At the Tahoe 200 race registration (left to right: Dr Stanley, Courtney, myself, Shane)

The start of the Tahoe 200

Remarkably those ahead of me are running quite fast. I settled towards the back of the start with my good running friend Dr Andrew Stanley and we agreed to run this thing together. I’d been working hard in the lead up trying to convince Stanley to start as slow as comfortably possible as often he lets his untamed testosterone get ahead of him. As this was my first ever 200 miler, I had no intentions to start fast. Start as you hope to finish. And in reality, I’d be doing well if I was vertical yet alone running in 4 days time! I’d read that the first couple of hours of previous editions of the Tahoe 200 had been bogged down by what became known as a “conga line”. This conga line would be about 10km long as runners bottlenecked from the start onto single trail where passing was difficult. To help prevent this, a fortnight prior, the race organisers decided to add a new 1.5 mile section on the road around the Tramway Loop before hitting the trail to help spread the field out. Though some initially protested the change, I quickly accepted the extra 2.5 km. I figured I’d travelled all this way to America so I might as well get my money’s worth. However, I was determined to stay disciplined and not go too fast along this new very runnable road section. By the time Dr Stanley and I had finished this 2.5km loop in just over 20 minutes, we were in the back half of the pack. We left the cheering crowds behind us and headed up into the single trail. The course (and climbing) began in earnest.

Heading up into single trail after the Tramway Loop

Prior to the race we broke the course down into 3 big sections. The start at Heavenly to Housewife Hill and back (100km), Heavenly to the turnaround point at Tahoe City (approx. 110km), and Tahoe City back to the finish at Heavenly (approx. 110km). The first section was rumoured to be the hardest as it required us to cross over Armstrong Pass twice which was the highest point of the course at approximately 2950 metres. As we climbed out of Heavenly, the field of 250 had spread out quite nicely. The extra 1.5 mile road section at the start had clearly worked as there was no noticeable “conga line”. The first aid station was 26km away at Armstrong Pass which meant we had to be relatively self-sufficient for around 6 hours between aid stations. As I crossed over the trail border from Nevada to California, I was nicely into my grove. Walk the hills, shuffle the straights, and run the downs. I also focused on priming my gut for the next 100 hours ahead. Sip and nibble. Sip and nibble. Small amounts of food and drink consistently to fuel my muscles without overwhelming my gut. After passing the picturesque Star Lake, we encountered increasing remnants of snow as we approached Armstrong Pass. Due to less sunlight on the north-facing slopes, the trail eventually disappeared under thick snow. For the next 2km, we trudged through a makeshift trail in the snow guided by pink ribbon attached to available tree branches. The snow was high enough that it covered tree trunks which meant we had to stay on the firmly packed ice trail. However, in the noon sun, the ice was beginning to melt and it became slippery in sections. A few runners fell around me and I also passed a participant with a broken Leki pole that was a notable early casualty. It made me thankful for my own trusty Black Diamond trekking poles and in hindsight, shoe traction spikes would’ve been helpful. It was hence somewhat of a relief to summit the top as the snow instantly disappeared on the south-facing trail. It was then all downhill to the aid station whilst negotiating a few waterways from snow melt along the way. By the time Dr Stanley and I reached Armstrong Pass aid station, it was around 1.30pm and we were about 1.5 hours ahead of schedule. We didn’t spend too long there. We simply topped up our drinks and I rammed fruit and sandwiches down my mouth as I left. I remember seeing one guy completely relubing his feet 4.5 hours into the race. I had no problems with my feet but it left a lingering thought. Surely that’s too early. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it right?

Heading up and over the course highest point at Armstrong Pass with Dr Stanley

Heading down into Armstrong Pass aid station

The next section to Housewife Hill was ‘enjoyable’. Other than the sharp climb leaving Armstrong Pass aid station and a 2-3km climb past Big Meadow (a rare large clearing not covered by pine trees), the majority of this 27km section was downhill with about 1200m of descent. Any residual snow on the trail was minimal and trail conditions were good for sustained running. Hence, the focus was on a controlled downhill running pace whilst keeping the ego in check. Dr Stanley and I made good time to the turnaround point at Housewife Hill arriving around 6pm just in time for dinner! After snacking on Doritos chips, mixed nuts, lollies, and Stinger mini waffles all day, I was looking forward to some real food and boy did Housewife Hill deliver! On entering the aid station, a young boy around 10 years of age asked what I wanted to eat. “Would you like anything hot to eat?” “Yes please,” I responded. “A burger or quesadilla?”. “Burger please!” I exclaimed. “What would you like with your burger? Cheese, tomato, lettuce, pickle? Any sauce?” “Everything please!” You’d be hard pressed to find anything better than hot food to lift a trail runner’s spirits and for me, a hot burger is the ultimate morale lifter. I was in the middle of nowhere, sitting on a deck chair, 50km into a 200 miler and yet that cheese burger tasted like the best cheese burger I’ve ever had in my life. A long, cold night lay ahead of me but in that short moment, I was happy and content. And when you’re happy and content, there aren’t many life challenges that will phase you.

Heading towards Housewife Hill aid station with Dr Stanley

Dr Stanley and I left Housewife Hill around 6.30pm giving us at least 2 hours of daylight before sunset at 8.30pm. The ascent out of Housewife Hill was a bit technical and rocky so it was good to do this section in daylight. Although we were well ahead of schedule, Dr Stanley seemed determined to ‘attack’ the 6km ascent out of Housewife Hill and I wasn’t sure why. Was he keen to get back to Heavenly ASAP to sleep before sunrise? Did someone put special sauce in his burger? Or was it the petite lady with the French accent ahead of us? I mulled this over for a bit as I tried to keep up with him. Breathing heavily whilst trying to down a quesadilla that I took for the road. When it became dark, our pace naturally slowed. The small group that we ascended with eventually fragmented so it was back to Stanley and I again. I had a few stoppages along the way as my water pack was leaking and I couldn’t figure out why. When we did stop, any stoppage was limited as no amount of insect repellent seemed to deter the bugs that were having a field day around Big Meadow. Eventually, I realised that I would just have to put up with this slow leak. Every so often, I would wring out the tail of my shirt to prevent water leaking down my shorts. This wasn’t ideal during the night but I also didn’t want to ditch my water as we still had a big 1200 metre climb back to Armstrong. We eventually arrived back at Armstrong Pass aid station around 2am. I’d heard in the lead up to Tahoe 200 that the days were hot and the nights were cold and this proved to be accurate. The aid station was freezing! Runners hovered over camp fires whilst others were wrapped up in blankets. I used the break as an opportunity to switch out my 2L water bladder for 500mL water flasks. Although smaller flasks meant I would need to stop more often to change flasks mid run, I couldn’t afford to have chilled water running down my back all night. The cold was such that I was shaking and my hand/finger coordination was challenging. Despite this, I managed to address the problem and sort my life out. After a very quick toilet stop, we both hightailed out of the aid station and started ascending again. The dark smothered us and there didn’t seem to be much star light as we reached the highest point of the course for the second time. We then had to descend the icy makeshift trail we’d ascended earlier which was much harder in the dark. The pink ribbon which was helpful during the day was unsighted in the dark so I was very reliant on my watch for navigation. Various groups of trail runners were on different parts of the snow as we all tried to work out which was the correct trail to follow. The concentration was such that the glucose demand was high which meant refuelling regularly whilst carefully keeping your feet. Life became a bit easier when we reached Star Lake again and it was good to get back on firm trail. Time seemed to pass slowly but eventually the sunrise spilled over Carson Valley. With the sun up, I was keen to getting shuffling again. Make hay while the sun shines so to say. However, for the first time, Dr Stanley protests when I attempt to pick up the pace. “My nausea gets worse if I go too fast!” It was the first time he mentioned it. I didn’t think too much of it at the time. After all, nausea/GI upset is such a common symptom in trail running that I just expected an experienced trail runner like himself to deal with it. Crossing back over from California to Nevada, Stanley maintained a fast walk whilst I held a slower shuffle. We eventually arrived back in Heavenly around 6.30am Saturday with a cumulative time of 21.5 hours over 100km. As we’d expected to get to Heavenly by 10.30am, we were well ahead of schedule. It was hence good to see our two-person support crew (my wife Courtney and my cousin Shane) ready to receive us. Courtney had prepared hashbrowns and Shane offered me chocolate milk. I tucked into the hashbrowns and nervously downed the chocolate milk. I knew I needed all the energy I could get and we had a scheduled two hour sleep stop here. I was a bit unsure about the merits of stopping to sleep at Heavenly. We were never likely to arrive before sunrise and I knew that sleeping after sunrise can be difficult. However, as Heavenly was the first dedicated sleep station and this was our first 200 miler, we decided to be conservative and make the most of the sleep station. The medical team had also recommended that participants start sleeping no later than night 2 and ideally sooner (around 24-40 hours in) so it seemed sensible to stop. After eating our breakfast, we headed into the large communal sleeping area in Heavenly Stage Coach Lodge. Courtney and Shane had reserved two stretcher beds for us. Our sleeping bags, inflatable pillows, eye masks, and ear plugs were laid down ready for us. Courtney then set an alarm for two hours. I stripped down and hopped into my sleeping bag. My feet reeked like something dead so Courtney and Shane hastily left the room as I attempted to close my eyes.

Hashbrowns for breakfast at Heavenly aid station

At Heavenly aid station with Courtney

Leaving Heavenly aid station with Dr Stanley

After about an hour and 45 minutes, I had had enough. Dr Stanley was already out of his bed too. I think I slept but it was broken sleep. The door into the lodge kept banging as people came and went but the fatigue seemed to drown out some of the noise. I think I felt a little bit better but there was certainly no miraculous reincarnation. 100km done, 225km to go. I eased out of bed and whilst getting changed, I had a sudden urge to toilet. Oh God, that chocolate milk. I won’t be doing that again. Not to be deterred, I had a second breakfast of pancakes, Dr Pepper, and orange juice. Shane replaced my leaking water bladder which somehow sustained a small incision back at Housewife Hill. He gave me a new bladder filled with ice and it was time to hit the trail again. Dr Stanley and I left Heavenly at 9.30am well ahead of schedule and the cut off time of 3pm. With Courtney and Shane cheering us on, we ascended out of Heavenly again in relatively high spirits. The first section was completed. The next big goal was the turnaround point at Tahoe City (213km), the medium-term goal was Village Green (160km) where we planned to sleep again, and the short-term goal was Spooner Summit aid station which was 30km away. Annoyingly, after a couple of kilometres, I had developed new hot spots on both my heels. As my feet had stunk so much, Courtney had recommended that I change my socks which I eventually agreed to. But now I was getting hot spots on my heels which was atypical for me. I decided best to sort this out early so I told Stanley to keep going whilst I stopped on a rock to relube my feet again. I’d had no problems with my feet until now and it seemed to coincide with changing my socks. I won’t be doing that again. I eventually caught up with Stanley who by now was walking a very runnable downhill section. “My nausea is quite bad. I can’t run,” he confides. “Well, you’re going to have to make nausea your friend!” I respond. “I’m not sure about that!” he responded sharply. Apparently, Courtney had given him anti-nausea tablets at Heavenly and he had felt better after his sleep and breakfast smoothie but now his nausea had returned. “I’ve had this nausea ever since Housewife Hill and it’s not going away,” he tells me. “Well, you’re doing pretty good to get this far with nausea! The cut off at Heavenly was 3pm so we’ve got plenty of time. We just need to get to Village Green for another sleep and hopefully you’ll feel better!” I urge. “Village Green’s a long way away,” he responds. “Well just get to Spooner Summit then!” I counter. “Even Spooner will be tough,” he responds. I sense Stanley is wavering but I don’t know how hard to push him. Desire and motivation must come from within. We’d just stopped for a good 2.5 hours and I wasn’t too keen to stop again. We converse for a while longer until at some point, we mutually agree to part. “Maybe you should lie down for a bit and see if that makes you feel better. Or just keep walking slowly,” I advise. We’d been together for 24 hours. We’d also agreed to complete this race together which made this all the more painful. We gave our reluctant goodbyes and I left Stanley with “I hope to see you again.” I turned around and continued running downhill. Tears welled up in my eyes. One can experience the whole spectrum of human emotion during an ultra-distance race and any feeling is amplified. I couldn’t suppress the hurt. And my tears flowed.

At the top of Spooner Summit with Lake Tahoe in the background

It’s Saturday midday. I’m by myself and it’s hideously hot. I’m carrying 3 litres of water but I’m worried it’s not enough. I’d already accumulated 100km of physiological strain and today was hotter than yesterday. It’s also a slow gradual 900 metre elevation gain to Spooner Summit and each climb is paid with a gulp of water. Water discipline is not easy. I realise that I have to go slower than desired to conserve water. I seek the shade on the trail and avoid running in direct sunlight. I take small sips. I pass others who are experiencing the same but they’ve stopped to rest and I’ve kept going. Slow and steady does it. There is a wooden bench at the top of Spooner Summit which offers a magnificent view of the whole of Lake Tahoe. It’s not too breezy and I’m tempted to stop and enjoy the view but I keep going. When I finally reach the downhill section, I pay back my dehydration and drink more freely. I eventually get to Spooner Summit aid station (130km) around Saturday 4.45pm. Spooner aid station was a no crew access aid station which meant I had to be self-sufficient again. I rehearsed in my mind what I needed to do even before I reached the aid station. I was determined to get in, get what I needed, and get out. On arriving, I went about topping up my water supply. I reapplied sun screen, relubricated my feet, ate a freshly served meatball dinner, put my headlight in an easily accessible place, and toileted before leaving the aid station. On preparing to leave, there was no sight of Dr Stanley. “195 checking out. Thank you!” I advised the aid station crew. I left Spooner by 5.30pm with renewed focus and a big carrot dangling in front of me. The sooner I get to Village Green (30km away), the longer I could sleep!

Heading towards Snow Valley Peak with Marlette Lake (and Lake Tahoe) in the background

Leaving Spooner aid station, I was determined to make the most of the 3 hours of sunlight I had left. It was a pretty lonely 5-6km ascent to Snow Valley Peak and I only saw one other runner accompanied with his pacer. Leaving the shelter of the tree line, there were some pretty strong wind gusts up top. I passed Marlette Lake with Lake Tahoe in the background as the sun was beginning to set. Thankfully, the sun kept me warm enough despite the wind and I was grateful that I wasn’t doing this section in the dark. As I passed Marlette Campground (the half way point of this section) the day had transitioned to night and it was time for headlamps again. The section between Marlette Campground and Tunnel Creek Road was actually quite challenging in the dark. The sandy trail seemed to disappear easily amongst the white rocks and frequent switchbacks so you had to remain focused. The final 6km descent down Tunnel Creek Road into Incline Village wasn’t any easier. The gravel road was particularly hard on your joints and it was a rather painful descent. When I reached the bottom, it was a nerve-racking road crossing across Route 28 negotiating speeding cars and trucks in the night. I then turned into the much quieter Lakeshore Boulevard (also known as ‘Millionaires’ Row’ for its high-end real estate) for the final stretch of road into Village Green. Shuffling along Millionaires’ Row in the dark, it seemed like every normal person had gone to sleep for the night. Determined to make the most of the flat asphalt road so that I could get to the aid station in good time, I picked up my speed. Slightly zoned out and shuffling along, I suddenly came to an abrupt halt. About 5-10 metres ahead of me was a bear! After 100 miles (160km) and more than 36 hours of running, I calmly tried to remember that damn poem. If it’s brown, lay down. If it’s black, fight back. It’s black. F***, this is the last thing I need. I slowly raised my trekking poles above my head so I looked 2.5 metres tall and stared it directly in the face with my bright headlamp. The bear began to cross the road in front of me, alternating between looking ahead to where it was going and then back at me. It didn’t appear to be looking for any trouble as it disappeared into the night. I must’ve interrupted it from crossing the road, I thought. However, fixed to the spot, I was now left with a dilemma. Should I continue shuffling and risk being chased? After a few long seconds, I got my feet shuffling again. After about 30 seconds of bracing for a sudden counterattack, it never eventuated and I began to relax. On a bit of an adrenaline high, I arrived at Village Green aid station at 11.15pm well ahead of my scheduled Sunday 3.45am arrival. I had no idea whether my support crew would be here. Our previous plan was for Courtney and Shane to leave our rental car at Incline Village School near the aid station and Stanley and I would sleep in the back of the car. However, I was more than 4 hours ahead of schedule and Stanley and I had now separated. As I approached the aid station, I couldn’t see Shane or Courtney anywhere. I naturally gravitated towards the warm fire. A kind gentleman asked me if I wanted any hot food such as pizza or quesadilla. A bit out of my mind, I asked for meat lovers pizza to which he responded “We have pepperoni, Hawaiian, or cheese!” I settled for pepperoni pizza and a quesadilla and sat in front of the fire when my cousin Shane suddenly appeared by my side. What a relief! He’d also brought some Chick-fil-A chicken nuggets for me so all of a sudden, I had a smorgasbord in front of me. He then filled me in that Stanley had pulled the pin just after Heavenly due to nausea and an inability to fuel properly. I was disappointed but it did simplify matters. It’s just me now. I was making such good time that we discussed whether I tackle ‘Powerline’ during the night. I could then carry on to Brockway Summit and sleep at the dedicated sleep station there. However, he told me that Courtney was already in bed in preparation to pace me in the morning. So as not to complicate matters, we decided to stick to the original plan. I would go to sleep here and carry on again in the morning. I left the aid station shivering just as a female runner arrived. “I’m going to sleep here for an hour and then carry on,” she advised her support crew. I said some blasphemous words to myself. Somewhere in this car park was a Jeep Compass with an air mattress and sleeping bag in the back with my name on it. Powerline could wait until tomorrow.

Eating pizza at Village Green aid station

Training to sleep in the back of the car with Dr Stanley

Tucked away in the back of the Jeep for the night at Village Green

I slept in the back of our Jeep from midnight until 4.30am and emerged human again. In true commitment to his support crew role, Shane had slept in the front seat of the car as my dedicated alarm clock whilst my GPS watch was charged overnight. Although it was broken sleep, I felt much better after 4.5 hours of rest. Today hopes that we have learnt something from yesterday so I put my learnings into practice. No chocolate milk for breakfast and no changing of socks! I lubricated my feet and put the same rancid socks on again. I headed back to the aid station for breakfast whilst Shane left to pick up Courtney. The good news was that I was officially half way (160km). The sobering news was that I was only halfway. I was now entering unknown territory beyond my accustomed 100 mile ventures so life was bound to become interesting. By the time I’d finished my pancake breakfast, Courtney had arrived ready for her pacing duties. The next section was to Brockway Summit aid station which was 21km long with 970 metres of elevation gain. ‘Powerline’ was responsible for much of that elevation. Courtney and I left Village Green aid station (cut off Sunday 8.30am) by 5.45am for a cumulative time of 37 hours and 45 mins. Walking along Millionaires’ Row again, Powerline lay heavy on my mind. Powerline is a steep section of trail that follows powerlines. It is the steepest section of the Tahoe 200 course with a 13% gradient over 3.5kms. I’d done it a couple of times prior with fresh legs and it was tough. One can only imagine the sensations after 100 miles. Thankfully, it was still early in the morning so we ascended Powerline completely in the shade. It was great to have Courtney as company and we both enjoyed the spectacular view at the top together. Feeling reasonably strong after my 4.5 hour rest at Village Green, we arrived at Brockway Summit aid station (180km) around Sunday 10.30am. Shane hadn’t arrived yet so Courtney and I found some spare seats in the shade where we could rest and put our feet up. Courtney’s pacing duties ended at Brockway and she wasn’t rostered to join me again until the 265km mark and final 60km of the race. It wasn’t long until Shane arrived running down the road carrying our trusty chilly bin whilst sweating profusely. He pulled out some iced orange juice and Dr Pepper and joined us for a drink. I ordered a “Burger with everything” and relubed my feet again. I hadn’t had any feet problems since Heavenly so this routine seemed to be working. Remarkably, I hadn’t relubed my groin since the start of the race. My new Runderwear also seemed to be doing the trick despite more than 48 hours of use. I’d heard that lube may actually impair the wicking properties of the Runderwear fabric so I avoided lubing this area. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it right? I left Brockway Summit on schedule at Sunday 11.30am. My ‘get to the next aid station’ mindset seemed to be working but I had bigger plans for the next section. My goal was to get back to Brockway Summit again by Monday 1am. That would mean heading out to the Tahoe City turnaround point and then quickly leaving – 60 km in 13.5 hours. If I could get back by Monday 1am, I’d be able to have another 4 hour overnight rest which would put me in good stead to finish as scheduled sometime after Tuesday midnight. I left Brockway Summit determined.

Heading down to Brockway Summit aid station

At Brockway Summit aid station with Courtney and Shane

Courtney concerned about the integrity of the family jewels at Brockway Summit

Brockway Summit to Tahoe City was a 30km stretch. The challenging part was that this section needed to be completed in the heat of the day and you needed enough water for 6-8 hours. Unless you were comfortable drinking treated water from Watson Lake or its tributaries (about 10km in), for most of us, it meant carrying at least 3 litres of water during this leg (which I did for all legs actually). This on top of your snacks and compulsory/recommended warm gear, meant travelling light was difficult during the Tahoe 200. The large 6-8 hour gaps between aid stations also meant that you couldn’t risk being found short or wanting so you tended to leave aid stations well refurbished and (hopefully) prepared for any contingency. Thankfully, other than the heat, I had no real problems on the way to Tahoe City. I maintained a good steady uphill hiking pace and was still able to run the downs. There was another big 6km descent into Tahoe City which was mostly runnable bar a few rocky technical sections. I’m going to have to go up this bastard again. I eventually arrived at Tahoe City at Sunday 5.30pm making such good time that I’d beat my support crew. I spotted another runner with his partner at the aid station who had his shoes off and feet up so I asked if they wouldn’t be offended if I did the same. I sat next to them and was then given a cold coke by one of the volunteers who noticed that I was by myself. About 10-15 minutes later, Courtney and Shane arrived bearing gifts of food and drink. I asked them for ‘something substantial’ to get me through the night and they delivered with baked potato and chicken tenders from the local bar and some iced orange juice. Whilst eating my meal, Courtney suggested that it would be a good idea if she paced me from Brockway Summit (80km to the finish) rather than Village Green (60km to the finish). “That’s a big shift! I advised. “You’ll need to be self sufficient and prepared for more than 24 hours,” I added. She was undeterred so we agreed on the change of plans. Because of this, I reckoned that it was best that Courtney and Shane have the night off tonight. Rather than go to Brockway Summit at some crazy hour after midnight, I suggested that they just meet me there at 5am and get some good rest. I knew crewing could be as tiring as racing. It would also spare them the stress of driving during the night on the right-hand side of unfamiliar roads. Before leaving Tahoe City, Courtney recommended that I brush my teeth (I hadn’t done this since Heavenly) and change my clothes. My last change of socks wasn’t a positive experience so I wasn’t keen on changing anything. Concerned about my level of hygiene she responded, “Well at least change your underwear then!” Another female competitor who had been eavesdropping on our conversation chimed in with “You’ll feel better for it!” Feeling henpecked, I made the reluctant change (I would come to regret this later). By the time I left Tahoe City at 6.30pm, I’d completed 215km for a cumulative time of 56 hours and 30 minutes. Leaving Tahoe City was a huge psychological lift. It meant that I was now heading back towards the start/finish. However, Tahoe City was also the lowest point of the course so climbing out of here wasn’t going to be easy. A bit anxious of what lay ahead, I chugged back a Dr Pepper with a couple of paracetamol/caffeine tablets. Hopefully this would get me through my third night on the course.

At the top of a climb heading towards Tahoe City

Feet up and eating at Tahoe City aid station

Heading back out, it was nice to see a few familiar faces I had seen earlier. The camaraderie of the Tahoe 200 was amazing and probably the best I’ve ever experienced. Everyone was so encouraging of each other and having two out and back sections meant you often saw the same competitors throughout the race. As I slowly headed back up the 6km climb out of Tahoe City, I meet Tia from Canada for the first time. Initially I heard someone making good ground behind me whilst coughing so I moved to the side of the trail. “No, you don’t want me ahead of you with my cough!” she stated. Thinking she would eventually just pass me, I carried on with my slow sustainable pace. “I’ve been coughing for hours and now I’ve got my period.” I heard from behind me. Woah. What the hell. She’d met me for all of a minute and felt comfortable disclosing this information. “That doesn’t sound pleasant,” was my understated response. “You’re the first person I’ve really spoken to during this time,” she replied. For the next couple of hours, Tia from Canada told me all about her life. Her job as a paramedic/firefighter, her husband and two sons, her previous 200 miler experience (this was her second 200 miler), and her preparation for this race. Apparently, she had flown from her home at sea level the day before the race and hence she was not acclimatized to altitude. In addition to her cough and period, she had also been having hallucinations. She told me that she had been avoiding sleep as sleeping made her cough worse. “You know you really need to sleep,” I counselled. Our medical brief had recommended that we sleep 30-60 mins per night “to avoid loss of mental function and avoid hallucinations” and how one could have a medical DNF due to “extreme hallucinations or losing touch with reality”. I didn’t probe Tia about the content of her hallucinations but she seemed very in touch with her current reality. I gave her a short medical ‘Altitude 101’ and concluded that I’d be surprised if she was feeling well after arriving from sea level to altitude the day before competing in a 200 miler. After a while I opened up to Tia. I told her that I had come from New Zealand 5 weeks earlier with my running mate Stanley and how we managed to run the whole course as training before the race. I told her how Stanley and I had hoped to finish this run together but how he discontinued just after Heavenly due to nausea. Tia wasn’t one to fluff around with her words. When I explained what had happened to most other competitors who noticed that I was now running by myself, the general response was “I’m sorry to hear.” Not Tia. “I hate quitters,” was her response. She then told me about how she was involved in the selection of firefighters back home. “We set them difficult but physically achievable tasks. If they show any hint of mental weakness, we pull them.” Interested by this, I probed further. “But do you tell them that? That they have a mental weakness?” “No,” she replied “We just tell them that they weren’t selected.” Thinking back to similar experiences I’d encountered in medicine I added. “It’s a difficult conversation to have isn’t it? No one will ever admit to a mental weakness. In fact, it’s completely the opposite. Patients whom I think may have this issue, generally think they’re strong since they’ve had to endure so much suffering. The tough just seem to find a way. And if there is no way, they just get on with it. Telling anyone that they have a mental weakness is an unpopular conversation. And hence doctors invariably don’t do this as well.” We continued chatting until it was almost dark when suddenly, I had a violent urge to toilet. Shit. I’d overdone the caffeine. I told Tia that I had to go urgently and raced into the bushes. After 3 days of toileting successfully at aid stations, I finally succumbed to my first bush toilet. Having just been humbled by my poor squat endurance, the event’s ‘leave no trace’ principle meant that I now had the honour of taking my caffeine induced crap with me. By the time I emerged from the bush, it was well and truly dark and I was by myself again. In saying that, I didn’t really mind as being by myself meant that I could really tune in to what my body needed to get me through the night. I passed quite a few people during the night though I never saw Tia again. She’d either found a second wind or followed through with her plan of having a ‘dirt nap’ that night. How people were managing to sleep on the trail for any period of time was beyond me. The night was chilly enough and I was moving! Shrouded by night, my pace naturally slowed and time seemed to drag on. The section from the top of the first climb to Watson Lake seemed to go on forever. The next 10km from Watson Lake back to Brookway Summit seemed to take even longer! With less than 5km to go to the aid station, for the first time, I began to experience uncomfortable chafing in my pants. I postulated that this was either due to my change of Runderwear at Tahoe City, a reaction to the wet wipes I’d used during my bush toilet, more than 60 hours of running, or quite possibly, all of the above. It didn’t slow me down but I knew this could be a problem. I eventually arrived at Brockway Summit aid station (245km) around Monday 1.45am which was 45 minutes behind schedule. The aid station was quiet and cold. I had three priorities on arriving. Perform hygiene measures down under, eat some food, and get straight to bed. I managed to find a free tent with 2 stretchers in it and crawled into my sleeping bag. It was so cold! I grabbed all four blankets available in the tent and put them on top of me. I lay on my stretcher eating my quesadilla as I gazed up into the night sky through an opening in the tent ceiling. The time was now 2.30am. I was supposed to set my alarm at 4am for a 5am start but I couldn’t stomach that. I set my alarm for 4.30am and tapped out for the night.

Leaving Tahoe City aid station with Shane

The start of the long climb out of Tahoe City

I had another restless and broken sleep. The night was so, so cold. I could feel the cold air like a fan was blowing cold air upwards either side of my thermal mat. I had a visitor during the night who took the spare stretcher next to me. Sometime after that, others would poke their head torches in looking for any spare beds. Eventually the noise of zips and talking reached such a crescendo that I realised it was time to leave. It sounded like a big group of runners had just arrived and they were all looking for a place to sleep. When I rolled over, I noticed that someone had taken the blankets that had once covered me. They say that a DNF occurs when the effort required exceeds the desire to continue. Throughout most of this race, I had maintained a manageable effort. But now in this tent, my desire was pretty low. My wife had told me in no uncertain terms that she had expected me to finish. I had travelled to the USA weeks before the race in order to train. I had left my wife by herself to look after our two kids (and anxious dog) for 4 weeks. I had missed my 10-year-old daughter’s birthday for this (apparently double-digit birthdays are a big thing). I was financially and emotionally invested in this race. The problem being, desire doesn’t always get you out of bed. It was cold outside, I was tired, and I felt like shit. When desire is low, one needs to fall back to discipline. So, lying in my sleeping bag I said out loud the words that my brain needed to hear. “Discipline doesn’t care how you feel” and I got out of bed.

Early Monday morning at Brockway Summit aid station with Courtney

It’s 4.45am on a chilly Monday at Brockway Summit, Lake Tahoe. I’m sitting by the camp fire next to Shane and Courtney sipping my hot chocolate whilst forcing shredded potato down me for breakfast. I hear someone ask for the weather forecast but its blatantly obvious. Hot days and cold nights. Enter John (aka the South African who moved to Canada for a better life whom I ran with earlier) who has just arrived into the aid station and joins us by the camp fire. “Does anybody have any ideas for real bad chafing?” he loudly broadcasts. “Right IN THERE” he adds with that passionate South African accent. I’d noticed that he didn’t look too flash as he walked in so now it all made sense. It was hard to know who he was asking but he appeared to be looking directly at me so I answered “Mate, good hygiene, frequent lube, and good underpants.” “I’ve tried that,” he countered. “I’ve been carrying lube in my pockets and applying it every 15 minutes but it isn’t working. I don’t think I can keep doing this for another 80km. There must be another way. I’m desperate!” he exclaims. I presume someone who is the medic gives his 2 cents worth until John interrupts with the unspeakable words “Can I put tape up there?” and now he is in full flight. “Surely someone must have had this problem before. There must be some kind of tape. I can check on Reddit!” he continues. I turn my gaze to those around me who all appear to be listening intently like this is a completely normal topic to discuss around breakfast. I presume it is the medic again who mentions the possibility of Kinesio or K-tape though he would need to shave this area first. I felt for John. I was experiencing chafing symptoms myself but this seemed like pretty drastic measures. My concern was, what if the tape didn’t work? Or, what if the tape causes other problems? Regardless, John was desperate and last I saw, he was walking away with his partner to get his balls shaved. I never saw John again. Though amazingly, he managed to finish.

Leaving Brockway Summit aid station for the last time

By 5am on my fourth morning, I’m back on the trail with Courtney. I’d done 245 km and for the first time, my wheels are starting to come off. It’s cold and I’m stiff in all the wrong places. My first kilometre had taken me more than 30 minutes. I’m sore and grumpy and I’m trying to warm up, but I just can’t find my grove. I’m hesitant to take pain relief as I wanted to save this for later when I really needed it. However, I eventually realise that I really need it now so I succumb to more paracetamol. As I ascend Brockway Summit, my body starts to feel better but now the chafing kicks in. And it ain’t pleasant. I press on hoping it will ‘warm up’ like yesterday but it just seems to be getting worse. It hurts to walk and it hurts to run. I realise that this is now a major problem and could stop me from finishing the race so I’m taking my frustration out on my poor wife. What followed was a stop start period of mayhem. I would put lube on. Courtney would put lube on. Underwear off. Underwear back on. Wedgy. No wedgy. Underwear off again. The only thing that seemed to work was if I forcibly held my butt cheeks apart with my hands. But this was impossible to do for any significant period of time whilst moving. Eventually, I realised that I had exhausted all options bar one. Suck it up buttercup. I had an idea that I could try at the next aid station but I would need to get there first. I knew that the mind magnifies any problem it thinks about so I made a concerted effort to think of anything other than my perineum pain. Not long after all this carnage, someone had managed to catch up to us and asked “Do you mind if I join you two?” To my surprise it is Tia again! I sense Courtney is a bit unsettled that I’m familiar with this blonde woman of reproductive age who is easy on the eye so I try de-escalate the situation. “Courtney this is Tia. Tia this is my wife. I met Tia last night coming out of Tahoe City.” I elaborated. “Yeah” Tia replied. “He told me everything I did wrong!” So much for the altitude education, I thought. Before long, they seemed to be engaging in small talk which for Tia translated as “I’m bleeding from my nose and vagina.” As they began to converse, I started to warp into my own world. We managed a slow and steady ascent up Brockway Summit. Through pine forest, wild flowers, and under clear blue sky. I tried to connect with the environment to help distract me from my own suffering. As nice as it was to be accompanied by Courtney, I also took some comfort in being accompanied by a fellow sufferer. I’d always known that a 200 mile was more than physical. Yes, you needed physical fitness. But this was also hugely mental with a deep survival component. It was also about who could suffer the most. And right now, Tia and I were in the thick of the suffering. When we neared the top of the climb, Tia goaded “I’m looking forward to seeing this running of yours.” I’d told her whilst climbing out of Tahoe City that I’d managed to maintain a reasonable pace as I’d been running all the downhills. I’ve prided myself over the years in somehow managing to keep my running legs whilst everyone around me was losing theirs. So I gave her my own ‘shuffling 101’ as we began to course over the top. “Don’t force it. Just start as slow as you need to. Just keep cycling your legs underneath you. You shouldn’t be breathless. Hold this for long enough and eventually you’ve got momentum.” We managed to all hold a reasonable shuffle going down. It wasn’t very fast but its real value lay in being faster than a walk for not that much more effort. “Running 250km into a 200 miler. This is bad ass!” I heard Tia say from behind me. “Just move with the downhill,” I added. “Zig zag as you need so you don’t burn out your quads.” We managed to run for most of the way until we reached ‘Powerline’ again. Unlike yesterday morning when I ascended Powerline in the shade, it was now late morning so the sun bathed the whole slope. By now, most of the participants had gone up and down Powerline so it was dusty with a lot of loose rock. If I thought going up Powerline was tough, going down it was worse! The gradient was steep and the loose soil meant that you were only one mistake away from a perilous fall. We managed a slow 30min/km descent down Powerline. By the time we reached the road, we’d sustained no significant injuries but my quads were burnt. I’d also never heard Tia complain but now she came pretty close to it. She’d always stated her symptoms so matter of factly but this time she shouted out “And now I’ve got blisters on my feet!” Any thoughts that this would stop her were soon cast aside when she surmised “Well, looks like this is me for the rest of the run!” We agreed to fast walk the downhill road section towards Incline Village and we continued this fast walk along Millionaires’ Row. In the daylight, we could see all the huge villas with their exorbitant entranceways. Some even had life sized wooden sculptures of animals (including a bear) which reminded me of my last encounter along this road. Courtney maintained a pretty fast walk along this stretch and I managed to keep up for a few kilometres until I asked her to slow down a bit. The sun was beating down on us and the heat and continuous toil was starting to take its toll. We finally arrived at Village Green aid station (265km) around Monday 11.15am. I’d been going for more than 74 hours now and under the baking sun, I was toast. I was in bad need of a rest.

Warped into my own world surrounded by pine forest and wild flowers

Heading down ‘powerline’ with Courtney and Tia

Cometh the hour. Cometh the man. Shane was a champion at Village Green. With Courtney pacing, he was now our lone support crew. He was rushing around getting everything for us whilst we sprawled out on the grass near the aid station. I also asked if he could look after Tia as well. She had no one supporting her so I figured we’d adopt her. Shane gave us lots of iced drinks and a popsicle each. He ordered my burrito for me and prepared to top up my drinks for the next leg. I hadn’t planned to sleep at Village Green but I was so exhausted that I asked Shane to get my sleeping gear. He laid out my air mattress and sleeping bag on the shady grass. Next to my inflatable pillow was my sleep mask, ear plugs, and lubricant eye drops. He did the same for Tia. Apparently, I was out like a light. When I woke up, it felt like the best day time nap I’d ever had in my life! I was remarkably reenergised! It felt good to be resting in the shade and I was tempted to stay longer. Unsure of what to do, I asked another competitor who had arrived into the aid station around the same time as us if he was staying or heading off again. “I couldn’t handle another night!” he exclaimed. I want to get this thing finished!” Although it was very tempting to ride out the heat of the day in the shade, deep down I knew that it was best to get going again. As I started to mobilise, I became more aware of my rattly chest and cough. I first noticed these respiratory symptoms back at Brockway Summit and like then, my cough was also worse after waking up from a sleep. If I thought I was bad, then I had nothing on Tia. She was now getting breathing problems on top of her purulent sounding cough. I was becoming more familiar with this so called ‘ultra cough’ which is reportedly due to increased ventilation in conjunction with dust, dry air, and allergens. However, I hadn’t really fully appreciated what other competitors called ‘Tahoe lung’ which may have been the progression from the ultra-cough. I was amazed to hear that other competitors had a plan to keep on top of Tahoe lung including running with a buff over their mouth, saline nasal sprays, throat lozenges, Mucinex, anti-histamines, and even inhalers. Next to me I hear Tia shout out “Has anybody got any Mucinex!” A volunteer eventually arrives with a small bottle of gold coloured syrup. “Sorry we don’t have any Mucinex but we have this,” and they handed over a small bottle to both of us. “Guaranteed to expel all the contents of your lung!” they concluded. I’m a bit nervous so I look at the bottle whilst trying to read the ingredients. “Ok, but will it also expel my bowel motions?” I calmy ask. The volunteer chuckles away. “I can’t guarantee that. You’ll need to read the fine print!” he replies. After 265km, I decided to trust those in the know and swigged the contents back. After dealing with my lungs, I now had to deal with this chafing issue. I couldn’t believe that I’d said the unspeakable words but I just did. “Shane, can you ask the medics if they have any K-tape?” I explained to Shane that I wanted to try taping my butt cheeks apart to help separate the opposed skin edges of my inflamed perineum. He eventually returned with some K-tape and quipped “The lady said she had never heard of it used for that purpose before!” Now that I had the tape, Courtney, Shane, and I just looked at each other in silence. I broke the silence with “I can’t do this myself!” Shane just burst out laughing and said a single word “Courtney!” Courtney and I then sheepishly walked towards a secluded and empty tent and proceeded with caution. I lay myself prone on the ground and calmly said “You need to tape my cheeks apart. Upwards and outwards.” I heard Courtney gasping for air. I could only imagine the flora and fauna that had developed there after more than 74 hours of running. After a few adjustments, I had tape from each cheek anchored to the front of my hip bones. The effect was noticeable. I could still feel symptoms but this was now much more manageable. I decided that it would be best if I applied my own lube so I thanked Courtney for her selfless sacrifice. If I thought I was bad, I had nothing on Tia. In the distance I could hear Tia shout out “Does anybody have a pad!” There is a pause and then a lady in an American accent shouts back “Yeah! What kind?”. She then goes on to list the variety of female sanitary options available whilst I walk away to get more food. When the going gets tough, the tough get going.

Sleeping in the shade at Village Green aid station

About to leave Village Green aid station with Courtney and Tia

Courtney, Tia, and I left Village Green aid station at 1.15pm. We had 30km to get to Spooner Summit aid station and 60km to the finish. The climb out of Incline Village up Tunnel Creek Road was brutal. The sun continued to beat down on us. We stopped briefly to share a cold Dr Pepper but otherwise we moved slowly upwards. We managed to pass a couple of athletes who had withered away on the side of the trail and were taking dirt naps. As we passed, I questioned why they didn’t just stay longer at the aid station. I can’t recall many details during this section other than it was hot and punishing. It was a relief to get to Marlette campground as I knew that this marked the halfway point to the next aid station. They say that the second half of a marathon is more than just a half marathon and exponentially harder than the first half. One can apply a similar logic to the second 100 miles of a 200 miler. Whereas earlier, I’d be arriving into aid stations ‘reasonably fresh’. Now, moving from aid station to aid station was a monumental effort and I’d arrive absolutely finished. If I was a carcass, I’m sure even the vultures would’ve bypassed me. It was a pretty tough climb up Snow Valley Peak and our efforts were rewarded with a freezingly cold wind up top. Though the sun was up, it provided no appreciable warmth. It was hard to believe that not that long ago, I’d been too hot and now I was cold again. To avoid freezing up the top, we tried to move through this section as quick as possible. With Courtney in the lead, we scrambled along the ridge line. Wild like the wind. We eventually reached the tree line which marked the beginning of the downward descent into Spooner. Thankfully, I still had my shuffling legs. However, I still had to remain disciplined and ran a manageable effort. There was no point red lining it now and compromising my ability to finish. As we approached Spooner aid station, it was starting to get dark again. To our surprise, Shane and Dr Stanley of all people had walked up the Tahoe Rim Trail to greet us. However, there wasn’t much they could do for us as Spooner was a no crew access station. I expressed my condolences to Stanley. However, I was also a mixture of envy and anger knowing that he had spent 2 extra nights in a warm bed and I was preparing for my fourth night ahead of me. I longed for them to give me my sleeping bag but we all decided against it so as not to break any race rules. Shane and Stanely eventually wished us the best of luck for the night ahead and told us they’d meet us at the finish line. In fading light, I then somehow managed to sprint across the 6 lane Highway 50 and avoid being road kill enroute to the aid station. We arrived at Spooner aid station (295km) around Monday 9pm for a cumulative race time of 84 hours. I knew there was no way that I’d make my original scheduled finishing time of Tuesday 1.30am so I had to re orientate. A long night lay ahead of us and the last 30km wasn’t going to be easy. The finish line cut off time also wasn’t until Tuesday 6pm so there was still lots of time. I just had to play my cards sensibly now.

Battling the heat heading up Tunnel Creek Road

Wild like the wind past Marlette Lake again

The support crew at Spooner were incredible (in fact I reckon that the Tahoe 200 aid stations were the best I’d come across in regards to support and care). I was rushed to a seat and my ‘burger with everything’ was delivered quickly. I told Courtney and Tia that I needed to rest before venturing out into the night again. I was in no rush to leave. It made sense for us to finish shortly after sunrise rather than in the early hours of death o’clock when no one would be at the finish anyway. The focus was on preparing ourselves in the best way possible so we could get through the night and my preference was to avoid dirt naps. Although Spooner Summit wasn’t a dedicated sleep station, there were a few spare incline seats which the volunteers manoeuvred flat for me so that I could attempt to sleep. Apparently, I nodded off easily enough though I was under the impression that I didn’t sleep at all. Sometime after 11.30pm, I began to rouse (I must’ve slept) and I started getting ready for the last 30km to the finish. Courtney and Tia began to do the same. I could hear Tia coughing quite badly in the background and in between her gasping breaths, she had now also developed an audible wheeze. “You know you should at least get your oxygen sats checked,” I said. “You may have HAPE (high altitude pulmonary oedema).” “Yes, but then I’d know I have a problem,” she responded. Fair enough. I understood what she meant. She was in this till the bitter end. We all toileted (hopefully for the last time) before leaving and left the wonderful crew at Spooner aid station around midnight. I knew the course profile well from here. A long climb out of Spooner, a few undulations in the middle but mostly a downhill gradient, and a sharp climb back to the finish line. The three of us moved well through the night and passed enough people during the climb. It got increasingly cold up top but I urged us to keep moving. We passed the wooden ‘bench’ for the final time. It was mostly a fast walk in the dark and for most of the night, we were alone. Tia voiced that she was struggling to stay awake so we began to talk more. When the conversation died, Courtney put on some fast-paced music which we sung along to. For hours we moved together. Urging the sun to rise. Until eventually we turned the night into day. As is typical when the sun rises, Courtney had a sudden urge to toilet. Tia followed. Not feeling the need, I sat on a log on the side of the trail. In my peripheral vision I could see both women spaced about 5 metres apart whilst I munched away happily on my Doritos. I’m sure that it would’ve been the most bizarre sight had anyone seen us! As the sun rose, I noticed my shadow and realised that I looked like a waddling duck. Holy shit. I’ve modified my gait without knowing it. It’s around this same time that I also begin to feel an increasing tension around my ring piece. Fearing that I’d add an anal fissure to my inventory list, I asked Courtney to remove the ‘butt tape’. I could feel the tension instantly release but now my chafing pain returned with a vengeance. I had 1-2 hours remaining. I can handle this. The final ascent into Heavenly was nasty. A 9% gradient over 3.5km. Although nothing too concerning on fresh legs. After 320km, it had morphed into a mountain. I had rehearsed this final climb during training so I knew exactly what lay around the corner. I expected suffering. And I duly received it. Remarkably, the closer I got to the finish line, the more ailments I developed. My knee started to hurt for the first time. My gut that had behaved so well was now starting to churn. It was like my brain was slowly lowering its defences. All those descending inhibitory pain signals were being withdrawn. My brain was clocking out. I felt grateful for my company and the shared suffering. Courtney had remarkably paced me for the last 80km of the race. Overall, she had paced and supported me for 100km over a 30 hour period. It ain’t easy sticking to someone’s else pace for such a long time so I was thankful. I finally crossed the finish line with Courtney just after Tuesday 8am. It was the ultimate surrender. I’d been going for more than 95 hours so the overwhelming sensation was one of sheer exhaustion. Shane, Stanley, and a few other pacers and their crew who had finished earlier were there to cheer us on. Tia crossed not long after and I saw her eyes start to well up. After holding it together for so long, she too appeared to be letting down her defences. I received my finisher’s mug and selected my finisher’s belt buckle. I said my thank yous and good byes and lumbered towards our trusty Jeep. As I sat down, I could feel my body slowly shutting down. During the journey back, the rigor mortis started to kick in. When we arrived back at our rental house, I felt like curling up into a ball in some distant corner. And that’s exactly what I did. I was too tired to shower. When I woke up a few hours later. I still didn’t feel I could safely shower so I pulled out my sleeping mat and slept on the floor until dinner. 165 people finished the Tahoe 200. 100 did not. It took me two weeks before I stopped dreaming that I was running through the night. I had to reach out and touch my bedside cabinet to help reassure myself that I was in my own bed. Many times during and immediately after the race, I said I would never do a 200 miler again. A few weeks have since passed and my feelings have changed. I reckon I’d definitely consider doing it again. It’s funny how running’s like that. Running is medicine.

