Lavaredo Ultra Trail Part 2 - The Race

Standing in a massive crowd the countdown began. Dramatic music blasted through the town square.

CINQUE! QUATTRO! TRE! DUE! UNO! VIA!!!

We were off. The group of about 1500 runners head off into the night, full of excitement and anticipation of the hours ahead. The climbing started right off the bat with a few miles of gradual uphill running to get out of Cortina. Once we hit the first signs of a trail, a bottleneck occurred. We were at a dead stop. I tried to find a path to the side where I can continue the climb knowing that as a back-of-the-pack runner, I’d need every second possible to meet the cut off times.

On the proper trail and out of the city, we are surrounded by darkness with the exception of our headlamps. Not many people are speaking and everyone is breathing heavily from the climbs. Once a downhill hits, I’m relieved as this is where I generally make up a lot of time. I hear a familiar sound - English. I eavesdrop a while and continue on as I’m listening to a podcast or something. Eventually I turn around and say hi and thank them for providing me a bit of entertainment. I learn their names are Daniel and Barbara and they are from the UK. It’s odd becoming friends with just voices. Since it’s dark and we’re in single file, this is the only way I knew them for hours on end.

We hit the first aid station around 17 km (10.5 miles) and it was so quick it took almost a month after the race to actually remember it. I had heard about Euro aid stations leading up to the race but when I arrived I remember just looking at everything in confusion. The aid station spreads replicating a teenager’s sleepover treats that I’m used to are now resembling more of a ladies wine night - meats and cheeses, little cakes and cookies and more common race foods like bananas and Coke. I head for the familiar and shove some bananas in my mouth and my plastic to-go snack baggie. I chug some Coke and get out of there. I hear my new friends talking and we are a pack again. I’m not sure how soon after this station it started, but at the point my stomach started bothering me. Not a sick feeling but intense hunger. I had been eating more than what I normally do in races but I was also climbing a ton more than normally. We’re uphill again and I’m starting to feel ridiculously weak. I sit down because I’m afraid of blacking out. My friends offer to stay with me and I refuse. I’m not letting someone else’s race suffer because of me. I spot a large rock and think maybe if I poop it will help. It didn’t, but at least I was lighter. I try to keep moving again and start eating as many Clif blocks as I can. Energy started coming back and I began to feel a bit better. I remembered feeling similarly during the beginning of Grindstone 100 and knew it would eventually pass. I kept walking and caught my friends again. They adopted another guy into the group, another Daniel. Easy to remember. The four of us continued on. A long downhill would be coming and I’d use the opportunity to eat more.

The sun would be rising soon and it gave us some motivation to move a bit quicker on the downhill. That and the first cut off at 5:30 am was looming. We’ve been doing a lot of walking at this point so other/new Daniel and I started running on the downhill. I start getting a side stitch so bad that I’m almost doubled over in pain with every step. Why can’t this race just go smoothly? I’ve wanted this for such a long time. I slow down to a walk and make my way down as quickly as possible. Daniel and Barbara eventually catch up to me and we head into the 33k (20.5 miles) aid station and first rest stop together. This is where my crew, Wes, would be meeting me. I find him and tell him how terrible I feel and start doing something kind of resembling crying but I’m likely too dehydrated to produce actual tears. I gather everything I need to start another climb. I’ll never see Daniel and Barbara again after this point. Other Daniel is gone and now I’m on my own.

I’ll skim over a lot of this section since it’s mostly this- me being alone, the temperature climbing and more and more climbing. I had five hours to make it to the next aid station 15k away mostly uphill. The one reprieve was around 43k (26.7 miles) where one of the few flat sections were. This lead to a beautiful lake. I didn’t get many pictures and I lost a bunch but I did get this one.

Guess what comes next! More climbing! Another cutoff on the horizon at 10:30 am. I made it with 30 minutes to spare. A short climb later and I’d make it to one of the highest points and the namesake of the race: Tre Cime di Lavaredo. 51k and 2400 meters (31.7 miles and 7.874 feet) in elevation.

