This year the pivotal point of my UTA experience was centered on the two-day lead-up and how sadness and self-pity was replaced by excitement and enthusiasm for an event I love – simply by reframing the challenge.

This was to be my fourth UTA100 and my sixth successive UTA event overall.  I love the event.  I love the training that leads up to it.  I love the pre-planning for gear, timing and nutrition.  I love the excitement and anticipation as I arrive and see running friends I follow daily on Strava but rarely see in person.  I love the atmosphere at the expo and the finish line.  I love the lifetime I live during the event with high highs and low lows.  I love the feeling of accomplishment as I cross the finish line.  And I love the deep sense of satisfaction that I fleetingly bask in the day after.

This year, my experience was very different to prior years.  Three weeks prior, I fell badly while I was training on the course.  I broke four ribs, punctured a lung, and triggered internal bleeding.  After three hospitals, two ambulance rides, and an operation to plate my ribs, all within 48 hours, and then followed by 36 hours in Intensive Care, I had all but given up on competing in this year’s event.  During small-talk with my surgeon I mentioned my planned running event coming up.  Surprisingly he boasted that a prior patient of his who underwent similar surgery had run a triathlon within two weeks.  A glimmer of hope, buoyed by the super-strength pain killers feeding directly into my veins at the time, became a mission.  With each visit from my surgeon, I took his repeated assurances that it was medically safe to run the UTA100 if my fitness was up to it, as a challenge.  I even wrote myself a medical certificate for him to sign in case the race organisers learned of my surgery and sought to prevent me from running in the event.  My running coach, always positive, always supportive, didn’t hesitate to encourage me, but I could hear the faint scepticism about my plan in his voice.

In the three weeks that followed, however, I grew more and more disillusioned.  False hope from the surgeon. I was no longer receiving pain relief by the litre.  Whether running, walking, or resting, the rib pain would switch from dull to sharp depending on movement.  It barely improved. I could barely sleep at night least of all get into or out of bed without sharp pain.  I contemplated downgrading my UTA entry to a shorter distance or pulling out altogether, but I could not bring myself to let go. Not just yet. I managed to do some bike rides and a few short, painful runs over the next couple of weeks. The longest run I did in the three-week lead-up was on the prior Thursday night at Katoomba for seven kilometres.  I had to walk the last two kilometers.  Afterwards, I could not move without sharp pain.  I had to walk with a distinct lean to the right whilst clutching my ribs.  Over dinner that night, friends offered a mix of sympathy and incredulity that I was even contemplating running.  I left dinner also wondering why I was continuing this delusion of running the 100km event. Friday morning, as I went to the race centre to register, I was feeling very depressed.  I was angry I had injured myself.  I was regretful that I did not have the pre-race high I had grown to expect. I was disappointed I would not likely be able to run. I was envious of the healthy, fit people around me talking of their anticipated finish times.  Sometime that morning, however, I had a mini revelation.  UTA is about personal challenge.  For me, in prior years, the personal challenge had been to achieve a particular finish time. This year, I realised, my challenge was just to show up and start and see how far I could get.  What a cliché, I thought.  Suddenly I understood at a much deeper level the question that many other competitors in endurance events ask – can I even make it to the start line, least of all, the finish line?  I defined seven goals: start line, checkpoints 1..5, and finish line.  My challenge was how many of the seven could I achieve.  I was, honestly, going to be happy if I could show up at the start line, run the 3km road section and then pull out.  Surprisingly with this change in mindset I felt good again. The pre-race anticipation and excitement returned, and I became genuinely excited. I had my own UTA challenge.  What a ridiculously corny head-game I thought to myself. How often have I heard that endurance events are mind games? 

The actual experience of the run is far more straightforward.  I started in Wave 1 – respectfully self-seeding to the very back.  I completed the first 3km, looping back past the starting line feeling like I could continue.  What an exhilarating experience…I was going on to Checkpoint 1.  I came upon a very accomplished and fast running friend of mine also running at the back of Wave 1. We discovered we both had injuries and were going to push through them as best we could.  It was comforting to know I wasn’t alone in pressing on to participate. I gingerly descended the Furber steps expecting at any minute to trigger sharp pain.  I nervously clamoured through Landslide hoping not to trigger my rib pain.  I climbed the recently reopened Golden Stairs for the first time in two years.  I apologised to runner after runner as they politely waited for an opportunity to pass me.  I was very grateful to have received some advice on how to use KT Tape to strap my chest muscles so they would move less.  The strapping was making a huge difference.

