Ultra-Trail di Corsica, my first 100M race

So, as you know, I really enjoy trail running. Over the years, I've done quite a few fast-packing hikes, like the GR20, the GR54, and others, you can read about those adventures elsewhere on my blog. But last year, in 2024, something changed: I decided to go around Mont Blanc. Everything started at that moment, because I began my Mont Blanc tour the very day after the UTMB finished.

When I arrived, I was swept up in the excitement surrounding this legendary trail running race. The atmosphere was absolutely incredible, and it really drew me in. There was this amazing connection between all the runners, the organizers, and everyone involved. That's when I thought, "This is really my year, I need to get into this." I really wanted to do it. I felt it would be a fascinating experience, maybe similar to the fast-packing I love, but with a much stronger community element.

So, I completed my Tour du Mont Blanc in four days, and it was incredible. Afterward, I told myself, "Okay, now I'm signing up. I ultimately want to do the UTMB, a 100-mile format race." About a month later, I went on the UTMB website and found a race that I liked...

That's how it all started: I decided to sign up for the Ultra Trail di Corsica by Restonica Trail, a race of 110 km with 7,000 meters of elevation gain, right in Corsica. I realized that to participate in the UTMB, you need to collect "stones," and that by racing in events on the UTMB circuit, I could accumulate the necessary stones to eventually get my spot. That's how my journey began. I registered first for the "100 Miles" format, and for the preparation for this race, I had about 8 or 9 months. For context, at that time, I had just set a new PR on my half-marathon: 1:45.

I started with marathon training using the Runna app, running five times a week. After four months, I ran my marathon. Then, from March to July, I continued with Runna but switched to their 100 km training plan, also for four months. During this phase, I was running six times a week in Elite Plus mode on Runna, reaching a maximum of around 120 km per week. On top of that, I was doing CrossFit year-round, between three and five times a week. So, that was my preparation.

After that, I set out for the race. I left at the end of June, flew to Bastia, and stayed at a house there. The race started on Thursday evening, and I think I left around 3pm I had packed my bag with all the mandatory equipment. I went to collect my bib and my drop bag. In my drop bag, I put a change of clothes and shoes. Then, I just went and had a burger at a restaurant before heading to the start line.

The race started at 11pm in Corte. I was in the start corral, among 450 runners, positioned about three-quarters of the way back because I arrived just before the start. When the race began, it was absolutely incredible: many people lined the streets of Corte leading to the first mountain, lighting flares like at a football stadium. We were surrounded by red lights, lots of smoke, it was such an intense atmosphere. And so, I set off, with my pack, ready to go.

Corte, Thursday 23:00

And there we go, the race kicks off, and we immediately tackle the first big climb up to Padule, a solid 1000 meters of elevation right from the start. Since it's nighttime, everyone switches on their headlamps, and soon we're all strung out in a line, following each other up narrow single tracks. Overtaking is nearly impossible, so you're forced to go at the pace of the group, which is both frustrating and kind of special. Not being able to set your own rhythm is tough, and it takes about two hours to reach the top.

At this point, everyone is still full of energy, myself included. I'm thinking, "Let's go!" and soaking in the atmosphere. It's my first time ever starting a race at night, and seeing the endless line of headlamps snaking up the mountain is just magical. We're all climbing together, a moving constellation in the darkness.

At one point, I notice my bib number, 464, and spot someone ahead of me with bib number 87. I know that bib numbers are assigned based on the UTMB Index, which basically ranks your speed and experience as a trail runner. So I figure, "Okay, this guy is number 87, he must be pretty highly ranked. I'll try to follow him and tuck in behind." It's a small strategy, but in these early hours, it helps to have a target and a bit of motivation.

Padule, Friday 00:57, 7km 1316m+ 1:57 218th

We finally arrive at Padule, the first aid station. I'm still sticking to my nutrition plan: at every aid station, I take two flasks filled with isotonic powder for a sugar boost, and I keep up with my 45-gram carbohydrate gels, one every hour. At Padule, I grab a quick Coke, don't hang around, and get right back to climbing.

At this point, the pack starts to spread out. There's a short climb left before the trail opens up onto a kind of plateau. Now, for the first time, I can actually start overtaking people and move at my own pace, since the trails are getting wider and a lot of runners are taking a break at the aid station. This is when I really start to get into the race, I'm feeling good, finding my rhythm, and overtaking other runners as I go.

