Prevailing at TOR130 – Tot Dret: A Race Recap

In the three weeks since I started the TOR130 – Tot Dret, I’ve replayed the race in my head countless times, recounted various parts to friends, and both written & dictated parts of a race recap exhaustively into docs. After all this reflection I felt like enumerating every bit and piece of the race wasn’t that interesting to me, and certainly not to anyone else. But I’ve been told there’s interest, so I will try to balance people’s curiosity in an unfathomable race with my desire to be succinct about it. It is going to be a long one even with details left out…

If you want to see real time videos I took throughout the race, head over to my Instagram highlights. I will also be posting more photos with recaps of the sights, scents, feels of the race in the coming days.

About tor130 – Tot Dret

The TOR130 is a partial version of its more well-known sister race, the Tor des Géants. Sometimes called the “baby Tor,” it spans point to point, approximately the last 130km of the 330km TDG course. Boasting ~12,000m of elevation gain, it has about half the vert. As you can see, this is in no way an easy or entry way into discovering the TDG course. Despite that, it is often approached as such by many an innocent trail runner. I mean, I ultimately chose to do this race over the new 100km TOR100 Cervino – Monte Bianco because it would serve as a preview of TDG.

Honestly, it feels like they choose every way to make TOR130 – Tot Dret more difficult than it objectively would be to scare people off moving on to do TDG. Along with the rest of my naivete, I didn’t come to realize the race was a night start until I was deep into training. I knew I’d be running through at least one night, so it wasn’t a shock to my training so much as to my mental approach to the race. For weeks I think it really annoyed me. As race week came, though, I felt like my worry about the night start melted away. In my mind I would just move through the first night like a warm up, then the first day I’d turn it on until the second night, which would be the hard part I was expecting.

Night 1: the dnf devil on my shoulder

On the day, it felt like I had a bizarrely infinite time to prepare for the 9pm start. I wasn’t stressed or relaxed (or nervous) about it. As the race kicked off & we started moving through the corral, a wave of emotions pulled me through town & towards the trails. While I usually succumb to anxiety as a race starts, this time was unique. I felt gratitude for getting through all the training & appreciative for the journey I was about to embark on. This was one of the few hopeful, joyous, and grateful moments of the race.

What followed was hours of a mental battle I thought I’d never win. Through two climbs and descents in the dark, I fought. I fought the scent of cow dung. Of darkness masking all views that may be. Of the strongest desires to DNF for no reason other than lack of desire, motivation, or passion. I never expected some of my toughest mental places to be those in which body and mind were freshest. I even had a list of mantras for an instance like this.

On my body:

Move Fwd. Look for Rainbows. Embrace.

In my mind:

Solve small problems before they become big problems. Every step counts. Move through the mountains, and if not, move with the mountains.

Nothing worked. It was as if I had no “why.” I thought I did. I thought I had so many personal reasons to want to do this. Whether that was true or not, I think the inability to see where I was, to have no visual cues or inspiration, coupled with the monstrosity of time & effort on each section, quite frankly, was a mind fuck.

A brief respite around mile 10 & the first town aid station as my legs felt finally warmed up a few hours in. I was self-aware that the mile or two section around the AS brought a running rhythm I enjoyed yet so rarely felt on this course. I thought of my friend Steve Rowbury, who is known for taking a long time like this to warm up. It was a good sign that my body was prepared for the long endurance effort.

Soon I returned to my misery, feeling alone in the dark amongst a flock of mostly Italian men. Maybe not always physically alone, but mentally & emotionally isolated. A lot of that first night blends together, somehow feeling so much shorter in retrospect than when I was living it. I craved the first drops of daylight. Would that be sometime after 6am? I hoped. 9 hours sounded like a good benchmark to reach and quickly move on from. 

day 1: it doesn’t get easier in daylight

I hit a smaller rifugio aid station just after 6am. It was just starting to be dusk; sunrise seemed lightyears away. Not quite time yet to turn off the waist light or de-layer. Along with a new day, I had been really looking forward to hitting the first morning Aid Station so I could take off some gear and replace my snacks & liquids with the heavy stash in my pack. Unfortunately, it turns out I’d have to wait another 2+ hours for a potential aid station opportunity to do so.

This was also the first time in the race I’d start looking at the course profile and distances a little bit, seeking small increments to work towards (& honestly, depend on). The newness of daylight was not the grand changing I’d expected or needed. Making it into that next aid station helped provide a distraction with my list of tasks. The fact that it meant I was a mere ~50k in was absolutely discouraging.

I left maybe a little fresher, as I at least knew I was still continuing this silly project. I’d made it through night one. I called Steve Woo, who’d crew me later in the day. I knew he’d be one of few people awake and, near crying, I just needed to talk to another human for more than a few words. Staving off hungry emotions, I probably scared him a bit, perhaps him thinking it was a DNF call. It was more that I’d overcome this first part, and hopefully now I was on to a new part of the race mentally.

