Lap Fangs: My Jack Bristol Lake Waramaug 50-Miler Race Report

Before the Thing.

I’m a planner.  I plan things. Runs, work projects, writing, meals, romantic interludes, hikes, meetings, trips.  I plan all of the things.  Sometimes it works.  Most times it fails big due to real life interceding;  I become disappointed, disillusioned, and dismayed.  Other times upon the crumbling of plans, it is for the better.  My 2019 race season was one of those times where, in the words of Chinua Achebe, Things Fall Apart. But then mystically they re-cohere, like seeing a lost friend. And remembering.

My racing scheme for 2019 (which I wrote in November 2018) was to run a nice early-season trail 50K in April, which I did in North Carolina a few weeks ago, then soon move into a robust trail 50 miler (Rock the Ridge in NY), do Vermont City Marathon for a BQ in late May, and the Catamount 50K in June, all in preparation for an epic 100-miler over England's North Downs Way, in August. I wouldn’t do Vermont 100 again, as I did that one last year and redeemed myself after a first failed effort in 2017.  Well, my plans hit reality like geese hitting turbines on a jet engine. A crash ensued.  “Be prudent,” I said.  “Be rational,” I said, to myself.  Run the 50K first and see how you feel before registering for other races, you’ll be fine.  Run the short one, and then make your move.  Made sense at the time.  So, I ran the Mountains to Sea 50K in Raleigh, NC a few weeks ago and felt pretty good about it.  Apparently, I had avoided losing a lot of fitness during the long and harsh Vermont winter. I certainly wasn’t 100 percent, but I felt pretty good, all told.

So, ready to pull the trigger, I get on line and prepare to do damage to my credit card with the 50M and hundo fees.  I go to register. They are both booked full.  Damn it. Hard empirical facts have laid waste to my plan. Time to regroup.  Okay, I still need a 50M, and I find one (Jack Bristol, the one I’m writing about today) only 1 week earlier than Rock the Ridge, the one I had originally planned. This one would be only three weeks after the 50K down south, though.  Too soon?  Maybe, but what the Hell.  What’s a week?  Plus, in my mind I am a stubborn and indestructible hard ass who often makes unwise decisions.  It is part of my charm.  I register.

To add two more variables to the mix: 
(1)  I started with a remote coach through CTS right after my 50K, Andy Jones-Wilkins. AJW is an ultrarunner of the highest order and a guy I respect not just for his ability, knowledge, and clear love for this sport, but for his professional dedication to secondary education, and an excellent taste in beer.  Noble stuff, all. (Note:  Kind of a sadist, though.  I mean, FFS, I can barely get down stairs right now (Tuesday) and he has me running intervals on Thursday.)  I’ve been with AJW for a few weeks now and am learning his system.  He’s easy to work with and generous with his counsel. I don’t run for miles now;  I run for time.  There are more workouts than I have been accustomed to, and the pace goals of my runs are prescribed to a rather silly level of specificity.  But I do it, and I like it so far.  My fiendishly talented running friends all laugh at me.  
(2) I started an intermittent fasting protocol recommended by my buddy Jonathan in North Carolina, also right after the 50K, called the Warrior Diet (a non-Keto version of it), in which I eat largely what I want within a four-hour window every day (2-6pm), and fast the other 20 hours, it is aka 20:4.  It is supposed to enhance the production of human growth hormone, impel autophagy, train the body to burn fat, conjure mental clarity and focus, and give a man energy. It seems to work.

Bottom Line:  Some new things going on.

The Monday before Jack Bristol, I go have my annual physical.  And by annual I mean that my last one was in 2016.  It goes well.  Resting pulse in the high 40s, good BP. I haven’t received my sugar and cholesterol results yet, but I am optimistic.  Right at the end of the appointment, Doc asks me if I’ve had my shingles vaccine.  “I have not,” I say.  “You should,” says he.  So I accede, and a nurse comes in and jabs me.  She says that the side effects could include a tightening of the throat and a thickening of the tongue and that it would happen within 20 minutes.  I get none of that, but my arm really hurts at the injection site, and at work I get very sleepy. Post hoc ergo propter hoc. Maybe.  I go home, eat, fall asleep at, like, 7:30, and wake up on Tuesday morning with achy joints and a fluey clamminess all over.  I run intervals that morning and they were harder than they needed to be.  Fortunately, since it is taper time I have a recovery run and some slower stuff later in the week so I can fake my way through it.  Wednesday I feel the same, but even more weary.  I do some research and find out that the vaccine they put in me, Shingrex, has documented side effects that align with my symptoms.  Lovely.  It says effects can last for 2-3 days. Thursday morning, three days from the race, I’m largely the same, but the joint aches seem to be diminished somewhat.  I still feel intestinally unwell with a very low level constant nausea and suspicious lack of appetite.  But at least the false flu joint ache is going away. Friday I seem better, get a good night’s sleep with the help of Nyquil shots, wake up on Saturday, and drive down to Mom’s in Connecticut.  

