Race Report: 24 The Hard Way (2013 USATF 24-Hour National Championship)

First, let me make one thing clear: running as many miles as possible in 24 hours, on the same loop, over and over again, is its own special type of hell. If you're looking for a "good time," look elsewhere. The race ends only when either the clock stops, or you give up. Until that point, your reward for completing a mile is . . . the chance to complete another mile. Your reward for fatigue and pain is . . . more fatigue and pain. 

So why, on earth, you may ask, would I want to do this? Well, I've been pretty quiet about running this race, because for me, this was a very personal endeavor. Here's why:

My introduction to ultrarunning was a 24-hour race (Around the Lake in Somerville, MA in 2007), and I was instantly and irrepressibly fascinated by what could be possible under such unusual rules. How many miles could somebody run in 24 hours? More importantly, how many miles could I run?

Since then, I've run ultras at many other distances, up to and including 135 miles (Badwater), but the 24-hour race always held a special appeal to me. In my mind, it continued to be a pure challenge of human limits, and one that I continued to want to test myself against.

And I did, several times, with mixed results. After a strong second-place, 111-mile performance at the Back on my Feet 24-Hour Race in 2008, under brutal heat and humidity, with virtually no shade, I failed, not once, not twice, but three times at the North Coast 24-Hour Race (the USATF National Championship race in 2010, 2011, and 2012), each time failing to make it more than 70 miles before throwing in the towel, deciding that being rewarded for my pain with more pain was no longer tolerable.

But after Badwater this past summer, and my huge comeback in the last 65 miles, I was soaking in the pool at the Vdara in Las Vegas with Chris, who's been around since I started this crazy ultrarunning thing, and when he asked me what was next, I paused for a minute. I considered the fact that I was pretty healthy and strong for once, and that the 24-hour riddle still felt distinctly unsolved. So then, with little hesitation, I told him, "24 The Hard Way - 2013 USATF 24-Hour National Championship."

So I trained with focus and confidence for the next few months, consistently racking up the miles, pushing the tempo runs, and concentrating on quality recovery. A week away from the race, I still felt a little uncertain about how this was going to go down. I would be flying solo, and with so many prior failures, history was not on my side. But on paper, I was going to show up rested, healthy, strong, and the wiser for my mistakes. Here was my opportunity; time to make the most of it.

I arrived in Oklahoma City and navigated all of the pre-race business with no major hiccups. I even got in some quality time at the Oklahoma City Monument (highly recommended if you've never been - a truly artful, tasteful, and meaningful memorial). 

One thing that I didn't do (and here is where the self-critique starts) is set very specific goals. I had a vague idea in my mind that 120 miles would be decent (at least a PR), 140 miles would be nice (solid total, and 5 miles more than the minimum to make the US 24-Hour National Team), and 160 would be super-awesome (but probably too hard). But I didn't really cement these in my mind, and I didn't hang too much of "success" on their achievement. Really, I just wanted to run respectably for 24 hours, and not drop out early, as was historically the case.

And so, a few minutes before 9 a.m. on Saturday, 25 October 2013, all of the runners gathered on the bridge just outside of the Bluff Creek Park loop, the 0.9675-mile monster that we would all battle for the next 24 hours. Make no mistake about this: while Chisholm is a gracious race director and an excellent host, the course was definitely doing this "the hard way," and not just because of the asphalt surface (traditional for a 24-hour race). With 50+ feet of gain/loss per loop, the elevation change added up to about 5000 feet over 100 miles, which eventually becomes significant. The weather was overcast and in the mid-50s at the start, but it steadily got colder overnight, and, after the afternoon rain, this was not the direction anybody wanted the temperature to take.  All of these conditions put together meant (to me, anyway, and certainly in retrospect) that this was a day to race against the competition, and survive, and not to set records or otherwise be a hero.

