Getting an Uplift

Been a while since I’ve updated this and I think many would have thought that I’ve allowed the blog to wither away, unloved and untended. While the later may be true to an extent, the sad truth of life back home is that one notices the time available to sit and think often gets whittled away to nothing as work, commitments and commuting takes up so many waking hours already. Excuses aside, the lack of time to oneself and the subsequent inability to reflect has taken its toll on my delicate psychological constitution. Well, maybe not so delicate but you get the idea.

With that in mind, I took an evening off a couple of nights ago to boldly step into a cinema, something that I haven’t done in almost half a year. I was determined to catch Pixar’s Up before it ended its run in the cinemas here. Even though one could easily wait for the video release – there’s something to be said for making the special trip to watch the show on the big screen. And I was glad to have made the trouble.

Going Up and getting out. (image from The New Yorker)

The show lived up to all the hype that surrounded it and more. It gave me the slight bump upwards that I felt I needed at this time and gave me much to think about at the same time. The plot’s pretty simple – a 78 year old widower ties thousands of balloons to his house to float it to ‘Paradise Falls’ in South America to fulfil the dreams that he and his wife shared. On the way, he picks up an over-enthusiastic boy Russell, who was part of a Boyscout-like Wilderness Explorer group, a huge bird-of-paradise and meets a bunch of talking dogs and a villain. Formulaic it may seem on the outset but definitely not in its execution.

**Warning – there be spoilers below!**

The one thing that struck me about the movie was the development of the characters and the subtle commentary about what one should do about one’s dreams. We should all have our hopes, dreams and ambitions but as with everything in the world, these dreams should not remain static in the light of things that change around us. Carl Frederikson started life admiring one Charles Muntz, explorer and adventurer extraordinaire – his meeting of his childhood hero later in his life started with wonder and incredulity but that too changed to horror and no small amount of disillusionment as he saw the darker side to Muntz’s adventuring. Carl dealt with it first by running away but that too led to repercussions as his younger friend Russell tried to take Muntz on alone. He too had to deal with the choice of freeing a friendly bird-of-paradise (to go back to her brood of chicks) from the clutches of Muntz or save his house from a fire set by the latter to distract Carl. He chose initially to save the house but Russell’s actions to go of on his own to save the bird

Carl soon realised that his own goals of putting the house atop the Falls as he had planned paled in comparison to the more pressing needs of the present. What followed was the action packed climax of the movie filled with improbable physics (how can a floating house overtake a powered blimp?), funny fights (two septuagenarians locked in hand-to-hand combat with swords and walking sticks) and poignant symbolism as well. Carl realised from looking at a treasured album that he shared with his wife that their dreams of ‘adventure’ though unfulfilled in the normal sense was fulfilled through a full life together. His letting go of the house symbolised his letting go of the baggage that he carried with it since the passing of his beloved wife. The image of the house falling to the ground was an apt one to show how Carl managed to let go of his grief at not being able to get there with Ellie, his wife.

In a roundabout way, the movie reminds us about finding what our hopes and dreams are based on. Quite often, we pursue the outward manifestation of what our innermost hopes and dreams are without thinking about the whys and the hows of this. Just as Carl just wanted to honour the memory and love of his wife by landing the house on Paradise Falls, we too do things to chase things that we desire or think to be important to us. But when faced with hard decisions and a re-examination of what was truly important, even Carl had to realise that saving his new found friends was the greater good when compared to setting the house on a particular place. His actions to save the Russell and the bird honoured Ellie far more than the house landing correctly. It was this letting go and setting himself free that also transformed Carl from an old curmudgeonly gent to a happier person.

Our hopes and dreams can be simple – boiled down to their essence most of us want happiness and a certain amount of fulfilment. I’ve had to make some hard decisions as to the direction I think my life is leading and while the decisions weren’t too hard to make, it was what happened after the decisions were made that made were harder. Up gave me a little nudge to remind myself of the essence of these decisions and how all things will lead to happiness and fulfilment. Only if I allow it to.

Quarantine Files – Getting out

It’s finally happened – the clock ticked down to the time when the quarantine order ran out and I was faced with what I was looking forward to for the past week. Freedom. I must say that it was a little more anticlimactic that I expected – no fireworks or lined streets but it was nice nonetheless. I’ve heard the phrase ‘breath of freedom’ once before and didn’t quite realise what it meant till I stepped out the door and went down to the foot of the block. The air tasted different. Fresher and smelling of unbounded licence to move where I willed.

