6" Trail marathon 2021

 

Five hours. Four minutes. Eight seconds…

Douglas Adams said that time is an illusion. Lunchtime doubly so. As humans we are somewhat obsessed with time. Age, work hours, PB's. We get accused of clock watching, counting time, borrowing time, time is money, time is a gift, don't waste your time..

 

There's been one time, one sequence of numbers that has been haunting me since December 21, 2014 - my first 6 Inch trail marathon. 5:04:08. The "magic" five hour barrier, a time goal I had set for myself before I even knew what running a trail ultra was like and having no idea what the hell I was getting myself in for. And every time December rolls around, it subtly worms its way back into my consciousness. 5:04:08. Like the smell from my favourite running shirt it just lingers, no matter how many times it's tried to be washed out. Now, if this is your first time here, some context: in early 2015 I had somewhat of a mental breakdown after racing 6 Inch and then the team run leg at the Albany 70:3 triathlon in a three week period. Consequently I was diagnosed with type 2 bipolar disorder and began this whole journey of discovery and understanding. So I have a little bit of a history with this event. In 2017 I ran a pretty sedate 5:25, not pushing or working myself in to a frenzy with a time goal and just trying to enjoy the run. It kinda worked. I certainly wasn’t beaten up mentally like 2014 and while it reignited the ultra bug that had laid dormant for a couple of years, THAT time lurked in the background. 2018 I was broken and withdrew my entry, 2019 was cancelled due to extreme fire risk. Just as well, because despite being in arguably the best form of my running life I had torn a calf muscle late November. So I rolled over, and in 2020 I was all set to go before a stress fracture led to another rolling over of the entry. I would have fucking walked the event this year if anything else on the meat sack had fallen to pieces. Which it tried to do. I'll get to that. Stupid body.

Five hours. Four minutes. Eight seconds…

 

After Elleker's half marathon, super coach Rob had me back and focused on the journey. Some solid months of training built a good base. Unfortunately. my mental state was deteriorating, not helped by both work pressure and the late running of the Delirious WEST 200mi bringing some issues back to the forefront. I approached rock bottom, and ultimately talking to my psych we went for a medication change. Training was becoming a struggle, work was overwhelming and I found it difficult to sleep or connect with the family. The meds kicked in eventually, and I pushed ahead with a little journey between two churches at the end of October. And by little, I meant just shy of 70km, a new distance PB. It wasn't fast, but it was never intended to be. It was something I had wanted to do for myself. And it gave me a little confidence that the body could hold up for extended periods.

  

The Pilgrims Progress

That confidence lasted perhaps three weeks, as the niggles started to rise. Hips seized up, calves began to ache, and come December my right achilles tendon completely cracked the shits and was painful most runs. I lost my last weekend of long runs to a stomach bug that came out of nowhere. But through this I tried to remain positive, at peace with where I was at. Ask Glenda next time you see her and ask if it was successful. Her opinion may vary. I'm sure I promised more than once that I would stop talking about how this hurt and that was an issue. Spouses are long suffering for a reason I guess. Rob copped a bit of it too. More than once he had to pull me out of my head and tell me to just trust where my body was at. Que sera sera. What will be, will be

 

 Five hours. Four minutes. Eight seconds…

 

Come race weekend I felt relaxed. Unusual, but then quitting your job to take up a role in the ward you've been dreaming of for a few years has a remarkable way of clearing the mind. Glenda and I did the usual hanging out with friends and caught up with number one child, now living his best life in Perth. I bought some new gear at Tribe and Trail (whoever said "Nothing new on race day" clearly didn't walk in to a clearance sale the weekend of the race) and tried to keep a lid on it all. Not that it didn't have it's moments. Like when Dave Kennedy released the bib numbers on Facebook and I wasn't listed. Apparently he had me down as "Withdrawn". He joked that it's be his standard pre-race ritual - buy water, pack the trailer, withdraw Bill from the race. A quick back and forth on Messenger solved that problem. Bib collection at TRC was a good chance to catch up with others, especially Anna. I noticed my musty smelling vest while standing around and mentioned it. Anna's response was to send me a picture later that evening of her pack, complete with what appeared to be mold. We're a classy lot. Saturday afternoon we wandered down to stay with more friends in North Dandalup, I did the usual prep of Trail Brew nutrition and ate well. Glenda strapped my troublesome achilles, I set my alarm and slowly wound my mind down listening to one of my favourite albums. 

