This one means the so much to me, for several reasons. I started the race with friends, which is something I have not done before. It was so great to know that I had buddies out there in this with me. I met some new people and unexpectedly ran into some others, people who are trail veterans. I feel lucky to have met them, and I feel a little more like a part of the community, like I belong here. I finished. It's been a while since I finished. I didn't feel prepared coming in. I didn't pack well, I barely knew the course, and I felt pretty overweight (I carry a bit of a belly on my person.) I told my wife earlier in the week that I just didn't feel good about this one.
We drove up in a little traffic Friday evening, finding the check-in roughly 15 minutes before it closed. My wife quickly found us a place to eat in Duluth, and we found it to be a busy diner-type place. There was a wait, but we were just two people and they offered counter service so we decided to sit it out. This was a fantastic decision. You see, we had somewhat randomly chosen to eat at the Duluth Grill, which might be the most amazing place I've ever eaten. I could write an entire post about how great they are. Just amazing. We checked into our hotel, brought in our stuff, and found that the door to the room was not even close to the correct size, but hey, close enough. I slept quite poorly, but whatever.
We got to the start in plenty of time. There was a 10-week-old Australian Shepherd puppy named Oscar right in front of our car. So cute. The owner noticed us eyeing him up, so she let us meet him. THANK YOU FOR LETTING US MEET OSCAR. Checked-in, did pre-race stuff, and met the team. We need a better name than "the team." I guess when I'm referring to Tiffany and Meredith to my wife, I call them "the girls." I guess we could call ourselves "the girls" even though I'm a guy because that's the kind of guy I am. We'll get back to you.
The race start was beautifully low-key. A megaphone, some brief and light-hearted instructions, and some form of go signal. Never change, Voyageur. We took off on streets across a couple of intersections and then a hard right down a bike path, across a bridge and onto some technical trail. I fell into place, expecting to stay there until the first aid station. I was behind a man who was many years my senior, but appeared to be running much stronger than I ever have. He got stung by a bee almost immediately. I was a little worried about that. I eventually ducked by him at a corner, which was stupid. There is no advancing in the first leg of an ultra. Just fall in line. Another couple jumped up a bunch of spots at a creek crossing. That's pointless. If you need to get somewhere at the start, then start forward. Same goes for me. Lesson learned. I was happy to find myself behind a runner wearing Five-Fingers. I can't wear them, myself, anymore, but I do enjoy watching someone else run and pick their way through technical trail in them. I feel like I ran lighter because of that guy. I did no harm. I crossed the swinging bridge, slapping it with both hands, found my wife and took off my shirt. It was not yet 7am, and it was hot out. This would become a theme.
The next section was wide, grassy ski trails, much like the first 9-mile section of Ice Age. This kind of terrain is very tempting to push the pace on, but I learned my lesson in May. I walked every uphill. One guy stopped to ask me if I was okay, which is such a great part of trail culture. He understood my explanation, told me he was going to be stupid and push, and went on ahead. I took it really easy, enjoying the misty morning light and just passively taking in what seemed good. Right near the end of the section, I got in front of a woman who had chosen to blast music from her phone, rather than use an earbud or two. I found that to be pretty offensive. Maybe I'm alone in that opinion, but it seems like that's a jerk move on the trails. Roads, maybe. Trails, be quiet. I am but one man.
I did a poor job prepping my wife for the course, mostly because I did a poor job of prepping myself for the course, mostly because the course has changed so much over the past few years, but also because I do such a poor job of not psyching myself out when I know the course that I chose to run this one pretty ignorant. Point being, I thought I would see my wife in three miles, but instead it was seven. She drove around for a long time looking for the stop before someone told her what was what. I am sorry, my wife. I now owe you an even one million favors.
This section was fun to run. There was a long stretch of flat, paved stuff that had enough grass next to it that you could choose, and then it got into some nice downhill single-track. A veteran a few places up mentioned how rough it was on the way back, a fact I noted but did not fret. I stayed put, firmly planted in my feet. We found the aid station in good time, going easy and doing no harm. I was right behind my teammate Tiffany. I wondered if the next section was the infamous Powerlines. Tiffany asked around and confirmed that it was. Cool, I thought. Let's see this.
Up and down and up. Pretty steep and loose and a little slick. Not fun, but not horrible. I got a kick out of the two photographers positioned to get people in mid-struggle. As a big fan of street photography, I respect their attention to honesty. I kind of thought that was it for the nasty hills when we entered the woods, but then we left the woods and I got the joke. The powerlines are exposed and steep and up and down. Tough stuff, but not impossible. I made it to the next aid station just fine, noting that the race didn't really start until I went back through that. I didn't freak out about it, but I adjusted my mindset. I would be taking poles with on the way back, if I hadn't already picked them up.
