Running for Beachlands School

A few people have asked how the race went, and also for my own needs I decided to write a wee bit about what it was like.

Prior to the race I thought it was an excellent opportunity to teach my kids about aiming high, but also that if you failed that was completely acceptable. The closer I got to race day however, the more I realised this was good in theory, but I didn't feel it. I did not want to fail. This, along with all the donations and support, meant my nervousness was getting out of control. I just wanted to get it done. I turned up for a meeting at my trainers Squadrun a week before the race with pages and pages of data, analysis and strategy, completely off the charts stressed out and one of my children so tired she just cried loudly the whole time. I laugh about this now as although they sat there like stunned mullets whilst we skipped the niceties and got straight down to paperwork, they were great enough to graciously make gentle suggestions and pick out the positives ie 'well your head is certainly in the game' rather than completely knock me off this imaginary perch I had created as to how the day would progress...good and bad scenarios included and accounted for. :-)

Unfortunately once I started the race I realised it was much, much harder than I anticipated. I had messages in my pocket that I had chosen to try and keep my mindset positive:

Celebrate your legs

Relentless Forward Progression

The first 50 is running, the second 50 is endurance

The adventure begins: how lucky are you?!

An ultramarathon is not the ability to run but the ability to withstand discomfort

You have more to give

Even still I was over it by 35kms, ready to throw in the towel at 60kms, and completely done by 81kms. At 60 kilometres in, I considered that I had just made a dreadful mistake - this wasn't for me. This was like a sunday cyclist joining the Tour De France. I was not meant to be here. My prior thoughts of doing the 100 miles the following year were completely abandoned.

Because of all the rain 70% of the course was covered in a thick ankle deep mud. After about 30 kilometres in, it was not really running anymore but more of a slog/hike. All our anticipated finish times for each leg were pushed out further and further. I was doing the run with my brother and was so grateful for his company as it made the agonisingly slow legs pass a little easier. At 1.00am when we had spent 4 hours on the toughest and steepest leg, slipping over multiple times, deep in the bush with no watch to tell us whether the section was coming to an end and visibilty poor because of the rain and mist shining in our headlamps, I felt like I was at war. The only word I could find to describe it was 'horrendous'. Even the guy that came second said he hit his head on a tree which knocked him completely over and as he lay there, he was hoping that he had been injured significantly enough to pull out. That thought occurred to me also...or that perhaps someone else may need my assistance in some kind of life threatening situation so I didn't have to continue. Luckily neither of those situations occurred

Even still I could recognise that the whole race was this amazing piece of life supersized but compressed. Friendships and bonds were made, admiration for the courage it took shared, encouragement given, disappointments and pain felt, with all these people from many different countries and walks of life that for one day you were sharing this common goal and experience with. We all wanted to help one another. That was the coolest thing for me. A girl in front of us broke her ankle and another runner sat with her for two hours in the middle of the night, in the rain, ruining their chances of finishing, until help came. I gave a spare headlamp of mine to a young guy who was in the toughest section with only his phone lighting his way as he hadn't picked his headlamp up (although my brother told him he owed us $5000). Another chap came racing past only for us to catch back up to him at the top of the hill and just like that, over 100 kilometres into his 160 kilometre distance (we were doing 102km but covered some of the same track) he decided to pull out. We tried to convince him to walk forward with us but he was adamant he was turning back. It was heartbreaking. All competitors that passed us doing the 160 kilometres (or 100 miles, or 'milers' as they are called) we would stand aside and clap and cheer them through. We passed a woman, about my age, over 60 kilometres in, moving very slowly in the cold and rain and darkness by herself - that is courage and perseverance

At 81kms in, we picked up our 'pacer' Shannon, a friend whose role was to encourage us to finish. I was barely moving and had come to a complete peace over not finishing...after all, I still had another half marathon to go and at this point it felt insurmountable. I decided I would 'just see' how I went but not feeling I would finish, or particularly caring anymore. Bit by bit we inched closer to the finish line though.During this time, going through my head was the constant thought of wanting to sleep and not be in mud anymore. My blisters meant I painfully dawdled for a while and told my brother to head off by himself as otherwise he may miss the cutoff. Shannon stayed with me chatting about everything under the sun, and I was expecting that sooner or later I would miss the cutoff and be pulled from the course, until all of a sudden I only had 5 kilometres to go, and over an hour to complete it. I decided to ignore the feelings in my feet. Whether I was walking or running they were still going to hurt, so I chose to run. I caught back up to my brother and said it was time to run. We came out of the forest and onto the footpath as the sun was just about to come up.

Eventually we rounded a corner and came down the last 100metres to be joined by our children and family. The race director was there and hugged every single competitor who finished. The euphoria of completing it didn't really come all at once when I crossed the line although I was extremely, extremely grateful to not have to take one more step after running/hiking/falling for almost 24 hours. In fact it was fair to say I never wanted to run again. What I was left with was a slow burn of satisfaction, that came later as the pain in my feet died down, an appreciation of being lucky enough to be in a position to compete (the country I live in etc), a deep appreciation for the meaning of comfort both on a physical and emotional level ie a soft mattress, friends and family to rely on and support me, and the satisfaction of having raised $2500 for my childrens school, along with the beautiful encouraging messages and kind and generous donations from our community. The main thing I believe that got me through was the help of others. My family, my brother, my pacer. If I was on my own (as many competitors were) I am sure I would not have crossed the finish line.

It was a full 24 hours later before I started googling ultra marathons for this year. :-)