A Statistical Anomaly: My Shakori 40 Race Report

There is a wafer-thin veneer between Civility and Barbarism.  The dyads of Love-Indifference, Solid-Liquid, Sleep-Wake reflect the same general geometry. That liminal space between these states- the transition boundary which, when passed through, one becomes the other, is at once impossible to define with precision and yet is as clear and sharp as a scalpel cut, when crossed.  

I won the race outright, which was very strange and unlikely, indeed. In doing so it feels, somehow, like I passed from one state into another. I’m not sure it actually has anything to do with the race in fact, as rewarding as it was to get my first outright victory in… ever.  So, Cheers to statistical anomalies.

More likely my liminal funk-state is a product of spending four days with my friend Jonathan Justus Ward, confidante, co-conspirator, and counsel. The guy is effortlessly comfortable in the skin he inhabits and knowing him for 36 years I am left gladdened with a sense of honest satisfaction and happiness for the guy, having landed as he did in a solid, worthy, and stable place.  He has his shop, his music, his dog, his mother and brother, his constellation of friends, and his redneck erudition. That’s all he needs.   When Thoreau said, “Our life is frittered away by detail…simplify, simplify,” he had Ward in mind.  Taunted, teased, and tortured by the Daughters of the Night, JJW has adapted, overcome, and nabbed a Win, on his own terms.  Is the perceived boundary I crossed simply me reflecting and attempting to visualize what a similar existential Victory might look like for myself? Dunno.  It is certainly not winning a long running race. No indeed.

I'm a 58 year old guy. Of course I'm experiencing occasional ennui and crises of purpose.  Of course my professional, physical, personal, parental, intellectual, creative, and spiritual muses confound my mind with their constant bickering.  The bug-eyed Parisian sage once said, "Everything has been figured out, except how to live." If you can do it, then treading water in a sea of soft warm potential
is easy, safe, comfortable and a rational alternative to embracing the chaos and dancing with it.  Then again, hugging the maelstrom can be a rollicking good time, too. Hmm. I probably just need a Harley.  Nothing new to see here.  Move along.

I arrived to the Triangle on Thursday and Jon picked me up at the Raleigh-Durham airport, from where we quickly made our way to the City Tap, in Pittsboro,  enjoying several rounds of local brew (I did, anyway – he is a Yuengling and shot of Jack guy), had some lunch, then headed back to Ward’s Batcave, aka The Snake Farm.  On Friday we hung around town, went out for breakfast (it involved grits), met up with Jon’s friend Ajax for lunch at Alpaca, a Peruvian grilled chicken joint, and then just chilled for the rest of the afternoon.  That evening we headed up to Chapel Hill to see Grammy-nominees, Blue Highway, play a set at the Unitarian Church.  The congregation was pleasant and the vibe was the same as that of any other Unitarian church I’ve ever visited across the country.  College degrees, well-groomed, tidy appearance, literate discourse, mostly white, lots of tasteful sweaters and slacks, heavy on the politics and light on the theology,  and a bemused discomfort when exposed to authentic Christian music, in bluegrass form.  In bed by 9:30, a solid 7 hours spent dreamless and unconscious, black coffee, a greasy breakfast sandwich, and I was ready to race on Saturday morning.

I was prepared.  Happy with my training since an absurdly comical summer race, the Lean Horse 100, I felt ready.  I was light (for me, a normally stout chap), speedy (having taken up with doing Richarda’s stupid track workouts), and well-rested (having had a nice taper and good sleep).  I worked with Andy Jones-Wilkins through CTS to get ready for my hundo in August, and though I did not have a good day that day, the coaching was superb and I'm convinced it was instrumental in getting me to the level I was at for this race.

This was the first year of the Shakori 40 Running Festival and for an inaugural event it was on point. It can be improved, for sure, but for a maiden voyage, she made way.  The RDs wanted to create a festival atmosphere and they did.  There was camping, music, beer, fresh homemade food, pets, a crazy and supportive crowd of fans and crew, fit (mostly) athletes, and a lot of running.  There were three race options:  a 40-mile run (my race), a 40K run, and a 40-mile relay. At one point, there were probably over 150 runners on the course. Good vibe.

