‘Til The End (Lavaredo Ultra Trail 80km, 2025)
I would say I’ve had a score to settle with Lavaredo, but that’s not strictly true: I’ve had a score to settle with myself and the Dolomitic mountains that host Lavaredo Ultra Trail were the amphitheater in which it had to happen.
Last year’s race was a perfect trifecta of ill health, spiralling over training as I tried to mitigate it, and a complete inability to pace sensibly. Three glorious hours of fun followed by a very long death march. In the year since I had to stop running for a while, get medical help from a specialist sports doctor, and accept that my training had become unhealthy.
I was recommended a coach with specific experience in helping people who had experienced over training syndrome and so, since January, I’ve been rebuilding for this weekend. One year on, it was time to go again. Call it recovery, call it redemption, the words aren’t important, it’s the goal that counts.
Training has been different this time out. Less volume at first but much more structure and intent. Having a coach isn’t just having someone to tell you to go, for some of us it’s having a boundary so we know when to stop.
I had some glimmers of hope as my pace came back in Tenerife and Blaydon, but the doubt remained about my endurance and fuelling. It was only really mid-May that I decided I’d definitely start the race.
And what a start it was. For years I’ve stared at photos, sketched, and painted Tres Cime, now we’d start from Val Marzon Auronzo and climb straight up to them. With Cima Grande poking into view 1400m above the steep gorge, I lined up next to my friend, Sarina, and tried not to be overcome by the moment.
The first 4-5km were a little under 10% gradient on road before you turn into the forest and get lost in the walls of the valley. There were persistent bottlenecks but I kept reminding myself of the need to keep my heart rate controlled, trying to see them as a blessing helping me pace.
Every glance over my shoulder produced moments of awe. The thing about the Dolomites is that every direction you look in resembles a postcard and, as we came out of the steep climb onto the undulating last kilometre to Tres Cime, everything took on a cinematic quality.
While I was having a wobble about my ability to complete the course, Sarina had told me to remember with gratitude how lucky I am to be in the mountains and able to run. As I approached Tres Cime I was overcome with emotion: gratitude, awe, wonder, a sense of almost holy reverence. It was worth every moment of dream and desire to be in the presence of those three magnificent peaks.
“Gratitude bestows reverence, allowing us to encounter everyday epiphanies, those transcendent moments of awe that change forever how we experience life and the world.”
-Abraham Joshua Heschel
As well as a breathtaking view, Forcella Lavaredo – at nearly 2,500 metres – is the end of the first climb and the start of an equally long down hill. There was one instruction in my head, “don’t blow your quads on the first descent”. I controlled my pace and enjoyed the flow state.
It was as the course flattened out that I first realised my legs felt tired. It’s perhaps not unreasonable, after a half marathon with a huge climb at altitude, but it was an unwelcome realisation. I kept moving though and made it into the first aid station in good time.
Leaving Cimabanche fuelled by coca-cola and orange segments felt brilliant but, as we approached midday, the heat started to take its toll. I was passing people on the climb but my pace had definitely dropped. I lost more places than I’d gained as I descended into Malga Ra Stua a mix of emotions, with the creeping voice of concern telling me the valley of death lay ahead.
Looking at Val Travenanzes through unknowing eyes would present a valley full of greenery and fresh flowing water. To have to climb up and through the valley under the scorching rays of the midday sun, however, is to understand why LUT runners have nicknamed it the valley of death and the valley of hell. The high walls of the mountains funnel the sun on to you while the white dolomite of the valley floor reflects it back to you like an oven.
At every stream, waterfall or brook, I dipped my cap and buff fully in the water before tucking the buff in the back of my cap to cover my neck and ears. Each time I earned a few precious minutes of cool air before I started to over heat again. I remembered coach Doug saying to hike with purpose when it was hard, and Sarina’s advice to count to four repeatedly. I did both and focused on keeping the steadiest pace I could muster. I was falling behind my goals, baking in the sun and with heavy legs, but I hadn’t been broken and that alone left space for a comeback.
As we approached the Forcella Col dei Bos the gradient dropped and I started to feel I was through the worst of it. I passed the stone I’d lay down on last year at the point of giving up, yet I was moving steadily past it. Not today, Satan. The valley of death had loomed large in my mind and yet I was out of the other side, sensing the breath of a second wind.
In road races I often wonder when to kick for the line, usually settling on around 400m to go but, if I’m feeling good, I might go with 800m. Ultra trail is a different beast though, and if I was feeling an opportunity to pick up the pace then I had to do it. I didn’t know if it would last ten minutes, an hour, or more, but with 30km to go I knew I had to make my move: I kicked.
I put on my headphones and chose a playlist made for the occasion of classic sing-a-long songs and pushed my legs into action. A little respect, Electric dreams, Don’t you want me, Smooth criminal, they just kept coming as I abandoned restraint and started to fly past people, singing loudly.
To the Italians I ran past singing, “are we human, or are we dancer?” I’m not even sorry. We are dancers and the Dolomites are our great dancefloor.
I got the vague idea that I’d move my tush into Col Gallina to the sounds of Beautiful Ones by Suede but, when the time came, the Spotify gods chose Top Gun anthem instead. I was not disappointed.
Into the aid station. My watch pings with an alert. I’d gained almost 30 places. It was on. With new found urgency I filled my flasks, had more coca-cola and oranges, and got back out on the trail within three minutes.
Messages of support were coming in, including from Toni who I’d hoped to run this with. I decided I needed a goal to work to. My time had slipped in the valley, and I’d left it in 400th place. So I settled on aiming for a sub-14 hour finish and making up over a hundred places. It felt just the right mix of possible but hard, enticing but daunting.
Calves pumping, I made up another 45 places on the way to Rifugio Averau and the trend continued. I resolved to try to pass every runner that came into view, not knowing if they were in the 120km of the 80km race.
Intermixed with my own notifications while I passed checkpoints were those of Sarina’s progress too and I found myself racing and tracking at the same time, fully invested in both outcomes as she passed people consistently throughout. She was, of course, bossing it.
As I crested the top of the last climb onto Forcella Ambrizzola and saw Cortina opened out beneath I knew my new goal was possible, but the margins were slim and I’m more of a climber than a descender. Nothing is ever certain in racing. As one of the supporting messages said, “no half sends”. I let fly.
I kept my pace up through the descent until, just when success felt assured, we hit a steep and treacherous section of trail and the resulting slowdown put everything in jeopardy again. I was dropping precious minutes. Whether it was wonky maths or fears driving me I don’t know, but I do know I left nothing in the tank as I piled along the road into Cortina d’Ampezzo. As they say in Sunderland; ’til the end.
Hands bang hoardings. Outstretched arms reach for high fives. Forza, forza! Allez, allez! The street is alive and the adrenaline is pumping as I surge towards the line with arms outstretched before bellowing in a unbridled yell as the frustrations and fears of the last year are exorcised and I get to reflect on a finish well earned.
As my friend Jon messaged early on, “in bocca al lupo”. In the mouth of the wolf, an Italian idiom wishing good luck – similar to the English, “break a leg”.
Crepi al lupo. Let the wolf die, I’m back.