The Great Shoe Conundrum

As you may (or may not be aware) Mizuno have discontinued their Wave Ascent 7, in favor of the new Wave Ascend 8.  I was a but gutted that they stopped the 7, as anyone who knows me at all will know, I love this shoe!  My trail shoes are like my best friends, and I need them to be comfortable, grippy, flexible, supportive, and if at all possible, really funky colours.

My first tactic was to buy up as many pairs of the 7s as I could get my hands on, but these went pretty quickly as I am sure there are many others who love these as much as me.  I was debating over whether or not I should try something more minimalist, when I stumbled upon (not literally) the Mizuno Cabrakan.  These shoes came highly recommended by another ultra and trail runner, and are apparently more grippy and more trail specific than the 7s.

And as luck would have it Santa has bought me some for Christmas.

I am still making up my mind about these shoes, as the ride does feel a bit stiffer and a little different than the 7s, but watch this space to see how the exciting saga of the shoe conundrum concludes.  I have my fingers crossed that these shoes will fulfill my needs and become my new best friends on the trails.

Mt Somers Mountain Marathon

I was looking forward to the Mt Somers Mountain marathon, as it was my last race for 2013, and my first official mountain marathon.  I was worried that I was not well enough prepared for this race, but my aim, as always was to finish and enjoy myself.

Race morning dawned grey and wet.  The forecast predicted nor'westerlies and heat, but I was relieved by the rain, the last time I ran the Mt Somers track it was raining and cold, so I knew I could complete the trail in those conditions.  The rain calmed my pre-race-nerves, although not enough to negate a toilet visit prior to registration.

A small group of supremely fit runners clustered around the 4WD doubling as registration area and timing checkpoint.  I strapped on my transponder.  The race briefing was short and sweet.  The race director commented on the apparent calm of the runners "if I was about to do this mountain marathon, I would be shitting myself".  For once I wasn't.  Being part of such a small field was a privilege.  Obviously only the fit and serious had turned out, so I was pretty proud to count myself amongst their number.

We lined up, and headed out into the cool drizzle.  The fastest immediately began to pull away, and the feminist aspect of my spirit was thrilled that the pack was being led out by a woman.  My plan had been to cover the road part of the race as fast as I possibly could to ensure that I would make the cut off time at Woolshed Creek car park.  I pushed along, and was excited to be the second placed woman, (I imagined this was going to be for quite a short interval), and reveled (on the inside) at being in a place position for the first (and possibly the only) time of my life.

The short out and back on the road quickly lead us to the beginning of the Mt Somers trail. Let the climbing begin.  For the first of many times during this race, I felt glad that I had previously run this trail, it was comforting to run familiar terrain, and measure my progress against past experience.  The climb up to Staveley Hill went quickly,  I found myself pushing harder than usual.  My competitive little soul wanted to hang on to my second place.

Breaking out of the beech forest, I marveled at the rich and rusty tapestry of the alpine landscape.  When ever I look at mountains from a distance they appear grey or blue, but once I am up close and amongst the peaks, I love how the reds and oranges of the plants seem to make the ridges glow at my feet.

Familiar landscapes passed much more quickly than the last time I ran; the turn off for the summit, edging past the vast land slip, passing through the avalanche zone, and then descending towards the South Face.  All the while the weather was clearing - cloud lifts, patches of blue sky, then brilliant sunshine.  By the time I was am running along the South Face, I had an expansive view of the plains below and the mountain sweeping away above me.  After a fast traverse of the face, the track climbed again to the ridge where it bifurcated, one trail leading to Woolshed Creek hut via the "bus stop", the other, the one I havdn't explored, heads down to Woolshed Creek car park.  At this point I realise that I am getting quite hungry, but want to keep up my pace, so I don't eat (will I ever learn?), and instead begin battle with the wind as I descend.