I get there and feel a sense of unease, a nervousness I don’t understand.  Why?  Well, part of it was that I felt I was in a compromised physical state going into the race, due to the vaccine.  My appetite still sucks, I am slightly nauseous, and I know that nutrition issues at these distances can kill your race.  I dwell on that and I fret.  I also think that going in I had very high expectations of myself.  I wanted a sub-8 race (my past three 50s, Vermont, Pinelands, and Canandaigua all dropped between 8:14 and 8:39), and I thought looking back at results of past races here, I had the potential to land in the top 10.  But this damned stomach. I was convinced it would hobble me. 

My Italian Mom stuffs me with fusilli & meatballs, salad, and garlic bread. Abondanza. Delicious, but I don't overdo it because I can't. The gut. I sleep well enough and drive to the race early Sunday morning, barely able to get down an egg sandwich on the way, but I force it, and gag.  “This never happens. I’m screwed,” I think, overcast with low level dread.

The Thing.

This race is made for PRs. 50K, 50 Mile, or 100K.  Take your pick.  It is fast, all on pavement, flat but for a few refreshing undulations, and cool with gentle breezes coming off the lake (which is home to monsters of some sort, I’m sure). It starts with a 2.2 mile out and back, and then runners race around Lake Waramaug six times, each lap being 7.6 miles. The only down side of the course is that the pavement has a significant camber to it, so over time, the angle can wreak havoc on one’s knees, but this can be controlled for.  The gun goes off at 6:30. We start.

Out and Back. A friendly kid from North Haven links up and becomes my pace buddy, and later, slight irritant.  We talk.  This is his first ultra. I have run quite a few now, so he plies me for information, non-stop.  He peppers his constant questions on nutrition, shoes, hydration, packs, pace, terrain, etc, with a “Car up!” whenever he sees a vehicle.  Every damned time. And there were more than a few cars.  "We see the car, Dude; it is clear out; we all see it." He chatters and quips, and asks, and reflects, and interrogates.  "Please stop.  Please just stop talking. In the name of all that is Holy, stop," says my inner mean guy monologue. He was a good guy, though, and clearly working out his nervousness.  But I wanted some me time, and at that point I was doing 8:10s or so, and felt very comfortable, so I sped off and got ahead of him, just enough to unharsh my mellow and re-zone. He latched onto someone else.  I ran straight through the Start/Finish after the OAB and began Lap 1.

Lap 1- This circuit was all about learning the course.  I knew I would be doing it five more times so I took a moment to study the bends, turns, oddities, and landmarks.  There was the 3.5 mile piece from the S/F to Rt 45.  Then we have the 2 mile abomination that was the heavily trafficked Rt 45.  Finally we see the bucolic 2.2 mile leg on North Shore back to S/F.  I noticed objects that were to become my friends in the subsequent 5 laps. There is the orange dozer.  Over there is the big, bent, birch.  Hey, there’s a dead fish on the stoop. The Haddad’s mansion looms over there.  Here a capsized and rotting skiff.  There an ancient floating buoy like a giant dead eyeball.  There a farm-fresh egg stand.  Here, a Steampunk boathouse.  I remembered all of them and looked for them to mark my way on all my future laps.  During this first circumnavigation I also met and had the opportunity to run with Brian Teason, 58, so my age, and a gifted runner and attorney from Vermont who has won this thing in the past and was a wealth of knowledge.  We talked for a while about his ultra career, mostly road, and timed events, which has spanned decades. Fascinating guy.  Brian pulled ahead of me at the end of Lap 1.  My pace goal for that lap was 8:15.  I think I ran an 8:13.  My legs felt surprisingly good. No appetite, but I don’t usually eat until 15 miles in anyway. I would begin to reckon with nutrition in about 40 minutes. Had no idea how it would go.

