Friday, November 15, 2013

Boulder Bay Classic

Lying in bed.  Its two in the morning.  I know that in just a couple of hours I have to drag myself out of my warm and comfortable bed and drive for a couple of hours to get to the Boulder Bay Classic.  I hope that I can get a bit more unbroken sleep before I have to get up (I always sleep restlessly before a race - some deep, dark part of my consciousness eternally fearful that I will oversleep and miss the impending race, exam, bus, plane or job interview that I am angsting about).  I already ran one race this weekend.  I am not sure if I want to run tomorrow (which is really already today).  Its a long way to go for a 10km race.  I decide that I will see how I feel when my alarm goes off at 5am.

I fall back into a fitful sleep and dream that a freak snow storm has cut me off from the race.  I also dream that I am in Dunedin, and that I have to take two calves with me to run.  Part of me calculates that I would never make it from Dunedin before the race briefing.  I am off the hook.  Decision made. No way that I would make it in time.  My alarm cuts through the snowy scene.

I have been looking forward to this run.  The course and setting are supposed to be lovely.  I slide out of bed, and drag myself to my dutifully laid out race gear.  The weather yesterday was stunning, so I opt for shorts, singlet and a top layer for warmth.  Its still kind of dark.  Am I really awake enough to drive?  I munch through a couple of pieces of toast then head out into the grey fingers of dawn.

I fight the dreary morning feeling of recovering from a physical beating.  A hot chocolate and Em's Power cookie from the Rolleston BP go a long way to restoring a semblance of  humanness to my countenance.  The day is quite dismal, but I am beginning to feel quite ready to run.

Wending my way through pre-consciousness Sunday morning Christchurch is peaceably enjoyable despite the war-torn state of the road surface heading towards Sumner.  The forcibly reduced speed limit provides a sobering opportunity to absorb views of half-wrecked houses drooped forlornly over the edges of cliffs.  People used to live in those houses.  I haven't visited the eastern suburbs since 21.02.11.

The road over to Taylors mistake is almost impossibly steep and windy.  I choose 2nd gear for most of the twisting climb and descent.  I am grateful that there is no line of frustrated traffic willing me out of their path.

I am one of the first to arrive at race head quarters.  The air is a bit chillier than I had anticipated.  I register, and amuse myself by listening to the keen and the fit discuss their training programs and sporting accomplishments.  Everyone's training is vastly more comprehensive than mine.  Never mind, its lovely to be next to the ocean.

The race briefing covers the usual courtesy and safety pointers ("don't push fellow competitors over cliff edges into the sea", etc.).  Then its down to the sand for the race start.

I decide that in lieu of my race the previous day a warm up may be in order, and I trot off down the sand, willing some blood and warmth into my leg muscles.  A couple of hundred of other runners shiver and turn purple next to me on the start line.  No ipods for this race.  I take a few deep breaths and listen to the waves and the gulls.  The starting horn sounds and we surge forward.

For the first few hundred meters we all paddle through sand.  A lucky few manage to retain dignity while running across the shifting grains, but I feel like Road Runner, legs rotating madly on the spot, digging more of a hole than making forward progress. The effort and energy poured into wading across the beach is stymied as we all bottle neck as beach transitions onto the narrower trail.

The trail starts climbing almost immediately, but the gradient is comfortable.  Winding around the first bluff, the coast of Banks Peninsular curves away into the distance.  Pale cliffs tufted with grey-green coastal grass rise intermittently above the restless sea.  To my left the ground drops away steadily, the water below me is forest coloured.  After the first short climb, the trail zig-zags down again.  I am passing people at quite a pace.  I am also warming up.  I struggle out of my long sleeves.  One of the marshals good naturally chastises me for tying the top around my waist while simultaneously descending a flight of steps.

I try to keep my pace strong, and power through the uphill sections.  Two steep-ish ascents follow.  I am greeted by smiling and encouraging marshals at every turn and at the top of every rise: "well done, that was a hard climb", "you're doing really well", "keep it up".  Even the little kids, clap and cheer each runner.  I wonder if these marshals have attended a special marshaling school where they are taught great beaming smiles, and varied phrases of encouragement.  They are all, without exception, excellent.

I am passing people as I run up hill.  This does not usually happen.  More often I am being passed, mostly by very athletic runners who look pityingly (and sometimes concernedly) at me as they go by, possibly wondering if this sweaty, beetroot faced and gasping person dragging themselves upwards is experiencing some sort of coronary failure.

