“Dear universe, please bring me safely to Chamonix.” I took a deep breath, trying to let go of all worries and doubts as I absorbed the atmosphere with hundreds of runners around me. Here I was, standing at the start line of CCC UTMB—underprepared, my health far from optimal, and carrying a pack that seemed way too full.
But I wouldn’t give up. This was what I had promised myself.
After all, I felt extremely lucky to be here at the start line after barely trying, while others attempt for years without success.
I had entered the lottery just for fun, not expecting to get in because I had only run one qualifying race—the Kullamannen in Sweden. When I received the news that I was accepted in January, I signed up knowing full well that this might be a once-in-a-lifetime adventure.
However, I also knew that I had no mountain experience and almost no trail running background. But I was motivated and decided to prepare as best I could as a lifelong flatlander living in the big, flat city of Berlin.
I would continue strength training with kettlebells, as they had proven to be an excellent tool for building durability and muscular endurance. I also planned to spend more time in the gym, using uphill treadmill workouts and maybe even the stair climber.
Most importantly, I decided I would arrive in the Alps early enough to be fully acclimated to altitude on race day.
In the end, only the last part of my strategy worked out. My gut health was not in good shape by the end of 2024, and it got worse. In spring 2025, I recorded a “did not start” at my first race because of my symptoms, and for the rest of the year, I struggled with severe IBS flare-ups that resulted in disrupted training sessions, long runs that had to be cut short, and every race except one (O-See Backyard Ultra) being affected by it.
While my results leading up to CCC were still decent—with top 10 finishes and an age group 2nd place finish at the German 24-hour championships—I raced well below my capabilities because I had gut issues before and during each race.
And I knew it would be the same for CCC.
Just the week before the race, my already poor gut health worsened, and I boarded the bus that would take me to the start line with a distended belly that made me look six months pregnant. “At least there’s no cramping,” I thought to myself.
I knew I needed to stay mentally relaxed to avoid making it worse. I wanted to be able to run as much as possible, after all.
I don’t remember my thoughts during the bus ride from Les Houches to the start line in Courmayeur, but I remember that I was relaxed. There was no excitement, but also no fear. I knew I had a job to do, and I knew I would give it my best to get it done.
I no longer had any time goals—I had let go of them months ago after it became clear that this racing season wouldn’t be my strongest.
Now all I wanted was to finish without falling or injuring myself.
And I wanted to run with awareness and gratitude that I got to experience this amazingly beautiful landscape in a way only few people ever will.
Arriving in Courmayeur and Enjoying Original Italian Espresso
We arrived in Courmayeur hours before the race started. Why we had to be there so early, I don’t know, but I figured it would be a good chance for me to try using the bathroom again. So I queued in the long line at the sports center’s cafeteria and decided to get a double espresso.
Around me were runners from various countries—easily recognizable by the country sign you receive along with your race bib. I couldn’t spot any German runners though and decided to just observe for a while instead of trying to start a conversation in English, asking someone if they knew where we would drop off our drop bags.
I inhaled my double espresso and went back outside. Still not knowing where to leave my drop bag (which I would collect after the finish line in Chamonix), where the race would start, or where the briefing would take place, I asked another runner. She said, “Somewhere after the big bridge,” and I walked away from the sports center, wondering if I was moving in the right direction.
Many runners seemed confused about where we needed to go, but eventually, I spotted a sign showing us the way.
The walk seemed endless, but at least I had enough time to debate whether I should take my thermal pullover with me or leave it in the drop bag.
I already wore a long-sleeved shirt over my t-shirt, but the organization had mandated the cold-weather kit just one day prior, and the weather forecast promised rain and cold temperatures.
I looked around and wondered if these other runners with their tiny packs hadn’t packed all the required gear, or if they knew secrets about packing as little as possible while still adhering to the rules that I didn’t.
Due to my relatively low UTMB index (finishing Kullamannen as 15th female resulted in a modest index), I was assigned to start in wave 3—the last starters at 09:30. This meant I would have thousands of runners ahead of me when I would arrive at the first steep and narrow climb.
The Start and First Climbs
I knew there would be congestion on the first steep climb, so I tried to get as far ahead as I could once we got going. Anxiously and with shallow breathing, I ran through the streets of Courmayeur, overtaking people and nearly bumping into others. Some walked the first incline that was still on tarmac; others already used their poles. I ran all the way up until we reached the trails.
