Double Donna 22km: It’s not the mountain we conquer, but ourselves… (and sometimes the mountain conquers us too, for a few minutes)

It had been five months since I broke my foot. Since I’d realised that I’d fractured it by dropping a 10kg weight onto it, then completely broken it during the Surf Coast Century 50km. The placement of the break made so much more sense – as the Sport Physician and Surgeon had pointed out that this was not the usual place of a stress fracture. This was a silver lining because a stress fracture meant… well, stress.

 Five months of cycling, and rowing and upper body strength later and I felt strong, albeit a bit top heavy from the increase in strength training.

 I’d entered the Warburton Trails Fest on a bit of a whim, wanting something challenging but not too far; something I could ease myself into.

 So, I chose a 22km trail run up and down Mount Donna Buang, with an incline of 1250m – 1000m over 8km.

 Logic clearly defies me.

 The race was on the Sunday of a long weekend, so we spent the Saturday up in Warburton volunteering and cheering on the 50km and 25km runners.

 Our (last minute) accommodation was a gypsy wagon in the back of someone’s garden, which hadn’t quite survived a massive cyclone earlier that week. Oops.

We made do, and cooked what would be our race day breakfast on the fire pit the night before – packing our race vests before darkness hit and where we would be limited to headtorches and the light from the Kmart lamp in the wagon.

 Race day was upon us.

 I was up – before the alarm, in the darkness. Excited nervous.

 I turned on the lamp (pretty much still darkness) and woke Bex – who was racing her first 14km.

 We had our breakfast and got ready, packing and repacking and counting and checking. All the checks.

 We drove to the start line and I ordered a large coffee – which appeared to contain at least five coffee shots. Winning.

 The vibe was electric as the sun rose over the mountains and people started to arrive. The start and finish line were also the festival hub – a mixture of excitement, nerves and the beautiful-people-that-are-trail-runners sharing stories of past runs and what was about to happen.

 There were two waves to the 22km ‘Double Donna’. The 8am wave contained the not so fast runners and the 8.30am wave contained the faster runners – the idea being that the faster runners would overtake the not so fast runners on the up, rather than face colliding and chaos on the steep downhills.

 The earlier wave set off, and suddenly my race was looming.

I did a body check – everything appeared to be working. I was testing out my new Nike Terra Kiger 5’s – they felt good, comfortable, very light. 

 My plan was to run the flats comfortably at pace – because there weren’t actually that many, then try and smash the uphills as fast as I could (cue aggressive lunging) to make up for the fact that my downhill speed and ability was lacking, and this is where I would most likely get overtaken or face plant. Most likely both. At the same time.

I wanted to get under 3 hours, that was my ultimate goal. 

I took a caffeine gel.

 Race briefing – the cyclone earlier that week had caused quite a bit of mud and stickiness on course (not just in our gypsy wagon), the advice was to be really careful and lean forward on the downs. ..but mostly to have fun and enjoy climbing a mountain. And no music, for safety reasons. I died a little inside, but understood and didn’t want to risk another disqualification like Wonderland. 

 8.30am. Off we went.

 Single track along the river walk trail. I felt good at 4.30min/km. Everyone was excited and in good spirits.

 I saw one girl up ahead of me shoot off towards the front of the pack, I told myself not to chase her. This was my own race, to test out the lungs and the foot.

 I knew it was round 2.5km of undulating single track before we hit the uphill – all the ups. 2.5km marked the beginning of the ascent.

 And we turned off the track, and onto one of the steepest streets in the Southern Hemisphere (unconfirmed but definitely felt like it). We had volunteered at this location the day before, watched the athletes faces as they looked up, as they climbed up – some running some walking.

 I began the aggressive lunging, getting into a rhythm.

 Two females decided to overtake me, jogging up the hill. I nodded to them, good efforts.

 I reasoned with myself not to go any faster, if it was meant to be I would catch them on the trail – on the climb up the mountain.

 The hill seemed never ending, and my lungs were working harder than they had done in the last five months, maybe longer.

 But we got there, me and a few others who had also taken to the lunging idea. A small flat section before we hit the uphill trail.

 And then it began, at first it was jogable and the terrain seemed relatively easy and friendly. We climbed a little further through single trail. I overtook one of the females I’d seen on the hill, and a few minutes later the other one (with some resistance).

 We hit a road that marked where the 14km runners would turn left instead of continuing the ascent.

 Oh, the ascent.

 What had been an easy single-track trail now turned into thicker wet mud. Rainforest and jungle like. There was dampness in the air and in the trees. Fallen branches and leaves lay strewn across the track, making it slippier than normal.

 Yikes.

 I wanted to put some distance between myself and the other females, get as much distance on the up – which is my strength in this kind of race.

 Head down, and I went. Lunging, using my arms to push off my thighs and take the pressure off my lower back (note to self, this is what walking poles do, you fool).

 I wanted to be able to hear the birds and the outdoors, but all I could hear was my heavy and deep breathing.

My (prescription) sunglasses fogged up constantly and I took them off – everything was slightly blurry, but I reasoned with myself that that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

 Up and up, mud and more mud, grabbing onto trees and branches, scrambling in parts. I looked at my watch and realised I’d only gone 1km in maybe 15 minutes. I laughed to myself and began to visualise getting to the stop.

 At 45 minutes I knew I needed to get some fuel in me. I pulled out my potatoes and tried to eat them whilst still climbing upwards. Maybe only half ended up in my mouth, in my stomach. I laughed but was too stubborn to stop. I took a gel too and made the mistake of involuntarily breathing out heavily as soon as I’d emptied the packet into my mouth. The gel ended up mostly on my legs, again I laughed. I stopped and tried to swallow what little was left in my mouth.

 Bloody hell I was out of practice.

 I started to pass the first wave of runners, encouraging – all fighting the same battle.

 Some of the sections we hit were still flooded with water in large puddles, we were scrambling over trees, under trees, over rocks. Downhill was going to be tricky.

 My watch read 5.5km and I almost threw a hissy fit (yep, happened), this climb was long. But suddenly I hit another road and the first aid station. I was confused, this wasn’t supposed to be until 7km.

 “Lollies?” the woman smiled.

 “Is this the 7km aid station?” I asked, maybe with a little bit of a wild look in my eyes.

 “It sure is”

 I wanted to hug her – my watch hadn’t been tracking some of the distance because the ascent had been so steep. I was at 7km, with 4km to the top. Ka boom.

 I continued, lighter on my feet.

 At around 8.5km the trail became less steep, turned back into single track and sunlight broken through – I was near the top.

 I nearly shrieked. Maybe I did.

 My legs were jelly on the flats, but I jogged, then picked up pace, and I was running, on flat. This felt bloody good.

 More of a climb, gentler but still not runnable (for me anyway) in parts.

 I heard a cow bell and some laughter and voices.

 The top? I got excited.

 I turned the corner and instead it turned out to be spectators, with a cow bell, cheering people on.

 I couldn’t be mad because they were there to support us – even though I wanted to tell them that people might actually think it’s the top.

 “Almost there!” they cheered. I thought I bloody well was.

 I mentally slapped myself and remembered where I was and what I was doing, and I was grateful once again.

 At this point the lead guy came flying past me the other way, I stopped and clapped – amazing speed to get up the top and be on the way back down already. Literally amazing.

 I hit the loop to get to the top – 2km to go, and then no more climbing, no more quad and calf burn (that was a lie, that’s mostly what downhill is, but a different kind I guess).

 I was able to run some more, stretch out the legs and get up a little bit of pace – and I was also able to appreciate my surroundings. What had once been thick dark muddy forests was now beautifully green undergrowth and trees, and sun rays breaking through intermittently across the forest. Literally breath-taking.

 Worth the lung and leg ache.

 Another gel – caffeine to get to me to the top, and taken better this time.

 I climbed towards the sunlight and turned to see a large table of feasts (ahem, aid station), and car parks and toilets.

 “Is this the top?” I asked the girls at the table.

 “Yes!!” They were almost more excited than me. “You’ve done it!”

 My heart was full, and I thanked them, and continued.

 The down.

 I had not practiced downhill as much as I had wanted, if at all. I knew I needed to let go a little and trust my shoes and my legs to guide me.

 The first section was relatively gentle single track, so I picked up the pace – willing my aching legs to continue. I hit a pace of 3.40min/km which was quite ridiculous.

 This was actually quite fun.

 I slowed to pass people on the up, encouraged, it wasn’t that far.

 I was happy with my pace, still running without my sunshades and still a little blind. But it seemed to be working.

 Then I hit the rainforest again.

 Yikes.

 I began the slippery downhill, trying to land more on the ball of my foot as I descended, and trying to lean forwards as much as my body would allow – it felt alien, but seemed to work.

 On some parts, I flew, and I was amazing at how fast I could actually get, occasionally grabbing a tree or branch to push off into a direction change or maybe slow me a little.

 I hit the thicker forest, thicker mud under feet and had my first fall – stepping onto a branch that my other foot was under and, as a result, flying forwards down the hill and rolling through the mud.

 I covered at least five metres on my face – not the worst way to travel indeed. I laughed.

 I checked myself out and seemed ok, so I continued – a little more cautious.

 I continued, legs free and leaning forwards again – to the point where my stomach muscles were actually getting tired.

 I hit the aid station – 7km to go. “You’re second girl, you’re doing fantastic!” I thanked her and continued.

 The next fall (I was definitely expecting more than one) came maybe ten minutes later when cramp in my right hamstring caused my right leg to inexplicably buckle.

 Before I knew it, I was rolling down the hill again – and I even considered just continuing in that fashion, now that I was caked in mud anyway.

 But I laughed and picked myself up: “Pay attention Jess”.

 Again, slower. I needed to slow down.

 The trail became slightly less muddy, drier.

 I must have relaxed, too much. Lost my concentration. Something.

 Bang.

 That familiar feeling of my right ankle cracking into the right angle it should never need to go into (but always did).

 Instead of falling down the path, the sudden motion of my ankle twisting caused me to fall sideways into the trees and shrubbery and I was suddenly scrambling to stop myself rolling further off the track.

 Pain, blinding pain.

 I shook my head and pulled / rolled myself back to the track.

 I tried to stand up, the pain flickered through my ankle and made me feel a little dizzy.

 I was up at least.

 I looked at my watch – 17km, only 4km to go, of which 2.5km was flat.

I wanted to be angry.

 I thought about it – about stopping, about finally just sitting down where I was and waiting for the next runner, or texting Bex to tell her it was over and my ankle had gone.

 I wanted to be angry, I had pushed myself so hard to get up to the top, and tried so hard to get down in good time.

I just couldn’t be, I was grateful I had gotten this far this fast (in my eyes).

 I’d have to go down anyway, to get to help – if that’s what I wanted.

 I didn’t.

 I couldn’t.

 I had done this before, been here before.

 I took a few steps and it was my left ankle that gave way this time, in protest – in jealousy?

 I was down again, in the shrubbery and I chose that moment to find it incredibly funny – ironic maybe. And maybe it was laughter or tears, so I chose laughter.

 I sighed and got up, suddenly noticing that my knee was covered in blood. I don’t even think it was from these two falls, maybe the one before. Had I just been going so hard on myself I hadn’t even noticed cuts and scrapes? Probably.

 And this was my comeuppance.

 Thanks body – message received.

 I gathered myself, I knew I was shaking, knew I’d been shaken.

 I began the descent, slowly at first. A couple of jolts but it was ok. I felt like I was almost skipping.

 A thick jolt of pain and I stopped and grabbed a nearby tree, as if that would help or lessen the pain.

 I shook myself off and continued down, slower, more focussed movements.

 I hit the road where the aqueduct turn off was.

 “Are you ok? The woman there asked.

 Caked in blood and mud… I nodded “I took a fall”

 “You’re almost there, keep going”

 I was and I would, that kept me going a little longer.

 I was in the less steep single track now, there were families walking up the track, a little surprised to see such a beaten-up runner no doubt.

 Their encouragement filled my heart, even when my hamstring cramped again and my right leg gave away.

 “Whoopsy! Just gotta pick yourself back up and keep moving love” One guy said with a smile. And that’s exactly what I did.

 Suddenly I was back on the road, the steepest street, and I joined another runner.

 “Are you doing the 22km?” She asked.

 “Yes”

 “You’re smashing it, I’m just on my way back from the 14km”

 We chatted whilst we ran a little, I was grateful to keep my mind off…everything that hurt.

 I left her when the hill got steep “You go on, you’re almost there. Good luck!”. And I let my legs carry me a little.

 I was at the bottom, no more hills, no more ups or downs.

 I remember thinking on the Saturday when I was looking up at the hill, how happy I’d be to reach this point – only flat left.

 I stumbled a little, wobbled – which was unusual. 

Then it dawned on me.

 I hadn’t kept to my nutrition plan, the haste to get down, then the fall had distracted me.

 I had gone an hour without fuelling at all, and only during the whole race had I had half a bag of potatoes and 1.5 gels.  

 I started to feel it, the weakness, the wall.

 I began to run and realised I had no energy, in fact I was shaking, my hands and my legs were shaking.

 This wasn’t good.

 I took a gel, inhaled it. I just had to get to the finish, 2km away.

 I jogged, then stopped, with literally no energy. I walked. Almost tears, stupidity.

 I jogged again, leaning as far forwards as I could without falling, to give my body as much momentum as possible.

 I can honestly say I lost my sh*t – whether it was the adrenaline from the injury that had masked it temporarily I don’t know, but I totally bonked.

 I felt like a child throwing their toys out of their pram.

 I reasoned with my manic mind – walk for ten seconds then jog, and repeat.

 This was supposed to be the best part of the race, the flat to the finish.

 So I started the improvised interval running.

 There were other runners around completing the 14km run, they cheered and I cheered them and I couldn’t stop.

 I crossed a bridge – walked over it, not sure if it was the bridge wobbling, or me.

 I was so sure I was going to lose second place female any minute, and I wasn’t sure I had the fight left in me to race it out to the end.

 I passed a runner who seemed like they were struggling too.

 “We’re almost there” I said. She nodded “Hell yes we are. Let’s do this.”

 The gel must have kicked in at last and I found strength. From her and from the sugar, and picked up the pace. Remembering the race, the run, the love of it all.

 Then I could hear the end, I could hear the finish line. Nathan (an old friend) on the mic, who had promised me a drink on the finish line.

 I ran faster (it probably wasn’t any faster, but in my mind it counted).

 400 metres away. I looked behind me, no other runners except the ones I’d passed.

 I could do this.

 “We have another female, come on let’s see you finish it off strongly.” Nathan again.

 So I did, I picked up the pace (again, probably didn’t).

 “And this completes the podium, Jess in third place.” I was confused but didn’t care.

 I crossed the line at 2 hours 30 minutes – a combination of happiness and dizzy exhaustion. And Bex looking at me with pride…and concern. But had most likely seen me in worst condition after Surf Coast Century. 

 I heard over the mic – Nathan again. “Anyone who knows Jess knows she would’ve left everything she had out on that mountain.”

 I had, I really had.

 I sat down, finally, finally able to stop and rest. Everything was still shaking.

 I sat for quite a while, my brain and body slowly resembling normality. I listened to Bex as she told me about her race. So proud. And we watched as other runners came through, equally elated to have finished. 

 They called the presentation. It turned out someone from wave 1 had crossed the line before me and they’d mistaken them for wave 2. I’d finished second – five minutes ahead of the third-place female, who we cheered in.

 I got ice from first aid then, after showering and discovering many more scratches, headed to the river to drop my legs into the water.

 Tomorrow was going to hurt. Today hurt already. 

 Right now, I was grateful and happy. So happy.

 Gin o’clock indeed.

Surf Coast Century 50km: Success is the journey, not the destination

During a 50km trail race so many things can happen. The inevitable lows and the hilarious highs. And hopefully, somewhere at the end, a feeling of achievement, of overcoming.

Surf Coast Century had more highs and lows than we had ever expected.

Myself and my twin sister – visiting from Hong Kong – were both excited nervous about the prospect of running the Surf Coast Century 50km – Imogen’s first 50km race and my second, sans sprained ankle. We knew it would be a mental and physical test – and to some degree that it would test our twinship.

