2012 Hellgate 100K - What the Hell Happened?

It really has been a while since I posted here, hasn't it? Other than a couple of mediocre marathon results (3:09:27 at Baltimore, 3:12:01 on a brutally cold day at NCR Trail Marathon, neither good enough to qualify me for Boston), there hasn't been much to post about, because I haven't been running much. Ever since Badwater this past July, it's been a struggle, physically and mentally, to get any sort of running momentum going.

Call it burnout, maybe, but the good news was, coming into Hellgate, I was finally physically and mentally back in the game. Yes, my training mileage has been low (almost 40 miles in the week before Hellgate, which is, relatively speaking, a lot lately), but my I was feeling good doing it, and feeling enthusiastic about doing it. And since Hellgate, with its midnight start, is at least as much of a mental game as a physical one, I had a good feeling about this race.

The drive to the race, solo this year, was uneventful, except for a few signs (one on a trash truck that said "Satisfaction guaranteed or double your trash back," and a "Romney/Ryan" campaign sign posted over an Endless Caverns sign by the side of the road, above the caverns' tag line "The fun and excitement never end."), that I now regret not taking pictures of. I got to Camp Bethel early (before Horton's pre-dinner prayer), was one of the first few in line for dinner (which, now that I am gluten-free, was a disappointing array of green beans in tomato sauce, and salad with Italian dressing), and sat through the pre-race briefing, even though the only "random prize" that I gained for this effort was the disturbing news that Horton would be undergoing a septuple-bypass surgery on Monday (side note: I sincerely hope that he's okay).  Nevertheless, Horton was as energetic and engaging as he always is, even joking that he couldn't help move chairs around because of his "heart condition," and by the end of the briefing, the collective nervousness at the pre-race dinner had vanished.  With all of that wrapped up by 8:30 p.m., it was back to the back seat of my car for a couple of hours, where I would attempt sleep and fail miserably.

Two hours later, I was cramming myself into the back seat of an SUV with Jackie and Alan, and feeling a lot less nervous about this endeavor than I thought I should be.  Maybe the fact that Jackie was enthusiastically coordinating her crew and pacer plans, while Alan was spouting seemingly obscure facts about the trail, made me feel as though my "I'm going to run in the woods for a while" attitude was perhaps too nonchalant.  But before I had time to really re-think my lack of strategy, we were at the Hellgate parking lot, and it was time for me to chug a coffee drink, head to the starting line, fist-bump Snipes for luck, and head off down the trail.

The start was "slow" . . . for about the first two minutes, and then the leaders really took off, aided by the relatively flat, smooth trail, and the lack of any water crossings or significant water of any sort on the trail.  With a starting temperature in the 40s, when the typical temperature is somewhere in the teens, this really was turning into "Wussgate," as Horton derisively nicknamed this year's edition of the race.  For my part, I held back a bit, and came through the first "3.5" trail/Horton miles in about 36 minutes, having lost some ground to the lead pack.  I felt comfortable, though, and as we headed up the 4-ish mile road climb to Aid Station #2, I started really settling in, and even passed a few people on the climb.  This was truly exciting to me, since it had been a very long time since I had felt good in any race, much less an ultra, much less such a long climb in an ultra.  I passed through Aid Station #2, "7.5" miles, in 1 hour, 13 minutes, feeling as though this was going to be a good night.

Shortly after Aid Station #2, though, everything changed.  As I navigated the steep, rocky single-track trail downhill past Aid Station #2, the jostling in my stomach became unbearable, so I stopped for about five minutes to, um, use the woods.  I thought that I would feel better, but I came back to the trail feeling absolutely terrible.  Totally out of rhythm, no energy in my legs, and within 10 or 15 minutes, I had to use the woods again.  Between Aid Station #2 and Aid Station #4, I stopped to use the woods another five times, each time losing a few minutes for the stop, but many more minutes in increased lethargy when I returned to the trail.  What felt like dozens of people were passing me.  At the rate at which this was worsening, I was convinced that I would have to drop (possibly, quite literally, in a heap on the ground) at Aid Station #4, about 26 miles in.

Somehow, though, I made it to Aid Station #4, at which point my stomach was pretty close to empty, and therefore, a much less significant detriment to progress.  Not feeling very well, but determined to make this work, I pressed onward.  Not having to stop so frequently to use the woods seemed to help, and I started picking up the pace.  About halfway to Aid Station #5, as the trail turned to wide, grassy downhill, I was finally able to really get moving again . . . just enough to miss a switchback and continue about a mile further downhill.  Once the trail got scrubby enough, and I realized that, on the current path, I wasn't getting any closer to the bouncing headlamps below me, I turned around, jogged back uphill, and got back on course - about 20 minutes lost there.  I continued more cautiously from here, and, while tiptoeing my way over some rocky downhill, Jackie came blazing past me, blasting Blink-182 on her headphones.  This was enough to shake the remains of my apathy.  No way was Jackie going to beat me to the bottom of this hill.  I picked my way through the rocks with increased vigor, and once the trail got smooth again, I really opened up, passing Jackie, and totally confusing her, since she hadn't noticed passing me in the first place.  We continued on to Aid Station #5, Jackie just a bit behind me, with just one stop, as a lack of markers around a corner induced brief paranoia that I may have gone off-course again.

Determined to maintain this momentum, I tanked up on Gu Brew and mentally prepared myself to attack the steep climb out of Aid Station #5.  The first year that I ran Hellgate (2009), this climb felt impossibly steep and long (and, in a relative sense, it is), so I knew that it would be a huge confidence boost to stay strong in this section of the race.  Sure enough, I fell into a rhythm reminiscent of that on the climb to Aid Station #2, and now I was passing people, people who were (duly) looking ragged and spent.  As the sun rose, and the path turned from single-track to road to single-track to road again, I recalled Hellgate last year, when I reached Aid Station #6 at around 7:15 a.m.  This time, in spite of borderline catastrophe, I was on pace to reach Aid Station #6 at around 7:30 a.m., which, discounting my 20-minute detour, actually had me ahead of last year's pace.  Seeing Jordan Chang's crew driving down from Aid Station #6, cheering for me on the climb, had me feeling far more optimistic than I had been in hours.  I knew that I had to be gaining ground, and now, in full daylight, I was excited to chase the runners ahead of me for the rest of the race.

But with about 2.5 miles to go to reach Aid Station #7, the "42.5 mile" mark, having passed a few more people since Aid Station #6, the race-ending disaster struck.  I started feeling overwhelmingly weak, overwhelmingly hungry, and somewhat disoriented.  I did the only thing I could do at the time, which was to go slower, drink more, and hope that I would come back around quickly.  But in spite of my efforts to back off, it got worse and worse, until finally, I sat down by the side of the trail, lowered my head, closed my eyes, and saw, against a white background, two black bars on either side, and rapidly-shifting symbols between the black bars.  This was, in technical terms, "not good." 

I begged gels off of the runners that passed, and told them that it was okay to tell people at the next aid station that I was in trouble and to send help.  But even after 7 gels and an hour of lethargic stumbling down the trail, I still wasn't at the next aid station, and at least twice the number of people that I had passed since my "comeback" had passed me.  In wet clothes, moving slowly, my hypoglycemic, nutritionally-deprived condition was now complicated with hypothermia. 

Finally, at around 10:15 a.m., I reached Aid Station 7, entirely under my own power, feeling weak, listless, shivering uncontrollably, lips turning blue.  (Whoever they sent out to search for me never found me.)  Horton and his heart condition were looking far better than I was (I would later learn that, given my symptoms, I was at far greater risk of death at the moment than he was), and he helped me into a chair near the fire, while aid station volunteers brought me broth and hamburgers, both of which sounded good back when I was on the trail and feeling better, but now uniformly tasted like cardboard.  One girl was particularly helpful in bringing me gloves, a hat, a jacket, and a sleeping bag, but when it was clear that even these efforts weren't working fast enough, they helped me get into a truck, where they turned the heater on and closed the doors.  Still shivering, wrapped in random clothes, I slumped over onto the steering wheel, which apparently was very comfortable as a pillow given my physical state.  I don't remember a lot of what happened here, other than people were periodically opening the door to check on me, I was drifting in and out of consciousness, and there may have been a sugar pill placed under my tongue at some point.

