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.
