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Talladega Night: The 2014 Pinhoti 100 Mile Endurance Run Race Report

Pinhoti 100 map

When my running renaissance took form in early 2010, the allure of the ultra run pulled on my conscience like no other physical challenge. At the time, finishing a half marathon was enough to exhaust me, but I knew that if I just stuck with the training and applied the lessons learned during each phase of my distance development, someday, maybe I, too, would cross a 100 mile finish line.

Saturday, November 1, 2014
4:30 a.m.

It’s dark. It’s cold. I’m in the back of my car, eyes shut, huddled close to Edna for warmth. My dad is driving and my friend, Siamak, rides shotgun as the four of us make our way from Sylacauga, Alabama, where the race will eventually end, to middle-of-nowhere Heflin, quaintly dropped in the heart of the Talladega forest, where the race is to start.

It’s a 90 minute drive, which translates to 90 minutes of mental unrest. My mind is racing before my legs even get a chance, full of doubt, full of wonder.

What the hell have you gotten yourself into, Jeff?

This familiar pre-race phrase attacks at will. Each time I do my best to let it go.

This is exactly what I want to do, I remind myself. This is the adventure I’ve been looking for.

I’m right about that. The years of slow build-ups, from 5ks to half marathons to marathons to 50 milers is over. My first hundo is on the doorstep. Time to let it in.

6:00 a.m.

My half conscious battle with my own thoughts is interrupted by the intimidating shake and rattle of the gravel road beneath us. We have entered the official forest grounds, and as we slowly navigate the twists and turns of sharp climbs and descents, my stomach begins to churn.

Nerves. It’s just nerves. Chill out, man. Once this thing starts you’ll have 30 hours to wrestle with your nerves.

6:30 a.m.

Finally at our destination, parked alongside a small army of vehicles housing anxious adventurers, I open the door only to shut it again immediately. “Wow, it’s cold,” I say. “And windy!”

The wind is going to be an issue today. So is the cold. It’s Alabama. I didn’t think it got cold here.

WRONG.

The temps right now are in the 30s, with winds swirling at 20-30 mph. Luckily, I came prepared, with lots of warm clothes and an organized system for my crew to help me find things as quickly as possible.

As we make the half mile trek down to the start line, the sun begins to rise and nervous energy fills me. I look around at my crew: Edna, Dad, Siamak.

Man, am I lucky, or what?

I couldn’t ask for better group of people to help me along on this journey. With over 17 years of experience in ultras, Edna knows every up and down possible and how to handle each one. As one of the toughest and smartest guys I know, Siamak as my pacer is like having Tiger Woods as my caddy. In fact, I know all I have to do today is get to mile 55, where Siamak will start pacing, and I’ll will get that buckle I came here to get. And my Dad… well, who knows me any better than he? He’s been at all my other firsts (first 5k, first half, first full, first 50). I can’t imagine breaking my hundred mile cherry without his company.

Today, the four of us run as ONE. On my legs, of course.

We reach the start line and I embrace the adventure at hand. I give final hugs and farewells, excited to test my physical body like it’s never been tested before.

Jeff and Edna Pinhoti 100 2014

With Edna at the start line.

And then:

BAM! We’re off!

Miles 0 – 6.7

Slow, slow, slow, slow.

Today I will run slow.

I will run for a VERY VERY VERY LONG TIME, but it will be slow. This puts me at the back of the pack from the very beginning, and as we enter on to the first of what will be 80-some miles of single track, I have no problem with people flying by me as if we were out for a quick tempo run. More power to ‘em, I think.

My race strategy is to run the flats and downhills at a comfortable pace and walk each and every incline, no matter how slight. With over 14,000 feet of climbing and 28,000 feet elevation change overall, there will obviously be plenty of places to walk and lower my heart rate. I suspect there will be a point where I’ll be wanting incline, so I have an excuse to slow down even more.

Here in the beginning too, I try to focus on just keeping a constant rhythm to my breath, staying connected to the present moment. Meditation has long been a key training component for me, and its importance has never been greater than it will be today. Thinking about how far I have yet to go would just kill my brain, and thus send me into negative space — a place I cannot afford to be. Focusing on the NOW, for me, is the best way to avoid such peril.

And the NOW is so full of beauty, so full of life! Just look at this goregous forest! The fall colors of red, yellow and brown fill an otherwise green backdrop that, with each breath, sends me to a happy place knowing I, too, am a part of this grandness.

How lucky am I?

SNAP! THWACK!

Ouch, shit!

These same beautifully colored leaves blanketing the ground also hide insidious roots and rocks that lie beneath. In the first 6+ miles, it is already apparent that I am not going to win the battle against them. All I can do — SHIT! OUCH! DAMN IT! — is tread lightly and keep my toes/ankles/arches together the best I — DAMN IT! OUCH! SHIT! — can.

“HOLA, PAPI!” I hear from up the trail, followed by excited clapping. It’s Edna — my dear, sweet Edna. She is heavily wrapped in coats and blankets to ward off the cold, but the temperature hasn’t cooled off her spirit as she gleefully cheers me in to the first aid station.

I smile big, give her a hug, ditch my jacket (I’m getting warm now myself), chug some Pedialyte and try to get some calories in me. Today’s fueling plan is, like always, the see-food diet: eat whatever looks good at any given time. I also make sure to eat at every aid station and to take a little with me in a ziploc baggie that I put in my pack for the trail. I’m wearing my trusty 50 oz Salomon S-Lab 5 hydration pack that I keep filled with water and plenty of goodies in the pockets, like trail mix, Ginger Chews and Ibuprofen. My crew has Pedialyte for me at every crew-accesible aid station. I make sure to chug this as opposed to the race offered Heed.

(Off topic, but can we all just scratch our heads for a moment as to why so many ultra races offer Heed at their events? No offense to Hammer products, as I do like some of their gels, but have the makers of Heed ever tried Heed? To me, it tastes like flat, chalk-flavored drink spiked with Aspertame.)

I try not to waste too much time at the aid station, a theme I aim to carry over the whole race. A quick kiss “adios” and I’m back on the trail.

Miles 6.57 – 13.27

Energized from seeing my crew, I get back into a running groove. For the first time today I look down at my watch to see how much time has passed. An hour and forty-five minutes!?!? Wowsers!

Time DOES fly when you’re having fun! It seems like the race just started; and relatively speaking, that is a true statement, but the fact that nearly two hours have gone by without me even realizing it, is a very good sign. It proves that the meditative mind is working. I’m in the moment.

Pinhoti 100 elevation profile

In this particular moment I feel there are a lot of rolling hills early on. While I did glance at the elevation profile and aid station chart pre-race, I didn’t commit much of it to memory because doing so would only intimidate and haunt me. I know there is a big climb before mile 40 and another killer climb around mile 70, but other than that, I’m just going with the proverbial flow.

And the flow is good, because before I — SNAP! THWACK! DAMN IT! OUCH! SHIT! — know it, I’m approaching another trail head and hear “HOLA PAPI!” from a smiling, cheering Edna.

This melts my heart, man. Every single time. How lucky am I!?

I eat and chug Pedialyte while Siamak fills my pack with more water. The crew is attentive and supportive, careful not to ask me “How do you feel?”, a question that anyone in an ultra already knows the answer to. While it may be early enough in the race still to not yet feel like absolute shit, we are fast approaching the 15 mile mark, a point where no matter what the race, I no longer feel fresh and ache-free.

My hips have been aching a little more than usual here to start the race, but I keep it to myself, expecting the feeling will go away. Besides, I have already tripped and stubbed my toes on unsuspecting rocks about fifty times, so the throbbing in my lower extremities does well to hide any aches above the knees.

Shoal Creek Pinhoti 100 2014

Miles 13.27 – 18.27

Back out on the trail, I chat a little bit with Burt from Louisiana. He is running behind me the whole time, so I don’t get a good look at his face, but we pass the next five miles by chatting about ultras we’ve run and how hard this one is compared to the rest.

During our conversation, the first one I’ve had all day with any other participants, the ache in my hips magically disappears while — DAMN IT! OUCH! SHIT! FUUUUUUUUUCK — I keep stubbing my toes like it was my one and only goal. The trail gods were smart to hide their deviousness underneath the beauty of colorful leaves.

Miles 18.27 – 22.71

“HOLA PAPI!!!” I hear for the third time, each one more pleasurable than the next. I stride in to Aid Station #3 knowing this will be the last time I will see my crew until I reach the top of Bald Rock at mile 41. I chug more Pedialyte, eat and relay to the crew that all systems are go. (I don’t mention the toe stubbing and ankle rolling party to them, as they appear to be having a good time. Besides, we made a pact prior: no negativity.)

Edna fills a Ziploc baggie for me with enough trail mix to feed all the runners! I consider having her dump half of it out, but in my haste, I just shove the big bag in my pack and vow to carry on. I give everyone a big hug — all this in-the-moment-mind-body-focus is making me quite the emotional sap — and Dad snaps a quick picture of the four of us before I head back out on the trail.

Jeff and crew Pinhoti 100 2014

I quickly get myself back into a groove, something that becomes easier and easier as the race goes on. Other than those five miles with Burt, I’ve been running solo throughout; and since this is a point-to-point race I suspect there will be many more miles alone before the day is through.

Thinking about this, a group of three 20-something runners from Cleveland catch up to me. I offer them a chance to pass, but they like my pace and tuck in behind. I spend the next several miles listening to their hilarious banter, a welcome distraction from the — SNAP! THWACK! DAMN IT! OUCH! SHIT! — that continues to terrorize my feet.

Miles 22.71 – 27.66

Aid Station #4 has two things I’ve never seen at an aid station before: Krispy Kreme donuts and Maker’s Mark whiskey. All things in moderation, I say, but I only have enough room for one guilty pleasure today. I devour the rich, fatty donuts and watch on curiously as the 20-somethings from Cleveland gleefully shoot Maker’s like it was a handheld of Gatorade.

Downing Maker’s Mark 22 miles into a hundred mile race? Now THAT is ballsy, I think to myself.

Back out on the trail, I again lead the way while eavesdropping on the youngsters’ conversation, every now and then adding my own chuckle or DAMN IT! OUCH! SHIT!

Miles 27.66 – 35.16

At Aid Station #5 I stuff my face with all kinds of food: cookies, chips, peanut butter and jelly. Like usual, I’m starving, but the trail mix in my pockets just doesn’t sound appealing right now, so I do what I can to fill up here.

In doing so, I take a little more time than I’d hoped, and the youngsters from Cleveland kick off down the trail ahead of me. I follow a few minutes later but they are too fast and I don’t have any hopes of catching them.

Running solo it is.

Just me… and this grand… grand forest and all the beauty it has within it. My senses are on uber alert.

I feel the cold air on my skin like an end-swell on my slowly deteriorating body. My eyes sharpen on the lush, vibrant, varying colors. The fresh scent of dirt, grass and breeze fill my nose. The rubbery aftertaste of water from my hydration bladder sits on my tongue. The cool, incessant wind whispers in my ears.

