Great Lake Taupo Relay
13 Women, 155 kilometers, 1 naked guy
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| Mt Jogas (not pictured: Naked Guy) |
It’s 2:30 am on a Saturday, and the Mt. Joggers team is waiting for our lead runner, Jackie, to charge the hill. 12 of us mill outside our rented Price-Rite van, looking at watches, chatting to other runners. One man says his team name is Ho Chi Mihn, after the city in Vietnam. We decide “Mt Jogas” isn’t exciting enough. “How about Angry Bitches?” I ask a couple of my teammates. “We could be the AB’s.” [just like the New Zealand rugby team, the All Blacks]. AB’s is a joke, of course. Even in the middle of the night after little or no sleep, we’re not angry. We’re excited to take part in the 17th Great Lake Taupo Relay. 13 of us, all women, will run 155 kilometers around New Zealand’s largest lake. 450 teams comprising 4,000 runners are pounding pavement with us.
“Look out – she’s fast!” shouts Debbie out the window to a man running beside Jackie. The van ambles for a few minutes at 20 kilometers per hour - just long enough to yell encouragement to Jackie . During these early morning relay legs, we alternate between cheering the runner, chatting and closing our eyes for scraps of faux sleep. I’ve had an extended nap at the Camellia motel – about four hour’s worth – followed by coffee and porridge. It still doesn’t feel right to be awake, thinking about running, at 3 am.
I think about the last relay I ran, in 2004. The Ameri-cana stretched 220 miles from Nelson, British Columbia, Canada to Sandpoint, North Idaho, USA. My late husband Sean, having pulled a groin muscle during the relay the year before, decided to come as support, rather than run. He drove what we referred to as the “prison van,” a boxy truck outfitted with bunk beds. Around 3 am, we lost the course in North Idaho near the Canadian border at Bonner’s Ferry. I unfolded a map and turned it round in circles before we deduced we were heading the wrong way. Our team mate Joel later told us,
“You guys handled that well. A lot of other couples would’ve been squabbling over directions in the middle of the night.”
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| Jackie (in blue) tagging Mary |
Jackie finishes her hilly 14 kilometers just before 4 am. She tags Mary (another speed demon) who’ll also run 14 k. Race organizers have outfitted each team with two flashing red lights and two head lamps for runners on the course before 6:15 am. Few lights illuminate the highway – it’s blackness, save for blazing generator-powered lights at transition points and runners’ head and tail lights. The lights allow us to see the more than six-foot-tall pink pig strolling the course. It’s a team mascot, which fits well with a quasi-carnival theme: Sprinkled like confetti along the course, we spy women in hula skirts and brown face paint; men wearing “Phar Kof” t-shirts and a man dressed in a Jolly Green Giant spandex figure-hugging running suit.
Mr. Happy Flappy
Several kilometers into Mary’s run, our van erupts in “HAHHHHH!!!!” I peer into the dark: it’s a runner in black shorts and t-shirt. What’s the big deal? Then, just ahead of him, I spot the subject of laughter: A 20-something man wearing shoes and a reflective vest. He lacks shorts or even undies. His bare white bum is on the run. As the van passes Naked Guy (NG), we crane our necks to get a frontal view. Nary a jock strap in sight. 'Free-ballin’, yeah he’s free-ballin’ (Channeling Tom Petty here). More squeals of laughter. Suddenly wide awake and giddy with excitement, I yell,
“I gotta get a picture!”
“It’s not just a naked guy,” one of my team mates says. “It’s a HOT naked guy.” Another runner predicts, “We’re all piling out for this one.”
We scramble from the van to await NG’s flapping arrival. He never comes. Someone has slipped NG a pair of shorts by the time he reaches our waiting vehicle. Bugger.
I hear another male runner say,
“It’s not for fat people, this hill.” He’s nearly summited a long section of pitched road. We cheer our fully-clothed team mate, Mary, who bounces up hills in lieu of slogging them. We drive to the Leg 3 transition point.
