Near a town called Folldal, in the region of Rondane in the high inland plateaus of Norway, there is a pine forest on the side of a steep hill. Cut into this hillside is a trail, and on a sunny day the sun filters through the low pines and onto the tauny pine needles blanketing the trail. The afternoon of August 15th, 2020, was such a sunny day, and the Salomon Rondane 50- and 100-Miler races were underway. The steep path in the pines was awaiting its first victims. This is a trip report of the Rondane 50-Miler, which I (Erik) ran and finished in 10th place. It was the first time the race was arranged, but it won't be the last. For those interested in running the race in the future, this post might contain some useful descriptions of the route and what type of terrain you can expect. For everyone else, it’s in the very least a story about ultrarunning: frivolous triumph and tragedy on a mountainous scale. August 14th, 2020 (one day before race day). Mathis, my roommate and training partner, sat in the driver seat of his Suzuki SUV. I sat in the passenger seat, looking out the window. It was a two-and-a-half hour drive South from Trondheim into Rondane National Park. The road had gained steadily in elevation and the scenery had changed dramatically. The green rolling hills nearer the coast had given way to sweeping mountain plateaus. We picked up our bibs at the Folldal Community Center, which wasn’t hard to find, despite not being listed in Google Maps. Folldal, the town in which the Rondane 50- and 100-Miler events are held, is not exactly a bustling metropolis. On this particular afternoon, there were not many people around. And those that were around were keeping their distance. At the time, a second wave of the COVID-19 virus was threatening to hit Norway, and it was only through the tireless work of the race organizers that it managed to go ahead at all. After dousing my hands in alcohol spray, I picked up my race bib, exchanged a brief word with a volunteer about the drop bags, and that was that. The hard work had been put in: hundreds of training hours and meticulous preparation. Now we just had to check into our rental cabin, eat, and go to bed. Tomorrow was the big show. In the evening, Tobias arrived. Tobias is Mathis’s older brother. He is a former professional skier who has competed at the World Cup and who was, at that time, the head ski waxer of the National Biathlon Team. We exchanged a “Corona Handshake,” ceremoniously bumping elbows, and he soon got to business. A bustle of energy, Tobias announced his detailed theories about tapering, periodization, and nutrition, addressing no one in particular. He packed his running vest, ate dinner, drank three cans of Heineken, and got ready for bed, seemingly in one fluid motion. At one point I asked him about his strategy for the race, and for a fraction of a second he met my eyes with a cold and steely look. “Well, the plan is to win.” He said, coolly. He explained that the first third of the race would be determining. “Gotta be careful not to run that first downhill to fast and wreck your quads.” That night I shared a room with Tobias in the cabin. I could hear him dozing peacefully. I tossed and turned all night. How could he sleep so peacefully knowing what lies ahead tomorrow? I thought of something John Long, a Yosemite climbing legend, said once about big-wall climbing, a sport I have occasionally compared with ultra-running: “I never sleep the night before a big-wall climb. And watch out for the guys that do - they're dangerous!” August 15th, 2020: I got up at 7 am and went down the creaky steps of the wooden cabin to make some oatmeal and a pot of coffee. I was soon joined by Tobias and shortly thereafter by Ole and Antonia, who had arrived from Oslo late in the night. Antonia would also be racing the 50-miler and her partner, Ole, had graciously offered to crew. Technically speaking, crewing (offering support during the race in the form of food, water, change of clothes, or the like) was not allowed in this year’s race to keep in line with Corona guidelines. But we all knew that the tacit support of making the 7-hr drive here and, well, just being here, was invaluable support in an event like this. The start of the 50-miler was scheduled for 12 noon, giving us all morning to wait before heading down to the Community Center to catch the bus at 11 am to the start. We busied ourselves with preparations: we taped our nipples, we taped our bulky GPS trackers to our vest (mandatory for the event), we applied body glide to our chafing hot spots, we filled up water bottles - and still there was still an ocean of time before we had to leave. We filled the time by nervously chatting about the weather: sunny and 24 degrees, at least 12 degrees warmer that usual for this time of year. We followed the 100 Mile race tracker online, where a map showed the GPS locations of all runners. Mathis was in 11th place and had already been running for almost 4 hours, having started that morning at 5 am. “For en tøffing." Said his brother. "Tough bastard. I’ve never seen him so psyched before. When we were younger, heading for a ski race, he’d be dragging his heels. But now he is stoked.” Finally, it was time to head down to the Community Center. We were there shortly after 10 am. It seemed most competitors had boarded the 10 am bus and the ones left milled about in small groups and chatted. I announced my bold plans to a few runners hanging around: “I plan to podium.” I said. “It’ll be tough to beat Tobias, so my main goal is 2nd place. I have never trained