Reaching The High Country (At Sea Level)

The spell begins to break with the distant whirring of a plane’s engine.  As the season’s first significant snow begins to fall in ernest, seemingly captured in the small, silvery globe of my headlamp, I remain awed.  Each flake seems to chime off the bare branches, echoing onto the dried leaves on the ground.  The moment’s magic becomes ephemeral as my watch buzzes to tell me I’ve been gone for an hour.  It’s time to make my way home.

- - -

What does it take to bring 300 runners out on cold Friday night, in the middle of December, 99% of them not sporting form-fitting tights or a technical t-shirt?  A movie about running (although if you had reasoned free food, that would be completely understandable).  December 13, Trail Animals Running Club stalwart (and my erstwhile travel/racing companion) Michael Tommie McDuffie organized a screening of Joel Wolpert’s film, In the High Country (a movie filmed largely at 14,000 feet above sea level), at the New England Aquarium’s IMAX Theatre (a setting literally sitting on the sea).  As McDuffie introduced the film, he eloquently stated how there seem to be two types of running: the kind we practice individually, moving within a landscape and our bodies and minds; and, the kind that brings us into a larger community of runners.  So often our larger community only comes together at races, a very distinct form of communion, that seeing a huge number of friends “out of context,” and being reminded of this communal spirit was as distinct a pleasure as the film itself (honestly, there were a couple of people I had to do double-takes with because I did not recognize them with hair coiffed and jeans on!).  It was all the great energy of a race, minus the nerves and anxiety about the task at hand.  People simply were there to enjoy each other’s company and the IMAX’s massive screen, which even though it was not in true IMAX-size, from where I sat in the first row, definitely made the film’s two stars (the Rocky Mountains and Anton Krupicka) seem larger than life.

In the High Country is, ostensibly, about the epic runs and journeys that Tony takes.  Journeys that easily spark envy in runners – high mountain summits and alpine lakes, sinewy single track, an onlooker marvelling, as Tony crests the summit, “Did you run up here?”  The film inspires a sense of wanderlust, that sense of freedom and adventure that a new trail, or route up a mountain, can inspire.  Yet the film drives home a deeper point, a point espoused by both the filmmaker and star.  It does not seem that Tony reaches for a summit simply, as George Mallory stated, “because it’s there.” The drive to run to these peaks is more about the desire to find one’s place in the physical landscape.  To feel a part of the physical world, to feel familarity in the practice of being exposed to it, and still be awed by its changing colors, seasons and temperments.  In essence to connect and feel “at home.”

Before the screening, a number of Trail Animals took Tony on a tour of the Blue Hills, just south of Boston.  Between skyline views and hopping ice, the conversation ranged from trends in running gear, to our group’s oddly color-coordinated attire, to training methods, to race plans for the coming year, to our collective addiction to electronic devices and media, to if said addiction is altering our neural pathways, thus making us less intelligent, to the remedy for such devolultion (it was agreed that running in the woods is a fine place to start!), to David Foster Wallace’s 2005 Kenyon College commencement speech (alas, four years after Liz and I left) This is Water.  In this speech Wallace suggests “. . . learning how to think really means learning how to exercise some control over how and what you think. It means being conscious and aware enough to choose what you pay attention to and to choose how you construct meaning from experience.”  And this is what In the High Country drove home for me.  A connection to place does not necessitate the grandest vista or the steepest climbs.  It necessitates a choice in each of us to be aware enough to notice the landscape, be it physical or human, and to choose how we will experience this, both externally and internally.

- - -

As my watch’s delicate reminder of an hour’s passage stirs me from my wonder, I remember that sixty minutes ago, I dreaded this experience.  I was warm.  The thermometer was reading fourteen degrees.  Snow was falling.  I've been fighting a cold all week.  Rest is good.  Do I really want to wear a headlamp?  Is it worth it if I just go for 10 minutes? I donned my gear, and headed into the building tempest, chiding my own foolishness.  Slowly I become aware of place.  Each turn felt familiar, but strangely new.  The hard-packed snow from earlier in the week had changed the landscape.  The falling snow made the path different  within the hour I was in the woods.  How long had I just been standing there, listening to the snow fall?  Four minutes?  Two?  Thirty seconds?  I was not standing on some remote peak, above the clouds.  I was in a one-hundred-twenty acre parcel of conservation land, just minutes from my door.  As I began the last few minutes of running home, noises brought me back to my neighborhood.  A snow blower clearing a driveway.  A pickup, plow attached, its diesel engine rumbling to life.  Two kids laughing in their yard.  My footsteps making that perfectly muffled sound that only the first slight layer of snow can create.  Forty-two seconds from where the trail meets the road.  I’m home.

Perpetual Growth

I meant no harm. I most truly did not.
But I had to grow bigger. So bigger I got.
I biggered my factory. I biggered my roads.
I biggered my wagons. I biggered the loads
of the Thneeds I shipped out. I was shipping them forth
to the South! To the East! To the West! To the North!
I went right on biggering … 

- Dr. Seuss, The Lorax

As far as I can figure, the concept of perpetual growth is centered around economics and the belief that economies can just grow, and grow, and grow into, well, perpetuity.  As a runner, and especially as a runner who fancies himself being "competitive," this model of perpetual growth is something that I would like to achieve in my practice.  And, as a runner (especially as a runner who fancies himself to be "competitive"), growth is most easily measured in numbers, by the time on the clock.  For the clock never lies.  So what happens when the clock tells us we’re slowing down?

Stone Cat 2013 was a bit of a game time decision for me.  After putting myself in the hospital during the VT 100 in July, I didn't run much for about 5 weeks.  When I started training again, around the start of September, it was clear my fitness had taken several steps back.  My heart rate was spiking on easy runs, at paces that had been casual jogs.  My "workouts" were lackluster, and, what little speed I had built before Vermont seemed to have vanished in the Mt. Ascutney Hospital ER.  In 2007 Stone Cat had been my first race ever (a DNF after 3 loops), and each year I have returned with one intention: to run my heart (and legs) out.  It is the one race I consciously run to win.  It is the one race where I consciously strive for the course record.  I desire to run Stone Cat at such a high level that, when training started again, I was not confident I would be up to the task.  For the clock never lies.  And the clock told me I was moving slowly.

It was the end of September when things started to "click." I repeated a workout from the first week of my training cycle, and knew the cobwebs had been cleared (for the clock never lies).  My "speed" was getting back to where it had been pre-VT 100.  I became giddy thinking about running around Willowdale on November 2, picturing the start line, seeing the volunteers at each aid station (the cries of "BACON!" at Al's Aid Station!), the smell of the leaves on the ground, and my "special" section, the only one I remember from the first year, between Al's and Fast Freddies, running on pine needles by the water.  I began the pre-dawn, weekend sojourns to train on the course.  I had my nutrition dialed.  I figured the heart rate I should keep early on to run even splits.  I did long runs on the course, pushing hard the last hour, so the mind and body would know exactly what to do on race day.  I ran my fastest loop ever on the course .  I was confident because the clock never lies.  I began to visualize crossing the line on Nov. 2, the clock at 6:00 even.  

Following TARC's Fall Classic two weeks pre-Stone Cat, Jerimy Arnold invited a number of friends to his house to trade war-stories and talk smack about how we all ran.  Although we missed it ourselves, but liking the idea and ethos behind it, Liz (my dear and lovely wife) and I decided to make Stone Cat 2013 a social affair.  It began by inviting Sebastien Roulier (this year's winner and new course record holder) to stay with us pre-race, as he would be driving down from Quebec on Friday.  It ended around the fire pit in our backyard, with some incredible people, laughing at our collective eccentricities, sharing some great food, talking smack, and planning future adventures.  

In between these two social-bookends, there was the event that ostensibly brought us all together: the actual running of Stone Cat (a social event unto itself!).  Like the Onceler in Dr. Seuss's tale above, my approach to Stone Cat is that I always must be "biggering" (and by "biggering" I mean running faster, actually making the time on the course smaller . . .).  My first run in 2007 ended in a 3-loop DNF.  In 2010, I returned to get 2nd place, in 6:40.  2011, 1st, 6:29.  2012, 2nd, 6:18.  Since "returning" to the race, I had improved my time by 11 minutes each year.  Naturally, like the Onceler, I believed, ". . . I had to grow bigger . . ." I had put in the training.  I was ready to run fast (and shouldn't it be 11 minutes faster?).  Alas, this year, in addition to the (incredibly delicious and perfect) pumpkin pie at the finish line aid station, I got a decent helping of humble pie.  For the clock never lies.

