What a Year

2011 was a tough year but it had its rewards. I ran a ridiculously wet and cold 50KM at the Mud Puppies where I actually felt colder than at any point during Susitna. I experienced my first DNF at Mohican, after 60-some miles in unbelievable heat and humidity, to say nothing of the unexpectedly brutal course. Six weeks later, I again cooked my brain and body in debilitating heat at Burning River but this time I overcame the night demons (on a course that was WAY more difficult than expected) and finished. I paced in two races, two perfect strangers for about 60-70km each, helping them finish their first 100 milers and making new friends in the process. Finally, I ran across the Grand Canyon and back, spraying Gatorade through my mouth and nose all over the South Kaibab trail on the way back up, swearing I would never do anything that stupid again only to find myself signing up for the Leadville 100 on the first day registration opened and then put my name in the Western States lottery.

Funny to think that I’m one of the more reasonable ultrarunners. That being said, I’ve now added some more amazing memories to my list of things I will never regret doing. I believe that those memories will be important when comes the time when most of the day is spent reminiscing, sitting on the rocking chair and telling stories that nobody believes or really cares about.

I do have some regrets about this year, although they were beyond my control. I do wish that I had been able to train a little bit more this year. As proud as I am of what I accomplished, things at work were so insane that I just didn’t have the mental energy required to run the volume that I should have. On the other hand, work was really interesting so what are you going to do?

What’s in store for 2012?  Well, my first big race will be in June, either Western States if I get in or I’m going back for redemption at Mohican. Then, the summer will be spent rebuilding to get ready for Leadville on August 18-19th. Leadville scares the shit out of me, because it’s not just a little dip at altitude, it’s a full 100 miles above 9000 feet, going as high as 12,500 feet. The highest point in Western States (8700 ft) is lower than the lowest point in Leadville (9200 ft). Four big climbs, including two huge ones. For a wannabe like me, this is going to be a big challenge. I’m freaking myself out as I’m writing this so enough said.

To try to save me from my poor decision making, I will once again ask Derrick to train me. Derrick has his own problems with impulse control (he just signed up for the Yukon Arctic Ultra 100 miler), but he did do an amazing job of getting me ready for the two 100 milers that he trained me for. There isn’t much he can do for my poor flat-lander, sea-level lungs but I’m sure he will get me as ready as I can be.

Depending on how devastated I am after Leadville, I would like to rebuild over September and October and run the Javalina 100, near Phoenix in Arizona. We will see about that one, but it’s close to our place and I could make a vacation out of it.

For now, I’m barely running. I’m fat. I don’t care. One needs some rest, so I’m recharging my mental batteries until the new year and then it will be time to start taking things more seriously.

R2R2R Epic Report

I wasn't really ready for an effort of this magnitude  (a recurring theme this year). Sure, I've run long distances this summer, with some decent climbs, at least for an east coast runner. The thing is, it's easy to look at r2r2r only as numbers. Forty-two miles, 11,000 feet of climbing. Doesn't sound too bad. Well, once again, reality came knocking.

Chris, Steve and I have been planning for this adventure for about a year. A group of OUSER runners did the R2R2R last year and we've have R2R2R-envy ever since. In the last few months, two more runners joined the group: Johnny and Kendra. On Sunday the 23rd, they all flew into Phoenix. I picked them up at the airport and we drove to our condo in Sedona where we immediately went for an hour shakedown run on the local trails.  On Monday morning we got ready and departed for Grand Canyon, where we had reserved two rooms at the Yavapai lodge in the park itself. We took our sweet time, stopping a few times along the way to see the sights.

Chapel

I was the only one who had seen the Canyon previously.  At the first view point, we stopped the car, got out and just stood there, saying things like "holy fuck!" or "Jesus Christ!".  Pictures don't give the Grand Canyon justice and the thought that we could make it to the other side, let alone come back, in one day, eating a handful of gels and power bars, seemed ludicrous.