At this point it is HOT and still morning. I think it got up to mid 80s that day. After Lavaredo is a very long downhill with zero shade. I can feel the sunburn starting and I’m happy I have enough water. All my stomach issues have been gone for some time now and I’m feeling good and moving well. I try to run when I can and take any opportunity to dip my hat and buff in water. Not many of those. Another check point and a chance to see my crew was coming. I’d see my dad at this point and anything to look forward to was a pretty nice luxury. The stretch to the aid station was relatively flat and I tried to get there as fast as I could. I start seeing people waiting and at this point I’m sure I see my mom and Wes. I wave. They don’t wave back. I get closer. It’s two random women. I pretend to have meant to do that. Did I mention that it’s hot and I’ve been running through the night? A little while later I see someone running towards me and waving. “Not falling for that again” I think to myself. I get closer and see it’s actually Wes and am pretty relieved. He says he has a surprise and I soon see my dad further up the trail. I’m feeling great now and tell my dad I want to run in with him - something I never thought would happen. It was a really special moment. I approach the tent and see my friend, Britt, who was also running the race. I was shocked to have caught up to her as she’s quite fast, often winning age group awards for many of the races she’s entered. We head into the tent and get to business replenishing what we need to make it to the next aid station.

Inside the tent I have a chance to sit down. Worst idea ever. It’s really hot in there and it must have hit me all at once. I start feeling awful and go lie in the grass. There is no time for this and I have no idea how much time I wasted here. After I sit in the shade for a bit, I knew I needed to go. I was feeling better and needed to move. On to the next check point.

Feeling ok. Looking awful

Me and dad

I head down a short stretch of gravel road before reaching the next climb. I start to head uphill and am relieved to see it’s next to a stream. I dip my hat in frequently as this climb is about 5k (3 miles) long. I climb and climb and keep thinking about how each step is one closer to downhill. I’m about 3 miles in and there is no downhill in sight. I’m getting angry at this point. I see the cut off time quickly approaching and remember what I heard someone say - cutoff times are pretty lenient and if you’re a few minutes late, it’s ok. I don’t want to risk it so I push and push and I’m still not reaching the top of this climb. Almost 4 miles in. It doesn’t seem to me that the elevation chart is showing this section accurately and I don’t know how much longer I need to go before reaching the aid station. It should be 3 miles up and down but that’s clearly not the case. I have 15 minutes to make it down this hill however far it is. I practice my Italian begging on the way down. I think of all the things I’m going to say. How much I wanted this. How I struggled in the beginning with fueling but now I’m fine. How I can do this. How I WILL do this. I’m running as fast as I can. I check my watch. It’s cutoff time. 3:30. My heart sinks. I’m approaching the last small hill and I see someone heading in the wrong direction, albeit a more direct one. I yell to him and he throws his hands up. I tried. I run it in to the finish and see they are already breaking down the tables. The aid station worker welcomes me, sees my nationality on my bib and says “sorry, you are too late. You cannot continue.” I start the begging I’ve been practicing. It doesn’t work. They’re just doing their job and I understand this. What happens next fuels me to this day. The man looks at me and says “this section is too hard for you. You can not do it. Much better runners have turned around. It is too hard for you.” Maybe something was lost in translation. Maybe not. But to that, I say fuck you! Not to the man, but to the idea that someone is telling me I’m not good enough.

I sat in the grass and cried. I didn’t care who saw. I was heartbroken. I still am. I waited for the bus to take me back to the start and met another couple who did continue but decided to turn around. They consoled me as best they could but I was inconsolable. I sat with my thoughts the whole ride home. Maybe I’m not good enough. Either way, my race was over.

I sat in the hotel, still crying. I cry a lot. I vowed to be done with ultrarunning and how I never wanted to feel like this after a race after again. I thought about what I’d say to people. I thought about how embarrassed I was.

It took a few weeks to start feeling better about the whole thing. I’m not over it and I don’t think I should be but I did decide to not let this DNF define me.

I will be back. I will finish this race. 68 days.