Farm Olea Backyard Ultra 2022
16.04.2022, Urla, Izmir – Turkey
https://backyardultra.com/races/farm-olea-backyard-ultra/
http://www.mcr-racesetter.com/yarislar/backyard-ultra/
written by: Rikki Lee Roath
When I first started running, each new race seemed exciting: a new place, a longer distance, a better time. But soon enough, repetition soon grew unappealing, a common thread that has guided my entire life. The adventure and the excitement that races used to invoke in me faded and I was, in a word, bored. So, I quit racing and dreamed of bigger things. I read about FKTs, dreamed of multi-day stage races, jotted down ideas for running projects through the wilderness, and followed the field of Big’s Backyard Ultra every year, my tension growing with each lap. But soon enough, another Backyard Ultra made its way to my doorstep; it was time to stop dreaming and start racing again.
After spending the harshest months of winter in Mexico, I found myself back in Turkey and with only 10 weeks to train for the race that never ends. The first six weeks felt effortless. I was hiking for hours each day, completing all my intervals, lifting weights, and heading out for the casual long run on top of it without a drop of fatigue. I felt unstoppable. But just as I was coming into my peak weeks of training, that proved to be wrong, all it took to stop me was a loose rock and a twist of the ankle. I heard the cringe-inducing crunch, fell hard, hitting my other knee, and grabbed my sprained ankle, screaming. Screaming not out of pain or fear, but screaming because the one race I was finally going to run had become a lie. The last time I sprained my ankle, it had to be immobilized for six weeks, and the race was only four away.
My ankle swelled to twice its normal size and I limped along, unable to even walk normally. I resigned myself to easy spins on my bike, the sign of defeat for any runner. But slowly, I regained my momentum. I felt the same power I had experienced during the first weeks of training and recovered faster than seemed possible. Of course, I was left without the most important weeks of my training cycle, but it didn’t matter. I could run.
As Backyard Ultra approached, my schedule started to fill. As the start of the tourism season drew nearer, I felt deadlines closing in and seemed to be drowning in my ever-present to-do list. The week before the race was a strange mix of sleepless nights, touring wineries, too many beers with friends, being late to meetings, shopping marathons, and staring at my computer screen trying not to doze off. The night before the race, I realized how unprepared I was. It was 10 pm and I had yet to get my clothes and food ready, check the weather, or download the course to my watch, but an unusual race called for unusual tactics. And why do runners take themselves so seriously anyway, right?
The morning of the race, I had somehow pulled it all together, and stepped outside of my camper van to the sound of roosters crowing amidst a classic Aegean landscape of olive-covered hills. For those of you who don’t know, let me explain the race at hand. It’s simple actually; a backyard ultra is a race format in which participants must run 6706 meters per hour. The last one still running wins, all others DNF. The particular race I was competing in, Farm Olea Backyard Ultra, was no different.
Everyone seemed prepared with their camping chairs, tables, and proper drawers filled with proper snacks. I had a 20-liter jug of water and a Zara bag full of energy bars and ramen noodles. Alas, it was time to run. We started with meager numbers, no more than 10 contestants. After just a few laps, we were down to the serious eight. The eight of us there to test our limits and see what we could do. After a short turnaround in the first lap (I never did get around to downloading those GPS coordinates), I started to get in the rhythm. 600 meters uphill on the path, 1800 to the left turn, 1000 to the halfway point. 1000 meters to the right turn, 1800 to the path, 600 meters back down. Sit, food, water, go. The more laps that pass, the more details you notice. I started to memorize the distance between the cross shaped branch on the road and the yellowish patch of rock. Between the memorial forest sign and where the road had eroded. Every object I remembered became its own goal. I only ran to the next point, trying not to think of the road that lied ahead of me.
After a relatively cold winter, I think we all started to feel the temperature rise. Smiling faces turned hard red and the fatigue began to show in many of us, myself included. Those who really know me know that being from the freezing prairie near the Canadian border, I could race in ice and snow any day, but heat is my weakest link. I managed to keep myself positive with a variety of the disgusting culinary delights that only taste good when you’re burning hundreds of calories an hour: a chocolate milkshake after one lap, a potato and cheese burrito after another, all courtesy of my wonderful, solitary crew member. As sun began to set, my sweat dried and my brain calmed. I was done questioning my very existence and we were down to five runners.
As per usual, I really found my rhythm in the cool and dark hours of the evening. For me, these hours are why I run and why I race. I love the quiet, love the focus, and love to watch the ego drain away from the faces of my competitors. Once night falls, we are all in this together.
The hours between sunset and midnight are a blur. My mind got foggier and eating became more and more of a struggle. Despite once finishing each lap almost 15 minutes apart, the gap in the field began to narrow. I could see everyone’s headlamp beam, running in formation. In spite of my lack of training, my injured ankle, weak preparation, and hectic week, I felt good. It wasn’t until we approached the 100-kilometer mark that my strength began to wane. If there is one thing I learned during this race, it’s that we need each other. If your competitors keep running, you keep running. We are what motivates us.
By lap 16, we were down to four and I could tell it would soon be three. My muscles tiring, I began to start losing my balance, tripping over rocks I’d be thrown from my sleepy, meditative state as I caught myself from falling. I started to worry about my ankle, one fall and I could be out for months. During the lap, one of the last men standing, Volkan, began to fall behind. I convinced myself that if he missed the cut off, this would also be my final lap. To my tired body’s horror, he made it in time, and I was off on Lap 17 to put me in third, an honorable way to DNF.
Clearly seeing that Savas and Mahmut, my final two competitors, would soldier on until day, I knew that Lap 17 would be my last. I could have run a couple more, but no more than a couple more. I was satisfied with the work I’d done at my first Backyard Ultra and couldn’t find the motivation to go all the way. These last years, this has been an increasing theme for me. I can’t find the drive, the passion, the grit to keep going when it hurts, when it’s not fun anymore, when it seems pointless; and honestly, I don’t have the will to search for that drive either. Afterall, running is just my hobby.
Running for 30 and 31 hours, my final two competitors, on the other hand, clearly take their sport very seriously. Seeing the determination in their eyes, I understood the vast chasm between us. It seems that for them, running has a deeper meaning, it is a source of pride and self-worth. For me… well, I just want to go on adventures.
Next year, I plan on coming back to Backyard Ultra and testing myself again, maybe then I’ll feel the inner pull to really give it my all. Or maybe, hopefully, my competition will bring it out in me. Afterall, when there is no end to a race, all that keeps us going is each other.