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FLRC Newsletter - April 2005 |
| Putting it all into Perspective: Running and Racing in New Zealand | |
(Webmaster's note: Fantastics photographs accompany this story in the print edition of the newsletter, and can also be seen in the PDF version, but are not included in the text-only version of this story below.)
It was called the Jumbo–Holdsworth Mountain Race and they said it was “no doddle.” In fact, they prescribed a long list of required gear, from survival blanket to jacket and from course map to “over trousers or long johns (polyprop/wool)”—and this was summertime and the race distance was only 24K, not some kind of ultra. We would be advised on race day whether water stations would appear on the course, and “nourishments” were our “own concern.” What were we getting ourselves in for? Well, a lot more than we had anticipated, and nearly all of it good (despite the blood and despite the days of hobbling postrace). But, Diane, let’s put things into perspective: In your report of the 2005 Finger Lakes Snowshoe race (Feb/March newsletter), run coincidentally with the Jumbo–Holdsworth (modulo the 18-hour time zone difference), you refer to the “steep ascent into the woods,” presumably off Burnt Hill Road. True, we weren’t on snowshoes, but we and our fellow racers also experienced a “steep ascent”: mean grade of 25% (1600'à3600') for a mile and a half, and then up another thousand feet over approximately another mile from there. And it was a loop course, so imagine the implications (and the source of the blood), but we should step back to the beginning and not get ahead of ourselves as we tell our story—a story that begins with how we happened to find ourselves in New Zealand and racing in the Tararua Mountains.
This began as a trip to visit Jill, a friend of Nancy’s who moved from Ithaca to Dunedin, NZ, a year ago, and it ended as that—plus a series of running adventures. We’ll bypass the descriptions of touring the Canterbury Brewery, the Cadbury Chocolate factory, art museums, a synagogue-cum-gallery, Maori exhibits, cathedrals, and city centers as we instead focus on matters more closely related to running. We’ll even skip telling you about the yellow-eyed penguins, seals, pigeons wearing undershirts, and rare takahe birds, although sheep (merinos as well as run-of-the-mill “hill lice”) figure in too prominently to ignore. In fact, NZ sheep outnumber humans by an order of magnitude, and the fate of some of them is tightly intertwined with that of the Jumbo–Holdsworth race directors, as became apparent as our adventures unfolded.
Our first run of the trip was from the airport in Christchurch into town—an uneventful and easy hour that shook the swelling out of our lower extremities after umpteen hours on planes (where ump > 9, not counting layovers). The only surprise (aside from the expected but hard-to-know-how-to-respond-to fact of people driving on the left side of the street) was that it felt more like southern California than someplace clear on the other side of the planet. Another (short) flight, hugs from Jill, a good night’s sleep, and then for a run to check out the lay of the land in Dunedin. Well, the land doesn’t lay too smoothly there. So you think Ithaca has hills? Ha! Dunedin sprouts them like dandelions in May. On our way back to Jill’s house (which sports an incredible view of the bay and ocean, as do many of the residences in the city), we took one itsy bitsy wrong turn and found ourselves needing to retrace our steps up, up, and up some more. No wonder the sheep terrace the rural hillsides.
With only one more week before the start of their new school year, Jill had predetermined that this would be a good time for a family trip: Jill, Steve, Nancy, and Jill’s two teenagers—with camping gear in an Impreza. (For you musicians out there, did you know that an Impreza can accommodate a stand-up bass?) It also can accommodate a sufficiency of running shoes—even wet ones, which is good because ours were about to get muddy—real muddy. We drove south from Dunedin past many hills of sheep to the Catlins, which sports colonies of interesting fauna as well as out-of-this-world (or at least not-on-this-continent) flora. Growing right down to the seaside were rain forests, replete with fern trees, hanging moss, podocarps, and beech. And shoe-swallowing mud puddles, which we sampled liberally on our afternoon run along the Tahakopa Loop Trail, until we found that we were no longer running but instead carefully choosing each footstep, which was considerably less fun. So we made our way back to the tame Old Coach Trail that the Ithacans-turned-kiwis had taken, and soon were collecting shells on the beach with them. The next day, though, would bring us to perhaps the loveliest and most runner-friendly terrain either of us have ever encountered: so-called days three and four of the Kepler Track.
