A LONG TIME AGO…
Before I had even run a full marathon, I was a bona fide Western States aficionado. It was the summer of 2010, and having drastically changed my life (and appearance) by quitting smoking, exercising and eating right, I was training for my first half-marathon. On a run one day my mind got to thinking…
13.1 miles seems like a lot… but 26.2 miles seems like a lot more. I wonder if anyone has ever run more than a marathon. Nah… that’s crazy. No one could do that. Right?
I didn’t know. So I did what I often do in times of uncertainty: I summoned the Google oracle.
“Does anyone run more than a marathon?” I typed.
“ULTRAMARATHON MAN by DEAN KARNAZES” was the result: a book on running crazy distances just because.
BOOM. I bought it.
A few days later, I read it.
And I fell in love. I fell in love with the idea of running and running and running just to see what I might be made of. Dean went into great detail about an insane-sounding race in the Sierra Nevadas called the Western States 100-Mile Endurance Run. It championed self-discovery through physicality. It was described as a relentless test of the human spirit — an unprecedented ceremony of lunacy were participants run 100 miles up and over mountains and through valleys while suffering temperatures ranging from 20-110 degrees Fahrenheit.
Some day… I am going to do THAT, I thought to myself.
I had no idea. It sounds silly now, mostly because I had very little experience distance running outside of the few months I had dedicated to training for a half marathon. But at the time I was desperately searching for meaning in my life. I didn’t know who I was or who I was becoming, but in reading Dean’s book I came away with the idea that the deep pains in my heart might find release if only I could somehow find a way to push past physical pain and let my feet discover worlds on their own, without limits.
FAST FORWARD TO DECEMBER 2016
Six years later and now a cagey veteran of countless ultra events (from 50ks to 50 milers to 100 milers), all of that time and dedication wandering in the woods with missing toenails finally paid off. After four years of trying with no success, the Western States running gods chose MY name out of the lottery and suddenly I am going to the big dance.
BUT WHAT IS THE WESTERN STATES 100-MILE ENDURANCE RUN?
For those who aren’t ultra nerds, think of Western States as the Super Bowl of ultrarunning — the Cadillac of 100-mile running events. It’s Christmas morning for distance junkees. Steak and lobster for gluttons for punishment.
It’s also every expensive — not just the entry fee, but also the transportation, the lodging, the rental car, the crew accommodations, the supplies, the gear the food the blah blah blaaaaaaaahhhhhhh… I knew that if I got in I’d have to run it, conquer it and be satisfied that it would most likely be my one and only shot in this life.
Back in 2013, I was lucky enough to be the pacer for a good friend of mine, Siamak Mostoufi in his mission to complete the Western States 100. I had a front row seat to magic that only kindled the fire of my dreams. Thereafter I patiently qualified, year after year, until I could finally get my opportunity at doing what most ultrarunners dream of doing.
When they called my name in the December 2016 lottery I told my wife, “We’re in!”
And we were in. No turning back.
In 100-mile races, it is quite common to have “crews”. A crew is an individual or group of individuals who help the runner (AHEM — crazy person) during the race by offering specific aid at various checkpoints throughout. Each runner/crew is unique, so their responsibilities may vary, but usually they center around providing food, drink, gear, clothing and moral support. Oftentimes a pacer is designated — someone who runs along with the runner through the second half of the race for safety reasons, pushing the runner to do his/her best when it might otherwise seem impossible.
For a trip as epic as the 2017 Western States, I had to get the band back together again. So we did!
BAM. Good lookin’ group.
For this race their duties are:
Siamak – Crew Chief/Navigator
Dad – Driver/Head Cheerleader
Edna – Pacer/Love-of-my-life
Damn, I am in good hands.
JANUARY 1 2017 TO JUNE 23 2017
Life. Oh man, life.
Good things. Bad things. In-the-middle things.
Unpredictability. Yep, that’s about right.
Training? Yes, TRAINING!
I am a personal trainer and group fitness instructor, so I always stay in shape. I run. I box. I run short races. I spar. I run long races. I fight.
I lead aerobics classes. I hold focus mitts. I jump up and down in homage to Richard Simmons and I try to get folks excited about being healthy.
It’s good all-around training.
But it ain’t no mountains, man.
Western States is tough for a number of reasons, but it’s super tough for flatlanders like me because specificity training is impossible outside of traveling to a mountain somewhere — something that definitely isn’t in my budget.
In this sport, the brain trumps all.
RACE DAY – JUNE 24, 2017 – 5 A.M.
Six months of preparation, positivism, nerves, nightmares, doubt, determination and DREAMS now come down to this: me against the Sierra Nevada, me against the canyons, me against the clock.
In our meetings last night and leading up to this I have been adamant to my crew that my only goal is to finish this race under the 30-hour time limit. I don’t care if I’m dead-fucking-last, just let me finish before they stop the clock.
This game plan seems particularly appropriate considering the conditions this year. Record snowfall in Squaw Valley has left a blanket of white on the first 15 miles of the course, something that will be difficult to navigate while either climbing or descending. Then, once we get past the high country, we will be in for heat in the mid to high 90s.
3… 2… 1…
I’m doing this… I’m running Western States… I’M REALLY RUNNING WESTERN STATES!!!!
And now I’m walking Western States.
The race starts out with a few seconds of flat… followed by four miles and 2100 feet of straight up climbing. I am walking this.
And I’m walking… and walking.
I pay little attention to the fact I am at the very back — that there’s only 7 or 8 people behind me… out of 369!
Man, come on, grandpa! You gonna go this slow the whole way? I ask myself.
Taketh what the course giveth, man.
I’m working hard just to keep this steady uphill pace. I can’t concern myself with what everyone else is doing. If I’m slow, I’m slow. It’s going to be a long day no matter what. Better to not burn out before I’ve even gotten started.
So on I labor.
It’s not long before we’re in snow. Going up. Slipping. Sliding. Climbing. Struggling.
At the top of the escarpment I take in the view, then start to navigate down. Slipping. Sliding. Struggling.
I’m mostly going downhill now, but there’s little to no running happening. Every time I try to jog down I end up on my ass. My hands are already scratched and numb from multiple falls on the crunchy snow and now I’m just trying to stay on my feet.
It’s early, but already I can feel the stress and strain in my legs.
Staying upright is tough, man!
Time is not my friend right now. I look down at my watch and know I am in trouble. ALREADY! It’s been three hours and I still haven’t made it to the first aid station.
Don’t panic. Not yet. Just keep your ass moving.
Slipping, sliding, struggling.
3 hours and 8 minutes after the gun went off, I finally arrive at Lyon Ridge, mile 10.3.
Get that? 10.3. It took me 3 hours and 8 minutes to go just 10.3 miles! I’ve run marathons faster than that! What the hell!?!?
And oh look, the cutoff of for this aid station is 10:00 a.m. The average time for a 30-hour runner to reach this station is 7:40 a.m., putting me 30 minutes behind right off the bat. I ain’t got no time to stay here. RUN, FOREST, RUN!
I fill my bottles and go. SCARED.
Running scared, running scared, running scared.
A few ups, a few downs, a few face plants, and now… MUD. Why not?
What the hell… mud… and muck and snow and mud. I keep moving the best I can. There aren’t many people behind me. I’m at the back. Every time I look behind, I see panic on peoples’ faces. Gotta stop doing that. Gotta stop doing that myself.
DON’T PANIC. NOT YET.
Okay, one foot in front of the other and we’ll get through this.
I reach a mud bog — the sort of thing that ate Artax in The Neverending Story and makes me cry every time I see it. Still.
Left foot goes in. Right foot goes in. Left foot comes out. Right foot comes out… but without a shoe.
Right foot goes back in, shoeless… and now I’m digging through the mud elbow deep looking for my shoe.
I find it, pull it out and shun the Western States gods because now it is chock full of mud and a bazillion tiny rocks, same as my shoeless foot.
How am I going to go on now?
I slip the shoe back on and feel every single stone. I hobble over to a large rock, sit my already-tired ass down and assess the situation:
Okay, my right foot and shoe are caked in mud/rocks/grit/evil. I have water. I have water in my bottle. Yes…
I rinse my foot and sock off with the water, getting rid of most of the adhered stones. I rinse out my shoe the same way, taking the insole out and squirting it down with everything I have. I get as many of the rocks out as I can, slide the insole back in, shove the shoe on my foot and GET MY ASS BACK ON THE TRAIL.
Now I’m really behind the clock.
Gotta go! Wish I could! This shit is hard!
I get to an aid station but blow through it not knowing where I am. I go a ways and get to another one. Is this the second? Or third? Where am I? The only thing I saw going through was the cut-off time I’m just barely ahead of it so move, move, move!
I’m running scared. Keep moving. I try to eat but can’t. That’s not good. Usually I can eat anything in an ultra. Right now the thought makes me nauseous. I suck down some gels I’m carrying. I can drink, so I do that.
I traipse down a long descent and finally reach the bottom. It feels different here though. I start my way up, up and up… and now… now I know what’s different: IT’S FRIGGIN’ HOT, MAN.
I climb. And climb. And CLIMB. I’m getting tired. I’ve BEEN tired.
Minutes go by. Lots of them. I forget where I am. Am I at mile 20? 25? I’m all alone. No one around me. It’s just me and this heat and this trail and these trees and I’m hot and my heart rate is soaring and I feel like I’m gonna be sick.
Throw up, man. You’ll feel better, I tell myself. But I can’t.
Some deep, steady breaths calm me some, but I’m struggling. Gotta keep moving. I do the best I can.
But now my mind wanders…
I’m not gonna make it. It’s almost 2 o’clock and I haven’t even made it to Duncan Canyon yet… right? Wait, where am I? Am I close to Robinson Flat or do I still have a ways to go? I’m confused. And tired. And sore. ALREADY.
This is too much for me. What am I going to say to my crew? To my students back home? To my wife?
And here I am: STILL climbing. Good grief. This is so dumb.
“Mi amor!!” I hear.
“Mi amor?!?” I yell back, delirious. “Mi amor, is that you?”
“Sí, Papi! Good job! Te amo, mi amor!”
It’s Edna! My wife! My beautiful Mexican wife!
If she is here then… that means I must be at… Robinson Flat! Mile 30! And it’s 1:35 p.m. so I’m not out of the race yet! I’m alive!
Good grief, I’m aliiiiiiiiiiiiiive!!
“Mi amor,” I say cresting the climb, falling into her arms… “Estoy jodido… I’m suffering. I don’t know… I’m just…”
She stops me: “What do you need? You want food? Ice?”
“Ice, yes. Food… I can’t eat. I need gels. Please. And Coke. I can drink Coke.”
She kisses me then runs off ahead to where Dad and Siamak are waiting with supplies. I can’t help but smile thinking I really won the wife lottery by getting her. I love her, man. I really do.
I stumble into the aid station and get can of Coke. They top off my bottles with ice water and as I move forward I see Dad and Siamak with my buff full of ice, ready to go.
“I’m messed up, man,” I tell Siamak delirious. “The climbing. It’s a lot. I’m shot. My feet. I can’t eat. Just fruit and water and soda really.”
“You just got out of a tough climb to get here,” he replies.
“If somehow I survive this, I mean, looking at the time, if I can keep in the race, I don’t think I’ll make it to Michigan Bluff before 8:30 p.m. See if Edna can be ready to pace by then. I will need her.”
“I got you, man. Don’t worry.” he says.
“The next part is going to be easier, mi amor,” says my wife running back towards me.
“Really?” I perk up, chugging Coke. *BELCH*
“Yeah, a little climb then some downhill to the next station,” says Siamak. “It’s going to get hotter and hotter so stay wet. Keep this buff full of ice from here on out.”
I say goodbye. It’s 1:40 p.m. and I don’t have much time. Twenty minutes before they close this station. FUUUUUCK.
Gotta move. Gotta move.
“You can do it, mi amor. You are strong. I know you can.” She stays with me for a bit, shoves gels in my pack and kisses me goodbye.
If she thinks I can do it, damnit, maybe I CAN do it. Let’s go!
What happens next is pretty wild:
I… AM… RUNNING!!!
Iced down… re-fueled… having seen my wife… I am a new man. And I start to pick up the pace, running hard on the downs, power-hiking like a champ on the ups and pumping my arms hard so my legs will follow on the rare flat.
Miller’s Defeat (mile 34.4), Dusty Corners (mile 38), Last Chance (mile 43.3). I’m rocking it now. How? Ice, maybe. Drinking Coke and eating *BELCH* watermelon? I don’t know. My wife said I could do it so I better prove her right.
I leave Last Chance and cascade down to the bottom of the hot canyon knowing that the hardest climb of the day is coming up. There’s a creek at the bottom of the descent, and when I get there it looks like Hot Tub Time Machine because there’s four people sitting in it, including me. Unlike a hot tub, this water is COLD and REFRESHING and JUST WHAT I NEED before attempting the long, arduous climb up Devil’s Thumb.
The water brings my core temperature down and numbs my beaten feet. I take off up the climb, keeping my head down, trying not to count any of the 36 switchbacks that make up Devil’s Thumb.
It’s slow. But steady. I just power through. Every once in a while I feel sick so I stop and breathe. And then get going again. It’s a bitch. But at least I’m getting through it.
Forever and a day later, I finally reach the top… and what do I find? CARNAGE.