But of course, this is a championship race, and none of that stopped anybody from trying. So while I stayed within myself for the first 6 hours, running comfortably and barely pushing, the leaders were surging ahead. I was feeling okay, and getting comfortable with the loop, but I could feel (vaguely, since it is hard to tell where anybody is in a race like this) that I was losing ground. This was disheartening, and was further complicated by the fact that I couldn't quite get the nutrition right. My energy felt a little low, I had to pee too much, I wasn't eating enough, then maybe I was eating too much . . . On and on like that, and even though I kept going, the "comfortable groove" that I was hoping to settle into would never materialize.

All the while, I tried to suppress the negative thoughts. "Jeepers, that first hill feels like a mountain now." "Oh great, somebody else is passing me." "Yuck! Here's that spot that smells like poop again." But when you are forced to submit to the same stupid (albeit tree-lined and generally pleasant) scenery for hours and hours, you lose some mental resolve. It didn't help (alert: more self-criticism) that I hadn't been getting as much sleep as I would have liked in the week prior to the race. Not that I was falling asleep on my feet, but I just didn't have the mental energy to turn that negativity around.

But I kept putting one foot in front of the other, putting on a good show for the crews hanging around the start/finish in their makeshift tent-city, while each time I would cross the line and pass my lonely duffle bag, sitting in the grass on the side of the path, and wish just a little bit that somebody was there to encourage me, hand me fruit snacks, or even just tell me what lap I was on. Eventually, I started feeling bad for my bag, which got rained on, and then the rain froze on the bag overnight. Sometime shortly after that, I considered the possibility that I might have been losing my mind.

For everybody else's part, they were plenty courteous. Aside from one runner being rude to the start/finish folks when there was a lap count issue that affected everybody early on, and another runner who very aggressively requested AN ENTIRE CAN of Red Bull overnight, all of the other runners, including the race director, were encouraging each time that I passed. And that's all well and good, but I've heard all of that before. That brutally unbiased observer, to give me the straight story, wasn't there, and I found my resolve waning and drifting.

And so, struggling with the cold and low energy, at around 9 p.m., about 12 hours into the race, I stopped in the start/finish tent, and stared at the leader board. I was somewhere low on the list, with my 75 miles, and I imagined that everybody else was still going strong and charging hard. Laying down, under blankets and harsh floodlights, against the background hum of the generators, was what I knew how to do, and it seemed as though this would be yet another failed effort.

But I couldn't sleep, and I didn't feel that bad, so I got out there, this time in a jacket and long pants, and resumed running, about 45 minutes later. And just like that, I was back on track, knocking out the laps on the dark, dark path. 

About four hours later, my energy started falling, and with it, my confidence. I wasn't going to be able to keep this up. I stopped again.

And again, 45 minutes later, I was up and running. I marveled that not once, but twice in the same race, I could make such a significant comeback. Better yet, my legs barely felt sore, and my feet were plenty comfortable in my Nike Pegasus 29+ "Team" shoes, in green and white, which I added yellow laces to as a tribute to G-PACT, my Badwater 2013 charity, and the disease which my little sister struggles with. So maybe I could do this.

And then, another four hours passed, and I found myself with no energy, and little will to continue. I had been trying to make six laps an hour, but it was getting difficult, and having fallen off twice already in the same race gave me no confidence in my ability to continue. I had no idea what mile or lap I was on. All I wanted was for the clock to stop and the race to end. I wanted to stop running.

My stomach was shut down. The same water that I had drunk an hour ago was sloshing in my stomach. I grimly contemplated that this must be what gastroparesis feels like, and was darkly amused that I had inadvertently managed to connect to the disease and the charity cause by inducing it in myself. At the same time, I reasoned that people, including my sister, could live (albeit uncomfortably) with it, so I may as well keep on running.

And that I did, pushing through the blinding low points with slow jogging or walking until the lights came on again. I was getting a vague sense that I might be passing people and moving up in the standings. That was encouraging. But I had given up on any mileage goal. I just wanted to keep moving forward, mostly to prove that this beast hadn't won again.

