The Generator in the Campground

As I've been making the long journey towards home in Perth, the low growling malaise intensifies.

What does it take to be happy?

No, I'm definitely not depressed, but I sure don't like this grumbly feeling of discontent that sits like a far away generator in a campground, running constantly, but disturbing my peace only intermittently.

I have had an incredibly rich and rewarding season abroad and have learned many cool things, such as:

Tarantulas get a bad rap because of their size and hairiness, but they are harmless, shy, and docile.

At 4100m, climbing Mt Sneffels, Colorado - trees below lake are over 3400m!

Trees CAN grow above 2,000 metres. And above 3,000 metres. And even higher. Latitude plays a role, as do maritime winds and other forces of nature.

Coyotes eat melons. Wild, desert melons (cururbita palmatans). Aussies, think pig melons.

Grand Canyon's top, which appears rather like a desert plateau, is high. About 2,200 metres.

Squirrels in America carry bubonic plague. One very good reason not to feed them.

Converting Fahrenheit to Celsius is done by taking (temp - 32) and dividing by 1.8.

Matterhorn is on the Swiss-Italian border, so is naturally called something else by Italians. That something is Monte Cervino.

The physical remains of hopes and dreams of previous generations of Bensons

My Swedish great grandpa paid $10 to secure and work 160 acres of land in Saskatchewan in 1903, then became a citizen and got his "patent" (ownership) of the land in 1907. Sweden is the one ancestral place I haven't been to yet (having been to England, Ireland, Slovakia, Hungary, and Germany).

Navajo Indians grow real, chewy types of corn and make tea from leaves that grow wild in ditches.

Anasazi means ancient ones or ancestors.

There are some seriously messed up American government policies, but many, many beautiful, kind people living in beautiful places there.

Lemon Perrier tastes like dish soap, but grapefruit Perrier is awesome.

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But amidst all my learnings this season in the campground of life, the generator has grumbled away in the background.

I knew happiness - true, contented happiness - wasn't going to be found in running well at UTMB this year. That's too shallow and it sure couldn't bring a high to last a lifetime...not a long lifetime, anyway :)

Great views at my feet in Iceland. But parting clouds disclosed what was hidden!

After being on the European continent for the season, I spent six days exploring the south of Iceland with two of my family, hiking around Europe's largest icecap in a 9 degree rainstorm and fog. Invigorating and challenging; I was in the moment. Can't hear a generator through two layers of rain jacket!

On to Canada, where my recovery month continued. I ran a 15 km trail event with my mum, who only started running a handful of years ago. The race route overlooked a lake with colourful autumn foliage and the friendly, low-key event was followed by the most spectacular Northern Lights of my life that night. Special indeed. But that generator....

Ready to run a few more miles again, I headed for Golden, British Columbia, to target some "bucket list" Rocky Mountain runs in my homeland. I explored the Iceline Trail and Emerald Triangle routes, running up to 2,200 metres alongside glaciers and fossils, with my partner who has built up again to long distance after doing in an ACL, MCL, and meniscus last year. "Wow!" views appeared around so many corners as I called out, "Haaaaaaay-ooooooohhh" to warn off bears. I felt adventurous, healthy, and strong. You can't hear the generator when you're yelling ;)

Yet so many of those nights, tucked into my "tent," I felt the malaise of that bloody generator rumbling away in my brain.

On to America in October. The Canyon de Chelly 55km Ultra on Navajo Reservation land. A celebration of Rolf's recovering knee injury - a long year with lots of low points. Elders lit a fire and said prayers to greet the rising sun in the east, blessed us with eagle feathers, then sent us running towards the sun, down a canyon full of ancient ruins and petroglyphs. A handmade turquoise necklace was placed around my neck at the finish. I was thankfully too tired to attend to any rumble of discontent in my head that night.

A warm autumn allowed us to point the little red rental car towards Colorado and make an attempt on a Class 2+ "14er" - one of Colorado's 14,000+ foot mountains. After much hand-over-hand scrambling and a few hours spent calming the panicking monkey minds within ("OMG. What are you doing?! This is scary. There's no shame in turning around at 4,100m"), we reached the top of Mount Sneffels at 14,150ft/4,315m. My highest self-propelled summit. I was too focused on the impending descent to celebrate my scrambling skills or feelings of bravery! That night, the mix of adrenaline, cortisol, and other chemicals kept me focussed on my queasy stomach more than my questions about the pursuit of happiness.

Were all these adventures just a distraction from the malaise? A way to be in the moment and prevent me from hearing the incessant rumbling generator, like a refrain repeating, "BUT WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH YOUR LIFE??" And does it matter?

From mountain highs to the fiery red sandstone slot canyons and washes of Utah and Arizona. Geological forces thousands of millions of years old. Time scales we can't really fathom. We waded through water for hours, numbing the feet, whilst keeping an eye on the weather in case of flash flooding. Feeling adventurous again. Exploring. Happiness? Or just another distraction in a series of distractions?

Getting four seats between the two of us for the long haul flight from LA to Sydney. Happiness? Or just less suffering? ;)

A cup of Earl Grey tea. Good Earl Grey tea. I mean, that can be pretty good.

My photo app freezes as I write this blog post and I reboot. I'm staring at the machine, wondering what I'll be writing next. Wondering what answer I can find for myself as I try to write out my malaise. The screen comes alive. Staring at me is my current desktop background. A "one-a-day" calendar page from one of those calendars full of cat photos, which I saw on my dad's beer fridge this season. A lazy cat laying there looking at the camera - with the caption:

Never act until you have clearly answered the question, "What happens if I do nothing?"

Will I find happiness in an adventure? Will I find it at home? By volunteering? By giving away my possessions and going on a six month retreat? By doing nothing? By accepting the malaise? By looking for answers ... or by not looking for answers?

What happens if I just accept the generator sound in the campground of life?

I wonder if the generator will work in the icy cold at the Yukon Arctic Ultra this February. Maybe it will be all quiet up there ;)

Well, perhaps I have it. The last learning from my season abroad: Accept the generator noise in the campground of life.

Ultra Titanic Mountain Book (A UTMB Story)

Jumping over Mont Blanc from Italy's Aosta region

I was never going to win the Ultra-Trail du Mont-Blanc (UTMB). The maths told me that. I needed a workable, but challenging goal for doing the race. Goals related to position (e.g., "Aim for top 10") aren't scientific, so they don't work for me. They rely on external factors - the girls who rock up on the day. I needed a goal I could control - thus, it had to be a time-based goal.

This is "sports massage"?!?

My goal was therefore to run the fastest UTMB I could, given my parameters (age, experience, fitness, skills, etc). I immediately set out to identify the weaknesses I thought could hamper my goal - the parameters I could affect. Thus, things other than age or VO2max ;) These were things that could improve my time. For this race, I determined I needed to work on downhill skills and I needed to ensure I had access to regular, good massage and sports chiro. Typically by the time I've spent a month in Europe, my body is in such bad knots that my hips aren't moving and my neck is locked up and in constant discomfort. Massage in Switzerland, my Euro home base, is nearly all "homeopathic" like - candles, special Tibetan stones, colour therapy.... One supposed sports-specific therapist this year put a special metal wand on my EARS of all things, to tell her where my "blockages" were. I told her they were in my hammies at the time, but what would I know?

