A Well Executed Plan

I've visualised this exact moment for almost a year…sitting, with my laptop, looking back over the amazing race I've just taken part in and writing it up. Everything, from the initial slow runs in November through to the long trail runs in April…the nutrition planning, the pain management, the shoe/sock combination…the whole smash. The only thing I didn't visualise was the first sentence.

UTA 100 is one of life's bookmarks for me…what has become, for the past five years, an annual event, whether I've run it or not (and I've been on the start line four out of the five). It has changed the way I look at running, and at life…I still remember the first time I checked in to UTA race registration (although back then it was called The North Face 100), surrounded by a pack of exceptionally fast looking athletes, none of which had even the slightest hint of body fat. I was so intimidated that I had to leave the room…it wasn't until Dimi calmed me down that I was able to join the group at the prerace dinner, feeling quite ill with anxiety.

This year, however, was different…this was the first year that I truly felt the right to be on the start line. I'd done the distance, written the plan, and taken control of as much of the puzzle as possible. This was, in many respects, my first ultramarathon.

But enough ruminations…let's talk about the day.

Last year, I skipped the race briefing…just ran in for the quick registration and then headed back to my accommodation, barely hanging out at the Festival of Runners. This year, I came up early and soaked in the atmosphere. It was raining and there was a blanket of fog over the cliff tops as I walked down to the top of Furber Steps to watch the tail end of the 22k runners come up the trail. Mud was everywhere and I could see the effort they'd put in during their relatively short sprint.

Of all the notes to self I've made over the years, this one is most important: ALWAYS go to the race briefings and prerace activities. Not just for the information, but for the gee-up and inclusion.

It was also where my race plan was thrown into chaos: rain had forced a major course change and the closure of Checkpoint 3. Even worse, a significant amount of rain was forecast overnight, meaning that an already wet course was going to deteriorate into a mud run by the time I came through.

Of all the notes to self I've made over the years, this one is most important: NEVER let something you can't change affect you. I started to freak out slightly, trying to visualise the changes, calculating times, splits, climb effort…and it all got too much. Just let it go.

Back at Chez Gunny, I laid out my race gear, loaded my check point gear and went over my race plan. Again. I was running, this year, for a sub 19 hour finish and had been doing everything based not on how my body felt at the moment, but on how my time per kilometre was tracking. I figured if I could maintain an average of 9:36 per kilometre over 100k, I'd cross in 16 hours.

"9:36," I hear you say? "Nine minutes and thirty-six bloody seconds?!? Per kilometre? I walk my dog faster than that!"

True. You probably do. But not over vertical terrain (this year had an estimated 5k of vertical climb). And stairs. And single track along cliff edges.

Saturday morning's alarm went off at 5:15, and, as usual, I woke at 5:13, minutes before. Quick shower, a banana for breakfast, and a light shudder as I realised I was still hearing rain on the roof.

Rain spattered on the pavement like hot oil in a wok. The pre-dawn light was almost completely extinguished by the fog, and it wasn't until I was almost on top of the start line that I realised that there were hundreds of people lining the streets and crowding the area.

Tom begins to whip up the crowd as the 30 second mark comes and goes…one last slow blink of the eyes, internal check of my breath, pulse and race checklist….the obligatory countdown from 10 and boom…

It's amazing to me, the boundary conditions of life…like jumping into a swimming pool: one second you're dry and comfortable, the next you're immersed in cold water and wondering why you didn't stay dry and comfortable in the first place. For me, one moment I was quietly minding my own business, standing in the rain with 219 other oddly dressed people…a moment later, I'm running through the mountains in rain and fog.

Of all the notes to self I've made over the years, this one is most important: STICK TO YOUR RACE PLAN.

Past the start line at the 4k mark, we got one last chance to run through the crowd; kids lined the streets with raised hands for High-Fives, cowbells ringing…even a morning breakfast table set up in someone's yard – the two couples were having champagne and toasting the runners as we came by.

The Golden Stairs…the first real climb of the day. Single file conga line, no real place to pass, and my first point of seeing how I felt going straight up. The field around me was gasping and slow, but I was fine; sure, a tough climb, but nowhere near the effort from last year.