First look at the Grand Canyon

 We found a place to park the minivan near the South Kaibab trail head and walked there for a quick recon. By then, I had butterfly in my stomach. We all went down a bit down the trail to get a taste and took a few pictures. We were all excited, babbling like little kids, asking questions to hikers coming up the trail. Following the advice of local Sedona runners who had done r2r2r many times, we had pretty much decided to stick to the South Kaibab trail for the return trip, rather than take the longer, but shallower Bright Angel trail. With the cool temperatures that were on the forecast, the lack of water on South Kaibab would not be an issue and saving two miles, even at the cost of an extra 500 feet of climbing, seemed like a great idea.

Trail winding down

We got our rooms, got dinner and went to bed around 9:00 PM.  By 4:30 AM all five of us are standing at the trail head, with winds of about 25 miles/hr blowing in our face. We all have backpacks containing 3 litre bladders filled with our drink of choice as well as food, clothes and electronics. We can see nothing outside of the circle of lights created by our headlamps. We try to take a group picture, but we're all chomping at the bit, anxious to begin and we just go.

 We follow each other cautiously, the wind picking up dust, at time reminding me of a snow storm. It's obvious from the start that the group's pace is not comfortable for everyone but we stick more or less together.  After a fairly short distance, we get to an exposed section where we lose the trail for a minute. We pull out the map in the wind and get our bearings. There's only one trail and we eventually find it and keep going. The trail is pretty nice but I'm cautious. The thought of tripping freaks me right out. Some of the sections are nicer than other but some require us to jump down steps or rocks. We go down for over 90 minutes in the dark, my quads slowly starting to feel the burn. Johnny decides to push ahead and will be waiting for us at the Phantom Ranch at the bottom of the canyon. As we approach the bottom, we see lamps below, slowly moving up and we start meeting hikers on their way out of the canyon after sleeping at the ranch or at the campground. Most look a bit grumpy and we just say "hi" and keep going. As we near the bottom, daylight makes an appearance and we can see the suspension bridge crossing the Colorado river below us. The river is pretty damn big. We get there, cross the bridge and push on to the Phantom Ranch where we join John at around 6:15 AM. We've run 7 miles and come down 5000 feet. I still feel great, my legs are good. The worse part of coming down was the constant breaking and I didn't really breathe hard during the descent.

At the Phantom Ranch

At the ranch, we decide to break up the group. The two faster guys want to go by themselves. Us slowpokes decide to stick together. The trail from the ranch to the Pump House is about 7 miles of gentle-ish uphill. We take our time and take lots of pictures and movies. The running in this 7 miles section, from Phantom Ranch to the Pumphouse, is pretty good. We walk a few of the bigger hills, but by this time Kendra is in front setting a nice pace and she likes to run the uphills to "use different muscle groups". The weather is still perfect, with a light cloud cover that prevents the sun from making the temperature uncomfortably hot. From the web site we know that all the water sources are still on, except for the taps at the very top of the North Rim. That's good news because that means we won't need to purify any water.

Bottom of the North Side

The real climbing starts near the Pump House. The trail starts to hug the canyon wall and for the most past the trail becomes an unending 4-to-6 feet wide ledge that climbs up and up and up. The surface is ok, but a few sections are dicey and now that it's daytime, we can see clearly what could happen should we slip or trip so we tend to stay close to the wall rather than the other side, where a moment of inattention can send you down some huge cliff. Slowly, we go up. There isn't much running anymore. Every 10 minutes we stop to take pictures or look around. We can't believe how incredible this is. We can see what we believe to be the top, but as much as we climb, it doesn't seem to be getting any closer. The two guys forgot to leave one of the two maps with us, so we're a bit fuzzy about the distances between some of the landmarks.

Yes, it was scary at times

Eventually, we  hear some voices and here are Johnny and Steve, coming back down. They tell us we're less than an hour from the top. They also ask us if we saw the map they left for us way back near the Ribbon Falls side trail. I had seen some markings, but I definitely saw no map so we figured somebody took it. Steve tells us they'll be waiting for us in the car at the trailhead. They resume their descent and we keep climbing. I'm really starting to huff-and-puff. As we get closer to 8000 feet, my breathing is getting louder and louder. Kendra seems to barely notice and just keeps going. I'm feeling ok, but this altitude is starting to get to me.

We're meeting quite a few people hiking down from the North Rim now.  Most people are just going down for a short hike, but some are going all the way across, sleeping first at the Cottonwood campground, then at Bright Angel and finally at Indian Garden.

