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
Sunday, March 24, 2013
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
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.
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.
Monday, February 25, 2013
Does History Repeat Itself?
Just shy of three weeks ago, on the eve of the Blizzard of '13 (which subsequently earned me a Friday, Monday, and Tuesday snow day from school), I had a hard 31+ mile training run, up and down, and up and down, and up and down, the hills in Arlington, MA. I had run the same route (which features about 0.2 miles of flat terrain) for 50+ miles 2 weeks before. Why? To prep for my next 100 miler, Double Top 100, in Chatsworth, GA.
Now, 19 days hence, on my last day of February vacation, I sit at my grandmother's on Longboat Key in Florida, having just spent the last 7 days in idyllic weather - sunny and the high 70s. The family and I have logged close to 30 hours in the pool (seriously), but my running training has suffered. Not because of family time. No, for something much more insidious, and something that played out leading into my last 100 mile race: a cold.
Two or three weeks before Western States last June, my immune system, responding to months of cumulative training and life stress (we had two weeks before bought a new house and the school year was wrapping up), succumbed to a summer-time cold. It started out benignly enough, but just a short way away from the biggest race of my life, I kept training. I drove up to New Hampshire very early one Saturday to meet Sam for a loop on the Franconia Ridge Trail. My lungs hurt as I hacked the whole way up, lungs congested, sinuses throbbing, head cloudy. Yet I ran more the next day. I didn't stop, for fear of "losing the edge." While everything was mostly cleared out by race day (my dad, who is a family doc, said my lungs sounded good pre-race), I was still coughing race morning, and post-race, whilst staying at the lovely Casa de Crowley, I made the our poor hostess think her beloved corgi had kennel cough (alas, it was my coughing that kept everyone up all night). So, after the Blizzard, and getting sick on my first day back to school, my totally neurotic side took over, telling me to keep training - I can push through, I had done it before, and I needed those miles to run the kind of race I want to run in Georgia. I saw history repeating itself.
Yet experience won over neurosis. Fearing a chronic respiratory infection and a post-race kennel cough, I decided to take two days off from running. I had planned my last long run on those days, two weeks out from race day. I have spent every day since telling Liz, "I think I'll get my long run in today," and then, waking with further coughing and congestion, limiting my activity to around the 30 - 40 minute mark, mostly at a very casual level. Finally on Saturday I got out for 13+ miles. It was horrible. The legs felt great, but the head was a cloud, and the lungs still felt "tight." "Discipline," I told myself, "trust your earlier training."
Today, just 5 days out from "go," was the first day I did not wake with a pool in my nose and lungs. I ran a 10 miler. It was fun not tearing my larynx with repeated coughing fits. Yesterday evening I broke my personal record for running 15 minutes at 15% grade on a treadmill. Dare I say it felt easy? But I only ran for a total of 17 minutes. That's not enough running for competing in an ultra. Is it? The question becomes: Is my mind ready to trust that my body is trained to handle the suffering it will experience on March 2nd? Saturday (which happens to be my late-Uncle Norm's birthday), at 3:00 AM the response to that question will begin. Hopefully sometime before midnight that same day I'll have my answer.
Suffer well my friends.
Now, 19 days hence, on my last day of February vacation, I sit at my grandmother's on Longboat Key in Florida, having just spent the last 7 days in idyllic weather - sunny and the high 70s. The family and I have logged close to 30 hours in the pool (seriously), but my running training has suffered. Not because of family time. No, for something much more insidious, and something that played out leading into my last 100 mile race: a cold.
Two or three weeks before Western States last June, my immune system, responding to months of cumulative training and life stress (we had two weeks before bought a new house and the school year was wrapping up), succumbed to a summer-time cold. It started out benignly enough, but just a short way away from the biggest race of my life, I kept training. I drove up to New Hampshire very early one Saturday to meet Sam for a loop on the Franconia Ridge Trail. My lungs hurt as I hacked the whole way up, lungs congested, sinuses throbbing, head cloudy. Yet I ran more the next day. I didn't stop, for fear of "losing the edge." While everything was mostly cleared out by race day (my dad, who is a family doc, said my lungs sounded good pre-race), I was still coughing race morning, and post-race, whilst staying at the lovely Casa de Crowley, I made the our poor hostess think her beloved corgi had kennel cough (alas, it was my coughing that kept everyone up all night). So, after the Blizzard, and getting sick on my first day back to school, my totally neurotic side took over, telling me to keep training - I can push through, I had done it before, and I needed those miles to run the kind of race I want to run in Georgia. I saw history repeating itself.
Yet experience won over neurosis. Fearing a chronic respiratory infection and a post-race kennel cough, I decided to take two days off from running. I had planned my last long run on those days, two weeks out from race day. I have spent every day since telling Liz, "I think I'll get my long run in today," and then, waking with further coughing and congestion, limiting my activity to around the 30 - 40 minute mark, mostly at a very casual level. Finally on Saturday I got out for 13+ miles. It was horrible. The legs felt great, but the head was a cloud, and the lungs still felt "tight." "Discipline," I told myself, "trust your earlier training."
Today, just 5 days out from "go," was the first day I did not wake with a pool in my nose and lungs. I ran a 10 miler. It was fun not tearing my larynx with repeated coughing fits. Yesterday evening I broke my personal record for running 15 minutes at 15% grade on a treadmill. Dare I say it felt easy? But I only ran for a total of 17 minutes. That's not enough running for competing in an ultra. Is it? The question becomes: Is my mind ready to trust that my body is trained to handle the suffering it will experience on March 2nd? Saturday (which happens to be my late-Uncle Norm's birthday), at 3:00 AM the response to that question will begin. Hopefully sometime before midnight that same day I'll have my answer.