Of all the notes to self I've made over the years, this one is most important: Race training pays off.

I'm not going to walk through the entire course…people have done that many times over and, quite honestly, I don't want to drag anyone through it; but for the rest of the day, until sunset and well past, this small core of people shared my trail and made my race.

But something weird was happening…I wasn't slowing my pace…it was already relatively slow. My breath was well under control, my emotions in check. But I was starting to pass people. Not quickly, but consistently. Listening to the people around me, I could hear complaints of ITB, fatigue, flattened energy…

Something else happened on that leg to Checkpoint 5: I ran alone for a half hour or so, completely in my own space. No other runners, no other lights. The sky was completely clear and washed fresh from the rain. The moon had set long ago and the stars were as clear as I'd seen them in many years. I watched Venus rise and saw the International Space Station orbit past it. I was running…with 70k in my legs…and felt completely at peace.

I will run this race for as many years as I can for the chance to experience those 30 minutes again.

In the Checkpoint proper, Graham and Nick were there waiting for me. My stomach had pretty much shut down to the thought of anything solid and I was still carrying a Cliff bar from the very start of the race. As I was sitting there, in my own little quiet, contemplating the last 20k, Nick leaned in and said, "Ok…you've held back all day. You're still relatively fresh and you look great. Now's the time to let it all go. Time to get to work."

That's all it took. A few simple words, and all of the training that I've done kicked in.

I came out of the checkpoint with a cup of hot noodles in my hands, working my way back up Tablelands Road…on the way, I was passed by Dimity and Cara in Graham's car, Dimi leaning out the window screaming, "go Dougie!" Even more gee-up.

Coming up the hill at a walk/trot, I passed my first two people…I'd seen their headlights and safety vests in front of me and just ran them down. As I passed, I saw my next target a couple of hundred metres in front…and kicked it in to catch them. Into Rocket Point, down Wentworth, across to Conservation Hut…I kept seeing people in front of me and putting them behind me. Coming up to the corner of the Fairmont, I saw two guys death marching through a crowd who were cheering them on…I kicked into a sprint and danced around them, absolutely revelling in the crowd response.

Through Gordon Falls, down Leura Cascades…bombing along at a pace I'd barely manage during the day with fresh legs…and then in Federal Pass, with a mere 3k to go, I caught up with a long train of runners on a single file section. Quick tap on the shoulder of the person at the back and I jumped over them, like a sheepdog through the flock.

As you come into the final little climb of Furber, visibility opens to a couple of hundred metres in front of you. Normally, just a patch of bush where the T intersection is, tonight it is marked with a dozen spectators, each pushing me on:

"Come on, Doug….push it," and "you've got this…this is the end of the climb."

At the T intersection, hard left turn and scramble up a few steps onto the board walk…every time I've done this in the past, I've barely been able to lift my feet. Tonight, it's different – I'm leaning in, running, actually ACCELERATING up the boardwalk to the main pavilion area of Scenic World.

"And coming in fast, we've got Doug Boyd…he DNF'd last year, but is looking strong at the end now," I hear the race announcer call as the finish line comes into view. I lengthen my stride, quicken my pace and LEAN into it, pushing, relishing the last drop of energy as it leaves my tank, hitting the finish line in a full on sprint.

Just like that, the boundary is broken. I've jumped back out of the water. My race is finished and I've left the course behind me, carrying with me an experience which will last a lifetime. Oh…and race bling…a beautiful bronze buckle for a sub 20 hour finish, a nice shirt and a UTA towel.

What an amazing event. An amazing day. And an amazing training season. I executed my race plan to the tee and completed pretty much where I thought I would, without pain or injury. I am so incredibly blessed to have the support of such wonderful people in my life…Dimity, my folks, my fellow runners, my work community…and equally blessed to have a body which seems to not mind this sort of abuse.

Finally, I close as I often do…with an invitation. Come join me. On the trail. On the road. At an airfield or in a workshop. Anywhere but in front of a television. I'm going to do this for years to come, having already signed up for a marathon this coming weekend and Mt. Solitary the weekend after. Come out, see the stars, feel the cool breeze and taste the morning.

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