The Innaugral Kiwi Kiwi Golf Invitational

St. Andrews, UK • September 2020 • Length of Read: 10 Minutes

“What on earth is a pizza crunch?” asked Ryan in a bemused tone as he eyeballed the chip shop’s takeaway menu. It had been a six-hour journey to get to the coastal town of Anstruther for the man from Sheffield, followed by a full round of golf, and he was ravenous.

“Deep-fried pizza, of course,” answered Gadams with a shiver as a strong North Sea breeze whipped over the harbour walls. I only had a t-shirt on for protection and my nipples had become rock hard in defence. “A local delicacy here in Scotland,” I added. “You can’t come here and not give it a try.”

“Gluten-free fish supper for me,” said Aaron quickly, Ryan’s playing partner for the day. The pair had enviously completed a round on St. Andrews famed Old Course that afternoon whilst I’d been chained to my desk at work and were on cloud nine. After a shaky start of laying up short of the water on the 1st from 116 yards, Aaron had eventually grown some balls by the back 9, culminating in a glorious up-and-down from the infamous 17th Road Hole bunker.

Three-and-a-half years had passed since we’d met flashpacking around New Zealand, our bond having been cemented with an epic outing to Queenstown Golf Club at Kelvin Heights. Gadams had taken the spoils that day, his victory secured with a nerveless birdie up the narrow par 5 closing hole; much to the delight of the nursing home fan club he’d managed to garner attention from under the beating southern summer sun.

It had been a long time in the making, but Ryan was anticipating a different outcome this time around, his handicap having plummeted thanks to the daily practice sessions and significant kit investment. I was still dubious, mind you, and was quietly convinced that he had all the gear but still no idea. We’d find out soon enough, with a tee-off time at the coastal Castle Course booked for early the following morning; our first of 6 rounds to be played over that long-weekend to find a victor of the inaugural, but already steeped in history, Kiwi Kiwi Golf Invitational.

Round 1 – Castle Course

“This man knows how to play Links golf,” chuckled the Starter as my ball drilled low off the 1st tee and skipped along the undulating fairway. I turned and gave a wry smile to my playing partner for the day, Aaron, doing my best to hide the fact that it had been a complete miss-hit knife of a shot and that my hands were still stinging from the impact.

“Cracking shot,” announced Ryan as Gadams then sliced a high moon ball 50 yards right towards the main road before it disappeared into hillock of dense heather. The man still had a lot to understand about Links golf, but as it would quickly become apparent he was a fast learner indeed.

Nervous punches were traded in the opening stages, net pars doing enough to level the scoreboard back-and-forth until we reached Briery Hill – the behemoth 518-yard par 5 4th hole. After a cracking drive down the left-hand side, Aaron left himself the option to lay up with his approach or to take on the burn guarding the green and reach the putting surface in two. “What do you think, Crobs?” he asked me, evidently in two minds. “You’re taking it on,” I said with no hesitation. “This tournament rewards the brave, not the meek.” Choosing his weapon, Aaron took a few practice swings before proceeding to smash the ball along a frozen rope directly towards the flagstick, his shot coming to rest no more than 3 foot from the pin. “Unbelievable,” gasped Ryan from the other side of the fairway, in complete disbelief as to what Aaron had just pulled out the bag. Did he miss the eagle putt? Of course, he did, we’re not professionals. But the game was now afoot and the first blow had been dealt.

A brief stop at the halfway hut for some bacon rolls offered up the most spectacular of vistas. “Dolphins were playing in the bay the other day,” said the Eastern European girl behind the counter as she served us, “and sometimes I even get a glimpse of the fighter jets from the nearby RAF base as they roar past on training exercises. It’s not bad for an office view.”

The wind bore its ugly teeth as we made the turn, our tee shots on the par 3 10th battering our balls straight left and into the gorse like swatted flies. Its full force was then felt on the par 4 11th as I ripped back-to-back 2-irons and still couldn’t reach the green in regulation. It was becoming less about good scoring and more about trying to finish each hole without a lost ball or unwanted trip into the dense, wispy heather. I managed my first birdie of the tournament after a dialled-in wedge on the course’s shortest par 3, but we got little respite and weren’t helped by the speedy 4-ball playing right up behind us.

“That’s Fife golf for you right there,” laughed Graham as yet another of my putts slipped by the hole and I let out a yell of frustration. Another dropped shot, and as we reached the signature 17th hole the match still hung in the balance. A daunting 200+ yards par 3, the tee shot needs to be hit over the side of a cliff edge as the roaring ocean to the right takes all your attention and whispers of ‘out-of-bounds’ circle in the wind… and your mind. Gadams and I proceeded to step up and banana slice our balls straight into the North Sea. Pretty much par for the course at this point.

It came down to some nerves of steel on the 18th green to break the deadlock, Aaron snaking in a 10-foot par putt to take the hole and claim the match-play spoils by the most narrow of margins. Although our team had won the match, however, the course had been the real victor, Ryan topping the Stableford standings with a measly 26 points and the rest of us only managing a depressing 21 points each. As we jumped in the cars and headed into the Home of Golf, each of us was praying for improved performance that afternoon.

Round 2 – Jubilee Course

There was not much to write home about for our second round. 29 points across the board proved that the Jubilee was an easier test of golf, but by no means were any of us firing on all cylinders yet. Ryan took the closest to the pins and long drive challenges, but couldn’t turn these opportunities into points on the scoreboard. I had to play the first 4 holes with a burrowing migraine, the covid-19 distancing measures in place meaning water and food were in short supply. Running on fumes, I was just happy to make it round in one piece and not give up too much ground on my opposition. Even the match-play element of the competition was halved, which meant that Ryan and I would be paired together once again the following morning during the 3rd round.

