I couldn't sleep at all last night,
Just a-thinking of you.
Baby things weren't right.
Well I was tossing and turnin',
Turnin' and tossing,
Tossing and turnin' all night.
Bobby Lewis
The one thing a runner needs going into a difficult race under-prepared is a good night’s sleep. So much for that. Sharing a room with SP has its drawbacks but even I can’t blame the big man for the strange goings on at number 151 Patrick Street last night. Things went bump, that much is certain. Following a delicious pre-race meal of barbecued lamb chops, fresh cooked pasta and avocado salad washed down with bowls of fresh fruit and Coopers Pale Ale, Team RC retired early. By one am at least four of us had visited the smallest room in the house, stirred by an unidentifiable presence. The ghost of races past, or a prescient spirit warning of the troubles ahead? No matter. I spent the next four hours huddled over my iPhone under the bedclothes following Mighty Rooks updates on Twitter, an exciting yet ultimately frustrating goal-less draw against Wingate and Finchley. The last time I behaved in this way I was trying to tune in to Emperor Rosko on a dodgy wireless whilst trying not to wake my brother in the next bed.
As day broke through the thin cotton curtains I gave up the struggle and got up to brew coffee. Graham was already awake, moving a good deal better than a man with that much webbing strapped across his lower back might reasonably expect. This was good news. The house had been on tenterhooks since our arrival in Tasmania, waiting to see if our genial host and meticulous event planner would make it to the start line.
Breakfast had become a massive part of my race strategy. With barely half the required miles banked and following a race circuit reconnaissance that drew more than one ‘bloody hell’ from our assembly I'd decided my best bet was to eat my way up the mountain. I kicked off with a bowl of microwaved porridge oats. As the viscous mixture bubbled and popped behind the glass my thoughts turned to Paris in 2006 and Moyleman’s hilarious attempts to feed us. Porridge everywhere, Moylebird, Kader and I in fits of raucous, slightly-too-loud laughter. ‘I need your help today old friend, to drag my fat arse up this bloody mountain’. I added chopped bananas, honey and cold milk, inhaled that and followed on with toast (one slice Vegemite, one honey), similarly despatched along with half a carafe of fresh coffee and a generous helping of Chia fresca. Now that oughta do it.
One by one the gladiators emerged from their cots. It became apparent we’d all had lousy nights, no doubt the shadow of Mount Doom, visible from our dining room window, loomed large in our collective subconscious. Nervous chatter ensued. The main thing was MLCMan was feeling better than he had in days and would definitely join us at the start. That was the best possible news and as we sipped coffee gazing out over the sleepy suburb our spirits, our hopes, could not have been higher.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
A word or two about Hobart.
As we flew in early on Saturday morning I was struck by a sense of déjà vu; this is Ireland; or at least, Ireland with just a hint of Cape Town. As we’ve come to know this charming town the similarities don’t end with the rolling green hills, the wiggling skirt-hem coastline or the conviviality of our hosts. The architecture smacks of a bygone age. Weather-worn pubs rub shoulders with modest shops wearing hand-painted signboards, wide streets weaving an undulating path into the surrounding hills. Those hills roll into mountains, whose craggy countenance hints at the presence of giants and Lore. Being here has stirred something in me. More than nostalgia it’s an appreciation of what we lost in the accelerated whirlwind of ‘progress’. As technology and social pressures swarmed our values eroded, leaving a twisted morality and an ugly sense of entitlement. Check out El Gordo’s erudite piece on the demise of British culture. His Swiss adventure appears to have revealed much the same to him as Australia, and in particular Tasmania, has to me. The country of our birth has lurched into the future with a succession of madmen at the wheel, like an old open-backed truck stacked to the hilt with our national heritage hammering headlong up the rickety mountain path to The Future. Community spirit, appreciation of what we have and common courtesy to our fellow man have all tumbled off the back to lay abandoned on the dusty trail. Here at least they seem to cherish these essentials like family heirlooms. People greet one another readily, faces as open as their out-thrust hands to welcome friends and strangers alike. It’s refreshing, uplifting. My imminent return to icy, spiky Old England will feel like a harsh slap on a cold winter’s day.
