I haven’t been doing many races recently because something something something. I’d like to say I’ve retired like Ash Barty to pursue new dreams, (like becoming a pro pizza eater), but mostly I’ve just been a lazy bastard and haven’t been feeling overly inspired to do races because something something something.

I do Conquer the Summit most years though, and even before there was a 20km out and back course, a few of us used to do the race up to the summit then run back anyway and it’s really quite a nice run. A road run, but mostly through farmland with a bullshit hill up through a vineyard and a little bit of trail thrown into the mix for shits and giggles.

So up I go to Mt Barker and let’s do this. I’m nice and early so I don’t have to line up with literally 500 other people for the one men’s cubicle that’s available and come on guys, surely more than one shitter when there’s 500 people coming can be a thing?

What they lack in poo facilities, they more than make up for with an outstanding Welcome to Country with Uncle Ivan though. I talk to Ivan before he does his thing and we both agree it’s not really the perfect time to have Russian sounding names except he’s an indigenous man and I’m… just a woggy looking bloke with a big nose and a stupid Russian name and all I can do is apologise.

I scoop up some of the smoke from the smoking ceremony to ward off evil spirits and gotta say, should have scooped up a shit load more of that because did not ward off anywhere near enough of them for my liking.

I see my mate Matty ‘Hulk’ Barter at the start line, and he says he’ll see me out there. When I laugh and say “mate I’ll only see you for the first few metres before you’re way ahead of me” he laughs and explains he meant on the way back and, well, accurate.

The amazing artist Wendy Dixon-Wiley is also there doing one of her amazing murals and I have a quick fanboy moment before heading off to the start line. She says she started early and aims to have it done before the race is over but at the pace she paints and the pace I run, I’m pretty sure she’s got me well and truly covered.

I line up at the start chute with my fancy little Ultimate Direction Bottle Belt and off we go and I make it a grand total of about 50m before both bottles fall out and when I stop dead in front about 100 other runners like a complete fucking moron, I get a sense of how Buddy Franklin felt on Friday night when he was swamped by fans. Except these people aren’t fans and they’re just looking at me like I’m a complete fucking moron because I’ve dropped two bottles and not kicked 1,000 goals, so yeah, not really anything like Buddy at all really. (Big thanks to the lady who picked up the second bottle and so so sorry if I didn’t say thank you but you are amazing and thank you!)

After retrieving my bottles I run angry for a kilometre or two and try and find my rhythm, which if you’ve ever seen me run, you’ll know is not unlike Delta’s dancing at that Jay Z concert that time.

 

At one of the first little turns where you can see the runners coming up behind, one of the young whipper snappers next to us looks back and says he’s gonna make sure he beats his mum. We make a few jokes and I say she’s paid us $50 to trip him over but that means we’ll have to keep up with him and that may be an issue because while I’m puffing like the Cockle Train he looks like he’s only in second gear. And he laughs and says “Second? I’m only in first.” and fuck you mate. You’ll be old and fat one day and fuck. you.

But you know, kids these days and all that.

I say hi to my friend Kat but she pretends not to hear me and says she’s listening to an audio book in her headphones but if you can’t hear me, how did you know I was even talking to you, huh? But I give her the benefit of the doubt, and a few minutes later when people are yelling at her to let her know a car is coming and she doesn’t move, I think OK, that’s one fucking loud book.

There’s a lady near us taking more selfies than I do (unbelievable, but true) and when she pops out of the portaloo still clutching her phone I start to think I’ve got some real competition in the selfie department because… Even I’ve never done a poo selfie. And certainly not at the start line because obviously.

Poo selfie? (And a big goober in my beard. It happens.)

Things are remarkably uneventful for quite a while which is a nice change, there’s a stupid out and back bit where the volunteer at the top of the rise is doing a crossword and I say to him six across is “STUFFED” and I really wanted to say “FUCKED” but I think he’s from the Lion Club or Rotary or something and see, I do have a censor button sometimes. Rarely used, admittedly, but not never.

