I'm a little bummed today because I'm not running. Last night I got 1.5 hours of sleep due to a late night drive to Madison. I was hoping I'd be able to catch a nap in town and get a run in today, but life had other plans and I'll be up late tonight. Perhaps I can look on this as sleep deprivation training for 100s. :)
Over the past couple weeks I've decided to go with a plan to ramp up my weekly mileage to near 100 and to keep it there for as long as I can. So far I'm surprised at how good I feel doing this. Every day I'm a little sore, but can still put in a good aerobic effort at around a 7:20 pace - nothing earth shattering, but I can tell it's having an effect without breaking me, unlike last time I had mileage this high in March. Gradually these runs will get a little faster and I'll throw in some more hill/strength work and an anaerobic day or two, while incorporating weekend back to back long runs of 50k and 35k.
All of this will be in preparation for yet another 100 miler in April - either the McNaughton Park 100 or the Zumbro 100. So far I'm leaning toward McNaughton Park for its track record as a well organized event and for its fun, muddy course with lots of stream crossings. That said, I'm not thrilled to be running a 10 mile loop 10 times. Then again, that will make it easy to calculate splits....
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Bear 100 Race Report
As I took off with 140 other runners in the pre-dawn darkness on September 25th, I was surprised at how calm I felt. The chatter in my head was focused on the reasons why this might be the case. After all, this was my first 100 mile run and I had no certainty that I could really complete the distance on such steep and often technical terrain. I was sure that I was in for a day of suffering, or a day and a night and probably a good part of the next day to be more exact. Was it Andy Holak’s suggestion before the race that, as this was my first 100 mile run, I simply “enjoy it” that made me calm? Was it because I already knew this first section so well from my preparatory adventures during the previous couple weeks? Was it because I felt I had nothing to prove? Maybe it was because I was still too sleepy for the nerves to affect me. Whatever the reason it was first noticeable when before the race I saw so many faces that looked downright scared of what was to come. By comparison I felt relaxed, and this realization only made me curious and not uncomfortable.
As we ran on the first section of road I tried to place myself where I like to start in races – towards the front of the middle pack. I knew that I should do that at the start because it would be difficult to do so once the surface changed from wide pavement to narrow, rocky single track. Once again I was surprised at how good I felt at the pace we were going – this paved hill that leads to the trail felt difficult in training, but I felt smooth and efficient now by simply taking small, quick steps. I thought of Bill Murray’s character in “What About Bob” who did great things with “baby steps.” The “baby steps” mantra would return at many points along the course.
The first 5 miles of the Bear 100 involve a steep climb, with an average 13% grade. A mile into the run the runners in front of me handled this with a light and quick hiking stride, which I admired and tried to imitate. This worked well, but I intermittently had to jog just to keep pace. Still, I felt pretty good and heard the guys in front of me carry on a conversation, though I soon zoned out to the conversation in my own head.
Which circled around the inevitable “why?” Why did I choose the Bear 100 for my first 100 mile race? As part of the Rocky Mountain Grand Slam series, the course is certainly one of the hardest 100 milers in existence. I only fleetingly passed through the Rockies while traveling years ago on a punk tour, but the mountains left an indelible impression in my mind commensurate with their immensity. And over the years I’ve come to realize that there’s no better way to intimately feel a landscape than to run it. I thought of this as I carefully picked my way around rocks, brushing past foliage that was only beginning to turn brown with the coming of autumn.
Another reason I chose the Bear was because of a quixotic notion that journeys should always be epic. I could have easily chosen a race closer to home with terrain similar to the rolling hills and gentle, pine-needle covered trails of the Northern Forest. But why not try something more immense, that would give me a taste of what conditions the legendary ultrarunners of the West run on?
Another reason was because the race fell on my first full day of being 30, serving as a sort of rite of passage with intense emotional lessons that would hopefully act as a lifelong spiritual guide, a kind of vision quest if you will. In other words, a hell of a way to ring in 30 years of age.
By the time I got to the first aid station, around mile 10, I had already passed at least seven or eight of the people in front of me. I felt so good that I zipped through the aid station in one minute, only stopping to have a volunteer refill my handheld water bottles. This was according to plan, which was based on a vague hope of making good time by minimizing all aid station stops to 1 to 5 minutes. In hindsight this was a noble goal, but one which I eventually had to give up on.
For a good part of those first thirty six miles I ran and chatted some with Jake Renz, from Idaho, who was shooting for 24 hours (Whoa, I thought, I’m going way too fast!). Invariably he would pull ahead and then I’d pass him with a quick exit at the next aid station. Soon after the Cowley AS we ran side by side, and both commented that we could really feel the heat. The heat that day seemed to crawl upon me slowly and gradually, until it soon felt brutal in the noonday sun. We caught up with a runner in front of us, who I thought I recognized. His stride and body posture looked defeated and I asked him his name. Zach. Gingerich? Yeah. I saw you set the course record this summer at Kettle Moraine. Humble, he gave a slightly embarrassed smile. We moved on and I wondered to myself what the hell I was doing passing Zach Gingerich. He said he was dropping out at the next aid station – that this was it. Was it the heat? – I mean it couldn’t be, he’d come in second at Badwater this year. No, I don’t know, I just don’t feel right and honestly I haven’t even run that much since Badwater. We continued on small talking until we nearly missed the turn onto the single track, a shady descent which I was very much looking forward to. I left both him and Jake behind as I opened my stride and let gravity turn my legs over quickly on the way to Right Hand Fork AS.
It took a few seconds for things to register when I saw the large wooden sign with my name on it. “Go Evan From WI, Good Job!” I then remembered the warning Wade had given me before the race. I’d met Wade a week and a half before on the trails while training on the first climb. Then, at the pre-race meeting, he was kind enough to arrange a ride to the start for me. His wife was managing the RH Fork AS and made a sign in honor of me. But, such a big sign? And how would they know I was doing a good job? Anyway, I let the sign motivate me and I made a rush to the AS even though the trail was no longer shady and the heat was starting to have a real impact.
I sat down in a folding chair as a young girl searched for my drop bag. Other volunteers asked what I wanted, offering a litany of treats from cold soda to ice and soup. I felt confused and then cursed myself for not planning out exactly what I needed here. I drank something cold, changed my shoes and socks and started to strap the iPod onto my arm until I suddenly changed my mind. I was so confused and anxious about moving on, that I simply dropped the iPod on the ground and started to make my way out, completely forgetting to return it to my bag. Someone informed me that it was already 84 degrees and was supposed to go up to 88. A man with a gray mustache approached me, told me what the next section was like, and that I would come to a creek where I could cool off. I was grateful for the spontaneous coaching and gave a weak “thank you.” After spending a long 8 minutes at the station I slowly jogged out and a couple women shouted “great job” when I heard an involuntary whimper come from my throat. I gave my head a quick shake and did my best to resume composure.
It didn’t take long for the heat to eat me up though. Most of this was exposed, rocky trail and it was now around 2:00pm. My stride turned into a walk and two runners had little trouble passing me. I expected more, but they never came. I started to cramp, everywhere – my left hamstring, my right quad, my back, my feet, my toes! Places where I never had cramps before felt twisted into tightening knots of sheer pain. About halfway through the section, the trail became a downhill dirt road and I could barely maintain a jog even though I knew that at a minimum I had to run all the downhills. Eric Taft caught up with me, said he felt like hell too. At least I’m not alone in my misery, I thought. It’s gotta pass soon, I told him. For sure, always does he said with genuine optimism in his voice. I did my best to trail him and his optimism, to let it carry me to the next AS, which seemed to never come. When finally it did, I stood with my hands on my knees, afraid to sit, wondering if this was going to be it for me.
Wait a second, that’s Karl Meltzer running this AS, refilling my bottles. And he’s telling me he thought I looked strong coming in, which caused me to give a chuckle under my breath. A merciful woman, perhaps an angel, took the bandana from my neck and filled it with ice. Karl asked how I was and I told him about the cramping. Soup. You need electrolytes, he told me confidently. I gulped down at least three cups. Take some salt capsules. Can’t refuse when standing in front of one of the greatest 100 mile racers of all time. He assured me that all I had to do to feel better was continue on, that the next section had lots more shade and that the sun would be going down soon. A fit-looking woman told me I should take in even more water. I told myself that I had to trust them, what other choice did I have, and had to do it now before my mind started to get the best of me. That AS took me seven minutes.