The 40 miler consists of 10 x 4 mile laps. No road, but plenty of field, single track, and double track. Nothing super technical, all runnable. The race begins at the top of a small slope and runners descend for a hundred yards or so before hitting a short rooty stretch of single track and ascending up onto a large field.  This flat field is circumnavigated, a road is crossed and then a second field is run around, this one cambered at an awkward and knee-stressing angle. That covers Mile 1.  From there, we run through a campground, onto a short bit of dirt path, and then around several more fields on some chunky double track. That’s Mile 2.  Once the 2M marker is passed we spend time gradually descending on some nice rugged double track and then with a hard left climb up a moderately stiff uphill for 60 or 70 feet, which was the only ascent of note.  Once up that bump, we descend again down some muddy and unstable double track and then turn left onto a third mile of very bony mushy single track, which takes us out to the back of the Start-Finish. This is a tease because you can hear the music, smell the food, and see people enjoying beer (even at 8am or so – they were being festive).  That’s Mile 3.  Then we run up a slope, take a right on double track and dirt, bend back down onto a field adjacent to the main area, and after a few switchbacks on that field, we drop onto the large Start-Finish venue and run up a roped-off chute, past the announcer, and through the chip reader, to start again.  We do that 10 times. 

I started at a solid 8:30 pace which felt relaxing and easy.  I led immediately, wondering if the pack behind me knew something that I did not.  But I kept going, easily maintaining that pace and feeling very comfortable.  I went off trail at Mile 3 for a hot second and then a guy passed me while I analyzed my blunder and got back on course.  I caught up with him immediately and ran side-by-side.  He was a great guy named Jonathan Frey, and has some solid ultra cred having run gnarly hundreds and 50s over the past few years, and run them well.  We chatted for a bit for that last mile and came in for lap one only a second apart.  We separated at that point as both went to our race bags to do something or other.  I got back out on lap two maybe 30 secs ahead of Jonathan and then lost contact with him just after Mile 1. I had no idea I was in the lead, over those initial laps, though I suspected I was close.  I had to drop into the woods to pee several times for the first few laps and figured someone would pull ahead while I did.  And with so many racers out there on the course, I couldn’t tell who was where.  I ended up lapping a few of the 40 mile runners mid-race, and passing a bunch of 40K runners, and then I’d be shredded by some of the speedy relay runners, too.  Lots of variety out there.

There was one guy at the 3M marker who greeted me every lap and loudly exclaimed, "I love you Man!  You're killin' it!  Totally killin' it!"  He was a heavy set bruiser, with a sweet goatee, a wool hat, well in his cups,  and looked like he could be a bassist for some '90's metal band.  Here he is:

Before I get to my twice-blown out left ankle, here’s an observation.  Many ultrarunners fetishize their kit.  I’m not the most experienced runner in the world, but I do know that if you can run light and simple, then run light and simple.  Don’t carry things you don’t need.  Personally, I like a handheld with a pocket on it, and that is it.  I have my 20 oz of water and a Gu, and with the aid station at the Start-Finish, which we pass every 4 miles, why bring anything else?  Yet (and I know I’m judging) people are out there with big burly hydration vests, bandoleros of water flasks, technicolor polyester arm sleeves, compression underwear, toe socks, titanium-admantium triple-polarized sunglasses, Nike Vaporfly kicks, and fancy all-weather neck flap hats made from the silk of a special worm found only in Zanzibar on Tuesdays.  Makes me wonder (as I frequently do) about what motivates people to run these distances.  One reason is that they want to find the belonging they seek by jogging around in their cool stuff, and be summoned into the tribe based upon these artifacts. Another reason, and this is the one to which I subscribe, is that there is an odd and welcoming comfort in the Collective Atypical.

I ran the Rocky Raccoon 100 in 2017 and ended up rolling my ankle pretty badly in the early miles.  Since then, it has been behaving and I have been lucking out on the trails, largely injury-free.  That joint is an issue and has been since I tore it up as a teenager skateboarding (I fell off the board, rolled the ankle, and then slammed full-on into the passenger’s side door of my Dad’s powder blue Grenada).  I don’t   know what was more embarrassing, the fall or the color of that car.  In any case, it’s a thing and I’m always concerned about it.  Well, somewhere in mile three of lap two, which would have been around 7 miles into the race, I turned the ankle.  Hard.  Damn. Searing pain.  I stopped, and walked carefully, acute needle thrusts on every step. But I've been here before. I knew it wasn’t broken and that with a bit of patience (not my strong suit) the body would work its natural analgesic magic.  And so it did.  (You're welcome for not showing my toenails.  They look like bleu cheese rinds.)

