Humans of HOKA Archives -

HOKA fan Maël thrives in epic jungle adventure

Maël Jouan is somebody who thrives on a challenge. The 24-year-old has tackled more than 70 ultra-trail events around the world and most recently completed the 230k Jungle Marathon in Peru. It isn’t a race for the faint-hearted. Here is his fearless story.

It all started with an early departure for the city of Cuzco in Peru. From my home in Paris to Sao Paulo in Brazil, Santiago in Chile and, finally, the city of Cuzco, where the Jungle Marathon would take place.

I arrived in Cuzco one week before the start of the race. For those who don’t know Cuzco too well, it’s a city located at 3,400m altitude. Great for training, though a little more difficult when you’ve had a couple of beers.

During the first week, I wasn’t able to experience Cuzco to the maximum. I didn’t sleep well, I had equipment missing and I couldn’t really acclimatise to the conditions. It was very hot during the day, but very cold in the evening. I was alone for my training and I just didn’t know what to do.

Change of approach

I decided to stop putting pressure on myself. I had built up this experience and wasn’t able to enjoy it for what it was. I decided to become the perfect tourist for just a few days.

Forty-eight hours before the departure for base camp, I met David. We ended up spending a lot of time together and became great friends as a result of our shared experience in the jungle. The great friends I made and the amazing people I met is one of my biggest takeaways from the whole experience.

By the time I finally left the hotel at 4.30 in the morning on the day of the race, I was like a battery and couldn’t wait to get started. I had a lot of energy for this race – and a lot of doubters to prove wrong. Many people thought I wouldn’t make it to the end. I wanted to show them what I could do.

Trusting instincts

It felt like a relief to finally get going. I had no race plan, no strategy. It was the jungle. I didn’t know the environment. All I knew was that I had 230 kilometres ahead of me and an 11.5kg bag on my back. I preferred to trust my instincts.

I kept telling myself that I shouldn’t worry about being behind the leaders early on, that the race was long. Besides, the terrain and environment was like another world. It was very different from my training routes in the mountains or on the beach.

Sharing the experience

I finished the first day with Hilary. We finished fourth and fifth, which I was delighted with considering the ankle injury I sustained early on. I strapped it up and tried to carry on as normal.

Day two started and very soon I was alone. The leaders were away and I had to start paying greater attention to the markings. All the riders who have shared kilometres with me will tell you that I wasn’t nearly as careful following the markings as I needed to be.

For some, this kind of race is crazy. For others, it’s huge. I knew I needed this kind of challenge, to get out of my comfort zone. I ended up running alongside John, a smiling, dynamic Irishman who became my teammate. We crossed the obstacles together, little by little. We shared our lives, our work, our interests with each other. The mountains are the perfect place for conversation.

I met people from all over the world and had the opportunity, thanks to ultra-trail running, to share experiences I would never have had the chance to otherwise. There was Martin from Denmark, Frode from Norway. Misha, the Hungarian, who must have been a whole head taller than me, always smiling, always ready to help and always there to chat. It was one of my most beautiful encounters in the Jungle Marathon.

Solidarity in ultra running

Despite the rain that poured throughout day three, I stood, sheltered, and appreciated the simple fact that I was there. I allowed my breathing to slow and admired the environment around me. I knew that I wouldn’t be able to live the moment twice.

There were complicated passages, mud that looked like quicksand and that went down the shin to the knee. The paste stuck to our legs, so much so it was sometimes difficult to get out of it. Solidarity is a special word in this kind of race.

I never really saw the sky because of the vegetation above. Insects were everywhere. I ended up swallowing one that stung me in the mouth. It was perhaps a spider, maybe a fly. In moment, it didn’t much matter.

I took on spider’s web after spider’s web. I ended up taking a piece of bamboo to probe in front of me because the webs and spiders became unbearable. But on the stick, there were a lot of ants eating my hand. In short, it was a hell, as Christophe le Saux had told me, a ‘green hell’.

Final flourish

I wasn’t ready for my Jungle Marathon experience to end. I had spent four years preparing for the race, for that finish line moment. But by the time I reached the final stages, suddenly, I wasn’t ready for it all to end.