Finally, after more climbing, some more amazing vistas and some rain, I hear a hoot from Kendra and I figure she made it to the summit where Chris and I join her a minute later, some time around 12:15. As we sit in from of the top marker to take the requisite picture, hail starts to fall down and we decide to go down where the temperature is a bit warmer.

At the top, North Rim

The difference coming down is amazing. Sections that took hours are dispatched in minutes. We stop at a little rest area after the Supai tunnel to fill our bladders and eat a bit. A bunch of hikers are there and we exchange a few stories. I'm feeling good but I'm getting sick of Gatorade. My initial plan was to drink eLoad but I couldn't find any and the taste of Gatorade is starting to get to me. I pop my last two Tylenol to calm my right Achilles that are starting to get a bit tender. I decide not to switch to water but rather stick to Gatorade. In retrospect, this was probably a mistake. I had been drinking what I thought was diluted Gatorade but in reality was full strength. The US mixing instructions were in quarts and gallons and cups and I somehow got confused when translating to litres. Add gels and other solids and what you have is way too much sugar in my stomach. We're going down at an easy pace though, so I'm feeling ok. Down the narrow switchbacks we go. Just as the sun comes out a bit and things get a bit warm, the trail switches canyon wall and we get in the shade. In what now seems like no time at all, we're back at the Pump House where we stop to drink and eat a bit.

Supai Tunnel near top of North Rim

The trail joins the river and now we're on the 8.5 miles stretch to the Ranch. Easy running, but starting to get harder. The views are still out of this world. The walls of the side canyon we're running in are slowly closing in around us and the feeling of being somewhere special is sometimes overwhelming.  Sometimes, we can see the South Rim, far ahead and I have a hard time believing that I'm going to be climbing that in a few hours. Everything is just so big.

About 2 miles from Phantom Ranch, I'm at the back of our little group and I hear a high pitched scream followed by "SNAKE!". Kendra just jumped over a rattlesnake that was getting itself warm near a rock on the trail. She saw it too late when it started to rattle and had to choice but to just jump over it. When I see it, it's coiled and a bit miffed. It slowly gets off the trail. My camera decides to chose that time to refuse to boot up but Chris gets a good picture and a short clip.

Kendra almost stepped on this rattlesnake

After that, we tend to look down rather than up. After this long day, I'm starting to feel the strain and the thought of climbing up the South Rim is a bit daunting. Chris looks a bit stiff but Kendra is just as bouncy as she was in the morning. I don't know what Crossfit does, but it seems to be doing Something. We keep talking about how we're going to try to buy a cold bottle of Coke at the ranch and how great it's going to be. Eventually, we get to the ranch, but there's no Coke to be bought. Our money is no good down here, and not in a good sense. We sit near the water faucet and rest a bit. Chris looks like shit. I don't notice it, but apparently I'm really bloated and I'm walking around with my gut sticking out. I feel fine though and I drink a bit, refill and put more Gatorade in my bladder. I'm out of Tylenol, but I want to make sure my Achilles don't bother me too much on the way up so I take two Excedrin. After 10 or 15 minutes, we get going again and get to the bridge at 5:30PM.

On our way up South Kaybab

Less than 7 miles to go. Cake. We figure 3 hours, maybe 3:30. AH!

