Hardrock

GNW100s 2011 The race within

2011-11-23T23:39:00.001+11:00

I wasn't going to write a race report on this years GNW. Good race reports are full of drama, tragedy and misfortune. I had none of that. All my drama took place months before. By the bucket load. But this years GNW was by far the single most important I have run. It was by far the sweetest finish of all my seven GNWs. Despite being November, it was my first race for the year and more importantly my first ultra post catheter ablation surgery on my heart. So even though my race unfolded relatively uneventfully I was in fact running the race of my life. And surging just below the surface was a tide of raw emotions battling to take control and derail my efforts. This is a story within a story. A race within a race. It may be merely just another race but to me it was a stepping-stone to reclaiming my life. My life as an ultrarunner.

A thousand clichés come to mind when I think of how best to describe this race. But none do justice. A thousand words could describe this race. But even they wouldn't suffice. At 174km it is not only longer than the standard 100-mile race, it is regarded as the toughest 100 miler in Oz. No arguments here. The dropout rate testifies to that. 50% failed to finish. That is huge. Nevertheless, I finished. And that means I have finished every year, the only person to do so (despite the first year only entering the 100km). I am not interested in bragging rights. For me, this was a race against myself. A race against my own limitations. A race against my illness. The course simply provided the playing field upon which I would test these limits. There was no guarantee that I would finish. There never is with a race this brutal or this long. And like I said, it all started months before and was still going on even on the start line. Beyond all else, I needed to know if I could still run ultras. This was going to be my big test.

Teralba footy oval at 5am was almost balmy. 100 runners milling around, exuding nervous energy as they registered, fidgeted with gear and went through last minute rituals. I was participating in a voluntary research study that required me to give a blood and urine sample and answer a short questionnaire. Once that was sorted I mingled with the crowd of regulars. I was strangely calm, fully aware of what I faced. And fully aware of what it was going to take to finish. Hanging over me was the cloud of uncertainty of how my heart would react to the burden of stress from continual physical exertion for up to 36 hours. For 7 months Atrial Fibrillation (AF) had restricted my running to 3 or 4 easy 8-10 km runs per week. Perhaps 'easy' is the wrong word. None of those runs were easy. But this is the abridged version. Every one of those runs was a challenge on it's own. Just getting out the door was a challenge much of the time. The medications and the disorder combined to restrict my ability to run. In fact restrict my life, my ability to work and simply function. But I refused to give in. I refused to believe that I couldn't beat this thing.

Ten weeks before GNW I had surgery. It took 5&1/2 hours and I was in Coronary Care for 3 nights. Hopefully it would correct or at least reduce the attacks of unregulated heartbeats. I couldn't run at all for two weeks after that. In fact I was worse than before the surgery. By week 3, with the blessing of my cardiologist, I started ramping up my training. I had 7 weeks left until GNW. 4 weeks out I reached 100 km per week for the first time in 8 months. I had niggles all over in protest to the rapid acceleration in mileage. I strung together 3 weeks of 100 km, which left me one week to taper. Still my longest run since March was little more than 30 km. I would be running on muscle memory. And my muscles have some very ugly memories from this course. I had no other choice. As the only person to have finished every GNW I felt a responsibility to keep this unique streak alive.

Standing on the oval at Teralba, I flicked on my Garmin. I was wearing a 310XT with a foot pod. This would allow me to turn off the GPS but still have a rough guide to distance and pace. But most importantly it would spare the battery so that I could monitor my heartrate for the entire race. The screen lit up and my heart sank, figuratively. My heartrate registered at 120bpm. Standing still and at rest. Oh crap. That is almost AF territory. In fact my first thought was that I was in AF. I felt the pulse in my neck: regular but fast. I was sure I wasn't in AF. I tried to relax and breathe slowly. It lowered a bit but was still over 100bpm when I lined up for the start.

Dave Byrnes sent us on our way right on 6am. I walked from the start. Close to Bill Thompson who usually walks the whole way. Second last place with the sweep car flashing right behind me. Once off the bitumen and onto the bush track I tried some slow jogging but my heartrate would jump straight up. So I walked for the first couple of hours with only the occasional trot on the downhills. Even on the long drop into Heaton's Gap I restrained and shuffled easily down putting my ego away. This would help spare my underprepared quads.

I passed a few runners on the monster climb up to Heaton’s Lookout. Then a few more including Susannah and Tanky as I scurried through the rainforest. The path was little more than a crushed leaf litter footpad through the trees. First time ever no leaches. Bill was right behind me, his powerful walking stride matching my run/walk routine. We walked into Checkpoint 1 together. Allison, Leslie and Mick all jumped in to help refill my bottles and sort through my drop-bag and reload my pack. I walked out eating a can of rice. I did this at each CP. It allowed an easy transition back onto the course, gave me time to digest and reduced eating times at CPs.

My heart rate had settled a little more now so I ran until it hit 130 bpm then walked until it dropped to the low 100s. Repeat. All the way along the road until finally dropping into the Congewai Valley. Again I eased into the long downhill to spare my quads and keep my HR down. I climbed onto the road and ran steadily all the way to the school and CP2. I felt great. I was really starting to enjoy this. I passed several runners then crossed some others on their way back out from the school. The six previous times I have fought with this road and it went on forever. Today I skipped along leisurely and it was over in no time. I was really enjoying this.

Tim was at the school to crew me. Di helped out as well. It was quick and easy. I gave another blood sample. Answered the questionnaire again: any nausea, stomach cramps, bloating, confusion, vomiting? Nope, I feel great. Reloaded, refueled, I walked out with customary rice in hand.

The climb out of the Congewai Valley is the biggest of the entire course. It destroys many runners. Two-thirds the way up I found a guy lying on his back, pale with zinc cream plastered on and bathed in sweat. "You OK?" "Yep, just overheating." Lucky this is a cool year, I thought to myself. The several false summits didn't phase me. I climbed like I was out for a Sunday stroll, easy and casual, constantly checking my garmin and keeping things under control.

Past the tower I started running again along Cabans Road. I came up behind a walker clearly not well. He was swaying across the road with the occasional stumble. I stopped to check on him. It was Roland from Switzerland and he was not well but had resolved to walk down to Watagan Creek Road and get a ride out. "Have you spoken to your crew?" "No, no reception." I knew it was a long drive in for the crew and once we drop to the road there is no phone reception. So I tried to ring Dave B to get a message through. Voicemail only. So I rang the radio operator at Somersby School who would be able to pass the message on. That done I checked he was OK to walk out and got back to business.

Reaching Watagan Creek there was a new footbridge so dry feet for a change. Very welcome. The climb out of the valley is brutal. No other word for it. But once again it just ticked away and soon I was refilling at the unmanned water drop at the top. Last year I had met Dog here in the back of Dave’s 4WD. No-one here this year. Somewhere along the road I did encounter Dave B driving into the water drop. He stopped and we chatted. He commented that I looked fresh. And surprisingly I actually felt it. The late afternoon sun was filtering down through the trees and I was out for a day in the bush. And really enjoying it.

The race was on to get into CP3 before dark. I started pushing a little harder and watched as my HR crept up and my threshold for what I would allow went up with it. I started dropping into the basin. I slipped on a leaf-covered step and slid down several steps, bump, bump, bump, hitting the back of my head hard on the steps as I went. I lay there doing the mental check: legs? Fine. Arms? Fine. Head? Sore but OK. Only one crushed finger that I had landed on. It was sore but nowhere near as bad as the little toe I broke 2 weeks before the race. I could feel that all day swelling up in my shoe.

Approaching the basin darkness finally overtook me and I started crossing paths with runners coming back the other way. I pressed on without my headlight feeling my way and relying on night vision. I was rewarded by the most spectacular show of fireflies dotted throughout the trees. They flickered like little christmas lights, trying to guide me on my way. It was one of those magical moments that make it all worthwhile.

CP3 is always a welcome sight after the long haul from the school. Tim was there to help, as was Seris with her heavily bandaged and grazed face courtesy of a bad fall that forced her to pull out. Dog was stretched out on a cot under a blanket. I tried to convince him to come with me. I offered to walk with him. We had plenty of time. I knew how much he dreaded a DNF at CP3 after last year. This one would be hard to take. I figured if I could get him to CP4 he might improve or at the least have a 100km. No chance. We shook hands and I was off. It always hurts to see those around us fail and reminds us of our own vulnerability.

I partnered up with a guy leaving CP3. I never caught his name but discovered later it was Richard. It was his mate I had encountered halfway up to the comm tower laying on his back. I always find the turnoffs deceptive after leaving the basin. The tracks go for much longer than I remember and I start to doubt my navigation. This time was no different with the tracks going on and on. Finally we peeled off and were dropping to Cedar Brush trailhead. I continued to preserve my quads which by now were starting complain on the downhills. So it was a very leisurely cruise to the road. I passed some runners after climbing the fence. And then some more along the road, checking their maps. The full moon lit up the valley so I turned my light skyward to run in just the moonlight. The trees were hulking silhouettes and a misty fog lay across the fields. It was almost surreal in the moonlight. Another one of those purely magical moments. I realised I was running solidly so I watched my garmin closely. All good. I kept the heartrate under control but peeled off a solid 11 km and reached the school at Yarramalong right on midnight. Wow I was about 2 hours ahead of expectations. I would need every bit of that buffer.

CP4 was buzzing at midnight. I was weighed and gave blood again. Ticked all the boxes and surprised everyone with how good I was feeling. Where is the drama? Where are the bad patches? My crew, Tim, had planned to pace me from here to Somersby but had been struggling to get the car shuffled ahead. Turns out he wasn't even there and had been called away on a minor emergency. Jane asked me if I would be ok and even offered to pace me despite having her face all bandaged and looking rather battered. Despite her generous offer, I said I was right and once fueled up and loaded headed off into the night eating and walking per my routine.

The section from CP4 to CP5 goes through the dead of the night. I always struggle here. This time would be no different. A veil of fatigue descended on me and I couldn't shake it. Fatigue has been an ongoing symptom of my illness. I haven’t worked a full day in over 6 months. I have been tired in races before but this time there was no shaking it. Nick Barlow flew past me. He had been sleeping in the checkpoint and said he felt like a new man. I was jealous. I couldn't take caffeine and was craving some spark to keep me moving. I thought of napping and looked longingly at patches of grass but everything was wet with the dew. And I figured it would pass. It didn't. I shuffled the new road section. Back onto the trail and past the old water drop site. The dreaded sleepmonsters were heavy on my shoulders. I started hallucinating. Keep going. If I could make it to sun-up I knew I would feel better.

Finally I broke from the forest into the farmland around Ourimbah Valley and I simply could go on no longer. I was literally falling asleep on my feet. I was staggering. I would wake-up suddenly while walking off the road. Constant microsleeps while on the move. The sun was coming up and there was no magical revival. I picked a small patch of gravel off the side of the road, set my phone alarm for 15 minutes and collapsed in a heap just as I was. I was asleep before my head hit the dirt. The alarm went off in the blink of an eye. I could have lain there for hours but I had a job to do. I wasn't refreshed but I was now wide-awake and ready for the big climb into Somersby.

CP5 was subdued early in the morning. I had lost a lot of time, taking over 6 hours stumbling through the night from Yarramalong. I had soup and refilled for the next leg. I still did not think about the finish. I focused only on the next checkpoint at Mooney Mooney. Rachel Waugh was here after having a bad time of it and we walked out together. But she was keen to get it over and took off before we hit the trailhead. I was moving well again and despite the fatigue felt good. Running alone allows you to reflect on many things. I found myself lost deep in thought and smiling contentedly as I picked my way over the rocky terrain. I was loving every minute of it. I was back where I belonged: out on the trail.

CP6 was rewarding, knowing beyond this I was on the home stretch. Nothing would stop me now. I was an hour and a half ahead of my 12pm deadline. I knew I could finish easily inside the cut now. My gear sorted I was off in no time. I almost dawdled down to the swing bridge. Suddenly I was in no hurry. The finish time was irrelevant. In fact I realised even if I didn't finish now I had proven to myself that I could run ultras again. That made me smile again. That was all I really wanted from this race. A finish would be a bonus.

Richard, whom I had run with the night before, caught me up and I hung onto him and his fresh pacer for a while. The day was heating up and when out of the breeze it became stifling hot. The soles of my feet were feeling very macerated. I could feel the pain but it didn't seem to bother me. We climbed and dropped. And then climbed some more. In the distance the gunshots from the rifle range rang out. A helicopter droned constantly overhead extracting felled trees. You could hear the rotors straining as the huge trees swung pendulum like below the chopper.

I found myself alone again and sat in the rock pools cooling off and having some tinned spaghetti. I was really enjoying this and in no hurry for it to end. One last big climb to the unmanned water drop and I was there an hour inside the cut-off.

Susannah and another runner, both with pacers caught me while I refilled. We chatted and then I decided it was time to finish this thing. I ran most of the way from there to the finish, walking the uphills or when my heartrate nudged above 130bpm. I passed Richard again and kept going, ticking off each familiar landmark as I went.

The road to the Warrah Lookout went on forever. My feet burned now like someone was applying a small blowtorch to them. My achilles ached with every stride. It felt like there was barbed wire in my sock digging in with every flex of my ankle. But the pain was detached. Really weird. More surreal time. It did not belong to me. I could feel it but it made no impact on my stride. I was on autopilot, in cruise control. I felt myself smiling almost in defiance of the physical discomfort. It was like the pain was just there to remind me that I was very much alive and doing what I love to do: running an ultra on trail. There was nothing else I would rather be doing. There was no other place I would rather be. I thought of the finish that was now irrevocably mine. I pictured the beach not a mile in front of me. I had run it many times before but never had it meant so much. Never had I been faced with the prospect of giving up running before. Never had I faced my mortality the way the illness and treatment had forced me to do. I had embraced what I needed to do and proven I was capable. Seems melodramatic now but at the time I had bottled my emotions for 34:49 hours. I had reigned in every bit of energy and channeled it into one focus: getting to the finish. And now I was nearly there and the relief was overwhelming. These emotions that had been surging just beneath the surface now burst forth and washed over me in wave after wave of relief and pride. Tears streamed uncontrollably down my face. I didn't care. There was no-one to see me. It was cathartic and uplifting at the same time.

I ran hard, as hard as you can after 6,000 metres of climbing and 172 km of running. I passed a Nick who had passed me so long ago in the early hours of the morning. I dropped from the Warrah Trig onto the gravel road. I ran UP the hill. I hit the singletrack. I dodged and weaved. Wave after wave of emotion continued to wash over me. Tears welled in my eyes and the path was a blur. I was on the trail but could not feel it. Yet another surreal moment. I dropped the last few steps and hit the sand. I could see the finish at the other end of the beach. I could see the crowd of supporters gathered. I could see the banners and the marquees. They couldn't see me. I wasn't quite ready for this all to end. I wanted to soak in this feeling. To bask in this glory. I stopped. I sat down on a rock and buried my head in my hands and purged the doubts, the fears and the darkness that had hung over me for months.

Not more than a couple of minutes passed but with it passed those months of anguish and despair. It was long enough for me to regroup, and I got up and ran again. Weightless. The soft sand carried me forward. I swear it felt like I was floating across it. I could see the finish line getting closer. I could hear the cheers and the clapping. A bell was ringing. But the real clamour was now inside me. My heart beat loudly. My heart beat proudly. I had done it. I had overcome the physical limitations and run on sheer will. I ran across the soft sand without breaking stride. I pumped a fist against my chest, discretely, acknowledging to myself that my heart had got me there. A private little celebration. The cheers and clapping carried me up the beach under the finish banner. I touched that little wooden post signifying my sixth straight 100 mile finish with a sense of relief that words will never do justice to. I hugged Dave and thanked him for giving running back to me. For giving me back what I love. I might not be fully cured and this might be as good as I get but I now have the measure of this disease and I am not done with yet.

Post script:

I got to thank my cardiologist 3 weeks after the race. Not just for the treatment but for giving me my life back. Somehow the thank-you just didn't seem enough.
The next day my friend who has been fighting a losing battle with cancer died. Although not mentioned in my race report, she was always on my mind at GNW and provided me much inspiration in not only getting to the start line but making it to the finish. Her journey is over and she is now at peace.

GNW100s the big test

2011-11-09T22:56:00.000+11:00

People ask me regularly at work: how am I feeling. I have adopted a standard response: better but not cured. I am definitely improved markedly from how I was even a month ago. But I am still spending lots of time on the couch and only working half days. Getting through the build-up to and then directing GOW was reassuring but I think I focussed all my energy on making it happen. This weekend I return to GNW. I will need to do more than just focus all my energy to get through the 175km in 36hours.

finish 2009

This will be the real test. I am unsure how my heart will react. I have not gone anywhere near that effort since this all started. But I have started and finished all 6 x GNW, despite only running the 100km the first year. That makes me the only person to achieve that. I really want to maintain that streak. Once broken no-one can ever reclaim it. This is a race against no-body but myself. I will need to manage my heart-rate and my fluid and nutrition very carefully to ensure I have every chance of staying in the race. If I do it I will not only preserve the streak, I will have proven that I can still run ultras, with or without AF. That will be more significant than any honour board.

On the road to recovery I hope

2011-10-23T00:56:00.000+11:00

It is now 7 weeks post ablation. Am I cured? No. But I am much better than I was. For that I am very grateful.

After returning to work and having another AF event and really sliding backwards I was worried that I had been through all that for nothing. But the ablation has made a difference, definitely: I have not had another AF attack for 4 weeks, the 'flip-flopping' has all but gone and when I run my heart has behaved for at least the last week. Until today, as if on cue it went ballistic for no apparent reason. I guess it is still 'two steps forward, one step back'. Or more like 'three steps forward, and a half step back'. I will take that. Any forward movement is good.

Last weekend I organised the third running of the Great Ocean Walk100s, 100km solo and 50+50km team relay race on the track of the same name. It was a huge effort to pull it all together. After months of preparation I started the set-up early in the week in case my physical limitations became an issue. I got through the week and a very stressful race day without drama. This was my biggest test yet and I passed that one. Had the race date been a month earlier I would never have gotten through it.

My next big test is the Great North Walk 100miler. I plan to run that in 3 weeks time. I will be off my medication by then so I am hoping that will help. But my lack of training and not having a run longer than 30km since March means I have very little endurance base to fall back on. GNW has been a focus for me. Something to get me off the couch. And trust me, that hasn't been easy. Every run, however ugly, I have thought of myself slogging through 175km of GNW. I have an unbroken streak going there and I want to maintain that. It won't be easy.

My friends, Larry and Beth from Hardrock run the Bear100 regularly. They have run it 5 times each. Must be a record for partners. It was just a few weeks back. Beth told me afterwards she had dedicated the last 25miles of the race to me (each of the first 3 x 25miles she ran for her 3 children), knowing I was sick and not able to do what she was doing. Not able to do what I love doing. It helped motivate her to keep going when things got tough. I was touched when she told me. I have a close friend who is really, really sick. I will be running GNW for her.

So often we use ultrarunning as a metaphor for our lives. We wax lyrical about the journey and the destination. It is easy to overthink these things and make them more complicated than they need be. A friend told me today that we don't really control our lives. I don't totally agree. I like to think we do have some control. Just as I like to think I do have some control over my race coming up. I have been dealt a blow with my heart health issues but I am still running. I have tried to take back some control. Same with GNW. I will be running for the simple joy of being able to compete once again. I will try to control as many of the variables as I can. And in the back of my mind I will be thinking of my friend and how her journey is coming to an end. Way too early. And my troubles will seem insignificant and hopefully I will finish my race with pride, dignity and humility. And simply be grateful.

3 weeks post surgery

2011-09-27T10:52:00.001+10:00

While they warned me I could have episodes and it would take a few weeks for my heart to settle, I was unprepared for just how crap I felt in the first 2 weeks after the ablation. I had several bouts of arrhythmia culminating in the one episode of full AF. I suffered major visual disturbances that created a shimmering blurriness around the periphery of my vision. Sometimes this spread across my line of sight and I could not read until it passed. This was transitory but very annoying. I had a growing headache through the first week which progressed to a full blown migraine one night, leaving me paralysed on the couch in the fetal position for hours. Apparently this is a known side effect of the surgery. It felt like that Mac truck kept backing up over me for good measure.

3 weeks out and I still have residual groin bruising and some tenderness in the area of the wound. My arm swelling and bruising have gone down but I still have altered sensation and get the occasional 'carpal tunnel' type pain/sensation through my wrist. And I still have dyspepsia and general heart burn type symptoms. I am blaming the medication (warfarin) for that rightly or wrongly. That is settling also, though. But importantly, week three brought a dramatic improvement in my wellbeing. I actually started to feel better despite the medication. Hy heart settled and there was no flip-flopping feeling. I could lie on my left side without inducing arrhythmia. I was back running easily a few times a week. I had more energy and a somewhat clearer head. I was getting excited that I had passed the worst and just perhaps I might have beaten this thing. Well the ablation might have beaten this thing. The Professor had told me that by week 3 I could ramp up my training back to what I was previously at. I even spent a very easy 5 hours walk/jogging on the Great Ocean Walk to remeasure some track changes. And boy did that feel good.

But a couple of days later my heart rate started misbehaving on my regular easy evening runs. It would rapidly accelerate for no reason and fall as quickly. Despite going very slow and walking to warm-up. Yesterday I had my first day back at work. I was almost supernumerary so not particularly stretched. I felt a bit fatigued but decided an easy 8km would clear my head. There was nothing easy about it. And when I got home I felt horribly nauseous. Something I hadn't experienced for a while now. I had a glass of cold soda water to help settle my stomach and I went straight into AF.

It only lasted a couple of hours but was enough to wring me right out and leave me more than a little disappointed. I guess I haven't beaten it yet.

Put HR monitor on and this is me sitting on the couch, not hard to guess when I came out of AF?

Pulmonary Vein Isolation Ablation

2011-09-14T00:37:00.001+10:00

The anaesthetist said to me while I lay flat on my back: 'there are a lot of things that could go wrong, but you could also get hit by a Mac truck. We don't have any Mac trucks around here so you should be OK'. I woke up after 5 hours of surgery and was looking for the Mac truck that had hit me. Remembering that one of my primary motivators in chronicling this illness and subsequent treatment options is to benefit others who might suffer the same affliction, I will not sugar coat my experience. I wrote this soon after getting home and have had time to since reflect on it all.

Simply put it was pretty horrible. Of course I know nothing of what went on while I was under. And all the staff who attended me, from the meals lady to my cleaner to the many nurses and all the way through to my surgeon and his assistant I could not fault my treatment or care. But the pain and discomfort was not fun. In retrospect I should have asked for pain relief on the first night. And some anaesthesia for the lady sharing my room who ensured that any chance I had of sleeping was totally gone. Her hourly trips to the toilet shuffling noisily past my bed, slamming the door into my curtain rail, endlessly dropping her bed remote-control and swearing at the top of her voice, the unbelievable flatulence (both in episodes and loudness), the spontaneous loud groaning and cursing that scared the life out of me in the dead of night, flicking lights and the TV on and off and the list goes on and didn't stop until 5am. I forgave her the constant raking, chest-rattling cough as she was denied access to cigarettes and that clearly irritated her airways. Mind you every time she startled me with an outburst or loud noise either organic or mechanical I would flinch. This flinching would set off pain receptors in multiple sites which to do justice I need to cite: my chest (incredibly sore from the actual ablation kind of like a horse had kicked me), my throat (incredibly sore from the probe/scope and airway that had been down there), my abdominal muscles (painful from the clexane injection directly into my tummy), my elbow (where the cannula remained in case needed and was digging into me mercilessly), my groin (very sore from the puncture site and subsequent pushing and pulling through the small hole and now with a full body clamp squeezing into it to stop the persistent leaking), my back, buttocks and my heels (I had been lying flat on my back in the same position for many, many hours to stop the bleeding and I had pressure pain like never before), the end of my penis (majorly inflamed from the catheter that had been pushed up there to drain my bladder during the procedure) and a headache. I maybe could have managed all of this if I was able to just relax and go to sleep. No chance with my neighbours antics going on. Of course I was also on hourly observations so if my room-mate didn't jerk me out of any hint of sleep the obs would. Mind you the obs were a welcome interval punctuating the long night and reminding me that another hour had passed and I was closer to daylight.

I couldn't help trying to imagine what the poor bugger who had gone in the same time as me for open heart surgery was feeling. I got off lightly by comparison. Like I always say: there is always someone worse off.

Needless to say I slept most the next day. But so did my room mate. I encouraged any medical or meal staff to wake her up. I wanted her tired so she would sleep the next night.

The saving grace was my surgeon came to see me mid morning after the surgery. He said they had some difficulty because the tissue was very thick and fibrous around the root of each vein. So they isolated each one by burning around them. Then they stimulated my heart into AF type behaviour and unfortunately the pulses jumped over the burnt tissue. So they repeated the burn and on the second testing there were no transmitted pulses. He said he expects me to see significant improvement. I was very happy with that prediction. Of course we really won't know until it has all healed up in a few months time but it is definitely promising.

The next step was to get me in some sort of condition to send home. Unfortunately the post-procedure pill-cam had demonstrated 2 haematomas in my oesophagus (explaining one of my pains and why eating hurt like hell) that could potentially bleed given the blood thinning medication I was now on. So I was kept in for a third night. They stopped the clexane injections into my tummy in case it caused my throat to haemorrhage. But the warfarin was continued as that takes a couple of days to take affect and I needed protection from having a stroke.

I went home early on the fourth day. I had to report for a blood test early every morning for the next week and ring for the results that afternoon to determine my daily dose of warfarin. My left arm is covered by a massive bruise from my elbow to my wrist (there was a catheter in my wrist during the surgery to test the blood gases continually to make sure that I was getting enough oxygen despite the breath suspension technique used to stop things moving). It is also swollen because of this and still keeps erupting into an itchy rash. So I have been getting all the blood tests on my right arm and it is starting to look a little worse for wear. My groin developed a massive purple bruise with a hard lump at the entry site. But no pain there after a few days.

Over a week later and I have had several bad episodes of AF. Still. They warned me that could happen but after a week I hoped I would be seeing less of it. It is hard not to be disappointed when it happens. I am still on the flecainide to suppress my heart and that is making me feel like crap. Mind you I felt really crap and was really tired for a week after the surgery. We won't know for a month or so until I ween off the medication how effective it has really been. I am prepared psychologically to go through it all again if need be. I was warned that was very likely. I would rather not, especially now that I know what I am in for. But if it means improvement I will go through it. No question. I just hope to avoid that Mac truck next time.

Countdown is over.

2011-08-31T23:38:00.000+10:00

Last week I went through pre-admissions in preparation for my ablation. This is the stuff you don't think about but important for anyone facing this process.

I spent the whole day at the hospital having tests and answering questions. There is so much involved in getting ready. It is always a very humbling being a patient. After working as a health professional for over 30 years I still find being a patient very confronting. There is so much you don't think of. You are at your most vulnerable.

First up was the CT scan. This was of my chest with a view to providing a 3D model of my heart to help plan the approach and get an overview of my anatomy. After a long wait I found myself on the table with a cannula in my arm being hooked up to a pressure injector. This would inject a bolus of contrast that would fill my heart during the scan to outline the chambers and major vessels. I have performed and seen hundreds of CT scans involving the injecting of contrast media. But this was the first time I was on the receiving end. The standard warning goes something like: you will get a warm sensation, you might get a funny taste in your mouth and some people feel like they have wet themselves. Wet themselves? Holy crap, I thought someone had fired up a bunsen burner and applied it to my scrotum!

A couple of hours later I was in the Pre-Admissions clinic. After filling out one form I was whisked away through a series of back corridors and taken to the Professors private rooms in an adjacent building. After more waiting I had a brief consult with him. He was very reassuring and succinct.

Back to Pre-Admissions. A nurse took me into a very small room and did an ECG, check my blood pressure and temperature. Then a heap of questions.

Back to the waiting room.

Then the cardiology liaison coordinator (the lovely lady that got me the surgery date) took me to another room for a lengthy questionnaire. It was amazing how well she knew the answers to all the questions she was asking. Clearly I have classic presentation.

Next the young Cardiologist who will be assisting came and got me to swallow this ginormous pill with 2 cameras in it. This sent real time images to his laptop so we could see my oesophagus. This would be repeated after the ablation as part of a study into the damage caused by the scope down my throat during the surgery. The images were fascinating but I could feel the pill all the way down until it plopped into my stomach.

Finally another round of questions with the first nurse of the day and I was done. And very tired.

I went to a friends birthday afternoon tea on the weekend. She is a close friend with terminal cancer and in a very bad way. It is the saddest situation. A lot of my really old friends were there. I got talking to one lady I went through school with but have only seen a handful of times in the 30 years since then. Out of the blue she said to me "I have the same thing as you". AF? Yes. One of my daughters had been talking to her and told her what I had. I asked her for how long? 10 years! My god, I could never survive this for 10 years. I could see in her eyes the same frustration and pain that this illness brings. I am not sure whether it was the heightened emotions of the afternoon or just that sympathy you feel for a kindred spirit but my heart went out to her. As runners we talk endlessly about how hard some race was, how tough we were, how strong we have to be. Sometimes we lose perspective. Here was true strength. To carry on a normal life with the medication constantly dragging you down, the intermittent episodes throwing you into chaos, trips to the ED and cardioversions under anaesthetic and the continual fear of an attack. For 10 years? I have gone 5 months and are at my wits end. Apparently hers is not amenable to treatment with ablation. I was humbled yet again and given more perspective. And then there was my friend who doesn't have the luxury of any potential cure. That is the ultimate reality check.

Today was the last day before my ablation. I have been off the medication for 6 days. I was surprised how stable my heart was initially. But today was a shocker. I have been suffering arrhythmia all day. Tonight when I decided I was going for my last run for who knows how long, my heartrate was 135 bpm at rest. And I could feel it. But I ran. Very slow at first as I always do. But gradually when I realised my heartrate was already out of control I really wound it up. It was tough but felt good to cut loose. It may sound a little irresponsible but I needed to run. I am learning the hard way that you don't always get a second chance at things. I no longer have a bucket list. If there is something I want to do it is on my calendar. At the moment that calendar is all in pencil while I try to regain control of my heart but it is full nonetheless.

Lets start by seeing what tomorrow brings.

Pre-op tests

2011-08-26T00:51:00.000+10:00

When is a DNS for a favourite race a good thing? I have had to pull out of my ambitious plan to run the 100km at Glasshouse. It will be just over a week after my surgery so no chance of running it. I hope to still fly up to hang-out and help out on light duties. But this is a good thing because it means I am starting on that long road to hopefully getting my health back.

I go to Melbourne tomorrow to have some tests in preparation for the ablation. The main one is a cardiac CT scan. I have seen plenty of these but to be on the other side of the fence is a little daunting. They will use a 3D reconstructed image of my heart to help plan the approach to the region they need to target. They will also use ultrasound via an oesophageal scope and an image intensifier. These are tools of my trade, although not my area of expertise, but I still don't feel all that comfortable about them.

I have volunteered to participate in 2 clinical studies during the procedure. Although after reading all the consent forms I am not so sure that was such a good idea. But I am a firm supporter of research so could not say no to the request. Besides I was so excited about getting a surgery date they could have asked for my left kidney and I probably would have said yes.

The first one involves swallowing a tiny camera inside a capsule: a pill-cam. It will take pictures of my oesophagus. This will be repeated after the ablation to see what damage the scope does to my oesophagus. Here's hoping not much.

The other involves measuring the levels of my blood gases during the actual procedure, which they would do anyhow. To improve accuracy of the catheter that burns my heart, the anaesthetist will regularly suspend (read stop) my breathing to reduce movement of my heart. If it means more accuracy, hell they can suffocate me. Well perhaps not quite.

Sometimes it is better to be ignorant about what is going on. Someone at work asked me if I wasn't a little worried about all this. I said given the alternative that wasn't even a consideration. I have been hanging on for this treatment since I realized I had a problem. Let's just hope it works.

Recall

2011-08-21T23:41:00.000+10:00

A lifeline. Another phone call. This time from the cardiology department at the public hospital, Royal Melbourne. When Professor Kalman put me on his public waiting list he asked if I could be considered urgent. There was no questioning that from my viewpoint. So I have a new date: September 1. First day of spring. First day of my rehab. I can't describe the sense of relief tinged with a healthy dose of fear. I rushed in to town to get a blood test so I could get things moving. I go for a CT of my heart next friday and stop my medication for the week. That will make for a very interesting week. Countdown has begun. Can't come soon enough.

I ran the Bellarine Rail Trail run today. 34km social run from Queenscliff to Drysdale and return. My wife and one of our dogs ran with me to the half-way point. I had a lot of trouble getting my heart-rate down at the start and we ended up walking lots of the first 5km. This put us well behind everyone but after I stabilised we set a steady pace and even managed to catch a couple of runners before the turnaround.

I ran back on my own and again, after the restart struggled to get my heart rate down. After a couple of kms I settled into a rhythm and started cranking out sub 5minute kms. My heart-rate gradually crept up as my pace increased. over the last 3 kms I was doing 4:30 km/min and my heart -rate kept creeping up. I felt fine and wasn't in arrhythmia like the start of the run, so allowed myself to keep ticking along. The ocean opened up before me. There wasn't a cloud in the blue, blue sky. The paddocks were lush and vivid green. The sun was warm like the first hint of spring. It felt so good to be running again and for a minute there I actually forgot my heart problem and just let my legs do their own thing: run. Sometimes you've just got get out there and do it.

The phone call

2011-08-12T09:13:00.000+10:00

I got the call at work today. The young lady on the phone said she was ringing from Professor Kalman's rooms. They had had a cancellation and she knew it was short notice but a spot had opened up on Monday the 15th. (Holy crap that was this Monday!) And she was sorry it was such short notice but did I think I could make it. Yes, yes most definitely. (Are you kidding my whole life has been focussed on getting this surgery.) She went on to describe in detail the course of events necessary over the next few days: Chest CT at Royal Melbourne tomorrow at 12:30, come into the rooms and pick up some forms, take them to pre-admissions over at the Private Hospital, stop my Flecainide, fast from 6:00am, be there by 8am. I was scribbling madly and my head was spinning. At last a step forward after so many sideways and backwards. I hung up reeling. A couple of the ladies I work with were standing beside me and worked out pretty fast what the call was about. One of them wanted to hug me, they knew how much this meant to me. They told me to go and organise and they would cover for me.

I was overwhelmed, emotions welled up from dark depths. Relief, excitement, fear. I went and found my wife so she could organise some time off. I texted Jane who had been offering to find me an alternate specialist with a shorter waitlist: I am on for Monday. The text came back: I have lost all my phone numbers....please let this b from Andy! I found my boss and told him I would be off for the next fortnight. I went outside to try to settle as I was on an emotional roller coaster. The nice lady rang me again from Kalman's rooms. Can I come to them first tomorrow for the forms and they will take me to the CT. Yep, no worries. I started thinking about life after AF, knowing that this wouldn't guarantee me a cure and that I would likely need it done again in 4-6 months time. But it could cure it. Or at least it improve it. I texted my mates and got a couple of congratulatory responses and the inevitable one asking for all my running shoes if I died during the procedure. No prizes for guessing who that was. I reassured him they were in my will.

