Let’s see what comes out of this keyboard. For better or worse, I already have experience writing this kind of race report—the kind that ends before the race itself does. Delving into your own misfortune is not especially pleasant; other people’s always seems more appealing. We normally try to distance ourselves from memories that are not entirely happy, so writing about failure is a slightly masochistic exercise. Healthy, but masochistic.
Then again, the weekend only went wrong for a couple of hours, in a single instant. Everything around those bad moments was pure enjoyment. We have a bad habit of remembering sorrows more than joys, but I would never erase those four days on La Palma from my mind—much less from my blog.
Before the race
Unlike on other occasions, I did not have time to record on the blog what happened in the run-up to the race. I did as much showing off as I could on Twitter and Facebook, but I like things to remain written in this diary, which is gradually becoming the book of my life—or at least part of it.
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| Seven Transvulcania stories waiting to be written |
I denied myself nothing: food, swimming pool, family, friends… Had I exercised a little restraint, I would probably have reached the start line in better shape, particularly in terms of my stomach and sleep. But this is how I understand this hobby. If I did it any other way, I would not spend my time running around the world. When I travel somewhere, I go with my family and try to enjoy it to the full, almost as if there were no race.
I am not going to describe everything we did. A few photographs make it fairly clear.
Fuencaliente Lighthouse to Los Canarios (6.1 km): Jumping the fence
Arriving at Fuencaliente Lighthouse was deceptive. A very strong, cold wind drove most of us to seek shelter against the walls of the structure, which offered some protection from the constant buffeting. Thanks to that—we all ended up in the same place—several friends who were on La Palma found one another, and photographs like this came about.
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| Sergio, the author, Ángel, Gerardo and Antonio. Behind us, a sea of runners and head torches. |
The atmosphere was spectacular: a tide of runners and spectators before dawn, in a place that feels like the end of the world, at least to those of us from elsewhere. Ángel and I positioned ourselves well within the huge mass of competitors and lost the rest of our group. From here, these moments belong to each person alone. Many hours of solitary pilgrimage within a torrent of people lie ahead. I am less nervous than I expected. Excitement and the desire to begin the adventure are all I feel just before we start running.
AC/DC sounds, the race begins and more than 2,000 runners stampede forwards while camera flashes brighten the night even further. The steep climb to the lighthouse is spectacular. We loop around it and turn onto the trail, but—whoops—we come to a standstill. Squeezing 2,000 people onto a path wide enough for only two is very difficult. When the people behind also start climbing the banks beside the path, sending stones down towards those of us below, damaging areas we should not cross and blocking the trail when they rejoin it, the scene becomes spectacular but completely chaotic.
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| Trail? What trail? #NOTGOOD |
I imagine many people regard it as one of the race’s attractions, but it seemed outrageous to me and, to put it bluntly, it killed my mood. It took around 21 minutes to complete the first kilometre and eight minutes to cover just 110 metres—six of them standing still. I did not care about the time. What bothered me was people’s attitude and the excessive tension.
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| The Almonte fence jump, a kindred event. Photo: 20minutos.es |
From there, we made slow progress along a trail packed with people that did not allow anyone to move at their own pace. Even so, someone would always overtake you and stop immediately in front. I wanted to ask, “Do you really think I cannot go faster than this?” Half an hour later they would still be only one or two places ahead.
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| Wrapped up warmly in the foreground. Photo: 7KRAID Trail – Toñi Cruz |
Then there were the half-marathon runners. They started 30 minutes after us but, considering how long the first kilometre took and the tiresome pace afterwards, they soon caught us. Stressed runners—understandably—kept arriving and asking those of us in the ultra to move aside so they could make progress.
Fortunately, a track finally allowed the field to spread out. After a hard climb, we reached the most exciting point of the race, particularly for those of us who would not make it to the finish in Los Llanos. Entering Los Canarios is simply incredible: the street is full of people cheering and offering high fives at dawn on a Saturday. Any negative thought disappears thanks to those people. It is simply magnificent.
Los Canarios to Las Deseadas (6.1–16.5 km): Why do they call it that?
