Eugene Bingham takes to the trail in the Tarawera Ultra-Marathon. Photo / Allan Ure
Eugene Bingham takes to the trail in the Tarawera Ultra-Marathon. Photo / Allan Ure
At a low ebb, Eugene Bingham decided to dream big. His plan? To conquer three major off-road races — a mere 220km. Here, he describes how running helps him find freedom — freedom to quit worrying and be happy.
In Auckland's western skyline, the Waitakere Ranges loom like a benevolent overlord. Of runners, it demands respect, with climbs that sap the legs and squeeze the lungs.
In exchange, it bestows the gift of some of the most scenic, thrilling running you'll ever experience. That's what I was after asI headed out for a simple training jaunt to Waitakere Dam the week before the toughest race of my life.
Instead, the overlord had crushed me beneath a fist of pain and doubt. Both calves were screaming stop; my heel had an ominous ache, right where an injury had flared a few weeks before; and stomach cramps had reduced me to a walk.
Most of all my spirit was shattered. After two hours running I was slouched on my haunches, the end nowhere in sight.
How was I going to manage an 80km ultra-marathon, The Hillary, in 10 days' time? Had I embarked on too much?
Late last year, I'd set an ambitious plan. My aim was to run an off-road marathon and two trail ultra-marathons in the space of three months - by the end of it all, I'd clock up almost 1800km, including 220km of racing.
There's a saying in ultras that by halfway in a race you better know what your motivation is, and the song stuck on repeat in your head better be good (once, God help me, it was Katy Perry's Roar ... long story ... don't judge me). At this point, with Foo Fighters' The Pretender stuck in my brain, I was seriously questioning my motivation and ability. "I'm the hand that will take you down, Bring you to your knees," screamed the Foos.
I slumped on a bench seat overlooking the dam. Time to reflect.
First things first: stop panicking, I told myself. Not all runs are born equal. It's okay when you don't feel like a graceful, loping Kenyan, swift and light of foot (okay, I'm never actually like that ... but some days I daydream I am); hard training and lack of sleep will take a toll (and given I'd had a couple of stressful, long days, it was no wonder I was spent).
Running is not easy, even when you've done it for about 30 years. But its rewards? Bountiful.
That's why I'd embarked on this mission. Late last year, I was in a funk. Nothing dramatic - no mid-life crisis. Just stuff.
Work and self-worth were at a low ebb. I was struggling to face the day, and when I came home I was negative. It wasn't good for anyone.
It had pushed me to a precipice health-wise, one I recognised. Last time I'd been here, I all but stopped running, developed unwholesome eating habits, put on weight. It took a long struggle to climb back (and lose the 30kg I'd packed on). I didn't want to plunge over that edge again, into the spiral of self-loathing.
So for my soul as much as anything, I concocted a plan. Having previously run 15 marathons and a couple of ultra-marathons, I needed something more audacious than a one-off event to keep on track.
I chose three beasts of races.
First up was the West Coaster, 42km along trails between Bethells and Muriwai. Then, in February, the Tarawera Ultra, a 100km bush and forest trek from Rotorua to Kawerau. And finally, in March through the Waitakeres, The Hillary, shorter than Tarawera at just 80km (just?!) but tougher because of the 3500m of climbing and plenty of trails euphemistically called "technical" (read steep, ankle-twisting, toe-hacking, narrow-as-a-shoelace tracks).
Actually, my running plan involved something more immediately evident, too. For the first time in my life, I grew a beard. Some people thought it was because with all the time in the bush I was connecting with my inner Wild Man. Others thought it was homage to my (sometimes bearded) Dad, my first running partner, who died 10 years ago last September (another reason I was not feeling chipper and clear-minded).
Actually, I didn't really know why, perhaps it was both. Either way, it became an intriguing sociological study. It was amazing how people were willing to volunteer opinions about The Beard. Some were mean, most were downright funny. My former TV3 colleague, John Campbell, raced across the newsroom one day and said, "Can I touch it? You look like Santa's Irish cousin."
So it was that I lined up for the West Coaster ,with people already saying of The Beard, "That doesn't look very aerodynamic". If only they knew: aerodynamics was the least of my worries.
Most of my life, I'd been a road runner - albeit a reasonably paced mid-pack one with a marathon PB under three hours. Road speed was no help in the off-road West Coaster. It was a good chance to smash my personal worst (3 hours 50m from 1998).
I was running with my friend Mike, a daredevil runner. When it came to a section in Goldies Bush, Muriwai, criss-crossing a river, he was a ninja, leaping from boulder to rock in a single bound, striding over slimy surfaces like they were as solid underfoot as tarmac, and skillfully navigating the shallowest part of the river as if following a built-in GPS.
