Competitor number 2900 has just been processed for the Ultra Trail Du Mont Blanc.
This is a whirlwind of fiendish complexity where a piece of paper is handed to you by one person, signed by the next, taken off you by the one after. Your passport is scrutinised, you’re relieved of 20 euros, the contents of your rucsac poured over, tracking chips attached to bags. You’re then handed a tee-shirt. Voila! You’re now ready to compete. Hang on, did I ever get my passport back?
Fellow Dallamite Tom Philips started the registration process the same time as me, but finished much earlier and looked a lot more relaxed by the end. I think this is an omen for tomorrow’s race.
Race day. Before the start I meet up with Dave Banks from Kendal and we sit in the shade away from the start. Tom, I guess, is already on the start line. About half an hour to go, Dave and I cross to the start and work our way into the pack. There’s space to sit down with all the other runners to keep out of the sun. 15 minutes to go and all the runners stand up. I notice that immediately in front of us there’s three kids – roughly aged eight to 12 – among the pack. They’re there to wish their father good luck, but they need to be moving very soon or they’ll get propelled along the route.
With 10 minutes to go, there’s exhortations over the PA system to wave our hands in the air like festival-goers. Dave and I look at each other and shrug. It’s far too hot for that nonsense.
Eight minutes to go and the children thankfully give their farewells and make their way out of the crush – the runners around us express relief in a variety of languages. The minute-by-minute countdown starts. With 30 seconds to go, there’s a blast over the PA of Vangelis’s 1492 – pretty much the signature tune for Alpine-based sporting events – and then we’re off.
Under the starting arch, shuffling forward in the pack, mostly watching our feet to avoid tripping up, but also taking in the encouragement from the crowds – which is pretty amazing stuff. In 50 metres, we turn right and begin to jog. 20 metres later we’re back to shuffling again as the road narrows. Then we’re back to running as the pack opens up. It’s hot, there’s crowds packed in on both sides of the road, and the noise is intense. It’s a relief to be moving. I hear Helen shouting my name and see her in the crowds to the right.
I keep up with Dave and we begin to manoeuvre around runners as we leave the outskirts of Chamonix. I hear someone shout “Go on Michael!” It could be a friend of my brother who lives in Chamonix, but I can’t see where the sound came from.
We’re now off the road and onto a track running through the woods. It’s about three-metres-wide and the size of the tracks we’re used to in cross-country ski races, but without six-feet-long planks of wood on your feet, it’s much easier to pass other competitors. My intention had always been to run conservatively at the beginning, but with so many runners, it feels right to move up through the field to avoid bottlenecks. I’ve still got my walking poles tucked in my arm and held vertically against my body to keep them out the way, but others are already using theirs and, inevitably, there’s a few trips.
It’s not long before we’ve covered the 8km down the valley from Chamonix to Les Houches. A quick drink and start the climb. Dave points out the area where he stayed for a recce of the course earlier in the summer. The path’s wide, so getting past is not a problem, but I have to keep an eye on my heart rate monitor to make sure I’m not pushing the pace too hard. At 6.22pm, we’re at the top of the first pass – Le Delevret (1,776 metres). The views are great looking down towards Les Contamines, but there’s already cloud over the Mont Blanc massif. Dave says: “Come on! A lot of these runners won’t be good at descending quickly”, so we take off. Running down the grassy paths is easy on the feet, and we’re soon picking off dozens of runners. As we enter woods and encounter narrower paths, I back off slightly. I can’t keep up with Dave. That’s the last I’ll see of him on this run.
I think how Chris Knight must be starting his Bob Graham Round any time now, and then it’s into the outskirts of Saint-Gervais-Les-Bains and down a short flight of steps. The noise from the crowds is intense as you run three sides around the town centre.
21km and 951m of climbing so far – the pace has been too fast for me. Fine if this was race finish, but not so good when there’s another 147km to go. At position number 650, this will be my highest placing during the race.
A quick intake of food and drink and then off again. Children of all ages are lining the route so you can high-five then as you go past. This is to be a regular feature of the race, with some kids out on the course until the very early hours.