I took a slow almost somnambulistic jog round the neighbourhood in celebration. Slow because I wasn’t sure how much of the bug was still in my system but the speed also allowed me to get my bearings and reacquaint myself with the ‘outside world’. Being out of circulation for a while has made me much more appreciative of what’s outside (surprise surprise!) but has also given me a new insights into what people in similar situations go through.

I was fortunate enough to have been only really ill for about two days out of the time I was trapped at home. The rest of the time was spent pottering around trying to get some work or reading done. While I did chafe at the confinement, I realised that it was but me staying home because of an externally mandated requirement that would expire after a while. I was well enough to look forward to a time when I could get out.

I realised that my problems were small in comparison to those who were ill and didn’t know when or where they were going to get better. Putting myself in their shoes, I wouldn’t even begin to think about how I’d cope with something like that. As I mentioned in a previous post, we’re adaptable creatures that can change ourselves to suit the environments that we find ourselves in – I’m sure we would be able to adapt eventually but the process would be long and arduous. I got a hint of what life would be like in such a case and my heart goes out to all who are in such situations. You have my utmost respect for putting up with and adapting to what you have.

On a more cheerful note, with the end of the quarantine comes the start of normalcy again. If I was doing before this whole thing could be counted as normalcy…

Quarantine Files – The unbearable stillness of quarantine

Rather than bemoan the fact that I’m still under quarantine, have decided to take a slightly different tack in today’s post. I’ve come to realise a couple of things that may seem painfully obvious to us when I write it but these are also things that we often overlook when we’re busy and rushing around getting our lives in order. Sometimes we do need some time away from everything that we’re used to for us to actually start living.

Fight not, flow.
I tried to fight the feeling of boredom and the sense of helplessness at being at home with a litany of complaints about what this meant and how I couldn’t go about my normal life for seven long days. That created an unnecessary amount of angst and negative energy that just made the first day less pleasant. Learning to go with the flow and allowing oneself to appreciate the situation as it is and not struggle too much against what cannot be changed helped. My acceptance of my getting stuck at home without recourse to the world outside the front door allowed me to better appreciate what was actually here.

Busy is not the cure
The first couple of days at home were hard – I tried to fill them with as many things as I could and tired myself out unecssarily. It didn’t help that I was trying to fight an annoying virus within at the same time. I was on the email the whole day and was frantically doing my grading like my life depended on it, fearing boredom if I stopped. I quickly realised the futility of doing all that and slowed down. At the advice of my colleagues, I put an out-of-office message on the email and began doing things at a less frantic pace. It helped. Boredom didn’t quite take hold, I still managed to finish a huge chunk of work and got rid of that dreaded flu bug.

There is peace to be gained in silence.
I tried to keep to myself for the first couple of days when the risk of infection was much higher and consequently had to spend long hours in my room alone. Even meals were eaten in silence as I wanted to keep my parents flu-free. We often fear silence because our lives are filled with noises (which are sometimes neither sweet nor give delight) so we fill it with conversations, music, the TV anything. I realised that the peace that one gets in silence is immeasurable – we just need to allow ourselves to quieten ourselves to appreciate it.

And placidly I went, and have but a day to go before I am once again unleashed upon the poor unsuspecting world. And this time, I’m not just proof that pigs flu, am also pig flu proof.

Quarantine Files – On adaptation and atrophy

It’s been a long couple of days – though things are looking up now that the end’s in sight. Was told that ‘Hey, this is the weekend and you’re usually at home during the weekends’ and while this is true, I usually do step out of the flat a couple of times a day. One really doesn’t appreciate how much just stepping outdoors means until one’s stuck indoors for a long time. And in the grand scheme of things, four days isn’t a really long time either.

