The longest climb in the history of history - a Sur Les Trace Des Ducs De Savoie (TDS) race report

It is an honour to host some great race report writing by John Malcolm. John is sans blog but spent the week or so with the ultra tartan army in Chamonix. He ran the TDS and this is his report. The TDS is a 106km, 6600 m ascent/descent race run at the same time as the UTMB. It actually goes up a peak (Mont Jolie) and looks a corker. Judge it yourself ...


TDS race profile (elevation in metres)

Never been to Italy before. And I’ve never felt so awful in a race before. I’m walking down to la Thuile and cursing the town for being so bloody far away. I’ve been on my feet for god knows how many hours (22? 23?) and I’m having a stinker of a race. Low on energy. Low on morale. This is the hardest race I’ve ever done. But hey, the town’s only five minutes walk away so when I get there I’ll fuel up, heat up, and be on my way.

One hour later, the town doesn’t seem to be getting any closer and I’m starting to lose a couple of places after working so hard to make them up. But why bother fuelling up now? It can’t be that far away now! I take some solace from looking up at the sky and seeing it filled with stars – more than I’ve ever seen before. My head is severely mashed, there’s no way ever I would normally consider not taking on board some fuel, even if the checkpoint was only a short distance away. It’s all fuel in the tank – doesn’t matter when it gets there. I know this but for some reason I just don’t reach for the jelly babies.

The 800m descent from Col du Petit St. Bernard to la Thuile is not the most pleasant introduction to Italy – not at the moment anyway. The never ending descent, with town in view, crushes my spirits and leaves my race finish hanging by a thread.

I keep crossing a road. Looking back I realise it was one of these Alpine switchbacks but at the time I didn’t know what was going on. When I finally reach la Thuile the checkpoint is at the further possible corner of the town. But it’s indoors so I take the opportunity to have a seat, get some food and some sleep. The sleep isn’t intended, more a consequence of being completely out of it. When I wake up, I realise where I am and lift my head, the marshalls in the room are staring at me – I must look pretty rough. I suspect that they suspect a DNF is on the cards. I must admit, it’s tempting, it would be really easy to throw in the towel and get a lift to Courmayeur, or wherever.

My brain doesn’t work like that though and other than exhaustion, there’s no DNF reason. If I DNF I know it would knock my confidence. There’s no point in quitting so after about 40 pointless minutes in the checkpoint I persuade my body to let me leave. I get up, have a drink of coke and head out of the checkpoint. It’s freezing. I had been coughing loudly in the checkpoint and it’s even worse now. I’m literally unable to breathe, as the altitude and cold hit me all at the same time. Drop my bag, reach for the trusty inhaler and a few short bursts later I’m back on the go, breathing easier. [Just hoping no one saw and that I don’t get wada-tested at the end]

Despite a sub-24 hour time now being well out the window, I congratulated myself for getting up and going again. God knows where that came from.

Rewind 22, 23 or 24 hours earlier and I’d just left Chamonix on what I now realise is the toughest race I’ve ever taken part in.

It started with a gentle run to Les Houches followed by a 600m climb and descent before reaching Mont Joly. I started easily – really easily – and intended to pace myself as evenly as possible as I’d done in the WHW race. Up the 600m climb a few people were starting to catch me and they advised they were the race sweepers and that I was in last place! I couldn’t help but laugh, I’ve never been in last place before! They said something about the person in last place sometimes working their way through the field but I could tell from the look in their eye they didn’t really believe it – I knew however that this was my race plan and that in all likelihood I would make up a few places before the race ended – looking at my splits I constantly moved up the field, had a tiny dip of five-ten places during the lengthy stop at La Thuile then moved up again.

At the top of the hill I left the sweepers and started gaining spaces. I figured I would start to work through the field and that soon I would be overtaking left and right (but not centre). It pretty much worked like this. I kept a steady pace heading up Mont Joly and counted 50 people as being overtaken, which was good as I hadn’t broken sweat and was just marching past them.
The first part of the ascent was on land-rover type tracks and this frustrated me as I was all for wild mountain tracks - I soon got my wish when the path changed to a really rough, rocky mountain top – my favourite. After the top, there’s an amazing ridge along to Col du Joly and in the clouds the steep cliffs looked rather frightening. Wonder how far they actually drop?

