Monday, October 21, 2013

2013 Wild Duluth 100k

Welp, this one hurt. I went really low a couple of times. My wife wouldn't let me quit, so I didn't quit. The official race cutoff is 18 hours. I finished, by my estimate, in 18:59, but I finished. I moved my body forward for 62 miles, most of which were fairly tough trail. I wanted to quit, as I have in the past, but I didn't quit. I kept going, and I made it. I could not have done this alone.

The weather forecast for the race was accurate: chilly with rain and snow in the morning, cool and partly cloudy with a few showers in the afternoon, and brisk with clear skies and a full moon at night. I own more than adequate equipment to handle the conditions, but I hadn't used it since April or May, so it was a bit of a guessing game as far as what to be wearing. I have the most difficulty knowing which clothes to wear on my torso, because once I build a layer of sweat I immediately get chilly.

We got a hotel room, which was crazy-expensive because of leaf season and MEA weekend, but it did allow us to watch a Wal-Mart semi get stuck in a cul-de-sac.

We got to sleep around 10, but the room temp was tricky to control, so I woke up at midnight all sweaty and shit. I got back to sleep around 2, after messing with the thermostat, and slept until 4:30. I had everything pretty well laid out, leaving myself minor prep before leaving the hotel at 5:20am. We got to Bayfront Park without incident, checking in and lining up. It was chilly and damp, but nothing horrible. Totally runnable.


SECTION 1 (3.1): We headed out on a path underneath 35N, between the lanes, which is a funny place to be on a trail run. A slight incline and a bridge took us over the highway and into the woods, up a steep hill and across a number of city highways. This was my favorite start to a race, because there was no talking. Maybe it was the incline or maybe it was the weather, but no one around me was making small talk. It was so peaceful and a great way to ease into the adventure. I managed to turn my head a few times and caught a few glimpses of the fantastic views of Duluth's shore in the morning dark. At the top of the first climb is Enger Tower and the Ohara Peace Bell. I didn't know that the bell was there, but a guy right behind me noted that no one was ringing the peace bell right before we heard it ring, and then everyone in my group rang it. It's a deep, bellowing ring which was a really nice thing to do. (I normally will try to touch a trail marking at the beginning of a race, a practice I borrow from the Jewish mezuzah as a way to pause and acknowledge the great fortune I have to live this life. It's also something I try to do when taking the stage for improv. How lucky I am to be here and doing these things.) The subsequent downhill was brief with nice, smooth trail. We came out at a major road, crossed a bridge and did some quick upper-body wardrobe changes with my wife, losing some unnecessary warmth and weight.

SECTION 2 (5.7): It sprinkled and sleeted. The trail was still cutting through the city. I passed a few people. I caught up with a local ultra veteran. We ran together for a while. I tried to pick his brain as much as I could without making it like I was writing a report for my 5th grade social studies class. I got some really useful info, and I saw him stop and appreciate the tremendous views of Duluth in this section, which I did, as well. It's worth the few seconds. I need to start carrying a small, convenient camera. The section was mostly runnable, crossing under a major road under construction through a tunnel. I think I turned my lights off at 8am, two hours into the race. John blew through the aid station, while I stopped to change clothes and stay as comfortable as possible.  

SECTION 3 (4.5): To get to this section, you had to jump a guard rail, which threw off a guy right in front of me. (I passed the guy, who unintentionally cut some trail and got by me, and then I passed him back.) This was the last section that was really in Duluth. The trail spit us out onto a road for a couple hundred yards and then through a parking lot and over a major highway. There was a roadside motel right there, the name of which escapes me, but whose sign would really set a mood on the return trip. The section was really slick, which I knew could only get more with 250+ runners heading over it before I'd see it again. The trail also ran next to the highway for quite a distance, a fact which was lost on me. I did take note of one final crossing underneath the major road, which was creepy in the daylight. I came to the next aid station, thinking I was supposed to have already seen my crew, so that was weird. The volunteers at the aid station didn't have a ton of info, but they did have a dog with a frisbee, so that was cool. I ran a few hundred yards farther and came across the lodge and my wife. I changed out of my tights and headed up the ski hill.

SECTION 4 (2.5): This section was rocky, short, and mostly uphill. I crossed back and forth with John and another guy, who appeared to be shooting for total self-sufficiency with a gigantic red backpack full of stuff. I came to the road at a bridge that was not well-marked. There were hot pink flags, but I don't trust flags of a different color than what is advertised. Another runner and I kind of stood together at a bridge, confused, when the RD pulled up in his pickup and pointed us on, saying that the way was marked in orange. Maybe he's colorblind. I don't know him. We quickly came to the aid station, where I began to become well aware of the race's lack of ginger ale. (Race Directors: please stock ginger ale at all of your aid stations.) 