Heading down the finish line with Courtney

At the finish line with Dr Stanley, Courtney, and Shane

At the finish line with Tia

Before and after 200 miles

I made it! Happy to have finished the 3.8km swim at IMNZ 2025

Success is a poor teacher. After 14 NZ Ironmans, I was habituated to following the same training plan that had worked so well for me previously. I’d also learned where I could take short cuts and for me it was in swimming (which also happens to be my least favourite discipline). For the last 5 years or so, I’ve managed to complete the Ironman swim by training solely at my local 50 metre swimming pool without any open water swimming. I knew it wasn’t ideal but like most Ironman athletes I was time poor, and it worked. Remarkably, I had my best ever training leading up to Ironman 2024. My times on the bike were significantly faster and I was managing to back up big swim/bike/run sessions. I was feeling strong and quietly confident that I’d do well. That was until I developed shingles two weeks prior to Ironman. Though I managed to scrape through the Tarawera 100 Miler run, in retrospect, backing it up with Ironman was a bridge too far. So if success is a poor teacher, then failure is the best teacher. These were some of the lessons I learnt:

• Don’t leave your race legs (or race arms) on the training course. I had the best ever training sessions leading up to the event but I was spent come race day.
• I can’t keep training like I’m 20 years old. I’m now over 40 years old. Over 20 years, I’ve developed a lot more mental strength which has allowed me to push my limits physically. However, I pushed too hard and in return my body gifted me with shingles. I successfully made the start line but I was not healthy. I needed to adapt my training accordingly.
• Not only was I overtraining but I was overliving. This came at the expense of rest, recovery, and sleep. Recovery and sleep are crucial leading up to an event. I also learned that I needed to do less of what didn’t matter in life.
• I needed a complete swim overhaul. Like most wannabe triathletes, I just assumed that you get better at swimming by swimming more (this approach seems to work for biking and running). This is not the case. You get better at swimming by focusing on technique. I’ve learnt that swimming is 80% technique and 20% fitness. I subscribed to online swimming teaching, started doing swim drills, and began to use training aids such as fins, hand paddles, and pull buoys. I returned to open water training sessions with a friend (thanks Rob)! For many years, I’ve unknowingly got through the Ironman swim on my fitness. As I age, this is not sustainable. I need to focus more on my technique.
• I was a rigid two side breather (breathe every 5 and 3 strokes). Though this worked in calmer waters, I was exposed in rough waters. I introduced more breathing flexibility (2 stroke, 3 stroke, 4 stroke, and 5 stroke breaths) so I could adapt to variable conditions. In particular, I worked on prolonged unilateral breathing on both sides (i.e. 2 & 4 stroke breaths). The Lake Taupo swim is a rectangular course that you swim clock wise. On a rough day, the waves come off the lake and crash towards the shore. This means you’ll need to be adept at breathing to one side for a prolonged period of time (i.e. the side away from the waves) to avoiding swallowing water and starving yourself of oxygen. When you reach the opposite side of the rectangle, you’ll need to be able to breathe to your other side for a sustained period of time.
• Wear a watch while you’re swimming in case you need it. Also, stop being a tight arse and invest in a good wet suit and googles. Good equipment helps.
• One bad day does not define you as a person. How you respond to it does.

At the start of the 180km bike ride

Happy to have finished the bike!

Which brings me to Ironman 2025. Back at the start line again but this time feeling healthy. Focused, determined, and on edge. It felt like I was lining up at my first Ironman all those years back. Ironman has no respect for your reputation, pedigree, training plans, or past achievements. Like a 100 miler, an Ironman is what I call a ‘no guarantee’ race. You still need to deliver on the day. For me, Ironman this year was all about the swim. I made sure I swam in Lake Taupo a couple of times during race week. I familiarised myself with the swim course, buoys (there are 24 numbered buoys), sighting landmarks, important turning points, and entry/exit points. I did all the things I did on my first Ironman that I’d neglected over the years. When I woke up on race day, the winds were light and Lake Taupo was calm. I had trained and prepared for rough conditions yet as if mocking me, the triathlon gods had delivered almost perfect swimming conditions. When the starter’s cannon went off, all the suppressed adrenaline was released. I took nothing for granted and swam like my life depended on it. All the attention to detail during training paid off as for the first time in years, my googles remained clear and I suffered no leaks. I was less wayward with my sighting and hence my navigation was sound. I concentrated on reaching, gliding, rotation, and making every stroke count. Unlike the previous year when I neared the final turning point by myself, this time I was surrounded by other swimmers with purple and green caps. When I crossed the 3.8km swim finish in 1 hour and 33 minutes, for once, the overriding emotion was happiness rather than relief. I knew that I still had a lot ahead of me but I was quietly assured. I’m a mammal, not an amphibian or a fish. I can handle a bike and run. I was also grateful to have the opportunity to bike after missing out in 2024. When my 180km bike ride finished 6 and a half hours later, I was even happier to get onto the run course – my strength. As I neared the end of the marathon there was a sign that resonated with me which read ‘You have earnt this pain’. There is a certain power in suffering, in overcoming adversity, in returning to your sites of previous failures. I learnt so much from my 2024 failures and was able to grow and adapt because of this. When I crossed the Ironman finish line, 13 hours and 18 minutes after starting, there was a huge sense of satisfaction. It was my 15^th NZ Ironman but it ranked up there with my first Ironman as the most memorable. When you lose, don’t lose the lesson. When you fail, don’t make any excuses. Reflect but don’t dwell on it for too long. Accept, adapt, make the required changes. Get back in the pool, hop on your bike, and go for a run. Repeat this as many times a necessary. And before you know it, you’ll be back at Ironman NZ again! Running is medicine.

Various stages of the run during the Ironman marathon

Finisher’s photo with my wife Courtney and eldest daughter Millie

Poppi and Millie after finishing Ironkids

IMNZ 15 Year Legend award

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

At race registration

At the start of the 5km with Courtney, Millie, and Poppi

Fireworks at the marathon start

It’s a dark and coolish Florida winter morning and I’m surrounded by so many people! Like in the 3 days prior, I’m running with my wife Courtney. Our kids joined us for the 5km run but weren’t quite Dopey enough to join us for the longer distances. We run out of Epcot Theme Park to lots of noise and so much energy! If you don’t like exercising and prefer being distracted whilst exercising, then this is the perfect race for you! Within a couple of kilometres, runners start peeling off to take a photo with Doug and Kevin from Up. Further ahead, there’s a huge line of people waiting to take a photo. Not keen to stop this early on in run, we keep running until we reach the front of the cue revealing that the culprit is Stitch dressed as Elvis. Every few kilometres there is Disney theme music pumping from speakers and Disney movies playing on big screens. In the last three days, I’ve seen so many Disney characters out on course – Micky & Minnie, Goofy, Snow White, Dopey, Peter Pan, the Mad Hatter, Chip & Dale, Cinderella, Clarabelle Cow, Mary Poppins, Pinocchio, Thumper, Jiminy Cricket, Donald & Daisy Duck, Hercules, The Incredibles, Robin Hood, Merlin, Aladdin, Marie from The Aristocats, Baloo from The Jungle Book, Kerchak from Tarzan, and Flik from A Bug’s Life, and many more. Courtney and I never stopped for character photos mid run as we had our fair share of character photos with the kids whilst in the theme parks. However, that didn’t stop hundreds of people cueing up to take a photo with their childhood favourites. Some runners also took their costumes very seriously and I can remember passing a Cinderella who cried out “It’s hard to run with one shoe!” Even a toilet stop had music (‘Let’s Get Together’ from The Parent Trap movie) playing in the background. A participant who was aiming to complete the marathon carrying a large USA flag said “If you’re aiming for a PR (Personal Record), then you’re doing it wrong and probably shouldn’t be doing Disney”. He was spot on! The Disney World Marathon Weekend is all about having fun whilst keeping active!

Running the 5km with the kids and Courtney

Finishing the 5km with Millie and Poppi

Courtney and I reach Magic Kingdom Theme Park just after 8 miles (13km). Thankfully, it still feels like I’ve got some magic in my legs! Micky & Minnie Mouse (dressed in their finest attire) wave down at us as we enter Magic Kingdom. When we get inside, Main Street USA is absolutely pumping! It was like a supercharged street party with a blur of supporters cheering and waving. If your legs were tiring, then surely this electrifying atmosphere would have kick started them again! As we veer off Main Street, we pass some of the more iconic theme rides in Magic Kingdom – Space Mountain, Tomorrowland Speedway, Seven Dwarfs Mine Train, and the Prince Charming Regal Carrousel. We eventually run through Cinderella Castle which is beautifully lit up in purple and blue hues. There’s a bit of jostling between participants for that perfect photo of them with the castle in the background and Courtney tries her darndest to nail it! We then head out via Liberty Square, through Frontierland past the Big Thunder Mountain Railroad, and then exit the park through Adventureland. Wow, that was a lot of stimulation (and potentially my limit for a run)!

Mickey & Minnie Mouse welcoming runners into the Magic Kingdom

Running down Main Street USA with Cinderella Castle ahead

Courtney with Cinderella Castle in the background

Running through Magic Kingdom

Fresh out of Magic Kingdom, the next theme park is Disney’s Animal Kingdom which is about 5 miles (8km) away. The next section of the course (16-24km) is like the honeymoon period of the Walt Disney World Marathon. You’re still buzzing from the Magic Kingdom and feel rejuvenated. You’ve got a few kilometres under your belt, your legs are still fresh, and you’re almost halfway. You’re feeding off everyone’s positive energy and you’re wondering where Disney has been your whole life. In fact, it even begins to rain but you’re not going to let the weather rain on your parade. For the first time, you see participants ahead of you (still looking relatively fresh) coming back from Animal Kingdom and there’s cheering and high fives for Africa. When we arrive at Animal Kingdom, we run past the iconic Tree of Life (a spectacular 45 metre artificial tree in the centre of the park) and head through ‘Asia’ towards ‘Expedition Everest – Legend of the Forbidden Mountain’. Expedition Everest is an adrenaline pumping roller coaster with speeds of up to 80km/hour and is themed around a Yeti protecting the Forbidden Mountain next to Mount Everest. We’d been running for 24km and I could feel that my gait was becoming less fluid. It was also around 9am so the theme park was open – Open to rides. “Runners through the Lightning Lane if you’d like a ride” an event marshal shouted. “Do you want to go on Everest?” Courtney asked me. Thinking my legs could do with a bit of a break, I responded “Sure” and veered left without hesitation. To the looks of bewildered park visitors, a steady stream of runners moved through the Lightning Lane and to the front of the line within a couple of minutes. Before we knew it, Courtney and I were at the VERY FRONT of the roller coaster and ARRRGGGGHHHH! After 3 minutes of nerve trembling ascents, breath taking descents, heart pounding twists, and pulsating turns, the roller coaster finally came to an abrupt stop and we were directed (or rather spat out) back onto the marathon course. It’s hard to describe how I felt after Everest. I must confess, I’ve never done drugs in my life. But I reckon doing Expedition Everest whilst under the physiological strain of running a marathon is probably as close as I’ll ever get to the real thing. Jaded, lightheaded and stunned, I started jogging out of the park.

Running through Disney’s Animal Kingdom with Expedition Everest in the background

Waiting for the Expedition Everest ride

Front of the roller coaster at Expedition Everest

At some point, the magic starts to wear thin. At some point the balance between physiological strain and stimulation is upset. Joy vanishes. For most of us doing a marathon, it’s usually around 30km. For those doing the Dopey Challenge, you’d be lucky if you were still feeling fresh at 21km. In saying that, I reckon that a Disney run buys you at least 10 free kilometres such is all the excitement and stimulation. But at some point, a marathon ALWAYS gets hard. Disney or not. Hard began from Animal Kingdom onwards. There is this particularly challenging part of the marathon around Disney’s Blizzard Beach Water Park. The park is closed (as its winter season) so it’s completely empty. Your 19 miles (30km) in. And you’ve got to run around this huge vacant car park to make up the miles. When I get to the 30km mark of a marathon, I know this is the pointy end of the run. The business end. A time to go to work. Though it’s tough from 30km onwards, I love the challenge. On the road leading to Animal Kingdom, a particular quote on a sign caught my attention. The quote came from Walt Disney’s movie, Mulan and are words of wisdom to a young girl from the emperor of China. It read “The flower that blooms in adversity is the rarest and most beautiful”. As hard as it is, how you approach the last 12km of a marathon defines you and is where all the ‘good stuff’ comes from. Though the magic may wear thin, it is always within you. Your job in the last 12km is to find it. It usually requires looking inwards. It usually involves digging deep. And it’s YOUR responsibility to find it. If your struggling, just channel the Seven Dwarfs and keep working. If it helps, starts singing Heigh-Ho.

Stopping for a photo in front of The Twilight Zone Tower of Terror at Disney’s Hollywood Studios

Running along the Boardwalk approaching Epcot

Running past China inside Epcot

The “big ball” near the finish at Epcot

It’s always a bit harder running a marathon when the distance markers are in miles rather than kilometres. When we reach Disney’s Hollywood Studios, we’d done 23 of 26 miles. Being able to work with small numbers (1 mile = 1.6km) meant that I could covert 3 miles to 4.8km. Anyone can run 5km. In fact, Millie (8 years old) and Poppi (5 years old) did it 3 days ago so why can’t I? Hollywood Studios is much busier than Animal Kingdom with many more park visitors. We run past the dreaded ‘Tower of Terror’ ride (not open to participants) but pose for a quick photo and move on. Sometimes the last 5km can feel like it goes on forever but there’s enough supporters holding signs to keep me engaged. The first sign is simple but powerful – ‘Believe’. Others I find entertaining – ‘The almost there mile’, ‘Toe nails are overrated’, ‘You need a therapist’, ‘If marathons were easy they’d be called your mum. If they were hard they’d be called your dad’. What?! Was that a kid holding up that sign? With experience you just get good at digging deep and Heigh-Hoing it. Or if you need more Disney inspiration, it’s time to stop mousin around, go to infinity and beyond, or just follow Elsa and “Let it go”. Holding a good pace, Courtney and I reach the Boardwalk near Epcot before passing all the countries that make up Epcot’s World Showcase. As we get closer to the heart of Epcot, the iconic “big ball” comes into view and we know that we’re near the end. We pass a choir singing “We are the Champions” before swinging round the final corner with a full view of the finish line ahead. Micky & Minnie Mouse are waving as all the runners approach and “Do You Believe in Magic” by The Lovin’ Spoonful is playing in the background. Courtney and I cross the finish together and are given some Mickey Mouse finisher’s ears and our amazing finisher’s medals – A Mickey Mouse medal for the marathon, a Goofy medal for the half and full marathon double, and a Dopey medal for our 5km/10km/half/full marathon quartet. It makes you feel happy like an old time movie and you feel like a kid again. There really were magic in those miles! Running is medicine.

2024 Walt Disney World Dopey Challenge

5km – 50:14

10km – 1:03:57

Half marathon (modified to 7.1 miles due to weather) – 1:13:59

Marathon – 4:59:40

Crossing the marathon finish line and completing the Dopey Challenge

The 2024 Dopey Challenge finisher’s medals

The Avenue starting chute lined by trees

As we finally set off in our staggered starting groups, my body is a bit stiff and cold after all the rest so it’s nice to get moving. We leave The Avenue and golf course behind us and head towards Arrowtown. Within 500 metres, I pass a couple of guys dressed as the Jamaican Bobsled Team. They appear to be in a heated exchange about ‘not quite thinking this through’ as they detach from their joined bobsled and run just behind each other. We then literally run through Arrowtown and its heritage buildings. It’s quite a surreal experience running along the main road of this quaint, historic gold mining town. After 3km, we merge onto beautiful trail along the Arrow River surrounded by lush greenery. As we run around Lake Hayes, there are more rolling hills with spectacular mountains in the background. Along the way, I pass a couple of people with personal statements on their running shirts. The first is “I’m running for my sister who has…” and the second is “I’m dedicating this run to my grandmother”. These are very emotive and personal ‘whys’ which can be very powerful if harnessed correctly. Which brings me back to the importance of having a ‘why’ to exercise. What is your why? What will make you get out of bed and train for a marathon when your mind will almost certainly counsel that this isn’t necessary? As I’ve mentioned before, our DNA still thinks that we’re hunter gatherers living in the savannah. Our minds crave efficiency but our bodies need movement. Outside of ‘fight or flight’, our brain is hardwired towards energy conservation. Relax, put your feet up. You deserve it. Once upon a time when we were hunter gatherers, we had a ‘why’ to be active. We HAD to be active in order to live and survive! We had no choice! But now, our modern day lifestyle saturates us with rest and we can choose to rest more. Combine that with a brain that trumps conserving energy at all costs and hello to all our chronic diseases and mental health problems. Hence the requirement for a powerful ‘why’ to help outwit the most sophisticated energy conservation tool in the world – our brains. What is your why? Is it for yourself? Is it for others? Is it to fulfil a goal? Is it for a healthy and functional future? Is it to challenge yourself? Is it to rebel against our sedentary and comfortable lifestyles? I’d recommend you have a few ‘whys’ and ironclad them. If you don’t have a why, then it doesn’t even compare with bringing a sword to a gunfight. You’re fighting with your bare hands.

Heading around Lake Hayes

Mountains in the background

Having spontaneously entered Queenstown, I hadn’t appreciated that the marathon was 70% trail and 30% on road so my standard sub 4 hour goal time was rather optimistic. Although the scenery and varied terrain was more enjoyable, the off road component made the run ‘harder’ than most major city marathons. Despite trying to make up time after a slowish 5-10km start, I only managed to cross the half way mark (21.1km) in 2 hours and 2 minutes and by no means ‘fresh’. My god. I have to run a negative split if I want to finish under 4 hours. After 21km, a marathon starts to get hard and from 30km, it gets harder again. Naturally the brain starts doing what it does best. Why do you do this to yourself? Don’t push. Just finish easily. Approach this as a training run. You’ve got a couple of big races coming up. It’s not worth it. BUT I SET MYSELF A GOAL OF SUB 4 HOURS I say quietly. You need a good dose of stubbornness to be a good runner. Sometimes you’ve just got to go to battle with yourself, stay in the fight, and hold a pace. Although I was surrounded by hundreds of other runners, they were superfluous to the battle with myself and my own brain. The ultimate battle is always with yourself. So onward I went with all guns blazing. Better to die trying than not to try at all. After a few long straight roads, I was back on trail again. Up and over the Old Shotover Bridge and along the Shotover and Kawarau Rivers. Locked in my own battle, it was a haze of people, green trees, and blue water features. I reached the 32 km mark in 3 hours and 4 minutes leaving 56 minutes to run the last 10km. Stay in the fight. Hold it together. I kept pushing along the shores of Lake Wakatipu refuelling with Pure Nutrition gels and some Red Bull along the way. In the haze, I recognise passing two runners dressed as Mario and Luigi and my second Forest Gump runner for the day. When I reached the Queenstown Gardens, there were more supporters than participants so I knew I was close. I had less than 12 minutes to do 2 km. The last 2 kilometres in a marathon are never given, always earned. With ammunition almost expended, it’s time to fix bayonets. I push harder again. I course along the lake front and through the shops with cheering in the background. I cross the finish line in 3hrs and 58 mins. Battle won. Goal achieved. Not far behind me is one of the Forest Gump runners I passed earlier. He runs through the finish line, past the bewildered volunteers handing out finisher’s medals, and just keeps on running. Why? One of volunteers mouths. “I guess you’re going to have to ask Forest Gump”, I reply. Running is Medicine.

Going over the Old Shotover Bridge

Near the end along Lake Wakatipu 

At the finish with wife Courtney who did the half marathon

At the Hawke’s Bay Marathon start. There are almost 1000 marathon finishes in this photo (left to right: Myself [102 marathons], Monica [150], Carol [68], Peggy [271], Normie [343], cousin Shane [12]).

Running around the Ahuriri Estuary

I’ve been meaning to write a blog about osteoarthritis for a while and quash the myth that running is bad for your joints. Somewhere along the lines (possibly coinciding with our increasing comfort levels), running has been made out to be damaging for our joints. Even medical practitioners have been duped with the American Association of Orthopaedic Surgeons once proclaiming that running was an ‘outrageous threat to the integrity of the knee’. Osteoarthritis can be post traumatic but for most of us, it’s related to normal age-related change. Osteoarthritis affects the cartilage that lines your joints. The role of cartilage is to absorb load. Your joints’ ability to absorb load reduces from your 30s which is related to age related cartilage changes. Unfortunately, as we age, our inherent ability to regenerate cartilage isn’t great. And although medical treatments hoping to address this have been promising, none have truly delivered. In reality, the only ‘cure’ for osteoarthritis is youth. I’m also very careful with the words I use to describe osteoarthritis. I don’t say osteoarthritis is ‘degenerative’ or ‘wear and tear’ as using this terminology will result in disuse and fear of creating more damage. I explain that osteoarthritis is normal age-related change. How it is like wrinkles or gray hair for your joints. And though we can’t see the inside of our joints, this same process is occurring. A joint is designed to be loaded. It loves to be loaded. It’s not designed to be disused and over protected. I dislike it when people describe running as ‘pounding the pavement’. Rather, good runners have learned to maintain a healthy weight and run quietly/lightly to help negotiate the increased loads associated with running. So, what does the current evidence say? The British Journal of Sports Medicine (BJSM) published an infographic on running myths (Alexander JLN 2020) that concluded that recreational running is not harmful for knee joint articular cartilage in runners without symptomatic knee osteoarthritis. In fact, participation in recreational running may provide a protective effect against the development of knee and hip osteoarthritis. Higher rates of knee and hip osteoarthritis have been reported in runners exposed to elite level training loads (13.3%) but also in sedentary people (10.2%), whereas it is much lower in amateur/recreational runners (3.5%) (see graph below). Another study of active marathon runners (Ponzio et al, J Bone Joint Surg Am, 2018) showed that 8.8% of active marathon runners (mean age 48 years) had osteoarthritis compared to 17.9% of age matched controls. Another study on marathon runners (Horga, BMJ Open Sport Exerc Med, 2019) showed that marathon running did not result in progression of meniscal tears AND their presence did not affect performance. Therefore, runners who have knee osteoarthritis should feel safe continuing to run though they may benefit with running less frequently to allow for sufficient cartilage recovery time between running bouts. Also, running does not appear to accelerate the progression of existing knee osteoarthritis in runners greater than 50 years of age. Hence, it is currently not sound advice to tell a runner with knee osteoarthritis who is managing their symptoms to cease running. A systematic review and meta-analysis that looked at the influence of running on lower limb cartilage (Khan et al, Sports Med, 2022) showed that running does not induce the formation of new cartilage lesions in the knee joint. Results suggest that cartilage recovers well from a single running bout and adapts to repeated exposure. Our bodies are resilient and love to be loaded. Running is not damaging. The problem is that we’ve forgotten how to run and have become so deconditioned by our modern-day life styles that we’re ‘hurt’ easily whilst running. We’ve made a lifestyle out of lazing around. We also work for up to 50% of our day and then spend 2% of our day going for a 30 minute run and expect to be good at it. People start running to get into shape rather than getting into shape to start running. Our priorities influence our outcomes. Yes, higher rates of knee and hip osteoarthritis have been reported in elite/professional runners. But rates in sedentary/overweight people isn’t that much different. Somewhere in the middle, recreational runners all over the world have hit the sweet spot and are obtaining a protective effect against osteoarthritis.

BJSM 2020 infographic. Thanks to Dr Adam Castricum.

As I leave Anderson Park, we’re in suburbia for a bit before we hit the good stuff around the Ahuriri Estuary. The road and foot paths are replaced by smooth limestone trails which makes for good running. Surrounded by aquatic plant life and water birds, it’s much easier to relax into things. At no time am I ‘pounding the pavement’ but rather the focus is on running easy, lightly, and quietly. I maintain a high cadence whilst my legs cycle beneath my body and running feels smooth. We cross over boardwalks and bridges until we’re back in civilization again and heading towards the Port of Napier. I smile at the ‘Go dad!’ and ‘I’ve been training for months to hold this sign’ placards held by supporters along the way. Once past the port, it’s essentially straight down the Napier coastline with the ocean by my side. I recognize the Norfolk Pine lined Marine Parade which is the half marathon start line but also marks the half way point of the marathon. As I pass The National Aquarium, I add it to my list of things to do with the kids tomorrow. Although this course is relatively flat and conducive to easy running, every marathon becomes harder from 30km (for the Hawke’s Bay Marathon, 30km is around the Waitangi Estuary near Clive). I focus on running smoothly and quietly along the coastline and river banks. Along farmlands, through orchards, and past vineyards, I remain light of foot. As I approach the final stretch, I gaze out towards the ocean for one last time and take in the views out to Cape Kidnappers. Eventually, I cross the finish line at Elephant Hill Estate & Winery for a finishing time of 3 hours and 49 minutes. I move hastily past the free beer and wine stands and towards the Pure Nutrition stand. I’m offered a Pure Exercise Recovery smoothie and a plate of hot chips which goes down a treat. Although I’m pretty keen to relax for a bit, both Millie and Poppi insist that I join them for their kids run. I politely decline but I’m met with howls of protest so I succumb and hobble towards the kids’ start line with an ever-stiffening gait. Whilst waiting, I inadvertently get roped in to the kids warm up. Before long, I’m performing high knees, high heel flicks, a new kid’s dance, and star jumps all whilst barely surviving. Surrounded by all this youthful exuberance, it’s hard not to feel intimidated and I share my fears of being left in my dust with another concerned looking father beside me. As I experience my second countdown from 10 today, the MC announces “If you want to be 1% faster, just SMILE”. I can barely manage a grimace as I cross the start line whilst the kids sprint ahead of me. Unlike the marathon which was mainly on hard-packed lime stone trails and sealed paths, the kids run was much harder as it was through thick grass with a large mud pool obstacle at the half way mark. I manage to keep up with Millie and Poppi for most of the 2.2km as we course around the vineyards. Near the end, I encourage Poppi to finish strongly and she sprints ahead leaving Millie and I to finish together. Despite the initial start-up pain, my body (and joints) actually felt much better following the run. I guess that ticks off my ‘recovery run’ for the weekend! Running is medicine.

Winding through the Waitangi Estuary (30km)

Running along the Tukituki River near the 37km mark

Crossing the kids run finish line with Millie

With my family at the finish

Feeling fresh early on in the run

Come Saturday, it’s a 5.30am wake up and by 6.15am, my cousin Paul is driving me from Rotorua to Taupo. It feels like I’ve been packaged up from work, onto a plane, and now this car and my low back pain is flaring up again. When we arrive in Taupo, the sun’s up and it’s a frosty start. It’s currently 2 degrees with a forecast high of 13 degrees Celsius. There are a few hardy souls in shorts and singlet though I’m not too keen to lose my polar fleece just yet. I join the masses huddled together at the frosted over Tongariro Domain to listen to the race briefing. The briefing is pretty stock standard until the MC mentions that someone from the YMCA is doing their 300^th marathon today. Paul (having run one marathon in his life) looks at me in disbelief. “I thought one marathon was a good achievement” he mentions. “Young man, there’s no need to feel down” I respond. I pause, waiting to see if Paul will bust out his dance moves but he didn’t seem to pick up on his cue. After the briefing, we all move towards the start line on Redoubt Street. At the last safe moment, I take off my polar fleece and wish Paul luck for his half marathon later in the morning. At 7.45am, close to 300 marathoners set off together past the Taupo Marina. It’s cold but there’s no hint of a breeze and Lake Taupo is completely still. Conditions were absolutely perfect for running a marathon! No excuses. Theoretically, the main limiter should only be my training. Oh and myself of course. Always myself. Only I’m accountable for my effort.

Settling into a nice pace

Though I’m no expert, after running 100 marathons you certainly learn a few things along the way. Hence for my 101^st marathon, I’d like to talk about Marathon 101: Starting & Pacing. Unless you’re an elite athlete hoping to win, intending to deliver your pregnant partner’s baby at the finish line, or running from the police, I’d suggest you start easy. Ease your body and mind into the huge challenge that lies ahead. It’s better to start slow and pass people towards the end, rather than start fast and spend the rest of the race slowing down. If you’re human and have an ego (which is most of us to an extent), being passed is psychologically damaging and can bring on ‘the walk’. Start slow, take all the pressure off, and leave the stress of winning to elite athletes. Don’t be another ‘one and done’ but rather think of this as something you want to be doing for as long as possible and ideally for the rest of your life. Life is a marathon, not a sprint. Which leads me onto pacing. One of the most important things you can learn is how long you can hold a certain pace for. A 10km pace is different to a 21km pace, which is different to a 42km pace, which is different to a 100 miler pace for instance. If you like to run with a watch, look at your time splits every 5km rather than checking your km per min pace every kilometre. Monitoring your pace every kilometre is tiring and your time over 5km is a better reflection of pace consistency. For a marathon, over time, you need to learn a controlled pace that you can hold for 30km. This is not easy and life starts getting tough from the 21km mark. However, the true race starts at 30km so you need to do everything within your power to get to the 30km mark ‘relatively fresh’. Don’t prepare for the wall, prevent the wall! Train for 30km and race for 12km! If you’ve done this right, you should be feeling relatively ok by the 30km mark. Only then can you unleash your dance moves and ‘race’ the final 12km (at your known 10km pace if possible). Trust me, finishing a marathon strong is much more pleasant than slowly dismantling all the way to the finish line!

Inward bound during the second lap with Mt Ngauruhoe in the background

Finishing marathons under 4 hours has been a goal of mine for many years. A sub 4 hour time is hard enough to be challenging without leaving me absolutely wrecked before returning to work on Monday. After a lot of practise completing road marathons around 4 hours, I know that if I want to finish under 4 hours, I need to be pacing at 28 minutes every 5 kilometres. Even when my brain gets tired, I don’t have too many problems adding by 28. So by 5km, I need to be around 28 minutes, 10km 56 minutes, 15km 1hr 24 minutes, 20 km 1hr 52 minutes and so forth. By 30km you want to be around 2hr 48 min which should guarantee you a 4 hour finish if you’ve paced sensibly! As I head along Lake Terrace, I’m feeling pretty stiff after my recent travel and the frosty morning so I start very conservatively. My first 5km was all about warming up and easing into things rather than going out all guns blazing. It took about 1km for my back pain to magically disappear and 5km before my feet were no longer numb. After 5km, I’d clocked 31 minutes. Three minutes off the required pace but not the end of the world. For the next 5km, I steadily increased my pace such that by the 10km mark, I clocked 57 minutes and was there and there abouts. By 15km, I was at 1hr and 24 mins and bang on a sub 4 hour pace. All I needed to do now was hold this pace. Assured with my pace, I began to relax into the run and could appreciate my surroundings a bit more. The return section back to the Tongariro Domain along the Great Lake Pathway was absolutely stunning. There were some beautiful secluded bays with spectacular views across Lake Taupo and the snow capped peaks of Mt Tongariro, Mt Ngauruhoe, and the largest of them all, Mt Ruapehu. The wind had slightly picked up but the sun was still out and for a period of time, running felt amazing. Heading back into town, I reached the 20km mark at 1hr and 52 minutes which was bang on again. As the course was so good, we then had to turn around and do the same half marathon course all over again! There was a bit more congestion as the half marathoners started at 9.15am but at least I was incentivised to try catch my sister and cousins ahead of me. I managed to hold my running form between the difficult 20-30km section such that by the 30km mark, I’d clocked 2hr 48 mins which was right on pace for a sub 4 hour finish. From here, I steadily picked it up trying to replicate my usual 10km pace (easier said than done). Although I couldn’t quite catch my sister and cousins, I still managed to pass a hell of a lot of runners and finish strongly. Nearing the finish line, I got a nice cheer from my family (mum, sister, three cousins, and two nieces) which is always heartening. I eventually crossed the finish line for an overall finishing time of 3hr and 54 minutes. There was a large tub of chocolate fish at the end so I helped myself to a couple for good reward. Though it’s satisfying achieving a sub 4 hour finish, it’s a much greater joy celebrating my family’s achievements together. Shout out to my sister Cristy Tucker for doing her first half marathon since 2009 and beating her time by 1 second! Nice pacing and way to make a comeback! Running is medicine.

Heading down the finisher’s chute

Family photo at the end (1 marathon finisher, 5 half marathon finishers, one 5km finisher, and two 1km kids dash finishers)

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)

If someone told you that you’d run a hundred marathons one day, would you believe them? Of course not! Yet somehow, I’ve reached this milestone. I ran my first marathon just before my 21^st birthday in 2003. Back then I was a 3^rd year medical student who played rugby but never ran long distances. No one in my family were distance runners and the only running I did was to keep fit for rugby. My flat mate at the time, Carl, suggested that we should run a marathon “for a laugh”. So (whilst laughing) we both entered and then subsequently trained for the Dunedin Marathon. Although I respected the marathon challenge, I didn’t fear it. I was young, cocky, and knew everything. I figured like most things in life, if you worked hard enough, you’d get the reward. This philosophy got me into med school and so a marathon seemed no different. Yet despite following and adhering to a good training program, the Dunedin Marathon DESTROYED me that day. I was shattered by 30km and suffered every ensuing kilometre to the finish line. I was limping for two weeks post-race. The sight of any runner afterwards made me sick and I threw my Avia running shoes into the bin. Life had given me my first major reality check. You’re better than you think you are, but not by much. I had finally met my match. And I was hooked! I wanted more of this! My mate Carl and I continued to run marathons after this. Initially we ran them “for our kids” (yet to be born) and then “for our grandkids” (which was an even greater pipe dream as we were still single) but never for a laugh again! Eventually work, family life, and kids caught up with Carl so he stopped running but I kept going. Training partners came and went but I persevered. I never thought of myself as a very good runner. But I was bloody stubborn and very good at ignoring excuses. For whatever reason, I just committed to running a marathon for each year I lived. I ran on average 5 marathons a year such that by 2007 (4 years since starting), I had run 25 marathons and matched my age. I then decided to ‘bank marathons’ as surely this type of thing won’t get any easier with age. By 2013 (10 years since my first marathon), I had run 50 marathons. As the average male life expectancy at the time was just under 80 years, I thought I’d add some buffer so a hundred marathons ought to do it. Initially it was all about chasing times. And then I was chasing numbers. Somewhere along the lines, I became addicted to the effort. I just love how running rewards effort. I love how you get out what you put in. There’s no bull shitting. No degree, status, or amount of money will get you over the finish line. Running was a great leveller and was all about your effort. And if you remained true to your effort, you’d invariably be rewarded. So after years of effort, running has become so engrained in my life that I don’t know anything different. I’m too far deep and don’t know if I can ever turn back. I just run now.

Running my first marathon with Carl (left) early on in the race whilst being laughed at by our support crew (Otago Harbour in the background)

When I first started writing these blogs in 2017, the purpose was to share and illustrate how you can make running (and exercise in general) a lifestyle. I’ve always been one to practise what I preach. When I was in the military, I was more of a lead by example type rather than lead by words. I believe actions speak louder than words. I had also just qualified as a Sport & Exercise Physician. I bemoaned how our ability to practise medicine was confined to a 4 walled office and was largely treatment orientated rather than preventative medicine. If you even knew a fraction of the benefits exercise can provide you, I guarantee you’d put on your running shoes right now! Put simply, if our society was more active, I’d have bugger all work! So as part of my commitment to the above, I’ve made an effort to write a blog after most events I’ve participated in. I’ve kept my expectations low throughout. However, if I could influence just one person to be more active, then I’d be a happy man. Writing these blogs has never been about drawing attention to myself (quite the contrary – I hate the attention). Though I’m grateful for the positive comments I receive, it always makes me cringe a bit. Nor is it about fame or popularity. That kind of stuff has never appealed to me. But if I can help someone to find it within themselves to be a bit more physically active and realise the benefits of exercise, then I’m overjoyed with their success. That’s what spins my wheels. And effort. I love effort.

Around the back end of the Dunedin Marathon and the long suffer towards the finish line. Meanwhile Carl (right) appears to be cruising and my other flat mate Steve (left) continues to find this whole experience amusing.

As I lined up at the Selwyn Marathon start line, I was calm but contemplative. Wow, I’ve finally got here. I entered at the last minute so none of my friends knew I was here. My wife Courtney had to take the kids to a friend’s birthday party this morning so my family weren’t present also. I remember (vividly) during my 48^th marathon seeing another competitor dressed in a pink tutu and balloons to celebrate running their 100^th marathon. I never understood why and I certainly wasn’t going to do the same. I’m now 40 years of age and it’s taken me 20 years to get here. Running a hundred marathons hasn’t been on a whim or part of a midlife crisis. Why would I want to run in a pink tutu like some clown when it’s taken me 20 years of devotion, discipline, and dedication to get to this point? And so I dressed like I did in all my other 99 marathons – in my running shorts and t shirt. I had no intention to draw any attention to myself. Only my wife knew this was my 100^th marathon. “Pick a big city marathon” she told me. But I was happy with the Selwyn Marathon. It was small, local, and fit for purpose. It was 30 minutes drive from home and I’d be back by 1pm and still have the whole afternoon to work with. When some people run, they like to be ‘someone’. That is fine. But when I run, I love to be ‘no one’. It’s such a liberating feeling. I’m not Dr John. I’m not a husband or father. I’m just another runner like everyone else. This is my time to myself. My time where the only thing I’m accountable for is my effort. It’s an examination of my internal character. And one that I’m willing to keep repeating. The experience keeps me grounded. I believe it makes me a better person. And so I ran content and it felt like 20 years was only yesterday. I finished my first marathon in 4 hours and 18 minutes a broken man. I crossed the Selwyn Marathon for my 100^th marathon in 3 hours and 57 minutes a fulfilled man. There were no special announcements at the finish line. I received a finisher’s medal like everyone else. As I walked back to my car, I became contemplative again. After a hundred marathons, what do I do now? If I stop running now, then what the f*** am I going to do? Hmmm. What if I live until I’m 200 years old? This was too much for a simple man to comprehend post run. I hopped back into my car and drove home. When I arrived home, the kids weren’t back from their friend’s birthday party yet so I cleaned up the leaves in the yard. I then mowed the lawns and walked the dogs. After that, I spent the rest of the afternoon with my family by the fire. I was happy. Whether you’ve run one or a hundred marathons, a marathon still hurts! I’m not going to sugar coat it. It takes a huge amount of effort. Every finish line is earned. There’s this great quote in medicine “He who studies medicine without books sails an uncharted sea, but he who studies medicine without patients does not go to sea at all”. Don’t just read these blogs! At some point you must experience a marathon for yourself. Be brave and set sail for the sea! Enjoy it, endure it, suffer it, live it! Running is medicine.

Twenty years later at the Selwyn Marathon and holding the effort around the 24km mark

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

Running in the rain approaching Mourea

Fast forward another week and all six of us who had entered fronted up to the Rotorua Marathon start line. Joining me were my cousins Casey, Monette, and Paul (doing their first marathon), Shane (doing his 11^th marathon), and his partner Madeline (also doing her first marathon). As much as I wanted to support and run with them, I knew I had the UTA 100km in 7 days so I had to run my own race. Doing a marathon slower than what you’re used to is as painful as running a fast marathon. However, I also had a bone to pick with the marathon and wasn’t keen to simply coast through. The last marathon I ran in Christchurch three weeks prior served me a lesson in humility so I was pretty determined to get one back on the marathon and finish under 4 hours this time. I hence wished my family the best of luck and when the race started, we all set off at our own pace. Despite chasing a time goal today, in my rush to leave for the airport, I’d forgotten to pack my watch so I had to rely on running by feel again. I knew my baseline marathon pace was around a 4 hour finish but I hadn’t consistently run at this pace for a while so I made sure that I was in front of the 4 hour pacing group when we set off. Although we started in dry conditions, five kilometres into the run, the forecast rain set in. A supporter at Ngongotaha tries to lift our spirits by shouting out “The rain is kissing you because you’re awesome”. However, having prepared for rain all week, I wasn’t overly phased by the rain. After all, everyone’s in the same boat and you can’t control the weather. The best thing you can do is control your attitude towards it. It is what it is. Accept and deal with it. The Rotorua Marathon gets deceptively hilly from the 10km mark so after a faster start than I’ve been used to in recent times, I eased back a bit. It’s at this point that I start getting passed by most of the field but I’m not overly concerned. Though some may find this concerning, my experience is that you actually want to be passed early on in a race as it means that you’re pacing appropriately. Passing should be reserved for the later stages of a race, not the start! As I approach Hamurana (15km), I’m suddenly passed by a very large group of runners. One of the runners has a yellow balloon tied around her so I realise that I’ve been caught by the 4 hour marathon pacer. I’m then left with a reasonably common dilemma that most runners experience after they’ve just been passed. Am I going too slow? Do I stick with this group or keep going at my own pace? I chose to run with the group for a wee while but then eventually fall back. The group was going a bit too fast for my liking and I knew that there were still the hills around Mourea (including Rotorua’s own Heartbreak Hill) to contend with. The interesting thing I’ve learnt about pacers that all runners should be aware of, is often they’re selected to pace slower finishing times compared to their ‘usual’ finishing time. So a 4 hour marathon pacer is usually a 3hr 30 min or 3hr 45 min marathon finisher. The issue with this approach is that these runners will instinctively run at their 3hr 30/45min pace. So often, they’ll go faster in the early stages of a race only to slow down near the end to finish under 4 hours (i.e. they’re more likely to have a positive split rather than a negative split). I’d argue that a 4 hour pacer should be someone who normally runs a marathon around 4 hours as they’re the best at pacing a 4 hour marathon! Yes, there’s the risk they may finish over 4 hours if they have a bad day at the office. But at least their pace will be steady and consistent right from the start! As I reach the half way point of the marathon near the back end of the lake, the 4 hour pacing group surges away from me on some of the big downhills. Oblivious to my timing splits, I ask a random runner what the time is. She tells me that it’s 9.58am. This means that I’ve done the first 21.1km in 1 hour and 58 min which means I’m well placed for a sub 4 hour finish. Although I try to keep the 4 hour pacing group within sight, they seem to keep accelerating until I lose sight of them around Mourea. I restrain the ego and hold back. The reality was, all I had to do was hold my current pace (not go faster) and I’d still finish around 3hr and 56 mins. I was still tracking well. Keep calm and carry on.

