I tried to get up, but Mark scolded me with a playful silence that seemed innately Australian. He moved smoothly through the aid station, quickly returning from the doting volunteers with some ice and salty snacks. I checked my watch: 2 hours. Chuckling, I shook my head in disbelief. I’d now been sitting at mile 35 for 2 hours. Runners still streamed by, but the frequency was slowing. The back of the race was now starting to drop me. Initially, it felt humiliating to see the number of runners passing me so unceremoniously. Now I was just humbled, and it seemed strangely funny. Watching the runners go by was like observing ants file past in a line – each on an unyielding mission. Not one runner seemed to even notice I was there. I was a statue. “You’re alright mate. The medic should be here in twenty,” Mark said, pulling me from my reverie. I raised my eyebrows and breathed out a big sigh. Mark’s turn to chuckle. He was one of the most faithful friends I’ve ever had and we’d just met about 2 hours ago.
The morning of the Tarawera 100 was still. New Zealand appears to move lethargic during the day – it was at a standstill at 4 a.m. Perhaps it was the infectious environment, but while my friend and I got ready to race, I felt calm. In spite of this, we both knew the suffering that inevitably lay in front of us. Unfortunately, I had no idea just how rough things were going to be for the next three days.
“How’s the adjustment crossing the dateline,” Hannah asked. “It’s been pretty rough,” I replied honestly, “my sleep has been terrible the whole week I’ve been here.” We were running in the dark. Hannah’s and my pace lined up around mile 4, and after some clunky small talk, we were quickly becoming friends. A resident of Sydney, Australia, Hannah was quiet, but energetic. We would go on to share about 15 miles together.
The author stands at the start of Tarawera. Photo courtesy author
At about mile 18, Hannah and I trudged across a dismal paved road section of the course. We’d donned the mandatory reflective vests over our running gear. Heat from the higher exposure sun of the bottom of the Earth began to hit hard on the blacktop. I felt nauseous. Hannah broke up my thoughts, “I’m so excited to see Mark. This aid at 30k will be the first station with crew.” Hannah’s husband, Mark, was here as her crew chief and cheerleader. I’d been unable to bring my family from the United States to New Zealand for the race. My friend – the only other person I knew on the entire island – was already miles ahead of me. I was running the 100-miler solo.
Hannah and I arrived at the Buried Village aid station at about mile 19. We said goodbye, with the unspoken understanding that we were done sharing miles. I think we were both grateful for the early sections of the course that had ticked off quickly due to the company. I left the aid station, expecting to not see her again.
The next 17 miles were unbelievably beautiful. The course followed a flowing single track on shelves above crystalline lakes. It flowed through some of the lushest forests imaginable. This euphoric section ended with a boat ride across one of the lakes at about the 50k mark. It was around this point when the wheels began to come off.
The miles following the boat ride were on dirt roads through exposed farmland. By now it was after 8 a.m., and the humid heat was devastating as the sun started to rise higher. Soon, the course dumped onto another paved section. The heat was too much and my stomach emptied itself. “Not good,” I thought as I wiped my face.
I followed the course onto a forest road through a dense set of woods. The shade provided no relief, and soon I couldn’t even hold water down. I was violently ill and my pace slowed to a crawl. By mile 34.6, my only goal was to survive until the aid at mile 35. Suddenly, I heard a voice from behind me. Not needing to ask how I was, Hannah simply asked me what she could give me. In a complete daze, I heard the word, “Nothin,” roll out of my mouth. “Jus gotta get to the aid and regroup.” I could hear the worry in Hannah’s voice: “Mark will be crewing me there, and then won’t be able to see me until after 100k. I’ll tell him to find you when you get to the aid.”
As I arrived at 35, I was reeling. I was severely dehydrated and couldn’t quite remember when I’d stopped sweating. I collapsed into a chair. To my surprise, Hannah appeared in front of me. “Mark, this is him. Tyler, Mark will take care of you.” She rushed out of the aid station. Mark smiled at me, and wasted no time grabbing me ice, cold water, salty food and some watermelon.
I sat for almost two and a half hours before the medic got there, slowly taking in liquids, and food that Mark brought me. Mark made conversation, and helped nurse me back to coherency. To this day, I can’t believe the attentive care he took to help me. Eventually, the medic was able to show up. Another Australian, he had unkept facial hair and placed a crusty curse word between each regular word. Mark and I shared looks, and tried not to laugh as the highly energetic medic asked me medical questions and took my vitals.
In total, I sat for 3 hours and 15 minutes at that aid station. The medic eventually cleared me to go with some kind obscenities. My thanks to the medic, and to Mark, paled in comparison to the warmth that they, and Hannah, offered me. Before going on, Mark got my number and also told me he’d be checking on my race progress.
I left the aid station unceremoniously. I walked until I could hit the “old man shuffle,” and then did this until I could run. I felt amazing and pushed through the next forest section excitedly. Suddenly, the course opened to more exposed farmland. As soon as I hit the sunlight, I became extremely ill again. I soon found myself hobbling to the next aid at mile 42, where volunteers ended my race.
Ultrarunning is a fickle sport. When pushing one’s body over incredible distances, there are a million factors that affect output. I don’t know which particular effect tipped the scale on my race that day, but something was too much. My body couldn’t handle the load, and I crashed in a blaze of glory. The day after my race, I found myself gripped by some kind of uncontrollable anxiety attack. The severe dehydration and bottoming out calorically left my mind, and body, in shambles. Miserable, and again alone, I found myself on a long, and difficult journey back home to the mountain west of the United States.
This episode put the toll of ultrarunning in perspective. One never knows how their body, or mind, will respond to a grueling race, no matter their experience level. The potential consequences of ultra racing are intense. Immediately after Tarawera, I was left wondering if this sport was worth the temporal and physical investment. Months later, the same questions remained. And yet, in spite of the difficulties of this experience, my mind always goes back to one thing: the warmth of Mark and Hannah.
After the passage of time, my mind and body have recovered from the difficulties caused by the race. However, the memories of the generosity of Hannah and Mark are still fresh. Because ultrarunning tests our limits, we are sometimes left paying the bill in the aftermath of pushing beyond our capabilities. And yet, because ultras push our personal limits, they bring us closer to one another. In reflecting on Tarawera, I recognize the need I have for human warmth. I’m filled with joy as I think of what Mark and Hannah offered me that day.
Ultramarathons are grueling events. This is the point. As we are pushed as individuals, the opportunity to form human connection and community grows. This process is a feedback cycle –the more we put in, the more we get back. Australia and Utah are thousands of miles apart. I’m not sure I’ll ever see Hannah and Mark again. I likely will never be able to pay back the kindness to them directly. And so, my goal is to pay it forward and help the next person. It’s the ultra way.