Yep, twinship.

I had been feeling good, strong and fast – despite confirmation that Bill and Bob were still alive and kicking, even following another dose of antibiotics and six weeks on an anti-parasitic diet with some questionable American herbal medicine. I knew Imogen had upped her training in Hong Kong too, so we were ready.

Imogen landed in Australia a week before the race so we focused on a few days of training in Melbourne (and perhaps a little bit of red wine). We ran trails that we’d run together eight years ago when we first moved to Australia. Even in the sideways-torrential rain (thanks Sydney), it was wonderful, nostalgic. And…

Painful.

Wait.

What?

Yes, pain. I could feel something in my foot – an uncomfortableness. I put it down to wearing different shoes. But it persevered, got worse through the week.

Dr Google suggested metatarsalgia – inflammation of the ball of the foot – which I was happy to go with, so I took some painkillers and walked around on my heel a lot, assuming it would pass.

By Friday, the pain had thankfully lessened and we headed to our Airbnb in Angelsea, exploring and enjoying the atmosphere of the race event (and buying matching neon socks, of course #twinning).

The evening was spent enjoying wine with other runners, and trying to work out pace and food timings, which I knew would go out of the window at some point during the race. But I like to plan – and I wanted to know we would have enough (Jess-friendly) along the way to refuel.

Plus, I really like eating.

Our rough plan was to take the flats at between 5.00min/km – 6.00min/km depending on terrain, ease off on the hills and pick up the speed on the downhills. We would alternate gels and potatoes every 45 minutes and take salt tablets every 10km. Gatorade and water as needed, and stretching at every checkpoint (20km, 27km and 36km). If we needed to stop, to walk, we would communicate with each other.

We were a team.

Race day.

We weren’t starting until almost midday, and it felt weird to wake up naturally and spend a chilled (yet quite frantic) morning eating, packing our race vests, eating some more and repacking our race vests. And a bit more eating.

We were both eager to get going; to know what would happen and how we would go.

Breakfast was the usual – sweet potatoes, beets, avocado and eggs. We boiled our 1kg of potatoes that we would take with us and – much to Imogen’s amusement – put them into small sealed bags and into our race vests.

Nervous excitement. Maybe a little bit of disbelief that we were going to run 50km together.

My foot? Was painful, more painful than it had been for a few days, even with rest. But for some reason I rationalised with myself that it would be fine to run on – the pain might even go away.

At 11am, and hour before the start, I made Imo eat more sweet potato and beets – but she refused to drink the beetroot juice. All the more nitrates for me then (not to mention liver detoxification….)

We put our matching odd socks on, our race bibs and our packs.

A pair of running Shorts.

We headed down to the start line with Bex – my partner and our support crew, who would greet us at each check point, mostly to feed and water us, but probably also to check we were still alive.

The weather? Wind and rain – thanks, Melbourne.

We got to the event and the atmosphere was amazing. We chatted to other runners, and volunteers.

All legends.

The race start was on the beach, so we made our way down there – about 1km away, a good warm up (despite the wind and rain).

Imo and I stood towards the front, under the arch start, excited.

The guy with the mic came over, singling out the twins with the odd neon socks.

Imogen took the opportunity to tell him (and everyone else at the start line) about our race plans, and also that she didn’t want to lose… to me. She talked about why we were running the 50km (I don’t think anybody really knows…), whether we were running together (absolutely, side by side), and what our tactics were (run and eat).

Hilarity.

20 seconds, the crowds came forward.

Our first section was a short out-and-back along the beach around a flag and back under the arch start. It seemed pointless… For photos? Maybe.

We. Were. Off.

We began, a good pace towards the flag, excitement.

Around the flag and back towards the arch, past the crowds who had originally cheered us on as we started.

My foot, it hurt. I shook myself, could I do this?

I looked at Imogen running beside me.

Pride.

Absolutely.

“Ok with the pace?”

She hesitated then nodded (she told me later that she definitely wasn’t okay with the pace and was under the impression that we were only ‘sprinting’ for the cameras). We slowed into a rhythm which also eased the pressure from the sand on my foot.

We headed off the beach (both relieved) and onto fire track with the crowds, taking photos and being generally silly, but still maintaining pace.

We went into the single winding trails – still relatively flat.

We were running Leg 3 of the 100km – known to be the hardest with the most elevation. And suddenly we found out why. We went up, fire trails that had split into mounds and holes – clay that had separated because of the weather. It was tricky to say the least, jumping between the mounds, trying not to fall into the holes.

And the rain hit too.

I had strapped my foot up prior to the race, and I was pretty sure it was making the pain worse. So, we stopped, and I took the strapping off.

We continued up, cheering on other runners as we passed them, and we were passed. The matching neon socks were a hit.

The slippery mounds of mud slowed us to a walk, and I was grateful at that point. I looked down at my foot, demanding answers. Then I realised Imogen was taking a selfie of us. Back on it, back running. No excuses.

We hit 45 minutes and 8km – still on the fire trail, and we took gels.

Sugar rush.

At that moment I decided to take painkillers. Against advice from the race organisers – so I agreed with myself that I would drink more water as a result, if that helped.

Imo and I chatted, laughed, checked in with each other.

“How does everything feel?”

“Good”

10km came and we took the salt tablets, careful to avoid cramps. They were sweetened tablets – much better than the salt in packets (literally, salt in packets) I’d taken during UTA50.

Relief.

And we continued and the sun came out, and we were happy, running together.

Then the single track came into the Otways, and we were even happier. Absolutely stunning, literally breath-taking trees and forest with blue skies in the background.

We had stuck with a few of the same people, some doing the 50km, some doing the 100km – our pack. We checked in on each other.

I realised we’d hit an hour and a half already, and around 12km.

Potato time.

We laughed – couldn’t help but stop at the side of the track and take a photo of our potato feast.

“Having a picnic?” One of the runners joked as he ran past.

Absolutely.

We continued the slow incline up the single track, surrounded by beauty.

15km and something magical happened – the pain in my foot lessened, the painkillers had finally kicked in.

Grateful.

Then we were on the downhill, picking up the pace.

I checked our timings – we were coming up to the first check point at 20km (although we didn’t reach it until our watches said 21km….ugh), and we were on pace to finish the race in 6 hours – our ambitious target.

Winning.

We headed to the check point, relief at hitting 20km, and refuelling, and the people cheering.

Amazing energy.

I saw Bex, and I think she was pretty happy to see us both in one piece.

Imogen headed straight to stretch (on the floor, against trees, whatever worked)… I headed straight to the lollies and fuel.

Choices.

“How’s the foot?”

I laughed and shook my head.

No good.

We stopped for around 4-5 minutes, making sure we had refuelled, stretched (mostly into the duck squat position which felt amazing) and then we were off.

Stiff legs soon became un-stiff as we hit the single trail back into the forest. Back into beautiful nature, through freshly rained on mud trails.

We continued to chat away, swapping the lead to cater for each other’s pacing.

It’s when Imo took the lead that it happened.

One moment she was there, in front of me and chatting away. Her foot caught on a tree stump and she suddenly disappeared into the mud.

And not just disappeared into it – she was still moving along it, skidding face down through the mud for what appeared to be an eternity.

Face first.

She came to a stop and didn’t move, my heart missed a few beats and my brain went into overdrive – a repeat of the adventure race where Imo had come off the bike right in front of me. Head first.

“Imogen”

Nothing.

I couldn’t move, I was frozen, horrified.

A small laugh. “I’m okay, I’m okay”

She lifted her head up from the ground and I dropped down beside her, looking for signs of injury.

“Does everything work?”

She pushed herself off the floor – caked in fresh mud, literally covered from head to toe, face to foot.

“I’m ok”

Runners passed us and stopped to check on her – beautifulness.

Then we were alone.

I helped her up, still checking for injury. Scrapes across her hands, knees and elbows, but nothing serious.

And then we looked each other. And we laughed.

Hard.

For at least five minutes, uncontrollably.

We looked at the skid marks she’d left in the mud – almost two metres long, and we laughed some more.

She looked down at herself – her hydration pack tubing was caked in mud, her race bib was hanging by a pin.

“Jess, I’ve got mud in my eyes”

More laughing.

We were 2km away from the next check point, so we decided to run there to get her cleaned up.

Sporadic laughing as we ran, happy and relieved.

We came into the check point and the guy with the mic was there.

“Here comes the twins in the neon socks….oh my god, what happened to you.” He pointed at Imogen.

We laughed some more.

The first aiders took care of Imo for a few minutes. And then we ate – boiled and mashed potatoes and lollies.

Ready.

Over half way. We headed back out – not so much stretching this time as repairing Imogen.

Leg 3 was over and we were heading into Leg 4 – coastal pathway and beach.

Beautifully hard.

Single track turned into fire trail, towards the sea.

At one point we had to crawl on our hands and knees under a bridge, trying not to fall into the overflowing estuary beneath us, but our muscles were relieved by the different movements, arms not legs.

Then we were running on the Surf Coast Trail, up a hill, up more, past some horses until we reached the top.

We stopped.

Stunning.

Blue skies and blue sea, and sand beaches for miles.

We took some photos.

We hit 30km – more salt tablets and a more painkillers.

We had slowed a little but expected that, swapping between running and a farmers shuffle.

My foot hurt again, but I rationalised that everything hurt, and that made my body move.

With the distance we had covered, the aches were beginning to set in. Doing the same motion for that distance – the very act of putting one foot in front of the other, had become hard work. Our muscles and bones were overworked and wanted desperately to do something different – like stop and lie down.

But, we remained grateful. Not only to race in such a beautiful setting but to race together, side by side.

We took gels, hitting the four-hour mark.

35km and the aches hit harder. T

There were stretches of silence where we just focused on moving our bodies, the occasional check in with each other.

“Jess you’re limping”

“We both are”

“How’s your foot?”

“Everything hurts… so it’s fine” I smiled.

2km from the next checkpoint. We just needed to get there. We arrived at the checkpoint. Greeted by…coke and red bull?

I asked where the vodka was.

The woman laughed.

I was serious.

Bex, again probably grateful to see we were alive asked what we needed.

“To lie down” replied Imogen. And she did just that, which drew some attention from the locals passing by.

I needed lollies, we both did.

More duck squatting, more lollies.

We were behind the 6 hours we had planned, but only just. We could make up the time now that the trails were flatter. Except… we were breaking.

Our Garmins said we were on 38km and I asked a guy with a radio how far was left.

“14km”.

Worst fears confirmed. It appeared we were somehow running 53km.

Imogen was up, eating, refreshed. Drinking the warm coke. “Best bloody thing ever I’ve ever tasted”

Another gel then we were back out and onto Surf Coast trails again.

We ascended up towards Aireys Inlet lighthouse, one of my favourite lighthouses (I do have a thing for lighthouses you see, and what they symbolise for me: a source of strength and guidance in a storm, which some might say is akin to having a twin sister).

We were talking again, laughing, shuffling.

Beautiful Surf Coast Trail.

We hit 40km – officially the longest distance Imogen had ever run in one go.

Pride beyond words to be next to her.

We high fived.

“This is now just a 10km run, just like we’ve been doing all week”

Happiness.

We could bloody well do this, maybe even still in the six hours.

I took more painkillers and more salt tablets.

We hit the beach, soft sand for what looked like a couple of kilometres.

Yikes.

We must have been running for at least a kilometre, and I noticed Imo slowing.

“Jess…” Imo said, a quiet fear in her voice “My knee has gone”

We stopped, reassessing. We knew Imo had had problems with her ITBs – something she’s suffered from in longer distances, so we had been careful to stretch and roll them properly.

Granted, it had taken 42km for her left one to flare up – this was going to be tricky.

We walked.

Both physically broken – now the mental battle began.

She tried to jog, we made it about 50m before the pain was too much.

I knew that pain, race stopping. Crippling.

“Go on without me Jess”

Absolutely not.

“Side by side Imo, as long as it takes”

We swapped between a shuffle and a walk.

“We can do this”

And I honestly believed that.

“We can walk to the finish if that’s what it takes”

We agreed – we would finish no matter what. Together.

We taped her knee up and it helped for a while, more tape, more steps forward.

There were tears, from both of us. But hugs to compensate. And some laughter.

There was prosecco waiting for us, after all.

We finally came off the beach, which was a significant relief. Running on sand is hard on a good day and terrible on an injured day.

Grateful.

Back on single track.

Imo was able to run with less pain, with a slightly straighter leg.

We both made strange noises and talked to ourselves, whatever was needed.

“Can I have some painkillers? That’ll help”

I reached for mine.

Gone.

They must’ve fallen out when we had our salt tablets. Horrifying.

“Imo… they must’ve fallen out.”

Failed. I felt like I’d failed her.

“Oh, I think have some in my front pocket”

Relief. No words.

She took some, and we continued. A literal pain train.

She battled well against a pain I knew was only getting worse. For me too: my foot had cramped into a claw shape in my shoe, which was effective in reducing the pain, but I wondered what was going on down there. What was I going to find when I took my shoe off?

We ran along a few roads and there were people on the streets cheering, and drinking wine. Both were motivation. I think Imogen asked them for a sip.

We were 4km out. The sun was beginning to set across the beach behind us, beautifulness.

Imogen stopped. “Jess, we have to go back onto the beach”

I shook my head. “No, not possible”

Without my glasses I couldn’t see the stream of runners up ahead on the beach.

We both swore, to say the least. And then we let ourselves wallow for a few seconds.

“Let’s finish this and have some wine”

Agreed.

We headed down onto the beach. Her pain kicked in again, harder, more intense.

We walked, taking photos of the sunset, remembering all the gratefuls.

We knew we were about 1km away from the finish line (although our Garmins said 51.9km). We talked about how we would cross the line – holding hands or just running.

Imo was worried we would get disqualified for ‘towing’ if we held hands – it was in the rules and it had happened in other races. (although they were elite races).

Darkness took over, the sun had almost set.

We came off the beach, we knew we were close.

Somehow we picked up the pace, we could hear the cheers of the event finish.

So close.

Back onto grass. All pain disappeared and we ran, sprinted even.

Relief, pride, hope.

Everything.

Cheers.

We crossed the line – just under seven hours.

I hugged her.

My proudest running moment so far.

Her.

We laughed, maybe cried.

The mic man was there, interviewing us. Imogen was cry-laughing with relief as she retold our racing adventures. She was still caked head to toe in mud, much to the mic man’s delight.

We had made it.

Bex found us, with prosecco.

Grateful.

We had done it.

We had bloody well done it.

We walked home and I took my shoes off, finally.

My foot looked angry, swollen.

Ice.

We spent the night eating beautiful food and drinking, trying to roll out and stretch. Watching the All Blacks triumph in the world cup.

But it wasn’t over.

A trip to the hospital the next day confirmed my worst fear.

A broken metatarsal.

I’d most likely fractured it during the trail run on the Monday – then broken it completely during the race.

A moon boot.

For six weeks.

No OCR World Championships.

No Moontrekker 40km in Hong Kong.

No 4 Peaks.

Am I devastated?

Absolutely.

Would I change anything to have crossed that finish line with Imogen?

Absolutely not

.

 

You Yangs Running Festival: Lessons on Hitting the Wall

I took my weirdly swollen ankle to the Doctors the Monday after UTA50km

“X-Ray.”

The results confirmed a loose bone fragment (Betty) with it’s little jazz hands, having a party of it’s own – well away from the rest of my ankle bones.

My Doctor told me that the rounded edges of the bone fragment meant that it was an old fracture that hadn’t healed.

He asked me when I could have done it.

I knew.

I remembered the soccer game – the first and last I ever tried to play in Melbourne. We were 75 minutes in, I had scored, we were winning. I was one on one with the goalie. Then bang, someone else’s foot pushed the position of mine awkwardly enough for that all too familiar right angle an ankle shouldn’t make.

The pain.

Golly. Like nothing else, no other sprain.

I knew it was bad.

There was one problem – my Mum was watching.

The first (and last) time she had watched me played soccer in Australia, she had watched me dislocate my shoulder, then watched my twin sister relocate it. Then sat in the Emergency Department waiting to see whether the tingling in my fingers was nerve damage.