Finally, the last lap came around, they handed me a flag with my number on it, and I had the next six minutes to run as much of the loop as I could before time was called. Part of me wanted to slow down or stop. But a better part of me wanted to prove, one last time, that the 0.9675-mile monster hadn't gotten the better of me. I pushed one last time up the mountain, one last time down the hill, cruised one last time on the never-ending straightaway with the maddening hill near the end, and ran one last time under the Christmas lights, still generator-lit at nearly 9 a.m. Two minutes. Push push. Then, at last, the gun. Relief. Who knows how I finished. Who cares. I could finally stop running that loop.

I trudged unceremoniously to the finish area with another runner, chattering about the race as if it hadn't been pure torture that had just ended a few minutes ago. 

And then, when I reached the finish line, and saw the results, I experienced an appropriate mix of elation and disappointment. My last surge had impossibly propelled me to third place overall, just seven miles behind the winner, and a mile ahead of Connie Gardner, of 2010 North Coast "why did you stop?" fame. But alongside that was the disappointment that I had made "only" 133 miles, narrowly missing the 135 minimum mark needed for US National 24-Hour Team consideration. 

But joy won out, and I thanked the race director copiously, before I sauntered over to my duffle bag to lug it, by myself, to my rental car, where I would go on to change my clothes, sleep in the back seat of, drive to an Indian buffet where I would eventually stop eating due not to being full, but fatigue, sleep some more, repack my stuff, and ultimately drive to the airport to catch a flight to Detroit for a work trip. Cage the Elephant was generally right:  "there ain't no rest."

Overall, a few days later, I have mixed feelings about this race. On the one hand, this is almost the most miles that I've run at one time, and certainly the fastest that I've ever run a distance this long. But my legs aren't trashed at all. This may be the first time after an ultra when I was back to normal running the next day. So I left something on the table. And with that "something" being 90 minutes of stoppage time, it's hard not to think that what I left on the table might have been the win, and the auto-qualifying spot on the US National 24-Hour Team.

But ultimately, I accomplished my basic goal - to legitimately push my limits in a 24-hour race. I survived, and, in spite of some errors, turned in a pretty solid result. 

And going forward from here, I feel even more optimistic about the future. The good thing about leaving something on the table is that you know that there's more out there, and greater potential to reach. Based on this performance, I am now more confident that, if not this year, some year soon, I will be toeing the line at the 24-Hour World Championship Race, proudly wearing "USA" across my chest. 

And beyond that, who knows. But there has to be something, and that's still a huge part of the appeal. 

So on this, my birthday, and the start of a new year in my life, I'm excited about the road ahead - especially since, health and powers above willing, I will be running it.

Week in Review: 29 January - 4 February, and "Training Beautiful"

Here's how this past week went down:

29 January: 21+ miles (140 minutes), all over Baltimore, feeling strangely fine

30 January: 10 miles (70 minutes) at APG at lunch, then another 13 miles (90 minutes) to, with, and from the Fed Hill run

31 January: 10 miles (70 minutes) at APG at lunch

1 February: 10 miles (70 minutes) at APG at lunch, then a total of 10 miles (70 minutes) in the evening with the Wednesday Night run from O'Donnell Square

2 February: 1 mile (10 minutes) easy, because there wasn't time for more

3 February: 5+ miles (37 minutes) at APG at lunch, then 21+ miles (185 minutes) easy-ish in the Patapsco area in the late afternoon

4 February: 11 miles (77 minutes) in the morning, under ominous skies, then 7 more miles in the evening (49 minutes) after the heavens opened up, in rain/sleet/snow

Total Time: 868 minutes
Total Distance: 120 miles

(WARNING HTML ERROR BELOW NOT FIXING IT SORRY GUYS)

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(This picture is about to have a point)

As I sit here after a cold, dark, slightly snowy, slightly spiteful seven-mile run to close out a debatably dismal day of mindless meandering, against false reassurance from "a friend" that "it should be a nice day out at least" (which I knew to be untrue, since red skies in the morning make sailors take warning, and probably piles of cat puke on the rug, too), it seems more than a little strange that the first and foremost thoughts in my mind are about "training beautiful." Maybe that's because earlier in the week, at the prompting of scenes like the above, and the unseasonably warm weather, I couldn't help drifting back to the days of my first marathon, Baltimore, in 2004, and pondering the path that led me there.

