Reflections on an ultra..... Tour de Mont Blanc CCC 29/08/08
There are some races that stick in the memory for a long time. Sometimes, this is the case notwithstanding your best efforts to forget them. Other times (hopefully the majority!) the memory is more enjoyable. Maybe it was a particular landmark in your running career, maybe it posed particular challenges, maybe you had some measure of success. Maybe the course or the scenery were remarkable, or maybe you just felt that something clicked for you on that particular day; one of those red letter days when your legs and lungs are cooperating and you are in that illusive ‘groove’.
The 2008 ‘CCC’ was I know a race which will stay with me for a long time. My second ultra (my first having taken place as an intended ‘warm-up’ at the ‘Devil of the Highlands’ three weeks earlier), I was very much the novice at this long-distance racing game. Taking its name from three of the towns which mark the start (Courmayeur), middle (ish) (Champex-lac) and finish of the route (Chamonix), the ‘CCC’ is the shortest of the three Mont Blanc ultra-trail races, but still covers a total of 98kms, passing through three countries, with around 5000 metres in accumulated height gain as it winds its way around the Mont Blanc massif. I was, frankly, feeling just a little intimidated as I took my place with 2000 or so others at the jamboree start in Courmayeur, having been duly delivered by the organisers through the Mont Blanc tunnel to the Italian side of this famous Alpine range. Imagine an FLM-style start (loud music, baggage crates, well wishes from the mayor etc) on a small street in a picturesque Italian town nestling in the heart of the Alps. Oh, and the sun was beating down through cloudless skies. (More about that sun later..)
The start at CourmayeurFinally we get going, and it is a relief to be underway. But how on earth to pace this? (Not even you, Peter, would try going off fast in this one….?!) The race starts at 11am and I know that I won’t be finishing until (at the soonest) the early hours of the following morning. I set off at a steady compromise sort of pace, weaving a bit along the cobbled streets, until, quickly, we are out of the town and I have some clear space. I start to relax as we spread out and begin to wind our way up the valley to the first major ascent. I am pleased to see Lucy, who I overtake as we head out into the countryside. We wish each other well. She has an incredible record in these races and I fully expect to see her again later.
The route had apparently been altered (and lengthened) this year, with the result that the overall high point, at 2584 m, comes quite early on, the culmination of the initial 16 km climb out of Courmayeur. By the time I get to the col which marks the high point, I have long abandoned my experiment in trying to run the long steep uphill sections- marginal progress trotting on the spot just isn’t as efficient at this gradient and distance as ‘power-walking’ (as the day wore on, the emphasis moved somewhat from ‘power’ to just maintaining forward motion…). The sun is also beating down as I cross the col, but, after an initial, aggressively steep descent, I feel inspired by the sight of a truly gorgeous trail winding its way at a more reasonable downward gradient across the hillside. To my left, across the valley, glaciers slink down towards us; alpine pinnacles above are majestic against the blue sky.
Is that Lucy on the left?The first major checkpoint is at Arnuva (1769m); as far as I can see a marquee in the middle of nowhere, about 26kms from the start. I grab a piece of flapjack and some juice from the sumptuous spread on offer, then look for and pick out my partner, Alison, who is waiting for me with my own personalised range of goodies. A minor altercation with officialdom later (the net result of which is that I have to reverse 10 yards into the marquee to eat the tablet which Alison has passed to me- I am tempted to say, ‘whatever’, but just do as I am told…) and I am back on the trail, heading for the second major ascent, to the Grand Col Ferret (2537m), and onwards to the Swiss border. I am oblivious to the fact that Alison has been running her own ultra gauntlet, negotiating the Italian bus service, and it is no mean achievement that she has managed to meet me in Arnuva at all. This is literally the end of the road, so far as motorised transport is concerned, and it is quite something that Alison manages to negotiate her way back to Courmayeur, back through the Mont Blanc tunnel, only to reappear at the last checkpoint, at Vallorcine, on the French-Swiss border, much later that night.
The checkpoint at ArnuvaI know that I am struggling even as I begin that second ascent, out of Arnuva. The trail is good, but the hillside feels brutally exposed to the early afternoon sun. As I climb higher, several runners pass me and I begin to feel that I am going backwards. Suddenly, I feel that the wheels are starting to come off. We are only at about 30kms; I am not sure that I can do this. I resolve to forget about my fellow competitors - just get to the top and see how you feel. It is at about this point that I see Lucy again. She looks strong as she passes me. I offer her encouragement and battle on against the sun and gradient.
Support Crew, ItalyAt the col there’s a small tent bearing the race sponsors’ name and various race officials, one of whom scans my chip. I am out of drink and feeling very dehydrated. “Vous avez de l’eau, s’il vous plait?” I ask. “Non, il faut descendre un petit peu, jusqu’a la Peule”. Well, at least it’s downhill, I think, as I embark down another delightful trail, thankfully at an easy gradient. Take it steadily, I tell myself; just concentrate on getting to the water.
