Galapagos Expectations

Land was a welcome sight after 11 days at sea, beating into the wind for the majority of the passage from the Panamanian Las Perlas Islands, turning the 700 mile rhumb line into a distance covered of over 1,000 miles. We passed some small uninhabited islands, little more than stacks, before arriving at the alarmingly named Wreck Bay on San Cristobal Island, the second most populated in the archipelago. And so began the unravelling of most of the preconceived ideas I had about the Galapagos.

I suspect my exposure to information (or lack of) surrounding the islands prior to arrival is fairly typical, hearing about them as a young lad from some elderly relative who hadn’t actually been there, but described as a magical far away land of unique flora and fauna shrouded in mystery. The next dollop of information came via biology class aged around 11. This was when the names Darwin and Beagle were thrown in, as well as the terms ‘survival of the fittest’ and ‘origin of the species’. Still no one I knew had been there, which was a major factor in ramping up the mysticism in my mind.

Generally when you arrive somewhere by boat it is a passport for greater access, and thus understanding of a place. You can reach locations that planes and cars can’t, and in my experience the local people tend to be more hospitable to those having arrived by sea, perhaps as a result of an appreciation for the more historic method of travel and the greater effort involved in getting there (unless you arrive in a superyacht with a helicopter on the aft deck, as recently witnessed on the small island of Hiva Oa, in which case most locals tend to scoff ‘wanker’, or some such colloquialism).

I recently read a book by the legendary French yachtsman Bernard Moitessier, who arrived in the near deserted Galapagos in the late 1960s, going from island to island as he pleased, harpooning turtles as he went. All I can say is those days are long gone. The islands have become increasingly protected, as they should be, but the bureaucracy surrounding the tourist industry has become bloated.

Shortly after arrival our boat ‘inspection’ was scheduled. This involved being boarded by no fewer than 8 people, though it was impossible to guess exactly what each of their roles were. A few questions were asked, a few forms were filled in, smiles and handshakes and then they all left as quickly as they had arrived. What a farcical arrangement. Our permit, which was the most extensive available to visiting yachts, allowed us to visit only three islands, and on those three islands we were only allowed to anchor in the principal harbour/bay. So, unusually our movements were far more restricted than the commercial tour boats plying the coast.

That said the few day tours I signed up for were spectacular. A dive boat out to Kicker Rock, a magnificent isolated island, was the highlight. Above the water line there were hundreds of breeding sea birds, including the poster bird of the Galapagos, the blue footed booby. Below the water line was a stunning cliff wall descending into the abyss below. All sorts of sea life had taken up residence in the pock-marked lava, including pencil spined sea urchins and chocolate chip star fish. Prehistoric looking green turtles went dreamily by, sea lions were darting back and forth and in between was a huge variety of tropical fish. Continuing deeper I saw black-tipped sharks which were of a modest 1.5 metres in length, but the highlight was seeing the much bigger hammerhead sharks (5 metres) patrolling the shadowy depths.   

The other thing that surprised me was just how large the two main towns we visited were. There has been a significant population increase in the more populated islands in recent years, predominantly from the Ecuadorian mainland. Very few people you speak to were actually born in the Galapagos, and this unsurprisingly appears to have led to a slightly incoherent sense of community and common culture. The streets were shabby and seemed unloved. What the community does have in common though, along with the Ecuadorian Government, is the desire to earn the tourist dollar (it cost US$3 to send a postcard to the UK).   

There is no doubt there is some spectacularly unique wildlife – notably penguins on the equator and the prehistoric looking marine iguana. The landscape is extremely volcanic and largely arid. The history of the islands is littered with attempts of naïve early European settlers trying to tame the harsh environment, with the result generally being them returning to their homeland within a few years or dying wretchedly. There was good reason for the islands being used as a penal colony.

In reality I only saw a small fraction of the islands as so much is off limits without the relevant permit/tour operator. I suspect with a decent 10 day tour package on the right boat the experience would be more rewarding in many ways. But one can’t help feeling that were it not for Darwin (who only spent a matter of weeks among the archipelago) the Galapagos would not be the tourist sensation that they have evolved into today. 

