It’s been over two months since Ring of Fire.

Long enough for the legs to recover.

Not long enough for the ankles to forgive me.

I meant to write this weeks ago, but between life, work, and keeping the weekly newsletter fed, it’s been a struggle to rub two minutes together.

The race was equal parts spectacular, brutal, and hilarious.

Anyway.

This is how I remember it.

🏔️RING OF FIRE 100KM

WTF IS GOING ON?

“I must’ve gone through some kind of battery Bermuda Blackhole of doom on the way here.”

“What in the actual holy helmet am I going to do?”

It’s 8.00pm the night before Ring of Fire 100k.

The biggest challenge I’ve taken on since my last haircut.

I’m staring down at the backup headlamp that was supposed to be in my drop bag, and here it is, staring right back at me.

Weird. It worked this morning. Chuck in a spare battery. Same story.

Hmm, not ideal, but I’ve got my main headlamp and a spare battery. I’ll just triple che... whaaaaaaaat.

Same story.

Even my gear doesn’t believe in me.

Cue a mild panic attack.

I get everyone else in the house involved and fire off a flurry of messages. If I’ve got no light, I can’t start the race. Not ideal. What is the definition of a headlamp anyway?

Thank God Hillary answered the bell and was only a street over.

By the time I got back with the new headlamp, Tom had managed to get one unit going, but nobody really knew what the hell was happening. My batteries worked in another unit. Their batteries didn’t work in mine. Yet somehow it would run straight off power.

Anyway, crisis averted.

I go to bed knowing I actually have to run this motherfucker, and my deepest, darkest self-sabotaging efforts haven’t been enough to stop it.

Fuck.

The Actual Race

A bleary pre-3 am start and some banana peanut butter toast. Stomach settles well. I avoid the coffee, hoping the caffeine later in the day hits twice as hard.

We roll up 20 minutes before the 4 am start. A good crowd of runners are already huddled under cover outside the Powder Keg in the misty drizzle.

The forecast is for a ripper, but there’s just enough rain about that half the field starts in jackets. I fight the temptation, knowing it’ll take about 200m before I regret it.

The call goes out to saddle up, and I slot into the midpack right where I belong.

“5…4…3…2…1…”

“Good luck. Have fun.!”

We shoot off into the dark and onto the road. I weave around a couple of people, trying to settle into my own pace.

“Passing people already eh bro?”

I’m not entirely sure if that was directed at me, so I pretend not to hear it. Plus, it’s 4 am. Come on mate, I’m still easing into the day.

“Passing people already eh bro?”

Okay.

Definitely me.

“Is that Trey?”

“Yeah bro.”

Ha.

Trey Subritzy, all the way from Kaitaia. I met him at the Northland 100 last year, where he finished 2nd.

“I’m gonna stick with you today.”

I laugh to myself.

I’m not sure he’s prepared for my terrible chat and questionable pacing.

He’s a much stronger, faster runner than me, so I barely acknowledge it and keep heading up the road.

Nek Minnit, a ute comes barrelling past telling everyone to turn around.

Last is suddenly first and a touch of chaos ensues.

Apparently, in those first couple of k’s, we all sailed past the marshal by the cones who was supposed to send us back the other way.

Whoops.

Ah well.

Just a small drip of piss in the dunny in the grand scheme of things.

We retrace our steps and pile into the newish MTB trail. A nice little bonus.

I knew there was some trail at the start, but in my head it was only about 1km. Not 3, 4, or was it 5?

It’s pretty cruisy running. I take a few early walkies on the climbs to keep the HR settled.

Trey’s already moved ahead, so I settle into my own rhythm.

Walking the steep pinches was always the plan. I’d given myself two hours for this section, knowing 15 minutes gained here, even if it felt easy, could cost two hours later.

There’s a good group of us leapfrogging each other as we walk and run different sections.

At one point, I switch off my headlamp and look up.

The clouds have cleared. The rain has stopped.

The sky is absolutely littered with stars.

How good.

The aid station pops up at just the right time.

I try to do the right thing, but all the portaloos are occupied, so I duck out the back and water the garden.

I fill a couple of extra bottles, grab a banana, and out come the poles.

The plan is simple.

Get into hiker mode and systematically eat this giant volcanic elephant one nibble at a time.

Annnnd we’re straight into some up-and-down rooty beech forest, waking the legs up good and proper.

It’s not hugely technical, but you definitely need to stay focused and make sure the legs and feet are responding.

I “run” a large chunk of the early section by myself, finding a good rhythm with the poles.

Well, Alex Jones’ poles.

I lost the tip of mine a couple of weeks ago. Luckily, he had the same model, so I’m not breaking the holy commandment:

Thou Shall Not Try New Stuff On Race Day.

The thing about doing this race in 2019 is that my memory had compressed a lot of the terrain into smaller chunks.

I remembered swampy marshland, boardwalks, some dodgier than others, and a few stream crossings.