One adapts and I guess that’s one ability that we has humans have perfected to an art. Just as I took a while to adapt back to the pace of life (and work) back home, so did I have to quickly adapt to the fact that I was facing 7 days of life at home without any recourse to the outside. It meant changing the pace with which I normally do things – the lack of a commute to work meant that I could start getting things done earlier. I had all the comforts of home and could choose to rest anytime I liked, though the weather seemed to thwart all attempts at afternoon naps for the past couple of days. I had more time to think, read and generally take things easy as I was supposed to be recuperating from as serious bout of the flu. The ability to kick back and relax a little after the pretty hectic couple of months was good but one always would prefer to have these on one’s own terms but I guess one cannot really complain.

The adaptation didn’t quite come easy – while I do like to spend time at home, not being able to go out of the flat was a bit of a stretch. The other bad thing about this was the fact that as I recover from the flu, I get much more energetic and want to do more with myself than just sit, read and think. The bicycles hang by the window almost taunting me in their languor. My running shoes smirk on the shelves. At the same time, my knees and calves begin aching from lack of use as the most strenuous things I do is to hike the 15 metres from my room to the kitchen to refill my flagon of water (which isn’t very often given the size of the flagon).

So as my mind wanders to far off vistas that no other mind has ever beheld and my muscles atrophy into little twiggy shadows of their former selves, one wonders how much quarantine it takes for people to fall into bouts of hyperbole.

Either the medicines or my lack of outdoor time is making me loopy. Either way, I believe I’m getting a little loopier than normal. Which may not be a bad thing.

Quarantine Files – Freedom

It’s a lovely day out and I’m stuck here, staring out behind grilled windows at the perfect azure sky. Wistful sighs and thoughts of being out in the open, feeling the sun on one’s back and the wind in one’s face. But that’s not quite to be as one quickly realises that it’s the four walls of the flat that I’m going to be facing for another three days till this dreaded quarantine runs its course. Do I yearn for freedom? Of course I do! But one also realises that this longing has to be put into perspective – my quarantine is but for 7 days. What is that to others who face a much longer time in house arrest or similar situations? Why do we yearn for freedom so?

I remember writing about freedom over 10 years ago, making an argument that sometimes we get so trapped in our yearning to be free from something that this very yearning blinds us to other types of freedom that we may have. My case in point – I yearn for the greener pastures of life outside the flat but at the same time, I forget the almost limitless freedom that the internet allows me. I’m free but only to the extent that I’m willing to allow my fingers to fly across the keyboard to send bits and bytes across cyberspace. The quarantine’s definitely been made much more bearable as a result of this but the yearning remains.

I’ve been drawn to the writing of Isaiah Berlin of late because he’s a thinker of note in two fields that I’m very interested in – political theory and the history of ideas. One of the things that he’s very well known for is his theorising about there being two concepts of liberty – positive and negative. Negative liberty is often described as being the lack of constraints or restrictions on the person whereas positive liberty is all about self-determination and the freedom to do what one wants to do. Berlin argues that the latter is often used to justify abuse of power by anyone as one is never quite sure when one’s liberty ends and someone else’s begins.

Strictly speaking my quarantine at home isn’t a huge curtailment of liberty but one does chafe at the inability to be out where one wants to be and one does feel that I’m a little short of both at the moment. However, one does need to put things into perspective by recognising the fact that my curtailment of negative liberty allows for more liberty of others to move around virus free. More or less. In fairly simplistic terms, my giving up of some liberties allows society to function a little more smoothly because people are free to exercise their positive liberty. Well, that argument just makes me feel a little better about things.

Before anyone catches me out for complaining about my pseudo-incarceration allow me to state that I’m not complaining about being stuck at home. I recognise why I’m here and though I’m not the happiest at not being able to be out, I’ve decided to be, well, philosophical about it and make the most of facing these walls (which I must add, are still a pleasing shade of lilac). My to-do list has shrunk considerably as the days go by and I do believe that my enforced break from classes will make me get back to it with renewed vigour. Or so one hopes.

The view from…here.

Quarantine Files – The price of paranoia

Sitting at home does things to people. Some get all melancholy and withdrawn from the lack of external human contact. My email and instant messaging ensures that doesn’t happen to me. Some get anxious and worried about the reason why they’re quarantined. I’ve got medication and since the fever broke feel like I’m well on the road to recovery. Some get morose from the lack of direct sunlight. I sit next to the window. Some get bored. That is I.

