Feeling strong early on in the run

Having not run in Australia for such a long time, it was an amazing reawakening for my senses. The environment was so different compared to New Zealand! Initially it was green rain forest with moss covered vines and then it transitioned into increasingly common dry eucalyptus. The trail was firmer underfoot and the soil was generally drier so I could feel my shoe grip (and slide) differently. The rocky outcrops looked different (varying shades of grey and orange) and they also felt sharper to handle. As I negotiated past a rocky landslide, I eventually reached the Golden Stairs which was a sharp ascent through the trees and cliff faces. Parts of the path were treacherously narrow as I skirted along cliff faces. However, if you were brave enough to look, it offered spectacular views of the Jamison Valley and Mount Solitary. By the time I’d reached the 10km mark, I’d been going for one hour and 30 minutes and already I was feeling the strain. Despite trying to ‘take it easy’, that 10km section was probably one of the hardest 10km starts to any race I’ve done in a while. Though manoeuvring through the rocky landslide was quite technical, in retrospect, the difficulty arose from the terrain being so different to what I was accustomed to in NZ. It may’ve also been the slightly warmer Australian autumn. But the steps! So many steps! How I’d managed to forget about those initial steps I’m not too sure.

Heading up the Golden stairs

And along cliff faces

Along the Narrow Neck Trail surrounded by cloud

I didn’t spend too long at the first aid station after the Golden Stairs. It was still early days and it wasn’t too hot yet so I didn’t top up my water and only took a couple of waffles and chocolate bars for the trail. The next part of the course was along the Narrow Neck Trail which was well suited to those with a good road running background. The trail was on a dirt road with lots of straights and a few undulations so one could really put their foot on the accelerator if they wanted to. I knew we were high as we were surrounded by cloud cover (which at the time blocked the great wide open views of the Jamison and Megalong valleys either side of us). By this stage of the race, some of the runners who had started in the start group 30 minutes after me were beginning to overtake me. However, I restrained my ego and just let them be. Twenty kilometres into a 100km is way too early to start pushing it and I was happily still in holiday mode. Eventually we turned off the long dirt road and into some single trail and that’s when things started to get interesting again. Welcome the rope descents, chain guides, metal hand rails, and hand crafted wooden ladders designed to get us down off the ridge. A competitor next to me exclaimed “I didn’t think you needed to do a course in mountaineering to do this!” as I negotiated my way down. I then had flashbacks of the original Tarros ladder (used in earlier versions of the UTA/North Face 100) which was a far greater knee trembling experience and supposedly originally constructed “for the convenience of weaklings”. And so like the weak modern day man I was, I utilised all conveniences provided and carefully made my way down. How on earth did I forget about this section? After some pretty precarious single trail (where the cliffs appeared to fall away either side of you) I was back on dirt road again. The next section along Mitchells Creek Trail seemed to take forever and by the 25km mark, I’d inexplicably ran out of water. Of late for my longer runs, I’ve created my own aid station chart to keep track of distances and estimated times to aid stations. However, I didn’t even think of doing this for UTA as I assumed my previous experience would’ve been sufficient. Had I remembered that the distance to the next aid station was 20km and about 3.5 hours, then I probably would’ve left the Golden Stairs aid station with more than 750mL of fluid. As a result, I adjusted my pace to help stem any ensuing damage. When I do arrive at Foggy Knob aid station (32km in just under 5 hours total), I’m under minor-moderate damage control. The sun is out by now and it’s also getting hot. Holy shit! Despite trying to ‘take it easy’, I was only 30km into this race and I was close to shattered. It was time to give this race my full attention and respect. Holiday mode was over. I was transitioning into survival mode now.

