Running ‘hands free’ early on in the race

The ‘warm up’ over Nipple Hill

As I climb the first major ascent up Nipple Hill (240 metres), I take a lung full of crisp morning air. I’ve already built up a light sweat and my calf muscles are starting to burn. Without my trusty trekking poles, I can feel a lot more load going through my legs that usually my upper body would absorb. Without my poles, I’m a lot more conscious of how I’m moving and I tune into my legs more. As my calves start to burn, I ascend sideways up the hill to shift more load to my glutes. As I descend, my centre of mass is a lot lower and I’m forced to shift more load onto my heels. I was forced to adapt. And adapt quickly. In the last 200 years in particular, our world has changed so much! Human kind evolved from Africa 2.5 million years ago. For 2.5 million years, we fed ourselves by gathering plants and hunting animals. We were physically active by virtue of our life style. About 12 000 years ago, we began to manipulate the lives of a few animal and plant species. This was the beginning of the agricultural revolution (farming, crops). Permanent settlements arose for the first time. Humans still worked the land but we roamed less and lived a village life. The industrial revolution began about 200 years ago. Machines replaced human labour and we began to manipulate energy sources to power industry and transportation. Work became less varied and more tedious/repetitive and we started to see the beginnings of what we know today as ‘occupational overuse syndrome’ or OOS. In the last 200 years, working harder was replaced by working smarter as science and technology really started to take off. More so, in the last generation, we’ve witnessed transformational change that even 50 years ago no one could’ve imagined. I can now work from home, get all my shopping delivered at the click of a button, and do everything on my iPhone. Physical activity is dying a slow death and even the humble bike and scooter is now motorised. Soon robots will do all our physical work for us and artificial intelligence (AI), all our thinking. To put the above into a time line perspective, we’ve been hunter gatherers for 99.5% of our history and a society of increasing comfort and ease for 0.5% of our history. If you held a piece of string in both hands, every visible portion of that string would represent our hunter gatherer history. Though we’re living in a modern technological world, our DNA still thinks we’re in the savanna. Tucked away in our offices eating our processed food whilst hunched over our computers, our physical activity levels are declining significantly. Our obesity levels are rising exponentially. And our physical and mental health is paying the price for it. A wise person once said, “Our technology has exceeded our humanity” – Albert Einstein (1879-1955). I can’t even imagine what he (or even Charles Darwin) would say now. I’ve always said that getting to the start line is the hardest part. I’ve since learned that fitting exercise into our busy monetary and materialistic life styles and making it a routine (so you can get to the start line) is even harder. I can understand how exercise is challenging from a DNA perspective. We evolved to conserve energy and avoid unnecessary physical activity so exercise can be unnatural for some. However, this needs to be balanced with the fact that we also evolved to move. When we were hunter gatherers, the mere act of staying alive met our physical activity requirements. But we can’t rely on our environment to keep us physically active anymore. I’d like to think that we’re moving away from calling sedentary people ‘uneducated’. I’d like to think that the benefits of exercise are as well known as the risks of smoking. Yet smokers continue to smoke and sedentary people continue to remain physically inactive. Maybe sedentary people are poor prioritisers or poor planners amongst other things? If so, how much of this is an ‘individual/self-leadership’ problem rather than a medical problem that doctors are supposed to solve? Because until a scientist can pack all the benefits of exercise into a magical pill, you’re going to have to take the bull by the horns and prioritise and plan physical activity into your everyday life. You’re going to have to adapt. And sweat it out! How much do you value your life? How much do you value your family’s lives? Maybe I could reframe Charles Darwin’s famous quote into “It’s not the most comfortable who survive, nor the one who seeks ease, but the one most adaptable to change”.

