Pirineu: The Sun Also Rises

I’d never considered that champagne would sting my eyes. It turns out, it does. By the time I found this out, however, my worries were over and there was nothing left to do but smile.

I’ve wanted to run Ultra Pirineu for years. It’s one of those races that has a certain mythos in the trail running world. It could be the fervour of the Catalans, the beauty of the Pyrenees, or maybe the fact Kilian Jornet hails from here and still holds the course record.

In this year’s plan it was the grand finale: return to ultra running with Lavaredo and then build on it at Pirineu. This was going to be the victory lap at the end of the come back year, or something like that.

I arrived in Bagà the afternoon before and made my way to the shared glamping. It’s a small town and accommodation is hard to come by, so a spot in a four person teepee was the best option. I found myself sharing with a very fast young German, an Argentinian who talked down his abilities but whose calves told a different story, and a fellow Brit called Tim who’d done some epic multi stage stuff but had a very chilled vibe.

What I hadn’t planned for overnight was the bells tolling for me. As I lay trying to sleep, I found myself counting the waking hours by the clanging of the medieval church bells. It was past twelve when I eventually slept, somewhat lightly, and before four when we all woke to get ready. Oh.

The race start is pure magic. Over a thousand of us penned into a medieval town square, lit like a nightclub, AC/DC’s Thunderstruck pulsing through loud speakers. I joined up with a friend and chatted as anticipation grew until the music changed. The Last of the Mohicans theme came through: headlights ready, kit in place, and moments later a rushing tide of humanity bursts down the alleyways of Bagà and into the Pyrenees. It was on.

The first climb is almost two thousand metres, punctuated by a brief descent and an aid station half way. After about 5km the dirt road gave way to single track and some fell running style line choices helped deal with the crowds. We stuck together all through to the first aid station and I felt pleased with having stayed in zone two for the climb. ¡Venga!

Coming out of Rebost and into the forest for more trails my friend started to make up places. We’d chatted at the start and agreed that we’d run our own race, so when our paces diverged whoever was ahead could push on. He’d be five ahead of me so I’d get my head down, wait for a good line and pass a group only to find he was still further ahead. For a while I stayed close but I knew it was making me work harder than I should do. As we approached the edge of the tree line I decided to focus on my own pacing.

With the trees thinning came what is, without a word of exaggeration, one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. The sun had started its work, painting the sky vivid orange hues, as though the mountains themselves were on fire. I may be a runner, but I’ll always pause for such moments. This is it, one of those moments that makes the struggle worthwhile.

There were plenty of people out cheering and at one point we wove our way through a gap in the rocks where a group of lads were blowing bull horns and ringing bells.

By the second aid station I was aware that things were not going to plan. I hadn’t bonked, but I did have a really bad stomach and was slowing. My friend’s wife was crewing and I was able to stock up on nutrition and wolf down some rice pudding — as importantly though, I left encouraged.

I knew from my route breakdown that the first part of the descent was going to be really challenging and it didn’t disappoint. Steep and loose, I hiked down wondering why the hill side was so bare when I needed to do something about my GI issues. No sooner had I hit the tree line than I earned myself the nick name Trail Bear. I’ll spare you the details.

It was a long and difficult slog to the next aid station and my legs were struggling. Luckily, my coach had organised support there too; not only did someone hike up with my nutrition stuff, but she also noticed my lack of fluid intake and told me to sort it out. At that point, with a growing sense of despair, a sit down and a chat while I ate something felt like a lifeline.

Between there and the checkpoint at Aguilo I started to reappraise the plan. My pace had slipped a lot and coming in even on my slowest target would now be impossible but, what if? What if I could keep my legs turning over, hike with purpose as coach Doug tells me, could I get in under the twenty hour mark?

With 45km done my legs finally gave up all pretence of function and the last 3km to Aguilo made me realise even 20 hours would be beyond me. I dropped my heavy body onto a wooden bench and text my friend to say I didn’t think I could go over the next mountain. The pain had gone through the roof.

A video call followed. I ate. I drank. I rested. I got up to go again. I can’t really remember much about the climb that followed. It was long, steep, had a bit of clambering over rocks and a lot of language I’d not use in print. The downhill to Gosol was a long steady 10% and most of it was runnable. The kind of descent you imagine you’d be able to run down no matter how broken. Except I couldn’t.