My legs felt heavy. “Surely some breakfast would have been good,” I thought.
And just like I had read in race reports, it wouldn’t be long before I had to stop running. The trail was narrow now and steep, and a long line of people had formed, slowly inching up the mountain.
Overtaking people was now impossible, so I accepted that I had to move slower than I felt like moving and instead focused on the beauty around me. Thanks to clear skies, we had incredible views, and the higher we climbed, the more gratitude I felt for getting to see all of this.
The climb up to Tête de la Tronche seemed to drag on forever, but I remembered to use the time to fuel and ate one Precision Hydration Chew Bar. Eventually, I reached the mountaintop—at 2,541m above sea level, already the highest point of the race.
I was relieved to see that from here on, the trails were wider and there was more space to run freely downhill until Checkpoint 1—Refuge Bertone.
I was still tense and starting to get too hot. I wondered if I should take off my long-sleeved shirt at the aid station. When I arrived, I got even more stressed. It was packed—something I had never experienced before in a race. I tried to find the Naak products but couldn’t locate them.
Before the race, I had told myself I would rely on Naak since I had specifically practiced with their products for this race. I didn’t have a crew with me and didn’t want to carry even more weight, so I would rely on the aid stations for most of my nutritional needs.
But I didn’t want to waste time, so I just drank two cups of Coke, refilled my flask with water, grabbed a handful of salted nuts, and continued running.
I don’t remember much from the next section from CP1 to CP2, only that I felt a headache coming on. I became even more irritable. “Already a headache, so early in the race,” I thought. “I need to solve this.” I slowed down a bit and hoped it would help, but it didn’t seem to improve.
My patience was being tested now. The trails became narrower again, and I decided that I didn’t like it. Too many people. Runners, hikers, a few dogs… I just wanted to run freely, at my own pace, without needing to slow down behind others and wait for the right moment to overtake.
I didn’t want to pay so much attention to others to make sure I didn’t get pushed around on the trails (which happened a few times when some overeager men decided to squeeze beside me or overtake only to settle right in front of me at a slower pace).
I debated seeing the medic at Checkpoint 2 and decided to ask for one. The headache didn’t seem to be getting better, and maybe he could help. I arrived at Checkpoint 2—Anouvaz—a bit anxious about the time and the headache, but otherwise in good spirits.
A Miraculous Headache Cure and Onward to the High Mountains
Again, the aid station was packed, with many people sitting at the tables, eating and drinking and looking pretty relaxed. I was way ahead of the cutoff, but in my mind, I couldn’t afford to waste any time because I didn’t know how well I would move on these trails later in the race, especially in the dark.
So I refilled one of my bottles with Naak, put a few bites of Naak bars into my backpack, and went to see the medic.
After he confirmed that I was otherwise well, he told me to sit down so he could “treat me” for the headache. I told him I didn’t want to waste time, but after he assured me it would take only five minutes, I relaxed and sat down on the bed. He then massaged my neck very gently, turned my head left, then right, and paused.
“Relax,” he said, and then he cracked my neck so hard that I felt a slight panic as well as huge relief that went through my head and down my spine. I suddenly felt very relaxed and overjoyed and thanked him several times before leaving the tent.
I cheerfully drank a few cups of Naak, ate a few bars, and continued on my way to Checkpoint 3—La Fouly.
Right after leaving Checkpoint 2, the climb up to Grand Col Ferret began. At 2,518m above sea level, this would be the second-highest point of the race. The trails were difficult with plenty of rocky sections, narrow paths, and strong wind that had now started. I chatted with two guys who were also running CCC UTMB for the first time.
Mentally, I felt good now, as the headache slowly improved. Physically, it was hard, but I told myself that after this climb, the worst climbs of the race would be behind me.
Sure, more climbs were to come, but they weren’t as high, and surely that meant less time moving uphill.
Still, I tried to conserve my energy, as I had never before raced a race with that much vertical gain per kilometer—not even close. I didn’t want to risk a DNF because I was too exhausted to continue or because I’d fall and injure myself.
I reminded myself that I always wanted to feel mentally fresh during the race. Safety first this time. I had zero alpine mountain experience, and a fall on these narrow trails could be dangerous.
So I ate, and ate some more. I always ate before I was hungry, and I ate whenever I felt my mental acuity decline. While I didn’t count how many Naak bars or handfuls of nuts I consumed, I’m sure I ate more during this race than in any other 100km race before.
