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.

Calling Me On My Bullshit: My 2017 Vermont 100 Race Report

I DNF’d the Vermont 100 in July.  I failed.  I failed to complete the race and, more significantly, I failed to maintain my integrity.  It wasn’t a moral or an ethical breach this time (though I’ve had my share of those since I am a human and, thus, an inconsistent and incoherent wreck), but the kind of integrity lapse which has to do with saying something to myself and others, and not following through.  I’ll get to that.  It’s the crux of this ramble…

I’m on my local school board. I’ve developed courses in critical thinking and analysis, and’ve taught them internationally.  One of the things I have affirmed time and again in my life is that education does not just happen in the classroom.  It happens at home, it happens while listening to a podcast on your long run, and it happens while sipping a Heady and telling stories at the bar.  It also happens in races when you have no one else but yourself to converse with in the deepest and darkest hours.  Being pathologically metacognitive, which is to say that as I go through a thought process:solve problems, generate ideas, argue, make decisions, etc,  I am painfully aware of why I am thinking what I am thinking in the moment. It is distracting at times, sometimes it is useful. This race taught me something.

Amy Rusiecki directs a great race. The Vermont 100 is a delight.  Rolling hills through bucolic crunchy granola pastures populated by Holsteins and Highland Cattle, sylvan gambols dodging branches hurdling rock and root, and simple trots across covered bridges and through quaint and welcoming villages.  I live in Bethel, Vermont about 30 miles away from the race start, as the crow flies, and have never appreciated my state as much as I did as when running that race.

I saw this as a perfect race for my style of running. Technical single track, while fun, slows me down and frustrates me (and I have a niggling fear of falling and breaking my face on the downs), and too much pavement or flats bore me.   This one has a lot of undulating dirt roads, a bit of single track, horse trails, and some friendly rugged Jeep roads.  Not much pavement.

I ran Rocky Raccoon in February, my first 100 mile race and did well enough, getting a sub-24 buckle. I had a bad ankle sprain at 25 miles, but got it done, running very intentionally, slowly, gingerly, and pretty much ugly-slogging through the last 45 miles. Though I wasn’t thrilled with my time, I was happy with my grit.  The mental game seemed to be on point.

Karl Meltzer was my coach for Vermont, as he was for Rocky. A noob, having only started running ultra distances in Aug ’16, I figured I could use Karl’s expertise and being held to account on executing my plan. He has been great to work with.  This race was my 2017 target race and a step up for me.  Much more challenging than Rocky in terms of ascent, temps, and weather.  Karl had me running 65-80 miles and 10K’ of climbing per week for the two months prior to the race, followed by a 12-day taper. I worked hard, and executed the plan. 

Race weekend came and I felt more ready for this than any race in my life: light, strong, focused, confident, fit, and prepared.   Amy, smiling and wearing her big ol' rubber Wellies, briefed us on the ins and outs of the race, talking about signage, aid stations, drop bags, and all the rest of it.  She also shared a throw-away anecdote about some forlorn soul last year who missed the turn to bring him back into Camp 10 Bear for the second time. (Runners come in to 10 Bear at about mile 45, run a 25-mile loop, and then come back in again at around mile 70.)  This guy missed the turn and ended up running that 25-mile loop again, and he went on to finish.  “Holy shit; poor bastard,” I thought. Prescient.

The race began and I felt great.  The miles clicked by and my watched buzzed. “Too fast; slow down.  Too slow, speed up. Power hike the hills; don’t blast the quads on the downs-you’ll need them later.  Work your plan, Todd.”  So, that’s what I did.  I ran with some locals I know and along the way I met some new folks, and enjoyed just chatting about Life, the Universe and Everything.  Temps began to rise early on and by the time I hit Stage Rd at mile 31 or so, it was getting hot.  No problem, though.  I was hydrating well, peeing pale.  Nutrition was working.  I was on it.

After Stage Rd, on a few of the hill climbs, little muscle spasms deep in my hamstrings on both legs surprised and worried me. Electrolyte issue.  I drank some Tailwind and it helped.  I got into Camp 10 Bear feeling great.  The med check went well. I was hot and tired and I had the spasms on my mind, but they were being managed. I felt coherent, focused and ready to run 55 more miles.  I grabbed some S-Caps on my way out and began that marathon loop before I got back to the Camp 10 Bear festival for the second time.

I had written a plan for a sub 21-hour race.  I was pretty much on it when I left 10 Bear, maybe 20 mins slow.  But that was OK because my splits were faster than expected when I left.  So, I ran the loop- 50 miles, 55 miles, 60 miles, 65 miles.  I was back on plan, running smart.  At mile 65, I was running 3 mins/mile faster than I was doing at Rocky, and feeling strong. No cramps or spasms.  I passed a few 100K-ers with a cheery, “Good Work!”  As you do.

