Grand Raid de la Réunion: Diagonales des Fous 2021 (160 Km, 9.400 m D+)

Posted on November 19th, 2021

Words & Photos: Filippo Canetta

The mindset for running Ultra Trail races is that ability to keep going, right on the edge, for hours and hours, in a state of concentration so total that nothing exists anymore except the distance between you and your goal. You know you're burning yourself up with every step forward, but you do everything you can to leave nothing in the tank, right up until you're 5 meters from the finish.

Well, I think I've lost that mindset, or rather, I've lost the ability to give absolutely everything, to take risks to get to the goal as fast as possible. It's not the effort or the suffering that scares me, it's what I feel once I've crossed the finish line. I'm not talking about physical pain. It's certainly not muscle soreness, that has a pleasant side to it, it reminds you, in a funny way, of what you managed to do with your own legs. It's more that strange feeling where your body demands rest, food and hydration, but at the same time rejects them, because it's too exhausted. That sensation has taken root in me over all these years, and it lives in a part of my brain I can't control while running. Experience helps me manage all the warning signals my brain keeps sending, but that particular feeling has a channel I just can't intercept, and it blares like an air raid siren, I can't help but hear it.

This year I tried getting back into racing, and on a few occasions I managed to recreate that wonderful feeling of everything clicking, no snags, being able to run flat out without the siren ever going off, but those were fairly short races, between fifty and sixty kilometers. When I tried running a triple-digit one, the moment the siren went off, I just couldn't keep going, the signal, to me, in that moment, was unmistakable: what are you doing? Do you have any idea what state you'll be in if you keep this up? I didn't even try to argue back, my stomach turned, and I gave up. It's a shitty sport, this one of ours, not only do you have to be physically prepared, and that's hard enough, but you also need mental strength that can withstand an actual bombardment. The gap between what I want to do and what I'm actually able to do just keeps growing.

Like all defeats, this one taught me something too, I had to rethink my metrics, my calculations, and accept this new reality, I'm no longer able to push all the way to my limit. But just how far below it I need to stay is still something I have to figure out.

As with every defeat, this one carried its own lesson too, I had to rethink my parameters, my calculations, and accept this new reality, I'm no longer able to reach my limit. But exactly how far below it I need to stay remains something I still have to figure out.

With that preamble out of the way, I still have one free bib left, for one of the races that looms large in the collective imagination of anyone who, like me, started running Ultra Trail more than ten years ago, the one insiders have always called "The Madmen's Diagonal."

Two years ago I was in Chamonix at the Wild Tee stand, when a man comparing two of our tees noticed my framed race bibs hanging on the walls (I use them as decoration for our Endurance caps), and told me there was one missing, I told him there were plenty missing, but he meant the Grand Raid de La Réunion specifically, and, smiling, he told me to email him, since he happened to be the race director. Naturally, the moment he walked off, I sent him an email right away. A few days later, true to his word, I received an entry code for the race.

After an exhausting wait, a loss hits our family, Irene needs to get away, and I casually toss out the idea that we could spend a few days on Réunion. We find an apartment with Wi-Fi so we can work remotely, quickly put the trip together, and go. Luckily Air France lets you offset the flight's CO2 emissions with frequent flyer points, which eases my conscience a little too.

Once we arrive on the island, two things become clear right away. The race is treated as a major island-wide event, entries just for the Grand Raid alone total 2,611, and this is the twenty-ninth edition. It's very hot, and it's going to be tough. The last-minute decision to sign up brings with it the calm of someone who knows they're not prepared for something like this.

I care less and less for races with huge fields, I like deciding at the last minute and showing up at the start as late as possible, here, three hours under the sun to pick up my bib and two hours in line to get into the starting corral are the price to pay just to start.

