Ultra Spirit of the Forest 2025

Ultra Spirit of the Forest 2025 – Three Stories, One Path

Over five hundred and sixty kilometers of Podlasie roads, forests, meadows, and winds. A larger group of nine people gathered for the event. Some were colleagues from the United Eagles, others were friends from the Black Horses team. They started together, but each had their own goal, their own pace, and their own story. Here are three of them: one on a borrowed bike, another about risking everything, and the third, taking it easy.

Seweryn – on a borrowed bike

I’d never been to Podlasie before, but a morning like the one on the day of the start, smelling of damp, grass, and a silence that no one had yet disturbed, was, in my opinion, the quintessence of this region of Poland. We set off in the second-to-last group: Daniel, three Tomeks, Maciek, and I, plus a few others whose names I didn’t know yet, but I’d later recognize them by their numbers. The first kilometers were supposed to be a grind. Of course, it would be a long day, and the road would show who had what in their legs. But a few tough guys had other plans, and after the first minute, a fight for survival began for several of us.

By kilometer forty, four of us remained, riding in the so-called sweet spot, and there the leader group: Cukierski, Pazikowski, Reszka, and Szafranowicz caught up with us. They blew by like a whirlwind, but somehow we caught up in the vortex. And for a moment, it felt like we were flying, not riding. Sprints around corners, accordion-style, constantly having to extinguish the fire in our legs. Daniel’s plan was to stay with them until the first checkpoint. I didn’t. I said until the eightieth. And I kept my word; that was enough for me. In Koterka, by the Orthodox church, I gave up. It was actually a good thing, because the place was beautiful, the silence between the trees so intense that you felt like you were riding for something more than just a finish.

From that moment on, I rode alone for the next several dozen kilometers. I passed people standing outside shops, some waving, others munching on sweet rolls as if they were the latest delivery. And so I reached Siemiatycze, where a larger group joined me, including familiar shirts from Kluczbork, including Jarek, who was from Black Horses, but I only knew him from virtual rides. Siemiatycze and I reunited and rode on. Together, they reached Drohiczyn, where the first checkpoint was. There, a coffee, a sip of Iso, and then we were back on the road with Tomek Flasiński.

Ciechanowiec went a bit differently than planned, as the checkpoint wasn’t marked yet, and we missed it, so we didn’t stop until Kluków at kilometer 209. There were four of us then: Piotr from Jerzmanowice, Krzysiek from Toruń, Tomek Flasiński, and I. As it turned out later, I rode with Piotr and Krzysiek all the way to the finish line. From then on, we rode together: sometimes steadily, sometimes briskly, as each had the energy. Tomek tried to break away, but I wouldn’t let go. Before Łomża, however, he gave up, and I made it to the city on my own, where I got a little side-tracked and passed the checkpoint after the guys.

Soup, potato cake, roulades – classic Podlasie dishes. Add dry socks, coffee, and I was feeling good. It was almost 7 p.m. and starting to get colder. I knew the night would be longer than the day. Waldek joined us, but after only a few kilometers, he fell behind again.

The ride to Grajewo was surprisingly smooth. The wind had died down, and we could chat and look around. The sun was setting over Podlasie. Piotrek talked about his well-tended bike, Krzysiek, a very taciturn person, answered a few questions, and Tomek plotted the rest of the route. Before Grajewo, I was almost run over by a driver who had his own plans for an overtaking maneuver, but I somehow managed to pull through. The Orlen in Grajewo was the last stop with hot food and people. A zapiekanka (a sandwich), a non-alcoholic beer, and the moment of truth: a hundred kilometers of nothingness lay ahead, no shops, no lights. Just us, the road, and the moose.

We rode onto Carska Street, then along Łosiostrada. There were no moose, but it was still fun. However, deer were popping out as if from nowhere. The Garmin announced a turn in 32 kilometers, and it wasn’t lying. Ahead of us was just a straight stretch of road, forest on the sides, and night. We arrived in the dark at Stara Łupianka, where the housewives had prepared everything for us: cepelinai, soup, babka, lard, cakes, teas, compotes – you name it. Tomek collapsed on a mattress, Piotrek warmed himself with teas, Waldek charged the lamps, and I filled myself with everything they had on offer. And the ladies from the KGW just smiled as Piotrek tried to beg them for some liquid Forest Spirit.

