Final day of Tor

For the two weeks I spent in the Alps during both PTL and TDG, my goal was not just to wander around in beautiful places. I wanted to venture outside of my comfort zone, to the spaces where my heart rate spikes and my blood runs cold, to prove to myself I am capable of becoming the mountain traveler I want to be. I achieved this occasionally, although the teetering and vertigo and weird foot placements proved I still don't have a solid grasp on my own proprioception, and may never. By Friday morning, my legs were cut and bruised from mistakes made in relatively benign places, my quads and calves were sore from endlessly steep climbs and descents, and my mood and confidence were all but shattered. I headed out to Ollomont to see Beat at the final life base, and my hands were quaking for most of the drive. Great, now I'm apparently terrified of driving, too. I do love the Aosta Valley, but at this point, I couldn't wait to go home.

It was pissing rain and temperatures were in the low 40s. A forecast promising drier conditions did not deliver, and Beat arrived in Ollomont drenched and freezing. He'd already slept at one of the rifugios overnight, so he took a short nap. Meanwhile, I drank three cups of coffee while sitting on the wet plastic chairs of an espresso stand (I found the first Italian barista willing to make me an "Americano," and I was so happy.) By the time Beat set out again, I was fully soaked and shivering myself. My options for warming myself were getting back in the car and driving back to Courmayuer, or hiking. So I laced up my now-mostly-shredded Hokas and headed up the 40-percent muddy grade that passes for a trail in these parts.

The TDG climb was a messy slog, and I passed time by scrolling through the screen on my GPS, looking for possible alternative routes. The map showed a trail traversing around the far side of this mountain, eventually linking to another trail that linked to the opposite side of Col Champillon. This trail was marked in blue, which I already knew was better interpreted as a "route" than a "trail." Still, it could make for an intriguing loop. I followed the mystery trail for all of a quarter mile before faint imprints in the grass faded completely, and then it was a matter of tracing meandering cattle tracks as the slope became muddier and steeper.

Of course I wanted to turn around, but curiosity drove me forward. By the time I broke out of the forest, I was vaguely following my GPS track along increasingly steep grassy slopes that were flanked by sheer cliffs. It was still raining, and the grass was wet and barely clinging to the oozing mud that coated the hillside. Each step was incredibly unnerving, as I edged the shredded sole of my Hokas into the mud, drove in both poles and gritted my teeth at the prospect of slipping. If this had been a snow slope, there's no way I would have traversed it, and instinct told me the grass was just as slippery and the possibility of sliding hundreds of feet to my death just as likely. Still, I wasn't convinced that the objective danger was as bad as I perceived. Mostly I continued forward because I was more scared of turning around.

Eventually, after careful analysis of my GPS screen and stubborn adherence to the invisible "route," I connected with a faint actual trail that became more defined as I neared the col. The above photo is the only one I took during this section, long after I'd connected with the good trail. Imagine those slopes with no flat platform on which to rest your feet. Brrr.

As I topped out on Col Champillon, the rain tapered off and the clouds began to break, revealing the first hints of sunshine I'd seen in days. I sat on the pass watching TDG runners go by while glancing over my shoulder at the intimidating ridgeline of Crou de Bleintse. After the adrenaline drain of the wet grassy traverse, I'm not sure what prompted this thought, but there it was — "I bet I can climb that."

Yes, it was awful. Fog continued to stream over the ridge as I skittered up loose rubble and wet-concrete-like mud. Patches of snow and ice still dotted the rocks, and the low visibility ensured I couldn't determine good lines beyond my immediate surroundings. Of course, just when you think you've entered a place that no one in there right mind would ever venture in the Alps, you come to a sign. This one translates to "Prohibition of hunting partridge." Huh?

This scrambly section was better than the rubble. Thick fog moved in and clung to the ridge as I neared the peak, which disappointingly eradicated the views. I knew I would have to descent the rubble, and this caused much angst.

