A Montenegrin Beast.

   It is 10am, and I am sat in the cloisters of Dubrovnik's Old City. There is a Croatian guitarist playing soothing melancholy tunes and ice-cream parlours selling mountains of perfect Gelato. Last night it rained, and so the smooth marble streets are slippery and shining with a thin layer of moisture constantly being spread by the army of white-haired tourists that shuffle from sight to sight.

   I too am shuffling, partly because of the wet streets, but mainly because of what happened on Sunday. I woke at 6 am that morning in an olive grove, planning to cruise gently to Porto Montenegro and contemplate running a 10 km "hash" race as part of Adventure Montenegro... I know... "You are cycling across a continent Aaron. Why would you run? It will only make things harder?"

    Well mainly it is my mother's fault. She suggested finding some outdoor sports to break up the cycling- but   it being the end of the season meant that all of the rafting, paragliding, and water skiing were working on an awkward timescale. This race however, that she so kindly happened upon, was the following morning and on my route North... To skip it would be considered wimping out to my masochistic brain.

   I arrived at the yacht club with minutes to spare and to my surprise, nearly everyone was an ex-pat! English and American accents were like music to my ears. Word began to spread of a mental guy who was cycling from Istanbul to Belfast and was signing up for the 10 km hash... And that quickly and uncontrollably escalated to;

"Why don't you run the whole race?!"

A 10 km off road mountain run?
A 25 km mountain bike stage?
A 10 km sea kayak?

Individually they all sounded lovely and in the hurried ecstasy of pre-race logistics, I said yes!

   Stef, my team mate for the race arrived, and it wasn't until after the "chalk talk" and blast of the airhorn to signal the start of the event that I realised, when added together, the three events accumulate to more than a marathon! I was in a mountain triathlon!

   Stef would tell you that he held me back but in truth he gave me time to breathe. I'm sure if I'd run the way I felt I should I'd be in a much worse state than just shuffling around marble streets today. The run began on solid tarmac, then swerved into forests, all the time climbing away from civilisation into the mountains that give Montenegro its name. As Stef and I separated to check the chalk marked trail, he said casually, "watch out for snakes man." I was adventuring.

   The trail opened onto a goat path crossing a landslide giving an unbeatable view of the Hercig Novi- Tivat bay, (The view I intended to miss by taking the ferry and saving myself a 40 km mountain road...) and finally, with 3 km to go, rejoined the road and descended to the airstrip.

   A speedy refill of water and the gift of a map with marked checkpoints had us on to the mountain bikes. The first tun took us off road and across a rocky path through a nature reserve. It was so exhilarating to be bouncing and jumping, skidding and swerving through scree and potholes instead of avoiding them like the plague for fear of cracking a rim. A wrong turn later and there was trouble. We had to climb; with our bikes over our shoulders, up a steep path through thorn bushes. The mosquitoes filled the air and both of us were to be seen coughing them up as they whizzed down our throats. I was so sweaty, that instead of mosquitoes dropping to the ground after I'd swatted them, they stayed stuck to me in their own little outline of my blood. I felt like some sort of warrior explorer.

   The off road turned out to be harsh on my team mate. He emerged from the undergrowth in a bit of bother and I found myself giving the "its better to quit while you're ahead" speech. I didn't know whether I was being a douche bag or helping a brother out, though he said himself that he thought he was on the edge, so he made the phone call to have the Land Rover come pick him up.

   With that I was off. As it happens, pulling a fully loaded touring bike up graded hills for two weeks really makes light work of a sprint on a mountain bike! Using the extra cog of low gears I chugged up a 9 km ascent to a view that out did that of the run! At 500m up the bay looked amazing. I let out a huge "woo hoo!" as I reached the top and the next checkpoint. I too was dizzy with dehydration at this point, so I refilled my water sac twice, pretty much inhaled three bananas, then tipped the rest of the water at the checkpoint over my head.

"You have fun from here." Said a Course Marshal. "All downhill."

   It most definitely was. Gravel strewn switchbacks had me gasping for air on a white knuckle descent, all the while singing and randomly screaming with joy. It was just brilliant.

   I screeched on to the beach alongside the Land Rover with Stef inside, and together once more we donned our life vests and pushed out into spectacularly blue Adriatic. I love this sea. Every time I've entered the water I have encountered some sort of marine life. From Crab biting my shorts, to a free foot spa everyone pays a fortune for from those little fish in shopping centres, to Pelicans beating their wings on their ocean runway as they take off for a glide over the surface. I digress. We powered out to the island that had the final checkpoint, then pushed out for the mammoth stretch to Hercig Novi fortress, and the beer.

   Of the three disciplines I was competing in, kayaking was definitely my biggest challenge. Through a lethal combination of inexperience, exhaustion, and the on-set of multiple cramps I began to go into that dark zone that members of the Armed Forces call "Beasting". During my marathon training this year, people commonly referred to this sensation as "hitting the wall"- and boy is it feared. But, through experience, reading some life changing books, and pep-talks from some inspirational human beings, I've learnt to embrace the coming of "the Beast", and now I'd say there's nothing like feeling of wrestling with it. To just keep pushing and breathing; every second you do it your natural body defies your logical brain. You beat yourself and reveal exactly what you can do on the human spirit alone. (It is even better when you see someone else who is Beasting and you share a nod of approval and a knowing smile through gritted teeth.)

   We pushed our way to the fortress on the shore in a silence only broken when the songs I sang in my head became vocal in a moment of intense struggle against a current that had made a pact with someone up above to not let us finish. After one particular outburst of mine with about 4 km to go, Stef said,

"You OK man? Do you want to stop?"

"NO!" I roared on impulse as my paddle reentered the water, and I struggled on. (He later revealed that this was a proposal to honourably discharge both of us as a team "But the bastard said no!" he said.)

   Then we heard it. The claps and the cheers of the organisers on the beach. It was done. We had done it. I had done it. An Adventure race. Done.

   I clambered out of the kayak onto the stony beach and received countless hugs and handshakes, a freezing cold beer, and the first event t-shirt that instantly meant something. (The marathon shirt was good too, but this immediately felt special.)

   Before I went to the bar for the certificate presentation, I walked into the sea and just stood for a while. In awe.

In awe of the surroundings.

In awe of the support I had received.

In awe of the absurdity of the day's events.

In awe of the beast.

In awe of myself.

   I couldn't believe I had done it. I don't know how to describe the feeling; I think I would need William Shakespeare and Vincent Van Gogh to team up to write and draw the scene, then have Peter Jackson shoot the moment on a rotating swing camera in  high definition and have Iron Maiden duet with Metallica to over score the whole thing. It was euphoria.

   I have never seen myself as any sort of sporting achiever. Since dislocating a knee four times, and a shoulder twice, I was ruled out of contact sport world and became a self diagnosed eternal spectator. I never thought I'd compete physically for anything. It came as a shock when I rose painfully to collect my certificate; the race organiser held on to my hand and announced to the small crowd,

"...and it doesn't stop here for Aaron, now he continues to cycle on wards to Ireland! How fucking hardcore is that?!"

   A cheer sounded from somewhere beyond my exhaustion and beer induced blurred vision. That was a moment of pride.

   The message in this is, if I can do it; me, the skinny guy who sang in a choir through school and spent a year living at a Peace centre- then so can you. (the mythical reader. Who is reading this? I don't know.) Let's sign up to something together, and bear witness to the miracles the combination of a human body and human spirit can achieve.

A well earned pint.

My trusted steed.

The organising committee have a lot of action shots throughout the race. As soon as they're published I'll nab a few for all to see!