The South Kaibab trail is pretty scenic and the first 30 minutes are impressive. Beautiful views in the sunset and all that. Then it gets dark and all we have to do is climb. And climb. And climb. There's nothing to look at, we just look at the circle created by our headlamp and walk up. As we go up, I'm starting to get a bit nauseous.  Then, a bit becomes quite a bit, then really nauseous. When we stop, it seems to get worse. I'm really edgy. I start wishing that I hadn't taken those Excedrin. I keep thinking that the caffeine rush is too much in my weakened state. I'm not a puker. I have not puked since 1994, when I got a stomach flu that got the better of me. Before that, I puked in 1980 after eating some "magic" brownies that gave me the munchies, causing a chain reaction. My point is, I do get nauseous but I don't puke. Now, I don't remember feeling this retched. About 4 miles from the top, I call for a break. I sit on a rock, my feet spread apart, looking at the donkey shit on the trail. I'm so sick of Gatorade. Kendra offers water but I'm not too sure about that either. Chris says "One of two things will happen, you'll feel better or you'll throw up".  Deferring to Chris' vast experience in all things puke-related, I take a solid pull from Kendra's water. Fifteen seconds later, I'm starring in disbelief as a powerful jet of Gatorade sprays out of my mouth (not unlike a scene from the Exorcist) and splashes on the trail splattering my shoes. And again. Then some more. Just as I think this is over, my gut seems to get into second gear and spasms even harder, pushing ever more liquids out my mouth and my nose. Unbelievable. A part of me is wondering if it's possible to drown doing this. Slowly, my abs calm down and I feel a bit better. I look around and Chris is so tired that hasn't moved, he's still standing right there, one hand on the wall of the canyon, looking at me with clinical, detached interest: "I know exactly how you feel", he says.

All we saw for 4 hours

I get up and we get going. We get to a sign that says "Trail Head 3.5 miles". Fuck. I was hoping for something like 1.5 miles. We get to a flatter area, probably Skeleton Point and I'm actually feeling better. As soon as we start climbing again though, the nausea comes back though. I keep calling for breaks. My non-puking streaks, that used to last for decades, now only last minutes. I have no energy. I'm pretty sure all the Gatorade and food I ingested since Phantom Ranch, maybe from even earlier, are gone. Every switchback, I look up hoping to see an easy section. Every time, my spirits sink when I see another long, steep climb. The wind has picked up and we put warmer clothes on. It rains a bit. Kendra is in front, cheering me up the trail.

South Kaibab in daylight

It's a weird feeling, being on the side of that wall, knowing you have to get yourself out. I'm not really in trouble. I'm just so fucking tired, going on fumes, and I want to get to the top but I can't get to the top if I don't move. I fantasize aloud about getting my space blanket out and having a nap. Kendra does not approve of the idea. Breaks go from being every 30 minutes to 15 minutes then 5 minutes. Un-fucking believable. I remember being more mentally distressed during 100 milers, but I've NEVER felt this weak before. My legs feel hollow. I puke a total of 5 times going up that fucking wall, then things get a bit better except for the fact that I'm sooo tired. I'm kind of resigning myself to the fact that this will never end. This trail will just keep going forever. And then, all of a sudden: WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT? I see a sign, telling people not to attempt to go down the canyon and up the same day! That has to be close to the top! I perk right up. We keep going. A few minutes later, a "No Dogs Allowed" sign. I KNOW that fucking sign! Steve and I came here yesterday! We're here! We climb up a couple of switchbacks and all of a sudden, a see a flat paved area and a couple of steps. Not a log, not a pile of rocks: honest to God steps. We're on top. We group-hug. We've done it. In traditional ultra fashion, I swear I will never do this again, just as I've sworn after every hundred miler I've run that I would never again subject myself to such misery. We all know what that's worth.

I see some lights in the parking lot but I go the wrong way to get there. I turn around and walk toward the car. I keep thinking the guys are going to come out and congratulate us, singing songs and carrying us on their shoulders. I get to the car and both of them are asleep, the engine running. Jesus, what if they died from CO2 poisoning? What am I going to do? Poor me!  Of course, they are fine and they let us in after I knock on the window. It feels like 100 degrees in the car. I wedge myself in the back seat. I feel so content right now. It's 10PM. What was supposed to be a 3 to 4 hour climb turned into a 5h30 hour pain-fest. Who cares? We fucking finished. There are no cut-offs here. You either do it or you don't.

We decide to sleep in the park again if we can find rooms. Nobody wants to drive. Sure enough, we find two rooms. We buy a couple of pizzas and after a long search for the elusive lodge, we finds the block we're looking for and get inside. I can't eat yet. I have a shower and still I can't eat. I drink ice-cold coke and Ginger ale like it's going out of style, but after one little bit of pizza, I call it quits and go to sleep without eating. Don't worry, I ate plenty the next day!

