I picked up my packed sled, and my heart sank. “It’s too heavy!”, I exclaimed. Jill tried to console me “It’ll be fine. It’ll glide well on those trails and you won’t even notice.”. Still … it’s been the first time that I’ve actually packed everything into that huge bag. I’ve made lots of last minute changes. And I didn’t follow through on my plan to organize the sled smartly either. I felt unprepared and had battled some weird hip flexor pain the previous couple of weeks as well as pain in my right achilles, both of which could easily be a huge liability in this adventure. I had little training time on snow, and I knew how much more ones tendons are taxed by this terrain. I had a distinct feeling of impending doom … nothing good could be in store for me.

Pre-race dinner was spent discussing gear and strategy with Geoff Roes who attempted the ITI for the third time (second, to be fair, since one DNF was due to a severe cold already present at the start – -30F quickly turned that into severe bronchitis …) and Joe Grant who had finished Susitna a week earlier. Despite the difference in our capabilities, there was a lot to talk about. Turns out Joe and Geoff are really cool guys with a real love for running – they just happen to be a lot quicker at it than me when they do it. At least Geoff didn’t go superlight either on this try, with the main objective to finish the race. My take was that if he finished, he’d win, despite his conservative approach. As usual I was right about that one. I also cautioned Anne – fruitlessly – to not win the woman’s race so she wouldn’t get a free entry for next year …

 

After a good night’s sleep in a hotel in Wasilla, a decent breakfast and short drive to the start, we were ready to go. My sled was surely the funkiest looking amongst all of them, though a Canadian with a 60 lbs sled beat my estimated 44 lbs packed weight. Anne, on the other hand, clocked in at ~30 lbs. I was envious. The night before I had visions of the start happening and all the competitors moving away while I stood there pulling against my anchor, unable to move. Oh, pre-race nerves.
And then just like that, we had started.

 

The Wall

To my delight, I was able to keep up. I even walked and chatted for a few miles with Geoff, who was taking it decidedly VERY easy, showing impressive restraint. The trail was so-so, a bit punchy but you could shuffle. I was anxious to stay within people’s sights at least until the Nome sign, after which I thought I could follow the Susitna course to the Yentna river easily. The temperatures were pretty warm, I believe almost in the 30s. The valley had gotten a snowstorm warning the night before, but in the morning our car had only minor snow buildup – so maybe the trails were still in top shape like they were for the Susitna. Or so I hoped. After about 6 miles, after a nice chat with Rick Freeman, who was planning to go to Nome, I decided it was time to give snowshoes a try. The trail had gotten just punchy enough to be annoying and make my legs ache, and I thought the stability of snowshoes would prevent premature issues with my ankles. This improved things considerably … however the trail kept on getting worse. I finally caught back up with Anne who also donned snowshoes, and I did my best to keep up with her. After the Nome sign, the trail started to deteriorate further. It was now significantly more strenuous to move. However, we hoped to catch a cut-off trail around Flathorn lake that would save us a few miles, and also make for easier going through the woods. Going was frustratingly slow, but I figured once we got to the river, with its massive snowmobile traffic it would be ok. Oh how naive.

Anne and I emerged on the slough that would lead to Flathorn in the dark. The trails now seemed to be freshly broken by the people before us. My sled, due to its width, didn’t fare well on that terrain, causing lots of drag and even worse kept tipping on its side a lot. We first tried to spot the cut-off by going straight across the slough, but it became apparent within a few hundred yards that there was no trail, and others had simply turned around. We decided to look for the cut-off a bit further down. We went back to a bad trail that led onto the slough. Following it, we soon came across another turn-off heading up onto ground via a steep bank. However, within another few hundred yards Tim Hewitt and Geoff Roes and another person came towards us – “There’s no trail. It’s hip-deep.” Tim explained. We turned around to follow them onto the Lake.

Once we got to the lake, there was no apparent trail. We could see headlamps in various directions, some to the left, presumably from bikers taking the gasline trail, some straight ahead far onto the lake (which seemed rather dangerous). We decided to keep relatively close to the shore, which was where the Su also had its course. A biker – Phil Hofstetter – came towards us, exclaiming he could not go on, and we took the lead, having a better chance with our snowshoes, and Phil followed us. We tried to follow snowmachine trails, but only faint ridges in the snow indicated the possibility of a trail – going was tough, skinking in knee-deep – however off-trail was even worse. Once we got to an airstrip we lost the trail altogether. Tim simply headed out in the generally right direction which I confirmed with my GPS, and we took turns breaking trail until we finally got into a very bad trail that had presumably broken by bikers. Bike trails unfortunately don’t do much for snowshoeing – they’re too narrow, with deep holes from the boots and a shallower soft tire track – making for some very awkward going. My sled dragged like crazy and I was working close to my max for a lot of the time. After a few hours we finally came to a swamp and could spot the trail marker which would lead the way to the dismal swamp. After following more false trails, we finally got the direction right. We still followed a few bikers, and soon we overtook them. It was the lead group, led by Pete Basinger. They quietly stepped aside while we quietly passed. The swamp was a horrible mess. It’s wide, without a well defined base, and we kept taking turns breaking trail with a variable base. Finally we got close to the Wall of Death that led onto the Susitna river. Given it was now very late, like 4am or so, we figured we could as well bivy.

