Donnas to Gressoney – 51.6 km (200.3 km total)
“You can hurt more than you ever thought possible, then continue until you discover that hurting isn’t that big a deal.” – Scott Jurek
When I reflect on the Tor Des Geants, I still marvel at the fact that I left the Donnas life base and continued on. I now believe that the key factor in my continuation was fear of being a drop-out, fear of admitting that I couldn’t do it, fear of disappointing myself, Bruce and my supporters. Those fears were greater than the agony in my knee, my confusion due to lack of sleep and the frustration with the sheer difficulty of the route. It was easier for me to carry on than to admit defeat.
Donnas is the lowest elevation of the entire route at 322 m (1050 ft). We now faced a 6400 ft climb over the next 20 km climb to reach the first of many high passes in this segment. Knowing that this would be a six hour endeavour, our goal was to reach Rifugio Coda before needing our headlamps. Luckily, hiking uphill was my area of strength since my knee gave me no grief while climbing.
While we were sleeping in Donnas, another big rain storm had passed over but it had cleared off by the time we hit the trails at 13:30 and the sun was bright and warm again. The trail was very urban here and took us on a long, circuitous, uphill route through suburbs, backyards, vineyards and town-connecting trails. We were always in view of houses, streets and man-made structures. An archway of espallied peach trees had recently been harvested but I found one lonely ripe peach as we hiked along. There is nothing as tasty as stolen fruit!
Above Donnas, we crossed the famous Pont St. Martin and were treated to a delicious local pastry (torteccini) at a refreshment station in Perloz.
Finally, we left the villages and entered a true trail. Bruce and I chatted about many things as we hiked along and there was an unhurried feeling between us now.
But for much of this climb, I silently mulled over my decision to drop out at the next life base in Gressoney. The ramifications of dropping out weighed heavily on me:
How would I face my running buddies? Would everyone knowingly nod and say sympathetic remarks? What about all those other Canadians who were on the waiting list, desperately hoping to be selected for the race? What would they think of a person who dropped, not because of medical issues but because it was too hard?
This last point strongly resonated with me. Being on the waitlist is such a disappointment in itself but to stand by and witness racers drop out due to ill-preparedness or lack of desire is beyond frustrating as a waitlisted runner. This year’s TDG filled to 700 entrants in less than 10 minutes and the remaining 2000 were waitlisted. To me, that meant that thousands of others wanted my spot and each would be angry that I was squandering an opportunity. This thought motivated me more than any other.
As we passed through the lower forest, we were treated to the sight of a farmer herding his cattle up to higher ground for the night. With huge cows eyeing us on either side, we passed straight through the herd unscathed.
Rifugio Coda remained a long way off, giving me more time to ponder my imminent DNF.
Why was I finding the TDG so hard? In Donnas, Bruce reminded me that I knew it would be hard. But this was far more difficult than I had imagined. There was no comparison.
And somewhere on this climb, I came to terms with it all. Like a light switch being turned off, I realized that I had to shut off my thinking. No longer would I analyze the steepness, the rockiness or the terrain in front of me. No longer would I process the world around me, either for its immense beauty or retched ugliness. No longer would I take in and absorb the sights, smells or stimuli I came across.
I will hike up until I reached the top. Then I will hike down. I will repeat this process again and again without questioning. I will keep doing this until it is over.
So from here, my memory becomes foggy, clouded or completely absent. This is what it took for me to carry on. Perhaps it is a demonstration of my strength or my weakness. Perhaps it shows the extent of my fatigue. Whatever it was and however it looks in hindsight, I kept going until it was over, never again entertaining the idea of dropping out.
Rifugio Coda came into view as daylight was fading. It sat high and alone on a treeless ridge, beckoning us from across the basin. Although it was in sight, we still had to wind our way up along the ridgeline and headlamps were necessary for the final twenty minutes. Inside, the building was humming with activity. One floor was a sleeping loft; one floor was a restaurant for paying customers and the basement was for humble racers like us. The cramped quarters made it difficult to get to the food tables and, once seated, we were constantly blocking someone else. But this milestone had been achieved and we savoured the fact that we had travelled more than 100 miles and were approximately halfway done.
