Black Hills 100, 2014

This was my first attempt at 100 miles. I got my ass handed to me by the Centennial Trail, my stupid brain, and literally my ass.

I was still reeling a little from a DNF at Ice Age in May, but more so from the injuries and subsequent undertraining that hurt me at Ice Age. My back/hip was going in-and-out, and I was never able to do anything close to respectable training. I headed out the Sturgis with a wing and a prayer, and I got what I paid for. I knew going in that a finish was unlikely, and that I should do as much as I could to learn the most in what miles I could get. I did learn some lessons, but they were hard-fought.

I travelled out on Thursday, picking up my sister from the airport on my way out of town and heading to Sioux Falls, where I would trade my sister for my dad. My dad drove us to Wall, where we took some photos at the tourist trap to appease my mother. Everything was fine. There was a huge thunderstorm that night, dropping large amounts of rain. This would become a theme. On the way to the race meeting on Friday, we drove through another thunderstorm that dropped large amounts of rain. This was now a theme. That night, my wife arrived late, getting a ride from the airport with friends. It sounded like more of an adventure than anyone had hoped it would be. I got sleep and woke early. It rained the entire way to the start: THEME.

It did quit raining just before the start. I managed to get into a UMTR photo, in an effort to maybe make some friends. No dice, but whatever. It might have helped to say some words. Next time. I started in the back of the pack, as was my intention. We got our feet wet right out of the gate, while crossing under the first road. I stopped to adjust some things, applauding myself for the patience. I was taking it easy, but the trail was absolutely soaked. Everything was sloppy, muddy, sticky soup. Every step involved putting a foot down, stabilizing, and then fighting to remove the foot from the slop. I stayed pretty positive and stuck to the plan, eating a ton and drinking. I remembered all of the trail from running the 50 in 2013.

I don't remember too many people or events between the start and the Elk Creek Aid Station, as was kind of my plan. I didn't want to wake up too quickly; I just wanted to ease into it and surprise myself with the mileage. At Elk Creek I changed shoes and picked up my trekking poles. Sitting down cost me, not from a mental aspect, but from sitting on damp ground and getting my butt wet. It took a while, but it would cost me.

The downhill out of Elk Creek was really wet, and I'm glad I had my poles. Those things have saved me so many times, and this would not be the last. On the way to the creek, we crossed paths with a mountain biker who was struggling to lug her bike back up the hill to the aid station. It seemed that the mud was tougher on the bikers than the runners. We crossed Elk Creek five times. It was amazing and fun and refreshing. I really felt like I was having an adventure. The climb out of the basin was tough, on account of the slick mud, but I had the poles and a pretty good attitude. I met a couple of guys, one of whom mentioned that mud like this would suck the life out of you. I tried to put distance between us. I get negative well enough on my own. I did not need help going low.

I made it into Crooked Tree just fine. The day was heating up, and this was a no-crew station, but I was ok. I got water and snacks, and then we heard thunder and it started to rain. I threw on a cheap plastic poncho my dad gave me the night before and took off. I knew the climb ahead would be tough, and it was just as I had expected. The mud was slick and the climb was pretty relentless. Once I got to the top, I knew it would still be some time before I made the descent to Dalton Lake. Along the ridge, I passed a biker who was really upset. He was pushing his bike and cursing the race directors for not having an alternate route for muddy conditions. He was still hollering and I passed out of earshot. I have no time for the negative.

Working my way down to Dalton Lake, I began to consider the difficulty of going back up 70+ miles into the race. This is my worst habit: trying to run where my feet are not. If I can stay present, be only where my feet are, then I can do great things. If I try to get ahead of myself, worry about things I cannot control, everything gets to be too much and I do not reach my goals. I am forever learning this lesson.

The Dalton aid station was great. I ate a bunch of the provided food, sat down in a chair and took care of my feet, drank Vitargo and ginger ale, laughed with friends and family, used the vault toilet for all it was worth and headed back out. I was in good shape. I crossed the 100k turnaround sign. I made it into some of the trickier trail, which was technical ATV trail to begin with, but was made much harder my muddy, rain-filled gouges. It was a tough section. I thought about going back through it in the dark. That's not the kind of thinking that will get me to the end of a race. The last chunk of that section, running into Nemo, was next to a two-lane highway. It was a little nerve-wracking to run, but I made it to the aid station, which was kind of cute. I had a nice stop, changed shoes, refueled and went on down the road.