Lots of folks here in chairs, beaten, puking, demoralized.
Not me. Can’t stay here. Gotta go. I got a date with my wife at Michigan Bluff and I gotta get there NOW.
I slam some Coke, eat some fruit and get on my way.
Down, down, down to El Dorado Creek (mile 52.9) only to go back up, up, up towards Michigan Bluff (mile 55.7).
As I get close, I hear people talking on the ridge above me and I know I’m almost to Edna so I just pump my arms like a champ to make myself move that much quicker. I take a quick assessment and know that if I have time I should try to change my socks here. Both my feet are on fire with blister hot spots and I fear the worst.
It’s Edna! And she’s ready to run! Yes!
“Mi amor! I’m so happy to see you!” I say.
“You did good, mi amor, going faster. You made good time. What do you need?”
“I need to change my socks and I need Ensure. I can’t eat anything but fruit and soda without feeling sick.”
“Okay, I will get it ready, then we will run together! Te amo, mi amor!”
Edna runs ahead and I see it’s 8:35 p.m. I’m 15 minutes ahead of 30-hour pace and an hour and ten minutes ahead of the cutoff.
Hallelujah. I might just fucking do this.
Rolling in to Michigan Bluff, I follow Edna’s voice as she leads me to Dad and Siamak where they have a camp chair ready along with a sock change and Ensure. For the first time all day long, I sit down. It feels good.
Don’t get comfortable though. Gotta keep moving.
Removing my socks I can now see that my feet are macerated and I know there’s no stopping the blisters now. We can only hope to contain them.
Gonna be a bit painful over the next 45 miles but if I finish it’ll be worth it so don’t cry over that now.
My crew has me in and out and on my way with my pacer, my love, my wife and for the first time in almost 16 hours I actually feel like I can do this.
I spend the next two hours being Chatty Cathy, telling Edna every little detail leading up to where we are now. The high country. The snow. The mud suck. The climbs. The panic. The pain. The defeat. The descents. The joy. The return. The triumph. The love.
Being here. Right now.
Now is easy. I’m with my girl. I let her set the pace and all I have to do is follow.
It’s dark. We turn on our headlamps and slow ever so much as our vision narrows. Still, before I know it, we’re at Foresthill (mile 62) and Dad and Siamak are again there waiting for us.
We say hi and grab a Red Bull (I think) but we don’t stay long. Keenly aware of the clock, Edna has me in and out the station, making me run hard down to Cal-1 (mile 65.7), Cal-2 (mile 70.7) and Cal-3 (mile 73).
I’m doing relatively well (awake, alert, semi-stable), but on the steep drops the loose rock footing of the trail starts to have a negative effect on my knees (both stiff and achy) and feet (severely blistered, everywhere).
I start to let out little screams on the descents.
“I know, mi amor. Me too. Me too. Está bien, vámanos!”
Around 3 a.m. I start to get sleepy. Yawning. Belching still occasionally and then yawning and stumbling some more. Edna splits a 5-Hour Energy with me.
Back to life, right on down to the river.
We get to Rucky Chucky (mile 78) and Dad and Siamak, once again, are waiting for us handing out Ensures, ice and lots of encouragement.
We don’t stay long. Edna is adamant about getting in and out of aid stations. She did her homework and knows all the cut-off times. She is working hard to buy time so I can stay well ahead of that 30-hour mark. She is awesome.
We say goodbye to Dad and Siamak and, like we’d just went down the ultra rabbit hole, some volunteers put glow-in-the-dark necklaces around our necks and push us towards raft boats while saying “Welcome to the River Crossing!”
This is like Disneyland, I thought to myself. Ultra Disneyland. Why not.
We begin to cross the river in a raft with an Irishman (I remember because of the accent) and a few other crazy folks who thought running 100 miles in the Sierra Nevadas might be “fun”.
Hmmm. I like ultras. Mostly when I’m done running them. And I usually enjoy the first 10-20 miles before my legs go to shit… but to be honest, I haven’t “enjoyed” much of this race. It has been mostly suffering. Then again, suffering makes non-suffering WAY better than suffering…
“We’re here!” the boat captain says.
“Vamos, mi amor!”
We go. Sorta. We climb. Up to Green Gate. It’s a long climb and my sluggish legs and labored heart are starting to revolt.
I feel sick again. My heart rate soars. I have to stop and catch my breath several times.
“You can do it, mi amor!”
Okay, okay, okay… if you say so. I try. I do the best I can. We reach the top of Green Gate (mile 79.8) well ahead of the cut-off and even though my body is throbbing with question marks in the way of blisters, knee pain, busted toenails and aches, I start to feel like this is probably going to happen for me.
NOT YET! Don’t let your mind wander. Not yet. Stay focused. Anything can happen.
Indeed. Head down. Plug away.
“The sun will bring us back to life, mi amor,” says my wife, noting the chirping birds and squeaky rays of sun bursting through the trees. I know those same rays are going to scorch me as I try to get to the finish line but I welcome them anyway. I could use some pep in my step.
We get to Auburn Lake Trails (mile 85.2) and dig some Ensure and Red Bull out of our drop bag while a man dressed as a hot, mini-skirt clad nun fills my water bottles with ice water. I’m not sure if it’s really a man or really a nun or a woman or what but I’m laughing because it’s six in the morning and I’ve been running all night through the wilderness with my hot wife and some busted blistered feet so I don’t know I just ahhhhhhh what the hell go with it.
The Ensures are keeping me alive! Yay for dietary supplements for the elderly! My wife was SUPER SMART TO BRING THEM!
ALSO…. I like fruit!
And ice is cool, man!
Are we having fun yet?
It’s getting hot. Sun is coming out. Just following my wife now. Not saying much. Thinking less. My feet hurt. Fuck. Every step is a bomb in my shoe. Ugh.
We’re at Pointed Rocks (mile 94.3) and Dad and Siamak are there feeding me Ensure again, stuffing ice in my face and neck and BUUUUUUUUUUURN.
The ice is good but since I’ve been wet basically all day long; I am chafed all over, especially down there, so now I’m aware of that as well and oh yay isn’t this some kind of awesome party with genital chafing, blisters and rocks in your shoes? I must be a VIP.
But hey, I’m okay! I’m going to finish. I think! We’re 15 minutes ahead of 30-hour time and 45 minutes ahead of the cut-off so no matter what we gotta get going!!!
“See you in Auburn!” I tell the crew as they we
fly jog plod off.
Just six miles to go!!!
It hurts but we move anyway… racing that damn clock!
I LOVE MY WIFE! SHE IS AWESOME! I LOVE NATURE! IT IS AWESOME! I LOVE ENSURES! THEY ARE AWESOME!
We reach No Hands Bridge (mile 96.8) and stop only to be doused in ice water before we get right back to running. AND WE ARE RUNNING! High turnover! Get those legs moving. I gotta finish this shit!
SLAM! BAM! RAMA LAMA DING DONG!
I stub my right toe into a rock and the toenail gets flipped up, perpendicular to my toe! What the FRANKENSTEIN?!?!
AHHHHHHH! I scream. I stop and bend down and try to fix it but Edna’s says, “No, we have to keep moving, mi amor!”
“But it hurts! It hurts bad!”
“Ya sé, pero vámanos. It’s our last chance. We have to push. We can’t stop. Vámanos!”
Damn it, she’s right. Don’t cry. Suck it up, buttercup. Just another lost toenail.
We keep running downhill and as we finally start our final big ascent up towards Robie Point I notice I have the Curt Schilling bloody sock thing going as blood soaks through to the top of my shoe. GNARLY!
Never mind, we gotta keep busting ass. Less than an hour before the finish line shuts down let’s get going!!!!
We climb up, up, up… “Welcome to Robie Point!” they say to cheers and claps and drums? And bells? And whistles?
Or is that just happening in my head?
Doesn’t matter. We’re almost done. We’re on blacktop now. Mile 98.9. People from the town of Auburn are out and cheering. They’re smiling. They’re making me feel like a million bucks.
The next several minutes are a blur until I see Siamak… he’s elated, jumping out of his skin.
“Man you kicked ass!” he says whipping out his phone, recording Edna and I as we enter the Placer High School track for the last 300 meters of this monster race.
We’re running. Floating. SOARing.
This is really happening. Now.
From a depressed, overweight smoker who decided enough is enough… to a curious newly fit young adult who wondered if people could really run more than a marathon… to a seasoned ultra vet with one last wish to run the coveted Western States 100… alongside his hot wife for that matter… and now look… dreams are coming true.
Good grief I am in heaven.
Edna and I hold hands as we cross the finish line in 29 hours, 38 minutes, 45 seconds.
I kiss her and thank her and look for a Coke.
The 2017 Western States was a doozy, no doubt. The numbers prove that. Regardless of the conditions, I pictured myself as a Golden Hour finisher, and that’s exactly what we did. The Golden Hour refers to the last hour that participants have to finish the race; and this year there were two who just skated in, one with only 8 seconds to go.
Fucking magic, man.
But wait, there’s more:
I have a great Dad who went out of his way to help me and the crew. Not being able to get around real well himself, he sacrificed his body to make sure I got what I needed when I needed it. He was also the one driving everywhere, not easy in these remote areas. He’s been there for all the big events and for that I am truly grateful. Thanks, Baba!
Also, I want you to know that my buddy, Siamak is a champ! He is so smart and quick-thinking and calming. He was a great crew leader. He also took some great photos and videos — images I will cherish forever.
And did you know? My wife is the BEST! I love you, mi amor! Edna was such a great pacer. She ran 45 miles herself and never once complained about anything. She was on her game, quick with splits, cut-offs, milestones. She was on it, shoving gels in my face and making me suck it up when everything got blurry. I wouldn’t have made it without her.
The race itself… man, what can one say? The volunteers, the management, the everything… TOP NOTCH. The aid stations were superb. Everyone there was there to help. It was a family.
I felt loved.
I also felt the pain… of the terrain, of course. My feet were hamburger. My chafing was major league. The struggle was real. It’s been a few days and I’m still limping.
People often ask me why I would subject myself to such torture and the only thing I can really think of is that I like to see what I can do on my own two feet. When I know I can run 100 miles through hell and back, suddenly life gets easier. I’m able to do much more than I ever thought I could. I try a little harder. I go a little further. I stick with things a little longer.
It makes me a better friend, husband, person.
Through it all, I find out who I am.
And for someone who spent most of his life not having a clue who he was, that’s pretty damn powerful.
I never stopped running. I never will. It’s who I am.
Since my last adventure recall back in September, life jumped down my throat, taking wild swings and unforeseen chops — testing me in every way like an ultra eats at you, mile by mile, aid station by aid station, poisoning you with thoughts of quitting, thoughts of defeat. It was tough. No question. But I didn’t give up. I put my head down and kept pounding pavement. I laughed. I cried. I fought.
Considering the severity of issues I faced, I found great difficulty in committing my thoughts to a public realm. The time wasn’t right. I needed separation. I needed solace.
I needed space.
But I never stopped running.
I never will. It’s who I am.
November was a “rest” month. I took it easy, but shook my legs out regularly.
December was much the same, though I admit, these days I much fancy an hour long treadmill slog over a slick 20 degree bone chiller.
Like last year, January began my boxing training in earnest. I ran regularly (4-5 days a week) to stay conditioned, but much of my training focused on sport specific drills, including sparring. At the same time, my business, Iron Lung Fitness, doubled in size, leading to a heavier teaching load, including four aerobics classes each week that I led like Richard Simmons on Red Bull (still do! check them out!).
February introduced me to Alex Garcia, a local talent with big boxing ambitions. I took him under my wing and we went to war and had a great showing in March. I am very proud of him and look forward to his bright future.
And just last night, I followed up my 2015 Chicago Golden Gloves Championship with a trip to the 2016 Semi-Finals. The decision didn’t go my way, but I gave it my all and learned a whole lot about myself along the way, including the fact that I will be back in the ring sooner than later.
Self discovery = Putting myself in extreme situations that measure the size of my heart, mental strength and ability to adapt.
Getting in the ring and committing to combat… running a balls-out-marathon… covering 100 miles on my own two tired feet.
This is not the life everyone would choose. But it’s the only one I know.
I’ll never stop running.
It’s who I am.
My lovely fiancee, Edna Jackeline Vazquez, is training for Racing the Planet’s 250k race across the Namibian Desert and I’m going with her! Like I did in the Gobi last year, I am tagging along to work as a race volunteer and assure she doesn’t get homesick after 7 days of sand-trekking without a shower. It begins May 1st and I can hardly wait for all the adventure to come!
When we return, we will have just enough time to rest before running the Mohican 100, June 18-19. This is Edna’s birthday weekend and I promised her two belt buckles as a gift, even though it will most certainly require a bit of crying, pain and suffering. HAPPY MUTHAFUCKIN BIRTHDAY!!!
Mohican is a beast and we both know it.
Oh well. Bring it on, Mohican!
And after that? Who knows… maybe the Chicago Marathon if I can get in. Maybe some more local trail races. A real non-working vacation would be nice. And I imagine another fight or two or three will be on the schedule.
One thing is for sure in the Lung-Vazquez household: we don’t take no easy roads.
Go to work.