Our journey started somewhere in the wee small hours of Saturday morning. We bundled our luggage into a seven-seater taxi and endured a breakneck Hollywood getaway to Sydney airport. Our crew comprised of me and the Mighty Plodder, MLCMan and his wife Jane, Christopher (MLCMan junior) and his fiancée Tash. Stephen (another stallion from the MLCMan stable) would join us in Hobart from his home in Adelaide. Having cruised through check-in and security we boarded one of JetStar’s shiny new A320s. SP and I lucked out, gaining exit row seats and thus a rude amount of legroom. Parked right next to the emergency exit I hoped my door-removal skills would remain untested. There was drama of a different kind to come. As the aircraft left the gate and lumbered towards the runway a kerfuffle broke out just behind us.
‘Ladies and Gentleman we have a passenger on board who has become unwell. The cabin crew have decided to return to the gate to allow paramedics to make an assessment before we can continue on our journey to Hobart.’ And that was that. It turned out that an asthmatic female passenger had asked for a slug of oxygen. The cabin crew had opted to deploy CYA (Cover Your Arse). Said passenger was clearly not happy with the decision. As we arrived back at the terminal she strode off, rather like a footballer who’s been subbed against his will, showing all and sundry what fine fettle she was in. The delay cost us an hour which thanks to MLCMan’s meticulous planning we could afford. Two hours later we were touching down in Tasmania.
Having secured a hire car, a stout golden people carrier with bags of room and the engine of a Kiddie’s Go-kart, we set off into town in search of race numbers and lunch. Tagged and sated we hit the road to Mount Wellington for a P2P course fly-by. As the battle bus laboured up the ever-steepening trail the nature of our challenge became clear, as did a nagging worry that had been forming on the edge of my consciousness for some while; I haven’t done enough training. That thought came into sharp relief as we passed the 9K point, a sharp right-hander whipping into a series of tight, cruel bends. The car tilted further back and I closed my eyes. Bugger. Oh well, it is what it is. Best start prepping the old race head; eat plenty, start slow, get slower. We stopped on yet another sharp corner to take in the view and stretch our legs, Jane sensibly pointing out that should the weather change (as it is wont to do in a Hobart heartbeat) we might not get the chance tomorrow. That and the fact that our lungs would be somewhere up around our throats at this stage might distract us from fully appreciating our surroundings. As we drank in the stunning vistas my bruised spirits lifted. Sweeping plains of green speckled with occasional dwellings reached out towards distant hills and mountains. I felt better, the strong sun on my back warming my enthusiasm, tired legs stretching, lungs feasting on the cool clean air. But ... whatever was that hissing sound?
In foreign, densely foliated climbs the sudden arrival of a low, persistent hiss might well be cause for alarm. Before I could think ‘snake’ Chris piped up with the answer.
‘We’ve got a flat.’
Sure enough the front nearside tyre was sagging into the tarmac. Double-bugger. No sign of a spare or even a space-saver. Pah. After a good deal of chin stroking and tyre prodding we assessed the puncture was slow enough that we should press on before stopping off at the in-town car rental outlet on the way home. The remaining ascent rekindled my Fear. The road rose inexorably, piling on the gradiant as we passed the sixteen kilometre point. The fabled Pinnacle, a white man-made spike some thirty metres tall, sat just above us and to our left, yet we still had five klicks to go. At this point the route stretches into the west before twisting back on the long, steep run in. Harsh, very harsh, reminiscent of La Tour’s cruel denouement at Peyragudes. But once the summit is claimed ... what a treat in store! Heart-stopping views in all directions, distant inlets and harbours woven into fields and hills, strikingly similar to the vantage from a-top Croagh Patrick from a couple of thousand feet higher. Tolkien and Lewis must surely have stood here. The cold nagging wind reminded us of another challenge for tomorrow. Whilst the forecast suggested we’d stay dry and, for the most part warm, it was going to be right bloody nippy up here.
An hour later, rental car exchanged for a shiny silver Toyota decked out with four perfectly rounded boots we landed at our digs, a delightful cottage perched high on a hill street that could have been plucked from the heart of San Francisco. The sight of SP lumbering through the front door with one huge paw wrapped around a case of Coopers warmed the cockles. As Chris fired up the Barbie thoughts of demonic, relentless hill climbs receded, replaced by gentle banter and tinkling laughter. The skies over Hobart blushed pink as day made way for night. A rather short night for some as it turned out.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
And if I only could,
I'd make a deal with God,
And I'd get him to swap our places,
Be running up that road,
Be running up that hill ad nausuem
Kate Bush
The Point 2 Pinnacle race starts from Wrest Point, home of the Wrest Point Casino, set next to a rather pleasant harbour at the end of a well-heeled crescent of dwellings, hotels and eateries. The bay nestles comfortably in the bossom of a series of hills populated by brightly coloured houses peeping out from lush green trees and shrubs. It's an idyllic spot within a delightful area, chosen no doubt to lull the unwary first-timer into thinking this might be some kind of picnic.
