I’ve been running recreationally for most of my adult life,
mostly for weight maintenance and the endorphin rush. Up until 2005, I’d put in no more than 20 or so miles
per week, and that would be a long week.
When I retired from the Navy in ’05 I decided to try marathons – one
per year, just to see if I could do it. We lived in the UK at the time. I trained using a version of Hal
Higdon’s programs (my longest would be 23 miles, and my max volume would be
maybe 45 miles/week), and ran my first one, the flat Kent Coastal
Marathon. It hurt, and I bonked hard, but I got my sub-4 hour
goal, vowing at the finish line that, “I will never do that again.” This vow would not be honored. I ended up running three more maras: Snowdonia, Yorkshireman, and Loch Ness, in Wales, England, and Scotland, respectively. When
we returned to the US, I did a thru-hike of the Appalachian Trail in '12 (here is my journal for that), and when I
came back continued training for the marathon distance. I
ran Adirondack twice,Vermont City, and my marathon work culminated in Boston ('16). From there I made the move to ultras, in August of '16. Just because.
I’m an ultramarathon neophyte. I’d only done three of these things so
far: the Moosalamoo Trail Ultra (36
miles), the TARC Fall Classic (50K), and the Vermont 50 (50 miles). I felt good about those races. They were very do-able, didn’t kill me, and I
placed well in them. I expected a
9:30-10:00 or so for the VT50 and ended up running faster, so that gave me the
bright idea to push harder and longer.
That’s why I’m here. I never ran track or cross country in high school;
college was about studying, partying, and getting plump. In college I thought
it would be a bright idea to run a 10K. I was probably trying to impress a
girl. I came in at 59 min, vomited, and
marveled over my profusely bleeding nipples and ultra-chafed inner thighs. Drop dead sexy.
I think it is safe to say that any marathoner can make a
fairly easy transition to races of 50 miles and below. There may be an increase
in weekly volume, and practice doing back to back long runs to get accustomed
to tired legs is de rigeur, but the routine is largely the same. Hundred milers are different. Once I decided to go for 100s, I thought it
best to get a coach. So, I went with the
whole on-line coaching thing and asked Karl Meltzer if he would take me on. I
chose to go with Karl for several reasons: (1) I like Karl’s style. He’s a no bullshit guy who has his race
philosophy dialed in; (2) he’s won more 100 mile races than anyone on the
planet; (3) though younger than me, he is closer to my age (55) than most of
the young turks out there who hang up their coaching shingles; (4) I respect
his dedication to the AT and in breaking the FKT last year; and (5) he is
originally from New England and knows the terrain and conditions in which I’d
be training. The process has been great,
and Karl has been a huge asset for me. I report in every Monday and send him an
update video with thoughts and comments on my training week, and he provides
guidance and a weekly plan. But as I
said, never having been coached in running, I was not familiar with the methods
or the lexicon. So, at the beginning,
when he told me that Wednesday would be my “speed work” day, I didn’t really
know what that meant. I had to ask him what “progressives” are. I had no idea how to do “intervals.” I had never done that stuff. I had only run my miles by feel and never
really dove into anything beyond that.
Pretty comical, actually. Karl,
in a utter lapse of good judgment, has agreed to coach me through to the
Vermont 100 in July '17, as well. I look
forward to it.
Travel and Prep
The trip started when I left work on Tuesday (1/31/17).
Work. I’m an infrastructure security
planner for the State of Vermont. All day, my head had barely been in the game,
anticipating the race on Saturday. Neither especially nervous nor particularly
anxious, I was, I suppose, distracted. Distracted by the travel to come,
distracted by the coming mental stress, distracted by the new level of
physicality I was to experience. I drank
my morning coffee hot and black, slogged through some e-mails, read a document
on cybersecurity, chatted with colleagues about things trivial and grim,
executed a few bureaucratic necessities, got a nice slow 7-mile run done with a
colleague, and went home. That night I packed, double-checked my gear, sat down, and reviewed my rather silly and compulsively planned race strategy, realizing fully that, as with most plans, and this being my
first 100 mile race, it would encounter reality, and then promptly implode. I was right. Read on.
