Ayabe 50K Race Report: Mein erster Trail-DNF und was ich daraus gelernt habe

On April 5, 2026, I stood on the start line of the 4th Ayabe Suigen no Sato Trail Run 50K. For someone like me, living and training mostly in the flatlands, a race like this felt almost absurd: over 50 kilometers, roughly 2,700 meters of climbing, and the same amount of descending. It was the kind of challenge that seems too big until the day you finally decide to try it.

This race meant a lot to me.

After breaking my wrist last August, there was a time when I honestly thought I might not be able to do triathlon anymore. Running has always been my weakest discipline, and that is exactly why I wanted to lean into it more. I thought that if I focused on running, I could come back stronger. I had already finished a marathon, but going beyond that—into real ultra territory—had been a dream of mine since I was young.

I did not come to Ayabe with a time goal. I did not even come with a performance goal. My goal was much simpler: get healthy enough to stand on the start line, and then somehow finish.

The training started well. For a while, I felt like things were finally moving in the right direction. Then, about three weeks after I started running again, I rolled my ankle badly enough that I had to stop running for another month. Not long after that, knee pain appeared and made proper run progression almost impossible.

Because of that, my preparation became a bit of an experiment.

I could not build the run volume I wanted, so I tried to build my aerobic engine in other ways. I did long bike rides—up to seven hours, including the longest ride of my life at 180 kilometers. I also used the treadmill in the triathlon training room for long uphill walks, sometimes at 15% incline, and I tried to strengthen my ankles and legs with gym work.

Looking back, I was fit in some ways, but not race-ready in the specific way Ayabe demanded.

I stayed in an Airbnb only about two kilometers from the start and finish area and close to Ayabe Onsen, which was ideal. I arrived on Friday, only to find out that my host had expected me on Saturday and had not prepared the room yet. For a moment, I was not even sure if I would have a place to sleep. We sorted it out without drama, but it definitely added some stress.

While the room was being prepared, I went to the onsen. On the way back, around twilight, I noticed how quickly the temperature dropped. Then, on the evening before the race, heavy rain started falling. That was the moment I began to worry about the trails the next day.

In the end, though, race morning turned out almost perfect: cloudy at first, then sunny and hot later, with only some damp trail sections early on.

I had prepared seriously.

My Salomon Adv Skin helped me carry everything I needed, though the pack felt a bit heavy. I brought plenty of gels and energy bars, and I had packed small zip-bags with carb powder so I could refill one flask at each aid station or water stop. My North Face cap with neck protection turned out to be extremely useful. My Patagonia trail pants were excellent because I could distribute nutrition across the small pockets. I also used a North Face trail shirt and Castelli arm sleeves. I did not want to spend even more money, so I reused some cycling gear where I could.

Most of that worked very well.

The one major mistake was my shoes: Salomon Ultra Glide 2. I had only tested them on flat terrain before race day. For a race like Ayabe, that was careless. During the race, my toes started to suffer on the descents. A week later, I had black toenails to prove it.

My host kindly drove us to the start about an hour before the race. I had prepared my flasks, my nutrition, and my gear. I was excited, but not overly nervous.

At registration, the other guest from my Airbnb disappeared somewhere, and suddenly I was alone. That made me a little uncertain, especially because it was my first trail running event and I still had a few questions. Then I found myself next to Nakamura-san, who was incredibly kind and helpful. That small human moment mattered a lot. It calmed me down and pulled my focus away from the one big question in my head: Will my knee hold?

The atmosphere at the start was incredible. Trail running felt immediately different from triathlon. In triathlon, with everyone in wetsuits, the field can look almost uniform. Here, everyone looked different. Different gear, different styles, different energy. The runners looked strong, cheerful, and prepared. The staff were fantastic. Local people gave us an amazing drumming performance before the start, and suddenly I was not just cautiously hopeful anymore—I was genuinely fired up to race.

For the first two or three kilometers, I just moved with the flow of the race. I did not really want to go that fast because of my knee, but it felt good, and everyone around me was moving quickly. I let many runners pass, but I also felt strong in the middle of that stream of trail runners. Locals stood outside their homes or cheered from windows. The whole race had an energy that felt warm and alive.

Then, on the first major climb, everything came to a stop.

The field bottlenecked on a narrow section of trail along a steep drop, where one rock made it impossible for people to pass smoothly. Everyone had to wait and carefully climb over it one by one. Without knowing it beforehand, my faster-than-planned start had actually helped me. If I had been much farther back, I would have lost a lot more time there.

After that, I climbed well toward Aid Station 1. I felt strong and in control.

I made my first real mistake at Aid Station 1.

The station was crowded, and I did not want to lose time, so I rushed through it. I refilled my flasks with water, mixed carb powder into one bottle, and moved on immediately. The problem was that I had already drunk a lot—about one liter before the race and another 1.5 liters within the first five kilometers. Soon after leaving A1, I had to pee badly. Very badly.

The descent toward A2 was mostly downhill, and running downhill with a full bladder was miserable. It pushed me into a faster pace than I should have taken. My toes slammed into the front of my shoes over and over, especially when I was running more on the forefoot. I tried switching my mechanics and running more on the heel, but then the outside of my right knee—the same knee problem I had struggled with before—started to feel uncomfortable very early in the race. That was a bad sign.

I also rolled both ankles slightly on the descents, though thankfully not badly.

When I reached A2, I spent what felt like five full minutes peeing. It was ridiculous, but also a relief. Once that discomfort was gone, I felt decent again. I refilled everything once more, added carb powder again, and continued.

In hindsight, I was probably overdoing the fueling in the first half. My target had been around 60 to 80 grams of carbohydrate per hour. For the first 30 kilometers, I was probably taking in closer to 100 to 120 grams per hour.

