I have never before been fearful before a foot race, but on Thursday night 25th August 2011 as I lay in my hotel room in Charmonix, France, listening to the wind howling and the heavy rain on the window shutters I must confess to feeling afraid. Tomorrow, Friday 26th, half an hour before midnight I would be one of 2300 runners heading out on a 100+ mile race called the North Face Ultra Trail du Mont-Blanc, a circumnavigation of Mont Blanc that involves 30,000 feet of climbing (more than the height of Everest), plus descending the same amount.
The 11:30pm start was a five-hour delay from the race's original 6:30 pm start time due to bad weather (read: severe thunderstorms, freezing temperature, wind, heavy rain, and snow). I've lived in Chicago and experienced its severe winters and run 20+ marathons and 6 ultras up to a distance of 110 km and numerous other races than I can remember, but the UTMB is another matter. To run in high mountains for hours on end, along trails so narrow that a misstep could lead to serious injury if not death, through day and night, in bad weather? As I lay in bed that night I knew I had to get those negative thoughts out of my head, face the fear and do it any way.
Friday was show time. I can't remember much of the day to be honest. I was glad I ditched my ultra light nordic poles and forked out 100 Euros for a sturdier carbon pair by Komperdell. I packed and repacked my running backpack for the twentieth time. Did I have enough high carb gel? Water? Where were my gloves? Waterproof pants? What about the whistle to blow in case of trouble? Back up torch? Spare batteries? The list of required race gear went on and on, and with it my need to check and double check that I not only had everything but could find it in my backpack in the middle of the night even when cold, tired and hungry.
At 11pm, Chris, my running mate, and I made our way to the start in the center of Chamonix with throngs of other runners from 62 countries. It was still raining and the temperature was below zero. The announcements were made, mostly in French which I did not really understand but somehow got the meaning of what was being said. Then we were off to great fanfare, cheering, singing and clapping from the crowd, mostly friends and family that braced the awful weather to see us off. I repeated my mantra: "relentless forward progress" (the title of Bryon Powell's excellent book) and got into my zone.
Soon we were off the pristine streets of Charmonix and on the trail and climbing. It was now Saturday morning, still dark and raining. The rain picked up as we climbed the 2000+ meters (6000+ feet) to Delevret (mile 9). All of a sudden, there was a body lying inert on the side of the trail. It was a young female runner, apparently unconscious. More than a dozen of us stopped to help. I knew no first aid (I need to do something about that) and was no use other than to ask someone to use their mobile phone to call for help. I could not call myself, by now my fingers were frozen, a consequence of the chronically bad circulation in my finger tips any time the temperature dropped below freezing. After making certain that she had regained consciousness albeit groggy and others more competent than I were helping, I carried on.
It was still raining when I descended off the mountain and jogged into St Gervais (mile 13) at 3:17am Saturday. As the sun came up I was into the second big climb of the race, a 4000 feet climb from St Gervais to the top of Refuge Croix du Bonhommie a 2443 meter (8000 feet) peak. By now most runners had put on every item of clothing they had, that was how much the temperature had dropped. Snow covered the ground on the high passes and it was very windy in the exposed areas of the mountain. Feeling strong, I blocked out everything and continued on, relentless forward progress.
By 10:25am I had reached Les Chapieux, 50km (31 miles) into the race. By now, the race leaders were probably twice as far ahead. These guys ran the first 5 miles in 30 minutes! 6 minutes per mile at the start of a 100+ miles mountain race, how amazing is that? To really get a feel for the intensity and how ridiculously difficult this race is you really need to see it for yourself. Next best thing is to watch this video clip on youtube (http://www.youtube.com/watch?
For food, I was mostly eating energy gels and bars. At the larger aid stations there were cookies/biscuits, hot clear soup, bananas, apples, bread, cheese, salami, water, oranges, a veritable buffet. At first I enjoyed the food and tucked in. Later on after 20 hours of continuous running and fast hiking my taste buds would change and I could not stand the sight of another energy bar or gel.
After Les Chapieux I faced another huge climb up and over Col de la Seigne, a mountain that reached 2516 meters (8255 feet). This one was a slog, no other way to describe it. I amused and motivated myself with things people had said to me. "Just go up and come down, that's all you've got to do". "You can do it". "May the mountains give you strength". "Be brave". I thought of Glen, Isabelle and James and continued. Relentless forward progress. By 1:10pm on Saturday I was up and over Col de la Seigne. 3:40 pm I was at the top of Arete Mount Favre at 2435 meters, the sun beating down on my hatless head and still feeling strong.