The fog only cleared again after I successfully passed the rubbly section. There were a few moments of clinging precipitously to a rock while my feet inched down an oozing chute of certain death, but all in all it wasn't as bad as anticipated.

More clearing, looking toward the village of Saint Rhemy-en-Bosses. I'm still not entirely sure why I crawled up that ridge. I was in a strange mood.

Back to the candy-ass trail. I'm so happy to see you! I won't ever leave you again.

More clearing as I descended the other side on the TDG route.

Rifugio Champillion.

Ah, Italy.

 Beat finished in Courmayeur early the next morning, around 4 a.m. He traveled for much of the last half with an English guy named Stephen, who has a chalet in Chamonix where we stayed on Saturday night. I joked that Beat always finds a buddy for TDG, and several of them have gone on to become good friends. There are reasons why racing is better than wandering around aimlessly in mountains, purposelessly scaring yourself.

Anyway, the rain and fog came back, and I made one more jaunt up to the ridge above Bertoni while Beat napped on Saturday afternoon. It had been an interesting trip, but I really was looking forward to returning to Colorado. Hopefully I can find my way into a few more mountains before the snow flies. 

More days of Tor

My usual mode of operations for the Tor des Geants is to drive to each of the six life bases — generally hitting one per day — bring Beat some dry, clean clothing and other supplies, wait for him to sleep a few hours, fetch beer and espresso, and provide back scratches and moral support. He doesn't really need all this, but I value the overall experience of the "crew-person." This year the task was difficult for me, for personal and other reasons unrelated to the race. I spent much of the week feeling stressed or sad, as well as guilty for feeling this way when I was on holiday in one of the most wonderful places in the world, the Italian Alps. But this is life — we can't always control how or what emotions affect us, no matter how much we want to. 

Let's get the most embarrassing emotion out of the way first: Confronting past failures. I tried and failed to finish the TDG in 2014, after falling and injuring myself in a way that seems almost inevitable, because I'm clumsy and slow and useless. Yes, continuously confronting past failures is bad for self-esteem, and I've currently reached a new low in how I view myself as an athlete. Meanwhile, Beat was running his seventh Tor as one of eleven runners who have finished all of them. I realized that in the many dozens of races he's run since I met him six years ago, there's only one he didn't finish: the 2015 Iditarod, which both of us believe isn't a real DNF. So even my moral support seemed a bit useless. But I still made an effort to drive those narrow, winding, often single-lane Aosta Valley roads with stone walls on both sides and oncoming trucks barreling down at full speed because they don't care, and apparently have a refined spatial awareness that I completely lack. Thus, "driving stress" built up early and strong this year.

On Monday I headed out to Cogne in the morning — partly to avoid the worst of traffic by hitting the streets early, and partly to give myself time to hike before Beat arrived at the life base in the early evening. I mapped out a col that looked doable but different from the standard TDG route, which generally links the most doable high routes in the region (meaning routes that are simply steep class-2 terrain and not full scrambles.) It wasn't until I strapped on my pack and started walking that I realized my quads were almost completely shot from Sunday's adventure on Mont Chetif. Apparently crawling up an endless series of waist-high rock steps while clinging to cables with weak arms and pumping out exhaustive quantities of adrenaline will do that. My quads have not been that sore in a long, long time.

At 10,300 feet — a 5,000-foot climb in six miles — Colle della Rossa is not a small effort. The weather was already beginning to turn with rain, wind, and temperatures in the high 40s. My quads were screaming at times, but I have become pretty good at that "shut up legs" routine — especially when it comes to quads, which are huge muscles that can take a lot more abuse than they'd let you believe.

Looking back at Col Loson, the highest pass on the TDG route at 10,800 feet. I watched runners bounding down the zig-zagging trail and was envious of their downhill speed. My quads were definitely not going to tolerate running, and I hadn't even done the 60 miles of hard terrain they'd already completed. More evidence that I'm clumsy and slow and useless.