This was an epic adventure that I recommend to anyone who can do it. The sights, the trails, the climbs, the misery, everything I experienced was MORE than I expected. Everyone finished. Some faster than others, but everybody had a blast. This run was challenging for me. I had just not trained as much as I should have. Still, I have no regrets. Even going up that wall, puking my guts out every 30 minutes, I knew I was doing something special that I would remember for the rest of my life, something that only a lucky few are ever able to accomplish. All I had to do is what we all do: keep moving forward, relentless forward motion.

R2R2R

Just a quick post to let you know that all five people in our group successfully finished the Grand Canyon double traverse in times varying from 12:30 to 17:30. Of course, I was with the slower group. The run was way more challenging than I expected. Full race report coming up soon.

Grand Canyon

A week from now I'm going to run across the Grand Canyon ... Twice. I'm really excited about this classic bucket-list item. Classic if you're an ultra runner, of course. My wife thinks we're utterly out of our minds.

Just in case you're not familiar with the Rim-to-rim-to-rim (r2r2r for short), it's a 45-ish mile run that typically starts on the south rim of the Grand Canyon. Two trails go down, the Bright Angel trail and the South Kaibab trail. The Bright Angel trail is longer but less steep. It also has a few water sources. The South Kaibab is a bit steeper but shorter with no access to water. Once at the bottom, the trails end at a suspension bridge that crosses the Colorado river. On the north side, there is only one trail that goes up, the North Kaibab trail. The South Rim is at 6800 feet. We will descend to 2400 feet, cross the bridge over the Colorado River, climb to 8240 feet at the North Rim, and then return. Altogether, the elevation gain, including some ups and downs along the way will be about 11,000 feet. It's going to be Epic.

At this point of the racing season, I'm in ok shape, nothing more. I peaked for Burning River and I've been trying to maintain a minimum of distance ever since. I paced Kendra for 70km about a month ago at Haliburton and since then I've done a couple of 4+ hour runs on trail. My weekly totals have been lackluster due to work. It is so crazy at work that my wife prefers that I run rather than work. Anyhoot, this ain't a race so all I need is to be in decent shape, which I am, and be well prepared. The temperature should be nice as long as we're ready for the near 0C at the start at 4AM and then up to 30-33C in the afternoon. Granted, it's a dry heat (ah, ah), but there is NO shade.

This run is going to be different from any other run I've ever done. For one thing, anyone who has ever been to the Grand Canyon knows that the very idea of crossing it in one day is ludicrous. Doing it twice seems impossible. I've been there twice. The second time was last Fall and we already had formed a plan of coming this year. When the view hit me, I have to admit that my resolve faltered a bit. Holy shit, it's big and it's barren! It's beautiful though.

Another thing that's special about the run is that you see where you're going. It's only 10 miles away, as the crow flies. The other side might as well be on the moon, it looks so unreachable.

I'll try to be a good boy and take some pictures and maybe some video. See you next week.

Running On Empty

Last weekend I paced another runner, Kendra Olson, at the Haliburton Forest 100 miler. This was the only significant running I had done since Burning River at the end of July. I did go for a guilt run of 20 km the weekend before Haliburton, but that was just to determine whether it was even remotely possible for me to pace. Other than, that my runs were mainly short 30-to-60 minute runs near my house.

I could have run more, if it weren’t for work. Work is completely crazy right now. Hugely interesting and crazy-busy, a fatal combination when it comes to my running. With modern virtual teams spanning multiple time zones, lunch runs become a theoretical fiction. By the time I’m done, it’s time for dinner and then I’m just too mentally beat to go out later. Repeat the next day. In “The Lore Of Running”, Tim Noakes stipulates that it’s impossible to run hard and work hard at the same time. I now believe him. Just maintaining the pitiful volume that I’m running now requires some effort. My wife is now pestering me more, saying I run too much AND work too much.

Anyway, my runner finished. I spent 14 hours running overnight from 8 PM until 10:30 the next morning, a total of 70 km. It was a full moon in a cloudless sky, not a hint of wind, cool but not cold (well, not TOO cold). Kendra was a trooper and she hardly complained, except for random announcements that she couldn't run anymore. She would usually say that just before she started to run. We talked a lot about running and people who run. Funny how a relatively short distance like that leaves you completely drained. Running overnight is hard, especially without feeling the mental reinforcement that comes with racing. You are pursuing a secondary goal, basically helping someone accomplish something that makes no sense to begin with.