Starting the fourth loop of this year's race, I knew three things for certain: One, Sebastien was running like an absolute madman.  Two, my third loop had been 9 minutes slower than my first two, and my legs were not responding to my mental drive.  And three, Sam Jurek was going to share these last miles with me.  Of these three, sharing the miles with Sam was the most important.  Sam and I have shared many miles over the years, and he's seen me at my lowest of lows.  He knows that my approach to running is about meeting personal goals and challenges more than anything.  Yet he still "gets" the special place Stone Cat holds in my running world and life.  Without any prompting, he said the four perfect words to keep me moving: "Think about the PR." I was still smiling on the third loop, and grunting on the fourth, but these words were the ones that made me try to push harder, even when I could tell the legs were not moving like I wanted them to.  As we approached the end at the edge of field, running that open stretch to the finish, I finally mustered some words to Sam, "I'd love a PR, but I'm not too optimistic." The clock never lies, and I crossed in 6:24:23, about 5:30 slower than last year.  

A couple of years ago, this result would have really bothered me.  At the time, even though I didn't (and still don't) race terribly often, I put too much stock in measuring growth by the clock.  A slower time simply meant a lack of growth.  The clock never lies.  But the clock only measures one aspect of our performance, of our running.  The clock doesn't measure the number of people who, as Diesel-san and I have discussed, "brought a chair" to hang out after their finish.  The clock doesn't measure the joy taken in the incredible November day, or the volunteers and supporters out on the course.  Don't get me wrong, I still want to come back and own the course record for Stone Cat, and the only way that is measured is by the clock.  But, I'm coming to realize it is not the clock that brings meaning to me, as a runner, and more importantly, as a person.  I will continue to train hard with the hopes of "biggering" my results.  In the hopes that the discipline and focus of the act of training will somehow help me become a more understanding and compassionate person.  But I will also recognize the absolute importance of embracing the experience with family and friends.  The Stone Cat experience began with Sebastien arriving Friday night.  The race began on a near perfect, pre-dawn morning, with 300+ souls entering into a great adventure and continued with me checking splits and heart rate.  The race concluded at a finish line with a clock and the pressing of "STOP" on my watch, but also in the company of great friends (especially Sam and Scott Traer, who had both helped crew during the run, and Steven "Sir Bard" Latour, who handed me the finisher's prize) and my family.  The Stone Cat experience finally ended as the last embers faded from the night's fire, and everyone said, "Adios" (or, as they apparently say in Germany, "CHOOOOOSE!").  

My take from this year's Stone Cat?  There's nothing wrong with seeking perpetual growth, nothing wrong with constantly "biggering" ourselves.  We've just got to keep an eye out for what, exactly, we are trying to "bigger."  Still, I won't feel too bad crossing that finish line with the clock reading 5:59 next year!

GEAR/NUTRITION:
- Inov-8 Trailroc 245s
- Tailwind Nutrition drink (AWESOME!).  ~275 calories/20 ounce bottle
- Injinji Trail Sock
- 4 VFuel gels

The Easiest Decision I’ve Ever Made

Being an ultra-running dork, my life was devoted to “watching” the Western States 100 on June 29^th of this year.  What stood out the most that day, despite all the incredible performances, was this image:

Most of the last 6 months of my life have been spent preparing for and imagining my run at the Vermont 100.  I asked (and got) a lot of sacrifice from my family: “Liz, I’ve got to get a 5 hour run in Saturday, and then a 4 hour run Sunday.”  “I am doing this race in a couple of weeks.” “I need to get a solid workout in tomorrow.”  Common theme here?  While there is a lot of good that comes from my running, it often comes to resemble that Toby Keith song, “I Wanna to Talk About Me”.  Don't get me wrong, it's a great song, but that's just not an ethos I want to live my life by.           

The Vermont 100 felt different.  It felt like running at home, the merging of my Vermont roots and my present life outside Boston.  I grew up about an hour north of the race, and Liz was going to crew for me (the first time she would see me during a race).  My family (siblings, cousins, parents, kids) would be there at the finish. My friends Justin Contois, Eric Ahern, Michael McDuffie, and Anthony Parillo had all volunteered to crew or pace throughout the day, and SamJurek was running his first 100K.  Justin arranged an incredible place for us to stay at Ascutney Mountain Resort.  It was a weekend event, a celebration of summer, friends, and running.  Competitively, I wanted to run near the front.  My ego wanted to win.  However, having approached a race like that before, I knew, for me, that would not make for a happy or satisfying day.  Ultimately, I was approaching this race as a recognition of all the sacrifices I ask of my family – a way for us to share the experience and to show them (and me) that it is worth it.  It was a celebration of the running community that has become such an integral part of my life.  As I told the eventual winner, Jason Lantz, when he asked me about my time goals during the early miles, “I’m less concerned with a time, and just want to run happy.”  And, even with the ultimate outcome of my day, that is exactly what I did. 

In late March, I decided to try something completely different in my running – I hired a coach.  Ian Torrence and Emily Harrison quickly changed my routine.  No longer did I just log as many miles as possible, but I had weekly workouts.  The results came quickly.  Minutes were shaved from my daily commute to/from school.  I became faster.  I was more confident on hills.  I actually felt energetic most of the time.  Things felt good.   As race day approached, my confidence built. 

The week before the race was spent with my folks up in Waterbury, VT.  I went gluten-free, as an experiment, looking to maximize my performance as much as possible (might be something there - the stomach seemed better than usual).  I did one last workout on the dirt track at my old school.  We celebrated my niece’s birthday.  I felt surprisingly calm, with only brief moments of that anticipatory anxiety/excitement that so often come with these events.  Not feeling over-confident, I simply knew I was prepared to run well.  I knew that I would be running 100 miles through my home state.  And I damn nearly did.

Fireworks announced our departure.  Real, honest-to-goodness, 4^th of July fireworks, lighting up the pre-dawn sky.  With each shell being launched the slope of the distant hill could be seen.  About to take my first step on a 100 mile journey I was transported to my youth.  The scene before me had been played out years before, on the River Road in Duxbury, Vermont, staring in awe not only at the explosion of colors, but at the lightning bugs answering the concussive booms in kind.  The sound of each shell echoed off the surrounding mountains then and now.  Calm.  “GO!”

Friday, pre-race, Jack Pilla, ultra-stud and former winner of the Vermont 100 had graciously offered to pick me up on his drive down to the race, where he would be pacing and crewing.  Jen Sorrell and Kristin Lundy (also driving with Jack) kindly offered up the front seat to me, and we spent the ride reliving those awful moments from races it seems only other ultra-runners can appreciate and understand.  I was able to hang out with the “Vermont Crew” for much of the afternoon, a testament to the welcoming nature of this community.  The vibe was rather relaxed for a pre-100 mile run, and, once I met up with Justin and Eric, we headed over to our luxury chalet and began settling in.  A few back and forths between there and the start/finish and before I knew it I was laying in a comfortable bed, alarm set for 2:23 AM.  One massive thunder storm and a surprisingly restful (half) night later, and I was up (as were Justin, Michael, and Anthony, who were generously coming to the start and crewing the early miles, especially since it turns out they basically didn't sleep that night).  We drove to the start/finish, which swarmed with excitement.

Running through Woodstock around mile 11, was a trip down memory lane.  I shared these miles with Ian Sharman and laughed as we went by the Billings Farm & Museum, site of many elementary school field trips for me.  I very nearly choked up as we ran near the Woodstock Inn Tennis facilities, site of many of my first tennis tournaments.  Running felt easy.  I had so many memories of this place.  I knew I could create some more incredible memories on this day.  I already had.  And I continued to do so.