No no, just a Hill Sachs lesion in the humerus.

Back to the game,  I was half carried off the pitch – my mum hadn’t seen me go down. Ice. Elevation.

She made her way over, and I was up, walking. Limping slightly.

“Have you injured yourself?”

I shook my head, “old injury.”

We walked to the car….straight to Ikea…then carried 17 packs of flat pack laminate flooring up four flights of stairs.

Sorry ankle.

Sorry Mum.

The doctor told me it would always be fragile now, and likely to flare up when running.

Not ideal.

I rested – given that it was my first 50km my body wasn’t actually capable of any form of….movement, anyway.

The next few weeks the familiar pre-UTA lethargy also continued and I went back to the docs. Bill and Bob – my parasites – were still there.

The antibiotics hadn’t worked.

I lost a small mental battle at that point – parasites and a weakened ankle. I’m pretty sure I allowed myself one day to wallow.

But I know, other people have gone through far worse – far worse – and picked themselves back up. And come back stronger.

I continued to train, allowing for the 8-9 hours’ sleep my body now seemed to need.

I also recently acquired two new foster cats – supposed to be a shy pair of sisters.

Shy, they told me.

I was woken around 3.00am by Trudy (the tiger) wanting to play, then sit on my neck, then poke me in the face. I didn’t have the heart to kick her out.

6.00am – my alarm went off long after I had woken up to feed them, and play with them. Tired? Of course, but definitely good for the soul, and great for pre-race nerves.

I ate the usual sweet potato and eggs, had coffee, then more coffee. Cooked my potatoes, counted my gels. Packed my race gear, repacked my race gear. Mobilised my body.

As I approached the You Yangs I became excited, love this place.

I walked to the start, the familiar feeling of being in a place I belonged, with people whom I belonged with.

30 km.

I hadn’t raced this distance before. I had thought long and hard about pace – not as quick as a half and not as slow as a 50km. Surely.

I checked myself, feeling at around 80% of myself. But no pain from my ankle.

Grateful.

Caffeine gel. Focus.

We lined up, and  started. I began running, and suddenly I realised I had brought the wrong race vest – the one too big for me. It bounced up and down on my shoulders as I ran.

How??

I laughed. It was all I could do.

I managed to take two safety pins off my race bib and safety pin the vest together to fit better. It seemed to work.

We were on fire trails – flat, fast. An out and back. I looked at my watch. 4.10min/km. All my unfavourite things.

Crikey.

I wasn’t sure my legs could sustain this pace for 30km, I prayed for hills, for Flinders Peak. That was my jam.

We continued and turned back on ourselves, and I saw the females in front of me – I counted three but couldn’t be sure.

w more km, fast and furious (everyone else, not me) and we hit it – the most beautiful part of You Yangs…undulating single track.

Heaven.

I squealed and flew, my lower body moving with the hills, jumping, running, skipping, climbing.

So. Much. Fun.

I had joined a pack, some guys in front of me, pacing me.

I overtook one of the girls, third female.

Another gel, whilst trying to run. Clearly out of practice. Choking ensued, and stickiness.

We left the single track, back onto fire trail, a long stretch of open, fire trail.

The pace picked up again.

We were on 12km and my legs were not doing so well – some sort of weird pain and tingling in my right thigh. I pushed it away.

I knew I wasn’t in peak shape, and the negative self-talk began: why hadn’t I trained harder, faster. Or even trained less, and rested. I threw so many what ifs through my head to try and understand why I was struggling. The parasites? I wasn’t sure.

I kept going.

Another female over took me – a different one, back to third. I tried to maintain her pace, 4.10/km again. If she could do it, so could I.

Stupidity.

One of the pack.

“how you pulling up?”

“I’m over the flat ness”

He laughed. “yeah, this is fast and flat hey”

It wasn’t just me.

We ran together, entering some more single track – heading up towards Flinders Peak.

First, a long steep climb. Time for some aggressive lunging.

Hells yes.

I looked at my watch. Potato time.

I took them out of my race vest, out of their sandwich bag and tried, in between gulps of breath, to eat the potato.

I guess you could liken it to trying to eat food during burpees. It wasn’t my wisest choice to do It during the climb, but I knew I needed them for Flinders Peak.

Ooooo, Flinders Peak.

I got excited.

Flinders Peak is 1.5km of mountain, peak, steps, rocks, climbing. Heaven.

I began the ascent- others walking. I ran. This was freedom, this was my jam.

I climbed the steps – two at a time where I could.

We were greeted by some of the 50km and 100km runners, we cheered. Legends.

Three females passed me on their way down already, I had miscounted. I was forth.

Could I catch up?

I picked up the pace.

The top, the views, the feeling. My favourite place – usually because it’s where I would stop to have food and refuel during long runs.

And down.

I’ve run the descent many times before.

I began. Fast at first, trying to make up some time lost on the flats.

Pain.

Flashes at first, my ankle.

The downhill impact was too much? I shook my head. No, not possible. Not now.

I slowed. Landed more on my left foot.

The female I’d overtaken before, overtook me.

Fifth.

I couldn’t give up hope, I couldn’t slow any more. I could not let my head drop.

I know it’s these times, these moments where I try, really try, to remind myself to run my own race and not other people’s. I shouldn’t care where I was, I shouldn’t care that I was fifth. It was about the running, the moment. Where my feet were.

Deep breaths and a mental slap around the face.

Pipe down Jess, just run.

I continued down. Carefully.

More 50km and 100km runners on their climb up – and more of the 30km runners heading on their way up.

Amazing vibe.

I was grateful again.

Suddenly I was at the bottom, and we turned back on ourselves at the bottom – into single trail again.

My legs….were heavy from the ascent, but the pain in my ankle had lessened.

And oh the trails.

More grateful.

17km.

We descended again, down towards the bike trails for the second half of the run.

I knew them well, having rode (into trees) on them quite a few times. I was excited.  I picked up the pace.

I was with the pack again, a few new members. And glimpses of the woman in forth ahead.

Easy Jess, run your race.

One of the guys up ahead I’d ran with earlier, walking.

I ran past “come on, let’s move”

He ran, we ran.

The trails were….they’re better on a bike – more zig zags and corners than hills.

But god damn it was beautiful.

Another gel.

23km.

Heavy legs, heavy.

My right thigh tingles were back.

I managed for 2km.

At 25km I knew I was hitting a wall. Maybe I’d gone out too fast – too fast on the fire trails. Maybe it was the Mexican I’d had last night, or maybe it was just Bill and Bob kicking around in my stomach.

I slowed to a farmers shuffle. I wanted to stop.

Almost, I almost stopped.

I choked down a mini sob, it wasn’t supposed to feel this hard.

The only time I’d felt like this was on the third day of the four day Lara Pinta race – I hadn’t warmed down or rested enough the day before, and everything was hurt and effort.

That was the now. I was back there, willing there not to be 5km left. Willing for that extra energy.

The fix?

The people.

“Move, we run together” Same guy I’d told to move.

A god send.

We ran.

Another guy, in a blue shirt was behind us, with us.

“Let’s pace each other”

And so we did.

I cranked up my music, Skrillex, Slash, The Prodigy.

Gel. Another badly taken gel. But I didn’t care.

I imagined I was just out for a casual 5km run, in the You Yangs – did I mention it was my favourite place?

I remembered my gratefuls.

I got to run this.

I nodded to myself, and picked up the pace. Caffeine and sugar kicking in.

We came off the trails, back onto fire trail – and I was finally grateful for them. I knew where we were.

2km to go and everyone we were running with knew, it was almost the finish.

We ran and we laughed, we encouraged and we cheered. How could we not?

The last 500m.

I could see the finish. I sprinted – or tried to. Rock solid legs. Sprinting with rock solid legs.

Righto.

Everything hurt, but I picked up the pace.

200m.

Faster.

100m.

Usain Bolt (probably not)

Done.

Finish line.

I laughed, probably manically. And shook the hands of those I’d run with.

They had no idea how grateful I was for them, all my thank yous and high fives could not convey how they had saved me. Had picked me up and thrown me over the wall.

I sat, legs shakey, tingling.

Sugar. Snakes – all of them.

I watched others come in, some of them the 50km finishers, others were 100kms doing another lap, amazingness.

I was grateful.

________________________________________________________

And next?

A team duathlon involving two 4km runs – in the You Yangs.

And then? The 50km running next to my twin sister. The excitement and pride is….hard to explain.

Epicness.

Oh…then the OCR World Champs in England.

Yikes.

#sorrylegs

 

UTA50: 50km, 4,000 steps, 2,500m elevation… and one sprained ankle.

With just two weeks until my first 50km, a trip to the doctors confirmed my worst fear – the fatigue and nausea I’d been feeling since TSP was not one but TWO types of parasites I’d picked up. Suddenly the struggle to get out of bed (not just the darker, colder mornings) made a bit more sense.

The Doctor gave me antibiotics.

“Jess, no alcohol whilst you take these”

I didn’t think about it.

Then, when the pharmacist handed me the antibiotics, she paused and looked at them.

“No alcohol…”

She looked at me.

“Jessica. None.”

So terrifying. I nodded to appease her.

The next week was an uncomfortable blur of a different kind of fatigue and nausea – and many failed attempts at drinking red wine.

Would this affect my running? Had it already? I felt good physically – strong. And mentally, that I would last the 6+ hours it would take me to run 50km.

I didn’t think so. So long as the fatigue disappeared before the race, right?

Friday came around quickly and I was suddenly on a plane, and then in the Blue Mountains.

Blue Skies, beautiful mountains, and 7,000 trail runners who were just as excited to be here as me. Heaven.

I checked into my hotel, laid out all my gear on the floor – a huge pile of mandatory gear and all the food I would be carrying with me. I rearranged multiple times, as if that would make it seem like a smaller, lighter load to carry. No good. It was all coming with me.

I wandered down to the Three Sisters, talked to other runners, took photos, laughed, then headed to the race briefing.

There was mention of research around the negative effects of taking anti-inflammatory drugs before or during an ultra-run – it placed too much strain on the kidneys, which were already undergoing something entirely out of their comfort zone by trying to carry you through such a long distance.

With peroneal tendonitis in my right foot, I had planned on taking some to ease any inflammation – but decided that strapping would have to do.

Back at the hotel I wrote out the race schedule – mostly around my food and the times I would need to be reaching the aid stations to run under 6 hours. I knew the course was hilly – 4,000 steps and 2,500m elevation. The first half was a mixture of undulating fire track and trail, the second was a heavy and hard combination of steep downhill fire trail, and all the steps back up.

I was planning to run 5.30min/km when I could – faster if I felt good – then pull back on the ups, and let go on the downs. The danger was to go out too fast in the first half where the trails were ‘easier’ then kill your legs for the harder second half. Yikes.

I wrote the plan out again and again, as though I would forget that I was simply eating a gel and either a banana or some boiled potatoes every 45 minutes. Nerves.

Melatonin. Sleep. It felt like Christmas – which is something I’ve not felt before a race for a while – a new experience? A new challenge that I had no idea how it would pan out. Exciting.

4am and my alarm went off.

I was up and eating a gluten free avocado sandwich and egg whites, with a tea bag coffee (just FYI  this is my kind of travel heaven…)

I showered – something I never normally do pre-race (because why would you?).

Another coffee.

I strapped my ankles in what’s called a heel lock strap – to ease any pressure on the peroneal tendons during the race. (No, I have no idea what I’m talking about)

I was wired.

I packed the food and mandatory gear into my new Ultimate Direction race vest (a birthday present to myself).

Bloody hell it was heavy. I laughed, knowing I was probably taking too much food (four bananas, 800g of boiled potatoes, 500g of dates, 200g of jelly beans, two bars, two litres of Gatorade and some water. Plus 12 gels….).

Hanger would not be an issue.

I walked to the start line at Scenic World, to watch the first group of 100km runners go off.

Electric – the vibe was amazing. I wanted to stay here forever, around these people. Everyone was excited, happy, inspiring.

Four trips to the toilet and I was ready, five minutes until my group started at 6.39am.

I knew I couldn’t listen to music until the aid station at 28.2km. A challenge, but I understood. The trails, the people, the fact that there would be members of the public on the trail too.

The guy with the mic was counting us down.

“60 seconds to go Group 2. Remember: don’t be a hero in the first half, don’t be a wimp in the second.”

Righto.

I took a gel, and we were off. A 6km out-and-back along road and fire track – undulating but not too steep.

I looked at my watch 4.20min/km – it actually felt slow, but I knew it was too fast. I pulled back to 5.00min/km. Better.

I found a steady pace, found people running my pace – my pack. We chatted, cheered, waved at bystanders. Amazing.

We passed the starting section again and headed towards the infamous Three Sisters. Yikes.

Stairs – down. Steep, steep stairs, over hanging… absolutely nothing. It was beautifully terrifying. And – at moments – just terrifying. Walking these stairs at a normal pace was scary but trying to race down them….

We hit the bottom, straight into forest, rainforest, beautiful greens and a cool breeze to greet us.

10km had passed so suddenly and I ate my first gel and banana.

I remained with the same pack, all on the pain train, following the leader, shouting out obstacles and trying our hardest to admire our surroundings without tripping up.

We hit stairs. All of them. Someone had found all the stairs in the world and put them into a 2km stretch. We climbed.

I ate my first potatoes, which was an unsuccessful balance of trying to climb stairs, breath, and chew. But energy I needed.

Finally, we were at the top – my legs were shaky. We were now running single track along the mountains, clear blue skies, and clouds (fog, Jess) lingered in the forests below. Suddenly I forgot about the shakiness.

We ran through the first check point at 17.2km. Water, chips and lollies.

No salt – I thought there would be salt. Of all the things I was carrying, that was something I didn’t have.

I don’t normally suffer from cramps, but with a distance I’d never run before, I wasn’t sure. I grabbed the chips; they’d have salt on them. I clearly need to practice running and eating chips.

I checked my watch: I was on for my six hours.

I was still with the same pack and we hit some downhill fire trail. I debated having more potato, but instead decided to pick up the pace and use the slight downhill to carry me.

We hit 20km.

Then BANG.

I heard a crack, and suddenly I was on the floor.

There was pain…and blood.

Everyone stopped. The pack.

The pain.

My ankle. My bloody ankle

“Cramp?” One of the guys asked.

“Her ankle went.”

He knew. He saw.

I crawled to the side of the track, if anything trying to crawl away from the pain in my ankle.

I knew that pain. I knew what had just happened to my ligaments – the unnatural right angle my ankle had just made.

And the blood – on my hand, my arms…then I saw it. The deep cut on my left knee.

What the bloody hell had happened?

“Shall we call emergency?”

“No. You guys go. I’m finishing this race, I just need a minute”

“Bloody oath you are.” Legend.

I told them again to go, and every runner that stopped to help, to go.

I still have so much gratitude for them all.

I choked down tears – of frustration? And helplessness.

I knew if I didn’t get up soon, I wouldn’t be able too.

I had some strong words with myself. I would finish this.

I’d heard earlier that morning there are three types of fun that happen on a trail:

1. Fun to do and fun to tell
2. Not fun to do but fun to tell
3. Not fun to do, not fun to tell

This would not be a number 3.

I got up. Put weight on my foot. I might have whimpered…maybe.

I walked. I could do this.

Jogging.

Running. Sharp pain.

Bollocks.

But it faded.

If I could just get to the aid station in 8km to get ice and strapping…

I continued. Determined. A farmer’s shuffle with a slight right hand drop – almost a jig. I’d created a new dance for sure.

I thought about what had been said about taking painkillers in the race briefing. I debated. I had some with me. Was it worth the risk?

A sharp pain.

Yes.

I took one.

The fire trail continued – then open road.

Perfect.

I caught up with the pack. “You’re back!” I nodded.

Then I remembered my plan, I needed to eat, I needed a gel. I needed to keep my focus on the race. My body was hurting, my quads, my hip flexors. Expected a this point, but maybe not as bad as I thought it would be.

We continued, and somehow, I pulled away from them, said my goodbyes and continued on.

