My Ironic Stress Fracture

One might think, with the pressure of a fall packed with 8 credits of part-time class, a full-time job, four ultramarathon attempts, and, just for kicks, the Army Ten-Miler, I would have cracked by now. And to some extent, I already have (note the word "attempts" after "ultramarathon" in the previous sentence). But ironically enough, it wasn't all of this that did me in. It wasn't even an epically packed last week of classes, in which, between December 1st and December 7th, I had due 1 individual homework assignment, 1 term paper, 1 group project, 2 team papers, 2 take-home finals, and 2 group presentations, on top of 3 briefings for work (which I'm pretty sure is a PR in terms of significant deliverables produced in a 7-day period, although I don't usually keep track of such things).

No, I went ahead and tweaked my running form. This tweaking fixed the minor issues I've had with my knees off and on ever since I started running, and resulted in leaps-and-bounds improvements in speed and efficiency (in short, things that, over the past few weeks, have made running more joyful and less stressful than ever before) . . . and a stress fracture in my left foot, second metatarsal.

To be fair, this is self-diagnosed, but I've had two other stress fractures in my running career, which is enough to know what one feels like. If you're wondering if it's a stress fracture, here are some tell-tale signs that could save you weeks or months of frustration and hundreds of dollars in medical bills, which result in a prescription of "rest":

1. Sharp, severe pain that floats around the injured point during motion, especially when the fracture is fresh, but eventually settles at the point of injury.

2. Vague swelling and bruising in the injured area (vague enough that the only way to conclude that there might be swelling or bruising is to compare the injured area to the same area on the other side of your body)

3. Feels like an internal "itch" near the point of injury when you're just sitting around.

4. Pressing a finger on the point of injury is slightly (but not dramatically) more painful than pressing a finger near the point of injury.

5. Pain increases dramatically under pressure during the motion of the physical activity that caused it.

6. Pain increasingly occurs during ordinary motion (e.g. walking around, climbing stairs), not just exercise.

In any event, this is a disappointing development, as it puts my entire spring in limbo. I'm already signed up for the Boston Marathon, so I've decided that that's happening, no matter what. Given that, depending on how quickly I heal, I could be running again in a month (mid-to-late January), in which case I may be able to be a little bit more ambitious post-Boston. If things don't go so well, I might not be running until late February, which throws a huge monkey wrench into late spring/early summer. And of course, a lot of major races want commitments right now, so it's unlikely that I'll be racing anything (other than Boston, and hopefully the National Marathon, for the sake of keeping that streak alive) that's "major" until mid-to-late summer.

This also comes at an awkward time, as I suddenly have more free time, due to my MBA classes being done forever, and work being generally slow around the holidays. So, my plan to use additional free time for more running is shot.

On the upside, this forces me onto the bike, and into the pool, so perhaps if I can improve my swimming past the point of "just barely not drowning," I could throw my first triathlon into the mix at some point (probably something short, since the longer ones are more expensive and probably full at this point anyway). There's also the possibility that there could be other things in life besides work and running (or so I hear), so there's that to explore . . .

And looking long-term, perhaps being injured now will put me a few months behind the late-season burn-out curve that everybody else who is at least moderately competitive seems to ride, so that in the fall, when everybody else is tired from racing in the spring and summer, I'll be relatively fresh, and ready to perform well at a major event.

In summary (because for some reason, I feel like this needs a summary), a wise man, whose name may or may not actually be Andrew W.K., once belted out in a song, "Just because this life ain't easy doesn't make it bad." Not bad at all, Mr. W.K. Just interesting and ironic.

A Long Short November (for Training)

Among the goals that I didn't accomplish in November 2010 was posting more frequently about my training. I failed to meet this goal in part due to time constraints, and in part because I didn't have as much training to report on as I would have liked. So, in the interest of a better start to December, here's my November recap:

I "came back" from my self-imposed hiatus on 16 November 2010, with my only concrete goal for 2011 being to run a 5K PR. Since then, here's what's happened:

16 November: 10 minute warmup, 4x(400m speed, 60 sec rest), 10 minute warmdown; 400s @ 75, 77, 78, 79
17 November: ~6 miles easy (~40 minutes), 5x100m barefoot strides
18 November: nothing
19 November: nothing
20 November: 10 minute warmup, 3 minutes tempo, 1 minute rest, 7 minutes tempo, 1 minute rest, 10 minute warmdown
21 November: nothing

Miles for the week: ~15
Time for the week: ~1 hour, 40 minutes

22 November: nothing
23 November: ~6 miles easy (~40 minutes)
24 November: nothing
25 November: 10 minute warmup, 2x(3 minutes tempo, 1 minute rest, 7 minutes tempo), 10 minute warmdown
26 November: 2 miles in 13:07, 20 minutes total run time
27 November: nothing
28 November: ~20 miles @ sub-7:00/mile pace (2 hours, 19 minutes total time)

Miles for the week: ~35
Time for the week: ~4 hours

And, in the interest of completeness, the past couple of days:

29 November: nothing
30 November: 11 minutes warmup, 5x(400 fast, 60 sec rest), 13 minutes warmdown; 400s @ 75, 78, 81, 83, 85

So all in all, some success, some failure . . .

Success: Getting back into (a semblance of) a routine; as in, posting more than 0 miles per week. For the most part, workouts have been solid and, given the circumstances, relatively speedy. First long run in a while was not a crash-and-burn disaster. Not feeling sick, injured, or burned out anymore.

Failure: Not enough volume, not enough consistency with workouts. Not enough strides. Last speed workout of the month was beyond crummy, and fell short of desired number of reps. Some annoying blisters on my feet from taking an unfamiliar pair of shoes on a long run.

Given the above, I think the next steps are fairly obvious: continue to increase volume, run more strides, and run less crappy workouts. The last one merits dissection, as I'm still not entirely sure what caused my last workout to go south so quickly. Tentatively, I am primarily attributing it to my attempt to reach an optimal racing weight, which has me on a diet high in protein and fiber, and low in simple carbs and total calories. My guess is that this is not such a bad diet for longer, low-intensity running (where fat is a more significant energy source), but may impact shorter, higher-intensity efforts, as a result of the likely persistent glycogen shortage caused by this diet. I am basing this guess on the fact that while I felt fine running a slower pace during the warmup/warmdown, my legs went totally dead during the intervals, which didn't happen the last time I tried this workout. Or, I could be just making things up. In any case, I'm gambling that I can't reach my 5K goal at 135 pounds (the weight my body seems to naturally want to be), and that my natural build will not preclude the loss of at least 10-15 pounds. Time, and additional training volume, will tell if this is a mistake. But in any case, it's worth a shot, since I haven't tried it before, and the best that similar plans have yielded in the past is an 18:20 5K, which general theory suggests that I am better than.

Parting words: A week from today, barring catastrophe, I will finally be finished with my MBA, so I can go back to being a normal person who has most weekends free, and who can reasonably expect to spend 12 hours, maximum, at work on weekdays. I am hoping that this more regular schedule and additional free time will improve my ability to train at a high level. Then again, maybe it won't. In any case, I am excited to be moving on . . . if only I knew exactly where . . .

