Redemptive, Ridiculous, Remarkable: My Vermont 100 Race Report

"With your chrome heart shining in the sun, long may you run."  Neil Young 

Welp, put that little charmer in the ledger.  I’m happy to report that I finished the Vermont 100 this year, and was moderately blissed with the thing.  I wrote a race plan for 22:15 and ran a 22:24.  Disciplined, consistent, and focused. No prodigious talent on display here, but solid journeyman's work. I’ll take it. 

Compared to last year’s self-immolation, this one seemed quasi-dialed, if not pitch perfect.  The exception, I suppose, was that my quads became non-operational at mile 88. It was the vastus medialis on both sides, as it always is.  This is the muscle with the name of a Goddamned gladiator but which is, in fact, a capricious little tart.  But that’s okay because here’s why:  I planned for my blasted quads to become non-operational at mile 88, basically “speed”walking it in.  Out-brained, you foul leg-steak. 

It Begins.  The adventure began on Friday morning with me enduring a tedious 3-hour State interagency meeting which slowly sucked my vitality away as I pretended to be engaged, interested, and collaborative, knowing full well that 24 hours from that point I would be 8 hours into the race. Distracting.  That bureaucratic torment complete, I went to lunch, and then made the drive to Silver Hill.   

Parking was easy, registration was effortless, and dinner was better than Applebees.  I pitched my tent, laid out my stuff, had a nice chat with my tent-neighbor Andre, a South African MD specializing in skin cancer and practicing in Victoria, British Columbia.  Delightful guy.  We both ran Rocky Raccoon in 2017 not knowing one another. We spent some time comparing notes about life, running, and all the rest of it.  I did a shot of tequila (counseled by certain gentlemen named Meltzer and Pilla to do so), laid down and slept soundly until the alarm went off at 3am.   

I arose, changed, applied glide and leukotape  to sensitive places (still have it on – very painful for a hirsute man to remove), headed down to the start, drank a couple Dunkin' coffees, ate a bagel, and waited for the 10 sec countdown to the start. 

The First Part (0-47 miles).  Which came at precisely 3:59:50 am.  Off we went, headlamplit into the cool and vaguely humid morning darkness.  I was running well.  Early race jitters worked their way out, I was peeing a lot, and it was clear.  RD Amy greeted us at 7 miles with a smile, filling our water bottles and taking our now unnecessary headlamps.  Off we went.  I was feeling good, and as I hadn’t latched onto any pace buddies yet, was flying solo.   

Taftsville Bridge was the next stop.  After a sustained downhill into town, I got there a few minutes ahead of sked.  Loaded Tailwind, ate some peanut M&Ms, grabbed some chips, and took off.  The next big stop was Stage Rd (50K), where I had a dropbag waiting.  I was happy, running solidly, no niggling pains or concerns so I just flowed with it and took in the scenery.   

After a long down I got into Stage, close to my planned mark at a 5:25.  I reloaded TW and snacks, changed from a long-sleeved tech into my lucky AT Thru-hike  short sleeve Nike abomination (that old rag has seen some things).  I looked around to check out the crews and crowd of supporters and I saw Ultrarunning Brahmin Andy Jones-Wilkins (AJW) standing there, waiting for his runner to come in to crew him. I stopped by and introduced myself (we had never met, but I had hooked him up with some gorgeous Hill Farmstead beer last year via a Strava connection).  I really respect AJW.  He is a gifted runner (a past VT100 winner), a dedicated educator, and a superb writer with a true passion for the history and lore of this zany sport, which draws the troubled, masochistic, and compulsive. He wished me luck, and off I went briskly, knowing there was a bitch of a climb coming up.   

It was getting hotter, but the humidity wasn’t that bad. Feeling good. Working hard, but not too hard.  The next big stop was 10 Bear (#1) at mile 47.  At Lincoln Covered Bridge, I called my pacer, to check in and confirm our link-up time, and discovered I was about 15 minutes ahead of schedule. Surprising.  It was 8 miles to 10 Bear, so I slowed it down a bit, knowing what was to be when the real and metaphorical darkness came late in the race. I walked the longer hills with purpose, everything else I ran, prudently.   [Oh, I forgot to mention that AJW owes me a bottle or two of Pliny.  I'll wait.] 