Suffer well my friends.
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
On (Sort Of) Shaving My Legs
Did I used to have hair there? I think I did. I kind of hope so because that would look really odd if I didn't. It looks like I shaved. How the heck did this even happen. Liz will know.
"Liz come here for a minute."
"What's up?"
"Did I used to have hair right here on my legs?"
"I don't know."
"I think I did."
"Okay."
"Isn't that really weird?"
"No. Not really. Will you please get dressed."
Apparently the sudden alopecia of my thighs is not as universally fascinating as I suspected. Nor is it an excuse to hang out in my boxers all day.
I am comfortable to admit that I have shaved (parts of) my legs before. I am not one to suffer needlessly, so, after sustaining some rather vicious gashes out on the trail I shave the area around it because, honestly, I hate to pull the band-aid off. This summer, while experimenting with some spray-on glue to keep kineso-tape in place, I also shaved prophylactically, for fear of the ripping that would result post-tape. So any manscaping of the legs that is done is strictly utilitarian in nature (I swear!). The newly shorn vastus medialis (on both of my legs!) however, were not intentional.
It was this past Saturday. A frigid morning, maybe 9 degrees. It was dark. I had gone to bed the night before feeling as if I might be catching my older son's cold, but I still had diligently filled my handhelds, set out my gear, and set the alarm for o'dark o'clock. The plan was to run a hilly 50 miler on a 2.82 mile out-and-back (5.64 miles/lap) on the roads near my house. Five weeks out from my next race, this was a key workout, a last long effort. The alarm went off.
Fortunately, the signs of sickness had passed. Yet as I lay there, close to an hour earlier than I get up during the week I had to will my body to get up. Motivation was low. It got lower when I looked at our outdoor thermometer. Alas, I had mixed up two servings of GU Roctane Brew the night before, and did not want them to go to waste. I dressed, body-glided, made sure there was as little exposed skin as possible, shut the door and started running.
"I am here." This was my mantra. "I am here." I want to be back in my incredibly comfortable (and warm) Tempur-Pedic. "I am here." I want waffles. "I am here." Am I really going to run this same section of road 16 more times? "I am here." I really need to use a bathroom . . .
Mercifully the Starbucks at the start/finish of each of my laps opens around 5:00. After my first lap, my neck warmer frosted, I was able to make a pit stop. Feeling much relieved, the mind started coming around. My course took me to a great view of Boston, and as the sun rose over the city, my mantra started to make sense. "I am here." I have chosen this. "I am here." I am moving. "I am here." The next climb does not exist. "I am here." There is not the beginning of the run. The end does not exist yet. There is only this step. "I am here." Up the biggest climb. "I am here." Eat one of my homemade "ginger energy balls." Take a sip of Roctane Brew . . .
A funny thing happens when you have 20 ounces of liquid outside on a day with single digit temperatures: it freezes. "I am here." I've run 15 miles and haven't had a sip to drink. "I am here." 20 miles, no liquid. "I am here." 22 miles. "I am here." Why don't I stop, unscrew the top and see if I can get something out. Roctane Brew slushy? GOOD! "I am here." Forward.
It was probably about 40 miles into this process, when the temperatures seemed to have rebounded, and might have been approaching freezing, my energy was high (fueled exclusively by my homemade energy balls and Roctane slushy) that I noticed I was sweating a bit and both of my quads had some superficial "burn" to them. This was not the typical "I'm getting really tired" burn. This felt like having a lukewarm towel on them. Nothing serious, though I imagine this is when my legs became silky smooth. I did not think about it any more until I got home and out of the shower and noticed these unfamiliar bald patches. Even tonight, I remain unsure if I did, in fact, loose any hair (I think there are some prickly hairs growing back, a clue that, indeed, I did have hair there on Saturday morning). Despite my incredible fascination with this great mystery, I think I can resist the urge and not shave the rest of my legs to match these strange patches. If I do feel that urge, I'll just put my running tights back on and go for a longer run.
"Liz come here for a minute."
"What's up?"
"Did I used to have hair right here on my legs?"
"I don't know."
"I think I did."
"Okay."
"Isn't that really weird?"
"No. Not really. Will you please get dressed."
Apparently the sudden alopecia of my thighs is not as universally fascinating as I suspected. Nor is it an excuse to hang out in my boxers all day.
I am comfortable to admit that I have shaved (parts of) my legs before. I am not one to suffer needlessly, so, after sustaining some rather vicious gashes out on the trail I shave the area around it because, honestly, I hate to pull the band-aid off. This summer, while experimenting with some spray-on glue to keep kineso-tape in place, I also shaved prophylactically, for fear of the ripping that would result post-tape. So any manscaping of the legs that is done is strictly utilitarian in nature (I swear!). The newly shorn vastus medialis (on both of my legs!) however, were not intentional.
It was this past Saturday. A frigid morning, maybe 9 degrees. It was dark. I had gone to bed the night before feeling as if I might be catching my older son's cold, but I still had diligently filled my handhelds, set out my gear, and set the alarm for o'dark o'clock. The plan was to run a hilly 50 miler on a 2.82 mile out-and-back (5.64 miles/lap) on the roads near my house. Five weeks out from my next race, this was a key workout, a last long effort. The alarm went off.
