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| The smell of victory. |
Two
straight DNFs will mess with one’s brain and wreck one’s body.
Humbled but uninjured after Burning River last year, Jordan convinced
me that my racing year wasn’t over; that I should count the 72
miles I ran as a training run, and maintain my level of fitness after
a short recovery. The Tunnel Hill 100 in November seemed like a good
second try at a buckle; a double out-and-back course on a flat,
fine-gravel recreation trail in Vienna, Illinois. After having a
support crew and pacers at Burning River, I went solo for this
attempt; camping overnight at the start and utilizing aid stations.
The first 50 miles went well; I stuck to my run/walk plan and kept up
with food (even grabbing a whole ‘lunch’ around noon), reaching
the halfway point in 10:30. I stopped long enough to put on warmer
clothes and started back out as the temperatures dropped. I had
planned my clothes on the assumption that I’d be running, but a
recent knee injury restricted me to walking, and I couldn’t
generate enough heat to stay warm. I told the aid station worker at
mile 65 I was done and curled up next to the fire pit. I got a ride
back to the start with another runner’s crew and crawled underneath
two sleeping bags before driving home the next morning.
After
some soul searching, I realized the Burning River DNF bothered me
most, so Jordan encourage me to target it again this year. I made a
training plan to address my shortcomings from last year; I raced two
50ks and a 50 miler, incorporated speedwork, hit the weights at the
gym, and introduced myself to that special torture which is the stair
climber. I ended up running fewer miles total in the run-up to this
year’s race, but was convinced that quality would trump quantity.
The
days before the race were relaxed. My parents came to Cincinnati to
watch Fuller, and I hitched a ride up to Akron with a fellow runner
whose accomplishments and experience were inspiring and educational.
Jordan joined me later that evening, and I was in bed by 9:15.
The
1:30 alarm to catch the bus went off after a good 4 hours of sleep; I
sat around at the start to save energy, and felt calm as the seconds
ticked down to the start. Committing to not make the same mistakes as
I had last year, I made a point to walk across the starting line so
as not to go out too fast and to set a conservative tone for the day.
I deliberately kept to the back of the pack during those first 11
road miles, walking even the slightest hint of an uphill. I wore a
GPS watch for the first half and obsessively checked that my pace
never went faster than 10 minute miles. And through it all I felt
awful… Every injury I’d dealt with this year made itself known,
and I felt under-trained and out of shape. I
finally started to loosen up after 20 miles when I first saw Jordan
at Shadow Lake. I picked up more shot bloks, decided against carrying
solid food (the aid stations had great options), filled up all three
water bottles, and got back on the trail. The weather was still cool
and the trails lush, and I made a point to take it all in and
thoroughly enjoy myself.
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| All business at the Meadows. Photo credit Pat Dooley |
As
I was familiar with this section of the course from last year, the
next few sections flew by. I felt like I sprang to life when we
finally hit some proper single track on the Buckeye Trail. The mix of
trail surfaces would turn out to be a good thing; about the time I’d
get tired of pavement, we’d be back on a bridle trail or single
track. Around mile 36 I encountered my first real challenge: my right
leg began to seize up and I had searing pain in my hip joint. I was
pretty sure it was a bad cramp in my quad, so I decided to hobble as
best I could to the Meadows aid station at mile 38, see Jordan,
address the cramp, get some salt and Advil, and get back on the
trail. Jordan could probably tell I was struggling as I came into the
aid station, and she got right to work with the marathon stick on the
very obvious knot in my right leg while I lay back gritting my teeth
and trying not to scream. All of a sudden a woman appeared and said,
“Is he cramping? I’ve got just the thing.” In a moment she was
back with magnesium cream all over her hands. All but elbowing Jordan
out of the way, she said, “I’m going in!”, reached her hands up
my shorts, and began to mercilessly work on the knot. I have no idea
what she looks like because I was squeezing my eyes shut to the pain.
After about 30 seconds, I felt the knot disappear, cried “STOP!”
to this ultra-angel, and thanked her profusely. Once the Advil took
affect 30 minutes later, it was like the cramp had never happened.
Whoever she was, crew person or volunteer, she saved my race. I
hopped up, got some Nutella, banana, and potato chips wrapped in a
tortilla (so good!), and got back on the trail, feeling like I had a
new lease on life.
I
had crafted much of my training this year to prepare specifically for
the next 12 miles. While there aren’t any really long climbs at
Burning River, there are a lot of them, and they’re steep and
rugged. The time I logged on the YMCA stair climber really began to
show on this section as I powered up the climbs, even passing some
relay runners when the hills got especially steep. Last year I became
demoralized heading into the aid station at Boston Mills when I
realized I wasn’t going to break 10 hours, but this year I was
pleased to cover the first half in just under 12 hours. I loaded up
with more shot bloks, headlamp and flashlight, potato chips and a
pickle, and set out with Jordan feeling better than I had all day.
With
Jordan there, the race became even more fun. We chatted about the
day, and I told her all the stories I’d accumulated so far in the
race. My next big issue began to creep up, and would define much of
the rest of the race: I could feel blisters forming on the balls of
my feet. Learning from last year’s mistakes, I’d come prepared
with 4 changes of socks and a crude blister kit. The left foot was
the worst, so I found some band aids and medical tape at the Ledges
aid station and did my best to reduce the friction. My poor taping
job didn’t last long, so at the next aid station (Pine Hollow 1), I
covered both feet with Vaseline and put on fresh socks from the drop
bag. While dealing with blisters, I was covering the section where my
race fell apart last year, and I was combating anxiety by comparing
how I felt now to how I remember feeling last year. We passed a bench
where I’d laid down during the race and first contemplated
dropping; Jordan suggested I stand on top of it and strike a pose.