The next section was short, two miles. About halfway was a hard right turn. When I got to that intersection, I looked down that turn and saw several large trees across the path. I figured that meant the trail was closed. I opted to go straight on the Superior Hiking Trail, as is my instinct from the fall races. A woman I had passed was right behind me. We moved quickly and climbed some stairs and we covered some ground, but then we came to a part of the trail that looked untouched. I asked her when it was that she last saw an orange flag. We discussed, and decided to head back to the intersection. On our way there, we picked up two others who had missed the turn. We got straightened out and found the aid station quickly enough. Probably went an extra 1.5 miles because of the error, but I didn't for a second let that get to me. Whatever. We were fine for time. In and out of the aid station and on to the next.
There were ropes, because the trail was steep and narrow. That's cool. I've done some rock climbing. Up and on. Over some rivers. The leaders coming back, running like water, smiling and stopping to splash water on their faces. We have fun. The four of us who were once lost trekked on. Nick was running his first 50, Meredith her third, me on my fifth attempt at the distance for what would be my third finish, and Misty on what I think was her fifth round of the Voyageur, alone. When I find myself on the trail engaged in conversation with vets, I try not to make it obvious how much I am taking notes. I try to be cool, but I am not cool. I am noting everything from how you greet other runners to how you step across rivers to what food you are carrying in your pack to how you tie your shoes. The stuff I don't know is infinite and my time is limited. Also, I would like to make more trail friends, so I'm trying to take note of all these things and be personable and also run. How lucky I am to have these be my challenges.
Aid station. Heat is starting to claim victims. I notice it, but I keep ice on the neck and water in the bottles and salt in the salt container and go. Get out of here. Go. Uphill on roads. Exposed. Look back, see notable trail veteran on opposite side of the road, hiking in the shade. OF COURSE. Cross road, also hike in shade. PLAY IT COOL, RUN FINGERS THROUGH HAIR. Not really. Road ends, trail starts. Nice trail. Downhill. Not hard. Nothing's hard. Aid station.
Long hike and run on road. Dip down onto trail. Run through Mud Man Mud Run Cargo Net Water Slide Game Sport. Overwhelm them with positivity. "Nice Job." and repeat. Down the hill. Gonna see this again soon. Cross Tiffany, Meredith close behind. "the girls" are in full force. Add extra half-mile to use restroom. Had to be done. Worth the time. Refuel. Change shoes. Velcro missing, Krazy Glue dry, whatever. The gaiters were fine. More bandages to cover pack chafing. Go.
Uphill. Back through Mud Run, down road, and through aid station. Uphill, against gentle upslope. Start picking off runners. Meet up with veteran, who has caught me after soaking briefly in creek near the zoo. I follow him closely into Beck's Road station. I won't see him again until the finish. Going. Won't see wife for five miles, just to make sure we meet before Powerlines. Burn through next section, passing more runners. Rappel down ropes and across river. Chug uphill for two miles. Not hard. Nothing's hard. My arm starts to chafe against my ribs. Relube. Grab trekking poles. Powerlines.
Hard, but not impossible. Easier on the way back in. Aid station. Ice in water. Ice in Vitargo bottle. Ice for neck. Relube. Uphill. Pass more runners. On paved path, just before aid station, find a female runner assisting a younger, male runner. A woman has stopped on her bike, allowing the young man to use her phone. He is out of it. No water, food, or salt. The female runner gives him a gel. I give him water and food. He talks to his crew, they are on the way. I convince him to walk toward station. He is feeling better. Meredith catches us. Male runner's friend approaches. I pass him off, and I run. I can taste it now. I make good time into station, grab some ice for the neck, see my wife. I hear a familiar voice, and turn to see a familiar face. A local legend is manning this station. I am so happy to see this guy. I barely know him, having run with him a little at Wild Duluth last fall (and totally failed to play it cool,) but he's one of those people who just has a great energy to him. So it kicked ass to see him there. I left my poles. There were some dark clouds rolling in, but I didn't get my new rain jacket. My wife said they were just shade clouds. I don't know why I believed her, but it would be of no consequence.
