Powered by Carbs: An Alpine Love Story
I can’t believe I hesitated to tag along on trip to the Alps last August. My friends Lindsey and Caitlin were racing OCC, the 57k trek from Orsières, Switzerland, to Chamonix, France, which is part of the UTMB World Series Finals. An extra bed at their inexpensive AirBnB made the trip realistic, but the goal-oriented devil on my shoulder whispered that I didn’t earn a French vacation because I wasn’t competing. With a toddler at home, a weeklong vacation dedicated to race spectating and leisure running seemed like the athletic equivalent of having dessert without eating dinner. The angel on my other shoulder reassured me that, if anyone was entitled to daily pastries, I was.
At one year postpartum, I was convinced I’d rebuilt my body enough to sustain ambitious goals, so I started a 7-month running binge including two road marathons, the Leadville Trail Marathon, and Rim-to-Rim-to-Rim in the Grand Canyon. I was structurally sound, but within the first few months of 2025 it was clear I’d dug a hole I couldn’t escape. For months I endured crushing fatigue, bouts of depression, and suboptimal labs that weren’t dramatic enough to get anyone’s attention. I kept running, hoping that dietary efforts would result in a course correction, but nothing helped for long. I lost faith in my body, routinely saying “no” to long days of Type 2 fun on Colorado trails. Escalating amounts of caffeine and willpower helped me cope with daily life, but I didn’t feel like myself. Maybe a trip to Chamonix was an inopportune extravagance, but I reasoned that if I could rally to be a mom and massage therapist, I could summon the energy for this, too. I decided to reframe the getaway as a short-term goal, and trained enough to enjoy modest Alpine adventures without debilitating myself.
I traveled solo to the timeworn village of Le Tour in the Chamonix Valley, and my friends had been settled into our charmingly uncomfortable chalet for a few days when I arrived. The three of us shared a cramped bedroom which was accessed by venturing up a creaky spiral staircase with a rope for a railing, so going to bed felt like climbing into the crow’s nest on an ancient ship. The “extra bed” I was promised was a mattress on the floor, and the place lacked any common sitting area aside from the sturdy kitchen table, around which we gathered to discuss their upcoming race. A bus ride away from any markets and far removed from the hustle-bustle of Chamonix, it was an enchanting way to experience the region.
On my first morning, we caught a race shuttle to Orsières, where my friends would join the throng of gel-laden runners at the start line. Storms had delayed the race, and the weather forecast promised to add drama to an already challenging endeavor. If I’d been racing, I would have been jealous of the warmly dressed spectators lining the narrow streets. I felt guilty for enjoying my Americano and croissant while cheering my friends as they began their journey, but at least I had plans to engage the elements at my next destination.
Quaint Trient, Switzerland on a dreary, drippy OCC race day
Besides being accessible by shuttle, my only knowledge of Trient, Switzerland, was that it was an appropriate starting point for my own TMB adventure. I followed the OCC course through town hours before any racers arrived, stopping to admire bell-adorned bovines and a prominent pink chapel contrasted against the steely sky, and I started my run as soon as the pavement ended. The trail wasted little time gaining elevation, and I ascended into a forest of slick roots, dripping ferns, and a constant flow of hikers. I suppressed my enthusiasm as I crossed paths with the bedraggled backpackers out of respect for their exhaustion, but their quick smiles and an aura of camaraderie made the trail feel warm. Each “bonjour!” made it easier to envision coming back, and I started to realize that this wasn’t a place I could visit once; this was a “next time” place. I imagined returning with my daughter to hike portions of the TMB or perhaps run the whole route myself when I could reliably push my body again. Pleasant thoughts of future visits occupied my brain as I ran beyond treeline, slowing to a hike as often as necessary. I didn’t have a plan except that I’d turn around when I felt like it, so I pressed on until I reached the refugio on the Col de Balme, a high mountain pass on the border of France and Switzerland. On a clear day I might have spotted its shabby exterior and vibrant red shutters from afar but stumbling onto a cozy refuge bursting at the seams with ultrarunning fans, media, and unsuspecting hikers was a delight. I was already dreaming of my return to this place before chancing upon this rambler’s utopia, and savoring an unexpected chocolate chip cookie mid-trail run sweetened the vision.
Climbing the Col de Balme on the OCC race course before runners arrived
The race leaders soon powered through, and on my descent back into Trient I became less trail runner than cheerleader, calling “Allez! Allez!” to the procession of powerhiking runners. As I neared town, I spotted Caitlin first, then Lindsey minutes later, and seeing their familiar faces was grounding. Part of me envied them for being immersed in these trails all day, but I’ve raced enough to know that the blinders of competition can take the magic out of a place. I experienced the beauty of the TMB with no outcome in mind, and its energy percolated my psyche like the moisture seeped into the damp landscape.
Race spectating, trail running, and pastries filled the rest of my days in France. Unencumbered by routine responsibilities, I had been distracted from my fatigue, but it was waiting for me when I eased back into normal life. Autumn progressed, and I shortened then eliminated my runs as I focused my efforts on getting professional help. I felt frail and frustrated, unlike the athlete I perceived myself to be, but I was motivated to break free from this unsustainable condition. My persistence was rewarded when a blood test confirmed I have Celiac Disease, an autoimmune disorder that causes damage to the small intestine in the presence of gluten, a protein found in wheat. The resulting malabsorption of nutrients was responsible for my malaise, and eliminating gluten entirely is the only effective treatment. My body recovered quickly, allowing me to restore the strength and confidence I need for mountain adventures.
Running on the TMB near Courmayeur, Italy
I’m grateful for the intensity of trail running. Enduring challenging conditions and navigating rugged terrain forges a strong self-awareness that few other pursuits can. Because symptoms can be vague and highly individual, the average amount of time for a Celiac diagnosis is 6-8 years. I lasted less than a year before my inability to enjoy running pressed me into action. It is cruel to look back at my time in the Alps knowing that the treats fueling my adventures were making me sick, but the true tragedy would have been to never have experienced effortless croissants and that heavenly refugio cookie on the Col de Balme.