Wow! What a day. A brutal, beautiful, sufferfest that I fear I will think is a good idea to repeat next year. (I am editing this just 2 days after I wrote the first draft and I am already feeling excited about the idea of repeating this event … say whaaat??)
I got the news that the course was being altered to an out and back course as I arrived in Westport on Thursday afternoon. With a bad weather forecast the race directors had to act and make the best of a less than ideal situation. The initial disappointment ran deep and I thought about all the competitors who were here for their first experience and my heart bled for them. I also felt awful for the event organisers, when would they catch a break? 2022 had needed to be cancelled due to COVID and now this, it seemed like terrible luck.
It was clear to me that they made the right decision, they are after-all, responsible for not just the runners, but the event crew as well. As we later found out on race day, they absolutely made the right call!
Race morning came and I walked bleary eyed onto the bus at just gone 4am. A 45 minute journey to the start line and it was game on! I could feel the nerves but overall I felt calm, totally ready to put in the mahi and get this done for the second year in a row. As we poured out of the bus and meandered around taking photos and chatting I looked up to see the Southern Cross above us, the sky perfectly clear. The weather was mild, perfect running conditions, and I was thankful it wasn’t raining … yet!
A quick rave at the start line, as Yeah! by Usher blasted through the speakers and we were off, shuffling around to find our spot in the queue before we hit the single track. From last year I knew I needed to push a little harder here so as to avoid the congestion at the 2 person bridges in this first section. My plan worked and I got to the first aid station at 17k’s in a much better time than last year. Ominously, one hip flexor was already niggling and as I left the aid station I began to wonder what lay in store for me. I felt great in general but my left thigh was giving me definite cause for concern.
Unfortunately I was right. By kilometer 24 my whole left thigh and knee were screaming. Every time I bent my leg to push off my left foot I would get shooting pains through my knee, calf and thigh. Damn! I was angry, sad and totally p!ssed off. This had never happened before. What the hell was going on? Panic started to set in as I momentarily looked down the barrel of my first ever DNF.
I began to think about all those at home rooting for me and the thought of telling them I had given up at 24k’s was demoralising. I wasn’t prepared to give up so I just kept putting one foot in front of the other, feeling the high hopes I had had for the day diminishing.
I pushed the panic aside and pulled myself together, thinking about the tools I had in my box for problem solving, drawing on experience from previous races. The first thing to do was to take some painkillers so I made a mental note of the time, necked a couple, pulled out the walking poles and power walked for a while. I gave myself the permission to walk the uphills. Which was necessary anyway because I had lost all power from my left leg. Walking with poles meant I could use them to drive forward, giving my leg a much needed rest, increasing my speed and making up a bit of time from my dawdling state of anxiety.
Two ladies caught up to me and we ended up in a train for a while, all power walking and chatting through this uphill section. It was good to take my mind off the problem and soon enough we got to the aid station at 32k’s. Well done ladies, only another 10k’s to go until your turn around point, said one of the crew. Well, when you put it like that I may as well just continue I thought. It’s only 10k. I’m sure he didn’t know the power that his words had on me at that moment but thanks to that simple sentence, I kept going.
As the painkillers kicked in I could feel a powerful rhythm returning as I hiked up to the Hanging Judge and on to Solemn Saddle, my poles driving me forward, gradually clawing back some lost time and regaining a smigeon of hope.
Once at the saddle I could see Stern Valley and the Tarns stretch beneath me and I suddenly forgot the pain and headed on, grateful for the downhill. My leg seemed to cope with downhill impact ok and I allowed myself to run down through The Boneyard having fun and feeling like perhaps this was going to be ok after all.
I loved how free I felt on this section and I began to realise that this non-technical, gentle gradient track really played to my strengths. It allowed me to gain back more time and I enjoyed the feeling of being able to use gravity to assist me into Stern valley, towards our turn-around point at the hut.
Once on the valley floor I managed to keep a good enough pace and found myself at Stern Valley hut well before my desired time of 6 hours. Even with this horrendous knee/thigh/calf thing I was making good time. I couldn’t believe it! But I was dreading what the next 42km’s had in store. It wasn’t going to be pretty, I was sure about that but at this point I had no choice. There was no other way out. I figured the harder I pushed, the quicker I would finish.
A couple of cups of coke and a pee later, I waved goodbye to all the awesome crew at the Stern Valley Hut aid station and carried on. It was game on. I had to just get this done.
