Emil Ingerslev

Race report

Support team:

Martin Vangsgaard
Jacob Fredsøe
Emma Lemminger

Chapter 1 – The start and the cramp from hell

The race started Saturday morning. We’d been at the race briefing the day before, where I chatted with both Bjørn Torre and Poul Lundgren — a little nerves, a few dreams, a bit of sizing each other up.

The morning was beautiful. I jogged from the house to the start to meet runners, my mom and Bjarne, and waited for my support crew: Jacob, Martin, and Emma. The atmosphere was fantastic — like a big family reunion, just with massive pressure under the surface.

All runners were introduced, me as no. 160, so it took a while before it was my turn. My nerves were on the outside, and the classic last bathroom visit had to happen! I slipped up to the start, got my watch ready with the route, etc. Suddenly it’s 9:30… Bang! I don’t quite grasp it, but Bjørn and Poul take off. WE’RE OFF!

We ran through the pedestrian street, two laps, and I set out at around 4:00/km pace. But already at the first kilometer a surprise cramp grabbed my hamstring. Fuck.

I ran a bit with Poul and Bjørn, then pulled away. I soaked up the city party — high fives, smiles — and then it went quiet. I followed the country road out of town. Silence. Lurking panic. Cramp.

I had to get hold of my support team. First aid station: only got water. Ah, fuck.

“Next time electrolytes! Magnesium spray!” I shouted to Martin.

At the next aid station Emma was ready. Magnesium spray, salt in the bottle. It helped a little. I focused: Just run. Just keep going. The cramp wasn’t going to win.

I looked forward to Sønder Dråby where the family always stands. They didn’t disappoint — I got a bit of love and ran with my kids. Quickly on.

Then I hit the grassy section before Ejerslev Harbour. It always messes with you, but it had been cut recently, and I chewed through it. My road shoes tipped too much on the uneven stuff and I lost speed, but it was fine.

And there — right in the middle of the forest — my family was having a little picnic and cheering 🥹 My aunt Marie Louise, my nephew Aksel, my mom, and her husband Bjarne — all ready, all shouting, all part of the team, pushing me forward. 10 seconds, and I was past — and then they too were off again, heading to the next cheering station.

I reached Ejerslev Harbour and its steps. But I heard Poul right behind me. He’d caught up, and we ran together — talked, laughed — both with the same goal: to win.

“Poul, I REALLY want to win. Sorry,” I said.
He smiled. He wanted to win too — no freebies here. May the best man win!

Out of Ejerslev there’s a (un)lovely grassy bit and Poul runs it better. He pulls out his phone while leading, films a slick little video and teases me.

The grass turns back to asphalt and I find my grind and my pace and we run toward Feggesund. I manage to open a small gap again. On the section out toward Feggesund you run 2.5 km out and back on the same road. That’s the 40 km and 45 km aid stations. It gives you a chance to see the other runners and, like the previous years, I crossed to the oncoming runners and handed out high fives and saw Bjørn, Mads Emil, and many others. Unfortunately, I also saw Morten Poulsen struggling and crying. I wanted to hug him, but had to settle for shouting encouragement and moving on.

Next stop: Nordmors — my arch-nemesis.

Chapter 2 – Nordmors: Hills, fight, and survival

Nordmors always hits me. Beautiful hills, long stretches, and a completely different kind of heat. You run out a fine but slightly boring stretch of asphalt, then soon you turn off onto what really shows what Nordmors is about: a grassy loop around a gravel pit. This year I primed my head for the long haul to Flade and Devil’s Hill. Repeated it again and again and tried to remember all the little out-and-backs. Luckily I also had my family and support with me, and they were ready to cheer all the way so I could keep my spirits up.

Out of the grass and down the wilder descent to the water again where my mom was cheering. Time for a bit of fun — arms out and fly down the hill. A little wing-flapping too to show I was still flying, obviously.

But the heat and fatigue set in. I fought through the tough stretches, chewed my way forward and worked toward Flade. Found Martin with my mountain poles in Flade and the hunt for the hill could begin. From Flade to the base of Salgerhøj is about 1 km and there I met Simon Grimstrup cheering… and not just cheering, he jumps in to run with me. Down the hill over the timing mat and time to add a bit of pace — not crazy, because the goal is to still be running well after. But Simon cheers and chats and on the way up the hill Jonas Lemvig, Mors 100 Miles reporter, is also ready to film. I push on, but there isn’t much energy left. The hill gets steep and every time I hit Salgerhøj I’m surprised by HOW STEEP that last bit is. But I joke and laugh and meet the handsome devil (dressed in red and black with a trident) chasing me up the slope. “Come ON! It’s ON!”

I fight my way to the top, dizzy. It’s the only time on the day I’m short on oxygen, but I get up. And then it’s onwards! I can’t hear Poul — he’s dropped! As planned I find Emma ready to pace me for the first time. Exactly as planned, because after the hill it often gets tough.