The pain deadened and was manageable if foot placement was deliberate and kept under control. I slowed the pace and managed to mitigate the pain, though I could feel the thing swelling in my shoe.  All was well as I ran my laps gingerly, but consistently.  Until Mile 28, that is.  I was coming into the Start-Finish area at the end of Lap 7.  Nothing technical.  I took a left, must’ve stepped on a rock, and twisted the ankle again, but harder, and very much in public. I yelled and it may have involved an expletive, like “Drat!,” “Dagnabbit!,” or “Fiddlesticks!” It hurt badly and I couldn’t walk for a few minutes, so I stopped,  then I could limp, then walk, and I made it back up the chute.  People had seen me do it and were concerned and super supportive.  It was probably the grit teeth, grimacing, and enraged glare at the bloody great Universe that gave my disposition away.  Now I had 3 laps (12 miles) to go, and I figured I was in the top 5 at least, so there was no way I was going to stop.  I went to my bag, popped some Vitamin I, rubbed the ankle a bit, loosened my shoe, and hobbled very slowly into the beginning of Lap 8. The pain got better toward the end of the lap, but I had to ensure foot placement was just right, lest a bolt of pain would pierce me.  It was exhausting to pay attention to every step, but I had to. 

I finished Lap 8 and Lap 9, and when I came in at the end of the penultimate lap, I asked the announcer where I was in the pecking order.  I figured between the injury, the slowed pace and everything else, I had dropped out of the front runners.  But it turns out I had not.  The guy told me I was in first with one lap to go.  What?! And I saw no 40 milers in the area at all, which meant that I had at least a couple of minutes on the #2 runner.  So in order to catch me, he (or she) would have to gain 30 sec per mile on me for the last lap.  Not going to happen.  I decided to push it that last lap, and simply endure the pain.  And I did.  I came rolling in at 6:03 for the win.  

It was a cool feeling, having never won a race before.  But the sweetest part of the deal was when the announcer said, “Ladies and gentlemen, your overall 40 mile winner, Todd Sears, all the way down here from Vermont…give this man a beer.”  And the next thing I knew there was a tall cold can of IPA in my hand and a bunch of people clapping.  I roved round with Jon, drinking our beers (they were free!), hoping some lovely Carolina runner ladies would come talk to me, asking me to share my rugged, grizzled, trail sage lore.  That didn’t happen, of course.  How could it, when Tugboat, Ward’s Cane Corso, an absolute unit of canine charm, was around?  I didn’t have a chance.

I have a confession.  On Sunday morning, the day after the race, in deficit of about 3000 calories and with an angry and unforgiving gut and muscles that demanded protein, Ward and I went to Golden Corral for breakfast.  I’m not proud, but it happened.  I must’ve had 8 eggs, a pound of breakfast meats, a cinnamon roll, a couple of pancakes, and a chocolate ice cream. Embarrassing, but I own it.  The body knows what it wants and goes after it. Reason only goes along for the ride. Truth.

Then I flew home on Monday.  There was snow.  Then there was a sigh of resignation.

Disaster Management: My Lean Horse 100 Race Report

Kale is not big in South Dakota.  Bison are. I recently learned that what we usually think of as buffalo, are not, in fact, buffalo. There are no buffalo in North America.  They are bison.  Big, hirsute, menacing, be-horned, badass, bison. Tasty too.  Life surprises you.  Always. The uncertain becomes inevitable in hindsight. Assessed future probabilities become naïve fever-dreams as we look back. Anticipation is easy. Prediction is hard. 

This race obliterated my expectations, turning them to dust and, in so doing, did what ultras do.  It taught me some things about myself:  about pain, about sacrifice, about Brain, and about Heart. Bottom Line: I got a finish; but it was ugly like a newborn.

The Lean Horse is a 100 mile race in Western South Dakota along the Mickelson Trail. Starting in Custer it heads north for 50 miles, turns around just south of Deadwood, where the ghost of Al Swearingen hurls expletives from afar,  and heads back down to Custer. The surface is pounded stone atop compressed soil so has some resiliency to it. The website says it climbs 7,100’, but my GPS only showed 4100’, at the end. The starting elevation is 5300’ and it climbs to 6200’, so being a Vermont guy living at 525’, I knew the altitude would have an impact on me, but wasn’t sure how much.  The race starts at noon on a Friday, so mid-packers like myself are guaranteed to run through the entire night. This year featured a full moon.

The Black Hills landscape is truly breathtaking. 

