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.

I'd Rather Gargle Acid: My Ethan Allen 12 Hr Race Report

On Monday, 17 June, at 1 pm, I felt a pain shear through my lower back as if a giant scorpion’s arcing scimitar barb found purchase in my spine meat.  I knew what it was, of course. 

I was at work in my office.  I stood up to straighten the back.  I felt nauseous, my skin became clammy, and the sour sweat of shock-trauma was gorge-risingly apparent to my olfactory.  I began to lose my peripheral vision and realized I was going to pass out.  I sat down in my chair, lost consciousness, and woke up a minute or two later disoriented, confused, a bit scared, and with some drool leaking out the left side of my mouth.  So began my training block for the EthanAllen 12-hr Ultra on 16 July.

Suffice to say that in 1989 while moving into my grad school apartment in Monterey, CA, I picked up a TV incorrectly, using my back and not my legs.  Something slipped, bolt of agony, I passed out, crashed into a plate glass window (it didn’t break and no arteries were severed and spurting) and the next thing I remember was being strapped onto a backboard and loaded into the ambulance which would rush me to the hospital on Fort Ord.  To this day I don’t know what exactly happened to the back, but I do know that I get an episode like this every 3-4 years.  This was the first one where I lost consciousness since the original incident.  It usually takes me out of play for 1-2 weeks.  This one took 9 days. Running was out of the question.  The back was super sensitive to twisty torsion and back-to- front bending. I could barely get into the car.  I was relegated to the gentle elliptical to keep up some low-intensity cardio. Planet Fitness has great prices for membership but its purple aesthetic makes everything seem like an existential bruise. But hey, at least it is a “Judgement Free Zone.”  I should have worked out in my codpiece and pink wig.

My last decent volume week was 10-16 June with about 61 miles and a long run of about 18. So, after my 9 days of spine-slip penitence, having to pull out of the Catamount 50K and pissed off about it,  I was ready to get back after it on a crisp Wednesday morning.  Of course I had to, just had to, demonstrate to myself that I hadn’t lost any fitness and could put up some decent mile splits.  So, I did.  I ran 7:30-7:40 on the flats and was feeling great.  Effortless. Happy.  I look down the road and I see my running buddies in a group heading toward me. They had started earlier and were on their way back into town.  I passed them, high fives were exchanged and I continued on.  I got back to my place, stretched a bit and went to work, feeling a bit tight, thinking nothing of it.  The next day I went out for a climbier slower run with a friend, and I felt okay. Then on Friday, I did a 9 mile loop, a bit faster, with another friend and about 3 miles in on a downhill I started to feel an acute pain in my left hamstring; it was getting progressively, albeit slowly, more painful as we went on.  By the time the run was over I was limping.  So, I iced and elevated and took the next day off.  In hindsight I realized that going out so fast on Wednesday after 9 days off was pretty stupid. That is where the problem started.  I needed to ease into it.  I didn’t; of course I didn’t.  That would be prudent. I need to get better at prudence and patience.

Quick tangent, but let me say a few words about our little running group here in town.  The core members are Nathan (Principled Progressive Consultant), Richarda (Witty River Conservationist), Dan (Brainy Serious Fiscal Analyst), Dylan (Eternally Joyous Geospatial Information System Analyst), Peter (Sardonic Senior State Leader), Scilla (Fast Financial Planner), Jim (Attorney Representing Mammals) and me (Pogue). We are all very different and yet oddly, wholly the same. Communicating mostly via e-mail and text, people lay out their training plans for the week, giving one another some form of shit whenever appropriate, which is always, and congratulating each other for races or workouts well done, etc. Some of us are on Strava, too. Kudo frenzies typically ensue after races and meltdowns.  We don’t have an official name, but I have one that I use, secretly.  I call us MIRÓ (the Montpelier Insomniac Runners Órganization).  Why?  (1) Because we live in Montpelier, VT, (2) many times we go out in the pre-work wee hours, (3) we run, (4) we are somewhat organized, and (5) like its namesake’s milieu, at times the conversations, local vistas, and wildlife sightings can be surreal. These are some very cool people and I’m happy to know them and be part of this little thing.

