[Photo: Will Copeland]
A day full of firsts: my first skyrace, first “running-only” event, and my first race-bib for 18 months.
In true Liam fashion, I managed to find a new and innovative way of making life as difficult as possible in the lead up to this event. This involved travelling 600km by bike across Northern Norway to arrive on the Friday, feeling something less than refreshed and race-ready (read more on that here). The planned rest day also didn’t materialise: I realised a few days before that the race was actually on Saturday, not Sunday, and by that point it was too late to change anything. As the saying goes: “if you’re gonna be dumb, you gotta be tough.” And in times like these, I identify much more with dumb than tough.
The one thing that did change was the event distance: I previously had grand ambitions for the 57km Hamperokken event, but with a bad mix of knee injury from cycling, a lack of training, and general exhaustion from two weeks of bivvying, I’d given myself a little slack and dropped down to a more manageable 32km. Clearly I’m getting more cautious in my old age – the younger and more naïve version would have gone for gold, and likely broken something in the process.
Arriving in Tromsø on Friday evening was tinged with a brief moment of elation that I’d actually managed to finish the cycle: something that was looking unlikely less than a week before. But the relief was short-lived: with tired legs I had to quickly struggle up over the hill on the main island to pick up my race bib before check-in closed. Things seemed to be much more down to business than the races I was used to. It seems Skyracing, unsurprisingly, is a much more serious sport than the muddy antics of Obstacle Course Racing (OCR). I was handed my number and other race goodies, and that was it: game on. Run number 555 – better than 666.
With the formalities complete, I cycled up to the North of the island and found myself a quiet hedge to sleep in and somewhere to hide my bags for the following day. Another swarm of mosquitoes eventually descended and it was time to retreat to the safety of the bivvy to get some sleep ahead of the following day’s onslaught. Nerves were running high, legs heavy from the cycle, and worries of worsening my knee injury at the forefront of my mind. It took a while for sleep to take hold.
Race Morning
The atmosphere seemed a lot more sedate than pre-pandemic races I was used to, with less fanfare and generally less people than I expected at the start line. Things didn’t feel as tense as they used to either, although that may be from feeling more confident about my odds of actually finishing. I’d given myself more than a 50% chance, which is considerably better than many events in the past. Maybe I’ve just realised I’m more capable than I once credited myself for, or again maybe just older and more cautious of what I sign up to.
The runners also seemed a lot more serious than a lot of the obstacle racing scene: lots of expensive running-wear and big flashy sunglasses, which wouldn’t last two minutes in the mud-pits back in the UK OCR scene. A big part of me really doesn’t understand fashion in sport, or people who take amateur sports super seriously, but it’s a free country, and I guess Skyrunning is a more respectable sport than I’m used to. Either way, with my holey trainers and swimming shorts, it was game on.
Game On
After a quick warmup, I joined the 150 other racers in the starting zone, and with a quick countdown, we were off. I made the age-old Liam mistake of setting off too quickly, and had to reign things in slightly as we ran up and over the bridge towards the imposing Tromsdaltinden summit: the course’s high point at 1238m above sea level.
My legs had been heavy in the morning after crawling out of the bivvy, but at this point felt surprisingly okay – either they’d loosened off, or maybe adrenaline had kicked in after all. Pushing hard for the first few kilometres, I ended up somewhere in the top 20 or so racers as we started the climb. My mindset was one of getting myself over the finish line in one piece, and without further injury. Anything else was a bonus. The first uphill was savage in the 25°C heat and still going at a fast pace: feeling the rising urge to vomit caused me to slow down to a fast-hike, and keeping breakfast down was added as a sub-goal for the day.
Hitting the top of the cable-car route – Fjellheisen – and leaving the tree-line behind felt fantastic as a bit of wind came to cool things down. It also showed the route ahead: a lot of undulating hills to wear down the legs, culminating in the last big climb up Tromsdaltinden.
I settled a lot more into a steady flow on this section, reigning the pulse back in and my mind started to wander into the meditative state that a long run settles you into. The smaller ups and downs rolled by, and before long I found myself on the last big push up Tromsdaltinden. I adopted a quick hiking pace again, managing to overtake another racer on the climb, and generally holding my position.
Deafened by yet another crowd of spectators armed with cowbells, I pushed to the summit. Panting, I paused as I had a quick scan over the stunning mountain panorama that filled the horizon, mesmirised for a moment, the immenseness of the landscape drowning out the shouts and clang of bells. However, there was no time to lose as I was informed the next runner was just ahead. This brought my mind back down to earth: the descent would be where the zen state ended.
Boulder fields on a downhill can be hard to travel over quickly and safely, especially at steep angles, but it’s something I’ve learned to run over efficiently after years in the mountains, albeit with some risk. Seeing a few racers in front, I opted to up the stakes and go as fast as my legs could carry me. The idea of a top 10 finish started to develop, and I if I was going to get it, I felt it would be decided here.
A few near-misses with twisted ankles and a couple of slips as rocks dislodged under my momentum, but I gunned it down, hyper-focused on the way ahead and processing everything in real time. The other racers in front were picking their way through in a much more controlled fashion, and I managed to gain a healthy chunk of time, as the hardest of the terrain eased. It was now a game of trying to just hold on for the last section.
[Photo: Zoltan Tot]
This would be no easy feat, however: the descent had completely fried my thighs, and I could feel the onset of cramp, as well as really starting to suffer from both the heat and the long days in the saddle beforehand. I ended up dipping my head into each river en route in an effort to keep cool, costing little chunks of time, but by that point essential. I kept slowing, and I could see others catching up to me.
It was at this point that I had been relying on a gentle downhill cruise to Tromsø. This hope was crushed as the little yellow course flags started to snake upwards one last time: the race had one last sting in the tail with an extra few hundred metres of climbing. With cooked legs, the only thing that could keep me moving was digging deep mentally. I had to mix shuffling uphill and jogging on the flats and downhills, seeing people closing in from the rear all the time.
I was digging as deep as possible, trying to hold the other racers off, not wanting the pain to be for nothing. Luckily it seemed that I wasn’t the only broken person on the field, and it ended up being very tight between myself and a few other runners who had caught up to me. A bit of banter and collective hobbling, and the last up and downhill from Fjellheisen ebbed away behind us, and we were soon back in the city.
The last few kilometres on tarmac were hot and painful, still leapfrogging with the other racers, as one after another we were hit by cramp. I opted to try one last attempt on the downhill of the road bridge to hammer my legs and try pull away from the group, still considering the possibility of a top 10 finish. This time it seemed to work, and I managed to gain about a 50m lead, weaving between the confused and innocent pedestrians. I just kept pounding away for the last kilometre through the city centre. A hot mess, I saw a crowd of beer-drinkers staring with a mix of amusement, disbelief and confusion: a clash of worlds between afternoon pub-goers and masochistic fitness fanatics. I couldn’t really process anything in my head other than trying to keep up this painful pace, and look behind for anyone who may try push past and render this sprint a wasted effort.
The final kilometer seemed to stretch on for an eternity, in reality a very long 4 minutes. But in the end everything paid off: my first ever Skyrace; 32km with 2000m of elevation; 9th Place finish. A handful of spectators, no medal or fanfare, and the end of two weeks of a demanding summer holiday: I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.
[…] The next misadventure: Tromsø Skyrace […]