Great Southern Endurance Run â 2022
The race that should not have happened. Why? because I wasnât ready and lacked volume, strength and funds to give the mountains what they demandâŚ.respect.
Personal circumstances and lack of enthusiasm left me on very low volume training. How low? Only two trail runs in months. Some strength work, stairs at work and long runs that rarely even hit double digits. My run streak barely counting as training. I bumped into Tony Smith before parkrun one day and said I had committed to going back to the mountains âAre you hiding an extra 200km a week in training?â âNo mate, going to run what I have.â âOuch, let me know how that goes!â I already knew it was going to be rough and doubted I would make the finish.
My race plan was stupid and simple, even had a catch phrase.
No training, no crew, no pacers and no drop bags - âIâm gunna die!â
Tuesday - Travel Day arrives and after a stressful start Iâm in a seat at close to 2am trying to get some sleep.
Wednesday - I find myself on the floor at Tullamarine airport behind a baggage carousel with an alarm set. After almost three years exactly, I am catching up with my little brother Rowan. We had not ran together since he paced me for the last 40km at GSER 2019. We had missed each other and no matter how the race panned out, catching up was going to be the highlight.
We link up and catch up as we make our way to the illustrious Jucy camper van. A regular Toyota Tarago, with 1.5 full grown men to live inside of it. It was tight, but it drove reasonably well, was affordable and most importantly had us reunited.
We make the nearly four hour drive from Melbourne to Harrietville and set up base camp at the caravan park, which involved putting our bags in the front seats and opening the rear door. Pretty basic. A 5km shake out run up the Bon Accord Spur together to make some mental markers and dinner at the pub.
Thursday â We take our time rising, poke about a little while then go in search of coffee and a 23km  drive to Bright for internet and an extension cord. Jucy didnât come with a way for us to charge our kit for the race, so off we went. While there, we fit in our streak run along the very full, Ovens River, supplies and prepped our race kit in the park. Lunch was a fluke as we wandered into a boutique burger joint to be greeted by Joseph, a local running legend and all round mountain goat, who cooked us our lunch!
Back to Harrietville for race check in, our gear already pre-checked a week earlier made this easy with just a couple key items, some photos and stock up on some event merch before once again heading to the Snowline Hotel for dinner and WIFI. Itâs almost race day.
Friday â 4am the alarm goes off, but we were already both awake. Rain, cramped conditions and excitement has neither of us sleep all that well. We tooled up our kit in the rain and got to the start line. In the dark drizzle it was a hum of anticipation. We move into the start corral and after just a few words from Co-Race Director Matt, we were trotting down the cycleway for the 5km path section to the trout farm.
Rowan and I shoulder to shoulder in our first race together. He was prepared and eager, I was undercooked and jovial as we stayed together for the opening section. It didnât take long for Rowan to quietly move ahead, and two steps soon turned to twenty as he got smaller and smaller into the distance, keen to hit the first long and infamous climb to the peak of Mt Feathertop. 1600m of climbing single track in 10km. I shared a some trail with his Brisbane friend and eventual winner of the womenâs race Jalna.
We passed the trout farm, and I could only occasionally get a glimpse of Rowan as he forged ahead. I settled into a small group of runners and soaked up the vibe as we worked the ascent. At one point all four of us stopping to remove leaches from our calves. Blood free flowing, feeling a bit hardcore already. I would remove at least two more leaches through the race.
The climb gets more and more technical as we spread out and pass the lookout hut and I falsely believe that was the peak, nopeâŚmore to come!
I pass a marshal and hit the final out and back leg to bag the peak. The wind is howling as I climb through thick mist, snow drift building to my right side. Runners are coming back down, and I see Todd and Rowan close together. Both looking great as they hurl encouragement my way. I wonât see either again for many hours. I hit the peak and turn back down, detouring to a snow section. I was tempted to try my hand at glissading but I see how steep the drop off was on the other side, and decide those few steps was more adventure than I needed at this point. I could not even see how far it fell away vertically, so I got back onto the rocky trail and made my way back down, cheering on the oncoming runners to hide my grimace of just how painful descending was already. 18km in and I feel the unfamiliar cramp creep in the quads. I expected it to be tough, but this early was a bit ridiculous. I slow down and shuffle the easy bits and walk the more challenging sections.
Forging along the Razorback track I let runners past whom are moving better than I as I start to slide back in the field. First half marathon complete and Iâm trying to find an easy paced groove, but that self preservation voice in my head is working overtime. It reminds me how underprepared I am, how I donât deserve to be here, how badly Iâm already doing and if I just turn right down the Bon Accord Spur in a couple kmâs it will be over quickly, and I can just crew for Rowan and help him have a great event. The pull to quit was strong. If I had been offered an out right then I would have taken it.
From behind, I am caught by Zoe. We get chatting and she tells me about how she fell in this race once, broke her knee and just kept at it until it was done. She finished this with a broken kneeâŚ.and here I was having a massive pity party over being slow and tender. The kicker, Zoe says âsome of my stops will take a while as I have to breast feed my baby.â Great, I canât just turn off course in front of this awesome woman and quit. I steeled myself just a little and stayed on course a while longer, hoping the road section would at least let me move ok and feel better. I could quit at the next aid station. Blowhard. The first of very many deals I cut with myself.
