Race Date: Wednesday 29 April 2026

Vertigo inducing race report from Darrel Porter

Background

About two years ago I stumbled across some footage online of a strange, masochistic-looking sport called skyrunning—routes typically above 2,000 m with sustained gradients over 30%, but no harder than grade 2 scrambling. I was instantly hooked. The races looked fast, dramatic, terrifying, and full of exactly the kind of running I love. They were also generally shorter, rarely beyond marathon distance, which suited me well as I still haven’t caught the ultramarathon bug.

I wanted to try one, but I knew I’d have to earn it. Even entry‑level skyraces are extremely demanding, often with tight cut‑offs to keep runners and marshals safe in the mountains.

By late 2025 I’d decided I was ready. I chose Calamorro Skyrace as my first attempt, partly because it was logistically straightforward: the race starts in Benalmádena, a short train ride from Málaga. Many skyraces take place in remote areas or require prior experience. There are UK skyraces too, but between higher entry fees and travel costs, I could get a week’s holiday in Spain plus race entry for nearly the same price.

Training (and unravelling)

I built my training plan largely around Training for the Uphill Athlete by Steve House, Scott Johnston, and Kilian Jornet—highly recommended if you’re into fell or mountain running. Most of my training was slow Zone 1/2 running, with as much elevation as I could find. That meant endless hill reps, the steeper the better, and plenty of trail running to mimic race conditions. The residents of Stockarth Lane must have thought I was mad as I repeatedly hammered the same short, brutally steep trail on dark winter evenings—and they often told me so.

I also increased my strength training, mostly kettlebell work, and added a little speed towards the end. I’d planned a full dress rehearsal—the Kinder Half-dozen—but six weeks out, disaster struck.

After a heavy week of training and work I decided to do a parkrun. I almost never do parkruns for good reason: I can be rather competitive. I promised myself I’d run easy. I lied. I ran 19:11 at Hillsborough. It felt fine at the time; by lunchtime my left hip hurt, and by that evening I could barely walk.

The diagnosis was early‑stage gluteal tendinopathy. (Ed: sore bum tendons.) I stopped running entirely, backed off single‑leg strength work, and lived in a state of low‑grade panic. Sports massage helped, but progress was slow. Eventually I went to Kim Baxter Physiotherapy, who reassured me that with rest, load management, and luck, I might still make the start line—if not race fully. So I rested. Then rested some more.

When I was finally cleared to rebuild, I was told to start with 1 km runs and increase gradually. Naturally, I got impatient and jumped ahead—1 km became 3k, then 5k. By the end I could manage 15 km, but discomfort always crept in around 12 km and speed was nonexistent. A week before flying out I had a shockwave therapy session with Cara Hanson; it wasn’t pleasant, but the improvement afterward was dramatic. In the final days before Spain, recovery suddenly accelerated.

Pre-Race

In Spain I carb‑loaded enthusiastically—perhaps too enthusiastically—with ambitious tapas orders, excessive tostada and patatas bravas, and more beer than ideal. I decided not to run at all before race day; my hip would be the limiting factor and I wanted it as rested as possible. Bib collection came with a technical briefing and interviews with elite athletes, which was genuinely exciting—these were runners I’d followed for years. The briefing itself mostly repeated online info, but the goody bag more than made up for it: a high‑quality NADAO technical tee and Lubrel socks, worth more than the entry fee alone.

Race day was relaxed. It was an evening start (17:30 for the men), with sunset around 20:45 meaning a finish in darkness for us regular mortals. The course had recently been extended to ~31 km with ~2,200 m of climb, with tight cut‑offs: 2 hours to 10 km and a hard finish limit at 23:30. Heavy rain had been forecast, but race morning looked dry. I opted for trail shoes over fell shoes to save weight, apparently I’d be taking approx. 58,000 steps, that meant lifting roughly two tonnes less shoe! Mandatory kit included a headtorch, foil blanket, phone, GPS watch, windbreaker, and 500 ml of water.

The race

The start felt like a festival: music, big screens, crowds, and the elite athletes announced one by one. After a short warm‑up over the final kilometre (sharp climbs and steps—useful intel), I lined up near the back. This was not a day for sprinting.