I limped into Gosol, bow legged and hours behind schedule, to a blend of applause and pity from the spectators. The problem I had was that I needed to take on extra kit from my drop bag, and enough nutrition for another 40km. My whole body ached, how was I going to do that?

The ghosts of TDS and Nice loomed large. All I’d done was prove to myself I’m not good enough. Not a proper ultra runner. I can’t do hard things. I quit when it’s hard. Because I’m shit.

Another call. Some more positive what-ifs. What if I could sleep for a while? What if I ate some pasta? Could I get to the next aid station then? What if Tim came through, could I run with him a while?

The sleep didn’t work out, ten mins on a concrete floor surrounded by chaos and at one point having water spilled on me. The pasta wasn’t much more successful, though I managed a little. But, sat packing my vest for another go, Tim appeared.

We chatted and decided I’d try to stick with him, it would be a long night but it was possible. And so we set off into the darkness, trying to keep a steady pace and chatting about the day.

The aid stations started to tick by. At each one I tried to take some solids along with coke. At each one someone asked if we were continuing and every time we said yes. Having someone to run with got me out of my head and back into the race, it made all the difference.

At varying points people joined us for sections. We chatted, we ground out the miles together and we tried to persuade them not to quit, though each did. At Gresolet we came across a full on disco, the Rolling Stones thumping through speakers in the early hours of the morning.

We reached Aula Natura only 15 minutes ahead of cut offs and there seemed to be some surprise when we said we’d go on. It transpired that all but two of the people behind had now tapped out. Not only that but over a hundred ahead of us had quit too.

The climb to Sant Jordi was steep and technical. At times we were ghyll scrambling, by head torch, on exhausted legs. Then as we approached the aid station the gradient became 30%, the ground a slippy set of bogs.

We made it. The same questions, the same replies. We were in this to finish. Now in the final positions we set off down the hill, the sweepers close behind. I dearly wanted to run but it wasn’t happening. We were just on pace to finish before we timed out.

With about 4km left we finally hit a road and started to run again. By this point I couldn’t tell if the sweepers were following us or herding us. That question was answered when a young guy appeared on our shoulders and said we were in danger of missing the cut off: we needed to push.

And push we did. Back through the forest, along the trails, the church tower coming into view, over the medieval bridge. One of the sweepers kept saying “‘til the end,” making me smile — as I’ve written about before, it’s the Sunderland mantra this year. There’s a steep climb to the finish line but we both hit it at a steady run. Side by side through the arches and between the barriers toward the finish, the clock ticking ominously down.

We hit the finish line, clasped hands, and finished Ultra Pirineu 100km only 42 seconds before 8am. The next thing I know we’re surrounded by photographers, champagne is stinging my eyes, people are cheering, we’re being interviewed.

The tradition is that the final finishers are celebrated almost as much as the first, to show that the achievement is to go out there and do the thing.

I didn’t think it was possible. Sat in Gosol knowing I’d have to go through the whole night on aching limbs. But also, I didn’t think being final finisher would happen: given my usual pace, the possible outcomes have only ever seemed to be finishing in good time or blowing up and not finishing.

It may be both my best and my worst race performance. My worst because I was more than ten hours behind my a-goal. My best because from somewhere, and with encouragement from others, I found the ability to not quit. To lay to rest the inner monologue that tells me I’m a quitter that can’t do hard things.

At another point in the season I might have chosen differently, tried to salvage fitness for some other races. The fact it was my biggest race and season finale meant I could push without needing to worry about how long recovery takes. The mental boost from finishing outweighs the toll on my body.

I’m left with questions about what’s next, whether I’ve built a spring board for next season or discovered my limits. As the aches subside those questions usually get answered by blind optimism.

Most of all though, and as silly as this sounds, it was worth it to see that sunrise, to watch an eagle circle over 2,500m peaks, to see butterflies with wings that glistened in the Catalan sun and stars strewn across the night sky like it was bleeding diamonds. It was worth it to be fully alive for the day.

When asked by the race MC whether we got twice the value out of the race that winner Jon Albon did, I had one reply: “Sure we did, we got two sun rises and he only got one.”

Gear: Salomon Genesis shoes, Salomon S/Lab Ultra x FDH vest, Suunto Race watch, Salomon S/Lab ultra poles, Tailwind drinks, Maurten Gels, Ambrosia Rice Pudding (obvs.)

Photo credits: Thanks to the Salomon Ultra Pirineu photography team for the in race photos.