Journeys and destinations

There’s probably not a large amount to be written in a race report for a race you DNF’d 2km in, but I did learn something about myself: I discovered I’m the kind of person who’ll be violently ill for six hours then try to run across the alps in a snow storm. I might not achieve my goals, but I’m relieved to know I’m still stupid enough to try.

I’d been feeling pretty confident in the morning. There was a severe weather warning – snow, wind, plummeting temperatures – but I thought that could play to the advantage of British runners. As I frequently assert, I’m from the north. I was in the right head space to try something hard. It felt like this was a moment I could grasp.

As I gazed up as the storm clouds drifting across the Alps, I thought of Antoine de Saint-Expury in Sand, Sea and Stars.

‘Sometimes the storms and the fog and the snow will get you down. But think of all those who have been through it before you, and just tell youself: “They did it, so it can be done again.”’

Antoine de Saint-Expury

Things first started to go wrong when I went to find lunch and almost everything near my hotel was shut. I found one place though, who were serving a burger and potatoes. It wasn’t the fuel I wanted but the other option was travelling to Chamonix hours early, losing rest time, so I went with it. 

Back to the hotel for another few hours’ sleep, I wake up at 6pm feeling awful: bloated, nauseous, achy. Don’t panic. I can get through this. Then the trips to the loo start. Not convenient but not a show stopper. Then comes the vomiting. Somehow I persuade myself that I’ve gotten rid of the problem and head to Chamonix.

Locked in the loo on the shuttle bus to Courmayeur, things just keep escalating. I’m only getting more ill. Weak and tired, I accept that this is probably the end.

On arrival in Courmayeur I consider not starting the race at all, but the only people who definitely don’t finish are the ones who don’t start. It’s gonna take a miracle but I’m determined create an opportunity for one to happen.

I struggle to find my headtorch, listen to the countdown and we’re off. Or at least – everyone else is off. Within minutes I’m dead last. I’m struggling to keep up with the tail of the race. People start crossing the streets thinking the race has passed and then I stagger through. Merde, actually.

One of the volunteers at the back asks if I’m okay and says it’s better to drop out if I’m unwell than risk the severe weather on the mountains.

“No, I’m really ill but I want to try. Please give me until the edge of town.”

He told me that he wouldn’t rush me so I pressed on as best I could. Moving was hard. I needed that miracle quickly. About ten minutes later we hit the edge of town and I hear a friendly voice.

“Peter, are you okay? How are you feeling now?” 

I replied that I was awful and I didn’t think I could make it. The volunteers said they thought now was the time to stop, and I agreed.

Just over two kilometres in, the race I’ve trained so hard for, the once a year shot I’ve invested so much time and money in, is over.

I assure the volunteers that they’re needed following the tail in the mountains safely not walking me back through Courmayeur. One looks at me with sympathetic sadness, rubs my arm and tells me I’ve done the right thing, and I start the somber journey to find a shuttle.

I’m proud I was fool enough to try and proud I wasn’t foolish enough to continue when it became clear that it was unsafe.

And so I’ve spent a week in Chamonix seeing others achieve their goals. I’ve yelled my lungs out and rung cow bells as people crossed the line of the race I dreamed about.

But I’ve done other things too. As soon as I recovered I joined social runs. I made friends. I did things I wouldn’t have done otherwise.

I scrambled a beautiful ridge on Les Brevent with Lorenzo, a Dutch alpine climber, and then we ran the 1500m descent back to the church in Chamonix.

I probably overdid it my first day back by running three times. But I have no regrets because every time was good. Meeting up with people and having fun. Hanging with the tribe of trail runners where belonging is conferred by nothing more complex than the desire to lace up and hit the trail.

And the week continued like that. Some days I ate with people, others I sat and sketched or painted. I took the lift to Auiguille du Midi on a perfect day and passed my time taking photos.

I ran the ascent up to Plan d’Auiguille, finding it to be the best up hill trail I’ve ever ran, a steady 15-20% gradient that’s just the right side of runnable to lure you into an effort. 

Meeting Lorenzo again we hiked along the Balcon Nord in the shadow of the big mountains until Les Dru appeared and my sense of awe took over completely. More scrambling. Marmots. A walk on the glacier.

“Looking at it now, I’m struck by the thought that our greatest endeavours are less about what we set out to do than what we bring back.”

-Mark Synott

So I continue to muse about journeys and destinations. The journey to TDS, and the week in Chamonix, have held countless moments of beauty, joy and wonder. Missing out on my goals has brought frustration and disappointment.

They don’t annul each other but live together in tension. It’s true that it’s more about the journey than the destination, but at the same time – continued journeying without any arrivals can be frustrating. I’d like to taste the destination sometime.

I’m profoundly grateful for my experiences last week, for new friends made, familiar faces seen again, mountains climbed and vistas taken in. They’re experiences I wouldn’t have had if I was battling snow at Lac Combal. I am fortunate in so many ways. 

But I am also left with the question of what next. I’ve not achieved any of my goals this year. I recognise this is because my goals are now at the more challenging end of things – and I’ve had a fair amount of misfortune –  but I still crave that feeling of doing hard things.

I’ve looked at other races but I’m in a strange place. If I’m totally confident they’re within reach then I’m not that drawn to them, but also I’ve had a long taper then an illness – am I really in any place to tackle a hundo? And can I find one worth tackling? Or do I call the year’s racing to a close and pursue only personal challenges?

I don’t think I really know. But I do know that the commercial circus isn’t what gives UTMB week it’s worth – the mountains are, so whatever is next, the mountains are calling and I must go.