SECTION 5 (4.3): This section led me to cross paths with the majority of the 50k runners, most of whom were quite friendly and courteous. Those who weren't friendly were courteous. Nobody was a jerk. Things got really rocky along a ridgeline, and the climbing came in really helpful with the footing. There were some incredible views of the foliage. This was tough and slow, but pleasant. The aid station was nice. They had a stash of ginger ale and boiled potatoes with salt, both of which are the best. The next section was 7.5 miles, so I stocked up on water and gels. I had been keeping up with my water and drinking a Vitargo at every stop and having a Vespa at this one (every 15 miles.) I had been reluctantly gutting down Vanilla Bean GU, though the air temp was low enough that the GU was thick and awful. I have a hard time taking down gel when it's cold enough that the GU pops when you first start taking it.


SECTION 6 (7.5): This section came in three parts. The first third was mostly uphill and along a ridge. It was nice running, and the birch trees were so thick that it looked like the sky was all grey behind them, even though it was mostly clear by now. The second third ran along a lake and was nice running. The last third crossed a road and went uphill, and was not great running. The trail was wide and flat. I started going low, which is something I often do around that mileage. By the time I got to the aid station, I was pretty worn. I think I was getting low on caffeine. I had forgotten to buy Clif Double Expresso gels, which I use to maintain normal caffeine levels during long runs. The crew gave me my first Red Bull of the day, in addition to Vitargo and a bottle of ginger ale from the store. She could tell I was crashing, and pointed to the flat, paved section ahead and said it was like that for 3.5 miles.

SECTION 7 (3.5): This was rough. It was flat and paved, but that can be pretty grueling in the middle of a run where I'm in the rhythm of ups-and-downs. I did some work on the pavement and some next to it on the grass. I got a good look at the group of runners in front of me, many of whom had familiar faces. I was far enough back that they were beginning to give me the look that says, "You gonna make it, buddy?" I didn't know at that point. I told myself that this thing didn't really start until the 50k turnaround, but I was getting really low. By the time I picked my way through the rocks near the aid station, I was hurting something fierce. I had some Vitargo, which was really starting to taste bitter. The stuff is sickly sweet, so the bitter flavor really threw me. I still can't figure that out. Anyhow, I was hurting and I knew the hard stuff still coming. I forgot one of my main mantras: You can only run where your feet are. I was 8 hours in, and the cutoff was 9 hours, so I felt good about that. It also felt good to mention to my wife that it was time to start considering when to pick up lights and trekking poles. I turned around and prepared for the 3.5 mile flat grind back to the last/next aid station.


SECTION 8 (3.5): It didn't take me long to start sizing up the runners I crossed. Anyone behind me was certainly suspect to the same look I had gotten by the runners ahead of me. Most of the runners I saw from here forward would not make it to the finish. A few of them already knew it, and they were hurting. I've been there, and that's a tough place to be. You tell everyone they're doing a great job, because they are. They're out there to begin with, and that's something most people simply won't do. I got a bit of a burst from having made the turn, from knowing I could now turn to certain mantras that only make sense when you're getting closer to the edge. The one I was really waiting on was something of a toast I've been repeating to myself for a year or so:

To life lived,
To the pursuit of happiness,
To childlike wonder; to furious amazement,
And to the undying hope that tomorrow could somehow be better than today.

It's a little cheesy, but it helps me appreciate what I'm doing rather than resent the pain and exhaustion. Let me know if you want me to say it and your wedding or funeral or whatever. I'm game. Or you can borrow it on your own. Or you can make fun of me for being a weenus. I don't care.

I got back to the aid station, where I changed some more clothes, drank a Red Bull and Vitargo. The Vitargo was sticky, and I cleaned my hands with an ice cube. I dried my hand on a towel, which was soft enough to mention. The act of saying how soft the towel was made me realize that the good running vibes were still out there to be had, and that was a huge boost. A runner was wrapped in a blanket, wearing a hat that still had a price tag on it. He didn't have it together. The trail had beaten him and he was getting a ride. I was perking up, drinking another Red Bull and downing a Vespa.