I was sitting above the col eating cashews when the fog finally moved in, which sent me scrambling to get down as quickly my quads would allow. The loose scree trail was just tricky enough that I didn't want to have to negotiate it in zero visibility.

On Tuesday I headed out to Donnas and failed to take any photographs of Beat or that beautiful, old village. My quads had recovered a lot during the day, so I embarked on a quick run up to Refugio Bertoni in the evening to spur some energy before I worked through the night. I will be grateful to be back in a North American time zone.

On Wednesday Beat hit Gressoney in the middle of the day, and because I slept through the morning, I didn't have an opportunity to hike. He was moving well but predictably tired at this point. The weather was becoming worse, with colder temperatures, more rain, and sleet and snow on the higher passes. It had gotten to the point where I was hand-washing and drying three to four pairs of socks per day (drying out clothing is probably the most useful thing I did for Beat during the Tor.) It was always fun to see him.

Thursday morning, I was already a bit stressed when I set out for Valtournenche in the morning — the result of a few work issues, and falling behind my own self-imposed deadlines. Driving up the canyon, there were a couple of heart-rate-spiking incidents with big trucks, and then I accidentally overshot the parking lot to the life base. I continued to drive up the winding road until I reached what I thought was a spot with enough visibility to make a U-turn, and pulled over. I checked the mirrors and pulled out, but didn't have quite enough room to make the turn. So I put the car in reverse and began backing out when a white SUV swung around the corner at high speed. I saw the vehicle, but I was unfortunately sideways and blocking much of the road in my mid-turn attempt. I'm sure the driver didn't see me at all until the last second, when he swerved dramatically to the left as I slammed the gas in a desperate reverse toward my original pull-out spot, convinced I was about to be T-boned. The driver stopped and got out of his car, and I did too because I wasn't sure we hadn't collided. He was screaming at full volume, of course in Italian so I couldn't understand what he was saying, and I was shaking and mumbling "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." He continued screaming as he walked toward me, and this made me believe he was going to hit me. I'm not sure why I believed this, but instinct urged me strongly to turn and sprint away because violence was clearly imminent.

Instead, he stopped less than a foot away, still too close for comfort, as I stood frozen like a deer in headlights. He screamed for a few more seconds in rapid Italian before stomping back to his vehicle and screeching away. I slunk back to my car, pulled it back into the driveway where I'd first stopped, and broke down. Suddenly I was very frightened and very upset. I think these emotions were an accumulation of driving-related stressors as well as the encounter with a stranger who appeared incredibly angry, which triggered a visceral reaction. Since I couldn't understand his words, he might as well have been saying, "I'm going to kill you." On a primitive level I believed this, and even though he was gone, all of the bad adrenaline continued flooding into my system.

I sat in the car for at least twenty minutes crying and shaking before I put myself together and drove back to Valtournenche. Beat arrived about twenty minutes later. I thought I was over the road-rage incident at that point, but as soon as Beat asked me how it was going, I melted down all over again. It's interesting to experience this reaction, as objectively nothing happened. I've been lucky in my life so far to have not become a victim of violence, and this brief brush with the possibility drove home just how deeply affecting it can be. Just being screamed at by a stranger completely ruined my day, and even after Beat left Valtournenche, I continued to cower in the car and wonder whether I'd find the courage to drive back to Courmayeur.

As I pulled out of the parking lot, I defiantly turned up the canyon and headed toward Cervinia. The village is only about six miles from Valtournenche, and I've long wanted to visit and see the Matterhorn. I'd already considered coming here this year, but the terrible weather thwarted my plans. Now I just didn't care that it was 35 degrees, windy, and heavily sleeting. In fact, I was glad conditions were so rough. This weather was perfect for angry hiking.