Kendra says she will never run a hundred miler again. Maybe she won’t. I don’t understand why I will do it again, so I sure can’t judge anyone who decides not to. Another friend, who had just finished her first 50 Miler, was a bit shaken by her experience even though she did really well. Talking to her about it afterward, I could see that she had been caught by surprise by how physical a 50 miler becomes, to the point of questioning whether it was worth it. Obviously, she’s the one who needs to decide where her personal limit stands. Where does insanity start, 50 km, 50 miles, 100 miles or further?

For my part, I find that doing something insane once in a while heals my soul. Somehow, standing at the finish line after the race physically beat up, mentally exhausted and emotionally drained, despite how weak I am, I feel certain that there is something in me that is more than it was a day or so ago. That certainty fades away slowly over time, I guess, and that might be why the urge comes back after a while.

In our world of daily responsibilities, cause and effects and pervasive yes/no technology, is it that crazy that I sometimes feel the need to escape into insanity, if only for a little while?

Burning River 100 Race Report

Anyone signing up for a hundred miler in Ohio at the end of July has some kind of mental issues. Chances are that it WILL be hot and it WILL be humid. I’d like to think that I’m a smart person, but I did sign up for Burning River. I blame my so-called friends for peer-pressuring me into it.

Here’s the story.

Six of us drove down to Cuyahoga Falls in style, having rented a Toyota minivan: Kim (Chris’ crew), Chris (runner), Steve(runner), Stephen (runner), Adi (Steve’s pacer) and me. Spirits were high and we discussed the usual ultra topics at length. Our Garmin GPS guided us to our hotel, which was directly across the street from the finish line. After getting our rooms, we immediately grabbed our drop bags and went to register and … drop off our drop bags. The pasta dinner was ok. We went to bed early, around 9:30. That was not the most restful sleep I ever had, but my phone woke me up at 2:15AM. By 3:15, we were all in one of the 3 shuttle buses driving us to the start line up near Cleveland.

It was warm and muggy. At the line, I met with Carlos (see his blog here) and Gail Anne, who run many of the OUSER races. After a quick stop at the porta-potty (lights are very useful in there when it’s pitch dark), we waited for the start.

At 5:00AM sharp, we were gone. The first 10 miles or so are on road. This fact made me decide to run in my Mizuno Wave Ascend 5 instead of my Crosslites. I knew there were other sections of either pavement, bike path and tow path that were not a good match for my beloved shoes so I went with the Mizunos. They are in the garbage can as I type this. I ran part of the road section with my friends but I had already decided that I was doing this by myself and I stopped to pee and never tried to catch up.

I have to admit that I can barely remember the first 30 miles. Aid stations ticking by. Rumors that a runner had been hit by a car. Desperate hunt for a toilet. Talking to a runner racing without water bottles (really? I was running with two.). I DO remember that it was hot and getting hotter. Sometimes, the trails would go up and down and you would feel what felt like a 10 degree drop (or increase) in temperature within a few seconds. When I got to Shadow Lake (19 miles), someone already hadmy drop bag in hand and I sprayed myself with sunscreen and kept moving.

Other than the road-like sections, I'm not sure there is a single flat on the course. The trail sections were an endless cycle of going up something that is smaller than a mountain but definitely bigger than a hill, going down said obstacle usually almost straight down, totally busting your toes and quads, crossing a stream and then repeat. A few sections had great views of waterfalls that made me regret not bringing my camera.

The one section I remember well is referred to as "The Tow Path". No shade, straight, hot, goes on forever. I was on a strict 25 run/5 walk diet but the temptation to drop to a walk was very strong. At the end, the urge to get it over with won and I stuck with my program. Aid stations are far enough apart that sometimes you need a goal that you can wrap your hands around. A walk break within 25 minutes is a nice goal to have. Eventually, I made it to Station Road Bridge and I was a third done, 33 miles in. A lot of people were hurting at that aid station from the direct exposure to the sun. I took a bit more time than at previous stations, but I tried to get out of there as fast as possible. I filled my bottles, put ice under my hat and in my buff, which I put around my neck. I was cooking. Thankfully, the trail following the aid station had decent cover so it didn't feel quite as hot.