My son, Cooper, was doing a sports camp with his cousins the week before.  We would pick up his cousins and then head up to Colchester, reversing the process on the way home.  On Tuesday we changed the routine and headed over to the Bolton “Pot Holes” a series of cascading swimming holes with cliffs to jump off.  As we got to the water on this 94 degree afternoon, it was clear many local youngsters had had the same thought.  A herbaceous smell wafted through the air.  Beer seemed to be flowing as quickly as the water.  Cooper jumped from an 8 foot cliff.  My 13 and 10-year-old nephews jumped from 20.  Not willing to let me them show me up (too much), I did something that my fear of heights had prevented me from doing the first 33 ½ years of my life: I jumped off a cliff.  From 26’ 4” above the water (and yes, I argue, being 6’4” makes it look that much higher), I felt oddly calm.  I simply knew I would leap into the water below.  No nerves.  I jumped.  It seemed to take longer to hit water than it should have.  I did it again.  I carried that calm into the race.

Mile 30 and I found myself still running with Ian and now Nick Clark.  I felt relaxed, the running was easy, and then it almost ended.  Leaving Stage Rd. Aid Station/crew access point, you run down the road for 100 yards and then take a right onto some mowed fields/trails.  There was a six-foot, wooden bridge to cross, which, with all the moisture in the air,  was very slick. My feet flew up from under me and I very nearly bit it.  Views of a cast to match Jacoby’s (my younger son) danced in my head (the poor guy broke his arm a week before and is in a full-arm cast for 3 -4 weeks).  I managed to stay upright and simply laughed, reminding myself to be present and appreciate every step.  I passed Ian on the ensuing climb and sort of leap frogged with him and Nick for the next many miles, sharing conversation which helped the miles click off.  Both were very friendly and it was fascinating to get their takes on the little race-within-a-race as they push each other in the Grand Slam.  I was running the race envisioned – controlled effort, feeling relaxed, not worrying about what other people were doing or how far back I was. I was present in the experience.  I was enjoying every scene, every step. 

It was amazing to see so many TARC folk at the pre-race meeting Friday.  I’ve come to realize that these crazy events are like a rolling family reunion, replete with everyone’s favorite uncle, Kevin Mullen.  You would be hard pressed to meet a happier person than Mr. Mullen, and his is an energy shared by most at these runs.  Even knowing what we were about to do the next day, it was relaxing to be in such good company.  Jill "The Cookie Lady" Puleo and Chris "C1" Haley lent me some duct tape for drop bags.  A 100-miler is truly a shared journey, as we all cover the same course and suffer the same struggles.  Knowing others are there supporting you, even in the smallest of ways, makes it possible to continue.

Pulling into Camp Ten Bear One, I saw our car.  Liz was there!  100 feet up, I saw her in the road.  She had timed it perfectly.  It was a great moment.  I ran up to the crew, weighed in, and gave her a kiss.  The Contois/McDuffie/Parillo pit-crew was on fire.  Everything ready, but I wasn’t in any great rush.  I was sitting in 6th place, but feeling super strong.  Some cold bandanas, another kiss to Liz, and I ran up the hill, out of Ten Bear.  My confidence grew – I had been running nearly every step, only hiking a few spots.  I caught up to Justin (Engle?) on the flat section about a mile outside the aid station. He had been ahead of me all day, but was starting to seize up.  I tried to get him to run with me a bit, but he graciously encouraged me to go on.  I did.  5^th place.  The crew had told me Sebastien (a wonderful person and great runner, who I have gotten to know) was in the lead, but looked like he was hurting.  Nick was just minutes up.  I opened my eyes to the scenery and soaked in the beauty of my home state.  One of the neighbors of the race was offering sprays from a hose.  I (literally) soaked in the beauty of the cold water.  I was running happy.

Brian Rusiecki is an awesome runner.  I look up to him.  A lot.  At my first successful ultra, the Fells 40 Miler, we tied for the win.  When I saw what he accomplished the rest of that year, I was humbled sharing that victory with him.  Whenever we toe the line together, I always joke (probably much to his annoyance) that my strategy is to simply hang with him as long as I can.  Pre-race Friday I told him this again and he said he would let me go on ahead this time.  I joked that he would simply be waiting to pass me at mile 95.  He did it a few miles earlier this year.

Right around the mile 50 mark, the course goes steeply up Keyes Mountain Road.  It starts out as a road and quickly becomes a jeep track and trail.  I decided to not run this exposed stretch, and conserve some energy for the later miles.  My quads were starting to ache, but I was still happy.  About halfway up this climb, Brian powered by me, looking super strong.  He claimed to not be feeling well, but certainly didn’t look that way.  I kept him in site for many of the ensuing miles, but, as we started the descent, I noticed the quads were getting very, very sore.  I figured this is what they felt like at the Vermont 50, and I had just run a bit more than 50 miles, so no great concern.  Just didn’t want to do anything foolish with just under half the race to go.  Brian left the aid station right as I pulled up.  Sebastien was there, and, smiling as ever, announced to me that his race was done and he was “simply going to finish.”  He was hurting.  He left the aid station before me, but I knew I would catch him.  I dallied a bit, icing the quads hoping to give them a rest and to see if Ian was still lurking.  Brian was a minute or two up the trail.  Ian wasn’t in site. 

I first met Sebastien at Stone Cat two years ago.  When Sam and I set a foolish pace the first two laps, he was right there the whole time.  He eventually finished second.  This past year, he set the early pace, and I only caught him with about 2.5 miles to go.  He came over for pizza and ice cream that night, as his wife and three kids had stayed home in Quebec.  By chance I saw him as he crushed the Boston Marathon this year.  When I caught him around mile 55 at the Vermont 100, I was running a hill he was walking, but smiling.  I told him to just jump in behind and stick with me and we could clip the miles off.  He did.  We pushed the up and then the down.  The quads were getting really sore.  No site of Brian.  We reached the unmanned Tracer Brook aid, and I told Sebastien we should skip it as it was less than 2 miles to the new Seven Seas handler station.  We started running up the next climb (the course is basically always going up or down.  There are very few actual flat sections anywhere).  We ran side by side, passing 100K runners.  I heard Sebastien offer some words of encouragement and then drop off.  I pushed on.  Toward the top of the hill I caught sight of Brian about 100 yards ahead. 

It was around this point that running the downs became more than unpleasant.  The quads, which I thought were well “seasoned” to the task, were barking loudly.  There had also been an odd “sloshing” in my stomach – not the typical sloshy stomach feeling, but something that was not right.  When I first heard it, it sounded a bit like my bib was hitting my shorts (it wasn't), or some sort of drum in my stomach (there wasn't).  I stopped at the aid station before Ten Bear Two to see if they had a port-a-potty.  No luck.  I ran up the road a ways and used the bushes.  Trouble: I couldn’t squat.  At all.  Figured out how to take care of business somehow and jumped back on the road.  Ian was 20 feet back. “Hey Josh.”

We shared the next couple of miles.  I mentioned my stomach and he helped me trouble shoot (although one of his suggestions was to moderate the pace.  My ego wouldn’t let me do that, especially since we both knew that Nick and Brian were just a couple of minutes up!  In retrospect, that may have saved my race).  I pulled a bit ahead and, as we began the long descent that eventually leads to the climb into Ten Bear Two, I began to grimace as the quads just flat hurt.  I was moving reasonably well, but a pebble got stuck in my shoe and I had to stop to adjust it.  When Ian passed he asked if all was good, and I said it was, just had to fix a pebble.  As I did, I noticed my right quad (the more painful of the two) was swollen pretty well.  At almost mile 70, I expected this, although perhaps not quite so bad, yet.  I took it easy on the rest of the descent.  I stopped at one point and walked a couple of steps.  “Just run, you’ve got the uphill soon.”

I was looking forward to the climb to Ten Bear Two since last year’s race. I spent a lot of time here last year and, when Justin Contois had rolled through, made him run it with me.  From the day I registered, in the back of my mind I wondered if I would be tough enough, like he was, to run this climb (in all honesty, I half expected Justin to be at the bottom to prod me up the hill).  One of my greatest memories from the day will be of answering this long-asked question in my mind, and running up this hill, and, in reality, not feeling completely horrible doing it.  The run down to the aid station?  Not as pleasant.

