Monday, February 19, 2007
Ironman vs. Coast to Coast: Part 3
...Part 3
I had written down, using a waterproof marker, reminders of landmarks to look out for on the run up the Deception Valley – scrawled on my left forearm. Well, I can safely say I took all the correct routes up till the point the ink started fading – somewhere past my wrist and the back of my hand (thanks to numerous water crossings and instinctive wiping of sweat). My gains in time from picking the sneaky little bush tracks above the notorious Big Boulders section of the route turned to custard. I was stuck with a bluff in front of me, and had to take a corrective swim across a deep pool to re-join the trail proper. As I floundered in the cold water, six runners who I thought I had the jump on passed right before my eyes. Rats.
There was a price to pay for going harder than necessary with this continual running, climbing, and drenching in cold water - all the while gaining altitude with falling temperatures. Upon cresting Goat Pass and descending into the Mingha Valley, my downhill muscles were unable to work. My coordination was all delayed, my legs flip-flopping uselessly like marionette limbs, and I had to run more gently than I would have liked to avoid doing a faceplant into the rock-strewn trail. A deep ache started up in my hips. I knew this was all the consequence of insufficient conditioning. More runners passed me. Eventually, the boggiest sections of the run came up, and while I had recovered some of my coordination, my energy levels were dropping due to insufficient food. I rationed my remaining two gels and my energy bar, but to no avail. Heading out onto the last riverbed run, I began bonking as the soles of my feet started to protest in pain.
People continued passing me. These folks, I reasoned, likely regarded training in such spectacularly rugged and demanding conditions as run-of-the-mill. I found new respect for every single New Zealand-conditioned athlete on the course. The transition in the distance seemed to take forever to reach, so it was with great relief that I hauled myself up the concrete blocks and into transition, the cries of “Go Singapore!” and “Come on, Wilson!” from scores of spectators ringing in my ears.
Having been ushered onto my bike by Barry, I proceeded to stuff my face with my lunch as I pedaled out onto the asphalt. This short 15km ride was fairly interesting, with flat sections as well as steep climbs and descents, but I managed to down all my food by the time I was waved into the end of this section by Iain.
The kayak section was such a relief for my legs, and I quickly got into a rhythm. Scanning early for the right braids to take (with reference to notes written on my kayak foredeck), I looked forward to each rapid section. I know my core stability had taken a beating on the mountain run, so I was very cautious in terms of line selection through the rock gardens, bluff turns, eddies, and wave trains of the mighty Waimakariri River. Even then, I nearly came to grief a couple of times on some huge wave trains and eddies.
I had Eskimo rolled in the Waimak earlier during a familiarization trip, but even with the reminder: “SET UP ROLL EARLY!” printed in bold across my foredeck, I was doubtful I could roll successfully if I flipped upside-down. Forlorn racers emptying their boats just downstream of gnarly sections were an occasional reminder of what awaited me if I messed up. Halfway through the gorge, I got out of the boat. My bottom was in agony, and my boat had several litres of water (and urine) sloshing around in it. Time to give myself a stretch and the boat an empty. Stretched, with my spray skirt re-adjusted and all water out of the hull, I continued downstream with renewed vigour.
Soon, the infamous ‘Rock’ loomed in front of me past a left-hand chute. Official advice had been to portage this section if in doubt, and a dozen safety personnel were positioned in kayaks, by the banks, and even atop the rock itself, ready to rescue any racer foolhardy enough to refuse portaging and subsequently capsizing here.
The popular opinion was that this would be a favourite spot for event photographers, due to the amount of carnage that was expected. I spied a racer in a sea kayak pulling to the bank to portage, but I vowed that this would be my moment – my shot at glory. Considering all the earlier suffering, with heaps of competitors already ahead of me, and even if I groveled for the remainder of the race, I reasoned that if I cleared this rapid (even with an Eskimo roll thrown in, if it came to that), I would be totally satisfied with having ‘mastered The Rock’. I hung to the right, then like magic, I coasted to the side of the wave train that was smashing itself against this jagged grey-black mass… and passed it. I had done it. Ecstatic and tanked up on adrenalin, I shouted “Woo-hoo!” and grinned ear-to-ear.