By Checkpoint 1 at the start of the Narrowneck fire trail, I saw Wave 3 runners starting to go by, but I was feeling fine.  My ribs were good.  I was holding on.  I was as exhilarated as I was earlier when I passed by the start line on the earlier road loop.  Along Narrowneck I ran as fast and smoothly as I could.  Running friends I knew caught up to me and we’d talk as we ran together for a while before they ran off.  I tried not make excuses or talk about my injury with any of them. I was pushing that to the back of my mind and focusing on running smoothly and just getting to one more Checkpoint – and achieving one more of my seven goals.  As I waited in the queue to descend Tarros, I recognised the polite impatience in the other runners.  In unusual contrast to prior years, I was calm and relaxed.  I was celebrating my accomplishment to even be at Tarros.  They were watching their watches.  After all, I was waiting with mainly the front of the mid-pack pack runners who were hoping to finish with a sub-14 hour time, and receive their coveted silver medal.  I talked to the person supervising the Tarros Ladder.  I’d never talked to him before. He builds it each year, and I learnt about how he goes about it. I wasn’t slowing anyone up in my relaxed state; instead, I was enjoying the experience more than ever before.  Heading down into Dunphys and beyond to Checkpoint 2, I ran smoothly but generally slower than the field and was caught by other good running friends with whom I chatted as they passed.  My rib pain was present but it was stable.  Good.  I had expected it to increase steadily.  For the first time, it crossed my mind that it might actually be possible to finish the entire event—this was another self-indulgent exhilarating moment. 

I passed through Checkpoint 2 overtaking some faces I recognised from earlier as they lingered longer at the Checkpoint.  Up Ironpot, past the indigenous didgeridoo players, around the turning point and back down.  Still feeling ok.  Absolutely bloody amazing.  Along the road toward the celebratory Checkpoint 3 where crews meet their runners for the first time, I still felt good.  I didn’t have a crew.  I never do.  I had planned for a 1-minute checkpoint turnaround – dropping depleted soft flasks and picking up new ones from a drop bag.  I was in and out of Checkpoint 3 in close to a minute.  I felt good.  It was one of those mid-race high moments. 

The steady climb toward Nellies and up the famous stairs has always been a strong point in my UTA100’s.  I was running well.  This time was no exception.  Where was my rib pain I wondered?  I even reverted to a game of counting the number of people I can pass.  I counted twelve by the top of Nellies.  I was no longer the slowest runner in this part of the field.  I was catching the field.  Truly mind blowing.  Cold wind, rain, and sleet arrived as I passed over the undulating trail from the top of Nellies into Checkpoint 4 – one that some call the second most dangerous checkpoint in the event. It is inside a warm and comfortable aquatic centre building, it tempts runners to pull out ahead of the difficult second half with another descent into the Jamieson Valley below Katoomba.  With relative surprise that I was feeling ok, I spent a quick three minutes replenishing my food and water and headed out. 

Along the undulating technical trail that followed, I started to feel the rib pain return.  The already cold day was getting colder  But I was motivated by the prospect I might actually finish and was trying to figure out what my time might be.  Eighteen hours I estimated.  That would be good. My prior finish in 2019 had been under fourteen hours.  But I was happy with eighteen hours.  I was happy to have even gotten this far.  And beyond happy to be contemplating finishing.  I had not even considered setting a finish time for this years event until now.  As I continued, approaching the Fairmont, it got darker and even colder.  My prior year race plans all called for reaching Checkpoint 5, ten difficult kilometers further on, before dark.  Heading out of the Fairmont with my head torch on was the only fleeting moment of disappointment of the day as it brought home the reality of how long I was taking to complete the event this year.  That I only had one short period of disappointment since I started is an indication of just how much the mindset shift had positively affected how I was viewing this year’s race. 