After A2, the course opened into some rolling terrain, then a long flatter section near the railway, even a bit of road, before heading back into the mountains. I was still in high spirits. The right knee still felt manageable, and when we passed the start area again at around 15 kilometers, I was feeling surprisingly positive.

Then the course tilted upward again.

There was a slight incline that turned into a steeper and steeper climb with lots of stairs. I found a rhythm: run what was runnable, walk what was too steep. On the descents, more people passed me. On the climbs, I started overtaking people. That pattern repeated all day and told the story of my race very clearly: uphill was my strength, downhill was my weakness.

One moment from this section will stay with me for a long time.

I saw a runner sitting on the ground by the side of the course. I rushed over and asked if he was okay. At first, from behind, I did not understand the situation. Then I saw the blood. His clothes were covered in it, and there was even a small puddle in front of him. He was trying to cover a wound on his chin with bandages. I offered help. He first declined, but I stayed with him and helped for a moment until other runners arrived and took over. I was relieved, because I knew my Japanese would not be enough if things became more complicated.

After that, the race felt more serious to me. I kept thinking how quickly everything can end out there if you trip in the wrong place. I promised myself to be more careful.

I moved quickly through the water station at kilometer 18 and kept relying mostly on my own nutrition. Looking back, that was probably another mistake. It would not have hurt to spend five extra minutes at the aid stations, take a breath, and eat some of the food they had prepared.

Up to Aid Station 4, I still felt like I was moving well. My Garmin estimate even gave me a finish time that made me believe not only that I could finish, but that I might finish with a very strong time.

But by around 30 kilometers, my legs were already cooked.

My upper legs felt fried, and the right knee pain was getting worse. I told myself that “just” 20 kilometers remained. But then came the climb to Mikunigatake, and that changed everything.

That climb was brutal.

For the first time in the race, I had to push on my thighs with my hands, grab branches and trees, and haul myself upward. The grade felt endless. Every time I thought I had reached the top, another wall appeared in front of me. My breathing was ragged. Nobody looked fresh anymore. People were shouting, grimacing, showing the same pain I felt. In a strange way, that helped. It made the suffering feel shared.

And then, finally, the summit.

The view was unbelievable. I saw what I thought was a huge lake in the distance, but someone told me it was actually the Sea of Japan. I could hardly believe it. The air was fresh, the forest was glowing with spring green, and we were running right in the peak of sakura season. Ayabe was stunning that day.

Then came the downhill.

And that was where my race ended.

The descent hit my right knee like a hammer.

The pain was the same issue I had felt before—but multiplied by a hundred. I knew immediately it was the same problem, just far worse. It felt as if pressure inside the knee was forcing the kneecap to jump out at any moment. I could barely put weight on it. Even walking downhill hurt badly.

I do not think I have ever felt that kind of pain on a descent before.

I wanted to stop already at the water station on the mountain, but it was only a water stop. Somehow I kept negotiating with myself. You can still finish this. You can power hike. You only need to reach the next station.

When the slope became a bit flatter, I tried to run again, but the pain was too intense. Walking was miserable too. I started limping and experimenting with different ways of stepping just to find something that hurt my right knee less.

That was the point when I knew the race was over.

Still, I kept bargaining. If I can just make it to the last aid station, there will only be 8 kilometers left. But I also knew there was still another climb and another descent waiting.

I reached Aid Station 5, Kasajizō, with a screaming right knee and made the decision I did not want to make: I told the staff I would retire.

Sitting down at that aid station hurt in a different way.

I was sad, not only because I had to stop, but because I had loved the race so much. The beginning had been full of joy, excitement, challenge, and possibility. And now this was the first race of my life I would end with a DNF.

The staff were kind and told me to sit and wait for pickup. Then Nakamura-san arrived. Earlier in the race I had seen him cramping badly around kilometer 6 or 7 and had been genuinely worried about him. He looked tired, like everyone did by that point, but he was still determined to finish. Without me even asking, he spoke to the staff for me, made sure they would not forget me, and checked when they would come to pick me up. That meant a lot to me. I will not forget it.

As I waited, my body got cold fast. Even after putting on my jacket, I started freezing. One of the younger staff members asked his senior whether he could already take me to the car and turn on the heater. That small act of care helped a lot.

I did not cry. But I felt deeply sad.

Once enough runners had retired, we were driven back to the finish. When I tried to get out of the car, my right knee screamed immediately. I could barely walk.

Luckily, my host Yatsuko-san picked me up. I treated the knee right away, took a very relieving shower, and then ate the kind of soul food only a caring host family can provide. That helped more than I expected. I was also happy for the other guest from the Airbnb, who finished the race, even though he was about an hour slower than the year before.

The days after Ayabe were rough.

The right knee was a problem, but honestly, so were my hamstrings, glutes, and thighs. The muscle soreness became even worse two days after the race. Walking downstairs was almost impossible. It took about a full week before my legs recovered from the effort.

Ayabe did not give me the finish I wanted.

But it gave me something else.

It showed me that I am mentally very strong. I am fairly sure that, if I had ignored the consequences, I probably could have dragged myself through the final 8 kilometers somehow—but it would have been the wrong decision for my right knee and for my health. I am not a professional athlete. At some point, health has to matter more than pride. Stopping was painful, but it was the right decision.

And it also reminded me of something simpler:

I love running.

I love the challenge. I loved the mountains, the forest, the fresh air, the views, the people, the drumming at the start, the locals cheering from windows, the volunteers, the shared suffering, and the sense of adventure. Even with the DNF, I loved Ayabe.

I hope I can come back next year.

And next time, I want to arrive at the finish line fit, healthy, and strong enough for those brutal climbs and descents.