Written by Tom Wright - http://life.tomwright.me.uk

A weekend away with Tequila Dave and international man of mystery, El Baret (have you seen his passport photo?) … what could possibly go wrong?

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The Three Amigos arrive in Xerta, Catalonia

Six weeks out from MIUT I needed some decent hiking terrain; the family (slash work) had granted me a long weekend of leave; and I had a pristine new pair of (hashtag) Inov-8 Roclite 305s to wear in. First choice was Montgo but I decided to google any races in the Spanish vicinity that might allow a longer day cradled by food and water stations. One event caught my eye on Ahotu’s race calendar - Ultra Trail les Fonts. Entering its seventh year the three day series of races in south Catalonia seemed well established and even offered the comfort of a very well translated English website. 

Tequila Dave took little convincing - Spain runs through his veins! Brooksy was all talk and no play which was probably a good thing as who know what airport (or country for that matter) he would have booked a flight to! El Baret was a surprise but inspiring addition to the team. So the three amigos were ready to take on some Catalonian mountains.

Now get this… the 75 euro entry fee also included:

  • FREE camping with showers/toilets; 
  • FREE breakfast / dinner each day - including the kind of quality Spanish coffee that Tequila Dave puts away in bucket loads;  
  • FREE unlimited beer plus other beverages (if it was limited no-one was putting the brakes on team Beacon Club).

Add to that a personalised tech-tee, bag of giant taronges, and 2 sizeable chocolate bars we got in our goody bags. You wouldn’t even need to toe the start line to feel you were getting value for money out of this volunteer driven event. Which I am pretty sure relaxed Chris’ outlook on the weekend’s challenges. Should due intent find one pumping the air to the uplifting chimes of Trevor Jones’ iconic Last of the Mohicans soundtrack, along with the other 204 revellers toeing the post sunset start line, this is what lay in store.

  • Day 1. 9pm La Nocturneta (the head torch run - 23km / 350m)
  • Day 2. 6am El Trail de les Fonts (the mountain ultra - 70km / 4000m)
  • Day 3. 8am La Cursa de les Fonts (the mountain race - 27km / 1650m)
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Fuelled on cortada and baguette we arrived in Xerta, on the south Mediterranean tip of Catalonia, with matchstick eyes following a 4am exodus from Truro. Race director, Karim, greeted and then ushered us to FREE parking and the poolside camping area. The turf was soft, pegs went in and our base camp erected. I regretted my failure to pack bite cream as a plague of mosquitoes set to work on my legs (bites which still linger as I write this three weeks later!). A slight breeze rolling off the foothills of Parc Natural Els Ports did little to temper the mid-afternoon sun. Mid twenties was uncharacteristically hot so early in the year. South-west Europe was in the throes of a heatwave! 

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View from the tent as El Baret surveys one of many orange orchards that dominated the plains.

Any concerns over the language barrier were alleviated by our pre-assigned translator for the weekend, Raquel, who welcomed us at the registration desk with a smile and was readily available for any questions we might have. Twenty euros were exchanged for a timing chip, event identification tag and race numbers. Two elderly villagers distributing goodie bags, both considerably more fluent in our language than us in theirs were perplexed by our fourteen hour exodus from Truro… in Cornwall… in England! But their efficiency belied their age as our bags materialised from several hundred that filled the stage. 

Tequila Dave’s stature / ultra-running prowess had preceded us… as the paparazzi were quick to jump on his presence. But before the cameras would roll Chris was asked to step aside!? Lost in translation or a premonition of what would unfurl over the coming days. We called time on the photos and comic interview and made for a brief spell of solace in our tents ahead of La Nocturneta

Unable to sleep, Dave and I explored the streets of Xerta. Despite following the course on my Galileo app we were left none the wiser as to which way we would be running out of town. However, I duly noted an inviting bar in the shadow of the church which would make a fine retreat to cheer in the back runners in Saturday’s El Trail.

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Tequila Dave checking out the sites while scouting the “wrong” route out of town for La Nocturneta

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The three amigos ready and raring to kick of the 2017 UTF. Chris’ expression suggests he may have woken up a little unsure of where he was!


If Dave and Chris had a plan they were giving very little away, but, as soon as the countdown finished and we squeezed through the starting pen on to the streets of Xerta, not for the last time over the weekend I watched the bobbing bandana on Dave’s head disappear into the distance. 

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La Nocturneta was not for me! 

Road, fire track and occasional spells of single file rocky trail which were dictated by a long train of runners. All foiled in a sultry heat that had me bearing several pounds of excess sweat in my sodden merino tee-shirt (bad choice!). Our impending 6am start loomed and I was keen to finish and get bedded down to recoup some lost sleep. Of course this meant my 9min/mile target pace went by the wayside. A brief section of fast winding technical trail through the woods bought a spell of happiness as I discovered I could readily match the locals on the rocky stuff. As did the crowds of villagers that lined the streets of Aldover. Kids were everywhere. High fives, and the occasional low five, were obligatory. I even scored a five in a row with a group of young children of Ella’s age as a musical band summoned up an unexpected samba jig from my legs. Despite the mundanity of the miles, it was exhilarating seeing the exuberance and rapture of everyone involved in this late night party

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Chris’ one finish of the weekend sporting the TRC half marathon tee.

I walked in the last two miles. My goal had been 2:10. I was well inside. I was tired. Bed was calling… On the finish line Karim offered me a consolatory pat as he advised me to carry plenty of water in the morning. His face expressed genuine concern for my welfare and a seed of doubt was planted.

Dave and Chris were also waiting on the finish… as was the FREE beer! 

Day 1 Results: Dave was first past the post in 1:51:00 (25th) but it turned out not the first from the UK. As, resident Frenchman, Ludovic (Serpentine RC) ran a blistering 1:44:03 to finish in 4th place. Chris ran 1:55:42 (37th) and I lagged behind in 2:01:18 (66th). 221 total finishers.


In bed at 1am, and with several toilet trips in the night I was feeling far from fresh as I lathered several layers of factor 30 onto my arms. The sun was yet to rise and the local consensus was jackets on to counter a slight chill in the air. I settled for mesh vest, buried my fastwing hoodie in my kangaroo pouch - never to be seen again - and, following an embarrassing affair with absent toilet paper, hurriedly joined Dave on the start line. There was no time for breakfast so a flapjack had to do. Where was Chris? He had been sporting injury in the building weeks and given no indication whether he would attempt to start the longest day’s race. As Knopfler’s Money for Nothing riff tore through the air, El Baret appeared from the shadows. Game on… not before reminding him to enter the pen via the mess hall to activate his timing chip, rather than leaping the fence. We nearly reincarnated the Ghost Runner!

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Deu, nou, vuit, set, sis, cinq, quatre, tres, dos, un!

Of course, the jumping up and down, pumping the arms and somewhat childish behaviour for 6am in the morning all amounted to very little as we walked our way over the start line, gradually wound up to a slow jog on the cramped streets and followed the procession of runners out of town. Today uphill equaled walking and within a kilometre the climbing began and I adopted the power march I had “perfected” on long days up and down the Beacon. Surprisingly, obstructive boulders, uneven terrain and stream crossings immediately bought the train of runners to a grinding halt as each took their cautious turn to ponder and then negotiate said obstacle! Now, under normal race conditions, I would avoid queueing at all costs, looking for a diversion, through the nearest undergrowth. Today however was different. My goal was to complete and feel strong for Sunday’s race so there was no urgency. 

For the same reason when we hit a short stretch of tarmac I once again said farewell to Dave’s bobbing bandana as he pushed on ahead. I had done very little on the hard stuff through winter and several miles exposure during La Nocturneta had already aggravated my knees. Besides, I was confident I would catch Dave up later in the day and make up that ten minute deficit… how wrong I was :(

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Glimmer of dawn over Parc Natural El Ports.

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The gravel track winding it’s way slowly up hill to the mountain village of Paüls

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Coming up to Paüls

It was a long gradual climb on road and wide forest track to the mountain village of Paüls, the first feed station. A few oranges the better I headed straight out and into a much steeper affair as a mountain trail cut through the side of vast limestone walls tempered pink by the rapidly rising sun. Birdsong broke the occasional silence but more oft the monotonous clink of walking pole on rock reverberated through the valley as I stepped aside for yet another Catalonian. “Passar per favor”. 

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The ascent was relentless. Flashbacks to An Gearanach in the Mamores. Finally we broke out of woodland, the path levelled, and El Ports dished out the first of many surprises. A plateau of lush vegetation, green grass and a brief spell of muddy trail. I was in my element! Add to that, the labour of the arduous climb was surpassed by majestic views back down the valley. A landscape of low level peaks, cloud inversion in the cool valleys and warm Spanish skies. Exactly what I came for!

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Looking back down the valley to the mountain village of Paúls

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Font del Montsagre de Paüls - 14.8km. 850m altitude.

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The col heralded the approach of the next checkpoint and a much needed opportunity to top up my dwindling water supplies. I was carrying two soft flasks and a handheld which also served as my obligatory cup. 1.6 litres seemed barely enough to make the 6km from Paüls to Engrilló. I reminded myself to be sparing when we headed out into the more remote sections of the course. 

The checkpoint sat at the northern end of a small tarn in the shadow of Tossal d’Engrillo and thanks to a track that ran to the mountain hut higher up there was a plentiful supply of water on offer.

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Expectations were high for some rock hopping over the sharp upturned arête on the final ascent to Engrilló itself at 1073m. Unfortunately, this year the route skirted the lower reaches of the ridge as we trudged through some pretty rough and prickly vegetation instead. This deflated me. I had hoped for a change in terrain and a bit of scrambling would be a welcome break for the legs. Fortunately the vistas continued to impress.

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Looking both down and up our path to Engrilló. The sharp arête I had hoped to scramble along, and the hut, are just visible to the right of the photo. I was slightly disappointed our route was different to the more technical path taken along the ridge in 2015.

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Peaks and troughs of Monstagre d’Horta

Grassy paths; woodland and further climbing followed before the first of the day’s long descents. We had set off over three hours ago and finally opportunity to stretch out the legs. This was the kind of rocky terrain I thrive on and, despite the initial climb spreading out the field, for the first time I was the one saying “passar per favor”. I briefly joined silent forces with one of the numerous teams (of three) out on the course and, as we turned tightly back up hill, four heads to the ground missed the turning off the track and we found ourselves in thick vegetation at a dead end. For once Galileo came good and I was able to bring up both the course and our GPS position to confirm where we had gone wayward.