Out of that aid station was a big downhill. I started my momentum and didn't stop until the finish. I started passing what seemed like all kinds of people. I passed Barefoot Guy. (Hats off to you, Barefoot Guy.) I saw Misty on the other side of the ski loop. I started noting the mantras that got me through the day. "Don't give up. Don't ever give up." and "You are not here for a Facebook post. You are not here for a mug. You are not here for a buckle. You are not here for a picture. You are here to find out what you have when you have nothing left, so give what you've got, buddy."are two of the three big ones. You can refer to the Wild Duluth post if you would like to know the third. I cried some. I flew.
I spent very little time in the last aid station. I grabbed my jacket. I clapped and ran. I had all the legs. I passed everyone I saw, save for a young man in a day-glo Run For Africa shirt. He finished just stronger than I did, but I made him look. He was half my age. I'll take it. The skies opened up on us. I put on the jacket, even though I probably didn't need it. Everything was wonderful. High-five. Hugs. A mug. "the girls" all finished. Photo. Cold shower. Lasagna. Short ride home with a gallon of V8. Pizza. Bed. Pizza. Bed. Back to work.
I can't thank the volunteers and race organizers enough. This doesn't happen without you. I need to thank my wife. None of this happens without you, not one minute of it. I'd like to thank the girls. Running with friends is so great. I had no idea until this race. I'd like to thank the veterans. Thank you for establishing such a great community and tradition. If you ever see me looking cool, don't believe it, because it's bullshit. I'm taking notes so that I can be a better part of the community. I love you all, so very much.
Tuesday, July 29, 2014
Monday, July 28, 2014
Black Hills 100, 2014
This was my first attempt at 100 miles. I got my ass handed to me by the Centennial Trail, my stupid brain, and literally my ass.
I was still reeling a little from a DNF at Ice Age in May, but more so from the injuries and subsequent undertraining that hurt me at Ice Age. My back/hip was going in-and-out, and I was never able to do anything close to respectable training. I headed out the Sturgis with a wing and a prayer, and I got what I paid for. I knew going in that a finish was unlikely, and that I should do as much as I could to learn the most in what miles I could get. I did learn some lessons, but they were hard-fought.
I travelled out on Thursday, picking up my sister from the airport on my way out of town and heading to Sioux Falls, where I would trade my sister for my dad. My dad drove us to Wall, where we took some photos at the tourist trap to appease my mother. Everything was fine. There was a huge thunderstorm that night, dropping large amounts of rain. This would become a theme. On the way to the race meeting on Friday, we drove through another thunderstorm that dropped large amounts of rain. This was now a theme. That night, my wife arrived late, getting a ride from the airport with friends. It sounded like more of an adventure than anyone had hoped it would be. I got sleep and woke early. It rained the entire way to the start: THEME.
It did quit raining just before the start. I managed to get into a UMTR photo, in an effort to maybe make some friends. No dice, but whatever. It might have helped to say some words. Next time. I started in the back of the pack, as was my intention. We got our feet wet right out of the gate, while crossing under the first road. I stopped to adjust some things, applauding myself for the patience. I was taking it easy, but the trail was absolutely soaked. Everything was sloppy, muddy, sticky soup. Every step involved putting a foot down, stabilizing, and then fighting to remove the foot from the slop. I stayed pretty positive and stuck to the plan, eating a ton and drinking. I remembered all of the trail from running the 50 in 2013.
I don't remember too many people or events between the start and the Elk Creek Aid Station, as was kind of my plan. I didn't want to wake up too quickly; I just wanted to ease into it and surprise myself with the mileage. At Elk Creek I changed shoes and picked up my trekking poles. Sitting down cost me, not from a mental aspect, but from sitting on damp ground and getting my butt wet. It took a while, but it would cost me.
The downhill out of Elk Creek was really wet, and I'm glad I had my poles. Those things have saved me so many times, and this would not be the last. On the way to the creek, we crossed paths with a mountain biker who was struggling to lug her bike back up the hill to the aid station. It seemed that the mud was tougher on the bikers than the runners. We crossed Elk Creek five times. It was amazing and fun and refreshing. I really felt like I was having an adventure. The climb out of the basin was tough, on account of the slick mud, but I had the poles and a pretty good attitude. I met a couple of guys, one of whom mentioned that mud like this would suck the life out of you. I tried to put distance between us. I get negative well enough on my own. I did not need help going low.
I made it into Crooked Tree just fine. The day was heating up, and this was a no-crew station, but I was ok. I got water and snacks, and then we heard thunder and it started to rain. I threw on a cheap plastic poncho my dad gave me the night before and took off. I knew the climb ahead would be tough, and it was just as I had expected. The mud was slick and the climb was pretty relentless. Once I got to the top, I knew it would still be some time before I made the descent to Dalton Lake. Along the ridge, I passed a biker who was really upset. He was pushing his bike and cursing the race directors for not having an alternate route for muddy conditions. He was still hollering and I passed out of earshot. I have no time for the negative.
