Keep us posted. We're expecting rolling 24 news in the buildup to this prestigious sporting event. Interviews, weather reports, celebrity gossip, recipes, etc.
Partly cloudy skies here in Sydney, temps in the low 20's. The first wave of the RC Armada - Graham and Jane - set sail for Hobart early doors. Suzie and I are up and breaking fast before following on.
Chat over supper was full of respectful references to our challenge. Gradients, strategies, clothing, weather conditions and the mythical effects of pooled lactic acid filled the night air. A possom rummaged in next door's shrubs. Earlier a real live Kookaburra serenaded us with his repertoire, a haunting series of whoops escalating into a hysterical cackle.
Safely landed in Hobart. Supplies secured, Coopers Sparkling Ale and Coopers Stout taste-tested, dinner, chicken korma with spinach and brown rice, on the stove. This afternoon we collected race numbers and shirts before driving Sunday's course, much to the slack-jawed incredulity of our Canadian contingent. For those of us who trod this path in 2011, a chilling reminder of the horrors to come.
Gear laid out, bellies filled, chips laced in, numbers pinned.
We're feted, hydrated, one hundred percent discombobulated.
Warriors! Runners! To bed! We rise at dawn ...
Hmm, a missed opportunity for a recipe there. But of much greater concern... I do believe... I do believe I may have spotted possible evidence of pre-race alcohol. Oh. My. God. This will be a great disappointment to the more disciplined athletes among us. Though with certain very naughty boys in the party, I cannot say this is a total surprise.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Breakfast of champions - muesli, Greek-style yoghurt with honey, banana, blueberries, chai, ibuprofen, chia fresca - has been wolfed down after a reasonable night's sleep. Unlike 2011 I did not sneak a peak at the Rooks scoreline through the night. Just as well, as apparently the officials contrived to send us down 2-0. My home town is preparing a belated pyre as we speak ..
To local, more pressing matters. The mountain looms over our humble dwelling, the TV tower sparkling like a readied IBM in the early morning sun. Weather looks set fair, just as it did in 2011. Stephen has just left to join the walkers for the early start. MLCMMan and I are hunched over the breakfast table awaiting Suzie's arrival. There's not a lot of chatter.
Next: strong coffee, don the race garb, sniff the air.
Let's get ready to rumble.
Oh god, there are only 17 blueberries on that plate.
No. Please. No. Just one more, that's all that was needed. Someone I know read it in the Daily Mail. 18. It was a very persuasive article. Apparently. Oh god.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Survivors rejoice! Four PBs and a beautiful sunny day at the summit.
No time for more, there are pubs to be drained and tall tales to be told.
For now, here's a picture we took at the finish.
The number held up - 247, set aside for us by the organisers - is dedicated to friends unable to join us this year, and in particular to Antonio and EG who would have been here if they could. Those who survived the mountain salute you!
Breathe the pressure
Come play my game I'll test ya Breathe, The Prodigy
After a surprisingly good sleep I woke early. A peep through the breakfast room curtains confirmed my worst fears: the mountain was still there. I had hoped our talk of an assault on the summit might have scared it off, but there it stood, immovable, giant craggy fists on hips. Come and ave a go if ya think you're ard enough ...
Breakfast came and went with military precision. Crunchy muesli, greek yoghurt with honey, chopped bananas and blueberries, washed down with chia fresca and Indian chai. Next, fruit toast with olive spread, juice and fresh coffee. As the warriors rose, shuffling silently through the warming house, my thoughts turned to race strategy. I'd settled on a hybrid, a combination of EG's 'have at it and hang on' and Suzie's redoubtable race-walk. My twisted logic runs thus. Elite whippets aside all P2P runners will walk at some stage. The early miles are relatively kind, so ... why not take advantage of the conditions and control when you walk?
Run-walk has strict rules about all this. You MUST employ the walk-breaks from the off to allow the strategy to pan out across the course. Whatever.
Stephen, our lone walker, set off to catch the 7am start, leaving Graham and I to ponder our fate over our food. Suzie joined us soon after, wide-eyed and breathless, having risen somewhat later than planned. We three sat together, RC shirts, still just about wearable, to the fore. Suzie and I debated clothing. Gloves? Carry them. Beanies? Pack them in your bus bag. Jacket? Suzie opted to take hers, tied around her waist. The apocalyptic climax in 2011 had taught me not to trust the forecast, even though MLCMman did his best to reassure us that conditions were set fair. I settled on a two-top solution, RC vest over Vermillion Almeria shirt, Lewes FC shorts and my Guinness/ Genius knee-length socks. I was not, you understand, going for 'Best In Show'. I stuffed windcheater, warm jumper, ibuprofen, a banana and a very special race number into my bus-bound back-pack.