My feelings about the trail at this point were strange – on one hand, I was in an almost silly mood about the incredibly slow and strenuous race, but because everyone was in the same boat (though I would think that Geoff operated at a significantly lower percentage of his capacity than me …) it did not really phase me that much yet. Somehow I believed if the river was better, this would just be one big fun adventure, something to tell your friends later. Despite being quite exhausted, I felt ok. I sent a quick message to Jill on my sat phone: “bivy wall death w anne geoff david and more were lead group breaking trail overtook pete”. I though it was pretty cool at the time.

Temperatures were not too cold, probably above 0F for sure, possibly even above 15F. The bivy was warm but everything was sort of wet, and I was sweaty. I somehow didn’t have an easy time breathing. After two to three hours, Anne exclaimed that she would get going. I had not gotten much sleep, and I didn’t feel comfortable so I figured I could go as well.

Emerging on the Susitna, my heart sank. The river was just as bad as the swamp, and moving was very slow. Anne and I took turns in the lead, following a badly broken trail. Soon enough Geoff caught up with us, and we once again overtook the lead cyclists who had moved on earlier. The bikers looked shattered and broken. This was supposed to be the easy section. Geoff joked that at this speed, it would take us a month. We started talking about dropping out. Geoff’s thermometer read 35F, which meant that trails wouldn’t improve either due to the warmth.A water stop turned out to be only moderately productive, melting snow took forever and I caused big spillage with my stove. My morale was on a steep downward curve – fatigue, slow going, and I felt utterly inadequate using my gear. My sled was a mess and one ziploc bag of pringles had burst and just added the icing on the cake.

After the water stop I fell behind Anne, Geoff and Tim and even Dave and Andrea, and continued onto the Yentna – which should have been the highway of the race. But same thing – not a single snowmachine had come through or was to be heard, and the trails were abysmal. To make things worse, my sled tipped over every two to three minutes, and i had to undo my harness to set it upright. I wanted to sit down and quit. Right there. Sometimes I would drag it on its side for a few hundred yards just to spite it, but the joke was on me anyways. I felt sorry for myself, and stupid at the same time.I was alone now, and my morale had become very low. I could no longer envision this being doable physically, I hated the thought of chasing cut-offs and the whole adventure did no longer feel fun, it feld infinitely tedious. I was on the stupid rivers on a course where I had been before, mere 25 miles straight line from Anchorage, there was no real danger (though that of course was not true – snow can cover up nasty overflow and cracks …), just tedium. I felt it was unfair, silly and stupid to push on the Susitna course for a few days just to time out anyways. My mind was in a very bad place. I finally took out my sat phone and called Jill: “I am not sure this is doable for me. I think maybe I should quit. My gear is not adequate. This could be dangerous.”. I had a compelling, rational reason to drop laid out for myself. Still, it felt good to talk to Jill, get her support. Despite all of this I knew I was not actually going to quit. Deciding to quit is a measure of last resort for me, a mental crutch that makes the task at hand more bearable. It allows me to more effectively break up the task into small pieces. I could always defer the quitting until later, the next checkpoint. If it’s one thing I’m good at it’s procrastination. That said, I wondered how I would recover from the physical exhaustion I felt at this point. After an eternity I reached Luce’s. They’re not a checkpoint, but open for business and a welcome stop to refuel and relax. Geoff, Tim, Anne were there, and a lot of bikers came in later including Pete Basinger and Jeff Oatley. I explained to Geoff and Tim that I probably shouldn’t continue on. They didn’t have much energy to argue. Everyone at Luce’s was shattered and tired, yet sort of giddy in disbelief at the slow progress we made.

After lots of food, I felt somewhat refreshed. I left with Shawn into the darkness – we planned to make it to Yentna, the first checkpoint, and then sleep a bit.The trails had seen some snowmachine traffic now, but were still pretty soft. I soon learned that for a snowmachine to make a good trail you need time and cold temperatures, optimally below 10F – so the trail can “set up”. Otherwise it’s a powdery mess, uneven and awkward to walk on – which is what we still faced. After an initial 1.5 mile detour (oops, but the trail was sooo nice), we were on the way to the station. I pulled a bit ahead of Shawn, and reached Yentna, which was considerably farther than I remembered, at 10pm. Yentna station is homey, but due to the fact that everyone was there at the same time – bikers and runners – quite miserable and cramped. Additionally the upstairs sleeping rooms were very hot approaching sauna status, yielding again little sleep.

