I am thrilled to be featured in the latest edition of Sharp Traveller! In this article we delve into how the Find Your Feet Tours started, and why we're so excited to be guiding our inaugural Flinders Island Find Your Feet Tour during November!

Megan Holbeck writes for Outdoor Magazine to unravel the appeal of ultra running. It was an honour to be featured in this article...

​This piece is for all the individuals out there who can feel like a zebra - like your stripes are telling you apart from the crowd. It is also for all the individuals who feel a pull to shed their old identities and begin again, and to those who aren't quite sure where to start. It is packed with honesty in the knowledge that you will not judge me for the humanness of these experiences.

​I am running along a wild trail in Japan, entering into the Zen state that occurs soon after the ‘I am getting a little tired’ point, and shortly before the second-wind gusts you back onto your feet.  In this internal bubble, time loses all meaning, and thoughts come and go like the breeze that hits me each time I crest onto another jagged ridgeline. Sweat is dripping down my forehead, seeping down my neck, before finally making it into my undies. Moving along this trail, far from the wandering crowds, and well beyond reach of emails, phones and all that ‘life’ stuff, I think I am in heaven.  And, from the depths of this meditative state, I feel completely connected to my rawest self.
 
This experience in Japan is my first multi-day, lightweight mission.  All I am carrying on my back is a small five-liter running vest pack. It contains only the bare essentials – a change of undies, a singlet, shorts, thermal, rain jacket, toothbrush, electrolytes, sports gels, cash, phone and a few tea bags. (As I learnt last time I visited, even in Japan I can find myself in tea deficit mode.  On that occasion, I had reached a teahouse surrounded by tea plantations only to find that they only served coffee!)  On each day of this spontaneous adventure I am aiming to cover anywhere from 35 – 55km through relatively remote, mountainous terrain on the Kii Peninsula which lies to the south of the mega cities of Osaka and Kyoto. As I would later find out, I had been all too dismissive of the word ‘mountainous’, which in Japan really does mean huge, sharp climbs in excessive of 1000m, followed be slippery freefalls back down the other side, only to repeat again.

​On rare occasions the trail dips into the valleys that gently cup small, remote villages where a rural life of rice paddies, tea plantations and persimmon trees adorn.  Here, I am greeted to a hospitality unlike anywhere else in the world. Stooped women eagerly grasp my empty water bottle, or offer me some, ‘chocolate, just for you’when I step into their home, which also serves as a café. When the time comes to stiffly stand back up and bid farewell, she will stand at the hearth of her home, waving madly like I am her daughter.  I feel so connected to them even though our homelands are waters apart, and our native tongues struggle to express our gratitude.
 
In this rural region of Japan there is also attention to detail simply everywhere I turn.  Small rest stops enroute are cleaned to 5* hotel standards, with the toilet paper carefully folded into a ‘V’ shape to highlight just how carefully prepared it is for my sweaty bottom.  And when I finally arrive weary, muddy and salt-crusted at my ryokan (traditional Japanese inn) for the night, I am greeted by unphased, cheery smiles, along with a pair of slippers and a white fluffy towel.  Later, as I soak in the healing onsens and revel in the warm fuzzy feeling of a day of adventuring, little do I know that my futon bed is being carefully prepared by Japanese pixies.

​​Prior to this personal four-day adventure, I was leading a group of trail runners on one of our Find Your Feet Trail Running Tours. Each day of the tour, we host a tradition of sharing our highlights of the day with one another.  This is a beautiful insight into the small moments that can, at times, be life changing for our guests.  It provides not only a connection with one another, but also allows our guests to connect with a side of themselves which may feel unfamiliar and nuanced.  At the end of this particular trip, we also asked each guest to share the one element of Japan that they wished to return home with.  It was, without a doubt, the most remarkable conversation as unanimously, collectively, the group’s highlight of the trip was the Japanese custom of generosity and compassion, given so freely and with no sense of entitlement in return.  Yes, it is this missing sense of entitlement, replaced only by unwavering generosity and trust, that connects me to this unique country and continues to prod me in my heart me as a plod, huff and puff my way along the weaving trails.  
 
