When UTMB Doesn’t Go to Plan: How I Survived the Race but Missed My Goals
- Arthur Ehlinger
- Sep 11
- 13 min read
The Calm Before the Storm
It’s race day. The moment I’d been waiting for many months. The last night before the race had been OK. Not terrible, but not great either. But in the last few days, something had felt slightly off. I wasn’t as rested as usual, my appetite was lower, and my rhythm felt disrupted. Nothing dramatic at first glance, but in hindsight, maybe it was the first crack in what would later become a brutal experience in the mountains.
The morning of the race was spent fussing with my gear one last time. I gave a quick last briefing to my support crew before hitting the road to Chamonix. A quick stop to greet old ASICS teammates, then into a hotel room to sit and wait. I called my coach for last-minute advice before the nerves really kicked in. My biggest worry? The start line. At UTMB it’s first come, first served, and I didn’t want to waste energy standing around too long, but I also didn’t want to be stuck at the back and lose precious minutes early on.
About 45 minutes before the start, I finally walked over. I made a quick detour by the church standing just behind the start line, took a quiet moment, and asked for protection. The enormity of what laid ahead made it emotional. After gently elbowing my way through the crowd, I managed to get a decent spot near the front. The final 30 minutes flew by. Seeing the elites roll in, legends of the sport lining up in the flesh, was incredible. These were the people who had inspired so many of us, and now we were about to follow their footsteps for 175 kilometers.
At 17:45 the race started. The streets of Chamonix exploded with thousands of people cheering, clapping, shouting our names. The atmosphere was unreal, unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. I made a conscious effort to hold back, to keep my pace under control. The adrenaline made me feel like I could fly, but I knew too well that going out too hard would cost me later. The exit from Chamonix was messy. Trails narrowed, people jostled, poles clattered. Some tripped, others lost their gear in the chaos. I stayed calm, clearly signalling with my hands to keep others from cutting me off or knocking into me. With my left ankle still fragile, I couldn’t afford a stupid mistake so early. I reached Les Houches without trouble, topped up my bottles, and was straight back out.
The climb to Col de Voza stretched the field, positions began to stabilise, and I settled into rhythm. I held back on the downhill, repeating to myself: it’s a long race. Yet already, I noticed something unsual. My eyelids felt heavy. Not tired, but sleepy. That had never happened to me in a race before and planted the first seeds of doubt. At 20:21, I reached Saint-Gervais where the roaring crowd snapped me out of it, and I found energy again. By Les Contamines I was still ahead of my projected splits, but in control. Seeing Beth at the aid station lifted me even more. She handed over my gels and bars for the night, I swapped into a thicker jacket for the rain, and pushed on. That’s where I made the big mistake I’d pay for in a few hours.
Leaving Les Contamines, I moved toward the legendary Notre Dame de la Gorge. This spot is famous: supporters lining the climb, ringing cowbells, shouting encouragement like it’s a Champions League final. And it didn’t disappoint. The crowd hit me like a wave. Nobody was in front of me, so I felt the duty to rise to the occasion. I surged, and started running up the incline, going into zone 5 for a few minutes just to honour the moment. The atmosphere was too magical not to.
Into the Storm
As I left the cheering crowds of Notre Dame de la Gorge behind, the atmosphere shifted in an instant. Darkness fell. No more music, no more shouts of encouragement. These were the last supporters we'd hear until morning in Courmayeur. Now, and for the next 8 hours, it was just the rhythmic clicking of poles from the runners ahead and behind.
The climb to Col du Bonhomme began steadily. Standing at 2443 meters, it’s a long, grinding ascent of around 1300 meters. I felt solid, moving in rhythm behind another runner who was setting a good pace. Step by step, I was ticking it off, confident and calm. But as we gained altitude, the weather turned. The wind picked up, and then came the hail.
Having Raynaud’s disease, my fingers lose heat super fast. Within minutes they were numb. I had to stash my poles away and walk with my hands in my underpants to warm them up. Not the most classy, but it worked. My gloves and extra layers were buried in the back of my pack, and the thought of stopping to dig them out in the storm didn’t appeal. So I pushed on, gritting my teeth as the hail battered harder.