Liz, Anthony, Eric, and McDuffie were ready.  I told them the quads were really sore and Eric jumped right in to ice them down, apologizing to Liz for being so "intimate." I laughed (at least inside).  I hit the port-a-potty to try to settle the stomach.  I had decided to skip drinking for 25 minutes in an attempt to let things settle (took a gel instead) and it seemed to have helped.  My weight was down three pounds, right around where I wanted it.  Eric was ready for the task of pacing to Cow Shed (where, like the boss he is, he would then head back to Ten Bear to pace Frank Hackett for the last 30 miles!).  I was moving slowly.  I was tiptoeing the downs.  I could get some momentum on the flats, but I wasn’t even hiking the ups that fast any more.  Erik was great and helped me appreciate the beauty around us.  While I was still feeling good mentally, he definitely helped me keep the negative thoughts out as he proclaimed wonder at different views and sites, and showed a genuine appreciation for simply moving, through the woods and on these beautiful roads.  It was postcard Vermont.  We ran up the hill to the Spirit of ’76 where Liz and McDuffie met us.  TARCer Cesar captured the grunt with video evidence.  As we left the aid station, I started running up the road, hoping that there was more up, as it was less painful and I could still run that direction.  Alas, the volunteers caught me and pointed me down a trail.  Teeth bared, we plodded on. 

At Western last year, I felt sorry for myself almost the entire race.  I didn't have the day I had pictured because all I wanted was a top-10 finish.  I didn't appreciate the history of the race or the beauty of the trail and people out there.  I was there to beat the course, not embrace it.  It was rather pathetic and it had a huge negative influence on my performance.  Despite being in much more physical pain this year, mentally, I was embracing the experience, the journey, which was my goal.  I knew it was not going to be easy, but my mind was willing to accept the physical pain.  I was (with Eric’s help) remembering to soak in the scenery, the beauty that is Vermont, a place that will always be home.  I enjoyed pushing the negative thoughts out of my mind and, as they crept in with the mounting fatigue, forced myself to look at my surroundings and smile.  When Eric stayed at Cow Shed, I had 5 miles until I met Liz and McDuffie, who would join me for the final 11 miles.  I enjoyed those 5 miles tremendously.  There was a long, flat section, where, despite quads that now just hurt with every step, I ran, at a pace I thought might be making up some ground on Ian, Brian, and Nick.  I ran some hills.  I caught Sam, who was in a world of hurt, but mustered the energy to run with me for about a mile, at which point he told me to go catch Ian, and I set off with a mission.  The mission line loomed, but there were a couple runners up ahead I needed to catch.  It was beautiful.

And then, just as quickly, it wasn’t.  Coming into Bill’s at mile 89 I checked in with medical.  I was totally cohesive, and my weight was the same as my starting weight.  Privately, that caused some concern – I had just put on 3.3 pounds over the last 19 miles.  They asked how I was feeling. “Great, considering I just ran 89 miles.” A truth (even if the quads hurt like hell).  They asked if I had been peeing. “Yes!” A lie (I had peed twice all day, but, given what I had heard at Western last year, was not too concerned with this, and figured the medical team at Bill’s didn’t need to know).  McDuffie and I were on our way. We had 11 miles to catch Ian, Brian, and Nick (heck, even Jason and Chad!), and I was hell bent on catching at least one of them.  Liz set off to meet us at Polly’s, a mere 6.9 miles up the road.  And just like that, the wheels came off.

For the last 40 miles or so, any pause had led to a difficult restart, especially for the quads.  Torturously, leaving Bill’s is a fairly steep (albeit short) downhill.  I nearly walked.   With Michael in the lead we hopped a small, muddy pool, and I decided to stop to try to pee (I think the medical team’s question put this in my head). “FUCK!”  Michael looked back and asked what was up.  “My pee is really dark or bloody.”  In a second, all momentum was gone.  I was really concerned.  Why?  One: My weight was up, when I thought it should have been down about 5 or 6 pounds.  Two: Something that resembled coffee (or beet juice in coffee) had just come out of me!  Three: I remembered that picture from Western States about the color of your urine.  Mine was definitely in the “Guinness” category. 

We ran a little bit, mostly in silence, as we tried to figure out what to do. Finally I said I just needed to hike to wrap my mind around the situation.  Our conversation was a bit like stream of consciousness (it is probably pretty clear which parts I added, and which parts McDuffie added):  Should I not drink?  I mean my weight is up, so I’m not processing water.  Maybe that's why my stomach has sort of been sloshy?  You took one salt back at Bill's.  Okay, let's try one more.   Do I drink as much as I can?  I’ve only peed a couple times all day.  Maybe this is just a sign of dehydration?  Pee can get pretty dark.  But my weight is up.  FUUUUUUUUUCKKKKKK!  If it was blood, some times the bladder can just get abrasions.  Maybe we should try to run.  SHHHHIIIIIITTTTTTT!  What they hell are we gonna do?  Alright, let’s just run.  FUUUUUUUUUUUCKKKKK!  What if something is seriously wrong?  What's that thing that Erik Skaggs had?

Being an ultra-running dork, I read a lot of blogs and reports, and have read several stories, including ones about Erik Skaggs, AJW, Diana Finkel, and other top-ultra runners developing rhabdomyolysis and ending up in the hospital with kidney failure for extended periods of time.  Skaggs' story in particular stuck in my head.  The one thing I seemed to remember being the common denominator was this super-dark urine.  Finally, I just said to Michael, “I’m freaking out about this” and we hiked it in to Keatings at 92.4.  The plan was to consult with medical and see if there was a course of action that could remedy this on course.  I was fairly certain what was going on, but had no idea what I should do to treat it.  We got medical on the radio and they advised aggressive hydration and an ambulance to the hospital.  It became a no-brainer for me.  I was in a spot where I could cause some serious psychological damage to my family.  I couldn't do that, not when they already give so much to let me pursue these goals.  At mile 92.4, my race was done. 

A crew of volunteers were able to drive me and McDuffie to the hospital, which, it turns out, was just a couple of minutes away.  They got word to Polly’s, where Liz was, and told her what was going on.  Fortunately my cousin was there as well and was able to drive to the start/finish to tell my parents and Cooper and Jacoby where I was and that they would not be seeing me at Silver Hill Meadow in triumph.

It took a bunch of fluid to get the pee flowing (and there was not a lot that came out at first), even though I wasn’t too dehydrated (and electrolytes were spot on perfect).  When I finally did pee it was like that Guinness in the picture above.  Admitted to the hospital, and got a night there.  Given my early and secondary numbers, they had told me to be prepared to stay through Monday.  Fortunately, the numbers all started improving pretty quickly, and I was able to come home after less than 24 hours.  When Cooper first came to see me in the ER he said, “You could have just hiked to the finish.”  I have to say, I was more than a little proud of him for thinking like that.  However, I told him that sometimes we have to make our decisions not based on what we want, but what is best for other people, and that it’s more important to think about those we love first (this said, stopping was also the best decision for me at this point, as continuing would have brought further damage and could have seriously complicated the medical situation.  As my father, a family doctor in Vermont, told me about my numbers, even my liver function, subsequent to my discharge from the hospital, "Jeezum Crow!").

And, in the end, that’s what made this a super-easy decision for me.  I knew, without doubt, that I could have finished, maybe even moved up a spot or two. I was satisfied with my physical effort, even if it came up a bit short.  But, thinking about those last 7.6 miles, and what further damage I could have done, I was, in no way willing to put my family through my experiencing kidney failure or worse.  I think we are attracted to these distances because they do, in almost every way, strip us down to the core.  In that moment, when all that stood between me and the glory of the finish line was the distance of my daily run to school, I based my decision not on my own ego, my own desire to achieve a goal, to feel successful, but on how my actions would impact those I love.  Crossing the finish line became a superficial pleasantry to the reality of the situation faced, and I am, perhaps arrogantly, proud of myself for not thinking from my ego in that moment, but being present enough to recognize reality and not merely live in the world and outcome that I had envisioned over the last 6 months.  A 100 miler is, ostensibly, a competition, but it is also, however clichéd this may be, a journey of self-discovery.  I often tell people that my family is the most important thing in the world to me, while, hypocritically, thinking about how I can squeeze my runs in around them or making them change their plans to fit my running schedule.  As I spent yesterday afternoon jamming with Cooper and Jacoby to some cheesy (but oh so wonderful) pop music, instead of still being hooked up to an IV (or worse) in a hospital, I like to think that, at least this one time, I got it right.  Maybe I will continue to in the future.  And maybe, just maybe, I’ll get to see those last 7.6 miles of the Vermont 100.  If the family is on board.

