The UTMB CCC, Courmayeur, Champex-Lac, Chamonix is the race of my dreams. The race around Mont-Blanc and the race with the most magical finish of all races out there. And the race that I’m finally able to run.
The sun is shining mercilessly. Sweat is dripping from my head. Runs down my back. With every step I take, I feel my energy draining away. My head hurts. Spins. For the last hour and a half I’ve been trying to get up this Grand Col Ferret; a beast of a climb.
There is no shade, nowhere to hide. I’ve been dipping my hat in every mountain stream we passed, trying to find some relief. Without success. I feel hot, tired. Dizzy. I need to sit down. I don’t see clearly anymore. There’s too much spinning going on inside my head.
I’m trying to look at my watch, but my vision is blurry. I close my eyes and lay back into the grass. I have to admit, I haven’t been in my happy place very often this run. It’s not just the heath I can’t handle. It’s too crowded. I guess I prefer to be out in the mountains on my own. Plus it doesn’t feel like we’re in this together. Like we’re sharing our passion for the mountains, for the trails. It feels like everybody is just here for himself.
On the descent from Tete de la Tronche a girl, running a hundred metres ahead of me, fell. The guy in front of me, yelled that she should go and lay in the grass. I mean, she’s not face down on the path for fun. I stopped, helped her up and checked if she was okay. We all started somewhere in the middle of the pack. We won’t win this race. So, why can’t you just help another runner?
Or behave? Half an hour into the race, after trotting along the gravel roads from Courmayeur to the foot of Tete de la Tronche, we ended up in a traffic jam. From running five a side, we had to go up a single track, one by one. A queue formed. Most people waited patiently. Some skipped the line. Why? Can’t you see we’re all waiting?
One guy complained. He paid a lot of money to run this race, so the organisation should have done more to prevent this traffic jam. The thing is, they did. We started in three waves, fifteen minutes apart. I was in wave two and decided to start totally at the back of that wave. Yet, when it was time for my wave to walk forward to the start, lots of runners from wave 3 crawled under the barrier tape and squeaked in front of wave two. When I told the guy that, he shrugged his shoulders: “The organisation should put volunteers in between the waves to prevent people moving a wave up.” I find that weird. It means a person is not able to behave himself, unless someone is watching him.
When I open my eyes a few minutes later, I feel better. My body temperature still feels too high, but my head is a bit clearer. I check my watch. I’m eight hours into this UTMB CCC, and I have only covered 30 kilometres. That’s less than a third. At the same time, it’s more than I thought I could do, after struggling with a torn hamstring and a pulled stomach muscle for the last two months. Both are performing fine, just like my legs. It’s just that f***ing heath.
Getting injured two months for the biggest race of my life, was a big disappointment. What else could go wrong? Now I know. The hottest UTMB CCC there ever has been. I thought I would be fine at the end of August. Most of the time, we’re high up in the mountains, where it’s cool. Well, it normally is, but not today.
Slowly I drag myself to my feet again. At Arnouvaz, the second aid station on this run, I had my doubts about going on. I felt bad. Overheated. The buses going back to Chamonix looked very tempting. But I didn’t train for a year – except for those last two months – to give up so quickly. The night will come. The night will be my saviour. I know it’s still hours away, but I’m already longing for those cool, dark hours.
When I start walking again, the mountain has turned into a battlefield. Runners are lying everywhere in the grass. Some face down. One man has a drool running from his mouth. A girl is throwing up ten metres in front of me. Two runners fill their water bottles at a puddle on the course, which looks murky. Maybe because other people were just running through it. We’re above the treeline. Nobody can escape the sun.
I walk ten minutes, before my head starts spinning so badly, I have to sit down again. And again, and again. Until I’m finally at the top of Grand Col Ferret, where the cold wind feels like a blessing from the sky. Just for a couple of moments, because as soon as I start the downhill, I’m out of the wind and back into the heath. Fortunately, running brings a little bit of cooling and finally I’m out of the sun.
The descent is fun and technical at times, but other moments simply difficult because the path has been destroyed by the rain. But for the first time this race I’m running longer than a few minutes. So far, the UTMB CCC felt more like a long-distance hike than a trail run. And it’s running that makes me happy.
It’s this happy feeling that changes my plan. On the climb, when I had to sit down over and over again, I planned to leave this race at the aid station at La Fouly. Now I’m here, I slowly but surely start to feel better. If we get a cold night, I can make it.
Like most people around me, I take my time. Somebody of the organisation is shouting that the aid station will close in half an hour. That’s enough for a cup of broth, a coca cola and a quick visit to the loo, which I have been looking forward to for the past three hours. Two Argentinian girls are getting their second layer out. I’m sticking with my running shirt. I want to be cold for a while.
With my headlamp on, and in the company of a Belgian runner, I leave la Fouly and sent a message to Sara, my wife. She, Matteo and Giulia are crewing me today. Champex-Lac, the next aid station halfway this race, is the first time we can meet up. Now I’m going on, it’s time for them to leave.
