Minnesota Voyageur 50, 2014

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.

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.

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.

2013 Wild Duluth 100k

Welp, this one hurt. I went really low a couple of times. My wife wouldn't let me quit, so I didn't quit. The official race cutoff is 18 hours. I finished, by my estimate, in 18:59, but I finished. I moved my body forward for 62 miles, most of which were fairly tough trail. I wanted to quit, as I have in the past, but I didn't quit. I kept going, and I made it. I could not have done this alone.

The weather forecast for the race was accurate: chilly with rain and snow in the morning, cool and partly cloudy with a few showers in the afternoon, and brisk with clear skies and a full moon at night. I own more than adequate equipment to handle the conditions, but I hadn't used it since April or May, so it was a bit of a guessing game as far as what to be wearing. I have the most difficulty knowing which clothes to wear on my torso, because once I build a layer of sweat I immediately get chilly.

We got a hotel room, which was crazy-expensive because of leaf season and MEA weekend, but it did allow us to watch a Wal-Mart semi get stuck in a cul-de-sac.

We got to sleep around 10, but the room temp was tricky to control, so I woke up at midnight all sweaty and shit. I got back to sleep around 2, after messing with the thermostat, and slept until 4:30. I had everything pretty well laid out, leaving myself minor prep before leaving the hotel at 5:20am. We got to Bayfront Park without incident, checking in and lining up. It was chilly and damp, but nothing horrible. Totally runnable.

SECTION 1 (3.1): We headed out on a path underneath 35N, between the lanes, which is a funny place to be on a trail run. A slight incline and a bridge took us over the highway and into the woods, up a steep hill and across a number of city highways. This was my favorite start to a race, because there was no talking. Maybe it was the incline or maybe it was the weather, but no one around me was making small talk. It was so peaceful and a great way to ease into the adventure. I managed to turn my head a few times and caught a few glimpses of the fantastic views of Duluth's shore in the morning dark. At the top of the first climb is Enger Tower and the Ohara Peace Bell. I didn't know that the bell was there, but a guy right behind me noted that no one was ringing the peace bell right before we heard it ring, and then everyone in my group rang it. It's a deep, bellowing ring which was a really nice thing to do. (I normally will try to touch a trail marking at the beginning of a race, a practice I borrow from the Jewish mezuzah as a way to pause and acknowledge the great fortune I have to live this life. It's also something I try to do when taking the stage for improv. How lucky I am to be here and doing these things.) The subsequent downhill was brief with nice, smooth trail. We came out at a major road, crossed a bridge and did some quick upper-body wardrobe changes with my wife, losing some unnecessary warmth and weight.

SECTION 2 (5.7): It sprinkled and sleeted. The trail was still cutting through the city. I passed a few people. I caught up with a local ultra veteran. We ran together for a while. I tried to pick his brain as much as I could without making it like I was writing a report for my 5th grade social studies class. I got some really useful info, and I saw him stop and appreciate the tremendous views of Duluth in this section, which I did, as well. It's worth the few seconds. I need to start carrying a small, convenient camera. The section was mostly runnable, crossing under a major road under construction through a tunnel. I think I turned my lights off at 8am, two hours into the race. John blew through the aid station, while I stopped to change clothes and stay as comfortable as possible.  

SECTION 3 (4.5): To get to this section, you had to jump a guard rail, which threw off a guy right in front of me. (I passed the guy, who unintentionally cut some trail and got by me, and then I passed him back.) This was the last section that was really in Duluth. The trail spit us out onto a road for a couple hundred yards and then through a parking lot and over a major highway. There was a roadside motel right there, the name of which escapes me, but whose sign would really set a mood on the return trip. The section was really slick, which I knew could only get more with 250+ runners heading over it before I'd see it again. The trail also ran next to the highway for quite a distance, a fact which was lost on me. I did take note of one final crossing underneath the major road, which was creepy in the daylight. I came to the next aid station, thinking I was supposed to have already seen my crew, so that was weird. The volunteers at the aid station didn't have a ton of info, but they did have a dog with a frisbee, so that was cool. I ran a few hundred yards farther and came across the lodge and my wife. I changed out of my tights and headed up the ski hill.

SECTION 4 (2.5): This section was rocky, short, and mostly uphill. I crossed back and forth with John and another guy, who appeared to be shooting for total self-sufficiency with a gigantic red backpack full of stuff. I came to the road at a bridge that was not well-marked. There were hot pink flags, but I don't trust flags of a different color than what is advertised. Another runner and I kind of stood together at a bridge, confused, when the RD pulled up in his pickup and pointed us on, saying that the way was marked in orange. Maybe he's colorblind. I don't know him. We quickly came to the aid station, where I began to become well aware of the race's lack of ginger ale. (Race Directors: please stock ginger ale at all of your aid stations.) 