Working my way down to Dalton Lake, I began to consider the difficulty of going back up 70+ miles into the race. This is my worst habit: trying to run where my feet are not. If I can stay present, be only where my feet are, then I can do great things. If I try to get ahead of myself, worry about things I cannot control, everything gets to be too much and I do not reach my goals. I am forever learning this lesson.
The Dalton aid station was great. I ate a bunch of the provided food, sat down in a chair and took care of my feet, drank Vitargo and ginger ale, laughed with friends and family, used the vault toilet for all it was worth and headed back out. I was in good shape. I crossed the 100k turnaround sign. I made it into some of the trickier trail, which was technical ATV trail to begin with, but was made much harder my muddy, rain-filled gouges. It was a tough section. I thought about going back through it in the dark. That's not the kind of thinking that will get me to the end of a race. The last chunk of that section, running into Nemo, was next to a two-lane highway. It was a little nerve-wracking to run, but I made it to the aid station, which was kind of cute. I had a nice stop, changed shoes, refueled and went on down the road.
Not long into this stretch, the leader came back at me. The people who win these races are phenomenal athletes, and it is amazing to watch them run. Kudos to them. Most of this trail was not too difficult. It seemed longer than I thought it should, I crossed with three guys on motorcycles, and it ended with a massive climb. I thought about going back down that climb on tired knees because I have a bad habit of thinking ahead, but we all know this by now. It's a theme: my brain rains. By the time I rolled into Pilot Knob, I was getting a little weary, but I still felt strong. I was offered a bunch of really awesome food at the aid station, cooked food that you can never expect from an aid station, but all of it was just a little off. I eat a mostly vegan diet, so even though cheese quesadillas sound amazing, I just can't trust my tummy with them. I was still laughing and having a blast through the stop. The sun was going down and the rain was all gone and things looked good. Seven runnable miles to the turn. Out I went, in good spirits.
After about a mile of easygoing grass trail, there was a climb. I took it strong, and when I reached the top I was done. I was just flat-out gassed. In retrospect, I should have realized that my elevation was reaching significant levels, near or at 6,000 feet above sea level. I did not take that into account, and I went super fucking low. I started hiking slowly on stuff I thought I should have been running, making that seven miles last forever. Some of the trail was fairly treacherous, just barely edged into the sides of big, steep hills. The sun went down, and I hadn't thought to bring a light. I was in a bad place, marching slowly and getting lower. My brain began to pour.
By the time I finally marched into Silver City, I did not want to go another step. 50 miles was a good day, especially in those conditions. But my dad had travelled all this way to pace me, to run through the night with his only son. He had undoubtedly put in countless hours worrying about doing this right, so much so that he became a little paralyzed by the whole ordeal. A good friend of mine from high school just happened to have flown into the area that day, visiting his parents, who had relocated since we graduated. My wife was there. She had flown in Friday night and would fly out Monday morning, get in the car, and go to work. My mom and youngest sister were there. And I was a pile. My butt had begun to chafe. Sitting down on damp ground at Elk Creek had begun to cost me. I went inside and had some soup and got some words of encouragement. One of the guys I ran to Crooked Tree with had dropped, and was having a great time sitting in a sleeping bag. One of the wonderful volunteers asked me which holiday was coming up. I answered the 4th of July, which was correct, but I considered saying Christmas, just to get pulled. I didn't want to revisit everything I'd just seen. It was 10pm and I'd been moving in tough conditions since 6am. I had seen enough for one goddamn day. But they came. They all came. I had to go.
So I went. My dad and I went. I immediately thanked him. I told him I appreciated him doing this. I was more or less in silent tears by then. The downpour in my brain had leaked out onto my face. I got a push from that. Crying makes me breathe. So I go. We charged uphill at a good clip. I wasn't going to do much running, but I could hike quickly. My dad dropped his hat. It was not a big deal. He went to get it and I took a leak. We marched on. I stepped on a branch. My dad asked me if I knew what I just did. I replied that I did not. He said I stepped on a bunny. I asked if it was dead. He said it was now. That made me sick. "That sucks. That sucks. I'm sorry that happened." I will never forget saying those exact words. We stopped the bunny with our headlamps and I crushed it with my shoe and that's disgusting and I did it and nothing will ever change that. We marched on. My dad kept trying to get me to eat, but I wouldn't. Eventually I forced down some Swiss Cake Rolls. Too little, too late. My butt was in full chafe. I stopped and greased it up, but again, too little, too late.