The logistics for this race are as follows. Runners assemble at Wrest Point for an 08:00 start, walkers an hour earlier. Gear Buses (separate vehicles for runners and walkers) are on hand for the placement of clothes/ refreshment to be collected at the finish, some 1,271 metres (4,170 feet in old money) above and 21.4 kilometres away from the start. Cut off to finish is 11:20 am; that’s 4 hours 20 for walkers and an hour less for runners. There are no flat spots or downhills. The only way, as Yaz is dying to tell you, is up. At the top you receive your finishers’ medal and certificate, grab your gear and hop on a bus to be returned to Wrest Point for the awards and some hot grub. That’s the bones of it but that is far from the story of our day.
SP and Stephen bade a cheery farewell to the house at 06:15. Jane drove them to the start and would return to collect Graham, Christopher and myself. We three runners sat around the breakfast table nibbling on bananas and sipping water, barely able to believe our good fortune. Not only were the skies above Hobart clear, the sun was doing its best to ensure an unexpectedly warm welcome for our quest. Rain was forecast out of the west (from behind the mountain) sometime after lunch when we would surely be set fair in a pub swapping race tales over foaming pints of ale. The question of suitable clothing, rattling around in my brainpan for several weeks, was resolved. Shorts, RC T-shirt and fully-equipped water belt would be the order for the day. Leggings could remain packed away and windcheaters, useful at the summit where the temperature would still barely crawl above zero, stowed in our gear bags. I felt pretty chipper. Despite the lack of mileage – and crucially my failure to cover the race distance in training – I was confident that with quality fuel on board, good hydration and a sensible start I’d make the finish line in somewhere less than three hours. Graham seemed well pleased with how his back had responded to various treatments (and a night in a strange bed) and Chris exuded the confidence that comes with youth and natural fitness.
On arrival at the casino we gathered in front of a fine flotilla of gently bobbing yachts for a few team shots before dumping our gear bags on bus 184 (or that's the number I recall. I was, it turned out, mistaken). Regular tannoy announcements noted the time remaining as the number of well-appointed, fit-looking runners, along with the vox humana, swelled. I love the sound of pre-race chatter. It reminds me of Pink Floyd’s Welcome To The Machine, no bad thing at any time. I waggled my feet and idly stretched, feeling the cool breeze come off the harbour to dance around my legs. Ideal conditions I reckoned. Looking up at the Pinnacle, a gleaming white spire perched proudly on top of Mount Wellington, I smiled. We were blessed. After the two minute warning I offered my hand to Graham, then Chris.
‘Good luck fellow Warriors’.
Broad grins exchanged we took our places at the back of the pack as the announcer counted us down to zero. ‘Go!’
In no time we’d crossed the chip mats and started our journey. My head swam with good thoughts. Start slow, tread lightly, don’t heel strike. Stay upright, hands and arms tucked in. Enjoy the view Graham and Chris jogged alongside me, Graham wise-cracking in a loud voice
‘I hope there aren’t too many hills in this race. It is flat isn’t it? I don’t like hills.’
There’s only one mate, but it’s a bit of a pig ...
The route took us out of Wrest Point and up through the sleepy outskirts of Hobart, reminding me of the start to the Two Oceans as we passed a number of shops and cafes, one or two showing early signs of Sunday life. Traffic waited patiently at stop lights as our multicoloured conga danced up, up, forever up into the suburbs, twisting here and there to seek out the foothills of the mountain. I felt great. My breathing was easy, legs nice and loose, stomach, though well-filled, not too heavy or wobbly. Easy banter flowed through the first three or four kilometres as I relaxed, letting the road come to me. Every now and then I’d sneek a peek at the Narwhal’s lance high above us. It was so far away, so impossibly high above us. I tried to ignore it, choosing to focus on the one or two runners who were starting to drift back to us. Into kilometres five and six we passed a growing number, some walking, easily swallowed up as we held a steady ten-minute mile pace. Modest yes, but knowing what was to come no-one wanted to push it on these much easier slopes. Besides, it really was warm – somewhere around twenty two degrees Celsius or there abouts – and the breeze, such as it was, offered little respite. At the water stations I sipped half a cup and doused my head with the rest, cool water running down my sun glasses to clear the condensation.
