Monte Rosa skiing – Orestes Hutte

This time last year I discovered two things:

(1) skiing with type 1 diabetes is not only possible, but I have been able to push my own personal limits in exactly the same way as I did before the diagnosis.

(2) the Monte Rosa ski area, and the best hospitality EVER at the Orestes Hütte.

After starting 2014 there, we had to finish 2014 there too. The snow wasn’t as good as last year, but we still had loads of fun exploring the area on skins, found some fun couloirs and had an amazing last day. Every skier should visit the area and the hut. 

Skiing

Ultramarathon “taper” – and the unforgettable goats

The last "run" five days before the ultra

The last “run” five days before the ultra

A lot of preparation has gone into getting myself ready for the CCC tomorrow. The CCC is the little sister of the ultra-tour du mont-blanc (UTMB) – a mere 101km and 6100m of climbing. (The 6100 of downhill will be the difficult bit of course.) This is more than enough for me. I feel fit, strong and have no idea how fast I will go. I hope I’ll finish it of course.

They say that success in running ultras can be boiled down to winning the “ultra-eating” competition. One can expect to burn about 700 calories an hour. The body can absorb up to 300 calories an hour if one eats as much carbohydrate as possible. Competitors frequently suffer from nausea or vomiting, and this can lead to exhaustion if they cannot hold food down. 

Running

The Diabetic Snail who ran back-to-back marathons in the Alps

(In the Spring, I was a diabetic tiger. In the Summer I was a diabetic snail – running slow and steady with my house on my back)

I had everything I needed for four nights in the mountains. The diabetic snail was ready to go running!

I had everything I needed for four nights in the mountains. The diabetic snail was ready to go running!

With the cliffs above me blocking the way higher, I eyed up the only way onwards: a waist high stream a few metres across. The water was flowing fast before tumbling down a series of waterfalls dropping into the village I’d left half an hour before. Having scrambled up three hundred metres of imposingly steep grass and rocks I could verify that contrary to what my map told me, there was definitely no path and definitely no bridge. There was also no-way I could risk crossing the torrent without the possibility of plunging to a premature death far below. I cursed at yet another misadventure and turned round to retrace my steps. I slipped, and desperately hung on to my walking poles, digging them into the ground with my life flashing before my eyes. I averted my slide and broke one of my poles in the process. Walking up the 1700m to the next col had just got even harder.

Running