2024 Tor des Géants: 8-14 September 2024
“Oh, I get by with a little help from my friends
Mm, I get high with a little help from my friends”
With a Little Help from My Friends, The Beatles
There are races that are just races.
There are races that become adventures.
And then there are races that become quests.
The famous finish line ramp
Pre-race
Preparation for the Tor could hardly have gone worse. While Antonio Codina and I had enjoyed a great race at Eiger250, with at the time no apparent after effects, as soon as I started running again a couple of weeks later I started to feel a slight tightness on the inside of both knees, particularly after runs that involved appreciable downhills. I persevered through, hoping that it was just rustiness from the post-race recovery week, and that a long run in the Surrey Hills with James Ritchie, who was also doing the Tor (and had done Dragon’s Back and Spine Challenger with me as well), would give them a proper workout. It didn’t work out that way – the pain in each knee got steadily worse as the run went on and I called it a day after 3 hours. 6 weeks before Tor, and I was struggling to manage 25k and 900m of vertical; how on earth was I going to get through 330+km and 25,000m of vertical? The following day I found it painful even just staggering down the stairs.
Cue panicked appointment with physiotherapist. Ultrasound showed no major injuries just some thinning of the cartilage and related inflammation / fluid around the kneecap, most likely due to a fall I’d suffered during the Eiger race where I’d banged and bruised both knees. At the time it hadn’t hurt particularly, but the thinner cartilage and loss of lubrication had seemingly caused the knees to get inflamed as soon as I had started running again post-race. The physio counselled against any cortisone injections, unless as a last resort, as the risk of weakening the knee joints further was too great before a race of this length, so instead he recommended hyaluronic acid injections into both knees, which should restore some of the joint lubrication after 2-3 weeks, reducing all running activity to avoid any aggravation of the joint, and instead focusing on low-impact strength work. And so the next 3 weeks comprised trips to the gym once or twice daily, plenty of work strengthening quads, calves, hamstrings, glutes and tib ant, and a whole heap of frustration as I could feel my chances of starting Tor balancing on a knife-edge. I bought myself some industrial-strength knee supports to keep the kneecap in place, diligently applied ice and anti-inflammatory gels morning and evening and prayed that things would improve.
We’d scheduled a week’s family holiday in Annecy and Chamonix at the end of August, followed by a few days for me in Val d’Isere to get some altitude acclimatisation in before driving over to Courmayeur for registration and the race. It all felt a bit sketchy, but I was finally able to do some hikes and runs in Annecy with some elevation without too many adverse symptoms, and hope started to return. We moved to Chamonix and I had a big day out hiking up to the Aiguille du Midi mid-station, across to Montenvers and running back down to Cham – 20km, 1500m vert, no major pain. Knees definitely weren’t 100%, but then again they weren’t completely crocked either. Drove the family back to Geneva Airport, and then to Val d’Isere – several 500-1000m days at altitude and again, the knees continued to be reasonably well-behaved. I began to hope – but then again, 20km and 1500m is a far cry from 330km and 25,000m.
The drive to Courmayeur on the Saturday morning before the race was filled with a mix of excitement and apprehension. I’ve never had such injury-related doubts going into a big race, and this was bigger than pretty much anything I’d previously attempted, but after going to the Courmayeur Sports Centre and seeing all the crowds and yellow drop bags laid out, the excitement took over and I just felt stoked to be a part of the whole thing. I met up with fellow Brits James Ritchie and James Riley at the café, as well as Silvia Delgado Ortiz and her friend Disco Meisch and the mixture of excitement and nervousness we were all feeling was palpable. After a couple of hours’ wait for my number to come up, the actual process of registration was remarkably quick – no kit check, just an ID check and collecting drop bags, tracker tags and bibs.
1075 drop bags wait for collection
I carried everything back to the hotel and set about packing my drop bag and organising my kit for the following morning, before heading out for dinner with the two James’s and Tom Payn, who would be crewing for James Riley throughout the race. The pizza was absolutely fantastic with a super-thin and crispy base and there was lots of discussion about the elite competitors, several of whom were elsewhere in the restaurant. I felt well pre-fuelled and I think all of us were just keen to get the race underway. Like most nights before big races, I struggled to sleep well and only managed a few hours of ‘proper’ sleep before my 7am alarm sounded and it was time to get ready.
Start Courmayeur to LB1 Valgrisenche (51km, 3,913m vertical)
It was perfect running conditions on Sunday morning – just a bit of cloud, mid-teens temperatures, a very slight breeze, no rain. To reduce congestion, they had broken the start into 2 waves at 10am and 12 noon based on ITRA indexes. I was in the “first wave” start at 10am, which meant that I would hopefully be left behind by all the elite runners in front of me and not have to worry too much about traffic jams on the first climb. And 10am was still a very civilised start, giving plenty of time to deposit my drop bag, have breakfast, and sort out taping / kit etc before heading into the centre of Courmayeur in readiness for the start.
The atmosphere was already building, and I noticed quite a few famous faces among the crowds near the start line. The opening line of “Brothers In Arms” sounded out over the tannoy – “these mist-covered mountains …” – and I felt a lump in my throat. Which was soon dispelled as Dire Straits was replaced by Guns n’ Roses. As we queued up at the start line, I bumped into Paul Manson, whom I’d met on Cape Wrath a couple of years earlier, and whose YouTube channel I’d been following (well worth it). He had his camera out and was no doubt recording footage for an episode on Tor des Geants. I chatted with a couple of Canadian runners as well – we were all new to the Tor, so there was definitely a sense of shared apprehension as well as anticipation. There’s simply no way to fully prepare yourself for a race of this magnitude unless you’ve actually run it before.
The countdown commenced, and we were off – to the sounds of “Pirates of the Caribbean”. Huge crowds cheered us all the way through the narrow streets of Courmayeur, with lots of cowbells being rung and even a group dressed up in traditional mountain clothes doing some kind of dance. Perhaps it wasn’t quite as many people as were there at the start of UTMB, but in terms of atmosphere it was absolutely the equal. The crowds continued all the way through Courmayeur right to the outskirts, coincidentally just past the hotel where I had been staying.