I’d decided early on not to bother trying to live tweet updates from the race. I did snap a few shots but after the first couple of klicks I stowed my phone and forgot about it. For one thing Point 2 Pinnacle demands respect, one's undivided attention. At least I hadn’t tried to kid myself this would be easy. Yesterday’s drive along the route had expelled any thoughts I may have harboured about kicking the mountain's backside. Survival is paramount unless you’re one of the greased whippets who spring up the thing in less than ninety minutes, but that’s just daft. These pan-humans, barely able to raise a belly worthy of the name, cover a flat half in around sixty-five minutes. A course record of one hour thirty or so gives you some idea of the nature of the challenge.
At some point around eight kilometres I lost touch with my companions. I made no conscious effort to increase my pace but a glance at the Garmin told me I’d dropped below ten minute miling. I didn’t glance back, merely sensed they were no longer with me. We each had our own ideas about the race and what we wanted from it. The road grew a little steeper as nine kilometres approached and I passed my first group of official walkers. Crikey, I’d made up an hour on these guys. Given their ample shape and out-for-a-stroll demeanour I didn’t worry about it. Although my pace dropped a tad I passed a fair number of runners, some walking on the more challenging sections. My breathing was steady, legs felt fine. Could it really be this easy? Well no, of course not. Past the nine K point (and our third water stop) a sharp right hander threw us into a series of steep bends twisting beneath a canopy of high, leaf-rich trees. The camber on the road was horrible so I eschewed the racing line, moving onto the flatter centre. This section tested a few more and I made steady progress through the field. My pace slowed to around eleven minutes per mile but even so my rough calculations suggested a finish of around two hours thirty was within reach. That thought spurred me on and I passed a few more strugglers. Most wore shorts but every now and then I spotted a set of leggings. I chuckled to myself; they must be bloody roasting!
Ten, eleven, twelve kilometres came and went, the pattern repeated. More runners walking, more walkers pounding heavily, sweat-stained backs bent into the hill. So far I’d not been overtaken except for one tall chap in a red singlet and green cap. He was on a run-walk strategy so we exchanged places any number of times all the way up. I sipped on my hastily arranged drink, a blend of water, honey and vinegar (something God-botherer Rog used to swear by). Whatever the medicinal merits of this concoction the psychological effect was to tell my body that something useful was heading for the engine room. It seemed to be doing the trick. By now I could feel a hint of tightness building in both hamstrings and a dull ache in both calves. The relentless grind of pounding uphill was exacting a toll on my under-cooked legs and for the first time I realised that heat or no heat leggings might have been the smarter play. Kilometre thirteen was tougher still, the rate of climb increasing with each step, legs tightening, lungs working harder, stride shortening. I tried my Chris McDougall mind games, changing my stride pattern, standing tall, looking ahead, concentrating on form and lightness of tread. The alarms from my hamstrings reached a point where I could no longer ignore them. I changed my gait, turning my toes in slightly, a trick that had got a tight hamstring through seven miles of the Reading Half some years back. This worked for a few hundred metres but all too soon that familiar feeling hit the backs of my legs. It felt like someone had slipped a tuning fork into my muscles and was slowly twisting tighter and tighter. By the fourteen K marker the warning signals were loud and continuous. I lengthened my stride and the pain subsided only for my calves to start whinging. Both legs were turning to stone. I was still bagging sub thirteen minute miles but this clearly couldn’t last. Somewhere in the back of my head a malicious voice whispered ‘You didn’t do enough miles, of course your legs hurt! What did you expect, you Muppet?’
I slammed the door on my inner heckler. Mental fortitude was all I had left to get this race run; the errant sprite in my head was not helping. Time to shut off the pain receptors in my legs, too. This proved harder to achieve as by now those sirens were well and truly screaming. Somewhere between sixteen and seventeen kilometres, just after Mr Red Singlet/ Green Cap had stormed past me for the umpteenth time, I spied a familiar shape ahead. It was Stephen, noise-cancelling headphones parked on his close-cropped head, his soaked green shirt tilted against the climb, arms pulling on an invisible Nordic track as he strode ever onward. By now I was also walking, a frightening parody of a fast waddling duck shot in both kneecaps. Bent forward from the waist, backside stuck out, elbows and legs set to what I like to call a 'jaunty angle' I thrust forward, using every fibre to keep my motion positive. ‘Hey’ was all I could muster as we drew level. Stephen looked up and I hoped with all my heart that the smile I’d offered him looked a lot less tortured than the grimace he returned.
