So I roll into Coober Pedy on Friday to run a marathon the following day. I see the two big Wind Farm propeller things, and wonder, does two even qualify as a ‘farm’? And fuck, there’s literally not a breath of wind so they’re not doing much. Which is exactly what I’ll be doing while I’m in town. But only cause I’ve been many times before so have seen all the sight. (Except that’s not quite true. I go birding at the only place there’s water – the sewage treatment plant. But it’s a bit shit. Literally.)
When I wake up Saturday morning it’s weird cause the race starts quite late by marathon standards – not til 10:30. And what the fuck, that’s just about lunch time and I’ll be ready to eat again by then. And a day earlier than usual, because most marathons are on Sunday. So I’m a bit confused. But at least I don’t have to get up at 4am and I cruise through getting ready and head out to the race which is about 30kms away.
On the way out of town I see the wind nano-farm propeller thingies spinning furiously but it doesn’t really register that there’s gale force winds in action today. Or that running in them is going to be completely and utterly fucked. I head on down the road, and at some point, having been here before, things start to feel wrong and I’m pretty sure I’ve missed the dirt road turn off and I’m closer to Uluru than the start of the race. Little do I know with what’s in store for me today, I should probably have just kept driving. Instead, I use my smartphone to catch the one bar, 3g signal and confirm my suspicions. I’m a dickhead, have somehow missed the double decker bus sized brown sign, and have overshot the mark by quite some way. Luckily I’m still pretty early and double back.
When I’d turned up to the info centre the day before, they told me there were only two people registered for the full marathon at that point and I start to fantasize about winning. I did the same last year, fantasize, not win, and it turned out I was racing an Ironman and he left me in his dust. Literally. But you never know, this year it could be a slightly overweight midpack hack from Adelaide like myself and I’d be in with a chance. Which would be cool because one of the prizes is a flight over Lake Eyre and I wanna do that so bad. But when I arrive at the start line to collect mu number they tell me there’s now five people registered and they’re all men. Not a single woman. And I ponder the ethics of transitioning in the next 35 minutes and winning that race instead.
One guys is from Seattle and he’s added this race at the last minute and has never run a marathon before and I’m still mildly optimistic until someone points out one of the runners is John Csongei – one of Adelaide’s top runners. For me to beat him is gonna take an uncovered opal mine shaft disaster of epic proportions. But whatever. I could still sneak second. And runner number five didn’t even turn up so at worst I’m a shoe-in for fourth.
The race starts, and there’s a guy with his Tshirt on inside out and I want to tell him but I don’t because I don’t know why. It’s just awkward though, right? As usual, I ignore all logic and take off like a startled rabbit. John is already nowhere to be seen. Just a tiny puff of dust and a glint of sun off his bald head on the horizon. By contrast I’m all hair flapping in the wind. The headwind is considerable and I wouldn’t look out of place in an Southern Sons/80s hair metal film clip and fuck yeah.
I’m taking photos and doing videos and having a laugh with a guy who’s brought some deadly Indigenous runners down from the APY lands. And all is going well. I then get to about the third kilometer of the 42.2km race and all is not well. I just don’t feel quite right. But it’s at the 14km mark the wheels really fall off. Fallen off wheels are pretty usual for me in longer races, but usually it’s well into the race not this early. My guts are cramping and I start to think I have an ectopic pregnancy. Either that or it’s the pizza from the servo I ate the night before but my money is on the pregnancy. I figure it will pass but it doesn’t. At least not yet or out of where I’m expecting it to.
I usually take these gel chew things for nutrition along the way. My favourite is Diabetic Orange which is 118% sugar, but when I went to buy them they also had Margherita flavour which has extra sodium and I fucking love Margherita Pizza so I get some. I’m already sweating like Rolf Harris at a Wiggles concert so I take some of those wondering if the sodium might help and holy hell, they don’t taste like pizza at all. Of course. It’s the drink. Except it’s not really even the drink. It tastes more like I’ve just licked John’s sweaty bum crack and now I think I might actually feel worse and I can’t stop thinking about John’s bum crack and not in a good way.