Coming into the Foggy Knob aid station

When I left Foggy Knob, I made sure that I left with 1.5L of fluid and also made a mental note that the next aid station was 14km away. I was now on typical Australian dry grass single trail as I negotiated my way up some pretty taxing hills. As I headed out towards the turnaround point at Ironpot Ridge, the gravity of what lay ahead really started to sink in. 70km to go. I clambered up and down some gnarly rocks near the turnaround whilst a couple of locals played their didgeridoo. This was fitting as I was also entering my own primitive world of survival. Any sight-seeing was now peripheral and no longer important. What mattered most was movement and where my feet were landing. The descent down the ridge was dry, dusty, and slippery but it eventually brought us into Eucalyptus shade which was a welcome reprieve. I stopped at the river crossing and wet my hat to keep cool before the long climb up and down (aptly named) Megalong Road. I eventually arrived at the Six Foot Track aid station (46km) and my cumulative race time was around 7 hours. I took my full complement of food and water and tried to move through this aid station quickly. I wasn’t even half way yet but already I was feeling reduced. I was in no man’s land. Neither here nor there. I knew I just had to keep moving. I remember seeing the 50km marker going up a slow incline along the Six Foot Track. I acknowledged it but almost immediately it became a distant memory as I fell deeper into a trance like state. This was the race of survival now.

Negotiating a rock feature along Ironpot Ridge

Heading up Nellies Glen is when life as you know it becomes harder. It’s an uphill climb all the way back into Katoomba where the next aid station is. The surrounding waterways make the path muddy and you’re lost to the world shoulder to shoulder with bush. But it’s the steps up that slowly grind you down. It’s around this point that the reduction process thickens. All false pretences are ruthlessly stripped away. Any grandiose or hubris is obliterated. Your degree, status, and bank balance count for nothing during a 100km. You’re simply just another runner on the trail being reduced to nothingness like everyone else. You can’t talk your way out of this. You can’t buy your way out. You just have to survive! The steps seemed to go on forever until eventually I broke through the tree canopy again. The field was well spread so I was by myself for most of the way until I caught up to another Australian runner. We were both doing it tough so we chatted for a bit as we ran to the next aid station. The next aid station at the Katoomba Aquatic centre was a big one. It’s indoors and there’s a lot of support crew there so it’s tempting to stay put. In previous years, I’ve seen runners have a shower there and put on a fresh change of clothes. As we approach the aid station my Australian friend says “Get what you need and then get out! Get your hugs, get your kisses, and then get out!” As if realising that maybe he was assuming too much he follows “Do you have anyone waiting for you at the aid station?” “No” I respond. “My wife’s doing the 50km so unless she’s finished and decided to stick around for me, I’ll have to get my hugs and kisses from someone else.” “Good luck with that buddy” he counters. “Looks like you’re on your own. After that 50km, she’ll be back at the hotel having a hot bath.” When I finally reach the aquatic centre (57km), I’ve been going for just over 9 hours and it’s around 3.30pm. I sit down for the first time and go about sorting out my life. Knowing this would be my last day light aid station, I prepare physically and mentally for the night ahead. I topped up my Tailwind, got what I needed, and got out (minus the hugs and kisses). Thanks mate.

Near the turnaround point at Ironpot

The last 50km of the 100km course is essentially the majority of the 50km course. The brief afternoon rain shower had just cleared and I was back on the Prince Henry Cliff walk again but this time it was filled with tourists which kind of made me feel more human again. I couldn’t help but notice the views across the Jamison Valley (where I’d just been) and the Three Sisters (iconic rock formation of cultural significance to the Aboriginal people). Back on a concrete path, it was also a lot easier to run though the many steps continued to be challenging. In previous years, I’d usually done this section in the dark so I never really appreciated the enormity of the Giant Stairway descent until now. In case you weren’t broken and reduced already, the Giant Stairway descent (998 steps) takes you deep into the Leura Forest and deeper still into your reptilian brain which deals with instinct and survival. Though images of the Bridal Veil Falls (a multi-tiered waterfall that looks like a bridal veil) and the Leura Cascades (a smaller cascading waterfall) provided moments of lucency, the reality was, I was completely detached from the modern day world. Somewhere going up MORE steps out of the Leura Forest, I switched back into survival mode again. By the time I reached the Fairmont Resort aid station (69.5km), it was well and truly dark and I simply moved through. The darkness only narrowed my focus further. I had to get through this. I had to survive. As the night settled in, the reduction process intensified and the transformation became primal. I was no longer a man but an animal with two limbs (and sometimes four). I had become primal. I scrambled over rocks. I leapt over stepping stones. I moved swiftly in the night. I moved like my life depended on it. Though the night was dark and the trail was arduous, this was what I was made for. And something deep within me craved this feeling. I was running to survive. I was surviving by running.