‘Hey.’
He was hobbling slightly, favouring his left foot, exacerbated by the steep camber on his side of the road. I waved a weary hand and pressed on. My pace was thirteen point four, point five, point six ... thoughts of finishing times faded, replaced with thoughts of 'keep moving'. This was a matter of survival, keeping going until it stopped. My biggest fear was I’d pop a hamstring and crumple into the gutter to whimper softly like a trapped animal waiting for the coup de grace (or at least a friendly paramedic and a sweeper bus). The good news was walking alleviated the pressure on my hamstrings, the longer stride helping me to stretch my legs and force the tightness out. My calves on the other hand were now solid mahogany. I tried a little jog and to my surprise found that helped for a while so I shuffled on, passing Mr Red Singlet/ Green Cap yet again. By now the road was littered with staggering walkers being overtaken by struggling runners. I was touched by the applause and shouts of encouragement offered by a group of walkers as I strode past. They seemed genuinely pleased to be to be part of this great challenge. They also seemed remarkably chipper. Bastards.
Seeing Stephen reminded me of the fruity chewy bar he'd given me the night before. This lay, now sweat-stained and horribly crumpled, in the pocket of my water belt. I decided to have a nibble. If nothing else the activity might distract me from the pain in my legs. Moments later I had a mouth full of dry, tacky, vaguely fruit-flavoured cardboard. A squirt of my now luke-warm honey-vinegar blend, bearing an alarming resemblance to weak urine, helped flush the foul mixture down my parched throat.
Just before the eighteen kilometre marker and, unbeknown to me precisely at the moment that MLCMan encountered Satan, the skies darkened. The clear, deep blue had been replaced by brooding grey and the air hung heavy with what felt like a veil of cold water. At first this came as some comfort. Up until now I’d been pretty warm, the occasional cup of water helping to cool me off. Now I could feel the temperature dropping by the moment. Clearly the forecasters had erred as here was this afternoon’s rain come early. Within five hundred metres I’d gone from uncomfortably warm to worryingly cool. Cold was my mortal enemy; tight legs, cold rain ... not a good combination. I pushed on, waggling and pumping my elbows as if working giant bellows or one of those push-me pull-you railroad carts seen at Saturday Morning Pictures. As the final series of turns loomed out of the murk the rain upped the ante, falling heavily before driving in hard from the West. Mercifully this coincided with the road turning north then east into the final two and a half kilometres. The bad news was this was the steepest section of the race. I tried jogging once more, managing a half-smile as I drew level with Mr Red/ Green, that faint twitch turning into a full-on grin as I recognised a purple foot on the back of a large black shirt up ahead. I tried to up my pace but the resulting scream from both calves stopped me in my tracks. I switched to ‘race-walk’ (my version of it, anyway) but even that was too much so I settled for ‘brisk stroll’. To push harder for the sake of vanity could prove fatal. Eventually I pulled alongside the Mighty Plodder, two great juggernauts in convoy on the Highway to Hell. He too was limping, pace barely above a crawl. I tried to speak but my teeth were chattering. I managed a low growl and some weakly flailed semaphore. He lifted an arm and I tried again, saying something like ‘My legs have gone’ but I don’t think he heard me. He was locked in his own world of pain so I left him to fight his demons and set about taking more yards out of this unforgiving, bastard-hard road.
I peered up at the towering white needle, stark against the blackeneing tumult, just as the wind picked up, driving what felt like shards of glass into my back and legs. What fresh hell was this??? Sleet!!?? You have got to be fucking KIDDING me! Two kilometres shy of the finish line, into the toughest section of the whole darned shebang and Tasmania – or God, the Devil, Bruce-bloody-Forsythe, whoever - decided to bombard us with evil, driving sleet. I started to laugh; this was insane. My hands had gone from cold to numb to slightly purple. I tried flexing my fingers to no avail. There was nothing for it but to get in as quickly as possible. I set off on another ugly jog, rewarded with a few hundred shuffling steps before something – calf? Hamstring? I could no longer tell – flat out refused to co operate. I slumped back into my Max Wall stance and strode manfully on, muttering darkly under my rasping breath. The sleet/ snow pounded into my back, running icily down the back of my pants. Terrific; I’m going to get a frostbitten arse. Is there no end to this punishment? I thought about Kate Bush and her ‘deal with God to swap places’. Listen love, there’s no dealing with a deity who gets his jollies slipping icicles down the back of a man’s shorts. Far better to find a more practical and immediate way out of this nightmare.