Trail Culture With Diesel-san

A couple weeks ago, my partner in crime for the TARC Trail Series, Bob "Diesel-san" Crowley and myself had the opportunity to talk with Don Freeman and Scott Warr over at Trail Runner Nation.  These guys host a great podcast.  Bob is a really thoughtful about this.  I actually just listened to it (I hadn't heard it since we did the talk), and was reminded of Bob's Hardrock story.  The podcast is about "trail culture" and how we keep it alive as the sport grows, so some fun, philosophical ideas - definitely nothing about training or anything like that.  Enjoy it if you have some time to burn (or like to listen to things whilst running).

http://trailrunnernation.com/2013/05/bob-crowley-josh-katzman-trail-running-culture-are-we-at-risk-of-losing-it/

TARC Spring Classic - An RD's Perspective

Section One: The Numbers

Morning temps around 40.  Afternoon highs near 70.  292 starters.  261 smiling finishers (a few were sort of grimacing, and couple may have been in tears).  89% finishing rate.  Zero clouds.  10 loaves of bread.  Countless PB+Js, turkey sandwiches, and grilled cheese.  20 packs of Ramen.  12 quesadillas.  Dozens of energetic volunteers. One NTS (Norm’s Timing System, designed by TARCer/Wapack RD, Norm Sheppard).  These are the numbers that begin to define the 3rd TARC Spring Classic, held Saturday, April 27th, 2013 in Weston, Massachusetts.  Featuring four races (10K, half marathon, marathon, and 50K) all sharing a 10K course, this was the largest race in the young history of the TARC Trail Series.  

With only a couple of short hills, the course is billed as “flat and fast” with about 40 yards of asphalt and a mix of single and double-track.  As such, throughout its three-year history, the race has attracted a large number of trail-racing neophytes as well as those grizzled ultra-vets, either looking to crank a PR, or simply enjoy the company of like-minded folks on some beautiful trails as Spring begins its KO of Old Man Winter here in New England.

Section the Second: The Experience

TARC is built on the idea that animals stick together.  On group runs it doesn’t matter if you are a course record holder or fight for DFL, you stick together.  Our pre-race meetings always mention that, while we are competitive, we make sure it is not at the expense of looking out for each other, and enjoying each other’s company.  This year, in the greater Boston area (and the running world in general), this idea seemed to mean even more than it usually does.  Being held a mere 12 days from the tragedy at the Boston Marathon, and just one week from when the entire city had “sheltered in place,” throughout the crowd, there seemed to be an extra desire to connect with each other, to cheer for each other’s accomplishments, and to support each other when a race did not go as planned.  The day began with a heartfelt pre-race briefing by my co-RD, Bob Crowley, asking the assembled crowd to observe a moment of silence.  As we stood there, at the edge of the woods, all I heard were the birds in the trees.  I have rarely felt such peace, especially before a race and in a crowd of hundreds.  As an RD (and a person), this ethos hit home as New England ultra staple and all-around happy guy, Kevin Mullen, told me upon finishing his race, “I needed to restore my faith in humanity.”  We looked at the gathered finishers, friends, families, the runners going back out for their last loops, and both smiled.  We cheered as another runner crossed the line.  “There it is Kevin.  Faith restored.”

Perhaps it was Michelle Roy, infamous around these parts for carrying a log with her in nearly every race, running a 50K overnight (because fellow TARCer and RD of the TARC Ghost Train 100 Miler, Steve Latour, couldn’t run this year) before running the actual race.  Perhaps it was meeting up with Justin, to get our (now) traditional pre-setup run in (why do we think it is a good idea to meet at 4 AM to start running?). Perhaps it was Eric Nguyen and Ian Cross, showing up as the sun rose to “get a few extra laps in” before the race began.  Perhaps it was the dozens of folks, finishing a trail race or ultra for the first time and relishing that sense of accomplishment.  Or the veterans, like Adam, who crushed a PR. Perhaps it was the collective need to come together and breath deep the air of nature and tackle a personal challenge in a time of great turmoil. Or maybe it was less metaphysical.  Maybe it was the club’s Yeti prowling the course to encourage (or scare) people.  Or the tireless volunteers that ran the aid station and learned how the club’s new stoves operate (quesadillas, it was determined, are easier to make than grilled cheese. We also need a better way to light the stoves beyond our flaming pieces of cardboard).  Or the crew that ran timing and made sure to get every runner.  Or the NTS, being put to mass-use for the first time.   Whatever it was, there was something extra special about this year’s Spring Classic.  As Elizabeth Sherlock (one of the hearty volunteers who worked all day) posted on the Facebook regarding the day and the whole TARC experience, “One thing that has occurred to me is that you're not sure if you're at a race or a wacky family reunion/picnic. Everyone brings a crap-ton of food and greets each other as old friends, whether they've met before or not.”  It’s always good to see family. Even the crazy ones.

The Glass Is Half Full

For the better part of the past 30 hours I have been fixated on one thing: The Boston Marathon.  Yes, much of this perseveration has dwelled on the heinousness that befell "Ah faih city" (apologies, I know Click and Clack are referring to Cambridge), but it has also focused on what I saw before and after that.  Initially, this chunk of time I had set aside was to write a report about the TARC 2013 Don't Run Boston 50K/50 Miler, but since about 4:09:44 into the Marathon yesterday, it has taken a different tilt.  At first I figured I would scrap all recollections of DRB, as it seemed trivial.  My perspective has changed however.  While, in the grand scheme of the universe, a race report is rather self-centered, telling the tale of event from the ego's perspective, I realized it is also what makes our sport so great.  It is human nature to share our tales of triumph (or tragedy).  We take solace in the voice of others and find excitement and inspiration in their journeys.  And that is why, with all that has happened over the last day in the city where I live and work, I am not angry (confused and saddened? Yes.  Angry?  No.).  I have been inspired by my friends who were running both at DRB and at the Marathon.  I have been inspired by the Mr. Roger's quote that is making the rounds via social media (I have shared this with my kids - for all the evil that exists, we must remember to see that there is a lot more good, there are a lot more "helpers"), because, as all the video and coverage shows, there may have been a few people who committed these acts of hate, but there were countless more who showed us, both before and after the attacks, just how strong the human spirit is.

Holding onto anger is like grasping a hot coal with the aim of throwing it at someone else; you are the one who gets burned - Buddha

I am working with a coach, Emily Harrison and Ian Torrence, from McMillian Running.  I decided that because I have never had a structure to my running and simply ran, and I want to put my best effort into the Vermont 100 this year, I should try to do something differently (besides just running as many miles as I could every day/week).  Problem was, I had no idea how, hence the coach.  Thanks to Emily, my running has a purpose and flow.  And yesterday, Patriots Day,  Marathon Monday, was, like the Sabbath, a complete day of rest (at least for my running).  Having run 50 miles the day before, at the DRB 50K/Miler, an un-marked, lightly-supported race through the Blue Hills, just south of Boston, coach was telling me to not run.  I listened (afterall, I'm also on school vacation this week, and aren't we just supposed to just laze about on vacation?).

Yet running was still a big part of the day, for it was the Boston Marathon - a day when it seems everyone in the greater-Boston area is a fan of running.  A day when people line 26.2 miles of road, often 3 - 5 people deep, to cheer professionally athletes seem like they are effortlessly floating as they run sub-5:00 pace (seriously, the front runners never look like they are even working hard.  It is a thing of beauty!).  A day when those same spectators remain, for hours, not to cheer the pros, but to cheer and congratulate and encourage the every-man and every-woman.  The people who work their jobs everyday, take care of their kids and sick family members, who train, not for money, but for personal fulfillment.  Who train to say, "I CAN DO THIS!"

