Chasing 100k: Race Day
After all, if you run far enough, no one can catch you
I’m standing here scared witless and surrounded by a sea of strangers. The centre of Ordino in the mighty Pyrenees of Andorra to be exact, and is shortly before 6am on a Saturday morning in late June. Most people at home are still sleeping. My family will be soon heading for a long weekend on one of those beautiful Croatian islands. Maybe the queues will be starting on the roads. But I guess that’s just normal weekend chaos. No doubt there is a rain forecast.
I am a world away from long weekend holiday fervour. I am a world away from anything I have ever done before. But some things are the same everywhere. Rain, for example.
It woke me up last night with its persistent pattering on my hotel window. But when day broke it revealed one of those grey, damp, misty dawns that leave you wondering whether you have left the Muggles and ended up at Hogwarts. And now? Well, it’s dry at least, thanks goodness. The skies are also clear for the moment. That’s good, I hear myself thinking. Ahead of me now is the prospect of at least fifteen-hours on my feet, running if I’m lucky.
I am on the start line of the UTMB Andorra 100k. It is the first edition of this race and ahead of us is a long journey around Pyrenees with 6900m of total elevation gain. Standing at the start line I have a feeling of complete anonymity. I know absolutely no one else running this race and it’s a strange feeling. It seems to envelop me, not leading to a sense of loneliness as you might imagine, but rather an absolute freedom. One thing is certain thought — everyone around me seem to look like they know what they are doing. With their skin-tight Lycra, tiny rucksacks and small, slim-looking figures they look like they know what they are in for. Not me.
A year or so ago, I read an article about this race. Until then, I didn’t even think I would ever train, let alone run, 100k in one go. But the idea of it caught my imagination and the thought of taking part slowly took a hold over me. I’m not even sure what the pull was — perhaps was a simple as the irresistible allure of making a long journey on foot through a beautiful mountain landscape. Or perhaps was the curiosity to challenge myself in a way that I have never been challenged before. By November I had formed a plan: I was due to start my new job on a remote contract so I reasoned with myself that if I qualify and then register for the race, then it would be a great excuse to plan a couple of weeks to also visit Spain.
So I am here, standing in the centre of Ordino. Waiting for the start. The minutes are ticking by. When I look around, everyone seems a bit unsettled, like none of us really knows how to fill those moments until the race starts at 6am. Everything has been done that can be done. Race numbers have been collected and pinned on our t-shirts or shorts. Kit has been checked. I have given in my drop bags for the support points Coll de la Botella and Grau Roig with extra pairs of socks, shoes, t-shirts, another headtorch, battery charger, and gels for whatever lies ahead.
It feels like I am in some sort of dream and at that point it struck me that in all honesty I have no concept of what I’m about to do. 100k around Pyrenees with 6900m of ascend and descend, it sounds quite nuts when you put it like that. That kind of distance is like running from Zagreb to Ljubljana — and running that far with an ascent of equivalent of climbing nearly twice to the summit of Mont Blanc from the sea level and back down again. Crazy.
Yet, here I am, doing the best that I can. Wherever I can or not, is irrelevant for me. I know some of my closest friends would be probably offended by that though process of mine. I have absolutely no idea whether it’s a realistic goal for me. I am also not much bothered by that, I don’t think I have ever been. For now, I am ok if it is just a pie in the sky dream. But sometimes you have to make those pies in the sky. Sometimes you have to dream.
In my wildest dream I hope I might make it back to Ordino and the finish line. Logic and reason tell me there is a higher chance to be stopped at some checkpoint for not making the cut-off time. But what’s the point of worrying about it now? There is not much I can do, except run. The rest will inevitably follow.
Race start is imminent. I stare at the mountains towering so far above us and feel so incredibly small. At the same time, it is as though the world is before us and full of infinite possibilities.
And then we start to move.
When I was little and running at the kindergarten, I always stopped and waited for all the other kids so we could run together. Later I figured out that running, or life, doesn’t quite work like that. As I got older, I recognize my thought process a bit better and I stopped limiting myself by waiting for people to join me. I stopped listening to voices telling me what I can or cannot do. “Running isn’t even a sport for pretty boys…and look at you, you are a girl!” Yup, that’s me. But however unbothered I pretended to feel, that remark seemed to do injustice to both — boys and girls.
You see, running is much more that the muscles we are equipped with on the basis of sex. It’s about the sweat in your hair and the blisters on your feet. Its the frozen spit on your chin and the nausea in your gut. It’s about throbbing calves and cramps at midnight that are strong enough to wake the dead. It’s about getting out the door and running when the rest of the world is only dreaming about having the passion that you need to live each and every day with. It’s about being on a lonely road and running like a champion even when there’s not a single soul in sight to cheer you on. Running is all about having the desire to train and persevere until every fiber in your legs, mind, and heart is turned to steel.