so hard for a race before. I feel totally prepared.” "Wow!" Came the response. "Good luck!" Finally, the bus arrived. We climbed aboard, not saying a word. Norwegians aren’t known for their small-talk, but aboard this bus their taciturn nature was taken to a whole new level. You could hear a pin drop. And that is how we continued, all the way to the start of the course at the Dørålseter mountain hut, with everyone sitting alone in a seat, maintaining social distancing. Maybe everyone was thinking about why they were about to run 86 km through the high plateaus of Norway. The start was staggered by two minute intervals, with top ITRA-ranked runners going first. I had time to warm up a bit, running a short 50 m segment of trail back and forth a couple of times, before it was time to go the start. The sun was warm, but there was a fresh, cool wind. Suddenly Erik Haugland, the race director, appeared and started counting down to the start. And just like that, we were off. The race was on. I set off with Tobias down the grassy bank and onto a well-traveled path scattered with softball-sized rocks. My plan was to start with the leaders at a high pace, but then drop back, letting the them do the hard work of leading. I would try to stay in contact with them, staying patient until the last 1/3rd of the race, when I would begin reeling them in. That was the plan, at least. Very soon after the start I stumbled on a few rocks when hopping across a wet section. Vegard Lyngvi Sand, a member of the Oslo ultrarunning team Skyblazers, passed me smartly. I tried to shake it off. There is a lot more left to this day, I thought. Tobias and Vegard were pulling away from me with an alarming pace. Suddenly I heard a whistle and turned around to say a competitor waving his arms in the air. Did I drop something? I started running back, when it dawned on me. Holy shit! We had taken a wrong turn! Barely 2 km into the race and we had missed a turn. "Are you sure that’s the right way?" I asked, pulling out my GPS device. I heard the pitter-patter of Tobias's and Vegard's shoes on the rocks behind me. They didn’t say a word, coolly descending the trail and passing some of the runners from the second group. I followed after, trying not to let the incident shake me. Unlike the ultras I was used to in Canada, the trails here were not marked. I would have to keep my wits about me. The first segment of the race: Døralseter to Strømbu (0 - 27 km). The climb that starts shortly after the start to the Langglupdalen mountain pass was long and brutal. The grade was forgiving, maybe about 6 degrees on average, but it was relentless. It was also technically challenging. Maintaining a steady turnover while picking your way through refrigerator-size rocks was nearly impossible. At times you had to jump from rock to rock. Man, am I getting blisters already? The bottoms of my feet felt hot in my Hoka Speedgoats. This terrain was new to me and my feet seemed to slip around in my shoes on the uneven, rocky trail. I was sweating heavily - the sun seemed to overpower the cool mountain wind and in the barren landscape there was nowhere to hide. At the top the climb I was in 6th place. I liked my position, but I was surprised with how far ahead the lead pack had gone. I couldn’t even see them. I was worried, too, with how much effort I was using. My heart was beating fast and I was sweating heavily. What the hell is going on? I wondered if the altitude was affecting me. Impossible, we are barely 1,000 m above sea level. Getting onto the flat, and then descending down towards the Bjørnhollia mountain hut, I started getting into a better rhythm. My galloping heart calmed down and I was able to look up and enjoy the scenery. A huge mountain loomed to my right and the valley unfolded down ahead of me. I passed a runner with ease (this turned out to be Kristoffer Stensrud, who would take 6th place), and enjoyed the descent as if I was on a training run in the mountains. One thing was for certain: I was definitely following COVID regulations. I had been running alone all afternoon. At 20 km, the trail follows some tricky twists and turns and descends into a forest where the Bjørnhollia mountain hut stands not far from a sizeable river, carrying crystal clear mountain water. Shortly after the hut (where more than one Gore-Tex-clad hiker sat and looked on worriedly at the runners), the trail ascends huge rocky blocks arranged neatly into a staircase. Already I could feel the day’s work settling deep into my climbing muscles. I took a sip of water and tried not to worry about how high my heart rate was as I climbed the stairs. I could see a competitor ahead. Go get him. Reel him in. At the top of the stairs, the trail evened out and emerged into a pine forest. This was terrain I was used to: easy decline with roots and rocks, punctuated by short wet sections. I had been following close behind 5th place when he suddenly stumbled and fell. I slowed down. "Går det greit? You all good?" I asked him. Yeah, yeah, he mumbled. I ran on, feeling energized. Another one down. Just hang in there. I got to the aid station at Strømbu, a kind of sprawling tourist center, and refilled my flasks and downed a bottle of water. "Hvordan går det? How’s it going?" Asked a smiling volunteer. "It’s warm," I said, rubbing dried sweat off my sunglasses. "There’s going to be a lot of dehydrated runners." I found my drop bag and quickly changed my socks, downed a soggy rice-and-avocado burrito that I had hastily made the night before, and chugged a Mack Ginger Beer. I had tested out the