I burst over the rise of the second climb and almost immediately plunge again into the descent over Godly Head, down towards Lyttleton Harbor.  I throw myself whole heartedly into the descent.  The trail is fantastically groomed, and extremely easy to run down.  I barely need to look at where I am putting my feet.  I like to think that I run actively down hill.  I think a lot of people run down quite passively, especially after a climb.  They tend to lean forward, aim for one foot in front of the other, and let gravity do the rest.  I run hard down hill.  Gravity and muscles working together, making me feel fast, making me look like a run-away windmill.  I don't care, I am passing more people.

The course turns its back on the harbour, and I am heading up hill again.  Faced with steps (usually an excuse to walk) I power on.  There aren't many steps.  As the climb rounds out I hear bag pipes.  A lone piper is stationed just after the half way  point.  In full regalia and silhouetted against the silver sky,  the familiar notes of "The Skye Boat Song" fill the air between sea and sky.  I blink back tears and think of my staunchly proud Scottish grandmother, who was stationed at the Godly Head Military Base during the second world war.  It is hard not to feel as though her spirit is cheering me on through the drone of the pipes.  I run a little harder.

Cresting the rise before the drinks station I smile madly as the photographer squints down her lens in my direction.  I am having am enormously great time.  My legs feel strong.  I am running up hill.  And as a bonus I have been making great progress.  The photographer says she wished everyone smiled like that.  I reply that I am having a great run, in a spectacular place - I can't help smiling.

The "I've just run up a hill" smile.
Past the water station, I take a water in one hand and electrolytes in the other.  Most of both end up down my front.  The liquid that I do manage to get down my throat is delightfully refreshing and perfectly timed.  The course heads down hill again to rejoin the first section of the course.  I have no idea how long I have been running, only that I feel fast.  I would like to come in at around the one hour mark.

Back along the same track, I know I have a couple of climbs to make before the finish.  I pound along.  Not wearing my ipod means I am very tuned into my body and I feel I am able to squeeze every ounce of effort out of my bones and muscles.  In the distance I can see houses dotted around Taylor's Mistake, distractedly I wonder who Taylor was, and what their mistake might have entailed.

Patches of native coastal scrub cling to the steep hill sides.  Forced to grow in a slanted crouch, the plants turn their back on the ferocious wind and stinging salty spray that burns their leaves and stems.  Running the around the cove preceding the final climb before the finish, I push hard to hold off the runners behind me.  I know that they will walk up this finial hill.  I will run.

After bounding up the last climb, I can see one young runner just ahead of me.  She looks as though she is effortlessly coasting along.  I put my head down to see if I can pass her in the last few hundred meters.  I have underestimated this young lass, she is bloody fast, and is determined to finish ahead of me.  A large band of her supporters crane over the finishing shoot, urging her ahead, cheering her on to finish at speed.  I know I have given this race everything I have, and can't push any harder.  The fast young girl pulls ahead to finish a second or two in front.  I want to shake her hand for being such fast and worthy dash-to-the-finish competition.  She calls be a bitch and walks away.  Never mind.  I am still grinning as much as I was at the half way point.

I really loved this race.  I don't know if it was the dramatic setting, the marvelous marshals, the bag pipes, or that I was well fueled and race ready.  What ever the reason, the inaugural running of the Boulder Bay Classic was an undeniable joy and success.

I hang around for the prize-giving.  Runners nestle into the golden grassy stubble of the race HQ field, backs to the chilly breeze.  Above us, paraponter's drift down under the still grey sky.  The prize giving is held promptly after the race (another excellently planned aspect), and includes a great range of rewards for place-getters and spot-prize receivers alike.  I wait hopefully for my number to be drawn.  Alas no spot prizes for me today...again.  I am however thrilled to learn that I finished less than ten minutes behind the lead women in my category.  Go me!

I absolutely recommend this race for anyone that loves running or trails.  The race is well planned and organised.  The marshals should be cloned and evenly distributed around other events.  The coast is beautiful and the trail in extremely runnable.  Even though the course is not really technical, there is enough climbing and descending to keep it interesting, and it is marvelous to be able to get a really good look at the scenery without having to worry about loosing your footing.  I loved every second.  Do it!