I'm somewhere on the right hand side in a white cap
It wasn’t long before we hit the first climb, a 1300m ascent to Col d’Arp, and we got an immediate sense of what was to be a common theme of the next 5 days – steep switchbacks that proceeded first through woodland lower down in the valley, then through alpine meadows higher up, eventually reaching rocky terrain above 2300-2500m. Although there was still some congestion, with 330+km still to go I was more than happy to slowly feel my way into the race, and found myself in a small group comprising Paul Manson, a couple of other Brits and a couple of Korean athletes. The temperature remained cool, but the relentless climbing was hot work and I was quite happy to be wearing just a base layer and detachable sleeves.
As the altitude ticked up, I could feel that breathing became marginally harder, but at the same time I was happy that the acclimatisation work I had put in seemed to be paying dividends as I was able to pick up several places as we neared and then cleared the top of the col. To be faced with a similar set of descending switchbacks on the other side. And that basically set the template for the rest of the race – climb up switchbacks to the top of a col, and descend by switchbacks on the other side, with virtually no flat terrain anywhere on the course. You’re either climbing or descending, and typically at grades that vary from +/-10% to +/- 30%.
Midway on Day 1, fresh legs
It had taken 1hr50m to climb to 2550m, and my Garmin ClimbPro screen now showed a 1100m descent ahead of us, which took about an hour until we reached the first proper aid station, and a chance to grab some chocolate and refill water bottles. And then a 1400m climb to the top of Passo Alto. More switchbacks. And a 700m descent before another 700m climb to the top of Col de la Crosatie. If you like routine, then you’ll love the Tor course, as it is nothing if not predictable – climb, descend, rinse and repeat. With spectacular views in between. And aid stations that really are exceptionally generously stocked with all manner of sweet, savoury and natural foods. And of course they have toilet facilities, which on this first stage proved to be quite important, as my digestive system struggled to get used to the combination of altitude and sugar-heavy fuelling.
Top of Col de la Crosatie, last climb of the first stage
The final long (1300m) descent from Col de la Crosatie was followed by a rare relatively flat section of around 6km. It had just started to get dark and I turned my head torch on half an hour before we pulled into Valgrisenche and the first Life Base. 11 hours had elapsed, which was slightly longer than I was hoping for, but I wasn’t too troubled as I felt strong, the knees were holding up (which was the most important thing) and so far I wasn’t feeling any adverse effects from the altitude, even at over 2800m, which gave me a lot of encouragement as I sat in the Life Base and prepared myself for the next stage, one of three “crux stages” throughout the course, which in this case was due to it containing three passes, two of them at over 3000m altitude including the high point of the whole course, the 3300m Col du Loson.
LB1 Valgrisenche to LB2 Cogne (58km, 4,278m vertical)
Shortly after arriving at Valgrisenche it started to rain. And rain. Getting progressively heavier. Hammering away at the roof off the marquee that comprised the Life Base. Thunderclaps sounded. The forecast had suggested that there was a small risk of thunderstorms overnight, but this was earlier and much heavier than expected. As it happened, I had plenty of things to be getting on with in the LifeBase, checking my feet, changing some of my tape, changing my socks and getting some real food down, pasta with tomato sauce and a minestrone-esque soup plus pasta combination that would form my mainstay for the rest of the race. I briefly checked the race placings on my mobile phone to see how the two James’s were getting on – they were maybe 90 minutes ahead of me and already out on the course in the thunderstorm, so had been covering the first stage at a very fast clip. I did briefly worry whether I was going excessively slowly, before reminding myself that with the injuries and lack of training coming into the race, I had to do my own thing and just pace myself according to what I felt capable of. The rain wasn’t particularly easing, but after 15 minutes without thunderclaps I decided that I’d better at least start the next stage – one of the longest of the course – as the forecast was for the weather to dramatically improve and if the rain had arrived earlier than expected, it might well finish earlier than expected too. So 40 minutes after arriving at Valgrisenche, I ventured out, clad in full waterproofs – trousers, top, gloves, hat – to face the elements.
Pretty much immediately the climb started, steep and muddy at first as it ascended the lower woodland slopes at the side of the valley. The rain softened somewhat, and there was no wind, so conditions were a good deal better than they might have been. After an hour or so, I saw a pack and silhouette ahead of me that looked vaguely familiar, but moving extremely slowly. As I approached, I made out James Ritchie’s name on the bib. That came as a big shock, as I had assumed he was well ahead of me. We briefly chatted, and while he had covered the first stage very quickly, he said that he was struggling with his breathing as soon as the altitude went above 2000m – not a good sign at this point in the race, given that over 70% of this stage was over 2000m. We wished each other well and I carried on past to continue the ascent.
By now the slope was getting slightly less steep, and the rain too was easing, making the remainder of the climb a good deal easier, particularly after I was able to remove and stow my waterproofs. It was just after midnight when I reached the large cairn marking the crest of the Col Fenêtre. The opposite side was exceedingly steep! More switchbacks, this time short, steep ones comprising slippery stony soil that required care. Numerous headtorches were below me, and while I was not exactly going fast, I was still gaining places on the downhills without feeling anything worrying in my knees at all. Early days, but my confidence in getting to the finish line was slowly beginning to grow. It took me only 50 minutes to complete the 1100m descent, where we were met by a small aid station providing an opportunity for a brief refuelling stop – chocolate, dried fruit and coffee.
Immediately after was another 1300m climb, and one that was just as steep as the previous descent. It averaged 30%, but in places was 40% or higher and was really hard work. It seemed to go on for ever, and while keeping the Garmin on ClimbPro mode was motivating as it helped me break down what would otherwise feel like endless climbing into shorter chunks, it became very frustrating as you approached the top of a climb and it told you that you had only 10m left while you could see there was another 50m+ of steep climbing to go. At the top was some tricky technical sections with ropes and cables providing much-needed assistance. I had lost a couple of places on the climb, but I was picking up so many places on the downhills that I reckoned I was probably gaining a net of 10 or more places on each of the cols that we were passing over, and my asthma was still staying largely in check. Col Entrelor and another large cairn to mark the high point. Over 3000m for the first time in the race.
The descent on the other side was much easier and less technical once the initial stone-strewn section of path had been navigated, but boy was it long. It was over 90 minutes before I pulled into the next aid station at Eaux Rousses and took the opportunity to refuel once more before starting out on the largest climb of the stage, up to the 3300m Col du Loson. By now it was light, and we could start to appreciate the magnificent scale of the surrounding mountains, and the steepness and narrowness of the valleys inside which nestled the aid stations that punctuated the route.
