Written by Dan Doherty - http://runningmad-dan.blogspot.fr
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| Award Ceremony - thanks to Simon Ritter for photo |
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| Porthleven |
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| Coming out of LE |
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| Land's End |
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| Zennor with random people |
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| Sand Dune on Coastal Path |
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| Watergate Bay |
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| Coming into finish line at 19 hrs and 31 mins |
Written by Andy Cole - http://www.ajc-runninglate.blogspot.co.uk
Written by Andy Cole - http://www.ajc-runninglate.blogspot.co.uk
Written by Iain Harper - http://iain.so
“After gazing at the sky for some time, I came to the conclusion that such beauty had been reserved for remote and dangerous places, and that nature has good reasons for demanding special sacrifices from those who dare to contemplate it.”
Richard E Byrd (1938)
The build up
One summer, years ago, I was backpacking with friends in the Peak District. We stopped for lunch in the dappled shade of some trees. I sat next to an elderly park volunteer taking a moment to enjoy his sandwiches from a satchel as weatherbeaten as he was.
As we chatted, he mentioned in passing that as a young boy he had taken part in the 1932 Kinder Trespass with his father. Later, as we made our way towards our wild camp, the hot afternoon sun on our backs, I reflected on how much we take for granted. Just a generation and a half ago, our rights and freedoms were far from secure.
Backpacking in the Peak District in sunnier times
I can’t exactly remember when the conversations about the Spine Race began. Having completed the Lakeland 100 in 2013, I was looking for another challenge. By the time I was back at the 2014 Lakeland race volunteering, the Spine deposit had already been paid. I ran the majority of the 2013 Lakeland with Steve Jefferson. We formed a strong bond that got us to the end of one of the most arduous runnings of that brutal course. We both maintain that it was the other person who had the idea to enter the Spine. That probably says more about our mental stubbornness than anything else.
Nevertheless, we found ourselves poring over massive route print outs in the sun-drenched fields of the John Ruskin school. The winter race seemed a very long way away. We also met Emiko, another Lakeland volunteer, who was taking part in the Spine Challenger (a shorter, 100 mile version of the race)
The months from July onwards passed quickly. A one year old son, demanding job and study for a postgraduate degree left little time for training. Everyone I mentioned the race to asked “how do you train for that?”. For a long period of time, I didn’t really have an answer.
I’d prepared for the Lakeland using an ultra marathon training plan of high weekly mileages with regular long, 30 mile plus runs. It was clear that the Spine would require a different approach that wasn’t immediately apparent.
In the end my training plan was mostly dictated by the limited time I had available. I tried to do whatever shorter, higher tempo runs I could during the week (a 6 mile dash up the hill behind my house was a favourite on summer evenings), but focused on trying to do a 30 mile plus run with full Spine kit at least once a fortnight.
Steve and I had also scheduled a couple of training races. We ran the OMM in October. Unfortunately I dropped a horrendous navigational clanger (pretty sure I took a bearing with the map upside down) which resulted in us having a 14 hour first day and camping short of the overnight stop.
The Tour de Helvellyn in December went more smoothly and was a final chance to stretch the legs with full Spine kit. At 42 miles it’s about the same length as some of the Spine legs, with more ascent and descent. We both came away from the TdH feeling reasonably confident.
I originally got into ultra running via “extreme backpacking”. It seemed like a natural extension. During the research of my guide book to the Cape Wrath Trail, I made a couple of mid-winter expeditions to the Northwest Scottish highlands. Both trips featured extreme weather and remote, rough country. This and my other wilderness backpacking experiences meant that I already had most of the kit required for the race. It also meant that it was tried and tested in severe winter conditions. I’ll cover the kit in a separate post, but the right choices and familiarity with your equipment play a big role in race success.
The week before the race was not relaxing. Work was hectic and unrelenting, my young son was going through a not sleeping phase. Two nights before the race, my wife appeared next to me in the early hours with a screaming child and the words “I need your help, he won’t go back to sleep”. As I tried to console him in his cot, I remember feeling an overwhelming burden of the scale of the challenge and feeling devastatingly under prepared.
Grey sheets of rain lashed the narrow country roads as we arrived in Edale. Saying goodbye to my wife Kay and my son Innes, sleeping contentedly in the back of the car, was very hard. My guilt at an ongoing absence in their lives to undertake this selfish activity sat in my gut as I listened to the safety briefing.
Friday night was mainly occupied with registration and kit check. Steve and I saw a few familiar faces (Emiko, our friend from the Lakeland and Damian Hall who had been incredibly generous with pre-race advice). We grabbed a meal at the pub which was packed with Spine racers and Challengers. The warmth and camaraderie was hard to enjoy and I was glad to get a lift to the Youth hostel for an early night.
Spine Race briefing
The next morning we chatted to Pavel Paloncy, last year’s winner, over breakfast and generally faffed about with kit. As we were lugging our bulging drop bags down to reception, word went around that the start of race had been delayed from 0930 until 1130 because of the high winds we could hear whistling around the hostel. By this stage, I just wanted to get going, but apparently the Challengers who had set off earlier were taking a pummelling on top of Kinder Scout and being blown over.
We eventually got a lift up to the race start in the hostel minibuses. My makeshift drop bag (my wife’s massive flowery suitcase) had already been the source of much hilarity. This continued when I offered the lady packing the minibuses a hand. “It’s all right, I’m used to it”, she replied, “we get a lot of teenage girls staying here”. I hoped that Steve had missed this comment. Unfortunately he hadn’t.
There was much nervous milling at the start. As we clustered in the muddy field under the gantry, we must have resembled a strange mass of human jelly beans, the multi coloured hues of our waterproofs sticking out discordantly against the muted winter tones of the hills and the regular flurries of sleet. I didn’t much care about the weather, I was just delighted to get moving after a year of anticipation.
Steve and Iain at the race start
The race
The first few hours of the race had a surreal feel. The sheer amount of pent up nervousness and energy released made the situation hard to comprehend. The wind buffeted us as we contoured and started to climb to Kinder Downfall. As we approached the waterfall it was apparent that the wind was blowing it back up hill and over the path. Some competitors were making fairly lengthy detours to avoid the spray. As it was so early in the race we decided to brave it. We crossed the top of the waterfall, with gusts of wind blowing freezing sheets of spray over us. My gloves got soaked through, but I resisted stopping to put on my mitts as they were stashed in the top of my rucksack. Half an hour later my hands were so cold I was struggling to open a Mars Bar. I shouted to Steve and got him to dig out my mitts. An early and important lesson to have all my gear close to hand.
As we crossed the road at Snake Pass the late afternoon sun bathed the moorland in a weak orange glow and even Bleaklow Head seemed quiet and benign. That soon changed as we descended Clough Edge towards Torside reservoir. The skies turned a foreboding slate grey and a much lengthier sleet blizzard blew in, forcing hoods up and heads down. The resevoir offered some shelter and not for the first time I felt a pang of jealousy at the supported runners that were being met there. Steve and I were running unsupported until the last couple of days when my friend Simon was joining us.
Bleaklow in a rare moment of sunshine
Darkness fell quickly at 5pm as we climbed towards Laddow rocks and we summited Black Hill in darkness. I’d last been here twenty years earlier on a Duke of Edinburgh expedition, and the neatly paved slabs were a welcome addition to the interminable peat bogs of yore. The next section is a bit of a blur. I remember the wind picking up and hail sweeping in with increasing regularity. This section was bleak, dark moorland punctuated by a number of road crossings. In the dark and with the weather closing in around us, I felt a real sense of isolation and foreboding. This definitely was no place to mess around. I remember looking towards the distant glow of red lights on the hill top aerials and taking some solace that we were not completely alone.
At the road crossing before the M62 we were met by one of the Mountain Safety Teams and Steve’s friend Matt who was volunteering for the week. Their smiles and words of encouragement were a godsend after the previous stretch we even got a cup of tea. It was at this point that I started to appreciate just how much we take for granted in life. That solitary cup of tea meant everything at that moment.
We grabbed some food and crossed the motorway. I remember looking down at the cars whipping by below, wondering where their drivers were going. I thought of the warm beds they’d be sleeping in and the families they’d be returning to. As we climbed Blackstone Edge, the weather intensified again. The wind was gusting up towards 80 mph and blowing intense hail directly in our faces. I found out later that several racers had to retire at checkpoint one due to eye injuries caused by the hail.
In 25 years of winter mountain experience, it was as severe as I’ve experienced. The intense hail blizzard continued as we wound around the reservoirs. It was not until Stoodley Pike Monument that we found a corner of shelter to eat some food. There were three other runners huddling at the base of the looming monument and we teamed up with them to the checkpoint.
Hail blizzards on the first night
On the descent, I realised to my horror that I had dropped my GPS somewhere further up the trail. I stopped for a moment in the driving hail, unable to believe my stupidity. I knew straight away there was no point in going back, I’d last used it about half an hour before and it could be anywhere. I got the impression from one or two other competitors that they were slightly sniffy about the use of GPS (despite it being a required kit item). Clearly, you shouldn’t enter the race without being a very competent and experienced navigator. If your GPS packs up or you drop it and you can’t read a map properly, you could easily get into a life threatening situation . That said, when you’re tired and the weather is horrendous, being able to have a piece of technology that cuts down the amount of time spent standing around looking at flapping maps, is a huge benefit.
I pressed on down the hill into Hebden Bridge. One of the two guys we were with had recce’d the route and led the way. With time at a premium before the race, I hadn’t been able to run any of the route. I’d spent hours poring over the maps, but I knew from previous races that there’s no substitute for experience on the ground, especially when you’re cold and tired as we now were. In my head I’d remembered the section beyond the motorway looking relatively short, but it was a good five hours. Even at the monument the first checkpoint felt within reach. Fortunately our better prepared companion warned that it was still well over an hour away.
As it turned out, it took nearer two. The descent to the A6033 was relatively easy and the fierce weather started to subside. Reaching the road, deserted and bathed in the cold orange glow of the street lamps, we took a moment to adjust to the sudden incongruousness of the urban environment. A car full of teenagers sped by hooting and jeering. We climbed a painfully steep road before descending across sodden, slippery fields to a river before another log slog up through dark muddy farmland to a road that took us most of the way to the checkpoint. We passed a couple of well appointed camper vans and I looked enviously at their their windscreens imagining cosy runners tucked up asleep having enjoyed a home cooked dinner.
The descent to checkpoint was the crowning turd on what had been an exceptionally hard first day. A narrow, hideously muddy track descended steeply making staying upright almost impossible. We all fell at least once, muttered curses ringing out through the pitch black woods. Eventually we came out at Hebden Hey, a scout centre. It was 03:30 on Sunday morning and we had covered more than 40 miles in 16 hours.
We were welcomed in the porch by a remarkably cheery bloke who took our details and arranged for our drop bags to be brought over. The porch was an explosion of wet, muddy footwear and moving inside it was even more chaotic. Every spare inch of space was taken up with kit or tired runners. Even moving along the corridors was a challenge. Eventually Steve and I shoe horned ourselves into a space in the toilets and started to sort our gear out.
Our pre-race strategy was to use the checkpoints to sleep and re-group, trying to get at least four hours sleep every time we stopped (the logic being that any less has very little recuperative effect). Many pressed on through the night, but we stuck to our plan. I grabbed a quick shower, deciding to make use of comfort as and when it was available and we scarfed a baked potato with chilli before hunting down a bed. There was very little room at the inn.
The idea of trying to get a decent amount of sleep each night was sound. But even with earplugs and an eye mask I struggled. CP1 & 2 are always going to be the busiest, but I found it difficult to sleep all the way through as the stoppages caused congestion at the normally quieter checkpoints 4 & 5. The options for sleeping are perhaps the biggest race strategy call. Bivvying (tough in bad weather) or camping (extra weight) have their disadvantages too. There’s definitely a psychological benefit of having somewhere warm and dry to sleep.
After trying a few packed dorms, I eventually found a spare bed. It was probably spare for a reason. Light from the corridor shone directly in and the door seemed to open every five minutes as other bed hunters sought a place to rest. I slept fitfully, dark thoughts flowing through my mind. After such a hard day the prospect of going on seemed ridiculous. I can understand why so many people decided to stop. I pushed the thoughts away and repeated my race mantra “I’m only stopping if I physically can’t go a step further or a medical professional advises me not to continue”. It helped, but the prospect of another 228 miles after the day we’d had felt terrifying.
“If you start, don’t give up, or you will be giving up at difficulties all your life.”
Alfred Wainwright, Pennine Way Companion (1968)
I got about an hour of partial rest before giving up and going downstairs to sort out my kit for the long leg ahead. Steve slept a bit longer giving me the chance to have a couple of breakfasts and a few coffees before he appeared. The relentlessly cheery and efficient guy that had met us was still on duty. I asked him whether anyone had handed in a GPS, more in hope than expectation. I doubted anyone braving the hail storms would have noticed a GPS lying in the snow. To my amazement, someone had handed it in. This gave me a huge mental boost. It wasn’t so much that I was relying on it (I’m a reasonable map reader and navigator), it was more the psychological blow of having lost it so stupidly, so early in the race.
In the end we spent about 6 hours at checkpoint one. Given the little sleep I got, this felt like slightly wasted time. As we set off into the first light, I did feel mostly recuperated and the ascent of the hideously muddy gully leading to the checkpoint didn’t seem quite so bad in daylight. The day was blustery and fresh, the rain holding off as we wound through the unremarkable flat section towards Cowling.
Heading for Cowling
Here, it started to rain in earnest. Cold grey streaks forcing up our hoods and casting our eyes down into a muddy trudge across sodden fields. We were glad to reach the pub at Lothersadale. A roaring log burner welcomed us and a jovial landlord had turned the pool room into a makeshift checkpoint for muddy Spiners. Rounds of tea and hot food were ferried in as our kit steamed gently on any available radiator.
Leaving this warm sanctuary was hard. So much so that we stopped at the next pub in East Marton too. A small Sunday evening crowd of locals looked on in bemusement as Steve, myself and Jim Tinnion who we’d teamed up with shed our kit. We explained what we were doing and the landlady made a donation to Steve’s Justgiving page on the spot. They sent us on our way with warm wishes, encouragement and crisps.
Leaving East Marton, we caught up with another runner who stayed with us until Gargrave before peeling off to bivvy at a spot he knew at the train station. Deciding that a stop at the hostelry in Gargrave would constitute a pub crawl, our plan was to press on to checkpoint 1.5 and bivvy near there. The section after Gargrave was horrendous. Field after field of sodden, cow churned bog sapped our spirits and the rain returned to torment us with squally showers. By the time we reached Malham village at around 2am, we had all reached our limits and knew we had to stop.
