Doing something for the first time is always difficult, especially when you do not feel completely capable of doing it. Until this Saturday, an ultra-trail was something I simply could not imagine. I knew it would be very hard, but it seemed unreal that the body could fight for so many hours to achieve a goal.
Where would I find the energy? How would I cope mentally when fatigue arrived? What if something hurt? How would I get through the night after so many hours? Can you still run after being on the move for 15 hours? I have now found the answer to most of these questions, but I still do not fully understand the mental and physical mechanism that drives you to finish an ultra-trail, overcoming the difficulties that confront all of us at some point in the race.
Before the start
In such a long race, everything is different from the outset. For a start, the race begins at 6:00 am and you have to be awake from three in the morning. It is almost impossible to rest at that hour because you go to bed at a time your body is not used to—and let us not even discuss going to the toilet. Your body has no idea where it is.
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| Arriving in Agaete |
While waiting for the organisers’ transport, I met Antonio and Alberto, who had come from Lanzarote to take in the island in one go. There was plenty of laughter, the odd nap and a whole journey spent following Twitter—along with the French runner sitting beside me—to find out how the 119 km runners were doing and what the weather was like at the first timing points.
Once in Agaete, there was a tremendous atmosphere despite the hour: runners, supporters still in party mode, a brass band, searchlights…
We decided to take a photograph beneath the start arch, and soon afterwards I realised that I had lost the compulsory rear light. The first nerves appeared. I asked the organisers and they told me that a German gentleman had picked it up. When I found him, I thanked him and told him he had saved my life. First crisis overcome, and I had not even started.
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| With Antonio and Alberto, unaware that I had just lost my red light |
I was so out of it that, when I went to put on my calf guards, a Japanese runner told me I was wearing my socks on the wrong feet. This was already beginning to sound like a joke: a Frenchman, a German, a Japanese man and a Spaniard. And it had taken me so much effort to put them on without peeling off the anti-blister tape!
At that point Luisa and Jose joined us, and a little later I saw Ángel and Román. All the bloggers were now in position. I kept greeting many people whom I will not name because this would become far too long and I would inevitably leave somebody out.
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| Too many reflectors |
Agaete to Artenara (20 km)
The race started and Jose and I stayed together. We had begun fairly far back, so we found ourselves in a slow-moving section that I think did us good. Overtaking was difficult, particularly when you came up behind someone using poles, so we took things easy at first.
The first nine kilometres are a wall, climbing from sea level to an altitude of 1,200 metres. The convoy of lights therefore advanced steadily towards the Tamadaba aid station, fending off the strong, gusty wind as we climbed the mountain. When we reached the San Pedro path, dawn broke over a truly spectacular backdrop of green-covered cliffs. Here we could move up the field more comfortably, and once on the tracks of Tamadaba everyone could settle into their own pace.
We used the rolling and flatter ground connecting Tamadaba with Artenara to run without spending too much energy, until we reached the steep climb before the first major aid station. It was hard work. Fog and drizzle had already been with us for more than an hour, making progress more difficult.
We reached Artenara in three hours and 15 minutes, earlier than I had planned. Running with Jose worked well for me because he kept me moving a little more briskly than I had intended, and I think it helped Jose too because he did not burn energy so early. We ate, took off our head torches and set out in search of the next landmark: Roque Bentayga.
Artenara to Roque Bentayga (20–28.5 km)
This is a deceptive section. It finishes 100 metres lower than it starts, but includes a very awkward descent into an apparently endless ravine whose bed lies at 600 metres above sea level, followed by five kilometres of continuous climbing to the aid station at 1,150 metres.
As soon as we left Artenara, I told Jose to go at his own pace. My plan was to be extremely conservative, and I knew he would take me beyond my comfort zone, especially on the descents. The moment the downhill began, I lost sight of him and almost everyone else who had left the aid station with us.
On the descent I began to feel a great deal of pain behind my left knee. It had been bothering me since the start, but the pain was not sharp on the climbs or flats. Downhill, however, it began to look worrying considering how much remained. I decided to go even more slowly, longing to reach the next climb.