*MOVIE TRAILER VOICE*
In a world… where Jeff… meets Edna… and they run… and run… and run…
Until they form…
Following the incredible experience I had at Pinhoti last year, I knew I would eventually want to run another 100 mile race. I thought about running harder courses, about traveling somewhere exotic, about running all alone with no pacer.
But 2015 has been plenty filled with challenges: the Golden Gloves, the Gobi March and 24 Hours of running in circles, alongside the daily demands of running my own business. With the calendar quickly slipping by, I turned my attention to Run Woodstock, an event in Pinckney, Michigan I have attended each of the last three years. I love Run Woodstock because it celebrates the joy of running — being free, healthy and spirited — with distances ranging from 5k all the way up to 100 miles. Having paced the 100 mile race twice before, I felt like it would be a good place to return to the distance on my own, after slaughtering myself through the Talladega Forest just a year ago.
But the more I thought about running the race on my own, sans pacer, the more I yearned to do the complete opposite and run with someone. A certain someone. Someone I love very much.
That’s when I asked Edna, my fiancee, if she would want to run with me. Step by step.
“You and I, Edna. Just the two of us. 100 miles of beautiful trail… some boring gravel road sections… and probably crappy weather.” I proposed.
“Yes! Let’s do it!” she said, without hesitation.
“Wow. That didn’t take much convincing. Okay. We’re going to do this. Together then!”
Having an ultrarunner as your partner enables one to go all out on the crazy sauce. I couldn’t wait.
Friday, September 11, 2015
Edna and I wake up in Kalamazoo, where we drove to and stayed the night before. We wanted to save ourselves a couple of hours of sleep, deciding to split the four hour drive from Chicago into two shorter trips. Feeling refreshed and well rested, I think we made the right choice.
We eat a light breakfast and marvel at the pouring rain outside our window. Through the cracked sill, there’s also a slight chill. We expect nothing less from western Michigan in September. I check the forecast for Hell Creek Ranch in Pinckney, further east on I-94, 10ish miles northwest of Ann Arbor, the site of our impending pain. Bad weather seems to have been a hallmark of my Run Woodstock experience. It almost always rains. Or it’s really hot. Or really cold. Or all of the above. Last year a massive tree branch fell on my tent that would have otherwise blown away during a storm. Today it looks like we might luck out and have perfect running weather with temps in the mid 60s to high 40s overnight.
Edna and I share some nervous energy through our conversation as we drive towards our destination, interrupted with a quick stop at Cracker Barrel to fill up on high-calorie, salt-saturated ‘Merican food, complete with grits and just-add-water gravy.
“What is greets?” Edna asks in her adorable Mexican accent.
“Um… I actually don’t know. They do taste better if you add salt. And pepper? Eat them. We’ll need all the calories we can get.”
Satisfactorily stuffed, we finish our drive to Hell Creek Ranch and find overcast skies with a slight chill, but no rain.
“Not too bad. We can run in this.” I admit.
Of course, a lot can change in the 30 hours they give us to finish the distance, but starting out knowing we won’t have to suffer through a slopfest is a bonus.
So is arriving on time. Last year, Edna and I arrived just a few minutes before the race began, leaving her scrambling to get her number and to the start line in time. Today we have a couple of hours to chill out, organize our drop bags and even take a nap!
No more sleeping! Let’s do this!
Edna and I gather our things and walk from the parking area over to the campground and start line of what will be a 16.6 mile loop course that we have to run six times. SIX. TIMES.
We place our drop bags in the proper areas (one at the Start/Finish line and one in the truck headed for the halfway point of the loop) and lose ourselves in the crowd of anxious runners. There is also a 100k race starting at the same time as ours, so there are plenty of people around. We step away from them all for a few seconds to snap this picture under the start line banner:
The Jimi Hendrix version of our National Anthem blares and the nervous energy dissipates into the calm of knowing exactly what I’ll be doing for the next 30 or so hours, hopefully less. Running 100 miles is never an easy task, but staying in the moment — each and every step of the way knowing exactly where I exist in time and space — makes it doable in pieces.
The race director gives a final countdown: 3… 2… 1…
AND WE’RE OFF!
Miles 1 – 16.6
“Let everyone go, mi amor. We have a long way to go. People always go out too fast. And they suffer later. That won’t be us today.”
I give Edna this advice as we situate ourselves comfortably at the back of the pack. Having been through the 100 mile experience many times as a pacer, crew member and once as a finisher, I know that it’s always easy to go out fast. I’ve seen it time and time again. What is not easy — but infinitely satisfying — is running strong at the back half of a hundo. It feels so damn good to be plugging along, head down, doing work when doing so seems so impossible. We want to be moving well (relatively) at the end. No zombie walking for us (we hope).
We start out easy and as soon as we hit the slightly uphill trail leading out of the campground and into the woods, I bring us to a walk while everyone else blows by.
“We walk the hills, mi amor,” I tell Edna. “All of them. From the beginning.”
Walk the hills. Run the downs, and the flats. When we have to walk we walk with a purpose. Swing those arms. Mall walk that trail! This is the game plan. This is what we’ve trained for. This is what Edna and I have agreed on.
In fact, as we jog along the conga line of runners, I’m still smiling from Edna’s words to me back when we decided to run this race together.
“I will follow you,” she said. “I won’t think about anything else. Just follow you.”
She’s giving me full control of the situation. As someone who rather favors being in control of… well, everything!… I am quite pleased about this. It puts me at ease.
I test out her sincerity a couple of times and smile as she follows my every move.
This is gonna be a kick ass day.
The first stretch of the loop is a nice lush trail. It’s not technical. It’s soft dirt, sand, grass and SHIT-OUCH-DAMNIT roots. I kick my toe into one right off, solidifying my innate ability to stub my digits on anything and everything.
This is gonna be a loooooong kick ass day.
We hit a gravel road that is as flat as it is long. “We are going to use this road a lot today, Edna,” I say, offering up what little wisdom I’ve gathered having run this course each of the last three years. “This is a part where we can make up time. It’s runnable. No roots for me to kick my toes into. It’s perfect for cranking.”
Edna smiles, like she always does, and I am totally digging this being in control thing. Makes me want to run faaaast!
And we can through here. Once we get onto the trail again there are several downhills, reminding why this course is also perfectly runnable, even late in a race. “We’ll have to take advantage of the downs too, mi amor. Let ourselves go a little bit anytime we can.”
We reach the first aid station 55 minutes into our journey and go through a routine we will do another 23 times: fill up our water bottles. Eat whatever looks good. Get our butts out of there.
On the drive over we discussed not wasting time at aid stations. It’s so easy to do. Prior to arriving, I like to say out loud what I’m going to do once I get to the aid station, so when I get there I do just those things and then get moving. Hanging around, yapping, not running… those activities can kill your race and leave you chasing cut-offs.
Not us. Not today. We grab some food and get out, power hiking up another road as we stuff our faces.
The road goes up and down gently before sending us back onto single track. I stop to pee, something I will do every 20-30 minutes for the entirety of the race, and in my haste to catch back up to Edna I turn on the burners. Vroooooom! I zoom, up over and around rocks and roots and BAM-THWACK-SHIIIIIIIT.
I fall flat on my stomach, breaking my fall with my forearms.
“Mi amor, que pasó? Are you okay?” Edna hollers back.
Laughing, humbled and only slightly embarrassed, I pick myself and rub some dirt on my knees. Nothing hurts. Yet.
“Just fell down, babe. All good here.”
She smiles as I take back the lead position. It’s times like these I can’t help but laugh at myself. I laugh because I can. Because I feel alive. And because falling down, to me, is incredibly funny (pratfalls anyone?).
An hour later and now we’re at the 8 mile aid station. A drop bag is here, but we don’t need it yet. We fill up, grab some food and get on down the road.
We cruise along. There’s a little bit of road, a little bit of trail. We’re feeling good. No, we’re feeling great! We’re jumping and skipping and feeling light on our SNAP-BOOM-THWACK-SHIIIIIIIT.
I stub my toe again.
“Mi amor,” I say, “don’t mind my potty mouth. I can’t help but scream expletives when I do things like that. It’s no reflection on you, nor our race.”
She smiles her approval. We made a pact today to stay positive and quell all realms of negativity. No complaining. No badmouthing. We came here with the goal of running 100 miles. We know the pain and suffering required. But we vowed not to give in to it.
Except in cases where I stub my toes, of course.
“Mi amor,” she says, “why don’t you pick up your feet a little bit?”
Hmmm. What a novel idea. Yeah, dummy why DON’T you pick up your feet?
While I think about it, I BOOM-FUUUUUUUUUUUUU-SHIIIIIIIT, I do it again.
Yes, I paid for this.
An hour has gone by and we’re back at the first aid station we saw at mile 4, which doubles as the mile 12 station. The volunteers are quick to give us a hand, but we don’t stay long, opting to get back down the trail.
We power hike the slow incline leaving out of the station and then pick up speed as we traverse several downs.
This course is fun. It’s not too tough. It’s very runnable. And your body gets to use a lot of different muscles as it tries to survive six full loops.
Don’t remind me.
On the back half of this last four mile section, there are a few bigger climbs. We power hike them like champs and soon find ourselves popping out of the woods and back into Hell Creek Ranch to the rancorous cheers of a bunch of hippies. Some of them are drunk. Some of them are not. All of them are awesome.
First loop done in four hours on the dot.
Miles 16.6 – 33.2
“Let’s grab our headlamps, babe,” I shout out as we find our drop bag and dig through its contents. “We made really great time. Let’s keep up the good work.”
Edna and I don’t stay long. The sunlight is disappearing and we are eager to get back on the trail before it’s completely dark. We grab some food and eat it as we power hike the first part of trail leading out of camp.
It’s quite a trip going from the loud party atmosphere of the camp back into the silence of the forest, especially now as it gets dark. Edna and I haven’t been conversing too much, making the quiet stand out even more, but that’s nothing new. We have spent many a training run trucking along in silence. Every once in a while I look back and find her smile. I smile too. Ours is an understood admiration that, while running, doesn’t need words. We are doing what we love the most: adventuring in the forest for hours and hours.
How fucking cool is that?
“Te amo!” she yells out.
“Te amo tambien, mi amor!”
On the long gravel road this time we crank up the pace again and I feel my hamstrings and calves are kind of tight. They get like this on long stretches of straightaway, but I know they’ll feel better back on the trail, so I keep digging in, trying to let my legs go.
Edna follows along perfectly in stride. Since we have spent so many weekend miles together on trails and roads, training for this race, I am pretty locked in to the range of paces she can handle and I try to push her when I can. My mind-body feedback loop is on point and try to include her body language into the equation as well so I can calculate the right pace.
We have an hour in the bank already on what we need to accomplish overall (an average of five hours per loop) so I know we can slow down and still be safe for finishing the race under the allowed 30 hours. From experience, I know the third loop will probably be our slowest as we traverse the darkness full of fatigue, but I’m not worried about that yet.
Just focus on what you’re doing. Now. NOW.
The constant reminder of the NOW. I absolutely love it. Breathe. Stride. Check-in. Smile.
I’m aliiiiiiiiiive. So aliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiive!!!
And I’m sharing this with the LOVE OF MY LIFE!
Pinch yourself, dude! I mean, how many times do you get to fully immerse yourself in your passion with your life partner? I’m pretty certain Joe Montana didn’t run 7-on-7 drills with his wife for 30 hours at a time. And I doubt Ozzie Smith’s spouse hit grounders for him to chase all day. This type of thing just doesn’t happen very often.
I love it! I love her! I love the WOOOOOOOORRRRRRLD.
“Un búho!” Edna screams. “An owl!”
Not just an owl, but the motherload of owls surprises me by dive bombing out of a tree, grazing my head before sputtering off into the shaded green of the forest.
“Wow,” I say, heartbeat racing, “that was a badass buzzing.”
Fueled by the fear of another owl attack, we kick it up a gear and find ourselves at the halfway point of the loop. Here I am reminded once again that I really do love this girl. We pull out our drop bag and DEVOUR a container of macaroni and cheese with bacon that she mindfully prepared prior to the race.
***FLASHBACK TO THURSDAY EVENING BEFORE LEAVING FOR MICHIGAN***
“Is that bacon I smell?” I ask walking in the door, hands full of training equipment after a long day of work.
“Sí, mi amor. I made macaroni and cheese with bacon for our drop bag in the middle of the night.”
I drop everything. “You. Are. The best. THE BEST!”
***BACK TO THE RACE***
“This mac-n-cheese with bacon is making love to my mouth right now,” I tell her. Some 24 miles in, I couldn’t have asked for a better meal.
She also pulls out a container of mashed potatoes and salted ham and mixed vegetables. “Do you want some of this too, mi amor?”
Do I? I want to shove it all into my face. Just cover myself in it. I am so happy.
Tired, but happy. I note the general fatigue as much as we head back out on to the road and eventually the trail where I BOOOM-SNAP-THWACK stub my toe. Again.
“No biggie! I’ll survive!” I say forcing a smile.
I knew the night would be full of this. I stub it a couple more times and decide “Okay, maybe I will concentrate on picking up my feet. Or slowing down. Or both.”
We plug away. Run the downs and flats, power hike the hills. Even the littlest of hills gets a power hike from us. We are all about pacing.
So far, so good, as we roll back into camp four and a half hours after we left it. This time we arrive to darkness. Silence.
Where are all the hippies?
