After the TDG

Looking toward Mont Blanc (Monte Bianco) from the Italian side

The day after Beat finished the Tor des Geants, he was predictably wrecked. Also predictable, for a person whose body had carried him so far over so many days, was the way he didn't fully believe he was done. One minute he'd be scheming about running 22 miles out and back to the iced-over pass that the TDG skipped, and the next he'd unintentionally doze off over an empty pizza plate. In making travel plans, we'd opted to stay through Sunday's awards ceremony. So we had two more days in Italy. Although to a much lesser extent than Beat, I was feeling fairly worn down myself. But, like Beat, I figured my body had handled these daily mountain outings just fine thus far. Why wouldn't I be able to continue indefinitely?

Before we came to Italy, I had ambitions to fast-trek the Tour du Mont Blanc trail on my own over three days. I only planned to do this if Beat ended his race several days early — mostly because the minimal support I could provide Beat in the Tor des Geants was more important to me. Not that he really needed it — but I did hate the idea of not being available if things went bad out there. So I never did get to see that much of the TMB route during this trip, but on Saturday I set out to explore a small section from Courmayeur, traveling toward France. My legs felt sluggish, and there were flashes of muscle pain and cramping in the first steep miles up to Delorme. As I climbed, I revised my expectations to the Maison Vielle refuge, only about three miles and 2,500 feet of climbing from Courmayeur. I was going to turn around after that. But as I gained elevation, the day revealed itself as the most perfect kind of bluebird — warm and brilliantly clear. Sunshine and mountains are really the purest source of energy there is.

Although I've only seen sections of the Tour du Mont Blanc trail, and even then mostly in fog and night, I have to say — this has to be one of the best sections of the whole route. A long, rolling traverse crossed the slopes above a glacier valley. It was blissfully runnable, which I tried despite cramping legs, and also bikeable. I think I actually started drooling when this guy rolled by — as much as I love hiking and running, wheels still hold the deepest affection in my heart. I mean, look at that — all that scenic singletrack. The trail was deceptively steep, and it would be a tough ride. But maybe someday I'll come back with a bike.

I crossed up and over L'Arp Sup Vielle and chatted with a two men from New Zealand who claimed they were on a "weight loss trip" and that the abundance of French food along the TMB wasn't helping them in their quest. "Wait until you go through Italy. Italians make really amazing food," I replied. "Don't tell us that!" they proclaimed. They were also noticeably distraught when I told them the gondola down from Delorme didn't appear to be running that day. "You mean we have to hike the whole ten kilometers into Courmayuer?" they moaned. Funny guys.

I wasn't ready to be done just yet but didn't want to descend too far on the TMB, so I cut over on a side trail that continued climbing up the ridge, even though I had no idea where it went. I thought I might climb about 500 feet to a better viewpoint. But the trail kept going up, and became continuously more rugged. Eventually I was crawling across boulders above 8,500 feet elevation and thought, "Huh. I must be climbing a mountain."

Mont Fortin was the name of the mountain, a little peak at a modest 9,050 feet elevation — little, but rugged. The route, marked with yellow paint, wrapped around the boulder field on a steep face, still ice-slicked despite the rapidly warming temperatures. Some of the terrain left me a little sketched out, and I nearly turned back three times. But if I looked around, I always I figured out a better way around the obstacle that was tripping me up, and continued to the top. The panoramic views were worth it.

Enjoying the last of my Reeses Peanut Butter Cups at the top. Of the six packs I brought with me to Europe, I saved these for a special occasion.

The ruins of a stone building, possibly a former refuge or bivouac on a ledge atop Mont Fortin.

An equally tempting traverse down into the next valley over. If I had a map with me and had a clue where it went, I likely would have taken it.

So many incredible views. Since I told Beat I was going to go for a short hike and now looked like I'd be out for nearly seven hours, I texted him with this as an excuse.

I had to return to the sketchy traverse on the way back down. There were only a few fields of snow left on the mountain, but they were rock-hard ice and any falls, while not fatal, would have really hurt. I took my time.

Then back down the TMB. I tried to run to make up time, but the legs were angry with me again. Still, I was bursting with energy. Mountains and sun. That's all I need (and peanut butter cups.)