Still an awful long way to go
We scouted a few bivvy spots before deciding to use the public toilets. Jim slept with a couple of german competitors in the ladies and Steve and I bagged the gents. I drew the short straw and got the urinal end. Utterly exhausted I crawled into my bivvy bag and pretty much passed out. We’d agreed two hours sleep, but it seemed like 10 minutes later when Jim appeared at the door. Steve and I blundered blearily about pulling cold wet kit onto our tired, complaining bodies.
Setting off into the dark and rain again was one of the lowest moments of my race. More dank, boggy fields led to slippery treacherous limestone before we eventually hit a road up to the field centre and checkpoint 1.5. Dawn was starting to break as we stepped into the main room at Malham Field Centre. We were surprised to see a large group of runners trying to sleep with their heads down on the tables.
We were told that the race was being held due to bad weather. Not knowing how long we’d be stopped, I pulled on a dry top and found a fragment of space on a heaving radiator for my sodden jacket. Steve and I quaffed tea and ferreted around for food. Biscuits seemed to be the only fare on offer. Our friend Emiko was fast asleep at one of the tables. After a while she awoke and looked around sleepily. Steve had a brief chat. I think she’d taken a wrong turn at some stage and this had set her back.
In future races, Checkpoint 1.5 could potentially be opened up as a proper checkpoint with sleeping areas. It has these facilities already and Spine racers can be found sprouting out of almost every bush and barn around it. Maybe the 60 mile second “day” is just part of the challenge though.
After about an hour we were released from the checkpoint and made our way around the tarn, framed in the bleak winter dawn. As we started our ascent of Fountains Fell the wind harried us from all sides, but I enjoyed the climb. It kept me warm and the gradient never got so steep it became uncomfortable exertion. My reality for hours on end was a tiny cleft between the top of my balaclava and my hood. A small letterbox out into the world beyond.
Descending to a road there were times the wind would support our entire pack and body weight. We were met by a Mountain Safety Team who confirmed what we’d heard at the Malham checkpoint. Pen Y Ghent was off limits due to the high winds and we were diverted at lower level to Horton in Ribblesdale. I can’t honestly remember feeling disappointed. I was tired, hungry and sick of the relentless wind. I simply accepted the instructions.
The cafe in Horton was packed with Spiners and support teams. It was warm and steamy with drying kit. After doing damage to a huge mug of tea and a bacon sandwich, I chatted briefly to a producer from the BBC who was making a documentary about the race. I was quite glad she didn’t try to interview me as I was not feeling very coherent.
Setting off from Horton, Hawes felt within reach. It’s a psychologically important milestone for the Spine Race. Passing through Hawes means that you’re into the race proper. Our plan was to try to sleep at the checkpoint even though there were no beds. We knew that the majority of Challengers would have finished and the noise levels from applause and general hubbub would have subsided.
Our spirits lifted when one of Steve’s friends met us at Cam End with a flask of coffee and walked with us for a few miles. A beautiful magenta sunset picked out the rugged folds of Pen Y Ghent as we climbed over Dodd Fell. Arriving into Hawes and the checkpoint was disorientating. The bright lights of the busy hall were hard to adjust to and I sat for ten minutes on a chair drinking tea and trying to take it all in.
Sunset after Pen Y Ghent
The volunteers at Hawes, and throughout the race, were superb. Nothing was too much trouble and my drop bag was brought over to me along with more tea and food. I fumbled around in my drop bag for ages, my brain unable to deal with the logistical task of gathering what I needed for the next leg. Another of Steve’s friends arrived with fish and chips. The hardship of the race seems to enhance your enjoyment of otherwise everyday pleasures. I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed a chip quite as much. Having eaten, I decided to sleep before any more kit faffing and found a cupboard off the main room and laid out my Thermarest. I was asleep almost instantly.
I slept fitfully for three hours. Stumbling back into the main hall, Steve was still sound asleep. I also noticed some fairly severe chafing in my arse region that I sheepishly had checked out and taped up by one of the medics (well above and beyond the call of duty). At this point I inexplicably started to become concerned about the cut off times for the race. We’d deliberately taken a fairly steady pace so far. I collared one of the volunteers and together we tried to work out the cut offs, factoring in the complications of the late start and enforced stop. I’m not sure I was much clearer by the end of it, both our sleep deprived brains refusing to do simple arithmetic.
The upshot was that as we prepared to leave I got Steve worried and he set off up Great Shunner Fell like a stabbed rat. It was all I could do to keep his torchlight in view in the distance and I quickly realised that we’d lost touch with Jim Tinnion who had been with us for the previous day or so. I didn’t have too much time to worry about it as I was too busy trying to stay with Steve. When we caught up with Jim later in the race he said he’d stopped to sort out a bit of kit and the next minute we were gone. Sorry, Jim.
As we topped Great Shunner and started to descend, I finally caught up with Steve. It was now snowing heavily and after a short scramble over icy slabs we put on our spikes for the first time and made the long descent to Thwaite. At Thwaite we passed a couple of the safety team checking runners through and caught up with another small group of runners. Not long after leaving Thwaite one of the runners decided to return, saying he wasn’t feeling well.
The GPS came in handy for the next section of fields before we started the long ascent over the boggy black moor towards Tan Hill Inn. Steve was off in front again, obviously having a good patch and heading for the place where, in a strange coincidence, he had got married. I dug in and slogged up the hill. Another blizzard blew in reducing visibility to almost nil as I approached the pub.
Prior to the race I’d voraciously read blogs from previous competitors, desperate to gain insight into the race. Several had mentioned The Tan Hill Inn as a warm oasis open all hours during the Spine. As I leaned into the driving snow my mind conjured images of warm fires and the possibility of hot food. When I eventually arrived at about 5am the reality was different. The pub was shut tight and we crowded into a cramped porch to get out of the snow. I tried to eat a bit, but started to get cold quickly. We set off at a real lick, stomping through the sloshy bogs that led down to a road. OS maps describe an area near here as simply “The Bog”, and they’re not wrong.
The skies cleared and a cold, sharp dawn broke over the blue brown moors as we crossed the busy A67 road. Continuing over Cotherstone Moor to Balderhead reservoir the sun came out and bathed us in a milky winter glow for the first time since the start of the race. The next section to Middleton in Teasdale is a bit of a blur, my mind was already thinking of the beds and food there.
A cold start to the day
We arrived at the checkpoint in the early afternoon. We got a warm welcome from Matt, Steve’s mate from the Mountain Safety Team and goofed around in the car park posing for photos. It felt great to be at the first “proper” Spine checkpoint, about half way through the race. There was lots of space in the checkpoint and we lounged about chatting to Matt. Steve was starving and frustrated that the only food he could get hold of was scrambled eggs. Clearly we’d timed our arrival badly. Matt offered us his room which had an en suite shower. I dived in and spent ages luxuriating in the hot flow of water. Having slept much less well than Steve during the race to date, I was spark out for five hours and generating some serious snores (apparently). Although we stayed at the checkpoint for nearly seven hours in total, it didn’t feel like time wasted.
Arsing about at CP3
As we were leaving the checkpoint we were told by the Mountain Safety Team that we had missed the cut off for the route via High Cup Nick, Dufton and Cross Fell. Retrospectively, part of me regrets the fact that we didn’t go via these beautiful and rugged parts. At the time I can honestly say that a shorter and easier alternative didn’t bother me in the slightest.
We set off in darkness across the fields that apron the River Tees, the path obscured by ankle deep snow. During the preceding days we’d often talked about how strange it was having the GPS tracker taped to our shoulders. We knew that there were a bunch of people at home staring at the orange dots on the screen as they progressed across the map. At that moment we must have hit an area of cellular coverage because my phone started pinging with texts. One was from a work colleague with a screenshot of the tracker telling me off for going wrong! I looked at the GPS and realised she was right. It was a surreal moment in the middle of the night, alone, but at the same time connected with the outside world. There will be those who would see this as a negative, but I drew solace from knowing that people were thinking about me as I went through this journey.
We passed Low and High Force, the river in spate because of the recent rainfall, before crossing and beginning the detour via Cow Green reservoir. It was here that things started to unravel. Looking back, I put it down to the fact that I was mentally prepared for the tougher route and let my guard down when I looked at the alternative route. It felt straightforward with good tracks most of the way. As we passed another Mountain Safety Team in their bus at the reservoir, the wind whipped up and it started to blizzard again. The climb around Herdship Fell was cold and monotonous. I stopped eating enough and at one stage experimented with trying to sleep whilst walking.
The descent to Garrigill was long, icy and unenjoyable. As we passed through Garrigill there were lots of rabbits hopping about on the village green. Neither Steve nor I mentioned them at the time for fear that we were hallucinating. It was only much later we admitted we’d both seen them. The remainder of the path to Alston is a tired, hungry, exhausted blur. We arrived at the checkpoint in “rag order” as Steve put it. Our drop bags had been held up by the weather, so we sat down to a plate of tuna pasta at 4am. Our bags soon turned up, and as we were faffing with kit the checkpoint staff told us the race was likely to be paused because of an incoming weather system that would bring 100mph winds. I found a bed in one of the dorms and flaked out.
I was woken a few hours later by someone talking loudly on a mobile phone from the adjoining bunk. She was complaining that she’d been forced to withdraw from the race because she’d called out mountain rescue (I later found out that she’d got into difficulty on Cross Fell in the night). I stared at her in exhausted disbelief. All around me tired runners were trying to sleep and she was ranting on the phone obliviously. Everyone else I met on the race was amazingly kind and gracious. There is always an exception.
Heading downstairs for breakfast, the wind was rattling the lintels of the windows. Outside, I could see a bleak brown and white landscape. It made me feel cold just looking at it. The checkpoint was now a very different place. It had become a marshalling point for most runners still in the race. Every available space was crammed with a person or their kit. It was claustrophobic after the days of solitude we’d had so far.
Bleak view from Alston CP4
The race was paused until 6am the following morning giving me almost 24 hours of rest. This had positives and negatives. Having bagged a bunk I was able to catch up on some sleep. However, the break made the damage to my body more apparent. My feet swelled up and my arse chaffing hadn’t got any better. By the end of the enforced stop cabin fever was setting in and I couldn’t face another conversation about race strategy or equipment choice. Food was running short and runners were roaming the checkpoint like hungry jackals.
It was with great relief that we set off again, heading for Greenhead. Another psychological boost was that for the rest of the race we would be supported. Being unsupported definitely adds an extra level of challenge. You can only fit so much in a drop bag and having a friendly face and a warm drink along the way makes a big difference.
The trail started out innocuously enough over rolling fields and was unremarkable all the way to Greenhead. Here we caught up with Simon, our support, and stopped briefly at the Youth Hostel mini checkpoint which was large and well equipped. Simon grabbed some teas from the nearby cafe (doing a roaring trade in January with racers and support crews – these guys must love the race). After a short stop we climbed up and onto Hadrian’s Wall.
I’d been particularly looking forward to this section. The ancient green sward of turf that stretched out in front of us belied the history of the place. There was a special feeling looking down over jutting stone abutments, sharing the same view as those here thousands of year before. The Spine Race induced its own sense of timelessness. Day merged into night into day. The only constants were moving forward and surviving the landscape and weather. Here, the huge span of history made the experience even more other worldly.
Hadrian’s Wall
We didn’t have long to ruminate. Half way along the wall, the next weather front swept in and driving rain and wind chased us along the remainder of the wall and down into the horrendous bogs between Greenly and Broomlee Lough. We made the mistake of pressing on and not eating enough, knowing that we had a warm car waiting for us at the next road junction.
When we arrived there, I was again in “rag order” and starting to border on hypothermia. Si had the heating on full blast and had raided a local shop of all of its pork products. Gorging on scratchings and Pepperami, I warmed up. I’d have been in real trouble if he hadn’t been there. The rest of the trail to Bellingham was a dark, boggy soul destroying mess and we arrived at the checkpoint in low spirits just after midnight. I didn’t want to go a step further. Finishing seemed an impossibility.
A port in a storm
“When we walk to the edge of all the light we have and take the step into the darkness of the unknown, we must believe that one of two things will happen. There will be something solid for us to stand on, or we will be taught to fly.”
Patrick Overton
Normally, the race is strung out by Bellingham, but the enforced stop had bunched everyone up and it felt like the checkpoint staff were struggling to cope. By this stage they were probably as exhausted as we were. The sleeping hall was cold and I crammed a few cereal bars down rather than walking out and over the car park to the food area. I hunkered down under a table and tried to get some sleep. This was the last checkpoint before the long push to the finish.
When I woke up a few short hours later, I didn’t feel any better. Everything hurt and it seemed to take double the time to assemble my kit. Fortunately the day outside was a beautiful; cold, but with bright, dazzling sunshine. The first section was extensively flag stoned. Although this made the route obvious, a thick rime of ice made the slabs treacherous.
Sunrise, final day
Simon met us with tea at a road crossing and before long we hit the forested section to Byrness. Apart from a few boggy sections, the paths here were mainly wide clear forest trails. We walked for a while with a couple (I’m really sorry, I can’t recall your names). I do remember talking about particle physics and the Large Hadron Collider, about which I know surprisingly little. We were met outside Byrness by another of Steve’s entourage, and again it gave us a real lift to see a friendly face. The hostel at Byrness had been transformed into a mini checkpoint and was serving hot food. I arrived feeling shoddy but left with a spring in my step and sausages and mash in my stomach.
Approaching Byrness
From Byrness it’s 27 miles to the finish. It feels within your grasp, but as several racers have found out it’s far from in the bag. The sun was almost hot on our backs as we slogged up to Windy Crag and the ridge that we would follow home. On the ridge, the ground under foot was frozen hard saving us from the bogs and allowing fast progress. We delayed putting on head torches for as long as possible to enjoy every last gasp of the wispy pink sunset. As soon as the sun dropped below the horizon, the temperature plummeted and the wind picked up. Any thoughts of an easy stretch to the finish were gone.
Mentally I’d divided the ridge into three sections, with the two mountain refuge huts as beacons along the way. At the first hut we found Matt and his Mountain Safety Teams. We ate a bit of food and left quickly as we got cold. I badly underestimated the time it would take us to reach the second hut. Feeling reasonably good as I left hut one, I started to feel cold and tired after an hour and had to force myself to eat. I ran out of water and everything around us was frozen.
Steve had arrived at the Alston checkpoint with his micro spikes, and left without them, despite them being securely stowed in his bag. How he negotiated the icy ridge I’ll never know. The descent to hut two was steep and hazardous. There were three other runners at the hut. One decided he needed to sleep for a few hours to recuperate. Another made hot chocolate using the only liquid he had with him, orange water. An interesting concoction worthy of the final night of the race.
As we left, I made a serious navigational error, getting disorientated and leading us in the wrong direction. Fortunately Matt and the MST were sweeping along the ridge behind us and shouted us back. We continued up the Schil, the last climb of the race. The icy descent provided no respite for Steve. For the first time in the race he started to lose his sense of humour. The amount of extra energy needed to stay upright without micro spikes must have been phenomenal. I stopped at the first unfrozen rivulet and gulped water like a desert wanderer arriving at an oasis.