Silence. Grass stretches. Abandoned. But beautiful…
and I’m also tired. 70 km in the book and now a lot of grass.

It does get tough, but I chat with Emma. On some of these sections she gives me good input too. Also the first time in a long while I can actually talk to someone… or actually I can’t, because my head feels like it’s fencing with the urge to stop:

Body: “Slow down.”
Emil: “nah.”
Body: “Take a break.”
Emil: “Finish first.”
Body: “Walk a bit.”
Emil: “That’s too slow”…

I can sense that Emma can sense I’m struggling. She also films a quick video of me explaining how I feel. The essence was: “It’s haaaaard” 😂

More asphalt appears and I send Emma off. I don’t really remember this stretch from previous years, so I figure I’m past the grassy bits. But then suddenly the support car is there again and Emma is ready. There’s more grass… Fucking more grass. Good thing she’s here. Emma and I keep looking back and Poul is nowhere to be seen. I must be doing well, but it feels slow.

Finally, we reach the “turning point.” Sundby, where there are now long stretches of country road and bike paths. Grind mode. Emma has hopped back into the support car. And now the chase is set toward Bjergby, which funnily enough means you have to climb a few hills. I also know there’s big cheering in Bjergby, and it’s also where in previous years I’ve met my mom — good memories. I remember clearly running while shouting “I’m doing it for Mom!” and sprinting out of town.

Chapter 3 – The dark, the party, and the chase

Bjergby is reached. You can feel the party and joy as I shuffle out of town. After town there’s an annoying stretch with one of those roads that dips into a valley and back up again, and you can see the whole thing even though it’s far. I chew through it, and when I hit the annoying Route 26 with a bike path, it happens. Suddenly Poul is behind me with Jens, his supporter. FUUARK… 🤯

“Hey, Poul…”

He looks to be running well. I feel tired. I chat a bit with Poul about everything — we also talk about winning and how it might play out. Poul teases but he means it when he says he wants his star. The star in the pedestrian street. I think: I want that too. I want the trophy to bring to the 24-hour Worlds in a month. I want that medal for my daughter. That fireworks for my boy whose birthday is tomorrow. And that damn star in the pedestrian street.

Poul is strong, and he moves in front of me while Jens runs right behind us, filming little bits in the middle of our duel. We run together for a while, but after a few kilometers we turn off and have to go under a bridge, and Poul pulls away. We’re at about 90 km. My mind goes dark here.

Poul disappeared out in front. I could always see him, but I couldn’t reel him in. My thoughts began to circle around the idea that it was lost. That I wouldn’t be able to catch him. “Okay, well then I’m damn sure not coming back to Mors again — I’ll just do other things.”

I don’t remember exactly when Emma joined to run with me, or how I moved from Sønder Solbjerg to Torup to Vester Jølby and the start of The Night Run. It was long and full of grind. Emma was definitely there, because we had conversations out on those long country roads. It’s late afternoon and I enjoy the cooler air, but I’m tired and want to stop. The battle in my head — the fencing with my urge to stop — is brutal.

I ask Emma if I can walk a bit, to which she simply replies: “No, we’re not walking.” In defiance I slow down and jog. But as if the little bit of peace I get gives me strength to fight back, it only takes 50–200 meters before I lean forward and push harder again. This mantra Emma plants in my head — the unspoken promise that she’s there for me, and she says: “No, you’re not walking” — repeats on a loop.

Among other exchanges, Emma’s “drop your shoulders and breathe” keeps running — and each time I feel a lift. I start wondering if I’ve literally forgotten to breathe for a long time… It repeats. I keep going.

I scan for Poul and his pacers. It’s no longer just Jens — Simon Grimstrup’s girlfriend Louise is also pacing him. The story goes it was a bit too much for Jens. That says something: even though Poul and I are both hurting, we’re not moving slowly. My mind remembers that if I keep the pressure on, the chance to reel Poul in stays alive. If I brake, I turn the dream off.

Right then I remember my recent sessions with my psychologist and mental coach: that where I am now — 100 km into the race — is where I can really harvest the lessons of running when tired. It takes 100 km of hard running and then continuing to get to this training. HARVEST IT! USE IT! If you don’t use it, all the groundwork is wasted.

Emma and I run 10 km together from Vester Jølby to the 105 km aid station — I know because I’ve been told and can see it in our running data that we ran together. I must have been quiet; the fight was hard. From 105 to 110 I’m running toward the Karby party. From far away you can see the trucker party — the light show and the giant disco ball raised more than 40 meters in the air. I hear Poul arrive with his music choice — the wonderful techno version of John Dillermand.

