Transvulcania Recap/ A Race In The Storm

5/11/25

My alarm was set for 2:00 a.m., but I was already awake by 1:15. I’d gone to bed just after 11, knowing it wouldn’t be a night of deep sleep. I had two cups of coffee and ate more than I usually do before a race. Nerves, maybe. Or just trying to stay ahead of what I knew would be a long, brutal day.

Rain fell steadily as I walked down the quiet street to the bus station. It was dark and still, the kind of quiet that makes you feel like you're the only one in the world. I climbed onto the bus with other runners, and we began the hour-long ride through winding mountain roads toward the Faro de Fuencaliente lighthouse where the Transvulcania Ultra would begin.

Even though we were driving through some of the most stunning landscapes the island has to offer, we couldn’t see anything. Heavy storm clouds hung over the mountains, and the only light came from a hazy full moon. The road twisted endlessly, and I did my best to keep from getting motion sick. Around 4:45 a.m., the bus finally came to a stop, not at the start line but at the top of a hill. We were told to get out and hike a little over a kilometer down to the actual start area.

The wind was violent. It cut straight through every layer I had on. I tried to bunker down and find shelter, but there really wasn’t any. That’s when the rain picked up, turning a cold wait into a freezing one. I remember thinking, “Great, I’ll be starting this race soaked and shivering.” What I didn’t realize was that this would be the warmest I’d feel all day.

The race began at 6:00 a.m. with a 1.5-mile climb on road before we hit the dirt trail for what was essentially a 50-kilometer climb. Over 13,000 feet of gain in 31 miles. The trail was stunning, at least, I assume it was. Visibility was close to zero due to dense fog and sideways rain. Headlamps did nothing but light up the mist in front of our faces. For the first two hours, we were pretty much running blind.

Somehow, I found myself in the lead. The pace felt slow, almost like we were hiking, which was a huge contrast to the racing I’d done recently. I never felt particularly good, but I felt steady. Like I could keep moving forever. I was climbing and descending well, and for several hours I moved between first and fifth place. I knew the other strong runners in the group, but I never felt threatened. Not at first.

Then I tried to make a move on a more runnable section of trail. David Sinclair, another American, went with me. Before long, he surged ahead and left me behind on the next climb. That’s when everything started to unravel.

We reached higher elevations and the conditions worsened. The wind was relentless, and the rain began mixing with sleet and hail. I was soaked to the bone. Every step felt heavier, colder. At around mile 21, my vision began to fade. I started to lose my sense of place. I could still move, but my awareness was slipping. I was cold in a way that didn’t feel normal anymore. I was still in the top five, but my body was starting to shut down.

Near the summit, I was completely disoriented. I remember being told I made two wrong turns, even though mountain patrol was standing nearby trying to direct me. I honestly don’t remember those moments clearly. I was on a road, yet somehow I got lost. I collapsed, then dragged myself up using the base of a road sign. I tried to run again but tripped over my own feet.

At that point, every muscle in my body was cramping. I was shaking violently and couldn’t stop. It felt like my body was breaking down entirely, but at the same time I had this stubborn sense that I was still alive and needed to keep moving. The only clear thought I had was, “Get to the aid station.”

I never made it on my own. Mountain patrol saw me struggling and pulled me off the course, drove me to the aid station, and the next thing I knew, I was in an ambulance. I was shaking uncontrollably, hyperventilating, and trying to remember how I’d even gotten there. They started an IV, and the warmth returned to my body slowly, one drop at a time.

When I signed up for Transvulcania, I thought I was in for a warm tropical ultramarathon on a beautiful island. Instead, I got an Atlantic monsoon, brutal wind, freezing temperatures, and a fight for survival. But that’s how it goes sometimes. You show up ready to run, and the mountain has other plans.

What did I learn? I’m not entirely sure yet. Maybe it’s as simple as packing rain pants next time. Maybe it’s something deeper I’ll understand later. I stopped after just over 50 kilometers in what was supposed to be a 45-mile race. I was proud of how I ran up until the moment my body gave out. I didn’t quit. I simply couldn’t go on.

This course suits me, and I want to come back. I’ve rarely felt more hungry for redemption.

Congrats to everyone who finished. The strength it took to survive those conditions is something I deeply respect. For now, I’ll rest, soak in the warmth of Spanish hospitality, and get ready for whatever challenge comes next.