I spent most of the day just lying around eating, going through my rucksack to try to get rid of the things I now knew I wouldn’t be needing. With just two more days to go I only needed one more meal, but I still had loads, so I set about eating the two apple and custard puddings, the two shepherds pies and the rice pudding as well as two packets of fruit pastilles.
Another job that needed my attention was my feet - the two annoying blisters needed popping, cleaning and dressing. By mid afternoon I was fed, watered, patched and ready for the next stage.
DAY 6
At 46km - not exactly a short day, but at least it was a little cooler. As the various groups departed, the camp became quieter and more sombre. People were packing up and I’m sure that the lead runners were working out what needed to be done to either improve or maintain their present position. Today we were warned that there were some tricky navigational sections so we had to be switched on and concentrate at all times. I decided to use my tried and trusted old navigational trick and just keep close to some ne who knew what they were doing!
As my small group left, the four of us were pretty evenly-matched and, barring a catastrophe, whatever our present position was now, it was unlikely to change.
The good thing was that the furnace-like conditions of the last day’s running were now gone. Another good thing was that because I had to concentrate and would have to work hard to be in the company of others (in case I got lost) the day should in theory not be monotonous or boring - thereby making the day go that much quicker. Well, that was the theory.
Today’s route seemed to be a complete mixture of terrain: one minute we were running along nice jeep tracks, then a sudden off would find us running on what appeared to be a dried up river. Then, just as quickly we would be climbing out of the riverbed and onto to stony tracks and then just to make things a little more interesting, we would be running on some really difficult, tricky sections - sections that the race director had euphemistically called ‘technical’.
Arriving at checkpoint two without any major mishaps ie getting lost, was a blessed relief. Unfortunately, one of the runners was pulled from the race - what had once been the soles of his feet were now just open, raw, infected sores. How the bloke had survived thus far was beyond the rest of us and a mighty impressive feat (sorry, no pun intended). What made his withdrawal all the more galling was the fact that tomorrow was the last day: so close and yet so far.
The terrain had so far been good enough to allow me to maintain a steady pace, and by way of a bonus there was abundant wildlife. Running along with giraffes staring at you was a little bit strange and, interestingly, pleasant.
The scorching heat kept away and with the trail now runner-friendly, I managed to get a good steady pace going.
Once I spotted the campsite I tried to speed up and look all macho but as usual failed miserably. My tired old legs had other ideas and kept me at a far more sedate pace.
When I did finally manage to haul my carcass across the finish line, I thought that I deserved a little treat, so went over to the massage table and had the most wonderful massage. It was pure bliss and worth running every kilometre for.
Tomorrow was thankfully the last day. Even though it was the last day it was still an impressive 26 km, roughly 16 miles.
DAY 7
This morning was the last morning of this fantastic race and, as usual, everyone was more relaxed: laughing and chatty. We all knew, bar the shouting, we would make it.
As the small groups left it was noticeable how small the rucksacks were, compared to day one - normally each group seemed reluctant to leave and trundled off slowly. Now, however, even the slowest of the runners seemed to find a fresher pair of legs and couldn’t wait to get going.
As my group left, we sort of understood that the final placings were already sorted - it was a sort of gentlemen’s agreement that we would run together. Nothing was actually said but we all understood it. The terrain was straight
forward and really easy to navigate: small, well-used roads - nothing complicated. We plodded along, occasionally chatting, inching ever closer to the finish line.
Then we came to a rather steep hill - any chatting was now suspended as we each hauled ourselves up and over the thing. Once on the top it was a quick top up of the water bottles and then off and back to talking. We carried on as a small group, eventually reaching an area that was a little more green and fertile. Then the terrain changed: no more sandy bits and no more gravelly bits. We were now running in what appeared to be a maze of rocks.
Running on the rock meant that we could run faster - however, the solid rock we were on also meant that we really had to switch on and look for markers. There were no tracks or footprints to follow. Again, working as a small team, we each managed to pick out the markers that led the way. Eventually we came to a part of the course that we had been told about - there was a small stream that if we waded through it it would be a shorter more direct line to the finish. However, if we took a left turn it would be slightly longer and over some rocks - we all decided to keep dry feet and went over the rocks.
Dropping off the rocks and back onto a small road we became aware of the noise: people clapping and cheering and rounding a corner was the beautiful sight of the finish line. Multi-national flags adorned the route, the cheering and clapping got louder the nearer we got.
Crossing the finish line was a fantastic relief. Coca Cola, beer, sandwiches smiles and hugs were handed out to each of us.
Ironically, the fastest time of the day was by a bloke called Tim. Tim had struggled every inch of the way - I personally didn’t think he would survive day two, but hey, on the last day he found a real determination or was it a real desperation? Whatever it was it worked and got him across the finish line.
The Augrabies Extreme Ultra Marathon is tough, beautiful and fascinating - an incredibly, challenging adventure. If you get the chance, give it a go - go on you know you want to.
WHAT NEXT?
Trying to look the part of an Ultra-distance athlete.
The rock that I was too chicken to climb.
At last - the end of a tough days running!