The climb eased a fraction as the last kilometre marker appeared through the thick pencil-slash gloom. One to go. I can do that ... I pushed, ignoring the cries coming from my legs and now aching back. Stuff this, I want to get in the warm. I want my sweater, I want my wind-cheater ... I have had enough of this shit. If my legs could have stood the impact I’d have stamped my feet. Instead I drove myself on and to my amazement my legs eased a fraction. I pushed again and found, to my almost hysterical delight, I could actually run. Happy days! I struck out for home, passing no end of forlorn, battered walkers, heads bowed, stupified Eloi trudging to meet their doom at the hands of the mountain Morlocks. I gave them short shrift. I was done with this. Even another freezing blast from behind failed to dampen my rising excitement. As the finish mats floated out of the grey smudge my heart leaped in my heaving chest. Come on!! I pulled up as I hit the mats, remembering to stop my Garmin as I ground to a leg-locked halt. 2:33 and change. I'd have slumped down and sobbed had I not feared melding with the frozen rock.
It's over. It's over ... and I'm not dead.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I suppose what this account illustrates to me is that, however much we try and develop control of a situation, it can sometimes end up being abit of a brawl with what's throw at us.
But taking on uncertainty and coming out on top seems to be your forte Sweder. And writing about it, I might add.
(21-11-2011, 01:34 PM)glaconman Wrote: But taking on uncertainty and coming out on top seems to be your forte Sweder.
Thanks G-man. I seem to have knack for getting myself into gruelling situations. Of course rocking up to one of the world's toughest road-raced half marathons with bugger all training in your legs will get you into a brawl every time.
Just been for the second of two morning recovery runs on Seven Mile Beach.
To use the vernacular: strewth! Bloody georgous spot. Here's a couple of snaps ...
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Hard to avoid gushing admiration. Those of us who thought 10k on a flat course on a warmish November day was hard should be made to memorise these posts, and beaten with nettles and poked with sharp things for any lapses of memory
χαιρέτε νικὠμεν
Next race(s):
In the lap of the gods
(21-11-2011, 01:34 PM)glaconman Wrote: But taking on uncertainty and coming out on top seems to be your forte Sweder.
Thanks G-man. I seem to have knack for getting myself into gruelling situations. Of course rocking up to one of the world's toughest road-raced half marathons with bugger all training in your legs will get you into a brawl every single time.
Just been for the second of two morning recovery runs on Seven Mile Beach.
To use the vernacular: strewth! Bloody georgous spot. Here's a couple of snaps ...
Fantastic pictures. It'll take a bit longer to tackle the report....
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Hello?
Is there anybody in there?
Just nod if you can hear me.
Is there anyone home?
Come on, now,
I hear you're feeling down.
Well I can ease your pain
Get you on your feet again
Roger Walters, Comfortably Numb
The roaring in my head had stopped but barbaric ice-whips still lashed my frozen face and hands. I shuffled down the steps and into the observation tower to claim my medal and finishers’ certificate. All too soon and about an hour before I would have started to thaw I was kindly yet firmly directed back outside into what was now a full-blown blizzard. I squinted through the pelting snow, trying to locate bus 184. An attendant, wrapped in several layers of plastic, face half-hidden under a generous beanie hat, extended a gloved finger towards some vehicles.
‘Gear buses there’ then, pointing as he pivoted through 45 degrees ‘Buses back down over there’.
I nodded my thanks, still unable to form words through my frozen lips. I walk-hobbled towards the former, climbing aboard bus 184. A number of shivering, pink-fleshed souls were delving through the piles of bags like vagrants at an unattended yard sale. I squirmed through the meleé, grateful for any kind of heat-generating friction with whoever I might rub against, to where I thought I’d left my backpack. Nothing doing. Blast. I could REALLY use a clean, dry t-shirt and my jumper about now ... I looked up.
‘Lost your gear mate?’
A tall slim gent in a black singlet stared quizzically. It occurred to me I must resemble some form of Tasmanian mountain man.
‘Uh, yeah ... could have sworn it was in this row ...’
He looked at my race number.
‘Ah, this is the walker’s bus mate. Runners are all next door.’