It’s a double out and back course, which means you see everyone on the way back and happily, I hit the turn around in second place, but only by about 45 seconds, and the other two guys quickly pass me. Fuckers. But I’m here for the long haul and you never know, things could go spectacularly wrong for one or both of them and I could still sneak second and things do go spectacularly wrong, but it’s not for them, it’s for me.
They say running distances is quite mental, and it is. In both ways. And I start struggling to keep my head in the game because mostly I just want to sit down on the side of the ‘road’ and cry. Or throw up. Or shit my pants. Or d) all of the above. But instead I decide I’ll try and write a blog about how fucked everything is because it might be funny and everyone liked my Amy Shark review so maybe they’ll like this too and everything I think of seems quite funny at the time but not so much now and I’m a fraud and why am I even bothering to run or write and god hates me and maybe I’m on Israel Falou’s list and I’m going to hell.
To distract myself from the fact I’m at kilometer 18 and my guts are still back at kilometer 14, I’m trying to think about things that might be amusing. Like at the briefing when they warned us about emus on the course, and how if we get attacked by one we should make ourselves look bigger than an emu by throwing our arms up in the air and I think lady, please, have you seen the size of me lately? I’ve got this covered. Only now I’m thinking I wouldn’t mind being attacked by an emu. Or maybe riding one back to the finish line. But I don’t see any. In fact, I don’t see anything except dust and rocks because fuck me it’s dusty and rocky out here. Beautiful in it’s own “Hey look at me I’m running on Mars” kind of way and did I mention it’s dusty and rocky and they’ve filmed mars movies out here cause it’s so dusty and rocky?
In only marginally less than the time it would take to travel to the actual Mars, I whizz through the finish line and head out on my second lap. By now my guts have gotten worse, and I seriously consider pulling out. My small intestine. Or at the very least emptying it. But everyone’s clapping and saying how well I’m doing and I’m gullible and vain, and mostly vain, so I believe them and everything feels not so bad until I’m 500m down the road and it’s just me and the dust and the rocks again.
I’m what feels like only a few kms into my second 21km lap when John and his sweaty bum crack comes trotting up towards me almost finished his race, and he’s filming. Even I’ve parked my GoPro because I’m so fucking miserable and there’s only so much dust and rocks you can film, but he’s filming me so I perk up, say something about having a rubbish day, and on we go. He’s only a few kms from the finish line and I still have the better part of 17kms to go and it’s gonna be a long fucking day.
I start imagining how John will already be having a pie at the Pt Wakefield Bakery by the time I finish and fuck John. He mentions how windy it is, and fuck him for that too because when you’re running 10kms into a headwind with only dust and rocks for cover, it’s not like I could have not noticed. Although on my second lap, it feels like the headwind has doubled, and I’ve certainly slowed down. I’m now ‘rorking’ or ‘wunning’… that combo of run/walk you do when you’re fucked and want to throw up and die. I’m now thinking about how much a flight over Lake Eyer might cost me cause I sure as shit ain’t gonna fucking win one.
By now, I can’t stomach anything I’m so sick, so no more Diabetic Orange or John’s Bum Crack Margherita Gels for me, I’m lucky if I can keep a few mouthfuls of water down. I apologize to all the drink stations as I pass on the way out knowing it’s gonna be quite some time before I pass on my way back and they can pack up and go home. I’m about to say “I hope you’ve got a good book to read” to be funny when I pass, but I look at the lady in the back of the car as I pass and she’s actually reading a book.
At one point I pass a re-vegetation sign jammed into dust and rock and even though I’m pretty miserable, I chuckle as I think what the fuck are they re-vegetating out here? What was it before? Rainforest? Then I laugh again at how it may well be rainforest by the time I cover the 3 or 4kms out to the turn around point and back again. (But it’s not, it’s still dust and rock. And emu-free.)
