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)
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