Oh yeah, it’s 12:30 in the morning. They’re sleeping. That sounds pretty nice right now.
I’m sleepy myself. From our drop bag, Edna and I decide to crack open one of the Red Bulls we brought along. We don’t drink this stuff in real life, but in ultras, it’s our secret weapon. Edna calls it “El Diablo” because its immediate ability to “gives us wings” seems thoroughly demonic. How does it work so fast? And so well! When we combine it with small doses of Ibuprofen, it’s like someone gave us brand new legs (for a while, at least).
Vrroooooom. Hyped up on sugar, caffeine and whatever else is in that stuff, we leave camp, back on the trail for the dreaded third loop.
Saturday, September 12
Miles 33.2 – 49.8
Up and down the trail to the road, we don’t say much. We just keep our rhythm with our steps. Like we’ve been doing, we stop every 30 minutes or so to water the trees and then we get back into our routine. Every now and then I check in with a “Te amo” or “All good?” or “Great job, mi amor”. We’re getting tired, but we are kicking ass, with an hour and twenty five minutes of extra time in the bank.
These overnight hours are never easy and Edna has struggled with them mightily in other races. The 4 p.m. Friday start helps us in that we are doing the difficult section while our legs are still relatively fresh, but I expect this to be our longest loop.
I keep track as our time from aid station to aid station slips from an hour and change to an hour and fifteen minutes, hour and twenty. “It’s all good,” I remind Edna. “Let’s get through this one without killing ourselves and when the sun comes up we’ll start cranking out the miles again.”
With my constant toe stubbing and inability to see outside the view of my headlamp, our pace has no choice but to slow. We are still running the road sections pretty strong, but the downhills we were bombing earlier require more care.
It starts raining.
As my body weakens, the voice in my head gets louder.
So what? We got ponchos! You hear me, 100 miler? We came ready for this shit!
AND THERE’S PIZZA! HALLE-FRIGGIN-LUJAH THERE’S PIZZA!
At the halfway aid station we stuff ourselves with more ham, mashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese and bacon.
This ain’t an ultra race, this is an eating contest and I am kicking ass, man! NOM NOM NOM!
We head back down the road and find ourselves back on the trail, sufficiently stuffed again as we trot along. The silence breaks with BOOM-THWACK-AIIIIIIIIIII. I turn around and see Edna sprawled out on the ground, shoulder rolled and all. My stomach drops. My heart sinks.
“Mi amor, are you okay?”
She mumbles some expletives I rarely hear out her mouth before picking herself back up and dusting off her legs. “Sí, mi amor.” She walks gingerly, allowing 60 seconds for feeling sorry for herself, and then: “Estoy bien. Vamos. Let’s go.”
I love it. Ain’t no pratfalls stopping us today! Bam! Let’s go!
THWACK-BOOM-SHIIIIIIIT. My turn. Again. Doesn’t matter. Pain isn’t real. Let’s pick up the pace!
As we near the camp to finish our third loop, I look at my clock and see that after 5 hours 5 minutes, it was our slowest yet, as expected. No biggie. Still got an hour and a half in the bank. Despite sleepiness and general fatigue, our bodies are working just fine. And best of all, I got a hot sidekick sharing the miles (and smiles) with me.
“Here comes the sun,” I tell her as we chug another diablo drink at the Start/Finish aid station. “We’re going to pick up speed again. Naturally.”
She nods confidently. “I follow you.”
Her loyalty fuels me. The Red Bull may give me wings, but her love gives me the indomitable will.
I can’t wait to cross the finish line holding her hand.
Let’s make it happen.
Miles 49.8 – 66.4
We’re making it happen.
As we walk out of the camp up the hill back to the trail, I take a bite of an Oreo cookie and make sure to gunk it up on my front teeth before giving Edna a big old Oreo cookie smile.
I crack myself up so hard I forget my legs hurt. And my feet. And my butt.
She finds it hilarious too. Of course. This whole thing is hilarious.
What are we doing? Running a 100 miles in the woods? Through the night? What a stupid idea.
Yes, what a wonderfully stupid, AWESOME idea.
“You know what my favorite part of the race is, mi amor?” I ask, back on rolling single track trail, picking up speed from the sun. “Being done. I love sitting at home, with my feet up, watching a game, drinking a beer knowing I just did something epic.”
The idea of using my own two feet to cover ubermega distances is such a turn on for life that I can’t imagine not testing my limits. Nothing makes me feel more alive.
“We always forget the pain,” she adds.
“Yep, we always forget the pain.”
Except right now the pain is very much a reality. Mine is an all-body ache throbbing from shoulders to feet. I’ve been pumping my arms so hard to get my legs to follow that upper body is taking more punishment than usual. But the feet are hanging in there.
No blisters. No injuries. Just well traveled feet with umpteen BOOOOOM-THWACK-SHIIIIIIIT-NOT-AGAIN toe stubbings.
Part of the game, I remind myself. This part will be long forgotten by the time I’m home watching the game.
When we hit that 2-mile gravel road we let it fly. We are getting good at this.
CRAAAAAAAAAAAAANK, mi amor, CRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANK.
She is awesome. Edna is so damn awesome! AWE-SOME. She is FULL of some AWE.
Back on the trail now, we meander up and over and through the woods.
Pump those arms, deep breaths, don’t quit!
Then, somewhere during this automated arm pumping, a fleet of faster feet zoom by us. First it’s just a few. Then a couple more. Then a pack. Then a horde. These are the 50 mile and 50k runners. Fresh legs. They offer up lots of “good job” and “great work” and “looking strong” but they also nearly run us off the single track. We graciously jump to the side, slugging through weeds and brush to avoid being flattened. We can use the break anyway.
The crowds eventually disperse and we continue on. We don’t say much. We are too focused on moving our asses. We do so in lock step. Our footfalls are in unison: miles and miles of perfect unison. Is it possible to be tuned in to another person’s mind? Probably not. Feels like we are though.
We are super connected! We are in love! We are alive!
Every 4 miles now require some sort of caffeine injection. We only have our diablo drinks at the two drop bag stations. In between those we rely on Mt. Dew. Its syrupy texture adheres to my teeth, where I discover with my tongue leftover bits of Oreo that still taste delicious.
Delicious. Delirious. Delicirious. Is that a word? It should be. I want it to be. It’s what I am projecting into the universe right now. Pure deliciriousness. And delightanity.
On our way back around to finish up the fourth loop, I remind Edna of such delightanity: “We ran this loop 15 minutes faster than the last one. We are kicking major ass, babe.”
“I just want to be finished,” she says.
“We will. Two more loops. Let’s just get through the fifth, then the final one will be the last time we see everything on the course. We’ll click off the miles like nothin’.”
“I follow you, mi amor,” she says.
DAMN I LOVE THIS GIRL!
Miles 66.4 – 83
Truckin’, arm swingin’, feet shufflin’…
“Just put your head down and go to work,” I say out loud to pump us up. It’s getting harder to pump the arms. It’s getting harder to keep my eyes open, to concentrate.
DO IT ANYWAY, DUDE! I hear myself inside my head. Be a LEADER! Be the best YOU you can be! Do it for you! Do it for Edna. Do it for JEDNA!
We wind downhill, skipping, hopping, floating along the trail until CRACK-THWACK-SHIIIIIIIIIT, of course.
Not my pain, I say to myself. I give it to someone else. I give it to the forest. To that owl we saw earlier! To the Oreos still stuck in my teeth!
I let go of the aches, the pains. There is no doubt. Only determination.
Together, we go hard. We are blowing my mind.
The only other thing it can focus on is going aid station to aid station. Anything more than that is too much of a chore, too disheartening. We have another loop left after this? That’s a toxic thought. We only have to run to the next aid station. That gets us where we want to to go.
Once there, we do it again. We slam Mt. Dews and Red Bulls when we can. At some point I dig back into the macaroni and cheese.
“I have an aid station baby,” I say to Edna while proudly sticking out my bloated belly, “I think I’ll name it Woodstock.”
It’s funny because everything is funny because running 100 miles is funny and being hypertuned to your body and mind is funny. Tripping over your own feet is funny. Experiencing a deep relationship with your hip flexors is funny. Eating ham and potatoes and Nutella and Oreos and pizza and licorice and watermelon and chicken noodle soup and coffee and Red Bull and Mt. Dew while staying awake for 30-some hours is really fucking funny.
“What loop you guys on? This your last one?” People ask us as we pass.
“Nah, not yet,” I say, the words achy in my mouth. “This is five. One more to go after this.”
But that’s not how we’re looking at it. Just get to the next aid station.
Then the next.
Now we’re approaching camp and Edna and I hold hands knowing the next time we come through here will be our last.
“One. More. TIME, babe! We can do it!”
Her beaming smile lifts my tired trunks again as I know we’re bound for glory.
Miles 83 – 100
“You guys have plenty of time. Just get it done,” says one of the many cheerful aid station workers. The volunteers at this race have been top notch and I want to hug and kiss them all.
Edna and I, freshly charged with diablo drinks and pancakes and sausage, head out for our sixth and final loop. We can’t stop from smiling.
“One more loop! One more loop! One more loop!” chants the entire aid station, followed by any and all within earshot of our final departure from the camp. I start thinking about it, knowing we just pulled off a five hour loop, and looking at my watch, I can’t help but get all teary eyed.
Not yet, dude! Got a long way to go! Get to work!
“Edna, we are GOING to finish,” I tell her. “That is no issue. The question is when? The faster we go, the faster we’re done.”
“I just want to be finished,” she says, forever smiling through her pain.
“Then let’s get moving,” I say. And we take off in step like Harry and Sally, Forest Gump maniacs, two cops in a buddy film, one megaultrarunning duo.
Feels good. Feels good to be this alive.
“Where would you rather be?” I scream out to no one in particular. I look back to see Edna right on my heels as we hammer the trail. Strong. Determined.
We hit the two mile road section and I put on the afterburners and go buck wild.
Not long after, I can’t hear her footsteps behind me, so I look back and see she’s dragging. I slow down to let her catch up and she says, “No puedo. I can’t. On the flats, I just can’t.”
“Yes, you can, babe. You are doing awesome.”
“But I can’t run fast on the flat. I do better on the hills and downhills.”
Sensing this could go into negativity-land pronto, I quickly assert myself: “Mi amor, you are doing a great job. Let’s run fartleks. Let’s run as hard as we can to that flag marker up there and then we’ll take a walk break.”
Her eyes are suspicious of my direction but her legs follow along just fine. We race to the marker, walk for a bit and then again take off towards the next one.
“See! You can do it!” Vroom! We gather curious looks from those we pass running the sprints, but I hoot and holler like a cowboy on my first ride. Running hard in the last miles of a hundred is an awesome feeling.
We get back on the trail and I remind Edna, “That’s the last time we run that damn road!”
Back on the trail, things feel a bit better, but we are slowing down. At the 4 mile aid station we grab some caffeine, but we’re both gunning for another Red Bull at the halfway point. “Let’s just get there, mi amor,” I tell her.
We take off and fartlek our way through another road section until we get back to the trail that will lead us to our drop bag. Through here we are off and on, with little bursts of speed keeping us awake and on point. But when we finally roll into the aid station, I can see Edna is spent. I study her hard, trying to decide what to say to pump her up. Before I can, she admits: “It hurts. It’s hard. I cannot run fast.”
“Mi amor, you’ve been running fast this whole race. Look at you! You’re not zombie walking, you’re running! Still! With only eight miles to go!”
This lightens her up a bit, as does the Red Bull she chugs. “Look, mi amor, I hurt too. But at this point, it’s going to hurt whether we walk or run, so we might as well run. We’ll be done sooner if we run.”
I grab our headlamps from our drop bag, as it’s possible we might not finish before dark. I give her a big hug and check my watch. “We’re doing good on time. Let’s just be done. Yeah? Let’s go out and finish strong!”
“That makes sense,” she says. “It will hurt no matter what.”
Vrroooom. She takes off out of the aid station, leaving me to chase.
WOOOO HOOOO! THAT’A GIRL! LET’S DO THIS!
She high-fives me as I catch up to her, both of us floating along against the pain, arms pumping. We put our heads down, digging deep, running the flats and downs again as before.
We pass more runners. A lot of runners! The plentiful downhills make this possible and now I’m ready to make a game out of it.
“We’re gonna start reelin’ ’em in, babe. Anyone we see in front of us, we are going to pass.”
She’s game. I push hard when I can and to my delight, she is right there on my heels. Goose and Maverick on the MiG attack! Seeing her run so well this late in the game makes me ecstatic! I’ve never seen her do this before! “Edna! You are kicking ass!”
“I just want to be finished,” she says.
And here we go again with a time-stop… I have been so wrapped up in my cadence and my breath and my joy that we are now a mile out from camp and like coming out of a trance I shake my head wondering how did we get here?
I look back and see Edna still right on my heels, pushing hard, swinging those arms. Her smile — that effervescent smile that never seems to wane, even in the toughest of circumstances — is still beaming. We have traveled all this way — together, as a unit — through ups and downs, pain and fatigue. Yet we keep going. We always keep going. Supported by one another, no one, no thing can break through the fortress of our bond.
We are JEDNA. We are STRONG.
It’s dark now. Our headlamps are on. I haven’t tripped or stubbed my toe at all this loop, which means, of course: THWACK-BOOM. There it is. Wouldn’t have it any other way.