The sun was still shining brightly, and I decided to take off my long-sleeved shirt. But where to leave it? My pack was already filled to the brim, and I didn’t want to carry even more stuff with me. I took it off and debated whether I should throw it away at the next aid station. I still had my warmer thermal long-sleeve with me, after all.
I was irritable now. “Why do they make us carry all this stuff?!” I thought to myself. As I climbed higher, the wind got stronger, and for a moment I debated whether it was a good idea to take off the shirt, but I wasn’t cold.
I found the wind refreshing and decided to continue.
And then the long downhill to Checkpoint 3—La Fouly—began. It was a lovely, runnable section, but it was also very exposed, without any chance to hide behind a bush or tree to pee.
And I urgently needed to go. Like many times before during a race, I envied the men who would simply stand at the side of the trail to empty their bladders.
I needed to slow down. I got anxious. Then I saw a rock a bit off the trail and decided I would need to stop there. I would still be visible but at least not fully exposed. Just when I started to feel bad about my decision to leave the trail for a quick pit stop, I met a woman hiker who looked at me and said calmly, “I had no other choice.” I smiled and thought to myself, “I don’t have one either.”
Relieved, I continued my way down to La Fouly, and when I arrived, I took a deep breath and calmly scanned the aid station tables for Naak products. I ate a few bars again, drank several cups of the energy drink, and had one flask refilled with an energy drink mix and the other with water.
I had plenty of time now before the cutoff for the aid station and mentally checked in with myself. I was feeling good. Tired, sure, but positive, and my legs were fine.
I was already confident before the race that the long downhills wouldn’t be hard on my legs, as I knew from the long downhills during the Sachsentrail and Kullamannen that my legs could take it, even though I don’t practice running downhill much. I believe this is due to over 10 years of kettlebell training, which included plenty of heavy squatting and plenty of sessions with high-repetition squatting as well.
My muscular endurance is surely one of my strengths, along with my overall strength, which keeps me moving well in the mountains even though I have been a flatlander all my life and had only raced two mountain races (and only one year prior to CCC!).
I was content that I had covered almost half the distance, but I reminded myself to stay calm and run safely. Night would come, and I would have more mountains to climb. From what I had read, the trails would become much more technical in the second half. Still, the next aid station would be Champex-Lac already—the big aid station, which also had a rest area and hot meals.
It was only 14km away, but when I asked the aid station volunteer if the next one was Champex-Lac, she said, “Yes, you go downhill first, but then you have to climb,” and she added, “It’s a tough climb.” I thanked her and went on my way, thinking, “I conquered these two big mountains at the beginning; I can surely conquer more.”
The downhill was beautiful, with a mix of flowy sections and parts through more technical forests, and I don’t remember the uphill being as difficult as the aid station volunteer’s expression in La Fouly had suggested.
When I arrived in Champex-Lac, I was overwhelmed with emotion. “Already halfway,” I thought. The locals welcomed us with cheers and claps, and I thought to myself how beautiful this area was.
Halfway Point: Champex-Lac and the Approach of Darkness
I felt good and in high spirits and made it through the aid station quickly, only eating a few pieces of Naak bars and chocolate, refilling my bottles, and stuffing a few bars and dates in my pack.
More spectators cheered me on as I left the aid station, and a guy shouted in German, “Hau rein, Nicole. Ballern!” “Danke,” I shouted, surprised and elated.
“Already halfway done,” I thought. “I think I can really do this.”
Rain set in, and somewhere between Champex-Lac and Trient, I put on my rain jacket. It was too warm, but I thought it was better to sweat a little now than get too cold. It was already raining hard enough when I arrived at the next checkpoint—Plan de l’Au, some 5km later.
Realizing that my jacket covered my race bib, I panicked for a moment, thinking my time wasn’t being registered, and decided to take a moment to pin the bib on my jacket.
I doubted I would take it off again until the end of the race.
It wasn’t long before I stopped again to put on my headlamp. I chatted with a runner from Sweden who also stopped for a moment, and I told her that I had run Kullamannen Sprint Ultra last year. She told me she was in that race too and that it was much harder than CCC “because it was flat.”
We chatted a bit about Kullamannen before I left her behind as I made my way into the forests.
Soon I was climbing again, but now in strong wind and rain. The trails became muddy and slippery. I fell twice on the downhill toward Trient—the next aid station.
My mood deteriorated.