Classic Galapagos vista: lava, clear water and birds in flight

Lava tunnels on Isabella, make for great snorkeling

The iconic blue footy booby

The Alejandro Lopez

In the course of being on a boat for a long time you come into contact with all sorts of people. In the case of Sea Wolf you come into contact with a lot of mechanics given the ‘defects’ we have been dealing with.

When we arrived at Shelter Bay Marina, close to the Panama Canal on the Caribbean side, we had a number of significant issues to address. The anchor windlass base-plate had completely corroded in the San Blas Islands, the consequence of it being 17 years old and in a location which is permanently being attacked by salt residue. Solution – remove the corroded plate and motor, find out the model number, order a new part and fit. All fairly straightforward bar the over promising and under delivering Fedex. Similarly a new relay was ordered for the bowthruster.

Then came the fridge/freezer system. I really will try and save you the tedious mechanics, but some description of this is necessary to understand the issue, and by extension the man for the job, Alejandro Lopez.

He came into my life on Sunday 31^st May. It was good of him to come on a Sunday, especially as he lives in Panama City, at least 90 minutes away by car. A short man in his mid-thirties, slightly rotund, well groomed black hair and the arrogant swagger of someone confident of fixing your mechanical problems. He drove a Volvo and wore Ray Ban’s, somewhat exotic in Panama which gave further lustre to his capability. Just the person I needed I thought.

I explained the problem, that the engine driven (DC) fridge/freezer wasn’t working, but that the independent AC system was (powered by either shore power or the generator). He wasted no time in squeezing into the engine bay and confirming what we already knew, that there was no power coming from the magnetic clutch. Alejandro quickly suggested he remove the clutch, try to get a new one in Panama City, though failing that re-wire the existing one and reassemble. Just the sort of can-do attitude I was looking for.

He talked a lot, and as I’d been on my own on the boat for a couple of weeks I enjoyed asking the kind of open questions, whilst handing him spanners, that gave him the room to express himself. And express himself he did.  

Half Costa Rican half Panamanian, he had strong views on the full hand-over of the Canal in 2000 by the US, believing it to be a big mistake to lose the presence of so many Americans in the country on the basis of what they brought to the national economy, as well as the legitimacy they leant to the Panamanian Government. This has been the major political issue since Panama achieved nation status (with US backing, sound familiar?) in 1903. We also covered topics as diverse as the Kuna Indians (“I’m not racist but I can’t stand those people”) and prostitution in Panama City. He was formerly an aircraft mechanic before setting up on his own repairing boats, though apparently he could have been a doctor.       

He returned on Wednesday with the rewired clutch, though when this was installed and we turned on the engine this is when the fun really started. It transpired that while the clutch was now engaging the compressor, the compressor itself was knackered. And so it continued along the whole fridge/freezer system chain until we had replaced more or less all component parts. Furthermore, as we got deeper into it, the AC system (which till now had been working fine) stopped working due to shared electrical connections with the DC system. So two weeks into the work we were a small fortune down on parts and actually in a worse position than before the work began. 

Despite these set-backs Alejandro’s confidence in his ability to complete the work remained a persuasive force. That was until the final freon gas loading phase, when Alejandro’s body language shifted from prancing peacock to that of a person under pressure and at the limit of his own understanding of the matter in question. The freon loading, a dark art of injecting gas into the system under the right pressure and temperature conditions, was not going as expected and he didn’t know why. After struggling on aimlessly for a little too long he finally admitted he needed help and spoke to the manufacturer, who was more than helpful in discussing the issue with him and even agreed to send two technicians who were in the area over to the boat to have a look.

Armed with some larger orifices through which the freon could pass and a dose of reassurance from experts, the system miraculously became fully loaded and the swagger returned. 

This wasn’t quite the end though. Having passed through the Panama Canal and halfway to the Las Perlas Islands the engine driven fridge/freezer ominously stopped working. So with a sinking feeling we headed back to Panama City where Alejandro met us at anchor, late on a Sunday evening. You certainly couldn’t fault his commitment (or was it that the bank transfer for the work hadn’t yet taken place?). The issue was a faulty brand new compressor which Alejandro returned and replaced first thing Monday morning.