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Coll de la Gilberta looking to the steep northern face of Punta de l’Aigua and the first big descent of the day.

At St Roc confusion struck in a moment of relief on seeing there was only one long climb remaining. Only to have the pretence shattered as I realised I was surveying the marathon course. Lack of breakfast was taking its toll and I hurriedly consumed a cheese sandwich, half a dozen melon slices and a full orange worth of quarters. Following another 5km climbing through the tall pine forests of Pla de l’Hedra and I briefly called time to phone the family back home and have a chat. Perched on a rock under the mid morning sun the park stretched out before me. A majestic landscape of sharp rock awash with trees. We chatted… and then I cried! Bit early for the sentimental stuff. The sun and heat were all over me. I even texted Dave in the hope he was within catching distance. Just to have someone to talk to. I didn’t know he hadn’t got his phone nor that he was already well into the last major climb of the day a good hour up the road.

Chris meanwhile was tucking into a cool isotonic as he chatted politics with Karim on the journey from St Roc back to Xerta. He had quite literally been swept up and removed from the course. He was grateful!

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A local shepherd’s hut - La Barraca del Jordi - constructed Cornish style with dry stone walls.

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Not a bad place for a time out to call the family

A long stretch of fire track offered respite from the climbing under the watchful eye of the pillars and sheer rock faces of Roques de Benet, one of the parks most iconic mountains. I found myself jostling with Pere - a local from the Tortosa Running Club. As we finally began climbing again I broke out in pigeon Catalonian: ’este mucho calor para me!’ Pere was in agreement. The midday sun was driving the temperature into the high twenties, far higher than the norm for March in the park.

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Roques de Benet

We reached a col and following a fast descent with switchbacks aplenty I arrived at the hot food station in La Franqueta. Not before being pulled aside for an unexpected kit check. This involved gesticulations from the marshall as I pulled out everything but the headtorch that he wanted to see. I even waved my 80cm x 3cm EAB in front of him to little approval. Finally the Black Diamond revealed itself and I was released to gorge on pasta and cheese. The pitstop was too comfy so I replenished my soft flasks and handheld and was on my way for the high point of the course - L’Espina.

This is where profiles can be deceiving. The climb was everything but the steep hike suggested by the acute angle on the profile. It was a long gradual ascent as the metres slowly ticked off on my altimeter. It was also great fun! We followed a boulder strewn barranco hoping stones and scrambling along the edges. All under a canopy of vegetation that shaded the intense heat. The pasta had reinvigorated me and I was in my element.

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Until I hit Death Valley! The sudden transformation in the landscape was unexpected and intimidating. A narrow entrance to a rock filled valley with high cliffs burning white in the glare of the sun. The thermometer was hitting thirty degrees and the enthusiasm and energy I had gained from that plate full of pasta was rapidly waning. The intense heat was drying my sweat to a crust as fast as it poured from my brow. Water supplies were diminishing rapidly and I forced myself to be sparing. With hands on my hips the pace ground to a halt and I sat on a rock to munch some unpalatable cranberries.

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An hour or so later I sat on the pavement in the shadow of Alfara’s buildings as another runner threw up his guts. The trail of fluid and bile trickled past me down the street. How lovely! I instantly felt sick. Time to leave. 

I struggled to digest some orange and watermelon slices; a very young villager keenly helped me fill up my bottles; I emptied some grit from my socks; then I slowly set about the last long climb of the day back up on to the ridge line of the Serra del Bosc de l’Espina. I still felt sick. My skin was tickling; my head was burning; I sensed the imminent onset of heat stroke. I poured most of my water over my head to cool myself and resorted to a very slow shuffle as I sipped away at my meagre remnants of my H2O. My turn to hurl - several times. Pere and many others passed by. ‘Este bien?’ 

Trekking at two miles an hour allowed me considerable time to reflect on the day and what lay ahead. Madeira - 115km, 7000m. Seemed an impossible prospect! If this pace didn’t improve I might be missing the cut-offs. A few sums in the head and I estimated I could comfortably walk in under the 15 hour time limit. Time to bury my heat-induced malaise and start appreciating the stunning scenery I had travelled all this way to experience.

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A couple of views looking back to Alfara nestled amongst the mountains

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Setting sun on the Serra del Bosc de l’Espina

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The path to Moleta

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Xerta sits in the valley below

Rounding the foot of Moleta I got my first glimpse of Xerta down in the valley below. It still looked a long way distant. I pictured Dave kicking back by now in the low evening sun supping on those FREE beers. All attempts to control my mind and not wander to the finish (hat tip Richie McCaw) were futile. I craved cold beer!

It was tea-time back in Blighty so I phoned home to chat to the kids before bed. I am not sure our youngest could comprehend that I had been running/walking before she woke up and would still be going well after she had gone to sleep. In fact I struggled to comprehend it myself! The last time I did 12 hours straight was TGC over 2 years ago. I said my goodnights and set off on the final descent.

At the feed station in Font Nova another broken runner lay on the path under the cover of his foil blanket. It wasn’t just a Brit that had succumbed to the soaringly hot weather conditions. I was instructed to put my head torch on before I could leave the station - the light was fading fast. One more short steep climb and then stoney track gave way to a long stretch of gravel road. I couldn’t help but notice successive curved traces along the road now illuminated by my head torch. All I could think of was snake trails! With a phobia of all things serpentes this got me moving quickly and for no apparent reason I felt a resurgence as I hit a stony single track that gradually ran downhill for a mile to the outskirts of Xerta. Time for a sub 9 minute miler as I picked off numerous runners that had succumbed to the ultra shuffle. Until that is I caught a rock and somersaulted across the path. Just a few flesh wounds but it was back to walking after this painful indiscretion.

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The lights are on but nobody’s home… Finish time 14:01:29 (155th)

Crossing the finish line, a sunken shadow of my former self; dazed by dehydration; heels blistered; knees bruised; and confused by a long day under the Spanish sun I concluded my weekend was over. I craved sleep and tomorrow would have plenty. Dave and Chris shepherded me into a rather deserted mess hall. The banter on the long drive up from Alicante had been those well-earned beers after a long day in the mountains and the village bar by the church had Saturday night all over it. However, for the first time in my short-lived running career the only fluid I craved was MILK! And my team-mates plied me with plenty.

I learned that Dave had finished in a sterling 11:55:26 (74th overall). He had adopted his usual tactic of eating and drinking very little and had barely crossed the finish line before being rushed off to the ambulance tent. This wasn’t his first encounter with medics as he was forced to sit it out in the shade of Alfara’s walls while the medics assessed him. Time he spent fearfully watching for my imminent arrival! Which of course never came as I was still a good 90 minutes back down the path. All those winter Tuesday nights at Beacon Club clearly paid off however, as, once released, Dave tore down from the Serra ridge jumping 30 places before collapsing over the finish line!

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Quick! Somebody catch this man before he collapses!

I reassured Raquel that I would be on the start line in the morning, knowing fully well I would not. Vegetarian fodder was depleted. Cold pasta was the only option and my mouth burned from dehydration. My towel had already been infiltrated by dew and the warm shower did little to revitalise me as I slumped into the tent shivering and wretched. I donned compression shorts and calf guards in the hope they would limit the throbbing in my legs and allow me a painless sleep. I contemplated Dave’s decision to run in the morning… and then I passed out!

So much for that bar in the village…


Awake early with an appetite I joined Dave, already kitted out, back in the mess hall. I had lain in my tent since first light contemplating the day ahead. Fortunately I could call on my experience at the GL3D to convince myself that running was the only option. After all what would I possibly do otherwise… drink FREE beer in the sun all day!

I tried some cheese on baguette but the bridge of my mouth was still burning. Strong black coffee and several cups of mango juice were far more palatable. I lacked Dave’s enthusiasm for the Cursa de les Fonts. But we had very different goals - Dave had the UTF top 30 in sight; I couldn’t think beyond just finishing the 27km course. The profile suggested the climbs were shorter than Saturday and there were only two (and bit) of them. Being a mountain race I hoped for some scrambling and more technical descents that were lacking on El Trail

The runners were already queueing to clear their timing chips and with great haste I inserted lenses, threw a pair of shorts over my over-sized compression (Swiss don’t do stumpy legs!), grabbed a vest, pack, sunnies, cap and water bottle and raced for the start line. “Racing” being more of a protracted hobble as my legs were reluctant to bend yet. No time for suncream and certainly no time to attend to the blister that had reared its ugly head on my heel!

‘Catch ya later Chris’ … received a muffled response from within his tent.

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Finally we start in daylight!

The music, dancing and excitement were routine now. For the first time we would start in daylight - blue skies and a scattering of cumulus awaited us. The omnipresent bandana was distant before I even crossed the start line. Tequila Dave was on a mission. Lack of sleep, food and drink did little to weaken his desire! 

We rolled out onto Xerta’s streets and I felt the entire field overtake me as I shuffled along the tarmac. Amongst them many teenagers taking part in La Cursa Cadet-Junior - a 15km race for 15 - 20 year olds that looped around the first summit of the morning. We gradually wound our way through brush and woodland as we made our way back into the foothills of Els Ports. Once more I let the pace of the train of runners dictate. It was painfully slow but the legs were not complaining. With every step the Roclite’s grated my heel and I sensed the blister growing bigger. (Why did you have to change the last of a really good shoe Inov-8?)

As we approached the higher reaches the switchback paths got steeper and finally gave way to a rocky wall. Yes scrambling at last! For the first time in three days I was shinnying my way past other runners on a more direct route to the summit then that chosen by the train. All those reps up Dave’s HillWendy’s Cliff and Tom’s Gully were paying off. Just to make it feel even more like home a strong wind tore across the tops making progress difficult at times but comforting for someone bred on Atlantic southwesters. Of course the baking sun quickly put paid to any nostalgia for the motherland. 

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Crossing one of several scree fields

Racing along the dusty track towards the feed station at Roca Roja I felt invigorated. How much fun this course would be on fresh legs! We traversed steep scree slopes; weaved along root strewn single trails shaded by the omnipresent pine trees of the Parc; scrambled both up and down rock faces and finally wound up in a valley floor north of Coscollosa - the final long climb of the weekend. 

Once again I found myself alongside Pere. He was dragging a friend around filling her with vociferous words of encouragement every time she dropped off the pace on the climb. I tucked in behind them and imagined Pere’s expletives were directed at me! Soon enough we were on the same scree slope that had led us up to Moleta’s flanks the previous evening. I stumbled up the scree in half the time. Finally reaching the summit felt uplifting. Xerta was visible in the valley below and although this was not the highest point of the weekend I believed the climbing was done and I could now just let gravity guide me back to the final finish.

