Suddenly I was on the last lap. I tried to speed up but I must have left my speeding-up legs back at the hotel. I just continued with my now slow, if not efficient, pace. Then I turned right on to the red carpet and under the finish banner the clock said 7:12.33. I had finished a Half Ironman Triathlon - only my second attempt at triathlon. I was as chuffed with this finish as I was with finishing the ‘Marathon Des Sables’.
My actual chip times were 44 minutes for the swim, 3:31 for bike and 2:02 for the run.
WHAT NEXT!
ATACAMA CROSSING 2009
What is it: Multi-stage, self-sufficient desert race
When: March 2009
Where: Chile
Distance: 250km (155 miles)
It is: Tough, the altitude, heat and cold make it hard
See: racingtheplanet.com
I have been looking forward to this race for some time. It’s a race that I’d had in mind to do for a few years - it was to be all the more enjoyable because my wife was to join me. Marilyn has run several marathons and enjoyed them. That’s not strictly true, she’s enjoyed finishing them. I think curiosity had got the better of her after seeing this race on the TV. She needed to see for herself what all the fuss was about: why I always wanted to go and have a go at some ridiculous race or other (it’s a fair question and one for which I still had no answer). I was just pleased that she was coming and I secretly/selfishly hoped that, like me, she would get the bug and want to do more.
The Atacama Crossing is a 250km long race across the Atacama Desert in Chile. It is held annually and uses the same format as the Marathon Des Sables - several stages with one long stage taking you through the night.
We flew to Santiago, Chile’s capital via Madrid. We then had a short internal flight finally arriving at our hotel very nearly 40 hours after we had left home.
The Hotel Altiplanco was stunning, very beautiful and very peaceful, surrounded as it was by snow-capped peaks. The small town of San Pedro de Atacama was only a short walk away. It seemed very busy and bustling full of little shops catering for tourists wanting to explore the surrounding area. We walked around doing our own exploring and made our way to the race headquarters, located in another hotel. On returning to our hotel we noticed that we had both got a touch of sunburn. We were at altitude and I should have realised, it was annoying but not serious.
The next day it was back to race HQ for all the administration, equipment checks, medicals and the obligatory rucksack-weighing. Mine was 11 kgs and I thought that was heavy but someone had a rucksack weighing l5kgs. Marilyn’s was 9kgs. The following day, after a hearty breakfast, we made our way back to the race HQ to board the coaches that would take us to the start. The start line was apparently way up into the mountains and would be at an altitude of a little over 3000 meters. On arriving at the campsite in the Arcoiris Valley, it was freezing - gloves hats, fleeces and anything else was put on. We were then shown to our tent, unlike other races this tent was named and to be used by those allocated to it for the duration of the race.
One Italian, two Danes, one American and three English. There was supposed to be a Japanese guy but he never made it (but it did give us a little more room).
After settling in we were given a lovely meal which was eaten around one of the many fires that were dotted around the campsite. Then, just to round things off, we were treated to some local music played by the camp staff. During the night there were some very strange sounds, weird animal-like noises coming from all around the camp. In the morning the source of the previous nights’ cacophony became all too apparent:- a lot of people had become ill and a few of them had, in desperation, been running around clutching wet wipes and toilet tissue.
DAY L - 35.2KM
WOW, that was a shock to the system. Normally on races like this the first day or two is a short introduction - not this one. The very first steps were tricky: a very technical 50 meter descent, loose, rocky and very steep. The route choice was somewhat limited because so many of us were trying to squeeze ourselves through a very narrow corridor. Eventually we reached the bottom and then it was a nasty lung-bursting, heart-racing climb it required use of hands and feet and some rather colourful language on my part. It was a little difficult to concentrate with my wife’s bottom hovering just inches above my head. When eventually we managed to reach the summit, we realised what the race organisers objective had been: to split the race up. They had achieved their objective, the racing snakes were off and into the distance. Us slower ones were left wondering why we hadn’t trained harder.