Courmayeur to Mont Fortin, round-trip distance: 17.2 miles
Total climbing: 6,829 feet
Total time: 6:37

Tor des Geants, day five

Dressed for the weather above Rifugio Bertone — temperatures in the 30s and 20-30 mph winds

It was a cold night. I could tell even curled up in the back of the rental car, because my 40-degree-rated sleeping bag wasn't enough to break the chill. Beat and Dmitry arrived at Valtournenche, kilometer 236, at 5 a.m. and informed me that they planned to eat and run. However, once inside the tent, we learned that the race organization had paused the race, citing extreme weather on the higher passes. I strove to eavesdrop on the volunteers' Italian chatter, but the most we could make out was 110 kilometer-per-hour winds and repeats of the word "Malatra," a high pass that was still a day away for Beat. We guessed there was lots of new snow on that pass. 

TDG racers lining up for the restart in Valtournenche

Beat and Dmitry took advantage of the suspension to grab an unplanned nap, while I lingered in the tent to continue to eavesdrop on conversations I couldn't understand, and also chat with another American runner, Dan from Bellingham, Washington. Dan had way too much energy for 5 a.m., let alone being a Tor des Geants racer at 5 a.m. He was panting at the gate like an Iditarod sled dog, almost manic with a desire to be released. It was actually humorous to watch, as he was also too exhausted to realize he was full-on rambling at a rather impressive rate of words per minute. Finally, just before 9 a.m., the volunteers announced the race was back on. A few dozen runners who had backed up at the checkpoint lined up for the restart.

A typical "side street" in Valtournenche

Valtournenche is an strange village. There essentially was no available land, but people built a large town on the mountainside all the same. Several ten-plus-story buildings are stacked up the hill like a staircase, and many of the residential zones are only accessible by stone steps. Just for fun, I followed Beat and Dmitry up the trail out of town, but within five minutes I felt distressingly bad. My breadsticks-and-jam dinner didn't really hold me over, and I'd been up for more than four hours with no breakfast. My blood sugar was so low that I felt dizzy and my legs were wobbly. I was tripping all over myself on the stairs, and finally had to announce to the guys that I couldn't keep up so I was turning around. Indeed, I was a pathetic case.

Rifugio Bertone

Somehow I got the car back to Courmayeur and crashed hard for the afternoon. It's been a while since I've been so tired. I was less tired after I finished UTMB. It's humbling to me because what I chose to do this week was a fraction of what the Tor des Geants demands. And yet I was shattered. I took two or three fitful naps, but always woke up after fifteen minutes or so, drenched in sweat, with harrowing memories of the last scene of some terrible nightmare. These naps were far from restful. In one of the nightmares, I found a bunch of infant kittens floating in a toilet in a checkpoint restroom. Most of them were dead but two were alive and I rescued them, but I was so upset about it that I didn't even know what to do. So I just ran around the checkpoint asking volunteers if they had any blankets for the kittens, and no one would help me. It was horrible. I rarely have nightmares, let alone about something so random as kitten homicide. I must have been really overtired.

Mont Blanc, or Monte Bianco in Italian, covered in a fresh layer of white

The nightmares and the weird naps left me feeling almost feverish, and I genuinely had to get outside. It was after 5 p.m. so I set out for a "short" hike up to the ridge above Rifugio Bertone, where I hoped to catch the sunset. It was a beautiful evening but cold, deeply cold. By the time I ascended above timberline, the ambient temperature must have been near freezing, and winds were blowing around 30 miles per hour. I thought about all the TDG racers out there fighting these conditions, adding yet another layer of difficulty to the battle. And indeed, there would be more late drops from respiratory infections, and most racers had to deal with painful coughing and bouts of mild hypothermia.

Why trail running is energizing rather than exhausting — I stand by this theory. 

This grassy, rolling ridge above Val Sapin is one of the few "runnable" trails close to town. I was feeling more energetic, and also fairly chilled, so I broke into a jog and then a full run as evening light crept up the glaciers of Mont Blanc. It was breathtakingly beautiful. The bad energy I'd accumulated earlier in the day melted away. All it took was another healthy dose of elevation.

The village of St. Rhemy en Bosses

Thursday was another night of short sleep as I prepared to meet Beat in Ollomont, but ultimately missed him because he was unexpectedly fast into that checkpoint. One of the most surprising things I observed in the Tor des Geants is the way Beat seemed to grow stronger as the miles and climbing stacked up. He was still in a lot of pain with his shredded feet, but as long as his body was pumping out endorphins, he was climbing well and even occasionally running down hills. His splits were becoming harder to gauge because already he was covering ground faster than he had late in the race in 2011, and continuing to improve on his improvements. Because this race came directly after the beatdown of the PTL, it seemed as though he had descended into the depths of physical depletion and discovered that the bottom was actually just the other side of a sphere, then emerged into new sunlight, healthy and strong again. He'll beg to differ with this convoluted theory, but this is how it appeared to me and other observers — he was getting stronger. Maybe longer really is better.

