First things first:
http://www.firstgiving.com/fundraiser/DavidPloskonka/david-ploskonka-badwater
As I've been mentioning for a while now, my 2013 Badwater effort is in support of G-PACT, the Gastroparesis Patient Association for Cures and Treatments. My little sister struggles with this disease, so this cause has particular personal significance for me. Any and all donations are appreciated. And, as was the case last year, if you donate, I'll write whatever you want me to write, in whatever color you'd like, on an article of clothing that I'll be wearing during the race (I'm leaning towards an arm sleeve).
And, with that said, it's now July, or, more significantly, Badwater month. With just a couple weeks now until the big event, and the better part of the proverbial physical hay (the kind that collects from as many hours as I can stand, running in whatever heat that I can find) in the equally proverbial barn, most of the task now becomes logistical and mental preparedness, so some perspective is in order . . .
Flashback to February, after I couldn't manage to average sub-7-minute-mile pace for 10 miles at Club Challenge. The idea that, in five months, I would be toeing the line for another 135 miles through Death Valley, chasing, if nothing else, the ghost of my impressive endeavor there last year, was downright terrifying.
And the year since then has been one big scary adventure into the unknown. From missing the Boston Marathon for the first time in eight years, to repeatedly near-missing qualifying times for the 2014 Boston Marathon, to adventures in Costa Rica, Colombia, and Bolivia, to an unlikely success at MMT, to an abject failure at TARC, nothing has been very predictable, and everything has kept me on my toes.
Now I'm here, July 1st, after the longest coldest winter I can remember, on the verge of running what has the potential to be the hottest Badwater ever. For this year, that seems to be par for the course. And with the course of 2013 being as fraught with peril as it has been so far, I'm reluctant to make too many promises or predictions about what might happen for however many hours it takes after 10 a.m. on Monday, July 15th (aka the Ides of July).
I will go as far as to say that there will be pain - and lots of it - from the Badwater Basin to Whitney Portal. I'll also go out on a very short limb and say that, based on recent race experience, I will want to quit, and frequently. But I won't quit, no matter how much I want to - and I strongly suspect that I will want to.
Because if the first half of 2013 has reminded me of anything, it's that there's plenty more to running than competition. Since my burnout in 2012, it's been a long way back to re-learning how to run healthy, and to re-gaining the little joys that come from that smile from a passer-by, or that glimpse of scenery that burns itself into your memory. And now that I remember that running can be like that, more often than not, that's how I want it to be. And more often than not, it should be that way. But come race day, it's not going to be that type of pleasant; it's going to be an excursion back into the darkness that was the latter half of 2012.
For myself alone, I have no reason or desire to go back into that darkness. It's too recent, it's not fun, and it's not the way life should be.
But I'm not running Badwater this year for myself. I'm running it for my sister's charity, G-PACT, because I promised that I would. I'm running it for the people who supported G-PACT through their donations, because they believe in the cause and they believe in me. I'm running it for my family and my friends and the city of Baltimore, because they've supported my running for all these years, and they deserve to see the fruits of their support now and again. I'm running it for all of my Badwater crew members, past and present, because no matter how well I run there, they always deserve better. I'm running it for the other competitors, because I owe it to them to contribute to the challenge of the event, to push them to their limits.
So for all of those reasons, I'll spend the next two weeks running in whatever heat I can find, packing up the various and sundry clothes, shoes, and gadgets that make this sort of expedition possible, and mentally preparing to go back to that dark place for many hours in the hot desert sun. Because this year, Badwater isn't about me. And it's only because this year, Badwater isn't about me, that I'll make it to that finish line.
(And if that was, "too much f***ing perspective," a la Spinal Tap, just wait a few days - maybe until next week, at the latest, when I'm sure that I can come up with something much more whimsical; hours and hours in the heat make me downright silly.)
Showing posts with label mmt 100. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mmt 100. Show all posts
Monday, July 1, 2013
Monday, May 14, 2012
The "Where I've Been At" Saga, Part 4: Massanutten Mountain Trail 100-Mile Run Race Report
And now, the (maybe) exciting conclusion . . .
After the North Coast debacle (short version: about 50 miles in about 8 hours, then totally gave up because everything hurt too much), you might think that I wouldn't want to attempt one of the most difficult 100-mile races a week later. And you would be right - sort of.
As I woke up from my uncomfortable slumber in the back seat of Laurie's Nissan Versa at around 3 am, while North Coast was still going on around me, my first thought was that there was probably no way that I was going to be able to run MMT a week later. But after staring at a neon-lit kite flying around in the night sky for what felt like a really long time, I looked down at my phone, and saw a missed call from Dave Snipes. I called him back, and we talked about what was going on at North Coast, and, after we had finished talking, he said that he would put together drop bags for me for MMT. No discussion about whether or not I should run the race - apparently, I was running it.
He wasn't the only one - Mark Rodriguez made hotel reservations, the girl I'm dating (after ragging on me for my plans apparently being ill-conceived and not entirely thought-through) immediately started discussing what she thought I needed to do in the next week to be ready for MMT, Meg Harnett got in touch with me about possibly pacing me at the end of the race . . . even my mom sent me a text message saying that she "had a good feeling" about the race. So with all of that energy directed towards my running MMT, as the week went on, it seemed crazier and crazier to question whether or not I should run the race, in spite of the facts to the contrary.
And with the MMT 100, the facts are these: The race is 103.7 miles (the current "official" distance, although I suspect that this measurement is a little short) of ragged, rocky, relentless mountain trails, punctuated only occasionally with gravel road sections to make you feel extra-terrible about not running because you're too tired from picking through rocks to run anymore. Last year, I had a total meltdown at around 64 miles, but still managed to finish . . . in almost 32 hours. That's a long time to be awake, and the prospect of another 32-hour slog after everything I had been through in the past month was not at all appealing, and, furthermore, seemed somewhat likely, after how poorly North Coast went.
But the week prior to MMT was occupied with travel to and from Israel, and by the time I got back on Friday, there was no time or opportunity to re-consider - Mark and Sniper had already put together my drop bags (with some assistance from Mike Bielik, who left some Hammer Gels with Sniper for me after the Bull Run 50-Miler) and made hotel reservations, and my girlfriend had planned the day around me leaving for the race.
I arrived at the Holiday Inn in Woodstock around 10 p.m., got to sleep around 11 p.m., and was up bright and early at a little after 2 a.m. for a 4 a.m. race start. At least the 3 hours of sleep that I got was sound sleep, and I didn't feel too tired at the start line, or, for that matter, too cold, even though it was in the mid-40s (although my nagging sinus pain was suggesting that I may be coming down with a cold). Most of the people I saw before the race (Jason Lantz, the eventual winner, Ryan O'Dell, 10 minutes behind me at the Winter Beast of Burden 100-Mile Run a few months ago, Jack Pilla, most recently of pulling-off-the-ground-at-the-Bandera-100k fame) looked at least a little bit cold, tired, and nervous, which made me feel a little better about my chances.
And when I say "chances," specifically, I mean my chances of finishing the race in under 24 hours. Finishing any 100-mile race in under 24 hours is generally regarded as an accomplishment of note, but at MMT, finishing the race in under 24 hours is very difficult. Each year, about 200 people start, and typically, only the top 10-15 runners finish the race in less than 24 hours - not to mention that about 40% of starters fail to finish the race. But ever since I first came out to MMT, to pace Sniper in 2009, finishing this brutal race in less than 24 hours was a goal of mine. Of course, considering my past month, finishing at all would be a minor miracle. Then again, having made it to the starting line after all of that, and being presented with the opportunity to achieve this goal, there was also no thinking about whether or not it was realistic, given the circumstances. Here was the opportunity, and I had to do my best to make the most of it.
In contrast to last year's start, this year's start, on the paved road, felt awful. I was nowhere near the front of the pack, and all I could think about as we ran down the road was how much I wanted the road to end, so we could get on the trail, where hopefully this would hurt a little less. Amazingly, once we turned onto the trail, I started speeding up, and passed a number of people who were ahead of me during the road section. With my trusty dual-headlamp setup (one on the head, one around my waist), it may as well have been daylight in front of me, and I was running fairly comfortably over the rocks.
Unfortunately, my stomach was a little less comfortable, and I spent a total of about 30 minutes during the first third of the race taking "bathroom breaks," mostly in the woods, with the exception of the "real" bathroom break at Elizabeth Furnace. Other than these unscheduled stops, I was mostly feeling okay - taking what the terrain would give me, and backing off a little bit as it gradually warmed up. Much of the first third of the race is a blur in my mind, punctuated by loops of "Someone's in the Wolf" by Queens of the Stone Age and thoughts that a sub-24-hour finish might be possible. After the first 20 miles or so, I wasn't gaining on anybody, but I wasn't losing ground, either. I was mostly running alone, with a nearly blank mind.
The race only started to become distinct in my mind when I reached Habron Gap, knowing that the next section, nearly 10 miles long, in the mid-afternoon heat, to Camp Roosevelt (mile 64-ish), was the one that ruined me last year. In my mind, if I could make it through this section relatively unscathed, I should be able to finish strong. I had also skimmed times from last year, and realized that if I made it to Camp Roosevelt around 5 p.m. at the latest, I had a good chance at finishing in under 24 hours.
In spite of the seemingly never-ending yellow trail to Camp Roosevelt, on which I ran out of water and wound up walking the last mile and a half of, just to be safe, I made it to Camp Roosevelt not feeling too bad at all, and was in and out of the aid station quickly (just long enough to drink some Gatorade from my drop bag), prompting the volunteer in charge of the aid station, who had been there last year when I spent three hours there, to comment on my improved "through" time. It was around 20 minutes after 5 p.m. when I left the aid station, and while I was thrilled that I was still in the 24-hour-finish ballpark, I was trying to keep restrained, as the last third of the race is notoriously difficult, and any number of things could happen to mess things up.
And sure enough, not long after, mini-disaster. All this time, I had been waiting for my cold to sneak up on me and ruin my race (which it never did), but I hadn't anticipated that my left contact lens, which had been bothering me since earlier in the race, when I took a branch to the eye when I took my eyes off of the trail for a second to drink from my hand bottle, would actually fall out of my eye. But there, on Kerns Mountain, picking through some of the nastiest rocks on the course, with 30+ miles to go, I felt the lens loosen, blinked, and then it was gone. I spent a few seconds looking for it on the ground, before I realized that (a) I wasn't going to find it, and (b) even if I could find it, it wasn't going back in my eye. I would just have to re-learn to run over the rocks with compromised depth perception. As it turns out, this is not easy, and my feet were hating me the entire time. (Miraculously, for as many times as I stumbled, I didn't fall to the ground - sometimes it's better to be lucky than good.)
Fortunately, I made it off of Kerns Mountain before the sun set, and just after sunset, I was climbing Bird Knob, and now very seriously thinking about going sub-24. I had been running fairly conservatively up until this point, and feeling relatively good the entire time. But now that I couldn't reliably run over the rocks, I got the feeling that I was going to have to be careful on the really technical sections, and run every runnable section as quickly as I could. I had already lost 10-15 minutes by walking the flat section at the end of Kerns Mountain, and I lost another 10-15 minutes by walking the flat section at the end of Bird Knob. But when I made it to Bird Knob, and had three major sections of the course left, and was still looking at a potential sub-24-hour finish, I decided that perhaps this feeling should be more than that, and that I was going to have to buckle down and run everything that I could. And considering the safety net that I had following the upcoming purple/pink trail section leading to the Picnic Area aid station (Meg Harnett was waiting to pace me, if I got into trouble), now seemed like the best time to put this plan into action.
In spite of lots of rocks, and not being able to see very well, I somehow made it to the Picnic Area at around 19 hours, 35 minutes, leaving me a little over 4 hours to complete the last "16" miles of the course ("16," because with the rampant mis-measurement of the course, plus the rugged terrain, this "16" miles is more like 18 miles). I bounded down the steps to the Picnic Area aid station, where somebody offered me a chair, and, after looking at my watch, I flatly responded "I think that's a really bad idea right now." I also turned down Quattro's offer of a shot of Jim Beam, instead choosing to twin-fist Gatorade and Coke (it really seemed to be doing the trick). I was happy to see Meg, and although I didn't need her services, I thanked her for being there, and continued down the trail without much delay. At this point, I was a man on a mission.
From here to the finish, the journey is painstakingly clear in my mind, and I could recount it in overwhelming detail, but for the purposes of keeping things simple: I rock-hopped the best I could down the orange trail to the 211 road crossing. I reached the wide white Massanutten Mountain Connector Trail on the other side of the road and was pleasantly surprised to find a few flat stretches that were runnable. Then I was displeased to find that the section beyond the connector, leading to the yellow trail, was a lot more uphill than I had anticipated. (But overall, between the two sections, the total amount of runnable trail was as I had expected.) I hauled down the rocky yellow trail as best as my vision would allow, then turned right onto the road to the Gap Creek aid station, and, seeing that I had taken only a little over 2 hours to complete the last 9-ish miles, felt very confident about my chances in the last section. Twin-fisted Gatorade and Coke at the aid station, and then I was off.
I struggled up Jawbone Gap for the second time - this time around, it was much cooler, which made the climb easier, then decided to walk the rocky backside to the road, even though it was downhill - far too dangerous and unnecessary to try to run at this point. Once I reached the road, after one final pause to urinate on the trail (because really, who puts one of the nastiest, rockiest sections of trail less than five miles from the finish that DOESN'T have some sort of malice in their hearts?), I began a deliberate, rhythmic run, at just around 3 a.m., an entire hour left to cover the last "3" miles (probably more like 4+), all on roads and easy trails. As I made the final turn to the finish, I knew that I had my sub-24, but instead of being overwhelmingly happy, I was just frustrated that I still had to run the "Chapel" trail behind the camp (in deference to this being a "trail" race), instead of taking the more direct route on the road, as vehicles would. In "protest," I began walking, much to the chagrin of those waiting at the finish, who could see me (well, my headlamp, anyway) from far away, and, after requesting that I shake my headlamp to confirm that I was a finisher, demanded that I run through the finish line, because otherwise, they would run out of applause.
And, with minimal fanfare, 23 hours, 32 minutes, and 19 seconds later, I was finished. In relief, I dropped my hand bottles on the ground, and had an awkward moment with the race director, since he was there to shake hands with every finisher, but the way I had dropped my bottles made it look as though I wanted a hug instead (it wound up being a handshake). Then I sat down and started shivering uncontrollably - maybe that was the illness finally catching up to me. The volunteers wrapped me in a blanket and tried to feed me (shredded chicken), but I really couldn't eat, and within a few minutes, all of the pain that I had been ignoring the entire race hit me, all at once, and it was so overwhelming that I nearly vomited. Fortunately, 3 or 4 minutes of being hunched over a trash can, not vomiting, seems to work just as well as actually throwing up.
Eventually, after sitting at the finish line in my blanket for what seemed like forever, seeing four more people finish under 24 hours (and one person finish just 6 minutes past the mark), and making no real attempt to move, I decided that I needed to try to shower and sleep, and I made it as far as my car (which a volunteer had to lead me to), where heat was plentiful, before I passed out with the engine running, waking up a couple hours later, sweating profusely, as the heat had been on full blast. Finally, I drove to the showers, cleaned up, and came back to the finish line just in time to see Meg pacing somebody in - I was glad to see that she had the opportunity to experience part of the course. We hung out for a while at the finish line before I drove her back to her car at the Picnic Area (where she then proceeded to go out for more running), then drove back to the finish line to watch others finish, and wait for the awards ceremony and my beautiful silver belt buckle.
Even as I write this now, with about a day to reflect on what happened, I'm still having trouble processing it all. Of course, I always hope for the best, and I always want to believe that every time I start a race, I completely have it in me to achieve my goal. Many times, though, that doesn't happen, and considering the circumstances, I was fully expecting this to be one of those times. All during the race, the buckle was changing from silver to pewter to silver to pewter again in my mind.
The best I can come up with is that with this race, I approached it with a healthy sense of balance. Not just the kind of balance that you need to run over "trails" that are better described as rock piles, but the kind of balance over the week prior to the race that put training, sleep, nutrition, family, and friends in the places where they belonged. That balance allowed me to step up to the starting line with a clear and healthy mind, and to approach each section of the race with an appropriate level of emotional investment. And that approach allowed me to focus on my goal of running sub-24-hours, and not get too caught up in "racing." In truth, there was at least an hour of slack time in that performance, and under better circumstances, I may have attempted to push harder. But I'm very happy with the way this turned out - the storm clouds of last month really did have a silver lining.
After the North Coast debacle (short version: about 50 miles in about 8 hours, then totally gave up because everything hurt too much), you might think that I wouldn't want to attempt one of the most difficult 100-mile races a week later. And you would be right - sort of.