For 7.5 miles I take inventory of these senses and — SNAP! THWACK! DAMN IT! OUCH! SHIT! — give thanks to the running gods that I have the physical ability to be in a place where I can appreciate them all.

Miles 35.16 – 40.94

After such a long stretch without aid, I reach Aid Station #6 expecting to find a bounty of high calorie options to fuel what many would consider the hardest climb of the day: a 1600 foot ascent up to 2400 feet at Bald Rock, the highest point in Alabama.

Instead, what I find is a lone aid station volunteer with some water and a few packets of Hammer gels. There is nothing else.

“Isn’t there any food?” I ask, fearful of what I already expect is his answer.

“We ran out of food, I’m afraid,” he says. “I do have a couple of gels here if you want.”

“Um….”

I’m speechless. No food? It’s been 7.5 miles since the last aid station, with another 6 or so to go up a huge climb and there’s no food? What the — ???

Out of the corner of my eye I see half loaf of bread, sadly sitting idle on the ground. I grab a couple slices out of the bag and go on my way, trying not to think about how I might die of starvation trying to get up the top of this climb.

No negativity, no negativity, no negativity…

But… how does a race like this run out of food??? How can I go on with –

DING — A mental light bulb goes off.

Trail mix. Fucking trail mix. Thank the running gods that Edna gave me all that damn trail mix! YEEEEE HAAAAA!!! I got it! I got this thing! Yes!

The only thing that distracts me from my newfound excitement is the occassional SNAP! THWACK! DAMN IT! OUCH! SHIT!, an issue that apparently isn’t going away anytime soon. I don’t even care anymore. I just want to get up to the top of this mountain and see what all the fuss is about. Having run this race himself in 2012, Siamak told me that the view at the top of Bald Rock is breathtaking, well worth the laborious effort to get there.

I focus on that while keeping my head down so I don’t have to look at how far up I have yet to go.

Up, up, up…

Up, up, up…

A few false summits… followed by some strategic trail mix breaks…

Up, up, up…

Hm…. this is going to last forever it seems… until…

“Hey, Jeff! You made it!”

It’s Siamak! I don’t know who’s happier to see whom, but we’re both wearing million dollar smiles.

“Hey, real quick, check out the view, man. This is so worth it.” He guides me to the vista I’ve been waiting for and my goodness, does it ever take my breath away!

top of bald rock pinhoti 100 2014

WOW! I climbed up here! I did this! I am doing this!

“Okay, I’m going to run up ahead and to tell Edna and your dad that you’re here. We have some great stuff for you from Panera: hot macaroni and cheese, a turkey and bacon sandwhich, a rich chocolate brownie.”

Holy shit my head is going to explode. Hearing those food items roll of his tongue makes me want to cry from immense joy. He takes off and I labor on behind him, giving chase the best I can. My run is still a respectable pace. I’ve been running smart all day. Fueling, drinking. 15 more miles and I’ll have Siamak to take me the rest of the way.

Confidence swells.

And then I hear it: “HOLA PAPI!!!!”

Oh my goodness there she is! “Ednita! Mi amor!” I yell back.

“Ven, mi amor, tenemos macaroni and cheese.”

This girl certainly knows how to make me happy.

Miles 40.94 – 45.25

We get to the aid station #7 and for the first time all day I sit down in a chair and relax a little bit while stuffing my face with HOT FOOD! MMMMMM!! YUMMMMM!

In between shivery bites (the temp is dropping and the wind is swirling up here), I relay the story of the foodless aid station to my crew and mention how that trail mix saved my life.

“Well, that explains why so many people look so bad up here then,” says my dad.

Poor Dad. He’s freezing. Sometimes crewing can be harder than the actual running. Standing around and waiting all day in poor conditions for a (sometimes) cranky runner can be hard work. I try to smile and actively refrain from cranky behavior, as much as possible. After all, I’m feeling relatively AWESOME and I’m having a fucking blast.

“This is real adventure!” I say.

Siamak hands me my headlamp and reminds me to hurry up so I can make the descent before sun down. We are losing sunlight quickly, and the next four miles are a very technical, treacherous, rocky plight down the mountain. Warmed from the hot food and the love from my crew, I grab a jacket and get on down the road.

The only thing that really hurts right now are my cheeks from smiling so much.

Of course, the smile wanes some as I begin the descent from Bald Rock. Each foot fall has to be carefully planned. There is no running here. In fact, I use my hands as much as my feet to navigate the guantlet of loose rocks and sharp drop-offs.

Ahead of me is a group of three who slowly plot a line that I follow the best I can. With so much concentration being exerted, the time passes quickly, and by the time we reach the bottom, the sun wanes with only minutes left before dropping off the horizon.

Whew! Close call! That would have been a real bitch going down in the dark! I think to myself.

Miles 45.25 – 52.07

It’s a dark night now, I flip on my headlamp, and not long after that, I reach aid station #8 where Siamak is anxiously awaiting. He asks if I need anything.

“Nope. All good here.” I quickly eat, drink, give everyone a hug, and I’m off.

I’m in a groove. Other than general accumulative soreness, the body feels good. Mind is good. All is good! I try to remember what I’ve been thinking about all day and I can’t really recall — a sign that I’ve been in the moment throughout.

This moment.

And this moment.

And this one… uh-oh.

My head lamp dims. A couple of minutes later and it dims again, barely illuminating anything in front of me.

PANIC. STRESS. FUUUUUUUUUUUCK.

I turn the lamp on and off (probably not a good idea) and my assumption is correct. Dead batteries. And I’m not carrying back-ups. I was going to ask Siamak for them at the last aid station. But I forgot. And here I am in the middle of a technical gauntlet, in pitch black, helpless against the inevitable darkness that will soon consume me.

DING DING! My back up flash light! I asked for it back at mile 18, the last time I saw my crew before the 20 mile stretch without them, just in case something happened, and now it’s going to save my life.

Whew, dodged a BIG bullet there.

I spend the next few miles cursing myself for making such a rookie mistake. I changed the headlamp’s batteries to fresh ones after I used it last (in September) and it never occurred to me that they could drain even when not in use.

Lesson learned! Of course, the lesson keeps on being taught, as this small handheld flashlight doesn’t put out much of a beam. And on this — SNAP! THWACK! DAMN IT! OUCH! SHIT! — tough, unforgiving trail, every ill-illuminated — SNAP! THWACK! DAMN IT! OUCH! SHIT! — step is a dance with potential danger. I have no choice but to slow down. I won’t see my crew for another 10 miles, so I am going to have to make due.

Adapting, on the fly, is something one learns to do fairly quickly in the ultra game. In my experience as a pacer during 100 milers, the perfect race is a sort of unicorn. It just doesn’t exist. Something is bound to go unaccording to plan, at some point. Being able to adapt is key.

Miles 52.07 – 55.34

I roll into aid station #10 and refuel more quickly than usual so I can tag onto the back of a group of three just leaving. They have some of the brightest headlamps I’ve ever seen and I don’t care what their pace, I’m sticking with them as much as I can.

There is a lot of tough climbing in this section and I’m lucky to be the caboose of this group. I just cling on, focusing on my steps and their conversation. It’s a mile or so before any of them notice enough to ask me my name.

“Jeff, from Chicago,” I say. “This is my first hundred.”

Hearing myself speak, I sound winded, anxious.

“Well, Jeff from Chicago,” says the leader, Jason, up ahead, “you get up and over Pinnacle under the cut off time and you’ll finish this race.”

He goes on about the challenges of the race, how people tend to go out too fast, how people don’t fuel properly. But he seems intent on the idea that once we get past Pinnacle, it’s easy running from there on out. The other two echo his thoughts, so I put this in the back of my mind for later.

Pinnacle is the treacherous 1600ish foot climb from approximately mile 73 to 74. It’s too far off in the future for me to think about it now.

Just follow these guys to aid station #10, get some new batteries, and let Siamak take you home.

Miles 55.34 – 65.44

I roll into station #10 and immediately see my green Sable. Edna, Dad and Siamak pop out of it, ready to wait on me, whatever I need. “HOLA PAPI!”

Ay… mi corazon.

I get new batteries and then change into a dry, skintight baselayer top. I chug my first Red Bull of the race to chase two Ibuprofens. My body is pretty achy all over, and now seems like as good a time as any to shut it up, at least for a bit.

I down some more Pedialyte, tell Edna and Dad to stay warm (they are both shivering in the dark cold) and hug them before I set back out on the trail, this time with Siamak.

“Boy am I glad to see you,” I tell him. As much as I hate race cliches, I can’t help but utter “It’s all downhill from here.”

Siamak ran this race in 2012, as his first 100 mile race, and is one of the main reasons I sought to conquer the course myself. He has told me much about the trail already, but I knew if I had him pace me through the night, he would get me to the finish. You won’t find many runners tougher than Siamak. That I know. Oh yeah, he’s also the 2014 Midwest Ultra Grand Slam Champion.

I keep good company.

He leads and I follow. We spend the next 10 miles catching up on the day’s action, talking quite a bit about everything that has happened to us thus far. Just us two Chatty Cathies, running wild through the woods, trying not to — SNAP! THWACK! DAMN IT! OUCH! SHIT!

“Oh yeah, the leaves are covering all the booby traps on the trail, so be careful,” I advise too late.

We fly through aid station 11 and continue on, still talking the night away. The Red Bull is working. The Ibuprofen is working. We are cranking on the flats and downs, hiking the ups with a purpose. The temperature is dropping quickly. We both agree we need to keep moving at a brisk pace to keep our bodies warm.

And tights. I want my tights.

Miles 65.44 – 68.78

As we approach aid station #12, we come up on the back of my Sable, the Illinois plates reflecting brightly from our headlamps. The windows are fogged from my sleeping crew. I guess we got here faster than they expected. Not bad! Siamak taps on the doors and Dad and Edna quickly jump out and spring to action.

I am lucky to have these two crewing for me. Their love and dedication is beyond words and every time I’ve seen them throughout the race they have lifted my spirits, just by being here.

“Gracias, mi amor,” I say as I sit down in the chair she provides for me. “I need my tights.”

Dad grabs them from my bag and helps me get them on over my big, clunky Hoka Rapa Nuis. “You need to change socks or anything?” he asks.

“Nope, all good.” Surprisingly, my feet haven’t been wet all day long. No blisters. No issues whatsoever, unless you call generally sore feet from running all day an issue. Most ultrarunners would just call that part of a day’s work.

With warm legs now, Siamak and I get back to work.

The conversation falls off some, but both of us remain focused. We have run together a lot the last couple of years, so there is a mutual comfort in the silence.

Work, work, work. Run, run, run.

Miles 68.78 – 74.53

We get to aid station #13 and Siamak suggests we Red Bull again in preparation for the big push up Pinnacle. I take this opportunity to down another two Ibuprofen and chase it with some bean burritos.

Siamak reminds Dad and Edna that we won’t see them for a while now, that we have a really tough section coming up, and to be ready for whatever when we see them again at mile 85.

Another round of hugs and we’re gone.

There are quite a few downhills here, with a continued bevy of ankle breaking traps springing at inopportune — SNAP! THWACK! DAMN IT! OUCH! SHIT! — moments.

