I’m a last minute sign up for Five Peaks, an event I’ve never done before. I still remember when the event first started and I had delusions of grandeur and thought I’d do it. Went to the first training run which was the first 15 or so kms of the course and almost fucking died and was like OK, yeah, nah. And my running hasn’t gotten any better since so I was never going to run the full 58kms, but the 10km seemed civilised, and the 16kms do-able so 16 it is and let’s do this.

I know some purists get their knickers in a knot when a race does shorter distances, and I have no problem with events that don’t, but this time around it was nice to be a part of it all without having to do the whole thing.

Truth be told, mostly I just wanted to run through Steve’s Disco Tunnel which I could have done for free by parking nearby and running for a few kms, but figured I’d go for the whole enchilada. Also, mmm…. enchiladas. 

When I register I don’t really realise it’s a 1pm start so that we can all finish in the afternoon at the same time as the people doing the 58km full catastrophe and 1pm, very civilised thanks. 

(For the record, for those of you who follow my blogs and don’t know, I did once upon a time run ultras including the Yurrebilla 56kms three or four times including a sub 7hr run one year just mentioning that, and a couple of 100km races including Tarawera in NZ in about 14.5hours, so I haven’t always been a completely shit runner and a whiney little bitch. And yet here we are.)

So, get to the finish line, and like a complete loser put my mask on before getting on the Covid Express bus which turns out to not be the worst idea when someone behind me starts coughing up a lung. We start making our way towards the start line near Eagle on the Hill and on some of those uphill sections of road the little bus that could almost couldn’t, and yes bus, I know the feeling well. 

But the driver floors it in what I’m guessing is first gear and we eventually get to the start line where it’s hot, cold, hot, cold and what the fuck weather? How Sybil do you wanna be? How about just pick one temperature and stick with it for longer than five minutes because I have no idea if it’s the weather or I’ve got manopause but I’m having hot flushes, cold flushes, (and a quick portaloo flush), and then, thankfully, it’s time to ditch the ioMerino Hoodie, strip down to my sexy racing gear and off we go.

Right before the gun goes I hear a kid yell out “Well done, you’re coming fifth” to someone who is standing at the front, and I laugh so hard that he’s just heckled someone who hasn’t even started yet and brilliant.

It’s time to run and I make a wide right break for it and think I’m doing pretty well off the starters line until a 12 year old in sneans trots past and fuck. off. DQ for that little fucker for. sure. Sneans? In a 16km trail race? Seriously?

The Sneans Kid

Truth be told, the race goes pretty well. I’m chugging along, admittedly a bit like the Covid Express on the ups, but otherwise I’ve managed to plop myself in a pretty decent spot on the course where I’m not holding anyone up, and not being held up. Yay me.

At one point I thank a photographer for being out there and say “thanks for coming out” and it’s only when he says “thanks for running on my trail” that I realise he is not with the event and is just a shit out of luck snapper who picked the wrong fucking day to try and shoot that section of trail with 500+ runners running through his shot and sucked in mate, still fucking laughing at that.

Every now and then I over take someone doing the 58kms run and am sure to be encouraging and supportive and sometimes flip them the bird. Then I’m about half an hour in when the first 26kms runners come belting past me and I try and do the math: If they started half an hour earlier than me, but had to run 10kms more, how fast would they need to be going to catch me this soon and I decide that if you take away the number you first thought of and carry the one, it’s fucking fast. Super impressive. And even more impressive seeing 58km’ers out there doing their thing, regardless of their pace.

We get to the bit that says it’s the last hill (the titular fifth of the Five Peaks – and how good is the word ‘titular’ even if that’s not quite how you use it but if they can charge $18 for a large hot chips these days then it’s all bets are off and I’ll use words however I fucking want), which also happens to be my first peak, and when I get to the top I feel like a fraud taking a wrist band so just get a selfie with Sarah the wonder volunteer instead, and it’s all downhill from there… at least for about a kilometre.

 

It’s on this section I pass one of my arch nemesiseseses Harry, who heckled me once at Tower Trail Run when I was trying to run uphill and he was going faster as he walked past me. But this time the shoe is on the other foot, we’re going downhill, and I have 100kgs and gravity on my side and run past him and fuck yeah. Don’t get me wrong I’m not petty and don’t hold a grudge, except I really do and it’s pretty sweet when I pass him.

After eyeing off numerous trees for their wee suitability I finally decide on the portaloo at the aid station and worry that Harry might pass me while I’m in there. But when I pop back out I then imagine him spending the next 10kms trying to run me down when he’s actually already in front of me and that cheers me up immensely. Because I am a bad person.

Going through Brownhill Creek is beautiful, if somewhat confusing.  At one point there’s both an arrow and a ‘Wrong Way’ sign and, ah, I guess I take a punt, cross the creek, find some more ribbons and yep, going the right way.

A bit further down the road I consider shimmying up the stobie pole until I see a ‘Wrong Way’ sign up there as well, and decide to stay running on the road instead. 

Then there’s a cute little pupper so I stop for a pat and it’s only when I look back at the photo later I realise it looks like one of us is taking a shit and it ain’t the pupper. 

Then it’s time for the switchbacks and fuck. me. When you do Yurrebilla you do these coming down and can confirm, much more fun doing it in that direction cause going up can seriously eat a big bag of dicks. They go on forever and I’ve honestly got precisely fuck all funny things to say about them at all. They’re just shit. End of.

But I try and have faith that when we get to the top I’ve banked most of the elevation – except when I run into Belair I remember I haven’t and there’s one more up, and fuck that bit of trail in particular. It’s also when Uphill Harry catches up to me and I legit push extra hard when I see him right on my heels and do a little jig when we finally get to some down and I try and open up my lead. Not that I’m petty-competitive. Compettytive. Like I said, there are no rules anymore and I’ll make up words if I want to.

We finally hit some down and I also know Steve’s Disco Tunnel is coming up next and yay! Even more yay when I realise that despite the downpour we had the day before, it’s not actually underwater and I manage to keep my shiny new(ish) shoes shiny(ish). 

I rebirth out the other side of the tunnel and settle in for the last few kms to the finish line and do my best to blow a foofer valve by really pushing myself in an effort to achieve absolutely fucking nothing in particular. I’m huffing pretty hard up the finishing chute when I hear someone sprinting up behind me and fuck that, so I sprint to stay in front and it’s only after I cross the line that I find out I should not be all that chuffed because it was someone who ran 42kms further than me just trying to get a certain time and ok, that was dumb. And petty. But whatever. I thought it was someone being an asshole, and I was right, it was me. I am the asshole. 

Even though I’m a bit off when I get home, I remember I took some bread and butter to have before the race that I never ended up eating so I go back out to the car to find it for a little snack but it’s done the old Harry Houdini and disappeared so I have a shower and go to bed instead. It’s only a few hours later I decide I’m peckish so I head back out to the car in the dark in my reg grundies with my torch in hand, and find it under the driver’s seat and think fuck it, and eat it anyway. To be fair, it was sort of wrapped up, and in my defence, I was really hungry. 

Big thanks to TRSA for this epic shot. Trust me, I’m nowhere near as high as I look.

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