The night before the race, I made the mistake of looking at the list of runners in the 55km Mallorca UTMB. ‘Well, you’ll definitely be in the top 10 in your age group,’ said my husband, who’d come along just in case I needed plucking off the mountain. ‘There are only nine women in the 55-59 age category taking part!’
The start line was in Selva, a beautiful old stone town at the foot of the Serra de Tramuntana mountain range. I soon realised that it wasn’t just women of my age who were in short supply. There were hardly any women at all. Out of the 651 runners who started the race that day, only 133 women would cross the finish line and almost half of them were at least 20 years younger than me. I wondered, not for the first time, if I was going to be able to do this.
We set off slowly at 8am, climbing into the mountains that lay between us and the sea. It was 23ºC, a warm and sunny November day. Even so, we had to carry full wet weather gear and a change of clothes in case storm clouds appeared. My backpack felt heavy. People had warned me that the course was ‘technical’. I quickly discovered what they meant. The paths were so steep and rocky that I had to watch where I put my feet. On one of the few flat stretches, I tripped and went flying, scraping my arm badly on the rocks. But as we climbed, the views opened out to vistas so spectacular that I gasped out loud. We had two big mountains to scale, both higher than Yr Wyddfa/Mount Snowdon, before descending through a gorge into the Soller valley on ancient dry stone paths built centuries ago by pilgrims and farmers. The fast runners flew down these stretches into the tiny village of Biniaraix like mountain goats. I took my time. No heroics needed here. I just wanted to get to the finish line on the coast in Port de Soller.
It’s strange how your mind adjusts to such long distances in these races. One foot in front of the other, I marched on and on. I didn’t look at my phone. I didn’t look at my running watch. I was on my own. I hardly spoke to anyone. 40km into the race and I was tired, yet I felt wonderfully calm, my mind quiet, at peace.
The sun was setting by the time I reached the coast, the finish visible in the harbour below. The mountains glowed ochre red as the sun sank on the horizon. After more than 50K and 2,450m of climbing, we finally reached a tarmac road and I hammered it down to the end, clapped on by people having dinner on restaurant terraces. 10 hours and 41 minutes it took me to finish one of the toughest races that I’ve ever run. But it was also one of the most rewarding – and not just because of the breathtaking views. It turned out that I wasn’t too old. I could do it.
Sophie Raworth is a journalist, newsreader, broadcaster and long distance runner. She is also a columnist for Runner's World UK.