About two hours later, I got out of the truck, finally no longer freezing, shed my clothes, and walked around a bit.  The sun was out and the temperature was in the mid-60s.  I didn't feel terribly sore, and I almost felt good enough to run again, albeit slowly.  But at this point, it was just a few minutes until the 12:30 p.m. cutoff time at this aid station, and continuing now would mean that, if I couldn't get any momentum going again, I would risk not making it to the finish line by 6:00 p.m., the cutoff for the race.  It would also likely mean a slow, miserable slog, putting me nowhere close to a goal finishing time.  Most importantly, since I still hadn't sorted out everything that had led to my collapse-in-a-heap disaster in the first place, it would put me at risk for another near-death experience. 

I decided that two strikes in one race was bad enough, and I didn't want to risk a third, and so, at Aid Station #7, I chose not to continue.  Instead, I rode back to the finish area, and hung around to cheer for the finishers - among them, Jackie, second woman, in a little under 14 hours, Snipes and Mike crossing the line in the mid-16s, and Alan toughing it out to finish about 15 minutes before the 6:00 p.m. cutoff.  After some grazing at the finish line buffet, I headed off with Jackie, Alan, and company, for celebratory dinner at a hibachi grill, followed by a long, dark, solitary drive back to Baltimore.

With the benefit of a few days to process all of this, I think I can finally address the race report's fundamental question:  what the hell happened?  From a physical standpoint, the majority of that answer was fairly clear, fairly immediately (although not without dispute in its subtleties): due to an upset stomach (possible causes: excess caffeine, bad food, stomach virus), I lost a ton of "stuff" from my system (possible key items: potassium, calcium, sodium) that, given my pace and my nutritional intake (primarily Gu Brew, which, with different sugars and lower caloric density, is not a good substitute for my go-to, Gatorade, and neither of which may have been suitable to replace this sort of loss), was not being replaced and processed quickly enough, resulting in my hypoglycemic/hypothermic state.  This sequence of events is particularly frustrating, since apparently, from a pure fitness standpoint, I was in good enough shape to run well, based on my performance in sections of the race where these nutritional issues were not factors.  (That said, there may be some element of "first ultra in a while" that compounded this problem - too much time with too little running probably dulls your ability to respond quickly and appropriately to your body's signals.)

But from an emotional standpoint, that answer changed multiple times.  I went from running strong to nearly dropping to running strong to nearly dying to finally dropping.  Of all of the races that I've run, this one has probably been, from start to finish, the one with the highest highs, lowest lows, and least certain outcome.  Considering that I ended up dropping, my initial reaction was disappointment, and it was difficult not to feel totally defeated on the drive home.  A day later, it was regret, thinking that there must have been something I could have done better to change the outcome. 

But now, a few days later, the reaction has died down, and in my mind, the 2012 edition of Hellgate is a case study in the fragility of running.  Years of work and suffering go into fleeting moments of brilliance.  And once those moments are gone, we have to decide how hard we want to work, and how much pain and suffering we want to endure, to try to get them back again, knowing full well that we can't really get anything back; we can only hope for an acceptable replica.  In spite of the outcome at Hellgate, there were moments of fleeting brilliance, moments of flying headlong down trails and recovering from disaster to emerge even stronger.  And in spite of the outcome, I'm thankful for these moments, and, looking back on these moments individually, I feel no less joy in those than I do in any other similar running-related moments in the past.  Going forward, I feel no more reluctant in working hard for more of these moments. 

I definitely have a lot of thinking to do about what sort of moments of brilliance I'd like to create in 2013.  2013 may or may not include another run at Hellgate.  But there will be running, and, in spite of whatever else might happen, there will be brilliance.

Week in Review: 9-15 September 2012

At the risk of boring everybody:

9 September: 17 miles (per previous blog post) (120 minutes)

10 September: 12 miles at lunch, fast-ish (felt that way, anyway); 11 more miles in the evening, partly with the Fed Hill group. (total 160 minutes)

11 September: 8 miles at lunch (60 minutes)

12 September: off

13 September: 5 miles at lunch (35 minutes) - felt bad

14 September: 9 miles at lunch (65 minutes) - felt worse

15 September: off

Total Time: 440 minutes
Total Distance: 62 miles

If you're keeping score, this is a pretty mediocre weekly mileage total in the grand scheme of things, but, in the narrower picture of the last three months or so, a pretty big mileage total for a week without any significantly long races - probably my longest such week since sometime in May.  So it's probably not a surprise that it started hurting towards the end.  But after a weekend off, I'm feeling ready to get after it again, so we'll see how this week goes - 10 miles so far, and far from dead yet . . .

In other news, this little guy is still free to a good home:

blackandwhite sports cat, still hangin' out . . .

And as of last Thursday, he is up to date on all of his shots, and vet-certified healthy.  And he's fixed, so you'll only be adopting ONE cat.  And of course, he's still just as cute as he was a week ago.  (The other cat, Ash, is already spoken for, so don't delay!)

That's about all of the wisdom I have for this week.  Stay tuned for next week, when maybe there will be more miles and fewer cats!*

*not a guarantee by any means

Building It Up

It has been awfully quiet here, hasn't it?

In brief numbers, here's what's been going on:

Week of 19 August: 31 miles

Week of 26 August: 26 miles

Week of  2 September: 17 miles

Day of 9 September: 17 miles (3.5 miles in the morning, 13.5 miles in the afternoon . . . just do that a little over 9 more times in 24 hours and I'd have a world record . . .)

In brief words, that all amounts to minimal and inconsistent mileage.  And to go a little deeper, it's been inconsistent, because my body has been very inconsistent in responding to anything that I try to do.  One day, I'm dragging myself through 5 miles, and the next day, I'm running 10 miles as if it were nothing, and there seems to be no rhyme or reason to this.  For now, I'm going to chalk it up to fatigue from a long year of racing a lot, and difficulty in getting a consistent running schedule established, with all of the inconsistency in my life otherwise.

But yesterday was a promising day, so maybe, after over a month of really low mileage as a result of only running as much as a tired body feels like running, I can finally get the momentum going, and start thinking about what I might be able to accomplish in the months ahead.  For now, though, I'm going to reserve judgment on the subject.

In the meantime, in a related matter, it has, over the past year, come to my attention that with all of the travel for work and running that I do, it's not exactly fair to my constant-attention-seeking cats that I'm rarely home for long enough to properly brush, pet, and play with them.  So if anybody out there is looking for a new cat, these are free to a good home:



Meet blackandwhite Sports Cat, just hanging out . . .



Meet Ash, the forever-tiny-kitten (who, at almost 3 years old now, is actually a cat, but a very small one)

Ash is the friendlier of the two, and will roll around at your feet, follow you wherever you go, and generally shower you with unconditional affection.  Arguably the cuter of the two, blackandwhite takes a while to warm up, but his distinct chirping and skittery, scaredy-cat nature will amuse even (and especially) the most jaded.

Check back here next week, when I might be posting more about running, and less about cats!

The Hardest Run I Never Did

First, the fact:

I am not running the Summer Beast of Burden 100-Mile Run this year.

Next, the speculation and introspection:

It would be partially true to say that when I packed my bag this morning (on auto-pilot, as has been the drill for some time now), and walked down to my car at around 1100, to find the passenger-side window broken out, and my backpack, water bottle, tote bag, and all of the food in my trunk stolen from my car, that the ensuing 4+ hour ordeal to make things as "right" as they could be (i.e., restore the window, if not my property) made a 7+ hour drive to Lockport, NY prohibitive given the timeframe for the race, and that's why I am not starting.

It would be partially true to say that since Speedgoat, my weekly mileage totals have been, with great difficulty, 42 miles two weeks ago, 23 miles last week, and an anemic 10 so far this week (albeit with two days to go), and that given that I back-slid so badly into Badwater, and managed to somehow far-exceed expectations there anyway, it would be very risky to attempt another 100-mile race on such poor training, especially considering that this past week, I was deathly ill (to the point of sleeping all day this past Tuesday),  and that's why I'm not starting.

It would be partially true to say that since this time last year, I've run Badwater, six 100-mile races, a 50-mile race, two 100Ks, five 50Ks, five marathons, and attempted the North Coast 24-Hour National Championship race twice, and that 1300 miles worth of marathon and ultra-racing in a year might, physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually, be enough, and that's why I'm not starting.

But the most complete, significant truth is a lot more complicated than any of that . . . 

