Race Report Transylvania 100: More of a Survival Journey Than a Trail Race

Breathtaking suffering under the approving eye of Dracula.

Gradient percentages of up to 50% on extremely technical trails, slippery snowfields, howling wolves, and brown bears. These are all things you can encounter during the Transylvania 100, an ultra-trail of over 100 kilometers with about 6500 meters of elevation gain through the beautiful Transylvania. I didn't encounter the latter two during my unforgettable adventure, but the first two were definitely challenging. This is my race report of Romania's most captivating trail run.

It's been about two weeks since crossing the finish line of this massive adventure, and I've been pondering for days about how to begin this article. It's difficult to put into words what I experienced in the past 26 hours, 31 minutes, and 49 seconds. Nevertheless, I'll give it a try. Let's start from the beginning.

Two days before the race, I fly from Amsterdam to Bucharest, from where I drive with a rental car towards Brașov, one of the larger cities in Transylvania. After traversing the plains north of the Romanian capital for about an hour and a half, the first mountain peaks of the Carpathians emerge. The white peaks reveal their impressive height. I drive from one fairy-tale-like village to another through steep mountain passes.

This is my first time in Transylvania, my first time in Romania even, and from the first few minutes, the region leaves a majestic impression on me. Why is this region so unknown to tourists and the general public?

The mountains surrounding Brașov also leave a lasting impression. This medieval, bustling city with over 200,000 inhabitants is an excellent base to explore Transylvania and for participants of the Transylvania 100. The city is just half an hour away from the start and finish area in Bran.

I can't resist putting on my running shoes shortly after arriving in Brașov and running to the top of the mountain where the white letters BRAȘOV stand in true Hollywood style. The view is breathtaking, but so is the climb. Breathless and drenched in sweat, I reach the top. And that's after only about 400 meters of elevation gain, a fraction of the 6500 meters I will have to tackle two days later. It's a reality check, but I console myself with the thought that these are the consequences of the long journey and the thin mountain air.

On Friday, the day before the race, I planned for a calm day. However, a short walk in the city quickly turns into a longer hike, and even while picking up my race number in Bran, I can't resist exploring the surroundings of Dracula's castle. With some back and forth in my Airbnb while preparing my race kit, I find myself in bed around 7 pm after taking over 20,000 steps.

Sleeping is difficult because numerous thoughts swirl in my head. Will the few elevation training during my preparation be enough? What should I do if I encounter a bear? The race reports from previous editions only fuel these doubts. Stories circulate about lost runners wandering through the woods for days without reception or life-threatening injuries. There are plenty of wild tales about this race.

Therefore, it's with a fearful heart that I drive to Bran the following day at 4 am. The setting, however, makes up for it. The starting line, with Bran Castle built on the rocks in the background, is by far the most extraordinary place I've ever embarked on a running adventure.

The illustrious figures standing at the start line with me complete the picture. In front of me is a tough guy in his bare bark; next to me is Count Dracula, complete with a cape and a jet-black wig. As if 100 kilometers through the mountains in ordinary running clothes wasn't hard enough.

To the tones of 'Somebody's watching me,' we count down to the start. 'And I don't feel safe anymore, oh, what a mess,' Rockwell captures precisely how I feel. Trei, două, un. Here we go!

After two kilometers on a gravel road, which we can call 'gently sloping' by local standards, we start the real thing. In one stretch, we go from 750 meters above sea level to 2250 meters, the day's first summit. Steep, steeper, steepest. This immediately sets the tone. Even the guy who started the race in his bare bark arrives at the top bathed in sweat.

Through the clouds, I can see the first checkpoint some 500 meters down. Do we really have to go there? We run — or rather, slide — down through several snowfields. Every now and then, I hear a loud 'woohoo' in front of or behind me. This is indeed pure fun, though it won't last.

During the double ascent and descent of the summit of Mount Omu, at 2507 meters the highest point of the race, the laughter has already left us. For this climb, almost everyone puts on their snow spikes, which I also bravely brought along on the organization's advice. Even with spikes, however, it is not easy to clamber up.

"That is promising for the descent," remarks a Polish runner. His prediction unfortunately turns out to be a reality. On the first descent, I glide down with a dozen other runners, only to discover a few minutes later that we have followed the markers for the second ascent later. It is only half an hour and some extra (painful) altimeters later that we are back on the right path.