Fortunately, the signs of sickness had passed. Yet as I lay there, close to an hour earlier than I get up during the week I had to will my body to get up. Motivation was low. It got lower when I looked at our outdoor thermometer. Alas, I had mixed up two servings of GU Roctane Brew the night before, and did not want them to go to waste. I dressed, body-glided, made sure there was as little exposed skin as possible, shut the door and started running.
"I am here." This was my mantra. "I am here." I want to be back in my incredibly comfortable (and warm) Tempur-Pedic. "I am here." I want waffles. "I am here." Am I really going to run this same section of road 16 more times? "I am here." I really need to use a bathroom . . .
Mercifully the Starbucks at the start/finish of each of my laps opens around 5:00. After my first lap, my neck warmer frosted, I was able to make a pit stop. Feeling much relieved, the mind started coming around. My course took me to a great view of Boston, and as the sun rose over the city, my mantra started to make sense. "I am here." I have chosen this. "I am here." I am moving. "I am here." The next climb does not exist. "I am here." There is not the beginning of the run. The end does not exist yet. There is only this step. "I am here." Up the biggest climb. "I am here." Eat one of my homemade "ginger energy balls." Take a sip of Roctane Brew . . .
A funny thing happens when you have 20 ounces of liquid outside on a day with single digit temperatures: it freezes. "I am here." I've run 15 miles and haven't had a sip to drink. "I am here." 20 miles, no liquid. "I am here." 22 miles. "I am here." Why don't I stop, unscrew the top and see if I can get something out. Roctane Brew slushy? GOOD! "I am here." Forward.
It was probably about 40 miles into this process, when the temperatures seemed to have rebounded, and might have been approaching freezing, my energy was high (fueled exclusively by my homemade energy balls and Roctane slushy) that I noticed I was sweating a bit and both of my quads had some superficial "burn" to them. This was not the typical "I'm getting really tired" burn. This felt like having a lukewarm towel on them. Nothing serious, though I imagine this is when my legs became silky smooth. I did not think about it any more until I got home and out of the shower and noticed these unfamiliar bald patches. Even tonight, I remain unsure if I did, in fact, loose any hair (I think there are some prickly hairs growing back, a clue that, indeed, I did have hair there on Saturday morning). Despite my incredible fascination with this great mystery, I think I can resist the urge and not shave the rest of my legs to match these strange patches. If I do feel that urge, I'll just put my running tights back on and go for a longer run.
Thursday, December 27, 2012
Wrestlin' Grizzlies
It started on Friday, December 21, at around 7:15 PM. As Chris Martin dubbed it, we were embarking on the first annual "Shortest Day - Run Long" event on the new TARC 100 mile course. The plan? Run through the night and complete two laps of the 25 mile course, finishing before the sun rose on the 22nd. Unfortunately, those eastern Massachusetts grizzlies thwarted our efforts.
This story necessitates a bit of background. My birthday is December 24th (and, despite what everyone thinks, I've always enjoyed having my birthday the day before Christmas. I owe much of this to my mom, who made sure I had a "special" day every year (and continues to do so)). For the past several years, I have sought to celebrate my birthday with a "big" run. It started four years ago by running from my folks' house in Waterbury, VT up to the old log cabin (built by my parents) where I grew up at the base of Camel's Hump in Duxbury, VT. I had been battling an injury, but survived this 20-miler with no issue. The next year I was too injured to run, and then last year, Liz suggested I run from our place to New Hampshire to meet her and the boys at a Burger King off the highway. This 37-miler ended with me unable to walk the last 8 miles, and hitchhiking on a back road in rural New Hampshire, with the temperature hovering around 5 degrees. I couldn't run for over a week after this. So it was with a certain amount of trepidation that I approached this year's birthday run. Naturally, given my proclivity for hurting myself on these runs, I decided to be conservative this year and run through the woods, overnight, for 50 miles.
Improved judgement aside, what made this year different than the previous three was that I decided to make it a social gathering. I've been rather fortunate over the last couple of years to become friends with a great group of people through running. So, about two or three weeks before the "birthday" run, I sent out an email to those crazy folks who live near me with two options for the run. Plan A was to start at a reasonable hour on Saturday morning, running the 50 miles and getting home before dinner. Plan B was to put the kids to bed, meet up at 7:00 PM and run through the night. In a demonstration of their foolhardiness, Plan B was the unanimous pick from all those involved. So it was that I found myself, on the longest night of the year, making Ramen noodles and stuffing them into my kids' thermos, and dropping them off with homemade "Ginger Balls" (recipe available upon request - they are actually quite good), Coke, water, and energy gels at various points in the woods of Weston, MA. 50 miles or bust!
Friday morning, I faced a bit of a dilemma. It was supposed to rain very hard. My bike was at school. I wanted to get as much sleep as possible, knowing I would be running 50 miles overnight, but, alas, after many crashes on my bike, I am truly scared of riding in any sort of inclement weather. So I ran the 7.5 miles to school (more miles, more smiles!), and even managed to stay dry. The dry weather did not last, and for several hours that day the skies unleashed a deluge. Liz and the boys kindly picked me up at school, and in the time it took them to drive from Arlington to Charlestown, the skies cleared and the sun came out. I merely laughed at the emails and texts I had received throughout the day concerning the night's run, asking things like, "Is this thing still on?" or "Any second thoughts?" Pah! 50 miles or bust!