The view was like this most of the time. I climbed up to 9,800 feet, at which point the route I was tracing became a full scramble on boulders coated in thick verglas. I was angry, not suicidal, so I turned around. Later, looking at a map, I realized this route was an approach on the ridge of the actual Matterhorn (which Italians call Monte Cervino.) For some reason this knowledge made me feel better. Actually, the whole hike made me feel better — pushing a hard pace on my still-sore quads and breathing through a soaked buff as slush slammed into my face and a frigid wind knifed through my jacket. I didn't see another person for four hours, and worked out a lot of the bad energy and malaise.

I decided that if Beat decides to return in 2017 for an eighth Tor, I'll just try to sign up again. I may be clumsy and slow and useless, but I'm still better at this than I am at driving. 

TDG 7, day one

 After we left Chamonix, Beat and I spent eleven days in Switzerland visiting his family. From an outdoors perspective it was mostly uneventful. I spent a lot of time working on the finishing details for my next book (photo book still set to be released Oct. 1. Kindle version will be out Nov. 1.) Beat brought home a cold from PTL that I ended up catching, and we're both fighting it still. I tried and mostly failed to get my running legs back with jogs on pleasant forest roads. Beat I and embarked on several jaunts up the "1,000er-Stägli" (which is actually more like 1,111 steps up a hillside near Olten, gaining 850 feet of elevation ... or about 78 stories.)

The goal is to climb the 1,000er-Stägli in twelve minutes or less. This is what you feel like after climbing the 1,000er-Stägli in twelve minutes or less. Then of course you run down the trail to try it again.

On Saturday we arrived in Courmayeur for Beat's seventh running of the Tor des Geants. This is my sixth time attending it with him as occasional support crew (well, technically in 2014 I also ran 200 kilometers of my own partial Tor des Geants.) It's a lot of Tors, really. It actually surprises me a little that Beat still wants to come here and do this, even though these mountains are beautiful and Courmayeur is pretty much the best mountain town in the world. He holds an increasingly rare "Senatori" status — a person who has finished every running of the Tor des Geants. There are now twelve Senatoris left.

The TDG started at 10 a.m. Sunday under sunny skies and temperatures in the high 70s. Pretty much ideal. There's rain in the forecast, but as of now, no significant threat of snow, which is what started the runaway problems that derailed last year's race.

Beat already agreed I didn't need to meet him at the first life base, so I took advantage of a free day to climb the via ferrata (cable assisted climbing) route up the mountain in this photo. Mont Chetif.

It starts out with chain traverses along steep slabs — really, they're steeper than the photo makes them look. This is the easy part of the climb. After this, things started to go badly, and I didn't take many more pictures.

The main issue arose when I went off route, by accident, up a steep gully. The gully was covered in slippery, stinging grass on a 60-percent grade. As I scrambled up the gully I was thinking, "I'm glad I don't have to come down this." I grabbed a tree trunk for leverage and hoisted myself up to a rock scramble, which I'd call class four only because there would be no way to arrest a fall if you slipped off the rocks and landed on the grass. Of course, at the top of the rocks, there was a cliff. No way over or around. Oh, dread. I pulled out my GPS track to confirm that I was indeed off course, but only by about 30 meters. The right way was at the top of the gully, and only way to connect with it was to go all the way back to the bottom.

Dread, dread, dread. I don't tap my adrenaline all that often, but this was a maximum dose with my heart beating at least 190, hands shaking noticeably, and breathing swift and shallow. I down-climbed the rocks as carefully as possible, grabbed the tree to get back to the grassy slope, then tried to crab-walk down the grass. Unfortunately there was just no traction and I started butt-sliding, unintentionally, for several meters that I was convinced were the beginning of the end for me. But then I grabbed a handful of grass that actually held, arresting my slow but terrifying slide. My tights were ripped, my hip was bruised, my hand was cut, my heart was pounding out of my chest, and I was quite upset. But after calming down, I decided that continuing uphill was still better than down-climbing the cables. I resolved to pay more attention.

The rest of the Mont Chetif climb was still really hard, and I was maxed out at a 45-minute-mile, but I was happy to be alive and determined to make it to the top so I could take the easy way down.