The going got tougher, as was to be expected. My bottom was soon in so much pain that I had to lie back on the rear deck from time to time just to ease the pressure off it. My taste buds and stomach had had enough of Hammer Perpetuem sports drink, and I resorted to drinking river water instead (no doubt now having a higher concentration of urine than at any other time of the year) to wash down what remained of the fruit and energy bars stuck to my paddle shaft. I prayed for the end of the kayaking section, and heaved an audible sigh of relief when the bridge marking the transition area finally loomed overhead between two steep bluffs.
Iain, Barry and Lynda were ready for me. Iain bear-hugged me from behind, lifting me out of the cockpit and onto my barely functioning legs. The cold hit me hard, and Iain noticed this immediately. I deliberated, and then relented to put on a thermal top and beanie for the final ride. While Barry and Lynda took care of my kayak, Iain massaged my legs, fed me, then marched me up to the waiting bicycle.
The first five minutes of the bike ride felt awful, with my front wheel wobbling all over the place as my upper body shivered uncontrollably in the aero position against a gentle but bitingly cold easterly wind. Boy was I glad to get warmed up with blood pumping through my legs again! I held a steady pace and rationed my ‘wake-up’ nutrition: two caffeine-added gels and a bottle full of Coca Cola. Along mind-numbing farmland roads and into the gathering dusk, I pedaled. My spirits were lifted as I spied the first traffic lights, but then the ‘red light’ sprints began as well. I could not be bothered at this point. My cycling movement was regressing into survival mode once more as the remnants of my energy ebbed from my body. I actually found myself yawning on the last stretch of road leading out of the city and towards Sumner. But I knew that it would all be over soon.
Finally, out of the gloom, officials to the left of the road, all smiles and cheers, waved me in and told me to dismount and proceed to the finish. I staggered off my bike, down the dark footway and onto the sand of Sumner Beach, the commentator blaring that I was the first Singaporean to attempt and complete the Longest Day. Amidst the glare of the finish line floodlights, I found myself with a finisher’s medal around my neck, a can of Speight’s in one hand, and the hand of Robin Judkins - the loud, eccentric director of this epic event – firmly gripping the other. The ordeal was over. Iain was there too to video the entire scene.
In the darkness, away from the cheering crowd, I smiled as I recollected my day, and the days, weeks, months, and years prior to this moment.
I could rest now.
I had written down, using a waterproof marker, reminders of landmarks to look out for on the run up the Deception Valley – scrawled on my left forearm. Well, I can safely say I took all the correct routes up till the point the ink started fading – somewhere past my wrist and the back of my hand (thanks to numerous water crossings and instinctive wiping of sweat). My gains in time from picking the sneaky little bush tracks above the notorious Big Boulders section of the route turned to custard. I was stuck with a bluff in front of me, and had to take a corrective swim across a deep pool to re-join the trail proper. As I floundered in the cold water, six runners who I thought I had the jump on passed right before my eyes. Rats.
There was a price to pay for going harder than necessary with this continual running, climbing, and drenching in cold water - all the while gaining altitude with falling temperatures. Upon cresting Goat Pass and descending into the Mingha Valley, my downhill muscles were unable to work. My coordination was all delayed, my legs flip-flopping uselessly like marionette limbs, and I had to run more gently than I would have liked to avoid doing a faceplant into the rock-strewn trail. A deep ache started up in my hips. I knew this was all the consequence of insufficient conditioning. More runners passed me. Eventually, the boggiest sections of the run came up, and while I had recovered some of my coordination, my energy levels were dropping due to insufficient food. I rationed my remaining two gels and my energy bar, but to no avail. Heading out onto the last riverbed run, I began bonking as the soles of my feet started to protest in pain.
People continued passing me. These folks, I reasoned, likely regarded training in such spectacularly rugged and demanding conditions as run-of-the-mill. I found new respect for every single New Zealand-conditioned athlete on the course. The transition in the distance seemed to take forever to reach, so it was with great relief that I hauled myself up the concrete blocks and into transition, the cries of “Go Singapore!” and “Come on, Wilson!” from scores of spectators ringing in my ears.
Having been ushered onto my bike by Barry, I proceeded to stuff my face with my lunch as I pedaled out onto the asphalt. This short 15km ride was fairly interesting, with flat sections as well as steep climbs and descents, but I managed to down all my food by the time I was waved into the end of this section by Iain.
