Riviera run: an ultra marathon on the Côte d’Azur

My phone pings as I sit on the beach in Nice in the south of France, gazing out at the turquoise sea. The sun is shining and my belly is happily full of the local Swiss chard gnocchi (known charmingly as merde de can) and a large serving of pistachio ice-cream from Fenocchio’s, the best gelateria in town (the Italian influence is strong here in Nice).

I look at my phone. “Extreme weather kit activated!” it says. “Bad weather expected all day. Heavy thundery showers and hail.”

That’s not what I wanted to hear. But I didn’t enter a mountain ultra marathon for something easy. Ultra running — which is any race longer than a marathon — is supposed to be tough. Especially in the mountains. A bit of heavy rain just adds to the appeal.

I’m here to take part in a new event called Nice Côte d’Azur by UTMB. It’s part of the 36-race UTMB World Series of mountain ultra marathons put together by UTMB — founder of the world’s most famous mountain race, the 106-mile Ultra-Trail du Mont-Blanc — and Ironman, which describes itself as the world’s largest organiser of mass-participation events.

Ultra marathons used to be niche events organised by hardy enthusiasts on a shoestring budget. These days, that a company such as Ironman — which was sold for $730mn in 2020 — is putting on mountain ultra marathons illustrates how much the sport has grown.

Indeed, the International Association of Ultrarunners and the website runrepeat.com found that between 1996 and 2018, the number of participants in ultra marathons globally increased by 1,676 per cent. More recently, the number rose from 137,234 participants in 2008 to 611,098 in 2018.

You may be wondering why anyone would pay good money to run huge distances across mountains.

“The marathon has lost some of its mystic,” says Rick Pearson, senior editor at Runner’s World magazine, when asked why ultra running is growing in popularity. “Lots more people now run a marathon, which leads some to think: where can I go to really test my limits?

“Somewhat contrary to that, ultra running is less competitive — in a way, because there’s less focus on time and more on just finishing. And the races often take place in beautiful places, which of course adds to the appeal.”

My 111km race here in Nice (the “100K” category; there are also 100-mile, 50km and 20km races) runs through the mountainous Mercantour National Park down to the seafront. It will certainly be beautiful. And, yes, my primary objective is not a time, but just to finish, which feels less pressured than running a road marathon with a time goal. Will it test my limits? There’s only one way to find out.

After a brief, disjointed sleep, my alarm goes at 2am the next morning. The race starts in the village of Roubion up in the mountains, so we have to catch one of the race buses to the start. By 5am we’re there, gathering in the village square around what feels like the entrance to a cave. It’s still dark, and I find a café umbrella to sit under as the promised rain pours down, while all around me runners stand waiting stoically.

Another text. Ping. Ping. People look at their phones, their faces barely reacting. I check mine. The start has been delayed by an hour. No one grumbles. They’re not easily unsettled, this lot. A chink of light appears as someone opens the church to provide some shelter from the rain. Finally, at 7am, we set off running.

The early hours pass gently as we hike the steep uphill sections in single file, and roll down the descents, letting the contours of the earth dictate our pace. We emerge sporadically out of the mist into stone villages perched on clifftops. Arriving in these settlements from the mountains gives you the feeling that they’re hundreds of miles from anywhere, lost in time and forgotten by the world. In reality they’re probably on every tourist map, and full of gift shops. Maybe I’ll come back and find them one day. Drink a coffee and take a stroll. But, for now, I clatter down their steep streets and back out into the clouds.

I’m sure the views around me are incredible, but we’re mostly running through mist, which has its own magic. Every now and then it partly clears and the jagged top of a mountain breaks through, or a sheer wall of rock, surrounded by lush forested hillsides.

But mostly the rain hammers down, soaking us to our bones. Once you’re wet beyond a certain point, it ceases to matter. I spend the entire race wet past that certain point, my clothes stuck to me like a second skin.

By the time I reach the 50km checkpoint, I’m starting to doubt my life choices. Surely 50km is far enough, I suggest to myself. The thought of stopping is delicious. I could go back to the hotel, have a shower and a nice evening meal. The rain has turned the trails to slippery mud in places. It’s heavy going. I’m caked in it from head to toe and I’ve slipped a couple of times already. Honestly, what is the point in carrying on for another 10 hours or so?

I mention to my wife, who is supporting me at various checkpoints along the way, that I might quit. “No!” she says, a little surprised. “No,” I agree. “It was just a thought.”

No, something in me knows I’ll go on. I always knew it was going to be difficult, but I can tough it out. In my head I hear friends saying: “What a guy, how does he do it?” Is it simply ego that pushes me on? Partly. Partly it is stubbornness; I want to complete what I started. But, also, I want to experience that finish along the promenade in Nice. I want that beautiful surge of energy you get when that finishing arch is in sight, and all that distance, all those travails, lie conquered behind you.

I’m sure the views around me are incredible, but we’re mostly running through mist, which has its own magic

But the rain keeps coming, and the mud gets worse. At times we find ourselves running through perilous rock fields, or clambering down treacherous mudslides. In good moments, we find some firm ground here and there and get some rhythm again, but the sucking mud saps the energy. And the mind. With every fall — I fall about four times — the mind gets rattled. This is stupid. I don’t need to do this, it rants. Yet on I go.

At one point, just before dark, the setting sun bursts through the clouds. I turn and stop to watch as the beams catch the mist in the valleys, setting them alight. The runners behind me turn one by one, each letting out a gasp. We all stand for a moment transfixed. I should take a photo, I think. I’ve never seen anything like it. But I’m too tired. I just watch, then turn my back on it, and carry on my trudge up the hill.

The profile map of the course seemed to show the mountains getting smaller the nearer we got to the sea. But the profile map didn’t show the terrain underfoot. Or the quirks in the steepness of the slope. Or the trickiness of the mountains that love to give you a false sense that you are at the top, such as a flattening of the land, perhaps even a small descent, a weather station or a cross that seems to suggest the summit. Phew, you think. That wasn’t too bad after all. But then it twists upwards again, it’s huge shadow leering down at you. Up here, the trail beckons with its long, spindly finger.

When we eventually reach Nice, in the early hours of the morning, we have to descend a million narrow steps that torment our battered legs, down to a white stone path that dips and winds its way around the cliffs, inches above a raging sea.

Then, finally, we hit the city promenade. I get a last-minute surge of energy, knowing the end is in sight, passing other runners barely able to hobble now, still using their hiking poles, even in the city, just to stand up.

I cross the line in 23 hours, 27 minutes. That’s a long time to be out running. That I finish 190th out of more than 700 starters shows how tough this course is. The majority of the runners are out there for over 24 hours, if they finish at all. Each of us gets to the line bruised and scratched, barely able to believe we’ve made it through all that rain, all those mud-slicked mountains, in one piece.

But we have. I have. And with a huge smile on my face. Despite the weather, it was a beautiful route. And, yes, it tested me to my limits. With all boxes ticked, I proceed to spend the next few days recovering on the beach, packing in a few more ice creams, and feeling the warm, happy post-ultra marathon glow. It’s easy now, after the race, to see the appeal of these mountain ultra marathons. Especially those that finish in Nice.

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