I’ve been trying to fill the days by catching up with work that might otherwise get pushed to the background (no I’m not a workaholic but I don’t want to start up again with a huge inbox) and some reading that I’ve neglected. I guess it’s making the best of what I’ve been saddled with – I’m staring at 4 more days of being stuck at home trying to survive without scratching at the walls to try to claw my way out. As Jess my fellow quarantine buddy mentioned, I need to try to lean more towards my nerdy self to be content with reading and such while leaning away from the side that yearns for adventure and the outdoors. Bit tough because the grass is always greener.

Been thinking about the flurry of activity that characterised the past 2 days. The aftermath of my positive test for H1N1 sparked a wave of paranoia that even I couldn’t have expected. People tend to get worried most about their health and for good reason too but I did find the extreme paranoia that was worsened by the newspaper reports a little disturbing. I was inundated with calls that always started with concern for my condition (thanks!) but that soon turned into a detailed cross-examination of my symptoms, what I did that led to my decision to get tested and how the testing went. It was hard to allay their fears when they were already fairly worked up by the media hype.

While I did feel a little guilty at being the cause of the paranoia, one also realises that while my diagnosis was the thing that sparked it off, the wildfire would not have caught and blazed if there wasn’t ample kindling there to begin with. One can be tempted to blame the media for all this but there’s something else about the human condition that seems to predispose us to paranoia – our innate fear of the unknown. People have been trying to explain things that we don’t know since time immemorial and try to find all sorts ways of giving reasons to things they cannot understand. In a similar vein, people who fear the unknown of a disease try to react to it the best way they know how – to fall back on the ‘reason’ of science and medicine and try all possible means to find ‘rational’ explanations for their fears.

As fear gets thrown into the mix, irrationality sets in. The slightest cough or sneeze gets turned into an object of suspicion and people start second guessing their own health whenever they feel a little odd. Fuelled by the general perception of what the disease is and not what it actually is, everyone just goes down the slippery slope of unconfirmed conjecture and large leaps of logic towards the unknown. My work as an educator is aimed at reducing the incidence of this so one can imagine the frustration that one feels when faced with this on all fronts.

We sometimes get so worked up over something that’s new and dangerous that we ignore it as it develops. The case-fatality ratio of people infected with H1N1 when the news broke about it was stunningly high (5% for the confirmed cases in Mexico) and this prompted comparisons with the 1918 flu epidemic that had similar ratios and was also caused by a similar strain of Influenza A viruses. This seemed to remain on the consciousness of people even when the number of confirmed cases went up but the fatalities didn’t. Even when governments and the WHO realised that H1N1 had all the trappings of a seasonal flu and was no more deadly than the bugs that go around every year around autumn and winter, people still clung on the belief that the virus was deadly and acted as such. Times change but mindsets and perceptions based on old risks evidently don’t.

All it takes is a large dose of common sense and some opening of one’s eyes to recognise that following the herd would lead to a stampede that wouldn’t do anyone much good. Just slowing down to stop and think can do wonders. Stop, smell the roses and think for a bit. One might even see the pig that flu.

Quarantine Files – When pigs flu

A bad pun on my part about the looming pandemic that seems to be on the consciousness of everyone these days. Initially dubbed the ‘swine flu’, the powers that be at the World Health Organisation (WHO) felt that renaming it to a more scientific sounding H1N1 (Influenza A) would help to knock people out of their false sense of security with regards to pandemics. It has worked for the most part and the consciousness of the flu and all its possible implications are there for all to see.

We often see these things from afar – we hear of friends of friends of friends who are affected – rarely do we see things from the eye of the storm. This time, I’m staring things right from within the eye of the storm. Or from the wrong end of a cotton swab whichever the case may be. To cut a long story short, life as a happy camper was quickly turned topsy turvy with the onset of H1N1 and all sorts of things that had to be done in school to mitigate its spread. That was all well and good and until yesterday, I was dealing with a couple of letters on a page that translated into people getting a virally sort of flu. Purely theoretical – the way I like it.

Then it happened. A colleague of mine was diagnosed with the virus and was immediately quarantined at home. No biggie but worrying nonetheless. Then I began feeling a little woozy at work and because of my contact with her over the last couple of days, I was told by school to go home. Feeling slightly socially responsible for once, I decided to present myself to the Communicable Disease Centre (CDC) for checks. And check they did – swabs in facial orifices are not pleasant at all.