Boniacce, Friday 01:59, 15km 1704m+ 2:59 186th

By the time I reach Boniacce, I'm really in the race, I've moved up to 186th place, already gaining quite a few positions. I'm still feeling great, running strong, and even clocking some kilometers at 12 km/h on the flatter, easier sections. It's a huge confidence boost to be moving up the ranks and feeling so good this early on.

After Boniacce, the trail heads downhill, and I take advantage of it, descending quickly and overtaking a lot of people. There's a short climb, then another descent toward Calacuccia. Calacuccia sits next to a beautiful lake, and as I approach, the sun is just starting to rise, around 5 in the morning. The sky turns red in the distance, with reflections dancing on the lake. It's a truly magnificent moment, and I take a second to soak it all in.

Calacuccia, Friday 06:14, 33km 2366m+ 6:14 167th

When I get to Calacuccia, there are some slightly inclined sections, but I'm still in great shape and able to jog them. Up to this point, I've been power hiking the climbs at a solid pace, running the flat sections at about 10 km/h, and jogging the rolling terrain. I really feel at the top of my form, moving at a pace I'm proud of. At the aid station, I stick to my routine: refill my isotonic drinks, grab an energy gel, drink some Coke, and then head out again.

At Calacuccia, I'm in 167th place. From here, we start the biggest climb of the race, a single ascent of 1,700 meters of elevation gain. We pass close to Monte Cintu, the highest mountain in Corsica, and by the Cintu lake. It's an incredible section! For this climb, I take my time and walk, as the sun rises and the temperature starts to climb, so I put on sunscreen.

It's at this point that things start to get tough, and I realize I'm about a third of the way through the course, around 40 kilometers out of 110, after 7 hours of running. I think to myself, "I'm on track; if I keep this pace, I could finish in 21 hours." That's beyond my wildest dreams, my ultimate goal was 24 hours, so even if I can't maintain this pace, maybe I can still hit that 24-hour mark. Based on my UTMB index, the estimate was around 26h30, so that was my realistic target, maybe trying to do a bit better to improve my index. Of course, my main objective is just to finish, but realizing I'm on pace for 21 hours feels incredible. I really feel like my training has paid off. I've never attempted anything like this before, and now, nine months after starting my journey, I'm in the middle of a 100-mile ultra.

The climb keeps getting tougher, the elevation is brutal. My previous max was a race with 3,000 meters of elevation gain, and now, at the top, I've already hit 4,000 meters, so I'm pushing past my limits. Along the way, I meet a Belgian runner. We chat in English (he's Dutch-speaking), and he tells me he's done twenty 100+ kilometer races, including the UTMB, and he's just here to test himself. After a while, he says, "You're too fast for me, I'll let you go on ahead." I don't feel fast at all, climbing is really my weakness. I'm a relatively heavy runner (1.87 meters tall, about 87 kg), so the climbs are never my strong suit.

Eventually, we reach Cintu lake, which is about halfway or two-thirds up the climb, and then there's a steep final ascent to Bocca Crucette at the spur of the scree. It's very steep and long, but at the top I take a moment to enjoy the view. At this point, we join the GR20 trail, right next to the Tighjettu refuge, and we'll follow the GR20 for three stages: Tighjettu, Ciottulu di i Mori, Manganu, and half of Manganu to Petra Piana. Now there are more hikers on the trail, and you can tell they're all pretty impressed by what we're doing.

Bocca Crucette, Friday 08:58, 44km 4154m+ 9:58 159th

From here, there's a long descent down to the next aid station at Ballone. I start to notice that going downhill is getting a bit tougher. I keep jogging, but not as fast as before, at first, the descent is super steep, so I take my time. Some runners begin to pass me, really flying down the trail, and that's when I realize my body isn't as fresh as it was at the start. My legs are getting heavier; sometimes I want to step quickly, one foot after the other, but my legs just don't respond as fast as I'd like. The muscle fatigue means I can't always put my foot exactly where I want, which throws off my balance a bit, so I know I need to pay more attention.

