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I suppose I'm a dreamer at heart. I believe that it is important to set aspirational - perhaps even impossible - goals. It is the possibility of failure that ultimately attracts me. Perhaps this is a bit woo-woo, but forgive me, I've had two dark 'n' stormies here under quarantine: New Year's resolutions for me act like lodestars. Even if I don't reach them, they help guide me forward in the right direction. The process of setting resolutions at the start of every year helps me take stock of where I'm currently at and where I want to go, while recognizing that those goals might change completely one week or six months from now - and that's perfectly okay.

In my view, New Year's resolutions should follow the "Barkley philosophy": if you want a challenge, it has got to be a real challenge. We learn nothing by setting goals for ourselves that we know we will accomplish - that's a participation medal I don't really want to get.

No one really knows what will happen in 2021. If 2020 taught us anything, it is to be ready for the completely unpredictable... but that doesn't mean we shouldn't still dream and plan as if this year will go exactly the way we want it to. As if everything is possible. And more. Setting resolutions, making plans, and dreaming up goals help us to positively change the trajectory of where we are heading, even if it isn't ultimately where we thought we wanted to end up. There's value in that.

I know a lot of you are apprehensive about 2021, but please don't let that hold you back. In fact, I think it is even more important this year than any other year we've probably had in our lifetimes to dive in head first. Sign up for that race, make that impossible New Year's resolution, and commit to that unattainable goal. And know that the intention behind it will get you to a better place. As David Roche said recently in a fantastic recent Trail Runner Magazine article:

Full speed ahead with the spirit. All systems set to “BELIEVE.” And while we’re at it, give the “reckless” button a little push. Whatever big swing you have planned, it might work or it might not (most likely not, if we’re monitoring the probabilities). But either way, it’s going to be an adventure.

Personally, I'm signed up for races this year from April to October, Europe to Asia, 115km to 450km (even if some of those races haven't actually allowed registration yet... in my head, I'm already in). Do I think that all of those races will actually be held? No, not really. Do I think I will be allowed that much leave from work to do all of them? Nope, definitely not. I don't care. I much prefer to think about the possibility of doing them all... because you really never know. We have to at least give the impossible a chance to drop the 'im' prefix.

This year I am going to dream big, train hard, love fiercely, and demand more. It's going to be a great year - it just will. I refuse to let the shit-storm that was 2020 dampen my 2021 aspirations. Let's plan for those unimaginable adventures and throw caution to the wind - who knows where it will take us.

In many ways, this COVID-19 pandemic is exposing us, but unfortunately in a lot more negative ways than a regular ol' ultra. It has subjected all of us to unrelenting stressors, whether physical, mental, financial or otherwise, for an extended amount of time.... and frankly, people are breaking down. It is revealing a lot our weaknesses and the parts of ourselves that I'm sure most of us would like to keep hidden. If only a gel or a timely piece of pizza could pull us out of this life bonk, eh?

Like in any race, I'm certainly not sailing through this pandemic unscathed. The first weekend that France announced the lockdown measures last month - one hour allowed outside per day, within one km of home - I spiraled down an emotional hole. I was angry at all of the people who hadn't taken COVID-19 seriously and even angrier at the people who were refusing to follow the very lockdown measures that their actions had made necessary.

On top of that, being alone for 24 hours a day for weeks on end is.... weird. I really love my own company, but not having another human being to interact with off screen does strange things to your brain over an extended period of time. In brutal honesty, I think it is affecting my work (and I will take this moment to acknowledge how lucky I know I am to still be employed). My old job in Afghanistan was emotionally taxing, but I felt competent and, yeah, smart. Starting a new job remotely is a whole different ball game and I have started to really doubt my own abilities. I wake up most days feeling stupid or worse - feeling like everyone else I'm working with thinks I'm stupid. The more doubt that creeps in, the more it starts to become a self-fulfilling prophecy... The rational part of me knows this is probably all in my head, but there isn't anyone in my physical space to knock me out of it.

It is hard not to see all of this as shit. Just an absolute stinking pile of putrid shit. And, well, a lot of it is. I don't need to review all of the horrible things that have happened... we are all tired. But in every pile of shit there are always some fully intact berries. Okay, this analogy is losing its relevance. The point is that I think some good can and will come out of this horrendous period. If you look hard enough, you can see the signs already.

Today, the lockdown restrictions in France were eased from one hour max allowed outside, within one kilometre of home, to three hours and 20 kilometres. What a gift!!! Everyone I passed today seemed so happy to be outdoors. I could tell that no one was thinking of all of the restrictions that remain in place - rather, we were all celebrating the freedoms we had just gained, which I am sure many of us had previously taken for granted.

So, let's employ an ultrarunning strategy to keep moving forward through this pandemic. One foot in front of the other, one step at a time, checkpoint by checkpoint. Whatever you need to do to keep moving forward (within the realms of general health and safety), just go ahead and do it.

Are you stress eating? Fine. Drinking a bit too much? I am. But fine - this isn't forever. Haven't worn pants with actual zippers or buttons since March? Not a problem. Embrace the stretchy pants. I've been at my new job for three months already and no one has seen the lower half of my body over video meetings. Feeling sad, lonely, or angry? Totally normal in an ultra and totally normal in a pandemic. Lean into it, let the emotions out, and keep moving forward. Miss your friends and family? Yup. I went to a physio appointment this morning just to talk to another human being in person and I'm pretty stoked my hip is actually a bit messed up because that means more social engagements - I mean physio appointments. It is all fiiiiiiiine.

We will get through this and at some point, we will get to that steaming hot cheesy pizza (um, highly effective and widely available vaccine) at the finish line. So let's keep our heads down, pump the legs, and give ourselves the same space we do in any race to be our vulnerable, slightly crazy selves, so that we can come out of this okay. The same goes for your weepy, angry, temperamental, pants-less friends and family members: they also need the space to be a bit abnormal, so don't forget your crew hat and give them a wide berth.

Oh, and thank your physios (thanks, Neil!), and whomever else you are paying for friendship these days.

I loaded up with plenty of water, a can of coke, some sour cherry gummies, a GPX track, full stomach and four new podcasts downloaded - ready to roll. The first few hours, all went according to plan. Sun was shining, legs felt good, and the density of tourists finally started to peter out the further I ran away from the town. I ascended the vertical kilometer, stopped for a quick orangina at the snack bar by the planpraz chair lift, and continued on up and over the Col du Brevent. As I descended down the other side, I really started enjoying the new terrain and the views across to the Passy national natural reserve.

Just before reaching the bottom of the valley, the GPX track veered off to the right, seemingly straight into a group of bushes. Huh? I checked the track again and ran back and forth a bit to make sure I had the right spot - yup. When I looked closely, I noticed the faint remnants of an old trail through the vegetation, so I assumed it was just a bit overgrown.

After about an hour of bushwhacking Barkley style, I found myself in a valley with imposing mountains ahead. The GPX track took me up steep banks of a river, but the high grasses hid vegetation potholes from view, making the footing extremely tricky (unless I wanted to have a twisted ankle or knee). It was easier most of the time to just hop from slippery rock to slippery rock in the river itself. The terrain really sucked the energy out of me and soon I was half stumbling, half scrambling as I clambered my way up the hillside. What kind of trail was this??

At some point, I looked at the mountain ahead, the GPX track and my watch, which read 5pm. I really wasn't confident that where this trail-not-actually-a-trail was headed was passable without climbing gear and if I kept going, it would be too late in the day to turn around and go back. I was loathe to retrace my steps (and the previous hours of bushwhacking), but I knew it was the right decision - something in my gut said I needed to turn around. So I did. By the time I made it back to Chamonix, it was 9pm and just about too dark to keep running. I was covered in dirt, starving, but home safe. Sure, it wasn't the epic route I had planned, but it was the right one. That trail can wait for another day (when I have a trusted climbing buddy who can guide me over the sketchy bits with lots of daylight ahead!).

I couldn't help but draw an analogy in my head from my aborted trail run to the current racing scene during the COVID-19 pandemic. I have seen races go forward, particularly in the US, and even some new races pop up. And it just isn't sitting right with me. Sure, masks and distancing protocols are in place for the start, race bib pickup procedures have changed as well as checkpoint protocols, and the number of participants have been reduced. One part of me applauds the creativity and persistence of the race directors to forge ahead in a way that minimizes risks to runners and volunteers... but the overwhelming part of me just thinks this is not the time. We really don't have a path to follow right now and it isn't clear what lays ahead.

For me, races are about the camaraderie, the interaction with fellow runners and volunteers, and all of the messiness that comes with ultras. I want to be able to hold someone else's hand as we wait squished like sardines on the start line, listening to the countdown to go. I want to be able to stop and give another runner help on the trail if they need it, even if it is just a sweaty pat on the back. I want to be able to throw up at a checkpoint and hang my head between my knees without worrying if I'm infecting others. Is it even a race if you don't exchange some kind of bodily fluids with another human being? (Okay, that came out wrong - you know what I mean). I want human connection in races, or I don't want the races at all.

Before you jump down my throat, I know that race directors and everyone else that relies on races for income need support during this time. I would (and have) happily support these individuals in other ways - paying for virtual races (that I may or may not even do), buying their photographs, or just donating money. I just don't want to do it through races.

I know there are many runners and friends who are very eager to get back to the race scene, and those who have already participated in races during COVID-19 times and have loved them. It's a personal feeling, but I wrote off any races this year months ago. It just doesn't feel right. Do I miss them? SURE! I had planned out my whole year around six races spanning from Hong Kong to Bhutan to Italy to Madeira. I was meant to have three months of unpaid leave from work in Afghanistan just so that I could train like a beast and give the races my all. But this year just isn't the year. It isn't the right time. Months ago, I made the decision to pivot. To head back down the trail and leave the summit for another day (another year).

Instead, I've focused all of my efforts on just enjoying the mountains, without an agenda, a plan or a goal. The sacrifices we need to make to even think about putting on a "safe" (er, safer) race at this time just aren't worth it to me, neither are the risks. My gut says no.

Races may be cancelled (and others perhaps should be), but that doesn't mean running is off! To the contrary - this year we have an incredible opportunity to enjoy the outdoors according to our own calendars and our own agendas, without being plagued by constant FOMO of race entries, podiums and general race hoopla. I didn't think I'd ever be happy about a year without racing, but I am really loving it.

The approach to COVID-19 in every region and country is different, as are people's personal views, so undoubtedly there will many runners who disagree with me. I'm not telling anyone what to do. All I'm saying is that for me, pivoting away from races feels like the right - and safe - choice, even if they are starting to come back on the scene.

Happy trails everyone! And wear a fucking mask :)

A few weeks ago, I ran Ronda dels Cims, a 170 km race with 13,500 m of climb in Andorra. It’s a race I’ve been wanted to do for a number of years, but I just haven’t been able to make it work. In Europe, there are small handful of Hardrock qualifiers - Tor des Geants and Ronda being two of them. Given my love affair with Tor, I knew Ronda wouldn’t disappoint.

Ronda is known to be a wild race. It has 35% more climb than the Ultra-Trail du Mont Blanc (UTMB) and much of the race is run above 2000m. While it is technically a marked trail, there really isn’t much of a trail to speak of in certain sections (I swear I’m still finding leaves in places I shouldn’t be). With only 450 people in the race (small by European standards), you have the chance to really get out into nature alone and enjoy the mountains, which was exactly what I was looking for. Yes!

Pre-race with John Kelly and one of the original founders of the event

I started off the race conservatively, knowing that my legs weren’t really prepared. I had finished Lavaredo three weeks prior, but hadn’t really done much else. Work had been intense and my health situation hadn’t been great (thank you weird Afghan-induced infections), so I was just looking forward to running with no goal in mind.

[gallery ids="26391,26392" type="rectangular"]

I can tell when I’m doing well and when I’m not – I feel it. I knew I was running slowly and it didn’t bother me one bit… until a random volunteer told me I was in fourth. Fourth?! Instead of excitement at my high ranking, I was bitterly disappointed. My performance did not warrant a fourth place by any means. It just didn’t. I should have been around 20^th place at best and I wasn’t happy that I was so far up in the rankings. I felt like a total fraud. I kept looking behind me, willing the other women forward.

Despite being at high altitude, the temperature still felt quite hot – hotter than it should have been. Maybe it was mental, but the heat seemed to take away my energy and I struggled to get any food down. At around 50 km, I ran into the check point at Comapedrosa and saw my dear friend Cristian Caselli, who I’ve run with many times in Tor and other European races. He doesn’t speak English, but we’ve got a bond. I’m pretty sure he proposed to me one time post-race as we were comparing our bloated belly sizes, but that’s a story for another time. I may or may not have said yes. All this to say, I love the guy as much as you can love someone with whom you mainly communicate via mime. He indicated he was dropping out, to which I profusely protested. John Kelly, whom I “know” from the Barkley, was also dropping out. Nooooo! I tried in vain to convince him to keep going, but the look in his eyes said I’m done. The desire to join these stellar athletes in the shuttle back to the start line was strong, but I forced myself to sit down and eat a bowl of pasta. Keep going, Caser, I thought. If I was in fourth, there was zero reason to drop out. That meant every other female except for three in the field were struggling more than I was, so I just needed to suck it up.

As soon as John and Cristian left, I went outside of the refuge and threw up on the steps. Spectacular. I often throw up at least once in a race, but I can usually keep it at bay by switching up my food choices. For this race, I didn’t have crew, so I knew that the pasta I had just thrown up would be my main food source for the next day or two. Awesome. The doctors were incredibly cool about it. Normally (and understandably), race doctors taking puking fairly seriously and they try to make you stop the race for a period of time (unless I can avoid their attempts at restraint). These doctors looked at me and said “ca va?” To which I responded “oui, si, oui!” They took out a bucket of water and washed off the steps and wished me well on my way. Practical medicine. Gracias.

During one of my more energetic moments!

The first night was brutal. My puke-and-rally-and-puke strategy was failing miserably and all I wanted to do was sleep. I should have been fine to run straight through until the second night, but without enough fuel in the tank, I was sputtering along. I decided to curl up on the side of the trail to try to get a bit of sleep for a few minutes, when another runner came up behind. “There’s a refuge just a couple of hundred metres ahead!” he said. “It’s much more comfortable to sleep there.” I groggily got on my feet and trudged ahead, looking down to see that I was covered in night spiders.  I didn't even mind having a few extra friends along for the ride :)

I came into the life base around 73km at Margineda and saw Liza Borzani lying on the floor of the auditorium – my heart sank. I’ve raced against (behind J) Liza in a number of races, most notably Tor des Geants. She’s not only a fantastically strong runner, but an extremely humble one – someone who exudes positivity and encouragement. To see her near where I was on the race, not to mention lying on the floor, was not a good sign. I chatted with her briefly and found out she was stopping the race. Shit. I was genuinely disappointed. With so few female runners in the race, I cared much less about improving my placing than I did about seeing the women who were running finish – and finish well. At that point, I believe I was still in fourth position, but getting into third was nothing to celebrate. Lisa deserved to be at the front and I wanted to finish strong behind her. I took no pleasure in jumping up in the ranks.

My memory of sequencing after that is pretty hazy. I remember climbing up one of the mountains and reaching the top, only to be greeted by what has to be the most attractive volunteers I’ve ever seen. Perhaps it was the anti-nausea meds he gave me, but I could have sworn he was glowing in hotness energy. And then he apologized for not having whipped cream available (my go-to food during Tor des Geants). I fell in love for at least 90 seconds, fantasizing about our fabulous future life together, before hurtling myself down the mountain towards the next checkpoint and another unsuspecting volunteer. #someday #runnershigh?

At some point on the second night, I hit an all-time low. I called my parents, pretty delirious, and treated them to a rendition of me retching as I was running along the trails (or was that the first night?). It was pretty funny in retrospect. When I got to the next checkpoint, I was nauseous, but I knew I was redlining and needed to try to eat something. When you run on little to no calories for long periods of time, your body takes on a very distinctive smell – like pungent, rotten fruit. It’s not a smell you’d want to bottle up and save for later. I ran into the refuge and in all of my wisdom, drank half a cup of olive oil out of a soup bowl in an attempt to get some quick calories in. I felt good enough to have another bowl of dreaded pasta, but realized too late that I was getting ahead of myself (no surprise). I don’t have to tell you how this story ends…. But just for cinematic drama, picture me hunched over the toilet creating a scene from the Olive Garden buffet in the bowl. GROSS.

The last few climbs in the race were completely incoherent. I’m used to running sleep-deprived, but I’ve never gone more than about 36-38 hours without at least a quick nap. I slipped into a deep “sleep run”, which is not something I would recommend. The best way to describe it is that your brain is switched on enough to physically navigate the trail beneath you, but you really aren’t fully there. You’re running in a parallel universe, drunk with exhaustion. During Tor one year, I dreamt that my friend Michael was accompanying me on the trail and helping me through the dense fog – that was helpful. This particular “sleep run”, however, was not.

The Ronda course was marked with red flags on the ground and sometimes white reflective tape that hung from the trees. In my run-induced delirium, I dreamt that the red flags were marking explosive remnants of war, and the white tape was identifying dead bodies. I remember getting quite annoyed that the government had failed to clear the race course of explosives before letting us go out on the trail, and I swerved to avoid the markings. I can’t imagine what I must have looked like to the other runners or race volunteers.

Before you think I’m a complete nut job, let me assure you – that's probably only half true :)  If you aren’t familiar with my background, I currently work in human rights in Afghanistan, and unfortunately a big part of my job is dealing with the things I was dreaming about. Running is usually an escape for me from the stresses of work – and Afghanistan in general – but this time, the stress followed me. I knew on some level that I wasn’t really back in Afghanistan, but it’s very hard to get out of the dream once you’re in it. I tried everything to wake myself up, but it wasn’t working. In a moment of pure genius, I asked a volunteer at a check point on the hillside if he would give me a little slap across the face to knock me out of my slumber. He smiled, patted my cheek and planted a kiss on me.

Well, that did it. Ahem. I’m going to name that trick the “sleeping beauty”. Score!

With a few relapses back into sleep mode, some incoherent mumbling at the last checkpoint, and a final push to the finish, I made it – in second place female.

Normally, with a second place, I would have been ecstatic. Sure, I was happy, but it was mainly related to me finishing and finally being able to sleep. It was not a good performance, and certainly not one worthy of a podium finish.  Out of 47 hours of running, I was nauseous or throwing up for about 30 hours of it. I was weak from the lack of calories and certifiably insane from the lack of sleep. I finished 13 hours behind the first-place woman, who set a course record. (Super impressive!)

Podium

It’s not that I’m not proud of what I did. I totally am. I battled, I didn’t give up, and I did it all on my own, without crew. That’s freaking awesome. But I’m upset that there weren’t more women ahead of me. There just shouldn’t be a 13-hour gap between first and second place. I would have much preferred it if I had come in 7^th, or 15^th, or 30th because that would mean that there were THAT many awesome women in front of me. I’ve frequently lamented the continuing low female participation rates in ultras and it is most pronounced in races like Andorra or Tor, which go a step beyond your ‘regular’ ultras. It’s getting better, no doubt, but we aren’t where we need to be. (That being said, I want to make it clear that I think the race organization behind Ronda are incredible. They did everything they could to facilitate me getting into the race and were hugely supportive of my efforts to raise money for my charity, Free to Run, which is all about empowering women and girls).

Would I go back to race Ronda again? In a heartbeat. It exemplified for me everything that I love about ultras: raw landscapes, kind volunteers, and no fuss. The only thing that was missing was more women out on the trails to enjoy them with. I hope that when I come back, I’m nowhere near the podium. Now that would be something to celebrate.

The real celebration (champagne clutched in my hands)

Thanks as always to Chafex for the support and to my friend Leah for the pizza at the finish line!

* * *

I first got into the Barkley in 2018, wholly unsure of the challenge before me. I had first learned about it 2009 at the Vermont 100 from John Fegyveresi (who went on years later to become one of the only 15 finishers in the Barkley's history). As I said in my Barkley application essay: I was so new to the sport that I couldn’t fathom why anyone would want to do it. It sounded like complete hell. I hated the idea of not having a course to follow or people to give me hugs at manned checkpoints. It sounded lonely, brutal, and masochistic. I ended up winning the Vermont 100 that year, with the aid of a pacer, volunteers cheering me along the way, constant supplies of food and well-marked trails. That was tough, I thought. But fast forward a decade later and my thinking had completely shifted. I had tested my limits in desert, ice and mountain ultras around the world, both multi-stage and single-stage. I had run for four days straight in Tor des Geants multiple times and finished on the podium. Was I the fastest or the strongest in these races? Certainly not. But I could enter them with a very high degree of confidence that I would get to the end, and maybe even finish near the top. I wasn't interested in doing these races better. I was interested in trying a different type of race.

My first Barkley attempt was everything I thought it would be: a cold, wet, scrappy fight that ultimately ended in failure. I hung on to a couple of very, very experienced vets during loop one, squeaking in just under 13 hours. When I headed out again just under the 13h20min cutoff for a fun run, I pronounced to my Dad at the yellow gate that loop two would "probably be faster" as I had taken great care to learn the course (oh the naivete...). I rolled in about 21 hours later clutching all of my pages. "Losers, not quitters," my friend Gab and I said proudly as we touched the yellow gate. I didn't imagine that the following year I'd come back as both.