Despite the swollen feet, the sprained ankle, the spiders, the insect stings, the hunger, tiredness, tears and anguish, I wasn’t ready for the moment to be over. I was joined by kids on the final run in, some of them on bikes, some of them with football jerseys. I reached the bridge and all but two of the kids continue with me to the end.

My final thought as I entered the finish, passing the flags, the party, the announcer, the brass band, was that this moment was for my grandfather. Without him, I would never have accomplished what I did. I thought of my parents and my big sisters, who worried constantly during this race. The doubters no longer mattered. I did it. The jungle was over.

Photo credit: Mikkel Beisner

HOKA fan Tom inspired to stop smoking and run

Tom Pullinger aka Inspired Runner was inactive and seriously unfit. He smoked frequently and was reliant on his inhaler to get him through the day. One day, inspired by his long-distance running father, Tom stopped smoking and took up running in an attempt to lead a healthier lifestyle and be a better role model to his family. From short runs to marathons to IRONMAN, Tom challenged his personal limits and succeeded, with his father by his side every step of the way.

As a teenager, I used to watch from my bedroom window as my dad set off for his regular runs. As soon as he was out of sight, I’d be round the back of the house, smoking.

My dad’s marathon training was regular as clockwork, an hour or two in the evenings and two to three hours on Sunday mornings. Every cigarette I smoked was preceded by and followed by a couple of puffs from my asthma inhaler.

My asthma was really severe. If I had so much as a laughing fit, it would end in me frantically searching for Ventolin. I was using so many inhalers that I would routinely tell my doctor I’d lost another one so that he’d give me another. In reality, I was getting through inhalers at an alarming rate.

This carried on through my twenties. I wasn’t active at all. I worked, I played video games and I smoked.

Taking the first step

Every year, we would go as a family to watch my dad run the London Marathon. Every year, I’d vow to stop smoking. At age 26, my wife and I were married, and as I hit 29, we decided to start a family.

The time was right to stop smoking. At the same time, I started running. Those first tentative steps were terrifying. I couldn’t run 200 metres without vice-like chest pains – more Ventolin was the only way to ease it. The first run was almost half-a-mile in total, mostly walked. Over the weeks and months, this became a mile, then two miles, then three and always carrying my inhaler.

At this time, my dad recognised that we were thinking of starting a family and dropped a bombshell on me. He had a condition called Huntingdon’s disease, which would slowly but eventually take him from us. As a scientist, he had researched how to fight the condition and keeping fit and active could delay its onset, so he ran marathons.

Huntington’s disease

As a hereditary, terminal condition, Huntington’s disease is passed on to one in every two children, so my two sisters and I were faced with the fact that out of the three of us, at least one would likely be carrying the faulty gene. If you carried it, it would be terminal. It didn’t kill you, but the weakened immune system, onset of pneumonia or uncontrolled shaking and swallowing difficulties would definitely do so.

My two older sisters and I had to undergo a series of psychological interviews before the blood test, to ensure we could deal with the possibility of a positive result. I wanted my two sisters to be tested first as I felt this gave them the best chance. One after the other, they revealed the fantastic news that they were both clear of the gene, which meant that the Huntington’s disease would progress no further down their family lines.

Thrilled to bits for them both and their families, I couldn’t help but think that if they were both clear, I was bound to test positive. Results day came and I was completely shocked and stunned to hear the news that I was also clear of the gene – Huntington’s disease in our family ended with my dad – although it would and did take him from us, it progressed no further – my dad had beaten the 1 in 2 odds and not passed it on to any of his three children.

Running together

It was 2002, a couple of years of running had passed by, my wife and I had a young son and I entered my first half marathon, with my dad. We ran together for 12 miles, at the back of the pack. My dad’s condition was taking its toll and he was wobbly, shaky and unsteady on his feet – we had a first aid car behind us the whole time, constantly pulling alongside to ask if we were OK.

By 10 miles, I was done. My longest distance, although running at a slow pace, had tired me out. My dad, although clearly showing signs of his advancing condition, was still so much fitter than me and together we got to the finish line.

