Tokyo Grand Trail - 160k race
2025
by James Mallion
Through the Thunder and Mud: My Tokyo Grand Trail 2025 Story
The Guts of it
What: 2025 Tokyo Grand Trail (3nd edition)
When: May 30th - June 1st, 2025
Where: Okutama, Tokyo
Who: approx.450 runners total (200km course: 25 participants (44% completion rate) 100 mile course: 183 participants (44.8% completion rate), 110km course: 91 participants (49.4% completion rate) 60km course (changed to around 11km due to weather): 179 participants (97.7% completion rate))
Last Edition: May 24th - May 26th, 2024
Race Photos
Through the Thunder and Mud: My Tokyo Grand Trail 2025 Story
Before diving into my personal experience in the 100-mile division at the 2025 (third edition) Tokyo Grand Trail, I want to provide some background for those not familiar.
The Vision Behind the Tokyo Grand Trail
Here’s how the organizers themselves have framed the motivation for creating this race just three years ago:
Most 100-mile races in Japan are far from Tokyo, requiring extra time and money to access. The cutoff times are tight, making it difficult for anyone but elite runners to finish. And even then, races often prohibit poles and aren't held on the trails runners usually train on in the Tokyo suburbs. So we thought — why not hold a real 100-mile race, right here where people live and train?
That’s the spirit behind the Tokyo Grand Trail:
-
A full 100-mile mountain race held in Tokyo, Japan’s capital.
-
Over 10,000 meters of cumulative elevation gain.
-
A generous time limit of 48 hours, allowing a broader range of runners to take part.
-
A Friday 4:00 PM start, making it possible for local runners to leave home at noon, register in the afternoon, and toe the line by evening. Even runners from as far as Hokkaido or Kyushu can arrive the same day.
The concept is all about accessibility—lowering the barrier to entry while keeping the challenge epic. It’s a grassroots effort, created and run by trail lovers, not by a large corporation. It feels personal and handmade—in both good and sometimes demanding ways
Race Evolution: From 100 Miles to a Multi-Distance Event
The inaugural Tokyo Grand Trail launched in 2023 with only the 100-mile category. In 2024, organizers added a 60km race, which I personally participated in and wrote about here. For 2025, they introduced even more: a 110km division (which 100 mile entrants could drop down to midway) and an invitation-only 200km division—planned to potentially open to the general public in 2026.
Despite being held in Tokyo—which isn’t known for towering alpine peaks—the elevation gain/loss is no joke. Here it is listed across the four distances:
-
200km: +13,110m / -12,949m
-
160km (100-mile): +10,400m/ -10,400m
-
110km: +7,789m / -7789m
-
60km: +3,760m / - 3760m
Cutoff times exist as follows:
-
55 hours for 200km
-
48 hours for 160km
-
36 hours for 110km
-
20 hours for 60km
On paper, those cutoff numbers might seem generous. But having now experienced the signature 100 mile division, I can tell you they aren’t as forgiving as they look—especially when combined with two TGT features:
-
Self-Navigation: The course is essentially unmarked. You must navigate using your GPS watch, phone, or knowledge of the course. This adds a mental load and potential for delay that you must plan into your race.
2. Front-Loaded Cutoffs: The early aid station cutoffs are tighter, forcing you to push harder when you're freshest—even if weather or trail conditions are rough early on, which they were this year.
A Tough Race by Design — and Reputation
Within Japan’s trail running community, the Tokyo Grand Trail—regardless of division—is often described as one of the toughest races in the country. After running both the 60km last year and the 100-mile course this year, I can confidently say: I get it.
One of the core factors behind this reputation is that the course is completely unmarked. That means you either need to have trained extensively on the course and know each segment intimately—or you’ll be constantly glued to your GPS device, double-checking that you haven’t gone off-route. But even then, staying perfectly on course is nearly impossible. Whether you’re a pro or an amateur, you’re likely to stray occasionally, which means adding extra kilometers and elevation to an already massive day (or three).
Another deceptively tough element? The 4:00 PM start time, which applies to all divisions except the 200km (which starts at 9:00 AM). While the idea is to make it easier for people to arrive on race day and get started without an overnight stay, it comes at a cost. Unless you live close to the starting venue at Tokehara General Athletic Park in Okutama, or have the luxury of booking a nearby room and sleeping during the day, you’re starting this enormous challenge with some level of fatigue already baked in.