I knew I wasn’t going to make the six hours I’d planned, but suddenly the pressure was off, I just wanted to finish. So, I ran, with no pressure.

28.2km. CP501. The main Aid Station.

“First Aid is that way” A woman told me as I approached.

Blood had literally covered my left knee

I ran into the tent.

I was greeted by smiles and warmth.

“I need….” A new ankle.

“…I fell.” Words escaped me.

Deep breaths.

A woman, a nurse, guided me to a seat. “Let’s clean up your knee.”

I nodded.

They offered me everything – food, water, tea.

The warmth. The smiles.

“I think I sprained my ankle”

She looked down at it, you could already see the swelling. She nodded.

“I’m going to finish the race, do you have ice?” She nodded again, and another woman went to get ice.

We made small talk, almost banter. I was calmed.

“I’m going to put some iodine on your knee…it might sting a little.”

We laughed – my whole body hurt and I think she knew that.

“This doesn’t look fresh.”

I shrugged.

“Made of nails, hey?”

Or just stupid.

We decided to leave the cut open to the air, to breath. And to not take my shoe off – to contain the swelling, so I put the ice down my sock, immediate soothing.

I thanked them repeatedly – the laughter, the kindness. The beautifulness. My heart was filled.

I hobbled outside to a guy who was holding a bag of salt sachets.

“Salt!” Higher pitched than I’d intended.

He gave me some sachets.

“You just open it and…down it.”

“No tequila?”

We laughed.

The taste was peculiar.

I grabbed some lollies too, to take away the taste.

I continued.

22km to go.

We went out onto open rolling road. This was good. Only flickers of pain.

And music!! I could listen to music. I debated: the encouragement and the chatter had been so warming, so encouraging. Did I really need music?

My ankle hit a loose rock. Nausea.

I needed music – hardcore, adrenaline pumping music. Slash, Skrillex. Anything.

And another painkiller.

Then we hit it – the steep fire trail. Too steep to run up (cue aggressive lunging) and too painful to run down on a sprained ankle.

I began slow. Really slow.

I was three hours in at this point and this was the first time my mind struggled. The first time I questioned myself, whether I could do this. My quads were on fire and my calves felt like they were one wrong movement from cramping…. and I was getting a weird random chaffing in my right armpit. Not my left though.

The runners around me encouraged – all struggling the same. Tiredness, cramping, stitch, old injuries, all beginning to materialise.

I decided to play with some intervals – ninety seconds of light jogging alternating with ninety seconds of aggressive lunging (when I was on an uphill… otherwise that would have been an incredible waste of energy).

20 minutes passed…. then 40. Slowly – and painfully – but it was progress either way. Music, scenery, blue skies. I focused on the good.

Before I knew it, we hit forest – single track. And a sign: 5km to go.

5km.

To go.

I know I squealed.

I somehow managed to pick up the pace and ran with another pack.

It definitely wasn’t my fastest running – tree roots meant I had to be super careful with my ankle.

Then, I thought I felt pain in my lower back – around my kidneys. I shook my head, couldn’t be. Was it just my mind playing tricks on me or had the painkillers taken their toll? Was it just lower back pain from the up and downhill?

I pushed through.

My whole body now definitely hurt. Not unbearable, not unpleasant… almost a good hurt. One you’d expect from 45km of Blue Mountain trail. No cramping though, no ITB pain.

Grateful.

Another sign: 1km to go.

I choked back a cry. Happy tears. It was at that point I knew I’d make it.

I knew I could finish.

Just 951 steps in my way….

But, for some unknown reason, I love steps. That’s where strength training comes in to play so well.

I climbed, even overtook, continued. Heaven.

“Three more sets of steps” a volunteer shouted out.

Home straight.

I heard the finish, I climbed faster, and suddenly the turning to the finish.

“Girl power!” A young girl shouted.

Inspired (or terrified) I picked up the pace to the finish.

Crowds, people. Excitement. Amazingness.

I crossed the line.

Tears.

50km.

I was an ultra-runner.

The medal, the crowd.

My legs, jelly.

My ankle, throbbing.

A woman approached me, smiling but serious. “Mandatory equipment checks”. I nodded. I had everything. I opened my bag; she could see that. She nodded.

“Just get yourself to the aid tent….” I’m not sure whether she saw the blood on my knee, the swelling around my ankle, or just the slight craziness in my eyes.

I shuffled along, waited for the pack I’d run with and high fived them. All as grateful as me.

I walked through the food and water tent. My legs, they hurt. I collapsed into the nearest chair I could find.

“My love” A woman was crouching beside me, concerned.

“What can I get you? Food? Water? Tea?”

I couldn’t answer.

“I just need to sit for a while.”

She nodded and smiled. She knew.

Five minutes later and I had found the medical tent. I explained to a doctor what had happened. I took my shoe off for the first time, took off the strapping from my tendinitis.

The swelling looked… strange.

The doctor felt it, pressed it, watched my reactions. She shook her head.

“The pain and swelling are over the bone, not the ligaments.”

I didn’t register.

“We can’t rule out a break, you need to get an x-ray.”

I nodded. Not really taking it in.

“Tomorrow.”

For now? I just wanted to soak up being there. Being around 7,000 trail runners, having finished. Everything.

They strapped me up, cleaned and dressed my knee.

More gratitude.

6 hours 30 minutes – only 30 minutes off the time I’d wanted.

14th female in category.

30th female overall – in 920.

I was happy.

Despite everything – the parasites, the antibiotics, the sprain – that had been some of the best trail running of my life. Just beautifulness, and beautiful people. Some of the biggest challenges too, which only added to it.

Would I do it again?

In a heartbeat.

I’m already planning the Surf Coast Century 50km – with the aim to qualify for UTMB if I’m lucky enough.

And what now?

I haven’t yet had an x-ray, but I have taken at least the week off running.

You’re welcome, legs.

Next week, I have an adventure race coming up – with my twin sister. It’ll be the first time we’ve ever raced as a team, and the first time we’ve run ‘competitively’ together since doing the 9km harbour bridge run in Sydney, some seven years ago (yep, dressed as Batman and Robin….).

Pure madness I’m sure.

I might also have signed up for another Crossfit competition in July – a two day event. Team of six.

Because why not?

#sorrylegs

     

   

The Speed Project – 550km of high, lows and everything in between. And some running too.

I arrived in LA at 6.00am on the Saturday morning, a week before TSP.

Sleep deprived, I wondered whether I’d over committed myself by trying to get to a 5km run organised by Blue Ribbon Sports (the original Nike)…at 10.00am…on the other side of LA.

I went anyway, surrounded by beautifully passionate runners – many of whom were racing in the LA Marathon the next day.

Hello Los Angeles.

The Speed Project had finally arrived.

TSP started five years ago when two runners decided to start…running together. Initially to each other’s houses, then further, challenging themselves, each time upping the distance. Finally they ran – from LA to Vegas, then created a race around it…because why not?

To compete for the win, or the challenge of setting a new record, you entered as a team of six – four males, two females or six females. Otherwise you could enter teams of as many as you liked, to race for the challenge. No rules, just get from LA to Vegas, non-stop, on foot. You were allowed a crew and vehicles to assist transporting those that weren’t running.

Crew members were, in essence, essential – to drive RVs and plan logistics, provide motivation, water, accompany runners when needed.

AM PM were an all-female team of six – Annabelle (Bramwell), me, Pip, Emily, Annabel (Fendall) and Julia.

We had four crew – Ben (photographer), Sam S, American Sam (local) and Dylan (training for an Ironman the week after the race – legend), and an RV to accommodate up to eight people…

I had only met Emily, Fendall – whom I’d trained with in Melbourne, and Sam S and Ben. This was going to be an interesting race for sure.

I spent the rest of the weekend running, exploring, walking, eating (hello Wholefoods) – and taking in LA and its beautiful madness.

Mesmerising.

Monday came and I was the first to check into our TSP Airbnb – greeted by Mary, who spent an hour debriefing me on how to use the house. And feed the fish.

Two of the girls and one of our crew arrived that afternoon – Em, Bramwell and Dylan, and we went for dinner in Venice Beach.

Em also brought all the kit Nike had given our team, so much, so beautiful. So grateful.

The next day we ventured out for a gentle 10km run…that turned out to be 15km after a few wrongs turns, and included two ascents to some epic lookouts. Sorry legs.

I promised myself I would rest tomorrow.

The next day, the rest of the girls and crew arrived – Julia, Pip and Fendall, Sam and Ben, mild hysteria and a disbelief that we were here, about to run The Speed Project.

We were a beautiful mixture of New Zealand and Australian (ahem, and English) runners. We all had the passion, and knew the freedom of running. We had all put in the training, made the sacrifices, and all been exponentially hungrier and mildly sleep deprived ever since we said yes.

Wednesday – we ran along the beach – our first run out all together, initially a slow 5km that turned into a faster than expected 7km. Yikes. We decided to spend the rest of the day on electric scooters to rest our legs. And eat donuts….to carb load, of course.

Thursday – the day before the race, we sat down and planned the race. No running allowed.

There were 39 stages of maps to review that covered the 550km race. The organisers had ranked the stages with varying degrees of difficulty 1 to 4. Then they had assigned the six runners to each leg based on their running strength.

I was runner 2 – my runs would include the more technical trails, mostly during the night – through the desert. Excitedly terrifying. I had done night runs before but not on my own in the middle of the desert, in the middle of the night.

The order to start: Bramwell, me, Pip, Em, Fendall and Julia.

We only planned the first few stages, and a few of the tougher ones. We knew that anything could happen out there and plans would need to be flexible and adaptable. That was the importance of the crew.

Then, we shopped. We would be on the road in the RV with limited stops for at least 45 hours, if not more. We needed food, water, energy, comfort, and we needed to pimp our ride.

We returned home, prepped our food – for me 2kg of baked sweet potato, almond butter and jam sandwiches (on GF bread) – 16 of them, and all the bananas in the world. My plan was to finish a run, have a sandwich straight after, then alternate between a banana or sweet potato an hour before I ran again, and a gel or coffee just before the run.

That was the plan.

We set up the RV (pillows, blankets, duvets), and went for one last meal at Whole Foods before an early night.

Friday – 2.00am.

My alarm went off, no sleep. Coffee (tea bag) and mobility. The house was nervous excitement. I was nervous excitement. Six months in the making was two hours away.

I ate – pre cooked sweet potato, eggs and avo as standard.

We packed our food, packed our RV, and set off for Santa Monica pier.

The vibe – electric. 43 teams, 43 RVs, at least 400 runners and crew. The count down was on.

I definitely wasn’t used to spending time with people the night before a race, let alone the morning of. My usual routine of drinking a few glasses of wine (self-sabotage I’m sure), sleeping, then listening to Slash all morning as race prep was nowhere to be seen.

This was different, this was a team event. There were six of us now, not just me. Ten of us in fact. It was important to communicate, and at least try to act relatively normal.

Terrifying.

3.55am, Bramwell, our first runner lined up, under the Santa Monica pier entrance.

4.00am, she was off. We watched as she flew, then raced to our RV to keep up with her, and get to the next check point to swap runners, 10km away, me.

We followed her when we could, cheering her, and others. The energy was amazing. The race was fast.

We arrived at the changeover, where Bramwell would tag me in. We waited, god she was quick.

We watched the road where she would be coming from, then heard shouts from her – coming from the road above the highway, she was manically climbing down the stairs to us. We laughed, this is how it would roll.

She held her hand out. I touched it.

My turn.

I turned and ran, energy in my legs, wanting to do well for the team, to run for them.

I knew some of the streets from running them over the weekend, and kept my pace with another runner, another female. I tried to take photos, failed.

The RV was there, the team were cheering, then it was gone, 10km, I didn’t want to get lost, so I stayed with the other runner, up a hill, right onto Sunset Boulevard. I knew the way from here, so I pulled away and ran the empty streets of LA, mesmerising.

I ran towards where I knew the RV would be. People lined the streets, waiting for their runner, but cheering others. Pip was waiting, ready to be tagged in, we touched hands, and she was off. Flying.

I climbed back into the RV, a hot sweaty mess. This was amazing.

And we ran. Fast and hard through LA, with the rising sun.

My next leg was not planned. We hit a hit, a windy hill. The kind of wind that takes your breath away even just walking in it, let alone running.

We swapped in and out for a few kms, to maintain pace and rest each other until the hills ended and we were more sheltered.

And we continued. The girls ran, strong, hard, tagged in and out, supported, cheered. Amazingness.

When we weren’t running we jumped out and high fived, gave water when we could. Then we rested, rolled, and used the Hypervolt to keep our muscles alive and kicking.

My next run was just before 9.00am, still windy, 7km. I had some sandwiches and gels, I needed my inhaler but that was expected. Dylan joined me on the bike we had brought, providing shelter from the wind.

We pulled off the highway and onto the long stretches of highway that would be our friend for the next few hours. Nothing but road and desert.

It was midday – and we were at 115km of the 550km when I had my next run – 8km.

I tried some new gels.

Something was wrong. My legs were fine, felt strong. My mind, strong.

My stomach.

Something was wrong with my stomach. I began to run, and it felt like I was running with a watermelon in my stomach, then suddenly like I’d eaten something that had disagreed with me. Neither were pleasant feelings.

I continued to run, hoping, praying it would pass.

I tagged out, talked to the others, the same, dodgy stomachs, gastro. This could not be trained for.

And so it happened, my first bush poo (sorry Mum). The RV had a toilet – but it had been filled already. So I disappeared into the desert.

We rotated through runners, kept eating despite the stomach cramps, because the fuel was important. And laughed through it, because that was all we could do.

We sat down, and the boys went through the plan for the next few stages. A few more runs along the wide open road. Then into a sketchy neighbourhood known for wild dogs, and wild people. Then we hit a petrol station where we could fill up gas, and dump our waste. Yikes.

The order of runners was staying the same. The first three – Bramwell, me and Pip, would do slightly longer runs throughout the rotations, and we would see how we went – we were also dropping the distances down to account for the growing heat, and would probably drop to shorter once night time hit.

Everyone was killing it.

My next run was through the sketchy neighbourhood.

I was on 26km so far, legs felt good. Stomach? Stomach was no good, and there was nothing I could do, or wanted to do, but run through it. I would not let the team down.

I tagged in for my first 5km, had the compulsory pepper spray, and one of the crew, Sam S, on the bike in front of me as we approached. One storey houses with large yards and gates around them – the kind you see in movies I guess with furniture and broken cars in the yard. These were real.

We turned into the town, nervous. I ran, a relatively slow pace to try and tame my stomach cramps – not ideal in a not ideal town. But it was that or literally lose my stomach in the not so ideal town, on the side of the road.

We continued, with the RV close by. A few dogs, a few people but nothing close to what we had planned, or expected. Relief.

A small dog ran over towards us, separated by a fence, cute. Then a huge, angry looking dog sprinted over shortly after, not so cute. Manically barking, definitely not so cute. I pulled the mace out of my pocket.

We continued.

5km passed relatively quickly and I tagged Pip in, and Sam stayed on the bike. A boy ran up to me. “Miss what’s your name?” “Jess:”, “And your number?” Yikes. “Runner number 2” He seemed satisfied.

Another boy shouted towards the RV “Are you really running to Vegas?”, Ben, our photographer nodded. “Why would you want to do that??”

Good point.

They were fun and we relaxed a little. Just a little.

Then we were through the sketchy area and back onto open road. Another 5km.

I got back onto the RV, went to the toilet, again. I had been feeling fine between races, but the first maybe 200-400m in I would need the toilet, and that would continue until I finished running, and I could disappear into the bush. Yikes. I couldn’t imagine doing this for another 40 or so hours.

The sun was beginning to set and we were about to hit the tougher trails.

We were leading into our first night of running. Em had brought us a reflective vest to switch over so the cars on the freeway could see us.

It wasn’t until we dropped down into the 3.5kms that I realised the only way this was going to get any more manageable, was to start running, to wait for the cramps and the need to go, and just go, in the desert.

8.30pm – my next 3.5km. 200m in, cramps. I ducked into the bush, behind a small tree…did the deed.

Sprang back onto the road.

Sprang. Jigged.

