The official course notes said they were extremely difficult and they weren’t wrong: crystallised, razor sharp, hard baked and uneven. The going was fraught with difficulty. Every single step required concentration and pre-planning, tired legs and sore feet moaned every step of the way. The fact that I was using poles didn’t help, as they just got stuck and clogged up with salty deposits. The effort required to extricate them had now left me with aching arm muscles. Moving along at a snail’s pace I eventually got to the halfway mark at 7kms and there was Alastair, one of the race crew, standing there offering encouragement and a small amount of water to each of the runners. Water that he had heroically carried on his back to this point. Water is bloody heavy and coupled with the fact that the terrain was so awful and that this was an unofficial water station, made this kind act very impressive indeed.
Carrying on, I eventually spotted the next checkpoint and once inside I grabbed a seat, desperate for a sit down. One of the crew came up and asked “How did you find the Salt Flats?” and I said that it was, without doubt, the hardest 14 km I had ever done, and that “You couldn’t pay me my registration fee to cross them again” (that interview appeared on YouTube).
Leaving the checkpoint and with just 6 km to go until the campsite, I tried to speed up and failed miserably. I eventually arrived at camp Tebiquincbe Lagoon - hungry, knackered and relieved.
Tomorrow would be the long day, so tonight rest, eat and hydrate. Get the blisters cleaned and re-dressed and get rid of anything that was no longer required. Like everyone else I knew that once tomorrow was out of the way the last day was really just a formality.
DAY 5 THE LONG DAY - 73.6KM
As is usual at the start line of a stage race’s longest day, the atmosphere was a little less jovial. Always a strange feeling, anxiety and nervousness about the enormity of what we were about to take on, whilst at the same time, thoughts of just get today out of the way and there’s just one small day left - a simple formality to reach the finish line.
The countdown began and then we were off. Unfortunately we were still on salt flats, not quite as bad as yesterday and slightly helped by the fact that we were on what seemed to be a small narrow path, so narrow in fact that it was impossible to overtake - bloody annoying if you were one of the fast ones and wanted to push on, but excellent if, like me, you needed to hold back and pace yourself for what was going to be a bloody long day.
Eventually the terrain got a little easier and the first couple of checkpoints were reached. Then we entered an area where it is as close to the moons surface as you can get here on planet Earth and consequently where the NASA’s moon buggy was tested and put through its paces. It was a strangely beautiful, alien landscape. I could see why NASA had chosen it. Plodding along and lost in thought about all things extra-terrestrial, I spotted the next checkpoint and as per usual I tried to speed up and look impressive and, as per usual, entered the checkpoint hobbling, waddling and looking like a sack of shit.
However, this checkpoint had a rather nice surprise: we were all handed a can of Coke, not just any old can of Coke but COCA COLA, it was the real thing! I know, I know, but let me assure you that Coca Cola during a desert race is a truly wonderful thing. It is, I am certain, how Ambrosia would taste to Zeus himself, truly food of the Gods, well, maybe not, but you get the idea. It was very welcome and very much appreciated by all of us.
Moving on from the checkpoint the terrain was now a little better and it was now that some of the faster runners were catching me. They had started about an hour after us, just to try and get the runners finishing closer together.
The elite runners in any Ultra I have done have always impressed the hell out of me - they seem to run so well without pain or clumsiness:- a lovely economical, consistent pace that often beggars belief, as good on the last day as they were on the first. I carried on still following the little pink flags, occasionally being overtaken. Every so often I would lift my head and scan the horizon, trying to work out what lay ahead. On this particular horizon-scanning session, I saw something up ahead that looked very out of place, rock climbers. I did a double take, had a slurp of water and checked again, but they were real and still climbing. I smiled to myself and thought that they were even more crazy than us. The wall they were climbing looked horrible. I was either mesmerised or just glad to have something to take my mind of the monotony. I couldn’t take my eyes off them. The flags were leading us towards the climbers and then a horrid thought occurred: the flags were leading us TO, not toward, the wall and the fact was that they were not climbers, but runners, became blatantly obvious the nearer I got!