Poles back out again I did my best to power back up the hill that I had just joyfully descended. As I reached closer to the top the first drops of rain started to fall and I thought of those still down in the valley, totally exposed to the elements, whereas I was about to head back into forest. I considered getting out my rain jacket but it was so warm I didn’t bother. I accepted my fate that getting wet was inevitable.
The next few km’s were blissful, cruisey, downhills and my bad leg was handling it pretty well, it was painful but manageable. The rain got heavier and began to run down my face, washing salt into my mouth as I kept trying (and failing) to lick the rain from my lips. At the same time the salt from my shoulders washed into a patch of chaffing behind my armpit I had been ignoring for a while. Now it was damn annoying and I wished I had some Gurney Goo in my bag! At the next aid station I rocked in and asked loudly if anyone had any lube, whilst silently giggling to myself at how inappropriate this sounded when said out loud, especially considering my audience was six men. Luckily one of them was able to provide and with a cheeky smile he said that he wouldn’t tell his wife.
Vaseline applied, I headed out again, this time for Specimen point hut. Every footstep was still painful, even with painkillers it was still agony, they were only just taking the edge off. But I kept ploughing on, still pushing for that far away finish line. I couldn’t stop thinking about my bed back at the hostel and how good it was going to feel that evening. As much as it was lovely to think about, I had to push it from my mind, there was a lot of work still to be done between here and there.
These final 32km’s are a bit of a blur in my mind. I remember the feelings more than the chronological order of which things came.
I remember being astounded by how many small ups and small downs we were doing. I didn’t remember any downhills from the morning. On fresh legs this undulation had felt insignificant but on this painful, alien leg, every bump I hit was an insult. There was nothing I could do but keep moving forward, but between the pain and the rain that coursed down my face I was beginning to feel agitated and over stimulated. Amongst all of this though was this amazement building at how strong the rest of my body was feeling, which was a stark contrast to how I had felt at this point last year when I had been struggling with utter fatigue throughout my whole body and barely being able to maintain a run at all. I marvelled at what year on year training can do and how our body can adapt and grow.
Relief flooded me as I hit the final aid station at Specimen Point. I felt completely ‘sugared out’ so refused the Tailwind they offered me, only to neck two cups of coke as soon as I saw the open bottles on the table. Clearly not as sugared out as I had thought!
Once again, I left the comfort and fun of the aid station, heading back out into the rain which by this point was bucketing down, running down my face quicker than I could wipe it away. Putting on my cap would have been a smart idea but my logical thought had got up and gone by this point and I was on a mission to the finish line just 17k’s away.
The digging deep went next level from here on in. I wouldn’t let myself slow down and I willed myself not to think of the stabbing pains through my knee each time my left foot pushed from the ground, or the river of water running down my face or the fact my hands were starting to shrivel slightly, a bit like I’d been in a bath too long. And still the uphills kept on coming. The day before I had thought this alternate course would be significantly easier. I realised now how delusional I had been and I berated myself for not checking the elevation map to more effectively set my expectations. Turns out that the elevation gain for the B course is still around 2000m, no wonder I was having to push so hard.
I was also becoming very aware of blisters on my toes. Two toes in particular were screaming and I felt a sharp pinch as a blister popped and the skin was ripped from the top of the toe but I knew in this rain there was no point in trying to fix them, no tape would stick in this. It was just another thing to endure.
The ups and downs continued and through this section I managed to run with a couple of other competitors and have a few yarns. I would have loved to chat more but I had a job to get done and after a while I broke away to run solo again.
Finally there was the gate, and the sign directing us right with 1km written on it. 1 km! I was so close! I willed myself to keep running, I would not allow myself to walk with only 1000 steps to go. It was possibly the longest kilometre of my life but finally I could hear the whoops of start line and then a few children lining the track waiting for their parents. They were waving fern leaves as pom pom’s and holding out their hands for high fives. My smile was huge, and real!
Finally I crossed the finish line as the clock said 11 hours and 27 minutes and I punched my arm in the air having just completed one of the hardest days of my life. What a brutal, beautiful, sufferfest, it had been. Certainly less enjoyable than last year, thanks to my leg of doom, but 100 times the accomplishment. I had just smashed every barrier that I thought I had and was so damn relieved it was over! When do registrations for next year open?