As I woke up from my uncomfortable slumber in the back seat of Laurie's Nissan Versa at around 3 am, while North Coast was still going on around me, my first thought was that there was probably no way that I was going to be able to run MMT a week later. But after staring at a neon-lit kite flying around in the night sky for what felt like a really long time, I looked down at my phone, and saw a missed call from Dave Snipes. I called him back, and we talked about what was going on at North Coast, and, after we had finished talking, he said that he would put together drop bags for me for MMT. No discussion about whether or not I should run the race - apparently, I was running it.
He wasn't the only one - Mark Rodriguez made hotel reservations, the girl I'm dating (after ragging on me for my plans apparently being ill-conceived and not entirely thought-through) immediately started discussing what she thought I needed to do in the next week to be ready for MMT, Meg Harnett got in touch with me about possibly pacing me at the end of the race . . . even my mom sent me a text message saying that she "had a good feeling" about the race. So with all of that energy directed towards my running MMT, as the week went on, it seemed crazier and crazier to question whether or not I should run the race, in spite of the facts to the contrary.
And with the MMT 100, the facts are these: The race is 103.7 miles (the current "official" distance, although I suspect that this measurement is a little short) of ragged, rocky, relentless mountain trails, punctuated only occasionally with gravel road sections to make you feel extra-terrible about not running because you're too tired from picking through rocks to run anymore. Last year, I had a total meltdown at around 64 miles, but still managed to finish . . . in almost 32 hours. That's a long time to be awake, and the prospect of another 32-hour slog after everything I had been through in the past month was not at all appealing, and, furthermore, seemed somewhat likely, after how poorly North Coast went.
But the week prior to MMT was occupied with travel to and from Israel, and by the time I got back on Friday, there was no time or opportunity to re-consider - Mark and Sniper had already put together my drop bags (with some assistance from Mike Bielik, who left some Hammer Gels with Sniper for me after the Bull Run 50-Miler) and made hotel reservations, and my girlfriend had planned the day around me leaving for the race.
I arrived at the Holiday Inn in Woodstock around 10 p.m., got to sleep around 11 p.m., and was up bright and early at a little after 2 a.m. for a 4 a.m. race start. At least the 3 hours of sleep that I got was sound sleep, and I didn't feel too tired at the start line, or, for that matter, too cold, even though it was in the mid-40s (although my nagging sinus pain was suggesting that I may be coming down with a cold). Most of the people I saw before the race (Jason Lantz, the eventual winner, Ryan O'Dell, 10 minutes behind me at the Winter Beast of Burden 100-Mile Run a few months ago, Jack Pilla, most recently of pulling-off-the-ground-at-the-Bandera-100k fame) looked at least a little bit cold, tired, and nervous, which made me feel a little better about my chances.
And when I say "chances," specifically, I mean my chances of finishing the race in under 24 hours. Finishing any 100-mile race in under 24 hours is generally regarded as an accomplishment of note, but at MMT, finishing the race in under 24 hours is very difficult. Each year, about 200 people start, and typically, only the top 10-15 runners finish the race in less than 24 hours - not to mention that about 40% of starters fail to finish the race. But ever since I first came out to MMT, to pace Sniper in 2009, finishing this brutal race in less than 24 hours was a goal of mine. Of course, considering my past month, finishing at all would be a minor miracle. Then again, having made it to the starting line after all of that, and being presented with the opportunity to achieve this goal, there was also no thinking about whether or not it was realistic, given the circumstances. Here was the opportunity, and I had to do my best to make the most of it.
In contrast to last year's start, this year's start, on the paved road, felt awful. I was nowhere near the front of the pack, and all I could think about as we ran down the road was how much I wanted the road to end, so we could get on the trail, where hopefully this would hurt a little less. Amazingly, once we turned onto the trail, I started speeding up, and passed a number of people who were ahead of me during the road section. With my trusty dual-headlamp setup (one on the head, one around my waist), it may as well have been daylight in front of me, and I was running fairly comfortably over the rocks.
Unfortunately, my stomach was a little less comfortable, and I spent a total of about 30 minutes during the first third of the race taking "bathroom breaks," mostly in the woods, with the exception of the "real" bathroom break at Elizabeth Furnace. Other than these unscheduled stops, I was mostly feeling okay - taking what the terrain would give me, and backing off a little bit as it gradually warmed up. Much of the first third of the race is a blur in my mind, punctuated by loops of "Someone's in the Wolf" by Queens of the Stone Age and thoughts that a sub-24-hour finish might be possible. After the first 20 miles or so, I wasn't gaining on anybody, but I wasn't losing ground, either. I was mostly running alone, with a nearly blank mind.
The race only started to become distinct in my mind when I reached Habron Gap, knowing that the next section, nearly 10 miles long, in the mid-afternoon heat, to Camp Roosevelt (mile 64-ish), was the one that ruined me last year. In my mind, if I could make it through this section relatively unscathed, I should be able to finish strong. I had also skimmed times from last year, and realized that if I made it to Camp Roosevelt around 5 p.m. at the latest, I had a good chance at finishing in under 24 hours.
In spite of the seemingly never-ending yellow trail to Camp Roosevelt, on which I ran out of water and wound up walking the last mile and a half of, just to be safe, I made it to Camp Roosevelt not feeling too bad at all, and was in and out of the aid station quickly (just long enough to drink some Gatorade from my drop bag), prompting the volunteer in charge of the aid station, who had been there last year when I spent three hours there, to comment on my improved "through" time. It was around 20 minutes after 5 p.m. when I left the aid station, and while I was thrilled that I was still in the 24-hour-finish ballpark, I was trying to keep restrained, as the last third of the race is notoriously difficult, and any number of things could happen to mess things up.
And sure enough, not long after, mini-disaster. All this time, I had been waiting for my cold to sneak up on me and ruin my race (which it never did), but I hadn't anticipated that my left contact lens, which had been bothering me since earlier in the race, when I took a branch to the eye when I took my eyes off of the trail for a second to drink from my hand bottle, would actually fall out of my eye. But there, on Kerns Mountain, picking through some of the nastiest rocks on the course, with 30+ miles to go, I felt the lens loosen, blinked, and then it was gone. I spent a few seconds looking for it on the ground, before I realized that (a) I wasn't going to find it, and (b) even if I could find it, it wasn't going back in my eye. I would just have to re-learn to run over the rocks with compromised depth perception. As it turns out, this is not easy, and my feet were hating me the entire time. (Miraculously, for as many times as I stumbled, I didn't fall to the ground - sometimes it's better to be lucky than good.)
Fortunately, I made it off of Kerns Mountain before the sun set, and just after sunset, I was climbing Bird Knob, and now very seriously thinking about going sub-24. I had been running fairly conservatively up until this point, and feeling relatively good the entire time. But now that I couldn't reliably run over the rocks, I got the feeling that I was going to have to be careful on the really technical sections, and run every runnable section as quickly as I could. I had already lost 10-15 minutes by walking the flat section at the end of Kerns Mountain, and I lost another 10-15 minutes by walking the flat section at the end of Bird Knob. But when I made it to Bird Knob, and had three major sections of the course left, and was still looking at a potential sub-24-hour finish, I decided that perhaps this feeling should be more than that, and that I was going to have to buckle down and run everything that I could. And considering the safety net that I had following the upcoming purple/pink trail section leading to the Picnic Area aid station (Meg Harnett was waiting to pace me, if I got into trouble), now seemed like the best time to put this plan into action.
In spite of lots of rocks, and not being able to see very well, I somehow made it to the Picnic Area at around 19 hours, 35 minutes, leaving me a little over 4 hours to complete the last "16" miles of the course ("16," because with the rampant mis-measurement of the course, plus the rugged terrain, this "16" miles is more like 18 miles). I bounded down the steps to the Picnic Area aid station, where somebody offered me a chair, and, after looking at my watch, I flatly responded "I think that's a really bad idea right now." I also turned down Quattro's offer of a shot of Jim Beam, instead choosing to twin-fist Gatorade and Coke (it really seemed to be doing the trick). I was happy to see Meg, and although I didn't need her services, I thanked her for being there, and continued down the trail without much delay. At this point, I was a man on a mission.
From here to the finish, the journey is painstakingly clear in my mind, and I could recount it in overwhelming detail, but for the purposes of keeping things simple: I rock-hopped the best I could down the orange trail to the 211 road crossing. I reached the wide white Massanutten Mountain Connector Trail on the other side of the road and was pleasantly surprised to find a few flat stretches that were runnable. Then I was displeased to find that the section beyond the connector, leading to the yellow trail, was a lot more uphill than I had anticipated. (But overall, between the two sections, the total amount of runnable trail was as I had expected.) I hauled down the rocky yellow trail as best as my vision would allow, then turned right onto the road to the Gap Creek aid station, and, seeing that I had taken only a little over 2 hours to complete the last 9-ish miles, felt very confident about my chances in the last section. Twin-fisted Gatorade and Coke at the aid station, and then I was off.
I struggled up Jawbone Gap for the second time - this time around, it was much cooler, which made the climb easier, then decided to walk the rocky backside to the road, even though it was downhill - far too dangerous and unnecessary to try to run at this point. Once I reached the road, after one final pause to urinate on the trail (because really, who puts one of the nastiest, rockiest sections of trail less than five miles from the finish that DOESN'T have some sort of malice in their hearts?), I began a deliberate, rhythmic run, at just around 3 a.m., an entire hour left to cover the last "3" miles (probably more like 4+), all on roads and easy trails. As I made the final turn to the finish, I knew that I had my sub-24, but instead of being overwhelmingly happy, I was just frustrated that I still had to run the "Chapel" trail behind the camp (in deference to this being a "trail" race), instead of taking the more direct route on the road, as vehicles would. In "protest," I began walking, much to the chagrin of those waiting at the finish, who could see me (well, my headlamp, anyway) from far away, and, after requesting that I shake my headlamp to confirm that I was a finisher, demanded that I run through the finish line, because otherwise, they would run out of applause.
And, with minimal fanfare, 23 hours, 32 minutes, and 19 seconds later, I was finished. In relief, I dropped my hand bottles on the ground, and had an awkward moment with the race director, since he was there to shake hands with every finisher, but the way I had dropped my bottles made it look as though I wanted a hug instead (it wound up being a handshake). Then I sat down and started shivering uncontrollably - maybe that was the illness finally catching up to me. The volunteers wrapped me in a blanket and tried to feed me (shredded chicken), but I really couldn't eat, and within a few minutes, all of the pain that I had been ignoring the entire race hit me, all at once, and it was so overwhelming that I nearly vomited. Fortunately, 3 or 4 minutes of being hunched over a trash can, not vomiting, seems to work just as well as actually throwing up.
Eventually, after sitting at the finish line in my blanket for what seemed like forever, seeing four more people finish under 24 hours (and one person finish just 6 minutes past the mark), and making no real attempt to move, I decided that I needed to try to shower and sleep, and I made it as far as my car (which a volunteer had to lead me to), where heat was plentiful, before I passed out with the engine running, waking up a couple hours later, sweating profusely, as the heat had been on full blast. Finally, I drove to the showers, cleaned up, and came back to the finish line just in time to see Meg pacing somebody in - I was glad to see that she had the opportunity to experience part of the course. We hung out for a while at the finish line before I drove her back to her car at the Picnic Area (where she then proceeded to go out for more running), then drove back to the finish line to watch others finish, and wait for the awards ceremony and my beautiful silver belt buckle.
 |
| Yes, it is beautiful, and I feel okay saying that, even if it sounds a little silly, because other people saw it up close and in person and said the same thing, too. |
 |
| For reference, the over-24-hour finisher's buckle, from last year. |
The best I can come up with is that with this race, I approached it with a healthy sense of balance. Not just the kind of balance that you need to run over "trails" that are better described as rock piles, but the kind of balance over the week prior to the race that put training, sleep, nutrition, family, and friends in the places where they belonged. That balance allowed me to step up to the starting line with a clear and healthy mind, and to approach each section of the race with an appropriate level of emotional investment. And that approach allowed me to focus on my goal of running sub-24-hours, and not get too caught up in "racing." In truth, there was at least an hour of slack time in that performance, and under better circumstances, I may have attempted to push harder. But I'm very happy with the way this turned out - the storm clouds of last month really did have a silver lining.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
The Eagle Has Landed: Eagle 100-Mile Endurance Run Preview
For what will probably be my last major "adventure" of 2011, this Saturday (December 17th), starting at 5 a.m., I'll be running an all-new 100-mile race, mapped, organized, and directed by Dave Snipes, with a modest amount of input from me. This course takes parts of The Ring, the Old Dominion 100-Mile Endurance Run, the Massanutten Mountain Trails 100-Mile Run, and some fun new surprises (some of which I am forbidden from posting pictures of here), and remixes them all at the very end of the year, far away from all of those races, to present what will hopefully be an exciting new challenge for runners and the foolhardy alike.
This will be a limited-entry pilot test of this course, and if it turns out awesome, who knows how high this eagle will fly next year. But for now, here are a few preview pictures from the course-marking expedition that I participated in a couple of weeks ago . . . Enjoy!
The first image in this blog entry because it's arguably the coolest, but in the race, it's the last thing you'll see . . .
Rocks coming down . . .
Rocks going up.
If you can't see the course markings, you probably shouldn't run this race.
Look familiar?
This will be a limited-entry pilot test of this course, and if it turns out awesome, who knows how high this eagle will fly next year. But for now, here are a few preview pictures from the course-marking expedition that I participated in a couple of weeks ago . . . Enjoy!
The first image in this blog entry because it's arguably the coolest, but in the race, it's the last thing you'll see . . .
Rocks coming down . . .
Rocks going up.
If you can't see the course markings, you probably shouldn't run this race.
Look familiar?
Friday, May 20, 2011
Week in Review: 15-21 May, and MMT: The Aftermath
Alright, miles . . .
15 May 2011: 31.7 miles, as part of the MMT 100, 11 hours, 47 minutes (sounds even worse typing it now)
16 May 2011: 1 mile, slow, at APG, to Burger King (10 minutes)
17 May 2011: 2 miles, at APG - twice as much mileage as yesterday! (15 minutes)
18 May 2011: 5 miles, at APG again. Continuing with the double-mileage trend (plus a little extra) (35 minutes)
19 May 2011: 9 miles, at APG, half on the treadmill, doing hills (70 minutes)
20 May 2011: 13 miles, at APG, with another half-hour of treadmill hills (95 minutes)
21 May 2011: 13 miles, around Patterson Park, the Inner Harbor, and all that business. (90 minutes)
Total time: 1,022 minutes
Total miles: 74.7 (75, more or less)
Probably another deceptive week, since counting MMT on 14-15 May, I posted 130 miles in 7 days (although the fitness benefits of covering that distance in that much time are probably debatable). That said, the mileage that I put in over the past few days is more in line with the density required for a 100-mile week, so hopefully next week, the numbers will look a little better.
And now, speaking of MMT, if you haven't already accidentally discovered it:
http://www.ultrarunning.com/ultra/features/news/meltzer-pastalkova-win-at.shtml
. . . which marks the third time that I've had a picture of me racing show up in UltraRunning online/magazine (Mohican 2009 and Cascade Crest 2009 were the other two). Also, my picture showed up in the 2009 Boston Marathon race record book (the first time that I broke 3 hours at Boston).
That said, I didn't have the performance that I was hoping for at MMT, and I type this with mixed feelings.
On the one hand, it appears as though my running is inspirational in some way. Not only do I have a track record of getting my pictures printed everywhere, even when I have a crappy race, but also, I have a way of being inspirational in spite of (or, at times, because of) my sub-par performances. After MMT, a woman came up to me and told me that she had seen me at one of the aid stations when I wasn't doing so well, and then, many hours later, when she was driving down the road at the end of the race and saw me running again, she started crying.
A few minutes later, as I trudged through camp, barefoot, shirtless, and carrying my water bottles, shoes, and shirt, the kids who were camping there for the weekend saw me and asked me if I ran 100 miles. I told them yes, and then they proceeded to ask me tons of questions - How long did it take you? (31 hours and 47 minutes.) Did you sleep at all? (No, and now I'm very tired, I said with a smile.) Did you see a bear? (No, and I was a little bit disappointed that I didn't!) You could tell that they were in awe that a "regular person" who didn't look much older than them had run so far.
In all fairness, I think that the above is a valuable byproduct of my running. A lot of runners compete and win, but competing and winning with style and grace seems rare, particularly in ultrarunning. This is a topic that I had hoped to discuss in a different blog entry, in greater depth, but to me, an important part of running is motivating others to run, and being motivated by them in return. Being out on the roads and in the streets, around other runners, and people in general, affords a greater opportunity for my running to inspire others. To me, spending a lot of time on trails, alone, or with only a select few people, is very self-serving, and part of the reason why I put in most of my training miles on the roads. Unless this is going to be something bigger than just me, I can't justify the time, effort, and pain involved in training and racing at this level (or, at least, the level to which I aspire).
But, on the other hand, at some point, inspirational though my efforts may be, the bottom line on my MMT performance was that the outcome was mediocre at best. Can I run much better than I did? There's no doubt in my mind that I could, on a different day, under different circumstances. But to really take things to the next level, I need to perform my best when it counts, and at MMT, I didn't.