I went back to work, and tried to be helpful. Within the hour my phone was buzzing silently in my pocket again. I pulled it out and now recognized the number from the rooms again. It was the same lovely lady. "I have some bad news. We sent your private health insurance details to the hospital admissions and they always run a check and turns out your cover doesn't include heart surgery. I am terribly sorry but we have had to cancel you. You have been placed on the Public waiting list, which as you can imagine is considerably longer than ours." I was speechless. My mind reeled as I started processing it. How can that be? I have had insurance for 30 years and recently had cause to increase it. I vaguely remember now being offered specific exclusions: do you want obstetric cover? No. Likely to need a hip replacement? No. You want heart surgery cover? There it was. At 45 and as fit and healthy as most 25 year olds why would I want cover for heart surgery? Gone.

The poor young lady was hanging on the phone. I said, oh, I'm sorry I should have checked. She said, no, no she was sorry, and sorry to be the one who had to tell me. She could hear my shattered response down the line. She explained that the check was routine as the out-of-pocket for the uninsured was hugely expensive. I asked how hugely? Don't expect any change from ten thousand dollars. Oh. That was it. I had held the chance of some salvation in my hand, only to feel it slip through my fingers, like so much fine sand. I was numb.

I found my wife again and told her. She asked but how? I explained. She said we will pay for it. I said you sure? Yes. I rang the poor lady at the rooms again. "Can I pay myself to have it done?" "Oh, I'm not sure how that works can you hold on?" A lengthy piece of terrible on-hold music while I could feel every heart beat in my chest. She came back on "sorry Professor Kalman is uncomfortable operating on full fee paying patients and besides it couldn't be organised in time now (presumably I would need to pay up front)." "But I can pay." "His PA is back on Tuesday I will talk to her. What he can do is work out a quote for you and we can take it from there." She could hear the desperation in my voice and I knew if she could, she would help me. It was over. To be so near and now so much further away with the thought of a public waitlist or a massive bill was such a cruel twist. I was in shock. I went home and curled up with the dogs in front of the heater totally numb. I couldn't even face going out for a run.

Waiting, planning and hoping

2011-08-02T15:01:00.000+10:00

While I sit and wait for a date for my ablation I am trying to regain some normality in my life. I have returned to work but only 1/2 days. That is plenty. I am trying to maintain my running. Still very low intensity. Still very short. Still very slow. After a particularly difficult weekend I have entered 2 races coming up. I have explained my predicament to both race directors. I figured I would miss Glasshouse this year but could not miss GNW100. GH comes up first and I intended flying up and just crewing but then figured I would try to complete the 100km. If things go well I will be done in a day and be in bed at a reasonable hour. More importantly it will allow me to see where I am at and how I might go at GNW. I have run every GNW and finished them all. The first year I only ran the 100km but it still makes me the only runner with an unblemished record there. I cannot give that up. When the AF hit me back in May I knew Hardrock was off. But I never conceded GNW. That became my ultimate goal for the year. Nearly every run I have been on since I have thought about GNW. I have imagined running the long road into Yarramalong. I have pictured crossing the sandstone escarpment on the Sunday afternoon. I have closed my eyes and imagined running up to the Warrah Trig before descending to the beach. Every year at the pre-race briefing Dave Byrnes pays tribute to the handful of runners who have started every year. One runner has started every year but never finished once, 6 DNFs. Up to last year there has been 2 of us who had finished every year. But Dog was ahead of me since his were all milers. I lodged my priority entry on Sunday. I plan to be there on November 12 when Dave acknowledges those five runners. More importantly I plan to reach the beach at Patonga. Under my own steam. I am learning to run with my mind instead of my heart. My heart is broken but I won't be beaten.

Perspective

2011-07-23T17:57:00.000+10:00

this was the run

note the flat terrain

but high heartrate through

the middle section

There has been heaps of complaining on the Hardrock yahoo email list. It happens periodically but the latest burst has been unusually venomous. It all revolves around the lottery process and entry criteria. All good races suffer from popularity pressure these days. But as a race director it wears a little thin. It smacks of selfishness. You can please some of the people some of the time. But in lotteries those that miss out will often find fault. Me, I have been lucky with the lottery. I would love to have been there this year but things happen. There are people dying of famine, drought, flood, disease and violent causes all over the world. Hardrock, all said and done, is just a race. If you miss the lottery move on.

I have been driving my mother-in-law to the rehab hospital the last few weeks while I have been off work. She had her leg amputated nearly 2 years ago and they are trying to fit her with a prosthetic leg. It is a huge effort trying to learn to walk again, especially given her age and that it is an above knee amputation. Other amputees come and go from the gym while I wait. They are not all old people, far from it. It is a salient reminder of how lucky we are to be able to run.

I ran today. On my favourite trail. It was slow but magical. I felt OK for a change, well relatively speaking. Perhaps it was just the place. I love it down there. I have plans organised for a race on this course but that is on hold until I have the energy to deal with it. I am ever optimistic that I will get over this problem. The tide was coming in but we still made it along the beach with some rock scrambling around the exposed headland. There has been a heap of track maintenance and the surface was great. Several times I felt like opening up on the downhills but know better. But despite taking it very easily my heartrate continued to spike. Even on the long flat beach section. Rapid unexplainable accelerations. And then dropping back just as fast.

On the drive home I was in full-on AF with my heartrate hitting 236bpm at rest. And rather uncomfortable as you might imagine. It continued for some time at home and I was tempted to take a flecainide but eventually it settled. The weirdest sensation after these events is that my heart actually feels relaxed and genuinely tired. Is that physically possible? Almost the same contented tiredness you feel after a solid run. Seems my heart is running it's own race. I just can't keep up with it. One day we will be back in synch. I hope.

this was my heartrate after the run

First visit to Electrophysiologist

2011-07-16T22:20:00.001+10:00

Finally the visit I have been waiting for pretty much since I established I needed an ablation. My new cardiologist comes highly recommended in his area of expertise. That is what I want. And he was a very calm and concise man in person, inspiring the sort of confidence you want when your future is depending on him. He discussed in detail the procedure: Radiofrequency Ablation. On a printed fact sheet he drew and described the path of the catheter that gets fed in through a vein in my groin up into my heart. And an oesophageal ultrasound probe was passed down my throat and provided images helping direct the catheters. A fluoroscopic x-ray machine is also used to help guide the catheters into the appropriate chambers of my heart. And because they run a truck load of fluid into me during the procedure, they will stick a catheter into my bladder while I am out of it. Keeps getting better all the time.

Once in the right side of my heart he will poke the catheter through the thin wall between the upper chambers to get to the left side. Here he will use the electrode on the end of the catheter to burn areas around the base of the pulmonary veins that pass blood from the lungs back into the heart. This is where the extra beats originate to cause the fibrillation. The whole job can take 4-6 hours.

I will wake with a sore throat, sore groin and likely a little chest pain, oh and the catheter in my bladder of course. 6 hours flat on my back. 2 nights in hospital. 2 weeks off work. No mention of running. The first catch he mentioned was that best results are achieved after repeating the ablation again in 4-6 months. The next catch: he has a waiting period of 6-8 months! He recognised my desperation and the impact the events and drugs were having on my quality of life and put me on the urgent wait list. If a cancellation occurs I will be in. Could still be 3-4 months.

The success rate is 85%. There is a 2% risk of heart attack or stroke during the ablation. There is a tiny risk of needing to have open heart surgery if something goes wrong. And there is a 1 in 1000 chance of death. I can live with those odds. Or die by them I guess. They are pretty good odds from where I am sitting. The decision was easy and never in doubt. I am waiting for that phone call.

Hardrock horror stories

2011-07-11T13:59:00.022+10:00

I followed Hardrock intently all weekend. Online checkpoint times for runners and tweets from runners and crew out on the course. But you never get the full story. And you never get a real feel for what it is like out there. I received part of Joe Prusaitis' report just now and although I haven't had a chance to check with him if he is happy for me to post it, I feel it compelling enough that it has to be shared. Joe is an extremely experienced ultrarunner with bags of Hardrock finishes including a HR/Badwater double. He doesn't need to embellish so read what follows and remember this was all at night. Deb Pero told me she experienced the same but she was coming last and alone out there. Helps explain the high drop out rate just for starters.

"Thunderheads lined up one behind the other, with clear patches of stars between each. Sleet and hail hurled sideways into us with enough force to lift anything loose and soak what was underneath. Had we been at 10000-ft it would have been a nasty storm, but near the summit of 14000-ft handies Peak… it was much more than that. This was stupid crazy. We had to summit quickly before the lightning started or retreat back to Burrows Park. My gloves were soaked through and my hands were numb and stinging. I knew that I had to climb the next few pitches very fast, but I couldn't breath and was reduced to a crawl, barely moving. Marty was right behind me, Jim just in front. Jim was moving well, so he was quickly over the top and gone. Inching upwards carefully through a field of frozen snow, we reach the ridge just below the summit, where we both stop to catch our wind. The next face is all rock and very steep. Just below the summit, I see then hear the first
flash of lightning. I stop and lay low for a few minutes, taking the time to put away my trekking poles. Marty is just below me, when I reach the summit. Another flash and boom, so I lay as low as possible. I yell back down to Marty but he can't hear me. A few moments of calm and I'm up and running as fast as I can go at 14000-ft. I reach the highest point, looking back to see Marty following, then turn and sprint down towards American Basin. There is nowhere to hide, no cover… and fear drives me faster. On the naked ridge hanging over Boulder Gulch, 1000 ft down, I stop and lay down facing back up the mountain… looking for Marty. He's nowhere in sight. I wonder where he is... what's happened to him. I don't know what to do. I lay there on the ground with the thunderheads roiling overhead and being pelted by the hail… searching the barren face for Marty. What the hell is he doing? I can't go back up! I have to go down… but I wait. 5 minutes feel like 3
0. I'm not sure how long, and then a light and another... Marty with somebody else. Its too loud to talk so its impossible to answer my questions. I get up and start running again… another 4 or 5 switchbacks, then I turn and look back again. Both of them are way back. I'm either moving very fast or they're moving very slow, but this is killing me. I wait again, and while I wait, I search my pack to see if there's anything else I can use to stay warm. I find the cheap rubber garden gloves Joyce put in for the snow. I remove my soaking wet gloves and put the garden gloves on. My hands are frozen and wet so its awkward, but I finally get them on. When Marty and the other guy get to me, I get up and start running again. Down to the snow field, I stop and wait again. A few minutes or more, they get closer, but I go before they get close. I cross the snow field, which is turning to ice. The hail and sleet are constant, but my hands seem to be warming in the runner gloves. I
keep moving now, no longer content to wait. I need to escape the storm before I go hypothermic. The combination of altitude and cold is clouding my thinking. I feel fuzzy and numb. My frozen popsicle feet are soaking wet from the snow melt marsh we passed through just before summit. One thought persists in my muddy mind… 'keep moving', so I start running again. From flag to flag, down into the American Basin. I turn now and again to see if Marty follows and I can see that his light is higher as I drop further. The tracks through the snow sometimes lead to a flag but mostly I just head towards the high ridge which I think is the pass that leads over into Grouse Gulch. The snow is mostly ice, turning to slushy mud. When we marked this route last week, the entire basin was snow, so we chose a route across the snow by guessing where the trail was underneath. Now, it's a patchwork of snow and rock, such that sometimes the route we marked is on trail but mostly its 10 to 20 f
eet offset. The current snow track is not aligned directly with the rock trail. I go along for 50 yards of snow, then have to climb 20 feet of rock up to the trail for 50 yards, then drop back down to the next snow track, and repeat. Over a shallow hump of snow, I glissade down into a mess of slush and running water, then hop a larger flow, and crawl up a muddy bank. Over and again I check back to see if anyone follows. A series of lights dot from the top of Handies down into the basin and I'm surprised how many people there are. The storm seems to fade for a bit and I can hear my own ragged breathing, but I can't stop. The route seems to go on for such a long time. In the darkness, Its impossible to tell how far I've gone and how far remains. Hail starts coming down hard and fast again, and that's when I realize I'm standing just under the exit ridge. I push across the saddle and drop quickly. It a messy sopping wet marsh of snow melt, tundra, and rock and then into Grouse G
ulch. I slip on the edge of the track and start sliding down and realize I'm off trail. I look back to see a flag above and off to the right and another directly underneath. Instead of trying to climb back up, I simply keep sliding down through the switchback into another snow field towards the next flag. Reaching the flag, the snow track goes right and back onto a muddy dirt trail. I have escaped the worst of it. It's an easy track from here, heading directly down and out.

And that was just the first set of storms..."

I am not sure exactly how many Hardrocks Joe has done but it's a lot. He missed last year after developing pulmonary oedema in the lead-up to the race. The year before he finished after the final cut-off, but finished nevertheless. So this year he was looking for some redemption and told me before the race he was feeling good. He is possibly the most experienced ultrarunner I know and was the inspiration behind me starting Trailrunningcompany with his race directing and coaching business Tejas Trails. When he found out about my heart problem and that I was out of Hardrock he asked if there was anything he could do for me. I asked if he could put an extra rock on the Joel Zucker memorial cairn on Grant-Swamp pass for me as is the tradition (Hardrock100/Joel). I never met Joel but his death in 1998 soon after finishing his 3rd Hardrock always resonates with me. More so now I have this affliction. Following the results online over the weekend I was bitterly disappointed to see Joe drop out at Ouray. Having read his account above I now have a better understanding of why. So Joe never made it as far as Grant-Swamp this year in the counter-clockwise direction. I hope I get a chance to put an extra rock on that cairn next year with him.

Perhaps this is as good as it will get

2011-07-07T00:55:00.000+10:00

todays heartrate

When time came for me to head out for a run today I simply couldn't face it and chose to curl up in front of the heater with the dogs for a sleep. I woke feeling drugged. How appropriate. The irony wasn't overlooked. I was already dressed for a run so dragged myself out the door. As is now the routine I walked for the first 10minutes to slowly warm my heart up. Then it is a slow jog of around 7 minutes per kilometre to ensure my heartrate stays below 130bpm. I have chosen that as my upper limit. Go above that and I walk until it drops significantly and start again. This is the pattern of my runs. Add to that the ever present feeling of dragging a tyre or 2 behind me. And the lack of blood getting to my legs makes them feel like I am wearing compression tights that are 2 sizes too small. The big muscles starved of adequate oxygenated blood start to complain even at a slow jog.

Some days once I start to run, regardless of how slow I go, my heartrate spikes and I can feel the pressure. It can jump from 110 to 170bpm in the space of a few paces for no reason. And then drop as rapidly. Today this began after nearly 20minutes when I thought my heartrate was nice and stable. The spikes can be seen clearly on the trace above. It didn't get too high as I kept stopping. Eventually it stopped with only minor accelerations. But the frustration, the interruption to momentum, the disappointment was still there. Walking home slowly up the hill I looked back at the sun setting behind the clouds across the Moorabool valley. The sky was grey, orange and black. The wind was cold and the rain was stinging even through my tights. It was coming in horizontal and hitting me in the face under the brim of my cap. Normally I would complain about such horrible weather. Tonight I embraced it, realising this was probably as good as it was going to get. And what is the alternative?

Bad days and bad days

2011-07-03T23:43:00.003+10:00

I seem to be stringing together more bad days than good days. I have been free of AF for about 3 weeks now so that is definitely a positive. But I have also been off work pretty much the past 4 or 5 weeks continuously. And not doing much else besides lying on the couch. I have eliminated all obvious stimulants: no alcohol, no tea or coffee and even turned to decaf green tea. I was finding that if I ate too much my heart would go beserk for the rest of the night so I have cut down my portions. Seems to have helped. I try to avoid lying on my left side, sounds bizarre but it tends to give me arrhythmia. It was so bad one event that I actually started to pass out. And still the incredible lethargy. And frustration. That never ends.

Tomorrow is 4th July celebrations at Hardrock. Americans celebrate Independence Day like you wouldn't believe. Silverton holds a festive parade and the Hardrockers 'march' behind the start/finish banner. It is a fun day out culminating in the Rhubarb Pie Fair in the park and then the local fire brigades have a 'hose-off' where they try to kill each other with their high pressure hoses. How they don't take out an eye or rupture an ear drum beats me. But it is quite the scene, especially when they finally turn the hoses on the crowds. I will miss not being a part of all that.

Photos are filtering though from the Hardrock course marking. The snow is simply amazing. Way more than in 2008 when I was worried it would be cancelled because it exceeded the allowable depth in the lead-up. But it does melt out fast. Though there will be some scary sections. None worse than climbing the pitches up Virginius. A lot of runners will go through there in the night and early morning when the snow is turned to treacherous ice. I remember hauling myself up the fixed rope in 2009 and being shit scared of slipping. I also remember getting to the top and claiming that 'there ain't nothing like that at Badwater!'

Back home the You Yangs Trail Races are fast approaching and a few of us spent some time clearing trails today. The park has been closed for 6 months after flood damage and the trails are largely covered in leaves, bark and sticks. We raked, scraped and blew the trails clean. Well the guys did, I was worn out by the end of the morning and went home to sleep on the couch. But it was great to get out in the bush for a while. I appear to have suffered as a result, on my run tonight my heartrate went out of control towards the end of a very slow and easy 8km. It hasn't done that at the end before so I was disappointed. And totally trashed when I finally got home.

Good days and bad days

2011-07-01T23:59:00.002+10:00

There are good days and bad days. Today was a bad day for running. After some stable runs over the last week I thought I was starting to adjust to the medication. Adjust is a misleading description. By adjust I mean not having my heartrate spike erratically. I have still been struggling to go much faster than 8min/km pace. But I had a '1/2 tyre' run the other night which was really refreshing. And led me to believe maybe I was acclimatising just like my friends are currently doing at Silverton.

After not running yesterday and feeling pretty crappy I was keen to get out for a run and clear the head. From the start my heartrate get accelerating disproportionally to the effort. We would slow to a walk and it would drop below 100. I would ease into a shuffle and it would climb to 140. At 8+min/km. And I could feel it. Every step was a struggle. My breath was short and shallow no matter how much I tried to slow and lengthen it. There was no rhythm. There was no respite. Eventually we walked back to the car for a very ordinary 4.5km. I was thoroughly dejected, realising I was still totally at the mercy of this disorder and the medication.

Entries open tomorrow morning for the Kepler in New Zealand this December. They sell out in minutes. I had planned to chance the rush and see if I could get in. Not this year. I look at the spring season of ultras rapidly approaching and realise that realistically I am likely going to miss the lot. Except GNW. I will not miss GNW. That is not an option. Let's just hope it falls on a good day.

Another cardiology consult

2011-06-22T17:53:00.003+10:00

I ran alone again last night. The weather was atrocious. The dogs didn't even move away from the heater when I headed for the door. I was wearing 3 layers on top plus a light running jacket, polypro beanie, buff around my neck, full length heavy tights, and polypro gloves. A cap kept the rain out of my eyes. The biggest problem was walking/shuffling so slow meant I couldn't warm up. My hands were freezing even in the gloves. Ordinarily I would probably just skip my run in these conditions. Not anymore. If I haven't run and I am scheduled for one I am out there. I will never take running for granted again.

I have a new rating system to describe my runs. On the heart medication it feels like I am dragging a tyre behind me when I try to run. Sometimes it feels like I am dragging 2 tyres at once. Sometimes I am dragging a tractor tyre. I don't like to talk about those ones. Last night was a 'one tyre' night. I ran again this morning, unusual to run 2 days in a row but opportunity knocked. This was a 'two tyre' run. I had just had my morning medication and clearly the effects were strong. We bumped into a runner I know and he turned and ran with us a short way but soon realised I wasn't going to talk. It was more that I couldn't talk. It was taking everything I had just to keep moving.

I revisited my cardiologist today. I updated him and he said that it looks like I need to see the ablation specialist (who I had preemptively booked in to). That is not for another 3 weeks. So I am to remain on this relatively low dose of beta-blockers until then. No solution to the side effects. Except more time off work. I pretty much expected all of that but left rather disappointed nonetheless. I haven't had an episode of AF for 2 weeks. But I am still suffering regular arrhythmia and I can feel my heart 'jumping' to try and flip into AF but the medication is suppressing it. A very unpleasant feeling like my heart is actually rotating inside my chest. I have had more anecdotal stories of successful ablations (thanks Darcy) so I am really pinning my hopes on that now.

Not going to Hardrock

2011-06-18T08:41:00.005+10:00

Today is the day I would have flown out to Hardrock. As I have done the last 3 years. It feels a little weird and a lot disappointing. It will be really hard following the online progress of the race and not being there. It will be tough watching friends drop out, and feeling their pain. It will be rewarding watching other friends finish. It is going to be tough not being there. I will miss the people more than the race.

But I need to deal with my heart problem. I will be in that notoriously difficult lottery again next February. I plan to get back to HR and get that sub 40 hour finish I so badly want. I need to believe that will still be possible.

Trying to find motivation

2011-06-16T19:04:00.007+10:00

this is my heartrate sitting on the

loungeroom floor at rest even

while on medication

For the first time in my life I almost hate running. I am not injured. But I struggle to get out the door. Once out the door I struggle to get going. Once going I struggle to keep going. Then I struggle to get home again. Running has become a real struggle. It is no longer the pleasure that I once knew. I could quite easily just give up. I am not seeing any fitness gain. I do not need any weight loss. I have no race I can train for. And it is definitely not providing any sense of wellbeing. I come home feeling more crap than when I went out. I gasp for air walking up a hill. My legs feel like lead running down a hill. The flats are a shuffle barely more than walking pace. The winter has settled in with cold and dark evenings. It has also settled on my heart like a cold dark cloud.

But I will not give in. I know I can beat this. The drugs are like poison but they keep my heart in check. Well at least most of the time. And that is the point, the drugs are not a cure. They are to manage the problem and even then it is a compromise between keeping me in sinus rhythm and allowing me to still function as a human being. Right now neither objective is totally successful. I see the cardiologist again next week. Time to look at the other options. I need to run again. I doubt I will ever be able to run like I want again. I don't mind going slow. But I need to have this weight lifted off my heart and this cloud to clear.

Trying to run

2011-06-10T12:30:00.007+10:00

my heartrate

I went for a run last night. Hardly worthy of comment you would think. But for someone who eats, sleeps and breathes running it is something I no longer take for granted. It was bitterly cold. And raining. And dark. Conditions that would normally keep me warm indoors. I hate being cold. I really hate being cold. But I hadn't run in days and I needed desperately to reconnect and that was the only way I knew how.

My medication suppresses my heart function. Imagine towing a tyre behind you. Except that it is a tractor tyre. That is how I feel. And I still need to keep my heartrate down so I am little more than shuffling. I can do that. I have dragged my arse up and down mountains on sheer will power. This is nothing.

I wrap myself in thermals, tights, gloves, buff and running jacket. My cap kept the rain out of my eyes. I walked to get started, allowing my heart to slowly adjust. As soon as I started to shuffle at 8min/km pace it took off. 140bpm while shuffling? I regulated my breathing and slowed even more. I could walk faster than this. It dropped but sped up immediately without provocation. My heart sank. Figuratively. What more could I do? I was going as slow as I could. I was on the meds. Bugger it. I would just push on as slow and as regulated as I could.

I could feel my heart speed up and slow down, with no correlation to my effort. But I needed to run. I needed to know that despite all of this I could still run. I wasn't dying for god sake. I needed some perspective. I have a friend who is dying of cancer. That is truly sad. My problem pales by comparison. I have another friend paralysed from the neck down. This gives perspective and a reality check. I can do this.

15 mins in and I am still yo-yoing up and down but keeping a slow steady rhythm in my running and breathing. I enter a recreational park and footballers are leaving the ground after training. The lights on the towers are still blazing away, lighting up the oval. As I run past the last tower I look up and the rain is spiraling down. The shimmering cascade is hypnotic and I run mesmerised as the rain drops fall towards me backlit in the broad beam of light. Euphoria washes over me and I reach one of those rare moments in running where I can feel nothing and nothing really matters. The sheer beauty of the moment carries me away from all my cares and I move without effort.

As I pass from the light back into the darkness the moment recedes but the experience travels with me. My shuffle feels light and I don't care how slow it is. I am running and that is all that matters.

Eventually my heartrate stabilises at a regular 120-130 bpm for most the rest of the run. I run for an hour and finish with a walk. It is a far cry from any ultra but it means nearly as much to me. We take so much for granted and so often sweat on the detail that it causes us to miss what is really going on and what is really important. Sure there is so much more to life than running. And so much more than ultras. But for me running ultras is so much of my life. I still need to feel just a little of that. However brief. However hard.

Out of Hardrock

2011-05-25T00:08:00.004+10:00

Today the unthinkable: I emailed the RD of Hardrock and withdrew my entry.

I have Atrial Fibrillation (AF). Paroxysmal, which means it comes in bursts and rectifies itself eventually. In my case it comes on spontaneously and reverts in a matter of hours. No identifiable cause. Bending over to tie my shoelaces. Walking the dogs. Running. Sitting on the couch. For me it is not life threatening. There is danger of developing a clot in your heart which flies off and causes a stroke. Given my otherwise good health this is a low risk but I am on blood thinners just in case. But it is distressing when it occurs and the faulty and rapid beating causes reduced circulation and resultant fatigue and sometimes breathlessness. The more you are in it the harder it is to revert and stay out of it.

As runners we work hard to build up our endurance, our strength, our speed. We strive to make ourselves fitter. At the core of all that physiology we want our heart to be strong and efficient. It is our primary muscle. It is our engine room. As athletes of whatever calibre it is the common denominator at the centre of all our fitness: a healthily functioning heart. When it fails you have big problems. You feel betrayed. You feel vulnerable. You feel weak. You feel frustrated because you can no longer do the thing you love best: run. You feel cheated because you have been doing your best to make it stronger and healthier yet it is sick and broken. It is not like an achilles or a hamstring or an itb. You can rest, rub and stretch those. And you know they will come good, eventually. This breakdown perplexes you and defies explanation. Even the experts don’t really know why it happens. And it just gets worse with age so it is hard to see light at the end of the tunnel.

About a month ago I was lying in the emergency department looking at the world through the distorted plastic of an oxygen mask. I knew I had a big problem. I was probably as fit as I had ever been. Ironically that was likely the cause of my problem. The blood pressure cuff inflated spontaneously squeezing my upper arm to pulp before releasing and beeping away on the large monitor above me. My heart-beat zigzagged all over the screen like a drunken spider dragging it’s legs through a pot of ink. My pulse was racing at 140 despite me lying flat on my back. I didn’t need the monitor to tell me though. I could feel my heart pounding in my throat. It felt like it was trying to break out of my chest. At the same time I was short of breath and low on oxygen as my circulation was compromised.

I was in Atrial Fibrillation. Or AF as it is more commonly known. And apparently it is common. But usually in older people. At 47 and very fit I was a curiosity to the Emergency staff. But I am not alone in the sporting world. The association of AF with male over 40 endurance athletes is becoming all too common. It recently featured as an article in the American Trail Runner magazine. I initially ignored it when I picked up my copy. But later read it searching for answers that seemed lacking in the conventional texts.

When I finally got to see a Cardiologist about 3 weeks after the first big attack, he told me I was the third athlete in two days he had seen with AF. Little consolation. And very few answers. And missing the most important one: a quick cure. My expectations were always going to be unrealistic. But he knew his stuff and had a sensible and conciliatory approach that I could live with. For now.

I was already on beta-blockers to try to regulate my heart rate. And aspirin to help reduce the chance of a stroke. The beta-blockers are worse than the disease. Not only is my heart rate suppressed but so am I. Most of my days are spent in bed or asleep on the couch. I try to run but it feels like I am dragging bags of concrete behind me. But I still try. As hard and uncomfortable as it is, I need to maintain that connection with who I really am.

The cardiologist’s other prescription was less exercise. Both volume and intensity. I was supposed to be going to the US to run the Hardrock in 6 weeks. He wanted me to try new medication and come back and see him in 6 weeks. There goes Hardrock. After the 20minute consultation the only thing I could remember was his comment about being out in a bunch ride the other day with a mate who had had an ablation and he (the cardiologist) had trouble hanging onto this guys wheel. That’s what I want: an ablation, where they go in with catheters and burn the rogue electrodes.

As an ultrarunner I have developed a personal fitness rating that tells me where I’m at. Generally, with base fitness I can roll out of bed on a weekend and go run a marathon. If I am fit, I can roll out of bed and go run 100km. When I am in really good shape I can get up and go run 200km. On the beta-blockers I am lucky to get out of bed, period. Running 10km in an hour and a half on flat pavement is like running up a mountain on day two of a hundred miler. And it even comes with the same nausea. It is just plain awful. And I get home and collapse on the floor for another hour to recover. And still the flutters and racing heart occur. I barely run at all and have lowered the intensity by necessity and design. Yet I can see no improvement. Where is that light at the end of the tunnel?

Running is no longer a pleasure, far from it. I love to run. There are so many great trails I still want to run. So many great races I still want to run. To feel that freedom that only comes from long hours out on the trail. It is what I do. It defines me. All my goals have been swept away. Like I have started another ultra I just keep putting one foot in front of the other and hope that eventually things will get better again. Strange how ultras train me for life but I can no longer train for an ultra.

One more time for good measure

2011-02-08T23:44:00.002+11:00

Lottery time at Hardrock central, Silverton, Colorado. With 4 tickets (3 finishes in the last 3 years and 1 for this years entry) I had roughly a 30+% chance of selection. This is my fifth time in the lottery. And my fifth straight time drawn out. Unbelievable. None of the other 6 aussies made the cut or even the top 100 on the waitlist. I am both blessed and embarrassed that I should make it when so many others miss out. So I get to have another crack at breaking 40hours. I have a little run planned in a couple of weeks that will keep me busy and take my mind off of HR for a while but it will be another big year with Hardrock as the central piece. I really must finish last years report!

GNW272 November 13,14,15th 2010

2011-01-04T15:32:00.001+11:00

While my Hardrock race report sits unfinished I have managed to write up my latest big run:

My phone rang at 9:30pm, Friday night, waking me up. I sat up startled, thinking it was my alarm going off. It was Blue Dog. I’m still not sure what was said or even why he even rang except that it was the night before the Great North Walk 100s and he and I shared the mantle of the only runners to have run every year and managed to finish. Except he surpassed me: my first year was only the 100km while he had 5 straight 100mile finishes. I mumbled something still half-asleep and he realised he had woken me up so apologised and hung-up, promising to see me on the beach on Sunday. The beach. Patonga Beach. The finish-line for the 100miler. He had no idea of what we were about to do. By waking us he had inadvertently robbed us of a couple of hours of precious sleep. Sleep, the all-important currency of the long-haul ultrarunner.

What were we about to do? My partner in crime, Phil (Spud) Murphy, and I were about to run the entire GNW from Newcastle to Sydney, sandwiching the GNW100s trail race in the middle. The Great North Walk, for those unfamiliar, is a 250km walking track through the Watagan Mountains paralleling the coast between Newcastle and Sydney. The GNW100s is a 100mile and 100km race along the track from Toronto to the beach at Patonga (with the 100km race finishing at Yarramalong). The 100mile race is actually 175km. With deviations off the established route to designated checkpoints as part of the race our journey would be 272km. The race alone has around 6,000m of elevation gain and loss. Add another 97km and plenty more elevation. Held in November it was nearly always hot. So why would we even try?

Phil had run 4 straight GNW100 milers, reaching as high as second place last year (2009). I had also run 4 straight GNW100 milers scraping across the line in second last place last year. The first year of the race in 2005, Phil had paced Blue Dog in the 100 miles, while I had run the 100km. We had both been here for every year of the race. We both had a strong affinity for this race. We had been planning to run the GNW track in its entirety for some time and once Darrel Robins, Andrew Vize and Terry Coleman set a speed record time of 66 hours in June 2009 that became our target. What better opportunity than incorporate our attempt around the official race? Maybe that was our big mistake.

12:30am Friday night and the clock on the billboard read 26C degrees. The humidity was high, incredibly oppressive. Even at midnight. The waterfront in Newcastle was pumping. The nightclub on the pier was spilling patrons out onto the carpark and as they wandered by they asked if we were selling that cold pizza we were eating out of a box in the car-boot. In shorts and tshirts with camelbaks and headlamps we must have looked a little out of place.

1:00am and we trotted off along the street full of enthusiasm and not just a hint of trepidation. Under street-lights and a half moon we wound our way towards the Oblesque on the hill following the familiar GNW bollards on street corners. An unmarked police car pulled up alongside us. The burly Maori officer asked what we were doing. “Running to Sydney.” Bemused if not a little incredulous was his expression and response. “And what are they?” he asked, pointing at my collapsed trekking poles. “Walking poles”, I motioned somewhat comically how they worked. “And that thing flashing on your arm?” “That’s a GPS transponder so people can track our progress.” OK, they seemed happy that we were harmless. Maybe a little crazy, but harmless.

The GNW100s starts at 6am Saturday morning. Race briefing 5:30am. Registration before that. We allowed 4 hours to run the 25km of trail and bike paths from Newcastle to Teralba. We couldn’t afford to miss the start. The humidity was unbelievable. Sweat clung to any exposed skin, unable to evaporate. Our clothes were drenched. We ran, walked, talked and soaked in the night-time peace and quiet. Phil had recently run this part of the course to be familiar with it. This proved invaluable but we still missed one turn coming off a beach and we found ourselves off track but only lost a few minutes. Spider webs punctuated the path and caused much consternation for the lead runner, usually Phil. There was some nice fast singletrack and leg sapping soft-sand beach running. It was hard to believe we were so close to Newcastle suburbia as we ran along fully enveloped in dense bush. On one of the headlands Phil pointed up at the sky and I just caught the tail end of a huge shooting star. Finally we hit the foreshore path at Warners Bay and we were free of cobwebs, for now.

We trotted to the race start-line at 4:50. After registering we reloaded our packs and filled our camelbaks. We were not using any crew throughout the race so placed drop-bags into the checkpoint boxes. We were itching to go. Our personal stopwatch was still running. News of our plan spread steadily through the runners. There was some disbelief and some admiration but a definite hint of incredulity.

6:00am Saturday morning, finally. Race start. Phil and I settled well back in the field. I was used to being here. Spud was in a different zone, used to being up the front. We chatted and trotted amongst old friends. We left the bitumen and climbed the rolling ridges before dropping to Heaton’s Gap. We refilled our packs again at the service station. And then began the long hot, breathless climb out of the valley.

Phil had our projected splits printed out. I ignored them, trying to concentrate on drinking, eating and just getting to the next Check Point. The first section to Checkpoint 1 is undoubtedly the toughest part of the race physically. With an extra 25km in the legs and no sleep it felt a tad tougher today.

By the time we dropped into the Congewai Valley the weather gods had dealt their hand for the day: hot and humid. I had run every GNW100. This one felt the hottest and the most humid. Spud had been running just in front of me all morning, tempering his pace to match my slower pace. When we hit the road I resolved to get it over as fast as possible. We ran nearly all of it.

Congewai School was a hive of activity. I took a bit longer than planned and by the time I was ready to go Spud was a little anxious. Updates on Bill Thompson had him only 10 minutes behind us. That meant we were closer to the cut-offs than we planned. While our plan had been to run conservatively to save our energy for the third night, we didn’t want the stress and pressure of battling with the cut-offs.

We pushed up the hill with the promise of a rest at the top. This climb to the communication tower is notoriously tough, made worse by the number of false summits. Eventually we topped out and met several runners recovering. We sat down and I ate some creamed-rice. Conscious of the time we hurried off again. This ridge road is pretty runable but the humidity sapped my strength and we walked sections we should have run. There were runners all around and the conversation helped distract me from the task at hand.