In a semi-delirious state I thought I was having a heart attack on the final climb into Kirk Yetholm. I remember trying to calculate whether an aneurysm would prevent me from crawling the last mile to the Border Inn. That’s what this race does to you. As we entered the town, the incongruently bright sodium street lamps lit up the village green and we could see a small clump of figures beckoning us over to the pub. We broke into a pained lope and had our photographs taken touching the wall. We’d finished The Spine, Britain’s most brutal race.
“We had done this thing we had set out to do, and instead of becoming larger because of the experience, we became smaller, more humble, more aware of how little we know: about the world in general, about ourselves specifically.”
Richard Benyo, The Death Valley 300
Done
The aftermath
Although the physical toll on my body was less than after tough 100 milers like the Lakeland, my feet swelled massively and I had a couple of blisters. I’d developed ulcers on my tongue and sores on my fingers towards the end of the race. It seemed as though my the body had been prioritising its core over the extremities. Focusing on what was essential for survival. That’s just how far we pushed it. To finish I had to delve more deeply into my mental and physical reserves than I have ever done before.
Recovery
A deep fatigue took several weeks to pass. My wife said “I’m not expecting you back until the end of January” and she was right. I felt like a shell, a hollowed out husk without life or energy. I was banished to the spare room due to heavy night time sweating as my body repaired itself. The weight fell off me and looking in the mirror I struggled to recognise the gaunt face staring back.
Going back to work, the back slaps and congratulations were welcome but somehow hollow. I felt alone with my experience. No one could understand what I’d been through, the things I’d experienced, the amount I’d endured.
Reading the blogs that emerged after the race made me feel better. The band of crazy brothers were starting to speak at last. It was good to hear from that infinitesimally small group of people that would countenance such an undertaking.
The scale of the race makes it very hard to process mentally. Breaking the race down into micro-sections avoids thinking about the vast overall scale. This can short circuit even the toughest of minds. But little by little I started to piece the race back together. Hour by hour, step by step it became a coherent whole. A body of memory that will abide with me for the rest of my life. An experience so much more precious than any material possession.
I started to write those thoughts down. Eventually they turned into this blog, a way for me to codify the experience so it doesn’t slip away. For we were there that wild week in January when the Pennine Way turned 50. And we did something that only a few others will ever do and that only we will ever fully understand.
“What they had done, what they had seen, heard, felt, feared – the places, the sounds, the colours, the cold, the darkness, the emptiness, the bleakness, the beauty. ‘Til they died, this stream of memory would set them apart, if imperceptibly to anyone but themselves, from everyone else. For they had crossed the mountains…“
Bernard DeVoto, The Course of Empire (1952)
Written by Mimi Anderson - http://marvellousmimi.com
It has been over a week since I returned from my trip to India – what an adventure I had!
Myself and 12 other people had been invited to participate in the new 161km race hosted by the Gujarat Commission of Tourism to promote the event to the trail running community. Unfortunately only 10 of use made it out to India as two of the invited runners didn’t manage to get their visas sorted in time.
Run the Rann took place for the first time last year with a 21km, 42km and 101km race, this year they added the 161km race to the event and completely changed the course for the 101km.
The races take place on the “island” of Khadir Bet in the Gujurat Province of western India, very close to the Pakistan boarder. All the competitors would start together then the 101km & 161km runners would head out to the North side which is the wildest and most remote side of the island. The North side has almost never been explored, except by Border Security Forces and our race explorers when selecting the route. Very few other human beings have been there, except some local shepherds from time to time.
As I have said many times before running for me is all about the adventure, location and of course the distance and this race covered all three and more!
After a long flight, “unusual” accommodation in Ahmedabad, a tuktuk ride to the coach where we would spend 10 plus hours getting to know one another before arriving safely at our destination.
On arrival at camp we were greeting by the most spectacular sight of our accommodation – pure Indian Magic.
As well as having fantastic accommodation the food was delicious which surprised me as I’m not a curry fan! I did however learn quite quickly that if they said “not spicy” it was still hot so I avoided anything that was “very spicy!”
After a bit of sightseeing we were all wondering when registration was going to take place – everyone kept giving us different times. The 10 international runners were taken on the back of motor bikes to where CP6 would be on the race to take a look at the views which were quite spectacular.
This was my first ride on the back of a motor bike so you can imagine I was a touch nervous (not the best place in the world to be taken for a ride!!) however my driver on the way there was OK, only occasionally going very fast in order to overtake people (I just closed my eyes)
The return trip didn’t go quite as smoothly. Firstly I had a different driver (someone obviously didn’t like theirs) and really didn’t feel very safe as he sped up, slowed down, skidded then sped up again. Everyone else had gone on a head when we stopped as one of his friends carrying Josh had a puncture – after about 10 minutes Josh and I thought it was would be a good idea to start walking towards the road as it was beginning to get dark. We were instantly called back and told to both get on the back of my bike. The driver then lost control of the bike going off the dirt track towards the undergrowth – I thought at this point we were going to fall off but he managed to get back on track again with us telling him to slow down.
Thankfully another bike appeared to rescue Josh and we both headed towards the road where we met up with the RD who asked if I was OK. At that point I was OK, he headed off down the road leaving Josh and myself remaining at a stand still. Eventually my bike followed the RD’s leaving Josh behind (this I wasn’t happy about) but about 10 minutes later he overtook me so all was well.
On the RD’s insistence my guy gave me his headscarf to wrap round my shoulders as I was freezing and by this stage it was dark. Suddenly I was alone, no lights or bikes in sight and my driver stopped at a shack on the side of the road to buy some petrol. I waited and waited feeling not frightened but extremely vulnerable. THEN my driver vomited not once, or twice but three times – I have never seen so much fluid come out of one body. Was he in any fit state to be driving a bike? Finally we arrived back in camp a good 10/15 minutes after everyone else and I felt really cross that I had been put in such a potentially dangerous situation.
Finally it was time to register – non of our compulsory kit was checked which I found extremely odd considering the remoteness of the areas we were racing, at the same time we were given our GPS units. Again, considering the only way to navigate both the 101km & 161km race I think we were all rather surprised to receive them so late. Thankfully mine worked and had the route install, others weren’t so lucky and had to go back to have them redone, not something you want to worry about hours before the race begins. Luckily the units were fairly easy to use so after a quick lesson from Linda and Damion I headed off to bed.
We were allowed one drop bag which was to be at CPAB8, I packed extra running kit (just in case I got a funny tummy or something) more food, batteries etc, with everything ready I went to bed hoping that the headache I had had since arriving in India would disappear (it wasn’t dehydration as I was well hydrated).
Up early, dressed & headed off for breakfast. I really didn’t want anything spicy for breakfast so opted for my own breakfast in the tent.
We were ready!
L to R: Josh, Linda Doke, Mimi Anderson, Tarmo Vannas, Justin Bowyer, Damian Stoy, Tom Caughlan
As I stood on the start line I really didn’t feel as though I was ready to run 161km but knew whatever happened I was going to give it all I had as I didn’t want to start 2015 with another DNF.
The first section of the race was on the salt flats which was fantastic as it gave me time to get my chest warmed up and breathing in control. Considering how minutes before I really wasn’t feeling prepared to run I was feeling great and looking forward to the challenge ahead.
Just before the first CP I felt a very sharp pain on the bottom of my foot but paid no attention to it as it seemed to disappear but once passed the CP I could feel a sharp pain every so often so found a nice rock to sit on and took my trainer off to discover the BIGGEST thorn that had gone right through my Hokas and my insoles. Luckily for me Abhishek who was also doing the 161km race stopped to see if he could help. We remained together until CPAB6.
I believe at the 3rd CP the 21km runners went off in one direction, marathon runners in another and the 101km & 161km runners were to turn left. We were told that someone would be there to point us in the right direction. After filling my water bottles Abhishek and I went left.
We continued following the red flags and I kept saying that we weren’t on course but was told we were going the right way – perhaps my GPS was playing tricks. We both then realised that we had gone the wrong way so we had to go cross country to get back on track again.
Back on course we got to CP4 where I filled up my bottles and told A that I would go on ahead as I knew he would catch me up (lots of rocks!!!) Here we were joined by Amar who was doing the 101km race. Two turned into three.
Everything so far was good, I felt I had the hang of my GPS and was becoming steadily better at rock hopping (there’s hope for me yet) The thorns however was a different story they grew like weeds. Flat ones on the ground that caught your shoelaces, large bushes that intertwined with other thorn bushes, they were everywhere. Sometimes we could go round them but most of the time there was no option but to go straight through – they attached themselves to everything, legs, arms, pack, hair, hat nothing was left “unthorned” My skin was ripped to shreds. We had been warned that there would be lots of thorns but I didn’t quite expect them in this quantity. On occasion we found ourselves going through thick clumps – but no time to worry this was a race and when racing you just get on with it as it’s the only way to the finish.
The temperature had by now heated up nicely to 36 degrees. Remarkably I seemed to be coping with the heat quite well considering it had been minus 3 in the UK when we left.
We were heading towards CP5 and according the GPS we were less than a km away so of course you drink more water as you know you can refill – WRONG! There was no CP5, we looked and look, blew our whistles shouted but nothing, you can imagine we felt a bit dishearten at this stage, we had virtually no water between us (I had a very small amount in my camelbak which was quickly used up). We kept going thinking that perhaps the next CP might be closer than it said on the GPS unit (11km away as far as I can remember)
At this point I was slightly ahead of the boys (not by much) when the GPS told us that we need to head down. I looked and looked but couldn’t find a way down so I sat on the ledge waiting for the boys to catch up with me.
After a lot of searching we eventually found what we thought was the way down the cliff – I wasn’t feeling very happy at this stage but knew I had no choice but to go down. I followed Abhishek down, it was difficult holding onto the rocks as they were sandstone so if you held on too tightly (like I did) they broke off. After about 10 minutes we decided that this was most definitely not the way down so now I had to get back up this vertical slop – SHIT If I hadn’t been with the boys I wouldn’t have been able to get up on my own so was very relieved when we got back to the top.
A bit further on we discovered another way down that lead to some sort of a path down into thorn bushes, so down we went (slowly) and continued bushwacking our way down until eventually reaching the salt flats at the bottom. (I also found a porcupine quill, I didn’t realise they inhabited this area of India)
By now we had been without water for sometime, even eating was difficult as my mouth was so dry but we remained moving forward and upbeat. Amar and I were slightly ahead of Abhishek who I think was struggling so we made sure we kept him in our sights. Further along the salt flats before heading back up the rocks we spotted a man asleep onto of a large rock. Amar woke him up asking if he had any water, thankfully he ran down towards us clutching a large bag full of water – PHEW. I have never been so pleased to see a 500ml bottle of water in my life. The first one was consumed very quickly and the other one was put in my bottle. We were very conscious that we didn’t want to take too much as there were people behind us who would need it.
We continued our journey up towards CPAB6 where the boys ate some food. I didn’t fancy any rice so filled up my bottles, ate some of my food and then Amar and I headed off knowing the Abhishek would catch us up.
After a steep climb up to the top of the ridge we continued running for a couple of km’s (by now we had our head torches on) and I knew that there was another decent coming up. Eventually we arrived at the point where the GPS said we should be going down – we looked and looked and to be quite honest all I could see was a drop off a cliff edge; I had a good head torch but try as I might I just couldn’t see a safe way down; to me going down in the dark seemed to be very unsafe so we opted to stay on the top and follow parallel to the track. (I did think from something that had been said when we had gone there on the motor bikes that we would come back onto the ridge again – I was wrong) .
Having been badly dehydrated you can imagine my delight when I needed a pee, however I was rather shocked to see that my pee was bright red, I had blood in my urine. I remember once someone saying that if they ever had blood in their urine in a race they would stop, so I decided that I would continue to the next CP where I might find someone medical and could ask the question.
The two of us kept going thinking that we could find our way down safely to CPAB7 but unfortunately there was no way down. We had been followed by another competitor and his pacer who called for help. I was feeling really hacked off at this stage, with myself and I’m sure Amar was feeling the same. We decided that we were going to continue and make our way to a CP. So off we went heading in the right direction but it was taking forever. Amar then sat down for a rest, I continued to stand as I just wanted to keep going when I spotted a couple of head torches and people shouting. I flashed my torch and shouted back. It turned out it was the boarder patrol and a guy from the race who had been sent out to find the guys we had left behind – so with all of us in tow we were taken to the Boarder guards Station where they gave us water and told us that in the morning they we could continue our journey.
I told Amar that I wanted to continue now, not wait until morning so he translated and all of us were directed all 4 to CPB9 (A CP for the 101km race) I kept trying to tell them I wanted to go to CPAB7 as I was running the 161km race but this appeared to go on deaf ears. We walked down a sandy track for approx 2km to CPB9 where we had been told we could easily get to CPAB8 (I still wanted to go to AB7 NOT 8)
On arrival at the CP I was told that I had to go back to where I had come from in order to get to CP7 – good grief, what a waste of time that was!!!
Feeling determined I turned around (followed by the other two doing the 161km) and headed back towards the Boarder Guards station, went past and headed to CPAB7 where we managed to catch them as they were closing up. They had been told that we were going straight to the next CP but I didn’t want to miss any out so was really pleased.
Now I had time to make up. I went off on my own running along the salt flats towards CPAB8 feeling fantastic.
The guys at this CP were fantastic. They were standing round a large fire which looked lovely. My water bottles were filled and they also gave me a lovely cold coke – heaven. After a couple of sips I headed off down the road towards the next CP.
I arrived at the next CP feeling marvellous, filled my water bottles but unfortunately there was no food so continue on my way. I was making up good time and although the temperature had dropped I felt very comfortable with my arm warmers on.
Onwards and upwards to the next CP where I bumped into Abhishek and Francoise who were having a rest, after a quick chat I was off again.
Coming up to the next CP I was hallucinating quite badly. I saw a lady dressed in a black burka and weirdly she followed me. Sounds silly but this was quite a creepy moment why would someone be out here in the middle of nowhere. The figure continued to follow me but suddenly the head became larger looking more like a metal helmet but still had the opening for the eyes. At this point I turned my back on the metal helmet as it was giving me the willies and when I turned round I discovered it was the check point! ha, the joy of ultra running.
I continued through the night on my own, quite happy and didn’t seem to go too badly wrong although the salt flats seemed to have rocks on them – they were in fact just softer & darker areas of salt. My pee was still bright red but I was drinking enough and had no pain anywhere so continued. To be quite honest each time I arrived at a CP no one understood me (which was fine and understandable) so trying to explain that I wanted to talk to someone about blood in my urine seemed an impossible task, it was easier to continue.
Between 4-6am I had to work hard to keep my eyes open and the hallucinations continued, I had to keep telling myself that they weren’t real.
