I suppose this is more of a breakdown of my thoughts on the race and a way of helping me remember some of the more eventful bits rather than a full race report. I hope you find it useful.
I try to run races that have some significance to me in terms of where I’ve lived, the beauty of the course or their uniqueness. The ST24 definitely fitted the last category.
Race ethos
The idea of the ST24, from what I understand, is that you physically deplete yourself so much you stop thinking about the everyday occurrences in your life and start to think about what really matters to you. The use of a running track is no accident. In meditation you’re taught to focus on signal objects such as a pin head or your own breath, this race used a 400 metre track.
I also like the fact that there is no plastic goodie bag of crap and advertising at the end.
Planning
Run 3 laps and walk 1. That way it would hopefully stop me from going off too fast but also having something to concentrate on to break up the monotony. Concentrating on the 3/1 tactic became my pin.
5 hours for the 1st 25 miles, 5 ½ hours for the 2nd, 6 hours for the 3rd and 7 ½ for last. 100 miles in 24 hours.
I’d attempted to run 100 miles once before at the White Rose Ultra but dropped out at 83 miles as it passed my house. Afterwards, I had a terrible feeling of failure and beat myself up for a bit about not being strong enough mentally to have finished. “It’s all learning though”, I told myself and “sometimes you need to fail to succeed”. I’ve learnt a massive amount about racing 100 miles from the WRU 100 and crewing for Nick Thompson on some of the Centurion races……grit in your shoe, you have ups & downs, food makes you tired and you come through it, sort hot spots straight away, eat and drink constantly, you feel better when the sun comes up, start slow and get slower…..
Crew
What crew? Lucky me and my friend James applied and were accepted together. Every other runner seemed to have a gazebo, tent, sleeping bag, table, flag of their country etc. We stuffed a carrier bag of food and clothes under the cover of an industrial grass roller to keep it from getting wet. We crewed for ourselves and later, thankfully James crewed for me. Russ Beasley was also a big help and a lady who gave me some sudacrem which almost certainly saved my race at that point.
The race
The ST24 ultra in some ways reminded me of going to an all-night dance club abroad. You randomly end up talking to someone from Belarus for hours, sweat so much that when you go to the toilet you slide off the seat, you drink your body weight in water and dance (run) all night. People finally spill out into the day light, a distant memory of the person that entered the club smelling great and with their best gear on. You go back to someone’s house party to carry on but by this time everyone is more tired and less coherent. Some people pop pills, some have cups of tea, others pass out in the corner, only to get a second wind later. For anyone who has run this race or something similar, you’ll know what I mean.
The plan
I made sure I ate and drank something every 4th lap. My friend Nick told me that ultra running is really just an eating and drinking competition and in some ways he’s right. At points in the race you know you really need to eat or you’ll start to go downhill and you’re body and mind will start to rebel.
I ate and drank whilst I was walking. I’d learnt that you can lose a lot of time at aid stations. Over the whole 24 hours I only sat down once to change my socks and twice to go to the toilet.
Now this seems crazy, but this is truthfully what I ate and drank. Every mile (4×400 meters =1600 metres/1 mile) I was very methodical and had a cup of either water, coconut water, coke, electrolytes, energy drink, ginger ale, tea and/or crisps, a banana, apple, pretzels, twiglets, peanuts, soup and baked beans. I’d say that’s easily 100+ portions of food and/or drink.
I didn’t eat the sandwiches. This was the races only fail. Who puts butter on a jam sandwich and even worse, who puts butter on a peanut butter sandwich! I think even Sri Chomney would have vetoed that.
The people
The lap counting system is kind of flawed but kind of brilliant. Instead of having a tag on your leg that records a lap every time you go past, they have a volunteer allocated to about 4 people who you shout to or they shout at you every time you pass the start/finish line. These volunteers are brilliant. Imagine trying to keep your concentration to count 4 different runners as they go past you every minute or so for hours on end.
I have to say the counters were one of my highlights. They were so positive all the way through. My third counter did a 7+ hours stint from about 9pm until way past 4am, giving big whoops and yells every time I passed. When she rotated, I nearly cried. I don’t know what it was like for them, but for me it felt like you shared a real concentrated experience. I’m so sorry I can’t remember everyone’s name but I’m almost certain I wouldn’t have got past 100 miles if it wasn’t for their joy and selfless encouragement.
That’s one of the great things about a track ultra, you share the whole experience with every runner and every crew member. On a regular ultra, if you’re like me, you might see the leaders at the start and picking up the trophy at the end. On a track ultra you see the whole race unfold in front of you, from the runners that go off way too fast and blow up, to the ones that take it steady and slowly move up through the field.
Transcendence?
I think every runner must have a different experience. My most depleted run was crewing on the Thames Path 100. My runner had pushed on and finished and I was left to stumble back as elderly ladies passed me with a walking stick. The last 3 miles took me 2 hours that day, but they were the 2 miles I remember the most fondly. That feeling of total exhaustion but total satisfaction, of a long time goal completed. Helping a friend finish a 100 miler.
This time it was different. This was more a sense of lessons learnt. At the WRU100 I gave up at 83 miles because I didn’t know any different. I was tired, very tired and I hadn’t yet felt the massive disappointment of not finishing a 100 mile race. I had that knowledge of disappointment pushing me on and also knowing that you need to break 24 hours in 1hr sections. Just treat it an hour at a time and forget the total time, otherwise the thought of it will eat you up and you’ll quit.
Hallucinating? Lots of people say they do on ultras. At times in the night I thought I saw my wife but quickly realised it was just a person with a similar shape and form. Was this hallucinating? I don’t know?
I do know for the last two hours I purposely didn’t listen to music, switched off strava and tried to just focus on my running. All I could think about was finishing over 100 miles, my wife, kids and how great everyone had been. Is this transcendence or is this still my selfishness?
I passed 100 miles with about ½ an hour to spare and spent the last ½ hour of the race watching everyone potter or even sprint round the track trying to reach their individual goals.
I did finish the race with real sense of calm and satisfaction. I’d banished the demons of not getting past 100 miles at the WRU before. I was absolutely knackered, I was so happy to have finished the bloody thing and I was chuffed to have shared and witnessed such an experience with so many committed and genuinely lovely people.
Thanks
A huge thank you goes to Shankara and all the volunteers, especially the 4 that counted me through, I’m so sorry I can’t remember your names but you were an absolute highlight. I’ve made a promise to myself that I’ll come back and volunteer myself.
James Young, Roz Glover, Artur Venis, Russ Beasley and all the other runners and crew for helping me through the run with your positive words and actions.
Nick Thompson and Andy Lang, you seduced me into ultra running and I owe you a lot.
Nige , Andy W, Jeff and the whole Meltham AC family….you rock.
Caz, George, William and family. I love you.
Kit
Shoes: I wore Nike Pegasus 28 trail which in hindsight were a little too hard for the track and my feet were quite swollen by the end of it. I should have worn my Hoka One One Clifton 2, but I was worried they would be too bouncy and coupled with a bouncy track, may end up blowing up my knees.
Socks: I wore Teko Super Cushion Marathon Socks which were great. I did get some blisters but I think that was down to swapping to an old pair of cushioned walking socks from Trespass after about 11 hours as I couldn’t find my 2nd pair of Teko’s.
Chaffing: I’d go Sudacrem over Vaseline every time and put plasters on your nipples, especially if it’s raining.
Clothes: Change into a warmer top before it gets dark and put on a warmer hat. I saw a lot of people go downhill over night. You need full waterproof jacket and trousers too. Plus a change of everying. Trust me, you can’t bring too many items of clothing.
Food: Keep eating and drinking constantly. Have a food plan and stick to it.
Music: Keeping the Rave Alive – DJ Kutski
Running: Have a broken down race plan, ideally broken into manageable segments but don’t make it too complicated and don’t stress if it goes off course. You have lots of time, especially at the end of the race. If it really comes to it and you’re really struggling, have a sleep for a couple of hours, set 2 alarms and ask someone to wake you up. Believe me, loads of people did it this year. Some finished top 5.
People: Try to talk to people. They will become your allies and potential race saviours. If not, you might be theirs.
You: Enjoy it and try to take it all in.
Track biodiversity
“Parakeets, they’ve got Parakeets! I’m glad I saw them now rather than the end when I thought I was hallucinating.”
The track is surrounded by trees and so blocks the wind. I spent most of the early laps identifying them. I can confirm there is a mix of oak, ash, sycamore, hawthorn, holly and other native broad-leaved species.
Over a 24 hour period, I also witnessed a group of mushrooms growing from basic mycelium to full fruiting bodies!
It’s been a while since we last caught up. Happily, this time, I’ve actually managed to finish a few races – unlike during my radio silence around this time last year. Unhappily, the reason for my radio silence this time is a little less trivial than a couple of DNFs.
Could I say that life “got in the way”? I mean, I could, but it would be a little disingenuous to life to suggest that my responsibilities are to running above all else; a little beyond my efforts to prioritise running over the everyday, at least. This time, Life earned itself a capital L: family pulled rank. So, apart from a feeble cursory mile a day to maintain my run streak (an exercise which has barely anything to do with actual running these days), my run diary has had very little to show for itself.
Meanwhile I’ve hit something of a plateau, both in running terms and in life terms. I don’t get excited about anything any more, I just feel a bit numb. Not anymore, at the moment; it can’t last, I have to remember that. So I plan things to look forward to – we’re getting married in 9 months for Christ’s sake – because I want to feel the thrill of anticipation again. Plans can be made, but I no longer believe that they will really come to pass; I convince myself something will pop up and take precedence. So I’m not afraid of anything, either. I’m not afraid of failing to meet expectations because I have none. I just don’t care about anything enough to worry about being disappointed.
If Life hadn’t pulled rank on my race calendar I would still have passed August without a race – it was a conscious decision to “rest” and also there just weren’t enough weekends, as there often aren’t. March through July saw two fifty milers, two 50ks, and a trail marathon in 30 degrees of heat. I dragged myself through those, barely, and decided that I wanted to finish the third of the Centurion fifties feeling like I actually had enough in the tank for the fourth and final race. See, now I look back on it I realise that’s an ambitious race calendar for someone who is actually fit, never mind for a training regime that consists of “I might as well be running to the tube since the buses are so unreliable”. That’s two solid junk miles right there. More than once, I’ve done it in Toms espadrilles and holding my Kanken bag over my back to stop it from bouncing. It is transport, not training.
Should I keep finding challenges in the hope of regaining that spark, flinging muck at the wall until it sticks? Or should I hold back, take aim? Deciding to run the Farnham Pilgrim Half Marathon on a day’s notice was to aim what spinning round to take a blind shot in action movies is; and weirdly, just like in action movies, it only bloody worked. Knowing I’d done no long runs, knowing I’d barely even managed to run off road a week before the Chiltern Wonderland 50, I decided I either needed to stop running altogether (i.e. break my run streak) and hope that rest would give my legs half a chance of lasting the distance, or I needed to fire things up a bit, go for broke. So I posted a message with the Chasers to find out if anyone was doing a social trail run on the North Downs, and the answer came back that yes, twelve of them were, and also picking up a medal for it. The idea of running the full marathon was just a little too far-fetched, even for an emotional nihilist, so I plumped for the half and got back to the pub in time for lunch. I ran with my club, as part of my club; I was the slowest, as usual; I danced around the course like a loon, and I had a fucking good time.
It’s a beautiful course, a circular route around the Farnham end of the NDW taking in bridlepaths and connecting trails, scooting around ponds and through golf courses (as one often does in Surrey), and generally pissballing about in the woods. And very runnable too – between the need to shake my legs out and the need to get back to the pub I pushed myself fairly hard, finishing in a not-unrespectable 2:08, and I can’t say I really busted a lung either. There’s definitely no speed in my legs, which I know because trying to get them to turn over was like flipping tyres, but my heartrate never felt too taxed. It was just enough to fire me up for the CW50 in six days’ time. Definitely the right call not to go for the full, although every time I saw a 100 Marathon Club shirt FOMO gripped me like a fever.
The following week I kept up my daily run streak with the minimum mile a day, as I had been pretty much doing for weeks. The difference, I noted, was that where that mile usually ran between 9:30 and 10 minutes, sluggish and rhythmless, the miles in the week after Farnham suddenly threw up a couple of 8:15s and felt more joyful, more like a workout than I had had for a while. It helped being back on office hours rather than event hours too, so those runs occasionally happened at lunchtime instead of at the end of a strenuous working day on legs worn to a stump. Had the gamble paid off?
Come race morning, although there was still a dull ache gnawing at my muscles, there was something even more dangerous – a flicker of anticipation. I was more nervous at the start of this race than I think I’ve been for any other race ever, for the most part because finishing it meant keeping my hopes for the grand slam alive and that comes above all else this year, but I think partly because – for the first time in a long while – I actually cared about the result. The thirteen hour final cutoff limit (proportionally split across the checkpoints) would be hovering over me all day, but I would be focusing instead on two other times: eleven and twelve hour timings which I had worked out and written on my checkpoint plan. One would be a measure that I’m doing well (and more importantly, perhaps too well) and the other would be the more realistic boundary. If I’m too far ahead of the first one I know I’m beasting myself; if I slip behind the second I’ll have no hope when my legs finally give in and I have to hike. Those numbers would guide me through the day like a virtual pacer.
I ended up on the same train as King of Centurion Ilsuk Han, who is usually either running or volunteering their races but rarely misses them, and a gaggle of other runners who all seemed to know the route from Goring Station to the race HQ in the village hall. Ilsuk also helpfully pointed out that the train I (and most other competitors) had planned to get home wouldn’t actually be running, thanks to some last minute engineering works at Reading; someone mentioned two rail replacement buses to Maidenhead and I zoned right out. I didn’t have the energy to worry about how I was going to hobble home after folding my cramped legs into a bus seat for three hours; I just had to think about getting back to Goring in the first place.
Nonetheless Ilsuk represented, as he always does, a good omen. We met on my first attempt at the North Downs 100 and later discovered that we had friends in common through Fulham RC, and it seems that every time I run an ultra these days he’s there. He’s such a warm, friendly and knowledgeable man I can never help but be comforted to see him. He buzzed around the village hall introducing first timers to regular faces, gathering lone runners wandering around aimlessly and making sure everyone had a friend at the start line; and he does this every time. A real unsung hero of the ultrarunning community, he is a true representative of the spirit of our sport, not to mention a shit hot runner in his own right. Even so, he privately admitted that he was just as anxious as the rest of us, and when we lined up at the start he didn’t go off with the frontrunners, choosing instead to stay with the midpackers and the newbies. Whether that was an act of kindness or just his way of dealing with nerves I don’t know, but I for one started the race with excitement just outweighing fear, and set the tone for the rest of the run.
The route takes in one long loop around the Thames Path, the Chiltern Hills, the Ridgeway and explores the unmatchable countryside of Buckinghamshire, Oxfordshire and Berkshire. The Ridgeway is definitely up there for my favourite ever trail route and the added treat of the Thames made this race a big star on my calendar. The first ten miles to checkpoint one at Tokers Green flew by, partly because of the stunning views but also thanks to a runner named James I got chatting to, only to discover that we’d run much of this area together once already on the Druids Challenge two years ago (a race I’m gutted not to be running this year). Feeling much less leg-heavy than I have been recently we went hell for leather on every single downhill, of which there were plenty thanks to the undulating but runnable elevation. I could easily have passed on the snack table, but I knew that I needed to lay the foundations now for sustainable energy levels later, and crammed my pockets with chocolate chip cookies.
Downhills we were bossing together, but James was obviously fitter than me on the uphills and eventually he pulled away; it wasn’t worth overstretching myself to keep up with him at this stage with forty miles still to go, so I just pootled along at the steady pace I’d been maintaining so far. Predictably, I was way ahead of my eleven hour pace already – in fact we passed the checkpoint in 1:49, ranked 138 and 139 out of what would end up as 187 official finishers. In fact, if I’d sustained that pace I’d have been on for just over a nine hour finish – yeah, no. If I didn’t take the decision to dial back now my body would do it for me later, in much more dramatic fashion.
Before long I was caught up my a chap called Steve and we began running together. I don’t remember exactly what I said now, but I do remember hearing him chatting away to another runner behind me and as usual bigmouth struck again; I couldn’t resist butting into their conversation. It set the tone for the next forty miles – we spent the whole rest of the race together talking about everything under the sun. Steve was an ex-squaddie, ex-paratrooper, self-made businessman with a penchant for bloody silly races, and between Tokers Green and Bix he recounted the tale of his four attempts at the Lakeland 100: two successful, two not, considering a fifth go to settle the score once and for all. I’m telling you, that man knows the Lakeland 100 yard by yard, so if anyone’s planning to run it you need to look him up. As one would expect from a military man, his meticulous preparation included a week spent in the Lakes recceing every inch of the route in daylight and dusk. I really didn’t need the iPod.
We left Bix aid station together by which point I’d actually gained two places and he, having paced the first section somewhat more conservatively than me, was up nearly twenty. We were coming up against much more meaty hills than we had done so far, and even had to pause the conversation for power-hiking every now and again. But the course was just so stunning. For totally different reasons, I still can’t quite decide between this and the South Downs Way for a favourite so far – certainly the SDW50 was a better experience and the fastest finish so far, but if you want fairytale woodland and runnable rolling terrain I think Wessex might just edge out Sussex. Ask me again in a week.
Having got through a potted history of our running careers, the conversation turned to politics, economics, history, sociology, the EU referendum result (obviously) – and two people with more diametrically opposing views you would be hard pushed to find. The fascinating thing for me was that, although our positions were poles apart, our values tended to align. We spoke as two people who felt equally let down by the parties they supported, who sought the same reassurances from two different approaches, who feared the same threats and chose different weapons to combat them. It sounds like a mad thing to say but as much as I was enjoying the run I really enjoyed our discussion – we had, I like to think, a good honest respectful debate, a sharing of perspectives, a chance to find commonality, and ultimately the biggest thing we had in common was a love for endurance tests and the courage to be humbled. I rather think that if the referendum had been debated over the trails there would have been a lot less mudslinging. There you go, that’s my future campaign slogan: Less mudslinging, more mud.