What I've Done (A Year in Review)

A random rainy Tuesday night, lounging on the couch next to Ash, the resident "Tiny Kitten," as he kneads away at a blanket, after a little run in the rain, seems like as good a time and place to do something I've been putting off for a while now, which is a brief retrospective of being 28, and what that entailed (running-wise, anyway).

To put it briefly, this was a year of quite possibly the highest highs and lowest lows that I've ever experienced as a runner, often in close succession. In other words, it was a good year. Let's recap, chronologically:

Hellgate 2009: A big bad DNFing disaster, precipitated by physical and emotional turmoil, I left with the resolution to finish this race someday (as is the resolution I'll be making with all the races where I DNFed).

Club Challenge 2010: Finished in something like 1:06, not at all what I was hoping to do there. To be fair, I had just run 20+ miles the day before, and that didn't go very well, so there was only so much that I could hope for in an all-out 10-mile war.

National Marathon 2010: Kept the completion streak alive (starting with the first-ever National Marathon in 2006), but the "go faster every time" streak ended this year, as I hit the wall around Mile 15, and ended up finishing 3:15ish. Probably the best I've ever done in the context of a "crash," though.

Boston Marathon 2010: Finally, a good race! 2:58:33, which, while not a PR, is only about a minute off from my marathon PR, and ended up being a huge confidence boost, considering how badly the National Marathon went.

Frederick Marathon 2010: In what may have been the last ever running of this race, ironically enough, the heat, which I had been fastidiously training for in anticipation of Badwater, was my downfall at this race, as I hit the wall between mile 14-15, and struggled to come in under 3:50, with cripplingly painful cramps turning the last mile into a deathmarch.

Bel Air Town Run 5K: You know, I could look this up and tell you how I did, but honestly, I don't remember. And the important thing is, I did it again, putting the streak at 15 years straight.

Western States 2010: The goal was to go under 24 hours here. Mission accomplished, in 23 hours and change. It was a hard fight, though; I blew out my quads on the downhills, and the last 20-ish miles were brought to you in part by my angel of a pacer, who endured more loud cursing than anybody navigating the woods at night with a headlamp should ever be subjected to.

Badwater 2010: Perhaps the most high-profile achievement of the year, two weeks after Western States, a solid training effort brought me into Badwater even stronger than I had been for Western States. Although I was plagued by stomach issues, my top-notch crew fought to keep me in the race, and I finished 17th, in about 34 and a half hours, resolved to come back even stronger next year.

Summer Beast of Burden 100 2010: My first ever 100-mile race win, and a PR in 16:19 and change (which I believe is at least two hours "soft"), this was perhaps the pinnacle of my fitness, and arguably my greatest running achievement.

The Ring: This went well for about 30 miles, until I got lost, went about 15 miles off course in nowhere near the right direction, and wound up having to DNF.

North Coast 24-Hour Run: My heart and mind said yes, but my feet said no. Fallen arches made running excruciatingly painful, and after 50 miles in about 8 hours, I decided that was quite enough.

Grindstone 2010: What I had hoped would be a marquee event for me became an unmitigated disaster, as a combination of physical and emotional fatigue caused me to drop out after a little over 20 miles.

Oil Creek 2010: Two weeks after Grindstone, with less of the emotional issue, but more of the physical issue, and ultimately, the same result.

Army 10-Miler: The important thing is, I finished this race in under 7-minute mile pace. My legs were really dead, but the "party" afterwards was worth it.

29th Birthday Run: Okay, not an official race, and technically not run when I was 28, but I completed 29+ miles on my 29th birthday, in the first 3 hours and 50 minutes of being 29. No, not blazingly fast, but hey, I finished!

Both Satchel Paige and Boston have advised against looking back, but considering how much has happened in the past year, I'd be remiss not to look at all of this, and draw some conclusions about where I've been, and where I'd like to go. My top 5, as food for thought:

1. My greatest successes came about as a result of an obsessive level of control over my training schedule. Boston and Beast of Burden, besides being alliterative, were the races where, objectively, my finishing times were the best. I don't think it's a coincidence that, in the month before these races, I developed, and followed to the letter, a rigorous training plan, focused on the race.

2. The focus on "experience" was one major contributing factor to my failures. In every case where I failed to live up to expectations, I went into the race with less of a focus on the training plan (see #1) and more of a focus on "giving it a shot," and "getting some experience." I always got what I bargained for.

3. The high level of activity in my life in general was the other major contributing factor to my failures. Between school, work, and home, there were enough distractions to keep me from being able to focus on (and during) races, to complete training as planned, and to get enough rest to make the training pay off.

4. My best performances most likely would have been better on better rest. I've demonstrated a pretty large capacity for work, even under stressful circumstances. What I haven't had enough of is the opportunity to rest.

5. I have a far deeper understanding of the "tiny details" that are a major part of a successful race. In reflecting on my failures, I could write pages and pages about the things I did wrong that contributed to the outcome. In the past, I've had a fair amount of success, somewhat by accident, and I didn't have as much to consider as I do now. In the coming years, in planning for races, I'll have far more experience to draw from, and I'll be able to take many more steps to increase the probability of a favorable outcome.

So enough of that . . . what's next?

Having reflected on this past year, I've decided that, since school will no longer be a burden on my free time in 2011, my goal will be to systematically set PRs in the following major distances: 5K, 10 mile, marathon, and 100-mile (and at the 100-mile distance, this may well mean winning the race). How I plan to do this is the subject of another post, but I'll be starting with the 5K, and my goal race is the Resolution Run 5K in Patterson Park on New Year's Day, 2011. My 5K PR is something like 18:20, so let's say at least sub-18 for the 5K. In the weeks ahead, I'll be posting about progress towards that goal, and if something else funny or exciting happens, I might post about that, too.

Oil Creek End-of-Racing-Season Report

Before I get into the details of my latest DNF-semi-debacle, I'd like to thank everybody for their support after the Grindstone fiasco. If it weren't for you, I may not have made it to the Oil Creek starting line. But, after a week of consideration, I decided that since I could still run, and since so many factors at Grindstone were confounded that it was hard to tell if burnout was truly the culprit, or if some other factor was the key, it would be worth it to try Oil Creek (since I had already signed up months ago, and the website clearly states that there are no refunds), and see if a little bit of rest and learning from mistakes would change the outcome.

The short answer is, a little bit. The long answer is . . .

The race started at 5 a.m. on Saturday, which was good, because it meant more sleep before the race (albeit on a gym floor), so already, one thing improved over Grindstone. I was wearing my new Black Diamond Icon headlamp, which is much brighter than what I had been using at Grindstone, and I had my water bottles in a belt, which turned out to help immensely. Still, as we took off from the starting line, things just didn't feel right. I led the race for the first three miles, which were on a paved bike path, mainly because it was pavement, and I knew that as soon as we hit the trails, I would slow down. Sure enough, as we turned off the bike path, within minutes, people began to pass me. This made me wonder if the marathon record wouldn't already be under two hours if we took a bunch of average runners who are trail-running obsessives and just let them loose on 26.2 miles of hilly, technical trails. Still, as I perservered in the dark over rocks and roots, I felt as though I was technically running much better than usual, although I was starting to feel pain in my chest, particularly when I took a deep breath. I found myself at the first aid station, about 7 miles later, amidst Christmas lights, not really sure what to make of all of this.

