And there is no TL;dr to it because it doesn't deserve one. This one is going to be Odyssean, even by my standards. So maybe grab a beer or six.
This story starts at the beginning of the year.
Despite having a mandate to not overwork myself prior to hitting UTMB, I ran through Alberta's colder winter each weekend this year, albeit on a reduced weekly volume. Being the stubborn asshat I am, I did it regardless of whether I had company or not; regardless of how much snow was on the ground because I had picked up a pair of commuter snowshoes; and, regardless of how cold it was because I found the freezing point of Jack Daniel's was much lower than what Canada had to offer. Naturally I didn't have many people to run with; it wasn’t because it was too cold, but rather the pace of what I was throwing down, even in the Canadian winter, was not quite palatable.
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| srsly (circa late August) |
Sure enough, this didn't happen.
A shortage of staff on the HR side kept relocation from proceeding expeditiously, and my confidence in this move and reverence for the process started waning as my anticipated move date started getting pushed further and further past the start of September. On top of that, because the universe loves cruel irony, I was deported off my department's floor to a larger but windowless office so as not to hold up the restack, surrounded by hilarious facilities engineers but nevertheless in a literal state of limbo as I was no longer being read into meetings. Needing more and more distractions from my predicament at work, I started committing to more summer adventures outside of work -- but with actual people this time. I rediscovered some friendships, made new ones, and caught up with certain associates who were apparently not dead. The people I was effectively loneliest around switched places with those who I felt the most sociable around.
Shortly before my burro race, my new boss in Madrid gave me a call and told me to start working permanently over there on 5 September despite not having a Spanish work permit yet, or a place to send my moving boxes to (which they had trouble providing), or the fact that this was all contrary to our mobility policies at work. (Yes, the intention would be to come home from Cham, take barely one day to get all my affairs in order, put some pants on, and then haul ass back to Europe.) With all the summer vacations happening in August and given the fact I would be taking the entire last week of the month in Europe, this wouldn't give me enough time to put on a proper buyout for all my colleagues or to say a proper goodbye to everyone. I hadn't even told my parents yet as I was hoping I'd find a place and grab my visa before doing so, and coupled with all the fun I was having on the weekends, all the aid stations i was heckling folks at, and with people who made a serious case for pulling eject--these circumstances starting pushing me towards a nervous breakdown. I was no longer maintaining sleep or weight as I tried to come to terms with the fact I had to set my world on fire while hanging on to this stupid emotional roller coaster.
After coming home from working an aid station at the inaugural Ute 100, I got my VP to push my move date off, and I'd jet off on 10 September instead which would allow me to clock in another dumb AS shift at Pavan during Lost Soul again, so as to see certain people one more time, before leaving on a short sojourn to find an apartment. I'd return in October to manage the course at the last 5 Peaks race in the region and then attend a wedding the following weekend, and then I'd leave for good after that. This still wasn't optimal but it took some of the stress off having to leave for Spain the day after coming home from Cham, and I knew that keeping this ridiculously first-world problem and apparently all the cortisol that ever existed in the world out of my head would be critical to how this hot mess express would do at UTMB.
On the bright side, I guess I didn't have any races to worry about after UTMb.
But that's enough network-grade dramedy to start this little story off. So I digress.
For those of you who don't know, Ultra-Trail du Mont-Blanc is a single stage rip on the Tour du Mont Blanc effectively circumnavigating the Mont Blanc massif. Roughly 171 km in distance with a time allotment of 46.5h, getting into the race involves qualification requirements followed by a lottery as this shit is obviously serious. The route starts off in Chamonix, heads south and then into Courmayeur in Italy, then north towards Champex d'en Bas in Switzerland prior to ripping back to France in Chamonix, so you have to carry your passport with you in case you feel felonious or something during the race.
Training since the burro race was, as anticipated, extremely chill:
- anticipating a fuck ton of meat and cheese because the management is French, I ran the Skyline Trail in Jasper with a few friends while rocking bags of meat and cheese and a bottle's worth of wine. let's just say that cheese gives me a little bit more....propulsion, of the kinda trustworthy kind.