One thing that I am really wary of is running in the mountains when the winds are strong.  This is something that I try to avoid when I am running on my own, as I am scared to being blown off an exposed ridge.  I am also sensible of the fast and sometimes furious weather changes that can accompany strong winds.  The wind pressed me against the mountain as I began the descent - only a little terrifying.  The track at this juncture was steep and each precarious drop and switch back left me with a vague sense of vertigo (probably not helped by my low blood sugar levels).  Mostly my pace was reduced to a hurried walk, but even this extra caution doesn't prevent me from painfully turning my left ankle (the one with the fickle knee attached) twice.

The landscape is grey here, and baron.  I think bitterly that most forms of life must get blown away from here in the hell-wind.  I was finding the descent really challenging and a little demoralizing (evidenced by my decreased interest in holding onto that second place - there were in fact times when I wouldn't have cared if the whole world passed me, as long as I could get down this steep and wretched mountainside).

A particularity large step down, coupled with a carelessly and hurriedly placed foot caused a third and deeply agonizing rolled ankle.  I collapsed onto the track with a shriek of pain and in floods of tears.  The wind snatched away my sobs, but for a couple of minutes I thought that my race was over.  I thought that I was going to have to sit half way down this mountainside-come-cliff-face and wait for another runner to help me to safety.

After two minutes of feeling really sorry for myself, I picked myself up and tested out the ankle.  It was not as damaged as it could be, and the pain was manageable and receding the more I moved.  At that point I don't know if I was more disappointed that I might have to stop, or that I might be able to keep going.  The end of the race felt line an awfully long way away.  I tried the 'phone a friend option', hoping the a brief chat with my better half, or Mum or Dad would sufficiently bolster my spirits to bravely continue.  Cell phone reception was, for the time, uncooperative, so I tried eating instead, and magically, boosting my sugar intake had the same effect.

Eating seemed not only to lift my spirits, but also improved my agility and coordination, so that negotiating the remainder of the descent was less of an ordeal.  By the time I reached Woolshed Creek car-park I was feeling a lot less fragile, and gratefully knocked back a couple of electrolytes while being told that I was doing really well (I had reached the checkpoint a full two hours before cut off - yahoo), and that I looked really fresh - I wondered if the fresh appearance could be attributed to the tears.

Heading back into the bush and towards Woolshed Creek hut allowed for a short reprieve from the heat and the sun under the forgiving trees (why was I running in merino?).  The cool shade was short lived, and as I began the ascent into the heat, and past the mining ruins, the energy deficit I had created by stubbornly not eating began to take its toll.  My head and body felt oddly detached, and while my feet kept up their left, right, left cadence (sometimes stumbling more than running), the rest of me felt exhausted and ill.  I can't really describe how bad I felt, the memory has either been suppressed, or my brain was otherwise engaged in survival mode, but I am certain if there was ever a wall I had certainly hit it.  I do recall the exquisite beauty of the valley's below and the mountains around, and the vivid contrast of the silver-gold tussocks against a sky so blue it was almost purple.  What ever sensible and reasonable part of my brain that was still functioning at this point knew that I all I needed to do to feel better was to eat. So eat I did.

Two muesli bars, two gels, a mule bar and a fist full of lollies later, some semblance of humanness began to return, and by the time I reached the final climb before Woolshed Creek Hut I was back into my full stride.  I charged down the track and across the stream, heading back up the other side in time to see the next woman cresting the ridge behind me.  All the floundering around with no energy had cost me what ever lead I had over third place, but now that I was mainlining sugar again, my determination to preserver had returned.

The final climb up to the saddle was long, steep and hot (a vast contrast to the previous time I had run here, where it was freezing, wet and reduced visibility), but I was full of beans now and fairly sprinted up.  I passed a few other runners on the ascent, was just nearing the peak of the ridge, and a meter or so behind the runner in front of me, when calf cramp dug its searing talons into my calf.  I let out a bellow of pain.  The runner turned to see what wild animal was nearing, and I smiled and said hello, as if yelling out in pain was my usual method of signalling my approach.

