V. Trail Villa de Cuntis: 28km, 2017

V. Trail Villa de Cuntis: 28km (+4690)

July 2, 2017

3:27:46

Prologue

Back in January I secured an entry to the Vermont 100 ultra and the insurance plan in case anything happened. My thinking was that if Boston went well I could squeeze in an endurance block of training and go into Vermont with about 6 months of consistent training, if Boston went poorly then I would reconsider if now was the right time for my first attempt at 100 miles. As fate would have it Boston went poorly and my ensuring bout with the Shingles virus redirected my focus away from training for a 100 miler. Fortunately I was able to file my claim for the insurance and Jackie and I (read: Jackie) booked flights to Spain for another summer abroad. I packed trail and road shoes with no real plans, but I had a feeling I’d find a race. Racing in a foreign country is probably my favorite way to travel- I think I might be an odd tourist.

Training:

I’m still dealing with sporadic flare ups of shingles, similarly I am dealing with sporadic flare ups of motivation to run. I’m enjoying my running lately, sometimes going without my watch and NOT EVEN PUTTING IT ON STRAVA…crazy I know.

V. Trail Villa de Cuntis: 28km

Long story short Jackie and I found ourselves in the northwest corner of Spain in the region of Galicia. An area with ancestral ties to the Celts and home to a distinct language and culture that blends Portuguese and Spanish. They have bagpipes too. On a Friday, I started to look around for a race for that weekend (I’ve never been much for planning). With the help of Jackie and Clara I was able to send a message to two race directors requesting the chance to enter their event after registration had closed. Yago responded “yes” and we reserved a car and an airBnB. The small town of Cuntis gave itself over to the event. The race start and finish were in the shadow of the town church right on the center square and flowing fountain. Slowly, a few hundred runners assembled for the races- 28k, 17k, and 17k hike. Right away the distance of the race made an impression on me. 28km- not 30km. A race in the US would have included a lap or two around town to round the course out to 30. Not here. 28km was just fine. It’s not about the distance covered- it’s about the trail itself- the region, the mountains, the forests. This course strung together three peaks that surround a small town in south-central Galicia. No frills- just hard running. This is an important and a too often neglected aspect of trail running. So many races in the US, particularly Texas, are seemingly endless loops that total a round or standard racing distance- like road racing. Anyway, I registered for the race, filled a handheld water bottle in the fountain (definitely not in Texas anymore), and took my place at the back of the front pack behind the starting line.

Start to first peak:

The pace at the start felt reasonable, which has not been my experience racing in Spain in the past. We zip through the town and down an alley that gives way to a beaten down track leading towards the hills. There is a “we’re all in this together” spirit to the pack as we settle into position and wind through the tall, wet, summer grass. The trail climbs moderately through the forest. The ground is soft and spongy with layers of moss, dirt, and bark. Many of us bring our hands to our knees and start pumping our legs to drive our bodies up the hill- the stronger of the bunch just keep running. As we push on, the surface of the trail begins to change. The trees fade and are replaced with scrubby, prickly brush. Gone, too, is the soft soil of the denser woods. Now we are navigating through half buried baby-head rocks. Every few meters the rocks get larger and larger as we approach the summit. The summit itself is a pile of large VW- sized boulders. Hand-over-hand, we pull ourselves between, up and over the mound. The runners pause to help each other here, snap photos, and remark on the vista. At least I imagine that’s what they are saying- I can’t even fake speaking Gallego. The summit is of no real significance, it just marks the point at which you can’t go any higher and you can see that the folds of great hills with ridges of mounded rock stretch to the horizons. Wind turbines churn in the not too far off distance. I quickly make my way from the ridge and find the established trail again.

1st major descent to second peak.

Everyone here descends the trail like Kilian Jornet, blisteringly fast with no self regard. I think this can only be achieved by a life in the mountains. I’m really at a loss as to why I am so slow on the downhill. This is a note to modify my training to account for this glaring weakness. Most of this descent is through a freshly cleared swath of forest and is treacherously full of small stumps and chipped up under growth. This isn’t a trail, per say, it’s a transition to the next trail. In short order we pop out onto double track roads that I can only assume were cut for logging. Finally my road running “pedigree” can come in handy. I pick up more speed. But in no time at all the course dips and cuts the switch back and drops us into a steep road cut and we have to jump a few feet to the road below. What the hell? This is great!

The next and most significant peak is ahead and staring at you. We run past a few houses and the inhabitants are outside curiously watching the spectacle of the day. The trail follows the same pattern as before but this summit is a bit taller and opens into a vast highland region. Expansive views, green grass, scattered rocks and boulders. The scene is very tranquil and we run up here for quite some time. The true peak is another mound of rocks this time resembling more of a fin that winds along the ridge. I am running more or less alone. The occasional person passes me and up ahead I can see the fluorescent colors of other runners. I settle myself and commit that this is a run for pure joy. Here I am in this place. I am so lucky to be here and to have my fitness to carry me through such a place.

