I’m stood on the esplanade in Saint Pierre, Reunion Island surrounded by 2,840 eager ultra-runners. It’s a Thursday night in mid-October and there’s party going on. Welcome to Diagonale de Fous ultra. It’s one of a kind. A race like no other…
For Reunion Islanders, Le Grand Raid ultra-series is THE biggest event in the islands sporting calendar; think Premier football, Six Nations and F1 combined. I’ve been on countless race start lines over my endurance career though this experience trumps them all; UTMB and IRONMAN pale into comparison. The entire town has ground to a standstill and the sea-front road that stretches 2,5km along the coast is crammed with crowds on both sides. The anticipation heightens and the air crackles with excitement as the clock approaches 10pm.
Three months ago I doubted I’d even make it to the start. Throughout my endurance career I’ve been blessed with minimal injuries, though four-months out from Diagonale de Fous a frustrating calf niggle emerged which developed into searing neural spasms across my left side. Running was impossible. I scaled training back to cycling, swimming, walking, yoga and strength with regular acupuncture and massage sessions. I started to seriously review options; and after crunching the numbers based on the 67-hours cut-off time I came to the conclusion I could still hike the distance.
I’d made the conscious decision to park any aspirations of performance or position. This was in essence a pilgrimage. I’d held and worn the Did Not Finish (DNF) from 2019 so tightly and this event had a colossal impact on my mindset. I took and wore the failure as part of my identity and became a failure. This pilgrimage was a significant part of my healing process to return and give myself permission to let go of the demons. The mission was to be kind to myself and have some fun (potentially more type 2!) along the way.
Diagonale de Fous has firmly remained a French affair since its inaugural inception in 1989 and amongst the French population it easily trumps the greater known Ultra-Trail de Mount Blanc (UTMB) and Marathon des Sables (MDS) as the ‘toughest ultra’. The combination of distance (110 miles); elevation (10,500m+/-); NO poles due to the protected status of the natural environment which offer up to 20% respite for the legs; temperatures that fluctuate from 5 to 35 degrees across the twenty-four hour cycle; a multitude of weather systems; jungle terrain that unsurprisingly consists of mud, tree roots, mud, steps, and more mud; plus a night start time is grueling. It’s not surprising ‘Diagonale de Fous’ translates as ‘The Fools Crossing’ with a typical finisher percentage at 65%.
It’s strange how some events captivate the English speaking world though Le Grand Raid race series (Diagonale de Fous; Zembrocal Trail, Trail de Bourbon, Mascareignes and Metis Trail) totals 6,478 ultra-runners; yet I stood on the the Diagonale de Fous start line alongside only five fellow British athletes. This is predominantly an event for the Reunion islander population; organised and celebrated for and by the islanders. Competition for local places is high with individuals regularly missing out in the ballot for places.
We’re ceremoniously released the holding pens and for the first 2.5km we’re collectively held within a riot of music, drums and fireworks as the route traces held along the seafront. Children jostle to offer high fives under the watchful eye of their parents and grandparents dance and sing with delight. The noise and light fades beneath as we enter the sugar plantations and the humidity rises. Our skin glistens with sweat in beams of torchlight and the heady scent of tropical flowers assaults my senses.
Just after 4am the feathered dawn chorus rises to greet the day; initially a haunting solo affair then numerous melodies fill the air. Lulled into a state of semi-hypnosis my body intuitively keeps moving forwards, upwards and onwards along the trail. There’s a sense of presence and freedom in the moment. I relish the opportunity to press pause on the endless flow of work, life, death, injury and relationship woes and worries that 2024 has brought. My ‘normal’ routine intertwines a myriad of self-care, self-care and self-preservation measures though this extended time on the trails offers a deeper level of respite. The day passes in this suspended state; step, drink water, eat, check pace/heart rate/vertical ascent and repeat. Again and again. It’s glorious.
The light seeps away from Friday high up on the volcanic plateau and I’m alone as I traverse a series of wooden slatted walk ways. These liminal time zones are my favourite spaces within each day; where dusk and dawn offer an in-between state of mystery. The skeletons of old trees covered in lichen and moss emerge from the mist; and thousands of water particles reflect back in my torchlight as the mist swirls around me. I could be in another world or another time. It’s magical.
The darkness intensifies and the temperature inevitably plummets. The next aid station at Plaine de Meries (92.9km) brings relief and I decide to take a tactical break. I’m carefully bundled into a blanket like a sausage roll by a medic who gently warns me the timer is set for only 30-minutes. One black coffee laced with sugar and I’m on my way; one step at a time. My torch reflects the light of survival blankets glinting by the side of the path which contain exhausted sleeping bodies.
To be continued...
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