Take my case: I was up around 6:00 AM the Friday of the race with my 2 young kids. I had originally planned to attend their school’s undōkai (school sports day) that morning—until it was postponed due to rain. (Rain will be a recurring character in this story.) So even though I rested a bit on my 3 hour train ride mid-day, I definitely wasn’t starting fresh.
Another challenge of the course is the aid station spacing. On the 160km course, there are only seven aid stations total, with some serious gaps between them—especially in the early sections. The first aid station doesn’t come until 27km in (along with over 2000m of elevation gain/loss), and then it’s a long, grueling stretch to aid station 2 at 70km (roughly another 2000m of climbing/descending in this section), which is also the first drop bag location. It should be noted that while there are only 2 official aid stations in the first 70km of the course, there are vending machines and convenience stores along the way, which often become essential stops.
When you combine all of this—unmarked trails, late start, limited aid, early cutoffs, and serious elevation—you get a race that’s not only long, but relentlessly demanding from start to finish.
With that context laid out, let’s dive into this year’s event and how my personal experience unfolded.
For regular readers of my race reports (Hi Mom and Dad!), you’ll know that TGT 2025 marked my first attempt at a 100-mile race. I started running during the COVID-19 pandemic and have since completed around a dozen races, ranging from about 10km to just over 100km.
Because of my family and work commitments, I don’t have a lot of time to get out to the trails or mountains to train. Still, that’s where my passion and heart truly lie. While it would make more sense to stick with road races or terrain I can actually train on regularly, I continue to be drawn to the adventure, grit, and raw beauty of ultra trail racing. So that’s what I keep seeking out.
With that in mind, my last time in the mountains before TGT 2025 was six months ago, when I ran the 50km division of the 2024 FTR Chichibu & Oku-Musashi trail race in November. Before that, it was the 60km edition of TGT in 2024.
I know this kind of sporadic mountain training isn’t ideal for a first 100-mile race with over 10,000m of elevation gain and loss, but it was the best I could manage. I felt fit and mostly injury-free coming in, so I figured I’d give it my best shot.
Part of the appeal, intrigue, and passion I feel for entering races is the feeling of stepping into the unknown — not knowing how things will turn out, or whether I’ll even finish. While I could have entered the 60km or 110km divisions of the 2025 Tokyo Grand, they just didn’t excite or scare me the way the 100-mile division did.
The words of one of my ultra-running heroes, Courtney Dauwalter, echoed in my head during the months and weeks leading up to the race:
“Any time we're given the opportunity to try something difficult or crazy, we should absolutely take it.”
Of course, she was talking about racing to win three of ultra trail running’s most prestigious events — Western States, Hardrock, and UTMB — in the span of about two months. But to me, the TGT 100-miler seemed equally hard and crazy, and that was reason enough. So on I went.
Planning for Crazy
As with most ultra races I’ve done, instead of thinking of the course as a whole — which can be intimidating, especially when facing a new distance — I broke it down into 12 segments. These were defined by points where I could stop and reset: aid stations, convenience stores, or course checkpoints.
I estimated that if I could finish, it would take me well over 40 hours — probably around 43 or 44 hours, maybe more.
Having never raced for that long before (my previous longest race took just under 26 hours), the idea of a race that would last more than 40 hours and stretch over two full nights was something I had to mentally come to grips with. It seemed crazy — but I knew it had been done before, and not just by elite athletes.
I concluded that I’d need to try to sleep at least a little. In my planning, I factored in 30–40 minute naps at a couple of key points and built that time into my overall race estimate. I also planned strategic caffeine consumption to help push through the sleep-deprived stretches — mostly reserved for after naps or during tough segments on the second day and night. My goal was to avoid caffeine on the first day and night and take my first dose after a nap at aid station 2 on Saturday morning, where I’d also access my drop bag.
