It wasn’t about how far you can go. It was about how.
I had a dream: to complete the Ultrabalaton as an individual runner. Then, over time, another goal formed alongside it — to do it without any external carbohydrate intake.
When I crossed the finish line, both dreams had come true.
Behind this result are many long months of work, countless training sessions, and no small amount of sacrifice. But now I can say with certainty: it was worth it. I didn’t just prove to myself that I’m capable of covering this distance — I also wanted to show that a well-built, fat-based system can work under real-world conditions. Not in a lab, not in theory, but under more than two hundred kilometers of load.
For me, this project was never about finding the fastest method or achieving maximum race pace. As an amateur athlete, that’s not what truly drives me. What interested me far more was whether it’s possible to build a system that works predictably, doesn’t fluctuate, doesn’t collapse every few hours, and doesn’t depend on constant external energy intake — but is instead able to reliably supply itself even under extreme stress.
The end of preparation – no tweaking, no loading
The night before the race there was no classic carb loading. No pasta, no rice, no sugary “carb loading.” I ate 350 grams of Tatar beefsteak with two egg yolks. Then, at dawn on race day, I had my usual breakfast that I’d been eating for months: a five-egg omelette cooked in ghee and a ghee coffee.
No changes. No experimentation. Just what I had been doing all along.
My fasting ketone level was 0.3 mmol/L, which might seem low at first glance, but in a sports-keto-adapted state, this is completely normal. The goal is not high ketone levels, but for the body to use energy efficiently — not just to produce ketones. A well-adapted system often shows lower blood ketone levels precisely because the body is continuously using them.
Headwind, climbs, and the first problems
Throughout the week before the race, I kept checking the weather, and it became clear that we would have sunny but very windy conditions, with a headwind for most of the first 60–65 km. I was worried about this, because headwind is insidious. It doesn’t hit you all at once — it slowly drains your strength. Combined with the climbs on the northern shore, it can be fatal if you start too fast.
My strategy remained simple the whole time: run by heart rate, maximum 125 bpm, but ideally around 120.
It worked.
However, the first 100 km were far from uneventful. Around the 20 km mark, my ankle started hurting — exactly at the same spot and with the same feeling as during the 100 km race at Lake Omsk, where this same issue eventually forced me to quit.
Mentally, this was a much heavier burden than the pain itself. I immediately started thinking ahead: if it stays like this or gets worse, how am I going to do the remaining nearly 200 km?
I tried to subtly change my stride, foot strike, and movement pattern. I massaged it while running, looking for a way to relieve the stress. Around 60 km the ankle pain actually disappeared, but it was almost immediately replaced by Achilles pain in the same leg — so intense that my foot went numb.
I stopped, stretched, tried to restart my running, and at that point quitting became a genuinely realistic option in my mind.
Then, somewhere around 100 km, just before Fonyód, the pain suddenly vanished. As if the body had simply accepted that the signals were pointless.
The lows always pass
Almost immediately after the pain disappeared, the first real low point arrived. It was no longer dominated by a specific problem, but by general fatigue slowly grinding me down.
Attila, who was cycling alongside me, an experienced ultra runner, simply said: “This is completely normal around 100 km. Just keep going, it will pass.”
This became the motto of the entire day. And he was right. It passed.
One of the most important lessons of ultrarunning is exactly this: almost nothing is permanent. Not the pain, not the low, not the euphoria. If you don’t panic in the moment, the system is often able to restabilize itself.
Refueling: water, salt, and minimal fat
My refueling strategy remained deliberately simple throughout. Only water and salt.
I mixed 5 grams of Parajdi salt into 1.5 liters of water and drank about 1.5–2 deciliters every twenty minutes or so — continuously, in small amounts, replacing fluids and electrolytes.
There were no gels. No isotonic drinks. No sugar. Every 3–4 hours I had a little ghee, and after 140 km a bit of cheese — but this was more for mental and sensory variety than actual energy necessity.
I had zero stomach issues. No bloating, no cramps, no fighting with digestion. The system did its job.