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Token selfie from the summit of La Coscollosa at 890m

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Racing down the technical trails from La Coscollosa

It was another steep quad burning descent and my twinkle toes lacked their usual grace as I awkwardly stepped my way down. Lee side of the wind the hot sun got to work cooking me again. Thank goodness most of my body was covered by compression! 

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It was fitting that UT Les Fonts throw one more little surprise our way to finish an epic weekend of trail running. A short steep rock scramble to the summit of Tosses de Vences. Fun but tough on tired legs!

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Knowing the weekend was almost over, the last few kilometres lasted a lifetime. More meandering woodland track, more stoney trails and finally a mile of tarmac through the centre of Xerta. I got a lot of encouragement from villagers and fellow competitors as I shuffled through the streets. Rounding the final corner I saw Chris and Dave waiting. For a brief moment I felt elated and then as I crawled up the ramp to the finish relief took over…

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Looks deceive… Finally it is beer o’clock and I am a very happy man!

Timing chip was exchanged and 20 euros refunded. I made my directly to the mess hall to gorge on whatever I could find. A protracted attempt to request vegetarian food ended with the cooks sieving potatoes out of the bull stew. I was too hungry to comment and for the first time in the eleven years I have been with my wife, Nadia, I succumbed and ate the juice of the bull! It actually tasted pretty good too. Of course the potato stew was washed down with a free beer or two.

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Tequila Dave is reborn as the Mountain Goat that he truly is!

Dave finished La Cursa in 52nd place overall in 3:44. Of the 116 (out of 202) UTF runners that had made it to the final day, he was 17th over the line and jumped to 30th overall for the three days (17:30:48). An inspiring achievement fuelled on very little but sheer determination. Hats off to Tequila Dave!

Despite finishing La Cursa in 146th place, my own resurgence over the middle half of the course had allowed me to jump a few places for the series and I finished the three days in 73rd place in 20:38:25. Throughout the weekend I had indecisively hovered in the middle ground between training and racing. I may have finished with a blister and a few mosquito bites, but turf toe, achilles tedinopathy, hamstring tedinopathy and the many other niggles that have plagued me over the past few years were all absent. The mediterranean warmth had blessed my body and, despite a battle with the sun and unexpected heat, I felt great.  

As if we hadn’t been given enough already there then followed a ceremony where all UTF finishers were called up on stage individually to collect a finishers paperweight and a pink gilet! Finally the beers were flowing.

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And then there were two… pink gilets to be seen in a Truro bar near you someday soon!?

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The finishers photo. Me top left under the flashlight. Dave is buried in the middle at the back

I genuinely feel we stumbled on something special here. There was no invasion of international athletes - yet at least. In fact I understand that only one British athlete had previously participated and that was only in the Ultra race. The event had a family atmosphere and there were clearly well established friendships forged over the seven year history among the many returning competitors. The dedication and passion of all the helpers, marshalls, villagers and organisers was admirable and a huge thank you to everyone involved. It is events like this that make me realise why and how lucky I am to be able to run. 


I would like to say the adventure was all over but we still had a day to recover in Denia and loosen the legs on a hike over Montgo before flying back to the UK (this is why we flew to Alicante). Weather put paid to those plans as the heatwave finally broke and we were inundated with heavy wind and rain. Not enough to deter me from guiding Dave and Chris around Cova Tallada and Montgo’s foothills. Surprisingly the legs felt fresh and running came easy (for Chris and I at least!)

I know I have a lot more to give Parc Natural Els Ports.

With several weeks to recover and contemplate I can say with assurance that I wouldn’t hesitate to go back next year and do all three days again! Fancy it?

Written by Neil Bryant - www.ultrarunninglife.com 

I was looking forward to this race. It had been in my sights for a few years now, and the course seemed like my sort of course. I had been fortunate to have my name pulled out of the hat at the start of the year. In fact, although the idea of moving out was on our minds, we had no actual design to, so to actually be living out here with Mont Blanc on my doorstep is still a little surreal for me. I am still completely blown away by the quality and variety of the trails which are abundant. No need to even jump in a car to access other trails. The main attraction for me has got to be the infinite, shocking beauty that is ever changing with the weather, the seasons or you mood. I am sure that there are better balcony views within the valley, but mine is just perfect looking up towards the Auiguille Vert, up towards the Argentiere glacier and not forgetting directly ahead the Mont Blanc Massif with the Bosson glaciers tongue licking it’s way down towards the valley floor.

I like it here.

My year has been ok running wise. Once my body had recovered from Trans-Europe I slowly began to wind things up and regain my strength and fitness. I raced  few times over here in some amazing alpine races and quickly learnt that my race style needed to be changed. I was going way too fast for the terrain, and I also need to accept that walking was not a bad thing. I even started to use Leki sticks! The Europeans do things quite different to us in the UK, which some of us find rather amusing, but I quickly learnt that Alpine ultras are pretty much a different discipline to what we race in the UK. I now accept that stick are not the work of the devil and that walking on an uphill does not need to be a punishable offence. In fact they can both make you faster. I walk a lot more now, and sticks are not used all the time, but I will often grab them for a run.

As the year progressed, my fitness grew and with it my confidence. My last 100 miler was the Hardmoors last year, so mentally I didn’t feel as good as last year though. Always on my mind was my ankle. Last years injury had been pretty good and the terrain I run on now is mostly ankle snapping stuff but as time went on with no incident my confidence in it grew. I realised that an easy way to be faster was to improve my descending. If I could have a smoother style, it would not only be quicker, but would save my quads and knees from taking such a hammering! Every downhill I hit on my day to day runs I pushed to my limit. Soon I was purposefully selecting routes with the longest and most technical downhills. All was good until I went out one wet, rainy day around three weeks before the race. The perfect opportunity to test out my skills! Needless to say, my skills were a little lacking and I went down quite heavily on my weak ankle. Once home the ankle begun to balloon. Damn it!

I believe in active recovery, so I ran when I believed it was ok. No ice. I just let it do as it needs to do. After a while, the swelling gets annoying so I elevate a little but generally I don’t really do much. My runs were more to keep me mentally in the game than for fitness and of course my descending was reduced to overly cautious stepping, often with my sticks as props.

The swelling had mostly gone by the time race week arrived. I was working on the Tuesday and Wednesday so was busy driving to Geneva airport and back many times which actually wasn’t too bad as I didn’t have too much time to get all excited. Chamonix is an incredible place with many personalities and this week it was the Ultra Trail running capital of the world! We are a funny looking bunch aren’t we! People walking around days before the event with compression socks and sandals on, some people walking around with their race numbers on and around 70% of people looking like they are sponsored by Salomon! A lot of the Brits stick out well with their OMM bags and Inov8 shoes on and often just having a knack of somehow looking British. The French often know I am British before I even open my mouth and I can’t work out exactly why?

I planned on a sub 30 hour time but knew that this was quite ambitious before I had hurt my ankle, but was convinced that I was capable so left it at that. I am very competitive but never seem too disappointed if things don’t go to plan. I would have to be very careful on the downs, simple as that!

We’ve had a great summer in the Alps. On the odd occasions where we have had rain it has generally been a welcome break from the heat. At the start of the week there had been rain. Surely the UTMB wasn’t going to have bad luck again and get hit by some sustained bad weather and get shortened or cancelled? It seemed to be a common occurrence now. Thankfully the rain held off and the weather was good.

I queued up on the Thursday to register outside the sports hall. I was out in the baking sun occasionally shuffling forward for over an hour and a half. I knew I had everything on the obligatory list but still worried a little that things wouldn’t be right. Finally my time came and and elderly French lady was going to check my kit. She asked to see my Jacket, pantalons and phone. Nothing else. Easy! I collected my number and was ready!

Things weren’t going to be happening now till the start at 1630 the next day. Time to relax. That evening Drew and Claire came to Argentiere and we went out for dinner and a glass of wine. I didn’t sleep to great that night as I was getting excited, but this doesn’t really bother me. I had two decisions to make. Should I take my Leki sticks? and what shoes? As it was looking to be dry I sided with my now trusty Salomon Mantras, but I just wasn’t sure about poles? I currently only use them on the ups so generally carry them a lot. I knew they would be advantageous on the ups but would this make it worth taking them? I decided to leave them at home when we left for Chamonix on the Friday.

The start was manic to say the least. True Euro style! Claire and I kept away from the madness of trying to get a decent start place by sitting on the grass next to the church. I was not interested in fighting my way to a place near the front and getting caught up in the madness of the start sprint. This was a race where the patient get rewarded and the impatient get punished. With 10 minutes to go, Claire and I got into the back end of the mass of runners bouncing around nervously half in time with the music that was really being blasted out loud. They sure know how to drum up an atmosphere of excitement! I was sweating a lot already as I stood on the line (well about 100m away from the line!). I was glad that we would be running into the night in a few hours.

The music changed to some emotional, stirring tune which I didn’t recognise. This was exciting and emotional. The countdown began and we all joined in… Trois, deux, une…. and that was it. I crossed the line shuffling about 90 seconds later. The crowds lining the streets were amazing as we slowly shuffled through the narrow streets. It took just over ten minutes before I was running fairly freely down the road. No bother. Once on to the footpath that would take us to the first cp at Les Houches, the clogging started up again as we hit small inclines and the path narrowed in places. This was fine. I knew that once past Les Houches things went straight up on a fairly wide trail so this would string things out more.

In Les Houches the crowds were thick and noisy. There was a stage set up near the drinks tables with a band playing. I had a couple drinks before continuing. We were immediately guided up the hill. I settled into a strong walk and continued overtaking lots of people. I had no idea where I was in the field as it was so large. I liked this as it reduced  the pressure. I was here to do my best. Other peoples performances should have no affect on my effort. I was happy to be on a decent climb now. All the initial flat and fast madness had mostly calmed down as everyone attempted to find their magic pace that would see them through to the end. I felt reasonably happy that my pacing was ok in the mountains now. My short time in the Alps had taught me just how quick you could destroy yourself if you over did things. These were some big hills and this was a long race. My aim was to be fairly consistent throughout.