Beat and Dmitry travel the final 10-kilometer gradual road descent into St. Rhemy.

I was already planning to meet him at the 303-kilometer checkpoint, St. Rhemy, when I learned of another race rumor that Col Malatra ultimately proved to be impassable, and race organizers planned to end the race there, thirty kilometers short of Courmayeur. I frantically researched the situation as best as I could at 4 a.m., and learned that dangerous ice conditions coated the steep trail to the pass. Mountain guides set out to chip steps into the icy snow, but determined that the trail could not be safely crossed without winter equipment such as an ice ax and crampons, which no TDG racer had. About sixty frontrunners had made it into Courmayeur, most who crossed the pass during the realitive warmth of the day. But already at least one racer had been injured during a night crossing, badly enough to be helicopter evacuated from the pass. There was no way to safely manage the 300-plus runners still making their way toward the finish, so the hard decision was made to move the finish line to St. Rhemy.

Beat and his new friend Dmitry cross the finish line

The final miles into St. Rhemy were a gradual dirt road descent, something that must be a mental battle of boredom for tired runners. For me, it was a pleasant early morning walk. I sauntered up the trail and intersected Beat about four miles from town. He too had heard the news that the race was ending in St. Rhemy, and, in learning the punishment was about to end, his brain shut down the endorphin production. His was in a world of hurt and not happy. I made the mistake of misjudging the length of a climb, and received a long and stern lecture about the demoralizing powers of misinformation. I don't blame Beat for his mood. I also can't hide my crankiness when I am in pain.

Beat signing the famous poster that all finishers sign. 

Still, (most of) the crankiness dissolved the second he crossed the finish line. Beat finished 166th of 630 starters and 392 finishers, not a bad result for a 2012 PTL finisher. I asked him if he was disappointed about missing the last pass and final thirty kilometers into Courmayeur. He said no, because he'd already finished the TDG twice. Plus, the thirty kilometers over Col Malatra is almost a victory lap at that point. While parts of it are steep and the pass is high, there is nothing particularly challenging about that section of trail (unless of course it's covered in ice.) "Once you've reach St. Rhemy, you know you can do it," Beat said. "So it feels like the finish already, in a way."

We also learned that Beat is one of 18 people to have finished all three runnings of the Tor des Geants. He said this means he has to go back next year for a fourth. Oi.

Courmayer to ridge above Rifugio Bertone, round trip: 9.5 miles
Total climbing: 4,219
Total time: 2:37

Tor des Geants, day four

Just before noon Wednesday, Beat arrived in Gressoney, kilometer 200, in a sour mood. Despite the near-30C-temperatures in Donnas just a day ago, the weather had taken a sharp turn for the worse. Rain throughout the night had slicked the rocks on the trail, making for sketchy and slow descending. He grabbed a big plate of rigatoni with tomato sauce and tuna, the standard (and only) dish served for the duration of the Tor des Geants. I'd taken a cue from the race food and mostly eaten this kind of fare myself. Rigatoni with tuna was an easy thing to store and cook up fast, and bread and jam was something I could keep in my car. Rural Italian grocery stores only seem to be open about six hours a day, and restaurants were never fast enough and also not open at convenient-for-me times (early and late.) Still, at this point I'd mostly run out of groceries and was down to a few candy bars and crackers that were left of my once-giant bag of UTMB trail food. I eyed Beat's lunch greedily. 

 Like last year, I tagged along with him out of Gressoney along the river valley. The weather was still drizzly and cool, and the wind had picked up since he arrived in town. It seemed like the clouds were beginning to clear, but the wind was fierce and temperatures were dropping. I was only going to follow him as far as the next rifugio and then go to the pass on my own. He checked out of Gressoney with a Russian runner named Dmitry, and they traveled together out of town.