Out here, on a trail to somewhere, I love to watch the way neighbors connect in the street, chatting gaily to one another. To marvel at the lack of fences and their community gardens.  To watch them sweep, clean, and live alongside one another.  Individual lives, connecting together and being enjoyed collectively.  And yet beyond this camaraderie, there is another Japanese custom that profoundly strikes me – self-compassion! 
 
In many of the small towns which provided my bed of the night, the onsens are also frequented by locals who would tug off their gumboots at the entrance, and pad their way down carefully cleaned corridors in a pair of slippers.  Many of the women would be stooped from years of toiling in the rice paddies, tea plantations or vegetable allotments.  From labour to self-love, the onsen is where they come to nurture, preen, show mindfulness, and leave renewed.  When I step into this steamy environment at the end of the day, my dirty feet padding a contrasting pathway across pristine white tiles, I cannot help but observe the relaxed nature of the Japanese women sharing this space alongside one another… and me.  We are all nude.  We are all different, some with more curves here, and some with less there.  Taller, shorter, rounder, smaller, it doesn’t appear to matter.  These women will look at themselves in little stumpy mirrors whilst poised on small plastic stools.  They appear to observe themselves with a peacefulness that could only come from a lack of self-judgement, and a lack of judgement of others.
 
Contrastingly, back home many of us are warriors in the bathroom.  I, for one, am far too quick to judge and rush through a routine of in, out, dried, clothed and on my way again. It is about time… time… time… or lack thereof.  But in Japan, there is always time. Somehow, the days feel spacious, the heart fuller, the body more capable of brimming with self-gratitude. And of course, connecting to both oneself and others.
 
My adventure has now passed and this morning I am back in the more concreted landscapes of Osaka, awaiting my flight home. I cannot help but pine for those hazy memories of steep mountains and unknown pathways still to come.  So, in the shadows of dawn, I pull on my running shoes one last time and slip from the hotel, weaving my way out onto the foreshore overlooking the manmade island now forming the impressive Osaka Kansai International Airport.  Rain clouds are boiling with potency around me, and as the sun begins to bead light onto the earthen walls where families and fisherman throw their fishing lines into the sea, a bold rainbow manifests. I pause briefly, revel in the fact that I have had this glorious experience, and continue onwards, never once occurring to me to share this moment with the unfamiliar faces around me. However, I am soon pulled from my inner glow by another jogger.  He is waving madly at me and then madly at the sky, all the while hosting a broad, goofy smile. ‘Rainbow, rainbow!’He is calling to me, connecting with me, wanting me to see what he has seen.  We pause together, two individuals connected by an appreciation for nature’s finery, each exchanging unfamiliar words of excitement before continuing along our solo pathways.  Moments later, just as two nattering women in broad, floppy hats are wandering towards me, the rainbow has spread into a two-layered beauty with an arc from ocean to ocean.  I wave madly at them, and then up at the sky.  I know I am sporting a goofy smile but I cannot help it.  They stop in their tracks, conversation now on pause, and look up. Then they are squealing, pointing, waving at all the other wanderers as they wander.  We become bundled together, connected by an arc of colour, all pointing and cheering. ‘Rainbow! Rainbow!’
 
Had that first gentleman not taken that moment to connect with me, I would never have learnt that generosity can be as simple as sharing an arc of colour as it seeps across a sky. Had I not connected with those women in the onsens, I don’t think I would have ever fully understood the gift of self-compassion when I now turn on the taps in the quiet of the bathroom. We need connection, both to ourselves and to others.  It makes the rainbows shine brighter, judgement to seep away and compassion to rise to the surface.  It allows us to stand on a set of steps and wave goodbye to someone we do not know.  And it gives a sense of having more time. More time to to greet a neighbor in the street.  More time to share a random act of kindness, with no sense of entitlement in tow.  More time and excitement to explore wilder trails, knowing that you will be taken care of, both by yourself and by others.

