UTMB 2025: The Miracle of Mont Favre
UTMB 2025: The Miracle of Mont Favre
UTMB - 4 letters. 3 countries crossed. 1 extraordinary adventure, which is now the 100M finals of the UTMB World Series. This is the iconic race that has taken so many passionate runners on an extraordinary journey around the Mont-Blanc, including one of our club ultra runners - Oli Watkins - who has written a ‘hot take’ of his incredible achievement over the bank holiday weekend:
“Naughty Daddy, that game was only for big girls!” This was the response from my oldest son (at the time an avid Peppa Pig fan) as I ignominiously DNF’d my first ever attempt at an ultra. Undone by hot weather and total cluelessness, I clearly had a lot to learn.
Fast forward a few years and I finally had the opportunity to fulfil a long held ambition: to race UTMB. Almost unarguably the world’s biggest trail ultramarathon, I was captivated by seeing the YouTube broadcast in 2018, and had plotted and planned ever since. I was fitter, more durable, and hopefully I had managed to learn a few things since my first tilt at an ultra, but nonetheless this was a colossal leap into the unknown.
I listened to a huge amount of a very eclectic (or just plain questionable) music over a very long time, and when doing an activity for a long time it’s a statistical certainty that every now and then the music and the moment line up perfectly, and a few tracks are now indelibly associated with the moments they fitted so well. I’ve sprinkled some of the lyrics in question throughout to give a flavour.
It is one thing to harbour an ambition, it is quite another to stand on the start line having to actually deliver [You’ve been… Thunderstruck!]. The vital statistics of the race are well known; 174km, 10000m of climbing. The winners take about 20 hours to finish, but anything less than 25 hours puts you firmly in the category of the elite. If, on the other hand, you are “just some guy” then you can expect well over 30 hours and two full nights on the trail.
The atmosphere at the start and while leaving Chamonix is electric, but everyone really knows that this is just a warm up. Even the initial ascent of Col de la Voza out of Les Houches is really an opportunity for everyone to burn off some early nerves before the serious work begins coming out of Les Contamines. And this year, it really was serious. Steady, cold rain was falling as we left the town at 10pm and it intensified up the climb to the Col du Bonhomme (47km, 2449m) before turning to snow. I visited the Col du Bonhomme in July and it’s clearly out to get me; I had to turn back then due to heavy snow. This time, however, there was no turning back and a long line of runners slowly made their way up the single tracked-out line in the snow, overtaking rendered impossible on a climb which simply wouldn’t end [Can you help me, occupy my brain?]. The ascent, however, was nothing compared to the descent. Usually this is a lovely fine grained surface with just a bit of give in it; perfect for a fast descent on a wide track. This year, however, icy snow quickly gave way to the kind of quagmire cross country enthusiasts fantasize about [You’re poison running in my veins, poison!]. Running was next to impossible, and in the vast majority of cases, so was staying upright. Having made it down to the aid station at Les Chapieux (52km, 1546m) we then repeated the whole exercise over the Col de la Seigne (63km, 2511m), but colder, higher, windier and with more snow. The snow refused to relent even as the time ticked past 3am, when the weather forecast had predicted skies would clear. 5am came and went and still it came down.
