Run or Die (6 page)

Winning isn’t about finishing in first place. It isn’t about beating the others. It is about overcoming yourself. Overcoming your body, your limitations, and your fears. Winning means surpassing yourself and turning your dreams into reality. There have been many races in which I have finished first but haven’t felt that I was the winner. I haven’t cried when I crossed the line, haven’t jumped for joy, and haven’t been swept up in a whirlwind of emotions. I merely had to win the race, had to finish in front of the others, and before and during the race, I knew and was sure that I would finish first. I knew it was no dream and didn’t think for one moment at any point what it would be like not to win. It was too easy, like a chef who opens his restaurant each day and knows exactly how all of his steaks will turn out. There’s no challenge, no dream to wake up from. And as far as I am concerned, that isn’t winning. On the contrary, I have seen big winners, individuals who have overcome themselves and have crossed the finish line in tears, their strength gone, but not from physical exhaustion—though that is also there—but because they have achieved what they thought was only the fruit of dreams. I have seen people sit on the ground after crossing the finish line of the Ultra-Trail du Mont-Blanc, and sit there for hours with blank looks, smiling broadly to themselves, still not believing that what they have achieved isn’t a hallucination. Fully aware that when they wake up, they will be able to say that they did it, that they succeeded, that they vanquished their
fears and transformed their dreams into something real. I have seen individuals who, though they have come in after the leaders have had time to shower, eat lunch, and even take a good siesta, feel that they are the winners. They wouldn’t change that feeling for anything in the world. And I envy them, because, in essence, isn’t this a part of why we run? To find out whether we can overcome our fears, that the tape we smash when we cross the line isn’t only the one the volunteers are holding, but also the one we have set in our minds? Isn’t victory being able to push our bodies and minds to their limits and, in doing so, discovering that they have led us to find ourselves anew and to create new dreams?

N
ight begins to fall at my back, the sun sinking behind sharp peaks and snow-swept walls of rock, offering up its last shards of light to tinge the sky red to match the autumnal leaves. Following the rhythm of my steps, the brightness in the west gradually begins to disappear as the mantle of darkness covers the sky, hiding the daytime oranges and greens of the woods, which take on darker, duller, rawer hues. The track begins to vanish beneath my feet, and I find it hard not to stumble on the stones that stick up. The heat vanishes along with the light; the temperature drops, and my cheeks starts to freeze in the icy air, as does my nose. The pupils in my eyes dilate as much as they can to anticipate what the soles of my feet will be feeling. In those first minutes in the dark, my steps are clumsy and I fall to the ground when I trip over a tree root that straddles the track. However, my eyes gradually adapt to the darkness, and as sight gives way to the senses of touch and hearing, I can see as if it were daylight. Today, for the first time, I am tired. For the first time in many days, my eyes feel heavy and my mind sinks into a world of heavy darkness. I remember this feeling. It’s a memory from a few years ago, when I was running along the paths of the Tahoe Rim Trail.

You don’t need to compete to be able to feel the intense emotions of finishing, the excitement of crashing through the finish line tape. You can feel that same boundless happiness even if you eliminate the highs of the cheering spectators, beating other runners, the flashes and spotlights of photographers or television cameras. It is a happiness you alone feel as you experience that strength powering you to succeed. It is a deeply internal happiness, without the rage that comes with racing, a calm, soothing happiness that transports you to a world of total peace, where time and space come to a halt and you feel that your body and your soul are completely, blissfully at rest.

