Endurance Games

Taking MIUT 2024

I arrived at Curral das Freiras (km 63) under a cloud of doubt. 3 minutes off the lead and a long and somewhat torturous night reverberating in my legs. After a pitstop with my crew, I jogged up the road, telling myself, “Stay in the game, Ben.”

Working into the climb, I noticed a runner in pursuit. Miguel. But that’s not possible. He was ahead. I sensed vulnerability then opportunity and there was but one thing to do. Inflict suffering.

Honestly my climbing legs were shot, but that did nothing to stop the lashes. Every moment I appeared in view to him, I was running uphill. When the trail dipped into the trees, I hiked.

Knowing full well this was the decisive moment, my mantra became, “Steady, unrelenting progress.”

I was patient with the fatigue, certain that if I could simply push this measly power over the length of the climb, I would still gain an advantage.

Soon he appeared further back, then smaller again. Then gone, and the game remains the same. Keep shuffling, onward, skyward. But let’s run it back—

Exuberance

PORTO MUNIZ 11pm: Normally nodding off at this hour, I went into a bar and took two shots of espresso. Not one to warm-up much before an ultra, I loafed and stretched waiting for the departure.

Photos by João M Faria

Out of the gate we ramped up a climb. Paved road, 20% incline. Nothing slow and steady about it, at least 3 of the top guys had been competing in ski-mountaineering races this winter and seemed anxious showoff their uphill skills.

Down then up. A familiar theme. A cluster of us passed through the Fanal aid station (km 15) in fog thick as soup.

We were 5 deep going up the next big climb (1400m over 10km). About half-way into it, I relieved Martin Kern (France) as guide, followed closely by Miguel Arsenio (Portugal) and Jeff Mogavero (USA).

The three of us swapped leads until we hit the plateau where Miguel injected some real pace and I matched the move. Wind sent rain sideways, but I stayed in my t-shirt, preferring to generate heat by speed than layer up.

Aggression

Descending from Estanquinhos (km 33), the real business started. Light from my headlamp was swallowed by the fog. Fearlessly we romped down the rocky then muddy then swampy 1300m descent using feet as feelers.

With Miguel on my tail and the rain coming in torrents, I leaned into the situation. Embodied an animus spirit. Sent it.

Reaching a river means one thing. Back up. Because of the limited course recon, I had no idea what was happening out there.

The entire night was an act of discovery and forced me to be hyper-present. On the negative side, all this reactionary running had me wasting an unconscionable amount of energy.

In previous editions of the race, the section between Encumeada (km 48) to Curral das Freiras (km 63) proved a consequential stretch. I ran all the uphill sections with Miguel clinging on. The track climbed to gain a topo handrail then gave way to rolling, potentially fast track.

Miguel took over and was attacking whenever possible, but we were encumbered by flooded trails, mud pits, and creek crossings along narrow traverses cut into the mountain side.

First nuance of grey meant day. We hit a little col and plummeted into the clouds. Miguel torched the descent. It was technical, slick and in that hour between night and day, treacherous. Having already turned my ankle once, I was not willing to follow with the same ferocity.

My stomach turned and I made a toilet stop. I accepted the time deficit, vowing to use it as motivation over the next climb.

Steadfast

Endurance will sort the field. No one was super strong between Curral and Pico Ruivo (km 74), so by not imploding, I maintained a lead.

Bathed in clouds and wind and nearly 7000m of climbing in the legs, it was hard going. But every time I noticed my mind wandering, I cinched it flush to the present.

Deep in an ultra, if you are not wrestling with your the effort on a moment-to-moment basis you will lose traction.

The purgatory continued for some time except I was permitted views. The improbable footpaths from Pico Ruivo to Pico Areeiro (km 80) are something else. Steel ladders and tunnels and stone stairs slicked with rain, challenging but utterly beautiful.

Photo by No Limits Photography

An arduous 20km descent to the ocean lay ahead. My crew informed me that I had 13 minutes on second, but had lost 3 minutes up high.

Resolve

Some sun and runnable kilometres and I was on my way. Hitting the last aid station at Porta da Cruz (km 101), I had opened up a satisfying 20 min lead.

The legs tolerated the last stretch. I was sure to keep drinking and eating and doing my utmost to stay in the present moment.

Wishing time away is a forfeit. When its hard, even painful, we know we are alive and that’s substantially better than the alternative.

I ripped down the last hill and across the promenade through a corridor of enthusiasm, crossing the line in 13h52m. Winner of our little endurance game.