I woke up on Wednesday (2/1/17), said my farewells to Carol,
Ben, and Ethan as they went off to do their days, had a couple of fried eggs, did 30
minutes on the elliptical to get the blood flowing, and went out for a 7-mile
run in the snow. My last run in Vermont, before the race. The crisp, clean 19
degree air refreshed and calmed me. I
appreciated the run that morning from my house in the hills because I knew I
would be soon be racing in the Texan heat and humidity,
something to which I am certainly not accustomed. I’ve been training for this race for the past
4 months in the Vermont Fall and Winter; temps and conditions have been
extreme, mostly bitter cold. I wondered how the southwestern
climes would affect my effort. And then, of course, in the midst of my reveries,
I fell. Sure, I did. My pace had been a slow
and relaxing 9 min mile (target pace for Loop 1 at Rocky) and I lost myself in
the moments. Then I found myself on my
ass after having slipped on a patch of black ice under some snow. I went down hard, banging up my right hip,
elbow, and knee. I got up, shook it off,
and starting moving forward, but the knee hurt. A lot. I was worried for a
minute or two. I walked a while, then
started to jog slowly. Nothing broken.
Just a bruise to the knee and the dignity. It couldn’t have been an elegant tumble. They
never are with me.
My flight was to leave early on Thursday (2/2/17) from Manchester, NH. So, I drove down Wednesday afternoon and stayed in a La Quinta, where I could do
some work, get a good night’s sleep, park the car, and shuttle over to the flughaven for an early morning launch. Good
plan. I got to Manchester in short
order, checked in, and after doing some work, binge-watching Bosch for a while, and having a cold,
cheap beer in a large can (being a beer snob, I was embarrassed), I realized I was famished. The stomach was
loud and yelling at me in a language borborygmous and guttural. I opted for Chinese. I can’t
remember the name of the place but there is a 90% probability it contained the
word, “Jade,” or “Emperor,” or “Express.” Noodles sounded great, I craved
carbs, so I went with the “Special”
House Chow Fun, and a couple of spring rolls.
The Chow Fun was dense, thick, brown, and festooned with all manner of
unidentifiable proteins. I couldn’t tell
the chicken from the pork from the beef; it was all pale, gray, and shiny with
oil. Gingery, but unremarkable. It was
too rich for my gut. I’ve been eating
healthily, and now this insult, this vague nausea. That’s OK, though; the race will likely also bring
me the same delights, although I expect the nausea to be more acute and
substantial.
The spring rolls were crisp, tasty, and filling. Each was the size of a
Trident D5 missile.
Thursday morning came quickly. I arose at 3:15, showered, packed, had a
coffee, and met the shuttle at 4:00. The
driver guy was hilarious. A local Manchester cabbie with a thick accent, and
thicker gray hair, he proceeded to start talking and did not stop until we reached the terminal. I grunted a
bit here and there, when he asked, “You know what I mean, brother?” It was my
cue to respond. Politics was his
focus. While not a full-on Trumpista,
he was a moderate/right Democrat (“A JFK Dem, not a Teddy Dem, mind you.”), who
feels strongly that America ought to be
first, and that we should take care of our
own, especially when it comes to Social
Security, his pet peeve. He wasn’t a fan of Mexicans.
In the airport, I went through security, as you do. I had originally planned on checking a bag,
and had packed a really sweet knife I’d gotten when I worked as an intelligence
officer for a SEAL team back in the day. I figured it would be good for killing
gators if attacked on the course, also to slice blisters open. Then, when I decided to carry on both bags, I
forgot to remove the damned thing from the one I was going to check. TSA found it and took it. I was pissed, but it was my own fault. Nice knife.