By the time I made it into the Lac Combal aid station (68km, 1691m) things were serious. My troublesome knees had been battered by the sliding, twisting and general beating of the descent and were complaining loudly. I was wearing every stitch I was carrying, all of it was wet and I was freezing. A poor night’s sleep before the race (thanks brain) was now contributing to major consciousness issues. I sat down and in the literal blink of an eye Kasabian stopped telling me that Reason Is Treason, and Kenny Rogers was asking me What Condition My Condition Was In (bloody awful Kenny, but thanks for asking) [I pushed my soul, in a deep dark hole, and then I followed it in]. I have no idea how long I was “asleep” for, but at least I now know what narcolepsy is like. This was very bleak; the dream of many years was being undone by the weather and a basic lack of mental fortitude. A DNF looked like a racing certainty, but when I needed her most lady luck intervened. I knew only one other person among the 2500 runners who started the race, and it was him that I bumped into leaving the aid station. Wrapped up in all our kit and both stunned by the events of the night it took a moment to recognize each other. In the film of this situation he’d make an inspiring speech to put some steel in my spine, but in reality he wordlessly conveyed the message that “Yes, of course we feel awful, but this is what we came for, isn’t it?”. He also gave me pause to remember point number 1 on my “Low Point Checklist”: WHAT WOULD COURTNEY DAUWALTER DO?! Answer: laugh, smile, problem solve, look for positives and keep going! I can never actually be as tough as either Luke or Courtney, but I can try to do a job of faking it for 30 minutes. And after those 30 minutes had elapsed the Miracle Of Mont Favre occurred; the clouds cleared, the sun rose, the mountains looked staggeringly beautiful, and most significantly of all, my circadian rhythm asserted itself and provided all the chemicals I needed to be awake and motivated [So the morning came, and swept the night away, I found a way, I found a way…].
It would be a huge exaggeration to claim that I never looked back, but the sunrise carried me through the rest of the day and the devil on my shoulder had been slain for good. The basics of ultra running are that you do loads of the right sort of training, stay well hydrated and well fueled throughout and it will all work out OK. This approach carried me through a truly beautiful day in the alps. I ticked off the mythical waypoints along the route like a liturgical recitation: Courmayeur, Refugio Bertone [No they never miss a beat, never miss a beat, never miss a beat], Refugio Bonatti, Arnouvaz [Ooooh I know that something good is going to happen], Grand Col Ferret [Push it, push it, watch me work it, I’m perfect! That’s right I’m a superstar!], La Peule, La Fouly, Champex Lac [I’m sure in her you’ll find, the sanctuary]. The sanctuary at Champex Lac was my beloved family who had endured the UTMB bus network to support me. This is an incredibly selfless act with almost nothing it in for them, for which I am profoundly grateful. My wonderful wife, however, does not sell sanctuary, she sells a very firm boot up the bum to get out there and Get. It. Done. Sanctuary was not what I needed.
By various means the weather had crushed any thoughts I had about getting a particular time, so I was just looking to finish. The downside of this very sensible decision, however, is that I was now guaranteed to be going through a second night. The circadian rhythm giveth, but the circadian rhythm also taketh away and this is where the next crunch was really going to come.
About 150km into UTMB is an exceptionally cruel joke; the ascent to Les Tseppes. If you deviate from the official route just a little, there is a very pleasant climb to the same summit. The organisers, however, have decided that runners should take the direct route with the first two kilometres averaging a truly savage 30% gradient. Most of the climb was just a battle to keep gaining height, on legs which had already given an unprecedented effort. I fought for every metre, looking at my watch from time to time to register distressingly small height gains: 11m, 9m, 7m… on and on [Don’t be frightened, just give me a little bit more!]. Eventually, after a subjective age, the major difficulties were passed and a new challenge presented itself; seeing straight. The rocks on the path were swimming around, and my hands and poles were weaving through my eyeline uncontrollably. The urge to sleep was absolutely overwhelming; many fellow competitors had given in and were sprawled in the strangest of places. I made it to a small tent at the top of the climb, sat down, let my head fall forward and did… something a bit like sleep. Five minutes (surely plenty!) passed and the aid station staff tempted me to drink some coke. Hopeful that this would keep me on the straight and narrow I pressed on, mercifully able to pick out the rocks and roots liberally strewn on the descent into Vallorcine [No one else is here and I can’t get a sense of nothing, No one else gets high and I can’t sleep cause I got nothing, Feeling I have lost control to a higher force].