Knowing that I was not running, I was able to enjoy the day and the incredible energy that comes with it.  Watching the start on TV at home with the family, we all started jumping up and down when we saw our friend (and U.S. 24-Hour Team qualifier!) Scott Traer (looking good in his green shorts!) start the race before everyone, guiding a friend of his, who is a runner (and amputee).  Talk about inspiring - a world-class athlete, guiding/pacing a friend to the finish.  Even watching last year's winner joking with other guys at the start line - it reminded me of most ultras I've been a part of.  And then there was meeting up with Sam, our friend and, uber-stud (the dude is winning everything from 5Ks - 50 miles lately), at mile 20 and handing off a prepared bottle of GU Roctane drink, as he flew up the last of the hills.  And, by chance, seeing Sebastien, who came from Quebec with his family, and yelling for him and seeing the smile on his face as he tackled the last hill.  Or encouraging the folks who started getting the "I can't do it" look, and seeing people clapping in rhythm for them, for no other reason than everyone is inspired by what these folks are doing.  You don't find any Mass-holes along the marathon route on Marathon Monday.  Even the drunk college kids are amiable and positive.  And that is the feeling I will cherish about my day off from running (which still involved a lot of running!).

Taking a day off from running is rare for me.  But I relished it, especially after my 51.13 mile effort at DRB the day before.  TARC's Don't Run Boston has a special place in my heart.  It is where I first got involved with the Trail Animals, and where I first met Bob "Diesel-san" Crowley, my partner in crime for many of the TARC Trail Series races (despite what he says, those last "19" miles of the DRB 50 are closer to 20 - 21!), and, where Garry Harrington, who I clung to lest I were find myself horribly lost in my first year at the race, possibly changed my life when he told me, after we finished the 50K together in course record time, "You're probably one of the best trail runners in New England" (I've never mentioned this to anyone before, but Garry, I owe you a huge thank you.  That meant (and means) a lot to me still, as DRB that year was only my second successful race ever).  It is also a race where the course is not marked and the course description reads like prose ("at the crest of a small rise there is an indistinguishable path at a cluster of 7 birch trees.  Turn left onto that path." My favorite part of whole course, and I will never miss that turn (although one of the birches is rotting it appears)) and the advice given to first timers is: "Run with someone who knows the course (who is still liable to get lost) and then come back and learn the course."  There is no-fanfare, just an aid station in the back of someone's car.  It was founded to be the anti-Boston Marathon (run the day before, on trails, no markings, etc.).  Today, I can't help but see the similarities.

This year's edition started, as always, with Howie drawing a line in the sand and saying, "GO!" (unfortunately, Howie couldn't run this year as he is returning from an injury).  From the start Double Top vet Anthony Parillo (who knows this course better than almost anyone and is aiming to run ten 100-milers this year), long-time Boston-area resident (and first-time visitor to the the Blue Hills - how is that even possible?) Daniel Larson, and, one of my personal heroes, Jack Pilla (to know why, simply read this.  B-A-D-A-S-S), whom I have met before, but never gotten to run much with, and I ran up front.  Not knowing the course, Daniel and Jack were anxious to stay with Anthony and myself.  We chatted for a while, and then, after about 6 miles or so, Anthony and I were consistently about 40 or 50 yards up.  I went into the race with the idea of simply following my heart-rate, keeping it around 75%, and was doing a decent job with that (except the hills - they're short, but pretty darn steep!).  I was feeling fine, and when we pulled into the aid station halfway along the rugged Skyline Trail (the "aid station," which you hit three times during the 50K) I was honestly quite surprised to be about 30 seconds up on Anthony and about a minute up on Jack.  We left to finish the little Skyline Loop, with me "talking" to those guys for about 5 minutes (I was up front) before I realized I was, in fact, talking to myself.  I had, unintentionally, pulled ahead.  I didn't slow down though, and just decided to run alone the rest of the day.

Each time I would come into the aid station, it was a mini-celebration.  Looking back, the volunteers, including Dima and Karen (two of my favorite people, who are always smiling and in good cheer), provided that same energy that I felt along the marathon course the next day (Dima and Karen happened to be running the Marathon as well and were quite close to the blasts).  While much of our time in these events is spent alone, in our own heads, we truly don't run them alone (except for Jack, as described above!), and, the positive energy that emanates from everyone is addictive.  The human spirit is indomitable and I'm coming to see that this fact is brought into sharp relief when we run.

The rest of the race was rather uneventful for me personally (especially compared to last year, when Scott and I were running together and he got bit by a dog, right on the butt - poor guy had to get rabies shots too.  He started running faster after he was bit too!).  It was a routine of eating my homemade energy chews and checking the heart rate (I only got off course for about 20 yards, in the last 5 miles of the 50K).  I battled a few mental demons when I just couldn't get the legs moving quick enough to bring my heart closer to the 75% I was shooting for (it was dropping to around 70%, although this might have been a technical issue with the heart rate monitor, because I felt like I was working!), but was steady the whole time.  I also discovered the magical power of Pringles (original flavor).  Not one to eat much solid food (or take salt pills), I ate a huge stack of Pringles at the mile 41 (and ~47) water drop.  Not only were they delicious (and a nice change of taste from my energy chews), ithey seemed to give me some sort of supernatural ability to move quickly again - maybe it was the salt, or the "there is nothing natural about this product" quality of them that did it.  I didn't look at the time on my Garmin at all, except to get a split for the 50K (4:54 - slower than last year, which was a bit disappointing, but the goal was to run faster in the 50 miler, so I was fine with it), and then at mile ~47, when I wanted to see if I had a shot to go under eight hours.

When I saw 7:40 on the watch at this point, I knew sub-8 was out of the question (it takes me at least 25 minutes to cover the last section, as some of it is on, as per the course description, "paths mostly used by deer, not people.").  I still tried to run hard, and, when I got close to the end, I knew I had a shot to break last year's mark (8:11).  My attention to the heart rate must have paid off, because that last mile or so, my Garmin said I was running pretty darn close to 6:00/mile pace and it felt okay (guess I should have been running harder throughout!).  I knew the time was going to be really tight, and I ran up the stairs to the parking lot (the "official" finish line), and hit the stop button.  8:10:31ish (the file is still on my watch, has been uploaded to my computer, but continues to fail to upload to Garmin Connect - any help?).  About 30 seconds faster than last year.  Even knowing that we had a few more bonus miles last year (and the canine attack), I was happy with the result - I was running alone for about 38 miles, and I felt like I could have kept running if need be.  I hadn't experienced any real big swings in energy or attitude, hitting those extreme highs and lows (I think that is a result of my homemade energy chews, which feature a lot of "good" fats, especially from coconut oil).  Hanging out with the handful of folks at the aid station post-run (which included Garry, Dima, Karen, and Jeff List - another local incredible-person/runner) just brought home the whole good-vibe that I have come to love about TARC and running.  To top it off, Lindsey Topham (TARC's "official unofficial" photographer) interviewed me about why I run ultras and am involved in TARC.  It was like my ego on steroids!  Liz and the boys picked me up and we went out to Bertucci's and Orange Leaf (a great self-serve fro-yo place in Lexington).  It was one of those days that reinforces how remarkable this life is.

So there it is.  Despite my fear, despite my anxiety (Liz was at the Marathon finish line last year on her breaks from work, directly across the street), running brought me great joy this weekend.  Today, as I ran through the woods (coach said it was okay to go out for 45 minutes!), just minutes from my door, I started thinking of the gruesome images of those whose lives were irrevocably changed, or taken, yesterday.  I felt sad, thinking of the young man who lost both legs, and as I started down a rocky slope, wondered what I would do if I could not do what I was doing, in that moment, anymore.  And then, as I twisted and turned along this rocky downhill, I started to smile.  Not because I am callous or cavalier.  Not because I don't care.  But because, in that moment, I realized that what I was doing, freely running through the woods like I did when I was a kid in Vermont, was something incredibly special.  I realized that every moment of my life had led to that (and this!) and that was something incredibly special.  I realized that all I had was that moment, that next step, that next footfall precisely between two rocks and then two roots.  I realized that running is so powerful because it is such a personal journey, meaningful for what we put into it and strive to get from it, but made more so when we share it with others.  That much was proven to me as I came into the "aid station" each time at DRB, or, as I stuffed my face with Pringles at mile 41 and waved to the volunteer dropping more water off for us to be able to finish our journey.  That much was proven to me when my friends, my wife, my children, and I cheered strangers up some hills in Newton.  It was proven when I saw footage from the finish line, both in celebration, and in chaos, as strangers rushed to help each other.  Sometimes, when we look for answers (Who did this?  Why?), which is what I have done for the better part of 30 hours, we forget to find meaning.  Hopefully we can all find a little bit of meaning in what happened this weekend and find a way to celebrate the awesome power of the human spirit.