At this time last year, I was just starting to start over, no longer engaged, and, quite honestly, afraid of the void that I knew she would leave.  

So I ran. A lot.

I ran at 3 a.m. down deserted city streets.  I ran in spite of fences topped with with barbed wire in the rain, fences I bravely (if stupidly) scaled.  I ran in obscenely bare legs in an improbable snowstorm on my 30th birthday.  I ran in deserted woods in the frigid cold at midnight.  I ran loop after loop around a park by the shore of a lake.  I ran in the scorching hot desert.  Sometimes I was careening down steep, winding, mountain single-track trail at breakneck speeds. Sometimes I was trudging up similarly steep mountains, hands on knees, straining to keep making forward progress.  Sometimes I was shuffling along at death-march pace, nearly too exhausted to keep myself upright.  And sometimes, I was running effortlessly, and felt like I could run that pace forever.

But no matter what, I was still running, half because I wanted to prove that I was "better" than before, and half because I was afraid of what might happen if I stopped.

But today, this morning, walking up to my car, sneakers crunching on the broken glass, the sound and sensation warning me that something was wrong before I even saw the window, I felt, for the first time since this time last year, an uneasy truce inside myself.  

Because the reality is, pesky matter of the marathon PR aside, I've improved significantly on nearly all of my same-race performances from 2011 to 2012, not to mention taken on a number of new challenges with great success.  At this point, considering all that I could have done, and, out of that, what I failed to do, I have no significant nagging regrets.  In fact, I think that the level of success that I've achieved this year hasn't truly sunk in.  

But more importantly, as I stood there, staring blankly at the broken glass, my first coherent thought was: "Today, I have nothing to prove.  Today, for the first time in a year, instead of running, I am going to go home."

And that, honestly, even in consideration of all of my crazy adventures this past year, is the scariest thought that I've had in a long time.  

In a relative sense, it would be "easy" to drive for a long time, and sleep in my car, and put on my running shoes and clothes, and run for hours until I've completed another unimaginably long race.  I know how to do those things.  Over the past year, I've become an expert of sorts.

But it's truly "hard" for me to pack up and go home before even starting the race, to go home and start the process of learning to live without being "dependent" on running to fill every one of those difficult moments.  It's "hard," especially given the last few months, to take a step back from the frenzy, to restrict my running to a plan, to set daily mileage goals, and weekly mileage goals, and goal races, when I've been bouncing from one adventure to the next, with very little thought in between, for so long.  I did these things once, but it's been so long ago now that I barely remember how to do them.

But for the sake of long-term health and success, in all aspects of my life, that's where I need to be right now, starting today.  With one last possible 100-mile "adventure" aside, my schedule is blank from today forward.  And, right now, that's a scary, but necessary thing.

Finally, the conclusion:

I will not run today.  But don't mistake this for an "I am no longer running" manifesto.  I don't plan to stop running anytime soon.  But, just like at this time last year, it's time for me to rethink my strategy, revise my approach, and reframe the way running fits into my life.  And that's not without bumps and jolts early on, but, as this past year has proven, over the long haul, this is a difficult thing that needs to happen, if greater successes are to come in the future.

I hope that this has been somehow interesting/educational/amusing/informative for all who took the time to read it, even though it is mostly about not running, which pretty much everybody does (or doesn't do, whichever construction is most comfortable for you).  (And I hope I'm not waxing overly long and poetic here, because this is as concise and direct as I can be right now.)  Good luck to everybody who will be running the Summer Beast of Burden 100-Mile Run tomorrow; enjoy everything about the race, and if things fall into place, hopefully next year, I'll be right there with all of you.

Week in Review: 22-28 July 2012, and Speedgoat 50K Race Report

For the first time in a while, a list of dates and mileage:

22 July: 11 miles (77 minutes) on a soupy-hot morning, across Baltimore and back, west-to-east

23 July: 10 miles (70 minutes), in and around Patterson Park

24 July: off

25 July: 10 miles (70 minutes), in and around Patterson Park

26 July: off

27 July: 1+ mile (12 minutes), in the morning, running with bags to catch a train at Penn Station in Baltimore, to kick off this wacky weekend. 3-ish miles (33 minutes) evening at White Pine (8,000-ish feet altitude) to shake out before Speedgoat

28 July: Speedgoat 50K (444 minutes, 31+ miles), 7:23:17, 39th overall

Total time: 706 minutes

Total distance: 66+ miles

And now, the Speedgoat 50K:

The 2012 Speedgoat 50K course (photo credit: Tetsuro Ogata)

I'm putting the picture first, because that's the most unequivocally beautiful thing about Speedgoat. A 50K that, with 11,000+ feet of gain/loss (this year, with the course changes, it was probably over 12,000), all at altitudes above 8,000 feet, going as high as 11,000 feet, with nasty, steep, rocky climbs that will haunt your dreams, runs more like a 50-mile race, is not exactly the easiest sell. But it's that way on purpose; as the t-shirt tag line goes, the course is "A Meltzer-Designed Nightmare."

Taking on this monster just 10 days after Badwater, without the benefit of altitude or mountain training, seemed like a a terrible idea. But it also seemed like an exciting challenge. I had been signed up for the race since January, just after Bandera, where my performance there inspired me to raise the bar once more in a competitive field. Still, I didn't know how I was going to feel after Badwater, but after a few days of "normal" running earlier this week, I felt ready for the challenge. As I saw it, it was a great opportunity to

(1) get a "Wasatch 100 preview" (i.e. determine how likely I am to die on the mountains during that race)

(2) compete against a strong field

(3) have a fun day in the mountains (probably)

So the "exciting challenge" assessment won out. Tina helped me make travel plans just a few day before the race, and on Friday, I scrambled through three trains, a bus, two planes, and a baggage-loaded run to Penn Station to make it to Salt Lake City at around 6 pm, just about 12 hours before the start of the race. Collin picked me up at the airport, and we went about the business of picking up supplies for the race, and heading up the mountains towards Snowbird for pre-race camping and shake-out run. After our shake-out run, I was a little worried about dying on the mountain. While I wasn't exactly gasping for breath, my legs were still feeling a little tired from Badwater, and the thin air was just making me feel . . . slow. Collin was moving along much better than I was, and, for the first time in my life, I felt severely disadvantaged for living at sea level.

But whatever, the race was happening, either way, so by the next morning, when I was dressed and ready to run, all of that was in the back of my mind . . . at least until the gun went off. Within about ten minutes, maybe a fifth of the way up the first climb, I was probably in about 100th place. Everybody seemed to be charging up the mountain with reckless abandon, while my poor tired legs were screaming at me to slow down so they could suck down the paltry amount of oxygen that my lungs were delivering to them from the disturbingly-thin air. It occurred to me that maybe this should have gone into the "terrible idea" bin instead. But here I was, out on a beautiful, sunny, 70-degree day, climbing some awesome mountains, and taking in some awesome views (sadly, sans-cell-phone, which I had forgotten in my rush to the starting line - otherwise, there would be more pictures here), so I figured I may as well soldier on.

By the time I hit the steep, rocky climb to Hidden Peak (mile 8+ into the race), my place had stabilized a bit, and I was getting into a little better rhythm on the climbs. I tagged the top at 1 hour, 58 minutes, and hauled down the backside of the mountain with reckless abandon, smiling and laughing as I skidded down an alarmingly steep drop over loose dirt and rocks, overjoyed to finally have gravity in my favor, and to be passing people.

The next climb and descent came and went without too much fanfare, except to say that the descent was over a pretty significant loose-ish rock-pile, reminiscent of a descent at MMT, but not quite as long, and over rocks with a bit less permanence in the landscape. This took me to the 15-ish mile aid station, the "turn-around" point, and I could see runners coming out of the aid station towards me, many not looking so great. At 4 hours and 27 minutes into the race at the "turn-around" aid station, it was around 11 a.m., and with the sun high, and the elevation "low" (as in, slightly under 8000 feet here), and 100-degree F temperatures predicted in the valley, conditions were starting to take their toll on the runners. I heard one runner say to another on the downhill, "I'm so wiped out from all of the climbing - I can't even bomb this downhill." Considering that I was still keeping a steady pace, and not feeling catastrophically bad, I began feeling optimistic about the remainder of the race.