Oh, here’s a helpful tip, racers:
when you have 8 or 9 little packets of Gu all squeezed together in a
drop bag, apparently, it looks like a brick of C4. So, they made me unpack my
stuff and show them that it was only tiny servings of the heinous gut paste.
Once through security and its concomitant frustrations and
trauma to dignity, I went down to Dunkin’ to grab a coffee.
The counter attendant looked like Edward James Olmos with a misshapen
grayish bun atop the head. She was very
nice though, and the coffee was hot.
The flight took off and I fell asleep immediately. I was
awakened by a bit of a ruckus directly in front of me and to the right, on the aisle. An older gentlemen had passed out and could
not be resuscitated. His travel partners
were frantic as they shook him, yelled, and slapped his face. They called a flight attendant who then made
an announcement asking if there was a doctor on the flight. There was.
A short, swarthy, dark-haired man wearing gray suede Nikes walked
purposefully down the aisle with stethoscope and BP cuff in hand. He took charge of things. Quite some drama.
Now here’s where I have to concede being a bit of an asshat. I woke up at the beginning of this medical donnybrook. My first impulse was not, "Oh, poor chap, I hope he's OK." Nope. My first thought was, “Oh, for the love of
God. Are you kidding me? I hope to Christ that this plane is over
halfway there so we don’t have to turn around.
I have a race to get to.” Like I
said. An asshat. Selfish.
And I’m not even a millennial.
Turns out the man was OK. They
gave him some oxygen, he was met at BWI by some paramedics, and he walked off the
plane under his own power. I was happy for him.
The flight to Austin was uneventful. I’m glad I came into
Austin; the ticket was much cheaper than flying to Houston. Turns out the Super Bowl is being held down
there this weekend. It would be a zoo
getting out of there on Monday. I got my rental car, stopped for a greasy Sonic
cheeseburger which went down easily, and drove the three hours to Huntsville. The
rental rig was a Nissan Sentra which vibrated and whined whenever I went faster
than 70. Annoying as hell. I was forced
to listen to 80’s glam rock standards to mask the noise. Nothin’ But a Good Time, indeed.
Upon arrival at La Quinta, Huntsville, I changed into my
running kit and went out for my last pre-run shake-out, a jaunty 5-miler. Felt
good. Nice to undo some of the travel-sloth. On Thursday night, it was dinner at Los
Pericos (The Parrots), a well-regarded local cantina, consisting of a margarita (rocks), chile con
queso, and an enormous plate of chicken fajitas, guac, beans, salsa, and dirty
rice. Pile this on the homemade corn
tortillas, as light and delicate as tasteful lingerie, and you have yourself a
meal. Following this up with longnecks
of Lone Star, Dos Equis, and a Corona, I rolled myself back to the room and became
comatose, somehow making an effortless transition to slumber.
I awoke on
Friday (2/3/17) morning having slept a solid 8 hours. I felt rested. I fueled up at Denny’s with coffee, some
eggs, toast, sausage, and hash browns, hung out there and read the news for a
while, then headed off to get hair cut off my head. I reasoned that going into
the race with a shorn skull might make me more aerodynamic and improve my time by
5-6 seconds over 100 miles. I’m
tactical, you see. At 3 pm, I headed over to the race venue at Huntsville State
Park to check-in, pick up my number, leave my drop bag for delivery to
Damnation aid station, and listen to the race briefing. The rest of the day was spent lounging around,
trying to get my head around the task in front of me, checking my gear, reviewing my plan, watching UFO abduction documentaries on Netflix, and staying off my feet. At the end of the evening and on the advice of a one Mr. Jack Pilla, Vermont ultra-running brahmin, I did a good luck pre-race shot of tequila at the cantina next door and went to bed
around 8, anticipating an early morning wake-up.