We set off well after 2:00. Tomek was a zombie, but he kept going. When he started to weaken, the inevitable happened: we’re going our own way, and if you let go of the wheel, you’re going alone. It was clear someone was chasing us, so the pressure to finish quickly increased with each stop. Dawn split the sky in half, and the four of us, already a bit mute, rode like a train. No words, just shifts. As much as we could. We crossed the finish line after 22 hours and 52 minutes, with Tomek finishing ten minutes behind us.

The Giant I was riding was borrowed. The handlebars were narrower than mine, but more comfortable. The saddle started to pinch me after 100 km/h, and then I had to frequently get up on the cranks to save a few things. I’d packed enough food for the ride to avoid having to worry about finding stores: bars, mousses, gels, sausages. But I didn’t eat it all, and whenever I had the opportunity to replenish my supplies, I took it. I also swallowed salt every two hours to prevent cramps. Tailwind in my hydration bladder, iso in my water bottles. At the checkpoints, I ate whatever was warm. I drank almost seven litres, and I still felt dehydrated long after the finish line.

My body was sore, but that’s the way it should be. My spirit was still quite strong. And although I had 566 kilometers in my legs, according to MyWindsock, I had covered over 640. The wind had done its job. As for me, I like it.

Daniel F. – for a record

At first, I wasn’t sure if the Forest Spirit was for me. Seweryn mentioned it casually, saying he was going and maybe someone wanted to join. And I started digging into it. I saw: a flat, relatively fast route. Maybe it wasn’t the gravel I’m used to, but something was tempting me. After all, I’d never ridden more than two hundred kilometers on the road before. But something struck me, and I signed up. Eventually, I had to try something different.

I started preparing. Not in a rigid way, but more out of curiosity than necessity. Over the winter, my weight dropped, and by spring, I could feel the difference. My trainer, who lives with me every day, threw new challenges at me, and I did my thing, sometimes with better, sometimes worse results. I even started posting my workouts on Strava, though I hadn’t been into it before. In the meantime, I was immersing myself in nutrition, strength, and recovery. And finally, April arrived – Mallorca, a week of intense exertion, after which my legs started to say they were ready.

I was already counting down the days to the Duch. But the weather wouldn’t cooperate. A few days before the start, I checked the forecast – headwind for two hundred kilometers. That’s when I stopped kidding myself – I knew it would hurt. And I decided to go easy, fast, without any fuss. No power banks, no panniers, no mercy. When you’re playing, you’re not afraid – I went all in.

The start. It was sunny, but the wind was already picking up. A dozen or so of us, besides my United Eagles teammates, were on the line. After a few minutes, five remained: me, Seweryn, Maciek, Tomek from Black Horses, and Darek – each with a different plan, but we were riding together. Tomek started strong; we had to chase him. We somehow managed to form a train. For a moment, everything looked like a team ride – the changes, the pace, the wind. An hour later, there was a buzz behind us… it was them. The group of leaders from the last group was approaching us like a steamroller. We reacted as if on cue, and everyone jumped on board.

And that was the most beautiful moment of the race. We were flying – literally – and others were dropping out behind us. Seweryn said Tomek had stayed and was planning to give up the wheel himself at kilometer eighty. One more climb and I felt I couldn’t make it. They were riding like it was a fifty-kilometer race. I stayed, but I didn’t give up. After a few minutes, at a junction, I caught up with them again. I’m drafting, not giving any changes. I know that if we start playing heroes, we’ll pay at night. But on the next hill, they lose me again. I give up. I hope Seweryn or Tomek will catch up. I continue on alone.

At the first checkpoint, I meet Norbert and Darek. They shout, “We’re going together.” I agree without hesitation. For the next few kilometers, we fight the wind like some stubborn ghost. We protect each other, sometimes shouting over the gusts. Drivers honk because we’re driving wide, so we don’t get blown away by a sidewinder. But somehow, it all goes. Point by point, kilometer by kilometer.

At the third checkpoint, in Łomża, Darek and Norbert decide not to stop and keep going. They say that no one will catch us then. I have no idea where I am. I don’t touch my phone – I don’t have a power bank, so I’m saving the battery. A light setup is a light setup. I stick to my plan and stay to eat something substantial and warm up. Then I set off on my own.

