At the start line at Te Puia with Courtney

As we run past the steaming geysers at Te Puia, it’s not long before I’ve built up a light sweat. I sense that we are running too fast so I pull back a bit. Courtney on the other hand, being a lot more social than me, gravitates towards the speeding group. I try to reign her back and counsel not to get caught up in this trap. “For the first 2-3 hours of the run, all you’re trying to do is establish your all-day pace. At this point, most runners are just chasing each other’s tail and running on adrenaline. Eventually you’ll find people who are the same pace as you but you won’t find them here!” How you start any miler is crucial! There is a tendency to go too fast as we don’t have any fatigue to limit us. For most of us in a miler who just want to finish, it’s not about how fast you can go but rather the slowest pace you can comfortably hold. Running slow requires discipline and isn’t easy. If people are passing you early on in a miler, rest assured that you’re doing it right! We let the masses stream past us and run at a slow disciplined pace all the way to Puarenga aid station (11km). We continue in a similar vein towards Green Lake aid station (22km). By this point, we’re on well-formed gravel road and its light enough to put our head lamps away. By the time we arrive at Buried Village aid station, it’s just after 8.30am and we’ve done 30km in about 4.5 hours. There has been minimal exertion and we’ve still arrived well within the 10.45am cut off. We quickly stop to collect our iced drinks and walk off eating our second breakfast for the morning – a slice of Domino’s BBQ Meatlovers pizza. Consider this as your warm up for the Tarawera Miler. Now the difficult Tarawera Trail awaits.

A snapshot of the Tarawera Trail (above) which runs along Lake Tarawera (below)

Despite all its beauty, the next section from Buried Village (30km) to Isthmus aid station (45.5km) along the Tarawera Trail is a deceptively challenging section of the course. It’s narrow single trail and hence you’re shoulder to shoulder with native bush most of the way with intermittent views of Lake Tarawera. The profile is mainly rolling, undulating terrain with a pretty steep ascent and descent towards the end. This 15km track is tough enough on fresh legs (yet alone after 30km) so I’d urge you to take this part easy and keep your legs fresh. There’s at least 30km of forestry roads ahead where you’ll need your running legs so don’t go burning matches here. Just keep humming along at your all-day pace and don’t force any passing. It can also get pretty hot along this section so make sure you leave Buried Village with at least 1.5 litres of fluid (maybe more on hotter days). The last kilometre or so to the Isthmus aid station is also pretty taxing. With full exposure to the sun, you have to move along a make shift grassy trail that’s rarely used. When Courtney and I reach the Isthmus aid station, it’s nearly midday. There’s minimal shade so I’m not too keen to stick around for long. We make sure we’ve got enough fluid to last us until Rerewhakaaitu (56km) and leave with our zip lock bags full of food and fruit. It’s a gradual 1km climb to where the boat waits so this is a good section to walk/eat and bank some calories for later on in the run. When we reach a small wooden jetty, there’s a rather luxurious boat with a canopy roof and enough seating for about 11 runners. It’s then a quick 2.5km sprint across the lake until we’re dropped off at the other side. We spot a small chilly bin with ice so Courtney and I stop and add ice to our flasks knowing that the next part of the course is quite exposed. Soon enough, the clouds part and the sun beats down on the exposed farm land ahead. We settle into a shuffle that is sustainable for the conditions and pass a few participants (and dairy cows) who have succumbed to a walk due to the heat. We then leave the farm land and enter a sealed country road. In previous years, it was a long difficult slog along straight country roads to Rerewhakaaitu but this time we turn off early into a pine forest. Although the trail through the pine forest remains a gradual gradient upwards, at least its soft underfoot and provides welcome shade. There is then a bit more farm land and shingle road until we reach Rerewhakaaitu aid station (56km) at 1.30pm. By now, we’re battling the full heat of the day and the sun beats down on us like we’re a couple of petulant kids. Thankfully our cousin Shane is there to greet us and tops us up with more iced drinks and a slice of Meatlovers pizza for the road (lunch). It’s always nice to see a familiar face in the heat of battle and Courtney and I leave the aid station in pretty good spirits.

At Rerewhakaaitu aid station (56km) with Courtney

The next section from Rerewhakaaitu (56km) to Outlet (88km) aid station is arguably the toughest part of the course if you don’t like running. I say that with tongue and cheek as the vast majority of this section is along forestry roads and very runnable! Other than a steepish climb around 70km when you enter the Tarawera Forest, most of these roads are runnable and you should be aiming to shuffle most of this section. If you’re reduced to prolonged periods of walking, then there’s a good chance that you’ve run more than you should’ve before this point and lost control of your pacing. I can tell Courtney isn’t enjoying this section (she tells me that this was tougher than the CCC 100km at UTMB!) and that’s because most ultra runners aren’t use to prolonged continuous running as often the off-road terrain limits this. However, deep in the heart of the Tarawera Forests, these long stretches of forestry roads will either make or break you. If you can run/shuffle most of these roads without dismantling, you’ll be well placed to arrive at the Outlet in reasonable shape. When Courtney and I do arrive at Outlet aid station (88km), there’s no loose parts and everything still seems to be hanging in there (including the sphincter). It’s now 7pm which means we’ve been moving for a total of 15 hours. I scull some iced orange juice in my drop bag which goes down a treat and pack away another slice of Meatlovers pizza for the road (dinner). A volunteer ties a glow stick to my pack for the ensuing night and I make sure my head lamp is easily accessible before leaving the Outlet. The Tarawera Outlet is where the water from the eastern end of Lake Tarawera forms the start of the Tarawera River and hence the next section of the course is absolutely beautiful. We run along the crystal-clear turquoise waters of the Tarawera River which culminates with the gushing white of the spectacular Tarawera Falls. Eventually we reach the trail end and we’re back on gravel road again. The road is initially flat until it gradually turns upwards. By 9pm, the darkness smothers us both on this endless gravel road. Though you may no longer see the gradual incline, you can certainly still feel it.

The crystal clear Tarawera River (above) and the spectacular Tarawera Falls (below)

The 11km section from Fenton Mill to Rotoiti aid station is pretty punishing. In fact, the gradual 3% gradient climb begins even before Fenton Mill so it’s actually 12km of gradual up. I take comfort in knowing that I didn’t have to do this section in the sun but not much else. It’s dark so your whole existence becomes reliant on a small cone of light and you’d be lucky if you were doing 10–11-minute kilometres. The up seems to go on forever and it’s steep enough to make any running unpleasant. All is quiet apart from the crunching of gravel beneath your feet which provides you with ample opportunity to reflect on your life choices. Milers certainly don’t get any easier. I don’t even think they get less hard. I’ve always encouraged exercise as a life style – a life style that you can build your home around. But in reality, you couldn’t build a life style around milers. If marathons were valleys, then milers would be mountains. And you wouldn’t want to build your house on a mountain. As much as one enjoys the views on top of a mountain, living on a mountain all year round would be too harsh. Hence mountains (like milers) are a great place to visit, but it would be ill-advised to build a home there. In saying that, I couldn’t possibly live in the valleys all day long and look upwards wondering. Some of my best experiences have been going up mountains including some of the most amazing views. Mountains are there to explore, to climb, to endure. Milers are challenging. Milers are hard. And though the climb is difficult and the journey is arduous, this was what I was built for. So while I can, I will keep visiting. Because one day we won’t be able to. And we’ll be wishing we could.

Millar Rd aid station at 4.15am with our pacers Shane (middle) and Tessa (far right)

Eventually what seems like hours of going up ends and we’re descending again. The descent is steep along freshly cut trail which is treacherous and slippery in the dark. When Courtney and I arrive at Okataina aid station (119km), it’s just after 1am which means we’ve been moving for a total of 21 hours. We’re greeted by our support crew – my cousins Shane and Paul and my wife’s friend Tessa who did the T21 (23km) earlier on in the day. They’ve obviously seen a few runners entering looking worse for wear as we’re told that we’re looking good (despite essentially doing three consecutive marathons). As if intuitively sensing my desire for further Domino’s pizza was wavering, Paul has brought some KFC popcorn chicken and fries which he has remarkably managed to keep hot. The hot salty food hits the mark beautifully and is a huge boost for morale! The next section from Okataina (119km) to Millar Road aid station (134km) is arguably the most feared part of the course for those in the know. It’s a deceptively long 15km which is reasonably technical and contains the steepest sustained climb of the whole course. On fresh legs, the climb out is not that intimidating. But after 120km, it’s transformed into a gnarly beast and I’d recommend that you save some fuel (or KFC) in the tank for this one. Courtney and Tessa take off like women possessed while I decide to stay a bit longer to complete lubrication formalities for the night. I wish them luck though I’m quietly concerned by this bravado. I’ve seen many athletes and their pacers take off with reckless abandon only to leave their running legs on that steep climb and their hopes of finishing in tatters. When I eventually leave Okataina, I’m accompanied by my cousin/pacer Shane who knows me well enough to know that I’m in no mood for a regimental sergeant major after 120km or after death o’clock. He does a poor job of inflating my ego though provides good companionship and we ascend in a slow sustainable manner until we eventually reach the starry sky above. As I course over the top, I know that a long downhill follows so I get my legs spinning again and pass the majority of runners and their pacers who attacked the climb earlier. The final 5km into Millar Road always seems to take forever due to a second climb (which is more gradual but equally taxing) that is often unappreciated at night. I eventually arrive into Millar Road aid station at about the same time as Courtney and Tessa around 4.15am. In previous years, Millar Road was a bit of a ‘death station’ but in recent years it’s been fantastic and lively. The lights are bright, the music is pumping, and the volunteers are shaking a groove. We all decide to stop for some Maggi 2-minute noodles but then get moving again before the rigor mortis sets in. Thirty kilometres to go!

Sunday sunrise over Blue Lake

Most DNFs (did not finish) occur at aid stations and Millar Road is no exception. If you can leave Millar Road aid station, you’ve got a good chance of finishing the miler. By now the course has thrown the majority of its punches. You’ve survived the Tarawera Trail, the long stretches of forestry roads in the Tarawera Forest, and the relentless climb in the dark out of Okataina. Get what you need from Millar Road and be brave for a few seconds and get moving again. Take heart in knowing that with each step, you’re getting closer to Rotorua and that the second sunrise should energise you. For the last 30km of the course, focus on briskly moving through the small lake town of Okareka, walking purposely through the rooty/technical single trail that connects Lake Okareka with the Blue Lake (a good one to practise if possible), and then shuffling the approximately 5km runnable circuit around the Blue Lake. By the time Courtney and I arrive at the Blue Lake aid station (146km), it’s just before 7am and the sun has risen. We’ve been on the move for about 27 hours and apart from Courtney stubbing her great toe around the Blue Lake (“hidden rock”), we’re still holding it together. Tessa swaps out for some beauty sleep and Courtney is joined by her second pacer, Shaun who also did the T21 (23km) the day prior. We leave Blue Lake with the sun to our backs and renewed confidence that we only have 17km to the finish. As we head towards the Redwood Forest, there is one final steep climb just past the water tower which we ascend together. It’s short and nasty but it’s also the miler’s last big punch (the steps leading down the Redwoods are merely jabs)! It’s shortly after this that I part with Courtney so I could selfishly finish under 30 hours and fulfil the Western States 100 qualifying criteria. I know that Courtney is in good hands with Shaun and I also KNOW that she will finish from here. Remarkably, running a miler as a couple has been very civil and we had no arguments whatsoever! I guess when you’re running a miler, you’re so absorbed with just keeping moving that you’ve got no time for petty grievances! I wish Courtney and Shaun luck and then pick the next downhill to attack the course. There is some painful reequilibrating and micro tearing of muscles but after this, the faster pace feels a lot better than my previous stiff and painful gait. I move relatively freely down the steps leading into the Redwoods (i.e. the jabs) and arrive at the Redwoods aid station (156km) at 8.40am. I stop briefly for some lollies and then link up with my pacer Shane again. From here, I increase my pace knowing that I’m dealing with small numbers / single digits now (7km to go)! It’s overcast so the steaming Sulphur Flats are more bearable and I manage to hold a 7 minute/kilometre pace all the way through Sulphur Point and to the finish. I cross the finish line just after 9.30am for a total finishing time of 29 hours and 34 minutes. Remarkably, Courtney is not far behind and in a sprint finish, finishes in 29 hours, 59 minutes, and 6 seconds, also meeting qualifying criteria for the Western States 100. The Molloy Family is lucky enough to have two finisher pounamu’s today! A shout out to my wife, my patient Pete, and Riana from Namibia for also completing their first milers! Running is Medicine.

Crossing the finish line with my pacer Shane

Courtney at the finish with her glammed-up pacers Shaun (left) and Tessa (right)

At the packed start line with Dr Stanley (bottom right)

Ole, Ole, Ole. The cheering and bells only seem to get louder as we move through the town centre. Ole, Ole, Ole. More cheering and more shouting. Ole, Ole, Ole. I didn’t know what this meant but I knew its intention. The crowd wanted us to run fast and we were the evening rush hour. Hundreds of runners continue to pour out into the town at a frightening speed and I lose Dr Stanley in the rush. I look down at my watch. 6 minute kilometres. This is insane. I’m going way, way too fast. I try to slow down only for more wildly cheering supporters to surge me onwards. As I pass a pub near the outskirts of town, an overexuberant Frenchman reaches out and thrusts a beer in my direction. I recoil in shock. I gave up drinking a while ago. Three kilometres into UTMB didn’t seem like a good time to restart. Though the atmosphere was exhilarating, I knew I had to control my pace and slow down. I compelled myself to move over to the right hand side of the path and let faster runners whizz by me. By the time I reached the 6km mark, the runaway train of runners had finally moved through me and I was by myself. Finally, I could reset. Finally, I could get back to my all day pace. When I reached the first aid station at Les Houches, I switched out my leaking water bottle and filled up the spare one in my pack. The right side of my body was saturated but hopefully I’d dry before night. Problem one mitigated. A bit earlier than expected but resolved none the less. A few more stragglers pass me as I get going again. I knew I was well and truly at the back end of the field but I was unphased. At this point in the race, the most important thing was controlling my pace rather than worrying about my position in the field. The reality was, I had 46 hours and 30 minutes to complete this race so I had to remain disciplined. I was here for a long time, not a short (or good time) and I knew that. I sharpened my focus towards achieving the first cut off timing at St Gervais by 10pm. I needed to do 21.5km in 4 hours which worked out to be 11 minute kilometres. I can do 11 minute ks. After Les Houches, the gradient sharply increases and you tackle the first of ten significant climbs throughout the UTMB course. Back on pace and away from all the hustle and bustle, I eased into my work.