Statue on top of the 7,600-foot summit. I could see this statue from the lower part of the mountain, and thought it was a person standing on the edge, looking right at me. "Why is that person still standing there?" I thought several times. I forgot about it after the scary butt slide, so the summit statue remained a surprise.

View of Val Ferret from the top of Mont Chetif.

Descending a steep couloir on the other side.

Once I'd connected with the Tour du Mont Blanc trail, I decided to follow it to the summit of Mont Favre. It seems like it should be a quick add-on, but it turned my little via feratta scramble outing into a 19-mile hike with 6,000 feet of climbing. Ah, still worth it.

Descending via Val Veny, because I'd never been through this valley before. Soon it was starting to get dark ... how did that happen?

As of 11 p.m. Sunday, Beat is moving very well in the TDG. He reached the first life base at 10 p.m., which I believe is nearly three hours faster than last year. I start making the support rounds tomorrow. 

PTL days six and seven

After Mont Cormet, I tracked down Beat and Pieter at a grocery store on the outskirts of Courmayeur. The scene was very "Tour Divide" — they were sprawled out on the hot concrete in front of the store and devouring a spread of chips, ice cream bars, and various cold drinks, including large cans of beer. I asked Beat if beer was such a good idea in this heat, just before embarking on the climb up Mont Chetif — a via ferrata route with chains and cables assisting class-four terrain. Beat just shrugged. Pieter said he was culture-shocked by all of the people in Courmayeur. I pointed out that it was 6 p.m., and at that very moment 2,700 runners were pouring out of Chamonix for Ultra Trail du Mont Blanc. I'd intended to hike out the river trail and watch runners and friends pass, but I wasn't disappointed that I'd gotten hung up in Italy instead.

Les Contamines was the last place to stalk Beat, and I headed out there sometime on Saturday. It was all becoming a blur, even for me. I caught up to them and another team coming down from Col d'Enclave. We only got about three sentences in, as Beat was trying to keep up with the group, but I surmised that Friday night went well for them. "We survived the descent!" Beat proclaimed, as though this was a surprise. He didn't clarify which descent he was referring to, and there were a large number of them between here and Morgex.

I climbed up to Lac Jovet and contemplated a swim, but chickened out. 

Instead I descended back to the TMB route to climb Col Bonhomme. This climb was my favorite part of UTMB, marching up the rocky trail well after midnight, with the full moon casting eerie shadows as a string of lights ascended thousands of feet into a starry sky. I wanted to see these mountains in daylight, even though I suspected the scenery wouldn't be nearly as interesting.

Shortly after I returned to Les Contamines, dark clouds sank into the valley and unloaded a week's worth of missed thunderstorms. After six days of sunny skies and hot temperatures, rain and hail slammed into the streets with impressive violence. It had seemed like Beat had finally reached the homestretch, but of course there's no such thing in the PTL. They still had two more passes to ascend, including one over 9,000 feet with steep talus and boulder scrambling that was no doubt being pounded with hail and ice.

I went to bed fretting about their prospects on this pass, but the PTL organization ultimately re-routed them and all following teams to a lower trail. As it turned out conditions were extremely dangerous, with several inches of hail freezing hard to the rocks. I suppose the organization isn't completely sadistic, although Beat was disappointed that they were denied a "full" PTL experience by one measly (horrific) pass. They ran under the arch in Chamonix just after 7 a.m. Sunday, the 12th team across the finish line out of 115 starters and 48 finishers, covering ~190 miles of horizontal distance with 87,000 feet of climbing in 142 hours and 8 minutes.

Pieter and Beat limped back to the apartment to crash, and I gave them some peace and quiet by embarking on my final hike for the week — the steep climb to Col Brevent. It's a scenic little stroll that gains 5,500 feet in five miles, and my plan was to hike uphill only and take the cable car down. I admit that a little of this was a desire to pad my week's numbers to 35,000 feet of climbing in 75 miles — so, about 40 percent of a heavily cherry-picked PTL.