As we climb the big hill out of the trail and into the camp, the faint tune of “Play That Funky Music” greets us, a musical welcome that we’ll always remember. Edna and I hold hands as we pick up our pace to make our final 100 meter run through the finish line.
We cross the line, arms raised in the air. United WE DID IT! Edna’s third in her age group. But we both finish as Champions of Grit! Champions of Heart! Champions of Love!
28 hours, 24 minutes after our journey began, we are both finally finished.
And we’re even more in love.
I have long said that the ultramarathon is the perfect metaphor for life. Sometimes it’s a breeze. Sometimes it’s a suckfest. Sometimes you float along on a cloud of endless joy, blissfully trapped in the moment without a care in the world, and sometimes your ass is chapped, your toes are bruised and your legs are shot. But it’s always a journey — always a chance to discover something new about yourself. Like no other physical challenge I’ve ever attempted, the ultramarathon continuously offers me a the opportunity to live, to be present and to focus on the things in life that really matter.
That’s why I keep coming back. I’m a sucker for feeling. And in a world that seems more and more devoid of it, I can’t help but get lost in the full spectrum of feeling that the ultra run provides.
Having a partner who shares my passion is a bonus — a bonus I’ll never take for granted.
Thanks, Edna, for being there for me and staying alongside me. It makes the forest not seem so dark.
For 24 hours.
Go big or go home… that’s the most fitting cliche for the moment. I have a feeling that in a few hours I’m going to want to go home.
But I won’t. I’m here to move. For 24 hours. Whether I log 100 miles or 50, I won’t quit… unless a bone is sticking through my flesh. Please don’t let it come to that.
Think positively. 100 miles would be nice.
Last year, at this same race, I fought my way to 94 miles, something I felt really proud of. But the idea that I was only 10k shy of a century mark has been gnawing at my conscience for a whole year now. In my mind, 100 miles is definitely doable. In my body, hmm… not so much.
While I have been running regularly since my first 100 mile conquest, my training focus was on boxing all winter and spring. My “long runs” became 8-9 easy miles or a fast 10k with weights in my hands. The result was victory for my fight game, but when I started to stretch the legs out in May, my body had a hard time reckoning just how much work it takes to build up the endurance necessary for the extra far efforts. I got in few long runs with Edna on the weekends, then we went to China. My training stalled.
I have heard it from many before in relation to training, but this was the first time I experienced it in earnest: life got in the way.
So what!? Life rocks, man!
Indeed, it does. Life rocks. And if ultrarunning has taught me anything, it’s that the only limitations in life are the ones we put on ourselves. This maxim is not an invitation to recklessness, but rather a mantra for transcendence based on hard work, dedication and basic intelligence. Having already gone the 100 mile and 24 hour distance, I knew that even with limited training my brain could take over through any rough patch.
Ultras are mostly mental. I reminded myself of this. Training or not, I think I can get 100 miles. Let’s see what reality has in store!
Hours 1 – 7 (10:00 p.m. to 5:00 a.m.)
This feels weird. Even though I’ve done it before, starting a race at 10:00 p.m. still feels a bit strange, like putting on someone else’s shoes before running for 24 hours weird.
Nope, these are definitely my shoes. I look down and second guess my choice of year-old, 900+ mile Nike Vomeros. The tread is still intact despite a ratty affair of frayed rubber from the toes. I wore these in the second half of last year’s race after my beloved Hokas left me blistered. I love the Hokas, but my memory of maceration is hard to kill and on the roads for this long I’d rather just start with a sure thing.
The RDs announce something in a megaphone that I can’t quite understand, and to the tune of quiet lightning in the sky, we’re off!
Everyone starts fast, of course. It’s halfway decent out right now, with temperatures in the high 70s. The forecast for the daylight hours calls for intense heat and humidity, so all 67 of us starters go out with what I assume is the same mindset: bank miles now, while we can.
The course is a .97 mile loop, same as last year, only in the reverse direction. Right away I can feel that it’s a bit easier than last year’s, which had a little more uphill to its design. An easier course is not something I’m going to complain about, so I just put my head down and go into spin mode.
Bank miles, bank miles…
Trying to maintain a 6-mile an hour pace, at the lone aid station I grab water and something to eat (whatever looks good at the time) every loop or every other loop. The soft lightning in the sky offers a little entertainment and I start to wonder if it will rain. The forecast said only a 20% chance, so I’m thinking it won’t.
While I’m thinking about it, the course gets crowded as the 12-hour runners join us. Among them is my buddy, Adam.
Adam and I go way back. We met each other during orientation week of our freshman year in college (1997? DAMN!).
This is Adam’s first ultra. Having shared some training runs with him and watched his build-up for his first marathon some time ago, it’s a joy to share some miles with him now. We are in a groove, both trying to get in as many decent miles as possible before the wheels come off late, and the time is flying by.
Also sharing miles with me in this first part are Nate and Todd, both of whom I’ve known for a few years now. Our constant chatter is a good deterrent for my already tired and tight leg muscles. Already? Damn. Keep drinking water. Maybe it’ll get better.
I keep drinking water. It’s not getting better.
But oh look, now it’s raining, and that’s… something different.
Why not? Ultras are the ultimate test in chaos management. Always expect something to go wrong. Heat, rain, gastrointestinal problems… plan for the worst, hope for the best. I’m trying to find joy in the sloppy, slick conditions. The rain is nice and cool.
For a couple of hours it comes down hard, then lets up some, then comes down hard again. I just smile. Ah hell, going to be out here a long time, I think to myself. Might as well try to enjoy it.
I am. I am enjoying it. Finding out more about myself through intense, focused exercise is the cornerstone to my understanding of self. But 6 hours in and already it’s quite apparent to me that today is not going to be a day for 100 miles. My hamstrings and calves keep tightening up. I stop and roll them out with a foam roller a couple of times and do my best to stretch here and there, but the only real thing that stops them from seizing up is going slow. Or walking. And the sun is coming…
Hours 7 – 17 (5:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m.)
As the sun creeps up over Lisle Community Park, the rain has stopped, and we are treated to a picturesque suburban landscape of a happy little lake surrounded by lots of green. The strung up Christmas lights decorating the course give way to the inflatable snowmen, Santas and reindeer — just more reminders of the ridiculousness of our task. Run around a circle for a day! In July! With Christmas stuff everywhere!
I can’t help but laugh. This is ridiculous! Why are we doing this again?
My feet are squishy and soft from the rain, my stomach is growling from hunger and my legs are already shot… with just 17 MORE HOURS TO GO! WOOO HOOO!
“We forget the pain,” I say to someone. “We always forget the pain. When we sign up for these things the only thing we remember is the satisfaction of crossing that finish line — of putting our feet up at the end of the day knowing we did some epic shit. But we always conveniently forget about the pain.”
I won’t forget about what I’m feeling right now. This sucks.
BUT I’M SMILING! Edna taught me that.
“Always smile,” she says. “You’ll feel better.” She’s right.
“Mi amor,” I say, “I want to be with you. Is that okay?”
She gives me that look that says: Is that okay? Of course, it’s okay. It’s awesome! Where have you been?!?!
Good, it’s settled then. We go forth together.
Maybe she thought I meant for just a while, but no, I mean, for the rest of the race. If I’m going to continue suffering, I want to be next to someone I like.
Of course… you could just…. quit, y’know. Stop running. Stop doing this. No one would care.
I would care! Sticking with Edna will help me fight back the urge to go home early too. We don’t quit. We came here to move for 24 hours. We’re moving our asses for 24 hours. The best we can.
We put our heads down and go to work. Together.
Run for a bit. Walk for a bit. Run for a bit. Walk for a bit.
At some point there is bacon. And pancakes. I lose my mind. I eat as much as I can fit in my mouth.
Heads down. Going to work. Together. Run.
Walk. Run. Walk.
I’m… falling…. a… sleeeeeeeeeeeeeppppp
Time for a Red Bull, what Edna calls “El Diablo”. *CHUG CHUG CHUG*
Run. Walk. Shuffle?
Yeah, it’s a shuffle now.
It’s hot. We’re baking. Ice. We stuff ice in our hats, shorts, faces. I want to peel my skin off and put ice in my veins.
The 6-hour runners finished a long time ago. The 12-hour runners finished at 11 a.m., Adam included. He did awesome, logging 44.77 miles! His wife and kids come to cheer him on to the finish and in doing so, give Edna and I a much needed break.
Edna and I move the best we can. Sweating. Slogging. Surviving.
I keep moving… one foot in front of the other… but my eyes… they are getting heavy… and… and…
“MI AMOR!” I hear.
The scream snaps me awake and I find myself a footstep away from walking into the lake.
“Where am I?” I ask, momentarily confused, unsure of who or where I am and what I am doing. I look at my watch. It’s 2 p.m. I’m running for 24 hours.
“This is some crazy shit,” I say to Edna.
“Mi amor, tenemos que tomar una siesta.”
She’s right. Ordinarily I wouldn’t want to take a nap during an ultra. I would do my best to push through without sleeping. But during today’s contest I have had a ton of Red Bull and I still can’t keep my eyes open. The heat and humidity keeps slamming the door shut on my consciousness. I need a nap.
At 2:15 p.m. we sink into our camp chairs, feet up, hats over our eyes. I’m out before I can even — zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Hours 17 -24 (3:00 p.m to 10:00 p.m.)
I wake up to a violent gust of wind that knocks my hat off. “What the…”
The canopy tent under which we sit is trying its hardest to fly off into the distance. Luckily, it’s anchored well and we have a little cover from the choppy sprinkles of rain that follow the strong gusts. Is it going to rain again? I wonder. That’s just what we need.
As soon as my mind recovers enough to conjure up the worst case scenarios, the rain has stopped.
“I’m hungry,” says Edna as we cautiously find our way back to our feet.
“Me too. Let’s go to the aid station and see what they have.”
Before we can, Nate circles back around to us and asks, as if sent by the gods, “Are you guys hungry?”
How did he know? Was it our sunken cheeks? Our frail disposition? The fact that we’ve been running in circles all night?
Everything moves in slow motion, like a scene out of a Scorsese flick, when you know either something awesome or something awful is going to happen in the next few seconds. Nate walks over to his cooler, lifts the lid and reveals a home cooked Filipino meal of pork sausage, flavor-packed cured beef and sticky white rice. AWESOME!
I try not to shove it all into my mouth at the same time.
Is this an eating contest or a running contest? I’d be doing better if it were the former.
“This food is delicious,” I can’t stop saying. Edna loves it too. I have to check myself to make sure I’m not making hog noises as I (ironically) devour the pork sausage. It’s the perfect combination of salt and fat and flavor and… do we have to keep running or can we just stop and eat now?
Just a few bites before immobility, I manage to put the food away and get back to my feet. Edna follows suit and we head out to finish the rest of our pain-filled voyage.
Heads down. Going to work. Together.
We talk. A lot. We figure if we can get through events like this, we can get through life together. Right? It’s hard to not love someone who is there for you, blisters, chafing and all. Plus, we keep dipping our hands in the same jar of Vaseline (IMPORTANT MEDICAL ADVICE: don’t dip your hand in our jar of Vaseline).
The heat won’t go away. It digs deep into our bodies, slowing us, daring us to quit. But our goal is relentless forward progress and in this we will succeed. You’d be hard pressed to find two people more stubborn than Edna and I and there’s no stopping us today. Our minds are made up.
Someone, a spectator, randomly hands us two ice cream sundaes. It really IS Christmas in July!!! WOW!! We SLUUUUUUUURP the ice cream so fast that our mutual embarrassment for one another cancels out. Life is beautiful ain’t it? You go run in the sweltering heat for 24 hours and some random stranger gives you ice cream. What more do you want?
Heads down. Going to work. Together.
I have been reading “A Brief History of Mexico”, so now is a convenient time to discuss pre-Columbian Mexican history with someone close to the subject. Somehow our discussion meanders off towards Lady Guadalupe and all the iterations of the Virgin mother outside of Santa María.
Meanwhile, time ticks… and ticks… and ticks. There is more ice. More shuffling. Every once in a while we try to “run” but we quickly find ourselves back in shuffle mode. We don’t care. We’re all smiles.
What’s the alternative? Being pissy? Aggravated? We signed up for this shit, man! And we are going to finish. The sun is finally going down now and the remaining field of runners is scarce; but we have survived. We’re going to go the whole 24, which is exactly what we came here to do.
Damn it feels good to reach a goal. That’s why I do these things — these insane tests of endurance that call upon one’s mental and physical toughness to succeed. I love what they do to my mind, the conversations they start; and I love that I always leave them finding out something new about myself.
Today, as Edna and I approach the finish line of yet another extreme event — one that beat us down with intense rain, heat, humidity and and overall desire to bail — I realize that I am a better version of myself with her by my side. I know that I can trust her to help me get where I want to go, in races and in life. We are good for each other. We make a good team.
WE CROSS THE LINE…
This article, by Alejandro Yanún, was originally published on June 12, 2015 in the Spanish language publication “Vívelo Hoy”.
Translation by Jeffery Lung
Edna Jackeline Vazquez is used to adapting to circumstances and meeting new challenges. For this reason, when she was informed back in March that the ultramarathon of the Sahara Desert in Jordan was going to be canceled due to political problems, she quickly changed her chip to focus on a new goal: a 250 kilometer, 7 day race in the stunning Gobi Desert of northern China.