I slurped down another gel (have you ever looked at the colour of the actual gel? they are almost universally the most appalling grey), hoping that the electrolytes would sooth my muscles for the descent.  Over the ridge and down the other side.  I was buffeted by the wind again, this time trying to blow me off the track.  I raced away, expecting to be passed at any moment, but when I snatched a glance behind, the track was empty.  I pounded on.  I LOVED this section of the race.  The scenery was stunning, enormous rockfalls, towering cliffs, the steep mountains, and more of the rich, golden sun-drenched alpine wonderland.

I nipped into Pinnacles Hut for the fastest bladder fill in the history of the world, before rushing back into the forest to begin the long descent to the river.  I passed more people, and was surprised to hold them off.  It had been a good couple of months since the last time I had run this trail, but I remembered it so well, that every turn seemed familiar.  It was very comforting to know what to expect. Sheltered from the wind by the bush, the heat of the day built.  Strategically placed Land-SAR volunteers kept tabs on the runners, mostly sprawled in the shade, one enormously asleep in a deck chair with his mouth wide open.  I crept past and kept running.

Reaching the river I knew that I didn't have too far to go, and I was worried that my increasingly cramping calf muscles were going to let me down.  I raced on, keeping up a steady intake of gels and hoping that I could keep my electrolyte levels in check enough to finish strongly.  Crossing the river, the trail climbed steeply for a final time.  I ran on and on, sure that at any moment I would loose my precious second place to a faster, more skilled and seasoned runner than myself.  I pushed myself hard during this last ascent, and harder for the descent, which is steep, technical, and only ever one twisted ankle or miss-step from plungaing to tree-impaled-agony.

Reaching the well graded, wide and smooth trail leading back out to the car park was heavenly, but not as heavenly as the drink-station brimming with electrolyte drinks.  I gulped back cup after cup before pelting off down the road.  It was only two or three km to the finish, but I was sure that others must be close behind.  I resolved not to look behind me, and instead poured all my energy into wringing every last shred of energy out of my muscles for a strong finish.

The road was empty and quiet.  It was just me, the beating sun, and the seemingly infinite stretch of baking tar-seal stretching into parallax.  It didn't matter that there was no one there to see.  I ran my little heart out.  I ran as if there were crowds of people cheering me on.  I ran as though I was at the Olympics. I ran as though the whole world was watching, and not just swaying grass and singing insects.  I had just about completed my first mountain marathon.  I had just run and conquered the most challenging race of my life.  I had cried, smiled, bellowed and soared.  I was so proud of myself, and I was just about to get my first ever second place.  Inside my head I cheered and cheered.

Rounding the final corner I could see a small collection of spectators and race officials, I put my head down and ran harder.  Warm and heartfelt applause greeted me when I crossed the line.  The race officials offered praise and encouragement.  It was lovely to be apart of a small event and to get to talk to so many of the people that had made the race possible.

I loved this race, it has to be absolutely one of the best that I have run.  It is well organised, friendly, challenging and the scenery is spectacular.  I suspect that its popularity will grow immensely after its inaugural year, and I hope to see the Mt Somers Mountain Marathon take its well deserved place amongst the other world renowned events on the NZ running calendar.  A huge thank you to the organizers, and volunteers who kept tabs on everyone and who offered so many smiles.

I was the second woman to finish, but the field was so small that I am not sure if official places were awarded.  In any case, I accidentally missed the prize giving due to not checking exactly when it started (and arriving 30min late). The entire race was won by Fleur Pawsey, which is so very cool!  I hope to be that good one day.  My post-race glow lasted until well after the stiffness had worked its way out of my muscles.  I know its been a good race when I feel so inspired after I have run.  I can't wait to run Mt Somers again.

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!

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.

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.

Crater Rim Run

What a disaster!  This was one of those races where nothing seemed to go quite right, but I had a fantastic time running it!

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.