So, back to the lead-up.  Now it is 28 June, I am injured with a hamstring strain,  I have a 12 Hr race on 16 July, 18 days away, and my brain is marinating in cortisol as I fret about whether I will be able to run.  Bottom line is that I got through it by being (surprisingly) judicious in my training, taking time off when I needed it and listening to my body.  I also decided to forego the Montpelier Mile race, something I was looking forward to, having never done a timed mile. If I had, it would have shredded the hamstring, and I’d’ve been toast.  There.  Prudence demonstrated.

On race day, my hamstring was good to go, my back was good enough at 90% and I wasn’t worried about anything catastrophic stopping me from starting. (If I’m being honest, the morning of the race I woke up and felt a slight stab of pain in the back.  I chose to ignore it.)  I didn’t have a sense for how the body would behave over 12 hours of stress, but I pushed forward like a Juggernaut. All momentum, no intelligence.

My goal race for the year is the Lean Horse 100, on 16 August starting in Custer, SD, heading North to Deadwood (yes, that Deadwood), and back, all along the Mickelson Trail.  Nothing too technical and about 7100’ total vert, through the beautiful Black Hills.  In order to get my body to where it needs to be I knew I had to put some higher volume in through July so I figured I’d find a race I could do.  Maybe a 50 miler, a 100K, a fast 50K, something longish. 

So, I searched that domain of 1% Utility/99% White Noise we call the Web and found the Ethan Allen Ultra, directed by the good people at Nor’east Trail Runs,  right here in Bennington, VT.  Most races have a fixed distance and they are run for time.  This event is a timed run where the racer simply does as many miles as possible within the time allotted. See the twist?  Very complex.   In this race there were three options: 24, 12, and 6 hours.  I chose the 12 hour version because I wanted to punish the legs,  get 50-70 miles or so done, put a solid high volume week together, but not kill myself.  Timed races are usually 1-3 mile lap courses done on dirt trails, paved park byways, or coastal paths.  This one, God curse these people, was done on a ¼ mile high school track... 

Pause... Think about that.

I agree.  An absolute horror show.  Okay, as much as I loathed the format, I have to say that the race direction, timing, food, music, venue, entertainment, schwag, fellow runners, and energy were all top notch.  Really  superb. Good job.

I chose this race because (1) it worked in terms of my training block timing requirements; (2) I’d get over 50 miles without having to totally die; (3) it would definitely be an exercise in mental toughness and training to embrace the inevitable suck, which is very important in the later stages of the longer races; and (4) it was local. But running for 12 hours around a little track?  I had no idea what I was getting into at all.  I remembered that as a midshipman in 1982, the first time I had ever been on a track, we had to do our PT test by running around 12 times to get 3 miles.  I dreaded it. I thought it was really hard. And to do it in 25 minutes?  Impossible.  The Jarheads relished our agony and prodded and cajoled us Navy guys the entire time.  I look back 36 years ago and laugh now, especially after having run this race. I also remember charming one of the more douchy Marine’s girlfriends away from him later in the semester.  Freakish hijinks and a whole other story.  #dickmove

Check-in was easy. The race began at 9pm on a Saturday night and ended the next morning at 9am.  So, we got the added joy of running through the night.  Useful for 100 training, but I would rather have been in bed waking up on a Sunday morning all vital, feeling active, and ready to get down.  I don’t have much of a narrative to put out there about the flow and rhythm of the race itself.  It was, as you might expect, absolutely interminable.  Satan’s Sidewalk.   Flat, humid, slow, and boring. I knew within the first 10 minutes that this was going to be an exercise in self-discipline, patience, manufactured distraction, and a general maintenance of sanity.

