The James Stampeed Ultra

Winding up through the hills behind Hanmer Springs, it seems as though the bus driver is going for some sort of large-vehicle-mountain-drifting record as he hurls the bus through the steep and gravelly bends.  The morning is still inky and new.  Great hulking mountains begin to resolve themselves into the dawn.  Heading towards the start-line, we are absorbed in to the fog flooded the valley.

The sun is bleeding onto the peaks above us as we pile off the bus into the freezing morning.  Some hardy souls appear to have camped here over night.  My feet are numb, and I am wearing all of the poly-props that the extensive gear list has insisted I bring.  My pack feels of tramp-worthy weight.  We stomp about in circles lamenting the lack of warm morning beverages, and make various trips to the loos.  My tummy has been playing up all night, and I live in perpetual fear of becoming the next runner of viral fame, crossing the finish line with the evidence of digestive stress in plain sight.  Running, in fact, in the most liquid sense.  I am hoping my insides play fair for the next few hours.

"Stampeding" into the mountains

We set off a bit after 7, dashing immediately through mud, and then beginning to climb.  Its not very steep, but my cold bones and icy feet make progress sluggish.  The swifter runners ahead quickly draw away.  The mountains unfold around me, glowing golden in the morning sun.  Already I feel tiny in this vast landscape.  I am glad to be running slowly enough to enjoy the huge lumps of mountains rising above me, their great schist-laden sides shrouding the bluffs in cold shade.

By the time I reach the top my feet have thawed.  The trail begins a zig-zagging descent, plunging into the folding fingers of one of the most stunning mountain-scapes I have seen.  I race downward to the stream, my feet skidding amongst the hoof prints of the legendary wild horses.  I imagine that the swift head runners have actually morphed into centaurs, and are galloping through the race, putting my two-legged attempt to shame.

St James Wild Horses

I am feeling faster now, plunging along the valley and through the scrub, splashing through a myriad of creek crossings.  Every few hundred meters reveals magnificent vistas.  The narrow valley funnels me between towering peaks, propelling me into the grassy river flats of the Stanley.  The course becomes muddier.  I splash through the sticky, and rather smelly muck, not making any attempt to avoid any deeper sections.  Suddenly I am submerged in mud up to my waist.  An innocent looking mud puddle, concealing a deep muddy hole worthy of the very worst slap-stick comedy sketch.

After dragging myself out I laugh out loud, possibly like a mad-woman, and for quite some time, imagining how comical I must have looked.  I laugh more when I look down and see that the mud-hole has endowed me with the dirty looking legs and pants that I feared a dicky tummy might have resulted in.  Hilarious!

Lake Guyron

The trail wound up to the glassy Lake Guyron.  I ran past the snow capped peaks reflected at my feet, before heading back to the first aid station.  The sun was reaching well into the valley now, and I began on the multitude of cool river crossing that provided clement relief from the warming day.  Bone coloured tussocks lined the river, and the trail negotiated various twists and bluffs, providing beaut views of river flowing below.  Somewhere along this stage of the race, by knee started to get rather achy.  I pretty much ignored it and kept running, but from here on out, my pace was basically shot.

After running through the valley for a while, the trail climbed towards the beating sun, and onto "The Racecourse".  This vast bowl of low-lying alpine vegetation, nestled between rounded, gravelly mountains, seemed to be surfaced entirely of sponge.  Progress here was tiring, and a lack marked trail made for intrepid route selection across the stretching length of plateau.  Cue an aerial shot traversing the scene from end to end, the tiny spec of a struggling trail runner, seen dwarfed against the landscape.

Fluorescent signs, direct me up a washed-out ravine, climbing higher and higher until I crest a narrow ridge.  I can see the river valley far below, flimsy dots of runners and cyclists travel along the pale dusty road.  I know I still have a fair way to go, and I feel jealous of those below who are so much further ahead on their journey to the finish line.  I dash along the ridge, truly understanding how other runners feel when they describe the landscape as invigorating and energizing.  I am by no means on the highest point of the mountains around me, and it is humbling to be so high up, and yet so low.

Looking back out over the "Race Course"

The aptly named "Bums-Rush" looms as my next major obstacle.  It seems like an impossibly steep descent, and is lined with rather slippery looking tussock.  I wish that I had brought a sledge with me.  I run down, partly with tiny steps, partly wildly out of control, partly on my backside, and nearly propel myself right into the middle of the aid tent.  Tenacious mountain bikers rush past. Brightly coloured flashes against the bleaching heat of the Edwards River Valley.

Yep, that's the road down there that I have to get to!

I was now somewhere in the vicinity of 16km from the finish.  I took solace in the fact that I covered that distance on long boring Canterbury Plains gravel roads two or three times a week.  I hoped to be finished in just a couple of hours.  I settled into the run.  I knew I was going pretty slowly by now.  I felt the form on my whole left side breaking down, hip, knee and ankle weakened by distance and punishment.  Mountain bikers constantly streamed past.  Without exception they offered friendly encouragement, and checked to see that I was ok.  There were a few times when I was feeling pretty low on this last leg (one could say, I was on my last legs), and those cheery words of praise really helped to keep me on task.  I expected that I would need to walk, but by this stage, my relatively slow shuffle-run felt (bizarrely) more comfortable, or at-least more industrious.

I shed a few tears when my knee felt too sore, or when I found that this 16km was going to take me closer to three hours, but by the time I headed into my last climb, I was just keen to get on with it.  The last ascent deposited me onto a smooth track (reminiscent of the rail-trail), and I coasted through the last few kilometers to the finish.  I desperately wanted to pull out all the stops and speed in at the end, but my knee and the nearly 9 hours of running meant that I had to be contented with just keeping up a steady pace.

I felt that the sun light was accumulating that heady golden glow of the late afternoon, but that may have just been the exhaustion.  This race really took it out of me, but in lots of ways I was really proud to have run for so long, to have even made it to the start line after my night-long, dehydrating relationship with the toilet, and to have kept going despite the "knee-issue".  I would have liked a faster time, but I suppose that I would need to complete some speed training if I wanted to be quick.

The James Stampeed Ultra, is hands down, one of the most stunning mountain runs New Zealand has to offer.  The landscape is even more spectacular than I had anticipated, and the terrain, for the most part, is extremely runnable.   It was hot, but we were so lucky to have such impressive weather.  The race is well organised, and the volunteer marshals were fantastic.  This is the sort of race that I will 100% return to in 2015, (fitter and faster!?), but I absolutely can't wait for it.  Hopefully this fantastic race will gain the notoriety it deserves, and will take its place as one of New Zealand's Must Run events.

Second placed woman Leah Anstis wrote this fab report for her race:

St James Stampede Race Report

I would like to thank my feet: 9 hours of running, 14 river crossings, 1600m of climb and not a blister in sight!

Total Vertical Ascent To Date: 7145m