Finally, at 9 pm on Thursday, the liberating starting gun goes off, I can't wait to be alone on the trail, somewhere out in the middle of nowhere. I'll have to wait a bit longer though, because it looks like the entire island's population has poured into the streets of Saint-Pierre. I've never seen so many spectators at a Trail Running race, literally two walls of screaming crowds cheering us on for at least five kilometers, enough to make Chamonix and its UTMB pale in comparison. As we pass through the city's different neighborhoods, the ethnicities shift, and with them, the music blasting from speakers or played live by bands. The party will keep going for the entire duration of the race (the cutoff is 66 hours, almost three days!), we'll run into people playing, singing and dancing as we pass by in the most unlikely spots, even an excellent clarinet player right in the middle of the forest.

The first kilometers are easy, and I know they'll probably be the only ones you can actually run, but I start with the handbrake on, worried about the hot, humid air. I let plenty of competitors push past me, elbowing their way through, huffing down my neck, usually leaving behind a trail of garlic-scented breath, typical of the French, mixed with sweat-soaked polyester.

As we cross through the sugarcane plantations, an important local resource, the irrigation sprinklers give us what feels like a refreshing spray. We head into the island's interior, and as we climb in altitude, we push through banks of fog so thick it's hard to even breathe. The heavy tee we'd all been required to start in soon starts dripping down onto our shorts too, without stopping, I peel it off and leave it hanging, dripping, on a minivan's side mirror, and swap it for my Hawaii Wild Tee t-shirt.

Tackling more than 10,000 meters of elevation gain without being able to use poles makes everything much harder to predict. Will my legs hold up?

Just in case, I approach the first descents with extreme caution, I know full well that, contrary to what people tend to think, it's the descents, with all their impact, that wreck your thigh muscles, not the climbs.

I expected the temperature to drop overnight, but instead, even above two thousand meters, it stays hot.

I'm right in the heart of the island when the sun breaks through the layer of clouds below us. The view behind me is stunning, I keep turning back, dazed, to look at it, risking tripping over the treacherous rocks that make up the trail. I stop to take a few photos, and I notice other competitors doing the same, following my lead. No one says a word, not wanting to ruin the moment, a smile, with tired, glistening eyes from the sleepless night, is enough to share it together.

The sunrise is beautiful, but I can already feel the sun's rays warming my back, and I know it's going to be a long day.

The interior of the island is much greener and richer in water than I expected. From above, all you see is the outline of the volcanic formations, since they're completely blanketed in vegetation. There's so much of it that it's almost impossible to make out the trails or the connections between villages. I spot what's probably the first of the two life bases (Cilaos), but I can't figure out how you're supposed to actually get there.

Sure enough, what I certainly can't call a trail, only passable thanks to the vegetation and the vines you can grab onto, plunges straight down to the valley floor, then, without any restraint whatsoever, climbs right back up the other side at the exact same gradient. On the way down, a local guy running the relay race passes me, descending really well, so, for no particular reason, I latch onto him, and together we pass several competitors who seem to be struggling on such technical terrain. I know it's completely pointless, but it shakes off the nighttime grogginess and puts me in a good mood. Note: vines drop down along with you for a few meters before actually holding, you need to grab them well before you actually need them.

Luckily the aid station at the sixty-fifth kilometer sits on a flat plateau, so I don't have to climb much more to reach it.

It's seven in the morning, ten hours into the race, when I get there, my stomach's still holding up, and taking advantage of the hot food, a plate of Creole chicken and rice seems like an excellent idea. So far, I've managed to fuel decently, by my standards: a few bars, a couple of gels, and broth whenever it's available.

I take my time, not least because up ahead, at the seventieth kilometer, one of the three toughest climbs awaits, 1,250 m of elevation gain in under 6 kilometers, with an average gradient of 21%. From here on, I'll need to fill all three half-liter bottles. I focus on repacking my backpack without making mistakes, gels, bars, fresh spare batteries for the headlamp, since I'll likely reach the next life base in the dark. I swap out the Mafate 3s for the lighter, more stable Evo Mafate 2s, we're getting close to the Cirque de Mafate area, which is actually where the Hoka shoe gets its name from. I swap the black Hawaii tee for the light blue one. The Hawaii-and-Mafate combo feels just right, and this small consistency, simple as it is, puts me in good spirits. Apart from one slip in the mud, the Bryce shorts have held up well, I empty the side pockets into the recycling bins that are always present around the island.

