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. |
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!
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