But man, this section was already stretching out much longer than I anticipated.

This was my first realisation that some sections today were going to feel endless, even though I’d pencilled them into my head as 2 or 3km.

More of this view than I remembered.

Somewhere before sunrise, bumbling along the marshes, I catch Trey.

We’ve got a good little train rolling now, taking turns leading, letting people pass, and stopping for the odd photo.

We smash through Mangaehuehu Hut.

I top up a bottle and down a gel, knowing 11km to Rangipo doesn’t sound far, but it’s still a couple of hours away as we head into some of the slowest but most rewarding terrain of the day.

Just before we leave the forest and break into the open expanse of the Whangaehu Valley, a little yellow-and-black bastard gets me right on the Achilles before I even realise what’s happened.

The little fucker is clinging to my sock, somehow stinging me through both the sock and my ankle strapping.

Determined.

I’ll give him that.

It stings like a stingy thing.

The guy behind me asks if I’m allergic.

I’ve got no idea, but if I fall over, call the chopper.

It never gets worse than a throbbing ache, so once again I resign myself to the fact that I’m actually going to have to run around this volcano.

If you’ve never been around this side of Ruapehu, it really is something else.

The scale of the valleys. The distance on the horizon. The different rock formations. The colours.

The sun is rising directly in front of us now, making it surprisingly hard to pick a line through the rocks with the glare right in our faces.

This section is all up, down, up, down, up, down, down DOOOWN, UPPPPP... and then across.

I’m finding the descents trickier than the climbs.

That would become a theme for the day.

So much of it is just traversing down rocks, and there are plenty out there looking to end your race.

I’ve had glass ankles for a few years now, so concentration is sky high and speed is right down.

I keep reminding myself to look up at Ruapehu.

The detail from this angle is immense. The different slopes. The glaciers. The drop-offs. The ridiculous range of colour across its rocky face.

Trey going for a ride on the swingbridge.

We roll into Rangipo Hut and I top up another bottle with some beautifully horrendous hut water.

A bit of Peakfuel cola takes the edge off.

Only just.

The ups and downs finally start to ease off and we enter the sandy desert.

Tukino Access Road appears in the distance.

Then the aid station pops into view like our own little oasis.

I take a good 10-minute chill.

Eat a wrap.

Load the bottles.

Take a slash.

Get waited on by the nicest, most enthusiastic brother from another mother I’ve ever met.

Chur.

Trey gets himself sorted too, then after a quick fist bump, we’re off.

Now, if you’ve ever dropped off Tukino Access Road, you know the first few k are farking fun.

A steep, boulder-strewn descent that demands full concentration before eventually levelling out into some of the fastest and most dramatic terrain of the day.

Boulders.

Sand dunes.

Ruapehu riding shotgun.

As we move through this section, the landscape changes again.

From barren Rangipo into signs of life.

Alpine flowers.

Birds.

And then...

HUMANS.

We start catching the back of the Tussock Traverse walkers and runners.

Inspirational humans who, to be fair, are probably having a harder day than I am and, in the grand scheme of things, achieving more.

Through the springs and a quick stop at Waihohonu Hut for some more arse water.

A few k later, it’s time to get the big-boy balls on.

It’s getting hot. It’s getting dusty.

I ran this section only four or five weeks ago and remembered it being a grind.

It’s no different today.

Forty-odd k deep and the net climb towards Tama Saddle is starting to bite.

Luckily, my boy Trey senses my fading spirit.

He moves out front and gives me a jacksy to follow.

I get the lasso around him about 20 metres back and he drags me the whole way up the saddle and into the less technical trail.

With day walkers appearing all around us, I find my mojo again and shoot off looking to impress some 70-year-old German grannies out to see Taranaki Falls.

Trey looking fresh AF after dragging me the last 15k

I lose a little will to live on the lower track to the Chateau, but it’s soon replaced by the bliss of groomed trail and, more importantly, shade.

Eventually we weave along and burst out onto the Chateau lawn, where we’re met by Trey’s boys.

“Hey bro, we were expecting you aaaggges ago.”

“My bad guys, that would be my fault.”

Turns out Trey forgot to tell his boys he was on a coach tour.

We spend about 10 minutes doing a full restock.

Smashing food.

Skulling liquids.

Filling the vest.

I decide to keep rolling in the same shoes.

If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

I also have the glory of Ali Pottinger filling my flasks.

Always nice to see a friendly face.

We saddle up and ride out.

Up the road and into the blue.

It’s a surreal feeling.

We’re about where I wanted to be.

I start doing the mental maths, but in my current state I can’t work out how this next section is possibly going to take as long as I’ve written down.

The first few k are a dream.

It feels like running into an ambush.

The distance to go is dropping.

The trail is flowing.

Yet I know at some point this whole thing is going to turn into a train wreck.

Leading into the boulder-hopping river crossing before Whakapapaiti Hut, we run into a wounded soldier.