I was beaten. My dad was sympathetic. He said we could make the 5am cutoff at the pace we were going. I said I couldn't think about 5am. By the time we rolled into the aid station, it was over. I was doing damage to myself with every step, and I was not going to finish the race. The real goal for all of this is Superior 100, to finish that race and to have my name in the drawing for the Western States 100, if only this one time. My wife asked me what I needed, and I shook my head. She knew it was coming. There was no argument. We approached the volunteers. They asked what I needed. "31 is done for the day." That fucking sucked to say, but I knew it was the right decision. I was not going to finish that race, and so I needed to keep training. I was back on the trail by Thursday. I made the right call.
I learned from this race, more than anything, that my number one mental priority is to be only where I am. I can only run where my feet are. I have considered this idea for years, but if I am to get to the end of the Superior 100, my brain will have to fall in line. Just relax, be where you are, accept the pain, and keep moving. This is all I can do.
I was still reeling a little from a DNF at Ice Age in May, but more so from the injuries and subsequent undertraining that hurt me at Ice Age. My back/hip was going in-and-out, and I was never able to do anything close to respectable training. I headed out the Sturgis with a wing and a prayer, and I got what I paid for. I knew going in that a finish was unlikely, and that I should do as much as I could to learn the most in what miles I could get. I did learn some lessons, but they were hard-fought.
I travelled out on Thursday, picking up my sister from the airport on my way out of town and heading to Sioux Falls, where I would trade my sister for my dad. My dad drove us to Wall, where we took some photos at the tourist trap to appease my mother. Everything was fine. There was a huge thunderstorm that night, dropping large amounts of rain. This would become a theme. On the way to the race meeting on Friday, we drove through another thunderstorm that dropped large amounts of rain. This was now a theme. That night, my wife arrived late, getting a ride from the airport with friends. It sounded like more of an adventure than anyone had hoped it would be. I got sleep and woke early. It rained the entire way to the start: THEME.
It did quit raining just before the start. I managed to get into a UMTR photo, in an effort to maybe make some friends. No dice, but whatever. It might have helped to say some words. Next time. I started in the back of the pack, as was my intention. We got our feet wet right out of the gate, while crossing under the first road. I stopped to adjust some things, applauding myself for the patience. I was taking it easy, but the trail was absolutely soaked. Everything was sloppy, muddy, sticky soup. Every step involved putting a foot down, stabilizing, and then fighting to remove the foot from the slop. I stayed pretty positive and stuck to the plan, eating a ton and drinking. I remembered all of the trail from running the 50 in 2013.
I don't remember too many people or events between the start and the Elk Creek Aid Station, as was kind of my plan. I didn't want to wake up too quickly; I just wanted to ease into it and surprise myself with the mileage. At Elk Creek I changed shoes and picked up my trekking poles. Sitting down cost me, not from a mental aspect, but from sitting on damp ground and getting my butt wet. It took a while, but it would cost me.
The downhill out of Elk Creek was really wet, and I'm glad I had my poles. Those things have saved me so many times, and this would not be the last. On the way to the creek, we crossed paths with a mountain biker who was struggling to lug her bike back up the hill to the aid station. It seemed that the mud was tougher on the bikers than the runners. We crossed Elk Creek five times. It was amazing and fun and refreshing. I really felt like I was having an adventure. The climb out of the basin was tough, on account of the slick mud, but I had the poles and a pretty good attitude. I met a couple of guys, one of whom mentioned that mud like this would suck the life out of you. I tried to put distance between us. I get negative well enough on my own. I did not need help going low.
I made it into Crooked Tree just fine. The day was heating up, and this was a no-crew station, but I was ok. I got water and snacks, and then we heard thunder and it started to rain. I threw on a cheap plastic poncho my dad gave me the night before and took off. I knew the climb ahead would be tough, and it was just as I had expected. The mud was slick and the climb was pretty relentless. Once I got to the top, I knew it would still be some time before I made the descent to Dalton Lake. Along the ridge, I passed a biker who was really upset. He was pushing his bike and cursing the race directors for not having an alternate route for muddy conditions. He was still hollering and I passed out of earshot. I have no time for the negative.
Working my way down to Dalton Lake, I began to consider the difficulty of going back up 70+ miles into the race. This is my worst habit: trying to run where my feet are not. If I can stay present, be only where my feet are, then I can do great things. If I try to get ahead of myself, worry about things I cannot control, everything gets to be too much and I do not reach my goals. I am forever learning this lesson.
