Probably the Best Finish Line Ever!

Finish lines – there’s something magical about them. An invisible line that can bring people to tears, make them burst out laughing, or dance with relief. It’s a place where exhaustion melts into joy, where you might collapse into the arms of a loved one or cross the finish line hand-in-hand with your family by your side.

Every finish line is unique. Some have grand arches, waving flags and music in the air. Others are at the top of a mountain, along a boardwalk, or just a simple mat on a winding country road. But they all hold the same promise: a moment when love, triumph, and togetherness meet.

And then there are the finish lines, which aren’t even official.

If you’ve followed my journey, you know how hard it was to find my way back to running. You’ll know how much the Matterhorn Ultraks and Zermatt mean to me, and why, after all this time, I decided to return to that starting line this year. For an entire year, the vision of this final stretch has kept me going: every training run I’ve done, I’ve imagined myself running through the streets of Zermatt, surrounded by cheering crowds, with loved ones waiting for me, and that long-awaited medal coming closer with every step.

When I learned that my parents would be there to cheer me on, I felt a rush of excitement. Having them there for this race meant so much, especially considering how important the Matterhorn Ultraks and Zermatt had become to me. It already felt like more than a race – it was a journey I had envisioned for so long, and now, with my family there to support me, it felt almost dreamlike. And when my brother and his wife decided to come, too, it made the moment even more special. I would have a whole cheering section out there on the course, people who understood how much this meant to me and wanted to be a part of the experience.

But the surprises didn’t stop there. The day before the race, my sister and her husband showed up unannounced. I was stunned and so touched by their support. Knowing that nearly my entire family would be there made everything feel even more real and added a special warmth and motivation that I wasn’t expecting. It felt like they were bringing strength, a reminder that no matter what happened on the course, I wouldn’t be alone.

I’d chosen the tougher course this time – 49 kilometers with a grueling 3,600 meters of climbing. It was a decision I didn’t make lightly. I wanted to challenge myself and give it everything I had. My father joined me on the Klein Matterhorn in the days leading up to the race so I could acclimatize, just as we had done in the past. We shared quiet moments together, looking out over the vast, high-altitude landscape. I remember seeing those tiny marker flags on the Gornergrat, imagining the course winding up there, and a wave of excitement and nerves washed over me. I could almost picture myself on the ridge, making my way up under the open sky, surrounded by the immensity of the mountains.

The night before the race, we all got together for a pasta dinner. We laughed, told stories, and tried to keep the mood light, but inside my mind was racing. As much as I was looking forward to the challenge, I knew I wasn’t fully prepared. Weeks of working long hours had left me mentally and physically drained, a shadow hanging over my usual pre-race excitement. I felt exhausted in a way I couldn’t shake, and that inner doubt crept in – was I really ready for this? Part of me wanted to believe that all the months of training and anticipation would carry me through, that my body would somehow find the strength on race day. But another part of me wondered if I was pushing too hard, risking too much.

I even found myself questioning whether I should even start. The reality of how hard this race would be began to set in as I imagined the long hours on the trail, the brutal climbs, the struggle to keep my focus. But even with the uncertainty, I knew I couldn’t walk away. I’d come so far, both literally and emotionally. This was a journey I’d committed to long before race day, and there was no amount of doubt could erase that.

As I sat with my family that night, I felt a complicated mix of excitement, gratitude, and fear. I knew that the race ahead of me would be one of the toughest I’d ever faced, but I also knew that I was about to face this challenge surrounded by the people who meant the most to me. And somehow that made me feel ready.

The morning of the race arrived quietly, with a cool, soft light filling the streets of Zermatt. My husband, my mother, my sister and her husband walked with me through the slowly awakening village, the silence broken only by the occasional murmur of other runners making their way to the start. The air was crisp, the mountains towering above us in the pale dawn. I felt a knot of nerves tighten in my stomach – I had never felt so scared before a race. The reality of what lay ahead was sinking in, and the weight of the challenge felt almost overwhelming.

The hardest part would come right at the beginning. Nearly 17 kilometers of relentless climbing, all the way up to the Gornergrat at 3,117 meters. I knew the climb would be brutal, and there would be no family cheering from the sidelines along this lonely stretch. Once I left the start, I’d be alone on the mountainside, facing hours of steep climbs and thin air, with nothing to rely on but my training and my determination.

As we walked, my husband squeezed my hand, a simple gesture that reminded me that they believed in me, even when I wasn’t so sure. My mother gave me a reassuring smile, her warmth and pride evident in her eyes. My sister and her husband exchanged glances, sensing my nervousness, and tried to lighten the mood with a few jokes. I couldn’t help but smile, even though my mind was racing with all that lay ahead.

Finally, we reached the starting area, and the familiar hum of nervous excitement filled the air as the runners gathered. I knew this was it – the moment to step forward, to begin. I hugged each of them tightly, their quiet encouragement giving me the last bit of strength I needed as I took my place at the start. And as the countdown began, I took a deep breath, letting the calm of the morning settle around me. Soon it would be just me and the mountain.

Well, I wasn’t all alone. The night before, I’d created a WhatsApp group for the whole family, including those who couldn’t be there in person. They’d filled it with words of encouragement and little pep talks, reminding me that they were with me in spirit every step of the way. Each message that came through gave me a new surge of motivation, a sense that they were with me on the trail, even if I couldn’t see them. With each message, it felt like a piece of home was right there in my pocket.