La Peule turns out to be a couple of tents on the mountainside as we descend into Switzerland. Unfortunately, it is apparently, ‘ferme’, or so I am lead to understand by the nice man I meet there, waving me enthusiastically on towards La Fouly, where there is, I am reliably informed, plenty of water.
On the Mer de Glace (day after race day)By the time I get to La Fouly (40kms and 1593m), my feet are suffering from the fairly intense downhill approach, which hasn’t agreed terribly well with my marathon road-racing choice of shoes (note to self: wear more appropriate footwear next time…), but, on balance, I feel I am beginning to regroup, not least because of the increased shade as we descend below the tree-line in Switzerland. Again, La Fouly offers all manner of culinary extravaganzas- from ham, cheese and baguette to flapjacks and fruit. And there are mountains of it. Slightly overwhelmed, and perhaps a little delirious, I accept some soup-noodle stuff in a cup, some energy drink, and, for some reason, a few mouthfuls of coca-cola. More on that later.
The Grandes Jorasses from the Mer de GlaceWhether it’s the coke, the fact that the next stretch is at a much easier gradient, or the fact that it is largely shaded, I begin to feel better, at least to the extent that I start to believe that I can make the next major pit-stop, at Champex-lac (55kms and 1477m). En route we pass through one or two delightful Swiss villages (I stop to fill my water bottle at one, from the village fountain), before a steady, but more manageable climb through wooded hillside to Champex itself. My parents are waiting, I scoff a rice pudding and some more tablet- as well as half a cup of coca-cola- and am keen to get back on the trail.
After an initial fast (ish) flat and downhill section, we are confronted by an aggressively steep incline, winding its way up a wooded and rocky trail, to finally arrive at a small manned checkpoint at Bovine (64 kms, 1987m), where I partake with ever increasing enthusiasm in the offered coca-cola. The route from here is a replicated pattern of steep ascent, over a top, before steep descent to arrive at the next significant checkpoint in the next valley.
ChamonixThe light goes rapidly as I come down to the noisy welcome of Trient, where the welcome marquee appears to double as a beer tent; the locals are out in force and noise, with the day’s events from the race replayed on a big screen. As I descend I begin to experience stomach cramps/ stitches and stop to catch my breath against the suddenly chilly night air. Another cup of coke from the copious amounts on offer seems to settle my stomach, strangely. I allow myself 5 minutes or so before leaving the boisterous checkpoint at Trient. Jogging back out into the darkness, a small girl offers encouragement in French, running with me for a few yards, before I turn, following the trail as it winds its way back into the dark forest, up the next stretch of mountainside. I spot one or two headtorches in the distance behind me, but I am on my own now. I suddenly feel quite lonely.
I arrive at the penultimate pitstop, Vallorcine (80.5kms) at 11 pm, ish. I scoff some more of that noodle-soup stuff, and some coke, and grab some cake and tablet from Alison and dad (‘for the road’). Alison sends me on my way with the encouragement that it is ‘only a half-marathon’ left to go. It’s also uphill for the first 11kms, with 600m more of height gain on rocky terrain, but never matter; you are on the home run now. At the final checkpoint, perched some 6 kms and 500 metres above Chamonix, I swig 2-3 cups of coke and, fired by the caffeine (or maybe it’s the bubbles?), part-run, part-stagger down, down all the way to the twinkling lights below. Once around the town square and I cross the finish line at about 2-25am. My family are there, waiting to greet me and I wave deliriously at the still waiting crowd. I do my attempt at a Usain Bolt (and I don’t mean the sprinting part) as I approach the finish. Perhaps I can be forgiven that, in the circumstances. It’s just raw relief as I cross the line; I almost burst into tears.
Someone official looking shakes my hand. Someone else scans my chip. I am sitting down now. It’s over. It’s finally over. I don’t have to run anymore. A nice French lady offers me something from yet another spread of food. ‘Une coca s’il vous plait’. ‘Merci, Madame….’ Dad tells me I have come 23rd. Lucy has done extraordinarily well, again, winning the womens’ race by, literally, miles. Very well done to her. Shall we go home? Yes, let’s. No, just a moment….’Je peux avoir une autre coca, s’il vous plait, madame….? Vous etes tres gentille……”
As I write this, it’s now over three weeks later. Somehow, the pain is fading from the otherwise still vivid memory. My toenails (one of which finally dropped off yesterday) are a daily reminder to my body of what it went through that day (and night) in the Alps. But, slowly but surely, the spark has been rekindled. I find myself wondering if I might, just maybe, have another go. Maybe if I trained that bit harder…..
I would like to thank my fantastic support crew for keeping me going to the finish line, and getting me home again afterwards.
Report Ben Kemp
Photos Alison and the KempsLucy's tale on the Carnethy site here
