There's a feeling I get when I leave my apartment for a race…it happens every single time, this "when I walk through this door next, I'll have another ultra under me" anticipation. Mixed into this feeling is the mental checklists, the gear, nutrition plan, pain management…and the emotional "are you ready to put your toes on that startline" decision.
Friday morning I loaded my race pack and two duffels, squared my shoulders and closed the apartment door, secure in the belief that at this point, Sunday afternoon, I'd be back here with another UTA100 buckle and another 100k race secure behind me. Hell, I've done this race before…TWICE. I've completed both times, under the 20 hour mark. And I'm older and wiser than both of the previous runs.
I was also about four weeks out of my best race form this year, thanks to work commitments and an ill timed kidney stone.
Friday night, race check in…I didn't have the nerves that I've had in the past; I knew what to expect. I didn't even bother going to the race briefing, knowing that the course was well marked and that I had travelled all of it many times before.
On Saturday morning, I was woken at 5:00 am by a rooster crowing in the pre-dawn gloom. There was no pit of the stomach anxiety, no fear…and, truth be told, not all that much excitement. Just a methodical "get it done" pre-race prep…shower, gel and lube the appropriate bits, spend a bit of extra time on the soles of my feet and kit up in my running gear. By 6:00 am, I was off towards the start line for my start.
At the start line, the normal scenes of chaos reigned…first time runners with eyes the size of dinner plates, the excited "HEY! Great to see you" from friends and the continual watching of the clock, as the waves before my wave were let loose on the course. I was wave 6 of 7, right near the back of the field, and at 6:55 we were loaded into the starting chute….200 bodies, pressed tight in the early morning chill. The crowd was crazy with sound, cameras everywhere and screams of "Good luck" and "GO HARD YOU CRAZY BASTARDS" coming from all sides.
6:56…"Wave 6 Runners, you've got 60 seconds until start…" The PA begins blaring AC/DC's "Highway to Hell" and the moshpit of uberfit ultra runners starts to pulse to the beat. Right on cue, at the first chorus, we get the count down…
"5"
"4"
"3"
"2"
"1 and you're away…welcome to UTA!"
and the crowd surges forward, crossing the timing mat under the start/finish arch and dashing for the first corner.
It's at this point that those of us who have run this beast before step calmly to one side and let the virgins pass…to sprint, from a cold start, into the opening road hill of a 100k race is, quite honestly, asinine. Sure, you trot it out a little bit for the crowd…you don't want to have them screaming their heads off as you slowly mosey away at a brisk walk…but to emulate Usain Bolt while being laden as heavily as a small pack animal is nothing short of comical.
The first 5k of UTA is run on road…2.5 up a hill, turn and 2.5 back down the same hill. They route the course this way to spread the field out a bit before plunging us into the narrow trail of Furber Stairs. This 5k is all about settling the pack on your shoulders, feeling your ankles warm and slowing down your pace to something which is manageable over the distance. I continually remind myself of an older woman whom I met on the start line in 2013…
"If you think you're going too fast, you are. Slow down. If you think you're going just right, then you're going too fast. Slow down. If you think you're moving too slow, then wait a kilometre and check your time. You're probably still going too fast."
The hills of Katoomba and the surrounding areas where UTA is run through are nothing short of brutal and the race really doesn't start until the 56k mark at Checkpoint 4. Get there in one piece and then…maybe….you can have a run.
For me, I was settled pretty quickly, although too hot. I'd come to the start line prepped for cold temps…traditionally, Katoomba is in the single digits around this race, and I was dressed for it. By the time we began the descent to the bottom of Scenic World at 6k, I was overheating and had to strip off my outer layers and reload my pack…only a five minute exercise, but still one which breaks the rhythm.
But for me, yesterday, that settle never really happened. I was keenly aware that I was running alone and that the calm and peace of a long run wasn't happening. It felt too hot, I didn't settle into my nutrition plan, the climbs were too steep…any number of little issues kept popping up and kept me from reaching that calm state which you've gotta reach to truly cover distance.
Ever have trouble falling asleep? Just when you doze off, you remember that you need to take the dog in for his shots. Or that something at work needs to be done. Or that you're going to run out of shirts if you don't do laundry tomorrow.
That's what it was like in my head. Fitful running.
At Checkpoint 1, a mere 11k into the trek, I elected to run straight through as I had enough water and fuel to get me to the next checkpoint, 21k down the path. Everything felt good, aside from being aware that I was running a 100k ultra…if this makes sense.
At 32k, Checkpoint 2 rolled into view and I restocked with water and fuel before quickly heading out. Legs felt relatively fresh and in front of me lay Iron Pot.