I soon caught up with my Recce buddy, Paul. We worked our way up the trail together chatting. It was good to see Paul and it was such a contrast to six weeks previous when we made our way up here almost completely alone. I soon started to pull away from Paul, so I wished him luck before pushing on. I was still sweating an awful lot so was regularly sipping water. I knew the first real descent was coming up which would take us into St. Gervais

The descent starts off on trail before diving off to the left down a steep grassy section which was thankfully dry, but just a bit to steep to let gravity take the reins. Each footfall is heavy as I controlled my speed. This is of course tough on the quads and knees but better to be doing it at this early stage than at the end! The descent eases after a while and soon my sole focus is on my footing as I am so paranoid of my weak ankle. I am fully aware that all it would take is one little twist and it would be game over.

As I got closer to the town, I could hear the crowds and Tannoy system echoing up to me. Once on the tarmac again, I knew I was close. I turned a corner and suddenly I was surrounded by hundreds of cheering people. The atmosphere was electric! I was quick at the cp taking plenty of sausage and cheese with me. Although I was quickly in and out of the cp I tried to take in as much of the positive party atmosphere as I could as I knew that this would fuel me for a short while.

My speed in cp’s is generally quite quick except in the latter stages of a big race. This used to annoy me. I saw it as wasting time, but now I am more relaxed about it and feel that if I have been running for 15-20 hours and I spend an extra 5 minutes at a cp, as long as I am using that 5 minutes by eating, drinking etc, then it won’t really hurt my performance. In fact it could well be helping me to push that little harder when I leave. I have been too quick at cp’s before and have not looked after myself properly which I have paid for later. I don’t use a crew to look after me so I need a little more time.

The route now wound it’s way up the valley following the river. This was easy running and to make things even easier for me, the sun had now disappeared out of sight behind the mountains that dominated your field of view no matter where you looked. My shorts and top began to dry out a bit as I was sweating less and I began to feel livelier. The heat makes me feel lazy. I was looking forward to the darkness. I hadn’t done a full night for over a year now and I always find it an exhilarating experience. I will have to be extra vigilant with my ankle though. I was very happy to have done the recce so that I knew exactly what was coming. What I hadn’t experienced during the recce was the thousands of people out cheering us on which was almost overwhelming. I would keep grinning as the children would hold their hands out in front of you hoping for a high five. I would usually play along enjoying the happiness this simple act would bring them, but sometimes I was in my own little world and just focused on the race and being in the moment.

A small wooded climb popped me out into the cp at Les Contamines. The spectators are all behind a barrier and just stare and cheer as you wander up and down the tables of food and drink looking for something that looks appealing. I felt like I was in a cage and people were waiting for me to perform. I found it all surreal but I was so focused on the race I was not bothered by it, in fact it was still a real boost. This was certainly not a race where I will feel all alone at any point!

I quickly exited the cp with both hands full of more sausage and cheese. I walked and ate for about 5 minutes, high fiving as I went. As I left the town I again picked up the path that followed the river. I knew that soon the trail would get a little wilder and would start heading upwards for a long way. I guessed that by this time it would be pitch black and my Petzl would be on. I entered a more heavily wooded area and the tree cover suddenly made it a lot darker. Not quite enough to warrant the headtorch though.

I passed small groups of people cheering me on in the ever darkening woodland. Soon it was time to mount the headtorch and so begun the night! I swung around to the left and there where a lot of people around at what I knew was the proper start of the ascent of the Bonhomme. The atmosphere at the base of this great climb was amazing with the trail lined with small (ish) fires blazing away lighting up everyones faces that were cheering like I was in the lead. The climb calls for you to start walking immediately and I was blinded as photographers that were peppered up the climb were snapping away. I then had someone beside me say my name. It was Annie Dawson from Alpine Oasis. It was good to see a familiar face. I also knew that Phil would be ahead with his camera. Sure enough I got a face full of flash and heard Phil saying I was going well and looking good. I thanked them and continued my march up the hill.

I was at the point where I was still sweating but it had cooled down a fair amount and my damp arms and hands were feeling the cold so I dug out my arm warmers and thin woolly gloves and soon felt just right though I was conscious that I was heading up for a long time now and the temperature would be dropping with each metre gained. It is very easy when running through the night using a headtorch and being extra vigilant about your footing to never stop and look up at the sky. I don’t always remember to but I did a number of times over this night as the level of light pollution was low and the number of stars visible to the naked eye was spell binding. This beauty can truly motivate and inspire when things are tough and energy is lacking. The energy is all around us, we just need to learn to see it and utilise it.

Roughly mid way up the climb is a cp. This cp could be heard from a fair distance. When I arrived I learnt that the racket was from three girls who were manning the piles of food on the tables. They were hitting the table with spoons and ladles roughly in rhythm and chanting the name of the runner that was stood in front of them. It made me laugh and kept me smiling as I marched into the darkness. I was stopped and asked to put my tights on. I said I would and continued. I would only put them on if I felt the need and I certainly didn’t at that point.

I had found some sort of rhythm and was just patiently walking up the hill trying to keep my pacing at a sensible and sustainable level, but was starting to think that maybe I should have bought my Leki poles after all. Never mind, there was no point in stressing about such things. I knew I didn’t need them, but I had felt a distinct advantage on the uphills.

I was soon on the Col and without stopping I continued left along a flatter though more technical section. I was really enjoying this and knew that in around 20 mins the long descent to les Chapieux.  I couldn’t believe how much snow there had been 6 weeks previously on the recce and that there was none now. It was difficult to run on and you could not see a trail, but now the trails were visible and more runnable and fun.

Once over the top, it was downwards for quite a while. Firstly the going is very runnable, but then it steepens and the footing becomes a lot more technical. This is the section where Paul slipped and cut his hand open on our recce. Needless to say with my ankle, darkness and the fact that there was still a long way to go, my pace was very restrained and cautious. I was very happy to notice that although some runners went hurtling past me, I was passing possibly more runners who were descending slower that me! This of course added a little to my confidence leaving me to continue descending at the same restrained speed and not feel like I was losing tonnes of time over everyone else.

I was starting to feel a bit of the strain now but my experience told me to not worry as I had been going for a few hours now so this is expected. Soon I saw lights that was the bottom and more importantly the next cp. As I got closer still I started to hear cow bells and cheering. Once I was over the chip mat and into the tented area I scanned the tables for something that appealed but it was all starting to get very samey. My stomach was feeling a little uneasy but I had to get something down, so I started with a bowl of soup. As I was pouring it down I saw Tobias Mews and Danny Kendall. I said hi, and we had a little chat, and then I continued alone. I felt as though I would see them again. I had done my usual and walked out with a handful of food that I would eat as I walked. I knew that there was a fairly long section of road now that slowly climbed so it was an ideal point to walk and eat without losing any real time.

As I made my way up the road, breaking into a jog occasionally as the gradient eased, I soon heard some English voices behind, quickly gaining on me. Soon Tobias and Danny caught me and we stayed together chatting for a while. The company was good and really broke up the monotony of the road. Once we were done with the road the climb up towards the col de la seigne started in earnest. The three of us were then joined by Terry Conway. We all knew each other but I had never met Terry so it was good to finally say hello. After a little while Terry and I had a gap over Tobias and Danny so we continued.

We were going well together for a short time before I realised that Terry was stronger than me. I said he should go on but he wanted to stay with me for the chat. Once over the top in a bit of a state, I timidly begun the downhill. I couldn’t afford to get caught up going faster than I intended with my ankle. I wasn’t interested in taking risks. Terry pulled away slowly into the darkness. Just near the bottom there was a very technical and really awkward section. I came down here at little over walking speed. Not my finest moment, but I reached the cp at the bottom safely. There was Terry stocking up. He said he would wait again, so I hurried and soon we were off again. There is a flat section for a little while before the next climb, Arete du Mont-Favre. Once on the climb I realised that I was not going well. I needed to be careful and not blow. Terry was powering away so I eased off and let him go. I wouldn’t last long at his pace. Back to doing my pace.

I struggled up this climb. I was starting to remember what a struggle these things are. Mentally things are hard when you feel as exhausted as I did then when you are not even half way yet, but there was a little part of me that was revelling in this torturous state. It was good to be back doing what I love. I knew that I would be successful barring some incident or injury. When things are hard and energy is lacking it is time to ease back a little and stock up on food and water. Once I had reached the next cp just before the long drop into Courmayeur I stopped and forced myself to hang around a minute or two longer to eat more. They had some fruit salad here which went down really well. Also some really nice creamy yogurts which went down equally well. The Italien crew thought I was odd for not mixing my yogurt in with my fruit salad. They also had sliced lemons with the sliced oranges. I was feeling tired and my mouth didn’t exactly feel fresh so I tried one. I probably screwed my face up but the refreshing sensation was amazing. I hope they had them at the next cp!

After  a slightly longer cp stop, I was off on what I knew was a long and fairly steep descent with lots of hair pins. It was still dark so I still had my headtorch on. The trail was very dry. So dry in fact that a super fine flour-like dust was providing a slippery but cushioned ride down. I have never run in anything like it, being around a cm deep in places. My shoes, socks and legs were damp with sweat and were soon covered in a layer of dust that stuck to the moisture. I enjoyed the dusty trail even if it was quite sketchy in places as my feet slid around in it. Variety really breaks these things up. I was aware of my suffering and the joy of running in a new terrain was stimulating my mind to steer it away from the pain.

I was soon enough running through a quiet and sleepy Courmayeur. No masive crowds here at this late/early hour. It would soon be getting light which would be a mental relief. This was a major cp where people could access their drop bags if they had one and as I ran in to the sports hall I saw them all hanging in an amazingly organised fashion. I ran right past them to find the food as I had decided on no drop bags. I got a plate of pasta and sat at a table to shovel it down. It was good to get of my feet for a little while. As I speed ate, I looked around at the other runners seeing if there was anyone I recognised. No-one. I also checked peoples numbers to see which nation they were to see if there any Brits around but again drew a blank. I hurried my food down and topped up my bladder and finished off with a refreshing slice of lemon before running out the door. Once through town I knew there was a vicious climb facing me so went nice and steadily. I was still feeling pretty worn out so this could be a messy climb for me.

Sure enough, the climb was quite a death march but I knew that patience would win. Just stay calm and some strength would come back. During the climb my headtorch came off as the new day was coming. I had a few runners pass me up here which never feels great, but I knew that I would be passing them again soon. Once I had dragged my self painfully to the top I stopped at the cp there and stocked up again. There was a bit of a morning chill here and I sat near the soup urn to steal some of it’s warmth. I say chill, but all night I had worn just shorts, t-shirt, arm warmers and intermittently my thin gloves, so not that cold at all really. In fact I would say pretty much perfect conditions.