Sleep was fitful and I arose just before 3 am (2/4/17). I probably got a total of 5 hours in 1-2 hour
blocks, none of it REM. Once up, I
changed into my running gear and walked up to the gas station for some coffee
and breakfast. This done I returned,
collected my things and left for the race, arriving at the park at 4:45. I had an hour and a quarter to kill so I
donned the headlamp, brought my drop bag to the Start/Finish (aka Dogwood Aid
Station), and strolled around a bit in the low 40’s chill (perfect conditions
for me), people-watching. Being there
utterly on my own, I envied those racers with a crew. We were now ready to join the gaggle and wait
for the start. I had butterflies. It was to begin.
The Race
Lap 1
Goal: 3 hrs (9:00 min/mile) Actual: 3:14 (9:44 min/mile)
We launched at 6:00 on the nose, several hundred headlamps
dancing around in the darkness like glow sticks at a rave (or so I’m told).
Benighted, we’d be moving like this for about an hour. My first tactical error
was starting as far back as I did in the cluster of souls. It cost me dearly (7-8 min) in the first 4
miles. We were channelized on single
track heading out and it was very difficult to pass. Lesson learned. I consider myself a “top
third mid-pack” runner, and I should place myself in the start that way in
future races. Consequently, after mile
5, I had to speed up and try to make up some time, and in doing so I was
injudicious in my foot placement and tweaked my left ankle a few times. Nothing
horrible, but just a reminder to be more aware.
The Nature Center aid station was mayhem, the good kind. We could hear those crazy bastards screaming
their support seemingly a mile away. I
honestly thought the high-pitched screams were coyotes. Until I heard the
cowbells. We need more
cowbell. After the long Jeep road,
straight into Damnation where I managed to put a couple of sub-9 miles
together, I stopped, fueled with Pringles, bananas, and orange slices, filled
my bottle, dropped off my headlamp, and took off. That 7-mile Damnation loop was interminable.
I stopped at Damnation again to fuel and hydrate on the way back and pushed the
last 7 miles to the Start/Finish. I was 14 minutes behind plan when I finished. Also, I
learned that I don’t like running by headlamp.
I needed to file that away for later. At Dogwood, I changed out my
handheld for the Salomon vest because I wanted to ensure I had ample water,
since my pace was a bit slower than I’d wanted.
Lap 2
Goal: 3:15 hrs (9:45 min/mile) Actual: 3:26 (10:20 min/mile)
It was light out. Temps were perfect in the high 40s. I was feeling strong and confident that I
could make up some time. Nutrition was
good, my Tailwind was treating me right, no bonk or anything close. I knew my
race pace plan was ambitious, but I still felt I could stay close to my time
hacks, and put together a strong showing. Once again running through Nature Center
and saluting the madmen there, I put my head down and focused on getting to the
Jeep road to do some speed work and get to Damnation. It was not to be.
[I read a book in grad school by the Nigerian
author Chinua Achebe called Things Fall
Apart. The book is a novel about British imperialism in sub-Saharan Africa. The title, taken from a Yeats poem, is one that has stayed with me all
these years because it is a meta-statement of an eternal
existential truth: No matter the domain-
personal, familial, political, professional, intellectual, physical, or athletic- things
fall apart. Cosmic entropy made human.
Shit happens.]
I was going down a slight incline curving a wee bit to the
right. The trail was cambered to the left and I am a supinator, so all of physics
was against me. Now the grim part. I must have lost concentration for an instant
and I came down wrong on my left foot. My ankle gave out, and what seems like all
of my 162 pounds came down on the thing.
I heard a crack before the pain hit. I howled in agony and hit the dirt
at the same time. I was bewildered, dizzy, and nauseous. “My race is over,” was my very first thought.