Then it all went wrong.  I was at around 68 miles, following the signs, expecting to get into 10 Bear soon to re-cock my gear, and prepare for the coming night.  I ran on, not remembering exactly where the turn should be.  After a while, probably 30-40 minutes beyond where I thought I should be dropping into 10 Bear, and getting nervous, I noticed some things I had seen before.  “Hey, that backhoe in the field looks familiar.  That field of sunflowers is like one I’ve seen before.”  I continued for a few more minutes until I accepted the fact that I had run this before and that I was on that marathon loop for the second time.  Are you freakin' kidding me? Sunuvabitch.  I had done the same thing that dude from last year did. I stopped.  I stood.  I went inside myself and pondered.

Then I had a total mental collapse.  I can’t even describe the concoction of frustration, disappointment, anger, and ignorance I felt. I'd been running the race of my life, and then, all at once, I find myself in this dark place.  I raged, I shouted, I clenched, and I created profanities which had probably never been uttered in the history of human existence. I wish I could remember some of them.  They were quite rich.   My body felt fine, if tired,  the spasms had gone away, and I felt remarkably fresh, physically.  But, I knew I was at a crux moment, mentally.

I often listen to ultra-running podcasts when I train.  The athletes and their stories inspire me.  So many diverse backgrounds.  So many different life trajectories which got these runners where they are today. I thought very specifically about interviews I’d heard with Andy Jones-Wilkins and his 2016 Hardrock, and Kaci Lickteig’s about her 2017 Western States experience.  These are elite runners.  These are runners who are well known and highly respected in the community, and have won huge races (AJW is a past VT100 winner, in fact).  But on these days, they didn’t win.  They found themselves in a dark dismal pit, but somehow, using some mechanism I don’t yet comprehend, found the strength and finished.  It was hard. Physically painful, and psychologically tumultuous, but they got it done.  I found these stories to be profoundly moving.   

During my dark time, I found no such strength.  I did some quick calculations, and reckoned I would have to run 4-5 miles in addition to the three extra miles I had already done to get back into 10 Bear.  This stupidity would cost me about 1.5-2 hrs.  And here is where my integrity caved.  

When we run, we almost always have goals. I do, anyway.  We have an A Goal, usually secret and unspoken, and that would be our moon shot.  Then we have a B Goal, which is challenging, but achievable on a good day.  Finally, we have a C Goal, one that is probable and satisfactory.  So, when asked about my VT 100 goals, I would say, “Well, 100’s are hard, so I’ll be happy just to finish the thing.  But if I have a good day, I think I can get a sub-24.”  And that’s all I’d say.  Finishing is my C, sub-24 is my B, and I’m the only one who knows my A.

Turns out that was all complete Bullshit.  I didn’t mean what I’d said.  If I’d meant it, I would have done it.  I could have and would have finished.  I have no doubt.  I could also, if things had gone well, (maybe) have gotten a sub-24, even with my not insubstantial navigational screw-up.  So, both my C and B goals were attainable.  But, No.  I was on track to achieve my A goal, which was a sub-22 hour race.  (I wrote a sub-21 plan, knowing that wasn’t going to happen, but I did it to give me some buffer and enable my actual goal.) Getting that sub-22 was the only driving force in my mind.  So, since I couldn’t attain my A goal, I folded.  Granted, at the moment I was physically fatigued and probably somewhat cognitively compromised. Still, I felt like some grand universal power had marshaled forces against me, and denied me what I deserved. All the time, all the work, all the suffering.  I was owed this finish on my terms.  I was entitled, Dammit!

What a crock of shit.  Fact is, no one owed me anything.  Hard work didn’t entitle me to achieve my goal. It doesn't entitle me to squat.  At the time, I was acutely aware of the ridiculousness of my internal dialogue.  It was patently silly and wrongheaded. I know this now and I knew it then.  But in the moment things played differently. My reason didn’t work right.   I recall doing a visualization exercise in the midst of it where I imagined looking into a mirror and having a conversation with myself.  I said to myself, “Hey, Jackass, you are only going to lose an hour and a half.  You feel good, you’ll finish, and maybe even get in around 24. You'll hate yourself if you don't.  This is just bad luck.  Think of Kaci, AJW, Walmsley.  They missed their goals, but they got it done in spite of their frustration and disappointment. They found something.  Just sit down for a few minutes, regroup, and power through, you colossal whiny asshole.”  Or words to that effect.  But I didn’t find it.  My rage and frustration won the day, and I gave up. The mirror I was imagining exploded into shards which sliced into my stupid self-pitying brain.  So,  I walked down to the road, hitched a ride back to 10 Bear, cut my wristband,  grabbed a shuttle to the Start/Finish, and drove home in seething regretful silence. 

Now, just over two months on, I’m feeling better about things.  I had a solid podium finish in a tough mountain heavy half, our ultra team won the 100 on 100 Relay, and I annoyed a friend to her first ultra finish.  Not bad.   I regret quitting the VT100. It was an unnecessary DNF.  I should have finished.  I learned a lot about myself that day, not all of which I like.  But as long as there is room for growth, there is reason to move forward.  And I intend to do that.  I have a busy 2018 race season coming up.