Back outside, we headed into our third night which quickly enveloped us in a four-hour rainstorm and the worst muddy trail conditions of the entire route. As we descended into the muddy depths of Lago Vargno, I was seething with frustration and anger. The lights of this rifugio had been briefly visible but it took about 90 minutes of slip-sliding down the steep descent in over-the-shoe mud before we arrived. Finding the inside of the rifugio too hot, too noisy and filled with too many people, I stationed myself outside and ate my bowl of hot pasta alone. Eventually I moved undercover to a tent with the time check crew where I listened to their contented Italian babble. Although I understood nothing, I was absorbed with their happy chatter and found that their positive mood pushed away the blackness of my own.
Col Marmontana, Col del Vecchio and the col in between (which is significant but not named on any map) were all passed in the depths of that third night. It was hard going and slow going and I have no memory of any of it. I know that Bruce broke two trekking poles during the night in separate situations, making his descent all the more difficult. When we finally were able to pack away our headlamps the next morning, we were descending a treacherously slippery trail with unavoidable puddles. I had been trying to keep my shoes and socks mostly dry so as to protect my taped-up blistered feet but there was no way to do so here. We trudged calf-deep through puddles of muck, never knowing if our shoe treads would hold.
By the time we reached Niel at 8:20 am, we were both exhausted beyond frustration. The sunny patio was a lovely place to sit and people-watch. There was a delightful English couple in charge of the timing booth who bickered endlessly at each other under their breath. There was both hot polenta and pasta of which I ate plenty. We rested for too long and eventually headed back up the trail towards the next col.
Col Lasoney was a true highlight of the course for me. Having just experienced the worst conditions imaginable, it was an absolute treat to be presented with a gentle, grassland climb.
On the other side, the wide open prairie carried us gently down beside a river and I was actually able to run. It felt like we were running in the Sound of Music opening scene. Since I had stopped studying maps or elevation charts (why bother, I thought), I had no idea that this was the beginning of a 8 km gentle descent to the next life base. As we ran, a man flew his videography drone around Bruce and me as we ran. It would have been fabulous footage to see. This lovely runnable section was punctuated by a wild aid station of volunteers who were completely drunk and totally hilarious. It was amusing to see them stagger around, ringing dozens of loud cowbells and hollering encouragements but we couldn’t get away from the noise fast enough.
The trail into Gressoney became more challenging as we entered the steep, pine forest and once again I was only able to manage a painful hobble.
Relief wafted over me as we entered the town limits and, once again, I entered the life base in tears. As usual, our routine was to eat, drink and sleep so we set about reloading our packs, eating a substantial meal with beer/red wine and grabbing a three-hour nap.
But as I headed into the women’s sleeping quarters (the only time there was separation of sexes), I spied the medical and massage area and decided to have someone work on my knee. A doctor spent about 30 minutes using a deep massage technique to realign my patella. The source of my pain was deep inside my knee joint and it felt amazing to have it worked on for such a long time. I was sent off to the sleeping area with ice packs taped to my knee and advice to visit the doctor at every life base afterwards.
I gave up about 45 precious minutes of sleep time in order to get that medical treatment and then I was treated to a very poor sleep. Trying to sleep in a racquetball court is almost impossible, even if no one is playing. Every person’s movement was amplified and, even though there were only 10 beds in each court, the noise echoed enough to keep me just at the surface of sleep. When my alarm sounded, I dragged myself out and met up with Bruce as planned. We left Gressoney at 19:27 pm.
Section 4 – 51.6 km in 23h 55m
Gressoney Life Base – 5h 54m
Cummulative Total – 200.3 km in 75h 33m (+5h 54m in Gressoney LB)
Total Life Base Time = 17h 9m
Total sleep = 8h 15m
The saga continues here: Section #5 – Gressoney to Valtournenche