* * *

This year's Barkley was going to be a bigger challenge for me than last year for a couple of reasons. One, my running partner, Gab, wasn't going to be there. In 2018, we navigated the Barkley together, and there was a significant amount of comfort in knowing that I wouldn't be alone 'out there'. No dice for 2019. Despite being one of the few competitors to make it around the course twice (albeit outside of the time limit), Gab didn't get back in. This year, I would be on my own with no safety blanket.

Two, right after the Barkley last year, I deployed to Afghanistan, where I've spent the last year working for the United Nations. My training ground has consisted of running in tiny loops around my compound or on a treadmill, breathing in air that makes Beijing look like a lung's paradise. Not exactly ideal. Not surprisingly, Laz threw another challenge into the mix this year by bringing in some major course changes, including the re-introduction of 'Little Hell' by New River Valley. Whatever challenges I had going into the race were not unique - everyone, including past winners, would be fighting out there, which strangely provided me with some comfort. The night before the race start, I marked up a fresh new map of Frozen Head, highlighting the major river crossings, drawing in the jeep roads, writing down key compass bearings and marking in the odd reference points that I could remember. With a few wise words from my Swedish buddy, Johan, I was as ready as I could be. Time to bed down in the tent and wait for the race to start. My trail puzzle awaited. All I had to do was put the pieces into the right places.

* * *

The conch blew at 8:22 am, almost the exact same time as the year before. Before I knew it, I was powering up the first climb up Bird Mountain with a surprising amount of ease. Despite the fact that my muscles were sore from a mere 20km recce run on the North Boundary trail just a few days before, I was feeling good. I sneaked past Maggie and Jamil, which didn't concern me too much as I knew they'd fly past me on the downhill (they did). Counting the switchbacks out of habit, I smiled in between breaths. This year was mine to own. Whether I did well or whether I bombed out early, the result would be 100 percent mine - I wasn't relying on a veteran or a friend to pull me through. I was relying on my map and compass instead. [gallery ids="26348" type="square" columns="1"] I fell in behind a Dutch runner, Mig, and jumped over the Pillars of Death, remembering how slippery they were the year before covered in rain. I saw another runner - a Barkley virgin - starting to veer off course ahead with his map in his hand and a confused look on his face. So many runners get caught up in the excitement and make simple mistakes early on, which can be hard to recover from. Last year, I missed an easy turnoff towards book one, but there was no chance of that this year. I had gone over the turn and the terrain in my mind a hundred times - it was almost as if I could see a marked trail disappear over the hill. Maggie and Jamil (as expected) ran past as we descended to the first book. "You taking notes?" asked Maggie, referencing the need to always stay sharp for the next loop. "You bet," I replied, shutting my eyes briefly as I thrashed headfirst through a patch of bushes. We ripped out our pages and rushed off without any pomp and ceremony - no time. Jamil and Maggie darted off to the left while I continued around the old mine bench with Mig and a couple of virgins - Nicky Spinks and Billy Reed - right behind. "Is this right, Stephanie?" one of them asked. There's no easy answer to that question in the Barkley as there are varying degrees of both right and wrong. What I knew was where this path would get us, and that it would take us to the book. So the answer, in short, was yes. Mig and I worked together through the next few books with Nicky and Billy on our tails. I could feel the power emanating from their legs, but the course was brand new to them and I think they were happy to stick with us, even if it was at a slightly slower pace than they might otherwise have used. I had done the same last year to learn the course, so was happy to try to help pass the torch - this is the Barkley virgin-veteran dance. Mig and I covered the holes in each other's memory, calling out course corrections where we felt appropriate, and nailed our navigation without too much difficulty. As we headed down Leonard's Butt Slide, I spotted Maggie's shorts up (down) ahead, and knew that she had either gotten lost or was struggling - it was the latter. The temperature reached the 80s during the day, which she indicated may have been a factor. I, on the other hand, felt completely comfortable even fully covered up, perhaps from having trained in Afghanistan. Despite being slower than she had planned, she was in great spirits and I was happy to run alongside another Barkley veteran (particularly another female). My book pages were starting to pile up in my pack, but I knew Stallion Mountain would be a test. My memory of it from last year was a confusing mess of dirt, brambles, roads and more dirt. I couldn't seem to piece together a coherent map in my brain of the terrain ahead of time, which worried me. However, somehow - miraculously - it all seemed to make sense when I got there. Past the dirt pile, straight into the bush - little to the left and head towards the creek. Take that route there, remember? It's a bit easier to navigate on this side. That's it... Mig and I continued to play off one another, taking turns in the lead with the other providing backup. It was working well. We hit the power lines in good time and pulled out our maps. This part was new - uncharted territory - and we all had a slightly different interpretation of what Laz wanted us to do. Barkley hopefuls, let me give you a tip: when in doubt, trust a veteran, and the more years he or she has, the better. It doesn't matter whether the section you're on is new or not. People who have run the Barkley before have developed better 'spidey senses' as to what Laz intends. It isn't something you can learn in any book - you have to learn it 'out there', and the more attempts at the Barkley, the better. After a few minutes of debate (read: faffing), Mig set off to the West and I quickly ran to catch up. "Democracy has no place in the Barkley", he said later. "You just need to make a decision and go with it." He was right. After finding the next book wedged under an old skillet in a stone wall, we turned our faces to the South and headed right up another climb. With a cheek full of mini Reeses peanut butter cups and knuckles dotted with dried blood, I was in my element. It was almost as if I could see marked trails in the leaves, guiding me through the forest to the next book. I had my compass on my thumb, but I was looking at it less and less. Maybe I was just a bit tired, but it seemed like the puzzle pieces were snapping together. I was doing it - I was a Barkley vet - and I couldn't have been happier.

* * *

I lunged forward at the yellow gate as if I were in a marathon photo finish, clocking in at a time just over 11.5 hrs. "Thanks for the skillet out there, Laz," I said in a feeble attempt to make a light-hearted joke. "I made some eggs." I pulled out my baggie of neatly-folded pages for Laz to count. "Oh nice," he said. I learned this the hard way last year. If you carelessly stuff your pages into your bag in a hurry as you collect them, you'll be left with a crumpled mess of paper for Laz to sort through at the yellow gate. You might be in a hurry, but he's got all the time in the world, and so the easier you make it for him to count your pages, the faster you can start your transition.

Photo credit: Howie Stern (Trail Runner Mag) "When are we meeting?" asked Nicky. She had asked if she could continue with me on the next loop. I've always thought it is better to just head out whenever you're ready - it is very difficult to coordinate the turnaround at Frozen Head - but I didn't mind if she (or Billy) wanted to stick at my pace. "Twenty minutes okay? Meet at five minutes to twelve? We need to get out in under twelve hours," I said. I had no idea what time it was in normal-world hours, but I knew my watch said 11:35 in Barkley time, and that was all that mattered. I plunked myself down into the foldable chair beside my tent, which was set up on Raw Dog's plot near the yellow gate (thanks to his quiet generosity). My brother, Ben, was right there. "Your soup is ready," he said, thrusting a styrofoam cup of ramen under my nose. "Careful, it's really hot." I wrapped my hands around the cup and breathed in the salty spices. My legs started to shake as I tried to go through a list in my head of what I needed to do in the next 20 - damn it, 17 - minutes. Food bag, waist torch, switch battery for head torch... eat sandwich. Get gloves? Have them already. Chafex. Change socks. Change head buff.  A cameraman to my left asked if he could film my transition. Truthfully, I hate the media interest and presence at the Barkley. It's supposed to be the one time we have to be off the grid and, to me at least, media attention just doesn't fit with the spirit of the Barkley. But they had a job to do, so, whatever. "Maybe for just a bit?" I said in between spoonfuls of noodles, and about a minute before the noodles came up again. You're welcome, cameraman. "I think I need to put something warm on," I said to my brother as my body continued to shake. Without hesitation, he took the shirt off his back and threw it my way. I knew it wasn't actually cold, but with the adrenaline of the race and the calorie deficit, I was feeling chilly. "Should I bring an extra thermal?" I asked my Dad. "Everyone keeps complaining about the heat, but I really don't think it is that hot." We agreed it made sense to layer up. While the weather forecast had improved over the last few days, there was still a 20 percent chance of rain the last time we'd checked and the temperature was expected to drop. Better to be overheated than cold, I thought. With two thermals in my arsenal, a waterproof, and a long-sleeved shirt, as well as gloves and waterproof mitt-covers, I thought I was well-prepared. Little did I know that the forecast had dramatically changed and I was heading into winter conditions. I ran back to the gate with five minutes to spare, picking up a new bib - number 117 - for loop two, which was meant to be run in a clockwise direction again. Mig, Billy, Nicky and I set off together, but after a couple of switchbacks Mig dropped off. "I had a beer at camp and it was great!" he said. "But my stomach isn't feeling too good now. You guys go ahead." As the only veteran left in the pack, I started to worry. I was fine getting myself lost, but I didn't want the responsibility of leading the other two astray. Yes, Nicky and Billy were perfectly capable of running their own races, but the option of sticking with a vet is very, very seductive - I knew it well. I was happy for the company, but stressing internally about potentially screwing up their races. Anyway, there wasn't enough time to focus on the what ifs - I needed to focus on my compass and my surroundings. What would be, would be.

* * *

The option of dropping out didn't creep into my consciousness until sometime in the very early hours of the morning. We had picked up another runner around book one, and he stuck with us on our way to book two. The rain was coming down pretty hard by that point and we were well into chocolate pudding conditions. In a matter of just a few hours, the temperature had dropped dramatically and we were wearing every layer we had with us. The thick slime of mud down by backside only exacerbated my chill. When we hit the candy ass trail at the top of the climb up Jury Ridge I suggested we stop briefly for a snack break and runner number four pulled out a plastic bag of mashed potatoes and a spoon. "I'm heading back to camp from here guys," he said. What?? I didn't understand. "No, come on, stick with us," I protested. "You can't change my mind, really," he said, obviously content with his decision. "I've been thinking about this for a while." I felt terrible for him and insanely jealous at the same time. He seemed so calm and collected, and it was unsettling. Does he know something we don't? Is it worse out here than I realize? If he knew he was dropping out, why was he bothering to eat mashed potatoes? My brain starting spiraling down an unhelpful black hole and the only way to stop it was to start moving again. Every time the wind picked up, it seemed to blow right through my bones. I knew Billy and Nicky were feeling it too, but neither of them were the type to verbalize it. It was the kind of cold that seeped in, under your clothes, through your skin, and deep into your core. The kind of cold that infiltrated your blood and slurred your speech. We just needed to keep moving steadily and make it until sunrise - then we would be alright. We had slowed down a lot in the mud, but we were still doing quite well with navigation. Despite the rain and fog, I wasn't having too much trouble figuring out where we needed to go, and that was at least a relief. Books two and three went by without too much of a hitch, but the temperature kept dropping... I checked my timex watch and Barkley time was around 17:00, which meant that it was about 2:30am in normal-world time. Surely this is the coldest time of day, I thought. Just a few more hours... But it was hard to keep my mind in check. The weather seemed to be getting worse and worse, and images of mashed-potato-man warm and dry in his tent kept creeping in. My fingers had long stopped working as individual units and I tried to keep reminding myself to wiggle them. I had gloves and waterproof mitts overtop, but without full-on ski gloves, it felt a bit pointless. This is just a low point, I reminded myself. You might be a loser, but you're not a quitter. It'll get better. "SON-OF-A-BITCH," I said out loud as we crossed the ditch by the same name. It was f&*king cold and I was losing my grip. I had tried to talk myself through that level of cold before during my accident in the Alps in 2017. I remember lying in the snow, watching my ungloved hand go numb as my body temperature plummeted. I knew the helicopter was on its way and I just needed to tough out the 30-40 minutes until it would arrive, but it was a mental battle to just accept the cold. There wasn't anywhere near the same level of drama at that moment in the Barkley, but the feeling was similar - no matter how many times I told myself the cold was temporary and I wasn't in any danger, it didn't shut off that basic instinct to try to find warmth. "I'm not going to lie guys," I admitted to Billy and Nicky. "I'm struggling here..."

* * *

"Nimble hands! Can you just help me stuff my arm into my backpack? That's it. Perfect." Gareth, a South African Barkley virgin, gently lifted my left arm and tucked it next to my chest underneath the strap of my Salomon bag, Kilian-style. I didn't feel a lick of pain until about 30 minutes prior at Garden Spot when we all decided to drop - at that moment, I suddenly became aware of all of the aches and pains I didn't realize I had. We met Gareth after the coal ponds on the way up to Garden Spot. Still on loop one, Gareth had gotten lost amongst invisible horses on Stallion Mountain and was trying to find his way back to camp. He was surprisingly cheerful and his hands still worked, despite not having any gloves, which was a huge asset at that point. We told him to come with us to the next book, after which point I promised to show him the turnoff to quitters' road. By the time we got to the book, the rain had turned to sleet and snow, and the appeal of personally escorting Gareth back to camp was intoxicating. I hated myself for thinking it and even more for wanting it, but I knew it was my last chance to make it back to camp. If I continued to the next book, there was no turning back. Ugh. I am not even going to try to discuss whether this was the right decision or not. It often feels like the right decision at the time and the wrong decision after, but in this case, it felt like the wrong decision from start to finish. But it was the decision I made, and I was - am - going to have to accept it. I hadn't peed in hours and when the pain set in, so did the realization that my bladder was full. However, my ice claws were incapable of pulling my pants down and that was one job I wasn't going to ask of Nimble Hands (at least not without a proper dinner first to get acquainted). The four of us ran the long way down quitters' road to camp, where we knew Laz would be waiting. "Who is it?" he asked as our head torches bobbed and weaved closer. "Ugh, people you don't want to see," I replied. "I don't want to see myself." I was dejected to say the least and couldn't hold back the tears as we got tapped out, one by one. I was the first woman in off of loop one and had gone out with high hopes on loop two. And I had failed. What's worse, I had quit. I had messed up on something that was totally within my control, and it was my fault. Not only that, but I felt like I had messed up Billy's and Nicky's races too. If I had toughed it out, I'm sure they would have kept going. Furthermore, if I hadn't pushed them to rush out on loop two in under the 12 hour limit, they might have taken more time to put on more warm clothes. "I regret that you couldn't have suffered longer out there," said Laz. I had never felt more relieved or angry to be back at the yellow gate.

* * *

During the race, Gary Robbins, who famously finished the Barkley in 2017 six seconds over the time limit (but from the wrong direction), tweeted:

"Any1 who considers themself #bm100 finisher material & has decided 2 step aside / b tapped out b4 absolutely timing out has greatly compromised their eventual chances at finish. They have squandered 1 weekend/ yr where they can gain invaluable course knowledge 4 their next attempt."

Last year, I would have said the same thing. It was miserable and I had no chance of completing loop two, but I was determined not to return to the yellow gate until I had all of my pages. It was my chance to learn the course and there was no reason to leave early, even if I knew I was going to lose. This year was different. I went in with the same never-quit mentality and I repeated it out loud while on loop two, but I honestly just couldn't do it (or could I have??). I will be wrestling with that for a while. The fact is, I messed up, but it was my failure to bring out proper clothing that compromised me. Gary tweeted something else that caught my eye:

"There is a difference between wanting #bm100 finish & needing a Barkley Marathons finish. Wanting a finish will get you to the start line, but it is not until you absolutely need a finish & live with that knowledge every day that you'll have a shot in (little) hell at achieving it."

Hmm. That gave me pause. Was it true? Did I simply not belong there at Frozen Head? Was I a loser, a quitter, and an irreparable failure too? I entered the Barkley because I am drawn to things I don't understand, things that scare me, and challenges I'm not sure I will be able to handle. The Barkley was completely outside of my comfort zone and it represented the exact kind of challenge that I didn't even know I wanted. After trying the Barkley last year and getting a taste of what it actually was - beyond the hype and the folklore - it was a privilege to come back. The Barkley wasn't a bucket list item for me. It was a return to why I got into ultrarunning in the first place. I don't think I will ever need a finish at the Barkley. Yes, of course I want one, but I don't need it - I've never needed any kind of specific race result and as unique as the Barkley is, I don't think it is different in that respect. Will that mean I will never finish? Statistically and historically-speaking, I have virtually no chance of doing so, but I don't think my failure to finish will be because of this lack of need. The Barkley will mean different things to different people, but for me, it represents complete freedom - from pressure, from structure, and from predetermined outcomes. It helps me see the woods differently, the way I used to, when I was a carefree kid - every tree, crest and valley had a different story to tell and it was all at my fingertips (toes) to discover.  Whenever I've had the chance to relate to nature in that way, I have surged ahead, beyond what I would have imagined. It's the only way I will ultimately get to five loops. It's the complete absence of need, rather than its presence, that will bring me back to the yellow gate time and time again. No one can really understand the Barkley without trying it. No photo, interview or race report can convey what happens 'out there', or what it means to try it. There are people who come to do it once and maybe that is enough. The vast majority of the trail running community will never get the chance, so running the Barkley once is a massive feat in itself, no doubt. But when you come back, you know what you are choosing to do - you know what you are signing up for, and that is something very different. I will head back to Afghanistan with a few more cuts and bruises, and another record of failure... but it's a failure I'll hold inside as a source of strength, and one I will hopefully have the chance to carry with me over some future loops.

Thank you to my Dad and brother, who spent a week supporting me in Frozen Head and literally gave me the shirts off their backs :) And many thanks to Chafex, who has supported my running endeavours the past couple of years!

People often ask me why I keep coming back to Tor des Geants, a 330km non-stop mountain race with 24000m+  of climb through Aosta Valley in Italy. For many, a race of that distance would be a one-off – something to tick off the bucket list and never do again. I thought that’s what it would be for me too. After I finished UTMB in 2013, I didn’t have a desire to ever return. So why come back to the Tor four times in a row? (See my 2015 part 1/part 2, 2016 and 2017 race reports).

Two weeks before the Tor this year, I was a mess. I had probably put in about a tenth of the training as last year and my mind was stuck somewhere in Kabul. I came out for a week of training over Eid (a Muslim holiday) for some last minute prep, and I fell apart. I was on antibiotics from dealing with a gastro bug for a few weeks and feeling pretty raw. I tried to cover the first 150km of the Tor course in training over 2.5 days, which is a formula that has worked well for me over the past few years… but it just wasn’t working. I felt exhausted and insecure. The weather was gorgeous – couldn’t have been better – but the inside of my head was dark and cloudy. As the sun warmed my skin and the crickets chirped their encouragement from the grassy fields, I openly cried. The tears, unwilling to hide behind the space occupied by my sunglasses, trickled down my cheeks while I ran. Instead of enjoying the moments of solitude in the mountains, I was overcome by loneliness. I ended up cutting the training short at 100km and heading back home. How was I going to do 330km?

For a number of reasons, I thought about dropping out of the Tor. There were about 50 red flags telling me that I shouldn’t be within a 200 mile radius of the start line. However, over the last few years, the Tor has become somewhat of a lodestar for me – it’s the event that helps me make sense of the past year, and provides a reset for the months ahead. I didn’t know what things would look like in its absence, and I realized I wasn’t willing to find out. I knew my body wasn’t going to be ready, so the only thing I could work on was my mind. I committed to run the race with joy, regardless of how I would physically perform. There was no other choice.

“Stephanie? Dai dai dai!” I was bent over my poles sucking in the mountain air – and it was just the first climb. Marina Plavan, with whom I’ve podiumed the last two years, pushed passed me, looking at me quizzically and yelling at me to go on. It was embarrassing to have to take a break after only an hour of the Tor, but that’s just where I was at. I was going to have to get comfortable with this routine. My heart rate was through the roof and my left quad was dancing. I tried to quiet my heaving breaths to avoid detection by the other competitors, but that just made my nostrils flare. I mentally revised my finishing time from Thursday to Friday (start date is Sunday), and smiled at the people lining the path. Run with joy, run with joy.

Over the next few hours, my position continued to drop as I watched my expected checkpoint times increase. In past years, this would have sent me into a panic, but I took it as an opportunity to really relax. Being well down in the field meant that I could take my time and not stress at every little niggle and twitch. I told my crew that the goal was to stay well away from the top five (podium), and I nodded enthusiastically when they told me I was in 18^th position. I cruised into Rifugio Deffeyes (25km) apologizing to purple-haired Alessio for arriving late, and stuffed some oranges in my mouth. Twenty minutes later on the next climb, I stopped for a rest on a pointy rock and cracked open a bag of chips. I ate them one by one, licking my fingers and stretching my legs. Runners frantically pushed passed me towards the 2800m pass, singularly focused on summitting as quickly and efficiently as possible. I, on the other hand, allowed myself to be singularly focused on my pringles for at least a few minutes. I had all the time in the world.

The sun started to set as I climbed up Col Crosaties, grabbing the ropes above my head to help pull me up towards the mountain pass. A familiar Italian competitor stepped out of the conga line to the narrow side of the trail, wheezing and clutching his stomach. I knew just what to do. I motioned for him to sit down beside me and pulled out my trusty bag of chips. We sat in silence as I chowed down on my snacks and watched the competitors stream by.