But then, we start up. And up. And up.

Switchbacks, switchbacks, switchbacks.

Looking up ahead proves too nauseating for me. As my quads, heels and lower back scream at me for all the contracting and flexing, I can’t imagine having to do any more climbing. All I can do is keep my head down, stare at the ground, and follow in Siamak’s wake, one step at a time.

“This is it,” he eventually says after what feels like forever, “we’re at the top!”

Siamak points to a sign that says we have reached the Pinnacle aid station. It is accompanied by a menu — yes, a menu — of food items available up ahead. Siamak and I both have grilled cheese on our minds.

Miles 74.53 – 85.63

“Grilled cheese it is!” says the volunteer who greets us at the top of Pinnacle. Up here it’s a an outright party, as everyone seems to be having a gay old time. Loud music, bouts of laughter, hot food and aromas galore.

Siamak and I take an extra few minutes to gather ourselves. “Yeah, now that you made it up here,” says one volunteer, “you’re gonna finish. It’s all downhill from here.”

That cliche again.

It doesn’t take too long out of the aid station to find out it indeed is NOT all downhill from here. There are plenty of rollers to keep us occupied, but now the challenge shifts from tough climbs to tough conditions. The temperature has dropped into the 20s, both of us fight sleep deprivation and now we battle 30 mph winds on a completely exposed ridge that seems to last forever.

For the first time in the race, I start to lose my heart. Instead of SNAP! THWACK! it’s now every, single, step that hurts. The pristine feet I boasted about earlier now reveal budding hot spots, and every time I step on wobbly rock or root it sends burning pains up through my skin.

FUUUUUUUUUCK.

I start to say this a lot now. Sometimes I say it to coax myself away from falling asleep. Sometimes I say it because I hurt. Sometimes I say it just to see if I’m still alive.

Aid station #15 has bacon that I believe came from a pig who was breathing this morning. I’ve never had fresher, better tasting bacon in my life. Or maybe I just think that because my body has deteriorated into its current state of zombieness and all my basic cognitive skills are short circuiting.

Siamak is doing something. I don’t know what. I sit down for a second and try not to fall asleep.

He must have said something to me because suddenly I’m back on the trail, though I don’t know how I got here.

“This is gonna be a hard time, but the sun will be up soon,” he encourages as we take off back down the ridge, fighting a relentless wind and despicable cold.

The next 6 miles are a complete blur: running, OUCH, sleeping, NO, drinking, FUCK, following, “COME ON, JEFF, YOU LOOK GREAT”, liar, SHIT, ouch, sleep, sun? death… RUN JEFF RUN.

We continue on, but it seems like a dream. I try to talk but nothing comes out. Even my curses stick in the back of my throat, unable to follow through. It takes every ounce of listless energy I have left to move one foot in front of the other. Luckily, that’s all that’s necessary.

And then the sun comes up.

HALLELUJAH!!!

“Hey, we’re gonna see Edna and your Dad soon,” says Siamak.

Between the prospect of seeing them and the sun coming up, I can’t help but cry.

Miles 85.63 – 89.63

“HOLA PAPI!” I see her. Dad is next to her. I’m bawling like a baby. I feel weak, exhausted. All I want to do is sleep. As I hug Edna, I feel myself wanting to collapse into her arms and hide my tears.

Why am I crying? I think to myself. I have no clue. Running exposes my feelings. Crying is inevitable.

Somewhat embarrassed by my tears, I refuel some before Siamak encourages me back onto the trail, which is now mostly road. Flushed from emotion, we start picking up the pace, cranking on the downs when possible.

It feels really good to be running like this 85 miles into the race. I wanted to be running til the end. It’s happening!

Miles 89.63 – 95.21

At aid station #17, there is no crew access, but there are homemade oatmeal cookies that I want to eat for the rest of my life.

NOM NOM NOM.

Whoever made these needs a statue dedicated in his/her honor!

Full of oatmeal cookie goodness, Siamak and I put our heads down and attack the road some more. The road is awesome. The road is great. There are no sneaky, leaf covered traps for my bludgeoned feet here. I hope the rest of the race is on roads (it’s not).

Miles 95.21 – 100.59

We approach aid station #18, the final aid station, and I am welcomed with one last “HOLA PAPI!”

If my heart could melt any more it would fall right out of my chest.

We have plenty of time to finish now, over 70 minutes ahead of the cut-off, so I take the time to sit down and slip out of my tights. Now that the sun has come up, I am warmer than I’d like to be, so any little comfort will help deter my mind from focusing on the pain that throbs throughout my entire body.

I didn’t want to admit it, but miles 75-85 almost killed me, and the fallout resonates in every nerve ending.

I eat some more, drink some more. My goodness, I’ve probably eaten and drunk a bazillion calories, and I’m STILL HUNGRY!

In my delirium, I ask Edna, “Are you going to be there at the finish?”

“Of course we will be there at the finish.”

Why wouldn’t they be at the finish? I don’t know. I don’t know anything right now. Just hurt. Hurt just know I… bleh bleh bleh. What?

When I get up from the chair, I hurt even worse.

YYYYYYEEEEEOOOOOOWWWWWWW!

Pain in my medial right knee. It’s stiff. I can hardly bend it. This has to be a casualty from the umpteenth trip, stub, roll I suffered over the last 95 miles.

Oh well. With only five to go, I ain’t stoppin’ now. We’ll just wobble until we warm up and truck along to the end.

Dad hands Siamak a walkie talkie so he can alert him of our arrival at the high school track and then the two of us head back out knowing the next time we see the crew will be there at the finish.

Yes, yes… the finish. I’m going to finish. Holy shit.

Every step is a killer now. I shuffle along the best I can. We hit some more trail, some more road.

FUUUUUUUCK, SHIIIIIIIIT, DAAAAAAAAMN.

I wonder if my incessant cursing is annoying Siamak yet. If it is, he doesn’t let it show. For that I am grateful.

Head down, arms pumping, we get through some trails and pop out on a road. Not a jeep road, not a dirt road. No. This is a good old fashioned proper highway!

We’re in Sylacauga! The track is near! The hotel is even closer! A bed! WOO HOO!

It’s happening. It’s really happening. Holy moly this religious experience turned sufferfest turned religious experience is really happening!

I hurt, but I don’t hurt! I don’t hurt, but I hurt! I don’t know what’s going on! I’m floating! I’m dead!

NO, I’M ALIIIIIIIVE!

Siamak and I run on the road for what feels like forever until finally, FINALLY…

YES. FIIIIINNNNNAAAAAALLLLLYYYYYY we turn right and I see the track entrance.

Siamak says some things to me but I can’t hear him clearly because the crowd in my head is roaring out all other thoughts.

This.

Is.

It.

My feet hit the rubber track and suddenly all pains drift away. All there is is blue sky, a rush of blood to the head and 200 meters to victory.

I cross the finish line in 28 hours, 51 minutes.

Jeff Lung Pinhoti 100 Finish Line

I collapse into Edna’s arms. Tears roll down my cheek. I hug Siamak, collect my buckle from the race director and then fall into my dad’s arms before I find myself in a chair.

Finally. In a chair. And I don’t have to get up and run anywhere.

I did it. I really did it. I ran 100 miles, on my own two feet, from the town of Heflin, to the city of Sylacauga, proving that with a little hard work and dedication, nothing is impossible. Up and over the mountains, through and between the trees, this was the experience of a lifetime — one that I will think about often, in times of darkness and times of joy.

You live and die your entire life in the span of a 100 mile race.

If you’re lucky you survive to be born again.

Jeff and Crew Finish Line Pinhoti 100 2014


Three Seasons In One Day: The 2014 Evergreen Lake Ultra and a Half (51 Mile) Race Report

Evergreen Lake Ultra and a Half 2014 B Maja Vito

(Image courtesy of Maja Vito)

Last June, I went on a weekend adventure with Jim Street and Kirsten Pieper. Along the way, they got me excited about a race they co-direct: the Evergreen Lake Ultra Series. When planning out my 100 mile race training, I made sure to put their event on the schedule.

It would not disappoint.

Pre-Race, Sunday, September 14, 2014
2:15 a.m.

Of course it’s 2:15 in the morning and of course I’m awake.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Only crazy people get excited about losing sleep and comfort to the task of running 50+ miles in the woods.

I am certified crazy, man.

Edna is crazy too, which is probably why we get along so well. Either way, we’re both up and getting ourselves ready for what will surely be a long day. It’s 38 degrees outside, with an expected high in the upper 60s, so we both pack layers along with our Red Bulls and Starbucks Double Shots.

3:30 a.m.

After a 20-minute drive from our hotel in Minonk, we arrive at Evergreen Lake (about 14 miles from Bloomington) and the groggy bustle of the start/finish line. We check in, get our bibs and say hello to Kirsten, who is busy greeting chilly runners and directing us towards the food.

FOOD!

“I’m only here for the food anyway,” I remind Kirsten.

She laughs as Edna and I dig in to the smorgasbord of breakfast items — several different quiches, potato wedges, and of course: BACON.

Nom nom nom nom…

As Edna already knows, the fastest way to my heart is through bacon, and there is so much bacon here I think I will love this race forever, and it hasn’t even started yet.

We finish eating and then go through our regular pre-race routines, which unglamorously include bathroom breaks and lots of lubricants.

4:30 a.m.

Jeff and Edna Evergreen Lake 2014

(Image courtesy of Paul Bliss)

Ready to go, we runners gather around for Jim’s pre-race speech. It’s cold. I can see my own breath and this pre-autumn chill only reminds me of the awful winter we had and what more awfulness might be on the way in 2015.

Brrrr! I have on a skull cap, long sleeve pull-over and gloves. All wrapped up, Edna looks like she’s about to embark on an Aleutian whaling expedition.

“Good luck, babe!” I tell her with a quick kiss.

There is a countdown… and then…

WE’RE OFF!

LOOP ONE — WINTER
Miles 1 – 17

There is a surge of eager runners that tightly pack in front of me. I let them go. I will be going slow today — locking in that 100-mile pace.

I laugh out loud at the idea of my “100-mile pace”.

You say it as if it’s sooo fast, I tell myself.

Nah, it ain’t, I reply. But eventually, it will hurt just the same.

I know that. Anyone who runs ultras knows that. Pain is part of the game. It’s part of what draws me in, keeps me engaged. By feeling my body’s reaction to the stress I put on it, I remain present and in a constant conversation with myself.

I’m not a masochist. I don’t like to hurt. But I do like to feel alive, and nothing makes me feel more alive than putting my body to the ultimate test and relaxing in the happy wasted comfort of accomplishment that comes after.

It’s a magical, transcending experience.

Can’t wait to get there today!

One thing is for sure: that end will be a long time coming. We have 13 hours to finish, and I plan to take as much time as I need. This race is 51 miles and consists of three loops of 17 miles each. I hope to keep an even pace — something on par with what I’ll experience at Pinhoti in November — and log each loop somewhere in between 3.5 to 4 hours.