Having put the thorny issue of politics to bed we reached the Ibstone School aid station just before twenty six miles and spent a few minutes to refresh and reload. I was already struggling to get calories in but I force fed myself cookies and cola, and I had been steadily working on a bottle of Tailwind all day as well. All the aid stations so far offered Tailwind as well so I knew when I finished my bottle I’d be able to refill, and would more than likely be relying on it for the end of the race. Slightly stiffer than before, and having lost a handful of places, we carried on our way. By this time I was still within my eleven hour pace but by a smaller margin than before, and a margin that was shrinking by the mile. Still though, plenty in hand for a finish. As long as it didn’t all go wrong.
Steve had planned to meet his wife around mile thirty with a mysterious and hitherto untested smoothie concoction which would save or slay him. Oats, oat milk, fresh fruit, protein mix and chia seeds – it sounded bloody amazing. But having never tested it in anger before he had no idea if it would give him the boost he’d need for the last twenty miles or if he’d be in the bushes for the rest of the race. Only one way to find out.
He made a brief stop to pick up the drink while I carried on, making use of the momentum I had now that the pain in my feet had passed and simply become numbness. Pain? Ah. It wasn’t until this point that I realised I’d been running through pain for about ten miles already, such was the quality of the company and the distraction. Well, this would get interesting – pain doesn’t often feature for me, and it certainly doesn’t stop me as often as fitness, low blood sugar and temper tantrums do. When he caught up again I asked him about his war stories – the military ones rather than the running ones – and he obliged with some hilarious, some frankly terrifying and a fair few eye opening accounts of the life of a non-commissioned officer. Having heard that it wasn’t hard to imagine someone capable of finishing multiple 100-milers in the Lakes; the mental strength required to withstand the rigours of ultra-running being bread and butter to someone who has survived para-training.
At least I lasted longer than my watch…
We had slipped a few more places by the time we reached Swyncombe, and I really started to feel the distance by this point – a quick stretch on the cool grass and a moment taken to put on my waterproof jacket both turned out to be excellent decisions as the rain we’d been promised all day finally made an appearance. I had slipped past my eleven hour pace by this point, but still well within the cutoffs and about to hit Grims Ditch, one of my favourite trails ever. Another lady caught up with us at this point and started swapping 100 miler stories with Steve, which was a fascinating exchange to say the least – there really is no point in spending time with this amazing group of people if you can’t take the time to learn from them. I shut my trap (at least until the conversation turned to cars, which I couldn’t resist bowling into) and listened to them like I was listening to a podcast.
The final aid station would be at the other end of Grims Ditch and just over nine miles from the end. A long old stretch to finish on, but it did mean the last intermediate cutoff to worry about was cleared and we passed it with over three hours to go. A slow walk would have made it, but I really didn’t want to cut it that fine. Sadly, I wasn’t entirely in charge of that decision – my legs were screaming and I was doing my level best to tune them out. I succumbed to the chair, just for a few moments, and stared mournfully at the empty Tailwind barrel wondering why I hadn’t filled my bottle up earlier. Luckily the volunteers there had made up a batch of the best white bread butter and cheese sandwiches you’ve ever seen, and with some effort I chewed my way through a couple of them and washed them down with Coke. It was a bit awkward to swallow, and I noticed then just how dehydrated I’d become despite the inclement temperature. Next race I’m sticking a signpost at thirty miles saying “EAT NOW DAMMIT, YOU’LL THANK ME LATER”. As it turned out Steve’s smoothie had been an unqualified success, so much so that I’m tempted to try it myself on my next long run. Liquid calories that don’t taste too sweet are surely the way ahead.
We left the aid station still optimistic, and at the very fringes of daylight, a little bit smug about the fact that we hadn’t had to use our headtorches yet. Within a couple of miles however dusk fell – plummeted really, as it does in the woods – and I was cursing myself for not fishing out the torch when we stopped at the aid station. Talking was becoming increasingly difficult to me as one by one my various functions closed down. There’s almost no chance I’d have finished the race if it wasn’t for Steve; not only had he very kindly offered me a lift to Gatwick Airport on his way home, where I’d have a fighting chance of getting a train since the Reading line was down, but his tireless storytelling and patience dragged me through the deepening gloom. To say we were hiking now would be flattering the pace we kept up, but he insisted on staying with me instead of pushing on and getting the job done. I decided that I couldn’t reward his kindness with whinging so I kept my negative thoughts to myself and kept moving forward, mutely. You can’t complain about pain in front of a soldier.
The last couple of miles back to Goring were profoundly dark, and our torches were doing bugger all to cut through the blackness. We had been joined by one of Steve’s friends and a couple of other runners by this point, all moving in single file along the single track, all just looking for the streetlights and the end. When it finally arrived my feet and legs were burning – just half a mile of pavement to go, and it felt like walking fifty miles of hot coals. Unable to restrain myself any more I started audibly whimpering, choking down tears just to get to the end. We decided to cross the line together as a group of three – when it finally came it turned out to be the side door to the hall and we had to file in one at a time, but we were reunited on the other side. Twelve and a half hours, and we were done. I was dizzy, slurring, in agony, but relieved.
Ilsuk was still in the village hall doing the rounds, despite having finish a couple of hours earlier, while I forced down some coffee and tried to sit. While we recovered we saw the last few finishers stumble including two guys who finished just inside the cutoff and at least two that, heartbreakingly, didn’t. To struggle that far knowing that you wouldn’t even get the medal is a special kind of tough. I came to enough to force down a sausage in a roll – it took a good half hour to do so – and settled into the warm of the car, suddenly overwhelmed by gratitude. And then, horror. I still had Wendover Woods to do to complete the grand slam, and that was so hard the cutoff was two hours longer. Is that a good thing, or a bad thing?
Thanks to Steve’s hospitality I was home within a couple of hours and out the next day for my one mile hobble around the block to shake out my legs and keep up my streak. But come Monday morning – a heavy day at work which started with me carrying my own staging around because my crew had been accidentally cancelled – the hobble became something much worse. Somehow, despite my legs taking the brunt of the battery, I had actually pulled muscles all across my chest and ribcage and breathing became a serious issue. Like, I could talk or breathe but not do both issue. All day on my feet with a trailer shoot I hoped I would just shake it out, but by the time I got home I knew for certain there was no chance of me running. Pain in general has never stopped me before, but chest pains, that’ll do it. The streak, and my heart, were broken.
So I relinquished it in the hope that I might still save another, much longer lasting streak – I’ve run every Ealing Half Marathon since it started in 2012 and I have no intention of giving that up so easily. My one day off turned into two days, and having booked off the Wednesday as lieu time I finally got a chance to catch up on some rest (and a load of Air Crash Investigation). When Sunday came around I felt, though not entirely in shape for a road half marathon, like I had a chance of not embarrassing myself, and like I had at least enough breath to finish. Proudly wearing my QPR shirt I settled in in front of the 1:50 pacers, hoping to stay in front of them but prepared to let them go. I resolved to enjoy the atmosphere, return every high five and every shout of “YOU RRRRSSS!”, smile all the way round, remember that I do this for fun. And bloody hell, it was.
I actually managed to keep the pace up for a good ten miles before my body refused to respond to the command to push harder. It was painful, but I could run through it – i just couldn’t turn my legs over any faster. The real turning point however came just after mile eleven; just as I tried to give another burst of energy, my chest cramped up like an imploding star. I could barely breathe. I kept running, but I let my pace ease up until the cramp passed. That’s it – you don’t dick around with chest pains. The pacers finally overtook me and I let myself glide to the end, saving my last bit of energy for a leap over the line – there wasn’t even enough to sprint. As I landed, almost knocking over guest commentator Susie Chan in the process, I smiled. I had done it in 1:51 and change, and only five minutes out from my all time PB (a time set with at least half a stone less weight).
Embarrassing as my CW50 time was, I have to concede that it’s a lot better than I deserve having invested so little time in running recently. This shouldn’t be about pity or excuses or self-flagellation, but equally I want to recognise that a little anticipation goes a long way. Either I’ve become complacent or I’ve stopped caring altogether; either way I must be able to do something about it. Perhaps right now running can’t take priority over everything else; it could still take priority over 90% of everything else. Perhaps I’m not fit enough to enjoy a fifty mile trail race at the moment; I have two months to change that. And if I don’t, I’ll have thrown away all the hard work that brought me this far. Perhaps I underestimate what I can do, setting myself unwieldy and contradictory targets, because I don’t want to admit there’s such a thing as an unattainable target.
On Saturday 10th June 2017 I ran my first ultra marathon. Those who know at least a recentish version of me know that I am a keen runner. Keen here probably equates to a mixture of insanely passionate, obsessed, class-A-level-addicted and so on. I have run several marathons over the last 12 months, each one nudging the finishing time marginally downwards. My first, on the South Downs in Sussex/Hampshire left me close to destroyed, but also elated beyond pretty much anything else I’d ever done. Subsequent marathons have seen me finish in faster times but nowhere have I come close to replicating the, frankly, life-changing journey and sense of achievement following that first one.
So, early this year it was time to plan for something else that would push me beyond what I knew my body and mind could do. Staying local for logistical ease and to honour a promise to my other half (then in the final throes of a PhD and busy), I signed up for the Norfolk 100km race, run by Positive Steps. And then pretty much continued to run as I had been doing during the previous months, the only real adjustment being pushing the long run at the weekends a little further than I might normally.
But 100k? Approaching 2½ marathons?? What on Earth?!
(In case you’re thinking that I do such things to impress, the reality is that any and all attempts I make to explain what I get up to are met by a response on a spectrum between incomprehensibility and pity, alongside a not insignificant dose of - usually - good natured mockery. One person actually got angry with me.)
Despite being a local event, it was still an early start to make the short journey to the start at Castle Acre, near Swaffham. Once the instructions and bag-drop logistics were dealt with we set off for the day, with feathery rain over the initial miles keeping things pleasantly cool. Most people seemed content to set a very gentle pace, which facilitated random conversations with a series of changing partners – in my case, a headteacher I’d once done some work with, a colleague, a lady worried about how her fragile back would hold out over the distance, and a chap who managed a good-for-age qualifying time for London but then forget to register during the entry window.
The Peddars Way turned out to be narrow, overgrown and uneven in places, but otherwise very runnable and the first checkpoint at Harpley arrived strangely quickly. After a brief pause I settled back into an easy and sustainable rhythm: everything felt good. The light rain cleared to dry but overcast skies, and the temperature began to slowly but perceptibly increase.
The next 10 or so miles were spent chasing among the backs and packs in front of me, in gentle undulating rhythms, with skylarks heard everywhere (but almost never seen), braying pigs and startled lambs for company. Easy, lovely running. Eventually we broke off the country paths to float through Ringstead, before the first view of the sea on the descent into Holme.
Having broken the back of the ‘first marathon’ and covered a good third of the course I took a little longer at the second checkpoint and filled up with sausage rolls and jaffa cakes, and refilled my water. By now mentally done with the straight and steady footpath, I was grateful for the shift to expansive coastal vistas and flora/fauna variation over the coming section – which I already knew to be the most beautiful stretch of the course.
Setting off once more from Holme, we quickly turned sharply eastwards and ran for some time on boards across the sand dunes. Beneath the hints of sun behind the cloudy skies we passed some frankly staggering coastal views - desolate, massive expanses of sand and marsh, with raptors hovering almost everywhere you looked. The sun really started to break through during the shortish detour inland to Thornham so, with the time probably moving on its way towards midday, it was a small relief to turn off back into woodland on the lead up to checkpoint 3. I’d run most of the race up to this point with a colleague but our pace had started to diverge by this juncture and we separated at the checkpoint.
Soon after this I found myself pacing out over the damp sandy expanse at Holkham, under a sun gradually growing more fierce. Actual running was difficult, but from time to time the sand compacted enough to make it possible in short bursts. I slowly chased down the person in front of me, who turned out to be working at the university I went to many years ago. More connections. He was in training for an even longer event in the summer so wasn’t pushing the pace, and it became a welcome opportunity to take stock and recover some energy before heading into the final third of the race. Moving among the many sunbathers, swimmers and general beach denizens, we chewed the fat for the mile or two to Wells, before parting at the start of the long sea wall which leads into the town proper.
In had by now developed into a blistering day and, on my own once more, I pushed on, picking up the pace again and didn’t see any other runner for a long time. This really wasn’t a position that I’d wanted to find myself in when endlessly thinking through the race in the weeks beforehand. I hadn’t been particularly worried about injury or energy, but I certainly experienced some fear about missing a turning, getting lost and adding unnecessary mileage, pushing a potential finish time way into the evening – or even putting a finish inside the cut off time at risk. I had planned on keeping another runner in sight preferably for as much of the time as possible. But with these sorts of distances and the smallish field of people willing to undertake them, it was inevitable that things would stretch out somewhat. So I found myself alone.
But not really alone. Dog walkers and hikers were passing all the time, some curious about what I was doing, incredulous at how far I’d come and usually sympathetic (with the odd visible wince) about the remaining distance. The path continued to wend and wind and, contrary to my worries, there was little opportunity to err throughout the whole of this section. Instead of being concerned about going off-route, I was otherwise engaged by the visit of calf cramps, old and familiar companions, who would stick around, intermittently, for the remainder of the course. I get these far too often – usually during the latter stages of a hard-paced marathon, where they have a tendency to take down any designs on a good-for-age qualifying time that might be floating around at the time. By the time I got down to the checkpoint at Stiffkey, the pain was stabbing my legs with some regularity and I had to introduce longer periods of walking than was ideal – which was a touch frustrating as my energy levels still felt good.
Aside from this (and the lack of a runner to chase down), everything was going well and I didn’t stick around long at the checkpoint, munching down some peanuts and crisps, but probably not as many as I could have done with, due to the almost complete lack of appetite by this point. (Most of the food I carried in my backpack ended up surviving the whole race.) So, onwards and upwards and outwards along tracks which bent across marshlands towards the sea and then (rather viciously) took you back inland towards Cley, just at the point when you can actually see the beach you’re destined for a handful of metres across the way. And running back inland meant – as it did several times earlier – running into a strong energy-sapping headwind.
At Cley I actually lost the path. I found myself, oddly, in a pub garden which was hosting a wedding reception and I must have been a severely incongruous, muddy and sweaty sight in amongst the beautifully attired people getting hammered in the afternoon sunshine. I was pointed (roughly and hopefully) in the right direction and found a little door in the corner of the garden which had a sign leading back to the coastal path. Thoughts of sitting down and drinking beer forever wafted into the 99% of my being that isn’t the hugely stubborn 1% which won out and decided to get the damn thing done. After all, by now there were probably only a dozen or so miles remaining, although it was hard to tell exactly as my watch went its happy way to oblivion around this point. Then, for the first time in hours I was met by another runner, coming back towards me on hiking poles.
He too had lost his way, but had been working on the basis that the final checkpoint was in Cley itself rather than on the beach so had been wandering around the village in search of it. A robotics engineer from Poland, now living in London but a previous resident in these parts, he too was suffering with cramps. I set him right and we headed off back out towards the sea along the exposed mud path. Although he forged ahead and we took slightly different routes across the shingle beach section, we ended up completing the final section of the race together.
After a brief stop at the checkpoint, the shingle began. All my reading about this race beforehand had mentioned this section. Notorious and widely reviled, the difficulties of running (or trying to) along a shingle beach for 4 miles had been flagged up to me well in advance. And right at the end of the race too. In reality though, it wasn’t too bad, at least by the time I hit it. The tide had withdrawn enough to expose some sandy patches and so I chose to run right down by the gently foaming sea for as much as I could, ducking under extending fishing lines and occasionally dodging waves. The late afternoon sun was the strongest it had been all day and was searing into my calves (my god, what a state they were in over the following week) and around my neckline and hat, but by now my mind was only locked, lazer-like, onto the finishing line.
In a nice touch, the organisers set up an impromptu checkpoint at the end of the beach, at which the polish engineer and I took stock and prepared for the final section, which no-one could quite decide was 5k or 5 miles (or perhaps even another distance). We set off quickly, up and down some of the hilliest landscape on the whole course, a quick waltz through Sheringham and then back out, up and over Beeston Bump, where (unbelievably!) we were passed by a runner I’d last seen somewhere before Holkham. He very politely apologised and carried on his way. This was the first person I’d seen from behind me since about lunchtime. Right at the end!
The Race Director met us at the top of the Bump, congratulated us and then merrily informed us that we hadn’t quite finished. So, a short descent from the peak, then a gentle (ha! With those calves?!) jog along past some caravans and across a road before entering (ecstatically!) into the grounds of Beeston Hall School: the finish.
It took me 12 hours and 45 minutes and I finished in 12th position, which I was delighted with. At the very end, we drove to Cromer and I plunged into the water, letting the bitter North Sea work its glacial wonders on my battered legs.
A quite amazing experience that – naturally – I swore never to do again. But I will. Of course. Well, maybe not the exact same race (although maybe), but there’s something magical and transformative about days like this. After the soreness and blisters go away and the toenails repair and regrow, all that remains is the extraordinary memories of being free, being wild, testing yourself and pushing through whatever expectations you had of your ability. It makes you want to destroy routine and normality and convention and limiting self-belief, again and again and again.
Finally, it’s worth noting just how well organised an event this was. The course was well marked where it needed to be and the checkpoints were fantastic - staffed by cheerful and hugely encouraging volunteers and packed full of the good stuff. For more information on the excellent range of Positive Steps events (including some of more sensible distances), visit their website: https://positivestepspt.co.uk
A slow scan of the marquee, assessing the carnage of 250kms in the Italian Alps. There is a man openly sobbing as he takes off his shoes and socks. Someone is face down the table next to me. Crews and volunteers are scurrying about attending to the need of broken runners. The Tor des Géants signature dish of pasta with tomato sauce is served up by the tonnes. Layer upon layer of clothing are piled on, before departing for another cold night.
