CCC - A Voyage of 98 kilometers - Part 1

I was going to publish this as one big story but with the photos and everything it looks like I'll have to divide it into three parts. So when you read it you'll have to start further down and work upwards through the sections.

Where do you start the tell the story of a voyage? Is it the moment in which you actually take the first physical step along the way or is it rather the moment in which the idea of the voyage comes to your mind? In my case the idea of this incredible journey began to circle in my mine almost two years before I actually took the first step. Having competed in a number of trail races between 40 to 50 kilometers where, despite suffering, I had come through with flying colours, I began to feel the need to push the boundary a little further. For years I had been watching and listening to friends stories of competing in the UTMB but there were two obstacles in my path. First of all I was honestly not ready to compete in a race of 166 kilometers with 9,000 meters of height difference and secondly it is necessary to have gained 4 points from other races in order to enroll in the race. But there was the CCC, only 98 kilometers and 5,600 meters of height gain. For this race I only needed to have gained one point and I had that from having completed the Gran Trail Valdigne of 45 kilometers.
The night in which the inscription for the 2008 race opened I was flying from Italy to Hong Kong, but I was sure that since I was arriving in Hong Kong early in the morning with six hours of time difference with respect to Europe I wouldn’t have any problem to be among the first to enroll. Little did I know as I flew over central Asia that night that the maximum number of inscriptions would be reached in just ten minutes from the opening of the enrolments. My attempt to enroll the following morning was met with a polite but firm reaction from the computer – Thank you for trying but there are no places left.
A month later I received a communication from the organization confirming that there were no places for 2008 but that I would be given precedence for 2009 as long as I still had the necessary point. So alright I have one more year to prepare. In hindsight it probably worked out better this way. With what I know now I suspect that I would not have been ready and prepared to undertake the CCC in 2008.
In December 2008 I was invited to re-submit my enrolment for the CCC and in January 2009 I received the confirmation. The race was on, except just two weeks later I was laid up with sciatic pain as I have written in a previous blog. The last seven months from January through to August were a continuous up and down – one week my back and leg were ok, the next I was again in pain. When I was feeling good I trained, when I was bad I laid off. In July I competed again in the Gran Trail Valdigne 45k. I was feeling good, my last training sessions had been excellent and I finished the race in 35’ less than in 2008 despite the course being slightly longer. Two weeks later at the beginning of August I was in pain again and the whole of the month was spent in a delicate balancing act between training and resting. Since I was in the Austrian Alps for most of this month the training material was easily available and whenever it was possible I was running and walking in the mountains or as an alternative, on my mountain bike.
Before the start
28th August 2009. The mountain air at 1000m above sea level is fresh at 07.30 in the morning. I look round the car park as I dress in my running clothes and prepare my backpack. Virtually everyone else is going through the same motions as I am, each one of them closed in his own thoughts – will I make it to the end ? – will it be cold at night? – will it rain? I had spent the night sleeping in the car – not so uncomfortable since there is plenty of room up back, but I had forgotten to bring a cushion, so some rolled up t-shirts and a bike jacket had poorly substituted as a support for my head.
At 09.00 I am already lined up in the grid, about 20 meters back from the front line. The race won’t start till 10.00 but I don’t want to risk being at the back with 1800 people in front of me. I don’t want to be at the front either.