- I took the following weekend off to work the Miners' Road aid station at the inaugural Ute 100 in Utah, from noon to 5am. It was preceded by a 11mi run to deploy strobe lights on the infamous Jimmy Keene loop, but otherwise I was able to get to about 2am before starting to doze off (the race only had 97 starters and they were pretty spaced out by then). Whereas I usually wear Hoka hiking boots for longer aid station shifts, I wore my Salomon S-Lab Ultra 2's instead the entire time, which totally wrecked my feet.
- that wasn't the only run I did though that weekend. I had a 50ish min layover at SLC coming in from GJT back home to YYC, of which 30min were spent on a ground stop at GJT and another 10min were spent waiting for ground crews at SLC to arrive. I went from the E doors to the B gates in just under 5 minutes wearing Onitsuka Tiger Mexico 66s (BECAUSE OF COURSE I WOULD BE) and with a fucking shotski strapped to my back; my checked bag somehow got on the plane a few minutes after I sat down.
- Thanks Delta! /s
- The following week was marred by dumb levels (read: worse than Beijing) of BC forest fire smoke in the city. I ran outside each day, treating the NOx inhalation as the dumbest possible form of hypoxia training.
- this was probably a bad idea since the relief i got from inhaling particulate matter a la a bunch of darts was offset by the fact that I was hilariously maintaining a reduced appetite/girlish figure apt for smokers outside the ballet studio, and not fit for a 100+ mi run taper.
- And then that weekend involved more time on feet training, manning an aid station at the local Iron Legs 100k race from 630h to 1900h. It was followed the next day by a 35k x 1450m D+ run through a city park that seemed harder than it should have been; either I was exhausted from the last five weekends or hungover or both, but this didn't shake my nerves as I was content with the forced taper.
- My last weekend involved a gentle marathon with roughly 1000m of D+ on mostly double track, running an average of a smidge over 6min km's. It was supposed to be more focused on time on feet, as I'm one to believe that long periods of persistent stress wears down your tolerance for delayed gratification, but I ended up running this loop much faster than I expected.
- 36:xx:xx. I ran Northburn in 37:27:18, which had 10 less km and the same elevation gain, if not more. I figured that if I hiked the first 8k with the commoners and took it easy so as not to repeat the last 60k of Northburn, I should be able to do marginally better.
- Sub 40, which is what my friend from Atlanta ran.
- Yes, the Run Bum clocked a 39h xx.
- and it is not my intention to get beaten by a flatlander like that.
- Finish and never do this again. It's a bucket list run but I don't think starting with 2499 other starters outside a marathon is something I'll ever do again.
My intention would be to arrive early Wednesday morning before the race and not compensate for jet lag; this was due to the events of my 50mi tuneup in Oslo during May. I had arrived Thursday afternoon for a Saturday morning race and, despite getting my jet lag under control and getting decent sleep prior to the race, I found out I couldn't get my biorhythm adjusted in time. This led to a hilariously comatose first six hours that were aligned with most of the climbing, followed by popping a caffeine pill sometime close to 0800h MST and a ridiculous second wind where I bulldozed my way through runners of every distance. Ceteris paribus and given UTMB has a 6pm local/10am MST start, I figured I was best off just landing into Cham and not attempting to align to the time zone difference.
In terms of loadout, I made the tough call to leave my S/Lab Ultra 2's I used at Tahoe back at home and to run a brand new pair of Salomon Wings 8 SG's (yes these are a two year old vintage) first, followed by my current pair of Wings, followed by my half size bigger Hoka Speedgoats. I honestly don't know how Francois won UTMB last year in the Ultra 2's but I scratched this pair because the upper had started disintegrating less than 500km's into its life, and the lug depth was somewhat laughable and made me less confident on downhills. I'd run with my Carbon poles from Tahoe that would sit with my waist belt, as well as my Salomon Adv Skin Set 5 from 2015.
Because stoke just burns you out faster, I landed in Geneva for the first time in my life ever on the Wednesday prior to race, coincidentally meeting my race roommate, Anna, upon arriving at the airport. As UTMB only has one drop bag available at the 50mi mark but multiple crew access points, I hired my buddy Scott from Mogollon Monster to deal with my antics again and provide me shoes on demand (where permitted), and we collected him after lunch before proceeding to our hilarious 20m² studio apartment. Sure it was small, but the thing that pissed us off the most was that the stove only had two cooktops and someone had stolen all the lids off the pots and pans. It was still mindblowing to have a view of Aiguille du Midi right out of the front door, with the Matterhorn and Monte Rosa sitting not far either.