From beginning to end it tool a month to compete the work, during which time I met his father (dead ringer for the Spanish golfer Miguel Angel Jimenez) and brother in a professional capacity on the boat, and his wife and daughter in a more social setting. We shared scores of What's App messages and I came to love his use of emojis - bombs and guns among his favourite.

All smiles after a job well done, Bridge of the Americas, Panama City

What Does Paradise Really Mean?

This is a question I have been increasingly asking myself as the journey has progressed and the range of interesting places visited starts to increase.

The question really hit home in the San Blas Archipelago, consisting of approximately 400 islands (one for every day of the year) scattered over a huge area along the north east Caribbean coast of Panama. They are picture perfect remote atolls with an abundance of coconut trees and white sand, set amongst a maze of reefs. If you were looking for the ultimate deserted island picture postcard this would be it.

Added to the spectacular scenery is a very interesting cultural history. The islands are inhabited by the indigenous Kuna, who arrived here from Colombia in the mid-nineteenth century having been driven out by the Spanish. The Kuna way of life remains largely unchanged to this day (though we did charge a number of islanders’ mobile phones on the boat!). The men paddle amongst the islands in hollowed out canoes, fishing and harvesting fruit (apparently some 3 million coconuts are picked annually) which is then bartered with trading boats that come from the mainland and Colombia. Meanwhile the women make the world-renown molas, colourfully embroidered textiles usually depicting wildlife or abstract images. These from part of their traditional dress and are sold to tourists as souvenirs. Interestingly Kuna society is traditionally matrilineal and matrilocal.

Mola from Cayos Holandeses, San Blas Islands

As an interesting sideline the Kuna also get the odd windfall when boats become wrecked on the outlying reefs which still happens with alarming regularity. The sands in this area shift with such regularity that modern GPS navigation systems are at best unreliable. As a result the Kuna scramble to salvage cargo and then strip any unfortunate boat of fixtures and fittings. We saw at least half a dozen yachts lying prostate on a reef, stripped to the bare bones.     

So the islands are both visually attractive and have an interesting human story. Yet having anchored amongst this ‘paradise’ for 5 days I felt ready to move on. We had visited three different islands, talked to the Kuna, bought molas and fish from them, provided them with things they were short of (cooking oil and spectacles), swum in the turquoise water and skin dived wrecks. It felt like to stay longer would have just seen these activities repeated with diminishing novelty.

In contrast our time in Colombia left me craving for more, something which points towards a greater feeling of ‘depth’ associated with the place. Depth of scenery (mountains, beaches, rainforest, dilapidated colonial architecture) and character (diverse and multi-cultural society).

Undoubtedly the question of what does paradise really mean asks more questions than it answers. To a large extent it exists in the eye of the beholder, but to my mind the ideal of the remote island paradise that has been sold to us by countless advertising executives is not the paradise for me. But then is paradise ever truly achievable?

Paradise?

Nuts & Bolts

In the first article about life on board Sea Wolf I thought I’d give some details of the boat and plans for the voyage as some background information. Future articles will be less jargonistic and factual…

Sea Wolf is a 1997 Nautor Swan 57 RS (18m length, 4.9m beam, 2.3m draft and 25 tonne displacement), designed by German Frers and built in Finland. Powered by a 135 horse power diesel engine, she also has a generator (to provide more efficient power on long passages, particularly the navigation instruments, fridge/freezer etc) and water maker (turning sea water into drinking water). She has a compact centre cockpit offering good protection from the elements. Ultimately she was designed for long-distance blue water cruising.

Sea Wolf is now on her third owner, with Scott having had her for nearly 2 years, in which time she has benefitted from a new suit of sails (main, genoa, yankee, staysail, storm jib try sail and asymmetric spinnaker), new standing and running rigging (including conversion to cutter rig which gives us two furling headsail options at any one time) as well as updated electronics. In Scott’s wife’s words, he bought two boats.