Then there was me. Streams of people whizzed past like I was standing still. Actually, lots of the time I was standing still, scratching my head wondering what I was thinking giving this race a crack when I'm such a klutz.
Somehow, I eventually made it out of the valley. And Mike the Ninja was waiting for me. I don't think he even laughed at me too much as we ran the rest of the way together, eventually crossing the line in 6 hours 34 minutes - a personal worst by a long shot.
But I'd loved it. Afterwards, I realised that one of the things I treasured was the camaraderie of running with Mike the Ninja, talking ... well, just stuff. All hilarious, of course.
Eugene Bingham with his wife Suzanne McFadden, and sons Kieran and Marc after the Tarawera Ultra Marathon.
I enjoy running with others. Friendships forged in sweat last forever, says a mate I first ran with as a teenager. One of my friends is not only an extraordinary ultra-marathoner, he's also an associate professor of mathematics. It makes for fascinating conversations: in the space of one run, we talked about Euler's Formula - look it up - and his love of reality TV, especially The Biggest Loser. It all helps the miles click by...
There are times, though, when I need to switch off. Running lets me disconnect. No phone, no email. Just my thoughts. Sometimes that's nothing, sometimes I solve the world's problems.
Running helps me find freedom. Freedom from the rubbish that floats around my mind. Freedom from fear. Freedom to quit worrying what anyone thinks. Freedom to be happy.
And that was the over-riding feeling I came away with from my second venture, the Tarawera Ultra. I finished feeling happier than in years. Delighted that I'd made it, sure. More than that, though, I was jubilant that I'd been able to share it with my family.
To be clear, no amount of bribery would ever convince my wife (and regular Canvas writer), Suzanne McFadden, to run. But she and our boys were at every aid station offering and yelling support, helping me change shoes and making me go back to get lollies for them. (Aid stations at ultras are like hotel buffets!) My heart burst with pride when I finished to their cheers.
Not long after, the realisation I had another ultra in five weeks dulled my runner's high. So, too, the realisation I was injured.
Some time in January, I convinced myself I had a stone bruise. In my heart, I knew it wasn't. A trip to the podiatrist after Tarawera confirmed it was plantar fasciitis, which can be a stop-right-now injury for runners.
That was a huge part of what was in my head as I sat on the bench overlooking the dam. I really didn't want injury to derail my running so I'd been religiously following the podiatrist's prescription, including rolling a golf ball under my foot to massage it.
As a consequence, in the darkness of the 6am start for The Hillary, I was scared. And in the first hour, fear became panic.
Although I had a headlamp I couldn't see. Humidity fogged up my glasses, blinding me from the gnarly maze of trail hazards. At one point, on a steep part of the track, my right foot jammed in a rut. As momentum propelled me forwards, I knew that if my foot didn't come free, I'd snap my leg. Milliseconds from disaster, I yanked my leg out and fell, one of many lucky escapes which left me bruised and banged-up.
Right then, my only thought was survival: if I make it to daylight, I'll be okay. And so it proved. As I scrambled along the cliff tops at Whatipu, I nominated it Auckland's most gorgeous spot. Later, above the pohutukawa forest of Pararaha Valley I ogled this green and red jewel. Through glades of nikau palms on Zion Hill Track towards Karekare, I flew faster than ever - at least it felt that way - and smiled.
The only downside was that the sunshine I'd pleaded for earlier was now cooking me. Every drop I drank seemed to evaporate before it quenched my thirst. I dreaded dehydration and heat exhaustion.
Only bloody-mindedness sustained me to Te Henga walkway, within 16km of the finish. Right about then, my foot, which had been nagging all day, reduced me to a limp. Was I doomed?
As if to answer me, a fantail swooped down. He danced on the dusty path then scooted ahead, a pattern he repeated for about five minutes. Dance in the dust, scoot ahead. Dance, scoot.
His energy fuelled me until I reached a part of Te Henga walkway I adore. It affords the most magnificent view to Maori Bay and, nearly, Muriwai. To the east, are colossal cliffs of clay which on this evening bathed in the day's last golden rays. I wondered: in the history of trail running, would there ever be a more perfect track to be on at a more perfect time?
The thought urged me on as I darted down towards Muriwai, knowing I was all but done. Six kilometres to go, five, four, three, two ...
I hit the black sand of Muriwai just as the sun vanished. The symbolism didn't escape me. Beneath a blood red sky, my younger son, Kieran, joined me for the last dash. We crossed the line together, me nearly 14 hours after starting.
It was a dance of accomplishment, a tough challenge executed; a dance to the knowledge that - though it's never easy - you can stab fear in the heart, vanquish pain, fend off doubt. You can be yourself. It was a dance of celebration.
Postscript: Eugene Bingham has kept the beard - albeit trimmed, after negotiations with his wife - and is already eyeing his next ultra-marathon.
