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.