Q1 2019: Racing the Planet New Zealand Write-up
In the early stages of preparation I recall reading that rest and being acclimatised to the location were strongly advised before taking on an ultramarathon, so obviously it made complete sense to find myself on a bus, following three long haul flights, en route to Wanaka only the evening before things were due to kick off. Thankfully the travel gods, as well as the lady at the check in desk at Heathrow, who when I shamefully dropped into conversation what I was embarking on did give me a row to myself (no need to thank me for the travel tip), were on my side and there were no delays. Nor was any equipment lost en route despite the number of flights and having to charm the ruthless immigration officials at Queenstown airport. Phew.
In a jet lagged haze lag I arrived for our first morning briefing and kit check. Despite being told there was a higher proportion of ‘first timer’ participants I managed to only find those who had done umpteen multi-stage events to talk to so very much in their comfort zone, again not the wisest move. Cue memories of me back at school in my Green Flash amongst a sea of Nike Airs, the nerves rocketed. We’d been given a mandatory check list of c.40 items, including clothing, food and safety equipment requirements for the week, all of which had to fit into a 30 litre bag, as well as items for a drop bag; this was only to be accessed if the organisers felt the conditions were unsafe so most of us were hoping we wouldn’t see these latter items again until well passed the finish line (spoiler alert, sadly that wish didn’t come true). Coordinating the sourcing of all the items seriously stretched not only my bank balance but my excel skills too, so I was very relieved when all the checks got the thumbs up, even if my bag did weigh in at the heavier end of the scale at a hefty 13kg. For those that accuse me of travelling with the kitchen sink, fridge, oven and any other appliance I can get my hands on I might add this wasn’t the heaviest, someone had 17kg (turns out Bahrain is not the place to source lightweight expedition gear, massive kudos to the girl though, she finished the whole thing even carrying a crossword puzzle book as far as Stage 3 before finally agreeing with all of us that it probably wasn’t essential) but obviously it wasn’t the lightest either, that being 5kg. Carrying only that weight would have meant living off olive oil for a week and I’m sorry but I do, despite what some of you might think of my cooking abilities, have some culinary standards, by which I include spooning crushed up Pringles out of a ziplock bag, at the time I tell you they tasted like ruddy Michelin starred food. With kit and safety checks done we were bussed off to Camp 1 approx. 2 hours from Wanaka, in the middle of nowhere, no turning back now.
Stages 1 – 4 were give or take a marathon (c.40km) each, with Stage 5 aka the Long March a casual double marathon, and Stage 6 initially meant to be only 10km on the last day. Given this ‘itinerary’ I wanted to take the first couple of days more tortoise than hare pace mainly to ensure I had functioning knees and shins by the end of the week but I’d also heard horror stories of people going out of the blocks too soon and not being able to complete the race.
Stage 1 was quite tough mainly because of the heat, but was just about manageable. I took some comfort from the general view in camp afterwards that it seemed tougher than a typical first day in the Racing the Planet series. Still, good to get a marathon under one’s belt, meaning moral was relatively high, even if we were forgetting the somewhat inconvenient truth we still had five more to do.