Was sent home to wait for results and just as I was dozing off the fateful phonecall came. I was positive. I had become a statistic. Was told that the quarantine orders were on their way along with medicines and a package of medical goodies. So I’m officially stuck at home, not allowed to leave on pain of a hefty fine or jail term and am supposed to be at least 2m away from everyone else at home. Visions of me walking around with a bell round my neck so people can make way did appear at some point.

And so it happened, what seemed to only happen to ‘other people’ happened. The flu is relatively minor and all the doom mongerers who predicted that this would be the next deadly flu epidemic were quite off the mark. All the hype that surrounds this whole thing has made many people extremely concerned about the health of me and my parents but I think that’s all it is – hype. People tend to get quite carried away with the whole paranoia and fear that comes with something like this. It’s easy to follow the herd and get worked up over things – it’s much harder to sit down and think rationally about what’s actually happening and realise that things aren’t as bad as they seem.

So even though I’m just having a little case of sniffles, coughs and a fever, I get a pair of burly auxiliary police officers in bio-protection aprons come to the flat, serve me a quarantine order and make a hasty retreat. Almost pythonesque in its absurdity but I guess this is a case of being safe rather than sorry. One good thing that should come out of this – the brush will be revived in my efforts to stave off the impending boredom.

Oink.

C2C Chronicles 5 – Team 354

One of my fellow competitors (or participant) mentioned that doing the Coast to Coast as an Individual is a bit of a misnomer. We’re actually competing (or participating) as a team because it’s impossible to do the race without our trusty support crew. I couldn’t agree with him more and my lining up at the start and crossing the finish line would not have been possible without the help of three great and slightly crazed individuals who actually paid to be my willing slaves for three days. These were the three unsung members of Team 354 who had to drive the overladen car, endure the cold, heat and rain but didn’t get to savour the joy of running through the finish at Sumner.

To put things into perspectives, allow me to detail what the support crew had to do while I was busy traipsing across the Southern Alps and its environs.

• Prepare breakfast for me on both race mornings so I won’t have to worry about that.
• Rush to transition points, set up transition according to my specifications and wait.
• Wait some more.
• Scramble at first sight of me, rush me through the transition, making sure everything is accounted for.
• Rush to next transition. Repeat.
• At end of first day, set up camp, prepare dinner and stuff me silly. Then feed me some more.

They also had to manage the mountain of gear that I required for the race which includes and is not limited to: Kayak with all the associated safety gear, Bicycle with all the associated safety gear, Mountain run equipment, shoes and clothes for all events and weather.
I guess the worst part was having to rush to a point and wait long hours (almost 8 hours between transitions at times) only to have to rush through 5-10 minutes of activity, pack up and rush again. Not the best way of spending holiday time but they did it anyway.

And they could still smile after all that…

It wasn’t just a matter of managing the race logistics – they also had to manage one tired and occasionally insecure participant who was unsure about his ability to complete the race. Though to my credit I was able to avoid hissy fits and other undignified behaviour, just keeping up with the race and keeping me focused on the race was difficult enough for them. They were movers, packers, logistics managers, coaches, psychologists and fussy siblings all at the same time. That they were cheerfully doing it all the time was amazing.

All the training and preparation in the world can only bring one that far – it takes a team to get a person to the end of Coast to Coast successfully and I’m proud to have had Team 354 with me from Kumara to Sumner. We were the only Singaporean team there and we were the only Singaporean team to complete the race. That makes us top Singaporeans there. But I digress… Guess it’s time to wax lyrical about the crew and what they did.

Jean was the designated spotter who waits at the transition chutes to spot me and bring me to the transition area. This may seem a strange choice given her relatively diminutive stature but what she lacked vertically she made up in energiser bunny-ness. How could I miss an orange clad, beanie wearing, orange camp-chair waving, ‘oh lo lo lo’ yelling individual even amidst the crowds at transition? She made sure the camps were in order and I was fed and sufficiently watered every time I came in.

Jean doing the patented Jean-rush. Bananas optional.

