Run or Die (10 page)

DAY 1

Rains weep at the break of dawn on a Monday at the end of May, and I stand there, more fearful than confident as the giant waves of the Atlantic crash against the Cabo Higuer cliffs, ready to run until I can dip my feet in the warm waters of the Mediterranean. Any disappointment or discouragement we might have felt at a dismal departure in a downpour is erased by the extra dose of motivation we get from imagining what we might see on a long day that will take us across the Basque mountains and what we might discover over the next seven days. This is how we will start, cheered on by the team and runners who, despite the rainstorm, have come to see the kickoff of this adventure: a run across the Pyrenees, along its valleys and across its peaks, following the frontier between France and Spain until, nearly 500 miles to our east, we are reunited with the salty water of the sea.

It seems as if the sea doesn’t want to let go of us when we emerge from the rocks of Cabo Higuer. We meet strong winds and rain, and I can’t decide whether the water wetting our faces is thrown up by the waves when they crash against the rocks or is pouring down gleefully from the sky. All the same, we are here to run; no one said this would be easy, and we knew we would encounter problems. Indeed, as our odyssey begins, the rain apparently wants to remind us that nature and the mountains will be the ones to decide if we will reach the Mediterranean.

The clock moves toward 8 a.m., and the heavy clouds spreading across the sky convince me it would be pointless to wait for them
to disappear before we start our run. I feel sure it’s better to start with these difficulties and to hope that, as the days go by, nature will take pity on us and send a little good weather.

“You all ready?” I shout, hoping to make myself heard over the wind and crashing waves. Two local runners I have only just met have offered to share the soaking and accompany us on the first 6 miles before they go to work. The weather may be opposed to the challenge we are about to take on, but the runners are ready to give their all to help me pull it off.

“Of course!” I barely hear their answer through the storm, and I reply with a determined “
Pues entonces, vamos!
”

We cover the first miles and are quickly sopping wet. The waves of the sea are replaced by the streams of water that cars splash over us as we negotiate the Irati motorway and penetrate the mountains. We chat, and the miles seem to fly by as the rain turns into a steady drizzle that slips easily off our wet bodies. Greg and Yon accompany me on the first stretch of trail. The soft terrain, fresh legs, and high spirits make it easy to set a good pace.

All of a sudden as we are descending the ridge separating Ibardin from the Lizuniaga Col, the trail drops us into a grass field with no way out. We look at each other. For the first time since we left the ocean, we take the map from our backpack. Until now, we had let ourselves be led by intuition and had followed the wind eastward, but when there are small valleys with a thousand paths, intuition sometimes takes you to a dead end.

As a result of Greg’s good navigation skills from his years of adventure racing, and Yon’s knowledge of the terrain, we work out that we are south of the main trail that was taking us to the Lizuniaga Col. We have two options: We can either retrace our steps for 3 or 4 miles to get back on the right track or try to cut through the middle of the woods to the north. We are afraid the extra miles
will take their toll at the end of an anticipated day’s haul of 80, so we decide on the second option, convinced that we will find the right track in a few minutes.

We don’t take into account the fact that the vegetation on the Atlantic Pyrenees is totally different from what we find back home. We immediately realize the shorter option won’t be the quickest as we start on a steep descent where the undergrowth is so dense we can’t see where we are putting our feet. We are in a kind of bog between large boulders and grassy thickets. Our feet are soaked, but apart from the odd thorn from wild rose bushes, the ferns and grasses caressing our legs is a pleasant feeling. We keep close together as we descend so as not to get lost in this jungle. The vegetation gets denser and denser as we draw closer to the river, which, like a cup of coffee, gathers all the dregs at the bottom of the valley.

With more pain than glory, we reach the river and decide that the best route out will be to climb back up the other side and follow the course of the river in the hope that at some point, nature will have forgotten to fill a gully that will take us 1,800 feet higher, to the path we are so desperate to find. Time has come to a halt, and I don’t think there can be more than 60 miles to go before we reach Orbaitzeta and, farther on, 50 to cross these mountains and be able to rest once more. We have only just set out, have gone about 12 miles, and are already lost and wasting minutes, precious hours of rest. If we continue at this rate …

But are we really lost? Don’t we in fact want to lose ourselves and, like when we were kids, melt into the forest and discover its plants, animals, and life close up as a way to probe our inner selves? At this moment, though, my mind is far from esoteric reflections. I have only one thought in my head: crossing the distance between
us and the path we have been chasing in circles by the river for at least half an hour.

