Race Day
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.
