Run or Die

by Kilian, Jornet

  Monotony is taking over. I’m not used to running on this terrain, with such broad, flat tracks. The early morning mountain landscape is now behind us, and for some time we’ve seen only fields and woods with lots of parched grass and dusty trails. The rhythm goes with the terrain; as there are no big changes in levels, every step is identical. Not a single longer or shorter stride, and never a slope to rush down or climb to attack. If you add to that the heat, which is increasingly unbearable, this monotony is putting me to sleep, leaving my body and, above all, my mind inside a bubble that’s difficult to burst. I am a runner who likes to sprint, to change rhythm, to accelerate up steep slopes and rest or recuperate going downhill. This steady, monotonous rhythm is killing me.

  Luckily, we soon reach the canyons, the only stretch of the race with significant level changes. We have to cross two rivers that cut across our route from north to south. The track narrows with slopes to go up and down every several hundred yards before it will return to another 70 miles of monotony.

  Once we have reached the top of the first canyon, we start down a steep slope. The track zigzags sharply. Anton has been setting the pace in front for some time, and we follow on. Geoff is close on his heels, and I, in turn, am close on Geoff’s, but surprisingly, the change of terrain doesn’t seem to change the steady rhythm of my colleagues.

  I turn up the volume on my iPod and look for a song. I tell myself that when I find it, I will start to go at my own rhythm. The first bars of Bach’s Orchestral Suite No. 3 sound out, and I let myself be swept along by the melody and glide along the path, enjoying its twists and turns, braking abruptly a couple of yards before I reach each one and regain my rhythm halfway around the bend. I take advantage of obstacles offered by the terrain to be playful, to leap over them, to accelerate, to dodge them with my body … anything to break this monotony and feel that rush of adrenaline I seek when I run across mountains.

  I look behind me after a few minutes and see no one. They’ve made no attempt to follow me on this downward surge to break the steady pace. I keep running down, enjoying the terrain and the opportunities it offers me to enjoy myself, as if, rather than running, I am on a mountain bike or my skis.

  I reach the bottom of the canyon, and before crossing the bridge to start the climb, I go down to the river and cool myself down. The sultry atmosphere at the bottom of the canyon is oppressive, stifling my breathing. I dip my head into the river and also wet my hat and T-shirt, and with that short but efficient refreshment, I start the climb up with Anton just behind me. He has also accelerated downhill, leaving Geoff behind.

  The heat shows no sign of waning as we run up—quite the opposite, in fact. At the top of the second canyon, the feeling of heat is so intense that I have to sit down for a moment and throw a bucket of icy water over myself before passing through weight control. At four or five spots in the race, when we reach an aid station, volunteers wait for us with scales to check our weight. If we have lost 10 percent of the weight we had when we set out, they will not allow us to leave until we eat and drink what is necessary. On this occasion, the weighing volunteers warn me that I’m at the edge of my threshold.

  After the heat of the canyons, I feel a breeze beginning to blow along the ridge, which perks me up. I feel good, my legs are still fresh, and I have reserves of energy. The pace is fast but comfortable, and we’re more than halfway there.

  In Foresthill, at mile 60, the race ceases to be an individual adventure with other runners. From here until we reach the end, we will be accompanied by our pacers, or “hares,” who will run with us. Though they can’t give us food or drink, they will be a vital help in sustaining the pace and motivating us at the more testing times that come in the last miles of long-distance races. My first pacer is Rickey Gates, an American runner from Aspen who specializes in short distances and uphill runs. I have already worked with Rickey several times, in races such as Sierre-Zinal, and he has always brought good results.

  As if it were a question of split seconds, with no time to eat or drink, Anton and I leave Foresthill with our respective pacers and enter the downhill part of the race. The early afternoon heat begins to feel intolerable, making it hard to breathe normally. Every time I breathe, the air burns my throat, and when I try to drink, the water I filled my flask with only five minutes ago is already boiling, no longer of use even to throw over my hat to wet my head. I try putting ice cubes between my hat and head, around my neck, to soak all my clothes in water, but the heat intensifies and my body cannot cool down.