Round 3 – Eden Course

The easiest course on paper, the Eden is slightly inland and sheltered from the sea, but can still prove to be a tricky track if you don’t keep it straight off the tee or get your yardages incorrect. Feeling rejuvenated, Gadams and I set off hot out the gates, both of us taking advantage of a course that we had played before.

Saying that, however, Gadams wouldn’t be looking for a repeat of the incident that occurred the last time he was in town when his cousin shanked a tee shot straight into the chest of a fellow golfer standing on the green of a bordering hole. The man hit the ground like he’d been shot and lay motionless for a scarily long time before crawling back to his feet. Walking over to sincerely apologise, a heated argument erupted between the two parties before a course marshal passed by on a buggy and managed to calm things down.

A three-ball of older gentlemen were playing up our arses from the get-go, so we kindly let the play through on the 5th. With the casting eyes of four ‘youngsters’ watching over them, however, they proceeded to top each of their respective balls all the way from tee-to-green, somehow managing to claim that it was our fault in the process. After a bit of a spat on the 9th tee about our slow play, the highlight came when all four of us attached the par 5 in two, coming away with a couple of birdies between us – Legends.

Taking stock of the halfway scores on the next tee, a daunting and long par 3 back into the breeze, a foreign Goddess came jogging down the public path towards us. The beauty of St. Andrews golf is that all the courses are public land, and many people were out on this sunny morning walking their dogs, cycling and getting some fresh air. It was my time to impress, and I duly ripped my 3-iron straight onto the green. She, nor anyone else in the vicinity for that matter, even so much as blinked an eye.

Unperturbed, I continued in good form and strung together back-to-back birdies in the closing holes whilst Gadams faltered. It was enough for an impressive 7-over-par round 77, cutting into the lead that Ryan had built up after the first day and securing the match-play win in the process. I love the psychological process of facing an opponent; being able to wear them down with repeated banter.

Round 4– Jubilee Course

Making sure I was well-fed and watered this time round, I stepped onto the first tee at the Jubilee course with renewed confidence. I was playing better, had the layout of this course fresh in my mind from the day before, and was ready to post a low number. Life had other plans, however, and my opening tee shot was a massive duck hook about 30 yards left. I found myself playing my second from the Old Course and, despite my best recovery efforts, chalked down a bogey 5. This continued for the rest of the front 9 and as blisters on my feet began to form it was back to the drawing board.

Saying that, I was faring better than Aaron. Having not managed to break 90 in his first three rounds he was at the rear of the pack and had reverted to using a 7-iron off the tee for safety. A change of tactic which initially worked well, but things then unravelled on the 11th tee when he snap-hooked it straight left over the out-of-bounds-line and was welcomed with a splash as it landed in the ocean below. “Whoa, baby,” we commented as his face turned red. “Michael Jackson. Whoa, baby.”

By the time we reached the 15th the blisters on my feet had swollen to golf ball-size proportions and every step down the fairway was met with wincing pain. My chaffed arse adding to the discomfort, I somehow managed to hold myself together for the final four holes and post a respectable score but it was then straight to the supermarket to get plasters, antiseptic cream and dressing. After a lovely dinner in The Ship Inn in the nearby town of Elie, a wild Saturday night was spent tending to my wounds and watching Sherlock Holmes 2: A Game of Shadows. Absolute banter

Round 5 – New Course

A 5:30am alarm clock awoke us from our slumber for the final day of competition, with the very first tee time on the New Course having our names against it. The wheels of my rented trolley picked up the early-morning dew as we marched down from the clubhouse; not a soul around. Despite lacking my morning coffee, the morning chills kept me alert as I basked in the serene silence. It was still all to play for in the main Stableford competition, with a much sought-after trophy on offer for the champion golfer who could come out on top. Ordered online and shipped from Asia, Gadams was required to superglue it back together after it failed to make it through the international postage service unscathed. A rather apt trophy for such a troubled and ego-checking golf competition. Win or lose, I think we all felt that the monetary aspect of the prize pot wouldn’t be wasted were it put towards collective group lessons.

Steady as she goes seemed to be Ryan’s motto for the New Course that morning as he strung together 10 straight pars to start the day with a bang. Gadams made a nice birdie two to keep in contention, whilst Aaron and I may as well have been playing tennis for all we were worth. We could have been locked up in Bantanimo Bay for some of the dreadful shot-making on display.

Ryan quickly realised that he was on track to break a personal record and things took a more serious turn. After a small wobble on the 16th to take him 1-over-par for the round, Ryan flushed a 3-wood on the long par 3 17th and drained the putt to take him back to level par standing on the 18th tee.

“I’ve never shot level par before,” he admitted, the fire in his eyes showing how much this would mean to him, especially on such a prestigious and challenging course. Putting his ball on the tee peg and taking several deep breaths, he then proceeded to splat his next two shots right and then father right, his ball coming to rest pin high but a good 30 feet off-target. A decent chip left a makeable par putt, but it was evidently Ladies Day as he left it short (does your husband play?) and had to settle for a one-over-par 72.

An outstanding and consistent round of golf nonetheless and proof that power and showmanship is nothing without the nuts and bolts tightened first. His fairway and green in regulation stats were remarkable for the first time playing a course and it was far and away the best of all 24 combined rounds played that weekend. The erratic golfer we had witnessed in New Zealand 3 years ago was nowhere to be seen and this was proof that hard work and persistent practice can pay significant dividends.