From now on, I’m riding carefully. I still have dozens of kilometers ahead of me, against the wind. I’m riding carefully so I don’t freeze, but also don’t boil over before the finish line. At kilometer 420, I pop another gel – and suddenly my stomach says “enough.” I slow down. It hurts. But I have Coke and a non-alcoholic beer in my water bottles, which save me. I reach the final checkpoint. It’s warm inside, smelling like soup. I don’t want to leave.

After the meal, I feel better, but I know I won’t be able to take any more gels until the finish line. I keep going, saving everything I can. Twenty kilometers from the finish line, a bomb hits me. My legs don’t want to move, it’s getting cold. I save myself with what’s left in my water bottle, and in my head, I count the kilometers to the finish line. The final meters drag on like slow motion. And to think that just a few hours ago, I felt like a pro drafting forty behind Mariusz Cukierski and Damian Pazikowski.

Finally, the finish line. And there’s warm soup and a warm car. Only then do I reach for my phone. I look. Fifth place. I blink once, twice. Is this serious? Did this really happen? I don’t know if it’s a dream or reality – but I like it.

Tomasz K. – take it easy

Ultra Spirit of the Forest. Five hundred and fifty kilometers. At the start, I stood next to Tomek Sobkowiak, Maciek, and a few others whose names I didn’t know at the time. The sunrise was cold, but not piercing. The air smelled of fields and summer. We set off calmly, though the start was strong. Each of us felt ambition and freshness in our legs. After a few kilometers, we formed a group. The ride was steady, uninterrupted, in the second zone. We passed more villages, bus stops with faded signs, storks standing in their nests and looking down at us, as if they knew that today our lives would be nothing but riding, wind, and exhaustion.

The first few dozen kilometers passed quickly, in silence, broken only by the clatter of cassettes and the hiss of tires on asphalt. But after the ninetieth, things started to get tricky. The wind turned into a wall of air. Gusts were so strong that the bike danced beneath my body. I felt every minute in this draught draining my energy. I watched the odometer, counting down the kilometers to Łomża. The 281st kilometer was supposed to be salvation. We all had the same thought: things would be better in Łomża, the wind would finally subside.

And indeed, the wind began to ease beyond Łomża, but the hours had already felt heavy on my legs, and night was creeping into my mind. They were forecasting seven degrees. We laughed bitterly at that, because it was almost summer. But here, Podlasie showed its true colors: cold, dark, and unpredictable.

We reached Grajewo, at kilometer 360, without any problems. There was a longer stop there. Orlen, fluorescent lights, hot sandwiches, and Coke from the fridge tasted like the best treat. We knew we had a hundred kilometers ahead of us with no shops. Just forests, darkness, and a road that, though straight, stretched on forever.

We rode well at night. We took turns with Maciek and Tomek Sobkowiak leading, the silence so thick we could hear our own breaths echoing off the forest. The rest of the group remained silent; no one was eager to take turns. We were already tired of talking and asking. Everyone was moving at their own pace.

We reached the final checkpoint, at kilometer 457, in the early morning. There, warmth awaited us, and food smelled like the best breakfast of our lives: kartacze, potato cake, soup. We ate silently, staring into our cups of tea and trying not to fall asleep.

Then we set off towards the finish line. Silently, we counted down each kilometer. Beneath our feet lay only the concrete of exhaustion. But when we finally saw the finish line, we felt everything returning: smiles, strength, pride.

We got it. Five hundred and sixty-five kilometers. Twenty-seven hours. Ultra Spirit of the Forest. As for me – I like it.

Conclusion

Podlasie taught us humility. The wind reminded us that nothing is free, the night showed who can suffer in silence, and the sunrise gave us hope that the finish line truly exists. Each of us rode at a different pace and with a different goal, but we all met on the same road, the one leading through forests, along rivers, and between churches, where time flows differently and where one feels like just a tiny speck amidst vast greenery and mists.

Ultra Spirit of the Forest wasn’t just a race. It was an opportunity to connect with each other, with new and old friends, with the silence and the wind. For a dozen or so hours, we were able to forget about the world and remember what it means to simply ride forward. And although we returned tired, sore, and sleep-starved, one thing remained in our minds: we loved it.