Why am I doing this? The Northburn 100 Miler.

Since discovering long distance trail running some 20 years ago I’ve done my fair share of epic shit. But until very recently one thing – one important ‘right of passage’ – had still not been ticked off. I was still to do a ‘miler’ (a 100 mile race.)

I’ve run 100 kms+ a dozen or so times, but doing a miler would necessitate running 50 kms more than I’d ever done in one go before. And, given that I’d chosen one of the toughest milers on the planet to lose my virginity to, it would also require close to 10,000m of climbing (and the same of descent) to get to the finish line. Actually, when I say “I’d chosen” what I really mean is “Sal had chosen”, for my entry into the Northburn 100 was a birthday present from my dear wife! Still, at least she had the decency to enter herself for her own first miler too.

The idea of what lay ahead of us dominated our thoughts and our training for a good six months. I’m sufficiently long in the tooth now that I don’t really get too freaked out or nervous about big running missions, but this one had me very worried and in the week leading up to the race I was losing my cool on a regular basis. We’d had a great summer full of long days in the mountains – plenty of 'hike up, jog down, time on feet’ sojourns – so I knew I had the requisite physical base and the all-important experience of dealing with pain and dark places. But this still felt like such a humungous ask that would make demands on my mind and body that I wasn’t totally sure I could handle. Ah well, as I often tell other people, “if you know you can do it it’s not a true challenge”.

Sal's mantras, written in permanent marker on her arm

Friday afternoon, 16th March. We drive the campervan from home to Northburn Station, one of the first vehicles to arrive. This gives us plenty of time to get the Wild Things gazebo and flags set up, get registered and set about last-minute preparations in a relaxed frame of mind. Race Director Terry Davis’s briefing is a hilarious affair. He just tells it like it is, leaving us in no doubt that we’re about to embark on something truly horrendous. Then it’s an early dinner and early to bed. Sleeping 20 metres from the start line is a big bonus and the gaggle of vans and tents being used by quite a few competitors creates a nice village feel. All very nice, but it doesn’t help either of us sleep. I have my alarm set for 4 a.m. but awake from a fitful slumber at 3 a.m. and soon give up on the hope of any more zzzzz’s. Why am I doing this? I ask myself.

Breakfast, get dressed, go over the pre-start checklist one last time and head to the start, where people have been gathering in the dark for a wee while now. The mood is buoyant with an underlying tension that is hard to disguise. I’ve been ready for this moment – desperate for it through the long two-week taper period – and now, finally it’s about to happen!

Sal & I line up side by side, well back in the field so as not to start off too fast. We’ve hatched a plan to at least start together, but any thoughts about doing the whole thing as a twosome are vague. We just don’t know how things will work out. What will be will be I guess. 

6 a.m. and we’re off, a procession of head torches illuminating the surrounding paddocks. Almost straight away Sal is into her stride, while I feel stiff and am slow to get going. Before we’ve gone a couple of hundred metres she’s ahead, not looking back. “So much for starting together!” I think, but know I have to do my own thing and am not tempted to push any harder to catch up. Instead I concentrate on establishing a steady rhythm and a relaxed breathing pattern. In through the nose, out through the mouth; in through the nose, out through the mouth; in through the nose, out through the mouth… except I’m feeling really stuffed up and can’t breath through my nose at all. Grrrrr….

The first 5 kms takes us on a loop around farm tracks almost back to the start. Towards the end of this I find myself alongside my old buddy James Harcombe. Sal has disappeared, going well somewhere ahead of us. James complains about not having managed number 2’s before the start and takes a detour to the toilet to ‘drop the kids off at the pool’. No doubt I’ll see him again before too long, this man eats hills for breakfast.

Soon we’re getting stuck into the first serious climb – one that will see us ascend some 1,500m over 16 kms to the highest point of the course. The first section is all on farm track, alternatively gentle and steep in gradient, all easy enough on fresh legs just so long as I don’t push too hard. Actually, pushing hard feels just about impossible as I’m still having difficulty with my breathing and my heart rate feels accelerated as a result. Hmmm, not good. Why am I doing this?