Lap 2- I was curious to see how this lap would play out, since I now knew how it felt and what to expect.  I stopped at the S/F to fill my water bottle and grab some cookies for later.  About a mile in, I ran up on Brian, we conversed for a few moments, and I continued, not looking back, believing he’d overtake me later in the last 20 miles. The guy is strong.  At about two miles, I hear something behind me.  It is a runner, blazing away.  Must be a fast 50K guy, I think.  Nope, it was the 50-mile leader and he had just lapped me.  It was like I was standing still.  Turns out that he would ultimately win the race in 5:22.  Freaking incredible.  I didn’t know it at the time but his name is Joe McConaughy, Trail Name: Stringbean, and he is a supremely talented elite runner and backpacker.  In fact, he has the FKT (fastest known time) for the Appalachian Trail, Unsupported. Guy’s a stud. Being a fellow AT thru-hiker, I respect the hell out of his accomplishment on the trail.  And this road.  He ran 50 miles at my 5K pace, though and I can barely comprehend that, really.  Anyway, while Stringbean was running courageous 6:23s, I was happy with my lugubrious 8:40s for the lap. My stomach was feeling not right around 14 miles and I began to get a little worried.  I knew I needed to get something down so I stopped at an aid station and had a bit of pumpkin bread washed down with swallows of water.  Not too rich, not too sweet, and it hit the spot. It stayed down. OK, good.

Lap 3- This was a maintenance lap. I just wanted to keep up a decent tempo here and preserve my overall pace at around 8:40 to 8:45.  I knew that a 9 min overall pace would get me a 7:30, and I thought that I would probably fall apart on the final two and a half laps.  Still, I felt a sub-8 (probably a 7:50) was very much in play at this point. Then the rain began.  We’d expected it at the start, but it had held off for a while, which was nice. Now down it came and it was cold. I just looked ahead and cowboy-ed through it. Legs were getting tired, but stomach was doing okay and I was taking in calories at about 250/hr. To my surprise at the halfway point of the race (25 mi- because it is a 50 miler, you see), I was at 3:34, or an 8:33 pace.  Very happy with that.

Lap 4- Three to go.  I stopped at the S/F and got my headphones, some Tailwind, and waistbelt w/iPhone.  Time to pass the time by listening to an audiobook (Dark Matter, by Blake Crouch). I continued.  I started running and thought my legs were going to seize.  They didn’t.  It was tough to get going after an extended stop, though, and I felt a previous strain injury in my left quad emerge.  This was something I did in training a couple of weeks before.  Not bad, but definitely there, and with 24 miles to go, I needed to attend to and care for it. I pushed on and the lap went by fairly quickly though I had slowed my pace to roughly 9:10s. The quad strain was there but not getting worse.

Lap 5-This was the penultimate loop and I was deconstructing like Derrida.  My legs hurt, my stomach was off, I puked brown chocolate chip cookie goo-bile all over my wind shell as I ran, the damned book had jumped the shark (it had so much promise!), the rain was cold, I was soaked, and frustrated with my waning performance. I couldn’t find the flow. My shakras were out of alignment and I don’t even know what shakras are. This is when the wheels come off, I thought. My pace was well into the high 9s and overall I was creeping toward the 9:05 mark. I was still confident that I could pull out a sub-8, but if I continued to degrade like this, I’d run 11s and 12s in the last lap and it may be kind of close and certainly very ugly. Just get me through this circuit and let me regroup for the final push. I stride through the time pad at the S/F and with a big easy "this is nothing; give me something difficult" smile, talk to the RD and volunteers as if not a thing is wrong. I was totally faking it.