I arrived at Valtournenche life base with the view of have a quick turnaround. Quick change. Quick bite to eat. Two hours later I was still sitting there. Moving things around in their protective plastics bags. Repacking the same things in the same rucksack I’d carried for days. Trying to squeeze everything I didn’t need or couldn’t carry back into the iconic yellow duffle bag. Have you ever seen a toddler with a toy shape sorter trying to squeeze the rectangle shape in the triangle space? That was me. Physically, I was ok. Legs and feet were not too shabby. I’d just lost the ability to think for myself.
This was the dream. This is what I signed up for. And nothing short of a limb falling off would have made me want to stop. I had only given myself one shot to get this right. The build up to the start line was bad enough, as I was highly-strung for weeks. The fear was quite overwhelming. I wasn’t bothered about the distance of 330km, that was a piece of piss. Nor even the vertical gain of 31,000 metres. It’s advertised as 24km but everyone knows that’s just adding up the peaks. It was my general well-being that concerned me. I get so delirious and incoherent during ultras. Not in a zen-like trance woo-woo way. I mean completely off my tits, stumbling about kinda way. I could train myself to deal with race profile, but not the fatigue and sleep deprivation that came with it. It was to be a great exercise in self-care, something which is not my forte.
I was lucky enough to get race place through my support from Montane. I vividly remember my email correspondence when Montane first considered sponsoring this event. Although the event had the reputation as one of the world’s toughest and it was a great match for the brand, there was just no way I was tough enough to do it. It just wasn’t for me. The same way I was never going to do the WHWR (3 times) or Spartathlon (tick) or 24-hour running (6 of them). Let’s just say I lack commitment to my non-causes.
So I made it to the start line and started to calm down. Just get it done, that’s all. I had no aspirations about time and position. With 10 years ultra-running experience, it has been a long time since not finishing was my biggest fear.
Courmayeur to Valgrisenche
The race was late starting, as everyone had their GPS checked before entering the pens. Then we were off, weaving through the busy streets of Courmayeur. The town really embraces the race and there’s a real community spirit all along the course. The streets were packed with cheering people and the sounds of cowbells.
Off the roads and onto trails, we were soon going up. Bottle-necked or boxed in, there was no point stressing about it as it would soon thin out. Easy easy that was plan. The weather was sunnier and warmer than predicted. Thank goodness, because I’d got myself into a right tizzy the night before about not having enough winter clothing. Or at least not having enough space in the yellow duffle to pack everything I needed. I think the guy behind must have been wearing all his clothes or had forgotten he was in for the long haul, because he was sweating so heavily he was dripping all over my ankles!
Col Arp at 2571m was the first mountain pass and a sharp introduction to what lay ahead. Then the path widened and the field split up, so everyone could get into their groove. Although I’ve always been against taking photos during races, this was to be an exception. With space to stop to capture the moment, I took out my GoPro. I would have helped if I hadn’t left the SD card in my case at the hotel. Doh! iPhone shots will have to do then.
All pretty quiet and peaceful down in La Thuile then we started to bunch up again towards Rifugio Diffeyes. It was busy with trekkers and noisy with cheers and cow bells in my face. I don’t really recall much of the journey to Pass Alto and down to Bivacco Promoud. But I remember feeling the effects already on the long zig-zag climb to the third peak of the day, Col Crosatie. I had to force myself to put fatigue aside and focus on the ropes on the exposed sections. Descending into a beautiful sunset and had moment of sobering thoughts passing the memorial for Chinese runner Yuan Yang, who lost his life there after all fall at TDG 2013. Although the memorial is a lovely gesture, it’s a harsh reminder that we are never in control of our destiny.
As night-time arrived I felt drained when I hit the Planaval checkpoint. Another 7km of flat or undulating trail to the first life base in Cogne. I was enjoying just uninterrupted running and the silence and peace that darkness brought. I was snapped back round when I misjudged the teeny step up on a bridge and decked it. Bleeding knees and skinned hands already. Joy.
Cogne was a flurry of activity. It’s the first of six life bases, which are about 50km apart on the course. Life bases are generally much busier than checkpoints as runners are reunited with their precious yellow bags and therefore hang about longer than intended. I found a quiet space away from the crowds to sort out what kit I would need for the next section and to keep on top of footcare.
Valgrisenche to Cogne
It was easier to the follow the route during the dark, as my headtorcg picked up the reflectors route markers. I followed the undulating path all the way to Chalet de l’Epée and welcomed the warmth inside. I stopped for a few coffees. I needed the caffeine, the heat and a short break. I milked it for way longer than I should have.
I ended up following fellow Montane athlete Stefano up to the top of Col Fenêtre. I didn’t even realise it was him at first, as I was just transfixed by the reflectors on the back of his Salomon shoes. It helped me keep a consistent rhythm. We crested the top and I pushed on down the steep scree and slippy descend, ending up on my ass a few times. Stefano was wearing S-lab Sense, which was a brave choice. He’s probably still there.
A pleasant long descent into Rhêmes and I met up with fellow Brit and Scot, Kirsty Williams. She looked in good spirits, even if she was wearing her leggings inside out.
It was then a long slog up to Col Entrelor. I did most of ascent with another guy, but we never spoke. Heads down in the darkness, apart from brief glances up to see how far up those headtochers were. The chap stopped for a rest a few hundred metres from the top - or maybe it was to shake me off his heels. I kept going until my headtorch battery ran out and I stopped to change it. Even just stopping briefly made me chill down real fast. I was bonking and in dire need of sugar, but I was adamant I wanted to get to the top first. Stupid mistake, as I was staggering, shaking, slipping and was practically crawling when I reached the top. I had to sit down at the makeshift checkpoint tent and suck down a Gu gel. The volunteers gave me some coke which had turned to slush and gave me brain freeze, but I felt better almost instantly. I had a angry word with myself about keeping on top of fuel.
Watching the sunrise behind the mountains with the long descent into Eaux Rousses, it was good to have the first night behind me. Monday was a new day and a new box of treats. Despite studying the profile of the race from the comfort of my sofa, it means nothing until you’re actually in the thick of it. Pulling out the race book to see what delights awaited, I nearly fainted when I saw 3299 metres. I knew it was coming up, I just wasn’t aware of the sequence of monster climbs. I chatted to a few runners in there, including another Scot John Moffat. I guess everyone lingered a little longer delaying the inevitable.
Time to bite the bullet and get the show on the road. On the long series of switchbacks, I passed a Spanish girl who asked if my leg was ok. I had even realised it was cut and covered in blood. Maybe I did it whilst stumbling about the last peak? Who knows. It didn’t hurt, but my ankle really did. Out of nowhere I had awful pain on the outside of my left ankle. I couldn’t run on it, which was quite distressing.
Soon Lakeland legend and Ireland’s finest, Paul Tierney caught up with me. I was really surprised to see him, as Paul eats mountains for breakfast. He was having a tough time and had stopped for a few breaks/naps. We climbed most of Col Loson together. Him moaning, but he’s Irish so everything he says comes out hilarious (not a hate crime, Paul!) The climb got real steep and tough near the top. My lungs were on fire and struggling to breath. I was literally hanging over my poles on the long and very slow stagger to the top.
There was a bunch of guys near the cairn/trigpoint (what are they called in the Italian alps?) but I had to plonk my ass down and take a break. My chest hurt real bad. I think it was a combination of cold air, exertion and generally being a bit too high for a sea level lungs.
Paul had pushed on. Probably the prospect of being stuck with me forced him to get his shit together, but I caught up with him again at Rifugio Sella. I had some oranges and some bizarre conversations with a couple of Greek guys before embarking on the never ending switchbacks to Cogne. Switchbacks were definitely going to be the theme of the week. I appreciate it’s better than the alternative, but it didn’t make it any less frustrating. I could see where I needed to be. I just wasn’t dropping any height and it wasn’t getting any closer.
It was really heating up and I felt like a burst ball when I arrived at the second life base in Cogne. I tried to eat some food, but it was struggle. I tried to sleep, but that wasn’t happening. It was too noisy and my mind was buzzing. I know I’m quintessential British and therefore a bit prudish, but I saw enough body parts in there to last me a lifetime.
As sleeping wasn’t an option, I had a quick massage and the physios strapped up my dodgy ankle. Quick wash - my one and only wash of the week - got changed and set out again. After wasting 3.5 hours there! 3.5 HOURS!
Cogne to Donnas
I left along the long dirt track and road, before turning off on to the next climb. It was pretty warm and I started to feel quite tired. Typical, eh? Paul stormed past looking revitalised. I knew he would go on and have a fantastic race - and he did.
I wanted to push on to get over Fenêtre di Champorcher to see the sunset, but I was done in. I arrived at Rifugio Berdzè a freezing, shaking, bonking mess. It was less that 300 metres to the summit, but it looked steep and I was all over place. I had to go straight to the bunk room, but I couldn’t sleep because it was freezing. The snow on the ground outside might have been a sign. I stupidly chose the bed next to the door, so it was drafty and people were coming in and out. I put on all my clothes, including hat and gloves and managed about 30-40 minutes sleep before my wake up call by the volunteer. As there a two hour time limit at checkpoints, volunteers ask how long you would like to sleep for. This ensures you don’t overstay your welcome and gives you time to sort yourself and supplies out.
Down in the main area, I had few strong coffees and got my headtorch sorted for the night ahead. This is when I first met my new French friend Rodolph Mercanton. He was laughing at me wrestling to get my waterproof trousers on, while trying to stop my teeth rattling in my head. We made the final ascent together, chatting away. I was then complaining I was too hot, as wearing everything I had.
It’s then long 30km ‘downhill’ to Donnas. Which surprisingly has a lot of uphill too. And quite possibly the longest 30km of my life. Down rocky paths, through fields, clambering over boulders and crossing some dodgy suspension bridges. I could hear the ferocious sounds of the rivers and knew in the darkness I missing out on some spectacular waterfalls.
Through Dondena and Chardonnay, I expected the third life base at Donnas to be the next stop. There was another aid station at Pontboset, which really unreasonably annoyed me. I wanted to sleep and I had another 10km to go. I know it’s a mountain race, but I also got unreasonably annoyed at more uphill when I knew we had to drop to down 300 metres.
I’d never used an altimeter or elevation as a measurement before. In racing and training I’ve always gone by distance or overall ascent. Another reason why this was so far removed that anything I had done before.
I arrived in Donnas just before 4am. Two hours later than I expected too. Generally, everything took two hours longer than I expected it too. I declined offer of food from the volunteers, found a bed and collapsed. Lying there listening to the sounds of synchronised snoring. How was I ever going to sleep with all this snor… zonk! Out cold. Not wake-up calls, no alarms. I just wanted to sleep until I woke up. Two hours later I woke up startled, sat up bolt upright trying to work out where I was.
My face felt like it was on fire. The room was really hot and my skin had been exposed to some pretty harsh elements, with warm days and cold nights. My lips were so sunburned and swollen, I look like someone from those botched plastic surgery programmes. People pay good money to look as weird as I did.
After spending a further 90 minutes faffing about packing things, changing, eating and rearranging what I packed, triple checking I had all the mandatory kit, I set out for what would be the longest section.
Donnas to Gressoney
I knew this was going to be big section and could take up to 24 hours. I was less daunted by the prospect when I was greeted with a beautiful crisp and clear morning. Through the town, the toots and cheers from passing cars gave me a nice boost too.
The undulating trail up and over to Perloz was beautiful. The village was quiet and quaint, but was soon awoken with the loud sounds of cowbells, which signaled my arrival. The charming gents who manned this checkpoint were a delight. They spoke no English and I speak no Italian, but somehow we managed to have a highly amusing conversation.
The sleep had done wonders and I felt more energized. Hiking up to La Sassa I met another Brit, Paul Drew. We chatted quite a bit at the checkpoint, before I pushed on. We would meet again later in the race. Quite a few times.
The climb up to Coda was simply stunning although my footing was pretty unsteady on the boulders, so knew I was on the danger side of depleted reserves. Dining alfresco at Rifugio Coda, with backdrop of beautiful mountains was probably one of the highlights on my race. As was the view over magical greeny-blue waters of Lago Vargno.
The race profile makes this section look slightly undulating at best, but there’s a reason why it’s notoriously known to be the toughest section. It’s fecking relentless! When I arrived at Rifugio della Barma, I planned to make it a flying visit, but on learning that the next checkpoint was 5-7 hours away, I decided to bulk up on pasta and soup. Just as well I did, as their pasta was the best! You learn to appreciate the little things when you’re out there.
My French friend Rodolph arrived as I was leaving, but soon caught up and we stayed together for a bit. Even the short climbs were tough and my brain was struggling to manoeuvre on the downhills. There was a really steep few hundred metre climb before Col della Vecchia which was a tipper for me. I was getting really cold, really hungry and sleep deprivation was taking it’s toll. As darkness was falling, I keep pushing to get to the checkpoint. I should have stopped and sorted myself out as it took way longer than I anticipated to get there.
By the time I got to the makeshift mountain checkpoint I was a wreck. The volunteers were amazing and got me blankets, heaters, sweet coffee and a place to sleep for a hour. I was completely gone, but they truly saved me.
I left feeling reborn and embarked on the journey to Neil, which would take about two hours. It was a fairly pleasant descent to Neil. I met up with Paul Drew again, who told me his brother, Craig was crewing for him and had been waiting in Neil since 4pm. It was now nearly 10pm. Like me, he was wildly underestimating journey times.
I had a short stop and pasta refuel at Neil before rejoining Rodolph again for a the ascent of Col Losoney. I was starting to scales things down into recognisable chunks. Less than Ben Lomond to do I kept telling myself. I do laps of that in training, And 13km to the next life station, then that’s the biggest section done.
I was joined by another French runner, Nicolas Moreau who took it upon himself to sing me songs, which was lovely albeit slightly surreal. He not only helped to raise my spirits, but also push me back up every time I fell or stumbled backwards. As my cadence was slower than usual hiking pace, I was finding the balance quite tricky.
There was a long gradual descent to Gressoney. On fresh legs, that would be a flier. On my legs it was on the tolerable side of arduous. I arrived at the life base in Gressoney, a mere 20-21 hours after leaving the last one. I found a bed in sports hall and tried to sleep. I think it may have been a squash court, so everything echoed. It was too uncomfortable and it was bloody freezing. Someone was using a machine to polish the floors outside too. I did manage some broken sleep though.
After a rest of sorts I sat in the dining area trying to sort out my kit. This was a biggest downfall in my race. Not having someone to do the thinking for me. Unsupported was proving harder than I thought, but I was still getting the job done. It was after all, all about just getting the job done.
Some whatsapp chat with my Centurion team mates informed me that Spain’s Javi Dominguez had won and smashed the course record in 67 hours 52. Truly amazing. I couldn’t help thinking this guy had finished and was probably celebrating in Courmayeur and I was only 205km in - sitting eating breakfast and lubing up my feet at the same time. Then Marco sent me a picture of Cairn, so I was sitting crying, eating boiled eggs (I’ve been Vegan for years!) whilst lubing up my feet. What a sorry sight that must have been.
Gressoney To Valtournenche
With 205km complete, I had Gressoney mentally marked as the over half-way point. It’s the fourth of six life bases, so passed the point of of no return. I’m lead to believe this is the life base with the most drop outs, so if you get out of here alive you’re on the home straight. You just need to get out.
After 3:40 hours, of which possibly an hour was spent sleeping, I headed out to the beautiful morning. We had been truly blessed with such great weather. The sun was shining, the skies were blue and the view over to Mont Rosa was stunning. I stopped to take a picture and then my Garmin froze and switched off. Despite carrying a battery pack, I could get it to power on. Surely not being able to Strava is a legitimate reason to DNF ;-)
It was a good hefty climb to Col Pinter and I was joined on the final ascent by three Italian men out to see some of the race and they insisted on keeping me company to the top. Two were in front, with one behind ringing his cowbell and shouting “Allez. Allez. Go Scottish”. On day four of this epic adventure, you can only imagine depths I had to go to to deal with this. Even better when one of the men front commented: “But you are very young” and the cowbell ringing behind responded. “No. No way”. Steady on, mate. We stopped for selfies at the top and I left them - still chanting “Go Scottish” and ringing that cow bell. Despite my obvious ageing, they made me smile a lot and put spring back in my step. As did the lady who stopped me on the descent just to give me a hug.
It was a long, but enjoyable trail down to Champoluc. It was really heating up and the sun was piercing my skin. I stopped at an unofficial aid station, which was a restaurant that had put on a big buffet for runners for no other reason other than they wanted to be part of the race. I tried to get my Garmin to switch on with power, but no joy.
Through Champoluc and into the real checkpoint, which was pale by comparison to the restaurant, I went straight through heading to Saint Jacques with Rodolph. I lost him on the climb out of the town, as I was really warm and a bit wasted.
I stopped at the river to soak my buff and wet my face. I was really tired and wanted to lie down, so I lay back listening to the sounds of the river and watching the shapes the clouds made. I remember doing this with my Dad as a child and I wondered if kids still did this. I was brought back round when I realised ants were crawling all over me.
The climb to Rifugio Grand Tourmalin was a real struggle. I was beyond tired and was dragging my sorry ass up the hill. After what seemed like an eternity, the refugio appeared in the distance and the familiar sounds of cowbells.
Do you want food? Just sleep. Do you want hot drink? Sleep. Anything before? Just sleep. I could have stayed there forever, as it was a the best bed ever! Who knew sleeping in a dormitory for 45 minutes could feel like total paradise.
I woke feeling quite refreshed. Down in the dining area, I joined Paul Drew and ate some pasta. He had been looking out the window and was very apprehensive about the killer final ascent over the mountain. I turned to see what he was looking and noticed that it did look particularly nasty. But I pointed out he was looking in the right direction, as I could see the runners out the window behind him on a less precarious switchback route.
With new found energy, I tackled with final ascent and started on the descent to Valtourneche. As daylight was fading, I got out my headtorch and decided to call Marco and Cairn, who had recently arrived in Courmayeur. I soon as I heard their voices I started crying, even though it was the best I’d felt all day. Physically I was holding it together. Mentally and emotionally, I’d lost the plot.
