Above the Clouds by Kilian Jornet

Author:Kilian Jornet
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2020-06-29T00:00:00+00:00

AT THE STARTING POINT, THERE’S A MIXTURE OF NERVES AND JOYOUS excitement. Some people smile, and others are anxious to try to get a few centimeters ahead, positioning themselves close to the first line. I don’t like to put myself ahead, and I only go to the first row if I predict complications at the start, if the terrain narrows early, or if I think I might fall easily. Generally, I prefer to be in the second or third row. People start too fast and they often push you, or in ski mountaineering, someone might break your pole by accident or take the skin off one of your skis. Furthermore, in the first row, the runners’ anxiety is more intense. It seems like the activity is more important than it really is, and there’s always some journalist who wants you to grin and pose or say something stupid.

The horn blows, and the stampede begins. I pass from the third to the sixth or seventh row; everyone gets ahead, sprinting and elbowing me out of the way. I open my arms a little and make space for myself so I don’t lose my balance, then take a run up and find my pace. After 100 meters, most of the fifty or so runners I had in front of me have drastically slowed their pace. I pass them on one side of the road and catch up with the group in the lead.

We’ve covered just over a kilometer, and we make for a steep dirt trail. A dozen runners who know each other from other races end up alone together. There’re a couple of Kenyans, two Colombians, Petro Mamu from Uganda, Robbie Simpson from Scotland, and the odd European or American. Halfway up the steep ascent, Petro, who won the IAAF mountain running world championship just two weeks earlier, begins to speed up in short, intense bursts to break up the group. After a couple of attacks, we let him go. There’s a lot of race left, and these efforts so early could cost me later on, I think. One of the Kenyans, Geoffrey Ndungu, the mountain race specialist who has run marathons in two hours eight minutes, and William Rodríguez, a Colombian who’s always at Sierre-Zinal, follow him. Behind him, we’re trying as hard as we can, our calf muscles accumulating lactic acid, and our lungs fighting for more space inside our chests. The leading trio is just over a minute away, and they don’t gain any more time.

When we reach the high point of the climb, a long forested stretch begins. This is where my tired mountain runner’s legs usually make me feel like a snail surrounded by road-running gazelles, but to my surprise, we move ahead quickly together until we reach the first three runners at the race’s midpoint, right at the entrance to Chandolin. We leave the town and about 10 kilometers of flat terrain behind, along paths and trails that lead us to the highest point in the race, the Hotel Weisshorn, at almost 2,500 meters.

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