Photo credit: Stefano Jeantet

Amy greeted me at Eaux Rosses (80km) on the morning of day two with a steaming, frothy cappuccino and warm chocolate croissant, straight out of the oven.  She put them in my cupped hands and they started to glow. Before diving in, I paused, marveling at how the melted chocolate was slightly oozing out of the lattice design on the top of the pastry. I seductively devoured my croissant, sticking my tongue into each crevice while closing my eyes. Everyone around me dissolved and the only thing that was left was me and my croissant. My buttery love. If I had five more minutes alone with it, I probably would have gotten pregnant.

Amy ushered me out of the tent to a space outside where she had laid out my things. After running through the night, I was eager to change my clothes to prepare for the climb up Col Loson at 3300m. I whipped off my shirt and bra, unfazed by the bystanders as Leah fluttered around to try to hide my breasts from view. Within seconds I had whipped off my tights, providing Amy with an unobstructed view of my entire behind. "Are you sure you don't want to just go inside the hotel to change?" asked Leah, who was being introduced to crewing in the most painful way. Half naked, I gave Leah a look that said yeah right, and grinned cheekily as I flaunted my goods. “Oh this is special,” Leah said while laughing and rolling her eyes.

Col Loson is the highest climb in the Tor. After ascending about 700m, you emerge from a wooded trail and enter into a high-altitude valley. It is one of my favourite sections of the Tor. The scraggly mountains seem to slowly stand to attention, rising in height the more they come into view while runners scan the rocky faces in the hopes of finding the elusive trail to the top. That is when the conversation between me and the mountains really begins. Sometimes they flaunt, other times they tease, and occasionally they chew me up and spit me out. This year, Col Loson beckoned, reaching out with its invisible fingers to guide me up the switchbacks towards the narrow mountain pass. A song came on my ipod that just hit the spot – Welcome Home, Son – and I put it on repeat for the entire climb, swinging my poles to the guitar strums and humming to myself. I barely felt like I was racing. If I could keep this up, it would be smooth sailing….

My runner’s high lasted another few hours until I reached Cogne life base, which marked my first real low point in the race. My left quad had blown, causing me to roll my ankle more than a few times. I didn’t think much of it until the descent from Col Loson and then it really started to hurt. I began compensating as I ran to favour my left leg, which of course had knock-on effects on my knee. I started to panic about whether I would be able to stop the downward injury spiral. I was only 100km through the race – not even a third of the way – and my body was breaking down.

I straddled a bench in the life base, put my head between my legs and let the tears flow. Nothing good ever happens in Cogne – it was where I first tried to drop out the year before. I was determined to enjoy myself this year, and suddenly I found myself in pain and crying. Run with joy… Run with f*&king joy….Whose idiotic idea was this…

A doctor came over to try to ice and tape my ankle and I fussed like a child woken too early from a nap. I started stressing about the amount of time I was wasting and fretted over the passing minutes. Amy saw me boarding the cranky train and put in an order with Leah for emergency gelato. I could see myself and how I was acting, and I wasn’t impressed – I needed to do something. I suggested to Amy that we share a beer and she enthusiastically jumped up to pour some drafts. I only had a couple of sips, but it was symbolic. I was there to have fun. So until I started enjoying myself, I would fake it.

Weirdly, it worked. I bounced up over the next mountain pass and breezed through the rifugios, chatting with the volunteers along the way. My left arm had now gone as I was relying too heavily on my poles to make up for the ankle, knee and quad, which meant that I was comically swinging it back and forth at a right angle like popeye. When I descended into Chardonney (133km), I was greeted by a cast of fuzzy characters, which made me burst into giggles. The glow kept me going all the way to Donnas at 150km, where I unfortunately turned into a fuzzy character of my own: a honey badger.

My crazy cast of animals

Normally, I sleep at around the halfway mark – Rifugio Coda at 170km at the top of a mind-numbing 2000m climb. However, with the race starting two hours late this year, I didn’t think I would make it before crashing. You can be disqualified for falling asleep on the trail, so I decided to try to get some rest in Donnas, one of the liveliest and noisiest life bases on the course.

I wasn’t feeling particularly tired – the descent had activated my brain – so I drank two beers in quick succession to help bring on the night fairies. The sleeping room upstairs was like an army barracks: rows of cots set out with carefully folded blankets, just waiting to be sullied by stinky runners. I picked the darkest corner of the room and laid down, focused on trying to get a full 90 minutes of sleep…

Not even 25 minutes later, my eyes flew open to the staccato sounds of someone clearing their throat about ten feet away. “Gegh gegh gegh… cah cah cah gegh gegh gegh.” My eyes bulged with rage and I sat up in bed with a jolt like I was being exorcised. “Cah cah. CAH CAH CAH. Rrrrroagh blergh blergh gegh.” Did he not realize that this was the ultrarunning equivalent of basically taking a crap on someone’s face? I wanted to kill him. Seriously. As a human rights lawyer, I can say that I’ve never had any kind of murderous tendencies…. Until that moment in Donnas. After about 3 hours, or rather what was probably 90 seconds, I packed up my things and stormed out, accepting that I wasn’t going to get my sleep and fuming I had wasted precious minutes preparing.

Drunk on beers and lack of sleep, I stormed to the area where my crew were based, like the honey badger I always knew I was. “RAWR RAWR RAWR!!!” I said some things to my crew with bloodshot eyes, making no secret of my frustration. Get over it, was the message they gave back to me. Bah humbug. I had no idea if I was going to make it up the climb, but I didn’t have time to waste. I put on my racy podcast (nothing like a little risque chat to keep you awake) and headed back out into the night…

Harold had a terrible stomachache and we needed to send out for a doctor, but we weren’t sure we’d be able to get one in such a remote place. The closest doctor was a carriage-ride away down a dusty trail, and there weren’t too many souls nearby. We huddled up in the log cabin where I rubbed his belly, praying for the pain would subside on its own….

I shook my head and grabbed my stomach, overcome by a sudden cramp. Who the hell was Harold??? I looked in front of me and behind – no sign of anyone. And certainly no log cabin. Scenes from Little House on the Prairie floated behind my eyes as I started to come out of the fog. Am I Harold?? I ducked behind a tree while I questioned my self-identity, digging a little hole with a nearby rock to leave behind a deposit of fermented Crispy McBacons and Chicken McNuggets (sorry environment). I said a quiet thank you for the cramps, which was what clearly brought me out of my moving slumber, and shuffled onwards.

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The rain began to pour down as I struggled towards Ollomont at around 290 km. I felt like I was running on a bed of searing hot knives. I recognized this feeling – it is a type of pain I have only ever gotten during the Tor. I knew that my feet would barely have a scratch or blister on them, but they felt like they had been stripped of all of their skin and flesh for that matter. I pictured bloody pulp sloshing around in my shoes, but I knew that all I would find were almost perfect feet. I thought about foot whipping – a recognized torture technique meant to cause real pain, rather than actual injury – and acknowledged its evil genius. Sometimes my running life and my professional life as a human rights monitor overlap (groan).

I had genuinely been enjoying myself up until then. Once I shook the honey badger, I bounced around the valley eating more food than I ever dreamed my bowels could carry. I chatted with the volunteers and enjoyed running alongside the Tot Dret runners, who began their 130km race at Gressoney (the 200km mark for Tor runners). When my legs started to swell, I cut out all salty soup and sweet tea from my ‘diet’, enjoying watching the scientific experiment that was my body. But I crashed hard at Ollomont. The pain was overwhelming and I was in an emotional hole. After 40 minutes of sleep, I begged for ten more, and when I finally stood up I was disoriented and confused. I felt an intense sense of isolation, despite being surrounded by friends, and I shook with sobs. I was desperate for someone to wave a magic wand and make me feel better – in my legs and feet and in my heart. It is hard to describe the state I was in… not much rhyme or reason for it, but it was intense. I wanted the world to stop spinning and I craved someone to comfort me. But I knew the only thing to do was to keep going. I left the life base with tears streaming down my face and headed back into the night. And the world became quiet again.

“It’s not easy…. It’s not eeeeeassssy, it’s not easy, running Tor des Geants”. I was hopping down the mountain, grabbing on to the ropes for stability with a wad of pizza stored in my cheek like a chipmunk, while singing off-key to an X-Ambassadors song (with a few word changes). It was hard to fathom how I could be having so much fun while being so tired and in so much pain, but I was. I chatted on the phone with my family to keep me awake, listened to more podcasts (of the racy and non-racy variety), ate, drank, sang… I kept waiting for disaster, and it just wasn't coming. When I came into Bosses just 30-ish km from the finish, my crew informed me that I was really catching up on third place and suggested that perhaps I should make a push for it.

I probably forgot to leave out that part. Despite having the slowest first day that I’ve ever had on the course (in racing and in training), somewhere at the end of day two I started to really climb up the ranks. From 9^th to 8^th… to 6^th… and then somewhere after Rifugio Cuney, I rolled into 4^th. As it turns out, my chip-eating and lounging technique had actually made me faster than anyone expected (especially me).

I made a firm decision at Bosses that I was going to take a very relaxed approach to the end of my race. The last two years, I have had a horrific time on the last climb up Malatra, slogging it through rain and snow and extreme sleep deprivation. Last year, I think I traumatized myself and those around me with the state of my swollen body (and screwed up mind). I was determined this year to run with joy and celebrate finishing this amazing race in another podium spot. I had an over four hour lead on the fifth place woman, so no need to rush. I was going to get my money’s worth. I went down for a quick nap, ate some food, and went for my final dance on the mountain.

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I crossed the finish line in 98:17, just two minutes shy of my 2016 time in which I placed 2^nd. I was ecstatic. I felt like something had been missing in my running since last year’s Tor, and I found it there, in that moment. I was back.

So I come back to the question I posed at the beginning. Why do this damn race year after year? What is it that prevents me from putting this race to bed? I told my family that if I had a good race this year, I would stop. But we all know that was a lie. I can’t wait to line up again next year.

The magic of the Tor is that it is a different race every time you run it. It might be the same course, but your experience running it will never be the same. You simply cannot account for all of the variables that could affect your race, from the weather to your changing emotional state to the way your body reacts from 70-150 hours of continuous movement over mountain passes. You might think you’re having one kind of race on Sunday, but on Wednesday everything has changed. To succeed at the Tor, you must constantly revise your idea of what success looks like. That is why I love it – nothing is certain and the only thing you can hope to control is your resolve to get to the finish. As your body disintegrates, your desire to finish must remain steadfast or a DNF is all but guaranteed.

I’m so grateful for my family, friends, CREW and chafex for getting me through this race. For dealing with the tears, the weird food demands, the stinky clothes, the honey badger moments and the multiple nights they had to spend in cars. I hung on to the moments with them at checkpoints and looked forward to seeing their smiling faces (and fuzzy costumes) for hours. And I’m immensely grateful to the TOR – for making Free to Run a charity partner, for creating this crazy, life-changing race and for attracting the best volunteers that a race could offer.

Once more, I’m proud to say I’m a GIANT. See you next year :)

I've experienced this a number of times in races, but I always chalked it up to an exhausted brain or tired eyes. Or maybe the light playing tricks on me when I'm running during a different time of day. However, I've started to think that maybe when this happens, we don't recognize familiar territory because it actually is new. We aren't retracing the same steps - we've seen more, felt more, and suffered more since the last time we covered that same ground. Those experiences end up changing us and that influences the way we interact with our environment. The same, familiar territory is new once again.

Next week, I will be moving back to Afghanistan with my work with the UN, returning once again to the same compound I left five years ago almost to the day. Back to running around in circles. Back to nightly curfews. Back to call signs, security checks, bunkers and bombs.

Am I taking a step backwards? Am I just retracing my old steps? I thought about this a lot before accepting the position. After over four years in areas of conflict, I worked hard to get a job in Geneva and set up 'normal' life in Chamonix. That was supposed to be the 'finish line' so to speak... so why do a 180 and head back out for another loop?

Perhaps for some life takes a more linear path - one that can be divided into clear segments (school, college, work, marriage, babies, retirement?). In the humanitarian world, there is often "life in the field" and "life after the field" (putting aside the rather pejorative term of "the field")... but I've come to learn and embrace the fact that my path is not a linear one. It is full of unexpected twists and hairpin turns, but ones that challenge me and lead me towards the unattainable finish line.

I will miss these mountains in Chamonix dearly and, I'll admit it, I'm finding it hard to breathe thinking of losing that ability to step out on the trails... but I've done it before and I can do it again. I'm returning a different person than I was five years ago, and I'm really looking forward to exploring what awaits. I'm heading into a big job, but it feels like the right next step. So next week I return to Afghanistan.  To a country I love, to work that drives me forward, and to that old and unrecognizable trail.

(Oh, and before you ask, no - I am not changing my race schedule. Just wait until you see the creative ways I will train in Kabul :) More exciting race news coming soon...)

*crickets*

Okay, to make this more understandable, I have sectioned this out into five easy steps, representing five stages of a 100 mile race. Read on and prepare to get your romance mojo going. Step One: Setting up your online profile (0-10 miles) First impressions matter, so cultivate your online profile wisely! A hint of sporty works, but avoid the full-blown ultrarunner persona just yet. Think sprite, not red bull.

1. Pick a photo of you at the start of a race. One in which you look shiny, full of hope, and spandex-clad before your dreams are shattered a few dozens of kilometres later. Everyone loves spandex - leave nothing to the imagination! You've got it, so why not flaunt it across the internet for all to see and examine?[gallery ids="26155,26157" type="rectangular"]

2. Do NOT post a photo of you at the end of a race. I know you're super proud of that race finish, but you probably aren't seeing the salt caked on the side of your face, the dried snot on your sleeve, or the unidentifiable brown smudges on your pants.

   

   NO. Bodily fluids visible. Not appropriate.

3. Do not post a selfie, unless it is a mysterious side selfie, for example. See exhibit below: pensive, contemplative, and a little less narcissistic than your usual selfie. But not by much....but hey, it's tough to have normal shots when most of our days are spent alone on the trail! 

   

4. In describing yourself, try to pretend you're just a normal person, doing normal things, covering normal distances on a daily basis. Let's call it selective honesty. For instance, you can talk about your height, but not about the number of toenails you've lost. Favourite perfume is okay. Favourite lube is not. Well, depends who you are trying to attract I guess. There's someone for everyone.

Step Two: Planning the first date (10-20 miles) Obviously, whoever you end up dating is going to have to get used to your intense training and racing schedule, but try to keep that under wraps until later in the relationship. See figure below.

1. Do. Not. Plan. A. Running. Date. I don't know how to say this more clearly. You know what's going to happen... a nice get-to-know-you trot around the park will 'accidentally' turn into a 5 hour run. You will spill your entire life history, chatting away as you crank out the miles, completely oblivious to your date's obvious state of panic at being led into the forest by a stranger. The night will wind up in tears and vomit, trust me. (Sorry, Brian....And Mark).

2. If you're going out close to feeding time, make sure to eat a meal beforehand so that

   

   you can order a normal amount of food when you're together. And pack snacks in your pockets - you can surreptitiously eat them when you are on a bathroom break. Nothing wrong with snacking on the toilet. If you fail to follow this rule, you'll probably end up eating your meal as well as your date's, which is not the most polite way to start off a relationship.

Step Three: Becoming exclusive (20-60 miles) Let's be honest - there is no way you have time to train, eat, sleep and date more than one person, but the possibility of your partner finding someone else while you're out on a long run is high. Here's how to show you're committed.

1. Does your partner like lounging around in bed on a Saturday morning? No problem. Just make like you're getting up for a pee in the middle of the night and head out for a sneaky run instead. You can clock out 10-15 miles, come back, shower, jump in your pjs and crawl into bed before your absence is even noticed. Then enjoy staying in bed all morning guilt-free. Your partner will probably think you've sacrificed your treasured Saturday morning run for cuddle-time - bonus points! I have a friend who frequently does his training between 2am and 8am so that he doesn't miss any 'regular' time at home. Now that's commitment.

2. Your partner wants to meet for brunch on Sunday with a bunch of his or her friends? Absolutely fine - say you'll meet them there. Pick a restaurant 40 miles out that doesn't have a dress code. Your partner can drive there; you can run over.

3. Ask to leave a pair of running shoes at his or her place. This is probably more significant than leaving a toothbrush, or offering a key to your own place. Your running shoes are an extension of you - where they go, you go, so leaving a pair behind is a clear sign of commitment.

Step Four: Celebrating your first anniversary (60-80 miles) Once you've hit the one year mark, your partner will be fully aware of your crazy... so the trick at this point is to reward him or her for putting up with your antics for so long.

1. When picking out an appropriate anniversary gift, why not choose something you can both enjoy? Like a cowbell. Or blank poster boards with a set of markers and a stack of cards containing motivational sayings. The gift that keeps on giving.

2. A trip would be a great idea for celebrating your anniversary, but let's be honest, there's zero chance you'll be able to take a trip longer than a couple of days without an adventure. The trick is to find a fabulous place to go where you can sneak in a cheeky race. Here is a handy chart of to help you out:

Step Five: Planning a Proposal (80-100 miles) Honestly, I have no advice here. If someone has stuck with you this long, he or she is a keeper. Float the idea of a proposal at the finish line of a race, but be willing to compromise... You are in the homestretch! Pop some immodium and anti-nausea meds, and you're home free!

Rhonda-Marie Avery, a visually impaired runner marrying her guide...wearing a hydration pack. SOLID. Wrapping it Up I hope this little dating guide helped. If you want to check out some more ultra-dating realities, check out Chris Mocko's youtube video on the subject. This guy is ha-larious. Happy trails, happy trials :) (I may do a 'dating INSIDE the species' post soon... hellloooooo strava flirting) https://youtu.be/XKpbH4tUv58

It had been about 14 years since I had spoken Spanish and there at that checkpoint in the middle of the night, I was struggling to remember the most basic of phrases. No surprise though - I don't think I've ever asked for the toilets during a race even in English. You would be much more likely to find me indecently exposed, squatting beside the trail, than coming out of a proper bathroom. The clock is ticking, yo!

Preparing for the race. Everything under control.

But this time, in Transgrancanaria, I decided to take a different approach. Last year, I pushed my body to some pretty hard extremes - and I paid for it (more on that  later). I went into the race well undertrained, so I wasn't going to be able to gun it ala 2017. For months after Tor des Geants, I only ran a few times a week, rarely breaking 30km. I didn't hit a 100 km week until the month before the race, and my longest run had only reached 28km. I was honestly unsure of my ability to finish 125km, so I told myself that I was simply going to have to enjoy as many kilometers as I could. I was going to force myself to stop and smell the roses (or, more realistically, stop and smell the proper toilet facilities).

When I attempted Transgrancanaria before in 2015, the race started on the North-West side of the island at Agaete. In an effort to apparently reduce the traffic jams on the trail at the start of the race, the organizers moved it this year to start in Las Palmas on the North-East end of the island. On the bus ride over from Meloneras, I hooked up with my dear friend Amy Sproston and the legendary "Queen", Meghan Laws (formerly Argoblast), with whom I had briefly chatted during the dying kilometers of UTMB in 2013. Chatting and laughing with these incredible women took away any nerves I might have had - if it wasn't for the spandex, lube and immodium tablets, I might have thought we were

heading for a really fun Friday night out on this Spanish island, rather than a 125 km race. (Not to say that you can't have a really fun night out with spandex, lube and immodium... but that's for a different kind of blog. Ahem).

The race was set to start at 11pm against the backdrop of a rather amusing 'yellow weather warning'. Let's be clear: it was unseasonably cold and rainy, but as far as I could tell, the worst consequence was the lack of opportunity to get a fabulous tan. After wiggling our hips to some live music and oogling over the costumes of a pre-race parade, the three chicas headed to the start line on the beach. The rain had thankfully compacted the sand a bit, for which our achilles were audibly grateful!

The new course starts off with three kilometers along the beach. As the hardest-packed sand was closest to the shoreline, many of us spent those kilometers playing a game of chicken with the waves, to varying degrees of success. The old course had a rather challenging climb out of Agaete followed by some interesting trail sections, which offered some dramatic nighttime views of the island. The new course, I must admit, was underwhelming for the first 30-40km. It definitely favoured the speedsters as there were few climbs that were unrunnable (queue the dreaded douche grade climbs*) and much of the beginning part of the course took place on wide dirt roads rather than technical trails.

Old course

New 2018 course

I chatted with quite a few of the other runners along the way. The course wasn't terribly well marked in places, which made for a couple of wrong turns, but it was a great way to start getting to know the other competitors. Carrying a conversation also ensured that I maintained a moderate speed - I was determined not to let my stubbornness take over. I was surprised to see that I could still pass runners on the steeper uphills given my lack of training. I got crucified on the runnable flats and douche grade hills, but my climbs were relatively solid.

The section in which I really shined was the only really technical trail bit with switchbacks on the descent between Fontanales and Presa Perez. The trail was wildly overgrown, which definitely gave it a Jungle Book vibe - a much welcomed respite from the rocky terrain. Those who skimped on their head torches really suffered. Without a strong light, you ran the risk of tattooing your forehead with a bamboo branch or imprinting your knee with cactus needles. To supplement my head torch (Petzl), I switched on my waist torch (UltraSpire). The lower angle of the light helped to highlight any potential obstacles on the ground better than the head torch and it kept me flying downhill.