Turns out that we sampled day four before day three—not a problem, since the “days” assume a counterclockwise “tramp” (hike, in American) of the route, and we began instead the other way ’round. Starting near the Department of Conservation (DoC) visitors’ center, we doddled to the dam that held back Lake Te Anau and found ourselves immediately in deep rainforest yet again. This time, however, we encountered no mud, just the most wonderful marshmallow-soft, springy, moss-covered trail that you might imagine. The sun dappled the ferns and other copious ground coverings, and we undulated not far from the riverbank as we made our way in the direction of Lake Manapouri, although we wouldn’t reach it until the next day. Instead, we crossed the 100-foot span of the emerald-green, clear-flowing Waiau River on a wooden swing bridge at Rainbow Reach and made our way along the road to where we had previously set up camp. Steve, who bellyached about running out of gas while on the trail, decided to pick up the pace along the road. Nancy struggled to keep up, but then found a little bit left to push up the final hill to the “backpackers” hostel/campground, surprising us both.
The next morning, after spending a beautiful night under the southern sky, found us ready to sample the more of the Kepler, continuing from where we had crossed the wooden swing bridge the day before. Nancy was up for a pretty long one, but Steve knew that the “big day” was coming up in just five days and had tapering on his mind. “Taper, schmaper,” thought Nancy, as we started out together. After 25 minutes the deep-in-the-forest trail suddenly spilled out onto a sandy beach by Lake Manpouri, which is ringed by blue-gray mountains, or so they seemed in the sunlight from where we spied them. A quick drink from the sink at the Moturau Hut where trampers sleep after the canonical third day of the counterclockwise tramp, and on we went. More ferns, more beech, more bird songs, more moss. Nancy was feeling good and intent on a three-hour run, including some rough terrain near the river as she approached her turn around at Rocky Point, but Steve was running out of fuel and chose to turn around a little sooner and opt for 2:30 instead. By the time Nancy made it back to Rainbow Reach, she too was beat. What a delightful sight Steve was to her, standing there on the swing bridge, with two sticks in hand and half an orange outstretched, waiting to play Pooh Sticks. Steve won, Nancy ate the orange, and both ambled the mile up to the paved road, where it took longer than expected to hitch the four miles back to their camping place. And who was it that gave us a ride? One of the many tourists in the area in their fine city cars? Noooooooooo. It was a local hippy-ish twenty-something kiwi fisherman on his way to try to hook some trout, driving a beat-up Toyota minivan—and not the last beat-up Toyota minivan we would ride in on this trip.
But first the Impreza was calling us for the ride back to Dunedin, so no chance to run the following day. On race-day-minus-three, we did the first of three destination runs/hikes, where the destination—somewhat disturbingly—turned out to be a radio tower. This was just 4K, but 4K all uphill. Perhaps this was good preparation for the upcoming race? Or not. In any case, the view over Dunedin and the Otago Peninsula from the top of Mt. Cargill was stunning, provided we put blinders on to the transmission tower and associated generators, and Nancy's friend graciously saved our quads by tossing us into the car and driving us back to town. This, in fact, would be the last time we'd lace on our Montrails until race morning.
Dunedin is in the southeastern reaches of New Zealand's south island, and the Jumbo–Holdsworth Mountain Race takes place in south-central north island. For us this meant a pair of flights and a train ride, getting hotter all the time. So hot, in fact, that when race director Rob Barber met us at the rail station in Masterton, his 12-year-old daughter Sarah had just keeled over from heat exhaustion, and had a nasty gash where her chin had met with the platform. Rob’s co-director and then-partner—and now-wife—Helen did not greet us at the station; she was instead in the process of backpacking up (and up and up) the mountain we would run the following morning, spending the night at the Jumbo Hut. Instead of Helen, Rob and Sarah brought along another American who they were hosting: Galen Burrell of Boulder, Colorado. You know, the Galen Burrell who, among other accolades, won the Pikes Peak marathon in 2004—although we didn’t know it at the time; we just knew that he was friendly, unassuming, liked to eat greens and pasta in addition to the ubiquitous steak and lamb and buttered bread and Tui beer favored by the kiwi farmers, and that he looked fast. His La Sportiva Mountain-Running Team singlet should have given away his status to us, but we were naïve and also not given over to assumptions. Galen was on a six-month leave of absence from his day job as an architectural engineer and was touring around the world, tearing up and down mountains all along the way. The following day, of course, would prove no exception.