The section from the first aid station to the second aid station (at about 6 miles, the shortest distance between aid stations on the course) began with a steep climb, followed by a steep descent. I knew that it was going to be a long day when I began to climb and I felt like I had no power in my legs. Normally, I am a very strong climber, but not today. The pain in my chest was still nagging, and I felt like I was working harder than I should have been. As a result, I slowed on the downhill, which is always a mistake, because going slow downhill generally hurts more than going fast. Of course, more people passed me. I made it to the second aid station still running, but not comfortably.

The stretch from the second aid station to the third aid station, at nearly 10 miles, was the longest in the race, although it didn't feel like it, at least at that point, because there was plenty of variety in the trail. For the first time, there were some extended flat stretches where I could open up my stride. I ran when I could, but I couldn't run for more than about 10 minutes straight without feeling weak - not sore, just weak in the legs. Yes, more people passed me, but eventually, I made it to the third aid station.

From the third aid station to the fourth aid station (the start/finish area), the terrain was the most gentle and runnable, in part due to the fact that two miles of the 8-ish mile section consisted of flat, grassy area, and the bike path. At this point, I was running more than I was walking, albeit grudgingly. I couldn't shake the weak feeling, and by this time, the fact that the pain in my chest wasn't going away was very disturbing.

I should mention, at this point, that I have a number of chronic and semi-chronic physical problems, all of which have been previously diagnosed, which could mimic symptoms of a heart attack, including acid reflux, gas, muscle strains in the chest and back, inconveniently on the left side only, mild asthma, a heart murmur, and probably some others that I can't think of off the top of my head right now. To add to all of this, the hours that I spend in the car driving position me in such a way that my left hand and arm are subject to near-constant strain, and, my father nearly had a heart attack at a relatively young age (i.e. before 50), although granted, he was not very physically fit at the time. With all that constantly in the background, and the public spectre of apparently fit people such as Ryan Shay and Alberto Salazar dropping dead, and nearly dropping dead, respectively, due to undiagnosed heart conditions, I confess that I experience a constant, low-level fear that one day, I too will drop dead in the middle of a run. Most of the time, I am comfortably resigned to this fate, but on occasion, when one or more of the aforementioned conditions are particularly severe or persistent, I become irrationally afraid of sudden death. So, 50 kilometers into the race, when I was still experiencing discomfort in the chest, it was becoming increasingly difficult to convince myself that it was not something serious.

Nevertheless, two more loops remained, and I was determined to force my way through as much more of the race as I could stand. So, after a fairly conservative 7-hour first loop, I set out for the second loop, feeling much, much worse than I had on the first loop. There's not much more to say about the course at this point, but I will mention that along the way, only pizza, supplemented with Hammer Gels, seemed to be effective nutrition, and for most of the loop, I struggled to walk slowly, although at one point between the second and the third aid station, I ran at about 10-minute mile pace for about twenty minutes straight, and thought that I might have caught my second wind. This was short lived, as I resumed my shuffle-sit-on-a-log-shuffle pace for the remainder of the loop. As the sound of who-knows-what from the Drake Wells museum (which shall henceforth be known as "the heartbeat of the forest") grew louder as I neared the end of the loop, forward progress seemed more and more painful, especially when being on a flat section of the course didn't make things any easier. After what felt like forever (but was, in fact, about 40 minutes), I completed the last two miles of the loop, putting me back at the starting line in about 8.5 hours. This was somewhat encouraging, in that I felt like the amount of slowing and stopping that happened on this loop should have added more than an hour and a half to my first loop split.


But now, I was back at the start/finish area, which, as the course description is quick to warn, makes it very tempting to drop out. I sat around for a while in the relative warmth of the cafeteria, eating beef barley soup and contemplating why on earth about all of this in the first place. People came over to try to help me, and, had I been in a better physical state, this would have worked. But as I sat there, my body felt wrecked, and my feet were throbbing. This was not the usual blinding muscle pain - this was total weakness and fatigue, and not even sitting seemed to help. After about half an hour of contemplation, I went to the gym, and called Sara, and told her that I was feeling like I was ready to quit. Finally, some encouragement - I can't remember exactly what she said, but it was matter-of-fact enough that it gave me enough energy to put down the phone, put on another layer of clothes, and get back out there to start the third lap.

I wish I could say that that was enough to make me finish. It wasn't. Less than a mile into the lap, the chest pain, which, in the hour or so that I had been off the course had dissipated, was back with a vengance, and the extra layer of clothing was unnecessary, even at my average walking pace in 30-degree weather - I was sweating profusely. Again, thoughts of a sudden heart attack and dying alone in the woods became very difficult to suppress. And of course, I wasn't walking much better than before. I got about a third of the way to the first aid station and felt totally finished. Fortunately, another runner, who was deliberately walking this section of the course so that he wouldn't arrive at the second aid station before his son, who would be pacing him, showed up, was willing to walk with me to the first aid station. When we made it there, I sat down, took off my shoes for the medical staff, and they took one look at my mushy, swollen feet and decided that that was enough for me. In retrospect, perhaps I could have protested, and continued, but the thought of my body protesting against me any longer was unbearable, and with no familiar face or voice to urge me on, and the pain in my chest refusing to yield, I gave up the ghost, and eventually, after some time in front of the fire with the medics and rescue dogs, rode back to the starting line in a golf cart, some 68 miles into the race. Somewhere in there, they put a cold stethoscope under my shirt, and discovered that I had fluid in my lungs - yet another contributer to the ever-present chest pain, and most likely the hold-over effects from a low-level cold I'd been fighting since the Monday before Grindstone.

I slept in the gym for about five hours, then woke up and watched other runners hobble in from their third loop, with a slight amount of regret that I hadn't persisted, which was quickly eclipsed by the throbbing pain in my feet. And that, plus or minus a few slices of Little Caesar's pizza, was my race.

So, in summary, what on earth did all of that accomplish? Well, for one thing, it demonstrated that at this point, I'm just plain burned out. After 3 100+ mile races this summer (Western States, Badwater, and Beast of Burden), the most I've ever done in that timeframe, my body is worn out. As much as I wanted to finish Oil Creek, the thought of a 31+ mile, 31+ total hour deathmarch to the finish line seemed like far too much after all I had done, and was clearly violating the first goal that I had coming into this race - to have fun.

At the same time, ironically enough, racing for 18-ish hours, when I felt okay for only about 40 minutes, was enough to re-light my fire for running. The parts of the race when I felt good - running on the bike path in the first three miles, and the random trail section of the third section of the second lap when I finally fell into a rhythm - stand out in my mind in stark contrast to the misery of the rest of the race. These parts of the race convinced me that somewhere underneath all of the accumulated fatigue from the stress of a life that never seems to quit, the part of me that loves running with something approaching a dying passion is still alive and well. While I would have liked to have the belt buckle as tangible evidence of this experience, these are memories that will fuel my next racing season. That, and the term "exposure," which will also be on my mind for a long time, for reasons that I won't get into just yet . . .