Oh my God, they actually want us to climb the steepest wall, of what appeared to be the most hard-packed sand I had ever seen. One of those moments when I didn’t know what to do, should I slow down and conserve as much energy as I should or speed up and get the bloody thing over and done with? I chose the latter.
I eventually reached the bottom and it looked even worse than I thought close up: it wasn’t far off being vertical. I plucked up some courage, shortened my walking poles and proceeded to climb, using poles and legs in unison. Taking very small steps I inched my way forward. It was a tough and unforgiving climb. My heart rate went through the roof, my already tired legs were in agony, but inch by slow painful inch climbed higher. When I reached what I guessed to be halfway I stopped and turned around and could see runners heading toward the wall of death! I smiled to myself and continued. Eventually the severity of the climbing got less, until finally it levelled off before descending. After a few minutes I spotted the next checkpoint about a kilometre away.
I arrived just as someone was leaving and I promptly grabbed the now vacant chair - my days of being a gentleman were over. Normally, I would have asked. Vacant - it was MINE ALL MINE. I refilled my water bottles, moaned to anyone who was listening about the climb and then 5 minutes after arriving I sauntered off just as the two Danes who were in the same tent as me arrived. They were moaning about the climb far more eloquently than I.
The terrain was now flat and consequently the going was a lot easier, it was now late afternoon. I tried to speed up, hoping to get to the next checkpoint before it got dark. I even managed to catch four runners though this was tempered by the fact that at least four runners passed me. We were now in what I guessed to be a valley and after a while we turned right and onto what seemed like a dried up river bed. I continued on, all the time looking out for the next checkpoint. It was now early evening and starting to get dark. I was just deciding should I stop and get my head torch and fleece out, when I spotted the checkpoint. With just one more checkpoint left before the finish I quickly got organised:- head torch on, lightweight fleece on and flashing red light attached to my rucksack on, a quick fill of my water bottle and I was gone.
Green glowing snapsticks had now replaced the little pink flags, marking the way. We followed a stony track that climbed and climbed. Though I had felt reasonably strong all day, after an hour or so I could feel myself slowing down. This was confirmed by the fact that people were now overtaking me. I still felt good but had just lost whatever small amount of speed I had possessed. The track continued right and seemed to be going in a huge circle that disappeared into a mountain range. Entering the range there was a small but steep climb and then the checkpoint. This was a fantastic one and had been kitted out for people who were going to stay the night. Plenty of room and plenty of staff, it was mighty tempting to stay longer than was necessary. It was now, according to the race handbook, only 9.4 difficult kms to the end. I pushed on and promptly spent the next half an hour telling myself I should have stayed longer.
Leaving the checkpoint there was an immediate and challenging climb, whatever small reserves of energy I possessed were now rapidly being used up. I plodded on and was very aware that I was being overtaken by lots of runners. There was nothing I could do about it but accept it and grind out the kms. The climbing was constant and I remembered what the race handbook had said
about this last little bit, it was very difficult. And I had always thought that it was the British that had mastered the art of the understatement! After finally reaching the top, I was looking forward to the descent. However, the route down was challenging, twisting, turning, maze-like channels that led downward. Fortunately, the steep narrow channel walls were so narrow that you could place a hand on either side, and lower yourself gently down. The overhanging rocks were now becoming more numerous until eventually they blocked out the entire night sky.
