For a few surreal minutes, I could have been on the moon.
Giant strides take me downhill, deep into a valley filled with dusty, shifting rock, a chasm with an eerie stillness plucked straight from outer space.
For a few short minutes Ruapehu’s mighty crown, glowing white in the morning sunshine, lies behind me and out of sight. The thickening breeze confines itself to the ridges.
I imagine I’m bulletproof – my thermal top is really Kevlar, my shoes have springs and my Camelbak hydration backpack is really a rocket booster. Obviously my brain has also somehow detached itself from my body.
Then out of the haze of sweat and dust and pounding shoes, a figure emerges dazed and blinking wildly, a rivulet of blood staining his forehead and cascading down his cheek. Another runner stops and fumbles in his pack for a bandage.
My aura of invincibility disappears in a flash, and the pain returns just as abruptly.
Pardon the goat pun, but who am I kidding?
When the goat comes a-knockin’, run…
They call it The Goat, and the catch-phrase is ‘Have you Goat what it takes?’ It’s a clever little nip at your ego, blinding you with the challenge while making you ignore reality.
In reality, it’s a 21 kilometre sub-alpine run across the spine of Mt Ruapehu, from Whakapapa’s Iwikau Village to the base chairlifts of Turoa in the world renowned Tongariro National Park – New Zealand’s oldest National Park. Sweeping views of the Central Plateau dominate one side while an extraordinary close-up of the mountain casts an ethereal light across your left shoulder.
Jason Cameron, ormer New Zealand distance runner first ran this track with a group of mates in the winter of 2003.
They trekked through metre-deep snow in parts, quickly agreeing it should only be attempted in summer, but saw enough to know adventure runners would crawl over broken volcanic glass to get a piece of it.
Cameron has now been running the event for six years and it regularly attracts almost 500 athletes. It’s now part of the prestigious Triple Crown New Zealand trail championship, along with Coromandel’s Kauri Run and Whakatane’s Toi’s Challenge.
Sjors Corporaal, Galatea dairy farmer, is the undisputed billy goat, having won the race for the past three years through his transfixing mix of bewildering fitness and baffling bravado.
I’d never even heard of The Goat until a mate dropped it into conversation and suggested I give it a blast. There’s nothing like the comforting cloak of ignorance to cover even the most limited of preparations.
Ready to tumble
Apprehension grips me as I mill around at the start, 1607 metres above sea level. Commentator Mark Watson explains that this particular event is 17 kilometres worth of hope, and four kilometres worth of truth. The starting hooter sounds seconds later.
Unfortunately, he’s spot on. For 17 kilometres, I’m hopeful of finishing. I amble down Bruce Road until I get to the track, where the masses of competitors mercifully start to thin. I set my sights on the shoes in front of me and grit my teeth.
In running terms Cameron, who managed Rotorua and Queenstown marathons before starting The Goat, reckons off-road running is the new golf. He says it will do for the sport what fun runs and jogging did for athletics back in the 1960s.
It’s not for the faint-hearted though – goat disciples need to be tough and tenacious, willing to put up with the odd tumble or scrape, although 99.99 per cent carry on and finish. As Cameron says: “It’s very achievable for anyone with a sense of adventure”.
The Goat has attracted all shapes, all sizes and all ages over the past six years, and Cameron wants to challenge them, while providing a sense of achievement. He calls it a “holistic” approach to running an event.
Come to me Mama!
There’s nothing holistic about my running as I near Mama’s Mile, so named because that’s who you’ll be crying out for when you’re embarking up the final 1600 metres of Turoa’s Mountain Road to the finish.
My 17 kilometres of hope ended when I got to the Mangaturuturu Hut. Hope just disappeared like a plug had been pulled and all I was left with was the truth. The truth was: my four kilometres of hell was about to begin.
A wise man said this race was just a series of false peaks. As I drag my sorry figure over one knoll, Mt Ruapehu looms over a spectacular waterfall that’s tumbling down into a valley from heights unknown.
All along its spine, ant-like athletes hug the rocks as they ascend. Forget the waterfall – this may well be my Waterloo.
People scurry past me as I climb. I’m feeling like an punch-drunk sherpa. Luckily I’ve kept my gloves on, because I’m down to a crawl. I make it to the top only because it’s too bloody far to go back. This day must end.
It’s a vertical climb of 400 metres in the last part of the race, and never has bitumen looked so lovely as I finally hit Mama’s Mile.
I’m down to a shuffling walk, but pride sunk long ago. Only when the finish tape appears do I muster one last gallop. I cross the line in three hours 15 minutes and 28 seconds.
The bloke next to me turns to his mate and says: “That wasn’t too bad – I can see myself doing it next year”.
He stops in mid-sentence as he catches a glimpse of my face. Maybe he thinks I’ve just swallowed a wasp. It’s all I can do to mumble: “You’ve Goat to be kidding”.
www.thegoat.co.nz; www.triplecrown.co.nz
Image courtesy of www.supersportimages.com