2013 Superior 50 Race Report

Looking for a little redemption from my 2012 attempt at running the Superior 50, which was my first-ever attempt to cover 50+ miles, I had been thinking about this race for a long time. Last year I gave myself a pass, chalking up my lack of success to a steep learning curve. This year I was luckier, smarter, and luckier than last.

Thursday night, about 8pm, my hip went out. Way out. You know that thing that kind of runs over the front of your pelvis that connects your thigh to your lower back? Mine was pissed. I don’t know what did it, but it went out and I was pretty scared. I had trouble walking. I started treatment by soaking in a detox ginger/salt solution and rolling out associated muscles. I had little success, and was in significant discomfort the entire ride up to Lutsen. The Wife tried to distract me from my negative thoughts by talking about everything she could think of talking about. She succeeded in redirecting my negative thoughts; The Wife took one for the team. Our hotel room had a Jacuzzi, so I soaked and rolled and jet sprayed in an attempt to wrangle my fucking hip into compliance. I also rolled out my left ass check on a golf ball from Butler Pitch ‘n’ Putt, which I’m pretty sure is what saved my race. The golf ball released whatever it was that had irritated the hip. I was sore the morning of the race, ready to just run as far as I could before the problem took me off the course.

On the way up, we had lunch with my parents in Two Harbors. My dad, who was to be running the marathon, had thrown out his back on Thursday while brushing his teeth, was wearing a back brace. We were pathetic. During lunch, my parents saw a Dachshund they assumed had just been hit by a car and was dragging its broken legs across a the highway that runs through Two Harbors. Some guy stopped and looked, but the drove away. I went out and looked for the dog, but couldn’t find it and went back inside. We saw other people staring, so I went back and found it. The dog’s foot was bandaged in an old wrap, clearly not having just been hit, and someone came from across the street, saying that it was fine and she knew where it belonged. Much relieved. Before leaving the restaurant, I took a muscle relaxer, which seemed to help a little. I slept a little in the car, but not much. I think I saved up my sleep, because I went to bed at 9pm and slept like a rock until 4am. I don’t think I’ve ever slept so well prior to a race.

Race morning, I misplaced the mouthpiece to my Camelbak, which my wife found, but not before 10 minutes disappeared and we were pushing it for time. We got to the race start just in time to throw on my gear and take off. I didn’t even check in with them at the desk, but rather I was one of the people whose name/number they call out to see if they’ve made it. I was stiff, but I was pretty ok running. I decided to run up closer to the middle of the pack instead of hanging back like I have in the past, thinking that they would probably be moving at roughly the same pace and that I would just be starting a bit farther ahead. I was correct. That choice might have saved my race. I took one Vespa prior to the start.

The first section is 7.5 miles from Finland to Sonju Lake. I fell in with a chatty crowd. That's pretty tough for me early in a race. I'm a believer in silence until the first aid station. Be cordial, sure, but I prefer to just go out there and get my head on straight. I warm up on the trail. Everybody's different. I get it. The course is a little weird in that right before you get to the first aid station, you cross a bridge and are routed to the left toward the aid station. Once you get there you are free to leave immediately, retracing the 30 yards back to the bridge, then past the bridge and on to the next stop. I retied my shoes at the stop and left.

The second section is 4.2 miles and was uneventful. The weather was warm. I was on schedule for calories and water when I came into the second aid station at Crosby-Manitou, where my wife met me with Vitargo, an energy supplement that agrees with me, which I drink at every stop. My shirt was soaked with sweat, so I changed it, had my wife help me get some ice on my neck and get going. I decided to make a point of keeping ice stored in a buff on my neck whenever possible, and when it became clear that the weather would be warm I stuck to it. We had discussed the need to keep moving through aid stations. It’s very easy to waste time, especially if I sit down in a chair, the detriment of which is exacerbated if you are slow like me and run into cutoff times with regularity. I got in and out, which is a testament to my wife.

The third section, from Crosby-Manitou to Sugarloaf, is 9.4 miles, involves a huge descent followed by a massive, relentless climb and then a long stretch of pretty rough trail. This year the race director set an 11:30am cutoff time following this section, giving 50-milers 5.5 hours to cover the first 21.1 miles. The combination of the heat and the ridiculous climb kicked my ass. I got to walking in an attempt to regroup. 12-15 runners passed me during my stroll. To the last couple of said runners I mentioned the cutoff time. They took off as fast as they could go. I was fairly miserable, ran out of water about 6.5 miles in, and accepted defeat. So then I thought I should just go ahead and run it out with everything I had, mostly out of respect for the time and sacrifice that my wife makes to put me out there. I thought there was a slight chance that they might not be terribly strict with the cutoff, since it was new and really harsh, but mostly I thought I would just run the best 21.1 miles that I could. I passed everyone who had passed me while I was hiking, going back-and-forth with most of them before pulling away at the end. Just short of the aid station, a 100-miler who DNFed was walking back on the trail saying that the stop was just ahead and the cutoff was pretty much happening. I blasted into the stop at about 11:46am. The Wife pretended there was no cutoff and began to fill my water. She kind of steamrolled the guy making the decision and he said that if I went and stood by the next trailhead he would let me continue. I had dreams of chugging a milk jug full of ice-cold water upon arrival and being DNFed, but on I would go if they would let me. I came here to finish the race. I was the last runner to clear the Sugarloaf cutoff.

The fourth section is 5.6 miles, and was pretty runnable trail, and leads to the halfway point (which has a 1:30pm cutoff.) Just into the section, I came upon a girl about my age walking back toward the last aid station. She said she was quitting and didn’t know why. I said,  “C’mon. We’re gonna run this race now.” Liz and I got to be buddies, and we ran that fucking race. Sometimes we hooked up with other runners and made a train of it, but we stuck together for the better part of the next 23 miles. She would eventually finish ten minutes ahead of me, which is awesome. Liz would’ve quit if I hadn’t stopped her. We got to the next aid station with about 5 minutes to spare before the cutoff. The Wife hustled me in and out with precision. I changed shoes and took down another Vespa.