SECTION 5 (4.3): This section led me to cross paths with the majority of the 50k runners, most of whom were quite friendly and courteous. Those who weren't friendly were courteous. Nobody was a jerk. Things got really rocky along a ridgeline, and the climbing came in really helpful with the footing. There were some incredible views of the foliage. This was tough and slow, but pleasant. The aid station was nice. They had a stash of ginger ale and boiled potatoes with salt, both of which are the best. The next section was 7.5 miles, so I stocked up on water and gels. I had been keeping up with my water and drinking a Vitargo at every stop and having a Vespa at this one (every 15 miles.) I had been reluctantly gutting down Vanilla Bean GU, though the air temp was low enough that the GU was thick and awful. I have a hard time taking down gel when it's cold enough that the GU pops when you first start taking it.

SECTION 6 (7.5): This section came in three parts. The first third was mostly uphill and along a ridge. It was nice running, and the birch trees were so thick that it looked like the sky was all grey behind them, even though it was mostly clear by now. The second third ran along a lake and was nice running. The last third crossed a road and went uphill, and was not great running. The trail was wide and flat. I started going low, which is something I often do around that mileage. By the time I got to the aid station, I was pretty worn. I think I was getting low on caffeine. I had forgotten to buy Clif Double Expresso gels, which I use to maintain normal caffeine levels during long runs. The crew gave me my first Red Bull of the day, in addition to Vitargo and a bottle of ginger ale from the store. She could tell I was crashing, and pointed to the flat, paved section ahead and said it was like that for 3.5 miles.

SECTION 7 (3.5): This was rough. It was flat and paved, but that can be pretty grueling in the middle of a run where I'm in the rhythm of ups-and-downs. I did some work on the pavement and some next to it on the grass. I got a good look at the group of runners in front of me, many of whom had familiar faces. I was far enough back that they were beginning to give me the look that says, "You gonna make it, buddy?" I didn't know at that point. I told myself that this thing didn't really start until the 50k turnaround, but I was getting really low. By the time I picked my way through the rocks near the aid station, I was hurting something fierce. I had some Vitargo, which was really starting to taste bitter. The stuff is sickly sweet, so the bitter flavor really threw me. I still can't figure that out. Anyhow, I was hurting and I knew the hard stuff still coming. I forgot one of my main mantras: You can only run where your feet are. I was 8 hours in, and the cutoff was 9 hours, so I felt good about that. It also felt good to mention to my wife that it was time to start considering when to pick up lights and trekking poles. I turned around and prepared for the 3.5 mile flat grind back to the last/next aid station.

SECTION 8 (3.5): It didn't take me long to start sizing up the runners I crossed. Anyone behind me was certainly suspect to the same look I had gotten by the runners ahead of me. Most of the runners I saw from here forward would not make it to the finish. A few of them already knew it, and they were hurting. I've been there, and that's a tough place to be. You tell everyone they're doing a great job, because they are. They're out there to begin with, and that's something most people simply won't do. I got a bit of a burst from having made the turn, from knowing I could now turn to certain mantras that only make sense when you're getting closer to the edge. The one I was really waiting on was something of a toast I've been repeating to myself for a year or so:

To life lived,

To the pursuit of happiness,

To childlike wonder; to furious amazement,

And to the undying hope that tomorrow could somehow be better than today.

It's a little cheesy, but it helps me appreciate what I'm doing rather than resent the pain and exhaustion. Let me know if you want me to say it and your wedding or funeral or whatever. I'm game. Or you can borrow it on your own. Or you can make fun of me for being a weenus. I don't care.

I got back to the aid station, where I changed some more clothes, drank a Red Bull and Vitargo. The Vitargo was sticky, and I cleaned my hands with an ice cube. I dried my hand on a towel, which was soft enough to mention. The act of saying how soft the towel was made me realize that the good running vibes were still out there to be had, and that was a huge boost. A runner was wrapped in a blanket, wearing a hat that still had a price tag on it. He didn't have it together. The trail had beaten him and he was getting a ride. I was perking up, drinking another Red Bull and downing a Vespa.