I ease into the rhythm of this gentle pace, onwards along the forest track. I begin to finally settle in to my journey and allow my mind wander as I try to comprehend what it is I’m doing. Next thing I know — passing 30k mark and beginning our first long ascend of 1900m over a course of 15k. This is such a new territory for me — geographically, physically, mentally, emotionally. And this is just the beginning. I have no idea how I will cope, whether I will have to struggle with body and mind, or whether it will come easily. But I have to let go of all of that. I cannot worry about what I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense to waste so much energy on the unknowns since my body would need all that energy later.
On the way up, we all walk. The climb is long enough to focus my attention elsewhere, and soon I fall into conversation with Maria. We keep each other company for the last stretch of this ascent to 2780m for the next 15k. The air is colder here but being high up above the valley lifts my spirits. The trail leads us off on a gentle ascent, the terrain much rockier underfoot now and needing some agility. It is fun. Maria seemed to be in good mood as well so we talk for a while before she urges onwards. Later I learn she has won her age group.
We have been running for hours already and as I cross the river, I hear voices. There seem to be some sort of party going on. I paused for a bit as I am approaching a 50k mark where my first support bag is waiting for me. I exchange a sweaty T-shirt for a new one and wet shoes for the dry ones. I stuff some more gels in my rucksack, re-fill my water bottles and eat a pancake. I also crouch to the side off the trail to pee. The cheers of people here really boosts my spirit. We have come this far already. What more do I need to do other than simply to keep moving slowly forward?
Winding downwards. Steeply downwards. But it’s OK — I am not in a hurry. The unexpected rocky terrain makes me think — should I run or should I walk? It’s started being hard to keep my focus and I fight tiredness — the urge to shut my eyes. But a minute later, a new wave of energy fills my entire body and I feel the world is again awake with new possibilities. It sort of works for a while. Until I fall flat on my face, stumbling with tiredness. The skin below the knee is ripped off and soon enough my leg looks like it’s been through some spectacular Gladiator’s fight. Looking at my leg, I feel so nauseous that I have to puke. Once I got that one pancake out of my system, and a good cry in-between puking and staring at my leg, I bounce back up and continue rolling down what I once thought was a beautiful runnable descend.
Of course it is painful, and emotionally, I just want to chuck it all. My pace slows down drastically to 10k/hour and it becomes hard to put one foot in front of the other. My ability to focus narrowed down so much that I could not think longer that in terms of the next 2k. Why am I doing this? Should I stop? I should stop. Soon, thought, I falter into the next checkpoint at 70k, with the First Aid hosts waiting to greet me. “Wow I didn’t thought you would make it that far with a leg like that,” he exclaimed. Me neither.
It’s 7pm and I have been on my feet for 13hours. He tells me then that I arrived in time for dinner, almost civilised, never mind the mess on my leg. He is in good humour that’s for sure. He disinfects the wound that keeps bleeding and applies quite a pressure before binding the wound with a thick bandage. My legs now feel like a mummy, all wrapped up below the knee. How am I supposed to run now, I ask? He tells me to figure it out on the go, and adds that the first runner just passed the finish lane.
Where does anything start?
A child. A journey. A mountain. A dream.
Where did running start for me? For sure, we all run as children but somehow it became part of the fabric of my life. Part of my normal. But how? I am not sure. Yet, somewhere deep in the imagination, emotions and wonder of a young child a seed was sown.
The selectivity and unreliability of memory and the distance of time mean that it can be difficult to differentiate one impression from the experiences that come later. So it’s hard now to think back to a time when I wasn’t running. But when we are children it is nothing more and nothing less than simply what we do. From birth we are developing muscle strength and coordination, and our movement progresses to rolling, sitting, crawling, until that moment arrives when we have gained sufficient confidence and balance to take those first teetering steps. As that confidence and balance grows, the teeter evolves into a toddle, and the toddle into a run. We become nimble on our feet. We sprint with little hesitation. We play. We run around. We play, we run, we run, we play. It is spontaneous, it is an expression of what we are feeling — excitement, apprehension, mirth, dismay. It is instinctive and impulsive. A happy burst of enthusiasm and joy.
But life happens and we all too often seem to forget all of what we once knew. We either don’t run, or if we do then running has become an ‘exercise’, something that either we are told to do, or we tell ourselves to do. Something that is measured in terms of value and benefit, rather than being an expression of feeling. But sometimes, in spite of our forgetfulness, a thread holds us fast to what we once knew so well and that tenuous connection keeps us running through the years of growing up until we arrive in adult life knowing what it is still to run. Maybe less carefree, but the memory of a what it felt like to love running is not forgotten. A memory when it was simply being there in the moment with a pure trust that the world is full of infinite possibilities.
I get back on my feet. I feel a bit dizzy but the notion of runners being at the finish line already, clears up my mind a bit. I slowly head back into the early evening, my feet protesting as they have to not only fight the blisters but hold the still-bleeding knee. Soon the trail then had turned into unrecognizable rivulets of mud and cow shit. Absolutely fabulous, I think to myself. There are no signs of other runners. It surprises me. What to do now? I’d focused my effort on reaching the next border point at 80k and take things from there. I don’t want to think beyond that. The trails are there in front of me, waiting. I soon approach a really nice runnable trail and notice plenty of cows up here. I thought whether they can offer me some milk. I ask, and happily down a mugful after that first aid station. I notice then another runner with a Dutch flag on his umber. As he runs past me, he shouts some words to the effect of ‘you go girl’. It fires me up.