So congratulations to all who finished Oil Creek - it may not be the steepiest, but it sure is the creepiest 100 I've ever attempted, and it's a heck of an experience. Stay tuned for my next post, where I look back on the past year a little, and look forward to the next year a lot.

2010 Grindstone 100 - Failure Report

Because people are going to ask, and because I'd rather not repeat the story dozens of times (it's far too complicated for that), and because I have an awful lot of thoughts to organize, here's the story of my spectacular failure at the 2010 Grindstone 100. If you pay attention, you might also learn something about the course and effective race strategy, should you be interested in attempting this race in the future.

First, a little background: There were four key factors that, prior to the race, doomed this effort to failure. First, mentally and emotionally, I came in drained, due to circumstances in my work, school, and personal life that are beyond the scope of this post. Second, I decided not to buy a lower-back pack for my water bottles - I thought that it might have helped, but in the past, I've carried two bottles in my hands in similar races, and survived, so I thought that it might have smacked of "trying too hard." Third, I decided not to buy a brighter headlamp, for the same reason why I didn't buy the pack for my water bottles. Fourth, I decided to forego sleep the night before the race, reasoning that it would be better to nap in the afternoon for a few hours, and then wake up about an hour before the race.

With that out of the way, I was excited for Grindstone. Although my last two races had been failures (The Ring, because I got lost and wandered 15 miles off-course, and the North Coast 24, where my arches fell, and the pain became too much to bear), I was confident that (except for the four things that I mentioned above) I had addressed all of the issues that stood in my way of a strong performance. Unfortunately, my plan began to unravel before the race even began. My attempt to sleep prior to the race was a failure - I was too excited to sleep, and wound up tossing and turning, getting maybe 15 minutes of sleep, and starting the race sleep-deprived. As I chatted with friends prior to the race (it seemed as though EVERYBODY I was even remotely friends with was doing this race, only adding to the excitement), I could tell that my mind was hazy, and the thoughts weren't forming clearly. This was a bad sign.

We took off from Camp Shenandoah after a prayer from David Horton, and a group performance of "The Star-Spangled Banner," and for the first mile, I felt fairly good. My legs felt strong, my breathing felt steady, and in spite of my sleep-deprived state, I thought that maybe my physical strength would carry me through. Then, somewhere in the second mile, the first mini-disaster struck. I was "leaning forward and letting go" on a downhill, as I've discovered is the most efficient way to take these, and I caught my foot on a rock (the first of many) and fell, twisting my ankle and knee. I clumsily struggled to my feet, to find that although the injury was not serious, it was bad enough that I had to walk about 50 feet before things fell back into place, and the pain subsided enough to run again. But the psychological damage was already done - as if I hadn't had a drought of confidence enough from the results of my previous two races, I now could not be confident that I was mentally together enough to attack the downhills.

This fear was substantiated when I ran off course at the first opportunity, having to backtrack up a hill to the turn that I missed. I had only wandered about a quarter-mile away, but it was enough for a number of people to catch up with and pass me (another mental blow). Still, it was early in the race, and there would be time to make it up later, so I continued to push on the downhills, looking out as best I could for the random stray rocks on the otherwise clear path that could spell my doom, and power-walking the steep uphills. For a while, I thought things might come back together.

Then it got dark.

I turned on my headlamp and my flashlight, to find that, in this environment, while my flashlight was passable, my headlamp was useless. I would have to rely on my flashlight, which, as I mentioned, I have in many other races, but now, the flashlight had a nasty tendency to shut off when jolted hard (as is the intermittent case when running over rocky, uneven terrain). Further, the flashlight was strapped to my water bottle. Again, nothing new, but in my foggy, sleep-deprived state (which only worsened as the night wore on), the moving light spot in front of me, further confounded by the water bottles flitting in and out of my peripheral vision as I ran, all complicated by the seemingly random occurence of rocky, technical sections, would pose a challenge that would exceed what little mental and emotional energy I came into the race with.

My last "good" section of the race was the climb up the gravel slope to Elliot Knob. I power-walked to the top, putting distance on the people behind me, and gaining on the people in front of me. It was just a little bit brilliant to stand at the top of the dark, desolate, wind-swept summit, putting my foot up on a chain-link fence so that I could "punch" my bib to prove that I had been there. But of course, on the descent, I was cautious, since I hadn't seen the turn-off on the ascent, and in spite of my caution (which always hurts on a downhill), I still missed the turn, and wound up walking back up about a quarter-mile with another runner, who, fortunately for me, but unfortunately for her, had also missed the turn (otherwise, I might have gone much further down before I decided that I had missed the turn). As it turned out, her temporary companionship would end up being one of the first nails in the coffin, since what little confidence I had at that point was shattered when it became obvious that she was picking her way through the flat, rocky section of trail much better than I was, and I had to let her pass . . . and then another runner, and then another, and then another . . .

I made it to the second aid station, and leaving the aid station, the climb was fairly non-rocky, and I still had some legs, but now the mental strain of the circumstances was becoming overwhelming. It was getting colder (probably in the low 40s), and my feet were wet from earlier stream crossings, and the combination of all of this made a normally climbable hill a nearly impossible obstacle. It was at this point that I began periodically stopping by the side of the trail, questioning why I was even here in the first place. Runners passed, asking if I needed help, and I wished that there was anything they could do to help me, but at this point, what could I ask for? Warmer clothes? Dry shoes? A brighter headlamp? Something to put my water bottles in so that I wasn't so off-balance on the precipitous descents? The truth is, while any one of these things might have helped, I doubt that having one, or two, or even all of these things at this point would have been enough to turn this race around. The 15ish dark, miserable miles that I had struggled through had drained what little I had mentally and emotionally, and short of a friendly face, or a good night's sleep, having even the slightest material improvement would not have made a difference.

With all that thrown together, the half-track downhill (yes, the course might claim to have single-track trail, but, in truth, most of this trail is barely wider than a person's foot, especially when you have feet as grotesquely wide as mine) broke me. I could barely see where I was going, I had no confidence in my ability to descend without tripping and falling, and EVERYBODY was passing me. Regis and Mosi had passed me a long time ago, but when Snipes passed me, and I couldn't keep up, I knew that I was done. I tried my best, but already not being able to see, and then being on a trail crowded with people who were clearly navigating the terrain much better than I was, was too much. I couldn't plan my next step without feeling a vague sense of panic, and I couldn't break into a run without feeling a wave of entire-body discomfort that made a convincing argument that there was no way on earth that I could run more than a few feet, even though aside from my sore ankle and knee, I was perfectly nourished and hydrated, and not the least bit sore. The little bits of the course that I did attempt to run were short, because I was nearly tripping every 50 feet or so over even the smallest rocks on the trail. And on and on it went, this failure spiral, or whatever you want to call it, until I was reduced to an idiot in shorts and a t-shirt in the woods, on a remote trail in the middle of nowhere, wearing a "5" on my shorts that I clearly was not going to live up to, wanting nothing more than decent food, warmth, and shelter.

