Countdown to Picos

[Sweder]

Thank goodness for that. The silence in this important corner of RC was deafening. Well done mate, enjoy the rest.

[Bierzo Baggie]

Goes without saying BB, but you are an absolute bloody nutcase.

I wish you well.

Crónica de una muerte anunciada (part 1)
And so one Friday afternoon, with the words of the mythical Seafront Plodder echoing in my ears, I set off for Picos. Wife and child were safely tucked away on the Atlantic beaches of Galicia, blissfully ignorant of the true extent of the task ahead. In fact I was pretty blissful and very ignorant. Little did I know I was as likely to finish this race as Michael Ballack was to obtain a cup winners medal.

Faithful wingman Miguel Mushroom came for the ride. MM was eager to know Picos and was even tempted to take part. But the places being limited to 150 had filled up weeks ago.

A three hour drive took us from Ponferrada to the town of Cangas de Onis and here I picked up my race number. Time for a quick visit to a local cider house for a bite to eat and a sample of the local scrumpy. Then we took the long, winding road to the lakes of Covadonga where the race was due to start at 4am the following morning.

Covadonga is considered by many to be the birthplace of modern day Spain and it has become a place of Catholic pilgrimage. Here the relentless Muslim advance was finally repelled by the mighty Don Pelayo in 718 and the Moorish hordes never did conquer Asturias and its lofty mountains. But there was no stopping to admire the grandiose basilica which marks “the reconquest”. This weekend we have other business.

Dodging mighty hordes of the bovine variety we drove on upwards to the first lake, Lake Enol, which lies on the fringes of the Picos de Europa national park. The plan was to pitch the tent, grab a coffee in the nearby shepherd’s refuge which would be open all night and then retire for a few hours sleep. Race marshals were already heading out and many would spend the night on the mountains. In the shepherd’s refuge they were friendly and helpful and little tents were popping up all over the lakeside pastures. Too many little tents so it seemed. Just as I was getting into mine a land-rover belonging to the park authorities pulled up and a fat man got out. Camping was/is strictly prohibited in the vicinity of the lakes. We all knew this but as they had turned a blind eye the previous year and we’d all be gone by 3:30 nobody had expected any trouble. But the fat man was having none of it, he of course was right and all the little tents came back down again. I ended up kipping in the car.

Up at 3am after barely sleeping a couple of hours. Went to the shepherd’s refuge for another coffee. It was full of ultra-athletic types with shaved legs and head torches. I put my head torch on so as not to feel out of place. Decided that it was too late to shave my legs though.

The start line was in the middle of a meadow. The athletes and mountaineers gradually occupied the space generously vacated by the cows that gathered on the periphery and watched with that bemused expression all cows have. Only this time they had good reason to be bemused. One scratched its back against my car. Oii!

It was a clear, starry night and the conditions were near perfect. A brief talk informed us of cut off times and of sections where it was strictly forbidden to run and where anybody caught running would be disqualified. That sounded OK to me as my plan was to run as little as possible. However, once we’d been given the off and I’d slipped in to fast walk mode it dawned on me that the level of the athlete/mountaineers in my midst was rather high. I was soon last and at risk of being left alone in the darkness. Sod this!..I ran.

The first two hours in the mountains were strange and dreamlike. A faint thread of light snaked upwards from 150 head torches and there was total silence except for the click-click-click of the walking poles that most people seemed to be using. And once dawn rolled back the murky cloak of night it revealed a rugged, treeless landscape of incredible beauty and bleakness.

On this first 1000m ascent I had felt comfortable and was probably about halfway up the field. I ran when I could and the paths were well trodden but the part I was dreading most was soon to come into view with the encroaching daylight. It was every bit as bad as I’d expected.

“Mesones” is the name of a 1600m descent to the village of Caín, home of “El Cainejo”. The steepness of Mesones is legendary. The raw, rocky surface soon converts into a treacherous grassy wall which I zig-zagged my way down with great care. I was so careful that I didn’t fall once, but everybody and a dog overtook me and by the outskirts of Caín I was amongst the last half dozen backmarkers. We were just inside the first 8:30am cut off time but unknowingly we were already condemned not to finish.

[Bierzo Baggie]

Crónica de una muerte anunciada (part 2)

There simply wasn’t enough time to negotiate the horrendously difficult climb that was next on the evil agenda. I think some people suspected this as a few dropped out in Caín but I for one was still blissfully ignorant. In fact I didn’t even know what the cut off time was, not having paid attention during the pre-dawn briefing. I thought that if I survived the terrible Mesones it’d just be a question of plodding on.

Wrong!

I left the claustrophobic little village of Caín behind me. What must it be like to live all of your life in such a place, surrounded by towering pinnacles of rock that make the sky seem so far away?

The ascent of la canal de Dobresengos was endless. I posted a photo of the route a while ago but the worst part actually came right at the start. The path seemed to disappear and as I scanned for the little red flags that marked the race route I realized that there was one sticking out at a right angle.. directly above me. The “scramble” upwards resembled climbing the interior of a lift shaft although in the end it wasn’t as bad as it looked. There was a second scramble later on where they had even fixed a rope but I found it easier to use my hands and in fact I never felt exposed or at risk which had been one of my biggest worries.