Hoar frost and orange markers

Running along the ridge line past the water course

Crouching and with my centre of mass as close to the ground as possible, I descend Nipple Hill. I can feel the dry and rocky soil slip under my feet so I crouch even lower. Without my trekking poles, I use my arms for balance whilst my hands grasp onto nearby rocky outcrops to help control my descent. However, despite all care, I take a mighty slip and my right wrist takes the brunt of the fall. Half my palm and my ring and little fingers go numb. Great. There goes my ulnar nerve. I rise to my feet and continue with my tail firmly between my legs all the way to the bottom. The next section on undulating 4WD track along the Kawarau River is all runnable until I reach the second major climb of the course. An unnamed rocky hill side with an average 50% gradient i.e. a 500 metre climb over 1km. The aim of the game is to follow the orange markers attached to the Matagouri bushes all the way up to the sky. Other than sporadic goat tracks, the rocky hill side is essentially trackless. At times the ground is literally at eye level as I crawl on all fours upwards. Whilst climbing, another runner seemingly deprived of oxygen stops to suck in a few big ones. “So Terry [race director] reckons he takes his kids up here” he says astonishingly. “What type of bloody goats are they? Chamois? Tahr?” We keep climbing until eventually the bare Matagouri bushes are now covered in ice crystals (hoar frost). Eventually, we pierce the cloud layer. Above the cloud layer, it’s a nice downhill gradient along the water race and down a ridge line. I manage to catch up with Dr Stanley and Neena just before the ‘cautionary’ rope section. I still clearly remember snapping my trekking pole clean in two along the rope section in 2019 so I steady myself. I watch on amusingly as both Stanley and Neena scramble down utilising the ‘5 points of contact’ method (i.e. all 4 limbs and one’s bottom contacting the ground). However, in mere seconds, my smugness is gone as I come crashing down onto my bottom and left wrist (my wrist is still sore three weeks later as I write this). Man I miss my poles. We all then descend the rope section holding onto the rope like our lives depended on it. When I reach the aid station at the bottom, I top up my food/drink and compose myself for the nastiness that lies ahead. Neena turns right at the aid station for the remainder of the 25km course while Dr Stanley and I turn left for the remainder of the 44km course. We’re back running along the Kawarau River again. But this time, the third major climb of the course, Mt Difficulty itself awaits us. When I reach the base of Mt Difficulty, it’s around midday so it’s taken me about 4 hours to do 18km. If you thought I couldn’t get any slower, then you’re wrong! The climb up Mt Difficulty is the worst of them all! It’s a painful, slow grind. It’s a 1020 metre climb over 3km. By now I’m feeling it and my legs have more than a slight tension so I scan the ground looking for a makeshift trekking pole. I eventually find a suitable stick that’s strong enough and free of thorns and carry on upwards. Oh my God, I’ve become one of those weirdos who uses a stick, I reflect. Going up Mt Difficulty is a slow procession. I interchange my stick freely between left and right hands depending on the terrain. Other times I have to grab onto thyme (or any other graspable bush without thorns) to haul myself up the mountain side. Sometimes I’m back on all fours crawling again. As I continue upwards, suddenly it’s like I’ve crossed an imaginary line into another world that’s been painted by a feathery hoar frost again. As I climb higher again, I eventually breach the clouds until I’m above the cloud line in an inversion layer basking in sunshine. Higher again, and the hoar frost turns into genuine snow. Nearing the top and having served its purpose, I ditch my trusty stick. Farewell good friend. I hope you enjoy your new home. To my amazement, the aid station at the top of Mt Difficulty (20.5km) has a small pie warmer powered by a generator. I help myself to a delectable chicken pie and carry on. That was unexpected. Terry must be getting soft. For the remainder of the run, Dr Stanley and I run together. The last 23km of the course is generally runnable (if you still had any running legs). However, running through thick snow is no conventional running activity and I’ve never run through so much snow in my life. My unfamiliarity in this environment was laid bare when I attempted to cross an iced over stream and came thundering down onto my left hip. I’m sure that if I was a 60 year old osteoporotic woman, I would’ve fractured my neck of femur such was the impact. After my third major fall, I was quite content to take it easy and simply get to the finish line in one piece. The course packed a few punches between 28-35km so there was a bit of walk/run transitioning. The final 8km was mainly downhill but no time to clock off as the snow/ice hazards were now replaced by equally hazardous wet grass and slippery mud. When Dr Stanley and I reached the Bannockburn Sluicings again, we knew we were close to home. We eventually crossed the finish line together around 4.30pm, 8 hours and 30 minutes after starting. Having now completed Mt Difficulty on three occasions (with two trekking poles, one trekking pole, and no trekking poles), I can conclude that poles are massively helpful on this course. Trekking poles are great for climbing and equally effective whilst descending as there’s less quads braking. Poles can offload your legs during the run saving you some gas in the tank for a strong finish. They also reduce your falls risk due to your extra points of contact with the ground. A friend of mine likes to give me ‘stick’ and calls them my ‘old man poles’. Mate, you just keep running your road marathons. Off road runs are an entirely different beast. Mt Difficulty is on another stratosphere. I’m just adapting to off road running. I’m just evolving. Running is Medicine.

Thanks to TheAfterWorkPhotographer for most of the photos.