The course for today would be what race organisers euphemistically call undulating and what we runners call a lot of bloody hills. Getting to the checkpoints was taking much longer than I had expected. By the afternoon Marilyn was feeling it - it was a very tough first day, lots of challenging hills at altitude and in the blazing sun the combination was making her first days ‘ultra’ extremely difficult. Using a nice steady pace we plodded on eventually reaching the campsite in the late afternoon. Marilyn had had a tough first day, a real baptism of fire. She had had to dig deep and push hard. I was surprised at the severity of the first day and was chuffed to bits for her - she’d had a real humdinger of a day. I was sure that after a bit of food and rest she would be as right as rain. After a meal and a rest I asked how she felt, she said she was tired but would be fine and planned to carry on.
DAY 2 - 42KMS
Today we were told that we would be getting our feet wet, we did. Shortly after starting we arrived at a gorge. Most of the time you were able to avoid getting wet feet, but occasionally you had no choice but to step in. The water was freezing - snow melt from the Andes. The one good thing about it being so cold was that you were encouraged to be bloody quick: it was just too cold to be hanging about. After a while we came across a section that was enclosed by sheer walls and for about 500 meters you were in ankle-to-knee deep water. Trying to rush through without falling over required a degree of concentration. I guess I wasn’t concentrating because I tripped and was just thankful that my rucksack didn’t get wet, the thought of a wet sleeping bag was just too much.
Looking back as you do when you fall over and make a complete tit of yourself, we noticed a small group of runners heading off in the wrong direction. I whistled as loud as I could and fortunately the fact that we were in a deep gorge meant that my whistle was heard, with a lot of frantic arm-waving we managed to get them back on track. They were very grateful.
My long legs (I’m 6”4 inches) and faster pace would normally be a distinct advantage in these races but this time they were a distinct disadvantage. I was always just slightly ahead and was having to stop regularly - the stopping and waiting meant that I was getting cold and I started to shiver!
Eventually we came out of the gorge and into the sunshine. CP 1 was a welcome sight. The terrain was a little better and the wet feet had a chance to dry, and just as they got nice and dry there was another small river to cross. The dry, warm feet were now once again cold and wet feet!
The river crossings came to a sudden end, with a sharp right turn and a monster climb. This climb was long and winding and took us to the entrance of an old miners’ tunnel. Entering the tunnel was like going through a foggy tube. The fine dust that was disturbed by numerous pairs of feet was floating around and gave the appearance of fog! On leaving the tunnel you turned immediately left and another very steep climb. The views were stunning but you paid a high price for them.
The constant climbing combined with the heat were beginning to take their toll on Marilyn - she was needing to sit down every so often. It’s never a good idea to sit out in the direct sunlight and at this height it was very unwise indeed, but I think she was suffering more than she was expecting and just needed short rests. It was during one of these rests that we saw a runner approaching from behind. He looked very fast and very strong, so much so that I couldn’t work out why we were ahead of him. It turned out that he had taken a wrong turn and it had cost him dearl
y, not only in time but the extra distance he had to cover. We continued on and were now walking on an exposed ridge that dropped sharply away to the left. The ridge was slightly climbing and eventually we came across the markers that would take us down a very large and very steep sand dune. This large sand dune was a real test for Marilyn. There is a real knack to descending these sand dunes, and Marilyn struggled. I could tell she was having to work hard for every step and now the fun or the enjoyment or both had gone.
At the bottom of the sand dune was CP 2. It was at this checkpoint that Marilyn made the decision to stop. It was a courageous thing to do and I admired the way she had struggled without once complaining - she had survived what I considered to be the 2 toughest desert days I’ve ever done and she had the bollocks to give a very tough ‘Ultra’ a go. The good thing was that she was not upset or terribly disappointed but she knew that this race was too much for her.