The boat sails extremely well and is very seaworthy. We have experienced storm force winds off the coast of Columbia and Sea Wolf more than met the challenge, with some help from the crew, which gives me a lot of faith in her ability when we get to the really rough stuff in the Southern Ocean.

The one downside of having so many sophisticated systems on the boat is that there are a lot of things that can go wrong, and the marine environment is harsh on equipment. Added to that the boat is 18 years old so some components are coming to the end of their design life, as recently demonstrated by the anchor windlass when the base plate completely corroded. The dreaded ‘defect list’ seems to be persistently at around a dozen items, and usually in addressing one issue you find others.

I met Scott for the first time in London in June 2014, having applied to an advert for the job of First Mate. I immediately liked him and he invited me to join the boat in September to help take Sea Wolf from Gibraltar to Lanzarote, via Morocco. Scott then crossed the Atlantic towards the end of the year with friends and family. There are normally between 4 and 6 on board, quartered in 3 ensuite cabins.

I then rejoined the boat in St Lucia in April 2015 and we have been continuing westwards since, with the boat now at Shelter Bay Marina, just inside the breakwater leading to the entrance of the Panama Canal on the Caribbean side.

From here we will transit the Canal, spend some time in the Archipielago de las Perlas (Panamanian), before reaching the Galapagos. Then it is deeper into the Pacific to French Polynesia, notably the Marquesas, Tuamotus and Tahiti. From there we will start to head in a south-easterly direction, via Pitcairn Island (population largely descendants of the Bounty mutineers) and Easter Island (why the stern face?) to Puerto Montt in Chile for a distinct change in temperature, winds and scenery. We then hope to round Cape Horn, dropping by the Falklands to see if they’re worth keeping, before heading up to Buenos Aires to possibly give them back.

Timing and weather routing will then determine our return track across the Atlantic, probably either via the Cape Verde Islands or Azores, before ultimately cruising across the Med to Turkey – ETA September 2016.    

Sea Wolf (Canadian flag) docked in a tight spot in Tangiers

Round Norfolk Relay, September 2013

Whilst we didn't set the competition alight in terms of speed, finishing 42nd out of 54 teams, there's always so much more to this event than the finishing position and time...

Joe L got us off to a fine start in testing conditions, battling headwinds and producing a gutsy finish to hand on to Big Pete under the Hunstanton lighthouse. Before he'd had time to find his languid tempo Pete had taken a wrong turn, and was carrying a fellow (female) competitor across a surging stream to re-join the course. The support team let him down when he wanted a banana before the last few isolated miles, resulting in Pete handing over to the wife with most of the colour drained from his face.

Jen, ten weeks after giving birth, breezed around the course with a smile on her face - Kirstie and Louise take note. Joe D was back to have a crack at the same leg he took on last year. Wiser to the course and fitter, he smashed his previous time. Joe D handed over to his boss Brownie, who whilst given something of a reprieve this year from his regular long night leg, did have the dreaded shingle and cliff climbs to contend with. Some minor navigation issues aside he finished strongly to hand over to the first of the Burkes. George and Tim ran at a remarkably similar pace per mile, perhaps suggesting a few joint training runs in the build up. Such was the case for debutants Mike and Lucie, though Mike must have been a bit disappointed to have been pipped in the minute per mile stakes by the missus. 

Mike ran through the setting sun and handed over to Jim in the darkness, or it would have been darkeness if the change-over point hadn't been the Vegas of Norfolk - Great Yarmouth. Jim was back after a sabatical last year and was rewarded with the longest leg of the relay. Jim was soon weaving his way through an unusual amount of road traffic and had to dig deep for the last couple of miles before handing on to the skipper. Despite dropping down in distance due to injury it wasn't a hugely enjoyable experience, and it was with some relief that he passed onto his trusty lieutenant Simmy after an interesting one-to-one changeover scenario with support having by now dried up. With Coaly dropping down in distance Simmy took up the slack and provided an exhibition in even paced running.