Watagan Creek Valley and the afternoon sun was finally sinking lower in the sky. We wouldn’t make the basin in daylight. Not even close. The long, long climb to the unmanned water-stop had sweat dripping from my chin and stinging my eyes. Dave Byrnes was there manning the water drop but the big surprise was Blue Dog in the back of Dave’s car. He had pulled out, injury finally winning the war. I felt a mix of disappointment for him and excitement at the realisation that all I had to do now was finish and I would surpass him on top of the honour board as the only person to finish every GNW100s. We exchanged some banter but I knew he was hurting.

Night came quickly and we found ourselves in a little convoy of runners. The Basin seemed to take forever to negotiate, made more difficult by fallen trees obstructing the track. The Basin Checkpoint was a welcome sight and we tried to keep it short but get well fed. I had a couple of cups of hot soup and choked down some more creamed rice. Bill came in to rousing applause and a look of horror on many runners face. At least 6 runners jumped up and checked out, aware that Bill represented the imaginary moving cut-off.

The climb out of the Basin was way longer than I remembered. I was lathered in sweat by the time we reached the top. A cocktail of tiredness and an ambiguous corner had us second guessing ourselves and we lost some time checking out the possibilities. The maps came out and reassured we made our way onto the long descent to Cedar Brush Track Road. Knowing what was before us we settled into a steady run-walk routine. We passed a few runners. Fatigue was getting the better of me. Spud agreed to a short nap at the school.

But the Yarramalong Checkpoint took forever to come. My eyelids were so heavy. We checked in and I found a cot and lay down, Diane promising to wake me in 10 minutes. My head spun and danced with a thousands images of the day and night. Voices vibrated through my ears. “10 minutes Andy”. “Give me another 5.” Tick, tick, tick, tick. “Time Andy.” I climbed up. My head was full of fog. There was no sleep to be found with so much activity. Paul Every clearly disagreed and snored contentedly on a cot beside me. Phil and I staggered off into the night once again.

Bill was in CP4 when we left. Our buffer was gone. No more sleep stops. Up Bumblebee Hill and under the Powerlines. Climbing the hill I could see a runner’s light cutting a path through the darkness below. It was moving swiftly and smoothly across the trail. “That you Bill?” I yelled. “Yep” was the reply. Oh crap, he is going to catch us. We knew only too well that Bill walks an even pace with almost no slow-down factor. To fall behind him so early would mean a constant battle with the cut-offs all the next day. We ran more, walked less and no more talking.

The course deviation along the road gave us some respite. Running down the road I looked back to see Bill’s light bobbing along behind us. He was like the Terminator, relentlessly pursuing us. We passed Grant and then picked up Jane and she stuck with us through the early hours. We stopped for a brief refill at the unmanned water drop. Still looking over our shoulders. Jane ran ahead and we were alone again, silently plodding on the soft sandy track.

I struggled with fatigue through the wee hours. I cursed myself for losing concentration. I tried to catch up to Phil but every time I got near he would correspondingly pick up the pace. Finally I caught up and I conceded that he should go on without me. I could not fathom finishing the race, yet alone the full GNW272. I was defeated. He told me to hang in there and I would come good. My mind could not cope with the enormity of what we were trying to do. I refocussed and concentrated on just getting to the next checkpoint.

On the last big climb into Sommersby, Bill passed me. Effortlessly. He was listening to Mendelssohn’s Concerto on his ipod and moving as rhythmically as the music in his ear-buds. I caught up to Phil and as we hit the bitumen leading to the school the sun was rising. Bill was walking way up ahead on the road. We ran all the way to the Checkpoint to get back in front of him.

In and out. In such a hurry I forgot to refill my bladder. Oh, what a catastrophe that could have been. I did a little check as I shuffled down the road and realised my mistake. Back to the school and filled up. And then we were running again. Solidly. The new day brought new energy. We caught Jane and Nikolay. The four of us ran as a group.

Approaching Checkpoint 6 we were doing the maths to work out how much time we had left. If we could leave CP6 by 11:30am that would give us 6.5 hours for the last section. We could do that comfortably. If nothing went wrong. Nikolay wanted to pull out but we convinced him to hang in there and we would get him home.

In and out once again, bare necessities only. Phil was calling out time checks to get us out quickly. 11:30 and we were on our way, a ragged bunch but totally focussed on finishing.

We were walking lots and my pace was slower than the others so I would have to run to catch up. We were silent as each of us dealt with the demons in our minds and the baking sun on our backs. It was hot again. Damn hot. Every pool of water I would dunk my hat and pour water over my head. I walked into one pool to cool off my burning feet. The cold water was refreshing but the arthritis in my toes ached for ages afterwards negating any benefit. I was getting worried about the time. I knew from last year we had to pass the ‘15km to go’ sign by 2 pm to be safe. (Note: that sign is at least 5km out.) But we reached it well before 2:00 so I knew we could make the unmanned water point before the 3pm cut-off. And we did, with 10minutes to spare. But I was sure now that Bill was going to miss it and possibly not finish (remember to never underestimate Bill!).

We refilled and hustled out of there. The road and tracks seemed to go around in circles. As we crossed the sandstone plateau the heat created a pressure cooker effect. There was no escape. Phil pulled ahead but I could still see him occasionally on the next rocky outcrop. I heard Jane behind me say “Hi Bill”. I got a fright seeing Bill there. Such amazing strength and pace consistency. With less than 2 hours to go I knew that meant we needed to do some solid running. I asked Bill how we were placed. He said OK but we needed to move a bit faster. He passed us and I urged Nikolay to stick with him. I could see Nikolay was torn by his loyalty to our little group but I assured him I would look after Jane and he needed to keep Bill in sight. I knew I could still run if I had to and if it got close I would give everything to make the finish on time.

Jane was struggling. She lagged further and further behind. I encouraged her to run when she could. Her face was expressionless, a steely grey mask. I asked her if she wanted me to push her or leave her alone. She said “both”. “Typical female response,” I complained and made her run again. I knew we could finish but we needed to keep a steady pace. And she was battling to do that. I was tired and missed reading all the warning signs. She was already in trouble but I didn’t see it.

Finally the big drop down towards the rubbish-tip where we would hit the dirt road. We were getting close. Oh so close. I told Jane we could let Bill go now but we would need to run on the road to catch him again. I got ahead on the steep descent and I caught Bill at a small creek just before the road. He was wetting his hat. I jogged behind him to the track junction with the road.

I waited here a few minutes. No Jane. A few more minutes. Still no Jane. Something was wrong. Crap, I started running back up the hill, calling her name all the way. Still no Jane. Finally I was back to where I had last seen her. This is not good. Something is wrong. Really wrong. There was nowhere for her to go but down this track. I kept calling. No response. Then suddenly I heard a low groan. Then silence again. I kept calling. Nothing. I had no idea where the noise had come from but she was clearly in trouble. Finally she answered: “I can’t get out, I just want to get out.” “Keep talking to me, Jane.” I had a fix. She was in the bushes. Somewhere. I could hear the rustling. I started bashing my way towards her. It was thick. I reached her and she was upright, but only because the thicket was so dense it held her up. “Tell me you just came in here to wee?” I implored hopefully. One look into her vacant eyes and I knew she was not well. She was delirious. I dragged her back to the path where she promptly collapsed. I made sure she was breathing OK and dug out my phone. No reception. I started searching for Jane’s phone. She came around again and half helped me get her phone out.

I got Dave Byrnes on the phone, not without further drama. I relayed the predicament and told him I would get Jane down to the road if he could get a 4WD to us for evacuation. After hanging up I tried to get her onto her feet but she crumpled back onto the ground. I tried supporting her but it was hopeless. Just then Kim Cook turned up. I didn’t realise anyone was still behind us. “Boy am I glad to see you!” He was pacing Jon from the Phillipines. We slung Jane between us and half carried, half walked her down the hill. At the bottom I sent them on their way, doubtful they would beat the cut. Kim said they still would but they had to run.

Jane was regaining some composure. But she was still ashen grey and not always making sense. I looked at my watch. My race was over. But I was so glad I had gone back when I did. Off track and unconscious it would have been impossible to find her.

What seemed like an eternity but was really only another 15minutes, Dave and the doctor came roaring along in the 4WD. I explained the situation and the doctor examined Jane. He decided she was badly dehydrated and probably had heat stress and would give her IV fluids. I updated Dave on Kim and Jon’s progress. It was now 5:10pm. Dave looked at me and said he would give me a time concession for lost time helping Jane but he also thought I could still beat the clock. Damn. 6km in 50 minutes. With hills. After 194km and 40 hours. Damn. I would really like to finish inside the official cut-off. OK I would do it.

I charged up the hill. I ran, and ran, and ran. Phil’s words echoed in my ears about not wanting to have a hard race finish and be trashed for the GNW272 into Sydney. Damn, I want this finish. My legs were screaming at me. My lungs started burning. I was red-lining but wasn’t backing off. I tasted vomit in my mouth. My chest was pounding. Damn. Damn Dave. If he had just said I had no chance I would have jogged home. I should have recognised that glint in his eye.

The gravel road went on forever. A huge black snake was stretched across in front of me. Jump that and keep running, adrenaline surging through my veins. And then another hill. Finally I had to walk and catch my breath. Only to the top of this hill and then run hard again. 30 minutes to go. Another turn, more road, another turn. Run hard. I was sucking in big air. Running for all I was worth. 20 minutes to go. I could do this. Finally the last turn and Patonga Rd was in sight. Empty one water bottle to save weight. Across the bitumen. Check my watch. Oh crap this will be close. I ran the singletrack paralleling the road as hard as I could. Then the gravel road to Warrah Trig. Empty my other bottle. Another snake, small this time and easily dodged. On and on and on it went. All up-hill. My legs felt like cement but I lifted them over and over again and threw them out in front of me.

Finally the carpark, then up the stairs, only minutes to go, I wasn’t going to make it. Yes I would. Harder, faster. I plummeted down the paved trail throwing everything I had into it. Hard right turn onto the gravel road and then that soul destroying climb up to the beach access track. I ran for all I was worth, uphill. 3 minutes to go. Turn onto the singletrack and run hard again.

Too late. My watch ticked over 6pm as I was bouncing down the steep rocky track. I backed off, defeated, and trotted down the hill, flashes of the beach and the finish line so tantalisingly close. I hit the sand and the bell started ringing. And ringing and ringing and ringing, echoing along the beach. I ran all the way, savouring every step. Alone and dead last. After the cut-off but finishing nevertheless, a tear of joy welled up in my eyes. A tear of relief. A tear of pride. I ran all the way across the soft sand to the finishing post spurred on by the sound of cheers and applause. 6:04pm. My 5th hundred mile finish and my 6th GNW finish. How sweet it is.

Dog made me kiss the post. Dave hung a finisher’s medal around my neck. People congratulated me. Phil was there, fresh from a swim. I stripped down to my shorts and waded into the water.

I lay back in the cool of the Pacific Ocean. Water lapped across my cheeks and forehead as I floated on my back. So calm and tranquil. All the pain ebbed out of my tired body. I was so relaxed I nearly fell asleep right there. The tide could have carried me off in carefree oblivion.

But the big clock was still ticking. Our crew for the next phase, Kathy, was waiting to drive us to Brooklyn. After collecting our drop-bags it was a short drive across the Hawkesbury River to Brooklyn to rejoin the GNW. We parked and had a 30 minute nap in the car. 30 minutes could have been 8 hours or 5 minutes. In my head there was no longer any relevance to time. I woke feeling drugged and sluggish. My mind craved real sleep. I just wanted to stop moving and lie still.

We had trouble locating the start of the track off a small bridge but the GPS told us it had to be in there somewhere. Pushing through some bushes Phil found it. We left the houses and were running in bush again. Full blooded running. Refreshed, renewed and full of pizza, again. The trail was like a highway, wide and flat. The only obstacles were webs. Some ambitious spiders had spun their webs right across the path. The first you would know was when your face was plastered with the sticky tight-knit web.

We were running a good pace. I was full of confidence that we would finish and break the record. The trail twisted and turned a few times but we gobbled up the miles. Then before I knew what had happened I was climbing hand-over-fist down into a river valley. Then up again. Each new outcrop to negotiate tested my cognitive functions. Suddenly I was overcome with the need for sleep. “Sleepmonsters” they call it, courtesy of our third night without proper sleep. I was tripping and staggering like a drunk. The leaves on the ground became a writhing mass of baby snakes. I was hallucinating badly.

Phil waited patiently at every turn. The trail was hard to follow, often just the easiest way down a rocky cliff. The occasional GNW sign reassured us. This went on forever, repeating the same pattern of clambering, staggering and catching up. Finally we were climbing again and we could hear a train, signalling the next crew stop at Cowan train station.

I was barely shuffling now. My feet dragged across the ground. We were well into our third night and it was killing me. I felt the burden of the team effort. I had offered to let Phil go on but he wouldn’t finish without me. We refuelled at the car and headed back into the night.

Not 10 minutes from the car and drizzle settled in. I so much wanted to just turn around and go back. Once again the trail degenerated quickly into a twisted torment of rock scrambling and climbing and descending. My mind was fighting battles with all my senses. It became impossible to tell what was real and what was imaginary. I could see Phil below me and I was certain he was on a steel viewing platform. What a perfect place for a nap. When I reached him he was on a narrow trail. Further and further we descended and with that my consciousness receded further and further from reality. The leaves on the ground wriggled like more baby snakes. Boulders morphed into a building or a car. I had no peripheral awareness. My world was confined to the small dome of light cast by my headlamp.

I reached Phil again and he told me to have a sleep. My legs crumpled spontaneously and in seconds I was fast asleep where I fell. An ant crawled up my nose and I woke with a violent snorting fit. Within minutes I was asleep again, but not before I heard Phil say he would nap too.

Maybe 30 minutes later I was aware of being roused. I staggered to my feet and as if on autopilot trudged off behind Phil once more. We had lost so much time with my dawdling pace and the sleep stop. I finally told Phil there was just no way I could go on. It was becoming dangerous. I couldn’t navigate simple obstacles. He resolved to stop with me at Berowra Waters, our next crew meeting.

As the third day dawned we were treated to the tranquil setting of Berowra unfolding below us. We had covered 220km in 53 hours. We picked our way down and along the shore. Kathy came out to meet us. We sat and had some more cold pizza and a breakfast beer while contemplating what might have been. It all seemed so anticlimactic but we were drained of all emotion, except maybe disappointment. But out of failure comes strengthened resolve.

People ask why we do this sort of thing. I usually answer that if you have to ask you will probably never understand. Once again I had been tested. And I had come up short. Running the entire GNW had been a goal for a long time. Failing to complete it will simply fuel that desire. I couldn’t ask for a better companion in Phil to lead me through it and my main misgiving was letting him down. Clearly my mind had failed my body. But it was purely fatigue through lack of sleep that defeated me. Sure the weather didn’t help. Sure the extra miles to complete the race didn’t help. Sure the dramas and sprint to the race finish didn’t help. And of course my lack of training didn’t help. But pure and simple: I needed more sleep to finish this.

The GNW is a classic trail. Without doubt the GNW100s is a classic trail race. Once again I thank Dave Byrnes for creating and building this great event and blessing our speed-record attempt. Our crew, Kathy, who stepped in to fill the critical role of support was amazing. And Phil, what more could I ask for in a companion to attempt and hopefully one day complete this epic adventure. And complete we will. Next time.

Mission accomplished

2010-07-18T22:06:00.002+10:00

Wow, one week after Hardrock and I am back in Oz, trying to get over another dose of jetlag.

I will write a full and thorough race report but meantime the short version is: I finished.

This was my toughest one yet, despite being the fittest I have been. I was conservative the first day and was confident I could run home strong in under 40hrs (my goal) the last climb in the night (Engineer's Pass) and early the next morning I suffered terribly from the altitude. My vision went all blurry then started to funnel down on me and I was all light headed and wobbly. At first I thought this was just fatigue but it got worse the higher I went and then my lips got all tingly. I realised I was hypoxic and descended. I sat and faced the DNF for nearly an hour before trying again and taking it really slow. I made it over American-Grouse and then over Handies so just plugged away until I felt good again by late afternoon.

Time became irrelevant except for the cut-offs which I knew I could beat. I don't know what else I can do for this run. I have trained harder than ever, spent 3 weeks acclimating and I know the course now. There is no way of predicting the effects of altitude and I suffered more in the lead up this year.

But a Hardrock finish is a finish, and I will take that anyday, regardless of time.

3 from 3.

Day 18: Thursday 8th

2010-07-09T11:44:00.002+10:00

Wow, d-day. Well 10 hours until start time. All the registration and formalities are done. All fed and hydrated. Drop bags are in. Nothing left but to get some last minute zzzzzz's. The energy in the school gym today was electric. Everybody was buzzing. A couple of runners got in at the last minute to fill the no-shows. Deb Pero missed out. She was next in line so if someone fails to show in the morning she can still get a start. Hard to imagine such a scenario.

I am as ready as I can be. I am looking forward to just getting out on the trail. I am lucky to be given this opportunity yet again and hope to do justice to my entry spot.

Day 17: Wednesday 7th

2010-07-08T09:23:00.002+10:00

Registration opened today. I am sitting in the high school gym with my little fluoro yellow hospital bracelet on. This makes it easy to spot entered runners. Lots of nervous energy as the business end begins. Rodger and the Coury brothers have built a magnificent finishers shute lined with full size flagpoles carrying the flags of every state and country represented in the race. The aussie flag is flying proudly and we hope to do it justice starting in 37 hours time!

Day 16: Tuesday 6th

2010-07-08T09:13:00.002+10:00

Rest day. Spud is crawling the walls. He is way ready to run.

I haven't been able to load any pics but Steve Pero has opened his picasa album for us to share his pics. They are grouped by day so easy to follow and some great shots in there:

http://picasaweb.google.com/ultrastevep

Day 15: Monday 5th

2010-07-08T08:49:00.002+10:00

Into taper mode now. I have a couple of underlying niggles that will benefit from a few days rest. Spud and I took trip over to Durango for last minute supplies (and lunch at the fantastic Himalayan restaurant). We went for an easy short 'run' along the first couple of miles of the course. Just climbing up the hill to the Miner's Shrine that overlooks Silverton reminded us that we should be walking even at the start of the race. It also put into perspective the pace Blake Wood set, sprinting off at the start of the 5km race despite going uphill (sub 20min 5km at 9,300ft!). John Beard also ran a blinder in the 10km being 41+ something minutes. There are some really fit and well acclimated people here.

Past the Miner's Shrine we followed the road down to the Highway where we turned sharply onto a bench that apparently used to be a railway bed. Which means it should be flat. Well by HR standards it probably is. But it does undulate through the trees and scrapes across a huge red scree slope.

We turned around at the turn-off that drops down to the Hwy. We could see the fixed line way up above the creek which was uncharacteristically low. A gentle jog back and time to kick back until Friday. About 4miles easy.

Day 14: Sun 4th

2010-07-07T12:13:00.003+10:00

You have to see the 4th July in Silverton to believe it.

The day starts early with the local fun run: 10km, 5km and 2km. With the benefit of experience I opted to watch rather than run (in 2008 I spent the restof the day coughing up half a lung!).
Mid morning all the Hardrockers met up to to 'march' in the 4th July parade. OMG it is a huge parade. And it is a ball to be a part of it, walking behind the HR start/finish banner.

Next comes the rhubarb pie festival. For a couple of bucks you get a slab of homemade pie and icecream. Mmmm yum. We ate this while the brass band played in the gazebo in the park.

Then time for a nap, in preparation for the HUGE fireworks display that evening. And they put on a huge display that goes for half an hour. I am not a big firework fan but the amphitheatre effect of the fireworks reverberating up the canyon is unbelievable. It was a really cool evening sitting around a fire pit outside Charlie's place watching the show. And then the massive logjam as thousands and thousands of cars tried to all exit via the single road, Hwy 550.

Day 13: Saturday 3rd

2010-07-07T12:07:00.002+10:00

No trail-marking today so I showed Spud the last part of the course.
We took an easy run/hike out past the ski hill and along the singletrack past the beaver pond. We followed the jeep road up to the crossing over Arrastra Creek before running back. An easy 6 miles with little elevation gain. An easy day.

Day 12: Friday 2

2010-07-07T07:05:00.005+10:00

Bear Creek out of Ouray, Hwy 550 up to Engineer's Pass.
This is one of my favourite parts of the course. This year we go up. Which according to Dave Mc is the safer direction (for some reason he thinks running down this windy narrow steep trail is dangerous). And from Ouray to the pass is the longest overall climb of the whole course. We started on the 550 Hwy, the classic tourist route through the mountains. The road cuts through sheer rock forming a tunnel. The trail climbs right up over this tunnel before a series of long, steep switchbacks across beds of loose slate. Running down here sounds like running on broken china. And like Dave says, 'the ground moves under you'. And it does.

Once off the switchbacks we were in the true canyon where the trail has been literally carved into the cliff wall. It is hard to imagine the miners blasting their path up this gorge then hauling massive equipment up there. But they did, and Hardrock enjoys their legacy. Spud and I posed for some pics on some of the more treacherous bends. Bear Creek can be heard tumbling over rocks far below. Race day I will come through here in the dark so the opportunity to soak in the real beauty of this trail was not to be missed.

Passing the Grizzly mine the trail goes through a lightly wooded patch, crosses several small streams and through some open grassy meadows. It was at one of these we saw a bear during marking day 2008. None today.

We stopped at the Yellow Jacket mine for a break and everyone caught up. Back into the woods and more creek crossings and we were finally at the treeline, site for Engineer Aid Station. Someone had carted a chainsaw (it was also trail-work day and some people were working for extra tickets in next years HR lottery) so we cut a fallen tree up for firewood. Amidst all this industry the heavens opened and a hail storm rained down on us, sending us scurrying for cover.

We left some of the trail workers cutting wood and we continued up the valley, marking the faint trail with the HR flags and building rock cairns. The valley opened out into a wide grassy bowl, decorated with wildflowers. The final pitch up to the pass had us sucking in the thin air. We sat and ate marveling in the beauty before us.

Spud and I decided to run down. What had taken 6 and half hours to go up we covered in 1:15 on descent. Needless to say Dave, was right, the ground moved, real fast.

8hrs (1:15 down) 16 miles, 12,190 feet

Day 11: Thursday 1st

2010-07-07T07:03:00.003+10:00

Virginius day: one of the must do days of the course marking. Spud opted to come out despite being his first day from sea level. We hitched a ride in the extracab part of Steve's truck to Ouray then the long bumpy ride up Camp Bird Road. We run down this in the race and it is one of the more mind numbing sections. Way worse going up last year.

We parked at the site of the Governor's Aid Station and started the hike up the jeep road. Almost no snow until we got just below the mine site. After a scramble up the steep snow banks we were at the mine site and we could see the first steep pitch. The snow was split down the middle by a huge dirt bank. We all picked our lines, some choosing the dirt. There was no easy way, compounded by loose rocks breaking free and crashing down dangerously on those below.

After the first pitch we worked cross to the short second pitch which was covered in soft snow. You had to be careful you didn't break through. Then we all faced the third and final steep pitch. The snow had melted through in parts making the climb up the middle dangerous, if not impossible. We traversed from the side, kicking steps into the icy snow. 13,100 feet. Wow.

The narrow ledge that serves as Kroger's Kitchen aid Station filled up with runners and we sat around eating lunch and soaking up the spectacular views. We checked out the lead-up from the Telluride side, steep and slippery.

After some photos we set off sliding and slipping back down the partially exposed slope. with momentum we glissaded some of the second pitch. Running across the bench I broke through some soft snow and jammed my knee onto a rock. Yeow. A bit of a graze but no real damage.

The last steep pitch was a mix of sliding and scrambling out of control. Most of that snow will be gone by race day but the dirt/rock slopes will still be tricky to descend. Then the road back to the cars. 6 miles 3.45 hrs

We all finished the day with the traditional soak at the hot springs before a feed of Mexican.

Day 10: Wednesday 30th

2010-07-07T06:56:00.002+10:00

Rest day, Spud flew in late in the evening so given I was driving over to Durango to pick him up I decided not to join the course marking (long day from Maggie to Arrastra Gulch). Had a lay day and did some shopping before heading out to the airport.

Day 9: Tuesday 29th

2010-07-01T04:26:00.003+10:00

Found out today several Hardrock veterans are not going to be here this year. I knew Joe Prusaitis had been forced to go home with bad altitude sickness. A reminder of how dangerous the altitude can be. But I also found out that John DeWalt wasn't coming. John is a true living legend, having finished 14 Hardrocks at age 72 (I think). A couple of other regulars missing will be missed but open spaces for those on the wait list.

Today was Handies Peak course marking. Jim Sweat and I decided to go to the top and come back the same way to avoid the 2 hour drive out from the other side. This involved recrossing American Basin and climbing the Grouse-American Pass yet again but always beats that truck ride. Anything beats that truck ride. Starting at close to 10,000ft at the site of the Grouse Gulch Aid Station (bad, bad memories from 2008-see report on side bar for more info) the trail switch-backs steeply up, up, up until we can see the pass high above us. With only a couple of short snowbanks to cross the traveling will be clear by race day.

We stopped and regrouped at the pass, 13000 feet and had something to eat. The American Basin opened below us and I was surprised how little snow there was. Looming above that was the brooding hulk of Handies Peak, imposing and impressive all at once.

We dropped down into the basin, picking our way through rocky outcrops and streams. Then the long, long climb up Handies. The trail switchbacks continuously before a final steep crumbly ascent. We gathered below the final pitch out of the wind while the stragglers caught up. We sat in the sun and ate with the most spectacular view. You know this is a sport for older runners when the main topic of conversation was everybodies annual colonoscopy. Hmmmm. That and stories of past Hardrock disasters. Jim Sweat always wins those: 9 starts and never finished.

Finally we were up and climbing the final pitch and on the broad summit. The 360 degree view was worth the effort. Lots of pics and signing the register in the tube and Jim and I headed back down. Marcie and John had hiked over from the other side so joined us on the return. In the short space of time the marmots had already eaten half of the flagging tape off the markers by the time we passed back. Luckily the metal reflectors are to tough for them.

On the final descent the heavens opened and we picked up the pace. 10 miles in 6:45hrs.

Day 8: Monday 28th

2010-07-01T04:06:00.002+10:00

The course marking was going over the long Pole Creek section today. This involves a 2 hour drive on a really rough road, most likely sitting in the back of a covered 'pick-up truck'. I have done this trip, jammed in with other runners and dogs as the truck bounces and winds along treacherous jeep roads. One turn requires a 3 point turn and I remember having my face pressed up against the tailgate window as the arse of the truck hung over the cliff edge. Needless to say I skipped the marking today and went solo up the Dives-Little Giant Pass.

The weather started out perfect and I was soaking in the crisp clear mountain air as I cruised out past the Beaver Ponds again. Once climbing Arrastra Gulch the altitude started to bite and I settled into a slow steady hike, my poles striking out the rhythm on the hard-packed rocky road. Above the tree line I again noticed the proliferation of wildflowers. The Indian Paintbrushes with their blaze of orange-red foliage were brilliant. The little pikas (think guinea pig) were out cheekily squeaking at me before retreating to their rock fortresses as I approached. A few big hairy marmots scampered across the path. How all this wildlife survives being buried in snow for 6 months of the year I have no idea. It was providing me plenty of entertainment and company today.

The final approach to the pass was now completely melted out of snow. But the clouds were closing in. I reached the pass and could see a couple of huge storm cells moving across the mountains. One was right over where the course markers would be. Boy I was glad I wasn't over there. I sat and had a couple of pop tarts, leaving plenty of crumbs over the marmot hole next to where I was sitting.

The thunder started and that was my queue to get out of there. Back down the way I came in 6 1/2 hours for 15 miles.

Day 7: Sunday 27th

2010-06-30T11:46:00.002+10:00

Today was Grant-Swamp marking day. This is one of my favourite parts of the course so it was no easy decision to not go. Well, actually it was easy. My head still hurt. I spent most of the day sleeping. Late in the afternoon I felt better so went for an easy jog along the Nute Shute which follows the highway on a nice 'flat' trail for several miles. I didn't take a full pack and just went easy for 4 miles before returning the same way. 8 miles in just over 2 hours. Felt good.

Day 6: Saturday 26th

2010-06-30T11:20:00.003+10:00

Trail-marking begun today. Wow, so few turned up. I can't imagine coming to HR for the first time and not taking advantage of the trail-marking days to learn the course and acclimatise to the altitude. And I can't imagine as a returning runner not doing some of the course-marking to catch up with all the regulars.

We drove a couple of miles out of town to the Mineral Creek crossing and a couple of cars were shuttled to our end point at South Mineral Campground. The guide line across the creek was fixed and we plunged into the fast flowing water. OMG it was so cold. Fortunately this year it is really low and at worst knee deep. It will be even colder on race day when we hit it at first light. Wet feet for the next 40 odd hours. Today wet feet for just 7 1/2 hours.

The trail disappears into thick pine forest and starts climbing straight away. The low parts are used by horse riders. And according to the scats on the ground, bears. I guess that explains the name of the creek we were following up the valley: Bear Creek.

The mixed group spread out quickly as the elevation gain sorted out those acclimated and those not. We stopped for a snack and allowed everyone to catch-up in the warm morning sun. The mozzies moved in so we moved out. The higher we got the thinner the trees until eventually we broke the tree line and Putnam Basin opened before us. Snow-banks, rocky outcrops, cliff-faces framed the lush green growth of the early summer. The wild-flowers were out in force. A myriad of colours dotting the mountains. The spectacular columbines with their pale purple petals surrounding the creamy white inner petals were my favourite. The tiny white and yellow daisy-like flowers were in abundance.

Crossing out of Putnam Basin we reached over 12,000 feet as we climbed the grassy saddle that led us into the next basin. We spent some time here working out where the trail was supposed to go before we climbed over 12,000 feet again giving us a view across to Kamm Traverse where the first aid station would be.

A long descent back into trees and we were on one of those classic rolling pine-needle lined single tracks all the way to the boggy South Mineral Creek crossing. Another short climb and we were at the site of the aid station. Given we got here in good time we continued up Kamm Traverse. The directions state that exposure is an issue here. It is steep and narrow but not as bad as other parts of the course.

Off the steep traverse we were back in pine trees and some amazing huge conglomerate boulders. Looking up I could see the cliff that they had sheared away from. It was hard to imagine the impact of their fall. The geology here is spectacular and makes me wish I had taken more notice at Uni.

Finally we were at the next big river crossing. A massive log jam provides a tricky but dry feet crossing. The waterfall above makes for an impressive backdrop. After a nasty steep climb we left the course and followed another trail for a few miles back down to our waiting cars.

A fantastic day covering 14miles in 7 1/2 hours. But I finished with a massive altitude headache.

Day 5: Friday 25th

2010-06-26T06:02:00.003+10:00

What a difference some sleep makes. Felt great so headed out early to climb Mt Kendall again. It is close, convenient and constant climbing from the go. The plan was to go out a couple of hours and turn around. Not far up the climb I crossed paths with a lady coming back down so stopped for a chat. She knew my name and rather bewildered I inquired and turns out she is on the Hardrock Board so pretty much knows everyone. She told me if I find Rodger asleep at the top to wake him up. He has been pressed for time to train so got up in the early hours and was now on his third repeat of the mountain. Nothing like cramming at the last minute! Not long after leaving Caroline, he came flying down with another HR veteran, Rick Hodges. Rick looked in great shape despite being only a couple of months out of major surgery. Wow it was like Bourke/Pitt Street out here.

I switched my ipod on and started plowing up the steeper incline climbing to 12,000 feet (from 9,200 in town) in just 4 miles. Another runner came towards me. Turns out he wasn't a Hardrocker but was on for a chat nevertheless. Despite all the people out here the little ground squirrels were still flitting across the road. Everything was so green. The big-leaved skunk cabbage plants were in flower and looked somewhat like triffids with their gangly stalks.

I turned around short of the top but with 5+miles and 2 hours up I was ready to go back. I tightened my pack and cranked up the pace a notch. When the Hilltop Hoods clicked onto my shuffle I had the perfect rhythm going and a smile from ear-to-ear.

About half-way down another runner was slogging up towards me. Marcie, my saviour at the Putnam Aid station, mile 95, last year. We had a great catch-up and then I ran into her partner, John, further down the hill, trying to catch up with her. He is in the race this year and Marcie will pace the back half. It was really cool catching up with all these familiar faces.

I ran the last part hard and my knee held together which is promising. 11 miles in 3+hrs. Trail marking starts tomorrow. Can't wait.

Day 4: Thursday

2010-06-25T11:31:00.002+10:00

Crap, no sleep again. I thought I had beaten the jetlag. Apparently not. Late start and very tired so I only did some 'flat' trail today. And kept it short. I followed the start of the race out of Silverton to the first big river crossing. The trail winds along on a shelf above but mostly hidden by trees from the highway. I remembered running along here last year after 40 hours with lightning breaking across the night sky. Not today. It was sunny and hot.

The river was the lowest I have seen it. The crossing rope was not up yet but we are marking this section on Saturday so it will be in by then. I retraced my path to the township and then across to the beaver pond trail again. Even the small undulations seemed huge today. Short but sweet, only 11 miles in 3 &3/4 hours. Hopefully I'll get some sleep tonight!

Day 3 Wednesday 23rd

2010-06-25T11:09:00.003+10:00

Finally got some decent sleep. Well rested I headed out early onto the last section of the course: Silverton to Giants-Little Dives Pass. Being a clockwise year I was going against the grain but would retrace my steps as per the race finish. The start/finish this year is at the Ski Hut on the edge of town and climbing the open ski hill above it I was feeling the altitude already. The trail then undulates through spruce forest interspersed with some grassy openings and the famous beaver ponds. Crossing several small streams I was surprised how dry the track was, managing to keep my feet dry for the entire day. Very unusual at Hardrock. After a couple of miles the trail breaks from the single track and climbs steeply first up a jeep road, then up a rough track following a water pipe.

After crossing the main Arrastra Creek on some convenient logs, I looked up the valley to the pass high above me. No way, that doesn't look passable. It took me a few minutes to realise we don't come down that valley but wind around to the next one. The hard-packed jeep road climbed steeply for a couple of miles until I reached the lower mine site then wound back around to the higher mine site above that. The adjacent lake was usually still frozen at this time of year but it was already thawed and presented as the most brilliant azure pool.

I climbed above it onto single track, now well above tree-line and the view to the pass clear ahead of me. There were patches of snow but only one narrow bank to cross. Finally I was scrambling across the final steep scree slope that leads to the trail onto the pass. Wow, what a view. The sky was vivid blue punctuated only by the thin white streak of icy jetstream as a plane cut through the upper atmosphere. Craggy snow-capped peaks in every direction to the horizon. 13,000ft and the air was crisp. The breeze coming up from Cunningham Gulch on the other side was almost warm. I sat in the sun and ate a snickers bar and soaked in the endless views. Totally content.

Enough rest and I was plummeting back down the trail, sliding down the scree slope, flitting over rocks, slipping on the loose gravel. Hitting the jeep road and I settled into a rhythm that found me back at the river crossing in no time. Back into the forest and my preferred single track and I was in trail nirvana.

5.5 hours for 16 miles.