Running over stepping stones at night

By the time I arrived at the Queen Vic Hospital aid station (78km), I was pretty worse for wear. I had been running for over 13 hours and it was just before 8pm. I plonked my sorry carcass onto a seat. My ankle was playing up and my gut wasn’t happy. I could no longer handle the sweetness of my Tailwind so I changed to another electrolyte drink. A wonderful volunteer then kindly made some hot noodles for me. Another runner (whose race appeared to be over) was next to me. “That was a humbling experience” he disclosed. And so it is meant to be. This is why we do this. To keep us grounded. The final 22km of UTA is very daunting and arguably the hardest part of the whole race. After leaving Queen Vic, there’s a descent of about 800 metres over 7km followed by a 1000m ascent over 15km. Fearful of stiffening up in the cold, I left the aid station within 5 minutes. After surviving for a good 80km of this course, it was time to change my mindset. It was time to thrive. Sometimes one needs to be completely broken down in order to be rebuilt stronger. Although the sustained downhill hurt like hell to begin with, after a while, the discomfort dissipated. I began to move fluidly again. I became a predator hunting for the finishing line. Stalking and moving past shadows in the night. Moving determinedly and freely. I moved through the emergency aid station at 91km and just kept going. Eventually, I reached the 99km mark and was reunited with my old nemesis again – the Furber steps – 951 steps straight up to the finish line. Though my legs were heavy and my arms were tired, this is what they were made for. I was born a survivor. We are all born survivors. We’ve all got what it takes. But if you want to finish UTA, it will take all you have. After repeatedly being reduced, the ascension to the finish line was all part of the rebuilding process. Nine hundred and fifty one steps (and 20 minutes later), I crossed the finish line just before midnight for a total finishing time of 17 hrs and 19 mins. Thoroughly broken down in the process but ultimately stronger for it. There are many kilometres running you think you won’t survive. And then you survive. Endurance is the art of survival. Running is medicine.

Reduced near the top of the Furber steps

Crossing the finish line 17 hours and 19 minutes later

Headlamps on near the start

It’s Saturday 3am and I’m in my bunk bed in a shared dormitory at the Taupo YHA backpacker hostel. I’m awoken by this loud banging resonating from the room beside me (excuse the pun). I should’ve been wiser with my choice of accommodation but $35 a night seemed like a bargain at the time. For most of the night, my sleep was interrupted by the laughter and hollering of inebriated youth. But the banging was the final straw. It was time to accept my fate and get up and run a 100km. I catch a ride with Dr Esther O’Sullivan at 3.30am in order to catch the 4am bus that will take us to the start line. When we hop into the bus, it’s remarkably lively. Strangers in brightly coloured running gear are laughing and chatting freely seemingly unburdened with the forthcoming struggles. When we get to our destination, it’s 4.45am but the race doesn’t start until 5.30am. Some of the colourful mob head straight to the toilet cues to continue socialising but I’m reluctant to get out and loiter in the cold. Esther eventually coerces me off the bus and we head to a wooden shelter near the start line. There is a river close by which intensifies the damp coolness so I start to jiggle around on the spot to keep warm. Waiting around in the dark and cold is my least favourite bit of ultra running but Esther doesn’t seem to mind and stays positive throughout. Tough Irish girl. After about half an hour of questioning my own resilience to the cold, I happen by chance to see Esther clutching onto something with her Raynaud-like white fingers. “What are you holding onto Esther?” I asked. “Oh these? Handwarmers. Would you like one?” WTF, I thought. Cold weather 101: Use your brains not brawn as I sheepishly took one. After what felt like an age, we were eventually called to the start line and it was time to delayer and brave the cold. In keeping with tradition, a representative from the local iwi was entrusted to give a karakia (Māori prayer) before the starter’s gun. “You guys are all mad” he started. There was mixed laughter and then he commenced the karakia proper. Not being fluent in Māori, I said my own ultra runner’s prayer. Dear Lord. Give me the strength to finish, the wisdom to stop only after I’ve finished, and well-behaved bowels. And please ease the suffering from 80km onwards. Amen. After which, I crossed the start line and into the darkness with 150 other faithful runners.