The UTMB course profile – 176.4km with 9915 metres elevation gain over 10 key climbs

I reached St Gervais at 9.41pm with 20 minutes to spare. Though some may find this too close for comfort, there are no prizes for going too fast through earlier cut offs if it compromises your ability to finish. I’ve entered races before where I’ve been within ‘minutes’ of making cut off times only to finish within ‘hours’ of the overall cut off time. Still, feeling some cut off pressure, I got what I needed and passed through. The next cut off timing was Saturday midnight at a French village called Les Contamines. As St Gervais is the lowest point of the course (826 metres), I knew a gradual incline towards Les Contamines awaited me. So far, my legs had experienced a quick flat start, a slow uphill hike, and a steady downhill jog. It was now time to shift to my slow trusty shuffle – a pace that’s quicker than a walk but for not much more energy expenditure. As I eased into my shuffle, for the first time in the race, I began to pass people with minimal effort. I made good progress in the dark and reached Les Contamines at 11.22pm, 40 minutes within the cut off time and happy with my pacing. Although I left Les Contamines in good spirits, this was quickly tempered by a mountain pass called Col du Bonhomme (high point 2479 metres). The Col du Bonhomme climb has the most amount of vertical in one continuous climb of any of the climbs in the UTMB course. Seemingly aware of what lay ahead, supporters at the foot of the pass waved lights and played music to spur us on and one group even had a large bonfire. As my watched ticked over 35km and I began climbing, for whatever reason, I decided to check my climbing profile. What greeted me was arguably the most devasting news any runner can receive after midnight – A climb of 880 metres over 4.9 kilometres. Worse still, the cover of darkness didn’t hide the enormity of the climb as a trail of headlamps could be seen working its way towards the top. It was a silent, slow procession through rocky terrain towards the top. The top of the pass was humbly marked by a small tent which volunteers intermittently poked their heads out of (presumably to check no one had died). It was a rather starless sky and without any rewarding view, I simply coursed over the top and got on with a controlled descent towards the next aid station at Les Chapieux. I arrived into the small village of Les Chapieux at 3.46am well within the cut off time of 5.15am. However, I also arrived with a large group of other descenders so the compulsory gear check stand was greeted by more competitors than gear checkers. It was like being at the start line again with more jostling to get to the front of the lines. Some runners simply went right through the gear check claiming to have been checked already (which I doubted as I recognised some who had entered around the same time as me). I patiently waited until I was asked to show three things – my wet weather jacket, mobile phone, and emergency blanket. I expected staff to record my race number or provide a token of compliance but there was none of the sorts (which may’ve explained why some just bypassed this exercise). A bit grumpy for the experience, I moved along only to wait in further lines to fill up my drink bottles and an even larger line for the only two male toilets at this location. All in all, I wasted about 30 minutes at this aid station which removed any buffer I’d earned to date. My mood wasn’t brightened any further with the knowledge that Col de la Seigne and nearby Col Pyramides lay ahead of me (the latter marking the highest altitude on the course of 2567 metres). I headed out into the night again and began the slow climb upwards. Already the course had an unrelenting feel to it.

Col du Bonhomme during daylight hours

The climb up Col de la Seigne FELT even longer than Col du Bonhomme. I coursed over the top of Col de la Seigne at 6.49am with the ensuing sunrise marking the end of the first night. Col de la Seigne also marked the border between France and Italy and I could see the Italian town of Courmayeur in the distance (which was about the half way point). Leaving France and stepping into Italy, I’d completed 62km of the course in just under 13 hours without any significant rest. And though the sunrise provided a much needed energy boost, this was soon drained by the rocky ascent up Col Pyramides Calcaires and the wild challenging descent. I’m sure on fresher legs this part of the course would have been ‘beautiful’. But on tired legs, it was simply ‘outrageous’. The rocky slate path resembled a jigsaw of ankle wobble boards and I was amazed at those who thundered past me with minimal care for ground stability. After negotiating the unstable rocky terrain of Pyramides Calcaires, I arrived at the Lac Combal aid station at 8.30am (cut off time here was 10am). With increasing tension in my legs, I decided to stop and have my first rest. I pulled out my reusable cup and spork and had hot noodles for breakfast to prepare for the day ahead. After a short 10 minute break, I set off and was back on task again. Though still early in the morning, the sun was already blaring so it didn’t take long before it became uncomfortably hot. I had to continually wet my hat in the nearby mountain streams to keep cool as I ascended the sharp Arete du Mt Favre climb before Courmayeur. The ensuing descent into Courmayeur was brutal and probably the steepest descent of the whole course. The trail through the forest was particularly dry and dusty and I began to appreciate why other runners were sporadically coughing as the dust built up in my throat. Though talk amongst competitors in the UTMB had been limited to date (the organisers recommended we attach a race bib to our packs with our names and nationalities to ‘facilitate dialogue’), I had a brief conversation with a runner from the UK whilst approaching Courmayeur. Although I’m sure he had no ill intentions, his mention of having a gelato waiting for him in Courmayeur did sink me a bit. I had a drop bag waiting for me at Courmayeur and nothing else. I’d told my cousin Paul to support my wife Courtney during her CCC race (100km) which meant I wouldn’t have support crew aid until Champex-Lac which was 50km (and 12 hours) away. I thought Courtney would’ve needed the aid more than me but in retrospect, I needed as much aid myself. I arrived into Courmayeur at 11.30am, well within the cut off time of 1.15pm but not in great shape. The vast majority of athletes seemed to have their own support crew so I sulked off looking for scarcely available seating and table space. I was tempted to curl into a ball in some far off distant corner but dutifully coerced myself to top up my drinks instead. It was uncomfortably hot and stuffy inside and I started to feel lightheaded. I began to crave icy water but there was no ice anywhere. No ice, no gelato, no pizza, no support crew. What a miserable place this was! I packed up my stuff and headed back outside into the ever increasing heat.

Post hitting the wall and running past Refuge Bertone

The climb out of Courmayeur towards Refuge Bertone is not for the faint hearted. It involves just under 800 metres of climbing over 5km (about 2.5 hours of continuous climbing). Throw in the European heat, sleep deprivation, 80km on my feet, and 18 hours on course, and I began to unravel. I hit my first wall and one of the biggest walls I’ve encountered in a while. I was hot, I was unsteady, my head was blurry, and I began the awful process of self-diagnosis. Do I have heat stroke? I was in trouble and I still had just under 100km to go. In an ultra, it’s not about where you think you should be, but where you are. I wanted to be in a better place but in reality, I was in deep shit. I had to accept my situation, stay calm, and problem solve. I’d been training in a New Zealand winter and wasn’t acclimatised for this European summer. I was sleep deprived and overheating. The LiveTrail app had predicted a 38-39 hour finishing time for me but this was becoming increasingly unlikely as I was just making cut off times. I realised that I had to do the hardest thing that any runner can do – slow down. The reality was, I was going too fast for the conditions. There was no viable way to cool myself other than slowing my pace. Going slow isn’t easy when you’re surrounded by ultra-competitive athletes. But I made the commitment to not pass anyone in a forced nature. And if someone tried to put pressure on me from behind, I’d simply step aside and let them pass rather than get caught up in these speed games. I also committed to simply finishing and put aside any time goals. I was still within cut offs so I was still in the game. There was no need to panic. I often pride myself in taking the run deep into the latter rounds and I needed to do this again. If I had to win by points decision in the 12^th round then so be it. If I had to win ugly, then so be it. But I was determined to fight until the 12^th round. I also narrowed my short term focus. I had 20 Euro in my bag for an emergency. This was an emergency. I had to get to the top of Refuge Bertone and buy some coke with ice. Simple. Coke and ice would be my saviour. Initially, I was easy pickings. The hyenas circled and some even attacked. A South African competitor bemoaned the state of NZ rugby as he left me in his wake. Half way up the climb, I encountered my French friend, Frank, sitting on a seat on the side of the track. “I have no energy” he exclaimed. I was gob struck. This guy had the cardiac engine of a Ferrari and last I heard he was way ahead of me. “C’mon. Come have a coke with me at Bertone. I’ve been feeling shit for the last couple of hours too. It’s just this heat. Just get to Bertone. And then if you can get to the night, you’ll feel much better once it cools”. I motioned for him to join me but he seemed stuck to his chair. Being in dire straits myself, I couldn’t and didn’t stop. I just had to keep going. As much as I felt for Frank’s misfortune, it did give me a wee lift. I also began to pass more stationary resting runners and I began to realise that there were others who were as bad, if not worse off than me. I arrived at Refuge Bertone at 1.45pm. I asked for a coke with ice. “No ice” the staff member retorted. I settled for just the coke and went back outside. All the tables and chairs were taken so I slumped to the ground next to a couple of dogs lying in the shade. A few people eyed me suspiciously but I was too tired to care. After 19 hours, 88km, and 5400 metres elevation gain, I was no longer human. I was as good as a dog for all I was concerned (and arguably the dogs looked better). I sprawled out on the shaded ground and drank my cold coke as I kept a look out for Frank. By the time I finished my coke, there was still no sign of Frank. I had to keep going. I extracted my carcass off the ground and went up and over the final climb at Bertone (2000 metres). As the gradient flattened, I felt myself lift off the ropes. I was back in the fight. I just had to stay in it now.

Making use of the flat ground past Refuge Bonatti

Descending towards the Arnouvaz aid station

Thankfully the next 13km of the course was undulating without any ‘horrific’ climbs. As the caffeine and glucose kicked in, I began to feel better. I remained disciplined around not forcing any passing and running at a speed I could handle during the heat of the day. I dipped my hat into every stream crossing and every waterfall provided a natural baptism of sorts. I stopped at the next refuge (Refuge Bonatti) and purchased a can of cold orange soda. I briskly downed its contents surrounded by awe-inspiring mountains but didn’t stop to admire them. I arrived at the next aid station at Arnouvaz at 4.30pm (total distance 101km, cut off time 6.15pm) well and truly back in the game and sufficiently recovered for Grand Col Ferret. Grand Col Ferret is the second highest point in the UTMB course at 2537 metres. It also marks the border between Italy and Switzerland. I’d had enough of Italy. It was time for the Switzerland experience. It was another tough climb (750 meters in 4.5 km) but I was happy to get up and over the mountain in relatively favourable conditions (i.e. no wind or snow) before sunset. After purchasing another cold coke at La Peule (a refuge in Switzerland), it was more steady downhill running towards La Fouly. I arrived in the small Swiss village of La Fouly just after Saturday 8pm (total distance of 115km over 26 hours). By now eating was getting challenging. I stuffed whatever could fit into my mouth (cheese, salami, pretzels, and water melon), prepared my head lamp, and kept going. Although it was a good 7km downhill gradient from La Fouly to Champex-Lac, the path was incredibly rocky which meant running was almost impossible in the dark. When the trail wasn’t rocky, it was dusty and I began to cough more often. Despite this, I seemed to feel much better as the conditions cooled during the night. And though the climb into Champex-Lac was pretty nasty (really steep with never ending switchbacks), I arrived at 11.20pm and well within the 2.30am cut off. I’d been looking forward to Champex-Lac as this was where I’d agreed to meet my cousin Paul, my sole UTMB support crew. After 130km and 29 hours on my feet, I was ready to receive some divine aid and a total body transformation. Only problem being, Paul wasn’t there. And I couldn’t find him anywhere! My hopes sunk. A bit numb, I headed towards the now familiar hot food selection. I filled up my reusable cup with pasta and left the stuffy tent and sat outside to contemplate the meaning of life what lay ahead of me. Another night. Another day. After eating in silence I went back into the tent to exit when low and behold, Paul was standing right in front of me! Talk about mixed emotions! He herded me to a table with chairs where he’d prepared noodles, hot chips with tomato sauce, and cold orange juice. After eating what I could, I sculled down some more orange juice and took some chips for the road. I kept the same running gear on but I changed into a new pair of socks (though neglected to lube my feet…). From the depths of despair, I’d just been given a massive lift. I left in high spirits buoyed for the next two significant climbs ahead of me.

Feeling the strain near the top of Grand Col Ferret

Leaving Trient around 4.30am on the second night

The twin climbs after Champex-Lac and Trient are the one two sucker punch that occupy most of your night (i.e. La Giete & Les Tseppes). These climbs are difficult enough on fresh legs but after more than 130km and 7 300 metres of total climbing, they occupy another stratosphere of suffering. The first climb is a by now, casual 700 metre climb over 5km which softens you up. I’m joined in this section by a runner called Kamil from the Czech Republic. I guess misery attracts company and although our communication was limited (by Kamil’s lack of English and my lack of Czech), we shared the same goal of moving swiftly through the night. A lot of this section is up rocky terrain with the sound of water falls in the background. When we finally reached the top, the blackened sky above smothered the scattered lights of the Swiss city of Martigny below. During the descent, we happened to bump into a Spanish runner who also had limited English. He’s completely stranded as he tries to explain that his spare battery for his head lamp won’t work and he asks us to guide his way to Trient. Presumably unsympathetic to the Spaniard’s cause and knowing that our compulsory gear included two working torches with spare cells/batteries for each torch to prepare for such contingencies, Kamil mutters “Leave him”. However, empathetic for the amount of suffering this poor guy has gone through to get to this point, I simply give him my spare head torch. When we do get to the next aid station at 2.45am which is a wool shed in the middle of nowhere, the Spaniard is there waiting for me. The gist of the ensuing conversation was that he really liked my head torch and wanted to keep it for the rest of the run. So for the next 5 minutes, I’m in a dark, dank wool shed attempting to exchange contact details with the Spaniard whom I come to know is called Gabriel. After leaving the woolshed, Gabriel merrily continues on his way whilst Kamil and I keep running together. We arrive into Trient just after 4am. It’s at this point we part. Kamil was keen to have a rest whereas I was keen to make up as much ground as possible during the night before the sweltering heat of the day. The second climb after Trient (Les Tseppes) is also about 700 metres but as it’s “only” over 4km (instead of the previous 5km), it feels so much steeper and before long, you’re back on the ropes again. I downed a Red Bull before the Les Tseppes climb hoping it would give me wings. But within minutes, I was dehorned and neutered. By now, any remnant of calf functioning was gone and I had to literally haul myself up using my trekking poles and upper body strength. As I climbed, it seemed like bodies were littered everywhere along the track akin to a silent massacre. Some held a thousand yard stare whilst most were in the fetal position sleeping having succumbed to the second night and overwhelming fatigue. Even the second sunrise didn’t energise me but only brought further trepidation as the cool of the night was replaced with instant heat. Another day. I managed an awkward descent along more rocky terrain and arrived in Vallorcine at Sunday 7.45am (well within the 11.15am cut off time). However after 160km and 8900 metres of climbing over 37 hours with no sleep, I was reduced to the lowest denominator and felt completely empty. I was also panicking and not thinking straight. Despite being well within the cut off time, I became paranoid that I wouldn’t make the finishing cut off time. All this suffering for nothing. I became angry at Paul for not having any coke. I became angry because my hot chips weren’t hot. In hindsight, I was so fatigued it was like I was drunk. And like a drunken sailor, I wasn’t making sound decisions. I left Vallorcine in such a flustered state that I didn’t even top up my water leaving me with barely 300mL to get to the next aid station 11km away (which by this stage of the race equated to at least 3 hours away). As I laboured my way through the course in the increasing heat, strongly finishing competitors began to pass me. I tried to keep up with them but soon realised I’d be out of water in no time so I backed off again. As the heat increased, my pace further decreased. I focused on getting to a particular waterfall that I’d encountered during an earlier training run. Only to discover, that it had completely dried up within a week leaving me further demoralised. I started to crave slushies and began to fantasize that either Paul or my wife Courtney would be at the top of the next hill to greet me with ice slushies. Alas, the only thing to greet me was more heat and despair.

