Back to the Mountains:
Dadoon Skyrace 12K
( Nov.17.2024 )
It’s been about two months since my very first, and most recent, trail running race, the Chuncheon Skyrace. Goodrunner Company hosts a series of four annual trail races known as the “Skyrace” series. Chuncheon was their autumn edition, and now we’ve arrived at what feels like the edge of winter.
Around this time of year, I’m usually packing thick layers and getting excited for snowboard season, counting down the days until ski resorts open. But this time, instead of heading up snowy mountains by gondolas and chairlifts, I was hiking up snowless trails with my own two feet. And instead of riding down the slopes on a snowboard, I’d be running along the trails. Packing lightweight running gear instead, preparing not for a ride through fresh powder but for a run through bare mountains, felt fresh and almost amusing. It was a new kind of anticipation.
What made this race extra special was that it turned into a little family outing. My cousin’s sister (who is like a big sister to me), her husband, and their child came along, not only to cheer us on but also to enjoy a day in the mountains. Most exciting of all, my nephew was joining the Kids Race the day before the main event. It was his very first running race, and that made everything feel even more precious.
The Dadoon Skyrace took place at Oak Valley Resort in Wonju. Just like last time, I met up with my cousins and their family at the bus terminal the day before the race, and we headed to the resort together.
A Tiny Runner’s Big Moment
After arriving at the resort and settling into our room, we packed the required gear—technical top and bottom layers, trail running shoes, water flasks, and a personal reusable cup—and headed to the race venue for check-in and events.
The highlight of the day was the Kids Race, divided into two groups: elementary school kids and younger children.
The younger group raced first, and while we waited, my nephew, who was in the elementary group, learned how to give high-fives. He held his hand out proudly, hoping someone would respond to his tiny cheer, carefully shaping his little fingers and stretching his arm as far as he could. It was the sweetest thing.
Then, it was finally his turn to run his very first race. He had never competed before, never stood in front of such a crowd, so as the moment approached, his nervousness started to show. Normally a chatterbox, he went completely quiet, lips pressed together, his eyes darting around in silence. But even with the tension on his face, he didn’t cry or throw a fit—he stood his ground, brave and steady.
My cousins and I cheered from the sidelines while his dad waited with him at the starting line. When the race began, he took off with a burst of energy. As if he had never been nervous, he dashed ahead in his bright yellow pants, beaming from ear to ear. Just seeing him run with such joy made us cheer and laugh out loud.
The elementary kids had to run a full kilometer—not on flat ground, but on a mountain trail. After watching him take off, we waited for a while until the lead group of children came into view, heading back from the turnaround point toward the finish line. Soon after, my nephew came running in, smiling wide, with his dad right behind him.
Then came the moment to put his freshly learned high-five skills to good use. He ran down the finishing chute, making sure to slap every outstretched hand—mine, my cousins’, and anyone else nearby—one by one with full effort and joy.
Just like that, my nephew kicked off his very first race with a proper trail run and proudly earned his very first medal. My cousin had given him medals from past races before, but this time it was different. This one was his. You could tell he was bursting with pride. Even as he sat on the grass, munching on snacks he received as a prize, he kept one hand tightly holding his medal. It was as if he wanted every aunt and uncle who walked by to notice it, to see what he had accomplished.
Despite the nerves and tension he felt, he faced his very first challenge with courage and crossed the finish line to earn his first medal. I cheered him on with all my heart, hoping that this moment becomes a meaningful source of strength and confidence for him as he grows.
The Start Line is Never Just a Line
In my past races—Chuncheon Skyrace, Spartan Race, and Kookmin 10K road race—I had always run with a friend. But this time, for the first time, I was running completely on my own, from start to finish.
The Dadoon Skyrace 12K course had a total cumulative elevation gain of 650 meters. It started from the base of Oak Valley Resort, weaving up and around a section of the mountain before returning back down to the starting area. Compared to the Chuncheon Skyrace, which had the same distance but a much steeper elevation gain of 1,000 meters, this course felt slightly more approachable. I’d also been training consistently over the two months since Chuncheon, so I felt a bit more prepared.
The race course map, showing altitudes, distances, and checkpoints.