SECTION 9 (7.5): This direction, the trail was downhill to start and flat across the middle next to the lake. One of the Gnarly Bandit runners passed me near the lake. I think she passed me in every race I ran this year. The latter third of the section was pretty uphill, and the 7.5 miles were adding up. An unshaven hiker sat next to a tree, red Leki poles leaned against it, eating what appeared to be banana chips. I got into the aid station in good shape, choosing not to change shoes and socks until I hit the following aid station because that one had the last cutoff and I wanted to make sure I had the time to spare. I ate Pringles, which were tasty. I put on lights and took off with my trekking poles.

SECTION 10 (4.3): This was rocky, as expected. I was really, really happy to have the trekking poles. They are a new addition to my equipment options, an early birthday gift from my in-laws, and they were much appreciated. The views were as beautiful this time as they were the first. I plugged along pretty well, peeing quite a bit, but everything was clear and there were no signs of blood, so I didn't worry about the frequency. I plugged along, turning on the lights about halfway through. I got to the aid station with 40 minutes to spare before the 8pm cutoff, so I changed shoes, socks and the moleskin pads on the balls of my feet. The next section was only 2.5 miles, so I only took down half a Vitargo. The gels were getting really hard to gut down, especially since my hands were now occupied by poles and I couldn't put a gel in my glove to soften it as is my wont. This did not bode well for the future.

SECTION 11 (2.5): I expected this to be more difficult than it was. I remembered this being quite technical, with rocks and roots aplenty. There was a haunted house/Halloween activity going on somewhere nearby, and I could hear kids screaming and spooky sounds the entire way. I also heard the alarm horn go off on a car that sounded like mine, and I began to get a dose of my distaste for running through the woods alone at night. I got through quickly enough, drank the other half of the Vitargo, re-lubed some stuff, and took off.

SECTION 12 (4.5): I knew this section was going to be slick, and it was. However, I forgot just how technical it was, in addition to the muddy spots. This is the section where the trail kicked me in the teeth for two straight hours; this is where I got really low. I stumbled a lot, and the poles saved me from bad falls on countless occasions. One time, I tripped on a rock going down a muddy hill, did a pirouette, launched myself against a chain link fence and held on for a second, only to release the fence and find myself falling again. I eventually stabbed the poles into the mud and steadied myself, and that was when I became aware that I was getting a little loose in the head. My knees were really starting to scream, especially going downhill. I was starting to see flashes of things that weren't there. I got really dark. Much of this area ran next to a highway, something I failed to notice on the way out, so I kept wondering if I had missed a turn. The trail was pretty sparsely marked, which I let frustrate me. I knew a few landmarks, and I wasn't coming to them. I was hurting. Eventually I crossed back under the highway bridge, and that was an eerie place to be. I didn't like being there alone. I crossed over the highway, through the parking lot and past the motel, whose sign gave the scene a very horror-filmy feel to it. I began running trail through the city, and I liked that very little. I didn't want to meet anyone who might be on the trail. 

By the time I got to the guard rail crossing and associated aid station, I was ready to be done. I hated it right then. I was tired of being there, of moving my body forward, of trying. I knew I wouldn't make the official cutoff time of 18 hours, and that was deflating. I was weak and dizzy and in significant pain. I had loosened my shoes twice already to account for swelling in my feet. I began to think about how long I had been out there and how much longer I would have to remain out there. I thought about the 5.7 miles of trail that was in the next section, and then about the 3.1 after that. I felt bad for making the volunteers stay. I was a trail zombie.

And this is where my wife does her finest work. I am a difficult, incorrigible person, and she knows exactly how to handle that in a way that puts me back on the trail, moving myself forward. She took a few pictures of me crossing the highway. I couldn't bear to look at the camera. She didn't ask me how I was doing because she knew how I was doing and she didn't need to hear the answer and she didn't want to give me an opportunity to put the words out of my mouth. Instead, she asked me one, simple question, "What do you need?" I said, "Vitargo." She gave it to me and I drank it. I asked if they were going to let me go and she said yes. She took a photo of me drinking Vitargo, and I asked her to stop taking photos of me now and said she could take more at the next stop. And on I went, thanking the volunteers. Those people make this stuff possible, and that means the world to me.

SECTION 13 (5.7): The Vitargo set in quickly enough, which was nice, because a little energy was a nice balance to the increasing hallucinations. I don't really remember very much. I kept a decent pace up, trying to run as much as I could, but usually getting a few hundred feet in before I tripped and slowed down to the shuffle that came to define my last 20 miles of this race. I slogged on. I saw the Enger Tower and the bridge at Canal Park. I could see where I was going, and I think that made it harder. But on I went, and I made it to the last aid station at midnight, which was the official cutoff. They were more than happy to let me continue, and I found out there were runners behind me. I wasn't holding up the show, which was good info.