Lap 6- Final lap.  Go time.  Easy day. 6:28 on the race clock and I had just that one loop remaining.  7.6 miles. I threw my handheld into my drop bag, drank some coke, popped some Vit I and a salt tab, ate a banana nugget and beet chips, put my bespoke and originally-labeled “Runsongs” playlist on, took several deep breaths, dialed in my fierce Viking look of self-delusional intensity and confidence, and took off.  I was pretty sure I had my sub-8 in the bag, but wondered if I could get in under 7:45, and that became my new goal.  Legs hurt at the start, like quads impaled with lawn darts thrown by a fat man in Bermuda shorts grasping a can of Bud Light (likely future me), but I felt a bit more spring in them soon after. Let’s warm these things up for a mile and see what comes of it. Just a 10K left.  That's a sprint.  Then, after a modest mile 44, I felt something, or rather stopped feeling something.  The pain. How or why?  No idea. I felt a magical freshness.   I sped up. Mile 45 was at an 8:32, Mile 46 at an 8:48, I was “blazing” by people, mostly the hard working slower 50K or 50-milers I had lapped. Where did that gear come from?  Smelling the barn? Maybe. The music? Definitely.   Hilt-deep, Hyper-adolescent, Thunderchord Rock & Roll.  Nothing like it: Judas Priest, AC/DC, Dio, Sabbath, Stones, Grand Funk, UFO, George Thorogood, Boston, Barry Manilow.  Oh, Yes!  No Adele.  No Taylor Swift.  No Shins.  No Cardi B. No Billie Eilish.  I mean please, with those posers.   I was singing along, clad in black running spandex and looking, I imagined, like Klause Meine, gesturing as a Rock God does, pointing at onlookers, and smiling as I cruised.  Mile 57 was a 9:50 because I stopped at an aid station for pumpkin cake and coke and to thank the volunteers since this was the last time I’d see them. Feeling so good.  Then an 8:50 and a couple of back-to-back 9 min miles brought me home. Done.  I managed a 7:37 which was a 5^th Overall, and 1^st in Age Group. A solid day’s work.  Now what?

After the Thing.

I chatted with some of the other finishers (unfortunately Stringbean had left already, what with finishing over two hours before me!), packed up my stuff, and headed back to Mom’s.  I took a long hot shower, ate a couple Vitamin I, and we went out for Chinese, where I had at least a ton of General Tsao chicken, a sushi boat, some pork dumplings, and a 22 oz can of cold Sapporo.  Body wants protein.  Body gets protein.

So, though my original grand plan for 2019 fell apart like Francium-223, I kept it together, got my 50 mile PR, and did well overall.  Now, I have to decide upon a 100 miler for the Summer/Fall.  Since the England race is no longer in play I have many options.  I’m looking at Burning River, Lean Horse, and Grindstone.  I believe I could maybe get a sub-20 at Lean Horse if I work really hard and stay healthy.  "Something about that damned Grindstone, though," says the masochist in me.  And Burning River is a Midwestern classic which also could be fast.  In front of me, I think I’ll plan on Catamount in June.  Not sure about VCM for BQ.  I’ve done Boston already and don’t really need to do it again.  But then, I haven’t raced a marathon since 2016, so it could be interesting to do one and see how I fare.

Decisions. So many to make.   The one I need to make right now, however, as I finish this report, is: Porter or IPA?

11 Species of Pine: My 2019 Mountains-to-Sea Trail (MST) 50K Race Report

Prologue. 

My 2019 race season began on Sunday, 7 April, with a humid and pollen-hued, yet charming, 50K on bitchy single-track, in central North Carolina.  I hung out with my best friend from college, drank local beer, ate BBQ pork, told stories, solved problems, resolved issues, ran my plan, and enjoyed a welcome respite from the uncertainties, pains, imminent life-moves, and day-to-day stressors of my regular existence as a stultified drone steeping in the gut of Vermont State government. Part of the civic microbiome. Having an effect at some level, I suppose, but to what end?  Teleology.  A mystery.

The Trip.

I was waylaid for a time in Burlington due to a dead battery on the aircraft which caused me to arrive late to DC and miss my outbound Dulles flight to NC. So, I rebooked and burned some five hours traipsing around Terminal C delighting in all of the vendors, but most especially the nice Somali woman in the hijab selling MAGA hats. The irony, of course, was so very sad, yet delicious, like licking a rusty rail spike.  

Jonathan Justus Ward, my autodidact-genius-fixer-luthier-raconteur-Philosopher friend picked me up in Raleigh on Thursday afternoon. Jon drives a windowless white working van, something you’d expect to see on Law and Order: Serial Killer Archetype.  Except that for Jon, he drives it because he legitimately needs it. He has a large shelfscape of hand tools and requires the floor space to accommodate his 125 lb Cane Corso (Sicilian Mastiff) companion, Tugboat.  Tugger is an absolute unit. This breed specialized in bear-coursing, apparently.  The perfect engine of home protection, rough play, earnest affection, and stout loyalty, Tug is also a powerful draw for the ladies, which we would see in action soon.  

The Preamble Days.