This climb was much more gradual, again starting in valley woodland before proceeding through rolling alpine meadows, and then rounding a ridge to enter a second, upper hanging valley that formed the main part of the climb to Col du Loson. It was a huge amphitheatre, and the col was so far in the distance that it was barely within view. The path snaked alongside the right hand side of the floor of this hanging valley, with several figures ahead of me, as well as what looked like a figure coming down the path towards me. It was only when she passed me that I realised it was Vicky Savage, whom I recognised from several previous races in the UK, so I briefly stopped to ask if she was OK. With my hearing being only 50% at the best of times, and 24 hours of fatigue already accumulated, I couldn’t be 100% sure of her response but it sounded as though she had been having breathing difficulties higher up. We resumed our respective journeys and it gave me sombre food for thought as I carried on along the slow ascent. Although I’d not yet had breathing problems as such, my throat and tongue were now getting very sore and I had developed a dry cough. This climb really did go on for ever, and with over 1600m of elevation from 1700m to 3300m was one of the longest climbs on the course.
Heading up to Col du Loson
Soon the path crossed the valley to the other side and commenced a series of switchbacks taking up to the head of the valley and towards the col. We had been advised to carry our crampons for this stage just in case, but as we neared the summit of the col, although there was snow on the ground, the footsteps were solid and again some cables and ropes provided additional security over the final few steps. Still no breathing difficulties, even if it had been very slow going – more than 2 hours to cover the final 1000m of the ascent, so I was hugely relieved to get this milestone out of the way. It felt as though the first major test of the course had been passed. The descent started off with an extremely precarious narrow path along a ledge, with steep cliffs dropping off to the right. I hugged the left hand side of the path as closely as possible and made my way round, holding my breath for easier ground and being able to stretch my legs again on the descent. This side of the col also comprised a huge bowl-shaped hanging valley, the floor strewn with rocky moraine before gradually giving way to grassier alpine meadows. The descent still managed to take almost 2 hours, despite me pushing the pace as hard as I could and picking up 10-20 places. By now, my feet were getting sore and the desire to let gravity take over and run quickly had to be measured against the risk of tripping with tired legs over a stray rock or tree root.
The final steps to 3300m
Eventually just before 2.30pm the ground flattened out and I pulled into the outskirts of Cogne where Life Base 2 awaited. 100km down, 8000m+ of vertical covered. Basically a Paddy Buckley / Bob Graham / Charlie Ramsay round. And we were less than a third into the race.
LB2 Cogne to LB3 Donnas (46km, 1,896m vertical)
With the field having now spread out, the Cogne Life Base was much less crowded than Valgrisenche and definitely a much more user-friendly experience. I was pleasantly surprised that James Riley and Chris Roberts, who had been well ahead of me earlier on, were still here in the Life Base and it was great to see some familiar faces. They’d both found the 3000m+ sections very challenging from a breathing perspective, and when I checked on my phone it did seem that I’d picked up 30 or so places since the previous Life Base. On the other hand, while my asthma was not causing too many problems, when I took my socks off I could see that the soles of my feet were getting badly macerated and risked developing blisters if I didn’t quickly take corrective action. While James went to get some sleep, I decided to take a shower, completely change all my clothes and change my footcare strategy from taping everything to just taping the toes and then using GurneyGoo lubrication on the rest. I didn’t know if it would work, but it would most likely reduce the maceration that the tape had caused on the soles of my feet. I pondered whether I should take a nap here – I was certainly feeling tired, but at the same time I wasn’t quite yet falling asleep on my feet, and with the next stage being shorter and (relatively) easier, I wondered whether I could push hard and sleep at Donnas, which had been my original plan. As if often the case when you’re tired, your thinking and decision-processes slow down and before I knew it an hour and a half had already passed in the Life Base, James had returned from his nap and Chris had already set off. I finally got my stuff together, repacked and set off again just over 2 hours after arriving at Cogne. It was 4.30pm and with one large climb and a very long descent, I was hopeful at getting to Donnas in under 10 hours.
The climb itself was pretty uneventful. It took longer than expected as it was not one long continuous climb, rather alternating between steeper, flatter and even some short downhill sections, so it took 4 hours to cover the 16km and 1300m of ascent, and I donned my headtorch and chest torch just before reaching the top. However, unlike the sharp cols and steep descents of the previous two stages, the top of this climb was a featureless boggy plateau, much more like the Pennine Way than typical Alpine terrain. The bogs weren’t Cheviot-level in depth, capable of swallowing an entire human, but they were unexpected and pretty damn wet.
Not far down the descent, Rifugio Del Misérin suddenly appeared out of the darkness – it was pretty crowded and to our mutual surprise I bumped into James Riley on the way in. I really had been pushing the pace much harder than I thought to have caught him up, but I didn’t feel tired and when the marshal inside the refuge said that this was just a water station with no other refreshments, I decided to carry on and make the most of my current good spirits. Half an hour later came Rifugio Dondena where I caught up with Chris Roberts. Although this was a proper aid station, I decided to keep pushing on and try to get to the Life Base at Donnas where I could take a proper break.
On paper, the run down to Donnas looks like an easy downhill trot. It is anything but. As soon as you come off the alpine moorland / meadows and descend into the lower part of the valley you have a succession of villages, woodland, river gorges and bridges, all with steep climbs scattered in among the flats and downhills. Even the flats were deceptively tricky – at least for me – as dead leaves concealed small rocks and tree roots that seemed to gravitate towards my increasingly weary feet. I stumbled countless times and on a couple of occasions was sent flying, fortunately escaping with only my dignity injured.
Eventually just after 2am I reached the outskirts of Donnas, along with a Spanish runner and another from Hong Kong. We followed a seemingly endless procession of yellow flags along the utterly deserted main road, finally pulling into the sports centre that comprised Life Base 3. Although we were still not halfway through the race yet, it did feel as though psychologically we were turning a corner, as Donnas was the lowest point of the course – only 300m above sea level – and after the next big stage we would just have the 130km route of the TotDret race remaining.
LB3 Donnas to LB4 Gressoney (59km, 4,993m vertical)
Having vowed to be more efficient at the Donnas Life Base, I quickly set to task on all my admin – recharging my phone and Garmin, eating some solid food, having a shower and then taking a quick nap on the camping beds that were arrayed in the sports hall. The camp beds were not the most comfortable, being a little too short even for someone of my modest stature (goodness knows how tall people managed to fit on them) but at least I managed an hour of fitful rest before it was time to set off again. As I got ready to go I bumped into James Riley again as he was settling down for his nap and we briefly exchanged greetings before I set off into the slowly fading night. 3 hours in Donnas, which felt like a pretty efficient stop given that it had included a short sleep break.
