Being an ultra-running dork, my life was devoted to
“watching” the Western States 100 on June 29th 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, 4th 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. 5th 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.
