Qualifying for the UTMB 100 is no easy task as you must acquire 15 points in up to three races in the two years preceding your registration. Typically, you get six points for a 100 miler, 5 for a 100K, and 4 for a 50-miler. Sometimes, if a race is relatively flat, you'll get one less point for that distance. A flat 100K might only be worth 4 points. The task of acquiring these points is more difficult on the east coast of the U.S. because fewer races here are qualifiers. After three years of not having my name drawn, I finally made it in on the finishes of 2016 Georgia Death Race, 2016 Grindstone 100, and 2017 Bryce Canyon 100.
The teaser videos are enough to draw you in, with their intense orchestral arrangements and stunning views in and of the Alps. The Alps have always been a draw for me, partially because my ancestors on my father's side were from there, but mostly because they are just so beautiful. Of course, it would be inconsiderate of me to plan a race to such an exotic location without wrapping a family vacation around it, so not only would we be seeing the Alps in southern France, we'd do our own little Tour d'Italy over the 10 or 11 days leading up to our arrival in Chamonix.
I won't go into the travels through Italy but will instead start with our train ride from Martigny, Switzerland into Chamonix. We purchased the tickets at the station and went to wait on the platform for the "Mont Blanc Express" to depart. It was here, while casually sitting on our suitcase, that a guy walked by and then doubled back and said "You're Mark, aren't you?" I was totally thrown back until I noticed he was wearing a 2016 TRU hoodie (the last year I was co-director.) He reintroduced himself as Geoff and we struck up a conversation. I can't go too far into the story without mentioning that Paul had joined Leslie and me on this trip (his wife, Evelyn, was unfortunately unable to come) and he was wearing a TRU shirt, which had first caught Geoff's attention. Anyway, Geoff had registered for the CCC (roughly 100K) event that would start Friday morning. We continued the conversation on the scenic train ride to Chamonix.
I need to mention that one of the few souvenirs each of us picked up from Italy was a bad cold--or something similar. For me, it moved around between head, throat, and chest, and I was frantically hoping and praying for some relief as race day approached. It was currently Wednesday and I was feeling somewhat better, but definitely not 100%. Aside from the congestion and coughing symptoms, my heart had been racing for the past several days. Instead of a pulse in the low 50s, it was in the upper 70s/low 80s. It was a bit disconcerting and seemed to be draining some of my energy. Race day wasn't going to wait for me to get better though, so we'd just do what we could.
The village of Chamonix is nestled in the shadow of the majestic Mont Blanc, whose ~16,000' peak is visible from most parts of town. I'd say its a typical ski village but I don't ski so I don't really have much basis for comparison. It did remind me of a larger version of Squaw Valley, where Western States was held. We stayed in an AirBnB (my first time) that was centrally located for everything UTMB. Though, really the whole town seemed to be pretty walkable, so no location was too far away. Our Wednesday arrival was a bit rainy and we were tired from travel and illness so other than a brief trip through the shops and expo, we kind of took it easy on this day. As I mentioned, races are being run all week long and the OCC (56K) started on Wednesday morning and finishers began coming in during the afternoon and continued throughout the day. It was funny because while walking around we repeatedly heard what sounded like a roller coaster "clanking" as it crested a hill followed by a loud roar. It wasn't until much later we realized it was the crowd drumming on the signs along the course and then cheering. It really did sound like something from a theme park, though.
Packet pickup was Thursday morning. I had to register for a time slot to ease congestion, so I selected 10:00 - 11:00 a.m. and arrived around 10:45 a.m. The line was fairly long but moved quickly. Paul used this time to go in and exchange their shuttle bus vouchers for wristbands. That's one really neat feature UTMB offers, the option for your crew/family to follow you on a shuttle bus system. I originally thought the buses traveled in a loop, just like the course, but they have a hub in Chamonix and go back and forth in three directions, to hit all points of the course. Paul and Leslie were going to meet me at mile 50, Cormayeur, which mean that they got to take the shuttle through the Mont Blanc Tunnel. When I reached the front of the line, all my gear packed neatly away, I was sent over to a check in desk where they scanned my passport. The guy checking me in seemed bemused that my city was "Valdese" but I could never understand why. Anyway, he printed out a full list of my required gear and six of the items on it had check marks. Those were the six items I was to show to the next person to verify I had all the required gear. The items were random for each person, so while it didn't prove I had everything, it did require me to bring everything because I couldn't know what items I'd have to show. After that, I received my bib number/chip and a chip that went on my pack (which kept you from changing packs during the race. I got my shirt and a huge, red plastic bag. It wasn't until later I realized that was what you were to use as a drop bag. The bag is about 4sf in size and I would later learn that you label it with the provided sticker and they sorted them on huge rows of hanging racks at the "halfway" point in Cormayeur, where volunteers quickly grabbed them as you came through. I was also given a wrist ribbon that they cinched up. It was red and identified me as being in the UTMB 100. Other races had different colored ribbons.
