It was at this point, desperately looking for any signs saying North Sir Ranch that I remembered that a ranch out here could be the size of a small county.
Plodding along I eventually found a signpost saying North Sir Ranch and 20 minutes later I arrived. I checked in, had a cup of soup and a cup of tea. I was offered a beef roll but couldn’t stomach it - usual thing for me - loss of appetite.
Before we could settle down we had to show the crew that we could light our stove and show them our sleeping system. This CP was a compulsory 4 hour stop and I wanted to spend as much of that 4 hours sleeping as I could so when the formalities were out of the way it was bed. Three and a half hours after arriving I was up. I had managed to find a sleeping space next to the guy who arrived just minutes before me so I knew he would be leaving just minutes before me and hopefully make enough noise to wake me! Fortunately my plan worked.
As I went to check out I was told that I still had 30 minutes to wait. I told them that I had checked in at 17:00 hours and it was now 21:00 (even with limited mathematical ability I could work out that was 4 hours) she rechecked, apologised and said I was free to go.
This next section to CP 2 the ominously named “Dog Grave Lake” was 38 miles long.
The one thing I have learned with these long races is not to race, the secret for me is to keep moving forward as comfortably as I can - the key word is keep! Consistency of pace, and my one saving grace I have is that I am a really good plodder, I can plod for ever, if plodding were an Olympic sport I would be a medallist.
I’ve noticed people passing me 3 or 4 times:- they race ahead, have a rest or a sleep, maybe have something to eat, then I plod pass them, then they get going and pass me and the whole thing starts again.
This section was huge and challenging, hilly and long:- very tiring. Eventually I came across the halfway marker and like before I thought I was way past halfway. But there you are: no ability to judge distance. Continuing on I spotted the 5km to go marker, however, that 5km was more like 5 miles: it never seemed to end. The final kick in the teeth was the fact that the CP was on the top of a very nasty short steep climb.
Entering the tent, I saw 4 other runners and, annoyingly, only 3 seats. I managed to find a little space to sit on one of the storage boxes and it was bliss just to be sitting. I was asked if I wanted something to eat. I wasn’t really hungry but inquired as to what there was and whatever it was was still frozen. I asked if there was a hot drink available and was told that, yep, as soon as the water boiled I could have one - they were getting the water now. I filled up my water bottles using an old ladle, it was a tricky operation trying to fill a ‘camelbak’ up using a ladle. I had to take my gloves off and be quick! I had a hot drink and then decided to be on my way, so 50 minutes after arriving I left.
It was now ten to one in the afternoon, I had 36 miles to go. Three miles an hour would get me to the finish at about 01:00.
Plodding along this part of the route was the most enjoyable so far:- the terrain wasn’t too challenging and the whole area was beautiful. Some places were rock hard, compact snow making forward motion relatively easy, other places the snow was soft and uneven, making it a little less enjoyable. A little after 7 hours I came across the *&^%$ing half way marker! Yet again I overestimated my speed and underestimated the distance I had covered. Ah well, that blows my 01:00 finish theory out of the window.
I now started to wonder if I had enough water - always difficult to judge when using a camelbak:- to check the thing I would have to stop, unhitch the sledge, get undressed, well remove my top layer, check and repeat the process in reverse and to be honest I couldn’t be arsed. If I ran out I would just have to stop, get the stove out and melt snow. Anyway, the water situation was the least of my worries. I had started to develop a very unpleasant, sore and smelly sweat rash and without going into too much detail, I now wish I had some wet wipes or Sudocreme (nappy rash cream).
As time wore on I wore out. I was now bloody knackered and was having to stop little and often, a 30 second stop every 30/40 steps. Then to add to my woes I came across a huge section of overflow - the biggest yet. I tried in every direction to get around but there was, I discovered, no way round. I had no choice but to go through! Neos on, I unhitched the sledge deciding to pull it by hand - the reason being that my sledge could float, and I had no idea how deep the water was. I also didn’t know how strong the ice was beneath the water, so if I went through I could at least let go of the sledge instead of going through the ice still attached to the thing. I carried both poles in one hand and the sledge in the other, gently using the poles to test the ice ahead and then approximately halfway across, the sheet of ice I was standing on dropped. The water rose - I clenched my teeth, I clenched the poles, the sledge and my very sore raw buttocks all in perfect unison. I had a split second to decide what to do and before that split second was up I was across and on the other side.
I put my sledge harness back on and moved off. I’m not at all religious but I have to confess I said a little “thank you”. Moving along the trail I noticed that I was entering a wooded area. The trail was enclosed and claustrophobic, very sheltered and very eerie. My ears found the absolute silence a challenge:- straining to hear any sound and failing, the only noise was the tap tap tap of my walking poles and the sliding of my sledge.
I had long since given up trying to estimate my finish time but when I saw the 5km to go marker I looked at my watch: a little after 03:30. I now knew for the first time that I would finish some time today and that I was on the right track. See, I’m an optimist:- a glass half full kind of guy!
A little further on, perhaps 2km, the trail ahead was taped off and numerous spray-painted arrows pointed to the right and to the right was one mighty steep drop that went straight down on to a lake.