​​I’m lying on my back on a scratched, leather lounge, trying to block out the intrusive airport intercoms announcing the next departure.  Two hours down and only three hours more to go till my flight home to Hobart.  My brain is filled with jetlag and my previously clear thoughts have been replaced by a murkier mess.  Somewhere between Finland and Melbourne self-doubt has crept into my grey matter, leaving me wondering one of the big questions in life, ‘Where does empowerment come from, both my own self-empowerment and the ability to influence others?’ 
 
Today I am returning from Finland where I was assisting the Australian Junior Orienteering Team with their preparations for their World Championships.  Amongst the forests and lakes, I had felt my skills, academia and life experiences uniting to support each team member to perform wilder.  I would start each day with an early morning explore, cruising along the lake’s edge, finding animal paths through the forest undergrowth.  The lake was often mirror calm so after the run I would slip into the gleaming water.  For one week, this was my shower.  And after rewarming myself with two or three cups of tea, I can honestly say I was ready to empower anything, even the moose and giant slugs populating the forest!  My team fondly nicknamed me ‘Nanny Hanny’ after the copious cups of tea I enjoyed as well as my early-to-bed habits.  I am confident the nickname does not reflect me driving.
 
Interestingly, the word Empower actually has two meanings: To give (someone) the authority or power to do something; and, to make (someone) stronger and more confident, especially in controlling their life and claiming their rights.  The origin of the word is slightly more complicated, with the ‘em’ thought to actually come from either the Old Frech or Latin word “en”, meaning “in”, “to look” or to “come”.  This suggests a word derived from the Old French or Latin meanings of looking or coming for power.  Today we see a hugely prolific use of the word, from personal development to business.  It feels like everyone wants us to be empowered!  So, how does this occur and who has the permission to influence me finding this inner power?
 
I believe we give ourselves permission to be empowered by someone when we gain a sense of their authenticity and self-connectedness.  If I think back to those who have touched my life in ways that enabled me to achieve beyond what I had dared to dream alone.  Max Cherry jumps to mind.  At 80 years of age, bumbled under an old track suit and a tartan beret, it was his bellowing voice from his car whilst we ran alongside, his handshake at the start of training, his gentle hug when we ‘did good’, that taught me there is no such word as can’t and to see my talents in distance running.  Jackie Feathweather nee Gallagher also helped to highlight the importance of vulnerability.  One hell of a listener, she allowed openness, demanded honesty and coached me to strength as a marathon runner.  Jeremy, with his bike shoes under the table, empowers me to seek authenticity in my own marrow.  So many amazing individuals, all with authenticity visible bubbling from even the smallest of handshakes, nods or eye contact.
 
In Finland, the natural environment inspired me outdoors.  Mornings in the sunshine, forest scarps stuck to my hair, mud spatters up my calves, this is where I connect strongest with myself.  This is where I find inspiration and self-connectedness.  And I took this empowered-self to the competition arenas where I truly believe I passed the empowerment through to these young athletes.  I saw them begin to dream bigger and perform wilder, seeing physical, mental and emotional strength unite to create optimal performance. 
 
As I boarded the first or many flights home I began conceptualizing an article on the beauty of empowerment.  And yet here I am now, face up on an airport lounge questioning my ragged attempts to do so.  I feel as stale and unexcited as the airport terminal itself.  So, I do what I know best – rip open my bag, scrounge for my slightly stale smelling running attire, draw tight the laces of my shoes and go exploring.
 
To my great surprise Melbourne Airport has the most fabulous trail running on its doorsteps.  Out past the smokers’ precinct, round behind McDonalds, down around the runway lighting, across a ditch and ‘pop’, into an open parkland I find myself.  As the noise of the airport begins to fade and the evening light dapples through the open eucalypt forest with dancing grasslands beneath, I begin to shake my head.  How can I possibly conceptualize empowerment from a stuffy, crowded airport lounge where alcohol and donuts are readily consumed?  I run with my thoughts through an old gate, parallel with a fence line with more holes than wire and upwards towards open skies.  Where does empowerment bubble up from? The realization comes to me as I summit a small hill and confront a 360-degree view of Melbourne and its outlying suburbs.
 