The Circumnavigation of Mt Somers

Sunday morning dawned grey and close, only the foothills visible under a dense blanket of cloud.  I had decided that I was going to run regardless of the weather (but dependant on wind conditions being calm enough that I not get blown off the mountain).  I had been keen to have a crack at the entire Mt Somers circuit since the last time I had run at Staverly, but this was to be the first time in a while that I would be running in grey weather, so I was excited and nervous about what the day would bring.

I have taken to filling out intentions forms when I go out into the mountains.  The form I use is online at Adventure Smart is quick and easy to fill out with route and ETA information, and the website automatically emails copies to your “trusted contact”, who can monitor your return and duly notify the authorities if you don’t return when expected.  I think that it is important to be smart when I am venturing into areas where I am vulnerable to the conditions or the terrain, and the intentions form provides a little peace of mind to everyone.

The peak of Mt Somers was hidden from view, but the cloud base seemed reasonably high when I left the car park at the Sharplin Falls access point of the track, so I figured that I might have some good views as I ascended.  The first part of the climb (that I had struggled with most recently) seemed infinitely more runable that it had on the previous occasion.  I attributed this easy-ish start to the cooler weather and the enormous breakfast I had consumed before setting out.

Before I reached the top of Staverly Hill the cloud started to close in, the view below growing more indistinct as I gained height.  It wasn’t long before I was running along the ridgeline, the burnt oranges and yellows of alpine plants at my feet, drifting white all around me.  The air was comfortably cool for climbing, but all the foliage was wet, and my arms were soon saturated from brushing past moisture laden leaves.

I soon reached the track turn-off for the summit, and followed the ridge a little while longer before plunging back into bush.  The track became increasingly wet and swampy as I progressed, and for long stretches I was running through ankle deep water.  The track traversed the mountainside; the bush opening out from time to time to reveal giant land slips which disappeared from the track edge into gully’s obscured by cloud.  Signs on the track warned of Avalanche Flow Zones, and advised against stopping.  Although no snow was visible, I kept a nervous eye over my shoulder as I crossed the wide and open stream beds that I assumed any avalanche activity might follow.

The river-like nature of the track made foot placement unpredictable, most of the time I was just splashing through surface water, but occasionally a foot would plunge unexpectedly into thick mud, eventually covering both legs to the knee.  On more than one occasion, my ankles found bruising and grazing objects concealed in the murk, this was run shaping up to be quite a challenging adventure.

As the track began to descend the bush changed again, dense foliage opening out into what felt like more ancient forest.  A brilliant green moss carpeted the ground, appearing to glow in the eerie, misty, cloud-filtered light.  The descent steepened, and the trail became more of a water fall, the footwork joyously technical as I negotiated a myriad of sharp rocks and slippery tree roots. 

The trail regularly dipped down to stream crossings, and I did my best to navigate my way through variously swift and lazy water flows, the soggy nature of my foot wear negating any real need to further avoid stepping in water. 

Shortly the forest opened out onto what I imagined was the true South Face of Mt Somers: a long sloping expanse of alpine landscape stretching far down to the plains below.  The cloud lifted enough for me to make out the farm land on the lower slopes, and afforded me great views of the slope I was running across.  All manner of sharp edged plants clawed at my legs and obscured the track.  I was pleased to note that said sharp plants were cutting my shins to shreds (although that description may have invoked a little dramatic licence), but I was definitely cut enough to be bleeding.   I always feel that any activity that draws blood during a run, somehow further legitimises the ruggedness of the achievement.

The very tidy Aclands Shelter appeared, and I spent a few seconds looking around it before continuing on my way.  The track persisted in being very wet, and I wondered if the mountainsides of Mt Somers consisted entirely of swamp.  After a while (and many more stream crossings), the track turned inland again and started to climb.  The landscape became more tussocky, and cloudy, and vision was restricted to within a few metres in any direction.  The track traversed billowing hills between the streams, and as the cloud shifted around me I caught glimpses of the trail behind me, some of which looked quite steep.  I pressed on into the cloud.