Of course, I was the last to arrive at Burchard Park. The other 7 guys were ready to go: C1 (C-uno), C3, Huss, McBuffie, Anthony, Jeff, and Justin. I was truly amazed that these guys were willing to run through the night. I at least had winter vacation to look forward to - I could sleep in and take naps as I wished. These other guys all had regular work to return to, and Jeff and Justin both have young kids at home! Yet, they were all there, and after waiting for about 20 minutes to speak with the Weston Police (to ensure our cars were not towed), we started out into the cold, dark (and rather wet) woods.
The miles themselves passed fairly easily (although by 22 miles C3 was complaining of cramps, and, not to be outdone, C-uno said he was on the verge of a heart attack. Sandbaggers.). The trails were wet, but the weather was pretty mild (several folks were running in shorts), and I think we were all a bit relieved that we were not facing the rain from earlier in the day. I managed to keep us (mostly) on track (a feat I am rather proud of given the circuitous nature of the course), and the time was punctuated by a lot of flatulence-based discussion (funny how the conversation of eight grown men is not much different than the conversation of my 4 and 6 year old boys. I think the main difference is that the 8 men can produce a much higher volume of methane than the 4 and 6 year old.), the occasional Superman fall, a run in with, what I thought to be, some sort of blood thirsty cult/pagan worshipers (turns out it was just some Weston residents out celebrating the winter solstice with candles. What were they thinking? Out in the woods in the middle of the night!), and C1 trying to turn this into a biathlon by swimming through one of the stream crossings. Still, we managed to finish the first loop about 2 minutes before midnight, at which point we all held hands and comforted each other before the impending Mayan apocalypse, and, when that failed to materialize, swore to never mention the tears we had all shed in fear. Some folks said goodbye at this point to either embrace their families, avoid cardiac emergency, and/or try to capture at least a few hours of sleep. Four of us remained (Justin, McBuffie, Anthony, and myself - all who happen to be running 100 miles at the Double Top 100 on March 2 in Georgia). After a wardrobe change by the other three (seriously, it was like something out of a Broadway production, with changing pants, shirts, jackets, and probably shoes and undergarments too).
The pace picked up the next 4.5 mile section and when we got back to the cars, Justin was ready to fall asleep (the dude has a 6 month old, and as a teacher in Grafton, wakes up at 4 every morning. Hard-nosed), so he made the reasonable choice and called it a day (night?). Justin had been the first to say "50 miles or bust" so a bit of the steam was taken from my sails. Although I felt gfine physically, mentally, I started thinking that the next 20 miles were going to take us at least 4 more hours, and I wasn't getting home much before 6 AM. So, when McBuffie, Anthony and I reached the next aid stop 2 miles later, I was rather happy to see three enormous grizzlies there, snacking on our vittles. Anthony or McBuffie had not run that fast all night, as they both hysterically fled into the woods. Being the calm, incredibly tough person that I am, I stood to face the grizzlies alone (do not concern yourself with the fact that at this time of year bears are hibernating or the fact that grizzlies tend not to live east of the Mississippi outside of zoos). I dispatched of them quickly, saving my prized "Ginger Balls" (considered by many to be the source of much of the night's flatulence) and then ran back into the woods to gather my two companions (their shrill cries made them easy to track). After this unexpected ursine encounter (and after calming both Anthony and Michael down), we decided it would behoove us to return to the cars and call it a run. I stopped the clock at 33.6 miles, a figure I was pleased with, as I turned 33 a couple of days post-run.
And so it was that I managed to survive a birthday run injury free (in the 5 days since, I've been in Vermont and have managed to run up a mountain (albeit slowly, in some deep snow) and run from my folks' to my sister's, a back road journey of 25 miles (into a headwind, which froze my eyeballs and water bottle). But the birthday/overnight run was quite memorable as I also got to share some good miles with some great friends. Perhaps we have hit upon another great TARC tradition, the "Shortest Day - Run Long" (SDRL), which may grow to have a DRB-like following. Afterall, the course is equally as confusing and, as of the first running of the 50 miler, there is a 0% finishers rate. Registration for next year's run will be open soon. The fee will be a bottle of Gas-X.
This story necessitates a bit of background. My birthday is December 24th (and, despite what everyone thinks, I've always enjoyed having my birthday the day before Christmas. I owe much of this to my mom, who made sure I had a "special" day every year (and continues to do so)). For the past several years, I have sought to celebrate my birthday with a "big" run. It started four years ago by running from my folks' house in Waterbury, VT up to the old log cabin (built by my parents) where I grew up at the base of Camel's Hump in Duxbury, VT. I had been battling an injury, but survived this 20-miler with no issue. The next year I was too injured to run, and then last year, Liz suggested I run from our place to New Hampshire to meet her and the boys at a Burger King off the highway. This 37-miler ended with me unable to walk the last 8 miles, and hitchhiking on a back road in rural New Hampshire, with the temperature hovering around 5 degrees. I couldn't run for over a week after this. So it was with a certain amount of trepidation that I approached this year's birthday run. Naturally, given my proclivity for hurting myself on these runs, I decided to be conservative this year and run through the woods, overnight, for 50 miles.
Improved judgement aside, what made this year different than the previous three was that I decided to make it a social gathering. I've been rather fortunate over the last couple of years to become friends with a great group of people through running. So, about two or three weeks before the "birthday" run, I sent out an email to those crazy folks who live near me with two options for the run. Plan A was to start at a reasonable hour on Saturday morning, running the 50 miles and getting home before dinner. Plan B was to put the kids to bed, meet up at 7:00 PM and run through the night. In a demonstration of their foolhardiness, Plan B was the unanimous pick from all those involved. So it was that I found myself, on the longest night of the year, making Ramen noodles and stuffing them into my kids' thermos, and dropping them off with homemade "Ginger Balls" (recipe available upon request - they are actually quite good), Coke, water, and energy gels at various points in the woods of Weston, MA. 50 miles or bust!
