Age 23.

I was a competitive swimmer until I was 14, and my whole childhood revolved around training, competitions and training camps. By the age of 10 I was training nine times a week: swimming before school and straight back to the pool after it. That taught me the power of persistence and discipline from a young age, and it has stayed with me ever since.

I was a competitive swimmer until I was 14, and my whole childhood revolved around training, competitions and training camps. By the age of 10 I was training nine times a week: swimming before school and straight back to the pool after it. That taught me the power of persistence and discipline from a young age, and it has stayed with me ever since.

After I stopped competing in swimming, because I understood it wasn't what I wanted to do with my life, I had a few months with suddenly a lot of free time and was looking for something to fill it. That's how I found CrossFit, and I competed in it from 15 to 18. I trained six to nine times a week, reached third place in Israel a few times, and in my last year I even tried to qualify for the world championship. I didn't make it: 80th in the world, when only the top 20 fly to the competition, out of thousands who try.

After I stopped competing in swimming, because I understood it wasn't what I wanted to do with my life, I had a few months with suddenly a lot of free time and was looking for something to fill it. That's how I found CrossFit, and I competed in it from 15 to 18. I trained six to nine times a week, reached third place in Israel a few times, and in my last year I even tried to qualify for the world championship. I didn't make it: 80th in the world, when only the top 20 fly to the competition, out of thousands who try.

At 18, COVID arrived. I was right before the army, about to fly to a few CrossFit competitions abroad, and they were cancelled. I asked myself what I could do with the time until I enlisted. Around then I was getting into endurance sport, and I said: I have half a year to train, let me try to do an Ironman. I really wanted to see how far I could go, and how I would handle the crises and the hard moments in a race that long, where so much of it is mental.

At 18, COVID arrived. I was right before the army, about to fly to a few CrossFit competitions abroad, and they were cancelled. I asked myself what I could do with the time until I enlisted. Around then I was getting into endurance sport, and I said: I have half a year to train, let me try to do an Ironman. I really wanted to see how far I could go, and how I would handle the crises and the hard moments in a race that long, where so much of it is mental.

After eight months of training alone, on a free plan from the internet, I stood at the finish line proud and happy with the road I had taken, and ready to enlist. It was my first Ironman, and it made me want to go deeper into this. Not in the army, but maybe after.

I found a trail race in Eilat, a more underground one, three or four weeks after the marathon. I signed up for the 72 kilometres, the long distance, to see how my body would cope. That's where I met Roman, who organised the race and later became my coach. I didn't respect that race at all. Up to kilometre 30 and a bit, in the middle of the night, the body felt fine. I stopped for the toilet, tried to get back to running, and the legs just wouldn't move. From there it turned into a fight for another 40 kilometres: walk, run, walk, run, just don't stop. It was the hardest mental battle I've had in a competition to this day, and exactly what I was looking for in this sport. I finished after about 12 hours, barely able to walk. We both knew, Roman and I, that it wasn't the last time.

At the end of March I enlisted in the Nahal reconnaissance unit.

Around the time we finished the training track I was running for fun, 5 to 10 kilometres, twice a week. Then my officer asked me: do you want to run a marathon? I had never run one on my own. Sounded interesting, why not. On the day of the Tel Aviv marathon I simply showed up in the morning, bought one of the leftover kits, and ran. Up to kilometre 30 I felt pretty good. Then the body started to hurt, the lack of training started to show, and I dragged myself to the end like that. I finished in a little under four hours, around 3:55. And it only made me want more: what else is possible?

I found a trail race in Eilat, a more underground one, three or four weeks after the marathon. I signed up for the 72 kilometres, the long distance, to see how my body would cope. That's where I met Roman, who organised the race and later became my coach. I didn't respect that race at all. Up to kilometre 30 and a bit, in the middle of the night, the body felt fine. I stopped for the toilet, tried to get back to running, and the legs just wouldn't move. From there it turned into a fight for another 40 kilometres: walk, run, walk, run, just don't stop. It was the hardest mental battle I've had in a competition to this day, and exactly what I was looking for in this sport. I finished after about 12 hours, barely able to walk. We both knew, Roman and I, that it wasn't the last time.