On the way out of the turn-around aid station, fortified by an orange popsicle and an unexpected cold-water-dousing that nearly gave me a heart attack, I caught up to Collin, and we stuck together for a little while up the next climb, a long, wide service-road style, Hellgate-like ascent (except at higher altitudes). I settled into a brisk hike, and soon was passing people on my way to the top . . . which involved a very cruel left turn up a steep (but mercifully short) rocky hill, where there wasn't a trail so much as a series of flags to follow, all of which had me crawling on hands and feet to get to the top. After passing a few more people, a merciful downhill into the next aid station followed . . .

But mercy was not to be the case from there on. Not quite three miles to the next aid station, 3100 feet of climb, and a few hundred feet of drop, for good measure. When we started running downhill out of the aid station, I knew something was "wrong." Sure enough, when we reached the base of Baldy, we turned right, up a rocky, steep, arbitrarily-marked nearly-vertical grade. This was the lowest point of the race for me, as I struggled on hands and feet, stopping several times, before I finally reached the top. Once I was over the top, I gradually settled into a running rhythm again, but not before several people who were recovering much more quickly than I was managed to pass me and keep going.

And from there, it got worse. From the tunnel to the top of Hidden Peak, the last aid station, there was another descent, followed by a prolonged, nasty climb. I was with another runner for most of this climb, but I was still dragging myself through, and slowing him down for most of it, since, with a little over a mile to go, he went ahead and kept on going. At this point, being at nearly 11,000 feet altitude, climbing up a stupid-steep slope, 25 miles into the race, my non-mountain sea-level disadvantage became most painfully apparent. Fortunately, at the top, 6 hours, 30 minutes into the race, there were cheers for "Baltimore!" (I was wearing my red Falls Road Racing singlet), and promise of a 5-mile downhill to the finish line.

The next 5 miles were the happiest downhill miles of my life, even with the nasty rocks for the first mile or so. In addition to gravity in my favor, the air thickened as I followed the winding trail to the finish line. I was solidly in whatever place I was in at that point (which turned out to be 39th), so there was no need to push too hard (although at the very end, a runner did come close to me, prompting a bit of a finishing sprint). Instead, I kept a steady pace, enjoyed the scenery, and felt a sense of gratitude for accomplishing what I had accomplished in the race, in spite of circumstances.

Sweet Speedgoat swag - no fluff, all useful running stuff. (yellow is men's shirt, pink is women's shirt)

Collin came in about 20 minutes later, and we spent a little time after the race drinking UltraGen recovery drink and soda, hanging around the finish line and socializing, and watching the awards ceremony. Kilian recorded the fastest time, but was barred from prize money because he cut switchbacks on his way to the win, which is allowed in European mountain racing and skyrunning, but not in this particular race (which was a part of the skyrunning series, so that was perhaps the source of the confusion). He was still recognized alongside Rickey Gates, who took second, as the fastest runner of the day. Anna Frost took the win on the women's side. And for what it's worth, it was a lot of fun to be part of such a deep, fast race.

7:23:17, 39th overall, and the first non-mountain, sea-level competitor to cross the line, and still shaking off Badwater fatigue - I'd say that's a pretty solid result. There were definitely some steep climbs where I lost a good bit of time, and there is lots of room for improvment in my mountain-running ability, so this result has me curious to see how I could do in a mountain race with some actual specific mountain-specific training at altitude.  But that's for another time and place - for now, considering that I don't feel completely crippled after this run (just generally tired), I'm excited about my next round of races and training in August and September . . . more and better-prepared (but still most likely full of awesome surprises) adventures soon to come!

Badwater 2012 Race Report: Dark of the Moon

Two days later, it’s still difficult to process this race.  135 miles on brutal, shadeless roads, through day and night, in temperatures as high as 115 degrees, and as low as 50 degrees, up three significant climbs . . . for the third year in a row, six hours faster than previous years, finishing eighth against some of the stiffest competition ever to undertake the deathmarch from the Badwater Basin to Whitney Portal.  But here’s my best shot at it . . .

I was a little nervous about this race for a few reasons.  One, as I mentioned in my previous blog post, I was back-sliding into it, since my training over the past month has been mediocre at best.  Two, I would have an “all-rookie” crew, in contrast to the veterans that I had last year, which would mean that I’d have to do more to direct them. Three, well, it’s Badwater.  It’s a huge race that a lot of people are watching, and given the prior two points, I couldn’t help feeling that I hadn’t taken preparation as “seriously” as I should have.  (Also, my mom said that she was concerned about this, which is usually a bad omen.  Then again, Meg D said that I would do awesome, so that at least somewhat canceled it out, right?)

But sometimes, things just sort of come together, and this was one of those times.  I landed in Las Vegas early Thursday morning, checked in at the Stratosphere, and wandered the strip for a while until it was time to pick Shannon up.  Chris and Jackie came in the next day, which gave us all day Saturday to pick up provisions for the race and go over strategy -  not to mention appreciate the awesome view from the 108^th floor of the Stratosphere tower.  Meanwhile, Falls Road Running mailed me a pair of Altra Instinct shoes, courtesy of company president and founder Golden Harper, along with some other goodies.  By the time we set out for Death Valley on Sunday morning, Team Caliente (Like a Boss) was ready to rock.

The view of Las Vegas from the Stratosphere Tower - storm a'brewin', indeed . . .

Check-in and the pre-race meeting was the usual hectic scene – photographers everywhere, people posting to Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram . . . with all of that commotion, it’s easy to forget that you’re getting ready to run a race.  Mostly, I remember eating a pint of ice cream from the general store in Furnace Creek, and unexpectedly seeing Dr. J, in her role as Brooks rep, while I was jamming chocolate chip ice cream in my mouth. That, and sitting near the front of the pre-race meeting for the “elite” 10 am starting wave, near the Fruitarian, Dean, Sumie, and Mike Morton (and Eric Clifton, one of his crew members), and feeling like this whole experience was beyond surreal.

Jackie and I, escaping the check-in pandemonium at Furnace Creek Resort.

Fortunately, we had a very relaxing night before the race, and all woke up well-rested and in good spirits for this epic journey.  The mood was light as we followed the line of cars to the Badwater basin; stuck behind Mike Morton’s support vehicle, we joked that he should be disqualified because his rear window was partially blocked with luggage. 

After weigh-in, the national anthem, and a few words, we counted down the start, and then we were off.  Mike Morton picked up speed quickly and got pretty far ahead of the pack in no time; meanwhile, I hung back near Oswaldo Lopez, Zach Gingerich, and The Fruitarian.  In the amusing things that runners say to other runners category, Zach proudly told the Fruitarian that he ate “a lot of bacon” this morning. (Then modified his statement to say that all that bacon wasn’t sitting so well on his stomach. “Ugh, bacon,” he concluded, dejectedly.) Gradually, Morton’s push at the front started dragging people along, so I “hung back” with Oswaldo, who commented that the pace (currently around 8 minutes/mile) was “easy” . . . as the temperature climbed to 110 degrees and the road undulated relentlessly.  It didn’t feel that bad, actually – it was okay enough that Oswaldo and I chattered a bit in Spanish before he started pulling away, with the rest of the leaders, who were gradually getting sucked in to Morton’s pace.

And . . . we're off!

Before I knew it, I was at mile 17, Furnace Creek, the first time station – in 2 hours, 8 minutes.  Definitely way faster than I’ve run this section of the race before, but I wasn’t feeling bad at all, and I had really enjoyed rocking through the first part of the race at that pace, not to mention the drive-by sponging/misting support that I was getting from Farinazzo’s crew, and from Coach Nudelman of the Navy Marathon team, who was crewing another runner.  Plus, even at that pace, I was still getting passed by a lot of runners – as I said, extremely competitive field.  My crew had gotten into a pretty good rhythm of frequently stopping to cold-mist me, put new ice in my hat and my bandana, sponge me, swap out my Gatorade bottles, and pass me food . . . when they weren’t taking photos, texting, or tweeting.  Between Chris, the driver and “the IT guy,” and Jackie, whose prolific Facebooking earned her the title of “social media expert,” no part of this epic journey was going undocumented.  Meanwhile, Shannon was organizing/coordinating/herding the crew stops.  All systems were decidedly “go.”

Shannon and Jackie, keeping me hydrated and cool on the way to Furnace Creek - that's Oswaldo Lopez, just ahead of me.

