Madagascar ctd: le grand raid de l’Isalo

It’s Thursday morning, 3:10am and my alarm has just rung. I slip into my clothes, grab my pre-packed bag, running shoes and headlamp, and am out the door within 15 minutes to rendezvous with Matt, my last-minute ultra marathon companion. The streets of Analamahitsy are dark and deserted.

Thursday morning, 3:30am

The day is a blur of bumpy bus rides and roadside pit stops, but 18 hours later we arrive at our destination: Ranohira, a sleepy little town of 6,000 that is the gateway to Isalo National Park and also the departure point for le grand raid de l’Isalo, the 100km ultra that Matt and I spontaneously signed up for about two weeks ago. The next day consists of doing precisely nothing, plus a fitful attempt to catch an eyeful of sleep right after sundown at 7pm. Around 10pm I finally fall asleep only to be back up right after midnight; Matt manages to sleep an hour or so more than me. And then it’s 1:45am – the band is playing, we’re all geared up and barely have time for a hasty breakfast bite before lining up at the start. There’s a starting line picture, a short countdown and we’re on our way.

darkness, the start of le grand raid

The first 30+km are flat and easy terrain, but Matt and I have settled on a run/walk alternating rhythm to make sure we don’t blow our energy in the first third of the race. As we slow down to a walk after the first five minutes we soon find ourselves at the very back of the pack, trailed in some distance only by a race crew vehicle. Within the first hour, though, we catch up with the rest of the field and start passing other runners at fairly regular intervals. The 12km rest stop appears somewhat more quickly than expected, and then the 27km check-in. We’re steadily alternating five minutes of running and five minutes of walking, moving swiftly by the light of just one headlamp as we’re shooting the breeze. At one point we’re stumped to see the trail disappear into a creek that’s too wide to jump across; the thought of running in wet shoes for the next 70+km seems like a recipe for disaster, but after a minute of hemming and hawing we come to terms with the idea and wade across. And then, before we know it, we’ve made it through the night and arrive at the 33km breakfast bivouac right as the sun is coming up. I’m feeling fresh, fast, and exhilarated. This is easy!

awesome trail, shortly after sunrise

It has taken us a bit under 4.5hrs to cover the first 33km, at a completely comfortable pace. Matt and I are beginning to scheme; if we put another 30km behind us before noon, we’ll essentially be two-thirds done. Who knows, we might even finish this race before nightfall! Or so we think. Little did we know…

Matt taking it all in

onwards (and upwards, soon enough)

Roughly half an hour after breakfast the terrain begins to change. During the night we were running steadily north, staying in grassy flats parallel to the mountainous national park. After breakfast, however, we turn west and straight into the massif d’Isalo that the race course crosses. Our run/walk rhythm falls victim to steeper terrain, and soon enough I’m struggling to just keep up a normal walk as we’re battling the initial climbs. In addition to the more difficult trail the sun is now glaring down on us, it is getting hotter and hotter, and I am beginning to wonder if I packed enough food to get me through the day and to the 70km bivouac. Within two hours from the breakfast bivy I am drenched in sweat, winded and running low on water. Matt is a few minutes ahead of me by now, and the sole redeeming factor is that we’ve reached the plateau and the terrain is easing up a little. At the top of one of the climbs I pass a group of three Malagasy runners who seem similarly exhausted, and one of the runners is out of water. She asks me for some of mine, and with little hesitation I pour half of my remaining 300ml into her empty bottle.

pretty to look at from the distance, not so pretty to traverse

From that point on the day is one long struggle: even if I had sufficient energy to attempt another run the trail is often difficult even to hike; the sun is punishing, my water and food reserves worryingly low, and our pace has slowed to a crawl. The rest stations at 49km and 62km are both tight on supplies and ration the water they give out. Matt – who has spent an hour or two hiking at a faster pace and then waiting for me every couple kilometers – in the end decides to match his pace to my shuffle after we separately battle through a particularly difficult section that leaves him nauseous and me worried about heat exhaustion. During that same stretch I once again pass the Malagasy woman that asked me for water earlier, and again she has run dry. This time around, though, I have been pacing myself to one small sip every five minutes and am still almost out of water, and refuse her request.

rendezvous point by a creek

I am relieved as I finally come up on the 62km rest stop. It is 3pm by now, the worst mid-day heat should be over, and I am resolved to take a long, proper break to try to overcome the fatigue that’s been plaguing me. Matt is waiting for me, sitting on a log in the river and cooling his feet. I join him, but don’t even bother with the log – I just sit down in the middle of the stream, fully clothed, shoes and all. What a relief.

aaaah

After half an hour we’re on our way to the 70km bivouac. The going gets a bit easier, the sun isn’t as hot anymore, and we’re keeping company again. And yet – while Matt seems to have rallied, I am toast. I am worried about dehydration, about small food rations at the dinner bivy, and about making it home. On our final approach to the bivouac, right after sunset, Matt and I are expecting the worst: little or even no water and limited food rations. What a surprise when we roll into camp and are greeted by a Frenchman who shoves a 1.5l bottle of Eau Vive (each!) into our hands, then makes us sit down on a tarp and conjures up big bowlfuls of soup, pasta, chicken, coke and coffee. I feel like a kid in Disneyland, and am so grateful I almost want to cry. Matt and I eat and rest for almost an hour under the expert care of the Frenchman.

French hospitality

As we get back on the trail shortly before 8pm – it is pitch black by now and we have been on the move for 18 hours – I feel completely rested. Hiking in the cool after nightfall is a blessing. Matt and I are moving at a fresh pace, shooting the breeze again and making plans for a leisurely victory beer break somewhere after the next rest stop. Unfortunately, though, our second wind only lasts for a little more than an hour. As we’re coming up on the 82km rest stop, my legs feel heavy and I am once again struggling to get up even modest inclines. Not only that, but the 82km checkpoint is out of water. Plan B kicks in: we break open the two cans of beer that Matt has been carrying for the last 21 hours. The first taste is heaven, but in the end I struggle to finish my beer and, after I do, have a tough time trying to walk straight up the next hill right after the rest stop. Thankfully I regain my sense of balance in time for some of the more exposed stretches of the trail: at one point Matt notices that we seem to be hiking along the edge of a cliff, picks up a small rock and tosses it over the edge. We listen, and hear…. nothing. For a loooong time. Wherever we are, there’s a serious canyon right next to us; probably a very pretty hike, too bad that it’s pitch black and the beams of our headlamps only penetrate a few feet of darkness.

penultimate check-in point

As we struggle through the last 18 kilometers (or 5 hours, at the pace that we’ve slowed to) of the race we encounter a few more settings where I wish it were light. At one time we’re hiking along an easy flat brush trail when all a sudden massive walls rise out of nothing in the dark to our right; they resemble the oversized cooling towers of a nuclear plant, and continue as far as the eye can see in either direction. It takes me a few seconds to realize that we’ve been hiking along the perfectly level bottom of a wide canyon. Half an hour later we find ourselves slogging through ankle-deep sand as we’re crisscrossing a number of wide and shallow dry river beds, back and forth and back again.

Isalo!

The final hours seem to stretch on forever as we’re hiking through surreal landscapes in the dark. Some of the easiest terrain – 2km or so along an essentially flat dirt road leading back into town – is one of the toughest parts of the race; we steadily schlep towards Ranohira and finally, finally reach the finish line briefly after 3 in the morning. Some tired high fives, finisher medals, one last race photo (buried somewhere on Matt’s camera), an exhausted meal, a quick rinse under no-pressure hot water dribble… and at 4am we’re dead asleep. Ultra marathon, done!