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.

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

     

   

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.

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.

 

Tongariro Crossing – running up volcanoes.

So….After Lara Pinta, the Trail Series, and the rest – all the running, all the hills…I decided to  do the 4 Peaks Alpine Challenge.

Four days, four mountains. Sorry legs.

I didn’t write about it because it was more of a journey than a race – a journey that involved four runs up four mountains, but most importantly dancing to Nutbush City Limits and deciding that it was the perfect pre race warm up.

That kind of journey.

Having said that, from each mountain I learnt four different things:

1. Always respect the mountain. Because it’s a mountain.
2. Trail runners are legends. They will tell you to keep going, tell you when the last hill is, and most importantly, they will know when you’ve hit a wall and pick you up and throw you over it.
3. Time your pre race toilet stop. Starting five minutes behind everyone else because you’re stuck in a queue means it’s likely you will get stuck behind the people who want to…enjoy the scenery more than they want to run.
4. Nature is amazing. It is free and all around us. I’m allergic to most of it, but I still love it and am super grateful for it.

Semi profound statements over.

So I rested. And Christmas happened. The combination was quite dangerous.

I noticed knocks and aches I hadn’t felt before until I stopped running, and of course, ate and drank more because it was Christmas, but also because I love food and wine.

January came around fast so I devised a loose training program for the impending 26km in New Zealand.

Excruciating knee pain at any distance over 10km – and a quick trip to the physio – told me I had ITB Friction Syndrome (much better than anything related to the meniscus or collateral ligament as first thought).

The rehab for it involved dry needling…given the choice between dry needling on the ITB and giving up wine for a year, I’d choose the latter.

That’s how much it sucked.

Anyway, there was little training as a result. But I was confident that I could put in the rehab required to get my wayward knee back to good….in the eleven days I had.

We flew to New Zealand. Bloody amazing country.

Anyway….the race.

The course changed a few days beforehand due to some storms, resulting in park closures – instead of a variety of ups and mostly downs, it was 18km up then 8km up and down. Yikes.

I rested completely for the two days leading up to it – this was the second longest distance I’d ever run so I figured I owed my legs that. And yep, carb loaded with wine…because I was on holiday….?

The evening before the race we sat and enjoyed the sunset, even though it was behind us….so we sat and enjoyed some New Zealand wine and thought about how pretty the sunset behind us might be.

I headed to bed early. Then spent the night dreaming about missing the race. So no sleep for me then.

5.30am. Up. Bleary eyes, but awake.

Breakfast as standard – pumpkin, avocado, eggs and beetroot. All cooked in complete darkness and (attempted) silence to not wake everyone else in the house doing the later 13km.

Coffee (yep, tea bag)

It took over an hour for all the buses to get from the Chateau where we’d finish, to the start line in Rangipo. We drove along winding New Zealand roads a little like the Great Ocean Road but not near a sea line, or trees. So actually nothing like it. But just as beautiful.

As soon as I got to the start line I stretched and rolled (not literally), then took the time to take in the scenery.

Beautiful, rugged, hills and volcanoes, and blues skies and sunshine.

Perfect for a picnic.

Less so for a race.

5 minutes.

I took a gel and my heart beat echoed in my head louder than my music, then did some weird jumping lunges to try and keep my nerves at bay. And also scare fellow competitors of course.

I formed a plan – 5min/km on the flats (or faster if I could), aggressive lunging on the hills and flying as fast as my legs would take me on the down hills.

The whistle went and we began. The terrain – soft mud-like sand. Not good, not easy. More suited to being on a horse in a movie about hobbits in fact.

My knees hated me, and my thighs, and calves. I told them to shut up and run, and so we did.

I didn’t count the females. I made a point of making this run about my own race, and so it was. I sped up to the 5min/km, sometimes quicker as I found my place in the race, amongst the sand. Sorry legs.

5km passed and I was loving life, the sun was shining, my knee was fine and I had a good pace.

At around 8km we hit the uphills…steady gradual inclines of soft mud, and the heat began to beat down on us. Hello struggle town. A runner passed me in the opposite direction, and I wondered whether he’d gone back for someone, or had seen the impending volcano we would be climbing up. Then another passed me, and one more.

It dawned on me. This soft mud we were running up was an out and back. An out. Then a back. My mind went mad.

