As I sit on the beautiful beach in Nice, France, admiring the stunning turquoise sea, my phone suddenly pings, interrupting my peaceful moment. Curious, I glance at the screen and see a message stating, “Extreme weather kit activated!” Apparently, bad weather is expected for the entire day, with heavy thundery showers and hail. Not exactly the news I was hoping for, but then again, I didn’t sign up for a mountain ultra marathon expecting an easy challenge. Ultra running, a race longer than a traditional marathon, is meant to be tough, especially when it takes place in the mountains. A little rain only adds to the allure.
I am here to participate in a new event called Nice Côte d’Azur by UTMB, part of the prestigious UTMB World Series of mountain ultra marathons organized by UTMB, the creator of the renowned 106-mile Ultra-Trail du Mont-Blanc, in collaboration with Ironman, the leading organizer of mass-participation events. It’s impressive that a company like Ironman, which was acquired for a staggering $730 million in 2020, is now putting on mountain ultra marathons. This speaks volumes about the growing popularity of the sport.
In fact, according to the International Association of Ultrarunners and the website runrepeat.com, the number of participants in ultra marathons globally has seen a staggering increase of 1,676 percent between 1996 and 2018. More recently, the number of participants rose from 137,234 in 2008 to 611,098 in 2018.
You might be wondering why anyone would willingly pay to run long distances across mountains. Rick Pearson, senior editor at Runner’s World magazine, explains that the marathon has lost some of its mystique. With more people now running marathons, some individuals seek to truly push their limits. Ultra running offers a less competitive environment, with the emphasis on simply finishing rather than achieving a specific time. Additionally, the races often take place in breathtaking locations, adding to their appeal.
My race in Nice spans 111 kilometers and takes me from the mountainous Mercantour National Park to the picturesque seafront. It’s undoubtedly going to be a beautiful journey. While my primary goal is not a specific time, there’s a sense of freedom and less pressure compared to a road marathon with strict time goals. This race will truly test my limits, and there’s only one way to find out if I’m up for the challenge.
The next morning, my alarm rudely awakens me at 2am. The race begins in the mountain village of Roubion, so we must board the race buses to reach the starting point. By 5am, we’re all gathered in the village square, huddled under café umbrellas as the rain pours down. The race start is delayed by an hour, but no one complains. This group of runners remains unfazed, displaying their resilience. Eventually, at 7am, we set off, navigating the steep uphill sections in single file, and descending the slopes, guided by the natural contours of the terrain. Occasionally, we emerge from the mist and encounter charming stone villages perched on clifftops. These settlements seem distant and secluded, lost in time. Little do we realize that they’re likely featured on every tourist map and filled with shops. Perhaps one day, I’ll return to explore them at a leisurely pace. But for now, I continue my journey, maneuvering the steep streets and disappearing once again into the clouds.
The views surrounding me are undoubtedly breathtaking, but the persistent mist obscures much of the scenery. Yet, the mist possesses its own ethereal charm. Sometimes, it dissipates slightly, revealing glimpses of rugged mountaintops or imposing rock formations amidst lush forested hillsides. However, the rain relentlessly drenches us, soaking us to the bone. Once we reach a certain point of saturation, being wet becomes inconsequential. Throughout the race, my clothes adhere to my body like a second skin. Seeking shelter in the church at Roubion before the race
© Franck Oddoux By the time I reach the 50km checkpoint, doubt begins to creep into my mind. I contemplate whether 50km is a sufficient achievement. The temptation to quit beckons, tempting me to return to the comfort of my hotel, enjoy a warm shower, and savor a delicious dinner. The rain has transformed the trails into slippery mud, making each step arduous. I’m coated in mud from head to toe, and I’ve already slipped a few times. Why continue for another grueling 10 hours or so? As I mention this thought to my supportive wife, who awaits me at various checkpoints, she responds with a surprised “No!” Her reaction jolts me back to reality, and I quickly agree, reassuring her that it was merely a passing thought. Deep down, I know I will press on. I anticipated the difficulty of this challenge, and I possess the determination to endure. In my mind, I hear the voices of my friends praising my perseverance. Is it my ego that propels me forward? To some extent, yes. Stubbornness plays a role as well—I desire to accomplish what I set out to achieve. Moreover, I yearn for that exhilarating surge of energy upon approaching the finish line in Nice. The moment when all the distance covered, the obstacles conquered, and the hardships endured culminate in triumph.
Nevertheless, the rain persists, intensifying the treacherous conditions. At times, we navigate precarious rocks and navigate slippery mudslides. On good stretches, we find patches of solid ground and regain our rhythm. However, the sticky mud saps our energy, both physically and mentally. With each fall—approximately four for me—my mind becomes unsettled, questioning the rationale behind this endeavor. It insists that it is foolish and unnecessary. Yet, I press on.
Just before dusk, a beautiful sight unfolds. The setting sun peeks through the clouds, illuminating the mist-filled valleys with its golden beams. Entranced, I stop and turn to witness this awe-inspiring spectacle. The runners trailing behind me do the same, releasing gasps of awe. We stand there, transfixed by the mesmerizing sight. For a moment, I contemplate capturing this extraordinary scene in a photograph. However, exhaustion overwhelms me, and I choose to savor the moment with my own eyes. Reluctantly, I tear myself away from the scene and continue trudging uphill.
The course’s profile map seemed to depict the mountains gradually diminishing as we approached the sea. However, it failed to account for the challenging terrain beneath our feet, the unpredictable steepness of the slopes, and the deceptive nature of the mountains. They possess a knack for creating false illusions of nearing the summit—a brief flattening of the land, a small descent, or the presence of a weather station or a cross, making us believe that we’ve reached the pinnacle. Exhaling a sigh of relief, we think, “That wasn’t so bad after all.” But then, just as we start to relax, the trail twists upward again, the mountain’s ominous shadow looming over us. Here, the trail beckons, extending its long, slender finger.
When we finally reach Nice in the early morning hours, we are faced with the challenge of descending a seemingly endless staircase. Our battered legs protest each step, as we navigate the winding white stone path clinging to the cliffs, mere inches above the turbulent waves below.
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