Near the top, race officials forced us to stop and put on extra layers as the weather was even worse on the other side. In theory, a good idea. In practice, it was disastrous. Standing still in the middle of the blizzard, fully exposed, my body temperature crashed. My hands were so numb I couldn’t open zippers or clip buckles. I started shaking violently, my jaw locking into spasms so strong I couldn’t eat, drink, or even speak properly anymore. Other runners tried to help me with my gear, and after a few agonising minutes, I finally managed to pull on my waterproof trousers and a pair of gloves. But the damage was done. My body was frozen, and the storm was only getting stronger.
Now on the exposed ridgeline, the blizzard raged. I couldn’t feel my fingers, or my face. My heart was hammering, racing out of control. For the first time since I started running in 2020, fear crept in. Real fear. I wondered if I’d make it down to the next checkpoint in one piece, thinking that some my fingers might get some irreversible damage. My only goal became survival: get to the Croix du Bonhomme refuge a few kilometres further, as soon as possible. Having spent a night there during my recce of the route in June, I knew that the doors were open overnight and decided that I would stop there no matter what. The camaraderie of trail running had now vanished. No more chatter, no words of encouragement, no glances to check on each other. Just heads down in the storm. Some moved in silence, others groaned or cried out, each runner locked in their own battle to cross the pass alive.
Finally, after some long minutes, some lights appeared through the storm. At the top of the col, before the descent, mountain rescue staff were settled in a little tent to scan our bibs, making sure everyone made it through the top. I asked for assistance and was walked inside the refuge I was aiming for. What I saw there was pure chaos.
Dozens of runners crowded into the common room, stripped of wet clothes, fighting for a spot around the wood stove. Some were totally naked, shivering uncontrollably, others screamed in pain as their frozen hands and feet thawed too quickly. Some fainted, others vomited. The mountain rescue team worked tirelessly, guiding people in, making space, trying to keep order in the madness. That's when I thought to myself: I'm not so bad in the end. Once I’d got warm enough to stop shaking, I gave up my place by the fire to newer arrivals. I took the time to layer up with every piece of clothing I had and decided to get started again. The race, and the night, still stretched long ahead.
That was the crucial mistake. The whole shit show could have been avoided so easily. I should have checked the weather more carefully and changed layers at Les Contamines. The Col du Bonhomme still would have been brutal, but I could have pushed through in one go. Less shaken, less traumatised. And the rest of the race would have been completely different. Lesson learnt.
Through the Darkness
The descent into Les Chapieux was slow and messy. The trail had turned into a mudslide, and the last thing I wanted was to fall. Already soaked to the bone, I didn’t need another problem. 5 kilometers later, I reached the checkpoint, grabbed a quick bite, and realised it had been over 2 hours since I’d eaten anything. No wonder my body was starting to feel hollow. A short stop, a few mouthfuls, and I was back out. Despite everything, I actually felt okay. The weather was still miserable, but I was moving again.
The long, gradual climb toward Col de la Seigne suited me. The incline was steady, and for the first time since the storm I was able to stretch my legs and get into a rhythm. I felt warm, comfortable even. But I just couldn’t eat. The trauma of Col du Bonhomme was still too fresh. With my gloves and waterproof over-mittens, it was nearly impossible to open gels or bars, and the idea of stopping, taking them off, and risking frozen hands again terrified me. I'd rather be hungry than helpless, I thought. As the climb steepened, the temperature dropped and the snow began to fall hard. I reached the top and asked the mountain rescue to open a bar for me. My first real calories in more than 90 minutes.
