I don’t think anyone will judge me if I tell them I signed up for an ultramarathon because the organisers announced there’d be a Devonshire tea at one of the aid stations. (If you don’t think tea and scones are a good idea halfway through an ultramarathon, I suggest you research the nearest medical facility you can visit for a brain scan.)
I registered for the inaugural Tarawera 50k with less than two weeks before race day, mostly as an irrational act of Fomo over what I’m pretty sure will become one of the most iconic races in the New Zealand trail-running calendar. Even though I hadn’t been running much, have spent most of the year aggravating an ankle injury and had only run 50k once in my life, I really didn’t want to miss out.
Now, I think I know what you’re thinking. It’s either: “Man, I really want to try a doughnut burger,” (me too, dude, me too) or: “This girl has seriously lost it.” Whichever the case, you are correct.
A friend kindly offered the spare bed at her motel room in Rotorua and I’ve pretty much watched all episodes of Dragon’s Den available on YouTube, so I had no excuses. On Friday afternoon, I threw a bunch of mostly clean running gear in the car and took off for Rotorua.
I got to the motel room late, smelling of McDonald’s fries like a regular Friday night, did a lousy job of taping my ankle and set the alarm for 6am. I had packed four energy gels and an expired bag of trail mix (am I the only person who was completely unaware of the fact that trail mix has an expiry date? I mean, what’s the dried fruit going do when it expires? Dry further?). My plan of not even giving myself enough time to think about the race was working.
The start line has officially been named (by me) as the most spectacular start in the world. Where else can you start a race right in the middle of an active geyser field, the ground beneath your feet bubbling away? To complete the atmosphere, we had a traditional Maori welcome and blessing by the local tribe. The excitement was palpable. We all knew we were starting a race in one of the most spectacular places on Earth. After a quick speech from race director Paul Charteris and a short countdown, we were off.
We ran through the Te Puia grounds along some lovely trails before heading out towards Whakarewarewa Forest (try saying that really fast). I remembered the lessons I’d learned from seasoned ultrarunners and reminded myself that I couldn’t go too slow. I took my time and, little by little, the pack started dispersing. My body hadn’t warmed up properly and I remembered that I’d forgotten to train. I kept bumping into friendly familiar faces (plenty of those in the NZ running community, if you ever come to visit) and having seconds-long chats with each of them before their pace picked up again. It was going to be a good day out.
It wasn’t long before we reached the first aid station and realised the full scale of the treat we were in for. When I tell you that I’ve been to restaurants worse than those aid stations, you’re not the only one who wishes I was joking. Fresh fruit, chips, jelly beans, jet planes, pretzels, made-to-order sandwiches, a selection of drinks … The choice was amazing, and I quickly realised I could have left my backpack at home. The even better news: I wasn’t going to have to potentially die from eating expired trail mix. The victories just kept on piling on.
After a while, a sign indicated the point where the marathoners would be separated from those running 50k. We, the marginally crazier people, got sent up a giant hill to the top of Woodstock farm, the kind of hill that normally makes me want to cry before I even start climbing it. That day, weirdly, it didn’t. Don’t get me wrong: I didn’t run a single metre of it (because, you know, it’s all about efficiency and energy savings and whatever else means I don’t vomit a lung going up a steep hill in a paddock). But I kept on moving all the way to the top.
Up there, my eyes got all watery for different reasons. Everyone who turned that corner let out a “wow” or a slightly less eloquent but still pretty heartfelt “holy shit” that echoed across the empty valley. I could hear them as I made my way up and wondered what was up there. When I turned the corner, I too let out a loud exclamation. Living in New Zealand, I’ve seen a lot of pretty stuff. But the view of the lakes from the top of that hill, on that day, got tattooed on my brain for ever (the same brain that can never remember where I’ve put my keys).
The descent was as steep as the climb, so a lot of us opted for sitting down on the wet grass and letting gravity do the work for a bit. While it was fun for a while, I did end up running the rest of the race with brown shorts, then posting a photo of myself looking like that for the whole internet to see.
After running around Green Lake and taking on a bit of road, we got to the Buried Village, which is just as amazing as the name makes it sound. This is also where the Devonshire tea was, 35km into the race. If you go to a pub quiz and the question is where in the world you’ll find the race director spreading jam and cream on your scones and offering you a cup of tea halfway through an ultramarathon, the answer is New Zealand.
I didn’t want to leave, but then I ran past waterfalls so incredible I didn’t even care about the steps I had to climb and, from there, past an aid station with boxes and boxes of hot pizza, on to the new Tarawera Trail to Hot Water beach, one of the most beautiful pieces of single track trail I’ve ever run. The whole time, even though everything was starting to hurt, I could not believe my luck.
By this stage, my ankle was starting to get a bit annoyed with the whole 50km idea. My right knee and my right shoulder were also complaining, which meant that I had reached the point where 50% of my body was basically useless. I knew there was one final very steep climb ahead, followed by a sharp descent that my knee wouldn’t cope well with. But if the hill was high, so was this runner (on sugar, Mum, calm down).
At about 45km, I engaged full “let’s get this done” mode and put my skiing lessons to good use to run the downhill with only a moderate amount of pain (sideways, people, sideways). And just like that, that was it. A sign for the Hot Water beach campground and the noise of the crowd in the distance, hidden away by the trees, let me know that I was going to make it safe across that finish line.
I sat on the sand drinking celebratory beer and watched as runners dipped their feet in the hot spring, wishing I could be bothered to get up and do the same. I drove back home that night with my wooden medal on the passenger seat next to me and an ego so massive I didn’t even care about the look the man at the petrol station gave me when I walked in without bending my knees.
A 50k without training is as stupid an idea as it sounds and I’d never recommend you do it, but I’m giving you nearly a year’s warning about the next Tarawera Marathon and 50k. I suggest you lace up your running shoes and start training as soon as you’ve finished reading this (I’m nearly done, I swear).
In the end, I saw this race as a celebration of all things New Zealand, the country I chose to call home six years ago and the place where I fell in love with the outdoors. In just over seven hours, I got a taste of all things quintessentially Kiwi: scenery that you will never be able to find anywhere else in the world, camaraderie on the trails and the attitude of just giving things a try, even when all the odds are stacked against you.
And scones. Did I mention that my ultramarathon had scones?
- Vera Alves is a writer and editor based in Auckland, New Zealand, who is more than a little bit obsessed with running. She blogs about it at supergenericgirl.com.
Source: Read Full Article