Ultra Trail Costa Blanca 75km

I don’t like razor wire. It looks really sharp. I realise this is the point but still, it’s not my favourite. So when you’re squeezing through a gate at the exit from an airforce base at the highest point in the Valencia region, hands frozen and struggling to stay upright in the wind, razor wire is the last thing you want to negotiate. But that was later, of course, and we’ll get there.

That must have been almost seven and a half hours after the fireworks illuminated the skies above the small town of Finestrat. A few hundred runners burst from the plaza, headtorches illuminating the streets as they headed for the hills. A tension pulls at us; not wanting to go off too fast but dreading the bottleneck if you start slow. Ultra Trail Costa Blanca had began.

Moments later we’re single file, a thread of illumination weaving its way up towards Tajo de Roldán, the distinctive breach separating the summits of the massif. The trail forms a vertical kilometre — no space between us, no room for overtaking — and at it’s steepest point we gain 500 metres of elevation in a single kilometre. Neck muscles get almost as much use as calves as I duck and dodge the flailing poles of the guy in front.

As the trail flattens out at the summit the first orange hues of sunrise paint themselves across the horizon of the Mediterranean. Within minutes it’s light enough to turn off the head torch.

The descent from the other side of the notch starts steep and technical. One moment I’m hopping from rock to rock and the next I’m flat on my back. My coccyx and elbow brake the fall. A quick check for blood and bone and I’m back on my feet again, cautious but moving still.

As soon as the gradient shallows out a bit, it’s go time. The trails change from technical to delightful in an instant. Enthused I start to pass people, breezing into the first aid station for only the seconds it takes to fill a flask with tailwind. Glances over the shoulder give a magnificent view of Puig Campana from the east, towering above blankets of pine forests.

Long runnable sections of trail path make the 5k to the next aid station feel easy. You can hear the noise and cheering before you see it. Running straight past feels like a statement of intent. I’m here to run, not stop for sandwiches. I catch another group and, as Sherlock would say, the game’s afoot.

The sweeping downhill trail is soon replaced with an uphill, starting on a dusty service road. The poles come back out and I try to keep the tempo high. This is surprisingly fun. The group thins out to me and one other. I pass him but when I pause at the ten mile mark for water he comes by again. We spend the next few miles racing hard, he won’t give up the place and I won’t let up the pressure.

Tactically it wasn’t smart. I know that, and I suspect he knew it too. But with the sun up and dopamine in my veins it felt sublime. Eventually, after 8 or 9km of pushing each other on, he paused at the top of a mountain pass and I took off down the other side.

As time ticked by the buzz just wouldn’t fade. After a hard year running wise, I felt on top of the world pushing towards Benifato. I’m never going to be at the sharp end, but making it this far in feeling strong was exhilarating. I stopped to get gels and tailwind from my drop bag before starting the long slog towards Aitana.

The fast midsection had put me ten minutes up on target pace, but the steady climb swiftly started to erode the surplus. It was at this point, 40km down, that the inevitable happened; it started to feel hard and the runner’s high was replaced by heavy legs.

I overshot a turn and lost a few minutes, not much but enough to frustrate and for people to start catching me. As we gained the bouldery terrain of the Aitana ridge we turned into fierce headwinds. I wrestled to get my waterproof out of my pack and layer up but as the temperature dropped my hands became little better than useless. Unable to move my fingers I thrust one at a time into my armpit to try and warm them with body heat.

And that was how I came to be struggling through an air force base, desperate to stay on my feet, praying I’d warm up again and stay upright long enough to avoid being blown into razor wire. Aitana may be the highest point in Comunitat Valenciana, but it was a definite low point for me.

I’d hoped to use the downhill from the summit to bank some time but the first couple of kilometres were rocky enough to frustrate my efforts. When things eased off I gained a little again but the technical descent to Sella loomed like a giant in my mind. I knew it was vertiginous, rocky with loose stones. I’m just bad at that stuff. As soon as I hit it my pace ground to a slow. The sun beat down and I fumbled my way down as other runners shot past.

I wasn’t giving up though and once the steepness eased I pushed to claw back lost time, making it to Sella clinging onto target pace by the slimmest of margins. From then on it was, as Coppi would say, like wrestling a gorilla.

As golden hour approached, light filtered through the pine trees and brought out the best of the autumnal forest shades. It was a gradual up hill on easy tracks and the only thing harder than keeping on would be stopping. Time and again momentum dropped, I’d message friends to say that I couldn’t keep it up and then somehow find just enough impetus to keep hope alive.

By the time I passed the last aid station I knew exactly what I had to do. I switched my watch screen to the altimeter and counted down the metres, grinding out as much effort as I could before finally hitting the top of the pass almost exactly on the hour. Half an hour separated me from my goal. As the words on my cap brim said, it was time for full gazz.

The trail drops steadily down to Finestrat, runnable but with a scattering of twists, turns, gorse and narrow rocky bits to keep things interesting. The pain of the past few hours was replaced by raw excitement as adrenaline quieted the aches and pains. I’m sure it wasn’t actually fast, but after 70km it felt it. A scattering of other runners stepped aside as I dropped toward the town.

I flicked my head torch off entering the illuminated streets of Finestrat, rushing through the intersection as a policeman kept the road clear. In those final moments the hours of hardship seem to disappear.

As I flew down the avenue towards the Plaza a crowd of revellers parted like the Red Sea and cheered and screamed like I was a Beatle. I pulled down the bank and headed toward the finish, raising my arms in the air to cross the line and savouring the moment.

Ultra Trail Costa Blanca turned out to be a race of contrasts. The 4,800m of climbing is polarised between some of the steepest grades you’ll find, and then long sections of the most runnable stuff. I would definitely come again and, having met my target this time, would likely set a more aggressive one.

I came into the race with a firm nutrition strategy; a gel every half hour and a tailwind fill up at water stops. I stuck to the strategy religiously. For the last three hours every gel was a trial in itself. I longed to stop taking them but knew that keeping up was the only way to keep moving. I used 24 Maurten gels and 6 packs of Tailwind for an average of 72g of carbohydrate an hour. It’s not perfect but it was a big improvement on past efforts.

As a measure of progress towards my next Bob Graham attempt, I’m not sure it holds much value. The terrain is too different, very little of the BGR provides running like this. But as a measure of ultra running progress I’m happy. It’s longer and hillier than last year’s Ultra Trail Sierra de Cazorla and I managed it with quicker pace, better nutrition and a lot less pain.

Now for a couple of weeks down time to close out the season before preparation for next year kicks in.

2022 season, signing off.