The final climb at La Flegere

The final significant climb to the La Flegere ski area/gondola was completely exposed to the sun so I was particularly slow. I eventually arrived at 11.30am blurting out an “Oh my God” as I arrived at the aid station. I sculled back two water flasks in quick succession and made sure I left with topped up water bottles this time. From La Flegere, I had 7km left and 5 hours to do it in. I attempted the maths in my head and it became clear that this race was now mine to lose. Though 7km of downhill doesn’t seem like much, it was one of the hardest 7km of downhill I’ve done in my life. The downhill was particularly jarring and the rocky trail meant running didn’t come easy. I was incredibly tired and running was no longer automatic but forced. I really had to concentrate on each foot placement. I was also very conscious that I was only one ankle sprain away from stuffing this all up. By now, my feet also felt like sandpaper having neglected to lubricate them when I changed my socks back at Champex-Lac more than 12 hours earlier. Amongst all this suffering, I eventually settled for a pace and level of discomfort that I could tolerate and reframed it as ‘happiness’. As I near Chamonix again, the rapturous and boisterous cheering returns. I’m near empty but the cheering and encouragement is so powerful that I feel compelled to run. So I do. Despite all the struggle, difficulty, and despair, all I can do is smile. I see the finish line ahead and suddenly it’s more happiness than relief. Once again Dr Stanley has beaten me to the finish line and my wife Courtney is also waiting there having successfully completed her CCC (100km). 42 hours and 54 minutes after starting, I cross the finish line and I’m back in France again where it all started. 1 760 competitors finished UTMB. 1001 did not finish. Brutal but beautiful. Running is medicine.

The view from the top of La Flegere

Approaching the UTMB 2024 finish line

At the start line with my cousin Paul (and sole supporter)

Crossing the Tarawera 100 miler start line

I started extra conservatively considering my situation. I knew I had to ease my body into this as starting too fast or hard would freak my brain out. Kind of like the boiling frog effect. The concept being that a frog placed in boiling water will jump out to protect itself. But if you put the frog in a pot of cold water and slowly turn up the heat, it won’t notice the subtle differences and will be boiled alive. Though I had no intentions to die today, the reality was that I’d probably have to simmer in some discomfort for a period of time if I were to survive this. Reassuringly, I had some control over the thermostat but I needed to run smart. And so I started as slow as I could comfortably handle. As light dawned, I’d established my comfortable all day pace (i.e. the pace I could go at all day if I needed to). As predicted, my shingles pain was completely forgotten. My brain was distracted by the increased tension in my legs and focused on the task at hand. The Tarawera Falls also provided a welcome distraction and the river it fed was beautifully clear and reflected the green bush that surrounded it. I arrived at the first major aid station at the Tarawera Outlet (30km) around 4 hours and 30 minutes. I topped up my fluids and coerced a couple of slices of meat lovers pizza down me. I knew that I needed a positive energy balance to get through this so I loaded up on solid foods earlier than usual. The conditions were favourably overcast as we ran through the Kawerau Forest and it remained cloudy as we entered the road section towards Rerewhakaaitu. I made a calculated risk to increase my running intensity to get through this section whilst conditions were favourable knowing that this area was very exposed and a potential heat trap. I arrived at Rerewhakaaitu aid station (65km) around 1.45pm for a total running time of 9 hours and 45 minutes. It was starting to get hot so I sculled down my chilled electrolyte drink. I left Rerewhakaaitu aid station reasonably confident. My pacing was good and my body seemed to be holding together. Everything seemed to be going to plan.

Tarawera Falls in the background

One of the main reasons I enjoy doing 100 milers is that I love being physically and mentally challenged. Whilst we all seek the perfect race, it’s often when things don’t go to plan that we learn the most about ourselves. When things don’t go to plan, I pride myself in being able to problem solve and adapt to the circumstances. Somewhere after Rerewhakaaitu, things suddenly began to unravel. In an ultra, you need a few organ systems to remain functional. The five key organ systems being your cardiorespiratory system (heart & lungs), musculoskeletal (muscles & joints), gastrointestinal (gut), genitourinary (bladder), and your central nervous system (i.e. your brain). There’s something about Tarawera that stresses out my genitourinary system. It struck me in 2021 and low and behold, it was happening again. Just before the boat ride across Lake Rotomahana, the urinary urgency began. I developed a painful urge to void small volumes of urine every few minutes.  All of a sudden, my pacing was no longer determined by my heart and muscles, but rather by my bladder. Running became a stop start affair and my ability to hold momentum was lost. I’m sure the cause was multifactorial (increased humidity, heat, > 65 km, underlying medical condition, anti-viral medication, concentrated electrolyte drinks, dehydration) but I needed to find a solution. For the next 4 hours, I somehow managed to keep running around Lake Tarawera whilst stopping to pee every few minutes and attempting to problem solve. A previous experience of bloody urine seemed to respond to paracetamol but paracetamol didn’t seem to work this time. Walking seemed to help and running made it worse. But I wasn’t prepared to walk out the last 90km of a miler. Things seemed to improve when I just drank water. But I eventually ran out of water and had to switch back to my electrolyte drink which only made matters worse again. I eventually postulated that due to multiple factors (but mainly exercising in the heat in a dehydrated state), my concentrated urine was upsetting and irritating my bladder. And it was a vicious cycle. Exercising in the heat meant that most of the fluid I was drinking was being directed to my muscles (to work) and to my peripheries (to help cool down) so whatever fluid that did make it to my bladder was minimal and concentrated at that. Dr Stanley had also warned me that anti-viral medication could cause urinary crystals so this also played on my mind. Jesus, I’m growing a crystal factory down there. I knew that rest and hydration would help but I was stuck between aid stations. I was out of water and my electrolyte drink only seemed to compound matters. It felt like a hopeless situation. I felt like giving up. It became clear that the ‘treatment’ I needed lay at the Buried Village aid station. And I had to enlist all my powers to get there.

When I arrived at the Buried Village aid station (88km) it was 5.45pm and I’d been moving for 13 hours and 45 minutes. However, for the last 4 hours, I’d been in damage control mode. It felt like there was no way I could keep this up for another 70km. By now it felt like a wasp had stung the end of my knob and it hurt to walk. Sadly, it hurt even at rest. Whatever caused the problem in my bladder seemed to have spread to the rest of my plumbing. I desperately looked around for my cousin Paul but he was nowhere in sight. Although supporters where shouting and cheering, I felt like I needed to tell someone close to me that I wasn’t in a good state and felt like giving up. I thought about asking the medics if they had any urinary alkalinisers but I doubted they’d have any. They also seemed busy treating a reclined athlete who looked like a ghost and I was pretty sure that the last thing they wanted to see was someone with a sore dick. For the next 30 minutes, I rested at the aid station and tried to stay positive. Just rest for a bit. It’s getting cooler. Just hang in there. Believe. I took the next best urinary alkaliniser I knew – H2O. I took a 500mL fluid bolus. After a while I took another 500mL. Then I had a cold McDonald’s cheeseburger followed by another 500mL fluid bolus. And then another 500mL. After 2 litres of fluid, I figured that would be enough (also conscious of water intoxication). Surely, rest, a 2L fluid bolus, and cooling temperatures would direct more fluid into my bladder and ‘flush out’ whatever the hell was going on down there. After 30 minutes of rest, I was no longer peeing constantly but I was still sore. At some point I realised that ‘rest’ had served its function. I’d performed the treatment. Now the body just needed time. And the reality was that I had a lot of time. I had 36 hours to complete this thing. I’d never forgive myself if I jumped out of the pot (and probably feel a lot better a few hours later) knowing that others were still simmering away in their heated pots of water. I was in boiling water but I needed to hang in there. And so I left the aid station and all its comforts. I ditched all my electrolyte drinks and left with water only. I attempted a jog but jogging hurt so I started walking again. Just give the body time and keep walking. Going forward is a pace.

As I walked along Tarawera Rd enroute to Millar Rd aid station, the mind games intensified. Although the temperatures were cooling, my pot of water was boiling and life was getting horrible to say the least. As I was walking, runners I’d passed much earlier on in the race began to pass me. Every passing runner inflicted a further psychological blow. Come on, you’ve had a good run. You were bound to DNF one day. Just call Paul and ask him to pick you up. After Millar Rd I was fully aware of the Okataina out and back. I’d done this many times before in the past and knew this was hard enough on fresh legs yet alone after 100km. This weighed on my mind. Maybe if this bladder problem doesn’t get better by Millar Rd, you should just pull out. But lots of people pull out at Millar Rd. If you pull out there, is it because of your medical problem or have you just had enough like every other DNFer? I can’t tell you how many times I said the word “Believe” in that 12km stretch of road but it was a lot. After a while I attempted a very gentle jog and my bladder pain didn’t get any worse. Believe. After a while I had an amazing pain free 30 second pee with clear urine that was bliss at the time. Believe. Many more pees followed but things felt different. It was no longer urinary urge with small volumes but rather an urge to clear much larger volumes like the flood gates had opened. Believe. I happened to come across my wife Courtney who was attempting her first 100km coming inbound from Millar Rd. “John boy, I’ve done 76km!” she shouted. She looked so confident I just knew that she was going to finish. “You’ve got this!” I responded. I had a wee moan about my current situation (excuse the pun) but she didn’t seem to register my concerns. “See you in the morning” she exclaimed. I was absolutely flabbergasted. Here I am dismantling and doubting myself yet Courtney has this absolute confidence that I will finish. See you in the morning. Believe. One of our biggest strengths (but also our biggest hurdle) to completing a 100 miler is our minds. The vast majority of DNFs in ultra endurance races are psychological or related to inadequate preparation/training yet hardly anybody will admit this. Rather we will blame our failures on a ‘medical problem’ (“My leg hurts. My gut hurts”). Trust me, all of us during a miler will have some kind of musculoskeletal, gastrointestinal, or genitourinary problem at some point. All of us are going through hell and want to quit. What matters most is how you control your thoughts during adversity and how you respond to these situations. How much do you want this? Look for the positives. Stay positive. Reframe your thoughts. Adjust your expectations and most importantly believe in yourself. Say it out loud if you need to. Believe.

Courtney participating (and finishing) her first 100km (actually 105km)

When I arrived at Millar Rd aid station (100km) a comparatively slower 2.5 hours later, my bladder problems weren’t gone by any nature. But for the first time in several hours, I could hold a running rhythm and my bladder pain was manageable. And I can do manageable. It still hurt to pee (and for the next 10 minutes afterwards) but I learnt that the bladder pain seemed to improve if I resisted the urge to pee again after voiding. I also took paracetamol regularly. I’ve since learnt that ‘bladder slap’ (a form of bladder trauma seen in long distance runners) can be decreased if the bladder is partially filled and adequate hydration is maintained. I’m sure that this contributed to some my problems. Regardless, I’d reached the 100km mark and I was back in the game. Knowing that I wouldn’t be able to do 60km on water alone (and still traumatised that my electrolyte drinks played some part in this problem), I filled up one of my flasks with Mountain Dew for the needed glucose. I also upped my eating game plan knowing that I had now deprived myself of my regular fluid energy source. As the sun set, I moved swiftly along the Western Okataina Walkway. All of a sudden, I was passing people again. It was also nice to hear words of encouragement from the 100km runners coming the other way which fuelled my drive. I arrived at the Okataina aid station (115km) just before 11pm and was remarkably back on target for a 27 hour finish despite all the adversity. Feeling back in the grove of things, I didn’t stop for long. I topped up my Mountain Dew and water, forced some garlic bread down me, and took off again. The cooler night conditions made for good running and I was back at the Millar Rd aid station (133km) just before 2am. The aid station was remarkably lively and I started singing to the music playing in the background. As the Mountain Dew seemed to be too gassy, I switched to flat coke knowing that the caffeine would also help me get through the night. I also managed to successfully change my battery on my night light which reassured me that my brain was still functioning (this can be a remarkably challenging task after 130km and 22 hours of running though I appreciated the requests to help by the volunteers). The next section of the course (bar a small section of technical rooty single trail leading to Blue Lake) is quite runnable so I made a concerted effort to hold my shuffle. By now, most participants are reduced to walking. A shuffle is much quicker than a walk (for not much more energy expenditure) and helps to keep you psychologically strong. When I arrived at the Blue Lake aid station (145km) just after 4am, my cousin Paul whom I last saw 24 hours earlier was waiting for me! He apologises for missing me at the Buried Village aid station and we have a good chat. We both agree that in hindsight, it was probably a good thing. Sometimes when you’re on the brink of giving up, a familiar face may actually soften your defences and make you want to jump out of the furnace. We run and talk for a bit before I politely ask if he can leave me be so I could problem solve my developing gut ache and concentrate on my breathing. By the time I reached the Redwood aid station (156km), I felt like a pretty broken man. The cumulative stress of everything past and current was starting to overwhelm me again. However, I knew there was no point in stopping and prolonging matters. The only aid I needed was the finish line. I painfully built up to a shuffle again and kept going. As I coursed along Sulphur Point, there was a welcoming orange sunrise. It wasn’t until 2km to go that I KNEW I was going to finish. I crossed the finish line just after 7am for a total time of 27 hours and 9 minutes. Ironically, despite telling myself umpteenth times during the race to believe, I couldn’t believe it when I finished! For long periods it seemed impossible but somehow, I made it. Four hundred and fifty runners started the miler but only 329 runners finished resulting in a 27% DNF rate. No matter how bad the situation seems, don’t stop believing. Don’t jump out of the pot of water too soon. You have a remarkable capacity to do a lot more than you can ever imagine. Just stay in the fight, don’t look for an out, and find a way to finish. Running is medicine.