I also focused on running all my long runs and hill sessions with a minimum of 600m climbing over every 10k. This emulated the race course profile. I did a 4 day running camp around the UTMB course in late July to get a feel for the whole thing. Valuable stuff.

A July training day in the dolomites.

Thus, July and August were pretty much all about race preparation. I did not work, other than to prepare for the race. My days flew by. I went from one session to the next. Everything was about the race, but not in a bad way. Long runs in the heat. Recovery fueling and foam rolling. Home yoga via YouTube. Hill repeat sessions. Getting my good omegas with avocados, chia seeds, and Udo's Oil. Driving back to Chamonix to run the last section of the race again in training. Twice weekly strength sessions at the gym. Sleeping. Testing new gear. Travelling 1.5 hours on the highway to weekly massage and chiro. It was full-on, but never stressful, as I was sure to keep other pressures in life to a minimum. This was my experiment. Peak week was 212km with 13,000m climbing. Five years ago, I couldn't have imagined this much volume without being totally broken! I spent the last few days before the race up at 3,500 metres on the Italian-Swiss border. I stayed away from the hype of Chamonix until the last possible minute.

As I stood in the "elite" starting box at 5.50pm Friday night (see my previous post for the "elite start" prologue to this novel), an eagle was released from a balcony above our heads. The announcer dramatically emphasised to us how our preceding months of hard preparation, dedication, fortitude, and sacrifices had gotten all of us runners to the start line.The "elite" beside me was smiling but shaking her head. "Ummm, not so much. Ummm, nope," she was murmuring to the announcer's comments. I looked at her and smiled, a bit perplexed. I guessed she was under-trained. She said, "I just really, really like cake." It was nice to have some levity.

Well, I expect you get to eat a lot of cake after 169.4km + 9,889m of mountain trails. The UTMB course was made about 3km longer with 400m more climbing this year. More cake for all! The most marked change included a new pass, Col des Pyramides Calcaires after Col de la Seigne. Instead of a straight descent to Lac Combal aid station on the first night, we would start the descent, turn left, and climb up to another pass on the left before descending to the aid station. I had seen the pass in training - it was one of those really-big-rock passes - about 2 of the 3 km were running on giant slabs of rock that sometimes shift unpredictably under your feet. It was a bizarre addition to me - took away from the natural flow of the race and seemed there only to add more technical terrain to the event. One of the things UTMB had been known for was being more "runnable" than "sky-race-rock-fest." Oh well, it's their race and they can do anything they like with it :) The other change was one I realised at about 125k into the race. The "Bovine" climb that was on the 2014 map - and the one I'd run in the training camp - was a beautiful new runnable climbing trail. Previously, the race had gone up a very steep climb, hand-over-hand in sections, to come out above Bovine. Turns out they couldn't leave a good thing alone...they took out the nice new Bovine trail and put the more vertical and technical climb back in.

I'd roughly drawn up an "assertive" 29 hour plan, but given the new Col, I figured it might be 30 hours. And, of course, anything can happen over that amount of time!

Just as predicted, once the race started through the flat city streets and onto the undulating (but mostly downhill) trails to Les Houches at 8k, 300 people passed me. Most were huffing and puffing like it was a 10k race. It was predictable, but still confusing. All those people had done numerous tough mountain races in order to qualify for UTMB. They must know about pacing. They must know that going anaerobic 20 minutes into a 30 hour plus race means certain and intense suffering later.

Well, I needed to let go of their suffering and think about my own. Wednesday, two days before the race, whilst enjoying some high altitude tapering, I went for a hike. A 7 kilometre downhill (1000m) hike in snow. I had gone at very easy pace, but my fears at the time were realised now.... My quads were tired. This was going to be exciting; Thirty hours with tired quads. Oh well, I made my bed. Back at the rifugio at 3,500m on Wednesday, I was surrounded by the insane beauty of Matterhorn, Klein Matterhorn, Monte Rosa, and hundreds of other peaks in the land of snow and mountain climbers. I could have forced myself to stay in my hut all day for the sake of the race, but I would have regretted that. Every decision I made over the past two months was on the Principle of Least Regret. It's how I've tried to flow through life. Nearly every choice was made with "what's best for UTMB" at the forefront. That was least regret. But this time I knew the choice had to be to see more of this amazing place - or I would regret it. I hiked as slowly and easily as possible, as little as I could allow myself, but I had to explore! (Rolf says I should taper in Beijing for my next race...then I won't mind sitting in my hotel room so much.)

This is why I had to ruin my quads! Wow! Matterhorn and Co.

Back to the race. At Les Houches (8k), I grabbed a cup of water to throw over my head. It still felt like 28 degrees outside. The "water" turned out to be some kind of sugary electrolyte thing. Nice. My hair and neck crusted with the sticky solution. Carrying on, my poles came out and I started the first of 11 major climbs. I passed the summit, Le Delevret, and hit the lap button on my watch. 1hr40 lapsed, which was exactly what I had written into my splits. Disturbingly on track! I was just running to feel, of course.

Crowds lined villages and stood outside little mountain cottages. It seemed an excuse for everyone to party. The cheers, horns, and cow bells from wine-glass-touting, French-wig wearing revellers was quite overwhelming for me. I had to plug my ears a few times passing groups, but I really did appreciate their encouragement. (Just not so loudly.) The Europeans, almost without exception, treat every runner with what seems like a genuine respect for their athletic pursuits. They call you by name, looking at your bib. They shout, "Bon courage!" or simply "Courage!" or "Bravo Bernadette!"

At Saint-Gervais (21k), I ran into the aid station to the sound of "Wake me up" by AVICII. Though my theme song was Bittersweet Symphony by The Verve (great beat for working the poles up climbs), the AVICII song also resonated with me. I sang along, putting aside thoughts of what the crowd might think of this little redheaded weirdo. I skipped and danced down the chute into the aid station, trying not to let myself think too reflectively on the lyrics and the challenge ahead. Best to be a goldfish during an ultra ;)

Feeling my way through the darkness/Guided by a beating heart

I can't tell where the journey will end/But I know where to start...

So wake me up when it's all over/When I'm wise and I'm older

All this time I was finding myself/And I didn't know I was lost.

No need for warmth of fire on this night!