Fortunately, to that end, there were a couple of positive consequences from my MMT experience. The first is that the fire in my training has returned, after flagging somewhat as a result of 4+ months of slow, steady mileage-building. Sometimes it takes a roadblock like this to re-ignite, because a long string of gradually-improving performances does more to make one complacent than anything else. I recovered quickly from my "bad" race, and put up some decent mileage later in the week.
The second is that the DNF demons of Grindstone and Oil Creek have been at least temporarily suppressed, which is no mean feat. This should give me at least a little bit more confidence in my next race, the Old Dominion 100.
The bottom line is that, for me, running is still joyful - it's hard not to sit in my office all day and not have the itch to go outside and run (especially the way things are in the office lately). If I can keep holding on to that, everything else should fall into place.
15 May 2011: 31.7 miles, as part of the MMT 100, 11 hours, 47 minutes (sounds even worse typing it now)
16 May 2011: 1 mile, slow, at APG, to Burger King (10 minutes)
17 May 2011: 2 miles, at APG - twice as much mileage as yesterday! (15 minutes)
18 May 2011: 5 miles, at APG again. Continuing with the double-mileage trend (plus a little extra) (35 minutes)
19 May 2011: 9 miles, at APG, half on the treadmill, doing hills (70 minutes)
20 May 2011: 13 miles, at APG, with another half-hour of treadmill hills (95 minutes)
21 May 2011: 13 miles, around Patterson Park, the Inner Harbor, and all that business. (90 minutes)
Total time: 1,022 minutes
Total miles: 74.7 (75, more or less)
Probably another deceptive week, since counting MMT on 14-15 May, I posted 130 miles in 7 days (although the fitness benefits of covering that distance in that much time are probably debatable). That said, the mileage that I put in over the past few days is more in line with the density required for a 100-mile week, so hopefully next week, the numbers will look a little better.
And now, speaking of MMT, if you haven't already accidentally discovered it:
http://www.ultrarunning.com/ultra/features/news/meltzer-pastalkova-win-at.shtml
. . . which marks the third time that I've had a picture of me racing show up in UltraRunning online/magazine (Mohican 2009 and Cascade Crest 2009 were the other two). Also, my picture showed up in the 2009 Boston Marathon race record book (the first time that I broke 3 hours at Boston).
That said, I didn't have the performance that I was hoping for at MMT, and I type this with mixed feelings.
On the one hand, it appears as though my running is inspirational in some way. Not only do I have a track record of getting my pictures printed everywhere, even when I have a crappy race, but also, I have a way of being inspirational in spite of (or, at times, because of) my sub-par performances. After MMT, a woman came up to me and told me that she had seen me at one of the aid stations when I wasn't doing so well, and then, many hours later, when she was driving down the road at the end of the race and saw me running again, she started crying.
A few minutes later, as I trudged through camp, barefoot, shirtless, and carrying my water bottles, shoes, and shirt, the kids who were camping there for the weekend saw me and asked me if I ran 100 miles. I told them yes, and then they proceeded to ask me tons of questions - How long did it take you? (31 hours and 47 minutes.) Did you sleep at all? (No, and now I'm very tired, I said with a smile.) Did you see a bear? (No, and I was a little bit disappointed that I didn't!) You could tell that they were in awe that a "regular person" who didn't look much older than them had run so far.
In all fairness, I think that the above is a valuable byproduct of my running. A lot of runners compete and win, but competing and winning with style and grace seems rare, particularly in ultrarunning. This is a topic that I had hoped to discuss in a different blog entry, in greater depth, but to me, an important part of running is motivating others to run, and being motivated by them in return. Being out on the roads and in the streets, around other runners, and people in general, affords a greater opportunity for my running to inspire others. To me, spending a lot of time on trails, alone, or with only a select few people, is very self-serving, and part of the reason why I put in most of my training miles on the roads. Unless this is going to be something bigger than just me, I can't justify the time, effort, and pain involved in training and racing at this level (or, at least, the level to which I aspire).
But, on the other hand, at some point, inspirational though my efforts may be, the bottom line on my MMT performance was that the outcome was mediocre at best. Can I run much better than I did? There's no doubt in my mind that I could, on a different day, under different circumstances. But to really take things to the next level, I need to perform my best when it counts, and at MMT, I didn't.
Fortunately, to that end, there were a couple of positive consequences from my MMT experience. The first is that the fire in my training has returned, after flagging somewhat as a result of 4+ months of slow, steady mileage-building. Sometimes it takes a roadblock like this to re-ignite, because a long string of gradually-improving performances does more to make one complacent than anything else. I recovered quickly from my "bad" race, and put up some decent mileage later in the week.
The second is that the DNF demons of Grindstone and Oil Creek have been at least temporarily suppressed, which is no mean feat. This should give me at least a little bit more confidence in my next race, the Old Dominion 100.
The bottom line is that, for me, running is still joyful - it's hard not to sit in my office all day and not have the itch to go outside and run (especially the way things are in the office lately). If I can keep holding on to that, everything else should fall into place.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Week in Review - 8-14 May, and Massanutten Mountain Trail 100 Mile Run Race Report
I'll be brief with the mileage, since the mileage was brief (mostly), and the race report is the meat of this post:
8 May - 1 mile, Patterson Park (10 minutes)
9 May - 7 miles (45 minutes), out of what was supposed to be a 1-mile "garbage run" - just felt good and kept going, through Patterson Park in the dark
10 May - 1 mile, Patterson Park (10 minutes)
11 May - 4 miles, in two laps around Patterson Park (32 minutes)
12 May - 1 mile, at APG (10 minutes)
13 May - 3 miles, Patterson Park (24 minutes)
14 May - 70 miles, Massanutten Mountain Trail 100-Mile Run (0400-2359; remaining 31.7 miles run from 0000-1147 on Sunday, 15 May 2011)
Total Minutes: 1331
Total Miles: 87
The point is, mostly a taper week for MMT, then the race. Still debating the merits of the taper; I think in this case, it was neutral.
Now, the race report:
It's hard to believe as I type this that at one point, about 20 miles into the race, I was thinking that there might not be much to write about. However, considering the epic nature of arguably the most difficult 100-mile race on the East Coast, it's not surprising that as the day progressed, I accumulated more and more race report material (along with pain, fatigue, and other unpleasantness), and the end result is what you read here.
To those who have been following along, it should come as no surprise that my goal for this race was to run as fast as I could, compete well, and place as high as possible. My strategy was essentially to run my own race, and only if things were close in the last 15 miles or so, to start pushing beyond my comfort zone. With all that still in mind, it wasn't unnerving to me that at 0400, a semi-circle formed in the front row behind the starting line - nobody seemed to want to take the lead.
Since the first 3.6 miles were on a road that was intermittently pavement and gravel, I did the honors. It wasn't intentional; it was the pace that felt comfortable to me, which put me a few seconds ahead of the chase pack, including Karl Meltzer. Karl mentioned that he was having flashbacks to a few years ago, when he was chasing a Korean guy who was ahead of him by about two minutes all day long (and ended up winning the race, and setting the course record). This was either good or bad, depending on how long I could maintain this intimidation factor.
As it turned out, of course, the answer was "not long," since within minutes of reaching the trailhead, Karl, along with about 7 other guys who were better at running rocky trails in the dark with a headlamp than I am, passed me. While it never feels good to be passed, I wasn't too worried, since my race strategy essentially consisted of staying within my limits, running comfortably, and letting the people who went out too fast come back to me, while I kept my pace steady.
Once the sun rose, and I could see more than a few feet in front of me, this strategy seemed to be working. Up through Elizabeth Furnace, I continued with my "even effort" approach, power-hiking the climbs, running relaxed on the flats, and stepping quickly on the downhills, working my way back to (guessing about) 5th place.
Unfortunately, after Elizabeth Furnace (around mile 33), things started to fall apart. For one thing, this was the start of areas that I remember distinctly from the training runs this past spring, and for another thing, this is one area where I distinctly remember running poorly at the beginning of Training Run #2. So when the two guys (Jeremy Pade and Jason Lantz) who I had passed on the previous downhill passed me on the climb, this took some of the wind out of my sails. When we reached the downhill on the backside, and I started running to retake my position, I found that although my legs weren't sore, I had no energy. My feet started slapping the ground uncomfortably, and, for fear of blowing out my quads, I slowed. Another person passed me. When I reached the road (Shawl Gap aid station), I sensed trouble.
From there, things got worse. The road was fairly exposed, the temperature was rising, and the humidity was high. All of this, combined with imprecision in my nutrition, and an early effort level that may have been just a bit too much, and suddenly, I was relegated to walking most of the next 3.1 miles on the road, when I should have been running them, so of course more people passed me on the way to the next aid station (Veach Gap). Not good.
The potential nail came after the 9.5-mile stretch following the road. Without going into too much detail, the constant ups and downs, the rocky trails, and the length between aid stations left me at Camp Roosevelt, Mile 63.1, very close to giving up. The last section had been several hours of running and feeling okay for about 5 minutes, then feeling awful and dragging myself forward for about 20 minutes, ad (physical) nauseam. Knowing that the next 38 or so miles were only going to get more difficult, I was losing confidence in my ability to finish the race. It also didn't help that Camp Roosevelt was about 6-tenths of a mile (downhill) from the finish area.
I sat at Camp Roosevelt for a long time. I tried eating cookies, brownies, potato chips . . . if it was on the table, I tried it, up to and including Slim Jims and dried mango. Nothing seemed to be helping my energy level. I walked around the aid station little, I sat down, I sprawled out on a picnic table, wrapped in somebody's jacket. I even drank a few sips of Brittany Zale's Rolling Rock. Nothing seemed to be working. All the while, people were coming into the aid station to cheers and clapping, and leaving to even louder cheers and clapping. The aid station volunteers were encouraging; they didn't want me to quit, but I just wasn't ready to go yet. I wasn't ready to quit, either.
Finally, at about 10 minutes to 9 p.m., things started making sense to me. I realized that part of the reason why I couldn't quit was that when I curled up as though I was going to give up, I could feel my bib on my stomach. This reminded me of how at the pre-race meeting on Friday, as the race director was saying that if you were dropping, you had to turn in your bib (for accountability purposes), I clutched my bib to my chest fiercely as I stood next to Sara and said "not turning this in." I had waited too long for the opportunity to run this race, and I wasn't going to let go that easily. I thought about what Dave Snipes said as he passed through the aid station about an hour ago. A woman was saying that she was pacing somebody else, and that she was going to "drag me along" with them for the rest of the race. Snipes responded that I knew the course, and that it was (if you're not feeling well, which I wasn't), a good 14-hour walk to the finish over the last 38 miles, and that I shouldn't let somebody force me into doing it. I decided that it was my decision to come here, and it was my decision to finish or not to finish, and that it was time to make that decision. Since I was curled up on a picnic table, trying to sleep and failing miserably, even though I had slept only about 3 hours the previous night, and been awake for 18 hours since then, I knew what my decision would be.
I got up, put on my bottle belt, my hat, and my headlamp, and shuffled out of aid station purgatory towards the next section of the course, nearly 3 full hours after I had reached the aid station, to the loudest cheers yet.
Of course, the boost from this was short-lived, and within 15 minutes of walking down the trail, I started feeling weak and listless again. I tried my best to tell myself that I was just out for a pleasant walk in the woods at night, and at times, this was effective, but it didn't help that I was heading up another huge, muddy, rocky climb. Still, I pushed up and over, and after another nearly 6 miles of excruciating pain, I found myself at Gap Creek/Jawbone I. The aid station was lit up like Christmas, and again, when I sat down, I was having a very hard time getting up and moving forward again. I spent perhaps another half-hour here, again, questioning whether or not the 6-mile chunk that I had taken out of the remaining distance was enough to convince me that I could finish. The aid station volunteers were again very encouraging, and continued to tell me that I looked good. Finally, after a much shorter bout of self-doubt, I headed out on the 8.4 mile stretch of course to the Visitor Center.
This 8.4 mile stretch was my lowest point. I was not about to run and potentially break myself, but walking meant slow progress, and it was after midnight now, nearing the 24-consecutive-hours-awake mark. All this time, in the back of my mind, I couldn't forget the last training run, when I did this in the daylight, and it went so much faster. In fact, the part of the training run that had gone the best - the rock-picking, randomly-climbing-and-dropping trail fiasco on Kerns Mountain - at night, in the fog and rain, by the light of my headlamp, was a demoralizing disaster. While I had held my position over the last stretch of course, people who were WALKING were overtaking me here. They were all very friendly and supportive, and tried to get me to come along with them, but the reality was that I just couldn't make myself walk that fast. As I stumbled in to the Visitor Center, after what seemed like an interminable stretch of road (which is how roads tend to feel when you've relegated yourself to walking them), I was thinking that maybe now was the time to take my souvenir rock from the Visitor's Center and go back to camp.
Not so fast, though, because the aid station captain (who reeked of alcohol), was running frantic ultramarathon triage. Outside, the rain was pouring down, and broken runners were pouring into the tent and flopping down onto folding chairs, while the aid station captain and his assistants were rushing around with cups of soup, egg salad sandwiches, and trash bags to use as makeshift ponchos, trying to get the runners out as quickly as possible. For my part, I wrapped myself in a blanket and napped for about 20 minutes, until Captain Liquor woke me up, and told me that I was his project, and he was going to get me out of there. Not wanting to argue with a drunk, lest he grow belligerent, and wanting less and less to DNF, I complied, and took off my shoes so they could bandage my feet, and ate the soup, and put on the trash bag, and shuffled off to climb Bird Knob.
It was at this point that the pain stabilized. Perhaps food was finally digesting. Perhaps the trash bag was keeping me warm enough that my muscles were getting the blood flow they were craving. Or perhaps, at 5 in the morning, I had gone past the point where quitting made any sense at all, as I had already been out for a stupid-long time. As miserable as it was not to run the flat section at the top of Bird Knob, I was now convinced that things were at least not going to get worse. Plus, the sun was rising as I reached the top, which, in addition to allowing me to put away my stupid headlamp, was pretty to look at.
I had reached the turning point at an opportune time, since the aid station at the top of Bird Knob, in stark contrast to the mayhem at Vistor Center, was small, subdued, and seemingly bored with this whole endeavor. With their mumbling, forced, "keep it up, dude," attitude, I was convinced that if I had asked them for a ride back to the start, they would have told me that I could hang out there until the aid station closed, and then, after they packed up, if there was any room in any of the cars, maybe I could come with them. If I ever wanted to see my friends and family again, I had no choice but to continue the walk down the road to the pink and purple trail, and the Picnic Area.
Along this silly-colored section of the course, I started seeing crew and volunteers who had seen me back at Camp Roosevelt and Gap Creek, when I was so close to calling it quits. The little boost I got from the little joy they seemed to be taking in seeing that I hadn't quit was enough to get me to start running again when the pink trail started going downhill. I was afraid to attack as hard as I had on the training run, but the fact that this section was now feeling closer to training run speed was a huge mental boost, not to mention that I was passing people now that I was actually running again. As I barrelled down the rocky trail at near-top speed, torn-up feet and growing quad bustage be damned, I hoped that this momentum would carry me through the 9-ish miles from to Gap Creek/Jawbone II, arguably the most difficult section of the course.
Then I got to this section, and decided that "doing" was better than "hoping," so I power-hiked the easy downhill trail section to Route 211 (the part that is apparently there to lull you into a false sense of security), and then, doing my best Mount-Whitney-at-Badwater-last-year impression, I attacked the awful white trail climb. Now I was (relatively) moving, at nearly 15-minute mile walking pace, putting distance on the guy who had left the last aid station just after me, and passing people on the trail ahead of me. I was getting that "rush" that I felt at the end of Badwater as I felt myself come back from the dead, and to top it all off, after braving the rock-pile climb to the top, I ran down the yellow trail to the road, and, for a while on the road (although I returned to walking, for fear of burning out before the last 5+ mile section). I reached Gap Creek/Jawbone II with a huge smile on my face as the aid station volunteers welcomed me back, to which I could respond only with laughter. There was just no other way to explain what I had been through for the past 10-ish hours since I left that aid station the first time.
Deciding that there was no sense in lingering the second time around, I crossed the road to climb Jawbone (again, now muddy and slippery from all of the foot traffic through), and this time, go over the top and down. Because I fouled up this part of the last training run, I hadn't seen the back side of Jawbone, but I vaguely suspected that it was steep and rocky, and my suspicion was confirmed. Yes, just one last reminder that Massanutten "rocks" before the finish. Now, with about four miles to go, I wasn't afraid to give it a little more gas, and I passed nearly a dozen people between the top of Jawbone and the finish, powered by my vigorous walk, my reckless abandon on the downhills, and my 7-minute miles on the road section leading to the finish.