You run the same way, see the same things, read the same time hacks, pass the same people, get passed by the same people, observe the same aid station, and get annoyed by the same petty minutiae.  The sameness in all of these domains is amplified by the spatial density of the experience.  It all happens within a small, tight ¼ mile oval.  BTW, here are the irrational things that annoyed me and shouldn't have: 

• Pieces of watermelon cut into tiny ½ inch cubes. 
• Stale chips which I wanted to throw, like shurikens, at my targets.
• The timekeepers dancing to awful ‘80s music. Culture Club.  Embarrassing.
• The beeping of the four timing mats' control boxes as we crossed. I would have delighted in a Barret 50 Cal sniper rifle taking those demons out.
• The 6' bald white guy with a NY accent and single Buddhist name, adorned in powder blue running wear and white knit gloves, with his arms outstretched, palms-up, taking up two lanes… presumably communing with the Infinite, and who didn’t run one step; he walk-pranced  (Oh, and can I just say that I think the notion of cultural appropriation is bullshit.  It is a shibboleth of the naive left and makes me crazy when it is raised.  I mean I’m down on myself for many reasons already;  why would I want to add to that unpleasantness because I choose to use chopsticks to eat my mei fun?  Anyway, in a race-induced pivot, I felt that this guy was appropriating a bunch of shakras and wanted to tell him he was an irritating poser.)
• That little dip in the track that I stumbled on nearly every lap while cursing myself and  Life.  I wished I had a jackhammer.
• Pablo’s metronome-like performance as he passed me.  Frequently. A Quebecois fueled by poutine.
• That dour non-verbal tatted up lady in the sun dress and floppy-brimmed hat, who also didn’t run a step but cultivated a look of intensity. For what? 
• Chris’s fatless torso and prodigious pace over 24 hours. 
• Shoe brands and sock color choices.  Why Altras? Do they even make Pumas anymore?  Why pink?  Are those cotton, you asshat?

I was clearly unduly agitated.  It was aggravating and mind-numbing to endure this Hellscape, at least for me.  And remember that there were far more 24 Hr people running.  Bananas, every one.  And might I add that an entire ultrarunning sub-community exists which is devoted to these timed races.  I reconnected with an acquaintance of mine from being stationed in England, Israel Archuleta. He ran the 24 Hr, and he lives for these things.  He was telling me about this monstrosity called Six Days in the Dome he is racing in August.  As it happens he will be doing it with local legend Newton Baker, who also raced the Ethan Allen 24.  I ran a few laps with Newton and we'll meet for coffee in the future.  Great guy, and still going strong at 77.

Let’s talk about my expectations going in.  I didn’t know what they should be.  I know the guy who won it last year, Byron, was faster than me and he did a bit over 70 miles.  So, I was thinking that 60-68 miles would be in the realm of possibility.  There were some reasons I thought I could do well here, though:

• I ran a 7:37 50 miler in April so figured if I could put up an 8:15 50 miles, I could maybe slog through 20 miles in the remaining 3:30 and maybe get 70 miles, putting myself in competition for something.
• The track is flat (man, is it) and rubberized to weatherproof it, so resilient and theoretically fast
• I was about 3 lbs lighter than when I ran my fast 50 miler
• This was a social event and could result in deep, delightful, and distracting conversations which could mitigate the suck
• I had been doing some pretty consistent tempo and speed work when I was training

As it turns out I did a decent job, but not as well as I thought I could do.  There were reasons.  I’m always careful to not make excuses, because they don't matter. But I do like to do the introspection and analysis, and explain the problems that affected my performance so I can learn and improve for next time.  This is what I came up with:

•       I hadn’t had a good training week for about a month before the race due to my injuries
•      Mitigation- Train smarter, don’t get injured, and persevere. 
•       Injury paranoia distractions affected my mental game
•      Mitigation- See above.
•      The course is so consarned monotonous
•      Mitigation- Eat special mushrooms and enjoy the color of the laps.
•        Humidity, which I hate and it slows me down
•      Mitigation- Train harder when humid.  Stop whining.
•        It was a nighttime race, so I was very sleepy
•      Mitigation- Take better naps
•        Foot pain really became annoying
•      Mitigation- Curse Hoka’s mercurial toe-box issues and size-up
•        The whiny hamstring started to heat up at around 35 miles
•      Mitigation- Slow down, which I did

So, to put a powder blue bow on all this, I ran the race. I did 62 miles. 248 Laps, or so.  I came in 6^th overall out of 15 racers and 2^nd in Age. It was an OK performance and I got the mileage I wanted, setting me up for what I hope to be a solid 100 in August.  I don’t like this race format and I wouldn’t do it again.