At this point, I'm wearing my S/Lab Ultra Genesis shoes, and since I have a hallux valgus (basically, wide feet), they're starting to feel pretty tight. I want to tighten my shoes to keep my feet stable on the downhill, but at the same time, the pressure is getting uncomfortable. I start to feel some real discomfort, but I try to go over it, telling myself it's just a minor annoyance and not a big deal. Still, it's the first sign that things are starting to get harder.

Ballone, Friday 10:18, 48km 4154m+ 11:18 155th

When I arrive at Ballone, it's a refreshment point, and I'm now in 155th place. I put on some more sunscreen and grab a drink.

I remember a volunteer at the aid station brought me a drink, and as I thanked her, she asked, "Where is your bib?" I actually had my bib on a holder at my side, but she asked me to move it to the front. I was a bit reluctant, when the bib is in front, it gets in the way on climbs, pressing against your stomach and thighs as you bend forward. Plus, it can damage the bib, and I like to keep mine in good condition to display at home afterward.

She pointed out, "Yes, but you could get a penalty. Besides, they already made me wear the t-shirt and everything." That's when I realized she was a race official, with the authority to enforce the rules. According to the official regulations, your bib must be visible in front. So, I moved my bib to the front, but honestly, I was already starting to disconnect a bit from the race and the time, especially as I stood there being reminded of the rules. All I wanted was to be left alone and keep moving, it wasn't easy.

Still, I'm at Ballone, 50 kilometers into the race and still gaining positions. From here, we head into a climb up to Ciottulu di i Mori, the GR20's refuge. I'm feeling a bit tired, so I go slowly. We're climbing, and eventually reach a pass.

At the top, I think, "Yes, OK, I made it." But when I look to the right, I see the route keeps rising along the mountain ridge. I remember this really gave me false hope, I thought the uphill was over, but it wasn't at all.

Ciottulu di i mori, Friday 12:44, 53km 4860m+ 13:44 176th

Eventually, I arrive at Ciottulu di i mori. There's only water at this aid station, so I just refill my isotonic drinks and keep going. By now, I'm in 176th place, I've lost about 20 spots, and it's really starting to get tough. Next comes a descent to Ciattarinu, the life base where we get our drop bags. I know these sections well because I've already done the GR20, but now I'm moving really slowly. I can't run anymore, even though the terrain isn't technical, just a bit rocky and unstable, but not steep. It should be runnable, but I just can't do it. My feet hurt, my legs feel heavy, and people are passing me.

At this point, I realize my 24-hour, 26-hour, or similar goals are gone. I had hoped to get to Ciattarinu around noon on Friday, but I only make it at 2:30pm, after about 15 and a half hours of running, when I thought I'd be there after 12 hours. So when I finally reach Ciattarinu, I'm pretty tired and fully aware that I won't achieve my target times. But since it's the life base, I decide to take some time to recover.

Ciattarinu, Friday 14:30, 60km 4905m+ 15:30 189th

Finally getting there, it really hits me: from this point on, my only goal is just to finish the race, no matter what happens. I'm already walking, and if I'm walking at this stage, I know I probably won't be able to run much for the rest of the course. I'm at 60 km out of 110, with 5,000 meters of elevation gain done, so I know I have about 2,000 meters of ascent and 50 km left, which means I've already covered a significant chunk of both the distance and the climbing.

Ciattarinu is a proper life base, so you can take a nap, shower, and reset. I head into the changing room and take a shower (I didn't have a towel, so I asked someone to lend me one). Changing clothes helps me feel a bit better. Then I'm faced with a dilemma about my shoes: my Salomons are hurting my feet, but the Hokas I packed are a bit worn out. Still, the pain from the Salomons is too much, so I switch to the Hokas Speedgoat 5, hoping for some relief. While at the base, I also eat a bit, there are more substantial food options, so I grab some pasta salad, iced tea, and soup.

I take a break, and just then, a real storm hits, pouring rain, thunder, and lightning. While we're waiting it out, I chat with other runners. People are discussing how much distance is left, the storm, and whether or not to rest, since there are beds available. There's a real possibility to take a proper break before heading out again. At this point, I realize I've been awake for about 30 hours straight, woke up Thursday at 10am, and now it's Friday, 4pm. But I tell myself, no, the goal is to keep moving; I don't really feel like sleeping.