There was a woman I had just greeted and passed on the trail a minute
back. She saw the whole thing happen,
and just passed by, with a dull bovine stare in her eyes. No words, no offer of
assistance. She is now forever “that Bitch,” to me. I sat on the side of the trail, head in hand, trying to process
this event, struggling to not lose it and to find equilibrium. Another racer I had passed earlier
came by a couple of minutes later, saw me sitting and stopped to check in to
see if I was OK. I thanked him and told
him to push on and I’d be alright. It was only a mile or so back to Nature
Center and I could get myself there if I had to drop out. Dizzy, I stood up. I gently put weight on the ankle and it bore
up. It was tender and sore, but not
broken. The crack was either a branch
snapping, rocks colliding, or maybe the timing box on my left leg had hit a stone
and made a clicking sound. Funny what the mind does. I really thought I'd broken my ankle. I could walk, and I did. I placed the left foot down very deliberately
to maintain its vertical angle and not twist or bend it. The pain dulled and I made way, slowly. I
started to jog and it felt very sore but bearable. I felt I could continue. Not prettily, but relentlessly progressing forward, as they say. I made it to the Jeep road heading to
Damnation where the terrain was flat and forgiving. I moved from jog to run and was able to do it
with only mild pain as long as I attended to foot placement on every stride.
The body has this remarkable natural analgesic ability. How? I
don’t know. After Damnation I moved from
Jeep road to trail again, and it was okay. I managed to get myself over the course, but
the sprain changed my game. A sub-20 was
no longer in play for this race. I had to give
up on that and I had to be careful. My
ankle was damaged and my confidence moving over technical trail was
compromised. This was my new reality and
I had to deal with it, and adjust.
(Later, after I completed the race, my wife, my sons, my Mom, my friends
at work, (and I) would ask, “Do you think it was wise to continue?” What they all wanted to say was, “Hey
dumbass. You should have dropped out.”) I get it. Doing 75 trail miles on a sprain like that isn't too bright. Sometimes my stubbornness has its way with my rational mind.
Here is the ankle right after the race:
Here is the ankle right after the race:
Lap 3
Goal: 3:30 hrs (10:30 min/mile) Actual: 4:03
(12:09 min/mile)
This loop went surprisingly well, considering my
sprain. I knew it would be my last
circuit of the course in full daylight so I had to find the correct balance of
maximizing pace in good visibility while continuing to be super attentive to
the foot, as I had for Loop 2. One more strain and fall like I’d had would be
the end of it. This enhanced concentration on my left foot strike angle and
placement was mentally exhausting, and it slowly, insidiously, took its toll. I wasn’t fast but I was careful and I made it
through the circuit looking forward to contact with my loved ones at
the end of it. I also was excited about changing into a fresh pair of socks and my Hoka Challengers. I’m not exactly
sure, but I’m wondering if the Hoka Stinsons I’d been running in exacerbated
the pronation, or not. I love the maximalist
cushioning because it feels good, but there does seem to be an element of instability
to the shoe as well, in keeping the foot up so high. I finished this loop and was 60 miles in to
the race at 10:47, a respectable time, if not blazing. Only 40 miles to go. I went into the drop bag area and changed
shoes and socks, grabbed my mobile to call my family, rigged up my watch
charger (so I could get the whole thing on Strava and review it later), threw on the head lamp (dreading the darkness to come – a sentiment which
applies to ultras and to Life, btw), did a shot of hot ramen broth and noodles, and
headed out with exactly 11:00 on the clock. It was a long break
to reset myself at the aid station, but I needed it. My
stomach had started to go south at around mile 50 and nothing seemed
appealing. I never vomited, but only barely kept stuff
down. Pickle juice worked for me in the
VT50, but not in this one. I tried it and it was repellant. Also, chocolate
felt like wax in my mouth. Tailwind was always good to go, though. That, the ramen, bananas, and grapefruit
wedges, seemed to do the trick and settle my gut. Bottom line, I don’t think I
have my nutrition fully dialed in. Gotta work on that.