Next up was the Antwerp Express. With girlfirend Jente in the support car with Belgian plates Jan was clearly keen to do his country proud and he duly delivered. Jan handed over to another debutant, Sophie, who, like her husband gave a demonstration in tempo control. Chuck was up next, tearing himself away from an army of fans adoring his classis car and relishing the dawn run as always. 

The penultimate leg was taken on by the ever reluctant Matt Mountain, though he looked as though he was quite enjoying himself in completing the shortest leg. So to the new sporty looking Jon Russell, who surely will be asking for a few more miles next year given the way he handled the pressures of the final leg, holding off challengers around the tartan to break the tape to a raptuous reception in an elapsed time of 27:06:50.

Western States 100, California, June 2012

It was a relief to just be boarding the flight for San Francisco. Preparation had been badly hampered by a torn calf muscle in April, though thanks to some fantastic support from physio Jon it healed well and I was back in the hills towards the end of May. The month before the race was then a careful balancing act of desperately trying to get more miles into my legs, whilst not doing too much and breaking down with further injuries. Whilst there were certainly niggles, I was on the plane.

I’d got over the frustration of not being as fit as I’d liked and adjusted my expectations accordingly. Any thoughts of a target time were pretty much out of the window given the furthest I’d run in training was 40 miles, so getting round the course within the 30 hour limit was now the main aim.

In contrast the immediate build-up to the race was perfect. After arriving in San Francisco on the Tuesday with Mum we had a night in the city to clear some of the jet-lag before driving the 200 miles east to the Tahoe area. We were staying in Squaw Valley, site of the 1960 winter Olympics and also the start of the race. Self-catering accommodation meant I could gorge on Mum’s lasagne, and as with everywhere in the States there was ice-vending literally on tap, which made the routine of icing a sore foot slightly less tedious.

It was a very relaxing few days before the race, surrounded by stunning scenery and fantastic weather. I slept well and I think being at altitude (1,900 metres) for a few days certainly helped me acclimatise. The organisers also put on lots of social/informative events leading up to the race, including a walk to the top of Emigrants Pass, the highest point on the course at 2,800 metres, for a very American flag raising ceremony. It was interesting to talk to other runners about their previous experience of the race and see sections of the trail for the first time. It really brought home the reality that I was about to take part in a legendary race (oldest and arguably most prestigious 100 mile trail race in the world) that I had wanted to run for years and had been very lucky to get an entry through the increasingly competitive ballot system.

With registration and medical out of the way on Friday, the big talking point was the weather. Pretty much everything I’d been told about the prevailing conditions of extreme heat (well over 100 degrees) and the tips on how to mitigate it went out the window. A storm was apparently coming in, which barely seemed believable given the amazing weather witnessed so far, with sub-zero temperatures expected on the high passes. On the one hand I was pretty delighted with this news as the conditions would be home-from-home. However, the Western States was the first 100 miler I’d done where there wasn’t a compulsory kit list to carry at all time, i.e. clothing, survival bag, emergency food, compass etc) – apparently this is considered very ‘European’. This meant striking the right balance between having enough clothing to keep warm, yet not bogging oneself down with unnecessary weight.

Also new for me, though again common in the US, was the option to have a ‘pacer’ for the last 38 miles of the race. Into the breach stepped my great friend Sarah Swaney who arrived on Friday evening in time for the last (pasta) supper.  

Inevitably sleep was pretty hard to come by that night – think Christmas Eve aged 6 – and it was almost a relief when the alarm went off at 4am. The weather had indeed changed overnight and after a brief discussion on clothing strategy with fellow Brit Andrew Findley I decided to go with a long sleeved top over a t-shirt, carrying only a water bottle.

With relatively little fanfare the race got underway in the dark at 5am. Having walked the first section to Emigrants Pass two days previously I had decided to go off very steady. Whilst the reasonably gradual climb was certainly runable, as demonstrated by the leaders, I saw no sense in expending lots of energy early on at high altitude so I took it easy, running the flatter sections and hiking the rest. It was great to be underway at last, though I was pretty anxious about a sore foot which had flared up in the last few weeks of training and hadn’t settled despite a week’s rest. My biggest fear was that my foot would quickly get worse, particularly with all the rough descending to come, and that I’d be forced to make the decision to retire all too soon. I felt marginally better by injecting some black humour, picturing myself being stretchered off some remote part of the course, slumped over a mule like a bandit in a John Wayne movie.