A satisfying finish line

All done in 27 hours and 9 minutes

The Northburn 100 start line

Having listened to previous race briefings from Terry Davis (who is also the race director of the notorious Mt Difficulty Ascent 44km event) I’d come to appreciate that he was brutally honest. He was so honest that people would laugh at what he would say because it sounded so outrageous when actually he was telling the truth. So as I stood at the back of the race briefing on Friday evening, I listened contently to what he had to say. And this is what he said. “Suffering is the prize and I want to make sure you get value for your money. The weather will be okayish but okayish in Northburn is really, really cold and windy. It will be colder than you can imagine. If you’re worried about the first hill, then you’re in for a really bad day. This course will shock you. Everything is longer and harder than you think. It’s the downhill that kills you and what sets Northburn apart from other races. Beware of the prickly Spaniard plant. It has sharp thorns that will go through anything (e.g. your gortex pants, your shoes) and the end of the thorns are laced with poison which can be sore for days. The water-race section is particularly horrible. It’s not if you can finish, it’s can you be bothered to finish. The DNF rate is 40%. If you feel like you’re going to die, then try to die on a ridge line where there’s cell phone coverage so you can call us.” He’s a sadist trying to get into my head. I could feel the cross hairs on my back. I knew I had to remain calm. If I were to conquer Northburn, then I’d need to conquer my emotions first. I was ready.

Dr George Watkinson (left) and Dr Andrew Stanley (right) taking in the sunrise during the first 50km loop

At 5.45am, Dr Andrew Stanley, Dr George Watkinson, and I squeezed into the tiny Toyota Yaris rental that George had splashed out on ready for our 6am start. Dr Stanley and George had committed to the 50km event which was essentially the first loop of the Northburn 100 miler. Although the gravity of what I’d committed to had sunk in for me the week prior, it seemed to have just dawned on Andrew and George now. They were planning to finish in about 8 hours and George was already talking about going to the Five Stags bar later that night to celebrate with the local women folk. Meanwhile, I was hoping to finish the 100 miler in about 36 hours so I wouldn’t have to run through two nights if possible (course cut off was 48 hours). As we got closer to the start line at Northburn Station, Dr Stanley and George feel compelled to impart their own words of wisdom prior to my 100 miler. “Be the lion!” George shouts out. Dr Stanley then adds, “If you need inspiration in the middle of the night, look at your own reflection in the water sources and find your hero.” “And see the lion” George chimes in. “Like in the Lion King”. They begin to chuckle at their own advice and I thank them for their sincerity. You know you’re in deep shit when you start taking advice from Timon and Pumbaa, I think to myself. When we arrive at the start line, we’ve got 5 minutes to spare. We wish each other the best of luck and part our separate ways. I drop off my drop bag at the start/finish marquee and then head right to the back of the starting field where it’s nice and quiet. This is where I like it. Away from the hype and energy at the front. This is where I can ease into my own all day pace. I hear the countdown from 10 amid supporters cheering and a couple of dogs barking at all the commotion. 3, 2, 1, and we’re off. I walk across the start line. I’m pretty sure I’m the last person across the start but this is all part of my plan. Start slow and ease into it. After all, I’ve got 48 hours to finish this thing. What’s the rush?

Full aid station during first loop

For the first loop of the Northburn 100 miler, the miler athletes are also joined by the 42km, 50km, and 100km athletes. Hence it’s very important that you don’t get caught up in someone else’s race. For the first loop, my focus was on going as comfortably slow as I could. I also needed to keep my emotions under control. Knowing that you’re going to be on your feet all day, all night, and tomorrow, can be very overwhelming so you’ve got to keep your emotions in check. Being nervous or excited increases your adrenaline which makes you go faster than you should. You’ve also got to be aware of how other people and external stimuli can affect your emotions. This was very apparent when I was passed by a large group of people towards the end of the ‘home loop’ (a short 5km loop which takes you back to the start/finish area again). From afar, you can see the lights near the race marquee and as you get closer, the bells and supporters cheering you on become louder. I know that I’m pretty good at holding a pace, so when I’m passed by this large group of runners, I knew that they’d sped up rather than I’d slowed down. Whether consciously or subconsciously, they’d let the start/finish area and the cheering of supporters influence their pace. About 10-15 minutes later, we’re away from this ‘high energy area’ and I pass them all again. Once more, I knew I hadn’t increased my pace but rather this group had slowed down. External stimuli like the above can easily throw you off your pacing. In the same vein, it’s very easy to increase your pace when you see a runner in front of you and accelerate again once you’ve passed them. It can also be tempting to increase your pace once someone passes you. You must resist these temptations and keep your emotions in check. If one can control their emotions/ego, then you’ll successfully hold a sensible pace throughout your run. Just let it go. Let people pass you. Passing people early on in the run is not important. Save that for the back end of a race where passing (or not being passed) becomes more pertinent. As the sun begins to rise around 7am, I make a mental check of this. This is good information to remember and look forward to after a night of running. I remove my head torch and put on my beanie and gloves. It’s suddenly become cold as the sun’s first rays spread across the land. As I’m ascending up an honest climb, for whatever reason, I hear the words of my old Sgt Major in my head. “Molloy! If you’re wearing all your warm gear now, what are you going to put on when it gets cold?” Hmmm. Good point Sgt Major. Comfort is a continuum. I was a bit too comfortable and I knew it would be much colder later tonight. In a miler, invariably at some point you’re going to be in a lot of discomfort. Hence, it’s best to introduce a little bit of discomfort early so you don’t give your body too much of a shock later on. I decide to take off one of my gloves and kept climbing so at least one of my hands is cold and uncomfortable. After the first water stop at Middletons, for the next 4km, we follow a fence line up relatively steep paddock. There is no track as such so most of the time you’re looking for the best sheep track to walk along. It’s somewhere along the fence line that I become acquainted with the prickly Spaniard. Whilst walking along a sheep track, I feel a sudden searing pain in my left great toe. On looking down, I see a small prickly Spaniard and curse. Prick. He was telling the truth. That bloody Spaniard went right through my shoe! From then onwards, every prickly Spaniard (even the baby ones) was treated with the utmost respect and given as much clear space as possible. For the next few hours, a large proportion of the course was along trackless terrain following orange tape. If you were lucky, you might be able to stay on a well-formed sheep track for a while. The vegetation consisted of alpine moss, tussock, and the prickly Spaniard. If you were to set your screen saver at home to change from alpine moss, tussock, and the prickly Spaniard every 10 seconds, then you’d get a fair appreciation of the scenery. After a while, this backdrop is replaced by vast open country and hard moss fields which was quite interesting to run across. When I reached the first (and only) ‘full aid station’ for this loop around the 25km mark, it was just after 10.30am. The aid station was a 4-wheel drive with a trailer on the back. On the top of the trailer was a container of water and Tailwind, a bag of chips, and a packet of chocolate biscuits. I topped up my water and took a handful of chips and biscuits and kept moving. The next part of the course went along alpine streams which was quite beautiful and helped take your mind off the enormity of the challenge. By now, it was also getting pretty hot so I regularly dipped my hat into the fresh cool streams to stay cool and conserve myself for later. After quite a steep, long downhill section along 4WD track, the final part of the first loop ended with what Terry described as a “punchy” Loop of Deception. Once again, he was true to his word and there were a few sharp uphills and downhills as we headed back into start/finish area. When I arrived back at the race marquee, it was around 3.30pm and I’d completed the first loop in just under 9 hours and 30 minutes. I didn’t expect Dr Stanley and George to be waiting for me but they were. They’d completed their 50km in just under 8 hours. “You wouldn’t believe what we’ve seen whilst we’ve been waiting for you” I’m told. “Some people have been in here for 50 minutes!” “Really?!” I respond. “What have they been doing?” “Standing around, talking on their phone, groaning, getting changed, walking around” Andrew replied. With the help of Andrew and George, I was out of the marquee within 5 minutes. All my drinks were topped up, night lights packed, and George had prepared warm buttered and salted potatoes to eat on the move. I thanked them profusely and wished them luck for the night ahead. As I headed out of the marquee, I made a conscious effort to keep my emotions in check and recompose myself again. Although I’d tried to take the first loop easy, the reality was that I could still feel the strain of 50km and 2600 metres of climbing. And the ominous thing was that this was just the warm up…

Coming back from my first loop

Leaving for my second loop with buttered and salted potatoes in hand

If the first loop was about going as slow as I comfortably could and keeping my emotions under control, then the second 60km loop was my ‘moving loop’. After holding myself back in the first loop, I was hoping to make some good inroads during the second loop and catch up to those who may’ve gone too fast during the first loop. Whilst eating warm potatoes on the move, I headed up the ‘Death Climb’ as it was affectionally known as. Previously, this part of the course was tackled at the 100km mark but this year we were hitting it after 50km. Terry tried to put a positive spin on this saying that our legs would be fresher. However, he also said that it could be a little bit worse as we now had to climb 14km all the way to the top at Leaning Rock. And goodness me did that climb go on forever! I think after 90 minutes of relentless climbing, I hit my first miniature wall. I somehow managed to save myself from a full crash by eating a whole bag of lollies, a chocolate bar, the remainder of George’s potatoes, and a large fluid bolus of Tailwind and water. After 3 hours and 30 minutes of constant climbing, I stopped taking note of the amount of time spent going up. It was certainly long enough to see the afternoon change into evening. On the way up, I saw someone I knew who’d just slipt into their survival bag due to developing hypothermia. I felt for him but this was simply not the place to stop. We were halfway to nowhere! Being of medical background he asked for my advice. However, I knew the best practical medical advice centred around preventing hypothermia rather than treating it. “Once you stop, it’s going to be very difficult to get going again” I answered. I’d seen many people’s races end in a survival bag. It seemed like once you entered a survival bag, it was impossible to get out of it again. A survival bag not only kept in the heat, but it also concealed the doubts, fears, and disappointment one may encounter when they consider stopping. His friend who was accompanying him was worried that the winds would only get colder up top and insisted that a quad bike was on its way. Not wanting to push the envelope, I wished him luck and carried on. Your second-best ally in the fight against hypothermia (second only to your brain/behaviour) are your muscles and movement. I knew I had to keep moving or I’d suffer the same fate myself. When I finally arrived at Leaning Rock aka our second ‘full aid station’, there wasn’t much there bar a big rock and a gentleman sheltering in his station wagon from the increasingly cold wind. Not too keen to stop long due to the cold, I quickly fill up a Snap Lock bag with chips and grab a couple of muesli bars and take off. I can see the sun about to set in the distance and I’m desperately keen to do this “horrible water-race” section whilst it’s still light. The 4WD track towards the water-race is a gentle decline and in pretty good condition so I enjoy being able to run normally again. “Woah! Way to go!” shouts out one of the volunteers. “Thanks mate, I’m feeling pretty good” I reply. “That’s the one!” he exclaims. “Maximise the highs and minimise the lows” he says before directing me down towards the water-race section. As promised, this part of the course is rough as guts and quite a steep gradient down. The sun is just clinging on in the horizon so it’s light enough to see my footing. I’d hate to be doing this in the dark, I think to myself. As the descent bottoms out, the ground becomes swampy and I manoeuvre cautiously to avoid getting wet feet before night fall. The next section is even more gnarlier and it’s basically just following orange markers and white electric fence posts across a cliff face. It’s at this point I pass a couple of competitors who don’t seem to be having a good time of it all. As I pass one of them, I engage in brief conversation “You would’ve thought he would’ve put us on a nice 4WD road back to TW (the next full aid station)” I comment. “No” he responds gruffly. “It’s just more of this same old bullshit” he concludes. When I eventually reach a well-formed road that heads straight up towards TW, the sun had finally ended its shift and it became dark quickly. I hoped to get to TW before sunset but at least I’d negotiated the worse of the water-race so I wasn’t too distressed. The air became cooler and the wind started to pick up again. In the distance you could see sporadic headlights from other competitors on the course and by now the field was well and truly spread. After a steady climb, I arrive at TW and it’s freezing! This aid station is very exposed and the wind is just buffeting into this area. I take shelter in the trailer with all the drop bags. There are a few competitors who’ve stopped here and it looks like they’ve put on everything bar the kitchen sink (jacket, trousers, the works!) I quickly surmise that it’s bloody cold here so I had two options. Either stick around and put on my warm gear, or get what I need and get the hell out of here! I went with the latter. Drinks topped up and more spuds in hand, I was out of TW in a flash. As I descend down, within the hour, you’re sheltered from the wind and it actually got pretty hot such that I was running in my normal day clothes again. I’d been warned about the next section around and up Mt Horn by my friend Dennis Hunt (“This was a good mind screwing shit up. Then coming down winding around and around, I was sure I was going back up. A classic Terry Davis case of getting into your head.”) With this in mind, I just chose to focus on the cone of light in front of me rather than the lights of Cromwell in the distance (which seemed to move 360 degrees around me). When I arrived at the Mt Horn aid station (i.e. a station wagon) it was as freezing as TW! After mere seconds of stopping, I felt cold. I grabbed a couple of muesli bars and thanked the two volunteers for their brave efforts. The last push from Mt Horn past Brewery Creek and back towards the race marquee was actually quite enjoyable. Down low and sheltered from the wind, the temperature was conducive to good night running. I’d managed to keep my running legs whilst others around me were losing theirs so I passed quite a few people heading back in. Although I wasn’t aware of this at the time, I’d finished my first loop in 47^th place (out of 64 starters) and after my second loop, I’d moved up to 18^th place. When I arrived back at the race marquee, it was around 3.30am and I’d completed the second loop in 12 hours. As I approached the marquee, I tried to reflect on what I’d just experienced. I think the words horrible and horrific sum it up best. When I passed Terry Davis just outside the marquee, I knew I wasn’t going to give up but I sympathised with all the other runners out there and said “You’d almost feel like giving up after those two loops”. “Oh no you can’t do that” he responded. “If you did, you’d be back here again next year doing it all over again.” “Oh f*** that!” I reflexively responded. When I entered the race marquee, to my surprise, Dr Stanley and George were waiting for me. It sounded as if Dr Stanley had coerced George from the comforts of his own bed (the last time I had spoken to George, he seemed to have no intention to visit me at death o’clock). After 110km and 23 hours, I wasn’t finished but I was feeling it. “Man! if this was Tarawera, I would’ve been finishing by now!” I confided to Dr Stanley. “Instead, I’ve got another bloody loop to do!” For those two, I’m very grateful. As if by intuition, they had already prepared my Maggi Chicken noodles and more boiled potatoes (even though I was starting to grow weary of the latter). They topped up my fluids and changed my battery on my head torch for the rest of the night. George offered me a massage but I declined. And I advised I needed more lubricant applied but he declined. Although not as quick as my first stop, I was out of the marquee within 10 minutes. Another competitor I knew reasonably well choose to sleep for 2 hours before leaving again. I knew that it wasn’t sleep that I needed. I needed to finish this bloody thing. It was time to enter the void again so I stepped out into the night.