Running through such dense cloud in an unfamiliar landscape is quite unsettling.  I had little concept of my progress, and felt rather alone and isolated in my little world of tussock and cloud.  Needless to say, it was quite a relief whenever I came upon track signage (which was seldom), and the track information at the Rhyolite Ridge intersection was extremely welcome, although a little disheartening as it predicted that Woolshed Creek Hut was still some distance away.  I ate some muesli bars to bolster my spirits and ran on.

After some more climbing, the cloud curtain drew aside long enough for me to make out Woolshed Creek Hut in the distance.  It didn’t really look that far away.  The track started climbing again, which seemed odd, as the hut looked quite a way below me.  The ground changed again, tussocks supplanted by an alien, rocky moonscape.  I found myself surrounded by steep cliffs and bluffs, a seemingly impassable maze landscape.  The track continued to climb.  Enormous rock formations and caves greeted me as I toiled upwards.  I scurried under a ledge (tonnes of rock suspended above my head always makes me nervous), and discovered the Bus Stop sign that had been hilariously attached to the rock race.

 I seemed to have reached the top of the climb, and traversed a couple of impossibly narrow ridges, before scrambling past a river of rock polished smooth by the water flowing over it.  Everywhere I looked rugged cliffs menaced, sheer and impassable.  I was impressed and pleased that some intrepid soul had managed to forge a track through this wilderness, because if was painfully beautiful.

The hut once again came into view, much closer this time, and I sped over the shifting redish stones, desperately trying to keep one eye on the ground and one eye on the track markers.  I lost the trail only once.

Just before reaching the hut, a very narrow swing bridge appeared, traversing what from a distance, looked like quite a deep gully.  Nearing the edge, did little to make the bridge look less like a tightrope laced across a canyon.  I don’t normally have a problem with swing bridges, although they are pretty weird to run across, but this one was dwarfed by its landscape, and looked flimsy enough to make me seriously consider climbing down to the stream below, and splashing through instead.  I bravely crossed the bridge, images of the famous bridge collapse scene from Indiana Jones filling my head the whole way.  A short run (and further stream crossing) brought me to Woolshed Creek Hut.

Quite a narrow bridge - HAPPY FACE!

Woolshed Creek hut is nestled in a valley of bleached tussock, and surrounded by rolling hills, and rocky cliffs.  A cloudy stream winds its way across the valley floor.  The whole scene reminded me very much of Central Otago, and the hut looked sparkly and new.  I took the opportunity to fill my hydration bladder, and empty my human one.  Three other trampers were enjoying lunch and the view from inside the hut.  We exchanged progress, and they seemed confused that I had made such good time.  I had covered the South Face track in less than four hours, but the trampers were determined that I couldn’t possibly have managed that.  But I did.

The track climbed steadily out of the valley (and included some more river crossings).  I figured that I still had about three hours of running to go.  I passed signposts pointing out caves and other interesting geological features, but I pressed on vowing to return for further exploration in the future.  Enormous rocks and volcanic-looking rock falls littered the narrowing valley, and I had soon climbed out of its shelter and back into cloud, and for the first time, wind.  I was getting really cold, so stopped to layer up, putting on everything I had bought with me (extra thermal layers and a wind/waterproof jacket).  I was feeling pretty isolated, a bit tired, and a little sorry for myself.  The unreasonable part of my brain suggested lying down and resting for a while, but the still dominant and slightly more sensible part of me over-ruled, insisting that I press on.  I ate three more muesli bars, and started to feel better.

The track continued to climb for a while, but the dense fog meant that I had no concept of altitude or landscape, although I sensed that I was quite high.  After following a ridgeline, the trail began quite a serious descent, and I spent several sections sliding down on my bum (which I always figure is better than falling head-long on my face!).  Despite being quite slippery and just a little treacherous, I was quite enjoying the run through this section.  Having no concept of my progress, and not being able to see what lay ahead was simultaneously thrilling and terrifying.

