Below is part 1, of a multi-part series on my experiences in the Ultra Trail Australia 100km trail race, held in May 2016 at Katoomba, NSW, Australia.

 

If it had been just a training run I would have turned around in the first hour, gone home and tried again another day when things felt better.

I think I’m a realist when I say that racing is a thing of the past and these days it’s about a very personal and deep sense of enjoyment, and yes that often seems to mean a level of grimacing and the occasional long-winded moan too. But generally running, especially on a trail in the forest makes me smile, even when I’m grimacing I feel like I’m also smiling … a smiley-type of grimace.

However, all that aside, I was out there. I was on the trail, I’d put the race number on, and when that happens I get a strange sense of obligation. My heart rate was high, my damn nose was running from the cold of the early morning and I generally felt uncomfortable. When things start to go wrong you can get hyper focused on one particular thing. Mine at that moment in time was my runny nose and I nearly came crashing down in a heap on the slippery stairs several times just trying to wipe it and preserve some dignity. I had a horrible feeling I was covered in snot and everyone who looked at me was thinking ‘oh gawd I can’t look at you, you horrible man’. In reality I was just having one of those moments of irrational panic … I hope.

I smiled at the volunteers as they rang the cow bells, encouraging us, or perhaps reminding us we are really just like a herd of hapless cattle being led to the slaughter? I’d slow down, take a picture of the view, say to myself ‘wow’, then I’d internalise my thoughts, searching for something inside me that says ‘come on, you’ll feel better soon’.

It had been a stressful build up to race day. Having a  tiny, beautiful two-year old terror will have that affect. Still, I’d managed to put in some good training days even with a major setback. I’d broken my little toe about 6-weeks earlier, chasing my daughter trying to get her to put her nappy back on when I knew it was poo time. ‘Come here you little…’ wham goes my foot on a chair leg and snap goes my tiny, tiny toe bone! Little toe is now at 45 degrees. You cheeky little thing!

Ever the optimist I’d seen the positive side of that. It forced me to walk and do lots of hilly stair repeats, which, I’d been told, would be ideal for the hills and stairs of the Blue Mountains. It also forced me to remember, when you have a plan, take into account the unexpected and adapt. I adapted and walked and limped and sometimes complained to myself during moments of self pity. But here I was on race day and things weren’t going that well. My toe throbbed, but it was bearable. It was mainly a case of just not being truly healthy on the day. I think I needed a good sleep but instead I chose to run and walk and climb and crawl my way through some of the most satisfying scenery I’d been witness to in quite some time.

I climbed up to the first checkpoint, the watermelon … the sweet, sweet watermelon tasted so good. It would become my friend during the daylight hours. Later the sweet lollies would be stuffed into my pack in a child-like frenzy and they too would become good friends during the darker hours, to be consumed when ever I felt the need to smile at someone to convince them I should be allowed to continue. I walked, no, I meandered through the checkpoint as if I was a little lost or perhaps looking for a lift. I kept on moving and before I knew it I was being sucked into the deep blue sky that sat in front of each small rise in the road. It made me smile as I’d let gravity pull me down the trail moving ever closer to the intriguing ladder descent. The photographer was out there too. Capturing moments in time and I did my best to hide behind other walkers not wanting this moment to be digitally frozen in time. What if I had snot on my face?

To be continued …

Read part 2 here.

“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practise resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms.” Henry David Thoreau, Walden: Or, Life in the Woods

 

The sun hadn’t provided any light just yet, and the narrow trail was darker than it should have been in the morning twilight thanks to a constant envelope of shrubs and branches and vines. The light from my head torch danced off rocks and buttressed roots. Starting an adventure like this, early in the day, leaves plenty of time to take in the constant changes of light and greenery. According to the National Parks information the trail ahead would provide: “Ancient rainforest, cascading waterfalls, crystal clear creeks, tall open forest, and expansive views. This Great Walk offers ..a full four-day 56 km circuit walk”. My plan was to move through this ancient rainforest, softly, quickly and all going well to finish, before sunset.

There is nothing quite like being alone in the forest. I’ve always enjoyed it. Even as a young boy, camping with my parents I would wander up creeks, exploring on my own for the entire day. Without talk, without distraction there is nothing left but to listen and pay attention to what is in front of you, behind you, all around.

The first hour of solitude was lit by my head torch, but for the rest of the day it would be from what little light made its way through the forest canopy. The initial trail winds its way through the rainforest, parallel with the creek that would later provide cascades and waterfalls as I climbed slowly upwards. In fact, for 28 kms I’d climb slowly upwards, rising vertically, more than 2000 metres.

Crossing the creek in front of the cascades provides a brief break from the canopy above and a glimpse of morning light. Low clouds hang overhead, amongst the trees on the surrounding hills, twilight would remain and in doing so it creates a sense of calmness, via a blanket of dappled light. Walking the narrow track as it climbs higher, twisting its way past rocky outcrops, still with a thick forest canopy and the sounds of more waterfalls ahead.