I hear footsteps running this way and that along the black wooden balcony that spans all the rooms in this American hotel where we are staying. I turn over in bed and stretch my hand out to the clock on the bedside table. It is 4:25 a.m. The alarm won’t go off for five more minutes, and even though I don’t feel at all sleepy, I turn over, wrap the blankets around me again, and shut my eyes. Outside, the footsteps sound faster and faster and the whispers louder and louder. I put my head under the blanket and press myself down into the soft mattress. I notice the heat running through my body, from my toes to my cheeks, and feel almost as if I were lying by a fireside. I also feel my arms, legs, and torso move subtly, seeking the best position, one I could enjoy for hours. My muscles are completely relaxed. My mind feels at peace in a silence that is broken only by the footsteps and whispers outside my window. I could spend hours, even days, like this, not moving a single finger, with my body and mind completely at ease, not having to worry about anything. My body doesn’t exist for the moment; it doesn’t bother me or hassle me; it doesn’t provoke cold or heat; it doesn’t
prompt pain or require any effort. For the moment my mind is alone, its links to the earth severed; for the moment I can enjoy my thoughts and let my dreams give me a body that can fly. When it comes to separating body from mind and being able to fly free, isn’t a good bed much more practical than those 165 miles waiting for me outside?

I am seduced by these ideas as the heat and tranquility afforded by my comfortable bed contrast with the excitement mounting on the other side of my bedroom walls. What if I have already resolved the search I took on to test myself and find happiness? Have I traveled into the mountains of California’s Sierra Nevada, to run the Tahoe Rim Trail in record time, only to understand that a good bed was the solution in life?

I burst out laughing. I was on the brink of letting my thoughts trick and persuade me, but that isn’t happiness; it’s the comfort zone! With that thought, I jump out of bed and switch on the light and the radio. I get pineapple juice out of the freezer and heat up a slice of energy cake. While it’s heating up, I take off my pajamas and put on the clothes that will probably stay on me for the next two days and nights. Socks, shoes, leggings, thermal shirt, polar lining, hat, and watch. I look at the time: 4:45 a.m., five minutes left before I have to head to the start of the race. Even though this isn’t an organized race, and in the end
I
decide the starting time, we had settled on 5 a.m. so that the support team would be able to predict the times when I would pass by each point on the route, though even then only approximately, because when a route lasts a good 40 hours, it is hard to anticipate exactly when you will reach any one particular point. I quickly devour the slice of energy cake, grab the GPS and a few snack bars and gels that I’ll take for the first few hours, and switch off the light. Before I leave, I grab another piece of energy cake. I’ll need it.

Swallowing the last crumbs, I head toward the start. It’s still dark. It’s 4:55 a.m. when I reach the bridge over the Truckee River in Tahoe City. The 165-mile Tahoe Rim Trail is a circuit around Lake Tahoe, though not around the lakeside; it passes through the mountains that surround the lake, with severe dips and peaks. I had been looking at those dips and peaks and decided I wanted to get the worst over on the first day, noting that Tim Twietmeyer, who holds the record of 46 hours, decided to make this his point of departure. I, too, thought it was a good spot. But I am questioning the decision to leave at 5 a.m. If this were a race lasting 15 or 16 hours, a 5 a.m. start would be quite obvious, since that way we could take advantage of every hour of daylight and run the least amount of time at night. However, if it were a cross-country trail lasting some 20 hours, it would make more sense to leave at night in order to run the first hours in the dark, when the body is fresher, and then to run most of the course under the heat of the sun and finish with the last light of day. If it were a route taking in the range of 30 hours, it would make sense to leave at dawn, since that way we would run only one night and two days. However, today, at 5 a.m., still in the pitch-dark and in freezing cold temperatures, I don’t understand why we must leave so early if I will have to spend two nights and two days running. Really, you can make whatever combination you like: day-night-day-night, night-day-night-day. I could even start at midday, after lunch, because I’d still have to run for two nights and two days.

