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.