I knew it was possible for real humans that I knew personally to finish. Close friends, Doug Mayer of Run the Alps and Jeff Boggess of Trail Butter, had done Tor des Géants over the past years. But I still couldn’t quite imagine how. More than 85,000 feet of uphill and 85,000 feet of downhill over 210 miles encircling Italy’s Aosta Valley … I just couldn’t compute those sorts of numbers. How would a body, and mind, hold up to the vert? To the sleep deprivation? 

Let’s go back ten years to 2014. I had just heard of the inaugural Tahoe 200 in California, and quickly learned that it was inspired by one of the original 200-mile mountain race: Tor des Géants. I was intrigued, but put Tor on a distant “bucket list.” I’d try it someday, maybe, if/when I feel like going really big…

Five years after running Tahoe I did Moab 240, and another five years after that, my turn at Tor arrived when I got picked in the lottery. Before throwing my name in the Tor hat, I had all but sworn off 200s. The sleep deprivation, wear and tear on the body and mind, and long recovery time, had felt like a bit too much, especially after Moab, and I questioned if I wanted to do it again. When I got notice that I’d been accepted, though, I was excited and it felt like it was somehow meant to be – the culmination of decades of adventures and training. I was apprehensive, too, to say the least. If I was that wrecked during and after Moab, with about 30,000 feet of gain and loss, how would I be after Tor with more than double, nearly triple that gain? 

I decided I would go and give it my best shot. 

It’s all in your head

Doug told me tales from his multiple finishes and turned me on to some past Run the Alps blogs that compared Tor more closely to a long, strange psychedelic journey than a trail race. He spoke of the “Dragon” and the mythology around Tor, confirming that it was truly a life-changing event and that it had been the hardest mental challenge he’d ever faced.

Because of all this, I knew my mental game would be put to the test even more than my physical game, and I paid extra attention to preparing my mindset. For me that didn’t only mean long, grueling adventure runs and back-to-back big days in the mountains. I worked on genuinely shifting my relationship to the race by embracing a Zen approach: the less tightly I attached myself to the goal of finishing, the more likely I’d be to do it. The things we grasp most tightly are often the ones that slip away.

Of course I wanted to finish the race, but I eventually clarified my official approach: to be in the moment and unattached to any certain outcome besides staying safe. 

Even before the start in Courmayeur, my mental fortitude was tested. I stood among 1,100 runners at the start line in a pouring rainstorm. After misadventures in the past that involved being cold and wet for hours on end, heavy rain in the mountains has become a bit of a trigger for me. So before the race clock had even begun, Tor was making me face my fears head on. It rained up and over the first pass at Col d’Arp and through the night over Passo Alto and Col de la Crosatie; I had no choice but to settle in and focus on each and every step.

And in your feet

After the first night’s dreary conditions, things mellowed out a bit weather-wise for the next couple of days. The terrain was hard from the first Life Base at Valgrisenche to the next one at Cogne—each monstrous pass looming high above, often with ropes or chains to allow safe passage, but the mountains were beautiful and I felt upbeat. I hoped to simply finish the race; that meant I had enough time, at least early on, to not feel rushed. I tried to just be slow and steady, soaking in the experience.

My good feelings were slowly dampened by sore, sensitive feet. The sustained, rocky descents and paved roads into the Life Base at Donnas only made them worse. When I arrived there, I saw my crew – my mom and a friend Heather –  and broke down in tears. I had so much more to go and I feared my feet were going south like they’d done before at Moab. The next 50km-ish section to the Life Base at Gressoney had 16,000 feet of climbing, which were stats I simply couldn’t wrap my exhausted mind around. In my previous experience a really tough 50km route might have 10,000 feet of climbing… so 16,000 felt incomprehensible, especially with throbbing feet and knowing that there were three more sections after that, all with staggering amounts of gain and loss. Add snow and freezing temperatures to the challenge as a major cold front was bringing the few days of agreeable weather to an abrupt end. I pulled myself together and tried not to think about it.

The next afternoon, I saw my crew again after the long, arduous hours of darkness had gone and I arrived in Niel, still en route to Gressoney. I was deflated again, feet killing me on the notoriously rocky terrain. My mom and Heather said supportive things. Yes, I was getting closer to cut-offs, but that I was still in good time and moving relatively well. My mom bought me a bracelet from a small gift shop that had a miniature mountaineering ax for the clasp attachment. She put it on me as I sat there trying to muster up the mental strength to continue. She told me to let the bracelet remind me during low moments that I just need to “chip away” at it. Piece by piece, until I got it done. I finished getting my gear together, slowly got to my feet, adjusted the bracelet on my wrist, and continued.