Climbing out of Donnas
This stage was the second “crux” stage of the whole race, and started with the largest climb of the whole race, a mammoth 2000m slog up from Donnas on the valley floor to Rifugio Coda at 2300m. Once out of Donnas, there was a steep section through various villages until after about an hour I came to the first aid station at Perloz, and it was obvious the care and attention that the local volunteers had taken to make it as welcoming as possible. Cowbells were rung, sugary doughnuts were served, and the coffee there tasted like real Italian coffee. Hobbit-like, I stopped for a second breakfast, thanked everyone in the checkpoint profusely and moved onto the second stage of the ascent. The path wound through gorges and over bridges as it climbed higher up towards the flatter slopes of the alpine meadows. It was over 2 hours before I reached the next aid station at La Sassa, the sun was up and it was a beautiful blue sky day. I was relieved to be doing this climb early in the morning as it certainly looked like it would get a lot hotter later on, and indeed by the time I reached Rifugio Coda the sun was uncomfortably strong – I was dipping my cap in every stream I passed in order to stay cool, but regretted now not bringing some lighter coloured shorts, as the black compression shorts I was wearing acted as heat sponges to the intense sunlight, and the skin below them started to feel red and itchy.
The views though were stupendous. Looking South and East you could see Turin and the plains of Northern Italy laid out like a carpet at your feet. To the West, the snowy peaks of Gran Paradiso peered above the ridgeline. And to the North, the direction we were heading, the bulky massif of Monte Rosa reared, with the Matterhorn visible to the left as a grey shark’s tooth.
The views back to the Northern Italian plain
The next 5 or 6 hours are a bit of a blur – the scenery continued to be spectacular, with short descents into one bowl followed by an ascent into the next bowl, all the time passing small lakes and tarns in exquisite settings – Rifugio Barma and Lago Chiara were particularly pretty. But the terrain underfoot was strewn with rocks and the continued climbing and descending made it very hard to establish any kind of rhythm. My pace dropped to a frustratingly slow walk and the fatigue just continued to build. Eventually after passing over several cols, there was a final 100m climb up to the Col della Vecchia, which was festooned with Tibetan prayer flags. The descent from here to the next aid station at Niel (a B&B hostel) was only 650m on paper, but it felt like a good deal more, as a couple of short climbs thrown into the descent made the total distance and resulting load on the feet that much more. Dusk was also beginning to fall, and the 12 hours or so since Donnas and my last proper nap was beginning to tell – I had increasing difficulty staying focused and could feel my balance and concentration rapidly worsening. The aid station couldn’t come too soon. I stopped to put my headtorch on and continued the descent. It wasn’t made easier by now being a steep forest path with random stones and tree roots to negotiate. Just when I thought I was going to have to lie down by the side of the path for a nap, the lights of Dortoir La Gruba appeared in front of me and I arrived at the Niel aid station. I felt pretty broken.
Monte Rosa and the Matterhorn
Col della Vecchia
It was ridiculously busy. It certainly felt as if most people had experienced a really tough day and needed a rest. As soon as I sat down, a familiar face peaked round the corner – James Ritchie! That was an incredibly welcome sight – I almost felt like crying. He’d had to pull out earlier in the race after his breathing difficulties failed to improve, but now had joined the support crew for James Riley, who apparently had just passed Col Della Vecchia and was on his way down – he’d surely be arriving in a couple of hours. This was the point where the wheels started to come off my race a little bit. I was dreadfully tired and needed some sleep, but spent half an hour aimlessly faffing before eventually making my way to a tent where they had set up some camping beds. I lay down to get some sleep, setting my timer for 2 hours (the maximum they would allow), but in truth I’m not sure I actually managed to get any sleep, maybe 30 minutes maximum, the rest of the time just tossing and turning in the bed.
When I returned to the refuge, it was even more crowded and as I sat down with a coffee getting ready to leave, a Korean runner came in, complaining about stomach pains and sickness. He didn’t speak any English, and having picked up some conversational Korean from almost 30 years of marriage, did my best to translate for the medics. Eventually we managed to get him some Gaviscon, and with my head now finally starting to straighten out, I set out on the final section of this stage, a climb up to Colle Lazoney followed by a downhill run to Gressoney and the next Life Base. The climb was remarkably straightforward, the route following large, flat boulders – almost flagstones – and I started to regret having spent so much time at the refuge when even in my sleep-deprived state I could have easily managed such a climb. The flagstones gave way to a steep, winding, stony path through the pine trees that eventually flattened out as we neared the top of the col, before starting the descent, which like so many of the descents in Aosta, was quite gentle at first before steepening dramatically as you passed from the high alpine terrain to below the treeline. It was still dark when I finally crept into Gressoney and the Sports Centre that was doubling as Life Base 4.
I was now over halfway, and only the 130km of the TotDret route remained. But worryingly, although both knees were still in good shape, on the last downhill I’d developed a painful swelling in between my right ankle and shin. I'd also developed a couple of awkwardly placed blisters among the toes on my right foot. Not great given that there was over 10,000m of downhill still to navigate – more than the full UTMB course.
Feeling like crap in Gressoney
LB4 Gressoney to LB5 Valtournenche (35km, 2,740m vertical)
I’m not quite sure happened in Gressoney, but I somehow contrived to spend almost 5 hours there. Well, 2 hours was certainly another sleep break, although in retrospect I wonder whether that actually did me any more good than taking just a 10 minute power nap. But the rest of the time I spent there is still a mystery to me. Surely it can’t have taken me 3 hours to shower, change and eat? I guess this is part of the problem with sleep deprivation – it’s not just the risk that you fall asleep on your feet while on the trail; it’s also the time that you lose in aimlessly drifting at checkpoints, your brain unable to make decisions and stuck in ‘zombie mode’.