Lishan was the race-driver (in more ways than one) and kitchen aide extraordinaire. I had her to thank for the many breakfast and snack sandwiches that I inhaled through the two days and she was the driving force behind the chopping and more chopping that went into the dinners we had. She also kept me honest – and reminded me (often) of all that was done just to get my sorry rear end from one coast to the other. Yes it was in a sorry state by the end of the race but would have been worse no?

Lishan trying to smile after chopping the (n-1)th carrot. No wonder one turned orange…

Michael was the pack-slut (and I mean this in the best possible way) who ensured that everything was in place and transitions were arranged in exactly the way I asked for. His meticulous planning and eye for detail meant that the organised chaos that was the car was always turned into smooth transitions. This resident cook also ensured that I was well fed through the race and beyond. Ever the optimist, he was able to get me out of the trough that was the end of the first day and set me back on track to face the river and beyond on the second.

“I wait 7 hours and all I get are smelly clothes?!?!”

Support they did to the truest sense of the word and though I don’t think they realised what they were getting themselves into when I first asked them, I’d say they were the best support crew one could have. Mush aside, I remain humbled by their long suffering efforts in getting me to the finish line and was extremely relieved to have completed the race, ensuring that their work actually did pay off.

Team 354 extends to beyond the crew that came with me to New Zealand – I count very supportive and slightly bemused parents who constantly wonder why I bother putting myself through all these events. I count friends whose little words of encouragement help me through bad days at work and keep me on the edge of sanity. I count the students in the Adventure Race group in the polytechnic whose constant encouragement in training and all the way to the airport I appreciate awesomely. I count Wilson, their coach who became my C2C advisor being the first ever Singaporean to complete the 1 Day event. Thanks!

So it wasn’t this one misguided brush who completed the Coast to Coast 2 Day Individual race but Team 354. Allez Team 354!

C2C Chronicles 4 – Second Day: Directionless down the Waimak

‘You’ve lost your rudder, mate. That’s why you’re drifting. All the best!’ With that, the friendly fellow participant paddled downstream, disappearing round the next bend. To say that I was worried was an understatement – for the first time that day the idea of DNF (Did not finish) loomed large and as I zig-zagged down the river without my kayak’s primary means of direction control, I was scared. But then one doesn’t travel 8000 kilometres across oceans and mountains to get stopped by a broken piece of plastic. It didn’t matter that had about 50km more river cover in my rudderless kayak and it also didn’t matter that I’d have to negotiate the sharp bluff corners and rapids in my long sea kayak using only sweep strokes, stern rudders and half-hearted edging. I was going to complete the kayak section and that was that.

But one digresses. I could recount the extreme cold that morning at the Klondyke corner campsite. I could also tell of how my support crew had to leave close to 5am to get to the kayak transition in time for my gear to be checked, leaving me at the mercy of the elements. I could tell of how all the ‘abandoned’ competitors huddled in the waiting tents, sharing blankets and stories. But that would be too much wouldn’t it. Suffice to say that after over two hours of waiting, we were flagged off in bunches to start the 15km ride to the kayak put in. It was cold. But I think I mentioned that before. I had so many layers on that I looked like a green Michelin man but still didn’t feel warm on the many climbs. Did I mention that it was cold?

Green Michelin man grimaces at start of second day

Upon reaching Mt White Bridge, we dismounted and had to run 800m to transition. My knees weren’t doing too well from the beating the previous day and hence my run soon turned into the same shwobble from the day before. After a bit of shwobbling and getting overtaken by a number of cyclists, I reached the kayak and proceeded to munch on a sandwich before suiting up. The kayak transition is the fussiest of the lot – had to put on the spraydeck, PFD (Personal Floatation Device or lifejacket), paddle jacket, helmet and booties. Had to get the drink system in order and then hop into the kayak. Michael would then hop on the foredeck of the kayak and help to fit the spraydeck and then grabbing my trusty paddle, off I went.

Jean and Mike preparing to sample the latest in snack technology – powerbars on a paddle!

The early bits of the 67km paddle down the Waimakariri River were fairly easy but because of the lower water level in the river, there were a couple of bits where I ran aground and had to use my hands to push myself out into the main flow. Before I knew it, I spotted a couple of safety marshals by the bank meaning that a tough section was ahead. Bracing myself for what seemed to be inevitable, I hit the first Rock Garden rapid head on and to my surprise, came out unscathed and upright. Emboldened by this, I approached the rest of th rapids in the way I was taught – paddling strongly and committed to the line I chose, even if it meant going down the guts of a large rapid.