I also was going to test my breathing by pushing the pace, and hoped to reach the top in two hours. But about a mile into the climb I wandered off my planned trail onto the vertical kilometer route that includes a half mile of cables and ladders. There seems to be a perfect grade for gaining elevation fast, and after that the tipping point of steepness causes slower ascents in shorter distances. Oh well. This wrong turn deflated my resolve to push hard.

It also didn't help that it was the Sunday of UTMB week, and the trails were crowded. Fast ascents don't happen when you have to wait in lines. I shared much of the vertical kilometer climb with two British guys who were going to the first cable car at Planpraz, and were super impressed that I planned to ascend all the way to Brevent. "It's only 600 more meters," I told the guys.

"You're American. Do you know what a meter is?" one guy joked.

Nearing the top. I was already thinking I should bite the bullet and run down, but this 2.5-hour ascent was far too slow, and I would be late for lunch, and I had these 16 Euros for the cable car burning a hole in my pocket.

Goodbye to another UTMB week — Beat's fifth completion of PTL since he first ventured into this madness in 2012. Every single time I saw him during this year's race, he swore "never again." But I never believe him, and he's already talking about next year. We go to Europe to see his family, so this is a bit like finding activities to do near your parents' home at Christmas. But I'm still angling for a different summer adventure. Maybe a backpacking trip in Alaska's Brooks Range, although I'm much more terrified of crossing rivers than I am of grizzly bears. But it will be good for me to face these fears.

PTL days four and five

On Thursday I planned to drive into Italy to catch up with Beat and Pieter in Étroubles. I almost got an early start, but my friend Roger had a few hours to spare amid his own whirlwind UTMB preparations, and invited me to "the best bakery ever." I ordered a ham sandwich at 8 a.m. and struggled to speak in full sentences. I'd slept poorly again — jet lag, perhaps — and couldn't get my head together. Roger chastised me for not ordering bakery food and added an Italian blueberry tart to the order. I was grateful for the treat, but didn't tell him that these blueberry tarts remind me of some of my more nauseating moments in races like UTMB and the Tor des Geants. I still ate the tart and the rest of my ham sandwich five hours later, while sitting in the hot sun minutes before hiking another 5,000 feet up a mountain. Suffice to say I still don't have a great association with Italian blueberry tarts.

I enjoyed seeing Roger, but didn't arrive in Étroubles until 20 minutes after Beat and Pieter left. Driving through the Mont Blanc tunnel isn't cheap, and I was bummed about the missed opportunity. I figured I could catch them in Morgex later that night, until I learned the checkpoint was 40 kilometers away — which, converted to PTL miles, means 20+ hours. I did have a chance to catch up with my other friends in the PTL — Uwe from Germany, Chris from Switzerland, and Dima the Russian Bostonian — as they inhaled a massive lunch in the thin shade. Temperatures were again north of 30 degrees, which I'm told is in the 80s Fahrenheit but somehow feels like 100 in these mountains. My own breakfast-leftover-lunch wasn't sitting well, and I searched for excuses to retreat back to Chamonix. But I did pay 50 Euros to drive through that tunnel, so ...

I didn't take any photos of the lower part of the route, but much of it was a near-direct line up a steep grassy slope that was slippery when dry. No doubt it would have been an ordeal in wet conditions — the kind where you wish you had an ice ax and crampons for your summer hike. I know from experience that this kind of terrain is typical for the PTL. This is Europe, these mountains are riddled with well-traveled trails, and somehow the race organizers manage to connect the most obscure lines possible. Beat jokes that they take 60-year-old maps and base the route solely on those.