Predictably, the section from Furnace Creek to Stovepipe Wells got a little rough.  The temperature was climbing, and the fast early pace was taking its toll.  I started slowing, and reached the point, around the 50K mark, where I stopped, leaned over, and dry-heaved several times.  No big deal.  I backed off the pace a little bit, and kept moving forward, per my strategy this year to make constant forward progress at just about any cost.  I had intermittent pacing help from Shannon here, packing a water gun to keep me cool in between mistings.  I told them that my goal was to make it to Stovepipe Wells, the 42-mile mark, (a) within 7 hours, and (b) feeling reasonably good.  As I rolled through Stovepipe Wells about 10-15 minutes ahead of my 7-hour schedule, I felt good about my progress.

Holding it together in the heat on the way to Stovepipe Wells.

Then came Townes Pass.  I knew this was going to be a tough, brutal grind, but I hadn’t anticipated just how bad the headwind was going to be.  (Maybe the tailwind at the beginning of the race should have given me a clue . . .)  Fortunately, our crew had matching sunglasses for the day, and clear glasses for the night, so at least dry eyes weren’t going to be a problem.  But this was by far the stiffest, most suffocating wind in this part of the course that I had ever faced.  (It also didn’t need to include Collin shouting “Falls Road sucks!” from his crew vehicle as they passed me, but that’s another story.)  It was bad enough that I stopped a couple of times on the way up, for about 20-25 minutes total, to collect myself before going on.  Some people passed me here, but I wasn’t terribly worried, because I knew I had a long downhill coming, and plenty of legs to catch people on the downhill.  Plus, Jackie was serenading me on the way up, with songs like "You Are The Wind Beneath My Wings," which, silly as it was, did lift my spirits a bit.

Marching up Townes Pass, crew in tow.

And sure enough, on the backside of the pass, I was motoring along, happy to let gravity work for me for a change, and passing people with reckless abandon.  Before I knew it, I was at Panamint Springs, terrible place that it is, about 14.5 hours into the race, with another 63 miles to the finish.  As I said a few times about last year’s race, if I could just put two good “halves” of the race together, I could have an awesome finishing time.  But in this case, that would mean dropping a 14-hour run from there to the finish, just as I did last year, right after pushing hard enough to get there that fast in the first place.  I was a little nervous . . .

Blazing down the backside of Townes Pass, into Panamint Springs - long-exposure, light-speed style.

Because, recall from previous years that Panamint Springs had been the site of my lowest points.  I was determined not to let that happen this year, so I told my crew we were not stopping there for any period of time if we could help it, and I kept chugging through.  They soon caught up to me, and while I was less aggressive on the road to Darwin this year, I kept making progress.  At this point, it was solidly night, and COLD.  As in, 50-ish degrees.  But also moonless, which made the stars even more visible, much to Chris’s delight – he got some awesome night-sky pictures, which may have made up for the fact that, for once, it was too dark when I passed Father Crowley overlook to get any good pictures there.

There are stars over Death Valley, too.

I was doing my best to take advantage of the cool temperature and darkness and pick up the pace (also, moving fast enough so as not to freeze was sort of a factor), and gradually, I started passing people.  By the time I reached Darwin, the 90-mile mark, I was in 17^th place (by some report, anyway).  I felt mostly disheartened by this news.  Here I was, on track for a mid-28-hour finish (if I could pull off the second half of the race that I thought I could), and I was still that far back.  But then again, my primary goal was to finish under 30 hours, and I could at least achieve that. So I decided to focus on that.

As I headed from Darwin to Lone Pine, a 32-mile trek, the sun came up, the temperature became briefly pleasant (on its way to being brutally hot again), and Jackie Choi (aka “Jackie Joy”) started hopping out of the car to pace me.  Jackie is always sunny and smiley, and the rhythm of her footsteps behind me kept me locked in to a comfortable running pace. In this section, I told both her and Shannon as they paced me that this was the section of the race where magical things can happen, since everybody is getting tired, and by making slow, steady progress, and being patient, you can gradually pass a lot of people.

And sure enough, patience and persistence paid off.  At this point, the only runners ahead of me were from the 10 am wave, so every pass moved me up a place.  And wouldn’t you know it, Dean Karnazes was just ahead as we were nearing the 100-mile mark.  Jackie hopped out to pace, wearing a sweater (still complaining of being cold), and carrying her cell phone, to both photo-document and play Deadmau5 to spur me on, while Shannon told me that Dean was dying, and I could take him down. I couldn’t have planned it better – we passed Dean, and his decidedly more serious-looking pacer, just as we crossed the 100-mile mark on the road, at around 20 hours and 40 minutes, a solid 100-mile race time itself, and Dean said to us “35 miles to go,” in a tone that suggested that we were stupid to have done what we just did.  But considering that I kept putting distance on him, I’d say it was a great move, and Jackie sure got a kick out of it.

Things of note, right to left: Dean Karnazes, his pacer, me, Jackie, 100-mile mark on the road.

We kept up the steady pace, and by the time we reached Lone Pine, we had passed several other runners, including the Fruitarian (who was on his back on a mat with his legs up on the rear bumper of his crew vehicle when we passed him).  I unofficially broke my PR for most miles run in 24 hours (I reached 118 miles just as my watch turned over to triple-zeros; previous best was 111).  In another nod to Jackie, I passed Sumie, the eventual first female finisher, ahead of Pam Reed, just before we reached the Lone Pine time station.  I had to go a little faster than I would have liked to make that last pass, but considering how patiently and effectively Jackie had been pacing me, even though we had already passed Dean together, I felt like I owed her another one.  At the Lone Pine time station, one of the volunteers actually recognized my Falls Road Racing jersey, and asked if I was from Baltimore, and I had my very brief moment of proudly representing, before I jay-ran, Baltimore-style, across Main Street and onto Portal Road, just to make sure that Sumie stayed behind me.

Then, the climb to Whitney Portal – 13 miles, lots of elevation gain, and, this time around, since I was finishing so fast, it was noticeably hotter than usual.  Normally, this is where I take off and do awesome things, but with the heat and all of the running I had done in the previous section, I felt totally flat on the climb.  All of Shannon’s water-gunning in the back and Jackie’s cheer wasn’t really helping, except to ensure that I had no excuse not to grit my teeth and resolve to put one foot in front of the other until I reached the top.  By the time I got to the 131-mile mark, the last time station, the temperature had dropped, and I had been marching up the climb for long enough that I actually felt as though I had fallen into a semblance of a rhythm.  And, with just a 4-mile “fun run” to cross off on the car (we had been crossing off each half-marathon as we passed the half-marathon marks), my mood improved significantly.  I was chatty, cheery, and coherent as I fell into a rhythm much more evocative of this section of the climb last year, and, with cell phones finally working again, I was feeding off of not only my crew’s excitement, but the excitement of the people at home.

Finally starting to smile in the final stretch of the climb to Whitney Portal .

And so, 28 hours, 31 minutes, and 50 seconds after I started this epic journey, replicating last year’s 14-hour Panamint-to-the-finish ending, I crossed the finish line with my crew, very pleasantly exhausted.  8^th place overall, an amusing finishing place, considering that I wore an Aberdeen Ironbirds hat the entire time, and Cal Ripken, the owner of the Ironbirds, wore number 8 in his playing days with the Baltimore Orioles (and I make it a point to touch the number 8 Cal Ripken statue in front of Camden Yards every time I run there).  But most importantly, a sub-30-hour finish, and a top-10 finish – both of my admittedly lofty goals for the race achieved.  Everybody commented on how coherent and capable of moving under my own power I seemed, compared to the people who finished near me, which probably means that there is room for improvement (isn’t there always?), but all I wanted at that point was to use a real bathroom, put on dry clothes, lay down for a while, and somehow fix the contact lens that rolled back into my eye (as I type this, it’s still back there, somewhere). Little things. J

Heaven on earth. (Also, as I was later informed, an excuse for others to take "dirty" pictures of us in our compromised position.)

My crew and I hung around the finish line for what seemed like a very short time to me, but was actually several hours, sunning ourselves on rocks, eating the remaining junk food that we bought for the race (who knew that we had that much beef jerky?), and cheering for the finishers that came in behind me.  I felt a little too dazed to be useful. Eventually, we headed back down the mountain into Lone Pine, to tend to the cuts, scratches, blisters, and general filth that we had accumulated during our adventure.  I barely remember the Mexican food that I ate for dinner at the food cart in front of our hotel, but I’m pretty sure it was awesome (and now that my appetite is returning, I wish that I had some more).  It was definitely awesome that they gave me a free pineapple Jarritos for running the race.