Lush forest past the airstrip (half way point)

After crossing the swing bridge, it’s a gentle climb up onto the cliff tops above the river. As you reach the top, you’re welcomed by the pink and orange rays of the early morning sun. Sun rises always seem better when you’re moving. As it gets lighter, one can really appreciate the beauty of the Waihaha Trail. The trail is surrounded by abundant dense native bush (mainly Tanekaha) with outcrops of weathered volcanic rock. In the clearings of bush, there are spectacular views of Lake Taupo and all its vastness. The course then crosses over farmland and past a large old woolshed (Barton’s woolshed / 33km). After the woolshed, you traverse over more challenging farmland. Due to the high winter/spring rainfall, a waterway has spilled over on the fields meaning unavoidable wet feet. Once through the farmland, you encounter a mixture of gravel and sealed straight roads (some very long straights) until you eventually reach the 50km mark at the airstrip. When I arrive at the airstrip, it’s around 12pm and I’ve been on my feet for 6.5 hours now. By the time you get to the airstrip, if things weren’t already hard, they become harder. The reason I like (and also don’t like) the 100km distance, is that it forces you to run the kilometres you don’t want to run. For many experienced runners, they are the kilometres past 30km and for many ultra runners, the kilometres past 42km. However, for the vast majority of people in our society, it’s sadly any physical activity at all. There is a fantastic book titled ‘Exercised’ by Daniel E Lieberman (who studies human evolution) which I’d recommend to anyone with an interest in their health and fitness. The main premise of this book is that we were never evolved to exercise. This concept of being ‘born to run’ has been sensationalised somewhat and more so after Christopher McDougall’s best-selling ‘Born to Run’ book which centres around a hidden tribe of Mexican Indian super runners called the Tarahumara. But Lieberman helps us to understand why it’s so unnatural for some to exercise. He argues that we never evolved to exercise and were in fact born to avoid non-essential physical activity. Humans have lived longer in ‘energy scarce’ rather than ‘energy rich’ times so it’s an ancient instinct to conserve energy. Our ancestors were only physically active when necessary to survive as energy was needed in order to reproduce and ultimately maintain our survival as a species. Guess what happens to a women’s period if she exercises too much? Lieberman illustrates that for the few remaining hunter gatherer populations in society today, their exercise is their physical work as part of everyday living (e.g. walking, hunting, lifting, carrying food and water). Hunter gatherers like the Hazda walk about 11.5km/day. They also don’t simply turn on a tap to get fresh water. Any water has to be resourced and carried back to the tribe. No hunter gatherer populations did exercise for the sake of health and fitness. For the Hazda, the concept of a treadmill was abnormal and bizarre – why would you walk to get nowhere? So from an evolutionary perspective, it’s more normal to avoid unnecessary physical activity and exercising is the abnormal behaviour! Which leads us to our current problem. Our modern technological world has eliminated a lot of day-to-day physical activity and hence we’re more sedentary than ever. And though we may never have evolved to exercise, we also never evolved to be as persistently physically inactive as we are now. Hence, we need to be a bit more compassionate to those who struggle to exercise and stop pretending that exercise has to be fun all the time. Though I paid $400 to enter this 100km, I appreciate that no amount of money would ever entice someone to participate in this distance. For those who don’t exercise regularly, it’s not instinctive for them to do unnecessary physical activity (the multitude of ‘why should I do something that is unpleasant and hard’ people). These people need encouragement and not judgement. For those of you reading this who don’t exercise regularly, you need to realise that you have to fight this deeply ingrained instinct and move with the changing times. Look around you. Everything is motorised and most of the hunting and gathering now occurs at Pak’nSave. You need to exercise for your own health and fitness. Though you may not like exercise, your body loves movement. There will be days where you won’t want to exercise. This is normal (even for people who exercise regularly). You need to fight this urge and be more physically active at every opportunity. Persist and hang in there and eventually you’ll learn to like exercise! Succumb to your instincts, and you’ll risk becoming prematurely obsolete.