As I climbed, the altitude and the endless incline began to take their toll. The air grew thinner, each step felt heavier, and gradually I found myself slipping to the back of the pack. The fast pace I’d hoped to maintain was replaced by one slow, deliberate step at a time. I became one of the last runners on the course, and with each passing mile, the isolation grew deeper.

But every time I felt myself faltering, my phone would buzz with a message that felt like a lifeline. Photos of family breakfasts, words like “You’ve got this!” and “Keep pushing, we’re all so proud of you!” Each message became its own little boost, helping me push back against the doubts that crept in and reminding me why I had come this far. Even on the loneliest stretches, I felt connected, as if they were all scattered along the path, cheering me on in their own way.

There were moments when I wondered if I’d make it. The challenge was everything I’d feared and more-the kind of test that would drain every ounce of energy from me, leaving only courage and determination. But my family’s messages were like breadcrumbs along the trail, pushing me forward, helping me put one foot in front of the other, even as the fatigue set in and the summit seemed impossibly far away.

And so, surrounded by mountains, with only the sound of my own breathing and the occasional buzz of my phone, I kept going.

After four and a half grueling hours, I finally reached the top of the Gornergrat. The sight of my father, my sister and her husband waiting for me felt like a warm embrace, a beacon of love in the cold mountain air. I was overjoyed to see them, a mixture of relief and exhilaration washed over me. I was incredibly proud of myself for making it this far, for conquering this brutal climb. The breathtaking views from the summit were almost secondary to the joy of being reunited with my family.

My sister quickly took charge, making sure I ate enough to fuel the next leg down to Furi, where I would meet my brother, his wife, and my husband. I knew I needed to refuel, but with the adrenaline still pumping, I tried to rush through the aid station. But as I stood there, surrounded by my amazing sister and the proud gaze of my father, I couldn’t help but pause. Their encouragement wrapped around me like a comforting blanket, reminding me that this moment was just as important as the finish line. After 20 minutes of laughter, shared stories, and well-deserved nourishment, I reluctantly continued on my way.

Normally, the downhill is my favorite part of trail running – the moment I really shine. But that day I underestimated the biting cold wind that whipped around me, freezing me to the bone and cramping my calves. What should have been a freeing descent turned into a struggle. I found myself half walking, half running down the trail, each step a battle against the tightening muscles and the cold seeping into my bones.

This was the first time I really realized how hard it would be to finish the whole thing. The mountain had tested me more than I had expected, and as I navigated the rocky path, the reality of the remaining distance loomed large in my mind. I had hoped for a swift and exhilarating descent, but instead I was faced with the harsh reminder that this journey was far from over. Still, with each step, I drew strength from the memory of my family’s support and the promise of seeing them again soon. I took a deep breath, refocused, and pushed on, determined to conquer whatever lay ahead.

When I finally made it to Furi, I was greeted with loud cheers, but my heart sank at the sight of my family’s faces. Their worried eyes made it clear that they knew how hard the race had been for me. I had no idea how far behind I was, but I could feel the urgency in the air. My brother rushed me through the aid station, encouraging me to keep moving if I wanted to make the cut off time at Schwarzsee. The pressure was palpable, but I couldn’t focus on it yet; I had to keep my spirits up.

Fortunately, my husband joined me for the next challenging segment and provided a much-needed boost. His presence was like a lifeline, grounding me in the chaos of my swirling thoughts. He told me funny stories to distract me, his laughter mingling with the sound of our footsteps on the trail. “You’re doing great!” he reassured me, his voice full of confidence, even though I could tell he already knew I probably would not make it in time. Still, his encouragement pushing and reminding me why I was out here.

As we climbed higher, the anticipation of what lay ahead filled me with a mixture of excitement and dread. I pushed forward, grateful for his company, even as the climb began to feel endless. But nothing could prepare me for the incredible surprise that awaited me at the summit.

When I finally reached the top, the sight that greeted me was nothing short of breathtaking. My brother, sister-in-law, sister and brother-in-law were all there, cheering me on as if I had just crossed the finish line of a great race. Even though they knew I was 15 minutes behind, their enthusiasm was contagious. They erupted in cheers, clapping and yelling as I approached, making me feel like I had won the entire race.

In that moment, all the exhaustion and struggle melted away. I felt like I was floating on cloud nine, surrounded by a wave of love and support. It didn’t matter that I hadn’t made it in time; their joy was palpable, and I couldn’t help but smile wide, feeling the warmth of their pride wash over me. This was the best “finish line” ever – a celebration of resilience, family, and the journey we had all taken together. It was a moment I will carry in my heart forever, reminding me that sometimes victory lies not in crossing a line, but in the love and support of those who stand beside you.

As I look back on this experience, I realize that I’m not sad about the DNF. Instead, I’m immensely proud of myself for pushing through the toughest parts of the race, facing the challenges head-on, and not backing down when the going gets tough. Every step was a testament to my resilience, a reminder that the race itself can be as important as the finish line.

But what truly fills my heart with gratitude is the incredible family I have by my side. Their unwavering support, whether cheering me on from the sidelines or sending encouragement from afar, has made all the difference. It’s a profound feeling to know that I have such a solid network of love and motivation behind me, reminding me that I’m never alone in my endeavors.

In the end, it’s not just about crossing the finish line, it’s about the bonds we forge along the way. I cherish the moments we shared, the laughs, the worries, and the triumphs. And while I may not have finished the race the way I had hoped, I came away with something far more valuable: a deeper appreciation for the race itself and the amazing family that will always be there to lift me up, no matter the outcome.