While I didn’t have an abundance of experience on the course, I had run the 60km division of the race in 2024 so I was familiar with two of the harder sections of the 160km race: the opening 7km with 900m of climbing and the final 25km stretch with 1,500m of vertical. I’d also done other local Tokyo trail races in the past like the Ome Takamizu Trail race, the Mitake Trail race, and the Nariki Forest Trail Race, which gave me flashes of familiarity with parts of the Tokyo Grand Trail course. It wasn’t the same as doing dedicated training on the actual route, but it was something.
My main weapon for staying on course was my new smartwatch, equipped with advanced GPS and mapping features. Between that, my mental segmentation, and a lot of willpower, I hoped it would be enough.
Coming from northern Chiba Prefecture, the trip to the race venue — just a short walk from Okutama Station on the Ome Line — took just under three hours by train. I rode the Musashino Line to western Tokyo and then transferred to the Chuo and Ome Lines. For folks living closer to central Tokyo, the travel would likely be under two hours.
I arrived a little after 2 p.m. and joined the other 100-mile and 110km runners (the 60km race would start the next day). Race check-in was smooth and easy. I packed my bags, then tried to eat and relax.
The drop bag — accessible at Aid Stations 2 and 6 — turned out to be smaller than I’d imagined. (We’d been emailed the dimensions ahead of time, so that’s on me.) I scrapped the idea of packing extra shoes and instead focused on cramming in as many snacks, drinks, layers, and other essentials as I could. It wasn’t ideal, but it would have to do.
With my bags checked, I strapped on my running pack and glanced at my watch: 3:30 p.m. I was in the first of two wave starts, set to begin at 3:50. And just like that, it was time.
I felt grateful — grateful to be standing at the start line, and grateful to finally begin.
Before I knew it, some 300 of us were moving through the familiar roads — the same start I’d run last year in the 60km division, only now it was happening a day earlier, and for a much bigger journey. Running on pavement helped calm my nerves as everyone settled into their pace.
The journey had begun.
Water, Water Everywhere
As I alluded to earlier, weather was a major issue at this year’s event. During my entire time on the course, the conditions were relentlessly wet, cool, foggy, muddy, and slippery. Severe thunderstorms rolled in, bringing torrential rain — and by Saturday afternoon, even thunder and lightning. While rain had been forecasted, I think the amount and consistency of it took everyone by surprise.
In response, the race organizers had to make some tough decisions for participant safety. Just a couple of hours before its scheduled start, the 60km race was drastically shortened to about 11km. There were also rumors circulating that the longer divisions might be shortened or even canceled altogether if the lightning didn’t let up. It eventually did — but not before several runners, myself included, were held at aid stations for significant stretches until the danger passed.
I can’t imagine many runners prefer racing in heavy rain and waterlogged trails. Personally, I had been preparing — and hoping — for sun and heat, conditions I generally prefer even if they’re challenging. But as the forecasts became more certain in the days leading up to the event, it became clear that much of the race would be wet and unseasonably cool.
The forecast for race day, Friday, called for temperatures between 12°C and 18°C, with steady rain. Definitely not what I had trained for — but I wasn’t about to let it stop me. Getting out onto trails is a rare and cherished opportunity for me, and despite the conditions, I still felt lucky.
Every time I get the chance to be out in vast, wild nature, I feel a deep sense of connection — to the environment, to the present moment, and to myself. Trail ultras take you on an emotional rollercoaster, and this one was no exception. Despite the mud, the storms, and the setbacks, I felt grateful to be there — to be moving, to be tested, and to be alive in it all.
Running in the rain
There was light rain at the start, but nothing I couldn’t handle. I knew the first segment was short — roughly 7km to the first checkpoint — but packed with over 900 meters of climbing. Adrenaline was running high and spirits were up. After a few kilometers of mostly road and light trail, the hiking poles came out for most runners, and the real trails began.
The mountains were steep, slick, and already starting to get muddy, but it wasn’t too bad yet. I was moving a bit slower than I had on this same segment last year, but I wasn’t concerned. I knew the following segment would be my first real test — not only was it tougher, but it would also be completely new to me.
The stretch from 7km to the first aid station at 27km was one I had marked as one of the hardest of the race. The climbs were tough, but it was the descents that really became a problem. With around 1,700 meters of descending in that stretch, every step downhill had to be taken carefully due to the increasingly slick conditions.