The Dalton aid station was great. I ate a bunch of the provided food, sat down in a chair and took care of my feet, drank Vitargo and ginger ale, laughed with friends and family, used the vault toilet for all it was worth and headed back out. I was in good shape. I crossed the 100k turnaround sign. I made it into some of the trickier trail, which was technical ATV trail to begin with, but was made much harder my muddy, rain-filled gouges. It was a tough section. I thought about going back through it in the dark. That's not the kind of thinking that will get me to the end of a race. The last chunk of that section, running into Nemo, was next to a two-lane highway. It was a little nerve-wracking to run, but I made it to the aid station, which was kind of cute. I had a nice stop, changed shoes, refueled and went on down the road.
Not long into this stretch, the leader came back at me. The people who win these races are phenomenal athletes, and it is amazing to watch them run. Kudos to them. Most of this trail was not too difficult. It seemed longer than I thought it should, I crossed with three guys on motorcycles, and it ended with a massive climb. I thought about going back down that climb on tired knees because I have a bad habit of thinking ahead, but we all know this by now. It's a theme: my brain rains. By the time I rolled into Pilot Knob, I was getting a little weary, but I still felt strong. I was offered a bunch of really awesome food at the aid station, cooked food that you can never expect from an aid station, but all of it was just a little off. I eat a mostly vegan diet, so even though cheese quesadillas sound amazing, I just can't trust my tummy with them. I was still laughing and having a blast through the stop. The sun was going down and the rain was all gone and things looked good. Seven runnable miles to the turn. Out I went, in good spirits.
After about a mile of easygoing grass trail, there was a climb. I took it strong, and when I reached the top I was done. I was just flat-out gassed. In retrospect, I should have realized that my elevation was reaching significant levels, near or at 6,000 feet above sea level. I did not take that into account, and I went super fucking low. I started hiking slowly on stuff I thought I should have been running, making that seven miles last forever. Some of the trail was fairly treacherous, just barely edged into the sides of big, steep hills. The sun went down, and I hadn't thought to bring a light. I was in a bad place, marching slowly and getting lower. My brain began to pour.
By the time I finally marched into Silver City, I did not want to go another step. 50 miles was a good day, especially in those conditions. But my dad had travelled all this way to pace me, to run through the night with his only son. He had undoubtedly put in countless hours worrying about doing this right, so much so that he became a little paralyzed by the whole ordeal. A good friend of mine from high school just happened to have flown into the area that day, visiting his parents, who had relocated since we graduated. My wife was there. She had flown in Friday night and would fly out Monday morning, get in the car, and go to work. My mom and youngest sister were there. And I was a pile. My butt had begun to chafe. Sitting down on damp ground at Elk Creek had begun to cost me. I went inside and had some soup and got some words of encouragement. One of the guys I ran to Crooked Tree with had dropped, and was having a great time sitting in a sleeping bag. One of the wonderful volunteers asked me which holiday was coming up. I answered the 4th of July, which was correct, but I considered saying Christmas, just to get pulled. I didn't want to revisit everything I'd just seen. It was 10pm and I'd been moving in tough conditions since 6am. I had seen enough for one goddamn day. But they came. They all came. I had to go.
So I went. My dad and I went. I immediately thanked him. I told him I appreciated him doing this. I was more or less in silent tears by then. The downpour in my brain had leaked out onto my face. I got a push from that. Crying makes me breathe. So I go. We charged uphill at a good clip. I wasn't going to do much running, but I could hike quickly. My dad dropped his hat. It was not a big deal. He went to get it and I took a leak. We marched on. I stepped on a branch. My dad asked me if I knew what I just did. I replied that I did not. He said I stepped on a bunny. I asked if it was dead. He said it was now. That made me sick. "That sucks. That sucks. I'm sorry that happened." I will never forget saying those exact words. We stopped the bunny with our headlamps and I crushed it with my shoe and that's disgusting and I did it and nothing will ever change that. We marched on. My dad kept trying to get me to eat, but I wouldn't. Eventually I forced down some Swiss Cake Rolls. Too little, too late. My butt was in full chafe. I stopped and greased it up, but again, too little, too late.
I was beaten. My dad was sympathetic. He said we could make the 5am cutoff at the pace we were going. I said I couldn't think about 5am. By the time we rolled into the aid station, it was over. I was doing damage to myself with every step, and I was not going to finish the race. The real goal for all of this is Superior 100, to finish that race and to have my name in the drawing for the Western States 100, if only this one time. My wife asked me what I needed, and I shook my head. She knew it was coming. There was no argument. We approached the volunteers. They asked what I needed. "31 is done for the day." That fucking sucked to say, but I knew it was the right decision. I was not going to finish that race, and so I needed to keep training. I was back on the trail by Thursday. I made the right call.