The same can’t be said for Stage 2, for me it was the worst day by far, brutal to say the least, and given the sombre mood in camp when I finally got there it was obvious others hadn’t found it a barrel of laughs either. Over a third of people who started the race were DNFs by the end (did not finish, for someone who loves acronyms this was a new one even for me), a level significantly above average for the series, with this stage being the main culprit for taking people down, literally. Having tackled over 1km elevation in pretty stifling temperatures by lunchtime and supposedly half way I had naively assumed the worst was over for the day. This was not the case though, and the course was just relentless in what it threw at us, going on and on, up, then down, then up again, then up some more for good measure, across some of the boggiest and uneven terrain. My two walking poles quickly became christened ‘mind’ and (over) ‘matter’ to rather naffly remind me that more often than not it’s about overcoming the mental rather than the physical challenge with these sorts of things. Similar to when I did the Maclehose in Hong Kong though I reached the point of sheer mental and physical exhaustion, I’d dug deep but reached the bottom, balls. This meant only one thing, tears, followed pretty swiftly by some extensively expletive littered language when I got back to camp; in a nutshell the toys were well and truly out the pram and my confidence was seriously knocked. As Marie Colvin said life is about ‘being brave not bravado’, at this point I certainly felt I’d had too much bravado for thinking I could finish the race on the (lack of) training I’d done, how on earth was I going to get anywhere close to finishing the Long March if I couldn’t even finish Stage 2 in good shape?! Although I’m a firm believer in the benefits of failure, mainly because I’m ironically quite successful at failing, completing one of these races had been on the bucket list for the best part of a decade so to say not finishing would have been a disappointment would be a serious understatement, the feeling of failure would have niggled away at me for much longer than I would liked too. Just to quickly digress, but I should reassure you, I am under no illusions that doing one of these races is anywhere near comparable to what Marie endured but having recently read Lindsey Hilsum’s ‘In Extremis’ my girl crush is looming large so ‘mentionitus’ is only inevitable.
Thankfully the sombre mood in camp following Stage 2 didn’t go unnoticed. And conveniently the organisers admitted they needed to more accurately reflect the elevation we’d endured on the previous two days too. They also probably feared there was a very real chance they wouldn’t have anyone crossing the finish line, so they decided to adjust the route for Stage 3, much to most sane people’s relief including mine. In contrast to the first two days which were pretty sweltering, having camped in a ski village the day started off pretty chilly and got progressively more baltic throughout the morning as we increased in altitude. At one point my poles were flapping horizontally in the howling wind and I found myself having to crouch down to ensure I wasn’t blown off the mountain. Visibility was poor too which meant spotting the fluorescent pink flag route markers was pretty tricky, going off the route here would not have been fun to say the least. As we lost elevation thankfully the winds dropped and the sun reared its head again. With about 5km less to do today compared to the previous two days and significantly less elevation it meant we all had a decent chunk of time to chill in camp at the end of the day, even finding time to wash some clothes in a nearby river, a luxurious feeling having spent the last three days wearing the same clothes; when you’re limited weight wise safety and sustenance definitely trump style. Moral was significantly higher and weirdly it seemed almost normal to be contemplating doing yet another marathon the next day.
Stage 4 promised yet more elevation. As I’ve found before, give me elevation gain over downhill anyday so I was relatively enthusiastic about the route, especially when we were rewarded with insane panoramic views from the top of Roy’s Peak, a definite highlight, which is saying something given how spoilt we’d already been in terms of scenery, it was everything I’d hoped it would be and more, serious sensory overload.
Stage 5, the infamous Long March. All the days preceding this seemed like the dress rehearsal before the curtain call, the ultimate test, there was definitely an extra buzz around the camp that morning. The weather forecast didn’t look to be on our side but thankfully we started the day in sunshine. I was keen to get as much as possible done in daylight hours as am only too aware that as soon as it gets dark and I’m tired the tendency for the tears to raise their head increases exponentially. At about lunchtime the rain started but initially only seemed to be ‘indrizzable’ (the unofficial meteorological definition for light rain that you can’t really see), not exactly a novel phenomenon for someone from England to endure so I puffed on regardless, also the idea of having to take off my pack and put on waterproof layers just seemed like unnecessary faff. After a few hours though, when even Andie MacDowell would have noticed it was raining, the waterproofs were donned. Unfortunately the persistent rain meant multiple re-routings, often at short notice, aka sheer bloody chaos, peas in boiling water would have looked more synchronised. For some baffling reason though, which I still don’t quite understand, I loved it; traipsing in the rain through fields now resembling mud baths, in waterproofs that transpired to be as effective as a chocolate teapot, simultaneously trying to shovel down some rehydrated spag bol out of plastic bag in an effort to keep warm, is not something I’d normally chose to do and let’s be honest isn’t exactly demure. I suppose I would put the enjoyment down to a reminiscent feeling of childhood holidays splashing around in North Devon and Northumberland or probably more accurately early signs of hyperthermia which I’m sure includes symptoms of insanity. Admittedly after being on my feet for c.12 hours, with darkness and tiredness setting in, teeth that wouldn’t stop chattering from the cold, it got harder to see the funny side of things. And on getting to one of the later checkpoints I was not going to argue with a volunteer telling me to turn round and head to camp as they were having to cut short the race for safety reasons. Some were up in arms about it, which quite frankly just added to my amusement. I think we’d all agree I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t competitive, but not that competitive, and not on this occasion. The lure of my remaining Pringles, the chance of getting warm(ish) and our dry bags was too much. OK so I didn’t do the full c.80km intended that day, but neither did most and I’d covered the vast majority of the distance which meant the day had delivered in terms of the physical and mental challenge. New Zealand had thrown a lot at us over the week, testing and taking us to serious extremes, you could say at least on this day it won.