Round 6 – New Course

It was a déjà vu moment standing back on the first tee, the sun now beating down from the clear blue skies. To have had three rain-free days of golf on the east coast of Scotland is quite unheard of and to be able to tee up in short sleeves was other-worldly. Back-to-back rounds on the New Course wasn’t ideal, but there were no complaints. With sun cream all over my slippery hands, I pulled out my trusty 5-iron and knocked one down the middle.

Despite finding water hazard after bunker after out-of-bounds, I’d somehow managed to keep my scores ticking over and carried a 1 point Stableford lead over Ryan into the final round, himself with a 2 point lead over Gadams. Aaron was just happy to be there at that point, having amassed a score that would have been deemed exceptional at Lord’s Cricket Ground. Shot, shot, pint, shot, shot, sick.

Playing from behind, Gadams took on an aggressive game plan and quickly made up some ground. A martial was sat in his buggy right behind the tee box on the par 5 8th hole; timekeeping and ensuring that there were no choppers out there destroying the course. Becoming slightly nervous with a figure of authority present, my attempt to smash the life out of my drive resulted in a 15 yard top straight into the thick gorse barely in front of the ladies tee – much to Ryan’s delight. What he didn’t count on, however, was me finding the ball, ripping a 4-iron back into play, and then ripping another 4-iron straight over a blind summit right towards the green. We got to the top of the hill to see that my ball had come to rest less than a foot from the pin. “Golf just isn’t that difficult,” I trolled as I knocked it in for birdie.

Alas, this moment of heroics wasn’t enough to save the day, however, and Gadams ended up making a par on the 108th hole to clinch a 3 point victory over Ryan and myself who ended up in a tie for second.

We nudged elbows in a congratulatory gesture and headed across to the Old Course Swilkan Bridge, one of the most iconic images in golf, for the presentation ceremony. I took great honour in donning Gadams with a charity shop-bought Tweed Jacket as Aaron handed him the weighty trophy and Ryan read out the final scores. Gadams then made a short acceptance speech thanking some of his most trusted believers in Bantersaurus Rex, the Bantom of the Opera, and Banter Claus, before proposing we spend our winnings on a trip to Pizza Hut (13 slices) followed by a full cooked breakfast at Weatherspoons the following morning. A perfect send-off to an incredible weekend with a bunch of legends.

Official Results as sponsored by AWG Electical - Professional. Friendly. Reliable.

Namaste to Nepal

Kathmandu, Nepal • November 2018 • Length of Read: 8 Minutes

“It’s going to bloody hurt,” admitted my GP somewhat gleefully, making no effort to hide the grin on her face. I’d developed a severe ear infection which had kept me up for three days and was now sat in the doctor’s surgery pleading with her to prescribe me with a course of antibiotics to numb the pain. “I’m getting on a long-haul flight to Nepal tomorrow and will be trekking at high altitude,” I explained. “Is there nothing that you can provide?”

“Painkillers won’t help you, I’m afraid,” she shrugged. “The worst-case scenario is that you perforate an eardrum, however, and they usually repair themselves eventually, so I wouldn’t worry about it too much.”

Understanding a lost cause when I saw one, I thanked her for the diagnosis and rose to leave. My doctor had simply told me in medical terms to ‘man up’.

Dad and I were travelling from Glasgow to Kathmandu, where we would have a handful of days to adjust our body clocks to the new time zone before heading into the Himalayas and attempting a twelve-day trek through the Khumbu Valley to Everest Base Camp. We commenced our journey by flying with Emirates through Dubai to Delhi, the Marvel Cinematic Universe franchise keeping me engrossed enough to distract from the continual popping of my ears.

Landing in India we were required to transit through customs before checking back in for our onward flight to Nepal. After a chaotic shuffle through the arrivals hall, we eventually reached the front of the line where a smartly-dressed Immigration Officer demanded we provide a printed out paper copy of our electronic visa - effectively mothballing the online application -  but I thought it best not to argue the point. Especially as he seemed sceptical as to our true relationship, confused as to why I had a beard but my father did not. I muttered something embarrassing about me being the lion of the family and he grinned before stamping our documents and wishing us safe passage.

Nepalese Airways operated as the carrier for our final leg of the journey and I found myself sat next to a young Nepalese girl who had moved to London to study economics. She was returning home for the first time in three years to partake in the Diwali festival of light celebrations and could barely contain her excitement the whole flight. It was pitch black by the time we made it through the further immigration checks upon landing, and we exited the bustling arrivals gate to a babble of taxi drivers pawning for clientele. Trying to find our host was a bit like a real-life role-play of ‘Where’s Wally?’ but Dad’s eagle-eye eventually caught sight of a grubby sign with our surname on it being held up by a well-turned-out middle-aged man, his beaming smile as wide as the Cheshire Cat.

Gyan, the owner of the trekking company we’d booked our trip with, greeted us with a warm Namaste as he put a garland of fresh flowers over our bowed heads before leading us to the waiting car. His motor-mouth then proceeded to chat the entire way to our hotel, letting out a high-pitched Billy goat laugh following anything he, or either of us, said. He was almost more excited for our trip than we were. I loved his enthusiasm.

The Nepalese drive on the left-hand side of the road, a stark reminder of past British East Indian rule, but that’s where the similarity in Highway Codes ends. Forget using lanes, traffic lights, or stop signs. Getting from A to B through Kathmandu felt like a game of Mario Kart. Attempting to bring some form of semblance to the madness, suited and booted police officers took active roles as exquisitely dressed lollipop persons as they waved and whistled vehicles through each junction. We made it from the airport to the tourist district of Thamel in one piece, however, and with Gyan still talking we made arrangements to meet at his office the following morning whilst a bellboy carried the luggage up to our room.