I had a beauty 8h of sleep the night prior to package pickup despite not taking anything for jet lag, and the night before the race yielded 12h, because we left the patio door open and the Scot-infested bar downstairs woke me up in the middle of the night, so I put on some earplugs. Couldn't have planned it better myself. Scott left shortly before noon to go on a short trail run while I went and grabbed groceries for lunch, and the sky opened up with rain once we finished eating. The race organizers then notified all of us that in addition to the extensive mandatory gear list, we would be obligated to carry safety goggles and an extra layer as wind chill topside was forecast for -10°C. I had been feeling malaise leading up to this moment but for some reason, getting that text on my phone made me feel more in my element.
In a race that sees 2500 starters, you'd expect the start line to be a giant circus, and it was. Friends who had done this before had warned me about the long hike that might happen if you didn't seed yourself right, so Anna and I got to the start roughly an hour before the gun while Scott ran off to drop off Anna's drop bag, and we squeezed ourselves into a tiny gap full of shoulders, elbows and trekking pole carbide tips roughly 100m from the start line but probably at least 200 people back. We were wearing garbage bags to protect our actual rain jackets from getting soaked, but the precipitation stopped shortly after we got in position so we took them off and began a hilarious WhatsApp conversation with Scott for him to come find us in a sea of runners and fetch our refuse.
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| not ominous whatsoever. |
The first climb after the first water stop at Les Houches was slow as I tried to keep up with my less than stellar mountain goat skills, but I was in my flow state and had accepted that these climbs would be frequent and dumb and frequently dumb in pace. A faster friend from Calgary, Majo, caught me at this point; despite a catastrophic ankle injury late last year he was making very short work of the ascent. He had started well behind me and needed to walk five minutes between being able to start walking and the start mat, so he had clearly grinded his way up to me and I didn’t hold him back. I made peace with the eleventy bajillion other people who passed me, which came in handy when I pussy-footed the first steep downhill off Le Delevret because I didn't want to whip out my headlamp (I had poles in my hands) which made it tough to perceive the viscosity of the mud I was running on. I had worn my fresher Wings 8 SG's to start so the lug depth was there, but unfortunately I was still running like I had my Ultras on so I took it ridiculously easy.
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| the first of many times I'd encounter Majo |
(I have no idea if this footage exists or not.)
Scott would be waiting for me in 10k at Les Contamines-Montjoie, which was a modest 400m of D+ above Saint-Gervais so I made short work of that climb and grabbed the same food before accessing the massage roller in my crew bag and taking a preventative piece of candied ginger. It wasn’t a goal to stay ahead of Anna but she was roughly 40 minutes back at this point. Despite not being able to see Scott again until km78, I was only 31k so I fucked off after five minutes of loitering and telling him to get some sleep as we had some dumb shit to do the next day.
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| like a ninja |
Leaving Les Chapieux, we hit up a dead end road first before grinding up to the Italian border at Col de la Seigne via La Ville de Glaciers. The snake of headlamps continued for nearly 10k but I still had some climbing legs so I kept reeling more runners in. It was odd staring at the asses of the runners in front of me and noticing their ass sweat frosting up on their tights, but I had kept my hands gloveless for the most part up until ~2200m, and even then the gentle (ha!) breeze necessitated that I only whip out my thin layer non-waterproof gloves. This was perfect Canadian running weather.
There was a quick descent after crossing the border into Italy so we could climb back up to Col des Pyramides Calcaires that was slightly higher than la Seigne, before being kicked off into Lac Combal at 66k. I knew if I looked back I would see a fuckton of headlamps chasing me, so I didn’t, but nevertheless I was passed by more runners on the downhill. I didn’t mind as I was now fully content with running my own race; a friend had been timed out at Courmayeur last year and it was my desire not to fall into that same trap, so I may have been hightailing it to mi50. I knew my ETA to that town would be somewhere around 6am local and 10pm back in Calgary, so I may have elected to go balls out up until that point and figure it out from there once it was bedtime back home.