At least all my gear dried out, and at 3:30am I left, just a few minutes behind David Johnston and Andrea. Skwentna was just about 30 miles away, and I hoped for finally better trails. I started out without snowshoes, but after about 10 yards it was clear my hopes had been too high – on they went. Instead of better trails, I found more of the same – soft mushy stuff that took lots of energy to move on. Going was slow, and after only 15 miles I was completely exhausted again. I basically expected this to keep on going at least until Fingerlake – they had reportedly gotten almost no snow, so that was the only positive data point. I knew Shell Lake had been snowed on a lot as well. My fatigue was very disheartening. I hated my sled. I hated my snowshoes. I hated the Yentna. In addition, I had started to get some rather disconcerting gastrointestinal distress, which I attributed to a combination of the belt and the greasy food I had eaten at Luces and Yentna. I was able to compensate since my sled harness system allowed me to undo the waistbelt and only use my shoulders to pull – one of the few things that turned out very well about the sled. Mercifully about 12 miles before Skwentna a couple had made a rest stop for weary racers, and just as I pulled in, Dave and Andrea came out. They were in good spirits (Dave is always smiling) and told me to rest up and enjoy the soup and cookies! The rest was indeed heavenly, and I stayed for a good hour or more, having hearty soup, homemade cookies (with a baggie to go), coffee with chocolate and a good talk. It’s hard to be in a bad mood when met with such open hospitality, and I left the cabin in better spirits.Back on the Yentna going was still slow despite a large group of trailbreakers coming through (as I said before … you need time + cold temps to make a good trail). The weather was now very good, and after a while a plane buzzed me, and I recognized my friend Dan Bailey’s plane – with Jill in it! They flew by me multiple times yelling and waving. The remainder of the way to Swkentna was slow but uneventful, with no issues but a developing toenail blister (due to the snowshoe) and increasing fatigue, possibly also related to my stomach issues. About two miles from Skwentna I felt my fuel had run out, and I had a terribly hard time dragging myself into the checkpoint at 6:20pm – only 12 miles from my last rest. I felt I barely made it to the checkpoint. But by

now, I was determined to keep moving. I was still ahead of the cut-off.

 

At Skwentna, I got a great surprise – Jill had been there earlier with Dan and had left me a small note, telling me she was proud of me and she loved me. It almost brought tears to my eyes, and filled me with deep affection for Jill, and renewed resolve to see this through. Wary of greasy food I had a salad and some cake for dinner and slept a few hours (in my own room, very comfortably) and left with Andrea and Dave at midnight to make our way to Fingerlake, with a stop at Shell Lake. The trail leaving Skwentna led us across the airstrip, a beautifully hard-packed and prepared surface which had allowed Dan to land his wheeled airplane earlier. It was beautiful and cruel at the same time – a quarter mile of pure bliss, efficiency of movement which I would not feel again until the last 12 miles of the race. A cyclist, Dario, overtook me on this stretch, something that I was quite excited about, ironically (as it turns out the cyclists were equally excited in the opposite direction – aka demoralized – by our overtaking). Good for bikes, right now, meant good for us. Sadly, I overtook him back only 20 minutes later. Reality had come back. Soon enough I emerged on the endless seven mile long swamp crossing that led to the shell hills. I was glad it was dark because this stretch goes on endlessly, and the trail was in no better shape than before, as most open areas were prone to be windblown.

The hills before shell lake after the swamp  turned out to feel about twice as long and high than when I did this with Jill just a few weeks back – I actually struggled surprisingly (well may not) much with the climbing, which shocked me since I had looked forward to a change in terrain. Moreover a moose had decided this was its trail, and had walked all the way up the hills and halfways back down, leaving the trail in a messy state which can occasionally be challenging even with snowshoes – those animals make huge holes! I never saw the moose, but it must have been close since Dave and Andrea did not see any mooseprints in on the trail …

I got to the shell lake lodge late in the night, probably at 4 or 5am. A short nap and a big pancake breakfast later, Andrea, Dave and I were on our way to Winterlake. I had long been excited about to reach this stage of the race, though I envisioned getting here a lot less fatigued and a lot sooner. I now entered unknown terrain – and we got closer to the mountains, breathtaking views and the “real adventure”. Fingerlake was around 20-25 miles away, which didn’t seem so bad. As it turns out, those miles would be amongst the toughest miles for me in the race. It was a beautiful but incredibly windy and quite cold day. The wind really was a pain, you have to be careful with your clothing, and getting food or water was an ordeal. But worse, it meant that the trail was mostly completely blown in with snow. I could see sled tracks on the original trail disappear under the blown in snow, then reappear later in a wind-shaded section, taunting me. The uneven rapid change between deep soft snow and semi-hard trail made it near impossible to find any rhythm. When I fell just 5 minutes behind Andrea and Dave their tracks were already almost gone. It was slow, and very tough going. Every once in a while the views of the Alaska range and even Denali lightened my mood and made me take pictures, momentarily lost in the pristine and immense beauty of our surroundings. But mostly all I wanted was to get to Fingerlake. And the more you want something, the longer it seems to take. In addition, a new problem had arisen – some small muscle in my back started hurting from pulling my sled. It was an infuriating pain ranging from a tickle to strong enough that I could barely breathe. It was somehow between my ribs in a place where I just couldn’t seem to reach it, and I could not figure out how to stretch it out. It just kept hurting and driving me crazy … I even took off my harness and pulled my sled with my hands. This made time go by even more slowly …

