#RugbyFamily – Page 2 – Deano's World

Have you ever had that feeling of trepidation when you look around a room and everyone there is so much more prepared than you? I’m in a briefing with the rest of the LMAX Exchange Everest Rugby Challenge team, listening to Dave and Carrie from Adventure Peaks telling us what to expect, and I’m pretty much shitting myself. To make it worse, they are only talking about the training walk around the Lake District tomorrow and not the actual trip to Everest.

It probably doesn’t help that since I last climbed any mountain I have had my L5 disk removed, recovered from a bout of ITP, torn the ACL in my left knee and eaten far too much cheese. I was pretty sure most of the people in that room could outperform me on the hill in their sleep and I was genuinely not even sure I’d make it out of Ambleside before I started struggling to breath.

The plan was a route known as the Fairfield Horseshoe which has a disarmingly cute “5 Fells” rating. What that actually means is that people who, like me, look more like Shrek after a substantial pie-eating contest than a mountaineer should seriously think twice about attempting it. The route itself starts and finishes in Ambleside and contains the following hills: Nab Scar, Low Pike, High Pike (Scandale), Heron Pike North Top, Heron Pike (Rydal), Hart Crag, Great Rigg, Fairfield, and Dove Crag. All in all, just over a 1000m climb and, with the trek in and out of Waterhead, roughly 20km of walking.

What that really means is a lot of up, followed by a lot more up and then a knee-breaking descent back down after taking in some spectacular views down towards Windermere and Coniston.

So, if that was the plan… what happened? It started well enough, but then again, I’d like to think I can walk through a town on a road with the best of them. As we started the climb out of Ambleside, the realisation that I was in for a tough day hit me, along with the fact that judging from the size of everybody else’s rucksacks I had, as usual, gratuitously over-packed.

The initial climb was certainly a reality check; it needed to be. Climbing Everest, even if only as far as the North Col, is not to be taken lightly. I knew that if I couldn’t walk up and down a mountain in the Lake District then I had absolutely no chance of doing that at 6500m in the Himalaya.

Barely an hour in and having only climbed a hundred metres or so I genuinely didn’t think that I was going to finish the day’s walk and once again started to wonder what on earth I was doing. I have no doubt that most of my companions also thought I wouldn’t be capable but that didn’t stop many of them offering encouragement throughout the day. Their kind words certainly helped me to keep putting one foot in front of the other and I’m pretty sure without them I probably wouldn’t have made it round.

Basically for the next two hours I walked up the side of a mountain trying to keep my breathing under control and focusing on nothing more than one painful step at a time. I could feel my heart racing in my chest as it got the toughest workout it had received in many a year. I also think at this point my fitbit had logically assumed that I had either accidentally put it in the washing machine or that I was being chased by a pride of Lions.

The route around the ridge was a relief, the weather holding off meant that we could see down to Windermere and South over the Lake District. Cumbria is a beautiful place and those views down over the lakes certainly helped remind me that all things that are worth having never come easy. A brief lunch stop on Fairfield itself and the chance to pull on my trusty old Buffalo shirt was a welcome break – a quick sandwich though was all I had time for and then we were back on our way before our legs stiffened up. I also realised that trying to lose weight quickly was all well and good but that I needed to make sure I was fueling my body as well. Again my lack of preparation with regards to food made what was always going to be a difficult day even tougher.

The descent was horrid. I mean it was actually so awful that falling over the edge might have been preferable to the short agonising steps down the ancient stone path back into Ambleside. My knees were swollen and my feet ached from the unyielding confines of my new boots and it just seemed to go on for ever. When I finally reached the tarmac road back to the hotel at Waterhead I was shattered and ready for bed. I was so stiff I could barely walk to the minibus back to the hotel.

Arriving at the hotel I was taken aback by the kind words I got from the other members of the expedition, many of whom were nursing aches and pains of their own. Many of them took the time to speak to me and give positive feedback on what had basically been a torturous day in the mountains for me.