As I climbed, I recovered my rhythm and began catching other runners. I seemed to be well hydrated because I had already stopped three times to urinate. Here you could chat comfortably with fellow sufferers and, despite the fog, enjoy the spectacular landscape. Nearing the top, I looked across the ravine and realised that my eyes would not focus properly. At first I was a little frightened, but I persuaded myself that it had to be the fog, the water on my face and all the hours I had spent staring at the ground.
I reached the aid station feeling very strong, with no sign of exhaustion. Only the cold and the discomfort of having been completely soaked for almost five hours were bothering me.
Roque Bentayga to El Garañón (28.5–40.5 km)
From this point onwards, the effort began to take its toll. After feeling good along the long false flat beyond the aid station, the rolling ground began on the way to La Culata.
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| Still comfortable on the longest stretch of road near Bentayga Photo: Bichillo Runner |
From a certain point, most of the route was downhill and I tried to recover a little by keeping the pace gentle. However slowly I ran, my knee kept sending warning signals, so I was already accepting that the second half of the race was going to be extremely hard. Despite holding back so much, hardly anyone passed me, so I considered the pace acceptable. Once again, the route defied description: we descended surrounded by greenery and flowers. I do not know whether Antonio took any photographs. Many times during the race I regretted not stopping to take out my phone.
Beyond La Culata began the terrible climb to Roque Nublo. At first I was rooted to the spot, and a runner passing me advised me to be patient and take short steps. I listened, drew breath and made only the next step my goal. Gradually I found a rhythm and kept the runners ahead in sight until we were close to the top.
Reaching Roque Nublo, at an altitude of 1,750 metres and completely enveloped in fog, was incredible. I crossed its rocky plateau, dodging the pools that had formed while shielding myself from the icy wind. At the timing mat I saw Adrián Sánchez, who took the photograph of the race as I demanded a paella in return for having climbed all the way up there. :)
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| Emerging from the fog at Roque Nublo Photo: Adrián Sánchez |
The descent from Roque Nublo and the subsequent climb to El Garañón, the race’s main aid station, felt very heavy. Even so, I gradually recovered and arrived after seven hours and 32 minutes—the best of my projected schedules—feeling remarkably strong considering what we had already endured.
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| Entering El Garañón Photo: Kataverno.com |
Curiously, at Bentayga, Roque Nublo and El Garañón I held exactly the same overall position: 150th, nine places better than where I had started in Artenara, in 159th. From here, as expected, everything got worse… much worse.
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| Very happy on arrival at El Garañón Photo: Óscar Utrilla |
El Garañón aid station (40.5 km)
When I entered El Garañón, the Saint—Marian—was waiting with two bags containing food for the rest of the race and dry clothes. We talked for a moment and she remarked on how well I looked. I, too, felt better than expected.
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| I almost did not leave this place Photo: Óscar Utrilla |
I entered the hut talking to Óscar, a friend who was helping the organisers. I sat down, went to take out my dry clothes and began to feel tingling in my feet and hands, and shortly afterwards in my lower lip. It was exactly what had happened at the end of my longest training session, the Artenara–Teror route. Fortunately, thanks to that training session, I knew I had to start walking immediately. It was as though all the blood rushed to my extremities when I stopped, while my heart continued pumping, even though I had already spent some time without running.
I tried to eat, but nothing would go down. I felt nauseous and dizzy, and the hut began to close in on me. To make matters worse, I started shivering after stopping in completely soaked clothing. I drifted into limbo, utterly disconnected for a while. I did not even realise it until Román, who had been moving steadily up the field, warned me. I tried to pull myself together and change because I was getting colder and colder, and even sleepy. Once dressed, I slowly began to improve. It felt as though I had spent an eternity at the aid station. I forced myself to eat a plate of pasta while talking to Alberto Megido, an absolute master of ultra-trails. He was having stomach problems in the 119 km race, yet later still found time to pass me like an aeroplane.