Waking up on Day 6 (the day off) was fairly amusing, to say everyone looked jaded would be generous, The combination of virtually no sleep all week and the bashing from Stage 5, bags under people’s eyes were similar in size to our rucksacks on arrival. Thankfully the rain had retreated and we were able to bask in glorious sunshine for most of the day. We took advantage of this to dry out all our drenched kit, with the camp quickly resembling a mixture of a war zone and car boot sale. Horror stories from the day before were shared, including those that had ended up covering 90km because of the shambolic organisation, and there was general reflection on the whole week, even some bittersweet feelings started to creep in at the thought of the whole adventure being over so soon and normality resuming. In the evening we had our last briefing. Given all the fiascos of Stage 5 they’d decided to increase Stage 6 to 15km from 10km, never was an announcement met with so many disgruntled groans, the idea of having to jam ones swollen, blistered laden, taped feet into our trainers for an extra 5km seemed almost a worse prospect than the Long March. Not wanting to gross you out but it turns out draining blisters is really rather satisfying. Overshare? Probably, sorry.
Still, as we’d done for the last few days, we just got on with it. Fuelled by the reliable combination of warm granola and coffee we kicked off about 8am. Despite the shorter route the organisers still managed to cram in the essence of the previous few days, some undulation, one or two river crossings, a chunky climb followed by a fairly severe drop, with a few flat kms to finish things off.
One’s daily routine on one of these events is fairly simple, pretty repetitive too you could say. In a nutshell you just had to get yourself from A to B, often not seeing or hearing a soul for hours, not even a sheep. In the hectic working world most of us live in, where we’re increasingly connected, rarely do we have so few distractions and such simple to do lists. The reality was a wonderful novelty (or should it be the novelty was a wonderful reality, not sure, I’m sure you get the gist). I was on the course for give or take 50 hours so quite a substantial amount of time. Did I put that time to good use, I’ve no idea, probably not. I could have listened to a handful of language lessons, or maybe waded through some podcasts to try to better understand the increasingly embarrassing farce that is Brexit, instead I think and fear most of the time was spent thinking about my next meal. As I said, life was blissfully simple, escapism at its best.