Everyone seems to have one or more support crews stationed near the aid stations, I have no one, and I'm happy about it, I don't want anyone worrying about me, and I don't want to have any concerns of my own, other than sticking to my planned timing. I'm alone, and that's exactly what I needed, no outside factor can influence how I run, everything depends only on me.

The much-dreaded climb turns out to be genuinely demanding, when I don't need my hands to grab onto some rock or tree, I use them to press against my knees, pushing on my quads working through the climb (not, unlike a lot of people do, pressing on the knees themselves ;-)). Even climbing above 2,000 meters, it's still very hot, and I'm soaked through. I try to drink regularly, but this mix of altitude, heat and humidity isn't exactly my favorite combination. Once the climb ends, without a moment to catch my breath, it plunges straight back down on the other side.

I'd be lying if I said it's enough for me just to finish, to be a Finisher. It's not enough, I want to arrive satisfied with myself, with how I managed the race and where I placed. That's not an easy thing, the longer and more complex the race, the harder it gets. I'd love to fight for a decent spot in the standings, or a good finishing time, but races like this can't be improvised, so I try to stay calm, knowing this is only the beginning.

Even in this part of the island, the vegetation is so dense it seems impossible there could be aid stations set up for so many competitors, and yet, as if by magic, around a bend, right at the expected kilometer, the checkpoint is there waiting for us, loaded with festivity and kindness. The logistics and organization are always up to the task, and the volunteers at the aid stations are consistently kind, attentive and well-prepared. It feels a bit like visiting friends who've been waiting for you a long time and are ready to welcome you in.

Unfortunately, I understand French pretty well, and at one point I hear I'm somewhere around a hundredth place, I'd rather have not known and just kept moving forward inside my little bubble of ignorance. Every extra variable you add to the equation risks skewing the outcome. The fewer things my mind has to process, the easier, or rather, the less hard, it is to stay unaffected.

Because of the intense effort, I'm managing to eat less, the bars turn into a paste in my mouth that I can barely swallow, and even drinking all that water is starting to get hard.

In un tratto non particolarmente difficile comincio a perdere i colpi. Voglio arrivare al ristoro prima di fare un bilancio della situazione, smetto di bere e di cercare di mangiare, abbasso la testa e mi concentro solo sui miei passi. Vorrei tanto avere i bastoncini per poter appoggiare sulle braccia il peso del busto che mi sembra diventare sempre più pesante ad ogni passo. A fatica arrivo al ristoro del novantaseiesimo chilometro, la mia faccia non deve essere delle migliori perché due ragazze (sono quasi tutte ragazze) dello staff medico mi continuano a domandare se sto bene. Sdrammatizzo per non farle preoccupare (i problemi della vita sono ben altri) ma la sirena sta suonando nella mia testa. Stare li a guardare gli altri che mangiano non ha senso. Se devo stare male meglio che sia subito. Mi alzo e chiedo la direzione in cui proseguire, dopo neanche cinquanta metri lo stomaco mi si ribalta e tenta di uscire dalla bocca. Sono di fronte alla prima grande domanda: sono a pochi metri dal ristoro, torno indietro o vado avanti? Ci penso due secondi e decido di andare avanti. Mi sento debole, cerco di pensare il meno possibile e di non fare calcoli inutili. Sono in balia della tempesta e mi lascio trasportare dalla corrente. Lascio stare il tempo che scorre inesorabile, lo dilato, non esistono più le ore ma le mezze giornate. Cambio prospettiva, che forse è una delle doti migliori di un Ultratrailer, anche se le energie rimaste sono quelle che sono e mi sembra di muovermi al rallentatore, vado avanti.

Al ristoro successivo mi fermo e cerco di alzare le gambe per fare confluire un po' di sangue dalle gambe allo stomaco perché la vedo dura riuscire ad arrivare a Saint Denis senza mangiare.