Immediately better, no cramps, lighter, faster. Shit just got real. Literally.

I picked up the pace and ran towards the sunset, shades on, reflective vest on and head torch ready.

Sunsets in America are…epic, flat land means they wrap around the entire sky and last a long time.

Now that I had worked out how to manage the cramps, I was happy. Running into the sunset. Bliss.

The girls and crew were in such good spirits, cheering us, cheering others. High fives, water. True team work.

280km in, along Ghost Town Road, we began to hit the more technical trails. Separate instructions accompanied the maps TSP had given us, detailing…detail.

One more 3.5km before I had a 6 hour rest. 43.5km in my legs, and with a 2.00am start, I was grateful.

But it was strange to think, as I was laying down to try and sleep, that the girls were out there running, continuing, in the dark.

I managed around 40 minutes in the whole six hours, restless. I got up. Baby wiped my body and changed into my third running kit.

It was dark in the RV, three of the crew were getting some much needed sleep. I sat down to look at my next leg, converted the miles to km to try and follow the instructions.

Cold brew was needed.

Section 30 was next for me, at 2.00am.

My legs felt rested, my stomach felt somewhat good. For now.

I put on my head torch, my bright yellow jumper and headed outside to be tagged in. I could see her head torch in the distance. We tagged and I was off, into the desert, in the dark.

I turned on my music, mainly so I couldn’t hear what was going on around me – and made sure I could only see the trail a few metres in front of me, that was fine by me.

I upped my pace and immediately felt the familiar stomach pains.

I stopped, dipped to the side of the trail, not too far off, turned my head torch off. Eight seconds later (approximately) I was back on the trail, ready.

I continued, buzzing.

My instructions told me to look out for a gully, and cross it. I wandered exactly what I was looking out for. Then I saw it, well, I saw darkness.

The trail dipped down, into complete darkness, like the edge of a cliff, into a gully.

I don’t think I slowed so much as maybe skipped a little, in nervous excitement. There was maybe even a heel click. Nervous indeed.

I entered the darkness, the gully. The temperature dropped and the crossing was deep and vast. I looked around in morbid fascination at what might be around me, lurking in the gully. Luckily not much. The trail turned to sand and my legs slowed.

I moved through it and ascended the other side, back onto the dirt trail. I picked up the pace, still no one else around me.

One more gully, smaller, then I was nearing the end of my run.

I could see a head torch in front of me. No stomach pain, just running, just trails, and the desert.

I was grateful. I was happy.

I returned to the RV, excitedly exhausted. I’d be racing again in a few hours, 10km through harder terrain – ankle breaking according to the section instructions.

Yikes.

Definitely no skipping.

I sat down with Pip, and we worked out distances for the instructions for my leg and her leg – a 15km trail run after mine.

One of us would be lucky enough to be running when the sun rose over the Nevada desert.

My instructions mentioned it being a long slow run, with rocks, boulders and loose stones. Challenge accepted. I was excited. More trails.

We drove through a small town and Sam S, the driver, shouted back to us that there was a crazy guy on the road and we should get out and support Julia, who was now running.

Dylan and I jumped out, my quads pinged as I shuffled along the road and we spotted the crazy guy, dancing and fist fighting to himself on the side of the road, and spotted Julia running towards him. We ran down the road, almost crossed the road to avoid him, and led Julia out in to the middle of the road with us – without explaining at all what was going on except to follow us. Probably not the best planning.

She followed us in time for the crazy guy to run out into the road towards us.

“Just keep running” and we did.

Back to the RV. And continued.

Night time in the desert indeed.

The girls continued to smash it, these were longer sections, in the dark, in the middle of the night. No one kicked up a fuss, we got up, we get out and we got around each other. It was amazing to be part of.

So proud, so in awe.

5.00am came and we arrived at the change over point for my next trail run. A quick gel.

Ben, the driver at the time, wound down the window. “God it smells like something is dead or dying out there”

Nice. I jumped out, and agreed, but warmed up anyway, ignoring the smell.

Dylan left on the bike to locate Emily and steer her towards me and soon I saw a familiar head torch bobbing up and down.

My legs were on 49.7km, my body physically felt good. My stomach was still doing somersaults and cramping – nothing a bit of trail wouldn’t sort out I’m sure.

We tagged, and I ran, along a dirt road, then cut up into the desert, keeping the telegraph poles on my right as the instructions said.

Hills – rocky, stoney hills to start. Fun. I picked up the pace.

The familiar stomach cramps began and I pulled over, not wanting to veer too far from the main trail, turned off my head torch.

Back on the trails, much better. And nothing ate me. Winning.

More rocks, buried into the ground – like running along a river bed, then soft sand and loose stones, tricky. But god this was fun.

Limp Bizkit came on, and I was rolling.

I saw a head torch in the distance, confirming I was heading the right way. I looked at the instructions, at 9.3km I had to duck right under the telegraph poles and follow what we would assume was the head lights of our RV.

I caught up with the other head torch – the Kings Cross team he was a little lost and couldn’t find the right turn. I looked at my watch, we hadn’t hit the distance yet. We ran together, Brad, and found the right turn. We both slowly got faster, a silent race. I provided encouragement, to him or me, I’m not sure.

I looked at the sky, turning orange, getting lighter. Beautiful.

Then we saw head torches up ahead, and somehow both picked up the pace to near sprinting.

“Pip!” I shouted out. “Jess!” Phew.

She was with Sam S, ready to run the 15km, her second long run that morning. Legendary. I tagged her in, wished her good luck and watched them run off into the sunrise.

Brad and I high fived, the energy from the pitch black trail run in the Nevada Desert still in us.

I looked up at the sky, grateful. Then headed back to the RV. Onwards.

The girls continued to run, to smash through tiredness, aches and gastro.

I tried to rest, tried to eat – terrified my stomach would get worse.

Daylight arrived in Death Valley – along with the heat and a never ending straight road that would lead us through the Valley into Vegas.

We had survived the night time desert.

We were 420km in, 130km to go.

Sam explained the revised plan to accommodate the heat and the monotony of running on a long straight road.

Three of us would do 4km stints – me, Bramwell and Pip, and three would do 2.4kms – Em, Fendall and Julia. If we needed to rest or sleep (some of the girls hadn’t had the chance) we would rotate among five of us whilst they did. We needed to be sensible, and honest about any niggles, conditions, struggles etc.

My next run was just before 9.00am, the heat hadn’t fully consumed the desert so it was bare able temperature.

My stomach? Still mild cramping, but better than yesterday

I stepped out of the RV, my quads. Oh dear lord my quads. From the trails, the downhill. The microscopic tears that running downhill or on uneven surface caused. I hadn’t cooled down, foolish.

I did some loose stretching, before I could see Bramwell in the distance, running towards the RV at pace. Incredible stamina.

She tagged me in, and I was off. I waited a few minutes until the RV had passed me then ducked into the bush. I had got the timing down to a tee, then I was back and running and felt so much better.

We rotated through twice on those distances before the heat came through thick and fast and we dropped down to 3.2km and 2km.

Shorter runs meant shorter rests, we made sure we had water, had our nuun, refuelled as much as we could, and rested as much as we could. Changed our outfits if we wanted, and baby wiped our bodies.

Our stomachs were still relatively unsettled, but we agreed that we needed to eat to fuel our runs, rather than not eat to rest our stomachs. It was a fine balance.

On one of the shorter runs, Sam joined me on the bike. I jumped out and started running, and suddenly I was battling something else – my breathing.

Short sharp breaths, I couldn’t get enough air into my lungs, the Vegas air was dry, and our ascension had made it thinner too – less oxygen.

I told Sam, and he biked ahead to get my inhaler. I kept it with me.

I had had a spirometry test before TSP, to check whether I needed another inhaler. The results showed my lungs actually performed better without the inhaler.

Oh the irony.

Early afternoon came and so did the gradual inclines leading up to the mountain we would be going over to get to Vegas.

The crew dropped our distances down to 1km runs, then 500m, depending on the hills.

My breathing struggles continued.

I felt like I was breaking, and had no control over it. I did not want to let the team down.

On the next run – 1.6km along the flat, it should have been a breeze. I had gone through my usual routine, taken my inhaler, but I knew the crew were worried about dehydration from the gastro, and now my breathing.

Fendall jumped out as I was running.

“They want to pull you in”

“I’m fine.”

I wasn’t.

I was broken.

Pride.

I continued, angry at my body.

I tagged Pip in and headed into the RV, I needed to be sensible – this was more than just about me. My quads were rocks and I knew I was dehydrated from the gastro, and eating less as a result. I rested, tried to eat, tried to breath. Got the hypovolt onto my quads.

An hour later, I was back on again, and told Sam could do 2km – at least I thought I had.

My legs were on around 85km at that point. My lungs were probably working at around 20%.

You couldn’t train for this.

I was tagged in and started running, slowly, and the RV pulled off along the straight road, into the distance.

1.6km in, only 400m left. I was in agony. Probably the worst I’d felt on any of the runs. So far.

Only 400m to go Jess. You can do this then you need to rest. I promised myself.

But the RV kept going. Past 400m, past 600m, to the 2.5km mark way into the distance. Sam had misheard me. Or I hadn’t said 2km clear enough.

It was the first time during any of the runs I literally stopped in my tracks. Stopped dead still, in disbelief? Maybe. In abandonment? Maybe.

I let out a small cry, and I think I stamped my foot at least once.

Defeat. But also surprise that this was the first time I’d let emotion consume me on such a big event.

No Jess.

Team.

You can do this for the team. You have to.

I shook my head, shook myself. A grown adult having a tantrum.

I took a step, then another, and knocked myself out of my pity party.

The girls. The crew.

I ran.

I was humbled – and ashamed. We had agreed to be sensible, and I hadn’t been.

I got to the RV, still teary. But more sensible.

Rest.

And food.

I ate, something proper. And drank as much water as I could, then stretched and rested.

Dylan went out on the bike, asking whether anyone would want hot chips or anything else if he could find a shop.

Hot chips. Oh my.

It didn’t occur to us that we were in the middle of the desert and there would actually literally be nowhere to buy hot chips. But the hype and the idea raised our spirits and provided some laughter when he came back empty handed.

I spoke with Em, about just getting the kms and going easy. We were still 40km out.

An hour later I ran again, relaxed, fuelled. 2.5km. Not a breeze, but no tears or tantrums.

I suggested we get the champagne out of my bag, and put it into the fridge.

Nobody refused.

Almost out of nowhere it got dark, and very cold. Colder than usual. Maybe because we were climbing?

We hit the ascent into Vegas, the last hill. 1,300m up. We dropped down to 1kms to accommodate the climb.

Then we hit the roadworks.

We knew up ahead that the road would suddenly have no side areas to for the runners for at least 1.6km – so the RV would have to follow the runner, or the runner would have to find another way, or hope there was one, then pull it at the next available place to stop – which was likely to be further than 1.6km.

We were advised by the organisers not to run, and to just drive the distance then make up the distance another way.

Not happening.

Bramwell jumped out and started running up the side of the freeway – in the road works section.

Safety was an issue, so it was agreed there should be two runners.

And I was next in line.

In hindsight I should have rested, should have been sensible. Should have listened to my body. I wasn’t ready, didn’t have my inhaler and hadn’t eaten.

“Sure.”

Stupidity.

I jumped out, it was fresh, cold. Colder than cold, and we were high.

Bramwell was already 200-300m away. God she was quick.

I started to run.

Breathe Jess.

I struggled.

The cold, the air.

I turned and waited for the RV, ready to tell them I couldn’t catch her.

“I’ll drive ahead and tell her to wait.”

Not the result I was looking for – totally my fault. The RV drove off and caught Bramwell.

So I continued up the hill until I was with her.

“I reckon we can run this side of the concrete all the way.” I nodded.

So we started.

And the breathing got worse, almost painful. So sharp and so shallow.

No inhaler.

“Are you ok?”

I looked at her. Shook my head. Had literally never experienced this before.

“I can’t breathe. I can’t get air into my lungs”

We slowed. She told me to relax and take my time.

“In through the nose, out through the mouth” her voice was calming, and I was calmed.

We picked up the pace until my lungs reached their capacity again.

“Easy pace, go easy.”

We jogged, picking up the pace when we could, then brought it back down until my breathing was under control again.

We knew there was no phone signal, we knew I had no inhaler and we knew the RV was long gone. It was mildly terrifying, and stupid on my part.

She directed me, pointed out objects on the floor – pipes and rocks from the roadwork.

I was grateful. All I could do was focus on breathing.

“When we get to the top I promise we will be able to see the Vegas lights.”

I nodded, maybe laughed, and we continued.

“Nice…Easy” She slowed us when I tried to pick up the pace. Sensible. Restrained.

Calming.

We got to the top, and the only lights we saw were the continued road works.

We definitely laughed. Which caused a coughing fit, but was still much needed.

“Downhill now.”

And we had signal.

“The RV is just past that yellow post.” About 500m away.

I had never loved the RV more.

We picked up the pace for the downhill. It seemed like slow motion – and probably was to Bramwell. But we made it, 3.2km later.

I thanked her.

In all my races I have never been so grateful and so indebted to someone for pulling me through a dark patch. A wall.

Humbled again.

Inhaler. Rest.

I skipped the next rotation of runs – and the girls absolutely smashed the downhill into Vegas, into the lights.

Beyond proud.

We were 20km out.

An hour later, around 10.30pm I had felt like I’d recovered – as much as I could. And jumped out onto the freeway for my turn at the 1km.

My legs were on 94km, my breathing felt much better, more oxygen, more salbutamol. I ran, as fast as I could on rock quads.

The gastro? Still there definitely, and nowhere to duck off really, so I turned my head torch off and found a place just off the freeway, forgetting I still had my high vis reflective vest on. Oops.

Better. Running felt good again.

We were amongst civilisation again, in Vegas, and so excited that we actually forgot to look at the directions that would lead us home. We got lost.

Concentration.

We decided to run the last 1.7km together, as a team, to the finish.

The finish.

I was mortified that I wouldn’t be able to keep up if my chest played up, but we agreed to go slow. I wasn’t the only one suffering at that point. We were all battling.

To run together, alongside each other was epic. We were exhausted, battered, bruised.

And four of us still had gastro.

But we were there, running in Vegas, five minutes from finishing.

Suddenly the Welcome to Vegas sign was in sight. I almost cried. Maybe I did.

We squealed (that might have just been me).

Touched the sign. The finish.

11.37pm.

43 hours, 36 minutes.

550km.

I had run 97.5km.

We high fived and hugged, and waited for our crew.

No more running. No more planning, or waiting.

It felt weird.

We opened the champagne, laughed, took photos, said thank yous. Drank the champagne, laughed some more, took more photos, said more thank yous.

 

I took a moment, between the madness.

Within the madness.

Consumed by emotion, consumed by pride for the team – and most likely delirious from sleep deprivation.

We had done it. The six of us, the ten of us. We had run 550km non-stop. Through the darkness, through the heat, through the desert. Against the odds.

This was everything – this was huge. This had been bigger than I could have possibly imagined.

My heart was full.

If I hadn’t been so dehydrated I would’ve cried.

I checked back in. More photos under the Vegas sign. Together.

We all agreed what our next stop was – burgers and chips. All the calories.

Hello Vegas.

Hello Mandalay Hotel.

Hello sleep.

**************

TSP was like nothing I’d ever done before, nothing my body had ever experienced – not just the amount of kilometres, but the eating and sleeping (or lack of both), the mental and emotional. Having a team around me, the support through the highs and the lows.

It still brings me to tears how magical it was, and yet still mildly traumatising.

 

And the learnings?

So many. Team work, gratitude, humility – they’re just a few.

I know I broke my body. But now I feel like those broken parts have been fixed stronger.

And I know I could not have done any of without every single person on our team.

I will be forever grateful and proud of to be part of AM PM.

 

And next?

UTA50 – my first 50km in six weeks time.

Sorry legs.

 

Spartan Elite – Trails, Obstacles, and all the Burpees

My training for Spartan mostly involved ramping up my mileage to account for the 13km+ trail running elements, and CrossFit workouts to help with the 29+ obstacles that would be on the course. A large part of which consisted of working on my (lack of) shoulder strength – stemming from a few too many sport related dislocations.