Down the guts with minimal guts.

I came to grief at the last Rock Garden when in my inexperience, the bow of my relatively long boat hit an eddy near the end of the rocky rapids and that spun me round which I believe allowed the long plastic rudder of the boat to catch on rocks and snap off. Several metres of kicking at my now useless foot pedals later, I resolved to carry on into the Waimakariri Gorge proper come what may. The boats used for running rivers during multisport races in New Zealand are considerably longer than standard whitewater boats – mainly because the rapids tend not to be more than Grade 2+ and because of the long distances that one has to paddle in between the rapids. Long boats lack the manoeuvrability of the shorter whitewater boats and thus require the rudder to help it to go in the direction we want. Without the rudder, one cannot concentrate completely on forward strokes and has to use other strokes to keep the kayak on track. It was hard work.

Progress was slow and it seemed as if the entire field passed me before I reached the end of the gorge (and the last bit of serious rapids) but the sight of Woodstock filled me with renewed vigour knowing that the end of the kayak section was near. Though not having the rudder slowed me considerably, it did allow me to take in the amazing views of the gorge at a slightly slower pace. It was an amazing way to see the country close up. And an amazing country it is. The final bits of the river was considerably easier than the upper reaches and without much incident, I managed to pull into the final transition point at the Waimakariri Gorge Bridge.

I was so eager to get out of the kayak and stretch my legs that I popped the spraydeck and stood up even before Michael could get his chance to bear-hug me and pull me out of the kayak. So much for best laid plans. After a cruel short steep climb to the bike-stands on legs that didn’t quite move for over 7 hours, I transitioned fairly leisurely to the bike. Took a bit of time to change completely out of my damp kayaking clothes with the help of a poncho, grabbed the bike and ambled out of transition to start on the final leg of the race, a 70km ride into Christchurch.

Relieved to get out. Never so happy to see trusty support crew.

It was great to be back on the bike and I enjoyed the late afternoon sun that shone down on me, erasing memories of the frigid morning. Things looked up as I turned into the Old West Coast Road and I was able to maintain a fairly brisk pace. The incredible support that I got from practically everyone who lived by the side of the race route was amazing – the cheers and applause gave me a second wind that helped to combat my new nemesis, the increasing headwind. My quickly tiring legs couldn’t quite keep up with the headwind so my brisk pace soon turned into survival cycling – keeping the cranks turning to keep myself moving forward.

Hitting Christchurch proper brought more support from the roadside – was great to see picnics and parties organised just to spectate and support the race. It was this grassroots feel that started with the race organisers, participants and people all along the race-course that really made the difference for me – never before have I felt so welcome and so honoured as a race participant. Warmed the cockles of my fast-pumping heart but sadly couldn’t remove the increasing fatigue from my legs.

As I turned the last corner and spied the race finish in the distance, I mustered all the strength I had left in those leaden legs of mine and rode into the final straight. After almost running over the poor race marshal who was there to catch my bike, hopped off the bike and wobbled unsteadily towards the beach and the end of my odyssey. I heard my name yelled over the PA system and I crossed the finish to applause and the broad smile of Robin Judkins. Another handshake, a medal and another can of Speights.

I did it.

I finished the Coast to Coast!

C2C Chronicles 3 – First Day: Acting the Goat

It was Friday the 13th – not the most auspicious of days to begin the most challenging race of my puny multisport ‘career’ but I’ll take anything. The morning was far from bright and after dragging ourselves from the relative warmth of our sleeping bags, performing whatever morning ablutions we could in the cold, we were off in separate directions. I had to cycle a couple of kilometres to the bike stands where I would drop off my bike and then walk over to the start point on Kumara Beach. The support crew had to drive for an hour to the transition point. It was dark, it was cold. it couldn’t possibly get any worse. Friday the 13th probably heard that thought. And sniggered.