During the second descent, I lose my balance on a snow field. Because it is so steep there, I cannot brake fast enough with my poles and spikes, so I slide down a hundred meters at a speed of around 50 kilometers per hour. Those few seconds that I slide uncontrollably along the mountain seem endlessly long.

I could have landed on a rock which would have ended my race. Or worse. Fortunately, I come to a stop on a thick pack of snow. During my fall, I did lose my phone and race number. After a few minutes of searching under a rock, I see my phone and grab it after some scrambling, but I lost my race number. The chip I attached to my now-torn backpack before the race will also suffice, right?

After some searching and with the help of the map, I can find the route again. There I meet the Polish guy from earlier again. "This is way too dangerous. It is my first and last time participating in a race in Romania," he says, then adds a Polish curse. A little later, we can laugh about it again. A few kilometers further on, we also strike up a conversation with German Christopher and Dutchman Ron. In flawed German, we talk about the fact that bears only like Germans because they love bratwurst.

On the way to the checkpoint in Bușteni, I talk briefly to someone who also ran this race last year. "I thought the snow was bad last year, but that's nothing compared to this year," he says. He is also clearly still impressed by the dangerous descent. "Last year, two-thirds of the participants were forced to stop in Bușteni because they did not reach the cutoff time. I fear it will be the same this year." Due to the hefty snow, the cutoff time has now been extended somewhat, but indeed, a good number of participants will leave the race here again this year.

Fortunately, I have a secret weapon in my drop bag at this checkpoint: a ginger beer. It's a welcome change from the many servings of noodles, pasta, and gels I already played down. It is also at this checkpoint where a volunteer, a boy of about six, diligently and in better English than many of his colleagues, diligently helps the exhausted runners. "Some noodles for you, sir?" I can't turn down that offer. I thank him by calling him the best volunteer of the day. "I want to make this my full-time job," is his endearing reply.

After Bușteni, I start the last 50 kilometers, which are slightly less demanding on paper than the first part. For the remaining 13 hours, I will constantly be 'yo-yo-ing' with a dozen fellow sufferers. Something that creates a remarkable bond in a short time. I meet Jan, a 41-year-old fellow Belgian who has been living in England for a decade. He tells how he rode his bike from Paris to this race. In the past month, he has over 3,500 cycling kilometers in his legs. "That's where my climber's legs come from," he winks when I have to let him go for a moment on a climb.

On the next climb, I get talking to Bogdan, a Romanian ready for his first 100-kilometer race. "I should have picked one with fewer elevation gain," he laughs. At kilometer 80, we get an unannounced 3 kilometers extra due to a course change. “That will be 103,” Bogdan sighs. In the end, we will cover a total of around 106 kilometers.

The unannounced extra kilometers give me a mental hit. In the second to last supply post, the inviting mattress with a warm blanket is almost the final nail in my coffin, but I can just about resist the temptation. Together with two Germans, two Norwegians, a Portuguese, and a Pole, we decide to finish the last climb together. This way, we are less likely to miss a marker in the dark — it is 2 am by now — and we can also scare off bears more easily. For two hours during the climb, it is entirely silent, except for some coughing and sighing here and there. Everyone is going deep. Very deep.

As the sun rises, we decide to each choose our own pace again for the last 10 kilometers, continuing alone. Being alone also suddenly triggers some hallucinations. For instance, a bear turns out to be a fallen tree trunk, and a woman wearing a green jacket ends up being an ordinary bush. I can laugh at how my brain is leading me astray. What I can laugh less at is the sadistic traits of the course builder. He has not chosen the regular, descending trail path to Bran because we get to go up a couple of steep, muddy slopes as a dessert.

To finish, a lap follows around the iconic castle, with some 30 stairs as the final torture. At the finish, I tell them I have lost my race number. "That's too bad because you will have to return to get it. See you in about 26 hours," the organizer jokes while he scans the chip attached to my backpack.

In the shadow of the castle, I have another beer with the runners I shared an exceptional experience within just over 24 hours. Each of them will soon resume their 'normal' lives. Christopher flies back to Germany, Jan goes — this time not by bike — back to England, Bogdan goes back to work for his IT company, and I write this article. Everything is the same again, yet also a bit different. After all, such an extreme experience stays with you for the rest of your life.

If you are looking for a truly extreme trail race, which is actually more like a survival trip, Transylvania is the place to be. And while you’re there, also please see if you can find my race number.

Feel free to follow me on my next running adventures via my Strava.