Silverton: home of Hardrock

2010-06-23T06:16:00.003+10:00

2 days in Silverton and my head still throbs from the altitude and jetlag induced insomnia. After around 30 hours of planes, trains and automobiles, literally, I arrived in Durango on Saturday. After loading up with supplies and trying to find some new model trail-runners it was a short hop across the mountains to Silverton. Driving through the windy mountain pass my first glimpse of the old-west township sent a shiver down my spine. A potent cocktail of fear and excitment washed over me at the realisation that I am about to take on the Hardrock100 yet again. I have used this description before but I can find no more apt way to describe the emotions that Hardrock elicit within me: it simultaneously scares the crap out of me and excites me like no other race has ever done. Despite finishing in both directions, I take nothing for granted. There are a thousand ways to DNF this race. There are a thousand places to die on this course. There are a thousand emotions to be experienced throughout the race. It is a challenge I respect and invite. I am lucky yet again to be given this opportunity and humble in my approach to this daunting task that I hope to fulfill one more time.

My trusty little travel laptop has failed me so updates on my progress towards race day in 2 & 1/2 weeks will be sketchy. But I will try to translate some of the adventure that comes with course marking and familiarisation. I have been out on part of the course (last 5km only) and it looks dry, although the locals tell me there is still a lot of snow up high. I covered 20km this morning (off course) up Mt Kendall that overlooks Silverton. In true Hardrock style what took 3 hours to climb (12,000feet) only took 1 hour to descend. I look forward to sharing my journey to the Hardrock and hope it is half as much fun as the last 2 years! And maybe just a little quicker? :)

Time to go

2010-06-18T16:32:00.004+10:00

All the training has been done. Well, as much as I could manage, anyhow. My patella is still grumbling after an injury that forced a DNF at 90km into the Mind Alpine 100 back in April. But since then I have managed a solid training block of eleven continuous weeks over 100km, peaking at 145km last week. That is not big by most standards but it is by far the highest consistent mileage I have ever maintained for the longest period. And most of it was done carrying a weighted pack. And building up to a higher intensity and pace than I would normally achieve in training. Hopefully this all bodes well for Hardrock race day, 3 weeks from today. Yes, just 21 more sleeps!

Spud will be arriving in Silverton a little later than me but I am confident that the massive amount of training he has done will stand him in good stead despite the short acclimatisation period. We paired up and ran the Teams Marathon at The North Face100 in the Blue Mountains a few weeks ago. Neither of us tapered and treated it as a solid training run. The bonus was that we won the Teams event. Nice. That was 2 weeks after I ran the low-key Prom100km, and came equal first in that one. While the time wasn't my fastest over that course, I felt strong and pretty much cruised the last 20km.

Usually when coming into this sort of form I wait for an injury or illness to unravel things. Apart from the niggling patella and a couple of run-down days due to over-training, I seem to be holding it together. Injinji have come to the party again with some more of my favourite Silver Series socks. And I will be trying out the Zensah leg sleeves, which felt great in training. I have packed my trusty old Salomon pack and a new pair of Montrails. I am really looking forward to driving through the mountain pass where I get that first glimpse of Silverton and feel the goosebumps as realisation settles upon me that I am about to take on the Hardrock100 yet again.

Hardrock training begins

2010-04-02T23:11:00.004+11:00

Defying all logic I have been drawn in the Hardrock lottery for the fourth year in a row (didn't run after WS100 in 2007). By chance tonight I happened upon Olga's blog account of Hardrock 2009. I met Olga during course marking. She is a larger than life character and her race report is well worth the read. http://runmoretalkless.blogspot.com/search?updated-max=2009-08-27T07%3A43%3A00-07%3A00&max-results=3
I have borrowed a quote from it as it really struck a chord with me. The quote are the words Joyce whispered in her ear to motivate her at Chapman Aid Station. As an aside, Joyce's husband, Joe, went on to finish outside the cut. But he went on to finish, despite knowing he wouldn't make the cut. John DeWalt did finish his 14th Hardrock aged 73. These people make Hardrock what it is. I am honoured to count myself part of the Hardrock family and humbled to be given another opportunity to test myself over the amazing San Juan Mountains come July.

There is no DNF. You can use “I finished early” word’s trick, if you want to. But you don’t. Look, Joe just left Telluride, right on cut off, and he is still going, and I’ll be waiting for him here, because he will keep going. You got almost 14 hrs to make measly 18 miles, and you’ve been to those before. Piece of cake. You are wonderful. You are beautiful. You are strong as they get. Stronger then most can even imagine. If anybody, you can do it. Just think of it as a “walk in a park”. A romantic outing with your sweetie. Take your time. Look around. Don’t look at the watch, because you have so much time, you can circle the town of Silverton 10 times after you are done – and still make it. Think of Johnny DeWalt, that 73 year old man, who is still clicking it, and he WILL make it to his 14th finish. So will you. Piece of cake, dear, just piece of cake...

My Hardrock training has begun in earnest.

Mind Alpine Challenge 100 miles, 20-21 March, 2010

2010-03-24T22:48:00.002+11:00

There is something rather spiritual about spending hours alone in the mountains. It is an atmosphere perfectly suited for distilling your thoughts. After struggling up a steep, rocky trail for hours your breath can literally be stolen by the view of the endless rolling mountains that unfold before you. Painted pale purple in the heat haze of the midday sun, layer upon layer of velour like ranges extend to the horizon. The Australian Alps is truly one of the most spectacular places on the planet. The Mind Alpine Challenge winds through some of the steepest and most scenic parts of the Alps. It is a course chosen to be as tough and challenging as conceivably possible. I took on the long course, the one hundred mile solo option.

We left en masse from the starting line in Bogong Village at 4:30am. The track quickly began climbing steadily up to the Bogong High Plains. Just as quickly, the headlamps of the front-runners disappeared into the predawn darkness. The first checkpoint of Warby Corner was reached in about 3 hours. My crew, Mal, had hiked in with some supplies for the return trip when I would come back through here some 42km and 8 hours later.

From Warby Corner the trail dropped quickly below the treeline as I began the never-ending descent into Big River down the infamous Duane’s Spur. I had climbed up this trail many times in the reverse direction but was unprepared for just how long it went, down, down, down. It was almost with relief that I plunged straight into the icy waters of the fast flowing Big River, cooling my legs at the bottom of the descent. Then began the equally long and steep climb up T-Spur towards Mt Bogong. Unrelenting doesn’t seem like an adequate description. I was lugging close to 3 litres of water on top of the food and emergency gear. My shoulders ached where the pack dug in.

I had now been several hours without seeing another runner. I was lost in my thoughts and immersed in my surroundings. At one point I thought I heard someone call out and I stopped suddenly, the rustling of my pack stopping as quickly. Nothing. Then a tree groaned and squeaked and I realised the trees were talking to me. Wow, how cool. I love this bush. It is the ultimate escapism to immerse yourself in such a natural environment.

Cleve Cole Hut was full of people having morning tea. The rich aroma of camp brewed coffee smelt great inside the hut. I reluctantly turned down a brew settling to simply fill my hydration pack and water bottles before heading off towards the summit. The camp residents looked on a little bemused and bewildered at what we runners were actually doing.

The distinctive rock cairn marking Mt Bogong, the highest point in Victoria, was visible for a couple of kilometres as I worked across the high ridgeline. Approaching the summit a runner kitted out in triathlon friendly gear closed in behind me. She had a distinctive fluoro pink theme to her outfit, topped off with the hottest of hot-pink sunnies. I quickly forgot her name but she became the pink woman. She was in the 100km race and clearly making good pace on the uphills. We checked in with the volunteers, had a photo taken and headed off down the windy exposed ridge that formed Quartz Ridge.

As the pitch of the trail dropped off more steeply, the pink lady stopped suddenly in front of me. ‘What’s up?’ I asked. ‘I’m afraid of heights,’ she replied. Oh, definitely not the best place to be then, with sheer drop-offs on both sides. She overcame her fear as we picked our way down the rocky ridgeline.

The trail eventually dropped back below treeline and we found ourselves winding slalom style down a recently cleared path. A sharp right turn put us onto the long steady switchbacking descent of the Big River fire trail. This was perfect running terrain. I felt good and simply let gravity do all the work, building momentum. I lost my friend quickly but was also lost in the sublime pleasure of the rhythmic rush of the earth beneath my feet and the trees rushing past my ears.

In true poetic fashion the descent was finally punctuated by a picturesque mountain stream that cut across the trail. I waded straight in with the icy water filling my shoes and cooling my hot legs. The polished smooth river rocks were slippery. A small grassy clearing lead to another fire trail climbing up out of the Big River valley to the high plains, via Timms Spur.

I knew this was going to be about 7km of uphill so I popped on my ipod and settled into a solid hiking pace. Up, up, up, switchback after switchback. The valley unfolded to my right with great views to the horizon. Grey, naked tree branches reached skyward, remnants from the 2003 bushfires. The endless mesh of thin grey branches protruding from the thick green undergrowth reminded me of the whiskers on an old man’s unshaven face. The whole valley was unshaven.

Halfway up the climb I had a muesli bar. Those close to me know I went into this race with some badly bruised ribs from a nasty fall on a trail a week before the race. It hurt to breath deeply. In fact it hurt just to breath some of the time. Clearing my nose or coughing forced me to stop and hold my chest. Sneezing was like death. A little of the muesli bar went down the wrong way and the subsequent coughing fit sent me into spasms of contorted pain that forced tears to my eyes. Recovered I finished the climb but ate no more of the bar.

Up on the high plains I was soon back at Warby Corner. I grabbed the drink and ate the can of creamed rice and was off. A few kilometres later and I was at Langford Gap (behind Falls Creek) where Mal was waiting with fresh food and water. I discovered a massage therapist offering services to runners and jumped at the chance to have my niggling ITBs loosened. Up on her table Mal passed me hot noodles and Greg (crewing another runner, Lisa) passed me a can of pashion-punch. This was the life!

Greg asked if I would run with Lisa, as she was worried about navigating at night. Sure. We left close together and ran hard for the next 8km along the flat path beside the aqueduct. The first short climb after the flat path and my right knee seized up. Crap. It loosened as we reached the flat narrow path through the button grass of the plain but I knew I was in trouble.

Lisa is a fast walker so I put her in front to keep the pace. I couldn’t run but we were managing 10-11 minute kilometres so I was happy. We followed the snow-poles across the plain as the sun steadily inched towards the horizon. As the light started failing silhouetted brumbies appeared moving across the trail. They looked on but kept their distance. Pole 333 eventually came into view and Paul (the race director) and his assistant where huddled in the lee of their tent, avoiding the now bitter wind. This remote checkpoint was the turnoff back to the finish where we would pass again the next day. The thought that we might not be back here for another 24 hours was daunting. I doubted my knee would last that long. We put on our head torches and were off.

We were now in deep darkness with almost no moonlight. The poles were easy to follow at about 30 metre intervals. Despite this Lisa managed to wander off at a tangent into the marshy terrain before I led her back. Her lack of navigational skill made her totally dependent on me. As we descended to Cobungra River the rough trail played havoc on her recently healed ankle.

We stopped at the river and refilled our bladders from spare bottles I was carrying. I don’t trust the rivers after getting sick over the summer from creek water. Next big climb to Mt Hotham was up Swindler’s Spur. My knee wouldn’t bend on the ups. I was reduced to dragging it behind me. It was rapidly apparent that I couldn’t go on past Mt Hotham. The climb went on forever. My knee ached and the weird movement necessary to get my leg up each step was taking its toll. Mal was waiting for me at the top in the Mt Loch carpark. I knew I had to stop there, nearly 90km and 18 hours in. I had no choice. Sometimes the choice is taken from you. This was one of those times. Lisa was getting tired so it was a short leap for her to pull out as well. It was quite clear that she could not possibly navigate through the night on her own. I felt bad at indirectly forcing her out but could not avoid it. Actually, I felt bad for a number of reasons. But I was philosophical. I had had a fantastic day of doing what I love best: running mountain trails. This course was a true test of stamina, navigation ability, mental strength and pure endurance. I had come up short this time but was far richer for the experience.

Great Ocean Walk100s

2009-11-22T23:25:00.003+11:00

My Hardrock race report sits unfinished in a file while life goes on. Meanwhile I was heavily involved in organising the inaugural GOW100s on the south-west coast of Victoria in October. As a consequence, I was unable to run it but did manage a fairly epic 12hour sweeping stint over the last 60km of the long course. Here is a wrap up of the weekend:

GREAT OCEAN WALK 100S October 10-11^th 2009

Thirty-eight hours and it came down to the last 5 minutes. With just minutes to spare before the cut-off expired, Jane Trumper emerged around the headland and dropped onto the Apollo Bay foreshore running strong with no hint of the two days and 195km of perpetual motion that had carried her to this climatic finish. A small crowd waited nervously around the big white boat anchor that served as the start/finish line. The crowd was small in number but big on emotion. The anticipation was palpable. Running faster than she had at any other time in the race, Jane was cheered across the line in 37:55hrs, cementing her place in history as the first woman to complete the Great Ocean Walk 100 mile trail ultra.

The Great Ocean Walk is an established hiking trail stretching close to 100km from Apollo Bay to the 12 Apostles. Traversing coastal heath lands, beaches, dense rainforests and wide open pasture the track passes largely through the Otway National Park and finishes in the Port Campbell National Park. Runners were treated to an endless unravelling of panoramic vistas as they wound their way around headland after headland until, if they were fast enough, they were finally greeted by the sun setting behind the spectacular rock formations known as the 12 Apostles. This constituted the 100km race. The return journey reaching around 195km completed the 100-mile event. Given the extensive use of Parks land a partnership was struck with Parks Victoria through local ranger in charge, Peter Burns, making the whole thing possible.

Hours before Jane’s dramatic finish, Wayne ‘Blue Dog’ Gregory confirmed his place in the records as the inaugural winner by reaching the anchor in 31:06 hrs. The Dog looked strong, undoubtedly fuelled by the euphoria of running over such a tough but spectacular course to first place. All through Saturday Wayne had stuck to his race plan and let the speedster, Tim Cochrane run himself ragged. Tim held a blistering pace, indication that with fresh legs he could really give this course a shake. But by the turnaround at the 12 Apostles, Wayne was well in front and Tim was a spent man, and withdrew.

Darrel Robins paced himself to perfection and by the second sunrise started nipping at the Dog’s heels. With the help of a strong support crew, Darrel managed the distance with clinical precision and finished second in 31:28. Third was Kevin Heaton in 34:16. Kevin revelled in the constantly undulating terrain but took several wrong turns adding distance to what is already a well over-distance 100miler. Michael Lovric was the tail-ender at the turn-around but enjoyed a little nap at the Johanna Beach checkpoint at dawn and revived, proceeded to reel in Jane and Rodney Ladyman, who spent much of the night together keeping each other on track. Michael finished in 37:06 with Rodney not far behind in 37:43. Of course Jane scooped the prizes finishing first female and last outright, securing her both a generous Athlete’s Foot voucher for a pair of runners (same for Wayne) and the perpetual trophy for the slowest runner: a rusty old boat anchor. (Which she even managed to get checked on to her return flight!)

Besides struggling with the persistent undulations and soft sand, a few runners had to contend with a territorial koala. At one point, Ladyman was found running the wrong way down the track. Asked what he was doing, he turned and pointed to the advancing, growling koala, in the middle of the path! Of course by the end of the weekend the koala was as big as a grizzly with the teeth and claws to match. And he can’t even blame hallucinations, this occurred on the first morning!

Only six of the ten 100mile runners finished, testimony to the toughness of this course. That leaves just 4 runners still eligible for the Australian Grand Slam of Ultrarunning: Glasshouse100, GOW100, Great North Walk100 and Coast to Kosciusko.

In the 100km race the large field of 26 runners quickly spread across the course. Phil ‘Spud’ Murphy was planning an easy race post Ultra Trail du Mont Blanc (165km) in France but soon found himself in the lead with debutante Mike Tong. Tong had the home course advantage having trained on the course with his secondary school students but not the experience to match Murphy who settled into a solid pace, pulling away from the field with apparent ease, indicating he is well recovered and ready to step back up to his regular long course distance. In a display of class, Phil cruised to a 13:07 finish and a great 2XU Performance Clothing prize.

Tong paid the price for the early pace and faded allowing Gareth Parker and Dan Bleakman to surge through to a solid second (14:22) and third (14:28) place, respectively.

Amongst the women, Kate Sanderson ran a steady and controlled race to be the first woman in the 100km (17:00). Second and third were filled by Michelle Donnelly (18:00) and Kathy Garnett (18:47), making her 100km debut.

Runners were impressed with the level of organisation for a first up race and there was unanimous consent that this is probably the most scenic and spectacular course on offer. Gregory’s off-the-cuff comment at the 12 Apostles turnaround sums it up pretty succinctly: “You kicked a goal with this course!” With the original allotment of 30 runners filling within hours of entries opening online this year, organisers Paul Monks, Brett Saxon and yours truly hope to expand the field to accommodate the expected growth in interest next year. With an extensive website at www.gow100.com runners are encouraged to join the mailing list to ensure they don’t miss out next year. We set out to build a race for people to test themselves over the distance, to experience a truly remarkable piece of this planet and to allow them to live the dream that we ultrarunners love to dream: endless single-track with endless views.

Finished

2009-07-13T06:55:00.002+10:00

Wow, that was unbelievably tough. I will write a race report once I can get my head around it. Much harder in that direction. Much harder than I expected. Much, much harder. Andy Jones-Wilkins (who finished 5th, just 2 weeks after Western States!) described the Hardrock course as a series of ramps and walls. In the clockwise direction we climb up the walls and run down the ramps. In the counter clockwise direction, like this year, we walk up the ramps and run down the walls. Which I thought would suit me since I can run OK on steep downs. It just didn't work in theory, the long, long climbs killed me. I was lucky to have the help of Beth who was crewing/pacing Larry for a few checkpoints and Jim Sweat did a great job helping out everyone while waiting for his runner. But even with this help and well stocked aid stations I couldn't get enough food in and suffered badly because of that. But I hung on and finished in 40:50:28. They say you're not a real Hardrocker until you've gone both ways (which means you have to come back John!) so I told Dale Garland, race director, at the finish: that's it I'm done. While I've already worked out ways to save a ton of time if I ever came back, right now that's the last thing on my mind!

A truly amazing race. A truly humbling experience. One very proud finisher.

Only 3 more sleeps

2009-07-08T14:27:00.002+10:00

Tuesday 7th July.

Only 3 more sleeps. Went out for a very easy 5 miles to the river crossing today. Still need to make a final call on which shoes to start in but will be sending a back-up pair to Ouray just in case. Registration is tomorrow. The 'Hardrock' has been moved to the start-finish line outside the gym.

I feel good. A little nervous. I have had a very solid build-up, putting together my most consistent training mileage ever. I have been out on the course and put in many hours and miles on the actual trail. I am not thinking too much about a time goal. My primary objective is just to finish. And I would like to get to Grouse before it gets dark. If I do that I should be in good shape for the night. Then the race really begins in earnest when the sun comes up on the second day.

My mantra has been to respect the course, respect the distance and respect the altitude. If I do that I feel I stand a good chance of completing the counter clockwise course and being a true Hardrocker!

Rest day

2009-07-08T08:46:00.002+10:00

Day 16, Monday 6th July.
I drove over to Durango, about an hour across 2 mountain passes to do some shopping for any last minute race supplies I might need.

I worked on my drop bags. Six drop bags which could be up to 6-8 hours apart and spread across two night sections. It makes for very taxing planning to ensure I have most contingencies and paces covered.

There is much talk of the wait list: who is in and who isn't. And pacers, who has one (or three) and who doesn't. I don't plan to but I will keep an open mind on that one.

Last day of trailmarking

2009-07-08T08:07:00.003+10:00

Day 15, Sunday 5th July
Governor's Basin to Virginius Pass (aka Kroger's Canteen)
This is traditionally the last main day of trailmarking. There is time to finish any unmarked sections and do the in-and-out of town parts during the week.

Several 4WDs trucked us all up to Governor's Basin, up the long, long road section out of Ouray. I am dreading that part. At least it will be at night and there won't be any traffic. Those quad bikes really kick up the dust. From the Governor's Aid station the road deteriorates and there are little washouts and some residual snow banks higher up. Far less snow than last year and traversing on the soft snow was easy. It could get tricky at night when everything freezes up, though.

We all spread out, talking race strategies or just catching up. From the mine site the course turns to trail. Well, we use that term loosely round these parts. Straight up the first of three main pitches to the pass. All snow, heavy going as you stomped your foot into the print made by the person in front of you and concentrated on not slipping back onto all those behind you. Reaching the top of the first pitch we could now see the spectacular Virginius Pass. It is little more than a break in a fortress-like saw-tooth ridge. Across the snowbanks of the basin and up the next steep pitch. Not as long as the first but the elevation was starting to take it's toll. All around massive cliffs with scree slopes or snowfields, framed our world. Such spectacular geological formations.

Finally we were at the base of the final climb. It is steep so we angled across from the side in a neat traverse. Each person digging a deeper footprint to make it easier for the next. Much of this snow could be melted by race day and then it becomes a two-steps-forward-one step-back approach in the slippery footing. If not it could also be treacherously icy.

The pass needs to be seen to believed. Even photos don't do it justice, although they give you some idea of the tiny space wedged between two very steep drop-offs. To think a crew packs in a tarp and food for us is unbelievable. We all took photos and had something to eat before launching, literally, off the edge and sliding or 'glissading' on our bums, back down the snow chute. Points were awarded for style, speed and control. And there was a wide variety of all three, (with not much of the latter) making for some great entertainment.

This was repeated down the last (first) pitch where there was some tricky manoeuvring required around some rocks. The blue skies had clouded over and out of nowhere it started hailing so we took off down the road. I backed off, sparing my quads this close to the race. Before reaching the cars the sun was out again, testimony to the variability of the alpine weather we faced.

In true Hardrock tradition most of went into Ouray to soak in the hot springs before all meeting for a Mexican feast.

Governor's Basin to Kroger's Kitchen and return, 5.8 miles in 2:45 (2:01 up and 44mins down)

I have now done 10 of the 13 passes/peaks we cross and seen a fair part of the course. Time to taper.

4th July mania

2009-07-07T14:33:00.008+10:00

Day 14 Saturday 4th July.
Independence day is always a rest day from marking. There is a 10km fun run in the morning if you are so inclined. After coughing up half a lung for 2 days after last years 10km I abstained this year and went along to watch instead. It was won this year by Nick Coury who finished 5th at Hardrock last year and will pace his brother Jamil this year after missing out in the lottery.

July 4th has to be seen to be believed in Silverton. The regular population of around 500 swells to over 25,000! Being one not totally enamoured with crowds it does get a bit overwhelming. Part of Hardrock tradition includes being part of the parade. This involves 'marching' behind the Hardrock finishers banner, waving Hardrock flags and throwing 'candy' to the millions of kids that line the streets. I use the term 'marching' loosely. In fact we 'run' short intervals, including simulated switchbacks in and out of the other floats, as we make total idiots of ourselves. If people didn't think we were crazy for running Hardrock before the parade, they had no doubt after it.

That evening many runners gathered outside Charlie's house to watch the fireworks. Now I'm not a big fan of fireworks but the 1/2 hour display was pretty impressive, being widely renowned and the main draw card for the huge crowd. The natural amphitheatre created by the surrounding mountains amplifies and echoes the effects. The explosions were so loud my ears hurt and car alarms were going off with the reverberations.

And if that show didn't entertain you, the view from my motel balcony afterwards showed most of the 25,000 trying to leave town by the one and only exit road. Headlights were nearly motionless all the way up the nearby mountain pass for hours.

Much needed rest day, despite all the fuss.

Bear Creek trail nirvana on the edge!

2009-07-05T12:01:00.011+10:00

Day 13, Friday 3rd July.
Hwy 550 to Engineers Pass and return.
is a feature all on its own. The road hugs the mountain side as it climbs over Red Mountain pass then winds through the steep glacial valley down to picturesque Today's course marking worked in reverse to the race direction. The 45 min drive over to OurayOuray. Imagine Great Ocean Road windy. Then picture sheer drop-offs on one side and crumbling rock walls on the other side. And just to add to the anxiety, there are NO guard rails and often NO shoulders on the side. Cars crawl along with nervous flatland tourist drivers gripping the wheel. I drove this road during winter back in 1989 before Hardrock was even born. The road was covered in snow but passable. Approaching the tunnel where we would start today's marking there was a motor-home parked right in the middle of the road with his hazard lights flashing. The driver was paralyzed by fear and couldn't proceed. Such is the nature of this road, one wrong turn is certainly fatal. On the trail, one wrong step could also be fatal.

The Bear Creek trail down from Engineer Basin is spectacular but treacherous. Literally carved out of the cliff walls, the trail was blasted through the canyon in the 1890s to gain access to gold and silver deposits in previously inaccessible places. Starting at Hwy 550 where it passes through a short tunnel a couple of miles out of Ouray, we climbed up the path over the tunnel and began the steep series of long switch-backs into the Bear Creek canyon. Here the trail is raked out of piles of slate winding between the fir trees. The loose chunks of slate litter the trail and literally 'tinkle' as you pass over them. The footing can be a tad tricky.

I was at the back of the pack with James and Jennifer. The others soon disappeared up ahead. Jennifer and her husband write guide books on Colorado's mountains so was a font of knowledge. I knew James might have a problem with acrophobia so hung with him. Despite climbing constantly we were still low, Ouray being the lowest point on the course at 7,680ft.

The switchbacking slate-trail emerged into the canyon, high above the raging Bear Creek. The trail narrowed and clung to the face of the cliff, tracing the contours perfectly. We were now on the infamous section of the Hardrock course that brings a chill to the uninitiated. We continued at our slow but steady pace, Jennifer occasionally kicking a loose rock or pinecone off the edge. My eyes would be drawn irresistibly to follow the course of the falling object hundreds of feet below. It was quite unnerving.

We stopped periodically for photos and James was always conscious of not stopping too long. We caught up to and passed a couple of groups doing trail maintenance, a means of gaining extra tickets in next years lottery. I managed to coax James out onto an open cut-away for a classic pic. The footing was generally good with only a few wash-aways and a couple of chutes we had to climb across.

Leaving the steep-sided cliff trail, we entered pine forest again, still climbing, and still within the canyon walls. We came upon the remnants of Grizzly Bear Mine. How they managed to get such massive, heavy equipment up here defies comprehension. We left Jennifer with Sue who had caught up while we snacked, and I decided to pour on the pace to catch the main group. We power-hiked up the trail, through spruce trees and lush grass with the occasional clearing. We caught up just as they reached the Yellowjacket mine site. Derelict buildings and massive rusting machinery marked the site of this old mine.

After a couple of stream crossings we broke the tree-line. This is where the 'packed in' Engineers aid station will be. This was the start of my low patch during last years race when I couldn't find suitable food. This year I will be much better prepared and self sufficient. The canyon was now a wide open basin, lined with alpine grasses and a veritable kaleidoscope of colourful wildflowers. The trail was indistinct but you could now see the saddle just to the left of Oh Point! where we would hit the road across Engineer Pass. We worked our way up the left flank before traversing and crossing a stream and climbing straight up. It was a steep tussocky slope that had me sucking air as I worked my poles on the poor footing. Oh Point-Engineer Mountain Pass 12,910ft, pass number 8 on the course.

Sandwiches and muesli bars came out before we started the long descent, straight back down in the direction we will travel during the race. I tightened my pack straps and launched into free-fall down the basin. The course markers whizzed by as I angled back towards the tree-line. Picking up the trail through trees was easy but I will be here at night so made mental notes of the landmarks as I went. I waited for James a couple of times before picking up the pace again. Just before reaching the cliff-trail I kicked a rock and flew out-of-control into the long grass beside the trail before recovering my footing. A sobering reminder to back-off when the trail reached the steep walled canyon.

It is hard to hold back when you have a steady down-hill grade but I did back off a little once I hit the narrow path. But I had to run it. It screamed at me to run it. Banking around the corners, easing down the straight-aways. This is what I came here for: to run trails. I passed the trail workers and looking back had lost all sight of James. The creek raged below and my senses were on high alert, every foot placement critical. I pressed on, finally peeling away from the canyon and onto the slate floored switch-backs. I opened up again and fairly tinkled my way down, down, down, back and forth, loosing hundreds of feet, my ears popping as I could hear the highway approaching. I lost count of the switchbacks at 13 before I was crossing the tunnel again and dropping down to the roadside. Wow, what a hoot.

This is clearly not a sport for the faint hearted. Sometimes we tread a fine line between enjoying the adrenaline rush of pushing our limits and taking unnecessary risks. Running down Bear Creek trail blurs those lines but if we worry about all the risks in life then we wouldn't leave the security of our lounge room. This is what I love doing: running trail, and there are few more exciting trails to run than this one.

Hwy 550 to Engineers Pass and return, 13.4 miles in 5:35, 4:25 up and 1:10 down. max elevation 12,910ft.

Time for a rest

2009-07-05T11:15:00.007+10:00

Day 12 Thursday 2nd July.
With a long drive over to Telluride necessary to get to todays course marking I decided to take a rest day. Late afternoon a massive storm came down the valley, reminding me of the potential for bad weather during the race. I started sorting my drop bags and mixed some home-brew gu.

3 passes and hold your nerve at the top

2009-07-04T09:47:00.011+10:00

Day 11 Wednesday 1st. Arrastra Gulch to Maggies Gulch.
I rejoined the trailmarking team today. Wow, what a big day. We were dropped at the mouth of the Arrastra Gulch which winds up to the first climb of the race. We hiked up the jeep road to where the Hardrock course crosses the fast flowing Arrastra Creek. Below this, the course is on the western (opposite) slope which I had followed the first few days on my own.

Now on the course proper, we continued to follow the road, climbing rapidly switchbacking amongst the trees. The conversation dwindled as the air thinned. This will be the first section of the race. The sun will still be below the surrounding mountains and runners will be trying to find their pace and reign in the excitement and adrenaline of finally racing. I plan to hang well back.

Passing the abandoned mines we left the road and picked our way up the vague goat track. Sometimes the path was clear. Sometimes undetectable. Always rough. Regardless, looking up you could see where we were headed. The low point between high peaks and ridges at the head of the valley. Way, way up there. The faint trail could be seen traversing across the steep grassy slope, punctuated by a couple of snow banks.

It hard to believe they used to haul mining equipment up over this narrow pass behind mules. They also winched a bulldozer up the other side of the mountain in pieces then dragged it through the mountain via a mine shaft to service this side. Hardrrock is all about honouring the efforts of the miners in building the trails and roads that we use in the race.

On the final pitch Jim Ballard was doing trail maintenance on the loose scree slope and got the many hands to help roll some huge rocks to form a huge cairn marking the new trail switchback. I christened it Ballard's Bollard but he wasn't too impressed.

We scrambled up the final loose scree section before reaching the open pass. We all gravitated to the far cliff to view the next valley. Wow, massive, sheer, craggy cliffs plunging hundreds of metres. Way down below we could see the road where Cunningham Gulch aid station would be. Working our way across the ridge it narrowed severely before angling across to a steep snowbank that hung over a sheer cliff. This is the snowbank that stopped me back on day 4. It had melted out significantly but it was still poor icy footing. This is Dives-Little Giant pass number one, 13,000ft.

Larry planted himself halfway across the ledge and dug out the ice/snow to reveal some of the covered path. One by one we edged our way across. I hung back, knowing there were a couple of people a bit twitchy about crossing. We put a confident lead person in front and I followed them as Larry directed them across. All good. Lots of adrenaline. One year, going in the other direction, a runner had refused to cross this ledge at mile 95 and went back down to DNF. It is really that exposed. Hardrock forces you to face your fears. You must respect the environment through which we pass and grow stronger for the lessons it teaches us. This is no place for arrogance. Humility is a safer option.

We picked up the vague trail winding down the steep upper reaches of Dives Basin. This led to a series of steep switchbacks clinging to the sheer slope. Across the creek at the bottom and we were at the site of Cunningham aid station. We all lay about in the baking sun while we waited for Charlie and the rest of the crew to catch up.

The climb out of the valley is on one of the sheerest cliff faces for the entire course. Last year I had come down here in fading light, ignoring the dangers in a bid to get down in daylight. Now it was pure sweat and grind. The course description states: 'For the next half mile the trail climbs between two bands of cliffs on a narrow shelf. Exposure, acrophobia. At one point on this shelf you have a nearly straight down view into the Cunningham Aid Station (about 600 vertical feet)'. Heart in your throat stuff.

Thunder clapped and a few spots of rain had us reaching for our jackets. By the time we reached the first pitch the weather had already passed over us. Just a warning of what could come. The trail leveled out following a creek up the drainage. We crossed and climbed again. Ever up. The race director likes to tell us at the briefing: 'if you see a mountain you go up it, if you see a river you cross it'. The race creators had a sadistic streak. As awesome as this country is, they designed a course to be unrelentingly punishing. We continued climbing up the open alpine meadow over rough tussocks of dirt and grass, punctuated by wildflowers. The footing was terrible.

Green Mountain-Stony Pass ridge at last. 12,989 ft, pass number 2. We could see all the way across to the next climb. We dropped into a wide basin, crossed a jeep road and surprise, surprise, we were climbing again. Buffalo Boy ridge, 13,214ft, climb 3. Magnificent views all around, including down to Maggie Gulch. We wound our way down through rocky outcrops and slippery snowbanks, then traversed cross country before dropping to the road where the aid station will be.

Long, slow, demanding day but priceless trail miles.

Arrastra to Maggies 13.25 miles in 9:31hrs, max elevation 12,980 and 13,214ft.

Sublime trail running

2009-07-03T05:18:00.008+10:00

Day 10 Tuesday 30th South Mineral Creek campground to Putnam-Lime Creek Pass.
I asked the team back home what run I should do today: go with the trailmarking crew involving a 2 hour really rough 4WD ride back from Sherman after marking from Maggie's Gulch or do my own thing. Tim said do the team thing but clearly he had never gone across Cinnamon Pass in the back of Charlie's ute with your face squished up against the back window. Turns out they didn't get back to town until 8pm at night after a 7am start. So I definitely made the right choice by opting out.

Instead I chose to sleep in but was woken at 6:30 by Larry who had arrived in town late last night and was planning on hiking over Handies with a friend. Did I want to come? Ah, no. Not two days in a row. Soon after his wife Beth also arrived to say hello. She had run Western States on the weekend and her toes were a mess of dried bloody pulp. It will be tough for her to recover in time to pace Larry through the nights at Hardrock.

I drove out to South Mineral Creek campground where we had ended our run a few days before. The monster 'RVs' or motorhomes were filling the place up in anticipation of the July 4 long weekend and celebrations this weekend. The plan was to hike up the trail from Kamm Traverse aid station to where I had turned around on top of Putnam-Lime Creek saddle the other day and then run back. Only 4 miles there on paper but I didn't allow for the hike up to the trail-head from the campground, over 2 miles.

I wandered round the campground trying to find the road up the valley. I'm not sure why they call it camping: these Winnebagos are bigger than a regular bus. Some of them tow a full sized 4wd behind them. Their floorspace would rival many apartments and I'm sure the fittings definitely would. Finally I found the road, back where I had started! Oh dear, says a lot for my navigational skills. The road climbed solidly up to the site of KT aid station. This jeep road was ablaze with bright yellow butterflies, flitting about. The many wildflowers were making the most of the clear blue sky and warm morning sun.

