The problems started early in the morning. Due to my usual lack of pre-race organisation, I left home later than planned (to comfortably make the race start) and in enough of a nervous-running-late-jitter, so that I failed to locate race HQ on a map prior to departing. We made it to the race start with about 5 min to go, and I rushed to secure my race number, and then dashed off to find the loo, for what I hoped was going to be the fastest pre-race-nervous-wee in history.
I multi-tasked my way through my bathroom pit-stop, my race number was pinned to my chest, ipod securely wedged into my lug-holes, Camelbak organised....I was cutting it pretty fine, but I was ready to go. THE BLOODY TOILET DOOR WAS STUCK! I wrestled with the stupidly tiny lock, that was stubbornly jammed. Good god, after all of this, I was going to miss the race, while I was stuck in the toilet!
Finally I broke free of my lavatory prison, and rushed towards the start line, fumbling with Camelbak straps and GPS watch. The start line was stomach-twistingly empty. I had missed the race start.
Officials smiled pityingly at me, and pointed me off along the street: "you're about five minutes late". How embarrassing! Still if I ran really well, I might be able to make up some time, maybe even recapture the tail-enders. I charged off up the hill.
It was a beautiful morning to run up the Port Hills. The air was crisp and cool, and the city spread out below me as I climbed, looking fresh and white in the early morning sun. After pushing myself fast up the hill (even I felt impressed by my effort), the tiny figures ahead of me, were still disappearing into the distance, I didn't think that I had gained at all.
At the top of the climb, the course started to follow mountain biking trails, and headed west around the crater rim. I cannoned off, absolutely loving the undulating single trail that bounced and wove around the hill side. The course crossed the road and continued on a second trail. At the next intersection, I reasoned that the course must re-cross the road, as I could see no runners on the trail ahead of me. I crossed the road, and ran on. For quite some time, I saw no signs of other racers. After about a km I came upon a man walking his huskies, I inquired if he had come across any runners, he replied that he had seen the race - taking part on the trail on the other side of the road. Expletive. I was running the wrong way. I had gotten lost in the middle of the race. Could this race go any better? If I hadn't been enjoying the run so much, I would have felt quite defeated.
The kind man took pity on me, and gave me directions back to the race. I back tracked the km I had run, and resumed the race. (I took some solace later on, learning that others had been confused at various junctures where the race course was not as well marked as it could have been). I plunged on. The trail rose and fell a little more now, and there was more than one intersection where I was required to use my detective skills and logical reasoning (my higher brain function is never at its strongest in the middle of a run) to ensure that I kept going the right way.
The day was warming up, so I welcomed the cool patches of forest-shaded trail that led me towards the Sign of the Kiwi. I will still running fast, and still had no sign of runners a head of me. At the sign of the Kiwi, smiling race officials handed me icy water (appreciated), and directed me to the next part of the race.
The course climbed again for a while, before regaining the rim. Heaps of other cyclists, running clubs, and walkers were out using the trail and it was lovely to be surrounded by people making the most of such a brilliant day, and enjoying their various outdoors pursuits, especially when so many of them offered kind words of encouragement, and warm-hearted smiles. Thank you Christchurch.
It was about this time that I saw the first runner heading back towards me, he screamed past, second and third place tightly in tow. These guys are seriously fast and accomplished! I knew that at the best of times, I am a long way off the pace of the leaders, so on this slightly disastrous day, I couldn't take the front runners presence as an indication that I was somewhere near half way.
As I ran on, more and more runners came back in the opposite direction. The trail wove through some dense scrub, breaking out on the crests of the hills to reveal brilliant views of Lyttleton harbour (blue and picturesque) far below on one side, and the city and plains on the other. This race was one of the first times that I have been running so hard that I have had little time to appreciate and absorb my surroundings, but I remember a multitude of sun-bleached tussocks, a brilliant blue sky, and the rusty-muddy clay of the track.
A litttle further on, I knew that the lat runner in front of me had just come back in the other direction. I had to be close to the turn around now. Those runners in front had been walking up a reasonably shallow incline, and I was running all the time, so surely I might catch up with one of them. Stumbling up a rocky outcrop I fell down and cut open my knee (thankfully that one that hasn't been nursing an injury). Blood seeped down my leg - war wound). Then out of no where, I came to the half way point. Yahoo. Now I could have a serious go at catching those in front.
I downed a Mule Bar and gel and upped my pace. Hurtling back along the course, I could see the officials were closing the course behind me. At every intersection, and checkpoint, a small crowd of the same people cheered me on, congratulated me on my pace, and encouraged me to keep it up. I couldn't tell if their support was out of pity, but because I felt like I was going hell for leather, I hoped that it was because I was doing well. After a while I began to pretend that my little entourage were my team of coaches etc. and that I was an elite athlete, closing in on a world record (I have quite the imagination). It was nice to be so far behind that I could pretend I was in front. It was thrilling to pretend that I was actually good and fast, it might just have given me a little more speed. My imagination is obviously good for my running esteem.
Back at the Sign of the Kiwi I expected the route to continue following the same trail in reverse, but instead the trail took the path on the upper side of the road. A multitude of hitherto unexpected steps greeted me. I slogged upward and plunged on along the ridge. The trail undulated through bush, providing some sublime shade against the building heat of the day. I still held out (a dwindling) hope that if I ran fast enough, I would catch a runner ahead. So I was really pleased when rounding a sharp corner I happened upon not one, but two runners. I dashed past and up the next hill. More bush, more shaded trail, then a silver-haired walker pulling up their pants after seeking an emergency comfort stop in the middle of the trail. Nice.
The course rejoined the original trail, a mountain bike track, that lead back to the final steep descent. By now there were plenty of mountain-bikers gasping their way up the rise. And despite the fact that there were signs clearly stating the presence of a running race, and requesting that runners be shown courtesy, biker after biker made no attempt to accommodate me on "their" path. I thought that I would be kind and step off the trail to run so that bikers wouldn't have to stop. No one smiled. No one offered thanks. No one even really acknowledged my existence. Maybe they were tired. Trail runners are so much nicer.
I let gravity take control of the final steep descent, and although racing down the hill was making the joint of my sore knee clash together like the osteo-cymbals from hell, I couldn't help going as fast as I could, trying to make up all the lost time possible. By the bottom, my legs felt pretty wasted, but I still had a short jaunt on the flat (and excruciating) sealed roadway to the finish. I pounded along, pushing hard all the way to the finish. My time was 3 hours and 10 min. Not too bad considering I put in an extra couple of kms and started late.
I would like to think that I have learned my lesson about organisation and race-preparedness. I definitely hope that I never start another race that far behind the pack. I had thought that I would cover the course in about 4 hours, so I am really pleased with my time. Would I have run as hard if I hadn't started late and gotten lost? Who knows. But I feel inspired to push a bit harder in future races. It is nice to think that my running just might be improving. But more important than all of that, I had one hell of a great time running this disastrous race.
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