Monday, February 19, 2007
Ironman Vs. Coast to Coast: Part 2
Part 2
… Continued… To the Coast
I felt much less pressure going into the Coast to Coast than during the lead-up to Ironman WA, partly because I was the first Singaporean citizen to be attempting it as a Longest Day participant. It was hard not to adopt a holiday mood (I felt more ‘intense’ going into the Ironman at Busselton), but then again, I was in unknown territory here, so i might as well not stress too much about it. I realized it would be somewhat lonely, with no fellow countrymen to have a yarn with or to engage in a bit of friendly rivalry with. So I set about doing the next best thing: Making dozens of new friends during my Coast to Coast campaign.
The Longest Day
The aforementioned title for the one-day individual event of the Speight’s Coast to Coast is apt. World champion adventure racer Ian Adamson called this race ‘the proving ground for the world’s best adventure racers’. It is a race with its own unique quirks and ethos, with a cult-like following unlike any other endurance event, and mind-blowing scenery throughout. But the athletes who have attempted this great race all draw the same conclusion: it is a phenomenally tough event.
The logistical nightmare that was getting the competitor to the start line was a race in itself. Food, transportation, accommodation, and a myriad contingency plans had to be sorted out with the aid of a very integral part of the race effort – the support crew. For international athletes, the complexities of the lead-up were compounded. Friends and family either fly in to support them; or else crews had to be sourced locally, brought up to date, briefed, or otherwise bribed to accommodate the athlete come race day. I believed familiarization trips to check out the technical and potentially treacherous bits on the mountain run and kayak sections were almost mandatory for first-time overseas competitors. These trips were vital for participants who were more likely than not wholly unaccustomed to the demanding terrain and unpredictable conditions that constitute the race route.
Racing kayaks and the associated equipment had to be rented, tested, modified (or swapped), repaired (in the event of damage during training) and tested again. Then there were the bike bits, race nutrition, and other assorted gear that had to be prepped in such a way that the support crew could efficiently and methodically facilitate transitions, whilst possibly dealing with one blabbering, panicking, ranting, or otherwise very subdued athlete. The whole lot had to be convoyed across the South Island to the start; then, come race day, promptly transferred back again, leap-frog style, through the handful of remote transition areas. My crew of Iain and Barry were prepared as they could be, and would be waiting to swing into action at Aickens on race day.
In the half-light of race morning at Kumara Beach, I lined up at the start, glad to have settled all my preparation. The starting horn sounded soon enough, and we were off.
The opening 3km run before the 55km bike ride was infamous as a ‘gut-buster’. In their haste to get in with the first bunch of cyclists and not be left behind, everyone set a solid pace for the bike racks. The whole experience was not unlike the running of the bulls at Pamplona.
Hopping on my bike, my heart rate was well and truly in skyrocket territory. To get it down would not be the easiest thing to do, especially when you are pumped to the gills with adrenalin out of anxiety to hang in a peloton, and to be finally competing on the same stage as some of your favourite adventure racing idols!
I fell back. The effort was too much even trying to hang with the second bunch. The road inclined ever-so-slightly upwards, and that notorious easterly headwind was already out and about on this early Saturday morning as the sun crept over the peaks of the Main Divide ahead. The mountains were coming. Soon, I glimpsed a climbing turn in the distance before noticing some graffiti on the road, just in front of a farmhouse to the left. In typical poignant Kiwi humour, the fluorescent scribbling read: “Horrible hill ahead”.
A group of three eventually caught up with me. I was never comfortable riding in big groups, let alone a competitive peloton. To my disadvantage, I had to settle for something more manageable in size, and more importantly prevent blowing up so early in the race. The four of us took turns as the road gained height all the way till our first transition at Aickens.
Aickens is renowned for its chaotic transitions, particularly on the Two-Day event. Huge bunches coming into the chute amidst throngs of support crew and spectators made for utter bedlam. As a consolation, the four of us, having stayed behind the main bunches, made the transition fairly smoothly. Guided in by Barry and having had my gear swapped by Iain, it was onto the mountain run.
I ate half a banana but dropped the other half (and did not bother to stop and pick it up and finish it off); and was demolishing my handful of pikelets when I came to the first river crossing. My pikelets carelessly swiped the water, and the next thing I knew I had a soggy lump of dough in my hand. This nutritional double faux pas would later prove to be a costly mistake.