I had always wanted to run a marathon, and when the time seemed right, Baltimore seemed like the place, and I trained dutifully for 4 months for marathon day. And, as luck would have it, marathon day was magical. After the race, I hastily scribbled notes in my running log (now strangely missing from the bookcase under the stairs upstairs, but that's a mystery for another day), trying to capture all of the beauty of the race, and all of the people who made it so beautiful: my sister Rachel, who let me crash at her apartment at the Hopkins Homewood campus the night before the race, another runner named Mark who I met during the race, who I ran with for most of the race, who called me "crazy sock guy" because I was wearing socks for gloves, Liz Krimmel, who was out for a run around Lake Montebello right when I got to that part of the course, and who made it into one of the race photographs with me, John Onofrey, who cheered me on as he walked through Mount Vernon, then came out to hang out with me at the end of the race, when nobody else was there for me, because nobody else seriously thought I could do it, or do it as well as I did it - 3:00:51, easily qualifying for the Boston Marathon (my goal), painfully short of a sub-3 hour race. At the risk of sounding ridiculous, there were so many times during that race when I felt myself moving effortlessly down the streets of Baltimore (particularly in the first half, when I was on 2:50 pace), and my heart was overflowing with joy.

But all of that isn't even half of the story. This is where the training comes in. Because for four months prior to that race, I came back to my parents' house after long, seemingly pointless days of work at APG, to suffer through training runs of upwards of 12 miles on weekdays, and upwards of 70 miles per week (at the time, nearly unthinkable numbers). My training for the 2004 Baltimore Marathon was some of the most disciplined, directed training of my life. I followed the "advanced" training schedule that I had photocopied from an issue of Runner's World exactly. Hill work on Tuesdays, speed work on Thursdays, Sunday long runs. And over the course of the training program, amazing things happened, things that may seem inconsequential in words, but are burned into my mind as beautiful experiences. I remember the long runs - going to Cracker Barrel with my family after my first 18-mile run, and the transcendent taste of the chicken and dumplings, a 20-miler the morning after my 5-year high school reunion, even now amazed that I could run that long after such a long night, having gone that distance so few times before. I remember the intervals in the warm, humid dusk at the now-nonexistent Harford Community College track, 800 meters on a minute rest, quads and lungs burning, but getting no reprieve until the 20-minute tempo run home against the backdrop of the setting sun was complete. And I remember the misery of the easy days after the brutality of the workouts. I remember 4-mile runs on Wednesdays after hard hill workouts that may as well have been 400 miles, and 50-minute runs on Saturdays when I would stagger through the last 10 minutes, shower, and flop on a beanbag chair in my room in front of the Playstation and Silent Hill.

In fact, if I were given a calendar and some time to meditate, I could probably remember something from just about every training run that I did leading up to the 2004 Baltimore Marathon. Like the contrails in the sky over APG, they still pass through my mind every so often, eventually spreading, dissipating, and being absorbed into the backdrop, to reappear again some other day. Every day of training tattooed a new, obscure memory into my mind, and so I was not just building my body, but my mind and my heart, accumulating willpower and emotion, ready to be released on race day, to coalesce into a coherent scene of brilliance (see picture above), regardless of the quality of each individual memory. Good, bad, indifferent, it all came together for a few hours to create something meaningful and beautiful.