From the second aid station to the third aid station, I spent nearly 3 hours, from about 9 p.m. to midnight, struggling, shivering, and wondering when on earth I would reach the third aid station, and first crew access point, so I could drop out and go home. After what felt like an eternity, especially since a substantial section of the course was "flat, but leaf-covered, with random rocks that you will no doubt twist an ankle on" that was especially demoralizing to walk, when, given my physical condition alone, I should have been able to run, I finally struggled up a short, slippery dirt hill to the aid station, one hour before the cut-off time, and somewhere in the vicinity of tenth-to-last. My crew of one wasn't here (a work emergency, coupled with bad D.C. traffic, prevented him from getting to the area until around 1 a.m.), but fortunately, another runner was dropping, and a woman who was going back to the start kindly volunteered to drive us back. As I walked the quarter-mile to her car, shivering violently, all I could think about was getting into a heated car, covering myself with a blanket, and sleeping. Which I did, for a short time, until we reached the camp, and I was thrust out into the cold again. I struggled to collect my things and drive my car to a place where I had cell service, so I could call and tell people that I wasn't dead, just temporarily defeated, and that I would return in near-perfect physical condition. My crew finally showed up, and I thanked him for his effort, apologized for my poor effort, and he left to take some pictures of the night sky. At this point, any more driving seemed unbearable, so I slept in the back seat of my car, wrapped in a sleeping bag, parked in front of a CVS and Big Lots. The parking lot was well-lit. I was exhausted. It didn't matter.

I woke up around 7:30, after having slept soundly, feeling less bad (but still too awful to think about being on the course), and felt very little regret about dropping. I had no idea what to do with myself, and briefly entertained the option of going out on the course, but everybody looked fantastic when they were passing me, so I doubted that anybody needed my help (although, in spite of any supporting evidence, it would be reasonable to assume that at least some of these people were now not doing so well), and even if they did, I didn't feel as though I was "together" enough to help them. So I drove home, and now I'm here, and that's my life story.

The moral of this is, Horton courses -2, David - 0. In case anybody was wondering what it takes to finish one of his races, you need to be physically and mentally at the top of your game, because the courses are designed to tax you by switching things up constantly. The downhills are steep and not very rocky, except for the few rocks that are right in your way at the most inopportune times. The uphills aren't very rocky, but are so steep that walking is a challenge. The flats are as rocky as possible, to make running them as difficult as possible. All of this is varied to the maximum possible extent, so that when you are in a good place physically and mentally, and up for the challenge, completing the course is very satisfying. When you're in a bad place, the variation is unbearable, since there's no way to get into a mindless rhythm, and sooner or later, you're ruined. My sincere congratulations to everybody who finished Grindstone (which, as far as I could tell when I quit, 22 miles into the race, was EVERYBODY, except of course the guy that dropped when I did).

All that said, I'm not sure what I'll do about Oil Creek. Physically, I can get my body and my gear together to do it two weeks from now. Mentally and emotionally - only time will tell. Life is improving, but who knows if I'll feel as though I have enough energy to take on another 100-mile race two weeks from now. In the meantime, though, I plan to do everything I can to get my running and my life back together in the next two weeks, while enjoying both as much as possible (and really, the latter implies the former). Maybe not at Oil Creek, but at some point, I am determined to be on top again.

2010 Beast of Burden Summer 100 Race Report

Perhaps a bit overdue, but in the interest of making a small contribution to ultrarunning lore, here’s the story of my 16 hour, 19 minute, and 5 second winning effort at the 2010 Summer Beast of Burden 100-Mile Run. Fair warning: this will be long, and there will be an awful lot of minor detail in this report, for the benefit of those who want to dissect this race in the interest of improving their own ultramarathon performance.

First, a little background: I left Aberdeen, Maryland at around 11:00 a.m. on Friday, the day before the race, having gone in to work at 6:00 a.m. that morning. The estimated driving time to Lockport was 7 hours, but I figured that it was a conservative estimate, and that I had left plenty of time to make the packet pickup at Finnan’s in Lockport, NY. What I hadn’t counted on was that the route would go through major highway construction on I-86, as well as Williamsport, PA during the Little League World Series. Factoring in the several stops for food/bathroom and several traffic jams, I arrived at the packet pickup right at 8:00 p.m., when it was scheduled to end. It was a shame that the drive was so nerve-wracking, and that I didn’t have a co-driver to take pictures of some of the really amazing sights along the way, including the views of the Susquehanna River from Route 15, and the billboard advertising the Little League Hall of Fame (which must be seen to be believed).

I bring up all of this seemingly unnecessary detail because for anybody interested in doing this race in the future, and planning on driving up from the Baltimore/DC area, it’s probably a good idea to allow about 4 hours of slack time in the travel time estimate (or about 11 hours total). Also, because I had a very full day between work and driving, I was dead tired and not entirely coherent when I arrived at the packet pickup.

As luck would have it, another runner, Nick Osterfoss arrived at the same time as I did, and neither he nor I had a place to stay. I had brought a tent and a sleeping bag, planning to camp out near the start line, but Sam Pasceri, the race director, was generous enough to let us stay at his house, so we could get a good night’s sleep in “real” beds. After dinner at Finnan’s, where I had a fish and pasta dish, and some sort of chocolate cake for dessert, we went back to Sam’s house and talked shop about running until we were all too tired to think straight. Then, at last, sweet sleep.

I woke up around 7:00 a.m. on race morning after one of the best nights of sleep I ever had before a race. Turned out that being dead tired from being so busy really helped. I had a small bowl of Cheerios in skim milk and two fried eggs for breakfast about two and a half hours before the race. After setting up my drop bags (consisting primarily of headlamp and flashers for night, Clif Shot Blocks, and Endurolytes), Nick and I headed out to the course with Sam, where we provided “moral support” as they began to set up the Gasport aid station, which was about halfway between the endpoints of the course. We caught a ride back to the starting line, where I then applied a generous layer of Coppertone Sport sunscreen, filled my water bottle, and chatted with the other runners.

After a very brief pre-race meeting, where we were mainly instructed to stay on the course and not litter, we lined up at the starting line, and at 10:00 a.m., we were off. Sam purposely took the lead in the first half-mile, so that there would be no confusion about which bridge we would cross (the Exchange Street bridge, for anybody keeping track). Once we crossed the bridge, Sam dropped back, and the race was on.

At this point, a discussion of my race strategy is in order. I knew, coming into this race, that I had a very good chance of winning, given the competition, and I also had a good chance of posting a fast, “breakthrough” time for a 100-mile race, given my recent training and race performances (something in the 14-16 hour range seemed achievable). I wanted to accomplish both of these goals, but at times, these can be conflicting goals. Ultimately, I decided that if I wanted to definitively win the race, I would need to go out fast and set the standard, and then hold on to the lead. This is an uncomfortable strategy for me, as I generally prefer to start slow and chase late, but, provided that I didn’t do anything too stupid, this was also the strategy that afforded me the greatest chance of running a fast time. To add to the support for this strategy, Connie Gardner, whose 100-mile PR is somewhere in the low 17-hour range, was entered in the 24-hour race, and it would be a bit embarrassing to win the 100-mile race with a slower 100-mile time than the 100-mile split posted by the probable winner of the 24-hour race.