At any rate, it was past 9 o’clock as I left the Life Base, my ankles now taped up to hopefully minimise any further swelling, and the blue skies rising above the steep sides of the valley heralded another fine day, with the snowy bulk of the Monte Rosa massif directly in front at the head of the valley. I reached the end of the village and the steep climb up the left of the valley. The path was good, and with this stage being a relatively uncomplicated one – two steep climbs to cols followed by descents – it massively reduced the mental effort required. You simply had to follow the people ahead of you, of which there were quite a few. I soon found myself alongside another Brit, Tim Owen, who was also doing Tor for the first time, but who had plenty of experience from other big mountain ultras including UTMB, Western States and TransGranCanaria. He was being supported by his partner and chatting with him soon made the time fly by on the ascent. I’d taken some painkillers for my ankle back in Gressoney and by the time we’d reached the top the pain had subsided, so I was able to descend quite quickly, overtaking several other people on the way down to Champoluc, where a well-stocked aid station awaited, with Tim just behind me.
Another steep 1300m climb out of a bowl
I stopped for maybe half an hour in Champoluc – more crusty bread dipped in the soup with pasta – but as I made my way out of the village, I started to get some stomach cramping, similar to what I’d had on the first day. Luckily there was a café open right on the edge of the village, so I took the opportunity to pop inside and use their facilities, buying a coffee and ice cream by way of payment. Feeling much better, I carried on to the climb up to Col de Nannaz, which was longer but less steep than the previous climb. A major highlight on the way was the Rifugio Grand Tournalin, located in the high bowl just below the Col, a welcome place to stop for a quick coffee and chocolate before the long descent down to Valtournenche.
I reached Valtournenche just as it started to get dark, my descent interrupted by renewed bouts of chesty coughing and dry heaving – 10½ hours for the stage as a whole, which was just about in line with what my original expectations had been. If it had not been for the disaster of the last stage and my sleep-deprived complete loss of checkpoint discipline, I might still have been on track for a 110-115 hour finish. As it was, I was now 82 hours in, with I reckoned around 30 hours moving time likely left, plus whatever time I needed to spend in Life Bases. It felt that my target should now be closer to 115-120 hours now as long as I could keep things together and the weather conditions didn’t deteriorate.
LB5 Valtournenche to LB6 Ollomont (53km, 4,277m vertical)
My plan was to spend only 3 hours in Valtournenche, but it was 12.30am when I left, 4½ hours spent in the Life Base a good part of which I couldn’t seem to account for. I think this is one of the benefits of having a support crew in a race like the Tor. It’s not so much the physical support they provide (although that’s certainly helpful), it’s taking away the burden of having to make decisions in checkpoints and Life Bases, which when you’re tired and sleep-deprived can just become a complete time sink. Disorientation on the trail is one thing. But brain fog and drift in a checkpoint is far more insidious and hard to self-correct, as your very sense of time becomes displaced when you are that tired.
The next stage was the final “crux stage” of the whole race, but also the most picturesque of all. Given that there was still 6 hours of darkness when I left, I missed at least some of the early scenery, but what I did see later on certainly made up for it. The first climb wound upwards diagonally across the valley wall, and then below a reservoir, the bright lights of the dam gradually growing in size until we walked right beneath it. After a short descent, the path started climbing again, skirting around the sides of more ridges and slowly gaining height until eventually we reached Bivacco Vareton, a small mountain hut where an aid station had been set up. I pressed on, continuing the slow climb for another hour until suddenly I felt a really intense pain in my right ankle / shin. I could barely put any weight on it without it hurting like crazy. I limped a few more steps. More pain. The ankle was clearly swelling, and now poked out above the top of my shoes, like an overweight middle-aged man trying to squeeze into trousers that were several inches too small for him. This was crazy. I started catastrophising in my mind. My race was over, I’d have to crawl back to the previous aid station and pull out. I’d come all this way – 240km and 16000m of climbing – for nothing. I may as well have DNS’d and saved myself the time and bother. I sat down on a rock, feeling pretty much completely crushed. A couple of competitors came past. Eventually one came by whom I recognised – David Rouquette – we’d been passing each other in turn over the last few stages and kept on bumping into each other at aid stations, so he was a somewhat familiar face. In my rather dreadful French, I explained my injury and asked him to let them know at the next aid station, which was on the other side of the col, that I was in difficulty and might have to pull out.
Once the feelings of anger and frustration had died down, I still wasn’t sure exactly what was my best course of action. I could turn around and head back to the Bivacco, but that would be 1 hour and would be a certain DNF. Or I could try my best to carry on to the next aid station, which was maybe 2 hours away (perhaps even more in my current condition) but which at least would mean that I was moving forward and would retain a faint chance of being able to carry on if things recovered, or if they could somehow patch me up there. Both options would involve a lot of pain. And staying put was definitely NOT an option. I’m still not quite sure how, but I persuaded myself to take some more painkillers and hope against hope that they would make the pain sufficiently bearable to make it to the next checkpoint. I reckoned I had 300m left to climb followed by a long 700m descent – it was that which was my major concern, as while the ankle was now hurting even going uphill, it would surely hurt significantly more on the downhill.
I limped on, slowly, painfully, trying to use my poles to take some of the weight off my right leg. A couple more headtorches passed by. But I slowly made progress. Forward, and upward. I tried to figure out what pace I was moving at, but didn’t particularly like the answer. Certainly less than 2km/h at this point. Eventually the slope started to flatten out and I reached the top of the col. First part done. Second, and harder part still to come. Right ankle / shin still in major pain. The descent was a steep set of switchbacks, not easy with only one good leg, but again I tried to use my poles to take as much weight as possible and somehow managed to make more forward progress. A grey light was beginning to spread across the sky and my spirits lifted as at least I could now see where I was going and the challenge ahead of me. The slope stretched a long way down into a huge bowl, the path turning left and continuing along the flat bottom of the bowl towards what I guessed was the refuge in the distance. It was still a long way, but at least now it didn’t seem like an impossible task. Moreover, continuing forward to the refuge was now definitely the much easier option than turning back to the previous aid station.
Looking back up the "descent from hell" - the col is the notch in the middle of the photo
The daylight strengthened and I stopped to stow my head and chest torches. And then suddenly it happened. I can’t quite explain how, and it defies all rational explanation, but the pain in my ankle just seemed to evaporate. Not completely, but to such an extent that I could barely believe it. One minute I was only capable of a laboured limp. The next I was able to walk (OK, not running, but walking was still an infinite improvement) with only minor levels of pain. Had the painkillers only just started to take effect? Was it partly psychological with the onset of daybreak? I didn’t know, and frankly didn’t care. If this was a temporary window of pain-free movement, I intended to make the very most of it and get to the next aid station as quickly as humanly possible.