My mind was what I considered neutral for a bit. Physically I was fine, and I did manage to leap frog with another woman who spoke English for a few sections. It shocked me how there could often be people around but I felt so lonely until these opportunities to have whole conversations in my native language. It’s not something us English speakers experience often enough in the world. A punchy climb up and even steeper descent, and then we began a long section of runnable fire roads and another refugio aid station.

The morning and midday hours intertwined. Time sped by and froze simultaneously. The third prominent climb of the course profile looked different than the others, endlessly and painfully rolling upward. Through false summits and maybe a bit of brain fog (but thankfully slightly overcast weather in the sky), I hit another major mental low.

Different from the first night, this was overwhelmingly emotional. (Note to self, emotions are harder to regulate when tired, ha.) It was less a desire to DNF, although I’m sure I was still searching for reasons to, and more of the mind games that were hours of climbing while sleep deprived. I should note also that a week before the race I pulled my back, unable to bend over or twist without immense pain. Even with poles, it would ache or throb later into the climbs. This extra pain heightened my emotions by flooding my nervous system, and my lows coincided with it.  

I could feel it all coming on, and for the first time ever in a race I did two things I’ve never done: I popped two Aleve for my back, and pulled out headphones to port Spotify into one ear. I still felt like a rubber band ball of emotions, and needed to release. So I cried. Unnatural to me, I actually had to force it to initiate. Of course once I started, the waterworks released sporadically like a dam being regulated for downstream water levels. It took until the third playlist I tried to finally find a slight mental distraction. I probably played that same playlist on repeat 3+ times. Ironically, now that I could see the scenery I’d yearned for in the night, I couldn’t appreciate it. This race wasn’t even Type 2 fun.

Eventually I made it, eyes wet, to Rifugio Cuney. It felt like the top of the climb, but of course, this is Tor, so it wasn’t. I watched someone get helicoptered out. Before resuming, I decided to go inside the tent to see if there was anything appealing to eat. I had internalized that calories help you not only dig out of the physical ruts, but the emotional trenches too. I almost gave up until I saw a big tupperware of orzo. It was intended as pasta for soup, but I asked for a few spoons of it plain. And then a second helping. To this day, I still think those two servings of orzo were the highlight of my race. Maybe even what turned it around, or at least ended the mental lows for good.

I continued on, seeking the top of the climb. I was tired of being Sisyphus, ready to get through the lessons of this mountain. Before I could complete this part of the epic, I started looking at the good patches of grass near the trail. I needed one last tactic to finish mentally resetting. Despite the daylight, I’d try to lie down for a few minutes and find renewed energy for the downhill. So I set a 10 minute alarm and pulled my jacket over me. However, the sound of people passing on the trail a few feet away was like nails on a chalkboard. The sun peeked out of the clouds and the burst of warmth it brought was the last indication that I would not be successful. I sat up, had a few caffeinated Skratch chews as I looked out below me, and I was off again.

Embarking on the downhill meant I was finally on my way to the only crewed Aid Station of the race. I had hope, maybe even excitement or positivity. Based on maps & other course info I’d seen, it was supposed to be located around either 42 or 45 miles. This was the time in the race where magic mystery miles started materializing; everything was now longer than it was supposed to be. The neverending downhill felt like a bottomless pit: full of good running terrain, mental walk breaks, and all sorts of small troubleshooting. I finally hit the bottom of town and saw Steve. With a cruel 300 ft climb, I hit Oyace just under 48 miles.

I came into the Aid Station focused on what needed to be done. DNF doubts had flown away, my mind occupied instead by an atmosphere of tasks. I ate a small meal, fully repacked my vest, popped & protected a blister, and changed into a fresh set of clothes & shoes. It was far less efficient than I would’ve liked but I felt like I took care of everything so I could set out again, prepared to continue.

As I proceeded up the next big climb, I tucked in between two Italian men. From what I could tell, they were heading up together. I was afraid of being dropped following them, but also didn’t want to jump in front either. It was so nice to zero in on the rhythm of footsteps in front of me. I could switch off my brain as sleep deprivation tried to take over. Tunnel vision, heavy breathing, progress. It was a little harder than I would’ve otherwise taken the climb. I didn’t care, the benefits outweighed the costs.

We hit Col Brison at the top, a whisper of snow in the wind as it whipped across. Layers donned and lights on, thus initiated another descent. It was after sunset and we were entering night two. Everyone I had passed or was with on the way up passed me back on the way down. The trail started pretty steep and technical, and the one downside to a waist light is when you bend your knees up for big step downs from rocks, it blocks the light from hitting the ground. Weariness slowed my mind, reaction times and decision making hindered.

The descents in the second half of the race were generally longer, really rambling down. Or maybe that’s teh impression brought on by a body diminishing, slowly rebelling. Anyways, as I rolled into the next town, seeking flags to fill the chasm from cobblestones to main roads, another woman caught up to me and we found our way together. It was the second time I got to run with someone with whom I could speak english.

night 2: spectator to someone else’s vision quest

We were there with two hours until cutoff, both of us starting to feel uncertain of our minds but still sure of our legs. It made sense to both of us to snack, take a quick lay on the cots, then set out together. Of course the tent was too loud and another nap attempt failed. At least the legs were elevated for a few minutes.

