Tarawera - Post Race Reflection
So it’s all done and dusted. The culmination of a year’s work, wrapped up into one day. It’s hard to put into words how the final couple of days leading up to the event felt. “Somewhat surreal” would be a good start.
The two days leading up to Tarawera are a blur. A mix of many hours of travelling, planning and organisation with 10 or so people to be considered, a poorly executed carb load, and one of the worst nights’ sleep possible thanks to a rogue alarm all resulted in what can politely be described as a less-than-ideal pre-race morning. Looking back, I’m still trying to be honest with myself about whether these issues were purely nutrition and sleep errors or whether nerves played more of a role than I hoped. This was somewhat frustrating, as a pillar of my mental prep had been to care immensely during the training process, with the intention of “letting go” prior to race day. Clearly, easier said than done.
To cut a long story short… it wasn’t the start I had hoped for. I felt nauseous all morning, waited in line for the toilet until 5 minutes prior to the race start, ended up midway in the pack on the start line and, most frustrating of all, felt like I didn’t get to savour the moment with Dad. I knew we were planning on running very different races, but I at least hoped for this moment on the line to be a purely happy one, not riddled with stress.
Now, with the obligatory excuses out of the way, onto the good stuff. The first 25 km went by better than expected. Stuck in traffic for the first 5 km, I felt I was playing catch-up. But once I was able to get running, the gut settled slightly, food was going in, and the legs were ticking over. However, as we approached 30 km, a familiar feeling started to set in: an unshakeable feeling of mental fatigue. Although familiar, this is something I would not normally suffer until much deeper into a run or event. The feeling was therefore also accompanied by an unnerving sense of dread. “If I feel like this now… how am I going to feel in 5–6 hours’ time?” This is a mental trap I know not to fall into, but reminding myself of this fact did little to shake the dread.
Mentally, I was prepared to push and fight hard at Tarawera, but I had really hoped I wouldn’t need to reach for the metaphorical sword until much later in the race. At 35 km, I was left with a choice: pump the brakes, pace myself and give up on my goal time, or… strap in, start pushing and accept the pain that came my way as a result. Although in the back of my mind I knew my goal time was already slipping away, I knew that if I gave up on it this early, the spiral of quitting would be hard to stop.
This attitude of “pushing hard no matter what” is easy to romanticise, but the truth is it bloody sucked. That feeling of fatigue never really dissipated, and at around 65 km I had a low that pushed me closer to a breaking point than anything I had experienced in the past. As I got closer to the finish, I felt my mind grow stronger. Each kilometre that I didn’t blow up gave me reassurance that I was going to finish. No matter how much this confidence grew, though, my legs wouldn’t move any faster. I was cooked.
As I crossed the finish line, I’m still not sure what the prominent feeling was. The usual suspects were there (pride, joy, exhaustion), but most of all, an unshakeable feeling of relief. Not relief that I had finished, but relief that I had managed to divert what had the potential to be a total train wreck, and turn it into a pretty decent day on the pins.
Now, a week on, the dust has settled. I had assumed that at this point I would feel satisfied and yearn for rest. However, due to how things unfolded, I feel more motivated than ever. Motivated to let my mistakes be lessons rather than failures. Rest is crucial, but I already have my sights firmly set on the next challenge.