The 10 Bear Loop (47-69 miles). I arrived at 10 Bear about 10 minutes ahead of plan. Not bad.  I sat down, decompressed a little, changed from my Hoka Challenger 3s to the Speed Instincts, and put on some fresh socks.  After popping some ibuprofen and salt tabs, cameling up, and munching on some chips and cookies,  I took off with a grin on the 23 mile loop which would have me back to 10 Bear about 5 hours later.  In theory...

Last year, of course, I missed the turn to get back to 10 Bear for the second time, ran about 3 miles off course, did some math, and mentally collapsed into a very special sobbing fetal DNF.  So this year I was paranoid, to say the least. I had to get back to 10 Bear to continue the race, but also because if I didn’t, the caustic Lauren, my pacer, would never let me hear the end of it. And rightly so.   

The terrain was bucolic.  Beautiful hill farms along rolling ridges, noble long-faced horses, haughty obnoxious cats, breathtaking gardens, a farmer offering coldwater hose showers, runnable downs, joggable ups, and every stride getting me closer to the point at which I missed the turn last year.  I fueled at Pinky's and Birmingham's, running like a metronome, in my groove and feeling confident.  On pace.  On target.  Sure, I was tired and was starting to feel the onset of a full-body ache, but that is de rigueur.  

I had 4.6 miles to get to Margaritaville where cheeseburgers and a frosty margarita shot awaited.  I arrived there close to my target time.  It was at the top of a sturdy climb, but was worth the work.  The rowdy crowd gave great support, the cheeseburger pieces were rich and full of welcome protein, and the margarita was cold, slushy, and granted me a satisfying nano-buzz, which I embraced.  AJW was there again and remarked on my solid work.  Nice to get validation from a guy like that. Much appreciated, Sir.   

The nice thing about the 10 Bear Loop is that the aid stations are all very close together, so it is easy to just work from point to point.  After a stop to see the fine people at Puckerbrush, I was off to Brown School, 3 miles down the road.  Cool.  I hit Brown in short order, did my thing, and anticipated the next stop,  my return to 10 Bear.  My inner monologue went something like this:   "Please let me get there and not miss the turn. Please.  Please. And when I get there let me at least me say, “Oh, I see what happened last year.  That really was confusing. Very confusing, in fact. I understand why I missed it.” "  

Of course, that is not what happened.  No, indeed. I got to the turn back to 10 Bear with no problem.  I didn't miss it. I couldn't.  It was so damned well-marked.  It could not have been marked any better than it was.   

Question:  So what happened last year?  Why did I miss it?  

Answer:  You were an unfocused, lame-brained dipshit.  

I arrived without drama to 10 Bear. My paranoia flew away like a barn swallow. 

Endgame (69-100 mi).  I came into 10 Bear, my pacer took charge,  and we set out to execute the transition plan and begin the last phase.  I was 12 minutes ahead of sked at this point and feeling really strong, all things considered. I had planned to stay for 15 minutes, but we had some fluff time, too.  Good news. 

Change shirt. Check.  Reload Tailwind, Gu, and snacks.  Check.  Fill water.  Check.  Carry light and back-up. Check. Stow rain shell.  Check.  I also had to change socks and shoes. When I stepped out of the Instincts and and peeled off the socks, I noticed that one of the toenails on my left foot was literally hanging by a thread of flesh.  Lauren called a doc over and he recommended we keep the nail on and tape it up.  So I did.  It cost some time, but was well worth it because as we did that work we also popped a couple of pesky toe blisters which had been annoying me.  Those were drained, cleaned, slathered with unguent, and taped, as well.  That done, feet in good repair, we were ready to go.     