There’s now a long section running occasionally next to, occasionally above, the river Bon Nant. We’re now much more spaced out and I stop to get my headtorch out somewhere near La Chapelle. It’s now about 8.40pm. I’ve got a bit of a stitch, but can run through it, so just drop the pace a bit. Under the main road near Les Contamines and down to the river, where I pass another runner wearing an identical Lakeland 50 tee-shirt. ‘Nice tee-shirt’, I say. He looks slightly stunned before he makes the connection. We need to avoid such a costume clash in future - if only I knew the French for faux pas.
It’s a short, but sharp, climb up a rocky ramp beside the river to Les Contamines perched on a bluff. A loop to the left allows a run in to the feed station. I’m actually surprised as I thought Saint Gervais was Les Contamines, so I have to get the map out to check where I am. This is the first cut-off point on the route, and thankfully I’m 90 minutes ahead of the 10.30pm time barrier. It’s a comfortable cushion as I know the time allowances get more generous as the course continues. Have some cola, some chicken soup and noodles, as well as bread. Carrying a spoon is not obligatory (Fellsman competitors take note), so it’s a case of slurping the soup from the bowl in the Continental style or pouring it down your tee-shirt in the Cumbrian method.
From here, I settle into a fast walk up alongside the river in the dark. Let the food digest. A runner tries to scratch his bottom while still holding his walking pole in his hand - and tries to spear the eyes of those following behind (this is not an accepted Nordic walking technique).
As we approach Notre Dame de la Gorge, the air is filled with the sound of flatulence. And the occasional cricket. But mostly flatulence. Notre Dame looks a great spot. There’s pink, green and blue floodlights illuminating the trees. There’s also a log fire and a table laid with wine and French bread and cheese, which for a split second I think is for us competitors, but quickly realise it’s for a party of spectators. My holiday romance with Notre Dame ends abruptly as the path shoots up a rocky path which climbs without respite. An English female voice cries out ‘Michael, You’re doing really well!’ I smile back, but don’t recognise them. Just one of the many occasions of great support to come where spectators call out your name printed on your race number.
We’re still going up and up. I have to plant the poles together to drive my left knee up the hill to keep my momentum. I close up behind a competitor, who because his race number has twisted around, I can see he’s British. We get chatting. His name’s David and he’s from Grassington. We get talking about the weather and training for this event. Like me, he’d also ran the Dales Way in a day earlier in the year. We agree there’s no comparison. I’m starting to get cold by this point, so drop behind him to put on my jacket, hat and gloves – all the time trying to avoid touching the electric fence (having run into an electric fence at July’s Warton Crag fell race – I know my heart doesn’t need the 12 volt stimulus. Yet).
It’s a clear sky and at 1,300m above sea level, all the earlier heat of the day has now vanished. I can hear cowbells and see the lights of the foodstop at La Balme on an alp ahead. And above that – oh, way above that – I can see further lights in the distance. That must be the Col du Bonhomme. Grab some chocolate at the foodstop and begin climbing up a narrow path which works its way up the mountainside. The trees are now far below us – out of view in the darkness – but the vegetation is thick as the hillside drops away to the left of the path. There’s a light, cold wind, but it makes the climbing comfortable. I kick a stone quite heavily with my left big toe and wince. I know this toe will now become a key supporting actor in the rest of the narrative.
The light of headtorches are still far up ahead, but on the zig-zag path I get a lift by looking at the serpentine trail of silver lights below me as hundreds of headtorches make their way up the mountain. I’m glad that bit is behind me. I’ve still got the stitch and the altitude is making me feel slightly sick.
At 2,329 metres I reach the Col du Bonhomme. I catch my breath. But this isn’t actually the top I thought it was. I crest the col and the path swings left on a balcony path. Far down in the valley below a dog barks. Far up above the dog, a Dallam runner says “bugger”. There’s a bit of rocky scrambling along this ridge. The path is muddy, occasionally slippery, and in the pitch dark, concentration is vital. If I stumbled, I’ve no idea how far I’d fall.
I’m really struggling for breath now and keep stopping to let others pass. I just can’t seem to get enough oxygen into my lungs and still feel sick. It’s a relief to see the checkpoint at the Refuge de la Croix du Bonhomme (2,443 metres). Timing chip scanned by the race marshal – it’s now 12.20pm – and I’m down the other side. Find a spot out of the wind, sit on a rock and take a caffeine energy gel. “Ca va?” ask a couple of passing runners. “Oui, ca va” I say. I begin to plod down and feel better.