The total ascent of Dobresengos is a staggering 1900m. I reached a point where I’d count 100 steps and then stop for a breather. One guy turned back. Two girls I’d done the first half of the ascent with dropped behind and then disappeared from view. One of them had mentioned that the second cut off time was at 1 o’clock and for the first time I realized that this might not be feasible. I came out of the shade. It started to get hot. I ran out of water. The relentless gradient evened out as we crossed an uncomfortable rocky landscape but then the “Horcada de Caín” reared up ahead like an ugly beast. This is a V-shaped cleft high up in the rocks which marked the end of the torture but it seemed an awful long way away.

I really was struggling by now. The few people left behind me were closing up and I felt incapable of reacting. I struggled to put one foot after the other on the loose scree and soon I was the last person actively taking part in the race. Oh for a nice grassy meadow to lie down in.

It was 12:45. There was no chance of reaching the mountain refuge of Urriellu for the one o’clock rendezvous, not for me and not for the 10 people in front of me. A race marshal perched on a ledge tried to convince me that I could tear down the mountain in 15 minutes but he wasn’t kidding anybody. In fact the next bit was even worse than the climb. There was no well-trodden path and the crazy paving of eroded limestone formed random jagged shapes which could cut your arm off if you fell. I trod very, very carefully, except through a couple of sections of snow where I slid down on my arse. It was easier, faster and more comfortable. Only fear of permanent rectal damage brought me back to my feet.

The Urriellu refuge lies in the shadow of the Naranjo de Bulnes. Here my journey ended. A couple of rock climbers hung from the northern wall like tiny spiders. I marvelled at their bravery. Another race marshal told me I was out of time.
“I know”.
An old photo of an ugly, bear-like man with a beret stared down at me from a plaque on the hostel wall. It was El Cainejo. The foppish young dandy next to him was definitely the Marques.

I didn’t know whether to feel disappointed or relieved. I suppose indifferent was more the word. I’d crossed 2 of the 3 massifs of Picos, I’d visited a wonderful rock strewn wilderness that I hadn’t known before and I’d lived to tell the tale. My ankles were still intact, my feet were free of blisters and I’d taken some nice photos. I’d just been too slow. Maybe I should have used some of those walking pole things. Maybe I should have wolfed down power gels and electrolyte drinks (I avoid them, they give me the shits) but that wasn’t the point. I’d done Picos in the way I’d wanted to do it and that was just fine.

Took the easy way down to the finish line and went to look for some Picón cheese.

Postscript
Back in the real world I surfed through a couple of websites frequented by those connected to the event. On a forum, almost overlooked amongst the battle tales, the congratulations and the links to Picasa photo albums, somebody mentioned Mariano. Mariano, as I’d mentioned in an earlier post, had spent 25 years as an unpaid mountain refuge warden in a customized gun turret at 2300m. He had died in Santander on Saturday while we were running the race. His ashes will be scattered on Pico Tesorero tomorrow, a peak which watched down on his cabaña veronica refuge and which incidentally watched down on us while we climbed Dobresengos.

Total race distance covered: 35km (a.3000m ascent and 2000m descent) in 9 and a half hours.
My photos here.
More (better) photos here.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

A good effort BB, but you're going to have to go back again next year, yes?

Have you perhaps considered some rather safer pursuits, such as bull fighting or crocodile wrestling, hmm?

[El Gordo]

I only just caught up with this, BB. What can I say? I'm in awe. And while Mariano was departing this life, too. I'm sure he'd have approved of you mad souls and your hunger for the challenge of the mountains.

It's something I've no experience of, and would probably never have known existed if I hadn't read it here. I feel privileged. There must be a book in here somewhere?

Anyway, brilliant effort and thanks for the reports which I'm sure we've all enjoyed.

[Antonio247]

Congratulations, BB. I was in Roquetas de Mar for a few days and I´ve found your beautiful report and photos.

It´s a pity you couldn´t do the whole course but you enjoyed the landscape and the atmosphere. What a challenge! It looks more like climbing than hiking or running in the mountain.


Saludos desde Almería.

[Sweder]

I'm relieved (as I'm sure Mrs BB is) that you're not lying twisted and torn in the depths of some impossible gorge. As one who suffers a fear of heights - a tall curb can induce irratiojnal vertigo - I found some of the descriptions in your report truly harrowing.

The challenge was always the thing; the fact that you rose to it so admirably sets you apart from the rest of us.

[Bierzo Baggie]

I'm relieved (as I'm sure Mrs BB is) that you're not lying twisted and torn in the depths of some impossible gorge. As one who suffers a fear of heights - a tall curb can induce irratiojnal vertigo - I found some of the descriptions in your report truly harrowing.

The challenge was always the thing; the fact that you rose to it so admirably sets you apart from the rest of us.

It's all in the mind mate.

As I mentioned in the race report I didn't feel exposed or at risk at any point. Thousands of people do these routes walking every year. OK, very occasionally one or two fall off but that's normally because they got lost in the mist and went the wrong way. I didn't perceive any significant danger otherwise I would have turned back. One of the reasons I didn't make the cut off time was because I was probably over-cautious but that's the way it had to be.

On the other hand there's a lot of stuff you might take for granted and I'm terrified of... motorbikes, air travel, motorhead concerts, crossing the road...

Enjoyed the letters from America immensely by the way Cheers all!