No place was ever given a more appropriate name. When you spend ten kilometres climbing a huge dune of lapilli and black sand, the destination—Las Deseadas, “the longed-for ones”—becomes an obsession.
Even more so when, on leaving Los Canarios, you realise that you have an intermittently urgent need for the toilet. Waking at two in the morning had completely disrupted my usual “All-Bran moment”. In volcanic terrain with little vegetation, there are not many places for a pit stop. Whenever I saw one, the need no longer seemed so urgent, so I kept postponing the manoeuvre indefinitely while occasionally enduring another uncomfortable stab of pain.
Apart from that setback, I felt very good and followed a minimum-energy strategy. I was comfortable using my poles, moving at a relaxed pace and finally feeling calmer, mainly because everyone else had also settled down. People were talking rather than growling, which was quite an improvement. More than two hours of climbing has a way of taking the edge off everyone.
By this stage dawn had fully broken, and we moved slowly through spectacular volcanic landscapes towards the much-longed-for aid station.
Las Deseadas to Refugio de El Pilar (16.5–24.1 km): Loosening the legs
You reach Las Deseadas and imagine everything will be easy as far as El Pilar, but nothing could be further from the truth. Immediately after leaving the aid station, there are several short rises with very little grip. Without my poles they would have taken a great deal out of me. A cool breeze was still blowing, but the sun was beginning to establish itself as the main character of the race.
When the long-awaited downhill tracks finally arrived, place and need at last coincided and I made a quick technical stop. The advantage of running in the countryside is that anywhere can be a toilet; the disadvantage is that it is never comfortable. It was a brief halt that helped for a few kilometres without solving my intestinal problems. I am sorry the report has become so scatological, but that is how it happened, and that is how we are reporting it.
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| Entering El Pilar |
I jogged comfortably along the track without raising my heart rate for a second. As I recovered, the half-marathon runners heading for their finish at El Pilar flew past, along with several fellow ultra runners.
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| Talking with my clubmate Iván Quintana at Refugio de El Pilar. Photo: Conchy Roc Roc |
The entrance to El Pilar was once again extraordinary: a huge crowd, a race announcer, music, the half-marathon finish and an aid station staffed by a great many proactive volunteers. Amid all the commotion, one of them tapped me on the back and asked, “Is this yours?” while holding my plastic “Kinder egg” containing my salt capsules. He narrowly escaped being kissed. It was a huge stroke of luck because, given the conditions, I would almost have preferred losing a leg to losing those salts.
Refugio de El Pilar to El Reventón (24.1–31.4 km): Holding back
The only comfortable part of the race began here: a track with gentle gradients that allowed us to run. At the start of this section, Gonzalo Martínez joined me, a companion in a thousand races under the sun. I am almost certain that whenever Antonio, Gonzalo and I enter the same race, we will one day cause a weather event of planetary proportions. We are magnets for heat, and when we come together the effect grows exponentially.
Gonzalo had already finished twice and completed his hat-trick in this edition, so I asked him questions and he advised me not to get carried away here. What lay ahead was extremely hard, and many runners would expend strength on this section that they would need later. We did not accelerate and began covering many kilometres together.
At the aid station we thoroughly soaked our heads, drank and refuelled calmly before facing what came next.
El Reventón to Pico de la Nieve (31.4–40.3 km): I see kamikaze pilots
I had never before seen runners turn back towards the previous aid station because they could not continue to the next, something that seems commonplace at Transvulcania. On this particular section, the number of competitors moving in the opposite direction was striking, even just a few metres after the climb began.
You need to be very sure of yourself to cover nine kilometres without an aid station over this terrain and beneath a sun that was now punishing us without mercy. There were already many hours in our legs, and that distance over the gradients we were tackling could easily mean almost two hours on the move. Some runners therefore decided their race would end here.
Gonzalo’s advice paid off. People set out with great enthusiasm at first, but as time passed we caught runner after runner without forcing the pace.
On this section I began to feel that the aid station was taking longer to arrive than the road book suggested, something that would become a constant from this point onwards.