The fifth section is 7.1 miles of the most runnable trail on the course. I dropped Liz early on and put on the gas. I was feeling great and running great. There was no cutoff at the next aid station, and the cutoff at the aid station after that was comfortably reachable, but the 7pm cutoff at Oberg, the final aid station, had me concerned. I kept myself from doing math this time, as I've learned how detrimental long division can be to my mental and emotional constitution, but I knew that if I was to get out of the last aid station I was going to have to run what trail I could run. I passed a ton of people in that 7.1 mile chunk of trail, running playfully and having a blast, entertaining the possibility that I might finish the race. I damn near sprinted into the next stop. When things go well out there I get a goofy, contented smile and demeanor, which had fully set in by the Temperance River aid station (33.8 mile) where I quit last year.

The sixth section of trail is 5.7 miles and is pretty runnable, but does include a 1000-foot climb up Carlton Peak. The first stretch is a memorable run parallel to the Temperance River. I passed some high school kids who were jumping off of a rock 20+ feet up because kids are dumb. Just after crossing the river, I was moving along, kind of thinking about how I remembered the trail differently, when a woman came back toward me with concerns about lack of course markings. We backtracked, finally running into three other runners (one of whom was my buddy Liz.) We figured that we were fine if there were five of us. Liz and Peter took off ahead, while the other two laid back. I began to prepare myself for the grueling climb that lay ahead. I fell in behind a 100-miler and his two pacers just at the base of the climb. Two of them had the farts super-bad, but I couldn’t smell them so they were funny. They were all nice guys and one of them offered me some food. I declined, but it was good to see the conversation between pacers and runners. I hope to experience that first-hand someday. (READ: If you run and I know it, I might hit you up to pace me someday, maybe in the Black Hills at the end of June in 2014.) I was beginning to pass 100-milers with regularity. Passing people is encouraging, even if they’ve been running for 50 more miles than you have. I got to the next stop with time to spare, giving myself 1:50 to cover the next section.

The seventh section is 5.5 miles, and is always much tougher than I wish it was. I set out hustling, but not hurrying, knowing that I was in a position to finish if I just maintained. I wasn’t out there to be a hero and get some time or another, so I began to pay attention to not getting hurt and not blowing up (as in not pushing myself too hard.) Liz and Peter and I met up, hustling along at a slow but steady rate. Near the end of the section, Liz took off and then I followed suit. Rolling into the last aid station is a great feeling. The party atmosphere begins to set in. TC Running Company brings their RV, plays music and hosts an incredible buffet of running treats. (I accepted their water, but my wife had me covered on everything else.) Most people are pretty sure that they are going to finish their race. I even sat in a chair to drink a Red Bull and a ginger ale and Vitargo and change shirts and put on headlights. We get our picture taken. On my way out, my wife called at me because I forgot bug spray. I’m really glad I got bug-sprayed.

The final section, from Oberg to Lutsen, is 7.1 miles. About 300 yards into it, I stop to apply body lube to some chafing in my left armpit that wasn't going to get better on its own. I got to fucking around with my pack, and six familiar faces passed me. I was totally fine with that. I put on long sleeves and hiked along. The main goal for this section was to not get hurt. About 45 minutes in, it got dark enough to turn my lights on, right around the time I started the first of two 1000-foot climbs. The first climb is Moose Mountain, and it is steep as hell. At the top, a 100-miler with Hokas and trekking poles cruised by me. I caught back up to him at the top of the second climb, Mystery Mountain. His name was Nathan, and he was a chiropractor from Green Bay. He was very up front about his state as a basketcase, but he moved forward at a steady rate. He kept worrying about a lack of course markings. I wasn’t worried, because I know that area and I know that there is only one trail that well-worn. That wasn’t good enough to calm Nathan’s nerves, so we stopped a few times to make sure that there were fresh footprints in the muddy spots. Everything was fine. We might have moved slower than I could have, but I was happy to have the company. Trail buddies can be good buddies. I hiked with Nathan through the end of the section, telling him of the campground followed by the 180-degree turn, quick downhill and then the roar of the Poplar River. The trail spit us out at the edge of the Lutsen ski area, running down the road to the Caribou Highlands. I took off my headlamp, leaving Nathan behind and passing a couple of other 100-milers, ran around the back of the pool area of the hotel and into a small crowd of people celebrating. My parents were there and my wife was there and it was just a great feeling to go back to that race and succeed.

Each time I run these I realize more and more how important other people are to the experience. There is no way I finish or have as much fun without my wife. She is incredible crew, an amazing race partner. As far as I’m concerned, we run these races. My trail buddies helped me pass time, and helped me keep going and going. The volunteers make the whole thing possible.

I am really sore, especially in my shoulders, back and ribs (mostly from steadying myself after tripping on roots and rocks.) I chafed like hell in both armpits (from swinging my arms about) and on both lovehandles (from my thumbs when placing hands on hips to climb hills.) It hurts like hell to bend my toes. I feel fantastic. We’re hitting .500 for 50-miles races. It’s time to up the ante: Wild Duluth 100k. We got this.

2013 Black Hills 50 Race Report

I got in some decent training between the last attempt at 50 in April and this one at the end of June. I did a 30 and a 24 (that was supposed to be a 35, but was cut short due to injury concerns.) I was healthy heading into the race. The weather was fantastic (82, sunny, and dry with a slight breeze.) I had some slight concerns about higher altitude, but that was a non-issue. I also had slight concerns about high grass pollen that was being touted on weather.com, but that didn’t affect me at all.
The previous two attempts at running 50 miles have been preceded by tedious preparation, anxiety, and stress. I have carefully scheduled what I’ll need at which aid stations, when I’ll be changing what clothing, what I’ll be taking for calories and when. I have freaked out about weather (not completely without reason) and I have worried about what would happen if I couldn’t finish. While I have learned much, I have not had very much fun. All that changed this weekend. Maybe it was a clear weather forecast, or maybe it was watching my wife get to ride a horse, or maybe it was knowing that I really had nothing to lose this time around, or maybe it was just knowing that I had it this time, but I approached this race with a calm confidence that I did not have in the previous two attempts at 50. I had a pretty good idea of what to expect. I think The Wife did, too. No itinerary was drawn up, and the race bags were packed with handfuls of stuff. I just kind of knew that the wheels would really have to fall off for me to not finish. The wheels did not fall off.