It was hard to run on the extremely muddy trails, and it was already dark. For the first time in the race, I longed for an aid station. The rain got heavier, and I wanted to put on more clothes but wasn’t confident about stopping now and risking getting too wet and cold.
When I heard music, I was relieved. Finally, the aid station was close. Or so I thought. It was just two volunteers having a party, singing along to the loud music they had put on and cheering us runners on.
I asked how long until Trient. “Twenty minutes,” he said.
Those twenty minutes seemed endless.
I thought about what to put on. I decided on the warm thermal long-sleeve and was happy now with my last-minute decision to take it with me. I put it on while having a coffee, changed my headlamp, and ate a few Naak bars along with Toblerone. I stuffed more bars into my pack, along with some dates, refilled my flasks—as usual, one with Naak drink and one with water—and calmly left the aid station.
I told myself it was important to stay warm and keep moving and eating. My mind was clear, my legs felt good, and I was confident I could conquer the remaining mountains.
The next one would test just how much I still had in me.
Night Running: Weather Battles and Mental Fortitude
The climb after Trient was steep and technical. I used my poles extensively to propel my short-legged self up the steep climbs that seemed especially difficult with a mix of slippery rocks and muddy ground. On top of that, the weather got worse.
I don’t know if the strong wind made the rain feel like snow or if it really was snowing, but I started to get concerned. I wanted to get down from this mountain as quickly as possible.
Suddenly a heavy downpour started, and I panicked. “I don’t want this!” I shouted out loud to relieve my frustration.
I debated whether I should drop out at the next aid station at kilometer 83—Vallorcine. But as the rain and wind calmed down, I calmed down as well and checked in with myself. I was still warm. I was wet, yes, but I was warm and I was moving.
When the rain and wind lessened a bit, I reminded myself to eat and tried to find some Naak bar pieces. I could only find the dates, but I didn’t want them now. I fumbled some more and eventually found the bars. I still didn’t tire of the two flavors they had at the race: chocolate and berries.
I calmed down some more and decided to get something hearty to eat at Vallorcine aid station, as well as some coffee, and use the restroom. It was the early morning hours now, and my gut started to become more active.
My legs were still fine, and I still had my rain pants, the thin windbreaker that I would put on at the aid station, and a thick fleece jacket, as well as gloves, a warm hat, and a beanie. I would be fine. I would just need to make sure to continue my strategy of eating enough and keep moving.
I didn’t care if I would need to power-hike the rest of these trails now that they had become increasingly technical and muddy.
I only knew that I wouldn’t give up so close to the finish.
When I arrived at the aid station, I went to the toilet first but had to wait as there was only one. But I was calm. I wanted to do a mini-reset here anyway. And I did.
Some cheese, salami, and coffee lifted me up, as did some more Naak bars. I put on my windbreaker and put the battery of my other headlamp that had been charging back into the lamp.
However, I doubted that I would need to switch headlamps again, as the sun was about to rise soon, and my light was still more than enough to illuminate the trails in front of me. I packed some cheese and salami for the way, as well as some Naak bars and dates again, and wanted to continue on my way but realized I had lost the lid of my water bottle. I wanted to find it but decided after a few moments to keep going without it.
The rain had subsided by now, and it was only drizzling a bit. “Only one checkpoint before Chamonix,” I thought to myself. I knew it wouldn’t be a big aid station, but there would be Naak products, and that was enough.
From there on, it would only be downhill until Chamonix. I was certain now that I would finish.
A few moments after I left the aid station, I decided to swap my thoroughly soaked cap that I had worn since the start of the race for my warm hat. As soon as I put on my hat, I felt a surge of happiness. “I must have lost so much heat through that wet cap,” I thought. I felt immensely grateful that I had this nice warm hat covering my head now.
However, I fiddled around a lot trying to store my cap. I didn’t want to stop moving. Then another runner approached, and I asked her to put it into my bag, which she did. I thanked her and watched her run ahead of me while I took a moment to enjoy some French cheese and sausage while power-hiking.
Eventually, I got running again, but the trail conditions made me power-hike large parts of it. I didn’t want to risk a race-ending fall and played it very safe.
I knew I needed to be cautious, as my right elbow suddenly started hurting badly. “I’m not sure if I like races where my arms get more sore than my legs,” I thought to myself.
Using the poles for such a long time was new to me, and all those kettlebell presses and snatches helped with being strong enough, but they didn’t prevent my elbow joint from experiencing some overuse issues.