Friday, November 8, 2013

Bell Hill Challenge

You know you have a running addiction when you drive 300km to run 18km.  Up quite a steep mountain.  On a really hot day.

Arriving at the race venue, I was greeted by announcements over the PA system suggesting that men vacate the port-a-loo que and hop the fence to relieve themselves therefore freeing up more loos for the "women and others".  I wondered who or what these others might be.  It was a glorious blue-sky day,  the sun beating down on the friendly, festival atmosphere of the start area.

Bell Hill rose sheer and forest-clad above the verdant pastures below.  The race began with a very steep climb toward the summit, runners and walkers slogging upwards; a multi coloured snake winding its way up the mountain side.  Progress was pretty slow, although there were a few sections were the contour allowed me a bit of an upwards jog-shuffle.  The higher we rose, the steeper the ascent.  Climbing on my hands and knees and negotiating an obstacle course of fallen trees and waist-height steps, the progress of the runners ahead of me was intermittent, often grinding to a halt just as I was balanced precariously on tip toe, legs tensed to spring up what was increasingly feeling like a near vertical slope.  My calf muscles, unused to such sporadic progress, began to protest, sending little riffs of agony up my legs.

A couple of junctures provided the opportunity to make a little faster progress.  On one such occasion, a que of runners patiently waited to struggle over a barbed wire fence, everyone crossing at the same span of wire, where the crotch-shredding barbs had been replaced with good old number eight.  I am pretty used to hurdling fences of the sharp and/or electric persuasion (with varying degrees of success, and very little elegance), so I decided to hop over and skip the line.  I ran up to the post where I planned my leap, one foot on the middle wire, ready to hurdle the fence in one great bound.  My hand went down to the fence, landing right on one of those devilish little spikes, my momentum already propelling my body upwards, too late to prevent my weight from forcing the barb to puncture my palm.  I sort of tripped/fell over the top wire.  Grimacing partly at the pain in my hand, but mostly at my clumsy traverse, I put my head down and ran towards the next incline.

All of a sudden, the peak of the climb came into view.  And then I was at the top, bounding over tussocks to touch the cairn marking the summit.  In front of me the forested landscape folded into the foothills of grey mountains.  All around, the vast patchwork of Canterbury farmland faded into the coastal haze, the bright sunshine displaying all the richness of colour of the alpine world - the whole vista was domed under the brilliant blue heavens.

The course followed the ridge-line for a short while, before beginning a reasonable but still quite steep descent to the forest trails below.  I like running down hill.  I can keep up quite a bit of speed and I enjoy the challenge of choosing good foot placement, picking a good route and keeping my balance.  I charged down.  As the trail flattened out again a crippling cramp developed in the region of my diaphragm.  I am getting quite good at running on when I get stitch and cramps in my core.  But my pace was definitely slowed down as I shuffled through the ache.

The trail continued through pine forest, every breath smelling sweetly of Christmas.  Wind-blown debris  littered the trail, and spots of blinding sunlight burst through the canopy, breaking holes in the chill, foresty darkness.  After descending gently for quite a while, the course began to climb again.  The gradient was very runnable, and it was a joy to run up hill after all the walking.

With only a couple of kms to go, the trail left the cool clemency of the forest and hurled the runners into baking sunlight.  On such a windless day, the heat seemed to radiate from every direction, beating up from the ground, and down from the mountain sides.  The course crossed a couple of deliciously cool streams before rounding the final bend towards the finish.  After boosting my fueling with a mule bar and gel, and the cramp quite dissipated, I was feeling energetic and strong for the finish.  I pushed myself quite hard for the last few minutes, wanting to give it my all towards the finish. I crossed the line in around 2 hours 20 min.

The Bell Hill Challenge was great fun, my only wish was that I had more opportunity to have a go at running the really steep bits.  It was a fantastic day for a mountain run, and a good course.  I am more and more impressed with the caliber of races that Canterbury has to offer.

Saturday, November 2, 2013

Twizel Pyramid Run

Five Thirty AM.  I was surprised to see that the sun is already starting to rise so early.  Toast.  Hot Chocolate.  Scramble into race gear that I had carefully assembled the previous evening.  I was envisaging a hot, sunny day, so had opted for short Skins and a singlet.  At the last minute I also grabbed a hat, and a couple of thermal layers to stave of the early morning chill.