It was still early in the race, but I could already feel my quads starting to take a hit on the descents — not the best sign. I dialed things back, relied on my poles to stay upright, and focused on moving as efficiently as I could. I was already falling behind my projected pace, but my sights were set on the first major aid station near Mitake Station.
What kept me going was the promise of food — specifically, the now-legendary curry and rice served at aid station 1, made by Hiroshima-based Inner Fact, one of the race sponsors. It had built a bit of a cult following over the past few years, and I was eager to try it for myself. The thought of something hot gave me just enough pull to keep pushing forward.
A Late Dinner But Worth the Wait
I finally arrived just before 11 pm, almost seven hours into the race. I wasn’t moving like I had hoped, but I was moving, and that counted for something.
The Inner Fact curry more than lived up to its reputation. It was Japanese-style curry and rice with beans and a mix of spices that gave it just the right amount of kick — flavorful, warming, and easy on the stomach. It had a spiciness that didn’t overwhelm, and in that moment, it was exactly what I needed.
Despite knowing I had to keep moving, refill my bottles, and try to charge my phone, I let myself savor the moment. The light rain kept falling, but for a few minutes, I was warm and grounded. It had taken me longer to get there than planned, but I was still about two hours ahead of the cutoff, which gave me some breathing room.
I thought about going back for a second helping but I knew there were still plenty of runners behind me who would be needing that same boost. I resisted the urge and pushed on.
By now, it was nearing midnight, and fatigue was setting in. I had stuck to my plan of avoiding caffeine up to this point, and I didn’t want to break that just yet. Still, I knew I was moving slower than expected, and the next real aid station wasn’t until Juriki at kilometer 70 — more than 40km away and across multiple mountain ranges.
Our only real lifelines between aid station 1 (27km) and aid station 2 (70km) were two convenience stores: one around 45km, and another near 58km. I locked my sights on the first one, made it my next mission, and slogged on into the night.
When Night Turns to Day (and my Trek from Family Mart to Seven Eleven)
It was during this next section that things really started to get harder. I had hoped to hike the uphills and run the downhills and flats, but by now, it was clear I’d be hiking and walking nearly every part of the course. I was still moving, and the climbs weren’t terrible, but everything felt labored and slow. Trail conditions remained rough, and I had to stay alert — especially when I found myself alone — to make sure I didn’t stray off course.
I finally reached the first convenience store stop around kilometer 45, just before dawn. I was struggling to stay awake but still stubbornly committed to holding off on caffeine. I was warm from power hiking and, against my better judgment, chose a popsicle and some bottles of water instead of the cup noodle I had originally planned on. Within minutes of sitting down in front of the conbini, I realized I had made the wrong decision. As soon as I stopped moving, the cold and wet began to take hold. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I tossed the half-eaten popsicle in the trash, refilled my bottles, and got back on the move.
At this point, I had been awake for nearly 24 hours, still without caffeine. I was losing time — and losing faith in myself.
I told myself I’d do better at the next stop: the 7-Eleven at kilometer 58. I had botched my Family Mart stop, but I could make it up at 7-Eleven.The next leg would mean traversing yet another mountain range in the Ōme area — about 13km and 600 meters of climbing to reach the Hinode 7-Eleven.
By the time I arrived, night was quickly giving way to day. It was still overcast and rainy, but no longer pitch black. I finally gave in and broke my caffeine fast. At the pace I was moving, I realized I wouldn’t have enough time for a nap at aid station 2, so I needed something else to carry me through. A can of my favorite Tully’s Black coffee and an egg sandwich was exactly what I needed. I still had run snacks in my pack, but they couldn’t compete with some 7-Eleven breakfast staples.
I sat outside the store in the rain with some of my fellow Tokyo Grand warriors. We were muddy and beaten down, but far from defeated. With a proper meal in my stomach and caffeine flowing through my system, I felt a small but important spark. A new day had begun, the sun wasn’t out, and wouldn’t be, but I knew it was still up there behind the clouds.
I was now about 12km away — and one more small mountain range — from the next real aid station and my drop bag.