Leaving town in 362nd overall position (no idea at the time), I put my headlamp on. This was the one piece of equipment I had agonised over most and weighed on me most as an unknown. The LED Lenser SEO7 is my regular day-to-day headlamp. I love it. It's light and plenty bright enough at 220 lumins. But it seemed that everywhere I turned, people talked about 400+ lumin lights. There's just no need for that much light in running, as far as I can figure; it means a larger battery pack and thus a heavier set up - a more tired neck holding it all up. The rechargeable battery in the SEO7 only lasts 2 to 2.5 hours on max/reactive setting, but with the option of AAA batteries as replacements, plus the ease of changing one rechargeable pack for another, it's a very simple setup. I just modified the lamp by adding a piece of black elastic strapping over the head, velcroed on. This kept me from having to wear a cap all night or tightening the lamp uncomfortably so it wouldn't fall towards my ears. The headlamp was faultless. Exactly what I needed and I'm really happy I stuck with that choice.

I ran the gently climbing grade into Les Contamines (31k) to the first aid station where I could have crew. Rolf told me later about his adventures. First, he punched "Les Contamines" into the car's nav system and found himself heading west, then north from Chamonix, not west, then south. That didn't seem right, so he pulled out the gpx file of the race course and found out that what the race notes referred to everywhere as Les Contamines was actually Les Contamines-Montjoie. Make a mistake, end up in Geneva!

Notre Dame de la Gorge, easier seen by day in training

At the aid station, he was prevented from going in to the crew assistance area until they saw me come over the timing mat - it was too crowded to let crew in far in advance of their runner. Watching runners come in, he noticed all the red-faced people who looked like they were just finishing a good marathon. I went through in 279th overall position. Again, I had no idea of placement and wasn't fussed at that point, as my main goal was not to blow myself up in the first 30k - I expected I should come in at least 300th position through the first couple timing points. And I knew over 300 people had passed me in the first 8k. So, I was confident that I hadn't gone out too hard. Any later suffering couldn't be blamed on that! ;)

I filled my pack with Hammer Solids and a few gels to take me through the night, to where I could see Rolf again at sunrise in Courmayeur. I headed out towards Notre Dame de la Gorge and La Balme, the next aid station.

Though I had no idea how many girls were in front of me, I guessed at least 20. Maybe 30. The irunfar preview had profiled 4 women as potential winners (Picas/Spain, Mauclair/France, Chaverot/France, and Howe/USA). Nine more women were named for top 5 (Canepa/Italy, Maciel/Brazil, Fraile/Spain, Piceu/USA, Sproston/USA, Studer/USA, Alves/Portugal, Zimmermann/Switzerland, Borzani/Italy). Then another nine women were named to fight for top 10-15 (Benard/France, Bourassa/USA, Fowler/Australia, McRae/USA, Moretti/Argentina, Morwood/UK, Stephenson/Australia - I knew she was a DNS, Trigueros Garrote/Spain, Vilaseca/Brazil). Finally, 16 more women were listed to "keep your eye on." I got the briefest of mentions in there, which suited me fine. The main thing I took home was that there were 37 women in addition to me named to go top 10'ish. And there's always a dark horse or two.... UTMB was part of the Ultra-Trail World Tour, everyone was here to play, and any thoughts of a top 10 finish were meant to stay in my dreams.

On the climb towards Col du Bonhomme, I passed two women in the dark, Lisa Borzani and Nuria Picas, I believe. I also passed Ryan Sandes...who was walking back down the course, cheering everyone on. I felt bad for those already out of the race. After Col du Bonhomme, the climb continued to Croix du Bonhomme. I swapped batteries before the descent, as my light started to fade. Most UTMB descents aren't very technical, but they still have their fair share of rocks and roots and holes and are all almost invariably steep and switchbacked.

Atop Col du Bonhomme in training - race goes along left ridge traverse

I arrived at Les Chapieux (49k) in 202nd position overall (though still didn't know). I was passing people on the climbs, but usually losing a few spots back on descents. Though my descents had improved markedly with training, I had left half my quads at Rifugio del Guide Cervino on Wednesday :)

The quiet, dead-end road section from Les Chapieux to La Ville des Glaciers on the way to the Italian border seems not too sexy, but it's a spectacular valley. With the benefit of a full moon, I ran with headlamp off towards the Italian border. The crowds were thinning more and more and it was down to about 3 blokes near me. Very peaceful.

I love nearly all the climbs on this course. But then, I love climbing, generally. Col de la Seigne twisted its way up towards the sky, with the top marking the border. The wind picked up and I had to lean hard into it. It was a fight, but I reminded myself that every girl faced the same wind. Several blokes stopped to put their jackets on. But I wasn't finding it cold yet - not quite. The Montane merino t-shirt was doing exactly what I wanted (and staying stink free!) I had a feeling that on the other side of the col, given the strong headwind here, we'd find it dead calm. I was right. At the summit, the wind stopped. I tightened my laces before heading off to climb #4, the new Col des Pyramides Calcaires. I unknowingly passed Francesca Canapa here, I think, as she pulled out of the race.

The Col Pyramides climb - taken during my 4 day run

After Pyramides, we descended into Lac Combal (66k). I glanced back quickly and caught the amazing sight of hundreds of headlamps switchbacking down the mountain. I filled my water, swapped batteries in both headlamps so they'd both be fresh for the remainder of the night, and turned to go. I heard English behind me and turned back to see Sally McRae and Nicole Studer talking at the food table. I thought I'd passed two girls on the way into the aid station. They were commenting on the last two climbs. I got out of there. (Nicole went on to finish 13th female and Sally 26th.)

I enjoyed climb #5 to Arete du Mont-Favre, recalling the day I ran it with the training camp. I was now 160th overall (but again, didn't know). I only knew that I had passed at least 4 women. Whether others had passed me at aid stations, though, I couldn't say.

I took my time on the steep descent into Courmayeur. Over a few km, you drop about 800 metres. It's the kind of descent that can be a game-breaker, in my eyes. Several guys passed me here. I arrived at the aid station (79k) at dawn, after 6am. Though we had a hotel back near Chamonix, Rolf worried that the Mont-Blanc tunnel could be slow - or even get closed, which happens - preventing him from getting to Courmayeur on time. We had decided to book a second hotel in Courmayeur for him for Friday night, so he could at least get a few hours of slightly relaxed sleep. We warned the hotel he wouldn't be arriving until around midnight and they had said it was fine. Turned out, when he arrived, the doors were locked. He was lucky the owners were out walking their dog and saw him!

Though I knew I was running well to my splits and making good time through the night, Rolf was thrown off by the race predictors that sms'd him with my progress updates, suggesting I would arrive in Courmayeur at 8 am (not 6.30am as I had planned). He woke at 5.30am after about 4 hours sleep to an sms saying I was due in 25 minutes. He was so panicked, he forgot my pears! Darn for me! But I'm learning to be a more flexible runner and took it in stride ;)

I asked Rolf if he had any idea of my position for girls and he didn't. Only overall position, which the organisers were sms'ing him. He set about to try to gather data before he saw me again at Champex-Lac mid-afternoon. I happily picked up my bottle of Hammer Perpetuem again, as I find it much easier to take in liquid fuel than solid during a race (especially a hot one). Unknowingly, I was 132nd position and had passed Amy Sproston in the aid station.