I ran the entire last road section all the way through the line, finishing in 31 hours, 47 minutes, and some-odd seconds, to the cheers of the crowd, and the welcome-back of the aid station captain who had suffered through me at Camp Roosevelt for 3 hours. Dave Snipes handed me a grape soda for some reason (that seems to be his thing after we run), and after that, I don't remember too much in detail, other than food went in, the tent came down, and the shower happened. Sara returned for the post-race awards ceremony, and to drive me home (and ran to hug me when she finally found me - I ran to meet her, which was perhaps evidence that more of my struggle was mental than physical), and we had some pleasant together-time as I gave her the brief summary of my struggle, and she gave me the brief summary of her car struggle (the makeshift parking lot in the field had turned to mud, making it very difficult to get the car in and out).
Although the race didn't turn out as I had planned, in some ways, it was better. Since I hadn't finished a 100-mile run since Beast of Burden last August, I had a feeling that, despite my strong training base, my first 100 back would be a little bit difficult, especially with the DNF ghosts of Grindstone and Oil Creek haunting me. And, in truth, I think that those experiences had some effect on my mental state when things started to fall apart. In that sense, it was very important that I finish a race that's this difficult, to reaffirm that I can do this, and, moreover, that I'm at my best in these types of races. In retrospect, I probably had more in the tank than I thought, but the mind-body coordination wasn't there. The teaching points from this experience (careful pacing early in the race, consistent nutrition, high weekly mileage, training as much as possible on rugged trails) will serve me well at the Old Dominion 100 in three weeks, in my quest to complete all of the Virginia 100s this year (which includes revenge of Grindstone in the fall). Perhaps most importantly, though, I'm excited about my still-nebulous plans for adventures between now and Badwater, and, prior to this race, I felt as though I needed that kind of energy to motivate my training.
Plus, I got a new belt buckle (for now, the pewter one, but next year, definitely the sub-24-hour silver version), so I can finally put away the Beast of Burden buckle:
In conclusion, the buckle is cool because it has a bear on it. :)
8 May - 1 mile, Patterson Park (10 minutes)
9 May - 7 miles (45 minutes), out of what was supposed to be a 1-mile "garbage run" - just felt good and kept going, through Patterson Park in the dark
10 May - 1 mile, Patterson Park (10 minutes)
11 May - 4 miles, in two laps around Patterson Park (32 minutes)
12 May - 1 mile, at APG (10 minutes)
13 May - 3 miles, Patterson Park (24 minutes)
14 May - 70 miles, Massanutten Mountain Trail 100-Mile Run (0400-2359; remaining 31.7 miles run from 0000-1147 on Sunday, 15 May 2011)
Total Minutes: 1331
Total Miles: 87
The point is, mostly a taper week for MMT, then the race. Still debating the merits of the taper; I think in this case, it was neutral.
Now, the race report:
It's hard to believe as I type this that at one point, about 20 miles into the race, I was thinking that there might not be much to write about. However, considering the epic nature of arguably the most difficult 100-mile race on the East Coast, it's not surprising that as the day progressed, I accumulated more and more race report material (along with pain, fatigue, and other unpleasantness), and the end result is what you read here.
To those who have been following along, it should come as no surprise that my goal for this race was to run as fast as I could, compete well, and place as high as possible. My strategy was essentially to run my own race, and only if things were close in the last 15 miles or so, to start pushing beyond my comfort zone. With all that still in mind, it wasn't unnerving to me that at 0400, a semi-circle formed in the front row behind the starting line - nobody seemed to want to take the lead.
Since the first 3.6 miles were on a road that was intermittently pavement and gravel, I did the honors. It wasn't intentional; it was the pace that felt comfortable to me, which put me a few seconds ahead of the chase pack, including Karl Meltzer. Karl mentioned that he was having flashbacks to a few years ago, when he was chasing a Korean guy who was ahead of him by about two minutes all day long (and ended up winning the race, and setting the course record). This was either good or bad, depending on how long I could maintain this intimidation factor.
As it turned out, of course, the answer was "not long," since within minutes of reaching the trailhead, Karl, along with about 7 other guys who were better at running rocky trails in the dark with a headlamp than I am, passed me. While it never feels good to be passed, I wasn't too worried, since my race strategy essentially consisted of staying within my limits, running comfortably, and letting the people who went out too fast come back to me, while I kept my pace steady.
Once the sun rose, and I could see more than a few feet in front of me, this strategy seemed to be working. Up through Elizabeth Furnace, I continued with my "even effort" approach, power-hiking the climbs, running relaxed on the flats, and stepping quickly on the downhills, working my way back to (guessing about) 5th place.
Unfortunately, after Elizabeth Furnace (around mile 33), things started to fall apart. For one thing, this was the start of areas that I remember distinctly from the training runs this past spring, and for another thing, this is one area where I distinctly remember running poorly at the beginning of Training Run #2. So when the two guys (Jeremy Pade and Jason Lantz) who I had passed on the previous downhill passed me on the climb, this took some of the wind out of my sails. When we reached the downhill on the backside, and I started running to retake my position, I found that although my legs weren't sore, I had no energy. My feet started slapping the ground uncomfortably, and, for fear of blowing out my quads, I slowed. Another person passed me. When I reached the road (Shawl Gap aid station), I sensed trouble.
From there, things got worse. The road was fairly exposed, the temperature was rising, and the humidity was high. All of this, combined with imprecision in my nutrition, and an early effort level that may have been just a bit too much, and suddenly, I was relegated to walking most of the next 3.1 miles on the road, when I should have been running them, so of course more people passed me on the way to the next aid station (Veach Gap). Not good.
The potential nail came after the 9.5-mile stretch following the road. Without going into too much detail, the constant ups and downs, the rocky trails, and the length between aid stations left me at Camp Roosevelt, Mile 63.1, very close to giving up. The last section had been several hours of running and feeling okay for about 5 minutes, then feeling awful and dragging myself forward for about 20 minutes, ad (physical) nauseam. Knowing that the next 38 or so miles were only going to get more difficult, I was losing confidence in my ability to finish the race. It also didn't help that Camp Roosevelt was about 6-tenths of a mile (downhill) from the finish area.
I sat at Camp Roosevelt for a long time. I tried eating cookies, brownies, potato chips . . . if it was on the table, I tried it, up to and including Slim Jims and dried mango. Nothing seemed to be helping my energy level. I walked around the aid station little, I sat down, I sprawled out on a picnic table, wrapped in somebody's jacket. I even drank a few sips of Brittany Zale's Rolling Rock. Nothing seemed to be working. All the while, people were coming into the aid station to cheers and clapping, and leaving to even louder cheers and clapping. The aid station volunteers were encouraging; they didn't want me to quit, but I just wasn't ready to go yet. I wasn't ready to quit, either.
Finally, at about 10 minutes to 9 p.m., things started making sense to me. I realized that part of the reason why I couldn't quit was that when I curled up as though I was going to give up, I could feel my bib on my stomach. This reminded me of how at the pre-race meeting on Friday, as the race director was saying that if you were dropping, you had to turn in your bib (for accountability purposes), I clutched my bib to my chest fiercely as I stood next to Sara and said "not turning this in." I had waited too long for the opportunity to run this race, and I wasn't going to let go that easily. I thought about what Dave Snipes said as he passed through the aid station about an hour ago. A woman was saying that she was pacing somebody else, and that she was going to "drag me along" with them for the rest of the race. Snipes responded that I knew the course, and that it was (if you're not feeling well, which I wasn't), a good 14-hour walk to the finish over the last 38 miles, and that I shouldn't let somebody force me into doing it. I decided that it was my decision to come here, and it was my decision to finish or not to finish, and that it was time to make that decision. Since I was curled up on a picnic table, trying to sleep and failing miserably, even though I had slept only about 3 hours the previous night, and been awake for 18 hours since then, I knew what my decision would be.
I got up, put on my bottle belt, my hat, and my headlamp, and shuffled out of aid station purgatory towards the next section of the course, nearly 3 full hours after I had reached the aid station, to the loudest cheers yet.
Of course, the boost from this was short-lived, and within 15 minutes of walking down the trail, I started feeling weak and listless again. I tried my best to tell myself that I was just out for a pleasant walk in the woods at night, and at times, this was effective, but it didn't help that I was heading up another huge, muddy, rocky climb. Still, I pushed up and over, and after another nearly 6 miles of excruciating pain, I found myself at Gap Creek/Jawbone I. The aid station was lit up like Christmas, and again, when I sat down, I was having a very hard time getting up and moving forward again. I spent perhaps another half-hour here, again, questioning whether or not the 6-mile chunk that I had taken out of the remaining distance was enough to convince me that I could finish. The aid station volunteers were again very encouraging, and continued to tell me that I looked good. Finally, after a much shorter bout of self-doubt, I headed out on the 8.4 mile stretch of course to the Visitor Center.
This 8.4 mile stretch was my lowest point. I was not about to run and potentially break myself, but walking meant slow progress, and it was after midnight now, nearing the 24-consecutive-hours-awake mark. All this time, in the back of my mind, I couldn't forget the last training run, when I did this in the daylight, and it went so much faster. In fact, the part of the training run that had gone the best - the rock-picking, randomly-climbing-and-dropping trail fiasco on Kerns Mountain - at night, in the fog and rain, by the light of my headlamp, was a demoralizing disaster. While I had held my position over the last stretch of course, people who were WALKING were overtaking me here. They were all very friendly and supportive, and tried to get me to come along with them, but the reality was that I just couldn't make myself walk that fast. As I stumbled in to the Visitor Center, after what seemed like an interminable stretch of road (which is how roads tend to feel when you've relegated yourself to walking them), I was thinking that maybe now was the time to take my souvenir rock from the Visitor's Center and go back to camp.
Not so fast, though, because the aid station captain (who reeked of alcohol), was running frantic ultramarathon triage. Outside, the rain was pouring down, and broken runners were pouring into the tent and flopping down onto folding chairs, while the aid station captain and his assistants were rushing around with cups of soup, egg salad sandwiches, and trash bags to use as makeshift ponchos, trying to get the runners out as quickly as possible. For my part, I wrapped myself in a blanket and napped for about 20 minutes, until Captain Liquor woke me up, and told me that I was his project, and he was going to get me out of there. Not wanting to argue with a drunk, lest he grow belligerent, and wanting less and less to DNF, I complied, and took off my shoes so they could bandage my feet, and ate the soup, and put on the trash bag, and shuffled off to climb Bird Knob.
It was at this point that the pain stabilized. Perhaps food was finally digesting. Perhaps the trash bag was keeping me warm enough that my muscles were getting the blood flow they were craving. Or perhaps, at 5 in the morning, I had gone past the point where quitting made any sense at all, as I had already been out for a stupid-long time. As miserable as it was not to run the flat section at the top of Bird Knob, I was now convinced that things were at least not going to get worse. Plus, the sun was rising as I reached the top, which, in addition to allowing me to put away my stupid headlamp, was pretty to look at.
I had reached the turning point at an opportune time, since the aid station at the top of Bird Knob, in stark contrast to the mayhem at Vistor Center, was small, subdued, and seemingly bored with this whole endeavor. With their mumbling, forced, "keep it up, dude," attitude, I was convinced that if I had asked them for a ride back to the start, they would have told me that I could hang out there until the aid station closed, and then, after they packed up, if there was any room in any of the cars, maybe I could come with them. If I ever wanted to see my friends and family again, I had no choice but to continue the walk down the road to the pink and purple trail, and the Picnic Area.
Along this silly-colored section of the course, I started seeing crew and volunteers who had seen me back at Camp Roosevelt and Gap Creek, when I was so close to calling it quits. The little boost I got from the little joy they seemed to be taking in seeing that I hadn't quit was enough to get me to start running again when the pink trail started going downhill. I was afraid to attack as hard as I had on the training run, but the fact that this section was now feeling closer to training run speed was a huge mental boost, not to mention that I was passing people now that I was actually running again. As I barrelled down the rocky trail at near-top speed, torn-up feet and growing quad bustage be damned, I hoped that this momentum would carry me through the 9-ish miles from to Gap Creek/Jawbone II, arguably the most difficult section of the course.
Then I got to this section, and decided that "doing" was better than "hoping," so I power-hiked the easy downhill trail section to Route 211 (the part that is apparently there to lull you into a false sense of security), and then, doing my best Mount-Whitney-at-Badwater-last-year impression, I attacked the awful white trail climb. Now I was (relatively) moving, at nearly 15-minute mile walking pace, putting distance on the guy who had left the last aid station just after me, and passing people on the trail ahead of me. I was getting that "rush" that I felt at the end of Badwater as I felt myself come back from the dead, and to top it all off, after braving the rock-pile climb to the top, I ran down the yellow trail to the road, and, for a while on the road (although I returned to walking, for fear of burning out before the last 5+ mile section). I reached Gap Creek/Jawbone II with a huge smile on my face as the aid station volunteers welcomed me back, to which I could respond only with laughter. There was just no other way to explain what I had been through for the past 10-ish hours since I left that aid station the first time.
Deciding that there was no sense in lingering the second time around, I crossed the road to climb Jawbone (again, now muddy and slippery from all of the foot traffic through), and this time, go over the top and down. Because I fouled up this part of the last training run, I hadn't seen the back side of Jawbone, but I vaguely suspected that it was steep and rocky, and my suspicion was confirmed. Yes, just one last reminder that Massanutten "rocks" before the finish. Now, with about four miles to go, I wasn't afraid to give it a little more gas, and I passed nearly a dozen people between the top of Jawbone and the finish, powered by my vigorous walk, my reckless abandon on the downhills, and my 7-minute miles on the road section leading to the finish.
I ran the entire last road section all the way through the line, finishing in 31 hours, 47 minutes, and some-odd seconds, to the cheers of the crowd, and the welcome-back of the aid station captain who had suffered through me at Camp Roosevelt for 3 hours. Dave Snipes handed me a grape soda for some reason (that seems to be his thing after we run), and after that, I don't remember too much in detail, other than food went in, the tent came down, and the shower happened. Sara returned for the post-race awards ceremony, and to drive me home (and ran to hug me when she finally found me - I ran to meet her, which was perhaps evidence that more of my struggle was mental than physical), and we had some pleasant together-time as I gave her the brief summary of my struggle, and she gave me the brief summary of her car struggle (the makeshift parking lot in the field had turned to mud, making it very difficult to get the car in and out).
Although the race didn't turn out as I had planned, in some ways, it was better. Since I hadn't finished a 100-mile run since Beast of Burden last August, I had a feeling that, despite my strong training base, my first 100 back would be a little bit difficult, especially with the DNF ghosts of Grindstone and Oil Creek haunting me. And, in truth, I think that those experiences had some effect on my mental state when things started to fall apart. In that sense, it was very important that I finish a race that's this difficult, to reaffirm that I can do this, and, moreover, that I'm at my best in these types of races. In retrospect, I probably had more in the tank than I thought, but the mind-body coordination wasn't there. The teaching points from this experience (careful pacing early in the race, consistent nutrition, high weekly mileage, training as much as possible on rugged trails) will serve me well at the Old Dominion 100 in three weeks, in my quest to complete all of the Virginia 100s this year (which includes revenge of Grindstone in the fall). Perhaps most importantly, though, I'm excited about my still-nebulous plans for adventures between now and Badwater, and, prior to this race, I felt as though I needed that kind of energy to motivate my training.
Plus, I got a new belt buckle (for now, the pewter one, but next year, definitely the sub-24-hour silver version), so I can finally put away the Beast of Burden buckle:
In conclusion, the buckle is cool because it has a bear on it. :)
Monday, May 9, 2011
Week in Review: 1-7 May, and Frederick Half-Marathon and 5K Report
On paper, this is probably going to sound like a pretty dull week, but I'll do my best to shine it up. (Also, for the sake of dramatic effect, if there is any to achieve, I'm going to relegate my KDM recap to the land of lost posts, to re-surface at some random time in the future. There's nothing wrong with it; just seems like too much stuff to post now, at sort of an awkward time.)
Anyway . . .
1 May - 9 miles (60 minutes) through a park and the backside of some random neighborhoods surrounding the park-and-ride off of I-70, exit 28 (our meeting place for the drive out to KDM), in light rain.
2 May - 2 miles (15 minutes) around Patterson Park, barefoot.
3 May - 10 miles, as a result of the following medley: 2 miles (16 minutes) warmup on Gilman Trail, 36 minutes including "interval on, half off," starting at 6 minutes, and working down to 1 minute, in 1 minute intervals, 2 miles warmdown (16 minutes), 1 mile barefoot (8 minutes). 76 minutes total. "On" intervals at 5:45-5:50 mile pace.
4 May - 2 miles around Patterson Park, not barefoot (15 minutes).
5 May - 5 miles (35 minutes) on and around Pot Spring Road, or, an impromptu hill workout.
6 May - 15 miles (105 minutes) at Gunpowder State Park, Essex version, that featured a long section along a power line cut, various suburban streets, a whole lot of mud, and rotting fish heads on the trail. Followed up with 2 miles of run/hike with Sara at Loch Raven (30 minutes).
7 May - Pace Frederick Half-Marathon in 1:40, with about a mile of warmup and a mile of warmdown on either end. Rest for a couple of hours, then a mile of warmup, the Frederick 5K in a disappointing 19:45, a mile of warmdown, then another 4 miles just because. Back in Baltimore, about 5 miles of run/hike with Sara at Loch Raven. Total 29 miles, and about 240 minutes.