At almost 27km we pop out onto the Great Alpine Road section, met by marshals who make sure we wear out hi-vis vests, and also put out headlamps on low beam. Visibility is so poor we can barely see the other side of the road. The marshal says, â2km on the right side then you hit the aid station.â I leave with another gent but once again we soon spread out. I really liked Zoe, but her bubbly and optimistic chat was making it hard for me to sulk my way out of this race, so I didnât wait for her. She soon caught me and we talked of kids and her baby Winter, called Winnie for short.
Blowhard was busy, the first aid station, and accessible by crews on a bitumen road. Felt like people everywhere. âDo you have a drop bag? I canât find itâ asks a volunteer. âNo, I donât have a drop bag.â I felt a little badass every time I said that. I couldnât get a hashbrown as the little cookers couldnât keep up with demand of runners coming past. The fire pit was crowded by people, I took a cup of noodles and stood right back, took my time as I assembled my excuses to drop out here and find a ride back down the hill. I couldnât think of something solid enough, and I was soaked, so figured I would hobble my way out to the next aid station, put some dry socks on from my emergency bag and quit there, where it would be quieter. A 15km hobble and I knew what that section looked like. I was in for some personal torture if these legs donât free up. Mt Saint Bernard, The Twins and Barry Mountains await.
I peel out from the aid station and turn left, the road heavy with fog. Something nags at me about the course, and I check my watch as I move down the road, and it shows me drifting off course. I double back to the aid station and asked for directions. A busy volley says, âturn left, stay left and well off the road, you will see the track.â Ok, so there is a track? I missed that part in the runners booklet. I head back out again and stumble into some tape and marking on the ground pushing me left and further off the road. Back on trail I am actually a bit excited, I really donât like that road section, with almost no shoulder in sections, cars, fog and wind itâs one of the more dangerous parts of the course. I remove my vest and headlamp and get going again. Pushing along with a really low gear and often walking.
As I round a corner, I bump into a photographer getting shots with Hotham in the background, if only there wasnât so much fog! After about 1km I pop back on the road, disappointed to have to put my vest and lamp back on for more Great Alpine Road running for a further 4km. I make the turn to Mt Saint Bernard and more dirt. 2km of track before the left turn up the no trail section to The Twins.
Amazingly, I can climb ok, a steady hike and my little legs drive me through the scrub, and I catch a lady whom I didnât catch her name and another runner Tim who doesnât have the course on his watch. Moving slowly, he works tape to tape. We link up and he follows my lead as I use both the watch map and the tape to find the way to the exposed grass covered peak.
I crest the steep climb and make my way over the grassy top towards the survey marker at the peak, hiking a steady hike but also dreading the next descent and climb. Two tough bits on legs that donât like me very much. As I head down, I take my time, moving so slowly I am soon caught by Tim and the lady, we work down together. We hear two voices off to our right, off course by a hundred meters or so. We try call them back towards us, but they donât respond. We forge on ready for the gnarly climb back up the other side to the ridge of the Barry Mountains. Again, climbing I make a little ground as I fight my way up the technical rocky climb. Just how steep and sketchy this is, is really hard to describe. Photos and video just donât do it justice. Not that media would be any good today with visibility down to mere meters.
I crest, finally and claw my way along the ridge. Certain Iâm moving forward to quit at the Mt Murray aid station. Currently 39km in and every step feels like pointless drudgery. The negative self talk is a roar in my head as I find reasons to stop the moment I get to that aid station.
Zoe catches me and we hike along the grassy yet lumpy ridge for a while. âYay thatâs a marathon!â she joyfully declares. I check my watch and it says 40km. âWhatâs your watch say? Mine is only at 40, maybe I bumped it or something?â âOh, I donât wear a watch, I just look at it all the time, so I just go with the flow. It feels like a marathon though.â I laugh to myself thinking âfeels much further than a marathon to me sister!â keeping my plans to quit to myself.
The terrain opens up and Zoe has a little run. Leaving me to hobble downhill to myself.
A few more people come past, kindly check in on me as I walk along a faint single track that is just screaming to be run along. I hit a reception cell and my watch reads âRILEY â Good luck dad.â I stop, and take my phone out, read my youngest sons text message. A fire burns as I reply âthanks son, itâs really tough out here.â The weather is kind enough to shoot a selfie video, I talk of how my legs feel, how a breast feeding mum just dropped me like a stone and how I will assess continuing a the next aid station. In my heart I already know I want out.
I continue at a painfully slow pace down the Barry Mountains, threading my way along a beautiful single track, pulling to the side to let others past as what feel like most of the field rolls me up. Wet feet soaked through, the fun and adventure well and truly worn off. If I quit quick enough I can still get back to the van and help Rowan.
The trail opens up to the track and the aid station is laid before me. At least itâs not raining. A helpful vollie asks for my bib number, âCan I get you anything mate?â âYeah, some scissors to cut this thing offâ as I hold up my wrist band. âCan I get you anything else? This is a really bad place to quit, you wonât get out of here for hours, best you just walk to the next aid station, itâs only 6km, better chance of getting out thereâ
Well, isnât that just wonderful news.
