ILIGAN CITY (MindaNews / 12 October) — I fell in love with trail running because the mountain trails of my hometown are so accessible. Me and my running buddies can just run, or drive a short distance, to the trails from our homes. The trail route closest to my place is only about two kilometers away.
Add the scenic views, the countless waterfalls, caves, and many other mountain destinations of Iligan that are the envy of nature lovers — especially those on social media — and you have a trail runner’s nirvana.
But trail running races are a different beast entirely.
Why? Organizers of trail running events find pleasure in the misery of others. Let me phrase it differently: Organizers of those events find happiness in torturing others.
To which Freddie Blanco, the technical director of the Diyandi Trail Ultra (DTU) held on Sunday, Oct. 5, replied: “And we are looking for people who are willing to pay for the misery.”
Although I’ve been running the trails of Iligan since 2013, my first race on the trails came much later, in 2018, in the mountains of Datu Salumay in Marilog, Davao City. With a total elevation gain of around 1,300 meters, and the rain and the mud, I wrote at that time: It was the most challenging race I ever ran. More difficult than my climb to Mt. Apo, more painful than the 103-kilometer road ultra I joined in Dumaguete.
Did I say “never again”? Maybe, coz it took quite a long while before I signed up for another trail race: seven years. Yep, that long.
On Aug. 31, I did the four loops in the Japer Trail Team: Puga-an Loop Endurance Challenge. It was an easy decision because it was slightly shorter than Datu Salumay at 24 kilometers, and lower elevation gain at a little over 1,000 meters.
Then came the announcement for the Diyandi Trail Ultra, with the longest event at 50 kilometers, scheduled on Oct. 5 by the home-grown running events organizer TrailBlaze Iligan. (Iligan celebrates the Diyandi Festival in September that culminates on the feast of St. Michael the Archangel on the 29th, with some events spilling over to early October.)
I signed up for 50k, of course, despite the news of two much younger runners who died in a 50k ultra in Davao del Norte early in August.
Lacking in training, I joined a 28k “recon” (reconnaissance) run on Sept. 21 that started at 5:30 a.m., and did another 10k trail the week after. The rest were just weekday road runs of 5 to 10k. But in that 28k recon run, I asked the technical director: “Why are we skipping the remaining 22k?” “We just don’t have time for the Mibolo-Mibala-Pindugangan route,” Freddie said. It’s okay, I told myself. That’s a very familiar route anyway, having run it countless times. Or so I thought.
Runners in the 50k category were required to submit a medical certificate to make sure they are fit enough for the run. My friends said that should be an easy requirement for me because I have a cardiologist for a wife, and joked if she can issue certificates for them, too. Knowing my wife’s medical practice, nah, I probably went through the most difficult path in securing a medical certificate: Miriam won’t issue one unless I submit myself to an electrocardiogram (ECG) and chest X-ray, aside from her meticulous physical exam. Passed with flying colors!
The night before, I packed all the mandatory gear and a few more in a running vest and a belt bag. These include 2 headlamps, 3 bottles of water totaling a little over 1 liter, raincoat, medicine kit, 2 packs of home-cooked pater with chicken overload wrapped in banana leaf, 2 Pizzawraps, sunglasses, gloves, cap, arm sleeves, Nescafe Gold sticks. A little heavy, considering I didn’t pack as much during training.
In the first four kilometers of uphill paved roads, I ran and walked alongside Jojo, an old friend who taught me all about photography and photojournalism when we were young. Seven years my senior, he’s a running newbie, more so on the trails. He originally signed up for the 12k distance, but asked my help if he could get a 25k or a 50k slot after he finished with ease our 28k recon run two weeks earlier. I got him to join the 50k race.
Jojo was right behind me as we entered the trail a little past Fat Pauly’s, a climb up to 300 masl. I sidestepped for a short while to pee, and when I came back, there was no sight of Jojo. The old man left me behind! I was never able to catch up with him.
I was so glad to find familiar faces in the first aid station. Love and Yvonne, both members of the Iligan Trail Runners, the group that I helped found more than a decade ago, happily greeted me with a big smile and offered food and drinks. Most of the volunteers in this race, including marshals and sweepers, are members of our running group. They opted to help out instead of joining the race.
By this time, I was with three other slow runners, all I met during the recon runs: Sandra, a high school teacher, and siblings Kate and Miles. We agreed to stick together. In the dark, risky and slippery mountain trails, it’s nice to have company.
After seeing nothing but just the muddy shoes of the one in front of me for hours as we walked the uphills of Luinab and Pugaan, it was welcome relief to finally see the bright sky. We must have been in Taluntunan by then, then an easy 1.5k downhill run. At the aid station in Lumbatin, we stopped to eat watermelon that we dipped in salt, and refilled our hydration bottles.
Then it’s an all uphill climb all the way close to the peak of Mt. Navitas, almost 600 masl. It’s a mountain about 100 meters higher than Mt. Agad-agad, but cannot be seen from downtown as the view is blocked by the latter. This is a very familiar route for me, having passed it countless times. But the mud, argh!