Wet Tech or Dead Tech
I was now on Section 5 of the 12 I had mapped out, labeled “7-Eleven Hinode to A2 Juriki.” Things weren’t getting any easier, but I still had hopes of doing a soft reset once I reached the next real aid station and my drop bag. My initial plan of taking a nap had gone out the window, but I thought I could at least change out of some wet clothes, charge my devices, get a hot meal, and carry on. I knew I couldn’t go without sleep completely, but I shifted my thinking: if I could just make it to aid station 3 at kilometer 87, the time cutoffs in the second half of the race would be more forgiving, and I could finally take a much-needed nap.
That’s when a minor disaster struck.
My relatively new GPS watch, which had been working great for navigation up to this point, flashed a low battery warning — and then died shortly after. The manufacturer claimed it would last over 40 hours in GPS mode, yet here it was shutting down after only 15 or so. I assume it was due to my heavy use of the map screen and constant checking for navigation. I had always assumed I’d make it to A2 before needing to charge, so I hadn’t packed the charging cable in my running kit.
I still had my smartphone with the course map loaded, but with the heavy rain that hit Saturday morning, this quickly became a bigger issue than expected. I found myself needing to shelter under trees to pull out my phone and check the route. It worked — sometimes — but during the worst of the rain, my touchscreen became nearly unusable. My progress slowed, and my emotional state started to crack. I knew I couldn’t keep going like this for long.
Luckily, I was able to team up with a couple of other runners and stuck with them for the rest of the segment. My legs were still in rough shape, but I ran when I could and made sure not to fall too far behind the two runners ahead of me who seemed confident in both their pace and navigation.
Of course, as I’d learned the hard way last year, relying on others for navigation is risky — one wrong turn and you’re all off course. These last 7 kilometers or so to A2 were a tricky balancing act: staying within sight of the runners ahead while still pulling out my phone from time to time to double-check our location. I ran when I could, and eventually, we made it off the trails and back to the roads near the Aki River.
I felt a moment of relief upon reaching aid station 2 — but it was quickly tempered. The rain was now pouring harder than ever, dark clouds loomed above, and I could hear thunder in the immediate area. I entered the Juriki Aid Station cold, wet, and tired — knowing that the race wasn’t even halfway over.
I only hoped this aid station wouldn’t be my last.
Rough Weather and Tough Decisions
Upon sitting down at the aid station, I finally got access to my drop bag and began to assess the situation. I grabbed a bowl of the minestrone soup being served and changed out of a few of the soaked clothes I was wearing. I didn’t bother with my socks — they’d be drenched again the moment I stepped outside the tent.
Outside, it was now raining buckets. The volunteers were struggling to keep water from pooling inside the aid station. I managed to charge my GPS watch a little, but then one of two major issues popped up. Because my watch had powered down completely, my current activity had been lost — I could no longer resume tracking from my current position. I was able to reload the course map, but the navigation was off. My watch thought I was at A6, not A2 — understandable, as both aid stations are at the same physical location.
The problem was the watch was now trying to guide me to the finish line — skipping over the next segments entirely. If I followed it blindly, I’d miss the entire route to aid station 3 in Uenohara, toward the Kanagawa–Yamanashi border.
I was stuck. Using my phone in the heavy rain wasn’t viable. But quitting wasn’t an option either. In a last-ditch effort, I tried loading the 110km division course file on my watch — and it worked. It placed me at the correct position on the route, and the map looked right. I took in more soup and bread as I weighed my options.
Time was slipping. If I was going to reach A3 before the cutoff, I had to move — and fast. It was roughly 18km away, with over 1,200 meters of climbing and descending.
Then came the second major issue: the storm.
Due to lightning storms in nearby areas, race organizers had been ordered to hold runners at the aid stations for safety. No one was being allowed to leave. I started hearing rumors of course changes — even talk of cancellation. I peered outside the tent and had to admit: if this weren’t a race, I’d have zero interest in stepping into conditions like that.
But this was a race — one I had committed to finishing, rain or shine. And I wasn’t ready to stop.
I stood up, looked down at my watch, and informed the staff that I would continue, switching to the 110km course. This cut about 45km and 2,400 meters of climbing from the original 100-mile route. It wasn’t the challenge I’d set out to complete — and I felt a sting of disappointment — but it felt like the only realistic option if I wanted to keep going.