View down to Courmayeur from near Refuge Bertone - taken during training, but nearly same time of day for me

Running through town, I came upon Aussie Gill Fowler, which was quite a surprise. She was having a bad moment, but I told her I fully expected to see her again...likely on the downhill into Arnuva. (She did make it there later, but that's where she dropped.) Courmayeur was still fast asleep and I enjoyed the quiet, imagining everyone snug in their beds in their ancient stone houses. My poles tap-tapped on the cobblestones.

The climb from Courmayeur to Refuge Bertone is another pretty steep switchbacking climb in forest that I was looking forward to. Approaching the hut, Sage Canaday passed me, walking slowly back down the course with a couple women. (He had smashed his knee earlier and ended up needing a helicopter to get off the mountain.) Just after the hut, I passed Ester Alves (8th place in 2014). I had studied her splits from last year. As I passed, she stopped and turned her back to me. I was happy to be running well, but it's very bittersweet when you know the pain of someone else's race falling apart. Ester dropped at La Giete, after Champex-Lac, around midnight.

Descent into Arnuva. Smile now, the sun is coming soon enough!

I was now 124th overall (but didn't know). I enjoyed every minute of the traverse to Refuge Bonatti, with the sun still hidden behind the ridge to my right. There was going to be heat suffering later. At Bonatti, I had my first indication of ranking. When the volunteer scanned my bib, she said, "You are in the top 100." It seemed a little higher than I expected. Turns out, looking at the rankings later, I was 122nd. So I have no idea why she said that.

Down to Arnuva aid station (96k), I saw a volunteer I knew, whilst filling my water. I had run with him at the training camp. He told me I was 9th woman through. That was the first I'd heard at all. I had two brief thoughts. One I voiced aloud. "It's still a long way to go - anything can happen." And the silent thought was, "Oh, crap, now I have to start defending a top 10 spot!" I didn't want to get into that kind of mental place until perhaps 30k to go.

Climbing to Switzerland! Passport? Check! :)

From Arnuva, we climbed to Grand Col Ferret, a beautifully closed in valley that ends with the col that takes us into Switzerland. Guess what? I like that climb, too :)

On the other side of the col, I tightened my laces again. I was surprised my feet weren't swelling more and I was getting a bit of toenail pain from them banging my shoes in the steeper descents. I also lathered up with sunscreen. It was 10:40am and I was well and truly into the sun. Expected high of 30 to 35 degrees. Luciana Moretti passed me - and everyone else - going down this descent like we were standing still. She was in her happy place and looked set to run through the lot of us. (She finished 6th.)

The descent to La Fouly aid station over 10k feels like forever - a joy on fresh quads. I was starting to suffer from the heat - there were no streams in this section for soaking hats and clothes. I was playing the "I don't want to eat but I have to" game. I began mounting evidence to rationalise a DNF. It was piling up quickly. I mounted a counter-offensive in my brain, as I knew if I quit this race, I sure as heck better withdraw from the 300 mile Yukon Arctic Ultra. I made it into La Fouly thinking I'd cool down a bit and get a mental reset. Unfortunately, the chief volunteer in the aid station was working with the enemy! I pulled out my sheet with elevation profile and splits to see how long the next section was (for me) and thus how much water I needed. She rushed over to helpfully point out the bulletin board in the corner with race particulars. As far as I knew, though, that bulletin board didn't have my splits on it. I said thanks, but that I just needed to look at my splits. She attacked again. "It's only 15km. It's not hard, it's easy."

There is no shade. Put the discomfort in a box.

She was clearly against me. Easy? Easy is laying down. Easy is having someone rub massage oil on my back at a beach resort. Easy is NOT running 15km of undulating sun-exposed trail at 30 degrees after 18 hours of running and a sleepless night. I made a tactical error and bit. I said, "It's not easy. It's hot."

She saw my weakness and closed in for the kill. "But you only have 61km left!" AGHHHHH! Up until then I hadn't thought about kilometres at all. I thought in terms of aid station to aid station and I counted the total number of climbs. I had 11 climbs to do and I was done 7 of them. 61 km of mountainous trails. That's FOREVER. I stammered. She smiled. "You've already done 110km!"

Wow. She was good. I've done 110km. No wonder I'm tired. And I still have 60 left. That's nearly half again what I've already done. Totally demoralising. I had to get out of there, fast!

I left La Fouly in 115th position, spotting what looked to be a girl coming in as I left. Next stop, Rolf at Champex-Lac, where I could hope to try that regrouping-resetting thing again :) I started off on the trail and thought of something a runner said to me recently. "I'm really good at putting my pain in a box," he had said. I started to recite, "Put your pain in a box." But I didn't like the negativity of "pain" (and I wasn't really in pain, as in "agony" pain), so I changed it to "Put the discomfort in a box." Every time I had a negative moment, I repeated, "Put the discomfort in a box." I wasn't even going to own it. It wasn't "my" discomfort. It was just discomfort. If I claimed ownership, it might hang around longer ;)

Champex-Lac during training camp

At Champex-Lac Rolf was indeed ready to save the day. He'd also just saved the day for a Japanese runner, whose wife's rental car had broken down on the road climbing into town. Rolf had picked her up and taken her to the aid station - much before I arrived. That runner must have been pretty close to the front.

Rolf was in town for a while, so he had been seeing the carnage of runner after runner come in and call it quits. People were milling around the aid station looking dazed. I saw several girls. It was hard to figure out who was still in the race and who was definitely done. Some of them probably didn't know, themselves, at the time! Rolf's understanding was that I was in 9th or 10th position. I thought it was 10th, after I had been told 9th at Arnuva and Luciana had passed me. There were five girls very far ahead and then Luciana just 5 minutes up, Darcy Piceu, 20 minutes up, Steph Howe and Fernanda Maciel a little further. We swapped shirts for me, giving me a completely soaked RaceReady one. I've found nothing that beats those in extreme heat. I shuddered with cold when it hit my skin. I had to fix a hot spot under one foot. I forced some calories in, repacked, and turned to go. I spotted Steph Howe, who was supposedly 30 minutes out in front. She had apparently been coming and going at the aid station, not actually leaving. I left before her and she ended up finishing 8th. Fernanda Maciel pulled the pin there, though I didn't know it at the time. Manuela Vilaseca of Brazil came in just as I was leaving. I smiled and nodded. Her crew person noted me. The race was definitely on between us two.

I knew there was forest ahead and looked forward to that. This was also the new-old climb, where they swapped back to the old, technical, steep, overgrown trail to La Giete, rather than the easier Bovine track. But I really didn't mind, as I was just happy to be in thick forest out of the sun. And my quads didn't mind hard climbing. It was the descents I was paying for :)

I arrived in Trient (141km) three hours after leaving Champex-Lac. I got to enjoy a few minutes with Rolf as pit crew again. He later shared another of his crew stresses - navigating along narrow mountain roads, through tiny towns and crowded carparks with many drivers who were foreign to the area - and likely it was the partner out trail running who was the one with the superior spatial skills - the one who would normally be the driver in such conditions....