Bleary eyed and unsure if the bike or kayak starts first

Five minutes into the ride to the bike stands it started drizzling. No biggie, I thought, just a light Kiwi drizzle. Exactly two minutes later, the light drizzle turned into a full blown kiwi-approved rain. So it was dark, cold and extremely wet. I was not pleased. But the rain stopped as suddenly as it began and so the walk to the beach wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. It was getting a little lighter as the sun slowly peeked over the horizon, shedding a little light on the dreary beach. It was still fairly overcast and the competitors were huddled by the rocks by the beach in a vain effort to stay warm. The excitement was palpable as Robin Judkins, the race director, hollered time checks to us.

And they’re off!

And before I even realised it was time, the horn went off and sand was flying everywhere. With a mumbled prayer, I followed the crowd up the rocks and onto the dirt road. The 243 kilometre odyssey had begun. With the knowledge that it would be a long day, I opted to hang back near the rear of the pack, waiting to settle into a comfortable rhythm. Problem was that as soon as I did settle into that rhythm, the bike stands came into view and it was pandemonium all over again!

Reminding myself to be calm as I headed into transition, I swapped shoes and clipped in for the 55km cycle to Aickens. Realising that riding alone in the rolling course wouldn’t be the best idea, I sought out a largish pack to ride with. I was actually able to overtake a couple of individuals and pairs enroute to finding a smallish pack of about 5 or 6 riders who seemed to be riding briskly but weren’t too fast. This pack slowly grew as the kilometres piled on and pretty soon we had almost 20 going at a comfortable pace. I gave up any pretensions of wanting to pull (go to the head of the group to set the pace) and realised that all the 2-Day Individuals were content to draft off the Team riders who were going to rest after the ride anyway.

The ride was lumpy but uneventful and pretty soon the mess that is the Aickens transition came into view. As I pulled over to the dismount line, I scanned the crowd for gang and was greeted by a vision in orange. There was Jean, in a bright orange jacket waving a bright orange camp chair. Visibility was not a problem. Following her to our transition area, I was greeted by a flurry of ‘Do you wants..?’ – the crew offering me everything but the kitchen sink that we sadly did not bring along. In their enthusiasm to help me prep for the mountain run, they shoved my shoes on my feet before I could divest myself of my tights. So after some struggles with the wardrobe, thankfully with no malfunctions, I was off, waddling through the transition point, dreading what was to come.
Making sure the shoes go on the correct foot. Important that.

And how right I was to have a certain sense of dread. The run started out most benignly across nice grass which led us to the first of many (and I mean many) river crossings. Words cannot sufficiently describe the shock the cold water does to one’s system but ford those rivers we had to. The first 7-10km of the course was fairly flat though I was slowed considerably by the river crossings, rocks of all sizes and more rocks. The mountain run basically took us along one of the trekking trails across the Southern Alps and culminates in the crossing of the alps at an appropriately named Goat Pass. It takes a mountain goat to get up and down quickly. I obviously wasn’t as shown by my slow progress up the river.

Trying to look happy – a little over halfway through

I was relieved to have been able to join a couple of fellow competitors on the route up to the Pass that reduced the tedium of the run (that quickly devolved into a walk for me). As we scrambled across boulders, crossed and recrossed the rivers so many times that I started to lose feeling in my toes, I began to question my sanity. Seriously. I could go down the route of saying that getting that far was already an achievement for me who came from a humble, extremely unathletic background. But on the other hand, I was there to do something and sanity aside, I was there on a mission. To do the Coast to Coast and do it as well as I could.

Getting over Goat Pass was a relief – especially after the 5-6km of hard ascents that we went through. The wind on top of the pass bit into us as I tried to jwobble (jog down with wobbly jelly legs) down into the relative safety of the valley below. The twisty rooted and rocky paths that greeted me further banged up my already sore knees and I was slowed to a shwobble (wobbly shuffle) down the Mingha River valley, vainly trying to look out for the end of the run. When we did reach the final stretch where we crossed the Bealy River enroute to the end of the run, I felt a wave of relief but still couldn’t muster more than the shwobble as I tried to keep up with the companions I had for the tail end of the mountain section.

Shwobbling through the rocks with the end in sight

And so the run ended with a handshake from the man who flagged us off in the morning, a pat on the back and a can of Speights. And it was over. The trial by mountain, river and shuffle was done and I was safely in the able hands of my ever-concerned support crew whose sole aim was to sit me down and stuff me silly with as much food as I could handle. Hot soup and pasta never tasted so good.