Karl turned out to be right, of course. The shade provided by the Aspen forest along the next section more than made up for the fact that it was a long, steady climb. I was running alone, had left Eric behind at the AS, but the cramping had stopped and I started to feel okay again. I was still sure someone would pass me, but it didn’t happen. I kind of zoned out on how nice these forested areas of the mountains seemed – how out East I might take it for granted, but since they’re so small and spread out in these mountains, I could appreciate them more – each a little oasis. I got a little lost off trail for a few minutes on this section, and judging by the footprints, I wasn’t the only one. I kept thinking that the AS was the next campfire ahead, but kept getting disappointed, learning I needed to go a bit farther. When I finally got to the AS at the Tony Grove Campground I felt emotionally tired, worn out. When I told one woman there how my mind went back and forth on quitting she became charged, even somewhat angry with me. Oh no, you can’t quit now. No way! You’re doing too good. You could walk the rest of the way and still finish! She had a point. After all, I’d only been running for just over 11 hours and I was already half-way there. I could take up to 36 and still be counted. I began to do math in my exhausted head and then quickly gave it up. Running at this point on would have to involve a concerted effort to stay in the moment. After a soda to help my stomach, I got up out of the folding chair and continued on with a fast walk which slowly morphed into a steady “baby steps” jog.
The further I went along this section the better I felt. The words and spirit of the woman at the last AS affected me more than I realized. Hell, who cares if the rest of the field passes me as I crawl the rest of the way, I’m going to finish this damn thing. I knew I’d most certainly go through more rough patches, but all I had to do was hold on and ride them out like a cowboy in a rodeo, until I felt good again. This knowledge felt like a certainty and I felt something resembling joy start to rise up in me. My step now had a definitive bounce and there were plenty of runnable sections among the fields of sage grass. I was surprised to pass Andy Holak on this section, who said he was having serious stomach issues. I was so optimistic at this point that I wanted to encourage him to go on anyway, but figured it wasn’t my place to tell a professional runner like Andy what to do. It turned out that a friend served that purpose for him at the next AS anyway.
When I got to the next AS, Franklin, I was treated like a king. I’m unsure whether or not I was actually smiling, but the endorphins were certainly buzzing. I recognized multiple-time Rocky Mountain Grand Slam finisher Cory Johnson as the guy refilling my water bottles, and marveled at how cool it was that in this sport you’re often served by other accomplished athletes. What other amateur sport is like that? I mean even in road marathoning, I might line up in a race within sight of Ryan Hall, but I’d be downright shocked if he ever handed me a cup of Gatorade. I enjoyed the campfire and camaraderie of this AS so much that I was reluctant to leave. When I finally did I had someone walking with me out of the AS holding my bottles and speaking encouraging words as I finished eating the banana I was forcing down.
The sky was now dark and I plodded along alone. I didn’t mind being alone, but knew I had to be very careful to follow the course markers, orange ribbons that I could hardly see in the dark but also bright white markers high up on the trees, new this year, and which were very noticeable but much less frequent. A few times I thought I must have gone off on a side trail, but inevitably I’d push ahead and see another white reflector in the distance. I quickly found the downhills at night to be excruciating. I repeatedly smashed my big toe against invisible rocks on the trail, letting out a shout of pain upon each impact. My big toenails would not survive. My Montrail Mountain Masochist trail shoes felt great, but they were not made for this – this was masochism way beyond their intended masochistic use. At least they offered slightly more protection than the New Balance 790s that I started the race with, but steel toed Doc Martens might have been more appropriate.
The night started to get cold. I put on a long-sleeved shirt I had stashed in my drop bag at the Logan AS, but the warmth it offered was minimal. I told myself that to warm up I just needed to move faster, but some of the uphill climbs were so tiring and my stomach felt so sick of taking in gels, which I needed to have any energy in the first place. I thought I’d puke, consoled myself that maybe it would make me feel better, but never did. I let myself rest on a log or large rock on some of the climbs, but almost as soon as I sat down I’d feel a fear in my belly that sitting too long would make things even harder. None of these breaks exceeded 20-30 seconds, but they offered promises that were much easier to comprehend than the 100 mile finish line, still hours and hours away under the best of scenarios.
At each station I’d ask for the mileage to the next AS. Seven point three, eight point whatever miles. The distance sounded easy to my ears, in training a seven or eight mile run is something I can practically do in my sleep. But it never felt that easy – I wondered if I entered a Twilight Zone where the definition of seven miles changed to fourteen miles. Maybe it was because the people at the AS were lying to me to try to trick me to go on, ignorant bastards. Maybe I was off trail – no, nope that’s another marker ahead. I’d experienced this kind of mental torment in races before, but never to this extent, never for this long.
The Beaver Lodge AS was indoors. It was warm and very comfortable. I recognized a woman there as the one featured in the Dancing the Bear documentary. I recalled the look of struggle on her face late in the documentary – her distant, glossy eyes that seemed to be looking at something only she could see. The ghost of the power of will. I felt my eyes go to the same place as I sat down and vacantly heard a volunteer tell me about his memories of Wisconsin twenty years ago. I must have responded in grunts if at all as I stared at the floor, unable to tell him that I’m a New Jersey native. If I was going to continue on I had to really, really want it. I’d have to dig deep and decide on an existential sort of level. I came to consciousness as someone with a clipboard told me that I’d cross into Idaho on the next section. Sounds intriguing, really. After a long bathroom break I found a tiny spark that I needed to get going again, who knows where it came from, but I knew in the back of my mind that if I didn’t catch that spark I’d end up sitting for a very, very long time.
I was moving slow, the baby steps now more at the toddler level. I was cold, alternately cranky and dazzled by the stars above, with meteors bigger than any I’d ever seen before. I counted my breaths as I ran. I wondered when someone would finally catch up with me. I stopped for a few seconds and stared at the sign indicating I was now in Idaho. I noted the humorous absurdity of the arbitrary lines of maps, but still had the ironic urge to take a picture. I laughed out loud and was slightly startled at my hearing my own voice in the cold, starry mountain air.
There was a large campfire at the Gibson Basin AS. Volunteers put warm blankets around me, asked what I needed. Got any coffee?, I asked tentatively, doubtful because I’d heard that there wouldn’t be any, as the many Mormon volunteers don’t drink it. Sure do, said the woman as she poured me a warm cup straight from the thermos. I gazed into the campfire for awhile with those distant eyes, told them I just needed to sit for a bit and figure things out in my mind. As if I had to answer to them. Of course! Take your time. You’re amazing, what you’ve done is simply amazing. I thought about Mike Farris, who I’d met the day before the race. He told me how he had dropped out at mile eighty-something in his two previous 100 mile attempts. At the time that seemed insane to me, but now it seemed perfectly reasonable. The idea of twenty miles to go felt like 40, 50, 60. Maybe it was the caffeine that did it, but I suddenly made a move to take the blankets off and almost immediately began to shiver. I decided to take a shot in the dark and ask if anyone had an extra shirt, or jacket. A large middle aged guy, the radio operator, said hold on, and handed me a flannel shirt that was much too big for me, but was warm anyway. He told me I could return it at the end of the race, which to me may as well have been the planet Mars, or to a radio operator at one of the next aid stations. I looked upon it as a sort of sign that I had too much support to quit now and thanked him and began the next leg.
I started again with a walk and it progressed to a sort of stride that looked like running, but was certainly still walking. I laughed at myself because my stride reminded me of old women trying to lose weight by power-walking. I was secretly glad there was no one there to see me. The stride, however, eventually turned into a full run again and I felt pretty good coming into the Beaver Creek AS where there was a creek crossing that I was too tired to maneuver by rock hopping and so just went full in up past my knees. My shoes were soaked and heavy, but I could give a damn. I sat by the fire until Eric Taft and his pacer came in and I figured it was high time to get out of there.
Next it was mostly uphill. That’s about all I can recall about it. On many parts of the run I believe my mind just simply switched off, blacked out, because there was so much physical stress. I wish I could describe more of these sections but I simply don’t remember much. I remember most of the aid stations well because there were people to talk to, to bring me out of my trance. And so I remember coming into Ranger AS, the last one, and talking with a guy there and telling him that the uphills were killing me but that I much preferred the downhills. He promised me that the next section had a steep uphill, but that it was short and that I could cruise downhill the rest of the way. His words brought hope to my soul and so I felt enthusiastic as I took off from the AS at 6:00am – a full 24 hours after I started the race.
