Yahoo News What Happened When I Tried to Run “The World’s Toughest Island Race”, The Tribe Volcanoes Half-Marathon
Why do you run? A few years ago, the answer was simple enough: weight loss and fitness. Trudge around your local park for 30 minutes a couple of times a week, and that was your cardio box ticked. A leaner physique was just around the corner.
These days, the answer is often more nuanced. Some run for the dopamine hit, seeking a high to relieve the stress of modern life. For others, it’s a desire to outrun the nine-to-five and push boundaries – to truly challenge their physical abilities.
That’s how it is for me. A couple of years ago, the only running I did was when I chased after my loose touches on the five-a-side pitch. Now, running is the star player in my training regimen. I only lace up my trainers a few times a week, but each run is a chance to go a little further and push a little harder than the last time.
I ran my first marathon last year, completing Brighton in three hours and 14 minutes. I could hardly walk the next day, but I loved it – and afterwards, I couldn’t help but feel that my weekend road runs had become pedestrian. I needed a fresh challenge.
The Tribe Volcanoes Half-Marathon provides just that: part of the Run for Love ultramarathon, it’s a 13-mile scramble up and around a volcanic crater in the Azores archipelago. With its brutal inclines, perilous descents and uneven, challenging terrain, it’s the polar opposite of my gentle weekend plod from my flat to the nearest plate of scrambled eggs.
Uphill Battle
Tribe, the organiser of Run for Love, describes it as “the world’s toughest island race”. Over six days, 100 or so ultrarunners will cover 280km (roughly the distance between London and Manchester) – a feat made all the more laudable by the fact that they’ll be testing their stamina and mental grit in the name of fighting slavery. Across the three Runs for Love so far, Tribe has raised more than £500,000 and built several homes for survivors of modern slavery and trafficking.
In this context, the single day of toil that I’ve signed up for seems pretty lightweight. That’s why, though there are just two weeks until the race, my training regimen isn’t exactly what
you’d call rigorous: one very muddy Parkrun in Surrey and 13 days of “tapering”. I’m just jumping in at the final stage, so how hard can it be?
As I arrive on the island of São Miguel in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean after a 12-hour flight, it quickly dawns on me that it can, and will, be very hard. Among the battle-hardened ultrarunners, I realise that I’ve been somewhat negligent in my preparation.
A proper meal and a good night’s sleep are crucial to any race. Unfortunately, I have very little food and no tent. I’m only here for one night, but I’ve still managed to come understocked. In contrast, the ultrarunners who have been covering more than a marathon a day, charging up and down impossible gradients, grappling with injuries, rain and fatigue, are totally in control after almost a week.
“Taking care of your body is key,” says Mark, one of the runners who has just completed the penultimate stage, a 42km run and hike through Atlantic gusts and up 30° inclines. “Yesterday was the really tough one: 80km, 4km in elevation and 19 hours. It rained for the final three hours.
“After that, you just want to curl up in your tent. But we knew we had to eat, stretch and properly decompress, so we were ready for tomorrow.”
For all of the trails and tribulations, morale in the campsite is high – though that might just be because tomorrow brings the finish line and the chance to eat “real food” again. One runner complains that he “can’t stomach another freeze-dried chicken curry”, but any hot dinner certainly seems like an upgrade on my pouch of Ainsley Harriott couscous. Then, another campsite newbie unveils a Pret sandwich from Gatwick to noises of genuine awe.
I manage to haggle a spot in a tent in exchange for a couple of bags of Yorkshire Tea, smuggled from home, and pack down for the night. In the morning, it’s a case of fast fuelling – oats, tea and a slightly battered banana for me; Tribe bars and gels for most of the pros.
Half an hour before the race is due to start, and confronted with a steep, uphill climb into a dense forest, the panic starts to set in. I’d run half-marathons before, averaging around one hour and 25 minutes, but this was different. Everyone around me is packed to the hilt with gear: the start line is awash with walking poles and compression gear. Me? I have on some Aussie rules football shorts and a pair of On Cloudventure trail shoes, only previously used for muddy hikes. There are even pockets of conversation about the best routes. Up to this point, I had no idea that there could be more than one.
This was my first major learning (other than that camping requires a tent, duh!): unlike in city races, you can’t simply turn up to a trail event and run. I frantically ask around for tips. Mark tells me that the key is short, soft strides. “It might feel unnatural at first,” he says. “But quick, little strides distribute your weight better.” In theory, this will make me run more efficiently and prevent my centre of gravity from shifting around too much, which, in turn, will keep me upright.
I resist the urge to grab my notepad and pen from the tent as he continues. “Keep your eyes down, looking three or four steps ahead. When you’re going uphill, lean into the hill and pump your arms to generate extra momentum upward. Using your arms will really help you walk up the steepest inclines.” Walk? “Yes, walk. You’ve got to adjust your pace to the terrain. You’ll end up slipping on loose turf and knackering yourself out if you try to run up every incline. If in doubt, walk.”
When it comes to the course, one runner tells me to look out for the flags marking the route. Another says I should engage my glutes on the downhill stretches, while a kind soul points out that I’m not carrying any water. “That’s a bad idea,” he says.
Trail By Fire
Despite my newly jangling nerves, I feel fresh and get off the line quickly. Whether it’s last night’s couscous or the fact that most of my competitors have already clocked 250km this week, I soon find myself at the front of the pack. Eyes firmly fixed three steps ahead of the softest, bounciest strides I can manage, I make short work of the steep inclines.
As I burst clear of the forest, my view is suddenly dominated by the Lagoa das Sete Cidades, a giant lake lying in the crater of the volcano that this island is formed around. It certainly beats South Lambeth Road on a dreary Monday morning.
Cruising on a flat path with only the crater and Strava for company, the next 5K breeze by. Before long, I’m at the first fuelling station. “Eat something. You’ve got a steep climb coming up,” warns one of the men dishing out Tribe bars. He wasn’t joking. The narrow paths and wet mud make actual running impossible.
Strava isn’t chiming in with my splits so swiftly any more. The gradient feels vertical and, at one point, it literally is: I have to shimmy up a wall of mud to reach the top of a cliff. Restraining my inner Dick Dastardly, I decide against untying the rope at the top.
At the top of the climb, more than 500m above the crater, it’s even harder to resist the urge to stop and take in the view. And in hindsight, slowing down would have been a good idea. I rush down a slightly hidden right turn and sprint into a field. After 10 minutes of descent, I realise that I haven’t seen any flags to mark my path. I stop and look over my shoulder. There’s no one behind me. So, as any rational guy would, I ignore all logic, suppress my mounting panic and plough on down the hill until I’m confronted with a fork in the road. No flags. I can’t ignore it now. I’ve gone the wrong way.
Telling myself that at least this will make a good crisis point in my article, I take solace in another energy bar and trudge back up the hill. Back on track, the second half of the race feels more British countryside than Atlantic island. Climbing over dry walls, dodging cowpat and the ever-impending threat of rain – if it wasn’t for the giant volcanic crater dominating the landscape, this could be a yomp in the Yorkshire Dales.
All too soon, the finish comes into view. I cross the line in fifth, about 40 minutes longer than my PB, though my last race included less abseiling. My legs are burning more than after any run I’ve completed before, but I’m craving more: just one more climb, another mile, a final mind-blowing view. As the ultrarunners trickle across the line throughout the day – some running, some hobbling, all smiling – it’s easy to see how you could get hooked on the trails. But take it from me: it doesn’t take 280km, or even 21km. If you’re feeling listless, take your run off-road – it could be the first step to elevating your body and mind to the next level.
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