The Chase
By Melanie DesAutels | Top photo: Sam Hill
“The Chase” by Melanie DesAutels is one of three stories selected as runners-up in the first Run the Alps Writers Residency Contest in partnership with Like the Wind magazine. Read the winning story, “Je Est un Autre” by Haley Littleton, and the runner-up stories: Max Wilson‘s “Allez, Allez” and Chantelle Robitaille’s “Every Fork in the Road.
2:12 am.
I step back into the night.
My headlamp barely scratches the mist clinging to the refuge de la Croix du Bonhomme. I hunch my shoulders and force my legs forward. My short rest wasn’t enough – they’ve already stiffened.
There was no reason to stay.
The refuge had been empty. No guardian. No volunteers. No runners. Warm soup was laid on the table, the lights were on – whoever guarded the refuge must have stepped out. The guestbook lay open by the door. I signed without stopping. Above my name, a single entry in rushed, block letters:
Back again.
My watch buzzes. I glance down. 79.2 kilometers.
Halfway around Mont Blanc.
Halfway shouldn’t feel like this. But if the descent is clean, I can still make Elisabetta in under three hours.
I have to.
I grit my teeth and drop into the descent toward Les Chapieux. Loose stones skid underfoot. The granite is slick, black with moisture. There is no moon. No stars. Only the beam of my headlamp.
The wind rises, tearing holes in the mist and letting my headlamp illuminate the path below through shifting gaps. That’s when I see it.
A headlamp.
Far below. Floating on the trail.
I freeze for half a second.
No.
Impossible.
No one had been ahead, not for 80 kilometers. But there it is, moving fast and smooth. I calculate without thinking: Four minutes. Maybe less. Time to push.
My quads take a beating. I ignore the burn. My stomach turns – I think of the last gel, how I spat it out, dry-heaving in the dark. Doesn’t matter. I’ve been through worse. I gain ground, I know I do. I’m taking risks now – cutting lines, trusting my footing in the dark. It’s worth it, to maintain my position. To catch the one ahead. I glance ahead and curse loudly.
They’re already at the next switchback.
How?
Did they cut?
No, the scree between the turns is too unstable. Dangerous in daylight. Impossible at night. At least the runner is still visible. That’s what matters.
Clearly another elite. A contender.
Still.
But the refuge had been empty?
I drive harder. I’ll catch him before Les Chapieux. I can’t fail, not this time.
The slope breaks and the valley floor opens beneath me. I exhale in relief – flat at last. I slow, just enough to catch my breath.
Something is strange. There should be farms here. But there are no lights, no sounds – no barking dogs, no cowbells, no running water. Nothing. No movement. My headlamp sweeps across empty fields. Dead still.
I reach the old wooden signpost. The paint is peeling and weathered, but still legible.
Col de la Seigne – 10.5 km
Rifugio Elisabetta – 14 km
My watch shows 92 km. I force down a gel and manage to keep it down this time. I look up and the headlamp appears again.
Higher now. Already climbing.
So I follow, up the trail leading toward the Col de la Seigne. It is long, it is exposed, it is relentless, but it must be climbed.
I plant my poles and power hike the steep sections, breathing hard. The thin air fails to power my screaming muscles. My right calf tightens, sending me a painful warning – I’d torn my Achilles a few years ago and it had never healed properly.
Not now.
The wind surges, slamming into me, clawing at my red jacket, trying to peel me off the slope. Ahead, the other one keeps pushing hard, climbing without hesitation. He disappears behind a ridge before appearing much higher. Too fast, but it’s a trick of the terrain, I’ve seen it before. The long switchbacks and overlapping ridges can play tricks on a tired mind. I tell myself that.
I’m exhausted, all right.
Dawn is coming, but I’m already on the edge – stumbling, clipping rocks, forcing my focus down to each step. I see the light again, suspended above the valley. It hovers on the mountainside, like a star. Too steady, too clean. It looks far, perhaps eight hundred meters away. Or close. Could be merely a hundred.
That happens.
But with perfect cadence? No stumbles, no hesitation? They’re moving fast, as I was moving off fresh legs 10 hours ago.
I shake my head hard, trying to clear it and focus. It’s right there, a few hundred meters away, hanging in the darkness.
Always just ahead. My years, all of it, leading here.
The wins came first. Easy, off natural talent. I ran because I loved it and the results followed. The faster I ran, the farther I went. Podiums, contracts, I went pro. I left my office job and moved to Chamonix. My wife didn’t follow, and I didn’t ask. I was certain of what I wanted and what was to come.
I kept on winning, at first. Bigger races, better sponsors. I hit a few snags that year, but I was determined to train harder than before and uphold my dominance.
Then the Achilles ruptured. I ignored advice, came back too fast, trusted only myself. I knew my own body, could maintain control. I still had time.
The stress fracture followed the year after that. Two years gone. My sponsor gone. Everything gone.
Except this.
Here I am. Fighting back, tooth and nail, to prove that I still belong. That they’d been wrong to abandon me. That I mattered. That what I’d done and sacrificed hadn’t been for nothing.
The wind is brutal now. My breathing is ragged and I taste salt on my lips. But I’m climbing faster than I ever have. Behind me is only darkness – still no lights on the valley floor. No runners behind. Only the one above. Only the one ahead.
The one I cannot catch.
The trail narrows as I approach the ridge just below the Col de la Seigne. And suddenly, the headlamp stops.
Wind howls across the border between France and Italy.
For the first time, I see the runner, standing motionless. Waiting. His jacket snaps violently around his thin frame. Thinner than expected. This is no elite runner, no contender.
The figure turns slightly and my light hits a weathered, hollowed face with salt-streaked skin. At first, I think the runner has his red hood up, protecting himself from the wind. But it’s wrong. I notice the matted hair, and the figure turns fully towards me and… and…
Everything tilts. The ground shifts under me, the wind roars louder and the dark rises. Because I know that face. My face. Covered in blood, for the right side of his (my) skull is crushed inward – bones shattered, hair clotted, grey matter exposed.
And horribly, it smiles. The lips split, cracking open, and I hear my own voice: You’re earlier than last time.
And I remember.
The perfect night, the push for the win, the reckless descent from Le Bonhomme. The climb, the cold, the exhaustion, the dizziness. I remember the ridge, the misstep, the fall.
And I remember running, always running this same stretch of trail, this same climb, again and again, always chasing the light ahead. Trying to reach Elisabetta. But never reaching it. Always catching him, myself, loop after loop.
Dawn bleeds faintly over Italy.
My watch vibrates. 98.7 km.
The figure doesn’t move, just watches, smiling, as the wind wails across the pass.
Far below, on the Italian descent, another headlamp appears. Moving quickly towards the refuge. The next runner.
I start down the trail.
Behind me, he stays. Silent.
The gap is already closing, I can feel it.
I glance back and he is gone. I look at my watch – 79.2 km.
I’m back at the refuge de la Croix du Bonhomme.
The guestbook lies open, and above my name: Back again.
Melanie DesAutels is a two-time Montreal Marathon champion and road running specialist with a passion for the outdoors, travel, and endurance adventure. Alongside her husband, she has completed long-distance hikes in England, Switzerland, Germany, and Nepal, and enjoys exploring mountain trails with her Dalmatian, Rocky. A veteran of the Canadian Armed Forces, she holds a degree in civil engineering and writes fiction inspired by the endurance world she knows so well.