On the push up one of the hills a guy runs past me and pats me on the back and I feel really, really bad because sweet baby jesus he just touched my top and even I want to fucking dry heave on his behalf because I’m sweating about the usual amount and that shit is nasty. I say something to that effect and his goes to lick his palm and seriously mate, zero stars, do not recommend. Unless you’re cramping and need some salt in which case, this might either a) cure you from cramping ever again and/or b) be the fucking end of you. In which case, also cured from cramping ever again assuming rigor mortis doesn’t count.

A bit further up the hill we hear a strange noise and my mate Graham who’s running with me (actually, I’m trying to run and he’s walking at about the same pace), assures me it’s a cow. I’m pretty sure it’s one of those horns they blow in the crowd at the cricket in the subcontinent and as usual, I’m completely fucking wrong. Which in retrospect makes perfect sense because there are way more cows out here than Pakistani cricket fans and hey, in my defence, this running thing is hard at times and you’re not always thinking straight. Like when I do eventually spot the cows a minute later and say how skinny that cow looks and when Graham asks which one and I say “the black one” and I get a look I’m not entirely unfamiliar with because the field is literally filled with black cows and please see previous comment about not thinking straight.

On the same hill we then hear another strange grunting noise and honestly, what the fuck is that even? I’m trying to work it out when a runner comes past, pushing up the hill, making a noise that sounds like… ah… well let’s just say as she passes I just say “I’ll have what she’s having” which is supposed to be more humorous than inappropriate but who the fuck knows what’s what these days?

I finally hit the half way mark at the summit, turn around, and belt down that hill like a fucking champion bashing out a four and a half minute km and sometimes, this running thing is like taking candy from a baby. If that baby is a fucking grizzly bear that’s about to chew you up and spit you out. Because as I hit the 16km mark I get a pain in my chest and can’t breathe properly and I’m pretty convinced I’m about to do a Warnie.

I tell Graham I may have to walk the rest and when he tells me that’s a shame because I was on track for a better time that last year, I do the sensible thing and keep running because fuck. yes!

It’s a looooong fucking four kilometres though and boy oh boy am I glad when I cross the finish line but I can hardly breathe and sure as shit can’t recognise a finish line because I’m slightly less glad when people start yelling that I’ve stopped about 20 metres short of the 200foot high giant impossible to miss inflatable arch that is the actual fucking finish line so I have to run a bit further. I later get a message on socials from one of my many fans saying “I couldn’t help but laugh when I saw you stop your watch at the ‘finish’ only to realise it was still up the path” and yes, you’re welcome.

I cross my second finish line in 30 seconds and promptly collapse in a heap, right in font of the generator pumping out exhaust fumes and also zero stars, do not recommend. At which point a few people help, but also take selfies while I’m dying and how bad would they feel if I actual died and there they are grabbing photos? But OK, yes, funny. A friend goes and gets a doctor person because a bit like the shitters, there doesn’t seem to be an actual first aid person, and whadda you know it’s Dr Grunter from that hill climb and well, well, well, how about that. Some people hold my legs in the air like I just don’t care, because I don’t, possibly to stop me feeling dizzy and possibly just for another excellent photo opportunity and in hindsight, I’m not entirely sure she was even a real doctor.

Someone went to get me a drink and came back with what I’m pretty sure was an effort from someone who couldn’t wait for the one cubicle and what. the fuck. was that.

 

I lay on the ground for what I think was a bit longer but may have been more like half an hour, until someone who knows what is actually required in such a health crisis situation brings me a can of Coke, and now we’re fucking talking. Fuck the legs in the air thing, Coke is it. The real thing. Things go better with Coke. Always Cocoa-Cola. Coke adds life. You can’t beat the feeling. Pure as sunlight, around the corner from everywhere (also an actual slogan from 1927 if you can believe that). And my personal contribution to the Coke Slogan Collection: Coke might make you fat, rot your teeth and give you diabetes but fuck. yeah.

PS Cut two mins off last year’s time and probably a few years off my life. Totally worth it.

Mural is finished. And so am I.