You've Gotta Have Friends . . .

I feel a bit silly doing this (as Justin is likely one of the only people who regularly reads this besides myself!), but here is a link to a cool new idea that friend, and fellow-TARCer/ultrarunner, Justin Contois has just started: he's interviewing people involved with TARC so that we can get to know the folks we see at all these races a bit better.  I was lucky enough to be first on his list (must have been because we got to snuggle on our recent adventure in Georgia).

Enjoy: http://runsingletrack.blogspot.com/2013/03/getting-to-know-tarc-josh-sir-speedy.html?spref=fb

The (Snow) Devil Went To Georgia

1)   It takes a lot of snow to make a mouthful of water.
2)   Dehydration quickly turns your hands and feet into blocks of ice in the cold.
3)   Empty squares made of surveyor’s flags are where aid stations should be.

In Georgia, in March, these were not the meaningful insights into life I sought by running 100 miles.They were, however, three of the lessons I unfortunately had to learn over nearly 30 miles at the Double Top 100 miler this past weekend.  

Three weeks ago Boston dug out from close to 30 inches of snow.  It was enough that I had to shovel for about eight hours. It was enough that I had snow banks at my house that were about eight feet high.  It was enough that Boston Public Schools were closed Friday through the following Tuesday. Saturday, as I ran through the mountains in northern Georgia, it snowed.  There may have been about half to three quarters of an inch of the white stuff.  It was enough to make everything look pretty and leave clear footprints.  It was enough to make some roads slick.  It was also enough to cancel a hundred mile race.  47.2 miles in.

In early November I sent an email to a number of friends saying, “Hey guys, take a look at this race I am looking at for 2013.  Should be fun, and warm.”  The Double Top 100, held March 2, would be a nice option to break up the cold-weather running of what has become a long and snowy winter in New England.  So when David Huss pulled the trigger, booked his flight, and registered, Anthony Parillo, Michael McDuffie, Justin Contois and myself all jumped in as well.  100 miles, on a 50-mile out-and-back that was described as a some beautiful trails with a ton of elevation.  Then I read some race reports from last year (the inaugural year).  Runners many, many miles off course.  Tornadoes ripping through the night before.  A winning time over 24 hours.  An elevation profile that ranged from 16K – 23K (of both gain/descent. My Garmin (which is usually pretty accurate) gave me almost exactly 9,500 of each for the 50 mile course).  I frantically began emailing the RD, primarily about course markings.  He reassured me that all things, especially course markings, would be much improved for this year (and, with the exception of one spot, the course markings were fine, though that one spot lead to many (most?) runners missing an aid station on a short, ~1 mile out-and-back stretch (that looked nothing like a trail) around mile 16. The RD had failed to mention any of this in the race briefing (we were told it was a 50-mile out-and-back, and no mention of this additional bit to the aid station was made.  The stretch was described in the race packet, but it was not clear that it was an additional out-and-back).

Less than a week out from the race the RD sent an email that was not very reassuring – it appeared permits were not yet finalized, necessitating some tweaks to the course.  At this point my financial (and training) investment had been made, so I was going.  To top it off, when I checked the forecast on Tuesday for race day, all sites, from Google, to Accuweather, to Weather.com, to WeatherUnderground, were calling for scattered snow showers and highs in the mid to high 30s (this was not of too great concern personally – it’s typical winter weather in New England and I have the gear to be fine in those conditions.  Alas, it was disheartening to think our “Spring Break” was turning into more of a winter washout. And, in my experience, scattered snow showers means one inch or less of snow, just about what we got).  Talking with the other “Yankees” traveling with me, we all joked that we should be prepared to run this race completely self-sufficiently given last year’s reports and the forecast.  Many Deliverance jokes, vocal banjo rhythms, and mentions of wild boars were made.  In the end, our jests proved prophetic.

I had never traveled with a group like this to a race.  It was fun.  There were lots of laughs.  There were lots of jokes about flatulence and biological needs (we’re runners after all (and guys), and, especially with a 3:00 AM Go Time, were concerned about “taking care of business” pre-race).  Costs were shared, which helped lessen the financial blow, and we were able to enjoy the collective-nervous energy/absurdity around our chosen passion: running 100 miles.

Race day began at 1:52 AM.  The RD had changed the start time from 6:00 AM, to accommodate a 36 hour time limit (as we traveled from Boston, we all bemoaned this and questioned our sanity.  Perhaps it was that inner voice in all of our heads telling us that this would likely end badly).  We suited up, in full New England winter-running regalia, and were greeted by a fresh layer of snow as we made it to the start line.  37 starters lined up, and when the RD’s phone chimed 3:00 AM, we were off, into the snow, to run 50 miles, then turn around and run those 50 miles back.  Simple.

My ambition for this race was to feel like I ran a solid 100 miler (and, honestly, I wanted to win, but that, truly, was secondary to feeling like I ran well).  I have been doing more hill training and wanted to put forth a solid personal effort.  For the first 23 miles or so I ran with Joe Czabaranek, a very strong runner who, just 5 weeks ago, won the Winter Beast of Burden 100 Miler in New York (which Michael and Anthony also ate up and spit out), and is competing at Western States this year.  I was very happy for the company because it gave me a bit more confidence that I was on course (while visions of last year’s race reports danced in my head), and Joe’s a good guy.  Running via headlamp in the dark, the snow muffling our footfalls, was very hypnotic and the miles melted away.  I was eating my homemade “energy balls” and drinking as planned.  I chuckled to myself as I ran through a stream (the RD had mentioned only one river crossing at around mile 36.5).  I reckoned my feet would just be wet all day.  We ran right past the first aid station, and then stopped at the second, Cohutta Overlook (around mile 10), where, on a whim, I grabbed an extra GU (which proved to be a key decision, as it gave me 3 “emergency” GUs in my pockets).  Leaving Cohutta, you drop onto what was my favorite part of the course.  Even in the pitch black (it was around 4:30 AM), it was fun.  The trail was winding and smooth and I commented to Joe how sweet it was.  It was shortly after this idyllic stretch of running that the proverbial feces began hitting the wind-turbine.

Joe and I were comfortably cruising down the trail when we came to a flashing light followed by about 20 flags placed 3 feet apart.  The RD had told us that there would be these lights at confusing turns, but this light appeared to put us through a bushwhack in the woods, while the trail clearly continued to the right.  Flags had been spaced every eighth to quarter of a mile before this, so we figured someone had come along, picked up a bunch of flags and messed with the course markings.  Still, we decided to follow the RD’s direction and go with the flagging.  We marched about 20 yards through the woods and saw another blinking light and flags heading down what appeared to be a more legitimate trail.  We followed the markings until we reached an intersection with two arrows, side by side, each pointing a different direction, with flags off in both directions (as an RD myself, I always make sure that you can only see one arrow in any direction).  One lead down what appeared to be a trail, while the other appeared to, again, head-off through the woods. We stood there for a minute before deciding to go down the hill, onto the non-trail “trail.” Turns out we made the correct decision, as we got to the Mulberry Gap Inn Aid Station.  There were some lights on, and there seemed to be a lot of commotion.  There appeared to be hundreds of empty liquor bottles on a porch, and a couple of cars and trucks pulling in and backing out.  Turns out the volunteers (who were very accommodating) were just getting there too.  We filled up our water bottles, used the bathrooms, and were off again, back up the hill, confident that we were on course (I heard later that only 13 of 37 runners were able to make it to this aid station, many suffering from the same confusion Joe and I experienced).