 

3am comes around, and what I thought would be a gentle ambient alarm to ease awake is for some reason Iron Maiden at 103db. Didn't need the heart rate up that early, bloody hell. I dress, meditate (feel good this time, trying to keep a positive mindset), half eat a bowl of porridge, drink a little coffee and wake Glenda up for check-in at the North Dandy hall. The nerves were starting to build. Everyone was there. Tick the name off. It's cold, but forecast to warm up. Standing around with Rob we start debating the merits of wearing arm sleeves for the early part of the race. After a bit of umming and ah'ing, I decide that I'll go with them. Reach in to the pack and pull out what I think are my arm sleeves... they're calf sleeves instead. Rob cackles. Guess that problem takes care of itself. At one point in the past this would have thrown me off the deep end. Today it's hilarious. Back in the car to the start line, and play the waiting game (and whinging game over the cold with Violet.) for a few minutes waiting for this whole 47 and a bit kilometres of stupidity to get going. She had let slip a few weeks before that she was gunning for a sub five hour run too. If we end up together who knows what may happen. Wait, we're moving now? Didn't hear the start. Oh well. Hit the watch button and away we go. Let's get this bread.

 Five hours. Four minutes. Eight seconds…

  

A bump or two in the road

Prior to race day, I had sat down and broken down the first half of the race in to 5km blocks. Which in theory seemed like a great idea. Until it began to completely fuck with my mind in the weeks leading up to the event. Ever wise, Rob told me to scrap it. Don't overthink it, stop planning every minutia, just be present and in the moment. I did, but kept a vague plan in the back of my brain. Where to go easy, where to push hard. But always be in the moment. The first 5km was gentle. Hike most of the first 3km uphill and run when I want to. I had lost my ability to be explosive uphills due to my achilles, but still kept a really quick hike pace, and noticed that I really wasn't losing any time to those who decided to run up the steeper sections. So far, so good. I roll through Whittaker's with a smile and see Glenda standing on the side of the road to cheer me on. I run over to her, plant a kiss on her lips and run off. Behind me I hear someone say "Do I get one too?". I shout back "DON'T YOU DARE!!" and start giggling. It's good to be moving. I'm feeling fine. At about 8km I decide to crack one of the baby custards I have as "real food" to complement the Trail Brew in my bottles. Vanilla. Can't go wrong, right? I take a big mouthful and swallow. UGH. It doesn't sit well. About a km further on it tries to repeat on me and I have the wonderful sensation of chasing down bile with neutral brew. That's really not sat well at all. I progressively feel heavier and heavier in the stomach and small waves of nausea roll over me. I stop for a wee, take a few deep breaths and get the head down. I have two choices: I can dwell on it and let it consume my mind and the wheels fall off. Or I can acknowledge it, accept it and put it behind me. I chose the latter. But as I keep clicking the km over the nausea builds, and there's times when I think perhaps it may escape out the back door (so to speak). I put it in the box marked "doubts" in the mind and keep ticking along. At a reasonable clip too, keeping roughly in time to what I had planned pre-race. But the runners around me are talking too much and getting on my tits. The nausea keeps building. My pre-set alarm on the watch buzzes on the half hour. "BE MINDFULL" it says. The creek bubbles alongside the trail, the birds are waking up, and I'm still moving well.

I cross over Del Park Road, nearly falling flat on my face in front of Glenda and a small crowd. I feel like shit and on the verge of vomiting every couple of minutes. I keep religiously drinking fluids, hoping to flush the nausea away and keep my energy up. I have some protein balls as additional real food but the thought of anything solid sends my stomach in to somersaults. After power hiking up from Del Park I stop for what feels like my 15th wee and take the time to remove a rock from my shoe. I'm not happy. Fuck it all. Small pity party for one thanks. Only briefly, I know Aid 1 is not far away. I'll get to there and reset myself. It's low-key at the station this year (only tutu's for dress-ups), so I tend to myself - swapping the bottles out and grabbing a Clif bar just in case. I also swipe a banana for one last crack at getting the stomach back under control. Looking down at the watch I see 2:15:xx. Oh, well that's a bit ahead of schedule, I was planning on 2:20 here. Mentally I perk up a bit while eating the banana. Now we get serious. 

