Peering through layers of wet, freezing air at cloud laden Flagstaff, I feel a distinct lack of motivation for getting up in the morning and wading across the skyline. The poor course markers are out in this.
Its not an early start, a leisurely pre-race breakfast, for once a luxury, and then out into the reasonably chilly, but thankfully not rainy morning. Registration. A flurry of fluorescent running garb. Endless deliberation over waterproof or not waterproof out-layers. Consternation over new seam-sealing requirements. Race briefing, hardly audible over nervous pre-race chatter. And we are off.
Dashing into the damp bush at Ross Creek, the air grows colder in the leafy darkness. The first climb begins. A limb-searing push up the steep little incline to the reservoir. And then upwards to the snow line. My legs feel sluggish and my feet, little frozen blocks of meat, progress is slow and unrewarding. As I become one with the city skyline, the harbour and streets stretch out below, grey on grey and utterly brilliant - it makes a change to be looking out over a city scape, and what better city view than that of Dunedin.
On reaching the summit of Flagstaff, we are instructed to high-five the trig point, before re-tracing out footsteps back towards Swampy. I careen down hill, legs now well warm, and footsteps turning over like a windmill. The traverse to Swampy Summit is a bit muddy and damp, and includes a couple of sharp little climbs. The wind is colder up here than I had anticipated, but I am well rugged up, and working hard enough to keep warm. Over the summit, and through a shivering crowd of supporters and relay runners, and down through the chute - a brilliant track cut through the thick undergrowth. I run fast downhill, almost out of control, bouncing off shrubs and slithering around corners.
The decent briefly becomes a four wheel drive track, before plunging into bush. This next section I fondly dubbed 'the mud-skiing section'. The track comprises of gloriously thick mud, varying in consistency from custard to icing. My shoes, and sense of balance disappear into the ooze. I slide, head first, on more than one occasion. I am covered in mud, including my face. I am in trail running heaven. I use the time honored mogul-come-jungle-gym mud negotiation technique, skidding down the steep drops, and lunging shoulder-wrenching swings between branches to try and maintain a more or less upright demeanor .
All too soon the mud turns back into trail, and then into asphalt. Across the motorway, and then straight into the next climb up Mt Cargill. A winding trail through bush deposits me further up the side of the mountain than I had anticipated, and the last push to the transmitter on the top is quickly over. Again bitterly cold wind bites into my bones as I fly under the red and white tower that appears to drift eternally against the sky.
I race down the track to Bethunes Gully, not just letting my body descend under the gentle pull of gravity, but running truly fast, keeping my quads loose and my strides long. Tearing downwards through forest, I reach the bottom in 12 minutes. My legs, feeling a little waster, protest as I try to crank up the speed for the final run along the flat. Hostile pavement hammers into the soles of my feet, familiar streets and houses stream by, and I turn the final corner to Chingford Park. The site of many a primary school cross-country meet, I had expected the final run over the grass to stretch endlessly ahead of me, but time has shrunk the field, and it is just a short sprint to the finish line.
I finish in 2hours 33min, a time that I am happy with, but that I wish was smaller. The weather holds out as the final competitors stream across the line in patches of sunshine, but the rain sets in as prize giving concludes. All in a brilliant run, over familiar and well-loved terrain. The biggest hero's of the day: the marshals smiling through blue lips on the tops of the mountains. Thanks for a beaut event on a bitter day.