Friday morning, I faced a bit of a dilemma. It was supposed to rain very hard. My bike was at school. I wanted to get as much sleep as possible, knowing I would be running 50 miles overnight, but, alas, after many crashes on my bike, I am truly scared of riding in any sort of inclement weather. So I ran the 7.5 miles to school (more miles, more smiles!), and even managed to stay dry. The dry weather did not last, and for several hours that day the skies unleashed a deluge. Liz and the boys kindly picked me up at school, and in the time it took them to drive from Arlington to Charlestown, the skies cleared and the sun came out. I merely laughed at the emails and texts I had received throughout the day concerning the night's run, asking things like, "Is this thing still on?" or "Any second thoughts?" Pah! 50 miles or bust!
Of course, I was the last to arrive at Burchard Park. The other 7 guys were ready to go: C1 (C-uno), C3, Huss, McBuffie, Anthony, Jeff, and Justin. I was truly amazed that these guys were willing to run through the night. I at least had winter vacation to look forward to - I could sleep in and take naps as I wished. These other guys all had regular work to return to, and Jeff and Justin both have young kids at home! Yet, they were all there, and after waiting for about 20 minutes to speak with the Weston Police (to ensure our cars were not towed), we started out into the cold, dark (and rather wet) woods.
The miles themselves passed fairly easily (although by 22 miles C3 was complaining of cramps, and, not to be outdone, C-uno said he was on the verge of a heart attack. Sandbaggers.). The trails were wet, but the weather was pretty mild (several folks were running in shorts), and I think we were all a bit relieved that we were not facing the rain from earlier in the day. I managed to keep us (mostly) on track (a feat I am rather proud of given the circuitous nature of the course), and the time was punctuated by a lot of flatulence-based discussion (funny how the conversation of eight grown men is not much different than the conversation of my 4 and 6 year old boys. I think the main difference is that the 8 men can produce a much higher volume of methane than the 4 and 6 year old.), the occasional Superman fall, a run in with, what I thought to be, some sort of blood thirsty cult/pagan worshipers (turns out it was just some Weston residents out celebrating the winter solstice with candles. What were they thinking? Out in the woods in the middle of the night!), and C1 trying to turn this into a biathlon by swimming through one of the stream crossings. Still, we managed to finish the first loop about 2 minutes before midnight, at which point we all held hands and comforted each other before the impending Mayan apocalypse, and, when that failed to materialize, swore to never mention the tears we had all shed in fear. Some folks said goodbye at this point to either embrace their families, avoid cardiac emergency, and/or try to capture at least a few hours of sleep. Four of us remained (Justin, McBuffie, Anthony, and myself - all who happen to be running 100 miles at the Double Top 100 on March 2 in Georgia). After a wardrobe change by the other three (seriously, it was like something out of a Broadway production, with changing pants, shirts, jackets, and probably shoes and undergarments too).
The pace picked up the next 4.5 mile section and when we got back to the cars, Justin was ready to fall asleep (the dude has a 6 month old, and as a teacher in Grafton, wakes up at 4 every morning. Hard-nosed), so he made the reasonable choice and called it a day (night?). Justin had been the first to say "50 miles or bust" so a bit of the steam was taken from my sails. Although I felt gfine physically, mentally, I started thinking that the next 20 miles were going to take us at least 4 more hours, and I wasn't getting home much before 6 AM. So, when McBuffie, Anthony and I reached the next aid stop 2 miles later, I was rather happy to see three enormous grizzlies there, snacking on our vittles. Anthony or McBuffie had not run that fast all night, as they both hysterically fled into the woods. Being the calm, incredibly tough person that I am, I stood to face the grizzlies alone (do not concern yourself with the fact that at this time of year bears are hibernating or the fact that grizzlies tend not to live east of the Mississippi outside of zoos). I dispatched of them quickly, saving my prized "Ginger Balls" (considered by many to be the source of much of the night's flatulence) and then ran back into the woods to gather my two companions (their shrill cries made them easy to track). After this unexpected ursine encounter (and after calming both Anthony and Michael down), we decided it would behoove us to return to the cars and call it a run. I stopped the clock at 33.6 miles, a figure I was pleased with, as I turned 33 a couple of days post-run.
And so it was that I managed to survive a birthday run injury free (in the 5 days since, I've been in Vermont and have managed to run up a mountain (albeit slowly, in some deep snow) and run from my folks' to my sister's, a back road journey of 25 miles (into a headwind, which froze my eyeballs and water bottle). But the birthday/overnight run was quite memorable as I also got to share some good miles with some great friends. Perhaps we have hit upon another great TARC tradition, the "Shortest Day - Run Long" (SDRL), which may grow to have a DRB-like following. Afterall, the course is equally as confusing and, as of the first running of the 50 miler, there is a 0% finishers rate. Registration for next year's run will be open soon. The fee will be a bottle of Gas-X.