I mumbled my thanks and scuttled off, embarrassed. Moments later I was reunited with my LA Fitness bag (on bus 181 as it turned out), pulling on a warm, dry T-shirt and my fabulously thick woollen jumper. I could have wept. I pulled my phone out of my shorts and tried to tweet but my sausage fingers were still too uncomfortably numb.
Leaving the bus I spied SP approaching the finish. I waved and tried to smile, the effort hurting my face, my feeble cry whipped away across the mountain. Cruel sleet continued to lance in from that direction so I sheltered behind a bus. The line of finishers had grown, queueing back up the steps to leave the poor swine at the back exposed to the elements. Much as I’d liked to have waited for Andy I was just too bloody cold so I jumped on the next bus heading down. The doors closed and we set off, slowly so as not to crush the spawning salmon throwing themselves up the icy rock towards the finish. Incredibly a couple set off ahead of us, running back down the slope at a cracking pace, disappearing into the near-distance. My legs screamed in silent protest and I shook my head. 21.4 kilometres uphill into an ice-storm is clearly not enough for some people.
Most of my fellow passengers had their eyes cast to the ground. Nobody spoke. Within minutes I could see nothing outside, the windows made opaque by warm breath on cold glass. I tried to assess the damage to my shattered limbs but there were too many points of pain to tell one from another. I dug into my goodie bag and dragged out a packet of viscous jelly sweets. I didn’t fancy them at all but next thing I knew I’d inhaled the lot, licking my cracked lips as I finished. The girl in the next seat shot me a sympathetic smile and again I wondered what on Earth I must look like. Tom Hanks towards the end of Castaway was probably close. I snapped a self portrait; yep, pretty nasty.
I got word (via Twitter) that Graham and Chris had made it shortly before the race had closed (dead on the official cut-off time of 11:20). Usually the P2P Race Director allows the slower participants to finish but conditions were now so brutal they'd pulled the plug. With hypothermia a clear and present danger for those still on the mountain the call was the right one. Our bus became a Red Cross wagon, stopping at drinks stations to mop up the huddled, frozen forms clinging to what little shelter there was. Blue-faced shivering wrecks climbed gingerly aboard, wobbling to the back of the bus. As we reached the sharp turn at the 9k point the sun emerged, radiant and unashamed as if nothing untoward had happened. By the time we reached the casino the skies were crystal clear, Mount Wellington’s cloudless crown beaming down on us. I've never seen a mountain look so smug.
I hooked up with SP and Stephen (arrived on the next bus down) to take advantage of the sponsors' hospitality, the thick hot pumpkin soup both inspired and delicious. Graham and Chris joined us, looking reasonably well after their ordeal (of which more soon over at MLCMan’s diary). Jane shuttled us back to the house where we took turns to de-ice under a mercifully hot, indecently powerful shower before cracking a Coopers Ale and toasting our survival. Despite the fearsome ending I’m keen to return, with many more miles in my legs, to finish the job properly.
Before I left for home (via Sydney and Hong Kong) this morning Graham and I took off for a dawn raid on Seven Mile Beach. This, regular readers will know, was the scene of a particularly impressive run for our host back in 2008. We’d gone along yesterday (Monday – it’s all too confusing with the time differences – the morning after the race, OK?) to run the lactic acid out of our weary bodies, bagging 8 kms at a decent clip (around 44 minutes). To help stimulate the healing process we added a dip in the ‘refreshingly cool’ ocean. This morning we staggered back onto the beach just after 5am, our busted legs in no shape to repeat that pace. Instead we loped easily along the shoreline, chatting away like life-long mates, soaking up the sunrise as the high, rippled cloud faded from purple-black through blood red to creamy mashed potato. I’ll miss Hobart, my new friends and the warmth and kindness of their countrymen. SP remained for a further week traveling through Tasmania and Sydney. I confess that as happy as I’ll be to get home to my loved ones I had to suppress the sharp pang of envy as we shook hands before dashing to make my flight.
Once again huge thanks to MLCMan and his charming family for their excellent planning, good company and warm, generous hospitality. Friends for life indeed.
I’ll be back.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Thank you Sweder, a great report even by your high standards, and surely a contender for the Harris Tweed Award for most finely spun yarn of the year.
As to the race itself... just an uphill half marathon, or just a race in brutal conditions, would be bad enough. To combine the two makes this event a one-off. Huge congratulations on powering through, you were truly tested to the limit and not found wanting.
The travelogue, the people stories and the race report itself are all inspiring, and this thread should be another addition to the "RC must-read" list.
