I later found out, that so horrendous were the conditions that two of the checkpoints, like so many of the runners, didn’t survive the race. Swyncombe farm being one of them. They had been blown away and knocked down, reducing the crew to use their vehicles as impromptu checkpoints.
Though I was feeling okay and relatively strong, the slipping and tripping were again playing on my mind. I slowed down, watched every footfall, was ultra-cautious but the price I was having to pay was to be freezing.
My fear of injury was such that I had very little choice other than to be careful - it was sort of working - I was slipping less.
I plodded on and managed to reach the last checkpoint before Streatley. This checkpoint was inside a building, it was lovely to be out of the wind and rain. I took my time, had a hot drink and some food and gathered my thoughts.
When I could put it off no longer I, with great reluctance, left the checkpoint. Normally, I hate checkpoints and can’t wait to leave them.
As I stepped out into the wind and rain, I tried to work how long it would take me to do the last two laps - no matter how quick I could do them, it would not be quick enough.
I approached the Streatley race HQ and decided to have a bit of a break and put some dry socks and shoes on, if only to cheer me up a bit. Two laps down, two to go.
I sat there eating and looking at the carnage around me. As I was eating my third peanut butter, sandwich a runner came limping in, blood running down one very wet shin, the blood and rain mixture made the bleeding seem a whole lot more dramatic. He grabbed a chair next to one guy who was busy strapping up his foot, another runner that had earlier withdrawn came hobbling past and then it happened:- my bottle went. I knew I had pushed my luck but the chances of me remaining injury-free were just too much of a concern. I couldn’t, wouldn’t risk it.
The 6633 Ultra was my goal, it had taken me years to pluck up the courage to have another go and I had spent a small fortune, I erred on the side of caution and made a tactical withdrawal. Decision made I walked over to the support crew and informed them that I would be going no further.
The Winter 100 is organised by runners for runners, this was the first time this particular race had been run and it was a real shame that the weather was so awful but the way the organisers and crew handled the last-minute changes was impressive. I will be back - this race, like the 6633, is unfinished business!
THE 6633 ULTRA 2013
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
The ice was here,
The ice was there,
The ice was all around:
It cracked and growled, and roar’d and howl’d,
Like noises in a swound
Samuel Taylor Coleridge 1772 1834
What is it: Extreme Cold weather ultra distance race
When: March
Where: The Yukon region of Canada
Distance: Either 120 miles or 352 miles (193 kms or 566 kms)
It is: Tough (the statistics speak for themselves) a cold-weather extreme ultra-distance self-sufficient footrace
See: 6633ultra.com
Standing on the start line of the 6633 Ultra, memories came flooding back to five years ago, when I stood at this exact same spot.
2008
The year was 2008, I had raced in the Arctic twice before. In 2006 I had completed the Yukon Arctic Ultra 100 mile race and the following year had raced the 320 mile version and had somehow managed to be the first individual to finish, beaten only by a team of Italians.
Those two races had unfortunately given me, rightly or wrongly, confidence. I say unfortunately because, as I had finished my first two Arctic races, I figured that I had got the hang of racing in the Arctic. I had, after all, been racing some of the most extreme races on earth for 12 years never failed to finish and my positions were getting better with every race.
The 6633 was, I had decided, just another race that I could bullshit and boast about - all I had to do is what I always do, put one foot in front of the other until I reached the finishing line.
This race should, in theory, be easier than the Yukon Arctic Ultra because it is run along the Dempster Highway for the first 235 miles and then it switches onto a Ice Road all the way to the finish at Tuktoyaktuk on the Arctic Ocean. In other words, you are just walking along a very long road.
The Dempster Highway is predominately a gravel track and consequently the sledges we are required to have for our obligatory equipment have to have some sort of wheeled system without which the sledge would get worn down by the abrasive action of gravel on plastic.
It was this wheeled contraption that would give me so much trouble. I hadn’t thought it through, I hadn’t tested it. It was my rather cavalier attitude that would come back to haunt me.
As I stood on the start line, with my rather smug, ‘just another race’ attitude, I even thought about the possibility of winning!
However, the reality set in the moment we started, my sledge was giving me problems. It didn’t feel right with just the two centrally-mounted wheels. Balancing the load was difficult, it was somehow front-heavy, the front of the sledge bounced, occasionally the front of the sledge would hit the ground and worse every bounce jarred my hips. It was like someone constantly prodding you - bloody annoying! I stopped, tried to re-balance the thing and as I was sorting out the load, I noticed that the front of the sledge was already being worn away.
The re-balancing act failed and the bouncing continued.
I am not a physically strong person, nor am I a member of MENSA and on this occasion my limited strength outweighed my limited intelligence. I chose to ignore the blindingly obvious and continued to push and pull my way forward. It was, I’m afraid, a case of my limited brawn over my even more limited brain. Any sensible person would have stopped and sorted themselves out, but sensible and me have never really got on, so I quite literally ploughed on.
The effort was enormous, so much so that I had started to get a bad back. Each time the front of the sledge bounced it sent a shockwave up through my back, which was both annoying and painful. However, my stubbornness, or should I say, bloody-mindedness pushed me forward.
