Saintelyon Running Raid Nocturne 2014

72 km trail run, in the mountains, muddy terrain, by night. 10h 06min. Finished 2525 out of 4936.

So a friend from my running club invited me to join her and other friends for this race in France and I said why not.

My original plan was to run the "short" version, but while signing-up, I noticed the price for the "short" 44 km course was 62 euro, and 78 euro for the full course, 72 km. Never one to let a good deal go past, I signed up for the "totale".

Then I started hearing things about this race that I just signed-up for, like the fact that it's one of the most iconic and old races in France, the fact that it makes grown-up men cry, the fact that it's no picnic.

Then my team mate friend over-trained and got injured and is off the race, so here we are again, it's me alone against the world because the other friends are running the short one.

Saint Etienne Sports Centre

On race night I find myself at the sports centre of the small city of Saint Etienne, and on the concrete floor thousands of runners are on their camping mats, napping or having dinner from giant pasta tubs, chillaxing, stressing, queuing for one last number two, etc. Me, no mat, no pasta, just a sandwich from Paul, a Coke and some canélés for my last supper. I had my food, relaxed and focused on the long night ahead.

Dressed for success

Shortly before midnight people started leaving the comforts of our indoors refugee camp, headed for the start line, and at midnight the fast wave ran into the night. These are the people that intended to finish in 5-7hrs. The second wave is for the 7-9 hrs, that's not me either.

The 3rd and last wave gets the get-go, and the trotting begins. We trot through a well-lit double carriage way, but most of my fellow trotters have their headtorches on. Me, I decide to save battery life. Depending on the lighting during the race I alternated between none, a little, and full beam. Which means that of course I almost killed myself on several occasions when I accidentally turned the thing off.

Back to the first few minutes. This being my first much too very long distance race, I study my fellow trotters so see if they look like they know what they're doing. Most do. So I keep their pace and look at my watch: we're doing 7mins per km. My thoughts exactly: "What the hell is that in miles?" "Simple, you multiply by 16, which is 8 times 2, then... no, wait. First you divide by 60, then... forget it. I can't do maths past midnight". Then I thought, "OK, I'll change my Garmin to miles and then... I'll never know how far I am since the trail is marked in kms.

"Dang.

"On the other hand, this race is 72km, and at 7 minutes per km, 72 divided by 7, that's 10, so I should finish in 10 hours, which is roughly what I am aiming for. Sorted!" Right? Right? In hindsight, that is NOT how you calculate the time, but hey-ho, my bad calculation result made me happy, so I kept it.

I think they're following me

The rest of the race was semi-uneventful. The landscape? Lots of camelbacks, tight bums, running shoes, and muddy trails. In many parts of the narrow trails, whenever there was a big patch of mud or a large puddle, the pack would stop and try and not.to.soil.their.trainers... Seriously? So there I go and jump in the middle of the 1 cm deep mudbath and carry on. Wimps.

Later in the race I had a glimpse into the workings of the runner part of my brain: after some 4 hours and maybe 30 km I saw a sign that read: "You are 45 km from the finish line!" And I say "Cool, that's roughly a marathon, and I know I can run a marathon. I'm in familiar terrain now!" The rest of my brain kept silent and facepalmed at the stupidity of my statement, but again, if it makes me happy...

The aid stations were all the bordelic they told me they would be. For the first two, in towns too small to have a leisure centre, they set up massive event-type tents, with taps with camelback water in one end, Gatorade bottles and madeleines in the middle, bread, fruits and hot drinks at the far end, and 999 "runners" standing in the way having their drink and food and chatting like they are having apéritif in a busy Parisian café. Me, I grab a bottle of window-cleaner-blue Gatorade (my favourite), two madeleines, eat and drink while I make my way through the crowd, and out.

The running technique that everybody around me was using was dead simple: you run in the flats and downhills, and in the uphills if people walk faster than you run, then walk. These walks were perfect for feeding and drinking and "try and see what's around you".

And the night became day and we approached the city, but the course still goes through every single hill there is, and it looks like it's never going to end.

In the 12km after the last aid station, the hunger strikes, or maybe it's just breakfast time, so I ate everything I had left in my pockets. And those chocolate and nuts and berries, heavy and sweet and healthy homemade energy snacks that my friend gave me, hit the spot big time.

Final Sprint

6 km from the finish line I caught up to this tall and fit french triathlete. We run shoulder to shoulder for a while. I'm jealous of his cycling jersey back pockets as he keeps fishing out tangerines. Then I see the 5k marker and change a gear. The trotting is over, I am running proper now.

And then more hills, and then terribly tall footsteps climbing down to the city and my Achilles tendons started to make themselves noticed. And we hit riverside level. No.more.hills. We run to the very bottom of the river side, under a bridge, then up the bridge through a sneaky staircase. Up and now it's for real, no more ups. 2 km to go and I keep overtaking. 1 km to go and I remind myself that's been a while that I don't "measure" that distance, so I don't have a mental picture of how many streets from home that is, or how many bus stops or anything, so I just say to myself "that's less than 7 minutes for sure, good!" Then I see the stadium around the corner. 500m to go. I pick up the pace and another few runners. 75m to go. I look behind me and the last man is 20m away so no need for a cut-throat sprint and photo finish. I entered the stadium, headed for the big arch, and crossed the finish line of my first (sigh) ultramarathon.

So it begins.

Mauricio.

Been there, done that.