Arthur Tompkins recently participated and completed the Kathmandu Coast to Coast challenge from Kumara Beach (South Island). He recounts the experience, exhaustion, and achievement.
It all starts on Kumara Beach (South Island) at 7am on the second Friday of February 2020. The starting cannon goes, and several hundred people flood up from the sand, over a jumble of rocks, and onto a narrow dirt road, passing under a big banner strung between two tall poles. Close by there's a sign that reads ‘243kms to go’.
You’ve made it to the start line of the Kathmandu Coast to Coast multisport event. As you wait for the start on the beach, in the dark, and then as the sun rose, it sank in that today and tomorrow, there’s literally nowhere to hide. Have you done enough training? Is your support crew going to get the logistics right? Are you going to cope with an injury or a flat tyre, or a broken paddle, or a twisted ankle? Why did you think you could do this? Everyone else looks as if they know what they're doing. They're confident, laughing, chatting, and looking so competent, so fit, so athletic. So different from you. Time for another nervous trip to the portaloo.
As you run up that road, around you are hundreds of other competitors in the Individual Two-Day Coast to Coast event. Awaiting all of you at the end of the short run from the beach, are two days of effort, endurance, and exertion. On day one there’s 55kms of cycling then 30kms of mountain running. Day two brings 15kms of cycling, 65kms of kayaking, and, finally, 70kms of cycling. There's only one way to reach the finish line, and that's to get through the two days ... somehow. And now that you're underway, running, doing Coast to Coast, you stop thinking about everything that might go badly.
This is going to happen. In other words, you are going to do Coast.
After the transition, you aim to settle into an effective bunch. To save as much energy as you can for the run later in the day. It’s a bit difficult, as misplaced early-race enthusiasm mixed with rudimentary or absent bunch-riding skills on the part of lots of the riders sees quite a few ragged bunches form, then quickly fall apart. Around you the sun rises, the mist and clouds lift, and the native trees crowd the road and shine with a deep almost luminous green. Long lines of cyclists stream through the Kumara township. Once into the native bush, the road rises and falls like the waves you’ve left behind on the beach. Nothing too extreme, gently rolling country, but rising — always rising. You want to stay with the bunch, but you’re aware that this is only the beginning of the day, and there are lots of hours ahead. Around halfway the bush gives way to pasture with houses on either side of the road. The sun is higher, and the cloud burning off. You know where the three one-lane bridges are. You hold back for those, making sure you’ve got safe space to cross the bridges without being crowded into a crash. And then the railway crossing angles across the road, so you know you’re only 2.5km from the end of the cycle. And the beginning of the storied Goat Pass Mountain Run.
In transition, there’s a burst of controlled but frantic activity. Shoes are pulled off, cycle gear dropped onto the damp grass. Food and drink are hurriedly consumed, as trail shoes, a running pack full of other gear, a hat, and gloves are pulled on, followed at the end by the all-important race number bib pulled over everything. Suddenly you’re running across the grass, with encouraging shouts trailing behind you. You head under the inflatable arch, and into the distance. 185km to go.
You’ve been over Goat Pass in training, but the river levels are up today so it’s bound to be different. The footbridge and the first, deep river crossing are behind you. The Deception River flats uncurl away into the narrowing valley. Up ahead you can see other competitors — moving spots of colour against the green of the bush and the grey of the river bed. The route is well-marked, and you follow the sandy footprints in and out of the many river crossings. Remember to drink at each river crossing and eat when your watch beeps at you. Settling into a rhythm of running when you can, and walking, trudging, and clambering when you can’t. The water is cold, the competitors are friendly and surprisingly chatty, and the suddenly remembered advice to look around and spot the waterfalls is good advice. The ground is steadily steepening, and the legs are beginning seriously to hurt. Finally, Big Boulders, which well and truly lives up to its name, appears. The fluoro-clad marshals are cheery and encouraging as they tick you off their list, and you scramble back into the bush. Not far now to the hut and the top of the pass.
The last uphill stretch seems to take forever. Finally, the orange tape appears, and arrows point the way up the stream bed. Forsaking the track on the side, you scramble straight up through the rushing water towards the radio antenna, the first bit of the hut you see poking out above the bush.
On the boardwalks now. Jogging and letting the legs stretch a bit, enjoying the sun — although the wind is cold. After the closed-in bush the sky is broad, the horizons wide open, and the relief of the downhills palpable. Little rills and puddles and streams appear in the tussock by the track, and then the start of the beech forest looms closer. This side — the downhill side — is a formed track and a pleasure to run on. If only the legs weren’t so tired! But the beech tree roots crisscrossing the black soil are ever ready to trip the unwary. Now and then the track dips down to tributaries of the Mingha River to allow a drink and a pause, as you try to work out where the track goes on the opposite bank, and how to get across the slippery boulders safely. Finally, the track begins to climb again (giving the lie to the cheery sign back at the pass (‘It's all downhill from here’), and you know Dudley's Knob is at the top of a sharp scramble up the suddenly rocky slope. From the knob, you squint far down the valley to the bush-clad knoll that marks Klondyke Corner and the finish line of day one. The marshals tick you off again, and the steep downhill to the Mingha River tests your knees over and over again.