The first sign of real trouble came on the long 10km downhill into Courmayeur, Italy (49 miles). The Courmayeur aid station marked the point where I could pick up my drop bag, change shoes/clothing, get some real food like pasta and may be get a massage for my aching limbs. My quads had started to throb somewhere along as I hopped a tree root here, a rock there, twisting, turning, jumping. I got to Courmayeur at 5pm and collected my drop-bag with spare clothing and back-up shoes. Then I sat at a table in this cavernous sports hall and just stared at my stuff not able to figure out what to do next. Without a crew to assist I was too fatigued and my brain too oxygen deprived to function normally. By the time I changed my top, socks and shoes, and got something to eat it was already too late for a massage and I had been there for 45 minutes, at a risk of missing the time cut-off and being expelled from the race. The few runners remaining in the hall, including me, were shooed out at 5:45pm to resume our battle with this brutally beautiful terrain.
Next up: the climb up to Refuge Bertone, 82km, nearly 800 meters (2625 feet) of climbing straight up. By now, I found even walking was very tough. The high altitude left me gasping for breath after every few steps. Slowly, I made it up to Refuge Bertone. After Bertone, being able to run the rolling trail to Arnuva, 95km (59 miles) was a welcome relief for my sore quads. Not that it was an entirely easy ride getting to Arnuva. I and several other runners in my group thought we needed to get to Arnuva before the cut off at 10:45pm Saturday night. We realized that if we did not run hard we would not make the cut off, so together with a Japanese runner wearing on of those Vibram five finger shoes, we took off at full speed for 5km. We got into Arnuva and the clock read 10:42pm. We made it with just 3 minutes to spare! Then, it turned out that the race officials had extended that cut off to 11:15pm to allow runners more time because of the weather conditions, so it seemed like a wasted effort after all. I refuelled - it was not food any more, it was now purely fuel for the purpose of creating energy.
As I ran out of Arnuva, ahead of me stood the biggest challenge of my 24 hours on the trail up to that point: the climb to the top of Grand Col Ferret, 2537 meters (8323 feet) high. I could see the head torches of runners like pearls adorning the mountain in a zigzag pattern as they made their way up. This was the hardest. I counted my steps, first to 10 and then stopping to take 3 deep breaths, again to 10 and another 3 big breaths, and on and on. It was pitch black, and I could barely make out the trail even with my powerful head torch at full beam. I was very cold and hungry, but did not want to stop to take another gel from my pack, and in any case my stomach was queasy and I felt nauseous. I contemplated giving up and going back down to Arnuva and dropping out. People would understand I did my best. But, it seemed a shorter distance to get to the top and perhaps once I got there I could get some food at the aid station and get warm. My remaining energy drained out and I wondered if I might collapse. If that happened, there were runners coming behind and in front that would surely come to my aid. I pushed the thought out of my mind and pressed on.
Just before 1am in the morning of Sunday I finally reached the top of the mountain but found no aid station. I could have cried but what would have been the point. At times like this you learn something about yourself and about life. I learned that much of what we see as insurmountable barriers are mere bumps on the road of life. Often it only appears to be insurmountable because we have lost hope. Find hope and you can do anything, lose it and you're in trouble.
Having conquered Grand Col Ferret I thought it would be a relatively easy run down the other side to the next big aid station at La Fouly. I was so mistaken. The path wound one way, then the other. One hour became two. I started to get very worried. Where was La Fouly? Had I gone wrong? I could hear faint noises down in the dark valley below and at one point saw lights. Surely that was La Fouly down there or was it? Then the lights disappeared and there were no more noises, just the quiet of the night and the deep breathing of fatigued runners. Every once in a while I would pass a runner sitting beside the trail apparently taking a nap. I was so tired and sorely tempted to lie down and sleep but knew I needed to press on or I would miss the cut off. Where was La Fouly? My watch now showed 3am and I had to be at La Fouly at 3:30am or my race would be over. My stomach was so queasy that I felt like throwing up but could not. May be I would feel better if I threw up. I looked at my watch again: 3:10am, still no La Fouly in sight. I lost hope but kept moving. May be, just may be they will extend the cut off like they did at Arnuva. Hope again.
Finally, at 3:46am I arrived at the La Fouly checkpoint. 16 minutes too late. Several runners in front of me had also missed the cut off, one guy by just 4 minutes. The race officials were unmoved. Our race was over. The chip bracelet was removed and dejectedly I stood around with my desolate comrades, stunned to be out of the race. Thought of food was forgotten. I knew I needed to eat but there was nothing there I fancied. It was 3:46am Sunday morning. I had been on the move for more than 28 hours, without sleeping since Thursday, and covered 110km (68 miles) across the most rugged and unbelievably stunning environment you will ever find.
Post script:
We were eventually bussed back to Charmonix. I took a shower and was asleep before my head hit the pillow.