I left the checkpoint, hoping that she was alright and not too despondent. The trail now descended down a track and across a road. I now picked up the pace and after about 40 minutes I could see up ahead a small group of runners. There were 3 of them and now my competitive instinct kicked in and I decided to give chase. It took very nearly an hour to catch and pass them. When I arrived at CP 3 I could see another runner having medical help on his feet. Being the mercenary that I am I left immediately after collecting some water. The terrain was now fairly flat. However, this soon changed to rougher stuff. Looking up ahead I could see a couple of runners. Eventually, after a lot of effort I managed to catch them. The trail was now more of a dusty road and from behind I could hear a vehicle approaching. Discretion being the better part of valour, I moved over, the 4x4 Toyota slowed down and I saw my wife sitting in one of the passenger seats along with a couple of other runners. I asked how she was and fortunately she was fine and smiling. Seeing her and knowing that she was okay had cheered me up a bit and I decided to run a bit, walk a bit. I saw the campsite up ahead 2 maybe 3 km away. There was also another runner ahead and I decided to chase them down. It’s the little games like this, that I sometimes need to motivate me - it takes my mind off the monotonous miles and the agony! I finally reached the CP and my wife was there to meet me!
The campsite was in a beautiful location. But my feet were now beginning to resent the fact that I was once again abusing them. Blisters were now forming, especially on the heels. I spent quite a bit of time cleaning, draining and dressing them. The good thing with this race and unlike other desert races I’ve done in the past was that you didn’t have to boil water! It’s a small thing I know, but boiling water is not only very time-consuming (when you’re knackered time is precious), it means that you also have to carry a stove and when the water is rationed do you drink it, prepare food with it, wash or clean teeth with it? This race has at each campsite large communal fires that have hot water constantly on the go. You walk or hobble your way over, fill your dehydrated ration pack, cup or flask and hobble back! Speaking to Marilyn she told me that she wasn’t disappointed, it was the right thing to do. She should have trained harder, it was a lot harder than she was expecting (I told her that it was harder than I was expecting). Anyway, rather than go back to the hotel and just wait and get bored she had decided to stay and help with the race.
DAY 3 - 40KM
Today started much the same way as day one did, with a couple of challenging descents, followed by about 2 km of tricky and uneven terrain - terrain that required absolute concentration lest you trip or twist something. Eventually we found our way on to a track of sorts which enabled me to pick up the pace. Arriving at CP 1, I collected water and was off. With the trail now pretty good I took advantage and decided to run as much as I could, eventually arriving at what was a pretty good road. Unfortunately, we were to cross the road and not run along it. Reaching the other side we were met by a challenging (what I really mean by challenging is a *&”%@ nightmare) route - a quick look ahead confirmed this. Not one runner was running, everyone was now walking and/or struggling, the ground was uneven, hard and soft. If you were lucky you could take two steps. However, the reality was one step, stop and work out where to place the next one. Eventually as I picked and pondered my way through the 4 kms that was absolute misery (it was without doubt the toughest 4 km I had ever covered), I spotted the next checkpoint - up the side of a steep bank and across another road. Again I collected my water and was very kindly given directions, well, someone pointed. I was now too traumatised to hear what they were saying, I just followed the direction of the finger attached to the arm belonging to the person giving me instructions. I nodded and grinned in agreement and sauntered off!
After leaving the checkpoint the terrain was a little kinder, mainly rock with some sand. However, it was bloody hot and somewhat exposed and unfortunately I realised too late that we were in fact climbing. It was a climb so gradual that I was unaware of it until it was too late and I was bloody knackered.
Once I reached the top it was a pleasant descent, well, it would have been pleasant had I not caught sight of a runner crawling up the side of a monster sand dune away in the distance. I made my way down thinking all the time about the monster climb awaiting me, and then once I reached the bottom I reluctantly made my way up. Once on top of the dune I strained to see any sign of the finish but no such luck. All I could see were little pink flags urging me, enticing me, to follow them, over the next dune and then the next. Cresting the summit of yet another dune I at last caught sight of the campsite. It was still a couple of km away but the end was literally within sight.