Running with Gareth around Kawakawa Bay

As I mentioned earlier, a 100km forces you to run the kilometres you don’t want to run. The vast majority of ultra runners who started today didn’t’ say “What a beautiful day for it. I think I’ll run a 100km for fun!” Ultra runners run the distances they do because they appreciate the benefits in it. They realise that change happens when you challenge yourself and do the things that you don’t want to do. And it’s not just physical or mental change, but internal change. There is an unknown power in suffering. It’s like your soul feeds off it. A 100km distance influences your soul and shapes your life. You’ll hear people say that a 100km/100mile is life changing. I personally wouldn’t go that far but semantics aside, it does change your life. Your outlook on life is never quite the same after completing a 100km. As I leave the airstrip, I know I’m entering the kilometres I don’t want to run territory. When I last ran the Taupo Ultramarathon in 2018, the section just after 50km was where the course chewed me up and spat me out so I was keen to hold my own this time. I eventually catch up to a runner called Gareth. He looked to be in pretty bad shape with more side to side than forwards movement. But when he sensed my approach, he picked up his pace again. I couldn’t work out whether he was a 100km runner or a back of a pack walker from the 74km distance as although he appeared to be working hard, his walk/shuffle was quite effective. Content to hold rather than push the pace at this point, I just sit in behind him. We did this for about 30-60 minutes in complete silence until he pulled to the side and said “Thanks for pushing me.” This was never my intention of course. I simply didn’t have the energy to make a pass and was content to hold my pace. “No worries”, I replied. He then sat in behind me until the next aid station at 62km. I hung around for a bit topping up my drinks and eating oranges and lollies when I noticed Gareth loitering around the aid station. It’s funny how misery attracts company. A problem shared is a problem halved right? I sensed he was keen to stick together. “You ready to go?” I enquired. And off we went again. As we walked up the “wee hill” into Kinloch, we started to talk a bit more. He shared how he got into ultra running and I shared my own story. He was a home brewer who was “getting too fat” drinking his own home brew so he started running. Over the course of a couple of years, he built up to running 100 miles. Although I didn’t say it at the time, I thought, you must’ve been drinking a lot of home brew. I enjoyed his company and we ran with each other for at least a half marathon all the way to Kinloch. As we approached the Kinloch aid station, Gareth was back into a good rhythm. He told me that he was going to push through and I told him I needed to stick around at the aid station for a bit. I also had a pacer waiting for me. At this point we thanked each other and parted ways.