Thursday was a day to grab some post-flight local beer at the City Tap, in Pittsboro. My heathen friend insisted upon drinking  Yuengling out of a long neck because it gives him, delusionally, what I call “denim cred.”  God forbid he’d want a refreshing and strong IPA or a mind-alteringly luscious Trappist-style concoction. I was embarrassed for him, but love him like a brother.  After some brews and a rejuvenating chin-wag we retired to the “Snake Farm,” Jon’s amped up barn-residence-workshop just north of town.

On Friday we travelled 50 miles for breakfast to a building that co-hosted both an exemplar NC greasy spoon joint replete with drawls, grits, and lack of rye toast, and an antique Harley Davidson museum.  I knew I needed to fortify myself with many calories before heading to the museum where I would have to use at least 3000 of them attempting to assimilate the dense and pathologically specific Harley lore with which JJW would soon bless me. I learned about Shovelheads, Panheads, spring-enhanced lumbar support saddles, complex and variable cam-valve-gasket mechanisms, and endemic, systemic and tragic oil leakage. I understand Hegel better than I understand that stuff.  And I don’t understand Hegel.  The rest of the day dissolved into evening after a long river walk, checking out other Chatham County high spots, and then enjoying a fortifying Chinese buffet in Durham, which featured surprisingly excellent sushi, and delicate ginger-braised bok choy. We discussed the issue of human trafficking.

Jon told me about a classic car show on Saturday he wanted to check out.  I thought it could be interesting, hoping to see a 1932 Stutz Town Car for some Dirk Pitt nostalgia, or, a 1975 AMC Pacer so I could vomit bile.  It was not to be. No classic antiques described and venerated by their gray and wizened 80-year old owner-restorers, as we had supposed.  Rather, we became absolutely immersed within Carolina Latino Lowrider culture.  So damned fascinating.  The vehicles were immaculately detailed, impeccably painted, and attended by men who had a clear and unassailable pride in their collective craftsmanship.  We engaged and they talked us through the aesthetics of wheel diameter, chrome selection, color gloss techniques, those uber-bouncy wheel-individuated hydraulic lift contraptions, and shifter mechanics. And the guys we talked to had those meticulous micro-groomed beards and moustaches, the baggy chinos, the classic vaguely Sinatra-esque brimmed lids, the mirrored shades, and the collared shirts buttoned up to the neck.  The whole enchilada.  We watched as an apparently famous model (possibly Elizabeth Ruiz) from Low Rider Magazine made the rounds and had her photo taken whilst sitting within or splayed out upon the various sleds.  As we strolled through the displays, Tugboat did his duty and brought forth the attentions of a fetching young Latina who couldn’t get enough of him, or Jon, it seemed. She was thicc, as it were.  What this 25ish woman could want from a surly 60 year old, shaved-head, phosphorescent white, overall-wearing, erudite, Buffalo-born redneck is a topic for fevered speculation.  Well done, Tugboat. As we left, Jon suggested purchasing a fedora, to celebrate his machismo.  This led to a colorful exchange regarding the intrinsic inconsistency and incoherence of “cultural appropriation,” especially in a democracy so rich in its immigrant history.  We laughed at the Far Left for wasting its time on insignificant and precious preachy boutique flame-points such as this,  derided the Far Right for embracing ignorant, thick-browed, troglodytic puppet masters, and took our leave, knowing that we are perfect. Tomorrow, the race.

The Race.

The Mountains to Sea Trail runs from the mountains in western NC, 1175 miles to the Atlantic on the eastern coast of the state.  The 50K race, directed by Durham’s Bull City Running Company, is an out and back on a 15.5 mile segment of the thing, along the shore of Falls Lake.  I did very little research on this race apart from reading the few race reports I could find, and scanning Ultrasignup for “typical” finishing times for past racers.  Winners usually came in at 4:05-4:15, and a fit 50 yo guy who’d raced it multiple times had done well there and come in in the high 4s.  So, I figured I could maybe get in with a 4:55-5:20.  That felt about right.  I suspected it would be on the slower side, for a few reasons: (1) my first race of the season last year, the TARC Spring Classic 50K, kicked my ass. I bonked hard at 12 miles and finished with a 5:27, and it hurt; (2)  training in the Vermont winter, I had run no trails at all since late October; and (3)  I was not accustomed to the weather which was sure to be hot and humid.  But to be honest I had no idea how it would play out.  Some race days are good, some bad, and some just okay. 