The following day I went behind a building to discover Walter fiddling around with his GPS as it had stopped working. Between us we got it working again and continued together. It was lovely having some company and someone to chat to.
Walter and I were running well together and at one point we were followed by a dog for over 10km and each time we came to a CP she would be well ahead of us!
Running along the salt flats towards a CP we spotted the RD walking towards us, I had a massive trip and landed on the salt – a bit of an ouch moment as it was rather like falling on gravel but my bravery was rewarded with a can of coke – marvellous!
We were told that the next CP was only 4km away and should be stocked with hot and salty food so I opted not to eat anything, sadly however at the next CP 5.5km away there was virtually no food and certainly no hot food so we shared an orange, filled our water and continued.
Walter was suffering at this point, he was overcome with tiredness and feeling hot. He kept telling me to go on without him but I was worried about leaving him when he was feeling the way he was, plus he was struggling with heat – not a good time to be left alone. I put water on my buff which he put round his neck that I hope helped him.
At the next CP Walter said that he needed a 15 minute sleep and that I should go on without him. I was happier to leave him now as it was cooling down plus he was safe at a check point, so once my bottles were filled I headed off on my own.
It was on this next section that my GPS played tricks on me and had me going in all different directions. It was getting dark and was worrying that I was lost, I wasn’t even sure if I was heading in the right direction. At this point I stopped and gave myself a good talking too. Relax, stay calm and look at your GPS properly. After a couple of minutes I worked out which way to go and was heading in the right direction.
Darkness had now fallen on the 2nd night and I was alone once more. Quite relaxed to be on my own as at that particular moment I knew where I was!!!
Quite happy in my own little torchlight world I spotted another head torch ahead of me and could hear voices – it was too early for the CP but must be someone to do with the race (why else would people be out in the middle of nowhere?) I continued towards them to be greeted by a Security guy and a friend. They told me to sit down – so I did, then I asked for some water and they replied “no water, water at CP” REALLY! So I got up and started to head towards the CP but bless the boys they took me to the check point – how marvellous was that, no need to look at my GPS (although I did have a little look just to check they were taking me in the right direction!)
I thanked them profusely (I could have actually give them a big hug for helping me, but I don’t think they would have liked that!) and I headed off into the night.
As I neared the next CP my GPS stopped working so I was wondering around trying to find where I should be. On my right was a house with three guys standing outside who were shouting at me and kept saying “come here” well, if you are in the middle of nowhere and don’t think you are anywhere near a CP you don’t “come here” so I shouted back “no thank you” they kept shouting and I kept thinking I really wish my GPS would tell me where I was, eventually I turned it off and on again. As I was doing this one of the guys from the house came out and said “CP here” – PHEW, but I wish they had said that in the first place (according to my GPS I wasn’t anywhere near the CP.)
Onwards and upward. I got chased and growled at by a pack of dogs which was rather scary so I turned round, faced them, made myself look really big and growled back – seemed to work!
The last section to the final CP I felt as though I was going round in circles. At this point I was back on the route that the marathon runners had taken so in theory it should have been easy to follow red ribbons. Although there were a few ribbons a lot of them seemed to have disappeared. Once again I was convinced I was going in the wrong direction so had to keep checking my GPS, then had doubts, was the finish the white flag on the map or the checkered flag? Sounds easy now but at the time it took ages to work out that the checkered flag was always the finish (silly me!)
Suddenly I was confronted with a wall or thorns – there was no way forward or left but I knew I was heading in the right direction. I spotted a possible route under the trees to my right that I took ducking under the thorns until eventually coming out on a dried river bed. I could hear guys on motor bikes just ahead of me with torches and I wondered whether I should hide, go in another direction so they didn’t see me or just keep going in the same direction. I opted for the third option. Getting out of the dried river bed I was greeted by a guy saying “Mimi” – Oh thank goodness they knew me! marvellous.
As I had taken me longer than they thought it should have done for me to get to them from the last CP they were worried about me and had started searching for me. I could have hugged them both (very nearly did); it was wonderful being guided into the final check point of the race. Now I only had about 4km to go.
As I ran through the narrow streets towards the finish I began talking to myself thanking my family for their support and for everyone who knew me for their love – Perhaps the salt flats had turned me mad but I arrived safely into the finish in an appalling time of 39 plus hours (actually very nearly 40 hrs) but I had finished.
At no point was I going to give up but there were points during the race that I felt “uncomfortable”. During my running career I have raced in some extremely inhospitable locations so I’m definitely not afraid to put myself out there for an adventure – I actually consider myself to be a relatively “brave” person.
This race has the potential to be a great event but first there are some serious things that need to be sorted and put in place in order to make it safe. I’m delighted that I was lucky enough to have taken part in the inaugural race and it certainly was an adventure but there are adventures and adventures!
Thank you to my fellow runners, it was an absolute joy to meet you and spend time in a beautiful location, I hope we meet again.
I was relieved that by Monday mid-morning there was no blood in my Urine.
Happy Training
Written by James Belton
For about 5 years now I’ve found myself drawn towards races of various types and varying difficulties. These started as a result of a drunken agreement with one of my former managers that we should enter “one of those obstacle course races”. Having had a few of them under my belt, and having enjoyed the confused look on people’s faces when you tell them what you’re doing, I seemed to get the biggest satisfaction from only entering events that got the response “why the hell would you do that?”. This is how I came to enter my first ultra. That ultra was Ring O’ Fire.
I have to admit that Ring O’ Fire was actually the suggestion of one of my oldest friends. We both grew up in North Wales and had always spent a lot of time on Anglesey. I think that we may have naively thought that we’d have some kind of home advantage having spent 18 years living there. Up until this point I had never run further than a marathon (Snowdonia) and this was to be my undoing.
Day 1.
9 months after my initial registration, having run a few other shorter races as prep and having recovered from a pulled calf that required 6 weeks off, I arrived at a windy field in Holyhead to register, along with the other 104 runners that started. After a quick pep talk from the organisers we were off……then we were at a standstill again due to a bottleneck where 105 of us all tried to get through the same small gate at the end of the start field. After a steady run along the coastal path we were into Holyhead and on the roads. It was at this point that I met another runner called Lee. We ran together for quite a while and had a bit of a chat. I think this is where my inexperience was starting to show. I eventually realised that I was running the first day of my first ultra at only a bit slower than my 10k pace, but I felt good so carried on. Eventually we were off the roads and back onto the trails. Large parts of the day have now blurred together. I have memories of running through holiday parks, spotting seals in the sea, some incredible climbs and fun descents as well as checkpoints stocked with cocktail sausages and peanut butter sandwiches. One thing that struck me was how long it seemed to take to feel like you’d made any progress. We’d been running for hours and could still see where we’d started if we looked over our shoulder. The same happened as we were approaching the Wylfa power station. The coastal path cuts in and out around every bay and as a result the huge building that looks like it’s just ahead of you actually takes nearly 2 more hours to reach. The area around the power station was possibly the most physically draining part of the day as the beaches are all pebble. A lot of people seemed to struggle a bit along this stretch and nobody seemed able to find a line that was any easier. An hour or so later I was running alone along the cliffs and hit a real high point. The views were amazing, my legs felt good and I was really enjoying the whole experience.
Gradually the sun was starting to go down and the weather was getting wet (as it tends to do occasionally in North Wales). I love running in the rain so this wasn’t a problem for me. The next challenge would be to find the final checkpoint. Although navigating along the coastal path is really simple the final checkpoint before the overnight accommodation was actually just a book in a plastic tub. To prove you’d gone via the checkpoint you were instructed to tear out the page with your race number on. Luckily I found the book easily and continued along, wet piece of paper in hand, to the sports hall in Amlwch where I was greeted by my parents with home cooked pizza. Day 1 had taken me 7hrs and 43 mins.
Having refuelled it was time to try and get some rest. The sports hall was absolutely packed full of tired runners trying to find somewhere to camp out for the night. I opted for the wall near the door, as there was a set of 5 a side goal posts there, and this also gave me somewhere to hang my wet kit. After having a chat with my neighbours for the night (one of whom had gaffa taped his trainers up to keep the rain out) I attempted to get some sleep. In total I think I may have slept for 20 minutes or so. The combination of snoring, late arrivals and lights made it quite tricky.
Day 2.
All too soon it was time to get up and get ready for the long day. I got up before my alarm as I was awake anyway. I attempted to stand up……ouch. My legs were killing me. Luckily I had camped out about 12ft from the massage table and the sports massage ladies had just arrived. I quickly hobbled over to get booked in. A few minutes later I was sat on the table getting my sore legs loosened up. It made a world of difference and I suddenly felt good to go.
As we all gathered outside we received another pep talk and weather update for the day, along with details of how many people had made it to day 2 of the event. Then we set off into the morning gloom and were led back to the coastal path. This is where I met a lady called Arry who was on her 3rd attempt at the race. Arry had previously completed a run around the entire perimeter of Wales….that’s 1027 miles!!!! Hats off to her. Before too long I had found my stride and was running fairly comfortably. I fell in with a group of other runners and would spend the rest of my time at Ring O’ Fire with them. I think this was both a good and a bad thing. It was great to have the company and support of other runners but also made me realise the importance of making sure you are running at the pace that best suits you. At times it felt like I was pushing my legs too hard….at times it felt like there was too much walking.
By the time we got to the first checkpoint my legs were starting to feel tight again. Having stopped to take on some water I turned to set off and felt a pang in my IT band. I carried on and thought nothing of it. I soon realised this was going to be an ongoing thing as every time we stopped to open a gate, take on water, wait for somebody to catch up or have a bit of a walk, it tightened up again. The first few steps after starting to run again would be agony and then it would disappear.
Progress on day 2 was slow. Our small group hiked a lot of it rather than running it. The cut off times are actually quite generous and we were still well within them. Somewhere between Red Wharf Bay and Penmon point we lost the first member of our group (Tim) who had been struggling for a while. It was at this point that I was at my lowest. My legs were killing me and we weren’t even half way. On the descent into the checkpoint at Penmon Point I had decided to retire once we got there. Something in my head stopped me and after having a bit of food and water we carried on up the hill. I was in quite a dark place mentally at that point so called my girlfriend for a bit of a pep talk and then caught up with the 2 remaining members of our group. Unfortunately the pain in my left leg just kept getting worse and I was now struggling to bend my knee at all. This was the point that I realised it was probably more sensible to retire than risk causing any long term damage. I pulled out about 1km from the checkpoint at Beaumaris (half way) having been running/hobbling for just under 10 hours. In total I had run 105km over the two days.
Having had a chance to sleep and attempt to recover slightly I was starting to get post-race blues already. My knee wouldn’t bend and my left ankle had ballooned but decided to make the journey back over to Anglesey to see everyone finish. Back in Holyhead the sun was shining. As each runner came down off the cliffs and along to the finish line they were greeted by Johnny Cash’s “Ring of fire”. Of the 105 people that had started only 55 people crossed the finish line. A tough race but an amazing weekend surrounded by great people. I’m already in training to have another crack at it in 2016.
Written by Ryan Shaw
Before the Race
I left the UK on Wednesday 4th February, from London Heathrow. This flight took me to Vancouver, Canada, where I had to transfer to another internal fight to Whitehorse, which is where the race would start. It was a long journey, getting to the hotel at 1:30am, on the morning of Thursday 5th February.
Fortunately, Thursday was a free day for me, so it gave me a chance to get settled, sort my kit out, and meet a few of the other competitors. I also took the opportunity to purchase some final equipment, including snow shoes and Neos Overboots, the latter of which would come to be a sensible and needed purchase. The real pre-race work would start on Friday with the start of the cold weather course that was mandatory for me to attend, due to my lack of cold weather race experience.
PRE-RACE COURSE
The course on Friday was a mix of classroom work and practical. We all introduced ourselves and were given the opportunity to air any of our concerns,
fears and general questions about the race. The biggest unknown for me, and I wasn't alone, was the potential for overflow (water from many possible sources that spilled over an already frozen surface), and it it could or should be negotiated. The last thing I wanted would be to get wet. We were talked through the route and what the potential conditions may be like. We already knew, based on the weather forecast, that the first couple of days were going to be very hard. This would lead to a slightly modified practical part of the course as the organiser wanted to be as sure as he could be, that we could look after ourselves and stay warm in such conditions. Other topics covered included the psychology aspect of such a race and dealing with sleep deprivation, exhaustion and nutrition. I would learn my own hard lessons later in the race around all 3 topics. Finally, the medical side was covered,
potential issues that may arise, and what could be done to help resolve or treat them. Frostbite was a clear concern to the organiser, particularly with the forecast ahead of us. With the temperatures being talked about, frostbite could occur within minutes on any exposed skin. It would be instant if you spilled stove fuel on your skin. The practical part of the course started after dark. As a group, we walked about 4 or 5 miles down the trail, into a wooded area. This is where we would be tested, to prove we could use our stove, light a wood fire and understand and use our sleeping system. The modified part of this course was to spend at least 30 minutes within our sleeping system, to be comfortable with it and to get a feel for how warm, or not, we would be. This would become essential during our first 2 nights of the race and enable us to plan ahead if we became too cold once the race had
started. What would you do?
The results of the course were mixed. Some people had trouble starting fires, some had sleeping systems not up to standard, and they would be forced to "upgrade" to something that would be warmer and safer. Unfortunately, one competitor, unknowingly, got some fuel on his finger because of a hole in their glove. This would need to be evaluated by the medical team prior to the race as, the rules stated, that under no circumstances, would someone with frostbite be able to continue. The reason for this is that once a frostbitten body part is unfrozen, things get much, much worse if it refreezes and, of course, there is no guarantee that it couldn't be protected in that way.
Robert, the race organiser, summarised what he saw during the practical, the following morning. He's very open, honest and basically said things needed to improve. If we took as long as some people had done in lighting fires etc. when it was an emergency situation, we would die. Those kinds of messages were drummed into us. It certainly brought me down to earth with a bump and added an extra level of anxiety and nervousness. This was real, and the conditions we were about to literally walk into, could kill you if you didn't think or react quickly enough.
SATURDAY AND THE PRE-RACE DINNER
Saturday morning saw the start of the Yukon Quest. This is the 1000 mile dog sled race from Whitehorse, Canada, to Fairbanks, Alaska. This race lays the trail that we would be following on Sunday for our race. I wandered down to the start to see the dogs off. They were much smaller than I expected; not the traditional husky breed that I has expected.
Saturday evening saw all the athletes gather together as a group for a final dinner before the race started on Sunday morning. More information was shared about the current trail conditions. The trail itself varies every year, based on the conditions of the rivers and lakes in particular, and how well frozen they are in places. This could lead to differences in distance too in some cases. Yet again, it was pressed home at how difficult the conditions were going to be for the first 2 days. If it got too cold at night, it could become mandatory to stay with someone. That would enable you to help each other should any trouble ensue. It's a discussion that didn't help reduce the nervousness or anxiety at all; I honestly think I was scared about what could lay ahead. After all, this was still an environment I had no real active experience within, other than the previous days training course. Let's just get on with it!