Nel frattempo, il percorso mette a dura prova la mia volontà di andare avanti. Dopo una salita piuttosto impegnativa arrivo ad un belvedere dove una coppia di escursionisti che si gode tranquillamente il paesaggio sta spiegando al concorrente che mi ha appena superato che il prossimo ristoro è proprio lì davanti ai suoi occhi in linea d’aria saranno meno di duecento metri, poi vedo che indicano in basso tra i loro piedi, soffro di vertigini quindi non ci penso neanche a guardare giù quasi nel vuoto. Vedo l’espressione del corridore cambiare da “Ok ci siamo” a “non può essere vero”. In pratica non abbiamo altra alternativa che scendere per 4/500 metri di dislivello nella gola, non si sa per quale sentiero, attraversare il fiume che non si vede neanche da tanto la parete è verticale e risalire dalla parete opposta. Non ho neanche la forza di commentare, cerco di scendere cercando di evitare di cadere. Mi viene in mente che la prima volta che ho appreso la notizia che un concorrente era morto durante una gara era in questa. Il ricordo basta e avanza per farmi trovare la lucidità e la coordinazione per non scivolare. Esausto, al fiume mi butto in acqua e bevo direttamente a bocca aperta. Non so se sia la cosa più indicata in un’isola tropicale ma è bellissimo. La risalita è un calvario di 800 metri di dislivello al 16%, per fortuna la sera si sta avvicinando e le ombre si stanno allungando sui concorrenti.

On a stretch that isn't particularly hard, I start losing my grip. I want to reach the aid station before assessing the situation, I stop drinking and trying to eat, drop my head, and focus only on my footsteps. I'd give anything for poles, just to be able to rest some of my torso's weight on my arms, which seems to get heavier with every step. I struggle my way to the ninety-sixth kilometer aid station, my face must not look great, because two girls (nearly all the medical staff here are women) from the medical team keep asking if I'm okay. I brush it off with a joke so as not to worry them (real problems in life are far worse than this), but the siren is already blaring in my head. There's no point standing there watching other people eat. If I'm going to feel bad, better to get it over with now. I get up and ask which way to go, and less than fifty meters later my stomach turns over and tries to come up through my mouth. I'm facing the first big question: I'm just a few meters from the aid station, do I go back, or push forward? I think about it for two seconds and decide to push forward. I feel weak, I try to think as little as possible and avoid making pointless calculations. I'm at the mercy of the storm, and I let the current carry me. I let time slip past, relentless, I stretch it out, hours don't exist anymore, only half-days do. I shift perspective, which is maybe one of an Ultra Trail runner's greatest skills, and even though what energy I have left is what it is, and I feel like I'm moving in slow motion, I keep going.

At the next aid station I stop and try to raise my legs, to push some blood from my legs back toward my stomach, because reaching Saint-Denis without eating anything is starting to look rough.

Meanwhile, the course keeps testing my will to carry on. After a fairly demanding climb, I reach a viewpoint where a couple of hikers, calmly enjoying the scenery, are explaining to the competitor who just passed me that the next aid station is right there, in plain sight, as the crow flies, less than two hundred meters away, then I see them point down between their feet, I suffer from vertigo, so I don't even consider looking down into what's almost a sheer drop. I watch the runner's expression shift from "Okay, we're almost there" to "this can't be real." Basically, there's no alternative but to descend 400-500 meters of elevation into the gorge, along who knows what kind of trail, cross a river you can't even see from up here because the wall is so vertical, and climb back up the opposite side. I don't even have the strength to comment, I try to make my way down without falling. It crosses my mind that the first time I ever heard of a competitor dying during a race, it was at this very one. That memory alone is more than enough to help me find the focus and coordination not to slip. Exhausted, I reach the river, throw myself in, and drink straight from cupped hands, mouth wide open. I don't know if that's the smartest thing to do on a tropical island, but it's wonderful. The climb back up is a 800-meter, 16%-gradient ordeal, luckily evening is drawing near, and shadows are starting to stretch across the competitors.

Recklessly, I want to set off again right away, but I know there's still a long way to go, over 2,000 more meters of elevation gain remain, and soon comes the dreaded climb up Dos d'Âne, with its 700 meters of elevation gain at 18% gradient.