The 12K race featured a cumulative elevation gain of 650m, with two checkpoints at the 3.4km and 8.4km mark, while the 23K race had a total gain of 1,225m, with three water-points and four checkpoints along the route.
The night before the race, my cousins and I stayed up chatting and catching up over a light beer, before heading to bed around midnight.
That evening, many runners, including myself, were still debating whether to wear short or long sleeves on race day. Even though it was already mid-November, the air felt closer to fall than winter. The long summer had stretched the seasons, and the cold hadn’t fully settled in yet. I ended up choosing a short-sleeved top with arm sleeves, so I could take them off if I got too warm, and layered an ultra-light windbreaker over it to stay comfortable before my body warmed up. It felt like just the right balance.
The next morning, I stuck to my usual routine for breakfast: an apple, banana, yogurt, and a boiled egg. I also took Amino Vital, which contains BCAAs to help with faster muscle recovery. After filling my flask with water, I headed to the race venue.
Pre-Race Must: The Ready Shot !
It’s a quiet ritual: laying things out in order from head to toe, visualizing the run before it begins. Somehow, seeing everything assembled like this not only calms the nerves but also helps me make sure all the mandatory gear is in place.
Simple fuel, familiar comfort.
This isn’t just my pre-race breakfast—it’s my everyday breakfast: apple, banana, yogurt, and a boiled egg. Nothing fancy, but it works. Light, easy, predictable. Sticking to my usual routine, with just a bit more carbs, helps me feel grounded before the race.
After taking a group photo with the other 12K runners, I stood at the starting line, waiting for the race to begin. Being surrounded by a crowd at the start line was already nerve-wracking—but knowing that I’d soon be running into the mountains alone, with no one beside me, made me feel even more anxious. The weight of that solitude started to press down, and I could feel the early signs of panic rising.
For those ten minutes leading up to the countdown, my mind was spinning. Should I take the emergency medication I brought just in case? Should I even run at all? I had the same internal debate on repeat, unsure what to do.
Then I remembered that the first checkpoint wasn’t too far, just under halfway through the course. Let’s just get to CP1, I told myself. If it really doesn’t feel right, I can stop there and head back down. It was a small compromise with myself. I glanced at the runner standing next to me—someone I didn’t know—and told myself, This person is my friend. I repeated it like a mantra, trying to make the fear feel smaller. Somehow, it worked.
And with that, I took a deep breath. The countdown began, and I started to run.
From Fear to Forward, with a Heart Full of Love
To avoid bottlenecks on the narrow trails, the course took us on a loop around the resort base before leading into the mountain paths. I was still tense, running quietly among the crowd, when I suddenly heard a loud voice cutting through the noise.
“Auntie Yunnie! Auntie Yunnie!”
I looked up and saw my nephew, reaching his tiny hand through the fence, proudly using the high-five skill he had learned the day before. I rushed over and gave him a high-five filled with all my heart. That small moment, so full of love, eased the tension I had been holding.
The flat path quickly turned into an incline, and just like that, the fear faded. Surrounded by rustling leaves and warm autumn colors, I began to focus on my own rhythm and my own race.
Maybe because Chuncheon Skyrace had been filled with endless steep climbs, the uphill sections of this race felt more manageable. On the gentler slopes, I jogged with small, steady steps. When the trail grew steeper, I leaned forward and placed my hands on my thighs, using my own legs as support to conserve energy—a new technique I had learned recently, known as the “natural stick.”
Reaching my initial small goal, the checkpoint at the 3K mark, felt like such a relief. Back at the starting line, when panic had begun to creep in, this was the first goal I had set for myself. Just make it to the first checkpoint. And when I arrived, something had shifted. The fear I had carried earlier was gone. All that remained was a quiet desire to keep going. It felt like the real beginning, and for the first time, I thought—maybe I can do this.
I had joked before that trail races are basically banana buffets, and that I was really just going for the bananas. At the checkpoint, I smiled as I ate two slices of banana and two slices of orange. I took a moment to breathe, to refocus, then set off again with new energy.
As If I Had Never Been Afraid
After the first checkpoint, the course ahead was a 5K loop on the mountain trail before bringing us back to the checkpoint spot. From there, the final stretch was a descent along the same path I had climbed to this point, then down to the finish line.