Whitehorse to Rivendell
RACE MORNING PREPARATION
The morning of Sunday 8th February. This was the day that the last 8 or 9 months of preparation had been all about; the start of the Yukon Arctic Ultra, 2015. I was in the 300 mile race, along with 17 other athletes. 85 athletes would start in total, covering different distances; in addition to the 300 I has entered, a standard length marathon, 100 miles and 430 miles. I, and most other athletes, would cover their distances by foot, however, a smaller number had chosen to use cross-country skis or fat bikes. Fat bikes are amazing to look at. Their name, I think I can fairly confidently assume, comes from the fact that they have super fat tyres to provide the traction they need for the snow and ice. I woke early, at 6:30am, as I wanted to make sure I ate well before the start of the race at 10:30am. 4 eggs sunny-side up, bacon, potatoes, four rounds of brown toast, a side of pancakes, a splash of coffee, and plenty of water. The butterflies fluttering in my stomach made it difficult to consume, but I forced myself. Although I would get 1 hot meal at each of the 7 checkpoints through the race, this would be my last opportunity to consume as may calories as possible. It was estimated that I would be burning 10,000 calories a day, maybe more, potentially for the next 8 days. So very quickly, I would fall into some kind of calorie deficit. It wouldn't be possible
for me to eat that much food while racing although I had to eat as much as possible to keep the body and mind sufficiently happy.
The night before had been spent organising my drop bags. I had 3 bags which would be stationed at checkpoints about 100 miles, 175 miles and at the end of the race. They could contain anything I thought I might need, but were primarily used for extra food which I could pick-up along the way, and spare clothes and batteries. I dropped these off at the collection point the night before too, so that they could be transported to the necessary locations. Immediately after breakfast, I filled 4 small vacuum flasks with 2 litres of boiling water, and a 2 litre water bladder with water at room temperature. The water in the flasks would be carried in my sled and need to remain unfrozen between checkpoints, which is why they were filled with boiling water. I would wear the bladder over the top of my base layer on my back, so my own body temperature would keep that from freezing. It would be accessible through an insulated pipe which I could suck the water through.
During my earlier breakfast, I had been chatting with a fellow competitor. Rather than load our sleds onto a van for transportation to the start line, we agreed to walk, sleds in tow. It was only a 15 minute walk, the same location from where the Yukon Quest has started the day before. We left at 9:45am to give ourselves plenty of time with the start being at 10:30am. That's when the first of my problems started. On the walk down, the hauling shaft
of my sled came apart. This is used to connect the sled to the harness, which in turn connects to me. The piece of the shaft failing was 2 aluminium poles joined together with a spring loaded pin. This "failure" hadn't happened during the 3 or 4 hours I'd been out during the practical of the training course, so I didn't think much of it, rejoined the poles and continued to the start line. The same thing happened twice more before I arrived at the start and was very quickly becoming a concern. We hadn't even started yet and the equipment was failing. I had no spare pin, so there was nothing I could do immediately, and hoped it would somehow magically rectify itself.
THE START
The race started promptly at 10:30am. We put our trackers into track mode and departed. 300 miles to go! We'd been informed the media would be there, including Al Jazeera and a Japanese film crew making a documentary about the event. And there they were, right by me as my poles split apart again, 2 minutes after the start. After the 5th time within 10 or 15 minutes of the start, I had to do something. I wouldn't be able to continue like this. I took the complete hauling shaft apart and rebuilt it, but it soon failed again.
Duct tape fixes anything, or so I thought. That was the next option that I considered. It usually sticks anything and everything, but the stickiness had
completely disappeared at the minus 30 Celsius temperature, or thereabouts, that the race had started at. Trying to remain calm and not panic, the only 2 athletes left behind me approached, but stopped to see if they could help. They couldn't, but suggested I return to the start to try and get the issue resolved there. I decided that wouldn't help me and then that's when my last minute shopping a couple of days earlier first came to save me. I had seen a rope, thought it might come in handy and bought it. That handy moment had arrived. I removed the hauling shaft as quickly as I could, cut it to an appropriate length, and attached the rope to the sled and the harness. The simplest, almost fail safe solution. Keeping my emotions under control, I restarted and soon started to catch up with the back markers, and on my way to the first checkpoint; the marathon finish at Rivendell. Once I had gotten into my stride, I was feeling comfortable. The emergency sled repair seemed to be working well. I could see a little commotion in the distance, and as I approached, one athlete had become ill. He was being looked after, and presumably his tracker help button had been pressed, so help would've already
been on its way. As I approached half-way to Rivendell, I found an iPhone laying in the snow. I was glad that I had left mine behind in the hotel; I felt I would end up losing it if I had taken it, and it wouldn't be usable most of the time anyway. I handed the iPhone to support staff to hopefully find its owner.
There was little further drama throughout the remainder of the first 26 miles, for which I was grateful.
Upon reaching the checkpoint, it gave me a good indication as to how they would be run. You were not allowed inside, so I had to strip down to my base layer to remove by water bladder. It had been a little annoying to wear and made be overheat, so I decided to dump it. That left me with only with 2 litre capacity of the vacuum flasks, but I wasn't going to stress about that now. If needs be, I'd melt snow or ice on route if I did ever run dry.
A volunteer quickly serviced me with a bowl of soup, a sandwich and a brownie. Hot chocolate was my drink of choice. I was only 26 miles in, and this
was already very much appreciated for, if nothing else, its warmth. The air was turning colder, and before deciding to head out again, I warmed myself by the open log fire and dried my gloves. Discussion with others around the fire focused on the coldness of the coming night. I and another athlete had talked earlier before the race, and we confirmed and agreed around the warmth of the crackling logs, that we would stick together after leaving Rivendell, and into the darkness of the night. The reason for staying together was primarily for safety, due to the expected extreme low temperatures and associated government warning, but it would be nice to have company during the first night too.
Once we had both warmed sufficiently, we both made our final preparations for departure, and left down the trail towards the second checkpoint, Dog Grave Lake.
Rivendell to Dog Grave Lake
The person on the training course who had spilt fuel on his finger scratched at Rivendell. That was sad, but probably sensible. I don't know the details, but we were heading into the coldest of cold nights and probably not the best environment for an already frostbitten finger.
We (my new trail buddy and I) left Rivendell into the darkness of the night, heading towards Dog Grave Lake. I’m not sure I wanted to know why this location was named as such, so never did ask.
I led our convoy of 2 to begin with. I really wanted to try and reach Dog Grave Lake before taking any further break or any sleep, so I got a bit of a march on, but I was committed to staying with my fellow athlete during the night. It would be good for both of us in case either of us got into trouble. We were there to look out for one another. It certainly gave me peace of mind. There was little chatter along the way; it was heads down and get some miles under our belt, stopping occasionally to rehydrate and to snack on something, although that probably wasn’t happening as frequently as it should have. It was those snack breaks where most of the chatter took place.
As we continued, we caught up with, and started to pass, another fellow athlete. He asked if he could tag along with us which was fine. I didn’t know if he was just lonely and wanted some company or whether he was struggling. Either way, we were a convoy of 3 now which didn’t seem to last long. He dropped off of the back fairly quickly and with hindsight, I feel a little bad about that now. He’d asked to stay and tag along with us, maybe we should have waited for him – go as fast as the slowest person – but that didn’t happen. Our paths would pass again though.
The batteries in my head torch lasted an atrociously short period of time. Thankfully, I didn’t need to fumble in the darkness for my backup torch as I
had the light from my new trail buddy. The battery pack was on my head, which made it difficult to keep warm to extend the battery life. I swapped out the batteries, rather than swapping to my backup torch, and we carried on. The order of our convoy swapped too, so I would take up the rear and have the pace set for me.
The description doesn’t do it justice, but it was turning into an extremely frigid evening and night. It was clear we would never get to Dog Grave Lake before daylight, so at about midnight, we made the decision to bivy down and get some rest. I was unsure how that might work out considering that by now, the temperature had reached -50 Deg C!
I carried a tent which, once I had trodden down the snow just off of the trail, I erected quickly and laid out my sleeping system inside. My trail buddy, now also became a bivy buddy :). She didn’t have a tent, but a bivy bag. It’s essentially a giant waterproof bag that your sleeping bag sits within and you zip yourself completely inside to protect you from the outside elements. It’s probably not a great environment if you suffer from claustrophobia, but seemed a popular option for many athletes.
We agreed that we would sleep, or try to sleep, for 4 hours. After crawling into my tent, I stripped off my top layers down to my base layer, removed my shoes, leaving them in my tent, and zipped myself into my sleeping bag. The clothes I took off stayed in the sleeping bag with me. The sleeping bag had a comfortable sleep rating of -24 Deg C, and an extreme rating of -47 Deg C. So, although it wouldn’t necessarily be comfortable, it would allow me to survive at -47 Deg C. As it turns out, I must have been comfortable enough, at least to begin with, as I was informed later by my neighbour, that I was snoring within 5 minutes. At some point during the 4 hours, there was some commotion outside. Shouting and the like. It seems like the athlete who had fallen off of the back of our convoy earlier on had decide to bivy down at the same location as me and my bivy buddy, but was having trouble doing so. The altercation seemed to be between him and 2 other athletes trying to assist him and getting him into his sleeping system. That didn’t make me feel any better about allowing him to fall back earlier in the evening.
I was already awake when my bivy buddy shouted to me to see if I was up and ready to move on. My positive response to her saw us both buzz into action and reparing to get up, dressed again and to pack our sleep systems away. Even though my shoes had been in the tent, that was my first mistake when it came to storing equipment that I had taken off. They were frozen solid. I squeezed the 2 lumps of ice onto my feet although, surprisingly, they warmed and thawed rapidly once I really sprang into action and packed everything away into my sled. The inside of the tent had completely iced over too with the condensation that was generated from my being inside, and the cold night air mixing with the warm air from my body and breath. With our head torches lighting the way, we headed off back down the trail. My bivy buddy informed me that she hadn’t slept very well at all, and that she was very cold. I told her she should have said something to me earlier, so I could have perhaps helped. Maybe we could have made a fire. Now, she was wearing as many layers as was practical, to try and get her core back to normal operating temperature.
As the sun rose, we agreed we should not worry too much about sticking together if we both wanted to go at different paces. I trudged on ahead and the gap grew between us, but we would meet again later at the Dog Grave Lake checkpoint.
Further on down the trail, the call of nature beckoned, really for the first time. A common question I have been asked is about personal hygiene and “How do you go to the toilet?”. The answer is, quickly! :) You can’t really do anything different, you just have to get on with it. I think that’s enough detail.
The trail seemed to be never ending. Would I ever get the Dog Grave Lake? I had to stop. I needed a pick me up, so got out my stove, heated some water, and made myself some hot chocolate. It seemed to do the trick, as I seemed to get to Dog Grave in no time at all after that.
This checkpoint was nothing more than a couple of tents in a remote location, with a few roaring log fires and the chance to get a hot meal of soup and hot dogs. It also gave us the opportunity to “warm our cockles” after a freezing night and only slightly warmer day. My bivy buddy rolled in about 45 minutes after me, and she reported that she was no warmer, perhaps even colder. She did the right thing, and stood as close as she dare to one of the fires in the tent to try and stabilize and raise her body temperature.
Before doing anything else, I chose to bivy down again, to try and get some more sleep. Dog Grave became like a refugee camp in that respect. A lot of people were suffering, one way or another, the effects of the extreme temperatures and a substantial number of athletes were scratching. This included he fellow that had fallen off of the back of our convoy earlier. :( My bivy buddy was not yet sure if she would continue, and would try sleeping more before making a final decision. As it happens, she had another restless and cold night and decided to scratch. It was the right and most sensible decision for her. Continuing wouldn’t of helped her warm up – it hadn’t helped before – and she didn’t want to get into any worse situation. Nothing is worth more than your physical well-being or, ultimately, your life.
I departed Dog Grave, heading for the next checkpoint at Braeburn, which was another 35 miles down the trail. This was also the 100 mile race finish line and a checkpoint where, if you chose to do so, could sleep indoors.
Braeburn and Ken Lakes
DOG GRAVE LAKE TO BRAEBURN
I left Dog Grave Lake at about 6:30am and trudged back off down the early morning darkness of the trail. I always feel I'm missing out on something when traveling in darkness, and in this environment, I probably was. Some of the scenery I had already seen had been spectacular. A couple of hours later though, the sun was struggling over the horizon, shining a light along the trail that would take me to Braeburn, 35 miles away, and the home of monster cinnamon buns and super-sized burgers apparently.
The trail wasn't very wide, just enough for 2 athletes to pass side by side with sleds in tow. Before the sun had completely risen, my head torch picked out a couple of folks ahead. Pleasantries were exchanged; it was good trail etiquette to confirm all was well with one another, and it was almost a relief to have the briefest of chats.
I'm naturally quiet, but even I find comfort in a quick "hi, how are you doing?", when i know it's likely I'll be solo for most of the next 12+ hours, until I reach the next checkpoint.
We ping ponged a little. I passed them, they passed me. Up until reaching Dog Grave, I noted myself, and was reprimanded by my bivy buddy (in a nice way), for not drinking or eating enough. I was making a concerted effort in rectifying that because, if I didn't, I probably wouldn't finish the race. This resulted in the ping pong effect. As I stopped to hydrate and snack, they would pass. I would then pick up my pace and re-pass them.
Snacking, and what you consume, is a very personal choice. I'm almost ashamed to admit, most of my choices were very unhealthy, but did provide lots of calories. Snickers bars, which I had pre-cut into mouth-size pieces, were a favourite. I had pre-cut them because, of course, out on the trail, everything would freeze solid. Having a bite size piece I could just pop into my mouth for "thawing" before eating, made things simple. Peperami, a German salami was another favourite. They are thin enough that they didn't require the preparation of the Snickers. I could happily bite and chew it in its frozen state. Trail mix (a mix of nuts, seeds, raisins and chocolate drops), BabyBel cheese and, believe it or not, Pringles, completed the snack menu. In addition, if I wanted something a little more substantial, I carried a variety of high calorie freeze dried meals - just add hot water. Beef curry, chicken korma, spaghetti Bolognese, oats with cinnamon and raisins, all added to the variety if I felt like it.
Hydrating had started turning into an inconvenience. My dumping of the water bladder at the first checkpoint really created that, but inconvenience over body temperature control seemed like a good compromise at the time. Each time I wanted to drink, I now had to stop, open up the sled, grab a flask, drink and then put it all back again. The bladder had at least enabled me to drink on the move. I still think I had made the right choice for me though, but it was not encouraging me to drink as much as I should. I was travelling 30+ miles on less than 1.5 litres of water - not enough by far. My revised approach, because I only had a 2 litre water capacity now, was to take the hot water from the flask, and mix it with snow, to increase the overall volume of water I drank by only having to carry 2 litres. I still had the inconvenience of having to stop each time though, but was starting to get pretty efficient at it.