Paul soon caught up with me again and we did the last few kilometres together before headed into the life base. He was pretty excited about the pizza his brother was going to get him. Craig failed to find a pizza in Italy. He was going for a sleep and I was adamant I was going in for a quick turnaround and out again.
Valtournenche to Ollomont
My quick turnaround turned into two hours of pissing about with my kit and messaging on my phone. I just discovered my friend Jamie was pulled out of the race on day two with potential kidney failure. Marco assured me Jamie was ok, as he had been in regular contact with her.
I should have just slept, because as soon as I got going, fatigue and breathlessness came over me and I had to stop at the next Refugio for some sleep. The cold night air was continuing to hurt my chest. Every breath hurt, so was resigned to shallow breathing.
I was joined by the endurance machine that is Harriet Kjaer. She was going for a 30 minute power nap, so I cut my planned 60 minutes in favour of some company for a while. I enjoyed spending the next hour or so chatting about life and running. I’ve met some seriously badass women through the sport, but I think Harriet is a rare breed. She has a wealth of experience in mega-distance running and was fascinating to talk to. We were so busy talking, we missed a turn and realised a while later we hadn’t seen markers for some time. Back tracking a kilometre or so, we were amazed we missed it as it was so clearly obvious.
Fenêtre du Tsan was the gift that kept on giving. It was a relentless undulating slog. Every time we started losing height, I wanted to have a tantrum. After what seemed like HOURS, I reached the top and started on the switchbacks down.
I was now getting passed by the speedsters in the Tot Dret race, the new 130km race which started in Gressonay at 9pm on the Wednesday. I step off to let them passed. I expected to see loads of the 400 runners, but there weren’t that many. I later learned that only 80 finished, as the cold on the Thursday night ended most of their races. This could be hear say though.
The sunrise over the mountains was so beautiful, I had to stop at take a few pictures. When I arrived at Rifugio magia, I stopped for some coffee and watched the flurry of Totdret runners appear and leave. Just sitting there. People watching. Like I was sitting in Starbucks or something.
I was joined on the next few ascents by Susan from the USA, so the time just zipped by. She’d done the race in 2015 when it was stopped due to bad weather on the third day, so had returned to get the monkey off her back. She has also been out recceing the course, so it’s safe to say we had different race approaches. This was the only time it rained during the race and I was actually quite enjoying it.
After being a bubbling wreck on the phone to Marco and Cairn the night before they were coming out to meet me in Oyace, just to say hello and offer some moral support. I left eating too long - as always the checkpoint was way longer than I expected it to be - so I was a bit worse for wear when I got there. I spent an hour with them before Marco told me I wasn’t making an sense and should try for sleep before my two hour checkpoint allowance was up. And he also had to get Cairn out as he was eating all the chocolate tarts that were provided for runners only.
I found a bed and set my alarm for 50 minutes. Sleeping a cot bed in a room of about hundred noisy people was becoming easier. I felt so sick when I woke up, so I sat on the edge of the bed with my head between my knees trying to stop the world spinning. A nice chap gave over to see if I was ok, which I thought was really kind… followed by ‘sorry to ask, but are you leaving soon. My friend asked me to ask you for the bed’ The awkwardness on his face gave me the giggles.
Up I went to Col Brison. Just a Ben Lomond up I reminded myself. From the top you could probably drop a stone down onto the Ollomont, which was 1100 metres below. It was that steep. Which could only mean one thing. A gazillion switchbacks!
Ollomont to Courmayeur
Night time fell just before I hit the final life base in Olloment I expected to get there feeling happy and relieved knowing that the dream was to be reality, but I was void of feeling. If anything I was just relieved that I wouldn’t have to squeeze everything back into that yellow duffle bag again.
I was feeling pretty apprehensive about the night’s forecast and freezing temperatures. My Centurion team mate Neil (who was ahead in the race) had sent pics from Rifugio Frasseti in a blanket of snow, so I knew I had to prepare for cold. I shunned the communal changing area in favour of a cramped toilet cubicle. I was trying to gauge what I would wear for cold day in the hills in Scotland - then add an extra layer. Then trying to think what I would need for the next day, with a frazzled brain. What seemed like an eternity of faffing, packing and spending too much time messaging on my phone I exited the small wooden toilet cabin looking like snowboarding Barbie!
Then proceeded to go for a 30 minute nap and a mega feast of soup, pasta and sweet black coffee. Every pairs of eyes in the room was on the guy devouring a pizza which his Mum had brought him.
Heading out under a blanket of stars for the last night it was so peaceful and still. I felt cold, but there was no part of me that was specifically cold. Hand were ok. Feet fine. Face and head covered. It was just a full chill and shiver that I couldn’t shake. Another recognisable chunk to break it down. Just a Ben Nevis to go. ‘Just’ the UKs highest mountain on the 4th night out. Just.
After an hour or two of hiking I arrived at Rifugio Champillon. I went inside for hot soup to warm up. Just an excuse to get out of the cold. I probably overstayed my welcome, by simply sitting there with the thousand-yard stare. After what felt like 15 minutes, but was probably closer to 45 minutes I forced myself to leave reminding myself It was only another 400 metres. The sky was so clear and I seemed so high up, I couldn’t make out what were stars and what were reflective race markings. I was just getting colder and colder. I just didn’t have the energy to fight the cold. Throughout the race I probably wasn’t eat for a normal day of living, let alone long days in the mountains. I tried to listen to a comedy podcast to take my mind off it, but that just became irritating.
I reached the top and heading down the switchbacks, stumbling as I went. My poles were out in front like speirs, using them to catch me every time I fell. It was fairly effective. When I reached the farm/checkpoint at Pointelle, I was really burnt out and wanted to sleep. There weren’t any beds there so I would need to push on another 10km. I was hoping to miss dawn, as that’s always the coldest, but hey ho. Off I went. I got colder, incoherent, dazed, confused, angry, frustrated and on the cusp of hysteria. By the time I reached Saint Rhémy en-Bosses (which was unsurprisingly longer than 10km away) I was a mess.
As always the volunteers were amazing and really helped he. I was given some soup, pasta and a seat next to the bar heater. I couldn’t eat the soup because my hands were shaking so much. I wanted to leave, as I was worried I would have to go through another night, but I was ordered to have some sleep. And when I woke up after 10 mins, I was told to sleep some more. Another 30 minutes and the volunteer was standing over for my wake up call. I had slept with my hood up and had dribbled a puddle of saliva inside it.
After getting sorted, I used the facilities (an actual sit down toilet - bliss!) and caught myself in the mirror. I barely recognised myself. My face was so swollen and my eyes were so puffy, I couldn’t even see my eyelashes. If I hadn’t already made a complete spectacle of myself at that checkpoint, I got myself locked in a toilet. After what seemed like an eternity of shouting, four men used a large knife to unlock the snib from the outside. I left fairly sharp after that.
The cold night had really ruined my lungs and I couldn’t stop coughing. Even running on the flats was a big effort as my legs felt like lead and pack seemed to have doubled in weight. But I forced myself to run, mainly through sheer panic of having to go into another cold night.
Hiking up, I started counting to 21 over and over again. Cairn’s birthday is January 21, so it seemed like a good number to focus on. Despite being drained of energy and enthusiasm I couldn’t help marvel at how beautiful everything was. I was still taking photos, so that proves that I was absolutely FINE.
I passed Merdeux and the climb became more arduous. I stopped in a Rifugio Frassati fairly swiftly downed a few cups of coke and got going again.
With all the snow fall, the ground was really slippy, slushy and muddy. It was hard to stay upright on the path. Going uphill was one step forward and two slides back. I was getting braver with the cows (I have a big fear of cows) on the course and walked straight through a herd of them without so much as a second thought. It may have been courage or a blatant disregard for my life. Bit awkward though as one cow was being mounted at the time. And I’m not entirely sure she was up for it.
Up to the last and one of the highest peaks on the course at Col Malatra. I knew the final push involved a rope climb, which was a riot. You know the monkeys from Jungle Book? That was me. Swinging about trying to hold on to the rope, find my footing and clutch my poles in my other hand at the same time. There are many better ways I could have approached. The family behind me, who were praying I didn’t fall on top of them, took this picture of me and kindly emailed it.
There was a real muddy descent, which found me on my arse a few times. At the next checkpoint, which had the enthusiastic bell ringer from Tourmalin I was told I had 15km to go. I expected there to be another almighty climb, but there was only a short ascent and then it was all downhill. Which was great, but there no sense of urgency from me. For most the week, I’d completely forgotten I was in a ‘race’. I stopped to speak to people, had a sit down to have a drink and enjoy the view. I helped some young girls who asked for directions. Lord knows where I sent them. I even phoned Marco to find out where I was. That seemed perfectly legit to me.
Down through the valley, I couldn’t stop coughing. My lungs hurt so bad and my head ached. Reluctant to take any painkillers, I thought I would stop for a lie down and close my eyes. After what seems like a few minutes, I opened my eyes to see a family standing over me looking very concerned about my state. I tried to explain the race, but they weren’t aware of it. I got up staggering, mumbling and confirmed I was ok slurring something about just being a little tired. Covered in mud from previous falls, I definitely looked homeless.
I was so close to the end, but I couldn’t push myself. My legs didn’t hurt, they were just tired. And brain couldn’t talk to my legs, so everything felt wired up wrong. I jogged a bit, coughed a lot and fast hiked. Just don’t stop I told myself over and over again. Many times that day I was convinced I was in Scotland. In my head, I ‘knew’ I’d been there before and spent ages trying to remember who I was with.
And then there it was. Courmayeur. I was back again. I’d made it. I burst out crying. Basically the theme of the race was only to cry when I was happy. With tired legs, it’s a good hour from Bertone downhill on the switchbacks. Counting to 21 over and over again to try and keep some sort of jogging rhythm going. Smiling at everyone who cheered for me, even though it cracked my sunburnt lips every time.
Closer to the town, Sarah McCormack (Irish Queen of hotpants) appeared in her usual effortless bounding style. She said I didn’t have long to go and Paul was waiting at the finish line. I hit some roads and then through some parks before joining the pedestrian area in the town. My lungs were screaming but I couldn’t walk now, I had to save face. Someone shouted that I had 1km to go and I didn’t think my lungs would hold out for long. I passed the familiar shops and restaurants, a sea of blurry smiling faces and the sound of cowbells. I could see Marco, and Cairn was in the middle of path poised ready to run with me. Then I was over the yellow runway to the end. Job done in 127 hours. Which I hope is not an omen, as I don’t fancy chopping off my arm with a penknife. I never knew at any point where I was in the race, but I finished 18th female (I think) and 162 overall. Nearly 900 started and 461 finished.
I doubt I will do many things in life that could possibly compare to the Tor des Géants. It was an amazing experience. There were moments I felt I was just torturing myself, but I never wanted to stop. The drive to finish overpowered everything. Prior to the race, I always thought this was going to be a personal challenge and a solo adventure, but I was never alone. From the people I met in the race, the supporters out on the course, the volunteers who sorted me out when I got in a right mess, to the dot watchers back home, so many people played a big part in my journey. I’m truly thankful to everyone.
The aftermath wasn’t as painful as expected, but the swelling I had was immense. I can’t quite describe the fatigue and hunger I had in the week after. It was like having necropsy and worms, whilst my head was in La La Land.
Maybe one day I will return. For me, it’s one of those races you need to do once to learn how to deal with the enormity of it and then go back and approach it differently. I’ve never had to deal with sleep deprivation before, but I know now why it’s a recognised form of torture. Managing sleep comes with experience. Despite only ever wanting to finish, I’m over-thinking all the things I did wrong. But it is what it is. I’m a Géant. That’s what.
Special thanks to Montane for planting this seed, the opportunity to be a part of something truly magnificent and all the great kit.
Tor des Geants (TDG) is a 338km footrace around the Aosta Valley in the Italian Alps and is held in September each year. It has an advertised cumulative ascent of 24,000 metres, but this year everyone’s GPS trackers registered about 31,000 metres! The bulk of the 850 starters take the guts of a week to complete the full route, while the speed demons tend to take approximately 3 days. Here are the observations from TDG first-timer Paul Tierney, for whom it was by far the longest race he’s ever done.
The TDG race can be broken into 7 distinct sections, each punctuated by a life-base. These life bases were usually about 50k apart and located in larger towns or villages, where you had access to your drop bag and help from your crew. It was a help when trying to break down the enormity of the task to think about the race as smaller chunks that needed to be negotiated one at a time.
We drove out to the Alps 10 days before the race start and stayed in Argentiere, near Chamonix, so we were able to soak up the UTMB (Ultra-Trail du Mont-Blanc) atmosphere and watch some friends competing. Getting out there this early allowed me to hike/run up some big climbs and acclimatise to our very different surroundings.
My training had gone fairly well since January, apart from a stubborn medial knee ligament tear I’d sustained at the end of 2016 sometimes rearing its head. Incidentally, it never bothered me throughout TDG. Training consisted of plenty of long days in the Lake District fells, usually aiming for a more convoluted, steep approach to summits in the hope of racking up as much ascent as I could realistically manage. I tested kit, mentally steeled myself to what I was about to go through and accepted that over such a long event, something was bound to go wrong. Accepting this allowed me to be in a much better frame of mind when the inevitable happened.
The event seems to be embraced by everyone in the valley and there was a real buzz at the race start in Courmayeur on the Sunday morning. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have doubts before the start. Could I manage to run twice as far as I’d ever done before? What about the ridiculous amount of ascent and descent? Would I cope with the sleep deprivation and would the pesky knee injury affect my performance? But I also had no other goal than to finish. It was a learning experience and I’d have to get through the first few days before I could even consider letting my competitive side dictate matters.
SUNSTROKE, NAUSEA AND A DEATH MARCH
I was late getting in the queue to be scanned into the start pen and so I was almost at the back of 850 eager runners when the start count was given by the guy on the tannoy, helped by a very enthusiastic crowd lining the narrow Courmayeur streets. And so we were off. I mentioned something inevitably going wrong in such a long event. Well, it only took me an hour to realise my stupidity at not remembering to wear a cap. I’d gone and got my hair shaved quite tightly in Chamonix a few days before the start and now the sun was beaming down on my shiny scalp and slowly tenderising it! I was trying not to worry about it and luckily after about 5 or 6 hours, while running with Neil Bryant, I mentioned how silly I’d been to not remember said cap. Without hesitation, Neil said he had a spare in his pack and I was welcome to it. So that stroke of luck probably limited the damage which had already been done.
Having ticked off the first 50k I got to the life-base in Valgrisenche and changed into some warmer kit for the first night. I tried not to spend too long there, so had a quick meal and change of clothes, then set off into the dark for my first night on the route. The fried feeling I’d had from the sun began to get exacerbated by the warmer clothing and I started to overheat. It was quite difficult to regulate my body temperature because the air temperatures had plummeted, but while moving and suffering from mild sunstroke, I just couldn’t get comfortable. This led to a queasy feeling and an inability to so much as look at food. Even water made me want to vomit.
I had been hoping not to sleep during the first night of the race, but I took an hour’s lie down in the little checkpoint of Rhemes Notre Dame, then embarked on a death march all the way to Eaux Rousses at 85k, which consisted of a monster climb up to Col Entrelor at 3,002 metres and then the inevitably long, switchback-ridden descent. By the time I reached the checkpoint I resigned myself to needing another hour’s lie down in the desperate hope of salvaging my race.
When I woke I didn’t really feel much better but it was now daylight on Monday morning and that alone was a small pick-me-up for my body. The next climb was an even bigger monster – 2,000m of continuous climb – to the highest point of the course at Col du Loson, some 3,300 metres above sea level. Luckily I had some company in the form of Team GB ultra runner Debbie Martin-Consani who had passed me at some point while I was asleep. We chatted as we climbed ever higher and I was informed afterwards that I was a bit moany! I think I was just perplexed at how there could be so many switchbacks on one climb, and whether the race organisers measured these and took them into account in the overall distance. I was beginning to think they’d just measured in a straight line!
After an equally long and ball-breaking descent from 3,300 metres down to 1,500 metres I arrived at the second life-base at Cogne, 100km in. Here I met my support in the form of my girlfriend, Sarah, and fellow Ambleside AC runner Joe Mann. I was able to change some kit, get a good meal of pasta, cured meat and cheese… and even a swig of beer. I was starting to perk up now and feel that I’d come out the other side of my rough patch.
The real heat of the second day was starting to dissipate as the evening set in. This next section wasn’t going to take quite as long as the previous one, with one big climb up to 2,900 metres and then a full 30km downhill all the way to Donnas at the lowest point on the course at 300 metres. In reality it wasn’t constantly downhill and when it was going down, it usually did so in a very gradual manner. But because I’d built this up to be a potentially leg-smashing section, in the end it was a nice change. I even found time to feed a cat some cured meat at one of the smaller checkpoints! Two to four of these smaller checkpoints were located between each of the bigger life-bases, and they were often the most refreshing and uplifting places to stop. Usually in much more remote areas than the life-bases, the little checkpoints in Alpine refuges were very welcoming and friendly stops and often had the best food of all.
View from Col Fenêtre di Champorcher at dusk before the long descent to Donnas.
When I arrived in Donnas, I had a rest and one-hour lie down so that I was able to break up the second night, leaving only about an hour more of darkness before daybreak on Tuesday morning. For me, having little things like that to look forward to helped to keep me in a positive frame of mind, and the sun coming up sort of signalled to my body it was time to wake up. I’d also started to make back some of the places I’d lost during that bad spell and this further boosted my confidence. It was around that point that I’d mentioned to Sarah that I knew I’d finish. I think my exact words were “I’m going to f£&k this f£&king race up now!”
I now had a really enjoyable section during the day on Tuesday. Every time you popped over a col you were met by a whole new landscape and it was just enough to keep me interested all the time. There was no getting bored on this race. The route took us right to the outer reaches of the Alps. As we made our way to the top of the ridge that would eventually bring us to Refugio Coda, I was surprised to see a flat expanse of land as far as the eye could see in the direction of Turin. Of course, the trail then swung back to the left almost immediately and towards the lumpier Alpine ground again.
