Alarms were set for 4:30 as today is the long day starting at 6:30. We turned in early enough but sleep is not something I come on these event for, rarely stitching together more than a couple of hours at a time. My legs ache and moan incessantly and I’m up 3 or 4 times to urinate as my kidneys try to deal with the physical stresses of running marathon after marathon. As it happens I don’t need the alarm this morning as I’m already awake around 4. I contemplate getting the fire started but decide to stay curled up until my alarm goes off. Its warm this morning, maybe only 5 below freezing. I’m cosy under my sleeping bag but dreading the day ahead. Stage 4 is 65.5km long, covering a range of terrain from frozen lakes to wooded trail. When planning my nutrition of the race I estimated the day would take 8 and a half hours but have now readjusted that to 11 hours based on arctic kilometres. I’m absolutely shattered and I really don’t want to race.
I decide on a plan for the day based on the GPX file on my phone. The first 10km is frozen lake, I’ll settle into a nice running pace on that. Then there are 5 km through some woods - run the flats walk the ups - followed by another 7km lake which I’ll run. That takes me to 22km, just a marathon to go. The next 10km are on an undulating trail before at about 35km there is a 7km downhill to run. I decide that’s as far as I’m going to look, I’ll put some headphones in at that point and hopefully with a playlist on the go will figure it out from there.
Its still dark when we congregate for the race brief. Kris with a K tells us the usual, temps for the day are -8 to -15, check points 10km apart, except for the last one which is 7ish km to the finish. There is the usual debate about starting on snowshoes or not but mine are already on my feet having been knee deep just getting to the loo earlier. Kris gives us the countdown to start, I turn on my head torch a jog off behind Alex George and JJ. Once again my bruised heels protest as the snowshoe straps pulls on the back of my feet with each step but after a few kilometers the pain subsides. I settle in to my pace, a half run half march that I decide I will call a ‘runching’. I’ve gone past JJ and am only a hundred or so meters behind Alex and George who are running side by side. We go through the first check point as the lake ends and the path tunnels between some trees. Mikel one of the photographers is here with his camera and I make joke about how if he speeds up the footage it will look like I’m running. He chuckles and as I pass begins to run behind me filming. He says something about the trees and for the first time I notice how beautiful it is here this morning. Its grey but still and there has been snow and frost leaving the trees perfectly iced. I try to remember to look up and take it all in.
The narrow snow mobile trail continues to wind through the trees. I have been good on my policy not to look over my shoulder so far and a mantra has formed in my head. “This is my pace, I own this pace, I can run it all day” I repeat to myself over and over. I hear footsteps behind me and am fully expecting JJ to pass me but its Bert. He is without snow shoes and gives me a nod as he passes. He’s really moving and I consider wether I should take my snowshoes off but I look at his footsteps in the snow and he going quiet deep. That must be using a lot of energy, I’ll stay as I am; “This is my pace, I own this pace, I can run it all day.”
Jenny is at CP2 today, 22km in. “Wow, your really flying today!”
“I’ve decided,” I say, “that his is my pace, I own this pace, and I can run it all day” sounding like a mental patient. I refill my bottles and empty a tailwind sachet into one as I go. I also break my policy and look back down the course for JJ. He’s nowhere to be seen.
Ultra running is a mental game. You can only run as fast as your training will permit. Sure you can keep pushing when it is tough, you can not give up, but if you are a 4 hour marathoner, no amount of grit and determination is going to push you to finish in 3 hours. You are a product of the months and years of training before hand and there are no shortcuts. An Everest mountaineer I know summed it up well; “There is no hack, that got me there. It wasn't the cold showers in the morning, eating organic superfoods or following a keto/vegan/plant-based/paleo diet. No amount of yoga or morning meditation was going to replace the GRIND. I put the work in.” I have put the work in but I can’t go faster than my fitness. You can, however, blow yourself up. You can go faster than your fitness for a bit, but you will inevitably descend into a hole and either crawl painfully and slowly to the finish or worse pull out.