beer in a 53 km training run two weeks before and had enjoyed the sweet, gingery taste and the relaxing buzz from the alcohol. As I clipped my vest back on I noticed a cramp in my neck. I immediately fished out a salt tablet from the pocket on my handheld water bottle. I’m not even 30 km in and I’m already getting cramps? I ran out of the aid station and crossed a highway. My running slowed abruptly to a steady march as I considered the challenge ahead of me: a long, steep hill winding up the pine-needle scattered forest. I picked up a long stick on the ground and used it and a sort of running pole, leaning my weight onto it as I lurched upwards. It didn’t look good, and I knew it. I passed a runner who was sitting on the trail, facing downhill. "How’s it going?" I asked. "I'm considering quitting," came the reply. "I’m just not feeling it today." "I hope you stay in the race and join me." I said, passing him and giving him my best smile. What a sucker, I thought, lurching onwards with my stick. The second segment of the race: Strømbu to Breisjøseter (27 - 44 km). At the top of the hill, the forest ends and a vast, rocky wasteland opens up. It’s as if the trees do not dare enter this landscape. No way, they say, clinging instead to the comforting protection of the steep hillside. I managed a few short running strides as I entered this new stage of the race. And that’s when it happened. Hopping up onto a rock on the path, just a little higher that an average step, my right calf gripped into a painful cramp. Then, as if I was being clenched by little invisible monkey fists, the inner muscles of my thigh joined into the spasm. I stopped dead in my tracks. I pointed my toes of my right foot up, waiting for the cramp to give in. In a few seconds the cramp was gone, but my muscles were rippling angrily, little waves of electric pulses going off like in a machine gone haywire. I suddenly got a wave of nausea. No way. I thought. You are not puking here. You’ve got more than 50 km left in this race, so pull yourself together. I ate another salt tablet and downed half of one of my soft water flasks. For the next few kilometers, I felt like a wounded animal being hunted. At first, looking over my shoulder down the long trail behind me, there was no one in sight. Then I saw it: a lone black figure, like a Bedouin in the desert. I managed to get over the bluff and start descending into the next valley, strewn with flat, dinner plate sized rocks, like rubble from an old rock rampart that was demolished into smithereens, before he caught me. He said something to me as he passed, but I didn't catch it. The cramps had been coming and going in waves, but none were as bad as the first wave that struck me shortly after the climb up the pine forest trail. On the descent towards the Breisjøseter mountain hut, the trail once again eased in technical difficulty, and even opened onto a gravel road for the last 3 kilometers. I once again regained my running stride and gained on the Bedouin that had swiftly passed me up on the rocky mountain pass. At the Breisjøseter mountain hut, a volunteer held out his rubber-gloved hand to me. I high fived him. "No, no!" he said, pointing to a bottle of hand sanitizer. Ohh, he wanted me to stop and disinfect my hands before ending the aid area. I did as I was told and then picked up some food - a cup of lukewarm vegetable soup, a bag of chips, and an iced coffee - and sat down at a picnic table where a few competitors were milling around. One was lying on the grass, with his feet raised up onto the bench. I was glad to see that I wasn’t the only one suffering. The Bedouin was complaining about the gravel road, saying how painful it was to run on it. "It’s all easy from here," offered one volunteer with a solemn nod. Yeah fucking right, we were thinking, munching on our aid station food. I didn’t hang around long, and as soon as I was done eating, I stood up and left. If I were a sensible person, I thought, I would give up here. I was at the 44 km mark, just past the halfway point of the race. This is about where I had originally planned to start racing. But now I was threadbare, just barely hanging on. The final segment of the race: Breisjøseter to finish (44 - 86 km). The trail leaving the Breisjøseter hut is single track with large rocks and short hill segments. With fresh legs, it would be no problem, but now it felt like torture. Again, my heart was beating wildly, as if I was on the last 2 km of a 10 k road race. As I crested the hill and began a low-angle descent towards a scraggly mountain birch forest, the first girl passed me. This turned out to be Lilli Ofstad, who won the woman's field. "Are you going to finish?" She asked, smiling. "Ja, selvfølgelig! Yeah, of course!" I said, smiling back. What the fuck? How bad do I look if she's asking me whether I'll finish? I tilted my head for a sip of water and that is when my soft flask exploded in my face, gushing out half its precious contents. You have got to be kidding me. Addled with cramps, this was the last thing I needed. The top of the flask had popped off, meaning water could simply slosh out as I ran. I stopped and searched the trail for the missing top, but it was to no avail. I ran along under some huge electrical wares and descended towards a bridge crossing a river. As I stooped down to get some water, I considered my fate. It’s like that girl said. You’re just in this to finish now. I recalled my goals for the race, which I had separated into the three tiers: 1) Finish in top three, 2) Finish in top ten, and 3) Just finish. I