Not only did they block out the sky, they were also getting lower and lower, until eventually I was forced onto my knees. The whole adventure had suddenly changed from a running race to a crash course in Speleology (the scientific study of caves). Crawling along on hands and knees, the way out was marked by green snapsticks. I obediently followed, occasionally scraping my back. I could feel my poor old quads tightening up. I needed to get out quick, then just add to my misery - a Dutch girl crawled past me, looking and sounding as if she was enjoying herself. We got out the other side and continued on then turning a tight corner, we came face to face with a severe drop, so severe that we were given instructions by the waiting race crew that we were to wait and climb down one at a time with the help of a crew member! I was now so desperate to finish, that even my macho pride gratefully accepted any help offered even by a girl! The Dutch girl went first, slowly and with clear concise instructions, she reached the bottom and then I started my descent, the crew member explaining where hand and footholds were. My tired muscles were now rebelling and each time I found a foothold and put my weight on my already overused muscles they started shaking and quivering. To the casual observer it must have looked as if I was shaking and quaking with fear. This whole descending route had by now turned into one huge adventure playground. Climbing, crawling and sliding down on my arse, it was certainly one of the more entertaining races that I had taken part in. Once I reached the bottom, I was told that there were just 2 km to go. Once I emerged from the rocky maze, it was just a short hop to the campsite Kari Gorge. Arriving at approx 01:30 I was surprised to see that my wife was up and waiting. The whole camp was very busy, with runners eating and telling war stories. After something to eat and drink and a few slightly exaggerated war stories of my own it was bedtime.
DAY 6 THE LAST DAY - 10KM
The last day of the Atacama Crossing was, at 10km, the shortest last day of any Ultra I had done. Breakfast was a very unhurried and somewhat relaxed affair, owing to the late start, with just 6 miles to go. The race was scheduled to finish at lunchtime in the town square in San Pedro de Atacama.
The slowest runners would start at 09:00, the middle runners (me) went at 10:00 and the super fast racing snakes left at 10:45. I wanted to get the day’s running over and done with as quickly as I could, so had set myself a little challenge:- not only would I attempt to run the whole 10km non stop, I also would try and do it without being overtaken by any of the group that would start 45 minutes after me. At breakfast the whole camp was a hive of activity, the race crew were sorting the camp out and packing, the racers were doing the same sorting themselves out and packing.
Both groups were excited and happy for a job well done. Once the first group started to make their way to the start line, it became very noticeable how different the runners were from the start line of the first day. Then, the runners had been dressed in clean, branded, colourful race kit. That kit had now been replaced by grimy, dusty, sweat-stained, salt-encrusted smelly, rag-like clothing!
The apprehension and slight fear that had been present on that first start line had now been replaced by big smiles and half-empty rucksacks. As the first group left, it was a somewhat bizarre spectacle. Some tried to run, some hobbled and some waddled, strange gaits and even stranger facial expressions, as blisters popped, chaffing rubbed and stiff muscles were all rudely activated! An hour later it was my turn and as the countdown began we all shuffled our way forward, 3, 2, l and we were off. Some sprinted off and some walked but whatever our chosen style of locomotion we all moved forward. I ran, well, sort of`ran - it was definitely meant to be a run. At home it might have been called a walk but here I could get away with calling it a run. It was slow going as the terrain was very technical: a narrow path and lots of up and downs, eventually giving way to flatter, firmer ground that led us onto a dusty track, which in turn took us toward a green belt of trees and bushes. The first part of my own private challenge was still going according to plan. I was still running, however, part two was over as a couple of the faster runners caught me.
The trees and bushes were hiding various small buildings. Moving along, people, buildings and livestock were becoming more numerous and then suddenly I could hear music, clapping and cheering. People going about their daily business clapped and cheered as we went past. I was still sort of running when I spotted, up ahead, the two Danish guys from my tent. I accelerated and tried to catch them and then suddenly I was on the last little bit of road before the square. The noise was terrific. I looked up to see if I could catch the Danish guys, just in time to see them reach the finishing banner. The road I was on was getting narrower and narrower. The supporters were fantastic and a couple of minutes after the Danes, I crossed the same finishing line.