The rest of Thursday and early Friday morning were just relaxing and walking around town. I spent some time at the Expo, but didn't buy anything except a collapsible bowl I could use for soup or pasta at an aid station. I saw Western States winner Jim Walmsley outside the Hoka One One booth, but other than him, I saw none of the top names who would be starting this year's race. The expo was fairly large and also had booths for other races from around the world. Of these, the Grand-to-Grand Ultra was the only race I saw from the U.S.
At around 12:30 on Friday, I went to the complimentary pasta luncheon. It was unfortunately limited to just volunteers and participants. So, I went in alone while Leslie and Paul found lunch elsewhere. It was buffet style and the seating areas were not as large as you might expect for such a large race. Since I had almost six hours until the race began, I wasn't terribly concerned about eating too much, as long as it all agreed with me. I kept it simple with spaghetti and vegetable sauce and some bread. I squeezed into a spot at the end of one table and just ate as quickly as I could. I got to use my French a little bit and did well enough to make them think I could understand them, at which point, they began jabbering away in full speed French. I used "Mon Francais, ce n'est pas bien," a lot during this trip.
The post-lunch plan was to go back to the room and relax. Then, at about 1:30, I received a text that weather conditions had deteriorated and that the "Cold Weather Kit" was required. This added sturdy shoes (which I already had,) an addition warm layer of fleece or down, and protective eyewear. I assumed the last one meant glasses that could be worn at night. I had only my sunglasses I bought for Bryce Canyon and I wouldn't be able to see with them on at night. So, I rushed back through the expo, looking frantically for suitable glasses. Nothing. Then, I went into the stores in hopes of finding something inexpensive that would meet the requirement should I be asked to show them at an aid station gear check. A painful 150 euro later, I had the only glasses I could find that seemed to meet the requirements.
All I could do now was try to relax. I did sleep for a while and then went back over my gear for one last time. This additional required layer (my Black Mountain fleece jacket) was pushing my pack to its capacity limit. The race organizers said to be at the start at 5:30 p.m. at the latest so we began the short walk over. If you have ever seen the movie Spinal Tap, there is a memorable scene where they are heading from the dressing rooms to the stage and get completely lost in the building. Well, I didn't get lost, but figuring out how to get into the starting corral involved a lot of squeezing through crowds, back-tracking, alley-searching, and head scratching to figure out where to go. I finally did find a side street that funneled into the main body of the runners. I was quite far back in the pack, however. Apparently, you must arrive an hour early to stake out your spot in the corral. Well, at least this would ensure I didn't go out too fast. I noticed around me that a lot of people had their families and even small kids with them. I assumed they would not run the first mile with the runner, but it was going to make for a bit of a mess when the race starts and they are going in the opposite direction from the rest of the runners.
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| Pre-Race at the 2018 UTMB |
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| Passing under the Arch. I hoped to do this again soon. |
Soon, we were off...well, the leaders were off. We were just standing still. After a few minutes, there was a little movement, and then it grew into a walk, which continued through the start/finish arch and even somewhat beyond that. I've never been to the Boston Marathon, but imagine the start is similar. I wasn't really uptight about it; what's a couple minutes in a race I was anticipating would take at least 36 hours if I finished at all? As we made our way out of town, slowly, the pace began to increase. I wasn't hoping to do anything more than a jog and that's pretty much what was allowed. Still, if I caught up to someone moving slower, it was hard to get around them at times. The light rain of earlier let up and many people were shedding their jackets in the first mile of the race. I was ok with it on, so I decided to wait until things thinned out before trying to remove it.
We eventually left the road for a groomed trail not unlike that found on the Cone Estate. Here, I found a place to pull over and remove my rain jacket and also stuff my "cold weather glasses" in my pack. Stopping for one minute meant being passed by 40-50 people. It didn't matter, but it quickly changed the crowd you were running with. Like the early stages of all races, there was a lot of chatter around me. The primary difference here was that I couldn't understand much of it. I know I heard a lot of French, but I can read it far better than I can follow a conversation.
