Italy, day eight

The days were all starting to blur together, as were the names of the TDG life bases. I'd forgotten the name of this one within minutes after I arrived around 11 p.m. Like the other checkpoints, it was stashed in a quaint mountain town at the end of a long and winding canyon road. The white tent was wedged in a small plaza between several hotels, where street lights flickered in dull streaks of orange amid the race's overwhelming flood lights. I parked the car under the artificial midnight sun, read my Kindle, and eventually dozed off only to be awoken by Beat tapping on the window at 1:30 a.m.

It's an intriguing environment, these events where people from a multitude of different nationalities come and go in the night, but all share the common and often debilitating condition of being human. In places such as this I get the sense that there is no nationalism, no language barriers, only fragile biological beings trying to endure something quite difficult and painful. They have their individual reasons for being here, their personal goals and backgrounds, but they all have the same drooping look in their eyes, the same drunken stagger in their steps, the same ashen faces, hunched postures and quaking hands as they clutch lukewarm plates of pasta. Sitting with Beat inside the white tent, I would often forget where I was until I mentioned something to a nearby racer, who would then regard me with a blank stare and mumble something back in French or German or Italian. We didn't need language to communicate, though; their eyes said so much more than words — I am tired. My mind is liquid. I have forgotten my name. But I feel so alive. I do not know why.

My own mind was starting to slip away. Despite GPS's flawless directions, I lost my way driving down the canyon road and made a few circles around the deserted streets of a stone village before finding my way back to the highway and home at 4:30 a.m. Beat called at first light, about 6 a.m., absolutely elated about the scenery he was looking at — a dramatic emotional upswing that he wanted to share. I was unable to doze back off after that, so I spent the morning attempting some work and blogging in Courmayeur before recruiting Martina to join me on my next life base trip that evening.

We arrived at Ollomont early enough to hike up Col Brison before I expected Beat to arrive at his final life base, about fifty kilometers from the finish. It wasn't quite early enough to make it to the Col and back before dark, so after the first two thousand feet of climbing, I amped up my pace to near-max. For me, few things are more physically and emotionally satisfying than a hard climb in a mountainous landscape. I love the feel of sweat streaming from my cheeks onto the rocks, of hot blood searing my calves, of biceps flexing as I dig my poles into the dirt. In the midst of a good climb, I can transition from being completely exhausted to overflowing with energy and life within minutes — no sleep, no food, no problem. Of course, I don't expect to feel this way indefinitely, but for one steep Col in the Italian Alps, even my overtired body feels like it can take on the whole world.

And, in the midst of this elation, I think about whether I could take on a race like the Tor des Geants. Like the Tour Divide, it's a race that fits many of my interests and strengths. The sheer length, steepness and technicality of the course forces even the fastest competitors into trekking mode — it's a hiking race, not a trail run. I am a clumsy and slow runner, but I'm a good hiker — indeed, I'm often faster when I'm in hiking mode versus trying to shuffle up these steep slopes. I also do a lot less damage to my own body when I don't try to run — my tender feet can feel pretty trashed after a six-hour 50K, but all of the hiking I did this week had no effect on my feet, and only a little on my legs. To a certain extent I can operate okay on heavy sleep deprivation as long as I keep the calories coming in. And as long as I don't trash my feet (admittedly, this is quite unlikely over that much distance) and eat enough, I think I could thrive in the environment of the Tor des Geants. And of course, I could just hike the whole Alta Via della Valle d'Aosta without the structure of a race. I would love this, but at the same time, there is a side of me that relishes in the extreme challenge offered by the TDG, made possible by the support of the race organization and the simple drive to complete the course in a time that might otherwise be impossible. Racing is motivation to push beyond suffering and personal limits, and in its own way, suffering becomes a meaningful and rewarding experience in itself. It's why, if I ever go back to the Tour Divide, I don't think I would be satisfied to tour the GDMBR at a leisurely pace, even though I love bicycle touring. No, the GDMBR carries a different meaning for me, and I'm not sure I could return without the drive to complete the course faster and better than I did the first time. 