Not gonna lie: I don’t remember anything about that last climb up to Arete du Mont-Favre. I think in the dark of the night, all the climbs looked the same and there was nothing remarkable about this section after doing so much hiking. Majo did catch up to me again because he got sidetracked at the Chapieux gear check (I managed to go by because they were all occupied) but otherwise it wasn't eventful.
The descent into Courmayeur was probably a smidge under 10k but the D- was somewhere around 1200m, so I took my sweet ass time. I noticed the ground was now drier, which made it my Wings 8 SG’s quite inappropriate as it lacks what I need for cushioning against hard ground, and it still didn’t strike me that this was the shoe that broke me on the extremely dry ground at Northburn Station so I kept descending without the use of my poles. The last little bit after Col Checrouit was initially down a ski hill before descending what felt like MTB trails (it wasn’t because there were stairs involved but it still involved an ungodly amount of roots and rocks), but I kept the pace up as it was quickly approaching my morning dump time and dawn was breaking through. I even passed Majo shortly after we hit pavement and I could finally turn my headlamp off in the open, as his downhill pace wasn’t 100%. He warned me against going balls out on this section, as we weren’t even done half the race yet.
The irony was that Courmayeur only had two toilets for dudes, so I didn’t get my morning dump because of the line.
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| before dropping Majo |
The insides of my quads were flush with acid so I had Scott roll me out with my roller and knuckle up my knots, as I munched on pasta and broth. It was slightly awkward as I was just sitting on a bench so he didn’t know how much force to apply, which led to some hilarious screaming in a sea of people. Anna was roughly 2h back at this point, but as before I could care less. I was well on pace for my A-goal so I stayed a little while longer, and Majo had wanted to run out together but I lost him in the crowd once he put on a different-colored jacket and I ended up leaving without him. I had no issues with my Wings 8's so I elected to save my Speedgoats for later, which would turn out to be a mistake.
Majo had finished sub-200 last year so I was taking his advice in high regard, and he warned me that the climbs after Courmayeur would be infinitely stupider, so I set my expectations accordingly. I yielded my position after visiting a playground outhouse along the route (seriously) but the climb up to Refugio Bertone was steep (~800m in 5k) and the coke I had back at Courmayeur quickly wore off, and soon the drowsiness set in. I must have let close to fifty runners go by, including Majo, as my eyelids got heavier, electing to lay down as soon as the elevation tapered off. Obviously this never happened before the next control as the switchbacks were relentless, but as soon as I got to Refugio Bertone my shitty Italian negotiated five minutes of laying down in a bottom bunk with my feet elevated while Majo disappeared into the distance.
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| almost naptime. |
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| ok fine I'll smile. |
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| grinding up Grand Col Ferret |
(I’d type that more runners passed me at this point, but that shit’s getting old now so just imagine the world moving forward around me instead from here to the finish.)
Scott was at La Fouly to meet me even though there was no crew access—he was bored and he had some time before getting to Champex-Lac. He told me that my phone going off wasn’t his doing but it was likely from alerts of Anna dropping back at Courmayeur for stomach issues, and he was now completely focused on dealing with me. He then gave me the layout of the aid station and some encouragement before disappearing. I had been intentionally fasting again to calm my stomach down so I took a cup of broth and some meat before hitting the medical station to see if they could undo the knots in my quads while my broth cooled.
Luckily I hit the station when all the staff were idle and when two physios were opportunely onsite. Neither of them spoke English but my Quebexican was good enough for the one who did barely speak it. I explained the situation, and what happened at Northburn, and they quickly diagnosed the issue. Well, there were a few:
- The right quad had a much tighter knot facilitated by a jammed ankle. I had unjammed it at a physio appointment on Monday before but either it was not completely unjammed or the rock gardens quickly rejammed it. As a result my quad was doing all the flexing.
- I had fractured a metatarsal on my left foot five years ago while going all in on the Vibram craze. I subsequently ran through it by going all the other way with all the cushion in Hokas, but what I didn’t notice until now was that my gait was completely off. A hyperextended IT band was the issue on the left, as I basically was leading with my left foot and immediately shifting all of the momentum to the right, like I was perpetuating the limp I had five years ago. My physio back home had noticed I was favoring my right leg more than my left, but because I didn’t always disclose the elevation gain of my races she probably never concluded that this limp perpetuation was more apparent on dumber races like this.