I recognized the feeling on that last section as the feeling not dissimilar in other, shorter races. It’s the feeling of doing your best to stay composed, to not blow up, to keep it together and hold on. The uphill here was extremely steep, perhaps the steepest of the whole course and reaching the highest elevation. It was also much longer than what I was told, or at least it seemed that way. I hardly cared when Jonathan Wheelwright passed me on this uphill, with his powerful, quick hiking stride. I told myself I could make up time once I finally hit that long, glorious downhill.
I should be careful what I wish for. The last downhill was quick, very steep, and ruthless, requiring a lot of muscle stability at a time of pure exhaustion like none I’d ever experienced before. Things were slightly better when the sun started to rise and I caught a magnificent view of the sun rising over Bear Lake with clouds reflected in the water in a spirally hurricane pattern. The view confused me for a few seconds and I thought I might be hallucinating. With the sun up I could finally see the rocks on the trail and maneuver my throbbing feet around them instead of smashing them repeatedly. And the rising sun somehow gave a rise to my spirits – there was now no doubt that I was so close and I had the distinct notion that all the pain in the world could not stop me now. But just as I was warned the day before the race by one of the race directors, Bear Lake looked to be so close but was taking forever to get to. I thought I’d pass or at least see Jonathan Wheelwright here, but he was nowhere to be found. The trees here had much more color than the ones in Idaho and they were brilliant in the morning sun. I focused on their magnificence to keep from thinking about how close-yet-far I was. I crossed another stream, again going straight through up to my knees because I didn’t have an ounce of agility left in my bones. The last mile or two were on pavement and I picked up the pace, determined to finish knowing that I gave everything I could. It felt strange to be in a neighborhood after spending 99 miles in the wilderness. I imagined people eating breakfast and looking out their kitchen windows thinking I was a casual jogger – with no clue of what I’d just been through. I followed the orange flags waving in the breeze across a main road and felt a wave of relief when I saw the finish sign and a handful of people sitting, lazily standing and sleeping on the grass. I gave a full sprint across the field to the end, surprised at how fast my body was able to move at this point. The time-keepers counted me in and I collapsed to the ground one foot past the finish sign – a point where I’d remain for the next hour. Leland Barker, the race director, still inside his sleeping bag, pushed himself up, gave me a congratulations, and slipped back into his bag. I truly do love the uneventful climaxes of ultramarathons. I didn’t want to move other than to take off my shoes. I had no idea what my overall place was – just that I finished in 25 hours and 40 minutes. I had no inclination to even ask, I was simply in a state of dog-tired bliss and intended to stay that way. It wasn’t until hours later when someone nearby was passing around a clipboard, that I noticed I finished 10th overall. Not bad, I guess.
I wished that I had dropped a bag for the finish as I had a long wait until the awards ceremony at 6pm. I spent the next 8 hours napping, cheering in the finishers and chatting with all sorts of folks. I was encouraged by comments that I received more than once that I had “a bright ultrarunning career” ahead of me. I marveled at Geoff Roes who won the race, breaking the course record, stupendously finishing nearly seven hours ahead of me. I was glad to see Mike Farris come in, who didn’t drop at mile 80 this time. I caught up again with Andy Holak, whose stomach finally forced him to drop, but who had me intrigued about the upcoming race he was directing in Duluth. Countless other good folks and barbequed salmon from Leland’s trout farm made the long wait bearable.
There are so many people to thank, who were just as much a part of this race as myself. If you’re reading this, chances are you may be one of them. There are so many reasons to hope, to believe that I can do this distance again and with an even better performance. And there’s so much to learn, lessons I will discover over the course of thousands of miles of trails all over Turtle Island and beyond. May I be open to all of them.
As we ran on the first section of road I tried to place myself where I like to start in races – towards the front of the middle pack. I knew that I should do that at the start because it would be difficult to do so once the surface changed from wide pavement to narrow, rocky single track. Once again I was surprised at how good I felt at the pace we were going – this paved hill that leads to the trail felt difficult in training, but I felt smooth and efficient now by simply taking small, quick steps. I thought of Bill Murray’s character in “What About Bob” who did great things with “baby steps.” The “baby steps” mantra would return at many points along the course.
The first 5 miles of the Bear 100 involve a steep climb, with an average 13% grade. A mile into the run the runners in front of me handled this with a light and quick hiking stride, which I admired and tried to imitate. This worked well, but I intermittently had to jog just to keep pace. Still, I felt pretty good and heard the guys in front of me carry on a conversation, though I soon zoned out to the conversation in my own head.
Which circled around the inevitable “why?” Why did I choose the Bear 100 for my first 100 mile race? As part of the Rocky Mountain Grand Slam series, the course is certainly one of the hardest 100 milers in existence. I only fleetingly passed through the Rockies while traveling years ago on a punk tour, but the mountains left an indelible impression in my mind commensurate with their immensity. And over the years I’ve come to realize that there’s no better way to intimately feel a landscape than to run it. I thought of this as I carefully picked my way around rocks, brushing past foliage that was only beginning to turn brown with the coming of autumn.
Another reason I chose the Bear was because of a quixotic notion that journeys should always be epic. I could have easily chosen a race closer to home with terrain similar to the rolling hills and gentle, pine-needle covered trails of the Northern Forest. But why not try something more immense, that would give me a taste of what conditions the legendary ultrarunners of the West run on?
Another reason was because the race fell on my first full day of being 30, serving as a sort of rite of passage with intense emotional lessons that would hopefully act as a lifelong spiritual guide, a kind of vision quest if you will. In other words, a hell of a way to ring in 30 years of age.
By the time I got to the first aid station, around mile 10, I had already passed at least seven or eight of the people in front of me. I felt so good that I zipped through the aid station in one minute, only stopping to have a volunteer refill my handheld water bottles. This was according to plan, which was based on a vague hope of making good time by minimizing all aid station stops to 1 to 5 minutes. In hindsight this was a noble goal, but one which I eventually had to give up on.
For a good part of those first thirty six miles I ran and chatted some with Jake Renz, from Idaho, who was shooting for 24 hours (Whoa, I thought, I’m going way too fast!). Invariably he would pull ahead and then I’d pass him with a quick exit at the next aid station. Soon after the Cowley AS we ran side by side, and both commented that we could really feel the heat. The heat that day seemed to crawl upon me slowly and gradually, until it soon felt brutal in the noonday sun. We caught up with a runner in front of us, who I thought I recognized. His stride and body posture looked defeated and I asked him his name. Zach. Gingerich? Yeah. I saw you set the course record this summer at Kettle Moraine. Humble, he gave a slightly embarrassed smile. We moved on and I wondered to myself what the hell I was doing passing Zach Gingerich. He said he was dropping out at the next aid station – that this was it. Was it the heat? – I mean it couldn’t be, he’d come in second at Badwater this year. No, I don’t know, I just don’t feel right and honestly I haven’t even run that much since Badwater. We continued on small talking until we nearly missed the turn onto the single track, a shady descent which I was very much looking forward to. I left both him and Jake behind as I opened my stride and let gravity turn my legs over quickly on the way to Right Hand Fork AS.
It took a few seconds for things to register when I saw the large wooden sign with my name on it. “Go Evan From WI, Good Job!” I then remembered the warning Wade had given me before the race. I’d met Wade a week and a half before on the trails while training on the first climb. Then, at the pre-race meeting, he was kind enough to arrange a ride to the start for me. His wife was managing the RH Fork AS and made a sign in honor of me. But, such a big sign? And how would they know I was doing a good job? Anyway, I let the sign motivate me and I made a rush to the AS even though the trail was no longer shady and the heat was starting to have a real impact.