He’s actually not that far. But far enough. And then I arrive at the party myself. My kids run to meet me, the truck horns blast, and my music choice pumps out of the speakers: Lasgo – Something. I run through smoke, cheers and party with my arms raised above my head. My family is there shouting and cheering.

And then you run straight through and out into the silence. At about 115 km I suddenly get company from Simon again. He’ll run a bit with me. Simon talks a lot. I manage: “Simon, I’m too wrecked to talk.”
Simon: “That’s totally fine, we don’t need to talk” — and then he keeps talking.

But honestly, it was fine. It made me want to run faster to compensate for the lack of my own words, and Simon also hammered it into my head that I’d probably catch him later — I just had to run. He also used his watch to time how far ahead Poul and Louise were and how fast I was running.

The pace was starting to come around. I started feeling better. I was closing in on 120 km. That meant only 40 km left. 40 km can taste like a Monday — as in, I often run 40 km on a Monday. Any Monday. I knew I could DEFINITELY do this. Pace rose. When I got tired I dialed it down a touch and slow-jogged a few meters, then cranked it up again. Emma’s voice boomed in my head: “Don’t walk.” The promise burned in me.

And suddenly the will to get that fucking star was burning. Burning hot. Faster. I cranked up the pace. We reached Thissinghus at 120 km, I saw my lovely family, and Simon was swapped for Emma.

At the 115 km aid station I got my longest break so far — under one minute — with a shoe change, because hey, had to try it. My Puma Fast-R 3s got swapped for a fresh pair of Fast-R 2s with a bit more heel. And around here somewhere Simon jumps in as pacer. Onwards! Go!

I was later told that as Simon and I ran toward Thissinghus Harbour, people didn’t really believe it could be me. Must be someone on a scooter — it was going way too fast. I’d found some fuel.

In a video I later saw, Louise — standing in Thissinghus waiting for Simon while I sprint on with Emma — says: “So you got running again?” to which Simon just replies: “For hell’s sake…”

Yes, I was back.

Faith returned, and I wanted that fucking star. It’s mine! I turned every dial inside me. The sword fight to stop was replaced by the fight to crank up the speed. 40 km left. Emma at my side. Simon’s voice: “You’ll catch him later.” Emma’s words: “You’re not walking.” My own: “I WILL win.” It loops like a vinyl stuck in the same groove, and I grind on.

It’s evening by now, and at the 131 km aid station I get another stop to change into a T-shirt and get lights on, and Emma is swapped for Simon. My laser focus locks onto Sillerslev Harbour — the turnaround where you run down and back. It’s where you can look your competitor in the eyes if you’re close enough. 30 km left. THIRTY! That’s nothing!

Simon and I talk, upbeat — it’s not much. Simon mentions we lost a minute due to the stop, but we’re probably only four minutes behind Poul including that. I turn it up. We turn down toward Sillerslev Harbour and I start looking for Poul. My thoughts are thundering. He has to appear any second. I ask frantically: “Where’s Poul?” and think he must have upped the pace, because he doesn’t show.

We approach the bottom and the turnaround. Where is Poul?!
And then it happens. I turn the corner at the very bottom by the harbour. Suddenly a beam of light hits my face — it’s full of friends, family, cheering — and then I see it. The beam is Poul’s headlamp! I’m at most 50 meters behind him! WHAT IS HAPPENING!?

I slap Poul a high five as I run past. Everyone cheers and hollers, and I push on! Several people tell me about Poul’s stop: “Poul sat down,” “He needed to put on a light,” “Poul was eating potato soup.”

I’m mostly focused on believing in myself — my energy is growing — and suddenly Poul is no longer the too-strong guy in my head, but simply Poul — my friend who’s also fighting.

I hit the turnaround and run up and out of Sillerslev again. It’s a steep hill, but I don’t think much of it. Poul shouts to me: “Come run with me!” — ready for a little small talk. My brain is still in hunt mode, and the star, the trophy and the fireworks are thundering around my head.

Both Poul and I have since tried to piece together what happened next, but we remember it poorly. I’ve heard from Louise, who was pacing Poul, that I went by very quickly, and I’m pretty sure I overtook Poul within 1–2 km after Sillerslev. Neither of us clearly remembers the exchange.

I do remember my thoughts as I reeled him in:

“Sorry, Poul, I wish you could have the star and the trophy — you deserve it — but I WANT it! I’m sorry…”

Those thoughts loop on repeat. The will to win is strongest. Together with Simon we’re there — in front — and Simon talks about the beautiful blood moon and the lovely rolling roads. He loves trail and hills, but he’s talking about how beautiful and nice it is on Mors. He suddenly sees, a bit through the eyes of a road runner, the charm of the Mors race, and I hear a hint of infatuation in his voice.

It’s truly beautiful under the clear, moonlit night sky. But the fight fills everything, and I just try to keep turning the pace up.

Suddenly there are only 20 km left, and Emma jumps in. The last kilometers need to be nabbed. 20 km? That’s less than a routine half.