By the time I reached Emigrants Pass (4 miles) it was hailing hard and certainly not a place you’d want to linger. It was encouraging to know the highest point of the course had already been breached and I was breaking new ground in a genuine wilderness area complete with magnificent ancient forest. The trail was superb, a stable surface underfoot following an undulating ridge-line giving you plenty to think about. I imagine the views along this section would have been phenomenal, but low cloud and steady rain meant visibility was terrible.

It was interesting to arrive at the first ‘aid station’ at Lyons Ridge (10.5 miles, 78^th position), where it became clear that I was going to be amazingly well looked after by the army of enthusiastic volunteers. As soon as you entered each aid station you were assigned a personal helper who would get you anything you asked for.

I was soaked through by now and knew I’d need to take on hot drinks (sweet tea and soup) where possible and keep moving to stay warm. As a result I was almost forced into a quicker pace than I might have chosen, not a problem at this early stage but something which would undoubtedly catch up with me later. By the second checkpoint at Red Star Ridge (16 miles, 68^th), gotta love these American frontier names, I was feeling reasonably settled and runners were already starting to spread out.

The route passes through several canyons in the first half of the race, though I was pleasantly surprised that the first, Duncan Canyon (23 miles, 67^th), wasn’t nearly as steep sided as I had expected it might be. I passed Andrew Findlay on the way down and we made the inevitable comment about the British weather (he went past me on the way up looking strong).

The next checkpoint was the first one at which Mum and Sarah could get access to and I had planned to see them there. However, some basic calculations (still mentally possible at this early stage of the race) told me I was going to be passing through much earlier than predicted and so it came as no surprise that they weren’t at Robinson’s Flat (30 miles, 78^th). I was delighted that my foot was feeling fine and it was at this point I started to strongly believe that the finish would at least be in my own hands. My main concern was body temperature as I was still exposed above 2,000m and I was wet through. But with no additional clothes available I had little option but to keep moving.

Shortly afterwards at Miller’s Defeat (35 miles, 82^nd) there was evidence of runners who were really being affected by the cold and having to take a spell by a fire just to stop shivering. Shortly after this checkpoint I got talking to a guy who was in fact a race marshal and insisted on giving me the bin liner he had on when I mentioned I was feeling the cold which really helped.

The course was steadily descending though and the sun was starting to break through by the time I reached Dusty Corners (38 miles, 84^th) and it was time to lose the bin liner. At this point I started chatting to Ben from Southern California, someone who I’d be yo-yoing with all the way to finish and was a great source of encouragement. 

It felt good to be thawing out but my legs were feeling much less springy than I would have liked at this early stage of the race and I had my first low patch as the runners passing me were looking really fresh and the feeling of chewing up the ‘easy’ miles achieved so far evaporated by Last Chance (43 miles, 89^th). To compensate I made sure to keep grazing at each aid station, which typically amounted to some cold potato, peanut butter and ‘jelly’ sandwiches and fresh fruit for some natural sugars, all washed down with coke. This would usually be supplemented by an energy gel between each aid station.  

Next up were back-to-back canyons which represented the two biggest ascents on the course. Perversely this actually came at quite a good time as I was able to steadily hike the climbs which used some different muscle groups. A familiar routine took place of Ben passing me on the climbs and me then catching him on the descents. Up we went to Devil’s Thumb (48 miles, 92^nd) and down into El Dorado Creek (53 miles, 93^rd) where I didn’t linger long as the next checkpoint was where I was hoping to see my support for the first time. I was definitely excited to see some familiar faces, though I was slightly anxious as to whether they’d be there given the earlier timing mix up.