Thursday, November 8, 2012
Stone Cat 2012: Diesel-san's Psychic Network
In the days leading
up to Stone Cat 2012, an online conversation began between Bob “Diesel-san”
Crowley, Sam “T.I.M.” Jurek, and myself. Diesel-san initiated by sending
T.I.M. (which stands for The Invisible Man, a moniker, which, after Stone Cat,
speaks for itself) and me an inspirational video. Naturally the
electronic “conversation” turned to how we were feeling, strategies for race
day, and other such pre-race perseverations. At the end of the
ruminations, in his zen/Yoda-esque wisdom, Diesel-san said:
I've a really good feeling for both of you. You're
relaxed, approaching this as fun - not a task - and I'll think you'll both
enjoy each other's company and push each other. My prediction? You
go 1 and 2 and both break the record. Who pants who to take the top
podium spot? I'd go with rock, paper, scissors . . .
Diesel-san is currently enjoying a winning streak in Vegas.
For many reasons Stone Cat 2012 was an important race for me, personally and as a runner. As such, this write-up is going to delve into my own personal running psychosis. Brevity has never been a strength (heck, I run ultras!), so be warned.
As I’ve written before, at the conclusion of Western States in June, I was in a complete running funk. My body was lethargic all summer, my running confidence was crushed because of unmet expectations at Western, and my personal spirit/energy were thrown into our new house and time with the family (not a bad thing at all). 10 milers were daunting. My GPS told me my pace was slow.
September marked a gradual change in the winds and my thoughts turned to tackling Stone Cat once again. My running was coming around and my body had a spark. I stopped running with a watch and simply ran by feel, for joy. After my last big training run on the course, two weeks before, I was legitimately excited for the whole Stone Cat experience and decided to run the race sans-watch, a first for me. Sam and I made a plan for race day: run much more conservatively than last year by complete the first two loops in the 1:35 range (last year we ran these in 1:28), plug into music for the 3rd and 4th loops, wear the slick new TARC singlets, and he would drive me to the race. On Saturday morning he was early. He was clearly ready to go.
The most memorable part about the drive up to Ipswich was how the night before we both had been thinking that we might as well just “go for it” and chuck our conservative game plan out the door. Why not just run hard from the start? We laughed at ourselves.
Pre-race at Doyon Elementary is always fun, like a family reunion of sorts. I got a kick out of handing RD-extraordinaire, Marty, a loaf of bread and some cheese (I had been ribbed for my mind-boggling consumption of grilled cheese at the finish last year and had promised Marty to make amends). As Sam and I set out our extra bottles and gear for quick ins/outs at the start/finish, we caught up with Sebastien, who, in his first 50, placed 2nd at Stone Cat last year, and had just run some fast marathons and 50s. Despite the convivial mood, my mind was focused on besting my 6:29 from last year and, hopefully, running under Ben Nephew’s course record (6:24).
As we lined up to go, I noticed my headlamp seemed weak. I asked Sam if it was on, and he told me it wasn’t. I was pretty sure I had already turned it on. I tried again. As we ran down the field it was not a big deal, but when we hit the woods, I noticed my lamp, again, was not on. For the third time, I turned it on. Seconds later it went out. Curses! I had even thought about switching the batteries the night before. I asked Sam if I could just follow him. He graciously said yes, as, on the first hill, Sebastien made an early move and put a bit of a gap on us. I tried my headlamp again. Seconds later it was out. I decided not to try it again. (Two little asides about this. First, at one point both Sam and Sebastien got off course. I must be eating a lot of carrots because I, the one without the headlamp, was able to see the trail. Second, when I got home, I explained the technical difficulties to my family and took out my headlamp to demonstrate. Wouldn’t you know, the thing burned brightly, without fail, as I shook and tossed it, for about ten minutes before finally shutting it off. My mom, who was visiting, told me it was my Uncle Norm (who recently lost a battle with cancer), ever the trickster, just reminding me to not take myself too seriously. Thanks Uncle Norm. Your misadventures continue and I appreciate that you didn’t send a buck charging at me.).
The first loop continued as such, Sebastien a minute up on Sam and I, and Jack Bailey (who I had the pleasure of running with a bit with at the VT 100 this summer) running with us. We came in to the start/finish, got a read on Sebastien’s lead (almost exactly a minute), and were back out without breaking stride. The clock read 1:30. As we started the 2nd loop Sam and I put a bit of a gap on Jack and were running together, strong. We started joking that we were just as foolish as last year, but neither of us suggested we slow. On the 2nd loop Sebastien maintained his lead. Sam and I plugged away, and after the 2nd aid station I started to feel the pace a little. I settled behind Sam and he did the work. With about 1.5 miles before the start/finish I broke what had been a very quiet time and said, “Sam this is the least we’ve ever talked on a run.” He laughed and said, “We’re just conserving energy.” That was the extent of our conversation for the majority of those 12.5 miles. We finished the loop in 1:29, 2:59 elapsed. Sebastien had the exact same lead on us. And then my wheels nearly came off.
As we grabbed our fresh bottles at the start/finish for some reason (that I am yet to figure out) I became a deflated balloon. Sam quickly gapped me by maintaining our previous pace. I knew the pace had been solid, and I desperately wanted to keep stride with T.I.M. (Sam = The Invisible Man, or T.I.M. because of his speed), to help him close the minute lead Sebastien had. By the top of the first hill T.I.M.. was, well, invisible to me. The next 6 or 7 miles were what I will remember as my self-pity party. I wasn’t bonking, my energy was good, but my legs just couldn’t keep up. An emotional highlight came 2 miles into this loop when someone yelled at me, “Your brother is just a minute ahead.” I know it was to do with our TARC shirts, but Sam and I have shared a lot of miles and everything that comes with that (he was the reason I finished Western States), and whoever said this does not know how meaningful his comment was to me. Just coasting it in the last two loops sounded really appealing, but I couldn’t let my “brother” down. Yet my legs just weren’t responding. And then music saved my day.
