ENDURANCE - It's tough keeping up with Gold Rush

The 12th annual staging of the Gold Rush, a 376km multistage multisport event held over three days in Central Otago, attracted a hardy Northland duo this year. Unfortunately they had to take two helpers along for the ride, one of them being Northern Advocate sports editor TIM EVES. No stranger to multisport events himself, Eves was co-opted in the hope his experience as a competitor might make him a useful team member. But life as a multisport "crewy" on a mission that included clocking up 4000km in a car with a man called Gavin, wasn't quite as exciting as one would imagine.
GAVIN reckoned he was scared of nothun'. But that was at the start of the mission. That was before Gavin was handed a recently soiled pair of cycle pants that, just moments before, had been used in lieu of absent toilet paper in one of those vicious contraptions that blight every multisport event - the Portaloo.
That was also before Gavin had really earned his crewing stripes. There are many things to be feared in this world, and as a long-serving member of the constabulary, he had faced a fair few. But nothing can really prepare a man for a pair of Skins that have been worn two days running through about 200km of sweating slog.
Now that's something nobody can stomach without at least a little trepidation.
These things happen in sport, that much was always understood. But in the middle of a three-day endurance event that now claims, with arguable justification, to be one of the iconic multisport races in the country, some demons just don't need to be exorcised.
The cycle pants were the victim of a 6.30am muster call that pre-empted the call of nature. The Skins could not really be explained with any justification.
But competing in the Gold Rush is certainly something worth attempting.
Now 12-years old, the Gold Rush is a three-day multistage race based in the heart of Central Otago, and for several years running has been so popular that people have formed an orderly cyberspace queue just to enter the darned thing.
In the past the event website has been such a popular venue on the internet that, on the very day entries open, the field is usually filled to maximum.
Not this year though.
This year, the event only sucked in about 200 athletes, among them two hardy Northlanders, policeman Daryl Curran and contractor Dave Howard.
For Curran the event was his first tentative foray into extreme endurance racing. Howard arrived in Central Otago with a handful of Speights Coast to Coast races and several other events already in his scrapbook.
But for every maniacal endorphin junkie capable of sustaining physical activity for the three consecutive days of sweaty endeavour, mark down at least two hangers-on - the crew.
Athletes such as Curran and Howard get the spotlight when the starter's gun goes off, if there is a starter's gun that is. For the kick-off of 376km of kayaking, mountainbiking, running and road cycling through the historical lands of Central Otago, how's this for a grand beginning: "Okay, you guys ready? Right - go."
That atypically sedate Kiwi method of ripping into the job might be the ideal way of keeping some start-line nerves in check for the fit ones. Something far more substantial should be ignited to prompt the crew into action. Perhaps some kind of nuclear display complete with health warning and free dose of no-doze tablets.
Not much chance of that. What the crewies actually got was much better ...
Oh, that's right, we didn't get to see the start, we were already wrestling a six-metre piece of fibreglass (a kayak) to the edge of a frigid cold river. We only knew the race had started when some dudes came running into view and started yelling instructions.
Then the fun really started.
Now wet, thanks to demands to stand knee-deep in the water astride a kayak for a military precise launch sequence (spray skirt on, booties ... no, no right THEN left ... lifejacket, paddle ... WHERE'S MY @&*!ING PADDLE ... into boat, away) the crew are soon informed that it is best to HURRY to the next transition point.
One: It is a bloody long way away. Two: Parking is a premium.
Oh, well who needs breakfast anyway?
The scene that greeted the crewies at the next transition was a real beauty. Think Auckland rush-hour traffic on meth, then add some race officials.
Wise crew must have left the start of the kayak about two hours before the race began. Who knew that was possible? The rest were parked about 2km away down, we kid you not, at the foot of a bloody great dam.
To transform the endorphin junkies from kayakers to mountainbikers meant traipsing up an incline Sir Ed would have thought twice about, especially if he had to carry a mountain bike with him and then go back down the hill to get a gear box.
Ah, the gear boxes!
Apparently these boxes hold all the equipment necessary to sustain the endorphined ones through any challenge thrown down in front of them. Especially when the challenge has been described in detail and subsequently prompted the production of The List.
Think The List and think The Ten Commandments - on carbohydrates.
But just like The Big Ten, The List can also be open to interpretation. Does covet thy neighbour's wife mean glancing at her frillies on the clothes line? Does "change socks, apply sunscreen and feed me two Leppins and 500ml of water" mean that - or this: Where's my bike, that kayak was awful, don't need socks, where's my &@#*ing bike shoes.
This, quite obviously, was enough to encourage the crew for the two days to follow.
But wait, there was more. We kid you not - this got even better.
After being informed by the race officials that it was best to get a bloody move on because it was a long way to the next transition (who needed lunch anyway) we were then sent hurtling up a 16km cattle track to the finish of day one, where we were to pitch tents, prepare food and service equipment for day two.
This was, naturally, embellished further by the arrival of the portable toilets, followed shortly after by the sight of Howard (running second in the veteran section) and, not far behind, Curran. Both, by now, only just resembled humans. Very smelly, sweaty ones though.
It took another two days and 600km of driving to complete the race, after which the endorphined ones opined their lack of luck on the run leg, the spectacular view in the middle of the mountain bike, and their need for a roast chicken sandwich a leg rub and a drink of water. Cold water if you please, this stuff is lukewarm.
Howard maintained his commendable second ranking in the veterans division. Curran ground out a top 20 finish in the open section.
But apparently the endorphins only last until the finish line, at which point legs are too weary and arms to weak to re-pack a gear box and tie down a kayak. They kick in again briefly for prizegiving, especially if a spot prize emerges, but then fade to complete oblivion for the drive home.
Central Otago? Bloody beautiful, mate. Three days of it? Outstanding. The roads? A pleasure. The food? Can't say, we haven't eaten yet, apparently it's best you get a move on after prizegiving, the endorphined ones need to get home quick smart you know, they need to wash their cycle pants.