4 miles later we reached the Double Top aid station, at mile 20.5, at the base of the biggest climb of the day.  It is also where our first drop bags were.  Again, Joe and I arrived with the volunteers and the gear (which, I guess, was being driven to every aid station, as the race was happening, by a single U Haul, with a trailer attached to it).  The U Haul driver was very apologetic, saying the roads were really bad and he had had trouble making it to the aid station, but he had drop bags in the back of the truck, so we rooted around to find them, and I filled up with my homemade energy balls.  I asked the volunteer that was there to help me put my “energy balls” into my handheld’s pocket, insisting that she put all of them from my drop bag in (she was going to leave three or four behind).  I felt a bit odd/pushy, but, again, this proved to be a key move, as it gave me some (much needed) extra calories.  I thank that kind lady for acquiescing.

The climb up the gravel road started off fine.  I was comfortable and felt like I could easily make it the 4 miles to the top.  Perhaps it was this hubris, but about 2 or 2.5 miles into the climb I told Joe I was going to walk for a second - my quads were starting to feel weak and I began to worry about the return trip.  Joe continued running, about 100 yards up on me for the next several miles.  I began having flashbacks to my day at Western States in June - every little bump began to feel daunting and my uphill legs were growing weaker.  I started feeling really disappointed in, and angry at, myself for being so weak and not crushing this hill (I had been doing 4 miles on a treadmill at 15% in training, so this should have been easy right?).  I began to realize that (probably) my greatest weakness and limiting factor as a runner is my mind - I am too quick to doubt myself, my training, and ability.  I tried to get out of this funk with music, but my little iPod shuffle was frozen and not working correctly, so after a few minutes I just unplugged and continued to chug along, trying to dispel the negative thoughts.  I made the next aid station my goal (I was out of water), which was just a mile beyond the crest of the climb.  I topped out, saw Joe up ahead, and ran, expecting to run a quick downhill mile to the aid station.  That mile was the longest I have ever run.  That’s because it was actually 23.  

When I reached where the aid station should have been, I saw a great number of flags put into a square, which was empty inside.  “Odd,” I thought, but I plugged on, figuring the aid was just ahead.  About four or five miles later, I saw another “empty square.” I knew I had beaten the volunteers to the aid stations at this point (we had been so close to doing that at the previous ones).  I was totally out of fluids at this point (about 10 or 11 miles since the last aid), but knew my drop bag was just another 5 or 6 miles up the road at the Tearbritches Aid Station.  I had planned my calories so that I would have enough of my energy balls to make it that distance.  I got to the Tearbritches and my heart just sank.  There, right where I could imagine all the happy volunteers, was, yet another, empty square.  While I did not panic, I stood there for a minute or two, considering my options: stay here and wait for someone from the race, or move forward, hoping the water drop 4 or 5 miles up the trail wasn’t frozen.  When I started shivering, I thought the best course of action was to move (in the end, a wise choice - it would have been more than two hours before someone from the race arrived at this location.  While I appreciate their efforts, I am not certain why it took this long - if a car got up two hours later, why couldn’t it get up two hours before, when the RD knew the pace we traveling?).  This was the point that I began to think my race was over.  

Climbing out of Tearbritches, I kept stopping to look back at the aid station to see if anyone was coming.  I yelled out some curses to the gods of anger, frustration, and doubt (a dangerous combination) that were taking over my mind: “WHAT IS GOING ON HERE? IS THE RACE CANCELLED?  WHAT THE HELL SHOULD I DO?” At this point I had no water, but still had my emergency GUs. I began rationing my calories.  My hands (I think from dehydration) become complete blocks of ice - I had no sensation in them.  There were tons of stream crossings, and the thought of indulging my thirst was a real possibility.  But then I considered that I had already taken significant time from my family and work (as a teacher, it is not exactly desirable to miss consecutive days of school during the school year), and did not want to risk more time away laid up with Giardia.  I began grabbing handfuls of snow and eating it off branches.  I cursed the situation. I grew angry. I grew sad that I was probably not running 100 miles that day.  I lost my zen.  I got caught up in the thought that the race was not unfurling as I had imagined. I failed to accept the situation simply as the situation. I got caught up fighting my personal struggle and failed to embrace my struggle simply as a struggle, neither good nor bad.  I firmly believe the RD could have done much more to be better prepared for the weather, but that still does not mean I should have let my frustrations get a grip on me that much.  

It was probably around mile 44 that I began to get control of my mind again.  There had been 1 gallon (of 5) not frozen at the water drop. I only had 6 miles to the turnaround.  The water and GU helped to thaw my hands (I think). I ran a climb.  I “tracked” Joe, seeing where his stride lengthened and shortened - it was actually kind of fun (in our post-mortem, I learned all my fellow TARCers were doing it as well).  It might have been the combination of the water and emergency GU (which, reading about "unbonking" after the race, was almost definitely the case), but I began to think I could rally to complete at least 100K, maybe even really suffer through 100 miles. I just needed some steady calories and to accept a slower pace.  It was most definitely not going to be the race I had hoped for, but I thought I could finish.  Maybe.  And then, as I came down a hill, I saw a beautiful site: Bear Pen Aid station,  fully functional, with heaters, food, and fluid.  Tom Wilson wins the prize for MVP of the Double Top 100 in my book, single handedly setting up his aid station and making it ready.  I felt pretty miserable, but was happy that I could finally find out what was happening, as it had been 28 miles since my last contact with anyone from the race.

Kena, the co-RD, was there to tell me the race was cancelled.  I guess the roads were impassible for most cars. She looked pretty miserable about it and apologized profusely.  I didn’t put up much of a fight.  I had figured this was likely the case, and, over those last 28 miles had pretty much determined my day was done, despite the blossoming hope I had felt at the water drop.  She offered to let me run to the mile 50 turnaround and I seriously considered it.  But it was unclear if there was anyone there, and she was going to wait for Anthony, who had also made it through Tearbritches before they began stopping people.  I debated this choice for a long time (as I ate some Pringles and drank some soup).  It was unclear if there was anyone at the turnaround (other than Joe, who had decided to continue to there), and the thought of standing in the cold was not very appealing.  Tom had a great thing going at Bear Pen, and I thought it would be good to wait for Anthony.  My day was officially done when I took a chair and sat next to the heater.


Did the RD make the correct call? I would have seriously struggled to run another 30 miles without support and without my drop bags (that would have been about miles 53 – 81), much less finish another 50.  My frustration lies in the fact that, as an RD myself, I see a number of basic steps related to the planning and preparation of the event that could have been taken to prevent this sort of situation and, once it was clear things were completely messed up, steps that could have been taken to explain the situation to those of us on the course.  I have offered my ideas (and concerns with his handling of this situation) to the RD, in a hope that future events will improve.  I am further frustrated by his failure to respond to me personally (addendum: he has since gotten back to me).  This event could be a lot of fun.


***


What is done is done.  Our posse bemoaned the fact that none of us were as physically wrecked as we had hoped (writing that, I realize it is a bit perverse.  However, I think this really is part of the allure of these events – you push your body to a point of such pain and discomfort, but actually come out a more complete and stronger person for it.  Truly odd.  Truly sick).  Joe joined us at our cabin that afternoon and night, we shared war-stories, drove into town for some not-in-anyway mediocre Mexican food, and generally shot the bull.  With my not-totally-wrecked body I can continue to train, and the experience may have even sparked the idea for a new TARC event.  If nothing else, the experience has established a new rule in our house: I can only run well-established 100-milers (or, maybe, at least, events run by well established groups/RDs), and, ideally, ones my family can follow online.  Not much argument here.


I realize what surprises me most about this weekend is that I never felt annoyed with any of my traveling companions, not even after the “race” when I typically get anxious about getting home to Liz and the boys.  I don’t think I have ever spent such an extended period of time with a group of people (in this case nearly four days), without feeling at least some twinge of aggravation toward someone else.  Perhaps it was all the fart jokes.  Perhaps it was the commiseration (in lieu of celebration) of a goal not met.  Perhaps it was that we all shared a singular drive and purpose for the weekend.  Whatever it was, I can’t wait to travel with these guys again and celebrate a proper 100 mile finish.  

***

Gear note: for the second race in a row, I wore my (incredible) inov-8 Trailroc 245s with a great pair of Injinji 2.0 socks. After spending about 46 miles with pretty wet feet, I finish with zero foot issues. That is pretty impressive.