I knew that 95%+ of the participants brought trekking poles and I had mine in my hands, folded but ready for use at any moment. What I didn't expect was how incompetent so many people are at using them. I've had my poles for several months and have used them a couple times and it didn't take me long to figure out some of the golden rules. First, you don't drag them two to three feet behind your back foot before bringing them forward for the next stride. Secondly, when you pick them up to run with them, you do not tuck them under your arms like a ski jumper, lest they impale the person behind you. The international crowd, for all their love of the poles, does not seem to grasp these basic two concepts. They also brought the poles out way too early, creating a giant mess of traffic going up smaller hills early on. I passed a lot of these people up the hills without using my poles, but still walking. I mentioned this to a friend after getting home and his response might have been correct. He thought that they knew exactly what they were doing and it was a way of creating space around them.
I went as long as I could, and longer than most around me, without using my headlamp, but finally turned it on as we descended a ski slope. It was slick and soft, but the large cleats of my Salomon Speedcross dug in and got me down safely and without incident. The first aid station arrived, but I honestly remember very little about it. It was just after 8:00 p.m. when I reached it and it was 13.8km into the race. My place was 1762 out of about 2500--not that I knew it at the time. I don't know how many people I passed between the start and this aid station, but I would not be surprised to find I had started in the last 20% of the pack--around 2000th place.
The downside to the 6:00 p.m. start is that after sunset, it's harder to remember any sort of mile-by-mile detail. Everything was dark--actually a misty dark, where your breath fogged up your headlamp and made seeing where you were going a little bit trickier. The profile shows that we had a long downhill into the second aid station at the 21.55km point. There wasn't a lot of passing because of the condition and narrowness of the trail. It was basically one big, long parade.
It was remarkable how many people were out on the streets and beside the trails to support the runners. I don't mean family and friends, but locals who just came out to cheer and shout "Bravo," or "Allez, Allez, Allez" (Go, Go, Go.) I think I might adopt the latter cheer for when I am a spectator at local races. It's jumping ahead, but I even saw one lady by the trail at 4:00 a.m. It was a very remote area, but it looked like she had walked out from a cabin near the trail. This race seemed to be their Tour de France.
So far, my cold/virus hadn't been much of an issue. I was doing well on the climbs and reasonably well on the descents. I noticed that, unlike my experience in the U.S., the European/International runner isn't as likely to offer to let you by and I'm not sure there is an international signal that equates to "on your left." Occasionally, someone would blast by up on the bank beside the trail or through brush. Had they only said something, I'd have made it a lot easier on them.
For the most part, the aid stations were large, tented setups, with tables and benches where you could sit. The tents were heated (unless that was just the effect of all the warm bodies inside) and usually extremely crowded. Whether you needed anything or not, you often had to pass through the large tent with people sitting at the tables on one side and people lined up for soup, water, etc... on the other. It was basically a madhouse. The online tracking showed how many runners were in each section of the course--between checkpoints. I would have liked to seen how many were in my section at any given time. Before this race, the largest 100-miler I had been in was Western States and it had just under 400 runners. This had six times that number so even spread over 50 miles (assuming that was the ultimate gap between leader and last,) that's 50 people per mile. Statistically, I would never be alone. And reality was supporting the statistics. There were always other runners around. This wasn't necessarily a bad thing, especially during the night. Several times, when ascending a long climb, I could look ahead and see a long string of headlamps winding ahead and above me. When I was the one at the top of the climb, I could look back and see a string of headlamps winding for several miles behind me.
Eventually, part way up a long climb, I had to break out some additional clothing as the wind was biting. My U/D rain jacket did a great job of breaking the wind and not making me sweat. The passes were the worst for wind, but they were usually brief. Here, our bibs were scanned and we continued on.
As I trudged along in the darkness, I could feel some of my congested cough returning and with that, a bit of doubt and concern creeped into my mind about whether I'd be finishing this race--even though I currently felt ok. The first two of the major climbs had gone pretty well. I felt good and was moving as well as I could, given that there was little room to pass. The third one didn't feel so good and I really began to wonder if finishing was in the cards. There is a very generous 46 hour time limit so I could almost walk it in, but I was concerned about making myself extremely sick in the process.
Dawn eventually came, finally allowing me to see the Alps surrounding me and I have to admit, it was pretty spectacular. Maybe it was just me being in the right place at sunrise, but it was pretty moving. What it wasn't, however, was moving me along any quicker. My phone camera wasn't very happy in the early morning, but the picture to the right gives you an idea of the scenery. I noticed in this stretch that my GPS watch was already giving the low battery signal so I hooked it up to the portable USB battery I carried and put it all in my pack.
After a bit of a slow aid station at (I believe) La Combal, I headed along a gravel road with a small group. As we proceeded, a helicopter came in low, getting footage of the race. We all waved and I thought just maybe it would make it into the post-race video they compile. I was dragging somewhat and I'm sure it wasn't all due to my illness. I hadn't eaten nearly as much as I'd planned, nor had I gone through very much Tailwind.