The part of the race with the highest elevation was Aid Station # 3, in Navitas. Still only about 15.5km from the starting line, we got there around 7 a.m. I brought out my first pater for breakfast, to everyone’s envy. “You guys want one? Only 500 pesos. When we get to Sapang Blue (the farthest point of the race), this would already be a thousand each,” I joked.
This area has one of the best views, an almost 360-degree view of Iligan, except for the part that’s blocked by Mt. Agad-agad on the western side. Beside it is downtown, and everything else are mountains, the near ones clearer, the far ones fading with the haze.
At last, we’ve reached the highest part! Everything will be easier henceforth as the routes are mostly downhill. How wrong we were!
The early morning sun pleasantly brushing our faces, we ran the slightly downhill parts. We were so enjoying the run that we missed a turn, only to be noticed much later by Miles when his Garmin watch, where he loaded the entire route, pinged.
Then the muddy steep inclines followed. I don’t do trekking poles during trail runs, but I think I need it this time to help me control my descent. I was probably the only runner in the race who was not wearing shoes. Since 2013, I’ve been running either barefoot or with running sandals (what fans call “huaraches”), even in marathons or ultras. For this race, I opted for the Luna Oso, designed for the trails with Vibram soles. While its outsole has good traction on the ground and the footbed grips the sole of my foot well, it becomes slippery when mud gets between the footbed and my sole. Thus on steep muddy downhills, it becomes painful when the strap between the big toe and the “index” toe rubs against the skin. My “organic” trekking poles, sticks that I picked along the way, are thus of big help. I’m happy when we cross a creek because I can wash my feet, removing the mud.
When we got back at the aid station at Lumbatin almost four hours and eight kilometers later, we sat down for brunch of fried chicken and rice, and more watermelons.
Then it was a long walk at the back of Mt. Agad-agad along a rolling terrain, crossing a few creeks, through a trail with thick vegetation. It was sunny but pleasant because most of the time, we were under the canopy of trees.
As we approached the midpoint of the race, toward Aid Station # 5 in Pindugangan, Miles and I broke away from Kate and Sandra because they’re afraid of the downhills, even if the trail was dry.
We’re now along the Mibolo-Mibala-Pindugangan route, the one skipped in the recon runs. What I thought was familiar territory was the surprise part of the race, because it was the extended version. Of the 19k loop, I’ve run only maybe half of it. And the farthest point that I’ve reached, was 11 years ago.
It was almost noon when I arrived at Aid Station # 5. That’s almost 10 hours of running and walking through mountains. How am I supposed to cover the remaining 25k in seven hours so I’ll make it to the cut-off time?
But I was delighted in the fact that, unlike the first 25k, the Mibolo-Mibala-Pindugangan loop is mostly roads, even if majority of them unpaved.
The torture began with the noon-time sun. I removed my vest to get my cap in the back compartment. Lo and behold! It wasn’t in the bag! I must have dropped it upon check-in at the starting line as the mandatory gear were checked. Okay, the sunglasses should be of help. But only for a short while, because the weather alternated between sun and rain. I just placed the sunglasses back in the bag.
Miles passed me while I was checking things in my vest, and I never got to see him again. It was a lonely uphill walk for me, enduring the heat and the rain. Until I got to Aid Station # 6 in Mibolo, Km. 30, where the smiling faces of fellow members of my running group welcomed me. I felt like a king! They gave me chair, handed me snacks, even pabaon, and refilled my hydration bottles. They even brought out a pot of chicken adobo hidden under the table, which I suspected was food intended only for them as they’ve been out there in the elements longer than we’ve been.
As I was enjoying the food, Kate and Sandra caught up. I was expecting them to join me eating, but they snubbed my offer. Uh-oh … the girls probably didn’t like it when we left them behind in the downhill section at midpoint. I lingered some more, chatting with the aid station staff.
Then it was another long uphill walk by my lonesome, on a rocky path that even 4×4 vehicles would have a hard time negotiating because of the water flowing along the entire width of the road.
I was surprised when my phone pinged. It was Miriam, wondering why I can’t be reached, and telling me the GPS tracker I shared her hadn’t moved the past three hours. I tried to call, but couldn’t get through. I resent a fresh GPS tracker (we use the Glympse app), and a short message: “Sapang Blue area na. Walking solo.” “Kaya pa?” “Kayanin!” (Looking back, I was still in the Johnny Falls area that time, still a few kilometers to Sapang Blue.)
Deep inside, I already wanted to give up because I was still so far from the finish line.
A few kilometers later, I saw a house at the end of the road, in the middle of nowhere, an old couple sitting on a wooden bench. There appears to be paths toward the left and the right. So I asked, “Should I turn left, or go right?” The woman, who was holding a pen and paper, nodded her head sideways. “No. You’re going that way,” pointing her finger toward my back, slightly on my right, at a narrow uphill path so steep that you have to crawl your way up, maybe four meters high. “But first, your bib number.” That was Km 34.