All three of us Americans planned to stay with Rob and Helen for two nights—they had invited us to stay for a race night barbecue in addition to a prerace place to sleep. Steve and Nancy felt bad putting Sarah out of her room—and Galen did the same to Sarah’s brother Justin—but she (and he) voiced no complaint despite the fresh chin glue she sported upon returning from the emergency room. By that time, Rob’s father John and his partner Sue were busily preparing the first of several “barbies” (BBQs to us State-siders) they cooked up that weekend. The night wound down by Rob detailing the course on a map and impressing on us that we would not be allowed to pin on our bib numbers if we lacked any of the prespecified gear. According to the race website, “All competitors to carry a map of the area, survival blanket, over trousers or long johns (polyprop/wool), polyprop/wool top, hat and gloves, rain/windproof jacket.” And this was summertime! We were told to expect the 24K race to take approximately as long as a marathon. We weren’t unduly concerned, and we were prepared. Clothes? check; water? check; Payday candy bars? check.
Then it was race morning. By the time we Americans got up, Rob, Sarah, Justin, John, and Sue had long since departed. At 6:30 we piled into the old Toyota van Galen had picked up for his three months in New Zealand (told you there was another Toyota in the story!) and headed out into the cool misty morning—quite a change from the previous day’s weather. This made for cool running, but absolutely none of the potential view once we popped above tree line and went “over the tops,” something that would happen about an hour forty into our adventure. Rob’s prerace announcements were punctuated with “bloody” such and such and “only one person on the swing bridge at a time or you can wade across on your own” and “no cups at the first hut; just drink out of the river”—and then we were off. Too slowly, even for us. Galen, of course was up at the front where he belonged and didn’t get caught in the crush, but it took us 51 frustrating minutes to cover the first 7K along an easy rolling single-track trail that for some unknown reason people were intermittently walking on and giving no leave to those who wanted to pass, and this even after foregoing the long line at the aforementioned bridge and braving our way across the creek. Then came the end of the easy part. A left turn at the first hut and we were staring up. The next two kilometers took nearly as long as the first seven, and at this point we were going as fast as we could. This bit of trail was not runable; it was not even a maintained trail. It was a trudge up a tree-root-, boulder-, fern-, moss-infested trail, and during this section Nancy wondered aloud to a nearby participant why we had paid NZ$50 for this particular privilege. Roughly 15 minutes into this ascent, Steve began to feel dizzy and slowed a bit so as not to find himself falling backward down the steep slope. Nancy pressed on, passing more than a dozen “runners” and gaining a four-minute lead on Steve by the time Jumbo Hut—and Helen, checking race numbers (but not gear bags as in previous runnings of this event)—came into view; time that he would steal back later on when she was (over?)cautious on the way down the other side.
Before the other side, however, we rather gingerly made our way over the tops—and there were quite a few tops to proceed over, mostly along single-track trail, which was dictated by the hundreds-of-feet drop-offs on both sides of the route. Hence the tentative (and slow) traverse. Sure the ups winded us from time to time, but this less-than-5K section was largely a rest time and a time for watching our step as we braced against the cold wind and wondered at the magnificence of the views—wondered, because there were none, since the entire mountain was still encased in clouds. About 50 minutes of tops, including passing the 4823-foot Holdsworth summit (otherwise known as trig), brought us to the next major checkpoint: the Holdsworth Hut. Still, the rough part was far from over. The steep-descent section on this side of the loop was relatively short, hence mighty steep. It was here that Nancy was passed back by a seeming multitude of runners, including Steve, and here also that Steve took his first tumble, somewhat neatly removing a sizable and thick flap of skin from his left palm. Then came the real fun. The final 10K of the course was a smooth downhill trail, and we both flew by many fellow runners. In a still-unknown manner, Steve tripped on nothing, leaving him with a scraped and bloody backside and grateful for the first time that he was sporting his hydration pack, thus saving his entire back from a thorough abrading. This pair of thrashings led Steve to greet Rob’s finish line “how was it?” with “bloody hell!” Nancy crossed the line three minutes thereafter, and, like Steve, feeling somewhat unsatisfyingly energetic, wishing the terrain would have allowed them to pick up the pace for a greater fraction of the distance. And where was Galen during all of this? Finishing second—well over an hour before the FLRC-ers in 2:32—despite the fact that he had run two mountainous runs of marathon distance during the prior week. Were we appropriately in awe as we wandered back to his van to procure dry clothes? You bet.