To be continued...
… Continued… To the Coast
I felt much less pressure going into the Coast to Coast than during the lead-up to Ironman WA, partly because I was the first Singaporean citizen to be attempting it as a Longest Day participant. It was hard not to adopt a holiday mood (I felt more ‘intense’ going into the Ironman at Busselton), but then again, I was in unknown territory here, so i might as well not stress too much about it. I realized it would be somewhat lonely, with no fellow countrymen to have a yarn with or to engage in a bit of friendly rivalry with. So I set about doing the next best thing: Making dozens of new friends during my Coast to Coast campaign.
The Longest Day
The aforementioned title for the one-day individual event of the Speight’s Coast to Coast is apt. World champion adventure racer Ian Adamson called this race ‘the proving ground for the world’s best adventure racers’. It is a race with its own unique quirks and ethos, with a cult-like following unlike any other endurance event, and mind-blowing scenery throughout. But the athletes who have attempted this great race all draw the same conclusion: it is a phenomenally tough event.
The logistical nightmare that was getting the competitor to the start line was a race in itself. Food, transportation, accommodation, and a myriad contingency plans had to be sorted out with the aid of a very integral part of the race effort – the support crew. For international athletes, the complexities of the lead-up were compounded. Friends and family either fly in to support them; or else crews had to be sourced locally, brought up to date, briefed, or otherwise bribed to accommodate the athlete come race day. I believed familiarization trips to check out the technical and potentially treacherous bits on the mountain run and kayak sections were almost mandatory for first-time overseas competitors. These trips were vital for participants who were more likely than not wholly unaccustomed to the demanding terrain and unpredictable conditions that constitute the race route.
Racing kayaks and the associated equipment had to be rented, tested, modified (or swapped), repaired (in the event of damage during training) and tested again. Then there were the bike bits, race nutrition, and other assorted gear that had to be prepped in such a way that the support crew could efficiently and methodically facilitate transitions, whilst possibly dealing with one blabbering, panicking, ranting, or otherwise very subdued athlete. The whole lot had to be convoyed across the South Island to the start; then, come race day, promptly transferred back again, leap-frog style, through the handful of remote transition areas. My crew of Iain and Barry were prepared as they could be, and would be waiting to swing into action at Aickens on race day.
In the half-light of race morning at Kumara Beach, I lined up at the start, glad to have settled all my preparation. The starting horn sounded soon enough, and we were off.
The opening 3km run before the 55km bike ride was infamous as a ‘gut-buster’. In their haste to get in with the first bunch of cyclists and not be left behind, everyone set a solid pace for the bike racks. The whole experience was not unlike the running of the bulls at Pamplona.
Hopping on my bike, my heart rate was well and truly in skyrocket territory. To get it down would not be the easiest thing to do, especially when you are pumped to the gills with adrenalin out of anxiety to hang in a peloton, and to be finally competing on the same stage as some of your favourite adventure racing idols!
I fell back. The effort was too much even trying to hang with the second bunch. The road inclined ever-so-slightly upwards, and that notorious easterly headwind was already out and about on this early Saturday morning as the sun crept over the peaks of the Main Divide ahead. The mountains were coming. Soon, I glimpsed a climbing turn in the distance before noticing some graffiti on the road, just in front of a farmhouse to the left. In typical poignant Kiwi humour, the fluorescent scribbling read: “Horrible hill ahead”.
A group of three eventually caught up with me. I was never comfortable riding in big groups, let alone a competitive peloton. To my disadvantage, I had to settle for something more manageable in size, and more importantly prevent blowing up so early in the race. The four of us took turns as the road gained height all the way till our first transition at Aickens.
Aickens is renowned for its chaotic transitions, particularly on the Two-Day event. Huge bunches coming into the chute amidst throngs of support crew and spectators made for utter bedlam. As a consolation, the four of us, having stayed behind the main bunches, made the transition fairly smoothly. Guided in by Barry and having had my gear swapped by Iain, it was onto the mountain run.
I ate half a banana but dropped the other half (and did not bother to stop and pick it up and finish it off); and was demolishing my handful of pikelets when I came to the first river crossing. My pikelets carelessly swiped the water, and the next thing I knew I had a soggy lump of dough in my hand. This nutritional double faux pas would later prove to be a costly mistake.To be continued...