As the path improves, I begin to run, and when we switch onto a grassy track which zig-zags down to Les Chapieux (where Europop tunes get carried up to me on the Alpine breeze), I tuck in behind another runner and begin to pass a number of competitors (including Union-flag-shorts-man – who I later know as Nick – though I suspect he’s been called that all his life).
The sudden transformation in energy is remarkable and I enjoy the final run-in. There’s a short queue while we have a compulsory bag-check – the marshals want to make sure everyone’s carrying a mobile phone – and then food. I sit outside the tent on a bench and drink soup (chicken again) while watching a runner in thickly-accented English ask a marshal to take his picture – and then making the marshal take the picture again when he failed to use the flash properly. Glad he didn’t ask me.
It’s about 1.30am and I’m about two-and-a-half hours ahead of the cut-off. Past the live band – I don’t think I was hallucinating – and onwards to the third pass of the run, the Col de la Seigne. This is nice steady climb up a valley on a Tarmac road, with the shoulders of mountains steadily embracing the road as we ascend. I tap-tap my poles all the way up to keep the rhythm high.
The Col de la Seigne at 2,516 metres is higher than Bonhomme – I thought it was lower, which may account for what’s to come. I chat to a couple of French runners (in English) about the distance covered so far (51km), whether it’s our first time (yes), whether we’ll do it again (no).
At La Ville des Glaciers, the pass swings right and drops to a stream. We cross that, leave the road, and begin a climb on a narrow path. A sliver of moon has just appeared ahead and from its light I can make out the end of the valley and the pass. A succession of lights make their way up to it. The path is steady at first, but within a kilometre, it bends tightly and in a succession of zig-zags winds up the hillside to the right. I drop my pace, looking at my heart rate monitor to make sure it stays below 70 per cent, and then – Bang! – I run out of breath. I stop, lean forward at the waist and support myself on the handles of my walking poles. I give myself 20 seconds to take 20 gulps of air, have a drink, and move again. It seems to work, so I promise myself I’ll climb for five minutes, and then stop again. At around 2,000 metres, I’m stopping every five minutes. A passing American remarks that he’ll be doing the same shortly. At around 2,100 metres, I’m down to stopping every four minutes, then three minutes, then having 25 gulps of breath, then 30, then having to sit down. I feel as if I’m going to throw up at any moment, but know it’s the altitude which is having the effect. Despite having spent the best part of a week sleeping at 1,000 to 1,500 metres above sea level, I obviously haven’t acclimatised.
It’s still dark, but I can now make out glaciers on the Mont Blanc massif to my left and Orion’s Belt is peeking around Mont Lechaud to the right and ahead. The terrain underfoot is grassy like a Lakeland fell and being a broad expanse, there’s no chance of falling.
I’m only making about 100 metres at a time before having to sit down, but then the pass is crossed at 4.14am and I’m in Italy. I’m still feeling sick, so on the descent, spot a stone-built mountain hut – though at two storeys, house would be a better description. I make my way down to it. There’s nowhere to sit out of the cold wind, a bench is already taken by a runner, so I opt to sit on the stone doorstep. I’m just lowering myself down when the runner calls out for me to join him on the bench. He’s from “South Serbia…no, I’m not, North Serbia”. His error perhaps his grasp of English or the lack of oxygen. We have a quick chat and then he’s off, telling me not to linger because of the cold. A bit of flapjack – which I really struggle to swallow so that it’s still orbiting my tonsils 15 minutes later – and then I head down.
The path’s quite wide at this point and doesn’t drop too far. I know I should be running, but can only manage a walk. It’s a lot colder now – always the case when you get closer to dawn, but I can now make out the outlines of the Mont Blanc peaks to the left, the huge Miage Glacier, and see a light from the Rifugio Monzino below the Aiguille Noire.
Lac Combal food station comes up, but not before I decide to tip my left toe into the icy cold water of a mountain stream (accidentally, of course). More chicken soup at 5.15am as I sit on a bench. There’s a conversation going on between a Brit (to my left) and an American (to my right) as to how far it is to Courmayeur. I’m too tired to join in, but then they ask me if I speak English. I do. They seem a bit upset I hadn’t answered earlier. I explain I didn’t join in as I don’t know how far it is earlier. It’s clear we’re physically fatigued, but not mentally relaxed. From here it’s a walk along a causeway across the remains of glacial moraines and then another climb to the Arete du Mont-Favre (2,435m).
