Run or Die (17 page)

It’s an easy gully, and I start to go up quickly as my boots sink into the snow and leave a perfect trail. As I climb up, however, the fissure gets narrower and the snow more packed. It gets harder and harder for my boots to get a grip on the snow, and I regret leaving my crampons at home. Nevertheless, I can’t go back; the lure is too strong.

The snow comes to an end, and I start climbing on rock. My hold is fragile, and I have to ensure that my hands and feet are firmly in place and that the rock won’t crumble. I take more than an hour to cover 65 steep feet. So why don’t I go down? Why don’t
I return home to safety? No one will know whether I’ve taken 20 or 21 minutes to get as far as the col, whether I reached the top or stayed on the col. Today I will get home, cook supper, and go to bed. And tomorrow I will probably forget what I did today, and no one, maybe not even I, will know if I ever got to the end of that gully.

But I can’t turn back. It’s selfish, I know. To endanger my life is selfish, not for my sake, but for all those who love me, my family, my friends, and all the people who have bet on me and worked with me. It is a whim of mine that could destroy everything. Why aren’t they here with me now? Why isn’t their force urging me to retreat? Could the force here be stronger, compelling me, like a lone wolf, to go after this goal and think of nothing else?

Perhaps it is best to strike a balance between these two forces in order to be able to continue running both for yourself and for others—but where is that boundary? What is the right balance between the desire to drive yourself farther and feel you are who you are, and pleasing others but in doing so, lose a part of yourself?

I
can feel the sinews in my right leg contract with every step, from the tips of my toes through my calves and tibia and upward to my thigh muscles as my heel makes contact with the ground. But the contractions don’t end there; every fiber in my body is tightening, even as my brain sends out the order for them to relax, to stop acting in a way that strains my muscles, makes them throb. I feel stinging pain searing from my feet to my head. My leg is stiff, as though blood and muscle are turning to cement even as I desperately try to fight against it and break through the rock. I sometimes succeed, shortening my stride to prevent the cramps from spreading all through my body, reaching up to my arms, my back, even my jaw. I will my muscles to obey, but they ignore me, and my rigid, unmovable leg hits the ground hard, weighing a ton, not letting me soften the impact or even control where I place my foot. I fall but luckily am able to tuck in my legs and wait a few seconds for the cramp to subside before getting back up to try for another step.

My head is spinning, the light is blinding, and the intense heat turns to ice under my skin. I’m not well. I feel queasy, and that prevents me from making the simplest of movements without
expending a huge mental effort. All of my strength, all of my energy, is focused on lifting my legs off the ground. I hear Jorge running behind me, urging me on. I know I cannot take my eyes off the spot where I want my feet to land, not even to glance at the sun hiding behind the California mountains.

It is as if I have to learn anew how to walk, how to move my fingers to grasp a cup of water, or how to control my muscles in order to keep from collapsing to the ground. I can’t allow myself to relax, or even to think; I know that if I let my head get lost in thought, my legs will cease working and my body will crash down, limp and lifeless. I am like a wooden puppet that needs someone to direct it, to decide which string to pull to raise a leg so that I can move forward. The only way I can progress and prevent my legs from losing control and suddenly crumbling beneath me is to repeat to myself,
Small steps, no abrupt movements, gradually activate the muscles
, over and over again.

Thud, thud, thud
. What the hell is that? All I’ve heard for several hours are Jorge’s shouts urging me on and the voices of the volunteers when we reach an aid station. Now we are a long way from any station. There are 4 miles to go, and the last station was 2 miles ago. What is that noise?
Thud, thud, thud
. It gets louder and quicker. I can hear shouting behind me. Encouraging cheers? Jorge looks at me anxiously. “Come on, Kilian, give it your all now, we’re almost there. Come on, go for it!”

Now I understand: They are footsteps. A runner is coming up from behind. I gather from the sound and the cheering of his pacer, which is getting louder and clearer, that he’s closing in at top speed, like a cheetah running those last few yards before pouncing on a gazelle: he sees it, smells its scent, can almost touch it, and can’t resist attacking it with a smile, with relish. Jorge looks at me anxiously. I try to quicken my pace. I can do it, for myself,
for Jorge, who has come to keep me company, for the whole team. I really can!

But my legs won’t respond. With each step I feel the sinews contracting again, as if they were glass needles, paralyzing my body. It is over. My strength has gone. My legs aren’t obeying the orders I send them, and, above all, I’ve lost any hope I had. The steps behind me pound louder and louder,
thud, thud
, with rhythm and power. I clearly hear his foot smashing against the ground, accelerating with each stride, closing in on his prey.

San Francisco is an incredible, bustling, restless city. I arrived several hours before the rest of the team, so I have a whole day to enjoy getting to know the city. I don’t waste any time at the hotel. I put my suitcase on the bed and leave it full, unpacking only my shoes, and head out for a run in a westerly direction in pursuit of the Pacific Ocean. I round the first corner and find myself on Market Street, in the heart of the city. It is early afternoon, and all kinds of people throng there: noisy students slowly heading home, tourists photographing a tram climbing the city’s famous steep slopes, a group of shoppers exiting the Apple store, where they have bought the latest gadgets. I walk past a disheveled older man asking a group of young punks for spare change. It is hot; you can feel the humidity from the sea. But it’s a pleasure to be able to run wearing only shorts and a singlet after weeks of training in long sleeves, hat, and gloves, where every breath made a cloud of steam.
Only yesterday, in the Cerdanya, you were returning from the Carlit with frozen feet, sopping wet from the snow on the high ridges!
I think, smiling.