Obviously as soon as I started running I found out that they only gave me my mobility back, but the pain was still there, so I wasn’t actually moving any faster. More disheartening was the 14k to Scott at Champex-Lac was a mostly downhill 14k, and there I was waddling my way through with zero fucks to give. I had two more plays I could make with my quads—let Scott massage the shit out of me like he did at Mogollon, and keep my quads consistently wet as the wind was picking up to keep the cramping down. The latter wasn’t a good idea even though there was a river beside me through Praz de Fort, as I was afraid that either I would not be able to climb back up the riverbank or that I would be swept away by the flow. Finally at Praz I was able to jump into a fountain, which took the edge off a little bit as they didn’t have many trees, but this quickly wore off as I was wearing my winter Salomon ¾ capris that wicked water like wildfire. Praz was just a timing station and Champex-Lac was at the top of a modest climb so I had to wait another 6k for a decent toilet.
I updated Scott on the situation with my quads once I got topside and he was game to go harder than any RMT had ever gone before. (That’s what happens when you get a patent lawyer to do dole out massage therapy, I guess?) I emptied my bowels (for safety, obviously) before heading into an empty sleeping area, folded up my poles and bit down hard on them as Scott went to town on my legs. And boy, did he ever—the sounds coming out of my mouth could best be described as the audio to a bondage porn film. I almost vomited at one point, and about a minute in we were interrupted by someone looking to get some sleep, only for him to hilariously pull the covers over his head once he heard how raw and guttural the sounds coming out of my mouth were. And then once I flipped over and started screaming into a pillow, it definitely sounded like someone was getting flogged in the tent.
Seeing as actual physios couldn’t do anything to my legs, I didn’t expect Scott to, but he seemed to do a better job at restoring mobility at the cost of a couple of bruises in weird places. I probably spent close to a half hour at the aid station after we were done but that was fine as the kitchen was still full of runners who came in with me. I slowly got my shit together, popped another caffeine pill and soon I trotted off towards Plan de L’Au against the start of civil twilight.
Three hills left, and I’d see Scott in 17k for a quick massage roll. Nothing to it.
The climb on the way to Trient started off with mild undulation through Champex-Lac, before proceeding through a forest, up a technical and steep trail past the treeline and then back down into the valley. The climb involved a lot of lifting my newfound knees, which worked out well with the kneading of my legs, and after throwing creek water onto my quads with my collapsible bowl a few times I was able crest past La Giete to kick my downhill pace back to 4mph shortly after the sun went down. And then the rock gardens started, followed by my chickenshit knees waking up. I didn’t care as I knew I had a massage roller in less than an hour.
Scott walked me into Trient and he unintentionally set up my bag on literally the same table Majo was sitting down on. Majo said he was down to a walking pace; I knew my shuffle pace wasn’t quite walking pace but I asked if he wanted some company for the next hill. He obliged and I waited a couple minutes for him before we walked out together towards Les Tseppes, which was basically the same grade as Prairie Mountain back home. Obviously we had to start by descending stairs at km140 because fuck your knees, or something like that.
Once again, the darkness yielded a constellation of headlamps on the trail we had to take, and it just never ended because there was a timing control tent we had to hit at the top that was well above the cloudline, and their light reflecting off the cloud made it seem like we had to hike well into outer space. Majo had some decent uphill skills so I told him to hike on ahead while I would catch him on the downhills, but this assumed he would walk the downhills. This assumption was flawed, as he told me later that the slope of the downhill on the other side of Les Tseppes was comfortable enough for him to just ride the momentum all the way down. Nevertheless, I didn’t want to keep him waiting so I made an effort to run the rock garden all the way down (including an episode where I had to navigate around a herd of goats hiding on a blind corner of a switchback), and I reached Vallorcine ten minutes after he did, but I had resolved to hit the toilets one last time and didn’t catch him exiting.