I dropped down and approached the final ascent and what an ascent it was. The steepest climb yet and very unforgiving especially on tired old legs. I relied on the same technique I had learned during the Himalayan 100: a couple of steps, rest, a couple of steps, rest. Halfway up was a small irrigation channel. Two runners were sitting there and it was bloody tempting to sit and savour the ice-cold water with them, but I just wanted to reach the finish. I did however take my hat off, scoop up some water and pour it over me. I can’t put into words how invigorating that simple act was - absolute BLISS!
I carried on and, nearing the top, caught site of my wife waiting for me. I had made it - camp Volcan Licancabar. After I had something to eat, I examined my feet, yes they were blistered and sore but I’d had worse. These were manageable, annoying but manageable. All in all I felt good and pretty strong, I was eating well and moving along okay. No major problems - YET!
DAY 4 - 42.8KM
The one everyone was dreading, though not the longest. This day was the now famous or should I say infamous Salt Flat day. The atmosphere on the start line was a little more subdued than normal, I think everyone realised the magnitude of today. Horror stories of shredded shoes, knackered knees and blister-popping terrain were banded about last night. I decided to go gaiter-free, knowing that they would be shredded and I would need them for another couple of days. The countdown began. After our final instructions and last minute tales of woe, we shuffled slowly forward and then gradually increased our speed - mine increased from very slow to just plain slow. I didn’t care: it was a comfortable steady pace and one which I knew I could maintain. The first section wasn’t too bad, a combination of rocks and sand, eventually reaching a descent that took us down a large sand dune and into a river valley. Once we reached the bottom it was into knee-deep water (wet feet again), the water was cool and shaded and a very welcome relief from the now baking sun. Following the river for a short distance took us into a small village and the first checkpoint.
Once we left the village it was a case of following a very narrow path and then a fence line for a couple of km, turn right and follow the fence down the other side, drop down onto a road, cross over and head toward the dreaded salt flats. It was at this point that I started to get confused, it doesn’t take much. Once I got myself into a nice steady rhythm I locked onto the runner in front and was slowly, very slowly catching him up. I recognised the runner as the America
n that had come into the last checkpoint just as I was leaving. I couldn’t work out how or where they had passed me, the route from the last checkpoint was so narrow that in order to have passed me I would have had to move over and out of the way, and as that did not happen, I was now confused. This played on my mind for a while and then the penny dropped. There was a section of the fence that was missing and if you stepped through it you could have saved yourself over a kilometre! I was annoyed that would anyone cheat, take a short cut or be such an arsehole! I just couldn’t work it out, and rather stupidly it got to me. I was fuming and made the decision - a decision that I knew was wrong, but I made it anyway. I wanted to show that cheats never prosper. I decided that no matter what, no matter how much it hurt, no matter what the cost, the cheating American was not, repeat not, going to beat me today. And so I slowly cranked up my pace, caught him, exchanged pleasantries and passed him, thankfully that was how it remained.
Moving along, still angry at the American, I spotted two British runners ahead. They seem to be struggling or at least slowing down, then one of them disappeared behind a bush, the only bush for miles around and, unfortunately for them, it was only about 2ft high, but when you’ve got to go you’ve got to go. I of course did that very British thing and pretended I couldn’t see or hear a bloke crapping his life away not 10ft away from me. He was close enough for me to notice he had tears in his eyes and was clenching his fists in pain! There wasn’t much of a breeze, but what there was was blowing in the wrong direction, so I could hear, see and smell that he was somewhat poorly. Poor sod, but hey ho, it could have been worse: it could have been me!
Carrying on, through some trees and then turning left I spotted the checkpoint, it was this checkpoint that we were informed the fun and games would begin:- The Salt Flats.
Fartleks & Flatulence Page 14