Getting stuck into the first big climb - why does it never look so steep in photos?

Half way up this first big climb we leave the farm track and start heading cross-country on sketchy animal trails. It gets steeper. And colder. I can see Sal a few hundred metres ahead, making it look ridiculously easy - they don’t call her ‘Gazelle’ for nothing. We climb further, heading towards the cloud that obscures the top of the range. The gap between Sal and I doesn’t close. James passes me, also making it look effortless. I’m focusing on pacing myself sensibly, not going too hard. There is still SUCH a long way to go.

Towards the top of the climb we come to one of my favourite parts of the course – an exposed ridgeline where the going is rough and cloud makes picking out the next marker a little more challenging. Then we’re dropping into a delightful wee basin where we follow the creek downwards on spongy soft grass before taking a left and starting the long final ascent, again following a watercourse, to make the main ridgeline of the Dunstan Range, from which the cloud only now, as if by magic, lifts!

The barren expanse of the main ridgeline

The first big climb is almost done and as I near the aid station I see Sal is still there. She waits, greeting me with “at last! I missed you” (awwwhhh, gushy moment) and we set off downhill together. It’s taken us over 4 ½  hours to get this far. We’ve covered about 24 kms and still have 137 kms to go! Why am I doing this?

The first part of the descent is a delight, once again following a creek on untracked spongy terrain.

Pic by Photos4Sale

But fun doesn’t last long on this course and soon we’re climbing through scratchy shrub (thank God for these Moxie gaiters) to rejoin the farm road and the brutal, body-bashing 1,000m descent that makes up the next 13 kms or so.  Sal and I are still together and towards the bottom we catch James. We’ll stick with him around the Loop of Deception all the way back to base, where the first 50 km loop is completed. It’s warmed up now and the thought of an ice cold ginger beer is what keeps my spirits up over the last few kms. My target time for this first section is 8:40. I run into the home base marquee, just behind Sal & James, in 8:39:59, one second ahead of schedule (shit, am I going too fast?!)

We’d given ourselves 20 minutes to eat, drink, re-provision and gather ourselves for Loop 2. Our friends Lisa & Chris rush around and help us get sorted as efficiently as possible, but Sal’s got some hot spots on her feet that need attention and we’re 5 minutes late leaving the tent. Almost straight away James shows his class on the hill and we’re eating his dust. I’ve scoffed a huge slice of bacon & egg pie during our stop and the extra weight sits heavy in my stomach. Still, I’m sure I’ll be glad of those calories later in the day/night/day ahead.

Then Sal, whose bacon & egg pie intake has been more measured, starts springing up the hill at a pace I can’t match. I’m on my own again with a seemingly endless 1,500m of climbing ahead of me. It’s pretty darned warm now and I realise I haven’t loaded up with enough water for the conditions. Shit!, why am I doing this?

By the time I reach the next aid station I’m starting to feel the effects of mild dehydration. I gulp down a large glass of water and fill two 500ml soft flasks with more. I grind on up the hill, starting on one side of the infamous ‘Loop of Despair’, feeling a little better. Sal is now out of sight ahead of me, still looking strong according to Dan Miller who I pass along the way. I realise I’m now 61 kms into the race (about 10 ½ hrs have passed) and I pull out my phone to record a Live Video to mark the fact that I ‘only’ have 100 kms to go! At this stage I’m feeling strong but before too long I start to feel sluggish. I think maybe a hit of sugar will help so I scoff a Twix bar. I regret this almost immediately as a wave of nausea hits me. I’m still feeling shit when I catch up to Sal towards the top of the steepest section of the climb.

We tackle the gentler, but seemingly never-ending, final slopes together. I’m still feeling crook and wondering how long it’ll be before I’m forced to stick my fingers down my throat. The answer is “not long”. Just as we start the ridgeline traverse towards Leaning Rock I throw my poles to the ground and assume the undignified puking position. But nothing will come up. I’m dry retching. I try again. Nothing. Why the hell am I doing this? Curiously though, despite this unsuccessful attempt at purging my guts, I start to feel better and before long all vestiges of miserableness are cast aside as we rejoice in the surroundings. The sun is low in the sky and the colours of nature are exploding all around us. Now there’s nowhere I’d rather be – ah the pernicious pendulum of emotions that make up ultra running eh?! 