  My strength is still intact; the constant pace has barely punished my body, and I still have one or two cards to play that I intend to keep for later on. But dehydration and a lack of salt begin to take their toll as we start the run downhill toward the famous Rucky Chucky river crossing. I feel small twinges of cramping in my right calf, then in my left, and then other cramps begin in my thigh muscles. I’ve not stopped at a single aid station to drink and have eaten nothing during the race, not even a single roll or pie that might have given me the salts I need. Anton’s and Geoff’s rhythm, sustained by not stopping at the stations, led me to forget about eating, and I’m beginning to pay the price.

  I try to chase negative ideas from my head. There are only 18 miles to go, and I need to make the most of my remaining cards at the appropriate moment. There is one final uphill stretch 6 miles from the finish line, which might be a good moment to use them, keeping just a scrap back for the climb in the last 3 miles.

  I enjoy thinking through the tactics for my races, planning as I run. As I’m thinking about the strategy for these last few hours, we reach the river, which is in full flow with a heavy volume of water from the melting snows of California’s Sierra Nevada. Given the flow, the organization has provided a boat to take us from the east bank to the west bank. The four of us—Anton, myself, and our pacers—clamber into the boat and make the most of these restful moments, relaxing, closing our eyes, and breathing.

  On the other side, I jump out of the boat into the river. The water is cold and flows powerfully against my body, refreshing me, cleansing the sweat from my skin. My pulse also reacts to the cool and drops dozens of beats. I immerse my head in the river, letting the water run through my hair, soaking it. A minute later, I emerge refreshed from the river; the cool water seems to have revived not only my muscles and skin, but also my spirit.

  I leave the water and begin running. Anton is a few yards ahead of me. I start running in order to draw abreast with him, but my legs don’t react. It seems the water has not only cooled my muscles but has frozen the sinews, which are now stiff. I feel a sharp jerk that goes from my calves to above my buttock muscles, paralyzing my legs. My thigh muscles contract, out of control, straining all their fibers, a feeling that is accompanied by a sharp jabbing through my thighs, as if they were turning to rock. The pain is intense, intolerable, and makes me wish the muscle would explode and put an end to my suffering. What is happening? I think. Has the cold water paralyzed my body?

  I struggle to reach the next aid station. There I find Jorge Pacheco waiting for me, a great Mexican long-distance runner who, after making the podium in this same race and winning Bad-water several times, has come to accompany me on the last 18 miles to the stadium in Auburn.

  I try to eat salts, drink water, and refresh my legs by doing a few stretches to keep them from cramping again, but I cannot prevent how the muscles are tightening to the maximum at even the slightest movement, and worse, it seems I cannot control the way my legs move.

  We have just 18 miles to go. These 18 miles, which should have gone by quickly and been the time I went on the attack, have become more than four hours of despair and suffering. Four hours of summoning up energy, telling myself I can do it, breaking into a run, then 10 paces of falling to the ground, legs set in cement, eyes streaming from the pain. The pain is the physical pain of cramping, but it is also the pain of not being able to control my body, of not finding the solution that can give me hope. Feet, hands, a
rms, and even my jaw have joined in the symphony that, beyond my control, plays a baroque melody that is savage and rages free, not letting me pick up the baton of my body and direct it to its destiny.

  So with minutes running in a vile temper followed by minutes walking in despair and minutes suffering on the ground trying to stretch my legs, the distance seems like miles and the miles like fragments of eternity. Anton and Geoff disappear over the horizon while Jorge and I continue to fight against this eternity in order to reach our destination. I know that when we pass through the gates to the stadium, that there, at the end of the race, will be happiness: happiness because I have fought to the end, happiness because I have taken my body as far as it could go. But for the moment, my whole body is completely paralyzed, like in a dream I used to have before my races, where I was slowly extinguished, becoming heavier and heavier until I sank into the landscape.

