from the book - "Ive finally found my Hero" by Phil Essam
Chapter Twelve
"Humour, Tragedy and courage!"
"The Runners Stories !"
Victorian runner, John Breit was to
amuse himself in the 1990 Westfield Run by collecting hubcaps. Or should I say
he got his crew collecting the hubcaps. John would be running down the road,
spot a hubcap and point. The designated runner would alight from the rear
vehicle, grab the hubcap, take it to John for his inspection and then take it
to the rear vehicle. At the next pit stop, the new collection piece would be
attached to the collection at the rear of one of the vehicles. By Melbourne at
least twenty hubcaps had been collected, which was making quite a noise
rattling down the road. One of the officials even came and claimed two of the
hubcaps at the end of the race.
*******************************************************************
RUNNING RONNIE
Our Ronnie is a runner, as slow
as slow can be,
He is a Marathoner, all of us can
see.
He runs along the highways with
cars all wizzing by,
The only regular watchers are
birdies from the sky.
His wife and 3 young children are
sitting there at home
While Ronnie Ronnie's running his
lips covered in foam.
Where oh where is Ronnie? His
lovely wife does ask,
Ron is on the highway. Sticking
to his task.
His legs they pound the pavement
his head raised to the sky,
His sandshoes pounding onwards he
wishes he could fly.
His team of nine mixed humans are
bending to their tasks,
Their job is getting promptly
whatever Ronnie asks.
Mal rants, Mal raves Mal orders
them about,
His number one priority is
getting Ronnie out.
Simon is a wonder as wait on Ron
he does,
Ron just keeps on running won't
let the others pass.
Rebecca, Rebecca the masseur so
sweet.
We all do believe this is her
very first beat.
Reggie & Hitch regular
drivers are they,
They drive for young Ronnie but
without any pay.
Margret, Mal's fiancee is here to
work too,
She'll cook handle money and with
Mal she will coo.
Our Sam, Ron's spaghetti will
embellish and cook
Boy, when our Ron eats the public
will look,
For Ron will run onwards by hook
or by crook.
Shakie oh shakie he is burning
bright,
Making our motors run all through
the night.
Charlie our writer is a fatherly
sight,
His number one illness is snoring
all night.
When all get together we have a
riotous time,
I wish I could think of a word
that does rhyme.
Now back to the track all of us
must go,
Somewhere our Ronnie is running
in snow.
His teeth they do chatter his
hair it is stiff,
We know all he needs is a Mars
Bar to sniff.
So out go Rebecca and young Simon
too,
While Mal our commander is
sniffing with flu.
Bravely our crew members all
struggle on,
Following so closely behind our
young Ron.
As foot weary, arm weary lips so
dried out,
He has so much trouble trying to
pout.
In spite of all this, finish he
does,
His loving young wife's eyes are
still filled with stars.
Yes Ann at the finish she knows
tha the tried
And waits there so bravely to
give him her prize.
His children are there they are
cheering like mad,
Their voices are yelling, good on
ya Dad!
This poem was written by crew member and lifelong friend to Westfield
Runner, Ron Hill, Charlie Pye. Charlie is also a good friend and constant crew
member to Colac legend, Drew Kettle when he goes on his treks around Australia.
********************************************************************
English
runner, Patrick Macke was going through Canberra when he had an urge to go to
the toilet. One of his crew spotted a Chinese Restaurant up the road and so he
sprinted up with another of the crew to try and arrange for Patrick to use
their facilities. The two crew members tried for five to ten minutes to get
through to the Waiter behind the counter what they wanted to do. The waiter
could not speak a word of English. They were beginning to think that it was a
really genuine Restaurant until they realised that they were at the front
Entrance to the Chinese embassy. It is not known if Patrick got to use their
facilities.
*********************************************************************
The Westfield Sydney to Melbourne
My 2 experiences. 1986 and 1989
By Kevin Cassidy
The
1986 Westfield run was to be an experience that I will never forget, it was the
toughest week of my life but something that I feel honoured to have been part
of. At the time I was a newbie to the Ultra scene with a grand total of 2
Ultras under my belt when I received a phone call from Geoff Hook asking if I
wished to be in the crew for Yugoslavian runner, Dusan Mravlje ( I had never
heard of him). I jumped at the chance to be a part of the race that grabbed all
the headlines and captured the imagination of all as it still rode on the back
of CLIFFMANIA.
Before
I had time to sneeze, I was in Sydney with a hastily thrown together crew of
Dusan's wife (I think it is spelt Strouka), his cousin Andrew ( a Melbournite)
and local athlete, Kevin Falloon and a few others (none of us had met before
and Dusan spoke no English). The race was expected to be won again by Yiannis
Kouros, but when he announced his withdrawal because of a stress fracture, the
race was thrown wide open. Ramon Zabalo of France was as dominant a world
number two as Yiannis was at number one and he was now the favourite.
Most
of the crews were not able to be at the start due to traffic congestion so I
missed all the pre race build up but we picked up the race as the field came
past the army camp where we were staying. It was Dusan and Ramon leading the
field through the first 42km in 3.14. Not long afterwards, Ramon attempted to
kick a stray hubcap out of the way, in case it interfered with the following
runners, and pinched a nerve in his back which effectively ended his race.
Crowds
lined the highway as me motored down the road to Melbourne. As a crew we were
all inexperienced and the week was to prove a real lesson. Dusan motored
through 100 miles in 16 hours then rested while Patrick Macke took the lead, he
was an accomplished 24 hour runner doing his first multi day event. We all got
into a routine of cooking, driving, feeding Dusan and sleeping when possible.
Geoff Kirkman of Adelaide took the lead on day two and Dusan was second, as
night fell we were covering the treacherous section of highway near Yass when 3
ambulances went passed at a speed that nearly blew us off the map. Up ahead, a
truck had had a headon smash with a motorist trying to overtake Geoff' van,
when we arrived at the scene in darkness we saw exactly what had happened. The
truck was laying sideways across the road and the motorist was dead. Geoff
could not be found and it was feared that he was crushed in the wreckage somewhere
but he was eventually found down an embankment with a smashed pelvis (Geoff
presented the medals at the Adelaide 24hr later that year but has not been seen
since in the running circles since).
As
Dusan rested again, the Aussie battler, Brian Bloomer , took the lead and held
it until just before Albury. With the race being so popular, there was a never
ending supply of motel and caravan park owners allowing you to use their
facilities for washing clothes etc. Dusan worked hard all day in the pursuit of
Brian and his tiredness caused him to get rather cranky, as the crew was made
up of people without ultra experience, they could not cope with it and emotions
ran high. I was the only one who remained detached from it all and focused on
my job ( maybe I could understand Dusan better with my experience of 2 Ultras).
The press were everywhere, they kept featuring Dusan's wife as the crew chief
and tactician, the truth was that she was a gibbering wreck who had never been
to any of Dusan's previous races. As an Ultra newbie, it was a real buzz to
have the non competing Yiannis Kouros pay us several visits and even more
surprising was Yiannis's fluent use of English when all his press conferences
needed an interpreter because he "didn't speak English". I realised
right there and then that it was a charade to keep nosey reporters from
bothering him.
With
out any doubt, the hardest part of crewing was trying to stay awake whilst
driving the van at night at 4 miles per hour. Mary Hanudel was the only runner
to receive publicity when her van driver fell asleep and ran her over injuring
her foot, but there were many other instances that did not get mentioned. There
was also the high number of damaged vans caused by sleepy drivers sideswiping
the roadside posts ( Budget refused to allow their vans to be used again).
During the early Westfield years they only ever caught one runner cheating but
rumours and uncertainties surrounded many others, by 1986 it was impossible to
cheat with so many officials roving the course.
Dusan
took the lead and was cheered through Albury by a huge crowd. The race now
became a cat and mouse affair as Dusan often requested that someone drive back
and check the distance of his lead, this was harder than you could imagine
because many crews would place their officials marker behind a tree and then
drive their runner up a dirt side road for a couple of hours sleep, out of
sight of the snooping crews of other runners!!!!!!!
Dusan
maintained his lead all the way to Melbourne and the TV cameras were everywhere
as we reached the outer suburbs, we even had the Channel Nine chopper make a
landing outside the Ford Factory, I fought hard to manoeuvre the van through
the throngs of Yugoslavs that had come out to line the streets and as we passed
through my home suburb I was surprised to see my parents standing on the corner
cheering. The reception at the finish was incredible and it was followed by an
appearance on Hey Hey It's Saturday and several other functions.
What
I did not see was the running battle for 2nd and 3rd,
Patrick Macke had overtaken Brian Bloomer. The organisers made no secret that
they were hoping that Brian would win so that they could make use of his Aussie
Battler image for their publicity campaign. With Dusan speaking no English it
was a PR disaster for Westfield.
The
biggest drama was just starting to occur when Patrick arrived in the City
Square in a state of near death, the finish was still another 14km away at
Doncaster and most of it was uphill. Patrick's crew dropped his marker in the
city square and rushed him to a Motel where he received medical treatment.
Brian Bloomer overtook Patrick to grab second place and it was a surprise that
no one else was to overtake Patrick as he was delivered back to the City Square
to do his final 14km. Prime Time television was giving live coverage of
Patrick's ordeal as he staggered along with a walking stick trying hard not to
trip on the tram tracks, he was progressing at about 1km per hour before he
finally made third spot.
A
day later, I was back home and back to the normal routine of my life. It was as
if the whole episode was a great big dream, here I was, a fresh and
enthusiastic ultra newbie suddenly playing a role in a drama packed race
amongst the world's best ultrarunners. I will never forget it.
As I returned to my full time job
as a self employed lawn mowing contractor, I was often asked about my
experience with Dusan by many of the people I worked for, these were elderly
non sporting types but they were all captivated by the footrace between
Australia's two major cities. They were indeed heady times and I treasure the
fact that I was part of it because I don't believe we will ever see anything
like it again in ultrarunning
# This story was written
by Victorian Ultra running stalwart, Kevin Cassidy reminiscing about his time
crewing for Dusan Mravlje back in 1986.
******************************************************************
Ballarat
runner, Barry Brooks asked his crew member who had run out to join him on the
road for some "Nutra Vite" for his bottom. The very confused crew
member ran back to the van and told the others, that Barry wanted some
NutraGrain for his Bum. We know Kellogs make some claims about their cereals,
but to be inserted from the rear!
*********************************************************************
The last 237km, no 255km, sorry mate
By Patrick Macke
(Sydney to Melbourne 1986)
I had reached a
point a few kilometres before Wangaratta and I was going to take a short break.