The next 7km section was the most beautiful of the entire course. It is a very runnable undulating single track where I managed to find plenty more energy and started to pass quite a few runners that looked in the same state I was in 30 minutes earlier. To add to the thrill of getting a second wind, the view to my left of the Mont Blanc or Monte Bianco massif from the Italian side is truly staggering for the dramatic views on offer. This coupled with the perfectly clear skies and then to just make me want to stop in my tracks, I watched the sun first hit the highest peaks and slowly creep down the steep cliffs and glaciers. I smiled a lot on this section. The greatest show on Earth!

As I approached Bonatti up a short incline, two ladies were cheering all runners in and one I instantly recognised as Lizzy Hawker who would have been racing a long way ahead of me had she not suffered an injury. I stopped very briefly here as I felt a chill once still, so I remarked to Lizzy that it was good to see her out here cheering us on and marched up the hill eating a rather foul energy bar. Seeing Lizzy had given me a little lift as she really didn’t have to be standing there for hours on this chilly morning when her non-start had been such a negative, but she had flipped it into this positive action. This was appreciated by many runners that recognised her. I have bumped into her twice in races now and both times she has been injured. I guess that is the only way I will bump into her!

There was a little more nice steady running before a drop down to the cp at Arnuva. I again was pretty quick through here drinking a luke warm bowl of soup and rushing out to get stuck into the next superb climb up to the highest point of the race, the Grand Col Ferret. It was a bit of a battle to get up but I was nowhere near as bad as when I fought the climb out of Courmayeur. The greatest show on Earth was still providing inspiration that helped drive me up to the top. Once there I again was shocked that there was no snow at all! This was completely white six weeks ago.

Ahead of me was a great deal of descending which I was looking forward to. It wasn’t too technical or steep so a decent pace could be sustained. It is always good to tick off some fast km’s far into a race like this. Really positive. Next up was the cp at La Fouly. By the time I arrived there I was beginning to feel the effects of the sun again. It wasn’t too powerful but I had been running for quite a few hours now and the strain was certainly being felt. I remembered the trails really well which helped me to mentally tick off each section. Once on the road at the bottom I knew the next cp was close.

I pulled in and headed towards the taps so that I could rinse all the salt off of my head and to freshen up. I then topped up my bladder and looked over the food which I was tired of now. There was nothing new here so I had some soup and some fruit, finished off with a slice of lemon. My stomach had eased off and although it wasn’t fantastic, I could eat most stuff now, it was just that most food was just unappealing. As usual, I looked around at the other runners and saw a chap that had just come in who was British. I didn’t recognise him but went up and said hi. His name was Ed Melbourne. He left about a minute before me but I soon caught him up. We started to chat and I noticed that we had an Aussie runner just behind. His name was Adam. There were now was three of us. We stuck together and chatted lots. They both were cool and our pacing seemed quite even so we seemed to work quite well as a team.

The climb into Champex which was the next and final major cp was a struggle now, but to be honest I was suffering quite badly at all times now. My climbing speed was incredibly slow to the point that I didn’t feel I could move any slower. The only positive thing about this was that barely anyone overtook us, in fact we probably overtook more people. As is common, at this stage in a hard race, no matter how rough you feel, others will be feeling the same and some worse.

We planned to not take too long at Champex, but I also didn’t want to rush things too quickly and not stock up enough. There were lots of people here creating a great atmosphere. I grabbed a good plate of food and sat down to eat it with Ed. Adam had his parents and girlfriend following him around supporting him so he was stood with them. Ed started complaining of feeling dizzy and wanted to get going. I said he should just lay down and let it pass. It would only take a few minutes. He laid back on the bench and closed his eyes. I carried on eating as fast as I could. I then made use of the Portaloos and felt much better for it. We all decided to push on. Next up was Bovine which is an impressive climb which I really enjoyed on the recce. Would I still have love for it now?

Bovine was as predicted, a tough grind, but I found something that could loosely be described as rhythm and kept it there. Once over the top we had the fun downhill to Col de la Forclaz commenced. I remembered this as a fast and fun descent but it certainly wasn’t quite as fast as I would have liked due to my very sore feet and generally battered body. It was definitely fun though and I was starting to feel like the end was almost in reach. I was starting to get excited about it. I had set a target of 30 hours and at the moment that looked possible but it would mean the rest would have to be pretty swift. I was doubtful to be honest, but not bothered. I was living in the moment and at that moment things were good, in fact I was really happy to be out there no matter what the pain threw at me.

Once we passed the col, the descent steepens a little as we dropped down rather painfully to Trient. Thankfully the descent was not too technical for my fragile body so the pace was ok. Once in Trient we again planned to be rapid in the cp. I ate some dried fruit and lots of orange slices, before we rushed out. I took a quick diversion to one of the spring water troughs and dunked my head in it to hopefully revitalise me a little before the next stiff climb. The coldness of the water took my breath away and felt amazing. I again washed away the thick layer of salt and grime my face had collected. I pushed the fantasy of just climbing in and just laying there. No time for such luxuries.

The next climb was very no worse than previously, but still very hard and slow. Adam and I were slowly dropping Ed now which was a shame as we had been a good team for a while, but the end was getting closer and closer and slowing down was not feasible. We would only stay together if we felt quite evenly matched. I was still pretty much convinced that the sub 30 hours was just not on the cards anymore, but wasn’t willing to ease off. I suppose a small part of me still believed. Once over the top, I knew that there was only one monster climb left and this one may well be on of the worst! I wasn’t concerned though as we were as good as done then.

The descent was long and if there was no pain it would have been lots of fun. Vallorcine was waiting for Adam and I and we were keen to get there. We kept looking back hopefully to see if Ed had pulled out of his dark spot and was catching us up but unfortunately we would not see him again. I think I knew this really but it would have been so good to all finish together. Once into Vallorcine we checked the time and did some estimates and realised that the sub 30 was on. I was really excited about this and I now was going over the final section in my mind as I now knew it pretty well being close to home. There is a climb out of Vallorcine to the col that is very steady and easy before it kicks up for the real climb. We used this steady section to regain some energy before the last climb. Just before the top, Lou ran up to us and wished us well. We asked what sort of position we were in guessing that we maybe in the top 200. Apparently we were just in the top 100! What a surprise and a boost! I couldn’t believe it. I said good bye and that next time I would see here was in Chamonix.

The climb was as brutal as I suspected it would be but we silently pushed and tapped out a rhythm that progressed us over the top. The trail from the top of the steep section across to La Tete aux Vents is technical and therefore was very painful on my feet. As we neared La Tete aux Vents we noticed that there were a few photographers there that seemed interested in something. We then noticed about four or five chamois or something similar that was very close to the path and unusually didn’t seem phased by the human activity. I would like to have stopped to watch these beautiful creatures but time didn’t allow such luxuries and even as Adam and I ran past, they barely stirred before lowering their heads again to continue grazing.

By now the sun had gone and I was thinking that the torches would have to be coming out towards the end once we were in the darkness of the trees again. I was very famiiar with this trail but Adam wasn’t and I knew what was probably going through his head as we turned every corner and looked for something that might signify the end. We just wanted to be done now. I checked my watch and realised that we would break 30 hours which would be just incredible. Once we had passed La Flegere we begun the final descent that would take us into Chamonix and the end. Our headtorches were now on, but Adams was set brighter than mine plus he was descending on the technical trail much stronger than me so I waved him through knowing that he would go quicker. This, I knew would mean me speeding up and hanging on and for the first time during the race throwing caution to the wind and praying my ankle would hold up. The descent is fairly long, quite technical and after running 100 miles, simply brutal, but by this stage who cares! My good ankle flipped a bit which stung but was ok. A few minutes later my bad ankle twisted over and hurt some more. I didn’t say anything to Adam as I wanted him to keep pushing. He was running really strongly.

Finally the trail widens and then you are spat out onto the tarmac of Chamonix. We were now running quite fast, as we were guided around a rather scenic route towards the finish in the centre. I initially wasn’t too happy about this scenic route, but then realised that it just meant we would be passing lots more cheering spectators which as we got closer to the end just grew and grew. It was simply amazing and very emotional. The pain slid away and as Adam and I turned the final corner, the 10pm finish guaranteed a very busy and enthusiastic, beer fuelled finish. It will probably rate as my most amazing finish yet. I was met at the finish by Lou and  quite a few friends who really made the moment that much more special. We had crossed the line in 29:25 claiming places 97 for Adam and 98 for me. I needed some proper food now, so we headed down to the Midnight Express burger bar and got the biggest one they sell and made little work of seemingly inhaling it.

Recovery has been short with me running happily for an hour in the mountains one week later. This is pretty much the end of the season for me, but I just feel as though I am beginning to regain some of the strength after Trans-Europe last year.

So, what do I make of the UTMB? I really like a low key race with no razzmatazz and to be honest UTMB is exactly the opposite of that. I knew I would probably enjoy it just because the course is so stunning and tough but would the razzmatazz put a damper on the whole experience for me? Because I have experienced a few races over here now over the year and seen just how different the Euro racing culture is to ours, I have to say that I loved it. I would still prefer a low key event but that is just not how they seem to do things out here. The whole community gets involved with a view on each race being a positive tourist attraction so the facilities are amazing. I did a ridiculous vertical km yesterday at Montriond that was 20 Euros to enter and once you were finished you had a good quality three course meal in an incredible events venue included in the deal. Quite incredible for a race that took less than an hour to run. I do miss the low key events a little though. Maybe I will have to pop back to the UK to race one day.

Anyway, this is getting a bit close to 7000 words now so I think the end is due!

Happy running, people.

Written by Jasmin Paris - http://jasminfellrunner.blogspot.fr

 




This is the face of someone who has been running across mountains for 24 hours, realising they still have the equivalent of the Wasdale Horseshoe to come. It is the face of a person stupefied by their voluntary participation in such madness. It is my face, on Saturday 27th August, 140 km into the UTMB.

Rewind a day, and I was standing in the main square in Chamonix, on the elite start line of arguably the world’s most prestigious 100 miler, the Ultra Tour de Mont Blanc. I’d never known anything like it. People surrounded me on all sides, packed against the barriers, leaning down from balconies, lining the street ahead. The atmosphere was electric with excitement, anticipation and fear. I waited there, amongst 2300 other runners, contemplating the challenge ahead.