My Pacer. I've known Lauren for the past 4 years, we worked together for Vermont Emergency Management.  She is half my age with twice my maturity.  We have an odd friendship predicated on a shared tenacious curiosity, an improvisational and ribald wit, an appreciation of good beer and food,  and a strong sense of Human life's fundamental absurdity.  And because she knows me, I trust her implicitly as a pacer.  She knows when to engage, and when to lay back, and that is important in the late miles of these races when things get crepuscular and grim.  I don't see as much of her these days and I really appreciated her spending time away from Kona and Matt and coming out to support me in this race.  All that said, I secretly dreaded what was sure to be a last 50K of this race filled with antagonism, button-pushing, taunting, and showing off.  But that is her specialty, it is what I needed,  and it is why I asked her to do this for me.      

As it happened, my darkest place came during the first hour or so after leaving 10 Bear.  I had eaten some quesadillas, watermelon, and Swedish Fish,  popped some Vitamin I and salt tabs, and felt well-fueled when we stepped off.  About a quarter mile in we started a sustained mid-grade ascent of a trail and hill.  I was really working hard and my stomach was beginning to feel nauseous.  I was sweating a lot (the clammy and gross kind), and really wanted to barf (a John Waters film would've helped);  but I couldn't.  All I managed was one or two of those weak forced burps that had a very light load of accompanying solids.  It helped, but not much.  This went on for an hour and a half.  Lauren tried to pull me along, but I couldn't speed up. She gave me the space and the silence I needed to work through the suck.  We crested the hill, and it got better and flatter.  After a few ups and downs, we hit Spirit of '76 and I was feeling fairly normal.  Quads were getting sore, but I could run, and I did. 

There were 7 miles between Spirit and the next aid station, Cowshed.  Quad pain was getting noticeably more  acute, but still didn't preclude running.  Lauren adopted a strategy of having us walk the uphills, and then on the flats and downs, we'd Run 3 min – Walk 1 min, and repeat.  So we did that.  And of course, at the end of each 3 minute running piece, I would hear, "It's been 3 minutes.  Do you want to walk."  To which I would reply, "Yes, Lauren, for Chrissake!  I want to walk. That is how this 3-1 works.  And by the way, 3 minutes doesn't mean 4 minutes.  It means 3 minutes.  3."   I was a bit surly and pugnacious.  I relieved myself somewhere in there and discovered I was pissing whiskey.  Too dark. Starting to dehydrate.  Must drink more.  

Headlamps on, we finally got to Cowshed at 83 miles and we were a minute or two behind the plan.  Still, not bad.  I sat down, ate some things and decided to attempt some elimination in the plastic head.  I ended up spending an extra five minutes in there, and coming away with, not a feeling of satisfying lightness, but distended neck veins and what seemed like blown capillaries in my eyes.  What a waste of time (rather than a time of waste). 

Five miles to Bill's.  OK. I was tired.  I knew the quads were going to give up the ghost soon, but only 17 miles to go (only), and I'd planned for a fastwalk for the last 12 miles, anyway.  At this point I felt very sure I'd get a sub-24 out of the body, but wasn't sure what my actual time would be or could be.  I had wasted minutes in Cowshed and was a bit behind going in there, so I knew I was now behind the pace plan.  So we ran. And walked. And shuffled.  Lauren, continuing to be a pain in the ass under the waxing gibbous moon, would sprint forward, jump up like a wallabee tripping balls and bat the hanging glow sticks on the tree branches, knowing full well that her glee (it was authentic) would irritate the shit out of me.  I tried to translate that irritation into movement forward, but had limited success.  On we went. 

We ambled into Bill's, mile 88.  My quads were pulverized.  Done.  We recharged at Bill's with some hot broth and ramen, cleared detritus from my shoes, ate some sweets, and headed out.  Twelve miles to go.  As we left Bill's, we passed some homeowners off to the right of the trail.  They were drinking cocktails with neighbors around a hot tub, probably reveling in their visceral passive cruelty to we runners.  I yelled over, asking them to invite us over for some shared conviviality, make martinis,  and start the hot tub.  They offered to.  But we had work to do.  Onward.  I couldn't run at this point, so I walked hard, maintaining a constant 17-19 min miles.  I had planned on this.  Still on track for a 22-something.   

