I've never felt less
prepared for a race. No mental preparations at all. There have been
so many other things to focus on lately that, when race day finally
dawned, I was almost caught by surprise.
The evening before, I
packed my things with an uncharacteristic lack of interest. I would
put one thing in the bag, then go and do something else, then come
back and put another thing in the bag (or maybe that's just my ADHD?). My right knee had been
bothering me for ages, so much so that I wondered if I was injured.
It made it hard to muster up any enthusiasm for the race. In fact, I
was convinced I would get my first DNF and be forced to cancel the
rest of my races this season. No wonder that packing felt like a
chore. No wonder a 50 km race felt like having to face the death
squad. I'd rather be at home tending to the garden and avoiding any
confrontation with my knee.
There were four AIK runners that drove to Boden to participate in this peculiar race, that would
take us to 5 (?) Swedish Army forts, positioned on the perimeter of the town. My running buddies echoed my feelings. All
four of us have entered the Ultravasan 90 km race in August, and this
was to be an important step towards that. Yet no one felt ready. It was a
beautiful day, already warm at 9 in the morning. When we arrived at
the National Defense Museum, just in time to listen to the
information given by the race organisers, a trail shoe-shod,
hydration pack-carrying crowd had already gathered.
Way too much time was
given to the energy drink sponsors, and I felt my attention drifting
off to other things, like the swords on the wall, the buzz of the
cafeteria fridge behind me, the faces of the other participants. The
race organisers then went through the course, but my brain was
completely shut off. I trusted that they had marked it well enough
for me to avoid getting lost; I wasn't going to be able to retain any
of this information anyway.
Outside, the four of us
posed for a ”before” picture, to remember how insane people look
right before they throw themselves into the burning pits of hell: all manic smiles and
misplaced confidence. The starting gun was less of a gun and more of a
tank cannon, keeping in line with the military theme of the race. I
have a very strong aversion to guns, tanks and all things military,
but it was kind of cool to get such a deafening send-off.
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| Just before the start |
The others opened
strong. I had no desire to try and keep up with them, partly because
I was worried about my knee and partly because 50 KILOMETRES IS A LONG WAY,
MAN, KEEP YOUR SOCKS ON. I wasn't last but I couldn't have been far ahead
of the last runners. We climbed up to the first, and perhaps most
accessible fort after just 4 km. The view was breathtaking: you could
see for miles around, over the tree tops and Boden. I drank a couple
of dl of water, filled my water bottle and negotiated the steep,
rocky trail down to the river again.
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| The first fort |
I was now running alone, no other ultra runners in sight.
Some of the 10K runners ran past me impossibly fast, too fast to
register. I trudged along in my 6:30 pace, the sun already too hot,
the surroundings having gone from soft pine forest to dilapidated
boat yard. My motivation started waning. After the second fortress,
at around 13 km, we made our way back to town. This was a part of the
course that was more populated, as we were running among what looked like Suburbia, but
it did nothing to alleviate the boredom I was feeling more and more.
Time went by so slowly, and the half-marathon distance seemed to
never come. I haven't been so bored since one hour before the bell rang on the last day of school.
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| Running to the second fort aid station |
After the third fort,
my mood started changing. I was running on forest roads now, having
just passed 22 km. I kept thinking that I was almost half way. It was
nice to run in the forest, in the shadow; the sun was really hot.
Unfortunately, the course turned towards town once again, and soon I
was in the town centre, giving angry looks at drivers who didn't stop
at crossings to let me pass. I spoke to J on the phone. I felt kind
of delirious because of the heat. I remember asking him to drive to
Boden and bring me cold milk. Move over, pregnant women. Your cravings are nothing compared to the cravings of a dehydrated ultra runner.
A couple of kilometres
later, the aid station appeared before my eyes like an oasis in the
desert. Conveniently positioned by the river, in case someone wanted
to throw themselves in it to fight off the heat, they were a sight
for sore eyes. My watch said I'd ran 28,5 km, the volunteer said 31.
I wanted to believe him and not my watch. My motivation had started
waning again. I ran by the river, then up up up on soft, bark-clad
paths and technical trails, on an ascend that felt unending, like it
would take me all the way to heaven. Right before I arrived at a
fort/aid station, I ran past a couple of guys who were walking up.
”It looks easy!” they said. ”It doesn't feel easy” I replied,
really struggling now. ”How do you think it feels for us then?”
they said.
One foot in front of
the other, I thought. Onward, upward, forward. But the course had a fantastically cruel
ace up its sleeve: The secret stairway. If you've never tried
switching from running to walking up stairs, let me tell you: it
sucks. It sucks all of your energy out of your thighs. It burns
almost as much as the sun burned my scorched shoulders. Soon enough
though I'd climbed to the top and reached the aid station. Two of my
AIK-friends were there, one of them nursing a bloody, chafed foot, the other
having just completed the obligatory run around the fort. We exchanged
a few words, drank way too much/not nearly enough water and I headed
off again.
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| The secret stairway |
I had started passing
more runners now. I passed one of the walkers, who commented that it still looked easy. It's easier to run downhill, that's for sure. The race doesn't really start until you've hit 30
km; that's when all the sins of your past, all the injuries and
missed long runs, all the shoddy preparations start catching up with
you. A few of the runners I passed walked. A few lingered at aid stations
too long, but understandably so. My own sins hadn't caught up with
me yet. As I realised there were fewer than 10 km left, I started
counting down, a countdown that was slow. I didn't mind, because I
was going to make it in under 6 hours and my knee hadn't complained
once.
The course had one last
nasty surprise left for us: we had to make our way up a slalom hill. A
sun-exposed slalom hill. Slalom hills are very steep, and they
magically become even steeper when you've just run a marathon. One
foot in front of the other, I thought once again. Onward, upward,
forward. I looked down at my feet, looked up at the top of the hill.
Neither helped. I just had to fight it, just had to make it to the
top, even if I had to crawl there.
After that particular
trial, a nice trail down to a camping site, some paved roads, a
beautiful path by the river, and less heat. I remember thinking that
it wouldn't add up to 50 km. I remember thinking that it couldn't be
possible that I was still running and the finish line was nowhere in
sight. I remember looking at signs and hoping I'd see ”National
Defense Museum” on one of them.
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| A couple of kilometres left |
And I remember finally
seeing the finish line, among the tanks and the people and the shade.
Oh, the shade.
My feet hurt. I crossed
the finish line and immediately took my shoes off, lay on the grass, happy to do
nothing and having nothing to do. My AIK-friend who'd finished first
of the four of us snapped photos and got us coffee and ice-cream, once the other two also
finished their race. We sat there chatting for a long time, all of us
thinking about Ultravasan 90K in August with considerable
trepidation.
After a wonderful
shower and a meal, we headed home. It was quiet in the car, an almost
contemplative mood having taken over us. This was one of the races
I've enjoyed the least, mostly because of the heat but I think also
because I wasn't in the right head space for a race. Usually I look
forward to spending a day out on the trail. Relaxing into the
knowledge I have nowhere else to be, just enjoying my surroundings
and the fact that I have a pair of healthy, working legs that make it
possible for me to see all these new places. But this time, I
couldn't relax. I felt that I did have somewhere else to be,
although I don't know where. It was a stressful race, both for my
body and my mind. Hopefully I will be more enthusiastic when it's
time for Ultravasan.