The skidoos, with the trail crew aboard, buzzed by a couple of times during the day, as they did most days. These, as were all support crew, were an amazing group of people. They were travelling, often hundreds of kilometres a day, up and down the trail, ferrying other support people between checkpoints, and making sure the athletes out on the trail were safe and in good health. They also led the "rescue missions" whenever someone pressed the "help" button on the satellite tracker device. Later in the day, my bivy buddy was aboard one. She had decided to scratch at Dog Grave Lake but had volunteered to support the rest of the race, was was herself being ferried to Braeburn, where she would help and assist arriving athletes.
Light was fading and it took me until almost 6:30pm, and after complete darkness had arrived, to reach Braeburn, so a good 12 hour stint on the trail to cover the 35 miles. To put that into some sort of context, back in the UK and in normal conditions, I covered 62 miles in 13 hours.
The Braeburn checkpoint was actually a lodge come country restaurant. It was basic, but warm inside; the first time in 100 miles that we, the athletes, could get inside a building for some proper warmth. In addition to the 1 hot meal we were allowed at each checkpoint, they also offered us a mattress for the night in a cabin. I had been warned it would be noisy and you might not rest well, but it seemed rude not to take up the offer, even though it was warmer than the previous night, at an almost balmy minus 43 deg Celsius :) Before sleep could happen though, and because of the severe and extreme temperatures we had been competing in, I had to be put through a mandatory frostbite check. Ears, nose, fingers and toes. All the susceptible extremities. It resulted in a clean bill of health for me. My meal was a super burger, the size of my head. My appetite wasn’t what it should have been considering the miles I had put in, and the conditions that had been endured, but I slowly forced myself to eat it all. The calories were badly needed. As I ate, I was a little surprised to see the arrival of 2 athletes I thought had scratched at Dog Grave Lake. It was a pleasant surprise too. One had been the victim of frostbite, but I guess not severe enough to continue. I was happy for them as they were 100 mile competitors and this was their finish line. They had made it, and I suddenly witnessed a low key medal ceremony for them both. :)
With the burger fully consumed, I passed on the option of a cinnamon bun which must have been the size of a football. :) I chose instead to get my head down before starting, what for the 300 mile athletes, would be the longest leg between checkpoints, 44 miles to Ken Lake.
BRAEBURN TO KEN LAKES
My stay at Braeburn was longer than I had anticipated. That's the danger of sleeping inside I guess. It was a little disruptive, as the cabins were shared, and 2 fellow athletes came in while I was already sleeping. But no complaints. 4:30am saw me depart Braeburn, back into the darkness again, led by my trusty head torch. The terrain of the trail began, much as it had continued the previous day, narrow and somewhat undulating. It should not have been a surprise though, that eventually, based on the name of where I was headed, the trail crossed open lake, after open lake, after open lake. Or certainly, that’s what it felt like. Lakes, from a race perspective, were my least favourite terrain to cross when perhaps they should have been my favourite. They were flat, the trail was mostly very firm and it was relatively easy to cross them, even with the sled in tow. But were they boring! Especially in darkness, when you couldn’t soak up the surroundings because it just wasn’t visible. That, to me, made them featureless and never ending and a mental slog. At least with the trail off of the lakes and rivers, the undulation would add interest, albeit a lot more effort at times. Albeit hidden for most of the time, you would also see much more evidence of the local wildlife, with tracks in the tree-lined trails, again, away from the lake and river trails.
In between one lake and another would be the fun part. Normally joined by some wooded area, there would also be some kind of bank to ascend or descend, depending on whether you were leaving or joining a lake. And these became very steep at times. Not long, just very steep, made all the more challenging with that sled that was in tow. This was the first time where I have to bring out the microspikes to help me. The best way to describe these are snow chains, like you might fit to your car wheels in the winter, but for feet. They stretched over my shoes and gave me the extra grip and traction I needed on some on the climbs and descents on and off of the lakes, rather than just relying on my hiking sticks and the strength in my arms to prevent me from losing control. They worked incredibly well.
The slopes on and off of the lakes added an extra problem too. The early problem I had with the sled poles which caused me to start towing with rope meant that I had no control over the sled at any downhill section. This led to a few painful moments of sled and heel colliding, and it wasn’t doing my Achilles any good. I had to avoid that becoming a problem at all costs, and I eventually found a rhythm that would help me for the rest of the race. As I heard the sled close in on me, I stepped to the side so that it could overtake me, if that’s what it wanted to do. And it did sometimes, ending up with the sled overturning as I tried to prevent it going out of control completely. But most of the time, it would run over the rope which would act as a brake, slow it down, or even bring it to a complete halt. We got on just fine once that downhill process had been refined. It was about 16.5 hours since I left Braeburn, and in the distance, I saw a bright white light. It was the head torch of one of our hosts and support crew at Ken Lake. He had come out to meet me. I assume he knew I was close from the satellite tracker. That was a nice touch.
A steaming hot Chilli-Con-Carne was the hot meal made available here, and it was the best thing I had tasted in what seemed like years. I could have eaten it 10 times over, but that was not allowed. 1 meal per athlete, period. I was, however, treated to 2, maybe 3, mugs of steaming hot chocolate. That had become my drink of choice, whenever the opportunity arose. It was time to catch some z’s before moving on. I chose a spot close to an open log
fire, but I didn’t bother with the tent. Instead, I just used my bivy bag and cocooned myself inside for no more than 4 hours before I woke up, packed my
things away and would head for Carmacks. Carmacks was the next checkpoint with a time limit. I needed to be there no later than 4.5 days from the start of the race, it was 35 miles away, and I had about 19 hours to get there.
The 4.5 Day Limit - Ken Lakes to Carmacks
35 miles in 19 hours was my target, or face elimination from the race. In fact, it wasn’t really a target at all. I had to do it in less than 19 hours; I hadn’t travelled 5000+ miles not to finish this race, let alone the hundreds of hours of training and preparation that went into it. But those were the rules. I had reached Braeburn within the 3 day limit, and now I had to be at Carmacks within 4.5 days of the start of the race. This would be my last in-race cut-off time; it would just be down to reaching the finish line within the 8 day limit after that. Based on my average pace overall so far, it shouldn’t be a problem, but you never know what challenges rear their head along the way. I would be fine as long as everything remained as it currently was.
I left Ken Lake at 2:50am after no more than 4 hours sleep, maybe less. The host who had welcomed me into the checkpoint earlier that evening, helped reorientate me and pointed in the direction that I needed to travel next. It was comforting to get that confirmation.
Orientation can be a problem, particularly after you have stopped for a rest and taken the time to sleep. Even more so, when you were on your own, bivying in the middle of nowhere. A few simple rules, if followed, help make sure you don’t end up going in the wrong direction; leave your sled pointing in the direction you need to continue to travel; point the exit of your tent (if you’re using one) in the direction of travel. Simple things, if you remember to do them, when you’re sleep deprived and hungry.
Something wasn’t right today – not what I needed with time and consistent speed being a critical factor for me today. It felt I was needing to put in much more effort to make progress down the trail. I was feeling lethargic and tired. It shouldn’t have been too surprising. I was at the half-way point in terms of
distance, had burnt many more calories than I had consumed, and probably was still not eating or drinking enough to keep my body and mind happy enough, considering what I was putting it through. I stopped frequently, lent my shoulders on my walking sticks and closed my eyes. If I closed them for too long, I drifted into the briefest of naps before waking and continuing.
The trail had once again turned into the more traditional, tree-lined and undulating affair that I preferred, rather than rivers and lakes. I wasn’t sure how
far I had travelled, but I must have eaten into 20 or 25 miles of the 35 I needed to cover. I heard, what only I can describe as a sloshing sound, closing in behind me. It was an athlete on cross-country skis, one of the accepted disciplines for this race, in addition to foot, my choice of transport, or mountain bikes (affectionately known as fat bikes, due to the size of the tyres needed for such terrain and conditions).
I pulled over to the side of the trail as I didn’t want to hold him up. As he reached me, he stopped. It didn’t seem he had any intention of wanting to pass, so we exchanged a small amount of conversation for a few minutes before we both made our way back down the trail towards Carmacks. Honestly, and I don’t blame my fellow competitor for this at all, but I did feel under some pressure, as the lead in this new convoy, to keep up a respectable pace. I could have just told him to pass if I was that bothered about it. But I also think it did me a favour. The lethargy I had felt earlier had dissipated. My mind had other things to focus on now and having some company for a little while wasn’t a bad thing at all. Later down the trail, my new companion confirmed that I had sped up as he joined me, which he had appreciated.
Early on in this new convoy, a skidoo came hurtling towards us. It wasn’t support crew though, it was the media; Al Jazeera. They were covering the race and started filming, with the presenter narrating something as we, the athletes, toiled in the background. As soon as they had arrived, they had zoomed back down the trail from where they had come. They hadn’t gone far though, as the cameraman ran along the trail, getting some additional footage of me and my cross-country ski companion.
It was the hour of skidoo encounters. Next, the support crew did arrive, along with the professional photographer commissioned to cover the race, as well as the Japanese documentary film crew; well, cameraman at least. The support crew were upbeat, as always, and said there was 8–9km left until the checkpoint, which was verified by the photographer. What made me more comfortable with that estimate was the Japanese cameraman jumping off of the skidoo, and the skidoo disappearing off into the distance. My assumption was he would be accompanying us back to the checkpoint.
It seems my assumption was correct and, of course, now with a cameraman in tow, all the fun happened. The tree-lined trail, as undulating as I had become accustomed too, greeted us with some very steep, albeit short, descents. With the Japanese camera as our witness, of course something was going to happen. It was the turn of my fellow athlete first. He was on skis, and I had been curious how he might attempt the descent of some of these slopes with his sled behind him. It turns out, certainly on this occasion, not that elegantly. In fact, it was a bit of a tumbling act. I did what I could to assist, but I did feel a little bit useless. Then, of course, it was my turn! :) Maybe I’d been a little too confident in this regime I thought I’d agreed between me and my sled, where it would control itself as I sidestepped it, and it ran over the rope to control itself. Oh no, not this time. I became the skittle as it rammed me from behind, I ended up on top it, and we descended the slope rapidly together. Comical, really. :) The cameraman, though, was turning out to be quite an athlete himself. He’d film, run ahead, film some more. And the process would continue. But rather than accompany us all the way to the checkpoint, he suddenly disappeared. I’ve not idea where to. We never saw him again. Maybe that should have concerned me; for his safety; but it didn’t.
Weighing on my mind more was the fact that our early meeting with the support crew suggested with had 8-9km left until the checkpoint. That clearly wasn’t accurate, as we’d have been there by now. I think miles and kilometres might have got lost somewhere in translation, I’m not really sure. I didn’t resent the support crew for it. They were a metaphorical life saver, buzzing by when they did, all cheery and full of enthusiasm, encouraging us to the next milestone and, I think, full of admiration for what we were trying to achieve. A final skidoo passing, much later, but with photographer on-board, confirmed we were close now, no matter what previous reports may have indicated. We never did see our Japanese cameraman again. I hope … I’m sure he was ok. We’d have heard something otherwise, surely.
Woo hoo! I had made it to Carmacks, and another time limit achieved. I could continue, and my only other constraint would be to reach the finish line within 8 days from the start of the race. I needed to cross the finish line before the morning of Monday 16th February, at 10:30am.
The Carmacks checkpoint was a local recreation centre. We were allowed to go inside, and beef with pasta would be the hot meal of choice for me. When I say beef with pasta, as with all checkpoints, there wasn’t limitless amounts. It was controlled. I was allowed 1 vacuum packed pasta and beef, heated in a pot of boiling water. Of course, the now obligatory hot chocolate would accompany it and more than 1 mug. I wasn’t aware of any hot chocolate restrictions.
Carmacks was the one checkpoint where a) Internet connectivity was available and b) I had access to a laptop. I took the opportunity to write and post a brief Facebook message to let people know how things were going, and to help assure everyone I was OK, and on track to reach the finish line. I emptied my sled of anything that could get wet too, because I dragged it inside, so things would start to thaw quickly, but it also gave me the opportunity to air and dry my sleeping system. Sleeping outside in the environment we were in meant it would collect moisture; from me, and my body, snow that would, albeit not on purpose, find its way in, and the ice within the tent or bivy bag that would end up polluting my sleeping bag. Because we were in a “town” now, there were no restrictions on what we could or couldn’t do in regards to going to local establishments. My convoy companion for the last 10 miles or so in getting to Carmacks, suggested we go to the local restaurant, just for half-an-hour. I did have a craving for pizza, which is why I think the suggestion was made, but I declined and instead opted for sleep. It wouldn’t be much, but some sleep would do me well, before I rose again to continue my adventure to McCabe, another 38 miles down the trail.
Carmacks to McCabe
I had been accused of “faffing” by my early race bivy buddy, and who was now a member of the support crew, when I had arrived at Carmacks; taking far too long to sort myself, and my equipment, out. It was true and I didn’t deny it. But I found it hard to think completely straight, and decisions needed to be made. I had a drop bag at Carmacks with extra supplies of snacks, spare clothes, batteries and other items that I thought might be useful to me at this point in the race. This would also give me the opportunity to offload anything from my sled that I wasn’t using, or didn’t intend on using going forward; lighten the load, reduce the stress on my legs and body, and give myself the best possible chance of finishing. They were hard decisions to make, but I threw my snowshoes overboard, as well as other less bulky items, and decreased my load by 3 or 4 kilos.
It had been snowing whilst I had been sleeping, and the weather was warming up. It wasn’t a heavy snowfall, just enough to make it softer underfoot. It’s not something I was wishing for though. It was going to make it more difficult for me, covering the trail on foot, to make progress. Softer snow would create extra drag for my sled as it sunk into the fresh blanket, but I was thankful that it wasn’t a more substantial covering. I was hedging my bets that it wasn’t going to snow too much more, as I had now offloaded my snowshoes to save weight. Fingers crossed!
I waved goodbye to Carmacks with flakes still gently falling. I very quickly came across what was a very low bridge, under which was a skating rink. Not a real skating rink, of course, but a naturally created wide sheet of ice. I negotiated it without issue, but I would hear later that others would encounter the same ice, in a less solid state.
Progressing down the trail, I saw a light in the far distance. How far in the distance was difficult to judge. Was it the head torch of a fellow competitor? Were they going in the wrong direction? Could they be in some sort of trouble? That was the first result of my analysis of the situation. However, those
that know me well, although I may be quiet, know that my brain goes 10 to the dozen, to a point where I over-think. It has its advantages in my day job as a
software development manager, but in situations such as this, it leads me down all
sorts of paths, most of which are completely irrational.