Impressive rock flows carved by water

Seemingly out of now where, the sharpest and blackest looking cliff-peaks suddenly loomed out of the fog, slowly resolving into a precarious edifice under which the trail was forcing me to run.  I sped up.  I reasoned that such impressive rock formations were deserving of the Pinnacles title, meaning that I must not be too far from the Pinnacles Hut.  Sure enough, after a brief descent into bush (and probably about three more stream crossings), the smell of wood smoke preceded the hut itself.

Pinnacles Hut looked cosy, rustic and was framed by bush.  Several trampers were taking refuge from the wind and rain, and I chatted to a few before heading on.  A little further down the track I met a couple more trampers sweating their way upwards.  They enquired about my progress, asking if I had run the whole circuit, I answered that I had, and said “nearly at the end”, the tramper cryptically replied: “could be”.  What did he mean?  Was the end of the track affected by some sort of space-time continuum or worm hole that made reaching its end unpredictable?  Maybe he thought I was querying his progress?  I chuckled to myself.  Or maybe there was a really long and treacherous way to go, and he thought I was delusional.  The next chuckle had hints of nervousness to it.   I figured I had an hour to an hour and a half of running to go.  I hoped so, I was cutting it dangerously close to my ETA for return.  I didn’t want to have the emergency services called out.

I really loved the next section of the trail, a very runable and slightly technical undulating single trail, led me lower and lower.  It was raining quite heavily now, but I was sheltered by the dense bush.  Everything was dripping and lush, reminding me of Milford.  A multitude of further stream crossings greeted me, I was becoming quite the expert at fording my way across.  I could hear another waterway ahead, when rounding a corner, to my delight and surprise; I saw a waterfall coasting elegantly from a rock overhang, the track passing beneath.

Waterfall cascading in front of trail

The track descended to a river, and I wondered if this was the water that fed into the Sharplin Falls.  If it was, then I was running on the wrong side of it.  From here on the quality of the track deteriorated.  Land slips and fallen trees forced the trail to the river bed, and there was more than one occasion where I lost the track all together.  There were a few tense moments when I wondered if I would have to attempt a river crossing through what I would describe as nearly a raging torrent (a million stream crossings would not have been preparation enough), but further exploration revealed evidence of trail further down on the same side.  I plunged on, fancying that my tracking skills must nearly qualify me as a detective. 

A little further on, a second flimsy-tightrope-like-swing-bridge crossed the river.  I bolted across, joyous because now I was on the right side of the river to be getting quite close to the end.  The track followed the river for quite a while, and involved a lot of rock hopping and boulder scrambling (excellent practice), before climbing steeply away from the river.  This last climb was really hands and knees stuff.  Tree roots provided hand holds and I inched my way along a track that only accommodated the toes of my shoes.

The higher I climbed, the better the track became, and before long I was able to run again, although the climbing did go on for what seemed like a lot longer than necessary.  I was impressed that I was still running uphill at the end of a long day.  The descent was very welcome, but also very steep, and it felt like an age before I reached the turn off for the track to Sharplin Falls.  I was nearly there.  I had only a few minutes of very well graded and very gentle trail to cover before I reached the car.

I made it back to the car, and back to cell phone reception with less than half an hour to go before my intentions form ETA would have lapsed.  I felt really good.  I wasn’t all that tired, and my legs weren’t sore.  I was looking forward to eating something that wasn’t a muesli bar, and I was glad that there were no more streams to cross on the way home.

As I left Mt Somers, still shrouded in cloud and rain behind me, I marveled that I had run for seven hours and covered 33km and I still felt energetic.  Had I blacked out in the car park and hallucinated the whole experience?  Or am I just getting a little bit fit?

What an amazing run.  There was so much variation in landscape, foliage and environment, I think that Mt Somers is one of the most incredible places I have ventured into...And most of it was obscured by cloud!   I look forward to practicing this route more often, especially on a blue sky day when more of that incredible landscape will be revealed.