Shortly before departure I slung on my noise-cancelling cans and fired up the iPlod. This ritual goes back to Paris in 2007 when, in an homage to Nic Cage's passion for Low Rider in Gone In 60 Seconds, Moyleman, Rog, Kader and I sat in Cam's room listening to Smack My Bitch Up from The Fat Of The Land by The Prodigy. It got us fired up for what turned out to be a cracking race. Today I chose 'Breathe' from that same album. I could feel my face changing as the powerful beat thrummed through me. Game Face On. Time to get serious.
This year's P2P was a record-breaker. 1004 runners and double that number walking would set off from Wrest Point to swarm up the mountain. We gathered for our pre-race photo, adding our voices to the rising chatter of excited, nervous runners. And we were off. I didn't hang about, dropping a cog and moving calmly along the outside of the pack. Before long we met a series of sharp rises, twisting through the Hobart 'burbs. My pace dropped, as did that of those around me. I took a moment to take in the conditions. The sun beat down, already plenty warm, out of a cloudless sky. The merest hint of a zephyr brushed my brow. Above us sat the mountain, capped by that striking white pole. Come and get me, suckers ...
Around 7ks in I started to play P2P Tag. With many runners adopting a walk-run, and the latter stages taking it's inevitable toll, every runner collects a little band of followers. This becomes a race-within-a-race, providing welcome distraction when the hill climb really starts to bite. My group consisted of an extremely fit blonde lady, pony tail bouncing jauntily off well-defined shoulders peeping out of a black singlet, a ludicrously tall fellow in a red and white striped vest, loping as you'd imagine a person with four foot long legs might, and a shorter chap resplendent in red and grey Five-Fingers. There were others who came and went during the next ninety minutes, but these three would stay with me, and I them, all the way to the finish.
I scarfed a gel, an SIS hydro-jelly thing, allegedly related to blackcurrant but tasting, as most gels do, of Napalm. I needed one. The relentless sun burned into my exposed noggin, sucking the life out of me. Water offered at the drink stations was mostly going over my head. At 9k the road tips into the serious part of the race. Incline, camber and mercifully, shade, increased. My body responded to the break from continual baking and I pushed on, passing a fair few of the back-marking walkers. Here's another delightful feature of this event. Almost without exception the walkers, on the road for a full hour longer than us and battling their own demons, applauded the runners as we passed.
Somewhere close to 11ks I deployed my first walk break. Sixty seconds, no more, no less, with the intention of waiting another nine minutes before the next one. I used the minute to slow my breathing and take stock. No major gripes or grumbles from the legs, slight soreness in my back (mostly due to my posture, bent into the hill as I'd been since the off). All good. I pressed on, enjoying the added thrust the break had provided. The mind-games began. 'Only' nine minutes until my next break, then eight, then seven ... this was working a treat. My co-competitors in the mini-P2P were on similar strategies, it seemed. Andre the Giant set off again as I arrived on his heels. I passed Pony Tail just as Five Fingers chugged by me. This was fun!
Another break, another check, all good. Another nine minutes bent into the hill, this time in direct sunlight as the incline increased another notch. Hot sweat streamed down my shades, splashing on my legs. More walkers applauded us on. Along the roadside stricken runners attempted to stretch cramp out of their legs. Poor bastards. If only they'd thought this through and taken up my brilliant system. I should write a book.
The next set of nine was taking a little longer to count off. I know, it's nine minutes, but distance runners will know what I mean. I relented, letting myself slow at eight minutes. No harm, no foul, everything was working well. As luck would have it the next drinks station appeared around the corner. I took a cup, drank most of it and dumped the rest on my head. I took a second minute to completely slow my breathing and gather my thoughts. Can it really be this easy? Simply a matter of taking those inevitable walk-breaks and putting them in order? Man alive, I should have thought of this yonks ago. The sky remained blue, the heat had relented as we'd ascended into cooler air, there was zero chance of a cloud, let alone rain, sleet or snow. A glance at the Garmin told me I would nail a PB and smash 2:30 into the bargain. I grinned. Nice one, Sweder.
The 'Kobayashi Maru' is a no-win scenario, part of the curriculum for cadets at Starfleet Academy. It's used to assess a cadet's discipline, character and command capabilities when facing an impossible situation. There is no one answer to the problem. James T. Kirk became the first (and only known) cadet to beat the no-win scenario. After taking the test and failing twice, Kirk took the test a third time after reprogramming the computer to make it possible to win.
I know how he felt. The P2P might just be the Kobayashi Maru of the running world.
I distinctly heard the low rumble of mountain laughter as I pushed off for my next set of eight. Ten steps into to my shuffling stride I felt an almighty jolt in my right calf. Argh! Then, with the very next step, the same in my left. Whoaaargh! What the hell? I tried again. Instant agony. Holy shit ... Another look at the watch. Oh dear, not eleven miles covered, the toughest section yet to come. This, my friends, was not good.