With all that in mind, I ran at a mid-to-high-7-minute-mile pace down the flat, gravel towpath along the Erie Canal, gradually putting separation between myself and the group behind me. One man, who was entered in the 24-hour race, and competing in his first ultra, decided to run with me. We both made it to the Gasport aid station (at about 7 miles from the start) in a little under 56 minutes, where I refilled my now-empty water bottle, while he blew through the aid station. We ran together until the turn-around point at Middleport, where I stopped for about 5 minutes to refill my bottle, and to pocket some additional Clif Shot Blocks to replace the ones that I had already eaten. At this point, because he again blew through the aid station without eating or drinking, the other man was well ahead of me, but I didn’t worry about this, as I suspected that it would not be possible to keep up that pace without any food or water.

As I made my return trip, I saw the group behind me, which included Connie Gardner and Jeremy Pade, my main competition. They appeared to be about half a mile behind me, which felt too close for comfort, although objectively, this early in the race, it was a substantial lead. Rather than think about the pack nipping at my heels, I focused my attention ahead, on the little black dot that was the other man I had been running with, who had skipped both of the first two aid stations. Chasing is what I’m comfortable with, and it was comforting to gradually see the size of that black dot increase as I gained on him. At my stop on the Gasport aid station on the return trip, I ate a few Swedish Fish (simple sugars to supplement the more complex sugars in the Clif Shots) before continuing the chase. I finally caught and passed him with about 2.5 miles remaining in the loop. The back of his legs were covered in white foam, which turned out to be soap suds because he had used too much detergent when he washed his clothes. (Not long after, I would see him sitting on a bench near the start/finish, complaining of cramps – he ended up not making it through 50 miles.) I crossed over the bridge, and finished my first 25-mile loop in around 3 hours and 20 minutes – an 8-minute mile pace. Aside from feeling a bit suffocated from the combination of the humidity and the dust from the ever-present gravel on the path, I felt strong, and totally ready for my next out-and-back.

On the way out for my second loop, I passed Jeremy, who had broken away from the pack that he was running with, and now appeared to be about half a mile behind. It appeared that he had kept pace with me, which was discomforting, because now I had to stick to my strategy at all costs, or risk being at a huge mental disadvantage for the remainder of the race if he were to pass me. I dialed back the intensity just a bit, but continued running strong. I was having very little issue with my diet (about 20 ounces of water per hour, about 100 calories per hour, in the form of Clif Shot Blocks and some sugary candy, such as Starburst, Skittles, or Swedish Fish, to supplement, and two Endurolytes per hour), which was reassuring, since stomach issues have often sidelined me in these races. I reached the turn-around point comfortably, and on my return trip, I could see that my lead on Jason had increased to about a mile, which was also comforting, since I still felt good. However, at the Gasport aid station on the return trip, my stomach started to turn. I asked if they had any Tums; they didn’t. Fortunately, another runner who happened to be at the aid station at the same time gave me a Zantac, which helped a bit. Still, for the sake of not reaching a point where my stomach issues became crippling (or, for that matter, the pace became unsustainable), I threw in a few walking breaks between Gasport and the end of the loop. This slowed my 50-mile split to about 7 hours and 7 minutes, which was a slight disappointment, since I knew that I was in range to break 7 hours for 50 miles without breaking myself for the duration of the race. Still, I felt good about running a 50-mile PR in the middle of a 100-mile race.

Then came the moment of truth, as I headed out for my third loop, anxious to see how far ahead of Jeremy I was. I crossed over the bridge and still didn’t see him. After what seemed like an eternity, I finally passed him a little before the 1-mile mark on the path – it turned out that my lead on him had increased, to somewhere between 3 and 4 miles. This meant that I now had a bit of safety margin, but with nearly half of the race to go, one stupid thing, such as a major stomach issue, could cause me to blow this lead. I decided that since I seemed to be gaining on him, and my first 50 miles had been very much according to plan, I would slow down a bit, take more walking breaks, and conserve energy to both prevent a breakdown, and to have something in reserve should one occur anyway. I reached the Middlepoint turnaround once more, and was nervous as I headed back to see how this plan had worked. Others weren’t, of course – a few other runners asked me how I was going to spend my prize money, to which I replied that it would cover the cost of entering this race, plus the repairs to the roof of my house that I had to make about a month ago. It grew dark as I headed back, and at nearly 4 miles from the turnaround point, I passed Connie, but still hadn’t seen Jeremy. I wondered where he was, and, for a while, I thought that somehow, he may have passed me without me noticing, although I couldn’t come up with a situation in this race in which this would be plausible. As it grew darker, and the rain came down more heavily (it had been at least drizzling since 4:00 p.m.), I became more and more convinced that Jeremy had dropped out, and that I was running in the front alone, with a sizeable lead. Finally, when I reached the 75-mile mark, I was convinced that, barring anything stupid, I would win the race.

As I headed out for my last loop, a little over 11 hours into the race, I decided three things. First, I was going to win the race. Second, I was going to post a fast time even if my last loop was “slow.” Third, because this was not my focus race, but instead a long training run on the way to my goal, there was no sense in pushing hard on the last loop for the sake of lowering my finish time. I resolved to run the last loop comfortably, stopping to walk where I needed to, and enjoying the scenery at night (to the extent that I could, with rain pouring down and the temperature dropping). When I began my return from the turn-around point, I passed Connie nearly 5 miles from the turn-around point; I was now almost 10 miles ahead of her. I took a number of walk breaks from then on to the finish, including walking the last mile and soaking it all in (especially the large raindrops falling from the trees). I finished the race in 16 hours, 19 minutes, and 5 seconds, and promptly went to the bathroom, where I sat down for quite a while, then stood in the warm shower for quite a while, then lay on the floor for quite a while, before I finally got a ride back to Sam’s house to properly change clothes and sleep. The volunteers were very helpful after the race in finding me towels, drying my running clothes, and finding me extra clothes to wear on the trip to Sam’s house. After a nap and a chat with Nick, who returned to Sam’s house after dropping out of the race at 75 miles, we went back to the starting line to cheer on the runners who were finishing around the 24-hour mark, and to pick up my check and take a photo with Jody Chesko, who had donated the prize money in memory of Timothy Chesko, and Sam, who also finished the 100-mile race. After some random, misguided wandering that was the product of unclear thought due to exhaustion, I finally began the 7-hour drive home, by myself, which turned into a 9-hour drive, putting me at home at midnight, which allowed me to get to bed by 1, so that I could wake up at 6 a.m. for work the next morning. The brightest spot on the otherwise very dark drive home was the SuperSonic Breakfast Burrito that I ate at a Sonic in Harrisburg. The next morning, I went back to work, and “real life,” as it were, in “hard-marathon-sore” state. All in all, life was good.

I’ve since returned to my typical training schedule, without any days off as a result of the race, which means that I accomplished all of my goals for this race. Next stop: the Grindstone 100.

