It’s 3 a.m., zero degrees, and drizzling, and I’m standing in the middle of the Punucapa rainforest in the southern Los Ríos region of Chile, about to go for a run. Back home in my comfortable corner of south east London, with its mere four months of annual sunshine and warmth, I’d become desperate to not be a fair weather runner. But this now seems like a rather extreme approach to my New Year’s resolution to embrace running in the wet and cold.
I’m not alone: a canopy of evergreen, moss-covered trees, and a floor of giant Jurassic ferns envelop me along with 80 other runners, all awake and full of adrenaline at this unseemly hour. An Indigenous Mapuche singer’s voice rings out into the silence in an ancestral welcome chant; we are on his people’s land, and he wishes us safe travels as we scale the punishing mountains. Soon, though, it will be just me, my head torch, and the dancing mist as my warm breath rapidly condenses into the pitch black night.
Trail running is increasingly evolving from a niche, counter-culture sport that ultra runners do to punish themselves into a mainstream driver for travel. The UTMB Torrencial in Valdivia, Chile started 10 years ago with 300 local runners, and this year welcomed 3,000 people from almost 30 countries; it’s now the biggest trail running event in Latin America. “Valdivia in winter is a good place to learn to love the rain,” head organizer Marcela Escalona promises me the evening before, showing me around the bustling race hub full of warm showers, massage tables, and tasty meals of asado (smoky, grilled meat) for the finishers. “In the quiet of the off-peak season, runners here can enjoy the freedom of the rainforest.”
As part of the race’s 900 per cent participation increase in recent years, women like me—new to the sport and running shorter 6km and 12km distances—are the quickest growing group. I could have stuck to the trails on the outskirts of London, but having wanted to explore South America for years and finding myself devastatingly chair-shaped and suffering from the January blues at the top of the year, the invitation to “face one of the darkest nights of the year” in the mud, rain, and cold was exactly the adventure I was looking for. The shortest 6km race seemed achievable; I’d start my trail running journey, unlock South America, and leave the 100km ultra ultra to those impressive, fit individuals I aspire to be.
But 24 hours before beginning I was crying on the phone to my girlfriend, chastising myself for being so impulsive. What if I trip and slide down the mountain? What if I’m so slow in the mud they kick me out before I finish? What if I freeze halfway through my run because I’ve not got enough layers? What if all the pro runners laugh at me, a fledgling beginner? And on a deeper level, why do I feel the need to pursue such extremes, rather than being content with my weekly local ParkRun?