Total Time: 576 minutes
Total Distance: 74 miles
Definitely high marks for variety, although not for mileage. Then again, going back and running the numbers from 28 April to 4 May, I ran 90 miles in that 7-day stretch, so, although not the magical 100-mile mark, more in the ballpark than this actual week would suggest. Given that I'm this close to MMT, and most of the hay is in the barn, this peak-and-rest trend is probably for the best (not to mention the variety in times/distances/terrain).
Now, Frederick, in as few words as I can manage:
I've run at least one race at the Frederick Running Festival since the 2007 edition, and I've always found the experience to be at least slightly uncomfortable. In 2007, it was the first year I had done the National, Boston, and Frederick marathons in the same spring, and I really didn't have the base to sustain it, so Frederick didn't go so well. 2008 went somewhat better, but Frederick was still my slowest of the three. 2009 was a 3:50 pace effort, which would have felt easy, except for the rain. 2010 was a crash-and-burn pace effort at 3:20, due to heat and cramping (but at least I finished, in spite of calf cramps so crippling that I nearly tripped and fell several times in the last mile).
This year, there was no marathon, so instead, I paced 1:40 for the half-marathon with Brian Benda, and then decided at some point in the past couple of months that running the 5K at noon would be a good idea. As it turned out, this was partially true.
The half was, as Frederick tends to be, pretty uneventful. We went out a little bit fast, slowed down on the hills in the middle and the end, and came in right on time. The weird thing about pacing 1:40 is that, unlike 3:20, not that many people want to run 1:40, because it's not really a qualifier for anything. The women's auto-qualify for New York is 1:37, which is a little too fast to stay with the 1:40 group for very long if you want to hit that mark, but otherwise, 1:40 is sort of an arbitrary time to run. A lot of people came and went, and in the end, we weren't really pushing anybody to the finish. I know that we helped people reach their goals, but it didn't feel like it as much this time.
When the half was over, I found relief for my upset stomach (which had made running the half a bit unpleasant, in addition to the fact that that pace for a half marathon is just a bit uncomfortable for me at this point - not slow enough to be completely easy, but not fast enough to feel fluid), then trudged back to the car, which was parked uncomfortably far away, in uncomfortably tall grass, to change clothes for the 5K. I napped for about half an hour in the car, because it was uncomfortably just a little bit chilly outside, and it was a little bit less uncomfortably chilly in the car. I woke up about 45 minutes before the race, and embarked upon the uncomfortable trudge back to the half-marathon finish/5K start.
I'm not really sure how to explain the 5K. In my warmup, I felt okay, maybe even fast. And my workout on Tuesday was faster than I had expected for that set of intervals (sub-6-minute-mile-pace). Maybe it was the crowded start, or the sandy loop around the track at the beginning of the race, or the hills and headwind on the way back, or maybe it's just not possible to bust out a fast 5K as the 32nd, 33rd, and 34th miles in a 24-hour period (although probably not the latter if you're trained for it). In any case, my 19:45 finish was evidence that my training has been too slow overall for me to run a fast 5K (and I think this is the salient point here). While this is a slow time, another way to look at it is that at 6:23/mile pace, it's in the ballpark of my current marathon pace, and, aside from general sluggishness, it didn't feel harder than a marathon effort. Developing a stride and a comfort level over the 5K distance is definitely something I want to work on in the next few weeks, so that hopefully the Bel Air Town Run will go a bit better.
And now that all of that (uncomfortable) water is under the bridge, it's onward to the MMT 100 this coming weekend. Stay tuned for that recap, which is bound to be more epic and inspiring than this one.
Anyway . . .
1 May - 9 miles (60 minutes) through a park and the backside of some random neighborhoods surrounding the park-and-ride off of I-70, exit 28 (our meeting place for the drive out to KDM), in light rain.
2 May - 2 miles (15 minutes) around Patterson Park, barefoot.
3 May - 10 miles, as a result of the following medley: 2 miles (16 minutes) warmup on Gilman Trail, 36 minutes including "interval on, half off," starting at 6 minutes, and working down to 1 minute, in 1 minute intervals, 2 miles warmdown (16 minutes), 1 mile barefoot (8 minutes). 76 minutes total. "On" intervals at 5:45-5:50 mile pace.
4 May - 2 miles around Patterson Park, not barefoot (15 minutes).
5 May - 5 miles (35 minutes) on and around Pot Spring Road, or, an impromptu hill workout.
6 May - 15 miles (105 minutes) at Gunpowder State Park, Essex version, that featured a long section along a power line cut, various suburban streets, a whole lot of mud, and rotting fish heads on the trail. Followed up with 2 miles of run/hike with Sara at Loch Raven (30 minutes).
7 May - Pace Frederick Half-Marathon in 1:40, with about a mile of warmup and a mile of warmdown on either end. Rest for a couple of hours, then a mile of warmup, the Frederick 5K in a disappointing 19:45, a mile of warmdown, then another 4 miles just because. Back in Baltimore, about 5 miles of run/hike with Sara at Loch Raven. Total 29 miles, and about 240 minutes.
Total Time: 576 minutes
Total Distance: 74 miles
Definitely high marks for variety, although not for mileage. Then again, going back and running the numbers from 28 April to 4 May, I ran 90 miles in that 7-day stretch, so, although not the magical 100-mile mark, more in the ballpark than this actual week would suggest. Given that I'm this close to MMT, and most of the hay is in the barn, this peak-and-rest trend is probably for the best (not to mention the variety in times/distances/terrain).
Now, Frederick, in as few words as I can manage:
I've run at least one race at the Frederick Running Festival since the 2007 edition, and I've always found the experience to be at least slightly uncomfortable. In 2007, it was the first year I had done the National, Boston, and Frederick marathons in the same spring, and I really didn't have the base to sustain it, so Frederick didn't go so well. 2008 went somewhat better, but Frederick was still my slowest of the three. 2009 was a 3:50 pace effort, which would have felt easy, except for the rain. 2010 was a crash-and-burn pace effort at 3:20, due to heat and cramping (but at least I finished, in spite of calf cramps so crippling that I nearly tripped and fell several times in the last mile).
This year, there was no marathon, so instead, I paced 1:40 for the half-marathon with Brian Benda, and then decided at some point in the past couple of months that running the 5K at noon would be a good idea. As it turned out, this was partially true.
The half was, as Frederick tends to be, pretty uneventful. We went out a little bit fast, slowed down on the hills in the middle and the end, and came in right on time. The weird thing about pacing 1:40 is that, unlike 3:20, not that many people want to run 1:40, because it's not really a qualifier for anything. The women's auto-qualify for New York is 1:37, which is a little too fast to stay with the 1:40 group for very long if you want to hit that mark, but otherwise, 1:40 is sort of an arbitrary time to run. A lot of people came and went, and in the end, we weren't really pushing anybody to the finish. I know that we helped people reach their goals, but it didn't feel like it as much this time.
When the half was over, I found relief for my upset stomach (which had made running the half a bit unpleasant, in addition to the fact that that pace for a half marathon is just a bit uncomfortable for me at this point - not slow enough to be completely easy, but not fast enough to feel fluid), then trudged back to the car, which was parked uncomfortably far away, in uncomfortably tall grass, to change clothes for the 5K. I napped for about half an hour in the car, because it was uncomfortably just a little bit chilly outside, and it was a little bit less uncomfortably chilly in the car. I woke up about 45 minutes before the race, and embarked upon the uncomfortable trudge back to the half-marathon finish/5K start.
I'm not really sure how to explain the 5K. In my warmup, I felt okay, maybe even fast. And my workout on Tuesday was faster than I had expected for that set of intervals (sub-6-minute-mile-pace). Maybe it was the crowded start, or the sandy loop around the track at the beginning of the race, or the hills and headwind on the way back, or maybe it's just not possible to bust out a fast 5K as the 32nd, 33rd, and 34th miles in a 24-hour period (although probably not the latter if you're trained for it). In any case, my 19:45 finish was evidence that my training has been too slow overall for me to run a fast 5K (and I think this is the salient point here). While this is a slow time, another way to look at it is that at 6:23/mile pace, it's in the ballpark of my current marathon pace, and, aside from general sluggishness, it didn't feel harder than a marathon effort. Developing a stride and a comfort level over the 5K distance is definitely something I want to work on in the next few weeks, so that hopefully the Bel Air Town Run will go a bit better.
And now that all of that (uncomfortable) water is under the bridge, it's onward to the MMT 100 this coming weekend. Stay tuned for that recap, which is bound to be more epic and inspiring than this one.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Week in Review - 13-19 March, and MMT 100 Training Run #3
Okay, final edit, after running 11 miles to clear my head and lungs, and to prove that such a thing is possible the day after yesterday's 40-mile MMT adventure - the next two paragraphs were work-in-progress placeholders while I put this thing together, but I'm leaving them in to document the process.
(Preface - premature post, because there are a whole bunch of pictures I want to throw in here, but am not up to fighting the system to do right now. Come back later and the parts where it seems like there should be a picture will make more sense. Also, not proof-read, so consider yourself lucky to get this limited-edition inside scoop, before I go and correct whatever minor thing might be wrong with this.
What's this? An all-nighter to get an early start on this week's blog post? In the spirit of sleep deprivation training for the MMT 100 (at 25 straight hours awake, and couting), you bet! Here goes (EDIT - I was unable to maintain consciousness for long enough to finish this post when I started it, so you now are getting the 12-hours-later version):)
13 March - 1 semi-pointless mile (to keep the streak alive) (8 minutes)
14 March - 1 sick (as in, physically ill) mile, keeping the streak alive (8 minutes)
15 March - Back to the grind - 8 miles (60 minutes) as follows: 2-mile warmup around Patterson Park, 16x(200 hard, 200 easy) on the Ellwood side of the park, running the uphill half hard (average 38 seconds/rep), 2 mile warmdown out to the Canton Can Company Chipoltle and back
16 March - 5 miles easy (36 minutes) as weightlifting warmup, 8 miles (56 minutes) as part of the Falls Road Wednesday Night Run from Canton Square
17 March - 15 miles, including, after 20 minutes warmup, 4 "3s and 7s" (3 minutes hard, 1 minute rest, 7 minutes hard, 1 minute rest); rest was "warmdown" (1 hour, 45 minutes)
18 March - 10 miles at APG (72 minutes)
19 March - 40 miles, 10 hours, 11 minutes (activity time approximately 7 hours, 30 minutes), MMT 100 Training Run #3
Total Time: 795 minutes
Total Distance: 88 miles
In spite of two low-mileage days (due to being sick with a lung/stomach bug), I bounced back pretty big this week, posting my highest weekly mileage in 2011 thus far. Of course, nearly half of that was a result of the MMT 100 training run, but considering how successful I was in achieving my goals for that run, it definitely counts. Also of note are the solid interval/speed sessions, which helped a lot with efficiency, turnover, and pace-shifting ability, all of which are important in a run like the MMT 100 . . .
So, without futher ado, the report on MMT 100 Training Run #3.
When Dave Snipes asked me how long I thought I would be taking to finish MMT Training Run #3, off the top of my head, I guessed around 7 hours, maybe a little over. He promptly told me that if I were really serious about running that time, I should stay with Keith Knipling (one of the fastest runners at MMT, year after year) for as long as possible, so as not to get lost. Considering that Dave had previously lectured me on how easy it would be for the "big boys" to drop me at any point, I approached this run with some trepidation, and I'd be lying if I said that the half-dozen Pringles and the Mrs. Freshley's Strawberry Cereal Bar that I ate five minutes before the start were sitting well on my stomach.
Sure enough, when we took off down the first relatively flat stretch of orange trail, Keith went out ahead of the crowd, although not quite as fast as I had feared, so I decided to keep pace and see how long I could last. At the first stream crossing, where most runners would cautiously wade through, Keith barrelled ahead with impunity. I later realized/remembered that this was because at times, the Massanutten Mountain Trail could more aptly be labeled the Massanutten Mountain River, as it has the potential to degrade into a rocky, muddy mess at nearly any point along the way. Speaking of which, Keith was deftly picking his way through just such a mess on a gradual incline, and this was, within the first couple of miles of the run, where I had to decide how to respond. Often, in this situation, I decide that it's best to conserve energy, and I just drop back, eventually losing motivation to push through anything difficult, leading to a mediocre finish. For a change, I decided to pick up my feet, step lightly, and let the training miles take over, and to my surprise, I maintained my distance from Keith, and felt surprisingly good. I felt even better when I noticed that the other runner who had been just behind me before the stream crossing slowed him was now dropping back. Technical trail running what what.
Then we began the climb up the Gap Creek trail, and that's where all of the uphill training paid off. I steadily gained as we power-hiked, until finally Keith let me pass. A 100-calorie celebratory Mrs. Freshley's Strawberry Cereal Bar was in order. Of course, passing him and bombing down the hill to the Gap Creek crossing was a bad plan, since I really didn't know where I was going, so instead I cautiously stayed ahead of him (up to 50 meters) for the next 12 miles or so, on the climb up to Jawbone Gap, on the section along the orange trail on the ridge, occasionally letting him come back to me to make sure that I hadn't run off course. It was somewhere along the road down to the first aid station (at around 14 miles) that he mentioned that he was going to skip the pink/purple loop and cut ahead to the last stretch, which both explained why he had asked me while we were picking through rocks on the orange trail on the ridge if I had planned on running the whole thing and made me a bit nervous about continuing on my own.
Nevertheless, I had some pretty good directions coming out of the first aid station, not to mention six chocolate-chip cookies in my fuel belt pouch (plus the two I had eaten at the aid station, and another half-dozen Pringles), and on the climb to Bird Knob, and me and the mood ring that I bought at a 7-11 on the way to the race were doing pretty well:
And to add to the awesomeness, I actually descended from Bird Knob to the road, found the pink/purple trail, and navigated it successfully without mishap. (This picture of the trail marker is the closest thing that I have to proof of that. That, and the confirmation that it really is 5 switchbacks from the peak of the purple trail to the transition point between the purple and pink trail.)
I also had a bit of a spiritual moment on the pink trail, right here:
If this picture doesn't explain it, then I can't, either. I was suddenly filled with peace and joy. That's just how it was.
Of course, not all could be well, or this wouldn't be a run on the MMT. At the end of the pink trail (which, like most trails in the area, eventually turns orange), at the Picnic Area, I wandered around for about 15 minutes, trying to figure out where to pick up the orange trail to get to 211, given the only direction on the turn sheet of "head east" (which, in the absence of a compass, I found by staring indirectly at the late-morning sun). In the meantime, a half-dozen people who were running slower than I was, but still fast/careless enough to miss the pink/purple marker, came off of the section of orange trail that I was supposed to head down, thus solving the mystery, but irritating me, so I hauled down the orange trail to the second and final aid (two clear 32-gallon plastic containers full of junk food, and a pile of 2-liter bottles of soda and gallon jugs of water), at around 25 miles. Because I still had 12-ish miles until the finish, with plenty of opportunity to get lost, I was meticulous in refilling my water bottles, stowing a half-dozen Wegman's Brand Oreo-Style Chocolate Sandwich Cookies in my belt, and double-and triple-checking my internal vitals to ensure that I wasn't going to leave the last traces of civilization on bad terms.
Which of course gave the half-dozen accidental course-cutters time to catch up with me, and me time to marvel at how raccoon-like they appeared, rummaging through the bins for food, and greedily pouring paper cups full of nasty soda down their gullets. This is ultrarunning (stereotypically).
I climbed up to 211 and crossed the road to the white "trail," a dirt-road, powerline-cut-esque affair that was exposed to the sun (which is probably how I got burned). This is the kind of "trail" that makes me happy, so I ran bits and pieces of the climb, where ordinarily I may have walked. The turn-off onto the white single-track was excessively marked, with a huge pile of branches in the way of the straight path, and a white turn arrow spray-painted on a tree just below the white blaze.
White gave way to orange as the trail bottomed out, and the rocky climb commenced. I stopped for about 10 minutes to try to give directions to a group of lost hikers, but all I could tell them was where 211 was based on where I had come from, which they seemed no interest in. They did confirm that I was heading for the yellow Scothorn Gap trail, so it was not entirely a wasted stop. It was at this point that I started feeling the munchies, and decided that, remaining 8-10 miles be damned, I was going to Cookie Monster those Wegmann's and hope that I had enough energy to hold on to the finish.
