and fresh whipped cream. I absolutely love red bean, I absolutely love bread, and whoever decided to combine those two with whipped cream deserves a medal because it was unreal!!
From there we made our way into the tiny town of Uonuma for race registration before checking into our accommodation. I'd actually stayed in this part of Niigata once before, although last time I was in a beautiful traditional ryokan, that I would eventually run past during the race, this place had a slightly different feel. It wasn't quite a ryokan, but it wasn't really a hotel either. It felt more like a Japanese bed and breakfast, with tatami floors, futons laid out on the ground and a small communal onsen downstairs.
It was simple, cosy and exactly the sort of place I enjoy staying when travelling around rural Japan. Modern hotels are great when you need convenience, but when I'm travelling to places like this I want the accommodation to feel like part of the experience.
Once we'd settled in, we headed back out for dinner and found a place serving Japanese hambāgu. Naturally I doubled up and ordered both the beef and pork patties, because if you're about to run 80 kilometres the next day you may as well enjoy yourself. They were fantastic.
Then, to wrap up the meal, I ordered French toast for dessert. Once again, we justified it by calling it "carb loading." Whether there is any science behind it is debatable, but it tasted absolutely fantastic - not as good as last week's post Kaga Spa 20k French Toast, but it was close. We finished the evening with a soak in the little onsen back at the accommodation before heading off to bed, knowing the next day was going to be a big one.
Race Day
Unlike most trail races I'd entered before, the Deep Japan Ultra didn't start until midday, which actually made for a surprisingly relaxed race morning. Instead of rushing around trying to squeeze breakfast in before an early start, Sebastian and I had time to take it easy.
Japan happened to be playing Sweden in the FIFA World Cup, so we sat in the accommodation watching the first half together while I stretched out on the floor. Naturally, I was cheering for Japan and Sebastian was cheering for Sweden, which made it a little more entertaining than it otherwise would have been.
Eventually it was time to head to the race and we drove up ahead of time to watch the 100-mile race begin. Standing there watching those runners disappear into the mountains was pretty surreal. One hundred miles. One hundred and sixty kilometres. All of a sudden my 80-kilometre race didn't seem quite as outrageous.
Then it was time to get myself ready. I went through exactly the same routine I do before every trail race. I taped up both ankles, had the obligatory nervous toilet stop, then another because apparently one is never enough.
As always, I was cutting it ridiculously fine before the start, but by now that's become part of the routine as well. I caught up with my good friend Hanah for a quick chat as she was racing in the 80k aswell, wished a few other runners good luck, and before I knew it we were counting down from ten.
Exactly to Plan... Until It Wasn't
The opening part of the race couldn't really have gone much better. I settled into a comfortable rhythm almost immediately, reminding myself not to get carried away. 80 kilometres, with substantial elevation gain, is a very long day out, and there's absolutely no point trying to attack the first 20ks. My goal coming into the race was to finish in under twelve hours, and I believed I was capable of doing that if everything went to plan.
At the same time, I'd gone into the race with a second goal as well. I knew ultra marathons have a habit of throwing unexpected "problems" at you, and I had already decided that if everything fell apart, the only thing that would matter was getting to the finish line.
In my mind there wasn't really an in-between. Either I'd have the race I knew I was capable of and finish somewhere around the twelve-hour mark and potentially place 5th or 6th, or absolutely nothing would go to plan and the day would become about proving to myself that I could keep moving forward regardless. As it turned out, it was very much the latter.
The first checkpoint came and went without any issues, and climbing Mount Asakusa felt good. I gradually worked my way through the field and found myself sitting somewhere in the top ten. Everything felt under control. My pacing was good, my body felt good and mentally I was exactly where I wanted to be.
Then, after descending Mount Asakusa, I made my first big mistake.
Instead of following the course, I ran the wrong way.
By the time I realised what I'd done, I'd run several unnecessary kilometres, lost around twenty minutes and given away the handful of places I'd just worked to steadily gain. The lost time itself didn't really bother me, nor the places. What hit me much harder was the thought that I'd probably just disqualified myself. Technically, if I finish, I wouldn't have completed the course correctly, and with two GPS's recording every metre I ran, there wasn't going to be any hiding it - nor did I want to.
For a brief moment I considered turning around and retracing my steps properly, but doing that would have meant climbing roughly 15 kilometres back up the trail before running another 10 kilometres back down to where I already was.