I can’t see JJ behind me and my mind starts to wander off. Maybe I’m 30 minutes ahead already? There are 10 minutes between us at the moment, maybe if I up the pace little but I can open that up. What if he has blown up? Maybe I finish the day an hour ahead and don’t have race it tomorrow, I could just cruise it then, that would be so cool. This is the mental game. We are only just 1/3rd of the way through the stage and I’m thinking about the finish line tomorrow. I’m starting to compete and I know that if let this continue in my head, then if JJ catches me it will either be mentally devastating or I will try to outrun my fitness. I pull my thoughts back. “Come on you daft twat. ‘This is my pace, I own this pace, I can run this all day.”
I’m approaching the halfway point and something has caught my attention. It’s a bird flying from right to left in front of me and I’m finding it absolutely astonishing. It takes a moment to realise that its at the first wildlife I have seen in days. It reminds me how lucky I am to be here at this time of year in this vast wilderness. Like a cast away drifting at sea the bird is the first sign of approaching civilisation. Moving further along the course I see another sign, a road running in parallel with the woodland firebreak I’m running along. Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere a lone husky dog trots past me, followed by more dogs pulling three dog sleds. The husky’s look like they are living their best life, having a blast racing through the snow. I remember dog sledding in Finland a few years prior and being told that they have to greatly restrict the dogs diets in the summer otherwise they would literally run themselves to a death through overheating since they love running so much. I break into a wry smile, because I on the other hand am not loving it. I have developed a nasty pain in my right shin each time I push off the ground with my toe. Its worse when walking so I try to keep running and accept less pain, but more frequently.
I run into check point 4 and JJ pulls in moment after. I fill a single bottle and set off. Its only going to be a minute or two then before he passes me as he has closed a huge gap. I’m not going to look over my shoulder though, going to run my own race. I hear a snowmobile coming behind me and since we are in a really narrow section I’ll need to move over to let them by so may as well go for a pee. I take a step to the edge of the course on the left and my foot, snowshoe and all sinks down to my thigh. I’m completely stuck, the snow shoe acting like barbs on a hook. I end up sitting on my butt and wiggling and yanking my foot until eventually its freed. The snowmobile passes me as I stand and they pay me the courtesy of not laughing at my misfortune. I go for a pee and continue. Where is JJ, surely he should have caught me now?
At 45km we begin another lake crossing, 5km in total with a small island to cross in the middle. JJ has now just passed me. “You good?” I called, “Let’s get this done!”, he says powering off into the distance. I’d later find out that the team at CP 4 temporarily lost his bottle cap when trying to defrost it and filling his water and it was this delay rage that was fuelling his charge. JJ has caught up with Bert, who I can now see on the lake in front of me. Bert stops to put on his snowshoes after running the 45km without. Its snowing now and grey and I think how different the stage would have been had the skies been blue, feeding my mood instead of sucking from it.
CP5 is at 50km at the junction of a road. I cross with the long spike on my snowshoes hard against the asphalt just beneath the ice. My shin is agony now with a purple bruise extending lengthways along my tibia, the paracetamol I have taken has had no affect and I resolve to take some ibuprofen, something the medics are highly cautious about due to the possibility of dehydration. The track away from the checkpoint is well packed, seemingly what passes for a snowmobile motorway in these parts. I decide to take the snowshoes off and see if that helps my shin. The path stays firm for 3km then we are back onto a lake, I elect to stay snowshoe-less for now as the snow is still better than it had been. Looking at the tracks in the snow I can see that Bert is still in his snow shoes. We circumvent the lake on its edge, then another. Its beginning to get dark and the snow is falling more heavily. I turn my head torch on bright to give the snow some relief to make it easier to find sure footing. It feels like it has taken hours since the last check point. Even running I’m only doing 10’30’’/km and as I arrive at the last checkpoint it has taken an hour an a half to cover 8km. Medic James is here. I answer his questions without him needing to ask; “feeling good, urinating lots and its a good colour”. He gives me a quick chat not to take the warmer temperatures for granted and to keep extremities covered. I decline any fresh water since I don’t need to carry an unnecessary 750g to the finish and I’m on my way.