I found the trail marked with the characteristic Hardrock flag. I was surprised how far it was up the road and down to the creek crossing. Coming the other way during the race last year I would have sworn the aid station was right there. Through the icy knee deep water. The rocks were slippery but the water was crystal clear. Through the boggy drainage feeding into the creek and I picked up the trail where it disappeared into the pine trees. I felt slow and sluggish. Not helped by the steep grade. Up, up, up. Constant switchbacks. I dug my poles in to haul myself up. A few trees were down across the track and at one point I got off track, despite the markers. I want to be through here in daylight. 90 miles and two days are going to make this climb incredibly tough.

Eventually I broke clear of the dense forest and was confronted by a wall of rocks. An active rock glacier. The huge tongue of rocks extended down from high above. The course skirted the edge of the rocks before diving back into forest. More swampy trail that resembled a stream more than a track. I was climbing again. I did not remember this stretch being so long. Or this steep.

Finally the trail dropped to cross Porcupine Creek and I was in alpine meadow with a view of the climb up ahead. Traversing the steep hill I switched back and forth on rough goat track following the markers until I was scrambling hand over fist up a rocky outcrop. Above was Porcupine-Cataract Saddle wide open at 12,230ft and pass number 12 on the course.

From here I could see all the way across Cataract Basin. The patches of snow were sparse and the melt made the trail boggy. I followed the markers with little semblance of any real trail. Approaching the next climb up to the ridge I could see a runner moving at speed up high. As I started the last climb he descended glissading skillfully down a snowbank. It was Bruce from Canada who ran a great Hardrock last year. After catching up he peeled off through a narrow chute down the steep cliff towards Little Molas Lake where he was camped.

I struggled up to the ridge. I pictured doing this during the race. This is really going to hurt. The air was thin and the footing was poor. I stopped to suck in more air. The race directions mention acrophobia risk here but I was too busy concentrating on getting to the top to care. When I reached the ridge I angled across until I had a clear view of Putnam Basin on the other side. I sat in the warm high altitude sun and had some food. Putnam-Lime Creek saddle, 12,600ft, pass number 13 and the last on the course.

Then the fun part: the long descent. Back across Cataract Basin and I started to find some running legs. Climbing back up to Porcupine-Cataract Saddle I slowed but once over I wound up the pace. Dropping back through the rocky outcrops I was unfettered in the alpine meadow and strode out along the narrow singletrack. Hitting the bog before the creek I sunk ankle deep in mud and nearly left my shoe behind. Through the creek and I was back in the forest running on the most magical singletrack, winding through the fir trees, pine-needle soft footing, switchbacks, rocks to dodge, logs to hurdle, streams to splash through. I was immersed in the trail and nothing else existed. Sometimes you just need to get out alone on the trail to be at one with nature. I can't think of a more perfect trail anywhere. Trailrunner's nirvana.

The jog back down to the car made it 12.5 miles in 6:37, 4:27 up and 2:10 down. Max elevation 12,600ft plus 12,230ft pass. So much for my 'easy' day!

14,000ft but who's counting

2009-06-30T09:24:00.007+10:00

Day9 Monday 29th. I headed back out for the trailmarking today. A bit ginger after my 'altitude migraine' of a couple of nights ago. The plan was to leave a few cars (4WDs) at Grouse Gulch and drive the long rough mountain track to Burrow Park near the Sherman aid station. After experiencing the Cinnamon Pass road in the back of Charlie's truck last year (picture 6 or 7 adults in the back of a ute with a fiberglass canopy on the roughest, steepest mountain road you have ever seen!) I swore never again. So I stopped at Grouse with Marcia and John who planned to go up over Handies Peak in the opposite direction, then come back. This saved another hour and a half of shuttling as well.

We (well John and Marcia) carried a heap of marking flags up to American-Grouse Saddle for the others to use on their way across, but we didn't do any actual marking. I was pleased to get away from Grouse Gulch, site of my near DNF last year. Starting at 10,800ft we climbed up a narrow, but open valley under clear blue skies. There were lots of marmots out, standing their ground territorially. They are cute furry little critters, not unlike a cross between a ferret and a cat. Lots of chipmunks scurried across our path as well. Much cuter than those cartoon versions.

High up the valley the trail hit a few snowbanks before we topped out on a broad grassy saddle with the imposing Handies Peak bearing down on us across the American Basin. We stopped here on Grouse-American saddle to have something to eat. 13,020ft and what will be 'summit' number 7 during the race. In typical sadistic Hardrock fashion we then descended into American Basin at 12,400ft before the real ascent of the highpoint of the course: Handies Peak, summit number 6. We had to pick our way through boggy creek drainages, rocky outcrops and big snowbanks before the climbing got serious. You could feel the air getting thinner as you sucked in the big ones. Several long switchbacks later and we were on the steep lead up to the summit. I was using my poles to help pull me up. The conversation faded as we got higher and the grade got steeper. Then without warning the world opened before us and we were on the summit. Wow, what a breathtaking view. Literally. We dropped our packs and had a snack and tried to spot the trailmarking team coming up the other side.

They had split into two groups: markers with Charlie and those who wanted to go on ahead. We decided to drop down to meet the others coming up fromGrizzly Gulch while we could still only just make out the following group far below in the valley. We crossed paths on the steep, slippery, shaley slope below the false summit. John and Marcia went on (they are not racing this year but organising Putnam Aid Station so had no concern about how far they went) but I decided to turn around at the first big, steep snowbank. As it was I had dropped a few hundred feet and had to really work hard to get back to the summit.

I stopped on top to chat in the now warm sunshine to Roland and Jim, who had followed us up from Grouse, before setting off to catch the lead group. There were families hiking and picnicking along the trail, having come up the short route from the Handies carpark. I caught the others at the bottom of the basin. We picked our way across and up onto American-Grouse Saddle (again for me) where we stopped for another snack. Then the fun part: the long, long descent down narrow singletrack to Grouse. I stopped only to retie my shoes and take some pictures. Otherwise making good use of gravity and toughening up the quads a bit more. I experienced a bit of altitude headache again at the start of the descent but by the bottom felt fine.

After waiting for the rest of the advance party to arrive we piled into the back of one of the trucks for a dusty, bouncy ride back into town.

Grouse Gulch over American-Grouse Saddle 13,020ft, across American Basin, up Handies Peak 14,048ft down the other side then back again 10.5miles in 7 hours.

Trailmarking Begins

2009-06-29T08:53:00.006+10:00

Day 7 Saturday 27th, Chapman-Kamm Traverse.
Well that was the plan, anyhow. After a long car shuttle to leave some cars near the end-point at South Mineral Creek campground, we had a long walk down the rough jeep road from Ophir Pass to where the Chapman aid station will be. At least the slow shuttle allowed me to spend an hour sitting at 11,800ft while waiting!

From Chapman's we crossed the creek then began the long slow climb up through the dense pine forest. It was slow going with a group of 13 of varying fitness and acclimation. Plus Charlie gives an entertaining and educational narrative along the way. In fact one of his sobering monologues had many of the newbies questioning their motives with stories of how people met their demise out here (none during the actual race). And just to add to the credibility of these stories, after crossing the Grant-Swamp Pass at 12,900ft, Fred decided to take a tumble on a steep snow bank. He pulled up once he hit gravel but missed a nasty rock by only inches. The only casualty besides his ego was a few nasty grazes. Very lucky, very sobering.

The climb to the pass was really tough. It was soft snow and hands and knees type scrambling. My fingers were burning with cold through my wet gloves. Last year we had skated down here on loose scree in the other direction. There is a good chance this snow will all be gone and we will be crawling up the loose scree. This after 85 miles! The view at the top was ever spectacular with Island Lake being partially frozen creating a mosaic of turquoise and icy-blue patches. We could see for miles in all directions with snow capped peaks extending to the horizon.

Dropping down into the South Mineral Creek valley we followed a faint trail, winding between rocky outcrops and snowbanks before hitting the well formed Ice Lake Trail. This we only followed for a short distance before a vague trail led off to the right. We all looked in disbelief. Coming fast down that well worn trail you were almost guaranteed to miss this turn. In fact a couple of guys who had gone ahead did just that. In traditional Charlie style he put one flag at the corner and moved on. We looked at each other and asked if we could put a few more out. By the time we finished you would have to be blind to miss it with flags and tape strung all over the trees.

Feeling satisfied we continued down to the creek crossing. With all the rain the waterfall was roaring. The tangled web of logs looked intimidating but definitely doable. Thunder roared overhead as large drops of rain started falling. Charlie made the call and decided we would go back up to the main trail and down to the cars, missing the Kamm Traverse.

Back on open trail a few of us decided to run to the finish. Like school kids it became a bit of a race down the narrow switchbacks, jumping logs, streams, rocks and roots. By the time we reached the campground I was breathless.

After another long wait we drove back to Silverton. Today had been scheduled with the crossing of Mineral Creek where I had had fun a couple of days ago but the river had risen dangerously high so the swap was made.

Ophir Pass-South Mineral campground 10miles in 6:14, max elev 12,920ft

Postscript: developed a blinding headache soon after getting home. Possibly due to altitude, dehydration and a bit of sunstroke (discovered my neck was sunburnt despite a bandana) but was totally disabling. So Sunday, Day 8 became an enforced rest day.

Rain, rain and more rain.

2009-06-27T14:09:00.003+10:00

Day 6, Friday June 26, Kendall Mtn. After raining all night it was still drizzling this morning. With trail marking starting tomorrow I opted to just head up Kendall Mountain to get some quality altitude. The road starts climbing as soon as it leaves town. I layered up for the cold and wet. After only a couple of kms I had to stop and put my light jacket on. Zipped up tight I was already soaked through. I was wishing I had bought my heavy jacket with me. Looking back across Silverton low misty cloud wrapped around the nearby slopes. Mineral Creek ran red with dirt runoff. The tourist train blew its whistle feebly under the blanket of steady rain. Not many tourists today.

This was nuts. I was getting colder. As I rounded the mountain the wind hit me and it was an easy decision to turn around and go home. I ran hard but still didn't warm up. Not until I hit the shower.

Silverton-Kendall Mtn part way. 6miles in 1:28, max elev 10,100ft.

Bear Creek

2009-06-27T11:05:00.010+10:00

Thursday Day 5: There are 3 Bear Creeks that are crossed or followed on the Hardrock course. Today I chose to follow what we call 'Silverton Bear Creek'. The trail across from Kamm Traverse checkpoint forms the last leg of the counter clockwise course. I trapsed up the hill out of town past the Miner's Shrine and out along Nutes Shute that parallels Hwy 550. I crossed the highway and slid down the embankment to Mineral Creek where a rope is stretched across the river for race day. Only the rope hadn't been strung out yet. And the creek looked rather fast and furious. Oh, come on, I thought. It's not as bad as last year when I crossed it one afternoon chest deep clutching the rope for dear life. But then I remembered how some guy last year tried to cross without the rope and got washed a mile down stream. Crap. If I don't cross then I have to go back over the same ground as yesterday and I'll spend the whole day feeling woosy. If I do go and make it I'll spend the whole day worrying that the afternoon snow melt will swell it even higher and I'll be trapped. Double crap. I knew I had to do it.

In I went. Instantaneously the current pulled at my legs. The waves swashed high up my thighs. I inched sideways slowly, trying to find footing on the slippery rocks and maintain balance. Deeper and further out towards the middle. Then it got too much. It was getting deeper and I couldn't hold onto my poles. My feet kept slipping. The current was pushing at me. I backed up and dragged myself back up the bank.

Crap. I sat on the side of the highway and watched the water for a while, defeated. A bus zoomed by on the wrong side of the road. Oh no, I was on the wrong side. Bloody left-hand drives. I realised I was in more danger sitting and watching than doing. Fear is a funny thing. You don't like to admit that it gets to you but it does. That is what I love about Hardrock: it constantly challenges you. You often need to look deep and question yourself. And that is what I did. I had to cross that creek.

Back across the swampy bank and into the icy torrent. I braced against the waves and shuffled my feet firmly through the rocks. The turbulence rocked me but I just dug in and pushed on. Deeper and stronger until there was no turning back. And then I was clinging to the other side and climbing the steep bank. I looked back, adrenaline pumping, and wondered what all the fuss was about.

The trail disappeared into a thick pine forest. I took a couple of wrong turns, following well beaten horse tracks. There was a trail riding place downstream. Finally I was climbing. Even still the trail was cut up by horse hooves. As I rounded a bend a horse jolted sideways in fright. The lady explained he thought I was a bear. Not quite but nice reminder. I let them pass.

Spruce trees opened into a grassy clearing with lots of knocked down old trees tangled on both sides of the trail. Strangely they were tilted uphill, unlike typical avalanche debris that gets pushed down hill. I looked across the valley and there carved deep into the side of the brooding basaltic monolith that is Sultan Mtn, was a huge avalanche shute. These dead trees around me were 'blowbacks' from the impact of avalanches across the other side of the valley. I could not fathom the scale of nature out here. This place is at once intimidating and inspiring.

The trail continued climbing up the valley interspersed with more clearings from past avalanches and rock falls. The horse hoof holes stopped once the trail hit a big rock slide. I was out in the open now with spectacular views up and down the valley. Above the treeline snow banks appeared and it was getting cold as the clouds closed in. I stopped to put my jacket on as the rain came down. I could see the saddle marking the highpoint of the trail. I was getting edgy as thunder could be heard in the distance. I crested the ridge: false summit, I wasn't there yet. More thunder. More rain. More climbing. Then the earth opened before me. 12,450 ft, Putnam-Lime Creek pass. I turned and ran hard over the alpine grass, sliding down the snowbanks, across the boggy patches and back down into the valley. I hoped to have half this speed on race day.

And then the creek. All way down I was thinking how the rain would be feeding the creek. I got to the bank and burst out laughing: the rope had been strung.

Silverton-Putnam-Lime Creek Pass and return 15.07miles in 6:02, 4:03 up and 1:58 down, max elevation 12,450ft

Thunder downunder

2009-06-25T09:57:00.007+10:00

Wednesday day 4: Jetlag is killing me. The altitude seems fine but the timezone is wrecking me. So it was a late start today, getting out after 9am. I knew this was folly as the afternoons have been characterised by summer storms and yesterdays deluge was rather impressive. I decided to follow the first sector of the race, Silverton-Cunningham Gulch, despite having already done parts of it and knowing it well. In fact knowing it well makes it more attractive until the rest of the course is marked.

I switched to my old Camelbak to compare with the Salomon I have been using. It was weighed down with 3.5 litres of water but it moulded into my back with a comforting familiarity. I was tired so walked lots on the way out to Arrastra Creek. The heavy rain had swollen the river and there was no chance of crossing the logs without getting wet. I thought of Brett and his garbage bag routine and chuckled as I plunged into the icy water. This is Hardrock, get used to wet feet.

The jeep road up the valley climbed incessantly, winding through the thick fur trees. By the time I broke treeline the clouds had rolled in. The Big Giant mine site looked ominous under the grey sky. Nature was doing its best to reclaim the land and the scattered structures were little more than splintered wood strewn about the site. The upper lake was an inviting opaque turquoise but not frozen over like it had been last year.

Leaving the road onto the goat track I noticed hoof prints in the mud patches. Mountain goat? Whatever it was, it followed the same vague path all the way to the pass, as the fresh imprints led the way. Vague indeed. There were a few small rock cairns but the path was patchy. High above I could see the more defined line cutting across the steep mountain face. This was where I was heading and the hollow between the peaks marked the true pass. The trail grew steep and I struck my first snowbank. Nothing too serious. Last year there had been massive snowbanks here. Looking up the rockslides cut vertical shutes into the cliff face, looking like pinstripes on a dark suit. Not much grew up here, just low grass clinging precariously to patches of moist dirt. Eventually I had to scale one of the gravel shutes, steep and slippery. I looked down and gained an appreciation for the danger of this trail. This is where I had slid on my hands and heels coming down last year in the wee hours of the morning after 95miles. Good thing it had been so dark. My heart was pounding under the effort. I could hear it going a hundred miles an hour in my ears.

Across the last narrow pitch and I was on the pass, 12,900ft. Thunder clapped and reverberated around the cliff walls. Crap. I remembered the words of the weatherman on TV last night saying lightning is one of the biggest killers in Colorado. I scuttled across the open pass, sheer vertical drops on both sides. No sign of the mountain goat. He wasn't that silly. On the Dives exit side of the pass a huge snowbank protruded across the path. Bugger. No way was I tackling that. More thunder. Crap. My meagre Yaktrax (strap-on shoe fittings for traction on ice) were no match for this baby. I spent a few minutes digging into the snow with my poles to help the melting process. I partially slipped and looked back at the void behind me. I realised this was not such a good idea. Another clap of thunder and I was convinced. I was out of there. Back across the pass. Scoot down the first pitch, controlled slide over the talus patch and full tilt down the goat track. The heavens opened and it started pouring. Thunder peeled off and I braced against the reverberations. The shelter of the treeline became my focus. I had planned to descend easily to spare my quads but all that went out the window.

Down, down I went, huge drops of rain pelting me, the wind now icy on my wet torso. The rocky path rising up to meet me. Until finally the trees closed in all around me and I settled into a steady pace over the rock strewn road.

The creek crossing was a blessing as the icy water cooled my aching shins and knees. I paused to let the water work its healing effect on my battered legs. Then the easy dirt singletrack all the way back into town. I crossed the bridge on the edge of town and there was no way I was stopping to soak my legs again. Cold rain was running down my back and the tourists already looked at me strangely, out running in the pouring rain, without also standing in the middle of the icy river.

I should sleep well tonight.

Day 4 15miles Silverton to Dives-Little Giant Pass and return in 5:25. Max elevation 12,980ft 3:45 up and 1:39 down

Hardrock countdown

2009-06-24T13:37:00.009+10:00

Downtown Silverton is starting to buzz as runners begin to arrive in preparation for Hardrock100 2009. I arrived on Sunday afternoon after overnighting in nearby Durango. The 30 hours of planes, trains and automobiles left me jetlagged and frayed. I succumbed to a massive headache the first night and was uncertain if it was jetlag or altitude induced. Probably a combination of both. I suffered the same fate last year and likewise massive fluids and more sleep cured it. I spent the morning shopping for supplies in Durango. I must have been an amusing sight wandering around the supermarket in a fog trying to convert weights, prices and labels into an aussie equivalent. I struggle in a foreign supermarket at home but put me in a different continent and time zone and it is not pretty. Amazingly I ran into a guy from the outdoor store (where I had bought some new montrails earlier) and he recognised me and wanted to know my name so they could track me on race day. The pressure builds!

Driving through the mountains, dropping from the 10,000ft pass, my first view of Silverton caused a flutter in my chest. I tried to hoot but my altitude fried vocal chords only managed a feebled squeak. I was back.

After an emotional reunion with my motel owner and unpacking I went for my first easy run to loosen the legs. I headed out along the first few miles of the counter clockwise course over my favourite local trail towards Arrastra Gulch. I was impressed with my new Montrail Wildwoods that gripped like nothing else. Past the beaver dams and through the spruce lined trail it felt good to be back. I could feel the thinness of the air but I took it easy and finished with a comfortable 5miles without much elevation gain.

Day 1 5.5 miles in 1:27. Silverton-near Arrastra Creek (white cabin) and return. Max elevation 9,400ft.

Monday dawned clear with a thick frost. There is a minor heatwave sweeping the country and Western States this weekend looks like being hot. This heat is melting the snow on the Hardrock course but there are reports of some thick snow/ice banks still up high. I headed out in early morning sunshine and there was even a warm southerly breeze. Aiming to stay low again, I went past the start line at the school gym and up past the miner's shrine and along Nute's Shute to the river crossing at Hwy 550. I contemplated crossing and following the trail up Bear Creek but decided I needed another day at 9,000ft so back through town and out towards Arrastra Gulch proper this time. I missed the unmarked trail where it picks up the water pipes and ended up bushwacking a fair bit before backtracking and finding the right path. All the way up to the creek crossing I was sucking in the big ones as I fought for oxygen. But it felt good to be working at last. Back down the hill I let loose and really tested the new shoes, leaping logs and rock hopping and really soaking up the pure trail singletrack. I remembered coming through here last year late on the second night of the race. Teresa and I were just plodding along on trail I was now flying over. This year I would run this fresh at the race start.

Day 2 Monday 12.9 miles in 3:43 Silverton-Hwy550-Silverton-Arrastra Gulch and return. max elevation 9,600ft.

Tuesday started clear again but by mid afternoon the monsoonal rain came down with lightning and thunder. I got out early to beat the weather. I decided to head up Mt Kendal for some climbing. After an hour or so of steady climbing I had my garmin still on metric and when I flicked to imperial I was surprised to see I was already above 12,000ft. Wow, cool. The jeep road wound around the mountain and snow capped craggy peaks appeared around each bend. Little furry critters scampered off the road as I approached. Some looked like a cross between a cat and a fox. Others could have been cheeky guinea pigs. So cute. And plenty of ground chipmunks, chirping at me. Above the tree line snow patches appeared and the wind became chill. I thought of turning back but the peak beckoned so I kept climbing. Crossing a couple of snowbanks and scrambling the final gravel pitch, I topped out at 13,000ft. The view was worth the effort. Wow!

After a quad busting descent I stopped at the river to soak my legs. I don't care how good an ice bath is for recovery, I couldn't stand the pain!

Day 3 13.9 miles in 4:42 (3:04 up & 1:17 down, change=soaking and talking) Mt Kendal summit and return. Max elevation 13,000ft

The North Face 100, 2009

2009-06-08T00:06:00.002+10:00

Halfway up Nellies Glenn and a jet roared unseen across the sky high above me. Steps and more steps, ever upwards. Then another jet? No, that was the wind roaring through the trees on the ridges high above the valley. The hot sweat dripping off my nose will soon chill me once I am exposed back up on the ridge to Katoomba. What a day of contrasts. That is the North Face 100 trail race. Highs and lows. Climbing and descending. Running fast and walking slow. Smooth, wide-open fire trail and narrow, gnarly singletrack. Soft, leaf-lined soil paths and brutally hard steel steps. Warm sun and bitter cold wind. This race has it all.

The early morning start saw the 300 plus runners stream out of the Fairmont Resort in Leura and wind our way around iconic Blue Mountain landmarks like the Three Sisters, Leura Falls and under the Scenic Skyway on smooth rolling trail. A conga line of runners kept the pace in check but allowed glances across the valley at the early morning light dancing over the escarpment. I was frustrated by the slow pace on the very runnable trail but sat back and enjoyed the view. After a steep climb up the Golden Stairs, I was at Checkpoint 1. I waited for Tim to come in. He was still getting over a bad cold and in hindsight probably shouldn't have been there. He could see I was biting at the bit, and he was clearly in for a bad day. He sent me on my way, alone.

I knew the Tarros Ladder was in the next sector so I ran hard hoping to beat the queue. Mile after mile of firetrail rolled out as I climbed the Narrow Neck. Around every bend more runners to chase. Spectacular views unfolded on both sides as the world fell away to the forested valleys far below. The wind whipped across us as misty rain sprung from the low set cloud. After leaving the road, a short rock scramble led to the top of the infamous Tarros Ladder. Oh crap, around 20 runners were huddled in the biting wind, each waiting their turn to climb down the jury-rigged aluminium ladders, encased in a cobweb like rope net. 20 minutes seemed like an eternity but my turn eventually came. Down one step at a time, slow going. Releasing the bottom rung I cut loose and ran hard to warm up again, greeted by tight singletrack and steep, slippery gravel where I slid out of control and bounced off the trees like a pinball. After breaking from the trees more firetrail led down to the welcoming CP 2.

Shortly after leaving the comfort of the aid station the course climbed the Ironpot Ridge. Hand over hand scrambling. You could hear the deep breaths of runners gasping for air. At the top we were directed along the ridge on a technical out-and-back section. Runners kept coming towards me, punctuating the rocky landscape. The exposed outcrop marking the turnaround provided great views. Back down weaving through the trees and oncoming runners. Then a steep drop off the ridge, free falling through the forest. My feet clawed at the ground but slid forward inside my shoes, the soles burning as I slipped and slid down to the creek. Then the track wound through farmland before emerging into the upper reaches of the Megalong Valley road. Horse country. My nostrils filled with the strong aroma of horses and horse manure, a total contrast to the crisp forest air just minutes before. I was feeling strong so ran the road hard to CP3.

Mandatory gear check was the first priority. Done. Refill and refuel. Done. And on my way onto the Six Foot Track headed towards Katoomba. A couple of kms down the track I realised I hadn’t refilled both my bottles and suddenly felt very thirsty. I slowed to conserve what water I was carrying. Runners were few and far between. I passed a few. A few passed me. The climb up Nellies Glenn bunched us all up in a kind of communal effort. As we broached the top of the stairs we moved into yet another weather zone and suddenly the warm afternoon sun was but a distant memory as the icy wind tore at any exposed flesh. Sensing the next aid station and more fluids I ran hard through the fringes of Katoomba to the oval and CP4. I collapsed on the damp grass and guzzled the softdrink my crew provided. Elixir of life. I donned my light jacket and headlamp in preparation for the approaching night and headed off.

Echo Point was buzzing with tourists and they looked on with perplexed amusement. I passed a little posse of runners before realising one of them was Dean Karnaze, the man himself. Cool. How many sports do you get to compete against international sporting celebrities? A guy dressed in civies and carrying a huge camera was running along ahead of Karno snapping pics. Then came the quad-busting Giant Staircase. Down, down, down. I thought it would never end. Relief came on the mossy forest trail at the bottom as the fading light struggled to reach the valley floor. I ran hard to use the last light before reaching the open firetrail that descended further down Sublime Point Ridge. It was dark now as I wound down, down until my quads thought they would explode on the hard packed road. The reflective ribbons marked the course, reassuringly. I splashed through the shallow Jamison Creek before starting the long climb to Kedumba Pass and then the old Queen Vic hospital site. Head down and grind it out.

CP5 was a welcome site in the now cold, lonely night. Crew huddled around a blazing fire, the warmth beckoning me. Tim Cochrane offered me some pizza and he didn’t have to ask twice. I knew he had finished second to Mark Lee, and here he was back out helping other runners. Great effort on both counts. I had been resisting trying to chase the 14 hour silver buckle cut-off but weakened now. I wondered how much time I needed. I asked him what would be a slow split for the last sector. He said he couldn’t remember his time. I said a slow split! Never mind, I would just go as hard as I could.

Out on the road a young runner caught up and passed me. He asked how far we had to go and if he could make 14 hours. I said no-way but he took off anyhow. I passed him about 3km later dragging his feet. A valiant but futile attempt. The trail dropped back into the valley and I thought it would never end. Then the new Lillian’s Bridge and I started climbing for the last time. The trail popped out onto mowed grass and I knew I was close. Glow sticks marked the way. I could see banners flapping in the wind. Across the lawns of the resort the finish chute was in sight. I dug deep. People were clapping. It was cold, dark and late but the support warmed my heart as the emotions of a day of honest toil washed over me. I ran hard to the line to stop the clock at 14:30. Tired but happy. A very solid hit-out before Hardrock and a faster time than last year without any taper.

No-one to hold my hand; unauthorized 12 foot track. 13 March 2009

2009-03-16T16:08:00.001+11:00

Imagine running the 6 Foot Track in March and not seeing another person. Better still, run from the Explorer’s Tree in Katoomba to Jenolan Caves, then turn around and run back and not see one runner. Sometimes you just want to go for a run on a trail. And after a crap run at 6 Foot last year I decided I would get the best of both worlds: I would fly to Sydney to watch the 6 Foot Track Marathon but arrive a day earlier and run an unofficial 12ft Track, solo. Some runs you will always remember. Even without anyone to share my 12ft experience, this was one of those runs: one I will always remember.

Tim dropped me at the Tree as the first light was breaking through the low, thickset mountain cloud cover. I had my ceremonial picture taken in the gloomy shadow of the tree then walked off into the bush at 6:40 am. I was not the least bit concerned about pace. For once I would be just running for the sake of it. No race. Just me and the track.

The steps down Nellies Glenn were slippery and I took my time. Despite walking most of the way, or perhaps because I was walking, I still managed to slip and land fair on my backside. Ouch. Ego hurt more than my rear.

The bird-life was rousing with the breaking light and the whip birds pierced the stillness. Along the sandy white road I managed to ease into a trot but it was clear I was not going to break any speed records today. Care not.

Into the paddocks of Megalong Valley and the dew on the grass was thick. I remembered crunching through frost here on previous authorized 12ft runs in winter. Not today. The humidity was high but the clouds were blocking out the sun. Kangaroos watched me inquisitively before loping off. They cleared the fence effortlessly. I used the stile. I went to hide some coke in the traditional hiding spot in the hollow of the tree at the road crossing but opted for the bushes instead. I had visions of people swarming all over in the evening as they set up for 6ft.

Climbing Pinnacle Hill the sweat started to bead on my nose. The day was warming. The humidity made my damp clothes cling to me. Flocks of Gang Gang parrots swooped past with their staccato cries. The bird life was amazing. I deviated off the track to visit the memorial plaque on a tree on top of the hill: “Robert John Webb 1949-1992 His spirit runs free.” I looked up the valley at the view and reflected on how lucky I was to be out here.

The single track down into the Cox River valley is always a great run. The only impediment: the cobwebs across the track and the occasional gate to open and close behind me. Yellow tail black cockatoos screeched their long wailing calls all around me. Truly magnificent birds. A solitary wallaby took fright and plummeted through the bush to escape. The rumblings of the river could be heard echoing up the valley. I was at one with the trail.

The river was low but I thought I would chance the rocks. They were treacherously slippery and I ended up shimmying across on my bum. Dry feet though. No campers. Empty. The slow drizzle had settled into rain. I sat under the shelter and ate some creamed rice. I checked the tank for water for the return trip and headed off into the hills.

I stashed another coke here. I contemplated 850 runners ploughing through the river then drudging up this hill. The climbing was hot work. The sweat not only dripped from my nose now but also mixed with the rain and dripped from the brim of my cap. The rain eventually stopped but the hill kept going.

Down into Alum Creek valley and my feet got wet at the small river crossings. Kangaroos were out grazing in the dull light. The clouds hung low over the surrounding peaks. I was moving freely now running the downs and flats. The climb up Pluvi was long but not taxing. The track was in great condition. Big spots of rain fell intermittently and I took off my cap to let the cool water splash on my bald pate.

The Black Range road seemed ominously empty. But the wildlife made up for it. Small wallabies occasionally thumped away. A lyrebird scurried from side to side before finding an escape route. Another took off as if it was flying on the run. More black cockatoos serenaded from above. Their huge graceful wing strokes weaving through the treetops as their ‘creaking-door’ like cries rang out. They seemed oblivious to my presence. It was just me and my footprints.

Deviation campground was empty. I refilled my bottles from the tank. Across the Caves Road and the final stretch into Jenolan Caves. Not even any tourists out on the paved trail. I had gone the entire way seeing only one farmer in his ute.

I ordered some lunch and by chance ran into Dog, Bernie, Sarge and Seris so sat and ate in company. A 45-minute break and I had to then carry my overfull stomach back up the steep climb. At the top I met an RFS ute checking the track and I directed them to the only tree across the path. The undulations back to the road crossing eased me into my stride. I decided to put my ipod on and up the pace a little.

More lyrebirds on the Black Range Rd. Or maybe the same ones back again. The rain started coming down. This time real rain. Heavy, soaking rain. Rivulets down my neck. The wide road was awash, turned into a stream with the puddles forming billabongs. The music pumped my legs and the pace kept me warm.

Down Pluvi, picking a path as the trail rushed up to meet me. The small creeks before Mini Mini blended with the wet track. The rain eased and the low clouds hung like halos around the peaks. The climb up Mini was the toughest for the day. The late afternoon light was fading. The distant escarpment was shrouded in white mist. I was cocooned in my own little world amongst the enormity of the landscape. I stopped on the hill where Tim and I had paused on my first run here in 2005. His prophetic words in his race report: “if Whippet were a girl I would have held his hand” as we watched the sunset glow on the escarpment, echoed in my ears. Not this time. I was alone. And the orange glow was replaced with wispy white cloud. But I could not be more at peace.

After the long downhill the coke was a treat. When I entered the Cox River camping area the place was abuzz with RFS people setting up for the race next morning. I wandered through and filled my bottles from the tank. No-one seemed to notice me, almost like I was cloaked. I waded the river and began the long climb back to Megalong Road.

There were no cobwebs and the rain had stopped. I was running hard now. Running up the hills. Well within my comfort zone. Singletrack with just enough technical to make it challenging. The stimulating blend of rock music and coke fuelled me. The fading light added incentive.

The cows in the open paddocks of Pinnacle Hill were not impressed at my intrusion. One decided to follow me. The next turn and a huge bull eyeballed me. His unbroken stare followed my nervous path before him. I scampered across the next stile, relieved. I rang Tim to organise a pick-up. He had a special relationship with these cows and I blamed him for their scary tactics.

It was dark as I reached the road and my last bottle of coke. I resisted my headlight, opting to run in the dim light, feeling the trail with my feet. Once on the long white sandy road towards Nellies Glenn I relented and pulled out my light. I was still running strong, despite the continual climbing. I looked at my watch and realised I was making good time on return. I ran almost to the sign at Nellies then pushed solidly up to the steps. I focused on each step. Each step brought me closer to the top. They went on forever but my stride was unbroken.

Finally the sandstone rocks of the final stretch. I imagined how in but a few hours hundreds would fly down here elbow to elbow. Not me. I had it all to myself. As I jogged the final steps to the tree headlights pulled off the highway and Tim arrived right on que. 9:05. Another photo. Cold, wet, but elated. 849 runners would run the 6ft Track the next day. They would experience a truly great race. I got to experience a truly great trail.

Coast to Kosci DNF 12-13 December 2008

2008-12-15T19:12:00.001+11:00

When is enough enough? And when is it too much? I found out somewhere along the lonely road out of Dalgety. The full moon periodically punched through the ominous black clouds sending a surreal light across the featureless landscape. I looked over the paddocks and saw the weirdest arc across the clouds. It was so symmetrical in an otherwise random sky. Was my sleep-deprived mind playing tricks on me? And then it dawned: it was a moon-rainbow. I stopped and stared in pure wonderment. All the pain and misery that racked my tired body melted away. The clouds closed across the moon and as suddenly my moon-rainbow was gone. The wonderment was over. And so was my race.

I had had a good day, running with the Bunny, Hermie and Marie, and then Lisa Spinks for a while. For a long stretch before Big Jack I pulled ahead and was surprised to pass Brick and Trout. My partner in crime and sharer of crew, Tim had been with me on and off all day and most of the night, keeping me entertained. Our magnificent crew (for the second year in a row) Vegie and Balri had kept me well fuelled and hydrated. I never contemplated not finishing. Not even when my ITB started flaring somewhere around Cathcart in the afternoon. I could still jog/run. And when it got too sore to run I held a solid power walk that kept me in touch with Tim. This went on through the afternoon and half the night. We were still well ahead of last years pace. Then out of the night zoomed massage therapist extraordinaire, Graham, Marie’s husband and crew. Next thing I found myself face down in the middle of the road at 2:30am with him pulverising my ITB into submission. Truly above and beyond the call of crewing duties and greatly appreciated, even if the pained response at the time didn’t adequately reflect this. Spoonman and Tim looked on. Bizarre spectator sport this. This got me running again but out of nowhere a pain ripped across the top of my foot. I had experienced this before and knew it was a bad thing. It would only get worse. I loosened and retied my shoe to alleviate the pressure but I limped painfully into Dalgety.