Dad had already tipped the baggage handler at the airport and Gyan’s driver, cleaning out our petty cash, but when the bellboy turned around and coughed, Dad pretended to scrape around his wallet for more loose change. Unsuccessful, and with the glaring eyes of the receptionist leering over us, he ended up handing over $5 for the pleasure which, considering we were only on the first floor, was complete money for old rope. Neither of our bank cards had worked in the airport ATM, so we were relying on Dad’s foreign currency reserves from his last trip Stateside, and that was the smallest denomination he had remaining. It reminded me of Rowan Atkinson’s classic ‘Mr. Bean in Room 426’ sketch, where the bumbling protagonist hands over a lozenge instead of a tip to the hotel porter.

With the horrific air pollution hanging above Kathmandu, however, and the locals coughing non-stop as a result, the next couple of weeks became rather difficult to interpret who was rudely asking for a tip and who was genuinely in need of ailment.

Over breakfast the next morning Gyan issued our itinerary and answered any burning questions before offering us his driver for the day so that we could go and explore the Nepalese capital. Approximately 1 million people live in the bowl-shaped Kathmandu Valley, a poverty-stricken area of the world that was still recovering from a devastating earthquake that hit in 2015 and tore the city apart. Hinduism and Buddhism are the dominant religions, with dozens of temples, alters and elaborate shrines showcasing the importance of faith to the Nepalese people.

“If you run over a bull here then you can get fined and charged with up to six years in prison,” our driver nonchalantly announced, swerving around one of the lumbering animals that had drifted onto the carriageway. We were being escorted to one of the world’s most famous Buddhist temples, where devout followers the world over make the pilgrimage to at least one in their lives.

Upon arrival, we were hijacked by a random bloke wearing a lanyard who took great pleasure in guiding us around fertility temples, across a sacred river, and through a crematorium. There was nothing about the bloke to suggest that he wasn’t being genuine, but I have to put my faith in the following being true. Wearing a lanyard doesn’t immediately give you tour guide credentials, and we could have been spun a complete yarn, but at the risk of offending…

Hindu worshipers wait three days until they cremate the dead, as this is how long it takes for the soul to leave the body. Buddhists, on the other hand, don’t bother sitting around for the 21 grams to disappear and get straight down to the grieving. Taking a seat on the banks of the heavily polluted, but holy, river, we witnessed a genuine dead body get unwrapped from a carpet and scrubbed clean by a family member in the stinking, dirty water. Downstream, peasants dressed in rags were sieving for precious metals, seemingly unperturbed that the river they were waiting in was also being used to prepare a dead body for cremation. I think the only gold they were going to find, however, was the golden arc of urine coming from the monk relieving his bladder on the opposing bank. It was really quite the scene.

Once purified, the corpse is then lifted onto a funeral pyre that other members of the deceased’s family had constructed. Bodies are burned at different platforms along the river depending on their Caste, and depending on the wealth of the family different types of wood are used for the pyre – sandalwood being the most expensive option. Once ablaze, the family will then watch on for hours, mourning the loss of their loved one until the ashes are taken skyward and nothing remains.

Returning to Thamel after this enlightening afternoon, we headed out to explore the maze of colourful night markets and wound up at The Little Buddha Bar for dinner. I’d decided to go completely vegetarian for my time in Nepal, not wanting to risk eating any undercooked meat and end up doing a marathon on the toilet as opposed to up and down the mountain. I opted for the lentil curry dish of dahl baht, a meal that would become a staple part of our diet for the weeks to come.

I was delighted that Dad and I were again getting to share such cultural and adventurous experiences. It was the first ‘boys’ trip that we’d embarked on together in a decade and as we clinked beers together with a cheer I was over the moon that a throwaway idea one Christmas Day had formed into a trip of a lifetime.

Himalayan Helicopter Ride (Bucket List #76)

Lukla, Nepal • November 2018 • Length of Read: 8 Minutes

Nestled high in the Nepalese Himalayas, a multi-day trek from the nearest freeway, lies the small mountain village of Lukla. The gateway for hiking expeditions up the Khumbu Valley to Mount Everest, its economy pairs the unusual combination of rural agriculture with high-end mountaineering. You can walk from one side of Lukla to the other in a matter of minutes, meandering through the rabble of tea houses which offer up basic lodging, decrepit huts retailing the latest North Face gear, and bars that serve the finest moonshine your rupees can buy.

At the far end of the town is its lifeblood – the Hilary-Tenzing Airport. Nothing more than a small shack surrounded by a chain-link fence, the terminal isn’t exactly a sight to behold… but its scary-as-shit runway sure is. Every bit of the 12 degrees downward gradient is required to get departing prop planes airborne, with the narrow slice of tarmac collapsing off the cliff-edge only a couple of hundred metres away. The same goes for incoming flights, with a tall brick wall the final measure in place to stop those planes screeching in from Kathmandu. Throw in the regular rolling fog, thin atmospheric pressure, and bone-chilling icy winds, and it’s not difficult to understand why Lukla is often referred to as ‘the most dangerous airport in the world’.