We soon began another shorter, but still steep climb. It was part way up this climb, that I found a spot to just sit down and gather myself. When I looked out at the Alpine mountains surrounding me, I honestly no longer cared about running. I began to think about whether I could or even wanted to walk it in and then realized what time I'd be finishing and it would require going through a second night of no sleep. The plane ride home would be long and uncomfortable. Every possible reason to quit began to rise to the surface in my mind, and I couldn't ignore them.
After a bit of time just sitting and enjoying the view, I did start up again, slowly making my way to the top of the last major climb before Cormayeur--Mount Favre. Once crested, a long downhill lay ahead and I was actually able to descend at something faster than a walk. It eventually was steep and rocky enough to prevent a full run but I was doing ok. I wasn't moving fast enough to keep from being passed, but I didn't seem to be moving any slower than the majority of people around me at this point. Though the recent pictures in this writeup don't show other runners, there were plenty around me.
There was a liquids-only aid station about 2/3 of the way down this long descent. It seemed to be a small ski lodge with lots of tables outside. I paused here for a bit to make some adjustments and take off my jacket and then continued on, not totally certain how far I had left to Cormayeur.
I couldn't say whether it went by fast or it just wasn't that far (I now know it was four kilometers) but the city slowly came into view. I knew that I was done. I knew I would be at the just-under halfway point in 15-16 hours and therefore have 30-31 hours to do the final 56 miles. My doubts and fears of pushing this congestion/infection/whatever it was just overruled any other arguments I could come up with. I entered Cormayeur at a jog, following the directions through some back roads and sidewalks. We passed the drop bags, which were all lined up on hangers in the middle of a long straightaway. A volunteer checked our bib number a bit before we reached this area and alerted the other volunteers to pull that bag--they were sorted by number. I didn't have a bag, though, so I kept going. I came around the corner into a fenced off area where the spectators lined the route. I saw Paul and Leslie there and told them I was dropping and headed into the Sports Center to notify whomever it was I needed to tell that I was done.
After a bit of a search, I found the right people and they seemed a bit surprised that I wanted to drop. Admittedly, I didn't look or sound that bad at the moment, so I explained why I decided to withdraw. After that I eventually (it was a large and very busy facility) relocated Leslie and Paul and we went to catch the shuttle bus back to Chamonix, which interestingly travels under Mont Blanc.
We eventually left the road for a groomed trail not unlike that found on the Cone Estate. Here, I found a place to pull over and remove my rain jacket and also stuff my "cold weather glasses" in my pack. Stopping for one minute meant being passed by 40-50 people. It didn't matter, but it quickly changed the crowd you were running with. Like the early stages of all races, there was a lot of chatter around me. The primary difference here was that I couldn't understand much of it. I know I heard a lot of French, but I can read it far better than I can follow a conversation.
I knew that 95%+ of the participants brought trekking poles and I had mine in my hands, folded but ready for use at any moment. What I didn't expect was how incompetent so many people are at using them. I've had my poles for several months and have used them a couple times and it didn't take me long to figure out some of the golden rules. First, you don't drag them two to three feet behind your back foot before bringing them forward for the next stride. Secondly, when you pick them up to run with them, you do not tuck them under your arms like a ski jumper, lest they impale the person behind you. The international crowd, for all their love of the poles, does not seem to grasp these basic two concepts. They also brought the poles out way too early, creating a giant mess of traffic going up smaller hills early on. I passed a lot of these people up the hills without using my poles, but still walking. I mentioned this to a friend after getting home and his response might have been correct. He thought that they knew exactly what they were doing and it was a way of creating space around them.
I went as long as I could, and longer than most around me, without using my headlamp, but finally turned it on as we descended a ski slope. It was slick and soft, but the large cleats of my Salomon Speedcross dug in and got me down safely and without incident. The first aid station arrived, but I honestly remember very little about it. It was just after 8:00 p.m. when I reached it and it was 13.8km into the race. My place was 1762 out of about 2500--not that I knew it at the time. I don't know how many people I passed between the start and this aid station, but I would not be surprised to find I had started in the last 20% of the pack--around 2000th place.
The downside to the 6:00 p.m. start is that after sunset, it's harder to remember any sort of mile-by-mile detail. Everything was dark--actually a misty dark, where your breath fogged up your headlamp and made seeing where you were going a little bit trickier. The profile shows that we had a long downhill into the second aid station at the 21.55km point. There wasn't a lot of passing because of the condition and narrowness of the trail. It was basically one big, long parade.
