Well, the race is over.
There were many layers to it, and I'll try not to drone about the 16 hours of mostly pure gruelling hell, here are the lessons I'm taking away.
A few days ago I wrote about waiting for my PSA results. They came back at 0.01 — basically the best result I could have hoped for. Alongside that came another number I'd been curious about: testosterone, sitting at 0.1 nmol/L. Castrate levels.
A quick read on what that means at altitude under sustained load: androgen deprivation therapy (ADT) strips muscle strength and endurance, drops haemoglobin and VO2 max, and tanks the immune system. So the legs running at 30–50% of normal, the lower-airway irritation in cold thin air, the way I tipped into overreach so fast — that's the ADT, not just me being soft. The Patrouille des Glaciers is on the edge for a fully healthy athlete; with hormone therapy on board the buffer is small. Borderline irresponsible to be out there. In this case, I would selectively decide to ignore this piece of medical advice for better or worse.
If you've landed here cold and want the longer arc on what ADT feels like over time, 184 days of ADT is the fuller picture.
I had so many things looping through my head during the race. Here are the biggest takeaways:
1. Ski mountaineering races on light gear are not my jam. I'm codifying publicly: next time someone asks me to join their team — should that ever happen — I will politely respond, "Sure, happy to be your alternate, train with you, support you in any way. But I will not be racing." I'll play the next round from the bench.
2. I will never again ski on a ski narrower than 95 cm. In ski mountaineering you race on 65 cm x 162 cm noodles. They're light, and they're awful to actually ski. Never again. In ski terminology, we call these skis noodles. A running joke through the race, because my team mates did not have noodles — No more Fking noodles!**
Those two rules are now steadfastly in my personal rule book.
The first climb — 1600 m to 3700 m — took about five hours. What can you say about that. Roped to your team, racers passing all around, ropes everywhere, -5 to -15 degrees, between midnight and 3:30 a.m. The most gruelling part of the race for sure.
The hardest part for me, though, was the ski down. On the noodles. With my headlamp angled wrong so I couldn't see the line. A descent that should have taken 30 minutes took an hour. I'd just assume move on from it. Sustained high altitude, full ADT effects, legs at 30%, dangerously steep icy rocky terrain — frankly some of the most challenging conditions of my life. One of my bros really stepped in to help me through it. I'll be forever indebted. He was my saviour.
Halfway through, Kirsten met us at Arolla to resupply, which is the half way mark of the race. After that descent I won't lie — I had several flashes of just leaving with her. Coming down I could see the lights of Arolla and I was telling myself: just get there and your race is over.
When I got down I had about five minutes to decide whether I should continue or not. She immediately knew I was in one of my "full hot-mess" episodes. Altitude, fatigue, emotions running rampant. Medically the right call was to leave.
I asked my teammates: guys, what should I do? I can finish the race but I'll be slower than you and I'll slow you down.
I had maybe 30 seconds to decide. All I had was the vibe meter. One teammate was neutral — leaning toward me leaving so they could move faster. Fair. He's a good mate, and I knew the relationship wouldn't take a real hit either way. We're not Olympic athletes breaking records. The other was 100% encouraging — of course we finish this together. So a 5 from one, an 8 from the other. It tipped to continue.
I drank two or three cups of broth at the aid station, filled the water, and went head down mode. I'd been there before, and what I had that the other guys didn't know, or hadn't even been through before. I've now done 4 or 5 endurance races, mostly ultra running. I knew that my endurance strengths are the mental part; the hours from 13–20. That was where I was strongest, and this was hour 7 or so. I knew from past experiences that I could definitely complete this race. Not as fast them, but I had it in me.
One thing I forgot to mention: during that awful descent off the back of Tete Blanche), I'd crashed, almost slid down the mountain (saved by the safety nets), and lost a pole. So I had one pole to finish the race. Kirsten ran around scrambling and the only thing she could find was a broken bamboo pole that had been holding up the course barriers. Great. Six or seven more hours with a bamboo pole. Nice look.
I was so out of it I started up the next 1000 m climb still in ski mode — the boots have two settings, ski mode and walk mode, and you switch them for climbing. I didn't notice for about 50 minutes. Slipping on icy steep terrain the whole way. Not my best moment.
The one thing weighing on me was that I would not let my teammates down. Recognising the early signs of a bonk, I drained electrolytes, took salt tablets, and pulled out my secret weapon: aleve. American OTC painkiller. I'd discovered it during a 100-mile ultra a few years back where it literally got me to the finish line.
By the time I summited that 1000 m climb, the second wind was kicking in.