Under the Prince’s Gate Arches and on the home straight

Sub 4 hour marathon in the bag

As I go up Rotorua Marathon’s own Heartbreak Hill just past Mourea (around the 27km mark), I can see some runners are starting to falter and slow down. I hold my pace and don’t force any passing. After this hill, there’s a steady downhill gradient but again I don’t force the pace. The aim is to get to the ‘real start line’ at 30km relatively fresh. When I get to 30km, it’s time to unleash. I take my first energy gel and caffeine and I’m off! From 30km, it’s now safe to start passing people and rein in all those runners who passed you earlier. I catch the slower of the 4 hour pacers near the Rotorua Airport (33km) and the faster of the 4 hour pacers at the McDonald’s near Owhata (34km). From then on, it’s all about holding onto momentum. When I reach Vaughan Rd (35km), I know I’m close. The long straight can be challenging but I focus on the positives – it’s mainly downhill and the finish line is beckoning. Eventually Vaughan Rd becomes Te Ngae Rd. As I turn off Te Ngae Rd onto Hinemaru St, there’s one kilometre to go and I know it’s a done deal. I make the final turn off into the Government Gardens under the Prince’s Gate Arches and eventually cross the finish line in 3 hours and 56 mins. Having achieved my finishing time goal, my focus now switches back to my family. I turn around and walk back towards my family. Along the way, I cheer and encourage others. Having been in their position only minutes ago, I know exactly how tough it can be and the affect a few words of encouragement can have. If you do this enthusiastically enough, it’s like a direct transfer of energy from you to them. Eventually I see Casey and Paul on Te Ngae Rd near the 40km mark and give them a big cheer. Paul asks if I’ve got anything for cramp. “No sorry” I reply. “But I know the best treatment for cramp is the finish line”. I keep heading out until I see Shane and Madi on Vaughan Rd and not far behind them is Monette. It’s at this point that I turn around and head back in again. Monette looks determined and locked in her own world of pain. It appears that her 8km long run hasn’t quite prepared her for ‘life after 30km’. But she’s in the zone and doing what she needs to do to finish. Not much is said along the way and my jokes seem to fall flat. Near the end, I sense that she’s tiring of my company so my 7 year old niece, Billie, takes over for the last kilometre. Monette crosses the finish line with Billie just after 6 hours. We then stick around and wait for my sister’s mother in law who finishes her marathon walk in just under 6 hours and 30 mins (and in the process completes her 15^th Rotorua Marathon which is a remarkable achievement)! With all the family finished, we take a group photo together near the finish line. After years of running, maybe my running influence is starting to rub off on my family? In marathons, you get out what you put in. It may not be the best tasting medicine at the time and the benefits may be delayed. But after a while, it becomes an acquired taste and you appreciate that the benefits are multifaceted and long lasting. Running is medicine.

Heading to the finish again with niece Billie (middle) and cousin Monette (right)

A family of marathon finishers (left to right – Madi, Shane, myself, Casey, Monette, Paul)

Courtney: “Number 149, Courtney Molloy for the 33km and number 36, John Molloy for the marathon.”

Crew member: “John Molloy, is that Dr John Molloy? He’s done this event a few times hasn’t he?”

Courtney: “Yes, and he’s doing the Christchurch Marathon the next day too.”

Crew member: “What’s wrong with him?”

Courtney: “I don’t know. Why don’t you ask him when you see him yourself?”

Contrary to popular belief. There is nothing wrong with me. After spending a whole week confined to my 3x5m office whilst listening to my patient’s ailments (of which the majority are related to our sedentary modern day life styles), I couldn’t think of anything better than getting out into the mountains. But it’s interesting how our modern day world wouldn’t bat an eyelid at someone who sits on their arse at work for 10 hours a day, 5 days a week, yet raises their eye brows when that same person decides to go outdoors and do back to back marathons on the weekend. (Ok when you put it down in writing, I can see how some would consider this extreme). However, if you kept your dog in a cage for 5 days a week, that would be considered cruelty. Yet this is how the majority of us are living currently. Regardless of what some people may think, by the end of the working week, I’d had enough of this office shit. I was off to the mountains!

The Mt Oxford Odyssey Mountain Marathon start line

It’s 5.40am on Saturday morning and I’m listening to the marathon race briefing with about 60 other competitors. It’s cold enough to keep my gloves and beanie on but I resist the urge to put my jacket on in a bid to be ‘bold and start cold’. I move around to keep warm but can’t help but notice how wet and muddy it is underfoot. I can remember it being this cold on previous Mt Oxford race day mornings, but I couldn’t recall it being this muddy. This is ominous, I thought. At 6am, we all cross the start line with our head lights on and proceed into the dark. Within a couple of minutes, my balance is being challenged as my shoes slip and slide across mud. Within five minutes, any remnants of comfort are decimated by the freshly cool, shin high river crossing. As I progress onwards, the sporadically muddy single trail suddenly becomes a huge pathway of mud. The advice during the race briefing was to go straight up the middle but my modern day life style had conditioned me otherwise. I try skirt around the side until SLUURP, one of my shoes sinks all the way down to shin height. Remaining calm, I reorientate towards what appears to be ‘firmer mud’ when SLUURP, my other shoe sinks even deeper. F***. As I wrench my mud caked shoe from underneath me, I hear the pop pop pop of air bubbles as the mud and water immediately fill the hole I’ve just extricated my foot out of. Oh God. This is going to be a long day. From then onwards, most of the time, I went straight up the middle as directed. There was way too much mud to fight so I just had to embrace it. Now that my feet were wet and muddy, it was also one less thing to care about. Besides, I had far more pressing issues to contend with (like another 40km to go and a 1300m climb up Mt Oxford [twice] ahead of me). Somewhat less burdened, it was head down and bottom up. The only thing that really mattered now was one foot in front of the other. I left the mud bath behind me and kept climbing the mountain. The ‘rewilding’ process was beginning.

Heading up Mt Oxford (1364 metres)

As much as I appreciate my comfortable work environment, the pitfalls are that it makes me physically weak and soft. Though I’m mentally and emotionally challenged on a daily basis, physically my body is crying out for challenge. The air conditioning/heating unit means that the temperature is always perfect. If it’s not, this is easily addressed with a simple touch of a button. I have a large black leather chair with extra padding to inflate my self-importance whilst better supporting the subcutaneous tissue and muscles around my weary arse. The white walls are absolutely pristine and the white lights are at the perfect wave length to supposedly increase my mood and work productivity. Though I’m lucky enough to have a window in my office, the inconvenience of having to frequently open and close blinds when examining exposed patients means I just keep them permanently closed now. On the days I do Body Balance during lunch times, I open the blinds so at least I can see the green space beyond a car park where a church once stood until the Christchurch earthquakes. In our increasingly urbanised world, city dwellers can spend up to 90% of their time either indoors or sitting in vehicles. We are confined to office spaces and shopping malls and alienated from nature. A particular author has called this ‘Nature Deficit Disorder’. Hence the importance of ‘greening up’ our communities and green space. Proximity to green space improves our health and wellness. In green space we feel less anxious and depressed. Getting into nature/green space has a calming effect, decompresses our minds, and improves our sense of wellbeing. We need to get away from our computer screens, escape our offices, and ‘rewild’ again. We need wilderness.

The Wharfedale Hut aid station with the great jam pikelets

As I climb higher up Mt Oxford, the morning sun is just beginning to rise. As I pass the tree line, it’s beautifully crisp and the wind is amazingly light. As the sunlight spills over the mountain, it blends with the tussock and I bask in the golden natural light. The air smells good and it even tastes fresh. All my worries have gone. Breathing in the mountain air, I settle into a rhythm of breath and movement. Climbing higher again, I become one with the clouds. The clouds themselves move lightly and untroubled in the gentle breeze. When I eventually reach the top, I take a moment to appreciate the vastness of the Canterbury Plains which extend as far as the eye can see. I love the feeling of insignificance. A feeling of a force larger than ourselves. How I’m merely a small speckle in this vast beautiful world. As the wind up top is much stronger, I don’t stop for long and keep moving. When I descend back into the tree line again, I’m sheltered from the wind and shoulder to shoulder with beech forest. I’d purposedly put on my green long sleeve running shirt today. I wanted to become one with nature today. Completely disappear into the bush. Dissolve in all of it. Feeling light and unburdened, I descend swiftly towards Wharfedale Hut. When I arrive at the aid station, it’s a quick top up of food and fluids and I’m on the move again. As I approach three consecutive knee high river crossings, I think back to earlier this morning when I was guarded and reluctant. This time, I crossed freely. I’d embraced my new normal. As I leave the gushing river behind me, I tune in to the other sounds around me. In main, it’s silence. It’s so quiet I can hear myself think again. But in between are birds. Birds singing. Birds chirping. Birds returning calls. You can hear the rustle of the forest and even the noise a gentle breeze makes. As I begin another long climb towards Black Hill Hut, I’m completely connected to nature and in tune with myself. After a while, I stop thinking and start feeling. I feel the wind against my skin and the sun against my cheek. I feel revitalised. I feel refreshed. I feel free. Far away from my office, I feel wild and free again. And it’s so therapeutic! Surely a day in nature for some would be far more therapeutic than any medication I can hope to prescribe. After finally arriving at Black Hill Hut, the reward is a large section of technical downhill running. The only thing I think about is my foot strike with the ground. Eventually, I connect with the Wharfedale Track which is pleasantly runnable. The Wharfedale Track runs along the Dobson Stream so I cross over many of the small tributaries that feed into it. Where the water is flowing freely, I stop to splash my face and the cold water is instantly energising. When I arrived at the Wharfedale Hut again, I’d covered 30km over 6.5 hours. However, had it not been for my watch, I’d be none the wiser. I’d completely assimilated into nature’s own time and rhythm by now. I was lost in nature and lost in myself. It was wonderful.

Having experienced nature’s more favourable side, at some point during the Mt Oxford Odyssey you’re likely to encounter its rough side. Knowing what lies ahead, I take as long as I need at Wharfedale Hut to replenish my supplies before leaving. Just like in previous years, the jam pikelets are on the return leg menu so I help myself to a few. Whereas those who do the 21km and 33km events are directed around Mt Oxford towards the finish line, the marathon competitors have to go up and over Mt Oxford again! This is where nature reveals its raw brutality. The ascent from the Wharfedale side of Mt Oxford is one of the hardest things you could do. I mean, it probably wouldn’t be so bad with fresh legs. But by this stage of the race, not many have fresh legs to call upon! Time slows remarkably and nature really grinds you down. With my chest seemingly at the same level of the ground at times, I bravely look at my GPS which reveals a 25 degree gradient over the next 1.5km. You can expect at least a 30 minute kilometre for this one. After a couple of kilometres, the gradient softens somewhat but not by much. It really is a long grind. Hours disappear. When I finally reach the top, I give thanks to the hardy LandSAR Oxford crew who have braved the strong winds up top all day and keep on heading down. However, as keen as I was to accelerate and get to the finish, going down wasn’t much quicker. The rugged uncompromising rocks and rocky trail ensured a careful descent until at least the tree line. From the tree line, it became the turn of the tree roots to hamper any swift descent until eventually the ground levelled off and you were reunited with mud again (only this time the mud was much worse as by now a few hundred competitors had been and gone before me). Hear we go again. Like a wild animal, I start charging through the mud. For added effect (whilst making sure no one is around me), I roar like some wild boar. Chest out and nostrils flared, I descend wildly along the muddy paths. When I finally cross the finish line, it’s just after 4pm and I’ve been gone for a good ten hours. I spot Courtney waiting for me at the finish line. Her shoes are muddy but she’s wearing a fresh change of clothes. I can tell that’s she been waiting for a while but I can’t tell if she’s happy or angry to see me. I quickly transform back to a subdued man. “Man that was hard!” I exclaim. We hop into the car and exchange war stories all the way home. The rewilding was complete. Now, I just had the matter of another marathon to contend with…

Rewilded and approaching the finish line

Courtney spontaneously volunteering and putting on my finisher’s medal

It’s not often an opportunity comes by to do back to back marathons in your home town so I was up for the challenge. It’s also amazing what a couple of hot showers, good meal, and good night’s sleep can do for you. As I walked towards Hagley Park, my legs didn’t feel too bad after Mt Oxford taking into account the 10 hrs and 3500 metres of vertical gain from yesterday. The new Christchurch Marathon course revolved around a 10.5km lap course through the CBD and Hagley Park. The Quarter Marathon (one lap), Half Marathon (two laps), and Full Marathon (four laps), all started at 7.30am. As I approached the starting line assembly area, what an amazing contrast it was! Yesterday my start line was a muddy wet paddock in the dark and for most of the day, I was shoulder to shoulder with bush. Today, I’m lining up along Park Terrace shoulder to shoulder with 4000 other participants. The music is pumping and the loud speakers are blaring out instructions. I move optimistically towards my 4hr finish starting group and stand quietly and collect my thoughts. It’s funny how once upon a time, all I use to do was run road marathons. But the less road running I did, the more comfortable I felt creating my own path on the trails. I think I’ve now morphed into an off road/trail runner with a bit of a road running background. In saying that, I’ve run enough road marathons to know that the most important driver is within. All external motivators are short lived. So whilst I appreciate that the party atmosphere helps to amp people up at the start, the most important party you need to prepare for is the party in your legs from 30km followed by the battle with your mind. And whatever motivator you choose to use, it has to be greater than the desire to stop. Today my motivator was my kids. I’m conscious that the majority of the time I’m either at work or running so I didn’t want to miss out on too many important occasions. Poppi (4 year old) was scheduled to start her 1km run at 11.30am and Millie (7 year old) was scheduled to start her 2km run at 11.45am. If I could belt out a 4hr marathon then I’d be back in time for Poppi. If that was too tough, then at least a 4hr 15 min marathon would get me back in time for Mille. However, even these kind of times are challenging on fresh legs! It was a big ask but I was going to try.

Some nice green space during the first lap

As I wait for the starter’s gun, there’s a lot of nervous energy around me. I stand pretty relaxed having used up all my nervous energy yesterday. Fair to say, an overexcited fast start was the least of my worries though I was concerned about starting too slow or having to work too hard too early. At 7.30am we get the traditional on your marks, get set, go! Being so far towards the back, it’s a walking start until eventually I can jog and ease into my work. The mass mixed distance start meant there was a lot of foot traffic with a huge variation in pace so I was very conscious of establishing my own pace and rhythm. Initially my focus was on easing into things. I didn’t want to shock my body too early of the impending marathon. However, I also couldn’t afford to start too slow. I had no idea how long this process would take other than it required a lot of ‘feel’ and a bit of patience. The new course started by going past Christs College, Canterbury Museum, and The Arts Centre. Although my legs weren’t overly heavy, they also weren’t stupid and remembered what I got up to yesterday. I started drinking and fuelling much earlier than usual aware that I was probably already in deficit and would need to work much harder throughout the course of the run. At around the 3km mark, I pass an overheating lady wearing a Pikachu costume (which probably meant I started too slow) but I continued to hold back. By 4km, I’m still running within myself along the Avon River. When I hit the 5km mark, I check my watch for the first time and it shows that it’s taken me 33 minutes (ideally, I needed to be in this position by 28 minutes if I was serious about a sub 4 hour time). As I approach Hagley Park, I realise that I need to push the pace but despite my increasing effort, I struggle to go any faster and am consistently above a 6 minute kilometre pace. By the time I finished my first lap in 1 hour and 6 minutes, I was well off the required 5 min 40 sec kilometre pace required for a sub 4 hour finish. If I continued at this pace, then I’d finish the marathon in 4 hours and 24 minutes. By then, my girls’ races would’ve finished and dad would’ve missed out again. Oh man this is getting tough. It was only 10km but already I needed to dig deep.

Pushing hard running next to the Avon River

Working hard with The Arts Centre in the background

There is this perception that if you can run a 100 miles, then a marathon would be “a piece of piss”. This is untrue. And right now I’m living proof of this. When you train for a 100 miler, you really don’t want to be running faster than 6 min per km for a prolonged period of time. Going too fast can drain your legs and leave you stranded in the later stages of a 100 miler. The terrain in a 100 miler is also much more varied with many ups and downs and walk/run transitions. So after spending hours training my body to run no quicker than 6 min per km on varied terrain, I was now asking it to hold a 5 min and 40 sec kilometre pace on a dead flat course for a much longer period of time than I had ever trained for (cue the training principle of specificity). And this is what makes marathon running so physically and mentally demanding! And excuses aside, I was finding this tough. I had to keep pushing but I needed buy in from fortress brain. The problem being, my brain was telling me that pushing the pace 10km into a marathon was too early. However, my heart was telling me otherwise. Now that it was the second lap, I knew the course had no further surprises. The field had also thinned a bit but there were still quite a few runners on the course. I knew that it was now or never. I had to make my move. Here we go. Only 10km into the marathon, I initiated my ‘finisher’s kick’. Typically this kind of rear guard action is reserved from 30km onwards but not today. I put my foot on the gas and ran like I had everything to lose. I ran for my kids. My focus narrowed immensely. Unlike yesterday when I was in tune and connected with my surroundings, today I was completely detached from anything. All I could think about was the effort. The sole focus was the drive. The drive was the sole focus. I just had to keep pushing. Although I managed to claw some time back, I reached the halfway mark in 2 hours and 6 minutes. I now needed to run a negative split to finish under 4 hours and get back in time for Poppi. Can I do this? Is this possible? The mind games started. Of course you can. Think strong. At the start of the third lap, I pushed harder again. The push became a blur. The blur became the push. When I finished my third lap, the time was 3 hours and 8 minutes. However, my legs were starting to feel heavy and less fluid. The physical cracks began to appear. I accepted that I was too far off the pace and that a sub 4 hour pace was beyond me. There’s no way in the world I’ve got a 52 minute 10km in me. Running along a painfully long straight up Kilmore Street (for the fourth time) into an increasingly strong head wind, I lamented that I was no longer in nature’s time, but rather doomed by my own self-imposed time demands. Not for lack of effort, it dawned on me that you excel in what you train in. I wasn’t trained for this. The physical cracks deepened further into mental cracks. At some point, you need to stop the rot. I had to prevent the cracks from becoming full blown fissures. I knew I had to quickly reorientate and adjust my expectations. Ok, if I can just hold this pace, then a 4 hr 10 min finish is possible. If I can do that, then I’ll be back in time to see Millie off. I just had to keep pushing my limits of perceived exertion. The reminder of the fourth lap was a greater blur. I simply ran as hard as I physically could. It was a battle just to hold a pace but I managed to hold all the cracks together. As I approached the finish line, Courtney seemed surprised to see me. “Are you finishing now?” “Yes” I respond. “Four laps is enough. How’s the kids?” She doesn’t answer (or I didn’t hear) and she rushes away somewhere so I just keep running. As I approach the finisher’s chute, Courtney shouts out to me and lifts Poppi up over the side railing. Poppi had just finished her 1km and was keen to join me. I lift her down and then we both start running down the finisher’s chute. As we approach the finisher’s line, Poppi reveals an incredible turn of pace and leaves me in my dust! “Poppi!” I shout out. “Wait for your dad!” She slows down for me and we both cross the finish line laughing whilst holding hands. After receiving my finisher’s medal, I make my way to Courtney and ask “Do you want me to run with Mille?” “No, I’ll go back to her. She’s just about to start” she responds. Poppi and I wait together near the finisher’s chute until we see Millie and then we all join her to the finish line as well! I’m smiling ear to ear. Finishing with my kids has just topped everything off. As we head back to the car, finisher’s medals around our necks, I’m so happy. I’ve had one of the best weekends I could imagine. Yes, it was hard. Yes, it was challenging. But it was fulfilling. And this was what I was made for. I believed I could, so I did. Find and keep doing whatever it is that flicks your switch or spins your wheels. That’s one good thing covid has taught me. Whether it’s an off road run in nature or a big city road run with family and friends, discover what you need the most as a person and just keep fronting up. Running is medicine.

Finishing the marathon with Poppi in 4hrs 10 mins

Finishing with Millie

Heading down the finisher’s chute with the whole family

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

Millie and Poppi after the Kids Fun Run

As is usual of late, I’m awake before my 6am alarm. I’m not feeling a 100% as I’m still recovering from a classic Ironman tapering cold I developed mid-week. But I’ve had a couple of days to mentally prepare for this and I’m feeling better than yesterday so that’s good enough for me. There’s no way I was going to let a common cold derail my Ironman after months of training. This year, our motel was only 5 minutes walk from bike transition so I decided to head over to transition early before the kids woke up. I dropped off my bike drinks and pumped up my tyres to a firm 120 psi. By the time I’m back, its 6.30am and there’s still heaps of time before the 8am start. However, time can fly pre-event and it always seems to be that your kids sleep in when you need them to wake up early. We turn on the lights and play Meghan Trainor’s ‘Made You Look’ on repeat to try rouse them. By 7.40am, I’m in my wet suit and we all start walking along Lake Taupo towards the swim start. As we get closer to the transition area, some of the Ironman 70.3 (Half Ironman) athletes are already coming out of the water and heading towards their bikes in transition. It’s a bit congested with competitors racing and supporters everywhere so we actually end up on the wrong side of the road and unable to access the swim start from our position. I have a wee panic realising that we need to backtrack in order to cross over. It’s already 7.50am and ideally I’d like to be in the water warming up by now. When we eventually manage to cross over, I say a rushed goodbye to Courtney and the kids. I’m now right at the back of the swim cue with the purple capped swimmers so I urgently manoeuvre through the crowd so I can join the green capped swimmers I’ve been allocated to. The swim start is a deep water start so the best position to start is actually 50-100m away from the shore where the starting buoy is. However, a large group of swimmers are either still hanging around on the shore or waist deep in  the water not willing to lose contact with the ground just yet. As I start to swim around them, I hear the starter’s canon. Bugger! I’m about half way out and well behind the start line and not in a favourable position at all. I know this because there’s barely anyone around me and I can see a wild wash of people ahead of me. For the first 5 minutes, although I was swimming alone, I didn’t mind this too much as it meant I could ease into my swim. However, it’s not long before I’m eventually joined by a large wash of swimmers from my left (all the shore and shallow water starters) who are now trying to jostle for the best deep water position next to the buoys. It’s a bit of carnage and I try to hold my own and maintain my rhythm. I’m not the most confident swimmer and prefer my own personal space so I try to keep away from some of the big volatile bodies in the water. About a quarter of the way through the swim, navigating from buoy to buoy becomes increasingly difficult and it’s as if the surface of the lake is covered with fog. Unable to see too far ahead of me, I’m forced to follow the group of feet in front of me and hope they’re taking the most direct route. I did this for a while until I realised something wasn’t right as the fog only seemed to be ahead of me and not to my left or right. When I took an exaggerated neck extension to look ahead and could see the buoys again, it dawned on me that the top half of my googles had fogged up. In my rush to get into the water, I hadn’t put my googles on perfectly and now I was paying the price. I’d also put my swim cap over my googles so to address this problem would be a fidgety two step procedure. Though many aspire to have ‘the perfect ironman race’, the reality is that this is not the norm. I can’t think of one Ironman where I haven’t had to troubleshoot something. In this case it was, do I persist with reduced vision or readjust my googles and risk getting water into them (which is just as frustrating and can take multiple attempts to resolve)? I decide with the ‘better the devil you know’ approach and persist with my fogged up goggles. However, it also meant that I had to trust those ahead of me to guide the way which I felt uneasy about. I continued with this approach for about three quarters of the swim until suddenly a miracle occurred. A tiny circle clearing formed in my condensed googles such that I could see again! It was about the size of a pea but it was all I needed. Being able to see the buoys again, I picked up my speed and forged ahead confident in my own navigation abilities. I cornered the final buoy and headed towards the swim finish. One hour and 36 minutes later, my feet could touch the ground again. It was a relief to finish and I was happy to put that experience behind me. 3.8km down, 222.2km to go.

Pre Ironman swim photo with the swim course in the background

Coming out of the swim exit

Though the swim makes me the most nervous, the bike leg of an Ironman is my least preferred. I know that for psychological reasons I’m not meant to think like this. But the bike’s a hard sell. In a nutshell it’s go for a 180km bike in the heat of the day between 9.30am-4.30pm. Ride by yourself because drafting is not permitted. And lunch is your responsibility and needs to be sorted on the move. Do this, and you’re lucky enough to start a marathon. As I bike up Rifle Range Road to begin my first 90km loop, I see Courtney and the girls waving and cheering. It’s a nice lift and I wave back in a restrained manner knowing that I need to conserve all my energy for this barbaric bike ride. As I head out towards Reporoa, the conditions are very pleasant. The sun is out and it isn’t too hot yet. The weather forecast predicted 23 degrees Celsius with light southerlies and an average wind speed of less than 10km/hr. I knew that a southerly wind meant that I’d have a tailwind to Reporoa and a headwind coming back into Taupo. Though I’d trained in much stronger winds (average wind speed in Christchurch is normally in the teens to early 20s), I also knew that biking consistently into a light headwind can be very tough. Aware of this, I held back during the first leg out to Reporoa and took it easy. As I approached the 45km turnaround at Reporoa, I was feeling pretty good. I was passing people and my legs felt light. I looked at the other cyclists’ faces coming back inbound for clues on any headwind but they didn’t appear to reveal too much suffering. Poker faces or not? I thought. There also wasn’t too much movement in the trees. This could be perfect conditions. Maybe there is no wind? As I reached the turnaround point, the course showed its hand. As predicted, there was a persistent warm Southerly headwind all the way back to Taupo. Initially it didn’t appear too bad but it slowly smothered your will. The headwind combined with the uphill climb back into Taupo began to take its toll. Riding up the hills, I started to feel more fatigued than desired and also developed a stitch which is not very common whilst biking (compared to say running for instance where there is a bit more jostling involved). Was I drinking too much? Was I riding the uphills too vigorously? Is my sickness catching up with me? Regardless, I slowed and started to get passed again. When I reached the halfway point of the bike, I had biked 90km in about 3hrs and 15 mins. It was 1pm and the sun was puffing out its big yellow chest. I stopped at the bike special needs tent to pick up my frozen drinks and cookies/chocolates. One volunteer who noticed my golden race number (given to those with 10 or more Ironman finishes) asked how many Ironmans I’d done. Feeling a bit worse for wear I responded “Too many!” As I headed back out to Reporoa again, it was good to have a tailwind but my stitch continued to annoy me and hold me back. I simply couldn’t stop eating or drinking otherwise I’d be destroyed by the marathon. Aware that there was a bit of downhill coming out of Taupo, I knew this was my only opportunity to address this short of stopping completely. I reduced my intensity going down the hills and gave myself permission to stop pedalling for short periods whilst the heavier riders thundered past me. The tactic seemed to work and finally after about an hour of trying to manage it, my stitch eventually resolved. I was able to push harder and picked up the pace on the flats again. By the time I had reached Reporoa again, the frozen drinks I had picked up 90 minutes earlier were lukewarm. As I turned around, I knew this would probably be the hardest part of my Ironman today – a 45km warm headwind all the way home. It was head down, bottom up. At some stage during an Ironman, you’ll reach the point where you simply don’t give a shit anymore. Tired as I was, I knew there was no point holding anything back now. It was time to throw caution to the wind. When you’ve been on a bike for more than 5 hours, there ain’t too much to enjoy about life so I had a strong desire to get off this dastardly bike as quick as I could. I pushed hard into the headwind. Attack, recompose, attack, recompose. By 160km, the pressure from the pedals on my bike shoes was starting to get a bit unbearable. Knowing I still had a further 10km of incline and a couple of nasty hills to go, I succumbed to the pain and pulled over at the next toilet stop. I whipped off my shoes and proceeded to enter the portaloo when one of the volunteers shouted out “You might want to leave your shoes on, the floor’s pretty gross in there.” “That’s the least of my worries” I responded. “My feet are killing me!” “And you’ve still got a marathon to run!” she gasps. “I’ll be in my running shoes by then, I’ll be fine” I reply. Relieved of the pressure from my feet and bladder, I feel like a new man and I’m on my way again. As I climb over one of the last major hills, a sign on the side of the road reads “That was the easy part. Now just a marathon to go!” When I finally arrive back into bike transition, it’s just after 4.30pm having completed the bike leg in just under 7 hours. Sometimes the thought of doing a marathon is harder than actually doing a marathon. I quickly change into my running gear, smother myself with sunscreen, and put on my trusty wide brimmed hat. Before my mind can comprehend what I’m about to do, I’ve left transition and have started running.

Coming out of bike transition and having breakfast on the move

Heading out to Reporoa with fresher legs

Heading back into Taupo for the final time before the large hill climbs

As I set off, my heart rate is going through the roof but I’m relieved to be on the run course. I find the swim and bike the hardest part of an Ironman whereas with running, it’s the one thing I’m remotely good at. In saying that, no matter how good your run legs are. Running a marathon after biking 180km is no laughing matter. As mentioned earlier, sometimes the thought of doing a marathon is harder than actually doing a marathon. It’s important that you come prepared with a good nutritional and psychological plan to deal with this or else the marathon will dismantle you. More recently, I’ve started using my running vest again so I can administer ‘aid’ during the course rather than only at aid stations. Having all my iced drinks, food, and supplements on me at all times reduces the loitering time at aid stations and allows me to ‘move through aid stations’ without breaking momentum. As in previous years, I left my watch at home to take some of the pressure off. As its easy to be overawed by distance, make your life easier by working with small numbers. The newly designed run course is now 4 laps so it makes sense to break the run down into four small achievable sections. Better still, at the turnaround point just outside of town, you’re given a different coloured wrist band each time you pass so you’ve got something tangible to show for your efforts. If you stick with the above, knowing the exact distance you’ve run at any point in time is not particularly important. So, the focus of my life for the next 4-5 hours was simply to get wrist bands and keep moving. At the first turn around point, it’s the blue wrist band. You then have to run back towards the town centre (which is slightly easier due to the multitude of supporters cheering you on) and turn around again. Next goal is the orange wrist band, followed by the pink, and then finally the yellow wrist band. The key lies in maintaining momentum and not floundering between the two turnaround points. Kind of like a running version of ping pong where you want to avoid the net (aka ‘the wall’) in the middle. Gamers out there may also find it easier to think of the marathon as a game of Super Mario Bros. Imagine each runner as like a gold coin (pass enough and you’ll get a 1 up life) and each wrist band as like a Powerup Mushroom such that when you receive your last wrist band, you’ll also receive an Invincibility Star that will get you all the way to the finish line. As silly as some of this may sound, I guarantee you’ll find it a lot easier than counting each of the 42 kilometres you need to run. After a 3.8km swim and 180km bike ride, the simple thought of running a marathon will wear you down and you could be mentally fried within 10 kilometres. As the day becomes night, it becomes much cooler and running becomes more tolerable again. Courtney and the girls had positioned themselves somewhere between the turnaround points and their encouragement helped me get through that testy middle ground. When I finally cross the finish line, it’s just after 8.30pm. I completed the marathon in 4hr and 42 mins for a total finishing time of 13 hours and 32 mins which I’m happy with. It wasn’t the perfect day but I’ve lowered my expectations over the years. There are so many variables in Ironman and not everything will go to plan. A lot of the time it’s about staying calm, managing any problems that arise, negotiating the difficult times, and learning to win ugly. Any Ironman finish regardless of the time you finish is a massive achievement! If you have the desire, discipline, and willingness to put in consistent effort, then finishing an Ironman is not beyond anyone. If you think you can, you should. As Iron Mike Stowers would say “Finishing is winning!” Running is medicine.

At the beginning of the marathon with fresher legs

Millie showing dad how to run effortlessly

Heading down the Ironman finisher’s chute

Ironman NZ # 14 in the bag

Finish line hug with cousin Shane

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

The start of the Auckland Marathon

Ten thousand steps a day has been adopted worldwide as a benchmark for minimal daily physical activity. However, you’d be interested to know that this had no medical origin and was only later adopted by the medical fraternity. Its origins derive from a Japanese company called Yamasa Tokei who in the mid-1960s invented a simple, inexpensive pedometer / step counter. The company decided to call the device Manpo-kei which translates as “ten thousand step meter”. The name was catchy and the pedometer was very popular and sold well. It wasn’t until 2004 that two exercise scientists (Tudor-Locke & Bassett Jr) published that 10,000 steps/day appeared to be a reasonable estimate of daily activity for most healthy adults for health benefits. Ten thousand steps a day was catchy, easy to remember, and achievable so it stuck. The American College of Sports Medicine categorise ‘sedentary’ as less than 5,000 steps/day, ‘low active’ as 5,000-7,499 steps/day, ‘somewhat active’ as 7,500-9,999 steps/day, ‘active’ as 10,000-12,500 steps/day, and ‘highly active’ as greater than 12,500 steps/day. They recommend that you aim for 10,000 steps per day. If your base line is under this level, you should increase your steps by 1,000 per day every two weeks until you reach 10,000 steps per day. Ten thousand steps a day is approximately 8km a day. Studies have shown that hunter-gatherer societies (like the Hadza) have an average daily travel distance of 11.8km/day (14.1km for males and 9.5km for females). However, this doesn’t include the ‘thousands of extra steps they take in and around their camp. The average Westerner walks 4.1km/day. For hunter-gatherer societies (where chronic diseases such as obesity and type II diabetes are non-existent), their mere survival demands up to 20,000 steps/day. Large scale physical activity data from cell phones around the world [Nature. 2017 Jul 20;547(7663)] show that we pale in comparison. The average Japanese takes 6,010 steps/day, English takes 5,444, American takes 4,774, and Australian takes 4,941 steps/day. Unfortunately, the average New Zealander doesn’t fare any better with 4,582 steps/day. So if 10,000 steps per day is the benchmark for minimal daily physical activity, then sadly we are nowhere near it. However, is 10,000 steps per day even enough? Are we setting the bar too low? Should we be aiming for 20,000 steps per day? If we set the bar too high, will be lose our audience? Do people even care regardless of where the bar is set? According to the American Council on Exercise, people who track their steps take an average of 2,500 more steps per day than people who don’t track their steps. So there are merits in using the multitude of tracking devices available. I must confess, I’ve never really been one to count steps or be interested in my daily step count. But for the purposes of this blog, I’ve looked back at the events I’ve participated in this year. For the Selwyn marathon, I took more than 39,000 steps. The Taupo Ultramarathon 100km, I took nearly 106,000 steps. My Leadville 100 miler? More than 175,000 steps (Disclaimer – the Leadville took more than 28 hours so the calculated steps per day count will be slightly lower). I acknowledge these events aren’t daily occurrences. So maybe a better reflection would be looking at your step count over the course of a year rather than 10,000 steps/day. Or is 3.65 million steps/year too daunting? I think so. Break it down into achievable portions. Just get out the front door and make every step count.

Heading up the Auckland Harbour Bridge in better times

Heading out to the turn around point at Mission Bay

The rain is still falling steadily as 1,500 participants step out onto the streets of Devonport. Someone in their garage is playing ‘When the Saints Go Marching In’ on their trumpet which is a nice gesture. After 2km, my core is dry but I’m getting too hot with my jacket on. Auckland’s a lot warmer than Christchurch but I’m very conscious that once you get wet, you can’t get unwet (or get dry to use better English). I make the executive decision to take my jacket off which means stopping is now out of the equation. Once wet, one can get cold very quickly when you stop so you’ve just got to keep on moving. Courtney and I are still together at the Akoranga Bus Station (12km) so at this point I decide to run the remaining 30km with her. She’s supported me a lot over the years so I figured it would be good to return the favour. A long run makes me happy. And a happy wife equals a happy life. So if I put the two together, then a long run should make us both happy for life right? At least that’s how my simple male brain saw it. Courtney is on a high and fist pumps as we course over the top of the Auckland Harbour Bridge. “That’s the first time I’ve run to the top without walking” she says. The first part of the marathon is deceptively hilly and your legs only seem to catch on to this as you approach the half way mark in the city. It’s also where the mind games start kicking in as you pass the Half Marathon Finish (STRAIGHT) and Full Marathon (LEFT) junction. As we turn left onto the long out and back towards Mission Bay, I joke to Courtney “It could be worse. You could be doing the half marathon.” I’ve personally never found a half marathon to be satisfying. There’s a lot of high fiving and bum slaps going on as one crosses a half marathon finish line. But after crossing a full marathon finish line, you’ve barely got any energy and you’d be doing well if you didn’t collapse in a heap. In a full marathon, you’re served the entrée at 21.1km and the real race (and the suffering) doesn’t start until the 30km mark. As Courtney and I pass the 23km mark, I can sense she is starting to struggle. “This is normal. Keep going” I counsel. “People will start to waver and start walking from here. Don’t be like them. Just keep going.” “I want my pain relief” she responds. “No, no, it’s too early for that” I tell her. “You haven’t suffered enough”. “I am suffering!” she blurts out. “And I want my pain relief!” “It’s too early!” I retort. “Just have a gel instead. It’s too early for pain relief! It’ll give you about 10km so you have to use it wisely.” “But I want it now!” she demands. “It’s too early!” I snap back. “Look!” she roars. “Unless you want to run this bloody thing by yourself, I’d suggest you shut up and let me do what I want to do!” Sun is warm, grass is green. Happy wife, happy life. “Ok, do what you want.” I back down. “But I recommend you wait until at least 25km if not 28km. I like to hold off until 30km.” Courtney swallows a gel and the next couple of kilometres are eerily quiet. I reflect on the irony of it all. Isn’t it ironic that the more we suffer, the stronger we become? Thankfully, more people ahead start to walk and Courtney reels them in which keeps our relationship intact. I think somewhere between 25 and 28km Courtney takes her paracetamol with a noticeable improvement in her speed and movement. “You’re looking good. Keep going” I add. “Things get a bit easier once you reach the turn around point… There are virgins there…”. Usually the promise of virgins would physically spur on my usual running partner (Dr Andrew Stanley) but Courtney was indifferent to this comment. Instead, she pulls out her phone and asks her mum if she could bring our 2 kids to the turnaround point. Why didn’t I think of that? As we approach the turn around point (approx. 32km), the rain starts to pick up again. It’s therefore a heart-warming sight to see Millie and Poppi (our 2 kids) underneath an umbrella standing next to a Pohutukawa tree with Auntie M and Martin. Courtney gets a loud cheer and the kids shout out “Go Mumma!” which really lifts her spirits and gives her all the motivation she needs. Heading in the opposite direction down Tamaki Drive and with 10km to go, a volunteer cheekily gestures “The finish line is just down the road!” I couldn’t help but laugh at how accurate this comment was. “We can’t be looking that bad” I told Courtney. “He wouldn’t be saying that to everyone”. Courtney remains true to form and keeps going. Around 35km she wants to walk but I urge her not to. “Don’t walk. Just slow down a bit but don’t walk. And then pick up your pace when you feel good again. You’ll feel much better if you keep passing people. You don’t pass people when you walk.” She manages to keep running whilst others around her start to walk. In a marathon, there’s a constant toing and froing between the will to run and the desire to walk/stop. The most important thing is that you just keep going forward. Every step matters. Every step counts. Take it one step at a time. One foot in front of the other. When we reach the 40km mark, it’s almost a done deal. Courtney is looking determined and is finishing strongly. “Have you met Jesus yet?” I chirped. “No, but I’ve met my Trelise Cooper dress!” she exclaims. “What are you talking about dress?” I reply bemused. “I’ve met my dress. And I’m getting it after this marathon” she replies assuredly. How anybody could think about dresses 40km into a marathon is beyond me. But I guess you’ve got to find what motivates you in those final kilometres. And for Courtney, it was a dress. Courtney and I eventually cross the finish line just after 4 hours and 30 minutes. She’s smashed her personal best by 1 hr and 15 minutes (previous PB of 5 hrs and 45 mins). As we hobble away in the rain, I congratulate Courtney on her efforts. “It’s the first marathon where I haven’t walked” she tells me. “Yes, they’re the best ones” I reply. I look down at my watch – 46,385 steps. Make every step count. Running is medicine.

Two kilometres to go

Crossing the Auckland Marathon finish line

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

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

Coursing along the top of Mt Oxford at sunrise

Within 5 mins, any air of invincibility is gone. I’ve been humbled and I’m flat on my arse down a steep grassy slope. Before long, my feet are drenched from the shin high river crossing. For me, running is a great litmus test on my current physical function. It levels all your perceived notions and brings the truth to the surface. It keeps me connected to my current self and in tune with how my body is changing as I age. Brought back down to earth and sitting on my rear on the grassy slope, I appreciate my night/depth perception isn’t as good as what it used to be. I was putting too much weight on my heels and my balance needs more work. Coming out of the river with cold and wet feet, it highlights how I’ve become use to a comfy life and my warm office. I tell my patients that its “Use it or lose it from your 30s”. The problem being, people don’t know that they’re ‘losing it’ because they aren’t doing any challenging physical activity. Day to day life blinds you to this slow physical decline. And when I talk about ‘normal age-related changes’, some patients put their hackles up. “Don’t tell me I’m old! I don’t want to hear about that!” But if you’re in complete denial about aging, how can you make a positive change to manage this? Others appear completely stunned (especially those in their late 30s and 40s). Look around you. How many All Blacks are playing in their 40s? We start losing muscle fibre size/strength from our late 20s. Our bodies’ ability to handle ‘load’ reduces from our 30s. Balance decline become more prominent from the age of 40 onwards. Aging doesn’t happen overnight; it’s a slow gradual process! Unfortunately, our comfortable lifestyles provide a false sense of security about our physical function. We’re also largely ignorant or in denial about aging (in NZ due to our ACC system – we’re not aging, we’re just getting injured). The classic story I hear is “I was just doing my normal gym/walk/run (any activity that you’ve done a thousand times over can be substituted here) when I must’ve injured myself as X, Y, and Z body part was sore”. Or a patient will describe a ‘low velocity’ injury mechanism. If you’re over 30 years of age and fit the above scenarios, one needs to sensitively talk about ‘normal age-related changes’. So, how can we address this? We need to exercise more. If you’re already exercising, can this be further optimised? There is an urgent need for physical activity promotion in middle aged adults. One in four adults achieve less than 150 minutes of moderate intensity physical activity per week. Physical activity often decreases during middle age as we are typically ‘time poor’ due to employment, household, and care giving responsibilities. Large longitudinal studies have found that increased physical activity in middle age delays disability by up to 15 years. Those with higher leisure time physical activity at 46 years of age were 1.5 times more likely to have good perceived health in older age. Below are complaints I increasingly hear from patients from the age of 40 onwards – my back is sore, lifting a jug is painful, I have difficulty doing up my bra, I can’t wash my hair properly, I find it hard to put my shoes and socks on, I can’t sleep on my side, I want my life back. True story. Though you may be safe now, age is coming for you. Think of exercise during your middle age as health insurance premiums for your future. Think of it as a way of bullet proofing your function to support your independence as you age. Don’t wait until you fall to address balance issues. What you do now matters. Remember, exercise needs to be challenging. At times exercise needs to be hard. The moment exercise is no longer hard, guess what becomes hard? LIFE. Which would you prefer?