With my navigation now working again, I was wet, worn out, and tired, but I had restocked my supplies and was eager to get moving. The only problem?
The storm wasn’t done with us yet and the staff still hadn’t received clearance to let anyone leave the aid station.
Looping Back to A2 — or the Beginning of the End
When we were finally cleared to leave the aid station, the conditions had improved outside — but just barely. I set off on a roughly 20km loop with about 1,000 meters of climbing and descent. For those of us now on the 110km course, this loop would bring us back to A2 one final time before heading out on the last segment to the finish.
As afternoon crept in, any lingering thoughts I had about getting to nap disappeared. I took another dose of caffeine and hit the pavement, making my way back into the mountains. Returning to the trail actually felt good but I knew I still had a long way to go.
The first climb was a grind — around 700 meters of vertical gain over 7 kilometers. It was steep, but surprisingly, my legs still felt okay on the ups. By this point, I was nearly 24 hours into the race and had been awake for close to 33. I wasn’t running anymore, but I was hiking steadily, or so I thought.
That “steady” pace, however, ended up being my undoing.
I had spent so much time preparing for the 100-mile course — memorizing segment profiles, cutoff times, and elevation — that I assumed switching to the 110km route would give me a bit of breathing room. I didn’t realize until much later just how close I was to the cutoff the entire time.
After the punishing climb came the inevitable descents, this time more spread out. We passed through Iriyama Pass and by Imakuma Shrine. I started thinking I recognized some of the trails. Maybe I had run on them before in other races — or maybe, after nearly a full day on foot, everything was beginning to blur together.
And then came a first: hallucinations.
Not full-blown visions, but just enough to confuse me. As late afternoon slid into early evening of day 2, I began to misinterpret things — trees, bushes, trail signs — mistaking them for people or strange characters in the woods. It was surreal. Every time I got closer, I’d realize it was just my mind playing tricks on me.
It wasn’t scary at first — just strange — until I heard what I could’ve sworn was a growl or snarl from the bushes beside the trail. That one shook me. I was alone at the time, and with my nerves already frayed, I picked up the pace as best I could and managed to link back up with a group of four other runners I’d seen earlier. They were all 100-mile racers too — ones who had now missed the cutoff and unofficially dropped down to the 110km route.
I knew I couldn’t afford to be alone anymore. At least for the rest of this segment, it was safer — mentally and physically — to stick with others.
My watch was still working for navigation, but this group seemed to know the trails well, and frankly, I didn’t fully trust my own judgment. I chatted with my new trail companions and followed along. We were all headed in the same direction — back to the Juriki aid station, and from there, hopefully, toward the final stretch to the finish.
And the End
I wasn’t entirely clear on the cutoffs for the 110km division — but my new running companions were. We had to make it back to the aid station by 8:00 p.m. In total, we had a little over 7 hours to cover the 20km loop with about 1,000m of elevation gain and loss.
Normally, I’d think that was plenty of time. But “normal” had long since left the equation.
With the relentless rain, deep mud, tricky self-navigation, the state of my quads, and the fact I was now seeing comic-book-like characters in the trees, let’s just say that cutoff was suddenly looking tight.
We were nearing the end of the trail segment as full darkness set in. Headlamps came on. It was after 7:00 p.m. The final stretch of trail was fairly straightforward, so our group started to spread out. I was focused — not panicked, but definitely feeling the pressure. I knew I wasn’t in shape to hammer the slippery downhills, especially with how unpredictable the footing had become. One bad fall could take me out of this race — and maybe keep me out of training for much longer. Still, I wanted to finish. I wanted to make it count.
By the time I reached the outskirts of Akiruno and the trail gave way to pavement, the adrenaline kicked in. My legs remembered what it felt like to run on roads. This was familiar terrain. I started to move faster.
I passed some of the runners I’d shared the last segment with. They were shuffling along, seemingly at peace with missing the cutoff. We exchanged quick words, and I kept going.
I checked my watch, it looked like it was going to be close. I pushed as hard as I could through the streets, only to be funneled back into another short section of light trail. About a kilometer, maybe. But after that, it would be two more kilometers of road to the aid station.