Pico de la Nieve to Pico de la Cruz (40.3–43.8 km): The oasis that never arrives
At the aid station, runners continued to withdraw one after another. I drank, used my elbows to reach the table and refill my bottle—every aid station was a battle despite the volunteers’ excellent assistance—and left quickly. There were only a little more than three kilometres to the next stop… or so I thought.
The section felt endless. There were brief respites, but we kept climbing. It remained very hot, and the aid station did not appear. Looking back at the GPS track, I think the difference was more than a kilometre. That is a relatively small discrepancy, but when you are moving at 12 minutes per kilometre and have poured all your water over your head because you believe you are close to refilling, it is a serious nuisance.
When we finally stopped, there was a feeling in the air that the hardest part was behind us. I felt perfectly well, noticed no weakness and was surprisingly fresh muscularly. Yet the assault on Roque de Los Muchachos was going to be an almost titanic undertaking.
Pico de la Cruz to Roque de Los Muchachos (43.8–51 km): Becoming an anvil
For me, this was undoubtedly the hardest part. It had been hot for some time, and now there was not even a breath of air. The terrain became awkward, with large rocks, leaps and balancing acts while the Caldera watched us threateningly from our left.
At one point I heard a woman say, “I should not have looked.” Naturally, I could not resist doing exactly that. The drop was astonishing and made me dizzy until my eyes adjusted. It was a privilege to travel through places like this.
People were dropping like flies. Some were stranded in inaccessible places and would have to be airlifted out. I was still doing well. You certainly felt the punishment here, but I was strong and confident.
The final ramps to El Roque were extremely hard. It seemed as though the summit would never arrive. We could hear the cheers, but there was no way to see the wretched top. Watching Civil Protection personnel move back and forth attending incidents did not help morale either.
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| The final metres to the top. This really was hard. |
Stepping onto the timing mat at Roque de Los Muchachos was undoubtedly another of the race’s great moments. It was slightly tarnished by the fact that ten metres later we entered a small, dark hut full of sweaty, hungry mountain runners. To be honest, I had expected a little more from the race’s main aid station.
Beyond the hut I met Marian and Iván. Iván was a little annoyed because he had taken a hard knock to the knee just after arriving. Marian was surprised that, despite looking as though I had come straight from a mine, I felt excellent. The heat had cooked me, but my legs and morale were perfect. Only the gastric problem remained, and I tried unsuccessfully to resolve it in one of the two portable toilets.
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| With Luisa at El Roque |
I changed clothes, applied more sunscreen, soaked my head twice, ate, drank and talked with family and fellow runners. I spent half an hour rebuilding myself for the final 22 kilometres. At that point I had absolutely no doubt I would finish. I had taken the whole route very calmly and could certainly feel the benefit. I felt indestructible. I had even beaten the heat… how naïve I was.
Roque de Los Muchachos to El Time (51–62 km): Death and destruction
I said goodbye and headed for Los Llanos, first along a short asphalt descent and then an awkward track. A few climbs appeared that I did not remember from the profile. Given the heat, I decided to keep conserving energy and walked at the slightest hint of a gradient. My steady pace, my poles and I were a winning, reliable, tough team—but apparently a bolt was beginning to work loose.
The descent began with many rocks, technical terrain that could wear you down. I kept doing my own thing and remained very calm. People began passing me, but I paid no attention. The sun was beating down, but I was indestructible; there was no problem. Then, just after kilometre 55, I began to feel slightly nauseous. I slowed down and vomited a minute later.
I encouraged myself and kept a cool head. I thought it was the typical sudden energy crash and knew what to do. I walked calmly, ate and drank. It would pass while I walked; I had overcome this before. The sun kept beating down. I did not recover and continued to slow. Two downhill kilometres took more than half an hour, and the worst was still to come.
After kilometre 57, I became increasingly dizzy. The nausea continued and I felt unbearably hot. Some runners asked whether I was all right, others asked to pass, and a few struck me as they overtook without warning. Luisa stopped beside me with her Valencian companion and I recovered slightly, but the bad sensations returned a few metres later. Civil Protection gave me an orange, but neither that nor my now-warm water solved anything.