My feet are already trashed at 44km, the only saving grace I felt was at least I had revalidated my ultra-distance for the year. Just once. I was going to have to dip into my emergency bag to change shoes and socks to make it to the next aid station with the least damage to my feet. I feel defeated having to touch it when I really didnât want to, but I was having a terrible day. Fresh shoes and socks on my hooves, a cup of coke and a bag of lollies to go and I was sadly making my way to the next location to drop out. 6km of walking to think of a more assertive way to quit. My brain already paving the way with the best excuses.
This leg was exclusively four wheel drive track, some ups and down but in military speak, essentially and admin move. I shot another selfie video about how that guy was really nice but also really mean to not let me quit. If a car drove past at any point on that leg and offered me a lift, I would have taken it. No doubt. I could hear foot steps in the distance, and had two peeâs along the way with a few moments of clear skies between Mt Murray and Selwyn Creek Rd aid stations.
My mood is still as low as my feet as I wander into the aid station. My mind comparing how in 2019 I got through here in 6 hours (granted it was 42km in the old course) and this year and here I was dragging ass in 11 hours 30 minutes. Lucky I didnât trip over my bottom lip walking in. My least favourite hill facing me ahead.
I call my bib number as I walk in and get marked off. I wander to the aid table and a nice man asks me if I have a drop bad âNo thank you, I donât have a drop bagâ I admit, that feeling gives me a little strength. A young man who I later learn is named Rowan, rolls out his practiced speech offering the aid station wares. He gets to the offer of a cheese toasty. My ears perk up, âcheese toasty you say?â He excitedly dives into the cheese toasty menu, a wide array of breads, butters and cheese to suit most. âSo, what kind of bread would you like?â âSquare bread please buddy, what ever cheese you have and if possible, an unhealthy amount of salt.â I catch him off guard. âHuh, square bread?â Confused as it wasnât on his planned list of items. âYeah, thanks buddy, any kind of bread, it really doesnât matter to me, but a cheese toasty anyway you make it would really help.
Rowan jumps to action flexing his cheese toasty might. I load it with my own very unhealthy amount of salt and neck the whole thing so fast it wasnât funny. It lifts my spirits. I look around, there are no crews here and Rowanâs face is beaming as he watches me devour his hard work in a few bites. I canât bring myself to quit in front of this guy. So, I have my bottles topped off, grab a bag of lollies for the road and wander back out. I can try quitting at Van Dammes aid station. Itâs only 25k more, with three notable climbs along the way.
Iâm quickly mowed down by a pacer chasing after his runner, they must have been late to the aid station and the runner got going before the pacer arrived. Every crews worst nightmare. He was moving well and Iâm sure he caught him quickly. My pace was very slow coming down the first descent. I am caught by a train of gents as we start the scrub fight up Mt Selwyn.
Itâs clear there has been a lot of work on this track, 2017 it was a real fight to not only find the way but to also get through the dense bush. This year there was notable clearing and even a faint line to follow.
A bunch catch me, two boys sticking together no matter what, Jon and Dave. Real nice guys who laughed about this very much being type two fun. Also with them were two other gents Chris and another Jon.
They were deep in conversation as we all fought our way over Mt Selwyn. I gave the advice for everyone to try beat sunset over this and the next climb. That would land us on four wheel tracks again and be easier going than wrestling with the bush in the dark. We all made it over both hills and beat the darkness.
Jon and Dave pushed ahead, solo Jon fell behind and I found myself in a steady hike with Chris. We had some interesting and humorous conversation to pass the time as darkness wrapped itself around us. We talked of death, separation, children, happiness and ebikes brought along to group rides. At a steady rate we ate a few miles of track on our way to Van Dammeâs, until a long downhill section saw me need to slow down, and the 65 year old, tall silver fox strode away from me with ease while heading down a long track descent. Broken only by a couple of runners already on their way back from the turnaroundâŚ.40km ahead of us.
 Passing through the valley I start the 5km long climb to the aid station. A very boring hike, and I manage to hike well and catch Chris, Liz and her pacer. Liz and her pacer tell me Rowan has had to get help for his back. Terrible chaffing that needed to be strapped. It was the first time I had even thought he might be in trouble of any kind. I just assumed he was out there smashing without a hitch.
An eternity passes and the lights of the aid station are upon us, a small fire trying in vain to be a much bigger fire under wet wood. 17 hours since I set out from Harrietville. About 11pm. Itâs busy with Warren, Todd and another runner heading for home. âItâs tough going up the Viking, but bloody slippery coming down mate.â âBe careful up there mate.â âThe wind is howling up top.â
Todd says âI know you like the Viking mate, always talked of it, but itâs F*&ked!â Not a lot of positivity coming from those guys. As they set off, Iâm asked if I have a drop bag, they canât find it. âNo thanks, I donât have one.â
I peel my shoes and socks off and sit in the mud next to the fire, a feeble attempt to dry them out. Iâm offered food and drink while the guys there apologise that the fire isnât better. The rains wet all the wood. Itâs certainly better than nothing.