I’ve made it this far already, I told myself.
Encouraged by that thought, I checked the GPX route on my watch, taking note of the climbs and descents ahead. I paced myself carefully. Sometimes I pushed hard. Other times, I slowed down to steady my breath and my heart rate. I moved forward, one stretch at a time.
As I climbed further into the mountain, it felt like I had stepped into a deeper part of autumn. The leaves had turned richer in color, preparing to return to the earth, and the tall silver grass swayed gently in the wind.
The mountain grew quieter, and as the wind touched the sweat on my skin, I began to feel a chill. I paused on the right side of a slightly wider part of the trail and quickly pulled out the windbreaker I had tucked into my vest. I slipped it on and continued up the path.
After the climb, the trail opened into a long downhill stretch. I ran with ease, catching glimpses of the forest as I passed through, my heart full and happy.
As if I had never been afraid, I completed the mountain loop with a light heart and re-entered the checkpoint area. For us 12K runners, it was around the 8.5-kilometer mark, but the 23K runners had already covered close to 19 kilometers by then.
Along the trail, I saw a runner pulled off to the side, crouched down with a painful expression, massaging their leg. It looked like he had a cramp, and I imagined how frustrating and overwhelming that moment must have felt. I couldn’t help but relate, because I saw myself in that moment.
I never know when panic might hit during a race, when I might find myself pulled off to the side, quietly wrestling with fear that no one else can see. I might need to ask someone for help too.
Everyone was deep in their own race, focused on their steps, and too caught up to stop and help.
I slowed down and asked if he was okay. Thankfully, I had packed a cramp-relief gel in my vest. I handed it to him with a short, sincere message—I hope you finish strong—and then continued on.
The final stretch of just a little over 3 kilometers was a relatively flat mountain trail. It was a section I had already passed earlier in the race, which made it feel familiar. I told myself this was the last push and picked up my pace. I couldn’t tell whether the runners ahead of me were doing the 12K or 23K, but each time I passed someone, I felt a small spark of joy.
Soon, I heard the announcer’s voice echoing from the race venue. The finish line came into view, and from that moment on, I used whatever energy I had left to sprint across the final flat stretch.
I crossed the finish line.
I completed the race I was once afraid to even begin, the one where even stepping over the start line felt like the hardest part.
The post-race snack for finishers this time were warm fishcake skewers in hot broth. After crossing the finish line and starting to feel a chill again, that steaming cup of broth felt like heaven.
And of course, I shared it with the little one who had also completed his very first race.
My nephew, who gave me the biggest high-fives and held my hand like I was the coolest aunt in the world. At the start line with my cousin and this little one—three runners, each on our own adventure.
Finished in 2:11:21, placing 244th out of 400 overall, and 82nd among female runners.
Compared to previous Chuncheon Skyrace (2:51:18 / overall 267th / female 94th), I moved up 23 spots overall and 12 spots in gender ranking.
Bit by bit, the effort is showing. Small progress, big meaning!
What It Means to Begin
Living with panic disorder means constantly navigating a fear of fear itself. It’s not always about something specific, but about the worry that fear might appear—unexpected, undefined, and overwhelming. When a panic attack hits, you’re often left in a difficult position: either you ask someone for help, or you try to endure it alone.
Running through the mountains, with no clear way out, always brings some level of fear. When panic comes, it can feel impossible to think of anything other than wanting to escape the situation. The mountains, for me, are a place of peace and renewal. But at times, they can also feel like a maze, or a massive, sealed space. And when panic arrives there, it feels like there’s no way out.
But if I let that fear stop me from even starting, then it becomes a trauma. It stays with me. And the next time I’m in a similar situation, those old memories rise up and tell me to give up again. Because giving up is the easiest way to avoid fear.
Sometimes, the most valuable part isn’t the finish line, but the moment you dare to take that first step.
Beginning, despite the fear. Trying, despite the doubt. That courage alone is its own kind of victory. Finishing the race matters, of course. But what makes me truly proud this time is not the medal or the distance. It’s that I showed up. That I dared to try. I stood face to face with fear—and I chose to begin.
Because sometimes, the most powerful thing we can do is simply begin.