On the flats, the track through the beech forest is the best you've run on all day, soft and wide and forgiving. The track emerges to yet another river crossing, cold and wide, and dumps you on the endless rocks that will torment your feet for the last few kilometres. There's a few short bits of smooth track, and the infrequent and springy lime-green moss is like a welcome carpet. But the rocks are savage on sore feet, tired legs, and vulnerable ankles, and they go on forever. Once you see the triple power poles next to the road, you know there are 3km to the start of the four-wheel-drive track, and from there another slowly unwinding 3km to the finish. The final push to the power poles is across the wide and open river flats, dotted with wilding pine and small scrub, before the new culvert by Graney's Crossing. The orange cones start to emerge from the gunmetal grey river bed, and then the people sitting and standing on the bank leading to the finish chute, bristling with huge and tumbled concrete blocks studded with rusted railway lines, come slowly into focus. You hear your name over the PA as you run the final metres to the finish arch across the grass and under the trees, high-fiving and smiling and relishing the prospect of, finally, just being still.
At 5am the next morning, the darkness before dawn is cold. Above the distant Porters Mountain range, the moon is full. Klondyke Corner is thronged with quiet ghosts and moving shadows, competitors wandering about in the occasional glare of headlamps, looking for a quiet corner to try to sleep, or at least rest, for an hour or so. Your whole body aches from yesterday and, to put it bluntly, and memorably, you're feeling munted. The prospect of the long day to the finish line is daunting. But just after 7am you nevertheless line up in your restart wave, exchanging nervous laughs with the others in your wave. Like a school teacher, the marshal takes the roll. You answer to your name and shuffle forward to await the off. Suddenly, everyone's underway, and you're feeling the aches from top to toe as you try to find a small bunch. But it's only 15kms, so really, it doesn't matter too much. The river will, as always, be the great leveller.
And there it is, curling away into the sunrise, shimmering and gleaming. In the distance the braids twist back on each other, before disappearing into the indigo hills hemming the river into its gorge. Below the white-sided one-lane bridge, on the near bank, hundreds of coloured kayaks wait patiently. The bike is racked, your kayak is found, and another transition is underway. Kayak shoes, spray skirt, paddle jacket, PFD, helmet, sunglasses, paddle, bib, and you're into the boat. "Are you right?" "I hope so!"
The first rapid, gentle and kind and wide, settles you into your paddle stroke. Your feet find the pedals, your shoulders tense then relax as they warm in the sun, and your hands twitch as they dip into the cold, cold water of the Waimakariri. The sun's glare as you paddle into the east is blinding, and the confluences of the braids are tricky. Especially when the other competitors’ boats crowd you out of your chosen line. Already, someone's on the bank emptying their boat as you paddle past. Up ahead the cliffs mark the first of the Rock Gardens, but today the river is up so the line to the right is wide and easy and smooth. Unexpectedly quickly the three poles high above Gooseberry appear out of the haze. You paddle through the checkpoint buoys and call out your number to the folk rugged up on the bank with clipboards. Nothing much to worry about until the big swinging right-hand bend down the chute and into the Esk Pool. Up ahead the Entry Rapid awaits to sort the careful from the careless and the unwary. Several competitors, emptying their boats on the right-hand bank, glance up as you paddle by, silently relieved that the first big rapid of the gorge is safely retreating behind your stern. You're now in the gorge proper. Steep grey and black cliffs rise into the blue sky, jet boats, and safety folk mark the tricky rapids and, approaching rapid after rapid, you hear the roar of the water before you can spot your line, the safest route past the white water.
The small green gable of the Halfway Hut pokes politely out of the bush high on the right bank, and you begin to enjoy the freshwater rollercoaster ride through the rapids, one after the other. Hamilton Rapid has a gaggle of photographers, but you deny them the excitement of a swim right at their feet and safely pick a good line down the left. Around repeated bends, you expect every time to see the vaulting girders of the Iron Bridge until finally, it appears. Only 10km to Woodstock! But then the Bluff Corner finds you daydreaming a trifle, and a sudden brace stroke is all that comes between you and a swim. A useful and timely wake-up call. It reminds you to get your game-face back in place for the last hour of the paddle.
This bit is always a grind. The headwind blows sand into your eyes, the seagulls are annoying, and the long dipping power lines marking the finish are elusive. Finally, there they are. Luckily, you scouted the final approaches to the bridge two days ago, and you know that a little shortcut chute is open on the left, avoiding the ever-tricky sweeping final bend with the lurking white water around the outside. You bump your boat into the shortcut, remembering to rail into the main flow, and then people are clapping and shouting as you paddle under the bridge, very grateful you haven't swum in front of everyone, and run your boat up on the gravel. Strong and none-too-gentle hands grab under your shoulders, haul you up out of your boat, and steady you for a moment as your legs, asleep after five hours or so in the boat, begin to work again. Across the beach you stumble, over the timing mat, and up the skinny and muddy track to the cycle racks for the last transition.
South Eyre Road is New Zealand's longest straight road, 26km without a corner or a bend. On a bike it seems endless. The cycle computer is seemingly playing tricks on you, stubbornly refusing to tick over another kilometre as the headwind builds. But you've found a great bunch; five cyclists being supremely well organised by a local Canterbury cyclist who knows the road and really knows how to run a bunch — loudly but gently, disciplined and fair, making sure no one is dropped and everyone takes their time at the front, each according to their ability. The final corner into the road running parallel to the beach means there's not far to go now. The orange cones are multiplying, the marshals are holding back pedestrians, and people are applauding and calling out.
The finish chute ends with a dozen sand-covered steps to climb. You're elated. Exhausted. Excited. At the top, under the arch, you get given your finisher's medal, someone stoops down to take off your timing strap, and finally, you can stop moving. Someone else is shaking your hand, and photographers are taking photos. You bend over, hands on knees, as you gasp for breath. You don't quite believe that it's all done. Swearing quietly and repetitively to yourself you realise, surprisingly, tears are running down your face as all the emotion tumbles out. You can hear your support crew and family calling to you. But for a long single and quiet moment, the only thing that exists is the feeling.
You've done Coast.