For there was no doubt in my mind that it would be a challenge. I was aware that this was unlike any fell race. It was going to be less technical, more runnable, hotter, and longer - 65 km longer in fact, than anything I’d raced before. The unknowns were both intimidating, and exciting.

Since arriving in France two days previously I’d had a drugs test (my first ever, but apparently routine for the top 100 runners), received a ‘how to use poles’ demonstration from Nicky Spinks, and spent a significant amount of time wallowing in the river beside our chalet, trying to cool down. I’d repacked my kit several times (incredibly, I still managed to arrive at the start line lacking a spare battery – luckily my fantastic mum was on-hand to sprint to the car), and had eaten a good number of fresh baguettes under the pretext of carbo-loading. Now all that remained to do was wait...

I counted down the final ten seconds with thousands of others, and then the sea of runners surged forwards, and I was carried along the streets of Chamonix with crowds of people cheering on all sides, ringing bells, shouting ‘Bon Courage!’ and ‘Allez!’. We reached the outskirts of town, and still people lined the path, picnicking, barbecuing, drinking, and even offering free pints as we ran past. I spotted Damian Hall in front, and joined him for the easy first 8km to Les Houches, chatting all the while – so much so in fact, that another runner asked incredulously ‘Are you two going to keep talking all the way around?!’.

Damian pushed on as we reached the first climb, and I settled into what I hoped was a sensible pace, without really having a clue. With Damian gone, I chatted instead to a fellow Czech runner (I’m half Czech), and the climb passed quickly. We ran along a track with fantastic views of sunset and mountains to the left, and I was grinning with the joy of it, and for a moment I spread my arms like a child learning to fly, laughing out loud as I started the descent. I tried to follow the advice of UTMB veterans, and took it steady on the descent, so as to save my quads (n.b. they were trashed by Trient anyway).

The next checkpoint, the town of Saint Gervais, was amazing. One would have thought we were finishing the race, not 21 km into it. It was what I imagine riding the Tour de France must be like. Supporters lined the road either side, 5 person deep, with little children leaning in, reaching out open palms for ‘High 5’s’. I did my best, swerving from side to side to meet them, but eventually gave up, there were just too many. 
 
(photo Andy Jackson)
I stuffed some cheese and crackers into my mouth, followed by a slice of cake, and ran on out of town and into the cool shade of evening. The running was easy, but I was wary of how far there was still to go, and tried to be conservative. Walking one of the up-hills, I heard in the darkness to my left the friendly voice of Jezz Bragg, and we chatted for a bit on the run up to Les Contamines (30.7km). After a short road section we reached Notre Dame de la Gorge (34.6km), where I was amazed and delighted to people dancing around bonfires, singing and partying the night away. Somewhat reluctantly I tore myself away, and started the long climb through the darkness to Col du Bonhomme. The trail was a mixture of slabby rocks, and hard packed sandy trail, all pretty straightforward and runnable, but most people were just walking. Whenever I was overtaken I tried to watch how the person was using their poles, so as to improve my technique. I seemed to be making reasonable progress, and passed a lady on the ascent, although I had no idea where I was lying in the field overall. As we reached the top of the climb I looked behind me, and was taken aback, and rather thrilled by the sight of a seemingly unending trail of head torches, stretching into the distance from where I had come. There was a slight breeze at the top, but I was still amazed when runners around me started stopping to put on extra layers. These were tropical conditions in comparison with Scotland!

A straightforward winding descent took us to Les Chapieux (49.4km), where I enjoyed some excellent salty noodle soup, and passed a brief kit check before heading out again, running slowly along a gradually climbing road. In front of me a zig-zag of torches traced out the route, heading up to Col de la Seigne. I spent some time as I jogged along, trying to work out where the torches stopped, and the stars started. I’d begun to feel a bit tired by this point, and I was glad of the distraction afforded by the somewhat more technical terrain on the next climb, Col des Pyramides Calcaires. I crossed the one (and only) bog of the UTMB route, after which there was an interesting section of boulders before the descent to Lac Combal (65.8km). Feeling pretty worn out already, I was alarmed at the prospect of what was still to come. To my relief, Coca Cola did the trick, and I powered up the next climb, enjoying myself once more. As I moved upwards, I emerged from the thick cold fog of the valley and found myself looking down on a nighttime cloud inversion, snow capped mountains above a sea of silver. It was extremely beautiful.

As I started the descent to Courmayeur (78.8km), my head torch started to flicker, but I pushed on, hoping that its light would last just long enough. It didn’t, and I was suddenly thrown into pitch-black darkness, just 300m from the edge of town. With some fumbling around, whilst losing about 5 places, I found the spare battery, and was back on my way. 

(photo James MacKeddie)

My mum was waiting at the checkpoint and I was glad of a change of food (the crackers, cheese and sausage were no longer going down so easily), gulping down a pot of baked beans before heading back out. As I re-joined the route I spotted a lady in front of me, and I tried to stay with her, but she pulled away sometime on the foggy humid climb that followed. It was light by now, but grey, and I focused on moving along steadily, albeit slowly. The incline lessened, and I forced myself into a jog along a small trod through blueberry bushes and low trees. As I plodded along, I suddenly realised that something had changed, and looking to my left I saw that I was emerging above the cloud once more, this time to the orange and pinks of the Mont Blanc massif in early morning. Enthralled and inspired, I started running properly again, on an undulating path, passing another lady (and thus moving into 6th) shortly before Arnouvaz (96.2km).

The climb that followed (Grand Col Ferret) was hot hot hot, and I got the impression that I wasn’t the only one finding it tough. Part way up I stuck the upper half of my body in a cow water bath, further up I as good as rolled in a stream. The descent, which I had been looking forward to, wasn’t much better, and I dropped back from the runners I’d been with. By the time I arrived at La Fouly I was ready to stop. But I stayed only long enough to drench myself with their hose-pipe, and to consume several orange quarters, before setting off again. For a little while I ran with a group that seemed to know one another, and I was somewhat astounded to realise that a) they had done the UTMB several times before b) they seemed to be experiencing suffering similar to mine c) they clearly considered this normal.

In the mid-day sun the sheltered valley was baking hot, and I survived the run to Champex Lac (124.1km) largely thanks to the frequent fountains I encountered at the roadside. Given how I was feeling when I arrived at the checkpoint, I was amazed to see that I was by no means the worst off. In fact, I seemed to be doing pretty well in comparison! The place resembled an army hospital, with runners lying down on benches, or hunched with head down, staring into space. In the 10 minutes or so that I spent there, only one person left the tent, and I set back out with renewed morale. This was further improved by a quick swim in the lake (much to the amusement of the tourists picnicking on its shores), captured on camera by Little Dave (Cummins), who happened to be supporting in that spot.
Mid-race swim (photo Dave Cummins)
I made good progress on the next climb and the traverse through cow fields that followed, but on my screaming quads the descent went on forever, and I arrived into Trient (140.6km) in a rather sorry state (see pictures, top of page!). To make matters worse, the lady behind me (7th) came in as I was still sitting over a can of tinned pears, although this did at least force me out of my stupor and back onto the road. I started the climb prepared for her to catch me, but determined for it to at least take a bit of effort. To my surprise, she never came, and instead I caught the lady in front (Magdalena Boulet, USA), arriving at the final checkpoint, Vallorcine (150.9km), hot on her tail.

Magdalena must have been re-invigorated by my appearance, because she ran straight through the checkpoint and off along the gently sloping trail up the valley. In comparison, I spent a few minutes there, determined to stick to my race plan and look after myself to get around in one piece. Arguably I should have been more competitive, and not let her get away, but I was just glad at this point to be feeling ok again, and looking forward to reaching Chamonix, just 19km away. Alex (one of my support team), who has crewed at equine endurance events in the past described it as follows, ‘If you were horses, you (and almost everyone else) would have failed the vet check at Champex Lac. But at Vallorcine, you would have passed with flying colours.’

As I started up the final climb, Magdalena was already well ahead. Above us, the clouds were gathering, and the air was close with the promise of a big storm. The first drops fell as I reached the summit plateau. A few minutes later lightning flashed across the sky, a brilliant shock of purple white against the darkening sky. More lightning followed - every minute or so now - and I nervously counted the seconds between the thunder and flash of white, conscious of my exposure, and the carbon walking poles in my hands.
 
(photo Alex Melbon)
By the time I’d arrived at the summit checkpoint, La Tete aux Vents (158.6km), it was dark, and raining hard. The marshal seemed relieved to see me, and turned me in the direction of La Flegere with a slight push, shouting to be heard above the wind, ‘Be brave, and be safe!’. I wasn’t sure I could do much to ensure the latter (feeling somewhat at the mercy of the lightning still flashing across the sky above me), but I certainly wasn’t planning to hang around. In the cool rain, hopping across wet rocks, I was in my element, and I passed several runners, including the Czech I had befriended 150km earlier. I ran straight through La Flegere (162.2km), and into a thick fog, delightfully British. I removed my head torch and carried it in my hand so as not to be blinded by the white, and started the descent. The final kilometres into Chamonix went on forever, on a winding forest trail, in a small pool of light from my head torch, rain still falling hard. I finally arrived at the edge of town, but still had to run a couple of kilometres in a big loop through the streets, presumably usually lined with supporters cheering, except that almost everyone had left to take shelter, and so there was just an occasional waterproof-clad stalwart watching me pass.

I arrived at the final street leading into the town square, and ran across the finish to the cheers of my support team (mum, Alex, Bo and Alvar), and the many friends gathered there to see me finish. I was drenched and tired, and slurring my words like a happy drunkard. I had finished 6th lady, 51st overall, in a time of 28:34:35.

The UTMB was an incredible experience, and I’m already forgetting the pain, and remembering instead the cloud inversions, the sunrise, the trail of torches, and the man playing his harmonica beside a mountain road in the dead of night. Would I do it again? Probably yes, but not for a few years. For now, I’m glad to be running across boggy windswept fells again, planning the next adventure...


 

 

 


 

Written by Andy Cole - http://www.ajc-runninglate.blogspot.co.uk

 
I just needed to get this post done while things are fresh in my mind, while the memories good and bad are still memories, and not the edited version of memories we often live with.
 
I pulled out of the UTMB at 12.30am on Sunday morning, at Champex in Switzerland, with 76 miles and just under 23,000ft done, about three quarters of the way around the course. I won't do a long narrative about my run but here is the story in brief.
 