As soon as I hit the mud and sludge again, I knew: this was it. My pace dropped. My momentum vanished. No matter how hard I tried to will myself forward, I couldn’t outrun the clock anymore.
Still, I didn’t stop.
I pressed on.
Where Do We Go From Here?
I finally made it back to the aid station shortly after 8:30 p.m. The organizers checked my bib and informed me that my race was officially over.
I felt… relieved, in a way. But also hollow. I had never DNF’d a race before. It was a strange feeling — not devastating, just unfamiliar. I still had nearly eight hours before the final race cutoff. Part of me wondered if I could’ve made it had I been faster through that loop. But I let that thought drift away. There wasn’t any point in dwelling on it now.
Within the next 15 minutes, the group I had shared the trails with over the past few hours trickled into the aid station too — tired, muddy, but still moving forward in their own way. It was still cool and drizzling outside, so I went for another couple of bowls of minestrone soup and some ochazuke. Defeat never tasted better.
My bags were still back at the race venue, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to get home to Northern Chiba that night. The best I could hope for was to get back to the start, collect my gear, and wait there until I could catch the first train home Sunday morning.
Luckily, about ten other runners at the aid station had the same idea. The volunteers and staff let us know there was one last local bus for the night, leaving soon from a nearby stop. It would take us to Musashi-Itsukaichi Station, where we could catch one of the final trains of the night toward Okutama. From there, it’d be a short walk back to the race venue.
That sealed it. Spending the night in a plastic chair in a soggy tent didn’t sound nearly as appealing as a two-hour transit journey followed by an actual place to lie down.
I finally arrived back at the race venue just before midnight on Saturday. It was quiet, but not empty. A small, dedicated crew of organizers and volunteers were still there, watching over the race and cheering on the occasional finisher rolling in from the 110km or even the full 100-miler.
I picked up my bags and was pleasantly surprised to find a heated tent set up with mats and blankets. I changed out of my wet, grimy clothes, curled up under one of the blankets, and — for the first time since my race had started at 3:50 p.m. the day before — I finally got my nap.
The Morning After
My phone alarm began to vibrate early Sunday morning, just as the sky was starting to lighten around 4:30 a.m. The tent was now filled with over a dozen other runners sprawled out on mats beside me. Outside, race organizers were stirring, quietly chatting as they began another long day.
I slowly stood up. My body ached, but I felt refreshed after finally getting about four hours of real sleep. I packed up my gear, offered thanks and goodbyes and began the slow walk back to Okutama Station and back to reality.
The Tokyo Grand Trail however, was far from over. The full cutoff wasn’t until 4pm Sunday, and even as I left the venue, runners from the 200km division — who had started all the way back at 9am on Friday were still making their way toward the goal.
The first three runners in the 200km race crossed the finish line together in 45 hours and 24 minutes. Out of 25 starters in that division, 11 finished — with the final two beating the brutal 55-hour cutoff by less than an hour, finishing in 54 hours and 12 minutes. If I thought my 28 hours on the course was a journey, I can only imagine what nearly two and a half days out there must have been like.
While I’m not certain whether the organizers plan to make the 200km course a permanent feature next year, I wouldn’t be surprised if they did. It’s hard to imagine a tougher race course in Japan. If anyone reading this is brave (or crazy) enough to try it next year, good luck — you’ll need it.
As for the signature 100-mile distance, it wasn’t surprising to see that both the finish rate and overall times were down compared to last year, the conditions made sure of that. The winner, seasoned trail runner Koki Seita, still managed an incredible 30 hours and 48 minutes. The top female, Junko Tokumoto, a sponsored runner, wasn’t far behind — finishing fifth overall in 33 hours and 22 minutes. Seriously impressive performances.
The newly introduced 110km division — the one I switched to — was won by pro trail runner Yuichi Miura in 19 hours and 36 minutes. The top female finisher was experienced ultra runner Hiroko Suzuki, who had dropped down from the 100-mile division and still finished sixth overall in 27 hours and 52 minutes.
