Musings on the road – Hobart to Healesville

While I’ve never particularly liked to use the phrase ‘journey’ when describing the Running for Bums endeavour, the further along I get into it the more apt that word becomes. Something of this magnitude is very rarely about the destination. Yes, you could very well argue that it’s solely about the destination, but that would diminish what happens along the way to simply being a means to an end. I have not placed myself into this situation where discomfort has become the norm and comfort a rarity for the destination itself, I have placed myself here to tell a story and to in many ways immerse myself in the experience whilst maintaining a bystander view point in some respects. After all, there are easier ways to get to Cape York.

Not too long ago I read a quote that said ‘the universe does not do anything to you, it does everything for you’. As I have gone through the first 3 weeks of this journey I have realised that somehow I have developed an ability to be a curious bystander to what is happening within me. At times this falters, there is no denying that, and at times the discomfort has hurtled towards full blown pain, and the mental fatigue has threatened to envelop me in a cloud of darkness even with the sun shining, but for the most part I have been able to withdraw myself away from the feelings and emotions that something like this elicit within me and simply allow them to pass.

As I wrote about in the previous blog, an endeavour like this forces you to go back to simplicity in order to survive. If I were to wake up every day and mentally say to myself that I have 3,900km to go, I wouldn’t get out of bed, plain and simple. I would flatly refuse to go a step further. Even though it’s the truth, the way that we perceive the truth is what allows us to keep moving even when you have no idea of how you are going to arrive at the destination. Hence the destination being less important than the journey. I make a conscious effort to not think about the future of this run unless prompted to by someone else. When I wake up in the morning the first thing that crosses my mind is at what point I plan to stop and have breakfast. That’s it. That is as far as I allow myself to think ahead. Sure there may be 48km to do that day, but at the moment of waking that point is irrelevant. It’s life broken down into it’s most simplest form.

So what then have the past 2 weeks entailed since I last wrote. Well firstly I ticked off Tasmania, the first state on the Running for Bums itinerary. I battled through a particularly difficult day from Bothwell to Miena when unbeknown to me I had badly misread my notes on the route and forgot that on this day I not only had to traipse 45km, I also had to climb at least 800m in altitude (if not a lot more) to get to the lakeside village of Miena. There’s no denying that I am not a mountain goat, but the previous week or so in Tasmania had me fairly confident that I’d knock it off without too much difficulty. I’d also dragged my poles out for the day to help with the climbing which gave me more hope for a smooth day. For those of you who have been following along on Facebook you would be well aware that the day did not pan out like that. Just under 3 hours into it I distinctly recall asking Dad how far I had come and had been expecting to hear a number around the 15-18km mark. I had been pushing hard all morning walking with my poles and was sure I was at least maintaining a good 5k/h up the hills. When he said you’ve done about 12k my heart sank as I told him that I thought I would have been a lot further. He was very diplomatic and said ‘well you have been climbing since we started’. It was the start of the mental battle that raged throughout the day as I went up and up with next to no downhill at all.

Later in the day we were met by a friend on the roadside as I, much to my disgust, tended to a blister hotspot. With 18km to go I had just finished singing a Dr. Seuss quote to the sheep in the paddock and we were stopped in the middle of St. Patrick’s plains. There was no denying that the frustration at feeling like I was going so slow was starting rise from the pit of my stomach. It is an incessant feeling and so infuriating that you must pound it down with all your might to stop it from boiling over. With 13km to go my feet no longer had room in my shoes and it felt like I was walking on a bed of needles. I made the crucial mistake of wearing long pants with tight cuffs on a warm day. The fluid that had accumulated in my feet had no where to go so it just continued to pile in there. My toes became squished like sardines and I could get no respite. With 8km to go we passed a distance marker that crushed me a little more. When would the climbing end? It had not let up and still we went on.

With 5km to go I could finally see the dam wall and knew that the end was nearly in sight. In sight, but still not close enough. With 3km to go the strength that my brain had to continue to suppress the pain was starting to crumble. More and more the steps became more painful, I could feel my face grimacing of its own accord as the soles of my feet touched down only to met by the slightest reprive as they rose once again. Here I was joined by our friend who kindly walked me into Miena and attempted to converse with me along the way. For 2km we threw banter back and forth, before finally with 1km to go my mind gave up. It knew I was home. It no longer needed to protect me from the pain and discomfort. It was tired and so was I. I was no longer able to concentrate on the conversation and was moving in 50 steps intervals before regularly leaning over my poles and secretly wishing a car would side swipe me. Finally, after what was at the time, and still is, the most difficult day on Running for Bums, home for the night was in sight and the pain would soon end. I don’t know how but I was still able to crack a joke at the end, and while the day nearly splintered my body and mind, I was so grateful to still have my spirit intact.

Overly dramatic right?

That night I went to bed and for the first time on the run I briefly questioned my ability to continue (I said briefly guys). I knew that by going to bed a new day was on the horizon and with that the chance to restart once again. While I needed to take extra special care of my feet for the next week, nothing came of the hotspots and with a bigger pair of shoes and more roomy pants I was able to keep moving on strongly all the way to the end of Tasmania. I’d spent a week making my way from the ocean to a high point in the middle of the apple isle, riding the wave of emotions all the way up and then enjoying the downhill back to sea level on the other side. I was in tune with the geography and constantly reminded of the beauty in the moment.