It was starting to get dark and I was informed that only 237km remained. It was
then that I decided to take my sleep break earlier than usual. In the back of
my mind I had the Spartathlon distance of 245km and finding out that less than
this remained I thought that I could run straight through to the end of the
race after a final sleep.
Despite
a little protesting from the crew - they were surprised by me wanting to sleep
then when it wasn't planned - I took that sleep. I was back on the road sometime
before midnight. It took until I was going through Wangaratta to get running
again. I intended then to go non-stop to the finish, about 230km I thought
then. One of the vans had to be left behind, as it would not start. One of my
four crew members stayed with it. After a while it was revealed to me that 18km
more remained than first thought. Instead of 237km remaining at the point of
that last sleep stop 255km remained…more than Spartathlon , but I was mentally
committed and couldn't change my aim.
Apart
from this distance target I needed to know how far ahead Brian Bloomer was in
second place. It had been impossible to get any information the whole day and
still was. Was he near enough to catch or not? 20,50, 80km??? We had no idea.
So we had to presume he was near enough and push on. Still with one vehicle we
decided that Johnno would have to hitch a lift ahead to see where Brian was. He
did this and returned with a location and a time for him. When we passed that
same location we knew how far behind we were. It was about 5 1/2 hours. It was
now daylight and we had the second vehicle again. Johnno set off to get another
fix on brian and the next time we passed the same point it was down to less
than 2 hours. In the early afternoon we caught and passed him while he was
taking a break in a lay-by. I still continued without any break, I was being
troubled by one of my calves and it was not a good thing to stop a sit would
seize up, we thought.
Evening
approached and less than 100km remained and it was shortly after this that we
started to make exact calculations as to what kilometre times I had to do in
order to get to the finish before the start of the eighth day. Then the crew
had to provide me with each kilometre time. Hard work for a crew of four who'd
hardly had a chance to sleep and had two vehicles to drive as well as preparing
and giving me food and drink all the time. However, I needed this kind of
information to keep me going, to keep my mind active, to know where I was and
exactly what I was doing. With about 80km to go I needed to average around
9m45s a kilometre and I was doing 81/2 and 9. If I could just keep that up for
a while then I would only need to average 10 minutes a kilometre, then if I
still continued it would get easier and easier. That's how the mind works and
stays alert but without those times every kilometre it can't work.
Then
some officials came to do the "accounts", collect and check the
receipts for expenses. Whilst this was happening no one could give me my times.
I slowed. After the accounts were sorted I could get my times again. I had now
been running for 24 hours since the last stop and of course Johnno, Raymond,
Ron and Terry were just as tired if not more. It's far harder to stay awake
sitting in a van or driving at such a slow pace than it is running. Terry
couldn't stay awake any longer, he fell asleep in mid-action where he was. Ron
was driving off the road, falling asleep at the wheel.
It
was impossible to get my kilometre times anymore. I slowed more. We waited for
an official to come by so that we could ask for someone to come and drive. No
one came by. Ron couldn't stay awake anymore. Raymond drove one vehicle, Johnno
the other. No one could hand me drinks and food anymore let alone give me
information about remaining distance….I had to stop each time I wanted food or
drink. It was difficult to get moving again each time. I slowed even more.
Before it got to late Johnno drove ahead into Melbourne to try and get help.
Thirty kilometres from the end of
the race there was supposed to be a motel where everyone could stop for a
clean-up and sleep. This now became my target rather than the end. A good
shower, a two hour sleep then walk to the finish. How far away this motel???
10, 20, 30km??? We had no idea, there wa sonly Raymond there now and he had to
drive. An official car came by at last and there were two people in the
vehicle. We flagged them down and one of them drove our van.
Now Raymond could give me drinks
and food again, without me stopping. How far to the motel? No idea! 5,10,15km?
An official car now became a pace car ahead of me, it's emergency lights
flashing. Johnno was brought back in a car while Terry and Ron were sleeping in
the second van ahead so as they'd be ready to join us for the end. But how far
the motel? 1,3,5km?? Three I was told. Half an hour later, "the next
traffic lights", but we went past them "definitely the next
ones", but again we continued through them. At last after another
crossroads the pace car pulled to the side, ahead, so at last this must be it.
It was just getting light. Ron
and Terry were there waiting in running gear ready to run the rest with me
(Just behind). But now I was planning to go to the Motel, get a couple of hours
sleep after a good shower and then continue. Due to the circumstances during
the previous hours it had been far more of a struggle to get this far than
imagined. It had been impossible for a mere four people to provide for all my
needs however hard they tried. They'd slept far less than I because they would
have to be awake until I was safely tucked in for my sleep breaks and then they
would have to be awake before it was time for me to be woken. While I was
mobile the minimum of duties meant that they had to be on duty too. Then after
five days I ran for thirty hours without any break….
The motel was supposedly the
other side of the road adjacent to where we had stopped. Terry crossed the road
with me while the Van went up the road to turn around. We were walking on the
pavement the other side to the Motel when the van having turned around pulled
up alongside as it would be quicker to go in the Van. Terry and I got in the
van and then it drove about 2km back up the route………….to the motel………..what was
happening??? We got to the motel. I had a shower but I was getting very
confused. I wa sput in bed but there were people all over the place, some
sleeping, some standing around talking, others coming in and out. I was out in
a different way.
Then someone was waking me. It
was Terry. Did I want to carry on? Yes of course. Terry went to rouse everyone.
The room was still in a commotion as before. I think Terry had been asked by
someone to wake me and ask what I wanted to do, or what was I doing there
sleeping with only 30km to go…I don't know how long I'd actually been
asleep…only a few minutes, perhaps 20… So everyone was woken up and together
with several officials I was taken back to the race course.
But the place I was taken back to
did not look familiar. It was not the place I'd crossed the road with Terry.
The witches hat had supposedly been stolen. Just before stopping we had just
passed a crossroads so I walked back to the nearest crossroads but it still
didn't look familiar. I was worried, very tired of course and therefore confused
and getting more confused. I began walking. I had to urinate very frequently (
against the Westfield car). A kilometre or so down the road we passed the
witches hat…Though I'd had that break I hadn't been able to get the sleep I
desperately needed. The crew, desperately tired like myself were no more able
to take control of the situation than I was.
It wasn't surprising that I now
fell asleep on my feet while walking. Not knowing where I was I kept walking as
if in a dream. What was I doing in Melbourne when I'd never been to Australia
in my life? But I remembered the invitation to the race and worked things out
from there even if I couldn't actually remember them happening. Some time later
my mind clicked back into place. Ron was telling me about Princess Park…then
some little way further on I had to stand still for some traffic lights. While
waiting I began to wobble, then I began to fall. I was caught and taken to the
side of the road where there was a café. I was seated and some one from the café
put a cup of coffee into my hands and before anyone could stop me my automatic
reaction was to drink from it. Raymond noticed but it was too late, I'd taken a
sip and scolded my tongue.
Everyone was concerned about my
condition and I was taken across the town to the Park Royal Hotel where the
doctor could have a look at me. People were in and out the room again. Johnno
was asleep and couldn't be woken..It must have been sixty hours since he'd
slept and then only an hour or so.. The doctor saw me. I remember Dusan and
Ramon (Zabalo) coming into the room to see me. I was taken back to the route. I
remember being in the van cutting a hole in my left shoe for a painful and
swollen little toe. But I cannot remember getting out of the van and
restarting.
After the race it was reported
that I had used a walking stick. It could have been at this time because eat no
time do I actually remember using one. I remember being offered one but I
didn't take it. None of my crew remembers me using a walking stick either. The
first thing I recall next is just before I turned the corner into the
pedestrian street in the centre of Melbourne. Dan Brannen was walking with me
and telling me that Bloomer had already gone past while I was away. It was
sometime in the afternoon now. I was walking very slowly.
I was told by an official that
there was only 10km to go. Two hours later and now dark as another night
started I saw a sign saying "Doncaster 9km" the 10km earlier was a
lie… I was irritated…. But I was now awake enough to start taking control of
myself again. I saw an Indian Restaurant and thought that they would make a
nice cup of tea. So I turned left and went in the door. Everyone ( my crew and
the several race officials with us) were wondering what was happening again as
they all followed me in. The owners were very friendly people and happy to
provide for us even if five of us looked a little rough…We had several cups of
tea and some wonderful rice pudding. Trying to motivate me into action I was
told that Eleanor Adams was not far behind. Oh, good, I'll wait for her I
answered. We left the comfort of the Indian Restaurant but I still wanted to
have a sleep or a bath.
I was driven off to a friend of
one of the organisers present to see if I could use their bath. They weren't at
home but we found a bath at a perfect family of stranger's home. My first bath
of the whole race. It took 996km to get there. I was able to give the wife a
bunch of flowers. I'd been given them by a spectator earlier on in the city.
I came back to the race route
looking a little better but my crew, waiting there, still looked a bit on the
worn out side…. I walked to the end of the race trying my best to ignore the
"Left, right, left, right" marching instructions I was being given all
the time when my arms dropped.
I was told that there was only
2km to go but I knew there was more. I could see the building in the distance.
Eventually I got to the building, and the END. Johnno, Raymond, Terry, Ron and
I all finally got to the END.
After the 1986 race no runner was alllowed
to start the race with only four crew members. Pat Macke, his crew and
Westfield were extremely lucky that a major catastrophe did not occur during
Pat's epic final hours of his race.
*********************************************************************
Canadian
Runner, Trishel Cherns was to be joined
for twenty kilometres of his race by a 16 year old boy running in bare feet. It
was of a night time going through Gippsland. Trishel marvelled at the boy's
natural ability and the fact that he did not have one blister on his feet at
the end. The boy is believed to have ran back to his starting point, making a
round trip of 40km for the night.
********************************************************************
On the Run with "Mountain Man"
By
Graham Kerruish
1016
kilometres is a long way to drive. To run this distance seems impossible but 23
runners out of a field of Australian and overseas runners totalling 43,
finished the gruelling Sydney to Melbourne Run.
I
had the dubious honour of finishing 23rd, but finishing the event is
every runner's dream and quest.
The
Westfield Run this year was over a period of 81/2 days, with cut off points on
a time basis being set at Goulburn, Canberra, Cooma, Bombala, Orbost,
Bairnsdale, Traralgon, Pakenham and Doncaster. Constant heat was a disturbing
factor this year with temperatures fluctuating between 28 and 32 during the
cloudless days for the whole run. One had to pity the overseas runners who had
come from freezing temperatures and struck an Australian heatwave.
The sendoff at Westfield was
spectacular as usual and at 11.00 am on Thursday 17th March, 42
pairs of determined feet struck out for Melbourne. The Greek Streak, Yiannis
Kouros was off a 12 hour handicap, and would leave at 11pm that night.