I paused for 10 minutes at the little checkpoint at Niel, where I was treated to a big bowl of local polenta in gravy and a double espresso. I now just had a big climb and descent between me and the 4th life-base at Gressoney. Eventually I reached the top and as I began to descend it felt like I was back in the Lake District with the softer underfoot conditions reminding me of the fells. Suddenly I was greeted by fellow Lake District fell runner Mark Roberts (Borrowdale), who was on holiday in the Alps for a few weeks and had gone out for an evening jog in the hope of spotting me. It really was like the fells now! It was great to see him and we had a good chat for a few minutes until he sprang back down to Gressoney ahead of me.
Descending towards Niel at approximately 185km
On this section I’d met Dimitrios, a very chatty Greek runner who kept me entertained for a few hours with his infectious good humour and seemingly boundless energy. I asked him at one point how the hell he managed to talk so much this far into the race without completely knackering himself. He saw the funny side of it and it was great to laugh at the time and ease the pain and tiredness somewhat.
I reached Gressoney in the last of the evening light and immediately prepared myself for night number three by eating some pasta, ham and cheese. I went and got a quick massage on a few tender spots (my left quad and shin were starting to scream at me). I lay down for a sleepless 20 minutes. On ‘waking’ I made some last minute kit changes but decided not to change my shoes which I had felt certain I would need to do by this stage of the race. I was wearing inov-8 X-TALON 200, which is a shoe I love and do most of my Lake District training. I enjoy the wide fit, brilliant grip and durable upper, but I think it raised a few eyebrows that I was wearing them for this race. Very heavily cushioned shoes were the ‘in’ thing and I’d guess that around 70% of participants were wearing this type of shoe. However, because I do so much of my training in shoes from the X-TALON range, my feet never caused an issue, apart from the obvious achiness that you’d expect after 3 days of racing. I had one tiny blister hardly worth mentioning by the time I’d finished and was able to jog again within 24 hours, which to me was a vindication for my shoe choice.
I was slightly worried about the lack of sleep affecting me over this next section as it was now well and truly dark and my total sleep of approximately three hours in the last 60 of racing was going to start hurting eventually. So at the refuge of Crest, about 2 hours later, I decided to grab 20 minutes sleep after being treated to what must have been one of the best-stocked checkpoints of the whole race, and it wasn’t even an official one. The spread they’d laid on wouldn’t have been out of place at a 5 star hotel’s breakfast buffet. Another double espresso buoyed my efforts for the next few hours, but even that couldn’t stop me cursing the seemingly endless next section to Valtourneche.
The climbs just seemed to go on and on and on and just when I thought I was nearing the top I’d spot a headtorch in the distance heading away from the col in a different, much longer and higher direction! I topped out at Col di Nana but still had some up and downs before the long drop to the life-base. I was so tired by the time I reached it that I mistook it for the start line of the Tot Dret race (130km sister race of Tor) which was actually 30k back the track in Gressoney. So I kept going past the life-base in the direction of the arrows a few hundred yards up the street. Just then Sarah and Joe pulled up in the van – coming down the hill to meet me in the life-base – and couldn’t understand why I’d spent so little time in the checkpoint, which in turn confused the hell out of me. When the penny dropped I cursed my stupidity and trudged back to the marquee that housed the feed station.
Inside I noticed Stephanie Case sat on one of the benches, looking like she was in a bit of difficulty. If I’m honest, and I don’t think she’d mind me saying, I thought she was about to pull out. She was coughing, wheezing and looked to be in a lot of pain. I was definitely suffering at this point but from a slightly twisted, selfish standpoint this gave me a bit of a lift. I knew Stephanie had finished in 12th position overall last year and it hit me that if someone of her standing was going through that tough a time then I was doing ok and had a great chance of getting to the finish. At the same time I felt for her because she looked absolutely knackered! So while I fully expected that her race had been run and felt bad for her, I knew there wasn’t much to be gained by asking how she was. So I hobbled into the main building to get a quick massage and to try to sleep for a bit. On my return, Stephanie was gone, so I presumed she had indeed packed it in. I quickly got myself ready and left Valtourneche at about 9am to begin my fourth day of running.
The first mile or so was very slow going as I tried to loosen up a bit. This next section was a bit different to what had gone before because it was made up of slightly shorter climbs but contained more of them. The profile looked like it was rolling terrain. In reality it was a series of big climbs that kept us hovering around 2,000 – 2,500 metres for the next 50k. After a particularly scenic section of running I made the long descent to Cuney refuge where I noticed Gabriel Szerda, an Australian runner (and former Olympic wrestler!) who I’d ran a little with on day one, in his civvies. He’d sustained a calf injury earlier in the race and unfortunately he’d had to stop. It was good to see him though and we chatted on the way into the refuge. Gab was friendly with Stephanie so he’d come to see her as she passed through. I was about to tell him she’d dropped out when to my surprise, there she was, sat inside having a short rest. I couldn’t believe she’d managed to keep going but at the same time I was really impressed she had.
Her support very kindly offered me some pizza and I got a beer from the woman in charge of the refuge. By now Gilberto, a Spaniard with whom I’d exchanged positions over the last section, arrived. He was full of chat and really loud, which was a nice boost. I gave him the other half of my beer which changed his expression to that of a kid on Christmas morning and he knocked it back without hesitation.
BRAIN TURNS TO MUSH AND ALL CIVILITY IS LOST
After an age, and another load of climbing, I reached the small checkpoint of Oyace on Wednesday evening, where Sarah and Joe were waiting. There was just one more big climb and descent before the last life-base in Ollomont. This was the first time Sarah seemed to be concerned by my demeanor. She told me afterwards that she felt sorry for the little kids outside the checkpoint who were shouting ‘bravo’ and hoping for a high-five from me while I ran past cursing. I barely registered they were there while I tried to work out how to get past all the tape that was blocking my entry. I’d actually just totally missed all the signs directing me through a gap in the tape, which was meant to help funnel me into the checkpoint entrance. My brain was now mush and this innocuous situation was really annoying me. I proceeded to be fairly rude to the nice lady offering assistance in the checkpoint and just shook my head when she asked if I would like any food.
I lay down on a bench and cursed those individuals who had measured the previous section. I simply refused to believe it was accurate. After a few more expletive ridden sentences I was up and out the door, eager to just get to Ollomont and get some sleep. The light was now fading and I struggled up through the tree-lined trail, nothing short of sleepwalking. It reminded me of one of those times where you can feel yourself falling asleep while driving. It was a horrible feeling. But I knew I still had at least 45 minutes to an hour of moving before the life-base and I really didn’t want to lie down on the side of the trail for fear of not waking up again! Obviously I wasn’t thinking very rationally at that point.
About three quarters of the way up the climb I met three jolly volunteers at a makeshift checkpoint. My mood certainly hadn’t improved at this point and I felt like punching one of them when he kept pestering me to sit on the seat provided instead of the ledge on the side of the hut where I was. Of course he was only trying to help but I’d lost all civility at that point, after about 84 hours on the go. The descent to Ollomont started off very steep and technical before giving way to more runnable terrain. As usual it seemed to go on way longer than it should have. Seeing the lights of Ollomont below made it all the more frustrating. A common theme during each night section was thinking I was almost at the bottom of a descent, only to be hit with switchback after switchback and the lights in the distance never really getting any closer.
At Ollomont I ate some chunks of roast potato, ham and pasta sauce before getting a quick massage and then climbing into one of the cots in the sleeping area. My left shin was now on fire and the pain extended up the IT band on the same side. I wondered how I’d manage to run when I woke up. I slept from midnight until 1am. Sure enough, things only felt worse after readying myself to leave. At this point I was finding it hard to think clearly, and I very nearly left a few items of mandatory kit in the checkpoint. Sarah and Joe helped me get packed up and sorted at each of the checkpoints, as well as made me protein shakes and reminded me to take salt tablets. Having a crew to think for you is a big asset and time-saver, particularly in the later stages of the race when sleep deprivation is taking its toll.
This next section had some flatter running in it (after another big climb), and I was surprised by how I fell back into running again, albeit quite slowly. The last big climb was now approaching and so too was dawn. But first I stopped at St. Rhemy en Bosses for a quick nap, having had to slap myself around the face and sing aloud to try and stave off the sleep monsters. The weather had been really clear and sunny up to this point and apart from being a little colder at night, it really was about as good as I could have hoped for. But it was changing and had begun to spit rain. The clouds were gathering ominously above Col Malatra at 3,000 metres in the distance.
By the time I’d reach the Frizatti Refuge, it was snowing lightly and I decided to take no chances with another few hundred metres of climbing so I donned some warmer kit and got my new inov-8 PROTEC SHELL waterproof jacket (see video below) out along with inov-8 RACEPANT waterproof trousers. I now felt less exposed in my battered state.
The climb to the col went better than expected and I was met by driving wind and snow as I came through the top. This was a bittersweet moment. There was no doubt in my mind with only 15km left that I was going to finish, but there was still a hard few hours to negotiate. And although people who have done the race in the past say this is the last climb, there was in fact another few bumps to get over. I had managed to follow the flags and not get lost for the last 95 hours, but as I got to the TMB trail and the finish was in touching distance, the flags suddenly became very scarce.
Sarah had just rang to warn me about going the wrong way after the two people ten minutes in front of me had missed the markers and ended up at Bonatti refuge, mistaking it for their intended target – Bertone refuge. I finally managed to confirm I was on the right path, with the help of TWO American hikers and made my way safely to the very last checkpoint. As I turned to begin my descent, Sarah was running towards me, shouting hysterically ‘yaaaay, you’re in 25th position, woooooohooooo, Tierney! 25th place in Tor des Geants, yaaaaay!’ I didn’t have the strength to laugh but it was quite amusing. Fed up with the act of putting one foot in front of the other, I now tried to put in a last big effort down the rocky, tree root strewn trail so I could just stop and not have to move anymore.
Who put that ramp there?!
Around 35 minutes later I crossed the line in a rain soaked Courmayeur after 99 hours and 9 minutes on the go. I was happy, but probably too tired to really express it. I sat down near the speakers and big screen, got a beer off Joe and felt a very deep sense of satisfaction wash over me. No whooping and hollering needed. Just pizza, beer and a long sleep!
Tor des Geants was a race I never thought I’d want to do twice. It was a box to be ticked and then move on. Of course the inevitable has happened and I’m already thinking about next year!
* Paul Tierney is a running coach and sports massage therapist based in the Lake District. He and his partner Sarah McCormack run Missing Link Coaching. He has twice represented Ireland at the World Ultra Trail Championships and was the 2015 Lakeland 100 Mile race winner.
Coming into this race I felt great. Training had been going well and I was really looking for a good result. It would be the first time I had raced against such strong competition and I wanted to see how I would fare against some of the countries best ultra runners on what promised to be a very testing course.
The Salomon Ben Nevis Ultra™ journey includes remote runnable tracks, technical single track, airy trackless ridges and some connecting remote mountain roads. Truly, this course is for the boldest all-round ultra-runners.
73 miles across the Scottish Highlands and featuring the biggest climb in the UK. It proved to be a tough course
After an injury-free year, I somehow managed to pull my hamstring on Tuesday before the race on an easy run around Swinsty and Fewston reservoir with Victoria. A few days of frantic stretching and rolling seemed to cure the problem. This would turn out to be just temporary though.
We decided to stay in Fort Augustus the night before rather than having to get up at stupid o’clock for the bus from Kinlochleven to the start. After tea at The Lock Inn, which is highly recommended if you are ever in the area, we went back to the room where I sorted my stuff out for the day ahead and tried to get an early night.
Just before 6am we lined up in the dark on the edge of Loch Ness ready to face whatever the Scottish Highlands could throw at us. I had no real plans for the race other than to just go at my own pace and see what happened. In the back of my mind I was looking to finish top 5 but with such a strong field I knew this would be tough. Still, you can but try.
Start of the Salomon Ben Nevis Ultra with Kirk Hardwick. Photo Credit: Emma Hardwick
FORT AUGUSTUS – BRAE ROY
As expected Donnie Campbell shot off at the front and set the pace early on. I set off at a comfortable pace and settled into a good rhythm without pushing myself too hard. If it meant I could stay with the leaders then great, if not then I would just let them go and run my own race.
After a mile or so the route took a left turn and started the long climb up to Corrieyairack Pass. Someone had decided to wild camp right in the middle of the path so they must have got a bit of a rude awakening when 150 runners thundered past.
As the dawn started breaking the Scottish Highlands were revealed to us and the views were pretty spectacular, especially looking back over to Loch Ness and Fort Augustus. I was starting to relax and enjoy the running and was looking forward to the day ahead.
I checked the pace on my watch, it was quick but my breathing was good and I wasn’t gasping for air or pushing hard so just go with I thought.
On the last section of the climb up to the pass, eventual 2nd place finisher Casper Kaars Sijpesteijn and I fell into pace with each other and reached the pass together. One of three big climbs of the day in the bag. I was really enjoying myself at this stage and just loving being somewhere I had never been before.
Deep in the Highlands, not sure where exactly but running well at this point. Photo Credit: Lake District Images
The next section down to the first checkpoint at Melgrave was so much fun and really quick. There seemed to be endless long flowing switchbacks followed by a really nice fast straight. I was loving this section, it was so much fun all the way down to the first checkpoint.
From Melgrave there was a short section of decent path and then we were plunged into the first of the two bog sections.
The very wet summer had made the bogs extra boggy and it wasn’t long before I took my first waist deep plunge into Scotlands finest bog. I pulled myself out and set off squelching through the Scottish countryside. The course was certainly varied so far and living up to expectations of it being a tough race over varied terrain.
A few more waist deep bogs and river crossings and were back on a good track and off towards the first support point at Brae Roy. Donnie had long since disappeared but I could see Mike Jones up ahead pulling away slightly but not by much. Maybe I was running a bit quick!
BRAE ROY – NEVIS RANGE
I came into Brae Roy in 5th place I think, a quick stop to refill my bottles and I was off again. I was pleased with how I was running. Donnie, Mike and a few others had disappeared off into the distance by now but I resisted the temptation to try and chase after them. It was still a long way to go and I didn’t want to run out of steam before the finish.
Filling up at Brae Roy checkpoint. I’m hoping that’s a cheese and pickle sandwich in my mouth otherwise I think I need some dental work. Photo credit: Emma Hardwick
At Brae Roy the course doubles back on itself and you could see the other runners on the opposite side of the bank before we turned away from the river and started the climb up to Tom Mor pass. I made the decision to have a walking break to take on some food and just readjust a few things with my kit.
Casper caught and passed me at this point so once I sorted my stuff out I got moving again and spent the next few miles skipping through the bogs with Casper.
At one point we lost sight of the course markers and decided that it must cross the deep, fast flowing river in front of us only to cross the river and look back to see the markers heading up a banking on the other side of the river to a bridge crossing the river we had just waded through. Great!
Casper started to pull away after this and then I went over funny in one of the boggy sections and tweaked my hamstring. Bloody hell did it hurt. I was hoping I would be able to run it off otherwise it wasn’t going to be much fun for the next 50 miles.
I took a few moments to check myself out and carried on. Every time I lifted my leg I got a shooting pain through my hamstring and into my glutes. Not brilliant when you still have miles of Scottish bogs to negotiate.
Nothing else for it, you’re just going to have to try and forget about it until you get to Kinlochleven I thought. I hoped it might just ease off. My pace notes did say in big bold letters at the top ‘Ignore Pain’ and although this wasn’t the type of pain I was expecting to be ignoring it was pain nonetheless so I tried to ignore it as best I could and pushed on.
A few more miles of painful bog trotting and the checkpoint at Inverlair came into view down below. After a slippery descent through bracken, I was over the A86 and dibbing in at the checkpoint and off towards the Nevis Range where I would meet Victoria and my Dad who were supporting me and get a resupply of food and water.
The next section was difficult for me, just miles of forest fire road and farmers tracks. Sections like this are a big weak point for me and it’s something I need to work on in the offseason with Jayson Cavill. I get bored, my mind wanders and I forget that I’m in a race and don’t push on as hard as I should. Still, it was the same for everyone so I tried to stay focused and keep going.
My leg was really hurting now, especially on the uphills where I was struggling to push off with any sort of power. Thoughts turned to what lay ahead and I couldn’t help but think Ben Nevis wasn’t going to be a barrel of laughs for me today. I kept looking over my shoulder expecting people to start passing me but they didn’t so my pace must have been ok to that point.
I’m not usually one for painkillers at any time but I would have given anything for a packet of aspirin. I got my phone out and tried calling Victoria hoping she might be able to pick some up and get them to me at the Nevis Range range checkpoint. No answer so I sent her a text hoping she would get it in time.
I finished the last of my water in my bottles and was starting to get dehydrated. No problem I thought, there’s plenty of water about I’ll just fill up at the next stream. Problem was that the next stream was in a sheep field and I didn’t fancy a lump of sheep shit in my bottle so I carried on, thinking I would be able to fill up soon.
Each time I came across a stream I convinced myself it was too close to a house or livestock or it had been flowing for too long down the mountainside so could be contaminated. Maybe (definitely) I was being too cautious and should have just filled up, the dehydration was certainly slowing my pace but I just didn’t have the confidence in the water supplies not to give me something far worse. Probably shows my naivety more than anything. The water would probably have been the freshest and purest I could ever have drunk.
Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity I came round a corner in the woods to see the Nevis Range gondola rising up from the forest below. I gingerly tiptoed down the side of the Fort William Mountain Bike World Cup track and rolled up to the aid station where Victoria had quite a spread laid up for me.
“Did you get my message?”
“Yes, but we didn’t have time to pick any up so we’ll have to get you them for the next checkpoint” came the reply.
Not the answer I was hoping for but I didn’t exactly give them much time to sort anything.
“You’re doing great, 5th place at the moment and not too far behind 4th”
I was surprised that I was still within 15 – 20 mins of 4th place at this point. Maybe I wasn’t as slow on the last section as I thought. The problem was the next section was the climb up Ben Nevis and along the CMD Arete and I was struggling climbing on forest tracks so it wasn’t looking good for this section.