Just a few miles in, and I am all by myself. The forest is quiet and dark. My new Black Diamond headlamp (thanks, Edna!) shines a brilliant beam, lighting my path ahead. Occasionally I look at the vast blackness above, in complete awe of the billions and billions of stars that exist, up there, way beyond my comprehension.

We don’t get this kind of view in the city. What a beautiful sight.

My awe and tranquility is interrupted every 10 minutes with the sudden urge to pee — another unglamorous staple of my ultrarunning career. There is something about running in the woods for hours and hours that causes me to urinate often, exemplifying my oft said japish quip of “The world is my toilet.”

I say that out of respect, Mother Nature. Please do not strike me down with a bolt of lightning.

She does not. Instead, she gives me an aid station.

I quickly take some peanut butter and jelly, and before I can say “my hands are clean, no really” I’m off on my merry, dark way.

Not long after, I find myself at a creek crossing. I stop, take a quick look around for any object that might make crossing this body of water a bit easier (and drier).

Nope. No help for you, Mother Nature surely chides.

Meh. Just as well. My feet are already wet from the dewy grass. Might as well get dirty too.

I plunge through the cold creek, water up to my knees, with a loud and boisterous “YEEEEEE HAAAAAW!”

The chill of the water complements the chill in the air.

How is it so cold? We never even got a summer! Thanks, Obama!

I pick up the pace to generate more warmth, and immediately my mind goes to a warmer place… like… um… here, later today, where it will be in the upper 60s. Soon.

I can make it that long, I think as I zip through the halfway mark of the loop, met by enthusiastic volunteers and a rising sun. I put away my head lamp and find comfort in being able to see everything around me. I was running cautious in the dark, trying hard not to trip. Naturally, an hour or so into sunlight I take my first head dive off an ornery root. I can’t help but laugh at myself.

That’s another reason why I keep coming back to these races, I think to myself. I always end up laughing at myself.

It’s hard to take things too seriously when my biggest concerns often revolve around something as simple as picking up my own two feet, one after the other; or whether or not I used enough Vaseline on my butt crack to keep from chafing halfway through the race. Such are the silly demands of an all-day runner.

I plop through another knee-high creek — this one just as cold — and shriek just the same as before. Not long after passing through though, and I start to feel the warmth of the sun penetrate my winter layers, telling me it’s time for a costume change.

Change hats, ditch gloves, change shirts, eat. This is my mantra before I reach the start/finish line aid station. I often repeat such phrases so that I don’t show up to the aid station and waste time not knowing what the hell to do (as is often the case if I don’t have a plan).

Change hats, ditch gloves, change shirts, eat, I repeat again as I FINALLY come up on other people on the trail. I’ve run almost the entirety of this 17-mile loop without seeing any other people.

“Hey, you’re moving too fast,” one of the female runners I pass hollers, “this is the no passing zone!”

We all have a good chuckle as I continue on.

I’m still chuckling as I approach what looks just like any other bridge, except that when I step on this particular bridge, I almost fall off as it bounces awkwardly, daring to toss me in the water it spans below. Once I recover my wits and realize I didn’t actually break any bones trying to get across, I think back to my youth and the bouncy bridges that used to be popular at the playgrounds in my hometown. I used to get such a kick out of scaring my sisters on those things.

Payback?

Before I can answer, I start to see signs of civilization: generators, tents, camp fire smoke. At this point I pick up the pace and notice I’m sweating. Uncomfortable.

Change hats, ditch gloves, change shirts, eat.

EAT! It’s time. I’ve been munching on whatever looks good at the aid stations thus far — mostly peanut butter and jelly and some fruit — but I’m ready for some real food. The start/finish line aid station has it.

Potato wedges, more fruit and… rice balls? Yes! Rice balls! With some sort of tomato-something… shit, I don’t know, but they are delicious. So I grab a cup and stuff a bunch of them in there for the road.

I change my shirt (short sleeves now), ditch my gloves (too hot for them) and change hats (ball cap rather than skully). Feeling fresh and refreshed, I fill up my Salomon hydration vest with another 50 ounces of water and strap it on.

Before I head out, I see Jim and say hello. “I guess you know how much I loved creek crossings,” I tell him.

“You mean you couldn’t jump those creeks?” he laughs back.

“Well, I’m still smiling, so all is well,” I respond, heading back out onto the trail.

(Loop One Time: 3 hours, 42 minutes)

(Image courtesy of Maja Vito)

(Image courtesy of Maja Vito)

LOOP TWO — SPRING
Miles 17 – 34

I am still smiling. 17 miles in and yeah, my legs are starting to ache, but keeping a smile on my face keeps me from dwelling on any discomforts I have. For now.

The peacefulness of this trail — this outdoor wonderland — is also distracting me from any creeping aches and pains. In fact, this time around the loop seems like the first time, at least for the first half, since when I came around earlier it was pitch black.

My breath keeps getting taken away, not by the labors of my body, but by the beauty of the trail. The views are dramatic and pristine. Nature at its finest. My eyes wander on scenes reminiscent of a Bob Ross painting.

There’s a happy little tree next to a happy little lake. And, oh look, there’s his friend, Mr. Rock, all nestled into the happy little grass.

Fucking beautiful, man. I could stay out here all day.

Ha! Guess what, YOU ARE!

Oh yeah. I am. I AM!

Damn it, I’m just overwhelmed with happiness right now.

Don’t start crying, silly. You’re not even halfway through the race yet. Can’t get so emotional so early.

Yet sometimes the trail calls for it. For me, running is communing with nature. Running is meditation. Running is pure joy. When it is all those things together at the same time, sometimes I can’t help but get pretty emotional about it.

Ah fuck it, no one cares. If anyone asks, just tell them you got some dirt in your eye.

No one is around anyway. I’m all by myself. Just me, the happy little trees and… GOBBLE GOBBLE GOBBLE.

Turkeys.

Yeah, as much as I would like to think I’m all alone out here in this forest, the constant turkey gobbling coming from deep within the woods reminds me I’m not. This is the first time I’ve knowingly shared the wilderness with turkeys, so that’ s kinda cool.

Just us turkeys out here!

I wonder what the turkeys think of this weather. It’s spring now. In the shade I’m too cold, in the sun I’m too hot. I guess the turkeys probably don’t think about that too much. They will just be happy to be alive come November.

Me too!

Past the halfway mark of the loop now, my legs are really starting to slow down, so I welcome the clockwork necessity to stop and pee every 20 minutes. It feels good knowing I’m more than halfway through the course, right on my targeted goal per loop, but it would also feel really good to be sitting on a couch watching football right now.

My mind wanders from Jay Cutler to Brandon Marshall to Alshon Jeffery.

I bet they couldn’t do what I’m doing right now, I think. Then again, I don’t think I could do what they do either, so I guess it’s a wash.

While debating what possibly hurts more: being tackled by 300 lb defensive linemen or running ultramarathons through he woods, I trudge through the creek crossing again.

WOOOOOO HOOOOOOOO! BRRRRRRR!!!

I wonder if anyone can hear me? Other than the aid station volunteers — whom are ALL AWESOME BEYOND AWESOME by the way — I haven’t seen a single soul on this loop yet. I’m all alone… with my thoughts…

And now my mantra is water, Ibuprofen, Red Bull.

That early morning wake-up is catching up with me now as I slumber my way through the back half of the course. The cold creek crossings do well to snap me out of my zombie-like state; and I keep running as much as I can despite the slow pace. But for the last 17 miles I’m going to want a pick-me-up.

And it’s getting hot.

Water, Ibuprofen, Red Bull… water, Ibuprofen, Red Bull…

I hear footsteps. About a mile from the end of the loop now and I hear hard, fast footsteps. What the –

I turn around and see a young man blazing toward me. It’s Zach Pligge, a talented runner I met at Potawatomi earlier this year. I recall he had a fast finishing time in the hundred miler at that race, so he must be on his last loop of this one.

“Finishing up?” I ask.

“Yep! You think we’re going to hit that bridge soon?” he replies.

The bouncy bridge. The scary bridge. The bridge that almost sent me home in pieces.

“I hope so,” I reply. I want to stick on Zach’s heels so I can see how a super fast runner with 50 miles in his legs handles that bridge monstrosity, but he’s too fast and I’m too hot (and slow) to chase. He takes off as I congratulate him on a great race.

Wow. So the only person I see on this whole 17-mile loop is the guy who laps me on his way to an overall win. Now that’s not something that happens every day.

Civilization creeps back into view, and I know I’ve only got one more loop to go. With a little help from my friends (Ibuprofen and Red Bull to be exact), I’m looking forward to getting done.

Back at the start/finish line aid station, Kirsten greets me asking, “Are you done?!”

“Um…. no. No way. I have one more loop to go.”

“Oh, okay, well be careful at the aid station. We are having a little bit of a bee problem.”

When I get to the food table, I see what she means: there are bees EVERYWHERE! Yikes! And they really seem to dig watermelon as they are all over that. Luckily, they’re not into those rice balls, so I take as many as I can, fill up my hydration vest, chug a Red Bull and swallow 400 mg of Ibuprofen. In about 15 minutes I expect I’ll feel like a new man!

(Loop Two Time: 3 hours, 49 minutes)

LOOP THREE — SUMMER
Miles 34 – 51

The sun is hot.

Duh. It’s only about 10 billion degrees Fahrenheit. And even at 92.9 million miles away from the earth, it’s pretty impressive that I’m not fried up and dead right now, because 10 billion degrees is really hot.

In moments of extreme fatigue, my mind spends a lot of time on the obvious.

Oh, look over there is a tree. And there’s another. And another…

Having chowed down on rice balls and Red Bull… I shuffle-cruise my way through the first couple of miles of this last loop. Still all alone. Still stopping to pee every 20 minutes.

I bet I could shave a good half hour of my finish time today if I didn’t have to pee so damn much, I tell myself.

Yeah, but you have to keep drinking. You have the bladder of a pregnant woman. Nothing you can do about that. Better to drink and pee than to dehydrate and suffer.

Good point, self. Good point.

I shuffle along wondering when the Ibuprofen will kick in when, all of the sudden. It kicks in.

BAM! Off to the races!

At this point, pace is relative. I know I’m probably moving along around an 11 or 12 minute mile pace (at best), but I feel like friggin’ Killian Jornet out here. Zooming down this hill, bending around that corner, power hiking up that climb.

How much of it is caffeine versus NSAIDS versus mental toughness, I don’t know. Frankly, I don’t care either. I’m feeling good and I’m lettin’ ‘er rip!

Où t’es, papaoutai? Où t’es, papaoutai? Où t’es, papaoutai?

I don’t know what I’m humming to myself exactly, but it’s a catchy hook to a song from Stromae, an artist a friend of mine introduced me to on my recent trip to Mexico, and I can’t get it out of my head.

Où t’es, papaoutai? Où t’es, papaoutai? Où t’es, papaoutai?

Now I’m singing it out loud. Why not!? Other than me and the turkeys, this forest is as still as can be.

Which begs the question: if an ultrarunner flies through the woods and no one is there to see him, does he really ever fly through the woods?