Still, Steve was a bloody mess and needed his wounds dressed. The paramedics directed us to a garden hose to wash them off, after which her ungloved hands tweezered out pieces of trail and applied bandaids. The finish line barbie of sausage and hamburgers and buttered bread didn’t quite meet our desires, but we were pleased to secure a bottle of New Zealand wine and a pair of socks as raffle prizes—would have preferred one of the fleece jackets or hydration packs, though, and we’re still hoping that Rob and Helen get some T-shirts made and mail them out retroactively.
After helping disassemble the finish line, we congregated with four of the top six finishers back at Rob and Helen’s, drinking Tuis and listening to their stories—sure we were outclassed, but we enjoyed the fly-on-the-wall experience, including the trucking stories traded between Rob and first-master Colin Rolfe. The former drives a stock truck (sheep, cattle, bulls—whatever is ready to go to the “freezer works”(slaughter house) or to another farm, and the latter drives a furniture truck in and around Dunedin. Soon John and Sue were stoking up another barbie—beef, lamb, and abalone accompanied by buttered bread, iceberg lettuce salad, and Tuis—and we chatted late into the evening about trucking, farming, running, mountains, and Maori culture.
Our next-day plans called for catching the train back to Wellington for one more night, but Rob and Helen didn’t have to twist our arms too hard on this again-clear morning to convince us to stay on and go for a loosen-up jog in sheep country and drive to a hilltop for a better view of the Tararuas, despite the fact that we both sported sore quads—remember those last ten downhill kilometers? In fact, Steve’s quads and calved managed to induce many moans over the next few days, although he voiced little discomfort from his various raw patches. While gazing across the sunny countryside at the mountain range and scoping out the Jumbo and Holdsworth Huts, Galen remarked offhandedly how nice it would be to see the course from the air. Wouldn’t you know it? Rob knew just the guy to take us up in a plane—and the proceeds of the race would cover the associated cost. An hour later, we were at the Masterton airfield, strapped into the fortuitously seven-seater (Rob, Helen, Sarah, Galen, pilot Graham, and us), with Graham instructing us on air safety as we sucked on the lollypops that Sarah had thoughtfully brought along. The views were all one might imagine (as pictured above) as we flew close to the Tararuas and then across the southern reaches of the north island to the eastern coastline. Groans from Steve’s aching quad as we deplaned, and then the entire group enjoyed an Indian dinner in Masterton before heading back for bed.
Monday morning Galen headed out early to meet a top female New Zealand mountain runner Melissa Moon for a romp over Mt. Victoria in the Wellington area, and Rob, Helen, Sarah, and we weren’t far behind. Turned out that this was the first day of a new school year for Sarah, and in a new school, no less—and with that lovely chin of hers. Still, off she went in good spirits, and off the rest of us went toward Wellington to return the tent borrowed for use at the finish line. A major, but calmly managed, calamity intervened. Rob had arranged for a seasoned driver to cart the day’s load of sheep to the freezer works. Rob drives for a livestock broker who owns the rig, and as it happened the broker was driving his pickup up the farm lane that his own loaded truck was proceeding down. The rig’s driver had to swerve to avoid the owner, and the rear of the two trailers tipped. Alerted by cell phone, we arrived at the scene to find no one happy, but everyone in control of their emotions as well as the situation. A few dead sheep were being carted away, one still alive and covered in excrement was being chucked into trailer number one, and Rob began arrangements for a crane to come and right the trailer. With Helen we zipped back to the house for Rob’s work clothes and then proceeded to the city, dropped off the tent, and caught our plane back to Dunedin—all with the ubiquitous sore quads/calves. In our wake we purposefully left behind three Finger Lakes singlets as thanks to the co-directors and their girl; we also invited Galen to stop by and win the Finger Lakes 50's, Virgil Mountain Madness, or Monster Marathon anytime he might feel like it.