The technical trail from Fairmont to Checkpoint 5 took its toll. My pain was steadily increasing. I was walking along sections where I should run.  It was getting tough.  As I approached the noise and bright lights of Checkpoint 5, I was not feeling good.  Checkpoint 5 is said to be the most dangerous of the Checkpoints.  Competitors not only pull out, but officials forcibly retire runners who aren’t fit to continue.  Pulling out was not yet on my mind, but I was throwing out my eighteen hour time estimate.  From here it was going to be a 22km death march style finish.  Any time would suffice.  It took me about ten minutes to pass through Checkpoint 5.  Soup.  I never stop for soup.  Sitting down.  I never sit down.  I walked, not ran, out of Checkpoint 5 and up the short rise of the firetrail to the top of the famously fun downhill firetrail sprint to the Jamison Creek.  But I couldn’t run fast.  It hurt too much. I could shuffle.  What a waste of a good down-hill.  Eight kilometers later I shuffled across the creek and commenced the long climb up to  the finish line.  For me, this is usually a mixed hike/run leg but this time it was a slow hike.  Bright headlamps would appear behind me, catch up and overtake me before disappearing into the cold, black night ahead. Passing through a final safety point about 10 km from the finish where runners also get checked for their fitness to continue, I was approached and asked the innocent-sounding screening questions.  I recognised them and disguised my grimaced responses as best I could.  I passed their tests and declined further offers of refreshments.  The less time there the better. 

The last five kilometers before the famous Furber Steps is a technical trail that triggered my rib pain further with every step.  In past years, I’ve often ‘connected’ with other runners in the end-stage push to the finish along this section of the trail.  This year was no exception.  I didn’t know this runner as he approached me from behind and I offered to pull over to let him pass.  He declined and was content to follow me.  He didn’t intend to push me along, but unknowingly he did. As we ran and chatted, he talked about making it to the finish line in under seventeen hours.  What!  How did that happen?  I hadn’t even been looking at my watch. At this point I felt the first time-pressure of the event.  I felt so much pressure to keep the pace up to achieve our newly set goal.  He continued to refuse my offers to let him pass, but he clearly had our seventeen-hour goal in mind.  The ribs were very sore at this point. Every step hurt and my leg muscles were screaming as they usually do at this stage of a long race. I forced the quickest run I could manage. A few other runners passed us.  One was a very fast running friend who I expected would have long since finished.  He had had a very bad day.  My new-found friend and I pressed on and reached the bottom of the famed Furber stairs.  Again I urged him to pass.  Again he declined.  About a kilometer to go and nearly a thousand stairs.  I can typically do these in about fifteen minutes.  Tonight it was going to be almost double that.  As you approach the finish line, you hear the announcers, the cow bells, the cheering of families.  It’s one big emotion fest.  Nearly everyone runs the last fifty meters or so past the crowds and through the finish shute with arms raised for the obligatory finish line photo. I offered to let my new friend go ahead one last time.  He continued to decline, pushing me along to the very last.  I passed under the finish line clock at about 11:30pm just over seventeen hours since I had started earlier that morning.  I wasn’t particularly emotional nor overly relieved at finishing. I just finished. It was all a bit anti-climatic, actually.  The year prior when I had achieved a time goal I had set for myself, I was much more emotional at the finish line.  This year the emotion had been expended as I passed through each checkpoint, realising I felt good enough to go on to the next. The emotional high normally reserved for the finish line had been evenly spread across the whole day. I had just experienced one of my most satisfying running days ever.

It was probably a pretty silly thing to have done so soon after a major accident and operation, but I am pleased I pushed myself to do it, with the blessing of my astute surgeon.  I learnt a lot. I experienced first-hand the feeling of genuinely not knowing if I could achieve my goal.  I felt pretty sure I would be pulling out before I finished.  I learnt about the power reframing a challenge can have.  I learnt that there is much more to ultra-endurance events than finishing in a particular time.  And I now fully understand the meaning of the often said line that we shouldn’t celebrate finish times, we should celebrate finishing.  All are well-worn cliches but so, so true.  I am so pleased to have learnt these lessons first-hand this year.  This will probably be the UTA event I look back on most fondly.