Out and backs are not my favourite – seeing who is ahead of you, and knowing you’ve got all this trail to run back over again before you hit new trails.

The first girl passed me in the opposite direction, flew by, then another not so fast. But no others, just one directly in front of me, probably also wishing she was on a horse.

Damn. Now I knew I was fourth, now I wanted more.

10km came and I took a gel. Out of practice so largely choking on it rather than swallowing it.

I picked up my pace….which wasn’t much in the sand. And made a move to over take the girl ahead of me and passed her.

We hit 12km. The out and back was over and we hit fresh and not so sandy terrain. I saw second place girl. Mine.

I stayed behind her for a while as more hills came. Stuck in between running and a farmers shuffle.

We hit undulating single trail. I think I shrieked.

I overtook. and pulled away. Second place. Still shrieking.

At around 17km we hit more soft sand, and I subsequently hit a wall. Not even hit it, ran full force and took a flying leap into it.

I was in trouble.

My knee flickered with a familiar someone-chopping-it-with-an-axe pain, and my legs suddenly felt very heavy in the sand. I almost wanted to cry, and stop.

I definitely wanted to stop.

I had a few words with myself. Stretched my knee out (in a half hop so I wasn’t technically stopping)

Then it happened. A female over took me – not one from the top four I’d seen.

I’m not sure why I was so surprised, I had dropped my pace so much.

This was not happening, I was not letting this slip away. I now wanted podium. If she had caught me, then the others weren’t far behind.

I took a gel, I slapped myself (it happened) and I took a moment to appreciate that I was in New Zealand, amongst volcanoes and beautifulness. This was not happening.

I sped up with the female still insight. Far away but in sight.

And then I saw some friends, walking the 13km walk (obviously) that was on the same route. I screamed out to them, more shrieking.

We laughed and I ran on, steeper ups but not so much sand. I ran.

At the top of one of the hills I asked a woman where the highest peak was. She smiled.

“You’re on it. It’s downhill from here”

If I could do somersaults, I would’ve done one there and then. Instead I did jazz hands – which is of equal calibre in my eyes.

I ran, my legs ran. I ignored my body aches and followed my legs.

We smashed it. Into trees, down steps, through beautiful forest.

I had lost sight of the female but had energy back in my legs and blood pumping through my veins, or something.

We went through rainforest, descending down into it and I caught sight of the chateau. I did a skip and a jig. Yep, happened.

1.5km by my watch, until the end. Until I could stop and sit down.

I ran, I encouraged. Then I ran som more and a guy called out to me. “200m”

I sprinted (most likely did not speed up at all), and crossed the line.

Third female in category, and overall.

24^th finisher across both genders – from 480. I was happy.

But bugger me.

That was hard.

I shook hands, high fived, drank water and tried to cool down and stretch. But mostly ate my body weight in everything and anything I could. My watch said 1300 calories. Thank you watch.

We waited for the walkers to finish, and we celebrated in the sunshine, holiday time.

A friend turned to me.

“Jess, we can wait here four hours for presentations, or we can drive back to our place and drink wine and celebrate”

Wine won.

26km done.

Sorry legs.

And next?

The UTA in NSW is full this year, so that will have to wait until next year. UTMB calls me, but I’m not sure I can manage 50km, or even train for it right now.

So….adventure it is. Racing I mean, adventure racing.

Run, bike, kayak. Hells yes.

Sorry legs.

The Concrete Playground

The Studley Park night run resulted in some unexpected knee and upper buttock spasms / pain. Quite amusing in private, quite embarrassing in public.

So I rested, and mainly focused on cardio based strength training (25-30 min workouts with a heap of equipment, tabata style). No runs though….probably not the best preparation for my first road race in a year.

The weekend of the race was suddenly upon me. It was Friday and I needed to rest for Sunday – and my mum was arriving. My rest day turned into a 17km hike around Melbourne and an evening of wine tasting. I love my mum.

Saturday was assigned official rest day….gardening….and wine.

5am Sunday morning came. I was up, standing in darkness in my pyjamas in the kitchen. I downed my beetroot juice (I have it every morning in the few days leading up to a race) and glanced over at the empty bottles of wine in the lounge. Shit.

Within the chaos and the calm of my morning preparation my mum sat down next to me “Jess. I need to tell you something…”. I stopped what I was doing. “…I’ve discovered how to tie shoe laces so they won’t come undone. Can I show you so yours won’t come undone during the race?”