Où t’es, papaoutai? Où t’es, papaoutai? Où t’es, papaoutai?

I get to the halfway point aid station and chug another Red Bull from my drop bag. I notice in the bag that there’s another half consumed can, which means Edna is on the jolt now too. YAAAAAY EDNA! I hope she’s doing well. I love that girl.

“Thank you, volunteers! I love you all!” I shout as I head back on down the trail.

I’m getting finish-line syndrome — the phenomenon of central governor override that seems to happen the closer one gets to the finish line. Some people just call it “wanting to be done”.

I want to be done, no doubt. My feet and heels are aching, my butt is sore and all this running is making me a little too hot for comfort; but at the same time I don’t ever want to stop, don’t ever want to leave. I just want to be in the forest with my thoughts, surrounded by nature, consumed by beauty — perpetually in the moment.

This is the life! YES!!!

Oh my goodness! People!

I must be slowing down as there are people behind me. Two ladies. I look behind and they greet me: “Hi, are you in the 51 miler?” one asks.

“Yes. You?”

“No, we’re in the 34 miler. You’re my hero though!”

Wow, that’s kinda cool. Who knew you only had to be stupid enough to want to run in the woods all day to be someone’s hero. I’ll take it!

“You’re too kind,” I holler back as I pick up the speed. “Enjoy your finish! Congrats!”

I rev up the engine. ZOOM!

YEEEEE HAAAAAW! through the creek crossings again, focused on reaching civilization, my mind wanders to the task of running 100 miles come November.

What an adventure that’s going to be, I remind myself. And what pain is in store!

“Running is a vehicle for self discovery.” Scott Jurek said that. It’s a quote I think about often, one that I live by.

Look at the person you have become, the self you have discovered, all because you decided to go run in the woods!

Indeed, this is the life.

I reach the wonky bridge, tip-toe over it, saving myself from any potential embarrassment while charging on towards the finish line. As I approach civilization again and am greeted by the friendly cheers of volunteers, spectators and fellow runners, I long to stay out here — to find out more about myself and what I’m made of.

There will be plenty of time for that, I remind myself.

The finish line is in sight, I charge forward to applause, throw my hands in the air and think that crazy thought I never thought I’d think: 5o miles doesn’t seem that long.

(Loop Two Time: 3 hours, 52 minutes)

TOTAL RACE TIME: 11 hours, 23 minutes

Evergreen Lake Ultra and a Half 2014 Jeff Lung A

Post-Race

Not only is there a killer post-race spread of delicious recovery foods (roast beef, potatoes, drunken berries and sweets galore) but lots of folks stick around to cheer on finishers. I hang out, patiently waiting for Edna to come through, and enjoy some conversation with Jim. I also talk to several other runners, eager to hear their stories from the day. Many of them centered around the cold creek crossings and the wonky bridge. While I only had one face plant, some had several.

We are alike in that we all find humor in ourselves.

It still boggles my mind that I spent nearly all of those 11+ hours alone, by myself, on the trail.

Still, having done so gives me the confidence I need going into the hundred miler, especially knowing I will have a pacer to keep me company on the last half.

Edna comes through about an hour after me, all smiles as usual. She too has some stories to tell, and I can’t wait to hear them. We share an embrace — the kind that only comes from an entire day’s worth of exhaustive exercise — and collect our walking sticks (a unique, kick-ass finisher’s prize that has immediate worth I might add) before heading back to the hotel.

Evergreen Lake Ultra and a Half 2014 Jeff and Edna

- – -

Epilogue

If you’re looking for a beautiful run in the woods next September, go run Evergreen Lake! They have three distances to choose from (17 miles, 34 miles, 51 miles) and the support is top-notch. The food was great, the volunteers spectacular and the views serene! Also, the trail was impeccably marked, a detail that can never be overstated.

More importantly, with running being that vehicle to self discovery, you’re bound to discover something new about yourself. And having the Shady Hollow Trail Runners’ love and warmth as the background for such introspection is a certain recipe for success.


Check Out My Work on NBC Chicago’s “Stride” Blog

(Image courtesy of Hersh Ajgaonkar)

(Image courtesy of Hersh Ajgaonkar)

A few months ago, the good folks at NBC Chicago offered me space on their “Stride” blog to write about running. Naturally, my particular focus is on the pseudo-crazy phenomenon of ultrarunning. I have received a good response from my posts thus far and encourage my Run Factory readers to check out some of my work over there. I am not cross-posting, so the content will be new.

I have published four posts thus far and will have another by the end of the month. Here’s a current list with links:

I will post more links as they come and will also include a link on the side bar.

My posts on “Stride” are directed more towards the new and/or curious runner, while my work here on The Run Factory will continue to dive deep within the recesses of my relentlessly forward progressing body (and brain), with first person play-by-play, of course.

Meanwhile…

As the days pass, so too does my 100 mile training progress. To say I am “excited” and “terrified” is a huge understatement, but there is no doubt in my mind that I am as eager as I’ve ever been to go on this grand adventure.

Next up, another 50+ mile training run as I head south for the Evergreen Lake Ultra and a Half race. I hear they have great food at the aid stations. I plan on working up an appetite.

¡Ánimo!


The Good, the Bad and the WHY NOT

Jeff Lung christmas in july 2014 aid station

THE GOOD

In the days since my dizzying yet mind opening 24-hour jaunt around Lisle Community Park, my body has recovered in full, responding to the training bell better than I ever imagined. I can’t emphasize enough just how awesome it feels to be running at full strength again. After all the nagging injuries from last year, I wasn’t really sure how my body would respond to the big mileage races, but everything feels strong and solid right now, and that is a huge motivator.

The key, at least for now, seems to be pace.

When I run fast — and for me, anything under an 8-minute mile is something I consider “fast” — both of my Achilles flare up, stopping me for several days. I have tried different shoes, different strengthening exercises, different forms. All speed seems to lead to the same thing currently: stiff, bum, calcaneous flare ups that SUCK. So I’m just shelving fast miles for now.

Long, slow, FUN runs.

Everything I run now is to prepare for the grueling test of the Pinhoti Trail 100. I will explore speed another day. Ain’t no need for a sub 10-minute anything in a hundred miler anyway. Looking at the elevation profile only confirms that.

Long, slow, fun it is.

THE BAD

Being one of the most anal retentive slaves to organization one could ever meet, the following faux pas of mine is extremely embarrassing to confess; but this blog is just as much about failure as it is success (otherwise success would be sooooooo boooooooring!) so here it is:

Um… so that half marathon I am supposed to run in Mexico City next weekend… um… yeah… it was IN JULY.

I don’t know how I (nor my buddy who has been training diligently for it) missed that small detail, but I did. We did. I originally wanted to run the marathon, and bummed that it was sold out, quickly obliged to the website’s tempting me to run the half instead. Assuming that it would be on the same day — because that’s how it usually works, the full and the half are held on the same day, simultaneously — I gladly signed up. To my credit, as far as I can remember, there was NO MENTION of the actual date of the race during the sign-up nor the confirmation process. I double checked the confirmation email to make sure.

Then, last month, as a follower of the race’s Facebook page, I was quite curious as to why there was another half marathon, under the same race name, a month earlier than the one I signed up for. Still, I never did conclude that the half marathon pictures I was seeing were from a race I was supposed to be running. It just didn’t make sense. My Mexico City Half Marathon was going to be on August 31.

Except it’s not.

It was only after recently checking packet pick-up details that the mistake was realized.

Whoops!

Oh well. There’s not much I can do about it now. While I’m a little sad I missed out on my first international race, I am still excited about visiting La Ciudad and exploring whatever roads and trails it has to offer. Maybe my friend and I will run our own half marathon.

Why not?

THE WHY NOT

While I’m at it, I might as well run the Peapod Half Madness Half Marathon in Batavia this weekend. For the fourth year in a row. I won’t be running a personal best this year. In fact, I will probably have to work hard just to break two hours; but, in my opinion, this is one of the most fun, most charming races in all of Chicagoland: a scenic, challenging 13.1 miles through a quaint river town with all-you-can-eat pizza and all-you-can-drink Sam Adams beer at the finish line.

What’s not to love?!

And while I’m at the long, slow, fun running, I might as well enjoy twice the marathon action during the second weekend of October. At least, that’s what I was thinking when I recently signed up for the Prairie State Marathon. It’s the day before the Chicago Marathon, and should serve as a suitable warm-up to my favorite Sunday 26.2. Three weeks out from my first hundred miler, I figure back-t0-back marathons should be a nice way to start my taper.

Haha.

As if ultrarunners actually taper.


Bustin’ Down the Door of My First 24: The 2014 Christmas in July 24 Hour Race Report

Christmas in July 24 Hour, Lisle, IL (Image courtesy of Scott Laudick, http://runnerpics.smugmug.com)

2014 Christmas in July 24 Hour, Lisle, IL (Image courtesy of Scott Laudick)

Bran thought about it. “Can a man be brave if he’s afraid?”

“That is the only time a man can be brave,” his father told him.

George R. R. Martin, A Game of Thrones


Thursday, July 17, 2014

I can’t sleep — tossing, turning, terrified.

What have I gotten myself into?

Just last week, I suffered through 6 hours and 24 minutes of a tough trail 50k, body throbbing with fatigue, thinking I don’t want to run another step as I crossed the finish line. Now, on the eve of the longest race of my life, a 24 Hour event on a .97 mile asphalt loop, the thought of quadrupling that pain is overwhelming.

Breathe, Jeff. Relax. Focus on your breath.

This mantra gets me to sleep, eventually. Yet, I still wake several times, jolted from slumber by dreams that I’d missed the start, trapped in a port-a-john, or that I wimped out completely, unwilling to test my body.

Breathe, Jeff. Relax. Focus on your breath.

Friday, July 18, 2014

I’m up at 5:30 a.m. for work, and for the next 7 hours I don’t really think too much about what’s going to happen later tonight. Some of my clients ask me about the race: What’s your strategy? Do you think you can last the whole 24? What will you eat?

I’m not really sure. But I keep smiling, agreeing that this may be the craziest thing I’ve done up to this point.

At one o’clock I eat a big lunch of rice and beans and then head straight home. I close the blinds, wrap a t-shirt over my head to block out the light and lie down in bed — heart rate higher than I’d like, mind beginning to wander.

Breathe, Jeff. Relax. Focus on your breath.

Deep inhale. Deep exhale. Repeat.

5:00 p.m.

My alarm goes off and I wake up feeling refreshed, strong, ready for insanity.

I gather my things, load the car and join rush hour traffic on I-55 South. The plan is to go to Edna’s house first, have dinner with her, and let her drive me to the race in Lisle.

Traffic is heavy, but expected. I listen to the news to distract myself.

7:30 p.m.

Edna and I are at one of our favorite Mexican restaurants. Steak tacos with more beans and rice. I’m careful to eat until I’m full, but not to stuff myself. Our conversation is light and focuses on our respective days thus far and not so much about the race. Being an ultra veteran, Edna knows the types of thoughts going through my head — How much will it hurt? Will I be able to endure? What if I fail? — and she does her best to shift my focus to more positive thoughts.