My plan was to run a conservative race to get a finish, by working gradually up to 1-1,5 hours ahead of the cut-off times and staying there, to get back to Chamonix in 44-45 hours. I was fine as far as Courmayeur and really enjoying the race. I took the long hill up to the Bertone hut slowly, pleased that I had never felt as good on reaching this point in previous attempts. 
 
From this point my race went rapidly downhill. I was very slow along to the Bonatti hut, feeling very tired and unable to eat. I stopped for a twenty minute sleep on the sunny hillside along the way but felt very little better for it. I had another twenty minute rest at the Bonatti then carried on slowly down to Arnuva. I lay on the grass here for half an hour thinking that I would probably have to stop at that point, but I was still ahead of the cut-offs and knowing that this would probably be my last shot at the race I decided to carry on in the hope that things would improve. I was painfully slow up to the Col de Ferret, being overtaken by dozens of people. Worse, on the beautiful descent which one of the most runnable parts of the whole course, I could only manage a steady walk. Before the final descent into La Fouly the course goes up a number of short re-ascents; together they add a height gain of only around 600ft or so but I found them pretty soul destroying. A mile or two before La Fouly I sat on the grass, rang Jan and told her I was going to stop. Amazingly, having done that I felt quite a bit better and walked steadily down to the checkpoint.
 
I didn't quit straight away because I was now feeling as good as I had since the Bertone, and actually fancied some food. I had a couple of cups of fizzy water, a bowl of soup, a bit of bread and cheese. The loudspeaker announced 15 minutes to the cut-off and I thought why not, the next few miles are all down hill. I rang Jan again to tell her I was continuing. I had 4 hours to get to Champex so I did all the way to Issert at a determined fast walk. But the little hill out of Praz de Fort was a warning that things were still not right. The 1500ft climb from Issert up to Champex was the hardest couple of hours I can remember doing for many years. I needed frequent rest stops and was again passed by lots of runners going at a slow, sensible pace which would get them to the finish. I reached Champex 20 minutes before the cut-off. I knew what was coming from here, I've covered the rest of the course on several occasions, and I knew that continuing wasn't on - I wouldn't make it to Trient in the time allowed. I went straight over to the control desk and stopped.
 
Since first discovering the UTMB on a trip when Jan and I went out to Chamonix to do the classic "Tour du Mont Blanc" walk in 2005, I've only missed coming back each year on one occasion. Over that period I've completed one CCC race and one shortened (due to bad weather) UTMB. I've also had five (yes, FIVE) shots at the full course, which I've never completed. 
 
This year, conditions were perfect. I was as fit as I am ever likely to be, had spent the previous two weeks in the mountains and was confident that I would give it my best shot. I know what my basic problem is and I'll maybe cover that in a separate post. But for now I think it's time to accept that doing the same thing repeatedly and expecting a different result is probably a little short of real sanity.  I'm sure I'll come back for one of the shorter races because the atmosphere in this town over this weekend is just too good to miss, and the trail running  in the Mont Blanc range has to be as good as it gets. But as for my long, and in spite of the results very rewarding,  affair with the UTMB, I know now that it's over and I won't be back for another attempt   -    time to move on.

Written by Christian Maleedy - https://runningchristian.wordpress.com

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

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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.

UTMB map

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.

UTMB profile

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.

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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.

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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.

Courmayeur

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

UTMB_finish

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.

Written by Paul Nesbitt - http://pabloruns.wordpress.com/

“I don’t have any Bodyglide & I swear it’s like a lump of molten rock in my boxers” -

Moi at Courmayeur (Mile 50)

Sometimes, no matter how much you prepare, no matter how many precautions you take & how much training you do. Manbits are gonna burn. A single strand of cotton fibre lining was at this moment ruining my race, crushing my dreams & making me run like John Wayne.

The Ultra-Trail du Mont-Blanc (also referred to as UTMB) is a single-stage mountainultramarathon. It takes place once a year in the Alps, across FranceItaly andSwitzerland. The distance is approximately 168 km, with a total elevation gain of around 9,600 m. It is widely regarded as one of the most difficult foot races in Europe.


Profil-UTMB-2014

Och sure, it's only a few wee hills.

Och sure, it’s only a few wee hills.

This is what Wikipedia says about the race that has been my focus for at least the last 3 years, you have to acquire points to qualify for it by running other ultra races which in turn give you points on completion, the 3 races that I used were the Lakeland 100 (100 miles), Swiss Alpine Ultra (50 Miles) & the Mourne Ultra (52 Miles). I ‘ve been intrigued by this race ever since I read a Dean Karnazes book about 6 years ago and thought 104 miles covering the height of Everest!? Ridiculous. I didn’t actually think I’d one day be running it!!

So myself & Declan entered the ballot (after missing out last year) Declan was my lucky charm here as he got into & completed the Western States this year too. The same fella would get into Fort Knox if he chanced his arm! So we got in – Now what?

TRAINING

I’ll not bore ye too much with the details of my training but lets just say it was filled with variety! T’is the spice of life as they say :)

I just made sure to get as much vert into every run I set out on. The last couple of months involved about 4 long runs in the Mournes of about 20 miles (Usually late at night!) as well as getting up at about 4.30am to run the hills behind Belfast before work most mornings. Moving house and having a new wee nipper about also took their place amongst this hectic oul year, so looking at my training log below, you can see the miles I covered this year -

Year Jan Feb Mar Apr May Jun Jul Aug          
2014 155 83 42 100 202 154 171 230

Injury at Donadea in February really knocked the stuffing out of me with little to no running for 6 weeks. I was only really getting back on track again in May. March was a grumpy month.

June was the house move which effectively wiped out 2 weeks of training but I was still happy enough as I think my training just peaked at the right time coming towards race day. I also managed to squeeze in the Mourne Ultra in June as well as the Seven Sevens in August.

Special mention to the boy Matty for holding my hand round Gosford on those late nights when I needed to squeeze a run in. Th’on boy will never turn down the chance to go out for a loch of mile!!

GEAR

I’m going to blatantly lie here as if I’m honest & truthful about the gear I had to buy for this race, It could end up in divorce. UTMB has quite an extensive kit list and for safety in the mountains, a lot of it is compulsory. So of course, as I mentioned before, being honest & truthful, I made all the kit myself. By hand.

Shoes – Went with Salomon Speedcross & they were brilliant. Had some wee Noene insoles in them too. Had North Face Ultras & Nike Wildhorse as backup but never felt the need to change.

Socks – Drymax Trail

Backpack – Salomon S-Lab 12

Poles – Yes Poles! Mountain King Trail Blaze – I thought I’d broke them about 100 times! Very light and strong wee boyos, I don’t know how anyone can do this race without them. About 95% of the field use poles.

Shorts – North face shorts + Salomon for 2nd half

Tees – UTMB top + Helly Hanson

I also brought a few buffs, Sealskinz gloves, waterproof troosers, merino baselayer, Montane hat, A Petzl trailrunner headtorch, An Alpkit gamma (Which the mountain Gods stole on the 2nd last climb!!) Bodyglide (It’s like a less messy vaseline) Salt tablets, a box of High5 Summer fruits gels, Nuun Tablets + 1 litre of water carried in my disturbingly flacid soft flasks.

Hey man, you gonna stop boring us with these details? It'd be a whole lot cooler if you did...

Buddy, you gotta stop boring us with all these details. It’d be a whole lot cooler if you did…

ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT – SO WHAT ACTUALLY HAPPENED?

Have you ever really, really looked forward to something, pined for it and wanted it so much that you would actually lick the side of its face?

I wanted to lick the side of the UTMB’s face. Look, I know races don’t have faces & even if they did, you could probably get disqualified for such inappropriateness. But this is how my post-UTMB brain is expressing itself so please just stay with me.

This notion of face licking quickly dissipated in the last week before the race though.

In truth, I just became so insecure with the whole thing. Had I trained enough? Was the niggling achilles injury going to stop me in my tracks? Could I actually run what is renowned in the ultra community as the most gruelling ultra in the world? I wanted to hide, I wanted time to go backwards. I wanted someone to lick MY face and tell me everything is gonna be OK.

Right, enough facelickage – I feel a wee bit nauseous.

So I think it’s obvious that I had a wee case of pre-race nerves. Stace was like Mickey from Rocky all week…she says to me one morning…

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“Here, pass the milk”

“There ye go”

“Pabs, I was just thinking, UTMB is on Friday right?”

…Deep Breath….”Yup”

“Well pet, I just wanted to say the world aint all sunshine and rainbows. It’s a very mean and nasty place, and I don’t care how tough you are, it will beat you to your knees and keep you there permanently if you let it. You, me or nobody is gonna hit as hard as life. But it aint about how hard you hit. It’s about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward … how much you can take and keep movin forward.”

“Ermmmm…I don’t know what to say to that. I’m pretty blown away actually.”

“Now get me a spoon too would ye?”

CHAMONIX

What an awesome place this is during UTMB week.

It’s a runners paradise just nestled in a valley overshadowed by the Mont Blanc massif. We were staying in a chalet bang in the middle of Chamonix with a crowd of other NI runners who were all taking on other events that week such as the TDS & CCC. They had all finished their races (Apart from Martin who was doing the CCC on Friday morning) by the time we arrived so they were just basking in their success at this stage.

View from the apartment - Sexy.

View from the apartment – Sexy.

NI takes over Chamonix! A quere good looking bunch.

NI takes over Chamonix! A quere good looking bunch.

A great bunch of lads who couldn’t do enough for us including Brian who had laminated and cut out the UTMB route for us to take with us. Such an organiser, everyone needs a Brian Linton in their life. I have a personality that generally just goes with the flow (Or lazy may be a better word!?) so having these boyos about was reassuring.

Thanks for giving up your beds, pastries & coffee lads!

Too much sexy for one picture. Oh yes.

Finish Line – The day before – Too much sexy for one picture. Should be illegal.

Le Race

Let’s start at the very beginning. A very good place to start.

We arrived at the start about 45 minutes before kickoff which in retrospect was a wee bit late as we were fairly far back in the crowd of runners. But nonetheless it was good as we actually ended up meeting up with all the other runners from NI. Dale & Denise Mathers (Dale had an unbelievable run finishing in 32hrs 54mins which would have been closer to 30 hours only for a torn calf muscle – Denise unfortunately had to pull out with sickness at 50km) & Craig Lloyd who gutted out the distance without any poles which I can’t quite comprehend now I look back! Also, Stephen Wallace who as usual ran really strongly to finish just under 42 hours.