Even after writing all of that, and having a day to think about everything, this is all still unbelievable to me.  Obviously, I’ve trained hard for a long time, and I knew that I was capable of this performance, but to finally have everything come together, and to make it happen, is a totally different thing.  Most of all, I’m overwhelmed by all of the support and well-wishing from family and friends, and I am beyond thankful for all of it.  I can’t possibly thank everybody here, but I do want to mention a few – my awesome crew for this race, of course (Chris, Shannon, and Jackie), my crew from the previous two years (Andrew, Sara, and Jason), without which I wouldn’t have had the experience to do what I did at this race this year, all of the people who donated to CAF, whose names/slogans were on the back of my jersey the entire race (and didn’t run a bit, even with the constant misting, thanks to the magic of fabric markers), Meg H for dutifully watching my cats, Meg D and Pete at the Falls Road Running Store for overnighting me the sweet kicks for my race, Golden Harper, founder of Altra, for the shoes, my beautiful girlfriend Tina for her unwavering emotional support, and my mom, dad, and sisters, for always being there for me.  And if I didn’t list you here and you feel slighted, feel free to call me out on it – there’s just so much to process right now (including, amusingly enough, 135 text messages on my cell phone after the race, once I got service back) that I’m not even sure that this 3000-word essay covers it.

But the last thing I will say, before I move on (to some sort of food, most likely), is that everybody I’m thanking here and elsewhere is a motivation, inspiration, and source of energy for me to run the way I run.  Keep it coming – I’m determined to keep on raising the bar!

EPILOGUE:  Our crew’s sleep-deprived post-race trip back to Las Vegas is practically a blog post in and of itself.  But the short version is that after many, many photo stops between Lone Pine and Las Vegas, and one very clutch In-N-Out stop, we arrived at the Vdara in Las Vegas with our baggage jumble, only to find that our bathroom reeked of cigarette smoke – in a supposedly smoke-free hotel.  Naturally, we complained, and asked for an upgrade, and the next room that they gave us . . . reeked of marijuana smoke.  One more complaint and one round of uncontrollable laughter later, we were in an excessively awesome room, with a view of the Bellagio fountain, a stainless-steel refrigerator and dishwasher, and robes for maximum enjoyment of lounging, champagne-toasting, and re-living the experience.  An appropriately surreal end to a delightfully surreal experience.

Catching Up - Badwater Preview

Yes, it's been pretty quiet in my little corner of the blogosphere this past month, ostensibly as I prepare for Badwater.  So what's been up?  (A question more for myself than for you, although if you have something to share, feel free to comment . . .)

In spite of a "weak" June (316 miles, 100 of which were accumulated during the Old Dominion 100), I reached the more-or-less-halfway point of 2012 (30 June) with 2,269 miles logged, averaging 84.04 miles per week, or just slightly over 12 miles per day.  Which is sort of neat-o, considering that in 2011, for the entire year, I averaged a little over 11 miles per day.  So if that were a goal of mine, I'm more or less on track, despite the recent decline.

That said, if you trace back 33 weeks (more or less the beginning of November 2011), the average actually goes up, to around 89 miles per week (after which it declines a bit).  Perhaps it's fair to say that after an extended period of pretty high volume, my body has been looking for an extended taper, which is essentially what the month of June was.

But that's all training numbers, for whatever they're worth (which is sometimes not much).  Both MMT and Old Dominion went far better for me this year than they did last year (9 hours better, and an hour and a half better, respectively), probably in part due to increased fitness, but also in part due to better race strategy.  And since race strategy has been my weakness in my previous two runs at Badwater, if lessons learned from previous years, and recent strategic success in 100-mile races this year, mean anything at all, I'm in far better shape this year than I have been previously.

But all of the above is talk - come race day, anything can (and very well may) happen.  The bottom line, then, is that, all of the above aside, I'm excited to take another shot at this monster, and hopefully continue with the momentum that I had at the end of last year's race.

With that, you can follow me on the Badwater website (http://www.badwater.com/) - they'll be tracking everybody on race day.  And there's still time to donate to CAF in support of my run at Badwater, in recognition of which I will write your name, or whatever you want, in the Sharpie color of your choice, on the shirt that I'll wear during the race.  Donate here:

http://adventurecorps2012.kintera.org/davidploskonka

. . . and stay tuned for the more-exciting-than-it-probably-should-be conclusion!

Week in Review: 3-9 June 2012, and Maryville Marathon/KU Field Trip Report

Numbers, numbers:

3 June: 3.1 miles (5 kilometers), 21 minutes, 47 seconds - the Bel Air Town Run - followed by an uncomfortable amount of walking around airports with heavy bags

4 June: 1 mile (10 minutes) easy - shaking off the jet lag

5 June: 6 miles (45 minutes), around the KCI Airport, strangely enough, on Tel Aviv Road

6 June: 2 miles (20 minutes) easy - feeling tired

7 June: 7 miles (50 minutes) at lunch at Fort Leavenworth, then another 5 miles (35 minutes) around the KCI Airport in the evening

8 June: 2 miles (20 minutes) - staying "loose" for the marathon, whatever that means

9 June: 28-ish miles (230-ish minutes) - Maryville Marathon, plus warm-up/warm-down - ouchies.

Total Time: 422(ish) minutes
Total Distance: 54(ish) miles

A "recovery" week from the Old Dominion 100, with signs of life towards the end (even though the marathon felt like death - more about that later).  Hopefully the upward mileage trend will continue this week - lots of miles, and a little bit of speedwork, is the plan from now until Badwater.

Now, the report, because when you take a field trip, you don't get away without a report to the class:

Before my forcible two weeks at Leavenworth (fortunately, not the actual prison - just the figurative prison of work-related training), I poked around online to figure out what there was to do there.  Naturally, running-related activities topped the list.  The Maryville Marathon was scheduled for my "weekend off," and maybe afforded me an outside chance to post a Boston Qualifying time for 2013.  (Emphasis on "outside," as it would be a week after the Old Dominion 100.)  But whatever, either way, it was a training run and an adventure, and an affordable one (only $40) at that.  Sold.

It was distinctly uncomfortable to wake up at 4:10 a.m. on Saturday morning, even though somehow I woke up before my alarm went off.  Chalk that up to falling asleep immediately after a prolonged Skype session with the girl I miss probably too much, in spite of the fact that I didn't eat dinner.  I really wasn't hungry then, and I wasn't hungry when I woke up.  Mostly, I was wondering why on earth I signed up for this.

At least the drive was easy, since there's pretty much only one road between Kansas City and Maryville.  And at my gas stop, when I walked into the convenience store to buy gas-station-style breakfast, a woman remarked "I have a man, but, damn, you have some sexy-ass legs."  Compliments are always nice, right?  (That was her strategy, anyway.)  Mostly, I was hoping that my vaguely tired legs wouldn't make the marathon too much of an ordeal.

When I arrived at the parking lot near the start, things were pretty much as I expected - probably about 150 people at most, across the 5K, 10K, half-marathon, and marathon.  The sparse crowd made it easy to take a leisurely jog over to the packet pickup, pin my bib to my shirt, jog back to the car to drop off the rest of my packet, then jog to the starting line, with about five minutes to spare.  At the starting line, the previous winners of the race were sizing people up, and deciding that they would probably win again, and there was no need to fight.  Knowing that the winner was a 2:30-ish marathon guy (at least based on prior years' results), there was a vague race for second or third (and money) that I might have a shot at.

Within two miles of the haphazard start, it became apparent that I did not have a shot at all.  Although I went through the first two miles in 13:40, and didn't feel particularly bad, the course was very hilly, and lingering fatigue from last weekend had me feeling as though I had worked a little too hard for that split.  As I watched the distance between myself and the third-place runner grow, I knew this would be a war of attrition.  Sure enough, at five miles, I was barely holding on, at 35:30, a bit above 7-minute-mile pace now.

