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RONDA is a place of dramatic landscapes, Moorish heritage, and whitewashed appeal. Each spring, it becomes the unlikely setting for one of Europe’s most demanding and unique endurance events: the 101 Kilómetros de Ronda.
Far more than just a race, this ultramarathon – organised with military precision by the Spanish Legion – draws thousands of participants from across the globe.
Mountain bikers and runners descend upon the town to test their limits on 101 km of steep trails and sun-baked hillsides. They will also pass through centuries-old villages and olive groves.
Endurance racing has exploded in popularity worldwide, and the Ronda 101 has become a bucket-list challenge for many adventure seekers – not only for its sheer difficulty, but for the way it immerses participants in the rugged beauty and vibrant spirit of Andalucía.
Cristina Hodgson found it a new kind of experience. Swapping sightseeing for sweat, and tapas for energy gels, she chose to mark her birthday with an unforgettable journey – one that pushed her body to the brink, connected her with strangers, and revealed the untamed heart of the Spanish countryside, one punishing kilometre at a time.
101 Kilometres Later…
The day before the race, I celebrated my birthday. The majority of people celebrate their birthdays with friends, cake and maybe a glass or two of wine. For some reason – probably madness – I decided to ‘treat myself’ to a 101km ultramarathon through the Andalucian hills.
It was a sort of birthday gift to prove to myself that, while I might be entering a new decade of life, I could still do something my younger self never dared to – or perhaps was just wise enough to avoid. One year older but not necessarily wiser.
Training? Minimal. Life had other ideas – work, children, general chaos. Psychologists claim that anyone who signs up for half-marathons after the age of 35 is most likely experiencing a midlife crisis. What can we say about someone who registers for two and half marathons all at once? This is like buying a Ferrari. Honestly, the Ferrari would’ve been more comfortable – and made more sense.
The night before the race I slept with around 500 other hopefuls in a sports hall. The concrete floor and chorus of snores made sleep difficult. The bugle call of the Spanish Legion shook me awake at 6:45am. Subtle it wasn’t.
As I was still groggy and slightly traumatized by the brass instruments that had been played before dawn, I got into my kit and followed the other zombies on their way to the football field. Suddenly thousands of runners appeared. The Legion’s drummers were pounding away – not so much to stir motivation, but more like a final warning we all chose to ignore. The drumbeat thudded in our unhinged spirits, a mix of fear and excitement.
The starting gun was fired. The crowd roared. And we were off… at what can best be described as a dignified shuffle. We snaked through the streets of Ronda, past Spain’s oldest bullring, and into the wild beauty of the Serranía. We had 100 km of breathtaking scenery, painful climbs and increasingly questionable choices ahead of us.
The route was undeniably beautiful – rolling hills, olive groves, sweeping views—and somewhere along the way, strangers became companions. The stories were told, and Coca-Cola and Aquarius were consumed in greater quantities than I would like to admit. Setenil de las Bodegas had a frantic energy: cheers, high-fives, and some faces that questioned our sanity. (Frankly at that point I would have traded my energy drink for a beer.
In 10 hours I reached 70 km. My body gently suggested, ‘maybe stop now’.
My brain, always the overachiever that it is, told me to keep going. They’d saved the hardest for last – brutal climbs, cruel descents, and a bitterly cold stretch near the ermita. I stopped and put on every layer that I had. Turning around, I saw a winding trail of headlamps in the mountains behind me – a surreal ribbon of light twisting through the darkness. Beautiful in a masochistic sort of way.
Seven hours after I started, I finally crossed the finish line. I was awarded a medal. My legs declared strike action. My face was 20 years older this morning than it had been the previous day. Around me, other finishers were laughing or crying, sometimes both. Everyone had run their own story – some to test limits, others to think, to escape, or simply because they could.
Thank you to all of the Legion members and volunteers. The support was unmatched, and the organisation flawless. The people were amazing. Incredible.
Would I do this again?
Once I feel my toes, ask me.