The sun started to rise after Presa Perez and I made it into the checkpoint at Artenara (63km) around 8:40am. I had told my friend Emma, who was crewing for me, that I had expected to get there between 9am and 11am, so I was well ahead of schedule. I couldn't figure out why I was so off - at first, I thought I was just a complete ultrarunning genius who actually didn't need to train, and I was nailing the course. I grabbed a plate of paella at the aid station and sat down to contemplate my amazingness. Then I looked at my watch and realized that the cumulative elevation seemed incredibly low. We were halfway through the course but yet hadn't even completed half of the expected climb, and  other than the climb to Garanon, there really wasn't a ton of climb left on the course profile. Hmm. My indulgent self-congratulatory session was abruptly cut short. I chucked the rest of the paella in the trash and hobbled back out onto the course.

At this point, my hamstring was yelling at me. I've been experiencing some chronic issues with my hamstring at the attachment point in my glute, and lately it has spread to the other attachment point near my knee. I decided to take the race checkpoint to checkpoint from then on, and vowed to drop if the hamstring volume got too loud.

The 64km race started from Artenara just 20 min after I passed through, which meant that I got to see the leaders blow by me at lightning speed (very cool). But it also meant that I had to keep jumping out of the way of these fresh runners for the next few hours as they continued to pass me (not as cool). Everyone was extremely supportive though, which I appreciated. I suppose one look at my salt-stained tights or bleary eyes tipped them off that I was in the 125km race, and they offered words of encouragement as I trundled along! I tried to offer the same, particularly to the female runners. "Vamos chicas!!!!" I shouted, and tried to pull some stragglers along with me. "Venga!!!" they yelled back as we leap-frogged along. This was really starting to seem like a good time.

I saw Emma at Tejeda and happily wolfed down a piece of pizza. It felt so great not to rush myself through the aid station and take the time to sit down, eat and chat - and surprise, surprise, no nausea! Without the usual drama that follows me like a bad smell around the course, I set off again on the climb to Garanon.

This was really the only climb that made me feel a bit, erm, over it. My feet were really starting to ache with all of the rocky sections on the trail and I was looking forward to switching from my Salomon Wings to my Hokas. I winced at the sight of some of the other runners who had unwisely gone with the lightweight Salomon S-Labs... you could almost see the bruises on the balls of their feet through their rubber soles.

After Garanon, I knew the race was mainly downhill from there. I celebrated with a delicious avocado,  cheese and tomato sandwich, thanks to amazing chef Emma, and gingerly hopped over the rocks out of the checkpoint. Much to my delight, I bumped into Debbie Martin-Consani, with whom I had chatted over social media but never met in person. We were obviously both hurting, but took a moment to hug and encourage each other on our ways. I love ultras so much!

The rest of the race is a bit of a blur. I met a really lovely father-son duo who were running their first ultra together in the 64km. One of the weird things that happens to me when I'm sleep-deprived in a race is that I can't always recognize when people with accents speak english. After running behind them creepily for a few minutes eavesdropping on their conversation, I finally asked them if they were speaking english, which brought about a little chuckle. (This was a mere ten minutes after I asked a couple of women who were speaking Dutch whether they were speaking English.... which invited some funny looks!). I also ran into the very adorable local runner who lent me his poles in 2015 for the race - what a coincidence! I think he actually went in for a kiss on the cheek mid-race just as I blew past him yelling "vamos!!! You're supposed to be running, not chatting!! No more talk talk talk!!" Ooops. It's really a mystery why I'm single.

The little climb out of Ayagaures is, again, douche grade, followed by a severely punishing 7km on a rocky, dried riverbed. The rocks aren't small enough to glide over, but neither are they big enough to comfortably hop on. Perhaps douche rocks is the most accurate term for this section.

Finally, I was on the homestretch. I checked my watch and realized if I really pushed it, I might be able to come in under 20 hours. VAMOS!!!! I picked things up a notch and started to sprint. I was double-polling my way over the rocks and across the pavement, determined to meet this arbitrary goal for no good reason. But it felt great to try.

I made it across the line in 19:58:37 - wooooohoooooo! It felt awesome. It certainly wasn't my best race, but it was a solid one. Most importantly, I had fun. I reminded myself that racing doesn't have to feel like torture, which was exactly what I needed to get my mojo back for the 2018 season. And I was so excited to get through the race without throwing up that I celebrated by drinking a beer at the finish - puking streak was over!!!

And then five minutes later I threw up the beer. Hey-ho, can't win them all!

Caught in the act - at least I was holding my medal out of the way of the vomit!

Huge thanks to Emma for crewing all day, and kudos to my amazing friends who nailed the course! If you're thinking about doing the race next year, here are a few tips:

Course: The elevation ended up being significantly lower than advertised. My watch only clocked 5500m instead of the expected 7500m, and most of the other runners I talked to similarly measured 5500-6000m. Unless they change the course again, I wouldn't expect to face 7500m next year, so plan accordingly!

Shoes: I definitely would not recommend wearing your lightest weight shoes - the rocky sections are brutal. If you really want to go s-lab-esque, put a meatier pair of shoes in your dropbag (and I promise I won't say I told you so).

Lights: As a general rule, I would always recommend that you don't skimp on your lights - I've been caught out too many times. In this race, the extra waist torch I carried with me definitely came in handy - the benefit it provided justified the additional weight, in my opinion. That being said, most of the course consists of fairly wide trail, so save for that one jungle-y section with switchbacks, you are probably okay with just one regular light.

Anti-chafing product: Chafex. Always, and at all times. Despite carrying a bit extra junk in my trunk thanks to a bit of winter indulgence, I didn't have a single bit of chafing. I hopped into the shower after the race with ease.

Aid stations: I found the aid stations really well stocked, but it depends on your taste. Some of the American runners noted that they didn't have a lot of candies and gummies like you might see in US races. For me, I found the standard to be higher than a lot of other European races. I'm used to facing tables of cheese, salami and bread over here, so I was delighted to see plates of avocado slices, tomatoes, oranges and other tasty 'real food' treats. The paella was also pretty bueno.

Race organization: Don't expect a lot of hand holding. The race check in was a bit basic - no instructions or direction on the bus transfers to the start, the timing chips or the race bracelet. But hey, it doesn't take a genius to figure it out. I had paid for the bus transfer from Meloneras, where the race expo was held, to the race start at Las Palmas, but unfortunately it wasn't recorded on my bib... I was able to talk my way on to the bus when the time came, but had this been flagged during the check in process, it would have allowed me to address the issue ahead of time (yes, I could have asked :)).

Accommodation: A number of friends booked AirBnBs in Meloneras close to the race expo, which seemed like a great option. I opted for the official race hotel as I was hoping for a bit of pre/post race luxury and reviews looked good. It definitely wasn't worth the price in the end, although I really appreciated the buffet! Just know that if you choose one of the hotels in Meloneras, you'll be hanging out with a bunch of seniors tour groups. Which can actually be pretty fun, particularly when you want to attend the hotel's live entertainment in the night disco. Erm....

*Douche grade climbs: Not too flat, and not too steep. Annoyingly runnable, but not the kind of grade you actually want to run. Estimated to be about 5.63 percent incline.

We’ve all said it.  How many times have you finished a race and claimed it was your ‘last one’? Feet covered in oozing blisters, muscles trembling from exhaustion and knees caked in dirt and blood, you’ve sworn up and down to friends, family and anyone who might listen that you were officially retiring from the sport. One blogger calls this ‘Serial Race Dementia’, which she defines as “the strong and irrational urge to sign up for a race after you swore that you’d never run again because it chewed you up and spit you back out as a shapeless clump of pain and self-pity the last time you ran it.” Spot on.

[gallery ids="26041,25907,25321,26043" type="square"]

This year, on the finish line of Tor des Geants, I surveyed my swollen and bruised body and I knew I was done with the race. I didn’t just think it – I felt it. I told my friends, my family, and even members of VDA Trailers, which is the organization that puts on Tor. The more people I told, the more certain I was that I would stick to my conviction this time. I was done.

“Honey, that is what you say after every race, and then you sign up again,” said my mom, desperately wishing she could believe me.

“I don’t believe you for a second,” said my friend Leah. “But please do us all a favour and give us a break? I can’t survive watching you do another Tor next year,” she joked.

“You’re finished with Tor? Sure. See you next year on the start line,” said another.

I shook my head, trying to find the words to make them understand I meant business. Why didn’t anyone believe me? No part of me thought that doing this race again was a good idea. Too much suffering, too much pain, too much drama. Nope nope nope.

Well, you all know where this is going. Just three weeks after the end of Tor and there I was back in Courmayeur, grabbing one of key people in the race organization by the shirt and begging for a chance to come back next year. “Pleeeeeeeease, I didn’t mean it when I said I was done!” My pleading reeked of breakup remorse, bordering on cringe-

worthy. “I want to come back. Take me back!” [Context: this was at the end of the Arrancabirra, which is an 18km mountain race in costume that the organizers of Tor also put on…with six beer checkpoints throughout. I believe I was on beer 8 by that point].

I really don’t get it. I suppose I should have expected this, but I really don’t understand how our brains work this way. How can we be utterly broken and at the height of suffering one minute and then desperate to do it all again the next? Is this really a form of dementia??

I started looking into the science of memory and pain and here’s what I learned….

On a very basic level, we remember pain in order to avoid repeating things that cause us harm. If, for example, you burn yourself on the stove, the pain ensures that you will be less likely to do it again. It's our mind's way of protecting our body I suppose. However, not all pain is the result of doing something that is inherently harmful, and therefore not something we should necessarily avoid repeating. The simplest example would be childbirth (and perhaps ultramarathons?). It would make sense that in these instances, since we don’t really need to be protected from the pain, it is easier for us to forget it.

I found some interesting studies to support this theory. One study looked at how women recalled pain after different forms of childbirth.  Women were asked to rate the intensity and unpleasantness of pain, as well as their emotional state, right after childbirth, and then asked to recall the pain and emotions 3-6 months later.  The study found that the level of recalled pain depended on how the childbirth played out. Those who had a vaginal delivery underestimated the pain they had experienced a few months later (and overestimated how positively they felt about the experience at the time). Conversely, those who had gynaecological surgery as a result of childbirth later overestimated the pain they had experienced (and underestimated how positively they felt about it). Women who had caesareans accurately recalled their pain months later. Based on these results, researchers concluded that the overall meaning of an event – and the emotions we attribute to it - may influence how we remember pain. The idea is that while vaginal delivery may be painful, it is generally considered to be a positive and successful event, and so over time, the memories of pain decrease and the positive emotions increase. Conversely, gynaecological surgery is universally considered to be a negative event and something to be avoided, so the memories of pain increase and the positive emotions decrease. Caesareans fall somewhere in between the two.

Another study, which reviewed a wealth of literature on women’s ability and accuracy in recalling labour pain, concluded that while memories of labour pain can bring out negative reactions in some women, they were “more likely to give rise to positive consequences related to coping, self-efficacy, and self-esteem.” So while women wouldn’t necessarily forget the pain, they seemed to concentrate on how they overcame it, which led to positive feelings.

I couldn’t think but help that this sounded familiar. If we are going to draw a rather awkward analogy, running an ultra is like a vaginal delivery. A few days, weeks or months after a painful ultra, the memory of the pain is still there, but it doesn’t seem to be nearly as bad as it was at the time. Furthermore, the memory of the race overall seems much more ‘rosy’ with the passage of time. At the finish line of Tor, I really felt terrible this year. Relieved, but my universe was defined by pain – it was everywhere I looked. I almost couldn’t even be happy about my performance because my physical sensations dominated everything. But now? Looking back? I’m so proud of what I was able to push through. The pain is remembered through a soft focus lens.

Indeed, a study that specifically looked at how pain was remembered by marathon runners found that both the intensity and unpleasantness of the pain they experienced during the race was underestimated six months later. The researcher noted the similarities between the marathon study and the study of women and childbirth:

[R]unning a marathon shares an important feature with post-partum pain, i.e., both types of acute pain are harbingers of a happy event (having a child or completing a marathon) and are emotionally positive experiences.

I find this just fascinating. Our Serial Race Dementia really seems like it could be a thing. I still have a lot of questions. Is the memory loss effect just as strong when we DNF (when our race is not necessarily viewed as an emotionally positive experience)? In other words, is a DNF like gynaecological surgery (hahaha, this is getting more awkward by the second)? More importantly, how do we make it stop?? When someone has an answer to that, I’d love to know. Until then, it’ll be a never-ending cycle of ultrarunning groundhog day for me, and repeated failed attempts to retire from this crazy sport. I just hope if I ever have a kid that I’ll remember pain a bit better, otherwise knowing me, I’ll wind up as the next Octomom (oh god no!).

If anyone would like to see the full studies mentioned above, send me an email at stephanie.a.case@gmail.com! Disclaimer: I am not a scientist and obviously this isn't a comprehensive review... sharing just as food for thought! If you have any thoughts or expertise in this area, please comment below!

Tor des Geants 2017 was unlike anything I was expecting. Having done the race twice before (2015, 2016), I went into it knowing that I could finish and aware of what challenges I would probably face over 330 km and 24000m of climbing. I felt better trained and raced than the year before when I managed 2nd female, and while I had no illusions that I could improve my place, I thought I could finish the race this year suffering less. How utterly naive that was.... As my Italian friend and local Hotel Croux legend, Corrado, told me, "If you wanted to suffer less, you should have signed up for a half marathon or a marathon". That is the Tor. No matter how prepared you might be, it will find other ways to challenge you, and suffering is just a part of the journey.

Going into the race, my head just wasn't in it for some reason. I couldn't figure out what was wrong. Ever since my accident on 1 January this year, all I've been focused on is returning to Aosta Valley to conquer the Tor. But the closer it got, the more checked out I became. I couldn't put my finger on it, but I knew it was a problem. When you are facing a 330km race, you have to be fully committed or you won't make it through. This was going to come back to bite me.

The 'elite' checkin and bib ceremony went by in a blur. Drop bag packed, crew briefed and ready, and stomach full of Italian carbs. I stood on the start line dazed, but in a way relaxed. It was like I wasn't fully there, so that helped reduce the potential panic I might have otherwise felt at taking on this ridiculous challenge again.

Like all European races, it started off at a ridiculous 5km pace, and I just tried to settle into my rhythm. The sun was shining and the weather looked good - albeit quite cold - for the next few days, so I just tried to enjoy the wonderful feeling of moving. In Tor, you have to almost forget that you are running - forward motion must simply become your new state of being, as automatic and mindless as sitting on a park bench and staring at the clouds. Anything involving more conscious thought or effort becomes too exhausting after multiple days. Knowing this, I used those first few hours to try to relax and let my brain wander. My primary goal would not be speed, but rather finding the motivation I seemed to have lost to run the race in the first place. Once I found that, the legs would follow, surely.

I hit Rifugio Deffeyes at around 25km at expected pace, and stuffed some food in my mouth before climbing up the boulder field to "Haut Pas" at 2860m. I knew I was farther back in the field than the previous year, but I thought I was moving fairly well. Nausea started to rear its ugly head, right on schedule, but I was armed with Zofran to keep it at bay. I felt better prepared and ready for Tor than ever before. But where was my brain?

I knew I would get a boost when I hit Chalet de l'Epee that night and saw my friend Ivo and his wonderful family members. I've stayed for a night there during training the past

three years, and it is a little haven of awesomeness. Ivo doesn't speak English, but we get by together in French. There was a tv camera there and I squeaked something out in French about how the competition was much stronger this year than in the past. Katia Figini was there as well and told me she wanted to drop, pointing to her head. I knew exactly how she felt, but encouraged her to come follow me out of the chalet in the hopes that the two of us could find our heads together.

I didn't really hit any major difficulties until Eaux Rosses in the early hours of night one/day two. Kate and Fergus, my super crew extraordinaire, were there ready and waiting (and clad in orange) to attend to my every need. I ran into the tent, plonked down in a chair, and was immediately covered in a warm puffy jacket. The air temperature had dropped significantly in the night and I was about to face sub-zero temperatures over Col Loson, the highest pass on the Tor course at 3300m. "Soup. Hot soup. And lemon soda? I really need to fuel," I blurted out to Kate, who quickly ran over to the food table to fetch me some broth. My stomach was growling and I had a huge climb ahead. At some point I looked over and Raffaele was sitting on my left, calmly eating and staring straight in front. "Tutto bene?" I asked, pointing to my stomach. She shrugged and nodded, and I did the same. I was grateful that my nausea from earlier that day had subsided.

That gratitude lasted a full 60 more seconds. Suddenly I was throwing up into my cupped hands (why, why?) and watching the vomit spill out on to my pants.  I proceeded to throw up four or five more times on to the concrete floor of the tent, gasping out apologies to the volunteers in between wretches. It. Was. Miserable. I popped another Zofran and willed it to dissolve before the next vomiting episode (it did - barely). A volunteer rushed over and suggested I lay down for an hour or two to rest. "No no, tutto bene, tutto bene," I said, smiling and trying to look cheerful as I wiped my mouth. "This happens to me all of the time."

"It's true," said Kate nodding, who remained completely unfazed by anything that was happening.

Another bystander offered me some ginger pills while the volunteer got on the phone with one of the race doctors. I was feeling much better and eager to get moving again, and I didn't want to wait around for the doctor. I know they've got a tough job to do keeping the runners safe, but I have become quite adept at the puke-and-rally after my racing this year, and I knew I was good to go. I looked over at Kate, who immediately got my vibe. The two of us rushed to get me dressed and back out the door into the night, ready for the long climb up to Col Loson, before anyone else got a different idea.

Normally I'm quite strong on the climbs, but without much food in me, I was less than spritely. The cold air was affecting my breathing as well. Despite all of my training at altitude, I found myself short of breath and struggling to make it to the top.  I kept checking my watch, waiting to see the black summit outlined against a brightening sky, but night seemed to stretch on hundreds of metres too long. I threw out my negative thoughts onto the trail, hoping they would skim across the surface like a skipping stone, but instead they just boomeranged back into my head, weighing me down.

I was off. There was no denying it. I trudged on, trying to scrape the frozen vomit from my pants, but there was no point. This was just the way it was.

I reached Rifugio Sella on the other side of the Col sometime in the morning and changed into shorts. My friend Gabriel Szerda showed up just as I was leaving, grinning from ear to ear at having caught up to me (we have a ridiculously hilarious seven-year long rivalry, and after getting beaten by him in UTMB and a stage race, I knew Tor was my only chance for victory). "I'm stuffed, Gab," I said defeated. "You win this one."

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Gab caught up to me at the bottom of the descent and we ran in towards the second life base in Cogne (100km) together. That's when I told him I was going to drop. I really started to wrap my brain around the thought of giving up, and trying to figure out if I would be okay with it in the end... I was still doing the mental gymnastics when I caught up to my crew at the life base. They were all business, and I was checked out. I felt awful that they seemed to be more committed to the race than I was, and it made me feel incredibly guilty about even thinking of quitting. But that's all I wanted to do. Kate handed me some ice cream bars and I shovelled two of them down. I was going through the motions as if I was going to continue, but my brain was just shouting NO. When Corrado showed up, I knew I was in trouble - there was no way he was going to let me drop. I felt even worse telling a local that I was defeated so early on in the race by his mountains - it was like a slap in the face. "The weather is good today - just go out and enjoy the sunshine," someone from my crew told me, quite matter-of-factly. Dropping out really didn't seem to be an option. I agreed to just go on towards the next life base 50km away and make a decision there.  But leaving the checkpoint I couldn't help but feel like I was taking steps in the wrong direction.

Over the next 50km, I worked really hard to commit to my dropping out mentality. I told myself it was the smart choice - my body had been through so much this year already, maybe now was really the time to back off and give it a rest... I crafted my facebook post in my head to make sure I got the right tone (wistful but wise) and then patted myself on the back for being so evolved. I congratulated myself. You don't have anything to prove! You've done this race before. You've gotten so much out of your training. There's nothing else to get from the race. Time to step back and leave the Tor alone. Good for you, Case. Smart decision. On the long descent to Champorcher, I stopped in Rifugio Dondena for a plate of fried eggs and called my parents, rationally talking through my decision. They told me they'd support me regardless. I felt entirely settled, and resolved to enjoy the last couple of hours of my race. It was over.

Until it wasn't.

I got a text from Corrado that told me I was in fourth, and if I dropped out he would strangle me (smiley emoji). Stick to your guns, Caser! It doesn't matter what place you are in! I was dropping. No question. I ran into the checkpoint in Champorcher, confident in my decision but welling up with emotion at the thought of disappointing Kate and Fergus, who had taken an entire week out to support me. Jose and Corrado were both there with pizza, along with Charley, who had helped me train. "The choice is absolutely yours," said Kate. "But you should know you are in third place."

Damn it. This was not a part of my plan.

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I made it to Donnas (150km) and tried to do as quick of a turnaround as possible so that I could make it up to Rifugio Coda at 170km before falling asleep. It would be a 2000m climb, the longest climb in the race, so it was no small task. But I was feeling surprisingly more awake than last year. I made it to the refuge eager for my first sleep, and hunkered down for a rather restless 90 minutes. When I woke up, one of the female volunteers brought me some soup. As I lifted a spoonful to my mouth, she told me that she was the nurse who cut off my clothes when I was wheeled into the emergency room in the hospital in Aosta after my accident. I was floored. "You were really upset I was ruining your clothes," she said smiling. (I had been wearing new Salomon gear and was obviously in shock, so I didn't understand why I couldn't just remove my clothes myself). Wow.

