Trail Review - Stories from you for you!
Restonica Trail
Trail Review: UTC Restonica (110km)
Reviewed (and run by: Steven Janssens
📊 The Scorecard
At a glance: How does this trail stack up?
Overall Rating(8/10)
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Technical Difficulty(9/10) —1 = Flat, 10 = Extreme
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Trail Marking(9/10)
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Volunteers & Crew(9/10)
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Aid Stations(6/10)
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Would Recommend(8/10)
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⛰️ Race & Route Stats
Date 9 July 2026
Distance 110 km
Elevation +7200m / -7200m
Route Type Loop
Start Time 23:00
Time Limit 48 Hours
Climbs Mixed
River Crossings No
🏃 Runner Performance & Gear
Finish Time 39h 16m
Position 417 out of 686
Starting Block Back of the pack
Trail Shoes Used Salomon S/Lab Genesis
Drop Bag Available Yes
Entry Price €160
🗣️ The Runner's Story
UTC Restonica by UTMB Mont-Blanc
Warning.
Long post. Sorry. But then again, the race took 39 hours. So you really don't have to read the whole thing. I mostly just enjoyed writing it, to untangle my thoughts a bit. Because out there on the trail, a whole lot of thinking went down.
UTC Restonica, then. 110 kilometers and 7,200 meters of elevation gain. Start at 11:00 PM. And in the first seven kilometers, you get slammed with 1,300 meters of elevation. Bienvenue en Corse.
The UTC Restonica is one of the most technical races I’ve ever run. Rhythm doesn’t exist. You hike, climb, crawl from boulder to boulder, and mostly just try not to fall flat on your face. I spent the entire race hoping to find a smooth stretch of Quick-Step laminate flooring somewhere. Sadly, it turned into 110 kilometers of the Slow Shuffle over granite.
The start went exactly as planned. Take it easy. Don’t force it. Don't try to be a hero. All good. After the first night, I rolled into Calacuccia, kilometer 32. The sun was up, the lake looked beautiful, and Aline and the girls were waiting at the aid station. Seeing them for the first time again. Everyone in high spirits. Me too. The race felt completely under control. In hindsight, that was probably the absolute last moment everything still made sense.
Because from Calacuccia begins the climb to Bocca Cruceta. Eleven kilometers of climbing, 1,800 meters of elevation gain, and the heatwave was just getting warmed up. Around noon, it got worse. It felt like someone had turned on the underfloor heating beneath all that granite, while the sun quietly boiled your brains from above.
Shortly after the summit (maybe 15 minutes after the photo below?), my stomach completely gave up the ghost. Exactly where, I can’t remember. But if anyone from CSI Corsica is reading this: there is plenty of DNA evidence left on the granite out there. Eating was no longer an option. Drinking became difficult. Throwing up, on the other hand, went surprisingly well. From that point on, it was pure survival mode.
There was only one goal left: Checkpoint Ciattarinu, kilometer 58. Aline and the girls would be there. I just had to make it that far. I’d figure the rest out later.
Along the way, something happened that every ultra-runner probably recognizes. My head had decided that quitting was the smartest choice. The craziest part? I actually believed it. From then on, my brain started gathering arguments. You’ve suffered enough. This is irresponsible. You still have a whole second night ahead of you. Your wife and kids are waiting at the checkpoint. You could be back at the hotel in half an hour.In that moment, those arguments sound incredibly logical.
Ciattarinu. Kilometer 58. Where the glass is simultaneously half-full and half-empty. I walked into that checkpoint to quit. That was the plan. Get in the car. Watch the Belgium–Spain quarter-final. Witness history together?
Done.
Until I looked at my watch. Despite all the tossing up... it hadn't costme that much time (tossed, cost—look at me go with the wordplay). And so, I still had a cushion of over three hours ahead of the cut-off. And suddenly, that one little voice chimed in.
"You fool... don't give up just yet."
"You have time."
"Try to get your stomach working again first."
That actually sounded more logical than immediately jumping in the car. So I stayed seated. Pasta. Drinks. Waiting. Some more pasta. A slightly sad-looking broth. A bit more to drink. A slice of watermelon. For almost an hour. And very quietly, my stomach started cooperating again. Not perfectly. But good enough.
"Right... I'm going to keep going after all."
I headed out into the second night alongside a 65-year-old Frenchman. I found out later he was a three-time finisher, with two Diagonales des Fousto his name, UTMB, and an MdS. In short: an absolute animal.
He looked at me. "On y va ensemble? La nuit en montagne est mieux à deux."(Shall we go together? The night in the mountains is better with two). Rock-solid plan. A little later, he had to stop to throw up himself. "Vas-y. T'es plus vite que moi."(Go on. You're faster than me).
Maybe. But I wasn't looking for speed. I was looking for the finish line. So I waited. He became my locomotive. A locomotive with a motive. I literally followed in his footsteps. He picked the line through the granite boulders. I followed.
Along the way, I slept for 15 minutes at a checkpoint. Which meant I immediately lost my locomotive. Later on, I rested for another half hour myself. Enough to safely make it through the second night.
From the last checkpoint, it was simple on paper. Almost entirely downhill, with a vicious little climb here and there. The only problem was that another race was sharing the same course. Every few seconds, I heard someone behind me wanting to pass. While they were flying down the mountain, I was pulling maybe two or three kilometers an hour. Slightly demotivating. But anyway. Every step is one step closer to the finish.
I have never worked so hard to move so slowly. Those last 8 kilometers took nearly 3 hours.
If you ask me what themoment of the race was, I don't think of the finish line. I think of kilometer 58.
Of a plastic chair in Ciattarinu.
Of a plate of pasta.
Of the look in the eyes of my 3 leading ladies.
Of a 65-year-old Frenchman.
And of that one little voice: "You fool... don't give up just yet."
Wtf. I love this sport...