At the turn around point the timing man was waiting there to take down the timing equipment. He asks if I really want to run all the way back and I say no, not really which he thinks means I want a lift back but fuck. that. There’s no way I’m DNF’ing so I gather up all my strength and pride and run off, for about 50m, then stop and walk again. And when I get around a corner of dust and rocks I have a bit of heave. Let’s call that Heave No1.
The next 8kms are pretty much the definition of misery. Heave No2 & 3 happen. It’s now about 3pm and it’s fucking hot out there. Except when the clouds cover the sun then somehow it’s fucking freezing cold. And wait, are my fucking nipples chafing now? I want to laugh at the absurdity of it all, how it can alternate between boiling hot and nipple chafe cold so many times, except I don’t laugh, I just rub my nipples to warm them up because nipple chafe hurts like a fucking bitch.
As I near the 2.5km drink station I know there’s an ambo there. By now I’m only walking, not even pretending to run, and my head is down. I look up to see how far away the station is and I see the ambo walking towards me. It’s a mixture of happy and sad. He’s heard how sick I am and he’s not gonna let me finish. He’s going to check me over and tell me he can’t let me run (ie walk) another step. I’ll be gutted but at least I can say I had no choice they wouldn’t let me finish. I try not to make eye contact but it’s not like I can hide behind the dust and rocks so at the last minute I look up and he gives me a big smile, a cheery wave and says “nearly there mate” and heads over to the nearby porta loo. What. The actual. Fuck. “Nearly there mate”? Is he even a real fucking medic or just taking the piss. Or a real medic just taking a piss? Whatever. It’s only 2.5kms to go which at my current mace is maybe another 45 minutes. I can do this.
As I pass the drink station, a little whipper snapper runs up to me. His name is Ollie he’s read my book. His mum sent him down to check on me because they all want to go home and he’s my escort for the last excruciating few kms. Pride gets the better of me, the kid’s read my book about running for fuck’s sake, so I break into a run. I’ll show him how it’s done. I can almost hear the chariots of fire music in my head. Except this time it’s less than 50m and I admit it, I’m defeated. I don’t look at Ollie cause I don’t want to see the “how the fuck did you write a book about running?” look on his face. But he’s a kid, and he hasn’t learned to be a complete bastard yet and is just saying random supportive things and I keep going.
I’m now walking so slow the flies have moved in. So. Many. Fucking. Flies. They fly in my ears and up my nose and I literally have no energy to shoo them away. There’s one so far inside my ear I can hear it breathing and when I eventually try and get rid of it I’m worried it’s going in further so I just let it be. Ollie’s brother turns up and they argue for a bit, and Chase thinks it will be hilarious to smash the files on Ollie’s back. Ollie doesn’t agree and for a few seconds at least, I’m not the only one in pain.
As we go up the last dusty, rocky hill, the finish chute is in sight. Ollie tells me I’m going to run up the chute and across the finish line. I don’t want to destroy his innocence so I don’t say what I really want to say in reply. On one of only two occasions I’ve ever self-censored, I say “I don’t think I can”. I look up and there’s still people there which is pretty amazing because it’s literally almost 5 1/2 hrs later and I must be a good hour behind 2nd and 3rd place and why aren’t these people all back in town drinking beers and saying how much fun they had? Everyone claps and cheers and lies about how amazing I am as I walk across the finish line because running seems too fraudulent. And Ollie was right. How the fuck DID I ever write a book about running?
I tell the Race Director how bad I feel that they waited for me and she tells me that she gave the three other runners the choice to do the presentation or wait for me and they all decided to wait and I’m a bit blown away by how nice they all are. She then tells me she even checked with them again three more times to see if they were still happy to wait and I want to punch her in the throat because I didn’t need that extra detail. But I don’t. Because maybe only because I can’t.
I rest forever, have Heave No 4, the make my way back to my hotel and heave a few more times. Fuck this running thing. I quit.
I don’t send out newsletters very often, and sure as shit don’t send spam, but if you’re keen to get semi-regular updates of the stuff I write, click here to sign up.