The next day Steve was still hobbling, but Nancy decided to loosen up with a run from downtown Dunedin to and along the beach and back. Nearly back downtown after about an hour, twenty minutes of which bordered the surf, she was again navigating the near-crush of pedestrians, when one stood out as looking familiar and oddly like a runner. No, not Steve, and certainly not Jill or either of her kids. Standing beneath a scaffolding and between a furniture store and a semi was Colin! Big surprise for us both, and Colin kindly told Nancy that her form looked good—just so happened we saw each other on a mildly downhill stretch.
We had time for just one more side trip before needing to return to the States, so we hopped a bus to the lakeside tourist town of Wanaka, close to Mt. Aspiring National Park. We aspired to follow the Mt. Aspiring trail up and over the Cascade Saddle, but the extreme heat, aggravated hay fever, and our still-sore legs altered that plan. Instead, after setting up camp we overheated on an easy run along the lakeside amid merino sheep, enjoying the sights, sounds, sensations, rocks, and driftwood in a tiny bay at the terminus of the trail before heading back and soothing ourselves in the cool blue water of the lake.
Our goal the next day was larger, or at least higher: ascend Roy Peak and traverse a ridge route before hitching back to town. The day began somewhat inauspiciously with no offer for a ride to the trailhead until we had nearly covered the initial four hot road miles on foot, planning to save ourselves for the ascent. Looking up at the peak from the parking lot filled us with a bit of trepidation: the trail was completely exposed, and all that awaited us was a radio tower a full mile above us. In cooler weather this grassy-dirt trail would have been entirely runable; even in the heat it would have been runable had it been extended horizontally rather than vertically. As it was, however, we gulped, cinched up our hydration packs and began our trudge, trying to retain our humor and sense of optimism. Conversation waned rather quickly as our shirts became increasingly soaked and the road continued to fall away beneath us. After two hours and twenty minutes, we eventually found ourselves huddling in the shade of the radio generator and letting go of the desire to trot along the inviting ridge that stretched out in front of us, held back by a decreasing supply of water, no hint of shade under ozone-free skies, and dim prospects of getting a ride if/when we would make it down the other side of the mountain. Instead, we pulled out our cameras and snapped up the expansive views as we began the much more pleasant descent. Indeed, umpteen cars passed us by as the road threatened to melt the undersides of our trial shoes, although a long-time Wanaka sheep farmer eventually heeded our plea for a ride. Lesson learned: locals are more compassionate toward tired trampers than are tourists. Another dip in the lake and a growing frequency of sneezes spurred us to hop a bus back to Dunedin one day earlier than planned, which afforded us the delightful opportunity for one last run—and one last radio tower.
This final run competed for top billing with the other running highlights of the trip—the Kepler and the Jumbo–Holdsworth—at least for Nancy (Steve found the warm temps and lack of tree growth were not as pleasing as previous trails). The terrain was spectacular on the Flagstaff and Swampy Ridge trails in the hills above Dunedin. From the rugged grassland track were views of the ocean far below and the initially distant farm of radio towers. After half an hour of no shade or moderation of the dry wind, Steve doubted his ability to persist to the end and watched Nancy trot away with a sunshiny smile on her face, the wind obscuring the lack of his footsteps in her wake. Glancing back at the bottom of one of the rolling hills, she realized his absence and turned back, only to find Steve frustrated and undecided at the top and assuring her that he was fine. So back down and then up and up to—yup—the turnaround at the radio towers. To her delight and surprise, Steve had followed shortly behind, and they kept each other company over hill and paddock to where Jill—with bottles of water—had returned to collect them.
Those two-plus weeks in New Zealand had included just over 100 miles of running and/or vigorous hiking—good, but hardly extraordinary—but these miles brought with them a sense of exploration and bonding that little else might confer. We don't yet know where our next adventure will take us, but in the meantime we enjoy each day and each run and each other.
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