I learned from this race, more than anything, that my number one mental priority is to be only where I am. I can only run where my feet are. I have considered this idea for years, but if I am to get to the end of the Superior 100, my brain will have to fall in line. Just relax, be where you are, accept the pain, and keep moving. This is all I can do.
Ice Age 50, 2014
I was excited to enter this race. It is historic, prestigious, and it's status as an automatic entry into the Western States ensures a fantastic field and national attention. Not that any of it applies to me directly, but it's fun to be a part of something of this magnitude. I made sure to enter online as soon as it was available. I got in, and started scheduling my training plan. Right about then is where everything got messed up.
I threw out my back/hip early in the long, harsh winter of 2013/2014. I tried to run through it. I made it worse. I saw my chiropractor, my massage therapist, my acupuncturist, and finally a Western doctor and physical therapist. Most of the training was a joke. I couldn't really run. Something was pinched in my back and hip, which caused my gait to change, which caused most of the muscles and whatnot from my lower back to my right shin to be a mess. The IT band was especially awful. About a week prior to the race, I finally got the crack I needed from my lower back/pelvis, and the healing began, but by then it was too late. I was undertrained beyond repair, but still hopeful of a finish and appreciative of the opportunity to start the race.
The course setup is unique, in that it begins with nine miles of groomed ski trail that has a little up-and-down and a gentle surface. Looking at the strict 12-hour cutoff and a weather forecast that promised afternoon heat, I chose to try to make up time against the clock on the loop. This was a bad decision. I came into the start/finish at 1:34, having just run ten-minute miles. I was already feeling it a little, but not enough to really back off. I knew the toughest trail was on the first out-and-back, and my plan was to push it up to then, which I did. It didn't take long for other runners to start picking me off. That's a bad sign at mile 12. It means you pushed too hard early, and that shit will get you.
There are a lot of aid stations on the course, which is great. It means you shouldn't have to carry that much along the way, but I carried a ton of water anyway. My UD PB pack probably had an average of 3 pounds of water in it at all times. That was too much. Aid stations can also eat up time if you're not careful about getting in and out quickly. I did some loafing. By the time I made the turn at 22 miles, I was starting to hurt. I was able to take a dump at the turn, which helped ease a tummy that had been angry all morning, which allowed me to put in more calories. There were some good things happening. I motored on.
At the 30-mile stop, I took a knee. The heat was really starting to eat at me. The humidity was pretty high. There was no wind. The long, harsh winter had kept the trees from forming leaves. The sun was beating down. Low 80's really isn't that bad for running if you're trained for it, but I had run in nothing even close to that in over 8 months. I was getting my ass kicked. To pile on, crew access became very sparse in the second half of the race. I wouldn't see my wife from 30 to 40, and then not again until 50. I had a drop bag at 37, but I would need to get myself there.
And then the trail got hard. There is a bluff everyone seems to know. I had seen it on elevation maps, but it didn't look that big. It sure seemed big. I got to zombie-walking. I was really dizzy. I fought the urge to do the math, but I was starting to accept defeat. I couldn't run and I couldn't keep pace. I crawled into 37. I looked around for my drop bag, but I was struggling to find it. I heard another runner, who appeared to be messing with a broken hydration pack, yell out, "I can't see color." It was pretty much just carnage at that aid station. Everyone was dropping upon arrival. I found my bag and sat down on the ground in the shade of the tent. I drank some hot Vitargo and then I had some hot Tailwind. It was horrible, but I started feeling better. I joined a conversation with someone I'd met online, a local ultra vet. He was dropping. I wanted to drop, too, but I made a deal with my wife a long time ago that I would never again drop from a race without speaking to her first. She couldn't be at that particular aid station, though, so I knew I'd have to go on. My new friend said to me, "You're not going to make any progress by sitting there." I told him that I appreciated that very much, and then I stood up and staggered back out to the trail. Before I left, though, I put my drop bag in the return to start pile. I wasn't coming back here today. I was done.
I tried shuffling along the last three miles, but I couldn't. My feet were shredded and bruised. The moleskin I put under the balls of my feet to start every race had moved. The sweeper passed me going out, and then he passed me going back. It was ok. The fact that I stood up and went out for these last three miles was my victory for the day. I gave more when I had nothing left and no tangible reason to go on. It was no small victory.