One thing I did have enough energy for was to add a rock to the top of this carin, before bombing down the Scothorn Gap Trail:
My satisfaction with this minor accomplishment distracted me from the fact that I was out of food, and nearly out of water, when I reached this point in the course, the last place where I wasn't lost:
The trick is, the directions tell you not to continue down the road, and to turn right off of the road, and that the Aid Station is called Gap Creek (of course, this being a training run, there was not an actual aid station at Gap Creek). In fact, the correct thing to do at this point is to go further down the road and turn left, where the blue trail becomes Jawbone Gap Trail (it's that little white spot at the very end of the bend in the road). Instead, I dutifully followed what the turn sheet appeared to be telling me, and turned right and headed up the Gap Creek Trail. The situation was worsened by the fact that I recognized the trail from the morning (since both Gap Creek and Jawbone have already been covered at this point in the run), and that there were yellow blazes (that look sort of orange; see picture below) at almost exactly the distance where the turn sheet said that orange blazes should be (of course, the turn sheet also said that the trail would end at orange, which it clearly did not, and which was my first indication that something was amiss).
To make a long, sad story short, two other runners made the same mistake that I did, and through a 90-minute process of introspection and self-discovery, punctuated by brief periods of sitting down on logs and feeling hopeless, we finally correctly concluded that if we continued on the trail that we were on (Gap Creek), we would eventually hit the orange trail, at which point we could turn right and head back the way we went out at the start, and wind up in the parking area, which was nice, because if we had done the course the "right" way, we would have wound up at the finish line at Caroline Furnace Camp, with about half a mile to get back to where our cars were parked. I was not thrilled with the prospect of having to re-climb to the top of the Gap Creek Trail, then descend the rocky backside, so I ambled a bit listlessly until we hit the orange trail again, at which point I decided our logic was well-founded, and that I could get back to my car in 20-25 minutes if I stepped on the gas, so I redoubled my rock-picking efforts and started pushing 7-8 minute miles on the flats until at last I was back at the car, a little over 10 hours after this whole thing had started, and not one of the few people who had actually run the entire course correctly.
All that said, discounting the nearly 2 hours of being lost, and the half-hour of generally screwing around taking pictures and texting/posting to Facebook, my net time was about 7.5 hours, for closer to 40 miles of actual distance (including the parts where I was temporarily going the wrong way). So I really wasn't all that far off of my time goal in terms of actual effort, and, what's more important, that effort felt very reasonable and controlled. I walked away feeling as though it would be possible to run that section of the course like that (minus the Facebook-posting and wrong-turning) in the actual race. Plus, now that I've (unintentionally or otherwise) sandbagged pretty much every run since Beast of Burden in August 2010, nobody will be expecting me to do well, so I'll have the added benefit of surprising everybody on race day (assuming my training doesn't hit an unforeseen snag).
And in conclusion, the MT100s are not designed for rocky East-Coast trail mishaps, as evidenced by the cut in the toe of my shoe from a brief run-in with a rock:
No, really, though, the real conclusion here is this, which I saw at a rest stop on the drive home, and which completely speaks for itself:
(Preface - premature post, because there are a whole bunch of pictures I want to throw in here, but am not up to fighting the system to do right now. Come back later and the parts where it seems like there should be a picture will make more sense. Also, not proof-read, so consider yourself lucky to get this limited-edition inside scoop, before I go and correct whatever minor thing might be wrong with this.
What's this? An all-nighter to get an early start on this week's blog post? In the spirit of sleep deprivation training for the MMT 100 (at 25 straight hours awake, and couting), you bet! Here goes (EDIT - I was unable to maintain consciousness for long enough to finish this post when I started it, so you now are getting the 12-hours-later version):)
13 March - 1 semi-pointless mile (to keep the streak alive) (8 minutes)
14 March - 1 sick (as in, physically ill) mile, keeping the streak alive (8 minutes)
15 March - Back to the grind - 8 miles (60 minutes) as follows: 2-mile warmup around Patterson Park, 16x(200 hard, 200 easy) on the Ellwood side of the park, running the uphill half hard (average 38 seconds/rep), 2 mile warmdown out to the Canton Can Company Chipoltle and back
16 March - 5 miles easy (36 minutes) as weightlifting warmup, 8 miles (56 minutes) as part of the Falls Road Wednesday Night Run from Canton Square
17 March - 15 miles, including, after 20 minutes warmup, 4 "3s and 7s" (3 minutes hard, 1 minute rest, 7 minutes hard, 1 minute rest); rest was "warmdown" (1 hour, 45 minutes)
18 March - 10 miles at APG (72 minutes)
19 March - 40 miles, 10 hours, 11 minutes (activity time approximately 7 hours, 30 minutes), MMT 100 Training Run #3
Total Time: 795 minutes
Total Distance: 88 miles
In spite of two low-mileage days (due to being sick with a lung/stomach bug), I bounced back pretty big this week, posting my highest weekly mileage in 2011 thus far. Of course, nearly half of that was a result of the MMT 100 training run, but considering how successful I was in achieving my goals for that run, it definitely counts. Also of note are the solid interval/speed sessions, which helped a lot with efficiency, turnover, and pace-shifting ability, all of which are important in a run like the MMT 100 . . .
So, without futher ado, the report on MMT 100 Training Run #3.
When Dave Snipes asked me how long I thought I would be taking to finish MMT Training Run #3, off the top of my head, I guessed around 7 hours, maybe a little over. He promptly told me that if I were really serious about running that time, I should stay with Keith Knipling (one of the fastest runners at MMT, year after year) for as long as possible, so as not to get lost. Considering that Dave had previously lectured me on how easy it would be for the "big boys" to drop me at any point, I approached this run with some trepidation, and I'd be lying if I said that the half-dozen Pringles and the Mrs. Freshley's Strawberry Cereal Bar that I ate five minutes before the start were sitting well on my stomach.
Sure enough, when we took off down the first relatively flat stretch of orange trail, Keith went out ahead of the crowd, although not quite as fast as I had feared, so I decided to keep pace and see how long I could last. At the first stream crossing, where most runners would cautiously wade through, Keith barrelled ahead with impunity. I later realized/remembered that this was because at times, the Massanutten Mountain Trail could more aptly be labeled the Massanutten Mountain River, as it has the potential to degrade into a rocky, muddy mess at nearly any point along the way. Speaking of which, Keith was deftly picking his way through just such a mess on a gradual incline, and this was, within the first couple of miles of the run, where I had to decide how to respond. Often, in this situation, I decide that it's best to conserve energy, and I just drop back, eventually losing motivation to push through anything difficult, leading to a mediocre finish. For a change, I decided to pick up my feet, step lightly, and let the training miles take over, and to my surprise, I maintained my distance from Keith, and felt surprisingly good. I felt even better when I noticed that the other runner who had been just behind me before the stream crossing slowed him was now dropping back. Technical trail running what what.
Then we began the climb up the Gap Creek trail, and that's where all of the uphill training paid off. I steadily gained as we power-hiked, until finally Keith let me pass. A 100-calorie celebratory Mrs. Freshley's Strawberry Cereal Bar was in order. Of course, passing him and bombing down the hill to the Gap Creek crossing was a bad plan, since I really didn't know where I was going, so instead I cautiously stayed ahead of him (up to 50 meters) for the next 12 miles or so, on the climb up to Jawbone Gap, on the section along the orange trail on the ridge, occasionally letting him come back to me to make sure that I hadn't run off course. It was somewhere along the road down to the first aid station (at around 14 miles) that he mentioned that he was going to skip the pink/purple loop and cut ahead to the last stretch, which both explained why he had asked me while we were picking through rocks on the orange trail on the ridge if I had planned on running the whole thing and made me a bit nervous about continuing on my own.
Nevertheless, I had some pretty good directions coming out of the first aid station, not to mention six chocolate-chip cookies in my fuel belt pouch (plus the two I had eaten at the aid station, and another half-dozen Pringles), and on the climb to Bird Knob, and me and the mood ring that I bought at a 7-11 on the way to the race were doing pretty well:
And to add to the awesomeness, I actually descended from Bird Knob to the road, found the pink/purple trail, and navigated it successfully without mishap. (This picture of the trail marker is the closest thing that I have to proof of that. That, and the confirmation that it really is 5 switchbacks from the peak of the purple trail to the transition point between the purple and pink trail.)
I also had a bit of a spiritual moment on the pink trail, right here:
If this picture doesn't explain it, then I can't, either. I was suddenly filled with peace and joy. That's just how it was.
Of course, not all could be well, or this wouldn't be a run on the MMT. At the end of the pink trail (which, like most trails in the area, eventually turns orange), at the Picnic Area, I wandered around for about 15 minutes, trying to figure out where to pick up the orange trail to get to 211, given the only direction on the turn sheet of "head east" (which, in the absence of a compass, I found by staring indirectly at the late-morning sun). In the meantime, a half-dozen people who were running slower than I was, but still fast/careless enough to miss the pink/purple marker, came off of the section of orange trail that I was supposed to head down, thus solving the mystery, but irritating me, so I hauled down the orange trail to the second and final aid (two clear 32-gallon plastic containers full of junk food, and a pile of 2-liter bottles of soda and gallon jugs of water), at around 25 miles. Because I still had 12-ish miles until the finish, with plenty of opportunity to get lost, I was meticulous in refilling my water bottles, stowing a half-dozen Wegman's Brand Oreo-Style Chocolate Sandwich Cookies in my belt, and double-and triple-checking my internal vitals to ensure that I wasn't going to leave the last traces of civilization on bad terms.
Which of course gave the half-dozen accidental course-cutters time to catch up with me, and me time to marvel at how raccoon-like they appeared, rummaging through the bins for food, and greedily pouring paper cups full of nasty soda down their gullets. This is ultrarunning (stereotypically).
I climbed up to 211 and crossed the road to the white "trail," a dirt-road, powerline-cut-esque affair that was exposed to the sun (which is probably how I got burned). This is the kind of "trail" that makes me happy, so I ran bits and pieces of the climb, where ordinarily I may have walked. The turn-off onto the white single-track was excessively marked, with a huge pile of branches in the way of the straight path, and a white turn arrow spray-painted on a tree just below the white blaze.
White gave way to orange as the trail bottomed out, and the rocky climb commenced. I stopped for about 10 minutes to try to give directions to a group of lost hikers, but all I could tell them was where 211 was based on where I had come from, which they seemed no interest in. They did confirm that I was heading for the yellow Scothorn Gap trail, so it was not entirely a wasted stop. It was at this point that I started feeling the munchies, and decided that, remaining 8-10 miles be damned, I was going to Cookie Monster those Wegmann's and hope that I had enough energy to hold on to the finish.
One thing I did have enough energy for was to add a rock to the top of this carin, before bombing down the Scothorn Gap Trail:
My satisfaction with this minor accomplishment distracted me from the fact that I was out of food, and nearly out of water, when I reached this point in the course, the last place where I wasn't lost:
The trick is, the directions tell you not to continue down the road, and to turn right off of the road, and that the Aid Station is called Gap Creek (of course, this being a training run, there was not an actual aid station at Gap Creek). In fact, the correct thing to do at this point is to go further down the road and turn left, where the blue trail becomes Jawbone Gap Trail (it's that little white spot at the very end of the bend in the road). Instead, I dutifully followed what the turn sheet appeared to be telling me, and turned right and headed up the Gap Creek Trail. The situation was worsened by the fact that I recognized the trail from the morning (since both Gap Creek and Jawbone have already been covered at this point in the run), and that there were yellow blazes (that look sort of orange; see picture below) at almost exactly the distance where the turn sheet said that orange blazes should be (of course, the turn sheet also said that the trail would end at orange, which it clearly did not, and which was my first indication that something was amiss).
To make a long, sad story short, two other runners made the same mistake that I did, and through a 90-minute process of introspection and self-discovery, punctuated by brief periods of sitting down on logs and feeling hopeless, we finally correctly concluded that if we continued on the trail that we were on (Gap Creek), we would eventually hit the orange trail, at which point we could turn right and head back the way we went out at the start, and wind up in the parking area, which was nice, because if we had done the course the "right" way, we would have wound up at the finish line at Caroline Furnace Camp, with about half a mile to get back to where our cars were parked. I was not thrilled with the prospect of having to re-climb to the top of the Gap Creek Trail, then descend the rocky backside, so I ambled a bit listlessly until we hit the orange trail again, at which point I decided our logic was well-founded, and that I could get back to my car in 20-25 minutes if I stepped on the gas, so I redoubled my rock-picking efforts and started pushing 7-8 minute miles on the flats until at last I was back at the car, a little over 10 hours after this whole thing had started, and not one of the few people who had actually run the entire course correctly.
All that said, discounting the nearly 2 hours of being lost, and the half-hour of generally screwing around taking pictures and texting/posting to Facebook, my net time was about 7.5 hours, for closer to 40 miles of actual distance (including the parts where I was temporarily going the wrong way). So I really wasn't all that far off of my time goal in terms of actual effort, and, what's more important, that effort felt very reasonable and controlled. I walked away feeling as though it would be possible to run that section of the course like that (minus the Facebook-posting and wrong-turning) in the actual race. Plus, now that I've (unintentionally or otherwise) sandbagged pretty much every run since Beast of Burden in August 2010, nobody will be expecting me to do well, so I'll have the added benefit of surprising everybody on race day (assuming my training doesn't hit an unforeseen snag).
And in conclusion, the MT100s are not designed for rocky East-Coast trail mishaps, as evidenced by the cut in the toe of my shoe from a brief run-in with a rock:
No, really, though, the real conclusion here is this, which I saw at a rest stop on the drive home, and which completely speaks for itself:
Sunday, February 20, 2011
13-19 February: Week in Review, MMT 100 Preview
FIRE!
Okay, I didn't mean to clear the crowded theatre, but apparently, this stupid website really, REALLY wants me to, since no matter how many times I try to post this picture from this weekend's MMT Training Run at the END of this entry (the count is at about 5 now), it stubbornly inserts it at the BEGINNING, and adds three extra spaces after each paragraph for good measure. If this is some easy problem to solve, and you're laughing at me right now for not being able to fix this, then at least I've managed to entertain. (And wherever it winds up, or whatever horrific website it probably links to now, since who knows what else this website insists on insidiously breaking, it's still a cool picture.)
But if you're still reading . . . the business:
13 February: 10 miles (73 minutes), Canton/Fells/etc.
14 February: 6 miles (45 minutes), Patterson Park
15 February: Butcher's Hill reps (4, in 2:52, 2:51, 2:54, 2:56), 9 miles (60 minutes)
16 February: 3 miles (23 minutes), APG
17 February: 7 treadmill miles (10:00/mile, 10% grade), +1 mile warmup/warmdown (77 minutes total)
18 February: 6 miles in the morning (45 minutes), 9 miles in the evening (65 minutes), Patterson Park
19 February: 32-ish miles, MMT 100 Training Run #2 (6 hours, 42 minutes)
Total Time: 790 minutes
Total Distance: 83-ish miles
So, in summary, slight mileage bump-up, good distance, good intensity. Overall, a good week.
Also, on Friday, 18 February, I was accepted for Badwater 2011 - more about that in another post, but for now, suffice to say that I'm excited, and thank you to Natural Vitality Sports, my sponsor for this event.
. . .
This wouldn't be a typically verbose post if I ended it there. So for the rest of your attention span, I'm going to carry on about the Massanutten Mountain Trail 100, the greatest 100-miler I never ran (but am excited to finally be running for real this coming May). Get ready for disorganized discussion of the course, my race strategy, and maybe some other stuff that doesn't quite fit.
In the interest of qualifying myself for this mini-dissertation, I completed the Old Dominion 100-miler in 2008 (from which MMT 100 plagiarizes parts of its course), paced runners at MMT in both 2009 and 2010 (2009 was the year of the torrential overnight downpour), and ran substantial portions of the course during my attempt at The Ring in September 2010. Oh, and there was the training run this past Saturday (http://www.vhtrc.org/events/academy/two/). For those of you who can't be bothered to click on the link, the training run covers about 30 miles in the middle of the course, which contains a mish-mash of terrain - everything from gently rolling gravel roads to rocky, technical, semi-exposed single-track, for a grand total of nearly 6,000 feet of climb (and around 5,500 feet of descent). All in all, a fair representation of the course as a whole.
The 6 hours and 42 minutes that it took me to complete this 30-ish mile section of the course doesn't sound too eye-popping. However, considering that I was running at "100-mile pace," this went very well. I ran (a conservatively estimated) about 2 miles off-course when I missed a turn onto the yellow trail heading towards Shawl Gap, and debatably took a wrong turn on the orange trail on the Veach Gap Ridge (opting for the leaf-covered, narrow, cliff-face-style exposed low road, as opposed to the wide, gentle, comfortable horse trail on the high side). Subtract about 20 minutes for shooting the breeze and having pictures of my cut-up MT100s next to somebody's giant puffy Hokas taken at the aid stations, and for taking pictures of the Shenandoah River and a fire in the valley and posting them to Facebook during the run, and add in a little bit of extra hustle assuming that I don't screw up my nutrition during the race, and I'm looking at a very comfortable 6 to 6.5 hours to finish what I would consider a very representative third of the race, a pace that would put me on track to finish between 18 and 20 hours. (Incidentally, the course record is something like 17:40).