“The ISIS guerillas entered Jordan and the race organizers sent us an email informing us that the race would be canceled over concerns of terrorism, just a week before flying there. I had to totally retrain because in Jordan I would have been facing pure sand dunes while the Gobi Desert, in China, is the windiest desert with more rocky terrain, which would be faster but painful for the feet,” says Vazquez, who has been based in Chicago for several years.
The change worked to perfection because Vazquez, 34 years old with a degree in human resources and a masters in business, won her category for women aged 30 to 39, finishing fourth overall female in the competition and 26th among the entire field of 164 athletes.
To get an idea of the dimensions of the race, running 250 kilometers in the Gobi would be equivalent to running from Monterrey, Nuevo Leon, Mexico (Vazquez’s hometown) to McAllen, Texas, after crossing the border into the United States.
It should also be added, that among the difficulties presented by the actual competition itself, there is also the immediate change to the ‘biological clock’ for the athletes with a 14 hour time difference from China, as well as confronting an inflexible natural climate.
During the competition Vazquez also had to face extreme conditions, from temperatures as low as 5 degrees Celsius and snow storms that began the race up to temperatures of 47 Celsius (120 Farenheit). “The hardest moment was crossing the canyons,” she remembers. “You already get there tired and anything you touch on the ground causes you to lose your balance; in this moment the only thing you want is to leave that place.”
There, in those subhuman conditions, is when the blood of a champion surges. For Vazquez, this quality is the result of a constant daily practice. “All of us desire to come here to America for the American dream,” says Vazquez, who believes that society forgets their ultimate goals while being entertained by momentary gratification. “The main thing is to let go of the economic issues and things that give instant pleasure in favor of developing other skills. The final goal is to have passion and be persistent. The thing that has helped me most is being dedicated, working hard and being persistent.
Vazquez’s consecration in China was not coincidental, but rather the result of a great team. The Monterrey native had a base strength program developed by Jeff Lung of Iron Lung Fitness, with a desert ultramarathon training plan developed by Nahila Hernandez. It also included a swimming program for muscular recovery, a yoga practice taught by the instructors at Tejas Yoga which also helped complement her concentration with muscle and mental relaxation, and the medical advice of Dr. Victor Garza Hernandez.
The China competition is part of the Racing the Planet series, a circuit of elite ultramarathons for a limited group of athletes who could very well be considered some of the best prepared in the world. “We are an elite group and we can say that we are involved in one of the Top 10 most demanding competitions in the world,” explains Vazquez.
For the Gobi race, Vazquez flew to Beijing, the capital of China, then went on to Urumuqi and finally arrived at the small town of Hami, in northwest China, close to Mongolia, where Genghis Khan ran with his wild hordes 800 years ago.
In these arid and indomitable lands Vazquez arrived at the end of May to compete with ultramarathoners from 40 countries and all continents.
Vazquez ran with a backpack full of food that weighed 11 kilograms at the start but dwindled down to just 5 kilos at the end. In her backpack the Monterrey native carried dehydrated foods like precooked and compact lasagna and chicken with rice and noodles, to cover the necessary 1900 daily calories.
After completing ultramarathons of 100k in Spain, Belgium and Taiwan, as well as 250k in the Atacama Desert of Chile, considered the driest place on the planet, Vazquez focuses her attention on the next goal, the ultras of Namibia (Africa) in May of next year and Antarctica in November of 2016.
And facing new goals is her specialty. “When you think you have arrived at one goal, another is going to come, and later another. The the extent that you discover your abilities, you are going to discover more,” says Vazquez.
“I believe that we all have the capacity to develop our abilities and sport is one element that helps us face life and believe in ourselves,” she argues safely. “The important thing is to have passion for what you do and focus on your dreams.”
Edna Jackeline Vázquez
Mexican Ultramarathoner Living in Chicago
They must always stay in the moment.
They must face their greatest fears.
With all of the above, I could be talking about the long distance runner.
Or I could be talking about the boxer.
I’m talking about both.
For the last four years, boxing has been an integral tool in my long distance training kit. An all-body workout that requires combined leg and core strength paired with hand-eye coordination and mental toughness, the aerobic and anaerobic training potential boxing provides is as varied as its practitioner is creative.
And you don’t even have to take punches.
In fact, most people who train in the sweet science don’t take punches. They train to be in shape, to burn calories, to de-stress. I love running long, no doubt, but I admit, there is no stress reliever quite like punching something. Walk into any boxing gym and you will find people of all sizes — all backgrounds and states of fitness — doing just that: enjoying their stress relieving workout.
For the long distance runner, boxing is a low impact cross trainer that takes advantage of strong, seasoned legs. With proper technique, it also builds upper body strength with a conscious core and allows for increased blood flow during those “off” days where one would need to rest from pounding pavement.
For many boxers, the hardest part of training is conditioning. Sustaining an elevated heart rate with sudden bursts of explosive movement can prove difficult, even for seasoned vets. Long distance runners tend to have a lock on this aspect of training, and therefore set themselves up for success.
At some point the long distance runner who boxes may decide he or she is ready to spar. It’s not for everyone, I admit. I remember the first time I was hit in the face. I didn’t like it very much. But I didn’t like the fire in my legs at mile 21 of my first marathon either, yet I keep coming back.
And so here I am, 36 years old, a seasoned distance runner with two Boston finishes, a 100-mile buckle and a 3:03 marathon PR, signed up and ready to fight in the Chicago Golden Gloves boxing tournament. It begins March 4.
I knew sometime last year, during my training for Pinhoti, that the next big challenge would be to test my might against other boxers. I had been enjoying my sparring sessions over the last couple years, seeing them both as mental chess matches and larger tests of anaerobic endurance. But around mile 80 of my 100-mile trek through the Talladega Forest — my master class on pain management — it became clear to me, that if I could withstand 100 miles of affliction, something that would take me 28+ hours to complete, then I could certainly handle 6 minutes in the squared circle.
So I will.
Indeed, I, Jeff “The Iron” Lung, will get in the ring and let my hands go.
My training for this event began in earnest on January 1st. I have to make weight (fighting at a maximum of 139 lbs), so I decided to cut out all alcohol and as much sugar as possible from my diet. I keep a close track of my food intake. I make an effort to eat as healthy as possible, staying within 1-2 pounds of fighting weight while all the time living my mantra: the better you eat, the better you feel, the better you train.
Running (what boxers call “road work”) is the crux of my conditioning. I run about 30-35 miles a week. Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays I generally run 3-5 miles as a warm up to my concentrated boxing training. I hold 2 lbs weights in my hands as long as I can during these runs, usually for 20-30 minutes.
On Tuesday and Thursday mornings I run 6-7 miles, whatever I can accomplish in an hour, but I mix in three or four intervals of 5-8 minutes of speedwork. On Saturdays I run longer, about an hour and 15 minutes or 8 miles, whatever comes first. I avoid the traditional long runs of distance training. I need to maintain my endurance, but I can’t afford to waste energy on additional miles when I will need that energy in the ring. Just as it can be for the long distance runner, overtraining is a real threat to peak performance.
In addition to the running, I do boxing-focused strength training on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays as well as technical boxing drills. I choose to work on different aspects of my game on different days. Like in any athletic discipline, variety in training is key.
On Tuesday and Thursday nights I spar.
On Sundays I rest. Completely.
I practice yoga. I get regular massage. I sleep a lot. I even take naps if I feel like it.
And I watch lots and lots and lots of fights, in person, on TV, on YouTube — wherever I can.
But like in my long distance training, perhaps the most integral portion of preparation occurs in my mind, usually just before I fall asleep. I envision myriad “if/than” scenarios in my head, calculating countermeasures for catastrophes and methodologies for exploiting weaknesses. Most of all, I try to embrace the nerves that I know are bound to come.
Even in the comfort of my own bed, I can close my eyes, hear the crowd, and feel the nausea that threatens to throw my concentration. It’s the same sick feeling I had before my first marathon, before my first ultra. It’s that same uneasiness I felt toeing the line for each PR attempt at 13.1 and 26.2 miles.
Pre-race jitters. Stage freight. Terrified of getting hit the face.
It all goes away once I’m in the moment.
And after all, that continues to be the thing that keeps bringing me back: living in the moment.
Whether it’s running for hours, working through a yoga practice or squaring off with someone trying to punch me in the face, the thing that keeps me coming back is the very real experience of the now. Nothing makes me feel more alive than being present.
And you can bet I will be present on March 4.
Hands up. Chin down. Mind focused.
This article, by Alejandro Yanún, was originally published on February 9, 2015 in the Spanish language publication “Vívelo Hoy”.
Since it features my lovely fiancé, I wanted to make it accessible to the English reading ultrarunning community. Way to go, mi amor lindo! I am so proud of you!
Translation by Jeffery Lung
Edna Jackeline Vazquez‘s energy is so big and contagious that nobody was surprised when she announced her next challenge: in March she will attempt to run the ultramarathon of the Sahara Desert, a grueling seven-day competition across 250 kilometers.
Here it should be clarified. Those who think a marathon requires supreme effort may not know the special requirements of the ultramarathon. While the marathon is a race of “only” 26.2 miles (42 kilometers), an ultramarathon may be a competition of several days, usually falling within 50 to 250 kilometers. In other words, there can be multiple marathons in one single competition.
Vazquez, a Mexican ultramarathoner based in Romeoville, IL, is part of the highest global level of ultramarathons and competes in a circuit of races organized by Racing the Planet, where participants include, among others, some of the sports biggest icons like Dean Karnazes.
“I’ve been running for 17 years and half of my life has been lived as a runner,” says Vazquez, a 33 year-old from Monterrey, NL, Mexico, who besides being an athlete, also holds a degree in Human Resources with a post-grad MBA, and presently works in an American company that produces candies.
Vazquez already conquered the Atacama Desert in Chile, the most arid place on the planet where total annual rainfall comes in at 15 millimeters, and over the next two years she intends to complete the feat of running all four of the world’s major deserts: in March she will run the Sahara, in June the Gobi Desert in China and in 2016, she expects to compete in Antarctica no less.
Throughout her career, Edna has overcome all sorts of obstacles. At Atacama, where she finished third in her category (women over 30 years of age), she ran 250 kilometers in seven days, living through extreme situations, like overcoming the elements while also suffering through that time of the month women must endure, five days into the competition, just as her energy began to disappear.
“I had to sit down, I could not get up. The pain and fatigue were so great… with blisters and all I could do was ask God, ‘give me strength’,” recalls Edna. “You take strength from anywhere, you realize the focus is mental. It’s more than physical. It’s mental.”
The Sahara competition will take place this year in Petra, a historical and archaeological city in Jordan, near Israel. The conditions will be extreme and Edna knows it: “They put in you in the desert and there begins the journey. You can’t forget anything. You don’t bathe for seven days, you bring all of your own food and supplies, weighing about 30 kilos,” says Edna. “There are cold nights and hot days. I’m afraid, but that doesn’t stop me.”
The training for competition is exhausting. There are days when the Monterrey native runs a marathon, or a half marathon. Her training sessions regularly take her to the Palos Hills trails near Bull Frog Lake, and she trains with Iron Lung Fitness in the Pilsen neighborhood of Chicago.
Others days she trains on the Indiana dunes to acclimate herself to the sands of the Sahara. All of this comes alongside a system of methodical and precise nutrition habits, with swimming and yoga sessions included to keep the body together during the rigors of high competition.
Edna, who has a job just like anyone else, pays for her exotic, international athletic adventures all by herself, but says the economic factor is not a barrier.
“I work a lot. I save a lot. For me, money is not a limitation. When you have a clear dream in life, you go for it,” says Vazquez, who was once married but says now she is in love, more every day, with the ultramarathon. “I’m from an average, working class family. All my studies (University of Monterrey, Mexico; University of Sevilla, Spain) were done on scholarships.”
Edna says she runs for two nations. “I am very proud to represent the Hispanic community, I run for both Mexico and the United States,” says the Mexican athlete, who believes it’s time to take down the stereotypes and stop with the ‘Latinos only come here to take jobs in America’. On the contrary, for Edna, “We are here to transcend.”
To end, she has a message: “The important thing is to be yourself. It’s important to show society that there are people who follow their dreams and aspirations,” says the ultramarathoner from Monterrey. “I know that someday someone will say, ‘If Edna can, so can I.”
Who Is Edna Jackeline Vazquez?
Born: Monterrey, Nuevo León, México
Resides: Romeoville, Illinois
Age: 33 years old
Notable Achievements: Atacama (Chile) 250 km, Torhout (Belgium) 100 km, Taipei (Taiwan) 100 Km, Pedestres Villa Madrid (Spain) 100 km, Mérida (Spain) 100 km, Madrid-Segovia (Spain) 101 km, among many other ultradistance finishes in Mexico and the United States
Upcoming Competitions: The Sahara Desert (Jordan) and the Gobi Desert (China) in 2015; Antarctica in 2016. (All three 250 km in length)
For someone who likes to plan things well in advance, 2015 is teaching me to live a bit more wildly. Generally, I like to begin the new year with a detailed race plan reflecting big picture goals and the individual steps I will take to achieve them.
Of course, real life ain’t always so uniform.