And so, today, on my "nice day out at least," I spitefully stepped out the front door, and laced my key into my shoes as fat wet snowflakes, punctuated with frozen raindrops, fell on my face. I switched on my iPod shuffle, and sure enough, first song - "Bombs Over Baghdad" - "weatherman sayin' it ain't gonna rain." I pressed on through Patterson Park, smiling as I passed the few brave souls out walking dogs that wouldn't take "miserable" for an answer. My stride was quick, strong, and even, my breathing was smooth. I headed for the waterfront, to the promenade, as the darkness grew, to "Amen Fashion (Jesus is the New Black)," passing two other runners plodding through this unfortunate night. My turnaround point was the Fells Point pier, and as the brilliance of the neon signs across the water flashed across my field of view as I made a sharp turn inland, I felt re-invigorated. I felt no pain. Speeding down Aliceanna, then Eastern, the snow had stopped. The rain had slowed to just a few drops. "Edge of Glory" came on as I knew I had only about 5 minutes of this left. Part of me didn't want it to end. But most of me was glad that I closed out the run at 6:45/mile pace, arriving at my doorstep to dying horns in my earbuds as I unlaced my shoes - a warm shower couldn't come quickly enough. In spite of spite, I felt joy for outlasting Mother Nature, at least for tonight, and for feeling so strong under apparently adverse conditions.

Another contrail across my mind, to be revisited in a race someday. Someday, this will be nothing but beautiful.

The Best Run I Never Did

DISCLAIMER

All activites detailed in the following blog post are, as far as you know, and as far as any physical evidence that you have access to suggests, entirely fictional. Any cuts, bruises, scrapes, or torn clothing of anybody's bearing a striking resemblance to anything described in this blog post are, to the extent that you can prove, entirely coincidental.

END DISCLAIMER

Before I begin this little story, I'd like to briefly explain (but not justify) why on earth I would do something so downright stupid. Let's chalk it up to things being "weird" lately, being unsure of what to do with myself, part of me not really wanting to go home, part of me looking for a challenge as a distraction, part of me wanting to accomodate others at my own expense, and a whole lot of "let's worry about that later." And there might be some other stuff. But for the moment, that's not really the point, and in any case, what may have happened may have happened, and its only use now is as a teaching point going forward. With that . . .

A week ago today, I left my car parked at the Park and Ride at the I-95/I-495 intersection, en route to North Coast via carpool. I had originally planned to long-term park at Greenbelt, only to find that all of those spots were taken. So, in the interest of not holding up the trip, I drove to the next available place for leaving a car, parked in what may have been a somewhat questionable manner, and continued on my merry way to my race, and then Israel, all the while, in the back of my mind, I couldn't help thinking occasionally that I wasn't sure how I was going to get BACK to the car.

You see, it turns out that there is no service (other than private taxi, maybe) to that Park and Ride. And nobody was going to be around to pick me up and take me there. So, I decided to walk. From above, on Google Maps, the route seemed walkable. I arrived at the College Park Metro Station at around 1100, after a 12-hour flight, a 2.5 hour layover, and another hour flight.

Not to spoil the surprise too much, but to illustrate what happened, here was my actual route (sorry, HTML, like most basic features on Blogger, is "borken"; you have to copy and paste):

http://www.mapmyrun.com/routes/view/51736190/

The squiggle on the screen is pretty much meaningless, especially without the topographic view, so allow me to explain what happened. But first, let me mention that I was carrying all of my stuff from the trip (about 40 pounds of whatever), some in a backpack (about 10 pounds), but most (about 30 pounds) in an awkward shoulder-slung duffle bag, thereby increasing the baseline agony by about 30%.

The first thing I did, predictably, was to go the wrong way from the metro station. At this point, it wasn't raining very hard, so the consequences, other than the time it took to walk a little over a mile all the way down to the anything-but Good Luck Road before I realized my mistake, were minimal. Of course, right around the time that I realized what I did wrong, the rain started coming down harder. I took cover under a bus shelter, hoping that it would pass. Half an hour later, it did not. I decided that I was going to have to move, and move quickly, if I was ever going to get back to my car. I put as much stuff as I could inside as many plastic bags as I had at my disposal, and, when the rain let up slightly, I made sort of a break for it, as fast as one can break with that much extra weight.