Mt Oxford concentration mode

Heading up Mt Oxford, the rain from the week prior has turned parts of the track into slippery thick mud. You lose your visual cues in the dark so balancing becomes harder so I’m in full concentration mode with my headlight on full beam. I try skirt around a large puddle of mud but my shoe sinks ankle deep into it. Great. You aren’t in your comfy office now Dr Molloy. It’s a slow steady climb up. I’m still within the tree line and I can hear the wind whipping up a storm so I decide to stop and put on my warm gear. As I leave the tree line behind me, I feel the full brunt of the promised north westerlies. It’s chillingly cold and I can barely hold my feet as the wind buffets against me. Like a stubborn autumn leave clinging on, I continue to forge ahead. The higher I go, the more violent the wind gusts become. Approaching the waist of the mountain, I can see the wind funnelling into the side of the mountain as it scatters rock debris across the path. Bracing for impact, I dig my trekking poles deeper into the ground. I slowly inch forwards until a sudden gale picks me up and I’m viciously tossed aside like an ex-university lover. This is crazy. Momentarily stunned, I get up and urgently press forwards. When I reach the top of Mt Oxford, the sun is starting to spill orange across the horizon but I’m in no mood to stop and appreciate the scenery. I just want to get off this thing! When I finally reach the tree line on the other side of the mountain, the technical descent begins. Though I can usually hold my own on ascents, there are some amazing downhill (or down mountain) runners out there and they thunder past me. It’s incredibly rocky and rooty so I don’t know how they can do it. I ask one particular runner who breezes past me what his secret is. “No brakes” he shouts back. Easier said than done I thought. However, content to give this a go, I ease off the quad braking. Instantly the weight shifts away from my heels and more into my toes. The change in weight distribution removed the fear of slipping onto my bottom but created a new fear of tumbling forwards. I experimented between the two. Shifting between my heels and toes until I seemed to get the hang of things. Noticing I was being passed my less people, I felt rather pleased with myself. When a fallen tree across the path presented itself, I thought it would be the perfect opportunity to progress my downhill running to downhill jumping. With increased confidence, I accelerated towards the tree. No brakes. Stay calm. No brakes. Within moments, I realised the tree was knee height and not ankle height. I also couldn’t see the ground on the other side of the tree. At almost break neck speed, I pull out at the last safe moment. “You bloody idiot” I curse myself. So you think you’re an Olympic high jumper now? Pull your head in you fool! Content on not getting injured, I ease off the bravado and safely negotiate the remaining gnarly downhill cornering until I reach the first aid station at Wharfedale Hut. As proof of passage, I smile for the volunteers as they take an instant photo of me reminiscent of the Polaroid cameras of old. Still feeling pretty good, I top up my water bottles and press onwards. Although there is a lot of focus on Mt Oxford itself, the ascent from Wharfedale Hut to Black Hill Hut is no laughing matter. The gradient along Black Hill Track is equally challenging and contributes fairly towards the total 3500m elevation gain. By now the field is well spread and it’s a slow toil. There is some interplay with runners coming back in the opposite direction but otherwise it’s just you and dense bush. When I finally reach Black Hill Hut (which is about half way), I’m 4.5 hours into this slog. A young kid pokes his head out of the hut window and shouts “You can turn around now!” Pretty stuffed to have any real conversation I reply “Thanks man” and comply. The descent along Fosters Ridge Track back towards Wharfedale Hut is probably one of my favourite parts of the run. The descent isn’t too taxing and you’re surrounded by dense beech forest. There’s a nice section of relatively non-technical terrain (for a change) next to a river with a few small water crossings. When I arrive back at Wharfedale Hut, the volunteers are still chipper which lifts your spirits. I tuck into the potato chips and jam pikelets. Knowing what’s ahead of me, I’m not keen to loiter so I give thanks and carry on. It’s very difficult to describe the last section of the course from Wharfedale Hut and back up Mt Oxford again. Relentless and horrific may be fair descriptors. At times the ground is at face height which may suit those seeking a quick burial at this stage of the race. Suffice to say, you’ll never complain about walking on flat ground again after this. As I break the tree line and course along the top of Mt Oxford for the second time, I take a moment to look around me. Wow. I love how views are earnt. It’s around 2pm and I’m wearing my beanie and gloves as the wind is still cold. I have a brief chat with the Oxford Land Search and Rescue team who are sheltering from the wind in their tent. “Is this the southerly change that was forecast?” I ask. “Nope” one guy quips back. “You’ll be well off the mountain by the time the southerly comes roaring in. Enjoy your tailwind back down!” Geez. It’s cold enough as it is. I shudder at the thought. I’d like to tell you that the descent down Mt Oxford is pleasurable but I’d be lying. It’s rocky, technical, and hard work. Hopefully your quads are the generous type because you’ll need them to keep giving. Unless you’re a mountain goat, expect 13 min kilometre descents. Towards the end, it becomes rooty and muddy again. Low in energy and devoid of care, there is little gained in side stepping the boggy mud so it’s the rugby fat man’s track – up the guts. With muddy shoes and wet feet, I finally cross the finish line 9 hours after starting. It’s a pleasant exhaustion. I help myself to a chicken roll and head back towards my car. If this is what it takes to preserve my function and independence as I age, then I reckon that’s a fair exchange. Exercise hard – Live easy. Running is medicine.

Mt Oxford summit

Pre-race

The hardest part of any race is getting to the start line. The Southern Lakes Ultra (SLU) is a 264km stage race over 7 days with greater than 10 000 metres of elevation gain. With Omicron brewing, uncertainty reigned and events around the country were cancelling again. So, as we had our welcome event meal and briefing overlooking Queenstown, I couldn’t help but feel extremely grateful and lucky. Grateful as I’ve made another start line. Lucky as the event organisers had decided to push on. It’s unfathomable to grasp the amount of work and stress that comes with organising an event such as this (yet alone during a dynamic and uncertain pandemic environment). The 2021 event had been postponed and rolled over to 2022. The 2022 event subsequently remained exclusively for New Zealanders with Omicron keeping the border closed. Willing Australian and other international runners would have to wait another year to run in our beautiful and rugged back yard. Despite all these obstacles, Kerryn and Jason Bell (event organisers and ultra runners themselves) remained resolute. With a restricted field, I doubted they were making any profit out of this. It became clear that this event was fuelled by a big heart, passion, and sheer stubbornness. An opportunity to play Santa Claus to us runners whilst giving back to their community and showcasing Queenstown. Glenn Marvin, the MC (who was also an ultra runner) was revelling in being surrounded by a group of like-minded people. In his words, ‘like-minded people who for some reason enjoyed punishment!’ He became giddy with the prospect of the ‘collective suffering’. And then, like a firecracker about to explode, he climaxed with “Shit gets real!” This would be the first but not the last time Glenn told us this. (In fact, for the rest of the week, most of Glenn’s speeches seemed to start with this statement). It was then Kerryn’s turn to talk. She softened us up by talking about wanting to make a stage race for everyone before going for the jugular and addressing the mental DNF. Arguably this goes straight to the heart of most ultra runners’ greatest fear. She urged us to think of our ‘why’ to help counter this. She seemed determined that all of us would finish. Without explicitly saying it, she implied she would accept a physical DNF (i.e. a broken leg) but not a mental DNF. I look over towards Dr Andrew Stanley to see if he is quivering in his boots. Instead he has a steely look in his eyes and appears calm and focused. He nods his head and flexes his muscles (the latter are getting harder to see these days). We seem to both read each other’s minds. This isn’t a race for everyone. 264km and 10 000m elevation gain isn’t for everyone. You can attend but you simply can’t complete an event of this magnitude without adequate training. On honest reflection, most DNFs (physical or mental) are secondary to poor preparation and training. Hopefully for most, the shit got real 2-3 months ago during the peak of their training. Running 44km, 55km, 26km, 69km, 47km, and 16km over a week is one thing. But combining this with 10 000m of elevation gain demands adequate training! And so the stage was set.

Pre stage 1 brief with camp site and Lake Hawea in the background

At the SLU start line (from left to right, Fiona Eagles, myself, Dr Andrew Stanley, and Dr Esther O’Sullivan)

Starting tent photo (from left to right, Dr Roland, Sally, Craig, Claire, myself, and Dr Esther O’Sullivan)

Stage 1 – A detour off course (Distance 44km, total ascent 750m, total descent 830m, finishing time 6hr 27 min)

Our first camp night was at Dingleburn Station (i.e. a farmer’s backyard) next to Lake Hawea. Having all been allocated tent spaces, it’s at this point you hope the strangers you’ll be sharing your tent space with for the next week aren’t strange. Each tent sleeps 6 people and is configured as 3 x 2 person spaces. Often by default, the guys group together and the ladies group together so there’s no gender mixing. By random chance, Dr Esther O’Sullivan and myself have been allocated into the same tent group. Having conducted some private investigation in the days prior, I tell Esther that we’re also sharing with a couple (Craig and Claire) so that left her the options of sharing with myself, a lady called Sally, or another doctor called Roland. These can be difficult decisions to make but Esther and I both side with the ‘better the devil you know’ approach. We decide to share a tent space together leaving Sally and Roland with a potentially awkward introduction. Dr Stanley on the other hand, ends up sharing a tent space with a somewhat fabled character simply known as Dennis. He was a “69 years young” slightly quirky and dishevelled man who loved a good yarn. “I’m a professional athlete paid by the New Zealand government” he tells me. I sense Dr Stanley will have an interesting week. My sleep the night before is quite broken. I don’t remember my air mattress being so uncomfortable. Or maybe I was just too tired to notice when I last used it during the Alps to Ocean stage race in 2018. Come morning, the excitement builds and I’m ready to go. Previous stage races have taught me to start conservatively in order to save energy for the second half of the week. But I struggled to control my pent-up energy and ran hills I probably should’ve walked. I then got caught up in a small duel with another runner called Graham whom I noticed earlier was wearing an Ironman shirt (be careful of the Ironman athlete – often these athletes don’t like getting passed). Just prior to the first aid station, he gestured left to a foot track to the side of the road and then pointed right to another turn off on the road. Whether it was purposeful or not, I’m not sure. But I think it threw me and I just braced for a turn off. I remembered reading somewhere in the race manual that we had to leave the 4WD road after check point 1 and then follow a path. I was just behind Graham leading into the first aid station. But on looking up after filling my drink bottles, he was gone in a flash! Not seeing the sharp dip in the 4WD road I was meant to stay on, I veered left into the dense bush trail I thought he’d disappeared down. And off I went. For the next wee while I ventured along a formed but very gnarly and intrepid track. There were multiple river crossings (some as high as your waist) that were challenging to cross even with trekking poles. How are people without running poles expected to do this? I thought. A portion of the track was also cleaned out by rock slide so there was some precarious rock hopping. The track was so windy and the bush so dense, it seemed conceivable there were runners in front and behind me but you just couldn’t see them. There also appeared to be fresh foot prints after the river crossings. I didn’t remember Kerryn talking about all these river crossings. Was this a race director surprise? The track was technical enough to demand my full concentration so I got caught up in the moment. When the river I was following opened up into a large river bed and the track became harder to follow, an uneasy feeling of something not being right set in. I hadn’t seen another runner in a while. Fearing I was lost, I sat down in a very obvious location where anybody could see me and pulled out my race manual. To my dismay, my race manual had almost disintegrated by the condensation from my spare water flask. Murphy’s law – Anything that can go wrong will go wrong. I attempted to read the instructions for stage one that were full of holes and falling apart. Luckily, a small section was still readable and read “leave the 4WD road and follow the path down to the beach”. The sickening reality set in. I was following a river and there was no beach in sight. I turned around and headed back. It was a lonely walk. On the way back, I placed my shoe next to a well-formed shoe print on the other side of the river crossing. My shoe print left no mark. Bugger. An old shoe print. By the time I back tracked to the first aid station, I’m sure I crossed that river about 20 times. I was relieved to see the aid station volunteers but they were slightly bewildered to see me again. So was my tent mate Sally who was walking. “What are you doing here?” she asked. “I went the wrong way. My fault” I answered. “How long have I been gone for?” I asked the aid station crew. “We checked you off an hour and 15 minutes ago” answered Emily on timing duties. I sighed deeply. “Ok, which way do I go?” Another volunteer Cynthia pointed in the direction of a very large mountain. I looked up at the large mountain. “F*** off!” I replied in dismay. “Up that thing?” “No! Follow the road!” she exclaimed. “There is a dip in the road! Stay straight on the road until the turn off!” After this, I did exactly what Cynthia told me. I stayed on the road, took the turn off towards the beach, and remained on course for the rest of the run. I pushed quite hard to try make up for lost time and passed a few tail enders along the way. By the time I reached the finish at Albert Town, I’d probably done about 50km instead of the scheduled 44km. Certain parts of my feet were hot from the rocks I neglected to remove after all my river crossings. Luckily it was still mid-afternoon so there was still plenty of time to recuperate and recover. Everyone in my tent had finished except for Sally who was still out on the course. I tried to keep my detour on the down low but word spreads fast in a small group. And so it came to be known that I was the only person who got lost during day one. For the remainder of the week, others who also got lost felt compelled to tell me their own lost stories. I’m not sure why but they did. I just compassionately nodded my head and responded “Yes, it’s easy enough to do.”

Heading off at the Inaugural 2022 SLU

Early on during stage 1 when rivers were ankle height…

Trying to make up ground near the end of stage 1

Stage 2 – Getting lost again and managing hot spots (Distance 55.5km, total ascent 610m, total descent 610m, finishing time 7hr 35 min)

Come day two, we were allocated into three starting groups based on our finishing times. After my escapade yesterday, I’d been allocated to the ‘middle of the pack’ runners. Dr Stanley (who actually won the stage yesterday) and Esther were in the fastest starting group. I actually didn’t mind this as it meant I could keep my ego in check and pace wisely. Leading up to the start, I was a bit apprehensive about how my feet would feel so I was relieved when my shoes slid on nicely. Phew. That’s a good start. My tent mate Craig who knew the area quite well, also had his own concerns about the heat. “I’d much rather start at 7am whilst it’s cool. It’s quite exposed out there and there’s not much shade” he mentioned. All the more reason for a conservative start I thought. Our group started at 8am, 30 mins after the ‘back of the pack’ runners, and 30 mins before the faster runners. This was the race organiser’s bid for people to get to know and encourage each other. Despite running relatively easy, I was soon the lead runner in our group. I eventually caught up with the other walkers and runners in the first starting group who were already widely spaced apart. Like the day before, I was running by myself but enjoying myself. I then hit a 50:50 junction. Hmmm. No red and white markers. The course had been reasonably well marked until now. Maybe they didn’t think this was critical enough to mark? I thought. However, it seemed very 50:50 to me so I took the left veer which seemed the most obvious continuation of the track. I ran until I started to get that strange feeling again that something wasn’t right. “You shouldn’t get lost”, Kerryn had told us in her brief earlier. “Just keep the Clutha River to your right.” The problem being, the Clutha River was now directly in front of me and I knew swimming across the mighty Clutha wasn’t anywhere in the race brief. So I back tracked to the 50:50 junction and took the right veer. But that eventually lead me back to where I’d just been. I back tracked again until thankfully I came across a collection of red and white markers and another competitor called Darryl (whom I passed previously) and causally said “Hello”. The red and white markers lead us off the well-formed track and across a grassy field. Back on course, I proceeded to pass the same walkers and runners I’d passed earlier. When I arrived at the first aid station, a volunteer called Gus congratulated me. “Well done John! You’ve made it to the first aid station. We were worried you’d get lost.” I bit my bottom lip until my tent mate Craig spotted me and blurted out “He’s done it again! You were miles ahead of us!” “Yeah, I think I went off track for a bit” I responded. And so it came to be known that I’d got lost for the second time. For the remainder of the run, I remained hypervigilant and made sure the Clutha River was to my right the whole time. What concerned me was that yesterday was a rush of blood. But today, I thought I was concentrating and still got lost! At this rate, I’d be running more than 300km if I wasn’t careful. After the first aid station, I was beginning to feel some old and new hotspots. Unlike yesterday when I ignored ‘hot spots’ on my feet, today I stopped to address them all. For stage races, I’ve adopted the principle of ‘treating hot spots and not blisters’. 264km of running is hard enough without complicating it with blister management! As the day wore on, the relentless sun and heat came to the fore. I didn’t top up my water flasks fully at the first aid station and I was starting to regret this. I’d been led to believe that I could just fill up my water from the Clutha River next to the trail. However, the Clutha wasn’t that accessible and there was quite a drop (and some extra effort to get to it). Running low on water, I eventually topped up at a small stream just off the main track and sculled 500mL and felt much better. The stream was flowing but nowhere near as fast as the Clutha. I didn’t think too much of it at the time until I passed someone walking their dog within 5 mins of my water stop. The area was more residential than I thought. In retrospect, that small stream doubled up as the perfect dog swimming AND toileting stop. I hope that water is ok I thought. The second half of the stage coursed through Lake Wanaka township and then around Lake Wanaka towards Glendhu Bay. After lots of flat running and pushing/holding a pace, the last 7km of the stage was undulating which was a welcome change. Though I could see our camp ground in the distance, it seemed to take an age to get there. When I finally finished, I headed straight into the lake for a recovery dip. By now the wind had picked up creating waves on the lake so it wasn’t the most pleasant experience. A necessary evil I guess if one wanted to be clean and enhance recovery for the next stage. After a couple hours, I managed to spot my tent mate Roland cross the finish line. I rushed over to give him a congratulatory hug when he almost collapsed over the finish line. He was covered in a slimy sweat and didn’t look good. He mentioned vomiting during the course due to nausea and having abdominal cramps. I wasn’t sure whether he had really bad heat illness. Had he overcooked himself? After a while, Roland managed to make his way to our tent but he was very unsteady on his feet and struggled to hold a conversation. The stage had really taken it out of him. As we headed to bed around 9pm, Gus came over to our tent and asked if we could set up Sally’s bedding as she was due to come in quite late. “We’ve given her a head lamp. She’s confident she’ll finish but she won’t get in till after dark” she told us. Goodness. The cut off time was 10pm and I didn’t think the organisers had anticipated people to finish in the dark. Claire kindly set up Sally’s bed space and I headed off to bed. It was only day two and already competitors were being pushed to their limits.

Keeping the Clutha River to my right during stage 2

Feeling the heat during stage 2

Stage 3 – A fun day in the mountains (Distance 25.5km, total ascent 2200m, total descent 1900m, finishing time 8hr 16 min)

I don’t know where I’m goin’

But I sure know where I’ve been

Hanging on the promises in songs of yesterday

An’ I’ve made up my mind, I ain’t wasting no more time

Here I go again, here I go again

There’s that odd song again (Here I Go Again by Whitesnake). Someone is walking around our tent with this song on full blast. I’ve never heard it before in my life but for the last 3 days, I’ve woken up at 6am to this song. It’s like a song from another era. A weird mix between a ballad and someone trying to welcome aliens. Do they think we are aliens? I push my ear plugs deeper in.

Here I go again on my own

Goin’ down the only road I’ve ever known

Like a drifter I was born to walk alone

An’ I’ve made up my mind, I ain’t wasting no more time

Shit. I can’t resist any longer. I get up and begin the lubricating process. “Esther, it’s time to get up.” I know Esther isn’t a morning person but today is a big day. We were heading into the mountains for the first time. There was 2200m of climbing which was almost double the amount of elevation that we’d done in the first two days combined. “How are you feeling?” she groans. “I’m very stiff” I respond. There is a long pause and Esther doesn’t seem to respond. Fearing that she may be overthinking things again, I depart the tent. After my morning routine is finished, I head over to our morning brief. Kerryn tells us that the next stage is very remote. She mentioned that there were helicopters on stand by for emergencies but how they would find it very difficult to get people out in non-emergencies. “We can’t physically drive you out. We will need to walk you out. So once you start, you really are committed!” Although today was 25km and much shorter than our day 1 and 2 distances, the word going round was that the Motatapu track was very challenging. Another participant asks “Do you have an idea how long this is expected to take us?” Up steps Glenn Marvin again “Shit gets real! If you are fast, then you will finish fast. If you are slow… then it could be a long, long day. Especially those of you who are still feeling the effects of the previous two days”. I start again with the ‘middle of the pack’ runners at 8am. Although I believe I’m taking it easy, once again I seem to work my way to the front of the group. When I pass the lead group of girls (Anna, Anna, Dee) and Darren, I’m unsure whether this is a good idea. Today was quite remote so running with others potentially offered safety and companionship. So I eased my pace and joined their group. Although they were initially uneasy with me leading and setting the pace, after a while they welcomed me into their pack. Another runner, Sam, joined our group which made it all the more interesting as he carried a sports camera on stick that doubled as a drone that flew ahead of us. His conversations regularly ended with “Stop recording” whilst he recorded parts of our journey. The first part of this stage was pure trail runners’ bliss and the most favourite part of my Southern Lakes Ultra. It was technical remote single trail next to a river surrounded by beautiful beech forest. Ultra runner’s heaven! However, the tranquillity was abruptly interrupted by a scene reminiscent of Rambo. Heading in the opposite direction was my tent mate Roland, looking like John Rambo himself. There was blood pouring out of a laceration on his cheek and he was unsteady on his feet. He must’ve fallen quite badly. Although his facial bleeding and blood-stained clothes were the most obvious visually, it was his shattered confidence that eclipsed any physical injury. Though he managed to survive the punches during stage two, today he’d been KO’d. After taking some time to assess his safety to continue back to the start line, we parted in opposite directions. I was a bit shaken myself. Roland was a very accomplished runner who had won his age group in Kepler multiple times. He had also planned to do the Marathon des Sables in April. Would his mental wounds heal in time for this? That was the last time I saw Roland again. He went to hospital that day and didn’t feature again. After what happened to Roland, I was determined to finish today in good shape in preparation for the longest day tomorrow. I adopted my ‘all day pace’ and Sam, Anna, De, and I stuck together for the rest of the race. There were some spectacular views on top of the highest point at Jack Halls Saddle and we remained shoulder to shoulder with mountains throughout. At one point Dee called me back as I’d gone ‘off track’ which was a bit of a light bulb moment for me. I’d stayed on a well-formed track but 90 degrees to this was another track with a sole red and white marker ten metres along it. Somehow the organisers had managed to mark this course without the use of any arrows. I realised I couldn’t just stay on well-formed tracks but rather I needed to look up more often and be vigilant at any track junction. After some more hefty climbs and some rather painful jarring descents, we crossed the finish line holding hands more than 8 hours after starting. Stage 3 was the best day so far. I had a dip in the crisp cold river next to our camp and then preceded to have an early dinner in preparation for the longest day tomorrow. I knew I was in a good place. My appetite was good which meant my GI (gastrointestinal) system wasn’t too stressed after today’s running. As the sun set below the mountains, it became cold quite quickly. With the light fading, I prepared for an early sleep. Lying in my sleeping bag, I could still hear people finishing in the dark. My god I thought. Although today was only 25km, some people appeared to be doing their longest day before the official stage ‘longest day’.

Heading along the Motatapu track during stage 3

Enjoying a break with Dee, Anna, and Graham

Heading down to our stage 3 camp site (camp site in the midground)

Crossing the stage 3 finishing line (from left to right, Sam, Anna, myself, Dee, and Graham)

Stage 4 – Thoughts of DNF and deep trouble during the longest day (Distance 69km, total ascent 3400m, total descent 3600m)

It’s amazing how things can change so quickly in ultra running. Last night I felt amazing. This morning, I felt horrible. I slept poorly again (partly due to the gradient of the ground and also due to ongoing discomfort with my air mattress). I didn’t feel right at all. I felt nauseous and had a headache. It felt like I was in the early stages of sickness. Any other day, I wouldn’t run. But what was I to do? It was day 4 and I’d already clocked up about 130km. If I pull out now, then all my prior efforts would be unrecognised. After 20 years of running, I’d never had a DNF and I was quite proud of this. I may not be the fastest. But I was a finisher. Being a finisher in running translated to being a finisher in life. I prided in getting things done. Walking the talk when others just talked the talk. I knew the day would come when I would DNF but should it be today? I was in internal unrest and I grappled with these thoughts. Medically I knew a study (Gordon et al, BJSM 2017) that showed participants with systemic illness (e.g. fever, malaise, fatigue, muscle aches, productive cough, heart rate > 10 bpm above normal, GI symptoms) were 5 times more likely to DNF. If you developed a systemic illness within 24 hours of a race, you fared even worse and were 7 times more likely to DNF. Concerns also lay in the increased risk of heat illness, myocarditis, and post viral fatigue whilst exercising with a viral illness. I knew I didn’t feel good. But I was unsure whether this was just ‘normal bodily stress’ after 130km or whether I had an acute systemic illness. Had it been any other day at home, I wouldn’t run. If I was advising a patient with similar symptoms, I’d advise them not to run. The doctor in me was saying don’t run but the runner in me wasn’t so sure. I sat in my tent and thought this through. Could I have done better with my hand hygiene? Was the water from that small stream ok? Should I have rehearsed with my air mattress at home? It’s possible that my poor sleep may have created a window of immunosuppression for a virus to take advantage. I think further. If I pull out now, it’s going to take a while to get me out of here. I’ll then have to find a hotel in Queenstown for an extra 3 days. I’m going to have to cough out exorbitant unplanned accommodation costs. I’ll then lie in bed (albeit a warm and comfortable one) feeling sorry for myself. I’ll have to catch up with Andrew and Esther after the race and not be able to look them in the eye. If I’ve the guts to attend the post event dinner, I’ll have to replay my sob story all over again whilst all the other finishers bask in the enjoyment of their success and resilience. This was all too much for me. I couldn’t keep playing Russian roulette with my mind. It was no longer the fear of a DNF that scared me but rather the fear of giving up. If I was to DNF, then so be it. But I would at least get to the start line and try. I realised I had to start early. By starting earlier, it would reduce the amount of time in the sun and hopefully reduce the amount of night running (if I got that far). I got ready as quick as I could. I couldn’t stomach any breakfast. That would be something I would have to deal with whilst running. I headed out to find Kerryn and she was remarkably bubbly for a woman who probably hadn’t slept in three days. “Kerryn, I don’t feel so well. I woke up this morning feeling nauseous and with a headache. Can I please start at 7am with the slowest group?” “Yeah, absolutely!” she responds ecstatically. “Remember you’ve got two days to finish.” I was momentarily stunned. My god she is a hard woman. I don’t even know if I can survive an hour yet alone two days. “Thank you” I eventually responded. And so I set off with the ‘back of the pack’ runners. My plan was to move at a low enough intensity to trick my mind until hopefully my cortisol (stress hormone) kicked in. I’d managed to get through some tough working weeks on cortisol alone so I was hoping it would work again today. If I could just get to the rest day, then I’d have a good chance of finishing this thing. I started right at the back of the group with a very slow walk. I remember passing another participant called Kristina within five minutes of starting and we exchanged greetings. “My heart rate is already going through the roof” she tells me. Really? We’re only walking. I quickly realised that there were others like me who were also already struggling. We all trudged slowly up this massive hill (possibly a mountain). It felt like a death march. It was as if we were surrounded by hyenas who served the God of DNFs. Circling us. Prowling. Looking to pick off the weak and vulnerable in the group. And I had willingly chosen to join this group.

Our stage 3 camp site nestled between mountains

Although I started 1hr and 30 minutes ahead of the lead group, it wasn’t long before I was mowed down. And then it wasn’t long before members of the ‘middle of the pack’ started to pass me too. When Sam passed me, I realised how slow I was going. If yesterday was my all-day pace, then today was my survival mode pace. Though Sam urged me to keep up with him, I had no chance of holding his pace. I was light headed and unsteady on my feet. My sweat felt like sick sweat. I was finding it really hard to concentrate which was all the more challenging as the high river route we were following was perfect ankle busting terrain. As it became more technical, the more I slowed. If I were to do an ankle now, I didn’t think I’d have the resolve to continue. When I arrived at the first aid station at Mace Town (10.5km), I’d managed to keep fluids down but I still hadn’t eaten anything. I knew this wasn’t sustainable. So when I saw cheese and crackers at the aid station, I happily tried them. I’d been craving savoury instead of sweet food for a while. After the aid station, the track became less technical and was replaced with a 4WD road with multiple river crossings. I spent a bit of time running with Vivian (or rather she carried me). I apologised as I didn’t have the mental energy to hold a conversation. I asked if I could just tuck in behind her and she kindly agreed. She ran the flats and walked the steep hills and I just clung onto her. We ran in silence for a considerable period. At some point (and I’m not even sure if Viv knew), I burst into tears. I was overwhelmed with emotion. I reflected on my ‘why I run’. I’ve always run because I’ve enjoyed running. However, I was not enjoying this at all. I felt like a husk of a man. I was completely detached from the world and it was like an out of body experience. It was like I was floating but floating was really hard work. I’ve always accepted the necessity to push through discomfort in the latter stages of a race. But having to do this right from the start of a 69km long day with 3400m of climbing just broke me and the tears flowed freely. Eventually I had to let Viv go as I could no longer hold on. This was my cross and I had to carry it. It’s all a blur of road and faces from here. The surprise Fruju tropical popsicle and Red Bull double at the Arrowtown aid station was a saviour. The sun not breaking through the clouds until after midday also worked in my favour. I maintained a slow but steady pace throughout. Around 5pm and about half way up Advance Peak (the highest peak for SLU), I started to feel remotely human again. It may have been the Fruju and Red Bull kicking in. It may have been my cortisol finally surging. It was as if my body had said “This idiot isn’t going to stop so let’s just get him through”. For the first time, my mind fog started to lift and moving didn’t demand as much concentration. I appreciated getting to the top of Advance Peak more than I appreciated my surroundings. By now, I just wanted to get off the top and finish before dark and end this. The descent down Advance Peak was quadriceps torture. The tussock was also slippery so it was quite challenging to hold your feet. As I passed a fellow competitor coming down (Pretty Anna), she turned around and looked at me with an anguished look and said one word “Pain!” I managed to get down the mountain by night fall but halfway along Skipper’s Rd, the darkness set in so I pulled out my head torch. My pace slowed as running became tricky again. Appreciating depth and the shape of the rocks on the 4WD road became challenging so I went into ankle preservation mode again. The road seemed to go on forever. Near the end, other competitors’ head lamps seemed to be twisting and turning and shining in the opposite direction. At one point, it felt like I was going further away from everyone else and I started to become paranoid of getting lost again. Navigating in the dark demands mental energy and I’d already tapped into most of my reserves. I became consumed and obsessed with looking for red and white markers in the dark. They became my life blood and missing them would be at my peril. When I see car headlights followed by two familiar faces (Glenn Marvin and Cynthia), I feel relieved. “How far to go?” I desperately ask. “Shit gets real” Glenn exclaims. “You’re nearly there. It’s literally just around the corner. Just stick to the right of the fence.” When I cross the finish line, it’s just before 10.30pm. I haven’t finished. I’ve survived. Making my way back to my tent, I don’t feel like I’m human. It gets cold very quickly. Esther had kindly blown up my air mattress and another friend, Fiona Eagles, offers to prepare my noodles for dinner. It’s amazing how small gestures make a massive difference when you’re broken. I eat my noodles in my sleeping bag. Looking to repay the kindness forward, I try stir Esther (who is now asleep) to help with setting up our other tent mates’ bedding. “I’m sorry. I can’t. I think I’ll barf” she responds. I pull my sorry arse out of my sleeping bag and blow up Craig, Claire, and Sally’s air mattress and prepare their sleeping bags. I’m too tired to do anything else. I slide back into my sleeping bag but my legs feel slimy and sticky. I wipe them down with wet wipes (to prevent them from sticking together during the night) and instantly fall asleep. Finishing time 14hr 12 min.

Coursing along the top of Advance Peak during the longest day

Rest day

It’s such a nice feeling waking up knowing that you don’t have to run after about 200km of running. For most of the day I rested, attempted to eat, addressed some pressing hygiene issues, and slept some more. We were treated to some Fruju popsicles in the afternoon and we rejoiced like children during Christmas. Most of us had managed to finish before dawn this morning. However, a handful of runners had chosen to sleep at one of the aid stations overnight and start again first thing in the morning. Just after 6pm, we receive a call that the last competitor for the long day is approaching the finish line. I’m completely blown away. To think I haven’t been running since before midnight and this person is about to finish more than 18 hours later. I’ve had all day to recover. I’ve had breakfast, lunch, and dinner. And this person is about to finish now. As they come into view, I recognise it’s Kristina whom I spoke to at the beginning of the longest day. She crosses the line and embraces Kerryn. She begins to sob. It is so silent. It’s as if I’ve got some trail dust in my eyes because they start to water too. I hardly know Kristina. I only spoke to her briefly at the start. But in that moment, I felt so connected to her. I felt all her struggle because we shared that struggle. The emotion was overwhelming. All up, 5 people DNF the longest day. We later hear that Sally was pulled with hypothermia just prior to Advance Peak so our tent is whittled down to 4 members. Usually in stage races, if you can get to the rest day, then you’re doing pretty well. I was feeling a little bit better and had given myself a chance of finishing. Hopefully another sleep would see me through.

Heading down the other side of Advance Peak during the longest day

Stage 5 – The squirts and running in anger (Distance 47km, total ascent 2800m, total descent 2200m, finishing time 8 hrs 1 min)

Shortly after midnight, the diagnosis was confirmed when the diarrhoea kicked in. From then on, I had hourly trips to the loo. Had I got some E Coli or giardia from that small stream I drank from during stage two? Or was this viral gastroenteritis? Either way, Glenn Marvin was right. It got real. Due to stomach cramps, I couldn’t have any breakfast again. I was hoping to re-join my ‘middle of the pack’ starting group but I realised this would be unwise. I wasn’t out of the woods yet and today was forecast to be hot. So I asked to join the ‘back of the pack’ early starters again for fear of gastroenteritis and heat illness during our 47km day. Despite everything that happened last night, I managed to find myself in the lead group again. Carlos, relieved of all that extra food weight he had been carrying all week (unsupported category), took off like a wild man. Fiona, Will, and I were in hot pursuit. I was ahead of Will and gaining on Fiona and Carlos when suddenly a black Ute drove up next to me with Will causally sprawled out in the back tray. “What are you up to Will?” “We missed the turn off” he replied. “What? How is that possible? We weren’t meant to turn off until after the first aid station. And we haven’t come across the aid station yet”. By now the driver of the Ute winds down his window. “I’m sorry but you’ve missed your turn off” he says solemnly. “The staff hadn’t set up the aid station in time so you’ve gone past it. It’s at least a couple of kilometres back at the bridge.” I bite my bottom lip. “Ok, there are two others in front of me. A female called Fiona and another bloke who’s quite far ahead called Carlos. I’ll start heading back.” I turn around and start running back. Well that was annoying. The last few kilometres had been all up hill and in the heat of the sun. That was the last thing I needed. It didn’t seem that much longer until the same black Ute returned behind me. Will was still in the back tray of the Ute but this time Carlos and Fiona were seated at the front. “Just jump on and grab onto the side” Will says. So here I am holding on to the side of the Ute like some cowboy as we all drive back to the first aid station which has magically transpired in front of us. Kerryn is there and she apologies. “That’s fine” I respond. “We will credit your time” she says. So its déjà vu all over again as I start reeling in all these people who I’d passed earlier. Initially, I saw the funny side of things. How ironic. If only I had repeated my folly during stage one, then I would’ve been fine. This time, I stay on the road as directed and I miss the turn off. I couldn’t help but laugh. But just like that, my laughter faded and I became angry. Very angry. F*** getting lost! F*** everyone sharing their own getting lost experiences with me like I really f***ing cared! F*** not being able to fart for fear of the consequence! F*** gastroenteritis! F*** positive people telling me to think positive thoughts! I just had a 69km out of body experience yesterday. I’ve been squirting jets since midnight. And now I have to run 47km (plus some extra) in this stinking heat. What positivity could anyone garner from my current situation other than I wasn’t dead? When another runner, Kyron passed me, that was my trigger. Kyron was running a good race. He was nowhere near the front during stages 1 and 2. But then he picked up his speed from stage 3 onwards such that he had a very strong longest day and finished in the top five. It’s better to be speeding up in the second half of a stage race rather than slowing down and he was following the play book perfectly. I remembered him taunting Sam to chase him during the longest day (“C’mon Sam I am”). I knew if I could stick with him, then I’d finish well. Game on I thought. From that point, I decided to channel my anger in a positive way and ran quite strong. What followed was an intriguing game of cat and mouse. I knew Kyron didn’t enjoy me tailing him as whenever I got close enough, he would sprint off again. But I hung tight. From a distance I observed his strengths and weaknesses. He was very strong on the downhill but couldn’t sustain an uphill for as long as I could. He was slightly bigger than me so I knew that would be a problem in this increasing heat. I continued to tail him and ran and drank with reckless abandon. I drank from mostly every waterway I passed. I already had gastro so what did I have to lose? I dipped my head under a waterfall and wet my hat at every water crossing to stay cool. I continued to gain on him. And each time, he continued to surge away. One particular surge was so impressive that I doubted it was sustainable. I’ve seen this before. Has he just had a gel? Eventually, I reeled him in again. Once again, just stopping behind him so he knew I was there. After a while, I started to feel sorry for him. This is mean. A cat shouldn’t play with its food. So I waited until the terrain suited my strengths and when a slow steady uphill presented itself, I made a strong pass. Swift and brutal. By the time I got to the second aid station at the 30km mark, I was feeling pretty good. Probably the strongest I’d felt this whole SLU. But the hills kept coming. Big Hill in particular (aptly named) was a slow and steady climb that got a bit swampy near the top. Once we crossed over the saddle, it remained exposed until we reached some shade in a beautiful native forested area. It was soothing and my anger eased and I started to feel calm energy again. To Kyron’s credit, he passed me again on the downhill but this time I didn’t purposely chase him down. Enough respect to the guy. If he could maintain that pace then good on him. It was hot and I didn’t want to do anything stupid. I was also conscious that I had to save some fuel in the tank for the final 1.5km scramble up Coronet Peak. Kerryn had told us earlier that this was the Southern Lakes Ultra ‘what the f*** moment’. When I got to aid station 3 at 39km, my good friend Kyron was sitting at the aid station. I chose not to sit. I just wanted to top up my fluids and keep pushing through. “How are you feeling?” one of the volunteers asked. “I’m feeling good”, I responded. “My mind is clear. My stomach is behaving. And my legs are feeling good. The holy trinity of ultra running. If those three things are behaving, then you’re doing ok”. I thanked them all and pushed on. As soon as I headed to leave, Kyron instantly shot up from his seat and started following me. Kyron! I don’t want to race you! I muttered under my breath. The remaining 8km to the end was mostly uphill so I slowly pulled away from Kyron. When I arrived at the final 1.5km scramble up Coronet Peak, it really was an ‘oh my God moment’! It was a very slow procession! At some points, the ground was at eye level and you had to crawl because it was so steep. I was getting emotional again. The physical, mental, and emotional toll of the last two days was starting to bubble over. Combined with the realisation that I was actually going to make it, I begin to cry again. By the time I pass Glenn Marvin who is taking photos halfway up the top, I don’t know whether I’m smiling or crying. It’s just raw messiness. Real emotion. When I cross the finish line, the view from Coronet ski field is amazing! It’s a content exhaustion. I know I will pay for what I’ve just put my body through. I could feel the pressure lift and with that, a drop in cortisol usually follows. Hopefully the crash won’t be too brutal. I just snack on chips for dinner as my stomach still wasn’t right and I was over dehydrated food. I have an early night and remarkably one of my best sleeps all week. The best sleeping pill is peace of mind. After a few days of turmoil, I had found peace again. Combined with sheer exhaustion, I was out like a light.

In happier times before the final 1.5km scramble up towards Coronet Peak

Looking up and unsure whether to laugh or cry going up Coronet Peak

The stage 5 finish line and camp site at Coronet Peak

Stage 6 – The swift descent home and the post event dinner (Distance 10km, total ascent 430m, total descent 1260m, finishing time 1hr 2 min)

That weird song is playing again but I think I’ve come to terms with it. Some are even starting to sing the chorus now. I guess every wake-up song is a bit of a love hate relationship. A couple of hours later, I’m running down Coronet Peak and I can’t believe how some runners are thundering past me. Only moments ago I saw one of my competitors (or should I call them friends now?) hobble sideways down steps. Now she’s just smashing it and flying past me. It’s amazing how much more you can give even when you think you’re done. Despite having run about 250km over the last 6 days, I’m sure anyone watching us wouldn’t have known it. It reminded me of a quote from Sun Tzu, military strategist, – “Do not interfere with an army that is returning home.” In the same vein, when a runner’s heart is determined on finishing, they are too dangerous a proposition to stop. When we cross the finish line, there is LOTS of hugging. To think a week ago we were complete strangers. And now everyone was just hugging everyone. Although most had known this yesterday, crossing the finish line today just officially confirmed it. We were finishers of the inaugural 2022 Southern Lakes Ultra! Wow, 264km with 10 000m elevation gain! That takes some doing. Esther, Fiona, Dr Stanley and I rejoice with a celebratory drink and some hot chips. Oh my god the chips taste so good! As part of finishing we’re invited to take part in a Shotover Jet Boat ride along the Shotover River and surrounding canyons. However, I was knackered. After running on cortisol since our longest day, I could feel myself starting to shut down and I was getting quite cold. As much as I wanted to, I didn’t think my body would handle anymore hormonal spikes. Dr Stanley and I catch a taxi back to Queenstown to get our bags and then walk to our new hotel. It feels a bit odd walking through the town again. You can tell people are looking at us battle weary stage runners trudging through town. After a week with likeminded athletes, I feel very disconnected to these new people around me. Some will never understand why we do this. Probably as much as I’ll never understand why they don’t do it themselves. I think if it makes you happy, then so be it. You don’t need to understand everything in life. Whatever makes people happy, then let it be. We stop at Ferg Bakery for our first real meal in a week. The steak and cheese pie is mouth-watering. The cream donut is light and melts in your mouth. When we arrive in our hotel, the surreal experience continues. The toilet, the bed, the shower, everything is real. It’s like being reborn again. Like someone has just pressed the reset button on life. Everything you took for granted, you now see in a new light. I love how running keeps me grounded. Later in the afternoon, we hop on board a greater than 100-year-old steamship (TSS Earnslaw) to Walter Peak where our post event dinner and awards ceremony is held. The food tastes amazing and out of this world. There are some incredible appetites on show and everyone is smiling. As much as I want to eat more, my stomach hasn’t recovered yet so I’m unable to fully indulge. I can’t help but laugh at my tent mate Craig. His dessert plate is topped up with 5 different desserts. “Craig, wasn’t it just a few days ago you were talking up the wonders of the simple Fruju?” We both laugh. For the last week we lived a simple existence. It was eat, run, sleep, repeat x 6. Regardless of weather or terrain we ran from A to B. Life was simple. They say the simple life is the fullest. I tend to agree. Back in the real world, I’m surrounded by everything I could possibly want. But by having everything am I any more fulfilled? Probably not. During the awards ceremony, it’s revealed that Dr Stanley has come third male overall. It’s difficult to know whether he is happy or sad. That man hardly shows any emotion at the best of times. Following the awards ceremony, we catch the steamship back to Queenstown. Congregating on the wharf, this is the final opportunity for goodbyes. I’m ready to go home. I miss my family. But for some, you can sense they are reluctant to let go. Shared adversity and struggle creates very strong bonds. For some, these bonds will be life lasting. They want this experience to continue and I can understand. The wharf is mixed with varying emotions. Within one week, I had experienced the whole spectrum of human emotions. I had experienced more emotions this week than I normally would in a whole year of my life. I think this is part of the attraction of stage racing and why people keep coming back for more. The next morning when I wake up, I’m in love with my hotel bed and pillows. I’ve had an amazing sleep. I leave the room quietly so as not to rouse Dr Stanley and head downstairs to check out the breakfast menu. When I return, Dr Stanley’s true emotions are revealed. He is tragically singing shower karaoke to Roxette’s ‘Fading Like a Flower’. I quietly close the door and let him be. Thanks to Kerryn and Jason Bell and all the other volunteers that made SLU happen! Running is medicine.

Before the final 10km sprint with Dr Esther O’Sullivan and Dr Andrew Stanley

Finishing tent photo and jubilation at the finish line (from left to right, Esther, myself, Craig, and Claire)

Shotover Jet Boat photo with the 2022 SLU crew

Just enough time for a photo at the start line

After talking about running in the heat in my last blog. It makes sense to talk about running in the wet which is typically followed by running in the wet AND cold. The first priority is adequate lubrication to prevent chafing. Lubrication should be applied liberally and without fear of judgement. If one is applying lubrication in the presence of non-runners, it should be applied matter of factly and with an expressionless face. The perineum, inner thighs, arms pits, feet, and nipples (plus other protuberances of concern) are the main areas. Maybe your first webspace (area between your thumb and index finger) if you’re just starting with trekking poles. I rate Gurney Goo as it works really well and doesn’t ruin your clothes. The next thing is good wet weather gear. A good sock and shoe combination is paramount. Any feet issues you have in dry weather will be amplified in the wet. Good running clothing is also a must and although expensive, you won’t regret purchasing a light, waterproof, windproof, breathable jacket (e.g. GORE-TEX). Before your race, it pays to check the weather forecast. If forecast rain is fleeting or clearing, you may get away with not wearing your jacket. But if rain is forecast to stay, best to put on your jacket before you get soaked (rather than after) to help maintain your core temperature. The reason being is that it’s so much harder to warm up when you’re already cold! This is especially true later in a race as fatigue sets in and muscle activity slows meaning your ability to produce heat decreases. Your ability to go faster (and hence generate heat) is also reliant on the terrain. Terrain dictates pace. Though this may not be an issue in a road marathon, good luck trying to maintain 5km/hr going through puddles and muddy/slippery trail! Exercising humans have more effective physiological mechanisms for cooling (i.e. sweating) rather than conserving heat. Our physiological heat conserving mechanisms are limited to: Directing blood towards the core and away from our peripheries (hence cold hands and poor dexterity), increasing our metabolic rate (ever wondered why you’re inclined to move more / jog on the spot when you’re cold?), and finally shivering. Hence, we cannot rely purely on our physiological mechanisms to keep warm and must also utilise our cognitive responses and ability to make good decisions e.g. putting on more clothing, seeking shelter etc. (On a side note, ultra runners who gather in large groups aren’t renowned for their cognitive processing abilities). The other reason keeping warm is important is that cold muscle contracts with less force. The nervous system responds by altering normal muscle fibre recruitment patterns which has been suggested to decrease muscle efficiency and power. Hence, as you get colder, running may appear harder as you start to run differently and deviate away from your ‘normal/efficient’ gait (if the wet trail hasn’t altered your gait already). Finally, what’s the role of hydration and nutrition in the wet and cold? Drinking according to thirst is more reliable in wet/cold conditions and you’ll generally find yourself drinking less compared to hot conditions. However, your energy requirements will probably be greater as you’re running efficiency may be compromised and you’ll be out on the course longer due to the conditions. You’ll need your glucose/carbohydrates not only to replenish your muscle glycogen, but also to fuel your brain. Your brain will be in overdrive as you’ll be concentrating so much harder to prevent yourself from falling head over heels in the wet and mud. At any time during a race you get to a point of prolonged shivering, then you’re really courting a DNF as you’re now churning through your muscle glycogen to keep you warm (rather than using it to get you to the finish line). So in short, you may get away with carrying less fluid in the cold, but don’t skimp on your energy. Go with a carbohydrate/electrolyte drink and pack that extra chocolate bar!