This first 24 hours in a run of
this magnitude is a settling down period. Many runners, including myself, have
not gone beyond 24 hours in a race before, and no-man's land on the second day
is something we have to face.
The cut-off point at Goulburn is
28 hours, and I am very pleased when I reach the town at 10.07am, just five
hours ahead of cut-off time, and 180km down the track. All is going well, and
after a freshen-up at Goulburn I head off towards Canberra.
Around Lake George, Yiannis
passes me and gives me a personalised T-shirt. The shirt has a picture of
Yiannis on it and is monogrammed "Yiannis Kouros - The Ultra Marathon
Star". We all know how great Yiannis is, but his greatest glory is yet to
come a she passes every runner in the event and finishes the run in relative
ease.
A few blisters have now developed
on my feet, but after attention by Kieran Fallon, the race doctor, we press on.
My aim is to run the Goulburn/Canberra section without sleep, but in the early
hours of Saturday morning I call for a one hour rest, some 25 kms, this side of
Canberra. The sleep is magic and I am soon back on the road and pass through
the Canberra cut-off some 6 hours in the plus.
The run to Cooma saps both my and
the other runner's strength as temperatures rise on the Saturday to 32 degrees.
Most runners during the heat of the day, back off the pace, snatching a rest in
the middle of the day and picking up the pace when the sun goes down. My run to
Cooma is without incident. I am surprised that I feel so well. My crew are
absolutely fantastic attending to all my needs. John Fletcher, my team manager,
has moulded the crew into a workable machine very early. I am personally
indebted to John and each member of the team for their valuable time and for
putting up with me.
My mate, Ken Ingerlsole who was
to be part of the team for the full trip is to leave us at Nimmitabel around 12
noon to return to Sydney owing to work commitments, and as I am coming into
Nimmitabel, a runner loams up behind me and says, "I'm on your crew".
Taken by surprise, I gruffly retort, "Does Fletch know?". Yes my
manager knows and Sydney Strider's Brian Colwell, ex-Graham Firkin ( who has
had to pull out of the run with a torn calf-muscle) joins our team. Brian's
first job is to wash my clothes - a tough assignment within half an hour of
joining the team.
On the way to Bombala, we meet up
with Cliff Young and his wife Mary, and later on in the afternoon, Charlie
Lynn, Race Director, runs with me for a short distance and I state to Charlie
that "I am going to make it to Melbourne". At this stage, I do not
know what lies ahead of me. Now looking back, I just made Melbourne with
possibly only a breath to spare. I arrived in Bombala around 1.00am on the
Monday morning, still ahead of the cut-off time, but in a very exhausted state.
The last 5km into Bombala was sheer torture, and I feel the distance is well in
excess of 5km. My crew bunk me down with a good feed of carbos in preparation
for hitting the trail around 3.00am. John Fletcher during my slumber time,
bumped into the local constable at Bombala by the name of Lloyd Williams, a
Western District jogger and harrier (a long way from home) and he provides us
with the road conditions to the Victorian border. I question Lloyd on that last
5km into Bombala. He assures me the distance is accurate. I am amazed.
From Bombala to the state border
(half way into the run) is mostly dirt road very scenic and dusty and we are
glad to pass back onto the tarred road again and head towards Cann River. At
Cann River, we have now joined the Princess highway and ahead lies possibly the
toughest segment of the run - over the snowy Mountains to Orbost. I run
continuously through the night. Perhaps this is better I can't see the hills ,
and finally arrive at Orbost at 11.00am on Tuesday, some 5 hours ahea dof the
cut -off.
Not long out of Orbost, the rot
starts to set in. My feet by now are badly blistered and my crew had done a
marvellous job getting me this far by patching up blister on top of blister. I
am extremely fatigued and suffering from shin splint in my left leg and my
hamstrings are tightening up. (I always made the joke that I didn't know I had
hamstrings, but I sure do now!) Both my legs are swollen, and around 7.00pm, I
am reduced to a walk. Some 20klms out of Lakes Entrance, help out of the
darkness emerges in the presence of Mark Gladwell's and Kevin Mansell's
trainer, Bill Carlson, who advises me to take 4 hours rest at Lakes entrance
and then hit the trail again. "I can't afford 4 hours rest", I
retort. "Take 4 or the race is over", is Bill's reply. I don't have a
plan or any answers to my problems so we pu tour marker down and head into
Lakes Entrance. I am a crippled , pitiful wreck and my faithful crew carry my
twisted bent-up body into a quadriplegic shower at a Lakes entrance caravan
park. I am at my lowest point since starting the run, and my crew sense that
this may be the end of the line. A big carbo tea before going down and again
upon rising 4 hours alter and my crew take me back to the marker. My body is
deposited on the road. It is now up to me. I realise that the moment of truth
has arrived, and around 2am on the Wednesday, I slowly start to push my
reluctant body towards Bairnsdale, cut off time 11.00am. Within 10 min I am
moving freely but painfully. Every hour, my crew are strapping cold packs to my
ankles to reduce the swelling and to ease the pain of the shin splints. Since
starting off at 2am, I have now become anti-social. I do not want any crew
member to talk or be with me. Water comes every 10 minutes, food every 20
minutes, ice pack changes every hour. I am possessed with only one thought. I
am going to make Melbourne and I do not want anybody near me. I have to make it
myself. I apologise to my crew gruffly. They sense this inner battle going on
and leave me alone. That day, I run continuously for 18 hours. I follow the
white line on the side of the road. Flats, up and down hills all blend into
one. I make the cut off at Bairnsdale with time to spare, and am back in the
race again. Thanks Bill for saving me.
Every kilometre is now tough. My
crew patch up my feet - they are a mess. Ice packs are changed on my legs every
hour. I flog my crew relentlessly and around 8pm on the Wednesday, we pull into
Sale and bed down for a couple of hours at a motel graciously supplied by
Hawker De Havilland, my major sponsor. It is a most welcomed civilised stop and
at 10pm, we are on the track again after my crew have loaded me up to the hilt
with carbos. We press on during the night and at 8am, Thursday 24th,
we reach Traralgon some 3 hours ahead of cut -off. I am once again exhausted.
My feet are numb with pain, but we have now travelled 875km and we are not
giving in. Traralgon to Pakenham is our next goal and we almost lose it . We
have 19 hours and 105km to run. Under ordinary circumstances, this would
present no problem, but I am almost done. During the run to Pakenham , Ron
grant meets up with me and gives me great encouragement and support. Thankyou
Ron. Late Thursday night, I catch up with Terry Cox, Salvation Army Officer. He
is doing it tough. We run together for some time, working off each other - two
exhausted runners propping each other up. One of my crew members, Steve Grant
runs up to me and says "Ok, let's go!" I am exhausted, and snap back,
"For Christ's sake, piss off Steve!" Suddenly I realise, I am running
with a religious man and I apologise quickly to Terry. He forgives - he is to
exhausted to waste breath arguing. Terry, a short time later, calls for a short
break with a sore heel. His manager objects but Terry insists. I pull away. I
do not see him again. He pulls out with exhaustion at 943km. , 73km short of
his Everest. I am doing it very tough. The cut off looks in doubt, when over
the CB radio comes welcome news - the Pakenham cut off has been extended 3
hours to 10.00am Friday. Five runners were battling to make Pakenham during the
night. Only two survived. I had been saved a second time.
At Pakenham, my crew lowered my
wrecked body down on a bed. It was very hot. I couldn't sleep. I looked out the
windows and door. It resembled a carnival atmosphere. Crews were lazing in the
sun, totally exhausted. Some of my crew wandered around in the hot sun, talking
with other crews and propping each other up. Then it dawned on me. This was the
final assault on Melbourne! Our Everest was within striking distance. We could
not give up now. I would crawl to Melbourne if I had to. It didn't quite get to
that.
We had some 56kms to get to
Doncaster. John Fletcher worked out our time with half an hour to spare. I had
to average 5.1kms per hour. It was very hot. By now, my arms, hands and legs
were very swollen and my feet…well that's better left unsaid. Wet towels were
draped over me. I drank every 10 minutes; ice cubes were placed in my hat. But
around 3pm along Dandenong Road, heat exhaustion and fatigue forced me to my
knees. My manager quickly grasped the situation, packed me in ice, and summoned
a local doctor, through my good friend John Shepperd. The local doctor wanted
to hospitalise me. "No way", I said, "Wait until Doncaster"
Race Doctor, Kieran Fallon, physios, Chris Perry, Margaret Stewart and Eleanor
Adams ( who had already finished the run and was still able to help me), packed
me in more ice when they arrived on the scene and then set about on the
monumental task of repairing my feet, They worked for 2 and a half hours on my
feet and at around 6.30pm I eased my remade swollen feet into my biggest pair
of shoes and set off in the cool of the night on the last 39kms, assault to
Doncaster. I had been saved third time. Thanks Chris, Margaret, Eleanor and
Kieran!
The mental game was now on in
earnest. Friday night shoppers yelled encouragement, horns of cars tooted as we
passed on into the night. My manager keeps me fed on luxuries - donuts, apple
pies, cakes etc were used as bait to keep me moving.
Sydney Striders and Western
District runners emerge from the night to urge me on. One lady, Wanda Foley
from Western District Joggers and Harriers has waited to accompany me through
the busy streets of Melbourne. Wanda Foley, along with Frank Pearson, my
physio, became my guardians to Doncaster. They are true blue Westies and stick
with me along with the rest of my faithful crew to the end. Other Westies,
Keith O Connell and Mark Foley join us and chant "Mountain Man in
Melbourne". My adrenelin pumps again and the chant continues till the
finish line.
After crossing through the Finish
Line, a magic feeling of unsurpassed elation overcomes me. I have made it! No.
WE have made it. I am assisted to a chair and allowed to sit down. There is no
pressure on me to get up. What a marvellous relief! Charlie Lynn, Race
Director, places a beer in my hand and a pizza on my lap.
Many thanks to the 50 odd loyal
supporters and Westfield personnel, who wait for me and my crew to come in.
Thanks again to Bill Carlson. To Kieran Fallon and his faithful physio, thanks
for help on the run and post care. Thanks to all my sponsors and especially
Hawker De Havilland, my major sponsor. My crew still continue to talk to me and
befriend me. This is most important to me. I have conquered Melbourne, but my
crew are the champions.
Thanks Westfield for a great
event. I said before and during the run "One shot only at this Run, win or
lose". Only days after the run, as I licked my wound a feeling came over
me. It wasn't that bad, in fact enjoyable. I know I could do better next time -
quicker and with less pain ( This part I like).
