From Evernote:

Wacky Races

This year I have excelled in entering a diverse range of races.

Yesterday I completed the 6 foot track marathon, a 45km cross country run. In June I'll be doing my first Ironman (3.8km swim, 180km cycle and full marathon). Rachel has always wanted to do a marathon so in July we're off to Alice Springs for the outback marathon around Ayers Rock.

All that's a precursor the to Simpson Desert Challenge in October.

The Six Foot track entry came as a bit of a surprise. The entries open at nine and this year sold out in seven minutes. Despite having all the alarms set, sh1t happened at work and I didn't enter until 12:00 noon. That placed me at 102 on the veterans wait list. About a month out they reorganized and I dropped to 45 on the vets waitlist. I thought 'no way I'll make this' and so decided not to run. It's was a surprise to get the invitation at the end of February.

Physiologically, the 6ft is a good one to have in the bag. I reckon that success or failure in the Ironman will come down to the marathon: during the swim I can float with the tide, the cycle will be a lot easier than some of my training rides what with Tar-macadam as a surface; the marathon however will be something of a stinker. The 6ft is much more than a marathon, 60% more if you compare duration. It's good to think that maybe that's how hard the Ironman marathon will feel and yes, you can do it.

Incidentally, Ollie's running mates thought I was mad to carry a backpack and even madder to carry 3 liters of fluid. Maybe that's true, certainly it's become a habit for me to be self sufficient during training runs. I drank my 3 liters plus about another six cups of water and two of coke from the aid stations. For food i had the sports drink and a couple of vegimite sandwiches. Sounds odd bit the salty/savory vegimte was most welcome. I was fine for fluid and fuel - no dehydration headache, no hunger knock.

Setting out just to finish there was no need to push too hard at the start. Stupidly, I turned my ankle after the steps at only 20 minutes. It hurt a lot when I stopped for a pee but I limped off and soon managed to run through it and run straight. (note to self - contact lenses next time so you can see where you are going. It's too dark on that first section for sunglasses )

At the Cox's River we were on about 5:30 pace. I had already taken the decision to walk most of the hill. Working from my heart rate monitor I set a pace of 150bpm. If I could hold this walking, I walked. The first climb up to Mini-mini saddle flew by as did the second up to the pluivometer.

Six footers say if you can reach the pluviometer at 25km and still be smiling, you're home and hosed. That's true, though the long drag up the Black Range is where your aches and pains come out to taunt you. There are times in marathon running where things just hurt and you wonder what possessed you to enter the race in the first place. A couple of Km into the black range and my ankle started to make it's displeasure known.

At about 30km a couple of peels of thunder announced the arrival of a storm. The rain hissed through the forest, drumming off the peak of my cap. I arranged my Pertex top to keep the rain off my backpack. I didnt want to carry another kilo of wet cloth.

The deviation (35km) is the top of the course. From here, disregarding the uphill bits, it's all downhill. 200m from the turn I rolled my ankle again. Then again, and again. Billhooks! I was now limping quite badly, unable to walk or run. For the first time I had doubts about finishing.

Of came the pertex, off came the rucksack and out came the ibuprofen. I took 2 with little hope they would make a difference. I walked off, jogging where I could, wary of the rough bits of the track.

The track after the road is better, smoother and well formed. It's here I reckon that the milestones add in that extra kilometer.

A Scottish bumble bee threw his head back and screamed at the forest. Mr Crampy had bitten his thigh.

'Pain is weakness leaving the body' advised another runner. I considered this for the next kilometer but I couldn't get my head around it. As a source of strength or humor it left me unmoved. Meanwhile the ibuprofen, reinforced by a continuous stream of Anglo-Saxon expletives had restored my ankle to a functioning condition.

Down, down, down. That killer descent to the finish. Burning quads. Dicky ankle. Nothing could stop me. I was going to make it.