Running along the Crater Rim Walkway heading towards Mt Vernon (photo courtesy of @jadosadventures)

Heading down towards Governors Bay, it’s getting pretty treacherous! The track is quite narrow and the rocks are wet. Although its only raining lightly, the lower half of my body is already drenched from the wet bush and thick grass. I pass a lady who’s struggling a bit going down a rocky and slippery switch back. “This is my worst nightmare” she proclaims. It always inspires me how ultra runners tend to seek adversity rather than shirk away from it. How many people nowadays willingly expose themselves to ‘their worst nightmare’? The majority of the tracks in this part of the course are rarely ventured (Faulkners, Watlings, Bush Rd, O’Farrell’s, and Cass Ridge Track) which makes for rugged going. The climb up Cass Ridge Track gets you back onto Summit Road and then you’re descending the Orongomai Trail deep into the lush greenery within Kennedys Bush. It’s during this section that I take my first major fall. Trying to avoid the slippery mud, I place all my weight on a large smooth rock when in an instant, I’m on my back staring up into the canopy. For a moment I lay on the ground in stunned silence. Usually when you fall, you’re at least afforded the dignity to shout or stick an arm or leg out. But seldom have I found myself belly up so quickly in complete silence. Despite the ferocity of the fall, I stand up relatively unscathed other than some minor bruising to my ego. Tail between by legs, I connect onto Holdsworth Track and eventually back onto the familiar Crater Rim Walkway again. By now I’m beginning to pick up a recurring pattern to this course. If you’re a Christchurch local you may appreciate the gravity of such a course. In summary: Go down towards Governors Bay and then back up to the Sign of the Bellbird. Head back towards the Sign of the Kiwi (via Kennedys Bush and Trig V Track) and then loop around Sugarloaf. From there, descend all the way down Latters Spur Track into Bowenvale Valley and then all the way back up to Summit Road via the Hidden Valley and Bowenvale Valley Walk tracks. Head towards Mt Vernon and then go up it (rather than around it). Descend down Farm and Gorge tracks all the way to the bottom, and then go back up the Mt Vernon Valley Track towards Mt Vernon again. Cross over Rapaki Track and go up Linda Woods Reserve through thick wet grass where there are no official tracks (I mean why would you want to utilise the perfectly formed Rapaki Track next to you when you can channel your inner goat and go straight up a hill face?). Run all the way out to the top of the Bridle Path. From there, you can finally turn around and head back home via Castle Rock and Bowenvale Traverse MTB tracks back onto Thomson Track and the more familiar Harry Ell Track. For non locals, the summary of the course is below: Go all the way to the bottom of the bay and then back up to the top. Run along the top for a bit. Go all the way to the bottom of a valley and then back up to the top. Run along the top for a bit but this time whilst you’re there, go up a mountain for good measure. Then go all the way to the bottom of another valley and then come back up again. Fluff around doing a few loops around the top and then head back home. This will give you a total distance of 50km with a total ascent of 2 900 m and a total descent of 2 900m (how’s that for Feng Shui?). Heading back towards the finish line at Victoria Park, the rain is really starting to pick up. By now the rain and sweat have merged into a thin glistening film and there’s the odd crunch in your mouth from the dirt that’s managed to find its way onto your water flask mouthpieces. Running’s getting a bit clunky and I dare not stop or risk stiffening up in the cold. Eight hours later, I cross the finish line. Soaked right through. Like a drowned rat minus the death and the misery. Happy. Running is medicine. Join me at my next blog. It’s a biggy. The Southern Lakes Ultra in Queenstown in late February. 300km over 7 days!

Wet but thankfully finished in one piece and injury free

Wife: He’s running an ultra one week after running an ultra.

Dietician: Why’s he doing that?

Wife: Because he’s an idiot.

I was really looking forward to participating in The “James” Stampede Ultra (50km). Mainly because I’ve never run in the St James Conservation Area before but also because it doubled up as good training for my pending Southern Lakes Ultra (300km run over 7 days) at the end of February. But as my wife Courtney is driving me down Tophouse Road just after 5.30am (a one hour stretch of gravel road to the start line), I’m beginning to wonder whether she’s right again. When we get to the start line at Fowler’s Camp around 6.30am, the sun is just beginning to rise and its quite crisp outside. The camp ground isn’t what I envisioned it to be. In the middle of nowhere, there stood a lone rusty tin shed (Fowler’s Hut) within a stone’s throw of a long drop. There is only one other competitor there and I’m beginning to wonder where everyone else is. After all, race registration was only 20 mins away at 6.50am and the race was scheduled to start at 7am. As Courtney drops me off, I thank her for her commitment and tolerance. She then turns around and heads back down the one hour stretch of gravel road back to Hanmer Springs again. Eventually a couple more cars arrive followed by a hire van which drops off a gaggle of runners. We all naturally gravitate towards the long drop and then into Fowler’s hut to shelter from the cold. Inside, the hut is very barren. There is one wooden table and on the wooden floor next to it, a sole bloke in his sleeping bag. Good God, I thought. This run is not for the weak. With only a handful of runners participating (<20), you invariably start chatting to a few runners. Tom from Christchurch is back for his third attempt at the ultra after coming second in his previous outings. He tells me that this is not the hardest ultra, but it’s probably the hottest. I ask Tom whether the first 4.5km to the top of Fowler’s Pass (1300m) is runnable and he responds in the affirmative. “There are a few sections on the course you’ll have to walk (as it’s impossible to run). But you shouldn’t have to walk the first bit.” He also mentions how it gets really hot along the long road back to the finish. “That’s the toughest bit. Last year when I crossed the finish line, I could barely breath as the air was so hot!” I then engaged in a brief conversation with a lady who was about as thin as the Fowler’s Hut door and must’ve been in her 70s. “I did this about 15 years ago so I figured I’d do it again before I get too long in the tooth” she mentions. I stand in silent disbelief. Sensing she was waiting a response; I finally blurt out “Good on you!” It’s almost 6.50am and there’s still no sign of the registration crew when suddenly the revving of a Land Rover breaks the morning silence. A portly couple promptly exit the vehicle and the gentleman drops the rear bumper revealing brown race packs. Wow. This is rugged man. There is a roll call and we all line up to collect our race numbers. The gentleman then begins a rushed race brief. Unfortunately, I was too preoccupied with my race pack and pinning my race number on that I didn’t catch much of the brief other than “Parts of the track are a bit vague.” And then, whilst still in group formation in the middle of Fowler’s Camp (i.e. middle of nowhere), he begins a countdown from 10 that ends with “On you go!”. And just like that, we all head towards the mountains.

At the start at Fowler’s Camp

The historic Fowler’s Hut

With Tom’s words in my head, I attempt to jog up Fowler’s Pass. However, it’s not long before I realise this approach is not sustainable. My body is still cold and my legs are heavy. Maybe with fresh legs running would be possible. But not one week after Kepler (not to mention my first run since). No way. My legs were simply not having a bar of it. I slow to a more comfortable walking pace and try ease into my run. With forecast temperatures in the high 20s / early 30s, I knew I had to start conservatively or risk being overwhelmed by the afternoon heat. Falling off the pace, I start getting passed by those who can still run when low and behold, the lady in her 70s glides past me! Oh. My. God. This is going to be a long day…

Although heat may actually improve performance in short duration activities (e.g. sprinting and jumping), long duration exercise is significantly impaired in heat. Research (predominantly conducted on marathon runners) has shown that the optimal temperature range for most runners is between 7-15 degrees Celsius. Outside of this range, marathon finish times tend to become slower on average. In fact, most world records and the top 10 marathon performances of all time have been set in temperatures between 10-15 degrees Celsius. So the most important thing you can do is adjust your expectations and your pace according to the environmental conditions. Exercise increases both metabolic heat production (your body is an exercising furnace) and the demand for blood flow/oxygen to your muscles. During exercise in hot conditions, your cardiovascular system has to not only transport blood to your working muscles, but also to your skin for cooling. The heat generated by your muscles can then be transferred to the environment and lost predominantly via evaporation (i.e. sweating). Importantly, as sweat reaches the skin, it must evaporate (i.e. transform from liquid to a vapour) for any heat loss to occur. This explains why exercising in humid conditions is extra challenging as sweat remains on your skin (a humid environment is already saturated with water so the last thing it wants is more of your water vapour). Which leads us to another important concept for runners to appreciate – ‘cardiovascular drift’. Cardiovascular drift is the phenomenon by which your heart rate increases to compensate for the reduced blood flow coming back to your heart (i.e. stroke volume) as more of our blood pools in the periphery to help cool us. As heart rate has been shown to correlate with your rate of perceived exertion (RPE), any ensuing increase in heart rate leads to an increase in perceived effort. RPE is arguably the most important thing that long distance runners are trying to manipulate throughout any run! Throw in some heat induced dehydration (which results in lower blood volume and a further rise in heart rate) and you can see why exercising in the heat is hard work! So, how can one optimise their exercise performance in the heat? The most important intervention one can adopt is to heat acclimatise. This requires training in the heat for at least 60min/day for at least 2 weeks. The risk of heat illness is greatest in early summer when participants are not seasonally heat acclimatised. The risk of heat illness is also greater in those who are currently sick or recovering from a recent viral infection (bear this in mind during Covid times). The other important element is hydration. Start any race euhydrated. Aim to drink 5-7mL/kg of fluid 4hrs before competition. In my experience, a 6-8% carbohydrate 750mL drink with dinner the night before is plenty. Any more and you risk peeing throughout the night. Hydration during an event should be individualised. This is best assessed during training with the most widely accepted method being monitoring body mass changes. Often hydration during an event is limited by fluid availability so if its going to be hot, know where your aid stations are. Although drinking to thirst is appropriate in most settings, if extreme heat or dehydration is expected, it may be beneficial to front foot your drinking requirements (sensibly). Finally, there is a role for cooling strategies in events but this is generally limited to those with die hard support crews. This can be done externally (e.g. cold-water immersion, iced towels/garments) or internally (e.g. ingesting ice or ice slurry beverages). If you’re still struggling in the heat despite all of the above, remember it’s okay to walk (and dare I say it, rest for a while if you need to and then carry on again).

Spectacular view at Lake Guyon

By the time I get to the top of Fowler’s Pass, I’ve definitely warmed up and am starting to feel lighter on my feet. I’m completely surrounded by mountains which have all been freshly painted by the rising sun. There’s then a pleasant descent back into the shade along shingle switch backs. The increased speed means I can really stretch my legs out and I’m back into my running groove again. As the gradient flattens out, the next section of the course is along creeks and small tributaries which eventually lead to multiple river crossings across the Stanley River. Alternating between muddy and wet feet become the norm. There’s then a detour to the first aid station at Lake Guyon (12km) and one of the most spectacular views ever. Fresh off seeing so many amazing views during the Kepler Track, I didn’t expect to get another “Oh wow” moment this soon. But I got one here. The lake was so calm and beautiful that it mirrored the mountains that surrounded it (the photo doesn’t give it justice). We then pass the historic Stanley Vale Hut and it’s back onto following the Stanley River again. Although it’s still early in the morning, the heat is really starting to pick up. I’m shoulder to shoulder with mountains again but there’s no hint of shade anywhere. The foliage in this region isn’t really conducive to shade and when it is, any respite from the sun is brief. I memorized that the second aid station was at 34km but I was starting to wonder where the hell it was. I thought that I’d been making good progress but this seemed like a very long 22km to the next aid station. I had banked on one litre of fluid to get me through. But now I was worryingly running short of water. The locals at the first aid station mentioned that I wouldn’t miss “The Racecourse” or the “the bums rush”. But to my knowledge, I hadn’t come across anything resembling a race course or any lost ancient Greek fartlek training group. Had I had missed something important in the pre-race brief? Had Covid changed their aid station quota? I could’ve topped up at any of the previous multiple river crossings but now I was beyond any fast-flowing tributary. Out of nowhere, nestled in some bush, I saw two elderly gentlemen (probably in their 60s) eating their lunch with their mountain bikes next to them. Somewhat surprised and hoping to garner some information on where the hell I was, I asked “How far to any civilisation?” To which they croaked “Oooooooooh miles.” I’d been told prior that there was every chance I’d see wild animals during this run (chamois, red deer, wild pigs, and native birds). But after my experience with my 70-year-old lady this morning and now these two chaps, I was beginning to wonder whether it was actually the elderly who were wild out these ways! Carrying on and after hours of shouldering mountains, the land suddenly just opens up. An openness so vast you could’ve probably put a race course on it. Ahh. The Racecourse. There is not a soul in front of me and I can just make out someone in the distance behind chasing me down. My happiness in reaching this landmark is short lived as the radiating heat from the sun smashes me from all directions. I push through along some very vague foot tracks until I reach a junction with an arrow pointing up a very dry hill side. This was the last thing I needed. I had minimal water left and I hadn’t anticipated another long climb. It was a very slow ascent up the baked ridge line following sporadic orange course markers. Eventually the ridge turned into subalpine bush with no visible tracks and more orange markers. Jeez, this is getting hard now. I take the dreaded last suck of my residual fluid knowing this final gulp would have to see me through to this ever-elusive aid station (and that’s if it even existed). In moments like this, I try not to dwell too much on the precarity of my situation. However, it’s very hard to ignore certain facts in life. In sports medicine, one of the early signs of dehydration is difficulty spitting. Right now, in the middle of nowhere, my mouth is dry and my saliva is thick. I dare not spit for fear of disrupting my psyche. I knew I had to transition from race mode to survival mode now. Nothing sharpens your focus like self-preservation. Moving to the top of the next feature, I see another elderly couple (probably in their 60s) admiring the view. What the heck is in the water here? I ask them if they’ve seen an aid station nearby. They respond that there’s something that appears to be an aid station at the bottom near the river. “How far away?” I ask. “About 1.5km.” “Ok, I can handle that” I respond.” But it’s about 2000m down” the gentleman adds. I must’ve looked worse for wear as intuitively the gentleman then followed up with “Why, are you hurt? “No, I’m just out of water” I replied. “Let me give you some. Let me give you some” he fretted. “You won’t last long in this kind of heat.” I was really taken aback by what followed. The couple then preceded to top up my 500mL water flask. “I only need half” I shamefully mention. “No, no, no, I’ll fill it all the way up. We got this from the river. We’re staying in the hut tonight so we won’t need this all.” Who would’ve thought that an act of kindness was as invigorating as the water itself? I instantly drink half the flask and with that, I’m back in the game. After the next high feature, I can make out a white tent at the bottom near the road. Finally the aid station! The descent down followed no tracks and was pretty steep. I thought that I was doing pretty well to hold my feet until near the bottom, when I suddenly slip and come crashing down onto my rear end. Ahh. The bums rush. I was pretty ecstatic to make the aid station but I was also pretty mentally fried by now. “Wow. That was a hard 34km!” I exclaim. Once there, I take as long as I need. I easily drink another 500mL and fully top up my water flasks. As I leave the aid station, I remember Tom telling me that the long road back to the finish in the heat was the hardest. Sixteen kilometres to go. I can do this. For the next couple of hours, it’s a lonely battle against the straight road and the heat. It’s not until I reach the final aid station at 44km that I bump into another runner. We turn off the 4×4 track together and it’s a short sharp climb through bush into Peter’s Valley and I’m surrounded by mountains again. It’s scorching hot during the final push to the finish at St James Homestead. I’m relieved to see my wife and 6-year-old, Millie near the finish line. I cross the finish line around 2.30pm with a finish time of 7 hours and 26 mins. I’m toast! I gravitate towards the shade of the pine trees to catch my breath. Millie runs towards me appearing super excited. “Can we go to Hanmer Springs now Dad?” she asks. “The kids have been waiting all day to go for a swim with you” my wife quips. I pause for a bit. I’m not sure if I can handle this. “Sure Millie. Let’s go.” “There’s no way I’m going in the heated pools though” I whisper to my wife. Running is medicine. Join me at my next blog, The Port Hills Ultra (50km) at the beginning of February.

Heading towards the finish line with Millie in support

At the Kepler Challenge start line (from left to right, Dr Esther O’Sullivan, Dr Neena Kalsi, Dr Andrew Stanley, and myself.

My wife Courtney (middle) at the Luxmore Grunt start with cousins Casey McErlane (left) and Paul Flutey (right).

As Dr Stanley, Esther, Neena, and I lined up at the Kepler start line just before the 6am start, I took a moment to appreciate another start line achieved. After years of chasing start lines, in my opinion, getting to the start line remains the hardest part of any race. Often people fall into the trap of waiting until conditions are perfect to begin. However, invariably life gets in the way. Bills don’t disappear, you have to keep working, and kids don’t get any easier. Times passes and before you know it, you’re in a new age group. Still waiting for perfect conditions. Oblivious to the notion that beginning can make your conditions perfect! The secret of any exercise is getting started. But starting exercise can be hard. When starting, be realistic and pick something achievable to begin with. Don’t be a fool and set your alarm for 5am in the middle of winter with the intention of doing prolonged or hard exercise to make up for your summer slumber. Waking up at 5am is unnatural. Doing something ridiculously hard is illogical. The natural order of the universe will prevail and you will remain firmly adhered to your bed. Sun Tzu (Chinese military strategist) says “Plan for what is difficult while it is easy”. Start in the spring or summer. Pick a time that is agreeable with your body and when conditions are favourable. Exercise at the best possible times and moments for you. Dealing with early mornings and adverse conditions will become easier as you become fitter. And once you’ve started, persist at all costs! Hang in there! It’s not the first day that’s the hardest but the second day. It’s not the first week but the second week. Not the first month but the second month. If you can get to three months, then chances are you would’ve befriended routine. What was once hard to begin with amazingly becomes easier. The best exercise prescription in the world accounts for nothing if you don’t do it. So what is the best exercise then? The best medical answer is 30-60 minutes/day of moderate intensity exercise, most days of the week, consisting of a combination of aerobic, resistance, flexibility, and neuromotor (balance, coordination, agility, proprioceptive) exercise. The best real-world answer? The best exercise is usually something you like AND will keep doing! The secret to getting ahead is getting started. Beginning makes conditions perfect. Make someday today. Get started.

The view from Luxmore Hut is amazing.

In the adrenaline and rush of the start line, I quickly lose sight of my running friends. However, I’m not particularly worried. Being my first race of the year and in hotter conditions than normal, I chose to run at a comfortable pace. My plan this year was to get to Iris Burn Hut fresh and then pick up the pace towards Moturau Hut (45km) and hopefully accelerate past it to the finish. Starting at a slower pace up Mt Luxmore than usual, I experience the breadth of ultra running culture. Initially conversation of passing competitors is limited to ‘on your right’. Then I start to get a few greetings (g’days, good mornings) and the most common ultra runner’s weather report regardless of conditions – ‘beautiful day for it’. Finally, I encounter the ‘running has changed my life’ group with their associated life stories. These usually involve midlife career crises, troubled relationships, or battles with sex, drugs, and alcohol. It is usually at this point I quicken my pace (albeit compassionately) and try to catch up with Dr Stanley. After passing Luxmore Hut, I eventually reach the heights of the Kepler track. I’m grateful for the views and the opportunity to actually run past Luxmore Hut this year. Pictures and stories will never capture the true gravity of the beauty up top. These views are earned and best seen with a sweaty brow and slightly laboured breathing. I cruise along the tops and control my descent towards Iris Burn Hut. Back on well-formed track, I tap into my running legs and increase my pace along river flats and stream crossings towards Moturau Hut. By the time I reach Moturau Hut, the heat really starts to be a factor. I top up my drink bottles and push through as quick as possible before the temptation to stop kicks in. I attempt to accelerate with 15km to go but the legs want to remain at steady state so I just hold on. After a few Keplers, you just get use to hanging in there. It doesn’t get any easier, just less hard. Running along the Waiau River, I know I’m approaching the finish line. It’s hot and I begin to fantasise. One day I’ll float to the finish on a rubber ring whilst eating tropical fruit accompanied by gorgeous women. My shoe catches a small tree root and I snap back into reality. Looks like I have to run myself out of trouble again. Like every other year you idiot! Approaching the finish line I see Courtney, Casey, Paul, Andrew, AND Esther waiting for me. I’m stunned that Esther managed to finish in front of me. Didn’t she just do the Milford track? I cross the start/finish line just after 2pm with a finish time of 8hrs and 16 mins. We wait until Neena finishes just after 4.30pm. It’s still very hot. She looks pretty tired. It’s hard to differentiate whether this is because she has just run 60km for the first time or whether she actually slept at all last night. Her fiancé Nick however, is cheering ecstatically and appears to have grown a few inches overnight. They embrace passionately at the finish line. Still intoxicated with love. Goodness me. Sometimes running feels like one big continuous cycle. Like going full circle and round and round. Every start line leads to a finish line. Every finish leads to a fresh start line. Join me at my next blog, The “James” Stampede Ultra (50km) in mid-January (one week later). Chase your start lines. Running is medicine.

Running along the top past Luxmore Hut.

This is arguably the best view on the Kepler Track (a few kilometres past Luxmore Hut and look right)

Close to the finish surrounded by lush greenery

At the Mission Mt Somers Marathon start line with Dr Stanley

An addiction is an urge to do something that is hard to control or stop. Medically it is often used to describe a ‘substance use disorder’ and falls into four categories. Impaired control (more than intended use / wanting to cut down but not being able to), risky use (use in risky settings and continued use despite known problems), physical dependence (needing more of the substance to get the same effect [i.e. tolerance] and having withdrawal symptoms when a substance isn’t used), and finally, social problems (neglecting responsibilities and relationships and an inability to complete normal tasks at home or work). When I first started running consistently at medical school, a friend of mine told me that I had “a dark secret”. A mentor of mine during my registrar years warned me that running was addictive and refused to run with me. Many just told me I had ‘the bug’ which is probably just the polite way of saying you’re addicted. If so, then I probably fulfil all the categories described above with the exception of being able to maintain my social responsibilities (though even my family would argue with the latter). And I can see why. My small network of friends are all runners. Those friends who don’t (or have stopped running) have been left behind. The vast majority of our family holidays are ‘running holidays’. When I travel around NZ (or the world for that matter), it’s primarily to run. And if it’s not to run, then I’m sure to find an event that will fit into our schedule. So maybe I’m a ‘high societal functioning’ running addict. Maybe I’ve had one too many runs over my lifetime. But if so, is that really a bad thing? I don’t drink, smoke, or gamble. I don’t online shopping binge and keep away from large boisterous mobs. In fact, I spend the vast majority of my money running on my own. If I wasn’t addicted to running, then what else would take its place? I don’t have the taste for drugs or alcohol. I loathe social media. I don’t think I could ever be addicted to work. Sex? Well, in the best interests of my wife’s longevity then hopefully not. Hence running has become my addiction of choice. Today, my cousin Paul is doing his first half marathon. He’s had a few issues with drugs and has been in and out of jail as a result. Being unemployed, he had time but not much money. So I paid for his entry and we’ve been running once a week in the Port Hills in preparation for Mt Somers. Over the last few weeks, he’s been literally clearing tar from his lungs and abusing his body in a different way. He’s diligently progressed from walking, to a walk/jog, a jog, and then short bursts of running such that he’s made it to the start line today. “When I run, it feels just like I’m stoned” Paul says. It’s been an interesting insight into an addiction of another kind. One with more stereotyping and stigma than my own. All these years during my long weekend runs, have I just been trying to get stoned but in a different way? I’ve always believed that the best way to treat an addiction is by replacing it with another (positive) addiction. In Paul’s case, I’m hoping that running can get him back on the straight and narrow and give him a fresh start. Who you are, what you do, and your previous life choices doesn’t really count for much in the trail running world. The main thing you’re judged on is effort. I also don’t think there’s a correlation between the severity of a drug addiction and your running ability. But if there was, then I’m sure Paul has the potential to be a really good runner.

Passing through subalpine terrain with Dr Stanley close behind

The busy work week and early start have taken it out of me for the first half of the run. It’s like I’m hung over from my working week as I struggle to shift the mind fog. My eye movements induce a headache and I’m finding it hard to focus. As a result, I’m easily losing my footing and starting to trip up more. In my whole life. I can’t recall many experiences where I’ve felt worse off after a run than before it. Runners just know this is part of the game. We all experience lows at different times. However, we also know that an impending high is just around the corner (or one gel away). You’ve just got to keep moving! As the climb through the dense beech forest levels out, I’m greeted by the spring snow-capped mountains and jagged rhyolite cliffs. It’s then a mix of open tussock with plains as far as the eye can see and more forested catchments. The mind fog slowly clears as I descent down Mt Somers and I begin to feel much better. I eventually catch up with Dr Stanley at the half way point at the Woolshed Creek carpark and run in his slip stream for a bit. The trails are not as technical so the mental strain is less and running becomes easier. We make good steady progress up the saddle surrounded by mountain ranges. We begin to pass people again which releases more endorphins. As we pass Pinnacles Hut, we leave the subalpine environment behind us and enter more beech forest again. The next section is pure running bliss as we move along and through waterways. I splash my face in rivers to freshen up and can’t help but dip my head under a small waterfall. The coolness at the back of my head is invigorating and I feel reborn – nature’s baptism. It’s then more technical trail along stream beds and forest until the farmlands return. We both cross the finish line in just under 8 hours. Powered by the runner’s high and both clearly under the influence of running. Paul and a few of our doctor friends are waiting for us at the finish line. He’s done exceptionally well having finished a very tough half marathon in 4 hours and 20 minutes. He seems very happy, “Imagine if I trained” he says. “I wish that I’d done this ages ago”. Running is addictive. But I also firmly believe running (and exercise) can beat unhealthy addictions. Don’t let drink, smoke, and drugs ruin your life. Get addicted to sweat. Earn your highs. Running is medicine. Join me at my next blog, The Valley Ultra, 58km Whole Hog at the end of November.

Waterfall bliss. This is why we run! Nature’s baptism

View waterfall video

At the finish line (from left to right – Cousin Paul, me, Dr Andrew Stanley, Dr Esther O’Sullivan, Dr Neena Kalsi)

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

Running along the back of the lake near Hamurana

The main reason I set up Running Medicine was that I wanted to show and be living proof that you can make running a lifestyle. I also wanted to play my small part in promoting the benefits of ‘exercise as medicine’ and educating others on how you can make exercise a healthy life style choice. However, what sounds easy on paper, is quite complex to put into practice. Some of the problems being that the human body is hardwired to be fat, warm, and comfortable i.e., some people don’t have the inclination to exercise. The other problem being that we live in a society that champions winning over participation. An unheralded side effect of professional sport. The ‘if you’re not winning or getting faster, then why should you do this’ mentality. Throughout life, we are told that we should participate in exercise that we like. But what should you do if you don’t like to exercise? We are told to exercise for at least 30 minutes a day. But what should you do if you don’t have the time or can’t afford to? We are told that we should be getting stronger, fitter, faster each day. But what should you do if you aren’t? Life is full of problems and your doctor does not have all of the solutions. What I do know is that you will live a longer, healthier, happier, and functional life if you can exercise for at least 30 minutes most days of the week. You’ll get even more benefit if you exercise for 60 minutes. If you exercise regularly, you’ll be able to keep healthy and continue to support your family. You’ll be able to play and run along with your children as they grow. You’ll be able to live independently and look after yourself long after your children have children of their own. The original policy makers of the ‘30 minutes of physical activity a day’ feared that they would put too many people off exercise if they promoted 60 mins/day so they went with the lesser ‘at least 30 minutes a day’. I’d argue it’s helped to create a society entitled to wellbeing. A false expectation of doing the minimum but expecting maximum health. Over the years I’ve learnt that I can’t prescribe effort. I can’t prescribe time. And I certainly, can’t prescribe money or youth. All I can do is influence your priorities. Because until you make exercise a priority, you will manufacture every excuse under the sun not to do it. If you don’t make the time for exercise now, sooner or later you will make time for illness and dependence on others. You do not need to win. You just need to start. Motivation will get you started. But its habit that keeps you going. People will make the effort and find the time when something is important to them. So, how do you make exercise important to you?

Heading down the finisher’s straight

Although I’ve run a lot of off-road ultramarathons lately, it still doesn’t quite prepare you for the rigors of a road marathon. An off-road ultramarathon teaches you to go further by pacing well interspersed with walking. But an on-road marathon is much faster by nature so holding a faster pace for a prolonged period of time is a discipline in itself. Dr Stanley and I manage to run the first 5km at a 5min/km pace until we suddenly get passed by another Rotorua Hospital doctor, Dr Esther O’Sullivan. We were already going like a bat out of hell and now Esther has unknowingly waved a red rag to a bull. Dr Stanley increases his pace to catch up with her and I sense early trouble (for me anyway). Andrew successfully distracts her focus from the finish line (which is still 37km away) and momentarily slows her down by a skill well practised to any life style runner – initiating conversation. As Andrew and Esther start chatting, I fall in behind them to catch my breath. Dr Stanley introduces me and I learn that Esther specialises in endocrinology which I find slightly surprising as Esther doesn’t appear to have detected Dr Stanley’s excessive testosterone today. We manage to run together until the 15km mark where I eventually drift off their hot pace and fall back. Stanley has left me for a younger and much faster Irish woman. As in sympathy, the heavens open up and it begins to rain. Left to myself, I’m able to run through Hamurana and the hills near Mourea at a much more comfortable pace. However, by the 25km mark, the untempered fast start and hilly middle section begins to take its toll. Soon I’m being passed by the wise who have held back and cleverly timed their surge. Although I know this course well and I’ve been here many times before, it still doesn’t make completing a marathon any easier. You just got to keep on running and eventually you make a habit of not giving up. I keep holding it together past the airport and maintain a good honest pace down Vaughan Road. I cross the finish in 3hrs 56 mins only discovering afterwards that I had run a positive split race. That is, I ran faster in the first half of the race and slowed down in the second half. Marathon 101 states that you should run a negative split race which is the reverse – running the second half faster than your first. Finishing time and splits aside, at the end of the day, none of this really matters. Just ask the true champ, Garth Barfoot, who finished last but in doing so became the oldest competitor ever to finish the Rotorua Marathon (8hrs 53 mins, 2 weeks shy of his 85^th birthday). This is the type of stuff we should be celebrating and championing. If you want to be a lifestyle runner, you need to put finishing times aside and just enjoy the process. Keep starting. Keep sweating. Keep running. And if you run enough times, then running soon becomes a lifestyle and the house that you live in. Running is medicine. Join me at my next blog, the Mt Difficulty Ascent 44km in the beginning of June.

They don’t get any easier

Wet but happy

The Coastal Ultra start line

The cool air and firmly packed sand ensured a relatively brisk starting pace until we hit our first major water crossing within ten minutes. This appeared to be more significant than usual as a couple of marshals were positioned at the designated water entry and exits points. Over the years, the lengths I’ve seen some runners go to maintain dry feet is extraordinary. And sure enough, some stop to take off their shoes and socks whilst another pulls out a large rubbish bag to walk in. My spot assessment tells me that wet feet are unavoidable so I just cross. The water is chilling and halfway across it reaches thigh height. I pause and carefully watch those in front of me for the preferred route (wet feet I can handle but any water crossing that encroaches on the genitals is another matter in itself). I successfully cross without any squealing only to be greeted by a flash back to the film, The Beverly Hillbillies. Just off the shore stands an isolated rickety old house with a couple of quad bikes parked outside. Old rope hangs from every corner to dry a variety of khaki coloured clothing. A couple of the house occupants are standing outside on the front porch drinking an undetermined brew as they give a subtle chin raise greeting. I can feel a clump of sand in my shoe that needs removing but instinct tells me to keep running so I give a nervous wave and follow the track around the coastline. As time passes, the field starts to spread out and any purposeful track disappears. I’m left to myself to explore this raw and rugged coastline. The ocean spreads infinitely into the horizon but in other areas it is close enough to carve out the coastline next to you. I move along a few more sequestered bays running next to the tide line and through a region of dense native bush with ankle deep mud. For long periods of time my only company is the ocean and the boundless farmland. I am lost to the outside world. I am lost in my thoughts.

Running at sunrise

At sunset near the finish

For all the joy and endorphins one receives from their running environment, eventually the toil of the distance sets in. The unventured private land means that there are no formed tracks other than what has been tread by the runners ahead. Progress is always limited by the terrain and this farmland is rough and hard going. The sustained concentration is intense in order to hold your feet in what is very much ankle busting country. I had managed to complete the first 25 km in 3 hours and 30 mins so the quick maths told me this was a 10 hour affair. I had hoped to finish around prize giving at 3pm (8 hours) but this was now a pipe dream. By the time I had reached the 40km mark, I was already a spent force. The weather had also turned and the rain had decided to set in. The winds picked up and the arduous hills climbs kept coming. Whatever fragment of joy that remained died a cruel swift death. The thought of having to drive to Christchurch afterwards to run a marathon also weighed heavy on my mind. For the remaining 30km of the course, I was fending off survival mode and knowingly eating into my Christchurch Marathon running legs. A volunteer at an aid station asked me if there was anything I needed and I half jokingly responded, “Comfort”. It all became a haze of farmland and hill climbing (total elevation of 3000 metres with a lot of climbing at the end). A random alpaca sighting broke the monotony but by the 60km mark, I was pretty sure that I had seen enough of the Catlins. The final stretch along the beach managed to lift my spirits somewhat. By then the rain had cleared but the sun was beginning to set. I crossed the finish line in 10 hours and 44 mins just before 6pm. More relieved than elated. I know I’m behind schedule so I move swiftly to my car. I need to get to Christchurch pronto.

I initially thought I was delirious but it was indeed a random alpaca!

Heading towards the Coastal Ultra finish line

Truth be told the Coastal Ultra chewed me up and spat me out onto the Christchurch Marathon start line. I had managed to get to bed by 2am after the 500km drive from the Catlins. I was awoken just after 6am by my children and then had to move fast to make the 7.30am marathon start. I knew I wasn’t adequately hydrated or nourished from yesterday (none of this is ideal of course before a marathon). My wife dropped me off as close as she could outside the cordoned area. Unfortunately, the morning shower wasn’t miraculous and I was still very, very stiff. I attempted a gentle jog to the start line to help prime my legs and address this conundrum (whilst eating my toast for breakfast). I managed to get to the start with a couple of minutes to spare. Although I was feeling a bit pressured, the atmosphere was electric. The music was pumping and so was the race vibe. It was an amazing contrast to the start line I had experienced only 24 hours ago! Before long, I’m off to the starter’s gun amongst a sea of runners. My daughters Millie and Poppi had entered the Kids’ 1k Mara’Fun and were scheduled to start at 11.30am. I was therefore hoping for a 4 hour finish so I could join them. I didn’t know if this was possible after the Coastal Ultra but I was determined to give it a try. I’d at least made the start line!

Lots of energy at the Christchurch Marathon start line

Although I flirted with a 4 hour marathon pace for the first hour, it wasn’t long before the wheels started to fall off. I knew this wasn’t going to be my day when I was passed by Aquaman with his life size trident. By the 15km mark, I was only 5 mins off a 4 hour pace. But I was beginning to slow down which is never a good sign. Then it all happened quite quickly. The heat. The feeling of being flustered. The questioning of the sanity of this all. The internal implosion. I had hit a wall. My tank was empty and I started to walk. ‘The wall’ is typically reserved from the 30km mark in a marathon but mine occurred much earlier around the 18km mark. By this stage, I was really struggling to hold it together. I was stopping at aid stations rather than passing through them. Instead of sipping from a cup, I was guzzling multiple cups wildly. A well intentioned half marathon runner sees my struggle and tells me “Keep going, not long to go now”. I make an efforted smile for thanks just as he notices my marathon bib. “Ohhhh!” I see his confused regret in a snapshot. “My journey continues brother. You go get it.” He surges onwards whilst I flail about in my struggle. “Keep moving, keep going” I whisper under my breath. Barely jogging, I spot an unopened Horley’s gel that someone ahead of me had dropped on the road. Feeling pretty desperate, I stop to pick it up and tear it open. The raspberry flavour is thick and sweet. I can feel the fuel gauge slowly lift off empty just enough to run out of this wall. They say good luck comes to those who sweat. Either that or the running gods are feeling merciful today.

Running through Hagley Park and along the Avon River

Holding it together at the 21km mark

As all the 10km and half marathon runners have already finished, the second half of the run is much quieter. Minus all the hustle and bustle, it’s a lot easier to connect with your surroundings again. I begin to enjoy running around Hagley Park under the shade of the large acorn trees. Running along the Avon River also provides a peaceful backdrop. Without all the commotion, I can concentrate on doing what I do best. Putting one foot in front of the other. What some may find mind numbingly boring, I find totally liberating. For a period of time, I don’t have to listen to anyone else’s problems. I don’t have to worry about my patients’ problems and how their struggles are affecting their quality of life. I only have to think about my own struggle. And when you’re really struggling, you can think of nothing else but the struggle! By now, I’ve found a slow but sustainable pace that will get me to the finish. Rather than being passed, I start passing people again. Around the 39km mark, I see a couple of guys who are clearly running together. One lets out an exasperated, “F***, I gotta walk Josh”. Once when I wore a younger man’s running shoes, I would’ve considered that the walk of shame. Fast forward 18 years and 89 marathons later, I see walking in a different light. In that particular situation, I see walking as the result of pushing one’s limit. Be it a physical limit or a mental limit, a limit has been reached. If you’ve never pushed yourself to your limit, then how do you know that you have one? For me there is no shame in walking anymore. What matters is what you do AFTER you start walking. For you can only truly know yourself when you go beyond your limits. And you’re none the wiser if you remain restrained within your comfort zone.

Enjoying quieter times

Approaching the Christchurch Marathon finisher’s line whilst ruthlessly being passed by kids

As I head towards the finish line, I see children much older than my own running so I know I’ve missed out on running with my own children. A 4 hour marathon was too big an ask today. I manage to cross the finish line in 4 hours and 29 mins. Content with the effort but a bit disappointed. However, that disappointment is short lived when I see both my girls near the finish line with beaming smiles on their faces eating ice cream. They both have their finisher’s medals around their necks and seem to have enjoyed themselves. All the previous struggles of the last 24 hours seem to disappear and I’m light on my feet again. I get a photo with my girls at the finish line and this is a very proud dad moment. As much as I love running, I don’t want to force my kids to be runners. However, I think as a parent, the best I can do is provide opportunities for my kids to live active lifestyles early. Physically active kids are more likely to become physically active adults. And healthy habits can last a lifetime. Running is medicine. Join me at my next blog, the Rotorua Marathon at the start of May.

Proud dad moment. At the finish with Poppi (left) and Millie (right).

Millie approaching the finish line

Love it

At the swim start

It takes me a while to get into a swim rhythm this year. COVID-19 delayed the start by 3 weeks so the water is appreciably colder. My breathing is tight and I’m unsure if I need to inhale or exhale. It’s very easy to get caught up in the catecholamine induced quick start, so I slow my stroke and reign in my ego which helps. Not being a very good swimmer, I try keep away from the swimming pack. I like my personal space and have never been good at drafting. Following the person in front of you can also be a bit hit and miss as you can easily swim off course. Hence, I tend to trust my own navigation abilities (albeit dodgy) rather than trust other aspiring misguided open water swimmers. I eventually establish my own swimming rhythm and ease into my work. As the lake is reasonably calm this year, I exit the swim in 1 hour and 27 mins. The 180km bike ride is always a big day in the office. Thankfully the outside office is reasonably calm today with light winds for the first 90km. But everything in life is temporary and nothing good lasts forever. By midday, the wind picks up and it’s a challenging north easterly head wind on the second lap to Reporoa. Being a relative ‘light weight’, I stick to my strengths and treat the headwind like a slow uphill climb and put the pedal to the medal. I finally reach the turnaround point and the last 40km back to Taupo is aided by a nice tail wind. Conscious of not losing my running legs this year, I ease back a bit from 160km in preparation for the run. I arrive back at bike transition just under 6 hours and 30 mins which I’m reasonably happy with. Years of Ironman has taught me that if you have a good bike, then there’s a higher probability that you’ll continue that good form and have a good run. If you come off your bike worse for wear, then there’s a harsh life lesson just around the corner called a full marathon. As I start my run, a jubilant supporter shouts out “You’ve only got a marathon to go”. Yes, ‘only’ a marathon to go.

Leaving Taupo early on the bike

Heading out to Reporoa

Running a marathon with tired legs is no easy feat. I maintain a sub 6 min km pace for the first 5km but inevitably the overall fatigue catches up with me. I hit a wall quite early on around 15km. It’s the usual stuff again. My feet are sore and my legs are heavy. I feel completely drained and the brain fog starts to settle in. Running becomes clunky and cumbersome. I see my wife on the course and I can tell that she knows I’m struggling. Although she doesn’t say it, she has a facial expression that would translate to “You look like sh*t”. I know I need to urgently tend to this rot. It doesn’t get any easier running through a wall but I’ve been here enough times to know what to do. I guzzle some orange juice, swallow a Leppin Squeezy, and take some paracetamol/caffeine tablets. During moments like this, you just need to keep moving, think positive thoughts, remember why you’re doing this, and be grateful for this moment. Every wall no matter how high, long, or formidable, has a door. You just need to find it. Everything starts to click into place and my running legs return. I know I’m back in the game when complete strangers start telling me “You’re looking good”. A complement I would never receive outside of running. I resist the urge to walk and hold on to the momentum for the remaining 25km. I cross the finish line 12 hours and 49 mins later doing a 4hr and 39 min marathon. The hallowed words are spoken again, “You are an Ironman”. It’s a personal best time for me and I can tell because I feel mildly sick. The covenant is sealed for another year. One Ironman a year. No more. No less. Running is medicine. Join me at my next blog, the Coastal Ultra 71km and the Christchurch Marathon (the latter if I feel strong enough).

Enduring the run

Crossing the finish line. An incredible feeling!

