I spend a week or so each year out on the French Alps in late spring/early summer white water kayaking. This year was no different and I was based in Vallouise in the Écrins National Park for a little over a week. With the record-breaking amount of snow that fell over the winter the river levels were all high this year. High water levels made for some extra-exciting kayaking and also meant I was extra-exhausted from paddling harder water and helping out with even more rescues than normal.
Last year when we stayed in Vallouise a trail running race ran past our house and this year I made the terrible mistake of googling it when I arrived in town. The race is the Grand Trail des Ecrins, there are a few different distances and elevation races over a weekend, with the main event being a 57km (35mile) trail running race with +3300m (10,800ft) of ascent in elevation. Disastrously I discovered that this year the main event was on Saturday 16th June, the weekend I was planning on leaving Vallouise. I’ve had a few pains and niggles recently and haven’t been running more than once a week, I don’t really feel like I’ve done much long distance running ever, and only really done one long distance run over mountains. So no way could I do this crazy ultramarathon with a huge amount of climbing in a weeks time, could I?
I signed up. I’m here in the mountains already, I want to push myself, I want to know what I can do, I should seize these kind of opportunities: all things I told myself as I paid my registration fee. Instantly regret set in as I looked up around me at the mountains I’d have to run over. Total madness. I did a bit more investigating: there were only about 5 entrants my age or younger; pretty much all entrants were members of running clubs based in alpine villages; everyone in photos from previous years seemed to have trail running poles. I’d never run with poles, everyone says “nothing new on race day” so I shouldn’t hastily buy some, right? But then again, does “nothing new on race day” apply when you’re so wildly out of your depth that everything is going to be new on race day? What about nutrition? How on earth would I fuel my body for the 11+hrs I’d be out on the course? What about pacing? How the hell would I know how fast to go?
More and more questions kept spinning around my head over several sleepless nights. I could put them out of my mind during the days when I was paddling hard down white water, but every evening the panic returned. I decided that I’d take a day or so off paddling to rest up before the race and Fern flew out to Turin to support me (how awesome is that?!) so I drove over to collect her. I needed to eat lots before the race, right? OK, I’ll have a burger and chips for lunch and a pizza and a pint for dinner, that’ll do it, surely?
Before I knew it I was stood at a start line in L’Argentière-la-Bessée just before 6am, surrounded by seasoned trail runners almost all kitted out with running poles, looking like they knew what was going on, and could understand the pre-race briefing (which was given quickly over a crackly PA system in French). Suddenly we were off, running through the town at dawn, almost immediately the tarmac turned to steep, narrow, trail. Everyone slowed to a single-file walk. Oh, right, is this what we do now? I thought to myself. I felt like I could walk/climb up this steep trail a bit quicker than the people in front of me, but maybe I was being pathetically naive? 57km was a long way to go and 3300m of climbing was insanity. I didn’t want to clamber through bushes to overtake people just to see them fly past me later. I’d done some calculations based on my limited previous runs and had worked out that a target time of 10hrs was too ambitious, but I hoped I could get round in less than 11hrs. I decided to overtake.
I’d lied to Fern and everyone else about my race plan because, well, she’s a doctor and it was stupid. My plan was to start out relatively strong and hope that when everything hurt too much and I was doomed to burn out my grit and will-power would push me through the pain and keep me moving. The first vertical km happened about 10km in, and I was feeling OK. Actually, I was just telling myself I was feeling OK, things hurt. I kept telling myself that the race started at Vallouise, an aid station at the 23km mark that was also the finish line after the route did a big loop over some huge mountains. From there I’d have about a marathon to go, and I could do a marathon, right? I ran a marathon last year in Bordeaux, the Medoc Marathon. You run between 23 different vineyards and taste the wine at each, so I’m not sure it really counts as a marathon because I was really drunk by the end and it took a really long time. I wasn’t going to let minor details like that worry me now though.
I overtook some more people as we descended into Vallouise. It was hot. I was pretty worried about the big climb out of Vallouise, I knew it was alarmingly steep and exposed to the sun. I tried not to think about that and kept repeating my theory that the race started at Vallouise. I saw Fern at the aid station, grabbed a snack, fished some gels out my ultra pack so they were accessible and headed out up the mountain. Then the race started. It got hard pretty quick. Within an hour I was dreaming of the ice-cold water fountain at the finish line as my legs burnt with every step.