I put my shoes back on, I stand back. I eves drop on the call about a runner that needs evacuation. A car is leaving town at first light, will be here by 8am to get him out. A very long wait. Chris had already told me he quit with a dislocated thumb and torn leg at 7am in 2017 from the closest aid station to here, he didnât get out until 3pm. I would be in for a long wait.
Dave and Jon beat me there by about 10 minutes. Dave sees me standing with my tracker in hand, âdonât do it man.â âNah, I think Iâm done man, I have tried to quit so many times, I can get out with the young guy there.â âJust come walk with us, Jon and I are walking really slow. Just hang in there a bit longer. We are going slow, you can tell us about the Viking, you have done it before.â
I look around the aid station. It has just a couple of seats, bums already in them. Not a lot of shelter for an extra body to just lay about. It would be very uncomfortable to wait that long wet. I fill my bottles and agree to go when the boys go.
Liz, Zoe and their pacers had already left.
I push my tracker back into its holder and fill my bottles and set out with the boys. Thatâs when Dave admits he knows me from Rowanâs 2019 video. We share a good talk, but when one of the guys needs a rest stop, I try push ahead. I realise my good headlamp may not make the night, mental maths says if I take too long, I could find myself on the Viking, in a storm with my back up light. I decided to fight on, if I push hard enough, I can be back in Van Dammeâs aid before 8am, safely off the Viking and in a car heading out. At least I made the turn around point.
In that moment, a bright light is coming back, itâs Rowan, cheering and celebrating. He had just seen another runner who said I didnât look good and was ready to drop. He was as thrilled to see me moving as I was, he. A quick chat and once again, we were separated. I was beaming on the inside seeing him push on.
Only the Barry Saddle lay between me and the talking point of the race. The Viking. This leg was only 10.6km each way, and the gnarly part is less than 3km up and 3km down. But donât let the short distance make it sound easy. The 5km in took me 2 hours 14 minutes, the five out took 2 hours 19 minutes. Everyone talks about it for good reason.
After the Barry Saddle the climb starts, steep single track to begin with, but only getting steeper, tougher and more technical. Any steeper in some section and it would be an overhang. The trees, roots, leaves, branches and rocks all slick with wet mud from the field ahead. Poles sometimes helped, often a hinderance. 20 hours deep into this and Iâm fighting my way once again through the bush, rock, mud and navigating the course, with two way traffic. After the first tough section and before the second one, I hear swearing, screaming and all round pissed off voices, smashing through the bush to my left. Chris is just a head of me, trying to call them back to the course. âThis is so f*&cked, the bush just destroyed my shoes.â âWhy isnât this marked better.â Yells another voice. âWhere is the f%^cking trail?â declares a third, and well, there was plenty more in there too. Runners seemed to have followed each other off course and found themselves fighting even harder on the Viking. They made their way down and Chris let me past. I had a slither of determination now, not to be caught on here with a back up light. I had been here before and a bad light was a bad move.
I made some ground on him and caught the back of Liz and her pacer as they too were forging along trying to find the way. I offered what I could. âTwo km to the summit.â Later when asked again I said â1 km to the summit.â I think Liz must have misheard me the first time, as she didnât seem too impressed it was still 1km and they stopped for a rest and to take in some calories. I just wanted to bag this peak and kept moving ahead at a steady pace.
Eventually popping out on the grassier section. I can smell woodfire, but canât see it, that smell of a fire being put out. I make the peak where the red light is flashing away. A turn around sign there and one runner says âWelcome to The Viking.â Itâs calm and cool, the feeling of expanse comes over me as I look out into blackness. After transferring some fluids from my back up bottles to my front bottles I turn back to head down behind him.
The descent is as hairy as always. I see Liz and her pacer not too far away from the peak themselves and as I make my way back down, my stride opening as I check the time of day. Hoping I am moving fast enough to beat the familiar blink of my light saying âalmost done.â I catch Fiona and two other guys, and we try work together down the treacherous slippery mountain. Fiona and I end up following the two guys down a false trail and lose precious time bush whacking our way back to the trail. My watch taking me the shortest way possible. Liz comes past as I balance speed and safety. Fiona and the guys are left fighting, talking among themselves not hearing me call them to the trail marker. I canât be caught here on my back up light, so I leave them to it as I see them steadily making their way over. I soon catch the back of Liz again and quietly tag along with them as the trail slowly begins to flatten from mountain to saddle and we hike along, thankful my lamp made it this far.
About half way along the saddle I realise my stride is working ok, as the ladies stop for a quick break I push ahead. For the first time in almost a day, I feel positive. Like I could make some ground before the sun rises. I set a goal to push as far as possible on this lamp.
Before the sun rises, the next storm hits, I pull my storm shell on quickly, and as the morning sky begins to lighten, fighting through the storm cell right over me the cold makes its way inside. My hands shake as I pull my hood over my head, and I do the zip up. Breathing into my jacket for warmth, donât waste it. The smell is as you can imagine as I have covered nearly 100km in 24 hours in the same t shirt.