I decided to avoid using my right arm as much as possible on the less steep sections to prevent the issue from getting worse.
I was back on narrow trails again now, and the first steep climb after Vallorcine was testing my patience. Slippery roots and rocks, mud, and lots of turns. One guy stopped, and I asked if everything was alright. “Yes, I’m just so tired,” he replied. I continued.
The downhill was just as difficult, and I abandoned any thoughts of running. The steps were huge, and I had to sit on my butt a few times to descend safely with my short legs. I didn’t want to jump in these muddy conditions.
I was tired and mentally exhausted, but I kept repeating to myself, “This is the last difficult climb.” For the next few kilometers, this became my mantra.
My gut started to become even more active now, and I had to slow down even more. I got upset but calmed myself down. “At least it’s only starting now.” It wasn’t as if I was able to run on these trails now anyway.
The second, slightly longer climb up to the last checkpoint in La Flégère seemed endless. “The last climb. This is the last climb.” I repeated it over and over again to keep myself from slowing down too much.
The trails were less technical now, and runnable flat sections alternated with steeper ones.
The final push up to La Flégère was beautiful on wide open ski slopes with the sun already rising. I passed another runner and cheerfully said, “This is the last climb.” “Yes,” he responded equally cheerfully. “Only 100 meters. I kept checking my watch constantly for the last few kilometers.”
I smiled.
Dawn and the Final Checkpoint
We passed signs that read “Smile—you paid for this” and arrived at the last checkpoint. A few runners were sitting on the bench. I chatted with the aid station staff, refilled my bottles, and packed a few Naak bars. I decided to have another sip of coffee, which turned out not to be a good idea.
“The last checkpoint!” I happily announced. “Yes, you must be tired,” the aid station helper replied. “I am, but I guess you are too.” I thanked both of the ladies and continued.
I was elated. I knew I would make it. Slower than anticipated, but I would arrive in Chamonix safely.
There were only 8 kilometers left. However, most of these 8 kilometers were quite technical, and when conditions got better and I tried to run, my gut gave me a clear “no.”
It was daylight now, and I would have nowhere to hide since there was no dense forest or bushes right next to the trail.
Anger built inside me as more and more runners passed. But I tried to remind myself of what I had just accomplished.
I would finish no matter what. I just had a choice to make—risk p* my pants or be content with a slower time and a few places lost on the final 8 kilometers.
I chose the latter.
The Emotional Finish in Chamonix
When I reached the final bridge in Chamonix, I took a deep breath. I had really done it. Soon I was in the city, walking through Chamonix, which greeted me with perfect weather.
I soaked it all in, grinning from ear to ear as if I were in a beautiful dream. I decided to take my sweet time and celebrate this moment as if I had won.
As I was on the final stretch to the finish line, a guy shouted, “Oh come on, Nicole… run!” I hesitated. But with only a few meters to go, I decided to risk it and started a slow jog.
He raised his hand for a high five, and as I reached his hand with mine, I said, “Only for you.” I continued to run the last bit of the final stretch and crossed the finish line in 22:35.
Post-Race Reflections
After the race, I was happy and proud that I had finished. But I also knew that it wasn’t the best performance my body was capable of delivering on that course. My health was far from excellent, with gut health being a huge limiter in training and racing during the entire year.
Despite my initial excitement, I hadn’t specifically prepared for CCC and had run 121km just seven weeks prior. This was a backyard ultra where I placed 4th last female and only stopped because I felt a sharp pain in my foot that made running extremely difficult, and I didn’t want to risk my start at CCC.
On top of all this, I wanted to explore the Alps and ran a total of 100km with 5,092m of elevation gain the week before race day. Plus, starting in wave 3 also meant I had to endure long waiting times at the first big climbs and could hardly “run my own race” for most of the first quarter or so.
I also didn’t finish with the thought that “this was the hardest race I have ever done.” I ran conservatively because I was apprehensive and had massive respect for these technical trails, the elevation gain, and the super steep terrain.
After all, I only started running trails in 2024, and the two mountainous races I had done had nowhere near the elevation gain per kilometer of CCC UTMB.
Considering all of this, I am more than happy with my finish time of 22:35.
And as I write this—18 days after the race—I am still amazed at what my body and mind are able to accomplish. I am extremely grateful for the 10 days I spent in France exploring these beautiful trails and finally experiencing them in a way that only very few people ever will.