In my mind, I was thinking that a sub-5:00 would be reasonable if I was feeling good.  I thought an initial split of 2:20 followed by a return of a 2:40 would get it done.  There were three clear speed demons at the starting flags when we began.  Two of them wore Elon University cross country runner singlets and had about 1% bodyfat. One of those guys was Nick Ciolkowski, the eventual winner who blazed in at 4:01.  The race began and we took off across a field to get to the single track.  Once there we stayed on trail the whole time apart from three short road sections of about 1/5 mile each.  It was challenging trail with no steep hills, mostly consistent undulations, and precious few flat spots.  But the roots and rocks were such that it was difficult to get into a consistent flow, always adjusting pace, footfall, and body angle to navigate the terrain.  Nothing like the more rugged New England trails, but not buttery, either.

Still, I was running well, and not breathing hard.  I passed five or six people within the first few miles and then found what seemed like a sustainable pace at around the mid-9s.  I felt some heat and the humidity was there. It felt different, but not uncomfortable.  On I went.  One guy, Stu, a mechanical engineer from Greensboro, hung behind me the whole time.  So, I started chatting with him.  Nice fella running his first ultra. He had only ever done a marathon. We talked about his training program leading up to the race which entailed a long run of 24 miles on relatively low-volume weeks. I suspected he may fade late-race, but we kept one another company through most of the outbound leg.  My breathing was easy, I could have pushed it, but chose not to.  I was on pace for a 2:20 split, and was optimistic that I’d have some fire for a good push coming back, thinking I’d have a shot at a 4:45 or so.  We got to the turnaround and Stu and I were #8 and #7, respectively.  I stopped very briefly to get some water in the hand-held, transitioned smoothly and was on my way.  Stu stopped for half a minute to drink.  With a 2:21 split, I was feeling great.
  
That lasted all of 2 damned miles.  I ran a speedy mile 16 and 17, and then the wall presented itself in stark, dark relief.  I wasn’t sure what the issue was and still am not.  My water felt sufficient though I hadn’t peed at all during the race. I began my calorie intake at 15 mi with Gu, then Tailwind at 18 mi, which is what usually works to get me through glycogen depletion and then into dribble-in-the-carbs maintenance mode.  Anyway, I suspect it was the humidity which had a greater effect than maybe I'd felt earlier.  My mile pace dropped by about a minute, and I couldn’t do a thing about it.  I stopped to take some salt at around 19, and Stu passed me with an enthusiastic high five.  Twelve miles to go and I was losing my mojo.  Still I resolved, bore down, and continued on with consistency.  Slow, but deliberate. I took a hard and inelegant spill at 23 miles, and landed in a puddle for a nice mudwash. I got up, soon caught Stu and he was fading fast.  I wished him well and took off, passed a minute later by Deborah Guthmann, the lady who would come in F1. 

Later, at around 25 miles I saw a young guy walking, head down, shuffling and tripping a bit.  He was one of those speedy Elon guys who had apparently crashed hard.  I was concerned and stopped to check out his situation.  He was in bad shape, and very dehydrated, but coherent and aware.  I forced him to take some of my water, knowing there was an aid station about a mile up the trail.  I continued on when I felt the guy was ok, and let the aid station know that they had to water this guy thoroughly when he came through.  The last 6 miles of the race were hard and slow.  My pace was declining and I had this weird sensation of being off balance and leaning to my left to compensate.  That was a first and a bit disconcerting.  My left shoulder hit trees and branches and it was pissing me off.  I may have been dehydrated, too.  I had lost time for various reasons on the return so my 4:45 dream had gone the way of the dodo, but I still thought I had a shot at a sub-5:00.  I pushed as hard as I could and just missed the mark, finishing at 5:00:29 to the cowbell cacophony.  Damn.  Still I’ll take it.  When the race results posted, I saw that I was #1/8 AG and #7/77 OA.  I have nothing to complain about.

The race over, I ate some BBQ, waited for my new buddy Stu to finish, congratulated him, and off I shuffled to the truck, greeted by wet face licks from Tugboat.  From there, we went to a restaurant where, recognizing the protein imperative, I gorged like a madman on wings and shrimp tacos. We got back to the barn, I showered, and passed out directly.  Jon dropped me off the following morning at the flughaven and I flew back to Vermont without event.  It was cold, windy, and rainy upon arrival, signalling an adventure ended. It was on to the next.