The night before we attended the packet pickup/race meeting, which combined with the 100 mile, 100km, and 50 mile runners, along with the Tatanka 100 mile bike riders. During the Q&A portion of the meeting, some guy raised his hand, cleared his throat, and asked for advice concerning sunscreen and insect repellant for someone running the "100-MILE RACE!" Credit to the race organizers for politely telling him, with straight faces, that he should apply them when appropriate. There was time between the meeting and the pre-race carb-load dinner for us to drive down the road to the race start so that we knew exactly where it was, and then to go to the grocery store and purchase a pre-carb-load snack, which we ate in the parking lot. The meal itself was pretty gross, consisting of government noodles, salad, toast and sauce that were all incredibly salty. The idea of these things is to talk to other people, but we were spent from a long day of tourism, so we ate alone, went back to the hotel and did some light prep for the race. We turned in around 10pm, with the alarms set for 4am. We stayed on the east end of Rapid City, and Sturgis was about a 30-minute drive. I slept alright until about 1:15am, and then it was pretty light sleep from there. I felt pretty good getting up, not nervous or anything, and not really all that tired. I took down a little iced coffee, but tried not to overdo it. No sense in starting out like a rocket, because this would be an all-day affair and I knew it. We packed up and left, getting to the track early enough to relax and soak it in. I peed, but did not poop, which would have been a real bonus. Race day bathrooms are the worst, by the way.

The race started from the track at the high school field in Sturgis. We sat in the bleachers noticing familiar faces and pointing out people who looked like famous people until about 5 minutes to start. I walked myself to the very back of the line, unwrapped my breakfast, and waited for the start, which came with absolutely no fanfare. (Note on breakfast: with distances like this, the currently popular model suggests that a person not eat for at least 3 hours prior to the start of activity, so that insulin/blood sugar levels are neutral when you get going. I don’t understand it much beyond that, but it has worked well enough for me to continue doing it.) The whole mess of us runners, 100-mile, 100k, and 50-mile, took off together (bikers started at 5, runners at 6,) down a paved path toward the trail entrance. We had to cross under a road through a tunnel, and then we were into the dirt.

The first section of trail was pretty light, with some grasslands, mooing cows and a few ups and downs followed by a long, gradual, sandy-dusty uphill that ended with a really steep, fairly long, descent. Everyone was thinking the same thing: this shit is going to suck at the end. The beginnings of these races are often pretty chatty, with people sharing their motivations and past accomplishments. Usually its pretty friendly, but it can be kind of annoying, especially when it turns into a pissing match. A man and woman who were comparing 100-mile notes caught me, but I got ahead of them quickly enough, which brought me to a woman running her first 100 (a week prior to deployment to Afghanistan) to raise money for her friend with terminal cancer. I respect what she was doing, and wasn’t bothered by her story, but she tried to tell it twice and got shut down by another lady, and I got a real kick out of that. We rolled into the first aid station at 5.7 miles, getting things loose and feeling pretty good. The Wife met me at that one. I chugged some Vitargo and changed into a sleeveless t-shirt I’ve had since middle school that is not at all gross, Wife.

The second section of the race was 4.5 miles through some nice woods. We did have to run through another tunnel to get there, and that one had some water and some horse poop in it, but if you stayed to the far right you were fine. We went up through some switchbacks that would eventually lead to some trees that had crazy clicking sounds coming from them. I assume it was the beetle that is killing about 50% of the trees in the Black Hills. Really weird sound. I passed a couple of girls who were carrying ski poles and clearly running the race as a team. Right before a steep descent into the aid station, there were a couple of girls taking photos. I smiled for the camera, which is something I really haven’t done in the past. The short distance between aid stations was pretty nice, especially because crew wasn’t allowed at that one. An older guy made me a peanut butter and jelly tortilla, and there was an extremely nice woman wearing huaraches and butterfly wings doling out liquids and encouraging people to eat the vegan adzuki bean bars (Scott Jurek’s recipe) that she had made. I took one for the road and at it at the next interval.

I had begun eating vanilla bean GU every half hour starting at the first half-hour, unless I could eat real food at the aid stations, and I stuck to that plan religiously. I was also taking salt pills on the hour. There has been some hot debate recently about over hydration and taking salt pills and the like, but the rule of thumb for years has been to drink to thirst and take salt, especially if you’re going through a bunch of water, which I was. It was dry in the hills, and I knew I’d have to manage accordingly. I left the aid station making decent time, having covered 10.3 miles and having 6.9 to go to the next aid station, where my wife would be waiting.

The third section gave me my first taste of the really deceptive aspect of this trail. First, it was a long, slow uphill. It was never enough to really slow down or put your hands on your knees, but it was always going up, and that can wear on a person mentally and physically. It was also deceptively rocky. The trail always looked pretty clear, but there were always hefty rocks buried and kicking them was inevitable. I never fell, but I started stubbing my toes quite a bit. There was a pretty nice section of high grasslands. I passed some old people who were running the 100. From their conversation, it sounded like they had all done a ton of them before. Another steep, quick descent into the aid station and The Wife was waiting. I changed shoes, from a pair of Altra Superiors that I really want to like to a pair of Merrells that I do like. I drank Vitargo and had a ginger ale and was feeling really good after the first 17.2 miles, or first-third of the race. I knew it would be another 16 miles before I saw Angie again, so I stocked up on GU and off I went.

The next section of the race was 5.5 miles. I knew it would involve a few creek crossings, and that I should expect wet feet for a while. On the way, I passed a husky older fellow walking a Dachshund, which caused me to giggle. I was having a good time. I got to the first crossing and watched a local, Minnesota running legend keep dry by skipping over some rocks. I followed his lead and moved forward to the next crossing, where staying dry was not an option. The cold water felt good on my feet, as it did in the third, and final crossing as well. There was some really nice, smooth and runnable trail after that, and I took advantage of it. Immediately when the ascent began, however, I knew that the wet feet were causing me to blister on the ball of my right foot. The smartest thing I did all day was to sit down at the base of a tree, take off my shoe and sock, and apply blister pads. That move absolutely saved my day. My foot felt great after that. Some older, experienced runners passed me when I was treating my foot, and they all kind of acknowledged that I was being smart. I knew I’d have to pay attention to the foot again later on, but knowing that I made the right move gave me some momentum heading into the big uphill that I knew was coming.