The week before, I felt strong – if not a little damaged. My ankle was still a little tender and puffy, but not overly painful, but I’d sprained my wrist trying to do a heavy (just the bar) snatch. I like to think I had just been way too explosive in my movement…but it was most likely just bad technique.

As a result, I hadn’t trained as hard as I wanted, but I was happy.

My aim was to get top 10 in the Elite Female Super to qualify for Spartan Regionals. And top 5 to qualify for OCR World Championships, both next year.

Yikes.

The Sunday before, I thought it’d be a good idea to get out on the Merri Creek trail and do a 20km run.

Righto Jess.

At around 15km I felt a few twinges in my ankle (not just the blisters from the support I was wearing). And then at 16km that all to familiar knee pain flickered through my left leg.

I stopped. Stretched. Carried on – mainly because I had to get home.

The pain began to increase but was still bearable.

Just.

I got home. Rolled out (everywhere). Iced (everywhere). Then spent the day trying to stretch and walk it off.

The next day I woke up. Pain.

I couldn’t get out of bed.

If anyone had to describe ITB pain they would probably relate it to feeling like someone was hacking at their knee with an axe.

It’s unpleasant.

I could barely walk without shooting pains – let alone run. There were long periods at work of just spending a few minutes bent over with my hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath after the pain struck.

Sorry work. And people who may have seen me.

Same again on the Tuesday, and I wondered whether I’d ruined my Spartan race.

I booked in to see a Physio – the head physio for Melbourne Victory Women’s team. He looked at me, at my ankle, then felt my knee and shook his head.

“All related”

I told him about that Spartan race in four days.

He left the room and came back with a cupping device.

Oh golly.

My ITB got ‘cupped’ – the toxins literally sucked out of the muscle.

It doesn’t even sound aggressive, but it is. Not quite as painful as dry needling. But still borderline scream worthy.

Then he put me in to a leg recovery pumps (like zip up trousers that sporadically fill up with air to flush out inflammation in the legs). I wondered what it would be like to dance in them.

Then I remembered I can’t dance.

I left with a black and blue quad, but the pain had lessened significantly.

I saw him two days later for more of the same. Less swelling, less pain. I mentioned Spartan again, and he looked at me, I couldn’t tell whether it was admiration, or sympathy. He told me I would need to strap up both ankles, tape my wrist, and monitor any pain in my knee and adjust my pace accordingly.

Was top 5 still possible?

Either way I was grateful to be walking.

Always grateful.

I drove to Bright on the Friday afternoon, in preparation for the 7am Elite race the next day.

I love Bright. It’s magical. Even if injury had completely ruled me out of racing, I’d have still gone up.

I picked up my bib, drank wine with other runners and generally just enjoyed being in Bright.

We checked into our Airbnb in Tawonga, laid out our race gear (I think I was the only person who did that) and drank more wine.

4.00am arrived. Yikes.

I was up. Eggs, sweet potato and beetroot.

Coco coffee.

I rolled, everywhere, but mostly my knee. Then strapped up both my ankles, and my wrist.

I was nervous.

I drove the winding 30 minutes over Tawonga Gap, listening to a Nike Trained podcast.

“Stop and breathe, take ten seconds to focus. And be where your feet are.”

So I did. I stopped at the top of the mountain, looked out over Bright.

Deep breaths. Focus.

I could only do today what my body was capable of. That would be enough. It would have to be. I was grateful.

I got back in Betsy. Less nervous.

The race festival was a mixture nervousness and excitement.

And seriousness.

People looked serious. This was Elite.

6.55am. Gel.

To get to the start we had to jump a 5ft wall, of course. I ran at it, didn’t quite make it, slid down.

Fail.

I laughed at myself and remembered to focus.

Second attempt. Easily over.

I had no race watch (we were encouraged to not use technology – but everyone else was wearing them), no headphones (I read the rules at least ten times) and no race vest – in case I got stuck in / under obstacles. Just me, two gels conveniently stored in my sports bra and at least one whole roll of sports tape to keep me in one piece.

The count down began, and we were off.

Straight over three small walls and then into the mountains. The trails. Single track around the mountains of Bright.

I was happy, my knee was happy.

I overtook a few people. Race etiquette was different to trail running, I tried to pass a few guys and they appeared reluctant to let me.

I had no idea where the girls were but knew there were a few that had flown off at the start.

First obstacle – crawling under a cargo net in mud.

Caked.

Across rivers.

Soaked.

I saw a woman, overtook, Then the next up ahead. Pigtails. Game on.

We went up into the forest, still single track. Our first significant obstacle – we had to carry sandbags up through the mountain, then back again, drop them off then continue on our run. I picked mine up, carried on running. Not sure why people were walking with them. I passed pigtails.

Beautifulness. Then uphill – the sandbag became heavy, but I refused to walk.

Downhill, careful. Aware that that’s when knee pain might kick in. I squealed a little and threw my sandbag across each shoulder to split the weight. This was fun. Exhaustingly fun.

Back to where we picked them up, I threw the sandbag down, grateful for the freedom, then continued.

More walls to climb over and a river to run along, not over, along.

Caked and soaking again.

We came to a clearing, back near the start of the festival.

I had no idea how far we’d gone or for how long – but was quite enjoying not knowing, and surprisingly enjoying not have music.

Even though Slash would have been a great soundtrack.

The Traverse Wall. My least favourite. A wall you had to climb sideways, with only awkward circles for hand holds – nowhere to put your feet, you just had to get them high enough to provide balance, and try and shuffle across.

I watched a guy do it, quite easily – tried to copy. Got my hands into the holes, and jumped my legs up, then fell almost straight away.

I knew what was coming.

The Marshall took me to the side.

“30 burpees, full hip extension and hands over your head at the jump. You’re being filmed so make sure you do them all properly.”

Yikes.

I began, and saw pigtails complete the traverse wall. Damn it.

20 burpees in quick succession is quite an acceptable number, 30 just pushes you into the hating your life zone where your body generally questions what the bloody hell you’re doing.

I ignored it. Done.

I ran on to the next obstacle where pigtails was. The barbed wire crawl. A zig zag of ankle height barbed wire to get through . I got down, crawled, rolled, scrambled through. Trying to make up ground.

I felt something in my knee, a flash of pain. Barbed wire of course. I looked down and suddenly there was blood everywhere. I tutted at myself. Inconvenient. I pulled up my knee sleeve and continued on.

Out the other side.

I continued, through wooden tunnels, over cargo nets – no burpees.

Then the route took us away from the obstacles, and back into the mountains.

I knew what was coming.

Mystic hill.

It’s not a hill. It’s a damn near-vertical never ending mountain.

I was probably the only one excited by it. This was my jam. I could gain some ground here. I also knew that the hill was 7.5km into the race. Halfway.

I began. Couldn’t even see the top. The sun beat down on us.

Aggressive lunging.

Now I could hear my own breathing. Now I wanted a soundtrack – or anything. I considered singing. But settled for talking to myself about…anything. Most likely which Prosecco I would be buying afterwards.

I refused to stop. 2km of uphill. I managed to pass people.

It was beautiful.

The top. A perfect picnic place. With my Prosecco.

If only.

I took it in for a second, you could see the whole of Bright, maybe even Victoria. I was happy.

And in a race. Oops.

I took a gel and began running along the path, grateful to be at the top – heavy legs and arms.

In the distance I could see a large wall. Like, twice the height of me. Maybe 8ft? Really tall.

Blimey.

The Marshall there was chirpy, and could clearly sense my unease. And probably the terrified look on my face.

“You can do it, you can take a run up”

So I did. And I jumped, pushed off and caught the top. It felt like I hung there forever.

Pull yourself up Jess.

So I did, and I growled. Climbed my feet up, got one elbow over, and a boob. Then the other arm and boob. I worked myself onto the top. This was not glamorous. I squealed – and I think the Marshall did too. Then jumped down.

Hello downhill.

I began carefully, then realised it would be better for my knees to not jar them with the stopping action. So I let go. And flew (probably slow motion to most).

All the way down into forest single track. Heaven. Flying.

An opening, and another obstacle.

An uphill tyre drag.

I grabbed the rope and began to run, the rope over my shoulder pulling me down. It was probably 500m of up before I saw the place we could turn and go back.

Lungs and legs aching.

I dropped the tyre off and continued down. Back towards the festival area – for more of the major obstacles.

I saw pigtails ahead of me on an A frame cargo net. I picked up my pace and threw myself into it. Onto it.

Another cargo net climb, trickier.

Then a rope climb.

I looked at the top and jumped up, pulled my legs as a high as I could and climbed, before my body could complain how tired it was. I hit the bell at the top and lowered myself down. Thank you Crossfit.

Then a sandbag attached to a rope you had to pull upwards to the top of the frame it was on. I lay down and pulled, no stopping.

Back to back obstacles.

The the atlas stone – I’d caught pigtails. We had to carry it about 20 metres, do five burpees, then carry it back.

I lifted the stone onto my knees and rolled it up my body, walked it to the other end, five burpees. Then picked it up again and walked back. Not too bad.

We both got to the next barbed wire crawl together – this one was a horse shoe shape, but you had to carry a 14kg 1-metre long torsion bar with you.

We began, scrambling, rolling. Dizzy, dirty. The end could not have come sooner.

A guy watching, filming, told us we were fourth and fifth girl.

I was top 5.

We were out at the same time and onto the zig zagged balance beam – surely not too hard.

I didn’t stop, didn’t take my time and literally jumped on and fell straight off. The wood was thinner than it looked, my legs were not as responsive as I thought they would be.

Silly Jess.

30 burpees whilst I watched pigtails take her time and complete the obstacle.

Silly.

Burpees over, I ran on to the next obstacle – wide monkey bars. I died inside. I had practiced monkey bars, but not ones that were almost a metre apart.

I jumped up to the first bar, the second one looked like it was a mile away.

I began to swing, to attempt to jump.

What if I caught the bar and my shoulder dislocated? Race over.

I dropped to the floor.

More bloody burpees.

Two failed obstacles in a row. 60 burpees, six minutes.

Dang.

Next, another traverse wall – this time with leg holds. Thank golly gosh. I took my time, rung the bell. Happy.

One final obstacle before we went back into the mountain – the bucket carry.

We had to fill it with stones, carry it across rough terrain then around a maze and back again. No dropping, no spilling, and front carry only.

The guy told me where to fill it too and said if the stones had sunk below the line by the time I got back I’d have to do it again. I filled it to the top, to the men’s line.

God damn it was heavy.

I began, as fast as I could. Tired arms, this was uncomfortable. Really uncomfortable.

Any technique went out the window I just had to not drop it, that was hard. I may have cried for a few seconds.

Heavy breathing, arms aching. I was on the return.

Back to the start, I emptied the bucket and the guy commented on how full it had been. I stared at him, dazed.

Back to running. Rolling single track.

My arms were fried, everything hurt, the terrain was rough.

I was aware that if I was tired my form might be suffering and the last thing I needed was my knee to flare up. I was careful, purposeful. There was no sign of pigtails ahead or anyone behind me, so I enjoyed. The feel of running with no pacer and running with no music. Just me and Bright countryside, my favourite. Heaven.

Exhausted heaven.

Then.

A flicker. Some pain in my knee. I slowed, stopped, stretched. Pleaded with my knee to be ok.

Cautiously, I continued.

The trail took me back into the festival area, for more obstacles – then the finish.

I had no idea how long I’d been running for, or how far I’d gone.

I saw the festival area.

First, three walls each about 6ft high, one you had to climb over, one under (there were holes), one through (a raised hole).

Over and under – easy.

The ‘through’ wall. Well, I must have been delirious. An elevated hole – most people would’ve grabbed the plank above the hole and swung their legs through. Me? Well I grabbed the plank above it and tried to get my bottom through first.

I must have been stuck for at least ten seconds wondering what the bloody hell I’d been thinking, before I somehow managed to get my legs through.

No idea.

The Marshalls laughed “Never seen that before”

Confirmed. I was delirious.

We laughed.

The next? Hard to describe. Two vertical poles with 5 horizontal poles between them, starting from about 6ft high about half a metre apart. The whole structure leant back towards me. Just that little bit trickier.

You had to scale and climb over. But jump up to first.

Two of them.

Eek.

This is where my wrist might struggle. I breathed, focused.

I could do this.

I jumped, for the bottom bar. I swung, lifted my legs up and caught the bar with my feet.

Cramp threatened in my calves.

I pulled myself up, grabbed the next bar up, then the next. Two more. The top.

More squealing. I did this.

I climbed over and down, conquered the next one the same way.

So happy.

More running. Flashes of familiar knee pain.

Just flashes though.

Then I saw the next obstacle, monkey rings. Damn.

I tried to push down the fear of more burpees.

A guy started to shout encouragement, much needed.

“Take your time, just swing.”

Kind of useful. Technically correct.

So I did just that. Grabbed one ring, swung, the next, swung. Shoulder felt ok, wrist felt ok, I continued. The bell.

I made it. I did a little jig, High fived myself.

It happened.

Next? The spear throw. Literally. You throw a spear at a circular target about 10 metres in front of you.

How do you practice a spear throw? I don’t know any….javelinists? And I definitely don’t own a spear. Yet.

I steadied myself, I could see the finish line.

I had even watched a you tube video, raised my arm to aim, and threw.

Just short.

I missed.

The Marshall “Damn that was close”

I know.

“30 burpees”

I know.

I could see the finish line.

I smashed them out (probably didn’t)

Then, one last obstacle – ten metres of cargo net that was literally pinned down to the ground. I struggled to even get into or under it. This would take my last remaining energy.

I felt claustrophobic just moving through it, the resistance of it pushing me to the ground.

I struggled through, spurred on by the cheers, by the finish line.

Rope burn, everywhere. I continued.

Then suddenly I was free.

The finish.

I literally threw myself over.

2 hours and 9 minutes.

Happy.

Delirious.

Deliriously happy.

Grateful.

“Cider?”

Anything.

My legs, jelly.

I checked my placing.

5th Female, Elite Super.

I’d done it, the minimum to qualify for the OCR World Championships, and Spartan Regionals.

Despite all the hurt, the setbacks.

Despite everything.

I would be able to recover, regroup, retrain. And give Regionals and Worlds a proper shot next year.

Thank you body.

I drank my cider and watched everyone else race.

So happy.

So exhausted.

Then I rememberd. My knee, the barbed wire. I rolled down my knee sleeve, and went to the First Aid tent

“Oh gosh, that needs cleaning and closing”.

I didn’t disagree.

Three butterfly stitches and I was done.

I ate, everything.

Drank, Prosecco. Then everything else.

And next?

Two Bays is on the horizon. Maybe.

But for now I’m switching my training to focus on The Speed Project 5.0 in March 2019 – a team of six female runners running in relay from LA to Vegas.

550km.

Non stop until you get there.

Sorry legs.

Head over Heels….I mean Handlebars

A few things had happened since the Disqualification at Wonderland – I had quite a few words with myself, pushed down the disappointment.

This happened for a reason – there must be a bigger picture.

The answer? To ramp up my training in preparation for Spartan in November. Twice a day you say? Well ok then.

A curve ball.

A desire to compete sooner, to be part of something bigger – the infamous Surf Coast Century.

I joined a team of three others to cover the 100km. It included Ash Bartholomew – the legend, his son Josh who I’d raced against before (super fast), and Hannah, who had recently discovered a love for ultras, and was smashing them out.

My part of the race was on the beach…21km of beach running. Truly amazing, if not tricky with incoming tides, and ‘rock pools’ that turned out to be chest deep….sorry legs….and phone in my pocket.

Back into training, revived.

Then another curve ball.

Injury.

3 hours into trail biking around the You Yangs Bert decided she didn’t like the look of a tree on a sharp bend, and decided to hit it with her handlebar.

Bert lost, and buckled sideways, throwing me to the ground without me even realising what was going on. My ankle took the brunt of the force (my body weight) and my ligaments made the all too familiar sound of not being happy, of tearing, and maybe snapping.

