"Not for my money."
I have returned from Jura safe and well.
Unlike Orwell, whose lungs were consumed by The White Death.
Or the unfortunate runner who fractured both femur and fibula and was carried through mist and mountains on a stretcher because the helicopter couldn’t land.
The weather was grim. Not cold, but visibility of perhaps five metres. Bodies poured through the fog like a zombie hoard. Winds gusted to 50mph and more on the summits. Enough to knock you off balance in places where a loss of balance might mean loss of something much greater. The scree chutes were immense funnels that shifted like liquid beneath your feet.
Once, shouts of ROCK! ROCK! from above had everyone gasping as a boulder the size of a football materialised from the mist, careening past our ears then shattering somewhere far below.
I completed the race in a shade under five hours. The badge of honour is sub-four, for which you’re awarded a whisky glass. Finlay Wild, the subject of my book, won for the sixth time in seven attempts in 3.07.16. His record of 2.58.09, set in 2022, is unlikely to be beaten in this lifetime or the next.
The Jura Fell Race is iconic in UK mountain running. The island is awkward to get to, with the only direct boat being a small tourist craft that takes a handful of foot passengers and only runs in summer. There’s a hotel, a distillery, and a small shop, all on the shoreline where the boat lands and the race starts. All the runners camp on the field between hotel and sea, and everyone is there for the weekend, regardless of weather.
There are no frills, you understand it’s going to be uncomfortable, but it feels real. A world away from the glamour and hyperbole of nearly all other sports. No-one boasts about their times or embellishes their experience in the pub afterwards. There’s no need to. We’re all out there together.
It was in this context that I returned home to watch the finals of the Margaret River Pro, which in the end spread to two days. There was no consequence here. Just WSL gloss to make up for it.
It was not The Box any longer. Not those gravity defying heaves over the ledge and into oblivion.
Nor was it the double-overhead walls of Main Break that invite scything rails and end sections opening up to be smashed like the plumped pink fleshy parts of an animal in season.
All we had was a fading south swell, solid enough for quarter final match-ups, then woefully inadequate for semis and final the next day.
Joe Turpel glossed like only he can. He rode the crest of caffeinated verbosity like never before. Nonsense followed nonsense. Superlative followed segue to non-sequitur. Then back again. An endless splurge.
Here, in its breathless entirety, please examine this verbatim excerpt from the quarter final between Griffin Colapinto and Leo Fioravanti:
There’s that unscripted type formula from Griff adding some extra excitement to that end section but dealing with some big wipeouts seems like he’s always pretty comfortable in heavy water it always appeared that way when he made those early trips to the north shore some of his best friends in the world are part of the Moniz family like Seth they push each other a lot heavy water conditions Backdoor and Pipe you could make a surf movie with all the clips he’s had out there in his lifetime a Triple Crown champ almost accidentally when he was shadowing Kolohe Andino that winter season that’s that type of X-factor feel that magician that he can really attach to a feeling that he’s got he got so into trying to understand that feeling he got deep into meditation started going on retreats with Dr. Joe Dispenza and it wouldn’t just be him, he’d bring Crosby, Jett Schilling, Alex Schilling, a lot of the crew from San Clemente to see what they could create and manifest in their life Griffin’s been doing that well the last couple of seasons on tour. Numbers in for Griffin’s last, the 4.33, the last for Leo 6.73. So, Fioravanti out front with priority, Griffin now needs a 9.4.
You know who’s got that X-factor feel that magician that can really attach to a feeling, Joe?
You do.
Except the feeling is like being trapped in a giant biscuit tin full of gravel which is rolling down a hill.
In spite of Turpel, there was a smattering of fine surfing in the quarters.
Leo Fioravanti looks spunkier than ever this season. He has the loose hips and swagger of a fourteen year old who’s just delivered a wild fingering to a girl several years his senior.
And so he should. The 9.00 to begin the match-up with Colapinto was the digestivo at the end of a magnificent Margarets performance. With a solid back-up and a 15.73 total, he would’ve won every other quarter but this.
Unfortunately, Colapinto, needing a 9.40, launched a huge rotation from the end section and garnered unequivocal ten points from all judges. Few voices would dissent.
“When I landed, it took me a while to realise this was real life”, the homeschooled son of a wealthy Californian contractor who’s spent his entire life surfing around the world, said.
Connor O’Leary vs Barron Mamiya in the next quarter was mostly dull. O’Leary caught a wave at the beginning of the heat in deteriorating conditions, then sat for half an hour in a heat that foreshadowed what was to come the next day. With 40 seconds left, he took his next wave, but it was a dud. Victory Mamiya by virtue of four mediocre waves.
Turpel droned on.
Crosby Colapinto bested local boy Jacob Wilcox in the next, but I can’t recall a single memorable thing about it.
Richie Lovett chirped about how the younger Colapinto has all the tools in all conditions, will make a run at a title sooner or later, etc. But I can’t see it. Something about his surfing passes through me like a zephyr in a pine forest.
Jordy Smith continued his march to victory and world number one by ending Imaikalani deVault’s almost-hero story in the last quarter final.
It’s true that deVault illustrated a style at Margaret River we’ve not seen too often from him. But his smoothness was a scribble too late. Ta-ta, we hardly knew ye.
Which was all a precursor to the next day for semis and final, in a further fading swell which was insufficient but necessary on the last day of the waiting period.
In the first semi Griffin Colapinto took on Mamiya. What a battle this would’ve been at The Box or such like. As it was, the best thing about it was the furious (but unnecessary) paddle battle in the opening seconds.
Colapinto notched two mid-range scores early, then creased his board. He was to catch no more waves, but they were enough. Mamiya could not eke the scraps from the gutless swell.
In the opposite semi, the younger Colapinto took on froth juggernaut Jordy Smith.
The heat was restarted owing to lack of waves. Colapinto sat for the best part of an hour before attempting a wave. It came with less than ten minutes left. There was no other.
Smith, on the other hand, frothed his way to victory, finding pockets of power where there were none, and even going left.
The final was dire.
Just three waves were attempted. Two to Jordy beats one to Griffin. Not a final for the ages.
Over two heats, in an hour and ten minutes of surfing, Griffin Colapinto only paddled for three waves. That, you might unequivocally say, is uncontestable.
It was a sharp return to earth for the WSL and its fanbase. A flaccid ending to the vaunted Aussie Treble.
The saving grace, if you need one, is that Griffin Colapinto and Jordy Smith were arguably the correct finalists, and that Smith’s earlier performances when the waves were meatier probably deserved to edge it overall.
So, Jordy Smith is your world number one.
Are vibes high?
Under the old scoring system he’d be a solid bet to take the title. The next three events – Trestles, Rio and J-Bay – are all comps he’s won in the past, albeit a decade or more ago.
But to take it out in a one day event in Teahupo’o?
Not for my money.