Five years later, I was running my first London Marathon, with my dad supporting me just past the halfway point. I stopped and hugged him and carried on in tears. I was a 5-year non-smoker now but still asthmatic and carried my inhaler at all times. I finished in 5 hours 45 minutes, utterly destroyed and my dad told me with glee that I was two hours outside his 3:44 marathon PB! I told him I would beat his best time eventually!

Making the grade

It was 2014 and I had a few marathons under my belt now. I took to triathlon to help with injury prevention and cross training, making my way up to half-IRONMAN distance, where I qualified for Team GB and a place in the 2015 European Age Group Middle-Distance Championships in Italy. To have my dad and my family, including my wife and two boys, supporting me in Italy was amazing. My dad was in a wheelchair now but would come to support at every race he could.

During the build up to this race, 10 weeks earlier, I had fallen off my bike on the ice and broken my back. Eight weeks in a back brace and with only two weeks to train for a half-IRONMAN distance race meant it wasn’t my finest performance. I finished in 5:49, but I couldn’t turn down the chance to race for Team GB, with my family, including my wheelchair-bound father, watching.

Fighting for every breath

It was now 2017 and my fifth London Marathon. I had already improved my PB to 3:28 and my dad wrote me a handwritten card detailing all his PBs, and said how proud he was of how I had turned my life around. He was still in a wheelchair, still fighting for every breath and fighting for every day.

My father came to watch me run in London again. We stayed in a hotel close by but he was taken ill the night before the marathon and had to be rushed to hospital. He didn’t get to see me run the next morning but I ran anyway, knowing it would have been what he wanted.

My dad died shortly afterwards, but he saved my life by motivating me to give up smoking, giving me goals, dreams, ambitions and he also saved our family by beating the odds of his condition and ridding our family of Huntingdon’s disease. The way he battled for every day of his life motivates and inspires me constantly, hence my Instagram name – @Inspired_runner_.

Photo credit: Tom Pullinger

HOKA fan Frans meets challenge head on

When life throws you the unexpected, you have to try and stay positive and meet the challenge head on. Frans van Zweden was training for his first triathlon when he received the news that he had cancer. Find out how Frans managed to beat cancer and became a triathlete with the unparalleled support of his family and friends.

It was autumn 2015 when my group of friends decided to start training for a triathlon. We had all cycled and run for years. Doing this in combination with swimming felt sort of ‘heroic’ and a sprint distance felt quite trainable. We registered for the first sprint distance available.

When spring arrived, we trained as triathletes. I started to feel stronger yet weaker at the same time. I broke my best times but I needed a lot of sleep during the day, felt constantly hungry, ate like a maniac and still lost weight. Something felt wrong, but I didn’t know where to look.

Life-changing moment

At one point, when I couldn’t look forwards on the TT bike because of neck pain, I went to see a doctor. He felt some sort of ‘coffee beans’ in my neck and redirected me to a specialist. Three weeks later, just a week before my first triathlon, the results were in. I had cancer. My first question?

“Can I still take part in my triathlon this Saturday?”

“Frans, do you know what I just said?”

“Yes, of course, but we’re gonna get that fixed. Can I join the race?”

Now we can smile about it, but what was I thinking? It was cancer, not the flu. But in my life, there are only solutions, no problems. Everything is fixable. It didn’t take long to see that this was serious and needed to be treated as so. My family and I were about to start a whole different race, and it was not a sprint distance.

Becoming a triathlete

That Saturday, we raced. No one knew what was going on. I wanted to tell my buddies, but only after finishing. We had a great experience, it what such a blast, pure, without anybody else knowing what was going on. We needed more. But for me this was probably going to be my last race for a while. I dropped the bomb. We hugged, we cried and we became friends for life in an instant.

After some more tests, we found out I had Hodgkin Lymphoma, which had spread to my chest. There was a good chance of survival, if the chemotherapy did the job. The process would take approximately eight months to finish. How was I going to survive these treatments? How would I be able to take care of my family? How sick was I going to get? Was I able to run, bike, swim or even walk? I could at least try, right?