The opening kilometres through the old town were relatively flat—by skyrace standards—and shaded. Crowds lined the streets, cheering loudly. I held back, resisting the urge to push early, knowing I’d need energy later. After an underpass we hit the trails, which quickly narrowed and steepened. The ground became rocky and technical, and despite a controlled pace my heart rate was already over 180 bpm. At just 3 km in, it was clear this would be a battle.

Emerging from the woods into boulder fields, we got our first clear view of the Calamorro ridge: over 400 m of steep scrambling at around 40% average gradient. The heat was near 30 °C and the wind had vanished. The scramble itself was a relief. With a climbing background, using my hands felt natural and spared my legs. Progress was slow due to congestion—some runners panicked on exposed sections—but the rock was solid and grippy, with little real danger. I even stopped a few times to take in the views. At the summit, supporters ringed the ridge. One woman swung a cowbell so enthusiastically she almost launched herself off the cliff. To shouts of “venga, venga, fuerte!” I topped out and immediately began descending.

After rocky steps and an aid station—where I learned that emptying energy sachets into bottles while sweaty and exhausted is harder than it sounds—I hit a steep, technical descent and came alive, passing runner after runner dancing over rocks and on the edges of the trails.

Then I twisted my ankle.

I slowed to test it, briefly unsure if I could continue. After a short stop it held, though my stride felt off. The second aid station and first cut‑off arrived; I was well inside time and moved on quickly.

What followed was the hardest climb of the race. The trail rose through open woodland, the scent of thyme and rosemary heavy in the warm air. My ankle protested, but the route was stunning. Soon the path veered straight up a brutally steep bank into dense forest—full four‑wheel drive required. Hands clawed at roots, earth, and rock. Surprisingly, I started overtaking again. Many runners here were hampered by poles; when the terrain became too steep to use them, they slowed dramatically. The climb felt endless—half an hour passed with barely any horizontal movement. Eventually we broke into a high meadow scattered with flowers and boulders, still painfully steep, still beautiful, before finally cresting the summit.

The descent that followed was glorious—twisty, technical singletrack where I could finally flow. Then, at full pace, I clipped a rock, windmilled to stay upright, and twisted my ankle again. I swore, hobbled, and somehow kept moving, though the sting lingered.

The third climb arrived under fading light. It wasn’t as steep, but my legs were cramping and battered. Darkness fell quickly and I put on my headtorch early, passing runners fumbling blindly for theirs. In the dark, the trails felt completely different: silent, enclosed, with only the distant lights of the town below and moths battering into the beam. Cresting the final hill was a huge relief—but the last descent was a quad‑destroyer: steep, rocky, tight switchbacks with sudden drops requiring massive focus and perfect footwork to avoid disaster, all in darkness with trashed legs. I moved carefully and steadily. Nobody caught me, but I was just battling to keep going now.

Eventually the rock gave way to smoother dirt trails. They still climbed and dipped, but the relief of less technical ground was immense. With 3 km to go, a flowing singletrack led back to the underpass and suddenly we were back in town.

The final kilometres blurred past. Crowds reappeared, cheers ringing out. I chased down two runners ahead, overtaking them on the last steep rise despite their resigned sighs. Twenty steep steps guarded the finish. I jogged them, half‑expecting cramps, but my legs behaved. I summoned a final, ragged sprint and crossed the line in 5:19, finishing 173^rd (40^th in cage category). Given the build‑up, the injuries, and the conditions, I was simply happy to finish.

The men’s race was won by Manuel Merillas in a staggering 2:51:13, with Sara Alonso taking the women’s win in 3:25:42, more than ten minutes clear of second place.

In total I twisted my ankle five times and tripped twice, but somehow never fell. The last 10km was a constant battle with cramp. I just about managed 90 grams of carbs for the first 4 hours, but I thought I’d run out so I only had about 40 in the last hour (turns out I had plenty left, but brain fog got me in the last hour). I also ran out of salt tabs as I gave my last two to a French runner I stumbled across in the dark who was suffering much worse than I.

Lessons learned; take the first climb and descent even easier than imagined, make sure all gels etc are really easy to find, don’t twist your ankle and definitely don’t get injured six weeks before race day!

For my first skyrace, just surviving it felt like a victory. And yes—despite everything—I’m already thinking about the next one.