Running with Dani

When I arrived at Kinloch, it was around 3.30pm. I’d done 76km and had been on my feet for 10 hours now. My cousin Paul (determined not to miss me) had caught the 10am bus into Kinloch so was ready to go. The last 24km to the finish had the greatest elevation gain but I was actually looking forward to this. The Taupo Ultramarathon 100km is quite a challenging course as it’s very runnable. It’s so runnable that your finishing time is largely determined by your will and desire to keep running and not walk. Hence, after running the majority of 76km, I was looking forward to walking up the last big rise. “I reckon it’s about 4 hours up and over to the finish” I told Paul. “Hopefully we’ll finish before sunset but bring your head lamp just in case”. In the lead up to the event, Paul had been apprehensive to pace me despite my reassurances that after 76km I’d be going pretty slow. I ignored his own doubts and multitude of excuses because I knew he had the potential and the ability to dig deep. I’d given him lots of encouragement but I think the lightning bolt was when I warned him that if he was too slow, I’d leave him behind. We were hence both accountable to each other. Him to stick with me and me to get him through this. As with my previous pacers, we started at a walking pace so I could eat and Paul could warm up and lose any nervous or pent-up energy. After walking the initial steep bit, we then commenced a reliable shuffle all the way to the top. Paul tucked in behind me and we kept good company. At around 85km we were joined by a lively and enthusiastic lady called Dani. It’s always better to surround yourself with positive people when running an ultra. We seemed to have the mettle on her on the uphill but then she would catch up to us again on the downhill. We invited her to cling on and we shared good chat. Dani was 29 years old and was doing her first 100km. She shared that her father had type 1 diabetes and died at 39 years of age. She was an “obese teenager” and conscious of her family history so she started running. Although her mother was concerned, she started training for a 100km and the rest is history. The 100km wasn’t killing her, she was killing it! It never ceases to amaze me how open people can become during long distance events. Running for more than 50km seems to remove the filter and experiences are easily shared. It also never ceases to amaze me how seemingly ordinary people (like Gareth and Dani) can turn around their lives and do extraordinary things. The three of us manage to stick together and maintain a good pace all the way to the finish line. Dani has a sprint finish but I’m content to coast to the finish with Paul. We eventually cross the finish line together just before 7pm in a time of 13hrs and 28 mins. After initially wavering in my commitment to start the event, it was very satisfying to finish. Nothing started. Nothing finished. Change happens when you do the things you don’t want to do. Often the kilometres you don’t want to run count the most. Keep chasing start lines for your own health and fitness. Running is medicine.

Running with Paul (pacer) near the finish

Crossing the Taupo Ultramarathon 100km finish line

Headlights on at the start of the run

Most 100km runs start in the dark which is fitting for what is a bit of a dark art. I’ve always preferred the marathon distance but got seduced into this run by my friends Dr Andrew Stanley and Dr Rich Newbury (again). It is a distance that can shock the very core of a non runner. The ‘why’ is an extremely good question. Let’s be very clear – 100km runs are painful. You cannot escape from this. It is part of the territory and intimately related to the attraction. My personal view is that the 100km distance is no more painful (with respect to pain intensity) compared to a marathon. All runs start to become challenging and uncomfortable after the 30km / 3-4 hour mark. The main difference between a marathon and 100km event is the duration of time that you need to cope with this discomfort. In a marathon, after 30km, you need to ‘push through’ the last 12km. In a 100km ultramarathon, after 30km, you need to ‘survive’ the last 70km. And for me, that may be the attraction of this distance. It strips away the layers of vanity and pretence that the modern day world dresses us in. It taps into the very essence of our identity. The 100km distance looks deeper than skin, subcutaneous tissue, muscle, and fascia. It provides a window into the human soul. A portrait of the inner self. When things get tough as they invariably do during a 100km distance, are you true to yourself? Do you give up? Do you seek to blame others? Do you add layers to cover your insecurities? Do you buy your way out of hardship? Do you rely on status? The 100km distance will rock your fragile insecurities and doubts. It taps into our primitive survival mechanism and reminds us that we are all vulnerable. Vulnerable to our own expectations. Vulnerable to failure. The 100km distance teaches you how to accept yourself and how to cope in a material world full of modern day stressors. The 100km distance teaches you how to ‘survive’. It teaches you how to be confidently vulnerable.