Yes Westfield I am ready to do
battle again. Ultra Marathoners just won't lie down and can't be trusted when
they say "Never Again".
# This story was written by Graham Kerruish ( alias Mountain Man) who
ran and completed the 1988 Westfield. Since the demise of the Westfield Run, Graham
has gone back in distance and has now completed over 100 marathons. His story
should serve as inspiration for all of us.
*********************************************************
Mark's Gems
In 1987 when running in his first
Westfield, Mark was absolutely stuffed. He was sitting down next to the Van and
turned to his wife and said "A Man knows when he's had enough".
Lucille's reply is unprintable but needless to say, Mark was soon heading for
Melbourne and not looking behind him
It was in the middle of the night
when Mark set his heart on catching the runner that only looked to be a few
miles up the road. A couple of hours later Mark did catch that runner, but it
turned out to be Roadworks with all the necessary Flashing lights.
It was just outside Pakenham one
year when Mark Gladwell was relieving himself against the side of his vehicle.
He turned around and heard a round of applause from across the Highway. He
looked across the road and saw a group of female factory workers having a Smoko
Break and finding Mark's situation most amusing.
*********************************************************************
1989 Sydney to Melbourne Ultra Marathon
A Record of an Epic by Alf Field
The Race From Sydney to Melbourne commencing on
Thursday, 18th May 1989
The Distance 1,
011 Kilometres
The Runner Graham
Firkin, one of 35 starters
The Crew Brian Colwell, Alf Field, Barbara
Firkin, Toots Gray, Ken Gray, Barry Jones, Jack Nordish, Steve Nordish
The Result Completed the distance in 8 days, 16
hours and 25 minutes, finishing in 20th place. Fifteen competitors
did not complete the course
Condition of the
Runner at the Finish Excellent. No blisters on his feet;
no muscular or other injuries; sore legs; claimed to be "very tired"
but paried on until sunrise on arrival in Melbourne.
:
Condition of the Totally
knackered
Crew at the Finish:
"Give a big welcome to
competitor number 8, Graham Firkin". The announcer's voice boomed around
the Westfield Shopping Centre at Liverpool on Sydney's south western outskirts
where the 1989 Sydney to Melbourne Run was due to start in 30 minutes.
"Graham is aged 51, is a
Blacksmith and competed in the 1988 event, covering 292 kilometeres before a
leg injury forced him to withdraw," the announcer continued. The polite clapping
was drowned by raucous cheers from the group of Sydney Striders gathered to
farewell Firko on his epic odyssey.
It suddenly struck me that we
would soon be on our way, that the long year of planning and preparation was
nearly over. Not that I had done anything much in the way of preparation .
Barbara Firkin was the person who did the hard work. She was the one who wrote
all the letters begging for sponsorship; she was the one who listed the
multitude of items that would be needed and saw that they were purchased,
planned the menus, bought the food, rented the vehicles, got the money in. It
is certain that without her herculean efforts Graham would not have got to the
start line.
It is also fair to say that
without the financial and other help from all the sponsors, the project would
not have got to first Base. A big vote of thanks is owed to all sponsors.
I felt a bit of a heel. I had
spent the past week trying to get my desk clear to enable me to get away for
the trip. I hadn't been able to help the rest of the crew with the myriad of
final preparations and packing of the vans. I need not have worried. Firko had
a little surprise in store for me.
We hadn't really discussed what
my particular function was to be on the team. As far as I was concerned I was
going to help in whatever capacity I could. An hour before the start Firko
sprung his little surprise: "Alf, I want you to take charge. You do all
the calculations, make the decisions and get us to Melbourne. What you say the
crew and I will do."
Firko had obviously noticed that
on the trip last year that I like to throw my weight around and so I became
saddled with this awesome responsibility. It was, however, typical of Firko's
own planning for the trip. This time it was completely professional, a complete
contrast to last year. He had thought about every last detail and planned with
great care. He had realised that it was important to have one person with
absolute authority to make the tough and difficult decisions which abound on
such a trip and which often need to be made in a hurry. He had decided that I
was to be that person. Thanks Firko!
His crew selection had likewise
been mulled over. His final selection worked brilliantly well in the long
tiring and testing hours on the road. The crew was always a most harmonious
bunch united in their desire to see Firko safely into Melbourne.
The professionalism extended
right down to his shoe selection. He had bought the top of the range, Nike
Stab-Airs, and eventually wore, only one pair all the way to Melbourne,
arriving there without a single blister. Quite incredible. When I think of
often he changed his shoes last year to no avail…
The gunshot reverberated around
the enclosed shopping centre and the red and white garbed runners burst forward
like a tidal wave, smiling and waving to friends, oblivious to the trials,
tribulations and pain which lay in store for them over the next week.
For a few minutes it was bedlam.
Husbands saying farewell to their wives. Crew members dashing to their vehicles
and onlookers cheering the intrepid runners.
We were on our way and I think
each of us was wandering what dramas the next week had in store for us. Was
Firko really capable of getting all the way to Melbourne? Did I have the
knowledge and ability to keep him together both physically and mentally for
such a long time? All the problems we experienced last year were suddenly very
fresh in my mind.
The first day was used to
establish routines which were to become ingrained over the next week. Firko was
to eat regularly in small quantities, about every hour. His diet consisted of
mashed vegetables for his main course and canned fruit in jelly for dessert.
We had discovered last year that
Firko was able to absorb mashed vegetables without any ill effect and they
provided quick energy as well as all the minerals and trace elements that his
body required. The only problem was the monotony of the diet, which I tried to
counter by allowing him to choose whatever he wanted to eat at his major rest
stops. This gave him something to look forward to every 12 or 14 hours. I also
allowed him a low alcohol beer on these occasions.
Initially Firko was quite
rebellious about continually eating vegetables and on one occasion grabbed an
Esky belonging to some roadside workers a she ran past. He was heard to mutter
something about their lunch being better than the crap Alf was feeding him a
she was forcibly dispossessed of the Esky!
Later on in the race, after he
had lost weight and was running on negligible reserves, he began to actually
ask for his vegies as he was then better able to appreciate the benefits that
flowed from them.
The other vital part of his diet
was his drinks, which were needed to maintain both his fluid and blood sucrose
levels. I had spent the best part of the past year accumulating supplies of a
carbohydrate polymer powder called Endurolade. It is a South African product
which for political reasons is not available in Australia. Every time I heard
of someone going to South Africa or had visitors from that part of the world,
they were instructed to bring me a few canisters of the vital powder.
When mixed with water, Endurolade
is a drink which provides the body with a quick glycogen boost, which is used
first by the body, thus allowing the body's natural reserves of glycogen to
remain intact. This drink played a big part in keeping Firko going and
prevented him from suffering many of the nasties which afflicted other runners.
Another product which I obtained
from South Africa in limited quantities was something called a
"Squeezy", which was simply Endurolade in a viscous liquid form,
rather like condensed milk and packed in plastic sachets. It provides an even
quicker burst of energy and I felt they would be useful during the nights when
Firko would not require quite so much liquid.
The race consists of a number of
segments which must be completed within a stipulated time or the runner is
disqualified. The first cutoff point was in Goulburn, 164km from Sydney and the
time allowed was 25 hours. As Firko had covered more than 200kms in a 24 hour
race, it was considered that he should cover 164kms in 25 hours without any
difficulty. Consequently it was decided to give him a couple of hours rest at
Mittagong some 77kms from Sydney.
He was following a sequence of 10
minutes running, 5 minutes walking, with stops about every hour for a stretch.
The latter was something which he had not done last year and which I felt had
been detrimental to his performance then. This routine plus the correct food
and drink seemed to be working well and Mittagong was reached without major
difficulty at about 8.40pm.
I had allowed for a 2 hour stop
in Mittagong but it was nearly two and a half hours before we were on the road
again. I was not particularly worried as we had plenty of time in hand to make
Goulburn.
The
only incident of note that night took place at a point which Firko subsequently
named Shit Hill. Included in the equipment on this trip was a toilet seat
mounted on foldup legs, the idea being that if Firko needed to go while we were
out in the sticks he could take his sea tout behind the nearest bush and do his
business.
It
was at Shit Hill that Firko received his first urge to use his foldup toilet
seat. The seat was duly set up a discreet distance from the road and Firko went
about his business. He was just about finished when he felt a little
uncomfortable and tried to adjust the seat which promptly collapsed, depositing
Firko in his recent deposit.
The
language was something to behold. Even the cows in the nearby field hurriedly
moved away and Barbara was muttering that she had thought she had finished with
cleaning baby's dirty bottoms.
Our
first dawn found us less than 30kms from Goulburn and we were all in good
spirits because Firko was going so well. A few hours later we crested the hill
about Goulburn, and soon passed the cutoff point with almost 2 hours to spare.
164kms covered in a little over 23 hours. Not bad at all.
I
ruled a two hour rest period and at exactly 1.00pm we were on the road again.
The next cutoff point was 92kms away in Canberra at 4.00am next morning. This
gave us 15 hours to cover the distance and I calculated that we would make it
with 2 hours to spare.
I
felt that the leg from Goulburn to Canberra was going to be crucial in
assessing Firko's chances of getting to Melbourne. It was midway through this
section last year that he collapsed, totally exhausted. Also by the time we
reached Canberra he would have been on the road for around 39 hours with only 4
hours rest. He had to cover this leg in some style if he was going to have any
chance of getting to Melbourne.
I
needn't have worried. He wasn't even aware of passing the point of last year's
trauma, but I must confess to a sigh of relief once we were past it.
Barbara
had told me that Firko only wanted Barbara, Steve Nordish and myself to join
him out on the road. This meant that the three of us had to share the duties of
shuttling his food and drinks out to him while Steve and I had to do most of
the motivating, cajoling and assisting through the inevitable low spots. This
was not a reflection on the rest of the crew, but merely Firko's view that the
three of us understood him best.
The
result was that Steve and I spent long periods out on the road with Firko,
especially in the hours after midnight and during the latter stages of a leg as
we were approaching a cutoff point.
Thus
it was that both Steve and I were out on the road with him as we made our way
down the mist shredded Northbourne Avenue towards the cutoff point in central
Canberra. Firko was a model patient, following every instruction I gave him to
the letter and never failing to respond when I asked for an effort. So much so
that we arrived at the Canberra cutoff at 2.00am exactly, precisely to the
minute 2 hours ahead of the cutoff, as I had calculated 13 hours exactly in
Goulburn.
At
the motel, where I calculated we could have a 3 hour rest, we examined Firko's
feet. I was amazed because they looked as if he had hardly walked around the
block let alone run 255kms. There were no blisters, no weals, no red blotches
or bruises, just his normal clear white flesh. It was the first time on the
trip that I had the feeling that God must be with this man.