So why did I continue, even though I technically didn't have to? I had to gut-check that it wasn't ego. After enough stoically inclined reading material like Ryan Holiday — Ego Is the Enemy makes the case that ego sabotages every stage of any pursuit, from ambition to success to failure — I don't trust decisions that smell ego-driven. Years of meditation help me spot it faster. Am I perfect? Of course not. Ego is hidden and deeply baked into our decision-making. But you can usually feel it when it's there. This wasn't it. I looped through it a few times to make sure.
The three real reasons I continued, in order:
1. I knew without a doubt I'd never do this race, or any other ski-mo race, again. It would irritate me to no end if I bailed now. Either there'd be no second chance, or worse — I'd be tempted to come back and try again. By finishing, I could forever say: been there, done that. That box closed.
2. One teammate had genuinely encouraged me to keep going. Doing this together — even with me dragging — would be a deeply bonding experience. The memories on the other side would be worth the slog.
3. I wanted to show the team I could do it. Not so they'd invite me back to PDG, but because we'd been floating other ski trips together. The big one is Sir Ernest Shackleton's traverse on South Georgia — his 36-hour crossing of unmapped mountains in 1916 after the Endurance was crushed in the ice, which he, Frank Worsley, and Tom Crean did to reach the whaling station at Stromness and ultimately rescue their stranded crew. That's the trip I really want to do, probably with these bros. If I bailed here, they'd quietly file: "if Geordie can't finish PDG, can he do South Georgia?" That was very much in my head.
By the back half, the salt tablets, maybe the ketones, and the aleve had me firmly in the second wind — and the team was noticing.
There's a steep technical section on the route called a via ferrata — Italian for "iron way," originally built in the Dolomites during WWI to move troops through alpine terrain, now a worldwide style of fixed-cable mountain climbing. In my earlier delirious state it would have been bad to impossible for me to do this. Like, hands slipping, fatigue, the ADT cocktail plus altitude, tumbling down jagged rock, taking out a dozen racers and one of my best mates on the way. At the bottom I just said: "well, you definitely needed your wits for that one."
The back half went fine. Strength came back, the sun came up, it was an insanely beautiful day in the Swiss wilderness. Sixty kilometres of uninterrupted glaciated alpine between Zermatt and Verbier — pink alpine glow on the peaks, magical moments stacking on each other. When I noticed the scenery, I tried to ground and be as present as possible to log these moments of pure pleasure to intermingle with the hellish ones.
The last big push to 3300 m was nearly as bad as Tete Blanche. The big difference was that my teammates' endurance were now significantly noticeable and had dropped to my reduced rate — we were all about even. That was a relief. I wasn't being the anchor anymore.
The highlight on that climb was the crowds. Spectators who'd done their own 2.5-hour tours up to cheer the racers on. Two friends were waiting at the top with food, snacks, electrolytes.
From there it was mostly downhill — one more 300 m climb, nothing compared to the 4000 m we'd already done, but in my deteriorated state I knew it'd be the hardest part. My legs were so fatigued I couldn't ski more than 200 m without stopping. For the team — who normally all ski at all at the same level — this must have been deeply annoying. Right when they could've ripped down to the finish, they had to descend with some Jerry (ski slang for tourist flatlander) wanking and grimacing and falling. This was deeply embarrassing for me. Another humbling moment among many.
But by then we were in our back yard of Verbier. Terrain I know cold. I checked my watch and figured: 2:30 p.m. I'll be soaking in my Epsom salt bath with this all behind me. True to the moment, I had to ski gingerly down through bumps and easy terrain that normally would not even have been noticeable and rather enjoyable. The conditions were excellent — slush bumps, sun, lovely.
The highlight was for sure the last "glory run" through the centre of town. The other two had their families at the finish; I knew Kirsten would be there at the finish line. That run through town actually made the entire slog worth it. The decision I'd flashed on at Arolla — drive home with Kirsten now or stick it out — it was worth it. It was the right call.
A glory lap through town, friendly faces cheering. It was... epic.
The best part: by 2:30 p.m. I was actually home, in my Epsom salt bath, very relieved that the training, the embarrassment of being a ski-wanking emotionally-vulnerable weeny version of myself, and most of all that beast of a race were behind me.
Oh — and from a business angle, enterprise client #1 had emailed: "Hey, the payment link you sent us isn't working. Can you send another?" I'd been hoping to send a recurring Stripe link to lock in the recurring payment that would basically cover survival in the very expensive Swiss billing environment we live in. So that's the next thread to pull.
Now on to the next phase of the year — the end of the keto diet, PSA at undetectable levels, no more ski training, shorts and toes in the sand type of weather.
It's good to be alive...
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