Looking round I can see that the majority of the other competitors are French, some Italians, some Spanish, a few Brits and the rest a mix of nations from all over the world. I slowly sip at the bottle of water that I have brought with me into the grid, the pack on my back is a comforting presence with its contents of a spare t-shirt, rain jacket and energy bars together with obligatory material such as a whistle, an emergency blanket and two head lamps. Music is being piped through the loudspeakers while a couple of speakers comment on the upcoming race in Italian, French and English. With less than 15 minutes to go before the start they announce the Swiss anthem. To be honest I wouldn’t have recognized it and looking around me it seems that most other people feel the same way, even the Swiss don’t seem to be bothered. Shortly afterwards the martial tones of the French anthem blast through the speakers. Ah, now that I recognize . I’m expecting the majority French crowd of runners to sing along but they follow the example of their Swiss counterparts and look bored or continue with whatever else they were doing. The last one up is the Italian anthem. We’re only five minutes from the gun and the nervous tension in the air is palpable. As the notes of the “Inno di Mameli” build in crescendo I glance around me to see if there are any Italians close by. If they sing I will too. The first words of the Italian anthem float into the air drowning out the small talk of the other runners. Incredible, it seems that every Italian in the crowd whether participant or spectator is proudly singing their anthem. I join in and reflect on how we always put ourselves down for our tepid patriotism yet the only anthem which has evoked any response has been our own Italian. As the last notes fade into the morning sunshine the speakers start the countdown. Two minutes to go. All around me runners are making small, last minute adjustments, checking the straps of their packs, straightening their sunglasses, ensuring a tight grip on their poles. One minute to go. No one is talking anymore. Muscles are tensing, ready for the start. Ten seconds, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one, the blast of a pistol breaks the accumulated silence and the front line starts to move. Maybe five seconds passes before the area of runners, in which I am sandwiched, also starts to move. First we shuffle forward and then slowly build up to a trot. As I cross the official start line more space opens up and we can start to run. I tell myself not to get carried away, take it slowly, running like a maniac in the first kilometers just to be at the front is counterproductive. Many people pass me, running as if it was the start of a marathon. I watch them pass and console myself with the thought that if they are really that fast they are doing the right thing, if they aren’t then I may well be seeing them again later in the day or during the night.
Courmayeur to Col du Ferret
The first kilometer or so is a showcase tour of the centre of Courmayeur. We pass along the main street to the accompaniment of huge cow bells. It seems that every resident of the town, including shop owners have come out to wish us luck along the way. The noise is deafening as we run along the narrow cobbled street. As we pass in front of the Bureau de Guides (Mountain Guide Office) we are directed upwards along a higher road and after a few hundred meters we are already out of the centre of the town. We wend our way through charming residential areas before finally leaving the road and finally finding our first dirt track. Along the way I see Mark (a fellow expatriate English man) who I had got to know at Valdigne a month and a half earlier. I stop a moment to say hello and wish him luck for the UTMB tomorrow.
After a while the track gives way again to an asphalted road which will be our companion for the next few kilometers as we climb through the outlying village of Entroubles, before entering into the Val Ferret. Also here in Entroubles everyone is on the street, cheering, clapping, ringing cowbells. Children are lined up along the road offering up their hands for a “high five”. I must have given at least twenty. I hope that seeing us is giving them a positive example for their future. The problems of obesity and an increasingly sedentary lifestyle are making their effects felt amongst our school children and it is an uphill battle which needs to be fought. As we reach the tiny village of Planpincieux I think back to nineteen years earlier when I first came through here, on my way to climb the Grandes Jorasses on the Mont Blanc massif. The route had been so long and we had been so slow that we didn’t get back down to the village until almost sunset, and we still had to drive all the way home so as to be presentable at work the next morning. Finally we turn sharp right as we abandon the road. From here onwards (except for very few exceptions in Fouly, Praz de la Fort and Champex Lac ) we will be almost always on tracks. As the trail bends upwards I fall into step behind others whose pace seems fitting and try to find a suitable rhythm and regular breathing pattern. Every now and then someone comes jumping by but mostly people seem to be happy to accept a brisk but regular walking pace.