UTMB roughly follows the TMB, roughly a 10 day hiking loop

I refilled my pack with 2 litres, thinking it was a 3 hour section to Vallorcine (10 minute drive for Rolf!). Manuela Vilaseca came in, her assistant greeted her, and sat her down, whispering and nodding in my direction. Manuela sipped at the juice from a fruit cup, listening to her crew, as I did up my pack. I was out of there. I felt confident with my climbing but less so with the descents. I had to create distance in the climbs.

Glancing again at my splits on the trail outside of town, I saw it was only a 2hr section. I immediately set to squeezing water out of my hydration pack. Mentally as well as physically, I didn't need a full 2kg of water to hinder my progress up the next mountain. I let some drain onto my quads and shins as I climbed, to cool me. I relished each switchback, as it put me more out of view of any runners behind. Like Manuela :)

The small bit of "lead" I'd built in my splits over 24 hours was eaten up that evening by the accumulated heat fatigue. I arrived in Vallorcine (151km) basically as I'd originally predicted. This was my last crewed aid station. From here, it was 3 hours+ to the finish line over one more climb. A rocky, technical one I'd done twice before. Rolf thought I was in 8th position. I was 95th overall.

I headed out for the gentle climb to Col des Montets, where we cross the road to climb the big one - Tete aux Vents. Rolf was there. He had confirmed with the race organisers that it was okay to see me as a spectator on course and he could share info with me, but couldn't accompany me or give me food, etc. He had received an update that showed I was in 7th place. He'd seen Manuela come into Vallorcine after I left. He didn't know how long she was there, as he left to catch me at the road crossing. He'd heard there was an American girl coming who seemed to be blowing through the field. I wondered at either Steph Howe or Sally McRae and certainly thought them strong enough to put in a hard surge if they came out of whatever bad patch they had been in. I hadn't heard anything of Sally since 4am at Lac Combal.

Tete aux Vents climb w/Rolf in training. Vallorcine below.

Time to run scared. The climb seemed to last forever. Though I'd done it twice before and loved it, this time it really did feel tough and endless, with even more hand-over-hand sections than before. Though I almost never talk to anyone when racing, preferring to stay in my own head and listen carefully to my body, I exchanged a few brief conversations with nearby blokes, all English speaking. It helped me get out of my head for a few minutes to forget about the pressure and enjoy the humanness of the journey. We all broke into our natural rhythms over time, spreading out along the hill. It felt like it must be after midnight - that the climb had been so slow I'd lost my goal of going under 30 hours on the new course. For the first time, I switched my watch to time of day. I'd only run section-by-section, from one split to the next. I actually had very little idea of time of day except by rising and setting sun. It was 10:10pm. I was convinced my Garmin was wrong. It must be later. I tried to figure out how it could be wrong, given that it reads off satellites. I saw it change to 10:11pm. There was hope not only to hold 7th place, but also for the sub-30 hour goal! I continued the traverse along the ridge top, where I felt quite confident in picking up the pace across big boulders I often find intimidating. I kept an eye out for headlamps behind and kept making myself fuel. I wasn't particularly nauseas, I just hadn't felt like eating all day in the heat, so it was a struggle.

I tagged in and out at La Flegere, the last aid station, without stopping. 93rd position. 7km downhill and 1k flat through town left. I started to push more, careful to dance on the edge of nausea without going over. The closer the finish got, the more I pushed. It's quite a zigzag through town before you get to turn the final bend and see that giant gantry. Done.

• 7th female (5th in V1 category)
• 29h 40m 11s
• 89th overall of 2,563 starters
• 1632 finishers + 931 DNFs (36%) - by comparison, last year's DNF rate was 35%
• The 46.5hr cutoff was extended to allow runners to finish for another 40 minutes, presumably because of the high heat.

I was interviewed at the finish for a few minutes, but I wasn't very nervous, as I consoled myself by thinking no one nearby would be listening, given it was late at night, surrounded by a few French, with me speaking English. I found out later from my mum that she listened to the interview live online! Yikes! Glad I didn't know :)

I was kindly taken to get my finisher's vest and then led to another tent, because I had volunteered for a research study on hyponaetremia in drink-to-thirst athletes vs drink-to-a-schedule athletes. They pricked my finger for blood and took my weight. Then I sat down to answer their questions. Slowly, the world started to go black around the edges. Saliva pooled in my mouth. "I'm sorry," I said, "I'm starting to feel like I'm going to faint." I hated to say anything, as I expected dramatic overreactions. Instead, I got nothing. She asked again for my phone number for the paperwork. I tried again. "I'm sorry. I don't feel well. I might faint." She said, "It's okay. We're almost done. I just need your phone number." I couldn't talk anymore. I couldn't make the numbers come out of my head. "Country code....6...plus 6...1.... I'm sorry, I have exercise associated hyponaetremia." Thinking in my head, that's funny - not hyponaetemia, that's what they're studying! What's the word, what's the word? Blacking out.... She says, "Would you like to write it?" I took the pen and wrote the number - it looked like I had advanced Parkinsons, it was so shaky. Then I remembered what to do - put my head on my knees... Ahhh, relief. Exercise-associated hypotension. That's it, I thought to myself. Low blood pressure caused by sitting down after 30 hours of running. Calves weren't pumping blood for me anymore. No one cared. But with the blood coming back to my brain, I remembered the words for my condition :) I sat with head between knees, alone, for several minutes before standing to go.

Well, at least they didn't get overly dramatic about it ;)

The race result seemed somehow a bit numb to me until Sunday evening at the presentations. I sat on a dirty step in a patch of shade, watching the 5 women and 10 men taking the stage. UTMB has said that from 2016, they'll recognise 10 women on stage. Regardless of my finish result, I was disappointed they didn't change their rule on that for this year. A song came on the speakers, loud enough for half the town to hear.

Feeling my way through the darkness/Guided by a beating heart

I can't tell where the journey will end/But I know where to start...

So wake me up when it's all over/When I'm wise and I'm older

All this time I was finding myself/And I didn't know I was lost.

I saw myself running through Saint Gervais. I saw the 27 hours that lie ahead of me. I cried, alone, on that step.

Gear:
UltrAspire Omega pack (8ltr)
LED Lenser SEO 7 (x2 at night)
Leki Trailsticks
Inov-8 x-talon 212s
Compressport trail shorts
Icebreaker undies
Montane Primino short-sleeve shirt (140g merino wool)
Champion sports bra (the model with no inside seam at the sternum!)
Compressport full socks with 2Toms BlisterShield and SportShield inside
Ryder sunnies
Garmin 310XT (x2)
Perth Trail Series 'tubie'

Other mandatory gear not worn: Icebreaker thermal top, Icebreaker gloves, Mammut waterproof overgloves, Montane rain jacket, Raidlight rain pants, beanie

At Col de la Seigne during camp - old route went straight down valley. Col des Pyramides Calcaires is on the left.