Part of the ‘Death Climb’ during loop two

Somewhere near TW during loop two

Leaning Rock in the distance

Sunset during loop two

If my second loop was my ‘moving loop’ and my first loop was about going slow and keeping my emotions under control, then I had no preconceptions about my third loop (in retrospect this was an oversight). I guessed that if I made it this far, then it would’ve been much of the same. You get to a point in a 100 miler where you’ve suffered so much that any further suffering is inconsequential. Oh how wrong I was for Northburn! As I left the marquee, I looked at my GPS which showed another monstruous climb back to TW. In my head, I thought that would’ve been the worst of it and I would’ve broken the back of Northburn. I climbed solidly for another 3.5 hours. Along the way, I negotiated a rather outrageous assault up a cliff face towards Mt Horn whilst keeping my emotions in check. When I reached the aid station up top, I really felt for the volunteers sheltered in the tin shed whilst the wind smashed into everything around them. I was losing dexterity in my hands and could barely open anything so I was grateful for their assistance (and BBQ chips!) Heading up towards TW, I also got to witness a slow evolving sunrise. First it was pink, then purple, then orange, and then finally pure golden yellow (I’ve since read that the colours of any sunrise can be variable). When I reached TW, it was light enough so I ditched my head torch into my drop bag. It was also at this point that I first encountered the ‘two Sarahs’. As all three of us headed out towards the Loop of Despair, I was left in awe as the two Sarahs simply left me in their dust on the downhill. Respect to anyone who can still run like that after 127km. With the sun just rising, it was starting to get cold again so I decided to stop and put on my jacket for the first time (my feet were starting to get numb and I was struggling to run). Soon enough, my warm core blood flowed to my peripheries and running became slightly easier. Not long after that, I was beginning to overheat so I removed my jacket and put on my gloves and beanie. Not long after that, the sun was in full force so I changed into my hat and sun glasses whilst still moving. As I descended along this Loop of Despair, I began to develop an uneasy feeling about how much we were descending. Afterall, what goes down, must come up. And sure enough, my worst fears were confirmed when after a shitload of down, there was a rather sharp turn and we were heading back up again. However, this time, it wasn’t on a reasonably well-preserved grass trail, but the bare remnants of a fresh quad bike track that had driven straight back up again! It’s at the start of this climb that I surprisingly pass the two Sarahs again whilst they’re delayering in the developing heat. Up until this point, having started right at the back of the field, no one had passed me. So when one of the Sarahs overtook me again, I was rather impressed as she was the first to overtake me all day. She then continued to smash the uphill and in no time, she was out of sight and I was left in awe. By now, the other Sarah was as far behind me as I was behind her namesake. With both Sarahs out of eye sight (and mind), the brutality of this climb struck me. It was absolutely relentless. Every false peak was followed by another false peak. The sun was also beating down on me now such that by 8am, I’d already dipped my hat into an opportune cold stream. More hills. More climbing. More fences to climb over. More false peaks. Then suddenly out of nowhere, the other Sarah just surges past me. It’s at this point that I accept that I’m keeping strong company. One of the best things you can do in a 100 mile race is to control your ego. As far as I was concerned, these two girls were running a good race so good on them. Playing cat and mouse with them was the least of my concerns as I needed to control my emotions/ego and focus my energy on getting to the finish line. When I finished the Loop of Despair, I soldiered back into TW again. I was pretty keen to get in and out as per usual. One of the Sarahs was sitting on a seat so I plonked my sorry arse in the drop bag trailer and took what I needed. As I was about to leave, Mal Law (quite a well-known trail runner and creator of ‘The Wild’), asked me how the Loop of Despair went. “That was inhumane” I shared. “Well you’re pacing pretty well” he chuckled. “Man, those two girls are good though” I said. “Yeah, I’m actually surprised that you’re managing to keep up with them” he counters. What?! What did he mean by that? By now Sarah had left and was thundering down the road again towards Leaning Rock for the small out and back. As I stood up, I got into my trusty shuffle and got a cheer from Mal and the other volunteers as I left. And then Mal shouts out “Watch out Sarah! John’s going to catch you!” Dammit. Whether it was intentional or not, Mal struck a fuse and for the first time, I’d lost control of my emotions. After surging past me not so long ago, I knew that most runners would struggle to back up such an impressive surge with another. And so I kept shuffling while Sarah ran the downs and walked the straights and ups. Eventually I caught her. And then I passed her. Just before the Leaning Rock aid station (by now it was known to me as Stupid Rock), the other Sarah who I’d lost sight of ages ago, had reached the turnaround point and was heading homebound. Wow, I’m not that far behind her. When I got to Stupid Rock, I took some chips, chocolate biscuits, and muesli bars for the road and simply turned around again. It was time to make a surge of my own. For the first time in this whole race, I ran the downhill gradient unrestricted and I didn’t hold anything back. When I arrived back at TW, Mal seemed quite surprised and asked “Where’s Sarah? I turned around and realised that she was nowhere in sight. “She’s faster than me” I replied. “But she stops more than me. She stops to change her clothes. She stays longer at aid stations. But she is faster than me.” “She won’t like that” he baits. I quickly topped up my water and kept going. Now that I’d surged, I needed to open the gap on the chasing Sarah and hopefully close the gap on the Sarah in front of me. Inadvertently, I was now caught in the ‘dual of the Sarahs’ but at least it kept me interested and engaged in the race. The descent from TW to Mt Horn was pretty taxing. I had 20km left of mostly downhill but the Loop of Despair had taken it out of my legs and now there was more quad mashing downhill. I didn’t even stop at the Mt Horn aid station as I figured I was beyond aid. I just needed to finish this bastard. Somewhere on the descent from Mt Horn, the wheels started to wobble a bit. I realised that my surge and inability to control my emotions could cost me dearly. I’d burnt out my quads and the downhill just kept on coming with no respite. Running became painful and it became a struggle to run. I had about 15km to go but 15km can take forever if you’re walking. I battled between walking and running and somewhere in between. Even shuffling was tough. I no longer cared about catching people ahead of me but I feared being passed by those behind me. I knew that being passed can be psychologically damaging and I didn’t want to spend the rest of the race slowing down. If I could just go faster than a walk, then hopefully I’d be ok as surely everyone must be feeling the same way by now. I kept trying to run but struggled to maintain my rhythm. I knew I needed inspiration so I dug deep within. “You tell your patients every day to push through their pain, yet you can’t even do it yourself. What kind of hypocrite are you?” The question was complex but the answer was simple. I had to push through my pain. And I did. It was painful. It was reckless. But I did. I must’ve looked like some old spluttering rotary lawn mower but after some few hefty pulls, I managed to maintain momentum and I’d found my running legs again. After what felt like hours of running by myself, I arrived at the Brewery Creek drink station and saw a couple of runners ahead of me. I was feeling rather positive about life until I approached the final hill climb of the course (which was relatively small compared to everything else I’d encountered so far). It was at this point that I lost it. After just regaining my running legs, this slow and long hill climb simply knocked the stuffing out of them again. I think my GPS said it was a 9-degree incline gradient over 3km but it felt like it would never end. I became angry at the race director. I don’t like hating people as its such negative energy but I hated everything the race director stood for in that final hour. I’d lost control of my emotions again. I was angry because I knew that there was a relatively flat track beneath the powerlines towards the finish that we’d taken the night prior. I was angry because I sympathised with all the international competitors who would’ve come all this way to be served up this crap. I was angry because I thought this diversion was completely unnecessary after everything we’d been through. But no. Why go on some easy flat track to the finish line when you can go on another tiki tour up another hill? I became paranoid. My watch told me it was 3km of climbing but my ability to think clearly was clouded by red mist. I was on the look out for any high feature as I was adamant that’s where Terry would take us. No high feature was out of bounds in this psychopath’s world. After many false peaks and more rubbish in and out manoeuvring around hills, the hill finally ended. On the top of the hill was a vehicle with a water container beside it symbolising the last water station. Typical, I thought. Of course, no idiot in their right mind would walk here when they can just drive here. Shortly after this water station, I saw what looked like a cow standing right between the two white markers that I had to move through. No no, no, no, no, no, no. I desperately screened for horns and balls. I don’t have time for this shit. It looked like a cow (and not a bull) but it looked like it wasn’t going anywhere and it just stood there and stared at me. My current state of mind was one of survival mode so even a simple cow looked hostile! As far as I was concerned, at this particular point in time, it was hunt or be hunted. Eat or be eaten. The finish line was about 3km away and this bloody cow stood in my way. I approached slowly with my trekking poles pointed forwards. As I approached the cow, it flicked up its back legs, mooed, and then ran into the hills. Sigh. Relieved I pointed by trekking poles back towards the earth again and kept moving. Adrenaline pumping and anger gushing through my veins, I then had to endure the painful complimentary downhill which followed this uphill tiki tour. Though anger can be negative energy, it was energy nonetheless and I needed to harness it. Fuelled by anger, I finished reasonably strongly. I was determined to not let this course (or Terry) have the last laugh. I crossed the finish line just after 4pm, 34 hours after starting having completed the third loop in just under 13 hours. Terry Davis is waiting at the finish line with a smile on his face. We shake hands but we don’t embrace. It’s too raw for that. Dr Stanley and George are waiting at the finish line. “I’m NEVER doing that again” I say under my breath. “That’s what they all say” Dr Stanley replies. “Are you sure?” I pause for a bit. “Ok, give me a couple of weeks…” Running is medicine.

Running to the finish line 34 hours later

Enjoying my orange juice and sitting down post finish

Northburn 100 mile 2023 belt buckle

Skirting past Lake Okareka on fresher legs (less than 20km in)

On the usual Tarawera 100 miler course, you’d normally encounter the large climb on the Western Okataina Walkway (arguably the hardest part of the course) in the middle of the night and after you’ve run 120km. By this point, your legs would be heavy and if you hadn’t saved anything in the tank, there was a high probability your race would end in this short 16.5km section between Lake Okataina and Millar Road. Although it was still dark this year, the main difference was that we had only run 1km before reaching this critical juncture so there was the risk of climbing too fast. Not to be fooled, I ascended slowly. I intended to start as slow as possible and then build. I settled in with a group of similar pace until we reached the top and encountered our first train of ‘careful descenders’. I was familiar with this trail and knew it was reasonably stable without too many trip hazards. Not overly keen to put my quads through unnecessary braking stress, I managed to pass a large train of people until I was by myself again and could comfortably descend and let gravity do all the work. When I reached the first aid station at Millar Road, I simply ran through it. The sun was beginning to rise so I just kept following the sun towards Lake Okareka and then around the Blue Lake. First sunrise down. One more to go. As I was leaving the Blue Lake, Simon Clendon (an acquaintance who ran the Tarawera Miler back in 2021) shouted out “You’re back again! Why?” With nothing inspirational coming to mind I simply responded “I dunno” as I kept running. When I arrived at the Village Green aid station (45km), I’d been on my feet for just over 6 hours and it was around 10.30am. Unable to run today due to an Achilles injury, Dr Stanley is Johnny on the spot as he hands over my iced drinks. He tells me that George is still running on nerves and is one hour ahead of me. How is that possible? Not keen to linger, I get moving and start my first 60km lap. My initial 10min per km calculations had me arriving back at the Village Green again just after 9pm. I knew last light was 8.30pm so if I could just hold this pace, then hopefully I’d get back before sunset.