Tim was having a strong patch so pulled ahead and Blair came to discuss my options. I decided to see if I could run and chased after Tim. The 100mile mark became my next goal. The running simply made my foot worse and soon I was dragging it along behind me. And then my moon rainbow appeared. And I felt rewarded for persevering. But the pain was so bad I could now barely walk. Enough was enough. I thought of sitting on the road and waiting for the next crew car when out of nowhere there was our tiny Corolla parked off the side. Just short of 100 miles in a little over 22 hours. Done.

There was to be no mammoth spanking for me. But I did get to run along the Towamba Valley with my ipod blaring and me playing air-guitar to the Angels, using my gel flask as a plectrum and singing at the top of my voice. And I did get to spend lots of time with all my favourite people. And I did get to walk Tim into the finish in the most horrendous conditions after we dragged Vegie into the car to thaw out. And I got to see some fantastic country and experience just a bit of this amazing race. That makes me versus the mountain: 1 all. Thank-you Blair and Vegie for making that possible. Thank-you Tim for sharing yet again. And especially thank-you Paul and Di for doing what you do.

GNW100 8-9 November 2008

2008-11-18T22:46:00.001+11:00

My phone alarm went off. I groped around in the dark and instinctively hit the snooze button. I snuggled down again. Damn. I have to get up. I sat up and looked around blearily. I really have to stop doing this. These 100 milers are wearing me out. I was sitting in the middle of the Great North Walk Trail next to the unmanned water drop between checkpoints 4 and 5. I reached up and switched on my headlamp. I dragged myself up and stumbled off down the trail towards Somersby and the new day. I had managed 10 minutes of sleep. Just enough to stop me staggering all over the trail and tripping on every shadow. I still felt devoid of energy but at least now I could focus enough to get to the next aid station. The finish still seemed like a lifetime away. There was never a thought of quitting. It was more a matter of how long and in what shape I would make it.

Looking at the race splits for the sector from 4 to 5 I suffered terribly from low energy and lost a lot of time. It hadn’t all been like that. It had been an interesting day. Every ultra is a new adventure. This one had been more about the people around me than about myself. Sometimes you have to take a step back from your race to help others along the way. Saturday had been one of those days. Sunday would be different. With the rising sun I would find a new energy that would reward me with some magical trail running. But first I had to get through the night.

I had planned to run this years GNW with Tim again as we make a good team on this testing course. We both had injury plagued preparations so had no expectations. Tim was forced to pull out pre-race so I was on my own. With a field of close to 80 runners across the 100 miles and kilometres I was seldom alone for the first half. During the first two stages I found myself with Hermie on and off. I would pull ahead on the downs and he would catch me on the climbs. We have spent many a mile together in the past and so it would be again today. Coasting along the ridge of the Sugarloaf Range, before Heaton’s Gap, we encountered Brick sitting by the trail with his shoe off, wrestling with his foot. I stopped and helped bandage a badly blistered toe. This was worrying only 10km in. We rejoined a long train of runners before they let me pass on the descent. I enjoyed the long downhill into Heaton’s Gap. I stopped to fill my bottles at the service station. The climb up to Heaton tower was a real grind. Runners surrounded me. I was surprised how many people were within sight. I remembered climbing up here the first year of the race with Tim and we were all alone. This race is really growing. It was already warm and threatened to really heat up. Fortunately the cloud cover kept the temperature down and the heat never eventuated.

Past Heaton Lookout and we dropped down into the thick rainforest. There was a small group of us winding our way through the dense cover. I had to concentrate on the trail. The thick leaf litter made it indiscernible as you weaved in and out of trees and up and down creek beds. I stopped several times to flick leeches off my gaiters. They were everywhere. And stubborn. Climbing out of the forest back onto the gravel road I stopped at the loo at Hunter Lookout. Many people passed me. Coming into checkpoint 1, I found myself walking and chatting with Dr Lach who had taken a detour and added several kms already. Not for the only time either.

Checkpoint 1 was a welcome sight, I was getting hungry. I didn’t spend long, just grabbing some food and heading out, walking for the next km to eat. Hermie was with me and when asked by a group just in front of us about where to go he offered: “Just follow the road then turn off it.” Sage advice I thought. Hope they had their maps. This section follows the ridgeline for quite some distance. The road made for easy running. I caught a few people who had passed me earlier. Brick and Terry were just in front and I kept pace with Hermie comfortably. The field was spreading out now. Past Barraba Campsite and we started the long descent into the valley. I love this section and really opened up pulling away. Once off the road there is long raking singletrack. I passed a couple of runners and crossing the field at the bottom could see a couple more just in front. The familiar old bathtubs were still at the bottom of the hill. Strange the things we remember. I was determined to run as much of the road as I could but the Congewai valley is like an energy vacuum and every time I get there I struggle. This time was no different. I kept looking back for Hermie, knowing that when he caught me it would help keep me going. I was starting to feel nauseous and it became a real effort to get to the school. The breeze was almost cool. I couldn’t blame the heat. I just felt sick. I asked Hermie why we do this. I suggested it was time for me to find another sport. Not for the last time I had this thought.

Checkpoint 2. I knew I had to eat but every mouthful I took threatened to come back up. Kathy was helping me out and looked worried at my pitiful state. I knew I just had to get some food in and keep moving. So that is what I did. The short out-and-back section here allows you to see the state of others and who is close to you. Hermie caught up again and took my mind off my malaise. But as soon as we started the climb to the communication tower he pulled away easily.

Well up the steep pitch I encountered Tom coming back down. He looked terrible. Apparently he felt even worse. His kidneys were painful and he was short of breath. He hadn’t been weeing. And he had been vomiting. I got him to sit on a log. He wanted me to go on but there was no chance of that. I assured him I was in no hurry and wasn’t leaving until I knew he was safe. Runners kept stopping to offer help but I sent them on. Brick stopped and he looked terrible, absolutely drenched in sweat. He had been sick himself but kept going. I filled an empty bottle I had with plain water from my Camelbak for Tom. He only had Gatorade and he needed some water. He wanted to sleep but I wouldn’t let him. I was really worried about him. He rang Les, the wireless radio communication co-ordinator to pass on his withdrawal so that checkpoint 2 would know he was coming back. We sat for some time just chatting and sipping water. Once he felt up to it I took his pack and we ambled back down the hill. After a while he turned and told me he couldn’t take me any further and assured me he would be OK. Reluctantly I agreed and left him to it. He made it back safely.

I pushed hard back up the hill. The time spent resting with Tom had freshened me up and I was keen to get going. I dug my poles in and pulled myself up the steep trail. Approaching the top I rounded a corner and there was Brick and another guy, Joel, both doubled over and looking like death. Brick had been suffering for some time and was clearly distressed. Joel explained that he also felt terrible and his feeble urine was the colour of Brick’s pack. I looked at Brick’s pack: coffee coloured. Not good. Seriously, not good. I suggested doing as Tom had done and head back to CP2. They both couldn’t face that option so they decided to get to the top and reassess. I resigned to stay with them. It was slow going with enforced rest stops every few metres but eventually the communication tower came into sight. We stopped at the road and Brick curled up on the ground. Joel paced around uncomfortably.

Déjà vu. This was the exact same spot that Tim had collapsed with heat stress two years ago. I couldn’t believe the contrast today. The rain was coming in and the wind had whipped up. I was shivering and dug out my emergency jacket. I could see Brick curled up in the foetal position, getting goose bumps. I made him get up to put his jacket on. I presented their options: go back to CP2; try and get down to the road where the unmanned water stop was; try and get to CP3, still a long way off. Brick wanted to try to get someone up onto this fire road. He was in a really bad way. He was thinking of his family and clearly worried. I rang RD, Dave Byrnes and got his answering machine. I left a message. Some other runners came past. Graham Wye had the emergency number so rang the wireless communication co-ordinator. I spoke to Les and asked about getting the pair picked up from somewhere. He radioed through to Dave and rang me back with the options. He said someone could retrieve them from the water drop but it could be hours and hours. Their best bet was to go back to CP2. We had been there for about 1/2 an hour by now and Brick was back on his feet. I relayed the choices to them and before I had finished, Brick had turned and marched off towards CP3. There was no way he was going back down that hill. I rang Les again and told him they were pushing on and that I would hang with them to keep an eye on things.

Brick has a really strong walking pace and Joel just fell in behind, head down. I spent some time educating Joel on the perils of kidney failure and the dangers of painkillers in his current state. His quads were shredded but he just put his head down and followed Brick’s lead. We caught and repassed Rob Boyce who was struggling with cramps. Finally, we hit the long downhill to the farm and I cut loose and enjoyed some tight singletrack. Half way down the switchbacks I heard someone yelling from above. I waited for the others but it wasn’t them. There, way off track, was Graham again. We guided him back to the track and he joined us to the farm and eventually all the way to CP3.

Crossing the paddocks I could see a car parked on the road. I told Joel he should consider getting a lift out. The driver was waiting to see his mate run through but expected to be there for another 1 & 1/2 hours. Neither of the casualties wanted to quit. Their choice. We refilled our water bottles and started the long climb out of the valley. The sun was getting low in the sky. The shadows were lengthening and the forest began to take on a new life as the night approached. We discussed making the Basin in daylight. I doubted it. Brick started to jog periodically. He still set a solid walking pace. I told him that if he had a rest at CP3, refuelled and rehydrated, he could probably go on. I warned Joel that his already shredded quads would suffer on the big downhill and then the bitumen on the next leg into CP4 and further clog his kidneys. I warned him to stop here. I saw later in the results he went on to finish the 100km.

We dropped into the Basin in the last of the fading light. Shafts of setting sunlight pierced the forest canopy and lit up the creek below us. The golden glow contrasted the dark shadows of the dense rainforest. It was like a scene from ‘The Enchanted Forest’. The fast fading light forced me to hasten my pace. We passed the stairs leading out of the basin and started to see runners coming back towards us. A constant procession of headlamps bobbing through the trees on the narrow twisty trail. I marched into checkpoint 3 to be greeted by Tim who had come out to help crew me through the night. He passed my bladder off to be refilled and plied me with pasta and soup and hustled me back out of there. So fast that I left my trekking poles leaning on the table. I asked Rob Boyce as he limped past if he could get Tim to bring them CP4. I felt naked without my poles.

Unfettered without my ailing companions and fuelled by the warm food I picked up the pace. Climbing out of the Basin I had to pull my map out a couple of times to reassure myself. I was alone in the night and it is easy to miss a turn, as many had done. I had to concentrate, checking every intersection. Once off the road and on the track down to Cedar Brush I really wound things up. Fast downhill running at night really gets the adrenaline flowing. I let gravity pull me ever down, down, down. The fireflies flickered in my headlamp beam and night animals scurried off at the thudding of my footfalls. It doesn’t get much better than this. I was really having fun. This is why I run these trails, for these moments when I become one with the bush, moving at speed through the forest at night.

As I climbed the stile out of the paddock onto the road I scoffed down an espresso gel with a double caffeine shot. This sparked some serious road running. I flicked my light out, switching it back on at the first sight of a car or another runner. Pounding down the road in the moonlight allowed me to switch to autopilot. I had another caffeine gel. I started passing runners. One, then another. Each one fuelling me to run a little harder. As I came into Yarramalong I passed whole groups of runners. I rushed into the checkpoint gushing adrenaline. I had recaught Hermie and Tamsyn who were reclining in their chairs. They got up and hurried out just ahead of me. I asked what food was on offer: the only hot food was off the barbeque or chicken soup. No good to me. I had a cold hard-boiled egg and grabbed a flask of gu and a refilled bladder and rushed back out again. Big mistake, I needed more food. I should have taken more time here. By the time I started walking up Bumble Hill Road I was feeling drained. After the hard run down the road I was now crashing. And fast.

I was only 30 metres behind Bunny, Meredith and their pacer but it could have been a mile. I couldn’t catch them. They sounded like excited teenagers. How could they be having so much fun and have so much energy when I felt so bad? They climbed the guardrail off the road onto the trail. I followed. I could see them slowly pulling away. It was almost like I was going backwards. I realised I was running out of energy. I choked down some potato chips. I couldn’t eat. Nothing I had appealed. I had to concentrate really hard to keep going. The night seemed so heavy all of a sudden. It was pressing down on me. Every step was a battle. The trail through here was messy: up, down, over puddles, through mud. I went for hours without seeing anyone. It was like I was sleep walking. Maybe I was. Finally a light came up behind me. As I climbed off the trail onto the road, Darrel came by. I was fumbling with my maps. He asked how far to the water drop? 6km. He was gone before I looked up. I must have dropped my map here. I never noticed. That 6km took forever. I promised my self I would rest there. I had no choice. When finally the familiar barrels came into sight, I refilled my bottle, set my alarm and curled up. Even the loud buzzing of a swarm of mozzies that settled over me couldn’t keep me awake. I went out like a light.

I was making a habit of this trail napping caper. But that ten minutes probably saved me 30 more I would have lost stumbling around in the dark. Climbing the trail out to Somersby, another set of lights closed in on me. I was surprised more hadn’t. This time it was Brick with his pacer. He had risen from the ashes and was now making good time. He told me to stick with them. I would if I could. I managed for 100 metres before falling back again. Climbing out of the forest onto the road was symbolic of me climbing out of my funk. The sun broke through the haze of the night as we hit the bitumen road signifying Somersby and soon checkpoint 5. I gritted my teeth and ran. Past the chook farm with the noise of a thousand chickens waking up. Onto Wisemans Ferry Road. I could see Brick still up ahead. He appeared doubled over. He was vomiting again. This race is unrelenting.

Checkpoint 5 and I was resolved to having some decent food. Two slices of toast with jam. A cup of coffee. There was some debate over whether there was chicken in the soup but there was a vegetable option so I got one to go. I met Les, the radio guy, who I had promised to say hello to after all his help the day before. What a great job the volunteers do. Tim was going to pace me from here to checkpoint 6. I welcomed the company to help get me moving again. Brick was long gone by the time we left, with a fresh pacer in Rod.

Renewed by the solid food my strength gradually returned. I remembered this section well from the last year when I pushed the group I was leading hard to stay inside the cut-off. I knew it was a short leg but you could still make up time here. Once off the bitumen Tim urged me to run some. And run we did. We built up good momentum weaving through the thickets. Once onto the downhill sections we caught Brick and Rod and went past them. Brick’s feet were worrying him. Tim assured him he was over the worst of the rough stuff. I remembered differently but was pleased to discover the trail was easy, smooth and largely downhill. Across the river we really poured on the pace. It was hard to believe I was the same runner of a few hours before. In no time we were crossing under the Pacific Freeway and climbing onto the old highway bridge. I was feeling strong and eager to get to the finish.

Kathy had organised a fried egg in toast for me at checkpoint 6. I had my bottles filled with coke, grabbed a cup of soup and headed back onto the trail. After a phone call home, Tim decided to continue on to the finish with me. As we headed along the river Brick and Rod were crossing the bridge. That was the last we saw of them. He would go on to finish an hour behind me. A spectacular red-bellied black snake was curled up in the early morning sun by the track. We stopped to admire him from a distance. We were running well. My feet were a little sore but my legs felt great. We crossed the swing bridge and climbed the rocky trail up, out of the valley. The sun was beating down threatening a hot afternoon. I pushed in front of Tim to set the pace for a while. We really wound it up. On some of the long technical downhills I really let loose. I would stop at the bottom looking back to see an expression of mild panic on Tim’s face. I wasn’t sure if it was fear of falling at this pace or fear of suffering the humiliation of being dropped while pacing. Either way it amused me greatly and made me run the next downhill even harder. Rounding a corner Tamsyn and her pacer were right in front of me. I apologised for having my second wind and we went right by. She ended up finishing an hour and a half behind me, testimony to how much time can be lost over this last section.

The unmanned water drop was a contrast to last year. Here bodies had been strewn all over the ground. Today it was all business. A splash and dash. The heat was building and high up on the moonscape of the sandstone plateau it was tough going. I felt for those still to come through there in the afternoon sun. The rock surface felt like concrete. We were counting down the kilometres now. The long open firetrails and constant climbs sapped our speed but we could smell the finish line. Finally we crossed Patonga Drive and picked up the pace along the singletrack. The road up to the Warrah Lookout seemed way longer than I remembered but finally we were onto the walking track. One last climb and then we could see through the trees to the beach. My heart warmed at that sight. Finally I could enjoy my finish. We had an eye on the time, mindful of getting in under the hour. Down, down, down we went. Still running hard. Finally those final few steps onto the sand. I paused to savour the moment. It is truly one of the most spectacular finishes of any ultras. This was my third time onto the beach but it was no less dramatic. No less emotional. We ran the sand. I still had running legs. I felt great. The waves lapped at the shore. The sun was shining. People were clapping. I grabbed Tim’s hand to thank him for his help. I was glad he got to share my finish. He peeled off to allow me to finish on my own. I ran every last step and collapsed to my knees at the finishing pole to give it a big hug. 31:50.

GLASSHOUSE 100 13-14 September, 2008

2008-11-14T22:10:00.001+11:00

As we approached Avalon Airport it was getting really rough in the plane. I mean really rough, dropping suddenly, long free-falls, and then pitching side to side. Bucking, up and down. Little kids were throwing their arms up and yelling woo-hoo, like they were on a rollercoaster. People were turning green and reaching for the little paper bags in the seat pockets. We flew across the bay, banking steeply and I could see the water chopped up severely. White caps were being whipped into a frenzy. As we made our approach to the runway we passed over the highway. I could see the faces of the drivers in their cars below. We were still pitching and yawing. As we closed on the tarmac we dropped suddenly, frighteningly close to the ground. We were mere feet off the ground and the plane tipped nearly 45* with a wind gust. I waited for the impact. We wobbled and you could hear the engines roar as the pilot accelerated out of there. Deafening roar of the engines. We were pinned back into our seats with the thrust. The plane groaned under the strain. Aborted landing. Suddenly there was near silence. What had just happened? The flight attendant came on and said not to worry. It was routine if the pilot was not happy with the approach to go around and try again. Not happy? That was more than not happy.

Big circle. I could see the dust storms across the paddocks far below. The pilot came on and said we would go down the coast and wait for the weather to settle. Nice view of the beaches. An ominously black storm front was moving across the coast. We could see the tumultuous weather brewing all around us. It all seemed surreal and calm. Back around we came. The bay looked a little calmer. Or was that just hope? Then we dropped again. A long sustained free-fall. My stomach was in my mouth. The flight attendant suggested people get out their sick bags. People were throwing up all over the place. The old lady behind me was digging her nails into the seat. I could hear people praying. Others were sobbing. We approached at a steep angle, apparently to dissipate speed. We wobbled severely and again I could see the drivers in their car as we passed close over the highway. They looked so safe. I felt so vulnerable. I was trying to relax but I gripped the armrests. I could feel the touch down but it was only one wheel and we were still very steep and tilted. As soon as we touched the ground a huge gust lifted our exposed belly and flipped us sideways bringing the wing tip within inches of the ground. We seemed to hang there forever. Roar, zoom, shudder. The plane trembled under the strain. Shaking violently. The engines roared louder, and louder and we hovered above the ground before finding air. This time deathly silence. Nothing said, except for some guy shouting ‘Jesus!’ and the occasional retching. I thought I was OK until I tried to let go of the armrests and realized I was clenched tight and a little clammy. We climbed to clear air but could see the black clouds all around us and dust storms all across the plains below. Finally the pilot came on and said he was going to try to land in Melbourne.

Within minutes we were circling high above Tullamarine Airport. We went into another approach but hit the turbulence again as soon as we descended and we pulled up well before we even got close. Shit. We must be getting low on fuel by now. Everybody was air sick and petrified. Babies were screaming. People were crying. At the last attempt I really thought I was going to die so I was fairly resigned by now. I felt quite calm and detached. Next approach we wobbled perilously again but the pilot held his nerve and we landed. We skewed all over the runway. Tyres squeeled and the plane shook noisily and ground to an anti-climactic halt. Spontaneous applause. Then the pilot said he would check with the company to see if we would refuel and fly back to Avalon. I think not. Waves of relief were palpable through the plane. We couldn't unload, as the wind was too strong for the ladder to be wheeled out. Our plane was shaking and rocking even as we sat on the tarmac. A lot of people won't fly for a long time. Ever seen 200 people kiss the ground?

Funnily enough the events of the weekend at the Glasshouse Mountains paled into insignificance. I had had a great run but my flight home had put it all into perspective. It’s funny the things in an ultra that stick with you. Often it is not the stuff you expect. It might not be the big hard run to the finish line. It might not be setting a PB by over an hour. More often it is the little things. Like winding through the dark pine forest at night and at every turn looking back over my shoulder. There, relentlessly, were the dual lights of Roger Guard. He wore a headlamp and carried a hand torch, his signature glow, tracking me through the night.

The checkpoints punctuate the hours of trail. Like little oases they provide respite, food, water and a chance to see your crew. I made an effort to spend less time at checkpoints this year. Lis kept passing me full bottles, speeding my transitions. It worked but it meant I was really tired by the end. Sometimes I like to have a little sit down. Just a little rest. Maybe I have spent too much time with Tim? I had started out conservatively, chatting with the Bunny and then Brick on the first loop. I had already lost my planned pacer in Tim, him having stopped momentarily at the school.

I passed a few people on the descent of Mt Beerburum, including Hermie who usually repasses me soon after. Not today. I didn’t see him again until the next day. I kept my pace easy but consistent. I grabbed a sandwich from Lis at checkpoint 4 but discovered she had given me two pieces of dry bread. Classic. Sometimes this would cause me some concern but today I was happy just to be out there. I was cruising, no expectations, no splits. I carried handheld bottles but switched to a light pack with bottle holsters later once my arms got tired.

The extra loop at the start meant we arrived at the Powerlines a little later in the day. It was warming up. I passed Dave and Lady Jove with their camera gear on the first big descent. I wasn’t stopping for pleasantries. I love this section and ran it hard passing several 100km runners. And then to my surprise I caught Roger. I have run with Roger many times at GH over 50 and 100 miles but never beaten him. I was a little worried to be passing him so early but I felt good and he clearly doesn’t like the rough stuff. I do.

Checkpoint 8 and my first chance to count some heads. It always helps to have someone to chase to keep you moving. Besides being chased, of course. I kept waiting for Roger to repass me. The first loop 8A I crossed paths with Tugger finishing his loop. Amazing. I ran the loop alone. It was getting hot.

There were people everywhere when I got back to 8. Tim was in a chair. What are you doing here, I asked? He pointed to the ice pack strapped to his ankle. He told me Dog was just in front of me. I passed Innes while he was refueling. I wasn’t worried about Dog. If he faltered I would have him. If not, so be it. I was running my own race. As I rounded the back of loop 8B Dog came into sight. He was struggling but a forced pit stop saw me repassed by Innes and Roger. Back into 11th place. I can live with that.

Back at CP8 I grabbed my ipod. Tim asked if I was injured or bored, knowing I use the music as a distraction. I just needed some motivation. As I left checkpoint 8 for the third and last time after a quick refill, Blue Dog jumped out of his chair and ran up beside me. We chatted for a bit. We made small talk but I soon realised the pace was picking up. Dog doesn’t like to chat. He likes to race. I let him go. I had no intention of match racing him for another 90km. I stopped to walk, letting him disappear up the long gravel road.

This section to 7 seems to go on forever. I was alone in the bush. I got in front of Roger and Innes again going through the short loop at 7. Up into 9th place.

From 7 to 6 I could see the sun getting low and really wanted to get through the rough track at Beerwah before it got dark. I pushed hard. Coming out of 6 and cresting a hill I was presented with 2 runners walking with their heads down. Dog and Nigel. I ran past and asked Dog how he was going? Like you care, he responded. Well, yeah, I said, I do. We’re all in this together. Like I said, Dog doesn’t like small talk on a run. I pushed on, not looking back. And there, walking up the next hill, was Milov. I ran hard to get up alongside him. We chatted. He told me his terribly famous Hambush joke. That should be just terrible. He looked back and saw Dog had stuck with me and was lingering 100 metres back, with gritted teeth. As we topped the hill, I turned and waved him up. If we were running the same pace it might as well be together.

We turned off the road into the rough goat track of the Beerwah loop. This was my terrain and I pulled ahead of the rest of them. Suddenly I was in 6th place. At CP5 I had to grab my light and a jacket. It was getting cool and would be dark before I reached the school. Milov was sitting down and I goaded him out of his chair. We ran out together but his pace on the open road was too hot for me and I stopped to walk. I couldn’t believe how long this section back to the school was. I came out where the old CP1A used to be and headed around to the bush track. I was startled by a small snake on the path. A little sign stuck to a tree read 3km to CP2. What? I thought for sure it was much closer. There were lights in the bush behind me. Roger? Turns out it was the dogged Dog.

The school was a welcome sight. I restocked and visited the loo. Tim told me Milov and Dog were down at the canteen. If I wanted to gap them I needed to get going. So I did. I ran hard to 9. I came up behind a runner I didn’t recognize: Lisa. I figured she was the second placed female. Turns out Rachel had dropped at 7. I thought I was now in 5th place. Then Roger caught me again, his flat line strength too much for me. Bugger. I got a shock when I arrived at checkpoint 9 the first time after running hard from the school, thinking I had finally got ahead of Milov. There, on the back of the chair, was Milov’s cap. But, how? While I was gasping like some goldfish out of water he came up behind me with his characteristic grin. He had snuck out of the school unnoticed and was well ahead of me the whole time. He was clearly proud of his subterfuge. 6th it was then. Up and down Wild Horse Mountain right behind Roger. I crossed with Tugger again, now on his way home. I also crossed with Innes and Lisa on my way back down. Ohhh, no way can I hold them all out.

The loops at 10 were cold dark and lonely. I heard voices and saw lights in the bush but they weren’t runners. There was lots of walking. Lots of navel gazing. I was tired and just wanted to finish. Finally I rounded a bend and Roger was walking just in front of me. That’s it. I dug deep and ran past him and just kept going. I ran into 10 and Tim said what do you want? I didn’t know. He thrust a bottle into my hand and pushed me back into the night. So I just ran back to 9. The race was on now. I was in 5th place and wasn’t letting go of that for anything.

Through 9, up and down Wild Horse. Roger, Lisa and Innes all right behind me. Through 9 again. Into the forest. Still those lights right behind me. Relentless. I finally punched out of the forest and onto the open road. I didn’t want to see those lights again so I ran hard. As hard as you can after 150km. Once across Steve Irwin Way and onto the bike path I knew I was home. One last look back. Darkness. I crossed with Jan and stopped to say hello. It took a bit to get my momentum back so when I crossed with Cookie I didn’t slow down.

The lights of the school broke through the trees. Rounding the last corner I knew this would be my best time so I lifted again. Through the gates, across the line and finally stopped. Spent. 5th place, 21:35. Elated. But totally drained.

Little of this came to mind as I sat in that plane, thinking I was about to die. It just highlighted to me how tenuous life is. One thing it did do was strengthen my resolve to get out and run as many trails as I can. This is a resolution I can live with.

Hardrock 100 Race Report

2008-09-05T01:33:00.004+10:00

HARDROCK 100 ENDURANCE RUN JULY 11-12, 2008 by Andrew Hewat

I peered out from under my flimsy blanket. Through the fog of semi-delirium I could see other runners in a similar state of malaise. I heard Beth’s comforting voice: “Andy, Larry is going on. We are leaving. You have plenty of time. Try and get some more fluids in. Natalie will check on you. Don’t worry, you have plenty of time to recover and still finish.” I doubted that. But I had to believe Beth was right. She was pacing her husband Larry, a Hardrock100 veteran. Beth is an ultra veteran in her own right. I was sorry to see them go but I had to trust her judgement. I didn’t have any choice. I was thoroughly depleted and couldn’t stand up let alone tackle the 6 hours it would take me to get over Handies Peak at 14, 048 feet. Natalie? I had no idea who she was but she became my guardian angel bringing me cups of ginger ale for the next hour.

Nearly 24 hours into my Hardrock adventure I had to dig deep and call upon all the determination I could muster. Curled up in the fetal position on the end of a cot, I was lying in the first aid tent at Grouse Gulch, shivering uncontrollably. Was this how my race would end? Someone poked their head into the tent and announced we have a new course record: Kyle Skaggs had just finished in 23:23! Oh god, he was finished and here I was at just 58 miles. Could I really do this? My heart was heavy. I never contemplated pulling out but feared I was defeated. In this condition I was in real danger of not making it. My mind swirled. Sleep. I really needed sleep but I was freezing cold and my heart was racing. Closing my eyes just sent me into a spinning vortex. My tongue was swollen in my mouth. I was worried, really worried about my physical state. Waves of nausea swept over me. I had been in a bad state before at ultras but never anything like this. The altitude was killing me. I was thoroughly depleted. I peeked out again from under my blanket. It was like a death zone. One guy was buried under a pile of blankets on another cot. Two others were huddled in chairs, faces expressionless. Steve McBee was sitting on the end of my cot staring at the propane heater in a trance. I’ve got to get out of here. If I stay here my race is over.

I had no idea how long I had been there. I kept thinking: this is Hardrock. Hardrock: I’ve been waiting for this for years; I’ve been training so hard for so long; I’ve come half way around the world; I kept thinking of my wife, my kids, my friends, and the whole on-line running community back home in Australia watching the webcast, willing me to go on. I thought of all my new Hardrock friends out there slogging away and imagined sitting through the presentations on Sunday morning and not getting my finishers certificate. This is Hardrock, the pinnacle of trail running. This is what I run for. No, this is what I live for. What was I doing here wallowing on this cot? I could hear runners coming and going outside. That’s it, I have got to get going. I felt terrible but that’s no excuse. If I could walk I could go on. I threw off the blanket and staggered to my feet. I tried to portray an impression of stability and assurity. There was no turning back. I thanked Natalie, cast a glance around and asked if anyone wanted to join me. No takers. No response. Leaving the tent and bracing for the predawn chill, I found my camelbak and informed the officials that number 129 was back from the dead and checking out.

The sun was about to rise on day 2 of my run. I wasn’t done with just yet. Not by a long shot.

Day 1 Silverton to Kamm Traverse (11.5miles, 3hrs 39mins)

The race had started so well. Race Director, Dale Garland sent us on our way from outside the school gym in Silverton at 6am. It was almost surreal milling around at the start. Hardrock entrants are some of the most experienced trail runners on the planet and brushing shoulders with them was rather intimidating. In fact the realisation that I was about to actually start Hardrock was overwhelming. I tried to relax. I had my photo taken in front of the Hardrock and almost missed the start. Amidst cheers and adrenaline all 140 runners quickly streamed out of town and up onto the Shrine Road and out towards Nute’s Shute. There was lots of banter as the gun-runners raced to the front while others were competing to be last in the long line. Kyle Skaggs could be seen racing away from the rest of the field as he turned below the Shrine, overlooking the town. I deliberately settled into a walk to avoid getting swept up by the early pace. After nearly 3 weeks of acclimation and course marking I was as fit as I could be, but my heart was already racing in the thin air above 9,000 feet.

After just over 2 miles we dropped from the Nute Chute trail paralleling high above the highway. Like so many lemmings dropping off the shelf, down the hill, across the road, we sloshed through the marshy bog alongside Mineral Creek to the river crossing. Supporters and crews were lining the road cheering us on. There was no queue at the river crossing, just a steady stream of runners plunging into the icy snow-melt water and grabbing the fixed guide rope to haul themselves across. I followed suit, lunging into the freezing thigh deep current. My feet would be wet now for the next 2 days. The adventure had really begun. I was loving every minute of it.

The first climb of the day was slow and steady following Silverton Bear Creek. There was much conversation as excited runners found their rhythm all around me. I was happy to get caught behind others, forcing me to go slow. The narrow trail up the wooded valley meant that a conga line soon developed. Occasionally an impatient runner would surge past. My plan was to be conservative early. I harboured aspirations of breaking 40 hours but my main focus was just to finish. As the trail climbed higher, the valley opened above the tree-line into grassy meadows dotted with bright yellow wildflowers. It was a truly beautiful day. The kind of day made for running trails. The snow banks we had encountered during trail marking had receded and the going was good. My spirits were high. The views were spectacular. There was nowhere else I would rather be.

The course was easy to follow as runners were spread out as far as the eye could see. We crested the blunt summit and followed Putnam-Lime ridge at 12,600 ft before a steep descent. My plan was to hold back on the downhills early to save my legs for later in the race. Despite this my natural flow took me past many runners on the uneven terrain as we crossed into the basin below. Snow banks framed this wide open grassy basin. Once across we climbed again to Cataract-Porcupine saddle before descending on singletrack and crossing a creek back into trees once again. There were large boggy sections that sucked at your shoes. The trail undulated and I was suddenly alone in the bush. But not for long, as I emerged and forded another creek the first aid station of Kamm Traverse came into view and there were runners everywhere. A quick refill and a bite to eat and I was off again. (3 minutes at KT.)

Kamm Traverse to Chapman Gulch (7.4miles, 2hrs 25mins)

The Kamm Traverse is a deceptive but steady climb up the edge of a steep slope with sheer drops to the valley below. The footing is good and I ate as I climbed. Looking around I could see all the way down the Mineral Creek valley and the early sun glistened on the water creating a magical setting between the steep tree lined mountains. We disappeared back into the trees and wound our way to the river crossing at Porcupine Creek. I opted for the fallen log crossing rather than the icy water and had no trouble negotiating the mess of branches and logs. Then a steep, dusty climb. I passed a runner doubled over sucking in air. I felt for him in this much trouble so early in the race. I knew what the rest of this climb was like. There was still a long way to go. And this was only the second of the twelve major climbs over 12,000 feet that we had to cross. After some steep switchbacks we joined a well formed but muddy trail: Ice Lake Trail. The trees gave way to grassy meadows and the thick skunk cabbage that lined the path. We broke off the main trail and climbed higher eventually traversing a steep scree slope overlooking the spectacular Island Lake, so named because of the little island in the middle of this glacial lake. I was surprised that what had been frozen solid just two weeks ago was now clear aquamarine blue water. This small glacial lake features in many photo albums from Hardrock and encapsulates the true majesty of the alpine scenery. I could see runners ahead of me all the way up to the saddle, some climbing hand over hand as it got steeper and slippery on the loose scree.

Grant-Swamp Pass, 12,920ft. The saddle is a narrow shelf with steep drop-offs on both sides. I picked up a small rock to place ceremoniously on the Joel Zucker memorial cairn and worked my way around to the descent zone. To my amazement, there on the edge of the path was a mountain goat. How superb to encounter such a magnificent wild creature in this environment. I edged out onto the ledge and Scott Hirst, up there photographing runners, told me to get in front of the goat so he could get a picture with the caption: “who is the biggest goat?”. The goat flitted away and I decided it was time to go as well. There were a couple of runners inching down the scree slope backwards on hands and feet. I couldn’t follow for fear of showering them in rocks so I moved over to the rough edge of the slope and took off. This is probably my favourite descent of the whole run and with wild abandon I slipped and slid to the bottom. Momentum carried me down into Swamp Canyon and I glissaded on a couple of snow banks before working across the rocky slope to the trail down the left of the canyon. My heart was pounding in my ears as I sucked thin air, catching my breath again. What a hoot. Sometimes you’ve just got to go with the flow.