As the route snaked up the mountain I kept looking at my watch. Why were the kms barely increasing? Why was it taking so long to climb any elevation? I looked up at the mountain I knew the route went over. It looked impossibly far away. It wasn’t getting any closer. I put my head down and just kept plodding away. It got hotter. I was overtaken by a few people powering up with their poles. I looked up again. The summit looked no closer. I put my head down again and focused on the trail, each step was an effort and my quads were burning, the surface was uneven and technical in places. My feet were wet from running through a few rivers on the way up. I’d gone out too hard, I couldn’t even get up that mountain, let alone maintain my position. I sucked it up, ignored the pain and plodded on. I looked up again, the summit didn’t look any closer. This time I also looked down at the valley. Wow. It was beautiful, and Vallouise looked tiny. Had I really made it up that far? I plodded on. I plodded past a few people. I had some entertaining exchanges with other racers in my broken French. It was clear that there was a real sense of shared suffering between all of us, we were all in this together. I plodded through some snow. I plodded up steeper and steeper trail.
As the summit of the mountain slowly started to look closer I looked behind me, there was a big group of 10-15 other racers closing on me fast. I didn’t mind being passed by the odd person, I’d passed the same number that had passed me, but I didn’t want this whole group to overtake me. I worked harder. It hurt more. My mantra that had been “the race starts in Vallouise” had simply become “shut up legs” as I tried to ignore their protests for me to stop.
I reached the summit, gasped “merci” at the few volunteers and mountain rescue team members that were there and began to descend. Straight away I was on a 100m long steep snowy slope littered with sharp rocks. This would be a red or black run if it weren’t too remote to be accessible during the winter! The racers behind me all had poles. Their poles made “skiing” down the snow much easier. A few of them elected to slide down on their bums. I’d slid on my feet, making my muscles work harder and taking longer than their option. They’d gained on me even more. The trail was suddenly slightly less technical and I increased my pace. I startled a marmot that bounded across the trail. It was a beautiful moment, but I didn’t have the time or energy to fully appreciate it, I just ran harder.
I was badly dehydrated at this point and I knew it. I’d seriously overheated on the climb, even putting snow in my buff headband and down my neck hadn’t helped. I’d thought there was a water point at the time-cut-off point at the summit of the Col de Vallouise but it had only been a person with a clip-board. I still wanted to maintain my position so I ran harder. The sooner I got to water the better, and the faster I ran the sooner I’d get there, so I’d better keep moving fast: another lie I kept repeating to myself whenever my legs begged me to stop. Shut up legs.
I reached the water point. It was glorious. I drank a load and filled up my bottles. I started moving again. We were in some beautiful meadows in a hidden valley up high in the mountains. I could see the tops of Serre Chevalier ski lifts below me. The course then started to climb again. This one was even more brutal. I’d already crossed what I thought was my pain tolerance threshold several times. I’d already run over marathon. I’d already climbed 2500m. When I thought about how much everything hurt, and how much more there was to do it scared me, so I stopped thinking about it.
I’d done some maths and was pretty pleased with the time and progress I was making. Actually, I was bordering on alarmed. I’d been progressing much faster than I thought possible, which meant I was fairly confident I’d burn out soon. I ignored that thought. I’d deal with that when it happened, better keep pushing hard for now and work through that pain later. Until then I’d need some energy. I’d struggled with the previous gel I’d tried to eat and having been going for 5 or 6 hours I was running out of reserves. I tried another gel. I kept trying to eat it for 45mins of climbing up the trail. Every little bit made me wretch. If I had anything in my stomach I’d have vomited. I gave up after half of the gel and stuffed the sticky wrapper back in my pack. I tried a sweet, the same thing happened.
Fine, this trying to eat business clearly wasn’t working. I gave up on trying. I focused on climbing. I ignored the pain. I was slowing down. If I slowed down too much then when I burnt out I’d have loads to do, so I shouldn’t do that. I should move faster so I covered more ground before I burnt out. This pain wasn’t going to kill me, it’s just a bit of muscle and joint soreness, I’m stronger than those: these are all the kind of stories I kept repeating to myself. I thought about my motivations: to prove what I could do, to find and ignore my limits, to make Fern proud. I kept going. Looking back now as I write this I realise that this was the second time I was properly burning-out on the course. The first had been when that group was closing in on me during the other massive climb when I was severely dehydrated. My race strategy was working. I was burning out, ignoring it completely and pushing on harder.
I reached the top of the course. The mountain rescue man at the summit tried to give me a load of info on what was to come as I used my hands to clamber over the snow at the peak. I was too tired to fully understand his French, I thanked him and started to descend. It was steep and technical. Sketchy scree slopes, snow crossings that had ice-axes and ropes to grab if you slipped, loose rocks. I had hoped to be able to run harder here but it was just too dangerous. I saw some racers ahead of me and decided to close the gap.
The trail got a little less steep and I was able to increase my pace a bit. Every step hurt. My knees were screaming out at me to stop, “shut up legs” I repeated to myself. I overtook a few people. The path twisted down the mountain. A stream was running down the path for much of it and I let my feet get wet. It’s funny how perspective changes, I thought to myself “a bit less than half a marathon left now, no point worrying about keeping feet dry, just run”. At one point a local guy I’d had a few exchanges with at previous points shouted thanks and good luck to me, calling me “Londres” as I let him past. He rocketed down that mountain at unbelievable pace, I couldn’t understand how anyone could move that fast and remain upright at this stage of the race, I still can’t.