As I left Tasmania we had moved our fundraising tally over $12,000 which made for a very contented boat trip back across Bass Strait. While not even 10% of the way through Running for Bums, I was very excited to be sailing away from the first leg of the journey.

Moving in to Victoria I was reminded how ridiculous my planning for the run had been. I obviously had someone other than myself in mind when I planned the daily kilometre totals and for only one of the few times, I found my eyes lingering on numbers in the right hand column. There would be very little respite on the mainland. From here on in more days had 45km+ against them than didn’t. It was game on.

With a slight hiccup in support crew duties I had Mum stay with me a little longer than planned which was a bonus. We were the dynamic duo. I was pounding out the kilometres each day and she was doing everything else, I mean everything. She was such a trooper. With some early starts on the horizon, we found ourselves under the cover of darkness standing at the Telegraph Saddle carpark on Wilson’s Prom, about the embark on the first stretch on the mainland. I won’t lie, I did question why I didn’t just start from Port Melbourne, but true to form, why take the easiest option right?!

I was quickly reminded over the first few days in Victoria that I was not in Tasmania anymore. Not only were the stinky roadkill carcasses few and far between, the traffic was far more busy aswell. It didn’t take long to learn that people in Victoria, and perhaps just on the mainland in general, enjoy rushing. Where it felt like 90% of people in Tasmania slowed down to pass me, it felt like 90% of people did not take their foot off the accelerator to pass me in Victoria. While I acknowledge I am in the domain of the road user and hence do not expect them to take heed of the support vehicle warning, I would of thought that perhaps they would anyway. I navigated some roads that reinforced that Dad not accompanying us for this section was a good idea. Not only would he have missed out on carrying the Commonwealth Games baton in Birdsville, he also would have had a heart attack had he seen what I was running along.

Every morning I would negotiate the busy roads and spend an hour or two rattling inside with nerves questioning whether it was worth the risk, and every day by the afternoon I would feel like the road shoulder was part of home. It was a gradual transition from ‘please don’t hit me’, to ‘if you hit me you are blind’, and finally ‘well if you hit me I don’t want to see you coming’ as the day went on. Speaking of risk, with so much time on my hands throughout the day I have spent a considerable amount of time musing over the notion of risk. We often ask others who have done something considered “risky” if it was worth it. And 99.9% of the time the response is an unwavering yes. No questions asked. In the midst of making my way to Lang Lang I flipped the idea on its head and thought about all those people who have been the one-percenters –  those people who have done something risky and paid for it with injury or the loss of someone they loved. Do they think it was worth the risk? Is there anything in the world that is truly worth the risk? Or does something only become ‘worth the risk’ once we come out the other side unscathed? This is what my days are reduced to. Musing of the ways of the world.

So risk then, is this run worth the risk. Everyday we face risk in everything we do. I don’t think you would ever step outside your door if you questioned the risk faced by doing so. Spending so much time on the road and at the mercy of other drivers who I have no control over, I am obviously taking a risk. A risk that is bigger than someone who does not spend 10 hours a day running alongside major highways obviously. To be honest I don’t know if it is worth the risk, and after spending so much time mulling over it I don’t think I will know until it’s done. So if anyone out there is thinking that what I’m doing is risky, you are absolutely right, however without risk I don’t think life would be worth much. So do I think it’s worth the risk? I’m not sure. Am I going to do it anyway? Yes.

As you can probably tell I get carried away with my thoughts when I’m out there alone all day and this is one of the reasons why the last few days have been so amazing. While they have been some of the most challenging to date in terms of injury niggles and fatigue, they have also been some of the most uplifting. I have been so lucky to be joined by some super human beings who have taken time from their day to make my day a little brighter. They have kept me honest out there and have known when to push me and when to allow me to lead them. I knew in some way, that this run was going to be a tiring exercise. After all you can’t expect to cover 40km+ every day and not be a tad tired. But did I realise just how mentally exhausting it would progress to be, I don’t think so. The perks of having people join me at this point in time is that even though my brain is reacting slower and my body not moving as fast, I can lean on them to keep me going when I would otherwise fall behind to nothing more than snail’s pace. Some would say I already move at snail’s pace, but the reality is that the more time I spend on my feet the more mentally fatiguing it is, but the less time I spend on my feet the more physically demanding it is. Hence I am constantly trying to find that balance between going easy enough to keep the body feeling good, but fast enough that I still get some time to mentally relax at the end of the day before going to bed.

So in light of trying to strike that balance, I’ve spent today resting up. I’m still going to cover some ground, but for the most part I’ve been able to enjoy a sleep in, trotted a few kilometres into Healesville and will do a few more tonight to get a head start on tomorrow. I’m mentally clearing out my mind by writing and enjoying reliving each day both for my own personal record, and on a more general level so you guys can get an idea of what goes on inside my head. It gets messy in there at times, but it’s always comforting to know that I’m never truly alone when I can find ways to entertain myself as the days get longer and the body more tired. When I told my coach I was a ‘tad’ tired he suggested that I remember what a ‘tad’ tired feels like because in a few weeks I’ll be wishing I was only a ‘tad’ tired. While the sarcastic part of me wants to say that I can’t wait for that, the more curious observer in me is generally interested in what will come of the next week or two.

Stand by for more (courtesy of my next rest day).