This thought was omnipresent in my mind as I slouched over my duffel bag on the floor of the Kathmandu Airport domestic terminal, leafing through a paperback copy of Joseph Heller’s Catch-22 as the minutes ticked into hours. Perched to my left, my Dad raised his voice above the babble of concerned backpackers as he tried to politely obtain any information he could out of our trekking guide, Kim, as to the delay. We were scheduled to depart on the third flight leaving Kathmandu that morning, but the low-lying fog at our destination had kept everyone grounded. With sunny skies in the Nepalese capital, the first flight had taken off without a hitch, but having travelled the full 45-minutes to Lukla it was forced to circle back after an aborted landing.

“We will be on our way soon,” Kim shouted back, the party line that he’d been treading along all morning. His eyes told a different story, however, and his eagerness not to displease his paying guests was getting on our nerves. Whispers began circling the departures lounge that no fixed-wing flights would be taking off for the remainder of the day, but another hour came and went to the same reply. “The fog will lift soon. The fog will lift soon.”

When it hit mid-afternoon, Dad and I felt that there was no other option but to make a firm decision. If our flight was cancelled then we’d be sent right to the back of the queue and would be lucky to get another ticket for that same week. Getting an overnight bus to another town was also out of the question, so this left one final option: to charter a helicopter. In high demand, this came with an eye-watering price tag attached, but we managed to strike a partnership with a German couple to fill the remaining seats and split the cost 50/50.  I was ecstatic, primarily because we were finally on the move but also because I’d inadvertently be ticking off another bucket list item in the process.

Before we could get the show on the road, however, we first had to step on the scales and weigh both ourselves and the kit. For safety purposes, helicopters need to ensure that they are never over-loaded and more so than ever at high altitudes. Therefore, it came as much of a relief to see our guide doing mathematical calculations on the back of a napkin as we took it in-turn to step on a set of scales more designed to weigh the vehicle itself rather than its passengers. Once we’d all taken our turn, I looked towards Kim as concern swept over his face. “I think if I just leave my rucksack behind then we should be all good,” he finally concluded after a long pause, stuffing his essentials into the tiny first-aid kit strapped around his waist. How comforting.

Passports checked, we were squashed into a truck with our belongings and shuttled to the helipads. Anticipation lurched in my stomach and nerves started to take over as we then buckled ourselves into the chopper, the burning afternoon sun reflecting off the glass windshield with greenhouse-like intensity. There we sat stationary for a further 30 minutes as I continued to bake like a slow-roast leg of lamb. No sense of urgency, no instructions and no shared agenda. It reminded me of when I was once waiting at a bus stop in Fiji and asked the lady beside me when it was due to arrive. “The bus will come when it needs to come,” she answered, bemused by my sense of urgency. “Stop worrying. No bus in Fiji has ever been late as a result.”

Eventually, a skinny, ginger-haired guy appeared out of nowhere and hopped into the cockpit with a revived sense of purpose that I was beginning to think had been lost in the world. “We have a small window from air traffic control to take off,” he said in an American twang, professionally flipping switches and making final checks as the rotator blades whirled into motion. “Let’s get this bird airborne.”

Swooping away, the bustling pictures of Kathmandu were soon replaced by a panoramic vista of lush green wilderness across the horizon. Dad has been in enough helicopters over the years that he could have fallen asleep, but despite our pilot’s expert manoeuvering I found the first twenty-minutes of flying to be rather tense until by body calibrated to this new form of transport. When that happened, however, I was able to sit back and enjoy the towering peaks coming into view from the distance, snow-covered knives slicing through the lush canopy. A front-row seat to witness nature in all its colossal glory.

It was as we began our descent that the mist rolled in, swallowing up massive chunks of the landscape as it swept across the sky. We rounded one final gap in the hills and there it was, a sliver of grey amongst the endless vegetation. A speck of dust in a gaping chasm. The runway at Lukla. Blink and you would miss the turnoff. It immediately dawned on me why we had been shacked up in the departures lounge all day. This was some hair-on-the-back-of-your-neck-raising stuff, and I counted my blessing that we weren’t hurtling towards it in a thirty-seat plane.

As we drew in closer buildings began to appear, then people. Dozens of people camped out on the runway and playing the same waiting game. The yin to our yang. Unlike our fresh-eyed naivety and gusto about the situation, however, the Australian’s I began chatting to upon landing safely showed a more haggard and lackluster appearance. The Base Camp trek had taken its toll on them, physically and mentally, and all they wanted was to return to civilization for a hot shower and proper meal. “We made it to the final camp at Lobuche before I had to turn back due to altitude sickness,” professed a stocky and rugged bloke of similar age to myself, unable to hide the emotion of how gutted he was.

We wished them safe passage home before making our way passed livestock, kids playing volleyball and locals going about their daily chores, before sheltering down in a little guest house called The Nest. What a rollercoaster of a day it had been, and we hadn’t even set foot on the Base Camp trail yet. It suddenly donned on me that this was no joke, and there was a chance that I, myself, may not make it to our end goal at 5,400m.

With that, my stomach wretched and I immediately felt the need to drop a number two. Rushing through the door with the universal toilet sign on it, I took the stairs to the basement three at a time and dived into one of the cubicles to find that it was nothing but a hole in the ground. Having mastered the art of the squat drop in South America, however, I dropped trowel and let it rip, the watery substance free-flowing in this improved angle of release. As comfortable as Western toilets are, they are not conducive to an effective squeeze, the hunched-over posture closing the gut and preventing easy passage.

My insides empty, I reached to my left for the toilet roll, only to find that there was nothing there. Shit. Figuratively and literally. I swept my surroundings looking for something. A flannel? Wet wipes? Nothing. ‘Oh well, here we go again,’ I said to myself as I fashioned my left hand into a pooper scooper. ‘It’s going to be a long two weeks.’