SECTION 9 (7.5): This direction, the trail was downhill to start and flat across the middle next to the lake. One of the Gnarly Bandit runners passed me near the lake. I think she passed me in every race I ran this year. The latter third of the section was pretty uphill, and the 7.5 miles were adding up. An unshaven hiker sat next to a tree, red Leki poles leaned against it, eating what appeared to be banana chips. I got into the aid station in good shape, choosing not to change shoes and socks until I hit the following aid station because that one had the last cutoff and I wanted to make sure I had the time to spare. I ate Pringles, which were tasty. I put on lights and took off with my trekking poles.

SECTION 10 (4.3): This was rocky, as expected. I was really, really happy to have the trekking poles. They are a new addition to my equipment options, an early birthday gift from my in-laws, and they were much appreciated. The views were as beautiful this time as they were the first. I plugged along pretty well, peeing quite a bit, but everything was clear and there were no signs of blood, so I didn't worry about the frequency. I plugged along, turning on the lights about halfway through. I got to the aid station with 40 minutes to spare before the 8pm cutoff, so I changed shoes, socks and the moleskin pads on the balls of my feet. The next section was only 2.5 miles, so I only took down half a Vitargo. The gels were getting really hard to gut down, especially since my hands were now occupied by poles and I couldn't put a gel in my glove to soften it as is my wont. This did not bode well for the future.

SECTION 11 (2.5): I expected this to be more difficult than it was. I remembered this being quite technical, with rocks and roots aplenty. There was a haunted house/Halloween activity going on somewhere nearby, and I could hear kids screaming and spooky sounds the entire way. I also heard the alarm horn go off on a car that sounded like mine, and I began to get a dose of my distaste for running through the woods alone at night. I got through quickly enough, drank the other half of the Vitargo, re-lubed some stuff, and took off.

SECTION 12 (4.5): I knew this section was going to be slick, and it was. However, I forgot just how technical it was, in addition to the muddy spots. This is the section where the trail kicked me in the teeth for two straight hours; this is where I got really low. I stumbled a lot, and the poles saved me from bad falls on countless occasions. One time, I tripped on a rock going down a muddy hill, did a pirouette, launched myself against a chain link fence and held on for a second, only to release the fence and find myself falling again. I eventually stabbed the poles into the mud and steadied myself, and that was when I became aware that I was getting a little loose in the head. My knees were really starting to scream, especially going downhill. I was starting to see flashes of things that weren't there. I got really dark. Much of this area ran next to a highway, something I failed to notice on the way out, so I kept wondering if I had missed a turn. The trail was pretty sparsely marked, which I let frustrate me. I knew a few landmarks, and I wasn't coming to them. I was hurting. Eventually I crossed back under the highway bridge, and that was an eerie place to be. I didn't like being there alone. I crossed over the highway, through the parking lot and past the motel, whose sign gave the scene a very horror-filmy feel to it. I began running trail through the city, and I liked that very little. I didn't want to meet anyone who might be on the trail. 

By the time I got to the guard rail crossing and associated aid station, I was ready to be done. I hated it right then. I was tired of being there, of moving my body forward, of trying. I knew I wouldn't make the official cutoff time of 18 hours, and that was deflating. I was weak and dizzy and in significant pain. I had loosened my shoes twice already to account for swelling in my feet. I began to think about how long I had been out there and how much longer I would have to remain out there. I thought about the 5.7 miles of trail that was in the next section, and then about the 3.1 after that. I felt bad for making the volunteers stay. I was a trail zombie.

And this is where my wife does her finest work. I am a difficult, incorrigible person, and she knows exactly how to handle that in a way that puts me back on the trail, moving myself forward. She took a few pictures of me crossing the highway. I couldn't bear to look at the camera. She didn't ask me how I was doing because she knew how I was doing and she didn't need to hear the answer and she didn't want to give me an opportunity to put the words out of my mouth. Instead, she asked me one, simple question, "What do you need?" I said, "Vitargo." She gave it to me and I drank it. I asked if they were going to let me go and she said yes. She took a photo of me drinking Vitargo, and I asked her to stop taking photos of me now and said she could take more at the next stop. And on I went, thanking the volunteers. Those people make this stuff possible, and that means the world to me.

SECTION 13 (5.7): The Vitargo set in quickly enough, which was nice, because a little energy was a nice balance to the increasing hallucinations. I don't really remember very much. I kept a decent pace up, trying to run as much as I could, but usually getting a few hundred feet in before I tripped and slowed down to the shuffle that came to define my last 20 miles of this race. I slogged on. I saw the Enger Tower and the bridge at Canal Park. I could see where I was going, and I think that made it harder. But on I went, and I made it to the last aid station at midnight, which was the official cutoff. They were more than happy to let me continue, and I found out there were runners behind me. I wasn't holding up the show, which was good info.