This section had the best views. The Elk River Canyon was gorgeous, and looking at the house built into the side of the cliff near the top gave me some fun things to think about. How the fuck did they build that? Who lives there? How much money did that cost? What’s that like in the winter? About 20 miles into the race, I started hitting a bit of a wall. When that happens, I make noises. Sometimes they are grunts, and sometimes they are whistles. I whistled one good one, and then not one second later I looked to the left of the trail and saw a 50-year old woman taking a shit. She had her ass hung over something. I mostly just saw her head sticking up before I looked away, but I knew I had just made an unrelated whistle that she had to have thought was directed at her. And then I smelled her poop. It was horrible. If you’re going to poop on the side of a trail, it’s going to be an emergency and it’s going to be horrible. I decided that the whistle was fair trade for making me smell that 20 miles into a 50, and I moved on. Not long after that, the leader and eventual winner of the 50 came back at me. He was running so effortlessly. It was a thing of beauty. Like 95% of the runners I moved for who were coming back at me, this guy was gracious. The etiquette is that you say something encouraging and they return the favor and you both go on. I think I counted 12 runners who were coming back at me by the time I reached the 22.5 mile aid station. The climb had been relentless, and I was getting mentally and physically pushed, so I was glad to reach a point where all I had to do was run downhill 2.5 miles to the turnaround sign and come back to the aid station.

I grabbed a couple of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, a chunk of watermelon and a couple of boiled potatoes with salt. Younger military personnel staffed the station. They were dicking around and having a good time and it was a fun atmosphere. I marched out of the station, passed a couple of people and settled in behind a guy running the 100 who I had seen irresponsibly bombing down hills earlier in the race. (While it often seems like a good idea to go downhill as fast as possible, taking the free energy and speed, it has the effect of completely burning out quads. It’s a rookie mistake.) We chatted it up. He was a sprint triathlete (shortest tri distance) who was trying to improve his running times. His longest run prior to starting the 100-mile race was 18 miles. I reserved my judgments. I know he did not finish. I can’t imagine he made it much past the next aid station. He farted a lot, but it didn’t smell. Almost the entire 2.5 mile section to the turnaround was a steep uphill. It was completely demoralizing. I thought I had really gotten to the halfway point when I had reached the last aid station, but I was wrong. The 2.5 miles out to the halfway sign were the toughest miles of the day. Once I got there and headed back in, I got a boost. If I didn’t know it before, I knew now that I would make it. I had this. And then I saw the other people who were still heading out. I saw zombies. I had made that face before, and it was not good, but I was not making that face on Saturday, June 29th, 2013. I was smiling. I was having fun. I saw the two girls running as a team. They were getting kind of negative with each other, talking about finishing even if they couldn’t make the official 16-hour cutoff time.

I learned a lesson about out-and-back courses: if you don’t see food scraps on the ground on the way back in, you aren’t close to the aid station yet. When I saw watermelon rinds and crushed pretzels, I knew I was close. I filled up with ice water, ate some more of the same foods, and headed out downhill, 27.5 miles deep. I had been passed by one guy right after the turn, but quickly passed a different guy who was wearing somewhere in the neighborhood of $800-$1000 worth of high-end Salomon trail gear. He was nice, but cruising by that kind of money gave me a boost. I went by the place were I had crossed paths with the leaders some 3 hours earlier. I passed the fancy house on the hill. I went by the place where the lady took a dump. I saw the tree stump where I dressed by blister. The leader of the 100k passed me. I crossed the creek three times, this time taking a moment to splash cold water on myself, which felt so good. I climbed back up to the aid station, was passed by the 2nd place 100k racer, and saw the guy and his dog right before the stop.

This was the first time I had seen my wife in 16 miles, and Nancy was there, too! I handed off my pack, took out some body lube I got at shoe store as a sample, and went to the porta-pottie to lube up my chafing crack.  The girls were waiting at the camp. I redressed my blister, changed into thick socks, swapped out insoles but kept the Merrells, drank Vitargo, V8 and ginger ale and told some jokes. I also changed shirts and lubed up less-personal parts of my body, including the inside of my left triceps, which had begun a real turkey-arm routine. Nancy emptied out the used GU pocket of my Camelbak, a move I can only assume she regrets. I realized upon heading out that I left my insoles and socks and awful t-shirt strewn about, which Angie eventually collected into a plastic bag. Thank you, and I’m sorry about that. The girl team rolled into the aid station just as I was leaving. They were picking up steam. I was surprised to see them.

33 miles into the race, heading out up the hill, I felt really good. Even when my right hamstring tightened up from my glute to the back of my knee, I stayed positive. I stopped a couple of times to massage it and I noticed that it only hurt while walking and while going uphill. I found that it did not hurt if I ran uphill, so there were a number of times when I generally would have hiked uphill, but chose to run because it didn’t hurt. This section was 6.9 miles, treacherously rocky and relentlessly up-and-down. During this section, I started to allow myself a routine of mantras:
1. This isn’t hard, this just is.
2. The faster you go, the sooner this will be over.