We continued, stopping at Keating's and Polly's. Nice people who, coming so late in the race, must have some stories to tell about the full palette of delirious, exhausted, elated, emotional, blathering athletes. Polly's (I think) had waffles and pure Vermont maple syrup.  O'. My. God.  It was perfectly, exactly, what I needed at that point. So good.   

Only 5 miles to go.  Easy day. We charged on, knowing we had a stout two mile ascent before the last half mile to the finish. We got it done, though it seemed to take forever.  We saw the "½ mile To Go" sign, and I started running, speeding up with every step.  It hurt, but I could smell the barn, and wanted me some Finish Line Love.  RD Amy was at the end with a big sincere smile and a heartfelt congratulations. Also some cool Patagonia shorts as schwag.  I was done.  Finished.  

Post Race. Then the let-down began.  Crossing the finish line of a hundred mile race (at least the two I have done), is an incredible and intense experience which is bounded at once by elation and sadness.  Elation because it over.  Sadness because it is over.  Interesting. 

I began to feel clammy again and a bit sick.  I needed to sit down.  Lauren guided me to the food tent where I had a burger.  The body wants protein.  The body gets protein. Didn't help my gut, though.  I was exhausted and needed to sleep.  She walked me to my tent.  I could hardly get down on the floor, my quads were so slammed and painful.  Once I got down there I was half in the tent,  with my feet and legs stretched outside.  She took off my shoes and socks, and headed off to her tent after I mumbled an emphatic, "Thank You."  I crawled in, passed out, and woke up three hours later.  We headed down to the main tent, ate some breakfast, enjoyed the awards ceremony, and headed our separate ways.  It was over.  Time to think about what's next. 

Afterthoughts.  With a few days passed since the race, here are some random thoughts and lessons learned: 

• Solving the Quad Issue.  (1) I'm not a lithe and lean runner.  I'm rather beefy.  I think if I shaved off another 10-15 lbs, it would help. (2) I took my ibuprofen load at the beginning of the race so by the time I'd take it at the end, it did nothing.  I think I'd take fewer up front and save a couple of doses for the end of the race. (3)  I'd hydrate better.  Dark pee around 76. Constipation at 83.  I wasn't getting enough water, although I thought I was. 
• Having a Pacer.  I've never had a pacer for any ultra I've ever run.  It was great having Lauren pace me.  But, I think it is important to have someone you trust and who really knows you, to pace.  Otherwise, things could get contentious and weird. 
• Brush Your Teeth.  Try it.  It feels absolutely renewing late in the race.  I did it at mile 69.  Wonderful. 
• Change Your Socks and Shoes.  It worked for me. Fresh dogs make a world of difference and it also gives one the opportunity to have medical help take care of any issues. 
• Strava.  Good to document for posterity.  Here is my Strava data for the run, if interested. 
• Make Friends.  I had a great time chatting with people on the course.  That's one of the benefits of running ultras.  For non-elites like me, we almost always run at a pace where conversations can happen.  I really enjoyed hanging out for a while with Andre Erlank (whom I'd met before the race, in tent city), and we played hopscotch from about mile 40 to near the end.   Props to David Phipps, a software developer who came up from Maryland.  The guy ran a super consistent race and his good attitude never seemed to flag. We had a good chinwag for quite a while as we went back and forth.  Then there was Robert Rives, an outreach professional from the Green Mountain Club. I wish I could have spent more time BSing with Rob.   He wore an outlaw cowboy hat, and a torn sleeveless plaid button down shirt with an embroidered message on the back which said "Suffering Is Not Enough."   

Indeed.  And for anyone who knows what "enough" looks like, please let me know. 

Be well, all.  Thanks for reading.