I sat down in a folding chair as a young girl searched for my drop bag. Other volunteers asked what I wanted, offering a litany of treats from cold soda to ice and soup. I felt confused and then cursed myself for not planning out exactly what I needed here. I drank something cold, changed my shoes and socks and started to strap the iPod onto my arm until I suddenly changed my mind. I was so confused and anxious about moving on, that I simply dropped the iPod on the ground and started to make my way out, completely forgetting to return it to my bag. Someone informed me that it was already 84 degrees and was supposed to go up to 88. A man with a gray mustache approached me, told me what the next section was like, and that I would come to a creek where I could cool off. I was grateful for the spontaneous coaching and gave a weak “thank you.” After spending a long 8 minutes at the station I slowly jogged out and a couple women shouted “great job” when I heard an involuntary whimper come from my throat. I gave my head a quick shake and did my best to resume composure.
It didn’t take long for the heat to eat me up though. Most of this was exposed, rocky trail and it was now around 2:00pm. My stride turned into a walk and two runners had little trouble passing me. I expected more, but they never came. I started to cramp, everywhere – my left hamstring, my right quad, my back, my feet, my toes! Places where I never had cramps before felt twisted into tightening knots of sheer pain. About halfway through the section, the trail became a downhill dirt road and I could barely maintain a jog even though I knew that at a minimum I had to run all the downhills. Eric Taft caught up with me, said he felt like hell too. At least I’m not alone in my misery, I thought. It’s gotta pass soon, I told him. For sure, always does he said with genuine optimism in his voice. I did my best to trail him and his optimism, to let it carry me to the next AS, which seemed to never come. When finally it did, I stood with my hands on my knees, afraid to sit, wondering if this was going to be it for me.
Wait a second, that’s Karl Meltzer running this AS, refilling my bottles. And he’s telling me he thought I looked strong coming in, which caused me to give a chuckle under my breath. A merciful woman, perhaps an angel, took the bandana from my neck and filled it with ice. Karl asked how I was and I told him about the cramping. Soup. You need electrolytes, he told me confidently. I gulped down at least three cups. Take some salt capsules. Can’t refuse when standing in front of one of the greatest 100 mile racers of all time. He assured me that all I had to do to feel better was continue on, that the next section had lots more shade and that the sun would be going down soon. A fit-looking woman told me I should take in even more water. I told myself that I had to trust them, what other choice did I have, and had to do it now before my mind started to get the best of me. That AS took me seven minutes.
Karl turned out to be right, of course. The shade provided by the Aspen forest along the next section more than made up for the fact that it was a long, steady climb. I was running alone, had left Eric behind at the AS, but the cramping had stopped and I started to feel okay again. I was still sure someone would pass me, but it didn’t happen. I kind of zoned out on how nice these forested areas of the mountains seemed – how out East I might take it for granted, but since they’re so small and spread out in these mountains, I could appreciate them more – each a little oasis. I got a little lost off trail for a few minutes on this section, and judging by the footprints, I wasn’t the only one. I kept thinking that the AS was the next campfire ahead, but kept getting disappointed, learning I needed to go a bit farther. When I finally got to the AS at the Tony Grove Campground I felt emotionally tired, worn out. When I told one woman there how my mind went back and forth on quitting she became charged, even somewhat angry with me. Oh no, you can’t quit now. No way! You’re doing too good. You could walk the rest of the way and still finish! She had a point. After all, I’d only been running for just over 11 hours and I was already half-way there. I could take up to 36 and still be counted. I began to do math in my exhausted head and then quickly gave it up. Running at this point on would have to involve a concerted effort to stay in the moment. After a soda to help my stomach, I got up out of the folding chair and continued on with a fast walk which slowly morphed into a steady “baby steps” jog.
The further I went along this section the better I felt. The words and spirit of the woman at the last AS affected me more than I realized. Hell, who cares if the rest of the field passes me as I crawl the rest of the way, I’m going to finish this damn thing. I knew I’d most certainly go through more rough patches, but all I had to do was hold on and ride them out like a cowboy in a rodeo, until I felt good again. This knowledge felt like a certainty and I felt something resembling joy start to rise up in me. My step now had a definitive bounce and there were plenty of runnable sections among the fields of sage grass. I was surprised to pass Andy Holak on this section, who said he was having serious stomach issues. I was so optimistic at this point that I wanted to encourage him to go on anyway, but figured it wasn’t my place to tell a professional runner like Andy what to do. It turned out that a friend served that purpose for him at the next AS anyway.
When I got to the next AS, Franklin, I was treated like a king. I’m unsure whether or not I was actually smiling, but the endorphins were certainly buzzing. I recognized multiple-time Rocky Mountain Grand Slam finisher Cory Johnson as the guy refilling my water bottles, and marveled at how cool it was that in this sport you’re often served by other accomplished athletes. What other amateur sport is like that? I mean even in road marathoning, I might line up in a race within sight of Ryan Hall, but I’d be downright shocked if he ever handed me a cup of Gatorade. I enjoyed the campfire and camaraderie of this AS so much that I was reluctant to leave. When I finally did I had someone walking with me out of the AS holding my bottles and speaking encouraging words as I finished eating the banana I was forcing down.
The sky was now dark and I plodded along alone. I didn’t mind being alone, but knew I had to be very careful to follow the course markers, orange ribbons that I could hardly see in the dark but also bright white markers high up on the trees, new this year, and which were very noticeable but much less frequent. A few times I thought I must have gone off on a side trail, but inevitably I’d push ahead and see another white reflector in the distance. I quickly found the downhills at night to be excruciating. I repeatedly smashed my big toe against invisible rocks on the trail, letting out a shout of pain upon each impact. My big toenails would not survive. My Montrail Mountain Masochist trail shoes felt great, but they were not made for this – this was masochism way beyond their intended masochistic use. At least they offered slightly more protection than the New Balance 790s that I started the race with, but steel toed Doc Martens might have been more appropriate.
The night started to get cold. I put on a long-sleeved shirt I had stashed in my drop bag at the Logan AS, but the warmth it offered was minimal. I told myself that to warm up I just needed to move faster, but some of the uphill climbs were so tiring and my stomach felt so sick of taking in gels, which I needed to have any energy in the first place. I thought I’d puke, consoled myself that maybe it would make me feel better, but never did. I let myself rest on a log or large rock on some of the climbs, but almost as soon as I sat down I’d feel a fear in my belly that sitting too long would make things even harder. None of these breaks exceeded 20-30 seconds, but they offered promises that were much easier to comprehend than the 100 mile finish line, still hours and hours away under the best of scenarios.
At each station I’d ask for the mileage to the next AS. Seven point three, eight point whatever miles. The distance sounded easy to my ears, in training a seven or eight mile run is something I can practically do in my sleep. But it never felt that easy – I wondered if I entered a Twilight Zone where the definition of seven miles changed to fourteen miles. Maybe it was because the people at the AS were lying to me to try to trick me to go on, ignorant bastards. Maybe I was off trail – no, nope that’s another marker ahead. I’d experienced this kind of mental torment in races before, but never to this extent, never for this long.
The Beaver Lodge AS was indoors. It was warm and very comfortable. I recognized a woman there as the one featured in the Dancing the Bear documentary. I recalled the look of struggle on her face late in the documentary – her distant, glossy eyes that seemed to be looking at something only she could see. The ghost of the power of will. I felt my eyes go to the same place as I sat down and vacantly heard a volunteer tell me about his memories of Wisconsin twenty years ago. I must have responded in grunts if at all as I stared at the floor, unable to tell him that I’m a New Jersey native. If I was going to continue on I had to really, really want it. I’d have to dig deep and decide on an existential sort of level. I came to consciousness as someone with a clipboard told me that I’d cross into Idaho on the next section. Sounds intriguing, really. After a long bathroom break I found a tiny spark that I needed to get going again, who knows where it came from, but I knew in the back of my mind that if I didn’t catch that spark I’d end up sitting for a very, very long time.
I was moving slow, the baby steps now more at the toddler level. I was cold, alternately cranky and dazzled by the stars above, with meteors bigger than any I’d ever seen before. I counted my breaths as I ran. I wondered when someone would finally catch up with me. I stopped for a few seconds and stared at the sign indicating I was now in Idaho. I noted the humorous absurdity of the arbitrary lines of maps, but still had the ironic urge to take a picture. I laughed out loud and was slightly startled at my hearing my own voice in the cold, starry mountain air.