Disaster
very nearly struck us in Canberra, and from a most unexpected source. I set my
alarm for 5.00am and went to sleep instantly and deeply as I had had about the
same amount of rest as Firko had. I became conscious of someone beating a drum
next to my bed. "Go away" I mumbled and rolled over. The noise from
the drum wouldn't go away. Annoyed I sat up in bed. Someone was knocking on the
door.
I
staggered around in the darkness trying to find the door in the unfamiliar dark
room. It was Barbara. "Wazzamatter" I muttered, cross that she had
disturbed my sleep.
"It's
quarter to six. Firko is ready to go and is shouting for his crew" she
replied. That woke me up with a jolt. Incredibly I had slept right through the
alarm, as had the other four crew members sleeping in the same room.
Although
everyone was galvanised into action, It was 6.20am before we got back on the
road, nearly an hour later than I had planned. I felt sick because I knew that
the next leg to Cooma was going to be a tough one with lots of severe climbs,
particularly during the latter stages as we passed through the foothills of the
Snowy Mountains.
The
distance to Cooma is 115kms from Canberra and we needed to get there by 1.00am
next morning, only a bit more than 18 hours away. It was going to be tight, but
I kept my concerns to myself. Stick to the routine and see how we go.
Around
9.00am we had cause for a small celebration as we passed the spot where Firko
was forced to withdraw in agony last year. This year a quick photograph and a
celebratory beer. What a contrast!
Our
delayed start from Canberra had left us last in the field, at least of those
who were still in the run. Firko was progressing so well that we soon began to
see the flashing amber lights atop other competitors vehicles. Gradually we
pulled up to them. First we passed the irrepressible Cliff Young. Later in the
afternoon Firko sailed past the Japanese competitor, Norio Wada.
Dusk was beginning to settle and
I sent the second van into Cooma to arrange some accommodation for us. This was
something we seemed to be doing at each stop as we invariably arrived in the
wee hours. When they returned the first van went for a run to charge its
batteries, a daily necessity caused by the long hours of ultra-slow travel.
Cooma was still 45kms away and 7
hours to the cutoff. I calculated that we had half an hour to spare if Firko
kept going without any breaks. This was a pretty tough assignment a she had
already been on the road for nearly 12 hours since Canberra without any rests
other than his brief stretching breaks. And I knew that about 75% of the
remaining 45kms were going to be pretty severe uphill climbs.
It was going to be dreadfully
close and I rued the hour we lost in Canberra due to my sleeping through the
alarm. I wondered if I would ever be able to forgive myself if Firko got
eliminated for not making the Cooma cutoff. We just had to get there.
At his next stretching break we
had a gentle chat. "Are we going to make it?" Firko asked.
"Sure" I said, "Provided you have no rests and reduce your stretches
to every two hours."
"How much will we make it
by?"
"By five minutes" I
lied.
He responded as I knew he would:
"Shit we had better get moving then", and he immediately turned and
started running.
I had brought enough Squeezies to
be able to give Firko about five per night, but this was an emergency. There
was no point in missing the cutoff and having squeezies in stock I resolved to
cut into our stock to whatever extent was necessary to get to Cooma on time. I
warned Steve that we were both going to need to be out on the road for the next
six hours.
Firko responded splendidly both
to the Squeezies and to the demands of the occasion. Steve and I set him a
tough pace and he never wavered. Naturally he complained about some of the hills,
but then so did I, and I hadn't covered 340kms as he had.
We continued to pass other
runners and I pitied them for I knew that if we were barely going to make the
cutoff, then they could have no chance of doing so. Their race was over.
I will never forget the last
20kms into Cooma. It was bitterly cold, crystal clear night and we were all
wearing our warm gear, including gloves and beanies. Every 5kms I recalculated
our position relative to the cutoff and found that we still had a steady 30
minutes in hand for emergencies.
Firko had been on the road 16
hours since Canberra without a break and I monitored his condition
continuously. A couple of serious cramps could easily cost us our precious 30
minute buffer, but I was more concerned about Firko reaching a state of total
exhaustion. Every time I perceived him to be flagging and not maintaining the
correct pace, I ordered another Squeezy for him.
The last 10kms were covered on
grit, determination and Squeezies every half an hour. It was amazing how he
responded to the Squeezies. They were a real find.
Another thing which helped
considerably was the speaker mounted on the front of the first van through
which tapes could be played. It was on this section that I first became aware
of the lift that Firko got from listening to a tape of hymns and spiritual
songs by Burl Ives. This was the second time on the trip that I felt that God
was looking after Firko.
At 11.00pm I sent the second van
ahead to allow at least some of the crew members to have a shower and clean up
before we arrived. I told them that I anticipated being at the cutoff point,
which was on the outskirts of Cooma, at 12.30 and that we would get to the
motel in the centre of Cooma at 1.00am.
Our log book shows that we passed
the cutoff point with 29 minutes to spare. I must confess to a bit of
deception. I did not tell Firko the good news as I wanted him to make his way
to the motel and not have to backtrack when we restarted. We kept looking for a
non-existent "Welcome to Cooma" sign which I told him was the cutoff.
Just before 1.00am we reached the motel and gratefully got into bed. I only
removed my shoes before diving between the sheets.
The next leg to Bombala is about
90kms and we were allowed 22 hours to get there. This seemed fairly comfortable
seeing Firko had just completed 115kms in 18 hours, so I felt justified in
allowing him a slightly longer rest - 4 hours. That would leave 18 hours to
cover 90kms, or 5kms per hour, virtually walking pace. Should be a doddle I
thought as I wafted into dreamland.
It was tough getting going again
just after 5.00am. It was still bitterly cold and fog had settled down to
ground level. Visibility was reduced to about 50 metres. Firko was wearing his
black balaclava and looked for all the world like Ned Kelly reincarnated.
Suddenly we picked up
conversations on the CB radio. It was Terry Cox's crew. From what they were
saying it was quite clear that Terry was very much in the race. Yet he was one
of the seven runners behind us going into Cooma. We knew tha the could not
possibly have made the cutoff time. He had been running with his son, Terry Cox
Junior, and the youngster had been in a lot of trouble when he passed him.
We called them up on the CB to
ask what had happened. It transpired that the Race Director had belatedly
changed the cutoff time by an hour which enabled the laggards to get into Cooma
without disqualification. The Race Director had stated that he had set too
tough a cutoff time for Cooma.
I was stunned. We had needlessly
put Firko through the wringer to get him to Cooma in time and, almost as bad,
we had needlessly used up half our meagre stock of Squeezies. I knew that Firko
would take the news badly and yet I had to tell him.
We discussed the issue for some
time. We were naturally pleased for the other runners that they could continue.
They had all spent many thousands of dollars renting their vans and equipment.
Their crews had all taken leave and volunteered their services. It would have
been a great shame if they had been eliminated.
It was simply bad luck for us
that the cutoff time had been changed after we got to Cooma. It would have been
a major bonus if we had known about it 10 or 15kms out. I put it to Firko that
the race organisers now owed us a favour and that we might just need a favour
before we got to Melbourne. This seemed to calm him down and, indeed, was to
prove prophetic.
That day on the road to Bombala
turned out to be anything but the doddle I had anticipated. Firko was visibly
dragging his heels. The effort to get to Cooma had taken a great deal out of
him while the change in the cutoff time was bad psychologically.
It became a long hard slog over
extremely undulating terrain. We were still traversing the fringe of the Snowy
Mountains. Steve and I were destined to spend long periods out on the road
trying to motivate Firko and keep his mind on the job. We had to resort to
periodic 15 minute rests with occasional breaks.
Fortunately, after nightfall
Firko picked up noticeably and we reached Bombala around 9.30pm, about an hour
and a half before the cutoff time. All the cutoff times had in fact been
extended by an hour following the change to the Cooma cutoff time but Firko, in
a fit of pique, said that he wanted to stick to the old cutoff times.
Firko and the crew were in
desperate need of rest so I decided on a gamble. If I gave him a long rest he
might recover his energy levels much better from a short break and be able to
make up the ground by moving faster the next day. I rostered 6 hours sleep for
everyone, which meant that the full break was about 7 hours. It was blissful
and did the trick.
The next day, Monday, was by far
the easiest and nicest day we experienced. The dawn was perhaps the most
magnificent I have ever seen. The colours and cloud formations were stunning
and seemed to cover the entire firmament. It set the tone for the day.
After a couple of hours we moved
off the edge of the escarpment and started down the scenic Cann River valley,
through dense forests and occasionally along the banks of the Cann River
itself.
Firko was happy and running
comfortably. The crew were relaxed and Brian and Jack took the opportunity to
go for runs up ahead through the forest. Even a brief rain shower could not
dampen our spirits.
Several notable events occurred
on this section. In quick order we passed the 500km mark, the half way mark and
the Victorian State border. The latter seemed to give Firko a special lift.
We also received the first of the
newsletters which contained many messages of encouragement for Firko, all of
which were greatly appreciated.
The only sour note during the day
was when Jack Nordish took over the driving of the lead vehicle. He sniffed the
air and asked Barbara whether she was cooking fish only to be told that it was
running shoes that he was smelling.
At
about 7.00pm we pulled into a motel in Cann River, having covered 90kms during
the day. The next cutoff point was still some 77kms away at a town called
Orbost. Firko's strong performance during the day enabled me to allow him a 3
hour sleep in Cann River.
When
we got underway again, it was back to the serious business. For starters, there
is a long 40km climb out of Cann River. It seemed to take forever. The wind was
howling but unfortunately we were sheltered by the dense forests that we were
travelling through.
I
insisted that Firko walk up the hills to conserve his energy, which meant long
periods of walking when Steve and I took turns at keeping him company. Burl
Ives and Rocky were the main musical fare. Steve said that he counted 25
separate renditions of the Burl Ives tape on that leg! While he came to detest
this tape, it actually grew on me. I am listening to it as I type this and it
is astonishing how vividly it brings back the memories.
The
trip into Orbost was relatively uneventful. Once we cleared the mountains Firko
got back into his easy rhythm, alternating 5 minutes running with 5 minutes
walking. He was running comfortably and showing no signs of stiffness or pain
anywhere.
Once
incident about 10kms outside of Orbost is worth recording. We had gradually
caught up with Terry Cox. From the slow pace at which he was travelling we
deduced that he must be in some sort of trouble.
I
was out on the road with Firko at the time and as we started to get close to
Terry, he fell forward flat on his face and didn't move. His crew rushed to his
assistance and by the time we drew level with him they had him on his feet on
the side of the road. He was bent over retching and looked all in.