I didn't beat myself up too badly for not finishing Ice Age. I had a good idea of what I was up against before the race started. Looking back at the race from three months later, I was woefully undertrained. I wasn't making that up. I was not acclimated to the heat of the day. There wasn't much I could do about either of those things. The third thing that cost me a finish was strategy. I went out too hard, which was an amateur move. I learned from that mistake, and that's all I can do about that. Despite a DNF, my time was not wasted. I'm glad I took a stab at Ice Age.
I threw out my back/hip early in the long, harsh winter of 2013/2014. I tried to run through it. I made it worse. I saw my chiropractor, my massage therapist, my acupuncturist, and finally a Western doctor and physical therapist. Most of the training was a joke. I couldn't really run. Something was pinched in my back and hip, which caused my gait to change, which caused most of the muscles and whatnot from my lower back to my right shin to be a mess. The IT band was especially awful. About a week prior to the race, I finally got the crack I needed from my lower back/pelvis, and the healing began, but by then it was too late. I was undertrained beyond repair, but still hopeful of a finish and appreciative of the opportunity to start the race.
The course setup is unique, in that it begins with nine miles of groomed ski trail that has a little up-and-down and a gentle surface. Looking at the strict 12-hour cutoff and a weather forecast that promised afternoon heat, I chose to try to make up time against the clock on the loop. This was a bad decision. I came into the start/finish at 1:34, having just run ten-minute miles. I was already feeling it a little, but not enough to really back off. I knew the toughest trail was on the first out-and-back, and my plan was to push it up to then, which I did. It didn't take long for other runners to start picking me off. That's a bad sign at mile 12. It means you pushed too hard early, and that shit will get you.
There are a lot of aid stations on the course, which is great. It means you shouldn't have to carry that much along the way, but I carried a ton of water anyway. My UD PB pack probably had an average of 3 pounds of water in it at all times. That was too much. Aid stations can also eat up time if you're not careful about getting in and out quickly. I did some loafing. By the time I made the turn at 22 miles, I was starting to hurt. I was able to take a dump at the turn, which helped ease a tummy that had been angry all morning, which allowed me to put in more calories. There were some good things happening. I motored on.
At the 30-mile stop, I took a knee. The heat was really starting to eat at me. The humidity was pretty high. There was no wind. The long, harsh winter had kept the trees from forming leaves. The sun was beating down. Low 80's really isn't that bad for running if you're trained for it, but I had run in nothing even close to that in over 8 months. I was getting my ass kicked. To pile on, crew access became very sparse in the second half of the race. I wouldn't see my wife from 30 to 40, and then not again until 50. I had a drop bag at 37, but I would need to get myself there.
And then the trail got hard. There is a bluff everyone seems to know. I had seen it on elevation maps, but it didn't look that big. It sure seemed big. I got to zombie-walking. I was really dizzy. I fought the urge to do the math, but I was starting to accept defeat. I couldn't run and I couldn't keep pace. I crawled into 37. I looked around for my drop bag, but I was struggling to find it. I heard another runner, who appeared to be messing with a broken hydration pack, yell out, "I can't see color." It was pretty much just carnage at that aid station. Everyone was dropping upon arrival. I found my bag and sat down on the ground in the shade of the tent. I drank some hot Vitargo and then I had some hot Tailwind. It was horrible, but I started feeling better. I joined a conversation with someone I'd met online, a local ultra vet. He was dropping. I wanted to drop, too, but I made a deal with my wife a long time ago that I would never again drop from a race without speaking to her first. She couldn't be at that particular aid station, though, so I knew I'd have to go on. My new friend said to me, "You're not going to make any progress by sitting there." I told him that I appreciated that very much, and then I stood up and staggered back out to the trail. Before I left, though, I put my drop bag in the return to start pile. I wasn't coming back here today. I was done.
I tried shuffling along the last three miles, but I couldn't. My feet were shredded and bruised. The moleskin I put under the balls of my feet to start every race had moved. The sweeper passed me going out, and then he passed me going back. It was ok. The fact that I stood up and went out for these last three miles was my victory for the day. I gave more when I had nothing left and no tangible reason to go on. It was no small victory.
I didn't beat myself up too badly for not finishing Ice Age. I had a good idea of what I was up against before the race started. Looking back at the race from three months later, I was woefully undertrained. I wasn't making that up. I was not acclimated to the heat of the day. There wasn't much I could do about either of those things. The third thing that cost me a finish was strategy. I went out too hard, which was an amateur move. I learned from that mistake, and that's all I can do about that. Despite a DNF, my time was not wasted. I'm glad I took a stab at Ice Age.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)