The severity of the drop required the utmost caution using my poles and the power of prayer. I went for it. It was a titanic struggle between my poles and my sledge, my poles acting as brakes to slow me down and my sledge pushing me on to speed me up. Somehow, a compromise was reached and I managed to stop just before going arse over apex.
Now, standing on what would normally be the shoreline and with memories of the earlier overflow still fresh in my mind, I tested the ice and continued to do so until I was across the lake.
It was with some relief that I stepped off the lake, however, that relief was short-lived. I figured I probably had 2km to go but the last little bit was created by a sadist with a sense of humour. There were roots, stumps and hills, branches, twists and turns - it was to all intense and purposes an obstacle course. At no time during that last couple of km was my sledge in full contact with the ground, either the front was in the air or the back was. It was up and down, or what race organisers euphemistically call ‘undulating’.
Eventually the trees cleared and I came out into the open and then onto what appeared to be track. Up ahead I saw orange lights and realised that it could only be Braeburn and consequently the finish, but this race has a nasty way of kicking you in the nuts, so I didn’t get my hopes up!
And then suddenly I saw a huge banner proclaiming ‘Yukon Arctic Ultra 100 mile finish’. I saw the banner but didn’t see anyone but I did see movement in a caravan - I knocked on the door and Stuart, a fellow British athlete opened it and pointed me in the right direction. I entered the building housing the official finish line at 05:50. It had taken me 17 hours to cover 36 miles.
I was in 4th position. The first British athlete and I was told that 9 people had dropped out. I was happy and relieved. It was the toughest race I had ever taken part in and I knew then and there that I would not be back:- it was just too damn tough. I had been lucky to have reached the finish and when Stuart left to continue his 300 miles race I had nothing but respect and admiration. 300 miles was just too *&^%$ much.
The Yukon Arctic Ultra is a fantastic race, extremely well organised, friendly, helpful and happy staff and as a bonus one of the most beautiful places I have
ever raced in.
WHAT NEXT?
The author now realises what the hell he has let himself in for
The accommodation was not the best I’ve stayed at.
TRIATHLON 2006
What is it: Swim, Bike, Run
When: September
Where: On the Isle of Wight (West Wight)
Distance: 600 meter swim (24 lengths) 35km bike (22 miles) 7.5 run (4.6 miles)
It is: A beautiful triathlon, with a tough bike section
See: westwight.co.uk
In 2005 I took part in a race called 7x7x7:- seven marathons, in seven days, in seven different ways - a challenging multi discipline race. I loved it.
Though I had taken part in numerous Ultra-distance races over the years, I had never taken part in a triathlon. The multi-discipline aspect of the 7x7x7 interested me enough to think of giving a triathlon a bash. The seven different sports that made up the 7x7x7 were mountain biking, road running, off-road running, kayaking, rowing machine, time trial cycling and the last day was a mixture of running, kayaking and cycling.
All those sports were ones I could ‘bluff’ my way through, the triathlon would be a little different!
No swimming:- I could run, I could just about cycle, but swimming, yes I could get from one end of the pool to the other but to say I could swim from one end to the other might be stretching it a bit.
My arms did whatever was needed to move me forward, my legs did the same. A lot of faffing and flapping about using a lot of unnecessary effort - when I finally did reach the other end I would hold on for dear life whilst trying to get my breath back and when I did get my breath back it would be time for the return journey. It wasn’t pleasant or pretty. I can’t even say it was effective.
Even as I write this, I have no idea why I wanted to give triathlon a go - was it because I had been asked so often if I had done a triathlon? Or was it because in 2001 I had watched with utter fascination, the UK half Ironman, in Llanberis, Wales and I thought even then, that those guys were crazy, who the hell can swim 1.2 miles, let alone do the other stuff, cycling and running, immediately afterwards?
Whatever the reason, I was determined to do one, and luckily for me the West Wight Triathlon is right on my door step - a 600 metre pool swim, a 35 km bike ride and a 7.5 km run.
Held every September at the local sports centre, it was a popular triathlon but having never seen one other than on the television, I couldn’t work out how the pool swimming was done.
It was, I decided, time for a bit of homework. I went and watched the next event and was pleasantly surprised - not just at the organisation and the turnout, but the fact that the swimmers were not all the super swimmers that I had seen on the television. Some were doing breaststroke and some were actually struggling and needing to hold on to the end of the pool to get their breath back!
My confidence soared, not in my ability to do well, but in my not looking so silly when I was splashing about in the pool. I would sign up for the next one, a year from now I would be in the pool, on the bike and out for a run.
As usual, I hadn’t got a clue how to train. The one advantage I did posses was that I could run, not very fast but I could run. I cycle regularly to work, a round trip of about 20 miles. The cycling section was about 21.75 miles but swimming: that was a different kettle of fish. As mentioned earlier I can just about haul my carcass from one end of the pool to the other - with the triathlon 12 months away and my need to keep things simple, being the genius mathematician that I am, I quickly worked out that if I could increase my swimming by 2 lengths a month for the next 12 months, that would give me the required 24 lengths. Easy!