His knee fucked out long ago.

Going by what he tells us, he was running in the front pack before the knee packed up, and he’s been hiking ever since.

Then Trey delivers one of the more awkward moments of my life.

“Have you heard of Trail Running NZ? Make sure you subscribe to this guy.”

… Fark me.

I try to put a bit of gas on him, but it turns out I don’t even have enough in the tank to drop a one-legged Brit.

Through the hut and it’s straight into steep switchbacks and a rocky climb.

I can see Trey staring up at the lip of the climb towards Bruce Road.

“Don’t worry bro, we’re going that way.”

I point off to the side like it’s somehow better.

It’s not.

We can hear music pumping and girls screaming encouragement from the top.

Our first taste of some elite volunteers on this long stretch.

Fuelled by some very generous “YOU’RE DOING AWESOME” lies, we grind through steep ups and even steeper downs.

Man, I’d forgotten how brutal these descents are.

Mr Glass Ankles is on full alert.

Poles in hyperdrive.

I must look like an octopus in a blender, tapping everything in sight like I’m checking dead bodies during the plague.

Then it turns into rutted, muddy climbs.

My least favourite.

Everything is just slightly too high to step onto without risking cramp.

Stay in the trench or climb out?

Either way, it’s a mental grind.

At one point I make the mistake of saying:

“I think we’re pretty much through the worst of it.”

Three climbs later, dropping into yet another stream, I hear a crack.

I turn around.

Trey’s on his back.

Fuck.

He gets up and checks the damage.

Snapped pole.

Thank God it’s the pole and not his leg.

Quick apology to Adam Shepherd, whose poles he’d borrowed, and one-pole Trey is back in action.

We’ve been slowly gaining on a trio ahead for the last 30 minutes, but Trey doesn’t believe me.

I find a bit of extra life and push the climbs.

Yep.

We’re gaining.

If you’ve ever run The Goat, you know the climb.

The last big rocky bastard before Lake Surprise.

We grind it out, happy to be climbing rock instead of mud.

“Bro, check this out...”

Trey hits me with his best Kanye.

“Imma let you finish, but we can look at the top bro.”

We pop out onto the summit to a medic chilling at the top, taking in the ridiculous sunset I don’t even have the capacity to process.

He tells us some stupid amount of time it took him to walk in.

I strike him off my Christmas card list.

We catch up with a couple more runners, lights on, and roll past the lake as a team, down into Mangaturuturu Hut.

I’m struggling to hold pace on anything runnable, but clawing it back on the climbs.

My goal of hitting the road in daylight is well and truly gone.

But honestly...

Climbing the waterfall section by headlamp is unreal.

We pack away the poles.

Racing is gone.

It’s survival teamwork now.

We climb the waterfalls safely and hit the tarmac.

That feeling when you leave the wilderness and hit civilisation again is hard to explain.

The nervous system just dials down.

We roll into the aid station and smash some Coke and ginger beer.

Our new mate decides to go full carbon roadie for the finish, so we say our goodbyes and head down the road.

I’d been dreading this section.

It’s long.

Mostly downhill.

But not easy.

Three small climbs sting just enough to remind you you’re not done.

We jog, talk absolute shit, then go quiet.

At one point Trey’s headlamp dies, but we just keep rolling.

It’s a mint night.

We hit the trail turnoff and muck around while he swaps batteries.

My legs go cold.

This run-in is a slog.

That final trail is a tease.

You see the lights of Ohakune way too early.

It feels like you should be out, but you’re not.

Then suddenly…

Boom.

You are.

We hit the road.

Hear the MC.

Roll in.

Fist bump Trey’s crew and head into the finishing chute.

Trey gets ego cramps at the perfect moment and lets me sneak across the line ahead of him.

What a day.

“Done”

I came here to remind myself how to do hard things.

Ended up with a bonus man date.

The Ring of Fire 100k is legit.

Pound for pound, it’s one of the hardest races in the country.

I’ve got mixed feelings about my result.

I outperformed my fitness and prep.

Stayed in the fight.

Kept moving.

Didn’t completely shit the bed.

Finished strong.

We reeled in plenty of people over the back half.

But at the same time...

Unfinished business.

Better prep.

Better training.

More aggressive racing.

What’s possible?

Final Thoughts

This is just my experience.

I now know the race didn’t go to plan for a lot of people.

I didn’t study the aid station setup too closely, having run the course before.

I took a personal responsibility approach.

Carried 2L, had capacity for 3, and packed way more calories than I needed.

But I now know some huts didn’t have the supplies they were meant to have.

Some drop bags went walkabout.

People relied on things that weren’t there.

That’s not good enough.

If you say something’s on the course, it needs to be there.

Otherwise you’re putting people in a position that goes against your own safety planning.

Fingers crossed they survive a long winter, learn from it, and bring it back next year bigger and better.

Because I honestly believe this race should be an international drawcard.

How many races do you get to run around a bloody active volcano?