And those two pretty much got me through. My feet started to get worked over, but I knew that once I reached the aid station I would have 4.5 miles to go until the next (where my wife would be) and then 5.7 miles to the end. I got to the aid station with the kind, gentle sandal/wings lady, and she was chatting with the 4th place 100k runner, who was from Wyoming and very nice. I sat down and ate a few sandwiches and cookies. Just as I was leaving, the girls showed up. They were gaining on me. I am not terribly competitive, nor do I give a shit if girls pass me, but something in me suddenly wanted to beat those girls more than anything else in the world. I hauled off out of the aid station, knowing that I would see a steep climb followed by a slow descent back to grasslands. I charged up the hill, able to hear the girls on occasion. I moved as quickly as I could, managing the pain in my hamstring/knee and keeping a lead on the girls. Soon after I began the descent, I passed an older gentleman wearing a neon orange shirt who has earbuds in both ears and could no longer speak. (Seriously, if you need to listen to music on the trail, do it through one earbud. People don’t want to scare the shit out of you, I don’t want to scare the shit out of you, but if you have your ears jammed up with music I don’t care.) Anyhow, due to the winding nature of the trails, I caught occasional glimpses of the girls, who seemed to be gaining on me. I pushed on, eventually coming to the clearing that led to the tunnel with water a horse poop. I went through, knowing that I was close to the last aid station.

When I saw that last aid station, it really started to set in that I was going to finish. I was so happy. The Wife, Nancy and Scott were at that aid station. I ate some watermelon, slammed a Vitargo and refilled my water. My wife took a few pictures. She wanted to send them to my mom. I made some faces, and then I smiled so I could leave. I told everyone, including the aid station volunteers, that the girls were hot on my trail and that I wanted to beat them. I took off, knowing that the toughest climb of the day was ahead. The hill did not disappoint. It was hard as shit. Straight up, about 400-500 feet, with mostly poor footing and a few false fronts, where it looked like the end but then turned a corner and went up some more. By the time I got to the top I was pretty spent. I sort of waddled down the other side, which was much more gradual. I crossed a prairie, throwing my fists up in the air and starting the celebration, all alone out there. It was wonderful. There was one more slight climb to be had in a pasture, up a hill a quarter mile or so from a clearing. When I was about ¾ of the way up the hill, I heard a shout. I looked back and saw the girls. Clearly the aid station volunteers had told them what I’d said about wanting to beat them, and it had fueled their fire. I had some left, though. I’d been fueling, hydrating and keeping up with my electrolytes. I decided to leave everything I had on the trail. I could zombie walk to the finish if it came to that, but for the time being I could run, and run I did. Or power shuffle. Or lean forward. Whatever. I went as fast as I could, knowing that there were 3 miles left, max. I quickly caught up to a guy wearing a sleeveless day-glo shirt with a tattoo sleeve. He was dragging, asking me how much farther and telling me he was spent. I told how far I thought it was, and said that I was spent, too, until those girls lit a fire. He asked if they were running the 100k or the 50-mile, and I said 50. Apparently that was enough to motivate him, too, because he gave it what he had. I ran the next mile or so back to the road, looking over my shoulder the whole time. After I made it through the first tunnel back to the path, I could see him on way back, probably a half-mile or so. I couldn’t see the girls. I ran on the path a little, then walked quickly, and alternated back and forth, looking over my shoulder all the while. I was starting to feel pretty nauseas, and I didn’t want to throw up on the track, so I back off, knowing that I could see far enough back to have warning if any of them started gaining. I talked to a girl waiting for her father/grandfather, the guy in the orange shirt with the earbuds. I told her he was a ways back. The rest of their family was waiting outside the track. They clapped and encouraged me as I hiked on. When I turned the corner to get on the track for the last 100 yards or so, I ran again. My wife was waiting at the finish line, jumping up and down. It was so wonderful to be there, to finally finish one of these, and to do it strong, with my legs underneath me.

(One of the girls beat the guy in the yellow shirt, and one did not. Without them pushing me from behind, I would have lollygagged into the finish. As it was, I ran the last 5.7 miles, including the hellacious climb, in the same amount of time it took me to run the first 5.7 miles, with a much more gentle climb.)

Well, holy shit, I got to write this one. I fucking did it. I am proud of what I did, but perhaps mostly because I had to try. Believe it or not, but there are people out there for whom this comes fairly easily. Some people are more natural runners than others. I am not a natural runner, no matter how much I wish that I were. I am a guy who has had to try. I am a guy who has set a goal and failed and had to pick himself up and dust himself off in front of everyone and try again. And repeat. I have struggled, and anyone who knows me has watched, to varying degrees. This has been hard, but I have stuck with it. I have failed and gone back for more.

I never could have done this alone. My wife has been and continues to be incredible and spectacular, both in supporting my training to managing my race day. This is a team effort. We finished a 50-mile run. We didn’t win the race, but yes we did. So thank you, lady. And thank you guys, for the kind words and the support. They say the first one is the toughest. We’ll find out come September 7th, when we return to the scene of the first attempt. There’s work left to be done, there’s always work left to be done, but we got this. It feels great.

Final Results: 59 registered, 34 finished (30 within official 16-hour cutoff)

2012 Zumbro 50 Race Report

I'll spare the suspense: I dropped at mile 40.76. In conversation, I will refer to it as mile 41, which is probably accurate considering my missteps. Fuck me. This one is tough to swallow.

The conditions leading into the race were rough, with heavy snowpack leading to mud, ice, and flowing water over parts of the course. Very little, if any, of the 16.7 mile loop course was in good condition. That being said, it was runnable, and plenty of people finished both the 100 (6 loops) and 50 (3 loops). The weather conditions at the race start (midnight, Friday) were fine. With no cell coverage in the valley, everything is an estimate, but we kicked of with about 25 degrees and light, variable winds.

I checked in, and immediately started looking for people who had seen what runners were wearing for foot traction. The man with whom I first spoke brought me over to his buddy, Troy, who had already dropped from the 100, and told him to "talk to the kid." Gotta love any community where I am still "the kid." Troy told me that he used sheet metal screws in the bottoms of his shoes. I have MICROspikes and I hate wearing them because they are heavy, uncomfortable, and they don't stay on straight for very long. I opted to carry them for the first lap and to put them on if need be. Troy also told me to stay left after the bridge and to stay right on the gravel road to avoid the deepest water. This information was invaluable. I went back to the car, prepared my equipment and focused mentally as best I could.

