The Coolangatta Gold Part V

Banana, gels and fluids still on there way down to my stomach, I powered out through the surf. A quick shift back. A few hard strokes. Pop the nose. Power over the top. Repeated a few times and I was out the back. Feeling surprisingly fresh, I paddled from my knees out and around the turn can.

There were a few boards sloughing to the inside about 1000 metres ahead. The Vic was dead-ahead 50 metres in front. Gamble the inside? Aim the straight-shot across Burleigh Head? Race the Vic? Anyone who has interacted with me at or around any competition should know the answer this. Gamble? Gambling is a gamble (but it can be fun). Racing, though, racing is always fun - No matter how much it hurts. Besides, what is pain? Just your body telling you you're alive.

(Or that maybe it's your body telling you you shouldn't be doing what you're doing right now - but if I cared what my body thought, I probably wouldn't have started this race, nor many others that I've done. And where's the fun in that?)

Up on the knees. Down on the belly. Up on the knees. Down on the belly. Rhythm keeps the train running on the tracks. Lose rhythm at a critical juncture, and watch the wheels come off faster than a "Hot Wheels" under a sledge hammer.

"Two up-two down" was a drill I had done many times in training throughout the year. Spending two-minutes up on your knees at race-pace, then dropping to your belly for two-minutes backing off the pace - but never stopping throughout the workout. My legs would be on fire during the "up". Then, a brief reprieve while prone paddling. But this was not training. And my legs were not what were on fire.

As I crossed the halfway mark of the paddle, I had built a substantial gap between myself and the Victorian. There were no more rabbits to hunt down. Just me, my board, and the water. And then there appeared a train of 4 guys closing in from behind with blinding efficiency. White, Blue, White, Gold.

Son of a Bitch! Not this again.

As they came within earshot I heard a surprising, yet-comforting voice. "I'll be up there in a sec Micah. Just jump in behind - We'll getcha there". DEAN! You Champion. Dean is another member of Kurrawa Surf Club, and I had spent more than a few hours training with him last season. He was on a relay, and, fresh, was powering through the paddle. Onto the wash I went, behind Dean and another paddler, with the Victorian in tow behind.

On my knees I could take a few strokes, sit up, breath, and then continue. However, like I said, this was not training, and my legs were not what were burning. I would drop down to my belly to give my legs a rest, only to be forced to spin my arms as fast as I could to keep pace with the train. Oxyacetylene welding torches had been ignited in my shoulders and traps, and seemed to be burning through my muscles and out my back. I was going flat-out while prone - and still falling off the pace. Back up to my knees, a few quick hard strokes and I was back on. Sit up, breath, keep paddling.

Why don't you just stay on your knees if that keeps you on the wash? Knee-paddling, even at a reduced effort, takes a heavy toll on the legs - the 10km run was still to come. So here we go again. My mind flashed back to the ski leg. I shuttered. "Time to grind" I told myself. As one of my best friends and training partners says: "Put your head down - and PADDLE!"

I held onto their wash for as long as I could, but fell off definitively with about 1km left to go. We paddled around Burleigh Head, a beautiful Emerald-colored headland. A virtual mini-rainforest, Burleigh displayed the great diversity of nature and climate in Australia; posing its green canopy against the shifting sands and breakers.

The Victorian now beside me, and more White relay singlets in chase, we headed for the final turn can - a white vinyl cone 3metres high, not to be confused with the red one 100metres beyond it. He went toward the red. I left-shouldered the white and headed toward shore with a White singlet to either side. Come on waves - gimme some love. A little push. Fall off the back. Breath. Kick it up. Nose scraping across the glass of my board. Pop pop pop. Onto a wave. Staying on my knees, pushing on the deck, shifting my weight forward, I crossed the gutter and was into the wave. Back down to my belly, the wave crashed down behind me - its whitewash providing welcome cooling as it enveloped my legs.

Onto wobbly legs I hopped off my board and into the final run: A 10km Grinder back to Surfer's Paradise.

High Tide Was Upon Us.