Apart from a couple of slippery snow banks it was now good running. Disappearing into the trees the path wound its way down to Swamp Canyon Stream. I splashed through the creek, pausing only to dunk my quads to cool them off after the long descent. I expected the aid station to be here but signs indicated it had been moved down the road a 1/4 mile. It was a short haul along the picturesque aspen lined road to the atmospheric aid station at Chapman Gulch. A definite Mexican theme with margaritas and coronas on offer. I was tempted by the beer but settled for some water and a cheese frajita. First dropbag checkpoint so I rifled through grabbing a few goodies. A handful of corn chips dipped in guacomole were a real treat and I was back onto the road to the well marked turn-off to Oscar’s Pass. (15 minutes at Chapman.)

Chapman to Telluride (8.9miles, 2hrs 52mins)

I was now entering an unfamiliar part of the course. Coming down Swamp Canyon you could see the intimidating switch-backs that ascend Oscar’s Pass in the distance. Now I was climbing those very switchbacks. The afternoon sun was shrouded by cloud but the still air was making me sweat profusely. Up, up I went. I could feel the altitude sucking the energy out me. The road deteriorated until it was just a pile of rocks. I passed a couple of runners who seemed to be struggling. And still more climbing until I was crossing a steep slippery snow bank. Steps had been cut into the snow face with rocks dug in to help give us traction. We had been warned about these crossings at the race briefing. A slip here would be treacherous and I paid due respect. Considering some of the steep narrow cliff top trails we would pass I found the snow banks the most dangerous part of the course. As a southern hemisphere flat-lander I was not used to travelling on steep icy snow and it really slowed me down. Oscar’s Pass climb went on forever. Another dangerous snow bank. Again I looked down and realised that a slip here could end more than just my race. And then finally the summit at 13,432ft, and the views took my mind off any pain from the effort.

There were runners ahead of me and I managed to pass a couple. I was surprised to catch Larry Hall so early. I quipped with him about being old and slow and we ran together for a while. The course dropped rapidly and we crossed snow banks and wound down into Telluride Bear Creek canyon. Cresting a rise on singletrack John Cappis, Co-Course Director was laying like a sniper off the side of the trail amongst the wildflowers with his long lens camera. Fantastic course, I commented as I ran past. What an understatement. I was in trail running heaven.

The trail turned into a kind of road that kept descending until the township of Telluride appeared through the trees on my right. I had pulled ahead of Larry and was running strongly but well within myself. There were lots of day walkers on the trail, some offered encouragement. A playful dog decided he wanted to race me down the trail and ran with me until his owner was out of sight. Finally, I passed a volunteer sitting beside the trail, radioing our numbers ahead and signalling the turnoff. I dropped steeply off the road through the trees and into the aid station to much applause and cheering. I was feeling good. Even better with the warm reception. After a quick trip to the toilets I grabbed some food and a refill and off through the town, following the well marked chalk arrows. (11 minutes at Telluride)

Telluride to Kroger’s Kitchen (Virginius Pass) (5miles, 2hrs 29min)

After leaving the bitumen on the edge of Telluride, the jeep road climbed steeply, switch-backing through the thick conifers. Periodically I glanced back through the trees and could see other runners working their way through the streets. Nestled in the alpine valley, Telluride would look at home on any postcard. Following my mantra of ‘survive the climbs and restrain on the descents’ I soon found myself being caught and passed by others. This was another part of the course I hadn’t seen but knew how it ended, with a steep pitch and traverse up to Virginius Pass and the aid station of Kroger’s Kitchen. It was a short leg but it packed a punch climbing from 8,750ft to 13,100ft in just 5 miles. The trees provided shade until we broke into the alpine meadows. Now the craggy-saw-tooth peaks that represented our next climb came into view. Oh man, we really go over that? Having other runners around me kept me honest but I could feel my energy levels dropping. I needed some food but figured I could wait until I reached Kroger’s Kitchen. Bad idea. The higher we got the colder I got. I found myself traversing a steep snowbank and shivering. Enough. I stopped and pulled on my jacket and grabbed a gu to get me going again.

The last steep scramble to the pass (13,100ft) and I could see the tarp strung across the narrow saddle, flapping in the wind. Unbelievable. The wind seemed to channel up through this narrow opening. The aid crew were great but with limited supplies that were all packed-in I just grabbed a coke and some fruit. I huddled out of the wind but couldn’t escape the cold. I quickly realised I had to get out of there. (7minutes at Kroger’s)

Kroger’s Kitchen to Governors Basin (3.2miles, 46mins)

There was a fixed rope on the steep snow covered pitch down the other side. A volunteer offered me the rope, suggesting the groove worn into the snow by runners glissading was getting thin and exposing dangerous rocks so the rope route would be safer. I will take my chances. The slide was a hoot and I managed to bounce off a couple of rocks and end up with a ton of snow in my shorts. Up and across a short shelf and then another slide with even more chance of hitting rock before slipping and sliding down the last pitch.

Larry had passed me while I was huddled at Krogers but I picked him up again on these descents and we ran shoulder to shoulder down the jeep road. The downhill pounding was relentless and it was a relief to reach the Governors Basin aid station and stop for some food and a refill. (6minutes at Governors)

Governors Basin to Ouray (7.9miles, 1hr 35mins)

After my little energy crash up at Kroger’s Kitchen I was keen to get calories. I shovelled in food and had both bottles filled with Mountain Dew. It was early to hit the caffeine but the sugar would be more than welcome and should get me to the major stop at Ouray. We were now on a wide open jeep road with steep cliffs to our left and a sharp drop down to the raging river below. At one point the rock face above jutted out completely across the road that had been blasted out of the cliff. But this road was nearly all downhill so we settled into a steady run. There were two runners just in front of us and we gradually caught up to the first, veteran Randy Isler. He joined us, matching our pace, eventually running all the way into Ouray with us. As we finally approached the town it was time to leave the road. I was familiar with the new turnoff onto the Ouray Perimeter Trail, having scouted it a couple of times in training. It was a relief to get back onto trail after the pounding of the hard road for the last hour. As we rounded the corner to a short bridge over the canyon the other runner we had been following appeared: another veteran, Rickie Redland. The little metal bridge gives a spectacular view of the raging river snaking through the tight canyon way below. Across the footbridge, I lead the group into the narrow tunnel ducking my head cautiously. The only light filtered in from the other end so I blocked all the light for those behind me. I heard some swearing and cursing as the others stumbled along blindly. The trail then dropped steeply out the other end and I actually grabbed the rail to break my slide. The four of us trotted together through the streets and then ran shoulder to shoulder into the Ouray aid station.

I was very happy to make it here in daylight. Even happier to still be feeling so good. This was a major aid station and I had to prepare for the night. I was quickly ushered to a chair alongside the food tent. Teresa and Bob adopted me and waited on me while I fossicked through my bag, added a layer of clothes and grabbed my lights. There was plenty of food and I was hungry so ate heartily. I asked after some of the others and they told me John Dove had left only ten minutes or so before me. Wow, I expected him to be much further ahead. I grabbed some food to go and left thinking how cool it would be to catch him. After spending so many hours training together on the course leading up to the run it would be good to at least run with him for a while. Refilled and loaded with night gear, my camelbak settled heavily on my back but it had become a part of me, an extension of my being. For the moment, I was carrying my world on my back. I walked the length of Ouray slowly, still eating and digesting and by the time I reached the edge of town my trusty headlamp was on. Bring on the night. (15 minutes at Ouray)

Ouray to Engineers Pass (7.6miles, 4hrs 9mins)

By the time I checked out, John was actually 1/2 an hour ahead of me. My delusional aspirations of catching him were just that. He would go on to finish with a great time of 38:51. I had spent many hours learning the course with him and knew how strong he would finish. In my rush to leave I forgot to tell Larry I was going but I knew he was picking up his wife and pacer, Beth, to accompany him through the night. I was sure he would catch me again before long.

Once clear of the town and onto the trail I was surprised how much climbing and descending there was on this short section up to the Highway crossing. I hadn’t seen this section and had to stop several times to check directions and spot the next marker. At one point I headed for a reflector before it started moving: it was a deer, it’s eyes flashing in my headlight. Finally I heard traffic close by and the climb brought me out onto the highway. Familiar territory again, the long climb up Ouray Bear Creek canyon.

Ouray is the lowest point of the course at 7,870ft and this climb is the longest of the race. (Up to Engineers Pass at 12,910ft.) But I felt strong and worked the series of switch backs over the loose shale steadily. The shale tinkled. Someone had described it as like running on broken china. I could hear voices and see lights above and below me, but I was all alone. Once the trail levelled out along the steep canyon wall I even managed to run some sections. In daylight this is one of the most spectacular parts of the course, with the trail literally cut into the steep canyon wall. In the darkness the roar of the river far below reverberated up the sheer canyon walls. The beam of my headlamp dissolved into the inky blackness of the void below. A trip here would be fatal. But that is Hardrock. Many times during the race I would look down a sheer cliff and realise a slip here would mean certain death. No exaggeration. Definitely not for the faint hearted.

I passed a couple of runners with pacers. The night had brought renewed energy and I wanted to make the most of it. The night also brought solitude. I was remembering how we had seen a bear further up this canyon on the trail marking day. And just then a small cascade of pebbles came tumbling down from the shelf above me, as if disturbed by something. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled. I stopped and turned my light into the darkness above. Nothing. My imagination took over and I started running again. I don’t usually get spooked but back in Australia the nightlife is likely to be small, furry and herbivorous. Not so here.

I caught up to Randy again and we hiked up the trail to the Yellow Jacket Mine site, where we also caught up to Rickie and her pacer. We all stopped to don jackets as the elevation and night were combining to bring down the temperature. I pulled away from the others but could feel the energy gleaned from all the food at Ouray draining away. I knew Engineer was a pack-in aid station but looked forward to any kind of food as I was getting really hungry again. As the lights of Engineer appeared I headed straight for the food table. A young volunteer asked for my bottle. He said he hoped Succeed would be OK as they were out of water. Um, no. I kind of need water. So he drained the ice water out of his cooler to fill my bottle. I wondered what he was going to do for the next 70 runners behind me. The soup was chicken, sorry, can’t eat that. I looked around and there wasn’t anything I could face. I grabbed a handful of dry crusty foccacia-like-bread and made a cup of black tea with sugar. I dunked the bread to make it easier to swallow and decided I needed to get to Grouse where there would be more food choices. (14minutes at Engineers)

Engineers to Grouse Gulch (6.9miles, 3hrs 57mins)

I was above the tree-line and alone in the wide open basin below Engineers Pass. The trail ahead was dotted with slow moving lights. Far above I could see the flashing fixed red light signalling the top of this climb. I was starting to struggle. The constant climbing from Ouray for the last five hours, the cumulative toll of all the climbs of the day, the body clocks natural need for sleep and the altitude were conspiring to wear me down. The narrow track was easy to follow and despite having to cross icy creeks I slowly overhauled the summit. Across a slippery snowbank and I reached the road at the top, 12,910ft. There seemed to be runners all around me. I didn’t linger and started running down the road towards Grouse Gulch. I looked at my Garmin GPS watch and made a mental note of how many miles to go and settled into a steady pace behind other runners.

We passed a fork in the road and continued to our right, down the hill. I barely cast a glance, following the trail of lights in front of me. I passed Rickie’s pacer who was falling behind her and caught up to her just as the guy in front of us came to a stop. He looked around and asked me when I last saw a trail marker. At the top. This is all wrong, he said. The hill is on the wrong side of us. He had run Hardrock before and so had Rickie but no consensus could be reached. I pulled out my map and compass and we crouched over it in the middle of the road, in the middle of the night. Yep, we should be over there he said. That fork at the top, we went the wrong way. My heart sunk. Are you sure? If this is the right road it is only another mile to the aid station. I really wanted to see that aid station. I was tempted to keep going: 1 mile down hill versus 2 or 3 back up then another 3 or 4 down to the checkpoint. They headed back up leaving me. I conceded to follow. I decided to take a toilet break and as I was on the side of the road a pair of eyes peered back at me from the bushes. I finished my business and fairly bolted up the hill after the others!

Almost on cue, my Garmin battery went flat. A bit like me. I trudged up the hill alone and very tired. My race plan was in tatters. I started to withdraw into my survival mode. I didn’t realise that I had stopped drinking and clearly hadn’t had enough to eat for hours now. More lights were coming down this wrong road, further confusing me. We stopped and the maps came out again. Fred Ecks produced a handheld GPS. Yep, this is definitely wrong, he said. I was almost relieved to be sure now that we were heading back to the right course. Larry and Beth appeared, also on this wrong road. Oh Andy, Beth said sympathetically, recognising my dejected, sorry state. I was pleased to see them but sorry that they had followed the misguided procession. We weren’t far from the intersection so once we reached the downhill again I ran with them. Larry had succumbed to an old vision impairment that only struck him at night during ultras: he suffered double vision. This significantly slowed him down so I tried to help light his way as Beth guided him, by running alongside.

My mental state deteriorated rapidly and I found myself leaving them with the sole purpose of just getting to Grouse. The tents and lights came into view and I shuffled in and collapsed into a chair. Someone grabbed my bottles and refilled them while I had some welcome hot potato soup. A crew lady draped a blanket over my legs and I found myself sliding down onto the cold rocky ground and pulling the blanket over me. Next thing I felt several arms lifting me and steering me into the warm tent and onto the cot. My world was closing in rapidly and I needed to lie down.

And so I found myself huddled on a cot in the predawn hours. It could have so easily ended right here. (1hr 7mins at Grouse.)

Day 2 Grouse Gulch to Sherman (13.4miles, 5hrs 48mins)

There were cheers and applause as I shuffled out of the aid station. I noticed a mummy-like body encased in a sleeping bag in the back of a pick-up truck. I recognised Whit deep asleep. He was given a start off the wait-list merely 15 minutes before the race start. I had heard that he had dropped here at Grouse. I shook his feet and asked if he wanted to come with me. He grunted and rolled over back to sleep, done. I found the path off the road and settled into a steady pace. I still had no energy but was resolved that this was as good as it would get. The dawn light revealed Hardrockers spread out across the mountain. I passed a few and eventually crested the final pitch up onto American-Grouse Pass (13,020ft). I found I was stopping to pee way too often. On one of these occasions as a runner (Chad, who apparently is a doctor) went past he commented that that was a good sign. I said it would be except I was going too frequently. I took a salt cap and hoped that would help.

The sun wasn’t reaching into American Basin yet but I could still see runners all the way across to Handies. How intimidating the imposing silhoette of the mountain was. The snow banks were icy and treacherous. I slipped and slid down into the basin and worked my way across toward the next climb. I had retreated within myself, operating on autopilot, focussed on just moving forward. As I approached a couple on an icy snow bank deep in the basin, I was surprised to see it was Larry and Beth. Larry’s poor night vision had really slowed him down. I continued past them, confident that they would catch up as Larry’s eyes improved with the daylight.

As I started the long switchbacks up to Handies I spotted a mountain goat on the trail moving slowly in front of a runner and his pacer. He was in no hurry and just ambled up the trail. With renewed resolve I put my head down and slogged away up Handies peak, 14,048 ft. The higher I got, the sicker I felt. This was the pattern for the rest of my run. Each climb I would get progressively worse towards the summit. I accepted this and pushed through it, hoping to feel better on the descents and in the valleys. I never expected this to be easy. But then I never expected it to be this hard, either.

The summit of Handies seems to take forever to reach. You can see it from afar and then as you approach the contour obscures the flat summit. Drawing deep breathes in a slow steady rhythm I cranked out the final steps knowing that now I had conquered the highest part of the course. As I looked around I could have been on top of the world. Craggy snow-capped mountains unfolded before me all the way to the horizon. I felt like I was on top of the world. There was no lingering. I was now bathed in full sunlight but it was still cold. The goat stood on a big ice cornice at the end of the summit, watching runners descend. I bade him adieu and peeled off down the steep slippery gravel path. I have little fear of steep gravel but with little energy just slid and trotted down as best I could. I caught and passed a few more runners. Normally this would boost my confidence but I was in survival mode. Down in the valley I refilled my bottle from a snow fed stream and stripped off a few layers. The lower I went the better I felt, the more I could run. I repassed Chad and then several others and pulled away.

I love the trail here through the forest below the tree line. Twisting and turning through the conifers on the soft dirt. Despite my nausea I felt at one with the trail and wished it could all feel this good. The running drained my energy and by the time I reached the road at Burrows Park I was walking again. I refilled a bottle from the water drop and used the toilets. The runners I had passed coming down filed past again. From Burrows to Sherman is the longest 3 miles of road on the planet. Jeeps and little 4 wheelers kept streaming past, shrouding us in dust. The morning sun beat down and the flies would settle if you stopped moving. Around each bend I looked for the change in road surface that Charlie had said would signal the trail head. On and on the gravel road wound. I should be running but was weary and settled for a jog/walk routine, repassing some runners.

Finally there were chalk arrows and a rock cairn and we were back on real trail. If you could call it that. We wound steeply down through the trees and ruins of old buildings until we hit the road that lead into the Sherman aid station. I jogged tentatively in and sat down resolutely in a chair. My drop-bag gear was spread neatly before me on a table. My bottles were whisked away and filled. I removed one of my shoes for the first time. I was developing a nasty hotspot on the edge of my right heel. In fact the skin was puckering into a prune-like fold from being wet for 30 odd hours. I cleaned and dried it and put some tape across it as a token gesture. I put on a clean dry sock and hoped it wouldn’t get much worse. Time to go. I stuffed some food into my pockets and was offered an icy-pole to go. The volunteer rattled off the choice of flavours, which included root-beer. Ooh, I’d like one of those. When he returned he was apologetic that all the root-beer had gone. Never mind: raspberry instead, mmmm yum.

Sherman to Pole Creek to Maggies (9.1miles, 4hrs 18min; 8min; 4.3miles, 1hr 58min)

Larry had come into Sherman while I was still there. He was much stronger on the climbs so I headed out, knowing he would catch up again soon. This was all unfamiliar territory. After a series of long switch-backs through the woods I emerged high into the valley. After a river crossing that soaked my sore heel again I climbed steeply only to recross the river just above the waterfall. I remembered the warning that if you slipped here you would likely go over the waterfall. I was tired so concentrated on my foot placement. No problems. Except my heel was getting really painful. Eventually the climbing reached the top of the Continental Divide at Cataract-Pole Divide Pass 12,200ft, climb number eight. The trail crossed more creeks and skirted ponds. Mud. It was unavoidable. The trail was hard to pick up in a few places after crossing the creeks. I remembered chatting with Charlie Thorn, Co-Course Director, as he straightened old marking flags in his front yard in Silverton before a marking day: with a glint in his eye he remarked that he thought Hardrock was getting too easy and he was putting out less markers each year. He and his partner in crime, John Cappis were responsible for this remarkable course and seemed to take pride in maintaining the difficulty factor. I don’t think there is any danger of anyone accusing them of creating a course that is too easy!

In the high open country I could see Larry catching me. I stopped to look for flags and half waited as he closed in quickly. He was moving strongly. I welcomed the chance to have some company, to keep me moving. Beth had stopped at Sherman but would be at Cunningham later that night. Larry and I walked and talked for a while. He stopped and sat down for a snack and I leant on my poles and tried to choke down a breakfast burrito that had gone cold and hard in my pocket. I was getting hungry but food was sticking in my throat. I tried to wash it down, with little success. We set off again and were soon passed by Steve Pero and another runner. Steve looked strong and I envied his energy. We were all walking but some faster than others. I told Larry not to wait for me. He needed to cover as much ground in daylight as he could. He forged ahead and I wallowed in my altitude induced nausea again. On this high open treeless plain I could see for miles. I watched the others disappearing into the distance, almost like I was going backwards. Occasionally I would see a small, brightly coloured Skittle in the mud on the trail. Every time I saw one of these I knew Kelly Korevec was still on course ahead of me as these were his trademark ultra fuel. I wondered how all my other new Hardrock friends were doing. Hopefully better than me.

Pole Creek aid station was like an oasis in the middle of nowhere. Like Kroger’s Kitchen, it is a packed-in aid station. After a short but draining climb up to the aid station perched high on a shelf, the tarp and a table of food were a blessing. Larry left just as I arrived so I had the crew all to myself. They rustled up some miso soup with noodles. This was the best food I had for the whole race. I was so grateful. As I was leaving Jack Jewel came in. We had been trading places for the last few miles and I had passed him a short time before, standing knee deep in a stream, dousing water over his head. He collapsed in the shade of the tarp and looked clearly distressed by the heat. (I was greatly relieved the next morning to see him accepting his finishers certificate.) There were so many ways that Hardrock could defeat you.

The route to Maggies from Pole Creek stays on the high plains with a nasty climb towards the end before plummeting into Maggies Gulch and the aid station. My breathing was getting laboured. Getting enough air in was hard work. My sinuses were clagging up due to the thin dry air and prolonged dehydration. I was tired beyond belief. My senses were dulled by fatigue. I picked my way across the puddles and creeks trying to keep my painful right heel as dry as possible. I approached a wide, shallow creek and stepped tentatively onto a large sloping rock trying to keep my heel out of the water. Smack! My foot slipped right out from under me. I landed face-first on the rock. Icy water poured down my neck, filling my pack. I lay there dazed. I sat up; everything seemed to work. The icy cold water had permeated all my clothes. I felt my face. Feels OK. I clambered up and out, dripping wet. From there on I plunged straight into every creek ignoring my right heel.

Once again, I struggled on the climb to Maggie-Pole pass (12,530ft). Each climb was harder than the last. The accumulative effect was wearing me down. Just three more big climbs and I knew them all. I dreaded the last climb out of Cunningham. I had done it twice and knew it would be brutal after two days and 90 miles. But I had to get there first. The sun was getting low in the sky and I was pushing hard to get as far as I could in daylight. I was counting down the miles. Sometimes it felt like I wasn’t making any progress. Sometimes I wasn’t. Finally I crested the saddle and the rolling valley opened up before me. I broke into a trot and gradually Maggie Gulch aid station came into view. I managed some running over the tussocks and wild-flowers but it was nothing pretty. I was in pure survival mode.

It was cold at the checkpoint so I put my long-sleeve shirt back on while I polished off a cup of mashed potato and then some orange pieces. I chatted briefly with the crew here but was eager to get going. I could see a few runners who had just left and the sun was getting low in the sky. Time to go. (10 minutes at Maggies.)

Maggies Gulch to Cunningham Gulch (6.1miles, 3hrs 2mins)

Knowing there were two climbs in this section played on my mind. Each climb was plunging me deeper into my reserves. Rarely now did I feel free of the nausea. There were runners in front of me to keep me focussed and give me something to chase. If that’s what you can call it. I was moving from one marker to the next. The climb out of Maggies is steep and long. I pushed hard on my poles, driving my self upwards. I passed a couple of runners and as the trail turned steep and nasty towards the peak I dug deep and pushed across the top. The sinking sun motivated me and I ran down the hill and across the open fields. I could see runners far ahead as specks and set about chasing them. The impending darkness was closing in on me physically and mentally. Going into a second night without sleep was a huge weight on my mind. Dig deep and push hard. That’s all I could do. I was finding reserves I never knew I had. The mountains kept asking the questions and I kept fumbling through the answers. No way was I giving up without a fight. I would pass runners who looked like the living dead, stumbling along. I was determined not to end like that. Focus. Focus on the next step. Focus on the next flag. Basic stuff. Stripped down to its rawest elements. This was pure trail running. This is what I came here for.

Once over Buffalo Boy Ridge (13,060ft) I could see the next climb ahead over Green Mountain pass in the early evening light. Down into the basin, across the road and cross country towards the saddle. The next climb over the pass (12,980ft) was short but steep. Once across I ran down the other side. One more big climb. I could do this. I had plenty of time. I just had to keep moving. I passed a couple more runners on the long steady descent through the valley. I was hoping to make the sharp final steep descent into Cunningham before it got really dark. At the top of the long cliff I passed a group of people with at least one runner amongst them. The initial steep shale and gravel caused me to slip and slide but I was in control. I ran the steep switch backs in fading light, aware of the sheer drop if I missed a step. Half way down I ran into Larry sitting by the trail digging through his pack. I stopped to pull out my light as well. I asked how his vision was. Not good. I asked if he wanted me to stay with him. He assured me he would be alright and we could see the aid station below, so I reluctantly pressed on. I slowed in the darkness, realising I had little to gain and much to lose with a fall here. The path was narrow, steep and slippery. I could see the lights of runners climbing the other side of the valley on the final leg. The aid station was broadly lit and was a welcome sight. I used the toilets here before shuffling into the last aid station.

Charlie greeted me. I was impressed to see the Co-course Director working an aid station. He took my bottles and asked what I wanted. Water in one and coke in the other, please. Water and ‘what’? Coke. ‘What?’ Coke? ‘Can you spell that?’ C-O-K-E. ‘Oh coke!’ My aussie accent had defeated him. I had some soup. Beth was there and I reassured her that Larry was close behind me but having trouble with his eyes again. I felt better knowing she was there to pace him in. Theresa was also there, she had been planning to pace John Prohira as she had last year. I asked how he was going. He had dropped at Ouray with gut problems. Bummer. As a Hardrock competitor you felt for every runner who fell short but when it was one of your friends it cut deeper. She asked if I wanted her to pace me in. I wasn’t sure. I hadn’t really considered a pacer. I had never used a pacer before. Then I thought of the cold dark mountain I had to climb and my deteriorating state and Theresa there all dressed up and nowhere to go and it made perfect sense. Yes. Please. Come with me. The longer I stood there the colder I got. I could feel myself starting to shut down. I had to get moving. I finished my soup, rifled through my drop bag and dumped anything I thought I wouldn’t need. I pulled on my overpants for the first time, aware that the cold was draining me. We checked out and someone directed us down to the Cunningham Creek crossing through bamboo flaming torches. (16 minutes at Cunningham, it felt like a lot less.)

Cunningham to Silverton (9.2miles, 4hrs 43mins)

The creek was freezing. Once across we had trouble picking up a marker. There were lights dotting the trail as far up as we could see. The mountain was speckled with bobbing flashlights. The cold of the creek quickly alerted me that I had forgotten to grab a warm shirt. I asked Theresa to wait and I waded back through the icy water and trudged back into the aid station. I found my bag again and put on the extra layer. I was still carrying a good waterproof jacket if it got really nasty up top but at least now I was warm. Through the creek one last time and we began our climb. The wet nylon overpants clung to my legs like cling wrap. I let Teresa go in front which spared me some of the burden of navigation. Not that there was much option once we found the path and started up. The steep, narrow switch-backs seemed to never end. We set a steady pace but I thought I would never get there. We stopped occasionally while I caught my breath. I would lean over my poles and suck in big breathes of the thin, dry, cold night air. The talking caused me to breath harder. But it was a welcome distraction. Once again the altitude brought on the malaise that had plagued me. I peeled off the nylon pants as the climb warmed me up. The narrow trail opened into Dives Basin signalling the approaching summit. I looked up and the stars beckoned but I still couldn’t see the ridge in the darkness. We went from marker to marker until it levelled out and we worked our way across Little Giant Traverse. This seriously steep section offered no fear to me in my totally depleted state. My whole world consisted of a few feet of trail just in front of me. Teresa kept me moving. She chatted when I was up to it and fell silent when the climbing was stealing my breath. Thankyou Teresa. The last climb 12,970 ft was done. I was heading for the finish. Nothing could stop me now.

As we cleared the saddle there were lights dotting the trail below us. I took the lead, hoping I could dig deep and find some downhill running somewhere in my legs. The first part was a steep scree slope and I used my usual controlled slide to scoot across and down. I started to run the narrow track contouring down the valley above Little Giant Mine. The icy snowbanks slowed me down but we were making good time. I knew this section well and could sense the finish within reach. By the time we cleared the singletrack I had used up all the calories I had taken on board at Cunningham and I was down to a walk again. But unlike the previous descents my nausea didn’t pass. I tried the coke but even that sent my stomach into spasms. I tried some orange. No good. OK, looks like we will be walking it in. Every time I tried to run the nausea would overwhelm me and I would stop and lean on my poles, sucking in air. Teresa was patient and ran when I could and walked when I couldn’t. I was grateful for the company. We heard voices and despite the walking managed to still pass people.

The road seemed to go on forever. If I wasn’t familiar with this section I would have been worried we were off the route. Finally, the sharp turn back down to the Arrastra River crossing. Straight through. I managed some jogging along the pipeline track. By the time we reached the forest trail past the beaver ponds I was back down to a walk. A solo runner jogged past and I recognised him later as the guy buried under the blankets at Grouse Aid station. Great recovery. The small creeks were swollen with the days snow melt but nothing would stop me now. Glimpses of lights through the trees showed Silverton was palpably close. I started thinking about my finish and I warned Teresa that I might get a little emotional.

We popped out of the trees onto the ski hill. The lights of the township spread out below us. There was a runner with a pacer just in front of us. With the town now clearly within reach we broke into a run again. I realised it would require a big effort to pass this guy. I didn’t want to spoil his finish by doubling up so we slowed to a walk well behind. As we crossed the bridge into town he was right in front of us so we ran past. It was purely adrenaline now. I reached into my pack and pulled out my Australian flag. I was going to really savour this moment. I threaded the flag onto my trekking pole and it unfurled over my shoulder proudly. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. In the darkness the street lights became a blur as I ran through this timeless tunnel feeling no pain at all. The anticipation was building. The culmination of so much effort. The fulfilment of my long held dream. We turned into Reese Street. I could see the lights of the finish. I could see the gym. I could hear clapping and cheering. Teresa peeled off to the side as I rounded the last corner. My senses were reeling as I held the flag high and ran towards the Hardrock. Tears welled up with the realisation that this was it: I was finishing Hardrock. I collapsed against the rock and kissed the cold hard smooth rock face. I embraced it. I was overcome with emotion. I stood slowly and moved to the side near collapsing. Dale gave me a moment to compose and then hung a medal around my neck. Tears were flowing freely. I was so proud. I hugged him. I grabbed my flag and climbed high onto the rock and held it triumphantly overhead. I had done it. I was finally a Hardrocker. 44hrs34mins.

Obsession. It’s not listed in the essential criteria on the entry application for Hardrock but it should be. Obsession; if you are not obsessed with Hardrock before starting the journey you will be by the end. It gets in your blood and like a disease there is no stopping it. But it doesn’t guarantee you a finish. Nothing does. Hardrock plays no favourites. Determination. That is your best bet and your best friend. Determination and a resolve to cover 100 miles across 12 mountain passes and some of the most spectacular and treacherous scenery you could ever imagine. All this in under 48 hours. They say that when you die your life flashes before your eyes. At Hardrock a lifetime of emotions flashes across your mind in the time it takes to cover the course. Hardrock changed me. I look at things differently. It has changed my perspective. You can’t run Hardrock and not be affected by it. You take a little bit of the mountains home with you. And you leave a little part of yourself out there. It is not just a race. It is an event. It is run and surrounded by amazing people who become part of a big family, the Hardrock community. It engenders a real sense of camaraderie. It is Wild and Tough as the motto claims. But it is more than that. It is an adventure that allows you to explore your very limits and spend a little time immersed in trail running legend. I am grateful to have been granted a chance to participate and humbled by the total experience. Hardrock has been indelibly etched into my psyche. It is something hard to explain. But the name says it all, and no more need be said: Hardrock.

Last post before the race

2008-08-26T23:14:00.000+10:00

July 10 posted this:

Greetings from sunny Silverton.
This place is just buzzing with all the runners in town. With a usual population of 430 adding 140 runners with crew and pacers we are taking over.
Just to update:
Day 12 was technically a rest day being the 4th of July holiday. There was a local 10km funrun that I was talked into entering. After registering at 7am and looking around and seeing NO Hardrock runners I thought I had been stooged. But they turned up in droves and it was good fun. I took it easy and finished just over 48 minutes for a personal worst but enjoyed the trot (winner in 41+). The rest of the day was pretty social.
Day 13 back on the trail with the big section across the highest point at Handies Peak, 14,000ft. This after cresting 13,000ft and dropping into a snow filled basin. The views were amazing. Local favourite, Kyle Skaggs JOGGED up to the peak before turning around and running back down. Look out course record. The day ended with the most horrendous car ride back overa really rough 4WD track with 9 of us squashed into a 5 seater. Say no more!
Day 14: A real rest day. At last. 90km for the week. Time to taper.
Day 16 was the last day of course marking. We drove over to Ouray and up to Governors Basin before hiking up to 13,000+ft Virginius Pass. It was really steep and we had a heap of us up on the narrow pass before taking turns jumping off and sliding back down on the snow. I managed to loose control and spin 360* and filling every crack and crevice, including both ears, with snow. Also managed to butt heads with one of the dogs who was getting excited with all the action. Another couple of glissades and a short jog back to the start. We all headed in to Ouray for a soak in the hot springs before a feed of Mexican. Oh the life.
Day 17 over to Durango for last minute supplies. Then an easy 4mile run.
Day 18 today: Registration.
Day 19 tomorrow: Briefing.
Day 20 Friday (10pm your time) race start.
OMG I can't wait!

Drop bags are nearly all done (6 drops). Have a spare pair of shoes (NB Chilliman) that I will send to half way but probably won't change. Sticking with Montrail Hardrocks, how appropriate (not gortex). There will be online updates of progress through the checkpoints. Regardless of the outcome this has already been the most amazing trip. The camaraderie around this run is unlike anything I have experienced before. So many runners of so many abilities all coming together to prepare for the most amazing race. Thanks for all the support. I look forward to filling you in on the details after I kiss the Hardrock!

2008-08-26T23:12:00.000+10:00

And on Independence Day:

Don't have the capacity to upload any pics from here. One guy has been videoing stretches. They wanted to mount his cam on my head and send me down one of the steep trails. Of course I wouldn't be so silly.

Yep, apparently Scotts off the list. There are people here doing all the prep who are still on the wait list. It is really hard to get into and no favours offered.

So what day is it? Thursday here. So Day 10 must have been marking from Maggies Gulch over to Cunningham Gulch. In fact it had already been marked so it was a free run to familiarise with the course. We drove my car out and left it at the "start" which was actually a 4 mile hike uphill to the actual course. As this is the second last part of the course a few of us decided to also run the last part all the way back into town. Wow, what a day. 19 miles and over 8 hours and 3 passes over 13,000 ft and I was totally bagged. I had a hoot tearing down the tight trail into the Cunningham checkpoint. I looked back across the valley today to see where we had been and realised I was on the edge of a sheer cliff the whole way. Oh well, sometimes ignorance is bliss. On the last extra climb I was doubting my decision to double up, especially when the thunder started. It was a really really long climb. Think Bogong X 4 at 12,000ft. But we crested the last peak and headed for home safely, if a little cold and hungry. Only to find the pizza place was closed!
Day 11 today, was the official marking of the last section that we added yesterday. I had already done some of this on my own but it is great fun doing the marking and meeting all the other runners and hearing the war stories. It was an easy 9 miles ending with a soak in the icy stream to cool the quads.

As you can probably tell I'm having a ball. People are starting to stake their goals and I'm sticking to my conservative aim of to just finish. The more I see of the course the more I respect those who have covered it.

More from Silverton before HR

2008-08-26T23:11:00.000+10:00

And this from July 2:

Thanks for the encouragement all. Sorry Tugger, I don't think I'll be doing a lot of spanking. I'm more likely to cop some myself. However, I did give them a lesson on downhill running today. Don't tell Bro but I ran down the Bear Creek Canyon trail. And how. I won't bore you with the details but this trail was literally chiselled out of the side of a sheer cliff by the miners over a century ago. Spectacular views up and DOWN the canyon. It's generally best not to look down. Then it opens up above the tree line and there are views for miles of craggy snow capped peaks. And we saw a bear! And man can they move. Bro this one wasn't going for a swim. After we reached the saddle at 13,000ft we got to run back to the start at 8,000ft. What took 3 hours to go up took me just over an hour to go down. What a hoot. So that was Day 9. I have been conned into running 2 sections tomorrow so it could be a long day. Yep, only 10 more sleeps. I guess I should think about a taper at some point. But there are so many trails and so little time............