After never using it before, in August I started listening to music while running (Liz gave me the gift of a new iPod Shuffle - it weighs less than half an ounce!). I have to admit, it is great. And, as I plodded along, pitying myself and my slowing legs, all of a sudden a remixed version of John Denver’s classic Country Roads pumped through my tiny iPod. It wasn’t the song itself, but the image of my younger son, Jacoby, singing along to one particularly upbeat section. This thought put a smile on my face and I remembered that my family was going to be at the finish line. The idea of finishing with my two boys made me, in a word, happy. My legs seemed to respond. I dropped the negative thoughts, which had been a near-constant companion for the first 8 or so miles of the loop, and told myself, “It is going to hurt, but simply enjoy it. Sam is up there. Sebastien is up there. Go.” The last 4 miles or so went a lot better. I also knew that my friend (and winner of many TARC races), Eric Ahern, was going to be running the 4th loop with me. I saw Sam and Sebastien on the out-and-back section at the start of the course. Sebastien was about 6 or 7 minutes up on me and Sam was about 40 seconds behind him. I shouted my encouragement to both (although tempted to tell Sam to wait for me, I saw he was ready to crush it). Seeing him moving so well buoyed my spirit further, and, when I met Eric at the edge of field, things picked up. The loop was slower than I wanted, but not as bad as it had felt: 1:39.
I have run a bunch with Eric. I’ve noticed something each time: he literally floats. The plan was for him to just be a few feet in front of me and basically drag me through the 4th loop. At first his graceful stride annoyed me as my feet clopped along. But it quickly inspired. He was a machine, and my mind was on autopilot. It was just what I needed. The negative thoughts were gone. It was just a matter of how fast we could get it done. I said all of 5 words the whole loop, but grunted a lot. We were moving well enough by the first aid station that I started thinking we would be closing on Sam and Sebastien. When we would see runners up ahead I immediately thought it was one of them. We pulled into the 2nd aid station and Bill Howard (who, if you don’t know him, is currently in the running for one of the top-ten greatest people in the world) told me they were just minutes up (the simple fact that he understood my incoherent inquiry speaks to his greatness). It was on.
Eric pushed me through those last 5+ miles. And just when I thought third was my spot that day, we hit a long straightaway, just before you make a left on a little U singletrack, about 3 miles from the finish, and I saw someone 100 yards up. “Eric, I think that’s Sebastien.” (My five words for the loop). “You’re right. Let’s go!” We shouted encouragement to Sebastien, who had clearly hit a very rough spot, but I ran as hard as I could. I didn’t look back. I saw Eric check and asked how far back he was. “He’s out of sight.” We ran harder. Visions of catching Sam and finishing together, in our slick new TARC singlets (seriously the most comfortable running shirt I’ve ever worn) now danced in my head. As Eric and I turned onto the new singletrack leading to the car, Jeff Lane (who was a champion volunteer at that intersection all day) told us that Sam had just come through the other side. I knew we wouldn’t catch him, but we still ran hard.
We hit the field, the last 200 yards to the finish, and I let out a yell, a sort of cathartic release, my spirit telling my body that I had recovered from unmet expectations. That I had found joy in my running, had run hard, and run well. And, just as they had said, my family was there at the finish, my mom, my sister, my nephews, my wife, and my boys. Running the last few steps with them was amazing. I felt no pain. It was pure joy. Sam had waited at the finish (even though he came in 5 minutes ahead of me). We had fulfilled Diesel-san’s prophecy, coming in 1 - 2, both under the old course record. I may have lost the rock/paper/scissors for the win (at one point I tried to throw a real rock at Sam so I could catch up. He was too fast), but I’ve never had a more fulfilling race.
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| A father's greatest joy: finishing with my two boys, Cooper (in red, with the Mohawk) and Jacoby (in stripes). |
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| The "TARC Brothers," all smiles (I might be grimacing - hard to tell) at the finish. Sweet new shirts! |
Stone Cat 2012 will be remembered as being an as close to perfect ending to the 2012 competitive season as I could have wished for. If Marty will have me, I’ll be back for sure (bread and cheese in hand!).
Gear note: For those interested, I wore inov-8’s new Trailroc 245s. Best shoes the company makes. And, as I said, no blisters or lost toenails. That speaks for itself!
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Sisyphus Smiles
A few days before this school year started I read a book that my father gave me as a "housewarming" present, Buddha in the Classroom, by Donna Quesada. It is her memoir of being a burned-out community college professor, returning to her learnings as a Zen practitioner to find a renewed passion for her work. The book had collected dust for months, and I had simply picked it up as a means to not doing anything to actually prepare for the fast-approaching school year (burned out high school teacher much?). It is a shame I let the book sit for so long, because there have been many lessons and ideas from it that have brought a renewed passion to my work. Chief among them was a profoundly simple, yet incredibly powerful, image that has stuck in my head: Sisyphus smiling.
Several years ago I became fascinated by the Greek myth of Sisyphus - the king punished by the gods for his hubris and made to push an enormous rock up a hill only to watch it roll back down and then compelled to repeat the process, for all eternity. It made me feel smart knowing the story. I felt even smarter when I would glibly use "Sisyphean" in conversation. There was nothing positive about Sisyphus's chore. He was wretched. The task was pointless. It never ended and was always repeated. It sounds a lot like training for an ultra (minus the endorphins and shiny new belt buckle at the end). Misery comes to mind. Until you picture him smiling.