Badwater 2010 Race Report

Because the Badwater Ultramarathon is such an epic race, I knew it was going to merit an epic race report. I considered writing an “executive summary” of my race report, for those who wanted to hear only the high points. Then I decided that summarizing the experience this way would be selling it short. Besides, if you really want the Badwater experience, you want something that’s long and “colorful.” So here is the detailed race report, except for the technical details about what worked and what didn’t in Death Valley with respect to nutrition, hydration, clothing, cooling, logistics, etc. In the next few days, I hope to follow this up with a post about that, to help anybody who is considering running Badwater, either as a part of the official race, or as a solo effort. So, without further ado . . .

When I walked up to the starting line at the Badwater Basin parking lot on July 12th, 2010, at just a few minutes before 10:00 a.m., all of the anxiety of months of planning race strategy, obtaining supplies, making travel plans, organizing crew members and crew vehicles, fundraising for the Challenged Athletes Foundation (CAF), not to mention actually training for the race, finally vanished. As I jogged down the road with 26 of the most-respected ultrarunners in the world, I felt that a huge weight had been lifted – I was finally running the race that I had spent years dreaming about. Now, in spite of the temperature, which was, by my estimate, at least 105 degrees and climbing, I was free to enjoy the experience, and to focus on finishing the race.

The leaders went out fast, too fast for me to even think about chasing them. I hung back as we climbed out of the Badwater basin, running about 10-minute mile pace, chatting with the runners around me, and doing my best to enjoy the company of ultrarunning “legends” in the increasingly-oppressive heat. It was reassuring to find that these runners, who until now were just names near the top of race results, were actually people. Nick Hollon, who in 2009, became the youngest Badwater finisher at age 19, ran alongside me for a while, and told me that I was running smart by not pushing too hard in the heat, so I felt better about letting the other runners pass me. Michelle Barton sprinted ahead of me to take a very public “bathroom break” by the side of the road (at last, the mystery of how women do it on the road was solved). Jamie Donaldson, the eventual winner in the women’s division, mistook me for Phil McCarthy, because my hair looked similar in the back – another welcome and humorous distraction, considering that Phil had placed third, just ahead of me, at the Staten Island 6-Hour Race in 2007. Jamie was having problems of her own – she told her crew that her hair was knotting, and that they needed to help her fix it before it got worse. Yes, ultrarunners are people, too.

My crew – Sara MacKimmie, Andrew Marsh, Jason Wara, and Tricia Jackson, the first three of which were race rookies – pulled our crew vehicle (a rental cream-colored Chrysler 300, the most pimp, ballin’ crew vehicle ever to traverse the Badwater race course) over to the side of the road about every mile or so to hop out and mist me with cold water, refill my water bottle, feed me, and put ice in my hat and in a bandana around my neck. At first their efforts were a bit disorganized, but they quickly (and entirely without my help, to their credit) figured out an efficient system to do all of these things and get me moving again as soon as possible. Thanks to my months of heat training, and my crew’s consistent efforts, the rising temperature wasn’t affecting me. My nutrition plan, however, was. On the descent to Furnace Creek, I took one sip of orange-cream Perpetuem that hit my stomach so hard that I nearly vomited the entire contents immediately, and that was the last bottle of Perpetuem that I drank.

I reached Furnace Creek, the 17-mile mark, in just over three hours, still feeling strong, minor stomach issues aside. From there, the race continued to Stovepipe Wells, the 42-mile mark, and the hottest section of the course. The road continued to gently undulate, and I continued my slow, steady pace, gradually passing runners from the earlier starting waves, and runners from my wave who had gone out too fast. The sick feeling in my stomach worsened, but my legs still felt strong, and my crew’s cooling system was so effective that I passed the hottest section of the course – Scotty’s Castle, 128 degrees F – without a hitch. By the time I reached Stovepipe Wells, about eight hours into the race, all things considered, I was feeling fantastic, and thought that this race might be smooth sailing all the way to the finish.

Then I began the climb to Townes Pass, and things began to fall apart. My stomach, which had been only a minor nuisance up to that point, was now a full-on disaster. I’m typically a very strong climber, but the added exertion of climbing the hill, even at a fast walking pace, made me feel sick to my stomach to the point of nearly laying down and passing out. To make matters worse, it was getting dark, with no moon and no street lights, and I couldn’t take off my sunglasses, because the wind would have dried out my contact lenses. Not even the vaguely sexually-charged cheers from the Moeben girls who were crewing Shannon Farar-Griefer (one of them expressed disappointment when I put on my mandatory reflective vest at 7:00 p.m., because it was covering those “lovely abs”), or Shannon’s personal approval of my tye-dyed Moeben sleeves (Shannon is the founder of Moeben), or being misted by Shannon’s superstar crewmember, Deena Kastor (who holds the women’s American record in the marathon, at 2:19:36), could improve the situation. I soon found myself slowly trudging up the 16-mile climb in sunglasses at night, with only the dim glow of a headlamp illuminating the ground about three feet in front of me. Jason came out and paced me up the hill, patiently walking behind me as I found myself struggling for the first time in the race.

When we finally made it to the top, we were rewarded with a 9-mile downhill leading into Panamint Springs. After being destroyed on the downhills at the Western States 100-Mile Run two weeks ago (i.e. wrecking my quads, and being passed constantly anyway), I had practiced my downhill running technique so as not to be passed on a downhill ever again, and I was ready to put aside all of the stomach issues that I had during the climb to run hard down the hill. Steadily, I passed runner after runner on the downhill, as my pace increased to around a 7-minute mile. I focused on the line of lights in the distance, which turned out to be the crew vehicles of the runners that were ahead of me. Somewhere halfway down the hill, the Team InkNBurn crew vehicle pulled alongside me, and the driver offered me a cup full of warm French fries, which miraculously tasted good (to both me, and my hungry crew). But that particular joy was fleeting; the pain in my stomach began to worsen as I pushed the pace. Still, for the moment, the thrill of being able to move so quickly, with so little effort, kept me from slowing down . . .

Until I reached Panamint Springs, approximately Mile 72, and my lowest point in the race. It was a little after 2 a.m., so I was now sleepy, and my stomach felt worse. I went to the bathroom and sat in there for about ten minutes. I went out of the bathroom and sat by a flagpole for about ten minutes. Nobody at the time station bothered to come over and ask me if I was okay (which, in retrospect, was probably a good thing, since this was not the time for people to be babying me). I went over to the gas station, where my crew was re-fueling the vehicle, and flopped onto the deck for about ten minutes (after giving them my zip code, so they could use my credit card to buy the gas). I did about everything I could to avoid starting the inevitable next climb. Finally, at the urging of my crew, at about 3 a.m., I began a listless saunter up the hill towards Darwin.

