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.