As I crested the climb and dropped down into Michigan Bluff (56 miles, 93^rd) I could pick Mum out a few hundred yards away which was a big relief. The sun was shining and I was over halfway, things were looking up. It felt quite strange to be in the first settlement of any significance on the whole course, roads, cars etc. It was fantastic to see Mum and Sarah and it gave me an instant lift. They had an area set up where I could slouch in a chair for a few minutes whilst I changed socks and clothing. My feet were in good shape and the sore foot was behaving well. I knocked back some Ibuprofen, put on sunglasses and left with a considerable bounce, also buoyed by the fact that I’d be seeing them again only 7 miles down the trail.

Probably as much to do with my spirits being lifted, but the next part of the course was a lovely section of fire trail under the cool shade of forest. At Foresthill (62 miles, 94^th) Mum and Sarah were again waiting for me, though this time the emphasis was on Sarah being ready to join me out on the trail. It was early Saturday evening now and despite having been on the go for 13 hours I was feeling in a pretty good place. I’d been told the next 18 miles or so was predominantly downhill and one of the most picturesque parts of the trail, and with the sun coming down and Sarah to keep me company it was the most enjoyable section of the race.

I tended to run ahead of Sarah on the single-track so I could control the pace, and whilst we were going at a speed that made conversation easy we certainly weren’t hanging around. We passed through Peachstone (71 miles, 86^th) before arriving at the infamous Rucky Chucky River (78 miles, 84^th) just after dark.

At this point the river had to be crossed and whilst I previously hadn’t given this too much thought, the prospect of getting into icy water above my waist in the dark was not something I was particularly interested in. But after a bit of chuntering I waded in and was immediately disarmed by the selflessness of the volunteers who were spread out across the river every 5 metres or so of the 50 metre crossing in dry suits, smiling and encouraging me every step of the way whilst I held onto a guide rope.

Coming out the other side I could feel my body temperature dropping immediately and there was little to be done other than start trudging up the hill to the next checkpoint where hopefully Mum would be waiting with a change of clothes.

I arrived at Green Gate (80 miles, 92^nd) and thankfully Mum was in position. Many of the checkpoints were very remote and wouldn’t let support vehicles drive down, instead shuttle buses with limited capacity would run back and forth which was a bit of a lottery. So after a change into dry clothes it was on into the night. All being well the next time I’d see Mum would be at the finish.

By now conversation with Sarah was really drying up and all focus was on picking a route along the narrow trails. The strategy here involved Sarah leading me out which was a massive help as meant I just had to follow in her footsteps.

It was now just a case of one checkpoint at a time and Sarah did an amazing job of pacing me through, encouraging me when I needed it, balanced with giving me my own space. My quads were completely shot by now from all the descending and I was increasingly having to stop and stretch on the trail. Needless to say running had become something of a shuffle. I was also feeling pretty nauseous due to the accumulation of sugars in my stomach and eating was a real effort.

Through Auburn Lake Trails (85 miles, 92^nd), Brown’s Bar (90 miles, 92^nd) and Highway 49 (94 miles, 92^nd), all a bit of a blur but with each one passing the realisation of the finish growing stronger. No Hands Bridge (97 miles, 95^th) looked incredible all lit up with fairy lights but I was too far gone to appreciate it much at the time. Then the final slow ascent over Robie Point from where I strode out downhill for the final mile through the streets of Auburn to Placer High School and a lap of the track to break the tape in 22 hours 40 minutes in 95^th place (382 starters, 316 finishers).   

It was pretty emotional crossing the line and being able to share the moment with Mum and Sarah who had been absolutely awesome in their support. The sense of satisfaction was perhaps even greater with all the uncertainty about fitness coming into the race and I couldn’t have asked for any more than breaking 24 hours which entitled me to the coveted silver belt buckle.

Inevitably I felt pretty run down for a couple of days with sore muscles and some serious sleep to catch up on. My foot, which had remarkably caused me no bother during the race, began to stiffen up as soon as I stopped running and was pretty painful to walk on (later confirmed as a stress fracture). But the warm glow of having taken part and completed this epic event far outlived the physical discomfort. In fact in a strange way I kind of relish the post-race soreness as it acts as a reminder of the achievement – if it didn’t hurt it wouldn’t matter nearly so much. Plus the ensuing week’s holiday taking in Yosemite, Big Sur, Santa Cruz, Napa Valley and San Francisco was a pretty good distraction.  