The idea is so simple: here is Sisyphus, the wretch, interminably pushing his boulder up the hill, watching it roll down and repeating. In my mind he was always completely defeated, hopeless. And then, as I read this short passage, everything about the picture changed. Imagining Sisyphus smiling, embracing his situation as his reality, not wanting a different past or a different future, but accepting the present, the scene totally changed. He was no longer hopeless, but happy in his acceptance of the situation. I discussed this image with my students. They said things like, "Maybe he's happy because he's getting stronger," or, "It's kinda fun to push rocks down a hill." The point, for me at least, is that there is something to take joy in, to find happiness in, from almost any situation, if we simply accept it and smile. (A little aside here: the idea of imagining Sisyphus smiling originally came from the French absurdist/nihilist, Albert Camus. This past weekend I was on a run with some TARC friends and met a guy doing his graduate work in theology, Paul. I brought up this idea created by, "Al-bert Cam-us," said just like that, with a nice American accent. Paul was gracious enough to wait until later (when I suggested that I had butchered the name) to tell me (very politely and with no pretension) that it is actually "Cah-moo." I went home and also found out that his first name is pronounced, "Al-bear" with a sort of rolling r sound. Freakin' French.).
Should I ever get a tattoo (no plans to), I think it would be an image of Sisyphus smiling (maybe an emoticon instead?). I have thought about it nearly ever day since coming across it in the book. I have used it in my classroom when conferencing with students or trying to explain an assignment (for the 7th time). I have used it while running when the legs feel leaden and tired (or fleet and spry!). I have used it when I find myself wishing I were somewhere else than were I am (after-school meetings, stuck behind that insanely slow (I mean 10 mph slow) driver all the way to the Y). I'm sure that I'm missing much of the nuance of the philosophical reasoning with my simply interpretation, but I'm okay with that because right now it makes sense to me. It has helped me rethink situations and find deeper joy in tasks and activities that just weeks ago I struggled to get through (running and, to a certain extent, teaching). Picturing Sisyphus smiling through his labor, I stopped wearing my GPS on every run. With no watch, all of a sudden runs were not being judged "good" or "bad" based on a time. Some are faster and at a greater effort because that is what happens at that time. Some are slower. Some I try to get lost on. Some are direct to/from school. I've come to embrace every step. No run is good or bad, but it simply is and I am content with that. It's amazing what a little change in perspective can do.
Several years ago I became fascinated by the Greek myth of Sisyphus - the king punished by the gods for his hubris and made to push an enormous rock up a hill only to watch it roll back down and then compelled to repeat the process, for all eternity. It made me feel smart knowing the story. I felt even smarter when I would glibly use "Sisyphean" in conversation. There was nothing positive about Sisyphus's chore. He was wretched. The task was pointless. It never ended and was always repeated. It sounds a lot like training for an ultra (minus the endorphins and shiny new belt buckle at the end). Misery comes to mind. Until you picture him smiling.
The idea is so simple: here is Sisyphus, the wretch, interminably pushing his boulder up the hill, watching it roll down and repeating. In my mind he was always completely defeated, hopeless. And then, as I read this short passage, everything about the picture changed. Imagining Sisyphus smiling, embracing his situation as his reality, not wanting a different past or a different future, but accepting the present, the scene totally changed. He was no longer hopeless, but happy in his acceptance of the situation. I discussed this image with my students. They said things like, "Maybe he's happy because he's getting stronger," or, "It's kinda fun to push rocks down a hill." The point, for me at least, is that there is something to take joy in, to find happiness in, from almost any situation, if we simply accept it and smile. (A little aside here: the idea of imagining Sisyphus smiling originally came from the French absurdist/nihilist, Albert Camus. This past weekend I was on a run with some TARC friends and met a guy doing his graduate work in theology, Paul. I brought up this idea created by, "Al-bert Cam-us," said just like that, with a nice American accent. Paul was gracious enough to wait until later (when I suggested that I had butchered the name) to tell me (very politely and with no pretension) that it is actually "Cah-moo." I went home and also found out that his first name is pronounced, "Al-bear" with a sort of rolling r sound. Freakin' French.).
Should I ever get a tattoo (no plans to), I think it would be an image of Sisyphus smiling (maybe an emoticon instead?). I have thought about it nearly ever day since coming across it in the book. I have used it in my classroom when conferencing with students or trying to explain an assignment (for the 7th time). I have used it while running when the legs feel leaden and tired (or fleet and spry!). I have used it when I find myself wishing I were somewhere else than were I am (after-school meetings, stuck behind that insanely slow (I mean 10 mph slow) driver all the way to the Y). I'm sure that I'm missing much of the nuance of the philosophical reasoning with my simply interpretation, but I'm okay with that because right now it makes sense to me. It has helped me rethink situations and find deeper joy in tasks and activities that just weeks ago I struggled to get through (running and, to a certain extent, teaching). Picturing Sisyphus smiling through his labor, I stopped wearing my GPS on every run. With no watch, all of a sudden runs were not being judged "good" or "bad" based on a time. Some are faster and at a greater effort because that is what happens at that time. Some are slower. Some I try to get lost on. Some are direct to/from school. I've come to embrace every step. No run is good or bad, but it simply is and I am content with that. It's amazing what a little change in perspective can do.
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| That's more like it. Nice shades too! |
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| Yeah, doing this once looks pretty awful. Don't worry, only all of eternity to go . . . |
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