Walking as fast as I dared I weighed my options. Stop and stretch or soldier on and hope things loosened up? The road rose inexorably ahead. I lengthened my stride, mini-stretching with each step. A nice idea, but alas, to no avail. How about another gel? The blend of relentless heat, ibuprofen and SIS had my stomach doing flips and twists. Another shot of goo was not going to help. I probably needed something more substantial. I'd passed a young woman miles back with the legend 'it's a long way to the top if you want a sausage roll' across her shirt. Now, the though of such greasy fare made my belly lurch.
As so often at times like this my thoughts turned to training, or lack thereof. Hill reps were a great idea but you need to do an awful lot of them to prepare for this kind of slog. I'd mapped out my course in my diary some time ago, but publishing platitudes in these hallowed pages counts for nought when the road demands its toll. Ah well, 'suck it up, big fella'. Moyleman was a stickler for preparation. His words floated up off the hot asphalt even as my bitter sweat fell to meet them.
Andre the Giant made his move. As I waddled furiously he broke into his giraffe-like lope, moving away easily. I had nothing. Five Fingers followed soon after but at least had the good grace to slow to a walk just ahead. I battled on, focused on bringing my minutes-per-mile rate down below thirteen. That, in my broiling mind, might be enough to salvage 'a time'. I started a bizarre game of Countdown, feverishly trying to calculate distance over time left by minutes-per-mile, until metaphorical smoke started pouring out of my ears. I couldn't make sense of it. That wasn't so much the point, of course. This mental juggling was taking sensory perception away from tight quads and screaming calf muscles.
Another glance at the watch, another round of sums. 2:30 looked doomed, but sub 2:33, a PB, was still on, provided I could run a bit. I tried. Ok, plan B. I pushed on, pumping my arms, waggling my elbows, trying to flap my way up the mountain, a stooped, giant man-bird with a dayglo forehead. Up ahead the road turned sharply left. Aha! The turn for home. I'd walk to the turn and have another go. Incredibly, both Pony Tail and Five fingers were just ahead. In fact many of the run-walkers around me looked familiar. It was as if someone had hit 'slo-mo' on a video of the race. This brought me some comfort. Clearly many were struggling. Relentless heat, building lactic acid and the forever steepening climb was sucking our collective spirit. Another hundred metres and I was past Pony Tail. She looked all-in. Five Fingers kept shuffling away before drifting back as I stormed after him. My pace slipped over 13 m/m. This would not do. We rounded the bend and hit a horrible camber. I ducked into it, forcing my wailing legs on.
I expected to see the road flatten a tad here. I was sorely disappointed. Yet another rise in gradient, more run-walkers marching on a voyage of the doomed. I could see a point, about 300 yards ahead, where there seemed to be some respite. I took dead aim and pushed again, daring to jog. More calf pain, but then I flattened my feet to the road and bent my knees. I could, in the loosest definition, 'run'! This gave me heart, so I crouched into this ungainly stance and padded on. After a minute or so this became unbearable so I eased back into a furious stride. Five Fingers hove to, glancing across at me. That look told me he'd been playing P2P Tag too. I grinned at him, a horrible lear, intended to be friendly but almost certainly striking fear into the young man.
We walked on side by side, no longer overtaken, eating up a continual stream of sagging walkers. I glanced left and almost stopped in my tracks. Oh my. Below us, over a thousand metres down, lay Hobart, the city, and beyond its suburbs, fields, rivers and hills. What a sight. I turned to Five Fingers.
'Bloody hell, it's worth it for this view!'
He turned, eyes wide. 'Too right! Wow.'
We smiled together this time, sharing the revelation, our reward for all this effort.
'My calves are shot' I said, as if giving him permission to press on.
He smiled again, nodding.
'Yep, pretty much done here, mate'
I looked up the road. The Narwal's Lance sat off to the right. A spindly comms tower lay dead ahead next to a pile of tall rocks. My heart lifted - that's the bloody finish! I adopted the crouch-run one more time, delighted when my legs didn't immediately coil up around my ears or simply fall off. I padded past a few more desperate souls. Sure enough, as the road rolled up and over the last brow there lay the blue finish mats. Yells and claps of encouragement rang out from runners clustered around the finish. I gave it everything - slap-slap-slap - pulling up on the line, reaching to stop my watch.
2:30:23.
Yes! PB nailed!
I couldn't help but feel a small sting of disappointment. 23 measly seconds off a sub 2:30.
I'll have to come back. But not for a while.
Tremendous stuff Sweder, a PB on - let's face it - very little training. You paint a great picture of the end game - it does sound apocalyptic, everyone without exception under attack from demons.
You'll have to show us that run technique sometime though.
So in the cold light of day... should you have run / walked from the start?
Anyway huge congratulations big fella, I hope you have a few days sightseeing* planned to recover.