Which I did. I could easily tell I was so far better prepared this
year. It gave me encouragement for the way ahead.
Speaking
of encouragement: in the weeks and days before the race, Jordan had
reached out to family members and old running friends to record
messages and videos that she saved to her iPhone. She showed them to
me as we were approaching aid stations or when she sensed I needed a
pick up. She even read Facebook updates from our Cincinnati based
running group. It was an awesome feeling knowing so many good friends
were rooting for me to succeed.
As
it got full dark, the primary difficulty began to be fatigue. Once I
passed Pine Hollow 1 at mile 72, I was in unexplored territory,
running further than I ever had before. I was surprised by how bad my
feet hurt (blisters and general soreness), how good my legs felt
(once the cramp was dealt with, my legs felt great), and how
dog-tired I was. So many times, I just wanted to lay down in the
trail and go to sleep. Feeling desperately tired, I sat on a stump,
and discovered the beauty of cat naps. I put my head on my knees,
asked Jordan to get me up in two minutes, and tried to relax. It
worked wonders; I felt reset, and once the stiffness of sitting wore
off, I could run again. I repeated this a number of times through the
night (probably more times than Jordan thought prudent), but it was
the only thing I found that really helped the fatigue.
I’d
been warned by past finishers that the loops at Pine Hollow and the
Covered Bridge were the toughest sections of the course, and they did
not disappoint. Both consisted mostly of horse trails, and those fine
animals had torn up the trail surface something fierce. With blisters
on both feet, every misplaced step was painful (which seemed to be
most of them). These trails were also really steep; I got confused
trying to decide if the light I saw above me was the moon or the
headlamp of a runner further up the trail (it was frequently the
latter). Once we reached the Covered Bridge 2 (definitely my
favorite aid station; they just seemed to be having the most fun), I
knew most of the remaining course was towpath or road. The blisters
required more attention; this aid station didn’t have medical tape,
but they did have BIG band aids and duct tape, which finally fixed
the buggers. I commented to Jordan sometime later that I’d
temporarily forgotten I had blisters, such was the magic of the duct
tape (it’s going in my pack from now on).
Now
I was back in familiar territory, having paced Jordan for the
remaining sections when she ran this race in 2011. We tried to make
better time now that the running surface was easier; if I couldn’t
run, I tried to keep up the ‘ultra shuffle.’ I took another
catnap at Botzum (or tried to; helpful volunteers kept checking on
me, and I felt bad to see their apologetic faces when I said I was
trying to take a nap), got one last dose of solid food, and got
serious about getting this thing done. Jordan suggested we run 5
minutes and walk 2 on the long stretch of towpath to the next aid
station. Like magic, after 10 reps we were at Memorial Parkway, the
last aid station before the finish. I topped off my water, planned to
survive on shot bloks til the end, and set out for the last 4.2 miles
of my first 100 mile finish.
As
we got closer to the finish, the emotions started to hit. I’d
fought for this finish for a long time. When I first contemplated
running 100 miles, I wanted to earn a place in the ultra community,
and to fit in with our running group (we know a lot of very
accomplished runners). But after a year and a half of training and
two DNFs at the distance, I just wanted this for me. Around mile 99
or 100 (the course measured 102.2 this year), I pulled ahead of
Jordan, let the emotions come, and just flew down the trail. The
feeling of running that fast with that many miles in my legs was
worth every mile of training. I didn’t really believe my body was
that capable, but it is, and it was a magnificent feeling. Jordan
caught up to me as I slowed down approaching the infamous series of
steps (they really weren’t that bad) in the final miles before the
road back in to Cuyahoga Falls.
They
say don’t celebrate too early, and it’s true; my little
life-affirming wild-man trail moment caused my butt to start cramping
once we got on the road section into town. Chastised, I walked most
of the last mile, running again as I approached the finishers chute
with that great big clock that signifies the end of most footraces.
Crossing the line, I put my head down for the volunteer to place the
buckle around my neck. I found I was laughing and crying at the same
time; crying out of happiness, and laughing because I couldn’t
believe what I’d just done. This was a long time coming, and I
wanted it bad.
Some
surprising truths struck me during the race. I realized running 100
miles is not a physical challenge; it’s a mental one. While I think
there’s a base level of fitness required to cover the distance, a
strong mind is vastly more important. One quote from a recent
training article stuck with me and saw me through many miles: it’s
not about how you feel; it’s how you feel about how you feel. Many
times I’d repeat to myself: my feet hurt, but that’s okay; I’m
tired, but that’s okay. Fatigue was a much bigger challenge than I
expected; my cat naps seemed to work, but next time, I’ll bring
even more coffee.
Some
technical stats. I ate at least 20 packets of shot bloks; I’d
packed solid foods in drop bags, but went with aid station fair which
worked well. I drank 4 servings of Roctane and 3 6oz cans of coffee.
I carried 57oz of water at a time (two hard 21oz bottles and a 15oz
collapsible flask) and by rough estimation, I probably drank 4 to 5
gallons of water (the thought of drinking water would eventually
begin to turn my stomach…). Five days post race, the only lingering
issues are the blisters, and I know those will take time.
I
haven’t figured out the 100 mile distance, but I’ve got my foot
in the door now. I’ve earned the right to contemplate and dream of
steeper and higher races, and look forward to getting back to the work of
training.
