Ultra Trail Sierra de Cazorla

If you’ve read many of my mountain race reports, you’ll know that nothing cheers me up like the sound of cow bell. So imagine the scene; I’m approaching the top of the longest climb of the day, the midday sun is filtering through the trees and I’m in desperate need of refreshment when I hear the sound of bells.

My legs start to turn over that bit quicker, my head picks up, and my lips break into a smile. I glance around eagerly, tastebuds already sensing the coca-cola that the volunteers are somehow keeping ice cold, and realise I can’t see an aid station anywhere.

I look to my right, my gaze following the sound of the bells up the slope.

Goats. There’s always bloody goats.

A whole herd of them, threading their way down through the trees, the largest of the group with a bell strapped to his neck. That ice cold coca-cola would have to wait, but it was kind of the local wild life to give me their support.

Welcome to Ultra Trail Sierra de Cazorla in Andalucia, the first year the event has added a long format race. 63km, 4000m of vert, and 3 UTMB points to give me enough for the OCC ballot.

Stretching over 2,000 square kilometres of mountains, valleys and pine forests, it’s the largest protected nature area in Spain. The scenery is incredible, with the mountain range rising sharply above the surrounding olive groves of Jaén province.

The race started in the small town of Quesada at 8am and we were straight onto an incline out of town and up into the hills. We passed up through olive groves and were soon on more technical terrain, threading over one top before following the ridge as it rose further. I’d expected a short climb with full gas, but in practice the terrain was trickier than expected and by the time we reached the first major down hill we’d already climbed 1,000m.

I rolled into the first aid station at Port of Tiscar feeling good, but the heat was a concern, it was only mid-morning and already roasting. The incredible volunteers gave me plenty to drink and some melon to cool down.

From Tiscar there was a bit more descent, including a brief but quick road section, before attacking the longest climb of the day. I grabbed my trekking poles from the quiver and started to push. I’d warned myself before the race not to over-exert on this climb but, foolishly, I let the fact I’d passed a few local runners make me start to feel confident.

We levelled out and, as we made our way through the flatter paths, I found my legs didn’t have as much snap as I’d hoped. I wasn’t quick enough and started to lose the places I had gained.

It was then I heard the siren like sound of bells and saw the goats. a comic moment before the ensuing madness. The aid station was much needed, a couple more cups of coca-cola and Nutella sandwiches and it was off for the descent. I was feeling positive as I’d made it to the top on my target pace and knew I’d bring that down a bit with a quick downhill.

There was a tough mile or so after the aid station as I struggled to get my pace back, but I finally found the gear I wanted and started to push on. For a good long section a small group of us swapped places as we each hit our stride.

When I hit the bottom and stopped for a drink I was well ahead of target pace. It would be the last aid station I’d pass feeling half human. No sooner had we left than the next climb started in earnest and the struggles began.

By the time we entered the Cueva del Agua, I was very much in the pain cave. I had to bend double to get along a tunnel, then descend the steps into the cave only for someone to take a photo and point me back up the stairs. A particularly brutal diversion at a time when the pain was building.

The climb up towards Tiscar was where the wheels came off. It could be that I’d just recovered from injury, it could be the post-viral fatigue, or it could simply be that I wasn’t good enough. I realised I was empty.

Having lost my inhibitions at the same time as my energy, I tried to bring myself back to life by playing the Vengaboys’ We Like to Party on my phone. I’m not even sorry. I was in enough pain not to care about social convention. It didn’t bring me back to life, but it did make a Spanish policeman laugh as I crossed a road trying to look alive.

Arriving at the aid station, I dropped my poles, pulled out my cup for a fill up of cola, and eased myself to the ground. Exquisite pain. My digestive system had shut down so solid foods were a no go and my legs felt completely done. I looked up at the technical climb to come and struggled to contain the sense of despair.

The quit instinct was high. There was 20k to go and over 1,000m of climb, including the day’s most technical sections. Physically I had nothing left to give, mentally I wanted nothing but to crawl into the shade and sleep. I gathered my resources and bargained with myself that I could drag my body as far as the next aid station. I told myself the lie that it was all down hill after that.

I stood up, shook my head and headed off towards the tower, marshalling my meagre Spanish skills to make the photographer chuckle while I told him how bad I felt.

As we reached the top of a steep scree section one of the other runners turned round, hands on his knees, and stared back down muttering the words “puta madre”. I laughed. I may not speak Spanish, I said, but that phrase has travelled.

A short rope climb followed. It wasn’t too tricky, but I was glad for the rope as it would’ve been hard work by that point. I hauled myself up and set my mind to the grind.

It was shortly after this that I started to sing to take my mind off things. And so, this pacifist ended up pushing through the forest singing the Marching Song of the British Grenadiers. A combination of the steady rhythm and the amusing absurdity of the situation helped keep me going.

As I arrived at the penultimate aid station a volunteer looked me up and down. I didn’t know the words, but I got the meaning: “You can drop out here, I’ll take you back in the jeep.”

No, I said. Sorry. I don’t speak Spanish. And I don’t quit either.

I sat on a rock and gathered my resources but this time I knew I’d broken the quit instinct. I’d pushed through at Tiscar and now, suffering or not, I knew I could keep going. I used Google translate to find out how to tell the kids helping at the aid station they were brilliant, and set off again.

Finally I hit the top of the climb and looked out across the landscape in absolute awe. Beauty ran for miles in every direction, the blanket of forest, the golden hour sun painting orange hues on the rock faces. Everything was perfect, apart from the general sense of being brutalised and the fact my watch showed there was still a decent climb to come.

I tumbled through the trees and managed to get something close to a decent jog for a couple of miles. It’s hard not to feel a bit of joy, passing the last aid station behind, because you know that short of injury you’re a finisher. The race may have beaten the crap out of you, but it didn’t beat you if you reach that line.

As my headtorch took over from the sun illuminating my path, I came over another hill and saw the lights of Quesada below. By the time I left the forest and hit the dirt road down through the olive trees I could see headlights in pursuit. I got up a proper running pace again and made for the lights of the town, pushing to stay ahead.

The organisers must have loved ending 63km of pain with a sharp, steep climb into the town square. Reluctant to lose momentum I pushed hard up the cobbled streets until the finishing arch loomed ahead. Drained, exhausted, and disappointed in my performance, I broke into the defiant sprint of the runner who knows that by the time their body gives up they’ll have reached the line.

The spectators cheered and clapped and I crossed the line with my poles raised like a symbol of victory – and dropped into a plastic chair exhausted.

I was rinsed in a way I’ve not been before after a run. I’d pushed on for over 4 hours after the moment I broke and instead of feeling elation or achievement I felt empty. My mind yelled questions about how messed up you have to be to pay money to suffer like this, my body yelled obscenities, and my mouth tried to stop people feeding me.

As I sat pondering the meaning of life and whether a day like that was worth it for a wee medal, and the chance to write a blog saying I tried, the PA system crackled to the sound of Highway to Hell and I raised a brief smile at how apt it was.

In the final analysis, I’m pleased I pushed through pain and got the UTMB points. Ultimately, enduring pain is how you learn to do more. I’m concerned that 4,000m of vert caused that much pain because it’s hard to fathom how much 8,000m in one run would hurt and if I can do it.

As I walked back to the car, I considered sending a message around friends telling them the dream of Bob had died, but as Aeschylus wrote – “men in exile feed on hope”. I won’t give up on that hope so easily. Onwards.