Vallorcine was the last time I’d see Scott so I made it count, and looking at my watch, I saw I was still on pace for sub-36h so I got out of there in less than 10. I told Scott to get some sleep as I went after Majo at a modest shuffle pace on the undulation to the timing station at Col de Montets. The last hill was Tete aux Vents, and it was a sadistic bitch of a hill to place at the very end of a race of this caliber. It wasn’t the hardest climb, but it was still very difficult because of its dumb technicality and because when you’re this tired, you start wondering if you’re going in circles in the darkness. Thankfully, I was in good company; for some reason I had honed my technical uphill line reading skills and many runners behind me were not keen to pass me until the downhills started. Furthermore, I was not the only one suffering from déjà vu, and a few Englishmen and Frenchmen who passed me were also doubting where this race was taking us, but I knew the last aid station was at a place called La Flegere and we were definitely following trail signs for it. (Obviously after 150+ km, you may forget certain details like the fact La Flegere is actually the top of a ski hill, unlike the previous two aid stations that sat down in the valley.)
The technicality of this section was just fucking amazing—I have no idea how front runners could navigate some of the downhills, as they were effectively cliff faces made of a couple or rock ledges here and there, and switchbacks were basically the slightest of curves. I kept yielding to runners on the downhills as I couldn’t do much without my trekking poles, which was awfully time-consuming. Finally we reached La Flegere, and I pounded down some broth and meat before leaving in less than 5 minutes. I looked at my watch – 0457h. This was going to be tight if I wanted to go sub-36h as I had 63 minutes to cover 8k.
The ski slope past the aid station immediately said HAHA NOPE as I struggled with the descent and shades of Northburn started coming back—I was now using my poles as crutches. This didn’t last long when the ski slope soon turned into a long rock garden which kept me rolling at no faster than about 3.2mph. I had no fucks to give about everyone passing me to go sub-36h as I just wanted to finish and shower and go to bed, but the lights of Chamonix didn’t seem to get closer as I descended more and more. My phone started going off uncontrollably too as I imagined that people following me on LiveTrail or UTMB TV saw I had 5mi to go and were sending messages to get my shit together so they could go to bed (it was closing on 10pm back home), but I fought temptation and kept it in my pocket. Finally, with about 3mi left, I encountered a hiker, and then another, and then another. The whole day had been about going up and up and up and then going down an awfully steep slope, but this time I knew there would be none of that shit on the descent into down.
And then, finally—I was able to catch two runners; they were walking but one of them picked up the pace as I approached. I squinted my eyes against the one still walking—Vivobarefoot shoes and an Arcteryx pack? Holy fucking shit. “You know,” I said as I approached, and Majo turned around with a somewhat dejected look. “There’s gotta be a level of irony in this.” And there was, because this exact moment happened to me at Mogollon Monster too, two miles out from the finish--I had come up on a friend who led me for most of the race and could have taken them out. Majo had zero mobility in his bum ankle, but by the time I met him I had 3mins to go sub-36h, which wasn’t going to happen. The pace we were shuffling at would still yield me a 36:xx, and potentially a sub-36:17 time (i.e. faster than the flatter and more runnable Fat Dog, because improvement or something). I don’t usually run with Majo back home so I tucked my poles back on my belt and elected to finish with him, at whatever pace he was comfortable with.
It was a long two miles as the backlane gravel-grade road was consistently aggravating Majo’s foot but he held on long enough for the orange glow of Chamonix’s halogen streetlights to blow through the trees and cue the start of graded pavement and the pathway section through town. In an effort to reduce traffic disruption, the race installed two temporary pedestrian bridges but also because fuck your knees or something, and the two of us were limited to power hiking up these monstrosities and stumbling down them; in my case I had to brace my ass on the handrail for extra support while descending. I wanted to finish in the dark in streetlights but civil sunrise had kicked in and we could see a fresh dusting of snow on Aiguille du Midi. Scott came out to heckle us into the finish chute, but the thing that got us going was hearing distant cheers from spectators behind us and not wanting to get passed again.
It wasn’t particularly disappointing to finish a race as storied as UTMB with literally no more than three dozen spectators lined up on the streets (the irony being that if you were closer to DFL, you’d have eleventy bajillion people cheering you on like you were the champion); in fact, there was a serene tranquility to it. Excluding marathons, I’ve never finished races with circus-levels of crowds cheering you on, but after the emotional shitshow the last month had wrought, I was weirdly at peace with how this turned out and the size of the crowd was just right for the level of stoke I could deal with. Majo finished last year just over 24h in the company of elites, so it was a new experience for him too to finish in a ghost town, but given the shit year he had he was just glad he finished. I accidentally pushed ahead and finished 2s ahead of him and I didn't make my 36:17 time from Fat Dog which was 20mi longer, but that was way less technical and hilly so I was content with where I sat.
