I wanted to do something that would genuinely turn heads. Raising money for a good cause is one thing, but getting people to actually pay attention (to stop scrolling, to ask questions, to care) requires something a bit extreme. When I came across the Antarctica Ice Marathon, I knew immediately: this was it. A full marathon at the bottom of the world, in temperatures around −20°C, on a continent most people will never set foot on. It's the kind of thing that makes people lean in when you tell them about it. And that's exactly what I needed: a story bold enough to put Multiple Sclerosis in the spotlight. Not just a fundraiser, but a conversation starter. Something people would want to follow, share, and get behind. The crazier the challenge, the louder the message.
Why I Ran
In Belgium, roughly 11,000 people live with MS, a disease of the central nervous system that can rob you of the simple ability to walk. I ran for them, for the people in my own life who were recently diagnosed, and for everyone navigating that unpredictable, exhausting reality. The project was called "Run for MS," and the idea was straightforward: spend a full year running for and with people affected by Multiple Sclerosis, raising as much money and awareness as possible, culminating in one of the most extreme marathons on Earth.
By the end of the year, we raised €19,300 for MS-Liga Vlaanderen. I was also incredibly fortunate to be selected by the Belgian TV show Vandaag over een jaar with Cath Luyten, which meant the entire journey — from the very first training run to crossing the finish line on the ice — was documented on camera.
What Did I Wear?
Getting the gear right was a puzzle in itself. In Antarctica, overheating is just as dangerous as freezing, so the key was layering smartly: thin enough to move freely, thick enough to survive. I went with:
On the top: a merino wool base layer from Inov8, an insulating mid-layer from Nike, and a featherweight Gore-Tex windproof jacket that blocked every bit of wind and moisture without restricting my stride. This was truly perfect. Although it was very windy, I felt like this was all I needed.
On the bottom, I kept it simpler: just one layer combining thermal protection and wind resistance: Gore-Tex (bike pants). Generally, I don't get cold in my legs. If I am cold, it's via my upper body. So this was perfect for me.
For shoes, I ditched my regular road runners and went with Saucony Peregrine Ice Trail shoes, which I'd tested on an actual ice rink in Mechelen (yes, I got some looks). These are the perfect shoes (although Antarctica is not very slippery in general).
On my head, a balaclava with a built-in mouth cover to prevent my goggles from fogging, a merino Buff around my neck, and Julbo glasses to deal with the blinding snow reflection. That said, my glasses were unusable after 5 kilometres, so I pulled my balaclava down to ensure perfect breathability. I kept a beard, which helped me a lot.
Energy gels went in a CamelBak: no messing around with solid food at minus twenty. No problem with them! The only thing that really broke was my earbuds!
Training for the Cold
You can't exactly simulate Antarctica in Belgium, but I got creative. A logistics company called Colfridis in my hometown of Londerzeel had industrial freezer rooms that reached −20°C. I put a manual treadmill inside (electric ones short-circuit in those temperatures), and ran in there to test my gear and get my body used to the cold. It wasn't quite the same without the wind, but it was close enough to be genuinely uncomfortable. Beyond the freezer sessions, I used warming gels from NAQI Belgium, rubbing them on before outdoor winter runs. During a cold snap in January, I ran in shorts and a t-shirt at −3°C, covered in gel, collecting confused stares from passing cyclists. It looked ridiculous. It felt fantastic.
The Training
Before this project, I had three marathons under my belt (Rome twice and Brussels) with finish times ranging from 4:15 to 5:30. Respectable, but nothing special. This was the first time I truly committed to structured training. I worked with Energy Lab to build a proper programme: around 40 kilometres per week on average, peaking at 80 km during the heaviest blocks. My longest single run was 27 kilometres. Over the course of the year, the volume and consistency transformed me. I dropped from 82 to about 73 kilograms. I'd never been this lean or this fast, and for the first time, I actually felt like a runner rather than someone who just happened to run.
The Race
Race day was very (very!!!) windy. And on Antarctica, windy means cold (brutally, bone-deep cold). The average temperature sat around −20°C. The snow underfoot felt like concrete, hard-packed and unyielding, so in a strange way, the actual running was fairly normal. What wasn't normal was trying to eat and drink at the same time. Everything was more difficult when your face is half-frozen behind a balaclava.
I started alongside two other runners, and that first lap felt brilliant. I was right there with the guy who would eventually win and the one who'd take second. They skipped the first drinks station — where cola and hot tea were on offer — but I stopped. After the first lap, about ten kilometres in, I had to let them go. They simply had another gear. After two laps, I was two minutes behind, and the gap only grew from there. I crossed the finish line in 3:54. The winner beat me by about 10 minutes, and the runner-up by 5. It wasn't close. They were just better — stronger, faster, tougher. But I gave everything I had on that ice, and I was genuinely, deeply happy.