Keep in mind, that if you're in the rain long enough, there is no such thing as a "light rain." It's either raining or it's not. Eventually, you get soaked all the way through. This eventually happened somewhere between the Metro Station, where I started, and the University of Maryland College Park campus. This was about when the rain temporarily stopped, although not long enough for any of the standing water to dry, so I was getting sprayed by passing vehicles about every five minutes or so, ensuring that my clothes (a button-down plaid shirt, and "destroyed" skinny jeans - this will become relevant in a bit) never got any dryer.

In retrospect, the walk through the UMD campus was the best part of this misguided journey. Although at this point, a little over halfway through the trek distance-wise, I was getting tired, and shifting the duffle bag from shoulder to shoulder more frequently, the terrain (other than the blasted climbs from one side of campus to the other) was pavement or concrete, a luxury that would soon pass . . .

. . . when I reached the first questionable part of this route. On the map, it appeared that there was a road cutting behind one of the agricultural buildings. In reality, there was . . . behind a fence that separates UMD's agricultrual utopia from the rest of crappy old regular nature. Seeing as to how I was right near the entrance, and getting caught here would cause far greater problems, I instead chose to bushwhack along the fence into a neighborhood bordering ag-world. There was a semblance of a trail that somebody may have once used for this purpose, but it was long-since overgrown, and there were plenty of opportunities to cross mini-streams and get thorns in my sandal-shod, ill-protected feet (and, for good measure, one branch-poke in my right eye that dislodged my contact lens). I snuck around the side of somebody's house (I don't think they were home anyway), then dashed through the yard into the public street before anybody but the mailman across the street (who, like everybody else in the world, clearly didn't care that I was walking along soaking wet with huge heavy bags) was the wiser.

Now it looked like smooth sailing - up the road in the neighborhood, cut through the wooded area behind these houses, Park and Ride, profit. Except that as I began to climb yet another stupid hill, the realization that this wooded area was probably part of ag-world hit me. Which meant more fences, probably. As I cut down to the pool (also marked off-limits, but guarded only by a gate to stop vehicular traffic), the fences came into view, and I just about cried and gave up hope. I dropped my bags on the front step of the pool house and sat for about fifteen minutes, being wet and sad and thinking about admitting defeat. As if the universe knew it had me on the ropes, it started raining even harder. Then I decided that I had come too far, and victory was so close on the map, that I needed to at least try to find a way through. I left my bags and scouted the area. To the right of the pool house was a lower section of fence, thanks to the buildup of sand and other silt-like material in front of it. Conveniently, the barbed wire on the top was down.

I thought a few times before I did this. I double and triple-checked the map. I lowered my backpack to the other side of the fence, hesitated, brought it back over to the legal side, and did a test-climb of the fence. I knew that once I dropped my bag on the other side, there would be no going back, and I had no idea what was coming next. But knowing that I could climb over the fence gave me at least some confidence that I might really be able to get back if I needed to.

I dropped my bags over the side, then my sandals, and then I straddled the fence. Mistake. While I was busy being preoccupied with the downed barbed wire, my pants caught in the barbs on the top of the fence. Perhaps I could have been more graceful about this, but as this was a major turning point, and nothing was going to stop me from gaining the other side of the fence, I pushed over, and ripped through my jeans and my boxers, about three inches down from the crotch along the inseam. There may be a few other catches in the seat of the jeans, too. Good thing they were "destroyed" to begin with - now I can wear them a bit more legitimately.

Smelling victory at last, I crested a small berm, and slid down the other side, cursing the awkward bags as I struggled to stay upright. Back on a road - hooray! A gravel road, of course, but one that was on the map, with recognizable landmarks on either side. I could even see where I was going to cut across . . .