All of which sounds outlandish for a city slicker who exhibits an occasional dislike of trails. And of course, there are a few things that could throw a wrench in the works: the weather (it's been brutally hot and unbearably cold there, all in the same race), poor nutrition, some really horrible section of trail that I forgot about, a stupid decision that causes me to get injured during the race, getting lost, probably a lot more things that I can't think of off the top of my head right now. With methodical preparation and good ol' common sense, the effects of these can be minimized, and rest assured I'll be compiling and cross-checking this list with appropriate mitigation strategies prior to race day.
But let's focus on why I think such an aggressive finishing time is achievable. First, I'm gradually coming around to the "trail running is the only kind of running" camp, although I will never give up my late-weekend-night runs around Canton, Fells, and the Inner Harbor (the drunken hecklers are too funny, and the homeless people usually say nice, encouraging things to you, when they're not shouting random racial slurs), and I refuse to grow a beard (I'm not sure that I could in the first place). In particular, I love the trails in the Massanuttens, as I've now amassed sufficient memories on them for the thought of a late-night, headlamp-guided, caffiene-addled rock stumble to get the adrenaline and endorphins flowing. In fewer words, mega-positive mental state about this race, but not the kind that's totally disconnected from reality. Yes, at times it might be miserable and hurt a lot, but for the thrill of power-hiking a steep incline, then reaching the top and barreling down a rock-strewn mountain at breakneck speeds, it's more than worth it. It's compelling enough that I now go out of my way to run on the grass in Patterson Park, or wherever else would otherwise be too "urban" to simulate trail running.
Second, patience and consistency are my strengths, and I believe these are also the key to running well at MMT. In many ways, MMT can be an infuriating race, especially for the front-running types that insist on dropping sub-6 minute miles where they can early in the race. By and large, the trail sections are very rocky and technical, and require a huge amount of coordination and patience to navigate successfully. When you're playing "track meet" from the start, you're chipping away at that reserve that you're going to need when you're sleep-deprived and trying to wade through a sea of rocks at mile 93. I've seen broken-down runners in 100-milers, but the breakdowns at MMT have definitely been the worst. Burn yourself out too soon, and you'll pay dearly at the end of this one.
Third (and following closely on the heels of the second point), I proved to myself this past weekend at the training run that the kind of effort needed to run sub-20 hours at MMT should be within my limits. I finished the training run feeling as though I could do it again (and again), and ran 9 miles the next day, without any significant soreness or lingering effects of the run. All this by fast-hiking the climbs, letting momentum carry me on the downhills, and settling into a steady pace on the flats. Overall, I felt as though I had a good, consistent effort level dialed in for the duration of the run.
Taking all of that into account, my race strategy: Stay steady, let the inevitable "track meet" at the front of the pack go on without me. Comfortable 7-ish minute miles on the flats, power-hike the uphills at about 15-minute miles, roll the downhills at whatever gravity will allow, within the limits of my knees and quads. (And definitely no walking the downhills, as that is a sure way to wreck my knees and quads.) 200-ish calories per hour, mainly in the form of gels, wear the Nathan bottle belt (as I have better balance with this than I do with a bottle in my hand on the steep downhills) and the MT100s (unless I can sufficiently break in the MT101s). Enjoy the day, gradually reel in the people who went out too fast, and if I don't feel completely wrecked in the last 10 miles or so, give it everything I have left. And do something cool after the race (TBD).
13 February: 10 miles (73 minutes), Canton/Fells/etc.
14 February: 6 miles (45 minutes), Patterson Park
15 February: Butcher's Hill reps (4, in 2:52, 2:51, 2:54, 2:56), 9 miles (60 minutes)
16 February: 3 miles (23 minutes), APG
17 February: 7 treadmill miles (10:00/mile, 10% grade), +1 mile warmup/warmdown (77 minutes total)
18 February: 6 miles in the morning (45 minutes), 9 miles in the evening (65 minutes), Patterson Park
19 February: 32-ish miles, MMT 100 Training Run #2 (6 hours, 42 minutes)
Total Time: 790 minutes
Total Distance: 83-ish miles
So, in summary, slight mileage bump-up, good distance, good intensity. Overall, a good week.
Also, on Friday, 18 February, I was accepted for Badwater 2011 - more about that in another post, but for now, suffice to say that I'm excited, and thank you to Natural Vitality Sports, my sponsor for this event.
. . .
This wouldn't be a typically verbose post if I ended it there. So for the rest of your attention span, I'm going to carry on about the Massanutten Mountain Trail 100, the greatest 100-miler I never ran (but am excited to finally be running for real this coming May). Get ready for disorganized discussion of the course, my race strategy, and maybe some other stuff that doesn't quite fit.
In the interest of qualifying myself for this mini-dissertation, I completed the Old Dominion 100-miler in 2008 (from which MMT 100 plagiarizes parts of its course), paced runners at MMT in both 2009 and 2010 (2009 was the year of the torrential overnight downpour), and ran substantial portions of the course during my attempt at The Ring in September 2010. Oh, and there was the training run this past Saturday (http://www.vhtrc.org/events/academy/two/). For those of you who can't be bothered to click on the link, the training run covers about 30 miles in the middle of the course, which contains a mish-mash of terrain - everything from gently rolling gravel roads to rocky, technical, semi-exposed single-track, for a grand total of nearly 6,000 feet of climb (and around 5,500 feet of descent). All in all, a fair representation of the course as a whole.
The 6 hours and 42 minutes that it took me to complete this 30-ish mile section of the course doesn't sound too eye-popping. However, considering that I was running at "100-mile pace," this went very well. I ran (a conservatively estimated) about 2 miles off-course when I missed a turn onto the yellow trail heading towards Shawl Gap, and debatably took a wrong turn on the orange trail on the Veach Gap Ridge (opting for the leaf-covered, narrow, cliff-face-style exposed low road, as opposed to the wide, gentle, comfortable horse trail on the high side). Subtract about 20 minutes for shooting the breeze and having pictures of my cut-up MT100s next to somebody's giant puffy Hokas taken at the aid stations, and for taking pictures of the Shenandoah River and a fire in the valley and posting them to Facebook during the run, and add in a little bit of extra hustle assuming that I don't screw up my nutrition during the race, and I'm looking at a very comfortable 6 to 6.5 hours to finish what I would consider a very representative third of the race, a pace that would put me on track to finish between 18 and 20 hours. (Incidentally, the course record is something like 17:40).
All of which sounds outlandish for a city slicker who exhibits an occasional dislike of trails. And of course, there are a few things that could throw a wrench in the works: the weather (it's been brutally hot and unbearably cold there, all in the same race), poor nutrition, some really horrible section of trail that I forgot about, a stupid decision that causes me to get injured during the race, getting lost, probably a lot more things that I can't think of off the top of my head right now. With methodical preparation and good ol' common sense, the effects of these can be minimized, and rest assured I'll be compiling and cross-checking this list with appropriate mitigation strategies prior to race day.
But let's focus on why I think such an aggressive finishing time is achievable. First, I'm gradually coming around to the "trail running is the only kind of running" camp, although I will never give up my late-weekend-night runs around Canton, Fells, and the Inner Harbor (the drunken hecklers are too funny, and the homeless people usually say nice, encouraging things to you, when they're not shouting random racial slurs), and I refuse to grow a beard (I'm not sure that I could in the first place). In particular, I love the trails in the Massanuttens, as I've now amassed sufficient memories on them for the thought of a late-night, headlamp-guided, caffiene-addled rock stumble to get the adrenaline and endorphins flowing. In fewer words, mega-positive mental state about this race, but not the kind that's totally disconnected from reality. Yes, at times it might be miserable and hurt a lot, but for the thrill of power-hiking a steep incline, then reaching the top and barreling down a rock-strewn mountain at breakneck speeds, it's more than worth it. It's compelling enough that I now go out of my way to run on the grass in Patterson Park, or wherever else would otherwise be too "urban" to simulate trail running.
Second, patience and consistency are my strengths, and I believe these are also the key to running well at MMT. In many ways, MMT can be an infuriating race, especially for the front-running types that insist on dropping sub-6 minute miles where they can early in the race. By and large, the trail sections are very rocky and technical, and require a huge amount of coordination and patience to navigate successfully. When you're playing "track meet" from the start, you're chipping away at that reserve that you're going to need when you're sleep-deprived and trying to wade through a sea of rocks at mile 93. I've seen broken-down runners in 100-milers, but the breakdowns at MMT have definitely been the worst. Burn yourself out too soon, and you'll pay dearly at the end of this one.
Third (and following closely on the heels of the second point), I proved to myself this past weekend at the training run that the kind of effort needed to run sub-20 hours at MMT should be within my limits. I finished the training run feeling as though I could do it again (and again), and ran 9 miles the next day, without any significant soreness or lingering effects of the run. All this by fast-hiking the climbs, letting momentum carry me on the downhills, and settling into a steady pace on the flats. Overall, I felt as though I had a good, consistent effort level dialed in for the duration of the run.
Taking all of that into account, my race strategy: Stay steady, let the inevitable "track meet" at the front of the pack go on without me. Comfortable 7-ish minute miles on the flats, power-hike the uphills at about 15-minute miles, roll the downhills at whatever gravity will allow, within the limits of my knees and quads. (And definitely no walking the downhills, as that is a sure way to wreck my knees and quads.) 200-ish calories per hour, mainly in the form of gels, wear the Nathan bottle belt (as I have better balance with this than I do with a bottle in my hand on the steep downhills) and the MT100s (unless I can sufficiently break in the MT101s). Enjoy the day, gradually reel in the people who went out too fast, and if I don't feel completely wrecked in the last 10 miles or so, give it everything I have left. And do something cool after the race (TBD).
In conclusion, if you were wondering why this post is entirely in red, it's because in addition to not putting my picture where I want it, this stupid website also insists on changing the font size and font color semi-randomly in various sections of this post, and, honestly, I give up. Red on black = visible. Whatever, blogger. I guess you got paid, so does it really matter?
Saturday, February 12, 2011
6 February - Week in Review, and Holiday Lake 50K Race Report
First off, for anybody that notices, I know that I already posted what I did running-wise on 6 February, but for the sake of ending this week with my race report, I'm going to switch to a Sunday-through-Saturday week for the moment (and maybe for the foreseeable future, if this turns out to be more convenient. So, the weekly summary:
6 February: 5 miles in the morning (36 minutes), 6 miles in the evening (44 minutes)
7 February: 6 miles at APG (45 minutes)
8 February: 8 miles, including a 2-mile Patterson Park loop at 6:30/mile pace (56 minutes)
9 February: 3 miles in the morning (25 minutes), 5 miles in the evening (37 minutes)
10 February: 6 miles of treadmill hill (10% grade at 10-minute-mile pace, 60 minutes)
11 February: 3 miles in the morning (26 minutes), 4 miles in the evening (30 minutes)
12 February: 33.25 miles - 2011 Holiday Lake 50K (5 hours, 22 minutes, and some seconds)
Total time: 681 minutes (and some seconds)
Total distance: 79.25 miles
Quick commentary: Back to a "reasonable" mileage jump from last week to this week, but this time, on the strength of one particularly long run. A couple of good "hard" efforts, and an interesting "long run" . . .
So now, the Holiday Lake 50K race report:
First, a bit of background. Holiday Lake was a race that I had considered running last year, until Snowpocalypse came along and wrecked those plans. This time around, the roads were clear, and it was about time I got in a "real" long run, since the longest run I've done since my stress fracture was the 15-miler that I did on roads last week. (Before that, the last long run that I did was a 20-miler sometime in late November or early December - so it's been 2+ months since my last good long effort). Given that, I didn't come into the race expecting to "race" - this was going to be an opportunity to get back on trails, be around people that I like, prove to myself that I can still finish an ultra, test the effectiveness of the past month of training, and experiment with race strategy. Holiday Lake is the first race in the Beast and Lynchburg Ultra series, and, as such, is the "easiest" race (the difficulty ramps up as the year progresses). None of the single-track is particularly technical, and the only extended uphills and downhills are fairly gradual. The downside to this type of course is that just about everybody comes in looking for a track meet/50K PR (even though the course, like most trail 50K courses, is about two miles longer than it should be).
All that said, I rolled in to the 4-H Camp around midnight and promptly fell asleep in a sleeping back in the back seat of my car for 5 fairly solid hours. Although breathing the cold air was uncomfortable, I slept soundly, and woke up feeling at least as rested as I would on a normal day (which is not as rested as I'd like to be lately, but better than usual for a race like this). In the mess hall, I ate a very light breakfast (a few slices of melon and a cup of coffee), and went about my preparations efficiently. This is about as relaxed as I'd ever been coming into a race (which is saying something, because I should have been more nervous given the distance and the number of things that, based on recent performances, could have gone wrong).
After we all stood around at the starting line in the cold for what felt like a little too long while Horton said his pre-race prayer, we set off down the half-mile section of paved road (the only section like this on the course), and it was obvious from how quickly the front of the pack went out that this was, in fact, going to be a track meet. Trail conditions were clear and fairly dry, which made the early goings faster than I would have liked; that is, if I were trying to keep up with people. As it was, I was content to let a lot of people pass me, and fall into a steady 8-ish minute mile pace, assuming that they would come back to me.
I also managed to fall into a rut and skin my knee within the first mile of trail, during the awkward period of time between 6:30 and 7:00 a.m., when it's not really dark enough for a headlamp if you're careful, prompting somebody to say that that's why headlamps are good for something (smart aleck). Spoiler: I did not win "Best Blood," because I wasn't sweaty enough at that point for any of it to run down my leg very far (it clotted, or, more accurately, froze, pretty close to my kneecap). If you want to win that award, you need to sweat enough to make the blood smear in an interesting way. Sheer volume of blood might also do the trick.
Anyhow, as it turned out, although my pace was basically easy and sustainable, there were a few wrenches in the works early on. First, the temperature (somewhere in the 15-20 degree F range for the first hour or so of the race) caused the cap on my water bottle to freeze, and ice chunks to develop in the water, which made it a fine ballast for practice running with a bottle, but terrible for hydration. On top of this, the water being that cold in the bottle was freezing my hands through my gloves, although even if I hadn't been carrying the bottle, my hands probably still would have frozen through the gloves. Finally, I felt soreness in my hips and glutes, as I had lifted heavy three days in the past week (including the day before the race). This lifting-related soreness was not running soreness, but was enough to confuse my body into thinking that it was.
The good news, though, is that the hill and strength work had paid off, and I felt as though I had a lot of power climbing the hills. Also, my "hang back" strategy started to pay dividends between Aid Stations 1 and 2 (4ish-8ish miles), as all of those who got sucked in by the initial sprint-out were starting to slow.
Unfortunately, my strategy was also supported by an experimental "minimal nutrition" approach. I've noticed that in most ultras, people consume at least 200 calories per hour in simple sugars, and in most ultras, people also get sick to their stomachs. Coincidence? Maybe not. I decided to use this race as a proving ground for a low-calorie strategy. My strategy, however, involved eating nothing in the first hour (and drinking very little, due to the frozen water bottle, and inattention to the aid stations). This began to backfire at about an hour and a half (between Aid Stations 2 and 3), as I could feel my energy level dropping. With no spontaneous rebound in sight, I took two gels and hoped for the best. The best turned out to be a partial return of energy, but in the interim, a number of people passed me (a few of which I passed back before Aid Station 3). At Aid Station 3, I took half of a banana and a couple of mini-Snickers bars. A little better, but not really doing it. I was behind on my nutrition, and this showed on the way to Aid Station 4 (the turn-around point). Add to this the fact that within a mile or so of the aid station, the leaders were coming barreling back down the single-track trail for their reverse loop against the slower traffic, and this was a bit demoralizing. This called for a red sugar cookie at the turn-around.
I reached the turn-around at about 2 hours, 23 minutes - not bad, not blazing fast. On pace for under 5 hours, which, given the distance and my historical times in 50Ks that are not as much longer than they're supposed to be than this one, seemed reasonable, especially considering that even in the absence of nutritional issues, I had made no attempt to go "balls to the wall" on this race.
You'll notice that I've gone through a whole loop of what happened (the course is two loops of 16 miles and change), and mentioned very little about the course. This is because the course is not particularly memorable. There are single-track trails, gravel roads, fire roads, very short pavement sections at the beginning and at the end, and and the few road crossings. There is one deep creek crossing where your feet will get wet, and that will suck for about five minutes until your shoes drain (and if they don't drain, well, sad days for you). Running the first lap of the course clockwise puts you on east-bound trail around the time the sun is rising, so for a few minutes until the sun gets higher in the sky, you can't see anything. (This was surprisingly more fun than it sounds, because if you're lucky like me, you're in a wide open field of tall grass when this happens, and it looks surreally summery). On the return trip around the loop, there is enough light that you can actually see Holiday Lake as you run past on your way to the finish. The trail was rock-hard and rutted on the way out, and slightly muddy on the way back (as it warmed up to around 40 degrees by the 5-hour mark). And that's pretty much it. Horton has said that of all the races he puts on, this is his least favorite, and I can see why. It's a Rocky Raccoon-style 50k - good for running a fast time, not good for memorable or difficult sections.