Ice. All the ice, all the elevation.

Little rest – one day to be exact, then I was back, in the gym, on the rower, upper body.

The third curveball (they come in threes right?)

Three weeks after the injury, a spare ticket to the Melbourne Marathon 10km was offered to me. On the Tuesday, and the race was on the Sunday.

I said no. Then yes. Then saw a physio who, in my mind, said I’d be fine. But in reality shook her head and looked at me like I was her worst patient ever. Then she dry needled my calf. Revenge.

I raced. Pure bliss, no PB to chase, just enjoyment.

And swelling. Oops. But still I trained. The rest of my body felt the best it had in ages. So I still trained.

Ok, so  the race – a partner race consisting of a 3.5km run, 20km bike, 4km run, 3km kayak. Those who were ahead after the 20km bike would be given an additional loop. Yikes.

We learned a week before the race that it was actually an orienteering event too – not only were you racing, you were finding the course you had to race. I was already confused.

The night before? I resisted the urge to go to a house party, instead hosting for a dinner party. With wine of course.

4.30am. My alarm went off and I mobilised my body, and meditated, and stretched.

I ate my pre made breakfast of egg muffins, smashed avo and roasted pumpkin (thank you prepared me).

And drank coffee. All the coffee.

I left the house at 5.30am, with Bert clinging to the back of Betsy (my car, of course), ready to race.

The drive down – 3 Coles Express’, no coco coffee water, just two more coffees.

I only had two gels with me – but figured with the navigation involved, we probably wouldn’t have to do the second loop of the bike. I would be safe.

I arrived to drop Bert off at the transition area, and met up with Will, my cool calm and collected team mate. We laughed at how early it was, and how neither of us could really navigate. This was going to be fun / dangerous / terrifying.

We got to the start line, chose our kayak, she looked glorious, so I named her Gloria.

Not out loud.

We got the maps – with our directions on, squares on the map marked the check point, a triangle marked where we started. Thank god.

We plotted a route with a highlighter that looked feasible and relatively streamline.

Ten seconds.

No music.

We were off, we ran, together, all the teams together along the beach.

My legs asked me why we did two hours of squats on the Friday. I told them to shut up and run.

First checkpoint – relatively easy as literally every team ran towards it.

Then we split off, the lead pack, heading off the beach and onto the cliffs.

I managed to find the second check point, announcing it to the whole group – hoping they might return the favour later on.

One more checkpoint then we hit the transition point and tried to fix our map to the rather unique clipboard that you can mount on your handlebars.

Anyway.

We were off, hills at first.

It was hard, doing my now and next to make sure I knew where my bike was going, but also to look out for checkpoints, and other competitors.

We were two checkpoints in and decided to try and different route to get to the third, to see if we would be quicker. Up a hill, through clay rocked cliffs and onto lumpy flats.

That’s when I happened.

Will was ahead of me, scooping out where to go next (and just generally faster).

Some sticky crevices came up, small at first, then larger.

I hit the last one, the largest one, at speed.

My front wheel looked at me apologetically. She was not moving – she was stuck in the crevice.

Momentum happened.

I could feel my back wheel lift with some force.

This was it….I was going over the handlebars.

I needed to decide how to either make this graceful, or travel the path with least pain.

I did neither – because there was actually no time to think.

I could see the ground getting closer as Bert bucked me forward. Instinct. I curled into a ball, letting go of the handlebars and trying to distance myself from Bert (sorry Bert), throwing myself forward off her.

I landed in a heap, taking the brunt of the force on….oh everywhere.

Like a gymnastics display of lots of spinning, Bert flew into the air then came down on top of me, clearly just wanting a hug. And we skidded along the clay together.

Spokes, pedals, arms, legs.

“Bloody hell, are you ok?”

I wasn’t sure.

“That was spectacular”

I was sure.

I politely pushed Bert off me, and the guy behind me went to help.

“I’m fine.” Slightly more high pitched than planned.

I mentally scanned my body, physically scanned my body.

Bruised ego. Bruised confidence. Superficial scratches. I was fine.

I picked Bert up, jumped on and raced off to find Will. The gears making a few crunching sounds before clicking back into place.

I was fine.

Will was waiting at a cross roads, trying to figure out the best way.

We continued.

Up hills, down hills, single track, fire trails, beautifulness. Riding, walking, scrambling, carrying. People on bikes flying everywhere in a mad hurry to find the checkpoints first.

We somehow managed to find all the checkpoints and excitedly headed back to the transition area to prepare for the run. I would be grateful to get off Bert and run. We’d been on the bikes for an hour.

“You guys are within 15 minutes of the leaders….so you get to do the extra loop”

We looked at each other.

“It’s probably only a little bit longer that the one you just did”

Longer.

I took my second gel, uh oh.

We plotted our route – not realising until later that we could actually go to the checkpoints in any order, not numerical. But that would have been far too easy.

We started again out, the skies darker and our legs starting to stiffen (probably just mine actually, damn squats)

Now and next, checkpoint. On repeat. We missed one, had to go back. Couldn’t find another, literally thought it had been stolen.

We chose to laugh, to enjoy the experience. Be grateful. Again we rode, climbed, carried, scrambled, with less haste, more calm and conversation.

50 minutes later, we arrived back at the transition area.

I hung Bert up, still a little angry with her.

Come on then legs.

We ran, single track to the first check point, then back onto the cliffs, stunning. Second check point of three.

The third was along the beach – an out and back on soft sand and slippery thoughts. My thoughts went back to Surf Coast Century. Definitely grateful. But bloody hell my legs were feeling heavy on the sand. No more gels, just water. No calories or sugar.

We got to the check point at the bottom of some beautiful cliffs, and it occurred to me how nice it would be to sit and have a picnic on the beach.

You’re in a race Jess.

We ran back, back to the start to pick up Gloria and kayak.

We’d been out for 3.5 hours – I was nervous, not only because I had no gels but because I hadn’t really kayaked before. Sure I row at the gym, and I’ve canoed a little bit, but there was technique to this that involved hips and core rather than arms.

Who thought kayaking was core?? Not me.

I saw Gloria, she looked as glorious as ever.

We put on our required PFD (life jacket things) and took off our shoes then placed (threw) Gloria into the water. I jumped in the front and took the map. Eeek.

Three checkpoints. 3km.

We started to paddle, in time, fast and furious. Ready to finish. Hips and core, twist with the paddle. It required a degree of concentration. That I was lacking at that point.

We went under a bridge to find the first checkpoint, more furious paddling, there were others around us, racing.

The second check point was under a bridge as low as our kayak to the water, we ducked, almost got dragged out. Got the checkpoint.

One more.

Hips and core. I was concentrating so much, because at that point I realised I was not only lacking in energy. I was hungry.

Hangry.

Silly Jess.

Will called out – just wanted to check we hadn’t passed the final checkpoint. Because it would really suck to have to turn Gloria around and go back.

We had. Damn.

We turned, raced back to the bank where the checkpoint was – had to get out of the kayak and jump onto the bank. One at a time, careful not to jump in.

I wondered whether there was anything on the bank that was edible. Mud?

We jumped back in (not literally, that would be unwise).

Home straight.

Fast and furious, both laughing a little manically.

Four hours.

Hungry.

I could see the finish line, paddled faster, twisted more (I’m not sure if that helped or just looked weird),

I jumped out when it was shallow enough and pulled Gloria to the bank.

We lifted her, jumped up onto the bank and ran, soaked and exhausted, the 50 metres to the finish line.

4 hours and 13 minutes.

Two gels.

Silly Jess.

But grateful. Adventure, challenge, fun. A lesson.

We high fived and posed for a photo, then posed for a video we thought was another photo. Probably slightly delusional.

Food – there was a BBQ.

Warm clothes and food.

Suddenly I was in heaven. By the sea, in the sunshine. Having just competed in my first adventure race, my first over the handlebars experience, first navigation. My first race with no fuel.

So many learnings.

6^th place.

Happy.

Sorry legs.

And arms.

Would I do it again?

100%. Maybe not the navigation – but maybe I just need to get better at it.

But golly what fun.

And next?

Spartan of course.

The Good, the Gap, and the Heartbreak of the Headphones

After realising my time and distance in the Tussock Traverse and Run Larapinta qualified me for the infamous 36km Wonderland Run at Halls Gap, it took me a couple of glasses of wine to book it… it was only three weeks away and my training had been mainly focused on duathlons.

My legs were grateful when I chose the 20km trail run instead of the 36km.

Still, there were mountains and pinnacles involved, and the duathlon training precedence as it was the week before.

In the three weeks I had, I upped my running distance (…I did two runs over 15km), and carefully monitored any knee pain.

The Monday after the duathlon, my legs felt almost normal, so I was back training by Tuesday (did I mention I’m awful at resting?). Knee pain flickered.

I saw a physio and he suggested that the location of the pain could only really be arthritis…but I also think he thought the pain was just in my head, and also just wanted to see how far he could bend my knee in all the wrong directions.

Anyway, I’ve heard wine is good for arthritis so that was the plan.

Friday – yep arms days again, which made the three hour drive up to the Grampians the next day that little bit more….fun? #sorryarms

I arrived to blue skies and checked into my hostel (I left it late to find anything except the YHA to stay at….which is actually incredible) and laid out my running gear for a 4.30am start on Sunday.

By 4.30am start, I mean my first meal.

I talked myself out of an afternoon hike and instead walked to where the race began, checked where I needed to be, grabbed my racing bib and took note of the compulsory equipment – a mobile phone, something to carry 500ml of water in and a compression bandage.

Check, had them all.

As I walked back, I saw the 19km marker they’d laid out for tomorrow’s race and wondered how I’d feel when I reached that point. How my body would feel. Relief probably, but also like collapsing and crying.

Back at the hostel there were blue skies, wilderness, a mixture of people who had run the shorter races that day celebrating their achievements….and an open fire – all good excuses to enjoy some wine (not to mention my arthritis).

I cooked dinner (and tomorrow’s breakfast – very important) with them, tasted their version of an espresso martini (very important), then headed to bed.

4.30am. Alarm. Argh.

Bleary-eyed I ate my pre-made brekkie (beetroot, sweet potato, boiled eggs and fish…yep) and had my tea bag coffee.

It was cold and dark outside.

I got ready, put everything on, made my gels, put all the compulsory gear in my bag. And then felt the race nerves kick in. So much so, I made it to the start line 45 minutes before the race started (7.00am). Oops.

The cold air made me change from a vest into thermals and a fleece, and I may even have put my pjs back on over the top of everything. It could pass as running gear anyway.

The hunt for real coffee began.

A coffee van.

I waited as the guy set up. His worrying looks meant I must have been staring a little manically at him. But who doesn’t when they need coffee?

6.55am. I made my way to the start, reluctantly took off my joggers / pjs.

Race plan? The first 10km was up hill so around 6min/km would be ideal, on the flats I’d push to below 5min/km if I could, and downhill I would fly as fast as my legs would take me without rolling down the side of a mountain.

Headphones in. Slash on. Game on.

We started, and I sprinted off – I’d been told there was a bottleneck in the first 500 metres so it was important to get ahead. So that’s what I did. 500m of sprinting. I was buggered, but continued.

I followed the only woman in front of me for the first 1km then moved to overtake… right when the hills started. Good one Jess. Sorry legs.

I was first female – mine to lose with 19km to go. The thought sounded horrendously daunting, so I picked up my pace as we hopped up boulders and steps and through single tracks.

It was all uphill. 10km and no exaggeration. We scrambled, we climbed, tight squeezes and large boulders. And steep drops. But absolutely beautiful.

I stopped briefly to take a photo of the ‘clouds’ resting above the lakes, we were above the clouds (it was condensation, I realise that now).

We hit the pinnacle, leaping between boulders, and traversed across.

I took a gel, and then spent at least five minutes choking on it. Clever.

We hit some flat single track and I wondered whether we were at the top. My watch said 10km, so maybe, just maybe.

Definitely flat single track. I flew along, my legs carrying me – just running.

Then the downhill. At first it was boulders, then came more track, wider track, track with small rocks on. Mini hazards everywhere.

My knee flickered in pain – it turns out putting the brakes on to slow down actually caused more pain. So…no brakes. I bounded, like a gazelle (probably not) and leapt down the mountain (I probably didn’t).

This was so much fun.

There was a pack of us, the pain train, running and gliding down along single track. We hit the flats and then back into single trail. Three of us, encouraging each other, motivating each other.

I love trail runners.

18km. A bridge onto cycle paths across the river from where we’d just run, back on ourselves. I looked for other runners, there were none.

Suddenly I was at the 19km mark I’d walked past. 1000m glorious metres left, I could do this. I might even get under 2 hours? Very few women had managed that.

As far as I knew I was still first, and I knew the prize – new trail running shoes. I needed new trail running shoes. I ran faster.

Impossibly possible. I picked up my pace and suddenly I was into Halls Gap village, people cheering. I ran faster. My legs carried me.

The finish line.

Usually I take my headphones off so I get to enjoy the atmosphere, but it just came upon me so suddenly that I didn’t have time.

I stopped my watch, 1:59:59. Happy.

A guy grabbed me “you’re the first girl and you’re well ahead”

Someone took my photo.

I needed water. Or wine.

Then a guy in a rabbit suit came up to me – looking too serious for the outfit he was wearing. There was bad news.

“Great time Jess, but I’m going to have to disqualify you”

I thought it was a joke, I waited for him to laugh.

“You’re wearing headphones. Headphones aren’t allowed. You’re disqualified.”

I waited again for him to tell me he was joking. It didn’t come.

I shook my head in disbelief. I asked, argued, disputed. Other runners were stunned, they didn’t know either.

My legs started to shake for all the wrong reasons.

I had all the compulsory gear. I had read the rules, hadn’t I?

Mr Rabbit guy told me he’d confirm with the event organizer.

I was speechless.

My legs hurt, my body hurt. And I literally went numb. Mr Rabbit guy was clearly not going to fight my case.

I asked to speak to the event organiser myself but he was out on course.

I checked the rules “No ipods or mp3 players” but no mention of phones or headphones, or that it would result in disqualification, but I was clutching at straws.

A woman told me they’d posted it all over Facebook. I hadn’t looked; I wasn’t following the event. I’d just come to race.

The race organiser eventually came across, wearing a top hat and suit. I knew straight away it was a no, I was disqualified.

Sub 2 hours. First female. 12th overall from 292 runners. Three minutes from the course record for a woman.

Devastation.

A harsh lesson.

There was nothing I could do.

Shoulders back, head up, this would not ruin my time in the Grampians. So, I spoke to other runners about the race and the course, what else could I do but try and enjoy and be positive?

Funnily enough (actually the opposite), the woman who came second was also disqualified – no compression bandage. We laughed and agreed to take photos on the podium anyway.

Third place female was going to take first place. She said she felt bad, but she still accepted the first place gift voucher of trail running shoes. I needed those shoes.

In all the numbness, someone asked me my surname: “Short”.

“Oh yes, I’ve heard of you. Your names been circulated in quite a few circles, you get to know the good ones”

Suddenly my day was made. I had run, I knew my time. And someone recognised my name.

We took our photos in the sun. I chatted and laughed and decided to see the funny side, and the lesson.

I’ll admit, pangs of disappointment still washed over me, but I reminded myself of where I was and it was hard not to just be grateful.

I made the mistake of not cooling down before I got in the car, and suddenly I was home after a three hour drive, after a two hour race.

I opened my car door and had to almost fall out, then slowly tried to stand up. Stiff jelly legs – if there’s such a thing. Oh dear.

The afternoon and evening were spent drinking prosecco – a celebration and consideration.

I knew already Monday would be agony.

Sorry legs.

The Dirtiest Duathlon

The forecast for the weekend’s duathlon was…not great – Hail, thunderstorms and rain.

I’d half expected it to be cancelled, or renamed a triathlon with some swimming thrown in. Either way, I tapered my training a couple of days prior to Sunday.

That’s actually a lie. I’m awful at tapering.

Friday involved doing an upper body strength session to the extent that I struggled to lift my arms at all on Saturday, and Saturday involved a two hour mini hike in between the torrential rain.

I’m awful at tapering.