8:30 p.m.

The drive to Lisle on Route 53 is spent listening to classic Ricky Martin tunes (La Bomba, Así Es la VidaPerdido Sin Ti) interspersed with last-minute, calming words of caution from Edna. I try to not read too much into the subliminal messages of the song titles, which translate to: The Bomb, That’s Life, Lost Without You.

“Run your own race, mi amor. Don’t run anybody else’s race,” says Edna.

She sings along with Ricky for a bit.

“You have to run on your own. You have to know you can do these distances on your own,” she continues.

Perdido sin ti…

“But the most important thing?” she continues, taking a moment to look me dead in the eye, “Enjoy the pain.”

Breathe, Jeff. Relax. Focus on your breath.

9:00 p.m.

At Lisle Community Park now, we head towards the packet pick-up table where I check in, get my bib (#3) and exchange greetings with the first of many friends and familiar faces I will see over the next day. The sun is down, the temperature is in the mid 60s and I quickly become a feast for a hungry swarm of mosquitos.

“Didn’t think I would need this today,” I say grabbing the can of OFF! sitting on the check-in table. I douse myself in chemicals and know that I will be nothing but a progressively filthy mess from here on out.

Comfortably guarded against the mosquito invasion, Edna and I walk to the Start/Finish line. I drop off my drop bags and begin my normal preparations of bladder draining, lubricating, mental focussing. The process is occasionally broken up by the buzz of adrenaline and a constant stream of greetings from friends. Like at most ultras, there’s a lot of hugging and high-fiving going on, with strategic pre-race selfies thrown in when possible.

Festive, summery smiles! From left to right, back row: Danny, Caleb, Me, Melissa, Chuck. Front: Edna, Nate, Kelly, Baby Levi. (Image courtesy of Nate Pualengco)

Festive, summery smiles! From left to right, back row: Danny, Caleb, Me, Melissa, Chuck. Front: Edna, Nate, Kelly, Baby Levi. (Image courtesy of Nate Pualengco)

I spend a few minutes chatting with each race director individually: Brian Gaines, Ed Kelly and Terry Madl. Each one of them offers me unwavering encouragement, making me feel confident. I look all around at the awesome Christmas in July atmosphere they have created with lights, trees and gigantic nutcrackers; I feel like I’m in good place. I feel like I’m about to embark upon something special.

I am so glad I am here.

The winners will go home with these bad boys. (Image courtesy of Scott Laudick, http://runnerpics.smugmug.com)

The winners will go home with these bad boys. (Image courtesy of Scott Laudick)

Just minutes from the start, I give Edna a big hug and kiss and line up with the rest of the 24 hour runners. There is a pre-race speech over a megaphone. I can hardly hear it over my elevated heart rate and anxious thoughts.

Focus on the breath, I tell myself.

As I do, I can hear Edna’s parting advice bouncing off the space in my mind.

Enjoy the pain, she said, her beautiful smile stealing away any juxtaposing thoughts.

We do enjoy the pain, don’t we? I ask myself.

Before I can delve into that thought further, the race begins and I’m taking my first steps of an event that won’t end for another TWENTY. FOUR. HOURS.

The Start/Finish Line (Image courtesy of Paul Lonis)

(Image courtesy of Paul Lonis)

Hours 1 – 7 (10 p.m. – 5 a.m.)

Run easy, run relaxed, figure out the course.

This is my mission for the first few loops. Other than lasting the entire 24 hours of the race, my only real goal is to see if I can log 80 miles or more. Eighty miles would be a 29-mile distance personal record, and I know that in order to conserve energy and maintain enough endurance to get there, I’m going to need to mix in a good deal of walking.

I like consistency. I like routine. The looped course suits me well so I will take advantage of it.

As we pass the stage where a band plays live Christmas music, we head up the first (and only significant) hill — one that I will power hike every, single, time. As we walk, I hear the usual ornery exclamations of “almost there”, “looking good” and “only a little more to go” from runners and spectators alike.

At the top of the hill is a magnificently huge inflatable snowman, brilliantly lit up against a cool, black night. We make a hard right turn and go up another short incline before we hit a long, smooth downhill. The path is paved (sorry, knees) and there isn’t a need for head lamps because the course is lit with luminaries on either side.

At the bottom of the hill is a short bridge which leads us past another bright snowman, this one alone by a creek. We cross the bridge and hang a winding right that reaches a fork marked with a “Merry Christmas” sign, having us turn right along a course that will take us back to Short Street, the road we came in on off 53. We pass another inflatable, festive treat — this time Santa, a reindeer and a polar bear, chilling in what looks like a hot tub? — before we reach the end of the path, marked with two port-a-johns (port-a-johns I will get to know intimately, of course). At the end of the path we turn right onto a sidewalk that takes us past a fantastically large inflatable Santa Claus monitoring the course, near packet pick-up. This sidewalk leads us all the way to the Lisle High School parking lot where we take a right and run about 200 meters back to the Start/Finish.

Boom. That’s it. That’s the course.

One loop, two loops, three…

By the fourth, I already have my pattern set and will not waver for the duration of the event:

Walk through the aid station. Continue walking while eating and drinking as we approach the base of the hill. Powerhike the hill. Run the straightaway towards the sharp right turn. Walk the sharp right turn and power hike the short incline to the beginning of the downhill. Run the downhill (bomb when I can). Walk over the bridge. Run from the bridge to the “Merry Christmas” sign marking the fork. Walk to Santa/reindeer/polar bear hot tub. Run to the port-a-johns. Walk to the sidewalk. Run from gigantic Santa to the 20 mph hour road sign (don’t want to get a ticket for speeding after all). Walk to the parking lot. Run it in to the Start/Finish.

Repeat.

A lot.

Edna is there for the first couple of hours. She cheers for me every time I come through, putting a big smile on my face. Around midnight she gives me a final hug and kiss before she goes home for the night. I won’t see her until the end, tomorrow evening sometime.

One last kiss for the night. (Image courtesy of Scott Laudick)

One last kiss for the night. (Image courtesy of Scott Laudick)

Enjoy the pain, I hear her say in my head.

Sage advice.

Running, walking, running, walking, running…

It doesn’t take long before I’m in a real good groove. For the first few hours I’m hitting 10-12 minute miles consistently. When I walk, I make sure I walk with a purpose. I pump my arms, move my hips.

Think mall-walker.

I drink every loop. Every, single, loop. Since the course is so short, I can conserve energy by not carrying a bottle, but this means I need to take in fluids every time around. I drink water mostly, with the occasional Gatorade. I eat something every other loop.

Chowing down at the aid station. (Image courtesy of Scott Laudick)

Chowing down at the aid station. (Image courtesy of Scott Laudick)

The aid station is stocked! All the usual fare is here: chips, cookies, fruit, salty items, candies. I practice my “see food” diet by taking a look around and just grabbing a bite or two of whatever looks good at that particular time. Pizza arrives after a while and that looks particularly awesome. I chow down.

Eating and running is something I have gotten really good at through my ultra training the last couple of years. I try to stay away from sugary stuff, unless my body calls for it, and I make sure I don’t run too hard in the few minutes immediately after eating any significant amount of something. Being in tune with my body is something I take a lot of pride in. I listen to it and react on the fly. In my opinion, this is an essential skill for running super long distances.

Shit is going to happen. Be prepared and be flexible.

Right now, in these dark hours, I feel ready for anything. It gets a little chilly so I switch to a shirt with sleeves and tick off the miles without really much thought. The 12-hour and 6-hour runners, who started at 11 p.m. and 12 a.m. respectively, share the course with us and make me feel slightly slow as they dart by at a pace I wish I could run.

Run your own race, mi amor, I hear Edna say in my mind. Don’t run anyone else’s race.

Shan Riggs, local elite and winner of the 2014 Indiana Trail 100, flies by me too many times to count. I marvel at his abilities, but know I can’t chase. He’s the favorite to win the 24 hours. I hope he does.

A guy in blue flies by me a bunch of times too running a pace that makes me think he’s a 6 or 12-hour runner. Or maybe he just likes to suffer. We all do. Right?

Why ARE you doing this? I ask myself.

To see what I’m capable of. To discover something new about myself. To enhance my experience of life.

At the five-hour mark, very comfortable and still feeling fresh, I check in with the timer to see how many miles I have. He reports I have logged 23+ miles, a number I feel pretty good about. Doing the math in my head, 80 miles seems like a lock, if I can just stick with this plan. I grab some pizza to celebrate this little victory and chomp on it a bit before I remind myself that I have a loooooong way to go.

No need to get excited about anything yet, I tell myself. Focus on the now. Feel every step. Live every breath.

“Way to go, runner! Yay! WOO HOO!” cheers Cynthia, a girl perfectly positioned at the base of the big hill — the spot where I always feel like the hill is getting bigger. Cynthia is a trooper. A champion spectator. She has been here since the very first loop and she doesn’t leave until sometime after sunrise.

Seven plus hours of non-stop cheering.

Cynthia, wherever you are, you are my hero.

Hours 7 – 10 (5 a.m. – 8 a.m.)

Sunrise over Lisle. (Image courtesy of Tony Weyers)

Sunrise over Lisle. (Image courtesy of Tony Weyers)

The sun comes up and, for the first time, I can see the whole course from the top of the hill. My fellow runners dart around the loopty loop path, working hard, working steady, ant-like, off in the distance.

I’ve been working right along with them, focusing on the now, one moment at a time. surprisingly, when I try to think about what I’ve been thinking about the last 7 hours, I can’t really remember anything. I’m stuck in the moment — each one, as it comes, moving meditation.

Running, walking, eating, drinking, thinking NOW, NOW, NOW, running, walking, eating, drinking, thinking NOW, NOW, NOW…

And peeing. I’m peeing. A lot. Every two miles. It’s kind of annoying.

“Is it normal to pee this much?” I ask Cindy, one of the aid station volunteers whom you will likely see at any ultra race in the area. Her husband is an ultra vet and I suspect she’s seen it all.

“Yes, it means your kidneys are doing their job. As long as you’re drinking, that’s a good thing.”

“Sweet.”

Run, walk, eat, drink, PEE, think NOW NOW NOW… groove. Smile. Enjoy!

The 6-hour runners finish at 6 a.m., freeing up the course a bit. There were times where it was a little crowded, but nothing I couldn’t weave in and out of. When I circle back to the Start/Finish I find out that my friend, Todd Brown, won his 6-hour.

“Awesome!” I tell him with a fist-bump. “You looked awesome out there!”

He did. He lapped me a bunch. I use his positive outcome as fuel for a series of harder effort loops. The sun will be baking me soon, so I need to take advantage of these last couple of cool hours. I crank it up a bit on the run sections.

Still truckin', shortly after sunrise. (Image courtesy of Hersh Ajgaonkar)

Still truckin’, shortly after sunrise. (Image courtesy of Hersh Ajgaonkar)

Starting to feel it. Tired. Heavy.

It has been a slow, steady disintegration from what I was doing in the first few hours. This was expected, of course, yet I always seem to be surprised by just how much I feel it.