NEVIS RANGE – GLEN NEVIS
I had recced the course from this point onwards so knew what was coming. A couple of miles of forest tracks lead to the start of the climb up to the CMD Arete and the summit of Ben Nevis. I should have run this section but I decided to try and give my leg a rest and walked the majority of it. I had also drunk far too much water at the aid station and it was now sloshing around my stomach. Rookie mistake, I took a salt tablet hoping it would solve the problem.
I reached the deer fence and headed out onto the single track path towards the left fork that would take us back into another bog and up to the bit everyone was looking forward to The CMD Arete.
Starting the climb and I could see the 4th place runner a few hundred metres above me and maybe 15mins in front. I can have him I thought to myself, this is where I should be strong and make up time. I’m usually pretty good on the long drawn out climbs. I just get my head down and get on with it. Nothing else to do really but suffer it out as quickly as possible.
About 50 metres further up the climb that today just wasn’t going to be my day. I just couldn’t push with my left leg and I was getting shooting pains in my hamstring and into my glutes everytime it hit the floor or got pulled by the bogs. I might as well have hopped up to the summit of Ben Nevis for all the use my leg was.
The climb up to the Arete is really steep. It’s pretty boggy for the first half and it then gives way to a harder packed track which made going a bit easier but it’ rocky. Not ideal conditions for someone with a bum leg.
I looked back and could see another runner closing on me as I slowly made my way up through the bogs but I couldn’t do anything about it. My mind wanted to fight for the position but my body just wasn’t playing. My pace was soul destroying and as I climbed into clag I lost my first position of the day. Just keep going as best you can I kept telling myself. The temperature started to drop so I stopped and put my jacket and gloves. No point in getting hypothermia as well!
The temperature started to drop so I stopped and put on my jacket and gloves. No point in getting hypothermia as well!
Eventually, I came to the summit of Carn Morg Dearg, 1220m above sea level, and saw the checkpoint. As I approached a hand holding a dibber was thrust out of a tent and I dibbed in. The marshals throughout the event were great but those that spent the day and most of the night at the summit of the UK’s highest mountain deserve extra special respect. Without them these races just couldn’t go ahead so to spend so much time exposed to the elements is incredible.
In my recce just a few weeks earlier I had breezed up this climb without too much effort. Today was another story, I had to fight for every step and every metre of height gained. It wasn’t how I planned this section but as with all races plans and expectations, they can and will change so you just have to adapt and deal with the bad times and get on with it.
The Arete wasn’t much fun either. I was struggling to lift my leg to get over the rocks and boulders on the ridge and I fell a few times as a result. On the bright side, I didn’t trip and plummet off the side towards an almost certain death so I take that as a positive.
I did, however, fall and crack my right knee again. It’s becoming a common occurrence in races that I have to finish with my right knee covered in blood and hurting and boy did it hurt for a few minutes. I’m fairly certain I let out a scream as it smashed against the rock.
I went to see a physio after the race about my hamstring and his first comment upon seeing my scabby knee again was ‘You really don’t like that knee, do you? It’s only just healed from the last time you smashed it up’. Think out of fairness I’m going to have to start falling on my left knee in future or better yet stop falling over. That’s another thing to work on over the winter with Jayson. I’ve been doing some running and ladder drills in the last month or so and they are certainly helping but as with everything there’s room for more improvement.
Struggling with my leg at this point but the views more than made up for it. Photo Credit: Zac Poulton
Mia Rai and Andy McConnell came past me towards the end of the Arete which I wasn’t too happy about but there wasn’t much I could do about it. Just the rock scramble to go and I would be at the summit and then it was all downhill to the next checkpoint and a with any luck a handful of aspirin.
The rock scramble proved to be the sting in the tail of the climb and I just struggled. I couldn’t lift my leg to get up and over the rocks. It’s bloody steep and I just struggled to get up it at a good pace. On the plus side, the sun had made an appearance and it was turning into a lovely evening with great views. There were certainly worse places to be in the world and this took my mind off things for a while.
As I reached the summit of Ben Nevis and dibbed in one of the marshalls asked me how I was feeling, “Broken” I grunted back “Not really though are?” came the reply. I think I muttered something like “Not physically but mentally I am” and with that, I trotted off towards the long and rocky descent off Ben Nevis. Another thing to work on over the winter is my mental toughness. I can keep myself going forward but I need to be able to pull myself out of the dark times more effectively and get myself moving again.
Going down was just as painful as going up and I was making slow progress gingerly picking my way between the walkers and the rocks. It’s not the most technical descent but it is long and you have to concentrate not to make a mistake and tumble. My leg was making my progress much slower than I was hoping for and I was passed by a couple more people before the end. Still just look at those views, it was a beautiful evening to be on Ben Nevis.
Just as I was getting into the checkpoint I heard a shout “Come on Jason move your arse” It was Victoria and she wasn’t very happy about me losing all those places since I last saw her. I’ve always told her to be tough on me in these races and tough she is. I got some stern words whilst I sorted myself out ready for the final push to Kinlochleven. She told me afterwards that a couple had told her off for being too harsh on me which made me laugh. I’ve told her she should take up motivational speaking. She has no-nonsense, you wanted to do this so get your arse moving style which is exactly what you need.
GLEN NEVIS – KINLOCHLEVEN
I shoved a couple of aspirins down my throat and we walked out together towards the West Highland Way and the final 10 miles so she could give me a good a pep talk which basically amounted to “Just f**king run will you”.
There’s a fire road climb out of Glen Nevis onto the WHW and I walked this section hoping that by the time I reached the top the aspirins would have kicked in and I could run relatively pain-free to the finish. A few more runners came past on this section.
Nearing the top of the climb in the distance I saw a group of about 6 black kittens playing together. Bit weird them being out here but as I got closer it turned out to be an old car bumper that someone had left. Great, hallucinating as well I thought to myself.
At the top of the climb the aspirin had finally kicked in and for the first time in what seemed like forever I started running again at a reasonable pace.
The trail is quite undulating until the penultimate checkpoint at Lundavra with a few short sharp climbs but quite good fun. I was starting to enjoy myself again and pleased I was starting to make a little bit of forward progress.
Whatever you do don’t lose any more places I kept telling myself. I had no idea what place I was in but I knew I must have been out of the top 10 by now.
It wasn’t long after dibbing in at Lundavra that it started to get dark and I had to get my headtorch out. Thankfully I decided to pack my Petzl Nao rather than my Tikka which I originally planned to carry to save a few grams of weight confident that I would be finishing in daylight. A wise move it turned out.
After Lundavra the West Highland Way turns into a wider track although it is covered in loose rocks making foot placing important. It wasn’t long before, in my tired state, I stumbled a few times after misplacing my foot and the pain in my hamstring started to return. 5 minutes later and it was as though it never left and my progress slowed considerably.
Come on keep going I kept telling myself, you can’t have more than 4 – 5 miles to go. I had a look round and could see a headtorch about 5 minutes behind. I passed an old derelict farmhouse which I recognised from the recce and knew I was getting close to the finish and it was pretty much all downhill from there. I looked around again, the headtorch was definitely getting closer. Keep going I said to myself as I hobbled off into the darkness.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the course markers pointed us down the single track that would spit me out back in Kinlochleven and the finish line.
Halfway down I saw lights dancing around and bright red lines, almost like lazer beams, coming out from the trees in front of me. What the f**k is that I thought, I was either hallucinating again or was about to be abducted by aliens. As I got closer it turned out to be just a marshal taping up some of the course with reflective tape. Panic over, there would be no probing for me that night!
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity I came out of the woods onto the road just outside Kinlochleven, just another minute of running and I would be done.
Finally crossing the finish line at Kinlochleven in a time of 15:39:59 for 12th place.
Finally, I crossed the finish line in 12th place after 15hours 39minutes and 59seconds (full results here). Not the result I was hoping for but I’m very proud to have finished on what proved to be an incredibly tough course that beat a lot of better runners than me. The main thing is that I finished and I will now qualify for the Skyrunner series overall after finishing the required 3 out of 4 races required.
The course was incredibly tough and without a doubt, it was a great all round test of running ability. From fast runnable tracks to long sections of bogs and big long, steep climbs it definitely had it all. The more I look back and reflect the more I like the course. It was perhaps the toughest single day ultra course in the UK and really separated the men and women from the boys and girls.
I would be interested to hear what others thought about it now they have had time to mull things over.
Next year I’ll hopefully return to Scotland and take on the main event of the weekend The Glencoe Skyline.
THANKS
Victoria for just being amazing and meeting me at the checkpoints and giving me the tough talk that I need when things got low.
My coach Jayson Cavill for getting me fit enough to tackle these events and for all the help and advice.
The marshalls who spent their day out in the Highlands of Scotlands. The race couldn’t have happened without you.
Shane Ohly and his team for putting the event on in the first place and providing an incredibly testing course.
It is almost 4pm on Saturday and I have just arrived at Arnouvaz in Valle d’Aosta in the Italian Alps. This is the 95.6km checkpoint in the UTMB. The last few muddy miles of descent have left me reeling. I know what is coming next – the ascent to the highest point on the course, Grand Col Ferrett at 2,529 meters. I have no idea how on earth I am going to manage it. As I walk into the Checkpoint, there is a desk marked as “abandonment”. I want more than anything to walk over to that desk, hand over my race number and declare “Oui, oui, oui, abandonment, s’il vous plait”. Within minutes I would be sitting, dozing on a warm minibus waiting to taken back to Chamonix. But something inside won’t let me do that. I may be cold, fatigued and achy but I’m not injured and I still have a reasonable margin on the cut offs. My family and I have sacrificed so much to put me on the start line of this race and to give me the opportunity to achieve my dream of completing the UTMB. Would I really throw that away now because I’m a bit cold and a bit sleepy?
Part one – France to Italy
A little over 22 hours earlier and I’m standing on the start line of the Ultra Trail Du Mont Blanc in Chamonix. This race has been joint top of my bucket list (along with Western States 100) for several years. Standing alongside 2,500 runners, I reflect back on the last few years of running and how each of my successes and failures has led me here to this. Every successful race has boosted my confidence enough to make me believe that I am good enough to be on the start line of the UTMB, and every failure has taught me a valuable lesson that I would need to reach the finish line.
Above us, the flags from the dozens of nations competing flutter gently in the alpine breeze like prayer flags on Everest. A massive sense of excitement and expectation sits over the crowd; runners and spectators alike. My mouth is dry from the nerves and I take a swig of water from bottle. It doesn’t help in the slightest.
As has become tradition, the race always begins with Vangelis’ “Conquest of Paradise”. A hush falls over the waiting runners as the first few eerie bars of the piece drift from the speakers. Soon, the air is filled with the sound of Gregorian chanting. Just as Vangelis’ trademark synthesizers kick in and the track reaches its soaring crescendo, someone shouts “Go!” and we are off.
Running through the streets of Chamonix, I high-five as many of the cheering spectators as I can. The inspiring music and the cheers from the crowd form a heady mix and I know this moment will be one that I won’t ever forget. I wave to Caroline and the boys who are waiting in the crowd a few hundred metres from the start. All being well, I will see them the following day in Courmayeur.
The pace in these early couple of miles is frantic – probably close to 7 min/miles. For me this is suicide pace for anything other than a Saturday morning parkrun, let along a 100+ mile mountain race. However, I’m not too concerned for now.
I’d thought a lot about strategy prior to this race. The UTMB is 104 or so miles long, beginning in Chamonix and traversing the French, Italian and Swiss alps before returning to France and finishing in Chamonix.
I knew that (apart from injuries or something unforseen) there was only one thing that could realistically prevent me finishing this race and that was the cut-offs. There is an overall 46 hour limit to compete the 104 miles and there are many points along the way that have intermediate cut-off times. Miss these, even by a few seconds, and my race would be over. Being familiar with my own strengths and weaknesses as a runner, I knew my best bet would be to go out hard, try to build as much of a buffer against the early cut-offs as possible and then just hope that buffer is enough later on to get me to the finish when things get tough. The strategy is not without risk as, of course, there is the possibility of blow-ups late on, but it is the strategy that I have chosen and it’s what I’m going with.
The air is cool and at present, fairly ideal for running. Over the past week, there has been all kinds of speculation about the weather and whether any amendments to the “normal” route would be needed. The forecast is for snow and -9 degree temperatures above 2,000 metres. Eventually the organisers confirmed it would be the normal route but with two small amendments. I believe the difference is negligible in terms of actual distance but it is a little less climbing. The quid pro quo is that we have 30 minutes less in which to complete the route.
As we leave the paved streets of Chamonix behind, the advice of me good friend, Tim, rings in my ears “push up as far as you can until you see runners who are well out of your league”. I take a look around me; mission accomplished as far as that goes. The first few miles of the race are the only significant flat part of the course and I intend to make the most of them. I know that I will be hemorraging time later on the climbs. I may have a chance to make some time back on the descents depending on how technical they are – but that means that anything approximating “flat” needs to be run and run at a good pace, or I will be timed out of the race for sure.
Of course, this section is only “flat” by alpine standards and would be “undulating” in the UK. We are now on green woody trails and I’m surprised by how far spectators have come out from town to cheer us on. Below to my left, L’Arve continues its tumultuous flow through the Chamonix valley completely oblivious to the runners alongside it. For some reason the sound of the river reminds me of Enya’s “Orinoco Flow”, her great tribute to travelling and adventure. But I’m in an adventure of my own here. I look up, surprised by the deep sound of an Alphorn being played by a spectator in traditional alpine dress. It is in stark contrast to the tinkling sound of the cowbells that would be our almost constant companion throughout the race.
The course continues along narrow wooded trails before opening out onto a wide road into Les Houches. For a moment, the running on the wide roads with so many runners around takes me back to Comrades in South Africa. Comrades is an amazing experience but this race is something else again. Running through the centre of Les Houches, we pass our first drinks station. The fast start meant that I’d got through one of my water bottles which I refill here and sip some coke before continuing on my way. Before long, we leave the road and began the first real climb of the course.
In my mind, UTMB is characterised by ten big climbs, with a cumulative elevation gain/loss of 10,000 metres. This is more than going from sea-level to the summit of Everest and back down again, whilst running four back to back marathons. I decide this analogy isn’t helping me. Instead I think of the race as 10 ascents of Snowdon. A few weeks previously I’d spent a weekend training on Snowdon, ascending and descending via the six main routes. Everest feels out of my league, but 10 Snowdons somehow feels more attainable!
This first climb up to Le Delevret is 820 metres of ascent, but on fresh legs feels reasonable. There is a crowd of us and the air is filed with the clickety sounds of hiking poles on the rocky terrain. My poles are still firmly attached to my back as I’d decided in advance to attempt the first climb without them. Instead, I lean forward, put my hands on my knees and push up the mountain.
This is a ski resort in winter and we climb beneath the chair lifts that would transport the skiers up the mountain in the winter. Before long, the incline begins to flatten. Could we be at the top? I round a corner and the bottom of another chair lift comes into view – nowhere near the top yet! As we ascend higher the fog and darkness begin to envelop us. On finally reaching the top, visibility is severely reduced. I get my headtorch out. However, in the thick fog, the beam of light only serves to light up the air particles and I can see very little beyond a metre or two.
The descent is initially on steep, wet grassy banks which I tackle tentatively at first. My fellow runners are flying past me on both sides and I decide to throw caution to the wind and pick up my pace. Before long, the steep grassy section ends and we are on much more runnable switch backs leading down into St Gervais. We are out of the clouds now and the lights of the town sparkle below us. We can hear the sounds of a street party in full swing below us, still a good couple of miles away.
Running into St Gervais, the roads are thronged with people who have come out to cheers us on. Cries of “allez, allez, allez” echo all along. Here is my first experience of a UTMB checkpoint. My usual experience of an ultra marathon aid station in the UK is a picnic table with a few sandwiches and cups of coke lined up. This is more like a food festival or farmers’ market with dozens of stalls set up offering all kinds of food and drink. I feel the first hunger pangs so I take some bread, cheese, salami and chocolate to eat as I walk out of St Gervais. A key part of successfully completing this race will be to continually eat throughout, ensuring there is a steady stream of calories going in.
The next section is undulating but reasonably runnable. I therefore stick to my strategy and run as much as I possibly can, only slowing to a hike for significant climbs. The food I ate at the last checkpoint isn’t sitting well and I start to feel slightly queasy. The thought of more cheese and salami during the race makes me feel ill – I will have a look what else is on offer at the next checkpoint. Some runners seem to be really suffering as I pass a few people throwing up by the side of the trail. Just another Friday night like back home in London town!
Les Contamines is the first major checkpoint where runners can have access to their crews. It’s also the first cut-off point along the race. The time is now 22.41 and the cut-off here is 00.30 – so far , so good. The Aid Station is set up as a massive marquee. Inside, it is absolutely rammed with runners and supporters. I find a spot on a bench to sit for a few minutes, before continuing on my way.
It has begun to rain and I put my jacket on, not wanting to get wet and cold so soon. Next is the first real test of the race; a climb of 1,342m up to Croix Du Bonhomme. As I begin the climb, I’m surprised again by the number of spectators who have also hiked up to watch. Bonfires, candles and oil lamps light the early section of this climb giving it a magical atmosphere, like something from Hans Christian Anderson. The flames hiss and splutter in the rain. Somewhere here out in the darkness is the baroque chapel of Notre Dame de la Gorge. However, it’s pitch dark and I can’t see it. Sightseeing will have to wait for another day.
We continue up the mountain. Far above me I can see the lights of the next checkpoint, La Balme. It doesn’t look very far but takes a while to get there. The main checkpoint is in a barn. My appetite for any more cheese and salami has completely gone but I gratefully slurp down two bowls of salty noodle soup. This would turn out to be a staple of every checkpoint and is probably the best thing I’ve ever had during a race. I take some chocolate to eat on the mountain and leave the checkpoint. “Ca va?” esquires one of the mountain rescue men who are ever present at the mountain checkpoints. I recall enough schoolboy French to be able to respond adequately and then continue on my way. Having a checkpoint half-way up the mountain really helps break the climb up.