  I can hear Jorge breathing just behind me as the sun sets in front of me. Hope is the last thing you lose, but my muscles have long since abandoned me, and my legs won’t respond when I try to pick up speed. They forgot how to run hours ago and now can manage only a gentle trot that allows me to protect them against the spasms and cramps I’ve had over the last hours. For the first time, I turn around to check that the steps and voices I hear are not the fruit of my imagination, although Jorge’s expression and nervousness had already confirmed for me that they are real. A large, sturdily built man wearing a yellow T-shirt, a white hat, and dark shorts and carrying a flask in each hand is running up a few yards behind me at a strong pace. Right on his heels, another man with long hair and a beard, also carrying two flasks, is easily running up the last slope in the race. It is Nick Clark; I recognize him from the presentation of elite runners the day before the race. We talked for a while then, but right now I can’t even remember which state he’s from.

  I start to run on the right side of the path, leaving space for this perfectly synchronized couple to pass me comfortably without crashing into me. After a few seconds I feel the breeze blow on my back, and when I look up, I can see Nick’s back moving along the path into the distance.

  “Come on, Kilian. You’ve got to catch them now. You are strong enough to go faster; you can keep it up. You’ve done the uphill stretch, now only 100 yards, then half a mile, and then 3 miles on asphalt to the finish line. Come on, Kilian. He’s tired as well.”

  I look into Jorge’s eyes. I don’t know if they are full of conviction or despair. Can I do it? I have to try. Even if only to go along with the wishes of my pacer.

  My body stopped obeying orders hours ago. I breathe deeply and count to 10, close my eyes, and take in all the air I can. I stop staring at the ground and look up in order to focus on my objective. There is a cloud of dust some 20 yards in front of me thrown up by the perfect pair and, just above that, Nick’s back. I won’t stop; I will ignore the pain and won’t look down until my feet are also part of that dust cloud. I accelerate, and my legs take a few seconds to react before warning me with short, stabbing pains and cramping that paralysis is imminent. But this time, my orders are stronger; I can break through the rock that wants to invade my muscles and brain. I focus on the movement of the back I’m closing in on. This is no time to worry about pain.

  In the distance, as if separated by a wall of water, I hear the increasingly louder, more energetic shouts of encouragement from Jorge, who can see that his orders are working and that we are catching up with the American runner.

  Step by step, second by second, the gap between us closes—only 10 yards now. Come on! I can do it! I repeat to myself. Now I can hear him breathing hard. He is feeling the effort he made when he overtook me. … 5, 4, 3, 2 … I’ve got him! I can’t help smiling. I’ve done it! I glance at Jorge, who keeps cheering me on and congratulating me. I can see the pride in his eyes. I was able to defeat the cement spreading through my legs, and I am back in the fight. I’ve abandoned fear of failure and found the path of hope.

  I take a more relaxed couple of strides to steady my pace and, feeling happy, resume normal breathing after making that supreme effort. I look back at the ground to concentrate on my steps and shut myself back into my bubble. At that point, I don’t know if it is Nick who changes speed or if it is my legs that take back the control from my mind, but suddenly, as if punishing me for the impudence, my legs start to powerfully cramp, reminding me that they will be the ones who will finally decide what place I take in this race. I don’t know quite what happened, but I know that Nick’s back has now run on far into the distance where the sun has just set.

  I didn’t come here to give up hope, to stop fighting when, only 3 miles from the finish line, my body says, “Enough.” I didn’t come here for my body to dominate my mind. Where is everything I learned from running the Tahoe Rim Trail? What about what they say about the brain being the most powerful muscle in the body? Where is the power of the mind that can eliminate pain and achieve incredible things? Can’t I run 3 miles at speed under pressure? Didn’t I do a vertical race only four months ago, sick with a fever, and didn’t I last out and fight to the final minute, on the attack, sprinting? Didn’t I struggle every morning when I was crossing the Pyrenees? Yes, I can run for 15 minutes and bear the pain, the suffering. I can give it my all to reach the finish line exhausted but happy that I have given the best of myself. I can do it!