12th NZ Ironman in the bag

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

With my two girls at the start line (Millie – left & Poppi – right)

Running in the Port Hills is like going to your favourite restaurant. Most of the time you order the tried and trusted but other times, you want to try something different. The tried and trusted for most runners for many years has been a high carbohydrate (HCHO) diet. Carbs have been shown to enhance performance in exercise greater than 60-90 minutes and carbo-loading 24-36 hours pre-race is a common practice in running circles. So what’s with the sudden interest in a ketogenic aka low carb high fat (LCHF) diet (defined as < 50g of CHO/day with fat providing 75-80% of energy compared to a HCHO diet where carbs provide 60-65% of energy)? As mentioned in my last blog, a LCHF diet can provide beneficial short term health benefits for some people and particularly those with type II diabetes. But are there any performance benefits from a LCHF diet? Should all ultra distance runners be on a LCHF diet? The rationale being that a high fat diet increases our capacity to use fat as an exercise fuel. We also have unlimited fat fuel stores compared to our limited liver and muscle glycogen carbohydrate reserves. An advantage of preferentially burning fat may therefore mean that you won’t need as much carbohydrate during an event. However, often refuelling during an event is not a problem anyway due to the availability of aid stations. The idea of a LCHF diet was first raised in a study by Phinney et al in 1983. Phinney showed that endurance trained cyclists (n=5) who ate a ketogenic diet for 4 weeks had no compromise in endurance exercise compared to a ‘balanced diet’ with both groups having a similar exercise endurance of 2.5 hours on an ergometer (i.e. no actual performance benefit – just parity). This idea of a LCHF diet is therefore nothing new and there have been a few more studies since. So why the sudden explosion in interest? The answer lies in n=1 and social media. The best marketing study of all. Get a LCHF runner with great genetics who wins a race, looks the part, and has a following on social media and BINGO. Everyone should now be on a LCHF diet and they too will win races! As mentioned in my last blog, good nutritional studies are hard to come by. Often study participants self-select their diets and recording exactly what people eat is tedious and challenging. So I thought a recent study by Burke et al (2020) gave a good attempt of answering this question utilising a well designed scientific study. A sample of 26 male and female elite race walkers had energy matched LCHF and HCHO diets for 25 days and the same three week training program. Both groups were matched for age, body mass, base line VO2 max, and personal bests so there were no significant differences between both groups other than the diet they were eating. When both groups were retested over a 10 000m race walk, the HCHO group improved by 5% and LCHF group were slower by 2%. So in this group of elite walkers, a LCHF diet was actually detrimental to their performance. The critics will say a 10 000m race is not long enough or that fat adaptation for performance benefits take “several months” (i.e. 4-6 months) and not 2-3 weeks. To which I look forward to their long term studies on compliant ultra runners (whom in my experience tend to follow their own path and do what they want anyway). So once again we fall back on the need for more research on the performance (and health) benefits of longer term fat adaptation. Also, remember that the Burke et al study involved elite trained athletes. Thereby, if you were to start eating a LCHF diet in addition to exercising/training, there’s a good chance that you’ll shift some weight (which LCHF diets and exercise are known to do), and by default you’ll get a ‘performance effect’! But all things being matched, if you’re a well trained athlete at optimum weight who is performing well on a HCHO diet, then the evidence isn’t compelling to switch to a LCHF diet. So what do we believe is the science underpinning this finding? We know that although fat provides more energy than carbohydrates, the body requires more oxygen to burn fat compared to carbohydrates. That is, to produce the same speed/intensity/power from burning fat, you need to use a higher fraction of your VO2 max which by definition reduces your exercise economy (exercise economy has been shown to correlate better with performance than VO2 max). Now, this may not be an issue when oxygen is plentiful (e.g. sea level compared to altitude [note that a HCHO diet is also recommended in high altitude]) or when the demand for oxygen is low (e.g. low intensity compared to high intensity exercise). In other words, a LCHF diet may not be a problem for sports that require moderate aerobic intensity (e.g. 60-70% VO2 max) as there’s more aerobic reserve at lower intensities / extra wiggle room. But it could become a problem for athletes exercising at higher intensities (e.g. 80-90% VO2 max) and exercising at higher intensities is critical for elite athletes. So, the current scientific consensus is that a LCHF diet does not translate to improved performance in sports in which athletes need to work at higher intensities, speeds, or power for the above reasons. But a LCHF diet may still have some potential in recreational endurance runners participating at medium to low intensities. That is, those running long distances at conversational pace which are most of your middle of the pack runners and plodders. Where do I stand on this? I’m biased by my upbringing. My father is a Kiwi and my mother is a Filipino. Whilst growing up, to keep the peace and both parties happy, I learnt that I needed to eat potatoes AND rice. So now, I routinely double carb for most of my meals and as a result, I’m intermittently vilified. But I do like this concept of “metabolic flexibility” – using a variety of energy generating pathways. That is, why should we only be good at burning fat or carbs? Why can’t we be good at burning both? After all, you’re predominantly priming your fat burning pathways when you go for a morning run before you eat breakfast. Why get all worked up about fat versus carbs? Why can’t our energy systems cooperate and we all just get along? Why can’t I just eat my potatoes and rice in peace?

Ready to go bush. Heading into Kennedys Bush Reserve

The beginning of the Port Hills Ultra serves a familiar menu in the form of the Harry Elm track and the Crater Rim Walkway south of the Sign of the Kiwi. The course then veers off downwards towards the South Boundary Track along Faulkners Track which is all new to me and proves to be quite technical. The next section along Watlings/Bush Rd/O’Farrells/Cass Ridge Track is more unventured territory until I link up with the familiar Sign of the Bellbird. Although I’ve run past Kennedys Reserve a number of times, I’ve never really stopped to explore it so the Orongomai Trail loop was a highlight. This was pure running soul food as one was completely surrounded by dense beautiful native bush despite being so close to the city. We reconnect with the Crater Rim Walkway again and head towards Sugerloaf via Mitchells Track which offers some nice harbour views. I make good progress along Latters Spur Track which is an easy going pine needled downhill track but this marks the end of the honeymoon phase. From here, the leisurely 10am start begins to take its toll. The heat of the day starts to bite as we ascend up Hidden Valley Track and back towards Sugerloaf for the second time. I manage to link up with another runner who has a similar pace to me (Josie originally from Wales) and our conversation provides a welcome distraction to the heat and the uphill grind. We’re back on familiar tracks along Farm Track and the Mt Vernon Valley Track but the event organiser adds a cruel twist by directing runners into more unchartered territory – unheralded farmland by name of Linda Woods Reserve. Why bother going up the perfectly formed Rapaki Track when you can venture along sporadic sheep tracks whilst practising orienteering (without maps) all the way to the top of the Summit Road? Josie and I manage to successfully stay on course and we replenish at the final aid station at the top of the Bridle Path. From there, it is a 12km push back past Castle Rock via mountain bike tracks until we connect with the Harry Elm Track again and head back towards the finish at Victoria Park. I cross the finish line just after 6pm, 8 hours and 10 mins later. Tired but not exhausted. Legs appropriately primed for bigger things. If the Port Hills Ultra was the appetiser, then the Tarawera 100 miler in mid February is the main course. Running is medicine. Join me at my next blog, the Tarawera 100 miler (165km). Hopefully I haven’t bitten off more than I can chew.

That was tough. Crossing the finish line at Victoria Park

A bit ruffled heading up the road to Port Levy Spur

It was a slow and steady grind uphill from Pigeon Bay to Port Levy and I could feel the early effects of a well catered festive season. Talking about nutrition can be a challenging topic. There are so many diets available (e.g. low fat, high carb, ketogenic, Mediterranean, vegetarian, intermittent fasting). The problem being that good scientific studies are difficult to conduct and expensive. Diets vary and can change over time. Recording exactly what people eat is difficult and converting our diet into components of carbohydrate/fat/protein etc is unreliable. So, to make a definitive link between a diet recorded over a short period of time with disease and deaths encountered decades later is invariably difficult. In saying that, there is compelling short-term evidence (of at least one year) that a low carb diet (rather than a low fat, low calorie, or low glycaemic index diet) should be the first approach to treating type 2 diabetes which has become a life style disease. A diet low in carbohydrate has been shown to improve biochemical markers (HbA1c/cholesterol/lipids) and reduce body weight in those with type 2 diabetes. However, runners thrive on a high carb diet and carbs have been proven to increase performance in exercise. So, does this mean that a low carb diet should also be used in non-diabetics for possible long term ‘health’ benefits? The answer is we don’t know and there are no long term randomised controlled studies to support this (more on the ‘performance’ benefits of a low carb high fat diet in my next blog). At times it can seem like anybody who is skinny and has access to a social media platform can become a glorified ‘expert’. Truth be told, I’d be one of the worst dietary examples to follow. I have an appetite that can frighten the elderly. I run so I can eat everything and anything. I run because it makes me feel good. No amount of kale, quinoa, or tofu can make me feel as good as running. But one of the best pieces of nutritional advice I’ve heard is from Dr Zoe Harcombe who is a researcher well versed in nutritional evidence-based literature. Dr Harcombe’s simple take home message is to “eat colourful non processed food”. This advice in addition to at least 30 minutes of physical activity most days of the week should keep you on the straight and narrow towards a long and healthy life.

Heading towards Gebbies Pass

It’s another slow and tortuous climb along the Port Levy Spur road towards Mt Herbert. Although I’m eating into the total 2 278m course elevation, it’s beginning to take its effect. The temporary bliss of the light and fluffy pavlova on the lips has been converted into a dense heaviness in my quads. I move past the old remnants of totara and up the steep tussock slope to Little Mt Herbert (913m) followed by the summit of Mt Herbert itself (919m). The downhill section past the Packhorse Hut and Gebbies Pass offers some reprieve until I reacquaint myself with Summit Road’s renowned tormenter aka ‘the bastard”. Its prime purpose is to torture me for all my accustomed comforts and to remind me of all my temporary pleasures and sins. It’s another slow and sustained climb and it’s getting hot. The sun reflects off the road and the tar sticks to my shoes. The bastard serves up a meal of its own and it tastes foul – humble pie. I swallow my pride and break down the remaining 15km into bite size portions. Next corner. Next hill. I summon my own culinary skills and change the recipe. By adding a pinch of “keep going” to the secret ingredient of “don’t stop”, I eventually get to Kennedy’s Bush Track. From there, it’s all downhill to the finish. Seven hours later, I cross the finish line at Halswell Quarry. Sufficiently famished and primed for the BBQ season. Running is medicine. Join me at my next blog, the Port Hills Ultra 50km at the end of January.

Being tortured by “the bastard”

With the kids (Millie [left] and Poppi [right]) at the finish

Courting speed at the start

Like most relationships, my relationship with running has been an evolving work in progress. I’ve been running long distance consistently for the last 18 years now. And although I’ve changed during this period, running hasn’t and has remained one of the few constants in my life next to medicine. In sickness and in health. For better or for worse. Running has always been there for me. The Kepler Challenge starts beautifully along Lake Te Anau through lush, green beech forest. Dr Stanley and I decide to court speed by going a lot faster than usual in order to get ahead of any walkers prior to the Luxmore ascent. I’m feeling pretty fresh after my sleep in so my legs are light and we move swiftly towards Brod Bay. We establish a good rhythm and settle into a nice pace past the limestone bluffs. Running feels good and there is union of breath and movement. Once past the tree line, the rain and cold wind really starts to bite so I push a little harder towards the turnaround point at Luxmore Hut. By now, the lead pack are charging back down the mountain and the narrow foot bridges result in a fierce competition for space. Not too keen to get involved in the inevitable log jam, I push harder again. Descending the mountain, the rain is falling more persistently now and the track starts to cut up in places and muddy puddles form. I’m not quick enough to miss the Luxmore Grunt runners as they assault up the mountain so I happen to bump into my wife Courtney. She warns me that a large tree has just fallen on the track. She also seems surprised that I’m running by myself and not with my running buddy Dr Stanley. I seem to have left Dr Stanley behind during my quick descent but I’m not too worried. I know he’s a lot more measured than me going downhill but he’s very strong on the flat so there was a good chance he’d catch up to me. I head back towards the control gates and then turn into the second out and back part of the course towards Moturau Hut. Before long, the field really starts to open up and I’m accompanied by solitude. I enter no man’s land. A hostile section of any race that happens to be far enough from the start line but also far away to the finish. An area that’s neither here nor there. It’s usually during this part of the race that my relationship with running really gets tested.

Moving past the limestone bluffs during the Mt Luxmore ascent

Relationships are all about compromise and negotiation and so is running. And although I have a date with the finish line, that’s still another 30km away. My slightly quicker pace during the first half of the race is starting to take its toll. I want more speed but less pain. But running is a tough and demanding mistress who is only satisfied by effort. In running, if you want to go faster, then pain is non-negotiable. Nothing worth doing is easy. I yield and slow down to my all-day pace. The rest of the field, including a fresh appearing Dr Stanley, eventually catch up to me again. I tell Andrew to go ahead content with my all-day pace and wanting to limit my suffering before the Moturau Hut turn around point. It becomes a slow, sustained push forward in the wet and I start to feel heavy on my feet. If my relationship with running is built on love, then this is tough love and the course is showing no mercy. I eventually encounter the flow of runners on the return leg from Moturau Hut including Dr Stanley who is about 5-10 minutes ahead of me. He seems to be enjoying the course more than me as he has a huge smile on his face and what appears to be his yoga mat down his pants. I decide to push early to see if I can catch him. For the next hour or so, I manage to negotiate and sustain a good pace until eventually the tough love returns. Crossing the swing bridge at Rainbow Reach, I become light headed and breathless. I try to keep pace with the Waiau River beside me but after a few more ‘ant hills’, my legs are well and truly massaged and caressed by the course. I eventually succumb to the Kepler and let it have its way with me. The last 5km is tough and honest toil. It can get pretty lonely but throughout running is a constant companion. I compromise with running and agree to let go, slow down, and enjoy the moment. We reorientate to the common goal of finishing. Six and a half hours later, we cross the finish line together. We’ve come to terms with each other and are at peace again. For better or for worse. In good times and in bad. In sickness and in health. Running continues to be the best part of me. Make it a priority to nurture your own relationship with your health and fitness. Running is medicine. Join me at my next blog, the Aotearoa Ultra 50km in early January 2021.

Past the tree line heading towards Luxmore Hut

Tough love towards the end

Heading out to battle (Dr Andrew Stanley [left], me [3rd from left], Flt Lt Jim Sheehan [4th from left])

Early river / obstacle crossing

Everything you prepare and train for in running leads you to this moment. The part where you want to stop. This is the most important part of any run. This is the reason we run! To face this moment. And how we respond to this moment is a measure of our worth and defines who we are. The enemies that were hidden and lying in wait begin their own assault. You become ambushed by fears, doubts, and thoughts of giving up. The enemy infiltrates your mind and your body screams at you to stop. The experienced runner knows that the adversary always lies within. The battle is no longer against the course or others, but a far more vicious personal battle against yourself. What follows are mini duels within the battle. Defence followed by counterattack. Sometimes even trying to hold a jog for ‘seconds’ becomes so hard that all you can do is walk. But even walking is better than stopping. And if you must walk, walk purposefully. Never give up. The most important thing is relentless forward momentum. The remaining 15km of the course becomes an internal tumultuous struggle and a battle of wills. You encounter others on the course fighting their own silent battles. Words of encouragement may help. But ultimately the battle is not yours but theirs to fight. The course offers its own final resistance near the end. A sharp climb up an unkempt hill side so steep that the organisers have had to install ropes to help you climb. One final assault. Time to fix bayonets. It is a slow and steady advance. An advance no longer powered by glucose or caffeine but only by unwavering and irrepressible belief. It’s hard to beat someone who won’t give up. Battle weary, I cross the finish line 7 hours and 45 mins later. I live to fight another day. Seek out and close with your enemy. Never give up. Running is medicine. Join me at my next blog, the Kepler Challenge in the beginning of December.

Final assault to the finish

The spoils of battle – the finish line

The joyful ascent up Mt Herbert

Pain is one of the most complex things I see every day. Our perception of pain is influenced by our upbringing, knowledge, fears, and emotions. As health professionals, it can be quite challenging to treat pain as it’s so individual and subjective. We all interpret and cope with pain differently so it gets really murky. What started as simple one way signalling from pain receptors in the periphery has expanded to include the importance of the brain in interpreting pain. The brain plays a crucial role in deciding what is relevant. To that effect, the brain decides what ‘signals’ to facilitate and what ‘signals’ to inhibit (i.e. descending pain inhibitory pathways). If the brain decides something else is more important, it can inhibit pain and prioritise other tasks. This explains how soldiers can be oblivious to battle field injuries as the importance of survival outweighs any ‘minor’ limb shrapnel injury. Contrastingly, fear of the unknown, stress, anxiety, and low mood can amplify your pain system. Our habitual activity profile in treating musculoskeletal pain conditions is also important. If you’re a sedentary individual then it can be counter intuitive to keep moving if movement is painful. If you understand and appreciate the benefits of exercise, then you’re more likely to keep moving despite the pain. Five important concepts to share are:

1) Not all pain equals tissue damage. Just because it’s sore, it doesn’t mean that it’s abnormal or a predictor of significant tissue damage. For example, headaches are common but are not often a sign of significant tissue damage. Contrastingly, one may bruise easily (which reflects tissue damage) though individuals may not even be aware of this or feel pain.

2) Most tissues heal/remodel over expected time frames. Skin heals over ‘days’, muscles over ‘weeks’, and tendons/joints/bone/nerves over ‘months’. Trust that your body has a remarkable ability to heal. If you’re still experiencing pain longer than expected tissue healing time frames, then something else is driving this. What other stressors are going on in your life? Have you developed an overprotective pain system (see below)?

3) Your pain system is an early warning system. I use the analogy that your pain system is like a guard dog. The problem is, the guard dog doesn’t think it’s doing anything wrong. It simply thinks it’s doing its job and protecting you. “Hey you injured your back last year while running and now you’re starting to run again. I’m a bit worried about this so I’m just going to bark. Great, you’ve stopped. Thanks for listening to me”.

4) Your pain system is plastic. Your pain fibres are made out of the same fibres as your brain so they have the ability to respond to repeated stimuli and remodel i.e. the longer you’ve been in pain, the better your body gets at being in pain. That’s a scary thought.

5) Load can be painful. To illustrate this, if you lift a 1kg weight above your head, it won’t be sore to begin with, but if you’re still holding it there 8 hours later, it’s going to be sore. Nothing’s been damaged. Nothing’s been injured. It illustrates the concept that load can be painful. Our neck, back, and knees etc absorb load all day. Load can be increased through age related / post injury deconditioning (e.g. weak muscles and stiff joints) and weight gain. These are all common post injury.

Taking the above into account, if you’re post injury and still experiencing pain greater than expected tissue healing timeframes (e.g. > 3-6 months), then there is a good possibility that you’ve developed an overprotective pain system i.e. a hypervigilant and overprotective guard dog who has become very good at doing its job. The problem is, your guard dog doesn’t think it’s doing anything wrong. It simply thinks it’s doing its job. As a result, you stop moving. It hurts so I should stop moving right? Although this is the desired outcome for your overprotective pain system, this is the worst possible outcome for you. It’s during this period where the ‘true enemies’ really prosper – post injury weakness, stiffness, and weight gain. This in turn increases the load onto already compromised tissue. This pain is further fuelled by the fear that any movement will create more damage. It’s a vicious cycle that’s difficult to break. However, it can be broken. It may take time but take heart in knowing that you can retrain your pain system. One approach is to ignore your pain. Yes, that’s right, ignore your pain. If you’re talking to your friendly neighbour and your guard dog is incessantly barking, how is this helpful? Don’t pay any credence to this unhelpful behaviour. An alternate approach is to work with your guard dog. Tell your guard dog “Thank you, I know what you’re trying to do, but I need to do X, Y, and Z in order to get better. Don’t worry, I’ve got this.” Do this often enough and most guard dogs eventually get the message. Injury aside, if you’re aging and have ‘let yourself go’ and everyday activities or low demand activities are now becoming painful, is this because you’re deconditioned and unable to tolerate the loads you previously tolerated? Do you need to move more rather than move less? We live in a society where we are over sensitised to comfort. We live in a society where pain is no longer tolerated and all pain is abnormal. Amongst the haze we have lost the once valued mantra of “no pain, no gain”. I reminisce back to my basic military training where our corporals and sergeants took great pleasure in telling us that ‘pain was weakness leaving the body’. If we were sore, then we were told to take a concrete pill. By the end of my first week, I could barely straighten my arms from doing so many press ups to rid my body of all this ‘weakness’ whilst also being severely constipated from all the concrete pills I had taken. Maybe there was a method to all this madness. A colleague of mine who grew up and practised medicine in Uganda before moving to NZ tells me ‘we have forgotten how to suffer’. Maybe this is what ultra runners are subconsciously doing every weekend. Conditioning our bodies to discomfort. Remembering what it’s like to suffer again. Running to escape from our excessive comfort.

Moving along the Crater Rim trail

Heading up Mt Herbert is challenging (920m) but enjoyable to begin with as I’m still surrounded by the positive energy from other competitors. It’s a cloudless sky and the sun is warm and forgiving. Track conditions are also perfect so one can afford to relax and take in the harbour and coastal views around Mt Herbert and towards Packhorse Hut. There’s a light cool breeze so it’s all pretty smooth sailing along the pine forests towards Gebbie’s Pass. However, as expected, things start to get hard from about 20km onwards. Smooth sailing doesn’t last forever. Joy and comfort soon turn into discomfort and deep introversion. The trial by discomfort begins with a testing ascent up ‘the bastard’ (which as the name implies, doesn’t garner much affection or fondness). Moving over rocks and under vines towards the Sign of the Bellbird offers some reprieve from the uphill, but softens the legs up in the process. The descent down Worsley Spur towards the Adventure Park and back up the aptly named “Uphill Track” is when things start to unravel a bit. The sun is at its peak and it all gets a bit hot and heavy (minus the seduction). Before long, I’m light headed and well and truly in Ultra-Land. An ultra-runner’s equivalent of Disneyland minus the joy. I manage to labour towards the Sign of the Kiwi aid station (40km mark) and stay a while to implement some damage control. I ingest a combination of glucose and caffeine which helps to lift the mind fog. Once hydrated and nourished, there can be no other excuses. It’s time to channel Billy Ocean – When the going gets tough, the tough get going! No point standing still and feeling sorry for yourself. Best to get moving and finish! The last 13km is pure mind over muscle. No pain, no gain. Pushing through discomfort. Just before 3.30pm, the trial by discomfort ends and I cross the finish line in 8 hours and 7 mins. Often the best pain relief is the finish line. For the next few days, I’m a bit sore. I’m a bit stiff. I have to learn to bite my bottom lip when my patients tell me how sore they are following their activities of daily living. I don’t like discomfort. But I believe that I need to intermittently experience discomfort to really appreciate the comfort around me. Running keeps me grounded in that respect. I know that exercise isn’t easy but at some point, it actually needs to be hard. When exercise is no longer hard, guess what invariably becomes hard? Life. Sometimes there will be a requirement to push through pain. Seek guidance if you’re in doubt. Knowledge is pain relief. Not all pain equals tissue damage. Not all pain is abnormal. Exercise is medicine. Join me at my next blog, the Valley Ultra in mid-November.

Christchurch beaches to the east

Homeward bound

At the marathon start line with Courtney and Walter

The 4 Paws Marathon allows me to promote participation and ‘exercise as medicine’. It’s also my way of giving back and contributing in some small way to my community. Doctors are very good at practising medicine within their office walls. But we need to do better and challenge ourselves. How do we extend our influence beyond our walls and into our communities? The 4 Paws Marathon allows me to do this. We are living in an increasingly sedentary world. Our jobs are more sedentary. Our recreational activities are reducing. Our transport is increasingly becoming more automated. Several studies have shown that dogs are powerful motivators to get people moving. Forget the treadmill! Get a dog! Dog owners are generally more active and more likely to meet recommended exercise guidelines than people without dogs (or cat owners for instance). A study published in April 2019 in Scientific Reports (Westgarth et al) showed that dog owners spent close to 300 minutes each week walking their dogs which is about 200 more minutes of walking than people without dogs. In fact, this study showed that dog owners were about four times more likely than other people to meet today’s physical activity guidelines. Unexpectantly, dog owners also spent slightly more time than non-dog owners jogging, cycling, or visiting the gym; showing that walking their dog had not affected their other recreational physical activities. Even better, the influence of dogs extended to children. Children whose families owned dogs were substantially more active than children in homes without dogs. Worldwide, 1 in 4 adults and 3 in 4 adolescents (aged 11-17 years of age) do not currently meet recommended physical activity guidelines. Dogs continue to be our best ally in keeping active. The 4 Paws Marathon is one of the few events in the world where dogs are actually invited to exercise with their owners. In summary, owning a dog is really good for you and can lead to a healthier and longer life!

Spending some quality time with ‘the big guy’ aka Walter

Although I was determined to make this event a positive experience for our competitors, COVID-19 was quite stressful. Lead times for ordering products were significantly prolonged, sponsors were losing staff and finances were tight, obtaining an event permit was more onerous, unscheduled COVID forestry works meant courses had to be rerouted, and our stream of volunteers dried up. The switch from level 1 to level 2 (with its maximum 100 participant limit), meant we had to impose a wait list and cancel our 2.4km Rascal’s Run. The possibility of a sudden cancellation and COVID restrictions meant multiple back up plans had to be considered. Creating a virtual event offered a viable alternative and gave our entrants another option. Throughout this whole time, the focus was on controlling the controllables. So, when we were advised the week before the event that our finisher’s medals would not arrive on time, I refused to dwell on it. Que Sera, Sera (whatever will be, will be). Stress aside, event day was magic! We couldn’t have asked for better conditions. Participants abided by the COVID-19 alert level 2 rules, sponsors freely contributed, and my family, friends, and neighbours continued to smile despite all the challenges. My wife Courtney did an amazing job at the start/finish. I was the combined Race Director and marathon tail end Charlie again. In doing so, I was able to take down the ‘hundreds of signs and pink ribbon’ that my cousin Shane, and good friend, flight lieutenant Jim Sheehan had help me put up over 14 hours the day before. It was great to see so many people having fun with their dogs! Although I don’t get to see the start/finish area in its pomp, I always enjoy looking at the pictures and hearing the stories of dogs getting their massages and eating their ice creams. My 13-year-old Spanish Water Dog, Summer completed the half marathon this year and Walter, my 10-year-old Spoodle, joined me in the marathon finishing together in 8 hours and 38 minutes. Mable, our 8-month-old Italian Water Dog, also did the last 5km with us and is a future runner waiting in the wings for sure. This event is not about how fast you can run or how long you can run for. You can only go as fast as your slowest dog. The 4 Paws Marathon is all about finishing together with your best friend! See you next year! Running is medicine. Join me at my next blog, the Crater Rim Ultra in mid October. A local favourite of mine.

Task force tail end Charlie. From left to right: Merv (Spoodle), Logan Austin, Daniel Millar, myself, and Summer

Our 2-year-old, Poppi running towards her older sister, Millie as she approaches the finish line

Just before the swim start with my family: Millie (left), Poppi (centre), and Courtney (right)

I’ve wanted to talk about ‘healthy aging’ for a while. A lot of the ‘injuries’ I see in clinic are related to ‘aging athletes’ or deconditioning. Although we are living longer, we are not aging less. And this process occurs earlier than a lot of people appreciate. We do not suddenly wake up one morning with grey hair and a walking stick. We do not suddenly go from 30 to 65 years of age and feel old. Aging is a process. And this process starts from our late 20s (if not younger). If you develop an ‘injury’ without a clear mechanism or significant trauma, you may be presenting with a symptom of the aging process. To elaborate, we reach our peak bone density in our early 20s. We start losing muscle strength and muscle fibre size from our late 20s (i.e. age-related sarcopenia). The capacity of our joints to absorb and dissipate load reduces from our 30s. Our aerobic capacity declines by about 1% a year from the age of 30 i.e. 10% per decade from 30. Ask yourself, how many All Blacks compete at a high level from 35 years? When I completed my first Ironman aged 24, I was in my physical prime. My lifestyle was also more conducive for this arguably selfish exercise pursuit. I had more time to train and more time to recover. Why is it then, that the majority of Ironman triathlete participants (not winners) are between 35 and 44 years of age when they are well past their physical prime? Social reasons aside, there are two main factors from a Sport and Exercise Physician perspective. The first is that we have the ability in endurance sports to exercise at a submaximal level for a prolonged period of time. For example, we can maintain a pace at 60-80% of our VO2 max and still do quite well in endurance events until our 60s. And the second is, with age, we have banked more ‘mental resilience’ (or tolerance to suffer) through our life experiences. Therefore, although I may not be physically stronger at 37. To compensate, I have become mentally stronger. The key message I wish to get across is that if you continue to exercise from 30 years of age, you can slow down the aging process! Those who continue to exercise can minimise their aerobic capacity decline to 0.5% per year or 5% per decade (i.e. compared to 1% per year or 10% per decade in non exercisers). Those who continue to resistance train can maintain their muscle strength to better support their joints. Those who continue to do flexibility/recovery sessions can maintain musculotendinous compliance to better absorb load through their joints. For those over 30 years of age, it is not ok to exercise less with each passing decade. If you are sedentary between the ages of 30 and 60, then expect to accumulate a weakness debt and the side effects of normal age related deconditioning. Be prepared to incur an ‘injury’ with the same day to day activities that would’ve never troubled you in your 20s. Exercise needs to be challenging with an element of difficulty. Because when exercise is no longer hard, invariably, ‘life’ becomes hard. Conversely, if you are still exercising intensely in your 40s or playing a ‘high demand sport’ (i.e. any collision or change of direction sport), be prepared to put in the hard yards. You must commit to dedicated aerobic, resistance, flexibility, balance, and recovery sessions in order to condition your body to handle the rigours of your sport. You need to tick all the right boxes and maintain a healthy weight. Your conditioning needs to be superb if you want to keep playing any high demand sport. You can’t afford to be mediocre. Or else, (no surprises here folks), you’ll get ‘injured’. There’s a difference between aging and healthy aging. The choice is yours.

Swim completed and heading towards the bike transition area

The weather gods are kind today and Lake Taupo is relatively flat with minimal chop. I’m not that keen for a fight this early in the morning so I keep my ego in check and start towards the back of the pack. Away from all the carnage up front, I establish a good breathing rhythm and ease into my work. The sunrise, sandy lake floor, golf balls, and lake weed are a refreshing break from the ‘black line’ of the swimming pool. The swim is my weakest discipline so I’m happy to complete the 3.8km swim in 1hr and 25 mins. It’s all a blur of spectators and a commotion of noise as I come out of the water and head towards bike transition in preparation for the gruelling 180km bike ride. Although the bike is my least favourite discipline, I attempted to adopt a gratitude mindset this year. I was thankful for the overcast conditions and light winds which made for favourable biking conditions. I was thankful to be in the moment and to literally have hours to myself away from the demands of parenting. At the same time, I was also determined to push hard as I wanted to finish before my four year old daughter went to bed and bizarrely, resume parenting (or contribute anyway). The parenting guilt seemed to motivate me and I managed to maintain a good pace throughout only stopping at halfway for an ice cold Powerade and two mince savouries. Unbeknown at the time, I had biked my fastest ever Ironman bike split at just over 6hrs 20 mins. Now that the hard part was finished, I was just left with the marathon…

Heading out of Taupo on the bike

Although I have a reasonably strong running background, the marathon part of the Ironman is one of the hardest marathons you could ever run. Being a runner at heart, I try limit my walking but the temptation to walk is great. In no other event in my experience is the compulsion to stop running as high as it is during an Ironman marathon. The next 42.2km is an absorbing battle between the willingness to move and the compulsion to stop. This struggle of wills is a life changing experience (in retrospect) and is probably one of the main reasons people like myself willingly come back year after year. I leave the run transition well lubricated and with the knowledge that I just need to maintain an honest pace to achieve a personal best time. The first lap (of three) of the marathon course is always the hardest. This is usually due to a combination of 180km of bike fatigue, heat, and being passed by other faster runners on their final lap home. With a PB on the line, I know I need to mentally hold it all together and keep pushing until sunset. As the sun sets, the air begins to cool and running becomes a bit more tolerable. Willed on by my family and many, many, complete strangers, I approach the finish line a touch over 9pm and just under a 5hr marathon time. Heading down the finisher’s chute, I spot my four year old, Millie, who is still awake and waiting for me. I resume parenting and she joins me for the last 100m. We finish together laughing hand in hand. I manage to achieve a PB of 13 hours and 11 mins but the greater satisfaction is having trained and finished an Ironman as a father. My last personal best was in 2009 when I was 26 years of age so you really can wind back the years (even as a parent)! An Ironman is not about how fast you can go, but more about, the less you slow down. Sounds a bit like life doesn’t it? Aim for healthy aging. Aim to exercise deep into your living years. Running is medicine. Join me at my next blog, the Mt Oxford Mountain Marathon in April (Coronavirus pending).

Heading down the finisher’s chute with Millie

Running bliss through mountain beech forest

Within minutes I was where I wanted and needed to be. Along pristine natural single trail and surrounded by beautiful dense beech forest. The undulations are gentle at first but progressively become harder. By the time I reach the switch backs, I am running by myself and in my element again. Shoulder to shoulder with mountain beech forest rather than masses of people. Climbing to the chorus of chirping morning birds and the sound of my own breath. Eventually I break through the tree line revealing vast tussock grasslands enclosed by rugged mountain peaks. The air is cool and smells fresh. The wind whistles. The rivers gush. This is pure outdoor exercise bliss! The benefits of exercise are well known. Exercise benefits multiple organ systems – cardiorespiratory, gastrointestinal, neuromuscular, endocrine, bone, and cognitive function and wellness to name a few. There is also good evidence that exercise prevents cancer (colon and breast cancer in particular) and enhances treatment when given alongside conventional cancer treatments. It improves mental health and reduces stress, anxiety, and depression. It builds bone and muscle strength and provides the stimulus for joints to remodel. Exercise is arguably the best medicine known to humankind. However, like any drug, you need to take enough of it to achieve any therapeutic effect. You need to do at least 30 minutes most days of the week to achieve any substantial benefit. For those already exercising, the benefits double if you accrue up to 60 minutes a day. There is no easy way to swallow this pill. There are no short cuts. Like most things in life, you have to get through the hard stuff in order to enjoy the good stuff. Exercise is hard but it’s not rocket science. The maths is simple. Get out of your lounge, office, or car for at least 30 minutes most days of the week. Make an effort to exercise in our beautiful outdoors. And take heart in knowing this equation: Exercise in nature = The benefits of exercise².

Mountains not malls

Heavy in breath I climb up Cockanye Alley and towards Mt Cheeseman Ski Field. Past alpine scrub, along the scree, and towards the snow caps. The promised Canterbury wind rushes over the ridge line at gale force. I attempt to ‘enjoy’ the wind whilst shielding my face and trying to hold my feet. I push on and keep swallowing. Cold winds and fickle rain are just one of the known ‘side effects’ of exercising in nature. Eventually we head downwards and I am shoulder to shoulder with beech forest again. The ultra ‘blur’ begins to set in. The initial contrasting light greens of forest, lichen, and moss, becomes a haze of green. The rushing rivers, a collage of whites and browns. As the mountains and forests recede, the valleys open up to the yellows of tussock and sunlight. Heavy on my feet, I push through thick grass up the final grassy hill and rope climb. Squeezing through scrub and less ventured goat track in the process. This is a tough and rugged finish befitting of the natural terrain. Indulged by nature, well caressed by the course, and massaged by the wind, I cross the finish line 8 hours and 44 mins later. Double the usual medicine dose today. Exercise benefits squared. Running is medicine. Join me at my next blog some time in 2020 (probably Ironman NZ in March). Time to rest.

Going through a pure natural river

Homeward bound through more beech forest

Up in the Port Hills with Quail Island in the background

Going up Mt Herbert I am winding back the years. With each kilometre I am shedding responsibility and eventually I am that carefree kid again. The descent down Mt Herbert is when things start to get really wet and wild. The ground is sodden and my shoes sink into the mud. The path ahead transforms into a muddy slide. A by-product of all the kids before me. Before long, I am slipping and sliding and losing control. The drizzle, sweat, and mud coalesce into one. I skid and fall many times to meet it. Eventually trepidation gives way to laughter and you learn to let yourself go. I start to find my groove as I swerve past the Packhorse Hut. There are nooks and crannies in this back yard I’ve never explored before and I’m enjoying the experience. The play continues as I commando roll (accidental) through pine forest, swing across native bush, and dodge large steaming cow pats. Sometimes in life we forget to play. Running is an adult version of play which allows us to stay young in more ways than one. Our aerobic capacity declines by about 1% per year or 10% per decade from the age of 30. Those who continue to exercise can reduce this to about 0.5% per year or 5% per decade. Our peak muscle strength and muscle fibre size also decreases from our late 20s. If you’re over 30, you need to work harder with each passing year just to maintain (yet alone build) your strength and aerobic fitness. If you’re over 30 and you find being physically active hard, then it means you need to do it. If you find it really hard, then you really need to do it! You must find your own form of play. And once you find it, you must keep on playing! Only then can you ‘wind back the years’.

The big kid and the little kid approaching the finish line

Play time continues as we move along the Crater Rim trail, through the Sign of the Bellbird, down and up Worsley Spur trail, and towards the Sign of the Kiwi. By the time I reach the 40km mark, all this play is starting to catch up with me. I know the end is approaching as I get closer to the sugar (Sugarloaf) and the muddy trails are replaced by more red and dry rock. There are a few more dizzying loops followed by a sprint down Rapaki track towards the finish. I’m lucky enough to see my four-year-old daughter, Millie, near the finish line. For the last 100 metres, the little kid joins the big kid and we play together. I love how children run free of reason, pressure, or expectation. Running for them is simply a natural expression of joy and overflow of excitement. We cross the finish line hand in hand whilst laughing and smiling. These are special moments. People think we stop running because we get old. I’m in the group that says we get old because we stop running. Running is play. Running is medicine. Join me at my next blog, the Valley Ultra 57km, at the start of November.

At the finish line with my wife Courtney (fresh after her 21km run) and daughter Millie

The start line of the inaugural 4 Paws Marathon ‘Marathon’ (all dogs finished by the way)

When the start line arrived on Sunday morning, I was pretty exhausted. I had not slept for the last 24hours. My good friend, Squadron Leader, Jim Sheehan and my cousin, Shane McErlane had helped me set up the course the day prior. We had started at 9am Saturday but things had not gone to plan. The problem being, I was the only person who knew the layout of all the courses and I was being helped by two people who had never been to Bottle Lake Forest in their life. We also had about 200 signs to put up and much of the course could not be accessed by vehicle (i.e. we had to walk or bike most of the tracks). Eventually the light became darkness and we were marking the course with head torches on. We were also starting to run out of pink ribbon and arrow signs. Thankfully, Courtney (who had just completed pre-race registration and was already snowed under herself) managed to make up a few more pegs with pink ribbon and drop them off to us. Jim (another ideas man) purchased some black electric tape from the local service station and manufactured arrows from strips of tape. Things were looking good for a 9.30pm finish (just in time for the All Blacks versus South Africa game) when the unthinkable happened. Our car got stuck in a deep muddy track right in the middle of the half and full marathon course. After about an hour of pushing, creating platforms from branches, and calling AA and towing companies without any success, there remained one person left to call but no one wanted to call her – my wife Courtney. Jim, Shane, and I were all tired, cold, hungry, and out of ideas. I looked at my cousin Shane who was covered in mud from all the pushing. His shorts had somehow been ripped in the process exposing his genitals in the dwindling car headlights. That was the signal to abort. I asked Jim to call Courtney and he duly obliged. However, he caught me off guard when he handed me the phone just as she picked up. I explained our predicament and how we needed to be rescued. When she arrived just after 10.30pm, it would be fair to say she was very angry. The car ride back was deathly quiet. We had just made her unpack her vehicle which she had prepared for the following day. We had also stranded our car plus trailer which were crucial to transporting all the marquees, food, and drink containers the next morning. It was all a bit glum. Our transport plan for tomorrow had been compromised and we had just missed the All Blacks. Jim being the driver was feeling guilty. He suggested it would be better if he spent his efforts retrieving the car during daylight rather than running the full marathon with me in a few hours. We sheepishly went to bed. I lay in bed from midnight to 2am and my thoughts were racing. I still hadn’t marked a good 6km of the half and full marathon course along New Brighton Beach. I realised a whole year of hard work had come down to this moment. I was exhausted but I was emotionally invested in this event so I knew I had to give one final push. I got out of bed in a sorry state and continued marking the rest of the course between 2am-4am. By the time I had returned, the rest of the house was waking up to our agreed 4.30am alarm. The mood was about as bright as it was outside. Despite this, everyone just got to work. I also had to somehow mentally prepare myself to run a marathon as the tail end charlie whilst acting as the ‘race director’. I don’t know how we did it, but somehow, we did. By 7.30am, we’d managed to put up the start/finish archway, gazebos, rubbish bins, and parking signs. I had quite a few well-meaning people in my face asking questions. St Johns had also arrived 15hrs after our scheduled volunteer brief to receive their brief. So, when I finally managed to get to the start line with Summer and Walter, I was exhausted but relieved. I’ve always said that getting to the start line is the hardest part.

Running through the forest with Dr Bella Henzell (left), Summer (middle carrying a pine cone), and Walter (right with tongue out)

Right from the beginning, I’ve said that the 4 Paws Marathon was all about ‘passion not profit’. I love running with my dogs and I wanted to share this with others in an event environment. Summer, my Spanish Water Dog had turned 12 this year so I knew I was running out of time to experience an event with her. Walter, the Spoodle, was about to turn nine. This was the underlying drive for this event – my love of running with my dogs. However, being a Sport & Exercise doctor, I also wanted to promote the benefits of physical activity beyond my office. I’ve been an exercise advocate at an individual level for a long time now but I wanted to make a difference at a community level. Doctors are good at working within their offices but we need to be better at extending our reach beyond our medical clinics. Being sedentary kills more people in the USA than smoking, diabetes, and obesity combined. Yet a lot of people still don’t know this. Being sedentary is the new silent killer. Therefore, the 4 Paws Marathon also provided an opportunity for me to promote ‘exercise as medicine’. And who better to help us than our best ally in exercise – the humble dog. It’s known that people with dogs generally do more exercise than people with cats. Research published in The Telegraph showed that the average dog owner gets more exercise than gym goers. In a world where recreational exercise is reducing, jobs are becoming more sedentary, and transport is increasingly automated, we need our dogs to help us exercise. There are people out there who think that dogs shouldn’t be running marathons. These people who say it cannot be done, shouldn’t be interrupting those who are actually doing it. Certainly, a dog’s age and breed (e.g. working dog) plays a large part. But in my opinion, the single biggest determinant on whether a dog can run a marathon or not, is the owner. A dog is a portal and portrait of an owner’s exercise levels. An owner who is active is likely to have an active dog. An owner who sits on the coach all day, is unlikely to ever run a marathon so the dog is ‘protected’ by default. This event was never about creating the first official dog marathon in the world. It was never about getting people to run 42km, 21km, 10km, or 5km. It was simply a medium to get people out of their homes and exercising in a safe and enjoyable event environment with their best friend. Their best friend who also happens to be our best ally in keeping active. Why an event environment? Because people can do more than they normally could in an event environment. Otherwise, we’d all be running marathons every day!

Running along New Brighton Beach whilst fulfilling tail end charlie duties (i.e. collecting pink ribbon)

The course is a beautiful mix of soft forest trails and beach for those who chose to participate in the half and full marathon. But rather than talk about the course (you’re better off doing it), I’d like to give thanks to those who have supported the inaugural event. Thanks to my wife, family, friends, vets, animal management / medical staff, volunteers, and sponsors who have helped make the 4 Paws Marathon possible. To the 180 participants and their 140 dogs, many thanks for all your kind words and messages of encouragement. There was a point leading up to the start where I thought that I’d never do this again. But all the happy faces (dogs and human) have made it all worthwhile. Although I spend most of my time trying to make people better, arguably making people happy is more rewarding. Finally, to Summer and Walter. You have no idea how much you’ve taught me about running joyfully, freely, and in the moment. You probably don’t even care that you’ve participated in an event. But I care. And this memory will be cherished for a long time. You’ve always been my best training partners and now I’m very proud to officially call you ‘marathon dogs’. Running is medicine. Join me at my next blog, the Crater Rim Ultra 52km at the beginning of October. Another favourite of mine!

Oh my God we made it! The 4 Paws Marathon family at the finish line (finishing time of 7hr 46 mins).

Moving from Germany to Austria and the beginning of the ‘escape’

The first day was no easy feat – 39km and 2300m of ascent. Once we were clear of the town and started the ascent into the forest, I can remember thinking just how beautiful this part of the world was. As you start to warm up into your run, you allow yourself to notice what you notice and feel what you feel. The changes and feelings are subtle but evident if you are open to them. The air feels different, the trees have varying shades of green, the ground and foliage recoils differently, and the forest has different sounds. As you clear the tree line, the green pastures are bathed in warm sunlight. Purple flowers litter the fields. The brown cattle graze in the background as their bells lightly ring. The climbs are honest and require effort but soon you are side by side with the mountains and surrounded by panoramic views. Eventually you fall into a moving meditation. Soft of foot and breath. Freedom of breath and movement. This is when the ‘running holiday’ really begins. Surrounded by mountain tops and with your head in the clouds, your feet begin to fly. Before long, the mind flees with the body. Your thoughts freely wonder and there is a sense of timelessness. There is no past and no future. Just the moment. Encapsulated by living in the moment, the escape is complete.

Moving through rocky terrain in Austria

Although beautiful, this event was very challenging. An average day was 38km long with 2 000 metres of ascent. Arguably the Transalpine Run was one of the hardest things I have ever done. For the first three days I can remember moments where I was running scared. Nervous that we would miss cut off times and be disqualified. During day three, we were within one minute of not making an aid station cut off and not ‘officially’ finishing. Dr Stanley seemed to be battling the jet lag, altitude, and heat. I became slightly concerned when he was seen drinking from a cattle trough whilst unsteady on his feet complaining of a “feverish sweat”. Things became slightly easier as our circadian rhythms adjusted, the bowels were retrained again, and the temperatures became cooler closer to Switzerland. Most days we started at 8am and most days we finished at 5pm. Although it was difficult to make out which country we were running in according to the natural terrain, there was a distinct variation in the house design and the people between the countries. We were lucky enough to stay in a hotel every night (versus the ‘camping’ experience). Each night became a well-rehearsed routine of cleaning, eating, and preparing for the next day. The following morning, a large breakfast to fuel all this climbing was crucial. Most days (if able) my breakfast would consist of bacon, eggs, cheese, porridge, cereal, fruit, pastries, and orange juice. Anything that tasted good and was tolerated by the gastrointestinal system was consumed. Then as sure as start lines, another day would begin. Get to the start line. Go up a mountain. Down a mountain. Go up another mountain and down it again. Get to the finish line in time. Repeat. Being a team event, you also had to cross all checkpoints within two minutes of your partner. This was challenging in itself as everyone has highs and lows at different times. Every night I would study the course profile and distances for the following day. My way of priming the mind for the ensuing challenge. Every night I also read this quote provided with our maps – “Make every minute count. If you can’t run, walk. If a walk is too fast, do it slower, whatever. Make forward progress and repeat, every minute. Physical strength will get you to the start line, but mental strength will get you to the finish line.”