The upper part of the route joined the Tor des Geants trail, returning to stress-free travel where I could daydream about running the TDG again someday. My track record with European mountain races is awful, and that may haunt me forever if I don't finish one of them eventually. For all of its flaws, I'd actually love to run UTMB again, but qualifying and getting through the lottery pose a significant roadblock. The Tor des Geants is considerably more difficult, but it might be the race that best suits a better-trained me. When I attempted it in 2014, I was actually having a decent run up until I slipped, twisted my left knee, and sustained a partial LCL tear. That 200-mile journey still calls to me, but I have a lot more respect for the distance, and vowed that I wouldn't come back until I can figure out my breathing issues and put in a solid four months of real mountain training — which I can do now that I live in Colorado. Someday.

Speaking of breathing issues, I've had absolutely none since I arrived in Europe. I was able to engage some good, hard efforts climbing these mountains, even up at 8,000 and 9,000 feet — not all that high, but definitely within my problem zone at home. Either the medications I recently started taking are kicking in ... or I'm specifically allergic to Colorado. I did experience other allergy symptoms on the Italian side of Mont Blanc — sneezing and watery eyes — but grass seems to be more prominent there. My efforts also felt tougher when symptoms kicked in. I was thrilled to connect some of these dots, because I feel like I'm closer to figuring this out.

I climbed to Col Champillon, sat on a boulder in the slightly-less-hot-sun at 9,000 feet, and watched PTL teams pass by.

PTL teams making their way down from Col Champillon.

Looking back toward Étroubles.

I hiked back the long way on the Tor des Geants route, because I could. Screw butt-sliding down rock-strewn grassy slopes, when I can enjoy fireweed blooms and enough solid footing to look up at the scenery occasionally. I did encounter two PTL teams who took a wrong turn and descended more than a thousand feet before they realized it. They did not look happy.

I finally caught up with Beat and Pieter on Friday morning in Morgex. It did indeed take them 20 hours to travel the 40 kilometers from Étroubles, and they moved continuously during that long, difficult night. The route included a long traverse of a jagged ridge with a lot of exposure, where the supposed safe route was not obvious in the dark. Beat had a GPS track telling him one thing and sporadic PTL-placed markings telling him another, and it all looked precarious at best. They picked their way along the death ridge and then had to traverse more 50-degree grassy slopes with hardly a goat trail to place their feet. Beat edged the side of his Hokas in the loose dirt and hoped for the best. It sounded like a long, long night.

Our friend Uwe took a fall on that ridge and sustained a deep laceration near his shin. It was still bleeding hours later, and he looked quite pale. Still, he was determined to go on — this was his fourth PTL attempt, and he had yet to finish a course. This year he finally had a strong team and had already come a long way — 220 kilometers over four nearly sleepless days. One of the PTL participants at the checkpoint was a French doctor who offered to look at the wound, and used an emergency kit to stitch it up. It wasn't just a cut, it was a gaping wound, and the grabbing and stretching of remaining skin to sew it together looked incredibly painful. The stitch job didn't hold and the wound continued to bleed. It's gory, but worth documenting. This is the battle-zone spirt of PTL — a runner was moderately injured, the only person who came to his aid was another competitor, and no one was attempting to talk this sleep-deprived, effort-addled runner into making the wise decision to stop. I was a strong advocate of stopping, but only added quiet arguments. Gratefully, sanity prevailed and Uwe took up my offer to drive him to a bus station in Courmayeur while his teammates continued. I really empathize with him. Failures do haunt you, no matter how much you already accomplished, and how necessary they are.

From Courmayeur, I trudged up Mont Cormet — just a little 5,000-foot climb and descent to connect two neighboring towns all the way down in that valley. A thermometer in town registered 33 degrees — 91F — and the grass was pumping out sneeze fumes as little flies buzzed about and I ascended 3,000 feet in two miles, with the last half mile up a 40-percent grade. I'm told the Courmayeur side of the climb is completely tame compared to the Morgex side, which apparently traces one of those 60-year-old, now-nonexistent trails through steep brush. Beat and Pieter were still moving well and seemed surprisingly chipper. I guess there must be some reason Beat keeps coming back to PTL in particular. And I keep tracking them, trying to figure out what that reason is.