These races start with the Race Director, John Storkamp, standing on a ladder giving announcements. And then we're off. Trail races always start with a logjam, which new runners often are frustrated by and more experienced runners  generally appreciate. Especially with races of this length, hiking the first mile is fine. The trail was as muddy as advertised, but another thing Troy told me to look for, bushwhacked paths up on the sides, had good footing. (These are older, worn trails that have cut into the surrounding landscape. There were often banks of 2-3 feet up on either side.) I chatted up a few guys early on. It's a thing that happens, even for an introvert. My lights, one Petzl on forehead and one Black Diamond on waist, were plenty strong and I had no difficulty seeing where I was going. I ate one chocolate/peanut butter trail bar immediately, and then stuck to my plan of a gel every half hour (for the first 7 hours or so.) I hate them, but I ate them. The first 3-mile section had little up-and-down, and was pretty forgiving altogether.

After the first aid station, the runners thinned out considerably, as is generally the case. I ate a few things and drank some coke and ginger ale, the former being an ultra standby for energy and the latter for controlling the propensity for tummy issues. I had a few potato chips and pretzels and was off, over the bridge and to the left, staying left to avoid a huge section of mud. The trail went over a couple of creeks via some very makeshift, albeit sturdy, log bridges. And by "log bridges" I mean 3-4 logs laid across running water. We went up a slight grade, with a couple of steeper 100-200 foot sections. There was more mud, and some longer, flatter sections covered in snow. I passed a couple of 100-mile runners, who were beginning to look like zombies after 16 hours on the trail. The etiquette is that they pull over and let you by when they feel like it, you tell them they are doing a great job, and they mumble something incomprehensible as you go on ahead. I ended up alone in the pitch black night (no moon, cloudy night) for a long stretch, and really began to wonder if I had strayed from the trail. The configuration of the route also put the next aid station within earshot well before you arrived at it, which further messed with the mind of this amateur ultrarunner. Before the second aid station, after a very steep 300-foot uphill climb, the trail led down an extremely muddy hill. By the time we got there, several paths had been braided by runners looking to avoid the slick, ankle-deep main path. I made my way safely, and made a mental note of that part of the 4-mile second section of the race. I repeated my coke/ginger ale/potato chip/pretzel routine, adding in the classic ultra food, salted boiled potatoes.

Quickly into the third section, a 2.7-mile stretch, I was passed by a crew of 7-10 runners in a pack. I tagged along behind them, running through a bunch of sand and eventually through a downhill that played very much like a game of Plinko, with everyone holding onto trees and sliding downhill. It wasn't muddy so much as it was slick. Keeping in mind that it was 2:30 am the first time I encountered this downhill, as well as a runner's tendency to hurry downhill, I was fortunate to be behind the group and to see them slow and struggle as the made their way. Overall, the section went quickly, and we were back to the aid station (Aid stations 2 and 3 were the same, as the course was configured with small loops.) I enjoyed some more of the standard foods at the aid station and was off, having dawdled long enough to lose the big group. That was probably for the best, as they were all faster runners than I, and keeping up with them was not a good idea.

The fourth section was 4 miles split pretty evenly between a tough, muddy, mostly-uphill ridge line and a gravel road submerged under running water in two places. The first lap, in the dark, I was largely unaware of just how much of the ridge line was uphill. That was one huge advantage of running the first lap in the dark. You can't let it psych you out if you can't see it. (Standing in the registration line before I ran my first marathon in 2011, I heard trail legend Dusty Olson say to someone that the way to go up a hill was to never, ever look up. You'll get there all the same. Don't look; just move your feet.) I ran the all of the gravel road, swinging wide right as advised by Troy pre-race. I kept mostly dry, but I was really surprised at just how tired I got by openly running. It seems that my mentality changes in the midst of heavy trail running, where regular running is unfamiliar and uncomfortable. I made it back to the bridge, where a woman named Debbie was a little confused by the route markings. We pieced it together and went to the fourth aid station (which was also the first.) Ate stuff. Drank stuff. Things start to blur.

The final 3 miles of the loop back to the start/finish area gave me time to think about just what I had gotten myself into. The section wasn't particularly difficult. It was quite muddy in some places, but for the most part, it was trail running as usual. Throughout the first lap, I had started in on a mantra of being present, of only being able to be exactly where I am. "You are here right now. Your feet can only run on the ground underneath them. Be present in this moment." I did that shit over and over. It helped keep me from worrying about what happens at mile 35, at 40. It stopped working on command near the end of the first lap. I ran across the timer, met my wife, and went back to the car to retool.

I got very negative in the car, wondering loudly, repeatedly and aggressively just what the fuck I had gotten myself into and why the fuck I took part in such ventures. I lamented the course conditions and predicted them worsening, especially after 9am when the 17-milers were let loose. Expecting more and more mud as runners pounded the course, I left my spikes behind to save weight. The Wife calmed me down, helped me ingest a mountain of calories, change socks, shirts, gloves and headgear. I chose to carry a handheld bottle full of calories in addition to my Camelbak. I pouted my way back onto the trail, walked for a mile or so, and then the calories set in and I found the energy to run again. I made my way to the aid station in good spirits, chatted with a volunteer about things, and watched a woman come through and head in the wrong direction, back toward the start/finish. I tracked her down and corrected her, and we ran together for a few miles. She was nice enough, but the conversation eventually became quite stale. I think she felt the same way, as she bolted the second I pulled over to pee. The sun came up, and we could start to see the surrounding area. That was big assist. We also saw what we had previously felt, that the trail had frozen over. Nothing was glare, but everything was slippery enough that you had to stabilize and ensure your purchase with most steps if you didn't have screws or spikes on your shoes. I passed a couple of 100-milers. One was a woman and her pacer (co-runner who doesn't run the entire race, intended to coach and motivate.) The runner was a zombie, shuffling along up the hill, looking like she was on the edge of death. The other 100 I passed was a 55/60-year-old man who tried talking to me. He wasn't making words; he just spit out syllables and smiled. I chose to run on to avoid having to try to make conversation. On the ridge line with the sun up, I saw just how much of it was uphill, and I let it get to me a little. The wind had started to pick up, and I was getting chilly. I walked most of the gravel and the section that followed it, back to the start/finish. I was done, 33.4 miles in.