The decision was mine, and mine alone. I accepted that I'd made a mistake, owned it completely and decided to keep moving forward. Whether the race organisers decided to DQ me afterwards was up to them. I'd made a commitment to myself to run this 80km race, and regardless of the final result, I intended to honour that commitment.
When Everything Started to Unravel
After getting myself back on course, I had a 30km stretch of running between Checkpoint 2 and Checkpoint 3. I made a conscious decision not to dwell on what had happened. Sure, I wasn't happy with myself, but there wasn't any point carrying that feeling for the next 40 or 50 kilometres. I gave myself five minutes to be annoyed, accepted that I'd made a mistake, and then locked back in. There was still a race to run.
Over the next 30 kilometres I gradually worked my way back through the field. I was feeling good again and starting to settle back into a rhythm. Unfortunately, just before reaching Checkpoint 3, history repeated itself.
I got lost again.
This one was entirely on me. I'd become so focused on chasing back time and places that my head was down, I was running hard, and I simply got lost. One moment the pink flags of the course were there, the next, they weren't. I don't even know exactly how long I was off course for, maybe ten or fifteen minutes, but it was enough to lose more time and, no doubt, a few more places. At that point I almost had to laugh. It clearly wasn't going to be one of those races where everything just clicked into place.
By the time I reached Check Point 3, it was pitch dark and raining quite heavily. I made a promise to myself. I wasn't going to slow down, but I was going to stop making stupid mistakes. From that point on I checked my watch constantly, keeping the watch face on the course map and made sure I knew exactly where I was going.
Unfortunately, getting lost twice turned out to be the least of my problems.
At about 9:30pm, my stomach completely turned on me. When I say it "turned", I mean it was completely running amok on me. Every runner knows that stomach issues are one of the quickest ways for a race to unravel, and for a lot of people that's where the day ends.
Instead, I found myself disappearing into the bush four or five separate times over the next few hours before climbing straight back onto the trail and carrying on. It wasn't enjoyable. I felt absolutely terrible, my energy was disappearing, and I knew I wasn't absorbing any nutrition (obviously), but I'd already made a commitment to myself before the race started. If everything went wrong, I was going to finish.
At around 10:30 pm, while climbing Mount Sumon, I heard and felt my left calf pop. It was one of those unmistakable moments. I felt the muscle retract up into my hamstring almost immediately, and for the first time all day I actually stopped moving. I sat down in the middle of the trail for a couple of minutes, not because I wanted to quit, but because I found myself thinking, could this night get any worse?
By that point I'd already been out there for more than ten hours. It was raining, it was pitch black, my stomach was falling apart, and now I'd torn my calf halfway up a mountain. To make things even more challenging, the mist had rolled in so thick that visibility was almost non-existent. Climbing wasn't too bad because you could still feel your way uphill, but traversing across the mountain and descending through that sort of fog was another story altogether. Every step demanded your full attention because one careless foot placement could end your race for good.
I turned my head torch off and let everything disappear into darkness. I closed my eyes and spent a couple of minutes breathing to centre myself before quietly saying three words out loud. "Not today, baby."
That wasn't directed at the mountain, my calf or my stomach. It was directed at myself. It was a reminder that no matter what this race threw at me, I wasn't going to quit. That's why I'd signed up for Deep Japan Ultra in the first place. I didn't come here hoping everything would go perfectly. I came here to find out what I'd do if/when it didn't.
I switched my head torch back on, stood up, and carried on climbing.
From there, the race became incredibly simple.
I stopped thinking about my time. I stopped thinking about my placing. I even stopped thinking about finishing. I just focused on the next step I had to take.
One step turned into another. And, one minute became the next. Slowly, the kilometers started to come and go. I kept checking my watch, checking the map and putting one foot in front of the other. For the remaining 4 hours I didn't see another runner in either direction. It was just me, alone in the mountains, moving through the darkness one step at a time.
By 12:30 am I'd completely stopped eating gels and made the decision to stop drinking water as well. Every sip I took was coming straight back out of me, so there wasn't much point forcing it. I left Sebastian a voice message apologising for taking longer than I'd expected and told him I was going to do my best to keep moving.
By then, running had become little more than a nine-minute-per-kilometre shuffle, but as far as I was concerned, I was still running.
And that was enough.
Crossing the Finish Line
A few hours later, at just after 2:15am, I finally crossed the finish line. 14 hours and 18 minutes. 13th place overall.