I arrived at the first checkpoint, tried again to sort my sledge out. It was now that I noticed the size of the hole that had been worn away by the constant bouncing - it was now collecting snow and gravel at an alarming rate. I cleared the snow and gravel, re-balanced the thing and, like a bloody idiot, continued on my way.
The effort required was too much, I was working hard, far harder than I should have been for a race of this distance. I continued on with my familiar slow, methodical ‘autoplod’, then suddenly I stopped. I had completed maybe 35 miles of a 352 mile race, less than one 10th of what I was supposed to do and yet out of nowhere, I realised the futility of what I was doing: there was absolutely no way I could finish this race - 12 years of racing Ultra-distance races and now for the first time, I withdrew, scratched, DNFd, whatever the term is I would not, could not, finish a race!
With the decision made, I vowed there and then that I would be back. I’ve done some tough races, races that I have had to dig deep for and races that have been bloody painful but nothing hurt like the pain of not finishing - never again will I have a race that I will not finish.
2013
It had taken 5 years to pluck up the courage to return but I was here, better prepared:- my sledge now had 4 wheels instead of 2, thus eliminating the balancing problem. And, crucially, I now had a healthy respect for the 6633 Ultra.
That healthy respect had manifested itself in a number of ways, one was the equipment - it was all tried and tested, no cutting corners, everything was thought through. Kit, including food, was well-considered and finally, training, normally I train to finish a race. I normally do enough training to get me to the finishing line. This time, however, I had trained hard and for the first time ever I trained to be competitive. Unfortunately, I can be a vindictive person - it’s just one of the many flaws in my personality and f
ive years ago the 6633 had beaten me. It had kicked my arse and sent me packing - this time it was my turn to kick arse. I would finish, no matter what.
As I stood on the start line, those memories of five years ago were uppermost in my thoughts. Things were different now, I was just confident as opposed to over-confident. The countdown began, my heart rate increased, I became extremely focused, gripped my trekking poles a little too tightly, 3, 2, 1, and we were off. I was oblivious to all that was happening around me, except for the one racer ahead, Kevin. He was already moving at an amazing speed, a speed I doubted he could maintain. (I was wrong, he managed to maintain more or less the same pace for the whole of his race!). I just focused on my own race - tempted though I was to chase, I remembered that 352 miles was a bloody long way. My strength has always been endurance. I can plod for a very long time. If I suddenly tried to use speed instead of endurance I would come a cropper. It’s a cliché but it really was about the ‘Hare and the Tortoise’.
I let Kevin go and was watching him disappear, when I was suddenly aware of someone beside me - Ben.
Ben and his partner were both doctors. He was here racing the 120 plus, this gave him the option of, once he had reached Fort McPherson, continuing all the way to Tuk. Kate was here as race medic but was doing the marathon distance to the first checkpoint.
Walking along together was enjoyable and it kept me in check. I’m sure that if I had been left to my own devices I would have tried to catch Kev.
We walked along until about the 20 mile mark and then I was on my own. I reached the checkpoint in 6 hours 10 minutes. The checkpoint is at 66 degrees and 33 minutes north, the official position of the Arctic Circle, hence the race name 6633. I topped up my small flask with hot water and left. I was in the checkpoint for a total of three minutes.
I gave myself a quick mental check and was pleased - everything felt good and there were no problems with equipment, feet felt good, no aches or pains, so unlike last time I was here.
As I left the checkpoint I could see Kev. Though I knew he was in the 120 mile race, I decided to keep him in sight, use his impressive pace to sort of drag me along. It might not be cricket, but it was, I decided, a bloody sensible thing to do and besides (I reasoned) he would never know!
During my 3 previous Arctic races I had learnt many things and one of those things was how to move for many hours without having to stop. This particular skill was now paying dividends because, even though our paces were similar, Kev’s short regular stops to take drinks and things allowed me to gain some ground and before long we were walking together.
It was now late afternoon (I wasn’t wearing a watch so had to guess) and we had covered around thirty-five miles. This part of the route is extremely exposed and has been affectionately nick-named ‘Hurricane Alley’ as it has a tendency to be at the mercy of some Katabatic winds. These hurricane-force winds are so strong that they have been known to blow over vehicles driving along the dempster, so any silly sod foolish enough to be walking along whilst pulling a sled would have very little chance. We were lucky the weather was beautiful, cold and crisp with lovely blue skies.
We walked along, occasionally talking bollocks, but more often than not we were just silently speeding along, both lost in thought, no doubt about our own races. It was early evening when Kev said that the unofficial Rock River checkpoint was not far ahead, this checkpoint was really just a place a place to sit down as nothing was supplied - not even water.
We continued on and to our right was a large disused shed, this shed had in the past been used as the checkpoint. The one we were looking at was three to four hundred meters further on.