Photography by James King
THE YUKON ARCTIC ULTRA 2011
It is not strength of body but rather strength of will
which carries a man farthest where mind and body
are taxed at the same time to their utmost limit.
Apsley Cherry-Garrard
“The worst journey in the world”
What is it: A multi-discipline (you choose either xc ski, foot or bike) Ultra-distance race. Single stage, cold weather race.
When: February
Where: The Yukon region of Canada
Distance: 430 miles, 690 km
It is: An extreme cold weather/mental challenge
See: arcticultra.de
14 weeks ago I was in the Kalahari Desert taking part in a race called the ‘Augrabies Extreme Ultra Marathon’. Temperatures had at one point hit +52 degrees celsius (126 fahrenheit), it was bloody hot, and now like a fool I’m in Canada and about to take part in a race called the ‘Yukon Arctic Ultra’. It’s bloody cold and furthermore the temperatures are quite likely to hit -52 degrees.
The few days prior to the start had been worryingly warm. While I was out for a little three mile run and a quick recce of the new start line (which had recently been put in place owing to there being so little snow on the original start line) I saw a dog team that had just come off the river - the very river that we would be travelling along in a couple of days’ time. The worrying thing was that they were soaking wet. I made my way over to them and introduced myself, explaining that I would shortly be travelling along the river, and asked what the conditions were like.
The two mushers explained that they had just come from Braeburn (which was a race checkpoint) and for the last twenty to thirty miles they had really struggled with ‘overflow’ and the dogs had suffered as a consequence. It was exactly what I di
d not want to hear: soft, wet, slushy overflow.
Now, standing on the start line, the temperatures had fortunately dropped to -17.
Seventy-eight athletes of all shapes, sizes, ability and age stood on the start line - twenty of us now no doubt regretting our decision to race the four hundred and thirty odd miles to Dawson.
The journey would mean that we would all be following the famous Yukon Quest dog sled race.
Standing shivering, whilst at the same time trying to give the appearance of confident Ultra-distance athlete was not easy. Mulling over the route, the kit, the distance and the sheer stupidity of the challenge that lay ahead - after all, there had only ever been nine finishers.
Then the countdown - 3, 2, 1, bought me back to reality. A mixture of inexperienced anxious racers, experienced super slow plodders (my group) and uber-competitive experienced racing snakes!
We made our way along the single track and down onto the mighty Yukon River. The nervous chatter petered out as the racers themselves started to spread out.
This first part of the route was familiar as I had raced here twice before. Still in single file, we plodded along. After reaching the 13 mile mark, we were to take a left turn and onto the Tahini river. Immediately after turning we followed the trail that took us under a road bridge - this bridge had on it a few waving and cheering well-wishers.
This bridge also marked the halfway point to the first check point at Rivendale Farm. The field was now pretty stretched out. I caught a couple of runners that were doing the 100 miles to Braeburn. The race numbers that we had been issued denoted what distance we were doing, ie numbers 101 plus were doing the 100 miles, 301 plus the 300 and the 400 plus were going all the way to Dawson.
I plodded along eating chocolates. Rolos were my weapon of choice: they are the perfect size and shape and they never froze when kept in my chest pocket. This was my fourth time racing in the Arctic and I was only just getting the hang of it. The first time, I had made the mistake of bringing bars of chocolate - these granite-hard, frozen blocks are impossible to eat. Small bite-size snacks that can be kept in the pocket is without doubt, the most efficient way to eat whilst moving along the snow and ice.
I finally managed to reach the Rivendale checkpoint at 15:42. I checked in, had a quick cup of soup and checked out - a full 7 minutes after arriving. I knew from experience that this first checkpoint would get busy and congested - I just wanted to take advantage of the fact that I felt good and had no real reason to stop.
One checkpoint down, seven to go. It was now late afternoon and getting noticeably colder. The next checkpoint at Dog Grave Lake (there really is a dog’s grave there) was nearly 40 miles away.
After a few miles the trail turned off the river up, onto a steep bank and into the wooded trail.
At around midnight I decided that it was bedtime, so kept my eyes peeled for the next lot of straw. These occasional clumps of straw were left over from the Yukon Quest dog sled race - the straw had been used as the dog’s beds and with recycling being the in thing, I decided that they were now the perfect insulation for a weary racer to sleep on.
I found the perfect straw bed and after a cursory glance to make sure that it was poo free, I set about making myself at home. Then, just as I was getting into my sleeping bag and about to zip up, a couple of friends came past. We had a quick chat and they explained that they would bivi down about an hour from now. In that short conversation my gloveless fingers got attacked by the -35/40 temperatures and were now in agony. I quickly shoved them onto the warmest part of my body - my, well, the warmest part of my body is enough information.
Two and a half hours later I was up and on the move. Finally reaching Dog Grave Lake at 06:25. After a quick bite to eat, a top up of water bottles and Camelbak I was good to go and left the warmth of the checkpoint exactly one hour after arriving 07:25.