I half-walked, half-stumbled down the zig-zags. Slow progress, but much quicker than before, and as I reached the bottom of the bowl I ticked off one milestone. I could move more quickly on the flatter ground and after passing a couple of deserted outbuildings, saw the shape of Rifugio Lo Magià appear ahead of me on the right hand side of the valley. I turned around to see how far I’d come and could now start to appreciate the splendour of the surrounding landscape. The cwm at the head of the valley was a vast grey amphitheatre, the path I had descended a slender thread weaving its way down the right hand side from the col.
Rifugio Lo Magià, the refuge that literally saved my race
I entered the refuge and immediately felt an enormous wave of relief. Whatever else might happen in this race, I had overcome a moment of deepest, darkest desperation and lived to fight another day. Straightaway I could see David Rouquette was in the refuge and he told me that he’d passed along my message to the marshals there, so I went over to see them and discuss my situation. They were obviously concerned about whether I would be able to continue the race but at the same time they seemed delighted (perhaps a little bit too delighted?) when I told them I felt I could carry on, at least to the next checkpoint. It was very much “playing it by ear” from now on. There was plenty of warm food and drink in the refuge so I replenished my strength with a big breakfast and then, feeling absolutely shattered, promptly dozed off with my head on the table. For the first time in the race, I actually got some proper sleep, even if it was just half an hour before I awoke. I did feel a good deal fresher and while my ankles still looked like two fat men, they didn’t hurt when I walked on them so I felt ready to set off to complete the rest of the stage.
The climb out of Lo Magià was steep but incredibly pretty. After passing through the obligatory forested section, I emerged into rolling alpine pastures, the landscape dotted with occasional pine trees, small tarns and surrounded by crinkly rocky ridges. It was similar to the landscapes between Donnas and Gressoney, but even more beautiful. After a couple of hours I arrived at Rifugio Oratorio di Cuney, spectacularly located on the lip of a cirque, surrounded by vertiginous cliffs. Another short break before pressing on. More small descents followed by short climbs as we followed the contours around the ridges that separate one bowl from the next. Bivacco Rosaire Clermont – possibly even more spectacularly located than Rifugio Cuney – by a small lake within one of these bowls, with a small crowd of people cheering and clanging cow bells. The atmosphere and support that you get across the entire course, even in the most inaccessible and out of the way places, just beggars belief. And then there was a short climb over the ridge at Col de Vessonaz before the loooong descent to Oyace. The only memory I have of the descent was that there was a runner who was being attended to by mountain rescue and medics – a helicopter was hovering overhead, so it seemed as though he was going to have to be airlifted off the mountain, but otherwise he looked OK, fully awake, talking to the rescue team and not in serious distress. At any rate it was a sombre reminder that accidents can happen to anyone at any time in the mountains, and that in my fatigued state I needed to keep absolute concentration, especially on descents.
Bivacco Rosaire Clermont
It had been a hot day, and when I finally arrived at the Oyace checkpoint I could feel that my thighs and groin were all suffering a bit from the heat. Luckily at the last Life Base I had decided to pack some anti-chafe balms in my race vest, so topped up on protection and took some more paracetamol for my ankles while getting ready for the final climb of the stage, 1100m up to Col Brison before another 1000m+ descent to Ollomont. It is astonishing how blasé you become about 1000m climbs on Tor des Geants. In any other race, such a climb would be one of the largest on the whole course, you might only have 3 or 4 of them. But on the Tor these are the “baseline” climbs, you have something like 17 climbs of more than 1000m, with corresponding descents, and so you soon learn to shift into “counting down the metres” mode. At any rate, the temperature had cooled somewhat and it was a lovely sunny evening as we made our up towards the high point. By now, although one or two athletes clearly still had noticeably more energy than the others, most of us had settled into a plodding hike with roughly 500m/hr of ascent speed. There was a small water station at the top of the col, but eager to reach Ollomont before darkness, I carried straight onto the descent. More steep switchbacks at the top, followed by a flatter section, and then again steeper switchbacks as the path wound through the lower forests. I reached Ollomont at 7.45pm, just in time to avoid having to take out my head torch. Almost 300km completed. 1 stage left. And near-disaster avoided. Surely now a finish was within my grasp?
LB6 Ollomont to Finish Courmayeur (53km, 3,524m vertical)
After the relatively luxurious facilities of the previous Life Bases, Ollomont was a bit of a disappointment. No indoor facilities, portaloos and portakabin-showers, no drop bags in the mess tent, and a “changing tent” that was tiny and shared with all the support crews resulting in massive overcrowding and completely inadequate space for unsupported runners. I didn’t bother looking inside the sleeping tent. I do hope that they improve the Ollomont Life Base in future years as it’s a real shame that what should be an uplifting experience as the final Life Base before the finish turns out to be a place that you’re just desperate to get away from. Or maybe that’s the idea!
In any case, the temperature had dropped dramatically, a light sleet was beginning to fall, and I was keen to fuel up as much as possible before heading out. The two big positives at Ollomont were the medical tent – where my ankles were wonderfully patched up by two extremely attentive medics (massive thanks and kudos to them) – and the food tent where I tucked into multiple portions of potatoes, sauteed vegetables and more soup with pasta. After refuelling I got myself ready to leave, putting on an extra layer given the falling temperatures. Just as I was about to set off, we were told that due to snowfall and below-freezing temperatures higher up, crampons were now mandatory, and it was also suggested that now would be a good time to pack a down jacket as well. I was very grateful that I’d recently invested in a Mont Bell plasma jacket as it was super light and packed down tightly while providing plenty of additional warmth as a mid-layer underneath a hard outer shell. It would prove a life saver (literally) that night.