It was remarkable how many people were out on the streets and beside the trails to support the runners. I don't mean family and friends, but locals who just came out to cheer and shout "Bravo," or "Allez, Allez, Allez" (Go, Go, Go.) I think I might adopt the latter cheer for when I am a spectator at local races. It's jumping ahead, but I even saw one lady by the trail at 4:00 a.m. It was a very remote area, but it looked like she had walked out from a cabin near the trail. This race seemed to be their Tour de France.
So far, my cold/virus hadn't been much of an issue. I was doing well on the climbs and reasonably well on the descents. I noticed that, unlike my experience in the U.S., the European/International runner isn't as likely to offer to let you by and I'm not sure there is an international signal that equates to "on your left." Occasionally, someone would blast by up on the bank beside the trail or through brush. Had they only said something, I'd have made it a lot easier on them.
For the most part, the aid stations were large, tented setups, with tables and benches where you could sit. The tents were heated (unless that was just the effect of all the warm bodies inside) and usually extremely crowded. Whether you needed anything or not, you often had to pass through the large tent with people sitting at the tables on one side and people lined up for soup, water, etc... on the other. It was basically a madhouse. The online tracking showed how many runners were in each section of the course--between checkpoints. I would have liked to seen how many were in my section at any given time. Before this race, the largest 100-miler I had been in was Western States and it had just under 400 runners. This had six times that number so even spread over 50 miles (assuming that was the ultimate gap between leader and last,) that's 50 people per mile. Statistically, I would never be alone. And reality was supporting the statistics. There were always other runners around. This wasn't necessarily a bad thing, especially during the night. Several times, when ascending a long climb, I could look ahead and see a long string of headlamps winding ahead and above me. When I was the one at the top of the climb, I could look back and see a string of headlamps winding for several miles behind me.
Eventually, part way up a long climb, I had to break out some additional clothing as the wind was biting. My U/D rain jacket did a great job of breaking the wind and not making me sweat. The passes were the worst for wind, but they were usually brief. Here, our bibs were scanned and we continued on.
As I trudged along in the darkness, I could feel some of my congested cough returning and with that, a bit of doubt and concern creeped into my mind about whether I'd be finishing this race--even though I currently felt ok. The first two of the major climbs had gone pretty well. I felt good and was moving as well as I could, given that there was little room to pass. The third one didn't feel so good and I really began to wonder if finishing was in the cards. There is a very generous 46 hour time limit so I could almost walk it in, but I was concerned about making myself extremely sick in the process.
After a bit of a slow aid station at (I believe) La Combal, I headed along a gravel road with a small group. As we proceeded, a helicopter came in low, getting footage of the race. We all waved and I thought just maybe it would make it into the post-race video they compile. I was dragging somewhat and I'm sure it wasn't all due to my illness. I hadn't eaten nearly as much as I'd planned, nor had I gone through very much Tailwind.
We soon began another shorter, but still steep climb. It was part way up this climb, that I found a spot to just sit down and gather myself. When I looked out at the Alpine mountains surrounding me, I honestly no longer cared about running. I began to think about whether I could or even wanted to walk it in and then realized what time I'd be finishing and it would require going through a second night of no sleep. The plane ride home would be long and uncomfortable. Every possible reason to quit began to rise to the surface in my mind, and I couldn't ignore them.
There was a liquids-only aid station about 2/3 of the way down this long descent. It seemed to be a small ski lodge with lots of tables outside. I paused here for a bit to make some adjustments and take off my jacket and then continued on, not totally certain how far I had left to Cormayeur.
It was really tough walking around Chamonix that day and the next as runners came through town, finishing their adventure. But, I was ok with my withdrawal as my bronchitis (whatever it was) was back with a vengeance and I told myself that to have pushed through another day and night would have made it serious. Whether that was true or not, I don't know. But that's how I coped with withdrawing.
When the DNF really hit me was the van ride to the airport on Monday. A couple finishers were with us in their finisher's jackets. I had gotten to actually see very little of the course, given that 80% of my time was spent in the dark. The van ride was pretty quiet, leaving at 6:00 a.m. Once in the Geneva airport, I began seeing finishers jackets everywhere. That was too much. I knew all along that I'd have to come back but this solidified it. I know exactly what to expect--assuming the second half has similar terrain, etc... to the first--and I really feel like if I'd not gotten sick (and maybe hadn't lost weight on the vacation part before the race) I'd have finished fine.
So, 2019 will be a year of requalifying. I could have run another 5-pointer before the end of 2018 and had the points to apply for the 2019 lottery, but I was a bit burned out and there weren't any local or regional ones available. So, next year will be a clean slate. Hopefully, I can get lucky in the lottery for 2020 and not take four years to make the cut like last time...
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