“It is half an hour of sheer suffering, trapped in your own personal hell”
These were Oliver’s words on the start line of the Defi de Vignoble, describing what was to come.
A week before, Oliver had persuaded me to sign up for the race, describing it as a beautiful and enjoyable course followed by a sociable drink in an idyllic location overlooking the terraces of the Lavaux vineyard – a world heritage site.
My overwhelming feeling, standing there, was furious resentment. He had tricked me. I could have been comfortably ensconced on my sofa watching back episodes of Escape to the Chateau. And here I was, in the mizzling damp, about to spend half an hour suffering in my own personal hell.
My overwhelming feeling, standing there, was furious resentment.
The race was to be 3.5 km long: very reasonable indeed. The catch was that it includes 500 m of elevation gain. To put that in context, that is one seventh of the ascent from Everest base camp to the summit. Or the equivalent of climbing half way up Snowdon from the Pen-y-Pass, twice. Or walking up Parliament Hill from sea level five times. You get the picture.
Just before the race started, it dawned on me with devastating clarity: you do not have to suffer in your own personal hell to have a sociable drink in an idyllic setting. You can just drive to an idyllic setting and have a drink. A divine revelation! If I survive I must remember, I must.
The horn sounded. We set off. The first 500m were flat. Lovely flat. So pleasant. You can breathe normally and even take in the views of Lake Geneva and the French Alps. Then we started to climb and immediately I started contemplating the practicality of relocating to the Netherlands.
The gradient was consistently steep and occasionally brutal, hitting 20% in a number of sections. There was no flat, no respite at all. My breathing became ragged, my calves tight, my vision tunneled. As it turns out, you don’t descent into hell: you run up to it.
Many people were power-walking and going almost as fast as me running but looking far far more comfortable. Maybe I should walk too? I broke rhythm and tried to emulate their powerful strides. A terrible error! Pain seered through my back and glutes, I slowed to a crawl, a 60 year old man overtook me, beaming radiantly. This was surely not the answer!
I broke back into a run. My calves screamed, my heart-rate rocketed dangerously, my vision narrowed to a tiny window. A 60 year old woman powered past me, her Nordic walking poles clicking infuriatingly on the gravel path. This was surely not the answer either!
Run or walk? Walk or run? I tried both alternately and found each to be equally as miserable as the other.
“…Which leaves only one option. Give up! Yes, that’s right. You don’t have to do this. You can stop, lean on that wall, take in the splendid vista, pretend you have a hamstring problem, catch your breath, rethink, maybe go down, go home, watch Escape the Chateau, nobody would know …”
BACK DEVIL! Get thee behind me Satan!
The path steepened, the gravel road giving way to a grass and mud footpath rendered slick as a gusset by the persistent drizzle and the feet of the (surely hundreds!) of people in front of me. Every step upwards I slipped backwards half the distance gained. I pictured the grasping hands of the lycra-clad devils behind, reaching out to take the hindmost and drag him to damnation.
And now I catch sight of the finish. The austere stone walls of the Tour de Gourze. Safety. But still so far away! Still so high above!
“Into the jaws of Hell, into the mouth of death rode the six hundred!”
Quoting Tennyson! Things must bad! There’s that seventy old man with his smug fucking smile still plastered on his face. Mocking! Mocking! Grinning and mocking…
“Allez! Allez! Allez! Up Up Up!” Faintly, as if being carried on the wind from a great distance, I hear the encouraging shouts of those who finished the race days ago and have waited here, lining the hillside to display their prowess to the stragglers.
The line approaches. Sanity departs. Cannon to the left of them. Cannon to the right of them.
Don’t look back now Orpheus, remember your deal with Hades…
The light! I bend double and gasp desperately for air.
Minutes later the fog has cleared, the vision has returned, the dry retching has ceased. Somebody thrusts a glass of white wine into my hand. There is backslapping and jollity.
“What a beautiful and enjoyable course!” I remark, “How lovely to follow such an endeavor with a sociable drink in an idyllic location overlooking the terraces of the Lavaux vineyard – a world heritage site!”
As the second glass of wine slips down and the sun sets spectacularly over the Jura, a text comes through with the official verdict: 29 minutes and 5 seconds. Half an hour of pure hell.