Runaway thoughts on my first 100km ultra
“Shall I fetch the doctor?” offered a volunteer, as the grimacing fellow runner hobbled towards the final aid station of the race.
He shook his head slowly, as if in disbelief over his own insanity for being here.
“I need a psychiatrist.”
We chuckled sadistically.
“Don’t we all?” I quipped in response, wishing him the best of luck before taking off into darkness.
After clocking 91km over the last 15 hours, we were down to our final 9km now. Nine kilometres. The elegant single-digit number summoned a smile to my face and a spring in my steps, breathing new life into my legs. Triggered by the approaching finish line, my brain had released yet more of its hidden reserves. My weary muscles dutifully picked up the pace, given the latest signals that it’s safe again to push on.
It was a familiar sensation. After all, the day had been a continuous tug of war with our cranial command centres. One that involved some serious cajoling, self-talk and trickery as we navigated the ups and downs of the course (both physically and emotionally).
This time though, it felt like a no-brainer we were going to make it.
As my feet kept their steady cadence on autopilot, I focussed intensely on the ground. It was pitch black all around, except for the single spotlight from my head lamp. A bright and bouncing beam, revealing any rocks or roots that could take me out. This was meditation in motion.
Yet, a moment of distraction could spell disaster. I had already experienced it several times earlier in the day, collecting battle scars along the way caused by a wandering, fatigued mind. A torn bib repaired with surgical tape from the first-aid kit. Ripped leggings revealing a grazed knee underneath. Scraped palms and dried blood from breaking a fall. Now that we were so close to the end, I wasn’t going to risk another misstep. My mind was sharper than ever.
“Last 5km now. Let’s savour it,” Kt exclaimed as cheerfully as he could in the dark, “We’ve run many 5kms in our lives, but few as momentous as this!”
It has, indeed, been an enduring journey leading up to these final five kilometres. One that began way before the start line of that day’s 100km race. When we shuffled across the 50km finish line of another race earlier this year, never in my wildest dreams would I have thought it possible to run double that distance. But between February and October 2020, many more unprecedented events unfolded around the world. Like most others, the year’s plans got thrown out the window as events were put on hold, postponed and then cancelled altogether. Our big goal had been a PR (personal record) at the Christchurch Marathon in May – not quite like Tokyo 2020 for the Olympic athletes, but after working towards it for almost a year, the disappointment had been considerable.
Then, as we scanned the horizon for a new goal post, the idea of the Taupo 100km Ultramarathon came up. We drew up a 28-week training plan with an ambitious goal, broken down into achievable targets that gently grew by the week. In a crazy world where we were constantly grappling with uncertainty, the plan kept us grounded and in a way, lent a sense of control.
As Auckland plummeted into a second lockdown and put the race in jeopardy, we continued chasing our micro mileage goals, even if it could be all for naught. By staying focussed on the present and the process, it kept us from spending too much time worrying about the things out of our control.
Later during the actual event, we discovered that this same strategy would get us through to the finish line.
When we bumped into our friends – seasoned hundred milers – at the start line, their advice was “You will feel like crap. But it’s a long race, so just keep going. And you will come out of it.”
And feel like crap I did at the 30km mark. It was much sooner than expected, which caught me off guard. As fatigue crept into my calves and quads, so did negativity seep into my thoughts. All I could think of was the 70km left to go, and how I was going to keep going if my legs were already aching so early on. “Was it because I was having my period?” I started formulating excuses in my head to justify not completing the race should that happen. (And yes, unfortunately, it was bloody day three).
Thankfully, Kt stepped up to be the cheerleader of the day. Instead of telling ourselves we had 70km more to the finish line, he declared with a dance, “Just 3km more to the next checkpoint!”
Suddenly, it felt a little less impossible.
We arrived at the next aid station, greeted by snacks and cheered on by volunteers. Refuelled by fresh fruits and good vibes, we were off again.
“Let’s do 11km now!” we convinced our brains as we ran towards yet another aid station.
“Just 6km after this,” we called out the next stretch as we refilled our water bottles.
“Only 10km left!”
Slowly but surely, we chipped away at the distance, step by step, station by station.
There are many reasons why ultrarunners willingly sign up for hours of pain and discomfort. A big part of me wanted to find out how far I could push myself. I was curious about entering the infamous ‘pain cave’, so often raved about by fellow sado-masochistics on the trails. In the end, I discovered it was not so much about gritting my teeth, gunning for the goal and giving my all in terms of pain tolerance. In fact, the fixation on the looming distance ahead only served to distract and intimidate. But, by being present and believing in the process, we somehow managed to arrive in the end.
After 16 hours on our feet, we were finally out of the woods. We sprinted (miraculously) in the last five hundred metres towards the finish line, crossing it without much fanfare. After all, the winner had arrived more than eight hours before us. Then, we were ushered into a tent and onto the scales to ensure we hadn’t lost too much weight. Ironically, I had gained over 1% of my body weight during the race, enough to summon the doctor. I had been taking in too much fluids, it seemed, and just needed to make sure I drank to thirst post-race.
“You look pretty happy for someone who’s just completed a 100km,” the doctor said, before giving me the all-clear. I had been grinning from ear to ear, buzzing from a combination of adrenaline, endorphins, relief and disbelief over what the hell we just did.
Of course, we didn’t complete an ultramarathon through sheer persistence during the race. The process was set in motion when we embarked on our training plan six months ago, built on top of every decision to lace up and step out the door, compounded over the preceding years. By breaking down big, scary dreams into small, consistent steps over time, I am learning how to overcome the need for instant gratification. By patiently sticking to the process, I am discovering the joys and fulfilment from working hard on something that can only be achieved in the long run.
Looking back, it has only been a matter of months since Kt and I made deliberate tweaks to our lifestyle choices (accelerating training intensity and adopting a natural, low-carb diet). It wasn’t too long ago when we struggled to complete a 42km road marathon. As a fledgling keto trail runner navigating into my thirties, it fascinates me how the body continues to evolve magically with consistent stress and continuous nutrition, recovering stronger each time. If the incredible power of compound can already be felt now, I am hopeful and excited about what its magic can do if we carry this patient persistence to other parts of our lives, and in the years ahead.
Our first 100km ultramarathon was completed in the following gear:
Gin – Altra Superior 4
Keith – Altra Superior 4, Altra Lone Peak RSM