A diminishing sense of the impossible - Tarawera 102k

Lying on the grass for twenty minutes, the knots in my shoulders from the backpack screaming at me, the salt on my face tightening the lines around my eyes into a grimace as I stared into the eyes of friends and family, full of self-doubt.

That was November at the Buried Village.

Thirty-five kilometers on Rotorua’s trails is a long way and on a bad day they can find you out. The Tarawera 50km was still torturously fresh in my mind in the days approaching what I hoped would be my longest ever event. If I felt like that then, how could I complete the 102km?

Like many of us, I never set out to be an ‘ultra runner’. I still don’t consider myself that. But I’d somehow worked my way through the distances – the 62km, then the 87km – with each event a greater sense of accomplishment and a diminishing sense of the impossible. Invincibility is a powerful feeling, but right now I felt vulnerable.

Phantom niggles, reflection on the amount of training I’d done, memories of past traumas. Race week was internalised psychological warfare. People believed in me, but I didn’t believe in myself.

The morning of the race arrived and I woke to the sound of torrential rain. I rolled over to check my phone and a message from my running pal, Mike Leopard read “Av/pace out the door. Finishing in this is gunna be huge.” The truth in that statement.

I’d made the decision to run the first part of the run with a Rotorua Trail Running Club pal, Ben Alton. Probably the friendliest person to have ever existed, certainly the most positive, but crucially for me someone who had planned every part of the run meticulously.  I’ve always believed that to be succesful you need to surround yourself with people better than yourself. Ben was just that.

As we left the start line in Kawerau and made our way across the golf course, Ben was beside me; bouncing, beaming and reigning me in as he narrated our current pace, heart rate, air temperature and angle of the sun. This was actually scientific and not my usual spring out the blocks.

We were soon on some beautiful single-track, weaving our way high above the Tarawera River which we could hear roaring below us. Leaf-litter lined the trails which were soft but compact, the light drizzle barely noticeable under the ferns.

And then I felt something. “Arrgh” and then another. “Owww!”. People all around me now, yelping and hopping up and down, as we each got hit in turn by wasps. “Why the arse?!” I found myself saying, clasping my right buttock! There was something comedic about the yells which slowly faded into the distance behind us.

The single track opened to forestry road and we were soon at the first aid station, 10km in. The world was a beautiful place.. food tasted great and knowing there was an outside chance my family would be there at Titoki was a big motivation to keep moving. Ben and I were joined by Anna Longdill and we formed something of a triumvirate; an alliance of strength!

Feeling good on the forestry roads. Photo by Photos4Sale

My calves started hurting pretty early on; the left calf had taken the worse of the wasp stings, while I was still feeling the pinch in my right calf from a dead-leg I’d picked up at soccer three weeks previous.  I popped a salt tablet or two. “Anyone else got any niggles I asked?” The three of us were all a little surprised to be feeling one thing or another so early in the race, as we hit the quarter mark.  I kept reminding myself to hold my posture well.. not a chance I was finishing this if my back was in pieces.

I really enjoyed this opening part of the race. Apart from the obvious elevation that comes with the territory, brushing against some wet vegetation or leaping a few muddy puddles was about as hard as life got 

We arrived at Titoki and Ben confirmed we were bang on target. My wife Louisa and our three boys cheered us in – like adrenaline for the soul. For them, the journey there had been as much of a mission by car, bus and foot. These guys are the real heroes of the day and part of the beauty of what makes these such epic events.

From here, it’s hard to try and put in to words what happened next.

It was when we left the Tarawera Falls car park that the race took on a whole new perspective. Having seen hundreds of runners before us and after the absolute deluge of rain, the trail was like nothing I’d run on before.

The trails were heavy. Really heavy. Cake mixture heavy.

Eight inches of wet, thick squelchy mud, the full width of the track. There was no way to avoid the mud. Going round the edge risked slipping off down the bank.  Every downhill was out of control. Every uphill my trail shoes bore no purchase on the clay-like shiny mud. Every third step was a slip and every slip something jarred.