 

Finally, a few miles before Fingerlake, the trail crossed one lake after the other, and for each one I thought “that might be it”, but my GPS showed the truth … yet it was unbelievable how long we took for those last few miles to the extent of my questioning the GPS. It was one of the few sections of the course where I really lost my cool and started to get angry and irritated at just how slow this was, I think I even cursed a couple of times when small things bothered me. We reached Fingerlake at 7:15pm, 19 hours after leaving Skwentna, for an average speed of 2:08 miles per hour. We were about 130 miles into the race, I was completely shattered, and we were just a little more than a third of the way. I was excited to embark on the real journey, but at the same time while I wanted to continue, I was more unsure than ever if I could actually finish this thing. The trail was supposed to get better, though “5 feet snowdrifts” had been reported on the way to the next checkpoint … and it was also supposed to become much more challenging, at least in “normal” years.

Stay tuned for part 2 … with new challenges, more mountains, longer miles, lower temperatures and even more whining!

 

Tappa 5 – Gressoney to Valtournenche

36k – 9000ft – 15:12 without stopped time at either live base

Despite being halfway done, I was uncertain about the race. I was almost 2.5 hours ahead of last year’s pace, but my feet were in rather bad shape. The medics had taped a few toes and I had taped all the rest, but running was certainly no fun. The coming section was short but had some very steep sections. Last year my knee issues really got bad on this section, and I had some real problems coming down the mountain.

Dima had caught up with me again and we decided to leave together. I knew the initial stretch out of Gressoney was flat for a few kilometers, and I was very happy to have Jill join us. To my dismay my camera had stopped working (despite showing a full battery it emptied quickly for some reason) so I only have very few camera photos from this stage. Of course, after about a kilometer I had to stop to yet again work on my toes. I had a hard time finding anything that really worked, and I kept putting tape on and off. At this point, any time goal had lost meaning, though I was still a bit nervous that Harry and Steve would catch up with me, but even so – I pondered yet again if I was going to be able to finish this.

The climb to Alpenzu was not as much of a shock as last year – basically you go from flat road to damn steep trail right up to a 1300ft climb over a 1 1/4 mile or so, a rude awakening. Dima decided he had to take another nap (if he hadn’t slept so much, he’d beaten me by probably 4 hours …) and just laid down at the side of the trail – an enviable capability for rest which I was not able to muster. Jill and I kept going up in the rising heat of the day until we hit Alpenzu, a little sparsely stocked aid station. The folks were super nice and offered Jill food and drink although she insisted she wasn’t part of the race – something that I’ve seen at many aid stations, also for other crew people – generally the volunteers and rifugio people were extremely supportive and nice. Sadly they didn’t have any ice cream (and more sadly europeans don’t see any need for ice either, so we got to drink luke warm cola all day – though the countless fountains had crystal clear ice cold mountain water to make up for it).

After Alpenzu Jill and I decided it’d be proper for us to split ways though it was so enjoyable to have her with me and we agreed she would look for some trail to explore the area. I continued the long way toward col Pinter which stood almost 5000ft above Gressoney. The ascent was relentless and fairly steep, and about 1000ft below the col I had to stop yet again to fiddle with my feet. A little ways back I saw Jill’s limey green cap, she had decided to make her way up to Pinter as well, and a few minutes later she had caught up with me. I let her go ahead and she waited for a minute at the col, where she took my picture. In good tradition I had brought a rock from col Loson for her, which I handed to her. She decided to take another trail which would lead her to Testa Grigia on a rather dicey climb.

The descent from Pinter was one of the more rugged ones in the race and I was a bit bummed I couldn’t show Jill. Soon though the trail tapered off and rolled after what seemed like an eternity of running through tiny apparently deserted mountain villages into a checkpoint just before the main checkpoint of Crest. It was very hot, and to my delight they had a sign for ice cream, so I asked if I could buy some, and I ordered an Orange soda as well. The proprietor led me to a chest of ice cream and when I tried to pull out my wallet he refused – he even let me take two – an ice cream bar and a cola popsicle – maybe the best dessert I’ve ever had in my life. Refreshed I made my way on to the rif. Crest – along the way I had to stop yet again to work on my feet – while usually blisters stop hurting after a while the pain had become very annoying and it took a lot of mental effort to try to ignore it to the level that I wondered if there was some other damage to my toes.