Saturday - My mud soaked feet feel like porridge as I trudge along. The steep mountain pounding giving me more blisters in places I had never had blisters before. The strain of the climb causing old injuries to reappear. Knowing that issues wonât get better with time and distance it all starts to fall apart for me. My hike slows to a crawl. I hit a more developed trail, stop to put on my wet weather pants. Iâm now in full wets, but wet and not generating heat. The cold is inside, and my hands quiver and I put my vest back on. I am miserable once again. As I walk, I am passed again by Fiona and others on approach to Van Dammeâs. I am in before 8am, and I am done.
I have my number checked, I stand by the fire and scan around. The medic truck is gone, the young guy is gone, there are no seats as the storm continues to dump itself on me.
âHow long until I can get out from here? Wasnât there a young guy going at 8am?â
âHe left already, soonest you can get out from here is when we pack the aid station this afternoon.â
âOh man, I just want to go home, Iâm so done.â
âHonestly mate, the fastest way out is to walk to the next aid station.â
âI really donât want to walk 25km in this.â My hand upturned to the rain. I thank them for volunteering, fill my own bottles and set off down the 5km road descent. Pretty sure I did trip over my bottom lip but manage to stay upright.
My body is still wrapped in plastic, the rain breaks for a moment in the early morning light and a wave of fatigue comes over me. I stagger sideways as my eyes close. I think of how much the downhill is hurting my mashed potatoes. My blinks are getting longer as I wander down the seemingly level and flat gravel road. Itâs so boring Iâm once again falling asleep on the move. My brain is shivering in itâs empty holder, I decide I need somewhere dry to put my thermal on. I have never had to wear it in a race before, but it was now a case of time to layer up or I was not going to make the 25km leg. As I wonder about a place to dress, I look to my left and think âwhy donât I stop in that big white hut, itâs perfect.â and as I stare at the hut, I see itâs not a hut, itâs a fern. I laugh, and moments later I see an even better looking hut with walls. âoh thatâs a good one.â Then I laugh again, as I realise itâs a guide post. Iâm tripping balls for the first time. As funny as it is I also realise I still have about 23km in this leg and kind of need my brain to work. I open my vest and dig out a No Doze tablet, a hand full of lollies, a gel and load up my system. I wash the lot down with VFuel and force myself to shuffle from one guide post to the next. Run one, walk one and thought about what was happing in my body that was good and tried to block the downhill pain.
I pictured the caffeine working, the running generating heat, the sugars filling my muscles. Run one walk one as it all worked for me, I was proud of myself to have got myself moving again. To fight the sleep and problem solve my way out. I felt like my old self. I began the hike up the other side of the valley. The side I fell asleep on in 2017 before East Buffalo Rd. I forced myself to run some more, and my body responded.
As I reached the old East Buffalo aid station location, I removed my wets and had a toilet stop. Two people came past while I was out of view. I got moving again. The rain now gone and the sky clearing. The views were returning. For the first time in the race, I did the mental maths of finish time and distance. I had just under 12 hours to cover just over 50km for a sub 40 hour finish and coveted silver buckle. The edge of impossible. I soon caught Fiona. We talked a while but as we climbed Selwyn South, I made some ground on her and she slid from my rear view mirror.
As I passed over the summit I came across Adrian on the descent. We stayed together a while talking and covered Selwyn together, inching closer to the aid station. I slowed my pace a little as to keep working together. He was moving well but I felt a fire burning to get to the next aid station. On approach to the final climb, I could hear dirt bikes. As a rider myself my ears always prick up at the sound of a bike, but these were close. A few ride past me from behind and stop at the base of the next climb. Pink course markers flapping in the breeze. A runner already halfway up the climb.
Surely not. As the KTM fires back up and hits the climb, tearing past the runner and screaming his way over the top. I keep running right past the other three riders waiting their turn. I keep running, my legs fuelled with desire and some anger. We may not have the park to ourselves, but every rider knows they toss rocks out the back wheel. Itâs not like the runners can go a different way. The next rider tears past me, I brace to wear a rock as he bounces over the middle of the track and the bike slides out from under him. He goes down hard on the rock slope. His bike stalls on its side, his mates calling to him, but as I am still running, I get to him first. âYou alright mate? First guy to come help you has ran 120km beforehand.â His goggles hanging from his helmet. âYeah Iâm fine, you buggers are crazy.â He fires up his bike as I keep jogging past. Legs raging on fire. His bike fires up, but the slope is so steep he canât get moving forward, back tyre spinning. He rolls the bike around and descends. He tries again and soon after fires past me as I am about to summit the long grind. Rocks flying. I walk as more bikes come past, another canât make it and has to turn back before crashing out in front of me.
I shuffle over the top and descend the mirrored side of the hill into the aid station. I still hate the hill but am distracted by more bikes riding the other side. They are coming up from the front and a side trail. Itâs hard to believe with a park this big they all choose to ride this track with people on it at the same time. The anger is short lived though, Iâm eager to see my little mate Rowan and his square bread.
30 and a half hours after starting, I roll my body back into Selwyn Creek Road aid station with 120km in the pegs. Rowanâs little face beaming. I had an order already planned out for him. I take a few minutes to stop and eat, fill one bottle for the next leg. I notice a few people sitting near their drop bags. It starts raining again, unsure if it will stay around or not, I pull my storm shell back on, thank the team once more and hit the dirt, picking up a few more places on my mission for sub 40 silver. I run the hill out of there as far as my little wobbly Bambi legs will take me. Feet on fire. Next stop, Mt Murray and dry socks.