It wasn't the only time in the race when that would happen. At Champoluc at 222km, one of the medical volunteers told Fergus that he had also worked on me in the hospital in January. And at 300km at Bosses, a local came by to tell me that the people of Aosta Valley loved me, and were cheering for me after my accident. Even at the awards ceremony, the local police officers mentioned that they were the ones to take down my accident report. They were all there.

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In one of my (many) low moments of the race, Kate told me that if I was going to continue to the finish, I needed to find that reason why I had lined up on the start line in the first place. I needed to find my motivation for running, for tolerating the pain, for pushing through the sleep deprivation, and for accepting days of discomfort. Without it, I wouldn't make it. It was exactly what I had told myself on day one, and it was so true.

These few 'trail angels' helped me find it, and kept reminding me along the way when I faltered. Nine months ago, I was laying in a hospital bed in Aosta with a tube draining blood out of my chest, a catheter shoved between my legs draining urine, six broken ribs and a mangled liver.  At that time, having the chance to run in Tor des Geants seemed like an impossible dream, but one that I was determined - resolved - to accomplish. I could think of nothing else other than getting my body strong enough to tackle those mountains. Being reminded of how broken I was then and how far I had come was just what I needed to keep pushing forward. Everyone else on the trail was suffering and in pain like I was, and they weren't giving up. So why did I think I had any excuse? This is what I had wanted and dreamed of nine months ago, and I had gotten my wish. I had regained enough strength to compete. There was no excuse for screwing it up now just because I couldn't be bothered.

It wasn't easy though, believe me. In fact, it is hands down the toughest race I have ever done. I truly thought that 2016 was unbeatable in terms of monumental challenges... I was so, so wrong. In 2016, I remember surging into second place at Niel, racing up the hill after breezing through the checkpoint in a matter of minutes. This year, I slumped on a bench inside the chalet, resting for a quick back massage, a beer, and a pep talk. The differences were like night and day.

On day three, I started experiencing massive amounts of bloating in my belly, which extended to extreme swelling in the entire lower half of my body. Parts of me that shouldn't have ever swollen started exploding, which was as worrisome as it was uncomfortable. I thought maybe it was constipation (hence my jealously over the cow patties), but that didn't explain the swelling in my legs. After my fall on fourth night, my entire right leg became marked with bruises, turning my skin into something of a horrifying Jackson Pollock painting.

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At Oyace, the place where my 2015 race ended due to a shortened course, the wheels really fell off. I came into the checkpoint strong, intending to pass the next Col before sleeping with over a two hour lead on fourth place... but once I took off my shoes and saw my bleeding toes and blistered heels, I broke down for some reason. It all hit me. I had managed to quiet the 'drop out' voices for the last 170km, but they were shouting at me. It was just too much.

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Kate convinced me to just sleep for an hour to see how I would feel (okay, I negotiated an hour and ten minutes). When I woke up, I was so comfortable that I just didn't want to move. But I dragged myself back to the bench and shoved some cake down my throat, sending the carbs towards the floating orb that formerly resembled my stomach. I sat there for what felt like an hour, telling myself to put on my shoes and then almost simultaneously giving myself permission to quit. I was stuck in my own personal hell with no way out. I could not fathom 60 more kilometers, but equally I couldn't face the disappointment of dropping out. I was paralyzed.

Finally, I put on my shoes and walked out the door. I got no more than 20 steps before I turned around and headed back to the checkpoint, determined to drop out. Ahhhhhh!!!!! I couldn't do it. This race wouldn't let me quit. I did a 180 again and charged up the mountain. Damn it. I managed to get my sense of humour back enough by the next little checkpoint halfway up the climb to joke about the twins I was having (bambina and bambino) with the volunteers as they laughed and pointed at my belly. Sigh.

When I rolled into Ollomont, the crew was armed with encouragement. Amy Sproston, who I had crewed at UTMB the week prior, rallied the troops online and I got some amazing messages of support. It made me feel like I had an army behind me out on the trail, and I wasn't alone in my struggle. (If you want to understand the story behind #getintheboat, read this here!).

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The rest of the night consisted of me weaving up and down trails in a haze of sleep deprivation, watching my body expand by the minute it seemed. Huge thanks to Leah, who chatted with me over the phone to keep me awake in the wee hours (including during my bathroom breaks - that's true friendship right there). After the sun rose for the last time and I finally made it into Bosses, I took what I thought was my last nap, having maintained a comfortable lead of a couple of hours. I set out into the pouring rain for my last climb. It was almost over.

Until it wasn't.

As I climbed up towards Rifugio Frassati at around 2500m, the pelting rain turned to sleet and then snow, making my footing tricky and increasing my sense of confusion and isolation. It was freezing and I had plenty of layers, but there was something about that weather that sent me into a bit of a panic. I remembered trying to go over Col Malatra last year in the snow and being completely terrified, and the thought of doing it again was just too much. I had only had about 4 hours of sleep over the past four days at this point, so my abilities to self-soothe were non-existent....

I burst through the doors of Rifugio Frassati and collapsed in front of the iron fireplace in the centre of the room, shaking with full-body sobs. I don't know what I was even crying for, but it was all coming out. I had been fighting my body and my mind for so long, and I was done. Alfredo, one of the volunteers, sat next to me and comforted me, wrapping me in an emergency blanket and then a real blanket, and helping me to dry my clothes. He got me food and cupped my face with his hands, telling me things in Italian that sounded just what I needed to hear to calm down. I should have been mortified by my behaviour, but I had no ability to hold back. This was me, raw and unfiltered. Swollen and bruised. Other runners started to trickle in, each looking more wet and cold than the last, and we all hunkered down, watching the snow pile up outside. I laid down on the bench and closed my eyes, intending to sleep for just a few minutes....

After what I think was about half an hour, I got up and had a hot chocolate. One of the volunteers warned me that Marina, the fourth place female, had arrived. She came into the refuge looking strong and determined - I was so impressed. At that point, I can honestly say that it didn't even bother me one bit that I was losing third place. I assumed I would lose fourth as well. And I didn't care. I had flipped into survival mode and was doing the best I could, so there was no point worrying about trying to go faster - it wasn't going to happen. One of the volunteers had taken my vitals and cleared me to go on, but a nurse got sight of my leg and put on the brakes. With the bruising, swelling and pain, she worried it could be DVT and that I would throw a clot to my lungs if I continued. With just about 20km left in the race, stopping there was unfathomable. No, it wasn't over yet.

After much negotiations in Italian between the volunteers and the nurse, and some idiotic attempts on my part to convince her I was fine (like hopping up and down in my underwear on my leg), she allowed me to continue. I set out in a group that included the hilarious Aussie Tegyn and we headed for the Col. Thankfully, it had stopped snowing, and we were blessed with brilliant sunshine.... save for my elephant legs and growing twins in my belly, it was almost perfect.

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For the last 20km, I was reduced to a painful shuffle/waddle. My thighs had expanded so much that I had to cut my waterproof pants into a skirt to release them. I could almost feel the ground shake as I trundled along, marmots screaming for their lives on the trail ahead, hiding themselves in holes from the wrath of stephzilla. Oh, this finish was going to be a pretty one.

Finally, over 107 hours after I started (and almost ten hours past my finishing time from last year), I made it to the finish. Shocked, overwhelmed, and in pain. It was a triumph of epic proportions, but experienced in a very different way from previous years. This Tor was different. It was brutal. It was unforgiving. And it wouldn't let me quit.

One of the photographers took this shot of me at the finish and posted this quote: "She was powerful, not because she wasn't scared, but because she went on so strongly despite the fear". (Mahmoud Darwish, palestinian poet). I can't say that I felt strong throughout that race, but I definitely overcame my doubts and fears. I was willing to give up on myself so easily... it was only because of the strength of my crew and the volunteers, and their belief in me, that I got to the end. Without them, I surely would have quit.

I thought I was coming into Tor more prepared than ever before. In retrospect, I think I was overtrained and overwrought - I had put so much into my preparation that I didn't have much left for the race. I'm taking it as a clear sign that I really need to slow down and take a good, proper rest now. I've done what I set out to do back in January, and now I need some time to process it all.

Honestly, I think I'm still in shock from the race. Through all of those hundreds of miles of training and racing, I found answers to questions I didn't even know I had. Last year, I talked about embracing my power and strength in the race; this year, I feel it was more about acknowledging and accepting my own vulnerability and frailty. Realizing that actually I can't do everything alone, that I'm not invincible, and that ultimately I can still achieve my dreams even when everything goes wrong. Even when I think I'm at my weakest. Even when I want to give up. And I think there is actually a strength to be found in that.

Tor wouldn't let me quit.

Until it was truly over.

I finished in fourth female and I couldn't be prouder. This year gave me much more appreciation for what it means to really struggle in a race, and battle against yourself. I am in awe of all of the other competitors, who showed such grit and grace out on the trail, and I'm grateful to have shared this experience. I did it. No one is more surprised than I am.

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Huge thanks to Kate and Fergus, Jose and Corrado from Hotel Croux, Amy Sproston (and Kaci Lickteig!), Leah Anathan, Mom and Dad, Charley, the volunteers, and everyone else who supported me and encouraged me along the way! And of course to ChafeX for keeping me chafe-free over 330km!

And a very, very special thanks to all those who donated to my campaign to raise funds to support the participation of women in the Marathon of Afghanistan this year! I will be travelling soon back to Afghanistan with Free to Run to take part in this amazing event and see the progress that we have made over the last couple of years. Stay tuned :)

John engaging in a little relentless forward motion

My friend Sarah Willis was nearby, trucking along at a very solid pace, focused, but also cheerful. And then there was Thomas Camenish, a Swiss runner who I’d met at a previous race, who had done the Eiger before and was happy just going at his own pace. We all kept leap-frogging with each other as we ran along, chatting occasionally as we made our way along the trail. As I paused to pull out my jacket at the top of a particularly chilly climb, another runner who recognized me from friends' photos on social media stopped to introduce himself.

Was this a race or had I accidentally worn lycra to a casual outdoor party instead?

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I wasn't feeling particularly good from a physical standpoint. The Eiger Ultra Trail is a quick and competitive mountain race on the Ultra Trail World Tour, comprising of 101 km and 6700m of climbing. I was participating just three weeks after the Western States Endurance Run, and I was dead tired. I almost ducked out after 3km in a parking lot to head back to bed. But mentally, I needed those 101 km to let my brain breathe. To get rid of all of the bullshit that had been piling up over the past month or so. All of the negative things I couldn't control in my personal life would be subsumed to a greater and more uncontrollable unknown - the journey over those 101 km.

Yes, the Eiger Ultra Trail was just what I needed. It was actually better than any party I had been to in a long while. In the race, I could stay as short or as long as I wanted without worrying about hurting anyone’s feelings. No one cared what I was wearing, or how skinny or fat I might have looked. My job was irrelevant, as was the number in my bank account. My status as a single 35-year-old woman was not remotely worthy of note, nor did it invite intrusive questions about my plans to settle down or have children. These things were not relevant on the trail. I didn’t have to worry about bathroom lineups or acting nonchalant when I farted. I just let ‘em rip as loudly as I needed to. There was no need for pointless small talk with others. A smile and a wink to another trailer was not understood as an invitation for immediate groping, but rather taken as an expression of camaraderie. I could accept smiles and knowing looks in return without fear of leading someone on. I didn’t have to pretend that I was moving forward effortlessly – to the contrary, hard effort was rewarded and applauded. I could be openly hungry and shovel down food without having to be ladylike and dainty. No time for that.

I didn’t have to hide my pain. Vulnerability and authenticity was rewarded, not mocked. Nor did I have to hide my joy for fear of appearing obnoxious or arrogant. I didn’t have to smile if I didn’t want to. I didn’t have to have a good time, nor did I need to worry if others around me were comfortable.

Nope. In the race, on the trail, I was free to be me. Just me. Free from judgment, expectations, fear of failure or promise of success. I wasn’t capable of disappointing anyone or being disappointed, as I was on my own in the most positive sense of the term. I could just run as far as I liked, as fast or as slow as I chose. I ran the entire race for me. It wasn’t a particularly stellar race, but neither was it a bad one by any stretch of the imagination. It was just exactly what I needed: a blank space in which I could simply be me, however imperfect. And that was just fine. I was complete.

I ended the race in 7^th place woman and finished with a big smile on my face and a sigh of relief. And then, shortly after a volunteer placed the finisher’s medal around my neck, I bent over and threw up all over it.

Perfect. Or not ;)

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I could write pages upon pages speculating why there are less women in the sport. Intimidating to break into such a male-dominated sport? Difficult to devote the time to training given that women are still shouldering most of the household duties, childrearing responsibilities, etc? Less ability to train at weird hours due to safety concerns about running as a female at night or in the early morning? There are a billion possibilities. All I can say is that lack of interest ain't one of them and neither is lack of ability. Frankly, whatever the reasons, if women are so drastically under-represented in the sport, shouldn't we be doing whatever we can to encourage female participation? At the very minimum, shouldn't we be making sure that there aren't unnecessary obstacles that prevent them from participating?

You'd think so. Which brings me to the point of this post. It's a topic that I haven't seen or heard discussed a lot, maybe because it doesn't affect a ton of people... but it was brought to my attention by a friend. I was outraged when I heard the story and I think it is important to tell.

Let's call this friend, who wants to remain anonymous for now, Jessica (no, it really isn't me, I swear). Jessica trained incredibly hard to qualify for UTMB last year - a 100 mile mountain race through France, Italy and Switzerland. As most runners know, in order to even enter the UTMB lottery, you have to accumulate a number of points through other races. It is a massive time commitment. At the same time, Jessica was trying to get pregnant with her husband. She wanted a child, but she was really worried about having to give up ultrarunning and racing as it was such an important part of her life and her identity. She didn't want to have to choose - mother and family or ultrarunner. After she qualified for UTMB, and then managed to make it through the lottery successfully to secure a coveted spot, she found out she was pregnant... She immediately emailed the directors of the races she was scheduled to do in 2017 to ask for a one-year deferral. The organizers of the Lavaredo Ultra Trail responded positively and allowed her to defer without question. They allowed deferrals for injuries - temporary medical conditions - so why not? However, the organizers of UTMB had a different response.

At the UTMB start line in 2016, waiting for the runners to pass!

According to UTMB, deferral was only allowed for osteo-articular injuries. The UTMB organizers offered a refund upon medical proof of pregnancy, but not a deferral.

Jessica was disappointed, obviously, and requested a reconsideration. The possibility of requalifying once she had a baby would be even tougher, and even if she did requalify, it would be unlikely that she'd be successful in securing a spot again. She wrote:

"It is quite unfortunate that something like pregnancy, which should be considered a happy situation, creates these difficult choices and circumstances for us women runners... Please let me know if there is any way to reconsider. Not allowing me to defer creates a penalty for being a woman and becoming a [sic] pregnant, which is quite unfortunate in today's society. This is something that women runners should be celebrated and supported for, not discouraged from."

After two weeks, she still did not have a reply, and wrote back again. UTMB responded:

"The reason why, 3 years ago, we started to give the possibility to register another year avoiding the draw is because we noticed that some runners started our races with an injury not totally healed. And this can be dangerous for them."

UTMB's response is non-sensical. As Jessica pointed out to me, if they were worried about people running injured because they couldn't defer, which they considered dangerous, then by that logic, they should be even more willing to defer for pregnancy due to the potential risk to both the runner and baby if she decided to run.

I started looking into this more to see what has already been said on the topic. Frankly, very little. I'm not surprised - if the percentage of women in ultrarunning is so low to begin with, the percentage of those women who are actually of child-bearing age and who manage to become pregnant around race time would be miniscule.

Some races don't allow deferrals for any reason, including pregnancy. Personally, I still believe that these races should still allow pregnant women to defer because of the clear link to gender discrimination, but others aren't as sure. As pointed out by the author of this article in relation to the Boston Marathon (who still ultimately argues in favour of  deferrals for pregnancy), "[h]ow can the BAA [Boston Athletic Association] offer deferments to pregnant women but deny a deferment to a qualifier severely injured in a car accident three months before race day? What is fair when it comes to determining who deserves a deferment and who doesn’t?"

I'll answer that. It is terrible if a runner gets severely injured before race day, obviously. If he or she isn't covered by a general injury deferral policy, then it would be wise for the race directors to be flexible on a case-by-case basis. There are always going to be extenuating circumstances or weird one-off situations that might warrant exceptions. Or not. However.... pregnancy is clearly in a different category than many of the other reasons runners might want to defer, like military deployment, family emergencies, or injuries, whether chronic or traumatic. I shouldn't have to say it, but unlike these examples, pregnancy can only affect women. 

Dave McGillivray, the race director of the Boston Marathon since 2001, wrote in this Runner's World article that "[o]rganizers who do not offer deferrals to pregnant women may feel that pregnancy is a choice, and that women could simply choose to get pregnant after the race."

* sound of my head hitting the table *

Jessica, why didn't you just ask your husband to get pregnant instead so that you could run UTMB?

Or maybe you should have scheduled your fertility around the off season?

The more I read, the more upset I became. No, I don't think it is fair or reasonable to expect women to have to "check with a race as to its policies before you even enter it" to see if deferrals for pregnancy would be allowed, as McGillivray suggests, so that you won't be disappointed.  That's a ridiculous solution. Women can be surprised with unplanned pregnancies, and even if they do plan a pregnancy, it isn't as if they know if or when it is going to happen.

The fact is that UTMB made the wrong decision in Jessica's case, and they failed again when she asked them to reconsider. It can't be the first time they've done this. However, it is hard for people to talk about because, like Jessica, many women choose not to reveal their pregnancy to others until their second or even third trimester (or after birth!). To me, what UTMB did is a clear case of gender discrimination and I am appalled. I have run UTMB twice and loved the race, but this has made me never want to sign up again.

I'm bringing this up as I firmly believe that UTMB, and any other race that does not have a firm policy on this already, needs to get with the bleeping program. We should not have to choose between being a badass ultrarunner and a badass mom. Just sayin'.

The week leading up to the Western States Endurance Run should have been awesome. I had come in the weekend before to volunteer with Eric Schranz of UltraRunnerPodcast as a co-finish line announcer at the Broken Arrow Skyrace, which was hysterical (I got punchier as the day went on, making up more and more outrageous bios for the runners who finished closer to the end of our 13 hour shift. Apologies to the bull inseminator from Iceland, the mall santa from Norway, and the fart inspector from the small island state of Tuvalu!). The energy levels in Squaw almost seemed drug-induced - it wasn't natural for this much buzz to be pulsating around one little mountain town. One by one, dear friends showed up in town for the race, and I was ecstatic to be surrounded by people I loved and respected. And on the Wednesday before the race I turned 35 - the first birthday I had celebrated outside of a war zone in about five years. There was much to celebrate. Unfortunately, there was also much to fret over, which was detracting significantly from the awesomeness of the week. I'll spare you from the details, but I was facing difficulties navigating a fairly difficult personal situation. Not exactly the restful week I had dreamed up in my head.

To make matters worse, I woke up the day  before the race with a raging bladder

Goofing around in the sauna

infection, which I suspect had something to do with my daily heat training sessions in the sauna (heat + dehydration). There I was peeing blood and the race hadn't even started. Omigod!! On the plus side, I was able to orchestrate a quick prescription of antibiotics. Phew. On the downside, I was told it wouldn't get me back to normal by the race and - get this - it would turn my pee bright orange/burgundy. I would have no way to tell how dehydrated I was in the race, so I'd have to be careful. I made a mental note to be more discrete than usual on my bathroom breaks so as not to scare the other runners with my devil pee.

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By the time race registration rolled around, I realized that it just didn't matter. This was Western States!!! (For those of you who don't know about the race, it is the oldest 100 miler in the world and steeped in history. I've been applying off and on since 2009 and only secured a spot this year, thanks to Strava). This was my one chance to run the race of a lifetime and I might not get it again - I could not let anything detract from this experience. I was going to enjoy every minute, even if I had to do it with fanta-themed pee. Whatever stresses were going on in my life, they would be left behind on the trail over the course of the 100 miles. Game on. (Side note: at race check in, legendary female runner Nikki Kimball was there to help put on race bracelets. We talked about the race and some of the challenges I was facing, and I asked for tips. She said cranberry juice. I said 'erm, I meant tips on the race'.....hahahah)

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The start of Western States is truly unique. In contrast to all of the fanfare and hoopla that taint European race starts, Western States feels very understated - in a good way. It is like an intimate family wedding. Everyone has travelled from far away to be together to celebrate an event they've been waiting for for months, if not years. It was a moment I wanted to hold on to well beyond the time displayed on the countdown clock.

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The climb up to the escarpment felt great. I was worried about the snow we would encounter for the first 10 miles - especially thinking back to my accident in January - but it felt amazing to get moving. And climbing is what I tend to do best. I think the beginning section of the race was actually a fast section for me. While the snow and slush in the high country caused the faster/elite runners to falter, it favoured runners like me, who tend to be a bit 'scrappier'. I was happy as a clam battling my way through the tough terrain, dreading the very runnable 'flats' that lay ahead. I passed Camille Herron at some stage early on, which shouldn't have happened - it made me question whether she was having an incredibly bad day or whether I was rocking it. I pondered this for a full 45 seconds as I squatted by the side of the trail, leaving my trademark sunkist print on the snow, and decided it was too early to debate.