My wife had procured some veggie broth in a coffee mug, and it was incredible. I thought of trying to take it with me. I understand that races aren't obligated to cater to vegetarians, but that was awesome enough to keep on hand in the future of our own volition. So good.

On my way out, a younger male volunteer steered me in the correct direction. I thanked him profusely for being there, telling him that this meant the world to me, and he sent me on my way.

SECTION 14 (3.1): This was the Victory Lap. When heading out on the last section of a race like this, the party starts. I'm always a little extra careful to not get hurt, but it's hard not to start the celebration. I motored along, pulling over to pee for what seemed like the 1,000th time. Except I didn't pull over. I caught myself about halfway through just standing there in the middle of the trail, peeing directly onto the trail. I caught myself and went where I was supposed to, then going back and kicking around and putting some leaves over the top, but I knew I was cooked in the head. I started seeing little Jack Skellington heads popping up along the sides of the trail as I ran. I saw a tiny T-Rex that was just a weed. I saw human silhouettes in the distance. I kind of lost my shit, and then I came upon a runner and his pacer. The runner was visibly hurting, but was in tremendous spirits, and the pacer was excellent. They were telling stories and laughing and having fun. The pacer talked to me about passing so his runner would recognize that I was there. I got to the top of the hill slightly before they did and rang the Peace Bell once, quietly, and moved on. They got up there and rang it four or five times and hooted and hollered and had a blast. Someday I want that to be what it's like with my pacer(s): just buddies having a blast on the trail. (Also, I need pacers. Please consider being my pacer.)

I came across a local, probably just a guy walking home from the bar on a Saturday night. He scared me. I think I scared him. I passed a tent pitched in the woods, not far from the highway. I could hear bottles clanking inside. I moved by as quickly as I could. I heard some heated conversation in a parking lot. I hustled. I crossed 35N on the bridge and down the ramp at a good clip. When I got to the bottom, I started hiking on the paved path. I looked at my watch and figured I had 8 minutes to come in under 19 hours. I ran with what I had. I hurt. I made the turn down the final straightaway. It was nearly 1am, and there were two people at the finish line: my wife and the Race Director. It was a beautiful moment for me. 

I was thoroughly beaten down. I didn't have many more steps in me. I have my work cut out for me at next year's Black Hills 100 (mile). In that moment, however, when I was pushing myself to finish under some silly number just for the sake of finishing in an arbitrary time while my wife and a one stranger cheer me on, in that moment it all makes sense. I am running these races because I can now and I won't be able to forever. There will come a time when this will no longer be an option. I used to be scared to hell of my transience, and I used to let that fear of dying keep me from taking risks. I let that fear of living and dying drive me to drink as much as I could as often as I could. And then five years prior to the day that I finished my first 100k, I had my last drink. I chose to live, and to live in celebration of my impermanence. I am not going to be here for very long, and not long after I am gone I will be forgotten. I don't believe in an afterlife, at least in the Judeo-Christian sense in which I was raised; I do not believe that my consciousness will continue to exist after my body dies. Hooray! I am free to live without the pressure of all eternity, and I have chosen to find that liberating rather than oppressive.

There are so many people to thank. 

My wife, first and foremost, who is nothing short of the finest crew chief on the course. Your support through this arduous and often expensive hobby is incredible and appreciated. I cannot imagine doing this without you. Thank you.

To the volunteers: you deserve the credit here. These races do not happen without you, plain and simple. I appreciate what you do for us. Thank you.

To my friends and family: thank you for supporting me and asking me about what I'm doing. During this race, I stopped and thought of every text and well-wish I got prior to the race, and that was a wonderful series of thoughts. Thank you.

To the wonderful people of HUGE Theater and the Brave New Workshop Student Union. You have shown me on a frequent basis how to be positive and how to be kind. I'm still a work in progress, but I am learning. I don't think I would be finishing these races if you hadn't taught me how to find ways to say yes, how to find ways to channel positivity. I don't think I would have learned how to enjoy myself. I didn't start finishing races until I let go of the idea of complete control, but when I did I started laughing and playing and getting to the end. I am a little behind right now with the improv and the day-to-day laughing, but I am heading in the right direction, and that is a credit to the improv community in the Twin Cities right now. I have such great teachers and examples of how to live well, and you have helped me in so many ways that have nothing to do with being on stage. Thank you.

And thank you to the trail running community. What wonderful people I have met in my three years on the trails. You have been kind to me, and as a result I have tried to return that kindness. You have helped me to the ends of races. You have taught me a great deal about the value of companionship. I look forward to continuing to meet you guys. Thank you.

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)