Himalayan 100-Mile Stage Race
For the ultimate runner's high, you could do worse than a five-day ultra-marathon in the indian himalayas
Posted: 18 May 2009
by Alison Hamlett
Runners World Magazine
Sikkim is mountaineering country. It's a remote, largely inhospitable land, penned in on three sides by snowy, towering Himalayan peaks. Politically it's India but think Nepal or Tibet and your mind and body will at least be on the same page when you're moving through the foothills that take you in sight of those peaks. If you have a lust to plant a flag in the world of high-altitude mountaineering it's a place you will almost certainly pass through at some point in your career.
It's no place to be a marathon runner though, particularly if you're going to warm up with a couple of races not much shorter than 26 miles and cool down with two more. If you don't like hills or mountains, struggle to breathe at altitude and are fond of your toenails, look away now – Sikkim and the Himalayan 100-mile Stage Race (HSR) are probably not for you. That doesn't deter the 70 or so international runners who typically sign up for the event, but then most of them don't really know what's ahead of them.
In any extreme race it's often easier not to think about what's ahead. Your imagination is far more dangerous than reality and you can psyche yourself out before you've even started. The raw facts of the HSR, for example, are bad enough: five consecutive days of running, 100 miles of mixed terrain and thousands of feet of climbing. You certainly don't need to add thoughts of sleepless nights or the prospect of countless minor injuries.
Thankfully the start from the colourful village of Manebhanjang, accompanied by enthusiastic local crowds, was no indication of what lay ahead. However, any thought that this was just another race lasted for about five minutes. That's how long it took us to move from the village to a wall of rock stretching into the clouds ahead of us. For the next few hours, as I climbed, walked and struggled slowly skywards, I couldn't help wishing I'd done more than a few half-hearted training runs up Primrose Hill in London to prepare for the relentless switchbacks. At least the opportunity to chat to the other runners provided a useful distraction from heavy legs and burning lungs.
Only a handful of the field managed to run any of that first stage. The majority placed their hands on their knees and discovered that just walking up 5,000 feet over 24 miles was a formidable challenge. You think that you've pushed your body to its limit, only to discover the extra reserves of stubbornness required to complete the stage. Even so, willpower is constantly tested in a race like this, whether it's by a local man in flip-flops ambling past without even breaking into a sweat, or when you go round a corner to be confronted by another interminable ascent. Giving up is never an option though in a race that is as social as it is competitive. There's always the option to slow down, and that was my strategy as I pushed up through the clouds to arrive at the first night's camp in Sandakphu National Park.
The ramshackle collection of huts, our base for two nights, is the only place in the world where four of the world's five highest mountains (Everest, Kanchenjunga, Lhotse and Makalu) can be seen at once. Great views can lose their sparkle after hours of breathless climbing though, particularly if you're hungry too.
The race notes warn that "at 11,815ft, some people lose their normal taste for food". It's true: you know you've used thousands of calories to climb the mountain but, despite the excellent food on offer, nothing really appealed. But when the sun went down at six o'clock, the only hut with a fire doubled as the dining room so everyone crammed into it to keep warm and fuel up for the next day.
The first day's racing was over but not its drama. A runner in my dormitory had become so dehydrated during the stage that she had to be put on a drip, while in another hut someone reacted so badly to the altitude that she had to be taken back down the mountain in a jeep and withdraw from the race. As we woke to the news on day two, we were reminded that, no matter how much training you put in, running at altitude is unpredictable. When you're struggling to breathe simply lying still, it's hard not to worry about how you'll cope with running 20 miles at this elevation.
I remembered the strategy of mountaineers who tackle Everest – one of the peaks I could see in the far distance. The most dangerous time during a summit attempt isn't on the way up but after you've made it to the top and are making your way back down. Approaching the 20-mile out-and-back second stage with the same trepidation seemed to make sense. There was less climbing than on the previous day, but I still ensured I had something in reserve for the last 10 miles back to camp.
Everyone else seemed to be using the same strategy. The majority of runners in a multi-day stage race tend to run conservatively in the early stages because they're wary of what lies ahead. It's the same approach used by most marathon runners: you don't go all-out early on because you run the risk of fading badly in the closing stages. And while the third stage might have been billed as a marathon, it didn't have much in common with any I'd tackled in the past. The first half of the course was run over exposed cobbled tracks before it dropped down 4,000 feet via a dry riverbed. In the past this section of the race had posed an extra challenge when the bright red ribbons used to mark the route had been removed by girls from the local primary school. Apparently they'd decided the ribbons would make better hair ties than route markers.