A beautiful adventure

Making it to Valtournenche, in the shadow of the iconic Matterhorn, was a turning point. Every section between Life Bases seemed to take forever, but arriving, with just two sections left, felt like all the effort was finally getting me somewhere. I rested, changed clothes and socks, and tried to prepare my psyche for another cold, windy night. On my way out of town, I walked through a plaza filled with statues and plaques commemorating the long history of mountaineering and celebrating the region’s famous mountain guides. I got choked-up thinking about the great tradition of mountain travel that I was now a part of, in my own small way, and how for generations, people have found meaning and solace in the exploration of wild places.

I usually enjoy chatting with folks during races, but up to that point, I hadn’t connected much with other runners on the trail. That changed as a group of us climbed out of Valtournenche. I found myself alongside Bekir Sitki Kandemir, a talkative 60-year-old professor of physics from Turkey with a boyish grin. His positive, excitable energy immediately drew me in and we ended up traveling together through the night and into the next day.

But it was another conversation, with Alain from France as we climbed to Refugio Jean Barmasse, that stuck with me the most:

“How are you?” I asked as I caught up to him. There was a language barrier but we pieced things together.

“Good,” he said in a calm voice. 

He had gentle eyes and seemed totally at ease. I said something about how difficult the race was, and he responded by gesturing toward his mouth: “Eat, drink…” he paused, then held his hands up like he’d inadvertently found the answer: “No limit.”

I was struck at the deep truth of his statement. How could we keep going pass after pass, mile after mile, day after day? By eating and drinking… and maybe a little sleep. I had heard that Tor is an eating race, meaning that of all things, eating plenty of food was the real key to reaching the finish line. Now, in the thick of the journey, I was finding it to be true.

“Have you done this one before?” I asked as we climbed higher. 

“No,” he said, “I’ve done some 2-3 day races but nothing this long.”  

It seemed like we’d finish in the 5-6 day range so we were both in unknown territory. 

I shook my head and made a dramatic, exasperated expression, implying that we were in for an epic slog to the end. He just looked back at me with those calm eyes and gave a small shrug, like he was completely at peace with it all: “It’s just… a beautiful adventure.” 

“Just… a beautiful adventure.”

His words sent a surge of emotion through my chest. He’d just captured the essential truth. Here was the Zen mindset I’d sought to follow from the start: to have no attachments, no expectations, just to be present, accepting all things as they come. 

The pain in my feet didn’t matter. Sunshine or snowstorms didn’t matter. Whether I finished in 120, 130, 140, or 150 hours didn’t matter. Not finishing didn’t matter, either. I’d let myself become distracted by the pain, the discomfort, fear of the conditions. But the only thing that mattered was that we were out there trying it. Doing it. 

Seeing it as a beautiful adventure means you’ve succeeded already. 

Acceptance

I inched my way up over the steep, snowy Col Malatra, our final big pass, and then headed down towards Courmayeur, feeling the collective excitement of the battle-weary runners around me – all approaching the end of a life-changing journey. 

I saw Alain again at the last couple of aid stations and we exchanged nods of encouragement. At the final stop before Courmayeur, on the shoulder of Mont de la Saxe by Refugio Bertone, I saw him once more. He was sitting and chatting as I continued on down the last few miles of rocky switchbacks to town. But Alain simply sat there in the sunshine, unhurried. A peaceful, contented look in his eyes.

I didn’t care about my finishing time, but I was ready to be done and eager to see my friends and family. I ran along the cobblestone streets of Courmayeur to the finish line, enjoying the cheering of thousands of enthusiastic people from Italy and beyond. I was finished at long last, and was with my loved ones. It was a beautiful day, the opposite of the weather in which we’d begun, and far from the brutal conditions of some of the previous nights. Standing there in the sun, it felt like the harrowing conditions that nearly brought me to my knees were some distant memory. 

It’s only been a few weeks since I finished Tor des Géants. I’m still recovering. And trying to make sense of what proved to be the toughest and most rewarding experience of my life. Post race, I feel that sense of self-empowerment. If I managed to stay alive on truly treacherous terrain through truly treacherous conditions, night after night while extremely sleep deprived, then I can do practically anything. What I learned then, applicable to any daunting challenge, is just to go and do it. Embrace each moment for whatever it holds, and not think too hard along the way. 

There will be staggering highs and lows in sport and in life. The goal is to calmly accept, like kind-eyed Alain, that those ups and downs are simply par for the course.

All photos: Willie McBride on the Tor de Géants course 2024.

Want to experience a taste of Tor des Géants?

Join us on our Wild Italian Alps Guided Tour and follow the first section of the TOR from Courmayeur to Cogne, Italy.

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Running Tor des Geants: Courage isn’t Always Quite What it Seems