An hour later, I had made, at best, three miles of forward progress, and I was feeling impossibly awful. I still had about 60 miles to go, and I couldn’t imagine doing it in my condition. I asked my crew to set up a cot for me, and I promptly assumed a state of partial consciousness for about an hour. Although I never said the word “drop,” both my crew and I knew that I was in danger. An argument within the crew erupted about the best way to get me back up and moving forward, and bits and pieces of it caught my ear between the sounds of crew vehicles and their runners passing me. As the intensity of the fight escalated, I gradually began to feel that I owed it to my crew to somehow find a way to get off the cot and keep moving forward, lest their efforts be wasted – I just had no idea how. Eventually, Sara massaged my stomach to help my food digest, while Trish gave me a calcium/magnesium drink that helped to settle my stomach. Reluctantly, at about 5 a.m., I resumed the climb, with Jason as my companion, and the promise of “real food” at the top.

At Mile 80, I reached the scenic overlook at the top of the climb, and my reward, greater than the scenery, was a Styrofoam box of eggs and home fries from Panamint Springs, which tasted amazing. Andrew helped me out of my reflective gear, wiped the dry, salty sweat off my body, and gave me a new shirt (my previous white undershirt had mysteriously dyed itself red, perhaps from the strawberries or watermelon that I had been eating), and when I finally stood up again and began progress down the hill, I felt as though I was nearly in a condition to run again. So I did. Short spurts at first, but as the downhill grade increased, so did my pace and the length of the sections that I was running. Andrew joined me for a couple of downhill miles, and by the time I reached Darwin (Mile 90), I felt my condition improving. Still, at Darwin, I took a “cot break” to re-group, while my crew chatted happily with the time station volunteers. They looked at pictures of the burned-out VW buses at Darwin, while Andrew, after mentioning a number of times that he wished he had brought a bike to Death Valley, finally got his fix when one of the time station volunteers let him ride his bike down the road towards Darwin. All of this in the background made me start feeling “normal” again, and I was on the cot for only about 15 minutes before I got on the road again.

Past Darwin, I continued to pick up the pace, and once again pass runners (most of whom had passed me while I was nearly passed out). Still, the temperature began to climb again as the sun rose higher in the sky, and soon I found myself taking hourly 15-minute “cot breaks” to prevent my stomach from revolting. I was inching towards the finish line, but now a feeling of exhaustion was taking over. I couldn’t see Lone Pine (Mile 122) in the distance, I had no idea which one of the massive mountains in the distance was Mt. Whitney (the finish), and I had now been awake for well over 24 hours straight, so I was beginning to lose focus. At this point, Sara got out of the car and paced me for half a mile. As we walked past Dolomite Loop, Sara and I officially passed the furthest distance I had ever run at one time (111 miles), and the vague realization that I had now passed my proven limit (with my fiancée by my side, no less), turned out to be both physically and emotionally energizing. As soon as Sara got back in the car, I began to run again.

Over the next 10 miles to Lone Pine, I passed a number of runners, and my morale, and stomach condition, began to improve. Tricia gave me a natural vegetable-based solution that, for some reason, both nourished me and calmed my sick stomach. I lowered my calorie intake to around 100 per hour, and amazingly, food began to digest, even as I was running. I finally began to realize that, as Sara had told me many miles ago, my legs were still fresh, and that if I could just put aside all of the stomach issues up to this point, I could still finish strong. As I passed the webcam in Lone Pine, I told the world that I was ready to begin my “assault on Mt. Whitney,” and I continued down Main Street to turn left onto Whitney Portal road, and to the base of the mountain.

As I began the climb up to Portal Whitney, I felt re-invigorated as the air began to cool, the surroundings became greener, and the sound of rushing water accompanied the monotonous crunching sound of my steps on the dusty road. I hiked fast, and ran where I could, and soon I was passing everybody that I could see up ahead of me. My “assault” energized my crew, who brought me food and water with a new-found vigor, and cheered for me every time they passed me on their way to the next stopping point on the climb. After the last time station at Mile 131, Andrew joined me on my fast-hike up the hill, and gave me yet another reason to further push the pace. By the time I reached the parking lot at Portal Whitney, the sun was beginning to set, and darkness fell as I crossed the finish line with my crew right behind me. By my watch, I had completed the 13-mile climb in 2 hours and 55 minutes, at a pace of nearly 4.5 mph, nearly unheard-of for this section of the race. Jimmy Dean Freeman, who finished just ahead of me, would later shake my hand and say that nobody had ever pushed him harder in a race. Chris Kostman, the race director, shook my hand, put my finisher’s medal on me, and handed me my sub-48-hour belt buckle. All of those were good things, but as my crew and I posed for the mandatory finish-line photo-op, all I could think about was how proud I was of my final climb, and how lucky I was to have such a fantastic crew to help pull me through the difficult sections of the race.

As I savored a real bathroom at the finish line, and later, a hamburger at a restaurant in Lone Pine, I realized that the race had changed me. All of those things that I had felt burdened by at the start of the race – the crew, the plans, the logistics – were not only essential to making the experience memorable, but also to my success in the race. Without the up-front planning, and the support of my crew and “fans” at home, my 17th place, 34 hour, 28 minute, and some-odd second finish would not have been possible. I had (and will continue to have) a new-found appreciation for a number of things that, up to this point, I had considered “stressful” elements of my life. With this valuable experience, my crew and I will be back at Badwater in 2011, chasing a first-place finish.

January 2010 - A Month in Review

It's been a while since I posted here, and that's not for lack of running, but lack of time to write about running. Here are some reasons why I've lacked time to write:

1. I closed out 2009 with a 100-mile week, and started 2010 with 150 miles in 2 weeks. (Since then, I've backed off a little, hitting roughly 50 miles a week). These weeks were on the strength of at least one 25-mile run in each week.

2. I've been on the ultra-healthy "Ultra-Metabolism" diet of nuts, fruits, vegetables, and limited meat and fish. (That's the gist of it - to learn more, read the UltraMetabolism book.) Somehow, I've lost about 5 pounds, and I feel more energetic and healthy than I did before. As a side effect of the diet, I've also learned to be very efficient at cooking and cleaning dishes, all while going to school and holding down a full-time job. Life expert right here. :P

3. I was in a minor car accident that totaled my 2001 Honda Civic. (Incidentally, this didn't stop me from running 25 miles that same day, to make 100 miles for the week.) It's in the process of being resurrected as a "salvage" vehicle right now, because, with only 120,000 miles on it, it still has a lot of life left in it. In the meantime, I've been driving around a Jeep Liberty (fun) and a Hyundai Accent (not so fun).

4. I've been shuffled through three positions now at work in the last month, and I'm taking classes two nights a week (Tuesday and Thursday), until 10 p.m.

So yes, a lot going on. And running is definitely in the mix, and I'm looking forward to a number of races this spring, including (but not limited to): Club Challenge 10-mile, Seneca Greenway 50K, National Marathon (pacing 3:00), Boston Marathon (hoping to run 2:5x, faster than 2:57:13 that I ran last year), Frederick Marathon (pacing 3:10), Bull Run 50-mile (if I get in), Massanutten Mountain Trail 100 (if I get in), Old Dominion 100 (probably, for the heck of it - I loved that race), Western States (the real goal race in all of this), Badwater (if by some random stroke of luck I get in), and, well, who knows from there, but that's a pretty busy schedule already . . .

But whatever, bring it. I like a challenge.