The race warms up with some soul stirring classical battle style music by Vangelis which I thought would do nothing for me. Much rather have a bit of Punk or Metal myself but dear me, Once it got started, the lump in the throat and goosebumps took hold. As we ran under the start arch, I actually thought I was going to cry, I don’t even know why. I’m an emotional crater really y’know…It also started pouring down just before the start which continued for about 4 hours. Perfect.

The run out of Chamonix is amazing, with crowds up to 6 deep just roaring and cheering. Parful! The first 8km of the race looks flat on the profile map but it’s probably more like somewhere like Gosford forest to be honest, still it was relatively flat really! The first climb out of Les Houches was tough as we were still getting warmed up and it was all still pretty congested due to us being so close to the start. Dec struggled a bit here & mentioned that he had feck all energy – he’d been on anti-biotics for the week previous.

We marched up together but I got a couple of minutes ahead of him here and waited at the top. Then all I saw was a Dec shaped blur as he was flying down the other side. I followed at this point & it was pure gutters! Just like home. You could tell everyone was being very cautious here as no-one wanted to do themselves a mischief so early in the race. Caught up with Dec again at the Saint Gervais aid station and we both set off on the long climb up Bonhomme. I realised I was getting ahead of him too quickly here & just knew deep down something wasn’t right with him.

Unfortunately, I would find out that he had to drop at 50km, Stace broke the news to me around halfway (Well I dragged it out of her actually) and it rattled me a bit as I knew this race was just as important to him as it was to me. We’d built up to this race together but th’on boy is strong enough. He’ll be back and absolutely annihilate this bad boy.

There was a massive bonfire at the top of Col du Bonhomme which was so warm and lovely, I could have stayed there all day. But being 2500 metres high, I knew I needed to stop drying my backside and get down the otherside. So at les Chapieux, I grabbed some noodly soup and moved on. The climbing on this course was relentless and after hitting Col de la Seigne (2500m again) we left France and dropped down to Lac Combal in the Italian Alps where it was starting to get light for the first time and I could start to appreciate what I was running in!

The trail of headtorches behind me dropping down the Col. Pretty awesome.

The trail of headtorches behind me dropping down the Col. Pretty awesome.

The language barrier was difficult at times, not because we couldn’t understand one another, more because they all refused to speak at all as a result!

Of course it also made me paranoid when they spoke to one another as I could never be quite sure if they were remarking on the size of my arse or my terrible haircut. What were they saying? What was going on here?

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What if birds aren’t singing? What if they’re just screaming because they’re afraid of heights?

On more than one occasion I would see a couple of runners ahead on the trail and as I would overtake, something you could only do one at a time due to the narrow trails usually having a massive drop down one side. As a result, for that instant while you were running sandwiched between 2 runners that obviously knew each other, I can only describe the uncomfortableness as being akin to when that weird dude comes and stands beside you at the urinal when there were plenty of others to use…

The entire Italian side of the race was just beautiful, it was all done during the daylight hours & was just stunning. I’ll let the pics do the talking more than my words ever could.

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One of the aid stations along the route

Yer man in the sign looks to be in a spot of bother.

Yer man in the sign looks to be in a spot of bother.

FALLING

I did fall once during the race which for anyone who knows me is an incredible stat! I usually make a habit of being horizontally prone on a regular basis when out in the hills. I just like to feel one with the landscape. The one fall I had was actually pretty dramatic, it was on some slippy rock descending before Grand Col Ferret and I smacked my chin off a boulder from a great height, it made a loud noise, it hurt quite a lot but strangely it seemed to be ok!? I was convinced I should have had a broken jaw or something. Anyway, someone was looking after me there!

FARTING

Yes, I know. Sorry.

I could regale you with hours of fart stories but I’ll try not to. You see, the child in me just cannot stop laughing when I hear air escaping from someones posterior. This was a regular occurence on the climbs in the race. Although, It seems the other nations represented on the UTMB did not share my amusement or the love of a good oul fart. These guys were lethal, Squeaking the whole way up hills without so much as a smirk.

The reason I raise this at all is in relation to two incidents out there. On one particular climb I was fairly close to a guy as we climbed up a rather steep section of scree. He farted on my head. Yes. ON MY HEAD. Now, me not wanting to fall out with him just shouted “Sacre Bleu!” and laughed thinking good old trailer comaraderie would shine through and we’d have a good laugh. Eh, Nope – he stopped, looked at me in disgust and marched on. How did I get in trouble!?

Another guy played the opening notes to Dallas with his which had me laughing quite a lot, although I held back a bit after the previous incident and said nothing. Still, I was the recipient of a french flash of pure distain. Was I meant to compliment him on his unique & distinctive tones!?

I’ve went on a bit here. Apologies.

BACK TO LE RACE

At Courmayeur,which is roughly around halfway, there was amazing support from the locals. Here, you can get your hands on your dropbag. This is where you can change your clothes into a nicer drier t-shirt and shorts and basically carry out any maintenance that is required after the first half of the race has bate ye. I was most looking forward to the dropbag so I could get some lubrication. You may remember back at the beginning of this report, that I mentioned molten rock & my boxers. Ladies cover your ears and eyes…

I was in a bad way. Initially I was afraid to look in fear that I had rubbed myself into a eunuch. So now was the time to finally sort it out, it was going to be such a moment. I could hear the triumphant trumpets of lubricated victory playing and I was gonna pile that Bodyglide on…then No. No. I could have cried. I didn’t pack my Bodyglide for this station, it was waiting a minimum of 25 miles away at Champex-Lac (Damien – Me & Declans wingman had arranged to meet us there with some last minute provisions). This was the low of my race. I phoned Stace and moaned about how hot my willy was. This was not a proud moment, but it is a moment that could have wrecked the race. The only solution was to change what I was wearing on my bottom half & soldier on. This proved problematic in a packed Leisure centre but I managed. I got some Pasta into me & moved on. Again.

This was my favourite part of the race as it was the highest point up to Grand Col Ferret. Such stunning scenery here again.

Would put you in mind of out my back.

Would put you in mind of out my back.

The descent down into Champex-lac was so awesomely awesome too. It was about 20km of trail at gradient that was lovely to run on, not too steep but just perfect. Then we were up a bit of a climb into Champex-Lac where Dec & Damien came to meet me & we exhanged some manhugs. This was a huge lift to me. I had contemplated 5 minutes sleep here as I’d been going for over 24 hours at this stage but seeing the lads gave me the lift that I felt would see me round the remainder of the course.

The lads pampered me & I finally got that most amazing of amazing things – Bodyglide. The image of me applying it must have been a right sight. At least it gave the lads a good laugh!

It was at this stage that I thought I had the back of the race broke. Not so. Not by a long shot, the final 50km of this race are brutal. It consists of 3 extremely tough climbs up treacherous mountain passes in the dark.

The first one after Champex-Lac starts with a beautiful skirt round the side of a big lake before you drop down then climb and climb. This was so disorienting after no sleep & I actually started seeing things in the rocks. On the decent down the other side into Trient I actually saw the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland lying dead on the trail. Shouldn’t have been messing about as much I though. Stupid Cat.

This was all very real to me. I was thinking that I was on individual missions now rather than continuous climbs to the finish in Chamonix. Very hard to explain where my head was at at this point to be honest. Let us just say focused…

The next climb from Trient and down to Vallorcine was like dejavu. It was dark, it was a mountain and I was now back to an aid station. I was really starting to suffer  with blisters on the last 2 descents, after the first one I thought I will just have to persevere but now I was convinced my foot would explode on every landing. I couldn’t go on like this so I headed to the medical tent where this place was like an episode of the walking dead. It took them 45 minutes but they lanced my feet. Ouch. But it worked & after getting both feet bandaged again, I headed for the last climb in great spirits.

Well, they were great until I realised I had left my backup headtorch on the peak of the last climb when I was replacing batteries. And now the ones I had were all duds!! Nightmare!! I knew if I waited an hour, I would have daylight coming through but I couldn’t afford this, I wanted to get to the finish ASAP! So I stopped a couple of supporters t Col des Montets and asked would they by any chance have some AAA batteries…

Complete gentlemen they were too & they actually took the batteries out of their own headtorch and sent me on my way. One of them just happened to be Jez Bragg who finished 20th this year and was out supporting his wife now. The elites are amazing.

I may have been near the finish but my adventure certainly wasn’t over. I had about 700 metres left to climb on rough terrain and my left hip flexor had now decided to completely stop functioning. Completely.

I couldn’t lift my left foot more than 15 cm off the ground & on this mountain, it was knees to chest stuff at times! Instead I had to resolve to climbing with my right leg only and using my left leg to steady myself. Not ideal but I finally made it to the top after some proper rock climbing in places! Oi’m well ‘ard Oi am.

Only the small matter of running about 10km downhill on smashed quads, blistered feet, chaffed chaffed bits & no left hip flexor. I was actually cross when I saw how small Chamonix was from up on top of that mountain. What monster created this race!? Anyway, after scrambling across a load of rock at the top of the mountain and sliding down even more on my arse, I made it to Flégére, the final checkpoint. Finally.

I got a wee bit emotional here & hugged a french guy I had met the previous day at the expo who was carrying out a sleep study at this station. I tried to explain the Cheshire Cat but I don’t know of I got anywhere.

So I began the descent & also began the reminiscing…oh dear, don’t do it!

I thought about Stace & my wee men back home & of course almost instantly cried!Hold it together man!!

I also got thinking about the journey to this point, I don’t want to be clichéd but this race really means more to me than just being a stupid jolly in the mountains. It means all the training was worth it, it means the hours away from Stace & the boys actually had a point – Thanks for putting up with that Mrs, it means setting my alarm for 4am wasn’t mental, It means I actually got to live out a dream. This was a dream for me.

I’ve always been in awe of the mountains ever since I was a wee buck, it was my Dad that gave me that love. He loved the Mournes & I like to think he wasn’t too far away as I was running down those switchbacks into Chamonix. He would have loved that.

I managed to compose myself & arrive back into Chamonix to a fantastic reception of people cheering as I passed. I suddenly was running quite fast then and doing stupid things with my arms.

Me and my silly arms...

Me and my silly arms…

All the lads were out to see me in which was such a great welcome after 2 very long hard nights of running. You’re all heros. Thanks Nicki & Martin for the stellar photography.

This actually happened. True Story.

This actually happened. True Story.

So, I’m sitting typing this and only as I pasted that image in have I realised it.

I finished UTMB. Jakers.

Profile Stats & Time - 39:29:52

Profile Stats & Time – 39:29:52