More from Silverton before HR

2008-08-26T23:09:00.001+10:00

This from July 1, 2008

Found an internet cafe over in Durango so thought I would update:
Day 5: Rest day. I needed it. Drove an hour to Ouray (lowest point of the race) to check out the route in and out of town. Walked 3 or 4 miles. Saw a deer in the kids playground. This place would feature on any alpine postcard. Ask UCB who stayed here last year.
Day 6: First day of course marking. We drove a couple of miles out of town to the Mineral Creek crossing that spooked me the other day. There is a rope across it now. (And the course director had been too wary to cross it until the rope was in so I felt better.) We climbed a long way up to Putnam Basin and eventually across the 12,600ft pass and down to the first aid station. This guy RUNS past the 20 of us as we are slogging up the hill. Turns out it is Kyle Skaggs, running with just a bottle in his hand. He is a contender. It was a long slow climb for some of us. Me and another guy turned around a mile before the checkpoint down in the valley and ran back. A solid 8 hour day. When we got back the creek had risen with the days snow melt. It reached my chest and I had trouble holding the rope in the current. They asked me next day how I got across (the other guy is over 6' tall). I said there was some aquaplaning!
Day 7: Drove and car shuttled out to where we had finished the day before. Long climb up into snow country. Lots of post-holing through soft snow. And digging in so you don't slide down the huge snowbanks to the bottom of the mountain. Some spectacular frozen lakes up here. The last climb was on all fours. I was digging my hands into the lose gravel and hanging on. Turned out 4 of us (2 HR veterans) headed too far across the pass then had a tricky traverse. One lady (previous HR finisher) was suffering vertigo so we had to guide her across the ledge. 12,900', straight down both sides. We ate lunch then I had the honour of first over the edge. Holy crap I slid and scooted hundreds of feet before hitting the steep snow bank and sliding further on my arse. What a hoot. Just avoid the rocks! After getting back below the tree line the director let us run the last 2-3 miles ahead to the finish. Some amazing technical single track through the pines. There was only one car at the checkpoint so 10 of us had to run/hike another 3-4 miles up to 11,800' to the rest of the cars. I was stuffed.

That made over 40 hours and 120km of trails for the week.

Day 8: So today is a rest day! No course marking. One of the guys wanted me to go up Handies peak (14,000') today. After running back with him the other day and finding out he has run sub 24hrs at Massanutten I decided to stick to my rest day.
Having a ball.

HR lead up from coolrunning

2008-08-26T23:00:00.002+10:00

I was using Coolrunning for my updates while in Colorado but thought I would paste them here to background my race report which is coming:

Posted June 27, 2008

Thought of describing some of my prep and given I'm not big on blogs figured here would do:
So this is day 4 at Silverton. Think old American western movie. Picture the old saloon and boardwalk with dirt streets and the odd horse and cart. A steam train pulls into town once a day. All nestled in amongst some really spectacular mountains. There is a constant stream of tourists on the train, by the busload and on the classic touring motorbikes. If you've seen that movie where the 4 middle aged guys take off on bikes then you can picture the type.
Day 1 I went for an easy 3 1/2 hour run/hike on the final few miles of the course. Unfortunately my course directions are in reverse to the direction I was travelling and I managed several detours.
Day 2 I headed out on the first few miles in the right direction. The first major creek crossing about 3 miles in pulled me up. It will be roped on race day and with the huge snow melt I decided against risking it on my own (and for Horrie who seems concerned that I need to HTFU: there have been 6 drownings in Colorado rivers this summer already plus a lady who fell from her horse into a creek and hasn't been found. So I treat these conditions with respect. ). So I went back through town and out the other way again. I figure I will be doing that in the dark so the more times the better. 4hrs.
Day 3 Given that the course isn't marked yet I chose to hike up the nearest mountain instead. I didn't quite get to the 13,000 ft peak as I was running low on water and food so headed off track to the nearest peak. I just followed a goat track and came across a herd of elk grazing in an alpine meadow. Climbed a few snow banks and got to 12,200 ft. Sat in the sun and enjoyed the view for a while. Most spectacular scenery. Glissaded down a snow bank and then pounded the quads all the way back down the mountain. 3hrs up and one hour down! Total of 5 hours for the day. Waded into the local creek and let the icy snow melt cool my quads down.
Day 4 Was determined to find the pass that eluded me on day 1. Still managed to miss a few turns on the way up and went explorng but eventually found a runner who has done 5 HRs and he pointed me in the right direction. Still hard to navigate. Some of the trail is little more than animal tracks. Climbed high and got just below the 13,000ft pass when a big snow bank (with huge drop-off) and looming thunder clouds persuaded me it was time to turn back. One minute it was warm sunshine. The next it was snowing. Then sun again. Another pounding descent and thigh soaking to finish my run. 6hrs.

Course marking starts on Saturday so I will get out to see more of the course. Can't wait. Trail runner heaven.

And from July 10, just before the race

2008-08-24T23:22:00.000+10:00

Greetings from sunny Silverton.

This place is just buzzing with all the runners in town. With a usual population of 430 adding 140 runners with crew and pacers we are taking over.

Just to update:

Day 12 was technically a rest day being the 4th of July holiday. There was a local 10km funrun that I was talked into entering. After registering at 7am and looking around and seeing NO Hardrock runners I thought I had been stooged. But they turned up in droves and it was good fun. I took it easy and finished just over 48 minutes for a personal worst but enjoyed the trot (winner in 41+). The rest of the day was pretty social.

Day 13 back on the trail with the big section across the highest point at Handies Peak, 14,000ft. This after cresting 13,000ft and dropping into a snow filled basin. The views were amazing. Local favourite, Kyle Skaggs JOGGED up to the peak before turning around and running back down. Look out course record. The day ended with the most horrendous car ride back overa really rough 4WD track with 9 of us squashed into a 5 seater. Say no more!

Day 14: A real rest day. At last. 90km for the week. Time to taper.

Day 16 was the last day of course marking. We drove over to Ouray and up to Governors Basin before hiking up to 13,000+ft Virginius Pass. It was really steep and we had a heap of us up on the narrow pass before taking turns jumping off and sliding back down on the snow. I managed to loose control and spin 360* and filling every crack and crevice, including both ears, with snow. Also managed to butt heads with one of the dogs who was getting excited with all the action. Another couple of glissades and a short jog back to the start. We all headed in to Ouray for a soak in the hot springs before a feed of Mexican. Oh the life.

Day 17 over to Durango for last minute supplies. Then an easy 4mile run.

Day 18 today: Registration.

Day 19 tomorrow: Briefing.

Day 20 Friday (10pm your time) race start.

OMG I can't wait!

Drop bags are nearly all done (6 drops). Have a spare pair of shoes (NB Chilliman) that I will send to half way but probably won't change. Sticking with Montrail Hardrocks, how appropriate (not gortex). There will be online updates of progress through the checkpoints. Regardless of the outcome this has already been the most amazing trip. The camaraderie around this run is unlike anything I have experienced before. So many runners of so many abilities all coming together to prepare for the most amazing race. Thanks for all the support. I look forward to filling you in on the details after I kiss the Hardrock!

From July 4

2008-08-24T23:21:00.000+10:00

Yep, apparently Scotts off the list. There are people here doing all the prep who are still on the wait list. It is really hard to get into and no favours offered.

So what day is it? Thursday here. So Day 10 must have been marking from Maggies Gulch over to Cunningham Gulch. In fact it had already been marked so it was a free run to familiarise with the course. We drove my car out and left it at the "start" which was actually a 4 mile hike uphill to the actual course. As this is the second last part of the course a few of us decided to also run the last part all the way back into town. Wow, what a day. 19 miles and over 8 hours and 3 passes over 13,000 ft and I was totally bagged. I had a hoot tearing down the tight trail into the Cunningham checkpoint. I looked back across the valley today to see where we had been and realised I was on the edge of a sheer cliff the whole way. Oh well, sometimes ignorance is bliss. On the last extra climb I was doubting my decision to double up, especially when the thunder started. It was a really really long climb. Think Bogong X 4 at 12,000ft. But we crested the last peak and headed for home safely, if a little cold and hungry. Only to find the pizza place was closed!

Day 11 today, was the official marking of the last section that we added yesterday. I had already done some of this on my own but it is great fun doing the marking and meeting all the other runners and hearing the war stories. It was an easy 9 miles ending with a soak in the icy stream to cool the quads.

As you can probably tell I'm having a ball. People are starting to stake their goals and I'm sticking to my conservative aim of to just finish. The more I see of the course the more I respect those who have covered it.

From July 2

2008-08-24T23:15:00.000+10:00

Thanks for the encouragement all. Sorry Tugger, I don't think I'll be doing a lot of spanking. I'm more likely to cop some myself. However, I did give them a lesson on downhill running today. Don't tell Bro but I ran down the Bear Creek Canyon trail. And how. I won't bore you with the details but this trail was literally chiselled out of the side of a sheer cliff by the miners over a century ago. Spectacular views up and DOWN the canyon. It's generally best not to look down. Then it opens up above the tree line and there are views for miles of craggy snow capped peaks. And we saw a bear! And man can they move. Bro this one wasn't going for a swim. After we reached the saddle at 13,000ft we got to run back to the start at 8,000ft. What took 3 hours to go up took me just over an hour to go down. What a hoot. So that was Day 9. I have been conned into running 2 sections tomorrow so it could be a long day. Yep, only 10 more sleeps. I guess I should think about a taper at some point. But there are so many trails and so little time............

Whoops, this is from July 1 on CR

2008-08-24T23:14:00.000+10:00

Found an internet cafe over in Durango so thought I would update:

Day 5: Rest day. I needed it. Drove an hour to Ouray (lowest point of the race) to check out the route in and out of town. Walked 3 or 4 miles. Saw a deer in the kids playground. This place would feature on any alpine postcard. Ask UCB who stayed here last year.

Day 6: First day of course marking. We drove a couple of miles out of town to the Mineral Creek crossing that spooked me the other day. There is a rope across it now. (And the course director had been too wary to cross it until the rope was in so I felt better.) We climbed a long way up to Putnam Basin and eventually across the 12,600ft pass and down to the first aid station. This guy RUNS past the 20 of us as we are slogging up the hill. Turns out it is Kyle Skaggs, running with just a bottle in his hand. He is a contender. It was a long slow climb for some of us. Me and another guy turned around a mile before the checkpoint down in the valley and ran back. A solid 8 hour day. When we got back the creek had risen with the days snow melt. It reached my chest and I had trouble holding the rope in the current. They asked me next day how I got across (the other guy is over 6' tall). I said there was some aquaplaning!

Day 7: Drove and car shuttled out to where we had finished the day before. Long climb up into snow country. Lots of post-holing through soft snow. And digging in so you don't slide down the huge snowbanks to the bottom of the mountain. Some spectacular frozen lakes up here. The last climb was on all fours. I was digging my hands into the lose gravel and hanging on. Turned out 4 of us (2 HR veterans) headed too far across the pass then had a tricky traverse. One lady (previous HR finisher) was suffering vertigo so we had to guide her across the ledge. 12,900', straight down both sides. We ate lunch then I had the honour of first over the edge. Holy crap I slid and scooted hundreds of feet before hitting the steep snow bank and sliding further on my arse. What a hoot. Just avoid the rocks! After getting back below the tree line the director let us run the last 2-3 miles ahead to the finish. Some amazing technical single track through the pines. There was only one car at the checkpoint so 10 of us had to run/hike another 3-4 miles up to 11,800' to the rest of the cars. I was stuffed.

That made over 40 hours and 120km of trails for the week.

Day 8: So today is a rest day! No course marking. One of the guys wanted me to go up Handies peak (14,000') today. After running back with him the other day and finding out he has run sub 24hrs at Massanutten I decided to stick to my rest day.

Having a ball.

And this from July 1 on CR

2008-08-24T23:13:00.000+10:00

Hardrock lead-up from CR

2008-08-24T23:12:00.000+10:00

I was using Coolrunning for my updates while in Colorado but thought I would paste them here to background my race report which is coming:

Thought of describing some of my prep and given I'm not big on blogs figured here would do:

So this is day 4 at Silverton. Think old American western movie. Picture the old saloon and boardwalk with dirt streets and the odd horse and cart. A steam train pulls into town once a day. All nestled in amongst some really spectacular mountains. There is a constant stream of tourists on the train, by the busload and on the classic touring motorbikes. If you've seen that movie where the 4 middle aged guys take off on bikes then you can picture the type.

Day 1 I went for an easy 3 1/2 hour run/hike on the final few miles of the course. Unfortunately my course directions are in reverse to the direction I was travelling and I managed several detours.

Day 2 I headed out on the first few miles in the right direction. The first major creek crossing about 3 miles in pulled me up. It will be roped on race day and with the huge snow melt I decided against risking it on my own (and for Horrie who seems concerned that I need to HTFU: there have been 6 drownings in Colorado rivers this summer already plus a lady who fell from her horse into a creek and hasn't been found. So I treat these conditions with respect. ). So I went back through town and out the other way again. I figure I will be doing that in the dark so the more times the better. 4hrs.

Day 3 Given that the course isn't marked yet I chose to hike up the nearest mountain instead. I didn't quite get to the 13,000 ft peak as I was running low on water and food so headed off track to the nearest peak. I just followed a goat track and came across a herd of elk grazing in an alpine meadow. Climbed a few snow banks and got to 12,200 ft. Sat in the sun and enjoyed the view for a while. Most spectacular scenery. Glissaded down a snow bank and then pounded the quads all the way back down the mountain. 3hrs up and one hour down! Total of 5 hours for the day. Waded into the local creek and let the icy snow melt cool my quads down.

Day 4 Was determined to find the pass that eluded me on day 1. Still managed to miss a few turns on the way up and went explorng but eventually found a runner who has done 5 HRs and he pointed me in the right direction. Still hard to navigate. Some of the trail is little more than animal tracks. Climbed high and got just below the 13,000ft pass when a big snow bank (with huge drop-off) and looming thunder clouds persuaded me it was time to turn back. One minute it was warm sunshine. The next it was snowing. Then sun again. Another pounding descent and thigh soaking to finish my run. 6hrs.

Course marking starts on Saturday so I will get out to see more of the course. Can't wait. Trail runner heaven.

Getting nervous

2008-06-14T21:52:00.003+10:00

I have had a pretty average week. Coming off a 4 day weekend that allowed some extra mileage I have been run down all week. I skipped my planned run on Wednesday opting for a steady 5km walk instead. No stairs. Struggled on the few runs I did have and took a couple of kilos out of my training pack. Woke up yesterday with a really sore lower calf. Damn. Not sure what caused it but my 3:45hr run at the You Yangs yesterday was really painful. Coupled with the low energy I was getting worried. After a really painful massage yesterday ( I think there are teeth marks in Bengt's table) the leg felt fine this morning. Went for a very easy 10km this morning with W and L. Then backed up for an hour in the Ironbark Basin with T. I felt great. I was flying down the hills, getting big air off the ledges and jamming it in the gullies. I ran all the uphills, even with the weighted pack. I can't remember the last time I ran the big hills out of the Basin. It was the confident booster I needed and reassured me that I was just having a bad week. I even missed Spud running in Poor Mans Comrade I have been so focussed.

This time next week and I will be in the air. Only 27 sleeps.

34 more sleeps

2008-06-14T18:50:00.003+10:00

This was a blog update from last weekend but for some reason it never appeared on my blog. I have spoken to my blogmaster and hopefully itis fixed.

I can't believe it is less than 2 weeks now until I fly out. I have
run the Prom100 and TNF100 but have yet to find the time to write reports. Both runs went better than expected. I took an hour off last years time when I won outright. This time I ran a more even and solid pace without the gut busting last 20km. I moved through the field to manage 2nd place behind the new course record run of Chris W. I pulled up with no soreness or ill effects and just had an easy couple of weeks before the next 100. TNF went really well. Finished under 15hours despite loosing about 1/2 an hour to a missed turn near the end. I ran with Brick most the way and felt really strong to the end, actually running up some of the big hill to the Hospital. Again no soreness or injuries. Not even sore toenails that I had upset leading into the Prom and had been worrying me. I had a little fatigue and again took it easy for a couple of weeks. I've been down to Mt Cowley in the Otways and out to the You Yangs to get some hill work in. I've been lugging around my new pack with some weights in it and doing the stairs at work during my tea breaks. I was out the other night after walking the dogs and it pissed down rain. I was out for a couple of hours in the dark (turned my light off) and rain. I was soaked through but felt good. I realised then that I was as ready as I could be. At the turnaround of the 7km climb up Mt Cowley a couple of weeks ago as I started the long downhill trot I had one of those euphoric moments when all was good with the world. It is not just about the race it is definitely also about the journey. There is no doubt that whatever happens in the San Juans I have had a great build up and it has given me an excuse to spend hours doing what I love the most: running out in the bush.

Last years Prom report

2008-04-22T16:07:00.001+10:00

With the Prom 100 on next week I have been going over last years report. I realised I never posted it anywhere so figured why not put it up here? It is long and a fairly personal account but others may find it useful when planning to run this one:

PROM 100 2007

Saturday, April 28. My father's birthday. Well it would have been had he not died 16 years ago. He introduced me to Wilsons Promontory when I was eleven years old. We hiked the trails over several days, camping at places like Refuge Cove and Little Waterloo Bay. We came back the following year in the middle of winter and got washed away in typical Prom weather. Those same trails we now run as part of the Prom 100. For me, a trip to the Prom is always special. This one especially so.

The Prom is like a lightning rod for bad weather. The weather can be horrendous at the Prom. Today would be no different. Rain. Rain like you wouldn't believe. Blinding rain. Coming in horizontal, under the brim of my cap and stinging my eyes. As we started the long trudge up the bitumen to Mt Oberon car park, the wind and rain conspired to force us back down to the start at Tidal River. But the weather shapes the Prom. Not just geographically but metaphysically. You haven't really experienced the Prom if you haven't heard the wind roaring through the trees, if you haven't run the paths as they turn into streams, if you haven't seen the might of the southern ocean crash onto Southpoint, if you haven't been soaked to the skin.

I 'slept' the previous night curled up in the back of my car. My tent kept threatening to blow away in the gale force winds. I had anchored it between the fence and my 4WD but it was still bowing in the wind. To add to the impressive weather display the heavens opened shortly before we lined up to start at 6 am. There were 9 of us in the 100km. A few had nominated the 80 and 60 km and a handful more planned to run the 44 km loop. All up there were 18 of us. I walked most of the hill to the Mt Oberon car park with Brendan. I tried to use his big frame for shelter, to little avail. We couldn't talk, the rain and wind drowned us out. We didn't pause at the car park, passing straight through. We hit the singletrack that leads to Sealer's Cove. Once over the appropriately named Windy Saddle, the trail winds gently downhill eventually turning into duck-boarding on the low-lying swamp flats. Shelter from the wind at last. This made for some great running in the dim predawn light. I left Brendan and picked up the pace.

I passed a couple of runners in this stretch but four of the 100km field were still ahead of me. I knew Tim Cochrane would go out hard seeking redemption for a wrong turn last year that possibly robbed him of first place and a crack at the course record. I didn't expect to see him again. Judging by the footprints in the sand when I finally hit the beach, there were at least 5 or 6 runners ahead of me. The wind was whipping the surf into a frenzy. I was surprised that the normally sheltered east coast was so wild. The usually tranquil bay was awash with foam and waves. I ploughed straight through the shallow creek at the end of the beach. My feet were already soaked. I refilled one handheld bottle and charged off, on the wrong path. Bugger. I know this course well but still took a wrong path. I skipped back through the campground and started the climb across to Refuge Cove. Looking back there was a runner not far behind me, crossing the beach. I didn't know if he was running 44, 60, 80 or 100 km. Either way he was pressing me to keep the pace up. What was I doing? I was supposed to be using this as a solid training run in preparation for Western States. I was not supposed to be racing.

There are some great views as you cross the headlands all down the east coast. Broaching large granite boulders exposes clear vistas up and down the coast. It also meant no shelter from the driving wind and rain. I would pull my thermal balaclava down from under my cap when the wind hit. Then roll it back up once in the shelter of the trees. I was wearing a heavy thermal top, a light polartec skivvy, a bike shirt and a technical running jacket, tights and shorts, the balaclava and a cap to keep the rain out of my eyes. I was carrying emergency overpants, gloves and a heavy gortex jacket. My pack was at least 5 kg with food and gear. This was no stroll in the park. Running the Prom is a serious business. And weather like this is a reminder that mother-nature dictates the terms around here.

Refuge Cove looked nothing like it should, defying it's name. The easterly gale was blasting unabated onto the beach. The waves crashed high up against the trees at the top of the beach. Chilliman was just in front of me and he headed up the first steps towards the toilet block. With no other option, I sloshed on through the swirling surf, filling my shoes with coarse sand and salt water. I trudged through the empty campsite stopping only to refill my bottle. Chilli caught up. He had been looking for some high ground to bypass the beach. Not today. I remember fishing off this beach as a child. Sitting on the granite rocks casting a handline into the azure crystal waters seemed unimaginable today. Just a distant memory. This place was full of memories for me.

As I started the long climb towards Kersops Peak I could see the runner still behind me, clearing the beach. I was feeling good so pushed the climb and ran hard down to Little Waterloo Bay. There was no-one on the long open beach but there were plenty of footprints, mostly runners. Another bottle refill here. A short hop along some timber treads in the sand dunes and the path turned sharply west onto the bisecting trail that leads back to Telegraph Track. I remember my description of this to Brendan: good track, slightly uphill but very runnable, less so the second time around. And run it I did. Sloshing through puddles, the wind at my back. On reaching the saddle I looked back: no-one in sight. Turns out my pursuer was Mal (Maggot) doing the 60km circuit so he had continued down the east coast. But what a view! This place is a treasure of sensory delights.

The familiar granite monoliths sulked on the hillsides as I continued westward. The burnt trees were starkly grey against the green of the lush regenerating bush. The sentinel like black spears of the grasstrees marched off into the distance. Their green skirts contrasting against the charred black stumps at their base. The low cloud and misty rain gave the whole scene a surreal feeling. I was alone. I was alone with the Prom. There was nowhere I would rather be.

Telegraph Track Junction the first time around. Hanging from the sign was a map case with a list of runners so we could record our passing for safety reasons. This runner register was soaked, little more than paper mache and there was no way of telling who had been through. I tried to fish it out of its cover but just laughed at the soggy mess. I stashed a bottle of coke for the return trip and headed off to Halfway Hut, just a couple of hundred metres to the south. Filled both bottles from the tank at the hut, not wanting to refill at Roaring Meg. Then began the long, long climb up the main fire-trail towards the lighthouse. I love running down the other way, as you do in the 60km and as I had done 5 weeks before on a training run with Dave (UCB). He was somewhere behind me today, also doing the 100km. The singletrack turnoff to Roaring Meg was a welcome sight and the gentle downhill grade made for a timely relief. Approaching the campground the thick undergrowth crowded the path and clawed at your clothes, like sharp, wet tentacles. You couldn't see the ground. Just keep pushing forward along the line of least resistance.

Roaring Meg. I ran straight through the campsite and headed down to Southpoint. The track was rough but pretty much all downhill. About halfway, I met Chris and PBig coming back up. Figured they must be at least 45 minutes ahead of me. Soon after I ran into Spoonman (Paul M). I took note of the time and on return figured he was close to 1/2 an hour ahead. Not to worry. I was running my own race and not overly concerned with catching them. I always find touching the wooden plaque marking the southern most tip of the mainland rather emotional. It is like the turning point in some kind of symbolic journey that is my Prom pilgrimage. It was cold and windy. Thoroughly inhospitable but equally spectacular. No photos today. I simply patted the plaque, caste a look around at the seething ocean and headed for cover.

Nearing the top of the climb back to Roaring Meg I crossed paths with Kelvin and Brendan close behind. Back through the campground, on the long bushy climb out, I finally met up with Mal going the opposite direction in the 60. He said I was close to the others. I think his perception was a little generous as I was sure they were well out of my reach. And I was still climbing. We chatted briefly before I scurried off now with vague thoughts of catching someone. After fighting through endless regrowth it was a great relief when I reached open trail that had been recently brush cut. Free space to run, rather than feeling like you were in a car wash.

As I rounded each corner, the lighthouse appeared in the distance. Bleak and isolated it was like some beacon drawing me to it. The trail undulated and seemed to go on forever until finally I was at the track that leads down and then savagely up to the light and the residences. I crossed paths with Spoonie again and he commented that I had lost time. Funny, I thought I was closer now. Perhaps he had underestimated the gap at Southpoint? The long trudge up the cement ramp at the end really stretched the calf muscles out. Two ladies wandered over to tell me I was in fourth place. I said I should be fifth and that they must have missed Tim who would have been well ahead. I refilled both bottles, availed myself of the toilet and headed back. Halfway in just over 7 1/4 hours. If I held pace I could possibly break 15 hrs.

Or so I thought until I began the long climb back up the east coast to the highest point on the course. The cleared path ran out and it was back to blindly forcing your way through brush, now well over head height. And ever climbing. Gradually but endlessly. Always climbing. I watched time haemorrhaging out of my Garmin as my pace slowed. Forget catching anyone. Think just about finishing. Crossing the clearing that marked the summit of this climb I dug deep to regain some momentum. The long, long downhill to Waterloo Bay clawed back some hope that I could still finish this in good time. I started pushing hard downhill. My legs turning over rapidly on the long descent.

There was no-one on the beach at Waterloo. Except a flock of gulls. I ran through them and they scattered with squawks. When I left the beach a couple of hundred metres further north, there was still no-one in sight. I won't see anyone now, I thought. Just finish the 80km in daylight and the last 20k will take care of itself. The rain was back. The wind was behind me. I was back on the crossover track through the middle of the Prom. Cresting the saddle for the second time I could see sunlight piercing the clouds. The late afternoon sun lit up the sand dunes to the west, where I was headed. My shorts were soaking wet and kept sliding down. I stripped them off and ran just in my tights. I was running strongly now. I reached the Telegraph Track Junction and found my coke. It was still cold. No surprise. The bag it was in had been ruffled and I wondered about that until finding out later that some of the other runners had stashed food only to have it pilfered by the native fauna.

I also remember telling Brendan that the next section of track is the longest 3 km of the day. Every time I run it I can't believe how long it takes. But pretty much spot on: just a nudge over 3 km and I was in the Oberon Bay campground. Straight through and onto the beach. I laughed out loud. The tide was way, way out. Dave had been obsessing about crossing the creek to get off this beach in the dark at high water. It had been deep, cold and fast when we passed through here 5 weeks before. The thought of being washed out to sea had been playing on his mind ever since. Today it was ankle deep. I chuckled again. As I ran up the firm flat sand I could see someone moving slowly up the headland track ahead. A runner maybe?

Climbing the headland my knee started to hurt. Mildly at first. It was a foreign pain, which is always a worry. I was close to getting back to camp at 80km and would reassess things there. Meantime I set out to catch this runner. I walked hard up the hill. Day-trippers were starting to appear. I was getting close to Tidal River again. I caught the runner: it was a very slow moving Peter Gray, still going on the 44km loop. Once around the headland it was down onto Little Oberon Bay with its eroded sandstone canyons serving as a beach. After clambering up the loose sand around the big granite boulder at the northern end of the beach there was more uphill around the last headland.

The light was fading fast but I was running again and should make it back in daylight. Norman Beach came into view and the long raking downhill to the beach allowed me to pick up pace. My knee kept twinging, restricting my stride. I hit the soft sand of the beach and slogged along to the exits: Ramp 5, then 4, and finally up Ramp 3. I ran right past the base camp announcing my arrival and over to my car. 11:05. Chilli and Paul A followed me over and offered to help. I planned to stop and have a good feed and freshen up with a change into night gear. That was until they said I was now in third place (Tim only doing 44km after a fall and Chris stopping after 80) and the other two had left only 12 minutes ago. Oh crap. I had to chase them. I grabbed an orange, filled my bottles, donned my light and ran out of there. 6 minutes total stop. Plus12 minutes? I could do that.

Finding the right path onto the footbridge over Tidal River is always tricky (worse in the dark). I headed for the river and ran along it until I hit the bridge. Adrenaline was pushing me along at an unsustainable pace. I hit the Lily Pilly carpark and veered right to start the nature walk loop. A couple of hundred metres in and I encountered a family finishing their walk on the loop in twilight. I asked them if they had seen a couple of runners and they said no. I was perplexed before realising the others must have gone up Mt Bishop first. Bugger, they were on the rougher trail in light, albeit fading. I picked up my pace. I had to make the most of what little daylight was left on this runnable trail. The loop undulates and the hills I would normally walk after 80+kms I was running. And running hard. As the loop doubles back it climbs slightly before dividing and heading up Mt Bishop. Still no sign of them. It was getting really dark now. Lights on.

I started the climb, still trying to run when I could. What seemed like a fair way in I encountered Spoonie coming down. We exchanged pleasantries but I was calculating that I must be close to being in front already. But I was still climbing and he was on the downhill. Further up I crossed PBig looking rather ordinary. I knew then I had his measure. What was I doing? This was supposed to be a training run. It seemed like forever before I started clambering over the rocks signalling I was close to the lookout. It sneaks up, being very low-key and clearly not designed for night access. I didn't linger as I have done in the past.

The descent was fuelled with the thought of getting in front of the others. As the track opened up so did my stride. I was flying along recklessly when my knee locked up. I kicked a rock and catapulted forward skidding on my front and eating dirt. I lay there for some time checking moving parts. Everything seemed to be still attached. I got up. I started off gingerly, but was soon striding out again down the track. I wasn't done with yet. I hit the track junction and swung hard right, heading for the Lily Pilly carpark again. It seemed to take forever. Would I beat them back to the carpark?

Finally I burst out of the bush onto the bitumen, my PT Apex lighting up the open space. At that very moment another light popped out of the bush at the other end of the carpark. Without a thought I switched my light off and simultaneously the other light flicked off. Duelling headlamps at 100 metres! Race on! I was closer to the exit, and knew it. It was all uphill on bitumen but I broke into a sprint (well at least it felt like it). I didn't look back but knew Spoonie would be on my tail. At least I hoped it was Spoonie and not PBig as that would mean I was still chasing Spoonie.

It's 2.8 km from the carpark to Picnic Point carpark. I ran nearly all of it despite the hills. I looked back when I was a fair way down the road. Nothing. But I knew he was there somewhere. I was not giving up my position without a fight. Past the Squeaky Beach turnoff. Then down into Picnic Point carpark. Through the carpark and onto the track to the beach. I switched my light on for the tricky dark sections. No footprints on the sand. Surely I must be in front. On the open beach it was lights out and run hard. At the end of the beach I had to switch my light on to find the exit. I looked back; still no sign. But if his light was out he could still be close.

I tried running up the headland track without light. It was impossible to see where I was going in places. I switched on my small spare light. And held it low. Cresting the headland there was still no-one in sight on the beach. Down onto Squeaky Beach. I was running out of steam. I had been pushing hard and it was taking its toll. Lights out on the beach again until I had to find the track off at the end. Up over the last headland. Once in the dense bush I flicked my big light on. My knee was aching. I was running on empty. But I was so close to home. Hard right onto the out-and-back track to Pillar Point. This is only a short section but it seemed to never end. Finally the boulders that signal the end is near. I remember how sudden and dangerous this unmarked end to the track is. I struggle over the rocks. I stop at the last big boulder. Scary how my bright headlamp beam disappears into the inky blackness of the nothingness of the night sky. I climb down from the rocks. I can't bend my knee. It locks up. I stop and rub it. I turn and head back. On the soft dirt of the trail I run as hard as I can. I expect to see Spoonie at every turn. I pass the junction. Still clear. Home stretch.

The downhill to the footbridge is long and painful. I am draining every last bit out of the tank. Lights are appearing in the distance. Tidal River. I can hear voices and see the footbridge. I pass Brendan crossing the bridge on his way out. I ask him if anyone has finished ahead of me? No. That's it, I am going to win this one. I think of the finish and dig deep. I break into full pace. I am gasping for air, my knee is on fire, my heart is pounding in my throat. I weave through the campsites, tears welling up as I think of my trips to the Prom as a child with my father. I realise that on this, what would have been his birthday, I have given everything and will cross the line first. I round the last bend and cross the finish line. 13:56. Totally spent.

Struggling

2008-03-24T09:23:00.001+11:00

I had planned on a 91km recce of the Great Ocean Walk with Spoonman
this weekend but was clearly not well on Friday so dropped out. But I
still needed a long run so scheduled a trip down the coast for
yesterday. I slept in and had to drag myself out. Ended up just going
to the Ironbark Basin. It was mid morning by the time I hit the track
and it was hotting up. I headed back towards the circus of Bells
Beach Easter Carnival before doubling back through the Basin and onto
Anglesea. After just 1/2 an hour I was struggling. It was hot. I had
no energy. But worse was the lack of any desire to be out there. I
txt'd my coach and he told me I needed an easy week. I think he would
then can me for being soft. But that didn't solve the problem at
hand. Should I just pack it in? I needed kms in my legs. And then I
remembered what I was training for: Hardrock. There will be many dark
moments out there. If I gave up at the first bad patch I might as
well not bother starting. "Suck it up princess," had been another
motivating txt message. So I walked. I jogged when I could. I kept
moving forward. Gradually I found rhythm. I passed my usual
turnaround point and continued through the residential zone. Up this
enormous hill. I found the connecting road and trail I had been
looking for and set off towards Aireys. I was running the uphills as
well now. Big hills. Eventually I turned back and found another trail
back down to the coast. By the time I got back to Addis I was pretty
stuffed. I opted to run up the road to save a couple of kms through
the basin. Up the road. I don't think I have ever run up that hill.
And here I was after 6 hours running up that hill. The late afternoon
sun was tormenting me and I ran from shadow to shadow. I was out of
water when I hit the final km of trail but I still jogged it in.
Totally spent. I realised that today wasn't about training my legs.
It was about training my mind. I needed to get back to the
fundamental hardcore principles of ultra running where the effort is
only 40% physical. I needed to find that 60% mental to get me there.
Maybe not a case of "sucking it up princess" but "toughen up
princess". Easy week this week? I think not.

6mins the new 5mins

2008-03-18T18:28:00.001+11:00

After browsing at my professional 6' photo samples online I noticed
something rather alarming: I have no leg lift. I have succumbed to
the ultra shuffle. Any wonder I am running such crap times. I am not
running but shuffling. I thought about this while out running over
the weekend. I was alone, and setting my own pace. Another alarming
realisation: my average training pace has gone from 5 min/km to
closer to 6 min/km. So just like 50 is the new 40, so to is 6mins the
new 5mins. This doesn't make me feel any better about my time at 6'.
This transformation is no doubt, not helped by running so much with W
who is much slower than me. But it is also probably a direct
consequence of my running style. It is time for me to get out and do
some training drills and, heaven forbid, speedwork! In fact I've been
thinking of trying a little barefoot running on the local golf-
course. But don't tell Tim.