I saw my wife, got a veggie burger from the aid station (which was quite possibly the most disgusting thing I've ever put in my mouth,) and went back to the car. Had my wife not been there to talk to me like I was going back for more, I would have turned in my timing chip. I changed socks, finding a blister on a toe. I applied a blister pad, which was going to cause problems neighboring toes, so I put on Injinji toe socks underneath a fresh pair of smartwool socks. The course had been sheer ice for pretty much the the entire second lap, so I put on the spikes. I also changed shoes, from the winter version of the Merrell Mix Master to the more porous summer version. I didn't get far before I sat down on the trail to remove the thick smartwool socks. I had more room for my toes, which gave them room enough to move against the seams of the Injinjis and cause another blister. I felt it, but chose to wait until the first aid station of the third lap to address it. I did a mediocre job of treating it, and went on. Immediately after the bridge, I missed some very obvious trail markings and ended up running through water. The combination of the shitty socks, the porous shoes and 36 miles of sloppy trails left my feet in rough shape, blistering all over. I carried on down the trail, eventually catching up with four runners: three guys and one older lady. The woman was the only one who was not a zombie. The four guys in that pack were hamburger. We got to the steepest hill on the course, which I had been anticipating. I powered up it, really putting on a display of climbing for me. We went down the mudslide. I was daft as fuck, picking out some great lines and putting some real distance between myself and the other four in the pack. We got to the gentle downhill leading to the 2/3 aid station and my legs, tummy and disposition bottomed out.

I bonked, which can often be cured by jamming calories into one's belly, but my tummy had pretty much quit taking food. The wind had picked up, to roughly 20-25 mph, and I got cold. I sat down at the 40.76 mile aid station to rally the troops, and I got colder. I put on a windbreaker. I asked the volunteers about the next section, making sure that it was the Plinko section. The one volunteer who admitted to having run the trail said, "What hill?" That's his job, and I appreciated it. I was very much doubting my legs and chewed-up feet to carry me safely down that hill, especially considering that I was correct in my initial assumption that the 17'ers and sun would mud up the course even worse. It had turned into stew. I was dreading the windy, uphill ridge line in the following section. While a I was deliberating whether or not to drop. A large, bearded man wearing coveralls and shades pulled up on a bright red Honda 4-wheeler. He was looking for a girl who'd dropped from the 17, but who had opted to walk back on her own rather than wait for the ride. He was about to leave, when I pointed at him and told the volunteers, "I want a ride on that Honda." They asked me if I was sure, but everyone knew the second I sat down upon arrival that my day was over. I was beaten, fair and square. It fucking sucked then and it fucking sucks now. Say what you will about the merits of covering 41 miles in such conditions, but I didn't set out to go 41 miles. I was there to go 50 and I didn't fucking do it and that fucking sucks. I could have trained harder and smarter. I could have stuck it out in the gym and I could have run more hills and I could have run more miles. I could have been mentally stronger, finding ways to say yes rather than no and staying present in the moment where my feet were and not where they would be. I could have put one foot in front of the other and trusted that they would continue to land safely and that the effort would warm my body against the elements. I did not do those things. I fucking quit. It was probably the smart thing to do. It fucking sucks.

I took a long ride on that 4-wheeler back to the 1/4 aid station 3 miles from the start/finish. I sat by a fire with a terrible smell and shivered pretty uncontrollably, putting my effort into not breaking down completely in front of strangers. I was sitting next to an older woman who was also dropping and waiting for a ride. She asked me what happened. I told her I didn't trust my legs to go down that particular hill. She said that was the hill where she had just trashed her groin by slipping down it. That made me feel a little better. Eventually, a very nice woman in a Lexus crossover gave four of us a ride back to the start/finish. She had a mat down, but I'm sure I left some souvenirs for her. Thanks, lady. Sorry.

My parents and youngest sister had come to see the finish. The Wife had run to the bathroom briefly, and returning to the vehicle she saw me walking up. She thought she had missed me finishing. From afar, everyone reacted as though I had finished. I had to wave it off. It fucking sucked to do that. "Thanks for coming. Thanks for putting in the effort. Sorry I fucking quit. Again."

I learned some valuable lessons about being present in the moment, about allowing myself to be motivated by others in both good ways and bad, about just how dark and how beautiful it can be out there. The highs are higher and the lows are lower the farther you go. I learned about celebrating too early, which is something I did during a high point about halfway through the second lap. I learned about managing wet feet and treating blisters, and about the need to learn more in that department.

I also came to one important question: why the fuck am I doing this? I punted last fall and gave myself a pass for that being the first 50, but this is two failed attempts. I could say that the conditions were to blame, or that I just need to train harder and smarter, but the question would remain. It's not particularly fun. Maybe it's fun if you finish. Maybe fun isn't the point. Maybe I just like talking about it, thinking that it makes me sound cool and interesting rather than weird. Maybe I should just run races I know I can finish for a while, and see if that's fun. Maybe I'm just a slow, but comprehensive learner, which is a characteristic I've exhibited elsewhere. I don't know right now. I'll sit on this for a while and see what my intuition does with it. It's gonna sting. This feels terrible right now. Remember this feeling, Mister.

Thank you everyone for your questions and support. Thank you to the volunteers, without whom races like this are not at all possible. Thank you, The Wife. This could never have even been a goal without you. I am humbled. Remember this feeling, Mister.

2012 Superior 50 Race Report

They say you aren't a true ultrarunner until you've completed a 100-mile race and DNF'ed an ultra. I'm halfway there. The trail beat me on Saturday. I set out to run a little more than 52 miles on the Superior Hiking Trail. I covered a little less than 34 of them. I experienced a number of things I had only read about until Saturday. I have no regrets. I will rest, recover and be back in the spring.

- The trip up went fairly well. We drove the aid station route for the 50 with some minor hiccups, checked in at the hotel and the race. Had dinner with parents, prepped race equipment and supplies, went over plans and got to sleep by ten.