I
turned to Firko and told him that no matter how badly he wanted to get to
Melbourne, I was not going to let him do it if it was necessary to drive him to
the same condition that Terry was in at that moment. Firko had clearly been
shocked at Terry's condition and he agreed with me.
"I
don't want my wife, kids or family to ever see me in that condition" he
said quietly. Fortunately we understood each other.
I
thought that Terry Cox would have to pull out of the race, but
ultra-Marathoners have their own form of insanity. Terry got going again,
didn't stop for a rest as we did in Orbost, and he remained ahead of us all the
way to Melbourne!
When
we got to Orbost, Firko had been on the road for exactly five days and had
covered 629kms, an average of 126kms per day. It was hard to believe that the
leaders were some 350kms ahead of us and were approaching the finish at that
time. Once certainly gets a greater respect for the enormity of these
performances when one is out there day after day, living the whole experience
and maybe covering 50 or more kilometres per day oneself.
From
Orbost the course loops down to the coast at Lakes Entrance and then curves
back inland to Bairnsdale, which was the next cutoff point. It is about 60kms
to Lakes Entrance and a further 37kms from there to Bairnsdale. After allowing
Firko 4 hours sleep we were left with 19 hours to cover the 97kms to the
Bairnsdale cutoff. It should be a doddle, I thought, but once again events were
going to probe me wrong.
Up
to Orbost I had controlled everything that Firko did. I told him when to run,
when to walk, when to eat, when to sleep, what to eat, what to drink. About the
only thing I did not control were his bodily functions and believe me, he
functioned often. If anybody is looking for a donor with a good quality kidney
I can recommend Firko's. They are in perfect condition! I can vouch for it as I
carefully observed more than 50% of his piddles to check the colour of the
urine and to be sure that it contained no blood. If Firko could have found a
sponsor who would donate 50 cents for each of his piddles on the road to
Melbourne, there would have been no need for any other sponsors!
Thus
it was at Orbost that Firko rebelled. In the nicest way, of course.
"Alf,
do you mind if I walk and run as I feel up to it? he asked plaintively.
After 630kms I figured that he
was probably getting the hang of it, so I agreed. In any event I was feeling
pretty bushed and a few extra hours shuteye was very appealing. Once I was sure
that everything was going well I climbed into the bunk above the driver's cab
in the second vehicle and slept for nearly 4 hours.
I
was awakened by this terrible earthquake. Indeed it was several earthquakes. I
was in a very tall building and when it eventually collapsed I woke up to find
that it was the shuddering of the van as it started and stopped that was
causing the earthquakes.
Firko
was still going well and had covered more than I had expected him to while I
was asleep. We were about 3 hours out of Lakes Entrance and, as had become
customary, I joined him for the last pull into town.
I
had promised Firko half an hour's break in Lakes Entrance where he could have a
change of clothes, let Steve massage his feet and have a proper meal. Firko had
asked for steak and kidney pie and to my amazement, tha tis exactly what
Barbara produced for him.
Firko still had 8 and half hours
left to cover the 37kms to Bairnsdale, working on the old cutoff time and an
extra hour if we used the revised cutoff time. It looked pretty comfortable and
my idea was to get to Bairnsdale with two or more hours in hand so that Firko
could have a rest there.
There is a long climb out of
Lakes Entrance. Not nearly as bad as the climb out of Cann River, but still
quite a tough slog. We took it fairly slowly, taking nearly an hour and a
quarter to complete the 6km hill.
Once on the level Firko started
his walk-run-walk routine. He had been doing this for about 15 minutes when
suddenly he veered across the road, staggering into me. I could see that
something was seriously wrong and sat him down on his haunches.
"What's the matter,
mate?"
"Dizzy. Just dizzy" he
mumbled, "Can't stand."
"Right, you are going
straight to bed," I ordered. He just nodded his assent.
He had clearly been overcame by
exhaustion. What concerned me was that I was right next to him and I had not
been able to pick up any signs of imminent collapse.
There was a dark, deserted
filling station 50 metres up the road. We pulled the vans in there and laid Firko
out on the bunk. He was snoring before we had removed his shoes and covered him
up.
Some of the crew stretched out
for a sleep, others mulled around outside. I sa tin the cab to do a bit of
figuring and thinking. It was exactly the situation I had dreaded. I kept
thinking of the column in the daily newsletter which gave the reasons for those
runners who had withdrawn. Half of them had simply withdrawn from
"exhaustion".
We still had 29kms to go to
Bairnsdale. If I let Firko sleep for an hour, we would have either 6 or 7 hours
to get him to the cutoff, depending on which cutoff time was used. It was going
to be a resurrection job, similar to that which we had to do on him last year
on the road to Canberra. Lots and lots of vegies, no running, slow walking and
a few Squeezies. Maximum speed would be 5kms per hour, so a full 6 hours would
be needed. An hour's sleep was all we could afford, but we would still be left
with the hour from the revised cutoff as an emergency buffer.
I went to look for Barbara to
tell her the news. I found her on her own, down a side road quietly sobbing.
"It means so much to
him," she said, wiping the tears away. "He is desperate to make it to
Melbourne".
"If
there is any way of getting him there without half killing him, we'll find
it," I promised her.
What
had looked like a doddle had become a desperate race to make the cutoff. I
blamed myself for allowing him to do his own thing. He had obviously overdone
the running. I blamed myself for having a 4 hour sleep. If I had been awake I
would have seen the huge effort he put in to make Lakes Entrance so quickly.
Nothing
for it now but to institute Operation Resurrection. Lots of vegies and lots of
slow walking. And once again it worked. After some two hours, Firko was looking
as bright and chipper a she had been at any stage in the run. Better still, he
had suffered no further bouts of dizziness.
In
fact, he was looking so good that when we came to a gradual decline, I
suggested that we trot down the easy half kilometre or so. When we got to the
bottom of the hill I was shocked at the change in his condition. He had lost
all his chirpiness, his face was drawn and grey and he looked as if he was
going to be ill.
Running
was immediately banned and within 30 minutes he had recovered to the point
where he was smiling and cracking jokes again. After another 30 minutes I
decided to try another trot down a gentle decline, but the result was identical
to what had happened an hour earlier. The smile faded to be replaced by the
drawn, grey look.
My
heart sank as I diagnosed what was happening was that when he started running,
the pain was causing his body to go into shock. We were going to have to walk
all the way into Bairnsdale. Worse still, we were probably going to have to
walk the remaining 300kms to Melbourne.
I tired to explain to Firko what
was happening to him but I'm not sure that he understood fully. "Walk to
Bairnsdale and we'll worry about it from there.," I said.
Firko
looked dejected. "I'm sorry to be holding you up," he mumbled.
I
put an arm around his shoulder. "Mate, if there is anything which is going
to make me very cross, it is you apoligising and feeling sorry for
yourself."
Some
weeks after the event, Firko confided what I had said had been like a slap
across the face, that it felt as if he was back at school. He didn't apoligise
again on the trip. Nor did I ever have the impression that he was feeling sorry
for himself.
The
long walk into Bairnsdale was highlighted by the arrival of Firko's son Shane,
who was stationed at the Air Force Base at Sale. It was a welcome moment for
Firko and helped to break the monotony.
When
it became apparent that Firko was going to be able to walk to Bairnsdale and
arrive within the original cutoff time, I allowed myself to think about the
next leg, which was 120kms to Traralgon. From cutoff time in Bairnsdale to
cutoff time in Traralgon was 24 hours, with an extra hour if we used the
revised time.
The
problem was that I had a runner who couldn't run and was walking at about 5.5km
per hour. He was going to need 22 hours to cover the distance at that rate, but
he also needed a rest. I decided that we had no alternative but to start using
the extra hour available from the revised cutoff times. If he walked 40kms,
slept for an hour, walked another 40kms, slept another hour and then hightailed
it to Traralgon, it would take exactly 24 hours.
If
we followed this schedule, then I could only give Firko a 90 minute break in
Bairnsdale. As I could see no other alternative in the circumstances, that is
what we did. There was barely time for Firko to shower, shave, have his feet
massaged by Steve and get an hour's sleep before we were on the road again.
I
walked with Firko for the first 3 hours out of Bairnsdale in order to try to
get him up to 6kms per hour pace, thereby building up a small buffer for
emergencies. We did cover 18kms during those 3 hours, but it was quite a
humiliating experience for me. At the end of the 3 hours my feet were sore, I
had a couple of blisters and I was exhausted. My respect for Firko's stamina
and guts went up another notch a she continued to stride out towards the
setting sun.
It
took 7 hours for Firko to walk those first 40kms, an average of 5.7km per hour.
This was slightly better than the 5.5km per hour that I had budgeted on, so we
had a small buffer. After an hour's sleep, a change of clothes and another foot
massage, Firko was walking again. We were into our seventh night on the road.
Firko
had lost a considerable amount of weight and his buttocks had almost
disappeared. His face was haggard and drawn, and his pace was gradually
slowing. As midnight approached, I started to get alarmed. We had only covered
about 16 of the next 40kms that I had scheduled before his next hour's rest. At
the pace he was going at, we were not going to make the Traralgon cutoff. Firko
was approaching total exhaustion and there was nothing I could do about it.
Three
kilometres further on, while he was having a stretch, he asked: "How much
further is it to my next rest?"
"About
12kms," I replied. His shoulders sagged.
"Alf
do you think I could have half an hour now and reduce the next rest by half an
hour?"
My
heart went out to him. It was the first time since we had left Sydney that he
had actually asked for a rest. I knew how much it had cost him just to ask. I
also knew that he was finished, both physically and as far as the race was
concerned. He had to have a decent rest and after that there was no way that he
could make the cutoff in time. It was crunch time.
"No
mate, you can't have half an hour. You are going to have a full hour, maybe
more."
I
think that the crew also sensed that it was over. It was a brave attempt, but
the body, particularly a 51 year old body, can only take so much. Most of the
crew found a spot to stretch out and sleep. I sat in the cab with Ken Gray and
we discussed the situation.
We
were then 784kms into the race and my thinking was to try and nurse Firko
through another 16kms so that he could at least have covered 800kms, which
would still have been an enormous achievement. He had never been further than
292kms, so 800 was a huge advance.
Although
I knew that he was finished, I felt that I owed Firko at least enough time to
make it to Traralgon if he had it in him. Once again I hauled out the logbook
and a pencil and did some calculating.
About
75 minutes after he had gone down to sleep, I was shaking him awake and turning
the lights on to get enough bodies up to get the show on the road.