I wait for the storm to pass, and when the rain eases, I set off again. I join a small group, and although the storm is still around, it's far enough away, I can see the lightning and count the seconds between the flash and thunder, so I know it's not right on top of us. I put on my rain jacket for protection, and actually, I feel pretty good, able to jog the flat sections as we head toward Lake Ninu.

Then, something happens that makes the rest of the race really tough: I start feeling pain on the inside of my right knee. I think it's runner's knee, like IT band syndrome, but later I learn that IT band syndrome is on the outside, and pain on the inside is actually due to the pes anserinus. That pain sticks with me for the rest of the race. I keep going, but I really can't run much anymore, at best, I can jog at 7 to 8 km/h on the easiest flats, but that's it. Even then, I feel exhausted, so I don't push too hard.

After an uphill, It stops rainning and I'm now walking to Inzecche around Ninu's Lake, it's beautiful.

Inzecche, Friday 19:33, 74km 5518m+ 20:33 177th

When I arrive at Inzecche, everyone is super friendly. I joke around with the volunteers, they tell me, "Oh, you're Belgian! I met a guy this morning who asked if I had some Chimay," and so on. The atmosphere is great, and it's a nice boost. It's around 7:30pm, so there's a little daylight left, but not much.

At this point, I'm no longer following my original nutrition strategy. I still refill my bottles with isotonic drink (about 30 grams of carbs per bottle), but I've stopped taking gels, since I know I'm not going to finish in the time I'd planned. I think, "Okay, it doesn't matter, I'll just keep walking." At each aid station, I eat more solid food and drink some Coca-Cola. I'm enjoying the Naak waffles (like honey waffles or stroopwafels from Belgium), which I know I can eat without any problem. I even have a small tartine with wild boar terrine, amazing.

Then I set off again. It's 8pm, and I witness my second sunset, heading out for a second consecutive sleepless night. By now, I've been awake for around 36 hours. I'm still on the plateau around Lake Ninu, which is relatively flat with some wet areas. There are lots of cows, some wild horses, it's really beautiful. I keep walking, but I start feeling pain in my feet. When I take off my socks, I see they're soaking wet, so I change them. (Back at Ciattarinu, when I changed socks, I was using Merino wool toe socks, but they were torn at the big toe, so I switched to standard Decathlon socks. Now, since my feet are wet and hurting, I change socks again.)

At this point, I tell myself, let's go! I know what's ahead: two climbs of 750 meters and 40 kilometers left to finish the race. I know the first 750-meter climb well, it's part of the GR20, specifically the ascent from the Manganu refuge to the Capitellu breach, one of the toughest sections of the GR20. So I know what's coming.

I keep walking, and at this stage, I'm really all alone. Since the rain stopped, there are hardly any people left on the course. I'm completely alone in this plain, making my way toward the Manganu refuge. An Austrian runner, Dominik, passes me and chats a bit, but I'm deep in my own head and not very talkative. I just want to keep moving forward and finish the race. I'm pretty convinced I'll make it. My knee hurts, and my muscles are tired, but it's not unbearable. The knee pain is there, but it's not sharp or electric. I've had tendonitis before (like in my Achilles), where I couldn't even walk, this is different, just a dull ache. So I keep moving, reach Manganu (without stopping), and by now, night has really fallen. I take out my headlamp and start the climb up to the Capitellu breach.

As I was saying, I know exactly what awaits me on this climb. It's a section that feels truly endless: every time you believe you've reached the top, you realize there's still another stretch left to go. The summit is just 750 meters away, at an altitude of 2,000 meters, but the challenge isn't the distance, it's the terrain. The path is extremely technical, made up entirely of rocks and loose stones that require constant scrambling. Sometimes, the steps are so big it feels like climbing three stairs at once. I'm fully aware this is what lies ahead.

I have my music playing quietly on my phone speaker, just enough for me to hear, no one else. Night is falling fast, and as I climb, I spot other headlamps sparkling both ahead of and behind me. There's something reassuring about that sight; it's a reminder that I'm not alone in taking on this punishing segment. Climbing this at night is an entirely different experience, intense and impressive in equal measure.