Completing the David Goggins 4/4/48 Running Challenge

Yorkshire Dales, UK • August 2020 • Length of Read: 10 Minutes

We’ve all had that feeling of being stuck in our comfort zone, procrastinating away those tasks and activities that we know deep down will help us grow and develop as people. Instead of waking up at 6 am to sweat out that gym session, we hit the snooze button. Instead of working on that personal project, we lay in front of the television. Instead of studying for that exam, we needlessly scroll through our social media accounts. Old habits do indeed die hard.

That’s why, in 2008, when entrepreneur Jesse Itzler fell into a routine that he couldn’t get out of, he decided to take extreme action: by inviting a fully-fledged Navy SEAL to stay with him for 30 days and handing over complete control of his schedule. This SEAL was David Goggins, an ultra-runner and all-round badass. “If you’re crazy enough to ask a guy like me to come and live with you,” he’d said to Itzler, “then motherfucker I’m crazy enough to come.”

As documented in Itzler’s book Living with a SEAL, over the course of a month the pair undertook a series of bizarre physical and mental challenges; from submerging themselves in a frozen lake, to spontaneous burpee tests during business meetings, to running through a blizzard. Due to its absurdness, however, one challenge stood out head and shoulders above all others, capturing the minds of hundreds of like-minded individuals looking to push themselves to new limits: The 4x4x48 challenge - run 4 miles every 4 hours for 48 hours.

RUN #1 - 4/48 MILES - 8AM

It didn’t take much persuasion to convince my friends Jay and Gadams to join me on this undertaking, and no sooner had I pitched the idea were we searching for a suitable location. We wanted somewhere relatively equidistant from our hometowns, somewhere in the countryside where we could add scenery to our runs, and somewhere we could switch up the terrain and 4-mile routes at ease. The beautiful Yorkshire Dales ticked all of these boxes.

And that’s how we found ourselves in the car park of Fawston Reservoir in South Yorkshire on a rainy Thursday at 7:50 am, dressed as the 118-118 characters from the popular early 00’s TV advert. As we limbered up I was noticeably nervous and, despite not being under any time pressure or having any competition, still had those distinct butterflies that accompany pre-race jitters. Raising money for Age UK in the process, we had agreed to don fancy dress costumes at each £250 milestone.

Two guys of similar age to ourselves appeared from the public path, soaked to the bone, and upon seeing us bounced over with smiles like we were old friends.

“Love the costumes, guys,” said the shorter of the two, his purple marathon finisher’s t-shirt indicating that he wasn’t your fair-weather athlete. “We’ve just finished a 21 km loop. What are you up to?”

“We’re running the David Goggins 4x4x48 challenge for charity,” explained Jay.

“Ah yeah, I’ve heard of that. Here, let me take your photo. How many runs have you completed so far?”

“This is the start line,” admitted Gadams as the three of us huddled in for a picture.

“No wonder you look so fresh and cheery,” he said, handing back the iPhone and turning towards his car. “We need to head off to work now, but best of luck to you.”

We gave them thanks and as they departed we started our watches and set-off. The first part of the route took us along an A-road and the tooting horns of commuting cars offered some early support as we hollered ‘Got your number’ at each passing smile. The path then dropped down through a forest, winding its way to the banks of the reservoir where for 6 peaceful kilometers we circumnavigated the beautiful body of water. The first of twelve runs was an absolute breeze and as we stretched out our legs on the homeward section I couldn’t help but think to myself: ‘how hard can this challenge be?’

RUN #2 - 8/48 MILES - 12PM

After a large bowl of porridge for breakfast, Jay set out on a reconnaissance mission in his car to scout some future routes, returning half-an-hour later and boasting of a monster hill that we should incorporate into our second run. Still naïve to the challenge ahead, Gadams and I agreed wholeheartedly, and as we exited our farmhouse base at midday to blue skies we were raring to go.

Our costume of choice this time around was bananas, and as we strode onto the country road a vista of fields and hedgerows stretched as far as the eye could see. Unfortunately, our costumes made taking in these picturesque surroundings rather difficult. As did the persistent headwind, which effectively turned our bananas into buffers. It was like trying to run with an open parachute on your back. About a mile in, an oncoming Range Rover slowed to a halt and a well-dressed elderly gentleman stuck his head out of the driver-side window. “Are you guys running for charity?” he beamed, clearly entertained. It can’t be that often you see a bunch of bananas running about your backroads, I suppose. “Those costumes are fantastic. Give me the link to your donation page and I’ll be sure to contribute.”

Despite a knee injury having impacted my training schedule, my legs were feeling good. We continued on a declining gradient until the 3-mile mark, at which the dreaded hill appeared ahead of us like Mount Everest: a vertical mile of tarmac stretching skywards to the farmhouse. There was nothing for it but to face my head down and keep the motor running. The banana costume soaked up sweat like a sponge and became heavier and heavier with every shuffling step, but again the excitement of passers-by and their hoking horns motivated me to the top and the completion of mile number eight.

RUN #3 - 12/48 MILES - 4PM

We returned to the reservoir-loop for our third run, having spent the afternoon recovering in the hot tub and piling on the calories. It was apparent that our caloric intake would be through the roof for the duration of the challenge as our bodies tried to replenish the energy exerted every four hours. Anticipating this, we had carefully prepared our meals in advance so that we could feast immediately after each run and maximize our digestive and recovery time. Fitting then that we were now adorned in chefs hats and aprons, having surpassed the £750 donation mark.

