Monte Rosa Walserwaeg Trail

There’s a moment, towards the end of the film Saving Private Ryan, where a dying Tom Hanks says to Ryan, “James, earn this… earn it”. The pressure. Late on Saturday, as a rag tag band of us threaded up a woodland climb, silent but for the machinations of our own pain, a guy stepped aside and let me pass. He looked at me with that same look, like I should push on and earn it, and I looked back with dismay; I wasn’t sure I could up my work rate to move faster than him. I was as broken as he was.

And it was all Karo’s fault. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. I’ve got a terrible habit of saying yes to things so when she suggested Monte Rosa Walserwaeg I was all in. It wasn’t until a few months later that I studied the map and started to question my life choices. Three thousand metres of vert across a marathon distance with plenty of climbing and descending at 25%. Oh.

Whisper it, mind you, but I was actually feeling pretty confident on the day. I didn’t get a great outcome at Lavaredo, but I enjoyed running—and feeling positive is half of the battle. In the three weeks between, I’d climbed Zugspitze and Mont Rous and did some fun Via Ferratas. I’ve been enjoying my time in the mountains. So, after a fist bump and some encouragement, we hit the trails.

It starts with a fast four kilometre loop around the village before you’re thrown into the first big climb, taking you up and over 2,600m in altitude. And what a climb it was; relentless, steep and baking hot. It was equal parts beautiful and frustrating. The scenery was incredible, but there was also bottlenecking and crap pole etiquette. Like a footballer in a wall at a free kick, I frequently had a protective hand in front of my shorts for safety as oblivious men swung their poles around like fencing swords. If we want to make the sport more inclusive then men having some awareness of other people on the trail is a must.

At the top of the first descent, the one I’d been dreading, Karo encouraged me I could send it. I’ve written many times about my troubles on steep descents but I decided to give it a go. For once in my downhill running life, I felt like I had wings. I’d expected scree and loose stuff but it wasn’t like that and, instead of tentative steps on moving ground, I could leap from rock to rock with confidence. I was passing plenty of people, culminating in exhilarating jumps down some vertiginous boulders for an overtake. It was on. Adrenaline time.

It felt like a great start to the race, but I’d looked at LiveTrail’s predicted pace for me and I was already over half an hour behind. Something wasn’t adding up. After a brief visit to the aid station it was onto the second huge climb. As we set out we had a tantalising glimpse of the Lyskamm Massif and neighbouring peaks.

The second climb seemed more unrelenting than the first, a never ending grind. I tried to race with aggression and made plenty of passes but couldn’t get close to my predicted pace. Even as we came onto the flat section approaching the third aid station there was constant climbing over rocks and boulders.

As I made my way around the dam to the aid station, the mountain rescue helicopter appeared and lowered its winch. A timely reminder that, even though races can feel like a big playground, it’s still a dangerous playground.

Swinging over a footbridge a young boy gave the lead of his dog to his dad so he could focus on cheering, a look of determination in his eyes. Support throughout was incredible. There was fellow Brits yelling encouragement, kids cheering, locals blasting air horns. It made for a party vibe under the scorching summer sun.

As I came into the aid station my watch pinged with a notification from LiveTrail, I’d made up nearly 200 places and was in 215th. It was time to burn all the matches and throw myself into another descent. My time goal was long gone, but focussing on trying to improve my position gave me something to race for. I put my music on and clicked back into my new found downhill exuberance.

I made one rule: if you see someone you chase them down but at this point in the race, with a strong field, there were less and less people in sight to chase. There was a brief section on a fire road and I used it to full effect before we crossed a road bridge and rejoined the trail on the other side of the valley. I entered the forest close to an Italian guy called Federico and we spent the next few kilometres racing. Both exhausted, both unwilling to cede ground to each other.

I finally hit the aid station in Gressoney-La-Trinité, having edged ahead, and saw I’d cracked the top 200. I was desperate to drop off the pace and focus on not being passed, but if England showed anything against Argentina it’s not to defend too early.

With 7km to go, the worst of it should’ve been over. On the GPX it looked runnable. But the GPX was a lie. Straight into another steep climb and it felt like the collective energy level of the pack dropped. There was little passing as we trooped up through the trees.

Almost the whole last section was harder than expected with tricky paths and steep gradients. There’s a lot of German influence in the valley and I couldn’t help but wonder if that extended to schadenfreude when route planning. It felt like cruelty to come off two big climbs and descents only to have to deal with the steep undulations and rocky paths.

With a kilometre to go it finally got runnable. I kicked on only to find Per, a Swede I’d done a lot of racing with, bearing down on me. I accelerated. He accelerated. I’m belligerent about my sprint finishes and there was no way I was going to give ground. No way, that is, until I heard him say, “we can destroy ourselves racing it in and not be able to walk afterwards, or we can run in together, what do you think?” So we pulled alongside and made our way under the arches to the finish together. A collegiate end to a hard fought race.

I’ve got a lot of emotions about this race. I know that my strength is more runnable races, like Chianti, but these are the days you remember. Character building days, rinsing your body in the mountains. I’m not a therapist. I can’t tell you why this is such a kick. I can’t explain the high that comes from finding an extra yard of pace when your whole body is screaming at you to stop. Perhaps, however, the poets can help us again.

“If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
    To serve your turn long after they are gone,   
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
    Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’
…
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
    With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,   
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it.”
– If—, Rudyard Kipling

My finish time was around an hour slower than the algorithm predicted but that’s proof that machines can’t tell us everything. Even the winner, Petter Engdahl, was 20 minutes behind the prediction and the finishers lists are all over the map. It felt like a special kind of chaos out there, a majestic unpredictability that challenged us to keep problem solving and keep pushing.

Numbers don’t tell that story; memories do. The moments of joy, beauty, exertion. The taste of ice cold water from mountain streams. The feeling of refusing to stop pushing. Moments of camaraderie with other runners. For me, it’s one of the most satisfying races I’ve ever done and, kilometre for kilometre, probably the toughest.

I signed up because I love running with friends, but given it’s a newish UTMB event I wondered if it would be too corporate. I was wrong. What I found was a host of passionate runners putting on a race weekend brimming with character and soul. Bravo. This is definitely one I’d like to do again sometime.