I accidentally kicked a boulder into my right ankle. It hurt like hell. My knees were agony at this point as I pushed on. Shut up legs. I tentatively looked down after a few minutes to see if there was blood. There wasn’t so I ran harder. It hurt a lot, but it wasn’t broken, and it wasn’t bleeding, so slowing, stopping or feeling sorry for myself wasn’t going to help. I finally reached an aid station at the bottom of the steep descent. 10km left they said. I quickly grabbed a snack, managed to eat something finally, and refilled my water. 10km was nothing, right? It doesn’t take very long to run 10km, even going slowly it shouldn’t take too much more than an hour, right?
I sent Fern a message telling her I was coming for her. I told myself I wasn’t allowed to stop running until the finish unless it was crazy technical or crazy steep. Everything hurt. Shut up legs. I ran past some people. Everything hurt more. Shut up legs. I ran past some more people. As I thought about the finish line I was surprised to find myself feeling like I was fighting back tears. I knew I wasn’t far from the finish when suddenly the trail turned back uphill and into a really technical section. My legs were totally dead by now. It was hard to stay focused because I was mentally so exhausted. I misplaced a foot and had a little tumble. My first of the day. The blood from my wrist looked dramatic at first but I decided it was irrelevant. I realised I’d have to be careful to make sure I finished in one piece.
I concentrated on the trail. I thought about my time. I couldn’t believe how fast I’d gone. As soon as it got less technical I ran as hard as I could. My knees were agony. Shut up legs. My watch said 9hrs26mins as I passed the 57km mark. I couldn’t believe it. How had I maintained such a good pace up those mountains? Also, why was it not yet over? The trail turned uphill again. When would it end? This was supposed to be a 57km race, I’d done that, why had it not finished? I ran on.
Suddenly I turned a corner and saw tarmac. I knew where I was. There was only a few hundred meters left. I ran down the road and the finish line and Fern came into sight. I crossed the line in 9hrs 44mins. I gave Fern a kiss and then dunked my head in the ice-cold water fountain in the centre of the village square that I’d been dreaming about for hours. I couldn’t believe I’d run sub-10hrs! I was so pleased. A few other racers came to congratulate me. No one seemed to believe that it was my first Ultra, my first trail race, that I hadn’t trained specifically, that I was from London not the mountains, and that I’d finished in under 10hrs.
I hobbled around in flip flops for a while, unable to communicate properly and unable to eat but enjoying soaking up the atmosphere. When the race results were posted up in the village I discovered that I’d finished 72nd out of around 200 racers. I was pretty proud of that given my level of experience and training. 24 racers started but didn’t manage to finish. What I was most proud of was that I also came into Vallouise at the 23km point in 72nd. I’d managed to overtake the same number of people who had overtaken me in the final marathon of the race. That meant my pacing strategy can’t have been too bad, or at least it was comparable to the average, which I’m thrilled with given this was my first event.
The atmosphere around the village was brilliant. People continued to cheer racers as they finished over the next few hours. I climbed into the water fountain to cool my legs down. The post-race meal was eaten on tables outside in the centre of the village. I had a shower and then a few beers whilst watching the live music put on in the centre of town. I had a take-away pizza (I’d tried to eat the post-race meal too soon after finishing and hadn’t managed much) and enjoyed the celebrations before eventually collapsing into bed for a sleepless night (I never seem to sleep well after the first few hours having done a long run).
The next day Fern, fuelled by envy of my tales of glorious views and painful legs, went for a run up part of the route from Vallouise. I walked into town to watch the racers in the 12km race. The atmosphere in town was still electric and it was great to be able to cheer on the racers as many people had done for me the day before. I was shocked to discover that I could generally walk OK. Sure, my legs were tired, but they worked. My knees and ankle were sore and swollen, but nothing majorly hurt. I had some toe blisters that were a little painful but nothing serious. Part of me wondered if this was because my pain threshold had been shifted during the race the day before. Generally I felt good, and hungry! I ate a lot and sat with my legs in the ice-cold fountain to reduce the swelling whilst cheering the runners on. Fern returned from her run and jumped into the magical fountain in the centre of town.
The whole weekend was really well organised and I loved every minute of it. This was my first ultramarathon, my first trail race, in fact it was my first running event longer than 10km (other than the Medoc wine marathon, which is different!). I felt welcomed into the trial and ultra running community. Vallouise welcomed me, and my poor attempts at speaking French, with open arms. The route was hard as hell but also as beautiful as heaven. If you’re interested you can check out my Strava for the route below. I can’t wait to get out on the trail again soon, just don’t tell my legs!