The light continued to shine and I convinced myself it wasn’t a head torch, but the
headlights of a car, truck or snowmobile. Perhaps it was one of the film crews, but
that was unlikely considering the hour of the day. I started to make myself a little
anxious as my mind dreamt up a new potential outcome as the light
PAGE 21
drew closer. Those thoughts became so irrational that I, at one point, and
considering the problems in the world today, thought that some extremist
organisation was waiting down the trail to kidnap the next athlete along it …
me. And then I tried justify that. Why they would choose to sit, in the middle of
the night, in sub-zero temperatures, waiting for me, in the middle of nowhere? As
I said … irrational. I must have reassured myself enough that it was safe :) as I
continued to head towards the light. And then things started to become clearer
the closer I got. It was in fact an electricity sub-station. The light was just
illuminating the sub-station site. It just wasn’t what I had expected to find in the
middle of nowhere and beyond. :)
More ice covered the trail a mile or 2 after the sub-station. Well, this was my first
experience of overflow. It didn’t look particularly stable, but I could see the
“tracks” of others that had passed before me and, seemingly, got across
unscathed. I had my overboots in my sled should I need to protect my feet from
getting wet, but before going that far I thought I’d test the ice. After all, if others
had already passed without incident, I could probably do the same. I gave the ice a
good hard prod with my walking sticks and, although it was a little slushy, it
seemed firm enough. My conclusion was it was fine and started to move forward,
sled in tow. I moved slowly, but the ice creaked and squeaked. I could feel the ice
giving way, so I tried to tread as lightly as I could but move quickly, to limit how
much time my foot stayed in any one spot. It probably looked like some sort of
comedy sketch to anyone who might have witnessed it :). And then it
happened. One wet right foot, as it punctured the ice and entered the frigid water
below. It wasn’t really deep; maybe 10 inches or so. This wasn’t what I needed at
6:30am in the morning!
I scrambled across the remainder of the ice, berating myself for not being cautious
enough, and leaving my overboots in my sled. Thankfully, I was prepared for most
situations, and had a full change of clothes, including socks, as well as a spare pair
of shoes, squirrelled away within the confines of my sled bag. As I pulled the sled
to the side of the trail, I was thanking my lucky stars that the weather had warmed
up. I didn’t want to think about what situation I’d find myself in if the
temperature had been -40-something deg C. It was still cold though, and I still
needed to react quickly enough to stop my body from getting too cold and to
protect my sodden foot.
It only took me a couple of minutes to remove the one wet shoe and sock, but
replaced both with a fresh, dry alternative. Bizarrely, I didn’t have to change
anything else. Considering the depth to which my foot and leg went into the
PAGE 22
water, my trousers had been submerged too, on my right leg. But, my base layer
thermals had remained dry. Seemingly, my mid-layer trousers, which had some
waterproof quality, provided adequate protection. That fact, and along with the
freezing air temperature, which had very quickly frozen the water that had come
into contact with my trousers. That’s the only plausible explanation I could
muster. Either way, the effects of the water was limited, and that way a relief.
A second, much longer stretch of overflow presented itself to me further down the
trail. It was obvious that this was much less stable than what I had fallen through
earlier, so there were no questions asked this time, the overboots were put on
immediately. I removed my sled harness and searched for an alternative route,
going around the overflow, rather than through it. I didn’t want to stray too far
though, and quickly concluded the direct route, albeit over ice that would not hold
my weight, was the safest and most sensible choice.
It wasn’t clear how deep the overflow was, so before taking the first step, I
increased the overboots to their full height. I didn’t want to get wet feet again –
not today anyway – as my spare shoes and socks were now already in use. I also
kept my sled harness detached so I could react quickly to any issues I might
have. Instead, I would pull the sled with my gloved hands.
With every step I took, I sank through the ice into the water below. Thank you
overboots! But even then, the water was coming too close to the top of the boots
for me to be too comfortable. At their full height, the overboots must be 20
inches, maybe even a little more. My sled boated across the overflow as I pulled
and within just a minute or 2, we were both across safe and sound, and my feet
had remained dry.
There was always a danger I would encounter more overflow, especially with
temperatures rising. I didn’t really understand the physics around overflow either.
Where did the water actually come from in some cases, and why wasn’t it frozen
solid because, even though temperatures were rising, it was still way below
freezing.
No matter. I wouldn’t stumble on any more overflow. The day though, had still
really only just begun. The fresh snow was really helping the cross-country
skiers. My fellow competitor who joined me for the last part of the trail getting to
Carmacks, quickly caught and passed me, snapping a photo of me as he went. I
had a 2, maybe more, hour head start, and here he was, passing me! That was a
little frustrating, but understandable too. It was a completely different discipline.
PAGE 23
I eventually reached the McCabe checkpoint at 7:45pm that evening. This would
be a good time to dry off the things that had gotten wet, so I could replace the
spare clothing in my sled that I had used earlier in the day.
PAGE 24
McCabe to the Finish Line
MCCABE TO PELLY CROSSING
The McCabe checkpoint was akin to large garage or unfinished house extension,
and it was fiercely hot inside, the source of which was a large wood burning heater
that sat in the middle of the room. And I use “room” in the loosest term, but I
wasn’t fussy. Warmth, something to eat, and a space on the concrete floor to sleep
was all I needed.
I had arrived just before 8pm, but I wouldn’t be able to hang around too long. I
had 90 or so miles still to go, and the clock was ticking.
I took the opportunity to dry and air much of the clothing I had been wearing,
before eating something and drinking more hot chocolate. My sleeping bag was
laid out beneath a half built worktop, next to an outside all, which brought some
relief from the fierceness of the heater.
Although Pelly Crossing, the next checkpoint, was only 28 miles away, the fresh
snow had been making progress a little slower than I would have liked. I rose from
my sleep very early, dressed in, not fresh, but warm and dry clothes, replenished
my water supply, packed my sled, and left at 1:46am, which gave me about 3 hours
sleep.
More tree-lined trail and more frozen lakes would present themselves during the
28 miles to Pelly Crossing. I had, at times, been finding myself so immersed with
just planning what I need to do to finish this race, the trail just passed me by. But
I was making a concerted effort to make sure that I enjoyed the moment, and
soaked up the splendour of what Mother Nature had created.
At 3am in the morning, stop still, and it’s as silent as silent can be. No wind, no
noise pollution from town, city or roads. No light pollution either. Turning off my
head torch and looking up into a clear night sky was the brightest and most visible
view of the stars I can ever remember seeing. What a contrast from London. I had
become quite excited before coming to Canada at the potential or seeing the
aurora borealis. Some of the pictures I had seen were stunning, but I had yet to
witness this phenomenon personally. Hopefully I would before the end of my
adventure.
Outside of natural beauty I was being treated to, technology, in the most part, was
nowhere to be seen. I had my satellite tracker and my GPS, and I’d only used the
PAGE 25
former so far, because it was mandatory. I wasn’t missing the internet, I wasn’t
missing the telephone and, as big as part of my life that it is, I wasn’t missing my
laptop either. It was completely refreshing not to have to worry about any of it.
Well, I could worry about it, but it wouldn’t do me any good, because nothing
would work for long out here . In fact, less so now on the trail to Pelly, but more
so during the first 2 days of the race, everything started to break at -40 deg C and
below. Previously flexible plastics became brittle and easily snapped. Gortex
would freeze and crack. Batteries would last a fraction of the time that they might
normally last.
The GPS did get turned on today though. I was becoming frustrated with not
knowing where I was, and how much further I had to reach the checkpoint. Today
had been, or seemed to be, slow going. The GPS would only give me an indication
of how far I had left to go though. Because the trail differs every year, depending
on conditions, an exact GPS route is not published. Waypoint locations for
checkpoints were the only information the GPS had to work from. That would
give me the “as the crow flies” view as to how far the next checkpoint was. It
would at least confirm I was getting closer as time and the miles passed.
I was crossing another frozen lake when I turned it on. I had tried soaking up the
surrounding beauty to help distract me, but it only lasted so long. The GPS sprang
into action and I selected the waypoint to which I was headed – Pelly Crossing.
Once the satellites had been picked up, it reported Pelly was still 10 miles away. In
reality, that would probably turn out to be 11 or 12, because I wouldn’t be following
a direct and straight route from where I was standing.
Within what seemed no more than an hour later, maybe less, I spotted and heard a
skidoo in the distance. It drew closer and stopped a couple of metres from me. I
hadn’t seen this crew member before and I convinced myself he was Australian,
based on his accent. I didn’t ask for confirmation though. Well, I assumed it was
support crew anyway, rather than just a member of the public out enjoying his
skidoo. He chirpily announced that Pelly was “just over there”, about 12km away.
My GPS agreed, more or less, as it reported 8 miles. But considering how far I had
come already, it didn’t feel “just over there”. Based on my progress today, it was
still going to be another 2, probably closer to 3, hours away.
I was getting close, my GPS told me so. 1 mile … no more than 1.5 miles. That’s
when the official photographer rocked up on his skidoo confirming I was close.
And then, it happened again. 2 cross-country skiers who had left McCabe 5 hours
after me, cruised past. I could have let that frustrate me, but I didn’t. I was, albeit
PAGE 26
perhaps somewhat sadistically, enjoying putting myself through this. And, from
what I knew at the time, I was now 1 of only 4 left in the 300 mile race, and we
were all on foot. Everyone else had scratched for one reason or another.
As I turned the last bend into the last straight towards the Pelly Crossing
checkpoint, I was greeted by a couple of local dogs roaming the street, and curious
as to what I might be doing there. They seemed to be friendly enough from a
distance, but erupted into a barking frenzy as I passed them; not that that made
them unfriendly, but I did become a little wary of them. I was armed with my
walking sticks should I need to defend myself. Nothing came of it though, and
they quickly became bored and wandered off, presumable after they had decided I
wasn’t a threat.
It had taken me almost 14 hours to go 28 miles. Why? I couldn’t understand or
explain why I was so slow. I certainly felt I had been maintaining a good pace;
clearly not. Although I was still “safe”, in that I had enough time to complete the
race within 8 days, sleep would need to continue to take a backseat. It wouldn’t
take much in terms of problems along the trail to lose time, and I was determined I
would not be leaving Canada without a medal around my neck.
I was met outside of the checkpoint by some friendly faces, all willing to assist me.
We were allowed to go into the last few checkpoints if we had chosen to want to
do so. My sled got dragged inside where I had a further opportunity to dry wet or
damp clothing and sleeping system. I was also quickly serviced with a mug of hot
chocolate, and my allocated 1 hot meal of choice; beef with pasta.
A large, dark sports hall type room would be my sleeping quarters. Not a lot of
sleeping was done though. As tired as I was, I just wouldn’t drift off. After trying
for a couple of hours, I resigned myself to the fact that it wasn’t going to happen.
Although I felt really tired, it was still early in the day. And I was going to need to
leave the checkpoint soon to start making may way to Pelly Farm – the next
checkpoint, about 33 miles away.
After repacking my sled and having arrived at Pelly Crossing at 3:30pm, I departed
again at 9:25pm. A couple of support crew walked me back to re-join the trail, and
I was on my way once again.
PELLY CROSSING TO PELLY FARM
Although my passage from McCabe to Pelly Crossing was unexplainably slow from
my perspective, I had imagined this next 32 or 33 miles would take me no longer
than 12 hours. That would turn out to be somewhat inaccurate.
PAGE 27
The start of the trail from Pelly Crossing to the farm was back onto the river for
about 10 miles, before it was back onto the road for the remaining 22 or 23 miles.
It was early morning when I left the river; somewhere between 1am and 2am. I
actually felt quite good on the river, but then things were going to get a lot worse
… quickly.
The fairly upbeat and energised feeling I had on the river soon dissipated once I
was back on the road. Almost immediately, albeit fairly gentle to being with, I
headed up an incline. It was a winding road, and it became clear it was going to
wind its way to the top of the hill and back down again.
The road narrowed as it crossed a single track bridge which, and perhaps it was
just because I was taking a little more notice, guided me into a winter wonderland.
Maybe I’d just walked into Narnia? The road was tree-lined, which hadn’t been
unusual for the trail of this race, but the snow, both that blowing in the gentle
breeze, and that which laid on the ground and in the surrounding trees, sparkled
like glitter.
Sometimes the dark can mask the severity of a hill and its gradient. But not this
time. This was one of many slopes that would grace their presence on the way to
Pelly Farm. I hadn’t slept properly now for over 24 hours, not even for a couple of
hours, which would have made a difference, and the general sleep deprivation
from the whole of the race so far was catching up with me. Perhaps I should have
taken note of the pre-race advice, not to sleep at the checkpoints, as you wouldn’t
rest properly because of the activity that went on there. This was the hardest
moment of my race so far. I just wanted to sleep, but my brain wouldn’t let me, as
I knew I was against the clock in getting to the end within the 8 day time limit.
I stopped regularly on the ascents. As I rested my shoulders on my walking sticks,
I drifted off into the briefest of naps. I think they were brief anyway, but I had no
real way of verifying how long I had stopped for. My assumption is it wasn’t very
long, because I was standing, but they were long enough for my mind to enter a
dream state, away from this hill and away from this race. On waking up, I
conversed with the people from my dream. Of course, they weren’t physically with
me, but my mind thought otherwise, although I quickly understood what was
happening and the comical nature of the situation. People were also talking
behind me. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but they were there. A
glance over my shoulder confirmed I was solitary in the Yukon wilderness. Just
me, the trees, the snow and maybe an animal or 2 hidden away. There were plenty
PAGE 28
of tracks in the snow to expect that to be the case, although I hasn’t seen any other
physical evidence.
I don’t know if they would be truly classify as hallucinations, but I think they were.
In between naps, as I continued my way up, down or around the trail, the
wilderness would come alive. With the Narina-like sparkling snow as their
accompaniment, I was treated to a vast array of shows and appearances from
animals, creatures, people, cartoon characters, and a multitude of other visions,
presenting themselves in the trees and naturally formed cul-de-sacs along the trail.
The cul-de-sacs were the most fascinating. They were stages, and the trees formed
the set and the actors, as I was treated to the briefest of performances as I walked
by. The light from my head torch would add to the illusion of movement as the
shadows changed as I moved, and danced around the surroundings. The most
accurate description I could muster for this experience was riding a ghost train at a
local funfair; but this lacked the gore that such a ride might present itself with.
I had expected to see things at some point during the race. I had witnessed
something similar in the Egyptian desert in 2014, but this was far more intense,
detailed and non-stop, to the point I just wanted them to go away. They were
becoming annoying. I needed to get some sleep and eat something but I chose not
to stop. Not stopping was the wrong decision. I should have, even just for an
hour. I was on a road though, and my brain decided it wasn’t safe; who would
pitch a tent on a road? Even though no vehicles has passed in the hours I had
been on it?