Fortunately, the route is well marked with small retro-reflective markers, which makes a huge difference. I hadn't realized before that some official GR20 trail markers are also reflective, that really helped guide my way, and I had no trouble staying on course. Still, the climb seems even longer at night, and every meter feels like ten.

Not long after, another runner appears, a guy who's a bit taller than me. He starts following my pace closely, practically stepping where I step, "taking my wheel" just like in cycling. We don't really talk much, he answers sparsely, only breaking the silence occasionally. Every now and then, I'll announce, "Dude, I need a water break," and we stop for a quick pause. The climb is so steep and demanding that every four or five steps I find myself grunting like a tennis player, which I imagine is pretty funny for anyone following.

Eventually, as we near the top, I ask, "Where are you from?" and he replies, "Spain." Since I can speak a little Spanish, I switch languages, and we start chatting. His name's Xavi (Javier), and we share a bit of advice with each other, "Cuidado en este tramo," "Be careful here." The summit of the ridge finally comes into view. Even though it's night and I can't see much, I know from memory that this spot overlooks the stunning twin mountain lakes, Lake Capitellu and Lake Melu (see below what it looked when I hiked the GR20 in 2020).

From here, though, the challenge isn't over. Now comes the technical ridge traverse, almost like mini-climbing, but this time heading downwards. The descent is so steep that we're forced to sit, slide, turn around to find footing, it's an adventure in itself. A bit later, Dominik, the Austrian, catches up and joins us, so now we're a trio tackling this wild stretch together. We can't help but curse and laugh at the absurd difficulty of this section, "What is this madness?" someone exclaims, and it lightens the mood.

Ahead lies Bocca a Soglia, a mountain col a little further on. From there, we'll leave the GR20 and begin the descent toward Lake Melu, while the official GR20 route continues down toward Petra Piana. The toughest stretch of the night is behind us, but the adventure's far from over.

Bocca a Soglia, Saturday 00:06, 85km 6233m+ 25:06 177th

We finally arrive at the aid station, situated on the pass. It's a minimal setup, just a liquid aid station offering Coke and water. As usual, I grab a little Coke to perk myself up and take a moment to refill my water bottles. Xavi is already there, clearly still full of energy. "Let's go, man!" he urges, eager to hit the trail again. I quickly apologize, "Sorry, just need to top up my bottles," and he patiently waits for me. As soon as I'm ready, we begin our descent together.

Right from the start, Xavi sets a fast pace for the way down. I do my best to stick with him and stay close, but after a short while, he outpaces me and gradually disappears ahead. The descent to Grotelle is short but intense: only about 3 kilometers, but with a dramatic 600-meter drop in elevation.

At this point, Dominik catches up, and he and I descend together while Xavi moves ahead at lightning speed. Xavi mentioned something about a friend waiting for him at the bottom, I'm not sure I understood everything, but it seems like he has an extra bit of motivation spurring him on.

The trail itself is steep enough that ladders have been fixed into the rock in certain spots. Navigating these ladders in the stillness of night, probably around 2 or 3 in the morning, adds a thrilling twist to the adventure. Despite the nerves, we make it safely down the ladders and continue on.

Then, mid-descent, I suddenly slip, the kind of moment where everything happens in a heartbeat. I just manage to catch myself with my trekking pole, but I hear a sharp snap: my trusted carbon Leki pole has broken. Now I'm down to a single pole for the rest of the race. I'm somewhere between three-quarters and four-fifths of the way through, so at least the finish isn't too far off, but I know how much that pole has been helping with balance and stability. It's definitely frustrating, but I remind myself this kind of thing happens in ultrarunning, you just have to adapt and keep pushing forward.

Grotelle, Saturday 01:29, 89km 6241m+ 26:30 176th

I press on and finally arrive at the Grotelle aid station, together with Dominik. Both of us are feeling surprisingly good, considering the distance we've covered so far. Dominik immediately says, "Yeah, let's keep going," and I agree without hesitation. "Yes, man, let's continue. We won't take a break, and there's no chance we're sleeping, but I do need to eat a little something as we move." We quickly mingle with a few others and exchange some words with the volunteers, who, as always, are incredibly friendly and encouraging. Their positive energy is a welcome boost.