I bought new running shoes, the HOKA ones I saw professional triathletes run on and a beautiful new bike. I was going to swim, bike or run every day until the start of my chemotherapy. Every day my friends were there to get me out of the house and to train with me. This group became larger and larger. Triathlon made it easy for people to connect with me in this difficult time. Not the hard ‘one on one’ conversations, but just riding, running or swimming, enjoying the basic things in life.

Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t always easy. There were days when I was really feeling sick or extremely tired from the chemotherapy. I took it day-by-day. My treatment sort of felt like very long interval training, broken down into bite-size pieces. Hard efforts but with just enough rest.

Defeating cancer

Eventually rest periods became shorter and intervals longer as I progressed in my chemotherapy. Finishing my challenge became hard. Friends kept coming but it became harder to get me in my shoes or on my bike. Going to the pool was already too much effort. Eight months later, I didn’t skip a day. My head felt strong but my body was not able to run and bike for more than 15 minutes.

In November 2016, my treatment came to an end and I had defeated cancer. I had achieved my biggest challenge in life so far. I made friends for life. I changed. I’m still living life for the moment, not knowing what lies ahead. But if you can be happy even if your life is at stake, happiness seems to hide in simple basic things.

In 2016, I did my first triathlon and survived cancer. Exactly one year later in the same event, I stood at the start again together with my friends. One year later, I ran my first marathon. Now, three years later, I still compete, finishing my first half-distance triathlon in five hours and knowing there is much more in the tank.

I surprise myself every day. Family and friends who supported me through the hard times are keepers, making me feel alive every single day, even when the earth is about to crumble.

Photo credit: Frans van Zweden

HOKA fan Jared completes journey across Belarus

Earlier this year, we spoke to Jared Goldman, who was planning a 300km running journey across Belarus in search of his family roots. Now, four months later, Jared has completed his personal and emotive quest, and taking home an experience that proved more than he could ever imagine.

“Busiel” I say, gesturing at the huge nest above our heads. “No home,” replies Jaŭhen, since the nest is empty and no bird is in sight. “Working,” I add. After those words, we trot off again in silence.

Not much more conversation is possible since Jaŭhen does not speak a lot of English and my (Bela-)Russian is even worse. But we do not need words to understand each other and there is no awkward silence whatsoever. From the first few metres that we run together, we have an understanding of the road, the circumstances and of each other that is deeper than words can ever express.

Falling into a rhythm

Once outside of Minsk, the real Belarus starts to unfold right in front of our eyes. We fall into a rhythm, our cadence matches, and it is like we had been running together before. The small two-laned country roads turn into village roads, which at times turn into dirt tracks.

Jaŭhen is my running partner. I had chatted with him on Instagram just a few weeks before. We met in person just minutes before we started running.

Little did I know that this would become one of the most important elements on my 300km run across Belarus to find my roots. I had planned this trip for seven months and trained more in that time than my entire 2018 running year.

Why did the ‘Bearded Runner’, as Jauchen is known on Instagram, come with me? I’m sure there are many reasons, but I suspect that I helped remind him just how lovely Belarus can be.

Experiencing Belarus

I would have never known about the kolodets or the small water wells that lined the village streets. We would open the doors to little houses and reel down the bucket to the water waiting to be filled. After fetching it back up, we were rewarded with ice cold water for drinking and for taking an ice bath to cool us down in the hot summer sun.

We ran 64km the day before the finish. That night we stayed with Mila, a character from the small village of Lenin. Her mother made draniki (potato pancakes) and it was harvest season, so the garden had a never-ending supply of cucumbers and tomatoes, and the fruit was literally falling from the trees. I got to experience the real Belarus hospitality.

We would coin the phrase: “This is Belarus, baby.”

Saying goodbye

But like many mornings, we had to say goodbye to all our new friends. The last marathon was on the plan, and the finish line was waiting in the village of my ancestors.

I had to enjoy every moment surrounded by new brother and other people I had inspired to run. It was exactly where I wanted to be, and I knew that soon it would be over. The one main thing I learned to the fullest was to be present and enjoy the moment.

As we got closer, we were joined my more runners and running groups. We stopped to take selfies at the village sign that indicated we were now in the city limits of the town of my forefathers.