And I’ve been running all this way on pavement. Pavement. What were you thinking, Jeff?

I smile back at my brief negativity.

I like pavement, I tell myself. I can run faster.

You mean COULD run faster. Right now ain’t so fast.

Yeah. So? Maybe I’m enjoying the pain.

My inner monologue is interrupted along the back straightaway heading towards Short Street when I see my friends Tony and Hersh, both ultrarunners themselves, flanked on either side of the path.

“Hey, Jeff!” says Hersh. “How do you feel?”

I tilt my head to the side, invite a smile and say, “Why are we so stupid?”

They share a hearty laugh as I continue on with my run slow torture.

I am running still, but like I noted earlier, my run isn’t very quick. I don’t really know my exact pace, but I know I’m slowing down. My legs are dragging a bit and I am starting to feel… blisters.

Ah, yes. Blisters.

Shit.

I knew this might happen.

DAMN YOU, HOKAS!

Up until recently, blisters have been a non-issue in my running career. A proud follower of routine, I found out early on that by keeping my callusses filed while using 2Toms Blistershield, Injinji socks, Nike Vomeros (road) and Salomon Speed Cross (trail), I would not have to deal with blisters. Every great once in a while a teeny one would show up, but very rarely. I am happy to say I have been nearly blister free since I became a runner.

However, with Achilles issues that have kept me from feeling my absolute best lingering the last year or so, I decided to try different shoes. Hokas, with their big, pillowy, comfy ride, seemed like a good choice. Lots of ultrarunners love them, including Edna, so I bought the Bondi 3s a few months ago and have been training in them regularly.

For the bottoms of my feet, and especially for my Achilles, they are awesome. The support is phenomenal and I don’t feel the hard ground/rocks/roots underneath me when I run. They work great for both road and trail.

Except they sometimes give me blisters.

They give me blisters on both heels and on both pinky toes. I have dealt with this before. They blistered me at Mohican. They blistered me at Dances with Dirt. Yet sometimes they don’t blister me at all, and with the smooth pavement in lieu of rugged terrain, I was hoping today would be one of those days.

It’s not.

Left heel is getting rubbed pretty badly. Both pinky toes are feeling it too.

It’s about 8 a.m. I’m feeling sluggish. The sun is beating down. Time to assess some damage.

For the first time in 10 hours, I sit down next to my drop bag and take off my shoes.

“Ahhh, shit,” I can’t help but say. “Damn it.”

It’s my left heel. Big blister. Welled up pretty good. “That one’s gonna have to pop,” I say as I dig out my first aid kit and start prepping my mind for fixing gnarly feet, what I like to call “surgery”.

Everywhere I go running I take my gear bag — a $30 tackle box from Target with lots of pockets, containers and compartments. The first aid section, stocked with needles, scissors, tape, antibiotics, moleskin and more, has come in handy only a couple of times so far, but those have always been desperate times. Facing 14 more hours of running, it’s better to fix things now, while I still have a chance.

I pop the big blister — yikes this thing is big! — on the back of the left heel and let it drain. I do the same with the one on the pinky toe. They both sting. After they’re drained I put on some Neosporin and wrap the pinky toe with a couple of band aids. I’m wearing toe socks, so the band aids should stay. For the heel blister I cut out a large moleskin square and try to adhere it over the blister. Unfortunately, I’m very sweaty, and the moleskin is not sticking.

Duct tape.

I grab my roll of duct tape and rip off a large section. The ripping sound causes heads to turn and I hear someone say “Uh oh, getting serious now that the duct tape is out”.

It ain’t pretty, but I manage to keep the moleskin in place with a thorough wrapping. I put on some clean socks and massage my feet a bit before I put my shoes back on and stand up, slowly.

“Doesn’t feel too bad,” I say out loud. I take a step and immediately feel the salty stinginess in my open wounds. “Ouch!”

Well, you didn’t think it was going to be all roses, did ya?

Before I can dwell too much on my feet, I take off my shirt and busy myself with applying sunscreen. The sun is getting higher and hotter and the course offers scarcely any shade. I don’t want to become a lobster, so I rub it on thick.

This stop has taken too long, I think to myself as I check my watch. You need to get going.

It’s been 10 hours now, so I check in with the timer to find I’ve logged a little over 44 miles total. Pretty even with my first 5 hours. What’s 14 more hours? I joke to myself.

My other self is not amused.

Hours 10 – 15 (8 a.m. – 1 p.m.)

With each loop I complete I feel the sun beat down stronger, hotter, burning into my skin, through my muscles and into bone. This distracts me from my blistery feet, so much that I don’t notice them anymore. I try to see the positive in this as I focus on maintaining my run/walk rhythm, but it’s evident that mother nature is trying put me down for the count.

So… slug…gish… now…

I still see the same faces on the course, but much of the high energy is gone. It looks like I’m not the only runner dying in the sun. I make sure I stay hydrated at the aid station every time I pass through; and since I’m still peeing every two miles or so, I know I’m doing a good job. Still, I can’t seem to run much more than an old man shuffle.

The 12-hour runners finish at 11 a.m., leaving the course quite empty now as we surviving 24-hour runners try to hold on and avoid thinking about having ELEVEN MORE HOURS to go. There is carnage all around, especially at the Start/Finish line where some 24-hour runners have already tapped out, or are thinking about it. I HAVE ELEVEN MORE HOURS TO GO. Feet up, shoes off. Some of these people look happy with their decisions but I can’t let myself think about such a thing and besides there are ELEVEN MORE HOURS.

Food helps me get back on track. There is bacon now and if I can run for anything I can run for bacon.

BACON!

Pancakes and hash browns are served too but BACON is really all I want. All told I have about 10 pieces in an hour’s time. Its rich, fat juiciness takes me to a happy place — Baconland, where you run mad in circles under the sun and suffer senselessly for the reward of tasting bacon’s flavorful fattiness with each successful loop.

Welcome to Baconland, Sir. Enjoy your pain!

Why thank you! And oh, look, they have Santa Claus in Baconland! And a gigantic snowman atop the hill. And a hot tub with Santa, a reindeer and a polar bear.

Bacon is good, no doubt, but my legs ache, my feet hurt, I’m fried and falling asleep. Even though my mind is telling me to run, I can’t seem to remember how. Toasty and sleepy, I zombie walk an entire loop, talking to myself. I am all alone and estoy sufriendo.

I am… suffering. Edna?

Enjoy your pain…

This is haaaaaarrrrrd. Es muy dificil, mi amor. Estoy sufriendo. Mucho. Mucho, mucho, mucho.

Enjoy your pain.

She always enjoys her pain. Her smile never ceases, even in her hardest of trials. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.

I can do this, I remind myself. Just keep moving. Get to the aid station.

I am on the sidewalk parallel to Short Street now, baking, frying, bacon? No. Water? Yes. Sleep? No. RUN! I can’t. WALK! I am. FASTER! Shut up!

I hit the blacktop parking lot and try to run. Always run the homestretch, I tell myself. But I can’t. I really can’t.

I stumble into the drop bag area like a defeated fighter after 12 rounds. Where’s my stool?

“Are you okay?” asks my friend, Melissa. Melissa is crewing today and she’s been helpful throughout, aiding and cheering runners since the beginning of the race.

“Not really.” I say, eyes glazed.

“You’re really hot,” she says placing a hand on my forehead. “You need to cool down.”

“And wake up. I’m falling asleep.”

“You need to cool down. That will help you wake up.”

I grab my buff and a Red Bull from my bag. Melissa pours the Red Bull in a cup with ice. I drink it and the cold on my tongue feels like an alarm clock for my brain, the caffeine a dance party.

“Whoa.” I say.

“You need to cool down,” she says, taking my arm and leading me over to a kiddie pool next to the aid station. “Bend down and dunk your head in this water. It will feel really good.”

Trusting her, I kneel down (SLOWLY), and do as she says.

VRRRRROOOOOOMYAAAAAAAMMAAALAMMMAAAAADINGDONG!!!

“Wow! That is COLD!” I say, more awake than I can remember being.

She pours more cold water on my neck, each handful washing away the fatigue that had hobbled me so.

“Wow, yes, that’s what I needed.”

“You have to keep cool,” she reminds me as I soak my buff in the water and put ice in it before wrapping it around my neck.

I chug the rest of my Red Bull, thank her for her help, and head back out for another loop.

Determined. Back to life. Running!

It’s amazing what some ice cold water and caffeine can do.

I run/walk the loop as before, now at a steady, lively pace. Man, I was really losing it there for a second, I think.

It comes in waves, I recall someone said to me once, when you feel bad just hold on. It will go away, eventually.

Perhaps, but now that I’m awake, I do feel my feet more. The blisters. The rubbing. The aching.

I run a bit with Raul, another ultra guerrero, and after hearing my complaints, he suggests a shoe change. “Did wonders for me,” he said. He too had on Hokas at first. After some uncomfortable rubbing from them, he switched back to his old shoes and was feeling better.

“Couldn’t hurt,” I say, noticing the irony of my words. Oh, yes, it could. It COULD hurt. It WILL hurt.

Everything hurts.

My right IT band starts to hurt. Right hip flexor too. Before they get too cranky, I whip out the RumbleRoller and dig in like hell, causing heads to turn at my seemingly masochistic ground acrobatics.

“It hurts so good,” I say to the bystanders.

“Jeff, you look so much better now,” says Melissa.

“Thanks. Yeah, I feel way better. No doubt. You saved me.”

Seems like I am in need of a lot of saving. The RumbleRoller wins the prize this round. I stand up and feel like I have new legs (but the same tired feet).

“Let’s go for a run!” I shout as I take off with a smile.

Run… walk… run… walk… eat, drink, pee…

Repeat.

Again.

And again.

All is well. I’m awake. I’m taking care of my body and not getting too hot.

Yet my feet…

You have to change your shoes, I tell myself. Just do it. You can’t keep going like this.

My pace is slowing. I’m suffering again. What the hell am I doing here?

Hours 15 – 21 (1 p.m. – 7 p.m.)

Enjoying the pain? I’m still smiling. Are you smiling because you’re happy or are you smiling because you want to be happy?

I’m smiling because I’m ALIVE. And with every sensation throbbing tenfold, I feel really fucking alive right now, man.

After changing out of the Hokas and into the Nike Vomeros, I feel even MORE alive. Achey, creaky and slow, but alive.

Why didn’t I do that earlier? I ask myself. Who cares, just run!

I run. I run to my walking point, walk to my running point, eating and drinking all the while. Everything is done with focus, with purpose. Keep moving. Keep going. Don’t quit.

I follow this pattern until I’m slowed, once again, to walk an entire loop. This time my friends Brandt and Jerret are around and they ask if they can walk a loop with me. I welcome the company. I try not to talk too much about what hurts (everything) but I can’t help it. I feel weak.

Knowing that I’m around 70ish miles now, Brandt reminds me that every step is a new distance PR — a thought that does a lot for my confidence. “Yeah, you’re right,” I say. “Every single step!”