 The steep, grassy slopes surrounding Rif. Alpenzu were populated by goats and a herd of cattle. Just after I left Beat and Dmitry in Alpenzu, I encountered the cattle just as the driver was herding them down the mountain. Dozens of cows came tearing around a large rock outcropping, mooing loudly and crashing into each other as they stampeded down the narrow switch-backing trail. I saw them coming and reacted with a completely instinctual flight response, jumping off the trail and darting straight up the mountain like a frightened cat as stampeding cattle streamed around me. They scared me all the way up to the rock outcropping, and then I had nowhere left to go. So I stood and waited, realizing that the slope I had just climbed was steep enough that I wasn't going to have an easy time getting down. Beat and Dmitry reached this point while I was waiting, and also cut directly up the slope to avoid the cattle (they were still running but the back of the herd had mostly calmed down by this point.) By the time the trail was cow-free, Beat, Dmitry and I were grouped up again. I know they're just cows, but that was one of the more frightening animal encounters I've had on a trail. The most scary was a pit bull that attacked me in Maine ten years ago. I have to say, wild animals are usually more polite than domesticated ones.

 Beat and Dmitry were moving up the mountain at a solid clip. I could barely hold their pace, let alone exceed it, even though I was relatively rested. It may have helped that the wind was driving a fierce chill. Beat didn't want to put on his jacket just yet because the steep climbing made him sweat, but it was difficult to stay warm unless we climbed hard.

 The wind reached gale force at Col Pinter, elevation 9,107 feet. Beat and I barely managed three words before he and Dmitry began the sprint down the mountain. Despite his extremely sore feet and now deeply fatigued legs, he was able to break into a solid run. Amazing what survival instinct enables us to accomplish. I spent a few minutes at the Col, huddled in the wind shelter of a rock as I devoured a couple packets of Nutella. (I was fairly bonked, and I was literally and comically out of available food.) In less than five minutes, ice had already formed in my Camelback valve — it was really cold.

 On the way back to Gressoney, I made friends with a goat. I didn't mean to, but he was so cute that I couldn't help but sneak up to shoot a photo. After I did this, he followed me for at least three quarters of a mile down the trail to Alpenzu, his little bell jingling the entire way. I'm not sure what he wanted from me. In the past, I've seen mountain goats shadow hikers because they want to lick the salt off their skin. Perhaps this goat wanted the same. He was adorable, though I admit after ten minutes of stalking I felt uneasy. He stood half as tall as me and had giant horns — he could have easily rammed me off the mountain if he wanted too.

I barely made it back to Gressoney by dark and decided to wait for a while at that checkpoint to see if my other friends came through, before swinging around to Valtournenche to intercept Beat again. I'd hoped to grab a pizza or really anything in town, but it was after 8 p.m. in the off season and I didn't find anything open except for a bar. The bar may have had food, but it was quite crowded and I was feeling shy (Italians are so friendly, but it's a bit overwhelming for an introvert like me who doesn't speak the language.) Of course it was my fault for being shy and not being better prepared, but I had to settle for a miserable little dinner of stale breadsticks and big spoonfuls of jam from the car.

I just barely missed Ana when she arrived at 9:30 p.m., and she went straight in the back to sleep. Although I was hoping to grab a nap of my own in the car before Beat arrived in Valtournenche, I decided to stay in Gressoney as long as I could to warn Ana about the cold. It was already near freezing in town, still windy, and I was worried about what was going on at 9,000 feet. Ana's a tough woman who can take care of herself, but she's also from the coast of Spain where it hit 50C just a few weeks ago. If she didn't have big warm mittens or a balaclava, I wanted to give her mine.

During my wait I also ran into Gabi, a friend of Beat's who lives in Zurich. Gabi is a tiny Swiss woman who ran all of race so far wearing big dangling earrings and a tiara, like an actual jewel-encrusted tiara. Her voice was nearly gone and her throat made horrible gurgling noises as she breathed, indicating a serious respiratory infection. She guessed she had bronchitis and was distraught. The Gressoney cut-off was in less than two hours, so she had to go back out that night if she went out at all. I hated to see Gabi give up on something she wanted so badly, but I felt compelled to emphasize just how cold and windy it was on Col Pinter. Personally, I would have felt nervous about going up there in the middle of the night being rested and healthy, let alone as sick as she seemed. Doctors took her temperature and made the decision for her, forcibly pulling her from the race and instructing her to seek medical attention immediately as she likely had pneumonia. Poor Gabi. It was heart-wrenching to be there as she accepted this.

Ana was well-dressed but extremely tired when she woke up at 11:30. At that point I really had to go to catch Beat, so we only exchanged a few brief sentences after I made my case for the cold on the pass. She's still plugging away out there — amazingly tough, that woman. I admire her greatly.

Gressoney to Col Pinter, 12.4 miles round trip
Total climbing: 5,214 feet
Total time: 5:03