It was getting quite lonely only vaguely being able to speak the language of my fellow competitors so I spent large proportions of the early part of the race trying to think of things to say in French. I finally had an opportunity when at a checkpoint one of the marshalls asked if I was cold (only being in my vest) “non, je suis ecossais – ne pas soleil on ecosse!” [No, I’m Scottish – there’s no sun in Scotland!] . The four or five surrounding marshalls started laughing and I left the checkpoint with renewed enthusiasm.

I went through highs and lows over the next stages of the race, as the ascents and descents became more and more punishing. I started to realise how tough the race was. Even so, looking back at some of the amazing places I was, it really made the experience worthwhile – most people will never ever see these amazing hidden valleys.

It was often difficult to see in advance where the route went, so I kept telling myself that the route would always go the most difficult route (visually). Nine times out of ten it did go the tough way but on each of those “one” occasions there was a slight mental boost and I ploughed on a little merrier. The organisers are incredibly sadistic – they had us up practically every hill possible and the climbs and descents just didn’t stop. Every stage had either a tough climb, a tough descent or both. It was quite disheartening knowing you were on a 5km stage and had been for the past 90 minutes.

One climb in particular just about killed me. Passeur de Prolagne (or words to that effect) - it was steep with scree, rocks and mild scrambling. It was a 600m climb and I felt every single metre. All I could think was that if this was killing me, what would the forthcoming 1500m climb do? I had a seat, a rest, a sabbatical from the climb. The first and only rest during the entire race, that wasn’t at a checkpoint. I spent a few minutes with my head in my hands and just focussed my energy on the climb. When I emerged I was behind a train of people who were slowly moving upwards - slower than I normally would but I decided to just go along with it and let them drag me up the hill.

Elation cannot describe how I felt when I reached the col summit. There was another descent and I picked up down here shouting at the top of my voice random “amusing” French phrases – “Je suis le grande fromage!” “je suis la papa!” [I’m the big cheese! I’m the daddy!]. Thankfully no one was around to hear me and no one will ever know…

Another slight uphill (slight – it was probably about 200m) and then the long descent I’d been dreading. 1500m over less than 5 miles. I ran down. My quads were already shot but I figured I still had a slight chance at sub-24 hours. About an hour outside Bourg st Maurice (BSM) I caught another train of people walking downhill. Every part of me said overtake them and then get on with it but for some reason I just sat behind them. And walked down the easily runnable hill. And kept walking. And kept walking. Brain mashed well and truly. I reached the town after a huge amount of time, any race time in tatters and my spirits crushed. I spent about ten minutes looking at the time on my watch and debating whether I’d been running for 16 or 18 hours. I worked it out two ways, both made perfect sense but both provided different answers. I settled on 18 hours and felt dejected and mentally ruined – sub 24 was gone.

[Post-race, looking at my splits, I was running for 16 hours! BSM is pretty much bang-on 2/3rds in to the race, distance and ascent/descent-wise, so this was perfect pacing for a 24 hour race – could it have been different had I known this??? Lesson to take home – always use a stopwatch, don’t just rely on the time!]

Coke at the previous aid stations had mostly run dry (a side effect of Richie’s BIG cup? :-) so I was gagging for Coke. There were loads of open air restaurants and they clapped and cheered as we passed. They seemed friendly enough so I went inside and tried to buy some brown ultra-juice. They initially seemed unwilling to serve the smelly chap with the rucksack and poles, cramping the restaurant’s style, but my prayer hand gestures persuaded them and I left the restaurant to another loud cheer.

The buzz in the town was fantastic – it was like what I’d expect the tour de France to be like. Unfortunately a severe medical issue stops the Brits from putting on similar shows but I hope scientific breakthroughs will in future loosen off those stiff upper lips. The French really know how to put on a show though and it gave me a huge buzz to be there, even if I was feeling cack.
The hit from the food and the coke got me going again and I went for a short jog on a flattish section, through another town to get the 1500m climb to Col du Petit St Bernard underway. It was initially quite tough trail, but I was coping well, making a few places and pulling away. It was pitch black by now and so eventually the land rover type track was welcome. I spoke briefly to an English couple and to-d and fro-d with them for a bit. There are also many more stars in the French/Italian sky than the Scottish one…..

I was scared to put too much effort in on a runnable track as I had no idea how far I was from what I assumed would be a tough final climb. I could have run more of this but the unknown really did affect me psychologically and for some reason I just didn’t get going. I must admit I had given up and was just enduring rather than racing against the clock. Eventually, after what seemed like the longest climb in the history of history, I reached the summit and a nice burning fire.