Photo credit: @rylander_west @stravarun

At 24.4 miles, I ran into the aid station at Duncan Canyon and made a beeline for crew team #1, who were a group of 20-something all-American women who had volunteered to help me through the race. Despite never having crewed before, and only one having completed an ultradistance, they exuded the aura of a professional team. "You're in about 19th or 20th place right now and everyone is running 30 minutes slower than expected," said Krissi*, rattling off the exact information I said would be helpful to know at checkpoints.

"I've got the guac right here!" shouted Ashley*, dutifully holding the container of guacamole I had requested in one hand and a bag of tortilla chips in another. If I wasn't in the middle of the race, I would have burst out laughing at the look at intensity on her face over this assortment of junk food.  Krissi* smeared wet wipes across my face muttering "salt...salt" while Blair snapped photos with her giant camera. I shovelled the salty avocado snack into my mouth by the chip-ful as Alice* tied my ice bandana around my neck and filled my hat with more cubes. Krissi *shoved her smartphone in front of my face, showing me the course profile over the next section, and Ashley rattled off a laundry list of things I might want from my supplies. And then before I could blink, I was on my way again down the trail towards Robinson's Flat at 30 miles where I would meet up with crew team #2, consisting of Belinda, Matt, Zandy (paparazzi extraordinaire) and doctor John, who was our local secret weapon.

Coming into Robinson's Flat, I thought I was doing okay, but I could feel how slowly I was going. My team told me I was running perfectly just behind Amy Sproston (a dear friend who got 2nd last year but unfortunately had to drop later in the course this year) and Meghan Argoblast (who came top ten), and that I was well-suited for a top ten finish if I kept that up. That was their first lie to me - they later confessed I looked a bit ragged, and indeed that is where I started dry heaving. Mile 30.... really? It was going to be a long day. Where was that guac? Gab, my Aussie wrestler-turned-ultrarunner friend, was standing by, practically jumping out of his skin waiting start pacing me at 62 miles. Gab and I have a hilarious rivalry that will surface again at Tor des Geants later this year, and he was eager to pick up my secret tips first-hand on the trail. Seeing how invested my crew was in me and how sure they were that I could do well just made me want to make them proud. I wanted to honour their time out there and their efforts.

Eight miles later I trudged into Dusty Corners and crew team #1 was on the ball again. I

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dropped a bunch of orange-stained wet wipes at their feet with an apologetic look, ate some watermelon, replaced the ice bandage and ran off again shouting thank yous to the team. They warned me that the hot section in the canyons was ahead and that I wouldn't see crew again for almost 20 miles. This is where it could all fall apart...

Much to my surprise, I loved the canyons. It is notorious for being the most difficult section of the race because that is where the elevation really drops and the heat really gets trapped in the valleys. This year, temperatures reached over 100F (40C), and no amount of ice would last through the stage. It is also probably the most technical section of the course with single track descending in and out of the canyons. I really prefer this kind of terrain to the more smooth and runnable sections of the course, so I actually picked up a number of runners here. At the same time, a number of female runners ran past me with ease in parts, which made me worry...

My legs felt shot, which confused me. I had completed three ultras leading up to Western States - Madeira, Transvulcania, and the Maxi Race - so neither the distance nor the elevation scared me. Only the speed at which the race would be held. Maybe it was TOO much racing? Maybe I was naive? I'm not sure. My right quad was throbbing and my feet were killing me. I felt lethargic. I started to fret that I was letting my crew down. I looked at my watch and realized I was well off my secret time goal of 21/22 hours, and was actually in danger of not even making 24 hours (which I had arrogantly assumed was in the bag). Oh no....

Michigan Bluff was a blur. All I could think about was getting to Foresthill at 62 miles, where Gab could start pacing me. All I needed to do was keep my brain switched on for a few more miles and then I was home free! Woooooohoooooooo!!!! European races don't allow pacers (haven't found one yet), so this was a real treat. Soon all will be well.

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At the checkpoint, the doc met me before the aid station and told me to grab what I needed before coming over to the space they had set up for me beside their truck. I swigged a can of coke and grabbed a dixie cup of pickle juice, which is supposed to help cramping. The pickle juice tasted like angel tears, but it probably wasn't such a good idea to have it as a coke chaser. It wasn't long after I plonked down into a chair that I gave my crew a bit of a puking show. There I was, bent over for multiple rounds of vomiting with no less than three cameras capturing the chaos.... I should have been miserable. But I just kept thinking about how I surrounded by all of these people who cared about me enough to tolerate the backsplash. In a puking pause, I looked up and saw Krissi nibbling away at a sandwich - probably one of the few things she'd actually been able to grab for herself all day. She let me grab it out of her hands, eat it with my pukey face, and promptly spit it out without complaint. And I hadn't known this woman for more than a few days.

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With the sting of vomit in my nose, I started smiling uncontrollably. This was just awesome. Sometimes, even puking can bring out beauty. Sometimes it is like you are puking glitter.

The doc was all business, sorting out my pack, fixing my headtorch on my head, and grabbing anti-nausea meds. I almost puked on his arm as I lurched forward. It just wouldn't stop. He gave me a package of alcohol wipes and told me to sniff them if I felt the nausea return. What an awesome trick!!! Of course, I immediately forgot about it 30 seconds after I left the checkpoint.

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Gab and I set off after what seemed like too-long of a break, and I let go of any hope of finishing under 24 hours for the coveted silver buckle. I was running as best as I could, and that would just have to do. The goal was now just to finish. Gab and I chatted along the trail, which was stunning as the sun set, and caught up on life. I told him the good and the bad, and he listened. I grunted when I got pain and complained about my quad. "What did you expect after 70 miles?" he quipped. It shut down my negative talk pretty quickly. Gab does not allow whiners, and it kept me moving.

I was still nauseous, but absolutely starving. With my stomach growling, I told Gab I would need to try to eat, even though I knew it would cause me to puke again. At Peachstone (70.7 miles), I tried eating a few bites of a grilled cheese sandwich and valiantly carried it with me until Ford's Bar at 73 miles, where the tears started to flow. As Gab went to refuel at the food table, I started weeping in front of one of the volunteers. "I don't know why I'm so slow!" I cried. "I'm not going to make 24 hours. I thought it would be easier than this." The volunteer chuckled at the ridiculousness of my statement and reassured me that everyone was having a bad time. She told me that Stephanie Howe and Kaci Lickteig had both cried at that very aid station, which made me feel like I was in good company.

Gab got me on the trail again, reminding me that in just five miles, I would meet up with the doc, who would pace me the rest of the race. Doc meant more anti-nausea drugs, so I was more than excited. Running up to Rucky Chucky, it felt magical. There was a string of lights around the checkpoint and I could hear the raging river below - one that runners normally have to cross holding on to a rope, but this year the river was too high from the snowmelt, forcing us to be ferried across in boats.

I gave Gab a big hug and thanked him for getting me through the last 16 miles. Gab would continue on the course on his own, finishing the last 22 miles two hours ahead of me (y'know, for extra training, the nutcase). John passed me a brown bag containing - drumroll - chicken mcnuggets and french fries, and I couldn't have been happier. McDonalds was just what I needed!! Mesmerized by the fatty goodness, I glanced over to my right and saw Kaci Lickteig slumped in a chair beside her coach, Jason Koop.

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Kaci should not have been there. As last year's winner, she was quite evidently hours off her time, and it was written all over her face. I offered her some nuggets and fries, which she declined, but it seemed to make her smile. We started chatting and she said she was dropping. There was nothing left in her... or so she was trying to convince me. But I knew there was a reason why she hadn't dropped yet. If she was really done, she wouldn't still have been sitting there at the checkpoint. I knew the mental gymnastics she must have been playing in her head, and I was convinced she was capable of getting to the end. This was Kaci we were talking about!!! I gave her a speech about how it just didn't matter what time she came in - she had nothing to prove. Everyone loved her and we were all behind her. So why not just keep going and finish.

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Kaci told me that she would just end up dropping at Green Gate two miles away if she continued, and I told her fine (knowing that once she got moving she wouldn't drop again). She just needed to take a few steps. She then said that she didn't know where her headtorch was anymore. No problem! I took off the extra light I had around my waist and clipped it on to her 90 pound frame. Without any excuses left, I grabbed her hand and pulled her out of the chair before she could come up with another reason to stay. Koop mouthed THANK YOU behind her head and I smiled at the conspiracy. This was awesome!!! Kaci had encouraged me at the beginning of the year when I was in the hospital, and this time it was my turn to help.

Photo credit: @trappephoto @stravarun

John and I headed up the trail on the other side of the river and said goodbye to Kaci, knowing full-well she'd be catching us up on the trail (which she did, chasing a skunk and yelling gleefully at the top of her lungs). Down to the final stretch. John, being a local from Truckee and having paced people on the course before, could give me very detailed descriptions of what was coming up on the trail, which was hugely helpful. As we came through each of the checkpoints, we tried in vain to get some calories in, but the puking didn't really subside. We decided around Auburn Lake that the race would have to be finished on gingerale and hard candies, and that would be just fine.

I was still well behind the 24 hour pace, but we noticed that I was gaining some ground. Thirty minutes turned to twenty-five and then to twenty, and all of a sudden it seemed like it could be within grasp... but I fought against it. I was exhausted, in pain, and out of fuel, and I just wanted to chat and jog and enjoy the last miles. There was no way I was going to get the silver buckle and I repeatedly told John just how comfortable I was with it. It was fine. Yup. Fine.

When we got to Pointed Rock, just six miles from the finish, we realized that the 24 hour mark could - could - be within reach if I really booted it. It was a moment of excitement and dread. If I didn't go for it, I would always regret not knowing.... if I did go for it and still missed it by a couple of minutes, I would beat myself up for spending a little too long at an aid station somewhere along the way. But the thought of actually getting that silver buckle meant I had to try.

John picked up the pace and I followed. He was positively giddy with excitement, but trying very hard not to say anything. I was almost silent, concentrating on my breathing and willing the searing pain in my legs to go away. "Let's just run straight through the next checkpoints - no stopping," I said through clenched teeth. We were told at No Hands Bridge that it was going to be a tight finish, but I was now committed.

John pushed the pace and kept me running as much as possible up the incline. When we got to the climb, his eyes were glued to his watch. I was practically hyperventilating from the exertion, but I wanted to throw everything into these last minutes. I wanted that 24 hour finish so badly.

At Robie Point, blobs of people formed around me and started shouting positive things in my ears. I was having trouble identifying who was there and I didn't want to stop to check - all energy had to be put on moving forward - but the voices of Gab, my all-American dream team, and Jack Meyer rang in my ears. Occasionally I would let out a panicked cry at the gravity of the moment - it was almost too much. Years of failed applications to get into this race, my accident, months of training, 70 miles of puking, 100 miles of peeing orange... it was all coming down to minutes, if not seconds.

And then, I reached the track. I was on the track at Placer High. After so many years of seeing people running towards the finishing arch, it was me.... I kept worrying that my legs would give out in those final moments and I would collapse in a sweaty mess on the ground while watching the seconds tick away, but the legs kept moving. I asked John to run beside me, but he smiled and told me that they were all going to disappear to the side - this finish was for me alone.

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I crossed the line at 23:58:25, a full 95 seconds before the 24 hour mark. I was the last silver buckler of the race. Kaci finished just a couple of minutes behind as the first bronze buckler. I was so proud to see her finish - most elites in her position would not have battled through, and she didn't give up.

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It wasn't the race performance I was expecting. The conditions this year made the times incredibly slow across the board - it was the 4th slowest race in decades (since the 80s) and it had the highest dropout rate since 2009. But I got so much more out of the race than I ever thought I would. It was messy, it was raw and it was magical. It was 100 miles of puking glitter.**

I'm not sure I can thank my crew and pacers enough for what they did for me out there. My all female dream team went from being strangers to family in the course of those 100 miles. I have images of Zandy lying in the dirt on the side of the trail to get the perfect shot burned into my memory - he flew all the way out from Brooklyn just to be there to capture the carnage (please check out his work - he's incredible). Gab gave up a precious weekend at home with his family to run with me into the night, forgoing sleep and all forms of comfort just to be there. Belinda, who travelled from Switzerland, and Matt Moroz, who helped keep everyone on track during the day. And of course John, without whom I wouldn't have made it to the finish. Having someone who you feel is more invested in the race than you are is an extremely powerful motivator, and that's what kept me going.

I loved everything about this race. And I just want to do it again. I don't care if it takes another ten years to get an entry... I will #seeyouinsquaw once more, whenever that may be.

*My fuzzy race memory has caused the individual faces of my peppy crew members to meld into one generic face of awesomeness, so I'm assigning identities on a somewhat random basis.

**In response to one of my puking photos on instagram, a follower commented that it looked like I was puking glitter. I thought that was the perfect title for this post.

***Huge thanks to Strava for the opportunity and to Chafex for the support!

but they were mainly flings. Once I got my first pair of Salomons, I was in love. I now have a closet full of no less than 12 pairs of Salomon shoes, 5 Salomon packs, 18 Salomon soft flasks, and scores of tights, skorts, tops, socks and bras. I cheated on Salomon during the last 200km of Tor des Geants and I felt awful about it.... (But those Hokas felt gooood after 130km on mountain rock! Ok I admit it!) So, needless to say, when I was invited to join the Salomon Ultrarunning Academy in Europe, I was IN. The camp was scheduled to run from Tuesday, May 23 to Friday, May 26, followed by the Maxi Race in Annecy on Saturday (110km with 7000m of climbing). The chance to run and learn from some of the best athletes in the world was like a dream come true...but I was also curious to see what the company was actually like behind the scenes. Yeah, they sponsored some of the best athletes in the world and made (in my humble opinion) some of the best technical trail running gear out there. But what were they really like?

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"Woop! Woop!" Greg Vollet, Salomon's Global Sport and Community Marketing Manager, let out some excited cheers as we danced along the trails above Annecy. Upon hearing the call from the lead animal of our pack, a number of us responded with a few hyper-infused cheers of our own, quickening our steps with each breath. Amongst the group were Salomon athletes Ida Nilsson, who just broke the female course record at Transvulcania, and Max King, who doesn't really need an introduction. And 15 other runners from across Europe chosen by Salomon for the academy. Dubbed as "ultraplayers" (something may have been lost in translation, ahem), we varied in terms of running experience, specialty and background, but we all shared a fierce passion for running. There was Eugeni from Spain, an adorable puppy of an athlete who has the speed of a young Kilian and the looks of a young Ryan Sandes. Okay, I feel a little like a pedophile even saying that, but it's true. He's just adorable. He decided after university to forgo formal employment to pursue his dream of becoming a professional athlete. Go get 'em. Then there was Georgia, my roommate from Scotland, who was almost a good ten years younger than me (are you getting the theme here?). Surprisingly no no-nonsense and pragmatic for someone in their 20s, she ran up the trails with ease, unphased by just about anything. Mike and Rob, from the UK and Scotland, respectively, were admittedly two of my favs from the week. Their blossoming bromance, which cultivated in a hand-in-hand finish at the end of the 110km Maxi Race, was just too heart-warming to ignore, especially when juxtaposed with their ridiculously crass humour. Maartje, the peppy scientist from the Netherlands who manages to make the mundane look interesting on social media; Katie, the sustainability consultant from the Lake District whose fell running experience makes her a beast on the downhill; and Johannes from Germany, whose affection for tiny shorts is justified by his incredible speed. [gallery ids="24859,24860,24861,24864" type="rectangular"] With the exception of a couple of other simply delightful runners, I was definitely in the 'older' crowd of the group. My knee was giving me quite a bit of grief from my fall in Transvulcania, and I was worried I wouldn't be able to keep up. On our first trail running workshop, we clocked over 15km of running and 1000m of climb, which was definitely taking a toll. I was loving the scenery, the company and the guidance, but I was in a constant state of mild panic that I wasn't measuring up. The young pups - the real "ultraplayers" - were jumping and bouncing around like popping bubbles off the top of a freshly poured glass of coke. I was playing the part and truly was loving the camaraderie, but the image in my head of being an old washed up hack was looming in my brain. [gallery ids="24852,24853,24847" type="rectangular"] There was no time for self-doubt, however. "WHAT TIME IS IT?" Greg shouted at us as we perched on a rock overlooking the lake, clad in fluorescent gear like happy skittles and glistening with sweat. "It's TIME TO PLAY!" we responded dutifully, yelling out Salomon's famous hashtag as Martina captured it on film. Was it cheesy and scripted? You bet it was. Did we care? No. It really was time to play. We jumped off the rocks and skipped into the woods, muscles twitching and faces stretched with grins, unabashedly showing off our skills.

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  The week wasn't all about running though - far from it. One of my favourite parts of the week was getting to meet the people who design the shoes, bags and clothes for Salomon. I knew that the design team was pretty stellar (just take a look at the wicked lightweight stuff they made for Kilian and his ascent up Everest!), but I was keen to find out more about their process.

The design team questioned each one of us on what we liked, what we didn't like, what we loved about other brands, and what we hoped to see in the future. They took photos of the defects and modifications we'd made on our gear (replaced zippers, holes, accessories etc.). They nodded when I commended them for not succumbing to an overabundance of pink in their women's line (yay for black and red!). They showed us prototypes of shoes they'd made for their top athletes according to their needs (not allowed to show photos, but they looked super cool, let me tell you). And they reflected on things they've changed in recent past based on feedback. I talked on and on about not just the technical aspects of the shoes, but also the emotional aspects as well. I have an attachment to my running shoes the way that some women might feel towards their Jimmy Choos. Whenever I had to pack up for a new mission - Afghanistan, South Sudan, or Gaza - it was heart-wrenching to choose which shoes to bring and which to leave behind. Each one had their own personality and carried their own memories. Sophie's Choice!! Who gets to come and who do I abandon?? I remember one day my Dad sent me an email asking if he could throw out any of the dozens of pairs of shoes I had left behind in one of their closets back home in Canada. Horrified, I immediately said no. When he questioned whether I could even remember what remained, I proceeded to rattle off the colour and brand of each shoe, and the trails that I had covered in each pair... Instead of laughing me out of the room, the product and marketing designers carefully listened, took notes and asked insightful questions. I was clearly amongst friends.

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Two weeks before coming to the academy, I had received a text and an email asking me to submit blood work within 96 hours, and informing me that this request was in connection with my participation in the Maxi Race. Whoa. This was the first time I had heard of this happening and wondered what it was all about. During the Ultrarunning Academy, we had the chance to attend an anti-doping

conference held by ITRA (International Trail Running Association) and Athletes for Transparency to understand a bit more of the context. As trail and ultrarunning is becoming more popular and prize money is starting to creep in to some races, that unfortunately brings with it the risk that some athletes will dope to get an edge up on the others. To me, it seems completely ridiculous and contrary to the entire ethos of ultrarunning, but unfortunately we've seen evidence of this already. Last year Gonzalo Calisto was stripped of his 5th place in UTMB from 2015 due to doping, and there will be others in the future. I'm sad to see the sport go in this direction - we shouldn't NEED an anti-doping progamme!!! - but if the risk is there, I'm pleased to see someone doing something about it. On March 22, Salomon announced its Athlete Transparency Program and race series sponsorship of five major trail races that will be related to the clean sport initiative. They created it as a way for athletes to prove their integrity in the sport. Sixteen elite athletes, not just Salomon athletes, will be subject to the most rigorous health and anti-doping tests year-round. The programme is designed not only to detect performance enhancing drugs, but also to help identify any potential issues and assist the athletes in managing their overall health. In addition, at five chosen trail races, including the Maxi race, the top ten women and men as identified by ITRA score (again, not just Salomon athletes) will be subject to tests before and after the race.... which is why I was included. After I submitted my first blood test and I was called in for a second sample the day before the race. I was happy to provide it!

At the anti-doping conference, the guys from ITRA and Athletes for Transparency also talked about regular painkillers and other substances that aren't banned by WADA (the world anti-doping agency), but that they feel shouldn't be used in the sport. In their view, if you're injured and you can't run without pills, you shouldn't run at all. Hmmm, they had a good point. I am generally against taking any painkillers during a race, but I'll admit, I popped a few during the last 50km of Tor des Geants last year and haven't been opposed to them late in the game in other races. It made me start to rethink my strategy for the Maxi Race...

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After three full days of yoga, running, workshops and conferences, it was #timetorace. I lined up on the start line of the Maxi Race on Saturday morning with the other #ultraplayers. Maartje, Georgia, Rob, Mike, Siebrig and I were all attempting the 110km beast and the others were trying their hand (legs) at the 83km race a few hours later. Despite the nerves about my knee, I felt pretty giddy to be rubbing shoulders with the likes of Max King, Francois D'Haene and Caroline Chaverot, right up at the front of the pack. Caroline turned around and asked me about the tape on my collarbone, which I explained was to help reduce chafing. After we chatted very briefly about the woes of chafing, she turned back around and I giggled with ridiculous fandom. I just talked about chafing with Caroline Chaverot! I whispered to Max King. And then I immediately thought, I just talked to Max King about talking to Caroline Chaverot! It was a never-ending cycle. (For those of you who don't know, Caroline is currently ranked as the top female athlete according to ITRA and went on to finish 1st female and 5th overall in the Maxi Race! She's a machine!)