6km four wheel track hop to Mt Murray. As the sun returns and can actually see it, I decide to stop and remove my shell before overheating in it. I get moving again and wonder if I can hear voices behind me, or if my brain is playing tricks. I force a little shuffling when the terrain suits. Flat or slight uphill and I could run, downhill was tough on the feet and quads, so I saved them as much as possible.
I round a bend and come up on Ash. His head low as I grind up on his six. âWow, you really came back from the dead!â as I approach his shoulder. He stops to dig into his pack. I ask how heâs doing and itâs clear he is in a tough spot. âKeep at it mate, Iâm told you canât wear the shirt if you donât finish!â He laughs and gets moving again. After scanning the rear and not seeing anyone coming, I turn forward. I dig the tips of my poles in and drive myself ahead.
As I hit the junction where the 50 and 100 mile courses re-join, 126km in, I cross paths with a 50 mile runner. He must be up the pointy end as he is still moving really well as he heads to bag the Mt Murray turn around point. âLooking solid man.â I say, he says Iâm looking good too. Usually, lip service but for the distance I was actually feeling good. A far cry from dawn the same day. I can hear the cheers from the aid station. I plan my stop to be efficient as possible.
As I wheel in, I call my number and find my own drop bag. Socks, lollies to go, swap main headlamp, ginger beer, fill two bottles and get out of dodge.
I open the bag, grab brand new GSER branded socks, stuff the lollies in my vest, neck a can of ginger beer, swap my head lamps and then stare and my still shod feet. Do I really want to see what I have felt since I last sat here. I fear if I see how bad they are, I will lose this momentum I have finally built, however if I donât change my socks now, I will be pushing into the middle of the night, and they will only get worse.
I get brave, undo my gaiters and laces. Peel the  mud-soaked shoes off, carefully unwrap my soaked socks and ignore all that I see. I tear open the brand-new socks, breaking the rule of no new things race day. A 50-mile runner sitting next to me says, âoh youâre not are you?â I reply âyeah, not a lot of choice, brand new socks out of the bag what could possibly go wrong!â As I spread the GSER socks wide to look after those mangled things I proudly walk around on. Careful not to tear anything worse than I already see. I back the laces off to allow for the swelling and close the ugly mess back up, gaiters on and stand up. I will do all I can to make sub 40. I walk to the water drum, top off my own bottle and hit the road, Jack.
The trail up the Barry Mountains took a very long time to grind up. Seemed much longer than the hobble down yet I was moving much better. My third climb of this exact trail and it seemed the longest yet. 50 mile runners now streaming down, every few minutes they come bouncing down the trail full of compliments and smiles. One dude, bib 566 had the maddest massive smile he could have been in a toothpaste commercial!
I see faces I recognise, including Marc, Jess and Martha from WA as we exchange a quick chat. I come up on a gent in a union jack shirt heading the same direction as me. Runners coming down the trail call to him âLooking great Sarge!â As the big man sweeps his tired frame over a thick horizontal tree trunk, I ask him âSarge by name or by rank?â and he tells me both. Ex UK signaller, a reservist that served in the Ghan. As I scoot by, I tell him Iâm a vet too, ex Australian Army, RAEME boy. I would usually take the chance to share miles with another vet but hanging for conversation was not part of my current mission. My mission was sub 40, so I continued to push.
After what seemed like forever, I reach the end of the range, and catch a glimpse of The Twins ahead, and the steep trail less descent and climb directly opposite. As I approach, I see Tim chatting with a 50 mile runner. I confirm the way with him, and we both start to pick our way down. He tells me he was surprised to see me again and I joke that he will catch me on the descents, Iâm still really slow going down. He confesses he wants to really go hard on the Bon Accord, so he is taking his time to save his quads, going to take a long stop at Blowhard. I promised to run hard and make him work for it.
As I pick and choose my path down, I see a woman ahead. I admit she seems familiar but could not place her at the time. I now realise it was Katherine. Long ago, in 2017 we sat opposite for the pre-race dinner. She talked to Jez about local moose on the roads. She was running the 50 that year and won it. We talk that the best way down is the way you feel most comfortable at a pace you feel most comfortable with. We pick and grind our way down, I am conscious I am a little reckless with my footing, I feel my heel blister on my right foot rupture as I finish the descent. The others some distance back.
I pull my sticks out, flick my watch to the map page and start the gruelling climb to the survey marker upon the top of The Twins. My feet screaming at me, I stride ahead, chewing some lollies for a quick hit of energy to get over this beast one more time. Sub 40 or bust. 133km in and 5 hours 30 minutes remaining. Some tough stuff still ahead. With pace as low as 36 minute per km climbing 36% grade, it was going to be tight.
The Twins and I duel once more, I stop briefly before descending the other side to shoot a quick video, a poor attempt to capture the enormity and ruggedness of the steep drop. I fight my way down, relief as I tell myself itâs the final off track descent of the race. I wonât lie, I was cursing the effort as the downhill seemed to drag on for ever, âjust let it be done already.â I cry out loud to the openness that is the high country.