The process of empowering others is a reflection of our ability to empower ourselves.  I choose the word process carefully because I believe that empowerment requires a slow building of trust, not just with the other person, but with yourself.  Out on this hilltop with aircraft skimming overhead and rusty rays streaking across a darkening sky I feel inner strength and confidence returning.  I am breaking the norm, escaping the concrete and in turn empowering myself.  A quick decision to do something that makes me feel good about myself has switched me from moping mess to excitable adventurer.  I could have had another cup of tea, or indulged in some smarties (my traveler’s Achilles heal).  I could have opened my laptop and tried to strategically think my way out of my muddle.  But this simple act of inspiration has replaced the negatives with positives, the internal critique with a gentler voice of compassion, and restlessness with excitement.  I feel like racing back to the airport to grab my husband Graham and drag him out here with me to experience this too.  And therein lies empowerment.  Au natural, bubbling up deep from within.
 
I guess the moral of this muddled story is that we cannot empower others unless we first empower ourselves.  This empowerment comes from taking daily actions, (as well as perhaps the occasional big F$%k-Off adventure!) that inspires you.   Recently, I have tried to focus on the small things that uplift me, from a plant-based diet to early nights, time camping under the stars, and my mini-morning missions before opening my laptop.  I also find creativity, fostering rich friendships, and self-nurturing also stimulate richer thoughts of authenticity.  With guidance, I have spent time thinking more consciously about my values and reflecting on these in my journaling.  I have also launched my Find Your Feet Podcast because I love the act of learning from others and the act of freely sharing this with our broader community.  All these little things add up!
 
When I first started Find Your Feet back in 2009 I was simply trying to find my own feet.  I had fallen out of love with my running and had let my health tip into the unhealthy, ‘underweight athlete’ zone.  However, I was super eager to help other adults fall in love with the sport of running and meet new friends at the same time, using both running groups and life coaching as my means to do so.  After around six months one of my regular clients and someone that I am now proud to consider a friend pulled me aside – ‘Hanny, you have the potential to give us all a beautiful this gift.  But if all we see is someone who doesn’t nurture themselves then we will never be able to truly appreciate the gift you are trying to give us’.  After all these years I finally, truly understand his words of wisdom – empower yourself to empower others.

The Ultra Trail Australia events have many exciting challenges, one of the most noteworthy being the large and numerous hills that runners will encounter in the Blue Mountains. As this event has expanded, so too has the spread of runners from across our vast country. The race is now attracting runners from as far away as Tasmania, northern Western Australia and Darwin.

One of the greatest challenges that some of our Aussie runners are facing is preparing for this mountainous event when they live in a flat area. For instance, some of the runners I am working with are training in Broome where anything remotely resembling a hill is a very, very long way away. 

Therefore, I wanted to share some suggestions for how to prepare for hills without hills.

Run on Trails
The shear nature of trails requires runners to be strong. As you bounce from foot to foot over the uneven surfaces of rocks, roots and sand there is a more holistic activation of your muscles. These are the same muscles that will activate when you run up and down a hill, such as your quadriceps, hamstrings and gluteal muscles. So, if you have the chance to hit the trails and even practice some faster speed endurance work on them, this is a really good training strategy.

‘Heavy’ Fast-packing
Fastpacking is the term used to describe fast hiking. One strategy that I have found highly beneficial for runners preparing for the UTA events is to load up their running vest pack with lots of weight and set out on a fast hike. The way I load up my pack is to use a 5 or 10L water bladder or wine cask filled with water. I put this in my vest pack and set off for an hour or two. The muscles required to hike with this weight are similar to those employed to run up and down a hill. Therefore, this can be a really great way to get stronger and more resilient by May.

Uphill treadmill running
Whilst I personally detest running on a treadmill, they occasionally have some usefulness. Conducting a hill interval session on a treadmill can help to replicate the nature of hills. Set the treadmill to an 8-10% incline and carry out a session. You may also like to finish the session off with a short period of time on a stair climber machine.

