The lion sits in the middle of the path. Pale beige. Silent. Not particularly imposing. But at two o’clock in the morning in a wood near Séné along the Gulf of Morbihan, it is an unsettling sigh.
The race started from Vannes at 7pm two days ago. This is the first time I will run more than 100 kilometres. The grand raid du Golfe du Morbihan is 177 long. A triple one in imperial units, 111 miles. This race is important in many ways. Distance is, of course, a factor. I started running about ten years ago, and I’ve been increasing the length of these extreme races, half sporting events, half adventures. Furthermore, I love the location. My family is from Morbihan, where I spent all my spring holidays as a child. As a teenager, I followed in the footsteps of the Armoricans, the Celts and Merlin. For a long time, I dreamed that I would buy a big house there to make a permanent family home; I, who moved 16 times before my 18th birthday. In reality, I haven’t been back to Brittany for twenty-five years… Finally, it’s been a challenging year; my life has changed, not necessarily in a good way. My training has been affected, as well as my performance in races. I feel strained, old, inadequate.
These few days, with their change of scenery and focus on effort, are therefore very welcome. As usual, the first kilometres are difficult. The legs are heavy. But the collective enthusiasm helps me to overcome this delicate phase. There were just over 1,200 participants at the start. They ranged from formidable runners, capable of spending ten hours without deviating from a pace that most normal human beings cannot maintain for a few kilometres, to oblivious dreamers who have only ever run small local trails on Sunday morning. But we all vibrate with incredible energy, made of a mixture of impatience and apprehension.
From 30 degrees at the start, the temperature drops quite quickly. After a brief period of chatting with the runners around, the single-track allows me to adopt a steady pace, which, although brisk, does not require too much effort. I arrive at the refreshment station of the 36th kilometre 15 minutes ahead of my schedule. The darkness has fallen. After absorbing some solid calories, I set off again with the headlamp.
I’m heading into my first night of racing, hitting the heart of the matter on an ultra, namely the long solitary periods where the mind takes over from the body. I had planned to sleep at the rest station in Le Bono, at the 54th kilometre. All the experts say that ordinary people should take short naps, if possible on the first night. But at three o’clock in the morning, I really didn’t feel like sleeping. What’s more, the checkpoint is overcrowded and deafening (I’ll soon learn that the pros find quiet corners between the checkpoints). I leave after a quick but solid collation: pasta for energy, dry meat for salt and proteins, and fresh fruit for pleasure.
The temperature has now dropped significantly, and a light breeze rises, sufficient to cool my sweat without drying it out. So I put on an insulating jacket. The next few hours see us ride on long stretches of tarmac road, as hard on the morale as they are on the legs.
I reach the Crac’h checkpoint with the first light of dawn. I lie down on the tarmac of a basketball court, unable to sleep. The checkpoint has received the packs of coffee, but not the coffee machine (the 137th kilometre checkpoint has received the coffee machines, but not the coffee…). So I set off again without caffeine, slightly nauseous and a bit worried about what is coming. But a phenomenal sunrise over the Locmariaquer peninsula quickly dispels these minor worries.
However, I am getting tired, and my feet hurt. The nausea is back. My weakness is so apparent that during the crossing to Port Navalo, the pilot forces me to sit on the bottom of the boat rather than on the side like the other passengers. The few kilometres between the dock and the main base at Arzon are some of the most mentally challenging, with ever more frequent episodes of walking interspersing my attempts at trotting.
The stop at the base camp is crucial. Clean and dry clothes are waiting for me. I can charge my phone and my GPS watch. And above all, I can take a shower. A shower! Admittedly, the floor of these overcrowded changing rooms is only slightly less muddy than the gulf’s shoreline when uncovered at low tide, and its smell is much worse. Admittedly, the pressure of a long line of naked and scruffy runners makes the effectiveness of the cleaning a priority rather than surrendering to the soothing waterfall. But I emerge relaxed enough to try to sleep. With all the cots occupied, I lay down on floor mats in a corner of the gym, and manage to nod off for a few minutes despite the cacophony of a few hundred participants, their families and volunteers.
I set off again at around 11am, under a blazing sun soon replaced by an overcast sky and even occasional drizzle. Dozens of kilometres of paths now await me, following the fractal structure of the granite coast. Seven hours to cover six kilometres as the crow flies… The Anglo-Saxons have a perfect expression to describe what I feel: “soul-crushing”. For hours on end, we go around coves and bays, only to find ourselves constantly facing the same islands. A light in the midst of this emotional darkness, I reach kilometre 107, the longest distance I have ever travelled in a race.
At Sarzeau, the 120th km refreshment point, I manage to doze off for a few more moments despite the chirping of a group of birds having a heated conversation just above my head. I set off again with poles, an implicit admission that the run/walk ratio will now be reversed. After crossing many flooded fields, my feet are soaked, and my shoes are heavy with mud. I slip a few times; I don’t get hurt, but my confidence is weakened. The second night of the race begins.
The next stage, made up of long stretches of road that I roam alone, accompanied only by the sound of my poles on the tarmac, brings me to the brink of exhaustion. I have been on the move for just over 30 hours. Running is undoubtedly no longer the right word to describe my progress. As best I can, I reach Séné, the checkpoint of the 156th kilometre. My feet are in a terrible state. A podiatrist takes care of me as best she can, draining my blisters, injecting antiseptic solutions and carefully bandaging them. I set off again in a cool, damp, inky night, hobbling along rough paths, kept semi-awake by the intervention of scattered showers. And then, in the middle of a small wood, I find myself facing it.
It is ten or fifteen metres away, sitting in the middle of the path. The light colour of its fur contrasts with the muddy ground and the dark vegetation around us. The animal seems to be of average size for a lion. But what do I know, having only observed them from a distance in zoos?
Its presence is not an ontological impossibility (escaped from a zoo or the garden of a rich eccentric? Hallucination due to fatigue? Better still: the last representative of a hidden line of native felines still visible on the coats of arms of Vitré and the Pays de Léon).
Enigmatic, silent.
Why is it there? Is it guarding the path like Gandalf the Grey guarded the bridge of Moria (or like Monty Python’s Black Knight guarded… the plank)? Is it intrigued by the sweaty, tired-looking people who pass by at regular intervals? Or is it just enjoying the relative coolness of the night in contrast to the heat of the previous days, a memory of the African savannahs.
It doesn’t roar, doesn’t snarl, doesn’t growl; not even a purr of pleasure at the thought of the meal to come.
I have to make a decision. I don’t even consider running away. Usually, the animal would have joined me in two bounds. But in my current condition, the king of the animals would only have to walk leisurely to catch me. I am too tired to even be afraid. I throw a few “Boo! Hoo!” and a “Go away!” in a hoarse, weak voice that doesn’t even echo in the empty woods.
I take one step; a second. The next moment, the Armorica lion is gone. Was it ever here?
I arrive in Vannes 38 hours after my start.
reboot50 