Running past inspired livestock with Dr Rich Newbury (left)

The Taupo Ultramarathon 100km is a beautiful course. I started to struggle from 40km onwards. From 50km, I switched to survival mode and my ‘all day pace’. The dense native bush, deep ravines, wet lands, and intermittent views of Lake Taupo provide a welcome distraction. The sounds of flowing rivers, tuis, and bell birds are soothing. Things can appear pretty foggy during a 100km run but the survival instinct is clear and strong. One foot in front of the other. Next aid station. Seeing other participants persevering and surviving is inspiring. Running from sunrise to sunset, I am vulnerable. The fear of failure drives me. But not as much as the fear of not living. The reds and oranges of dusk are replaced by black sky. Time for darkness and headlights again. However, now it is 8pm instead of 6am.  After 14 hours and 27 minutes, the run eventually ends. Although I’ve finished in darkness, the inner self is bright and radiating. By surviving, the human soul is rekindled. Life is enriched. In the days following, your bed is more comfortable. Your breakfast tastes better. You are a better person around people. Seek your start lines. Survive to ‘live’. Be confidently vulnerable. Running is medicine. Join me at my next blog, the Kepler Challenge in December, a favourite of mine!

It can be hard keeping up with these two (Dr Andrew Stanley [left] and Dr Rich Newbury [right]) when they’re in a rush to finish before sunset

At the finish line having survived the Taupo Ultramarathon 100km

At the start line with Dr Richard Newbury (left) and Dr Andrew Stanley (right)

Why? It’s a great question. Too which the answer today is companionship. Two of my running friends, Andrew Stanley and Richard Newbury (both doctors at Rotorua Hospital) had wanted to run it again. Maybe ask them why. I was simply happy to come along and catch up with good friends. Some people socialise over a drink at the bar. I socialise whilst running. Unfortunately, the weather wasn’t looking great with up to 30mm of rain forecast. The race organisers altered the course the night before as a result. I can remember finishing my two previous UTA 100s and thinking “Thank God I didn’t have to do that in the rain”. Rain requires a tougher mind set and a willingness to lube – frequently, liberally, generously, and without fear of judgement. Chafing can bring down the strongest of all competitors and there’s no chafing like in the rain. So when I wake up at 4am and hear the rain pouring outside, I take a deep breath and prepare myself mentally for the worst. That way anything other than hell becomes tolerable. So imagine the pleasant surprise when come 6.40am the rain had stopped. Today, Mother Nature was lenient.

Running in beautiful Australian flora

The run went well. I can remember enjoying the first 30km and the 80-96km section. The other 54km was about simply finding a way to keep going forward. Each aid station becomes a goal. Of which the rewards are mandarins, watermelons, raspberry buns, pizza bread, and instant noodles. After all, you still need to find time to eat lunch and dinner!  After ‘thousands’ of steps (I’m not exaggerating as there are too many to count), the quadriceps were toast. The fuel tank was approaching empty and the last 4km was particularly demoralising. The course was brutal and had extracted my willingness to live. The race ends harshly with a steep 300m climb over the last kilometre up the dreaded Furber steps. I had hoped to be ‘fresh’ at the base of the Furber steps. Instead, I had arrived a dead man. It was a matter of dragging my carcass up the stair rails. The Furber steps and last kilometre took me 25 mins to conquer. On approaching the finish line, I broke out into a jog in respect for the supporters who were still at the finish line past midnight. Also, I didn’t want to appear soft. 17hr 21mins later I had completed my third UTA 100.

This is what a normal man looks like after finishing 100km

I’ve heard that if you’re running right it hurts. And if you’re not running right, it hurts more. I don’t mean to dwell on pain as that’s not why I run. I don’t seek pain. I run because I enjoy it. But the truth is, every ultra marathoner has to get good at dealing with discomfort. By dealing with prolonged discomfort, only then can you truly appreciate what it’s like to be comfortable. And once you get back to your warm, comfortable lives, it’s not long before the thirst for challenge returns. During your everyday, mundane tasks, you begin to plan your next run. You seek out the extraordinary again. And despite the current mental fog, you realise that it wasn’t that long ago that life seemed clear and you were truly alive. When you run, your heart beats quicker. Your blood flows faster, your breath becomes warmer, and your muscles contract rhythmically. Running is the orchestra of life. Running is medicine. Join me at my next blog, Christchurch marathon, 2 weeks after Ultra Trail Australia.