High in the mountains in Switzerland

Some days it felt like the climbing would never end. Some days it felt like the mountain top was unreachable. Even our ‘rest day’ on day five in Samnaun, Switzerland (7.8km with 834m ascent) was challenging. Thankfully we were allowed to catch the gondola back down! Some days it was all about just putting one foot in front of the other. As simple as this sounds, I enjoyed doing this. My work is complicated. The medical problems are the easy part of my work. The real issue is that medical problems cause life problems (“I can’t work, I can’t carry on like this, I can’t look after my family”). Life problems are hard. Running on the other hand is comparatively easier. I just have to put one foot in front of the other. Some people will call this mind numbing. For me it is very therapeutic and provides a medium to charge up my ‘compassion batteries’. For a whole week I lived a simple and uncomplicated life. Eat, run, eat, sleep, repeat. Be it in sunshine, rain, mist, or snow. Life was simple. We all live such busy and complicated lives. Stop for a moment and declutter. Remember, the simple life is the fullest. And that every mountain top is within reach if you just keep climbing.

Literally moving through the mountains between Switzerland and Italy

Up mountains, along rivers, past waterfalls, and through alpine forests. At first the images were crisp but after a while it all becomes a blur of white, green, brown, and grey. A blur of movement and sweat. The eye captures the image but sometimes you need to wipe the sweat off the lens. Throughout the week, there has been a lot of sweat. Sweat, in my opinion, is the best currency of health. Forget the Euro, the Swiss franc, the US dollar, or the British Pound. Health is wealth. Exercise is one of the best investments you can make in your health. And the best currency of health is not monetary, but sweat! As we approach Sulden in Italy, I look up and take a moment to appreciate my surroundings. The mountains are freshly dusted with snow. The feel and smell of the fresh mountain air is empowering. We are less than 5km to the finish and the fear of not finishing has long since evaporated. It is nice to run free and without pressure. For once I’m a bit reluctant to cross the finish line. Rather than speed up, I slow down to enjoy the moment. Dr Stanley on the other hand seems quite content for this whole experience to end (I think he had been praying for Sulden for a while). We’ve run more than 270km together, climbed more than 16 000 metres together, and crossed four countries together. All whilst sweating together over eight days. If you want to run fast, run alone. If you want to run long, run together! It’s a lot more fun! Running is medicine. Join me at my next blog, the 4 Paws Marathon. It’s not often you get to organise and participate in your own event so I’m really looking forward to this one. Hopefully Summer (Spanish Water Dog) and Walter (Spoodle) are too…

Taking a moment to appreciate the last stage in Italy

1^st stage: Oberstdorf (GER) to Lech am Arlberg (AUT) – 39.4km, 2343m, 8:29:10

2^nd stage: Lech am Arlberg (AUT) to St Anton am Arlberg (AUT) – 27.7km, 1787m, 6:35:55

3^rd stage: St Anton am Arlberg (AUT) to Landeck (AUT) – 39.2km, 1968m, 7:51:30

4^th stage: Landeck (AUT) to Samnaun (SUI) – 46.3km, 2895m, 9:46:33

5^th stage: Bergsprint Samnaun (SUI) – 7.8km, 834m, 1:54:38

6^th stage: Samnaun (SUI) to Scuol (SUI) – 40.5km, 2775m, 8:25:45

7^th stage: Scuol (SUI) to Prad am Stilfserjoch (ITA) – 44.9km, 1698m, 8:06:53

8^th stage: Prad am Stilfserjoch (ITA) to Sulden am Ortler (ITA) – 31km, 2591m, 6:26:36

Total time: 57 hours 37 minutes and 4 seconds

At the finish with Dr Andrew Stanley (right)

At the start line as the sun begins to rise

The start of the WUU-2K is beautiful. It amazes me how you can be so close to a city yet be lost in dense native bush within minutes. As we clear the tree line and go up Mt Kaukau, we are rewarded with spectacular views. The early morning sunshine spills over the city which is nestled between the harbour and the hills. Along the Skyline track and towards Makara Peak, the course keeps giving with panoramic views and you can even see the South Island today. In running like life, nothing good lasts forever. Native bush trails and amazing views will only provide a distraction for so long. Invariably all runners undergo a trail by sweat. Eventually ease and comfort make way for struggle and discomfort. However, how many of us are staying too comfortable and avoiding the necessary trial by sweat? Let me share with you. Worldwide, 1 in 4 adults and 3 in 4 adolescents (aged 11-17 years of age) do not currently meet recommended physical activity guidelines. Current guidelines recommend that adults and adolescents should be physically active for 30 & 60 minutes a day respectively. Another way of saying this is that adults need to be physically active for a total of 2% of their day and adolescents need to be physically active for a total of 4% of their day. Yet why is this so hard? Worldwide, 2 in 3 adults are either overweight or obese. Even more frightening, 1 in 3 of our children are overweight or obese. We all need to be more active in order to be healthier! The World Health Organisation has made it a priority to reduce physical inactivity by 15% by 2030 (see WHO Global Action Plan on Physical Activity 2018-2030). We are becoming less active in our work and recreation. Transport is becoming more automated. We are surrounded by comfort and eat comfort. Remember, being sedentary kills more people in the USA than smoking, diabetes, and obesity combined. Comfort can be good. But too much comfort can be lethal.

Early on in the run and still pretty comfortable

The next section of the course up Wright’s Hill, along the Zealandia predator proof fence line, and towards a solitary wind turbine is a good honest toil. The cumulative effect of the terrain and elevation begins to take its toll. A Grim reaper is aptly placed at the top of the Tip track and I find the steep descent quite uncomfortable. My smile and grimace are easily interchangeable. The atmosphere at the aid station at the bottom of the Tip track is amazing (as it has been throughout the course) and the quality of the home baking is remarkable (thanks for the rocky road and peanut brownie). I’m also enjoying the company of Squadron Leader Jim. Discomfort whilst running is better shared. Jim and I started running together when we deployed with the NZ Army to Afghanistan in 2011. A lot has changed since. We are both married and have children of our own now. However, some things don’t change. His jokes remain awful and his farts still linger. In a moment of clarity he proclaims that he’d do the WUU-2K again simply for the views and food. “I don’t get this at home” he confides. It’s all a bit of a hypoglycaemic blur as we make our way back to the city through Mt Albert along single trail with a few sharp climbs. We cross the finish line at Mt Victoria six hours later. It is a pleasant discomfort. Running is medicine. Join me at my next blog, the Transalpine Run (272km over 8 days) in Europe.

Running along the Skyline track with wind turbines in the distance

Start together, finish together

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

Making start lines with my wife Courtney in tow (green jacket)

Today also happens to be the Australasian College of Sport & Exercise Physicians (ACSEP) annual #DoctorDash campaign. The #DoctorDash is a new initiative from my college to help support good mental health in the medical profession. Medical professionals are not immune to depression, suicide, and substance abuse so the #DoctorDash encourages everyone to walk/run to support mental health. It is only fitting then that this blog is about the benefits of exercise with regards to mental health. The first important point is that exercise has been shown to prevent depression. Those who engage in regular physical activity have a lower risk of developing depression while those who do no physical activity have three times the risk of developing depression (Weyerer S. 1992). The second important point is that there is clear scientific support for using exercise in the treatment of depression. Exercise has been shown to be as effective as antidepressants in treating mild to moderate depression (Blumenthal JA et al. 1999). Better still, there is a clear dose-response relationship. The more you exercise, the better the response. The long term effects are also positive. If you keep exercising, you are more likely to remain in full remission with a reduced risk of relapse. So with reasonably good evidence that exercise is effective in preventing and treating depression, why is antidepressant prescribing going through the roof? What are we doing wrong? Is it quicker to write an antidepressant prescription rather than address life style risk factors? Is it easier to swallow a pill rather than exercise for 30-60 minutes at a moderate intensity for most days of the week? We need to prescribe more exercise than antidepressants! If regular exercise is the equivalent of taking an antidepressant, conversely, stopping exercise in those who regularly exercise can be viewed as a depressant (e.g. the retired professional athlete). My own personal experience is that running has been the best anti stress, anti-anxiety, and antidepressant medication I could ask for. I know that there is more to depression than just a lack of exercise. But in my opinion, I also believe that it’s no coincidence that our increasing mental health numbers are occurring during our current epidemic of sedentary lifestyles / increased screen time.

The home straight

It’s nice to be starting again at the Town Hall. We head out along Kilmore St and do a few circuits around the city. The torrential rain from the night before has meant parts of the Avon River have overflown onto the roads. So today we are manoeuvring around rivers as well as puddles. Hagley Park is also wet and muddy underfoot but at least the old oak trees block the southerly wind. Fifteen kilometres into the run, I am getting quite cold. The rain comes and goes and wind gusts bite. All my peripheries are numb and I can no longer physically determine if I am a man or a woman. Running with cold muscles also makes maintaining a rhythmic stride challenging. Normally a marathon gets tough from about 30km. But today the adverse weather means that the ‘trial by sweat’ starts a lot earlier at 21km. Many non-runners only see the physical benefits of running a marathon. However, experienced runners are well refined on the mental benefits of running a marathon. Running a marathon arguably builds more mental resilience than physical resilience. You have to condition your mind to cope and resist stress. Although I know this running medicine is good for me, today this pill is served cold and tastes repulsive. Running through the ‘red zone’ along the Avon River, I switch to the calm, clear, and task focused ‘blue head’. As the rain and wind continues to lash down, I work on building a resolve as cool as the surrounding elements. I flush out negative thinking and focus on positive thoughts. When things start to get tough from 35km onwards, I once again break it down into small achievable goals. Just around the corner, the next tree, the next kilometre marker. A willing body simply follows a positive mind. Eventually small achievable goals will lead you to the finish. Four hours and 8 mins later, my own mental trial has finished. In times of mental hardship, set small achievable start lines and goals. Exercise to condition your mind as much as your body. Running is medicine. Join me at my next blog, the Mt Difficulty Extreme Mountain 44km this weekend.

Thankful to have finished albeit being cold and wet

Getting wild in the West Coast at Hokitika

Ultra running is completely unfathomable to some. Sadly, exercise is also unfathomable to some. Speaking about exercise to a non-exerciser can be akin to two people trying to communicate with each other in foreign languages. There’s lots of nodding and smiling and eventually both parties separate thinking that the other is crazy. Someone recently asked a simple but very pertinent question which really got me thinking. The question was “Why don’t you exercise? I’m curious”. The answers were varied and equally interesting. Interesting in that what were firm, logical, and compelling reasons for some, could easily be looked upon as excuses by others. Here they are (don’t hold your breath) – “I’m too busy. I’m too tired. I don’t have time. I can’t afford it. I’m sore. I’m injured. I have a medical condition. I’m a dad. I’m a mum. I have children. I work. I have a life style block. I eat healthy so don’t need to exercise. I’m lazy. I don’t want to.” I’m sure there are more. I believe that all the reasons above can be helped with the exception of “I don’t want to”. My experience of working with this group of people is that they are not in the crucial pre contemplative or contemplative stages of change. This group is so fixed in their belief and mind set that any well meaning advice you provide them will simply come across as an insult. This group may require a significant life event or medical crises to shift their thinking. Ask, educate them, and move on. Therefore, without any intention to offend anyone, here is my attempt at helping people with the other reasons. “I’m too busy” – Low fitness kills more people in the USA than smoking, diabetes, and obesity combined. Yes, that is correct. Low fitness kills more people in the USA than smoking, diabetes, and obesity combined. “I’m too tired” – Graded exercise is actually the treatment for chronic fatigue. In those with inflammatory bowel disease where fatigue is common, exercise has been shown to increase energy levels. “I don’t have time” – If you can’t exercise for 30-60 mins a day (i.e. 2-4% of the total minutes in a day) that is concerning. If you don’t find the time for exercise now, sooner or later you will have to make time for illness. “I can’t afford it” – Walking is free. “I’m sore” – If you get pain at rest, often this is interpreted as movement is bad and I need to rest more. Unbeknown to most, it could actually mean the opposite thing. You are becoming deconditioned and need to move more (e.g. low back pain). Hopefully as you become more active and stronger, your pain will reduce. “I’m injured” – Find a good allied health professional (e.g. a Sport & Exercise doctor) who is passionate about helping you. Don’t let what you can’t do stop you from doing what you can! Visualise the person who completed an ironman triathlon with no legs. “I have a medical condition” – I’m unware of any stable medical condition where all exercise is contra indicated (including paralysis).  “I’m a dad/mum/have children” – There are many exercisers who are also fathers/mothers. Make exercise a priority. Make yourself a priority! It’s not selfish. It’s essential. “My work is my exercise / I have a lifestyle block” – This is a comfortable trap to fall into. We start losing muscle strength and muscle fibre size from our late 20s. Therefore, you need to work harder than what you did in your 20s simply to maintain your strength (rather than build it). Instead of relying on your work (or life style block) as your exercise, change your mind set to ‘how do I prepare and condition my body to better handle the rigors of my work?’ “I eat healthy so don’t need to exercise” – Another trap. Low fitness kills eight times more people than obesity. If you’re fit and fat, you will live a longer and healthier life than someone who is genetically skinny and doesn’t exercise. “I’m lazy” – Find a friend, personal trainer, or motivator. Stop for a moment and think. Is your reason really an excuse in disguise? Ask yourself. Ask someone else. The easy thing to do would be to smile, nod, and walk away. It’s a lot harder to challenge. But challenge creates change.

Heading along the beach towards the finish line

Whilst running I am re-wilding. I love getting into my running gear and reconnecting with natural wildlife. I am surrounded by amazing native forest and mountains. Gone are the sounds of phones, incoming message alerts, and the hum of computers. Instead I hear native weka, flowing rivers, and the crunch of my shoes on the gravel trail. Across swing bridges, under majestic native rainforest, and over streams and wetlands. I catch a glimpse of the stunning Lake Kaniere which perfectly reflects the clear sky and lush bush which encloses it. Although I miss out on seeing a kiwi or baby owl today, I’m lucky enough to see a Weka rush across the trail. Hours go by and I am immersed in bush and wilderness. As I start to hear the sound of waves, I know the finish line by the beach is approaching. Five hours and 42 minutes later, the re-wilding process is complete. Later that night we tuck into a form of controlled wild eating at the local Fat Pipi Pizza. The prize giving the following day in Hokitika’s Regent Theatre is a charming end to the weekend. Before long, I am flying across the Alps again and I’m back in the city. Back to comfort, the shirt and tie, and the office. We live in such a beautiful country. Explore every inch of it respectfully. Don’t become too tame. Make it a priority to re-wild regularly. Running is medicine. Join me at my next blog, my local, the Christchurch Marathon at the start of June.

Another finish line with Dr Andrew Stanley (right)

Not wild enough. A distant second in the South Island Ultra 54km beard growing competition.

Finished up with the swim

As the starting canon goes off, I’m aware that we’re lucky enough to have perfect swim conditions. Lake Taupo is flat and there’s no hint of wind. I’ve been told that witnessing an Ironman swim start is one of the most spectacular things you can see in sport. However, witnessing and experiencing are on different ends of the spectrum. The once still and flat water becomes chaotic. It’s like being churned up in one big washing machine as you struggle to breathe. Your main focus is to establish rhythm and control your breathing as quick as possible. If you can avoid eating someone’s foot for breakfast and don’t get a leak in your goggles (or get your goggles completely kicked off), then you are doing well. Once you’ve established your rhythm, then it’s a matter of jostling for space until eventually the field begins to spread out. The Taupo Ironman is advantageous in that you can see the bottom of the lake the whole time you’re swimming. This is reassuring for nervous swimmers like myself. I establish a 5/3 breath rhythm and eventually relax into my swim. I’m lucky enough to see the sun rise through the air bubbles under the water. It’s a beautiful sight.

Leaving Lake Taupo and heading out towards Reporoa

The 3.8km swim (or “warm up” as someone once described it to me) goes by quite quickly. The transition from the swim to the bike becomes the next challenge. It takes a bit of adjusting to being vertical and weight bearing again. Coming out of your tight wet suit and squeezing into your lycra can also be ungainly (though I imagine it would make for amusing viewing if you’re a volunteer!) If I were to be honest, the 180km bike ride is my least favourite discipline of the Ironman. The no drafting rule also means that interaction with other competitors is minimal. Coming out of transition, you often get an ‘enjoy the rest of your day’ comment. After a few years of doing Ironman, I’ve come to realise that this is a very truthful and literal statement. Over the next 6-8 hours, you spend the good majority of your day interacting and building a relationship with your bike. Your bike becomes your drink bar, lunch/dinner table, and for those wishing to shave a few seconds off their total time, it becomes their toilet as well. I push a bit harder on the bike this year in a bid to make up some time. After years of “saving my legs” on the bike, I’ve come to realise that this is futile. After 180km, your legs never feel “fresh” off the bike. Whether you take things easy or push hard, your legs will always feel like jelly when you start running. The reality is that you will make up more distance/time on a bike compared to any similar level of effort whilst running. Concentrate on biking strong!

On the run. The transition from day to night.

By the time I get to the run course around 3.30pm, I’ve finally reached by favourite and most comfortable part of the Ironman. Competitors begin to engage with each other again. You can feel their pain and sympathise with their struggles. The heart beat and struggle is palpable. Hope and belief is freely interchangeable. The town comes to life and the volunteers are amazing. The atmosphere is incredible! Despite this, the reality of exercising for almost 9 hours catches up with me and I hit a small wall. The marathon is a three lap course so those runners on their last lap are getting another wind and surging past me towards the finish. As much as I console myself that this is normal, it is psychologically damaging being passed by lots of people looking a lot fresher than you. Confidence and a little bit of ego provide some energy in marathon running. I throw caution to the wind and decide to be brave and accelerate from the end of my 1st lap. I seek out other runners who are wearing pink bands (symbolising they are on their 2nd lap and well ahead of me) and make an effort to restore some confidence and gain momentum. The extra incentive of seeing my kids before they get to bed also quickens my stride. From this point, everything leading up to the finish line becomes a blur of noise, emotion, and struggle. I finish around 8.30pm, 13 hours and 27 minutes later. I can never seem to finish before night but thankfully my 3.5 year old daughter is still awake at the finish line. I love seeing my family at the end of an Ironman. It makes it all worthwhile. If you have the courage to start, the strength to persevere, and the belief to finish, I sincerely believe than anyone can complete an Ironman. It truly is an incredible feeling! Running is medicine. Join me at my next blog, the South Island Ultramarathon (54km) at the West Coast in May (I hope it doesn’t rain…)

Couldn’t quite finish before Poppi’s bedtime but I did manage to finish before Millie’s

At the start line with Dr Rich Newbury (left)

The run sets off through the geothermal area along Sulphur Point. The smell of sulphur reminds me of home and brings back memories of the distant past. We then enter the Redwood Forest which is one of my most favourite places to run. By the time we approach the Green Lake, the sun is well and truly up and I am into my own rhythm. Running through the ancient Buried Village arouses further childhood memories of day trips years gone by with my parents. I particularly enjoy the next section running through the thick native bush alongside Lake Tarawera. The bush density is broken by intermittent glimpses of Lake Tarawera sparkling in the sunlight. There is beauty in remoteness. The boat ride across Lake Rotomahana (50km) was also a memorable highlight and helped freshen up the senses. The middle section of the run leading to the 100km mark was hard work. Although I run because I ‘enjoy’ running, it doesn’t mean that I enjoy ‘every minute’ of a 100 miler. Distances of this nature can evoke the highest highs and the lowest lows. I hit quite a low point in the Tarawera Forest. I was heavy on my feet, the heat was getting to me, and to top it all off, my genitourinary system decides to dysfunction. Sometimes in an ultra, it can feel like you’re unravelling, reravelling, and unravelling continuously. Thankfully, things improve somewhat by the time I reach the 100 km mark at the Tarawera Outlet. By now it is 7pm and I’ve been on my feet for 15 hours. Night is approaching and I really need to prepare the body and mind for the night section which is arguably the toughest part of a 100 miler. I spontaneously decide to take a quick swim in the Tarawera River to help freshen up. I then get changed into new clothes and shoes and tuck into some noodles and mashed potatoes. The desired effect is magical and I know I am ready to take on the night. As the sun duels with the evening sky over Humphries Bay, I head out towards Okataina. I know this is where the real race starts.

All eyes on track. Running along the Tarawera Trail.

Why do you do it? Why would you run through the night? These are all very pertinent questions. The answers to the ‘why’ are many and varied. I remember when I did my first 100 km run (the Tarawera Ultramarathon in 2010), I truly believed that I would get some form of spiritual revelation. I believed God would present himself and endow me with some incredible high. Why else would people run these distances? (Seriously, why else?) Instead, I got nothing. No incarnation. No magical high. No spiritual revelation. I can remember seeking the Lord but only finding misery. Misery that compounded itself with every kilometre from 70 km to 99.9 km. Lots of misery with a sprinkle of anger. Looking back now, that experience taught me that when life got hard, I sought divine intervention from ‘someone’. I had everything I needed at my disposal but I wanted someone/anyone to get me out of that hot spot. I was too busy seeking outwards that I never had the inclination to look inwards. It is only now that I realise that this is where the real power of the 100 miler lies. After running for a while, you begin to listen inwards more. You begin to form a connection with your inner self. The problem is, the inner self is hidden by all your insecurities and your ambition for material assets, wealth, and status. Long distance running loosens your insecurities. Kilometre after kilometre peels away the material layers. Eventually, if you can keep running for long enough, you will break down your self imposed defences and create a conduit with the inner soul. And if you look deeper still, you will see the scariest truth of all – your vulnerable self. Not the version you want the world to see you as, but the authentic version with all the imperfections. Just the real and genuine you. Running long distances kindles this dynamic relationship and allows you to work on being a better person. You begin to accept yourself for who you are despite your limitations. You develop the courage to be you. Running truly is spiritual and fills your soul. I just didn’t realise it that lonely night in 2010!

Going for a quick swim in the Blue Lake after 146km as the sun rises

By the time I get to Okataina (118km) it is just after midnight. Left with the choice of tending to a sweaty and well lubricated man or his wife and two children, my support per, Dr Andrew Stanley, has chosen the latter and gone home for the night. Thankfully, like a true gentleman, he has left my pacer, Dr Isobella Henzell behind in the cold night to see me through the final 42 km. Running in the night is difficult. It certainly beats the heat of the day but it can be hard work concentrating on keeping your feet whilst fending off the sleep monsters. I was therefore grateful that Bella provided me with some company. By now, my mind is cloudy and my stomach is queasy so I’m not sure about the quality of the company she is keeping. She keeps me awake by talking about men and the night stars whilst I simply try stay upright and hold my feet. The volunteers at the Millar Rd aid station (135km) nicely applaud our early morning arrival. I attempt to respond thankfully but it just comes out as a grunt and a groan. Bella tops up my supplies sensing my struggle. However, I know that it’s not food and drink that I need, but rather the sun to rise soon. We push onwards around Lake Okareka until I hit another tough moment along an incredibly short and technical bush track though the Lake Tikitapu Scenic Reserve. Even though it hurts and I’m falling asleep, I know I can’t stop. Stopping before the finish line is futile. I know that all this discomfort/fatigue is temporary and would never compare with a did not finish (DNF) which would carry months of pain and disappointment. By the time we come out of the tree line, the sun is beginning to enter the morning sky. Alleluia – the second sunrise! The light instantly invigorates every cell in my body. Unfortunately, it invigorates Bella’s body in a different way and she has to take a detour to the Blue Lake aid station to attend to pressing gastrointestinal issues. I’m by myself again but now that the sun has risen, I know I’ve got this. I increase my pace around the Blue Lake. I know this part of the course intimately well and switch to auto pilot. Just before the next aid station, I stop to have a quick swim. The setting is beautiful. The lake is still and the pink sun peeps over the horizon. The cool water rejuvenates me. Cleansed of negativity and purified by effort, the soul is restored. The final 14km back to Rotorua goes through my favourite Redwood Forest again. I instinctively know every incline and turn. The familiar smell of sulphur for the second time symbolises that I’m heading home and the finish line is near. Twenty nine hours and 47 minutes later, I cross the finish line. It is a pleasant exhaustion. The soul is full again. When you run, look and listen inwards. Run to fill your soul. Running is medicine. Join me at my next blog, IRONMAN New Zealand at the start of March. A quick turnaround!

At the Redwood Forest with 5km to go (this is not the real me – the real me is really tired on the inside)

At the finish line with my finisher’s pounamu / green stone

Gale’s not here this year. Pretty calm up top heading towards Luxmore Hut.

I’ve always enjoyed a good long weekend run. The concept of ‘running off’ the working week is a good example of running being an effective form of stress management. Our lives are super busy and we’ve become addicted to doing too much. In doing so, we are taking on more than we can handle. Eventually the burden of workload grows heavy. Throw in more responsibility, expectations, and future uncertainty, and we become weary and passionless. Exercising and running teaches us how to control our stressors and let go. Running helps us to sort the important from the unimportant. Tease out what is relevant and what is trivial. Work out what needs commitment and what needs to be severed. Decipher what needs to be addressed today and what can wait until tomorrow (or 10 years). Life can get pretty chaotic and sometimes we all need to ‘run off’ the working week. Long distance running simply gives us more time to sift through the chaos and organise this whole mess. Ascending through beech forest and past limestone bluffs, I am de-stressing and becoming lighter. As I pass the tree line, the alpine views are spectacular. The clouds are within touching distance. The glacier carved valleys breath taking. Light of burden, I move through tussock grassland and rocky mountain ridges. Past waterfalls and along remnants of snow. I catch a red and green glimpse of a kea. Light hearted and light spirited. Free of burden I am truly free. It wasn’t that long ago that I had the weight of mountains on my back. But now, surrounded by mountains and with awe inspiring views as far as the eye can see, I am as light as a feather.

Running through lush mossy beech forest

The decent down the mountain and towards Iris Burn Hut is swift. The familiar ringing bells at Iris Burn mark the end of the mountains and the beginning of more mossy beech forest. From here, it is a relatively flat 30km back to the finish though with relatively tired legs. It’s also a good place to catch a few ‘Kepler people trains’ as runners desperately cling on to each other over the next few aid stations. There is a bit of damage control by the time I arrive at Moturau Hut (44.6km). The after effects of the mountains and humidity are beginning to take their toll. I shovel any kind of performance enhancement into my mouth and hope for the best. The volunteers at Moturau continue to be enthusiastic and encouragement is freely given. All my requests are met with the exception of the full body massage (which continues to elude me during events). The last 15 km is always a push but it’s a lot easier running uncluttered and with less baggage. Moving next to rivers and along bridges and boardwalks, I am featherweight. The loud speakers at the control gates signal the end is near and obligingly I float to the end. Unburdened, dissolved of stress, and free. Learn to run lightweight. Learn to live lightweight. Running is medicine. Join me at my next blog, the Tarawera 100 Mile Endurance Run in February 2019. More night time ‘adventures…’

Heading home. Close to the finish with Dr Andrew Stanley (left).

At the finish with Dr Andrew Stanley (left) and Dr Bella Henzell (centre)

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

Taking my medicine with others at Hagley Park

We still have a long way to go but it’s promising to see that a few medical clinics recognise exercise as a “vital sign”. Vital signs are the body’s life sustaining functions that have been routinely measured by doctors for years. These include body temperature, pulse rate, respiratory rate, blood pressure, and weight. There is a growing chorus from exercise medicine practitioners to add physical activity to these other well established vital signs. However, this breaks with medical tradition as unlike other vital signs which measure a body part, asking about physical activity levels measures behaviour. And changing behaviour can be complex. Currently, most doctors do not ask their patients ‘how often’ or ‘how long’ they exercise. Consequently, not many doctors know how to prescribe exercise. It’s also been shown that doctors who do not exercise (which is increasing like the rest of the general population) are unlikely to promote the benefits of exercise themselves. As a result, not many patients know that low fitness kills more people in the USA than smoking, diabetes, and obesity combined. That’s right, combine your three biggest presumed killers and low fitness still trumps them all. Low fitness kills eight times as many people as obesity. Therefore, someone who is fit and fat will live a longer and healthier life than someone who is genetically skinny and doesn’t exercise. Low fitness kills twice as many people as smoking. Yet we continue to direct most of our focus towards stopping smoking rather than educating people about making exercise a healthy lifestyle choice. If all smokers were non-smokers, we’d save 8 lives per 100 people. However, if all inactive people were getting 150 minutes of physical activity per week (which is equal to 30 mins five times a week), we’d save 16 lives per 100 people. In the 21st century, low fitness is the silent killer. We cannot stay silent about this for any longer. We must spread the word – Exercise is medicine.

Approaching the finish line at the Cathedral Square

The Christchurch Marathon starts at the Cathedral Square and passes through the CBD. It then goes through Hagley Park and follows the Avon River for a while. Runners are then taken through earthquake red zoned suburbs. Much of the inner city landscape has changed since the damaging 2011 Christchurch earthquake. My favourite part of the whole marathon is easily the segment through Hagley Park away from all this havoc. The old oak trees and weeping willows along the Avon River provide comforting familiarity amongst all this destruction. This connection with nature is soothing and relaxing. In contrast, the second half of the marathon is less appealing. The course goes through the desolate red zone and support is minimal. The rain also just happens to pick up and it gets colder. Unpalatable as it is, I know that I need to keep taking my medicine. Not all medicine tastes good but I appreciate this medicine is good for me. Three hours and 47 minutes later, I cross the finish line at the Cathedral Square. Exercise minutes successfully banked for the week and monthly health insurance premium paid in full. If sweat is the currency of health, then regular exercise is the best health insurance policy you could ever take out. Make an investment in your health today. Exercise is medicine. Running is medicine. Join me at my next blog, the Taupo Ultramarathon 100km in October (I’m having a rest from marathon running for a while).

Cold and wet at the finish line but happy

Sunrise near the top of Mt Oxford

Within minutes, I am already living in the now. The drive to the start line is forgotten. The destination is irrelevant. I am simply absorbed in the now. The combination of the dark and technical terrain demands that my attention be nowhere but here. Any lapse from the present could result in a painful fall or ankle sprain. ‘Staying in the now’ and ‘living life in the present moment’ has been central to meditation practise for many years. For me, running has always been a form of moving meditation. Your senses become enhanced as you become more in tuned with your body. It takes a while to let go and ‘relax’ into your run. Movement becomes graceful. A connection forms between the thinking mind and the moving body. As I ascend Mt Oxford, the orange glow of the sun rise turns into gold as it spills over the horizon and the distant Canterbury plains. Life’s batteries are instantly recharged. The panoramic view takes your breath away. By looking outward, you are able to look deeper inward. As I traverse along tussock grassland and beach forest, I am lost in my thoughts. The solitude is blissful. The only sounds are of the breath, birds of the forest, and the whispering of the wind. Lost in the now, I have found my true self. Meditation is really just another way to forget life’s troubles. When I am running, I do not think of my troubles. I am focused and committed to the run. It’s as simple as one foot in front of the other. The now is therapeutic. Living the moment is medicine.

Caught up in the moment

Across rivers, along rivers, and through more pockets of beach forest, the moving meditation continues. The terrain is technical and challenging requiring your full focus and attention. There were a couple of nice touches during the run. The ‘half way to becoming an absolute legend’ congratulations note and jet plane lollies at the deserted Black Hill Hut was inspiring. The compulsory instant camera photo as proof of arrival at Wharfedale Hut was also memorable. The event certainly lived up to its reputation as arguably New Zealand’s toughest mountain marathon. The ascent out of Wharfedale Hut heading back to the finish was particularly harrowing. Unfortunately, living in the now means being present for better or for worse. Climbing Mt Oxford the second time, the scattered remnants of snow bring a realisation that conditions were actually quite favourable this year. It is scary to think that this run could have been tougher. Finally, more than 10 hours later, the moving meditation comes to an end. Although the body is exhausted, the soul is refreshed. Running is meditation in motion. Running is medicine. Join me at my next blog, Christchurch marathon, two weeks after the Mt Oxford Odyssey. Another quick turnaround!

Ascending Mt Oxford the second time

Winter is coming. On ‘wall watch’ along the back of Lake Rotorua near Hamurana Springs.

Having run the Rotorua marathon a few times now, you begin to know the course well. You know where to push and where to conserve. I set off at a reasonably steady but comfortable pace accompanied by my friend Dr Andrew Stanley. A lot of the time whilst running, I am on ‘wall watch’. Some competitive runners actually seek the wall. For them, not hitting the wall means they aren’t running hard enough. Myself, I try to avoid the wall if possible. This is usually through a combination of smart pacing and adequate hydration and nutrition. I see myself as running beside the wall or like a boxer constantly jabbing to keep it at bay. The reality is, ‘hitting the wall’ really takes it out of you. It takes a lot of physical and mental strength to recover from an encounter with the wall. And sometimes, no matter how good or elusive you are, the wall will eventually find you. Many allied health professionals have tried to explain the wall. Nutritionists will cite low glucose or glycogen depletion. Exercise physiologists will quote poor training leading to fatigue and exhaustion. Psychologists will probably say that the wall is a mental construct that is all in your head. In my opinion, the wall is best explained by the ‘Central Governor Theory’ proposed by South African Sport & Exercise Physician, Dr Tim Noakes. This theory proposes that the body has an innate ability to protect itself during exercise. The ‘central governor’ is actually the brain which is influenced by your past experiences. The brain is constantly receiving information from different parts of your body such as your cardiorespiratory, neuromuscular, thermoregulatory, and gastrointestinal systems whilst exercising. The brain assimilates all of this information and then dictates a ‘safe pace’ for you to continue exercising. The brain will stop you before you do any serious or permanent damage to yourself. The wall therefore, is a protective mechanism of the brain to slow you down. Typically the wall is brought on by inappropriate pacing (e.g. going too fast for too long), maintaining a pace that does not take into account the environmental temperatures your body is use to (e.g. running a marathon in a desert), or simply running beyond a distance you have never run before (e.g. the last 12km in your first marathon). In order to pass the wall, you must somehow convince your brain that it is safe for you to continue exercising (if you have not already convinced it prior with satisfactory pre-race training). Often this involves a period of slowing down, cooling off, or optimising your hydration and nutrition. A positive mind set is also helpful. Hitting the wall is a negotiation with your central governor. For some, it is a fierce battle.

Feeling good heading towards the finish line 3 hours and 50 minutes later

As I run along the back of Lake Rotorua through Hamurana Springs and the hills of Mourea, I know I am approaching ‘wall country’. The 30km mark of the Rotorua marathon is just past the Rotorua 3D maze. It is usually around this point that runners start to acquaint themselves with their own walls. I continue to run beside my wall. Constantly jabbing, keeping it at bay. As you run past the Rotorua Airport and down Vaughan Road, you see runners battling with their invisible walls. The duals are intense and deeply personal. The mind coercing the body to slow down. If you do meet your wall, you must embrace this challenge. Believe ‘you can’ in order to convince your brain ‘you will’. Take solace in knowing that every wall weakens with every step forward. The closer you get to the finish line, the smaller the wall becomes. Also, every wall (no matter how formidable) has a door. This door is full of opportunity and leads to infinite growth. Open your doors. Conquer your walls. Running is medicine. Join me at my next blog, the Mt Oxford Odyssey mountain marathon in mid May. This sounds like a tough one!

Walls can come in physical forms. Dr Andrew Stanley (right) accelerating at the finish line.

Waiting at the start area of the Arrowsmith marathon behind a scarcely marked start line

The Arrowsmith marathon is the epitome of what I like about running. It is rugged and simple without any pretence. There is minimal fanfare or fuss. Runners run this event because they enjoy running. Not because they want to celebrate or be celebrated. Not to seek praise, applause, or approval. The Arrowsmith marathon simply allows runners to do what they really want to do – just run. In this case, run in beautiful high country surrounded by snow capped mountains. As you go up your first major climb, you find yourself within the clouds. Before long, you are treated to panoramic views of the lake and high country landscape. Eventually you climb so high that you are above the clouds which rest in the valleys and re entrants below. Climbing up the mountain side, I am reminded of how hard this event actually is. I’m reminded of how hard running is. But it is in this difficulty where the attraction of running lies. Status, rank, and money count for nothing in a marathon. You are not judged according to the version of your iPhone or the size of your wallet. There is no hierarchy in running. We are all free and equal people. It is one of life’s greatest levellers. Success in running is dependent on your prior preparation and hard work. Finishing, dependent on the willingness of your legs, your mental fortitude, and the strength of your heart. Effort trumps talent. Your profession and material assets won’t save you when times get tough. Only yourself. You own your run. If you fail or falter, you have no one else to blame but yourself. Respect is gained through sweat and earned by running through adversity. You have to really want this run. The Arrowsmith demands it. Running is the only true trade that matters in these South Canterbury mountains.

A simple man practising his trade in the mountains

Running along raging rivers, over boulder scree, and through fresh waterways, I am enjoying my trade. It is tough going and the ascents are testing. There is no acclamation at check points or water stations but this is not expected. In return, I give thanks and appreciation. As I go over the saddle, the head wind makes you work for your finish. Running through the turnip fields and back across the paddocks, I know the end is near. The woolshed comes into view again with Lake Heron in the distance. The fog has now lifted from the lake as it sparkles under the sun. The finish is low key and the applause is brief and measured. Finishers are rewarded with a BBQ ribeye steak sandwich. Your race number doubles up as your meal ticket. The prize giving takes place in the paddock and the winners are gifted with a bottle of wine and an Easter egg for their hard graft. They are experts of an ancient craft. Running is one of the best apprenticeships in life that you can master. It is developed over many years. Keep persevering with your running trade. Running is medicine. Join me at my next blog, Rotorua marathon in May, a place where I developed my craft.

At the finish with Lake Heron in the background

The strong NZ contingent at the inaugural Alps 2 Ocean Ultra

Small town NZ has its own special charm. This was evident from the moment we arrived in Oamaru. The pre race brief was held at the Oamaru Opera House with a special welcome from the mayor. The speech from the race director was straight from the heart. The event was born out of a desire to show case NZ and cater for all runners from the elite to the back of the pack runners (BOP). Cut off times were generous and there was a genuine desire for as many runners to finish as possible. Any profits raised from the event would also go back to the local community. You could really sense that this run was motivated by the heart and not the wallet. After race registration, we were then taken by steam train to the pre race dinner at a restaurant overlooking the ocean and resting penguins. For a small town, Oamaru had big charm. It would make for a welcome finish in 7 days and over 300km later.

Boarding the steam train to the pre race dinner

The bus trip from Oamaru to the start line was along a scenic route through Kurow, Lake Tekapo and eventually Aoraki / Mount Cook. On arrival, we were given the opportunity to view NZ’s largest glacier, the Tasman Glacier. Floating icebergs on the expanding glacial lake were a tangible reminder of its rapid retreat. We then settled into our camp site for the night with the Southern Alps and Mount Cook as our back drop. The summit’s knife edged ridge pierced the clouds and glinted in the sun light. Under the setting sun, blue sky, and puffy white clouds, we enjoyed a traditional Kiwi BBQ. Surrounded by mountains freshly dusted with snow, the view was simply breath taking. Mesmerising and captivating. It felt surreal. You couldn’t help but be in awe of the beauty around you.

Our first camp site nestled below Mount Cook

On the morning of the Sabbath underneath Mount Cook, a religion of runners set off in the inaugural Alps 2 Ocean Ultra. East towards the sun. Seeking the ocean. The Alps 2 Ocean was an opportunity to show case NZ and the event delivered on its promise. Running next to and along mountains. Through pine forest and around rocky shores. Along and through rivers. Next to sparkling lakes of varying shades of blue. Going up hills, you would be enclosed by native bush. Lost to the world and lost in yourself. The long day (86.6km) is mainly up mountains and through farm lands with a detour to the Clay Cliffs (formed by the flow of ancient glaciers over a million years). Crossing more rivers either by foot or water raft. The terrain is diverse and amazing. The views from the top of mountains, humbling. A reminder that we truly live in a wonderful world. The event had its own NZ quirks. The run through an old woolshed was a flash back in time and provided international runners with a memento of what a hair dresser for hundreds of sheep smells like. The event also had its own unexpected adrenaline rushes. The helicopter ride (surrounded by mountains) to cross a river 6km into the race was a surprise. However, the jet boat ride along the Waitaki River was a personal highlight. Exhaustion was quickly replaced by pure adrenaline as we sped along the river. Smiles from ear to ear and joyful laughter filled that short river section. The Alps 2 Ocean Ultra Adventure Race – adventure guaranteed!

Leaving the mountains and heading east towards the ocean

For a whole week, life was simple. Lubricate, run, eat, sleep. Lubricate, run, eat, sleep. This became the norm. In a shared tent with up to eight runners, any variation from the above order was fraught with danger. Those who failed to lubricate, risked being outcast! If staged running is about meeting people, then ultra runners are a different breed. Taking the road less travelled tends to change your perspective of life. You learn to sweat the run but not the small stuff. Ultra runners in general are nice people. Ordinary in ability but extraordinary in belief. Optimistic but realistic. Acceptive of the idea that hard work and persistence are the ingredients of success, but do not always guarantee success. Better people make better runners. Innuendo of ultra runners being masochist weirdos who gather together for mass orgies continue to be unverified (alternatively, I am never invited). During stage races, bonds with other runners can be formed quickly and tend to last longer. This would not usually happen in a normal work environment. As a group, you share each other’s pain, doubts, suffering, failures, happiness, and joy. Running creates connections. Adversity over 300km and 7 days strengthens these connections. Seeing others endure, you cannot help but be inspired. Long distance running has become the ultimate modern day expression of freedom and courage. The longer you run, the brighter the human spirit shines.

Started with 7 in our tent and ended with 5 (left to right): Myself, Alexandre Lucas (France), Dr Isobella Henzell (Australia), Vincent Coureur (France), & Kate Sanderson (Australia)

Running along lakes, through valleys and vine yards, I am happy. The event continued to charm with unexpected salmon bites, ice cream treats, and wine & cheese tasting. By now, running is the new norm and I am in the flow. The scenery is constantly changing and the course takes another diversion to the Elephant Rocks (lime stone outcrops resembling elephants). Eventually, you run out of lakes to run along. Sheep and cattle are replaced by people. Buildings replace mountains. Gravel trail is substituted by concrete path. You sense the run is coming to a close. As I run through a neighbourhood of old Victorian buildings, I approach the finish line. I hear my applauding fellow athletes. I see the ocean. I see the finish line. Sun burnt, hungry, blistered, chaffed, sweaty, and of a strong and unpleasant smell, I cross the finish line. But I am happy. Really happy. Quietly satisfied and untroubled. Content and comfortable in my own skin. Just happy.

Medicine for the soul

In life, no one really teaches you how to be happy. Happiness is not about having a flash car or house. It is not obtained by going to university and acquiring a medical degree. It is not about getting a good job and securing status and money. Happiness is about finding your passion! Running in the beauty of the outdoors is my passion. When I am running, I am happy. During Alps 2 Ocean, I was living my passion! Find your passion. Find your medicine. Thanks to the Alps 2 Ocean team for the great memories. Running is medicine. Join me at my next blog, Arrowsmith Marathon. Another favourite run of mine.

Crossing the finish line 7 days and over 300km later with good friend Dr Andrew Stanley

Race Summary

Day 1 – Stage 1 & 2 (53.85km) 07:11

Day 2 – Stage 3 (51.34km) 06:44

Day 3 & 4 – Stage 4 (86.6km) 14:00

Day 5 – Stage 5 (44.8km) 06:45

Day 6 – Stage 6 (53km) 06:30

Day 7 – Stage 7 (28.67km) 02:51

Running total 44hr:01min

Just passing through

Ready to play at the start of the Shotover Moonlight Mountain Marathon

Running along historic abandoned gold mining water races and rusting gold mining relics, I am transformed into a child again. Disinhibited. Freedom of movement and thought. When you were young, you did not think about running. You just ran. It was spontaneous and effortless. I had found a new playground to explore. I was running and not going to stop. Slipping down and along sheep tracks in the rain. Running along mountain ridges. Chasing the river through magnificent beech forest. Racing the water until it would build speed, turn white with turbulence, and then eventually win. Ascend mountains high into the clouds under the warmth of the sun. Descending swiftly and gleefully through tussock lands. Wading up a refreshing waist high river and then climbing a ladder next to a gorgeous waterfall. Sliding and laughing down a steep slope of scree as the scree fills your shoes. Over razorback ridges and contouring hills along single track. Across river valleys and through creeks and freshly flowing river beds. Exploring a tunnel with new friends. Breath and movement. Ease and effort. Completely absorbed in the now. Mesmerized by the moment. Lost to the adult world. Lost in play. All being an adult really means is that you need to take responsibility for yourself and others. Growing up doesn’t mean that you need to stop playing. It doesn’t mean that you can’t have fun. Running is one step closer to playing. Running helps you connect with your inner child. Running helps you remain a kid at heart.