I
gave Firko one of our latest remaining Squeezies while I explained the position
to him. There was something over 10 hours to go to the revised cutoff time and
59kms to be covered. With no further rests and by doing a little bit of running
from time to time, it was possible to just make it.
Barbara
walked the first few hundred metres with him. Suddenly I saw him hug and kiss
her, then he was running. Barbara jumped into the van, tears streaming down her
face.
"He
says that he is going to do it", she sobbed.
I
still believe that we witnessed a miracle that night. From being in a state of
total exhaustion where he could scarcely put one foot in front of the other, to
a mere 90 minutes later being right back into a 5 minute run/5 minute walk
routine, is beyond rational explanation.
Not
only did it happen, but he kept it up to such a degree that we reached
Traralgon with 30 minutes to spare. I now felt certain that God was with Firko
on this run and that nothing could stop us now.
To
fully appreciate the enormity of this performance, it needs to be seen in
perspective. It had taken 5 days to get to Orbost. In the 48 hours since
Orbost, Firko had had the following sleeps: 90 minutes outside Lakes Entrance;
an hour in Bairnsdale and two one hour sleeps on the road to Traralgon. A total
of four and a half hours sleep in 2 days, and that after he had already covered
625kms during the first 5 days. A truly miraculous effort.
Firko's
troubles were far from over. We were still 168kms from Melbourne and of more
immediate concern, still 65kms from the final cutoff point at Warragul. Firko
needed sleep badly, but I had to balance this necessity against the time
required to get to Warragul.
In
the end I allowed Firko 3 hours sleep, which I felt was the absolute minimum
that he needed. This was going to make the next leg very tight indeed as it
left only 11 hours to cover the 65kms to Warragul. We would have no emergency
buffer and there would be nothing spare for a rest on the way. It was going to
be a nailbiting finish.
For
the first few hours Firko managed to maintain the required pace but then he
started to fade. I knew that he was in trouble when we came to a long, but not
particularly steep hill. It seemed to take forever to reach the crest. When we
reached it, Firko said that he needed a 5 minute rest. This was only the second
time that he had asked for a rest on the whole trip and confirmed to me that he
had no reserves left.
The
walk down the other side gave him some respite but when he got back to level
ground, it was obvious that he was keeping going on willpower only. The vegies
and Endurolade drink did not seem to be helping. By this stage all the
Squeezies had been used up , so there was nothing available to give him a
boost.
We
were still 35kms from Warragul, when he asked for another 5 minute rest. What
he needed was about 12 hours sleep. I called a halt and put him to bed. Even if
we kept going, we were not going to make the cutoff. In fact, I was doubtful
that he would even get to Warragul if we kept going without giving him a rest.
It
was time to call in the debt that I believe the race Organisers owed us for the
cockup at Cooma, which now seemed years ago. The official dealing with our
section of the field was Firko's friend "Mountain Man". I knew that
he would be along shortly as he always arrived at dinner time.
Sure
enough, ten minutes later Mountain Man pitched up. I explained the situation to
him and asked if I could use the car telephone to talk to Charlie Lynn, the
Race Director and the man with the final authority.
I explained to Charlie how we had
been prejudiced by the events at Cooma and why I felt that the Race
Organisation owed Firko a favour. I told him of Firko's condition and said that
I was not prepared to drive him into the ground in order to make the cutoff
point at Warragul. I asked for official permission for a late arrival at the
cutoff point for Firko.
Fortunately
Charlie was very friendly and accepted what I said about Cooma. He agreed to
allow Firko to reach Warragul after the official cutoff time and to continue on
to Melbourne as an official runner. He said that he would issue instructions
accordingly.
Later
I checked with Mountain Man and also with the driver of the night safety van
which followed the last runner in the field after sunset and found that Charlie
was as good as his word. He had told them that we were to continue to Melbourne
even if Firko missed his Warragul cutoff time.
After
an hour I got Firko up again and we set out for Warragul. It was tough going as
Firko still did not seem to have anything in reserve and the Endurolade was not
perking him up. The Race Doctor had given us a can on "Maximum" to
try. This is an Australian made product similar to Endurolade, but I had refrained
from using it because I didn't want to change a winning formula. I decided that
it was time to give Maximum a go and it produced an immediate positive effect.
Perhaps Firko was saturated with Endurolade.
"Were
you there when they crucified my Lord."
"Sometimes
it causes me to tremble, trrremmmbbbllleee."
The
gravelly tones of Burl Ive's voice filled the night sky for the umpteenth time.
I was out on the road again with Firko, but this time there was no respite. I
had discovered that Steve Nordish had a serious ankle injury which he had
successfully concealed from me for two days until he could no longer walk. He
wa snow resigned to a driving and foot massaging role for the remainder of the
journey.
"He
walks with me and He talks with me, and tells me I am his own."
More
Burl Ives. Seemed appropriate.
Ever
so slowly the hours and kilometres ticked by as Firko and I strode up the long
straight, dark road. I was too concerned about his weakened state to leave his
side.
Midnight
came and went. Finally at 2am, the cutoff times at Warragul, we were still some
7kms from the town. I felt exceedingly grateful that we had a debt to call up
and that it had been honoured.
"Come
home, come home, Ye who are weary come home."
"Earnestly,
tenderly, Jesus is calling."
Burl
Ives droned on in the background. Eventually the lights of Warragul appeared
ahead of us.
It
was 3am and I was exhausted. Heaven knows how Firko was feeling. To me it
seemed like a miracle that he was still on his feet. Another 2kms into Warragul
and then bed.
I
noticed an official Westfield Run car pull up and the Race Marshall got out. He
trotted up, smiling and waving to the bleary-eyed crew. I though that it was
jolly nice of him to come out at 3am in the morning to give Firko a helping
hand into Warragul.
Firko was walking at the time. I
was on his right hand side carrying the drinks bottle. The race Marshall joined
us on Firko's left hand side.
"Graham
, this is something which is very hard for me to do," said the Race
Marshall, "but rules are rules and the Warragul cutoff time has already
passed."
I
suddenly realised that he was not there to help Firko and that he was on the
verge of withdrawing him from the race. I am a very easy-going person and used
to be able to count the number of times that I have blown my cool on the
fingers of one hand. I was about to start on my other hand.
I
simply exploded, fumes were literally coming out of my ears. No doubt the lack
of sleep, the physical exhaustion and the emotional pressure of keeping Firko
on the road all took their toll.
Suddenly
I was poking my forefinger in the Race Marshall's face and yelling at him.
"Who
the effing hell do you think you are coming to withdraw this man?" I think
that the words were probably somewhat stronger. "You better get on your
effing phone and check your effing facts with your effing Race Director before
you do anything that you might regret. We have official permission to be late
at this cutoff?"
"When
did you speak to Charlie?" the Race Marshall wanted to know, quite taken
aback by my outburst. I told him and he scurried off with his tail between his
legs to check what I had said. A few minutes alter he returned to say that
everything was as I had said and that we were to continue. He left muttering
under his breath about not having been informed and that Charlie should not
shoot from the hip like that.
It
gave us something to talk about over the last little hike into Warragul.
Firko
still had 103kms to cover the finish line in Melbourne. To get there at some
sort of respectable time, we had to be on the road again at 6am. That gave us
about two hours for a much needed sleep.
"Wake
up, Alf, I heard your alarm go off." It was Toots shaking my shoulder.
Once again I had slept right through the alarm.
Steve
Nordish was propped up on one arm on the adjacent bed. "Last day," he
said cheerfully.
"What
do you think the odds are of making it?" I asked him.
"I
never had any doubts that he would make it", he said. "The only time
I was concerned was before Traralgon. He'll make it now." I wasn't so
sure. I knew how close Firko had been to collapse the previous day. It was a
question of crossing fingers and keeping going. I was determined that we would
get him there, even if we had to carry him the last 50kms.
We
had been ordered to have someone on Firko's right all the way from Warragul to
Melbourne, in case he lurched to the right into the traffic, which was expected
to become increasingly heavy. This was the opportunity to give the rest of the
crew a chance to be out on the road with Firko and I believe that it was also
the time that he was ready for a change of company. A roster was prepared so
that everyone could have a turn out on the road. I decided that I would save
myself for the last 30kms when I might be most needed.
I
had phoned my wife, Rosanne when I began to get confident that Firko was going
to make it to Melbourne. I suggested that she might like to fly down on the
Friday morning and be with us on the final day. It would also enable her to
bring us a packet of Squeezies which I felt would be sorely needed before we
got to the Finish line.
From
about 10.00 am I was scanning the oncoming traffic, looking for Rosanne.
Eventually there was a toot as she flashed past on the other side of the double
highway. Then she was parking up ahead of us and running towards us with a
broad grin on her face.
"I've
never seen Rosanne without a smile on her face," remarked Firko as she
rushed up and gave him a peck on the cheek.
As
we walked back towards the van to greet the crew, Rosanne said: "I hear
that Firko has been withdrawn from the race. What has happened?"
I
stopped in midstride. "What are you talking about?"
"I
was listening to the news on the car radio and heard that Firko has been
withdrawn from the race but is being allowed to complete the course as an
unofficial runner."
Once
again I was flabbergasted. This was completely contrary to my arrangements with
Charlie Lynn, the Race Director. I suddenly realised that we had not seen a
race official all morning. Was Firko really out of the race? Did this mean that
he was not going to be recognised as a finisher? After the incredibly
courageous effort that he had made, was he going to be denied a Finisher's
Medal and recognition in the Race Records as a finisher?
We
discussed the situation with the rest of the crew and decided that we would not
mention anything to Firko until we had further information from a race
official. The hours ticked by, but no race official appeared.
Eventually
Firko had covered 25kms. I had decided to break the journey into 4 sections of
about 25kms each, allowing Firko an hour of sleep at the end of each section.
About halfway through the second
25km leg I noticed a television crew up ahead. I knew instinctively that they
were going to question Firko about the circumstances of his withdrawal,
something which he still knew nothing about. I dashed forward in the hope that
I could fend them off.
Sure
enough, the interviewer immediately launched into questioning Firko about why
he was continuing after he had been officially withdrawn. I countered by asking
from where they had got their information that Firko had been withdrawn. The
interviewer replied that it came from an AAP-Reuters wire report. My heart
sank. Such a report had to be official. All I could do was to say that we had
not had any such notification from the race authorities and as far as we were
concerned, Firko was still an official runner.
As
a result of this confrontation I had to tell Firko about the radio report. We
still had not seen a race official and I was starting to feel a bit desperate.
Firko's brother, Ron and his son Shane had arrived to cheer him home. As they
needed to go into Melbourne to make some Motel Bookings and Rosanne needed to
pick up our Motel key, I suggested that they drive to Melbourne, track down
Charlie Lynn and find out exactly what was going on.
