I am nearly four hours into the world’s toughest ice race and I need a wee. I pull over at a point far out on frozen Kallavesi lake. The sun is shining but the temperature is pushing -22C. After a minute of fumbling I manage to get my inner and outer gloves off. Now for the search and rescue. Beneath my Lycra penguin costume is the ultimate chastity belt: six thermal, windproof layers lie between me and my goal. Getting through this is like trying to negotiate one of those annoying Christmas brain teaser puzzles, but without feeling in your fingers. Eventually I manage to free willy, so to speak. The whole procedure has taken nearly five minutes and I have lost feeling in my right hand. I think of the ironic “Have fun!” sign at the start/finish (see above). Actually, no I don’t. I just swear rather loudly.
You may have come across my previous blogpost – if not, then have a read. It will cast some light on how I came to be peeing on a frozen lake, wearing a penguin suit, in a 200km ice race.
In spite of a fire in my kitchen at 4am on the morning of my flight, the week of the marathon started well. I’d been invited to stay with the British ambassador in Finland, so with Ferrero Rocher in one hand and a timeless framed photo in the other, I arrived at the palatial residence smelling of burnt kitchen. This memorable moment was followed by a phone call asking if I’d care to be on the evening news. What better opportunity to show some Finnish-British cultural kinship, the ambassador and I thought. Cue discussion of my private parts and their welfare on national television. My dignity may never recover. A day later I was in Kuopio, the Finnish-British relationship reinforced.
Much had been mentioned about the current Arctic conditions but stepping off the train to find my eyelids freezing was worrying, and seeing the hardy locals complaining just cemented this fear. Trust an Englishman to pick one of the coldest weeks on record to come ice skating.
That was Wednesday. Thursday involved shopping for codpieces with Timo, the marathon organiser. By Friday I was acclimatising, however, with temperatures of -38C recorded on the lake, the whole event was now in doubt. To make matters more interesting the track had been shortened due to poor conditions and the 200km race was now just 140km. You’d have thought I’d be rejoicing at this news, but to be honest I wasn’t. The whole idea of attempting the impossible in true Great Ormond Street style seemed at risk of getting watered down. Then there was the fundraising; and, if I’m honest, a large part of me wanted to at least give it a go. What came back was a rather frightening suggestion. They would let me attempt the full 200km, but for the last 60km I’d be on my own. The nightmare vision of a lone penguin waddling about on the ice came to mind.
What was needed was a bit of training and some calming advice from a few of the 22 skaters who were attempting the 140km. As we circuited the track, seasoned 200km-finisher Pekka spoke and I listened. It went something like this: “Wear face tape here, here, and here” … “Wind-chill -50 to -60” … “Have you toe warmers, yes? Good” … “Pay attention to cracks every second” … “Oh and don’t wash your face any more.” Taking that knowledge on board, we wished each other good luck.
Race day. Just over three months had passed since I started this adventure on a cold, wet Tuesday morning in Finsbury Park by testing my eBay-bought rollerblades. Now I was on the Kuopio start line, dressed in a penguin suit, with a bunch of complete nutters. There was no starting gun. Timo simply said, “OK, you can go now”. The compassionate tone in which this was delivered was worrying.
Soon the crowd of skaters spread out as people settled into pelotons (groups) of various speeds. Not really having any idea what I was doing, I found myself in a medium-fast pack of eight skaters. The benefit of being in a peloton is the reduced wind resistance it gives you. The downside is you spend most of your time (if you’re inexperienced like me) staring at the next guy’s derrière and not at the cracks which litter the surface of the ice. It wasn’t long before I unceremoniously stacked it, the skaters behind me neatly skirting around the wreckage. No one stops for you here.
After about two hours I realized that I could not keep up this speed. The matter was decided for me when my goggles froze up.
Continuing solo brought positives and negatives. I’d given up staring at human cracks and could now focus on the ice variety. However the extra wind resistance meant 30% more energy usage, something I would come to regret. Then there was the cold. Peaking at a balmy -20C in the sunshine, everyone’s head, mine included, had turned to something resembling an ice sculpture.
Meanwhile my wife, Ela, brother, Angus, and dad were dutifully waving me on and offering much needed encouragement. Not easy in the minus twenties, especially when the area around my mouth froze over. My immobile hands meant she had to force feed me wedges of Soreen loaf and flapjack through an ice tunnel to my mouth, or often just into my beard. At least this led to a useful emergency food storage area for later on.
Eighty kilometres. That was when I hit the wall. Time slowed right down and each lap seemed to last forever as I continuously repeated its number in my head. On lap 31 someone pointed out that I was, in fact, on lap 30. I nearly stopped and bladed them. Things were bad. This was a long wall. As if to rub salt in the wound, the ice was especially un-ice like. Below -20 it sticks to your blades, a great fact but one I didn’t appreciate much. I went down again. Outlook: bleak.
For the next four hours I plugged onwards. Now and then a “Go Pingviini!” would wake me from my internal dialogue, as one of the pro skaters and their peloton overtook me in a flurry stainless steel. I would feebly link on to the back of the chain for about 20 seconds before my lower back brought me back to earth.
Bit by bit I scraped away at the kilometres until I realized I had made it to 140km: 2011’s full race distance, and what had now become the acceptable end of ‘Teddy’s miscalculated adventure on ice’. However, finding myself here brought on something else …
What can best be described as a ‘Rocky moment’ suddenly occurred – broken man, facing defeat, dribbling on canvas, sees wife in the crowd – cue fight back. In reality it was more like – broken man, thinks he might just be able to make it, wife force-feeds him malt loaf, tells him to get on with it. My brain then kindly stopped thinking. Autopilot had taken over.
By now there weren’t many people on the track. With the sun going down, casting mile-long shadows across the lake, I felt very small and insignificant. As if to drive this home, I went down head first, too tired to put my hands out front.
Any hope of beating the darkness ended as it overtook me with 20km still to go. As I struggled to make out the cracks my fate seemed sealed.
But Timo had other plans. His 4×4 motored on to the track behind me, a knight with shining headlamps. This was surreal. Skating on natural, cracked ice is interesting at the best of times, doing so in the dark by the light of a car can only be described as buttock-clenching. We started our strange car chase across the ice.
Crossing the finishing line was pretty emotional. A hardy handful of cheering fans, paramedics, and family gathered round clapping their frozen stumps, either for me or to keep warm. It had taken me nine hours 27 minutes. Of the 22 to start the 140km race, 11 finished. Of the one penguin to start the 200km one finished. Some frozen tulips were handed to me. I would have cried if my tear ducts hadn’t been frozen.
• You can read more about Angus’s story and follow Teddy’s misguided adventure at teddyonice.com, and you can sponsor Teddy at justgiving.com
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