Do something that scares you.

My foray into multi-sporting began with a feeling, mainly of admiration but also envy. Women who could skillfully throw themselves down whitewater rapids in long, pointy boats having just scaled a mountain pass, and before that cycled over 50km in such close proximity to fellow competitors that you could smell their armpits; they were hardcore. I wanted to be one of those women. Unfortunately, I had zero kayaking skills.

The solution? Enter the 1-day Coast to Coast World Multisport Championships race across New Zealand. Surprisingly I got a place. Even more surprisingly, my entry did not come with an instantaneous ability to kayak. Dammit. Nor a free kayak. Double dammit.

The second solution turned out to be more beneficial than the first for my kayaking – to recruit close friends and forge lasting friendships with those who have done it before. By ‘recruit’ I mean beg, borrow, and steal their kit, and by ‘forge’, I actually mean have repeated melt downs in the presence of multi-sporting legends. I have no shame. Nor will any beginner I came to realise ever be made to feel ashamed of being fearful of the river. Everyone has been there at some point. It only took one morning on the water and a shared packet of energy chews for these strangers to became solid friends I could rely on.

My anxiety towards the river was a hard pill to swallow, as far as I can remember I’ve never been anxious of any outdoor activity. Not only was I learning an entirely new sport but also how to handle foreign and unwanted feelings. Swimming in the Thames in London didn’t bother me (nor my guts for that matter!) but lock my spray skirt on and torpedo me down a moving body of water and I felt instantly vulnerable. It brought about an acute respect for the power of the mighty awa and what felt like a severe lack of command over it. There were boils, braids, strainers, and sweepers – aqua versions of a mushroom cloud, crooked woven fingers of water and anything potentially dangerous you can get pinned under. It took guts of a different kind to repeatedly show up, to constantly question my why and even replace all my bras as my back muscles outgrew my boobs. I had a lot to learn but multi-sporters have a great knack for encouraging you.  It sounds cliché or too simple to be true, but you just have to have the courage to show up.

My first paddle down the Waimakariri river nearly ended in disaster 30km in. Learning I had only reached the halfway point, expletives echoed off the shear walls of the gorge. I had no concept of what 70km in a kayak looked like. Out of exhaustion, I was starting to get a wobbly bottom lip. I was also learning quickly that my adventures always seem to start with an incidental adventure of another kind, like action movie trailers prior to the film showing.

A car had come off the road near our put in at Gooseberry Flats making the road impassable. It was too far to carry our kayaks down there and way too far to drive back to Mt. White Bridge. Time was ticking. It was past midday and with escalating winds it was getting late to get on any river especially with me as a novice in tow. We parked up, kitted up and dragged our kayaks through a cliff top of gorse, then winched them down the side of a cliff.

I took a spill on the first rapid going into the gorge and for fear of losing my [borrowed friend’s] boat I clung on tightly but watched helplessly as my water bladder swiftly rode the rapids never to be seen again. My heart sank, if this were to be the outcome of every rapid in the gorge, we were in trouble. There was no way we were finishing in daylight.

 It turns out first timers’ nerves had made me overcautious. I’d taken the rapid too tightly and eddied myself out, pinning myself against the embankment sideways to the flow. This was not a good place to be. When my face hit the cold water, I lost all brain function and did not even attempt to roll back upright. Instead, I ripped myself from the kayak’s deck without second thought. Peaking on adrenaline, I emptied my submarine and the for the rest of the gorge I white-knuckled it down; I was in fight or flight mode and absolutely nothing was tipping me out that kayak again. Even the strength of the wind drained my energy reserves, with every paddle forward feeling like two backwards, my arms were failing me, and my technique soon turned to custard. Yet we made it, and like the end to any truly great chick flick, we paddled into the setting sun. I felt particularly thankful to be alive, and so in celebration we dived into a giant bag of chips, bathing in all their salted glory.

 This was an ass whooping of an awakening. I knew I had my work cut out if I were to even dream of making the race cut off times. I had three months to sort my shit. There was only so much my physical abilities could improve in that time, so after a short period of ‘counselling’ from the hubby, I focused on my mental game and pulled up my big girl socks. No more self-sabotaging, only positivity and supportive praise.

 January’s Rasdex Classic River Race felt like D-day, if I could get myself down the Waimakariri Gorge it would give me that mental boost I needed going into race day. With each passing rapid I remained upright, I passed others unfortunate enough to be taking a swim, their kayak in tow and kicking for the shoreline. Even though I was effectively in a battleship compared to many competitors more delicate and tippy kayaks, I’m ashamed to admit that somewhere deep in my reptilian brain I drew strength from this, my trusty red Saracen steaming by their capsized piece of flash carbon fiber. Each swim would add at least 10-15 minutes onto your finishing time, if I could just stay upright, maybe there was hope that I wouldn’t be dead last.

Never have I been prouder of a 185th finish (15th place novice), and not only did I avoid being the tail end Charlie, I also made it down in a time that, if all went well come race day, I’d meet the cut off times…

I certainly did not foresee how Coast to Coast race day would turn out. Getting pulled from the river because I missed the cut off time at Woodstock, that was a possibility, but not actually reaching the river, that was out of the question. If you’re a Coast to Coast follower, you’ll maybe have guessed how my story ended this year, sharing the same sorry fate with nearly fifty percent of the field. The Waimak was big, too big in fact for officials to grant safe passage.

 Mount White Bridge came and went. The 15km cycle to reach the kayak transition had changed to 113km. The clock was against me and so were many, many meters of vert. I knew even as I left the mountain run, gagging on a dry cheese toastie, that my fate was already destined for failure. Throwing the rest of my toastie down my bra, I held on to the last shred of hope, let’s see what these legs were made of. Just before Porters Pass I psyched myself out. With the weather closing in, my cheese toastie and I ground to a halt.

 Who knows what the outcome may have been had the course not changed, I may have freaked myself out at the size of the river and been unable to paddle. Alternatively, the speed of flow may have given me jet boosters and dosed high with caffeine and candy cycled that last 70km like a homing pigeon, flying across the finish line at Sumner.

 Either way, I no longer see my efforts as a failure. I’ve learnt so much over the past year, I can only feel a sense of achievement. I’ve pushed my boundaries, faced new fears and I never backed down. I just kept showing up, even to the start line.

In all honesty, I still don’t feel able to identify as a kayaker, but I don’t think that matters, I’ve strengthened my will to succeed and one day I’d like to show up at the finish line too.

So, amid an undercurrent of stubbornness and some might say naivety, there’s a message in here somewhere about perseverance and grit… as they say in kayaking ‘If in doubt, paddle hard out.’