Heading towards Leaning Rock at the top of Loop 2

Shortly before Leaning Rock we meet one of the race organisers, our mate Ed Stevens. He dispenses some welcome hugs and good wishes and is rapped to see us out here doing this together. Five minutes closer to Leaning Rock we’re on the out-and-back section of farm road and meet James coming the other way, still looking ridiculously fresh. From this point on he opens up the gap between us – maybe 15 minutes when we see him – to a ridiculous 8+ hours by the finish. The man’s a machine!

Heading for TW, top of Loop 2

With Leaning Rock ticked off we descend towards the setting sun and the legendary TW aid station where we are reunited with our drop boxes. Sal’s feet need more attention and I need tea – lots of it! – so we spend longer there than planned. Before leaving we pull on extra warm layers as there’s a cold wind whipping across the tops. There then follows a glorious half hour of majestic views, the landscape set alight by the sun as it dips below the western horizon. We both remark that our legs are feeling amazingly fine, but we’re both apprehensive about the long hours of darkness that we’re slipping in to.

There’s a cruelly long descent and then an even crueler climb towards Mt. Horn. We’ve been on our feet for some 15 hours and the thought of food is becoming less and less appealing. The night now folds around us like a shroud and I’m starting to feel nauseous again. Yep, really nauseous. Why am I doing this?

Then I have a revelation. I’ve never listened to music while out running or walking, my soundtrack of choice always being that provided by Mother Nature. But I had thought that some upbeat sounds might help with the long trudge through the night here at Northburn, and now seemed like a good time to whip out the MP3 player. Ten minutes later, as I tunelessly sing along to Nick Cave and the Badseeds (sorry Sal!) I realise that I’ve stopped thinking about how crook I feel and hey, I don’t even feel sick any more! Cured by music, who’d have thought it?!

On Mt. Horn it’s pitch black and we have a moment of confusion when we spot a light coming up the hill from what appears to be totally the opposite direction to that in which we are heading. Our tired brains struggle to compute and we worry that we’ve maybe taken a wrong turn somehow. Then the owner of the said light, a young Englishman by the name of Robert Wooley, appears out of the darkness. We quiz him on his direction of travel and soon establish that he is already on the 3rd loop, a ridiculous number of hours ahead of us. He’s looking more like a zombie than a runner and complains that “my quads are totally trashed”. Oh, the joys that still await us many hours from now. And we’re doing this because….?

Despite Robert’s reassurance that we’re on the right track (actually he says something like “I’ve no idea where we are but I’m sure it’s the right place!”) we stop to check the map. Good, we really are in the right place. And just a short downhill stretch now takes us to the Mt. Horn aid station. Beyond this wee oasis in the desert the downhill continues, at first on farm road and then through some rough, scrubby stuff to finally pick up a lower track that traverses the hillside parallel to the Cromwell Gorge, passing in and out of a series of gullies. All this time the lights of Cromwell taunt us, never seeming to get any closer despite the steady tick of kms that pass under our increasingly sore feet.

Eventually the track starts tilting downhill again. This should be a welcome change that heralds an increase in pace, but the descents are starting to hurt big time and any increase in tempo is barely detectable. One sore foot in front of the other we plod along, using our poles to save our knees as much as possible, and finally we reach Brewery Creek aid station – the 89 km point – a little after midnight. Here we are told that Sal is leading the women’s race, but as well as being a welcome surprise this is pressure that she doesn’t really want. “I came here for a buckle not a win” she utters.

Now all that lies between us and the much-anticipated return to base camp is the dreaded Pylon Track. This infamous stretch of mind-screwing farm road undulates and snakes its way parallel to the shore of Lake Dunstan, making the most of every opportunity to add to the straight line distance by climbing in and out of gullies and gulches. It seems never ending. Why am I doing this?