My wife had procured some veggie broth in a coffee mug, and it was incredible. I thought of trying to take it with me. I understand that races aren't obligated to cater to vegetarians, but that was awesome enough to keep on hand in the future of our own volition. So good.

On my way out, a younger male volunteer steered me in the correct direction. I thanked him profusely for being there, telling him that this meant the world to me, and he sent me on my way.

SECTION 14 (3.1): This was the Victory Lap. When heading out on the last section of a race like this, the party starts. I'm always a little extra careful to not get hurt, but it's hard not to start the celebration. I motored along, pulling over to pee for what seemed like the 1,000th time. Except I didn't pull over. I caught myself about halfway through just standing there in the middle of the trail, peeing directly onto the trail. I caught myself and went where I was supposed to, then going back and kicking around and putting some leaves over the top, but I knew I was cooked in the head. I started seeing little Jack Skellington heads popping up along the sides of the trail as I ran. I saw a tiny T-Rex that was just a weed. I saw human silhouettes in the distance. I kind of lost my shit, and then I came upon a runner and his pacer. The runner was visibly hurting, but was in tremendous spirits, and the pacer was excellent. They were telling stories and laughing and having fun. The pacer talked to me about passing so his runner would recognize that I was there. I got to the top of the hill slightly before they did and rang the Peace Bell once, quietly, and moved on. They got up there and rang it four or five times and hooted and hollered and had a blast. Someday I want that to be what it's like with my pacer(s): just buddies having a blast on the trail. (Also, I need pacers. Please consider being my pacer.)

I came across a local, probably just a guy walking home from the bar on a Saturday night. He scared me. I think I scared him. I passed a tent pitched in the woods, not far from the highway. I could hear bottles clanking inside. I moved by as quickly as I could. I heard some heated conversation in a parking lot. I hustled. I crossed 35N on the bridge and down the ramp at a good clip. When I got to the bottom, I started hiking on the paved path. I looked at my watch and figured I had 8 minutes to come in under 19 hours. I ran with what I had. I hurt. I made the turn down the final straightaway. It was nearly 1am, and there were two people at the finish line: my wife and the Race Director. It was a beautiful moment for me. 

I was thoroughly beaten down. I didn't have many more steps in me. I have my work cut out for me at next year's Black Hills 100 (mile). In that moment, however, when I was pushing myself to finish under some silly number just for the sake of finishing in an arbitrary time while my wife and a one stranger cheer me on, in that moment it all makes sense. I am running these races because I can now and I won't be able to forever. There will come a time when this will no longer be an option. I used to be scared to hell of my transience, and I used to let that fear of dying keep me from taking risks. I let that fear of living and dying drive me to drink as much as I could as often as I could. And then five years prior to the day that I finished my first 100k, I had my last drink. I chose to live, and to live in celebration of my impermanence. I am not going to be here for very long, and not long after I am gone I will be forgotten. I don't believe in an afterlife, at least in the Judeo-Christian sense in which I was raised; I do not believe that my consciousness will continue to exist after my body dies. Hooray! I am free to live without the pressure of all eternity, and I have chosen to find that liberating rather than oppressive.

There are so many people to thank. 

My wife, first and foremost, who is nothing short of the finest crew chief on the course. Your support through this arduous and often expensive hobby is incredible and appreciated. I cannot imagine doing this without you. Thank you.

To the volunteers: you deserve the credit here. These races do not happen without you, plain and simple. I appreciate what you do for us. Thank you.

To my friends and family: thank you for supporting me and asking me about what I'm doing. During this race, I stopped and thought of every text and well-wish I got prior to the race, and that was a wonderful series of thoughts. Thank you.

To the wonderful people of HUGE Theater and the Brave New Workshop Student Union. You have shown me on a frequent basis how to be positive and how to be kind. I'm still a work in progress, but I am learning. I don't think I would be finishing these races if you hadn't taught me how to find ways to say yes, how to find ways to channel positivity. I don't think I would have learned how to enjoy myself. I didn't start finishing races until I let go of the idea of complete control, but when I did I started laughing and playing and getting to the end. I am a little behind right now with the improv and the day-to-day laughing, but I am heading in the right direction, and that is a credit to the improv community in the Twin Cities right now. I have such great teachers and examples of how to live well, and you have helped me in so many ways that have nothing to do with being on stage. Thank you.

And thank you to the trail running community. What wonderful people I have met in my three years on the trails. You have been kind to me, and as a result I have tried to return that kindness. You have helped me to the ends of races. You have taught me a great deal about the value of companionship. I look forward to continuing to meet you guys. Thank you.