Moving forwards became torture. The sun showed not the slightest mercy, hammering me with every passing second, every step and every retch, and I still did not recover. One of the times I sat down to vomit, two men passed and one exclaimed, “Bloody hell, you’re the bloke from the blog!” Brilliant. It was the only laugh I had on the way to El Time. Thank you very much for trying to pull me along—literally.
If the first two kilometres with nausea had been miserable, the next four took me more than an hour and a half to descend. Sergio caught me as I reached the aid station, and I found Ale there too. They told me to try to recover, but that train had left two hours earlier. The scene was Dantesque. Medical staff had already carried out more than 200 interventions, and stretchers were occupied by runners attached to IV drips.
After 61 kilometres and more than 14 hours, my adventure was going to end there. There was no way out of that hole; more importantly, I did not want to keep torturing myself. I had no reason to put myself in danger. Marian and Iván were waiting for me, and that is always the main objective: to be reunited with them, preferably after enjoying my hobby.
Epilogue
Almost everyone has told me that handing over my race number so close to the finish and after so many hours of fighting must have been a hard decision. In truth, it was very easy. Feeling that awful makes the task considerably simpler. Besides, I have many races and, above all, many mountain training sessions in my legs. This was not like the Transgrancanaria Advanced, where patience and food gradually helped me escape. Hours passed while I walked, and there was no way to recover. Continuing would have been physically reckless and, at that pace, mathematically pointless.
It is a shame, especially when I look at the map and see how little remained, and after discovering how well I felt the following day. I did not even have sore muscles. The only after-effect was a severe headache the next morning, which I imagine came from being exposed to the sun for so many hours.
The race is beautiful, and until things went wrong I enjoyed it enormously. I was never in agony and relished every step up to that point. That is what I will keep. Despite the disappointment, I brought a great deal home with me.
As for the organisation, I am going to say something that may sound contradictory. Speaking from the ignorance of a Transvulcania novice, I think the race needs to become smaller in order to keep growing. Everyone’s willingness, effort and attitude are incredible, but the sheer number of competitors often overwhelms them.
Sending so many runners through inaccessible places on such a demanding course creates an enormous logistical challenge, one that is almost impossible to manage safely. My impression was that everything would have been perfect for half as many runners. The paths resembled motorways. It is good to have company almost all the time, but there is too much tension at the aid stations and at the start. I saw scenes and heard responses to fellow runners that do not belong in this sport—or at least not in what it ought to be and always was.
I am not usually one for rematches. In fact, I never returned to the start line after either of my two previous withdrawals. But I want to race this one again. I like it. I believe it deserves another properly prepared attempt, and that I deserve the walk through Los Llanos that remains unfinished. I do not know whether it will be next year or in 2016, but it will happen. Definitely.
From here I want to offer heartfelt thanks for the support of everyone who stood behind me in this challenge, both before the race and after I came crashing down. I think about you during races too, and try to endure a little longer because you make me feel that you are genuinely happy when I achieve my goals. Next time, I hope I will not let you down again.
This time, Iván and I do not have a photograph at the finish, but we are already plotting our revenge. Transvulcania does not know it has picked a fight with the wrong famiglia.
Photo galleries
Gallery list originally updated on 23 May 2014. Some links point to historical Facebook or Flickr pages and may require an account or no longer be publicly available.
- 7RAID Trail – Toñi Cruz
- Tony Pérez: part 1, part 2, part 3
- PREVEPAL (several galleries)
- Yeray Lorenzo (several galleries)
- Alexis Martín
- Carla del Moral
- Saúl Santos
- Ian Corless
- Luis Cairos
- Victor Alonso
- Federico Corbinelli
- KrisoK Photography
- Conchy RocRoc
- Mauro R.P.
View my Transvulcania activity on Garmin Connect
Originally published in Spanish on 17 May 2014. Read the original article. English translation prepared on 7 September 2026.
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