There was a large campfire at the Gibson Basin AS. Volunteers put warm blankets around me, asked what I needed. Got any coffee?, I asked tentatively, doubtful because I’d heard that there wouldn’t be any, as the many Mormon volunteers don’t drink it. Sure do, said the woman as she poured me a warm cup straight from the thermos. I gazed into the campfire for awhile with those distant eyes, told them I just needed to sit for a bit and figure things out in my mind. As if I had to answer to them. Of course! Take your time. You’re amazing, what you’ve done is simply amazing. I thought about Mike Farris, who I’d met the day before the race. He told me how he had dropped out at mile eighty-something in his two previous 100 mile attempts. At the time that seemed insane to me, but now it seemed perfectly reasonable. The idea of twenty miles to go felt like 40, 50, 60. Maybe it was the caffeine that did it, but I suddenly made a move to take the blankets off and almost immediately began to shiver. I decided to take a shot in the dark and ask if anyone had an extra shirt, or jacket. A large middle aged guy, the radio operator, said hold on, and handed me a flannel shirt that was much too big for me, but was warm anyway. He told me I could return it at the end of the race, which to me may as well have been the planet Mars, or to a radio operator at one of the next aid stations. I looked upon it as a sort of sign that I had too much support to quit now and thanked him and began the next leg.
I started again with a walk and it progressed to a sort of stride that looked like running, but was certainly still walking. I laughed at myself because my stride reminded me of old women trying to lose weight by power-walking. I was secretly glad there was no one there to see me. The stride, however, eventually turned into a full run again and I felt pretty good coming into the Beaver Creek AS where there was a creek crossing that I was too tired to maneuver by rock hopping and so just went full in up past my knees. My shoes were soaked and heavy, but I could give a damn. I sat by the fire until Eric Taft and his pacer came in and I figured it was high time to get out of there.
Next it was mostly uphill. That’s about all I can recall about it. On many parts of the run I believe my mind just simply switched off, blacked out, because there was so much physical stress. I wish I could describe more of these sections but I simply don’t remember much. I remember most of the aid stations well because there were people to talk to, to bring me out of my trance. And so I remember coming into Ranger AS, the last one, and talking with a guy there and telling him that the uphills were killing me but that I much preferred the downhills. He promised me that the next section had a steep uphill, but that it was short and that I could cruise downhill the rest of the way. His words brought hope to my soul and so I felt enthusiastic as I took off from the AS at 6:00am – a full 24 hours after I started the race.
I recognized the feeling on that last section as the feeling not dissimilar in other, shorter races. It’s the feeling of doing your best to stay composed, to not blow up, to keep it together and hold on. The uphill here was extremely steep, perhaps the steepest of the whole course and reaching the highest elevation. It was also much longer than what I was told, or at least it seemed that way. I hardly cared when Jonathan Wheelwright passed me on this uphill, with his powerful, quick hiking stride. I told myself I could make up time once I finally hit that long, glorious downhill.
I should be careful what I wish for. The last downhill was quick, very steep, and ruthless, requiring a lot of muscle stability at a time of pure exhaustion like none I’d ever experienced before. Things were slightly better when the sun started to rise and I caught a magnificent view of the sun rising over Bear Lake with clouds reflected in the water in a spirally hurricane pattern. The view confused me for a few seconds and I thought I might be hallucinating. With the sun up I could finally see the rocks on the trail and maneuver my throbbing feet around them instead of smashing them repeatedly. And the rising sun somehow gave a rise to my spirits – there was now no doubt that I was so close and I had the distinct notion that all the pain in the world could not stop me now. But just as I was warned the day before the race by one of the race directors, Bear Lake looked to be so close but was taking forever to get to. I thought I’d pass or at least see Jonathan Wheelwright here, but he was nowhere to be found. The trees here had much more color than the ones in Idaho and they were brilliant in the morning sun. I focused on their magnificence to keep from thinking about how close-yet-far I was. I crossed another stream, again going straight through up to my knees because I didn’t have an ounce of agility left in my bones. The last mile or two were on pavement and I picked up the pace, determined to finish knowing that I gave everything I could. It felt strange to be in a neighborhood after spending 99 miles in the wilderness. I imagined people eating breakfast and looking out their kitchen windows thinking I was a casual jogger – with no clue of what I’d just been through. I followed the orange flags waving in the breeze across a main road and felt a wave of relief when I saw the finish sign and a handful of people sitting, lazily standing and sleeping on the grass. I gave a full sprint across the field to the end, surprised at how fast my body was able to move at this point. The time-keepers counted me in and I collapsed to the ground one foot past the finish sign – a point where I’d remain for the next hour. Leland Barker, the race director, still inside his sleeping bag, pushed himself up, gave me a congratulations, and slipped back into his bag. I truly do love the uneventful climaxes of ultramarathons. I didn’t want to move other than to take off my shoes. I had no idea what my overall place was – just that I finished in 25 hours and 40 minutes. I had no inclination to even ask, I was simply in a state of dog-tired bliss and intended to stay that way. It wasn’t until hours later when someone nearby was passing around a clipboard, that I noticed I finished 10th overall. Not bad, I guess.
I wished that I had dropped a bag for the finish as I had a long wait until the awards ceremony at 6pm. I spent the next 8 hours napping, cheering in the finishers and chatting with all sorts of folks. I was encouraged by comments that I received more than once that I had “a bright ultrarunning career” ahead of me. I marveled at Geoff Roes who won the race, breaking the course record, stupendously finishing nearly seven hours ahead of me. I was glad to see Mike Farris come in, who didn’t drop at mile 80 this time. I caught up again with Andy Holak, whose stomach finally forced him to drop, but who had me intrigued about the upcoming race he was directing in Duluth. Countless other good folks and barbequed salmon from Leland’s trout farm made the long wait bearable.
There are so many people to thank, who were just as much a part of this race as myself. If you’re reading this, chances are you may be one of them. There are so many reasons to hope, to believe that I can do this distance again and with an even better performance. And there’s so much to learn, lessons I will discover over the course of thousands of miles of trails all over Turtle Island and beyond. May I be open to all of them.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Can I Bear it?
I've been in Logan for the past two weeks, and now I'm exactly one week out from the Bear 100. Oh boy...
I've been on the trails almost everyday since I've been here, including about 9 days camping. First, I'll say that the Rockies have me totally awed. It seems like whole new dimensions of space exist here, with land arising at all sorts of new directions from my feet. Many of the trails are along steep ridges which give me vertigo. Some parts are rocky, with twisty junipers, limber pines, and sagebrush covering the landscape. On these parts I'm always on the lookout for rattlesnakes. Other parts are shaded with mountain maple and aspen. These areas provide relief from the hot, dry weather that predominates here and which leaves me perpetually thirsty. Fortunately I've found plenty of mountain springs with water that is so refreshing that I'm tempted to stay the whole day next to them. I've seen plenty of grouse, some whitetail, a few antelope, one moose and a lot of western birds whose names I'm only beginning to learn. The views from the high points are stunning. It seems like there are endless peaks and valleys here, and the sunset comes with gorgeous shades of orange, pink, purple, and blue.
Now as far as running goes:
Running in the Rockies is so different from what I'm used to that I don't think it's too much of an exaggeration to consider it an entirely different sport. Whereas the terrain in Wisconsin allows for finding a steady pace and keeping with it for long periods, running here is always unsteady, varying from grueling uphill slogs that last for miles and miles to fast, adrenaline-pumping descents that also last for miles. In fact, most of the uphills are too difficult for me to run, requiring strong hikes that still leave me out of breath, especially at the higher altitudes. The descents are so fast that my toes press up against the front of my shoes, which will invariably mean blisters. The trail is almost always technical, with jagged rocks and roots jutting out at all angles, meaning that I need to constantly focus on the ground to keep from falling on my face. How this will play out when I'm completely exhausted late at night I have no clue.
So yes, part of me is overwhelmed, worried, daunted, downright scared. The number 100 here isn't even that scary compared to the grueling terrain. But I know my best bet is to let go of all expectations, let go of any attachment I have to a finishing time, and just push myself to the limits of my own abilities - to accept where I am, relax and smile through the inevitable ups and downs.
It will most certainly be adventure. And that's what matters.