In the midday heat during the first 60km loop

When people think of a 100 miler, they instantly associate it with a massive physical challenge. Don’t get me wrong, IT IS a massive physical challenge! But for me, it is a greater mental challenge. A miler is as much a measure of your cerebral fitness as it is your physical fitness. I know I can physically do a 100 miles. But am I able to get enough buy in from fortress brain? Your mind dictates how close you push your boundaries. You’ve just got to convince your mind to keep going a little further than it makes sense to. The 60km loop was essentially ‘The Black Track’ in reverse (34km long) with extra milage via the Puarenga Trail, along Te Puia, and a loop near the Green Lake I’ve never done before. Having grown up in Rotorua and come back often during holiday breaks, I’d run The Black Track many times and knew it well. Running The Black Track was always a challenge and arguably it’s tougher than the Rotorua Marathon. Hence, I knew that running this 60km loop in the heat of the day was going to be no easy feat and had to be respected. I ran within myself most of the time. It helped knowing when to walk the prolonged climbs early and when to push a bit extra to maintain momentum over rolling hills. The loop near the Green Lake had lush green moss and vegetation with scenic views of the lake. However, it was also quite hilly and technical in areas and not really something I wanted to repeat again. When I passed the Blue Lake for the second time, I bumped into Simon Clendon again. Clearly not enlightened from our earlier correspondence he shouts out “Are you having fun yet?”. I pause for a bit and then respond “I’ll tell you at the next lap”. When I arrive back at the Village Green again (103km), the first lap had taken me about 9 hours. It was around 7.30pm and I’d been on my feet for 14 hours and 50 minutes. I knew coming into the Village Green for the second time would be the hardest psychological part of the race. Had we been doing the original course, after 100km, I would’ve been approaching the Lake Okataina aid station. Lake Okataina was in the middle of nowhere so it made sense to push on to get closer to the finish. Meanwhile, back at the Village Green, the first male for the miler had just crossed the finish line before me (14hr 41 mins) and it made no sense to leave the finish area and repeat that 60km loop again. As if intuitively aware of this, Dr Stanley is waiting at the aid station area accompanied by my wife Courtney and cousin Paul (who’ve both just completed the 50km event). They amazingly have prepared ice-cold drinks for me and shower me with encouragement. “George just left not long before you. If you leave now, you’ll gain 10 minutes on him straight away” Dr Stanley coaxes me. As much as I was enjoying sitting down and resting, I knew deep down it was in my best interests to get the hell out here. I ditch my hat and sun glasses and put my head lamp and spare battery into my pack for the night ahead. Before I know it, I’m being willed on to leave and I comply unthinkingly. After seeing quite a few competitors ahead of me walking the start of the second lap, I was determined to jog all the way to the Hemo Gorge aid station 9km away. This was mostly flat and runnable. But running when you’ve already done a 100km can be challenging. The ice drinks were great but I was still quite hot and incredibly thirsty. I hadn’t sculled enough water down at the Village Green and my hypothalamus was letting me know all about it. My mouth was dry and I was craving more ice water. After jogging the whole way, I was about 200 metres out from the aid station when I decided to walk in so I could plan what I needed at the aid station. It’s at this stage I stumble slightly. Oh God. Here we go. After holding it together for 110km, I start to wobble and begin to feel light headed. I see Courtney and Paul waiting for me at the aid station and I tell them that I’m going to need a bit more time here for ‘damage control’. After the race, Courtney said she knew that I had hit the wall at that point. At the time, I didn’t think I had hit a wall. But I knew I was in a spot of bother. At some stage during a miler, you’ll reach the point where you’ll want to give up. But you aren’t going to. Tell that voice in your head to shut up and keep going. As I plonk my sorry arse into the seat, Courtney and Paul ask if I’d like some KFC. OMG! “Yes please!” It was around dinner time and I was craving real food after eating chocolate and cookies all day. I devour a whole snack box of popcorn chicken and chips in addition to a regular tub of potato and gravy. I wash this all down with about 1.5L of ice-cold water. Psychologically it was a massive lift but I knew physiologically, I’d pay for this in the short term. Physiology would shunt blood away from my working muscles and direct it towards my gut to digest this rather large food and fluid bolus. I would have to walk for a bit following this. I put on my head lamp and thanked Courtney and Paul profusely. As I left the aid station, the combination of night fall, the ice-cold water, and walking next to the Puarenga Stream meant that I was now cold and shivering. To think that mere minutes ago I was parched and hot. Ok this is not going to work. I started jogging again. In fact, it was barely a jog but it was faster than a walk. I took my first caffeine tablet and now I just needed to buy time. I needed to hold a pace until all the benefits of the Colonel and caffeine kicked in. And eventually it did! For the remainder of the race, I just focussed on relentless forward momentum. Sometimes it’s more about holding a pace rather than pushing the pace. Sometimes your run is as slow as your walk, and sometimes your walk is as fast as your run. What matters most is relentless forward momentum. Walk run, walk run, as many times as you need to. When I get to the Green Lake aid station (130km), there’s quite a few stone-faced people hunched together over their hot soup or brew making intermittent unintelligible noises. It’s no coincidence that runners have stopped here prior to repeating that Green Lake loop again in the dark. It was nice to do once. But as an extra loop, on top of your second loop, in the middle of the night, was mentally taxing. As tempting as it was to sit down and share war stories, you’ve just got to get on with it and exercise one’s mind. Finishing is a mental state. Resisting the urge to stop, I push on. I negotiate the viewless loop in pitch darkness and head towards the Blue Lake again. I don’t spend too long at the Blue Lake aid station and grab a couple of Nutella sandwiches on the way out. It’s a slow steady push towards the Redwoods but the most important thing is that I’m still going forwards. After descending those gigantic horrible purple track stairs for the third time, I hear someone ringing a bell deep in the Redwoods. They’re keen. I think to myself What clown would be up at 4am ringing a bell? A voice shouts out “Good work Johnny”. It’s my cousin Paul! “Goodness me! You should be in bed!” I exclaim. Paul is very encouraging. With no pacer this year, I had to rely a lot on my own inner drive but it’s amazing what difference a few energetic words can make. It was like he transferred his energy directly into me. Feeling invigorated, I finish the last 6km through the Redwoods and Sulphur Point at a rather brisk 6.24 min kilometres. I finish my second 60km loop in 11 hours and 40 minutes for a total finishing time of 24 hours and 28 minutes. It was just before 5am and I’d managed to beat the second sunrise. As I cross the finish line, I’m congratulated and get an intense vigorous hug from Dennis Hunt (a man I know but not intimately). Although not much of a hugger, I’m tired and overwhelmed by his manliness so I succumb into his arms as my wife Courtney looks on alarmingly. Somehow, I’d managed to run George down as well and he finished a couple of minutes after me. It’s amazing how we finished around the same time yet only saw each other for less than 10 seconds during the whole race! Remember, your mind dictates how close you push your boundaries. You’ve just got to convince your mind to keep going a little further than it makes sense to. Finishing is a mental state. Success is a mental state. Running is medicine.

Coming back into the Redwoods

Crossing the finish line just before 5am

Recovering from Dennis Hunt’s man hug

Main street in Leadville (10 152 feet / 3 094 metres)

As I walked towards the start line at 6^th and Harrison just before 4am, it’s fresh but not chillingly cold. I say goodbye to my wife and wish Dr Stanley the best of luck. Today, we would be running our own races. He heads to the front of the group and I settle in towards the back. I’ve got 30 hours to complete this. No point getting caught up in the fast-paced energy at the start of the pack. Shuffling around towards the back of the pack, I take a moment to reflect. The pre-race briefing we had yesterday at the high school football field is still fresh in my mind. “Motivation will get you to the start line. But only total commitment will get you to the finish. Dig Deep. Commit. Don’t quit. Inside each and everyone of you is this inexhaustible well of grit, guts, and determination. You’re better than you think you are! You can do more than you think you can! At 4am tomorrow, you will meet the truth.” It’s not long to go before the start and they’re playing The Star-Spangled Banner. I tighten up my shoe laces and then look beyond the start line. Time to stare truth in the face. This is it. Am I good enough? There was the customary starter’s gun but also a final gun that sounded at the finish line at 30hr:00min:00sec. After this, no additional runners officially finished the race. The race was over, done, caput. Between the bang (shot gun blast) and the buckle (sub-30-hour finisher’s belt buckle), it really was up to me. I knew I needed the perfect race. I had a plan. I had a strategy. Thirty hours of continuous effort. One hit. No sleep. I took a slow deep breath of the thinnest air of the land and on the sound of the old double 12-gauge shotgun, I crossed the start line with 700 other runners.

At the Leadville 100 start line with Dr Andrew Stanley (right)

After the initial excitement of the start line, the atmosphere becomes serious as runners focus on the task ahead. It’s dark and I’m running down a dirt road called The Boulevard. In its pomp, The Boulevard was a well-manicured route heading west of Leadville to Soda Springs (apparently ‘no road was smoother than The Boulevard’). But nowadays, The Boulevard is the ultra runner’s devil in disguise. Being dead straight and still relatively smooth, The Boulevard has a generous downhill gradient that is inappreciable in the dark and hence it is very easy to run 6min/km and TOO FAST this early in the run. I hold back my pace and restrain the ego. Let them pass. You will pass them later. My goal for Leadville was simply to finish. My plan was to take this race as deep as I needed to. Instead of ‘dig deep’ as per the famed race motto, my intention was to ‘fight deep’. For me the Leadville 100 was akin to a boxing heavy weight KO specialist and I was the aspiring underdog hoping to take on the storied champion in his own back yard. The Leadville 100 had a historical ‘knock out / DNF’ rate of 50% and had KO’ed far more reputable and cardiovascular gifted athletes than myself. If Leadville was the champion, then the altitude it fought on was king. The partial pressure of oxygen in the air at Leadville was between 97 and 110 mmHg (it’s 159 mmHg at sea level and 48 mmHg at Mt Everest) i.e. there’s significantly less oxygen in the air at Leadville than at sea level. I had to respect altitude physiology and know my own cardiovascular limitations. Know thyself. Know thy enemy. My understanding was that one of the reasons for the high DNF rate was that runners went out too fast too early to keep within the hard cut off times – going for the early KO as such. It seems that when you hit the wall at altitude, it’s a lot more significant and takes a lot longer to recover from compared to hitting the wall at sea level (potentially it’s even terminal). My altitude physiology had taught me that at 3000 metres above sea level, I was unlikely to replicate my sea level 100 miler personal best time of 27 hr 18 min. Not impossible, but realistically if I were to equal my sea level PB performance, then that would be considered an exceptional effort rather than the norm. I therefore realised that I needed to be comfortable with being close to the cut off times. Cut offs were to serve as a motivator but were not to be feared. Also, the “big silver buckle” finish of sub 25 hours was not even considered. Potentially this could be a goal for the future. But at my first attempt at Leadville, a sub-25-hour finish would surely have been a suicide mission. One where I would’ve probably won the early rounds only to be swiftly dismantled in the middle to late sections of the race. Therefore, sub 30 hours was my goal. Under 30 hours was achievable. Nothing more would suffice. If I had to take it to 29:59:59, then so be it. A finish was a finish. So I intended to dig deep. Fight deep. I needed to go toe to toe for the full 12 rounds against one of the biggest, baddest, toughest knock out artists out there if I was to stand any chance. Employ my lengthiest and busiest jab ever to keep the “Dreadville slugger” at bay. Run within myself whilst still run within the hard cut off times. Don’t stop when I’m tired. Stop when 12 rounds are finished. That was my plan. Skirting around Turquoise Lake, the sun begins to rise and I’m feeling good. I leave the first aid station at Mayqueen in 2hr 34 mins. Exactly where I want to be. Twenty kilometres with minimal exertion. One hour and 10 mins ahead of the cut off time. First round to Molloy. I quickly top up my water and walk out with a handful of food. The road out of Mayqueen is a runnable gradual incline but at this stage its more important to get my calorie count up for the fight ahead rather than run. I switch gears to walking and leave Mayqueen with my mouth and hands full of food.

Heading down West 6th Street after an early 4am start

In Leadville, you need a few gears. You need a running gear for the undulating technical, a running gear for the flat roads, a walking/hiking gear for the ups, and a downhill scrambling gear for the descents. You also need to transition reasonably well between gears and it pays to have a ‘shuffle’ for the latter part of the race. After running exclusively for most of 2.5 hours, it was nice to transition into a purposeful walk (not a stroll, a purposeful walk – at least 11min/km an hour). Heading into the Colorado Trail you encounter the gushing white of rivers and the green hues of the forest. It’s quite rocky underfoot but this is nature. It’s nice to take the trail less travelled at times. True nature is raw and unaccommodating and I like that. Coming onto Hagerman Pass Road, we’re back onto runnable dirt road again. Some start to run but I resist the urge. The road’s incline gradient is not worth the return at this point of the race. I keep a steady walking pace and keep eating whilst I can. We then turn off Hagerman Pass Road and onto a steeper jeep road which marks the first significant climb of the Leadville 100 – going up Sugarloaf Pass. After about 60 minutes of continuous up, it’s a rather steep and jarring descent down the pass along prominent powerlines (hence this tortuous climb during the inbound section is affectionally known as ‘Powerline’). I’m careful not to push too hard in order to save my quads. But I also want to work with gravity to keep pace with the cut offs. After a good portion of downhill running, its back onto undulating road again. If you want to finish a race like Leadville, anything that is reasonably flat and runnable HAS to be run. I maintain a good honest running pace along the road with a few purposeful walks for the sharp inclines. I manage to get through the next aid station at Outward Bound in a cumulative time of 5 hrs and 5 mins, 55 mins ahead of the cut off time. Another round to Molloy. There are large marquees everywhere and the aid station is bustling with runners and their crew. The music is pumping and it feels a bit like a party atmosphere. However, not having any crew here (or any innate desire to party), I grab some more food and box on. I know Courtney is 5.5km away at an unofficial crew location called Pipeline so that keeps me focused. And that’s where I head.

Some of the scenery near the Mayqueen trailhead

To finish the Leadville 100 in under 30 hours, this requires a 11min/km pace. However, what some fail to consider in their plans is that there are 13 aid stations on the course. If you spend a paltry 5 minutes at each aid station, that is about an hour of time. An hour which none of the pace calculators factor for! Though others with larger cardiorespiratory engines could afford to spend more time at aid stations, I could ill afford to dwindle an hour. If I wished to finish, I needed to ‘go through’ the vast majority of aid stations and be very efficient at the aid stations I’d preselected to stop at. I’d essentially ‘gone through’ Mayqueen and Outward Bound. The next section of the course after Outward Bound could be very exposed to the sun and it was approaching 10am. Being 3000 metres above sea level meant that you were closer to the sun, so the sun had greater potential to cause havoc. Though it was currently overcast and the weather forecast was predicting an 80% chance of rainfall (and thunderstorms) by midday, I refused to chance it. Heat was my enemy. Not controlling for heat often leads to an increased heart rate (and ensuing rate of perceived exertion) and more blood being directed to your peripheries (to cool) rather than to your muscles to run. My next stop at Pipeline was therefore a dedicated ‘cooling stop’ with the primary focus being getting fresh ice-cold drinks to help manage the heat of the day. When I caught up with Courtney at Pipeline, I allowed myself 2 minutes to do what I needed to do. Courtney was rather chipper but it didn’t take her long to realise I wasn’t as jovial. I guess running 42km under pressure can do that. “Let’s go. I want to get in and out of here” I barked. I dropped off my head lamp, picked up some ice-cold Tailwind and water, stuffed some lollies into my pack, popped on my sunglasses, and I was out of there. “I’ll see you later around 1am” I said as I started running again. Though I thanked Courtney as I left, I imagine she may have been quite dissatisfied with the experience. Here she is waiting for ‘hours’ to ensure she doesn’t miss me and I show up and leave within 2 minutes whilst imparting my grumpiness. Would she even come back? Something tells me that I’m unlikely to be a box of birds, God’s gift to women, or any other equivalent in another 15 hours. She did mention that she heard some runners had pulled out at Outward Bound or were struggling to make the cut off time there. I struggled to comprehend that this early in the race. It felt like I had sacrificed so much to get here. How could people be so off their pacing this early in the piece? How could anyone throw in the towel this early into a 100 miler? Maybe it was because I sacrificed so much family time, work time, and finances that I had so much riding on this? Maybe the ‘months’ of training and preparation were driving me? In a 100 miler, if you fail to prepare, you prepare to fail. I’d done all the preparation possible. I just had to keep going deeper into the fight.