Some of the course parallels a road, but most of it heads into the dales and valleys and winds its way around and within some stunning terrain, through be-tunneled mountains after dancing over rills and skipping by tarns.  I expected werewolves, but only saw two deer, a dead garter snake, and an irritated vole.

I’ve only been racing ultras for three years and I’m not sure that I have many established norms, but one I do have is that in February I plan my season, which for me runs April to August, with some flexibility to run some late-year races as well. Then, I promptly neglect to register for my favored races, so that I miss out and must choose some other event.  I followed that path this year, and didn’t get the 50 miler or 50Ks that I wanted, but at least was smart enough to lock in LH early on. So, I had something to look forward to.

For the past three years I’ve run a 100 miler as my A-race.  I knew (“knew,” bah) that I had a real shot at a 100 Mile PR this year.  I ran a 22:24 at VT100 in 2018, a 22:39 at Rocky Raccoon in 2017, and since this one was non-technical with rather tame vert, cooler, and with frequent aid stations, I figured I could easily  beat my best. If I trained with intention, it was in the bag (Pro Tip- It is never in the bag.)  Training w/AJW through CTS was a lot of fun. The whole on-line coaching thing is a rather odd enterprise, and I have some thoughts about it, but I’ll save that for another missive.  Coach worked me hard, giving me tough intervals, tempo runs, or steady state enduros twice per week.  These workouts, coupled with longs on the weekend, really brought my fitness up a level. Between the beginning of April and this race, I competed in a 50K, 50 Mi (PR), and did 100K during a 12 hr timed race.  I also did a Hades-hot 35 mi training run in CT, and paced Sean Nakamura (great guy!) for the last 30 miles of VT100 in July.  In fact, the last three weeks of my training block, my longs were 62, 30, and 35 miles. All humid (poor man’s altitude training).  I’d say I did the work.

Back in June, my back went out on me.  Nasty bit of business.  You can read about it, here.  I bounced back from that, dealt with an enduring bitchy hamstring, and then continued my training block.  I was feeling great.  Then, 7 days out from this race, in the midst of a delightful taper, my back strained out again. Well, damn that to Hell, please. Horrible timing.   It wasn’t as bad as the June spasm, but it was there, it was super sensitive, and I was pissed.  I knew it would take 6 or 7 days to heal, so I decided to let it go, relax, and carry on, knowing that this was going to be close.  I didn't want to damage myself, of course, but also, I had invested a good bit of time and treasure into this race.  After all, there was not a thing I could do about it at this point, and I was going to the race regardless. I woke up on the travel day,  the day before the event, and felt that the back, while not fully in working order, was at least runnable. Still, and oddly, I was feeling confident, chomping at the bit to race, and just wanted to run. So, I left.

The trip out was largely uneventful.  My planes were on time, the coffee was strong,  my layovers were reasonable, and I had a hearty, if expensive, bacon, egg, and cheese on focaccia breakfast sandwich in Chicago. It felt dainty though, and in hindsight, being that I was in the Windy City,  I probably should have had a kielbasa. At the gate for the Dakota flight, I had the gawking great pleasure to see a herd of western curly cue moustaches sitting on grizzled lips like monarch larvae on milkweed. Cowpokes, chili-makers, and rustlers, all wondering what they were doing in this century. Yes, of course they had Stetsons. And no.  No chaps. Drat.   I was looking forward to getting out there and racing, true, but also wanted to feel the place, see the sites.  Get eyes on the kitsch. 

My back wasn’t great and I knew it, but I basically ignored it. With vigor. I was looking ahead and exuberant. 

Except, of course,  for that landing in Rapid City.  That mitigated my exuberance not a little bit.  I thought I was going to die, in fact. I fly a lot, but this approach into the airport was bad, harrowing, and I was the most nervous I’ve ever been in a plane.  We were down-angle on approach heading in to land when we began to be buffeted by wind shears.  They got worse and worse.  Knocked about. Punched by Odin.  It was an E-ticket ride.  Belt cinched tight, I closed my eyes and quietly appreciated the Steely Dan in my headphones- people were admonishing Rikki to not lose that number. Next thing I knew the plane changed angle, now ascending and accelerating aggressively  up out of the nasty Hell-breath.  The pilot had apparently had enough and worked to get us and this lumbering machine out. Good thing too.  I'm sure the wings were about to fall off. Where is the Lorazepam when you need it?  We rose from the mess, circled the port a few times, came in from a different direction and landed safely. I wanted a beer.  I had one.