It’s nice to be in good company. The kilometres go by quicker. I’m power hiking for the moment, my Belgium companion is trotting by my side. We talk about the race, about the lack of mountains back home, and the lack of heath. The Netherlands and Belgium haven’t had a summer this year. Just rain. On the only few hot days there were, I was in Italy; in the cold.
The darkness is falling. Ironically, now the sun has set, we’re sheltered by the trees. I’m leading, as my companion hasn’t taken out his headlamp yet. He ripped the zippers of his running vest pockets and closed them with safety pins. He didn’t feel like undoing them all yet, so he tries to stay close. I keep warming him for protruding rocks and roots. Some I only notice as I hit my toe hard on them.
After a couple or corners, it’s all silent behind me. Have I lost him? Did he stop to get his light out? I’m finally feeling good. My legs are feeling surprisingly fine. I’m still hot, but not dizzy. The night looks to be all I hoped for. Cool and quiet.
In front of me I see a couple of lights. I speed up a bit. It’s nice to run alone, but it’s also nice to have at least a marker. The trees make way for open fields. My right big toe looks black by now and descending isn’t the nicest thing, but I’m still running. I’m even overtaking a couple of people. That hasn’t happened a lot today.
When we enter a little village, which I guess has to be Praz-de-Fort, the road is smooth. People are standing in front of their houses, or sitting down next to the road, with a glass of wine in their hands, clapping as we run by. This is the UTMB CCC I came for.
I’m getting hungry. I’ve been eating my gels, my bars, but I like some real food. I know Sara is waiting for me with noodles. That should do the trick. Slowly I start to think ahead. After Champex-Lac is Trient. If I can make it in time there, it is only 30 kilometres to go, with less than 2.000 metres of altitude. I can power hike that, if needed.
Just before the climb to Champex-Lac, I catch up with an Australian guy. He flew halfway around the world to run this race. It shows again how special the UTMB CCC is, and how lucky I am to run it. We chat, we run. We chat, we climb. He’s happy with my pace, dragging him up the mountain. It’s around 400 metres of climbing, the shortest climb of the day.
On the first steep section, I have to stop talking. I’m short of breath. Side by side we stride on. On the second steep section I have to let him go. The dizziness of earlier today returns. I feel boiling hot again. Why? A couple of minutes ago I was fine. A few metres further I have to stop. Sit. I feel sick. I feel like throwing up. My head spins. The night is cool now, but I’m sweating like crazy.
After five minutes two hikers walk by. One sits down as well, the other one slowly climbs on. I drag myself to my feet and follow him. He looks at me, his eyes hollow. ‘Water’, he stammers. ‘Half a kilometre from here, there should be water.’ We walk on, in silence.
Five runners are already standing around the water trough. The topic of conversation is the amount of kilometres we still have to climb. Nobody talks about how far the finish is. I wash my face, my arms, my head, in the hope to cool down. It works for a moment, but as soon as I start to climb, I again feel nauseated and hot.
It’s every man for himself now and soon I’m alone in the darkness. In another bit of forest. I keep hoping to see the lights of Champex-Lac, but I don’t see anything. Not even other runners. I don’t dare to look at my watch. I need my full focus on the road, not to take a tumble. I’m sweating again. I feel sick, dizzy.
Finally I start to hear some voices in the distance. Then I see something glimmering. A couple of metres further I can see the aid station. People are cheering outside. Making nice compliments. I try to smile. It’s almost 10.30 pm. It’s amazing they are here.
Inside the place is a mess. People are hanging on tables. Eyes empty. It smells like sweat, mixed with broth and tiger balm. I look for Sara. She’s not there. When I call her on the phone, she’s in the car outside. According to my tracker I was still half an hour away.
When she finds me, I’m hanging over a table as well. “My God, you’re hot”, is the only thing she says. We’ve been over this. She’s not allowed to ask me how I feel. Not allowed to ask me if I want to go on. It would be too easy to say no.
But also without her asking, I’ve made up my mind. I don’t want to go on. I don’t feel good. I’m okay with being tired. I’m okay with being in pain. I’m not okay with getting dizzy all the time. I’ve had moments where I knew I had to sit down quickly, or I would have fallen over. Being too groggy to do another step. I’ve had long stretches on my own, in the dark. I promised Sara I would always be wise. I don’t think it’s wise to run dizzy in the mountains at night.
I know in the coming days, I’ll ask myself if I shouldn’t have pushed more. But I also know how I feel at this moment. Overheated, sick and dizzy.
I take two bites of the noodles Giulia and Sara have brought me. I don’t feel like eating. I just want to hand in my number and get out of here. Now that I ‘ve decided to stop, I feel tired, defeated and sick.
*****
Two days after the race, when all the adrenaline is out of my blood, I come down with a flu. The day before the race I had a sore throat, which with me is a sign something is up. However, on the morning of the race I felt fine. I guess I wasn’t.
A few days later, when I feel a little better again, I laminate my bib number. The one with the corner cut-off. The corner of the medal. When I pin it on the beam in my office, I make myself a promise. Next year I’ll be back. Stronger, better, fitter, not injured and not sick. And next year I will cross that magical finish line in Chamonix.
Photo: Sportograf