No t.p. in Taupo
The morning is cool – not cold enough to require gloves and hats for running, or even tights, but cool enough for runners-in-waiting to snuggle under blankets in the van. I’m wearing thick sweatpants over my running gear, plus a fleece jacket. At least I’ll be able to see where I’m going by my Leg - #12.
We walk 100 meters to the porta-potties, which are placed at each transition point. We’ll soon discover these repositories of filth almost never have toilet paper and are foul-smelling enough to require a clothes peg (clothespin) over the nose. Thank God for cover of night. Many runners are obsessed with bodily functions, with cleaning out the system before a race or long run. We’ve been chatting about that very thing, prompting Mary to say, “I’ve never heard so much poo talk from women in my life.” Donna responds, “Stick with me, Mary. I’m a poo-er.” We crack up and clamber from the van for the next transition.
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| Denise (left) and Penny in the mist |
It’s misting by the time Penny starts Leg 3 (10 km) at around 5 am. I click a fuzzy shot of her handing off to Denise, who tags Debbie, who’ll run 8.3 kilometers. Sometime between Denise and Debbie’s run, the sun rises. It’s still cool, but now, we can see the road. And the landscape. Rolling hills dotted with pine trees guard either side of the highway.
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| Debbie: Going straight ahead |
Real Runners, Real Life
Debbie speeds in from her hilly, twisty leg to tag Donna, who’s running 2 legs, smashed together. Donna’s left breast remains bruised from a series of biopsies a week earlier. She’s running with the shock of a woman newly-diagnosed with cancer. Her trial is another reminder we slog this human race together. Mary and Debbie flank Donna as she summits a hill; Paula runs alongside several kilometers later with water; I pant up yet another incline, asking Donna how she’s doing.
“I’m okay. I’m gonna cry at some stage,” she says. I advise: “Wait ‘til the end. It’s really hard to catch your breath when you’re crying and running.”
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| Debbie hands off to Donna |
Donna later tells me she started crying one kilometer before her last leg ended. She’d spotted the sign indicating her race was almost done. She finishes, red-faced from exertion, cheeks streaky with sweat. It’s starting to get hot. The sun is beaming, spreading golden rays on grass and trees, baking pavement. Donna says,
“This is the first 14 kilometer race I’ve ever run with breast cancer.” Kerry, another runner who’s a nurse, tells her, “Next year when you run this, you won’t have breast cancer.”
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| Donna's double leg is over! |
Donna tags Paula, who strides ahead in her camouflage visor and sunglasses. Paula, too, will run two legs (many of our team members ran more than one leg because the race has 18 legs and our team consists of 13 runners). She’ll run nearly 13 kilometers, total. Paula’s a billy goat who thrives on hills and later reports she enjoyed the course. Even the dreaded Kuratau Hill.
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| Paula: Charging the hill |
Don't Fear the Rooster
Next up is Angela, who’s never run an event before. She has a newbie’s enthusiasm. She downs a can of energy drink called Big Cock during the race, saying,
“That’s all I needed was a Big Cock in me and I’m ready to go!” She runs almost seven kilometers (she was originally down for just 4.7), later telling us she walked a bit when she needed a break.
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| Newbie Angela |
“It’s not a race,” our team manager, Dara has told us several times. “We’ll do whatever we can.” Jackie chimed in at the team meeting, half-jokingly saying, “But we wanna WIN!” Each runner runs her own race at her own pace. For some of us, just going the distance is enough. For others, setting a fast pace is the goal.
The weather has morphed from pleasantly cool to not comfy anymore, to oh-shit-I-gotta-run-on-asphalt-in-this-heat.
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| Angela to Dara |
Angela tags Dara, who’ll run 11 kilometers under a shimmering sun. I’m up next. I’ve been awake since 1:30 am and it’s almost 1 pm. I’ve been drinking a mixture of water and Raro (a sugary mix, like Tang), plus two cups of instant cappuccino. Over nearly 12 hours, I’ve eaten two servings of porridge, a nectarine, muesli bar and one-quarter of a Panini leftover from last night’s dinner at the Fat Dog café in Rotorua. The sandwich contains pumpkin, feta cheese and sundried tomatoes. We’ll see, if two hours later, it returns to haunt my run.