After a while the ascent eases off and we start traversing around the mountain. A little bit up, a little bit down but mainly running on the flat, until suddenly we arrive in an area where the group I am following all turn downwards while on the other side of a small hummock just in front of us there is a continuous line of people going upwards. Just below us I can see the Rifugio(mountain hut) Bertone (2350 metres). In no time we are in front of the hut and being swallowed up by a football game sized crowd. I’m getting out of here. I throw down a glass of coke, thank the volunteer who gave it to me and join the line of upwards bound people. The ascent is brutal and each one of us stays behind the person proceeding him. Each one pacing himself, pushing arms downwards against the poles to gain some upwards movement and traction. We’re heading towards the highest part of the whole race (Tete de la Tronche 2750 metres). As the slope becomes gentler I find myself in the company of a couple of Italian guys. We chat amicably as we follow the long crest heading towards the mountain top. Behind us the snow flanks of the Mont Blanc massif sparkle in the sunshine, a few fluffy clouds drift aimlessly above the highest peaks. I remember the numerous times that I’ve been on those slopes myself, once climbing to the very top of the mountain before traversing down the other side into France, another time ascending the difficult Brenva face with Roberto but then deciding not to reach the top but rather traverse across into the Mer de Glace so that we can descend to Chamonix before night fall. Adventures lived with the enthusiasm of youth, another lifetime, memories to cherish and maybe one day to explain to my son so that he can also find his own adventures. The other Italian guys are going too fast for me. I let them go and continue at my own pace. The final climb to the top is rocky and exposed but I’m feeling good when I arrive. I don’t even stop to look round but immediately dive down the other side. A long, steep and dusty path leads down to the alpine pastures on the other side and a more runnable footpath. Nearly everyone is running, trotting, walking rapidly. I trot along with them, not pushing but just letting my legs go with the force of gravity. As the path flattens out we start traversing across the slopes, now suspended high above the Val Ferret, the whole Mt. Blanc Massif again in front of us. In ten or fifteen minutes we’ll be at the Rifugio Bonatti. Again memories – this time of when Dani and I slept in this hut in the middle of the ski-mountaineering season, utilising the winter quarters. No-one else in the hut, maybe no-one else on the whole mountain. Ascending, the next morning, on our skis, to the Tete entre deux Sauts with its perfect view of Mont Blanc, then skiing down, yelling and smiling in the winter sunshine, the whole mountain just for us. Today the scene is very different. Not a trace of snow anywhere, crowds of runners mill around in the front of the hut, grabbing something to drink, a plate of pasta, some biscuits, a piece of banana. I join them and drink rapidly. I fill my water bottles and add a packet of energy and salt powder. Grabbing a piece of cheese I leave the hut and follow the many others along the footpath which now traverses further along the valley. After ten minutes I’m feeling the afternoon heat so I decide to stop and change my ¾ tights for a pair of running shorts. A number of people ask me if I’m ok, I smile and indicate the shorts – “just changing into something more comfortable”. I follow after them and soon we’ve reached the path which leads down to Arnuva. The path is steep and dusty with numerous switchbacks which we all just charge down. As we arrive just above the large tent which has been set up as a temporary canteen, we are cheered and clapped by dozens of spectators. I charge straight into the tent and grab a plate of pasta in broth, but since it is crowded I retire outside to eat it. It’s hot and quite a bit too salty but I gulp it down anyway. If it encourages me to drink later that will be a benefit rather than a problem. As soon as it is finished I dive back into the tent, fill my water bottles and grab some bread and salami and exit on the other side. I can eat the sandwich as I walk. We cross a dried up stream where I notice a small group of people. There is one girl sitting in a wheelchair and behind her is a large banner “Allez Papa’ – running for Emilie”. I smile and wave to them as what I presume is the mother, who has read my race number and name, claps and shouts “Allez Martin John”. Immediately after the river crossing the path starts to climb again – a little too early for me as I am still finishing my sandwich. I can see the pass which we are heading for, the Col Ferret, a yellow tent which from here looks tiny but is probably enormous, stands out against the ridge by the pass. I’m feeling good, though a little hot, and fall into a steady rhythm – quick strides, pushing backwards with the poles to gain a little more strength in my upward movement. I pass a number of people who are clearly not feeling so good, a number of them sitting to rest alongside the path. I was honestly expecting this climb to be harder – 1000 metres of climbing in the hot afternoon sun. Almost without realizing it I have reached the last part of the climb. The huge yellow North Face tent which I had seen earlier is just above me. The last few hundred meters are almost flat and I hurry along to the pass. As I reach the pass I look backwards, that’s the Italian part of the race done. I take a step downwards on the other side and think to myself – “Switzerland, here I come”.