At the rif. Crest I was treated to a free espresso and I started my descent to St. Jacques with some reservation. Last year this was when my knee got really bad and it had taken me unexpectedly long to get down – I remembered an endless very steep trail, followed by extremely steep roads mixed with the extreme frustration of not being able to move well. This time the descent felt somewhat shorter, however I had to stop yet again for foot management halfways down – it was getting quite ridiculous now.  I kept leapfrogging with other racers who kept asking me if I was ok, looking at me with mild sympathy, as much as they could muster on top of their own misery.

I took a long break at St. Jacques – again working on my feet, this time not asking for medics to help. My mood had distinctly darkened as I felt myself slowing down and feeling down, all the while I never really felt athletically too challenged on the downhills.

I was looking forward to sleeping at the next rifugio, Grand Tournalin, where I had my best sleep last year. The climb to the rifugio was only 2400ft over about 3.1 miles – still at this point it would take me probably 1.5 to 2 hours to get there. It got dark just when I passed next to a small creek – last year I hit this section deep at night in an almost unconscious state, barely able to stay on the trail, faintly worried about falling into wat sounded like a dangerous river. It surely didn’t look all that bad now, and the climb went by a lot faster than last year. The rifugio was very welcoming, and I slept for just under an hour at the perfect time to refresh myself for the night. Just as I was about to leave Dima came in, looking tired and grumpy. I unsuccessfully tried to go to the bathroom (still no luck!) and made my way into the cold. The climb to col Nana was easy at first but involved some scrambling later on. I loved being on this high pass at night, and thought I would celebrate by finally reliving myself, but I still could not book any success. It was really starting to bother me now …

I don’t remember much of the 4000ft descent but it must have been slow since Dima arrived at the next live base almost an hour before me – he must have passed me during my off-trail outdoor escapades (he ended up leaving there an hour after me though). I reached Valtournenche at around 1am, and have little recollection of how I got there, but it must have been pretty painful since I wasn’t in a good mood. However, Jill was sleeping in our car on the parking lot right before the checkpoint and I was enthusiastic that she was there! She gave me a nice backrub again (by now my shoulders were very tender, especially my left shoulder which had been acting up in previous races – often I would just drop my left shoulder strap and carry my pack on the right shoulder alone …). While I fixed my feet and replenished on food (though my stomach now felt odd and I didn’t really have a great appetite) my german buddies showed up – Uwe, a very strong runner I ran with earlier at the Tour des Oisans and who I knew would handily beat me, as well as his friend Thomas who I had run with in the first stage. They had slept for a number of hours each night and were by now a lot faster and a lot fresher than me. Thomas in particular was outright chipper, much to my dismay – now I was the grumpypants. To be honest I was almost angered that he seemed to do so well while I was in so much misery and I think I even snapped at him, in hindsight a very embarrassing moment.

Tappa 6 – Valtournenche to Ollomont

44km – 11200ft climbing – 19:18h excluding time at either live base

I knew that the next tappa would be difficult. Last year I had hooked up with Stevie Haston and we had spent maybe the most pleasurable and at the same time the most unpleasant time in the race – pleasurable since Stevie is a lot of fun to talk to, and unpleasant due to some exposed traverses and difficult technical terrain, including an almost 5000ft descent that went steeeep … oh ok it’s not so bad … steeeep and two of the steepest cols in the whole race.

From Valtournenche the trail seemed to drop further down into the underbelly of the town along roads into a canyon. Then suddenly the trail started off the road between some houses, like in many places in this area – in a strange way the trails seem to be more an organic part of the town and villages than in the US, and vice versa – part of the charm of the (real) Alps. Soon after I started climbing I finally felt I urgently needed to go to the bathroom – however I was still close to civilization and had to hold out. After a while I was finally able to go. The whole affair still left me feeling rather funny now that my peristaltic system finally got back in the business, and instead of feeling like a light feathery grasshopper I had a tummy ache. Ah well … at least it distracted me temporarily from my foot misery.

After 2200 feet of climbing over about 2.5 miles I came to the bottom of a large dam which loomed probably more than a hundred feet into the air above me. The top of the dam was lit with street lights and the whole scene looked strangely like there should be spy prisoners be exchanged covertly any minute now. I wondered briefly if we went across the dam, but the path led underneath and then past it. While I was glad to be past the eerie scene I felt horribly tired and had again a very hard time moving steadily. At rif. Barmasse I decided I should sleep a little, and I took another 50 minute nap. After the nap I was seriously refreshed, and started out toward the first pass, fenetre d’Ersatz. The course was very easy here along fire roads and reasonably easy trail. After that first pass the trail felt increasingly remote. Lots of rolling smaller hills made going less straightforward than usual in the Alps, where you either motor steeply up or drop solidly down.

