Ultra Trail du Mont Blanc 2016 (170 Km, 10k m D+)

Posted on April 14th, 2016

Words: Davide Grazielli

I'm sitting at my desk, sipping a good cup of coffee after devouring a hearty plate of pasta, looking out at the sea, wondering whether I'll head out later for a little run on the trails behind the house or not. I could. But I probably won't. I think I'll treat myself to a couple of beers instead, and let the afternoon slip by watching the sun disappear behind the mountains.

Any other day, I'd be sitting here trying to fire off a quick reply to my last emails so I could finally lace up my shoes and go run while there's still daylight. Not today.

Because I just ran 100 miles around the highest, meanest mountain in Europe (okay, continental Europe, these days). And my quads are still blown out, I'm dozing off like a koala, my body needs to figure out how to get back to its normal functions, and my head needs time to reorganize itself after spending way too long thinking about time, calories, and how much water to drink.

But the satisfaction is huge, and it stands as proof of the twenty-six hours I spent circling Mont Blanc.

It took me four years to get back to UTMB. The first time was incredible: my first hundred-miler, I met a few people who'd go on to become great friends, I finished well, and the experience opened up a whole new world for me. I knew I wanted to come back, but I also knew that when I did, I'd want to tackle it differently.

Me and Cinghiale at the NDW 50, happy to share third place

I knew I wanted to come back, but I also knew that when I did, I'd want to tackle it differently.

I'd planned my year perfectly: in October I'd buy the new house and spend the off-season working on it. I'd get back into training, run NDW 50 as my first race, then two hard, tight months before Lavaredo Ultra Trail. After that, everything focused on UTMB training camp. How did it actually go? We got the keys at the end of February, spent three months breaking our backs on the house, while I trained before dawn, road-only, ran NDW 50 (even missing my little niece's communion, something she'll never forgive me for) with barely any mileage behind me, and ran LUT with even less training, exactly four days after moving into a house with no kitchen, no working toilet and no bed.

Somehow, both races still went fairly well.

Still, I knew I needed to ramp things up for Chamonix, and right after LUT I got to work. Between all the work travel, I didn't get much time for really long runs or nice alpine weekends, but I made the most of the incredible trails I found right behind my new house. Yes, it's true, it was the hottest summer in the last 50 years... but as you might already know, that heat adaptation actually came in handy at UTMB too.

Still sober on the first climb

Even so, I felt calm. I knew I had what it took to run a decent race. And in the days before the race, I relaxed, cheered on friends racing other events, and mooched food and beer at various parties. I was still very calm on Friday afternoon, packing my backpack and drop bags, going over the last details with MC, who would once again be spending two days crisscrossing three countries to pick up my pieces along the way.

But once she dropped me off in town for me to head to the start, the sheer scale of what was waiting for me, the crowds, the atmosphere, got the better of me, and as I walked toward the start between two roaring walls of spectators, I felt like a kid on his first day of school. Intimidated.

Head down, I found myself a small gap among the superstars, then, thankfully, my friends James Elson and Rick Ashton called me over, and I sat with them, Danny Kendall and Majell Blackhausen, in the sun, talking, joking, letting the twenty minutes before the start slip by, so much so I barely even noticed the unbearable Vangelis soundtrack playing before the gun (what a pain in the ass), and once we set off I just focused on not getting swept away by the 2,300 runners behind me.

The first stretch down to Les Houches flew by, as usual: I chatted a bit with Stefano Ruzza and Daniele Gaido, stopped at the aid station, and, in the heat, immediately doused my head with... a cup of electrolyte mix! Great start. I grabbed a Coke, and then things got serious with the climb to Delevret. Poles out (a last-minute call), and off I went. I tried to keep my effort level in check, chatting with Michael Jones, a guy I'd battled with in the second half of Lakeland 100, who I'd then run into again at the campsite in Cham, but he was clearly in much better shape than me, so I held back and enjoyed the descent into Saint-Gervais. The usual cheering crowds, then a runnable stretch through to Les Contamines. I found myself in good company, alongside the stars of the show, Fernanda Maciel and Stephanie Howe, a position I was more than happy with. Les Contamines is the last point where you can see your crew until Courmayeur, so I loaded up on gels, water, drank my usual Coke, kissed MC goodbye, and set off again into the darkness of late evening.

The climb to Col du Bonhomme opens with one of my favorite stretches of the whole race. Thousands of people line the sides of the first part of the climb, and it feels like being at the Tour de France. Mostly Spanish, Catalan and Basque fans, but you'll spot the odd familiar face in the mix too, like Topher Gaylord, and they make an absolutely insane racket, complete with pats on the back and personalized shouts of encouragement. If something like that doesn't fire you up, you're either a robot or emotionally dead. I handled the climb fine, and on the following traverse I tucked in behind Daniele, a friend and a great runner, then threw myself into the descent with real enjoyment, until my Petzl NAO (kindly loaned to me by Petzl, though I'd never had time to test it) gave out on me, and I went down hard on my ankle. The same ankle I'd badly twisted ten days before the race, and which had, miraculously, recovered. I was furious. And I really didn't want to blow the race just because I'd decided to run a fancy headlamp I'd never even tried out. I got up, tested the ankle, it seemed okay. Then the headlamp: dim light, but swapping the battery without ever having practiced it first (smart, I know) felt out of the question, so I figured I'd do it at Les Chapieux, since it was only three kilometers away. Moving carefully, I reach the aid station and, tadah, Petzl support crew: fortune favors the fools.