However, whilst the first half passed quickly, the second half goes on and on. Several times, the trail begins to flatten and descend making me think that I’d reached the top, only for it to begin ascending again. I eventually forget about actually ever reaching the top and think of other things. At the top of the mountain, it is misty and cold and there is snow in the air. As we begin the descent, there is a volunteer checking our numbers and performing random checks of our compulsory kit. Thankfully (since it’s so cold) I’m not stopped and I continue along my way. The first part of the descent is on rutted, slippery grassy slopes. Try as I might, I can’t get any momentum going here which is frustrating as other runners are flying past. However, like the last descent, the track soon turns to runnable switch backs opening up the valley below us. I can see and hear the next checkpoint at Les Chapieux from a long way away.
On entering the checkpoint, the race officials are checking we all have a phone with us (part of the mandatory kit). I show them my phone and am ushered into the checkpoint.
I’m now 50km into the race, one marathon done and three more to go. I sit and enjoy some more of the noodle soup. Just as I’m about to leave, I hear someone call my name. It’s Sam Robson. I’d met Sam a couple of days previously as he has been staying in Les Contamines with my friend Tim. Sam is a far better runner than me and the fact that we are together definitely confirms the idea in my mind that I’ve gone out fast and probably a little beyond my abilities. We pass the next few miles together and it’s nice to have some company. We chat about people we know and races we’ve done and the first part of the climb passes quickly. After a while, Sam pushes on ahead and I continue up. I glance back and see a long stream of head torches proceeding in single file from Les Chapieux up the mountain side.
It is cold and snowy at the Col de la Seigne and I stop to put my gloves on. We have climbed another “Snowdon” since the last checkpoint and I am beginning to feel the effort in my legs. It’s almost 6am and I can see the first hint of morning light appear in the sky.
Ahead of me is the Col des Pyramides Calcaires. The first of the two route amendments for safety purposes means that we won’t be ascending this. I can’t say that I’m too devastated at the moment.
Italy to Switzerland
Somewhere on this dark mountain, I’ve crossed from France into Italy. As I begin my descent, the first rays of morning light illuminate the most incredible sight in front of me. A valley cut out of the mountains by glaciers many millions of years previously. Mountains that have been my companion for the last few hours in darkness, now revealed in all their splendour. Below me is Lac Combal the next checkpoint. This must be one of the most remote checkpoints in the race and I’m left wondering how they managed to transport all the supplies here. I sit and admire the views. Low lying clouds cover the nearby peaks – I’m reminded of the “tablecloth” that often covers Table Mountain in Cape Town.
As I’m sitting there, a volunteer holds up a pair of gloves – oh dear some poor runner has dropped their gloves. I touch my pocket where I’ve stashed mine only to realise they are gone. I gratefully retrieve them from the volunteer, it’s still cold and I’d be in trouble without them.
The course continues initially on a flat trail besides the remains of the lake before heading up towards the summit of Mt Favre. This climb is long and it is here that I start to feel the first real signs of fatigue. On eventually reaching the summit, I stop and lie on the grass for a few minutes, dozing a little and let the sun warm my face. We are now at an altitude of 2,434m. It is less than 10k to Courmayeur, the most significant checkpoint and the psychological “half-way” point in the race. However, it is also a descent of almost 1,500 metres to get there. The scenery here is stunning but I’m keen not to linger and enjoy it for too long. Around halfway between the Arrete Du Mont Fevre and Courmayeur is another checkpoint – a mountain refuge at Col Checrouit. It is marked on my course guide as simply a drinks point, but I’m delighted to see a lady outside serving pasta and tomato sauce from a giant pot – this is Italy after all!
After a brief stop here I continue down towards Courmayeur. The switch backs become steep and technical and snake through woods, teasing us with glimpses of the town below before we eventually arrive on the outskirts. I run through the streets, remembering to smile for the official photographer and arrive at the sports centre which serves as the checkpoint here. Carrie and the boys are waiting outside and I stop to talk to them briefly before continuing inside. It is one huge hall with an area for food, for sleeping, for changing clothes. After the solitude and quiet of the mountains, I feel a little overwhelmed by the noise and bustle. I take some more pasta and find a place to sit. Here we also get access to our drop bag, which I’d packed in advance with spare shoes, all kinds of clothes and food. In the end, I only change my t-shirt but leave all the other items in my drop bag untouched. It’s now 10.48am and time I was on my way.
I say goodbye to Carrie and the boys and find my way through the street of Courmayeur. The course goes upwards, first along busy roads, then a quiet country lane and eventually returning to the trails. We would now have to regain all the elevation we lost descending into Courmayeur. The climb is long and arduous and I’m thankful to eventually reach Refuge Bertone. The checkpoints on UTMB broadly fall into two categories – the large marquee style checkpoints with rows and rows of tables, benches and crew access and the smaller more intimate mountain refuges. These are mountain huts and are still open to the public during the race. The next section again constitutes a slightly “flatter” section of the course and I try to gain a little time on the runnable grassy ledge between Refuge Berone and Refuge Bonatti. By the time I reach Bonatti, the weather has turned and the warm sunshine has been replaced with a cold wind. After sitting for a few minutes outside Refuge Bonatti, it begins to rain. A cold icy rain. I rush into the Refuge itself in the hope of perhaps finding a quiet corner to sleep for a few minutes. I soon give up on that idea and instead change into my waterproofs.
The descent into Arnouvaz is long and muddy and I’m moving painfully slowly. Other runners are flying down here and ending up on their rear ends in the mud every few metres. Content to stay on my feet, I continue tentatively down. I can see the checkpoint from some way away and I can also see the minibuses behind ready to whisk away any runners who want to call it a day or who are timed out of the race. For the first time, my mind lingers on the idea of dropping from the race. We are well into the afternoon and fast approaching the Saturday night – my second night without sleep. In terms of the big climbs – I have done five but still have another five remaining. The next is the climb to the highest point on the course. It doesn’t seem possible that I can manage that let along another four after that. Surely I should just cut my losses now and save myself the pain? These were the thoughts occupying my mind as I approached the Arnouvaz checkpoint. My mind cannot fathom how I could possibly make it to the finish. But it occurs to me – I don’t need to worry about the finish, I only need to focus on reaching the next checkpoint. Then the one after that. And so on. Eventually the finish will take care of itself.
It takes a massive effort, but I walk past the “abandonment” desk and into the checkpoint proper. I look at the food on offer but nothing appeals so I sit on a bench, with my head on the table hoping for perhaps a few minutes of sleep. However the checkpoint is cold, my clothes are damp and I’m soon shivering. Fortunately, I know just the thing to warm me up, a 738m climb up to Grand Col Ferret! I pull out a packet of Harribo to eat on the way up; it’s about the only thing I can stomach at the moment.
This climb is tough, right from the start and the effort forces me to take regular breaks all the way up. The higher I get the more frequent the breaks. My training for this race has left me in the best shape of my life so I’m initially a little perplexed by how this climb can be taking so much out of me. Then I realise – the vast majority of my training has taken place well below 500m. I had one weekend on Snowdon which goes to a little over 1,000m. Here I am at 2,500 meters and, whilst this isn’t much higher than a high altitude ski-run, my body is simply not prepared for exerting this sort of effort at this altitude. I feel slightly better that my frequent breaks (now practically after every switch back) are down to the altitude and not a lack of fitness.
Soon, we are in the clouds again and there is snow on the ground. The icy wind makes it feel very unpleasant. On the final approach to the pass, I sit down in the snow, completely out of breath. A woman passes by and encourages me to keep moving. She’s right, it’s not sensible to linger here in the cold. We were warned at the start not to rest on top of the mountains but instead to get down to lower altitudes as soon as possible.
On reaching the top, I peer down the other side and my mood lifts slightly. Against all odds, I’ve reached Switzerland.
Switzerland to France
The descent is less demanding than the previous one and I shuffle along listening to some music.
For a long time, I think I can hear the sounds of cow bells at the next checkpoint. I eventually decide that these are cowbells from actual cows grazing nearby as the next checkpoint takes a very long time to materialise. It is situated in the pretty little Swiss mountain town of La Foully. After a steep descent, I chat to another English runner as we approach the checkpoint in the failing light. On leaving, it’s now dark and raining. I put my head torch on which lights up the rain drops like millions of miniature shooting stars in the night sky.
The next section is through the town on roads. One moment, I’m shuffling along and the next I am asleep on my feet, crashing into a barrier on a bridge across a stream. If I’m like this on the mountain, the consequences could be severe! In the slightly surreal space between waking and sleeping, I’ve completely forgotten where I am and what I’m doing. For a moment, I think I’ve been sent out by Carrie to buy pizza for the boys – I wonder what type they would like? Wait no, that’s not right, there’s runners around me. Are we all going up the mountain to see our friend who lives in a house up there? No, that’s also not right. It is a monumental effort to remind myself that I am in fact in a mountain ultramarathon. This pattern repeats a few times as I struggle to stay awake. I think about stopping for a 10 minute doze under a hedge or something but it is pouring with rain so I continue on.
A little later I catch up to an English runner. I am not feeling sociable in the slightest but realise that some light conversation might be my best bet at staying wake.
The extreme sleepiness passes as we begin the climb up to Champax Lac. Although not a steep climb, this section goes on for a long time ascending through forest trails. Mentally, I hadn’t prepared for this being a difficult section and I find myself struggling. During the day on fresh legs, I’m sure it is a stunning hike. But late on Saturday night into my second night without sleep I find my enthusiasm waning. Eventually we reach Champex Lac where there is another checkpoint. It’s now 00:30 and the cut off here is 02:00. Could be worse. The checkpoint is close to the famous lake but between my sleepiness and the darkness, I can see very little of it.
The next section contains some enjoyable downhill running and some very moderate uphill. From the profile, I know we are due a big climb very shortly. We eventually reach the foot of the mountain and I can see long trails of headtorches snaking far far above me into the inky black sky. There are some logs on the ground and a few runners have stopped to sit, fiddling with their kit, changing clothes or just mentally preparing themselves for what’s to come. I join them for a moment before beginning the ascent. Switch back after switch back, this section goes on and on. I recall talking to a few runners but I’ve no idea who or what I said. I have a vague recollection of talking to an Australian runner. Either that or I was listening to Men at Work’s “Down Under” on my ipod!
I eventually see what I have to believe is the final switch back leading to the top only to round a corner and see head torches continuing for what must be another mile above me. Eventually arriving at the actual summit, I can see lights of a town far below me, this might be Trient and our next destination. There is a small checkpoint in an old mountain barn on the way down, really just to scan numbers. There is a sign saying that Trient is only 5km away. Some volunteers have lit a bonfire out back and are warming themselves beside it. For a moment I fantasize about sitting by that bonfire myself dozing in the warmth without a care in the world. Not today! Somewhere on this descent, night begins to give way to early morning and as I emerge from a forest trail, I can see a few buildings ahead of me. It is completely silent but I have to believe that one of these is the Trient checkpoint. My spirits fall further when I realise the trail turns and continues down a farm track. Surely the checkpoint is just at the end of this track? We are directed off the track and onto another series of switch backs through some words. The checkpoint must be here somewhere just through the trees? After several switch backs, I eventually catch sight of the checkpoint, still a long way below me. That 5km sign further up the mountain was a horrible lie!
Dragging myself into the checkpoint, I study the profile of the remaining part of the course. The next mountain looks pretty much a carbon copy of the last one. I don’t have it in me to do another mountain like that last one. I decide that I need to find someone who is familiar with the course who can tell me that the profile is wrong and the next mountain is in fact much easier than the last one. There is an English UTMB official standing close by and I ask her this question. She looks at me and shakes her head sadly. However, she is keen to encourage me.
“It normally takes two hours to get from here to Vallorcine. That’s on fresh legs, However, you have four hours to do it in to make the cut-off at Vallorcine.” Something in my mind clicks. Ok, if I can get to Vallorcine in three hours, that would give me an hour buffer against the cut-off at that point. With just one mountain left and less than 20km to the finish, I think that would be enough.
I jog out of the aid station feeling optimistic and begin the next climb. It’s now 07:15 on Sunday morning. As I start the climb up to Les Tseppes, I feel my confidence returning and I’m enjoying myself for the first time in nearly 24 hours. I start passing other runners on this climb. This makes a pleasant change as the race to date has been one long procession of people passing me. I think back to my training on Snowdon, running up and down the mountain; this is what I was preparing for though I probably didn’t even realise it at the time. For the first time the finish line, though still many hours away, becomes something tangible and attainable. I power my way to the top and rest for a moment or two, soaking in the views which are breathtaking.
I’m happy to invest a few moments resting here, but I can’t stay long. As much as I like to think of myself as a master tactician playing a game of “cut-off chess”, I realise that “cut-off Russian roulette” is a better analogy. I check my phone. Tim has sent me a message telling me that I can make the finish, but I need to keep moving. I take this advice to heart and begin the descent back down into France.
Return to Chamonix
I have made excellent time on the last ascent and I had hoped to capitalise on this with a fast descent into Vallorcine. However, this isn’t to be. The trail down hill is rutted grass and mud and, again, try as I might I just can’t get a decent pace going.
Eventually I arrive in Vallorcine, exactly on schedule three hours after having left Trient, with my one hour buffer against cut-off intact. I sit for a moment or two in the marquee as crew members rush around looking after their runners. A man announces in English over the PA system that anyone intending to continue in the race should think about leaving soon. I don’t need telling twice.
The next couple of miles are on a grassy trail beside a road. Cars pass by beeping their horns whilst the occupants yell encouragement at us. As I reach the car park at Col des Montets, top British ultra runner, Robbie Britton (who isn’t in the race but is supporting) comes up to me to offer encouragement and a few tips on tackling the next section of the course. I thank him gratefully and start the ascent up to La Flegere.
At this point, the course would ordinarily ascend Tete aux Vents directly, before dropping down into La Flegere. However, this is the second safety modification to the course and so we approach La Flegere slightly differently.
Having been very careful in treating the course with the respect that it deserves so far, at this point, I’m guilty of underestimating the next section. It’s a mistake that nearly costs me dearly. Earlier in the week, I had recce’d the final part of the course, from Chamonix to La Flegere and back down again. This had taken me around two hours and I had found very straight forward at the time. Clearly that was on fresh legs and we are now approaching the mountain from a different side, but I felt that my recce should provide a good benchmark of what to expect. I just need to nip up to La Flegere, then run back down to the finish in Chamonix and pick up my gilet and a cold beer. But the mountains aren’t done with me just yet.
We continue up and up. I recall La Flegere is a ski resort with a lift at the top. According to my calculations, it should be coming into view anytime now. A hiking sign appears for La Flegere directing hikers off to the right. But the race signage is clearly directing us to the left towards Argentiere. I don’t like this at all but there is no question that we are supposed to turn left here. The trail continues along before dropping down sharply. We lose most of the height that we have just climbed. If there’s one thing I recall about La Flegere it’s that it’s at the top of a mountain not the bottom – why are we descending? The trail continues along, traversing the side of the mountain before going up again. I chat to an Irish lady. We trade war stories about the night just passed and rue the lack of large mountains back home in Ireland and the UK for us to train on. I look at my watch and work out how much time I have until the cut-off at La Flegere. Two hours becomes 90 minutes becomes one hour becomes 45 minutes – where on earth is La Flegere?!
At this point, my high spirits have gone. I’m sorry to say that my language turns the air blue though fortunately I don’t think that the grasp of English of my fellow runners is good enough to understand what I’m saying.
Eventually the forest trail opens out onto a wide ski run. I look around desperately searching for the checkpoint – it’s nowhere to be seen. All I can see is a long line of runners continuing up to the very top of the mountain. I completely lose it at this point and start ranting and raving at the nearest runner. A very confused German lady turns and says “Bitte?”. I repeat my rant a little more slowly for her. I state how totally and absolutely unreasonable it is for the organisers to send us on a convoluted route up the mountain. Do they not realise that we have been running up and down mountains for two straight days – all we now want is to go back to Chamonix and enjoy the finish line. The German lady smiles sympathetically and continues on her way.
Of course, I realise deep down that I am the one being unreasonable. No-one has forced me to do this race, quite the opposite. And the route, even the amended one, was available for us to study in advance. I simply made an erroneous assumption about this final section. When a vast chasm emerged between the reality of this final section of the race and my expectation of it, my sleep deprived mind no longer had the tools to be able to deal with it rationally.
I finally reach the top, now only 30 minutes ahead of the cut off here. I look at the food table. This is the final checkpoint and anything I take here will need to last me to the finish. I swig some coke and take some chocolate for the descent. The initial descent on a wide piste must be a delight to ski in winter. Today it is sheer torture. The piste ends and we are on the final switch backs through woods that will lead us back to Chamonix. I’m on familiar ground now. Very rocky, uneven ground. A few days ago, the rocks had caused me no problems, as I sailed over them, laughing and jumping. Now, I can barely lift my feet a couple of inches off the ground. Each rock needs to be negotiated individually, requiring my full attention. I pass lots of hikers who congratulate and encourage me. I smile as best as I can and mumble “merci”.
A lady from Milton Keynes who is supporting other friends in the race jogs alongside me for a moment or two, offering encouragement, before disappearing up the mountain to find her friends. The trail is narrow in places and at one point leads directly across the terrace of a mountain restaurant. The terrace applauds as I pass by. The support is really touching and I can feel my bad mood from earlier melting away.
In my mind, I tick off the landmarks on this final section; the large wet rocks that need careful negotiating, the signpost directing us to Chamonix and finally the small stream crossing our path. A few hundred metres on, the trail gives way to asphalt and I am on the outskirts of Chamonix. An Italian runner is beside me and we congratulate each other in the few words we know of each others’ language before continuing on towards the finish separately. These outer streets are deserted as the whole of Chamonix has seemingly headed towards the finish. Ahead of me I see the metal barriers that will direct me home. Tim calls my name. He tells me that there is quite a reception waiting for me, just around the corner. I could hear the noise from the finish from some way away and it now gets steadily louder. I see Caroline and she thrusts a union jack into my hands. Sam, having finished earlier that day, is there too next to Tim’s family. Finishing the race with my family and friends, old and new, is very special. Putting the flag around my shoulders, the boys join me for the final few metres. Jamie, seeing the chance to beat his daddy at running, sprints directly for the finish line, leaving me in his dust. Nice! I manage to grab hold of Alex’s hand before he gets similar ideas and we jog the last few metres together beneath the famous arch and across the line together.