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| Having a very hard time trying to eat Photo: Óscar Utrilla |
El Garañón to Teror (40.5–57.5 km)
Altogether, I spent almost an hour at the aid station. Once I felt recovered, I refilled my hydration pack and left that hell behind. Marian was waiting outside so I could return the bag. From her expression, I could tell that I must look considerably better, and that gave me confidence. The longest section without an aid station now lay ahead. In theory it was the most favourable, but by this stage my body was no longer in the mood for much celebration.
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| Back from the dead |
After the scare, I tackled this part of the race in survival mode. Throughout the section, I was afraid of suffering another collapse in the middle of nowhere. I had eaten all race and kept myself well hydrated, but I had entered unknown territory, beyond eight hours of racing, where I had never been before. To make matters worse, I had left wearing far too many layers just as the sun began to emerge, so I was roasting while I tried to decide whether to take off my windproof jacket.
The section began with rolling ground before another pair of hard climbs. Uphill was not going badly, but every descent brought renewed complaints from my leg. When the most favourable terrain finally arrived, I had to walk, especially on technical sections. My knee hurt more and more, and worst of all was the feeling that the tension behind it could snap at any moment.
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| Now with the windproof jacket open |
Almost as far as Valleseco, I watched people pass me inexorably. Then we reached sections of track and road, I began to run and realised that, although the pain remained, I still had the strength to push. I knew that the ravine between Valleseco and Teror never suited me, so I pressed on as hard as I could to create a little breathing room and take it calmly. I overtook runners whom I knew would shortly pass me again.
Once inside the ravine, I found company. Although it once again drove me to distraction, we made our way through calmly without any major incident. At last I was in Teror. It had seemed as though I would never arrive. Just over 11 hours had passed and I was in 181st place, having lost no fewer than 31 positions. Despite the suffering, my planned 16-hour finish was secure, and if things went reasonably well, sub-15 still seemed possible…
Teror to Tenoya (57.5–73 km)
…if I did not fall apart again. I reached the aid station and something similar to El Garañón happened: the moment I entered the covered area and stopped, I began to feel ill. I started walking in circles like a hamster, but there was not enough room, so I took a little fruit and left. I could not find Marian either, and became anxious because I thought something might have happened to her on the descent from El Garañón. I managed to call her. She had missed my arrival, but everything was fine.
I left Teror already close to another energy crash, and that feeling stayed with me until I crested the climb over Pico de Osorio. Somewhere along here I read a Twitter notification from Pancho and realised that people were following my progress. Needless to say, that was fuel for my mind. I resolved that no tweet announcing my retirement from the race would appear.
On entering Osorio, I took a gel. Two minutes later I tried to vomit, but all that came out were burps. I concentrated on walking and keeping down what I had eaten in the hope that it would take effect later. I endured 20 very bad minutes but eventually recovered. The way the body works is incredible.
I seized the good moment and began to run as best I could, until I felt ill again. This time it seemed to be my stomach. I had not been able to go to the toilet all day and was no longer sure that my body was absorbing what I ate. I walked through a section where everybody else was running, miserably watching people pass once again while I tried to remain upright.
I began to feel extremely cold, yet had the sense that if I stopped to put on my windproof jacket I would never get moving again. In truth, my memories are rather hazy. I could not think clearly and everything began to spin; the ghosts from two years earlier were returning. In a moment of clarity, I forced myself to put on warmer clothing without breaking stride, hung the head torch around my neck and took another gel. I reached the Santidad aid station in a terrible state but knew I could not stop. I held out my cup to be filled with Coca-Cola—the only thing I wanted, although I maintained my nutrition routine until the finish—and walked away with it, drinking in small sips.
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| Half knocked out at the Santidad aid station Photo: Antonio Rojas |
Next came Barranco de Tenoya. If I could not descend it properly in daylight, at night it was an odyssey. I moved with great care to avoid falling, but on the final bend, when I was almost at a standstill, I stepped on a loose stone that pulled all those beneath it away and took a tremendous fall. My left hand hurt badly, but apart from many scratches and a sizeable thorn that I pulled out as I continued, nothing seemed serious. My body was hardly in the mood for dancing afterwards. I had gone down with my full weight and lacked both the reflexes and strength to react.