The trails now became really remote in a large high valley with nothing in sight in any direction. I had to stop numerous times to adjust clothing and fix my feet yet again, replacing and removing my tape jobs. I also had surprisingly found that I really liked the Hi-Chew Japanese candies that I had brought as an afterthought – they turned out to be very tasty and preferable to my usual staple foods of gummi colas and honey stinger chews.

I finally got caught or caught up with racer number 97 – Carlo Favre, who I walked into the finish with last year. He is a local runner, and older guy, a strong and rugged alpenman. He spoke only italian and french and a tiny bit of english, so I tried my best to dust off my high school french and we spent many hours talking about the area, races and other simple things in my broken and barely understandable french. Carlo knew just about every aid station person on this stretch at least and kept on pointing out mountains and massivs – this section was again one of the most enjoyable ones in the race.

The remaining aid stations before Close were no longer full rifugios but only little mountain shelters, normally unmanned. Still there was a full assortment of beer, sodas and the usual race foods along with pasta and polenta that was cooked for the racers. Carlo had brought with him some special kind of ricotta cheese and ate it with just pasta (perfectly al dente of course!) and olive oil. He offered me some, mentioning ricotta was good for the quads, and to my surprise it was just about the best pasta I’ve ever had. The ricotta was specially spiced and very rich.

 

We finally got into some rather rugged territory and weren’t really moving all that fast, though the incredible views of the many passes we crossed more than made up for it. The ascents and descents were shorter overall, but no less steep than anywhere else with some rather perilous looking sections. During one descent we were filmed from a helicopter and I bit my teeth and tried my best to look like I leisurely ran down a very steep and exposed section of the trail. Oh the things you do for the camera …

 

The traverse was easier than I remembered, though Carlo’s steady movement helped settle me into a concentrated trot, hiking poles firmly gripped. The trail was easy except for a section where we dropped a few hundred feet in very tight and steep switchbacks above sheer vertical drops – steep enough that we had to skid and slip a few times. Overall though my confidence was significantly improved over last year, maybe finally all this mountain stuff is paying off. The reward for the traverse was a number of passes with simply sublime views and another mountain shelter aid station nestled inbetween.

 

 

 

 

The descent from col Vessonaz was extremely steep and Carlo and I skidded and glissaded down the extra steep scree field. Fortunately the scree was relatively fine so it didn’t feel dangerous, and we made excellent time. On the way down we met Karen, Dima’s girlfriend – she didn’t know exactly where Dima was and I was surprised he was behind me. “No idea where crankypants is” I told her which elicited a laugh. Carlo did not run any of the downhills but had a very fast walking pace, which kept me rather busy. One issue with fast walks though is that it can hurt your feet even more than running (or in different ways), and after about 3000 feet of dropping my feet were burning intensely in addition to my toes and various blisters screaming at me. All I could think of is to put my feet into the nearby creek and how incredibly good that would feel which made my pain all the worse, and I didn’t think it would have been a good idea (though I’m not so sure about that anymore). Suddenly Carlo stopped – he also had similar foot pain and needed some relief –  a very welcome break right before I would have simply let him go on. His shoes were old worn down road sneakers and I was again amazed at how tough some people were.

The final descent to Close was annoying since you kept dropping into a canyon long after you could see the level of the town, however it was by far not as bad as last year where my knee was killing me. To get to Close we had to climb a few hundred feet back up, and I was extremely glad that I could rest for a while.

My feet were pretty beaten up and were even filmed and photographed by some people documenting the race. I also found my wonder medic from last year who fixed up a few of my bandages but was already off duty. Carlo was in much better shape and went on without me, while I decided to take it easy and linger for a bit, since the next climb to col Brison was rugged and very steep.

The climb to the col involved more traversing and a crazy steep ascent, followed by a descent along an insanely steep mountainside. The year before I had done this in the night, and at the previous checkpoint people insisted I do not go alone (I also looked pretty bad then), and I sort of understand now why. I called Jill and she said she had just been at the col a little earlier and was going to wait at the rifugio halfway down the mountain. I was excited since we only planned on meeting in Ollomont, and happily I went down the 1900ft descent to that rifugio over the next 1.6 miles. My initial good mood however eroded quickly as my feet were in screaming pain and I kept getting more and more frustrated, every time I would hit my toe I started swearing and pounding my poles into the ground like a little child. Finally I saw the rifugio and found Jill and Martina there. Though happy to see them, I was steaming in anger. I messed with my feet yet again (if you’re bored reading the same old foot story by now you can probably imagine how tedious it was during the race …), barely ate anything, before Jill and I made our way to Ollomont along a very steep gravel road.

This road was where I hit the low point last year – I had to walk backwards and screamed in anger, pain and frustration because of my knee. This year it was easier – unpleasant but by far not as bad, though I almost lost it when I finally got the the pavement to see that those perverted alpine villages kept the steepest sections within the villages. “How the f* can people get up here in the winter!” I exclaimed. I was very grateful for Jill being with me and I felt bad at the same time that she had to witness my temper tantrums, but she was very sweet and supportive, though I am sure she was as happy as me when we finally got to Ollomont around 10:20pm.