Twitching and Jiving
I start to get nervous. Do I go for my third whizz (pee stop) of the hour? Sure. Drink more water/Raro? Yep. Slather more sunscreen? You betcha. I crank up Janet Jackson’s Design of a Decade CD and open the van doors. I’m groovin’ to Escapade –
Come on baby, let’s get away. Let’s save our troubles for another day. Come go with me, we got it made. Let me take you on an Escapade.
How fast can I run the escapade? I’m not in this just to finish. I don’t know how other runners feel when they race, but if I don’t feel like I’m pumping, pushing, gritting, working (hating life for a brief time on the course), then I’m not pushing myself fast enough. Someday, when I drop my extra Kiwi kilos, maybe that feeling will change. I don’t know if Joggers has made me fitter, but it has increased my running pain threshold.
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| My turn to fly |
Dara propels through the transition and tags my hand. I’m off. About 100 meters into my run, I realize I forgot to start the timer on my GPS watch. I hit the button and I’m away. The next 10.1 kilometers are mine to push the pace or slog. My leg is mercifully flat – for this course, anyways. My only request was that I not run something that included a “famous hill.” Leave me the anonymous slight inclines. I check my watch about one kilometer into the run to check my pace. Five minutes. It’s definitely faster than my normal speed, but this isn’t a walk in the park. It’s a freakin’ race. If I can keep this up, I’ll finish in about 50 minutes. I double-pinky promise myself not to look at my watch for at least four more kilometers.
The shoulder becomes as narrow as my eight-year-old daughter’s hips. I’m running on the right side of the road, opposite traffic, trying to stay right of the white line. The road’s edge is cambered, leaving me no choice but to run the paint strip. The asphalt feels rocky and rippled under my size 10 ½ Adidas trail shoes. I focus on not tripping over the small metal reflectors embedded along the highway’s edge. And not tripping over a rock. Basically, not tripping, period. Heat rises from the pavement. The day would be pleasantly hot if we weren’t running. Coaxing my body through the intensity of warmth and sunshine seems crazy. I thank members of one of the Pukeko teams, who mist me with water three times along the course while waiting for their team mate to pass.
I make a game of picking off other runners: Can I pass runner number one? No problem. How about number five? See ya. I glimpse number eight about 300 meters before the transition point, my finish. She’s wearing a coin belt that jingles while she runs. By now, I’m tapping reserves to finish strong. I’m not letting a jingly-belt-wearing runner beat me to the finish. I sprint ahead of Jingles, then look for my team mate. Where’s Lee? I’m ready to be done. There she is. I tag her hand – she’s off. One race over. Another begins. I walk 100 meters or so to recover, then return to where my teammates stand, sipping their first real coffees of the day, bought from a café across the street. “Do you want a coffee?” someone asks. “Probably not,” responds another Jogger, before I can spit out any words. No coffee. Just water with Raro. Lots of it.
Minutes later, we reach the pretty part of the Great Lake Taupo relay – the part where you can actually see water besides what dribbles from your drink bottle. To this point, we’d played peekaboo with the 616 square kilometer lake (big enough to plop all of Singapore within) from the hills above. Now, on Leg 13, we parallel the lake, soaking in views of calm, blue water and 2,800 meter (9,200 feet) Mt Ruapehu.
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| Lee's lookin' strong |
We stop to wait for Lee. I’ve only imitated a cool-down stretch. I’m still a little stiff and probably a lot smelly. I peel away my shoes and socks, plus GPS watch and wade into the water. Just past my knees, I remove my royal blue Mt Joggers singlet and fling it to a teammate on shore. I miss her outstretched hand. The singlet hits the water. I dive into the cool (but still warmer than ocean) water wearing a black sports bra and skort (combination skirt/shorts). Bliss lives here. The sun is shining, my run is over and I’m swimming in an enormous, clear lake. Jackie jumps in, too.
“It’s fabulous, isn’t it?” she says.
Lee hands off to Nicola for 7.5 kilometers which race organizers describe as “dangerous.”