There is only 7km left, in my head that’s a mere 40minutes and I have to reset my expectations and remind myself its 1 hour 20 minimum. Straight after the checkpoint is a steep climb. Its long enough to curse the course designer as some kind of sadist. I pass Bert on the climb. I ask if he is ok and he gives me a wave. He’s clearly shattered and moving slow and I wonder if he hadn’t got his snowshoe usage the wrong way round today. Even at my slow pace I open a gap between us quickly before having to stop and put my snowshoes back on after a few knee deep steps. As I set off again my head torch flashes a 3 times and goes to dim. I put fresh batteries in this morning, can it really be running out? The course has been hard to follow, I’m very much on my own and trying to spot random bits of red and white tap tied on tree branches is frustrating enough with a working head torch. I’m getting irrationally angry at the thought of having to change the batteries when I realise its just a power saving measure. I let my eyes adjust to the new level of light and continue to trudge across the lakes, now slushy and wet concealing the footprints from those ahead.
I can see some lights now. Sodium type streetlights buzzing with an orange yellow through the snow. I try not to get too excited, it could be the finish or it might not be. It could also be miles away. I continue to trudge along the lake, I’m basically walking now. A glass-fronted house next to the lights comes in to view, set up a high by the side of the lake. Just as I’m pondering wether this could be the finish I hear some cheers and and whistles and break back into a run. The course turns left and crosses from the right side of the lake. We go under a tunnel and onto a snow and ice covered driveway that turns uphill to the house. After 11 hours and 10 minutes I’ve made it. I’m am so relieved a don’t even curse the uphill finish or lack of an actual finish line. Mikel snaps some photos and I’m led into the building to claim my prize. My choice of spot on the floor.
The accomodation tonight is the least inspiring of the lot. The whole contingent are going to be in this one building. There are 25 matts strewn on the floor upstairs and another 15 downstairs. I pick a spot upstairs since runners are expected in until the small hours. I inflate my own thermarest and try and find somewhere to dry my kit. So far its Alex and George, who ran the stage together chatting the whole way, JJ and myself that have finished. One or two others who needed to drop out earlier in the day are here too. I pull up a chair with the other three round the fire and tuck in to tonights dinner. One more stage to go. I’m currently feeling a bit miffed at having to do another 15km - it feels pointless after todays stage. It’s only 15km someone says. It is, I say, but if you mentioned to someone back home that you were going out for a 15km run most people would say that’s a long way. That perspective is again moving the line for what’s normal.
Gradually the building fills as shattered runner after runner file in. Their arrival preceded by whistles and cheers from the team urging the tiny lights on the lake along. I’m wiped out. I tend to my feet, leaving the physio tape on my heels and right leg since I’ve now run out. I put a buff over my eyes and plugs in my ears and try to sleep. Its noisy and my body aches chronically but I exhaustion eventually takes me. I wake at 02:30 in need of the toilet. Carefully stepping over bodies strewn across the floor I head downstairs toward the loo’s. I’m so concerned with stepping on a sore body that by the time I see the human standing in front of me eating a freeze-dried meal I am right upon him. I nearly have a heart attack. Why on earth would someone decide to eat at this time! The cut off time at CP5 was 8pm. This runner had made the cut off and then taken over 6 hours to cover the last 14km. Hence the post stage meal. That is the grit, resilience and determination on show at these events. Its not Alex and George out front. Trotting along, chatting. Its not JJ and myself, spending a total of about an hour and half on the course in darkness. Its those up against the cut off times, those on their feet for twice the time, getting half the rest, and then still getting up and going again.
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