Mt Crawford. Usually such a lovely event. Great course. Nothing too stupid. And I decide to be sensible again and do the medium 16km course even though usually I’d do the 23 or maybe even the 33 but nah, a 16km cruise through the forest seems way more civilised and in line with my current level of training which can best be described as ‘sweet fuck all’.
As usual, things get off to a stellar start when I follow the directions driving in to the forest and somehow end up at Drink Station 1 instead of the start line and fuck. Quick U-banger, back to the entry for some new instructions, and off I go this time making it to the actual start line. In retrospect, I perhaps should just have started my race at Drink Station 1 and called it even, but nevermind.
I’m super early for my race so beat the rush to collect my race number and when they hand it over they say “ah, we were wondering who this was for” and I’m pretty stoked they didn’t just automatically know it was me because it says ‘knobhead’.
I’ve missed cheering on the 7am 33km start but decide to bust out the camera for the 8am 23km start. The actual official photographer has the start line covered so I decide to run a bit further down, and because I’m a slow learner but I do learn eventually, I check which way they’re actually running this time, and of course it’s not the way I expected, so lucky I checked and off I trot down the road to find my spot. Along the way I see Steve who gives me a lift a bit further down to where he’s opening a gate for the runners and I take my position.
I shoot the runners as they come through and then start making my way back to the start line on foot. Of course it’s a little further than I realised when you’re not in a fucking car, and because I’m basically Magellan, I decide to take a short cut through the forest and you can see where this is going. Which is ironic, because I sure as shit couldn’t.
I’m pretty sure I’m going the right way when I pop out on a trail and instead of it being the start line there’s runners coming past and I’d tell you where I was but honestly, I have no fucking idea. I can, however, tell you where I wasn’t which is at the starting line where I am supposed to be. I take a few snaps of runners coming past as if I’d planned it, then trot off through the forest again.
I’m thinking how lucky I am my race doesn’t start til 9 and it’s not til I eventually make my way back there at about 8:40 with 20mins to spare and wonder why everyone is already gathering at the start line that I realise the race actually starts at 8:45 and have a super quick scratch around to get my shit together.
I’ve done a bit of a warm up I didn’t need, but I’m feeling pretty good when the guy next to me tells me he’s only a few points behind me in the series leaderboard. Now, I can say hand on heart I had no idea where I was on the leaderboard and assume I’m just at the bottom, or maybe even not on it at all, but apparently I’m in equal 10th place and he’s looking to work his way into the top ten and mate, not gonna happen. Over my dead body. Which it turns out is not far off the mark.
He tells me he’s got broken ribs so probably won’t run that well, and when after about a km or so he starts pulling ahead already I seriously consider giving him the 1989 Grand Final Dermott Brereton special and busting a few on the other side. The main problem with this plan is, of course, it requires me to catch him.
The first part of the race goes smoothly enough although I can tell early on it’s not gonna be my day and my body isn’t feeling quite right. Nothing major at this stage, just one of those days, otherwise there’s some mud, there’s a tractor that I consider hijacking, there’s a few ups and downs, and yet again, even though I have the course loaded in to my Garmin at one point I look down and fuck me, we’re all off course. No idea which turn off we missed but it seems to have been a fairly minor detour so maybe that can be our little secret.
At one point we can see a big motherfucker hill up ahead and boy am I relieved the course turns and we don’t have to go up it. A few of us do that sort of nervous, relieved laugh, make a few comments about how good it is we don’t have to run up it, turn off, run about 500m further on and fucking bang, get to another one just like it and fuck. this. shit.
I’m gonna call it Kardashian Hill because it’s all gold and sparkly and good for absolutely fucking nothing. Might also be Fools Gold Hill because who’s the fool for signing up for this stupid fucking race anyway? The good news is it’s steep, but not overly long, so we get through it and yay, according to the map in my Garmin which I probably won’t follow anyway, there’s only one more small climb then it’s downhill and flat all the way home.
I might back up here for a second and also explain that even though the forecast is for it to be a maximum of about 12 out there, it’s the hottest fucking 12 degrees I’ve ever felt. I’m sweating like Dan Andrews at a North Face jacket sale and am hanging for a fucking drink station to refill the stupidly small bottles I’ve taken with me. The first drink station was at what feels like about the 400m mark and seriously, who needs a drink station that early? And then the second felt like it was about 400m from the end when you’re already basically dead and at that point I’m in survival mode and thinking about drinking my own piss.
By the time I get to the second drink station I’m hallucinating because I’m sure my first ex-wife is there but then I realise it’s a themed station and someone is just dressed up as a witch. So I stop, fill up my bottles that I then don’t bother drinking from because it seems like there’s not that far to go anyway, and proceed to drop them multiple times because I don’t stick them back in my little belt thing properly.
(For the record, the drink stations were at the 3.5km mark and maybe around the 10km mark and don’t ever ask me for directions or distance estimates.)
We finally make it to the boardwalk section which in my head is the home stretch but in reality there’s still a few kms to go and by now my body is doing who the fuck knows what and I’ve kicked in to Sharapova Mode making all sorts of grunting noises just trying to keep one foot moving in front of the other. To make matters worse, the boardwalk has buckled over time and it’s now more like a rollercoaster, albeit a kid’s one, and nothing is even – although that may also just have been me that was all over the place, and not the boardwalk. Or possibly a little bit of both. I make a miraculous recovery for about eights seconds when I see a photographer and he nails the pic of my jump shot and I don’t even look like a fat fucker so wow, thanks Stephen/TRSA.
I push up the last little incline to the finish line, someone takes a photo of me doing my best poo face, and then I go collapse on the ioMerino trailer where someone else takes a photo of me doing Marionette with Cut Strings before the First Aid Lady comes over to check on me and tell me that I look like “absolute shit” and lady, I’m used to that. Apparently I’m a slightly funny colour so she wants to take my blood sugar level with the finger pricker apparatus and tells me I’ll feel a small prick and lady, I’m used to that as well.
She prescribes sugar which is basically the best fucking prescription ever, so I smash some lollies and brownies and why can’t that also be the cure for everything else? Headache? Lollies. Erectile Disfunction? Lollies. Covid? Lollies. The world would be a much better place so if someone could please invent lollies that cure everything that’d be great thanks.
Needless to say that fucking asshole is probably in the Top Ten now and I’m not. Fuck you Hughsey.
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