Different experiences, racing and touring. Both good, but undeniably different. Indeed, I loved my tour up Col Brison. I arrived at the pass right at sunset in a wash of magical light, feeling good, with no requirement to hike down the Col, up another Col, down that Col, and up on a seemingly endless loop. I could just sit on the crest, bundle in all of my warm and still-dry layers as cold wind whisked along the ridge, spend long minutes watching the orange light fade from the horizon and turn to pink Alpenglow on distant glaciers, smile, stand up, and hike down the way I came. And indeed, even in my best element I can still make mistakes, still be clumsy. I had become accustomed to hiking with poles, which improve my balance and allow to me move downhill at a faster speed than I otherwise would. Without poles, I took a couple of bad steps and once wrenched my right knee violently, causing a burst of pain. For a few seconds, I fretted that I had done something bad enough to prevent me from continuing down the trail, but eventually the pain subsided and I was able to walk without limping — although my twisted knee did hurt, and forced me to take deliberately slow steps. I stopped at a refugio located right at treeline to watch the moon rise over the mountains and wait for Beat, who called to let me know he was about an hour away. Martina caught up to me and we waited together, eventually chatting with the race volunteer at the refugio using Martina's limited French and my subtle sign language.

Beat was in a lot of pain when he reached the refugio. His feet were hamburger, he told us, a wrap of blisters that burned like fire and muscle sensitivity that made every step feel like a plunge into a bowl of thumb tacks. After spending the evening almost believing that I could take on the Tor des Geants, looking at Beat's near-bloody feet was another dose of reality about just how difficult this race really is. A long mountain bike race is one thing, and can hurt, but not in nearly the same way. In a foot race, the body experiences all of the impact, and when something goes wrong, there's nothing to fall back on — no shocks, no coasting, no wheels. My feet are my own weak link, and in my experiences, there's really no pain quite as agonizing during a physical effort as hurty feet.

We traveled together down to Ollomont, where Beat decided to sleep for two hours before having the race medics tape his feet. Martina was sweet and waited with me until Beat woke up so I could see him off and take his bag, given this was the last major checkpoint. Beat limped away from Ollomont at about 1:30 a.m., into another long night.

Italy, day seven

After my ten-hour strenuous hike, having finally crawled into bed at 11 p.m., I was back up at 2 a.m. to begin the two-hour drive out to Gressoney. Timing Beat's checkpoint arrivals was a mystery wrapped in an enigma of guesswork. I at least had last year's splits to go on, and he was generally running similar times about three to six hours ahead of his 2010 pace. But timing Beat's exact arrival required exhausting margins. If I estimated he would arrive around 6 a.m., I really had to be at the checkpoint by 4, and not be terribly surprised when he didn't show up until 8. The Tor des Geants life bases were not exactly welcoming of crew members. We weren't even allowed inside the buildings unless our racers were physically there and a kind volunteer let us slip through the controls. I learned to get comfortable in my little rented Volkswagon compact, snacking on jam sandwiches and occasionally getting out of the car to jog a few blocks to stay warm, because gas is expensive in Europe.

Beat was tired and quietly cranky when he checked out of Gressoney at 9:30 a.m. I followed him along the first five kilometers out of the base along a rushing glacial river. We moved along at a pace that can only be described as painfully slow, about 2 mph on a flat river path, as Beat tried to put his game face back on. Accompanying us was a Russian runner who had become so tired on the second night that he walked right off the trail into a head-over-feet tumble down a scree slope, smashing his face and badly spraining his nose. He was wrapped in gauze and sniffing loudly through his swollen purple nose, ranting about the lack of Neosporin at the life bases. "They have everything to fix feet and no Neosporin," he repeated incessantly while Beat argued with him about the merits of the antiseptic ointment. I probably would have found this all hilarious if I wasn't grappling with my own sour stomach from sleep deprivation and an admittedly poor diet.

