Running around in circles
Once you’ve been going for 36 hours, ‘running around in circles’ starts to make a lot of sense. It’s everything else that seems a little absurd. Like the race organisers who offer me delicious, home-made vegetable soup just five minutes after I’ve downed a cup of the just-add-water variety. Or the Caltex sign that glows like a low-hanging moon, brightening up the patch of ground near the 400 metre mark. Or the public bar that lost its liquor licence a few years back, and now has a ‘closed for private function’ sign hanging on a chain across the front deck, even though there’s clearly no function on tonight. Or the attire I selected for this evening: black tights, black thermal shirt, black jacket, black gloves, black balaclava. Just call me ‘ninja’.
And did I mention the other runners? They’re moving so much slower than I am, as if my progress is somehow sucking the energy from their muscles. I’m not fast — Granny would overtake me in a flash — but I’m running past them every few laps as they sleepily zigzag across the track. I jokingly suggest to Trevor and Dave that they jump on my ‘express train’. Trevor gives a weak laugh, but Dave only groans, wincing as he places each foot down ever-so-gently, as if onto shards of glass. Tonight’s spectators might have imagined they stumbled upon the zombie apocalypse, were it not for the fact that they have all been here since we started yesterday morning, looking after the runners. After 36 hours, they know what we’re about.
Bar, Caltex. I stop by my table, where Joe sits rugged up in a sleeping bag and Chris carefully stirs a thick glob of sweetened condensed milk into a travel mug of freshly plunged coffee. Calories and caffeine in one convenient, warm package — a discovery I made at another ultramarathon earlier this year, where I went against the unwritten laws and tried something new on race day. Tonight it smells good. It tastes good. But I can’t drink and run, so we walk. We talk, and I tell him that I feel good. His wife, Ruth, looked after me through the heat of the day, and now it’s his turn. He’s never seen people run for so long before; we’re testing the limits of human endurance, and Chris finds that exciting.
He checks his notepad. ‘You know, you’ll make 250 kays, easy.’
I nod. It’s a long way, and I don’t really want to think about it. Not just yet. I slurp the coffee instead, careful not to spill it on the balaclava I’ve stretched away from my mouth and tucked down below my chin. I clap another runner on the back, not to encourage him, but to wake him up. It’s an occupational hazard.
Chris is still talking. ‘You could walk, and you’d still make it.’ ‘Yep.’
I’m normally a woman of many words, but not tonight. Tonight I’m all out. I used them up hours ago, when the sun finally sank below the horizon and the thought finally sank in that I was already halfway through my second straight day of running.
We come back past the table to find that Joe has dozed off. Let him snooze — he’s on the next shift. The graveyard shift. There’s no graveyard in this little village, but there is a morgue, tucked in behind the police station. Libby almost set up there, with her sister, Kate, until someone suggested they might be dooming their races to failure. So they packed up and moved to the hospital. Kate’s six hours of running went just fine, but Libby’s been sick for most of the past 36 hours. Sick at the hospital… it’s probably a good thing she didn’t set up at the morgue. It’s not in service, of course — nothing is, except for the toilet block. I’ve set up opposite that, in a little garden that’s signposted ‘Wedding Area 2’. Cassie is over near the church, possibly praying for some divine intervention. She’s had a rough time, too.
I’m surprised that most of the runners seem oblivious to the energy that emanates from these buildings. I think it comes from the volunteers: local retirees who spend hours of their days, every day of the year, maintaining the venue, the displays and their hobbies. It’s a labour of love that sees them repainting the old cars in the garage and stoking the fire in the blacksmith’s cottage, a labour not dissimilar to that of the 48 hour crews, who patch up and feed their runners, hour after hour, ignoring their own needs. And that love hovers over this 500 metre decomposed granite track, a warm embrace to encourage any runner willing to receive it… and I am willing.
Bar, morgue, hospital, train tracks, Caltex, table… all in the space of 500 metres. Did I mention that I had to cross train tracks? There’s a miniature train that takes people on a tour of the village. It seems to have been locked away for the race, much to the relief of all runners — no one wants to give way to carriages of screaming children. And where are the screaming children? It seems the village is not a popular hangout on a Saturday night.
One hour later, we change direction: Caltex, train tracks, hospital, morgue, bar, table. Another hot drink — herbal tea this time — and some salty snacks to stave off the cramps. It’s getting hard to tell whether my feet are hurting; I worry that they’re numb. A sore spot is developing on top of my left foot, so I figure it’s time to go up another half shoe size. My feet are soft and squishy with fluid, but surprisingly free of blisters. They are covered in the fine dust that works its way through the open weave of my shoes and socks. I clean them off with a baby wipe, taking extra care to remove all the grit from between my toes, before struggling into clean compression socks and my fourth pair of shoes. I carefully reattach the timing chip and waddle back on the track. I’ve seized up a bit. It will be good to get moving.