I start the climb in darkness, but halfway up I can switch my headtorch off. Again, it’s good to look behind and see all those following far below. I crest the shoulder of the ridge just as the first rays of sunshine hit the top of Mont Blanc, turning the summit pink. I take an American’s picture with the summit as a backdrop, he takes mine. There’s a conversation between an American supporter and American runners as to how many states have been represented so far: California, Texas, Oregon, Washington, Colorado, etc. It’s now down on a gently descending path, with the Mont Blanc range always on the left. I can’t take my eyes off it, but know I need to watch my feet as there’s quite a drop to the left. A quick stop to take off my hat, headtorch, gloves and jacket, and replace them with my cap and sunglasses, and at 7.29am I go through the cablecar station at Col Checrouit. On offer is crispbread filled with cheese and green peppers – a nice change of taste, albeit I still feel a bit sick.
Blocking the way ahead is sugar loaf-shaped Mont Chetif, so we swing right on a dusty path through the woods. This is a real knee-killer. It looks like it hasn’t rained here for some time, so the soil has turned to sand, masking partially-hidden tree roots. I follow a female Japanese runner and two Frenchmen, with two Spaniards behind. We’re now onto a open wooded slope dropping steeply down to the right with Courmayeur far below. The narrow path zig-zags down. We run perhaps 50 metres, turn to the right – carefully - the sand is like running on marbles, then 50 metres back, then turn left and repeat. We’ve done this a few time when I hear a cry in Spanish. I look up to my left to see the Spaniards two zig-zags above and a dislodged rock the size of a football with sharp edges bouncing down the hill at speed. Bounce one. It’s coming straight at me. Bounce two. I don’t know whether to suck in my stomach or arch my back to avoid it. I just freeze – that’s exactly what I do. To move forward, backwards or stand still could all be the wrong decision – I just can’t tell which way it’s going to bounce. Bounce three. It flies at waist height about two feet behind me. Immediate relief is then again dumbstruck concern as it bounces its way to the French runners two hairpins below me. By a miracle, it misses them also. There’s no doubt it would have swept me straight off the path had it hit – and probably broken a few ribs as well. But there’s no time to think more of it. There’s still plenty of tricky descending to come.
By 8.30am, I’m into the outskirts of Courmayeur running through the old streets and down to the sports centre. Helen is there to greet me, which I wasn’t expecting. She’s taken the bus from Chamonix through the Mont Blanc tunnel (her distance: 11km; my distance so far: 77km) It’s great to see her, and after changing clothes and running shoes, staring at a plate of sauceless pasta trying to encourage it to levitate into my mouth, and contemplating why the pot of yoghurt contained apple puree, I caught up with her for a few minutes and had a few slices of more nourishing malt loaf. I also bumped into fellow British runner Warwick from Pocklington, near York. We met in October last year when we were both taking part in the Norfolk Ultra to gain the points needed to get into this race. I quick chat and I’m on my way. A long stop in Courmayeur, so I’m now only 90 minutes ahead of the cut-off. Wave goodbye to Helen – I’ll next see her in 50km time all being well.
My grasp of Italian being better than French, meant I could pick up a bit more of the comments from the spectators. “Are you tired?” I was asked by a middle-aged gent “Hardly at all” I said with a grin, “Ask me again at the top of that.”
'That’ was Refuge Bertone – about 700m above Courmayeur. I felt much better now. The change to Salomon Speedcross shoes helped with a bit more grip and I was now passing for the first time walkers who were doing the Tour du Mont Blanc hiking trail over eight to 10 days. Most we’re really enthusiastic supporters with shouts of ‘bravo!’ and ‘courage!’, but one or two gave little tell-tale signs that having to give way to 2,000 runners wasn’t their idea of a relaxing holiday.
Refuge Bertone was reached at 10.40am – and lemon tea was on offer, a great change from cola. I left the feed station just as Warwick came in. The next seven kilometres have to be among the best of the entire route: A fairly level path at about 2,000 metres traversing the mountainside, with cloudless views across to the Mont Blanc peaks all the way. I could never tire of this view.