I was obviously not going this challenge on my own, there were c.170 competitors on the start line, ranging from aged 17 to over 70 and from almost 40 different countries. Not forgetting a heroic group of volunteers too. For fear of sounding too clichéd the whole experience was extremely humbling in terms of the people I met. I came away with genuine admiration and respect for many given their stories – the young mother who’d found solace in running to cope with her grief after her husband’s recent death, the Israeli father who was having a last ‘bond’ with his cheeky son before a multi-year stint in the army, to the blind competitor and his ‘guider’ - and the unfailing supportive non-confrontational camaraderie around camp. The trust and teamwork between the latter two was pretty extraordinary to witness and something I can only aspire and hope to have with someone. How they both still had beaming smiles on their faces the morning after having got lost on Stage 4, which resulted in them having to sleep in their bivvy bags overnight before being airlifted off the mountain, is totally beyond me. Team Aho cannot go unmentioned, a team of 30 Japanese friends. Given my Japanese is pretty limited (as useful as it is to be able to translate capex and depreciation from a work perspective it doesn’t exactly make for great camp chat) I’d be exaggerating if I said we became firm holiday friends but I was definitely grateful for their ‘Happy, Happy, Happy’ tagline which was regularly heard and certainly lifted many spirits. I should also mention that two of them actually got married on the first day. No offence to any destination weddings I’ve been lucky enough to go to but this certainly seemed up there in terms of the most unique and memorable. For the fashionistas amongst you, the bride wore active wear.
Friends who have done similar events had all said that your tent mates typically make the experience, that obviously also means they can break it. Even though I’d done most of the training on my own I was keen not to be a total Billy no mates throughout the week, but as I knew no one beforehand it could go either way. It was surreal to think that within hours of meeting these people you’d later be having pillow talk with them, and for the rest of the week, intense stuff. When asked beforehand if we had any requests in terms of tent mates I just focused on what I felt was key ‘anyone with a good sense of humour and if not too greedy non snorers’. We’d been emailed our tent allocations the week before, despite frantic on-line stalking I wasn’t able to gather much intel, certainly nothing on my specific requests unsurprisingly. I had been allocated to Tent Nine, also named called Ka Pai, which for those of you whose Maori is a bit rusty means good, in hindsight that seemed pretty fitting as good it certainly was. Pretty soon after arriving at Camp 1 we’d given each other nicknames (Fresh, Chilly, Smally, Peanut and Flash) even Matt who never actually turned up got one the lucky thing, the Phantom in case you’re interested. Thankfully their humour was much like mine, acquired in taste and un-PC in short. They also quickly proved to more than patiently put up with 1) my tendency to speak in immature acronyms (safe to say ‘Big G’ and JR-ing got the most airtime), 2) my inability to pack my rucksack less than c.5 times a day (in my defence ‘real-estate management’ as I liked to call it was key, there was nothing more frustrating than realising your snacks, electrolytes and sun cream weren’t in the accessible ‘side return’ pockets and you had to take your pack off mid trundle), 3) my love for dehydrated spag bol and 4) the inevitable disappointment when I realised I’d opted for beef stroganoff to mix things up, amongst other things. Given the pretty feral existence on one of these events, alongside the physical and mental challenge, it’s safe to say one is pretty vulnerable, there’s not really anywhere to hide bar perhaps a portaloo. Alongside some of the other points I’ve banged on about already this element makes the whole experience all the better though, at least I feel it did. You have the opportunity to forge really genuine friendships, which I’d like to think we did, helped in part obviously by the fact people share motivations for being here, or at least can empathise with why someone is there, or alternatively obviously we were all bonkers and it was just a case of safety in numbers. For me, the tent craic was one of the biggest reasons why I really enjoyed the whole week. I genuinely can’t think of a better group of people to come home to after a tough day in the ‘office’.
Last but by no means least, a nod to Gary, Robbie, Howard, Jason and Mark. If I ever achieve my ambition of presenting or being castaway on Desert Islands Discs ‘Never Forget’ is currently the top contender for the track I would not only save from the waves but would wrestle from a shark’s jaws. Six and a half minutes of pure musical genius in one track right there. For fear of sounding even more Enid Blyton-esque and hearty, running in the sunshine across the finish line with that playing on my headphones, and to see new and old friends (Middle and Minor Wintour, thank you again) as a combination, OK I’m not going to lie the rumours of a burger and beer might have also put an extra spring in my step, created a feeling that will be exceptionally hard to beat. The proverbial challenge bar has been raised and set pretty high. No pressure on the impending sabbatical at all then.
Fresh