Flat treadmill running for downhill
Again, desperate times may call for desperate measures, a great one being running on a flat treadmill. Evidence suggests that running on a flat treadmill has some impact similarities to downhill running. Whilst this strategy may be somewhat useful, be careful not to overdo it.

Get out of the saddle
Standing out of the saddle on a bike or stationary bike is really hard work. Powering down through your quads without sitting on the bike seat activates similar muscles to those you use to run or hike up a steep hill or set of stairs. Building in some out-of-the-saddle work into your training could be really helpful. One suggestion would be to do 10-15mins of out-of-the-saddle training before you start a fartlek session or tempo run to help simulate what it feels like to run on the flat after you have just climbed a steep hill.

Go for a wander
Walking activates slightly different muscle groups to running. And in the Blue Mountains we will likely find ourselves walking at times. Therefore, the more efficient you are at walking the less emotionally stressful you will find this activity on race day. It will also help to build strength. Therefore, add in a little fast hiking into your training program.

Take a pilgrimage
If you have the luxury of sneaking a weekend away over summer or the Easter holiday period, then this could be really helpful for your training. Rest a little before flying to somewhere which has luscious hills to play in. After the rest earlier in the week you can go ‘a little bit nuts’ over the weekend and maximize some time spent in the hills.

Small can be beautiful
Small inclines or stairs should never be overlooked. If all you have time and access to is a small lump in the local park then just enjoy switching off the brain and running up and down it a zillion times. Just like sand granules on a beach, small things really do add up.

Get strong
See if you can find a local strength guru to give you a hand with a strength program specific to hill running. This can include body weight exercises, skipping, hopping, single leg activities and some weighted gym work. Exercises could include: lunges, squats, deadlifts, single leg drills, gluteal activation work, calf raises and isometric holds, core work and much more. Sometimes you might like to do your strength session before you go for a run so that you can learn to ‘run heavy’ as you might feel after climbing up a large hill on race day.

Get sandy
My last suggestion comes with a little caution… sand. As we all remember from our childhoods, running on sand can be somewhat exhausting. Adding a little sand running into your program can help. However, be careful! Sand running places great loads on tendons and soft tissues, such as the Achilles Tendon and your hip flexors. Therefore, rather than setting off for an isolated sand dune running session, I recommend incorporating only a little running on sand during a standard session.

In summary, whilst I firmly believe there is no perfect substitute for running on hills, if you find yourself living in a region void of steepness then the above suggestions could help you feel more confident come the race day in May. Start carefully and gently on the path to adding hills because if you have been training on the flat-lands for a while you don’t want to shock your running legs and risk injury. Finally, be gentle on yourself. Whilst hills may not be your strong point, some of us have no flat regions to train on! So where we might have power on the hills, you might be superhuman on the flats!

Darkness hides our fears; at least I hope I am not alone in this apprehension.  Head torch beams bounce through the awakening dawn.  Car headlights sweep into the Waldheim car park.  A slip of light filters from under the toilet door.  The runner’s pack in front of me is constantly adjusted – tightened, loosened, shifted – its owner awaiting the beginning of the role call.  It is race day.  And the bright dawn has snuck up on us whilst we fuss.
 ​
It is the 2nd February 2013 and our mob of forty-nine race entrants has a place in history.  We are the 33rd cohort of fussing runners to pose on the tip of boardwalk snaking away from Waldheim in a southerly direction towards Lake St Clair, the deepest lake in Australia.  Turning back twenty years and the synopsis still stands true.
 
‘It began in the chill half-light of a Tasmanian dawn. Forty other people will attest that we huddled on the fringe of a Myrtle rainforest, our runners’ pinks and greens and blues incongruous in that ancient landscape. A ribbon of wet boardwalk leading away across the button grass plain gave our group focus and was about to give it purpose.’ – Nigel Davies, 1993
 
With a maximum of fifty runners, entering the event has become somewhat of a computer game.  Be seated at your computer on the count of midnight when entries open and cross your fingers and toes that you are the quickest touch-typist.  A two-finger typist will join the impatient list of runners on the waiting list.
 