Walking away from the fire, the cold and altitude made breathing difficult so I went back and added on some layers – I put on the Ron Hill tracksters for only the second time – their last outing being the WHW night time rain in 2008.

Then came the descent to la Thuile. It’s only about 4 and a half miles, with 800m of descent. From scratch, I suspect I could batter down it in 25 minutes but this time it took me at least two hours. After straining in the dark to confirm the tricolore was green, white and red, not blue, white and red, the sight of the Italian flag raised a smile. The constant text messages from Vodafone telling me I was in Italy were extremely frustrating however – I opened my bag to read the text, thinking it was encouragement, only to find information on call rates! Very tough on the old spirit.

I did receive a few updates on some of the other WHW runners though, confirming they were all going well, especially Richie who was tucked up in bed at this point! I briefly considered sending a few encouraging texts but could never be sure if everyone was still going – imagine the scene, you’ve just pulled out with extreme exhaustion / twisted ankle / torn hamstring when muggins-here sends you “keep going buddy you’re doing fantastic!”

Anyway, I ploughed on seeing the lights of the town, deciding not to fuel up and eventually reached a short road section with tour de France style scribbling on the road. Among the writing was “go Lance”, which briefly raised my spirits somewhat, seeing something familiar to me.
The town was stereotypically Italian and I weaved my way through the streets to the checkpoint. It couldn’t come soon enough.

Forty miserable minutes later I was on my way again, through the night. I was slow, it was tough and not particularly pleasant. I didn’t feel as tired after the powernap and just about kept my marbles when they took us away from the road and pointlessly sent us up a hill, only to come back down to see the same road again. Through a couple more unmanned checkpoints, hours of feeling horrible and then the first light the next morning came. What a welcome sight - particularly as the summit of Mont Blanc was clearly illuminated high above me. Makes me wish I could be bothered getting my camera out..

The second last checkpoint saw me leave with renewed vigour. I was told it was an hour to the finish and I was determined to break that hour. I powered up the hills, ran the less steep uphill sections and ran the flats. I made around 5 places before the 1km to go sign so I added a touch of speed through the Courmayeur streets and was quickly on the heels of a female runner. Should I overtake? Shouldn’t I? It wasn’t much of a decision so I shot past her then continued on, overtaking another couple on some horrible downwards stairs and flying past another runner on the short climb up. He tried to keep away from me and I toyed with him a little before shooting off.

The finish line was a beautiful sight – I’ve never been happier to finish a race. I went straight in to the sports centre and fell asleep, unshowered, in race gear on one of the designated beds. I woke up four hours later, having missed the last bus to Chamonix. Ahh well, they got me back in the end, after giving me some free beer :-)

My initial aim for the race was to just get around so I’ve done that however there’s a slight disappointment to have taken so long and placed not so well (385 out of 480ish finishers, 650ish starters). I know I could knock a good few hours off the time should I do the race again. I also suspect that although I struggled, had I been doing the full UTMB race I could have just about got round, which is a big confidence-booster for UTMB 2010.

Looking back at the race I’ve got loads of images in my head that will last with me forever:
Ascending a steep col, coming over the top and seeing the most amazing view of snow-capped Mont Blanc in the distance. Trying in vain to work out how to say “that’s why I’m here” in French, then realising the runner adjacent was Japanese and couldn’t understand anyway.
Descending another col and watching as the view changes then looking back on the seemingly impregnable mountain I’ve just run down. Looking closer, straining my eyes and seeing what look like ants in the distance running down the same route.

Looking up Col du Bonhomme, feeling good, seeing dozens of runners in front and thinking to myself “I’m going to overtake every single one of them”. And I did.

The crowd at Bourg st Maurtice treated me like I was either the race leader, coming in to the finish or Nelson f*cking Mandela on a world tour, when I was just some random Scotsman numerous hours after the race leader, completely knackered and without a well publicised prisoner-to-president background.

The smile on the face of the little French girl just outside Bourg st Maurice as she donged her cow bell.

The talk beforehand about always keeping your race number in view but then the marshall at Col du Petit St Bernard encouraging me to zip my jacket up over the number, to keep warm. I thought she was telling me off for having it partially covered!

The over-friendly Italian chap with the impeccable English, telling me at the finish he thought I was done for in La Thuile. So did I. What an experience. What a race. Where do I sign up for next year?

John Malcolm