It’s over. 45 hours, 41 minutes and 4 seconds after leaving Chamonix, I am back. Physically this race has taken me to places of wonder and beauty. Emotionally it has taken me to some places I don’t ever want to return to. As I make me way through the crowds, I try to process everything that’s happened. A lifetime of emotions squeezed into two days.
So the question – was it all worth it? The last two days have contained some of the best moments of my life and some of the most challenging. But as I look back, I realise that without those moments of despair and pain, I would never have felt the moments of elation so keenly. This race was perfect and I wouldn’t change a thing about it.
It is over a week now since I finished the Ultra Great Britain 200 mile race from Southport to Hornsea along the Trans-Pennine Trail and the afternoon naps have now finished. 66hrs 55mins and joint 8th place. Well chuffed.
I have learnt a lot and amazed myself that I have actually done it. 200 miles, I must be crazy. Can I dare call myself an ultra-runner yet? The training has paid off, I had resisted entering longer races (100mile) in the build up so to make the the jump from 50miles to 200miles and survive means there is more to come.
CP'S 1-6
These first 50-60miles were really about getting them ticked off, one by one. I set my watch to laps per mile and tried to keep an even pace. I was joined by Pete Harrison for a fair few miles and I enjoyed the company as the runners had really spread out after 33miles in and a number of quick fire CP's.
51 miles in - I had never run this far before - only 149miles to go!
NUTRITION
Mountain Fuel - Night Fuel; Morning Fuel - before race and during (250ml) and ate like stodgy porridge; Extreme Energy drink - during race -mixed to 750ml later on in race, I used this throughout although I had put some morning fuel in a drop bag by mistake so ran out on one section; Recovery Fuel (250ml) during race throughout. I found this worked well and could stomach it without any problems.
Hi-Jack - high calorie flapjack cut into small pieces and spread across drop bags (Contadino Atlete: https://www.facebook.com/Contadinoatlete/) I always found this was easy to eat no matter where in the race I was.
Real food where possible - baked beans on toast was a winner; lots of bananas, pots of Ambrosia creamed rice pudding; a few protein bars early on in race - first 50miles (Aldi - Hike - banana). I will never underestimate the power of beans on toast.
CUT OFF 81MILES
Adam Lomas met me at a mile or so before the Didsbury CP, I must say that the support I got from my running club 'Hyde Park Harriers' was really great. I had been struggling to really run for a few miles as my ankle was reminding me that I had twisted it a month or so before the race. The first drop bag was a welcome chance to refresh and a change of socks. I didn't stay to long at the CP and then on to the section I had recced and was very comfortable with the route, enough not to need the map or gps and just go by head torch to Broadbottom. I reached here well within the cut off of 24hrs at with 6 hours to spare, arriving just after midnight. My plan had been to go straight on to Penistone but a sore ankle meant that rest was in order and a welcome plate of beans on toast. In trying to sleep on the floor I made a rookie mistake, I had left my sweaty t-shirt on and then lying down, started to shiver but was to tired to bother as there was no bag drop and didn't want to fuss about in my bag, quite a few others had the same experience. Needless to say that my sleep here was not good a couple of broken 20min naps and I paid the price for this later in the race.
APPROACHING PENISTONE -
After moving along with Wes Evans from Broadbottom for a while, he had to drop out I learnt later due to a fractured foot. Great guy. I pushed on to Penistone and caught up with some runners ahead. With Barry Rimmer flying up from behind looking real strong.
Penistone was the 103mile marker...in under 26hrs... this would be my first 100miles done. Some of the comments in the checkpoint were funny. 'How you doing?' 'I have sore feet'. 'What do you expect after 100miles - 'Sore feet' - 'Yep!' nothing like a dose of realism to focus the mind on the job at hand. Thanks Christopher Kay. Sitting down to change kit and sort feet out was great, getting up was hard and everyone looked and moved liked we had aged about 40years overnight. Getting moving again is the key from now on.
KINDNESS OF STRANGERS
The marathon section from Penistone to Bentley was a long stretch and by the time we hit I was looking to refill my water and wished I had stopped at a café just a few miles back. Some strangers on bicycles who knew about the race stopped us and offered to get us some water, which turned into a cup of tea and then a plate of beans on toast. "Do you want cheese on top?" Of course.
Also thanks Phil Hammond for some awesome support running, after this and really getting moving again for a good number of miles I really started to believe I can do this 200 miles. He called out the mile split times, they could do with some improvement. In the afternoon (Sunday) the lack of seep kicked in and getting to Bentley was the order of the day. I was a couple of hours behind schedule now and missed my family at the CP but had an encouraging note once I arrived. I didn't stay there long, Barry and Peter were there when I arrived and got out in front of me which was the story of the rest of the race.
Later on in the race I posted on FB "Tired now! Random kindness from 'Neil' from North Ferriby ...coffee and jam sandwich." He had pulled over in his car and just wanted to chat about the race, enthused by it, I was looking for a shop to get a drink -and he offered coffee, done deal. It meant a few hundred metres extra to the route but what is that in 200miles!
DON'T FEAR THE DARK
Getting to Sykehouse - after briefly stopping at Bentley CP, I pushed on with the plan to sleep at Sykehouse and with some possible tricky navigational sections I wanted to get this mostly done in the the daylight as it was a mainly road then a section along the canal.
I came to a small hamlet - full of large gated houses and as I turned the corner... a DOG, well a BARK! It gave me a fright and it was one of those barks that would tear you be pieces if it could. I couldn't tell if it was behind the gate or wall or what. I was tired and had come to a stop! Would my night be spent tip toeing past a dog, then retreating because I couldn't see, was this the end of the adventure? Darkness and tiredness had crept in and common sense needed to prevail, Bec is good at that... I just got on with it after a few minutes and eventually was past, the light of the head torch revealed a seriously well locked steel gate and the nose of a dog under the gate trying to get out! Well In was soon onto the left turn on the next section along the canal section, where I put my foot down and just wanted to get these miles done, they might have been my quickest of the last 100. It was eerie quiet with swans floating on the canal, the light ahead on the locks and crossing seemed to stay far ahead and I'm sure I saw someone hanging around on the lock which was of some concern, I then saw a security guard which made me feel better about this, it turned out to be a reflective sign on a wall, one was there. Welcome to 'Sykehouse!'
Don't fear the dark.
With 143miles done, blisters, sore feet and ankles! Oh yeah and knees I was offered some bacon butties I just said 3 or 4 thinking rashers, 4 sandwiches appeared a few minutes later and they were scoffed. Now some sleep - I asked to be woken at 4am, but was awake at 3am listening to the other runners getting ready. OK, I need to get up and get going! I might be somewhat competitive.
Arriving Leaving
A614
After some well needed sleep at Sykehouse I set off at about 3:45am on the next section which was around 29miles, I hadn't managed to get out with a couple other runners who had left 20mins or so earlier having arrived at the CP before me. Franck didn't stay at the CP long and he left just before me and we chatted and walked our way into the new day. we were to finish the day together as well 57miles later.
Well on the way again .. ticked off 150 Currently heading towards Goole I stopped to enjoy the sunrise. The route took a diversion on the A614, I might never want to see that road again! I was met later by Steve Rhodes and Rob Howard who picked me up a coffee, which was wonderful and they did a great job at keeping me going, with Steve stoking up my competitive edge. however my feet really hurt every time I stopped now, so any pause was hard to get going again. I started using some sticks which really helped and the pace started to pick up, until we got in some good solid running miles and again faith in that I would reach the finish was there.
The grass banks along the river put a stop to the quicker pace as it was just so uneven and my ankle didn't like that. Some one stopped me just before the banks and wanted me to climb up a bank for picture, I politely declined.
BROOMFLEET - JUST AN 33MILE ULTRA TO GO!
One of the features of the trail was the many rail crossings especially in the later stages. I was here for a good 5minutes waiting. As Steve and Rob ran with me to the next main turn and wished me well.
That Bridge! The Humber Bridge had appeared near Broomfleet but never seemed to get any closer. Once I reached this that would be 184 done only 16 to go! Meeting Franck at the Humber Bridge CP we decided to work together and get the finish... we were very tired and unloaded what we could of excess food to lighten the load.
Tactical discussions over coffee and biscuits
DÉJÀ VU
It was in a somewhat dream like state that I finished the race, pacing it out with Franck and with my friend Rick accompanying us on the final stretch. Neil Rutherford's words in the presentation at the registration event the night before the race regards the feeling of 'déjà vu' was spot on, I'm sure I've finished this race before! It was strangely comforting like a dream remembered or a distance memory. The path and the circumstances of the final 10miles into Hornsea felt familiar, the tiredness of the race with little under 3.5hrs sleep and an hour of that at Broadbottom being very broken had hit home, the dappled effect of rain on tarmac meant I was starting to see faces on the floor and imagine people in the bushes as the leaves and branches took on new forms and shapes.
Rick who had started to read me the football results from the weekend like a sports report brought me back to reality with an update on the Villa with a 4:2 win! Or was this also a dream? Anything would do to occupy the mind and keep the eyes awake.
With the president of the running club 'Hyde Park Harriers' with me to verify that I was wearing my HPH vest (wink) - I think the club 200mile record might just have gone.
Hornsea just never seemed to appear and the light glow of the horizon never opened up until the final few hundred metres. The end surely came, not a moment of euphoria as many said it might be but huge relief as I just wanted to sleep - which in a few moments after pictures and congratulations I was in the car - gone - sound asleep. The feelings of achievement have come over the last week as I have realised what a huge event this was, an epic challenge and it really was 200miles. It took me a couple of days to find all the messages of support from during the race... all were appreciated and really do help when you know people are behind you.
It was a pleasure to cross the line together with Franck Bugianesi - I love this about trail running and especially ultra's... competition fades into respect and camaraderie.
RECOVERY
My feet were swollen and my big toe looked larger than usual when I took my socks off, I thought it was juts my toe but a smaller blister had covered the whole toe by the end and it took me a while to drain the blister which is healing well now. I resisted taking a pic as it was not nice. My ankles were swollen and red and this took a few days to go down. Lots of ice and feet up. I didn't know what to expect from finishing such a long race and wanted to give my self time to recover. I'm ready to get back running soon and looking forward to the DT40 trail race in a few weeks, and I have now signed up for next years #RaceAcrossScotland which is 212 miles of Southern Upland Way trail fun... a few more hills, so had better get back to training.
I can't thank the UGB team enough - thoroughly supportive and an excellent race as a whole. A race like this puts a lot of responsibility on the runner as always but the team certainly went out of their way to enable the runners to perform to their best. I would recommend their races. This is a truly epic event as well as team that support the race, from marshals to race director, the personal touch from entry to finish line. You won't regret being part of Ultra Great Britain.
This one wasn't planned. I had planned to run Albion Running's inaugural Race to the Farm 50-mile ultra, but it was pulled late in August due to low numbers. So rather than putting my feet up for a month I scanned the local area and found the Butcombe Trail Ultramatathon on 2nd September. 48 miles around the Mendip hills, what could be better?
The race probably has the smallest field of competitors I had competed in, with only 100 spaces available and with a few days to go there were only 63 starters including, my good friend from FAC OFF, Richard Corp. In 2016 only 33 runners competed and they suffered torrential rain on a biblical scale. The 15.5 hour cut off seems generous until you get out on the course and start to appreciate the climbs.
Keeping warm before the start with Richard Corp.
Richard's partner, Emma Flexon, was crewing him for the day and I was able to put my drop bag in the car to save carrying extra kit. Just seeing a friendly face around the course can make a massive difference and Emma was able to map read her way to junctions for some of the longer sections between check points. Always smiling, watching for tell-tale signs of fatigue and ready to supply whatever was needed. Thank you, Emma.
The race starts at 7.30am from the Cider Barn in Drayton and the first mile is climb, just climb. We eyed the accent during the briefing, which was short and to the point, and then we crossed the busy road en masse moments before being released. The breath-taking scenery started to open up behind us immediately as we begun to climb, 600 ft north east to the summit of the hill.
Climbing up away from Draycott with Nyland Hill in the middle distance.
At the summit, the route headed towards the west and straight into the awakening town of Cheddar, looping the reservoir and trying to locate the Strawberry Line cycle path, and then into sleepy Axbridge before hitting checkpoint 1, then joining the A38 Bridgewater road heading north at the 6-mile point. We crossed the road and cut back into the woods, heading west for yet another big climb up to Wavering Down. We stopped at the trig point and took in the scenery. Further out to the west we could see the Bristol Channel and the white buildings of Minehead across the bay from Brean.
Looking back on the route and Cheddar reservoir.
We continued west to skirt the top of Cooke Peak before dropping rapidly down to Webbington and then crossing the M5 at 10 miles. The contrast was stark, having been running for 2 hours already in blissful silence the sound of the motorway woke back to reality, it was a busy Saturday morning for many of these people. We headed north west into Loxton and then on until we turned left into the loop. Along the initial path leading into the western loop, the race leaders passed us on their way back, putting them about 4.5 miles in front. Thankfully we saw no others! We continued towards Bleadon, passing through checkpoint 2 and then started back east towards the M5 through the local golf course.
The temperature really started to rise as we eventually closed the loop and crossed back over the M5 at 18.5 miles, a running time of 3 hours 40 mins. The pace was slower than we had wanted but we also knew that there were a few BIG hills climbs to come. The field had already spread, Richard and I checked in with some marshals at Whitley Head and there was no-one in front or behind us at this point. At this point we weren't lost.
Butcombe Trail marker (centre)
The route was mainly self-navigation, following the Butcombe Trail markers (pictured) around the Mendips, with alterations occasionally marked with red and white tape. Sometimes the GPX route on my watch, the trail markers and the tape did not marry up, making the navigation interesting at times. The trail markers are often on poles with overgrown weeds and bushes surrounding them ensuring a few are missed. If you have time to recce this route I would suggest it is worth the investment, however, the route changes each year.
We worked our way east, trying to follow the course diversions until we passed through Sandford Batch, and then climb 256ft at 21 miles to Sandford Hill, pushing on to Star. We had been running 5 hours now, still had the two biggest climbs in front of us and it was getting warmer but our spirits were high and neither of us had any niggles or injuries to worry about.
From Star we went west to Rowberrow and stopped briefly at checkpoint 3 at the Swan pub where Emma had procured us some ice-pops!!! Then, heading north and up to Dolebury Hill Fort and onwards, 369 ft upwards we climbed to Beacon Batch at 28 miles. The highest point on the route. Along the way we had picked up another runner, Dave, who had ran the Thames Path earlier in the year so I spent a lot of time extracting race information from him.
The usual spread of food for the runners at the checkpoints.
We descended east through Charterhouse, on to checkpoint 4 at Compton Martin's Ring O Bells pub and then on to West Harptree before finally reaching the eastern most edge, and checkpoint 5, of the route at Hinton Blewett at 37 miles. From there we turned south west heading eventually towards Priddy, but not before climbing the second biggest hill of the day, a 2-mile climb to the top of Eaker Hill.
The route contains every type of running environment. We encountered muddy tracks, technical downhill trails with roots and rocks, baked footpaths, knee high gorse and heather, and enough road to warrant a pair of shoes with some cushioning.
View near Hinton Blewett overlooking the Chew Valley Lake.
We worked our way through Buckley Wood, juggling the GPX, map and the Force to guide us through some changes to the route. The route through the woods was soft underfoot, a massive relief after long periods of running on roads in trail shoes.
Emma was turning up on road sides between checkpoints, some of which were 8 and 9 miles apart and normally would not be an issue but in the heat, the extra chilled water and food were a complete Godsend.
Woodland route markers.
Buckley Wood
Leaving the woods we followed a well-trodden track, my GPX informed me that we would shortly need to turn but to the right, the direction we should be turning, there was only a climb covered in gorse, heather and coarse grass. I scouted the area and eventually found the track sign pointing into this knee length undergrowth. There was no path or any real signs of a track so we headed up the hill seeking the points of least restriction until we cleared it. Although upon inspecting the map later it was only 1/4 mile, at the time it seemed a lot longer.
Just before entering the village of Priddy we managed to miss the trail marker. The path was waterlogged, muddy and very narrow, and with the fading light and tiredness, we missed the sign and with the help of the GPX we had to loop over half a mile to get back to the road. By now we had been running for close to 12 hours and the stopping and starting began to affect my core temperature. Richard told me to run ahead to the next checkpoint in the village of Priddy, my legs were not tired but I knew I had to keep moving.
I reached the checkpoint 6, quickly ate and topped up my bottles in time to see Richard and Dave come down the lane as I left with a local runner, Ivan Batchelor. He led us out onto the fields again as the daylight slipped away and it wasn't long before we spotted some more head torches in front. With a mile to go, we caught up.
There was a last climb before the steep descent back into Draycott and the group of 4 runners in front, and Ivan started to walk up the rocky incline. I decided just to go and ran up and away from the others, using my GPX as a guide. In daylight, the final descent would be fun, but hurtling down in the dark with only 200 lumens to light your way can be a little more sobering. Down and down until at last there was a gate and then a track, that became a road. I could hear the shouts now as people and torches came into sight and finally I crossed the finish line. Officially I was 28th of 37 finishers (there had been 9 DNF's) and it had taken me 13:24, longer than I had hoped but I was still alive so that was nice. With all the diversions and getting lost I had run 50 miles.
After being presented with my medal I quickly changed into warmer clothing, waiting for a while for Richard to finish. But the cold and hunger were getting to me and I thanked Emma once more before heading back to Wiltshire.
Would I do it again? Big maybe, loved the scenery.
Kit & Fuel: Altra Lone Peak 3 shoes, injinji toe socks and Dirty Girl gaiters. I put my new Salomon Adv Skin3 12 set to a real test and it turned out to be the best purchase I have made to date. I mainly fuelled on Tailwind, Torq gels and a few Cliff bars.