After going upstream for a good while, we finally leave the river when we find the gully we have been searching for. Our legs and bodies recover their energy in our elation over finding a path to lead us out of the insecurity of the natural wilds and return us to civilization, even though the latter only expresses itself in the shape of a track that is barely a few feet wide. It all seems very contradictory. When we started on this trek, our aim was to go far into the mountains and find their wildest, purest, most natural depths, to distance ourselves from all civilization, from what mankind has built or destroyed, turning our backs on the world we have constructed during our existence as a species. Yet here we are, stripped of artifice, cut loose from humanity, finally experiencing what we so craved, and we feel unprotected, defenseless, and vulnerable. Fear creeps into our veins like a kind of adrenaline, anticipating the feeling of a leap into the void, the loss of control over our emotions and body. And as this situation drags on, fear of being lost, of not finding a way out, of being suddenly attacked by a wolf, becomes real and scary. Irrationally, we look around at the slightest sound or movement we hear. We look for an exit, scared of dying defenseless, surrounded by nature.

I think it is fear of death that frightens us when we lose contact with what is man-made. Our family and friends accustom us to the safety of the rational world, where every element focuses on the protection of our own, and when we are cut off from that shelter, we feel vulnerable, as if the path our life is pursuing could be interrupted at any moment by unknown perils. It is irrational, but the love we feel for humanity takes over, makes us feel we belong there, cradled in its arms. That feeling accompanies us everywhere,
keeping us safe, yet at the same time muting the instinct that allows us to explore beyond its frontiers.

We shout at the tops of our voices as we emerge from the sea of vegetation and reach the safety of the main path. In a calmer frame of mind, we reestablish the pace that will lead us to the Lizuniaga Col, Lizarreta, and Erratzu. Gradually, in the rain, we draw near to the refuge where we will spend the night. Energized by the passing miles, time flies by as we catch up on what we have done in our lives and what we are planning for the future; before we realize it, we reach the ridges above Orbaitzeta as night falls.

We have reached the end of the first stage on this adventure, and our legs haven’t suffered too much. After nearly 87 miles and more than 16 hours, the night is pitch-black and there’s not much time for us to eat a plate of pasta or for David, the physiotherapist accompanying me on the whole of this trek, to massage my legs before I go to sleep sometime after midnight.

DAY 2

Night has dispatched the clouds and rain and made way for a bright day. What it couldn’t dispatch was the ache in my legs, which, instead of improving with sleep, has gotten worse. I put on a brave face, determined to hide my pain from my colleagues, who are waiting for me to have breakfast before we start back on our run. What would they think if they knew my legs were hurting after the first day? It would demoralize the whole team! Their faces show how thrilled they are to start on this project with the expectation that they will carry it through. What would they feel if we had to go home after a single day? This isn’t the time to show weakness, to suggest that the project hangs on a thread, that one
stride too long, one slip and I am sure to tear a muscle. … No, now isn’t the time.

So how should I react? Best to bury the pain. I don’t want to dim the expectations I have placed on this adventure I feel so passionate about because of twinges in my legs. I’m sure it will get better over the next few hours or days. What with the rain and losing our way, we have piled up extra miles and
that
is what is taking its toll now. From now on, everything will return to normal.

As these ideas buzz around my head, I begin to run with Greg in the direction of Larrau. A track leads us gently up to the high ridges of Abodi, and the good weather and fresh air seem to bring the blood back to my legs, which start to regain their energy, allowing me to look up from the ground as we reach the ridges. The view is spectacular. The first rocky peaks of the Pyrenees tower in front of us, behind Belagua, and, farther on, the horizon extends like a rumpled blanket of myriad shades of yellow before disappearing into the sea. The view gives me the strength to reach Larrau, and I anticipate that the morning will be a smooth run through pristine passes.

After a short stop to consume gel and isotonic drinks, we start our run toward the peaks of Mesa De los Tres Reyes and Anie. Joan and Edu now accompany us; they didn’t want to miss out on the spectacular landscapes in this corner of the Pyrenees. The miles pass by quickly, eased by our conversation and the gently undulating grassy terrain that allows us to run at a moderate pace, as if we were crossing clouds of soft cotton. The pain that my tendons and joints were feeling this morning is forgotten.

Our conversations gradually fall away, not for lack of topics or out of shyness, but because the terrain gets steeper and steeper and we need to reserve our energy for breathing and footing. We concentrate on the 10 or 12 miles still left to go. Edu and Joan went
back a while ago, and Greg and I are now facing the peaks on the Barazea. We started out almost six hours ago and have eaten nothing solid since breakfast. Feeling hungry and tired, we stop for a few moments to sit down and take a rest under one of the peaks. The track continues to climb a short distance until it reaches the peaks and then starts an immediate descent into a long valley that should take us to Belagua, where tasty rolls await us.

You do not make good decisions on an empty stomach. We are growing increasingly hungry, and when we sit and look at our maps, we see that if we continue to press along at our present altitude below the peaks, we’ll reach the end of the ridge path and then an easy descent will bring us to the bottom of the valley, within a few minutes’ reach of the rolls that keep taking shape in our thoughts. It is a perfect plan; we can cut half an hour off our hunger if we go at a brisk pace. We are pleased with the clever way we have oriented ourselves.