The walk and the camraderie gives me a boost and I start to think more positively. Still aching from my physical pain, I take 400 mg of Ibuprofen, wash it down with another Red Bull and vow to get serious.

Time to crank, Jeffery. Time to crank.

(Image courtesy of Hersh Ajgaonkar)

(Image courtesy of Hersh Ajgaonkar)

The sun is still beating down, but I’m regulating well with lots of ice in my cap and in my buff. I dunk my head every once in a while too. I get back into a groove with my run/walk, but I’m still feeling quite fatigued. I keep fighting. Head down. Focused on my task: TO MOVE! I labor on for several more loops.

Then, as I start to shuffle down the big hill heading towards the wooden bridge, I notice that with each step I’m feeling less and less aches. What the — ?

Am I dreaming?

I bomb down the hill to make sure, and just as I’d thought: no pain.

No pain? NO PAIN!

Yeeeeee haaaaaaa!

And suddenly I am a different man. It’s 3 o’clock in the afternoon, I’ve been moving my ass for 17 hours straight, suffering all sorts of fatigue, aches and pains, and now, NOW the race begins.

I’m flying!

I am a hawk and there’s blood on my feathers. But time is still turning and soon they’ll be dry. And all those who see me, and all those who believe in me, share in the freedom I feel when I fly.

–The Eagle and the Hawk, John Denver

FLYING!

Blowing by everyone now. Zoom… zoom…. zoom. Feels awesome. But it could end at any moment, so I don’t let myself get cocky.

“Just riding a good wave,” I tell the runners I pass, “gotta take advantage while I can.”

Is this enjoying the pain? Or is this just the Ibuprofen talking?

Probably just the Ibuprofen talking. And the Red Bull screaming. Who cares? You feel good. Enjoy that, for once.

I do. For THREE HOURS.

I soar.

And then I crash.

Of course.

By the time I crash it’s 6 p.m.

Just four more hours! I can do this! This pain ain’t nothin’. This fatigue ain’t a thing.

I hit the 75 mile mark at 5 p.m., so I have to be close to 80 miles now, after all that cranking. With four hours left, knowing I will hit my mileage goal, a smile creeps in, washing my entire body with warm and fuzzy joy.

I'm doing this! (Image courtesy of Hersh Ajgaonkar)

I’m doing this! (Image courtesy of Hersh Ajgaonkar)

Back to the grind: eat, drink and the slow run/walk shuffle.

Hours 21 – 24 (7 p.m. – 10 p.m.)

It’s 7 o’clock and considerably cooler. Edna is here and she’s ready to run. We didn’t plan on having any pacing, because I thought the race was against that. However, lots of folks seem to be using pacers, so why not?

I warn her of my slow pace and bring her up to speed on my run/walk pattern.

“I’ve been running this loop the exact same way, all day long.” I tell her. She smiles, like always, and then remains silent as I gush on about all my aches and pains, my blisters, the sun, my IT band, bla bla bla whaa whaa whaa.

You’re being a Debbie Downer, I tell myself. You should shut up.

And take 200 mg more of Ibuprofen.

And drink your last Red Bull.

I do.

Half an hour later, and the magic is back. Let it fly, baby!

For the next two hours, Edna and I crank! I feel like I’m running really fast again, though I can’t tell if it’s a relative feeling or if I actually am moving fast. Regardless, we are zooming by everyone, including Shan, the race leader, who is still probably 15 laps or so ahead of me.

Still, with this newfound energy I’m also feeling ornery, so every time I gain a lap back on him I say: “I’m comin’ for ya, Shan!”

Me and Edna, cranking with a smile. (Image courtesy of Nate Pualengco)

Me and Edna, cranking with smiles. (Image courtesy of Nate Pualengco)

Around and round and round we go. As long as I’ve been running this loop, I can honestly say I am not sick of it. I actually love it. I love the scenery, the decorations, the familiar signposts.

Hell, right now, I love everyone and every thing and every place. I love you and you… and you! I am just running and running and feeling like a superhuman with an enlightened mind. The hours tick by and I know we’re getting close.

Two hours…

The 10k runners come from the opposite direction, offering more love and support.

One hour…

The Ibuprofen is starting to wear off. I’m coming back down to earth, back to my normal, tired, sluggish, beat up body.

With 35 minutes left, feeling suddenly slow with very little left in the tank, I tell Edna: “We can get two more miles. Two more.”

We plug away.

Edna and I, on the homestretch. (Image courtesy of Nate Pualengco)

Edna and I, on the homestretch. (Image courtesy of Nate Pualengco)

“Enjoy your pain,” I say to her. “That’s what you told me. That’s been with me all day. All day long I’ve been thinking about it. Enjoying it.”

She smiles back while never breaking stride.

“I get it now,” I continue, between labored breaths. “Knowing this… this feeling, this pain, this fatigue…. knowing it so intimately… it makes everything else… the joys, the success… makes it feel so sweet, so much better.”

“I’m proud of you, Jeff,” she says as we make our final turn onto the sidewalk parallel to Short Street. “You can do anything now.”

I can do anything.

I can.

Anything.

“Let’s run it in,” I say as we turn back onto the parking lot and head towards the finish. “Gotta look good for the end.”

I cross the line, completely exhausted, at 23 hours, 51 minutes and 33 seconds, seventh place overall with a total of 94.09 miles in my legs.

Edna and I embrace and I want to cry but I don’t have the energy. Instead we just smile a bunch and hug our friends at the finish.

“Aw, come on, Jeff, you can run a 9 minute mile!” jokes one of those friends, Karen, pointing towards the time left on the clock.

“Not right now I can’t. I. Am. Done.”

Sweeter words may never have been said.

24 hours, 94 miles, 43 mile distance PR. (Image courtesy of Nate Pualengco)

24 hours, 94 miles, 43 mile distance PR, lots of memories. (Image courtesy of Nate Pualengco)

Post Race

The hours shortly after the race gave me a good idea of what it will be like to be 90 years old. On the ride home, I fell asleep mid-conversation, mouth agape, snoring loudly. We made a stop at Jewel, which I don’t remember. I needed Edna’s help to get out of the car, walk in the house, and climb up the stairs. After a hot shower, I got nauseous from the steam. Once I recovered from that, I crawled into bed and shivered uncontrolably for about five minutes before she brought me some soup to warm me up. After an entire day of eating pizza, chips, cookies, oranges, bread, pasta, bacon, pancakes, watermelon, licorice, crackers, grapes, pretzels, peanut butter and jelly, chocolate, hash browns, and much more, soup and ONLY SOUP, sounded pretty good.

I slept like a rock.

The next day?

To be honest, I have felt much worse after running road marathons.

I think I could get used to doing these. Sure it hurt out there — pounding pavement and baking under the sun — but it hurt so good to dig in deep and crawl around inside my head. It hurt so good to feel so alive!

So much so that I’m already thinking about next year’s race…

And ONE HUNDRED miles.


Building on the Success of Others

siamak and jeff mohican 100 2014

We did it.

He (Siamak, pictured above on the right, brandishing an epic finisher’s buckle) did it. He finished the Mohican Trail 100 mile race.

And I’m now a perfect 7 for 7 in getting my runner to the finish line of a hundo.

It feels good. No doubt.

I have been thinking about it often, just as I often think about his successful Western States run from a year ago. I think of the pain. I think of the suffering. I think of the pure joy. In completing a task as enormous and as impressive as running 100 miles on one’s own two feet, it is very easy to forget how much discomfort is involved. It’s also easy to forget the reason one would ever put himself in a position to endure such torment: it feels good to be done, to know you have done it, to know you CAN do it. The power associated with such an immense accomplishment is unmatched in the real world.

When you know you can run from Chicago to Milwaukee, suddenly waiting in line at the post office doesn’t seem so bad.

That’s what I want. That’s what I’m aiming for in my own training and my own quest to run 100 miles.

I have had the pleasure of pacing a persistent, successful string of runners, each following his/her own unique path to the finish. The knowledge I’ve accumulated from running with them over the last two years is as vast as it is priceless.

I know mine is a challenge more mental than physical, a quest of quiet introspection that will lead to great accomplishments far off the trail, for as long as my memory remains.

Confident focus, mindfulness and lots of long, slow runs is the recipe.

The rest is just execution.


Patience, Persistence and Pacing

Nate and Jeff Kettle Moraine 100 2014 b

Celebratory hug at the 2014 Kettle Moraine 100 Mile Endurance run finish line with Nate Pualengco.

The left Achilles strain that forced me to DNS at Ice Age was a stubborn little bugger. Stubborn injuries for stubborn people. I suppose that’s what the running gods had in mind.

But I knew better than to sulk and feel sorry for myself. Nothing good could come of that. So I remained patient, stayed active in my recovery, and hoped for a long, healthy summer of solid training.

Four and a half weeks and several short walk-jogs later, I finally had full range of motion back in my left Achilles. I could run without pain. I could get back in the game.

And my health came just in time to pace my friend and client, Nate Pualengco, at the Kettle Moraine 100 Mile Endurance Run. His first 58 miles were smooth as could be, but when he came into the 63 mile Nordic aid station, he was limping from debilitating quad cramps. His crew and I attended to him with massage, ice and fuel, but I could see in his eyes that he was having doubts.

Before he could think about them much more we hurried him up and whisked him away, back into the relentless roller coaster that is the Kettle Moraine forest. I ran with him for the next 38 miles, where we encounted quite a few ups and downs: more quad cramping, sleep deprivation and general fatigue. But all of that suffering set the stage for one of the most impressive final 7-mile strikes I’ve ever seen in a 100 mile race.

Smelling the finish line, Nate turned off all pain sensors and started running hard. Passing people right and left, he pushed even harder. Two and a half miles from the finish, he slammed on the accelerator and it was an absolute thing of beauty, even if I saw most of it from about 50 meters back.

I had to dig deep myself just to keep him in my sights.

But when we got to the finish line it was all worth it. What a glorious scene it was to see him overcome the mental demons and physical pains that are so much apart of completing 100 miles on one’s own two feet. The fact that he finished it with a new personal best time of 27 hours 30 minutes for the distance was just the perfect ending.

Nate and his crew at the 2014 Kettle Moraine 100 finish.

Nate and his crew at the 2014 Kettle Moraine 100 finish.

For me, it was just the beginning of what I hope will be a long summer of training in preparation for my very first 100 mile race this coming November at the Pinhoti 100. Next up, I’ll be pacing my friend Siamak again, this time at the Mohican 100 on June 21. The first time I paced Siamak to a hundred mile finish was at the iconic Western States 100 last year. His performance on that weekend was nothing short of brilliant, so I expect more of the same. This will also be my second time pacing the Mohican 100, as I had the honor of getting Supergirl to the finish there in 2012 in what was my very first pacing experience.

It’s two years later, and I’m now a perfect 6 for 6 in getting my runner to the finish line of a 100 mile race (no pressure, Siamak). Since Kettle, I have been stewing in anticipation to tackle the last 50 miles of the ominous Mohican forest. Mohican is hard. Extremely hard. But in training and in life, it’s the hard that makes the easy so sweet.

Let’s get it on.


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