EMOTIONAL.
If I had to sum up Rockman Swimrun 2025 in one word, that would be it. Emotional.
So emotional, in fact, that I’ve quite literally dreamed about it every single night since race day. I wake up disoriented, thinking I’m still in the fjord, still prepping gear, still ticking items off our ever-growing checklist. And then it hits me—it’s over. It already happened. But my brain and my heart clearly haven’t let go yet.
For those new to my story: Rockman was my first-ever swimrun back in 2015. My buddy Dan roped me into it, and like a true friend, failed to mention just how brutal it would be. I fell in love anyway. That fjord, that course, that pain—it all hooked me. Emotionally.
Since then, I’ve raced it (4 times), cheered it on from afar, and for the last few years, helped direct it. In 2022, Thor—the owner and head race director—roped me in (see the pattern?) to help mark the course. The past four years, my role has grown steadily. This year, like in 2023, I was all-in behind the scenes.
The Course is My Canvas
Marking the course is my jam. Even when I race Rockman, I still help mark it—because it’s the best way to soak in this stunning, savage terrain at a slightly more leisurely pace (if you consider bushwhacking with a pack “leisurely”). I mark it with the mindset of a racer—because I am one. I know how gutting it is to go off course. I’ve been there. That’s why I over-mark. I take pride in it.
Yes, I catch flak from Thor for over-marking. I also catch flak from the racers for under-marking. It’s hard to find the balance that works for both.
Rockman is unique in that we follow permanent red T’s of the national trekking association for most of the trail. Tape and flags only come into play at tricky spots—intersections, off-trail sections, or swim ins/outs. This minimalist approach lets the natural beauty of the landscape shine without overwhelming it with signs.
But it also means this course isn’t handed to you neatly like your local 10K road race. Racers have to earn their finish, staying sharp and self-reliant, following the trail and navigating those markers that are there for a reason. Every temporary marker counts, and your ability to stay on course is as much a part of the challenge as the race itself.
The Calm Before the Fjord
Race week always starts deceptively chill—spreadsheets, logistics, a million “what if” scenarios. Trista (spreadsheet queen), Thor, and I coordinated the last-minute dance of operations, volunteers, gear drops, and weather plans.
By Tuesday, we were boots-on-ground in Flørli, marking our way toward Basecamp. The plan was to have all three courses marked by Thursday. Starting so early gives us the ability to get everything marked and even measure water temps so the racers can make plans for what gear to use.
Enter: the weather.
Rockman is known for being hard. Gloriously, unapologetically hard. It’s not just the elevation gain—though there’s plenty of that. It’s not just the swims through cold, dark fjord waters—though those will humble you. It’s the combination of everything: relentless climbs, brutal descents, technical terrain that demands focus with every step, and weather that changes without warning. It’s the kind of course where finishing is a victory and finishing fast is a small miracle. The locals call it “the impossible race,” and we wear that like a badge of honor. This isn’t a race that ever gets easier—it just reveals what you’re made of.
It’s known for being hard, but we also value safe. And when Thursday brought news of heavy, heavy rainfall, we realized that parts of the shorter course and trail run had become more than hard—they were dangerous.
So at midnight, after a full day of marking, we changed the route. And then unmarked what we had just marked. It was 3 a.m. when we returned to Basecamp with a new plan and soggy socks.
Race Day: Here Comes the Storm
The rain came early—soft at first, then steady. The fog rolled in later, thickening by the minute. The ferry crew was running behind. Racers stood in the drizzle, wetsuits half-zipped, shuffling between nervous energy and mild annoyance as we waited to board. I could feel the mood: quiet anticipation mixed with that uniquely swimrun blend of “What are we doing?” and “Let’s do this.”
I remember thinking, as I looked out over the gray, mist-covered bay: If this is the worst hiccup of the day, we’re golden.
I was wrong.
