After the shit show that was last year’s race, I decide there’s no way I’m doing Melrose again this year. Although at some point the Race Director let’s me know he’s done me a bib just in case I want to register and I just laugh because fuck. that.
About a week out he even sends me a pic of a bib with my name on it with a very convincing message that simply says “Reminder…” and because I’m a dickhead, I totally forget I have no intention of signing up, assume I’ve actually signed up already, and say I was sure I’d registered and that I’ll be there running. Quite how I come to this conclusion is beyond me but when the RD replies saying “old age sucks hey?” I suspect he’s on to something.
So using this very sneaky, very clever sales technique I somehow end up signed up for race I was never going to sign up for, that I thought I had signed up for, and don’t worry if you’re as lost as I am, old age sucks.
I don’t usually get nervous before races, (until it’s nervous bodily function time right before the start), but a few days before the race for some reason I have a super vivid dream about face planting on the trail of Mt Remarkably fucking rocky, and gashing my face wide open and it totally freaks me out. As in proper freaked out. So now I’m confused and anxious.
After fucking about on the Eyre Peninsula for a week or so looking at whales, (which was excellent by the way!), I roll into town and duck into the bike shop where Kerri one of the owners looks at me and says “oh, we didn’t think we’d see you back after last year” and lady, neither did I because I’m still pretty fucking confused about the whole thing. And anxious.
I pick up my race number from the pub then head to my room for a good night’s sleep only to wake up at 2am and decide reading shitty comments on Facebook will be the best use of my time and a great way to relax and fall back to sleep. Note to self: it’s not. I’m now, confused, anxious and angry.
(It turns out some white supremacist bird watchers took exception to me labeling Major Mitchell, the murderer Major Mitchell cockatoos are named after, a murderer just because he shot a bunch of First Nations people in the back when he came to ‘explore’ Australia. I know, right?)
I’m just drifting back to sleep at about 4am when sweet baby jesus there’s sirens going off and what is even going on right now? I leap out of bed with Medusa hair, and not much else on, and exit my room into the corridor to find various other runners in various states of chaos wondering if we’re all about to die in a fire. After a quick look around for flames, and a sniff for any smoke, we decide we’re all safe and head back to our rooms and while I’ve been watching whales on the Nullarbor I doubt anyone was expecting to see one emerge from Room 7 in the Southern Flinders Ranges. Apologies to everyone for that. (With special thanks to the 50km runner who burnt his toast and set the fucking fire alarms off. Mate, just have some fucking Weetbix next time yeah?)
Thankfully race o’clock isn’t til 10:30 for the 15km ‘short course’ I’m doing, so I manage to get a few minutes sleep before it’s time to get up for the third time, this time with clothes on. ioMerino of course. #SponsoredPost
Brett the RD gives a pre-race briefing with a special mention about how four people died in a fiery plane crash on the mountain we’re about to run up and down, and as far as inspirational pre-race speeches go, it’s right up there with the wreckage of that fucking plane. And we’re off.
This race is very much a race of two halves which is probably a really dumb thing to say, because I guess most races have a first half and a second half, (and no third or fourth half), but for this one, it’s a very distinct ‘holy fuck when will this climb ever end’ first half to the top, and a ‘holy fuck this a bullshit technical descent’ second half back to the bottom.
While the Tower Trail Run has the fat shaming tree that can be passed off as a natural phenomenon, the people in Melrose are like, nah, fuck it, let’s just put a fucking fat shaming gate at the trail head and because I went to a catholic school all I can think of is that saying about how it’s easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than to pinch Pedo Pell for kiddy fiddling. Or something like that. Point is, it takes a fair old shimmy for me to get through that fucking thing.
The up has markers which are at various times either one kilometre or 500 metres apart, and I’m pretty sure they’re taking the piss just putting them in random places when it takes me about 45 minutes to get from the 1km to go marker to the 500m to go marker.
As I approach the summit I hear the music playing “Don’t Leave Me This Way” by the Communards and fuck. yes. Now I’m in my element, so I do another shimmy, but this time it’s just some bad 80s dancing, do some really bad singing, grab a few snakes, and it’s time to head back down.
This year we do the loop in reverse and while the up is probably a fraction milder, the down is a bit steeper and rockier and nowhere near as much fun. I feel like I’m doing OK though when Camilo who is running twice as far as me comes running past twice as fast and what. the actual. fuck. He goes on to win the 30km in 2:53 and that literally makes no sense what so ever to me. Freak.
After not seeing another 15k runner since a few kms in, I finally manage to reel in two runners on the home stretch and feel slightly bad for over taking them so close to the finish but not really. Suckers.
I cross the finish line without having fallen over which I consider a massive win and cheer a few people on including Cam, another 30km runner who finishes and says “my bum hurts” and I’m honestly not sure what he was doing out there but no judgement here.
30km third place finisher with the sore bum
I also see Bec who won the 50km run, just bouncing around playing with some kids and I say “Hey Bec, could you do me a favour please?” and because she’s lovely she very seriously says “Of course”. And I say “Can you maybe just look a bit fucking tired?” because how is it even possible she’s not actual dead?
After I’ve had a two hour shower and something to eat in the hope of feeling about 1% as good as Bec does, I go to the new Jack Brothers Brewery for Pizza, order before everyone else, smash my pizza and leave before presentations even start and am in bed before you can say “the winner is…” and it’s me, because I’m in bed.
The next day I drive home after two weeks on the road and when I pull into my driveway I can’t find my house key. I grab the spare and walk to the front door and see my security door is ajar and think “what a fucking idiot I am not even locking that before I left”. So I open it and find my wooden door completely wide open with my house key still in it and my first fucking idiot thought really doesn’t leave me much wiggle room to escalate my self assessment from there but it seems either someone broke into my car in Ceduna, drove all the way to Adelaide, opened up my house but didn’t steal a thing, or perhaps I just left my doors wide open before traveling half way across the country and yeah, it’s probably not the first one.
So next time I talk about what a fucking dickhead I am, please know I’m not being funny or self deprecating, it’s just the truth.
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