Not long into this stretch, the leader came back at me. The people who win these races are phenomenal athletes, and it is amazing to watch them run. Kudos to them. Most of this trail was not too difficult. It seemed longer than I thought it should, I crossed with three guys on motorcycles, and it ended with a massive climb. I thought about going back down that climb on tired knees because I have a bad habit of thinking ahead, but we all know this by now. It's a theme: my brain rains. By the time I rolled into Pilot Knob, I was getting a little weary, but I still felt strong. I was offered a bunch of really awesome food at the aid station, cooked food that you can never expect from an aid station, but all of it was just a little off. I eat a mostly vegan diet, so even though cheese quesadillas sound amazing, I just can't trust my tummy with them. I was still laughing and having a blast through the stop. The sun was going down and the rain was all gone and things looked good. Seven runnable miles to the turn. Out I went, in good spirits.

After about a mile of easygoing grass trail, there was a climb. I took it strong, and when I reached the top I was done. I was just flat-out gassed. In retrospect, I should have realized that my elevation was reaching significant levels, near or at 6,000 feet above sea level. I did not take that into account, and I went super fucking low. I started hiking slowly on stuff I thought I should have been running, making that seven miles last forever. Some of the trail was fairly treacherous, just barely edged into the sides of big, steep hills. The sun went down, and I hadn't thought to bring a light. I was in a bad place, marching slowly and getting lower. My brain began to pour.

By the time I finally marched into Silver City, I did not want to go another step. 50 miles was a good day, especially in those conditions. But my dad had travelled all this way to pace me, to run through the night with his only son. He had undoubtedly put in countless hours worrying about doing this right, so much so that he became a little paralyzed by the whole ordeal. A good friend of mine from high school just happened to have flown into the area that day, visiting his parents, who had relocated since we graduated. My wife was there. She had flown in Friday night and would fly out Monday morning, get in the car, and go to work. My mom and youngest sister were there. And I was a pile. My butt had begun to chafe. Sitting down on damp ground at Elk Creek had begun to cost me. I went inside and had some soup and got some words of encouragement. One of the guys I ran to Crooked Tree with had dropped, and was having a great time sitting in a sleeping bag. One of the wonderful volunteers asked me which holiday was coming up. I answered the 4th of July, which was correct, but I considered saying Christmas, just to get pulled. I didn't want to revisit everything I'd just seen. It was 10pm and I'd been moving in tough conditions since 6am. I had seen enough for one goddamn day. But they came. They all came. I had to go.

So I went. My dad and I went. I immediately thanked him. I told him I appreciated him doing this. I was more or less in silent tears by then. The downpour in my brain had leaked out onto my face. I got a push from that. Crying makes me breathe. So I go. We charged uphill at a good clip. I wasn't going to do much running, but I could hike quickly. My dad dropped his hat. It was not a big deal. He went to get it and I took a leak. We marched on. I stepped on a branch. My dad asked me if I knew what I just did. I replied that I did not. He said I stepped on a bunny. I asked if it was dead. He said it was now. That made me sick. "That sucks. That sucks. I'm sorry that happened." I will never forget saying those exact words. We stopped the bunny with our headlamps and I crushed it with my shoe and that's disgusting and I did it and nothing will ever change that. We marched on. My dad kept trying to get me to eat, but I wouldn't. Eventually I forced down some Swiss Cake Rolls. Too little, too late. My butt was in full chafe. I stopped and greased it up, but again, too little, too late.

I was beaten. My dad was sympathetic. He said we could make the 5am cutoff at the pace we were going. I said I couldn't think about 5am. By the time we rolled into the aid station, it was over. I was doing damage to myself with every step, and I was not going to finish the race. The real goal for all of this is Superior 100, to finish that race and to have my name in the drawing for the Western States 100, if only this one time. My wife asked me what I needed, and I shook my head. She knew it was coming. There was no argument. We approached the volunteers. They asked what I needed. "31 is done for the day." That fucking sucked to say, but I knew it was the right decision. I was not going to finish that race, and so I needed to keep training. I was back on the trail by Thursday. I made the right call.

I learned from this race, more than anything, that my number one mental priority is to be only where I am. I can only run where my feet are. I have considered this idea for years, but if I am to get to the end of the Superior 100, my brain will have to fall in line. Just relax, be where you are, accept the pain, and keep moving. This is all I can do.