The Tor is certainly amongst the very hardest of footraces in the world – a 330 km, 24km elevation gain (yes that’s more than a half marathon vertical up, or 80000ft for the metrically challenged), 25 passes above 2000m, non-stop (though you can sleep at many aid stations) stint through the beautiful Italian Alps around the Aosta valley. It is epic and superlative in all ways – the organization makes any US race seem quaint (not to say that American volunteers are any less fantastic) – it’s hard to compete with 1400 volunteers and a cost of north of 300k euros … In fact, it’s so superlative I couldn’t put together a race report for my first running of this race – though the slight distraction of meeting Jill might have had something to do with it as well . So this is a bit of a double report, heavy on pictures and hopefully not just the “it went uuuuuuuup, then it went doooooooooooown endlessly” which this report easily could degenerate into …

Both of the years running I went into the race somewhat injured – this time with some nagging achilles issues and, more worrysome, persistent and occasional pain under, on the side of and on the top of my left big toe – the same that made me DNF TRT pre-emptively so I could run TOE, where it bothered me for the first 50 miles but never enough for me to stop. The interesting thing about a race of this magnitude is though that it’s so long, and you go so slow, that often the issues you encounter are very different from your usual running injuries. At least that’s what I told myself to calm my mind …

The race itself is split into 7 major “tappe”, though they are not stages as the clock keeps ticking – instead at the end of each tappa is a large aid station (“live base”) with lots of space to sleep (generally field beds in a gym hall or tent) and a warm meal.

My strategy for this year, as for last, was to sleep as little as possible, only when absolutely needed. This was not intended for speed – though the winners usually only sleep 2 hours or so, I think for my skill level more sleep would be beneficial – but for maximum experience and immersion into the environment. Last year I learned in addition that the live bases were not good places to sleep – generally crowded and with tons of people coming and going – instead I planned on sleeping on one of the many refugios, which allow only for 2 hours of sleep at the max (I was planning on 1 hour increments anyways) and are usually quiet. The only downside is the refugios are usually at moderately high altitude (which does not provide for as much rest for t
he unacclimated), but since I don’t usually have altitude issues other than being somewhat slower I figured the better sleep was well worth it. Other than that I did not plan for much – staying ahead of my friends Harry and Steve would provide for some fun little motivation, but really I didn’t care about beating them – there was no telling how fast or slow they would be anyways.

Tappa 1 – Courmayeur to Valgrisenche

49km – ~13000ft climbing – 11:43

The start was even more crowded than last year – of course, with 500 as opposed to 350 runners. I was happy Jill was there to send me off, and also that they did not play any AC/DC this year (“She shook me all night long” was playing in my head for 132 hours last year, and it got old after about 5 minutes …) – though a heavy dose of Katy Perry at the Guide’s Cafe (which happened to be the only place in town with free internet) had already set my musical background for the days to come … ugh. There were a lot of familiar faces, some competitiors from last year – we all had our finishing rank as our start number, and all numbers below 200 were reserved for one of the 75 finishers from the previous year that was crazy enough to come back – even the guy I walked into the finish with last year (Carlo Favre, a kind of a local legend and a true mountain man – who can easily hike circles around me …).

Despite the distance and the terrain, once the start signal came, we were off running – it’s hard to escape the energy of the field and resist the hundreds of cheering spectators with cowbells who are cheering us on. The first col is Col Arp – easing us into the race with a moderate 4300ft climb that starts out gradual and gets only really steep at the end (though gradual here is still around a 750ft/mile grade). After a while I lost Harry and Steve who went out very conservatively (smart), passed Angela Pierotti from last year (she would post some impressive improvement this year) and caught up with Anne VerHoef. Anne is a super-strong hiker, though the elevation caused her problems. She would later unfortunately drop out due to a flare-up of plantar fasciitis in Gressoney. During the descent to La Thuile I took it easy and though my foot kept aching a little otherwise things behaved well – phew.

The next climb was along a gorgeous valley along an incredible waterfall – the first time where I started to feel bad last year on behalf of going out too quickly, which I avoided this year. The climb lead to an incredible second high valley with breathtaking scenery. I caught back up to Anne who had left before me from the previous aid station (I tend to be slow filling up) – usually she would catch up or pass me on the downs while I had more gas in the tank on the climbs.

Passo Alto was the second col, and the first with a significantly steep descent – losing 2900 feet of elevation in less than 3 miles … just to go back and gain it all back on Col Crosatie. That col had a wickedly steep ascent though scree fields and later on though a path carved into granite, wild and alpine. Lots of steps and some ropes got us into the right mood for the adventure to come – though it has to be said in all but maybe snow conditions you wouldn’t really need the ropes. They protected against some real exposure, though the trail itself is generally very good – much better than in the TOE, where such passages would have been unprotected on much worse trails. On the 4400ft descent into the first live base I caught up with Doone Watson and her husband Tim – Doone was determined this time to finish (as she would).