I throw myself over and under a tree Jenga section before I step onto a track leading to the Great Alpine Road once more. Poles out, tips in and open the stride. On the fly maths tells me I need to keep my 5k laps under an hour each. 4 hours 40 minutes to get the final 25km done. Easy right? 7km road climb towards Hotham, an aid stop and a killer descent down the Bon Accord. 10pm finish was going to be tight.
I thump along the track and come up on two people walking and talking. Itâs clear a 100 runner and his pacer. A brief chat about getting it done while powered by snakes. I am now so focused I am driven to push the effort as hard as I can sustain. As I round a bend at a shuffle there are another two gents hiking. I keep the shuffle going, the pressure on myself to keep moving as fast as I can on the terrain underfoot. I shuffle past them, and they give me a cheer as I again pay thanks âlets just get this done gentlemenâ and I press down to the bitumen.
As I pull up on the roads edge, a car drive past, a guy hanging from the window âhey ya wanna beer hahaha.â no, not really champ. A runner passes me from behind, weird as I had a pretty good clip on, but it was a familiar face from 2019, this year running the 50. Andrew. As we throw our hi vis vests on, we exchange a quick chat about NZ and 2019 before he presses on with his much fresher legs. The only runner to pass me since my body woke up at 8am.
I consider whatâs left. The dreaded bitumen, a long grind, small trail, aid stop, then 2km grind again. The Razorback Trail, then drop down the Bon Accord for home.
If it was down or flat, I ran it, if it was a long climb, I ran between guideposts to break up the hiking. My hammies sending me cramp signals when I was long striding uphill. I had to be careful to keep that in cheque. I ate and drank my way along the road. Side stepping when I could hear a car coming. Visibility much better than the way out, but still no where to go if a car wandered too close.
After nearly 4km I spot the right turn to go around Blowhard hill and take the single track, thankful to be off the road. A click later Iâm jogging down the trail into Blowhard aid station. Rubbish in hand and plan in my mind.
I hand off my rubbish, two bottles and have my collapsible cup at the ready. âHi, two bottles of VFuel and a cup of coke or ginger beer please.â and a runner next to me says âWhere did you come from? I havenât seen you all day?â
âFrom down the back mate, I think I was second last going into the Viking, was a long day yesterday.â âYou must have passed at least twenty people!â and I reply, âI think so, maybe. I really donât know.â I drink my coke and stow my bottles, eager to get moving. I ask the other runner Chris, â Do you want to shoot for sub 40?â he looks at his watch, ânah thatâs not going to happen.â âOk mate you have a good day.â and I turn to leave. I was keen to have someone to work with, but he seemed resigned to take it as it comes. I only had eyes for that stupid silver buckle.
A cheer from the station as I roll myself out. A minute later I hear another cheer as Chris leaves behind me. I run the flats and hike the hills, closing on a runner ahead over the 2km section of bitumen. Determined to reach him before the Razor Back Trail turn. As I reach him, I see him look back, he doesnât seem bothered and I realise itâs because Andrew is in the 50 mile race. We stop after the timing mat and remove our hi-viz vests, I take a drink and a few lollies fuelling for that last long 16km bomb down the spur.
We chat as we get moving. He is moving well, and I tell him I have a goal to go under 40, we do the maths together just over 2 and a half hours, seems like plenty of time. The alpine rocks though are killing me, the sharp rocks and trips and stumbles igniting the pain sensors in my feet. My legs ready to unleash, but my feet holding me back. As we down bubble and begin the drop, Andrew takes off pulling away and Iâm forced to conserve my feet.
I have to be patient and wait for the good trail that I know is coming, stay upright and move as best my feet allow until Iâm out of the rocks and below the tree line.
The light is fading, the clock is ticking, and I will be finishing on my old headlamp. Itâs not the best but itâs better than my back up light. As I hit the trees I can run faster. My legs now firing to go. Every open section either down or up Iâm firing away, only slowing for rocks. I canât afford to go down now and do myself a mischief.
As the light fades and the trees get taller it starts to sprinkle. I beg the heavens for a dry finish. I picture climbing into the van with all wet gear, a wet night and trying to dry gear. Out loud I beg for it to stop again.
It gets darker, I slow to a walk and remove my lamp, stick it on as the heavens open. I swear and run again. My lamp on but useless in the twilight. Hard to see Iâm forced to slow a little as the rain pounds down, the trail turning to a river. Rocks and stumps hard to see.
Caution is washed away as my desire to really run this trail hard takes over, and I thunder down the trail, my heels throwing mud over my head, my poles in the carry position, both arms pumping. A smile on my face as I am amazed to feel my legs turn this fast after 150km. I really did come back from the dead.
A bright light ahead. Itâs Andrew, as I come up on him from behind. His lamp much more powerful than mine. He lets me past and I carry the pace further down the trail, He stays with me a while, but the gap slowly grows as I forge the way with my candlelight compared to his light house. My body casting a shadow directly where my feet need to land. I stumble near the edge and have to slow as it is now so reckless in the mud, rain and darkness. Lightning and thunder boiling the sky overhead. Hundreds of meters below the Ovens River is roaring. I let Andrew back past, and admit his lamp is much better and itâs best he takes the lead. I run his pace and we can work together to get this done. Iâm the navigator and heâs the sun. My lamp showing me the frogs, his lamp showing the way.