As I was about to climb, I saw another runner maybe 300 meters behind. I hurried up a little, then I found out, this is one hell of a long muddy trail. The problem with my running sandals once more. So I picked up sticks for my trekking poles again. The scenery was beautiful: grassy downhill path below me, a thick forest in the mountain up ahead, and dark clouds above.
As I was struggling with the muddy downhills, the other runner caught up. A few moments later, someone else showed up behind him. A familiar face: Rodel, yet another member of my running group. “You’re running the 50k, too?” I asked, proud of myself because here’s someone more than 30 years my junior and now just catching up. “No Sir, I’m the sweeper,” he smiled. Ahahahah!!! Okay, so now I know, we were the last runners of the 120 or so who registered for the 50k.
All three of us walked together, the other runner sometimes slightly ahead, while Rodel and I chatted. We last ran the trails together a long time ago, before the pandemic.
It was the hardest section of the race, as a few times I stepped on mud so deep I had a hard time pulling out my feet and sandals. The other runner, meanwhile, was so good at not getting his feet wet when crossing the creeks, aided by his trekking poles. He said later he was still nursing blisters on his feet from the previous weekend’s 55k trail ultra.
As we were about to reach the road, Freddie, the technical director, was there waiting. I shouted, “We’re DNF, right?” Meaning, “did not finish,” because there’s no way for us to get to the finish line within cutoff time. At that time, I thought I have already pushed myself to the limit. At 38 kilometers, it was the longest I’ve lasted on the trail. I was willing to give up.
He gave us a chance. “You can DNF and join these other runners who have already given up, and we’ll give you a free ride. Or you can opt to continue and finish the race. You’d still get your medal and finisher’s shirt. We only mentioned the cutoff time because we need to go home and rest, too.”
But we were warned: there will be no more marshals, no more aid stations along the way. Whatever happens, we’re on our own.
I asked: “Where’s Miles?” “He decided to continue.” “And the two girls?” “Them, too.”
“Then we’ll continue, too!”
The other runner seconded: “We’re already here, so close to the finish line. We might as well finish the race.” Being not a local, he didn’t know of the climb to the peak of Mt. Agad-agad yet.
Freddie checked if our lamps were still okay because it will be dark by the time of our ascent in the forest. Food? I brought out my second pater, and devoured it all. Freddie gave pancit to the other runner. I still had half of a Pizzawrap, and the pabaon food from the Mibolo aid station. We filled our water bottles, and started walking the last 12 km of the route.
Only then did I introduce myself, shook hands. He told me he’s Carlo Alvin, from Cagayan de Oro.
Although it’s a long downhill road, we opted to walk, reserving our strength for what lies ahead. It was maybe still six kilometers more to reenter the trail for the last ascent, the climb up the peak of Mt. Agad-agad. When I pointed at the mountain and told Carlo we’re climbing it, he was surprised: “What?!”
It was a slow walk, maybe three kilometers of climbing. Walk maybe a hundred meters, then rest. And walk again. Repeat maybe 50 times. We talked about the races we’ve joined, about life, plans for retirement. Had we known at the time that we’re both coffee geeks, that would have been one long interesting conversation.
We met another runner, who was on his way down. Joules, also part of my running group, said his heart rate soared, and he didn’t want to risk his health. Right decision, I should say. It’s a small setback, and there will be more races in the future. We learned the day after that a runner died in a trail race on the same day, this time in Mt. Magdiwata in Agusan del Sur.
We witnessed downtown Iligan bathed by the sunset as we were midway through our climb. And I was thankful there was still light when we climbed the steepest part, and that the organizers installed ropes we could hold on to.
Close to the peak, it was total darkness as we were trekking the back side of the mountain, only our headlamps providing illumination. We paused for snacks.
Every now and then, we debated if we missed a turn when the supposedly luminous marks weren’t so visible. I can’t imagine being alone in that part of the route. What if there are snakes? What if I’d collapse? What if there’s … sigbin?!
We finally reached the checkpoint close to the peak, where we replenished water. I called my wife, and told her to go to the finish line in an hour for my ride home.
Kate and Sandra, we were told, were ahead by 20 minutes. There’s no way we could catch up.
The descent wasn’t easy, as it sometimes involved doing 4×4, or 6×6. Climbing down facing the ground on all fours, or facing away with the butt kissing the ground.
I thought I heard a bird. “Did you hear that? That must be a kwahaw (koel),” I said, and told Carlo about my experience during the Camiguin 360 ultra a few months back when we got scared upon hearing the kwahaw so close.
Then my phone rang: “Sir Bob, we’re lost!” It was Kate! But I could hear her voice with my other ear. They were just a short distance away. They thought they got lost because they couldn’t find the stairway near the foot of the mountain and climbed back. They were on the right track, of course.
“Did you hear our whistle?” Sandra asked. So that was the sound of a whistle, not the kwahaw.
We decided to stick together, walked all the way to the finish line. Race results showed the same time for us four: 17:31:01. Another old-time member of the Iligan Trail Runners, Tata, was there at the finish line to don our medals. Jibril, the race director, approached me and whispered: “I waited for you, Sir Bob, to make sure you’re okay. Your wife called me.” (Bobby Timonera/MindaNews)
