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It is 6.30pm on a balmy late-summer evening in Chamonix in the French Alps. Along with 2300 other competitors I stand on the start line of the Ultra Trail du Mont Blanc. Before us lie 166km (103 miles) of running and walking, and a net climb and descent of 9500m. This is equivalent to 4 marathons plus seven times up and down Ben Nevis. We have a maximum of 46 hours to complete the course, any slower and we are eliminated. The statistics from last year's event suggest that half of us won't make it to the finish line. The race starts and finishes in Chamonix following an anticlockwise loop around Mont Blanc via Italy and Switzerland tracing a trail that normally takes a week to complete.

Accompanying me on the event is a Harold Pinchbeck Christopher watch which needs to keep perfect time in order to ensure that I stay within the time limits for each checkpoint that are designed to eliminate slower competitors, but also to be rugged enough to withstand frequent clashes with rocks and immersion in water.
 
The music on the PA gives way to a countdown "trois, deux, un, Alleez!" and we are off. The route takes us on a tour through Chamonix town centre where the crowds are pressed against the barriers all cheering on the runners. The race bib bears the runner's name and nationality so I receive especially loud cheers from the British support which only serves to spur me on and I embark on the first 8km (5 mile) stretch a little too fast than is sensible with such a large distance yet to come.
 
We pass through a refreshment stop and are soon on the first climb. It becomes clear that climbing is something of a forte and I am able to pass a great number of runners in the course of the 800 metres to the summit whereupon I offer myself warm congratulations on being so good at going uphill. However as soon as we start the descent it rapidly becomes evident that climbing is only half of the story, runners bound past me as a tentatively pick my way down, thighs burning and ankles aching.
 
We reach the bottom of the mountain and enter St Gervais which has been lit with burning torches and is bursting with enthusiastic support, there is little time to enjoy this though as the time cut-offs are in everyone's mind. We rush off towards Les Contamines 10km away and only around 300m higher-up so comparatively flat. This offers a great chance to make-up some time so I push on and am able to get through the checkpoint with an hour to spare, a useful buffer in the event of problems later-on.
 
The race starts in earnest now though with around 1300 metres to climb towards the Col du Bonhomme. Never was a mountain so inappropriately named. It is 1am by now and the clouds have come in and it has started to drizzle. We all scramble-up the mountain and as the field thins out near to the top we struggle to identify the correct route peering into the mist with our head torches for the reflective route markers. Once over the summit we start our descent. The rain, although not strong, has turned the shale into a greasy treacherous surface. Runners stream past me descending with apparent effortlessness as I gingerly pick my way down turning over my ankle a number of times in the process. As the rain gets stronger the route becomes more indistinct and the runner in front of me takes a wrong turn which is blindly followed by me and a number of other runners necessitating a detour to re-find the route and uncharitable sentiments towards whoever was responsible for marking out this section of the route.

I enter Les Chapieux at 4am within 2 hours of the cut-off but with a worrying pain developing in my right foot. Some cake from the feed station is consumed hungrily and I head off again with 1000m to climb to Col de la Siegne 10km away. The ascent is long and slow, the temperature has dropped quite rapidly and ahead of me it is difficult to get a feel for how close we are to our goal. One can only see the path via the never-ending chain of head torches bobbing up and down as the route loops to the summit. The closer we get to the top the stronger the icy winds become and I stop to put on an additional couple of layers. Spirits start to drop, it has become bitterly cold, my stomach is suggesting that it will adopt a 'selective approach' to what is on offer at the refreshment stops, and the runners continue to stream past me on the descents.
 
As dawn breaks however the stunning glacial scenery becomes evident, mobile phone reception permits a morale-boosting call back home and by the time I enter the checkpoint (CP) of Lac Combal which is flying the Italian flag my mood has improved considerably, helped still more by a bowl of soup and slice of cake.