Arriving into Twin Lakes aid station (60km)

I ran the majority to the next aid station at Half Pipe (47km). Another points victory to Molloy. I briefly filled up my water and pushed through again. As I walked out of the aid station, I forced another chocolate bar down me. I’d been on my feet for more than 6 hours now and was one hour and 25 minutes ahead of the cut off time and well placed. It was somewhere in the section between Half Pipe and Twin Lakes outbound that the course started to throw a few punches of its own. In ultra running, if it’s going well, be prepared as things can quickly change. Somewhere around the 50km mark whilst climbing up Mt Elbert, I started to feel the cumulative effects of my concerted efforts. For the first time in a while, people started passing me. I tried to cling on to people as they passed me but to no avail. I had entered Struggleville. After winning the early rounds, it was like I had poked the bear and Leadville was swinging. I began to feel a bit flustered, hot, and light headed. The good thing about being a doctor is that more often than not, you can reassure yourself that feeling terrible doesn’t correspond with an underlying medical emergency. I knew this ‘low’ was just a normal phase of long distance running. I sometimes wonder how much of this is psychologically mediated with the mind priming the body for the bigger fight ahead. The Hope Pass double is coming up. Do you really want to go through with this? I’m going to slow you down so you can carefully consider your options. Like any life phase, you just got to hang in there. Roll with the punches as such. Sip and nibble. Slow down a bit. Nibble and sip. By the time I managed to get to the top of the climb (recognisable by a grove of Aspen trees), it was a matter of letting gravity do the work for you on the downhill and things seemed to get better. Despite being a little worse for wear, I arrived into the Twin Lakes aid station in reasonable spirits. The support was really uplifting. Gazebos lined the streets and cheers rang through the town. For a moment I forget about all my struggles. I chose not to stay long at Twin Lakes. Just topped up my drinks again, picked up my head lamp in preparation for the dark, and walked out eating a cup of mashed potatoes and potato chips. I left Twin Lakes at 12.30pm, one hour ahead of the cut off time. It wasn’t long before everything became quiet and I was listening to my own breathing again. Looking out into the distance I could see Hope Pass. The saddle between two mountain peaks. It just stared at me. The truth. Its brow frowned like a street smart slugger. “You want it, come and get it!” it taunted. Was that lightening I saw in the background? The forecast rain and thunderstorms had yet to arrive. I don’t know. Onward.

A multitude of support crew at Twin Lakes Village

Leaving Twin Lakes and heading outbound towards Hope Pass in the distance

Hope Pass has been described as the heart and soul of Leadville. The pinnacle of the Leadville 100. It’s nearly 1000 metres to the top hitting the course high point of 3820m. Runners reach the summit not only once, but TWICE on an out and back trek. One can expect to be gasping for breath, light headed +/- have a headache, and nauseous +/- vomiting. It could be sunny and peaceful up top or equally blowing a gale with rain/hail and a small risk of death by lightening. During the inaugural running of the event in 1983, the medical director at the time declared “someone may die in this race” due to the extreme altitude. Though this may not be palatable for some, acceptance of the above appears to be a prerequisite to finishing the Leadville 100. As I cross the shin high river crossing heading towards Hope Pass, this signals the end of any comfort for my foreseeable future. Going up Hope Pass is a slow and steady process. It’s an average 15-degree incline gradient over 6 km so you’re climbing for a couple of hours. As much as I try to enjoy the lush forest around me, I’m really reduced to concentrating on my breathing. Breathe in through the nose. Gasp. And out through the mouth. The hypoxic struggle also gives you the opportunity to channel your inner Miyagi. Sun is warm. Grass is green John san. There are some athletes with some massive engines on display as they power hike past me but I’m unperturbed. The fact I’m ahead of them at this stage of the race tells me I must be doing something right. I maintain a slow and steady pace throughout such that I don’t need to stop. As I pass the ‘Hopeless aid station’ about a kilometre from the top of the pass, it’s tempting to join the llamas (who have hauled all the supplies to this aid station) resting in the field. But I know I need to keeping boxing on to maintain momentum. I grab a cup of noodles and push onwards whilst attempting to eat on the move. A collection of multi coloured prayer flags marks the top of Hope Pass. The light drizzle which started above the tree line has cleared so it is remarkably sunny and quite still at the top. However, I’m feeling quite breathless and my head feels vacant so I’m not too keen to stick around in this thin air. I roll over the top and let my momentum and gravity take me most of the way down the other side. Just before Winfield, I come across Dr Stanley running behind a small train of runners heading back inbound. To tired to talk, we give each other a high five as we pass each other. The pressure is still on and we know we’re in the thick of the fight now. I arrive at Winfield at 4.40pm which is the same time I was hoping to leave so I’m a touch behind schedule. Winfield is the turn around point and marks the half way stage of the race. Although I’ve tried to keep as much fuel in the tank as possible, Hope Pass has really taken it out of me. After 80km of nonstop relentless forward momentum, I feel compelled to plonk my sorry carcass onto a chair for the first time. F*** that was hard. Now I have to turn around and do it all over again! I know I need a pick me up of some type so I grab a cup of chips and pretzels as I sink deeper into the chair. Suffice to say, I’m feeling pretty buggered and the sensation of discomfort is increasing. As I try to gather my thoughts, the words of Ken Chlouber (Leadville 100 co-creator) come into my mind. “You’re going to be dealing with a lot of pain. Make pain your fuel! Make pain your friend and you’ll never be alone!” Bugger that. I pop a couple of paracetamols. It’s too early to embrace pain. Ding ding ding. I can hear a bell ringing in the distance. I swallow a Leppin Squeezy and pick myself up off the canvas. I leave Winfield at 4.50pm with a cumulative time of 12 hours and 50 mins. One hour and 10 minutes ahead of the cut off time. Ready to battle with Hope Pass again.

Just leaving Hopeless aid station and heading towards the top of Hope Pass

Prayer flags on top of Hope Pass

Leaving Winfield, a face can portray a thousand words and a story. It’s during this part of the run that I pass a lot of competitors heading outbound to Winfield as I head inbound back towards Twin Lakes. At some point you do the maths in your head and you realise that there’s no way these outbound runners are going to make the 14-hour cut off at Winfield. I’ve been running out of Winfield for 50 mins now. You won’t make the cut off in 20 mins. It’s like a slow transition of faces from calm, focussed, determined, pressured, hurried, and desperate eventually ending in disbelief, anger, sadness, and then acceptance. No words are spoken or required. Some put on a braver face than others but their body language reveals the truth. A lot of races ended in that short single trail heading out to Winfield. When you run, sensations are amplified. You feel more. Though you may try to ignore these sensations or shield yourself, the reality is that we are all connected somewhat on the trail. You can feel ‘disappointment’. You can sympathise with hopes shattered. At some point the run becomes bigger than just you. At some point you realise that you HAVE to complete this thing. Not just for you, but for others. For those that can’t or won’t. For those who don’t have the opportunity. For all those whose race has ended prematurely. You begin to appreciate that you have more people vouching for you in your corner than you can ever imagine. And for that reason, you have to keep fighting.

Admiring the llamas who have hauled all the supplies to the Hopeless aid station

Got to finish before the final gun sounds at the finish at 30 hours

The inbound climb of Hope Pass is much harder. Having negotiated an average 15-degree incline gradient over 6 km outbound, the inbound climb has an average 20-degree incline gradient over 4km. Although shorter in distance, it is much more taxing and arguably the hardest section of the race. An approach that seems to work well for me in ultra running is “It’s better to be consistently good than occasionally great”. I just shift into my slow and steady pace which doesn’t require me to stop. I’ll always see people race ahead of me only to stop in a few hundred metres to catch their breath and then be passed again. I just like to grind away. Inch my way forwards and be consistently good. Stopping is not negotiable. Everything that can be done on the move should be done on the move. If you need to stop to breathe then you’re going too fast for your ability. At this point of the race, it’s a common sight to see athletes horizontal and keeled over their trekking poles as if they were figuratively ‘on the ropes’. Talking is minimal as breathing is hard enough as it is. Your heavy legs are balanced by your light headedness. As you break the tree line, there seems to be a never-ending series of switch backs which act like rolling upper cuts to your chin or solar plexus. When you see the multi coloured prayer flag markers at the top again, you know you’ve survived a stern examination of your finishing credentials. I take a moment to appreciate the view ahead of me. At the top of Hope Pass you can see Twin Lakes in the distance and Turquoise Lake in the far distance. Beyond Turquoise Lake is the finish line in Leadville. It’s hard to think that you were at the start line about 15 hours ago. Despite the nostalgia, I’m feeling pretty crap due to the altitude so I go up and over. I pass through the ‘Hopeless aid station’ staying well clear of the comforts of the warm fire whilst tipping my hat to the llamas. As I enter the tree line, the darkness starts to set in so I put on my head torch. The descent is quite challenging due to the rocks and recent rain fall so full concentration is required. Despite this, I descend reasonably swiftly and the drop in altitude feels so much better. It’s a continuous descent for at least 90 mins. I use my new found energy and keep running through the river crossing and lowlands all the way to the Twin Lakes aid station. The atmosphere at Twin Lakes is still electric which is uplifting. A kind gentleman dressed in a sumo suit offers to pace me but I politely decline. “Come on man!” he exclaims (I’m sure his offer to run the last 60km with me was in jest though I wasn’t prepared to compromise my finishing aspirations). I spend about 10 mins at Twin Lakes topping up my drinks and eating as best as I can. I put on some new shoes and dry socks which feel amazing. I manage to leave Twin Lakes at 9.05pm with a cumulative time of 17 hours and 5 mins and 55 mins ahead of the cut off time. I’ve heard that if you can leave Twin Lakes inbound within the cut off time, then you’ve got a good chance of finishing Leadville. By this point, about 40% of the field have already been culled. Despite being beaten up by Hope Pass, I’m in good spirits. The middle rounds of the fight have definitely gone to the Dreadville Slugger. However, the most important thing is that I’m still in the fight and I’ve managed to absorb arguably the worst the course has to offer. I asked Dr Stanley before the race that from his own study/appreciation of the course, which cut offs were the hardest to make from Twin Lakes inbound. “All of them” he replied. This run is relentless. Just got to keep jabbing and moving forward I guess.

View from the top of Hope Pass with Twin Lakes in the mid distance and Turquoise Lake in the far distance. Beyond Turquoise Lake is the finish line in Leadville.

Keen pacer ready to go at Twin Lakes

As I go up a rather nasty continuous gradient up Mt Elbert, the field is noticeably smaller though some runners have been joined by their pacers. The pacers are generally in high spirits and some are playing up beat music to keep their runners moving. Most of the pacers also seemed to be ahead of their runners in true ‘lead from the front’ style. I had arranged to meet my own pacer (Courtney) about 14km away at Outward Bound (the 123km mark) so I had good incentive to keep moving. Content to not drop my guard, I kept an honest pace throughout the night. Walking the ups, running the downs, and shuffling the flats. I don’t mind running at night anymore. It’s generally cooler and you tend to run slower so there’s less demand on the cardiorespiratory system. The main challenge therefore lies in staying focused and awake which is where caffeine, glucose, movement, and having company plays a role. Just before the Half Pipe aid station (114km), I was starting to lose focus and felt sluggish so I took caffeine tablets for the first time to help stay awake. I arrived at Outward Bound two hours ahead of the cut off time and slightly ahead of schedule at 1am. I linked up with Courtney who was kitted up and ready to go for her pacing duties. Courtney was keen to do the infamous “Powerline” section of the course which was the last significant climb and glancing counterpunch of the Leadville 100. I stopped briefly at the aid station to try eat something but by this stage of the race, its difficult to have any semblance of an appetite. Nibble and sip. Sip and nibble, I told myself as I tried to get more mashed potato and potato chips down. However, at the same time, I was acutely aware that I didn’t want to stress out my gut too much as a defunctioning GI system could be terminal. As Courtney and I left Outward Bound, I knew the road out of the aid station was runnable. However, the road also had a slight gradual incline (which was imperceptible in the dark) so I suggested that we walk out to give my stomach more time to digest my food and to ease Courtney into her pacing role. When we passed some fresh vomit on the road, I knew that we had made the right call. “Respect the gut” I told Courtney and she agreed. When we arrived at the base of Powerline, I asked Courtney to take note of the time. “This should take us 90 minutes” I told her. “There are lots of false summits. We just need to keep going for 90 minutes”. Still relatively fresh, it’s not long before Courtney powers ahead of me. I shout out to her and ask her to come back. “Just walk beside me!” I counsel. By the time you’re a 120km into a run, you don’t need a fresh pacer to motivate you to go faster and push the pace. I was in a fortunate enough position that I didn’t need to go any faster, I just had to keep going! I’ve seen instances where pacers have pushed their runners too hard. So hard that sometimes their runner can’t recover and they DNF when in reality they would’ve finished without their pacer. A good pacer keeps you company, reminds you to eat and drink, lights up the preferred route, keeps you positive, and unapologetically lies about how good you look. Thankfully, this is mostly what Courtney did. As we headed up Powerline together, in the still of the night, you could easily hear the electricity in the powerlines above you. It was a loud vibrant ‘crackling’. If I hadn’t been with others, I could’ve easily convinced myself that I was a sinewy, rancid, slab of meat that was slowly being cooked alive. When we finally got to the top of Powerline / Sugarloaf, we were greeted by the bizarre sight of an unofficial alien themed aid station dubbed ‘Space Camp’ with a large banner saying “Nice Fuckin’ Work!”. There were people dressed up in space costumes waving glow rings and someone blowing gigantic bubbles. I’d heard rumours that drugs were rife at this aid station so to be careful with what you accept or eat. Rather cautiously, I asked Courtney to fill up my drink bottle with WATER. Having never done drugs in my life, I didn’t think 24 hours into a 100-mile run would be a good time to start. I nervously shuffled past whilst Courtney lingered and enquired about the home made ‘performance enhancing’ cookies that allegedly could inspire “the best fuckin’ run of your life”. Heading down Sugarloaf felt as hard as coming up. By now your quads are cooked and your legs are sufficiently tenderised. I can afford little more than a shuffle. Hagerman Pass Road was smoother and less steep so provided a brief reprieve. But then you connect with the Colorado Trail again which is technical rocky downhill and hence so much slower at night. I discover that its easier (and safer) to walk quickly rather than jog. When Courtney and I finally reach Mayqueen, it’s just after 4.30am and still dark. “Make sure that you get to Mayqueen before sunrise” were the words of past finishers. The penultimate round was a points victory to the Molloys. We had 5 and half hours to get to the finish and were 2 hours ahead of the cut off time. I was exactly where I wanted to be. I had taken it deep into the race and the famous slugger was tiring. I could probably walk in from here and still finish. From here, it was my fight to lose.