Just a Little Girl

Yes, I'm going to write about my recent 170km UTMB race. But I want to tell this story first. Let's call it

The Prologue

A few months back, I wondered whether my training and skills had gotten me strong enough that I could qualify for the "elite" start block at UTMB. It would be worth asking. Queuing up with over 2,000 people on race night sounded stressful. So I asked (by email). I was told I'd hear in early August. Mid-August came and I hadn't heard, so I checked in. No, I was told, I wasn't good enough.

Weekly or twice weekly strength training as part of the regimen.

Okay. I was a bit disappointed, because I knew the decision was based on the ITRA cotation (performance ranking), and I felt it wasn't fair, because runners are penalised in the ranking if they run an event slowly on purpose. For example, if we run at training pace, with mates for fun, or push through an event injured just to finish it. But I understand the UTMB organisation needs to use something to determine who gets in the front start box. They could debate methods for weeks. They just have to make a call and then get on with organising the massive week-long series of races that span three countries with tens of thousands of people involved.

Hanging out at 3500m before the race on the Swiss-Italian border.

And as they got on with organising, I got on with the taper, writing splits and creating timelines of "to-do's." I noted to allow two hours for getting to and sitting at the start line Friday afternoon for the 6pm start. Traffic was full-on in the tight little valley and parking was very hard to find in Chamonix.

It seemed somewhat pointless to be at the front for the start, anyway, since I knew heaps of people would blast out of the chute as if it was a 10k race. That always happens. No matter the country, no matter the race. But I didn't want to be at the very back and have to weave my way through 2,200 of the 2,563 people out there. That could be quite dangerous - bodies, legs, poles everywhere on trails.

Rolf and I were lucky with a parking spot and I arrived with lots of time. I wasn't sure where to go, so headed straight for the start chute. Several "bouncer" types stared at my bib, stepped aside, and gave me a nod. Rolf stayed on the outside of the barriers. It was evident he wasn't going to get in there. I walked towards the gantry and asked another volunteer where to go. After glancing at my bib, she congratulated me on being elite, and told me to stay in the front area. Elite? At the front? But I was told I wasn't.

Approved to enter from the 'elite' side without knowing it yet.

Okay, I guess they changed their minds about the cut-off score and had lowered it enough to get this little girl in.

Fifteen minutes later, another volunteer came up. He rattled away in very stern French and pointed in the general direction of "out." I expressed my confusion in English. He then said in a language I could understand, nice and slowly and clearly, "You are not elite. You have to get out. Go back there." By now the queue at the start had gotten longer, of course.

"But I was told by two others to be here."

"No. You are not elite." Another stern look and point. He had a clipboard. I didn't. I looked to the volunteer who had only shortly ago congratulated me on my "eliteness." There was a shrug.

And so I was banished. I sat on the concrete ground with Rolf standing behind me acting as my sunshade in the 32 degree heat. Periodically I looked up and back at him and saw the sweat gleaming off his face as he baked. For me. With the most generous smile on his face. It filled me with emotion.

In a spot of shade created by Rolf during the "not elite" time.

I looked back down at the ground and pondered. You're not elite.... Congratulations, you're elite.... No, you're not.... My world of ultra running over the last several years - races and training runs and fun runs - all flashed through my mind, without order or coherence. It was like I saw all my running, without sequence, all in a moment. There were no thoughts, just a sensation of it. Running.

I looked up at Mont Blanc. And the sensation coalesced into a thought. "I'm just a little girl who likes running in the mountains." And I was okay with it all. My ego didn't have to analyse it anymore. It didn't matter. I was there to run in the mountains. Purity. That was my theme for the race, after all. Remembering the joy of why we run trails in the first place.

And a moment later - I kid you not - one of the vollies called through the crowd, "I'm so glad I found you! There was a terrible mistake! Please come with me!"

"Are you sure?" I asked.

And so I walked back up to the little ribboned area at the front.

After the start, 300 people raced past me :)

Theme colour to represent the purity of the sport we love.

Improving Your Downhills: Five Little Things They Never Mention

There have been some awesome write-ups on how to improve your downhill techniques, written by better downhill runners than me, including this recent one by Joe Uhan. It's common to read things about quick feet and maintaining a forward lean to let gravity help.

Recently, whilst solo running in a lovely Swiss forest, on a downhill rep session of my own, I was all focus. It was a focus on the big things, just like the articles always say - leaning just the right amount, using quick light steps, looking ahead to pick my line.... My face was tight, brows furrowed. But I didn't realise that part UNTIL... another runner approached me coming uphill. I automatically smiled. To be polite, of course.

Selfie confirms it - I'm smiling!

And my smile changed everything. I realised that with my uber-focus on the big details, I certainly wasn't having fun. I immediately started pretending I had a mate with me and we were on any one of a million training runs, having a blast. I pretended I was really awesome at downhill running and really loved it (those are relative statements with more or less veracity depending on the day.) I "yippeed" and "yahood" in my head. I kept smiling. I pretended I was in a race and there were cameras around every corner, ready to capture me not looking stressed!

I got to the bottom of the hill faster than the last two reps and feeling much more relaxed about the whole thing. "Fake it til you make it" had provided me yet another life example!

On the way back up the hill for rep #4, I thought, "What other little things do I do that might help someone who is struggling with downhill skill improvement?" It wasn't hard to think of four more things I do to set myself up for success. So, here they are.... Start with these 5 little things and use them along with all the big things you get from the other posts on downhill technique. These aren't tips for the pros. These are tips for people who aren't comfortable with descents, who find themselves approaching a descent nervously, who lean back and brake.

1. As above, SMILE. Yippee and Yahoo. Pretend you're with a friend, you're being filmed, whatever it takes to help you smile. Smiling relaxes your face more than frowning or furrowing your brows and sends signals to your brain that everything's good in the world. It will change your mental attitude and your body will follow.

2. Before you start your descent/downhill rep, TIGHTEN YOUR LACES. It's worth the 15 seconds. Wobbly feet moving around in your shoes won't improve your confidence. Consider using a lace lock, if you don't (don't tighten as hard as the bloke in that video, though, that's silly and will hurt over time, especially if you have a lot of uphill later.)

3. Before you start your descent, TIGHTEN YOUR PACK. Cinch up the straps so it doesn't bounce around - that throws off your balance. AND REMOVE ANY EXCESS AIR in your hydration pack bladder. Not only is the "mixing margaritas" noise annoying, the moving water/air mixture will also throw off your balance. Tip your pack upside down (putting the air at the top, where the tube now is). Suck through the bite valve until you get past the water in the tube to the air. Keep sucking all the air out until you have water again. Turn your pack back up. Now the air is gone forever! (Unless you have a leaking bite valve that lets air back through.)

4. TAKE THE SWITCHBACKS, not the direct line. If there's a choice, where someone has short-cutted a direct line along a switchback, stick with the switchback. It's much easier on your body to keep a flowing movement on a gentler grade. I've run many times with others in mountains where they chose the direct line down, feeling it should be faster, but the extra braking required to negotiate a steeper decline negated any "win" in time.