That’s when I learned about the diversion. The Col des Pyramides Calcaires was closed, deemed too sketchy with the heavy snow. Instead, we’d head straight to Lac Combal. After such a brutal start of the night, this felt like a gift. The section that followed was smooth and steady, and I ran well. Strong on my feet, finally making good time. At the checkpoint I took no risks, stopping for food, regrouping, and reminding myself of my coach Holly’s words: take care of yourself. In weather like this, small mistakes can break you over time. At 04:06, I left Lac Combal for the last climb of the night before Courmayeur. Conditions were still grim, but I was on a mission. I overtook people steadily, feeling in control despite not eating much. The descent into Courmayeur started smooth, then shifted into a quad-busting section, especially tricky in the dark. I took my time. I was still less than 30 minutes behind my 28-hour target and told myself that with a proper break in Courmayeur and daylight on my side, I could still close the loop under 30 hours.
But when I reached Courmayeur at 06:23, the weight of the night hit me like a wall. I collapsed into a chair next to Beth and let a few tears slip, finally releasing the emotions of the night. I took my time, changed everything from head to toe, went to the bathroom, forced down food. After half an hour, I was back out. Overdressed, paranoid about freezing again, I stopped early into the climb to Bertone to peel off layers. And that’s when the emptiness hit.
It was a strange kind of fatigue. In every other 100-miler I’d run, I’d left aid stations buzzing, legs fresh, mind sharp. This time, it felt like stopping didn't really help. The same sleepiness gnawed at me, my body unwilling to match my mind. At Bertone I stopped again a few minutes, trying to reset. On the way out, I bumped into Tom, a videographer shooting a UTMB documentary. We’d met a few days earlier to chat about the race. Talking to him gave me a boost, but half an hour later the sleepiness returned. The views from Bertone to Arnouvaz were breathtaking with the golden light painting the peaks. I was tired, but still enjoyed this spectacle. I shuffled on, reaching Arnouvaz at 10:14. 100 kilometers in, 5,900 meters of elevation climbed.
The Grand Col Ferret loomed. I remembered this climb well and was actually excited to tackle it. Steep and steady, the kind that normally plays to my strengths. But only minutes in, the excitement was gone. I was cooked. I had to stop for breaks on my way up, something I’d never done before. My strength has always been consistency on the climbs, the ability to grind without faltering. But today, that strength deserted me. Frustration started to grow. I knew it was just a feeling, something to be pushed aside, but I couldn’t. I crawled to the top, then dropped into the long descent toward La Fouly. On the downhill, I managed a decent pace. Not flying, but steady. The flat approach to the aid station lifted me; I ran my fastest splits of the race at around 5:15/km, finally feeling good again. I dared to believe things were turning. At the aid station, I refueled properly, took ten minutes, and set out determined.
But again, my legs didn’t respond. The runners I’d shared the road with slipped away. It was maddening: on my favourite section of the course, the long gentle descent before climbing to Champex-Lac, I had nothing. I even struggled to run the flats. Deep down, I kept repeating the ultra mantra: no bad moment lasts. And I clung to the hope that things would swing. By the time I reached Champex-Lac at 15:43 (128 kilometers in, 21 hours 58 minutes on the clock) I was a wreck. My crew lifted me, but the noise in the hall killed any chance of the nap I craved. I changed, ate, lingered for 30 minutes, then shuffled back out. My quads were trashed but I was able to move at a decent pace, working hard to shut down the pain in my brain.
On the climb to La Giète, I linked up with a small group. Chatting helped distract me, but my quads refused to recover. Unlike past races where hamstrings worked uphill while quads rested, this time they were constantly firing. On the descent I was overtaken again and again. It wasn’t the overtaking that hurt. It was my inability to run while others flew. Why not me? I asked myself. With all the training I’d done, why now? My fuelling wasn’t perfect, but it wasn’t catastrophic either. I managed to take down gels, squeeze in apple purée, and even some Kinder bars. Still, it felt like none of it made a difference. It felt like I just didn’t have it in me that day.