- Woke up at four without issue. Drank coffee, drove to Finland. Got there about 20 minutes early. Weather was chilly, but not cold, and the sun was just coming up as the race started. Used lights for the first 30 minutes. Probably would not worry about them in the future. Forced myself into a pack near the end of the line to keep myself from going out too quickly. Some banter with fellow runners, one guy much chattier than everyone else. Was exactly where I wanted to be when we got to Sonju Aid station. Removed lights and extra shirt at aid station, took no aid. 1:51

- Things separated quickly coming out of the aid station. I was running alone before long. Ran along a river, extremely nice. Cotton t-shirt a little chilly; long sleeves would have been too warm. Came into Crosby-Manitou feeling strong. Angie had me well-prepared with Vitargo, chia water, and the taking of my extra gear. She also asked me about blistering, and I remembered that I thought I should put on socks, so I did. Angie said that the word around Crosby was that the next section of trail was really tough. I had read similar reports, but I had never run. 3:00

- The section of trail from Crosby to Sugarloaf is the toughest, most technical section of trail that I have ever run. Crazy hard. There was little more than jagged rocks and roots to run on for the first four miles, and most of the trail was narrow and along steep edges. The trip down the Caribou River gorge was treacherous, and the trail out was steep and nasty. Once at the top, there were some fantastic views of Lake Superior. I am proud of myself for having the wherewithal to pause and admire them, and I am proud of myself for stopping and applying blister pads to the bottom of my left foot. A guy who passed me quoted Muhammad Ali - "It's not the mountain you climb, it's the pebble in your shoe." I learned about stopping for both of those things from books and internets. Shortly after I had scaled the gorge, at exactly 4:30 into my race, the skies opened up in pouring rain and I was stung six times by bees. The sound of the rain distracted me from the sound of the bees, so it took me a second to realize what was happening. I went from being a little tired from the climb to running as fast as I could. I saw someone's black long-sleeve shirt on the ground. I assume they lost it to the same bees. It rained pretty steadily for the next hour to hour-and-a-half. I only had a t-shirt on. It was pretty cold and miserable, but I really kept a positive attitude. I've read about that, too. Even if my mind isn't terribly concerned with the cold and rain, and the subsequent awful footing, it can go to negative places like stupid thoughts about work or people or whatever. It wasn't terribly hard to remind myself of just how lucky I am to be who I am and to be able to do what I was doing, and that kind of caught me off guard. So I kept my mental state in check, but the sloppy footing took its toll on my body. My feet were wearing down and my legs were tiring. The surface of the Superior Hiking Trail is tough in good conditions, but when it's wet it is really difficult. But I plugged along, crossing paths with several hikers, smiling. It was still fun.

- I got to the Sugarloaf aid station in decent time, slowed roughly 30 minutes from my ideal pace by reality. Angie had a good parking spot, and I got to put on dry shirts, sit in the car and drink V8 (greatest thing ever for me in a long race), Red Bull (maybe not a good idea, could lead to crashes), eat Reece's Pieces (tasty, desirable, palatable in-race calories), and have a couple plugs of Vitargo, chia water and coconut water. Tried to eat at aid station, but the rain had caused them to stop putting out new food. I took that as a sign that things were closing and that I was already running out of time. Really let that get to me. Switched to handheld bottles. Did not take Spibelt. Facing a 5.6 mile section. Had two hours to make cutoff. Should have been no problem. 5:30

- Realized instantly that the bottles did not go with the altered, hunched stance caused by running on such precarious trail. I passed a guy who was running the 100 and struggling quite a bit. Then I passed another guy who was wearing sunglasses in the daytime and bore a slight, but jarring, resemblence to BTK. I plugged on, but thoughts of diminishing time began to creep into my train of thought. I started crunching numbers, and I started measuring my progress in my head. I got inside my own head and I ate myself up. By the time I got to the Cramer Road aid station, another 15 minutes off-pace, I was in pretty tough shape, and that was tough to face halfway through a 52-mile race. I stuffed myself with calories, thinking much of my negative state was a result of being low on calories or "bonking". I slammed some Vitargo and a Red Bull and I didn't start crying. I was told I had six minutes to leave the aid station or be DNF'ed. I confirmed future cutoff times and I left, knowing that the upcoming 8 miles of trail would be as runnable as any remaining. I had to make up time here, or I was going to be done. 7:26

- I really struggled to hold it together coming out of the Cramer Road, but I got my wheels going and I started running with what I had. My lungs were fighting me and the clock was ticking in my head. This was the first section of the race that I had run before, and that might not have been much of an advantage. I thought I knew what was coming, but my meter was off. I was folding. I passed a couple of people, one guy I'd been seeing on the trail all day who was fighting his IT band and was walking everything. I went by another guy who was wearing headphones and singing to himself. I had to startle him to get by, which is terrible trail etiquette on his part. I finally started to reach the milestones I had in my head, and my clock was too far along for me to have any hope of not getting cutoff at an aid station. The upcoming aid station, Temperance River, had no cutoff, so I could leave no matter what. Sawbill, the aid station after that, had a 5:30 cutoff. There was no way I was going to make that, especially considering the climb and descent involved. I knew that section all too well, and I didn't feel safe making the descent down Carleton Peak. I let go of my hopes of finishing the Superior Trail 50, and I was fine with it. I walked into the Temperance River aid station and I told the volunteers that I was finished. One guy said that I couldn't drop there, just to prod me a little to keep going, and I told him that the luckiest man in the world was done for the day.

A small part of me thinks I could have physically made it to the next aid station, 5.6 miles. A tiny sliver wonders if I couldn't have found some legs, made that cutoff and gotten to the last aid station before I was stopped. Bottom line is that I didn't think I could do it and it didn't seem worth the pain to scuttle along anymore. My lungs weren't with me. My will was exhausted. I tried to run 52 miles on 4-4 trail and I failed, but I did succeed in running 33.8 miles of  trail. I guess one benefit of setting high goals is that you can fail to meet them and still have done something worth doing. Thanks to everyone for their questions and support. Thanks to my wife for supporting me though the training and during the race.

For the time being, I will be eating everything I see. I will be back. I will attempt 50 miles again, but perhaps my next attempt will be on a trail more forgiving than the Superior Hiking Trail.