I love my mum. And she showed me – double loop the bow.

I cooked a full breakfast (as I would have done a trail run) and got my Coles Express coffee on my way down to the MCG – it’s the only place that serves freshly ground coffee open before 6am, therefore a godsend in my book.

We (me and my mum, because she’s a legend and came with me) watched the sunrise at the MCG as I got ready for my race, and she walked me to the start.

My legs felt a little sore from the hike on Friday, and my mind was racing a little.

4min/km pace, on road. To some road runners I guess that sounds normal or even slow. To me it meant sprinting for around 41 minutes, hopefully less. Yikes.

I left my mum to walk up to the first part of the start line. She waved me off and told me she would see me in 40 minutes at the finish, I laughed.

Gel time. Music on – Slash, Apocalyptic Love. Come on legs.

The ten second count down.

Then go.

I ran, along flat, along concrete, with the masses. Dodging, jumping trying to get a clear path and out on the side.

We were running down a freeway, down closed roads. I found a comfortable pace and checked my watch. 4.20km/min. Bollocks.

I stepped up a gear into uncomfortableness. 3.50km/min. Yep, uncomfortable. But I found a rhythm, and some people to chase.

If I’m honest I can’t remember the first part of the course, I know I enjoyed the roads being closed, and appreciated the support of random strangers clapping and cheering.

Then the tan hill hit. Road hills – they’re not the same as trail hills. If you start to aggressively lunge like you can up the trails….you basically end up just actually lunging, which isn’t going to beat any PBs…and might look rather strange.

Pace maintenance….I dropped to 4.20km/min and it went through my mind – this was why I couldn’t get under 41 min, the dam gradual hills.

I refused, I pushed. I chased people, and I thought how disappointed my mum would be if she didn’t see me in 40 minutes. I pushed deeper.

Then the flats and a downhill. I flew, on jelly legs, and squealed, and let my legs guide me.

I hit 7km, and that was when I really struggled. My legs just wanted to stop, or slow down. And somewhere in my mind I reasoned that it wouldn’t be the end of the world to not beat my PB.

I shouted at myself (almost like bark, and I’m pretty sure out loud) It was all in my mind. I wanted this, my legs were fine. 3km to go, they were fine. I pushed.

3.50km/min. I was back. I found my rhythm again. The Prodigy came on. Game on.

I was on around 37 minutes when I passed the MCG to the awful out and back that comes before you actually go in to the finish. It seemed to never ever end. I saw people going back the other way and wanted to ask for a piggy back. But I knew the end was near.

I spotted a woman who had been with me the whole time and maintained pace with her (thank you random woman)

I turned into the entrance and it was incredible. The atmosphere and the feeling was worth even just entering the race regardless of the race itself. I was on just under 40 minutes. Never one for sprint finishes (they have resulted in many stumbles and face plants before), I began to pick up the pace.

And so did someone at least 40 years older than me. We raced (I’m not sure he knew), until I actually realised he was winning, so I eased off. Good work random man, good work.

The last 20 metres or so I realised I was coming in under 41 minutes. I laughed to myself. Maybe cried a little.

The line. I stopped my watch. 40.25 unofficial.

My lungs were heaving, my legs were shot and I was quite sure they would never forgive me, but I so happy. Six years in the making (or undoing as some might see it…thank you wine).

I looked for my mum in a sea of people. I couldn’t find her. (turns out she did actually watch me cross the line and took photos….of me and of a few other runners she also thought might have been me, just in case).

I took some selfies at the MCG, then went to meet my mum at a predetermined meeting point at 8.30am. We celebrated, then spent the morning watching the legends that were running the half and marathon come in. Amazing efforts.

And then?

We went to spend the evening at a winery in Yarra Glen, because why not?

Wine tasting and picnics galore. I love my mum.

My confirmed official time was actually 40.19. I was blown away, stoked, and very grateful. I still am.

4th female in category of 662

21st female overall from 4292

Ugh. If I’d known I was coming forth….

And next?

The 4 Peaks challenge in Bright over the Melbourne Cup weekend.

4 days, 4 mountains, 4 races.

Sound familiar?

Maybe not the 30 degree heat of Alice Springs though.

Sorry legs.