Throughout the drive home I started to plan the next six months. I had a lot of work to do but the fact I hadn’t crashed and burnt in the Lake District gave me the confidence that this expedition was actually doable. The reality check had been worth it and although success, for me, on Everest was still nothing more than a vague possibility it was no longer the rose tinted pipedream it had been 48 hours earlier.

So what next? How do I get the amount of time I need on the hill? Not only that but how do I achieve that in the time-frame without breaking my already notoriously fragile body? In those and so many other unanswered questions, as the Bard would tell us, lies the rub.

There’s something magical about touring New Zealand as a rugby player. It’s like making a pilgrimage to the sport’s spiritual home, where every patch of grass has probably felt the studs of an All Black legend. In the summer of ’99, Southampton University RFC embarked on just such an odyssey, carrying our English hopes (and livers) to the land of the long white cloud.

Our journey began in Dunedin, that southern stronghold of rugby culture. The famous Carisbrook Stadium – the “House of Pain” – loomed before us like a cathedral of the sport. We were there to face Otago U21s, and while the scoreline didn’t go our way, the real story began afterward at the Furry Goblet. It was here that we lost our first man to the legendary Kiwi hospitality. Our prop (who shall remain nameless to protect the guilty) found himself whisked away by a kindly cleaner after falling asleep in the club. The next morning’s tale of waking up to children bouncing on his bed asking “Who are you? you’re not our dad!” and his quick-thinking response of “I’m your Uncle Mike” has become tour legend.

The team wound our way northward through the South Island. Christchurch offered a brief respite before we caught the ferry at Picton, watching the stunning Marlborough Sounds slip by as we crossed the Cook Strait to Wellington.

Rotorua brought us the high point of our rugby campaign with our sole victory, but it was the cultural experiences that truly made this stop special. We were privileged to be guests at a traditional Maori hangi, immersing ourselves in the rich heritage of New Zealand’s indigenous culture. The naturally heated thermal pools provided welcome relief for our battle-worn bodies, the mineral-rich waters working magic on tired muscles.

After the match, we experienced the legendary Kiwi hospitality firsthand when my cousins Amanda and Paul Redley, transplants from the UK, welcomed our entire rabble into their home. There’s something beautifully surreal about thirty muddy rugby players crammed into a house on the other side of the world, devouring massive pots of chili and rice, followed by industrial quantities of ice cream. It was like finding a slice of home 12,000 miles from where we started.

The adrenaline pursuits in Rotorua kept us busy between matches – hurling ourselves down concrete tracks on street luge, spinning ourselves silly in giant hamster balls called Zorbs, and scaring ourselves witless on a massive free-fall bungee swing. The whole time, we were one man down – our missing teammate having been delayed by the charms of a local lady in Dunedin, finally rejoining us with a sheepish grin and several unexplained hickeys.

The adventure continued at Lake Taupo, where we braved the Huka Falls in rafts and raced jet boats through impossibly narrow gorges. Some brave souls (after several confidence-building beverages) even took the plunge with a bungee jump into the crystal-clear river below.

Our final match against Waikato University in Hamilton might have been another loss on paper, but by then, the scorelines had become secondary to the experience. We wrapped up our tour in Auckland, scaling the Sky Tower for one last look across this magnificent country and raising a final toast at Viaduct Quay.

They say that what happens on tour stays on tour, but some stories are too good not to share. Our prop’s “Uncle Mike” saga and our teammate’s romantic detour have become part of Southampton RFC folklore, retold at every reunion with increasing embellishment. But beyond the rugby and the revelry, it was the warmth of the Kiwi people and the raw beauty of their country that left an indelible mark on all of us.

Looking back now, that summer of ’99 feels like a dream – a perfect blend of rugby, adventure, and the kind of mishaps that only seem to happen when you’re young and fearless in a foreign land. To my fellow tourists who shared those unforgettable weeks: here’s to you, to New Zealand, and to “Uncle Mike” – whoever he may really be.