Somewhere after Station Road Bridge, I caught up with Chris, who was having some ankle issues, as well as heat issues. We ran together for a while but I eventually pulled away. Hills were getting bigger, the trails a bit more rugged. Running the full 25 minutes before taking a walk break was becoming more and more difficult. I was drenched with sweat with no hope of relief. I got to Boston Store, 49.1 miles, shortly after 4:30 PM. I still felt somewhat ok, especially compared to Mohican where I was a wreck at 50 miles. Kim was already there waiting for Chris and I sat in her chair for a while, ate some soup, changed my socks and cinglet. I had to do a 4.4 mile loop before continuing forward. Just before I left, Steve shows up having just finished his loop and announced he wanted to quit. I don't know how serious he was but I told him what I thought of that idea. The loop started with a long flat followed by some hilly road and finally I got back to Boston Store. I was now more than halfway done. I changed my hat for a buff, changed my bottles for my Nathan vest filled with half ice/half Gatorade, put my lights on and after eating some more I got out of there. Food was losing its appeal. Even cold drinks didn't feel all that great. The heat was really getting to me now and I felt a continuous low grade nausea.

Just as I was thinking about how stinking hot it was, some guy passes me wearing a full body mosquito suit, including the fucking head net. I ask him if he was training for some jungle race but he told me it was because there were some bugs in the sections to the finish. Wonder if he finished. Anyway, now I'm starting to hurt. Drinking is a chore. Eating becomes more and more difficult. The thought of having a gel is so repulsive that I can't even contemplate it. The trails are a series of unending climbs followed by quad and toe busting downhills. As I get close to Pine Lane I hear some screaming. Bees are running wild stinging runners left and right. I see a woman being helped by volunteers after being stung 3 times. Somehow I get through unstung, refill at the aid station and get back out. Of course, this is an out and back section so we have to run passed the crazy bees again but again, I get away with it.

I'm so tired. It's getting dark and I push on with my lights on. Things are fuzzy. I run, I walk, I run some more. This is when I remember how hard it is to run 100 miles. After the race, you forget but after 65, 70 miles, your body remembers. It is so hard not to quit, the temptation is almost overwhelming. To be honest, I remember nothing until shortly before I finally get to Pine Hollow, mile 70, a bit after midnight. I remember walking with this guy who had been hit by a car. He went to the hospital, got a ride back 2 hours later who dropped him off where he got hit and then started running again. Now, he's decided to quit with 30 miles to go. I probably have 10 or more hours of running left. I want this to stop. I swear to myself that I will never run another 100 miler. But I need to finish this one. I do my loop and when I come back an hour later, I get my drop bag, change my clothes, chat a bit with Kim and a volunteer and get the Hell out of there. Cut offs are far enough away that I don't really worry about them but they're not that far either. I push on.

The section to Covered Bridge is a nightmare that I can't remember. 6.6 miles in the bush, all by myself. Every five minutes, I wonder if I missed a turn even though this course is very well marked. I keep thinking I'm off course. Up. Down. Cross a stream. Up again. Repeat. Eventually, I get close to Covered Bridge and I see the dark outline of a huge hill. Of course, I see a light moving near the top. Fuck. At the aid station I get some rest and refill my vest. I try to eat a saltine cracker. After a while I go out for my loop, another fucking nightmare. As I get out of the aid station, a guy is puking so loudly that I ask a volunteer if it’s a joke. I saw someone in the first 5 minutes, a grown man crying telling his pacer that he’s sorry but he can’t go on, his feet are just to painful.  I'm pretty sure I didn't see anyone until I finished the loop. By now, the sun is rising, I know I only have 15 miles to go and things are looking up. I may just finish this thing. I don't spend much time at the aid station. I say hi to Chris, who just got pulled off the course because he missed the cut off and I leave. He’s sitting in a chair with a space blanket wrapped around him. He looks like what I feel.