In that spirit, the description of the reverse loop will be even more sparse than the description of my first loop. I was definitely walking more, but less due to running-related fatigue than to calorie deficit and delayed-onset muscle soreness from my weight training, which my body was still convinced was from running too fast. Because this was my first long run in a long time, all of this put me in a weird state where I had no idea what my limit was, or how much gas was left in the tank, and I had no capacity to surge with any confidence. At the same time, the remaining distance was rapidly falling into the manageable range on the return trip, and it was somewhere between Aid Station 3 and Aid Station 2 that I decided would be a good time to start running more and walking less, in preparation for a late-race surge to the finish. In fact, in spite of my random walk breaks, during which a guy who called me "Greenie" on account of my green Bull Run 50 shirt passed me, I mounted enough of a surge to pass him back, which was vaguely gratifying. I passed enough people coming in to Aid Station 1 that I finally decided to put on the afterburners from Aid Station 1 to the finish - I had reached Aid Station 1 at around 4 hours, 25 minutes, with a little over 4 miles to go, and my legs weren't sore, so a sub-5-hour time, in spite of my (by some measures) lackadasical effort, seemed within reach.
And, for the first two miles, it was. I passed at least a dozen people, including a bearded, bare-chested, MT-101-wearing Anton Krupicka wanna-be (with an awkward head bob and a slight spare tire around the middle that would not be Krupicka-approved). The last person that I passed said "catch them all!" as I was running strong, and there were four more people in front of me that were dogging it up a hill.
But with about 2 miles to go, and about 20 minutes to the 5-hour mark, it turned out that I should have stopped at the last aid station and put more gas in the tank. I felt my body become weak, I grew light-headed, and I suddenly had nothing left in my legs. I had most likely come into the race with smaller-than-usual glycogen stores due to a lack of recent long runs, and these stores were probably not full when the race started, and I wasn't doing all that much to fill them in the interim (only a haphazard 600-800 calories), and I suppose that it was bound to catch up with me. This had never happened to me before, and what was very strange was that as soon as it happened, any other pain that I had (hips, glutes, etc) disappeared, probably because this weak sensation was so dominant. Of course, being two miles from the finish, without any nutritional aid, there was nothing I could do but awkwardly stagger forward, over a section that one woman remarked would take "about 40 minutes" to walk, when one runner (who started running and passed me) wondered if walking it in might be a desirable way to end his pain. And so, the dozens of people that I had diligently passed in my last loop ("Greenie," Fake Anton, a rag-tag group of guys that decided that they would finish in "5 and a half, 6 hours, whatever") all passed me back in the last two miles, plus a few more for good measure. I didn't have the strength to muster a sprint for show on the final downhill on the paved road to the finish, and as soon as I crossed the line and shook Horton's hand, he asked me if I was alright, I said I felt terrible, he said I looked terrible (by all accounts, I was pale and disoriented), and he urged me to eat. I complied at the junk food table at the finish line, the only available food that didn't cost $11 (the $11 food, fried chicken and potatoes and maybe some green beans, was inaccessible because I didn't have $11 in cash, and I also took offense to paying $11 for what was basically KFC). Some cookies, cake donuts, M&Ms, and GU2O later, I felt sort of normal, although I can't help wondering if passing out for a few hours would have been equally or more effective than consuming about 1200 calories worth of junk food (I did feel as though passing out would have been sweet release). At any rate, while I was stuffing my face with garbage, "Greenie" (who, from the looks of his shirt, was some sort of hardcore Army Ranger), came over and called me a "stud" for valiantly passing him back earlier in the last loop, and staggering to the finish in spite of my horrid condition. So that was at least as gratifying as the Patagonia finisher shirt, which matched the plaid shirt I was wearing, so I could wear two shirts that I liked at the same time after the race. Take that, Abercrombie (except only halfway, because the plaid shirt is from your store).
In conclusion . . .
The good:
- Legs not sore
- No significant blistering or foot soreness/pain (wore MT100s, sockless and cut up so they don't cut my feet up)
- Finally finished a Horton race (the "beginner" Horton race, but still a finish)
- Sweet Patagonia shirt, IN MY SIZE (unlike the cotton race t-shirt - smallest size was a Large)
- Hung out with friends
- Ran on trails
- Had fun
- Didn't puke
The bad:
- Tripped and skinned my knee, but didn't win "Best Blood"
- Hands were borderline frostbitten for about half of the race
- Misguided hydration and nutrition plan cost me at least 20 minutes at the end of the race, dozens of places, and almost my consciousness
- $11 for KFC-style post-race lunch - not a good deal (although since there is apparently not a KFC anywhere near Appomattox, VA, it's probably the best deal people can get around here)
The weird:
- Non-descript double-loop course, except for a few very brief interesting sections
- Guy pretending to be Anton
- Guy who called me "Greenie," then later, "stud"
Overall, not a bad first race for 2011. Had some laughs, learned some things, had some fun. Can't say that I'm totally satisfied with the outcome, since (as always) it was my secret hope that it would turn out that I was in better shape than I thought. Nevertheless, I'm not in worse shape than I thought, which is really more important. And now I have an appetite for the MMT 100 training run next Saturday, which is also important. And there you have it.
THE END
6 February: 5 miles in the morning (36 minutes), 6 miles in the evening (44 minutes)
7 February: 6 miles at APG (45 minutes)
8 February: 8 miles, including a 2-mile Patterson Park loop at 6:30/mile pace (56 minutes)
9 February: 3 miles in the morning (25 minutes), 5 miles in the evening (37 minutes)
10 February: 6 miles of treadmill hill (10% grade at 10-minute-mile pace, 60 minutes)
11 February: 3 miles in the morning (26 minutes), 4 miles in the evening (30 minutes)
12 February: 33.25 miles - 2011 Holiday Lake 50K (5 hours, 22 minutes, and some seconds)
Total time: 681 minutes (and some seconds)
Total distance: 79.25 miles
Quick commentary: Back to a "reasonable" mileage jump from last week to this week, but this time, on the strength of one particularly long run. A couple of good "hard" efforts, and an interesting "long run" . . .
So now, the Holiday Lake 50K race report:
First, a bit of background. Holiday Lake was a race that I had considered running last year, until Snowpocalypse came along and wrecked those plans. This time around, the roads were clear, and it was about time I got in a "real" long run, since the longest run I've done since my stress fracture was the 15-miler that I did on roads last week. (Before that, the last long run that I did was a 20-miler sometime in late November or early December - so it's been 2+ months since my last good long effort). Given that, I didn't come into the race expecting to "race" - this was going to be an opportunity to get back on trails, be around people that I like, prove to myself that I can still finish an ultra, test the effectiveness of the past month of training, and experiment with race strategy. Holiday Lake is the first race in the Beast and Lynchburg Ultra series, and, as such, is the "easiest" race (the difficulty ramps up as the year progresses). None of the single-track is particularly technical, and the only extended uphills and downhills are fairly gradual. The downside to this type of course is that just about everybody comes in looking for a track meet/50K PR (even though the course, like most trail 50K courses, is about two miles longer than it should be).
All that said, I rolled in to the 4-H Camp around midnight and promptly fell asleep in a sleeping back in the back seat of my car for 5 fairly solid hours. Although breathing the cold air was uncomfortable, I slept soundly, and woke up feeling at least as rested as I would on a normal day (which is not as rested as I'd like to be lately, but better than usual for a race like this). In the mess hall, I ate a very light breakfast (a few slices of melon and a cup of coffee), and went about my preparations efficiently. This is about as relaxed as I'd ever been coming into a race (which is saying something, because I should have been more nervous given the distance and the number of things that, based on recent performances, could have gone wrong).
After we all stood around at the starting line in the cold for what felt like a little too long while Horton said his pre-race prayer, we set off down the half-mile section of paved road (the only section like this on the course), and it was obvious from how quickly the front of the pack went out that this was, in fact, going to be a track meet. Trail conditions were clear and fairly dry, which made the early goings faster than I would have liked; that is, if I were trying to keep up with people. As it was, I was content to let a lot of people pass me, and fall into a steady 8-ish minute mile pace, assuming that they would come back to me.
I also managed to fall into a rut and skin my knee within the first mile of trail, during the awkward period of time between 6:30 and 7:00 a.m., when it's not really dark enough for a headlamp if you're careful, prompting somebody to say that that's why headlamps are good for something (smart aleck). Spoiler: I did not win "Best Blood," because I wasn't sweaty enough at that point for any of it to run down my leg very far (it clotted, or, more accurately, froze, pretty close to my kneecap). If you want to win that award, you need to sweat enough to make the blood smear in an interesting way. Sheer volume of blood might also do the trick.
Anyhow, as it turned out, although my pace was basically easy and sustainable, there were a few wrenches in the works early on. First, the temperature (somewhere in the 15-20 degree F range for the first hour or so of the race) caused the cap on my water bottle to freeze, and ice chunks to develop in the water, which made it a fine ballast for practice running with a bottle, but terrible for hydration. On top of this, the water being that cold in the bottle was freezing my hands through my gloves, although even if I hadn't been carrying the bottle, my hands probably still would have frozen through the gloves. Finally, I felt soreness in my hips and glutes, as I had lifted heavy three days in the past week (including the day before the race). This lifting-related soreness was not running soreness, but was enough to confuse my body into thinking that it was.
The good news, though, is that the hill and strength work had paid off, and I felt as though I had a lot of power climbing the hills. Also, my "hang back" strategy started to pay dividends between Aid Stations 1 and 2 (4ish-8ish miles), as all of those who got sucked in by the initial sprint-out were starting to slow.
Unfortunately, my strategy was also supported by an experimental "minimal nutrition" approach. I've noticed that in most ultras, people consume at least 200 calories per hour in simple sugars, and in most ultras, people also get sick to their stomachs. Coincidence? Maybe not. I decided to use this race as a proving ground for a low-calorie strategy. My strategy, however, involved eating nothing in the first hour (and drinking very little, due to the frozen water bottle, and inattention to the aid stations). This began to backfire at about an hour and a half (between Aid Stations 2 and 3), as I could feel my energy level dropping. With no spontaneous rebound in sight, I took two gels and hoped for the best. The best turned out to be a partial return of energy, but in the interim, a number of people passed me (a few of which I passed back before Aid Station 3). At Aid Station 3, I took half of a banana and a couple of mini-Snickers bars. A little better, but not really doing it. I was behind on my nutrition, and this showed on the way to Aid Station 4 (the turn-around point). Add to this the fact that within a mile or so of the aid station, the leaders were coming barreling back down the single-track trail for their reverse loop against the slower traffic, and this was a bit demoralizing. This called for a red sugar cookie at the turn-around.
I reached the turn-around at about 2 hours, 23 minutes - not bad, not blazing fast. On pace for under 5 hours, which, given the distance and my historical times in 50Ks that are not as much longer than they're supposed to be than this one, seemed reasonable, especially considering that even in the absence of nutritional issues, I had made no attempt to go "balls to the wall" on this race.
You'll notice that I've gone through a whole loop of what happened (the course is two loops of 16 miles and change), and mentioned very little about the course. This is because the course is not particularly memorable. There are single-track trails, gravel roads, fire roads, very short pavement sections at the beginning and at the end, and and the few road crossings. There is one deep creek crossing where your feet will get wet, and that will suck for about five minutes until your shoes drain (and if they don't drain, well, sad days for you). Running the first lap of the course clockwise puts you on east-bound trail around the time the sun is rising, so for a few minutes until the sun gets higher in the sky, you can't see anything. (This was surprisingly more fun than it sounds, because if you're lucky like me, you're in a wide open field of tall grass when this happens, and it looks surreally summery). On the return trip around the loop, there is enough light that you can actually see Holiday Lake as you run past on your way to the finish. The trail was rock-hard and rutted on the way out, and slightly muddy on the way back (as it warmed up to around 40 degrees by the 5-hour mark). And that's pretty much it. Horton has said that of all the races he puts on, this is his least favorite, and I can see why. It's a Rocky Raccoon-style 50k - good for running a fast time, not good for memorable or difficult sections.
In that spirit, the description of the reverse loop will be even more sparse than the description of my first loop. I was definitely walking more, but less due to running-related fatigue than to calorie deficit and delayed-onset muscle soreness from my weight training, which my body was still convinced was from running too fast. Because this was my first long run in a long time, all of this put me in a weird state where I had no idea what my limit was, or how much gas was left in the tank, and I had no capacity to surge with any confidence. At the same time, the remaining distance was rapidly falling into the manageable range on the return trip, and it was somewhere between Aid Station 3 and Aid Station 2 that I decided would be a good time to start running more and walking less, in preparation for a late-race surge to the finish. In fact, in spite of my random walk breaks, during which a guy who called me "Greenie" on account of my green Bull Run 50 shirt passed me, I mounted enough of a surge to pass him back, which was vaguely gratifying. I passed enough people coming in to Aid Station 1 that I finally decided to put on the afterburners from Aid Station 1 to the finish - I had reached Aid Station 1 at around 4 hours, 25 minutes, with a little over 4 miles to go, and my legs weren't sore, so a sub-5-hour time, in spite of my (by some measures) lackadasical effort, seemed within reach.
And, for the first two miles, it was. I passed at least a dozen people, including a bearded, bare-chested, MT-101-wearing Anton Krupicka wanna-be (with an awkward head bob and a slight spare tire around the middle that would not be Krupicka-approved). The last person that I passed said "catch them all!" as I was running strong, and there were four more people in front of me that were dogging it up a hill.
But with about 2 miles to go, and about 20 minutes to the 5-hour mark, it turned out that I should have stopped at the last aid station and put more gas in the tank. I felt my body become weak, I grew light-headed, and I suddenly had nothing left in my legs. I had most likely come into the race with smaller-than-usual glycogen stores due to a lack of recent long runs, and these stores were probably not full when the race started, and I wasn't doing all that much to fill them in the interim (only a haphazard 600-800 calories), and I suppose that it was bound to catch up with me. This had never happened to me before, and what was very strange was that as soon as it happened, any other pain that I had (hips, glutes, etc) disappeared, probably because this weak sensation was so dominant. Of course, being two miles from the finish, without any nutritional aid, there was nothing I could do but awkwardly stagger forward, over a section that one woman remarked would take "about 40 minutes" to walk, when one runner (who started running and passed me) wondered if walking it in might be a desirable way to end his pain. And so, the dozens of people that I had diligently passed in my last loop ("Greenie," Fake Anton, a rag-tag group of guys that decided that they would finish in "5 and a half, 6 hours, whatever") all passed me back in the last two miles, plus a few more for good measure. I didn't have the strength to muster a sprint for show on the final downhill on the paved road to the finish, and as soon as I crossed the line and shook Horton's hand, he asked me if I was alright, I said I felt terrible, he said I looked terrible (by all accounts, I was pale and disoriented), and he urged me to eat. I complied at the junk food table at the finish line, the only available food that didn't cost $11 (the $11 food, fried chicken and potatoes and maybe some green beans, was inaccessible because I didn't have $11 in cash, and I also took offense to paying $11 for what was basically KFC). Some cookies, cake donuts, M&Ms, and GU2O later, I felt sort of normal, although I can't help wondering if passing out for a few hours would have been equally or more effective than consuming about 1200 calories worth of junk food (I did feel as though passing out would have been sweet release). At any rate, while I was stuffing my face with garbage, "Greenie" (who, from the looks of his shirt, was some sort of hardcore Army Ranger), came over and called me a "stud" for valiantly passing him back earlier in the last loop, and staggering to the finish in spite of my horrid condition. So that was at least as gratifying as the Patagonia finisher shirt, which matched the plaid shirt I was wearing, so I could wear two shirts that I liked at the same time after the race. Take that, Abercrombie (except only halfway, because the plaid shirt is from your store).
In conclusion . . .
The good:
- Legs not sore
- No significant blistering or foot soreness/pain (wore MT100s, sockless and cut up so they don't cut my feet up)
- Finally finished a Horton race (the "beginner" Horton race, but still a finish)
- Sweet Patagonia shirt, IN MY SIZE (unlike the cotton race t-shirt - smallest size was a Large)
- Hung out with friends
- Ran on trails
- Had fun
- Didn't puke
The bad:
- Tripped and skinned my knee, but didn't win "Best Blood"
- Hands were borderline frostbitten for about half of the race
- Misguided hydration and nutrition plan cost me at least 20 minutes at the end of the race, dozens of places, and almost my consciousness
- $11 for KFC-style post-race lunch - not a good deal (although since there is apparently not a KFC anywhere near Appomattox, VA, it's probably the best deal people can get around here)
The weird:
- Non-descript double-loop course, except for a few very brief interesting sections
- Guy pretending to be Anton
- Guy who called me "Greenie," then later, "stud"
Overall, not a bad first race for 2011. Had some laughs, learned some things, had some fun. Can't say that I'm totally satisfied with the outcome, since (as always) it was my secret hope that it would turn out that I was in better shape than I thought. Nevertheless, I'm not in worse shape than I thought, which is really more important. And now I have an appetite for the MMT 100 training run next Saturday, which is also important. And there you have it.
THE END
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)