Not gonna lie, really only entered Hysterical Carnage Backyard Ultra because I thought it would be hysterical, just like the name suggests. Instead it was more Carnage, also like the name suggests. And why the fuck am I surprised?

I haven’t run more than about 20kms in six months, so the concept of running a 6.71km lap every hour on the hour til I died, was never, ever gonna go well was it?

(‘Backyard Ultra’ is a Last One Standing event format around the world that involves running a standard distance 6.71km lap – chosen because it puts 24hrs at 100miles – until there’s no one left running. It’s completely fucking insane. And people love it. Especially the insane ones.)

I drive up to Loxton on the Thursday, and it’s hot as fuck, and blowing a gale. The race organisers have set up all the tents at the Start/Finish line right on the banks of the River Murray, only to take them down again so they don’t end up in the drink, and fuck this weather really isn’t great.

As usual, I’ve taken the backroads looking for birds and silo art, (had a fair bit of luck with the silos because they’re fucking silos and exactly where they’re supposed to be, and fuck all luck with the birds who are probably eleven postcodes away blown by the gale force winds), and there are literal tumbleweeds blowing across the road. This is not a joke. Actual tumbleweeds.

I get to the Big4 Caravan Park and when I check in I ask the lady behind the counter if she wonders what they’ve gotten themselves into having all of us there. She says a few people were worried when they heard about the event and asked if we were like cyclists and ba ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. Can’t fucking stop laughing at that. And no, no we’re not. She was like nah everyone’s been really nice. Really nice because… we’re not like cyclists. And ba ha ha ha ha ha.

I wander down to the ‘race village’ and someone tells me the super steep trail up the side of a fucking cliff is the start of the lap and one of us laughs and it’s me and they’re not joking and now I’m not laughing and what. the actual. fuck. This was not in the brochure.

My entire race strategy has gone out the window, or at least would have if I’d had one. A window or a strategy. Instead I’m now just even less prepared than I was five minutes ago, and I’m pretty sure if I was to put a number on it on a scale of one to ten I am now well into the minuses. And I’m still not sure if they’re serious about that hill being part of the course and fuck, they are.

I settle into my palatial ensuite… campsite. Which consists of some gravel to park my car on and a little building with a dunny and a shower in it and not complaining, it’s a pretty sweet setup. And solid. And the wind is blowing so hard I size it up to see if I can fit my sleeping mat and bag in the little cubicle and internally debate the merits of sleeping in a fucking toilet.

To be honest seems like a genius idea, and I think about how I could literally just take a piss from my bed if I’ve got even half decent aim, but in the end, I decide to sleep in the back of my car as planned. Where I can also usually take a piss if I have an empty Gatorade bottle. Not saying I do that, because that’d be fucking gross. But also, if you’re ever in my car, don’t drink the Gatorade.

I’m up nice and early for a race that doesn’t start til ten, and there’s a bit of hustle and bustle as crews set up their tents, get out their spreadsheets, and all sorts of other shit, while I get out my… banana. And feel just a teeny bit underprepared compared to everyone else who seems to be taking it quite seriously.

The funny thing about this running caper is when I entered, I literally say I’m only planning on running two or three laps for a laugh, but it’s not long before the dreaded Runner’s Logic kicks in and I decide six or seven laps would be not only more respectable but somehow achievable. And from there it’s only a short leap to wondering if I might be able to do ten, possibly 15 laps, or fuck, maybe I’ll win it.

Couldn’t tell you why I think doing any more than two or three laps seemed anything other than complete fucking lunacy, but hey, welcome to my world.

I wander past some of the other team’s set ups and one team has brought the Jason recliners and I’m not even fucking joking right now. I’ve got my banana, a bottle of coke, some red fizzy drink, a few panadol, and a packet of salt n vinegar chips, and seriously, I have no idea why my running just doesn’t go so well these days when all the food groups are so well represented.

Totally not joking about the chairs

I’ve had a bit of time to think a bit more about my race strategy, and it consists of… running. I’ve chosen not to do a recce lap because I reckon I’ll work it out as I go, if not on the first lap, on one of the others, and right, it’s time to start, and off we go, up that fucking hill.

 

 

There’s something really lovely about a start line where your hopes and dreams are still in tact before they get shattered into a million tiny pieces. In this case, about 200m in. The view from the top of the hill is quite nice, and I make a joke about how it will probably be less nice after the first few laps and for once in my life, I’m correct.

My mate Michelle is also running and we both laugh about how well and truly fucked we both are, and strike a bit of a deal that we could pull out together so that neither of us is first to drop. We don’t sign a contract though and when she pulls out on the second lap, I feel slightly bad that I’m still going but fuck, I really want to do more than two laps. Sorry Michelle.

I run/walk with a few different people in those first few laps, most of whom seem fairly unremarkable, just plodding along, including some guy called Phil who is supposedly quite good at this format. I ask him how this course compares to the one he ran in WA recently and he tells me “It’s basically the same… if you’d put a big fuck off hill at the start of it” and right. So even he isn’t a fan of the hill. Good to know.

With Phil Gore. Sidenote: really need to get Tshirts with my face on them.

He seems nice enough, but the fact I’m running at his pace gives me a sense that I’m not doing too badly. Later on when I run with a bloke called Justin, he tells me he was filming with his drone when the race started, and that he had to quickly land it and get running on that first lap and because he was rushing to catch up and not lose too much time, stacked it on the first lap and I feel like I’m not doing too badly compared to him either. Although he went on to run 20 laps so scratch that.