I've been on the trails almost everyday since I've been here, including about 9 days camping. First, I'll say that the Rockies have me totally awed. It seems like whole new dimensions of space exist here, with land arising at all sorts of new directions from my feet. Many of the trails are along steep ridges which give me vertigo. Some parts are rocky, with twisty junipers, limber pines, and sagebrush covering the landscape. On these parts I'm always on the lookout for rattlesnakes. Other parts are shaded with mountain maple and aspen. These areas provide relief from the hot, dry weather that predominates here and which leaves me perpetually thirsty. Fortunately I've found plenty of mountain springs with water that is so refreshing that I'm tempted to stay the whole day next to them. I've seen plenty of grouse, some whitetail, a few antelope, one moose and a lot of western birds whose names I'm only beginning to learn. The views from the high points are stunning. It seems like there are endless peaks and valleys here, and the sunset comes with gorgeous shades of orange, pink, purple, and blue.
Now as far as running goes:
Running in the Rockies is so different from what I'm used to that I don't think it's too much of an exaggeration to consider it an entirely different sport. Whereas the terrain in Wisconsin allows for finding a steady pace and keeping with it for long periods, running here is always unsteady, varying from grueling uphill slogs that last for miles and miles to fast, adrenaline-pumping descents that also last for miles. In fact, most of the uphills are too difficult for me to run, requiring strong hikes that still leave me out of breath, especially at the higher altitudes. The descents are so fast that my toes press up against the front of my shoes, which will invariably mean blisters. The trail is almost always technical, with jagged rocks and roots jutting out at all angles, meaning that I need to constantly focus on the ground to keep from falling on my face. How this will play out when I'm completely exhausted late at night I have no clue.
So yes, part of me is overwhelmed, worried, daunted, downright scared. The number 100 here isn't even that scary compared to the grueling terrain. But I know my best bet is to let go of all expectations, let go of any attachment I have to a finishing time, and just push myself to the limits of my own abilities - to accept where I am, relax and smile through the inevitable ups and downs.
It will most certainly be adventure. And that's what matters.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Marquette Trail 50 Race Report
It’s hard not to trip on a slippery rock or tree root when you’re running on a technical trail at the top of a rock cliff next to Lake Superior. You should be gazing at the path ahead, but you can’t help but marvel at a lake so vast that it may as well be a sea. But what’s a little blood when you’re running next to something so majestic that you can’t help, but let out a “whoa!” at the first sight of the sky blue water meeting large, ancient grey boulders? The breeze off the shoreline filled my nostrils with remarkably clean, fresh air that made the movement of my legs feel like an effortless dance and I was overcome with the feeling of gratitude for being alive to experience all this. I hardly even thought about the fact that I was running alone, and would run alone for almost the whole race, because I didn’t feel lonely while with such astonishing natural company. I didn’t even much care when I took a hard, belly-first fall onto rocky terrain which left scrapes on my ribs and legs and an annoying cut on my thumb - or when I twisted my ankle in a maze of stones, which could only put a hobble in my stride for a measly half mile.
After all, I vowed to take this race easy as it was only a training run for my 100 mile race next month. I kept my effort level at about 75% of what I thought my race pace might be for the course. I told my crew (Travis and Stephanie) to expect a finish in the 9-10 hour range based on a guess of what the difficulty of the course would be. I simply tried to enjoy the staircase climbs, steep ascents and descents on barren rock-bluffs, and the more familiar tangle of roots along single track trail. I didn’t even imagine that the four guys ahead of me might be in the 50k race and not the 50 mile, because I didn’t expect or care about my finishing place. So for the first 23 miles things felt easy and time flew by so fast that I could hardly believe my Garmin GPS watch was accurate. Then came the aid station at mile 23 where the college girl behind the table told me I was “the 50 mile leader rock star.” It’s always nice to be called a rock star by a pretty girl, but I think I let out an audible groan as I told her I needed to slow down because this was only a training run. As I said that aloud though, inside I was saying that now I knew I needed to bump things up a notch even though this first-place thing likely wouldn’t last. I asked her how long till the next aid station and she tried to get me to chit-chat about what race I was training for, but I had to get out of there quick. A quarter mile down the trail I was cursing myself for at least not getting a name or phone number.
So if I was giving 75% before, now I was giving 85-90% and not bothering to tie my shoelaces which came undone. The trail was far less exciting now, as it was mostly dirt roads and two-track trail. I ran for awhile on this section with the eventual female 50k winner, who kept me on an appropriately rigorous pace. Neither of us wanted to talk much, but there was a silent understanding that since we were in different races we were only there to encourage each other. I started to realize my trail running strengths once we turned onto single track again and I couldn’t help but pull ahead to come into the Forestville Aid Station around mile 27. Along the way I had a coyote as a spectator in the woods, which gave me a bit more enthusiasm before I headed out on the long 18 mile out and back section.
I had told Travis 9 miles beforehand that I had to take a shit, but I felt too good to stop. Now all sorts of things were catching up to me on this comparatively boring section of old logging road. I pulled off to the side and took the opportunity to finally taste one of the thimbleberries which were so plentiful. I was sure I’d be passed while taking a dump, but no one came. I continued on, but was having a very rough time. I knew that this tough patch would pass if I could somehow ride it out, but I was forced to hike up hills that I would have liked to run and even had to hike some of the flats. If someone were going to pass me, it would probably be here. But, surprisingly it didn’t happen and I straggled on until I gratefully came to the Rt. 510 station. I told my crew I’d really have to take it easy from this point on and that I was having a hard time. I decided to throw on the iPod for motivation, but it turned out it didn’t even work because too much sweat had found its way inside from previous workouts. I forced myself on, back down the trail I had just come up and it wasn’t long before I saw my competitors on their way to the aid station I had just left. We greeted each other with smiles, but theirs looked genuine while mine was an attempt to cover up how much I was struggling. I focused on a mantra of “one foot in front of the other” and somewhere along that route my energy returned (was it the nutritional shake?, maybe the two bucks I ran into on the trail?) and I was easily able to ignore the temptation to walk. I even was able to put in a couple of little surges to try to pull ahead of those guys who couldn’t be far behind. I passed by more people and this time my smile and hello felt a lot more genuine, although I was also in intense concentration mode at this point.
I pulled into the last Aid Station (mile 45) and Travis was there to ask if I needed anything. I told him “Vaseline” since my armpit was chafing and an old man in a nearby lawn chair started cracking up (apparently he thought I’d said “gasoline” and he thought this hilarious). The folks at the aid station told me I was “way ahead” but I wasn’t so sure and once again I didn’t much care. This time it was Travis who told them I wasn’t supposed to be racing and I said I didn’t care if I had to crawl those last five miles. I told Travis I’d see him at the finish and was relieved that there were a mere five miles left.
Five miles usually doesn’t seem all that much to me. On a normal aerobic training run on flat terrain it might take 34 minutes. However, on this course the last five miles was once again technical and rocky which required a lot of leg strength at a time when my legs were pretty well tired. I did my best to stay running, but a couple sections were simply not runnable. Toward the end the trail got easier and I was glad to get my legs turning over quickly. In my mind I thought, “Yes, this is really hard but it doesn’t feel impossible and I just want to get the race over as quickly as possible so that I can rest.” The end finally came across the bridge over the Dead River and back to where I had started 8 hours and 13 minutes earlier. The race director, my crew, and various others congratulated and babied me for a bit while I sat on the grass exhausted and satisfied. I was relieved, happy and just worn out enough to think I’d had a good training run for my first shot at a difficult 100 miler one month from now.
I went to bed after a bison burger dinner with a cold ginger ale. Unfortunately a bunch of college kids arrived in the campground next to us and partied it up all night long, including burning a whole entertainment center in the fire ring and having an all night drunken anal orgy. I was only semi-conscious during all this and mostly got the low down the next morning from Travis who couldn’t sleep through all the shenanigans and didn’t bother to say anything to them as they (unknowingly?) pissed right next to my tent.
The next morning I awoke happy to feel my muscles feeling sore, but still very functional. I didn’t even walk funny like I did for days after the Boston Marathon. I wanted to show Travis and Stephanie the awesomeness that is Sugarloaf Mountain and the section of course along Lake Superior. We had an awesome hike, picked lots of berries and this time I took lots of pictures. I think the pictures probably do a better job than this report of how awesome this course is.
Thanks again to Stephanie and Travis – an awesome crew who showed up ready and on time while having their own adventures in the process. Congratulations to Dale, who I met along the way and completed his first 50 miler and ensured a qualifier for Western States 100 – stay stubborn and good luck at vet school! Thanks to Joe for putting on such a great race. You can expect me back next year to defend my title with a 100% effort and an even better time (sub 7:45?).