When the clock started at 1:30am, I was ready to go. My knee was throbbing, but I was happy to just see how far I could go... without painkillers. At least I would put it off as long as I could... I'll save the play by play of the race for another time. What I can say is that it was a battle. The knee was screaming at 40km and I told another Salomon #ultraplayer that I was going to drop out at 70km where I knew supercrew Belinda would be waiting with a car. Knowing that I was going to bow out of the race, I popped a panadol (an over the counter painkiller) and carried on. Over the next 5 km, the pain subsided. By the time I got to 70km, I found out I was in fifth place and I was okay to go on. Was it the painkiller or was it my body just going through its natural pain wave cycle? Probably a bit of both? I dunno. My physio had told me before the race that I'd be okay to compete, although it would hurt, so I didn't feel justified dropping out. I decided to just carry on and grin and bear whatever came my way. [gallery ids="24854,24856,24855" type="rectangular"] Turns out, it was nausea that was coming my way! The bright side was that knee was no longer a concern :) It wasn't pretty, but I finished. And y'know what? My knee was less swollen after the race than it was before. Go figure. Sometimes the messiest races are the ones we learn the most from. After the week with Salomon, I'll definitely be doing a lot more thinking about my health and nutrition before, during and after a race. I've of course always followed WADA rules, but the conference made me question whether perhaps we should be holding ourselves to a higher standard. There's a lot of interesting debates going on in the ultra/trail running community right now about what is fair and what isn't, from caffeine to marijuana to painkillers to sleeping in altitude tents for acclimatization. I'm looking forward to seeing where these conversations take us and the sport...

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I ended the week exhausted, but blissfully happy. I was pleased with my race performance, but it didn't really matter. I had shown up, I had laughed, I had tried my best, and I had learned. And I got to peek behind the curtain and understand Salomon a bit better. Is the company as passionate about trail running, mountains and the outdoors as their marketing makes us believe? Are the athletes as nice and talented as they seem on social media? Um, yeah. Hate to disappoint, but I don't have a juicy expose for you. They are simply awesome. We lost Max King a couple of times on the trail because he was simply having too much fun crashing around in the woods, literally off the beaten path. Mira Rai, who is currently focusing on rehab for her knee post-surgery, was hysterical, making us laugh at every turn with her one-liners and giggling 'namastes'. Dakota Jones, while he wasn't racing, got up at the butt crack of dawn just to drive

Dakota Jones post Maxi Race. Photo by Martina Valmassoi (Salomon Running) us to the start line and then follow the lead runners around with Phillip Reiter, who was capturing them on film. Ida Nilsson led us in a yoga session every morning at 7am with a smile. While she would nonchalantly demonstrate some kind of ninja move on the grass, I was shaking and struggling to hold myself up in an inferior move by my chicken wing arms.  Once the camp ended and the race was over, we all went home... and the Salomon guys just kept playing, running and jumping around the mountains with reckless abandon. For them, it is always #timetoplay. Where do I sign up? Huge thanks to Salomon for the opportunity to participate in the Academy (and no, they did not ask me to write this....) For tips from Salomon on how to run downhill, watch this video (it's the same instruction we got at the camp!) and for uphill, watch this video here! And huge congrats to Katie and Aurelien, who got 3rd place female and male respectively in the 83km race, and who will go on to compete in the Mont Blanc marathon in a few weeks when I'll be in California for Western States! Follow me on facebook, instagram and twitter!

Crowds of people seemed to line the trail at every turn, sometimes shouting from places I couldn't even see. I heard 'animo' and immediately assumed they were calling us animals, which seemed rather accurate. I figured out that probably wasn't what they meant, but every time I heard it I still nodded. Yup, we are animals. Rawr.

There is an intensity to Transvulcania that I am not accustomed to in ultras... and I'm not sure I entirely liked it. European races tend to start off with a lot of fanfare, but with a long enough race things usually calm down once you get into it... not so with Transvulcania. The race resembles more of a roller derby meets Spanish fiesta, with crowds cheering you on at every turn and someone constantly on your tail. It is thrilling and exhausting at the same time.

It is a 74km skyrace with 4350m of climb, following the GR131 trail on la Palma and connecting up with the GR130. Being a skyrace, there is a good portion of the race that runs above 2000m, offering incredible views of the island and even nearby Tenerife.

For such a popular, well-organized race, the start is nothing short of ridiculous. I wouldn't be surprised if the race directors were hiding behind a rock at start, evil laughs emanating from their upturned mouths, waiting for the carnage to ensue.

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At 6am, the race began and 2000 glucose-fuelled 'animos' set off into the dark, whooping and cheering under the light of their head torches. I was fairly near the front, but still a few hundred people back from the lead, so I knew I’d still have to claw my way forward. Within the first 50m, I caught my toe (I really need to find smaller shoes) and fell right on my knees. (My knee had JUST healed from Madeira!). My friend Greg was beside me and helped scoop me up before I got trampled by the hoards of runners behind me. I glanced down to survey the damage and saw blood start to poke through the dark volcanic dust that now covered my knees. It hurt, but it was manageable. Well, I knew I would fall, but didn’t think it would happen in the first minute… At least I've gotten it out of the way! I tried to take a couple of deep breaths and continued fighting for my place in the pack. The trail quickly funnelled onto a narrow trail just steps from the start line, which caused an immediate bottleneck. I had a head in my armpit and I’m pretty sure I violated a runner in front of me when I was scrambling to hold on to something tangible. We were the definition of ‘animo’.

The trail at the start is dark and sandy, but covered in sharp rocks and little boulders. It can be quite difficult to pass runners ahead on the trail, so if you want to make a move, you likely have to step off to the side and employ some fancy footwork over more technical terrain. I was successfully starting to navigate my way up the pack when I hit a flat section and BOOM, I caught my toe again and bailed. Hard. I felt the ground scrape the side of my left calf and thigh and a hard rock slice into my right knee. Another runner behind me scooped me up again and I immediately started running again, convinced I could just ‘run it off’… but I felt it was more than just a flesh wound. The knee cap got knocked pretty hard and it was throbbing. This is going to be a long race…. I resolved to check it out only once the sun rose and kept focusing on maintaining my pace, praying the pain would work itself out. I pictured the left side of my Salomon skirt shredded to pieces and wondered if I was flashing the crowds (I wasn’t – skirt was fully intact. Thank you Salomon!).

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The first 16km is a steady climb uphill to 1800m. Poles are banned during the first 7km, which is probably one of the main factors preventing more serious casualties! By the time I got to the first checkpoint at 7km, the sun had risen and I greeted the mass of crowds with my trademark bloody knees. I kept waiting for the pack to start to thin out, but no dice. I simply had to become comfortable with having my nose in someone's butt for the first three hours of the race. Nothing like the smell of farts in the morning to get you going! (Seriously people, was it the altitude? What are you eating for breakfast?) I actually felt a bit left out of the gassy party and tried to squeak out a few of my own, but failed miserably.

At the top of the first long climb, the course then gets quite fast with very runnable trails connecting the next few aid stations. This is where the runners vs the climbers can really make up some time (and where I started to fall back into more of a plod). The trails are not super technical and some sections are quite wide dirt roads, opening up the way for some quick kms. The numerous Spanish runners around me were chatting cheerfully and loudly, providing a constant narrative on the trail. There was a sense of bravado that seemed to swirl around us, getting kicked up by the runners in front and bouncing off the others further down the pack. Venga venga venga!! Animo!

The first two aid stations didn’t provide any food, so I was happy to have some snacks in my pack. I shoved a bounty bar in my mouth, eager to get rid of the chocolate before it got too hot and saving the salty chips for later in the day. At around 31km, the course then starts climbing again to the highest point at Roque de los Muchachos. I was worried it would be cold at the top so I had a light windshell with me, but it wasn’t necessary at all. The ‘coldest’ part was actually when we were running through the cloud layer, immersed in the fog. Once we broke through, the sun provided ample warmth and we got to enjoy some pretty incredible views. The cloud layer below was pristine white and frothy, like a perfect bubble bath. I looked out half expecting to see a couple of rubber duckies on the horizon, but instead caught glimpse of the towering 3000+m peak on the nearby island of Tenerife.

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Despite the cumulative elevation, you are never really hit with any steep climbs – it is ultimately still a very fast, runnable race. At the top of the final big climb, volunteers were standing by at the checkpoint to take runners’ poles, which they would transfer to the finish, which I thought was a nice touch. We had almost 2500m of descent ahead, so there wasn’t much use for that extra weight! I threw mine into my Salomon quiver, which I was testing out for the first time (and looooooved).

The descent is where things really started to fall off the rails for me. I had taken two Tylenol during the race to help keep the throbbing in my knee down and it was manageable on the climbs. But the flats and descents were brutal. When I hit the 30km mark I started trying to convince myself it would be smart to drop out, but there was no easy way to do it – we were running across the island in the middle of nowhere, so it seemed simplest to just keep moving forward… by the 60km mark, I was really hurting.

The downhill is long. Rocky. But nothing terrible. I was not the biggest fan, but that is because I was concentrating on each step. Had I not been injured, I think I would have found it relatively painless. If you are a downhill runner, this is REALLY where you can shine…. So go for it! I was just trying to hold on by a thread. The last bit coincides with the start of the vertical km race, which takes place on the Thursday before. As I zigzagged down to the port of Tazacorte, gingerly but steadily, I was hit with a wave of garlic emanating from the string of restaurants below. Whoa! First the farts and then the garlic. This race was full of smelly surprises. The crowds were once again ready to cheer all of the runners through the giant finishing arch… but it was a false finish for us sorry souls. While the port acts as the finish line for the marathon race, the ultra competitors have to continue on for another 5km and 400m climb to the finish. Cruel and unusual punishment if you ask me!

I had been passed by dozens of runners on the downhill so I vowed to pick up a few on the climb – and I did. I gritted my teeth and ran under garden hoses that the locals were holding out in the street to help cool us down. A little girl on the side of the road started to clap and cheer as I approached until she saw the state of my leg, which immediately prompted her to clasp her hands over her mouth and shriek. Todo esta bien!! It’s okay! I’m fine! I said in a panicked way, struggling to plaster a big smile on my face while I was mentally preparing for amputation. I gave a wincing apology to her mom as I limped away. This animo is starting to scare small children… time to finish this sucker!

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The last kilometer through town was a blur. I didn’t feel the elation I felt in Madeira three weeks prior – only a dogged determination to finish this race as quickly as possible so that I’d never have to do it again. I crossed the finish line and went straight for the nearest step to sit on, resting my head in my hands to have a good cry of relief. It was over!! No sooner had I given myself permission to have a nice little sob did the medical team swoop in to carry me off to the medical tent. I insisted I could walk by myself without assistance, but the medic didn’t let go of his death grip under my arm until I danced around like a fool just trying to prove I was perfectly mobile (I know, I’m a nightmare). I wasn’t interested in getting stitches or staying for a massive painful cleaning of the wound, so I stubbornly only let them do the basics and then signed myself out.

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Battle wounds earned, finish in the bag. It was a very, very fast race and a good challenge – all things considered, I am very happy with my finish (10h50min in 20^th place). But it has highlighted to me how much work I need to do before Western States, which is also a very fast and runnable course compared to what I’m used to. Time to stop focusing on climbing, and concentrate on actually running. Hmm, sounds painful.

Transvulcania was a good experience for me, but it was definitely a one-time deal. I much prefer the course, views, and feeling of MIUT. The fanfare of Transvulcania was exciting, but ultimately a bit too overwhelming. But hey, how many times have I said ‘never again’ before and proved myself wrong…we’ll find out next year!

Congrats to Ida Nilsson, Salomon athlete, who smashed the course record and finished just a few minutes after 8 hours. Astonishing time!

And thanks to Chafex for keeping me chafe-free the whole race. Hmm, maybe I should have put it all over my knees too... (Use SCASE discount code on their website and you get 10% off and free shipping in the US! They will ship internationally too. If you order in May with the code and don't like the product, they will refund you 2x once you send it back, excluding shipping and handling. Sounds nuts, but they are just trying to save yours, ha! Love these guys!).

Tips:

1. Try to get to the start line early to get close to the front. My friend Belinda started somewhere near the back and was blocked to a standstill more than once, and sometimes long minutes at a time. She reckons this actually made it quite hard for some to make the first time cutoff, so if you are usually a plodder at the back, beware. If you want to try to do a good time in the race, try to (safely) gun it early to get ahead of the bulk. Starting near the front of the line will provide you with a huge advantage.

2. Pack a super light head torch. The mandatory kit is extremely minimal, but does require a head torch. However, if you are aiming to finish in under 15 hours (time limit is 17), you’ll really only need a light to get you through the first hour of the course. The race starts at 6am and by 7am the trail is fully visible. Some runners brought only a very light emergency torch, which is doable as you can try to benefit from the light of other runners around you. However, if you are planning to try to pass the crowds on the side of the trail, at least a basic petzl is probably advisable. No need, however, for anything substantial. It stays light until about 9pm, so unless you’re planning on squeaking in in the final two hours of the race, you’ll only need one hour of light.

3. Check the weather and dress accordingly. Other runners informed me that it can sometimes get cold on the course when you are running above 2000m, especially if it is windy at 2420m at Roque de los Muchachos. I brought a very light windshell just in case, but with the sunny skies and minimal breeze, it wasn’t necessary. Arm warmers would be another good lightweight option to bring along if the weather looks potentially chilly. I found a buff to be really handy to keep the sun off my neck and to dunk in water at aid stations to cool down my head.

4. Watch your fluid intake. I carried two 500 mL bottles, which was sufficient so long as I drank at least two or three cups of fluid at each aid station. I carried an extra empty soft flash just in case, which I’m glad I had with me. If the weather looks hot, make sure you are prepare – the length of the climbs can catch you by surprise and you don’t want to get dehydrated.

5. Bring your own food. The first two aid stations only had fluid – no food – so there was no opportunity to refuel until El Pilar aid station, 24km into the race and after 1800+m of climb. The aid stations had the basics – fruit, some basic ham and cheese sandwiches, and pre-packaged cakes – but some were better stocked than others. If I didn’t have food with me, I would definitely have been struggling.

But before we get to the vomiting, let me lay out the basics. MIUT is a 115km race with a whopping 7100m of climb on the unique Portuguese island of Madeira. Part of the Ultra Trail World Tour, he race starts at midnight on Friday on the north-west end of the island in Porto Moniz and finishes in Machico (time limit is 32h). There are also 84, 42, and 16 kilometre races if the 115km one is too daunting.

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Unlike the Canaries to the South, which are much rockier and dustier islands, Madeira is quite a lush, verdant place to explore. It is a volcanic island covered in forests, green mountains, wet valleys, cliffs, caves, and levadas, which are the irrigation channels tattooing the entire island. If you’re a beach person, this isn’t the place for you… but if you are an epic-lord-of-the-rings-type scenery person (um, who wouldn’t be), look no further.

So, back to the vomiting. I ran the race last year (2016) when I was still living and training in Gaza, so my fitness wasn’t great. Plus, as the first race of the season, it was a pretty ambitious event to take on. I ended up throwing up for the last six hours of the race, too sick to raise my head and take in the spectacular views. The only saving grace was the extremely attractive doctor in the medical tent at the finish line. It wasn't a coincidence that the tent ended up being predominantly female. Sure, I had bloodshot eyes and smelled like puke, but hey, you never know…

Anyway, this year, I couldn’t wait to come back. Physically, I wasn’t sure where I was at. After my accident on January 1, I had pushed my body pretty hard in recovery, but it was difficult for me to tell where I had wound up. I was more disciplined in my training, but I was tired, and my confidence was lacking. Emotionally, I was a bit of a wreck. Just personal crap, but that kind of stuff can really have tangible effects on your performance. Come race day, the last thing I wanted to do was head out into the night and run. I didn’t want to be alone with my thoughts for 115km because they were all just sad. I wanted to crawl under the covers and sleep away the emotions.

At the same time, I knew I had to slay the dragon. I needed to get back out there and race. I needed to prove to myself that I was o-k-a-y. So, at 8:40pm, I headed out to Machico to catch the bus to Porto Moniz, waist torch charged, covered in Chafex, potato chips packed and hiking poles in hand.

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I always hate the race start, but I was lucky enough to be identified as ‘elite’ for this one, so I got to start right at the front (yay!). It paid off. The race starts with a short and steep 350m climb on mainly road and concrete steps. Even the leaders weren’t running this section, so I happily power hiked. The course then takes a quick and somewhat technical descent back down to sea level, where crowds will cheer you right into an 1100m climb to the first checkpoint, Fanal, at 14km. At this point, I was well into my ‘death march’, attacking the stairs with fervor. It reminded me a lot of racing in Hong Kong and I was keen to get on to trail. I breezed through the checkpoint quickly, wincing at the site of another runner who already had to drop out due to a twisted ankle – there were many more to come on the way…

I descended down to checkpoint two at Chao da Ribeira without too much fuss – not exactly enjoying myself, but trying to numb my brain on auto-pilot. The tree roots and jungle-like terrain in the forest helped distract me as it required my full concentration to stay upright (which faltered – the first time – in the night, causing some nuclear damage on my knees and a bruise to the side of my face). In some of the forested sections, it was so dark that I contemplated bringing out my second light, but I wanted to save some battery in case things went really wrong and I ended up running into Saturday night.

Video of the course from the start to Estanquinhos (28.8km)

https://youtu.be/g41HTkT2Poo The climb up to Estanquinhos is gnarly. You’re looking at about a 1250m climb at a fairly steep gradient, reaching 1500m around the 30km mark. For me, it is on this climb when you can really feel everyone settling into their own rhythm. At this point, exhausted of bravado and mass hysteria (something that seems to plague the start of all European races), runners succumb to the relentless ascent. Last year, I remember how stunning it was to escape the forest cover and break through the cloud layer, bathed in moonlight as I reached the 1500m peak. This year it wasn’t quite as dramatic, but it was still beautiful – and cold. I tried to breathe warm air on to my hands to warm them up as I ran along, which was useless. Only solution was to try to run faster.

Luckily, I was running and climbing behind Italian runner Cristian Caselli for most of the way up to the checkpoint, which gave me a lot of comfort. Cristian and I have run large chunks of Tor together – and once you’ve survived that experience with someone, they pretty much become family! (Kind of like when you poo in front of someone for the first time, yeah?) He keeps a great pace going uphill and I loved following him. We weaved our way through the pack along with one other runner, reaching the peak around 4:30.

I figured if I was running with Cristian, I was probably moving pretty well, but it really didn’t feel like that. My mind was heavy and that zapped the energy from my legs. My heart simply wasn’t in the race, but I wanted to see if I could bring it back in with cumulative miles. As the sun rose, I started to get the feeling that I was further along in the course than last year, but I couldn’t be sure…Climbing up another steep set of stairs alongside a large pipe, I had a flashback to last year’s catastrophe, and thanked my lucky stars that I was feeling okay. (NB: this climb feels particularly demoralizing, but just put your head down, pump the legs, and get it done – the descent is technical, winding, and pretty).

Video of the course from Estanquinhos (28.8km) to Curral das Freiras (59.6km)

https://youtu.be/M3ZxyUMxDDo

Coming into the 60km checkpoint at Curral das Freiras, I spotted another female coming up quickly behind me. See? You ARE slow. Now people are just going to be streaming past you for the rest of the race. The negative narrative was incredibly self-defeating and I tried to turn it around. Go easy on yourself. You’ll do well to just finish this time without puking. That’s a good goal to have. Ix-nay on the omit-vay. You’re doing great. Just as I was working on my sorry little monologue, a volunteer held up three fingers as I approached the checkpoint. Three? Three what? Is this a Madeiran peace sign? My eyes widened when I realized I was in third. Third!!! I assumed that Andrea Huser would be in first and Lisa Borzani, the indefatigable winner of Tor, would be in second. When I found out Lisa was actually behind me, I immediately vowed to slow down. I had gone out too fast and would burn out if I tried to keep up that pace.

Sofia Roquet, the energetic Portuguese runner behind me, came in and out of the checkpoint in a blur while I was still bumbling around trying to figure what to do first, and in what order. In my attempt to multi-task, I ended up pouring water all over my spare dry shirt, spilling hot soup on my crotch, and smushing oreos all over the back of my pack. I was on fi-yah (well, my crotch was at least). After a quick gear check, I headed out, bumping into Lisa on my way. “You’re so strong! You’re doing great!” Lisa said cheerfully, cheering me on my way. “You need to be in front of me – see you shortly!” I replied after a quick hug. And sure enough, within a matter of minutes, Lisa came up behind me on the climb and steadily powered her way forward. She’s a wonderful competitor and a brilliant athlete who just loves the mountains … I’ll happily run behind her any day!

Lisa, hot on my heels!

With my new-found confidence, I started to come out of my ‘funk’ and really enjoy myself. I am sure I was moving more slowly, but I felt so much lighter, and it reminded me that sometimes we can really be our own worst enemy. There I was actually rocking the race and I was contemplating whether I should even bother finishing. Enough of that shit. Time to get my head out of my @ss (good thing I lubed).

The smell of eucalyptus woke me up a bit and the sunlight wasn’t too strong, so it felt like ideal running conditions. The second half of the course is nothing less than stunning – some of the most beautiful topical views I have ever seen. The red roofs of some of the villages along the way peek out amongst the bright green grasses and mountainous backdrops. The winding trails seem to find impossible nooks and crannies in the landscape, taking you to outcrops and climbs you wouldn’t expect would be possible. It doesn’t look like it from the course profile, but there are actually some good stretches of relative flat that require you to actually run pretty quickly, which I found much more difficult to handle than the climbs or descents.

