The Faultline 100km is the younger sibling to the 100-miler run alongside it. Funny how a 100km race can suddenly feel like a warm‑up when something bigger exists. That doesn’t make the 100km version, aptly named Pandemonium, any less intimidating.

After a brutal week of Wellington weather, race day delivered blue skies, no wind, and warmer temperatures. Lucky? Absolutely. A 6am start is never easy after a long work week, and realistically it means waking at 3am anyway, fuelled by anticipation rather than sleep. Rolling into the start line is always a buzz, familiar faces emerging from the darkness, all wearing that sheepish mix of nerves and excitement.

Right on 6am, we were off. My old mate Gav and I pushed to the front, his cadence and speed a touch higher than mine, but my legs felt good. We settled into a strong pace, with third place nowhere to be seen. The Belmont Hills welcomed us, and promptly my bike didn’t. Shifting went haywire, and before long third place cruised past. After a year of flawless electronic shifting, it seemed payback time had arrived. 

As we wound through the back trails of Cannons Creek toward Porirua, places one and two took a wrong turn. Briefly, and unknowingly, I found myself in first place. Very briefly. Mrs Silversky was waiting at the first aid station, a welcome sight after grinding uphill with no gears. With the sun up, the jacket and light came off, swapped for a backpack, food, and gels. Somehow I was sitting in second. Off again.

By now the gears were terrible. I tried adjusting them via the phone app, no luck. The strain had flattened the derailleur battery. A quick call to daughter number one while climbing Te Ara Utiwai, and a replacement battery was on its way to the next aid station. New battery fitted, I pushed on into the back blocks of Johnsonville. But the mechanicals were playing with my head. I stopped several times to shove the derailleur back into place, each fix only temporary. Riding near home, the temptation to divert and swap bikes crept in, but I kept going.

Makara brought a surge of support, which was hugely motivating. Two old friends shouted encouragement as I passed; I stopped again to coax the bike back into working order. Two Makara loops rolled by, followed by one massive crash as I tried to reel in Gav, who was leading. By this point, 65km in, it finally clicked: the derailleur bolt had to be loose. Heading up Salvation, I caught Gav and we chatted. At the top I stopped again, found the culprit (thanks Ed!), a loose rear skewer clamping the derailleur, and tightened it. Instantly, all 12 gears came back to life. What a difference. Game on.

I could see Gav on and off, and at the bottom of the Aro Valley I finally caught and passed him. The final 25km was familiar territory, I knew exactly what lay ahead. Hammer down, no mistakes. Pushing hard into Mt Vic felt incredible; I had absolutely nothing left to give. My dropper post had also stopped working, and by now the only reliable thing left was my body.

Onto Oriental Parade, I kept glancing back. After finishing second in this race twice, it was hard to believe I was on track for the win. Crossing the line, in slightly slower conditions than last year due to the slippery terrain, I was completely spent and absolutely over the moon. Turns out, training actually works.