Tenerife BlueTrail 24km

The English have a long history of doing stupid things in Tenerife. I’m not just talking about drunk tourists at all inclusive resorts either. In 1797, after trying to seize the port of Santa Cruz, they were beaten, broken and surrounded in a convent but still tried to persuade Tenerife to surrender.

So, when I charged through the first aid station several minutes ahead of my best possible scenario time, I couldn’t help but wonder if I was going to be the latest in a long line of Brits embarrassing themselves on these shores.

It was simple really, a good friend had ran the route the same morning and told me it was runnable and I’d enjoy it. I took her at her word and decided to go hard from the outset, starting a little further forward than planned and caning the road section at the start. My lungs were screaming at me that I was going off too hard and my body refusing to slow itself.

There’s a steep road kilometre out of the village followed by an even steeper one up onto the trail. By the time we hit single track the first climb is done. We’re undulating through the forest, moving fast but so close to each other that if anyone slipped you felt we’d all go down like dominoes.

The first aid station is at 6.4km and, inspite of the heat, I still had enough water to run straight through and onto the killer climb. 2km, 600m of vert, winding up through the steep forest with switchbacks and steps thrown in.

Within minutes I’d grabbed a long stick and started to use it as a make shift running pole. The forest was beautiful and the evening light lent it an ethereal feel as we made for the top. I tried to stay at the top end of zone three so not to accumulate too much lactate but keep my vertical speed in a range I know is hard but sustainable.

As we topped out I felt a rush of adrenaline. The hard bit was done, now for that runnable descent, right?

My watch pinged. Next hill: 900m of descent in 5km. That doesn’t instill a sense of hope but I throw myself at it anyway, it’s uneven, steep and stony in places, loose trail switchbacks in others. It’s steep enough you fly and requires the will to hold on through the sudden turns and keep pumping your legs as your quads start to burn.

We run through a tunnel of spectators half way down, cheering with frenzied zeal, and I raise my hands and shout back, ratcheting up the dopamine. I’ve had splits written on my arm in pen but they’re starting to disappear in the sweat and scratches. I remember though that I must make the next aid station by 1:57 to keep on track. Push, baby, push.

The aid station volunteers were exceptional. You run down into it through the streets of Tigaiga. Somehow my fastest kilometre of the race included the volunteers filling both flasks. By this point I was a raging mess of adrenaline, I left the aid station yelling at myself to come on – much to the delight of a couple of cheering Spaniards.

There was more descent to come on the road before rejoining the trail for the sections I found most frustrating. While I’m happy settling in for a big climb or flying down a long descent, the undulating sections between sixteen and eighteen kilometres seemed to sap my strength – we bottlenecked at times and it was hard to get any momentum.

I was constantly looking at my watch and doing maths – how hard did I have to squeeze to come in under three hours and could my legs do it? After 20km we joined the road and I knew it was a 4km shoot out along the promenade to the finish.

Looking at the numbers now it feels obvious it was doable, but in the moment, quads minced from a screaming downhill, lungs fit to burst, and a nagging doubt about whether I had enough nutrition to avoid the bonk made it interesting.

We weaved through residential streets to the restaurant area and the promenade itself. Everywhere people were cheering. If there’s one thing that is always great at Spanish races, it’s the spectators. Even with just 1km left there was some doubt in my mind; what if the course was long? What if my legs gave out?

I passed my cheering friend and got a huge emotional lift. Sub-three was in the bag. As I started to run through the series of finishers arches another runner tried to pass for the sprint finish, spurring me to push that bit harder and sprint through the row of arches.

Legs pumping I passed the finish line, threw up my hands and grinned.

I’m back. I can’t describe the dopamine. I can’t describe how much I wanted to collapse. There’s a very special delight in finishing a race knowing you have given the last drop of energy you had. I’m glad my friend told that little white lie about how runnable the descent was to make sure I sent hard. Choose friends that push you to be your best.

It’s my first time cracking the top 100 at a UTMB race and was just outside the top ten for my age, but for me a better measure is that my index for the race was substantially higher than my existing index. Improvements are coming, I just need to transfer them to the longer races.

But what makes me happier is that through all of the over training it felt like I’d lost a part of myself, the part that does this. After all of the health stuff plus a stressful start to the year dealing with house moves and family health, I finally got to feel like me again. The me that races in the mountains and feels fully alive. The me that will grind out a good pace on a 30% gradient, or cling on for dear life on a descent. I’m still here, I can still move my legs, I can still do the thing that I love.

To quote Fred Again, “what comes next will be marvellous”.