Round Norfolk Relay, September 2012

Starting from the beginning what a massive effort from the Simmonds brothers to get us underway, both made the effort to come and run early before travelling significant distances (Aberdeen and Dorset) to make important prior commitments on the Saturday night, the very definition of the extra mile. Next up was Mr Hackett on leg 3, providing an exhibition in getting involved despite little preparation. The biggest kick I get from the event is seeing those who don’t often run with a smile on their face at the end of their leg saying they’ll be back for more – thank you James. Joe D battled with the heat of the day, some course marking shenanigans and more miles than he would have liked to hand over to Team Burke. Tim laid the ghosts to rest from 2011, where on the same leg he was crippled with a knee injury only a few miles in and bravely battled to the finish. This year no one made the shingle look so easy, even if he was wearing some highly questionable sunglasses. He then handed the baton to the missus who went about her business in the usual no nonsense fashion, i.e. not moaning nearly as much as her husband. Special mention to Pink & Blacks mascot Ralph, making his 3^rd year supporting his parents out on the course.

I don’t know a whole lot about the next 3 legs as I wasn’t there, but the stats speak for themselves. Graham, Joe L and Fleur made a mockery of their debutant status, all averaging under 7 minute miles, Fleur by some distance on her way to recording the fastest female for the stage in the 26 year history if the race. I’m only sorry I wasn’t there to see it. Some rather poor time management from me meant a rather frantic drive to Great Yarmouth where Sarah was in position with a few seconds to spare to take the baton from her sister. Great Yarmouth is an interesting place, needs to be seen at 8pm on a Saturday night to be believed.

Flashing beacon and first gear engaged, we were into the night. Swan senior settled into a metronomic tempo, passing other runners like they were tied to a rock on her way to a senior ladies course record – darn, we’re going to have to start going to the prize giving if this behaviour continues. Next up was Jimmy K, missing from the team sheet last year whilst living in Kazakhstan, who apparently don’t have a similar event over there…weird. James covered the 14 miles considerably quicker than his mini would have done, putting in a characteristically dogged performance. Then after all the waiting it was my turn. Despite running this leg for the 4^th time it never ceases to amaze me just how straight the roads are in this part of the world.

And to the Belgians. The better looking Jan was up first, upping his distance after an impressive performance the year before where he ran so fast his brother wasn’t in position to take baton from him. No such problems this year as big brother Tom took up the fight as the first signs of dawn began to emerge around 4.30am. Turns out this wasn’t such a good time for me to be behind the wheel as I nearly ran Tom over (twice) – sorry buddy! I also caught myself saying some really bizarre things in a sleep deprived haze, hopefully Jan can’t remember the details either.

Comedy moment of the race was around the corner as Jon thought a convertible Mazda MX2 was an appropriate support car for the RNR, and that’s with a set of golf clubs in what can only be described as a compact boot. Yet after some careful packing (i.e. Brompton on my lap in the passenger seat) Chuck and I were tailing Jon in his rugby kit as some seriously quick runners started fizzing past (could have happened to anyone Jon). Jon handed over to Chuck and I was back on the bike, much safer for everyone. Chuck made a mockery of his ‘non-runner’ tag, passing people at will and looking like he could have gone twice the distance. Then before you knew it the last changeover had been made, uniquely Brownie going back the way Chuck had just arrived from. A veteran of the RNR Brownie was quickly into his stride and displaying a steely focus. We waved him goodbye at the river tow path after Jon had fortunately found him a bottle of water, in his sodding golf bag no less.

Then it was a case of last men and woman standing to the finish line with a quick hello to Mum and Dad who were marshalling near the finish. Brownie hot footed it round the tartan breaking the tape in a time of 26:38:22, with the Pink & Blacks finishing a highly credible 37^th from 58 teams.

Thanks again to everyone for making it happen and making my life considerably easier by all taking responsibility for yourselves and helping others (seems those emails shitting you up a bit do work). I sincerely hope you’ll be back next year for another go in what is a fantastic event which has to be experienced to be fully understood.