Things went wrong during this race. That’s to be expected. What did me in wasn’t the extortion discomfort. It was my own heart, both in the metaphorical and literal sense. But even before I started to cry about the DNF for the first time, I knew with iron certainty that I’m completing this race next year.
Only a few days after I left the beautiful Vipava Valley last month, I already wanted to be back. Don’t get me wrong; I looked forward to coming there again even before I actually had the chance to leave, but gave myself a few days before admitting it. This desire to be back cumulated one day when things in my head looked particularly ugly. I needed something, and that something ended up being the Ultra Trail Vipava Valley race. I signed up three weeks before the race, then got promptly sick and spent those three weeks recovering. What a recipe for success, I know.
If you want the very condensed version, just read the Instagram post. It’ll tell you almost everything there is to say about my motivations for running the race, however, it ultimately leaves out other parts of that ‘vacation’ that were equally as, if not more, important.
Ultra Trail Vipava Valley, or UTVV, is the oldest ultra trail race in Slovenia. With ultrarunning being a fairly new sport, it’s probably not surprising that even though that statement is true, this was only the eighth running of the race. It’s a baby in the world where races like the Massanutten Mountain Ultra, the Comrades Marathon, or the JFK 50 Miler exist, but that didn’t stop it from quickly growing into the size of the mountains its course climbs several times.
For me, UTVV was everything it was hyped up to be and more. I first heard about it when I volunteered at the Ultra X World Championships. There, I met Boštjan, the UTVV race director, who suggested I join them this year. I didn’t really plan to take him up on that.
The true story of how I got to run this race is a several years-long saga that we won’t dive into here. (In fact, it’s kinda fascinating that I can trace everything that has happened to me and what I’ve become back to one single decision in the past.) Less than 24 hours after I signed up, I got sick as a dog and ended up boarding an overnight coach to Ljubljana only a few days after I felt around 90% back to okay. The Vipava Valley welcomed me as always, with open arms and gorgeous views. It was go time.
The Goal
I wanted to finish this race not for the fantastic finish line feels but to show myself that I could get through what was arguably the hardest year of my life. It’s been a little over a year since I had to leave my beloved home in Cali and running was the one thing that allowed me to feel at least some kind of connection to the place and the people so dear to my heart. Vipava Valley played a major part in my surviving the year.
In Vipava Valley, I volunteered with Ultra X for the first time and met one local whom I fast became friends with. I kept in touch with the people I met during this experience and every time I came back to the valley or visited the UK (where most of the volunteers were from), I met up with these acquaintances, some of whom are slowly becoming friends.
I came back to the valley only two months later with my sister, showing her the little piece of paradise that, inexplicably, found fertile ground in my scorched heart to sow a seed of joy on. I looked forward to coming back there after I thought I’d never be able to look forward to anything else.
In short, completing UTVV was a way to show myself that the past year didn’t break me.
Unless it did.
The Breaking Point
After running 22 kilometers, my heart decided it couldn’t take it anymore. And I’d quit.
When you go up Sveti Socerb, the “warm-up” hill for the much taller Nanos, you gain 1148 feet in 1.1 miles. (These are the numbers the route planning in the map produced—and it’s also exactly what it felt like.) I caught up to a man sitting on a tree stump during this climb and suggested we conquer the hill together. After getting passed by literally everyone else who was in the race, we finally made it to the top. He was dead-set on quitting. I wasn’t, not yet, even though I knew I was behind even on the most generous cut-off.
Going up the hill, I felt like my whole body was just going to give up. I had to stop every twenty or so meters. Going down, I started having trouble breathing, and my heart started to hurt—both figuratively and literally. It might have been just some small muscles in my chest. It might have been something worse. I didn’t know. Despite this, I lost the man about halfway down the hill. I wasn’t too worried, I knew he wouldn’t be too far behind.
I made it to the Podnanos aid station. Before me, there stood Nanos with its 10km climb.
“I’m not gonna make the Vipava cutoffs,” I said. It was meant to be a question but it turned into a statement—I knew there was no way I’d make the first hard cutoff of the race. None of the wonderful volunteers refuted that statement.
I looked around and saw a little white church on top of a terribly steep and tall hill. It was tiny on the background of a wide, impossibly blue sky.
“Is that where I just came from?” I asked, and the volunteers laughed.
“Yes, it is.”
Well, damn. If I could make it up that I could probably do anything. For example get up Nanos, which is about three times taller.
The volunteers encouraged me to keep going. And I wanted to. I washed my face and put on a new layer of sunscreen. I ate and drank and filled up on everything. The man I climbed the hill with voiced my inner doubts out loud. Maybe I shouldn’t continue; I know what a beating the previous, smaller hill gave me. I took my poles to set out from the aid station—and then, after 14 miles that took me 5 hours to cover, I stopped my watch and gave up. Just like that.
It wasn’t the looming 10-kilometer ascent of Nanos with its up to 30% grade that took me out. I didn’t lose to the course or the mountains; I lost only to myself.
In every race before this, I kept going. In the first one—and, until UTVV the only one—I DNF’d, I kept going until they pulled me off. In fact, ‘I’ll keep going until they pull me off the course” was a kind of mantra of mine. The feeling of failure set in the second I decided to stop.
Did I lose courage? Was I actually in trouble, physically? Or was it the long-fought battle with depression? Why did I stop? Whether it was physical or mental, it was my heart that simply couldn’t keep going that day.
What Was Wrong?
In the end, as a gift for surviving the year, I got a DNF, tonsilitis, some kind of ear infection, and antibiotics.
I still don’t know if there was something physically wrong with my heart or if it really were just muscle spasms. I’m still waiting for my cardiologist’s statement. Either way, I ended up spending a week and a half in my bed with meds and am still not back to normal. Days passed and I still ask myself, did I really have to quit? Maybe I could have made it…
I think that voice in my head will never stop, at least not until I complete this race. Because I know that I can—and, for some reason, also have to. Completing it means more than just having another finish added to my name.
The Other Important Thing
People. People are what made this experience an incredibly positive one, even with the DNF and the pain. The volunteers were encouraging. The other runners were easy to chat with. A pair of local runners hung out with me for a little while before the terrible hill came. Two other Slovenian guys who ran the 30K shared their beer with me at the campsite when they realized I was there alone.
I got to hang out for a few minutes with the local photographer I met for the first time almost a year ago. Over a beer, we agreed that it would be nice to see each other more often.
The girl who checked me out of the camp remembered me, just like the old baker whom I always buy bread and pastries from did;
“I knew it was you the moment I saw your name in the system! Were you here for the race? How’d it go?” asked the girl.
“Ciao, ali želite spet ta kruh? In rogljiček gratis,” said the man, and my poor Slovene was put to the test once again. “Hello—” in Italian, because the local dialect is strongly influenced by their country’s neighbors—”Do you want this bread again? And a free croissant.” He might have also said it differently. Again, my Slovene is worse than bad and the local dialect doesn’t make things any easier.
In short, the valley made me feel welcome—almost belonging. This was a beautiful feeling to experience again. It appeared only scarcely lately—and never in the places and spaces where I exist now.
I can’t wait to be back in Slovenia. I’m headed there in August. Can’t be soon enough.
Hit the Road with Me 
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