One deserves to enjoy a great descent after the climb to get there!

5. DO REPEATS to build confidence. Go back to the same hill and do it again and again - something in the range of a 3 minute descent is good (thus, maybe 6 minutes to climb). Three minutes is a fairly long time to stay focussed, but not so long your brain will overload and fry! :) Getting some of the rocks and roots and holes memorized on a descent will allow you to start taking it a bit faster, instilling confidence. Do at least 3 reps of the same hill, power walking back up at a pretty easy pace, so you aren't starting your down all puffed out.

See you at the bottom!

The Ultra Titanic Mountain Binge Week

Yesterday I posted my photos of the Ultra-Trail du Mont-Blanc (UTMB) 4 day running camp. I hadn't written "Ultra-Trail du Mont-Blanc" anywhere. Just "UTMB." My mum was unaware of my upcoming race. UTMB is a 170km + 10,000m anti-clockwise loop trail race around Mont Blanc/Monte Bianco, from France to Italy to Switzerland and back to France. It starts Friday night August 28th.

The UTMB race roughly follows the "TMB" hiking route

So my mum looked at my photos and asked, "Why did you do this Ultra Titanic Mountain Binge over 4 days?" And I thought that was just a perfect summary of my last 8 days of training!

The camp was run by a French company and most documentation was in French, though they did provide things to me in English, including a description of the course/camp itself and what was included. They promised I would be given a "reconnaissance of the UTMB route, physical preparation and nutrition advice, recommendations regarding material and equipment, mental training, technique coaching, race management, talks by trail runners about their experiences, etc." I figure I'm fairly advanced in most of the general nutrition and mental stuff, but I was looking forward to any tips I could glean, particularly from someone with specific UTMB experience. Turned out that although the guide was a very good runner, he has never done UTMB. And his English was not fluent to allow for complex conversations. But I did get one tip on tweaking my pole-technique, by listening carefully to the French, and that was worth a lot!

Morning clouds burning off. Mountains playing peekaboo.

There were 6 French blokes on the course (at least three from Paris and one from Toulouse) plus the guide. Most are planning to do UTMB, but a few have other race plans somewhat similar and thought the camp would be good training. They had great attitudes and were good people to spend 4 days with (as generally all trail runners seem to be). I certainly missed a lot of the conversation, due to the speed and complexity of their French compared to mine, but overall I'm very happy in my own head, so didn't mind that I wasn't in on all the laughs. Mountains and rivers and clouds make great conversational partners for me :)

Our days looked something like this:

5.50 am: wake up
6 am: breakfast in rifugio/refuge/hutte
6.30 - 7 am: finish dressing, packing, lubing bits and pieces (my Montane merino tech-t became my shirt of choice for multi-day running, due to its no-stink properties...wish the blokes had some merino wool!)
7 am - 6 pm: run. This typically included a one hour lunch stop, which I was not in favour of. It's too long. One is just encouraged to sit around eating too much, which makes it harder to get up and run again...invariably up another mountain. The guys also had a lot of sit-down stops and walk breaks - again more than I would have liked, but I'm in the freak category, I know.
6 pm - 7 pm: check in to refuge, queue for showers, unpack

Happy with the gear! (And another mountain climb, yippee!)

7 pm - 8 pm: mass dinner in dining area of refuge (as a preferred gluten-free, sugar-free, vego type, I had brought some emergency food with me, which I was very glad for! I also brought chia seeds to try to keep up some anti-inflammatory omega fatty acids and poured olive oil on my salads. Glad to be "home" now to my Udo's Oil!)
8 - 9 pm: espresso for me (most blokes were off to bed right after dinner). Then foam rolling, tennis ball rolling, and a quick charge to Garmin and phone if I could find a socket.
9 pm'ish: bed, avec earplugs (dormitory living)

By the end of day 3, the mileage and elevation were accumulating rapidly because I was sheepdogging the whole time (running to junctions/summits, then back to the back of the pack). I saw that I was headed for over 200km and over 12,000m gain in 4 days. I had to listen very carefully to my body for any sign that "training" had become "breaking." I developed a nasty knot in one calf on day 4, but I could massage it out and run easily for another hour until it would tighten again. I think a few years ago I would have had no idea to try massaging it out and would have just assumed I had to keep running (limping) with the knot...which could have easily become a tear, I bet.

Day 4, approaching the top of the final climb, Mont Blanc comes into view

In terms of the UTMB route itself, the "toughest" parts will be different for many, but I expect the 5 passes between La Balme and Courmayeur (roughly 40k point to 80k point) represent one of the toughest. This will all be in the dark for me and I'm happy enough with that, as there are plenty of more beautiful parts of the course to enjoy after Courmayeur :) There are a few very nasty steep descents, which I'm glad to know about, as they can be soul-destroying (due to their brutal nature on toenails and quads). I'm glad to have a sense of the terrain and the placement of aid stations. I also got a good sense of my pace up particular climbs. I ran 3 of the 4 days with poles (putting them away on day 4, just to slow myself down). My pole technique really improved after the guide's tip (should have had that for the dolomites VK!).

So, after 212km + 13,000m for the week, I was theoretically off to binge on another massif along the Swiss-Italian border - Monte Rosa. I had signed up for a 50km + 4000m "training race" with an Italian mate. However, at the time I signed up, I misread the UTMB training camp info and thought it ended Monday (it ended Tuesday night). That gave me just 3 days to recover before a very steep, technical race. And I hadn't realised I'd have done all the extra sheepdogging miles. It seemed I had now done all the training I needed in regards to fuel, poles, weather, and muscle-building during the UTMB camp. I couldn't find a smart reason to run the Monte Rosa Walser 50k.

Gabiet 'hotel', day before Monte Rosa race. Couldn't see 100mtr on race day!

The day before Monte Rosa Ultra was beautiful and we did some hiking up over 3,000m to join the local ibex with the views to the amazing glaciated peak at over 4,600m. I saw some of the race course trails. Steep, narrow, and rocky. The weather was forecast to include heavy rain and 12 degrees all day. I mentally confirmed that running the race in treacherous conditions was a risk I didn't need to take. However, I now had a reason to at least toe the start line - wet weather gear testing! My Italian mate had piked, given the bad weather. But it was just what I needed! (And truth be told, I was tired of training every day in the European heatwave this year.)

Thus, at 5.50 am, I stood at the start line in the dawn light, fully clad in my new Raidlight Extreme rain gear (sadly, Montane gear just isn't to be found in local shops) and very expensive Mammut waterproof overmitts (essentially a thin waterproof outer mitt to go over normal gloves). I certainly got a few looks from other runners! My Italian mate, who decided to pike on the all-day run in the rain, also gave me the look. When I said I was UTMB gear testing, he said, "Okay, but the gloves...really, they are too much!" I disagreed :)

Uber light and I can run in it. "Waterproof" only goes so far, though!