Shortly
after Firko's second sleep we had our first good news . We had a visit from a
couple of policeman who told us that they were there to estimate Firko's speed
so that they could estimate his final arrival time. They told us that Charlie
Lynn had requested a police escort into Melbourne for Firko, something reserved
usually for the leading runner only.
I
was quite amused when they figured that he would arrive at 8.30pm. I told them
that it would be closer to 3.00am and that I had a week's practise at this sort
of thing. We eventually arrived at 3.25am.
It
was dusk when Rosanne, Ron and Shane returned from Melbourne. The news was
good. Charlie had said to ignore media reports. Firko would be an official
finisher. He would get his medal and Finisher's Certificate. They would keep
the Finish facilities open until Firko arrived, no matter what time that was.
There would be hot food and cold beer waiting for us. The TV cameras would be
waiting and the Police escort would see him right to the finish.
Clearly
Charlie was bending over backwards to undo the damage of the erroneous media
report of Firko' withdrawal and was honouring the arrangements that I have made
with him.
It
was a great relief to me and I could now concentrate on getting Firko through
the final kilometres to the finish.
We
had become quite a cavalcade as we wound our way through the outskirts of
Melbourne. Two police cars with flashing blue lights up ahead, then Firko
followed by the first van with it's flashing amber lights, then Ron's car, the
second van and finally the night security ute with it's flashing amber light
and huge sign "Runner Ahead" on its rear.
I was still very concerned about
Firko's condition as I knew that he had already exceeded his limits of
endurance, but he kept putting one foot in front of the other. My greatest fear
was to have him collapse with only a few kilometres to go. I seemed to be the
only one so concerned. The rest of the crew, other than the drivers, had donned
their shirts with "Firko's crew emblazoned on the front and were walking
in a group around Firko. I remained steadfastly at his right shoulder.
Suddenly
Firko veered off to the left and ran off the road. "What the hell is going
on?" I wondered as I chased after him. I caught up with him in front of a
flower seller's stand that he had spied.
"Alf,
can you lend me $5 to buy Barbara some flowers?"
I
can't think of another runner who might have done anything similar, but then
Firko is one of Nature's gentlemen. He might even repay the $5 sometime.
With
ten kilometres to go we were joined by Charlie Lynn who walked to the Finish
with Firko. I thought that this was a very touching gesture as Charlie had had
virtually no sleep during the past 48 hours and this was beyond the call of
duty. But then Charlie is also a Sydney Strider.
The
final few kilometres seemed an eternity, as they always do, no matter how long
the race. After eight days and sixteen hours they seemed to stretch on forever.
Finally
there was the Westfield Doncaster shopping centre. The final 50 metre straight
to the tape. The bright arclights to enable the TV cameras to capture the
moment. Firko kissing Barbara. Firko hugging his mother, who had made a special
journey to Melbourne to witness the finish. Handshakes. Backslaps. Pandemonium.
Charlie
hanging the most enormous gold medal around Firko's neck. Ken dashing hither
and thither with his video camera.
Suddenly
we were inside a warm tent. Charlie had honoured his promise. There was a warm
pizza and cold beer.
I
was all choked up. It was a combination of tiredness, release from the
emotional pressure of continually monitoring Firko's condition and the sheer
ecstasy of the moment. I could feel the tears welling up. All I could do was to
pat Firko on the back as I pulled the tag on a can of beer.
The
joy was that Firko had conquered his own personal Everest and I was proud to be
a part of his team, a team which had supported him to the hilt, to the extreme
limits of their own endurance. I am sure that they will all join me in saying:
"It was a magnificent effort, Firk, and it was a privilege for us to
witness it. We are really proud of you."
As
I sat there sipping my beer the words from the Burl Ives tape kept ringing
through my head.
"And
the joy we share as we tarry there,
None
other has ever known;
"Come
home, come home, its suppertime;
The
shadows deepen fast,
We
are going home at last."
This great story was written by Alf Field
who was crew manager on Graham Firkin's magnificent run in 1989. As Race
Director, charlie Lynn said about this story "It proves that man can do
anything he sets his heart on.
*********************************************************************
A True Story
It was late one
Saturday night when a Cooma Farmer staggered out of the Pub and got into his
car to drive home. He was a couple of kilometres out of town, when he saw a lot
of flashing lights up the road and thought that the cops were having a busy
night. He pulled into a laneway and watched over the next few hours whilst the
Police continued with their blitz. A mate found him asleep in his car the next
morning and asked him what he was doing. The farmer was most embarrassed when
he found out that the flashing lights belonged to Westfield vehicles and not
the local constabulary.
*********************************************************************
A DAY IN THE LIFE OF FRED PUBLIC DURING THE Westfield RUN
BY
Charlie Lynn
How
can we expect the public to maintain interest in a race where the margin
between the first and second placed runners is 27 hours - as it was in 1987?
Let's
look at what the average family man in Australia would do between the time
Yiannis Kouros crosses the Finish Line and the time his nearest competitor
Patrick Macke finished in 1987. Remember, this is after he won his previous run
by 24 hours.
Let's
say Yiannis Kouros crossed the finish line at 6.00am on Monday morning. His
nearest rival is approximately 27 hours or 180km behind him.
Fred
(representing our target audience) wakes at 6.00am to the news that the great
Greek runner, Yiannis Kouros has blitzed the field. It doesn't register. He
dozes off again and then suddenly realises he has overslept by 20 minutes. He
jumps out of bed, stretches his body, and makes for the bathroom. A quick shave
and then puts on his running gear - got to try and keep fit somehow!
Off he goes into the new dawn -
his joints are stiff and the fresh breeze sends a chill through his body. After
a few minutes he warms up a bit and gets into a more regular cadence. His
muscles start to stretch out a bit. He feels pleased with himself but sorry for
all of his neighbours who are denying themselves the opportunity to experience
the joy of an early morning run. He sees another jogger - a total stranger -
they wave and exchange friendly greetings - "G'day mate, owyergoing?",
"Good mate, and yourself?". Then it's back to dreamworld.
"Jeez,
this feels good. I reckon I could do this forever. I reckon I could do the
Westfield if I could get the time to put some training in. Don't think I could
catch the Greek though - he must be bloody good……!"
After
a gentle 40 minutes he turns the corner and slows to a walk as he approaches
his driveway. A few gentle stretches and it's inside for a shower and the days
work.
It's
8.15 am and Fred's wife has prepared breakfast for him - some orange juice,
muesli and wholemeal toast. He watches 'Good Morning Australia' and sees
Yiannis Kouros talking to the press - looks remarkably fresh for somebody who
has just run from Sydney to Melbourne!
Fred
then has a chat with the kids and after kissing them all goodbye, he heads off
to work. He tunes into the radio and hears an interview with Kouros. Kouros
remarks that he could probably do better but nobody has ever been a serious
threat to him in an UltraMarathon.
Fred
thinks; "Struth he's been finished for three hours already with his
nearest competitor is still over 150km from the Finish Line"!
At
work Fred's mind is quickly occupied with a number of projects he is working
on; a 9.30am meeting, a visit to a construction site at 11.00am and a business
lunch at 1.00pm.
During
lunch one of his contemporaries says " You jog don't you Fred - what did
you think of that Greek that got in this morning?". "Great
effort" says Fred, "Just think he has finished the event, celebrated
with his crew and has now been asleep for about four hours - and the nearest
competitor is still about 130km from the finish"!
They
finish lunch and Fred gets back to business at the office. The afternoon passes
quickly and 6.00pm sees Fred back in the car heading for home. "Don’t
forget to pick up the groceries and then call around to football training to
give young Billy a ride home"; he remembers his wife’s instructions
clearly.
At
home he read the afternoon newspapers and then tunes into the evening news. The
Kouros victory is now old hat and it just rates a passing mention. But it's
enough to trigger Fred's recall - "Struth" he thinks, "Kouros
would be out of bed after a deep 10 hour sleep and his nearest competitor is
still about 80km from the finish!"
His wife reminds him that they
have a P and C meeting to go to at 8.00pm. Fred goes along and listens as
concerned parents and teachers debate the issues of education and the running
of the local school. He gets back home at 10.30pm and sits down to supper with
his wife and they have a quiet yarn about the day's activities.
"Are
you going for a run in the morning?" she asks.
"Yep"
he replies. "Then there are some clean jocks in the bathroom - and please
don't put those shoes on until you get outside - and when you get back take
them off before you get inside - and take your socks off too cause they're
starting to make the carpet smelly, and shut the door properly on the way out
this time…….!" Fred listens, acknowledges, agrees and then goes for his
shower.
A
good sound sleep and then Fred rouses to his alarm at 6.00am. He takes 15
minutes to get out of bed - wanders down to the lounge - "Where are my
bloody jocks" he wanders, - "never where I want them". He bumps
around in the dark, finds them in the bathroom - "Why did she put them
here?" He goes back to the lounge, puts on his joggers and leaves by the
front door, but forgets to shut it.
Today’s
jog is not as easy but he doesn't quit and plods on for another 8km. Then it's
breakfast, kids, wife and off to work again.
Halfway
through a meeting at 10.00am one of his contemporaries says, "You jog
don't you Fred?" I see that pommy runner Macke just finished the Sydney to
Melbourne in second place". "Yeah" said Fred, "Wasn't
exactly a photo finish was it!"
*********************************************************************
Musical Tales
Sydney runner,
Maurice Taylor was struggling to raise money one year for himself to compete in
the Westfield one year that he sold his most beloved possession. It was his
Stradivarius violin! That's dedication!
The End
It
was to be towards the end of 1991 when Westfield pulled the plug on sponsorship
of this great Run. No other companies came forth and suddenly the Sydney to
Melbourne Run was no more. One could debate the pros and cons of Westfield's
sponsorship of the Run, but that isn’t the purpose of this Book. My purpose has
been to talk about the ordinary men and women striving for their goals on the
road between Sydney and Melbourne. Their efforts are now recorded in history.
Anyone can do anything that they set their minds to in life. The men and women
in this book prove that.
It was in August 98 when I
competed in a 24 hour race in inner Melbourne. There were five ex-Westfield
runners in the field. It had been seven years since the last Westfield, but one
could sense and feel the warm regard and common bond they had with each other
as a result of the great adventures that they had been through together! It was
like Returned Soldiers attending Anzaac Day Celebrations. Nothing had to be
said. They knew themselves what they had been through together!
Former
Westfield runner, Helen Stangar blitzed the field that day and won with 228km.
This was a new female Australian record. In her own words, she had definitely
won, ran a Personal best and ran her best on the day!
Phil Essam
T
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