Lap 4
Goal: 3:45 hrs (11:15 min/mile) Actual: 5:28 (16:25 min/mile)
As I left Dogwood, I called to check in with my family. It was so great to hear their voices. I told them about the fall, my sanity was
questioned, and we hung up with promises to “See ya soon.” I did the math, and figured at this point,
that I wanted to get through the next two loops in no more than 11 hours. This would put me right at around 22 hours,
give or take. I also knew that I only
had an hour or two of daylight left, so I had to maximize that. This loop saw me jogging tentatively and
gingerly, as best I could while it was light out. Then, when I finally had to illuminate the
ground in front of me, I slowed down. I
did try to run by headlight, but only on the flat, rootless terrain, not the single
track. LED lighting messes with my depth perception. While running was out, I called upon the
muscle memory of hiking the Appalachian Trail in 2012, and Vermont’s Long Trail
in 2016. I could speed hike and get
about 4 mph over ground. So, I jogged
when I could and speed hiked intensely- head forward, eyes front, legs pumping-
the rest of the time, getting me in with a 5:28 split for that lap. Slow, but necessary, and with 16:30 or so on
the clock with only one lap to go, I felt very good that I would get a sub-24, maybe even come in under 23 hours.
A far cry from my original goal, but I was making lemonade.
Lap 5
Goal: 4 hrs (12:00 min/mile) Actual: 6:23 (19:09 min/mile)
I left in a good mood, considering. I had music: Classic
Rock, 14th Century Madrigals, Metal, Opera, soundtracks from musicals. It helped take my mind off
of the bad things in life like my ankle issue, global overpopulation, and Tilley hats. The last part of Loop
4 had ground me down to the nub and I felt my body start to give up. I didn’t
want to eat or drink. My hip flexors
were as taught as a tightrope. My ankle throbbed and looked like an enormous
engorged pale tick. My knees felt like tiny invisible elves were hammering chisels into them. And my quads burned with the fire of suns. I’d hoped I could sustain somewhere around a
4 mph pace. It was not to be. I managed
just over 3 mph. Adequate to get the job
done, but I was definitely fading. I was out there for a while but I
powered through, anticipating crossing that timing pad with each step,
throwing my arms up, and promptly collapsing in stunned relief and joy to have made it. Then, I got there. I’d done it. Though I was emotional and incoherent, a nice gent who'd clearly seen it all gave me my choice of buckles and an age group award. I thanked him, sat down, and then headed back to the hotel.
I showered, crashed, woke up later on Sunday and attempted to walk to get something to eat. I must have looked either like a zombie or very drunk as I struggled to move from point to point. Beautiful.
I showered, crashed, woke up later on Sunday and attempted to walk to get something to eat. I must have looked either like a zombie or very drunk as I struggled to move from point to point. Beautiful.
Lessons Learned
At the end of it all, and with the benefit of hindsight,
here are some things I learned which may benefit other runners (and supporters)
who may want to take this on:
1.
Don’t spend too much time trying to figure
out why. People who participate in this sport have a screw loose. And I don’t mean that in a bad way,
but as a function of our raw humanity. Ultrarunners are either running away or
running toward something- or both. Motivations are multiplexed and at the end
of the analysis, determining certainty in our reasons for doing this is fruitless.
2.
Running on trails at night takes practice. Headlamps, especially LED ones, take some
getting used to when running on technical terrain. The roots and the rocks have to be dealt with
and the light can affect depth perception.
So practice.
3.
Attend to hydration and nutrition. Train
like you will race, as best as you can.
If you intend to fuel on Tailwind exclusively then do it when you put in
your longs, and don’t eat what you won’t eat during the race. I'm staying with 20 oz water and 250-300 cals/hr.
4.
You can predict your time, I suppose. Look at on-line at race predictors for hundred
milers and you’ll see that many say you’ll run 3 x (50M time). I don’t buy it. I ran 2.6 x (50M time), and I
got hobbled by the sprain. I think the
answer for a flat race like Rocky is about 2.3 times your 50M, and a hillier
one might be a factor of 2.5-2.7. I just
think a factor of 3 is too pessimistic.
Well, maybe Hardrock…
5.