Chapter 4 – Home through the dark – SUB13

Emma and I are running and talking about what’s left. The classic transport gravel path is coming, then we drop to the water at Sallingsund, then up through the Legind Hills — and then we’re bloody well home.

Jacob, my supporter, who has calmly been handling calculations and making sure my electrolytes and ketones are dialed all the way, suddenly chimes in from the passenger seat of the support car as they pass with cheers. I remember the smile and the Christmas lights in his eyes:

“If you hold this pace now, the A-goal is within reach.”

I’d kind of forgotten my goals — the star was my goal.

“I mean, you might be a few seconds or minutes late, but you’re really close if you just hold the pace.”

As if the desire and pressure weren’t enough, this was pure fuel, and my surplus grew with each kilometer. The thought that this felt like any day — “just a Monday” — made it easier, because the kilometers shrank and I got faster.

The gravel path, usually long and hard, was lit beautifully by the moon, and I came through it. 15 km left. I don’t remember the aid stations, but I got my bottles. 15 km — you’d think we were near the water, but we weren’t quite yet. Emma and I talk about the goal, and I feel lifted.

I hadn’t looked at my watch for anything other than route and distance for a long time (which Emma told me I actually did quite often), so I left it to Emma to call the pace — then she could sweeten it a bit if needed. It probably also says something about my surplus for anything beyond moving my feet:

Press the watch? No thanks, can’t manage that right now — I’m running.

The last stretch down to the water winds through forest on asphalt. I’m running well and start to worry about the legs. Can they handle being pounded downhill like this? I decide it’ll have to break or hold. I’ve dealt with cramps before; I can endure whatever pain might come. I push forward instead of saving.

Suddenly the forest opens and the water glitters in the dark. We turn right. The road along the water is swarming with cars — beams of light and people cheering. I’m well ahead of Poul — I know it — and the gap grows with every step. Now it’s all about hitting the A-goal.

Along the water my mom and Bjarne pop up again and again — cheering and calling my name — together with others from Mors who’ve stopped to cheer. I feel their energy follow me like a wave. The traffic has almost become a procession of lights, horns and cheers following our duel.

About 10 km left. Now we “just” need to go up through the Legind Hills. Right before the climb I meet Anne and Agnes — Agnes just has to get her daily streak run in, of course! We laugh briefly before I turn toward the hills.

Every time I hit the Legind Hills I’m catapulted back to my first year at Mors. I see Benny Bull standing at the base of the hill shouting:

“Just run UP here, and I’ll be on the other side.”

Back then I had no idea the route finished with a phase through the Legind Hills — but I sure knew it now.

We’d talked about poles for the dark hills, but skipped them. I regretted that now. Up, up, up! I worked, and the last meters of the hills were eaten one by one — and then the top finally arrived.

Now the descent toward Jesperhus Hill awaited. I met Jonas Lemvig again, and from his words I could feel how intense it had all been. The duel between Poul and me had been hard to follow, he said.

Just down through the hills. Emma and I agreed Martin should run the final stretch with me. So with 6 km left Emma hopped out and Martin hopped in. Six kilometers left. The classic beat-the-pain section.

I wasn’t slow — quite the opposite. I kept pressing and felt strong. Poor Martin ended up a bit like my sacrificial lamb, but damn he did well. The more he suffered, the more I knew I was performing.

We hammered along and Martin had to shed layers. His jacket got tossed into the car on the fly, while people cheered along the road, grouped here and there.

But it’s not just cheering. The locals of Mors are out on the road actually blocking cars so Martin and I can just run. Everyone’s in — as if the whole island wants us to make the goal.

With about 4 km to go Martin asks me:

“Emil, you don’t drink beer, right? Do you think I could have your finish-line beer? I reckon I’ve earned it!”

Of course he had. I don’t know how fast I was running, but it felt like 4:30/km there on my 158th kilometer in the middle of the night. I honestly had no idea what time it was. I just knew Jacob had said the A-goal was close and I just had to hold pace — so I chased it with everything I’d learned.

Suddenly there were only a few kilometers left. Martin peeled off with just over 1 km to go and jogged to the finish. I ran alone in the light of the street lamps toward the tip of Nykøbing and knew I was damn near there!

I packed away my headlamp — now it all had to be taken in. It had to be SAVORED.

I turn around the corner and down the flag avenue. There’s the finish arch! And there is Agnes — ready to run with her dad, two gorgeous flags in her hands. Someone sticks a torch in my hand and I run toward the line with Agnes flying at my side.

And then I see it. The clock says 12:50-something, and I can’t quite grasp it. Didn’t Jacob say it was only just within reach that I could make my A-goal — sub-13?

My heart skips several beats. My head explodes. I run over the finish with Agnes to cheers — and suddenly I’m done!