The 130 km mark
At 130 km came my first longer stop — a significant psychological barrier for me, because that had previously been the longest distance I had ever run. Everything beyond that was completely unknown territory.
I sat down, rolled out my muscles, and surprisingly, nothing hurt. I had thought by then my legs would be untouchable, but that wasn’t the case.
It felt good to stop. In the end, it was about thirty minutes. Although afterward I was a bit annoyed with myself because I didn’t actually need such a long break, it was still an important feedback: previously I had run the first 130 km of the UTT in over 15:30, now I was inside 15 hours. This clearly showed that the system not only works but is also more efficient.
The night – when only the next checkpoint exists
The second half of the race was a completely different quality. When night fell, the daytime heat suddenly turned cold. I put on everything I had: gloves, hat, long pants, thick top, wind jacket. I overdressed, but it was the right decision.
From this point on, the run was no longer about pace. It was about endurance.
When the distance doesn’t shrink, it just crawls. When time loses its meaning and only the next checkpoint exists. During the night, I only thought as far as the next point. Always just that far.
By the end, both Attila and I had gone quiet. He handed me the bottle, I ran. There was no need to talk.
Angela was my car support — we’ve been friends since childhood. We even joked that if someone had told us thirty-five years ago that we’d be doing this, we would have laughed. And yet there we were, circling Lake Balaton.
Their support was immense. All I really had to do was run.
The last 60 km
Reaching Siófok was a major mental milestone. I felt that if I got there, I would finish the loop.
What I hadn’t counted on was the accumulated fatigue by then and the rolling, constantly undulating terrain, which — coming from the flat Alföld — was perhaps the hardest section for me.
Every meter of the last 60 km had to be fought for.
Meanwhile the sun came up again, the heat returned, our already sunburned skin got another dose, and nothing remained but forward movement.
Then came Csopak. The last checkpoint. From there, only one goal existed: to finish.
In Balatonfüred, familiar faces were waiting, hugs, a few words, then I ran on. On the Tagore promenade, one more companion joined for a few meters, and finally the finish line, where my family and support crew were waiting.
1.7 mmol/L at the finish
About ten minutes after finishing, I measured my ketone level. 1.7 mmol/L.
This number by itself would just be a figure, but in this context it meant something entirely different.
After more than 200 km of effort with no external carbohydrate intake, a higher ketone reading does not indicate energy deficiency — quite the opposite. It shows that the body had not “run out,” but had been able to provide stable energy the whole time while also producing ketones.
This was not survival. This was proper functioning.
And perhaps this was the whole point of the project.
Not how far you can go. But how.
What does Functional Carnivore mean to me?
For me, the word “functional” is not a fancy label, but a very consciously chosen approach.
It’s not about whether something sounds good in theory or fits into a particular dietary camp. It’s about whether it actually works in practice, under real load, when there’s no longer any room for correction or explanation.
The mindset of most endurance athletes eventually shifts in one direction: getting lighter, moving more economically, carrying as little “unnecessary” mass as possible. This makes complete sense up to a point.
However, there is a limit where this advantage gradually turns into a disadvantage. Because eventually it’s no longer about how light you are, but how resilient you are — how well your body can handle continuous stress, and how stably you can function when fatigue is no longer just physical but also neurological.
Because it’s not enough to have fuel. You also need an engine that can use it. And a structure that can hold everything together for a very long time.
For me, Functional Carnivore means exactly this: I don’t separate endurance and strength, but treat them as one system, where one does not develop at the expense of the other — they strengthen each other.
This is why kettlebell training was added alongside running. Not as a “supplement,” not as obligatory strength work, but as an organic part of the system.
Because in a 200+ km effort, what ultimately matters is not how thin you are, but how stable you are. How well your joints hold up. How strong your core remains. And how capable your muscles are of reproducing the same movement over and over again without breaking down.
In this system, fat-based metabolism does not stand alone. It provides the fuel, while strength training ensures that you can actually use that fuel over a long period of time.
This is why this approach became “functional” for me.
Because it is not a diet. It is not a training method. It is a working system.