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| "shut the fuck up Majo, I have to see to my watch." (thanks Susan!) |
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| I didn't give a fuck about my ranking after Courmayeur, but things didn't exactly come off the rails. Trust the process or something, I guess. |
Despite how things turned out, I'm not going to claim I had a galvanized mental discipline for this race. I mean, sure I didn't look at my phone once during the race because I was so focused on executing--but there was a reason I was able to do that. (Plus, I shit you not, I was singing "Always Look on the Bright Side of Life" at one point on Grand Col Ferret.)
The one important detail I left out of the beginning was that OF COURSE THERE'S A GIRL INVOLVED, but had I started off with that, you probably would have thought that I was making shit up and forcing elements of the plot of Garden State, literally the last four episodes of Friends and the last two episodes of the second season of the US version of The Office into my already less-than-believable life, and every word would have come off as insincere and dishonest. But that's pretty much the crux of it, and my last straw came during the week before the race during a lunch run when I managed to unconsciously push myself to zone 7 levels of heart rate without perceiving any uptick in exertion, held for a good 40 long minutes. hilarious conversations with my boss and HR soon followed after that, and my sleep quality and appetite started improving shortly after I said I was staying put. i was able to mount a binge eating campaign just in time for my taper week that would have made the Fat Bastard jealous, and coupled with the announcement of winter conditions, I toed the line in Cham feeling a hunger for grease of the trail kind.
After this whole saga, I'm inclined to believe my craving for adventure is really more of a homesickness for a place that doesn't exist because it's pretty much just constantly running away from an existential dread. My choice to pull off a Letterkenny Leave earlier this year was driven by a long winter full of ennui and a desire to leave that behind while moving along to my next happy place. And that's still going on; it's just that my joie de vivre lives on a different, much less regretful path than where I elected to go back in the spring, because it's literally where I came from.
And while it looks like my life has quite literally reached the climax of the Legend of Pearl, I'm oddly content with where things are headed now--a ridiculously different kind of adventure since the start of the year, one that will likely end up less manic, one that might involve some sort of forced cross training, one that will involve non-ultra vacations, but an adventure nonetheless.
By the numbers:
- official distance: ~170.1km
- watch distance: 176.25km
- elevation gain: ~10000m
- watch gain: 10120m
- placement: 412/2561
- official time: 36:18:38
- DNF%: 30.5%
- "you know, this whole saga could have been avoided if you just adopted a fucking dog during the winter.
- or a llama."
- languages used during UTMB to tell runners to GTFO of my way/go ahead because I run like a prissy little bitch on the downhills: English, French, German, Italian, Cantonese, Mandarin.
- you seriously can't do that anywhere else.
- racers' countries of origin's flags are on their bibs, which is how I knew how to fuck with people.
- Despite buying a jar of pickles, I didn’t open it this entire race. That’s a first.
- I think I’m slowly swearing off the pickle juice, given my stomach issues as of late. I’ve been drinking it only when I’m desperate like at Tahoe, but lately during my destination races in the US, I’ve been hitting up Safeway when I land to buy a deli sandwich for lunch and keeping the included mustard packet for emergencies.
- Runners actually did wear the Ultras, so maybe I just run weird.
- An update to that sodium deficiency episode at Tahoe--I passed on the caffeine fast during the taper this time and front-loaded the first 50mi with shots of diluted coke, which padded the diuretic shock of the two pills I took over the back half. There was still some aggravation but it was less pronounced and I was able to stomach the Overstim electrolyte a little bit longer than what happened at Tahoe.
- Should I have gone to Spain, Pennywise the Clown would have either been donated to another aid station fiend like myself, transitioned into a residential crossing guard or retired to work as an alpine trail marker.
- Despite being able to throw down two 45min 10k's two and three days after the race, I seriously will not be doing this again. i knew the course would be worse than East Coast technical but it was ridiculously relentless for me. also i guess i just don't like running with so many people over so many miles (maybe I'm just so used to needing some alone time for a one person trail pity party). it was a bucket list run and i'm glad i did it, but it'll take a lot for me to come back.