And just to taunt me a bit more, I cut across right in front of the bee keeping zone of ag-world. Yes, somehow, even though it was raining, a bee stung my foot. Hooray. I pressed on towards - yep, you guessed it, another fence. This one was taller, and I was going to have to toss my bags over. Except not really, because, having learned that pretty much anything will stick on the barbs at the top of one of those fences, I just lifted them up and over, let them hang, and then rolled over the "safe" zone that I created with the bags, thereby not ripping my jeans any further. I had to damage the fence a bit to get my bags down, since I wasn't tall enough to lift the duffle bag high enough to get it off of the barb. So now one of them is bent down. And, for good measure, I decided to relieve myself on that fence, since I thought it would be the last one.

But wait - one more. The seemingly easy road from the area where all of the road construction equipment was hanging out to the Park-and-Ride was gated, and the gate was shut. Fortunately, this was a padlock on a chain, chained loosely enough that I could slide my bags through the opening, then climb up and over the chain myself (of course, not without the requisite cuts and scratches on the hands that come from this). Miraculously, my car was still there, albeit with a warning and a ticket on it for (allegedly) parking outside of a designated space. That's all for later, though - for now, my prize was braving 3:20 p.m. DC-area traffic in pouring rain (that means two hours to go 30 miles . . .)

So, to recap, that was an incredibly stupid 6+ mile venture that left me muddy, bruised, scratched, and stuck with thorns that I'm still picking out of my feet with tweezers. And probably it would have made a lot more sense to cab, or call a friend desperately for help. But then again, there are some situations in which you get in too far, and there's no turning back, and you're the only person you can rely on to pull yourself through. And really, in a situation that's this stupid, where you're the only one at fault, you really shouldn't drag anybody else into it. (Which in this case created this bizarre side effect of being, at a glance, part of civilized society, and yet actually drifting through the world as some sort of ghost, everybody looking right through you, having absolutely no idea what kind of trouble you're in. Although, in a less immediate way, that's not all that strange.) This was one of those situations. And while the overarching lesson is to keep yourself out of this kind of trouble in the first place, the secondary lesson here is that if you do find yourself in too deep, you've got to find a way to slog through that mud, and climb those fences, because sometimes, you're the only person that can (or should be expected to) help you. (Plus, in a strange way, that was all kinda fun . . . emphasis on "kinda" . . .)

Week in Review: 14-20 August, and Beast of Burden Race Report

Okay, numbers first:

Sunday: 4 miles easy (30 minutes), Canton/Fells

Monday: 11 miles (75 minutes) at some random place off of Route1 in Nottingham.

Tuesday: 2 miles warmup (15 minutes), 5 miles of track intervals (really complicated workout that I can't exactly remember -35 minutes), 2 miles warmdown (15 minutes)

Wednesday: 10 miles (70 minutes), on the greatest Harbor Promenade run ever (end of a rainbow what?)

Thursday: 6 miles easy (60 minutes)

Friday: 1 easy mile (10 minutes)

Saturday: 100 miles. Beast of Burden. 20:15, 3rd male, 5th overall.

Total minutes: 1510
Total miles: 141

Okay, now, Beast of Burden:

It should be no secret that after my 100-mile PR (16:19) at Beast of Burden, I thought that this year's edition of the race would be ripe for a 100-mile PR. Add Valmir Nunes, the Badwater record-holder, to the mix, and we were in for a fast race.

After a bunch of photos of me and Valmir with various people for personal use (minor celebrity what?), we lined up ready to rumble. The horn sounded, and we were off, super-fast. I stayed behind Valmir's suicidal pace, already feeling as though I was going to have to concede first to him. Everything hurt and felt wrong, and I was sweating profusely (it was hot at the start, as Valmir demonstrated before the start by rubbing his finger on his wet shoulder. So I soldiered along, completing the first 25-mile loop in just under 3:40 - behind last year's pace.

So it was to my surprise to see that Valmir was only about a mile and a half ahead of me. Considering how awful I felt, this was a minor miracle. Still, I wasn't focused on winning - I was trying my best to enjoy the course, which included jumping up on the drawbridge as it was descending for the crossing (it was randomly timed to be coming down just as I was approaching it).