As we near the end of this second loop we get close to lake level again and the temperature, that had been mild on most of the descent from TW, now plummets as we hit some kind of cold air sink. The plod continues, broken by the occasional attempt at jogging, and at 2.45 a.m. – just five minutes behind my goal time – we shuffle into the start/finish tent and are greeted by the smiling faces of Chris & Pete (who has taken over support duties from his pregnant wife Lisa.)

This is the point in the race where the mental tenacity of runners is tested to the max. We’ve already been on our feet for some 21 hours and the temptation to say “enough is enough” and crawl into the warm comfort of our campervan is immense. But no, we’re not done yet. We WANT this badly and we WILL carry on. But first Sal’s blisters need some serious attention. The medics are summoned and spend a long time removing crumpled Compeed and re-dressing her feet. Meantime I force down a hot Back Country dehy meal and whatever else I can stomach (which is not a lot.) 

The planned 20-minute stop extends to almost an hour but eventually we’re back on our feet and traipsing out into the cold night, buoyed by the hugs and good wishes of the small group of wonderful people who are giving up their sleep to help not only us, but also the small trickle of others who come and go through the night. This is all part of the special, unique spirit that Northburn conjures up year after year, and without it I’m sure the drop-out rate would be even higher than it is.

We’re only a few hundred metres into the final 60 km loop when one of Sal’s freshly-dressed blisters pops! Her distress is heartbreaking to see and I briefly wonder if this might break her resolve to carry on. But no, this girl is made of tough stuff and it’s going to take a lot more than that to derail her dream. She’s hobbling but little by little the pain settles as the endorphins kick in.

At this stage we’re re-tracing our steps along the flattish final couple of kms of the second loop, but soon we branch off and starting heading uphill again. It’s steep and relentless, the final summit of this climb several hours away and still smothered in darkness. We’ve been leapfrogging our mate Matt Hamblett ever since the start and now we pass him, weaving from side to side, as he desperately tries to fight off the sleep monsters that are attacking him from all angles. It’s not long before I realise that I too am feeling desperately sleep deprived. Oh, for a lie down at the side of the track and a quick kip! It’s time for another blast of music…

Just when we feel like we’ve made some really solid uphill progress the route markers lead us off the main trail and down a steep untracked slope, all so we can climb steeply over rough ground spiked with Spiny Spaniards to the next farm track. If I could get my hands on the cruel sadistic bastard that set this course (Terry Davis) he’d be sorry. Why am I doing this?

We’ve made it most of the way through the night by the time we start the final climb back to Mt Horn. As we reach it the first streaks of red paint the eastern skyline and we can make out the outline of the summit. Our befuddled brains struggle to get their bearings as in the half light it all looks so different to when we passed this way many hours ago in complete darkness. Have we gone the wrong way? Again we stop to check the map but are reassured that we’ve not gone wrong. Ten minutes later we’re arriving at Mt Horn aid station for the second time and are told that Glenn Sutton has just finished and won the race in a time of 24 ½ hours. We plod on up the hill to make our inglorious return to the TW aid station.

More tea, more blister care but not so much food (I’m really quite over it now, down to munching on ginger nuts and the occasional nibble of cheesy oatcakes) and we’re off to conquer (haha) the infamous Loop of Despair. This entails dropping back down some 700m, using the same track we left TW on during the second loop. Only this time the feet are protesting way more. It’s steep and rocky, hard to negotiate with any grace or finesse when the legs are as wobbly as mine are feeling now. Added to which there’s no beautiful sunset this time, just the thought that by the time we start crawling back up the other side the sun will be well up and taking stabs at us.

Leaving TW to tackle the Loop of Despair. Photo by Dom Channon/Photos4Sale

As it turns out the early morning sun stays largely hidden behind clouds and at least this time we know what to expect of the never-ending 760m climb back up to the high point just above TW. It’s a long slog done in almost total silence, yet the mere presence of Sal close by is comforting. I’m so glad I didn’t have to go through the night on my own.