Congratulations on both the report and the PB, S.! I`ve really enjoyed reading it. I've felt as if I had been doing the effort. I'm very glad you wore the Almería T-shirt and the special race number. It is as if I had been there. I hope to be able to go there one year.
Thanks Gents. Antonio, I wondered if you spotted the number we picked out for our absent friends I hope that made you smile. You were very much in our thoughts as we knew how much you wanted to meet this challenge. Your time will come.
Dan, you can see some of that 'form' in the photo just added. Notice the pronounced heel strike, despite running uphill.
This was to protect the shredded calves. It 'felt' like a flat-foot strike, which it clearly wasn't, although at this point, 500 metres from the finish, I had no conscious thoughts at all aside from 'finish'.
Reply from Antonio:
Yes, it made me smile and dream of being there one year. Thank you very much for thinking of those of us that coudn't go. Congratulations to all of you for your PBs in the toughest half marathon in the world. Have a wonderful time!
Queue. Medal, handshakes, a mass grin-exchange. A knowing glance at Pony Tail as we passed in the lines, me with my medal, she about to receive hers. I'm not sure where Five Fingers finished, though I fear in my mad scramble for the line I may have left him.
Stepping out onto the mountain top I spread my arms to embrace the sun. That same, relentless orb, blaring out of a clear sky through thin air and little to no ozone. It had sapped my strength on the climb. Now it warmed my bones as I basked in the utter joy that comes from completing this trial.
I wandered over to the finish, dodging buses crammed with happy faces. Stephen lumbered up to the finish. I cried out and exchanged a palm-slap. I'd not noticed him on the road but that's no surprise. I'd been in my own private bubble of pain and concentration. He went off 'to medal' as I waited for Graham. I didn't have long to wait, that familiar white ABC Hat over the RC shirt bobbing through the human stream. We grinned our greetings and I yelled a redundant 'come on!'. Redundant because the man pouched a very tidy PB himself, of which you can read more very soon over in the MLCMMan diary.
We three united on the roadside to cheer home the last warrior. Suzie, looking fresh as a daisy, waving to the cameras and acknowledging the applause, floated up that final stretch. Now four, we gathered for our pre-planned shot under the TV tower, photo taken by Dan, a local friend of Graham's. We took out the special race number - 247 - that the organisers had kindly set aside, initially in honour of Antonio, who had hoped to join us, now also for EG who was mere days away from doing so before Berlin took its toll.
Running Commentary is an odd fish. Hard to define, as eclectic a mix as you're likely to find in hyperspace. Yet a spirit runs through its core, a tie that binds us even over half a planet's distance. We felt that bond as we gurned for the camera, our thoughts with our friends who would love to have shared the moment. You did.
Rehydration followed soon enough. A visit to Larks Distillery, something Stephen had wanted to do and, as he was flying out that afternoon, we readily agreed to. Their local dark ale was delicious, wholly appropriate for toasting our success and, once again, absent friends. That evening we met up with locals in the New Sydney Hotel for a few Guinnii and a meal. The feeling of completion, of a job well done, sank in with each pint, until the heads nodded and we took our weary bones to bed.
Monday morning saw Graham, Suzie, Jane and myself headed off to Seven Mile Beach for a restorative blast along the soft sand. Patterned cloud lay low overhead as we put sore muscles through their gentle paces, greeting dog walkers and fellow lopers as we chatted about this and that. A dip in the freezing waters followed. I could feel the nanobots knitting furiously as the chill did its work on my shredded fibres. Nature's massage. Delightful.
(18-11-2013, 07:10 PM)Sweder Wrote: Dan, you can see some of that 'form' in the photo just added. Notice the pronounced heel strike, despite running uphill.
This was to protect the shredded calves. It 'felt' like a flat-foot strike, which it clearly wasn't, although at this point, 500 metres from the finish, I had no conscious thoughts at all aside from 'finish'.
I think we've all been there, to some extent, in a road marathon. The goal is to maximise motion whilst minimising impact.
The flapping arms are somewhat unconventional, though.
(18-11-2013, 08:29 PM)marathondan Wrote: I think we've all been there, to some extent, in a road marathon. The goal is to maximise motion whilst minimising impact.
The flapping arms are somewhat unconventional, though.
That's what's known as 'Ooh-Ouch' syndrome.
WORLD of pain.
Thanks Gents. Antonio, I wondered if you spotted the number we picked out for our absent friends Big Grin I hope that made you smile. You were very much in our thoughts as we knew how much you wanted to meet this challenge. Your time will come.
Yes, S., it made me smile and dream of being there one year. Thank you very much for that wonderful surprise and for thinking of those RC members who couldn't go to Australia. Congratulations again to all of you for your PBs in doing the toughest half marathon in the world.
I hope that made you smile. You were very much in our thoughts as we knew how much you wanted to meet this challenge. Your time will come.