Runners clung to anything they could grab hold of as they traversed the steeper downhills. Human trains started forming, twenty runners deep as people dug their nails into the banks or grasped the wispiest of ferns for dear life.

By the Outlet my hip flexors were not fun. I popped some paracetamol. I was absolutely drenched through as the rain started falling heavily. My boxers and inner thighs had by now become as one. I took on some food but started shivering quite badly as I searched for things in my bag. I looked at my phone for the first time, but the screen was too wet and I couldn’t get the pin to work as my fingers shook. With nothing dry to wipe it on, I threw it back in my bag.

I’d left nothing dry in my Outlet drop bag – I hadn’t even considered changing this early. “I have to go” I said to Ben, who was changing his shoes. I was desperate to get my body temperature back up.

It was a real battle from here to Okatania and I made the mistake at Humphries  Bay of not stopping.  I’d been caught behind a big group and my thinking was to use an aid station skip as a chance to make up time. Error. The first time I went to drink from my bladder climbing out of the bay, it ran dry.

I faced 10km without water, and I started to panic a little bit and lose my mental game. That distance, in these conditions, on that trail might take me close to two hours.  Two hours without water.  I took my cup out and ran with it open, in the hope of collecting rain water. I collected nothing. I sucked at the peak of my cap. Like I said, I was losing my mind a little bit. The best thing I could do was just move quickly.

I’ve never been so pleased to reach anywhere as running in to Okataina. So many big smiles from supporters, a change of clothes.. and water! Ben ran in moments later.

If the Eastern Okataina had been bad then the Western, which was yet to come, was twice as bad. The next six kilometers had 400m of elevation, on clay. At the top of the ascent, having fallen once and having had a not insignificant tree branch literally land on my head. I was done.

65km in and I was ready to throw in the towel. 

I started swearing (I don’t swear). Ben could see I was not good. “Have you eaten?” he asked. I hadn’t. I also needed a piss - the sort of piss that would fill a thimble and glow in the dark, but I went anyway, and chewed my way through a Clif bar, one crumb at a time.I had been hangry. And my mood lifted.

The Western Okataina was awful. I don’t want to use the description ‘Battle of the Somme’ so I won’t, but I’m also struggling to find adjectives for what we had to battle through.  But in a perverse way it was also uplifting. The idea that at the end of this trail we were on tarseal, fuelled us.

You could hear the Miller Road aid station coming, as speakers boomed out tune after tune. I found myself literally dancing into the open. Elated.

And that was it. The moment I knew I was going to finish this one… 

75km in, 6km from meeting the family again, and picking up my pacer Kate. Nothing silly now, just constant forward movement 

The Blue Lake was so buzzy and awash with familiar faces. It felt like the whole of Rotorua was there and encouragement came at me from every angle.

“You will not believe the messages people have been sending” said Louisa. “I can’t tell you. People so want you to do this! I’ve been trying to keep them updated but I can’t answer them all!”

A powerful moment 

So close to Rotorua now, more and more friends unexpectedly turned up on the side of the road to cheer me; neighbours, pals, running club buddies. “What are you doing here?” I’d say, “Louisa has been keeping us updated, we’re here to cheer you on!”

Pure adrenaline now.

Kate, who had paced me on the 87km the year before, encouraged me the whole way; “Still plenty of strength there!” she said as we took on Tokorangi Pa in the dark. My headtorch flashing at me as it tried to die.

One last aid station at the Redwoods. We were already home. My spirit sang.

By Sulphur Flats it was like standing at the altar; my heart was racing as that beautiful bride was about to come into sight. The exhilaration was all consuming. I’m sure we were running 3-minute kms by this stage.

And that was it. I was a 100km finisher.

Words are overrated.

I was back lying on the grass, but this time I was drinking beer and I could stare into those same people’s eyes all night long.

THE FINISH! Photo credit Tony Whitehead.