It is amazing to think of this event as being so popular when you sift back through the history books and early runner’s reports:
 
‘The trail was mostly just bog, which seemed like fun for the first two hours or so, but after that it started to get to me, as everything, and I mean everything, was full of mud by then’ - Max Bogenhuber, 1987
 
‘Rarely does the runner see any of this. For you the primary colour is black.  It is in the mud that you can't take your eyes off, in the snakes you hope not to see. It is the colour of the leeches, of mosquitoes as large as march flies. At times it is the colour of your thoughts.’ John Ayliffy, 1992,
 
‘The race notes suggested gaiters as an option but we discovered they're obligatory; for the button grass will tear the hairs off your legs and the mud will suck your shoes off’ – David Sill, 1992
 
 
Running along the icy boardwalks, rounding the corners gingerly in fear of upending into the button grass beds beneath me, I try not to think of how far there is to go.  In shorter races it is easily possible to trick the mind into a game of ‘Just around the next corner… only a couple more hills to the finish… up and over and down the other side…’.  But to think in this manor may leave one weeping on the trackside at Pelion Hut with the wombats and leeches singing – ‘another one stuck in the mud’.  Instead I focus on the hill beneath me and the track winding past hanging lakes and up the sharp ridgeline towards Kitchen Hut.  As I relax into the environment I find a sense of tranquility.  Feet cover the ground in a mindless manner; I slot into a rhythm behind the leading males, and change the station on my mental remote control to the Sunrise Channel over Cradle Cirque. 
 
Despite heavy skies above, I am grateful for the relatively dry trails and the board walks protecting me from the perilous mud once recorded.  I am secretly proud that I have snuck through Waterfall Valley and Waldheim huts before any of the tent’s occupants have begun their morning routines.  By Pine Forest Moor a couple are traipsing along in full wet-weather gear and towering rucksacks.  Not for the first time in history, I appear to be the only one smiling.  As Bob Frost, 1999, stated,
 
‘This is a true wilderness area through mountains, marsh and thick forest.  There are many lost souls along the Overland Track…’
 
Descending into Frog Flats at approximately 30km into the race, I am gazing into every mud puddle with trepidation.  The night before my best friend and Cradle Mountain Hut’s guide, Ciara, had carefully described the large sodden mess that awaited me in the area.  Each time my foot squelched and slipped into another hole I thought, ‘this must be the puddle she warned me about!’  It was only when I found myself sucked into the middle of thick bog did I realize these were just the preludes.
 
‘This length of trail is covered in tree roots and the rain had turned the earth to mud that I would sink ankle deep in. Some runners had talked about stepping in mud, stepping out and leaving a shoe behind. I could now appreciate what they meant. Runners passed as I slogged downhill; on my left was a steep embankment to the Forth River; on my right a steep grade upwards covered in tangled rainforest.’ - Sean Greenhill, 2002
 
Having survived the sucking hollows of Frog Flats I felt like I was dancing as I skirted Pelion Plains.  Out of the mist loomed Pelion West and Mt Ossa, Tasmania’s two highest peaks.  My progress was slightly different to that of the early explores to the area.  Exactly 57 years earlier, pioneer Keith Ernest endured a slow and painful crawl through sections of sharp, prickly Richea scoparia to summit these two mountains that dwarf the plains.  He later described these as ‘The Giants of the Reserve’. 
 
Part of the beauty of this run lies outside of the natural sights and rather with the bag of jelly lollies held out in greeting by the beaming officials on the course.  Perhaps it’s the Tasmanian connection but their enthusiasm and delight at my muddy appearance was infectious.  Retracing historical footsteps, I pranced away from Pelion Hut with an extra bounce and a mouth full of jubes.  Some before me hadn’t felt quite so good-humored. 
 