What’s dangerous mean? We’ve been asking. Finally, we see what they’re talking about: the route is windy without much shoulder. Nicola survives the run unharmed.
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| Nicola, running in the afternoon sun |
Denise runs Leg 15 – her second time on the course. She’s a trooper, since this part includes a famous hill - Hatepe. While not viciously steep, the hill keeps going and going… It reminds me of Doomsday hill on Spokane’s Bloomsday course. Only there’s no vulture waiting at the summit. The big bird must’ve taken a coffee break. Denise later tells us Hatepe,
“…wasn’t that bad. It sure wasn’t as hard as running the Mount.” The Mount. That 232 meter (760 feet) extinct volcanic dome is our Friday training run and our benchmark for hills. Run it regularly, and you, too, may extol its beauty while cursing its relentless pitch.
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| Teamwork: Debbie, Kerry, Jackie |
Denise tags Kerry, whose furthest event distance to date is a 12k. She’ll run two legs, a total of 13 kilometers. She keeps a steady pace, but from inside the air-conditioned van, we wonder if she’s up for this heat, these hills. Maybe another teammate should run her second leg? Debbie, Jackie, Donna and I run from the van to Kerry to encourage her progress and confirm her desire to continue. Kerry smiles and assures us she’s fine. She looks peppy for someone who’s been awake most of the night and run eight kilometers in the searing Southern hemisphere sun. To cheer her, we pile out of the van, line the side of the road and do what Kiwis call the Mexican wave (a.k.a., ‘The Wave’ in the US). Kerry passes the transition point and keeps running to her triumphant finish where we hug and congratulate her. This brings us to:
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| Dara: Almost home |
Leg 18 – The Final Frontier
Dara runs the last 7.5 kilometers. She’ll run rolling hills that rejoin the lake’s edge. We motor from sparse surroundings to the tourist bustle of Taupo, where a row of motels and cafes announce we’re entering town. We pass the Jolly Odd Fellows pub, where someone asks, “Anyone know if the food there is any good?”
We drive to the finish line. We’re all supposed to cross together. Several of us walk about a third of a kilometer to encourage Dara up the last hill. I jog another half-kilometer to use the toilet and run with Dara until we reach our group. It’s almost 5:30 when I spot her alongside the lake.
“You’re almost there,” I say. “Looking good – keep going.”
I can barely contain my speed on comparatively fresh, twitchy legs. I can feel Dara’s fatigue – that last kilometer taps into every muesli bar calorie, training run, self-talk... Your legs and lungs need to BE THERE ALREADY. Especially in this heat.
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| The "Chariots of Fire"hill climb |
We turn right at the marina and run alongside yachts (sailboats) and power boats. We meet the group at the base of the final hill and climb the short incline. We start singing the theme from Chariots of Fire: “Da-da-da-da-DA-DA; Da-da-da-da-DA….” At the crest, we hang another right, where the red finish banner’s in sight. I say, “I’m gonna run ahead and get a picture at the finish.” No one hears this.
My teammates see me take off and they give chase like a just-pulled-from-retirement-FBI-agent chasing his last bad guy in a movie. I turn around just in time to snap a few pictures of “Mt Jogas” crossing the line.
At 5:34, it’s over. We placed 100th out of 127 teams (we’re shooting for at least 80th place next year). So we lost to the Ron Jeremy Running Club, Palmy Tards and Nek Minute. Still, we beat WTF- Witness the Fitness, Slow’s the new Fast and Catcha-Breaths. Next year, we’ll attach lead weights to Ron’s Jeremy and then see-how-he-runs…
Donna and Jackie pop corks on two bottles of bubbles. We toast and drink and laugh about eating REAL FOOD (i.e., anything but muesli bars and bananas). We bask in the glow of accomplishment and delight in the lake’s tingle. We have run our own races and supported each other while shuffling in and out of the van 90 times (according to maths whiz Jackie). We emerge sore and sleep-deprived and ready to do it all again. Next year.
2012 Great Lake Taupo Relay: February 16th. Bring the Janet Jackson CD.
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