I panicked slightly at this point – I knew the next cut-off at Arnuva was at 4.15pm, but the walking signpost said it would take five-and-a-quarter hours to reach Grand Col Ferret. I’d obviously be moving faster than walking pace, but the Arnuva feed station, I thought, was after the pass. Thankfully, it was before.
Refuge Bonatti was reached at 12.14pm – Warwick had overtaken me along the way - where I had a quick chat with an Italian family about what time I thought I would finish (I’d be happy with any time before the 2.30pm Sunday cut-off). It was then a drop down to Arnuva at 1.41pm – two-and-a-half hours ahead of the cut-off. Only water and cola on offer. I really wanted something else, so I spend a bit of time – not fruitlessly you could say – squeezing the juice from orange and lemon segments into my mug.
At 2,537 metres, Grand Col Ferret was the highest of the route. I quick pause to soak the buff around my neck and my hat in an icy mountain stream and then it was off up the mountain. Passing an official race photographer, I grinned at the lens and said “that’s my best smile.” He blew me a kiss and said “You’re so beautiful!” Cheeky.
I was expecting this climb to be tougher than all the others, but keeping my heart rate below 60 per cent – which made for a very slow plod – crossed the pass into Switzerland at 3.32pm. The Ferret was in the bag. Quick pause the other side of the pass out of the wind where I carefully selected to sit on a patch of grass where someone had gone for a wee. I had a cocktail of Ibuprofen and Pocket Coffee.
The next nine kilometres were pretty much all downhill, so I was determined to run as much as possible to give me a greater cushion and to meet Helen at Champex-Lac at a much more sociable time than the 10.30pm I was currently on schedule for. This was one of the most enjoyable bits. The path for the first section was like the route off Ingleborough to Horton-in-Ribblesdale, the lower sections like the paths around Loughrigg – jinking left, then right, nothing too steep, nothing too stony, but always going down. I ran into La Fouly at 5.05pm, having made up around 100 places.
After La Fouly there was another eight kilometres of running beside the La Dranse de Ferret river which had the most fantastic amount of glacial debris in the riverbed, dwarfing the stream itself. At Issert (119km from the start) I joined up with a chap from Scotland, where we talked about how lucky we were to have made the draw to get into the event on such a day as this. I must have been feeling good. The path kept climbing through the woods – someone said there was ‘only’ another 2.8km of ascending to go. What? The sound of cowbells and there’s Helen encouraging me on. I persuade a French runner to keep moving as we’re nearly there. Champex-Lac at 7.41pm. Tea, coffee, cola, soup, cheese, bread, cola, coffee, off.
Just three passes now remain – all much lower than the earlier ones. I’d earlier miscounted and thought there were just two more to do until I realised my error, so went back mentally over the route and upgraded an earlier hill to a pass. That felt better – my scoresheet was still looking good.
I’d loitered in Champex-Lac for around 40 minutes, so it was headtorch on (again) as I left the village in its ideal position next to a lake nestling on the shoulder of a hill. Helen had decided (foolishly) to meet me at the next food station in Trient. How long would it take me to get there? Four-and-three-quarter-hours, that’s how long. Of course to go up meant I had do drop a long way down. A steady plod through the woods and glance to the right to see headtorches a long-long way up the hillside, and I knew these hills would be a bit of an undertaking. A stream crossing, and a pause to offer some painkillers to a limping Spaniard – which earned me a kiss on the cheek from his (male) co-runner. I hope he made it to the end, but I’d be surprised knowing what was to come. Then it was up a series of zig-zags through the woods, each one rearing up at ridiculous angles on loose scree with a sharp drop to one side. Each time I rounded a corner, I take a deep breath, push my poles firmly into the ground and launch myself forward. Take short steps, but big pushes. My shoulders will hurt when the Ibuprofen wears off.