We know at this point that we've reached the very last climb of the race. To put it in perspective, we're at kilometer 90 out of 110, just 20 kilometers to go, with one final ascent of about 750 meters still ahead. I remind myself of some training I did earlier in the week back in Corsica: I managed 750 meters of elevation gain in an hour and a half, round trip, not far from home. I try to channel that experience, thinking, "All right, it's time to finish this off."

So, off we go again, and soon we're joined by another runner, his name escapes me, but he slots right into our little group as we start the climb. Interestingly, the section begins with a short descent before the real uphill challenge begins. It's probably around 2 or 3 in the morning, and out of nowhere, we spot Xavi, the Spaniard, heading towards us in the opposite direction. He stops to ask, "Ah, ¿has visto a mis amigos?", have you seen my friends? I'm thrown off, replying, "Man, what are you talking about?" He seems confused, unsure which way to go. I watch as he turns around and doubles back, he must be three kilometers into this segment already, but now he's going back, meaning he'll cover an extra six kilometers just searching for his friends. I can't help but think, "His friends are definitely on the course and will find him at the finish line. Not sure what's going on with him."

We carry on, and once again I see little headlamps bobbing in the far distance above us. The climb looks endless, and I convince myself, "No way do we have to go all the way up there." But the ascent turns out to be just as brutal as it looks, an unrelenting effort. Dominik takes over leading, and I follow in his footsteps, our energy running low. I'm so exhausted that even taking a deep breath makes my chest ache strangely, like I can't get a full breath in. Still, the only option is to keep moving forward, even as the trail seems to go on forever.

So there I am, relying on my single remaining trekking pole as I climb. I use my left arm to help, pushing off rocks whenever I can, just focusing on making steady progress. We keep inching forward, each step taking more effort than the last. Eventually, we reach a section that's noticeably steeper. I think, "This has to be it, the final pitch." It's so steep that each step feels like climbing four stairs at once.

Out of nowhere, I start to overheat. An intense, overwhelming heat floods over me, making me consider stripping off my T-shirt just to cool down. But then, I remember those stories from Everest movies, where people with altitude sickness start feeling so hot they take off all their layers, even when it's freezing, and it never ends well. That thought pulls me back, and I decide against it. Instead, I just keep pushing on, but a little alarm bell goes off in my head: "Can I really trust my body at this point?" The fatigue is catching up, after all, this is my second night without a wink of sleep and I've already covered 100 kilometers. Obviously, I'm exhausted, but I keep climbing regardless.

The overheating continues all the way to the summit, but finally, we make it. At the top, we find ourselves on a plateau, the Alzu plateau. From up here, we spot the aid station in the distance, but even now there's still about a kilometer of trail before we reach it. We're at about 1,700 meters of altitude, so the air isn't as hot. Instead, the wind picks up, and as soon as we stop climbing, my heart rate drops, and suddenly everything shifts: what was a burning heat is replaced by shivering cold. I start to shake, my teeth chattering uncontrollably, I'm freezing. I ask the guys with me, "Are you cold?" but they shake their heads: "No, we're fine." I'm surprised, but at least the aid station is visible ahead.

I focus on reaching it, but the cold just keeps creeping in. I stop for a moment, turn to my friends, and confess, "Guys, I'm really cold." I pull out my rain jacket, still damp from earlier in the race, when it had rained, but I throw it on anyway, hoping it'll help trap some heat. Gradually, as I keep moving, I start to warm up, and I press on, determined to reach the comfort of the aid station.

Alzu, Saturday 05:03, 99km 6969m+ 30:03 167th

When I reach the Alzu aid station, I immediately find a seat in one of the camping chairs and wrap myself up in two blankets that the volunteers provide. Even bundled up, though, I can't stop shivering. The chill seems to go all the way to my bones. At that moment, a wave of doubt washes over me: I've already covered 100 kilometers, just 10 kilometers stand between me and the finish, but my body suddenly feels like it might give out. I seriously wonder if I'm about to have to drop out of the race, right at the end.

I recall the minor muscle pains I've had throughout the night, nothing too severe, but still, not exactly ideal either. The thought crosses my mind: I don't want to risk putting myself in danger, and if the shivering doesn't stop, I might have no choice but to stop here. If it means staying safe, I'll do it.