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Back on the Blogging Wagon
So I ditched the blog for awhile and now I'm back. Here's the update: After injury I had a very mediocre Journey's Marathon, and struggled a lot mentally just to get through. The good news was that my left knee felt okay, the bad news was that the next week I experienced bad IT problems with the other knee and then was out for two weeks with what I strongly suspect was swine flu. IT band issues have only resolved in the past couple weeks and so I'm still questionable for Voyageur 50, am considering the Marquette 50 at the end of August, and am mostly focusing on building endurance and strength for my first 100, the Bear 100 at the end of September, for which I'm very excited. My plan is to fly out there on September 3rd and ride a bike to the Wasatch Mountains and camp/acclimatize for 3 weeks. Still need a crew, pacer, bike and campmates.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Race Report: 113th Boston Marathon
The half-drunk college kid near mile 23 held the sign that said it all, "Doubters can suck it." In the end it was the doubter in my own head that I told to suck it as I pushed ahead in those last miles. Sure, there was pain, a dull, but strong ache that spread to every inch of my left thigh with each step. And sure, there was a hitch in my stride. But deep down I knew that pain is only pain, a sensation that need not demoralize me. And although my stride felt funny, giving me less than perfect form as I felt like I was swinging my left leg around in a limping fashion, many of the guys around me had running forms and strides that were downright goofy-looking in comparison. Yes, my legs didn't feel so strong on the roller coaster course that is Boston, but instead of focusing on what I couldn't do, I decided to focus on doing what I could. In the end it was over 4 minutes short of goal time, but it was still a new PR on a tough course with a strong headwind and a leg injury. And most of all it was an absolutely unforgettable experience.
Prior to the race I hadn't had a real quality workout in over a month and hadn't even jogged more than 6 miles at a time, with most days only jogging 1 or 2. I was disappointed and nearly obsessed on doing everything I could for my knee/hip/thigh. I don't know if I ever paid so much attention to a part of my body (okay, maybe I need to rethink that ;) haha). Every day I applied ice, stretched, bandaged, and downed Vitamin I, glucosamine and a couple other strange concoctions. Still, nothing seemed to work and I was seriously rethinking whether I would run Boston at all or if I would have to jog it. As I flew out to Boston I still wasn't sure, but the buzz from the folks at the airport and the expo made me want to do anything to run it. I wanted so badly to give an effort as legendary as the Boston Marathon itself. Somehow maybe I would wake up on race morning and the pain would magically be gone - maybe the pain was psychosomatic. I desperately hoped it was.
On Sunday I went to the gigantic expo with my Dad and Jess who provided great support the whole time and who also caught the wave of excitement from the thousands of people and events that make Boston so legendary. We spent way too much time at the expo, but I did stick around to wait for a free stretching out session by a licensed physical therapist. He immediately located the problem as originating in the hip adductors and performed some stretches on that area. He gave me stretching homework to do at the hotel that night. After a great lecture by a Harvard professor on human evolution and running and a fantastic dinner at a Cambodian/French restaurant I did what I could that night.
The best strategy I could come up with was to go out near goal pace and then speed up or slow down based on how I felt. Based on my jogs over the past month I was not very hopeful since they all had me limping after just a couple miles. Still, I did all my marathon preparations as normal including putting my game face on. My dad took a couple pictures at the dropoff bus that morning and I don't think I even remotely smiled for any of them! Once the bus dropped me off in Hopkinton I kept moving, stretching, as if one more slight stretch of 10 seconds would cure me completely. In the starting corral I stayed moving and focused and got charged up after catching a glimpse of Ryan Hall lining up only 50 or so yards ahead of me. Looking around the corral I could see all runners with a similar qualifying time to mine. Everyone looks around with a mutual respect and the hope that they would see the same faces in the late stages of the race that seemed so more distant than the actual miles. As the starting time approached I told myself my motto: hoka hey, it's a good day to die.
Now I know I was warned that Boston starts fast, but the first couple miles were absurd. I think my splits were both under 6:20 and they both felt almost too easy. I wanted to go even faster but the crowd was too thick. In the back of my head I knew this was a good thing. As we flew along for the first 5 miles I expected the crowd to thin out, but it never did. The kids were so excited to get a running high five that I couldn't resist. All of this helped me to step outside myself and ignore what was happening in my left thigh. Of course I mentally checked in on it from time to time, and was pleasantly surprised that it wasn't really all that debilitating. I switched my focus back to sticking with the folks in my corral, and tried to ignore the dread that building in my mind about the stiffness that I knew would strike by 10k at the latest. The pain could be ignored, but I knew the stiffness would mean I'd have to stop and try to stretch it out for a few minutes. And sure enough the stiffness came, and I felt the funny hitch in my stride. But it didn't debilitate me either. "Damn, now I'm going to have to run this race."
There were many highlights along the way including a guy on stage singing "Sweet Caroline" in Natick, but what could be better than thousands of screaming college co-eds near the halfway point. The sign before their "wall of sound" said it all, "Brace your ears." Though I was tempted to stop at the "kiss me" signs, I knew I needed to really run now so I decided to compromise with running high fives (probably at least 100 hands) and blowing kisses. I looked at my watch at the halfway point and realized I was on pace to get the 2:50. But damn the up and down was already starting to take a toll on my weakened, injured quad and we weren't even at the Newton Hills yet. My cardio system had no trouble with the pace but my leg muscles were in agony. There were some pretty strong wind gusts from the eastern headwind that made things even more difficult. I was looking for some people to hide behind and draft, but too often I found myself just behind a pack and fully exposed to the strong gusts, which proved to be the race element that most affected the elite outcome.
So the uphills felt agonizingly slow. I knew I had quickly powered up hills even steeper than these in training, but the leg strength wasn't there today when I tried to call upon it. Guys flew past me on the Newton hills and my Garmin GPS watch was sounding annoying beeps at me because I wasn't on pace and the frustration was mounting as I realized that 2:50 was slipping away. But then the voice of my friend Kara rang through my mind and it said to just focus on what I could do instead of what I couldn't. I'm not sure she even ever said these words to me, but it sounded like something she would say anyway. The attitude change helped as I climbed Heartbreak Hill and "Welcome to the Jungle" blared on the speaker system. I put my head down and focused on just climbing and being happy for each and every step on this storied climb, yet still partly praying the end would come soon.
Heartbreak Hill would not break my heart even if it did slow my legs. The downhills afterwards were as painful as I'd been told, but I was glad to feel my legs moving fast again. The crowds really started to get big as we approached Boston and their excitement was a wave that kept my mind from making excuses for quiting. They were so eager to see us run and the most common comment I got was "Go Beard" (or in Bostonese "Go Bee-ud, I like da bee-ud."). With a couple miles left I thought I'd try an experiment and I made a lifting gesture with my arms to see what would happen. The crowd responded with a huge roar. How freaking cool was that.
I decided I should really save the gestures for the last half mile and so I put the focus back on running. Despite yells from the crowd that "It's all downhill from heea," there were a couple small uphill sections that once again seemed painfully slow for me. My heart wasn't even pounding that hard and I at no point was I out of breath, but my quads said this was all they could do today. So I figured I might as well have some fun. I continued a steady pace to the heart of downtown Boston and played some more with the crowd. This time their roars of encouragement led me to give what little kind of kick I could in the last half mile. No giving up now. I swung my arms back and forth faster, using the textbook method for a finishing kick. I focused on trying to keep up with one of the competitive women (can't let a girl beat me!). I crossed the finish line next to her with a fist in the air and glance of the clock which read two-fifty-four-something-I-don't-know-whatever-where-can-I-sit-down.
Chip time turned out to be 2:54:17. Considering everything, I'll take it. For now. Journey's Marathon is only two weeks away and sub 2:50 isn't looking so far off. It's going to take some smart recovery and the continued healing of that darn left quad that in any case will leave doubters sucking it.