It’s worth a short detour here to describe the later aid stations. The early aid stations are very workmanlike, and it’s just about getting fuel and fluids into runners at top speed. It’s those later on in the race are where the fun happens and the amateur psychologists prowl. My experience at Trient was one of the more memorable; everyone who has got there has a great chance of making to the end, which is really what we were all dreaming of. However, not all of them have got there in great shape and it looked like a cross between an all night rave and a field hospital. Nonetheless, as I entered the DJ (yes, there was a DJ) shouted “OLIVER! OLIVER WATKINS! THIS ONE IS FOR YOU…” and moments later Queen were bellowing “DON’T. STOP. ME. NOW!”. This is a lovely feature of aid stations in the latter part of these races, the volunteers know that their job is to get people out and to the finish, using any and all tools available to them. It really feels like a privilege to be helped out by one of the masters of the art. I left Trient to a cry of “YES! OLIVER! YES! WE ARE GOING TO CHA-MON-IIIIIIIIIX”. No punctuation can do it justice.
I made my own modest contribution to aid station drama at Vallorcine. By comparison to every other occupant I was clearly in remarkably good shape. Some of these runners were clearly going to suffer for a very long time to hit the finish line. Over the course of the day my stomach had been getting increasingly picky about what I put in it, but had generally been persuaded to tolerate gels and other food for the greater good. So at Vallorcine I quickly scoffed three lovely big slices of watermelon, then my last caffeine gel, with the plan that this would keep me conscious to the finish line. Unfortunately the rejection was instant and unequivocal. A panicked demand “Have you got a bucket?! I think I’m going to be sick!”, generated a sympathetic response, and a suggestion I went to the toilet in the opposite corner of a rather large tent. I responded by grabbing the nearest jug and puking into it my entire stomach contents, which is to say: three slices of watermelon and a caffeine gel. The embarrassment of this would usually be crippling, but all I was worried about was the disappearance (or reappearance) of my last dose of caffeine. Fortunately, if there is one thing for which all aid stations the world over can be relied on, it is Coca Cola. Many companies have produced all kinds of advanced sports nutrition, but when the chips are really down, almost the entire field, from the back markers to the elite, will turn to Coke. And as a paid up middle pack jogger, this is exactly what I did. Calories, hydration, stomach balm and caffeine, all in one cup.
Consciousness and the ability to focus are one thing, but your brain is still going to express its displeasure at the lack of sleep. I’d been “seeing things” (like a large polar bear sprawled next to the path) for a while, but now the hallucinations really started to get into their stride [Wish away your nightmare, wish away the nightmare. You got a light, you can feel it on your back. A light and you can feel it on your back. Your jigsaw falling into place]. The majority of these were in the light thrown by other competitors’ head torches. The patterns on most stones looked like various types of animals, religious carvings or coded letters. The chap in front of me looked like he was about to climb over a beautiful marble coffee table, but it turned out to be just some rocks. Buildings, and whole cities appeared in the trees, and frequently it would look like vast quantities of parachute silk had been hung through the forest and shadowy figures were moving on the other side. Clearly I REALLY needed to get to the finish line.
I find it tragic that 9 people made it to the last aid station but either withdrew or timed out before the easy descent to Chamonix. I, however, was only after one thing: enough caffeine to enable me to see straight on the descent, and descend I did [When there’s nowhere else to run… While everyone’s lost, the battle is won, with all these things that I have done]. The serendipity of this particular song still brings tears to my eyes three days later.
Finishing races is often a little anticlimactic; I’m not trying to win and it’s been clear for a while that I’m going to make it, it’s just a matter of getting it done. However, as I headed up to the Triangle d’Amitie I saw the legendary finish arch I had left so many hours earlier and it suddenly hit me that the dream of many years was a reality. Pure disbelief. Hand in hand with my two sons, who had got out of bed horribly early to see me finish, I did the only sensible thing available to me: burst into tears (an activity I shared with a hefty proportion of all other finishers).
So how do I reflect on my finishing time of 37 hours? For the first time in my life I can honestly say I don’t care about the time or my position. My goals of going any faster, if I’m honest, were motivated by the fear of being unable to cope with a second night out. Having done so, however, I’m pleased that I got “the full experience”. Racing ultras like these isn’t about finding a way to dodge the challenges of the course, it’s about taking the blow full in the face and seeing what happens. I’m profoundly grateful that, this time, and by the smallest of margins, enough things lined up in my favour that I made it to the finish line”.