  I look up from the ground. My objective is no longer the back that continues at that same rhythm a hundred or so yards in front of me; my objective is now the Auburn stadium. I breathe hard, take in all the air I can, and breathe out forcefully. The race starts here, now, with only 3 miles to go. My legs begin to respond. With each stride I struggle to overcome the stiffness and to avoid a fall. I feel as if I am breaking the chains imprisoning my muscles, and with each stride, I drive them harder, gaining speed. The chains finally break, falling from my body and allowing me to move more freely, to flow.

  Within a few minutes, I have almost drawn level with Nick, but now is not the time to stay close on his heels. I am now nearly shoulder to shoulder with him as he and his pacer just stare at me in astonishment. A hundred yards on, I begin to hear the shouts of encouragement from the last aid station in the race before we join the roadway. From then on, only 2 miles of asphalt on the flat, with a slight uphill incline at the end and a half-mile slope down into the stadium.

  Nick matches the pace I have imposed and runs next to me, elbow to elbow, not letting me pass him. As if it were merely a mirage, we pass the aid station without stopping and turn as quickly as we can onto the asphalt. The 100-mile race has become a 3,000-meter chase. There’s no time to think about hydrating, or to watch how night falls on Auburn, or to debate with our pacers, who are shouting like madmen behind us. We keep elbow to elbow, staring straight ahead, not wanting to look at each other and betray any sign of weakness.

  It isn’t about overcoming a rival in these last yards, after so many hours of solitude, but rather about proving to myself that I am capable of giving my best, of telling my body that it can still run fast, that I can reach the finish line content, knowing I couldn’t have put even one more ounce of energy into it.

  On my right, Nick begins to accelerate at top speed—more than 11 miles an hour. He moves ahead, but not so far this time that I can see his back. Fifty yards and the slight asphalt incline begins. I decide that here is where I will mount my counterattack on his sprint. I start to take deep breaths, to stretch my legs long, trying to gather strength. Now is the time. I increase my pace. I begin to feel the uphill climb and draw on every bit of strength I have left. My breathing increases, my chest is about to explode, and my legs are running wild, making it difficult for me to control the cramp that’s invading my calves. But I think only of accelerating; there’s no point in turning my head to see where Nick is. Looking back loses you vital tenths of seconds and breaks your concentration. Jorge starts shouting like a madman that I’m leaving Nick behind me. I grit my teeth and accelerate faster. Ten yards, the fin
al yards before the downhill stretch into the stadium, then only half a mile left before turning right and starting on the athletics track.

  It feels like the longest half mile in my life. My legs begin to rebel, Nick is right behind me, and the stadium is nowhere to be seen. Another stride, going faster and faster. I can’t look back; I can’t look at the ground; I must look ahead, only ahead. Finally, the entrance to the stadium looms before me. I close my eyes for a moment and take a deep breath; now I can say that I have succeeded, that I have given everything, that I have fulfilled my desire. A turn to the right and I enter beneath the bright glow of the floodlights that illuminate the final yards of an adventure that began early this morning 100 miles to the east.

  In my final strides, I thank Jorge for giving me strength when my mind had none and greet the spectators who have come to see us make the finish. I cross the finish line and fall to the ground; my legs cannot tolerate any more of the fire burning in them, and they abandon me to gravity.

  A good friend of mine once said that you learn little from victories; on the contrary, when things are going badly, when the situation is hard and it’s difficult to get out, when you’ve made 99 attempts to get up and have fallen back 99 times, and at the 100th have managed to find a solution, that’s when you mature and really learn something about yourself. Injuring my kneecap had been a terrible but significant moment in my life up to then, a turning point. The Western States 100, too, taught me a lot about myself. On the very practical side, it taught me how to feed and hydrate myself more efficiently. But much more importantly, it helped deepen my understanding of how my body and mind work and how to better fight back.