To be honest, I was a little surprised by both. If you'd told me halfway through the race, that even with all the dramas I had, that I'd still finish 13th, I probably wouldn't have believed you.
Before the race, I'd gone in with two goals. The first was to break twelve hours. The second was that if absolutely everything went wrong, I would finish no matter what. There was never really an in-between in my mind. I wasn't expecting a comfortable thirteen or fourteen-hour day. I was either going to have the race I knew I was capable of, or the race was going to turn into a test of character.
It turned into the latter.
Looking back now, I don't actually think I could have asked for a better first ultra marathon experience.
The whole reason I sign up for races like this is because I want the opportunity to strip everything away. Not physically, but mentally. I want to find myself in situations where there's no work, no comfort, no distractions and no way out other than to go through. Eventually, everything disappears until all you're left with is yourself.
When you reach that point, the only things that really matter are your courage, your resolve and, ultimately, the strength of your character.
That's exactly what Deep Japan Ultra gave me.
At the finish line, I caught up with Matsunaga-san for a quick interview. I was completely honest with him about the wrong turns and the decisions I'd made during the race. I told him that I understood if I'd ultimately be disqualified because I'd made mistakes. I'd come to Deep Japan to run an 80-kilometre race, and regardless of what the official results said afterwards, that's exactly what I'd done.
Once all of that was finished, Sebastian and I finally climbed back into the car and drove down the road to Sukiya. It was only a few minutes before four o'clock in the morning, so we sat in the car waiting for it to open before treating ourselves to what has to be one of the more random post-race breakfasts I've ever had. After fourteen hours of running through the mountains, sitting in a Sukiya eating gyudon at four in the morning felt completely normal lol.
We eventually made it back to the accommodation at around five o'clock, and I collapsed into bed almost immediately.
Four hours later I was awake again. I've worked hundreds of nightshifts in my preious life as a sparky, and I figured out that four hours of sleep seems to be enough to get me back on my feet. I slowly wandered downstairs, had a shower and somehow convinced my legs to start working again.
One Last Teishoku Before Heading Home
Once we'd checked out, we did what had become another of our traditions and went searching for another good local meal. We found a little Japanese-Chinese restaurant serving the sort of food you see all over regional Japan.
It's not really Chinese food in the traditional sense. In Japan it's called chūka ryōri, which is essentially Japanese-style Chinese cuisine, and it's brilliant. Naturally I ordered another teishoku, complete with plenty of fried chicken and a mountain of rice. Walking wasn't exactly easy at that point, but somehow eating never seemed to be a problem.
Of course, no race weekend would have been complete without one final stop at a bakery. We somehow managed to find another six or seven pastries between us and demolished them before catching the local train back to Echigo-Yuzawa. From there it was onto the Shinkansen and back to Tokyo, where I think both of us were asleep before our heads even hit the pillow that night.
As I sat on the train looking back over the weekend, I realised just how much these races have come to mean to me. Yes, I love competing. Yes, I love seeing where I stack up against other runners. But more than that, I love the adventure. I love travelling to little towns like Uonuma that I'd never visit otherwise. I love finding tiny family-run restaurants, soaking in local onsens, staying in traditional accommodation and spending entire weekends exploring a side of Japan that most international visitors never get to see.
The race is only ever one part of the experience. And I'm very grateful for it all.
Deeply Satisfied
The week before, I'd raced Kaga Spa Trail Endurance 100, where literally everything had gone according to plan. I finished sixth overall, won my age group and came away incredibly happy with my own the performance.
This race couldn't have been more different.
Absolutely everything that could have gone wrong, did.
By most people's standards, it was a disaster. Yet I've never walked away from a race, or anything for that matter, feeling more satisfied with myself. Not proud. Satisfied. There's a subtle difference.
Pride comes from achieving an outcome. Satisfaction comes from knowing you honoured your own standards, regardless of the outcome. I kept my word to myself.
Before stepping onto that start line, I'd made a commitment that if everything fell apart, I would keep moving until I crossed the finish line. Throughout the night I was given every excuse to break that commitment, and every single time I chose not to.
That, more than the place, more than the finishing time and more than any result sheet ever could, is what I'll remember about Deep Japan Ultra.
Because every now and then, I think it's important to strip life back to its absolute basics, where all that's left is you, your thoughts and the decision to either keep going or give up.
Deep Japan Ultra stripped everything away until the only thing left was my character.
And I'm deeply satisfied with what I found.
Thanks for reading.
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