The first part of the climb out of Ollomont was straightforward – not too steep on a wide double-track. The snow got progressively thicker and you could see it starting to settle on the ground, but the body heat generated from climbing at a fast pace was enough to offset the colder temperatures and I didn’t feel any need to put extra layers on. After about 90 minutes I had already gained 1000m of elevation and could see the lights of the Rifugio Letey Champillon appear above. I briefly ducked into the refuge and took the opportunity to put all my extra layers on so was now wearing two base layers, a down jacket and hard shell, as well as waterproof trousers over long leggings. It was full winter kit conditions. Without staying too long, I ventured out again and the snow was now getting even heavier, now settling in a 10cm or so layer on the ground. I pressed on, seemingly the only person on the mountain as I couldn’t see any headtorches now ahead of me or behind me, but despite the snow the path was still pretty well-defined and I reached the summit of Col Chantillon 30 minutes later, the cairn surrounded by a bright ring of fluorescent flags reflecting the beam from my headtorch. I stopped to put my crampons on, which was a good job as the descent was a good deal trickier, as while the flags told you which direction to go, picking the easiest line was difficult in the dark with the path now blanketed in snow. The cold, dark and accumulated lack of sleep started to bite again as the descent went on and I began to feel increasingly disoriented following the bubble of my headtorch with no-one else around me.
Top of Col de Champillon in the snow
As I reached the bottom of the descent the path broadened out and I could see some lights on the far side of what seemed to be a wooded ravine with a river in it, but the path seemed to take a very circuitous route to reaching the lights. My mind drifted even more and started to imagine that I was on some kind of group trip, perhaps a Duke of Edinburgh expedition, and we were all going to be meeting up at the place where the lights were. It was a very strange 20 minutes. Eventually the lights reappeared, and crystallised into focus as a small hut (apparently an old dairy), the Ponteille refreshment point. As aid stations go, it had plenty of food and the volunteers there were frying meat on a stove, but the temperature by now had plummeted (I learned later that it was below -8C) and I was extremely sleepy and disoriented. I curled up on a bench, with all my layers on including several pairs of gloves and a woolly hat and tried to get some sleep.
I woke up and looked around the room – a lot of people there, with every so often someone drifting in through the door. The sense returned that I wasn’t in an individual race, but rather on some sort of group expedition. It seemed like I was waiting for someone to tell us all that it was time to depart and we would then all set off together. Probably an hour passed with me intermittently snoozing, pecking at snacks and looking around the room waiting for the signal for us all to leave. Eventually, the tiredness and disorientation lifted enough for my sense to return and I remembered that I was in a race, and that only I could decide to set off on the next stage. It was still freezing, so I warmed my hands and face over the stove and got ready to leave.
It was bitterly cold outside, but after a short climb the route followed a broad forest track that gradually descended as it contoured around the lower reaches of a couple of ridges. It was about another 10k to the next aid station at Bosses, but in the dark and with no obvious bearings to focus on, it was hard to focus and I found myself zig-zagging across the path like a drunken sailor, not helped by the pain in my right ankle / shin returning again. I caught up with a Chamonix-based Chinese runner, Xu Buqin, and we chatted together for an hour or so – I think both of us were glad of the company on this remote section in the middle of the night, perhaps also because we were both suffering with ankle problems. Eventually the forest gave way to the village of Saint Rhemy, and as we pulled into the Bosses refuge, a faint glow had started to spread upwards from the mountains across the sky. Hopefully this would be the last sunrise we would face on the course.
By now I was desperate to just get the race completed, and in particular given the heavy snow conditions on Col Champillon I was worried about what the conditions would be like on the 2900m Col de Malatra, the final high point of the course. The last thing I wanted was for the race to be stopped – as has happened in previous years – before I had cleared it and made certain of being able to finish the race. So although I was extremely tired and sleepy, I decided against taking a nap, and just ate breakfast and attended to toilet duties. I’m still not exactly sure whether my mind was in full possession of itself, as when I went to the toilet, my abiding impression was that the bowl ended up filled with bright red blood, like a scene from a horror movie. I quickly flushed it and tried to put the image out of my mind. To this day I have no idea whether this was just the product of a fevered mind – perhaps it’s best left that way.
Before leaving, I spotted Tim Owen and went over to briefly say hello – he seemed to have had a sleep, so must have been moving very quickly beforehand. He certainly looked a good deal more refreshed than I felt! I finished my coffee, taking some more painkillers to give my ankle some respite, and set off. The route wound gradually up, on road and footpath, slowly gaining height. It was quite circuitous, and it was hard to see exactly where we were going as there were numerous cwms and bowls in the upper part of the valley. As a I climbed higher, Tim overtook me, followed by a couple of others, and it was obvious that my pace was painfully slow. After an hour and a half, the snow cover started to increase and the path became increasingly obscured. At one point I slipped on a frozen puddle, and at that point decided I should best don crampons again, as the last thing I wanted was to suffer a fall and injury so close to the end. It was excruciatingly slow progress as the underfoot conditions were so challenging, but the small yellow flags eventually led us over a small rise into a large bowl, at the bottom of which was a refuge – the Rifugio Frassati. Tim was there, along with another 20-30 runners, and I was a bit confused as to why they were all waiting. Were they being held by the organisers, or was it just a pause to regroup and summon up the energy and courage for the final push over Col Malatra? It turned out to be the latter, so rather than spend any more time there, I decided to press on and just spent a few minutes having some more coffee and chocolate before heading back outside.
The final climb up to Col Malatra
It was cold, but not as windy as the previous night’s traverse of Col Champillon, and after 30 minutes’ scrambling over snow-covered rocks I came to the final climb up to Col Malatra, a diagonal traverse from right to left, followed by some zig-zags that led up to a tiny slot in the mountain wall at the head of the cirque. It was certainly dramatic, made even more so by its snowy cladding. It felt much more like winter mountaineering than summer trail running, and I was glad I had brought full crampons. The final zig-zags were pretty steep, with ropes providing some additional security, and eventually I made the final steps to the Col itself – no more than 2 metres wide and with a marshal stationed on what must be the loneliest of all the checkpoints along the course. It was -6C. A huge bowl lay on the other side of the col, after which there was another 10km or so of steep forest trails to negotiate before the finish in Courmayeur.