We finally arrived at about 20:00. This improvised checkpoint was in fact a trailer, albeit a very nice trailer - spacious and warm. I think we were both surprised to see Mick, a fellow racer already in the trailer. He explained that he had been ill the night before and had got steadily worse as the day had progressed. He was left with no choice but to withdraw from the race, I could empathise with him, as it was more or less at the same point in the race that I’d had to withdraw, the last time I was here.
Kev left shortly after arriving. I decided to have a hot drink, a bit of food and a sit down. I still felt good, but was very aware of the enormous distance ahead I needed to be sensible. (A first for me!).
I left the Rock River checkpoint about 35 minutes after Kev. I felt refreshed and I felt strong. I pushed the pace a bit, knowing that my feeling good and strong was not likely to last, I had to take advantage of it while it was there. Fortunately, not long after leaving the checkpoint was a climb. The Wright Pass is a long, strength-sapping, mind game. However, I like climbing and consequently got stuck into the thing with great gusto. After a while, I spotted up ahead the twin red flashing lights of Kevin - they at least gave me something to focus on. I tried to speed up but it really was just a token effort and didn’t last long. I must have been moving well because I seemed to be gaining on Kev.
Eventually, we were once again walking along together and chatting. The evening was perfect - clear moonlit skies, so bright was the full moon that Kev hadn’t bothered to put his headlight on. Mine was on only because the on/off switch was so small and fiddly that the only way I would have been able to switch it off would have been to remove the headlight and remove my gloves. In short, it wasn’t worth the effort, so on it stayed.
As we carried on talking and walking, I caught sight of something up ahead and to my right - it was moving and it was moving toward us. Out here, miles from the nearest anything, meant that it could only be an animal and I just hoped that if it was an animal it had either eaten or was just curious. I gripped my walking poles just a little tighter, ready to use them as improvised weapons, should the need arise. Then the ‘animal’ spoke, it spoke with a very distinctive and very English middle-class accent. “Have you seen the northern lights?” We hadn’t. So busy talking bollocks and pushing our way forward that we hadn’t even noticed one of nature’s most spectacular phenomenon.
The ‘voice’ belonged to Mark Hines, one of the support crew. Mark had decided to camp out on the Wright pass and had been watching our progress. We looked up and were indeed treated to the most spectacular light show on earth. I have seen the northern lights, or to give them their correct name, Aurora Borealis, a few times before and they always make me smile. They always fascinate me, so spectacular were they that they instantly reduced me and Kev into a couple of silent voyeurs.
Mark walked with us for a few yards before saying that it was just 6km to the summit.
We carried on silently. Kev broke the silence by pointing out a small Arctic fox. This fox was walking along beside us - it was maybe 8 to 10 feet away, happily walking along with us, curious and unconcerned. It stayed by our side for 15 to 20 minutes before finally crossing over in front of us, walked along for a few more minutes, got bored, and then disappeared into the snow.
Life, I decided, doesn’t really get much better. I was in one of the most beautiful places on earth, I felt good and I felt strong. I was in a good position within the race, the northern lights were doing their best to impress, a curious Arctic fox was entertaining us and Kev was pleasant company. It is these small moments that make the lunatic sport of Ultra-distance running worthwhile. How many times have I been asked why, why do you do ultras? The answer was all around me. Unfortunately, most people will never get to see or experience the answer!
Kev seemed to be slightly stronger than me and was slowly inching his way ahead. I wasn’t fussed or concerned, I was happy and comfortable with my own pace and was still very conscious of the 300 miles or so I had left. I watched Kev creeping ever further ahead.
Further and higher his lights went, before suddenly disappearing - the disappearing lights would, I hope, only mean one thing - the summit. It was not long before my summit theory was confirmed. The moment I reached it I was mesmerised, mesmerised by a dazzling display of lights. This mass of lights confused me:- was there a small tow
n or village, was it the James Creek checkpoint? All I could remember about the top of the Wright pass was that it was the border between the Yukon and the Northern territories and the clocks went forward one hour. I desperately tried to remember the route details.
As I got closer to the mysterious lights I could see that they belonged to a huge lorry. One of the ice road truckers had parked up in the small parking area and his wagon was festooned with numerous headlights. Just behind the lorry I spotted Kev who was sitting down and having a tea break. I wandered over, had a quick chat, and though it was mighty tempting to have a rest, I really just wanted to get to the James Creek checkpoint so I could grab some sleep.
I left Kev and moved fast, the route had at last stopped climbing and allowed me to pick up the pace slightly. There was another added incentive and that was the fact that the checkpoint was only about 14/15 km away.
I hadn’t got a clue what time it was and was busy trying to work out my plan of action once I got to the checkpoint, when a vehicle suddenly approached. It was Martin, the race director who informed me that the checkpoint was 13km away and they were expecting me.
I thanked him and moved off, desperately trying, and failing, to pick up the pace. After a while, another vehicle approached and this time it was Kate, the race doctor, who informed me that the checkpoint was 7km away, less than 5 miles. I again tried, and I again failed, to pick up the pace. Then, suddenly, turning a corner and slightly to my left was a wonderful sight of bright orange lights - never in the history of highway maintenance workshops has one looked so beautiful!
Fartleks & Flatulence Page 23