Welcome to Space Camp at the top of Powerline

Leaving Mayqueen with the sun rising over Turquoise Lake

Leaving Mayqueen it’s like a great weight of pressure has been lifted. From here the strategy is simple. It’s 20 kilometres to the finish line. I’ve just got to keep going! Although the trail around Turquoise Lake was runnable 24 hours ago, in the dark and with tired legs, it feels impossible to run so we commit to a fast walk. Slowing from a shuffle to a walk, we start getting passed by those who are naturally fast walkers. “I don’t like being passed” Courtney tells me. “Let’s just walk briskly till we get to the Tabor boat ramp.” I tell Courtney. “Running in this stuff in the dark is hard work. From the boat ramp the trail becomes runnable again so we can start running then”. In the dark, you can just make out the shape of the lake as you chase shadows around the trail. Eventually, the dark becomes light and the sunrise brings fresh energy. Your depth perception returns and the trail becomes easy to see again. It was my turn to dictate matters and take the fight to the course. “Let’s go. We can run now”. When I say run, it’s not really a run but rather a shuffle. Runners can underestimate the effectiveness of a shuffle. Though a shuffle is a lot slower than a run, it is slightly quicker than a walk. And if you can shuffle, you will generally pass a lot of people on the way to the finish line. Courtney and I managed to shuffle all the way to the bottom of The Boulevard and passed a few people along the way as a result. My plan was to give myself at least an hour at the start of the Boulevard. “Don’t underestimate The Boulevard” I remember reading. I reached the bottom of The Boulevard with more than enough time to spare and 2.5 hours up my sleeve. The same downhill dirt road that you cruised along at the start of the race, is now a gradual painful incline all the way to the finish. The final body blow. Bordering on below the belt. Certainly not something I’d like to be running under time pressure 175km into the race. With the pressure relieved, I tell Courtney that my intention was to walk the last 5km to the finish. I share a story with her of a Leadville 100 runner who pulled out at the 98-mile mark as ‘he couldn’t go any further’. How is this possible? To endure so much and not finish so close to the end. Apparently his ‘body had shut down’. I had to remain vigilant. Keep my guard up. Control the fight all the way to the end. Turning off The Boulevard and onto West 6^th Street, I knew that the fight was all but won. I knew every little contour and rise and fall of that street like the back of my hand. I can’t tell you how many times Dr Stanley and I had walked along this street at the end of every training run and ‘visualised’ this moment. And regardless of the distance run prior, Dr Stanley would always collapse over the finish line (only to non chalantly walk away after this – he is a very dramatic man). I’m over the last big rise next to the hospital and I shuffle down the final downhill. The temptation is to keep running all the way to the finish line. This is something I’ve always done. Finished strong. I think it’s become a self and societal expectation to cross the finish line running so I’ve done this every time. But after 99 miles at Leadville, I had nothing more to prove to myself or anyone else. For the first time in my running career, I actually wanted to walk all the way in. “I’m going to enjoy this one Courtney. I’m going to walk in. I want to savour this moment”. And so it was. There was still the adrenaline pumping noise but it was less of a blur and I could easily make out faces and smiles. I hug Courtney over the finish line. It was great to share a sunrise and the last 37km together. I’m not really a hugging person but now I’m getting hugs from Merilee Maupin and Ken Chlouber (co-founders) at the finish line and they give me my finisher’s medal and belt buckle. I’m thrilled to secure a clear points victory at the finish. It’s hard to beat an opponent who won’t give up. Motivation will get you to the start line. But only total commitment will get you to the finish. Dig Deep. Commit. Don’t quit. Inside each and every one of you is this inexhaustible well of grit, guts, and determination. You’re better than you think you are. You can do more than you think you can. Between the bang and the buckle, it’s up to you. Don’t dream of finishing an ‘A race’. Prepare for it. Train for it. Running is medicine.

Crossing the finish line with my wife and pacer Courtney

Leadville 2022 finishers (701 starters):

Andrew Stanley (NZ) 26:20:33 (108 of 368)

John Molloy (NZ) 28:16:52 (185 of 368)

Hugs all round at the finish line with Courtney and Merilee Maupin

Between the finisher’s buckle and you is a doughnut

Group photo at the Te Aronui a Rua Marae, Te Puia

I run with Dr Stanley for at least 20km until the sun rises after which he powers ahead along the back of the Green Lake. I’m content running at my comfortable pace or ‘running like an old wise woman’ as a participant on course shares with me as her approach to 100 milers. As I pass the Buried Village and enter the Tarawera Trail, the mind games begin. I always find this patch around 30km the most difficult in any long distance event. It’s usually around this point that the fatigue and discomfort start to settle in. By then any runner’s high has been suppressed and the realisation sinks in that you’re not nearly there yet and have 130km to go. I’m running by myself and I try to keep my emotions in check and my mind focussed. To run a 100 miler, you need to be able to think on your feet and be a good problem solver. ‘Bad things’ will invariably happen and you need to come up with a solution or risk a DNF (did not finish). My first ‘bad thing’ happened leading into the 54km aid station at Rerewhakaaitu when I started to develop lower abdominal discomfort. I was pacing well and I thought I had respected the gastrointestinal system through appropriate nutrition and toileting so it caught me by surprise. I decided to push on to the next aid station and soon realised that the discomfort seemed to be related to the pressure of my Camelbak waist bag against my bladder. I’ve had relatively minor/manageable urinary issues with my waist bag previously during longer runs (> 60km) but these have typically settled. Reducing the weight of the Camelbak through drinking seemed to help but it didn’t solve the problem. I knew I couldn’t continue like this so after reallocating my equipment, I left my trusty waist bag at the Okahu aid station at the 62km mark. Running without the waist bag was much better and I felt like I was back in the game. However, not long after that, my clinical suspicion that my bladder was the source of the problem was confirmed when the sport-related haematuria happened i.e. I started urinating gross blood (black currant colour). Having worked as a Sport and Exercise doctor, I was aware of this phenomenon but had never experienced it myself. I knew that it was ‘relatively common’ in high intensity / long duration sports (70% of runners in a 54 mile race had microscopic haematuria [Dancaster, 1971]). Explanations for sport-related haematuria include foot strike haemolysis (trauma to red blood cells circulating through the sole of the foot), bladder and/or kidney trauma (abrasions of the posterior bladder wall), reduced oxygen to the kidneys, dehydration, and non steroidal anti-inflammatory drugs (e.g. ibuprofen). Although I knew that this condition was not typically associated with any significant structural damage or anything untoward, it was still very unnerving! I soon learnt first hand what wasn’t emphasised in any literature. That being, blood in the urine is an irritant. Its one thing to know that you’re not creating any damage. But it’s another thing to continue to run when you have the constant urge to pee every 10-20 minutes. As a result, I found it difficult to maintain any running rhythm as the faster I ran, the more the discomfort and the urge to urinate would increase. The next few hours running in the Tarawera Forest was demoralising. I had hoped to maintain a good pace along the non-technical forest roads but now I had reverted to survival mode. I slowed significantly and became cannon fodder to all the runners behind me. I increased my hydration hoping to ‘flush out’ the problem but the blood in the urine persisted. I also took some paracetamol for my presumed bladder trauma. The paracetamol seemed to help as my urinary frequency stabilised (could hold on for roughly an hour a time). During moments of lucency, I remembered from my teaching that sport-related haematuria settled with rest and within 48-72 hours. The reality sunk in. I knew that this would be my new normal for the next 100km. From then onwards, I refused to look at my urine anymore. Despite reassuring myself that it was nothing untoward, the black currant stream was damaging my psyche. I choose to look outward and enjoyed the course views instead.

Early on in the run before the first sun rise and feeling fresh

The night was approaching and I was already dismantling and nowhere near my desired ‘freshness’. I stopped for my dinner at the Outlet aid station (103km) but even stuffed that one up. I put too much water in my mashed potatoes so they just tasted like water. The sun set slowly over Lake Tarawera as I was leaving Humphries Bay and the darkness returned again. The combination of the night and the technical Eastern Okataina track meant that running slowed to a purposeful walk. The reduced intensity helped me to regather my thoughts and refocus. Urinary system aside, every other system was intact and my legs were still operational. My mind was also coming back as was evident by the return of my sense of humour. Whilst on the Lake Okataina boat crossing, I joked if the driver could take me to the finish by the Lakefront at Lake Rotorua. When I arrived at the Okataina aid station (120km), I bumped into Wild Thing Simon Clendon whom I was extremely grateful for. Noticing that I was crewless, he offered to crew for me. Being an experienced runner himself, he knew all the attributes of a good crew – being helpful and positive. He filled up all my drink bottles and talked me into eating a cheese toastie. At the time, it felt like the best cheese toastie I’ve ever had in my life and it really hit the spot. I confided in my bladder dilemma and how I knew it would settle with rest. He responded, “Well you’ll get plenty of rest in 6 hours time”. I also shared my apprehension about not looking forward to hitting another wall. I knew there would be at least one more wall in the last 45km (including a possible physiological 3AM wall i.e. we were not physiologically designed to be running at 3AM). To which he responded, “After hitting rock bottom, you can only go up”. Thanks Simon! I left Okataina aid station in much higher spirits than when I entered.

Enjoying the company of my pacer Shane past the 150km mark

The reason the DNF rate is so high in 100 milers is because of the effect of cumulative stress. Every stressor begins to accumulate. You can handle one thing going wrong. But invariably other things will start to play up due to the fatigue and prolonged time on feet. Although I chose not to run with a watch for this miler, I may need to reconsider wearing a watch as I lost all concept of time during the night. One can roughly get a gauge for time during the day due to the sun and temperature changes. But at night, the darkness provides no cues. Despite everything I had gone through, I had somehow managed to maintain a respectable pace but I hadn’t really appreciated this. Thinking that the sunrise would occur in an hour or so, I took another caffeine tablet hoping to combine my caffeine surge with the sunrise for maximum effect (in retrospect I had caffeine dosed too close together). I followed this up with a mouthful of sweets to keep me awake. However, one hour later, the sunrise didn’t occur and instead I was hit by sudden nausea. By now, I had too much caffeine and concentrated sugar on board and my gastrointestinal system was protesting. I had now acquired another problem which was painfully self-inflicted. I tried to push the pace around the Blue Lake but the nausea and urge to vomit increased with running. I knew if I were to vomit now, this could be the end of me and finishing could be a bridge too far. Knowing that most exercise related gastrointestinal problems tend to settle with adequate hydration and rest (due to dehydration and reduced blood flow to the gut whilst exercising), I yielded and slowed down. I slowly moved towards the music playing at the back half of the Blue Lake until I reached a sole volunteer with her sound system pumping loudly. I found it difficult to string a sentence together but I managed to ask her if she had anything that wasn’t sweet to eat. She offered me her own salmon and cheese sandwich. Aware that my stomach wouldn’t be able to handle the salmon and cheese, I just ask for the bread instead. She thoughtfully offers me the side of bread away from the salmon and I thank her and carry on. This lady will never know it but she was my get out of jail card. I slowly eat the plain bread and this seems to neutralise some of the sweetness in my gut. I manage to build up to a jog again and arrive at the Blue Lake aid station (149km) although still in damage control. I was still in a perilous situation so I was in no hurry to leave. I ask for anything which tastes plain and for any unsweetened drink. The chicken soup doesn’t really work for me so I try some milo minus the sugar which seems to help. I try stomach a small slice of pizza but this also doesn’t work so I switch to the salted peanuts which are surprisingly pleasant. I’m slightly startled when my younger cousin Shane and his partner Madi show up unbeknown to me just before 4AM. Shane had expressed an interest to run with me from the final aid station at the Redwoods, so I was surprised to see him at the Blue Lake before sparrow’s fart. I ask if he is keen to lace up early in case I happen to collapse in a heap somewhere unnoticed and he kindly agrees. Unable to tolerate anything sweet for the last part of the race means I lose any finishing kick. It is a slow procession to the Redwood Forest just as the sun begins to rise. Shane has the qualities of a good pacer – not too fast and just being present. Some pacers can be too zealous or push too hard. But at 150km, there is no benefit in flogging a dead horse. At this stage all you really want is someone to keep you company and distract you from your troubles. When I reach the Redwoods aid station, the mood is jovial and ‘Eye of the Tiger’ is pumping in the background. I’m told its another 6.9km to the finish line so I grab a handful of salted peanuts and carry on. I follow Shane along the steaming and hot trails around Sulphur Point until we finally cross the finish line at the Lakefront just over 27 hours later. Relief rather than elation is the overriding emotion. I feel grateful to finish knowing that I had dodged multiple DNF bullets.

Feeling the cumulative effects of everything around Sulphur Point

One week later, I’m still a bit traumatised by what happened at the Tarawera 100 Miler. It was my worst race ever in that lots of things went wrong. But somehow, I still found a way to finish. This run simply reinforced to me how ultra-distance finishers need to think on their feet and be good problem solvers. I’m aware of research that shows that nausea is the most common symptom reported by those who do not finish an ultramarathon. But then, a clever person decided to research the symptoms of those who finished ultramarathons and found that both finishers and those who did not finish reported nausea in equal amounts. What does this tell you? You will encounter problems in long distance running. Good training will help mitigate most problems but you will still encounter them. Don’t be surprised by this. Accept the problem, seek solutions, manage it / try stabilise it, and most importantly, maintain a positive mindset. Running is medicine. Join me at my next blog, another big one, NZ Ironman at the start of March.

My wife Courtney with the support crew at the Redwoods near the end of the 50km

Crossing the finish line more than 27 hours later