My race strategy was straight forward.  Start slow.  Get slower.  I created a highly-detailed plan for a sub-20 hour race, starting at 9:45 miles and ramping it down from there.I knew a sub-20 was not at all realistic for me, but at least it gave me some targets to shoot for and it would be interesting to see where and when in the race it came off the rails. I’d find out soon enough.  

I had dropped about 8 lbs since VT100 in the summer of 2018, trained hard, had a plan, was in good spirits, and had done my research. I was running light, with no vest or handheld until mid-race.  Instead I opted for hands free and a collapsible cup kept in my belt.  I would drink 21 oz of water per hour, and fuel with 200-250 cal of whatever I was craving.  I was ready to execute. The whole course was runnable and I intended to run every inch. Get my toe to the line and let me run.  Packet pick-up was effortless.  In and out in minutes and done by 3pm. 

My back was persistently being an ass, so I went back to my room and laid down, hoping that one more good night of rest would continue the healing of the thing, and I’d be solid for the race, only 21 hours ahead of me.  I slept, woke up, stretched the lumbar area at length, had a great full breakfast at a biker restaurant (lots of leather and Harley themed utensils), and walked around town wondering how Trump got elected, and why there were such obnoxious t-shirts with his visage festooned around town, and what ass-hat designed them. 

The noon start came quickly.  We gathered at the line. I felt no butterflies, just a confident calm.  The back was not in pain, just a bit tight and achy. The night’s sleep helped.  I was okay with that and figured I could protect it and keep it all together by controlling my movement judiciously.  We started. It was in the 70s, sunny,  and dry. I tripped within the first quarter mile on flat pavement, looked like a spaz,  and was embarrassed. My plan called for 9:45s for the first 15 miles so that is what I did.  I wanted to go faster, but kept dialing it down.  The altitude wasn’t seeming to affect me and this was surprising.  I was drinking plenty and peeing clear.  No shortness of breath. My back tweaked very slightly a couple of times.  I had to protect it better so I focused on stiffening my posture and leaning a bit forward to relieve pressure.  I stopped to stretch it a few times.  Easy to maintain the pace.  The first 15 miles features a 5 mile gradual up and a 10 mile gradual down.  Seemed easy to keep to plan.  I passed the Crazy Horse monument to my right.  Huge, epic, and a stark reminder of the white man’s fraught history with the Native Americans.

I got to the 15.7 mile aid station at Hill City about 7 minutes ahead of my plan and feeling great.  Running a bit stiff and upright because of the back, not at all fluid and free, but getting it done.  I continued on, executing my plan without issue, now running 10 min miles.  I was feeling good and optimistic. At mile 30.4 at the Mystic aid station, I stopped to drink and refuel and the ladies there told me I was in 11^th place.  There were 10 people ahead of me.  How about that.  I knew I had a long and gradual climb coming up between Mystic and Rochford at mile 38.2.  Maybe I could reel some people in. But, I committed to keep to my plan, which I did.  Ran my pace of 10:15s and 10:30s for the next 8 miles and ended up passing 7 people, putting me in 4^th when I got to Rochford.  Wow.  Surprising.  Getting tired and sore, as you do, but well over a third of the way there and feeling solid. I left Rochford well-fed and watered, thanked the volunteers with a salute and a smile, and headed out on pace, looking forward to getting to the turnaround in fewer than 12 miles. I ran, listening to 1970s light rock (Bread, Player, America, Ambrosia, Pablo Cruise, Boz Scaggs, etc), and not at all ashamed of loving it.

Then, around mile 42, I became conscious of a creeping deep full quad pain in both legs.  Shit.  What is going on?  I stopped and stretched them and it seemed to help a bit, but I was kind of freaked out. The pain profile with my quads is well known to me.  It had happened in my two previous 100 mile finishes and I know exactly what it feels like, but both times they blew out at around mile 85. I fully expected it, but not yet.  NOT YET!  This was mile 43.  I continued and the pain increased.  My pace slowed from 10:30s to, like, 12s and 13s.  I could barely jog. A couple folks passed me.  I was upset and mystified.  Well, by mile 45, my quads were officially pulverized.  So painful on so many levels.