Fresh battery, a bit of Coke, and off I go before I get cold, especially since I could see some famous names around me starting to struggle, and I didn't want that to rub off on me.

I really enjoyed the paved stretch after the aid station. I mostly power-walked, with a bit of easy jogging mixed in, but it was fantastic, enjoying a huge moon over those mountains, in unexpectedly warm weather. The next climb, up Col de la Seigne, is tough, but I had a good rhythm going, chatted a bit with Jesse Hynes, then caught up with Michele Graglia, who wasn't doing well, but was still incredibly kind about it. There was a bit of wind, and for about half an hour I even put my jacket on, but the moment the descent started I went right back to my tank top, it was genuinely too hot. What a night!

I'd almost forgotten that the Poletti family had introduced a new course variant this year, but the line of headlamps climbing back up the mountain instead of dropping down to Lac Combal quickly reminded me.

The loop around the Pyramides? An absolute joke. A climb through mud and boulders, followed by a pointless descent over rocks where there was no way to find any kind of decent rhythm, all the way to Rifugio Elisabetta, already close to Lac Combal. Completely disconnected from the rest of what's by now a traditional course, and totally out of place. Still, once I reached Lac Combal, I got a lovely surprise, Maria Carla was there cheering me on, she told me I was doing great, and that Pablo was just ahead of me. I left the aid station in good spirits, eager to reach Courmayeur quickly.

On the climb up Mont Favre I passed Danny Kendall (what a legend), who wasn't having his best day, and Stephanie Howe, right before the crest, then Jeff Browning, whose ankle had given out before the descent into Courmayeur. That last stretch has always been a nightmare for me, but overall, with a Spanish guy for company, it went by fine, and at the bottom my friend Alessandro Montani was waiting to escort me all the way to the Forum Sport Center.

I knew I was doing well and didn't want to waste too much time. After cheers from Mau and Ale (thank youuuu), Maria Carla was, as always, perfect, giving me updates, resupplying me, and sending me off again in just four minutes flat. I even managed to get lost in Courmayeur, which at three in the morning was a ghost town (let's just say the French side had a bit more crowd energy going for it), then I started the long, slow climb back up toward Bertone, where Sage Canaday was waiting, forced to drop after a fall on that damned Pyramides section.

As dawn broke, I felt tired, filthy and miserable, while usually everyone treats it as a kind of rebirth, but I caught up with my friend Christian Modena (who finished, and finished well, despite a wrecked stomach) and Michael Jones (also finishing well, also with a wrecked stomach).

I ran for a bit with Joe Grant, whom I'd met the previous Tuesday at the #LikeTheWind party, and after Arnuva I tucked in behind two Germans who were moving at a really good clip.

The climb to Col Ferret was tough, as always, but having passed a few people gave me a morale boost. The descent that follows has always been my low point, both at CCC and at UTMB, but I fell in with a solid group and tried to hold on.

Meanwhile, the heat was starting to make itself felt: I'd run out of water and was starting to worry, when we finally crossed a stream.

The others filled up their bottles and moved on, I was tempted to follow to avoid losing the train, but deep down I knew it was the right call to stop and take all the time I needed to get myself right, especially since we weren't even at km 100 yet.

So I drank, refilled my bottles, then cooled off in the stream to properly digest the gel I'd just taken. It worked, because once I reached La Fouly, I drank a cup of Coke and headed straight back out, while the Terzo crew updated me on the situation: the high temperatures were starting to claim their first victims, but I was still okay. More or less.

Heavy legs, but still able to run. Enough that for a good stretch I tuck in behind two Spaniards flying along, but within a single kilometer things go from okay, to not quite okay, to completely wrecked. Here we go, I thought. Low gear and keep pushing, every five minutes I dunked my head in the icy fountains of the villages along the road.

I finally emerged at the base of the climb up to Champex: not very long, but pretty steep. I was decidedly in pieces, and I started climbing very slowly.

Halfway up, another fountain: this time I sat right down in it, waited a good half a minute to actually cool off, then, slowly but surely, I made it to the top too, where the Terzo crew was waiting for me.

I sat down for a moment and finally gave myself a few minutes. Nothing special, the usual Coke and gel, but Maria Carla insisted I change my tank top and take a moment to actually relax, and, as always, she was right. Around the lake I was still stiff, but the moment I entered the woods things started clicking again.

At the base of Bovine I caught up with Seb and Sylvaine Camus, two excellent trail runners, which gave me a real boost. The climb is brutal, and this year they made it even worse by tacking on an extra, pointless stretch. I also passed Damian Hall, then Robbie Britton. I felt bad for Robbie, because I know the kind of work he'd put into preparing for this race, I was sure he had everything it took to break into the top ten, a goal he can absolutely reach. I even tried cheering him on, but it clearly wasn't his day.