So many races blending together in my head with conflicting thoughts, for no particular reason I decide to get a massage. Just like I'd done at Spartathlon, as a kind of tribute to how brutal the course is. A bit like telling the Race: "I'm slowing down, I'm stopping, I'm taking a break, because I know that if I don't, you'll win instead." Lying on the table, I realize it isn't quite what I expected, the light is too harsh for eyes that have been open for so long, and the diesel generators wreck the forest's silence. I plunge back into the darkness of the second night as fast as I can. I send Irene a message, she'll have just finished work, to let her know I'm still alive, after twenty-four hours it felt like the right time. She replies that I'm bouncing back well from the 126th place I'd dropped to, and that our daughter Cecilia is glued to the live tracker from Milan.

I attack the climb with real aggression, and as a result start pouring sweat again. Not pleasant, but as an old Ultra Trail hand I also know it's a good sign, since it means I've been staying properly hydrated. The climb is brutal, and there's not much to grab onto, the odd vine here and there, a few chains in the more exposed spots, otherwise I just scramble up however I can. Over two hours go by to cover less than four kilometers. Luckily the descent isn't among the worst, I can see the sea and the coastline in the distance, and I just hope the course has no more surprises in store. It's easier to face a difficulty when you know it's coming, much harder when it catches you off guard.

I keep gaining back positions, along the sides of the trail I often come across competitors sleeping, some clearly struggling badly.

The Chemin des Anglais really tests my endurance, it's not a particularly hard stretch, just a path paved with lava stones set at irregular intervals. You'd want to run it, since the gradient is never excessive, but the irregular footing makes it really hard to hold a running rhythm, a genuine nightmare that seems to never end. The black stone has soaked up the sun's heat all day long and is now cheerfully releasing it back through the night, I can feel my shoes' Vibram soles suffering from it.

(photo taken during the day, just to give you the idea)

I finally reach La Possession, we're back at the sea, but all they have is tea and boiling broth, my silicone cups look about ready to give up too, impatiently I wait for it to cool down.

To my great joy, the paved path continues even past the village. I've had enough, for long stretches I'm alone, and if it weren't for the occasional isolated competitor to pass, I'd just stop and sleep somewhere.

I'm almost glad when the tough climbing starts back up, at least then I don't have to try running.

At the second-to-last aid station, I set off again with two competitors, one of whom is much faster than me uphill, I can't keep pace with him, but I set my mind on not losing sight of him, and the moment the gradient eases a bit, I try to close the gap. I know it's absurd to be racing at this point, but it's a great way to pass the time. As a little train, we keep passing other competitors who've stopped fighting back, they just want to finish, whenever that ends up being.

I'm right on his heels when, at one point, in the middle of a climb, he says he's tired and stopping, out of the corner of my eye I see him sit down on the red earth as I pass him. I carefully ration the two gels I have left, but by now nothing can come between me and the finish, it's just a matter of time.

On the final climb I push hard, and my body responds perfectly to the demand, at the last aid station I don't even stop. I run like a kid at a playground, pure joy.

I'd forgotten that in an ultra, the race is so long you can die and come back to life before it's even over. It seems absurd, being able to run relatively fast when, just a few hours earlier, walking felt like a struggle. By the end I'll have passed more than fifty competitors.

The final descent is absurd, I can't even see where to place my feet, but I don't care at all, I fly down with no brakes, hopping over rocks, and running like a madman, I enter the Stade de la Redoute in Saint-Denis, more than 33 hours after starting on the other side of Réunion Island.

La Diagonale des Fous was, for years, considered the hardest race in the world, since then, other races have come along, likely even more demanding, like TOR, PTL, or Eiger Ultra Trail, but I've been lucky enough to finish some of those too, and this one still definitely stays in the Top 10 for sheer toughness.

I don't know if I'd do it again, but I'm glad I did.

For the numbers-lovers among you: Strava

I used a COROS Vertix. I was curious to try it out, I started with 99% battery, and after 33 and a half hours non-stop, running full GPS precision, I finished with exactly 50% battery left. GPS watches usually die after 20-25 hours, the Vertix can easily handle 65.