As for the 60km race — as I mentioned earlier — it was shortened to about 11km for safety reasons, much of it still included a lot of climbing from what I heard. The overall winner was sponsored athlete Terunobu Kurokawa, who blasted through the course in 1 hour and 17 minutes. Top female was Edamoto Kanako, also a sponsored runner, finishing 11th overall with a time of 1 hour and 29 minutes.
Final Thoughts
Thanks for sticking with me if you’ve made it this far. I wanted to close this ultra (long) race report with some personal takeaways—both reflections for myself and thoughts for anyone considering the Tokyo Grand Trail in the future.
Originally, I thought about calling this section The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly, but upon reflection, none of it really felt bad or ugly. Like most things in life, it’s all about perspective. Yes, the weather was rough, the race was hard, and I ended up with my first DNF. But even so, I learned a lot, had some firsts, and experienced moments of deep peace while immersed in vast nature.
When I’m low in a race, I try to remind myself: I chose this. This is voluntary suffering. It’s not like the real pain life can throw at you—losing someone, living through trauma, or watching someone you love suffer. Trail races, even at their hardest, are still privileges. They’re celebrations of health, training, adventure, and community.
So, would I recommend the Tokyo Grand Trail? Absolutely—but with a few caveats. The 100-mile (and now 200km) distances are extreme. Most people won’t finish, even on a good year. But it’s also an amazing experience. I mean that not just in the sense of it being “good,” but in that I was often in awe—of the people, the terrain, and the challenge.
What stood out:
-
The People and the Aid – The volunteers, staff, and fellow runners were incredible. This grassroots race doesn’t exist without them. The aid stations were a treat (the two I visited at least) and the Inner Fact curry was worth every step just to get to.
-
The Trails – Rugged, relentless, but beautiful. To be just a few hours from Tokyo and surrounded by such vast nature felt like a gift.
-
My Stomach – Surprisingly, I had minimal gut issues. Maybe it was the slower pace or the ginger pills I took, but it was one of the smoothest races digestion-wise.
-
My Feet – Despite nonstop rain and mud, I avoided blisters thanks to race sponsor Gurney Goo. I’ll be using it at every race moving forward. Search it out if you’ve never tried it.
-
My Mind – I never gave up mentally. Even knowing I was undertrained, I never chose to stop. Had they let me keep going, I would have.
Lessons learned:
-
Training Specificity – The muscle damage from mountain running can’t be replicated with stairs or roads. If I want to finish this race in the future, I’ll need more mountain-specific volume and, ideally, training races.
-
Flexible Pacing & Caffeine Strategy – I need to get better at adjusting goals mid-race. If I'm behind schedule early on, I may need to take caffeine earlier to fight cutoff pressure, then nap later when there's more room.
-
Navigation & Battery Management – I made the mistake of assuming my devices would last. They didn’t. For a self-navigated race like this, your tech is your lifeline. Always over-prepare.
-
Gaiters – I routinely had to stop and clear my shoes of debris. In these conditions, gaiters could have saved me time and energy.
-
Chafing – This was the worst I’ve ever had—no details needed, but it was bad. The combination of constant wet clothes and the wrong gear meant I was in agony for hours on end. Needless to say, I’ll be revisiting all my garment choices before my next big race.
-
Shoe Selection – I chose a pair of well-worn but grippy shoes over newer, more cushioned ones with less traction. The tradeoff worked in terms of stability — I didn’t have any major slips on the trails — but I think my legs paid the price. I can’t say for sure that the shoes caused my quads to blow up early, but they definitely didn’t help.
So, Would I Do It Again?
Yes, but I’ll be better prepared if I choose to take on this race again. This isn’t a beginner-friendly race. I wouldn’t recommend it as a first ultra or even first mountain race. It demands strong navigation skills, gear familiarity, and mountain experience. But for seasoned runners looking to push themselves and maybe get humbled in the process, it’s hard to think of a better test.
There’s a unique honesty to this course. The race strips away comfort and forces you to confront your weaknesses, physically and mentally. Whether you’re racing for a podium or just trying to make the cutoffs, the Tokyo Grand will teach you something. It’s a race that seldom gives you what you want but often gives you what you need.
Even now, after all the struggle, I find myself wanting to go back. That’s the mark of a good race—not just one you enjoy, but one that stays with you. One that challenges you to come back stronger, smarter, and more resilient.