Somewhere further along the trail I realize that I am still running. I am relieved I have made it so far. Now what? My knee is still bleeding and the bandage is now covered in blood again but I don’t feel much pain. I try to swallow this odd emotion and focus on the immediate concern of finding the checkpoint with its premise of something to eat. I look in vain for signs of the checkpoint as I run along the lakeside and finally, a couple of kilometres later I stumble into a large tent. It is the checkpoint.
Should I stay or should I go ? This large tent is one of the major checkpoints where my second support bag is waiting for me. Other runners seem to be taking their time. I lined up for the first aid and everyone here seems to be super kind. One of the first aiders even walked me over to the table laden with food. So I’ve got myself baked potatoes, a small peanut butter sandwich and a yogurt. Everyone here seems to be occupied with changing clothes, eating, drinking, chatting on their phone and taking selfies or Instagram stories. Some are lying down with their eyes closed. I have changed my t-shirt and put longer pants on, but I don’t feel tired enough to need a lie-down. Not yet, at least. I sit for a while, admiring my latest bandage on my leg. The bleeding has now slowed down so I glance at my watch and I’m shocked to realise I’ve been here for more than half an hour; it’s surprising how time can slip away when you’re doing nothing very much. The body still seem to be in a good working order. I heard my grandmother saying “Enough is enough.” It’s time to get myself moving again.
I leave, and head onwards into the warmth of the late evening. The light starts to fade as we begin our final descend. I turn back, high above the valley floor now, and the sky is streaking with pink alpenglow from the setting sun. The beauty makes me shiver with an odd delight. The irresistible rhythm of nature stands proudly aloof. It cares nothing for our concerns, for what is happening in our small world. The sun will set tonight and it will rise tomorrow. This certainty put things into perspective, it gives me a reassuring confidence that whatever I am feeling or enduring, the world will keep turning. This thought feels like a comfortable distraction. There is still about 20k to go but my mind is calm and the trail easy and clear to follow. No need to think. I can just focus on moving ever forwards. One step at a time.
I barely have any recollection of what happened in the next 10k or how I pass 90k mark. I remember that fading light wanes and darkness falls just as I pass that last mark. The trail become darker and there is no one to observe how I am running, no one to look at how slowly I am going. No judgement. And I remember there was just me and this incredible feeling of freedom.
It was winter 2004, a year just before my high school. The teacher came to a class and told us we all have to do a test for exceptionally gifted children. At that time in Slovenia that was the basic guideline of the system about to serve the promotion of development of the best students from the very beginning of their careers — from the transition from primary to secondary education. I thought the test was actually quite silly, yet, I managed to complete it. My hopes were high. Few weeks later, I got called into a physiologist office, only to be told to set my education bar lower. She recommended me to start training for a cook.
I think being a cook is a wonderful profession. My grandmother was a wonderful cook, and probably thanks to her, her daughter — my mom — as well as I are now reluctant cooks. You see, she set the bar too high.
But that didn’t stop me from getting a top grade average at the national exam and together with my other sports achievements, I managed to enrol in the Gymnasium, the selective school that prepares the students to attend university. Fast forward to now, with a science PhD from one of the top universities in the U.K., few international awards, and working for a global Ed-Tech company to improve education on a bigger scale, it’s fair to say I managed to complete a few more tests.
I am still a terrible cook, thought.
I just kept moving. On and on. And on. But, wait. Isn’t this vaguely familiar? I can see lights. Streetlamps. This is it, I made it back to Ordino. I can scarcely realize that the end is so close. I’ve hit the road and noticed how hard the tarmac is. What an abrupt change, I think. But, oh, how welcome. It brings with it the knowledge that the finish line must be minutes away at most. There are more and more lights. And oh, look, they are people lining the sides of the road. It’s just like it was at the start. Why are they all still here? The sound of clapping reverberates in my ears. It is all a bit overwhelming. What am I suppose to be feeling? There are flashes, everyone wants to high-five. It all feels a bit of a blur. I’m handed a finisher’s package and nudged towards a table full of food and isotonic drinks. A can of beer is put into my hands. A medal is hanged around my neck. Maria and two other runners come and hug me. And then tears run down my face and I cry my way to collect my bags.
“No, no I’m fine,” I keep telling the race attendant with eyes wet. “I’m just happy… I think?” She laughed, nodded knowingly, and passed me my bags.
It is the end. There is no need to keep running. There is nowhere left to go. I’ve reached the end, I think?
I amuse myself with not quite taking it all in. But right now my mind is set on getting back to the hotel — a place that seems to become more and more appealing with every passing minute. Once I’ve been handled everything my arms can hold, I head with fellow runners to the sports complex to have a shower.
Hot water. What a luxury.