Pacing is prohibited in the Tor des Geants, although short periods of accompaniment are viewed as okay. So I couldn't hike with Beat, but I had driven all the way out here and wanted to explore, so I broke away and headed up the steep trail on my own. Like every pass on this wide loop, the trail was rocky and relentless. The trail signs listing elevations in meters consistently fooled me into underestimating the effort. A climb from 1,200 meters to 2,700 meters doesn't seem so bad, until you realize that the relatively small number converts to nearly 5,000 feet. But the horizontal distances are relatively short, and if you're willing to expend a gallon of sweat, these climbs can go by surprisingly fast. Despite his slow plod along the river, Beat consistently shadowed me about a quarter mile back, and admitted he used my bright green hat in the distance as a rabbit of sorts to pick up his pace.

Beat's camera battery died sometime during the night, so I waited at the pass to take his obligatory self portrait at the Col. I guess technically it's not a self portrait if someone else shoots it, but he managed to get one of these on every pass on the course but one.

From Col Pinter, I noticed yellow trail markers continuing up the shale toward a high peak, and figured I might as well go for broke. Keep in mind that I hiked ten hours the day before, hadn't slept, hadn't really eaten much, hadn't brought all that much water for my "short" morning walk, and still felt like roadkill. But comparing myself to Beat, I felt no justification to slack off or complain.

As "trail" 11A crested the summit ridge, it became increasingly more rugged and technical. I am normally extremely shy when it comes to exposed scrambling, especially when I am alone and there's no one around to spot my broken body on the rocks, but I admit I can be swept with summit fever. The marked route also fooled me into a false sense of security that landed me well outside my comfort zone, clinging to a precipice over what looked like, and literally was, a 7,000-foot tumble down to the Gressoney valley. All I can say is that if we were in the States, what passes for a hiking trail in the Alps could easily be labeled class four and even lower class five bouldering, incorporating crack climbing and all. At one point I just had to ditch my poles and was unwilling to relinquish my three-point contact, so I just propped them against the wall. It didn't seem necessary to fold them up and put them in my pack because I would be  back at this spot within minutes, and I hadn't seen a single other person since the Col.

On the final pitch, I had to press my back against the wall to allow another hiker to go by, a man who only grunted when I said "buon giorno" in a breathless whisper. I didn't think anything of it. He descended quickly and was already moving along the summit ridge while I made my final overcautiously slow ascent. I basically did little more than tag the top and start back down before vertigo really kicked in and involuntary crying commenced. (I didn't cry. I did come close.) I was angry at myself for pushing so far beyond my personal limits and blamed sleep deprivation for clouding my judgement.

I was nearly "safe" when I reached the place where my poles should have been, and they weren't there. I had laid them horizontally on a solid ledge, so the chance they fell off was extremely slim, and even so I scanned the surrounding area several times over. They were simply gone, and the best explanation I had was that this one hiker dude actually stole them, right out from under me. I was more sad than angry, as it was my fault for ditching them, and also because I really liked these lightweight carbon Black Diamond poles. I bought them in Anchorage right before the Susitna 100 and they essentially saved my race, and have been trusty hiking companions ever since. Not to mention they weren't cheap, but what made me even more sad was the fact I was now going to have to descend 7,000 feet of steep, rocky trail without poles. To the random hiker dude who didn't even say good morning back to me and then stole my poles: I hope they break and you fall on your face and sprain your nose.

I later learned the peak I climbed was Testa Grigia, a 3,315-meter (10,875-foot) peak that's famous for skiing and even has a bivy hut stationed just below the summit ridge (I saw it, but was too sad about my poles and mentally exhausted from vertigo to check it out.) Then it was just down, down, down, to wrap up a twelve-mile hike that took eight solid hours. Testa Grigia looked impressive from the valley, with its stark gray wall and crown of clouds. On the way back to town I met up with Angela from Canada and Anne from Anchorage, who were traveling together out of the Gressoney life base. I turned around to walk with them for a bit. We passed an Italian bakery and I mentioned off-hand that I was absolutely starving and would likely hit this place after I returned. Angela turned to Anne and said, "We're vacationing in Italy. I haven't even had a real Italian pastry yet. Let's go get something." We all went inside together and Angela treated everyone to apple pastries while I quietly stocked up on breadsticks, tuna and apples for sustenance for my next long life base wait.