The route markers were in place on this occasion, as the vegetation changed from a barren landscape punctuated with stunted trees and grey slabs of rock to lush cultivated tropical valleys, but it wasn't long until another challenge confronted us. After passing a marker indicating that there were 8.5 kilometres remaining, the next one showed there were 13 kilometres to go. Dealing with that kind of unpredictability can be demoralising. It was a good thing that only after the stage had finished did someone reveal that his GPS had measured it as 33 miles.
Before reaching the end of the stage, though, I spotted a runner hunched over by the side of the path. Even 20 yards away I could see blood pouring from her knee but, with no access to the route by vehicle, she had no choice but to keep going to the finish where the race doctor patched her up. She wasn't the only casualty that day: a German runner fell on the trail and grazed his face, while blisters and blackened toenails were becoming more common.
A Canadian couple, both of them experienced extreme racers, used their extensive first-aid kit to patch up my feet but their real contribution was to my mental well-being. Since the start of the race I'd been unable to sleep at night – a common problem at altitude but one that I hadn't known about. A sleeping pill later and I finally enjoyed a decent rest before the fourth stage.
After running – if you believe the race notes – 70 miles in three days, the relatively short half-marathon on day four on paper looks like the easiest day. I thought I was over the worst and let my guard down, only to discover that this is physically and psychologically the toughest day. If you've ever tried walking downstairs the day after running a marathon, you'll have some idea how my legs felt as I descended 1,000 feet to the valley floor before climbing back up to 1,000 feet to the finish.
An hour after the finish and my legs had seized up so much that I could barely walk but with just the final stage to go I decided to have my first massage. A yoga teacher who doubled as a masseur worked her magic and after an hour of painful pummelling my legs felt loose enough to tackle another day. As we moved lower down the valley, the rough huts and vegetable gardens of the locals became more frequent. Some children, no older than five or six, kept up with me easily as I plodded through the last 17 miles. If they were surprised to see groups of runners wearing race numbers, they didn't show it. And nor did the hundreds of school children who lined the street on the approach to the finish in Manebhanjang. The only confused looks were exchanged when two runners crossed the line dressed as Elvis.
For days we had run in the shadow of Everest and, even though we hadn't climbed its towering peak, everyone who completed the race knew that they'd faced a challenge that was, in running terms, just as difficult. We might have suffered sleepless nights and lost some toenails but we'd survived extremes we couldn't even have imagined just five days earlier.
It's no place to be a marathon runner though, particularly if you're going to warm up with a couple of races not much shorter than 26 miles and cool down with two more. If you don't like hills or mountains, struggle to breathe at altitude and are fond of your toenails, look away now – Sikkim and the Himalayan 100-mile Stage Race (HSR) are probably not for you. That doesn't deter the 70 or so international runners who typically sign up for the event, but then most of them don't really know what's ahead of them.
In any extreme race it's often easier not to think about what's ahead. Your imagination is far more dangerous than reality and you can psyche yourself out before you've even started. The raw facts of the HSR, for example, are bad enough: five consecutive days of running, 100 miles of mixed terrain and thousands of feet of climbing. You certainly don't need to add thoughts of sleepless nights or the prospect of countless minor injuries.
Thankfully the start from the colourful village of Manebhanjang, accompanied by enthusiastic local crowds, was no indication of what lay ahead. However, any thought that this was just another race lasted for about five minutes. That's how long it took us to move from the village to a wall of rock stretching into the clouds ahead of us. For the next few hours, as I climbed, walked and struggled slowly skywards, I couldn't help wishing I'd done more than a few half-hearted training runs up Primrose Hill in London to prepare for the relentless switchbacks. At least the opportunity to chat to the other runners provided a useful distraction from heavy legs and burning lungs.
Only a handful of the field managed to run any of that first stage. The majority placed their hands on their knees and discovered that just walking up 5,000 feet over 24 miles was a formidable challenge. You think that you've pushed your body to its limit, only to discover the extra reserves of stubbornness required to complete the stage. Even so, willpower is constantly tested in a race like this, whether it's by a local man in flip-flops ambling past without even breaking into a sweat, or when you go round a corner to be confronted by another interminable ascent. Giving up is never an option though in a race that is as social as it is competitive. There's always the option to slow down, and that was my strategy as I pushed up through the clouds to arrive at the first night's camp in Sandakphu National Park.