Running through snow at the top of Mt Difficulty

Heading towards the finish line with Dr Andrew Stanley

Rugged up at the finish line (left to right: Claire, Esther, myself, Neena, Andrew, and Pete)

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

Before the start (from left to right – Me, Dr Neena Kalsi, Dr Andrew Stanley, Dr Esther O’Sullivan)

As mentioned, I don’t particularly like Mt Difficulty. Why? Because it’s hard. Really hard. That’s the truth of it. It pushes me to my limit and stretches me both physically and mentally. I like going to a new destination, seeing new scenery, spending time with friends, and the satisfaction of finishing. But I don’t like the whole 44km of the Mt Difficulty course. Parts of it I like. But not all of it. So, why do it? We are commonly advised to do physical activity that we like. Certainly, if one likes a particular type of exercise, they are more likely to keep doing it. But what if you don’t like to exercise? There are people amongst us who have no desire or inclination to exercise. The most honest excuse I come across – “I don’t like it” or “I don’t want to”. The reality is, the vast majority of us are hardwired to be fat, warm, and comfortable with little desire to engage in any exercise – particularly if it’s difficult. During medical school, I hated sitting behind my desk studying from 8am to 10.30pm. I did this for countless days, months, if not years. Saturday nights were the hardest as it felt like everyone else was having a great time except me. To help, I put a quote up in direct eye sight that said “If you like it, you’ll learn it. So learn to like it”. We all need to learn to like exercise. Also, you can’t expect to like exercise all of the time. Ultimately, physical activity needs to be added to the list of things you already habitually do but don’t necessarily enjoy e.g. brushing your teeth, cleaning up after you, cleaning the house, taking out the trash, and going to work on Monday. Though we may not like doing these things, we can still obtain the benefits and the satisfaction from doing these tasks. The most compelling reason you need to learn to like exercise is that it’s “use it or lose it from your 30s”. We start losing muscle strength and muscle fibre size from our late 20s. Our peak bone density is in our early 20s. Our maximum heart rate reduces by 10% a decade from our 30s. Our peak metabolic rate is during our late adolescence / early 20s and then our metabolism slows (ever wondered why weight loss during your middle-aged years was hard?) Our reaction times are best in our mid-20s. From then onwards, nerve impulses are conducted less efficiently due to myelin degeneration and our reflexes and coordination decline. Resting is rusting. Exercise defends thy youth and slows the aging process. I see a lot of patients in my clinic in their 40s to 60s with “injuries” when really life is starting to catch up with them. They present with pain and “injuries” from activities of daily living when actually it’s a reflection of aging gone bad. The more sedentary they are, the more it begins to blur with disease patterns. Aging causes a decline in fitness. But then our decline in fitness makes us age further. Truth be told, many of the things we attribute with aging are actually caused by disuse. And sadly, sitting back and putting your feet up because you’ve had a hard life will not ward off this relentless aging process. If you don’t learn to like exercise now, the alternate is learning to live with disease and premature aging. It’s use it or lose it from your 30s. What are you doing about it?

Early days heading up Nipple Hill

So here I am at the Mt Difficulty start line. Hopefully short term suffering for long term gain. It’s brisk but not as cold as it was in 2019 when there was snow and strong winds. I resist the temptation to put on too much clothing as I know we’ll be climbing soon. Better to be cold for a few minutes than having to stop 5-10 minutes into the run and delayer due to overheating. We all set off just after 8am. Dr Stanley and Esther race ahead while Neena holds back still clearly psyched out by the race director’s brief from the night before. As we head past the vineyards, we encounter the pleasant fragrance of wild thyme. However, from then on, all pleasantries stop as we begin to climb. The pre-race brief described Nipple Hill as the warm up but already my calves are burning, I’m heavy in breath, and sweat drips from my brow. The decent down Nipple Hill was an introduction to the ‘gnarly’ that was promised. The sharp descent demanded my full attention as I cautiously negotiate the loose soil and serrated rocky out crops. The next couple of kilometres is on undulating 4WD track along the Kawarau River until we hit the most significant climb of the race to date. A steep 500 metre climb over 1 km. This is where the madness starts. The orange markers take us straight up a trackless ridge. I manage to catch up to Esther (who is leaning forward so much she is almost fraternising with the ground) but there is no sight of Dr Stanley. After a slow toil to the top, it’s a relatively enjoyable run along a water course, more 4WD track, and along another ridge until I reach my nemesis from 2019 – the rope descent. After snapping my trekking pole previously, I was determined not to go head over heels this year. I put my poles away and switch to self-preservation mode and descend ‘abseiling style’ until I’m safely at the bottom. My elation on getting one up on the course this year is short lived as I approach the most formidable climb of the whole course – the ascent up Mt Difficulty itself. If the earlier climb was madness, then this is on a different stratosphere of disturbing. We are now required to ascend 1km over 3km. A welcome to the 30-minute kilometre that was promised earlier. By this stage the ground is at eye level and the preferred mode of movement is the scramble. The climb is relentless. So high that you climb above the clouds and the mountains are your only witness. Although there’s no snow on the top this year, the cold wind still bites so I can’t appreciate the view for too long. I’m also feeling slightly nauseous and dizzy which is my physiology telling me that I need to descend and head closer to sea level. For the remaining 20km I just roll with the punches determined not to be consumed by hate. There are a few more hills but I know that I’ve endured the worst of it. I eventually cross the finish line at 7 hrs and 40 minutes. On crossing, I manage to spot Dr Stanley. He is surrounded by two thirds of his entourage whilst being intermittently massaged. I can tell he’s been there for a while by the remnants of his pizza and almost finished craft beer. That’s a pretty impressive effort for a guy in his late 50s. Though we may not like exercise that is hard, we still need to occasionally punish our bodies to extend our lives. Nothing worth doing is easy. Learn to like exercise. If you do, you’ll find an ally to defend your youth. Running is medicine. Join me at my next blog, the Resilience Ultra in early August.