We’re sat at back at TW, drinking tea and nibbling on bacon & egg pie (hmmm, not sure this will actually stay down) when the second-placed woman, our good friend Polly Taylor, arrives. She sees us and immediately declares that she’s not stopping. I give Sal a nudge and ask if she wants to get going but once again she mumbles something about a buckle being enough. There will be no chase. It’s a smart call; one I know that I’d have been incapable of making if the roles were reversed!

We’re now within a marathon of the finish line – oh, is that all?! As we leave TW again we see our good pal Croydon Paton coming the other way. His eyes are empty as he utters the words “I am SO glad to be going home”. The lucky bastard is about to hit TW for the last time and then it really is the ‘run for home’. We, on the other hand, still have to do the seemingly pointless and futile out & back to Leaning Rock and then the infamous and much-feared Water Race section.

Turning around at Leaning Rock we’ve chalked up 129 kms and it’s an easy enough downhill to the point where the markers take a steep dive off the side of the road and strike off in the general direction of Hell On Earth. The descent into the Water Race (or what’s left of it) is a 400m vertical drop over rough, rocky, technical ‘trail’. On fresh legs this might be a bit of fun but right now all I can think of is how much I hate Terry Davis. For Sal, with her blisters protesting at maximum volume, it must be worse still.

And if we thought that was bad we still had the re-ascent to do at the far end of the Water Race. Half way up this seemingly never-ending gravel road grovel I remarked to Sal “now I understand the empty look in Croydon’s eyes when we saw him”. Purgatory. Why the hell am I doing this?

Plod, plod, plod and eventually we’re back at TW for the last time. I look at my watch and see we’ve now covered 142 kms. Great! Less than 20k to go I think. I’m charged with a renewed sense of energy and purpose. That is until a marshall says “off you go then, only 26 kms left!) F**k, why the hell am I doing this! 

It’s a long and painful descent on the farm road – some 800m drop over 6 or 7 kms – to reach Brewery Creek for the second time. Here we are surprised to see our mate Greg Wilkinson manning the aid station. Before we started didn’t he say “you won’t see me, my shift starts late and I’m only out there for the stragglers”? Regardless of the blow to my ego it’s great to see him and the fresh plum and peach that he feeds us is manna from Heaven.

We’re now within 12K of the finish (maybe… who knows?... I’ve now given up believing any numbers that are thrown our way.) There’s one more humongous climb out of Boundary Creek that has so many false summits it really ought to be arrested for fraud. Then we reach the last aid station at the top of the last hill to be greeted with the ‘good’ news that it’s only 6-7 kms to go and it’s pretty easy as it’s nearly all downhill. Sorry, but right now any sentence that includes the words “easy” and “downhill” is definitely an oxymoron!

We grit our teeth. We’re high on Panadol and finish line fever. This downhill is excruciating but somehow we trick our brains into ignoring the pain. We pop back out on to what I know is the final steep section of downhill, but since we were last here the lake has dropped some 300m in a freak tectonic incident. “You CANNOT be serious” I screech, “there can’t be THAT much downhill still to do!” But there is! And we do it at a decent lick, the thought of the finish line blossoming and starting to form a thin smile on our faces as we do so.

We’ve made it to within a kilometre of the end when Terry Davis appears on his mountain bike whooping and hollering like a demented schoolboy… how is it possible to love and hate a man so much all at the same time? He offers words of encouragement and then high tails it back to let the small group of diehard supporters know we’re very close. The thought of this moment has sustained us through long months of training and the past 37 hrs 32 minutes. We are about to finish the Northburn 100, one of the hardest 100 mile foot races on the planet, and we’re doing so holding hands and grinning like Cheshire cats, all pain forgotten in this moment of glory.

And then we're done. It's been a precious experience to share with my soul mate and I'm bursting with pride at all she conquered to make it through. What an amazing lady I married! As for me... I have conquered the nasty little voice inside my own head – the one that since suffering the ravages of Chronic Fatigue during 2015 and 2016 has got louder and louder – the voice that calls me to question whether I’m past it, a spent force that has made too many demands of my body for too long. I have achieved something that I trained hard for and poured all my years of experience and hard-learnt lessons into, but which I really didn’t know whether I was capable of or not. I have pushed beyond all previous personal boundaries.

And that is why I did this.