Anglesea – beach running and beautiful trails…

I wouldn’t say that I chose to rest in the week after Lara Pinta. More that my body made me….all the cool downs in the world would not have made me ready to get back into recovery training straight away. So I drank wine instead.

I actually managed a couple of short runs, but gave in to mainly doing strength work and letting my legs and feet be mad at me for just a little longer.

First run back a week later – a 16km up to Coburg Reserve then down to Fitzroy along the Merri Creek. Beautiful, and fast…mostly because I was heading to brunch. Food is always good motivation for me.

Second run – not so good. The return of the meniscus / ITB / sharp unidentified pain in my right knee 8km into 13km. I should’ve listened to my body and jumped on a train home. But I had no wallet or phone so I stumbled on home and tried to stretch it off. Then spent the remainder of the day avoiding stairs….or walking.

My next run was a week Sunday and it was supposed to be a cracker. I could not be injured.

As torture, I spent an entire evening googling and planning a worldwide Trail running bucket list – planning holidays around them. I could not be injured.

Tuesday before the race….an 11km run without pain. I did the robot dance and many self high fives more than once that day.

Anyway, the race.

Oh, let me tell you about Friday night first. I learned a lot about dehydration…

Step 1. Sit next to a roaring indoor fire, literally almost in it.

Step 2. Ignore your body’s need for water

Step 3. Drink wine

Step 4. Drink more wine

A beautiful evening. Not so much a beautiful morning.

The answer? Day drinking of course. And making profiteroles. A very good pre race combination whilst watching the Surf Coast Century runners smash out some amazing distances.

On the plus side I drank so much water to combat the day drinking that when I woke up on Sunday for the race, my body was probably the most hydrated it’s ever been. Plus all that resveratrol. Winning.

I knew from the rec. run that the race started with 5km on the beach then up into the cliffs for some single tracks and rolling hills. I figured the faster (ahem, younger) runners would probably go ahead during the beach race but I could hopefully make up ground in the elevation. Hopefully.

I had a plan. 4.40 min/km on the beach then whatever pace I felt comfortable with on the trails.

We started, and I thought I could jump the 8-10 metre river running to the sea at the start to avoid wet feet. I was surprisingly confused when I made it about 1 metre in. Wet feet it was.

The beach opened out. 4.20 min/km. What plan? The sand was hard enough to run comfortably without completely messing up my calves, so I continued.

About 1km in I went out in front of the other females. I felt good. I did a few stupid jumps over rocks. I still felt good, just stupid.

We came off the beach and the pack I was with went the wrong way, the long course way. I watched in horror as the other females passed me. That hard work. That hard beach work with wet feet and silly jumps over rocks.

I shook myself. Just run you fool. Bloody run and catch up.

So I did. Uphill, I kept going until I was back to where I was before.

Sorry legs.

The trails were….have I mentioned I love single track? Without even noticing I was at 8.5km and going ok, feeling good. I’d had two full rest days which helped. I allowed my legs to explore the ground beneath me and went with it. Almost romantic.

Gel time.

Having lost my last gel bottle in Lara Pinta I had new bottles to contend with. Because why not try out new bottles in the middle of a race? At first nothing came out, I was on an uphill and nothing came out. I stopped, I looked into the bottle and squeezed in disbelief. It worked, and suddenly I had gel in my eye. I laughed at myself but mostly because I was grateful they worked. I wiped my eye, drank the bloody gel and carried on. Wet feet and a sticky face.

Knee pain struck around 10km on an uphill and I made a deal with it to go easy on the uphills, so I did my aggressive lunging and the pain lessened, then sped up on the flats and downhills.

I saw glimpses of views of the sea – stunning, then got distracted by the downhills. One part so aggressive and steep-stepped that my brain shook a little and my shades almost fell off. I definitely squealed, then put the breaks on. That’s how face plants happen.

The trail opened out onto dirt track then suddenly I was back on the beach heading towards the finish line….soft sand. Suddenly my calves were calling me an idiot and stiffening up. I willed them on, running a little like a penguin. Needs must.

Back through the river we started at. My almost dry feet were wet again but I welcomed the cold water on my calves, and almost thought about washing my face in case I had any remnants of gel on me. Nah.

Sprint finish. Yep, against myself.

First female. Grateful.

Thank you knee.

Straight back into the sea for the cold water therapy that worked so well in Lara Pinta.

Sorry legs.