‘There was no race organisation on this most dangerous of runs and those 'officials' we did meet were all afflicted with the 'Tasmanian Disease': they lie, they lie! "How far to the Gap? "…'About twenty minutes - and then it's duck-board all the way". It was an hour-twenty - and then there was a kilometer of boards in thirty or so.’ – David Sill, 1992
 
Passing through Kio Ora Hut I delve into the Du Cane Myrtle forests.  This is my heaven and the flat, technical trails bring out the child within me.  Minutes later I glimpse a flash of white through the trees, which slowly melds into the unmistakable outline of ultra sensation, Matt Cooper.  Talking was unnecessary as we fall into rhythm together; his only comment being – ‘what a magical playground’.  Whilst Coops came and went like a magical aura, we arrived at Narcissus together in grateful companionship and still in time for lunch. 
 
There is something superbly delicious about the offer of a cup of coke when you are standing there in a stupor looking at a perfectly laid out feast.  It was not until researching this article did I realize just how lucky I was to receive such a luxurious greeting from the race organisers.  
 
‘It took us thirteen and a half hours to arrive at Narcissus, Lake St Clair, to find we'd failed to reach the cutoff point and anybody official had gone home. So we got to use the mandatory survival gear and ended up sleeping the night in a plastic bag, temperature outside 2C. Meanwhile, our three wives and John's teenage children spent restless nights haunted by their earlier experience of the Race Organiser cheerfully greeting them with the ominous news: “Aren't you the wives of those three blokes from Sydney who are lost in the mountains ?”' – David Sill, 1992
 
The lake.  Ask any Cradle Mountain Ultra runner what is the toughest section of the course and the answer is always the lake. 
"The last bit was soul-destroying. I'm sure that everyone felt that when you get to the lake at Narcissus Hut you've broken the back of it and you know you're going to finish. But it breaks your heart. It's torture made worse by the fact that when you leave the hut there's nearly a kilometer of duckboard but it comes to a dead-end! And then there was the darkness.” – Steve Nordish, 1992
Perhaps it was the Coke but my recollection of this perilous section of trail is that of entertainment.  The mini ups and winding downs; the curving flats and fallen trees to surmount; gob-smacked walkers darting out of your path; and finally the wide, groomed pathways of the Watersmeet where should you wish to, you can take in the botanical names of the plants you have been darting past for 82km.  Unlikely!

You can almost smell the finish as you try and yet fail to run elegantly over the smoothest, flattest section of the entire race.  Even had our running technique suggest class, our muddy, salt-crusted appearance was a complete giveaway of our exploits.  It is with 300m to go one well-dressed teenager cruising the other way queried, ‘Are you in a race?  How far?’…  What do you say?
No matter who you are or what time you have run, by the time you reach Cynthia Bay the idea of this event being a race has long since passed.  What remains is a deep sense of camaraderie – with yourself and your accomplishment, your running comrades, and the organisers themselves.

‘With around 300 meters to go, I take off like a scalded cat, surprising myself how strong I feel. I cross the finish line, and Bob says "you made it just under 15 hours". I say "how much exactly", and he replies "14 hours, 59 minutes and 27 seconds". I think that's pretty neat.’ – John Lindsay, 2003

Sleep is hard to come by post-race.  The ache of muscles you never knew existed and a stomach sitting like a loaded barge from a sugar overload makes for a restless night.  Yet despite the weariness there is a joy in crawling from under the covers, sipping tea, and then shuffling across the car park of the Derwent Tavern to mingle with runners at the presentations.  Whilst winners do grin and Rob Walter and I collect our certificates, through the sharing of stories and applauding all finishers, we celebrate the accomplishment of forty-nine pairs of feet and 4018km travelled together.
 
Coming to the end of my creative juices and wondering how to conclude an article on an event that still lives fiercely inside me, an email flashes up on my screen.  Distracted I absent-mindedly open it to find a new post on the Cool Running Australia blog.  It reads:
 
‘My first time for the CMR this year and it was awwwwwesome. I've never really run as relaxed as I did in this event: stopping to take photos and video etc. This was so special that I was often wanting to just stand still and inhale the awesome. (if it weren't for the cut offs at Pelion and Narcissus I probably would have). HUGE thanks to all the organisers and volunteers - what an incredible event you put on. Thank you thank you thank you!... Applause… I hope to one day return! May be see a few of you again?’ – ‘Chaneebear’, 2013
 
This story is now concluded.