I go through the checkpoint at Bovine at 10.42pm. There’s a log fire for the marshals and I’m tempted to pause, but Warwick catches me up (he had a snooze at the last stop) and we carry on together. The path is still climbing until the top at 1,987m, but the view of the town of Martigny lit up below, rather alarmingly directly below, is a good distraction. The descent to Trient, on the other hand, is hell. It’s through woods with the path littered with tree roots, sharp stones, small pebbles, and a sharp drop to one side. It’s difficult to make out by torchlight, is foot-twisting, and the steep gradient means it’s safest to plant your poles ahead and lower yourself down each step. It’s slow and brain-numbing, and each time we come into an open bit of alp akin to a Cumbrian fell, we breath a sigh of relief, but then it’s back into the woods again. This continues right to the very edge of Trient where I slow down and Warwick goes ahead. I won’t see him again. Helen meets me and walks me into the food station (12.34pm). I don’t stay long in Trient. Helen decides not to come to the next stop at Vallorcine (sensible girl).
The next pass, Catogne (2,027m), is virtually a repeat of Bovine – long, steep climbs through woods to cross the shoulder of the hill at 2.54am. Coming down is easier through on wider paths – see, we’re back in France - although the number of runners slipping indicates the levels of exhaustion. I’m now concerned that I’m getting unsteady on my feet due to tiredness and – because of some substantial cliff edges - decide to heed Warwick’s earlier advice and take a 40 minute nap. It’s still too cold and windy on the mountain, so I drop a bit further, have more coffee sweets and put new batteries in the headtorch. I continue down passing a French runner who has a little bell on her rucsac going ‘ding-ding-ding…’ How that isn’t that driving her mad after all these hours, I don’t know. Ah, she’s wearing headphones so only the super-sensitive such as dogs, Superman, and all the other runners on the mountain can hear it. Cheers.
Eventually, I find a spot which isn’t in the wind, littered with rocks, or on the edge of a precipice, and roll myself up in a space blanket with my rucsac as a pillow, setting my alarm to go off in 40 minutes. [WRITER’S ASIDE: Now at this point it’s useful to point out there’s much debate among Dallam runners as to whether this is called ‘doing a Jarv’. Having consulted the originator, a Jarv is not a verb, but rather a unit of measurement equivalent to a kip of 240 minutes’ duration. I was therefore doing a sixth of a Jarv]. I’m warm enough, but unfortunately not far from the path, so every passing runner plays the game of ‘Let’s illuminate the Engleeshman’. I reassure them I’m ok, only having a sleep, would they kindly switch off the lights and close the door behind them, thank you. The bells ring – time to get up? No, just the Frenchwoman coming past me. Grab another 10 minutes sleep, then it’s race on again down to Vallorcine (149km so far, 5.15am).
I don’t stay long in Vallorcine, just enough to change socks, cover a Frenchman’s rucsac in talcum powder intended for my feet (‘pardon monsieur!’), warn my big toenail that any plan to secede from my foot won’t be tolerated, and eat some – yes – chicken soup. A good path leads along the river. Far up ahead I can see headtorches at the top of the final climb (Tete aux Vents, 2,130 metres). By the time I cross the main road at Col des Montets, it’s light enough to put the headtorch away. I get chatting to a German runner – Michael – I’d spoken to briefly much earlier that morning. He’s done the race several times.
The top is reached at 8.13am. Below is Chamonix, far above rays of sun have hit the top of Mont Blanc. Breath-taking – the view and the climb. A long and gentle descent to the foodstop at La Flegere (I’m now four hours ahead of the cut-off). A walker slaps me on the back and calls me a champion. It makes me smile. A quick text to Helen to let her know I’m on my way and it’s then down beside a ski slope.
When the path switches onto rocky tracks through woods, I find it harder going on the soles of my feet and slow down. There’s plenty of time in hand. Nick (Union flag shorts)passes me.
Out of the woods and into the edge of Chamonix. It’s time to start running as the route loops through the streets. Nothing prepares you for the wall of noise from the supporters – shouts, cowbells, etc – I’m grinning from ear to ear as I cross the finish line and see Helen. Brilliant.
Time taken: 42 hours, 3 minutes, 46 seconds.
Placing: 998 out of 1,685.
Distance: 168.7km.
Height gain: 9,796km.
Calories burned: 20,587.
Money raised for Multiple Sclerosis: £295 (thanks!).
[Postscript: Helen left a message on her mother’s answer machine when we got back to the UK. “Michael completed the race and survived uninjured. The only thing he’ll lose is his big toe. ….. Nail! Nail! Toenail!….”]