To cries of encouragement from my pacers and support team, I take my first steps northward at 5 a.m. There are 20 or so of us participating in this adventure, each with a specific role to play. However individual a sport may be, however many hours I run without seeing anyone, and however many miles I need to cover, sport and
life are always about teamwork, in which each person contributes their grain of sand to help the adventure reach a successful outcome. I’ve given my legs the desire to fight with all the strength I can muster. Sònia is a doctor and has brought her knowledge and expertise to cure any injury and, above all, to give me moral support at the most grueling moments. Olivier and Benjamin have studied the route, which each now knows like the back of his hand, and will be at different points to give me food and drink. Gino and Jean Yves are the representatives of the brand that’s sponsoring me and have come to help wherever necessary: in the kitchen, on the mountain, transporting my pacers. The pacers are Adam, Josh, Ross, Sean, Kevin, Jean-mi, and Bryon, who by turn will accompany me over the whole course. The film crew comprises Marlène, Raf, O. J., Mimo, and Lolo. Finally, Lotta is responsible for the overall organization, although everyone in fact does a bit of everything—cooks, gives out food, lends mutual encouragement, gets my clothes ready, and gives me support. And no one sleeps.

Bryon and I start running. I feel fresh and light. My feet feel nimble, finding the quickest path and powering me into the woods of California. I can hear Bryon start to pant behind me, and that motivates me as the first light of day begins to shine through the trees. A spectacle of nature unfolds before us.

The sun shines brightly between the tall pines north of the lake on the high plain of California. The light has a strength, is intense, solid, with a body of its own. It is no mere spectator illuminating nature, but is transformed into a living element, like the mountains, lake, or the sky itself. The show of colors offered by the combination of water and light relegates to second place the baroque architecture traced by the old pine woods between the small lakes and undulating terrain. The sinuous shapes seem designed by the
best modernist architects, their impossible knots like gargoyles on Renaissance cathedrals and their thick, striated bark giving the forest the massive presence of a Romanesque monastery. Green phosphorescent lichens bring light to spaces not bathed by the sunbeams that are painting the tree bark and sand red.

In this dance of colors we are also like dancers striding forward, possessed by their energy, and we tease the broad path that glides between gentle undulations and then amuses itself by changing rhythm with each bend, each descent, and each sunbeam that passes us by. I spur my legs on and feel my muscles tensing before I drive them harder and then relax completely as my legs glide through the air. My watch records a pace of about 10 miles an hour. I feel really good, and it’s as if my feet prefer not to make contact with the ground. We swerve through the trees at top speed, flying on silent strides, breathing in the fresh air, alert to everything around us.

I feel as if I have been transported back in time, like a young Indian brave silently pursuing an elk that is running away, hiding among the huge trees. I must move swiftly forward, follow the majestic animal’s elegant strides, but I must also advance silently, almost without touching the ground, so that I don’t trample on a branch and give away my position. As I peer between the branches of the huge, lichen-covered pines, I feel the strength of the warriors who ran along these slopes a few centuries ago. I smell their scent in the moss, I see their shadows running by my side between the rocks we are crossing, and I see their faces reflected in the rivers where I stop and drink the water they once drank. I hear their words on the wind that caresses our faces as we leave the woods. And I turn myself into one more member of their tribe as I run along the same tracks where they ran, lit by the same light they saw come to life and die.

Today we are left with what was strongest, with what men were unable to destroy. We are left with rocks, rivers, sand, and trees. Tremendous efforts have been made to conserve these natural spaces and, unlike many areas on the planet that have suffered wholesale destruction, these parks preserve nature almost as wild as the nature experienced by the indigenous tribes. Away from the few paths that cross the park, animals live peacefully, far from the dangers represented by modern man, where nature can breathe and reproduce without being choked by clouds of smog from big cities. Hundreds of acres enjoy a cycle of existence imposed by the passage of time and confront only the aggression of snow in winter, rain in spring, and heat in summer. However, just 60 miles to the west, trees have disappeared and animals die trying to cross the labyrinths of asphalt where a world circulates that is alien to the forces of nature, where rock has ceased to be what is hardest, where water no longer flows along the bottom of valleys, and where food isn’t under the ground, doesn’t hang from a tree, or doesn’t lie hidden in a den, but is wrapped in plastic and displayed on supermarket shelves.