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P2P 2013 Race Report
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.
To be continued ...
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