The ramshackle collection of huts, our base for two nights, is the only place in the world where four of the world's five highest mountains (Everest, Kanchenjunga, Lhotse and Makalu) can be seen at once. Great views can lose their sparkle after hours of breathless climbing though, particularly if you're hungry too.
The race notes warn that "at 11,815ft, some people lose their normal taste for food". It's true: you know you've used thousands of calories to climb the mountain but, despite the excellent food on offer, nothing really appealed. But when the sun went down at six o'clock, the only hut with a fire doubled as the dining room so everyone crammed into it to keep warm and fuel up for the next day.
The first day's racing was over but not its drama. A runner in my dormitory had become so dehydrated during the stage that she had to be put on a drip, while in another hut someone reacted so badly to the altitude that she had to be taken back down the mountain in a jeep and withdraw from the race. As we woke to the news on day two, we were reminded that, no matter how much training you put in, running at altitude is unpredictable. When you're struggling to breathe simply lying still, it's hard not to worry about how you'll cope with running 20 miles at this elevation.
I remembered the strategy of mountaineers who tackle Everest – one of the peaks I could see in the far distance. The most dangerous time during a summit attempt isn't on the way up but after you've made it to the top and are making your way back down. Approaching the 20-mile out-and-back second stage with the same trepidation seemed to make sense. There was less climbing than on the previous day, but I still ensured I had something in reserve for the last 10 miles back to camp.
Everyone else seemed to be using the same strategy. The majority of runners in a multi-day stage race tend to run conservatively in the early stages because they're wary of what lies ahead. It's the same approach used by most marathon runners: you don't go all-out early on because you run the risk of fading badly in the closing stages. And while the third stage might have been billed as a marathon, it didn't have much in common with any I'd tackled in the past. The first half of the course was run over exposed cobbled tracks before it dropped down 4,000 feet via a dry riverbed. In the past this section of the race had posed an extra challenge when the bright red ribbons used to mark the route had been removed by girls from the local primary school. Apparently they'd decided the ribbons would make better hair ties than route markers.
The route markers were in place on this occasion, as the vegetation changed from a barren landscape punctuated with stunted trees and grey slabs of rock to lush cultivated tropical valleys, but it wasn't long until another challenge confronted us. After passing a marker indicating that there were 8.5 kilometres remaining, the next one showed there were 13 kilometres to go. Dealing with that kind of unpredictability can be demoralising. It was a good thing that only after the stage had finished did someone reveal that his GPS had measured it as 33 miles.
Before reaching the end of the stage, though, I spotted a runner hunched over by the side of the path. Even 20 yards away I could see blood pouring from her knee but, with no access to the route by vehicle, she had no choice but to keep going to the finish where the race doctor patched her up. She wasn't the only casualty that day: a German runner fell on the trail and grazed his face, while blisters and blackened toenails were becoming more common.
A Canadian couple, both of them experienced extreme racers, used their extensive first-aid kit to patch up my feet but their real contribution was to my mental well-being. Since the start of the race I'd been unable to sleep at night – a common problem at altitude but one that I hadn't known about. A sleeping pill later and I finally enjoyed a decent rest before the fourth stage.
After running – if you believe the race notes – 70 miles in three days, the relatively short half-marathon on day four on paper looks like the easiest day. I thought I was over the worst and let my guard down, only to discover that this is physically and psychologically the toughest day. If you've ever tried walking downstairs the day after running a marathon, you'll have some idea how my legs felt as I descended 1,000 feet to the valley floor before climbing back up to 1,000 feet to the finish.
An hour after the finish and my legs had seized up so much that I could barely walk but with just the final stage to go I decided to have my first massage. A yoga teacher who doubled as a masseur worked her magic and after an hour of painful pummelling my legs felt loose enough to tackle another day. As we moved lower down the valley, the rough huts and vegetable gardens of the locals became more frequent. Some children, no older than five or six, kept up with me easily as I plodded through the last 17 miles. If they were surprised to see groups of runners wearing race numbers, they didn't show it. And nor did the hundreds of school children who lined the street on the approach to the finish in Manebhanjang. The only confused looks were exchanged when two runners crossed the line dressed as Elvis.
For days we had run in the shadow of Everest and, even though we hadn't climbed its towering peak, everyone who completed the race knew that they'd faced a challenge that was, in running terms, just as difficult. We might have suffered sleepless nights and lost some toenails but we'd survived extremes we couldn't even have imagined just five days earlier.