The rain is relentless, the mud flowing fast, but also softening the way under foot. The pounding of the feet and knees lessened, but the sting of water in torn blisters was sharp. 8km to go, 7km to go. We are counting down the meters to drop to river level and the distance to finish.
Andrew tells me itâs his first ultra and I compliment him on how strong he is running. He really is moving well for his first crack, and he picked a hard race to tackle. I keep him pumped up as we hit the switch backs dropping more and more each time. More water, more lightning, more cracking thunder overhead. Some sections of single-track showing signs of barely holding up to the water flow.
We hit river level and cross the large bridge and my watch tells us we are off course. We double back to be sure and seems to be an alignment issue. We press on, avoiding the frogs. Neither of us keen to mention that the rain stopped for a few moments. My old lamp showing signs of itâs age, dim and yellow Iâm forced to stay in the rear. Glances at my watch say we should make it, but a wrong turn or tumble could risk that happening. I stay patient and decide if Iâm really worried, I will light the afterburners once we hit the final couple kms of track to the finish. Andrew is doing great.
Ahead we see a lamp, then another. I donât even have to hint at chasing them down and he picks up the pace just a touch. Instinct between pilot and navigator.
We reel in the first light quickly, a lovely lady in the 56km, fretting a little that she is too slow and going to miss cut off. âIâm just too slow.â she declares. âI wonât make it.â She has the same cut off as my goal time, and about 30 minutes left for a few km. But again, a wrong turn on the edge of town, or a tumble and it could be all over. I want to sling her over my shoulder and carry her in, but thatâs just not possible. (note, we bumped into her the next day and she did make it home with 8 minutes to spare!) Andrew seems to hover close a moment too, but I apologise and say I have to go. Andrew gives her some encouragement and presses back on to catch me. I am closing on the second light ahead. Leaping logs to prevent the trail being washed away. My candle beam casts over the runner as he turns to look. Itâs Oliver from Berlin. I had not seen him since the great leach train of Mt Feathertop the day before. He did not seem happy I was coming past, or happy I didnât stay with him, or perhaps he was just so tired he wasnât happy at all. I just know the clock was ticking and the visual markers Rowan and I found all seemed foreign to me. My foot plunges into the cold water and I feel the cold water flush my torn skin. Flashes of stinging pain but I know we must be within 2km of the final arch.
I picture the BTF boys chatting in our chat group. Wise words from Coach Tim âjust run faster.â So, I did. I pulled away from Andrew a couple of times, the gap slightly opening and decided we had enough spare time I could hang with him. He was working well and had helped me with his light. We stayed together, pounding our way beside the Ovens River towards the lights of the finish.
The rain starts again as we hit the chute, side by side. His first ultra-completed, and 39 hours 39 minutes and 30 seconds reading on my watch.
9:39pm, I look around and am greeted by some vollies and Co-Race Director Matt. A finishers towel, medal and buckle. That glorious silver buckle. I make a remark about how hard I drove to make it back under 40 hours, and I learn all the buckles are silver, there are no bronze ones left. Ha! Iâm glad I didnât know that 12 hours ago when I cranked up the pressure on myself.
I ask Matt about Rowan, âHe took a nap, hasnât come back.â âBut how did he go? What was his time?â â35:25.â Says the co-race director âYeew!â I cheer, pumped to hear he clocked me by over 4 hours. I think back to when I was on the track. As I was almost at the Great Alpine Road, talking about getting it done, powered by snake lollies and soon to be offered a beer from a random guys window, Rowan was crossing the finish line. I get my finish portrait photo and wander to the big screen tent to watch the tracker and see if I can get my muddy hands on another cheese toasty. A gent there makes me a double cheese toasty as I sit in a chair and wait.
Later we hear the news there was a landslide on the Bon Accord, just after I went past. A section of trail washed away. Co-Race Director Megan went out to inspect it and mark it. A runner had slid into it and was pulled back by the runner behind. I have no doubts it would have been sketchy, I know how I was moving down there and if it was me I would not have been able to react too quickly. They closed the course at Blowhard aid station. Anyone that left Mt Murray for Blowhard was awarded an Inclement Weather finish and time. Some were upset but seeing the photos the next day and hearing the stories, it was a smart move for the new owners of the event.
Rowan finds me happily munching on my toasty and we make our way back to the van. He has done well with the extra time. Showered, moved the van, ordered pizza and got a nap in. He held up the pizza deal, and it was good to get back, shower and sit in the back of the Jucy van. A stubbie and pizza with my little brother after knocking out 100 miles each.
Those things were a first time for us to share together, and worth the pain and expense to be sitting there, totally wiped out yet content in life, sharing stories of our journey before stretching out for a night of restless legs, twitching and a thunder storm rolling over the van that was now two silver belt buckles heavier.
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GSER 2022, adventure level = maximum.

















