Above the little huddle of climbers at the start hangs a cloud of alcohol fumes from last night's party. Anyone who didn't let rip at the gig on the playing field last night is simply not properly prepared. I know full well my throat will be bone dry by the Polar Bear rock, but that's still a long way off.
Six, five, four. A bunch of anarchists – climbers who came to the famous Mountain Film Festival in Teplice nad Metují – are collectively searching their consciences and solemnly swearing never to drink again. A morning hangover is suspiciously similar to altitude sickness. But now you have to pull yourself together and run, no excuses – that might come in handy in the mountains one day.
Three, two, one, go! The pack starts moving, spills out of the park, picks up speed and tears frantically across the Teplice town square. Whatever you do, don't go off too fast. It's eleven kilometres to the finish. That's not all that much, but you don't want to be throwing up at the entrance to the rocks like last time. Easy does it, girl, it's going to be uphill.
The very first climb sorts you out. We run past the Hermitage of St Ivan. Should I just go and hide in there? Racing is a serious business: don't be a wimp, speed up! Holy Mary, Our Lady of Help, help me make it to the finish. It's the last Sunday in August, a chance to take the run a little meditatively. I find my rhythm and jog towards the rock town.
"Come on, Mandulka, faster!" cheers a course marshal, the sister of Míra Šmíd, who once dreamt up the mountain film festival. I'm starting to realise this race is a prestigious affair. Just be glad your legs are working. I pass the turn-off to the Wolf Gorge and the climb begins. Slowly I'm sobering up.
Through the Rock Gate comes the first runner heading the other way. Somebody here is racing for real: "Go on, champ!" The guy flies back to the finish like an arrow, while I still have the whole loop of the rock town ahead of me. Shouldn't I sit down on Krakonoš's Seat or just go blueberry picking? Even the Tortoise rock is faster than me.
I slip into a dark rocky gorge where the sun never shines and count the steps. I take them two at a time. No overtaking, the passage is narrow. You're not slowing down, are you! You'd hold everyone up. The queue of runners snakes between the rocks. Below the Cathedral Walls it brightens a little and a breeze picks up. We're not at the end yet, I'm wilting and below the Herring rock I run out of breath.
But at the Boar it all turns round: I sprout wings again and hurtle downhill over the steps. My knees take the shock. Just don't break your neck. We're spurred on by Crack of the whip (Crack of the Whip) *. First long bounds along a sandy path, then I shorten my stride and grab the railing. One step after another. In the narrow Siberian Gorge the stream squelches and the wooden boardwalk is slippery: careful you don't slip! The walls are covered in slimy moss: better not touch them – weave and run!
I've threaded my way through the maze. The rocks have let me out of their clutches. I burst out of the forest and run on easy ground along the track back to town. Some kids by a log cottage offer me water: "Thanks, thanks!" They hold out their hands to the runners for a high five. That won't slow me down. I run for dear life. Just don't let me be last! Before the finish, sandstone climbing legend Petr Prachtel is waiting and cheering me on. And at last a roaring wall of spectators in the home straight – and the finish!
Surprisingly, I held on to third place on the podium in the slightly favoured Women Climbers category. The race also got a new course record, held by Dominik Sádlo with a time of 35 minutes. And the women's category was once again won by the unbeatable Táňa Metelková. Some of life's certainties never change. Same time next year?