I was lucky enough to have my Sister staying with me Labor Weekend, and she was accompanying me to the race, which was treat.  Heading away from the planes and in land, the mountains of the McKenzie Country looked suspiciously snow covered.  I didn't think that the night had been that cold.  With the sun climbing behind us, the mountains and plains were brilliantly illuminated against the angry black clouds forcing their way towards us at the mercy of the relentless Nor'wester.

I love the McKenzie Basin.  Those vibrant lakes, the stark peaks, the parched landscape: a little bowl of alpine wonderland wedged between the Canterbury Foothills and the Main Divide, undeniably beautiful no matter what the weather.  Race day was no exception, the landscape scudding between moody winter storm, and brilliantly bright day, sun and clouds battling for supremacy.  I started to wonder if the meager collection of light running apparel was going to be sufficient.  It started to snow.

I had great hopes for this race.  My reduction in training (partly due to knee injury, partly due to work and home life commitments) has been quite distressing, so I imagined that if I could run a good time for this event, it would somehow mean that I had not lost fitness.

Drawing near the start-line, a madly waving figure donned all in florescent's signaled that the upcoming river was fording the road.  It bloody well looked as though it was over half a meter deep.  It was going to be touch-and-go for my little car to make it across without the engine flooding.  However needs must when it comes to a running race, so I edged across, hoping that we would be able to make the return journey without casting afloat.

Securely parked on dry land, we exited the car to brave the freezing winds that were slicing their way down from the peaks above.  It was announced that due to extreme weather conditions, the course had been altered and would no longer traverse rivers or crest the peak of the Pyramid.  I was disappointed, as the new course offered a lot less climbing, and a lot more running head on into the hellish wind.  Never mind, I could still give it my all, and hopefully manage a reasonable time.

The runners started out.  The cold air burning its way into my lungs as I determinedly tried to keep the pace that I had set for myself.  We followed the road over the canal before heading out across farmland and then onto forest trails.  Pushing along, my Camelbak felt nearly as heavy as my legs, and with every runner that passed me, I cursed my lack of training/ill-preparedness/lack of fueling.

As the course climbed towards the saddle, I put my head down, and got stuck into the climb.  The ground was quite greasy, but very runnable.  I was so caught up in my "need for speed", that I failed to take in much of the view that was unfolding below me, only casting a cursory glance over my shoulder before plunging back down the hill.  Behind me spanned the McKenzie Basin, straw coloured and vast.  In the distance, the sharp edges of the ranges were highlighted by the brilliant white of fresh snow.  The painfully azure ribbon of the canal tangled across the valley floor.

At the bottom of the saddle the real 'hard labor' began for me.  The trail undulated (always seeming to be slightly climbing) through thick mud and deep pools of surface water, skirting the base of the Pyramid.  I love muddy running, and this gloriously mucky trail did a lot to lift my spirits.  I marvel at the runners carefully picking the driest and cleanest paths around the edges of the messy areas of the trail.  I take so much joy in splashing (or squelching) through, that I rather think they are missing the point (or at the very least all of the fun).

Rounding the northern most end of the Pyramid, the course changed direction, looping back towards the start.  The wind was so ferocious and ever-present, that it did not seem to matter which direction I was running, it was always in my face.  The last few kilometers of the trail struck out across farmland again, before dropping back over the canal, for a lung bursting dash to the finish.  I had hoped to cover the distance in close to an hour and a half, so was feeling a bit dejected when I crossed the line in close to two.

But all of that was forgotten when I was greeted by my sister, who was braving the cold and the hell-wind to cheer me on to the finish.  My heart was also warmed when I runner that had been struggling for quite a while just ahead of me (buoyed on by his faithful companion), had his two young children run into his arms, he heaved them onto his shoulders before stumbling the last few meters to the finish.  Lovely.

I felt a bit disappointed by this race, and my performance (or lack there of) for a couple of days.  I really need to organize my schedule to fit in the sort of training that I want to cover to feel comfortable for racing, and I need to make a habit of checking weather conditions before racing.  I think that I could have fueled more effectively before, and possibly during the race.  All of those things will help my enjoyment and sense of accomplishment.  But the thing that disappointed me the most, was that I let myself get so caught up in my performance, that I forgot to enjoy the incredible trail that I was running.  Consequently,  I think I will leave my watch behind for a little while, and instead I will watch the scenery.  Any performance above and beyond finishing and feeling that I have done my best is icing on the proverbial cake.