  Five hours. Four minutes. Eight seconds…

 

The nausea begins to settle, but doesn't fully disappear. Rattling off a couple of quick k's on the downhills I pass the start to the 3" race (and another set of port-a-loo's) as the noise of the conveyor starts to override everything else. I settle in for the longish climb to the highest part of the course. My hike game is still strong, and I find I easily make up any ground lost to those who decide to run the hill when it levels off. The course swings to the left and then back on to the Munda Biddi, and I decide here is were I am going to give it some stick. Before the race, I had identified the section from the crossing of the conveyor to Aid 2 as somewhere I could have a red hot crack at to chase that sub 5hr time, especially between 30-35km. So I put the bit between the teeth and stride out. Not everything is hunky dory; my achilles starts to burn a bit more and my hips begin to get tight. I acknowledge the body is hurting (duh, you're running an ultra at a reasonable clip), then stick it in to the mental box marked "suffering" on with it. My watch alarms again "BE MINDFULL"... The escalator looms in front of me.

  

 

Who's dumb idea was this again?

I honestly think that the escalator is hyped up a little too much. Mostly because of where it sits in the race. It's steep and looks like it comes out of nowhere, but not very long at roughly 500m. It's heavily rutted, but there's a line up and down if you look closely. The aid station is at the top is always welcoming though, and today is no exception. I push up the climb with a smile (or grimace) knowing there's a Zooper Dooper up there with my name on it. I whip in to the aid point, say hi to Robin and Rachel, grab a quick hug from Shannon. A quick look at the watch says 3:40:xx. Well, shit. Now things are going to get interesting. I grab that orange Zoop, a quick water and belt straight back out and down the hill with what I describe as a "blatent disregard for my own safety".

 

Out of the way!!

 Five hours. Four minutes. Eight seconds…

I get to the base of the escalator and almost immediately make a mistake. Instead of going to the left and back up a small incline, I turn to go right. Three or four metres down the track I stop.

"Hey, is it left or right here?" I ask old mate behind me. 

"Nah, left man"

 

Fuck. 

 

I'm annoyed at myself as I get back on track, and it takes a good 10 minutes for me to get over it, swearing and cursing under my breath. I hit the last of the "big" climbs, tell myself to get out of my head and get to work for one last push. My watch honks halfway up. "BE MINDFULL". Be in the moment; be accepting of this time, this experience, this pain. Accept it and flow with it. Work with it. I keep climbing, and pick up the pace again as we come to the power lines. It's starting to get warm, and I'm getting a headache. I've not kept up my fluids as well as I should have, and I start draining the flasks quicker to try and claw some of that back. My stomach rolls again. There's 5k to go, and I'm at 4:15 on the clock. Surely to God I can roll this in in under 45 minutes. Right? But maybe it's 6k? Or somewhere in between? I don't know any more, my brain has gone to mush. Through the Marrinup maze we head, past the pop-up Aid 3 station (who shout out encouragement as I shoot by) and by this stage my achilles, legs and hips are demanding I slow down and take a bit of a walk break. My mind is still furiously trying to compute how much distance and time I have left, and coming up more confused every time. I weave in and out of the single track, with a walk/run process now in play. I can hear cars on a road. What road is it? How close am I now? Bugger it, I'm just going to run until I can't run any more. And to hell with that time. There's Newton/Del Park road. Turn left again, up the footpath and over the road. I'm there. And so is Glenda at the line handing out medals with Kelly. I think I'm smiling, but I can't really be sure of anything any more. All I know is it's done.

 

 Five hours. Four minutes. Eight seconds…

 

 Four hours. Forty eight minutes. Forty nine seconds. (OFFICIAL)

 I stumble about in a daze for a while. Glenda grabs me a water and then goes back to handing out medals and getting sweaty hugs in return. I spot Anna sitting with a blanket wrapped around her, looking pale. Something's not right. She tells me she had some issues and withdrew at 30km. But is genuinely stoked to hear of my time. Others congratulate me on my race. It all seems a bit surreal. Violet comes in at 5:07. I hug her and she starts to cry, disappointed in her race. She still PB's, but thought she would be faster. Rob finishes, bleeding from a fall, but immediately asks Glenda how I went. People keep rolling in. Jez finishes. My achilles is really not happy, and I hobble around in bare feet as I forgot to put my thongs in the car before me came. Presentations come and go, stragglers keep coming and we head off to lunch. My head is still swimming. I'm hungry but can't taste anything. My stomach gives one last tumble. We head off back to Hel's place and I get in the pool with a beer. I sleep well that night, better than I have for a while in December.

In my post race debrief with Rob, I tell him of being able to compartment the experiences. Even when the wheels threatened to fall off, I managed to stay calm and remain focused on controlling what I could control. When to drink, when to push hard, when to hike and what I could say to myself. In many ways, it's my best race. And the 6 Inch demons have gone. At least for now.

 

6 INCH TRAIL MARATHON

19/12/2021

47.19km 

4:48:49 

https://www.strava.com/activities/6400705297