The village I had been thinking of for the last seven months was now beneath my feet. I was excited but at the same time I was a little bit sad the we had reached the finish line so fast and we were still so fit.

Completing the journey

Those last few hundred meters were a blur as I was lost in thought about where I had come from, where I currently was, and where I would be going. I saw the village waiting for us with women dressed in traditional costume, holding the red finish line. I turned to my new-found brother and grabbed his hand, because this journey was no longer about me, it was about everybody running to their roots.

I spent the next few days in the village of Kozan Harodok, searching for the answers to all the questions I had about my family.

Everyone likes to ask: did you find what you were looking for? But it was not always about finding the proof of my biological family. This would have been too easy, not leaving any mystery to keep searching.

It no longer mattered about finding proof of my family of the past because at the end of this run, I had found the family of my future.

Photo credit: Alexey Skrynnikov and Stanislav Korshunov

HOKA fan Simon reconnects with the wild in Tanzania

Some 19,000 years ago, people were stood in the very same spot as Simon James in Tanzania. They weren’t just standing either, they were running. Ancient footprints are exquisitely preserved in the mud, now rock. Find out more about Simon’s humbling experience and how he reconnected with the wild during his trip to Lake Natron.

We stood there in the baking sun, the temperature pushing into the mid-40s, the ground radiated immense heat. It was like standing in an oven. Towering high above us was Ol Doinyo Lengai – or ‘the Mountain of God’ – an active volcano soaring out of the Tanzanian Rift Valley to around 3,000m high.

Some 19,000 years ago, people were standing in the very same spot we were now. Not just standing, but running. Their footprints are exquisitely preserved in the mud, now rock. Their toes, even droplets of water which spilled off their feet as they ran, marked the very moments they ran through the mud.

For me, trail running is all about reconnecting with the wild. The wild is where we began and deep down it’s who we are. Running is such a simple and beautiful movement and connects us across race, culture, gender and time. It’s something hard wired in all of us, from that moment we are born and the instinctual feeling of fight or flight, to escaping our cluttered lives as adults and running out down a trail.

True definition of wild

It had taken a 14-hour flight and 7 hours in Jeeps on unmade roads to get to the location, Lake Natron, near the border with Kenya. It felt like we had landed on Mars. We ran through the tiny village of Ngare Sero, the only village on the southern shore of Lake Natron. It felt surreal and exciting to be finally running in this land. It really was the true definition of wild!

The local Maasai called out and waved as we ran past. Some even came to run with us. It was an amazing experience and one that I will treasure for a lifetime. In that moment we ran together, we ran because we all loved running, and everyone was laughing. The kids joined us and soon we were all running just because it felt good to run. We couldn’t speak Maasai, but no language was needed to convey that incredible connection made for just an instant.

Life on the edge

Life is on the edge in Ngare Sero and there is no doubt that survival for most who live here is an everyday experience. I was working with a team of very experienced leaders, facilitating students to help play a part in an international schools’ project, which aimed to provide sustainable access to food and funding for local schools.

Nothing is what it seems, though, in that part of the world. Although we were right next to the sixth-largest lake in Tanzania, it was highly toxic to humans with its high alkalinity. But because of this, it is also sanctuary to 2.5 million lesser flamingos.

Reconnecting with the wild

The volcano, which regularly erupts and destroys everything in its path, was the very reason why the footprints had been preserved. We sat with those footprints for some time. It was emotional and truly humbling.

I thought back to my relationship with running, and how deeply it is part of who I am. My hands gently touched where their feet had landed in the mud. The scene that I now saw, the lake shimmering behind me in the extreme heat, the Mountain of God dominating this land, those runners would have had the same view some 19,000 years ago. For a moment, I felt we were somehow connected. The first trail runners and me.

Photo credit: Simon James

Feeling inspired? Simon works full-time in the outdoor industry, looking after the day-to-day operation of Run the Wild and working as a trail running guide. In summer, he is based in Saint Gervais, at the foot of Mont Blanc, and for the rest of the year in the Chiltern Hills in the UK. Simon works on charity-based projects in Tanzania as well as leading groups up Kilimanjaro. Follow Simon and Run the Wild on Instagram and check out the website here.