A 3:54 marathon at the bottom of the world, for the people I care about. I'd do it all over again.
I really love this region. There's something about Mendoza and the Andes that always gives me joy — the people are super friendly, the nature is stunning, and being there around my birthday makes the whole expedition feel like a celebration. Aconcagua is a hiking mountain (no technical climbing required), but at 6,962 metres, the altitude is what makes it brutal. It sits a few hours west of Mendoza, Argentina, deep in the Andes.
I had tried this mountain once before, in 2023. It didn't go well. I was a bit unlucky with my team; two inexperienced climbers came along who slowed us down and eventually quit the expedition. That left Nicky and me to push on alone. We made it to Camp 1, and then got literally snowed in. Conditions deteriorated to the point where it was too dangerous to continue (sadly, one person passed away at the higher camps during that storm). I made the call to descend and go home. Disappointing, but the mountain wasn't going anywhere.
The plan was simple: Nicky and I, back again, but this time I was properly prepared. We'd do almost everything unsupported. I booked through Lanko, as they're very helpful and responsive via text, and the food at their camps is really(!) good. But I only booked my park permit through them, plus the minimum required services (one night at Confluencia, two full-board days at Plaza de Mulas, and one mule). If you do it this way, it's much cheaper, but you do need to use a certain number of their services. The rest we handled ourselves. This is not as bad as it sounds — you are never truly alone on Aconcagua. A lot of people are around you all the time.
We booked the bus directly from Mendoza to Penitentes, and from there, a van picked me up and took me to the park entrance. You can do this all in one day, which is what I'd recommend — I don't like Penitentes, so staying there feels like a waste of a day. The first day's walk is short anyway. The early days are honestly some of the most enjoyable. At the start of the park, you can still mingle with day trekkers. The walk to Confluencia takes about two hours. After one night there, I did the long walk to Plaza de Mulas (about eight hours). Some people stayed one additional day in Confluencia for acclimatisation, but we felt good, so we continued. After Confluencia, it's only expeditions. The atmosphere shifts.
From Plaza de Mulas, the schedule looked like this:
1 rest day at Plaza de Mulas
1 porter day to Camp 1 (5,000 m)
1 day at Camp 1
1 porter day to Camp 2 (5,500 m)
1 day at Camp 2
1 rest day
1 day to Camp 3 (5,950 m)
Summit (6,962 m)
We moved faster than average, for two reasons. First, I'd slept in a high-altitude tent for five weeks at home before flying out, so I was already partially acclimatised. Second, there was very little snow at Camp 1, and you need snow for water and food. With less snow than normal, we had to push through to Camp 2 sooner than planned. Once at Camp 2, if you're feeling well, it makes sense to keep going. We did.
It's about 4.8 km from Camp 3 to the summit, and it took me 8 hours and 30 minutes to reach the summit. Conditions were perfect: barely any wind, sun, nice temperature. What makes it hard isn't the weather; it's the lack of oxygen. Every step is an effort. Of the people who started for the summit that day, only two non-guides made it. II was one of the two. The terrain depends on the season. With limited snow this year, the last stretch from the Cave to the Summit was mostly gravel, which is not pleasant to walk on. Steep, loose, and demanding.
There was a hard moment on summit day. Someone had passed away at the Cave, and we unfortunately had to cross him on our route. It was a really sad sight. The mountain takes lives every year, but it's another thing entirely to confront that as you're climbing.
It was an amazing climb, and the mountain is hard (but really, it's the altitude that makes it so). The experience around the climb is what brings me back. The people, the nature, the rhythm of an expedition. I'd been here twice now, and the second time, with proper preparation and the right partner, everything came together. Nicky, unfortunately, did not make it to the summit. So there will be a third time to Aconcagua for me soon!
The Buffalo Stampede 100k starts at 6 am in the dark, in the alpine township of Bright, Victoria. Within the first two kilometres, you're already climbing! Indeed, straight up Emily's Spur, 440 metres of elevation in about a mile and a half. From there, the course runs along ridgelines to Clearspot, drops down Snake Ridge into the Buckland Valley, and then begins the real centrepiece: the Big Walk, a relentless 10-kilometre climb with over 1,000 metres of elevation gain that takes you up through the lower slopes of Mount Buffalo, past Mackays, and onto the plateau. You summit the Horn at 1,723 metres (the highest point of the national park) with 360-degree views of the Australian Alps. Then, you come all the way back down, retrace your steps through the Buckland, and face Dingo Ridge: the final test. It's 6 kilometres of climbing with nearly 800 metres of gain, brutally steep in places, full of false summits, before you finally reach Clearspot one last time. From there, it's a rocky, technical descent and a few final kilometres of singletrack into Bright. In total: 101.6 kilometres, just over 5,000 metres of elevation gain.