The procession up Mt Difficulty

Over the clouds and still climbing

At the start surrounded by wine vats with Dr Andrew Stanley (left) and Dr Bella Henzell (right)

It was quite a gentle start along the roads and vineyards. There was also a beautiful smell of thyme in the fresh mountain air. The ascent up Nipple Hill got the heart rate and legs going and we were rewarded with a spectacular Central Otago sunrise and alpine views. The introduction to the ‘gnarly’ was in the form of a technical descent down Nipple Hill surrounded by perilous drops. Wisely, I packed my trekking poles in a bid to shift the odds further away from death. The next major ascent up a ridge was an appetiser of the difficulty to come. This was where the trail stopped and the orange tape started. A slow ‘straight up’ along any sheep or goat track you could find. This was followed by a pleasant short runnable section along a river. The next downhill cliff section was when things started to get a bit serious and a tad crazy. The gradient was so steep that a rope had to be installed in order to meet legal requirements. I attempted to negotiate the cliff with my trusty trekking poles instead of using the rope. However, this proved to be ill advised as I slipped on loose gravel and came crashing down to earth with a ‘snap’. Luckily I managed to avoid careening down the cliff face and thankfully the ‘snap’ was only the sound of a trekking pole breaking rather than my femur or tibia. Blood drawn, I paused, put away my defunct trekking poles and attempted to refocus. I descended using the recommend bum sliding technique utilising five points of contact. The scary thing was that the race briefing said that this section was only the warm up. I reached the aid station at the bottom of the cliff which also doubled up as an important race junction. Turn left towards Mt Difficulty and carry on. Or turn right with the 25km competitors and head home. One trekking pole down and slightly shaken, I turned left. Away from ease and towards difficulty.

Heading down Nipple Hill as the sun rises

Hard versus easy. Why do hard? It would be fair to say that most people don’t want to do hard all the time. However, how many people out there are always looking for ease in this ‘work smarter not harder’ era? There is no challenge in ease. You cannot grow as a person surrounded by ease. With exercise/life you have to do hard sometimes. Not all the time, just sometimes. Doing hard things makes you appreciate ease. Doing hard things changes you. Although hard things risk failure, there is nothing wrong with failure. It is easy to stay in your comfort zone. But it is far more rewarding to explore your ‘edge’ and risk failure. You may not realise it, but because of your failures, you run faster. Because of your failures, you can run longer. Failure is not a bad thing. Failure makes you stronger! Going up Mt Difficulty is hard work. By now I am scrambling up a vertical kilometre using my hands with fingers full of thistles. I avoid getting intimate with the ‘prickly Spaniard’ plant and search for handfuls of thyme which provide a secure grasp. The climb up Mt Difficulty seems to take forever and is tough going. The multiple false peaks do my head in. I maintain resolve by telling myself to keep going until I hit sky. Eventually I climb high enough and reach the snowline. Onward and upward, I reach the aid station at the top of Mt Difficulty. I test the waters by asking “I guess it’s all downhill from here?” The long silent pause reveals the brutal truth. There was more snow, hard, and harder ahead. Maybe this was the ‘hate’ the race organiser promised. As the climbs kept coming, so too did the winds, sleet, and ominous snow clouds. The good thing is that nothing stays hard forever. Hard eventually gives way to ease. Eight kilometres from the end, a rainbow forms in the distance. I push further away from the mountain and head closer towards the rainbow (and sanity). I’m oblivious to what the time is but I sense the nine hour cut off is approaching as the light fades with the setting sun. As the downhill turns to flat and more vineyards, I know the end is near. More than 8hrs and 40 mins later, the hard lets up and I surrender across the finish line. The hot pizzas at the finish are a treat. Sometimes you have to search for hard in order to find ease. Running is medicine. Join me at my next blog, the WUU-2k Marathon mid July.

Snow running at the top of Mt Difficulty