As I sit there, the sky begins to lighten, and I see the first rays of sunrise. It's 5am I turn to Dominik and the other guy who made the climb with us and say honestly, "Listen, guys, I can't carry on right now. Go ahead without me. I'm going to wait here until the sun rises a bit more, and it warms up. Maybe I'll rest for an hour, but it doesn't make sense to set out again while I'm still shivering." They nod, wish me luck, and move on without me.

Left alone, I check my phone and see a message from the race organizers on WhatsApp: "Ah, Mr. Picard, where are you? We can't find you, etc. Did you drop out? Please inform us as soon as possible." I'm puzzled, what's going on? It turns out my bib hasn't registered at any checkpoints since Inzecche, which is before Manganu and before the climb up to Breach of Capitellu. It's been hours since my last chip scan, so as far as the organizers know, I could have dropped out way back at Inzecche, around 7:30pm.

I explain, "But I'm right here." One of the volunteers catches wind of the situation, grabs his radio, and reports, "Yes, bib 464 is here." My bib is attached to my belt, so I hand it to him for confirmation. The conversation gets surreal: over the radio, they insist they haven't seen me since Inzecche. Someone says, "He dropped out." The volunteer protests, "No, he's here in front of me. Bib 464, present and accounted for. He hasn't dropped out." More chatter with the Corsican accent follows, "Tell him to take out his soft flasks; sometimes the bib gets wet and stops working." The volunteer confirms, "I have the bib in my hand, there are no flasks attached." We all laugh a little at the situation. Eventually, the most logical explanation is that the rain after Ciattarinu affected my chip, stopping it from registering correctly. At least the confusion gets sorted out in the end.

Meanwhile, I'm still cold, sipping iced tea and relaxing under the blankets, debating my next move. Do I try to catch a little sleep? But with just 10 kilometers left, I worry I might not wake up in time to finish. The cutoff is 11pm, and it's only 5am, but I don't want to risk missing the end. I remind myself, "I am not going to give up. At worst, I'll take a long break and then set out again." But in my heart, I know I want to finish as soon as I can, not just rest here on the edge of the finish line.

At that point, I found myself sitting at the aid station, still shivering, in 167th place. I had been on the move for 30 hours, completed 100 kilometers, and climbed over 7,000 meters of elevation gain. Dominik had already pressed on ahead. While I sat bundled up, who should appear but Xavi, and this time, he wasn't alone. With him were his two friends. As they arrive, I quickly realize his friends aren't race participants; they're Spanish as well but living in Corsica, and they'd come up to meet Xavi at Grotelle, so they could join him for the last two stages. Suddenly, it all made sense, no wonder Xavi had doubled back earlier on the trail to find his buddies.

The three reach the aid station and both of his friends, who speak French, quickly strike up a conversation with me. One of them, noticing I'm still cold, offers me a really warm jacket. I gratefully pull it on and soon feel the warmth returning. It's a fantastic gesture, and being reunited with Xavi, my buddy from earlier, definitely lifts my spirits. Re-energized and with my new crew, I decide it's time to set off again.

Around this same time, I'm relieved that the bib situation finally got sorted out. I'd been a little worried because I knew my family was following my progress, especially since I'd told them I'd finish in 30 hours at most, and they hadn't seen an update for quite a while. Now that I had a signal, I shot off a quick message on WhatsApp, reassuring them that everything was fine, and I was back on the move.

We set off into what became my second beautiful sunrise of the race, just as we began descending from Alzu. The descent to Corte starts off steep but then gentles out, stretching for 10 kilometers and shedding 1,300 meters of elevation through serene woods. I kept pace with Xavi and his two friends, who were absolutely flying down the trail. Somehow, I managed to stick with them, even though I hadn't really run much in the last 60 kilometers, being swept up by their energy and the excitement of the finish being so close.

We sped downhill, making great progress, and at one point I even overtook Dominik thanks to our group's running pace. I pushed myself to jog as often and as fast as I could, repeating, "Come on, just a few kilometers left," the adrenaline fuelling every step toward that long-awaited finish line.

At that point, I start experiencing what I'd call visual misalignments, a sort of distorted perception. I wouldn't go so far as to call them hallucinations, but my mind definitely starts playing tricks on me. For example, I might spot a rock ahead and my exhausted brain immediately insists it's a cabin. Deep down, I know it's not a cabin, I'm aware of my extreme fatigue, but that automatic part of my mind is convinced. To prove to myself it's just a rock, I need to zero in on the object, analyze its details, and consciously override my tired mind. This kind of mental effort, bringing reality back into focus, quickly becomes exhausting in its own way.