As the sun beat down on us I fell behind Gadams and Jay, my knee becoming more and more uncomfortable with each twist and turn in the trail. I tried to keep the grimace from my face, but my worst fear was being realized much earlier in the challenge than I had anticipated. The IT-band runs from your glute down the outside of your thigh muscle and is a common injury among runners that can sideline them for months. When inflamed, it causes an unmistakable pain on the outside of your knee that feels like the stabbing of a dagger. Barely 10-miles into the challenge and I already was beginning to limp.

The reservoir was packed with visitors; couples out for romantic afternoon strolls, families pushing their babies in prams, and elderly friends out for a relaxing chat in the sunshine. Had I been alone and dressed less ridiculously then I may well have fallen into a walk. When you’re chasing two other chefs who also look like they are fleeing a burning kitchen, however, pride and self-consciousness come to the fore. The mantra ‘don’t care what other people think’ is a good one to live by, but at that moment in time caring what every passer-by was thinking served as the ultimate motivator to keep my legs going. Blocking out the pain, I completed the 4 miles in my slowest time yet, spurred on by the shout of ‘hurry up, you’ll be late for dinner’ coming from a small child out playing with her family.

RUN #4 - 16/48 MILES - 8PM

A Storage Hunters omnibus kept us entertained as I iced my leg with a bag of frozen peas. Jay was chowing down a chicken salad and Gadams working his way through a bag of potato waffles, proving that there was more than one way to fuel the body throughout the challenge.

We had earmarked a flat route along the country roads near our farmhouse for the next run - two miles out and two miles back. I traded my t-shirt for a knee-support and as we jogged towards the setting sun I felt night-and-day better than four-hours before. My body was adapting to its shortened circadian rhythm and, now a third of the way into the challenge, run-rest-repeat was becoming ingrained in my brain.

RUN #5 - 20/48 MILES - 12AM

After forty winks, I awoke at midnight to the news that we’d raised £1,000 for Age UK. Despite it being pitch black outside, a promise was a promise, so we pulled on our skimpy cheerleader costumes as a mark of hitting the milestone, strapped on our head-torches, and headed down to the reservoir. To mix things up we agreed to run anti-clockwise this time, and also to stick together conga-style so as not to get lost or wander off course. There was no moon in the sky to provide natural light, so the power of two AA-batteries was all I had beaming out in front of me.

It proved tricky to navigate the trail with blinkered visibility of about two metres, and the uneven, undulating surface was playing havoc with my stride pattern. This, in turn, put additional pressure on my knee, and twice in the first 400m I had to pull up and stretch out my right leg. Gadams and Jay stood strong in their promise to remain by my side for the 4-miles, however, and their words of encouragement were a God-send. Although the Ibuprofen was kicking in and helping, laughter is the best medicine and I couldn’t feel too downtrodden for long. The ridiculous costumes not only added novelty to our fundraising effort but were also serving as a motivational tool more than I’d ever imagined. No matter how badly I was hurting, the absurdity of running around Yorkshire in a skin-tight cheerleader costume completely took the pressure off and was a welcome distraction for the pain. One foot before the other and my prayers for the car park finish line to materialize in front of us were eventually answered.

With seven runs to go, I was severely doubting whether I was up for completing the challenge. I’d read online beforehand that it was as much a mental test as it was a physical one, and as my head hit the pillow at 1 am for a brief two-hour kip I was beginning to realize why. My mind was in constant motion and that ever-looming threat of the next run was omnipresent. Tick tock. Tick tock. Only three hours to go until we had to face it all over again. Who was going to carry the boats? Who was going carry the logs? We were.

RUN #6 - 24/48 MILES (HALFWAY MARK) - 4AM

A gorgeous sunrise over the countryside fields greeted us upon completion of our sixth run, and with the dawn of a new day came the confidence that I could finish the challenge. It was a huge psychological barrier to hit the halfway mark and after a hearty bowl of porridge and cleanse in the hot tub I felt like a new man. The rollercoaster of pain and emotions was an uncomfortable ride, but one I was now adamant that I wouldn’t fall off.

RUN #7 - 28/48 MILES - 8AM

After two runs guided by headtorch, it was a welcome sight to be setting off on the seventh run in daylight. We were quickly learning the country roads like the back of our hands, and each turn in the asphalt and gradient change served as a checkpoint: Farmhouse to the end of the driveway – 200m; farmhouse road to Give Way junction – 1 mile; A-road to the reservoir – 1.5 miles. If you’re looking to undertake this challenge, then I strongly recommend you do it in a rural area where the air is cleaner and the grass is greener. A fresh setting also gives you time to think, removes home-life distractions, and allows you to better escape routines.

RUN #8 - 32/48 MILES - 12PM

I was less than one kilometre into the eighth run and could already feel rivers of sweat coming off my forehead and flowing down my spine. The midday sun was so strong that it could have fried an egg on the baking hot tarmac and the ridiculous raver’s wig and floral patterned shirt I had on were not exactly keeping me cool. As each stride took us further into the furnace of Hell, however, we were spurred on by the hollers of encouragement from passing cars.

The Friday traffic was picking up as people traveled to the Dales for the weekend and the sight of three stupidly-dressed men running in unadorned surroundings was putting smiles on dozens of faces. We had personal motivations to complete the challenge, of course, but the fact that we could raise money for a good cause and entertain people at the same time was making it a far more rewarding adventure than I had ever anticipated it would be.

