Hello?
Is there anybody in there?
Just nod if you can hear me.
Is there anyone home?
Come on, now,
I hear you're feeling down.
Well I can ease your pain
Get you on your feet again
Roger Walters, Comfortably Numb
The roaring in my head had stopped but barbaric ice-whips still lashed my frozen face and hands. I shuffled down the steps and into the observation tower to claim my medal and finishers’ certificate. All too soon and about an hour before I would have started to thaw I was kindly yet firmly directed back outside into what was now a full-blown blizzard. I squinted through the pelting snow, trying to locate bus 184. An attendant, wrapped in several layers of plastic, face half-hidden under a generous beanie hat, extended a gloved finger towards some vehicles.
‘Gear buses there’ then, pointing as he pivoted through 45 degrees ‘Buses back down over there’.
I nodded my thanks, still unable to form words through my frozen lips. I walk-hobbled towards the former, climbing aboard bus 184. A number of shivering, pink-fleshed souls were delving through the piles of bags like vagrants at an unattended yard sale. I squirmed through the meleé, grateful for any kind of heat-generating friction with whoever I might rub against, to where I thought I’d left my backpack. Nothing doing.
Blast. I could REALLY use a clean, dry t-shirt and my jumper about now ... I looked up.
‘Lost your gear mate?’
A tall slim gent in a black singlet stared quizzically. It occurred to me I must resemble some form of Tasmanian mountain man.
‘Uh, yeah ... could have sworn it was in this row ...’
He looked at my race number.
‘Ah, this is the walker’s bus mate. Runners are all next door.’
I mumbled my thanks and scuttled off, embarrassed. Moments later I was reunited with my LA Fitness bag (on bus 181 as it turned out), pulling on a warm, dry T-shirt and my fabulously thick woollen jumper. I could have wept. I pulled my phone out of my shorts and tried to tweet but my sausage fingers were still too uncomfortably numb.
Leaving the bus I spied SP approaching the finish. I waved and tried to smile, the effort hurting my face, my feeble cry whipped away across the mountain. Cruel sleet continued to lance in from that direction so I sheltered behind a bus. The line of finishers had grown, queueing back up the steps to leave the poor swine at the back exposed to the elements. Much as I’d liked to have waited for Andy I was just too bloody cold so I jumped on the next bus heading down. The doors closed and we set off, slowly so as not to crush the spawning salmon throwing themselves up the icy rock towards the finish. Incredibly a couple set off ahead of us, running back down the slope at a cracking pace, disappearing into the near-distance. My legs screamed in silent protest and I shook my head. 21.4 kilometres uphill into an ice-storm is clearly not enough for some people.
Most of my fellow passengers had their eyes cast to the ground. Nobody spoke. Within minutes I could see nothing outside, the windows made opaque by warm breath on cold glass. I tried to assess the damage to my shattered limbs but there were too many points of pain to tell one from another. I dug into my goodie bag and dragged out a packet of viscous jelly sweets. I didn’t fancy them at all but next thing I knew I’d inhaled the lot, licking my cracked lips as I finished. The girl in the next seat shot me a sympathetic smile and again I wondered what on Earth I must look like. Tom Hanks towards the end of Castaway was probably close. I snapped a self portrait; yep, pretty nasty.
I got word (via Twitter) that Graham and Chris had made it shortly before the race had closed (dead on the official cut-off time of 11:20). Usually the P2P Race Director allows the slower participants to finish but conditions were now so brutal they'd pulled the plug. With hypothermia a clear and present danger for those still on the mountain the call was the right one. Our bus became a Red Cross wagon, stopping at drinks stations to mop up the huddled, frozen forms clinging to what little shelter there was. Blue-faced shivering wrecks climbed gingerly aboard, wobbling to the back of the bus. As we reached the sharp turn at the 9k point the sun emerged, radiant and unashamed as if nothing untoward had happened. By the time we reached the casino the skies were crystal clear, Mount Wellington’s cloudless crown beaming down on us. I've never seen a mountain look so smug.
I hooked up with SP and Stephen (arrived on the next bus down) to take advantage of the sponsors' hospitality, the thick hot pumpkin soup both inspired and delicious. Graham and Chris joined us, looking reasonably well after their ordeal (of which more soon over at MLCMan’s diary). Jane shuttled us back to the house where we took turns to de-ice under a mercifully hot, indecently powerful shower before cracking a Coopers Ale and toasting our survival. Despite the fearsome ending I’m keen to return, with many more miles in my legs, to finish the job properly.
Before I left for home (via Sydney and Hong Kong) this morning Graham and I took off for a dawn raid on Seven Mile Beach. This, regular readers will know, was the scene of a
particularly impressive run for our host back in 2008. We’d gone along yesterday (Monday – it’s all too confusing with the time differences – the morning after the race, OK?) to run the lactic acid out of our weary bodies, bagging 8 kms at a decent clip (around 44 minutes). To help stimulate the healing process we added a dip in the ‘refreshingly cool’ ocean. This morning we staggered back onto the beach just after 5am, our busted legs in no shape to repeat that pace. Instead we loped easily along the shoreline, chatting away like life-long mates, soaking up the sunrise as the high, rippled cloud faded from purple-black through blood red to creamy mashed potato. I’ll miss Hobart, my new friends and the warmth and kindness of their countrymen. SP remained for a further week traveling through Tasmania and Sydney. I confess that as happy as I’ll be to get home to my loved ones I had to suppress the sharp pang of envy as we shook hands before dashing to make my flight.
Once again huge thanks to MLCMan and his charming family for their excellent planning, good company and warm, generous hospitality. Friends for life indeed.
I’ll be back.