The hallucinations stopped once daylight arrived, and that was a relief. I don’t
know how much time I had lost with the disjointed progress overnight. As the sun
continued to rise, a truck turned the corner ahead. It was Robert, the race
director, with a couple of other race support crew on board. I must have looked a
picture. Still no sleep and, probably, not enough to eat, and I wasn’t in the most
positive frame of mind at the time. We chatted for a couple of minutes before I
recommenced my efforts, but only after being informed I had about 14km (9-ish
miles) to go to the farm, a fact that my GPS confirmed.
I had to find some inner strength from somewhere to get me to the farm. That was
now my only goal. I could then re-group and re-plan what I would do next.
My spirit was lifted briefly as I encountered 2 fellow athletes, albeit not at the same
time, who were making their way back to Pelly Crossing, to the 300 mile
checkpoint. Neither was the leader. The first was a 430 mile competitor. He was
suffering from bad Achilles pain and was forced to scratch from the 430 mile race,
PAGE 29
but wanted to get to the 300 mile finish line under his own steam. That was
admirable, both in terms of attempting to get to the 300 mile finish line himself,
albeit in a lot of pain, but also to make the harder decision to scratch from the race
he had entered. The last 130 miles of the 430 mile route, so I had been told,
becomes even more challenging, and potentially more hazardous depending on
the conditions you encounter. So his decision to stop was very sensible to avoid
getting himself, and other potentially, into any further or deeper problems later
on.
The 2nd athlete was the current 2nd placed 300 mile athlete. I stood in shock as he
told me that there was a mandatory 8 hour stop at the farm. I cursed to myself, as
I hadn’t remembered having heard or read anything about that. That was really
going to put my back against the wall in being able to finish within the 8 day limit.
ARGH! On a more positive note, he confirmed there were only 3 of us left in the
300 mile race, with me taking 3rd spot currently. It was clear I would not catch him
to take 2nd, so the pressure was just about getting to the finish line on time. He
also talked about how accommodating the farm hosts were. My mind was having
difficulty forgetting the mandatory 8 hour stop fact though.
Eventually, after a few more hills, although less severe in perceived gradient and
length, and a final mile or so of flat trail, I wandered to the doorway of the
farmhouse, and greeted by one of my hosts. It had taken me 15-odd hours to get
here, far too long, and I was in severe danger of missing the race cut-off time limit,
especially with the 8 hour stop over, and the fact it took me 15 hours to get to the
farm in the first place.
Before worrying or concerning myself about that return trip to Pelly Crossing, I
needed food and I need sleep. As some food was prepared for me, chit chat
between me and the support crew suddenly lifted one weight from my shoulders.
There was an 8 hour mandatory stay at the farm, but only for the 430 mile athletes.
I was free to leave whenever I wanted. The food and some sleep were important
though and, after arriving sometime around lunchtime, I decided I couldn’t leave
any later than 7pm to ensure I got back to Pelly Crossing by 10:30am the following
morning; all based on the time that it took me to get to the farm in the first place.
The food was ready; lasagne. And it was delicious. About half-way through
devouring the layers of pasta, meat and white sauce, one of the support crew
informed me what I was eating. More specifically, what meat I was eating that was
used to make the lasagne. I never confirmed it with anyone else, but also had not
PAGE 30
to believe what I was being told. It turns out that bear and moose meat make a
very fine lasagne!
With time not being my friend, I soon got my head down after eating. I woke up
in what felt like no time at all, but I looked at my watch and had been sleeping for
something close to 6 hours. Wow, I needed that, but I now needed to prepare
myself and hit the trail again and get myself back to Pelly Crossing. I didn’t need
long to get ready. My clothes had been aired, so were at least dry, and I left the
farm at around 7pm.
PELLY FARM TO THE FINISH, BACK AT PELLY CROSSING
I had 15.5 hours to get back to Pelly Crossing. If I didn’t, I would have failed, and I
wouldn’t be leaving with that medal around my neck. It couldn’t happen; I
wouldn’t let it happen.
I covered the first part of the trail, and I was anxious. Anxious about the time
pressure and anxious about the return journey; the same trail which has caused me
so much trouble the night before.
We had covered the importance of sleep, nutrition and hydration during the
training course before the race had started. I was now a first-hand witness to
seeing the associated effects, both when you were deprived and in a replenished
state of these 3 elements. I was covering the same trail again, albeit in the opposite
direction, but the difference in how I felt, and how I was moving was like
comparing chalk and cheese. I felt full of energy, I was moving much more quickly
and I wasn’t, at least yet, hallucinating or hearing voices.
The anxiety remained, and I knew it would until I reached the point on the road
where I had joined it from the river on my way to the farm. I was very focussed on
getting to the end, and although I was frustrated that I wasn’t reaching the river
quickly enough, I was able to control my mental state much more efficiently on
this return trip. A knock-on effect of that was I solely focused on putting one foot
in front of the other and nothing else. I was expecting the creatures, animals and
other characters to start jumping out at me at any moment. They didn’t come
though. This was a much less eventful period.
I reached the river, checked my watch and checked by GPS for remaining distance.
I didn’t want to rely upon the distance being reported too much because, again, it
was a “as the rows flies” view rather than the more exact, winding road distance I
would be taking. I didn’t need to re-join the river, so that should help me
maintain my pace somewhat.
PAGE 31
With the GPS reporting 7-ish miles remaining, my hamstrings and calf muscles
were burning. Doubt started to creep back into my mind, and the battle of mind
over matter would continue. I needed to convince myself that all was well with my
body to allow it to continue for the next 7 miles. Then I could rest. I’d never have
to run, walk or do anything for weeks or months if I chose not to. But now, I had
to do whatever I needed to do to cover these last few miles.
Progress slowed as I stopped to stretch my leg muscles in an attempt to relieve
some of the soreness. That would work temporarily, and then I would stop and
stretch again.
Tick, tock, tick tock. There were 2, maybe a little less, miles to go. Based on the
time, something was going to have to go terribly wrong for me not to get that
medal. I needed to control those thoughts though. I didn’t want to assume
anything until I could physically see the finish line. I could see lights in the
distance though. I recognised those as street lights that I had seen when I had
travelled in the other direction, earlier yesterday. I was getting close. I could see
car lights too, in the distance, on the road. I had imagines that was just an early
morning queue of traffic.
It wasn’t a queue of traffic at all. As I approached, a big smile and “good morning”
welcomed me. It was Robert, the race director. He had been expecting me; the
beauty of satellite trackers. I would need to cross the river one more time, to get
back to the checkpoint. It wasn’t completely obvious on where the crossing point
was, and he wanted to meet me, see me in through the last mile or so, and to make
sure that I didn’t miss the river crossing.
No further encouragement was needed. After seeing that beaming smile, and the
realisation that the finish line was throwing distance away, my pace increased one
last time. As I crossed the river for the final time, a head torch the other side
guided me to where I needed to exit. From that exit, it was 200 metres to the
finish line. It was 6:45am and I had reached the end with 3 hours and 45 minutes
to spare! My return trip from the farm was 4 hours faster than it had taken me to
get to the farm in the opposite direction; that was how much better I was feeling
after a good rest and some food.
As I approached the checkpoint, my finish was going to be a quiet affair. Robert
was there, with one of the support crew; camera in hand. Several waves of
emotion crashed over me in the last 100 metres or so. I felt like bursting into tears,
and one or 2 may have escaped; but that would have been awkward with 2 other
men, wouldn’t it? ;) The English stiff upper lip kicked in, emotions swept under
PAGE 32
the carpet on this occasion, and with my own wide and beaming smile, I crossed
the finish line.
I proudly received my finisher’s medal from Robert. A few snaps were taken. My
plan had been just to finish, and I had done just that. I could relax now.
Robert and his crew ushered me into the checkpoint. They waited on me hand
and foot, and my now, obligatory mug of hot chocolate, was handed to me. The
time of day meant that other support crew were waking, and they all, one-by-one,
congratulated me on my accomplishment.
PAGE 33
Reflection on the Race
What an amazing race. Knowing what I went through on the 300 mile route, I am
full of respect and stand in awe of those that attempted the 430 miles route. In
fact, I respect any athlete who stands at the start line of this race, no matter what
distance they might be attempting.
Even now, after having left Canada nearly 2 weeks ago, it’s hard to comprehend
what I did actually achieve. I find the overall experience, the emotion, the mental
challenges and physical battles difficult to explain. I’m not sure anyone, however
well it might be described, will truly understand, unless you go through it and
experience it personally. I hope my memories and attempt at describing them on
my blog, does it some justice and provides some insight.
It was a massive learning experience for me. Never have I encountered such
extreme cold conditions as this race provided on its first 2 days. I attribute my
survival in the race over those 2 days, and allowing me to continue to the finish, to
my own physical and mental preparation, but equally to the input and advice of
Mark Hines. Through his books, personal advice on equipment, clothing and
previous experiences, put me in the strongest position I could get myself into and
to give myself the best possible chance of finishing. Mark, thank you!
I am missing the experience terribly, and I’m considering returning in 2017 to
attempt the 430 mile route. Then I could truly say I’ve attempted the coldest and
toughest ultra.
As I prepared for and competed in the YAU, I have supported Brain Tumour
Research. Current donations, as of 3rd March 2015, total £4256.98, and I hope the
total will continue to increase. Donations can continue to be made at
http://www.justgiving.com/yau2015.
Written by Robbie Britton - http://robbiebritton.co.uk/
When you fly to the other side of the world to run a 100k trail race that you have to give it a go right? Well, that's what I've been telling myself since race day and it was all going so well until three quarters of the way through the race until I started my usual party trick of vomiting everywhere. Nothing has changed that much from my nights out at university really?
When I got an email in December from the Ultra Trail World Tour asking if I would like elite athlete support I thought it was a little bit too good to be true, especially when they agreed to fund a trip to run one of my bucket list races in New Zealand.
It's the biggest thing I've got out of this running lark so far and I was really excited. Training went well for January and three big weeks got me in good shape before my taper and thirty two hour set of flights. I had a good mix of hills, speed-work and mileage that had knackered me out but, with some good rest in my taper, I was happy with how the legs were spinning over.
The level of competition was getting stronger and stronger as the race got closer, with international athletes such as Dylan Bowman, Jorge Maravilla, Yun Yan-qiao, Pao Bartolo, Mike Wardian and Vajin Armstrong lining up at the start with a twenty four hour running inspiration Yoshikazu Hara, who had run 285km in December toeing the line as well, I knew that if I raced sensibly and finished strong, like I know I can, I could maybe break the top 5 or hit the podium.
With a rousing Haka at the start, whilst I was hidden in the bushes for a final pitstop, the race got underway amongst the great redwood forests of Rotorua, with some sick single track trails ahead for us to enjoy. Pockets full of homemade rice cakes and some CLIF shot bloks, the legs and mind were feeling good and I felt like I belonged on the front of the thousand runners lining up for an adventure.
When discussing the race beforehand with the other nippy chaps they had all hinted towards an easy paced start for the first twenty or thirty kilometres to ease us into this early season race. Unfortunately no one had mentioned this to Yun, who was dead set on an improvement on his second place finish last year.
Expecting Bowman and co to mark such a strong move from this omni-smiling North Face runner I just settled in behind him and trotted along. It felt a little quick but I figured he'd settle down when he realised the chaps ahead were only racing the 60k race.
No such luck, as I let Yun race Moritz just ahead as I knew he was planning on a slightly shorter day than us. I settled into a rhythm and enjoyed the wonderful crowds and volunteers at the aid stations and chowed down on my food every half hour. Bryon Powell was pretty shocked to see me in second early in the race, a little wary that he might actually have to interview this cheeky little British chap for his website irunfar.com one day. One day you will have to Bryon and I know you'll enjoy it.
Mr. Bowman, a fan of the game of darts and a dedicated Phil "the Power" Taylor fan, came past at about 50k into the race and moved very strongly uphill, so much so that I just had to let him go straight past. He was having a great run and would smash the course record in a wee while. Then I went past Yun & Moritz after we all took a slight wrong turn into some bush and I was to have the pleasure of Yun's company for a few kilometres after that.
From 55k onwards I was joined by Majell Backhausen, pronounced My-Elle I learnt two years too late, to pace me through to the finish. He was in town for a wedding so it seemed like a good chance to catch up with a friend who lived on the other side of the world.
Yun and I were having a great little ding-dong battle along the trails, both struggling over fallen tress due to our less than giant frames and sneaking underneath some that I'm sure Bowman and Maravilla, now ahead, would have hurdled. Good things come in small packages eh?
After watching Yun grin wildly at every obstacle so far, even when we interrupted his pit stop on the side of the trail, it wasn't good to see him slump down into a chair at the 70k checkpoint. We had been pushing each other, racing for third now, for 70k and now he just had nothing left.
Powering out of the 70k checkpoint, happy that I was leaving Yun behind, it wasn't long before my body decided that I was trying just a little too hard. The racing had meant that it was happy to run or digest food, but not both, and I chundered everywhere on the loop of despair, as Hara literally jumped, skipped and hopped up a gnarly looking incline I was stumbling up.
Determined to keep moving but feeling empty at 85k
This was not unusual territory. I knew I had to get fluids, electrolytes and energy into my body before it chucked them out again so I continued eating as much as I could, but energy levels were real low. Flat and downhill were fine but any type of incline just sapped me and I slowed to a crawl. Armstrong passed at 85k, Wardian at 95k and Bartolo around 97k, all with encouragement and good will. There really are so many nice blokes in ultra racing
and they'd all been there.
My pre race aim was sub 9 hours so coming through the finish at 8:45:11 was something I might have taken at the start, but on race day I had to make a decision in the thick of the action. I could have eased off, let Yun go and tried my best to finish in the top 5 or I could try for the win. It's a decision I'll make the same way every time but if you don't go you'll never win. One day they'll not seem me again until the finish line.
Overall New Zealand was a great experience, a country full of beautiful, green trails, super friendly people and enough mountains to keep you entertained for months on end!Majel and I explored the North Island afterwards, tramping over Maungatautari, running up Te Aroha and sitting atop the Pinnacles on the Coromandel Peninsula, all great adventures in their own right. I think I'll need to go back for the South Island. Maybe Tarawera needs another crack too eh?
A huge thank you to the UTWT, Paul, Tim and everyone at Tarawera Ultra, Majel, The Byrne family for looking after me in Auckland and Lynn & the Tylees for being my co-adventurers around Waikato. Inov-8, Julbo and Petzl made sure I didn't have to run naked, the sun didn't get in my eyes too much and I didn't have to run in the dark at the start. The X-Talon 212s were awesome on the single track and I didn't smash my face into the ground once.
Written by Andy Cole - http://www.ajc-runninglate.blogspot.co.uk