I reached the end of my otherwise uneventful second lap to frantic claims that Valmir was in trouble, and that I could pass him and take the lead. At this point, a little over 50 miles in, I had finally found my stride, and I began to chase him down. I nearly caught him just past the unmanned aid near one of the bridges in the first segment of the loop, but when I came close, he looked back, and I instanty felt my stomach get sick (not sure how coincidental it was) and I backed off.

I maintained the chase, and it was getting exciting, because people passing on their way back were getting excited and telling me how close he was. Finally, I reached the aid station at mile 62.5, and, knowing that he had mentioned that he liked 100Ks a lot better than 100-mile race. I figured that this was a good time to pass him, as he was just sitting at the aid station (somebody asked him if he liked the summer version of the race, or the winter version of the race, which he won last winter, better, to which he responded "I don't speak English.")

As we left the aid station and crossed the bridge, I subtly slipped ahead of him, and now, after 63+ miles of chasing, I was finally in the lead. As if my water bottle knew it, it shot off a spurt of pale orange water (from the peach Endurolyte fizz that I had put in it at the previous aid station).

But the celebration was premature, because Valmir was not about to give up without a fight, and so, after holding the lead for only about 15 minutes, I suddenly lost control of my stomach and started dry-heaving. Valmir, gunning hard from behind, passed me. I hadn't eaten enough at the aid station, and I was feeling weak, sick, and out-of-it. I struggled to the next aid station, where I lay down for two hours, trying to get myself together. Between being pushed to my physical limits chasing Valmir, and being in a strange place emotionally, at least in part because less than two weeks ago, I had broken up with my fiancee of three years, I needed this time to get myself together. I didn't want to give up - I couldn't sleep, and my mind was still on the race. But my body wasn't ready yet, and I was still emotionally disheveled. There would be nobody there to give me a kick in the ass and make me move; I would have to do it on my own.

So finally I did, resolved to finish the race and to enjoy the beautiful night, the view of the Erie Canal, and the opportunity to be there, doing this ridiculous race. I started out at a walk, but quickly graduated to a run, and soon I was at the finish, ready to set out on my last lap, armed with the news that Valmir was again having trouble. Comeback, maybe?

Alas, not in the cards. I was getting sleepy and chafed, and still having trouble eating enough to sustain a solid pace. So I ran a lot of the way out, but when I saw Valmir at the 8-mile mark on the way out (still 6 miles ahead of me), I decided to just enjoy, and practice my powerwalk on the last 12.5 miles, channeling my best Badwater climb up Mt. Whitney. Of course, the course wasn't finished kicking me in the teeth just yet - it started raining with about 5 miles to go, which was hell on my chafing. I waddled several miles before the rain thankfully stopped. I walked across the finish line in 20:15, happy to have finished.

It turned out that I was third male, 5th overall, and the winner had run 17:52, not close to the course record of 16:19 that I set last year, which was some consolation. I was thankful to have finished, and jonesing for some A&D ointment to soothe my chafing.

So yet another "moral" victory, which you and I are probably sick of, but nevertheless, there were a lot of great things about the race, not the least of which was the emotional purge that my final dry heave catalyzed. Having come into this race in a weird place, and having spent so much of it on the brink of disaster chasing down Valmir (who didn't win anyway; as it turned out, we beat each other up so much that an uninvolved third party, with no dog in our fight, stole the victory), I needed my "slow, miserable" last lap to prove to myself that in spite of circumstances, I am still strong, and I can still finish an ugly race on my own. Not to mention there was some pretty sweet lightning to look at on the return trip.

So now that that's over, and I've lived to tell the tale, it's onward and upward to new adventures. My September is 90% set now, and I'm ready to keep churning out the 100-mile weeks, as this race, save for the chafing, has left me remarkably physically intact. On to a new week . . . :)

2010 Beast of Burden Summer 100 Race Report

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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