A few weeks later I called him from the army: I'm getting discharged in 8 to 10 months, I want a hundred-mile race on the date of my release. A hundred miles is 160 kilometres, the number every ultra runner is trying to reach. A gift to myself. We built a plan for a few months, fitted around my leave from the army. I'd come home after two weeks away and go running in the middle of the night, because the days were too hot. Pulling all-nighters for the training. A time I remember as hard and amazing at once: suddenly I saw how far you can push, and how a body I never thought would get used to running gets used to it.

We were in a long round of fighting with the team, and after that we stayed on for some more reserve duty. Then I was discharged, with an open question: what now. Instead of getting out, doing the psychometric exam and starting a degree, I wanted a moment to breathe and understand what I had been through.

Right on the final stretch before the big release race, October 7th came. Everything I had planned changed direction. I didn't run the hundred miles; it's still something I'll do later in life.

We were in a long round of fighting with the team, and after that we stayed on for some more reserve duty. Then I was discharged, with an open question: what now. Instead of getting out, doing the psychometric exam and starting a degree, I wanted a moment to breathe and understand what I had been through.

Between cohorts I did the Africa trip, tried to get back to running, and ran a few races of 50 to 70 kilometres, in Israel and abroad, plus a half Ironman with no preparation, or rather with preparation that wasn't preparation, squeezed between the instructing schedules. And in those two years I understood that I want to travel, and to try more kinds of sport and new things that I don't know when I'll have time to try again.

I never went to a mechina myself, and I had heard amazing things about them. I said: I don't know what it will be like, but I want to experience it, even as an instructor. For two years I instructed at a mechina for at-risk youth called Hizdamnut Leshanot, a chance to change.

Between cohorts I did the Africa trip, tried to get back to running, and ran a few races of 50 to 70 kilometres, in Israel and abroad, plus a half Ironman with no preparation, or rather with preparation that wasn't preparation, squeezed between the instructing schedules. And in those two years I understood that I want to travel, and to try more kinds of sport and new things that I don't know when I'll have time to try again.

Between cohorts at the mechina I went to Africa. Kilimanjaro, safari, and island time in Tanzania, Kenya, Zanzibar and Uganda.

Between cohorts at the mechina I went to Africa. Kilimanjaro, safari, and island time in Tanzania, Kenya, Zanzibar and Uganda.

A few months after I finished instructing, between reserve call-ups, with a lot of uncertainty about what was going to happen. I said: I've worked for a long stretch, I want to get out and breathe. Three friends, we started thinking about what we could do. Something to do with climbing, that wouldn't come out too expensive, because we were all on a tight budget. Europe looked like the best fit: no pampering, rent a car, sleep outdoors, go on treks.

A few months after I finished instructing, between reserve call-ups, with a lot of uncertainty about what was going to happen. I said: I've worked for a long stretch, I want to get out and breathe. Three friends, we started thinking about what we could do. Something to do with climbing, that wouldn't come out too expensive, because we were all on a tight budget. Europe looked like the best fit: no pampering, rent a car, sleep outdoors, go on treks.

Because I'm into trail running, I knew someone who had run the whole Via Alpina with a support crew. I said: sounds cool, I've always wanted to try something that long. So why not do it as a trek? All three of us lit up. Two weeks from the moment we started looking into it we had booked a ticket and left.

When we looked for information we found one American guy who had written about it. In Hebrew, nothing. No forum, nothing at all. So we said it would be cool to document it, for other people like us who want to challenge themselves and can't find information. That's where the idea of documenting what I do was born.

And during the trip, mostly after I parted from my friends and carried on alone, I discovered the quiet, the calm and the challenges these long treks bring with them. I fell in love with this world. And I understood that whatever happens, I'm going to keep doing this.