- Scott, for backing me up once again as my shoe sherpa and on-course massage therapist. You didn't have to, and you didn't have to fly all the way down here, but you did anyways. couldn't have done this without you, bud!
- Anna, for dealing with my BS and tolerating two assholes in a broom closet of an apartment. Sorry your race was so shitty, but your time will come. Hopefully you find your purpose in running again.
- To all those who started me off down this dangerous path back in 2013 - this would not have happened if not for your misguided enabling of my terrible ways:
- with my first 5k+ lunch run - Ian, Robert, David, Carol
- those who pushed me further down the rabbit hole when I outran them - Chris, Nigel, Andy, Rio, Charl, Frank, Carl
- Mike, for letting me sit in on your training program during 2014, and making me want to do this. And then for inspiring me to write an even longer race report than what you had.
- my physios, Caroline and Janine, and my RMTs, Dave and Luther, for keeping this worn-out, chalky skin, burlap sack of a body going.
- Sean, for spotting me that GDR vape battery-powered headlamp back in 2016. Dude, that thing is fucking amazeballs! True story, our balcony didn’t have lighting so we just used that instead for dinner.
- Lori, for fattening me up when I needed it the most. Thanks, I guess?
- Air Canada, for not judging me after I cleaned out the kitchen at the Heathrow lounge the day after the race, and then devouring all the Miss Vickies in business class on the flight home. Thanks, I guess.
- The vollies. I say this all the time, but this race warrants a shoutout for all 15000 of you. I may not agree with your aid station loadouts but I know the logistical shitshow required to put on something of this magnitude takes an ungodly amount of work. Between the aid station volunteers that had to contend with my Quebexican and the timing control personnel camped out in the middle of nowhere on top of a mountain, fording off -15°C wind chills, your time and effort is what makes this event happen.
- Majo, for letting me hang with you [as much as I could] and for giving me all the protips along the course. You didn’t have to, but I think I would have lost a couple hours if you weren’t there when you were.
- Scott can tell you that even after 15 years, the race organization still doesn't have the Les Contamines shuttle figured out. Logistical issues (parking, not enough buses to deal with the initial lineup, etc.) kept him from arriving until two minutes prior to me arriving. It's 31k in so crew necessity at that point is questionable, and they have their shit together for Courmayeur which is 50mi into the race, so maybe I'm just a stickler.
- Practice speed hiking. Find a slope you can’t run on and just repeat. 100m of D+ for every 1km should do.
- Then practice speed descending. The slope of the ascent is nothing compared to the slope of the descents.
- broth is just saltwater but they have rice and noodles. and a fuckton of crackers.
- Based on my short experience on the European running scene over the years, I can say that racers generally don’t talk to each other during a race (even when passing), but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t pick up a few phrases here and there in another language. Even if you’re speaking Quebecois slang in the middle of France, a little effort goes a long way.
- a little kindness also goes a long way; asking if you're ok is apparently a North American thing.
- I had cheese only at Saint Gervais but Anna said she spotted a piece with mold on it somewhere on the course. just saying.
- technically that's the best kind of cheese?
- I was running on the Salomon ADV Skin Set 5. 5L can fit all of the mandatory gear plus whatever weather kit they activate.
- Embrace the manic French crowds who couldn't stop partying after Tour de France. It's never a good idea to fight your happy place.
- I obviously have some poor life choices to make and execute now so I won't be committing to anything before WSER/HR lotteries this December.
- Which gives me some time to figure out what the fuck is wrong with my gait.
- I was going to look at timed events until then, but that'll come down to how I bounce back. so far it's been good--I was able to throw down a 45min 10k the Tuesday and Wednesday after UTMB.
- This year also proved that I don't need to race every month to train for UTMB, so unfortunately I don't think I'll be writing any more frequently, and if anything it'll be less frequently. But when I do throw something up, it'll be just as epic.
- As aforementioned, I'll be at Pavan again from 9am Friday to 5pm Saturday at Lost Soul.
--David Bowie
Awesome!!
ReplyDeleteHey Leo, I found this on the Google machine. Great read. Thanks for sharing!
ReplyDelete