was grateful for not just making the one goal. It gave me a good enough reason to keep running. I had gotten the idea from Hal Koerner's Field Guide to Ultrarunning, a book I had read in the days leading up to the race. The idea is simple: if it becomes clear you cannot accomplish your main goal, it is motivating to have lower-tier goals to work towards. Regardless of the strategic goal-setting, the rest of race resembled more attrition than athletics. After a second water bottle malfunction (this time it was my handheld Nathan bottle that gave up the ghost), I started to see the whole event as if from outside. An ironic smile appeared on my lips. In an open tundra area at around 65 k, I was passed by Antonia, my friend from that morning whom I met in our cabin. I wished her a good race, telling her that she was in second, not too far behind first female. Not long after she passed, a volunteer hanging around a cabin yelled out to me: "You’re in tenth place!" It was like a switch went off in me. 10th! I can still reach my second goal! "Jeg sliter med kramper!" I yelled back. "I am struggling with cramps!" "I can see that!" He yelled back, without a trace of sympathy. But the switch had gone off. And not after, the cramps mysteriously vanished. I was in 10th. Maybe I could even catch 9th. Come on, let’s do this! The ironic smile hadn't left my face. I could run again. I mean, properly run. I was even enjoying myself, and the descent towards the final check point at the Grimsbu ski training center was even, well, fun. The sun had set by now and the air was suddenly crisp and cool. It seemed as if the cold air in my lungs gave me energy. I ran at what felt like an incredibly fast pace, even though I was barely logging in 5:30 splits. I was running through a sparse birch forest in a landscape not unlike what I image one would find on the moon, the sky fading into that impossible blue-and-green colour you only find in deserts where the sky appears larger than the ground beneath you. Down and onto the flat section towards Grimsbu, I was running well again. I stopped at the checkpoint where some elderly volunteers kindly asked if I wanted a banana and some chocolate milk. I registered sympathy in their voices. How ridiculous they must think this is. I ate a half banana and drank half of a small carton of chocolate milk, thanked them, and was on my way again. I stopped again and put on my headlamp and my reflective vest, which was the required race kit race in the event you got caught in the dark. I hadn’t planned on getting caught in the dark. But here I was. That last section of the race, from Grimsbu to the finish line by the Community Center in Folldal, was, quite literally, the most difficult running I have ever done in my life. It was almost all flat, with the exception of a few gentle inclines during the approach into Folldal, and easy underfoot. There were no more rocks. No more roots. No more single track across open tundra. Just gravel roads and hard-packed grassy trails skirting farmers fields and sleepy residences. But it took everything I had just to finish. I mean it. It takes a lot for me to say write these words, because it means setting aside my pride, but as I passed those final signs marking the distance down from 13 km... 12 km... 11 km and all the down way to 1 km, I had to dig deeper than I have ever dug before. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, descending towards the main road in Folldal, I could hear a commentator saying something into a loudspeaker. I came out of a trail and onto a road and I could see the finish area. I heard a voice yelling, "Kom igjen Erik!! Come on, Erik!!" It was Mathis. Had he dropped the 100 miler? I crossed the road before the crosswalk (later I would learn that Erik Haugland, the race director, who was looking on, jokingly said that I would have to be disqualified for that) and ran across the finish line. It was over.
7 Comments
Ann Marie Barry
9/20/2020 12:40:57 pm
Congratulations Erik!!! Well done!!! You are always up for a challenge!! 🙃😊 I really enjoyed reading about your race: the detail is fascinating and your determination is impressive. Take care of yourself and good luck in your studies.
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Erik
9/21/2020 01:01:36 pm
So nice to hear that you enjoyed the read, Ann Marie! :) Thank you, the studies are going very well.
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Hubert Alacoque
9/20/2020 04:01:54 pm
Awesome feat Eric. Absolutely awesome. Congratulations. Fantastic story to read. Amazing. 50 miles in the mountains in a trail in all kinds of terrans is amazing. An amazing feat.
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Erik
9/21/2020 01:04:01 pm
Thanks Hubert! :) It was an experience I won't soon forget, that much is certain. I hope your sailing trips went well this summer!
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Daniel
9/21/2020 02:46:18 pm
This is a wonderful piece of prose! I enjoy your style of writing your thoughts in italics amidst the narrative. Also, the pictures are fabulous. Congrats on finishing your race!
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Anna
9/22/2020 04:47:03 pm
Fantastic read, as always!! So proud of ya, bro!
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Leena-Mari
9/23/2020 06:52:22 am
What a great race it was! I was able to follow Erik during the run. Now it was very interesting to read about what happend during the race. Well done Erik! I am proud of you!
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