On race morning, we divided and conquered. Thor was stationed in Flørli, managing all fjord operations. Trista took command at Basecamp, launching both the trail run and the shorter course also serving as the finish line for all 3 races. I boarded the ferry with the long course racers, sharing some last-minute encouragement, a few jokes to cut the nerves, and eventually the countdown. Once we reached the start, I kicked them off the boat (lovingly) and sent them plunging into the fjord to begin their journey.
With the race underway, the ferry turned back toward Stavanger, making a quick stop at Revsa Kai to drop me and Kim Moss off. From there, we had a scenic-but-steep 2.5-mile hike with about 1,200 feet of climbing to reach Basecamp to continue my race director duties. The rain was already steady, and the trails were beginning to turn slick and saturated. It was a quiet, focused hike—backpacks on, heads down, already knowing this was going to be one of those days where everything would test us.
Waterfalls & Warnings
As I made my way up to Basecamp, the trail had transformed into a stream, with runoff rushing down every slope. Waterfalls that are usually scenic highlights were now roaring, swollen with rain and force. One in particular stood out and I knew immediately that my plans had to change. Instead of heading to the intersection I was originally assigned to, I decided I’d return here after the race start to post up at the waterfall. My job would be to guide racers through the safest line, shout encouragement over the deafening rush, and be there in case something went wrong.
I stayed mobile for the rest of the race, bouncing between locations checking things, responding to calls, reinforced signage where fog had made markings harder to spot, and even added a few extra flags on the fly. I offered hugs at the finish line for the brief moments I was there, high-fives where I could, and quiet reassurances to athletes pushing through dark places. I tried to stay in constant contact with Thor and Trista, while also keeping an eye on the volunteer communications. If something popped up, I was there to respond. It wasn’t glamorous—but it was exactly where I wanted to be.
And then it happened.
Heartbreak on the Trail
Late in the race, we got a report of a struggling athlete—likely due to cold. We dispatched Norsk Folkehjelp medics and I slung on my pack and ran up the tourist trail to intercept and support. As I climbed, I encountered racers… descending the wrong way. Off course.
Already emotional from the medical call, this hit me hard. I mark this course. I obsess over it. I ran this exact intersection yesterday with Ievgen. We spent 20–30 minutes adjusting it. We tested it. It was solid. And now—gone.
Every. Single. Marker. Removed.
I was furious. Devastated. Confused. Who would do this?
No time to dwell. I rallied the off-course racers and led them back uphill to the junction—yes, uphill, which on tired legs might as well be Everest. They were understandably upset.
I gave directions and dashed on. Thankfully, I soon met the struggling athlete being safely escorted by our photographer, Geraint. Thanks to assistance from fellow racers, volunteers and Geraint, she was walking, stable, and smiling despite the chill. So I continued ensuring the course was clear of athletes. I met up with Ievgen and the Norsk Folkehjelp medics, and gave the “all clear.” Everyone was accounted for and safe.
We ran, at what I would consider race pace, all with backpacks and in heavy rain. It was a positive highlight of my day trying to keep up with these FAST running medics.
Everything, All At Once
This race broke me open this year.
Joy. Stress. Pride. Fear. Frustration. Rage. Gratitude.
I was thrilled to be back in Norway. I was worried about the racers. I wanted perfection for them. I was heartbroken when it wasn’t perfect. I was angry when someone destroyed our hard work. I was scared for racers who needed help. I was so proud of those who crossed the finish line—especially the ones who hugged us with tears in their eyes.
And this was just my perspective.
Thor and Trista each had their own challenges they faced. Their days were every bit as hard, filled with the same emotional highs and lows, the same deep care for the athletes, and the same exhaustion by the end of it all. We each carried different pieces of the race on our shoulders.
Rockman isn’t just a race. It’s a force. It’s a family.
Thor, Trista, the race staff, our incredible volunteers, Norsk Folkehjelp, and every single racer—we all poured our hearts into this event. And we hope, more than anything, that you felt that love out there.
Emotional? That doesn’t even begin to cover it.
Speedy Lizard 