As we set off together we chatted away, making slow progress as a team. In retrospect, my naive vision of working together to ensure mutual success to the finish line was too idealistic. It faded into the dark of the night sky as we watched an endless string of headlamps blend into the stars around every turn uphill. I learned she was also having stomach issues fueling at nighttime, the lack of calories surely intensified the effects of a second sleepless night.

Getting into another rifugio Aid Station just before the final steep ~800 ft of the climb, we needed to make sure she tried to eat something. After whispers of more snow and the potential for crampons being required, a cold autumn night took hold. Things started to feel dire for her and we discussed whether it would make more sense to go back down or finish the climb and have easier downhill ahead. I was not in a place to call it quits and selfishly was prepared to continue. Simultaneously, I felt connected to staying with her. This was the time she really started being loopy, sleep walking, and losing balance & other senses in the dark.

What persisted was hours of wandering through the timeless night. All I could do was keep watch, keep talking, keep us moving, and keep us on trail. It felt unsafe and irresponsible to leave her for my own race objectives, at least not before we hit an Aid Station where she could decide her own fate. I knew logically there were plenty of TDG runners on course alone in even worse states, but it felt like the right thing to do at the time, and for me. I’d probably do it again if in that situation;  I think in the future I can’t tie my race to someone else’s without setting boundaries & guidelines to move on from each other when it makes sense.

I’d been happy with the pace I kept through the race before that, and watched it slip into the abyss of darkness. I’d guess I lost a few hours going at someone else’s pace, contrary to the reliable adage “run your own race.” I can’t have known, though, if I did that second night alone & only had myself to focus on, if I would have had another deep mental trough or other difficulties. Through many stops, a 5 minute dirt nap in which we both finally caught our only seconds of sleep in race, some sleep walking of my own, an excellent bowl of cheesy polenta, wearing almost every layer I packed, and picking up a hallucinating TDG runner for the last few km, we inched closer to the next town of Bosses and closer to the race cutoff there.

Fatigue was hitting my legs, as this was a lot of slow time on feet and about the total time I’d expected to be in the race. My faith in continuing wavered in and out. One more big climb left to the finish seemed reasonable. At the same time, I felt some satisfaction and peace knowing I’d made it this far after expecting to DNF so early. And I was unequivocally tired now. As a group of three we made it to the Aid Station with 22 minutes to spare, so I went straight to the cots with a 10 minute alarm in hand and the intent to assess how I felt on the other side of it. 

day 2: we’re getting this thing done

Like every Aid Station so far, I went in with a plan & stuck to it, never stopping to think about how I was feeling and just doing what needed to be done. Waking up from another failed nap, I saw my partner peacefully asleep like a pea in a pod (cot) next to me. I had already hugged her when we got in and she dropped out, but it still felt strange to walk away and not say goodbye. I was fine, so it was time to return to my own race and finish the darn thing.

Unsurprisingly, the last climb of the race is just as big as the others. I ambitiously took off my rain layers in the sun as the trail began to wind away from town, not knowing I’d soon be hit by a cold wind almost the rest of the day. I’d been cold all night but not quite as cold as the journey to and from Col de Malatrà. I climbed well given how far into the race I was, finally a marble in a groove of my own pace again. There were runnable stints, which had me passing many who had passed us through the night. I was never meant to be behind them. The wind swept us up, up into a land of gentle overnight snowfall. Stopping or removing gloves felt like a dementor’s kiss of death. So, marching forward I went.

The Col itself was a cruel joke to many, a true mountain trail and the most technical part of the course for sure. Rocks, ropes, snow melt, and tracked on ice. After time in the Eastern Sierra, it felt like nothing to me. And that was the last climb. I had done it. I would make it.

What followed was steep down, endless rolling, and so much runnable terrain. Tricked by the flatter contouring miles leading to Rifugio Bertone, I was overcome with emotion one more time. I was so close. Yet I still wasn’t quite there; there were probably five sections that all looked like the last bit to Bertone that I had pre-run. It was a curse, my own Groundhog Day. My feet were barking at me now, but I took advantage of the running to pass more people. I knew this was my strength versus the last technical downhill.

Before I could charge it, my watch finally died as I clumsily worked my way down rocky switchbacks. Eventually, I hit the dirt road, then town roads. I knew the area well enough, but still had tunnel vision for those critical yellow flags one last time. I meandered with them through the local parks before arriving at the entrance to town. Knowing TOR & the Italians, I expected one last twist, to go down below town then back uphill into it. When I caught Steve and he told me it was straight through, I learned I truly do always have a finishing kick. Even after 41.5 hours. Nothing could stop my momentum to get up and over the ramp.

388 runners started. 163 finished. 58% DNF. There were ~509 registered, including 63 women. In 41h:40m:25s I was 6th in my category (senior women), 12th F. I would’ve had another spot or two if it wasn’t for how the second night went. None of that matters; I finished the thing when for half the race I thought there was no way I could. I finished, finally in a place of acceptance, normalcy, routine, and feeling *fine.* Strange, surreal, undigestible. That’s TOR130 – Tot Dret for you.

Finish line photos by Steve @travelwoo