Be realistic in planning assumptions. I’m a planner and analyst so I had goals, and
knew where I should be for the entire race and how far off I was and why. The pace assumptions I made at the outset however,
were simply too optimistic for my ability. Around 90% of my training was on
dirt roads in rural Vermont and I took the paces there and applied them to the
trails of Texas with only a little adjustment. I should have adjusted more and
as a rule added at least 35 sec/mile to my road times to account for trail.
6.
Be prepared to deal with what fate delivers,
and adjust. Your race will not be flawless.
Something will go pear-shaped and you’ll need to adjust. Prepare to do that. Don’t expect a crystal clear, unwavering, pre-determined result. Give yourself the space to
adjust the bounds of your expectations.
7.
Practice power-hiking and speed-walking. You
likely will take breaks to walk. Practice that. I found that speed-walking, though it killed
my pace, really helped me to mitigate my pain and to finish the race
respectably.
8.
Embrace the suck. Ask anyone who has run 100s and they’ll tell
you, "Expect very dark patches during the race, but keep pushing forward. You’ll get through it. It’ll get better. Don’t quit. Push on."
That is true.
9.
Train on trail if your race is on trail. Getting used to root and rock so as not to
trip, sprain or injure yourself badly, is important. I trained for this race
in the Vermont winter so the trails snowed and iced over in November and that
last couple of months of training consisted of off-trail miles. That probably didn’t help me.
Thoughts on the
Tejas Trails’ Race Execution
The things that were fantastic were…
The things that were fantastic were…
·
Race Director Chris McWatters. His availability,
professionalism, attention to detail, obvious love for what he and his wife
Krissy do, and desert-dry wit, made the experience fun and familial.
·
Aid station staffing and support. These people were just incredible. From the banshee wails coming from Nature
Center to what feels like your own home team at the Start-Finish, these people were remarkable. I thought I was going down alone without a
crew. Turns out the volunteers became my crew.
They were so helpful and supportive and got me out and on my way with a
smile.
·
Registration process and communication. Getting
in the race was easy to do. So too was
getting any and all questions answered prior to the event. The schedule, calendar, website, and background
info was all on point. Terrific.
·
The fact that former RD/Tejas Trail owner Joe
Prusaitis was racing. The guy is
a legend and has done so much for the sport. Thank you, Sir.
·
The course. Though doing multiple laps is not my favorite
thing, the course was well balanced, flat with undulations which made it
interesting, forgiving, and very runnable. Oh, and scenic.
It would have been
cool if…
·
…we didn’t have to wear the clunky timing boxes on
our ankles. Though I didn’t realize it until the end, the strap gave me a
blister the size of an eyeball.
·
…there were timing mats at the aid stations so
that folks at home and at Start/Finish could get a better idea of racers’
progress.
·
…we didn’t have to pay another 5 bucks to come
back in to the park on Sunday to collect our Damnation drop bags. (That said, it was worth it just to be there when the
racers made it in just prior to cutoff)
·
…they'd served that delicious moist banana bread
and donut pieces all day at the aid stations vice just at the end
·
…there was maybe a video of the pre-race
briefing available for later review or for folks who couldn’t make it in on Friday
afternoon
·
…the elites held a “seminar” for other runners,
in a Q&A panel format. People who
are new to the sport and veterans too, I’m sure, would dig that.
·
…the Friday check-in briefing included a keg
Final Thoughts
I finished with a performance most first time hundred miler, mid-pack runners would
be happy with, and I guess I’m satisfied, though I know I could have done much better, if only. But the "if only" is what keeps us coming back. I ran Rocky in sub- 24 hours, finishing in 22:36:39 and did well in my age group. But, that sprain changed my day. I immediately had to recover mentally and
galvanize my will to continue, or else I’d let myself succumb to self-pity, and
quit. I had blood, treasure, and credibility invested and committed. I really needed
to finish. Running a hundred mile race was
the hardest physical challenge I have ever experienced in my life. I would do it again in a heartbeat, and I
will in July. And I’ll be stronger, faster, and smarter when I do.
Thanks for reading.