I run along on Market Street until I reach Golden Gate Park, where all of a sudden the surroundings change from a bustling city
full of tall buildings to a placid nature scene. I am surrounded by tall trees, meadows, lakes, lots of squirrels, and even the occasional bison (behind a fence, of course). There’s no better way to get to know a city than to discover it through running!

I feel a light breeze as I draw nearer to the Pacific, and once there, I follow the coast northeast until I come to Golden Gate Bridge. Four hours later, after exploring the city and satisfying my desire for a run after so many hours on the plane, I return to the hotel to prepare with the rest of the team to head inland, to the mountains and the race.

The Western States Endurance Run is the most well-known, prestigious endurance run this side of the Atlantic. It is also a race full of interesting history. It was born out of an old horse race, the Tevis Cup, that was held every year from the most westerly point of Lake Tahoe in Squaw Valley to Auburn. In 1974 rider Gordon Ainsleigh, who was 27 at the time, noticed his horse had injured a leg before the race. Ainsleigh did not want his trip to Squaw Valley to be in vain and decided to participate in the race anyway—without his horse. The organizers were surprised, but convinced it would be impossible for him to finish, they let him run. Not only did he finish, but he finished in under 24 hours, not very long after those on horseback. From then on, the Western States 100 has been held as a running race over that same terrain, covering 100 miles.

The alarm goes off at 4 a.m. It’s no struggle to get out of bed; I have slept well, and pre-race nerves make my body spring into action at the first
dring-dring
.

Out the window the sky is still black, though I can see a few points of light: the headlamps of the early risers who are out
warming up on the frost that covers the Squaw Valley ski runs after a cold night more than 6,500 feet above sea level. The temperature in my bedroom is pleasant enough, and I need only a short-sleeve T-shirt. The clothes I will wear for the race are folded on the chair. I do a quick review to check that everything is there, just as I did last night before going to sleep: socks, shoes, shorts, chip, T-shirt with race bib already attached by four pins. Perfect. I take a quick shower to ensure all my muscles are alert, then eat a piece of energy cake for breakfast. It’s half an hour before the start when I finally go down to the warm-up area.

I can feel the excitement mount as some 400 runners begin to pack into a few dozen yards, waiting for the race director to fire into the sky. I hear the cheering of a small band of spectators who have gotten up at 5 a.m. to watch the line of runners climb toward the snowy peaks. Some runners reply with enthusiastic shouts.

The run will last perhaps 16 hours for the fastest, but more than 30 hours for the less experienced. You can feel the tension in the air. But the tension is different than it is before the start of an important race in Europe, when the participants—from those who are chasing a prize-winning time to those who simply want to finish—are often quite agitated at the starting line, concerned about whether their preparation was enough or correct, whether the sacrifices made to take part in the race were worthwhile, and whether they will be able to finish in the time they have set for themselves. Every race is a matter of life or death, and you could cut the tension with a knife before the starting gun is fired. Here, in the moments before the start, it seems to me that none of the runners are thinking too hard about their body or how important the race is. Everyone seems caught up in the excitement of simply
participating
in this adventure. Though many runners are perhaps hoping to come in within 24 hours, what’s more crucial here
seems to be to enjoy the landscapes and to run at a comfortable speed; this is the method that will take you the farthest in this race. Gradually, the body, with the help of nature, will find its natural rhythm, and that will decide if you are capable of reaching Auburn and in what kind of time.

When the first glimmers of light begin to show in the east, from behind Lake Tahoe, and the sky begins to abandon black and assume various shades of yellow and red, a loud
bang
rings out from the barrel of a revolver, and cheers ring out as 400 runners set out toward the far west.

The first hours of the race are quiet. A dozen of us bunch out in front, talking about different races we have run, what impressions they left, whether we liked or disliked them, about our training over the last weeks, the equipment we are carrying, runners and friends we share in common. It is as if it were a long training run with a group of friends who have not seen each other for days and want to catch up on all the news.

In these first hours of the race, I think a good deal about whether I should go on the attack, taking up my fastest pace right from the beginning. I’m surprised by the laid-back atmosphere and pace of the race, which, despite being fast, is comfortable. I think how such a start would be impossible in Europe, where, even in a nearly 24-hour race like the Ultra-Trail du Mont-Blanc, we give 100 percent right from the start, with people spurting ahead in the first miles and every runner trying to waste the fewest number of seconds; after all, we never know if we’ll need them later.

Here, in the Western States race, it seems as though a more reasonable, less aggressive and competitive order rules. It is as if a group of friends is out for a run, and at times a natural sifting out takes place as some slow or stop because they can’t cope with the distance or keep up with the leaders.

And so in this way, without any spurts or marked changes of pace, the runners gradually spread out around mile 18, on the climb leading to Robinson Flat, until I am alone beside Anton Krupicka. Anton is a force of nature, a tall, slim runner with a long beard and chestnut brown hair, his body tanned by hours spent running in the mountains of Boulder, Colorado. He runs only in shorts and shoes, without socks or T-shirt, although, like many other American runners, he carries a flask of cold water in each hand. Geoff Roes, a runner from Alaska, runs just ahead of us, and though he is more reserved than Anton, I am impressed by his easy, simple stride, which looks so efficient.

As if we were tracing the hands of a clock, our strides follow a steady rhythm,
tick-tock.
Never making extra effort to climb a slight incline and never stopping to drink water, rest our legs, or eat. I am surprised by Anton’s and Geoff’s ability to sustain that constant rhythm, and also at how they never stop at food points or waste seconds eating cookies or slices of fruit or relaxing and drinking a glass of ice-cold water. They only stop to change their empty flasks for full ones and then continue on at the same rhythm, as simple as that.