Second major descent to final peak

This is the steepest and most technical descent of my life. I’m pretty sure it’s a wildfire control cut. It was so steep- I saw old winch cables tied around rocks and trees. Loose soil. All of it. This was not a trail, but it was the way down. I wish I could see the faster runners move through this. I proceed with caution for what feels like too long. The course bends and then drops again. We are losing elevation fast. I tumble into the houses at the foot of the mountain and am greeted by a family with a few children. At this point I am too worn to attempt speaking Spanish with them. I smile, fill my bottle and say “thank you!” As I throw myself back into momentum I hear them say in puzzled tone, “¿inglés?”. Soon enough the trail bottoms out a river with a rope stretched across. The runner ahead steps in and right away is up to his waist- I’m glad that I didn’t bring my phone with me. The rope wasn’t exactly necessary, but I’m glad it was there. I slip-stumbled through the water with a huge smile. What an experience! Climbing out of the riverbed and out onto a road, I know that I am coming to the end, the last climb must be ahead. The heat of the day was mounting and I began to encounter those hiking the shorter course. The last climb was exposed, rocky, and steep. Again, I’m pretty sure it was a wildfire cut. As I power-hiked up the slope a guy participating in the hiking event came up behind me. We exchanged a look and communicated as best we could. I wish I could have said more to him besides good, tough, strong, tired, I’m sorry. He didn’t seem to mind too much and started to tell me about Marcos. Now before the race started I was piecing together information about event from Gallego Facebook pages. I could tell that the event was a benefit for the Cidras. This excited me because in northern Spain local cider is really popular and delicious. This isn’t completely true in Galicia, which would make sense why a race would benefit the local cider industry…I thought. Turns out Marcos Cidras is a local trail runner and mountaineer who suffered a terrible accident. The race was a benefit for him and his family- this makes more sense than the local cider houses. The hiker took off his backpack to show me a picture of a man trail running, he told me it was Marcos and that he was the strongest of them all (I think). I knew what he was doing. He was giving me “ánimo”. The Spanish racers are very supportive of each other and will go out of their way to help a fellow racer with an extra boost. I’ve seen this time and time again. He was telling me to push on for Marcos. The pitch relaxed and I started to run again. A shout of “Ánimo!” pushed me over the crest. Time to run. The trail dropped and wound around to the woods- three miles left. But not before another brutal downhill- full of rocks. Earlier in our trip the wonderful Ms. Jackie took a brutal spill running on some rocks (a story for another day). I knew I was fatigued and I could hardly support my core. This possibly last decent scared me. I picked my way through it with real caution. I quelled my competitive drive and took it easy. ¿What’s this? Another climb. A real spirit breaker. My new mantra is “it’s never over”. But I let that slip and allowed myself the joy of knowing the end is near. Damn hill- it was steep and rutted, another transitional path not a real trail. I got over it. Legs shot. A guy passed me. Hmmm. I stretch out the legs on the flat and passed him. I wanted to run fast to the end. Gnarly forest downhill- I start to push. Flat section. I put some distance in him. Gnarly downhill. I’m done. Sharp turn to downhill I step aside and shout “Animo” and let him pass he disappears. I’m so glad I did this. The final 2 miles were very painful for me. My core was rocked. Eagerly step was accompanied by an audible painful breath. I find my mantra again. “It’s never over”. The woods were beautiful- in Spanish the word is bosque. I like that word better than woods. We come to a double track and I see a familiar silhouette under a tree. Jackie! I get to her and just give a wave. I wish I had more but I left it in the bosque. The course routes us to some ancient stairs. What the hell?

I laugh and take the stairs in good spirits. The spit me out into the town and I stretch it out to finish hard. I cross the line and hear my name announced with a Spanish accent. “Jamie Estone, the American”. I clasp my hands together to say thanks and make my way to the shade and ice cold well in the town center. In I go. It was deeper than I imagined and filled with fish and non offensive leeches. No one seemed worried. I was done. 28km 3:26:xx 26/100.

Epilogue

The “runcation” is the only way to travel and racing in a foreign country is such a fun experience. The experience is especially significant for me because I can’t speak Spanish well at all, the race becomes a chance for me to connect with other people without having to talk. Smiles, hard efforts, near disasters, and amazing views are universal. I have learned though, that (at least in Spain) people don’t “woop!” I think that’s an American thing. Generally speaking this race was enough to remind me that I’m not where I want to be with running. I plan to take a break from racing and focus on training- I want to get strong! Animo!