Pause for a second, to consider the following:

The Maryville Marathon Elevation Chart

I'll do the math for you: about 825 feet of gain/loss per loop.  That's about 1650 feet of gain/loss for the marathon.  Or, to put it in 100-mile run perspective (where these numbers tend to mean something), a little over 6000 feet of gain/loss for 100 miles on this course.  That puts it on the "low" end of the 100-mile run hierarchy in terms of gain/loss, but this is a 'low" end on a spectrum consisting primarily of mountain races.  So this course is mildly mountainous as an ultramarathon, but highly mountainous as a marathon.  (For a little perspective on that, here are some gain/loss numbers from some well-known marathons: http://mymarathonpace.com/Elevation_Charts.html . . . pretty much anything that doesn't have "mountain" in the title, or takes place near a mountain, comes in at about half that total gain/loss, and there are quite a few significantly "net downhill" marathons in the list.)

Enough detail, the point is, if you're trying to run a "fast" marathon, this is probably not the place to do it, especially on tired legs.  The long climb from a little past the 5-mile mark to a little past the 8-mile mark is particularly onerous, since you're running on the shoulder of a highway, which admittedly allows you pleasant scenery, but not when 18-wheelers are careening past you at breakneck speeds, as most vehicles tend to do on poorly-patrolled roads.  It was a minor miracle when I came through the half marathon in around 1:39 - having any sort of shot at sub-3:20 at the rate I was going seemed like insanity.

And of course, it was, because the second half of the marathon, being another loop of the same thing, except somehow both hotter and windier than the first time around, was significantly more painful than the first.  I got passed a bunch of times here, including by a pack of three runners who all looked disturbingly comfortable.  To my credit, I did put my head down and soldier along briskly enough to pass one person back in the last three miles, and hold my lead on him, but it wasn't quite good enough - 3:32 and some seconds, 10th overall, 4th in my age group - many places out of the money, and one painful place (and about 5 minutes) out of a relatively meaningless age group award.  At least there were chairs and all the cold chocolate milk you could drink just past the finish line.

I realize that a lot of this might sound overly negative.  But I'm not as negative about this experience as all of the above might suggest.  Even though the race was sparsely populated and generously challenging, and I didn't quite handle all of that as well as I would have ideally, it was nonetheless a good training run on a beautiful day, and eventually, I was finished and could claim sweet repose in the grass (well, sweet repose slightly agitated by weird sticky seed pods that dug into my back and pinched, but sweeter than struggling up another hill, right?)

My unintentionally color-coordinated post-marathon crash in the grass.

So with that behind me, it was time to wander my way back to town, where Thai food was waiting for me, and eventually to the River District in Kansas City, where the multi-ethnic open-air market will go down in my mind as the best-smelling place ever - every sort of exotic spice, mixed together, over the background smell of America.

The next day, since I had nothing in particular to do, I wandered my way down to the University of Kansas cross-country course, which is sort of legendary, since it was prime training ground for American champion runners Billy Mills and Jim Ryun.  It's just north of Lawrence, Kansas, and apparently in the middle of nowhere, unless you know where to look for it.

At this point, pictures are better than words:

The approach, on a gravel road - the tiny black sillhoutte gives it away.

Billy Mills in the foreground, Jim Ryun in the background.

More beautiful than difficult here (but it has its challenges)

After a 7.5-mile loop on the gravel roads surrounding the course, and a running tour of the 8K cross-country course, I was delighted to feel as though I had discovered the pinnacle of "pleasantly exhausted," the Lydiardian goal of all "easy" running.  Amidst the rolling terrain, in the 95-degree heat, on a partly-cloudy day, I felt appropriately challenged at all points during the run.  It brought back memories of training for cross-country in the heat, on rural roads and grassy fields, the feel of plush training shoes crunching on gravel, of spikes digging into grass and dirt, the pain and pleasure of exerting against conditions that are just enough more difficult than roads to challenge you to attack them at a full-on run, in contrast to mountain running, where often "give up and walk fast" is the order of the day.  It's easy to see how countless "easy" loops on a course like this bred some of the best American runners.

Which brings me to the point of all of this, if there is one.  Results this weekend?  Not so exciting, other than perhaps to note that the last time I attempted a marathon so soon after a 100-mile run, I ran Baltimore, a week after the Grindstone 100, in 3:40, so this was nearly 10 minutes faster on a significantly harder course. But that's mostly academic, compared to the struggle and the effort.  It was at times uncomfortable, at times downright painful, and all-around a constant challenge.  But looking at the sillhouttes on the KU course, I felt comfort in the struggle, because the feeling that I got on the course was that constantly rising to a constant challenge is what breeds champions.  And with about four solid weeks of training before Badwater, that's the mantra . . . because you can't say "pleasantly exhausted" without the word "pleasantly."

Race Report: 2012 Old Dominion 100-Mile Endurance Run, and 2012 Bel Air Town Run 5K

At long last, time out from lugging heavy bags through many airports (one of which was Cleveland Hopkins - can't seem to get away from that place) to write about round 2 of my Old Dominion/Bel Air Town Run double.  For those who missed the first round, refer to this: http://tokenrunningblog.blogspot.com/2011/06/week-in-review-29-may-4-june-and-old.html.

Why do it again?  Well, besides feeling as though I could better last year's performance, and the training benefits, this year was to be a "reunion" of sorts.  I ran my first Old Dominion 100 back in 2008, after Collin Anderson talked me into it, with Chris Avedissian crewing for us.  It was only my second 100-mile race, and the race where I met Dave Snipes.  To make a long story short, I endured brutal heat, got lost a few times, including in the last three miles, but managed to sneak in under 24 hours, totally spent.  (It was even more epic than that sentence suggested, but that's not the point here.)

Fast-forward four years, and Collin, who now lives in Utah, was coming out to run Old Dominion again, Chris was coming up from Georgia to crew, and of course, Snipes was going to be there.  Between that, and the tradition of the Bel Air Town Run (shooting for 17 consecutive finishes there), I was excited to continue a weekend of running tradition.

In the week leading up to this ridiculous double, though, my body was less excited.  I felt crummy just about every day, on every run, and I was glad that I was limiting myself to 5 or 6 miles a day, because my body wasn't having much more than that, anyway.  Wednesday midnight Collin pickup antics at BWI (with the cops aggressively forcing cars through that weren't actively picking people up), followed by an epically long last day at work on Thursday, with two late nights with my girlfriend thrown in there, and things leading up to the race weren't particularly restful.

Still, on Friday, Collin and I managed to leave Baltimore around noon, in plenty of time to stop by Whole Foods for his $7.00/gallon chocolate milk ($5.00 for the milk, plus a $2.00 bottle deposit), without any sort of scramble to get on the road, and the 2+ drive via Route 70 and Route 81 was mostly uneventful . . . except for the part where my "crew" sent me a text, around 3 pm, saying that he wasn't going to show up.  Considering that this race uses Succeed electrolyte drink, and my fueling strategy lately depends heavily on Gatorade, this was a potentially serious problem.  Fortunately, it was enough notice for me to stop at the Food Lion to pick up Gatorade and Zip-Lock bags to make drop bags, and to stop at Arby's for dinner.

With drop bags distributed, and the pre-race meeting underway, I was feeling a little better about things.  I calmly ate my Arby's roast beef and cheddar and curly fries with hummus that I had bought at Whole Foods while the race director went through the standard litany of cautions and informations (perhaps most amusing of which was NOT to call 911 at any point during the race, because three counties will show up and there will be a huge mess).  The meeting was over in less than an hour, which gave us plenty of time to organize our things for race day, set up sleeping space in the barn, and hang out with Meg and Charles, who were there to volunteer/crew.  The rain came, as predicted, but was over by 9 pm, leaving behind this rainbow:

Left to right, Collin (in the barn), Charles, Meg, and Lynne, demonstrating a 75% rate of marveling at the double-rainbow.

In other pre-race silliness, in a video that needs no further explanation, Collin was tending to other things:



It turned out that only four of us (Collin, Meg, Charles, and me) were sleeping in the barn - far less than usual, and since we were sort of our own quasi-cohesive group, we could make group decisions such as "turning all the lights off" and "not making lots of noise during the night" so that we could all get some sleep.  We all went to bed a little after 9 pm, and, besides a brief bathroom break at around 1 am, I slept soundly, arguably some of the best sleep that I had all week.

We didn't really need alarms, because shortly after 3 am, people started entering the barn and checking in.  Since everything had been piled neatly the night before, there was no "scramble to get my stuff together" fiasco, and I had plenty of time to put on clothes, A&D ointment (except on my nipples - oops), and eat potato chips before the start of the race.