I chat with another runner who tells me running these laps like this is a bit like knitting, when she decides to just knit a little bit more and ends up going for a few more hours, and lady, the fuck this is like knitting. Although she goes on to run about 5,000 more laps as well, so knit one, purl one, what the fuck would I know?

It’s all fun and games on the first lap. With Johan Botha… cricket legend and now pretty handy ultra runner.

 

After the first lap or two, I decide to swap my T-shirt for a tank top because fuck it’s hot, I’m sweating like a bastard, and my usual shoes which have never hurt ever, are hurting, so I swap them as well. I’m not sure why I bother because I’ve managed a grand total of about three laps total before I start to feel a bit crook and winning starts to look unlikely. And why the fuck is no one else sweating? Am I maybe going a different way where the weather is different or am I just going through manopause and these hot flushes really are a bitch.

Despite all that, I’m making pretty decent time, coming in around 52minutes for each lap which leaves me plenty of time to have something to drink and eat, but when I start feeling like shit, I mostly just sit down and wonder if it’s worth getting back up. (Spoiler alert: it’s not.)

Two laps in. Changed my shirt and already sweating like a bastard.

 

 

Three laps in and pretty fucking over it.

 

Five laps in and fuck this shit.

When I head out on my fifth lap to notch up 33.5kms I know I’m probably fucked, but it’s when I start my sixth lap I’m sure of it because while I’m keen to keep going, my upper intestine has other ideas and about half way through the lap I’m doubled over having a bit of a Chuck Norris behind a tree.

Somehow I’m still making good time though, so I walk/run the rest of the lap, come in a few minutes under the deadline, and get mocked relentlessly by Shaun the RD for pulling out and not starting the next lap, while I make my way behind another tree in case I need to puke again.

The protocol is to ring a bell to signify you’re out, which I do with love and light, and because I’ve dropped so early, I get the pick of the wooden DNF (Did Not Finish) spoons that everyone except the Last One Standing gets, and when someone later asks me which one I chose, I’m like what the fuck are you even talking about, I just chose the one closest to me because they’re wooden fucking spoons mate. It’s then explained to me there were some that were a bit nicer than others, and for once, I had the chance to get a better trophy than everyone else and I still fucked it up.

Although I’m pretty fucked off at being done for the day, to be fair I’ve executed my race plan pretty perfectly, doing at least a lap or two more than I probably deserved, with my only real failure forgetting to take a lap photo at the end of Lap Four which is a bit of a bummer. While everyone else heads out on another lap, I head for a power nap in my chair after a grand total of 40.26kms which means not only have I not run a Backyard Ultra, I haven’t even run a Backyard Marathon and while a 40km run is nothing to be sneezed at, it feels pretty fucking lame when everyone else is cranking out 10, 15, 20, 25, 30 or even more laps.

Lap six and actual fucked.

When my friend Caity finishes having clocked up about 80kms, she makes the highly insightful observation that “that was really hard” and no fucking shit Sherlock. She also asks if anyone has any vaseline and a guy generously offers his until she explains it’s for her lips and he tells her she probably does not want to use his and I think we all know where that vaseline has been and… ew.

Phil on the other hand turns out to be more than just OK at this format, and as night falls, he takes it up a gear and while mere mortals are slowing down, he speeds up his lap rate by about five or ten minutes to give himself time for a power nap between each lap and who the fuck gets faster after running about 80kms, and I’ll tell you who, Phil Fucking Gore does.

At one point I see his support crew carrying a plastic tub with some water in it over to his crew tent and because I’m hilarious I ask if there’s a turtle in there, and she says no it’s for a foot bath and where the fuck were my crew with my foot bath? I may have been able to do an extra lap if someone had shown my footsies a bit of love. (Note to self: get Tshirts with my face on it and a fucking foot bath.)

I’m still cheering people on well into the night til about 2:30am when I run out of fucks to give and go get some sleep.

I go out the next morning to see who’s still amazing/stupid enough to still be going and there’s nine runners so I take a few happy snaps.

Someone tells me Phil Fucking Gore wanted a shower just before his 24th lap when he would have clocked up 100miles, so busted out a 33min lap (that’s almost 7kms in 33mins!) to give himself time and who the fuck does that? Phil does that. Fucking freak.

Nancy, the lone female runner still going, tells us she’s done before doing a Johnny Farnham and going out for “one more lap” and assuring us it’s definitely her last. As I drive off into town an hour later, I see her heading out on yet another lap after the one after her final one, and as I drive past she just looks at me and shrugs. Fucking legend. She times out on her that 26th lap, giving her 25 official laps and 167.75km in the bag making her the No1 ranked female backyard ultra runner in SA.)

Nancy

Travis also runs past and tells me he’s been “Questioning the meaning of life” while he’s been out there, and look, if you haven’t found it on that course after 24+ laps mate I’m just gonna hang it out there that it’s on some other fucking course. He ends up with 31 laps/201km and is now the Number 1 ranked South Aussie backyard ultra runner.

Travis

I check on Facebook later and watch as more runners pull out til it’s just Phil Fucking Gore who notches up 38 laps… about 255kms. And fuck. my. brown. dog.

Phil Fucking Gore

Massive shout out to everyone who gave it a red hot crack. More carnage than hysterical, but a great event to be a part of. Can’t wait to go back again next year although there’s fuck all chance I’ll be running it again. Fucking ever.

On the way home I check out one more silo art site for an article I’m working on for The Awesomest (I’ve now only got one more to see in SA!), check out the largest of 11 known black stumps in Australia, (a real trip highlight), decide not to camp underwater, (lucky the sign was there or I may have), and take a nice picture of a bird. (You can see more of my birdy pics on Instagram.)

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