RUN #9 - 36/48 MILES - 4PM

With two-thirds of the challenge complete, we fell into a false sense of belief that the end was in sight. My whole body was beaten and broke, but I’d become accustomed to the perpetual pain which now persisted even in between runs. It was mind over matter from this point on. Some cloud cover had brought the temperature down and we eased through the ninth run with what felt like a good amount of reserves in the tank. A chicken and sweet potato curry was our reward and straight after dinner, I got some shut-eye before our final daylight run. The sleep deprivation was starting to take its toll.

RUN #10 - 40/48 MILES - 8PM

The cheerleader outfits made a triumphant return for our 8 pm outing, as did the Everest incline that we’d conquered in our banana costumes on run number 2. Setting off, it seemed like a lifetime had passed since then and as the heavens opened the midday heat was now a long-gone memory. The rain came down as heavy as a South-East Asian monsoon and lightning cracked across the sky as my shoes began to fill with water. In a masochistic way, I welcomed this weather warning. It was an opportunity to harden my mind in tougher conditions, and I was relishing the opportunity. Jay and Gadams summited the monster hill a few minutes before I did and had their iPhones at the ready to catch me on tape as I reached the top. ‘Ten down, two to go,’ I smiled, raising my hands to the sky.

RUN #11 - 44/48 MILES - 12AM

What a difference 4 hours makes. From the excruciating pain of run 3 to cruising run 4 I felt like I’d been healed by Our Lady of Lourdes, but the complete opposite had now happened between runs 10 and 11. Making my way up the driveway I could have been mistaken for trying to imitate a John Wayne western, but a constantly moving bowel and sandpaper-like toilet paper does that to you. Considering my condition, we agreed to just run shuttles back and forth along the farmhouse road until the 6.4 km was complete, and I set off in earnest.

I’d made myself a promise to never walk.  Once that happens, then you’ve succumbed to the mental battle. There were no rules against it, mind you, but had I not run every step of the way I would have felt like a bit of a charlatan. The penultimate run proved to be the slowest and most difficult of the lot as I fought against a sprained ankle for the majority of the distance, but the end was now tantalizingly close.

RUN #12 - 48/48 MILES - 4AM

My final alarm clock went off with the pitch of an air raid siren, but knowing that we were embarking on the final 4-mile victory lap I sprung out of bed ready to empty the tank. It’s somewhat fitting to complete such a mentally and physically exhaustive challenge in the manner that we did. No fanfare. No finish line set up. No crowds cheering us on. Only the sound of our heavy footsteps and breathing accompanied us as our GPS watches ticked over the 48-mile mark at 4:40 am. “You don’t know me, son” I yelled out into the early dawn, beating the rooster’s crow.

My whole body hurt, from my busted knee to my peeling feet to the jabbing pain in my back that felt like I’d been punched in the kidney. But we had completed what we set out to do with fairly minimal fuss and taking the highs and lows in our stride. We stumbled in the front door of the farmhouse, stripped off our sweaty clothes for one last time, and crashed out. With £2,200 raised for Age UK – challenge complete.

If you wish to donate to Age UK and support a fantastic cause, then please visit the link below:

https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/run48hourchallenge

Top 5 of 2019: A Crobs Abroad Year in Review

Glasgow, Scotland, UK • December 2019 • Length of Read: 2 Minutes

The past twelve months have given me the opportunity to slow down and enjoy the fruits that were planted during my formative years of adulthood. Time, always my most valued commodity, has been at the forefront of all the major decisions I’ve made, and my relationship with Eva has blossomed into something so spectacular and incredible that sometimes I have to pinch myself as a reminder that it’s not just a fairy-tale dream but real.

As will be apparent from the lack of new material produced this year, writing has taken a back-seat to fitness as I’ve created a solid structure around my diet and exercise regime. Despite also seeing changes to my employment and living situations, however, I’ve still managed to cross a few more items off the bucket list and am now a third of the way towards completing the 150 items that were set a decade ago. Some notable trips from this year include visiting my best friend in Dublin, relaxing on the beaches of Crete with my love, golfing with an awesome group of guys in Portugal, and spending quality family time with my brother and parents in Bologna.

On the learning front, geo-politics was a topic that I found of particular interest in 2019 and I also took a shining to the programming on Netflix, my favourite documentaries and series being Ricky Gervais’ After Life, the Obama-endorsed American Factory and Dre’s The Defiant Ones. Three books I couldn’t put down were Talking to Strangers by Malcolm Gladwell, The Jersey by Peter Bills, and Becoming by Michelle Obama.

And after much deliberation, here are my top five moments of 2019:  

• Taking a sunset Gondola ride through the canals of Venice with my Eva after a day exploring the islands of Murano and Burano; topped off with a concerto in the piazza.

• Road-tripping up to Skye with the Tourists, where we bagged a Munro, sampled flights of whisky at a ceilidh with a movie star, and crawled between the taverns of Fort William.

• Improving my cardio, gymnastics, and weightlifting at Crossfit Glasgow, where I’ve been able to challenge myself physically and mentally in a goal-oriented environment against some awesome training partners.

• Purchasing a flat and taking my first step onto the property ladder.

• Relaxing in heated outdoor whirlpools in Chamonix against a backdrop of the glorious snow-capped French Alps.

For the first time in these annual reviews, I’m also going to set myself some goals for the twelve months ahead. I’m not really one for New Year’s Resolutions, preferring to take action in the here-and-now than waiting until January rolls into town, but to kick-start 2020 I’d like to: learn basic conversational Greek, gain the gymnastic strength to string together a set of bar muscle-ups, and make a conscious effort to complain less. After all, I’ve got a new roof over my head and am sitting pretty with the woman I love lying in my bed. Life is more than alright.