Prior to the race I hadn't had a real quality workout in over a month and hadn't even jogged more than 6 miles at a time, with most days only jogging 1 or 2. I was disappointed and nearly obsessed on doing everything I could for my knee/hip/thigh. I don't know if I ever paid so much attention to a part of my body (okay, maybe I need to rethink that ;) haha). Every day I applied ice, stretched, bandaged, and downed Vitamin I, glucosamine and a couple other strange concoctions. Still, nothing seemed to work and I was seriously rethinking whether I would run Boston at all or if I would have to jog it. As I flew out to Boston I still wasn't sure, but the buzz from the folks at the airport and the expo made me want to do anything to run it. I wanted so badly to give an effort as legendary as the Boston Marathon itself. Somehow maybe I would wake up on race morning and the pain would magically be gone - maybe the pain was psychosomatic. I desperately hoped it was.
On Sunday I went to the gigantic expo with my Dad and Jess who provided great support the whole time and who also caught the wave of excitement from the thousands of people and events that make Boston so legendary. We spent way too much time at the expo, but I did stick around to wait for a free stretching out session by a licensed physical therapist. He immediately located the problem as originating in the hip adductors and performed some stretches on that area. He gave me stretching homework to do at the hotel that night. After a great lecture by a Harvard professor on human evolution and running and a fantastic dinner at a Cambodian/French restaurant I did what I could that night.
The best strategy I could come up with was to go out near goal pace and then speed up or slow down based on how I felt. Based on my jogs over the past month I was not very hopeful since they all had me limping after just a couple miles. Still, I did all my marathon preparations as normal including putting my game face on. My dad took a couple pictures at the dropoff bus that morning and I don't think I even remotely smiled for any of them! Once the bus dropped me off in Hopkinton I kept moving, stretching, as if one more slight stretch of 10 seconds would cure me completely. In the starting corral I stayed moving and focused and got charged up after catching a glimpse of Ryan Hall lining up only 50 or so yards ahead of me. Looking around the corral I could see all runners with a similar qualifying time to mine. Everyone looks around with a mutual respect and the hope that they would see the same faces in the late stages of the race that seemed so more distant than the actual miles. As the starting time approached I told myself my motto: hoka hey, it's a good day to die.
Now I know I was warned that Boston starts fast, but the first couple miles were absurd. I think my splits were both under 6:20 and they both felt almost too easy. I wanted to go even faster but the crowd was too thick. In the back of my head I knew this was a good thing. As we flew along for the first 5 miles I expected the crowd to thin out, but it never did. The kids were so excited to get a running high five that I couldn't resist. All of this helped me to step outside myself and ignore what was happening in my left thigh. Of course I mentally checked in on it from time to time, and was pleasantly surprised that it wasn't really all that debilitating. I switched my focus back to sticking with the folks in my corral, and tried to ignore the dread that building in my mind about the stiffness that I knew would strike by 10k at the latest. The pain could be ignored, but I knew the stiffness would mean I'd have to stop and try to stretch it out for a few minutes. And sure enough the stiffness came, and I felt the funny hitch in my stride. But it didn't debilitate me either. "Damn, now I'm going to have to run this race."
There were many highlights along the way including a guy on stage singing "Sweet Caroline" in Natick, but what could be better than thousands of screaming college co-eds near the halfway point. The sign before their "wall of sound" said it all, "Brace your ears." Though I was tempted to stop at the "kiss me" signs, I knew I needed to really run now so I decided to compromise with running high fives (probably at least 100 hands) and blowing kisses. I looked at my watch at the halfway point and realized I was on pace to get the 2:50. But damn the up and down was already starting to take a toll on my weakened, injured quad and we weren't even at the Newton Hills yet. My cardio system had no trouble with the pace but my leg muscles were in agony. There were some pretty strong wind gusts from the eastern headwind that made things even more difficult. I was looking for some people to hide behind and draft, but too often I found myself just behind a pack and fully exposed to the strong gusts, which proved to be the race element that most affected the elite outcome.
So the uphills felt agonizingly slow. I knew I had quickly powered up hills even steeper than these in training, but the leg strength wasn't there today when I tried to call upon it. Guys flew past me on the Newton hills and my Garmin GPS watch was sounding annoying beeps at me because I wasn't on pace and the frustration was mounting as I realized that 2:50 was slipping away. But then the voice of my friend Kara rang through my mind and it said to just focus on what I could do instead of what I couldn't. I'm not sure she even ever said these words to me, but it sounded like something she would say anyway. The attitude change helped as I climbed Heartbreak Hill and "Welcome to the Jungle" blared on the speaker system. I put my head down and focused on just climbing and being happy for each and every step on this storied climb, yet still partly praying the end would come soon.
Heartbreak Hill would not break my heart even if it did slow my legs. The downhills afterwards were as painful as I'd been told, but I was glad to feel my legs moving fast again. The crowds really started to get big as we approached Boston and their excitement was a wave that kept my mind from making excuses for quiting. They were so eager to see us run and the most common comment I got was "Go Beard" (or in Bostonese "Go Bee-ud, I like da bee-ud."). With a couple miles left I thought I'd try an experiment and I made a lifting gesture with my arms to see what would happen. The crowd responded with a huge roar. How freaking cool was that.
I decided I should really save the gestures for the last half mile and so I put the focus back on running. Despite yells from the crowd that "It's all downhill from heea," there were a couple small uphill sections that once again seemed painfully slow for me. My heart wasn't even pounding that hard and I at no point was I out of breath, but my quads said this was all they could do today. So I figured I might as well have some fun. I continued a steady pace to the heart of downtown Boston and played some more with the crowd. This time their roars of encouragement led me to give what little kind of kick I could in the last half mile. No giving up now. I swung my arms back and forth faster, using the textbook method for a finishing kick. I focused on trying to keep up with one of the competitive women (can't let a girl beat me!). I crossed the finish line next to her with a fist in the air and glance of the clock which read two-fifty-four-something-I-don't-know-whatever-where-can-I-sit-down.
Chip time turned out to be 2:54:17. Considering everything, I'll take it. For now. Journey's Marathon is only two weeks away and sub 2:50 isn't looking so far off. It's going to take some smart recovery and the continued healing of that darn left quad that in any case will leave doubters sucking it.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Injured Knee Blues...
It's now just six days until Boston and it's all up in the air.
Three weeks ago I won a local duathlon - just a decent tempo workout for me. The next day I did downhill repeats and the day after that was my final fast finish long run. The long run went great, but I was limping afterwards with stiffness in my left knee. I figured it was just DOMS and figured the same when I was still limping the next day. Long story short is I didn't stop limping and the pain in my knee got worse. All signs pointed to chondromalcia.
Since then I've been sidelined to jogging slowly for a couple miles at a time and biking. Neither is very satisfactory. The quads have been regaining strength with rehab exercises and stretching, but I still feel pain and stiffness in my hip and the inner part of my knee. I tried to test it out with a "normal easy" 7:00 pace run on Sunday but had to stop after just three miles.
On the bright side this has given me the opportunity to reevaluate my running form and training program to this point. Hopefully this will make me a better runner in the long term.
Right now there's only a slim chance that I'll be ready to go and try for a 2:50 at Boston. I'm still determined to participate, after all the hotel and flight is already booked, but I may have to come up with some creative ideas to make it a slow "fun run" that wont aggravate the injury. Right now ideas range from doing it barefoot (or maybe with socks) to trying to come in last place, to eating as much food along the way as I can! Suggestions appreciated...
Three weeks ago I won a local duathlon - just a decent tempo workout for me. The next day I did downhill repeats and the day after that was my final fast finish long run. The long run went great, but I was limping afterwards with stiffness in my left knee. I figured it was just DOMS and figured the same when I was still limping the next day. Long story short is I didn't stop limping and the pain in my knee got worse. All signs pointed to chondromalcia.
Since then I've been sidelined to jogging slowly for a couple miles at a time and biking. Neither is very satisfactory. The quads have been regaining strength with rehab exercises and stretching, but I still feel pain and stiffness in my hip and the inner part of my knee. I tried to test it out with a "normal easy" 7:00 pace run on Sunday but had to stop after just three miles.
On the bright side this has given me the opportunity to reevaluate my running form and training program to this point. Hopefully this will make me a better runner in the long term.
Right now there's only a slim chance that I'll be ready to go and try for a 2:50 at Boston. I'm still determined to participate, after all the hotel and flight is already booked, but I may have to come up with some creative ideas to make it a slow "fun run" that wont aggravate the injury. Right now ideas range from doing it barefoot (or maybe with socks) to trying to come in last place, to eating as much food along the way as I can! Suggestions appreciated...
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