Somehow, some way, I found enough left in my legs to run a decent descent and tuck in behind the group, but just before Trient, Aussie Majell blew past me at twice my speed, how he still had that kind of gas left at 150 km, I have no idea, but I still arrived in Trient buzzing, completely riding a high.

I changed socks (a pro move), refilled everything, and headed out with one mission: reach Vallorcine still on my feet, then start worrying about the final climb.

Cared for like a baby

For some inexplicable reason, I was convinced the climb to Catogne was easy, and would suit my strengths perfectly. Dead wrong. As I dragged myself along the trail, watching Majell disappear ahead of me, I scanned everywhere with my eyes, searching for streams, trickles, puddles, any form of water at all.

Up to that point I'd been soaking my head, wrists and neck to cool my core temperature and manage to digest the string of gels I kept downing, but here that plan fell apart spectacularly. At the top I actually had to stop for a full minute, sipping the last of my water, wondering what on earth I'd do next.

But fortune favors the fools, and sure enough, two guys told me the aid station was just a kilometer away. Reassured, I pushed on, and once at the aid station I dove straight under two glorious ice-cold taps. Behind me, another Italian showed up, Ivano Molin. Ivano's a great runner from the Dolomites, but I wasn't about to give up without a fight, so on the first part of the descent I managed to put some distance between us. Then the terrain got technical, I broke the grip on my pole, and Ivano is simply stronger on that kind of ground. Still, I was happy, getting close to Vallorcine, and I even ran into my friend Victor Mound, who cheered me on to keep pushing hard.

But fortune favors the fools, and sure enough, two guys told me the aid station was just a kilometer away. Reassured, I pushed on, and once at the aid station I dove straight under two glorious ice-cold taps. Behind me, another Italian showed up, Ivano Molin. Ivano's a great runner from the Dolomites, but I wasn't about to give up without a fight, so on the first part of the descent I managed to put some distance between us. Then the terrain got technical, I broke the grip on my pole, and Ivano is simply stronger on that kind of ground. Still, I was happy, getting close to Vallorcine, and I even ran into my friend Victor Mound, who cheered me on to keep pushing hard.

The sight of Vallorcine, with all my friends screaming, was almost too much. Sonia and Fulvio had also made it there, and I nearly welled up.

Loaded with gels, bottles full, and off running again. Or, well, more or less. In reality I was mostly walking, with bursts of light jogging thrown in here and there. I stopped for a second to cool off in the river, and Ivano passed me again, and with him about 50 meters ahead, we reached Col des Montets.

This is where my crew was supposed to tell me to relax, take it easy, that it was almost over. Or, at least, that's what I wanted to hear.

Instead, Maria Carla told me I still had to try to catch Ivano and everyone else ahead of me, to give everything, and empty the tank on the final descent. I was in pure survival mode, but her words lit something in me.

I started the climb to Tête aux Vents with Massi, Luca and Sonia from Genoa, who kept fueling me up, promising that if I still had Ivano in sight at the top, I'd give everything to try and catch him.

Anyone who's run it knows it's a horrible climb, but once I got past the top, after the fifteen fake summits, the sun behind me was lighting Mont Blanc and the Grandes Jorasses in orange with its last rays, and thirty chamois stood peacefully along the sides of the trail. I was about to finish UTMB, and everything was incredible. Pure magic.

But I still had work to finish, and Ivano was two, three minutes ahead of me, alongside Renan Rouanet: I folded up my poles, which I couldn't stand anymore, shoved them into my backpack, and told myself I had to throw down what little I had left. Without the poles I finally moved well, and on the long traverse before La Flégère, I put down everything I had. It was one of those moments where nothing can stop you, I let myself surrender fully to the pure pleasure of running as fast as I possibly could, and it was incredible. I exchanged a few words with Ivano (an absolute legend), and pushed even harder.

At La Flégère I downed a Coke and ran straight back out: I was terrified of the idea of having to sprint it out to the finish with someone. One position more or less meant absolutely nothing at that point, but you know how racing goes, we're never that rational, and in that moment I was completely riding an adrenaline high. After the first steep stretch on the ski slopes, I dropped onto the singletrack and truly let everything go: I was flying, my legs miraculously semi-fresh, with enough gas left to carry me to the finish I could already start to taste. I pushed again at La Floria, again through the woods, then again on the pavement, until I crossed the bridge over the Arve and saw Fulvio waiting for me: an incredible moment, I realized I'd actually done it, and that I'd finish decently well too.

I started high-fiving and greeting everyone as I ran through streets still packed with people. At the pharmacy corner, Maria Carla was waiting, in the exact same spot she'd waited for me four years earlier. I made the final loop, and finally, the finish line, right there in front of me.

My mates were there, and I was completely out of my mind, I don't remember it all that well, but after crossing the line I think I bowed toward the mountain that had let me pass, then bent down onto my knees and finally caught my breath. Maria Carla arrived, and that goofball Massi handed me a beer, which was simply perfect after all that road. We hung around the finish line a bit longer, then got out of the way.

The best feeling ever... sitting down in peace with MC after 26 hours.