When the silence gets too loud, I crank up the volume on my iPod. It’s a different kind of energy to the native energy of the village — one that I need to plug into — but it juices me up just as effectively. I belt out a few tunes in whatever key takes my fancy, to the horror of runners and spectators alike. I even dance a little, which must look a sight, but at least I’m still running. I refuse to join the zombie hordes. More caffeine: I crunch some chocolate-coated coffee beans and wash them down with hot tea. The last time I rinsed my mouth, I spat out what looked like the dregs from the plunger.
The sleep monsters catch me anyway, sending me to sleep six times during the lap, making me wander from side to side. I tell Joe not to worry, that I just need five minutes’ sleep. He clears a path for me to the tent, where I lie wrapped in a sleeping bag, flat on my belly for precisely five minutes. Then I’m circulating again, chasing a finish line that repeats on me every four minutes or so.
And soon enough a tiny patch of colour starts to show on the parts of the horizon I can see between the buildings, so faint at first that I don’t quite believe my eyes, but strong enough that I tell the others anyway. As the light creeps across the sky it also seeps into our bodies, warming us and giving us the energy to move a little faster.
‘I’m almost at 260 kays,’ I tell Chris, who has gotten up to head off to a different race just up the road, where he’s crewing for Ruth.
‘I know. You’re moving really well.’ Then he’s gone.
Now most of the other runners are moving really well, too. They’re waking up with the sun. A few of them are putting on a faster pace for the last two hours, but I honestly have nothing left. I didn’t wander through the darkness, like they did; I kept running.
Crowds start filling the grounds again, to watch their loved ones finish. I was expecting Matt and my parents to rock up around sunrise, but I’ve given up hope. I’m alone, except for Joe. Maybe Mum was scared off by the way I stole her lunch yesterday. ‘I guess my family doesn’t love me,’ I joke, surprised that I can still joke. This is now the longest period I’ve ever run for, if only by a few minutes, and the longest distance by far.
My shin is starting to hurt; a muscle called the tibialis anterior is going into spasm. It’s getting very tough now, but I can handle it. I can keep moving. I offer some words of encouragement as I pass Sara, who is in the 24 hour event. In return, she offers words of praise: ‘Mark says you’re in third place behind two guys. The other girls can’t catch you. Congratulations — you’re the new Australian female 48hr champion.’ It doesn’t quite make sense; it won’t sink in for a few days.
As the horizon finally loses its grip and frees the sun to rise above us, I see Matt at the edge of the track, chatting with Joe, but smiling with me. Finally! We kiss, and he walks a lap with me. Bar, morgue, hospital.
‘Why aren’t you running?’ he asks. Train tracks, Caltex. ‘Because I’m walking a few laps with you.’ Table, but no stop this time. ‘So why aren’t we running?’ Bar, morgue, hospital.
‘It’s against the rules.’ I thought he had known that: ‘Crew can only walk up to three laps at a time with their runner. I’m walking so you can come with me. I’ll run again soon.’ Train tracks, Caltex.
I’m confused by my overly emotional reaction to seeing the other runners churning out high-speed laps. I’m pleased for them, yet appalled that they’ve still got so much in the tank. Matt asks why I’m shaking my head, and I reply: ‘Everyone else is suddenly pulling out sprints. They should have run more last night. I have nothing left. I’m completely spent.’
Table. Joe’s wife, Ann, has come to see me finish. Matt and I stop to massage my shin, but it doesn’t seem to help much. The pain isn’t getting any worse, either, so I resolve to just run until I’m done. Soon the race staff will hand me a block with my name on it, which I’ll place at the side of the track when the finish siren sounds. Someone will come along with a trundle wheel and measure how far I made it around that final, incomplete lap, but I’ll be long gone, soaking up the hot rain from a shower faucet — if I can walk as far as the shower block.
I point at the timing board as I cross 270 kilometres, stunned that my body has kept going for so long, and wondering if I’ve forgotten how to stop. Bar, morgue, hospital, train tracks, Caltex, table. Removing my earphones, I can once again hear the crunch of gravel beneath my feet. No, not gravel — decomposed granite. I don’t know the difference anymore, though I’m not sure I ever did.
When the time comes to stop, instead of the elation I expect, I feel a sort of empty sorrow. Running is now my natural state. I want to keep going. I don’t want it to end, but it’s all over. I stop awkwardly with a little grunt, my left foot in front, and place the block down next to my rear heel, just as I’ve been instructed. I follow the track back to my table, because I seem to have forgotten how to cut through between the buildings, and relearning how to walk slowly has been enough of a challenge for one day.
After the handshakes, the hugs, the shouts of congratulations and (of course) the hot shower, there comes a big, shiny trophy. It suddenly hits me: I have run 272.88km, and I am now the national champion. Beyond this village, few will ever know — fewer still will care — but this weekend will stay with me forever.
Originally published at bukkertillibul.net.