I Already Knew This Course
In 2024, I ran the Buffalo Stampede Grand Slam, which is the 10k on Friday, 20k on Saturday, and the 42k SkyMarathon on Sunday. I met a Belgian couple at the starting line, and we ran together through the weekend. The 10k was great, we stuck together the whole way. The 20k, they pulled ahead at the end, and I started struggling a bit. And the 42k broke me. It was a scorching day, I was suffering badly, and I still vividly remember Dingo Ridge: standing still, unable to move, the heat pressing down, the climb ahead looking impossibly steep. Because it is. But doing the Grand Slam was crucial. I knew Emily's Spur. I knew the Big Walk. I knew what Dingo Ridge looked like when your legs were gone. That knowledge would prove invaluable two years later!
Training — A Complicated Year
2025 started brilliantly. I was living in Takapuna, New Zealand, and running a lot. For instance, I was on pace to cover more than 3,000 kilometres by year's end. I was regularly hitting 100k weeks with over 1,000 metres of elevation, and I knocked out some incredible Great Walks: the Routeburn Track in a strong time in March, Abel Tasman on my birthday (January 4th) in about six hours, and the Tongariro Crossing on foot. Everything felt dialled in!
I was on top of the world. Until I wasn't. I got injured. The reason was stupid and entirely my fault: I pushed a random Thursday training session too hard, chasing a pace I had no business chasing that day. At 35, recovery doesn't forgive the way it used to. I am not calling myself old by any means, but I still notice that I don't recover as fast as I did when I was 20. From June onwards, my mileage dropped off a cliff. I did what I could on the elliptical to maintain some fitness, but I lost a lot.
From August, I was slowly clawing my way back. In September, I left for a research visit to Chile, where I focused on altitude and elevation (walking extensively at 2,300 to 3,000 metres, partly because I wanted to attempt Ojos del Salado). The altitude work turned out to be a blessing in disguise for what came next. Because by December, I was building again. I ran a marathon in Punta Arenas in mid-December and finished second (or as the website put it, won the men's marathon) in 3:18. It was a tough race. I had to walk for a minute at one point because I was completely gassed, partially because of the strong winds coming from the sea. But it gave me confidence that the engine was coming back.
After Punta Arenas, I changed my approach. I stepped up the hours, not the distance. My longest run was only 19 kilometres. I kept the weekly volume around 80k and spent a lot of time in the Dandenong Ranges near Melbourne, running two to three hours at a time on elevation: anywhere from 500 to over 1,100 metres of climbing per session. The goal was simple: build resilience on tired legs over hilly terrain.
What I Wore
Funny enough, on top, I wore almost exactly the same setup as for my Antarctic marathon: the Inov8 merino wool base layer, my Nike insulating mid-layer, and the same jacket. It was 6 degrees at the start with plenty of wind, and I knew we'd be climbing to over 1,600 metres, so I wanted to be prepared. In the end, I didn't need all of it — but better safe than sorry. I wore gloves and a Buff, which stayed on the whole race. Shoes were Asics, obviously a very different choice from Antarctica. My pack was an Ultimate Direction Ultra Vest.
Inside the vest: six gels, two Clif Bars, and two litres of fluid: one litre of water with electrolytes and one litre of plain water. I stopped at every aid station to dump rubbish and pick up fresh gels. My nutrition strategy was straightforward: 30 grams of carbs every 30 minutes, and stay on top of fluids throughout.
The Race
Starting in the dark helped. Emily's Spur is a beast of a climb right out of the gate, but when you can't see the top, you just keep moving. I settled into a steady pace and felt strong on the uphills. The people around me (FYI, I was somewhere around 270th of the roughly 500 starters) were breathing heavily. I had nothing. That was a good sign. On the downhills, I ran hard. Especially at the beginning of the race.
My strategy was simple: don't waste time at aid stations, keep a steady pace on every climb, and try to run the downhills. That last part stopped working after about marathon distance. My downhill legs went, and I lost a lot of time there. But I made it up by staying relentless on the uphills and spending almost no time standing still at checkpoints. Funny enough, after the legs went for the downhill, my confidence in making it went up massively. I noticed that there were plenty of ups and downs (things I have seen in the past), but that the ups (funny enough, going up) were really up, while the downs (going down) were not really slowing me down much.
That said, slowly, I moved up through the field, eventually finishing just outside the top 200. The nice thing about staying in roughly the same position for hours is that you get to know the people around you. I met some great runners along the way — Grace and Owen in particular. That's the nice thing about trail running and ultras in particular. The atomosphere is so much more relaxed relative to a road race (in particular a marathon), where time is of the essence.
My goal going in was just to finish. And if I could do it in under 20 hours, that would be amazing. I did both. I was very happy. I was also very, very tired.
What's Next
I want to qualify for UTMB, ideally in 2027, but more realistically in 2028. The plan is to run three qualifying races to collect the running stones I need, and then hope for the best.