It has been said many times, no doubt, that trail running reduces everything to its basic level. Climbing requires more effort, your breathing increases, small sections of track that level out provide relief, flat ground appears more beautiful. A moment of rest is akin to the perfect pillow. After many hours, pure, clear, lovely water appears even more precious. It tastes sweeter and feels better than any sweetened drink could ever feel. You take nothing for granted and the simple things become fascinatingly perfect. When your legs tire, your body starts crying out for rest, for food, sometimes you come across a view that makes you forget for a moment and you just observe, you just see what there is to see, right there, right in that moment in time.

It’s different to hiking though. Running burns through energy and seems to help you reach that moment of simplicity so much quicker. There is also that beautiful feeling of moving quickly and quietly through the forest with little or no equipment that can make you feel more connected to the elements, or more correctly, more at the mercy of the surrounding environment. A mountain has no feelings, the steep climb is just that, a steep climb – it is neither cruel nor kind. It is us who attribute feelings to things to, I guess, help us explain our surroundings, but as you move through a landscape, with the bare essentials, you become closer and more connected to everything around you. In our everyday lives with our technology and schedules and commitments we are cocooned from our surroundings.

I briefly stopped at a camp site, just to check my location and pace and I hear the muffled voices of campers. A guy walks towards me and appears slightly shocked to see someone else out here. We wish each other good morning and that’s it. I’m not really in the mood for talking, I didn’t come here to talk, I came out here for adventure. I drink water from my foldable cup, collapse it again in my hand and set off through the ferns.

A previous big wind, perhaps a storm, perhaps something worse, has felled branches and trees across the track. For every 10 steps I took I’d be forced onto my hands and knees to crawl under tree trunks or branches wrapped in vines. This was more tiring than simply getting into a rhythm of running and walking. Once again the unexpected, should have been expected. Always, without doubt, something is going to make you leave your comfort zone and push you harder than you may have thought you would need to.

By the time I had reached the half way point I was only just leaving the rainforests into a higher, slightly drier, eucalyptus forest. But only briefly, as the afternoon would see me descend back into rainforests and creeks. The track was wet, muddy at times, so that when ever it would rise up, my shoes would slip on the muddy ground, I laughed and said aloud “that would right, don’t make it easy!”. Who was I talking to? The trees most likely.

A knew from the map and the profile of the track that the afternoon would bring more downhills than the morning. Downhills, to the uninitiated must sound tantalising, refreshing, easy. Nope! I’ve seen downhills destroy a healthy set of quadriceps quicker than any climb. Gravity might provide some assistance on a downhill slope, but it doesn’t mean a free pass. It didn’t matter. The green ferns, endless ferns, the track weaving its way around and down mountains and across crystal clear creeks provided all the distraction that was necessary to forget about silly things such as tired legs.

As the track rounds a bend I pass another camp site, the bush is drier here and track clearer and easier to run on. I stick the headphones in and select an appropriate song. Mason jennings’ song Ulysses, its perfect beat, seems appropriate right now as I pick up the pace and run with a breeze on my face.

Just one more climb now up to the fire tower and then its all downhill to my vehicle. The sun is dying in the west, the coolness creeps through the undergrowth as the heat disappears for another day. By the time I reach the trail head I’m ready to rest. I stop and turn and look back at the track and before I even get time to think I give it a little nod and say aloud, “thank you”.

More Details

The track: Conondale Range Great Walk

Water: Stay healthy – bring a good water filter and/or purifier (there are water tanks at the designated campsites and plenty of creek crossings).

Duration: Depends on your pace and the maintenance of some of the trail. It took me 9 hours on my own with only a very short break for lunch. Actual distance with some side trails for sightseeing was about 58 km.

Mountains, no matter what their size, always have a strong attraction for the adventurous. When I lived in Switzerland some time ago, I’d take every opportunity to ride my bike over high passes or hike up grassy slopes that eventually left the tree line far below the trail. Most weekends I’d grab a map and head for a new summit.

These days the obvious mountain, although not a big mountain, or even a mountain by European standards, is Mount Cooroora.

The site of the relatively famous King of the Mountain race, the trail climbs through scrubby bush land, eventually leading up to steel stairs, chains and large rock, natural steps. The slope for the last 400 metres or so has a gradient of almost 80 per cent, according to my gps watch – meaning it is very steep, at times almost vertical. The whole process requires struggling, puffing and panting to the summit. It’s a cliche to say the view is worth it, but, quite frankly, it is.
Running, and scrambling my way up the mountain the other day, I thought about why I was doing it. To get fit, to test myself? Or was it the almost magnetic attraction that mountain summits provide? Heart rate racing, I struggled with each step, sometimes feeling an urge to stop, but each step brought me closer to my goal. Reaching the top I slowly walked on the peak’s rocky spine to catch my breath. The view east drags your eye towards the coast and its distant blue horizon. As my heart rate decreases, a sense of calmness washed over me. No matter how many times I climb the mountain, reaching the summit never fails to make me smile.

I guess that might be the answer – mountains bring us challenges and views to calm our soul, and in doing so, they provide us with happiness.