Edna, my partner, has taught me that. Running has taught me that. You can plan and plan and plan, but when you hit the 85-mile mark of a 100 mile race, you’re likely going to feel like shit. And when you do ache, when you are sleep deprived, when things really do just fall apart, you can either get upset and gripe about it, or soldier on with a smile, doing the best you can.
So this year, while there are some solid plans in place, the two of us are both ready to adapt as necessary.
First up, Edna is preparing to complete her second of four desert crossings from the Racing the Planet 4 Desert series when she heads to Jordan, making the 250k trek across the Sahara Desert in March. In 2013, she successfully completed the Atacama crossing in Chile. Once she completes the Sahara, she’ll have the Gobi Desert (June) and Antarctica (2016) to complete the series, a feat she dreams to conquer.
She will. She trains hard. She works hard. Her resolve is as tested as it is indomitable.
While Edna runs across the Sahara, I will be bobbing and weaving, heaving 1-2s, as I compete in the 2015 Chicago Golden Gloves boxing tournament. While en route to completing my first hundred mile race, I knew that my next big test of my body and mind would be to compete at a higher level of boxing. This year’s tournament, March 4 through April 11, allows me to train hard during the winter months, doing something I love, indoors.
Thus far, the change has been very good for my body. I feel fresh. Fast. Powerful. I’m running still, but not much over 30 miles a week, and the intensity varies. In the coming days, I will go into more detail about how I train as a pugilist. As you might guess, having a big endurance engine and the ability to run, to deal with adversity, to suck up the pain, is extremely valuable.
I plan to capitalize on it.
Then, once the fight game is over, I plan to go back to ultra training. The only race I’m signed up for right now is a return trip to the Christmas in July 24 Hour Race. Having come just 10k shy of the century mark in 2014, this year my goal is to run a 100 miles… PLUS! With the eye of the tiger, I will get it done.
Besides that, in order to keep my Western States lottery hopes alive, I need to complete another qualifying 100 mile race before the end of November. That’s something I will get done as well, even if I don’t have a plan at this moment.
Of course, the real fun in this year will be seeing where it takes me — where it takes us. We’re in it to win it now, striving to be the best we can be, for ourselves and for each other. Living in the moment and trusting in our training, we will no doubt find joy along the way.
We did it! We made it through another year!
I started it out by sacrificing my footing in a frozen tundra.
A couple weeks later, I “ran” 21k through knee-deep snow, in the time it generally takes me to run twice that amount.
In the spring, I re-lived a dream to run the Boston Marathon, this time with no tragedies, floating atop the endless love and compassion from the good people of New England.
Not long after, I got cocky, raced a teenager and had to pull myself out of the game, flexing those mental muscles.
I recovered in time to run mad, around a .97 mile loop in a municipal park, setting a new personal distance record and fighting to stay on my feet for 24 hours straight.
In September, I experienced three distinct seasons over 50 glorious kilometers in the heart of my home state.
And in November, I popped my century mark cherry by crossing the finish line of the Pinhoti 100, proving that through a sound, prepared and focused mind we can do anything we wish to do.
Throughout the year, I volunteered again at the Earth Day 50k/10k and the Des Plaines River Trail Races. I paced my good friend Siamak to a fierce finish at the Mohican 100 and Edna in her 100 miles at Potawatomi and 100k at Hallucination.
I also had the good fortune of getting another race report published in Ultrarunning Magazine (October issue).
I lived every moment, one footfall at a time, over mountainous trail and monotonous blacktop.
I ran. I laughed. I cried (more than you’d think).
I slowed down. I took it all in. I wrapped myself up in the trail, in the challenge of going far on foot, with pushing myself past any and all boundaries.
But perhaps most exciting of all: I got engaged! The thrill of sharing my life with the woman I love — a woman who shares my passion for adventure, for exploration, for making dreams come true — is more exciting than any race I’ve ever run. It’s a good thing we both love distance running, because life, my friends, is THE ultimate ultra run.
Happy New Year!
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.”
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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
“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.
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.
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.
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.
Though I don’t have any hard data to back it up, I am pretty confident that the most consistent distance runners have short memories. How many times have I found myself slugging through a grueling race, saying to myself never again, only to have completely changed my mind moments after crossing the finish line?
The answer is: A LOT.
On October 11, 2014, during the Prairie State Marathon, I said it many times only to get up and do it all over again on October 12, 2014, at the Chicago Marathon where I would continue to say it, only to forget… again.
It was all part of the double-dip plan: to train my legs to run tired, to run hungry, to run smart (stupid as that sounds).
Of course, it was a pain-in-the-ass type of blast!
(For part one of this adventure, click *HERE*)
Saturday, October 11, 2014
I get home from the Prairie State Marathon and chug some chocolate milk while drawing an ice bath. I am not a big fan of ice baths, but for an extreme endeavor like running two marathons in two days, I might as well try to limit the damage as much as possible.
Surprisingly, my legs feel pretty good. Of course, they are sore, but they aren’t injured, or shot, or anything other than fatigued as expected. Slowing down the pace this season has done my body wonders and I’m happy to say I’ve been healthy all year. If I can get through tomorrow, I know I’m ready for that hundo.
The ice bath sucks, but I survive.
I follow it up with a hot shower.
I put on my compression leggings, eat a healthy snack of fresh fruits, a green salad and boiled eggs, allow myself one beer and prop my feet up on a mountain of pillows before falling asleep.
I wake up and ready myself for Edna to come home and for my friend, Adam, to come over. Adam will be running his first marathon tomorrow and he’s crashing at my place tonight.
As I move around and start making dinner, I feel my stiff legs warm up.
Wow, not too bad, I think to myself. I guess I do have a pretty good shot at doing this.
I originally thought that I might be able to run two sub-4 hour marathons, back to back. However, after today’s 4:14 finish, I know that’s not happening. In fact, running a 4:14 tomorrow seems all but impossible, but I really don’t care as long as I cross the finish line. This ease of movement is a good sign for that to happen.
Still, I better get plenty of sleep.
Edna is home, Adam arrives and the three of us eat dinner, chatting away any anxieties that might lie beneath the surface, or so I think. I imagine Adam is pretty nervous. I remember how paranoid I was the night before my first marathon. Still, he looks much more composed than I was back then, and knowing he has done the training only solidifies the fact that he’s going to have a great run tomorrow.
After dinner, I roll out my legs on the Rumble Roller, enjoying the pain, and by 8:30 p.m., I’m fast asleep.
Sunday, October 12, 2014
The first couple of steps out of bed aren’t pretty, but after a few moments of movement, I’m feeling surprisingly well.
We’re really going to do this again today? I ask myself.
Yep. And we’re going to love every minute of it.
It’s Chicago Marathon day. In my house, it might as well be Christmas. And this time I’ll get to experience it in slow motion!
In solemn preparation, the three of us go through our regular pre-race routines and by 5:45 a.m. we are out the door.
After a quick train ride, the three of us arrive at Roosevelt and State and walk towards the party. As we walk, I can’t help but smile a big cheesy grin.
I’m walking with ease, man! No aches, no pains! Holy shit!
We arrive at the Hilton, where we will drop Edna off to meet her Chicago Run teammates, and before I kiss her goodbye we run into our good friend, Frank.
I already know this, but it will be reemphasized today: running makes the world REALLY small!
The four of us pose for a quick pre-race photo before Adam and I break off towards our corrals.
Excitement is everywhere. The buzz, the adrenaline, the anticipation electrifies me, and while Adam and I walk towards Grant Park I feel like I’m floating.
“I can’t wait to hear about how your race goes,” I tell Adam. I watch him closely, reminiscing on how I felt before my first marathon. “You only get one first marathon,” I remind him. “Have fun! That’s the most important thing!”
I give him a hug and set him on his way before stopping at gear check and making my way to my corral.
Safely in my corral now, I move all the way to the back. Unfortunately, this will not stop me from getting stampeded. I already know this.
I am in Corral A. I’m here based on my qualifying time (3:03) from 2012 that allowed me to bypass the lottery process for this year’s race. By the time I decided I was going to run a double-marathon, it was too late to switch out of Corral A, so here I am, stuck with the fasties.
Knowing that an onslaught of marathon snobbery regarding my unwelcome slow pace is coming, I put on my thick skin. I’m in the corral all of 30 seconds before the first runner approaches:
“What time you going for today?” the svelte, eager stranger asks.
“Umm….” I waffle, “Just trying to finish today.”
“Really? Why? This a training run for you?”
“Yeah, you could say that.”
“What was your Boston time?” another runner asks. Silly me. This is what I get for wearing my Boston Marathon shirt.
“3:38,” I reply. The dude’s mouth drops.
“What, were you injured or something?”
“Nah. Just took my time.” Like I will today.
“I’m going for a 3:15 today,” says the first runner again, assuming I care (I don’t), “though I’m probably not trained enough. Oh well, gotta try, right?”
“You thinking you’ll be around what… a 7:15 pace, 7:20?” he continues.
“Ummm… no.” I didn’t really want to get into this conversation but he leaves me no choice. “I ran a marathon yesterday too,” I say, “so I just want to finish today.”
“What? Are you crazy or something?” he asks with a chuckle.
“Pretty much, yes.”
I try to shake it off and go about my business with a humble heart. I’ve been on the competitive marathoning side — the side where you size up those around you and casually drop your personal best time, trying to not sound too much like a jerk (hard to do). But having been on the lighthearted, injury-free run-because-you-love-running side for the better part of a year now, I can’t help but feel embarrassed for having been like that before.
The reality is: no one really cares how fast I run the marathon. And today, neither do I.
The National Anthem is sung. The elites are announced.
And WE’RE OFF!
I take off at my I-ran-a-marathon-yesterday pace and try not to get bulldozed. I get clipped some — an elbow here, a kick on the back of the foot there — but otherwise, I just stay focused and let everyone else navigate around me.
“You okay, man?” someone asks.
“You injured?” asks another.
“Nope. Feeling good. Thanks for asking. Have a nice day!” I reply with a smile.
Every time someone makes a comment about my speed I just reply with a smile.
I feel good, man, and no one is going to take that away from me.
That is the honest truth. I really do feel good. I was told that the first 10k might be a little rough, but actually, all systems are go for me right now. There’s a little residual tightness in the legs and glutes, but otherwise, every step is better than I thought. I’m wearing my Hoka Bondi 3s again today, and each cushioned step is a reminder that these maximal shoes were a good choice. Even after running a marathon yesterday, my feet don’t hurt at all.
This makes smiling a lot easier.
It’s easy to keep cool with all these people flying by me. I imagine I look pretty cool myself, moving like a tortoise through a maze of hares. As long as I smile.
And how can one not smile?
I say this every year, but damn, the Chicago Marathon is simply AWESOME!
Just look around! I hear myself say to myself. A perpetual sea of people lining the streets of your hometown, cheering for you!
The roars and claps and whistles make me feel a hundred feet tall.
“Go Jeff Lung!”
I look to the left and see my friend Betty cheering on the side of the street. “Thanks!” I yell back, grinning big and wide. Out of all these people she just picked me out of the crowd.
Running makes the world small!
Continuing on, I realize this is people watching at its absolute finest. I make eye contact with an elderly woman holding a Mexican flag. “Ahuevo!” I shout. I hug the side of the street and offer high-fives to all the kids waiting to be a part of the action. I chuckle at the cleverness of some of the spectator signs. “Don’t Be a Pussy”, although not particularly clever, is one that stands out.
I see my friend Tina captaining one of the aid stations. We holler salutations at each other above the roaring crowd noise.
Does it really get better than this? I ask myself, chills running up and down my arm.
A couple of miles later as I head into Lincoln Park I hear another “Go Jeff Lung!” and turn to see my friend, Jen, decked out in her cheerleader garb, waving pom-poms and kicking her legs high with excitement.
BIG CHEESY SMILE, MAN.
This is a party! Indeed! The Chicago Marathon is a celebration of people, of communities, of triumph! I look around me, at all those striding forward with strength and determination, and marvel at the idea that each one of us has a story. And while our stories are surely unique — why we run, who we run for, where we’re running — there will always remain a commonality between us because we run.
That’s fucking cool, man.
“Hey, Jeff, good work!” I hear from Saxon, another friend from my running club, who magically appears beside me in the crowd.
“Hey, man, how you feel?”
“I feel good!” he says with an intrepid smile before darting off ahead of me.
Getting close to Boystown now and I see I’m being overtaken by B and C corral runners. Way to go, guys! I think to myself. Let’s party!
Boystown is always a party and I soak it all in as usual. In fact, I’m so distracted by the feverish crowds lining every step of this race that I haven’t even really processed how slow I’m going.
I’m just going. I’m going to finish. Do you need to do or prove anything else?
Nope, it’s all good.
Around the 10-mile mark I hear my name AGAIN. “Jeff?!? Hey, Jeff! What’s up!”
I look to my left and see it’s one of my favorite running couples, Matt and Tiffanie. They run marathons, ultras, triathlons. They are one of the power couples I look up to.
“Hey, guys! Great to see you! How you feeling?”
“Okay, so far,” says Tiffanie. We chat along for the next mile. They know I ran Prairie yesterday, so we talk about that and I learn that they too have been busy running marathons as they both paced teams at Fox Valley a couple of weeks ago. The more we chat, the more effort it requires for me to match their speed. Eventually it is too much. I wish them well and drop back to my snail pace until I hit the next aid station.