Col de Malatra - the relief I felt on reaching this tiny "hole in the wall" is indescribable
From now on it was pretty much downhill all the way, although not easy due to continued difficult underfoot conditions. There were a group of about 5 of us that made our way across the snow-covered bowl. After covering the worst of the terrain, we stopped to remove our crampons and climbed up to the final proper aid station at Entre Deux Sauts. I don’t think anyone stopped here – we were all in a hurry to finish – and we carried on as the snow gave way to alpine pasture and eventually a bridge over a small stream. The temperature had by now lifted, so I stopped to take off my extra layers and tried to make myself reasonably presentable for the final run-in. The last 10k of forest tracks winding high above the Courmayeur valley seemed to take forever and I continually got the feeling of deja va. Apparently I wasn’t the only one, and maybe all these paths look the same after a while. There were quite a few walkers out, with dogs and children, and most of them stopped to cheer us as we went past. I could feel the emotions begin to well up, although the steep, boulder- and tree root-clogged descent to Courmayeur kept me focused on the task in hand, and it was only when I reached the outskirts of the town and my watch ticked down to less than 1km left that I truly began to relax and enjoy the experience. As I made my way through town, bystanders stopped to applaud and cheer. An uncomplicated smile spread across my face. My lower lip wobbled. Eyes moistened. Throat lumpened. And finally the ramp and finish arch appeared. A small crowd was on other side, clapping and cheering. I felt like hugging them. I felt like hugging everyone in the entire Valle d’Aosta. It was complete.
Reflections
125 hours, 46 minutes, 17 seconds. That’s how long it took me to finish the race. How do I feel about it? If you’d have asked me back in July, I would have been disappointed. If you’d have asked me in early August, when my knee issues were at their worst, I would have been elated (and disbelieving). If you’d have asked me half way into the race, I would have been mildly disappointed. If you’d have asked me after 90 hours I would have been elated.
Such is the rollercoaster journey I went through before and during the race. On reflection, I’m deeply happy and proud of the result. I finished in 172nd place out of over 1000 starters, and got the qualification time for Tor des Glaciers, the 450km “extended edition” of Tor des Géants for those for whom 330km / 25000m isn’t enough of a challenge. And most importantly, I overcame emotional lows and levels of pain and that I’ve never encountered before in a race. I found the second half of the race really tough, at times struggled to see how I might finish, but somehow found a way through. I think it’s given me now a much deeper well of confidence to draw from in future difficult races, and I also learned a huge amount that mean if ever I take it on again, I’m confident that I can shave 10-15 hours, perhaps more, off my time. Such is the nature of these long-distance races – they provide extended lessons in how to manage and respond to tough situations over long durations.
Here's a short and preliminary list of all the things I would do differently in another crack at the Tor (or for that matter the Tor des Glaciers). I’m sure plenty more will spring to mind in due course:
Training – much more strength / power work, much more climbing, a longer period of acclimatisation; avoid injuries in the run-up in order to enable some concentrated downhill work in the 4-5 weeks before the race
Support – definitely have a support crew!
Nutrition – far less gels / sugars in the drop bag; rely more heavily on natural food in refuges
Shoes / kit – have more options in the drop bag, especially ones with padded tongues to reduce impact on ankle; have a pack with a waist belt or padded shoulder straps to reduce shoulder rubbing
Life Base – much more discipline in the life bases; more time power napping in refuges, less time sleeping in Life Bases; “in and out”
It’s now a week since finishing. For the first few days I was just sleeping 18 hours a day. I’m still struggling with fatigue and my ankles are still swollen. I probably won’t start running again for another week. This race takes a huge amount out of you and demands a high price. But there are many races that claim to be the world’s toughest. Ask the average member of the public, perhaps even the average member of the trail community, and they might mention UTMB as the pinnacle of trail running. The Spine Race is “Britain’s Most Brutal”. The Dragon’s Back is the “World’s Toughest Mountain Race”. Ultra Trail Snowdonia is “Savage Beyond Reason”. So how does Tor des Géants compare?
In terms of the raw numbers, it is certainly up there alongside and even above these other races. It has the roughness of terrain, and even more elevation than, Dragon’s Back, but in continuous rather than stage race format. Dragon’s Back has much tighter cut-offs, and the time pressure is never off, but the physical toll that Tor des Geants takes on you is substantially higher and you have the added challenges of night sections, sleep deprivation and of course extreme altitude. In Dragon’s Back you may be at risk of timing out, but you’re not so much at risk of your body completely failing you, which is the case at Tor. Personally I found Tor even harder than Dragon’s Back, and that was after finding the 2023 Dragon’s Back to be the hardest race that I’ve ever done.
The Spine Race is a very different animal, with its unsupported nature, large mandatory kit / heavy pack and winter conditions all making it an extremely tough challenge. Having DNF’d in 2023 and only completed the Challenger North and South in Winter (my full Summer Spines were much easier) I may not be perfectly qualified to comment, but I would say that in good weather conditions, the Spine should be less challenging than the Tor. I certainly felt in much better shape after completing the 170km of Spine Challenger South this year than when I arrived in Donnas after 150km of the Tor. And as this year’s Tor showed, it’s perfectly possible to have Winter Spine conditions in Aosta in September.
So in terms of difficulty, I would say the Tor marginally edges Dragon’s Back and Spine in terms of difficulty and level of challenge. It was certainly a big step up from the Eiger250, and also from all the 100 mile races I’ve done, including the infamous UTS 100M. Ultra Tour Monte Rosa is another famously difficult Alpine ultra, and while it’s been 5 years since I did it in 2019, and in that year the race was stopped due to blizzards after 15 hours, I’ve done enough of the course to be able to make a comparison. In terms of technicality and profile, it’s remarkably similar to TdG. Perhaps not surprisingly, as half of the UTMR course involves a traverse of 3 passes in the Northern Valle d’Aosta, including a drop down to Gressoney, the location of Life Base 4 in TdG. The difference of course is that TdG is double the length and double the elevation. So think of TdG as being very much like doing UTMR twice back-to-back and you get a sense of what it is like.
The last point, which to my mind lifts TdG onto a completely different level, is the extent to which the entire community in Valle d’Aosta get behind the event to support it. From the start in Courmayeur with spectators thronging the course right up until the first climb, through every aid station and village, right to the end, you are supported by the local community. The ratio of volunteers to participants is absurdly high, and with volunteers almost entirely being drawn from the local villages you get the feeling of a deep connection between the race and the Aosta Valley as a whole. While a few people on the Pennine Way or in Wales might be aware of the Spine or Dragon’s Back Races when they are underway, literally everybody in the Aosta Valley is aware of TdG, and you never escape the feeling that everyone in the valley is somehow willing you to keep going to the finish line. You almost feel like you owe it to them to give of your best and finish the race. It’s an astonishing, and very special, atmosphere that they have created, and to my mind it makes TdG more than a race, more of a transcendental experience.
To my mind, it makes Tor des Géants the Greatest Mountain Race in the World.
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