By now, this is happening constantly: shapes in the trees start to look like animals, ordinary tree trunks seem to morph into strange creatures. Even though I rationally know these things aren't there, the experience is still weirdly disorienting, and it takes real focus to ignore the illusions. The constant battle to convince my brain of what's real is draining as I approach the final kilometers. Xavi and his friend are long gone, I couldn't keep up with them.

I try to keep jogging, but my pace is painfully slow. Dominik, who had caught up to me again, breezes past, saying, "I'm hurting everywhere, but I just want to finish, I want to get home, I want this to be over, so I'll run no matter what." Inspired, I try to emulate him, pushing myself to run and overcome the pain, but my body just isn't having it.

Eventually, we reach an area very close to Corte, a well-known spot for hikers, part of the Northern Mare a Mare. Now the trail is bustling with local trail runners, out for their usual Saturday morning runs. They cheer us on: "Come on, you're almost there, only 2 or 3 kilometers left!" I greet them with a thumbs up, but in my head, I'm thinking, "Guys, stop telling me it's just 2 kilometers, I know that's not true, and honestly, even those last 2 kilometers feel impossibly long right now." Nonetheless, all I can do is keep moving forward, because at this stage, that's all that matters, just keep going, step after step.

In any case, the encouragement from everyone I pass really lifts my spirits, all along these last few kilometers, people call out words of support, and it genuinely warms my heart. Despite that, the walk to the finish seems to drag on forever. The trail undulates with small climbs and dips, nothing huge, just about 160 meters of elevation gain scattered across the final ten kilometers, but after so much distance, every little ascent feels like a mountain and every descent tests tired legs.

As I draw closer to the finish, I still can't quite believe it, I'm actually going to make it. We hit the outskirts of town; volunteers line the route, clapping, and there are people sitting at cafés who cheer us on, making the atmosphere feel celebratory. The path becomes easier, and with that surge of energy (maybe just pure adrenaline), I find myself starting to run again. I'm running through the streets, feeling a new wave of energy and excitement.

At last, I see the finish line arch coming into view. The end is right there, so I dig deep and pick up the pace, maybe I'm sprinting at 12 km/h, maybe it's less, the details all blur together. I cross under the arch, hearing the announcer call out my name, and as I pass through, the feeling is pure, overwhelming relief. I can't help but scream with joy, I'm just so happy. I did it! In 34 hours, well, 33 hours and 52 minutes, I finish in 173rd place. The sense of accomplishment is incredible. It was truly an amazing experience.

Corte, Saturday 08:52, 112km 7128m+ 33:52 173rd

As soon as I finish, I'm reminded of what I was told back at Alzu, that my race bib chip was broken. Still, I collect my finisher's medal, my race t-shirt, and soak up the moment. After that, I head straight to the race organizers to explain: "Look, my bib chip isn't working." They jot down my finish manually, taking note of my time and details, which means my result is official, just not tracked by the chip. The only downside? I don't get the classic finish video, since the time didn't register exactly as I crossed the line, it all depends on the chip. But honestly, after this adventure, that seems like such a small detail.

At the finish area, I spot Dominik sipping a Coke, Xavi celebrating with his friends, it's amazing to see everyone there, sharing in the achievement. The whole experience feels truly exceptional. This was my very first 100-mile race, and it delivered a real reality check. I'd gone in thinking I'd finish in 26 or 27 hours, 30 at the very most, but I ended up clocking 34 hours, much of it walking. Regardless, it was an incredible adventure, and I know I'll be back for more, aiming to run a bit more next time.

Few days later at the airport, as if to put it all in perspective, I bump into Lars, the Belgian runner. He mentions he's finished twenty different 100-kilometer races, and has even completed the UTMB before. His take on this event is reassuring, he tells me this race truly stands out, that it was more difficult than most because of the relentless and technical terrain. "Extremely tough and complicated to run," he says, "especially for a first 100-miler." Hearing that, I realize just how proud I should be for finishing such a challenging race...

See you in Slovenia for my next 100M race!