I’d also been attacked (there’s no other word) by knee pain that I suspected was patellofemoral pain syndrome. Thanks Dr Google (but also I’ve had it before). It was causing a severe (ahem, attacking…) pain behind my left knee cap on uphill climbs on my bike, and when I rose from a squat or couching position (which is surprisingly more often that you’d think). Both meant I was stuck in said position until the pain subsided.

Anyhow, in preparation for Sunday, I willed it to go away, and pretended it didn’t exist.

I’ve recently been experimenting with fasting and low FODMAP eating (easier to google than explain), both of which have helped with being allergic to Melbourne (in very basic terms…fasting essentially allows the body to repair itself better, and low FODMAP eliminates foods I’m more prone to being sensitive too)….and both seem to help with energy levels as a result.

And I can still drink wine.

Anyway, Saturday night was spent falling asleep to the sound of torrential rain. Yikes.

6.00am. Awake, coffee. Bleary eyes even though I’d slept right through.

Mobility, rolling, more rolling. I wondered how my knees would handle today in the mud. Then I remembered I was ignoring them, and the wonder passed.

I had breakfast. Something else I’m experimenting with – training in a fasted state then competing in a fed state, so I have more glycogen in my body. To help me go a little bit faster? Or at least soak up the wine probably still in my blood….

I was nervous. A combination of a long race and the wind / rain and mud – I honestly didn’t know how today would go.

I loaded Bert up onto Betsy (my car), and patted them both, then put Tina Turner on and drove out to You Yangs – via Coles Express for my beloved $1.50 coffee.

I arrived, busyness, a crazy buzz around the You Yangs.

Intermittent rain and sunshine, expensive bikes and flashy gadgets, people warming up.

The ground was wet and puddled, maybe an advantage to having a 29 inch wheel bike instead of the usual 27? I had faith in Bert.

I chose my more aggressive Adidas trail shoes that had the more grip, both to stop slipping when running, but to give me grip on the pedals when riding too. Genius.

I packed two gels and my prescription glasses into my race vest – even though I’d put contact lenses in for the first time in case it rained too much, and I wasn’t able to see through my shades.

I registered and put Bert into the transition section – she had her own number and spot, and I was so proud of her amongst the shiny bikes, she was a beast.

I headed up to the start line with my coconut water coffee.

“Two minutes”

I chose that exact moment to loiter at the back of the pack and think about whether I needed to tighten my shoe laces. After 90 seconds of debating, I decided I should.

Just as I undid one the horn went. They were off.

They, not me.

I squealed, badly did up my lace and sprinted off to catch them.

Good work Jess.

My legs sprang into action, slipping a few times but I got up a good pace, just behind the lead pack.

I passed two women, one of which looked like she was running with high knees, excitable happy feet, the other was wearing a tri suit and looked serious. Competition.

The run was 8km – consisting of three out and backs, not just one, but three. Relatively flat, and I found a comfortable pace around 4km/h, wary of happy feet and tri suit behind me.

I was sure I was pulling away from them.

I saw the lead male fly past in the opposite direction, he’d already got to the out and back. Then a woman sped past, literally sprinting, like, faster than I could run 100m.

No more women. I was in second. I kept up the pace, trying to avoid the puddles and any bambi style slips / face planting.

Ironically, I discovered that wearing contact lenses and prescription glasses does not result in stronger vision as I’d thought, it actually made my vision blurry, so the shades came off.

We hit the second out and back, then the third, all flat, my legs felt good. Really good. No sign of happy feet or Tri suit. And all the Skrillex I needed to keep me going.

I saw the transition stage where Bert was, number 73. I ran in, helmet on, changed my gloves to biking gloves and half downed a caffeine gel – quite badly. I wanted to keep the pace.

We were off, some resistance from my thighs having to use different muscles, and keep going.

Golly I love the You Yangs trails, single track and winding, and beautiful ups and downs. On a sunny day, I could spend all day here, happy and free.

But there were huge puddles, and it was like we were biking through mud….because we were biking through mud.

Now, I’m very aware that during a duathlon, biking is currently my weakest section.
I know I’m slow, like slow motion, compared to some of the riders – no matter how hard my legs seem to bike. I don’t think it’s Bert bless her, I think it’s me, so I knew I’d lose pace and my placing – especially in rainy conditions.

It was about 5km into the bike ride that I remembered why I don’t wear contact lenses….mud from the trail flicked up and rested itself onto one my lens’ and blinded my right eye. Jazz hands, a silly nervousness as I rubbed my eye and tried to clear the mud.

Then the rain came, torrential, and hail? It felt hard enough to be. But it cleared the mud from my lens. Result, kind of.

But, I was soaked. My feet were soaked, my fingers were freezing. And Bert was flicking mud into my mouth like she thought I hadn’t eaten that day. Mud is low FODMAP right?

12km. “Passing on your right”

It was tri suit. She’d caught me – and we were only just over a third of the way through the bike section. I shook my head.

Then I mentally slapped myself, this was my race, it didn’t matter. I was in the middle of beautifulness. Granted I was soaked and freezing and could only taste and see mud. I was still grateful to be here.

And so I rode, and tried not to hit trees, and tried to will my legs to push through the mud. Bloody good fun actually.

We had two laps to complete and I honestly thought I was going to be biking all day – which I really didn’t mind, but I was wary that I had a 6km run to go and third place to lose / second place to try and win back.

A guy I knew passed me and I watched his biking style, he was crouched, streamline. Oh. Attack position? I did the same, and my speed seemed to creep up.

Attack was on.

I saw the transition stage, parked Bert in her spot, and jumped off.

I couldn’t feel my feet. Or my hands.

I tried to swap gloves, tried to stop my watch, tried to take off my helmet. All with limp fingers and little success. Oh dear.

I took a breath. Had a word with myself and slowed down.

Then I saw them, the happy feet, dance through the transition zone ready to run. She’d caught me, and her feet were dancing like an energiser bunny.

I downed my gel and threw my gloves down, then I ran.

I passed her, and ran, on ice blocks. Willing my feet to feel again.

Tried to find pace – the 6km was another out and back.

I pulled away but imagined she was quite close behind me, those tap dancing feet.

Then it happened, I saw tri suit ahead of me. Game on.

I picked up the pace, and passed her. Second. Mine to lose.

I found my pace, 4km/hr again. My legs felt….good? Not like the last duathlon, my lungs felt good. The gel was kicking in, and the feeling was returning to my feet.

I got to the half way mark and turned, tri suit and happy feet were a couple of hundred metres behind me. So I picked my pace up. 3km to go.

I ran, no more rain, no more mud on my contact lenses. Granted I could still taste mud but it was now a familiar taste.

I saw the finish line, checked behind me, no one. No happy feet, no tri suit.

I semi sprinted and attempted a jump on the finish line. I think most people thought I was falling over.

2 hours, 41 minutes and 55 seconds. Of nonstop. Of mud, and rain.

Second.

Soaked.

Exhausted.

Happy.

I shook some hands and clapped a few runners in. Then asked one of the guys how to improve my bike speed.

“You just have to practice. And get clip-ins.” (Clip-ins attach your shoes to your pedals so you’re pulling the pedals up as well as pushing them down. Actually. It’s a real thing people do.)

Jess + clip ins = face planting / disaster / injury. Practice it was then.

I went to get Bert, covered in as much mud as me. Everything was. I patted her, and thanked her.

I took a while to appreciate the scenery – from my car, with the heating on full. Defrosting my mud soaked body.

Regardless, trail running and biking are some of my favourite ways to spend any morning.

Which is lucky really, because it’s Wonderland next – 20km over the Grampians.

#sorrylegs

 

Do u athlon? Well, I do now.

It’s been a while…almost 6 months almost I raced in New Zealand. I missed it. But also my legs were grateful for the rest.

As planned my focus turned to adventure racing – starting with running and biking (kayaking and swimming will probably wait until Summer…or until I’m somewhere tropical. With a cocktail. Jazz hands)

I experimented with fasting too – to see if that increased my energy when training. I think it would’ve more rapidly had I not assumed I could eat anything I wanted during my eating window….but apparently too much wine counters the effects. Silliness.

I got the balance right eventually and now have a 10am to 7pm eating window. (Except on weekends – it’s all about balance.)

The results – I feel sharper and more focussed in the mornings, and the time I used to spend cooking breakfast I put towards meditation, mobility and a decent morning routine. Yep, I am that person.

The couple of pounds I’ve lost haven’t been the worst thing in the world either.

Anyway.

I’d entered the  PB Events Dirty Duathlon in August (8km / 33km / 6km – yikes)  as a goal to train towards. So I started upping my runs and bikes (and both combined) around the trails of Melbourne (You Yangs I love you). There are endless trails – runs and bikes – within an hour in Victoria, it almost makes me want to cry how beautiful it is.

By chance, I saw a duathlon pop up in Lysterfield – shorter distances so good prep for the one in August to see how the legs would fair in transition. But only four days away….challenge accepted.

My pre race preparation on the Saturday was an Iraqi lunch at Free to Feed (yep, with champagne) – beautifulness, and an espresso martini in the evening whilst trying to do my tax returns. A necessity in most occasions, but particularly for anything tax related.

Pre race you say? – champagne has the same antioxidant effects as red wine, and we all know caffeine has many benefits to training….winning.

I woke at 6am. Apple Cider Vinegar, and shot of turmeric, cumin, cinnamon and ginger (yep, every morning) and breakfast – oh and mobility work that makes me look like I’m drunk…which is never impossible.

The old beetroot juice reappeared. Hello race day, it’s good to see you again.

I drove to Lysterfield with a nervousness – it took three Coles Express’ to find one that was open for my usual $1.50 coffee.

I arrived, and as I walked Bert (the beast, my beloved second hand trail bike) down to the race start, kangaroos hopped across my path. Lysterfield had a magical feel about it.

I was met by people hooking their bikes up to the racks. Beautiful, expensive bikes with those drop down saddle things and front and back suspension forks, so shiny and colourful. I patted Bert, and lay her down on the ground so I knew where to find her (yes, Bert is a her).

I registered and the briefing took place. Orange ribbons for bike, pink ones for run. Come on Jess, even you can remember that. I wrote it on my hand anyway.

The race: 2km run, 18km bike, 8km run. All trail.

I knew the runs were relatively flat, so they’d be fast. I planned around a 4.4min/km, to try and save something for the bike.

We were off.

Two women sped off. One in a tri-suit super speedy, I called her the Olympian, and one in a blue jumper, whom I named blue jumper. I took third.

They were fast and the wind was strong. Like, breath takingly so. And god dam the Olympian was fast, because she was an Olympian of course.

I kept pace until my shoe lace came undone. Basics Jess. I lost ground and the front two sped off along the sand. Yes, sand.

The transition.

I reached Bert, and the first appearance of nervous jazz hands came out. I was unsure what I should do and looking to the others for guidance. My legs started doing this weird sideways crab walk around Bert as though I’d forgotten how to pick up a bike and ride it – so I just grabbed her handlebars, my helmet, jumped on, and started biking.

Hello quads.

18km of bike.

We started uphill through the car parks, then into the trails and beautiful single track. I was trying to go fast and not die. Squealing – a lot. I caught up with blue jumper and tried to keep her in my sights, mainly to make sure I didn’t take a wrong turn. We got stuck behind some bikers, she overtook and I didn’t. I didn’t. I waited, and lost ground. More uphill. Come on legs. Blue jumper was gone.

I’ve ridden as Lysterfield a few times, so I know it has tree roots and a few optional jumps that you need to be confident to go over, or prepared to go over the handle bars if not. The first came and I avoided it (there’s always the option to take a side route). They were sneaky, I knew I had to be careful.

On one of my most recent rides as You Yangs, a friend asked me whether I’d thought about what I’d do when I went over the handlebars. When. Not if.

Options appeared to be:

1. Freeze and eat dirt / break face
2. Try and get your legs over the handlebars and land on your feet
3. Ninja roll
4. Throw the bike from under you and jump to the side

I chose number 5. – Not to ever put myself in the position where I would need to consider 1 – 4.

But then I’d never raced before.

I reminded myself how to ride the trails – now and next. When biking you’re supposed to look at your now – what’s in front of you, and your next – what’s coming so you can prepare. I’m pretty awful at both. And when you go over rock gardens or roots you assume attack position, like a ninja on a bike if you like.

Skrillex came on just as I hit the downhills. I leaned back, my bottom narrowly hovering above my rear tyre, probably not quite the attack position I was taught. Bloody hell this was fun. And a little bit terrifying. Now and next, now and next. Attack attack attack. But no sight of blue jumper or the Olympian.

We hit flats and I decided to attempt a gel on  my bike for the first time (no, it didn’t occur to me to stop). One hand on Bert the other on the gel. I forgot my now and next, and didn’t see the jump in front of me. No choice but to go over one handed. Bucket list ticked. Didn’t die. And got some gel. Winning.

We hit the cornering that Lysterfield does so well. Some people call it hairpins corners but I call them horseshoe corners (erm, because they’re the shape of horseshoes…). The aim is to go into them and turn your body to turn the bike, and try not to brake. And try not to break.

These ones were more like Shetland pony shoes, tiny, tight – especially on a 29” bike. I shouted at myself a lot, and squealed. There would have been more nervous jazz hands but that wouldn’t have ended well on a bike.

More turns, more like My Little Pony shoes. Golly.

I took a Shetland Pony shoe corner too tightly and my back wheel hit a tree root and jumped up. I won’t tell you where my men’s saddle jarred into, but I ruled out walking, or being able to move, later.

Recovering, I made a mental note that Lysterfield was again, looking magical. And I was grateful to be here. Trees, wildlife, blue skies.

Always grateful.

Suddenly I knew where I was, and where the transition was. My legs felt good, bloody tired, but good. I went faster into the single track then out into the open. And suddenly I saw my resting place for Bert. I laid her down and took my bladder out (no, not that one) of my harness to lighten my run. I took a few steps on jelly legs and did a kind of Tina Turner in high heels shimmy. I stopped and shook them out.

As far as I knew I was still in third.

I began to run, familiarity of trail running returned and I started following pink ribbons amongst the trees. 8km, come on legs.

I stopped, toilet stop. Never been done before but somehow I’d drank too much coffee, then too much water during the bike ride. Yikes.

I recovered and began again, open fire tracks. And uphill. All the hills. I was at 4.5min/km on heavier legs than I was used too. I wanted the hills to stop.

I reached the top and blue jumper caught up with me. Wait. Caught up, with me.

I had been in second. Oh dear. Game on.

I ran faster. Downhill came and the right kind of jazz hands came out. I let go, my legs let go.

Blue jumper was right behind me. I dropped to 4.15min/km. 4km left. Holy moly. Sorry legs.

I kept pace and more downhill, I broke away, maybe about 100 metres in front. And then the flats. Open fire track flats, probably my least favourite because they’re fast and long and it’s harder to put any distance between you and the next person.

I kept my pace and we turned into the home straight, 800m to go. I figured blue jumper would have a strong finish as she looked experienced, so I upped my pace to just under 4.00min/km.

My lungs exploded, my mouth did this weird sideways thing. Maybe to get more air in. I felt like Sylvester Stallone.

I looked for the pink ribbons and my nervous jazz hands came out again at the thought of getting lost. Sylvester Stallone with jazz hands. It happened.

My legs and lungs were on their final….legs. I literally had nothing left in the tank, in my lungs. But I somehow carried on.

The finish line.

I pretty much dived over it. Sideways mouth,  jazz hands and all. Head first.

Second place.

I would’ve cried, but I didn’t have any energy too.

Blue jumper came in, about 20 seconds behind me.

We shook hands, I was unsure whether she’d seen my jazz hands or sideways mouth, so I tried to smile normally. I failed.

I went back to Bert and laid down next to her, patted her and thanked her. Blues skies and the water. What a magical place. What a magical race.

The organisers had put food on – amazing. So I filled up to try and alleviate the shaky feeling I had. My legs were on point but my nutrition has been lacking, good to know for the longer race.

My mouth returned to normal and I sat in the Winter sunshine watching the others come in.

Sunday morning spent well.

Sorry legs.