I rolled into Trient at 19:32. My 30-hour goal was gone, but it's OK. I’d finish when I'd finish. After another half-hour break and a proper meal, I set off into the second night. On the climb I found a French runner, and we moved well together. At the top he stopped, and I waited for him. It felt right, even if it cost me minutes. That’s when Maria, running for La Sportiva as I would quickly learn, caught up with us. Soon after, we formed a trio. By 21:10, we were deep into the night. I led, Maria strong on my heels, while the Frenchman was starting to lag behind. Maria and I decided to push. Conversation flickered in and out, the rhythm was smooth, the energy high. We flew down the descent together. It was the highlight of my race. Thanks for the ride, Maria.
Arriving at Vallorcine at 22:45, I felt strong. For the first time I believed it would be a great end of the race. Maria, being the elite she is, stopped only briefly before charging on. I should have followed. Instead, I wasted half an hour fussing with my gear, paranoid about missing mandatory kit, barely eating and losing momentum. A masterclass in how not to stop during an ultra.
The Final Push
Leaving Vallorcine, I felt optimistic. My legs were heavy, yes, but my head was clear. After that strong section, I told myself the rest of the race would fly by. For thirty minutes it did. Then, out of nowhere, everything collapsed.
A wave of dizziness hit me. I had to slow down, then slow down again. Suddenly, I was completely alone: no one ahead, no one behind. The thought lodged itself in my mind like a splinter: if I pass out here and hit my head on a rock, I'm dead. The longer I went, the darker my thoughts grew. Every few minutes I was forced to stop, breathe, force down a bite of food, and move myself forward again. I prayed I’d see mountain rescue soon, someone, anyone, just to break the spiral. Runners passed me, one by one, distracting me for a few seconds as I tried to hang on to them but couldn’t. After another turn, salvation appeared: a small group of volunteers huddled around a fire pit, mountain rescue keeping watch over the trail. I asked if I could rest for 15 minutes under their watch. They set an alarm. I laid down by the fire.
Of course, being a light sleeper, I didn’t drift off, but I closed my eyes and let the heat soak in. Ten minutes later, I stood up again, not refreshed, but steadier. Before leaving, I exchanged a few words with the team. Just a group of cool people giving their time so that we could safely chase this insane dream. Thank you. Back on the trail, my head was lighter but my body still wrecked. The forest stretched endlessly, pitch black, every switchback looking the same. Without my watch telling me I was moving, I’d have sworn I was standing still. Finally, the trees broke, and I saw the last stretch on the ski slope. The lights of La Flégère flickered above.
At 02:30, I reached the final aid station. Just a quick stop to grab a bite, no more hanging around. Seven kilometers downhill to Chamonix. That was it. At the top, I found my friend Augustin and my brother Basile, who’d hiked up to cheer me on. We shuffled down together for a few hundred meters before they sprinted ahead to catch me at the finish. Alone again, I turned into the descent. It was far more technical than I remembered, especially in the dead of night. My quads screamed. I stumbled, cursed, slowed to a crawl. Frustration boiled over. I thought about every mistake I’d made, every decision that had led me here: broken, more than three hours behind my most pessimistic schedule, dragging myself through these last kilometres.
The descent dragged on forever, until finally the trail softened and I could run again. A headlamp glowed behind me. Not this time. I’d been passed enough today. I dug deep, threw in everything I had left. As I entered Chamonix, at 03:45 in the morning, the streets were empty. No roaring crowds, no clapping hands. Just a few volunteers pointing me through the last turns.
My crew was there, cheering, faces lit with excitement. But inside, I felt nothing. No joy. No relief. No pride. Just disasppointment.
I crossed the line in 34 hours and 6 minutes. A mythical race, conquered. And yet I couldn’t celebrate. I smiled, maybe for myself, maybe because that’s what you’re supposed to do when you finish UTMB.
But deep down, I knew I came for more. I thought I’d be stronger. I thought I’d suffer better. I knew the pain would be there, asking its brutal question: do you really want to achieve your goals, or are you just a talker? This time, I wasn’t ready to achieve my goals. This time, I was just a talker.
To many reading this, it might seem simple: I finished. And finishing a 100-mile race is always an achievement. I agree. Up to a point. But I know the truth.
I should have, I could have, I must have done better.
And that can only mean one thing: I’ll have to come back.