To my delight, Jill was waiting for me at Valgrisenche, which I reached a bit past dark with Anne at 9:43pm – a whopping 11:43 hours for less than a 50k! Valgrisenche was a somewhat cramped affair this year due to the high volume of runners, and no crew was allowed within the checkpoint. At this point I was about 15 minutes behind my 2010 pace. Anne decided to sleep at this aid station but I was determined to push on after changing clothes and some pasta. I decided to go somewhat light after my experiences in TOE where wearing anything too heavy on the uphills would only lead to being drenched in sweat and freezing cold on the downs. Instead I would rely on gloves, mittens and hat for warmth if needed. Still, I had my puffy with me in case I had to stop moving anyways.

Tappa 2 – Valgrisenche to Cogne

54km – ~13700ft climbing – 16:30 (excluding stopped time at either live base)

The next stage was significant – it had the first scary downhill from Col Fenetre and three major passes – two above 3000m – including the highest one in the race, Col Loson, standing 10824ft tall. After a nice gradual climb of another 4000ft (it seems as if there are only 3000+ feet climbs in this race which is of course not the case – you just tend to not notice anything less than 1000 feet at all any more …) I reached Col Fenetre in the night with the same spectacular sight I remembered – the line of lights down the col made it seem like the descent was almost vertical, as if one was to look from an airplane down. The trail was good but very steep with very sharp switchbacks, some of which were above near-vertical talus fields – I was only glad it wasn’t wet! While I marched down the pass I wondered how I did this without using my poles last year and I also if I was the biggest chicken in the race with my aversion to heights – I doubted many people would consider this descent to be of any difficulty at all (except for the fact it was very steep of course). The thing was made harder by the fact that this whole fun section wasn’t just a few hundred feet of elevation high … you loose almost 3000 feet this way. Needless to say, the I reached the next aid station with some relief.

Shortly after this aid station I continued my climb up to our first 3000m pass, col Entrelor. I don’t recall really much of this ascent except it was very steep, and that I met the only Scottish competitor, Gary Morrison. He was having some issues with the altitude but was otherwise in generally good spirits (from the results I learned he later timed out just before the last pass). Definitely a sufficiently studly man being a deep sea diving instructor having done lots of diving in the arctic (brrr), I was rather pleased to learn that he too had some mental difficulties with the descent from col Fenetre with much the same thoughts as me (visions of contorted limbs over big boulders) … and he even used to be a bit of a climber! Feeling fully vindicated and invigorated after a good chat, I strongly pushed on. As my breathing got shallower and more rapid I remembered Harry mentioning resistance exhaling as a technique to stave off altitude sickness by increasing oxygen uptake and tried that out – and that worked wonders. My breathing rate dropped by half, and I felt much stronger and charged up the increasingly steep pass. I don’t remember much of the descent … it was fairly gradual but looong losing 4400ft in elevation. I reached Eaux Rousses almost one hour faster than last year, just at 7:30am.

I was glad to get an early start to the climb up to Col Loson, a 5400ft net elevation gain climb – gradual except for a fairly brutal finish. This section is one of my favorite in terms of sheer beauty – a wild alpine river in a remote high valley with gorgeous views of snow-covered massifs. I reveled in the beauty of it all and was sad that Jill couldn’t see this, as I made my way up to the col. With judicious application of the “P-ffffffff, P-ffffffff” technique I made it surprisingly easily up to the col (last year I almost keeled over and had to stop to catch my breath a lot).

The other side was just as spectacular, and I started the descent along some exposed roped sections to the emergency biouvac located just about hundred feet below the col where to my delight the aid station folks had Cola, still and sparkling water and even beer waiting. I opted for a beer – a nice refreshing beverage after a day’s worth of coke – though I got handed the whole can instead of half as I wanted. I couldn’t really dare to waste half a beer that was somehow transported this far up in the mountains and thus drank the whole beer. Somehow relaxed and a little intoxicated I continued the descent (that reminded me a bit of the counter-clockwise descent from Grant Swamp Pass in Hardrock, just a lot longer and higher …) which was mostly easy despite having some very steep almost butt-slide sections through relatively fine and moderately harmless looking scree. I made good time and was able to run a fair bit.

The descent followed another alpine river through a wonderful narrow valley until, to my delight, Jill came towards me. She had planned to hike to the col and was surprised to see me this early. She wanted to accompany me to Cogne, the second live base, and I felt a pang of guilt at denying her the beautiful experience of Col Loson, though I was thankful for the company. Further down we met Martina as well. I chatted merrily and probably fairly incoherently as we made our long way down to Cogne which included a fairly long road section through town.