As planned, I ran at easy pace for the first 23km + 2300m of the race. There wasn't a mountain view to be had. It was all clouds and mist and rain, but it was gorgeous. We crossed rivers and my x-talons enjoyed the muddy sections. I got to figure out how waterproof my new gear is, how hot vs breathable it is, how to best layer underneath it, how my pack moves more readily with a slippery jacket on, and so much more.

When I arrived at the 23k aid station, I handed in my bib, thanked the vollies working in the rain, and decided to run the 13km downhill on the small mountain road to my hotel. From my hotel room window later, I could watch everyone coming in to the finish, including all those I had played leap-frog with all morning (I'd typically pass uphill and then some blokes would pass me again on the descents - I wouldn't play the slip-on-your-butt game like them, as it wasn't my A race.)

Shame I couldn't see the whole course, but greedy-greedy never gets!

From the safety and comfort of my hotel room window ledge, I played the "shoulda/coulda/woulda" game. It appeared to be a less competitive race for the females this year and it seemed that I "coulda" finished in 3rd place at my training pace. My ego liked that. Dangerous and annoying thing, that ego. The other thing that coulda happened was a slip in the mud due to fatigued legs, followed by a tendon tear. Pick a tendon, any tendon. I'm sure I have plenty of tired ones right now. And I'm about to add more speedwork. Get ready, tendons! :)

The Metaphysics of VK's and Grand Pianos

Last weekend I fulfilled a little dream. I ran a European International Skyrunning Federation (ISF) "vertical kilometre" (VK) event. The basic criteria for an ISF VK is that the route must gain 1000 metres over "variable terrain with a substantial incline, not exceeding five kilometres in length." I chose my race mostly on convenience - the timing meant that I was in Europe, near enough to the Italian dolomites, that I could do the Dolomites Vertical Kilometer. This race gives hill-loving athletes their +1000m in just 2.4 kilometres!

View from hotel room to the peak I'll run.

Other than my track sessions with the WA Masters group, I've never done a race as a "training race" or "B race/C race"* before. My goals were:

(1) experience a European VK
(2) get a solid, hard uphill training session in for UTMB, which is my A goal race later in August
(2a) find out (hopefully) my legs are super strong and I'm still able to run mountains for the rest of the weekend
(3) test drive and practice with my new Leki Trailstick poles

I'm happy to report that all goals were achieved.

The event itself was a little disorganised before the start. They moved the race briefing, which was already hard to find if you weren't a local. There was a handwritten note on the door of the building directing us to go to "Belvedere" instead. No map. Great...now just to find out what and where "Belvedere" was and get there within 5 minutes! The initial Google search via our phones on international roaming found a place 55 minutes away. A little more searching and we found a closer one :)

Briefing done, we found where to get my bib and then found dinner. That night, I found something else. I found myself getting nervous and agitated. It was the pressure to perform. And yet I had no performance goals for myself, other than to find out if my legs post-race were as rock solid as I hoped they would be. But I felt the pressure of the invisible audience, expecting me to smash it up. I knew I was going to smash it up, but it was going to be the version of smashing-it-up that comes from a 46 year old woman in peak mileage, doing 150 k's of mountain running per week.

Race morning dawned and I enjoyed a more relaxed feeling that comes with doing a "C race" (a new thing for me!) and with a very civilised 9.50 am start (VK'ers go in waves of 20 people every 4-5 minutes). But I had to arrive by 9 am to get my finish line bag to the helicopter. Yes, indeed, there was a giant bag being filled with runners' bags, which was carried up dangling from a helicopter to the summit at about 2500m.

I stood around watching and waiting and the more I stood, the more I felt the pangs of nerves again. Even though I had the compression gear, fancy poles, and distinct lack of body fat like all the others around me, I felt out of place. I felt like those newbie trail runners at Perth Trail Series events who would contact me when I was RD and say, "I'm just a regular runner. Can I do your events? Are they just for elites and other really fast people? If I do your event, will I be last?" And then they would rock up - and almost surely wouldn't be last - but would stand there feeling all the internal jitters as their eyes fixated on all the fit, lycra'd, hydration-packed "athletes" around them.

Standing at the VK, I felt all this. All this rubbish nonsense in my head. All over a silly little 2.5km run up a mountain on a beautiful summer day.

The cool start chute, organisers calling each starter.

They called my name and number (in Italian) and I ran through the start chute, over the cool little ramp that makes you feel like an F1 racing car! That was awesome and everyone should get to do that sometime. I made little rumbling idling and revving noises in my head :) Vroom Vroom!

Some modern dance music came on loud before they counted us down. It was perfect. I closed my eyes and did a little dance to the beat. I remembered myself. I'm just a little girl who loves running.

And so I ran (and power hiked, yes, it's steep!) to the top of that mountain. And then did something else I've never done. I toasted my "win" against the voices in my head with a bit of prosecco at the top. (I've never seen prosecco at the finish line of a race - distinctly Italian and apropos, it seemed.)

I watched other runners come in for about 30 minutes, then ran the 2k to the cable car, which was taking us to the foot of the mountain (it's forbidden to run down the route, even if you were silly enough to want to run something that steep down.)

Timing chip returned, we had lunch and Rolf and I headed off to Marmolada, the queen of the dolomites, just around the corner. I enjoyed a 5k + 700m hike/climb up to her glacier, the only glacier in the dolomites.

The following day, I backed up with a 22k + 2200m run in the dolomites, fastpacking with 8kg on my back, to stay in a rifugio for the night. The next morning, after a brekkie of muesli, yoghurt and chia (yes, I carried my own chia up the mountain; it was lighter than the bottle of Udo's Oil!), we ran out to the car, 8k away. The legs were finally getting tired :)

The smile was genuine. Hard work, but I was loving it!

And so, how did I do in the VK, many will want to know. All goals achieved, as above.

My placing? About mid-pack. For those of you shocked, let's bring the giant grand piano of reality crashing down onto the scene.

My VO2max is over the 90th percentile, I know that much. But that's based on sex and age. I'm not in my 20s. Age is against me in a sprint. The Dolomite VK results don't take age into consideration or provide DOB's or ages beside names. I saw two women I would have guessed as old or older than me. Pretty much everyone seemed 15-20 years my junior. But that could have been selective attention on my part :)

In another context, let's say I could run a 3hr12 marathon on a very good day. Just a guess, but a maths-based one. If I ran a marathon in Western Australia, I might win it. Depends who comes out, but it's at least possible. Top 3 even more likely. However, if I took my same great race to the Boston Marathon, my 3:12 would have netted me 493rd position amongst women this year. 493rd.

Be your best. And keep dodging grand pianos :)

*A race/B race/C race definitions: These are my own interpretations.... An A race is your major goal event that might require several months of preparation. The B race would be one aligned with the A race goal and thus supports it. The B race would likely have a performance-related goal (e.g., run a half marathon at your marathon pace, if you were preparing for your first marathon). The C race would probably also be aligned with the A race...but at least shouldn't be counter to it! There isn't really a performance goal, but there's some other goal for doing the event (e.g., test fueling/gear).