I had a few running races already booked for 2007, one being a 300 miler in Canada, so I didn’t worry too much about training for the run. I upped my cycling and decided to go for a run immediately after getting off my bike. I have since found out that this bit of training is known as a ‘brick’. Likewise with the swimming, I cycled to the pool, thereby necessitating my need to cycle home straight after a swim.
As the months crept by, I hoped my swim would improve: it didn’t. Though the distance I could haul my carcass through the water did increase, it wasn’t anything that could remotely be called improved technique. It was with a degree of fitness and with a bucketload of stubbornness that saw me complete each and every length.
Though I was attending the pool on a regular basis (notice I say attending, not swimming) I didn’t really enjoy a single session. As far as I was concerned, it was on a par with going to a job interview or the dentist:- something that had to be done-a means to an end. In time I hoped the enjoyment would come, but it never did, the dread slightly decreased but that was all.
As the months and weeks ticked by, I read as much as I could about the sport of triathlon. Though the name triathlon suggests that there are three components to the sport, I realised that there are actually four, including transition. A lot of time can be wasted or gained from an efficient transition, so I decided to incorporate transitions into my training.
As usual Race day approached all too quickly - training had gone as well as I could have hoped. I had cycled the route three or four times, swam the distance three or four times, practised transition. Running the distance was not a problem, but running fast, that might be a problem.
Race day arrived and living only 4 miles from the start I decided to cycle, using it as a gentle warm up. Getting to the starting area and trying to look as if I knew what I was doing. I registered and was issued with my race number and had the number written on my arm and leg. Now I felt like a real triathlete.
Setting up my transition area would however show the world I was a fraud. I hadn’t got a clue. I covertly watched the others and laid out my kit accordingly.
I nibbled on a banana, admired my handiwork, looked at my watch and realised it was time. Time to get changed and wander over like the condemned man I now was, to the gallows - sorry, I meant swimming pool. After finding out which lane I was in, and filled with absolute terror, I grabbed a seat, and for some reason held on tightly! I have in the past done some pretty daft things:- running across the Sahara desert, the Himalayan mountain range and through the Amazon jungle to name but three, but nothing (and I really do mean nothing) had me shaking and quaking as much as the impending 24 lengths at my local swimming pool that I was about to attempt!
I was in lane 3 and, in no time at all, three of us were called over. There were three swimmers to a lane. The first one got in - when he reached the far end, I got in (no diving was allowed) and finally swimmer number three got in, losing his goggles and making a splash in the process. I had to make a conscious effort to swim slowly, not that I was worried about catching anyone but I knew that if I did my usual splash and dash I’d be knackered and end up clinging on to one end of the pool or the other. It was hard work and I seemed to be in the pool for hours. I had no idea how many lengths I had done, the task of counting lengths and swimming was just too much. I could do one or the other. Then, thank the Lord, one of the Race marshals held out a ‘2 lengths to go’ sign. I smiled and carried on. A few moments later I was trying to haul my carcass out of the water.
I got out of the pool and for some reason felt very self-conscious. Goggles off, swim cap off, stomach in and chest out.
Into the transition area and time to put into practice what, until now, had only been a mental exercise.
Stand on towel, a quick drink, then top on, socks on, shoes on, helmet and glasses on and go. A couple of minutes after arriving in transition I was pedalling away.
I had cycled the route three or four times and was well aware how hilly it was. Though only 35km long, there were a couple of steep climbs that needed to be respected - failure to do so could result in my failure to finish.
Having never done a triathlon before I decided to err on the side of caution and not push too hard, saving my legs for the run, the only discipline that I was confident with.
I managed to catch a coupl
e of cyclists but started to regret not getting out of wet shorts! Whilst on the bike I managed to eat a Mars Bar and so was fuelled up in preparation for the run.
As I approached the transition area I again ran through a checklist of how to do a swift exit.
This transition was a lot easier: rack the bike, helmet glasses off and run - it literally took seconds. Once I got rid of my wobbly, jelly legs (legs that felt as if they had once belonged to Bambi), I pushed hard. The run route was nice and flat and again, having run the same route countless times, I could afford to go all out.
I eventually finished in a time of 02:03:02 the splits for each event were as follows Swim 14:13 Bike 1:11:06 Run 33:37.
I was as happy finishing a triathlon as I was any Ultra-distance race I had done.
WHAT NEXT!
THE YUKON ARCTIC ULTRA 2007
What is it: A multi-discipline, single-stage cold weather race
When: February
Where: The Yukon region of Canada
Distance: Either 160, 480 or 690 kms (100, 300, or 430 miles)
It is: An extreme cold weather race
See: arcticultra.de
Once again here I am standing on the start line of the Yukon Arctic Ultra.
I say again because this time last year I was here in this exact same spot, waiting to race the 100 miles to Braeburn.
I thought then that I was mad, but no, like the addict I had now become, I was here waiting for my fix, as if last years 100 miles were not enough. I needed more and so it was that I signed up for the 320 miler!
Fartleks & Flatulence Page 10