One of the temptations of these sort of races is the temptation to stay in the relative luxury of a checkpoint - this temptation must be fought against, a bit like the alarm clock going off and you roll over and think “Just a few more minutes” - absolutely fatal. There is a piece of advise for Ultra-distance racers that states you should never give up, drop out, or scratch at a checkpoint! It’s just too damned easy, and those that do usually realise they could have gone on and consequently regret the decision.
This next bit of the trail to Braeburn is beautiful and familiar. What’s more: I was on my own. I always race on my own - I love the isolation, peace and quiet. Moving through the snow-
covered trees, appreciating the absolute beauty, the peace and tranquillity, the deafening silence (save for the sound of my poles hitting the hard packed snow) I was in heaven!
Then suddenly, as I turned a corner, I spotted something that was out of place: a sleeping bag. As I approached I realised that it was a racer, Shelly Gallatly. She was just getting into her sleeping bag - this totally confused me. It was mid-afternoon, Shelly is one of the strongest most experienced racers and she lives here in the Yukon. I reckoned that the next checkpoint at Braeburn was maybe three hours away. If I knew that, Shelly certainly knew it, so why had she stopped? As I approached, I asked if everything was okay. She explained that she was suffering and in a lot of pain - she then went on to explain that she “would rest a while - see how she felt.” I told her that I would explain the situation once I got to Braeburn. She wished me luck and I felt rather guilty about leaving her but I knew she was the most experienced cold weather racer in the race and every year she gives the Yukon Arctic Ultra racers a talk on how to race and survive in the Yukon.
Fortunately for me, any guilty feelings I had didn’t last long, because within half an hour of leaving her, a snowmobile came toward me. I explained the situation and he went off to pick her up.
I plodded on, eventually arriving at the Braeburn 100 mile checkpoint at 18:12. It was here that I had decided to have my first good long rest. I was very aware that I wasn’t even a quarter of the way to Dawson and the need to pace myself was paramount.
Braeburn was one of the better checkpoints, with a bed, hot food and hot drinks. I was going to take full advantage. After a good meal and a six hour good quality sleep I reluctantly left at 02:18. The next checkpoint at Ken Lake was some 43 miles away.
BRAEBURN TO KEN LAKE
Immediately after leaving the checkpoint we crossed the main road and shortly after that there was a severe, nasty climb and trying to pull a 35 kg sled up the hill turned the severe climb into a severe challenge - the knack was to go fast enough to keep the thing moving, because if you slowed down or stopped for a quick breather, gravity would do its very best to pull you and your sled back down. It required effort to have a breather, in other words, I had to pick a pace that I knew would get me to the top without the need to stop.
After this initial climb, it was a gradual descent on to a series of lakes. For some reason I just couldn’t get myself organised - straps needed adjusting, clothing was too tight and constricting. Lots of little things - the harness didn’t feel right, I needed a wee, I needed a drink, the headtorch kept slipping, my constant faffing and farting about was beginning to annoy me, the sensible thing would have been to stop and sort things out, but no, I plodded on adjusting things as I went.
Then the ‘Coup de Grace’: one of my poles broke, (the aluminium pole that connects my harness to my sled). Luckily for me it was a break I had seen happen to someone before - they had been using an identical sled to mine so I had worked out how to fix it should the same thing happen to me. That bit of pre-planning would now pay dividends:- a leatherman multi tool, jubilee clip and a short screw were already in my pocket and in less than five minutes the repair had been made. (The repair lasted until the finish of the race).
The lakes, though extremely beautiful, became monotonous: hour after hour of nonstop plodding took the edge off their beauty. The scenery never changed, flat and bloody long, nothing to focus on, nothing to take your mind off the sheer monotony of putting
one foot in front of the other.
I carried on until eventually I spotted smoke rising from a small wooden lakeside cabin, then as I got nearer a large Yukon Arctic Ultra race banner declared that this was indeed the Ken Lake checkpoint. I arrived at 17:40, planned to have a short break and then get going. Whilst I was there another racer, Mark Hines, came in. Mark had completed the 430 mile race before and was the first person to ever attempt it twice.
As we were talking, a call came through to the crew. A racer was in trouble and needed evacuating from the course - the crew asked myself and Mark if we had seen anyone in trouble as the location had been given as being not far from this checkpoint. The only person that both Mark and I had seen was Sam, another British racer - when I had seen him he was making a brew. Mark had spoken to him and he had told Mark that he did not feel great - the good thing was that he was only about 3 km away. Kev, one of the crew, got on his snowmobile and went out to bring him in.
One hour after arriving, I left. The next checkpoint was Carmacks - some 35 miles away, I had planned to have a pretty good rest there, so was keen to get going.
After three hours more on the lakes, the trail led me into the woods. I was glad to be back on the trail proper. However, my joy was short-lived - the trail was challenging with one climb after another, lots of small awkward hills and the cumulative effect of so many hills was knackering.
Once I finally managed to find my way out of the woods, the trail dropped down onto the Yukon river for a mile or so before finally arriving in the small town of Carmacks. Following the well-marked route took me to the checkpoint which was housed in the leisure centre. I arrived at 07:30, I had now been on the go for about 28 hours, with just the one hour stop at Ken Lake.
Fartleks & Flatulence Page 18