Video of the course from Curral das Freiras (59.6km) to Poiso (89km)

https://youtu.be/ma4alX3tEA 

The terrain from Pico Ruivo to Poiso is probably the most challenging on the entire course, but you are rewarded with 360 degree views of sheer beauty. The course winds through tunnels in the rock, so keep your head torch handy as you’ll need it on a couple of occasions. This is where you’ll start seeing some day hikers, but rather than get in the way, their cheering should hopefully give you a bit of a boost! I had fallen a number of times by this point, so my knees and legs were covered in dried blood, mud, and either dried leaves or dead skin (hard to tell, and frankly, I figured it would be best not to try to figure that out mid-race!). This drew some grimaces from passersby, but I just responded with an idiotic grin. NB: if you’re afraid of heights, there will be some stretches of this part of the course that you won’t love, but the parts that are steep will have ropes on either side. There are some metal ladders you will have to descend, but just take your time or go down backwards if you feel dizzy.

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From Poiso, get your running legs back on and prepare for 25km of descent and flat running with views of the cliffs dropping down into the ocean. I enjoyed running the trails along the levadas and dirt roads, chatting with some of the runners from the marathon and 85km course along the way. The only tricky thing about this part of the course is that due to the overlap, you will always have someone ahead and on your tail, and there are few places to duck off the trail to pee. I just embraced the nudity and dropped trou on the side of the path, back up against the cliff face, smiling at runners as they hopped over the little trickle of urine that started to form in front of me  (* awkward *). (Anyone remember that scene in Dirty Rotten Scoundrels?).

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I ran by David Jeker, a fellow Canadian, immediately tripped (for the fourth time), landing myself in the mud again. David reached out his hand, saying “it’s bound to happen when you try to run fast!” My right knee was quite visibly swollen at this point, but as long as I didn't concentrate on it too much, it was manageable.

As I came into one of the checkpoints near the end, I had another flashback to last year when I was keeled over ten steps from the tent, spitting up water. I stuffed some oranges and bananas in my mouth and congratulated myself. Look at you go! Eating like a champ! No sooner had I smiled and waved goodbye to the checkpoint volunteers did I start suspiciously burping. Okay, perhaps I’m not completely in the clear yet. Easy tiger.

Video of the course from Poiso (89km) to the finish (115km)

https://youtu.be/LduXPF1H1Do

The last couple kilometres, running into town, I was ecstatic. I yelled aloud to some of the people on the street, “I’m so happy right now!” It was a rather self-evident thing to say, but I felt the need to share my joy with anyone and everyone around me. Running to the finish, I put my happy orange Julbo sunglasses on and jumped across the line. I did it!!!! Not only did I get to the end without vomiting, but I beat my time from last year by 3:40. Best of all, I came in fifth!

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Lisa and Cristian were sitting down at the finish waiting for Lisa’s partner to come in. I flopped down beside them and we all congratulated each other, genuinely happy for each other’s performances. After a brief ‘chat’ in English/French, I hopped in a cab to head back to the hotel.

In the end, I did much better than I thought I would and really surprised myself. Three weeks later, I’m now in la Palma, ready for Transvulcania tomorrow morning. Too soon? Maybe. But I don’t care. I’m so grateful to be running and racing again, and I just want to keep going, even if it means tripping up along the way.

Oh, there was one goal I didn’t really achieve. Once I got back to the hotel, I couldn’t even make it down the hallway to my room. As the other guests walked towards the restaurant for dinner, there I was, sitting on the ground, throwing up into a Ziploc bag, medal around my neck. What a race.

Tips:

1. Bring poles. The climbs are steep and believe me, you will want them! Amongst the top five female runners this year, Andrea Huser (1^st), Beth Pascale (2^nd), and I (5^th) all used poles, whereas Lisa Borzani (3^rd) and Sofia Roquet (4^th) did not. From what I could tell, the majority of the top men did too.

2. Eat often. It is quite easy to get mesmerized by the climbs and time can just fly by. Don’t forget to stop and eat to keep up your energy. A few times, I realized my stomach was actually growling despite eating quite a lot at checkpoints, which is probably what contributed to my nausea later on.

3. Bring gloves if you tend to get cold. They will come in handy on the first night and you can drop them in your drop bag in the morning.

4. Don’t skimp on head torches. Last year, my head torch died an hour and a half before sunrise and it was a nightmare on the very technical descents. All I had was my tiny emergency torch that everyone brings for kit check but no one intends to rely on. The dense forest cover means that the trails can stay dark for longer than usual, so make sure you’re prepared.

5. Bring money with you to the start. There is a little café that is really nice to sit in before the race. The buses get you there around 10:30pm, so you’ve got time to kill.

6. Conserve your energy during the first half – you’ll need it! During the first 63km, I did 5700m of climbing already out of 7100m. You’ll end up passing people on the long descent to the finish if you save some legs.

7. Don’t cut it too close with your flight when you fly in. Both times I’ve flown into Madeira I’ve had issues – the first time, our plane was diverted to Gran Canaria overnight due to weather, and the second time I was bumped off my connection due to overbooking. Madeira is a tricky airport to land in, so this isn’t uncommon.

8. Book your accommodation in Machico early. It is a small town, so hotels get filled quickly. Funchal is a bit of a hike from Machico and you’ll want a car, but if you want another option, Canico is a good bet (halfway between Funchal and Machico)

We've all heard how important it is for us runners to 'listen to our body'. Intuitively, it makes sense. In this sport, we are constantly pushing ourselves to go farther and faster, and testing the boundaries of our physical and mental abilities. In order to avoid injury and keep ourselves from burning out, it seems logical that we should pay attention to all of the feedback and warning signs that our body gives us.

I believe that for the most part. But my recent accident has given me an alternative perspective and prompted me to rethink this traditional advice. Lying in the hospital, broken, weak and drugged, the doctors told me I would not be able to return to sports for six months. They advised me to give my body time to heal. To allow myself to recover. And to listen to my body.

Listening to my body was the last thing I wanted to do. During the day, I could be distracted by visitors, by the nurses coming in to check my IV or draw blood, or by the constant cacophony of disturbing hospital noises (beeps, squeaks and moans). But at night when the chaos died down, all I had to listen to was my body. The wheezing of my breath. The painful coughs that tried to escape through my broken ribs. The blood and fluid oozing out of my chest tube and down into a container on the floor. The cold sweat that seeped from every pore and soaked through the sheets. These bodily functions all screamed in my ears and told me that I was broken. With every micro-movement, my body told me to give up.

This was not something I was willing to hear. I decided there in my hospital bed that I was going to fight my body as hard as I could. I wasn't going to ignore it - I was going to yell back. Every time it screamed at me to stop, I would push harder and scream GO.

Obviously, this made me just about the worst patient ever. I made my parents worried, the doctors angry, and the nurses cry. I was constantly asking to do more (can I walk to the bathroom? Can I sit up? Can I at least sit in a wheelchair and look out the window?). The answer was always no, but I kept asking anyway, just in case they somehow forgot that I wanted to do more. I didn't want to upset anyone, and I knew that they were only thinking about my health... but I had no interest in listening to this broken, fragile body. It was alien to me and everything it was saying was deeply offensive.

At the same time, I was scared. I was constantly being told what a vulnerable state I was in - one wrong move and I'd be right back where I started, only worse.  My instincts told me to fight, but my instincts had not saved me from getting injured in the first place, so I wasn't sure what to trust.

I found what I needed back in Switzerland. I visited a hospital and sports medicine clinic that I knew, where the reputation was top notch. The Swiss docs and physios told me that once my liver stabilized after about four weeks, I could start to try to run again. It would hurt like hell, but if I could tolerate the pain, the movement might actually help the ribs heal. That was all I needed to hear - it gave me the hope that I'd been craving.

I took an elastic bandage and taped up my ribs, wrapping around the healing wound and stitches from my chest tube and over the area under my right breast that was still largely numb. Stop, stop, stop. At first, I couldn't lift my arm to be able to put on my sports bra, so I didn't bother. Stop, stop, stop. The first few steps outside were terrifying.   Things shifted and pulled in strange ways, and as my breathing rapidly increased, I felt a stabbing pain in my side. Stop, stop, stop. My calves started to twitch and my hamstrings called out in protest on the slightest descent. The cold winter air started the coughing again, forcing me protectively to grab my right side. STOP, STOP, STOP!

I didn't stop. For my first run outside after the accident, I ran 10km through the valley in Chamonix. And I survived. The next day, I ran 12km. And I continued running every day after that. My body continued screaming at me - STOP, STOP, STOP! - and I continued on. And you know what? The doctors were right. I got stronger. The pain lessened. And my body shut up.

Over the last month, I've consistently run 100km/week and this past week I reached 130km. It felt GREAT. Was that smart in the long run? I have no idea. Maybe, maybe not and only time will tell. All I know is that I feel better. I feel human. I feel like ME. If I had listened to my body, I think I would still be in bed at this point. I know that I wouldn't be running, and therefore that I would be lost.

So, again, I wish to be clear: I'm not advocating for people to be stupid and run themselves into the ground in some kind of dangerous and unhealthy way. Chronic running injuries need to be carefully managed and my injuries were definitely in a different category. Ultimately, I still followed my doctor's advice - I just didn't blindly accept the first piece of advice that I got. I questioned, I pushed, and I fought. And once I got the green light, I gave it everything I had.

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I'm still building up my strength and I've definitely got a lot of work to do yet. Recovering from the accident emotionally is a heck of a lot harder than the physical recovery. Climbing up the Jura the other day with my friend Greg, we got to a particularly steep section and I just froze (and burst into tears). I wouldn't have batted an eye at that kind of incline before, but I was gripped with fear of falling uncontrollably down the hillside.

I'm excited to see where my training and recovery can take me. I'm about 6.5 weeks away from the Madeira Island Ultra Trail, which should be a good way to test where I'm at! And I'm excited to announce that I've been accepted into the Salomon Ultrarunning Academy in Europe in May, which will involve five days of epic running with some top athletes, ending in the 110km Salomon Goretex Maxi race (7000m of vert!!)! (I was late to the game, so my name isn't on the list yet for the academy yet, but I will be there!)

Thanks to everyone for your support and encouragement. I feel incredibly lucky to be where I'm at. Oh, and for those of you who are curious to know, I've forgiven my body -actually, I think it is  pretty amazing. We are back on speaking terms and working on building up more trust in our relationship.

***UPDATE: I was right - this DID generate some controversy on some online ultrarunning fora, which is never a bad thing! But I do want to be clear that I'm NOT advocating for people to ignore injuries and irresponsibly harm themselves further. Of course not. I wish to stress that I did follow my doctor's advice carefully. Everyone has to figure out what works for them, and recovering from an ankle sprain will be different than recovering from a punctured lung and broken ribs. Indeed some injuries can be run through and some absolutely cannot - please don't read this as an advocacy piece to try to grin and bear it and rush back into a heavy training schedule when you're injured. I think a lot of the people who reacted negatively to this post recalled their own running injury stories and how they ignored medical advice or ignored their own recovery process. Which will usually always backfire. (See a doctor, and be smart, please!) All I'm saying is that for me, this is what worked, in this particular situation. Fighting gave me hope, life and energy back, and I did it in a safe way, under the guidance of professionals. For me, the emotional recovery is just as important as the physical recovery. And getting back to running as soon as I could helped me get over the trauma of the accident, which was more important to me than anything else. That's all :) In a sense, I actually was listening to my body, but this time it was my heart. I've changed the title and added these caveats in thanks to feedback from the Ultrarunning Community. Happy trails!

If you're a runner, chances are you have had a knee issue at some stage. Or at least been worried about it happening. We all tend to have this belief that running is inherently bad for our knees, but is it true? In the first part of this two-post series, we seek advice from the experts to help answer this question. They help us to understand the bigger picture of how running affects our knees, provide us with a simple test we can use to gauge how injury-prone we might be, and detail the different types of injuries, conditions or running technique that might cause knee pain. In this post, we will explore what to do if you already have knee pain, and some stretches and exercises that might help runners’ knees! The information in these two posts have been researched and written wholly by the team at the Bowskill Clinic in London along with some medical experts they work with... specifically for you (us!), which is pretty awesome.  Only minor edits (and a few cheeky comments) by me. A gentle reminder from the experts before we start... While much of the information in this blog will help reduce the incidence of injury, unfortunately even with the best advice it is not possible to completely avoid any risk of injury when starting a running programme. But hey, we never said running would be easy, right? If I have knee problems, should I avoid running?  There are many different things to take into consideration if you have knee pain and are a runner. Some kinds of aches and pains may simply come and go and can be ‘run though’, while others may need some rest and specific medical advice and treatment or a rehabilitation programme. Below are listed some of the factors that mean you should stop running and see a doctor or physical therapist. According to Dr Jonathan Rees,Consultant in Rheumatology and Sports Medicine, injuries commonly occur in the joints, bone or tendons. He explains that it is therefore important that you ‘listen to your body’. While there is also no substitute for a formal assessment by an experienced physiotherapist or sports doctor, the following are Dr Rees’s guidelines for when you should consult with a specialist:

1. Pain. It is not normal to have pain (wait, what?). Not only that but pain will affect how you run. You need to know what is causing the pain and why.

2. Any pain accompanied by swelling in a joint is of concern and you should not run on a swollen joint. It risks potential further damage to that joint.

3. Pain at rest, at night or on gentle activity could indicate a stress fracture and it is essential that this is checked out medically.

4. Pain that is worse initially, eases during a run and then recurs late that day or the following day is also a concern.

Another important factor in assessing knee injury in runners is understanding some of the implications of imaging findings. In other words, if you have x-rays, ultrasound or MRIs of your injury, it is important that they are interpreted by the radiologist with a full understanding of your sporting background, level of competition and history of training. Dr Simon Blease, Consultant Musculoskeletal Radiologist and elite fell runner explains:

As radiologists we have to be aware of the additional changes that occur in the body in response to exercise. We call this phenomenon 'Adaptive Change' and it is important to realise just how much a knee may adapt to exercise compared to a sedentary person. For example, the knee cartilage will change its appearance in a way that would indicate disease in a sedentary person but can be, in fact, quite normal for an active runner. In addition to this, an elite athlete can tolerate pathological damage to the joint that would stop an ordinary person in their tracks. Training, conditioning, mental approach and determination all alter the individual response to joint damage and a radiological report must be take this into account in order to be meaningful for further management.

So, in my experience, if you get MRI results back that seem rather scary, get a second opinion, particularly from someone who is used to working with athletes! I've experienced this with scans, but also with ECGs of my heart. My ECGs always come out strange, causing doctors initial alarm, because of my enlarged heart and slow heart beat. It's apparently called 'Athletic Heart Syndrome', and while perfectly normal for an endurance athlete, it can look like heart disease in someone more sedentary. (Read "Six Reasons Your Doctor Needs To Know You're a Runner" in Runner's World). Returning to running after knee pain If you've had knee pain in the past and are returning to running, it is important to concentrate on a) stretching appropriately and b) strengthening your legs.  A graded return to activity that gradually increases volume and is created with cross training also in mind will help to reduce the chances of re-irritation. a) Five stretches to help runners' knees Here are five stretches to help to maintain flexibility around the knee joint. However, as a reminder, if you have a particular issue you should always consult with a medical professional. Hold each stretch for 30 seconds gradually and gently progressing the stretch as you feel able.

1. The three plane hamstring stretch

• Sit on the edge of a bench with one leg straight and then other bent.

• Bring the arms straight in front of you pointing downwards.

• Lift the chest and fold from the hips to feel the stretch.

• Perform with toes up and turned in and out to vary the different heads of the hamstrings

[gallery ids="24281,24282,24283" type="rectangular"] 2. The 90/90 glute

• Sit with both knees at 90 degrees

• Fold forwards from the trunk keeping a straight back.

• Perform to the knee, half way down the shin and outside the knee.

[gallery ids="24334,24335,24333" type="rectangular"] 3. The triple angled calf stretch

• Place your arms against a wall with the back leg straight.

• Bend the arms to feel the calf stretch.

• Place the toes in and out to change the stretch

• Bend the front knee at the same time to stretch the lower calf of the front leg at the same time.

[gallery ids="24341,24340,24339" type="rectangular"] 4. Quadriceps stretch

• Hold one leg behind you bringing the heel towards the glute.

• As you pull the heel back tighten the abdominals to try to posteriorly tilt the pelvis

5. The lateral sling lean

• Straighten your back leg with the front leg bent.

• Reach over your head towards the wall.

• Lean away from the wall to feel the stretch.

b) Five strengthening exercises to help with knees These general exercises can help to develop strength around the pelvis, knee and hip joints, but again (you guessed it) if you have a particular issue you should always consult with a medical professional. 1. The belt and ball squats This exercise improves strength of the muscles that control inward and outward movement of the upper leg.

• These squats should be performed over 4-6 seconds lowering and lifting but maintain pressure on the ball or against the belt.

• Feet should be parallel or slightly turned out if more comfortable for this version.

• Hips and knees should bend with the same relative timing.

Lower for 4-5 seconds pause for one and rise over 4-5 seconds. Repeat 12-15 times for 1-3 sets with 45 seconds of recover between sets. [gallery ids="24369,24367,24368,24366" type="square" columns="2"] 2. The toe touch drill This exercise improves tracking of the knee and balance and proprioception.

• Stand on one foot and reach the other foot forwards.

• Reach out as far as you can maintaining balance and keeping the knee over the region of the second toe.

• Perform this slowly 3 times to 45 degrees, 90 degrees, 135 degrees and 180 degrees.

Reach out over two seconds and back over two seconds for three repetitions at each position. Repeat one full circuit before repeating on the other side. Rest for 45 seconds and repeat for 1-3 sets. [gallery ids="24381,24380,24378,24377,24382,24379" type="rectangular"] 3. The hip thruster This exercise improves strength of the muscles that extend the hip.

• Lie back on a ball or bench with your arms cross your chest. You may use a weight on your hips as your progress.

• Drop your hips to the floor and then push upwards clenching your glutes together as you drive upwards.

• Slowly lower and repeat

Push up over three seconds, pause for one at the top, and then lower down over three seconds. Perform 12-15 repetitions, resting for 45 seconds between sets for 1 -3 sets. [gallery ids="24374,24373" type="rectangular"] 4. The swiss ball leg curl This exercise improves strength of the muscles that control the back of the leg.

• Lie on the floor with your feet on the ball.

• Push up through the hips and at the same time bring your heels to your backside.

• Aim to keep the knees, hips and shoulders in line at the top of the movement before lowering to the floor.

Push up over 2 seconds and back over 2 seconds. Perform over 12-15 repetitions rest for 45 seconds between sets and complete 1-3 sets.

[gallery ids="24390,24391,24389" type="rectangular"] 5. The forward ball roll This exercise improves core control and hip and trunk dissociation.

• Make a box with your trunk, arms and hips.

• Hold a straight position of the back and then roll the ball forward from the hands and the hips.

• You should only roll as far as you can hold the spine still.

• Hold for 3 seconds and then slowly roll back again.

Roll out over 3 seconds, hold for three seconds and return for three seconds. Perform 12-15 repetitions rest for 45 seconds and then repeat for 1-3 sets. 

[gallery ids="24395,24394" type="rectangular"] A huge thanks to the Bowskill Clinic and their team of experts for providing us with all of this information. It's no easy task to pull this all together. These guys are top notch, so I'm really stoked they agreed to do this! They have the UltraRunnerGirl stamp of approval (they helped me overcome injuries in 2010 and again last year in 2016 before Tor des Geants). Contributors The Bowskill Clinic is an interdisciplinary centre specializing in rehabilitation of orthopaedic and sports injuries.

Jon Bowskill, Corrective exercise specialist / performance strategist, founder at Bowskill Clinic Jon is an exercise specialist with a particular interest in creating bespoke strategies for rehabilitation and performance. He works with his team to bring together the right specialists to help resolve a range of different sports injuries.

Andrew Jackson, Musculoskeletal Physiotherapist at the Bowskill Clinic Andrew is a specialist in physiotherapy and movement mechanics. He works closely with Jayesh to develop treatment and exercise prescription for runners.

Jayesh Thakrar, Musculoskeletal podiatrist at the Bowskill Clinic  Jay is a specialist in running biomechanics and uses the very latest VICON motion capture system along with in shoe pressure analysis to precisely understand runners’ needs. To find out more of what our runners rehabilitation and management programmes involve contact jon@bowskillclinic.com or see more of our physiotherapy and biomechanical gait assessments at www.bowskillclinic.com

Dr. Jonathan Rees, Consultant in Sports and Exercise Medicine and Rheumatology at the Fortius Clinic Website         www.drjrees.com Email              info@drjrees.com Dr Rees is a specialist in sports medicine with a particular interest in running and tendon injuries.  He was physician to the 2012 London Olympics and 2008 Team GB paralympic team.

Dr. Simon Blease, Consultant Musculoskeletal Radiologist Website         www.advancedskeletalimaging.com Email              info@advancedskeletalimaging.com Dr Blease is a specialist in musculoskeletal imaging especially relating to sports injuries. He provides second opinions on scans for complex or non resolving issues.