The whole square was packed full of runners’ supporters and race crew, noisy and colourful music and dancers: a fantastic party-like atmosphere. It felt like the whole town had come out to see us. I crossed the line with the same old familiar feeling - one minute I was desperate to finish and the next I was sad it was all over. A medal was presented, as was a race t-shirt, pizza and Coca Cola.
Then I had a hug from my wife and a sit down in a shaded area. My shoes, like my feet, were now shredded, torn and tatty. They went into the nearest rubbish bin. The last runner finally made it. Alastair had taken 4.5 hours to cover the 10km - what were once his feet had now been replaced by bloody raw wounds. But when he crossed the finish line he wore the biggest smile of us all!
The Atacama Crossing was a fantastic if not tough race. Incredibly well organised, the route was the best marked route I had ever seen. Crew were helpful and friendly. Not the cheapest desert run but I would recommend it - maybe not as a first one because, in my opinion, it is a toughie.
WHAT NEXT !
Approaching the finish line.
Approaching a check point.
The author and his wife, Marilyn, 2nd and 3rd from right.
They’re off.
THE NORSEMAN EXTREME TRIATHLON 2010
What is it: Ironman distance Extreme triathlon
When: August
Where: Norway
Distance: 250km (155 miles)
It is: Simply the world’s toughest Triathlon
See: nxtri.com
This Ironman distance Triathlon has a fearsome reputation, but having said that, I consider any triathlon to be fearsome.
As if swimming 2:4 miles, cycling 112 miles and then for good measure running the marathon distance of 26:2 miles are not enough, the Norseman for some unknown reason makes each of those three just a little bit more challenging.
Take the swim for example. It starts in the dark, it’s in a Norwegian fjord and has jellyfish to keep you company, oh, and did I mention the fact that you have to jump off a car ferry, much like walking the plank of days gone by.
If you survive the jump, the jelly fish, the cold and the distance, you will be allowed to get on your bike and cycle the equivalent of a mountain stage in the Tour de France. Then and only then have you earned the privilege of running the marathon, only this marathon finishes on the summit of a mountain.
So when I started looking for a challenge that was a little different from my usual ultras, I decided to have a bash at an Ironman distance triathlon. Only me being me, I decided to have a go at the toughest. After doing a bit of research the general consensus was that the Norseman was it. Watching ‘You Tube’ clips of poor unfortunates leaping into the dark waters of a Norwegian fjord, cycling up thin
gs that I would have trouble walking up, before finally running up to the mountain summit of Gaustatopen convinced me that I should have a bash!
The triathlon as the name implies has three sports. I am reasonable at one: running, or should I say marathon-running.
Cycling, well, I cycle to work and back - a round trip of roughly 20 miles. Lastly, swimming, now this one could be problem, I can swim, well, when I say swim, I can get to one end of the pool without having to touch the sides!
Time to do a bit of homework: to swim 2:4 miles I would need to swim 154 lengths of my local pool. To cycle 112 miles I would need to cycle around the island (I live on the Isle of Wight) 2 and a bit times. The running, I reasoned, would take care of itself.
The more I studied the Norseman the more I realised what a beast it was. The two triathlons I had previously done were completed by huffing and bluffing my way round. The Norseman, however, was an entirely different proposition. I would still be huffing but there would be absolutely no chance of bluffing.
With this in mind I decided to splash out on a Triathlon Training Manual, written by an experienced former Ironman athlete, who was now a very well-respected Ironman coach.
The book arrived and like an enthusiastic student I set about studying it, applying a vigour that I had not used since my school days.
The book was comprehensive and detailed and it seemed to have been written by an academic:- flow charts, pie charts, graphs and spread sheets. I was introduced to new words such as macrocycle, mesocycle, lactate threshold and muscle capillary density. It was a very impressive peace of work.
Unfortunately, however, I’m a man whose eyes glaze over when trying to decipher the instructions for flat-pack furniture, a man who has yet to unravel the complexities of even the simplest instruction manuals.
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