The kayak section was such a relief for my legs, and I quickly got into a rhythm. Scanning early for the right braids to take (with reference to notes written on my kayak foredeck), I looked forward to each rapid section. I know my core stability had taken a beating on the mountain run, so I was very cautious in terms of line selection through the rock gardens, bluff turns, eddies, and wave trains of the mighty Waimakariri River. Even then, I nearly came to grief a couple of times on some huge wave trains and eddies.
I had Eskimo rolled in the Waimak earlier during a familiarization trip, but even with the reminder: “SET UP ROLL EARLY!” printed in bold across my foredeck, I was doubtful I could roll successfully if I flipped upside-down. Forlorn racers emptying their boats just downstream of gnarly sections were an occasional reminder of what awaited me if I messed up. Halfway through the gorge, I got out of the boat. My bottom was in agony, and my boat had several litres of water (and urine) sloshing around in it. Time to give myself a stretch and the boat an empty. Stretched, with my spray skirt re-adjusted and all water out of the hull, I continued downstream with renewed vigour.Soon, the infamous ‘Rock’ loomed in front of me past a left-hand chute. Official advice had been to portage this section if in doubt, and a dozen safety personnel were positioned in kayaks, by the banks, and even atop the rock itself, ready to rescue any racer foolhardy enough to refuse portaging and subsequently capsizing here.
The popular opinion was that this would be a favourite spot for event photographers, due to the amount of carnage that was expected. I spied a racer in a sea kayak pulling to the bank to portage, but I vowed that this would be my moment – my shot at glory. Considering all the earlier suffering, with heaps of competitors already ahead of me, and even if I groveled for the remainder of the race, I reasoned that if I cleared this rapid (even with an Eskimo roll thrown in, if it came to that), I would be totally satisfied with having ‘mastered The Rock’. I hung to the right, then like magic, I coasted to the side of the wave train that was smashing itself against this jagged grey-black mass… and passed it. I had done it. Ecstatic and tanked up on adrenalin, I shouted “Woo-hoo!” and grinned ear-to-ear.The going got tougher, as was to be expected. My bottom was soon in so much pain that I had to lie back on the rear deck from time to time just to ease the pressure off it. My taste buds and stomach had had enough of Hammer Perpetuem sports drink, and I resorted to drinking river water instead (no doubt now having a higher concentration of urine than at any other time of the year) to wash down what remained of the fruit and energy bars stuck to my paddle shaft. I prayed for the end of the kayaking section, and heaved an audible sigh of relief when the bridge marking the transition area finally loomed overhead between two steep bluffs.
Iain, Barry and Lynda were ready for me. Iain bear-hugged me from behind, lifting me out of the cockpit and onto my barely functioning legs. The cold hit me hard, and Iain noticed this immediately. I deliberated, and then relented to put on a thermal top and beanie for the final ride. While Barry and Lynda took care of my kayak, Iain massaged my legs, fed me, then marched me up to the waiting bicycle.
The first five minutes of the bike ride felt awful, with my front wheel wobbling all over the place as my upper body shivered uncontrollably in the aero position against a gentle but bitingly cold easterly wind. Boy was I glad to get warmed up with blood pumping through my legs again! I held a steady pace and rationed my ‘wake-up’ nutrition: two caffeine-added gels and a bottle full of Coca Cola. Along mind-numbing farmland roads and into the gathering dusk, I pedaled. My spirits were lifted as I spied the first traffic lights, but then the ‘red light’ sprints began as well. I could not be bothered at this point. My cycling movement was regressing into survival mode once more as the remnants of my energy ebbed from my body. I actually found myself yawning on the last stretch of road leading out of the city and towards Sumner. But I knew that it would all be over soon.Finally, out of the gloom, officials to the left of the road, all smiles and cheers, waved me in and told me to dismount and proceed to the finish. I staggered off my bike, down the dark footway and onto the sand of Sumner Beach, the commentator blaring that I was the first Singaporean to attempt and complete the Longest Day. Amidst the glare of the finish line floodlights, I found myself with a finisher’s medal around my neck, a can of Speight’s in one hand, and the hand of Robin Judkins - the loud, eccentric director of this epic event – firmly gripping the other. The ordeal was over. Iain was there too to video the entire scene.
In the darkness, away from the cheering crowd, I smiled as I recollected my day, and the days, weeks, months, and years prior to this moment.
I could rest now.