I was in a situation. I didn’t know why it happened, but I was certain that my quads were done for this race and would not come back.  I was shattered.  I had been executing a plan that would have gotten me a nice 21 or so hour finish, most likely.  Now I couldn’t run and I had 55 miles ahead of me. Crisis point.  I had two choices.  To DNF or not to DNF. That was the question.  I chose the latter.  I DNF’d VT100 in 2017 in a mental collapse after having missed a turn and running off course for several miles.  I felt shame, disappointment, anguish, regret, all of that.  I didn’t like myself for quitting back then, and I wouldn't like it now.  Plus, in this race I was not injured.  Not really. And all I had in front of me was a long walk. A long, long walk. I hiked the AT for God’s sake, I think I can manage a packless hike. I figured I had 15 hours ahead of me, 10 hours of that would be in the darkness.  So, I strapped in for the long haul and decided to get it done. I knew there would be no DNF.  I wouldn't let it happen.  Eyes forward, a burning focus to walk as fast as I could (3.8 mph on average), and an eclectic selection of podcasts and music.  I listened and learned about the metaphysical foundations of quantum physics (David Bohm is a freak), why democracy is broken (hint:people are stupid), memory palace techniques (cue Cicero), the Apollo moonshots (I remember it and I was 8), the opiate epidemic (big pharma cynicism), and 19^th C. English poetry (Hardy loves hard).  All of the things. 

Beyond that there is not much to say.  I walked with purpose, sometimes rage.  At one point I was so mad I literally wanted to get challenged by a bear, bison, or some other large mammal and punch it in its great furry head.  Because that would show my quads what’s what. At times I tried to jog for a minute or two then walk a minute, then jog again.  Stupid quads wouldn’t have it.  I cheered for the 17 or so racers that passed me that last 55 miles but was, in fact, silently dismayed and just a bit self-pitying, at times.  I mean it wasn’t their fault I suck. 

But I can’t let the quad thing go, still.  My quads gave up the ghost 40 miles before they should have, given past performance. Something very specific went wrong, and I don’t know what it is. So, here are some bullet points which perhaps can inform an explanation and I would be happy to hear your assessment, fair readers:

·      It had to do with the altitude.

·      It had to do with the fact that I have been intermittent fasting since April.

·      It had to do with my back issues.

·      It had to do with age and muscle atrophy.

·      It had to do with my training.

·      It had to do with running longer descents than I am accustomed to, in spite of their shallow grades.

·      It had to do with abnormal fluid retention (my hands were swollen to twice their size for most of the race).

[For what it is worth, I think my quad blowout was a combination of a couple of things.  I think the primary driver was my back.  I ran to protect it, very consciously.  Consequently, my bio-mechanics, my gait, my posture were all slightly (maybe more than slightly) different from my norm.  I stiffened my spine, leaned forward, and avoided hip/back torsion thus stressing different parts of my legs in different ways, and I did this constantly and over several very long, though shallow, downslopes.  At least this is my working hypothesis, informed by the wisdom of my friend Richarda, a local personal trainer who runs the mile at a high rate of speed. Richarda has a potty mouth.  One time she said, "Shitballs" in the midst of a fun mid-winter hill workout.]

I rolled in with a time of 24:52, bandy legs wobbly, limping my way onto the Custer High School track.  Way slower than I wanted or thought I’d run, but I do take some consolation that I hung tough for the finish and that the time isn’t that bad considering I only ran less than half of the race. A Pyrrhic victory, for sure. Perhaps I shall be made stronger because of this.  Nietzsche would think so, but then he had syphilis.  I collected my buckle, drove to the hotel, showered, passed out on the bed, woke up, limped to the bar, inhaled 10 large buffalo wings and more than a couple beers, limped back, and slept another 12 hours.  

I closed out my journey the next day by visiting the Crazy Horse Memorial, Mt. Rushmore, and Deadwood (I’m a huge fan).  

I flew home on Monday.  Mission complete.

The race direction was superb.  The RD, Royce Wuertzer, does a great job. Registration is simple, updates are sent when necessary, and everything you want to know can be found on the Lean Horse site.  The aid stations are frequent at no more than 6 miles apart, most are 4-5 miles,  and being an out and back, it is nice to see the volunteers twice.  A couple of things that they may want to pay attention to is to have water available in pitchers vice having to use the little spigots on the tanks.  It saves time in the aid station and allows more people to move through faster.  Also, at night, all stations should have ramen or some kind of hot soup.  It was a chilly night and it would have been great to warm up with some delicious decadent warm salt broth with mushy carbs, puffy hands notwithstanding.  Overall, I’d recommend this race to others. It should be bigger than it is.  I think it could be a good first 100 for those looking to take the plunge.

Thanks for reading.