Started with a raincoat. Ended with a sunhat. Lots of climbing in this mountain marathon.

As I spill over the finish line, over 8 hrs and 30 mins later, I am totally worn out. I am totally played out. The Shotover Moonlight Mountain Marathon was arguably the toughest marathon I had done to date. Gruelling but fun. Tough but exhilarating. My wife and 2 year old wait for me at the finish line. My daughter naturally runs to me smiling and laughing. Innocent, carefree, and uncomplicated. It is a beautiful sight. I hope to run like her one day. The race finishes at the picturesque Moke Lake. It is a stunning backdrop to a spectacular course. I take a quick dip in the cool lake whilst I get my breath back. New Zealand is incredibly breathtaking. This truly is God’s land. We are so lucky to grow up here. Running is medicine. Join me at my next blog, the inaugural Alps to Ocean Ultra Run (316km over 7 days). New Zealand’s first ever ultra staged race. Looking forward to it!

At the finish with Dr Tony Page (left) and my 2 year old child Millie Molloy

Fireworks at the start of the 2017 Honolulu marathon

Running marathons whilst holidaying is a favourite past time of mine. When I holiday, I am relaxed. When I run, I am truly relaxed. It makes sense to combine the two. I’ve always made an effort to remove my watch whilst on holiday. Naturally, this soon extended into my running. After completing about 50 marathons, I stopped running with a watch. Time controls my everyday life. It establishes my routine. It schedules my day. Time organises my patient appointments. When I work, I must keep to time. If I don’t keep to time, then I am unpopular. Presumed to be inefficient or indolent. After a while, I realised that time may control my work life, but it would not control my hobbies. And I certainly would not let it control my running. I run free. Free of time. Free of control. Free of rules. Free of expectations. I run according to feel. If I feel good, I run faster. If I don’t feel good, I ease off a bit. I run according to enjoyment. Released from the chains of time, I feel free. I don’t see the need to chase records, make cut offs, or be faster than before. I don’t need to know the time while running. If I am running fast, I pass people. If I am running slowly, people pass me. If you want to be a lifestyle runner, slacken the wrist strap and take off your watch. Take all the pressure off yourself. Chasing personal bests can be all consuming. Run because you enjoy it. Run well into your elderly years. Run timeless.

Time pauses with the finish line in sight

Honolulu is a beautiful place to run. Running in the dark, you witness Honolulu’s beautiful Christmas lights display. As the sun rises, it brings with it magnificent views of Waikiki Beach and the Pacific Ocean. You then head out towards Diamond Head and Koko Head volcanic craters. Remnants of a series of volcanic eruptions that occurred over 500 000 years ago. Approaching the 30km mark, I am picking up nicely. Time seems to be flying. I come across my wife running in the opposite direction. She has just past the 21km mark. I can tell that she is struggling. I’m sure for her that this will feel like it’s taking forever. She talks about quitting. I know this is not unusual during marathons. Marathons are hard. Everyone feels like quitting or stopping at some point. This is why people run marathons. That is why you feel so good when you finish! Without adversity, there can be no sense of achievement or reward. I give her words of encouragement and say I’ll come back for her. I push on strongly to the finish line. I don’t know it at the time, but I finish the marathon 4 hours and 45 minutes later. I collect my finisher’s medal and shell necklace. I’m quite tired by now. But I know Courtney is still out there. And I’m very well aware that if I want to enjoy the rest of this holiday, I better fetch her. So I turn around. I manage to catch up to her at the 36km mark. We spend the rest of the race jogging and walking together. We eventually finish together. The time is irrelevant. I’m proud of my wife. She’s a tired mother of one who is now also 10 weeks pregnant. The most important thing was that she finished! We tuck into a few Malasadas (Hawaiian delicacy donut) and some cool coconut water at the finisher’s area. We are back on island time again and the holiday continues. Mahalo and aloha. Running is medicine. Join me at my next blog sometime next year. Time for a well-deserved rest. Season’s greetings!

With my wife Courtney at the end of 2017 Honolulu marathon

At the start line of the inaugural GSER 2017 with Dr Rich Newbury (left) and Dr Andrew Stanley (middle)

I set off with my two good friends, Dr Andrew Stanley and Dr Rich Newbury. Hopefully we would run most of the run together. I knew things would eventually get tough and misery is better shared. It was a crisp start as we ran through remnants of snow on Mt Buller (1800m). Soon we were treated to our first sunrise and a steep descent down 4 Mile Spur. In this short 11km section, we got a taste of what we were in for. The terrain was single track and technical. Keeping your footing on the steep slippery descent was challenging. The track was also overgrown and arguably non-existent in areas. You would be comfortably running along and next thing you know, the track would disappear. Looking out for the course orange markers became extra important. The rocky spur section really slowed Andrew and Rich down. They had already taken a few falls (blood had been drawn) so they were running extra cautiously. Falling saps your energy and confidence. In ultra running, confidence is currency. My persistence with using trekking poles over the last four months and my recent purchase of good off road running shoes was really paying off. I had kept my feet throughout whilst others were losing theirs. We arrived at Gardners Hut aid station at 7.50am, just before the 8am cut off time. Somehow the first 11km had taken us 2 hours and 50 minutes. We were hoping to maintain a 43 hour finishing pace but at this pace, our expected finishing time was around 53 hours. I wasn’t overly concerned by our slow progress. I’ve learnt previously that for every minute you gain at the start of a race, you lose 10 minutes at the end. Ultra distance races are more often lost in the first 11km rather than won. The next section from Gardners Hut started off pleasantly alongside a beautiful flowing river. The smell of eucalyptus was distinct and refreshing and a choir of Australian birdlife filled the bush. We then climbed our first real ascent up Eight Mile Spur. As we hiked upwards, the grumbling of thunder in the distance became more prominent. It unnervingly became apparent that the interspersed charred trees were remnants of previous lightning strikes. Nature’s cigar I thought. Surely lightening wouldn’t mistake me for a victory cigar? As the forecast rain set in, the climb became more taxing. The rain turned the normally dry dirt to mud, and water began to flow down the track. As we approached the Bluff summit, things began to get nasty. Thick mud was replaced by a vertical rock cliff face which involved some serious scrambling. I never thought the GSER would involve rock climbing! On reaching the top, the cloud and rain ensured there would be no views this time. During the descent, I ran with Rich along the bush track and then with Andrew for the remaining section of forest road. We all arrived at Upper Howqua aid station (cumulative distance 45.5km) around 2.45pm, fifteen minutes before the 3pm cut off time. This was not the welcome relief we had hoped for. The race organisers had made this a ‘hard cut off’ so we also had to vacate the aid station by 3pm. I hurriedly ate my noodles and changed into a dry pair of socks before taking off again. The pressure to make the cut off times was beginning to take its toll.

It became apparent early on that formed tracks would be a luxury

The next section from Upper Howqua to Speculation aid station was 17.3km long and we had 5 hours to complete it. There were several river crossings so I enjoyed my dry socks for a total of 5 minutes. As we began to climb, I pulled away from my friends again. I was surrounded by mountains everywhere I looked. The descent from Mt Howitt summit was probably the high point of my whole race. The rain had cleared and the wind was still. The sun was approaching the horizon and was within touching distance. I ran through an open area of purple alpine flowers as far as the eye could see. In this moment, I was truly grateful for the gift of running. That gratitude seemed to spread to every part of my body. It was a powerful feeling. At the same time, I felt like a fragment of insignificance passing through such a vast alpine environment. These are the moments we cherish and run for. As I ran along the Cross Cut Saw (13 spectacular peaks and saddles/teeth), the weather began to take a turn for the worst. It started to rain again and the wind began to pick up. The thunder sounded more ominous and the flashes of lightening too close for comfort. We had received a text earlier in the day from the race organisers warning us of thunderstorms. It advised us to avoid high ground, and if this was not possible, to lie flat. Are you serious? By now I was about 1800m above sea level and there were quite a few peaks in front of me. I also had a cut off time to make and lying flat was unlikely to help with this. I was hoping Andrew and Rich would have caught up to me by now but they hadn’t. The grumble of thunder turned into a loud crack of a whip and hail began to fall. There was no holding back now. For the next hour or so, I ran on fear and pure adrenaline. Each thunder clap spurred me forward. I ran faster on the peaks, visualising the charred trees I had seen earlier. Up Mount Buggery and along the Horrible Gap. When the thunder storm passed, the sun came out again as if nothing had happened. It had a calming effect on me and I eased into a more sustainable pace. The track towards Mt Speculation was grossly over grown and before long, I was bush bashing again. The overgrown track to Speculation aid station seemed to take forever. The sun was starting to fade and I hadn’t seen anybody in a while. As I don’t run with a watch, I had no idea what the time was. When I finally arrived at Speculation aid station (cumulative distance 62km), the station was deathly quiet. The check point looked like a last chance saloon. There was an ambulance next to a small marquee with only one runner wrapped in blankets with his head torch on. I asked a guy who looked like a volunteer what the time was. He told me it was 8.20pm. My heart sank. I knew the cut off time was 8pm. How on earth had the last 17km taken me more than 5 hours? He asked me what race I was doing, the 50 or 100 miler? I responded the 100 miler. He replied that I was 20 minutes over the cut off time and would be unable to continue. I was rather annoyed but held restraint. “But the cut off for the next check point is not until 6am. I’ll easily make that” I said. He responded that the cut off time was actually 9am and not 6am which made me feel even more desperate. He quizzed me if I was carrying an injury which annoyed me slightly. I responded, “No, I’m trying to pace myself for a 100 miler and this is a bloody tough course!” I knew rules were rules and this poor chap was just trying to do his job. “Ok, if that’s the way it is, that’s fine” and I sat down. I’m sure that I looked and stunk of defeat. I guess I just had to wait for Andrew and Rich now. The run so far had been incredibly tough going and I had just been given the key out of the hurt box. Just as the initial disappointment gave way to a sense of relief, the same guy returned and said, “I’ve had a chat with the tail end Charlie and he is happy for you to continue”. Talk about an emotional roller coaster ride. All in the space of a few minutes. Like a bolt of lightning, I was up again. However, I wasn’t in great shape and badly needed a running makeover. I asked if they had any noodles but was told they had run out. Great, there goes my dinner I thought. I went about getting changed into new running clothes, socks, and shoes when another competitor called Chris from Sydney arrived. He too was doing the 100 miler and was also told that he was over the cut off time. I could sense the conundrum that I had created. To which another volunteer lady quickly rectified by saying, “Look, if you two get out of here within the next 5 minutes, we’ll let you carry on. If not, it’s the end of your race. But you’ll have to go together.” That made us move real fast. Chris and I introduced ourselves. Within minutes, we had left Speculation. I thought of my friends, Andrew and Rich. Would they let them pass too? To the distant grumble of thunder and with the sun setting behind us, Chris and I headed into the darkness. I realised that I was back in the hurt box again and had just thrown away the key. I had never met Chris before. But I sensed, like most runners I knew, that he seemed like a good person. “John, I’m so glad to be running with you tonight.” It was a nice touch in a day full of carnage.

Feeling lost? You’ll be fine. Just follow the orange markers. Yeah right.

I’ve never run through the night before. My preference is to sleep at night. I’d come close to doing all nighters back in my youth. This typically involved a New Year’s Eve surrounded by women and alcohol but usually I’d succumb to one or the other. Running through the night was one of my fears before the race. It was a great fear of the unknown. Night navigation can also be extremely difficult. I was worried that I would get lost and stranded, or somehow go in the opposite direction and end up back where I started. Thankfully, Chris had run three hundred milers previously so he had some experience with night running. As we began to talk, Chris mentioned that the race organisers were known in the local area for creating tough events. He told me that the GSER was the 5^th hardest ultra in regards to total elevation and descent profile. The race organisers had expected that 70% of starters would not finish. Next year, the race organisers hoped to run the race in reverse so it would become the 3^rd hardest ultra. This was all news to me. I’d entered purely so I could run with my friends who were now gone. “I’m not coming back next year” I responded. I spent a large portion of the night angry. Why make a course where you want the majority of people to fail? The cut offs seemed too tight and established runners with good pedigree were being picked off. Surely, if you meet the pre run entry criteria, then you should have some hope of finishing? It was also one thing to make a course hard, but it’s another to actually mark the track. The night course was brutal. I had never experienced anything like it. Keeping on track was difficult. To be honest, for large sections, there was no track. We simply had to follow spaced out orange markers through gaps in the bush. Bush bashing was the norm. Many fallen trees blocked our path so I had to contort my body to either go through, over, or under the fallen debris. I was glad my many years of yoga had prepared me for this. We passed one runner sitting on a fallen tree. He looked defeated. His mind was sound but his body was protesting. “I’ve done 5km in 5 hours” he said. That was how slow we were going. The night was long and hard. We negotiated Mt Despair and went up The Viking. The Viking was horrendous. Once again, we were scaling rock cliff faces. The only direction was up. Someone had installed a quarter ladder and climbing rope at one section. It was probably the scariest part of the whole course. It required climbing up a miniature ladder with a rung just wide enough to fit the width of your shoe. You then had to squeeze between a rock face and a branch (the latter having a tendency to snag your back pack) before hauling your body up a climbing rope. At one point, my whole body weight and life was dependant on my left forefoot which was beginning to cramp. I somehow managed to get myself and my trekking poles up. I then took hold of Chris’ pack and poles so he could climb up. When we had both reached top, I was genuinely grateful to not be paralysed! If I was angry beforehand, now I was fuming. I had another moan to Chris about race safety and asked how it would be possible to evacuate anybody from that position? Chris seemed to calm me down somewhat. It was reassuring to know that he had run through the night before. “Think positive and keep eating and talking. Next thing you know, the sun will be up” he counselled. Despite all the anger and despair, what transpired that night was friendship. Throughout the night we exchanged conversation, rotated navigation responsibilities, and sat down and shared meals together. I was happy to be with someone else. Misery attracts companionship and GSER was handing out buckets of it. Eventually the sound of night birds was replaced by the sound of day birds and the sun began to rise. I could feel my body re energise as the sun began to peak over the mountains. As much as I wanted to keep running with Chris, I felt an urge to push forwards to ease the cut off pressure. We had run together through the night as directed by the stern volunteer lady. I felt like I had honoured my part of the deal. I expressed to Chris my desire to push onwards and we shook hands and wished each other luck. For the next hour or so, I felt recharged and was running strong. Then suddenly, I began to burst out crying. I was alone again. My friends were gone. I had been running all day and night. Now, I had to run all day again. It was all too overwhelming. They weren’t tears of joy or sorrow. I think they were tears of confusion. What the hell was I doing? When you run, you feel more. You ride waves of emotion. This was raw emotion. I had nothing to hide. No fear of judgement. It just needed to come out. I eventually composed myself and managed to pass three other runners on the way to East Buffalo Road aid station. I arrived at East Buffalo Road (cumulative distance 94km) at about 7.45am. I had been running for a total of 26 hours now. I had hoped to arrive earlier while it was still dark so I could sleep. But as the sun was already up, I decided to stay awake and concentrate on refuelling for the day ahead. I asked for noodles but again they had run out. I stomached a protein shake, cheese bread, and hash brown, and then pushed on towards Selwyn Creek Road.

Buggery, Horrible, and Despair. The elevation profile of the 5th hardest ultra.

As I left East Buffalo Road, I took a moment to plan out my day. I was going slower than planned. Before the run, I had mentally prepared myself to run through two sunrises and two sunsets. At his rate, I had better prepare myself for three sunrises. My heart sank a little. I prepared my day’s to do list. 1. Stay upright. 2. Move forward. 3. Don’t black out. That seemed sufficient at the time. The majority of day two was a bit of a blur. I knew I had to get to Mt Saint Bernard aid station where our lone support person, Jamie, had initially agreed to meet Andrew, Rich, and I. We hadn’t established an order of priority but I assumed it was me now. Maybe Andrew and Rich would be with her? Maybe Andrew and Rich were actually behind me. I had no idea. I had to focus on moving forward and that’s what I did. After last night’s terror, I knew I had to make hay while the sun shined. In the hot Victorian sun, I ran/walked along undulating bush, up Mt Selwyn (I was too tired to appreciate the views), up a good road with a mongrel hill, and arrived at Selwyn Creek Road aid station by midday (cumulative distance 108km), one hour before the cut off time. The volunteers at this aid station were the best so far. They were overly helpful and enthusiastic. I was offered a hot chocolate and fed off their freshly cut fruit and enthusiasm. As tempting as it was to stay, I was driven to create as much time between me and the next cut off time. I was in too deep now. I couldn’t afford to become another casualty and was determined to finish. I gave thanks to the volunteers and paramedics and left Selwyn Creek towards Mt St Bernard. Before leaving, I was warned that the next section was ‘quite a bit harder’ than the previous section. I had about 6 hours to cover 16.8km so was reasonably confident. The cut off time at Mt St Bernard aid station was 6pm. Hopefully, if I got there early enough, I could afford a short rest and a change of clothes. It was during this run section that I was lucky enough to meet the A team – Adrian and Adam. We had played cat and mouse during the previous section. They moved faster than me but tended to rest more so I would catch them during their breaks. They were an interesting team. Adam was an Army engineer and Adrian had a fear of falling. How he had got this far was beyond me! The A team were magical at spotting orange markers and worked beautifully navigating as a team. My short sightedness was a weakness so I hung on behind them as hard as I could. They seemed content to let me follow in their wake. Any road cyclist would have dropped me by now. Over, through, and under more fallen trees. Along scrub and rocks. The A team stalked one orange marker to the next. By this point of the race, I was really starting to struggle. To use a boxing analogy, the GSER had me on the ropes and I was in trouble. Not having to navigate conserved energy. I simply followed the A team. I don’t think I could have got through this section without them and for that I am grateful. The final section to Mt St Bernard was an introduction to ‘The Twins’. A 1700m almost hump-backed mountain. ‘The Twins’ were the one-two sucker punch. From a clearing in the bush, emerged a trackless mountain side with a string of orange markers going directly up. There was no peak in sight. If I was a man at the bottom, then I was a carcass at the top. The reward for reaching the top? A galling descent down the other side of the trackless mountain side. I somehow managed to roll with the punches albeit being punch drunk by now. I arrived at Mt St Bernard aid station (cumulative distance 125km) at 5.45pm, 15 mins before the cut off time and in serious damage control. The time buffer I had created earlier in the day had been obliterated by ‘The Twins’. I was so happy to see Jamie, Andrew, and Rich at the aid station. I had so much to tell them and many questions to ask. But I was in a huge panic. The cut off times had picked off many a proud runner and it now had a huge bull’s eye on my back. I had been craving noodles for more than 24 hours so I asked if there were any noodles again. Negative. Great, no noodles for dinner again. I had enough time to change into a new pair of socks, swallow a hash brown, take one bite of my 6 inch Subway, and swig some fresh cool orange juice before taking off again. Rich ran with me for a bit down the road. He explained how they had not arrived at Speculation check point until after 9pm so could not continue running. I spoke about my tears of confusion and how I had grave fears for the night that lay ahead. I asked if he’d consider pacing me at night. I expressed my doubts about safely navigating at night in my current mental state. He said that he’d think about it. I thanked him for considering and pushed on to the final check point before the finish, Harrietville.

‘The Twins’ a.k.a. the ‘one-two sucker punch’. Looking back at one summit from the other.

When the sun began to set for the second time, things started to get hard. I had been running for more than 36 hours now without sleep. The melatonin was building as I pulled out my night light for the third time. I met up with the A team again. They had a fresh pacer for this section (oh the luxury). Adrian and the pacer attempted to ascertain my life story. I politely answered when I could. The reality was, I was finding it hard to keep my eyes open, yet alone speak. I was on the ropes again. Just clinging on. I marvelled at their ability to talk. I mentioned that I had not had the chance to sleep as I had been chasing cut off times all day. They shared their favourable experience with short 20 minute sleeps and recommended that I give it a try. I agreed that I’d give it a go at Harrietville (if I hadn’t already blacked out my then). Although running at the tail of a group can be helpful, I was finding it quite difficult this time. The combination of talking and adjusting to dazzling reflective light from the safety vest ahead was draining my limited energy stores. The need to be both ‘reflexive’ and ‘responsive’ to the lead person (and ensuing swinging branches) was also too energy intensive. When Aaron had to stop for gastrointestinal issues, I knew this was my opportunity to run my own race. I explained that I would keep walking and I was sure that they would catch up to me. After a time walking, I managed to build to a jog. From a jog, to a nice canter. By running by myself and at my own pace, my brain switched to auto pilot. I began to feel better again. In the cool of the night, I descended swiftly down Bon Accord spur and towards Washington Creek Junction. I crossed the damaged wooden bridge and ran along the river. The A team never caught up to me. Time seemed to fly and 21km later I arrived at Harrietville (cumulative distance 146km) at 11.30pm. By now I had been running for more than 40 hours so I was keen to have a sleep. The race organisers had factored up to 4 hours sleep at this aid station and the longer 3am cut off time reflected this. However, by this point, I had lost all faith in the race cut off times. Making prior cut off times never guaranteed that you would make the next, so I intended to leave well before 3am. I began looking for Jamie, Andrew, and Rich, but was instead greeted by the race organiser, Mel. She was incredibly kind and helpful. On the A team’s advice, I asked Mel if I could sleep for 20 mins. She made me a hot chocolate and reassured me that she would set an alarm for 20 mins. I’m not sure whether I slept or not but when I was roused, my head space felt better and I think my body appreciated staying still for 20 minutes. When Mel asked if there was anything else I wanted, I sheepishly asked for noodles. When she replied “Sure thing”, a sense of euphoria filled my body. I’d only been craving noodles for the last 30 hours! I gratefully finished them and then tucked into some salted boiled potatoes. The A team eventually arrived at the aid station whilst my support crew were nowhere to be seen. Where were they? I’m sure sleeping in a warm bed would’ve been more appealing. However, I dearly craved the company and I was still apprehensive about navigating by myself at night. When it became clear that my night pacer wouldn’t be coming, I asked the A team if I could join them again for the next section. Adrian agreed and we left Harrietville that night at 12.30am. We had 34km to the finish and 9.5 hours to complete it in. The event organisers had predicted that a ‘slow runner’ would do this section in 7 hours. I had proven myself to be slower than a slow runner in all sections of this course to date. We left the outskirts of the town where a lone elderly gentleman cheered us on. He asked us how we were feeling. I responded positively by saying that I felt like a new man. In reality, I was only feeling a fraction of my true self. We then headed deeper into the darkness and the unknown.

Feeling worse for wear at Mt St Bernard aid station (cumulative distance 125km)

It didn’t take me long to realise that I wouldn’t be able to stick with the A team. They must have taken some serious performance enhancing agents as they were walking like men possessed. I pulled out my race map which showed a total ascent of 1300m and descent of 1500m for this section. This pace was suicidal. I told the A team that they were going so fast that I could not think. I had to slow down as I needed all my wits about me tonight. We wished each other good fortune and I eased into a more comfortable pace. I was commander and chief navigator now. I spoke the words of my late father – “If it is to be. It is up to me.” I had to be courageous. I had to face my fears. I needed a sharp mind. Unlike the previous night leg which involved bush bashing, going over and under fallen trees, and scaling cliff faces, this part of the course was completely different. My map had two significant features – “High Point” and Wet Gully Track. For some reason, I had expected thick bush and the possibility of wet feet. What eventuated was a form of race organiser sick torture. We remained on a fire trail throughout. Although constantly looking for orange markers to navigate can sap your mental energy, at least it kept you alert and awake. This section had sporadically placed orange markers. After what was probably a couple of hours, it became clear to me that there was no requirement to navigate. We would simply keep going along this fire trail until we were bored to death. A form of slow torture. The only thing you saw was the dry dirt in front of you, and the only thing that changed was the gradient of the road. If I thought that my first all nighter was hard, the second was a brutal game of trying to stay awake. The glucose and caffeine that had served me well during the first night, was having no effect at all tonight. Melatonin was flooding through my system and I was drowning in it. I was a zombie who was walking myself to sleep. I knew sleeping was not an option. As tempting as it would’ve been, I feared I would’ve fallen into a deep and unarousable sleep. I’d surely make the morning newspaper headlines – “New Zealand man found 25km from finish line lying in fetal position hugging wombat.” I took more glucose and ate more food but nothing seemed to help. I poured my water bottle over my head and splashed my face, but this only startled me temporarily. As the gradient began to flatten off, I realised I had to run. My god it hurt to run but surely the pain would keep me awake? And so I began to run. And when I passed another runner whose headlight seemed unpassable for hours, I got a sudden burst of energy. Eventually, I passed the A team again. Running and passing people seemed to be working. Before long, I was alone again. Despite running, it was still a struggle to stay awake. It became clear that I had to add another treatment. I had no one to talk to so singing seemed appropriate. So I sang loudly. Loud enough to keep me awake. I didn’t care if anyone heard me. I was already a dead man in my view. Like a repeating karaoke, I ran and sang along to the Beatles (Let it be), Tina Turner (Simply the best), Peter Andre (Mysterious girl), and the chorus of R Kelly’s ‘I believe I can fly’. Somehow I did this until I saw my 3^rd sunrise. With the sunrise, I felt my body reawaken. There was no further requirement to sing. I was back in the fight again. Race distances had been posted every 5km throughout the course. I must have missed a few during the night, but in the day light, they became visible again. From about 170km onwards, I began to hallucinate. It was bizarre as I knew I was hallucinating. The images were very real but in pixels of green. They mainly consisted of wild life crossing in front of me, my own crowd of supporters (to make up for the lack of GSER supporters), and vehicles reversing in front of me and then driving away. My favourites were the running man, delicately poised in the middle of the track before taking off and leaving behind his shoe; and the neatly placed table and chair set right in the middle of the track which conveniently disappeared as I got closer. At the time, I thought they were rather amusing.  It is only now that I realise I was actually in a pretty bad state and that my hallucinations were most likely the side effect of my very own self-induced general anaesthesia and morphine. By this point in the race, every small incline felt like a mountain. I was staggering and swerving sideways. Dismantling and veering out of control, I could no longer run. The sun was well and truly up and I began to panic again about cut off times. When I hit the 175km mark, I felt defeated. The last 5km from 170km seemed to take an eternity. I hit my first major wall. For the first time in the whole race, I thought that I couldn’t finish GSER. I’d already achieved 100 miles (160km) but the last 21km of this race was barbaric. I thought, “How could I finish the last 6km when I could hardly walk in a straight line for 10 metres?” I stopped and sat down only to receive a sudden urge to pass a bowel motion. Great, I was not in the mood to connect with nature again so I had to keep walking. I needed to know what the time was but my mobile phone was flat. I took out my accessory battery charger and started charging my phone. When my phone eventually turned on, it was just before 7.30am on Sunday. The probability of going to church today was diminishing. The finish line cut off time was 10am so I had 2.5 hours to do the final 6km. It seemed achievable on face value. But at that moment and after 175km, it seemed impossible. I sent a text to my wife – ‘Not sure if I’ll finish. Need to do 6km by 10am. Can barely walk.’ That was my SOS. I put my phone away and kept walking. It was all my body would allow me to do. I had to hold on. I had to sustain. Everything hurt by now. The only part of my body which felt reasonably comfortable were my eye brows. I concentrated on walking with my trekking poles but even my arms were starting to give up. I kept moving forward albeit slowly. Suddenly, the bush began to open up. There was a gentle descent which didn’t burn my quads so badly. I used the momentum of the hill and somehow managed to get back into a jog again. I saw a house in the distance and cars driving along what appeared to be a highway. As I approached the house, I looked towards it and saw a lone figure in pixels of green. He was standing by the front door saluting me – ok, real house but still hallucinating. As I ran down the country road, what I saw next filled by heart to the brim. Even better than the noodles at Harrietville. My wife had obviously rustled up my support crew and I recognised our rental vehicle driving towards me. Jamie was driving and Andrew and Rich got out and started running with me. They explained that they had set their alarm expecting to see me at Harrietville at 3am. They had therefore missed me completely. It didn’t bother me as I was simply relieved to see them again. My night pacer had finally arrived to see out the last few kilometres in the morning! Andrew gave me my favourite tonic – cold orange juice straight from a 2L bottle. I was immediately reenergised. Something magical happened soon after. One of the most powerful feelings you can ever experience – I can, became I will. It was time to deliver my own knockout punch to GSER. Andrew and Rich escorted me until the finishing arches were in sight. It was time for this to end. After starting at 5am Friday, I crossed the finish line just before 8.30am on the Sunday. 51 hours and 25 mins later, it ended. The walls of the hurt box disintegrated and I was free. One hundred and fifty runners started the GSER. By the time the race had officially ended, only about 50 runners crossed the finish line. The casualty rate was high but the reward was greater. That day, in that small township of Bright, I found my hero. And that hero was me.

On the home stretch with my ‘night pacers’

In our lives, we plant seeds every day. Sometimes, we don’t even know we are sowing seeds. When you leave your front door and go for a run, you plant a seed. That seed grows into a 5km run. My first marathon planted a seed for my first 100km run without me knowing it. My first 100km run planted a seed for my first 100 miler without me knowing it. Over time, seeds grow. Sometimes they need a bit of nurturing and encouragement. Others are stubborn and need to be challenged to grow. If it doesn’t challenge you, it won’t change you. Life can be monotonous. We still need to hang our laundry, cut our lawns, and vacuum our cars. Running allows us to break this cycle for a temporary moment. It allows us to dream. When you dream, you sow seeds in a field so large it is beyond imagination. I urge you to make your start lines. Chase your dreams. Face your fears. Find your hero. Running is medicine. Join me at my next blog, Honolulu marathon, 3 weeks post GSER.

Crossing the finish line of the inaugural GSER 2017 in Bright

At the start line at Staveley preparing for the mountain ahead

Exercise is medicine. Hippocrates of Greece (460-370 BC) was the first physician to provide a written exercise prescription for a patient with the ‘disease of consumption’. The benefits of exercise apply to all body systems. It reduces your risk of obesity, diabetes, high blood pressure, coronary artery disease, cancer (particularly breast and colon), osteoporosis, dementia, and mental illness. It improves sleep, mood, mobility, function, independence, and life expectancy. Doctors prescribe lots of pills for chronic diseases when the reality is they should be prescribing more exercise. Exercise is a drug. Too little and it won’t be therapeutic. Too much and you can overdose. Being sedentary is harmful. Sitting constantly for 2 hours has been likened to having one cigarette. You reach peak bone density in your early 20s and you start losing muscle mass (sarcopenia) from your late 20s. From 30 years of age, you’re on a downward physiological slope. It’s in your interest to maintain your bone and muscle strength. Walking is medicine. Running is medicine. There was a nice ‘real world’ study in Sydney that looked at the role of walking speed and mortality in more than a thousand men over 70 years of age. The researchers assessed participants’ baseline walking speed and survival over the five year study period. A total of 266 deaths were observed. In those who died, the average walking speed was 3km/hr. No men with walking speeds over 5km/hr died. The authors concluded that they had estimated the speed at which the Grim Reaper walks. The Grim Reaper walks at about 3km/hr. He never walks faster than 5km/hr. In the race of life, outwit the Grim Reaper by walking faster.

Runners heading towards the medicine up in the mountain

As I ascended Mt Somers, up jagged cliffs, through beech forest, and along tussock, I was reminded that we live in such a beautiful country. New Zealand is truly amazing. I was moving through a spectacular subalpine environment. To my left, as far as the eye could see, were the lush green Canterbury plains. To my right, the crisp, snow-capped mountains. Runners were chatting and laughing with each other. I knew there and then that I was taking my daily antidepressant. Not from the pharmaceutical laboratory, but straight from Mother Nature. Away from technology, bills, traffic, and demands. Calm and stress free. Connected with nature and the land. Breath and movement. Every ascent and descent would be rewarded with more invigorating views. As the day got hotter, I splashed by face with chilled mountain water straight from the river. Cooled my head under a natural waterfall – nature’s baptism. Mt Somers was one of the toughest marathons I have ever run. The course was extremely technical. However, the contrasting scenery and rugged beauty made it all worthwhile. Eight hours and 4 mins later, I had finished taking my medicine. Some parts of the course were less palatable than others but you knew it was good for you. At the finish, I headed towards the farm paddock where my car was parked. No sooner do I start thinking of my next race, the Great Southern Endurance Run (GSER) 100 mile. I’ve been mentally and physically preparing myself for this all year. I’m terrified of the course. I’m terrified of myself and the voice within. When things get tough, do you look for reasons to keep going or excuses to stop? I’ve never had a DNF (Did Not Finish). This will be a massive collision of wills. Running is medicine. Join me at my next blog, the GSER 112.5 miles (181km).

Did I mention exercise keeps you youthful? Exercise – the elixir of youth

At the start of the inaugural Crater Rim Ultra 50km

When you run, you play. When your backyard is the Port Hills, you play all day. Running takes me back to my youth. Back to when you could play all day. No expectations. No one to please. No timings. Just pure, unrestrained, and unbridled joy. You didn’t walk from one adventure to the next – you ran. And you ran with a smile on your face. Running wasn’t hard. Running wasn’t unhygienic. It wasn’t a way to lose weight. It wasn’t a way to increase your cardiorespiratory fitness. Running wasn’t something you HAD to do – it was play. Unfortunately, as we drift further away from our childhood, some of us have forgotten how to play. Some of us have forgotten how to run. We’ve been caught up in the adult world of money, material assets, and ascending the ranks. When you play, you challenge your physical abilities. You test your boundaries. You learn about yourself. Running is like play for adults. In my medical office I am working. But in the Port Hills, Christchurch, I am playing. And what a backyard it is. Hopping from rock to rock. Wading through ankle high mud. Slipping and sliding down wet grass. Skipping around steaming cowpats. Manoeuvring through fresh native bush. Singing with bell birds. Passing through tracks less travelled, or sometimes creating your own path. You did whatever you felt like doing. Fuelled by your own imagination. Moving by instinct. Running liberates me from my day to day adult pressures. It unclutters the mind. Flushes out the problems. Removes the negativity. Running is my form of play. Never be too old to play. Whatever your form of play is, keep doing it. There is a time to play, and there is a time to work. Always make time to play! Dedicate 30-60 mins of your day towards play and connect with your inner child.

Diamond Harbour, Mt Herbert, and Quail Island

I must admit, after 8hrs or so of playing you get pretty tired. I probably never appreciated how big my backyard was. I’d entered corners previously not explored. Made some new friends. Refamiliarised myself with some of my favourite tracks. Rolled my ankle pretty good and stubbornly kept going. I didn’t realise how bad it was until I had actually stopped. I’d just run from Diamond Harbour, up Mt Herbert, towards Gebbies Pass, along the Crater Rim trail, past the Sign of the Bellbird, past the Sign of the Kiwi, along Sugerloaf, and was now running back into Christchurch. 8hrs and 25 mins later, I cross the finish line. Memories flash of my mother calling me for dinner. My father yelling at me to do the lawns. Play time is over. It’s time to go home now. Time to return to my wife and child. Time to be an adult again. The day ends with a recovery spa and a meal with my family at Lone Star. I order a couple of lamb shanks and a Moro Bar cheesecake. So good! Come night fall I’m completely exhausted. All played out. Before long, this adult is sleeping like a baby again! Running is medicine. Join me at my next blog, Mission Mt Somers Marathon next week. A quick turnaround!

Crossing the finish line. Play time’s over.

The only New Zealanders at the TransRockies 2017, Dr Rich Newbury (left) & Dr Andrew Stanley (right)

I don’t recall feeling a similar energy to what I encountered at the start line of the TransRockies. Over 300 runners from 18 countries lined up at the start at Buena Vista. Fizzing nervous energy in a stand of defiance against insurmountable challenge. Competitors rocked and grooved to the TransRockies theme song, AC/DC’s Highway to Hell, before heading into the mountains. To be honest, the next 6 days were a bit of a blur. Pine trees, loose rocks, and boulders. Beavers, humming birds, and a sly fox. Continuous steep climbs, zig zagging up switch backs, and technical descents. Soft pine needles, running down an ice cold stream, and the smell of wild flowers. Sleeping in tents, a mobile shower truck, and banquets with friends. Life was simple. Run, eat, sleep, repeat. This was about living the moment. Celebrating aid stations. Appreciating the simple things in life. Being thankful for your body and sharing the experience with running friends. I can vividly remember two running moments – Day 2 climbing up Hope Pass (3821 metres) and Day 5 weaving in and out of trees on rolling terrain on top of Vail Mountain (3565 metres). It was like being in a trance like state. A mild headache, light headedness, slight shortness of breath, difficulty holding a conversation, and running out of step with the odd stumble. The medical side of me knew these were symptoms consistent with mild acute mountain sickness. But for the runner, the dreamer, this was what it felt like to dance with the Gods. To extend yourself. To go higher than you have ever been before. To court challenge whilst smiling back at your partner. And when you could no longer hold step, the Gods would let you go and the dance would end leaving you breathless and gasping for air. It was time to descend. I got high in the Colorado Rockies those days!

Steep technical descent down Hope Pass

From a pure running perspective, the TransRockies was undeniably hard work. Multiday races are not for the weak and faint hearted. Environmental stressors are amplified over the course of a week. The altitude was physically challenging and a nocturnal pain in the backside in the form of interrupted sleep and frequent night time toilet visits. Small hot spots and niggles that are usually manageable in one day events, can turn into significant problems over the course of a few days. A well rehearsed pre race routine is important. Lubricant should be applied diligently and as if your life depended on it. Chaffing and blisters can be terminal. Good shoes, socks, and running clothes are paramount. I became quadrupedal and used trekking poles for the first time to offload my legs and found them very useful. As soon as the day’s run had ended, no sooner had you to prepare for the next day. This entailed a good grasp of post race nutrition, foot care, and recovery. Many competitors took advantage of the air compression leg massagers and event masseurs on site. However, a friend of mine who favoured recovery massages allegedly had his balls touched by a male masseur. That kind of put me off massage. I used cold river dips, hot showers, and compression leggings instead to avoid stray hands. Sleeping in tents next to hundreds of competitors also had its challenges. Zips, snoring, squeaky air mattresses, and camp flatus did not promote a relaxing environment conducive to good recovery.

Day 6: Vale to Beaver Creek with tent city in the background

Race Summary

Stage 1: Buena Vista to Railroad Bridge, 33.5km, 760m climbing, max elevation 2845m, 4:51:45

Stage 2: Vicksburg to Twin Lakes, 21.4km, 975m climbing, max elevation 3821m, 3:38:35

Stage 3: Leadville to Nova Guides at Camp Hale, 39.4km, 823m climbing, max elevation 3326m, 5:17:09

Stage 4: Nova Guides at Camp Hale to Red Cliff, 23.3km, 854m climbing, max elevation 3561m, 3:29:58

Stage 5: Red Cliff to Vail, 38.8km, 1250m climbing, max elevation 3565m, 5:30:27

Stage 6: Vail to Beaver Creek, 36.0km, 1600m climbing, max elevation 3217m, 4:57:16

Total time 22:47:56

Just passing through

When I crossed the finish line at Beaver Creek with a cumulative time of 22 hours 47 mins, there was a greater sense of accomplishment than normal. This was a tough race! I was happy to finish but it was sad knowing the week was coming to an end. The TransRockies brought lots of laughter, joy, and new friends. This was more about enjoying the experience than just running per se. My first experience of multiday running had left me mesmerised and craving for more. Refreshed, recharged, and rejuvenated. Ready to tango again. The Colorado Rockies would not be my last dance. Running is medicine. Thanks to Vertex Altitude for the pre race altitude training! Join me at my next blog, the Crater Rim Ultra 50km, a local run in my own back yard in Christchurch.

At the finish line with Dr Rich Newbury (left), Dr Andrew Stanley (2nd from left), and Canadian athlete Dee Douglas (right)

A beautiful Wellington winter day with idle wind turbines in the background

The WUU-2k is a mixture of MTB track, 4WD roads, single technical trail and lots of hills (the 2k stands for the elevation over the marathon). Off road hilly marathons attract me. They are always tough but I find your body recovers quicker than an on road marathon. You also get some fantastic views (weather permitting) and today Wellington provided perfect running conditions! I knew it was going to be a good day as the sun rose over the distant landscape where the wind turbines remained largely still. Running in the hills is a great experience. Life is amplified. You are closer to heaven. Running through clouds, you are the first to receive the rays of the rising sun. You are rewarded with panoramic views of spectacular coast line. You can smell the native bush and the crisp fresh air. The scent of pine as you run through a small pine plantation. The sound of your own breath and crunch of your shoes on the gravelly trail. The cool, light breeze against your cheek and through your hair. When you run in the hills, your senses are enhanced. On a good day, it is true godliness. There is nothing better. In our daily lives we are caught up in routine and our senses are dulled. Although I practise medicine daily in my office, there is equally good medicine in the hills.

At the finish line with good mate Flight Lieutenant Jim Sheehan who ran the final 7km with me

Running isn’t always about feeling great. Trust me, if you’re feeling good, appreciate it. It won’t last forever. It won’t be long until you become light headed and blurry eyed. The breath becomes laboured, legs become heavy, and your mental strength will be tested. The recent wet weather had turned the normally firm running tracks into sloppy, slippery mud. Squelch squelch. Running in mud requires good leg strength. Your stance phase is increased and it’s harder to push off the ground. It can really sap your strength. I wanted a tough training run before the TransRockies and this course was delivering. My on road shoes had become skates. And before long, my newly acquired skates had literally brought me back down to earth and crashing towards the ground. Closer to humbleness. I had the obligatory ‘difficult patch’ that every marathon gives you. I believe it is this ‘patch’ and the ability to overcome that hardship that makes the marathon great. I don’t think all runners really appreciate this. It is not the finish line that is the most satisfying moment. It is this moment. This difficult moment when “I can” becomes “I will”. The finish line is simply confirmation that you got through this difficult patch. That you were challenged and overcame that challenge. And by overcoming challenges, you develop unparalleled growth. This will make you a better person long before it makes you a better runner. Six hours and 24 minutes later, I had finished my first WUU-2k. Goodness me. My first marathon over 6 hours. Hopefully it will make me stronger for longer runs later in the year. Running is medicine. Join me at my next blog, The TransRockies Run6 – 120 miles in 6 days in the Colorado Rockies. My first multiday run event. Looking forward to it!

Running seasons along the Avon River

This was my first run in the new Christchurch marathon course post the 2011, 6.3 magnitude Christchurch earthquake. The race started in the Cathedral Square and coursed through the CBD, Hagley Park, red zoned land, and along the Avon River. It was a strange feeling. I had never run a marathon through a CBD before that felt so empty and lonely. The damage was plain to see. Buildings remained cordoned. Roads were unsealed and pot holes greeted the unwary. Although I had run parts of this course many times previously, it was almost unrecognisable today. Houses had been replaced by empty sections. On road had been transformed to off road. The course had changed so much. The city I had known had changed so much. But in this moment, I too realised that I had changed so much. I was once a carefree medical student who ran. Now I was a husband, father, uncle, physician, and dedicated personal trainer to my two running dogs – Summer and Walter. Responsibilities change. Life circumstances change. Homes change. Jobs change. Relationships change. Friends change. In fact, the only thing that remained constant in my life was running. Running was the true constant. And for this I am grateful.

Approaching the finish line of the 2017 Christchurch Marathon

The run was cold. From 30km onwards it started to rain. They weren’t  the most pleasurable conditions to finish in. Despite this, I managed to finish strongly in 4hr 3 mins. Although I was aiming to finish under 4 hours, I had never run a marathon two weeks after a 100km run before. I couldn’t get too precious over 3 minutes. Naturally, one would think that running a marathon after a 100km run would be a walk in the park. Mentally, it does become a lot easier. But physically, the marathon will always challenge. There is never an easy marathon! It is this challenge that attracts me and draws me to it. After the UTA 100, today was simply about getting to the start line. I believe that the finish line tends to look after itself if you treat the start line with respect. And tomorrow, you look for a new start line. And before you know it, those daffodils have sprung again and you have run full circle! Running is medicine. Join me at my next blog, the Wuu-2k off road marathon in mid July.

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.