The rest of the course is mainly roads, bike and tow paths although there are some trail sections. I try to run as much as I can but it's not going well. It's getting warmer by the minute. I'm so nauseous I'm afraid I might puke any minute. I can barely drink a few sips of water once in a while. Eventually, a guy named Wayne catches up to me and we pull each other for a while. As we get close to the finish, we run faster and faster. We're passing quite a few runners, who probably think we're assholes for passing them so close to the finish but we don't care. We just want this to be over. Eventually, we cross the finish line (28h55min) and I almost cry, I'm so happy this is over.

Sitting in a chair at the finish is Adam, a guy with whom I ran big chunks of Susitna last year. He finished almost an hour ahead of me. Small world. His father physically lifts me up and sits me in his chair and we chat for a while. After about 20 minutes I walk across the street to the hotel. As I walk in the parking lot, I start sobbing because I’m so relieved this is over. It only lasts a few seconds and then I'm under control again, I go up to my room and jump in the shower.

This race was supposed to be easier than this. Instead, it ended up being my toughest race yet. My feet were completely destroyed. I could barely eat or drink for the last 10 hours. I'm happy I raced my own race. I believe that's why I was able to finish. Go fast when I can, go slow when I have to. Still, that one was a bitch.

Pre-race - Burning River 100

It's funny how one can feel great after 35 miles and be completely destroyed at 50. That's what I remember from Mohican. Going from feeling ok, maybe even felling good, to feeling like I couldn't go on within the span of what felt like a few miles.  I don't remember feeling in-between at any point. Good, then horrible.

No need to tell you that I feel a bit gun-shy about Burning River this coming weekend. I used to feel invicible. I used to think that (barring an injury) I could just push on no matter what.  I knew that the temptation to quit is always strong, I've felt its siren song many times before, but I thought I could always overcome it.  I guess that's one reason we run ultras. We want to find out what it takes to break our will. Mohican bitch-slapped me. I didn't see it coming. My ears are still ringing.

One of the biggest challenge at BR will be the heat. As hot as Mohican was, the course was almost entirely in the shade whereas BR has a lot more road and tow path where we will be running in the sun. The forecasts are for pretty warm weather, but then again, we're running in Ohio on July 30th. It's not like it's unexpected. I'm going to go with a 25 minutes run/5 minutes walk schedule, same as Susitna. My thoughts are that heat is even more debilitating than cold, so I need to recovery time. I will take the time to take care of myself, eat, take my salt and drink. The key will be to keep a good walking pace.  When it's all said and done, in the second half of the race, a solid walking pace is not much slower than running, where the term "running" only loosely describe what I'm doing.

For the first time, I plan on not using my Crosslites, at least for the first 20 miles. The first 10 miles are on road, so I want to save my legs a bit and the Crosslites are a bit lacking on the cushioning side. I will wear my Mizuno Wave Ascend 5 trail shoes and plan A is to run the whole race in them. I've never run very long in the Mizunos so I'm not sure how my feet will react. They have a bit of a road shoe feel to them, similar to my old Wave Riders 11. I'll have a pair of Crosslites in both my 19 mile and my 50 mile drop bags.  I'll put my old Wave Riders in my 75 mile drop bag just in case but I probably won't use them. I'm still hesitating about the hydration system. Probably start with two hand-held so I get a good start on the calorie intake, switch to the Nathan vest at 50 mile. Something like that.

Still, I'm excited about this race. Nothing else would have satisfied my need for redemption. God forbid I had to wait until September or later to try again.  When I was in my teen, I had a car accident and I wrecked my car. I was fine physically but mentally shaken. The next day, my mother told me to take her car and drive for a while. The longer you wait, she said, the worse it's going to be.  That's how I feel now. I need to give it another try now. Not just to the distance, but rather the distance, the humidity AND the heat. BR is just what the doctor ordered. My only reservation is the amount of road/tow path, around 25% or basically a full marathon. Personally, I prefer trails, where you don't have that long strip of asphalt/gravel ahead of you. I guess it could mean a fast time, but I don't really care about time for time sake. What does a 24h hundred miler means out of context? It's all about the course, right?  It's a little bit like life, you don't want to see too far ahead. You need to be able to imagine some surprises are waiting around the corner or else things can get a little boring.

Like they say, it's all about the journey.