After a brief prayer, as is custom at the race, we were off for our lap around the fairgrounds, with little fanfare.  Although I had weighed in sort of heavy (138 lbs), I was feeling relatively light and springy, considering that it was 4 am, and compared to how I had been feeling all last week.  I led the charge, with another two runners nearby, and this neck-and-neck race continued through town and up most of the climb on Woodstock Tower Road.  It might be sort of silly to run up this, but it is a "road-grade" climb, and I ran up it last year, so, whatever, I ran up it, and dropped one runner, but the other runner, Oliver Leblond, continued to chase me, and, from the sound of it, he was chasing hard.  We crested the climb and I started bombing down the other side, and he continued the chase.  I wasn't sure how long he could keep this up (I had never run with him before), but it was going to be an interesting race . . .

Especially since at this point, disaster almost struck.  At the bottom of the hill, we reached Boyer, where we were directed to "go up the road, make a left onto the trail, run the trail loop, and come back to the aid station."  My memories of the early parts of the race are fuzzy, so as we ran down the road, and it got to be a few more minutes without a marker than were comfortable, the thought occurred to us that we might have been going the wrong way.  But I spotted an orange flag, so we continued up the road, and eventually, we found a double-orange flag that signaled the trail turn-off.  We climbed the winding, technical trail, only to discover, in horror, three runners coming TOWARDS us . . . they had thought they were the leaders, because they were breaking cobwebs.  Oliver was confused, but I immediately realized that, since there were no arrows on the ground, we had mistakenly entered the loop where we were supposed to exit, and were now running the loop backwards.  Panic set in - would we have to re-run the loop?

In any case, it made sense to finish out the loop, since if we had to re-run it, we would have to go back to where we got off course (which was the entrance to the loop).  After lots of reassuring oncoming runners that they were going the right way, we made it back to Boyer, where Ray, the race director, was sitting on his truck, directing us left.  Oliver talked to him, and he let us continue, since we had run the same distance, and correctly followed the ambiguous directions (we were technically not wrong, since there were no arrows indicating the direction of the loop; there were, however, arrows throughout the rest of the course, painted on the ground).  I imagine that they will paint arrows on the ground on this part of the course next year.

At any rate, with that minor catastrophe resolved, we ran together to the first crew stop, where Chris was waiting for me.  My bottles were empty, and somehow, my drop bag hadn't made it there - minor catastrophe #2.  Fortunately, Chris Wilde, a runner from Baltimore who was crewing another runner, had a jug of blue Gatorade that he was willing to share, so I was able to leave the aid station with one bottle of Gatorade, and one bottle of gross Succeed drink (which I eventually dumped).  Half a banana and some Coke later, I was heading down the road.

For the next 13 or so miles of road, Oliver and I ran closely together.  Sometimes he would get ahead, and then I would catch up (at one point, he ran off the road, distracted by extraneous orange flags on somebody's property, which led him partway up a grassy hill), but he was starting to put distance on my by pretty much blowing through the aid stations, while I was taking a minute or so to drink a Coke and/or eat a few banana chunks.  I was feeling good on this fueling strategy, and reasoned that he couldn't possibly keep skipping the aid without crashing.  Plus, this was apparently his first 100-mile race (or so he said, in some sort of accent), and he was running with me because he was "crazy."

As I neared Four Points, at around 33 miles, Oliver had pulled out of sight, and now, entering one of the more difficult sections of the race, I had to decide how hard to push.  Ultimately, I decided that with about 2/3rds of the race left to run, it would probably be better to run a little conservatively, in the hopes that Oliver would blow up.  I ran so conservatively here, in fact, that the third-place runner, Mike Mason, briefly caught and passed me at around mile 44, on the gravel road back to Four Points.  Fortunately, I gambled that he was running too hard too early, and that the tougher stuff ahead (particularly the ATV trail) would get the best of him, and I won that round . . . eventually, coming downhill on the ATV trail, I passed him.  But on the return to Four Points, Carter (who had taped my bleeding nipples on the way out) commented that I had slowed down, and seemed concerned (although I wasn't too concerned), and nobody was talking about where the leader was, so I got the feeling that people were thinking that he was totally out of reach.

And so it went for the rest of the race.  I stuck with my Gatorade/Coke/bananas fueling strategy, and kept plugging along - the temperatures never got much about 75 degrees, and with the shade and the breeze, the conditions were very forgiving (which may have inadvertently made Oliver's race strategy a good one - going out too hard in the typical Old Dominion heat tends to be a recipe for disaster).  I felt pretty good the whole way, but I never had any indication of how far ahead Oliver was, and, in retrospect, maybe I should have asked.  Because by the time curiosity got the better of me (just past mile 90), it turned out that he was about 15 minutes ahead - apparently I had been shrinking his half-hour gap for a while.  I charged as hard as I could in the last 9 miles, but it was too little, too late - in town, with about a mile and a half to go, I saw the lead Jeep coming at me, and I knew that he had finished.  So I slowed down and pretty much walked the rest of the race, costing me about 15 minutes on my finishing time, but since I was solidly in second place, I wasn't terribly concerned (room for improvement next year, right?)

Chris and Henry were the only people waiting for me at the still-darkening finish line.  Chris took pictures of me (I'm sure my nipple-bleed looked great), and Henry recorded my time:

Old-school Old Dominion Results Sheet

17 hours, 46 minutes, 58 seconds later, I was finished, and shortly afterwards, I was on the road back to Baltimore.  The intermission between races at my girlfriend's apartment is worth mentioning:  I drove back in the clothes that I wore during the race, nipple-bleed on my shirt, number still pinned to my shorts.  She lives just up the street from a club in downtown Baltimore, so on a Saturday night, parking is scarce, and I was forced to park about three blocks away from her apartment. Just as I was parking, the police arrived and began clearing the club, due to some sort of physical altercation on the premises, so I was walking towards a parade of evacuated clubgoers in my gross running clothes.  You would think that the first thing somebody would have commented on was my nipple bleed, but it was actually the second - the first comment was from a guy who said "dang, you been running?"  I smiled and said, "yeah, a little bit."  But the height of this experience was when two police officers stopped me a block away from my destination and said "are your nipples bleeding, sir?"  I explained that I had been running and that it was no big deal, and once they were satisfied that I was not injured in the club brawl, they let me go.  (And things like this are why I do things like that.)

And . . . on to Act 2, the Bel Air Town Run.  Last year, I was pretty much crippled, and it took me over 25 minutes to finish the run, but the important thing was the finish.  This year, I finished Old Dominion nearly 2 hours faster, and felt better after the race, so I figured I could at least go slightly faster than last year.  I had a nice little "reunion" prior to the race with my family (all of whom came out to watch), and some friends from high school (Pete DeCapite and Patrick Early), which helped me feel a little less terrible about three more miles under these conditions.

The weather remained cooperative, though, and I optimistically lined up near the front of the pack, to discover that once the race started, my legs loosened up, and I was running reasonably fast (albeit not entirely comfortably).  I went through the first (downhill? short?) mile in 6:58, according to the clock on the course, and was not feeling as though I had totally spent myself, so I just went with it, kept passing the people in front of me, and, in what seemed like a comically short amount of time after 17+ hours of rugged trail running, I was at the finish line, 21 minutes and 47 seconds later:

Snuck through the crowd and snapped a picture of the results.

The "after-party" at the Town Run was better still - it seemed like everywhere I turned, somebody I knew was there hanging out, wanting to talk about running (including Brien Christesen, another friend from high school, with his wife and children). It was sort of surreal, since so many years have passed since high school, but being back there, where the Town Run has been every year, made things feel, in an odd way, like they hadn't changed at all.

And speaking of "not changing," we all waited patiently through the traditional long age-group awards, and then the more-to-the-point overall awards for the bike raffle, and, for the 17th consecutive year, I did not win the bike.  Oh well, better luck next year.  Then it was back to my parents' house for shower, food, and a ride to the airport, so I can spend two weeks at Fort Leavenworth learning about . . . um, something, I forget.  I hope there are good places to run here!

All in all, a satisfying weekend of upholding running traditions, making new memories, and, in some cases, squeezing Hi-C boxes into empty gallon jugs of water.  And I don't feel cripplingly bad . . . maybe I'll continue a tradition, and go running again today. :)