 I was impressed with Angela's attitude. She seemed so laid back in the midst of this effort that was burying me in much smaller doses, and she appeared to be truly enjoying herself. Anne unfortunately was hurting, and during our bakery excursion decided she should drop from the race to avoid cementing a reoccurring case of plantar faciitis. I walked with her back to the base as she explained to all of the departing racers that she was dropping out and they all enthusiastically encouraged her to sleep on it first. Amazing attitudes, all of them. I also saw my friends Steve and Harry just before we reached the life base. They seemed extremely out of it and initially reacted like they didn't even recognize me.  I warned them about the rough climb ahead and Harry insisted that the trail to the first refugio "wasn't steep" because it didn't look that way on the elevation profile, even though I had just told him I was actually there two hours earlier and personally clocked it gaining 1,200 feet in three quarters of a mile. I didn't feel compelled to argue with him, because in a race like this, denial can be an effective strategy. I left my friends and began the long-way-around drive to the next life base and the long night ahead.

Italy, day six

On Tuesday I had a good block of daylight between my life base trips, so I decided to squeeze in my long hike for the week. I mapped a route following the Tor des Geants course backward to Col de Malatra, which is the last pass in the race, then crossing overland to complete a loop over two passes, for a total of three big climbs and a good chunk of distance. I slept late because, to be honest, sleep has been a rare commodity during this trip, as food has also been. The food is delicious when I can get it, but Italian culture is not conducive to an on-the-go lifestyle, with its mid-day store closures and complete lack of convenience stores and supermarkets. I often have a very difficult time acquiring food when I need it the most, and have taken to eating bread and jam sandwiches for more meals than I care to admit. At this point my stomach doesn't even really care about pizza and authentic pasta, it just wants calories. It's funny to come all the way to Italy and lose almost all interest in the quality of food in favor of quantity. My Americanism shines through.

But, yes, I at least got a more normal amount of sleep (read, more than four hours) and got going around 10 a.m. I passed the Tor des Geants course markers on my way out the Trail du Mont Blanc, preparing for the race finish. It was more than 48 hours into the 200-mile race and no one was even close to finishing. Ultimately the winner would come in at 6 p.m. Wednesday, a finishing time of 81 hours. Consider this against the 100-mile Ultra Trail du Mont Blanc, which the top runners finish in just over 20 hours.

The climb to Col de Malatra was long, nearly 12 miles on a rolling traverse that included about 6,500 feet of climbing. But besides the TDG flags it was just me out there, lost in a massive Alpine moonscape.

The col itself was just a narrow notch in a veritable wall. At 2,925 meters, it's the third highest pass on the course.

Looking through the notch to the other side.

I saw mountain bike tracks on this trail. Six thousand feet of descending — must be a grunt to get the bikes up here but fully awesome to ride down. I was certainly jealous.

I left the trail and started my traverse, with two passes and lots more climbing still in front of me.

I crested Col Sapin at about 6 p.m., having walked nearly continuously for eight hours. I didn't make many stops because I didn't really have any food beyond a couple of jam sandwiches and some candy I scrounged out of Beat's rejected race food pile. I vowed to make a real effort to go grocery shopping the following day.

My legs were incredibly tired and feet sore on the final descent, which I spent contemplating the scale of the Tor des Geants, again. After all, I had only hiked three passes, and the second two were comparably small.

I finally tromped back to my apartment at 8 p.m. after 24 miles and 11,300 feet of climbing — a truly challenging and beautiful solo outing. It was too late to go to the now-closed grocery store and I was too tired and hungry to deal with the leisurely (read: drawn-out) waits and dainty portions of the local restaurants, so I scrounged some Barilla pasta and a can of crushed tomatoes for dinner. It was the most delicious dinner ever. As Beat has said about his own limited food choices in the Tor des Geants, there's no seasoning quite like hunger.