Let me pause for a second…Iron Pot and the ridge behind it are on private aboriginal land, open only for the race. The local aboriginal gentlemen sit up on the top of the ridge with clap sticks and a couple of didgeridoos…to get to the ridge, you're faced with a testicle clenching (if you've got the appropriate anatomy) vertical scramble up what looks like a double black diamond ski slope. At the top, the terrain levels out a bit and you can trot through the bush trail towards the ridge line…the sound of the didge and clap sticks reaches your ears and all conversations cease as we're transformed from trail runners competing to finish an event to just runners moving silently across the ground through history. On either side of the ridge, the ground drops away by a couple hundred meters…the views are worth the climb and the spirituality of the moment is something I've treasured each of the three times I've been privileged enough to experience it.
Yesterday, as I glided across the ridge, I almost stopped for a photo. I almost paused in the shadow of the music, thinking "will you be up here again?" But, as with each time before, the race clock began ticking again and I plunged off the ridgeline into the downhill scramble to continue the course.
Now, from Checkpoint 3 at the base of the Megalong Valley to Checkpoint 4, in Katoomba, there are only 11 short kilometres. But there's also almost 800 meters of vertical climb, most of it sandwiched into a 1k grinder called "Nellies Glen." About a quarter of the way up, my right ITB began to say things to me.
"Heya…I'm your ITB. Remember me?"
And, "oh, wow…that's a big step. Are you sure you want to put that kind of pressure on me? I won't like it."
And finally, "Ouch."
That simple. And that quick. I've experienced ITB before this…I know, first hand, how much it can hurt. And how little control you have once it begins hurting. I did the only sane thing I could think of…I loaded myself up with pain killers.
At the top of Nellies, I began running again, trying to settle the pain down…or, at least, trying to make friends with it to see if we could bear to be in each other's companionship for the next 43k. At Checkpoint 4, my wonderfully supportive crew pumped me full of hot noodles and I spent 10 minutes on a massage therapist's couch, letting him work his deep tissue magic on me. 20 minutes after coming into the checkpoint, I had my night gear on and was back out the door, trying to learn to run again on the growing pain in my leg.
These thoughts were on my mind as I pushed through the 60k mark, on my way up to Echo Point and the beginning of the Giant Staircase.
And then it happened…at the beginning of the stairs, a mere 150 out of 1000 down, my knee folded and I caught myself from falling by grabbing the railing. There was a v e r y long moment where I stood, at an angle, before easing myself down to the next platform, right against the midway section of the Three Sisters. To the right of me was Scenic World, at the top of the escarpment…leading up the escarpment on Furber Stairs were dozens of runners, lit by their headlamps, slowing grinding up the last climb to their moment of glory at the finish line. Stretched to the left was the trail heading back down the valley to Checkpoint 5, 25k in the distance on the far ridge.
Although it wasn't needed, a lonely wind swept through the valley as I sat there…I was alone enough, and I was coming to terms with the end of my adventure. A quick call to Dimi and Graham for ideas, a second call to Sebastian…and then a further few moments on the stairs.
I've run this race twice before. I've come down those stairs countless times in training, and I know what comes after them. But not last night. I sat for a while, watching the lights of the runners who I wouldn't be joining this year…for a moment, I rationalised it by knowing that if I continued down the stairs, I'd be risking not only myself but also the poor medical team who'd have to dig me out. I thought of the pain which I'd experienced before as ITB kicks into the point that the leg no longer works. I thought of how cold it was and how lonely that damned wind sounded.
But these thoughts were quickly replaced with the calm acceptance of the situation…how lucky I was to even be there, how far I've come with the minimal training I'd gotten in and how much my Achilles didn't hurt. With a sigh more from the pain than from the moment, I pulled myself to my feet and began the climb back up the Stairs to withdraw from the race.
Let me be absolutely candid about this…I was underdone. Under trained. If I'd had another four weeks (as my pre-surgery schedule had listed), I'd have strengthened that muscle group up enough to perhaps…PERHAPS….continue. I didn't, and that is just the way it goes sometimes. My first ever Did Not Finish was as much a learning experience as all of my successful completions.
Today, after a big breakfast, Dimity, Graham and myself headed out to Sublime Point to look over the course. Standing on the edge of the cliff, looking at the majesty of Jamison Valley, Mount Solitary and the surrounding cliffs, I was overcome with sadness…sadness not at my DNF, but sadness that I feel every year after this magnificent adventure. I tried. I got to the start line. I failed. But, had I finished, I'd have been just as sad.
I remember, again very clearly, standing at the base of Furber Stairs with Dimity two years ago as we ran it hand in hand. 99k in, I was sad that it was coming to an end. Pain and all.
So I close the book on this year's UTA100…sore and broken but happy and richer in the experience. And my only sorrow is that it is over and that it won't come around again for another 52 weeks.