Sweder has put Seafront Plodder and myself to shame, indeed great shame, in the speed and quality of his race report posts. A fantastic effort mate - a ripper post!
SP, myself and Mrs MLCM are continuing to wing our way around the state of Tasmania, and while we are genuinely attempting to write our own reports, the lures of tourism are taking our time. Of course, this was not an excuse Sweder would ever use. He seems capable of bashing out a thousand erudite words under any conditions ... indeed, we have the photos to prove it!
Bare with us, RC champs, our stories are coming!
Attached is a pic of Sweder and SP at lunch in Oz ... as usual, Sweder is hard at work composing his masterpieces on the trusty iPhone.
I'm in awe of all of you! What a race, if you can even call it that; unlike any race I have done or even dreamed of doing. The sheer toughness of it and then the weather turning so nasty - just to finish gives you bragging rights forever. I had no doubts you would finish Sweder as you seem to be able to call upon hidden reserves, and your dogged determination to never say die.
Well done! And great report. I'm going to have to reread it a few times.
That race report was hot off the press, loved the nightmare blizzard finale, “God, the Devil...Bruce f##king Forsythe!!!!”
Loved the Kate Bush references too. When the cloud really busted I was half expecting a manic Donald Sutherland to run past looking for his rain machine.
Thanks, enjoyed reading it immensely. Saludos and mucho respect to the 3 of you.
Man, it was tough, but I finally made it. There was many a twist and turn where I was tempted to give up, but how glad am I that I made it through to the end. What an experience!
Freakin' superb race report. Did we expect anything else? [Low chorus of "Noooo".]
I was listening to a tribute to the late Christopher Hitchens today in which someone said, "He was the only man I ever met who could drink an entire bottle of whiskey for lunch, before hammering out a perfect two thousand word article in two hours". Well, admittedly none of us here is a "Hitch", but in terms of productivity under sometimes 'difficult' circumstances, I'd say you run him close.
Have to say, that snap of you on the bus is a pretty good advert for the P2P. You look weirdly normal, in your own... er, context, that is...
Favourite quote might have been from Dan though -- "Thank you Sweder, a great report even by your high standards, and surely a contender for the Harris Tweed Award for most finely spun yarn of the year."
Ha ha! But we love it.
Very well done to all. Great reports, great performances.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Hitchens? I'm not worthy to charge his laptop, but I do appreciate the context.
I've read a few pieces about CH this week, one of the best by his equally erudite, idealogically juxtaposed sibling, Peter. I'm ashamed to say I've read hardly anything 'Hitch' wrote but plan on rectifying that this week, starting with a compendium of his essays and working up to God Is Not Great. YouTube abounds with clips of him in debate with various theologians including our God-fearing former leader Tony Blair. Fascinating, all the more so for Hitchens's ability to come across (at times) as deeply unlikeable yet infuriatingly right.
The contrasts between Hitch and HST are fascinating. Both men were driven by unshakable self belief in their views and abilities, yet whilst one agonised over his writing to the point of constipation the other appeared to write as easily as most of us draw breath. Hitchens's editor at Vanity Fair said he always filed copy on time, often early, irrespective of his frequent, infamous nocturnal escapades. No staring at the screen until beeds of blood formed on his forehead for Hitch. Thompson would surely have envied his ability to pour out a piece, perfectly formed and ready for print, at the end of a night of elephantine ribaldry. I guess having the courage of your convictions, absolute certainty in your position, helps. Doubt rarely if ever dampened Christopher's ardour.
Perhaps the one thing we had/ have in common is when the need to write strikes we can download volumes instantly. Thereafter the divide yawns as impossibly vast and deep as the Grand Canyon itself.
So. 2013 then ....
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
And if I only could,
I'd make a deal with God,
And I'd get him to swap our places,
Be running up that road,
Be running up that hill ad nausuem
Kate Bush
The Point 2 Pinnacle race starts from Wrest Point, home of the Wrest Point Casino, set next to a rather pleasant harbour at the end of a well-heeled crescent of dwellings, hotels and eateries. The bay nestles comfortably in the bossom of a series of hills populated by brightly coloured houses peeping out from lush green trees and shrubs. It's an idyllic spot within a delightful area, chosen no doubt to lull the unwary first-timer into thinking this might be some kind of picnic.............
....................It's over. It's over ... and I'm not dead.
Re-read your P2P report after the Twitter nudge, and thought it blinkin' excellent.
You're not exactly selling the race to me, but no matter -- great write-up.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