Barranco de Tenoya actually ended up doing me good—who would have thought it? I armed myself with patience and walked among the rocks while calmly eating an energy bar. Walking there alone in the dark when you are half hallucinating has a certain something. It seemed like a completely different place. It was still endless, but you had the impression that you were seeing it for the first time. Little by little, I really was recovering… again.
When I reached the climb before the village of Tenoya—more interminable than ever this time—I found some strength. I arrived at the aid station after 14 and a half hours, now in 194th place. Once again I took a cup of Pepsi and continued my sorry pilgrimage as a comment from Isidro reached my phone, telling me that he was following me online. They really were all incredible.
Tenoya to the finish (73–83 km)
Just as I reached the aid station, my Garmin Fenix died. Brilliant! In the dark, limping, afraid of a fourth collapse, without knowing how far remained or how long I had been going… I took a deep breath and resolved to be patient.
Finishing had become non-negotiable. I continued calmly, making sure that my energy did not fail again. Runners from the 119 km race passed me; what they were doing was extraordinary. I used the moment to arrange everything for a strong finish, removing my windproof jacket and putting everything from the outside pockets into my pack.
At last I reached Los Giles, crested the final climb and, in the distance, saw the Alfredo Kraus Auditorium, the lights of Las Canteras Beach and the finish area. For the first time, I believed I was going to finish. I was more emotional at that moment than at the finish itself. I suppose the solitude and darkness were a better setting in which to release everything I had held inside for so many hours.
The final kilometres followed tracks and roads, almost all downhill, and I ran them like a madman. I began passing people and the lights behind receded ever farther. I thought I would have to stop at any moment… but I did not. I kept flying. There is no explanation for the pace at which I ran those final 20 minutes. I could no longer feel the pain in my knee and cared about nothing except arriving. Well, arriving alone. I did not care about gaining places, but I did not want to cross the finish with anyone else. That moment was mine.
I kept such close watch on the lights behind to prevent them catching me that I almost reached the finish alongside the runner ahead. I slowed down because I did not want to make the ugly gesture of overtaking him on the timing mat, and I looked for my family. There they were, with Iván waiting to cross the finish with me. An incredible moment. To arrive at ten at night and find so many people still at the finish gave me goosebumps. Above all, I was very, very happy.
I picked Iván up, but he gave me a sideways look. I understood what he wanted, set him down, and the two of us ran up the finish ramp. IT WAS OVER. I could not believe it. IT WAS OVER. I HAD FINISHED, 15 hours, 53 minutes and 32 seconds after leaving Agaete. I was 193rd among 268 finishers and 290 runners who had started.
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| Mission accomplished |
Epilogue
After reaching the finish, I handed Iván back and went to collect the finisher’s garment—which caused me a considerable disappointment that I hoped the organisers would resolve over the following days—and to eat something. I quickly realised that swallowing anything was impossible, so I left the venue with my cup of Coca-Cola in hand.
All I wanted was to go home and take a hot shower while absorbing what I had just done.
I will leave all the post-race impressions—the organisation, volunteers, after-effects and so on—for another post. I had never written such a long race report, but so much had happened that I did not want to leave any of it trapped inside my head.
It could have been done better, but not with more determination. Iván, at two years old, tells me that we are champions because we reached the finish and ran through the mountains. Those innocent words, and the moment when I crossed the finish with him, are memories that will stay with me for the rest of my life: the memory of my first ultra-trail.
Transgrancanaria 2013 photo galleries
The original article’s gallery list was checked again on 7 September 2026. These historical destinations were still reachable:
- Antonio José Rodríguez
- El coleccionista de instantes
- Carrerasdemontana.com
- MundoDeportivo.com
- Grupo Ralons
- Jose Manuel Rodríguez
- Alberto Cardona
- Basilio Guerles
Originally published in Spanish on 5 March 2013. Read the original article. English translation prepared on 7 September 2026.
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