One thing I continue to do is walk through all of the aid stations. This makes me an even bigger target for being mulled over, but I figure it’s up to the runner behind me to get out of the way. I take my time, walking, eating (brought my own Gardetto’s and Muddy Buddies again), and drinking. I walk the entire length of each stretched out aid station, every time. This is my reward for kicking my own ass this weekend, I tell myself.
The peeing continues to be an issue too. I am stopping a lot. I stop four times in the first 13 miles. There’s nothing I can really do about it, since I’m not going to stop drinking, so I just use each break as an extra time-out for my tired body. I do find it quite funny how frantic the other runners become when approaching the port-a-johns during the race. While I take my sweet ass time walking to and fro, I have to be careful of not getting plowed over by the runner trying to conserve every second he can.
I know what that feels like. Glad I don’t feel like that today.
Of course, the trade-off is that my entire body is aching now and despite my best mental efforts, I can’t really get my legs to move faster than an 11-minute mile pace. I pump my arms. I listen to the crowd. I smile.
Heading west it gets a little quiet in spots, but this is expected and I just try to stay in the moment. I process the increasingly incessant aches in my lower extremities, thankful that there aren’t any injuries or acute pains, and realize that what I am feeling now is going to feel like nothing compared to what is in store for me at the Pinhoti 100.
That’s what you signed up for, brother!
The mind is a strange thing. All it took was the simple thought about pushing through pain to attain my goals to send the hairs on the back of my neck standing once again. Just the idea of transcending discomfort floods my brain with dopamine, my body with adrenaline.
I run and I run and I run.
And I smile.
I smile and I smile and I smile.
Then I hear “El Rey” as I enter Pilsen and I smile even bigger. For a few seconds I don’t hear my legs screaming, I don’t feel my glutes knotting. I just hear mariachi music and know I’m on the home stretch of this magnificent day.
The sun is shining, the sky is blue and the crowd is LOUD. I pump my arms a little harder down 18th Street and think about how often I run this stretch of the marathon in my own daily training.
Just a short training jog now, Jeff. You’re almost home.
As I process that satisfying thought, I see him: a bouncy fella holding a sign that says “FREE BEER FOR RUNNERS”.
Um, yes. Thank you, sir. May I have another?
I have seen and heard about plenty of runners chugging a beer during a marathon, but that never seemed appealing to me before. When you’re racing hard, chugging a beer seems like a pretty dumb idea. But when you’re running slow, back-to-back marathons and your legs are cement, it may be the single greatest idea. EVER!
I cheerfully stop, put out my hand and take the PBR. Chug-chug-chug-chug. *BURP*
“Muchas gracias, señor!”
I burp my way along for the next mile until I run by the gym where I work. Waiting for me there, as he has the last three years, is my friend Omar. I stop to give him a hug, and ask “You want to carry me the rest of the way?”
“Haha! No way, man! RUN!” he encourages.
I soldier on. Smiling. Lots and lots of smiling.
Chinatown is next and I power my way through it on the strength of the crowd support. At Sox Park it gets quiet as usual, but around mile 23, I see the Hash House Harriers and their beer stop and that only means one thing: chug more beer.
A young lady dressed as a princess hands me a couple of beer shots and I shoot ’em like it was my freshman year. In fact, I think the last time I chugged a few beers before noon it probably was my freshman year. I try to do the math in my head as I continue on, but between the belching and the fatigue, I find it too difficult.
Just smile and pump your arms, man. Let’s get done!
Around mile 25 I see a group of my ultrarunning friends (The Flatlanders) spectating on the sidelines and I high-five them all as I make one last attempt at speeding up my wheels. Turns out they really can’t go much faster, but I am able to trick my mind by pumping my arms harder. I am almost done.
Then I see a sign for “FREE JELLO SHOTS FOR RUNNERS”.
Yep. Gotta have me one of those.
Less than a mile from finishing back-to-back marathons and I’m swallowing a jello shot. This is the life!
Finally I reach the right turn onto Mt. Roosevelt. I suffer up along its stretched incline and summit knowing it’s the equivalent of a short jog around the track to the glorious finish line. The banner welcomes me with its worldly grandness.
I cross the finish line in 4 hours 38 minutes 15 seconds. I belch.
Then I head immediately towards the Goose Island beer truck for my free beer.
The body is an amazing machine. That I know. Despite running two marathons in two days, my legs felt pretty darn good afterwards. They were stiff any time I sat too long and tried to get up, but otherwise they moved pretty well.
Right after the race I went to the post-race party, had another beer (my fourth and final of the day) and chatted with some of the other runners. Running makes the world small. If you want to make a lot of friends out of complete strangers, start running these races. You will become a social butterfly.
After my last beer, I went over to the Hilton and rendezvoused with Edna, who had a great race, finishing strong and smiling (of course). We posed for this picture in the lobby:
We went home immediately after and I struggled to stay awake in order to watch football, but I finally gave in and conked out around 7pm. Then I slept. FOR ELEVEN HOURS. Straight.
I guess I was tired.
The next day I was up and moving pretty normally. I wasn’t limping. I wasn’t hurt. And other than some general tenderness, I wasn’t even really sore.
My body seems to have figured it out: we’re going to do a lot of epic shit.
Though I don’t have any hard data to back it up, I am pretty confident that the most consistent distance runners have short memories. How many times have I found myself slugging through a grueling race, saying to myself never again, only to have completely changed my mind moments after crossing the finish line?
The answer is: A LOT.
On October 11, 2014, during the Prairie State Marathon, I said it many times only to get up and do it all over again on October 12, 2014, at the Chicago Marathon where I would continue to say it, only to forget… again.
It was all part of the double-dip plan: to train my legs to run tired, to run hungry, to run smart (stupid as that sounds).
Of course, it was a pain-in-the-ass type of blast!
Saturday, October 11, 2014
I get off the shuttle bus and walk toward the Start/Finish line of the Prarie State Marathon. It’s quite chilly, with temperatures in the low 40s and my feet are soaked from a tromp through dewy grass.
We’re in… Libertyville. I think. Or close to it. Rosa Maria, the lovely robotic voice on my GPS, told me I’m close to Grayslake, IL, but to be exact, we’re at a forest preserve, surrounded by nature, toeing the line on a mix of blacktop and crushed limestone.
The crowd gathered is very small. There is a half marathon taking place alongside this marathon and the majority of runners seem to be lining up for the former. Still, the idle conversation of those gathered is peppered with the familiar pre-race nervousness, the type found at most road races, as I assume many runners here today chose Prairie State after failing to get in the Chicago Marathon lottery.
Lucky me. I get to do both.
Because my weekend goal is to survive and nothing else, for once I find comfort at a marathon start line, not obsessing over splits or prerace fuel or the possibility of bonking. Instead, I’m about as relaxed as I’ve ever been for an event, trying to set a Vegas over/under line on how many times I will have to stop to pee.
I’m gonna say 6.5 for the whole race, one side of my conscious says.
I’ll take the over, says the other.
Quietly, I move to the back of the pack, keeping my hands warm by sticking them in my armpits until…
Miles 0 – 7
Wow, this place is pretty.
We start off along the paved bike path and I can’t help but be in awe of the serene beauty of this forest preserve. I know we’ll be following parts of the Des Plaines River Trail today, an area I’m somewhat familiar with, but I didn’t expect it to be this breathtaking. Everywhere I look I see bright reds and yellows and greens. Fall is here, and nowhere has it been as quaint as right here, right now, as the fog rolls up off the lake, adding mystery to its splendidness.
That was some fancy poetic thought, I say to myself.
Yeah, and now I have to pee, I reply.
What?!? We’re only half a mile in! Good thing I took the over!
I know, I know. Jeesh.
This incessant peeing thing has been a part of my training all summer. I wonder if I have some sort of exercise-induced bladder control issue. I don’t know. But I do know that around every 2-3 miles of every long distance run I’ve embarked upon this summer, I’ve had to stop and pee. I expect I probably wasted at least a half an hour peeing during the 24-hour run. And now, here we are just 800 meters into a marathon and already I feel the urge.
Unfortunately, there a lot of runners around me, and though we are on a “trail” of sorts, this doesn’t seem like the type of race where it’d be acceptable for me to jump off the side and take care of business in front of the world. I’ll have to wait until an aid station.
I try to think about something else — my footfalls, my slower pace. I look down a couple miles in and I’m sitting steady on 9:30s. Nice and easy.
Suddenly, my friend Aaron picks me out among the crowd and is now running alongside me.
“Hey, Jeff, how’s it going?” he asks.
We start chatting. I know he has run the Prairie State/Chicago Marathon double before.
“I’m doing it this year too,” he assures me.
Sweet! Another crazy person!
“So, any word of advice? What will be your post-race routine?” I ask.
“Chocolate milk, ice bath, hot shower, compression, a nap. Make sure you elevate your legs. Eat a good meal. Sleep as much as you can.”
“Sounds like the perfect post-race day to me. Though I would like to throw a beer or two in there.”
The conversation seems to have quieted my bladder, so when we reach the first aid station, I run right through, thinking nothing of it.
Half a mile later, the urge is back. Ugh. I look around, but still, people everywhere. Oh well.
Let’s just make it to the next station — the ultimate ultrarunning mantra, though rarely related to a pit stop.
Aaron and I chat about all-things ultra, upcoming races, races past. When we finally get to the next station there is a john, so I stop, take care of business and get back on the trail.
Miles 7 – 9
Taking my time to get back into a groove, I walk with a purpose while chowing down on some real food. Since I’m treating this as a training run/experiment for my upcoming 100 mile race, I have opted to eat real food rather than stick to the normal marathon fare of gels and sports drink.
I brought along several sandwich bags of Gardetto’s snack mix and Muddy Buddies (a chocolate/peanut butter/Chex mix of sugary greatness). When I get to the aid stations I stop, walk and eat. I’ve been training like this all summer — eating on the run. Walking fast. Feels pretty normal now.
Having lost Aaron, I work my way back up to a 9:30 pace, all by myself, until I come up on another friend of mine, Rita. We run along together and high-five our friend, Siamak, as he comes flying toward us from the other direction. As usual, there are many familiar faces out on this run.
Running makes the world small.
Just before the 9-mile turn around I break ahead of Rita, trying not to think about how already I’m feeling a bit zapped and I have 17 more miles to go.
Man, this is stupid. Two marathons in two days? What was I thinking?
Of course, it sounded like a GREAT idea a few months ago. For some reason I always seem to forget exactly how much discomfort is involved in these ultra endeavors until I’m right in the middle of it all.
Too late now! Might as well just process the pain and be glad you’re alive!
Miles 9 – 18
Now on the “back” side of the 9-mile out-and-back section that makes up the first part of the race, I see all the runners behind me. There aren’t too many. I figure I’m somewhere towards the end of the middle of the pack.
I’m kinda tired. And a little bored. Wish I was doing something else.
Yikes! Snap out of it, man! Enjoy the scenery!
Beautiful as the scenery is, it doesn’t do much for mind, nor my turnover. Not that I want to run particularly fast (I don’t; I want to conserve energy if anything). It’s just that with no crowd stimulation and no signs to look at or sounds to distract, time seems to slip by slower than it usually does in a traditional marathon, which causes me to feel every, single, step.
I am alone with my thoughts, which are a jumbled mess right now, not focused on any thing in particular — a rarity in my experience. In a typical ultramarathon, I will at least have a warped sense of time rooted in the constant attention that must be paid to my surroundings. Single track trails require extreme attention to footing, to leg lift, to balance. Here, on this wide crushed limestone trail, with long straightaways and zero elevation, time seems to pass by very slowly.
I feel it.
Looking at my watch every minute or so just makes it worse.
I slug along. By myself. For miles and miles and miles. I walk all the aid stations. I eat. I move slowly.
Miles 18 – 22
FINALLY… people. I reach some sights and sounds and a crude false finish as I complete the 9-mile out-and-back, pass the finish line and go out for a 4-mile out-and-back.
Again, long, flat stretches of endless visibility makes this task seem slower and harder than it really is. Even my constant mind/body feedback loop seems slow. I notice I have a blister on my left pinky toe. I’ve felt a burn there for the last five miles or so but didn’t think anything of it until now, realizing that it is a blister.
Just keep slogging.
And now it is a slog, no doubt. I’m moving, but not with much conviction. This feels more like a training run than anything else (thank goodness it IS!) and I make it feel even more so by continuing to walk and eat when I feel like it (which is often).
I am tired, but not any more tired than I would be if I were out running 20 miles on my own, by myself. The quietness of this race is challenging me more than the distance. I guess I am spoiled by equating “marathon” with raucous gaiety.
Miles 22 – 26.2
I hit the turn-around and quickly find myself running beside someone else.
Whoa! Company! I forgot what that was like!
His name is Ted and he’s from the city too. We chat for a bit and I find out he’s running his first ultra in a couple of weeks at the Lakefront 50. I gab on about ultras, making the time pass quickly (for once) until, just two miles from the finish line, I wish him ‘good luck’ and break off for what I hope is my last pit stop (7th total) of the day.
The over was a good bet!
As I get back to the Start/Finish area, I’m welcomed by another false finish that leads me on a short loop around where we started.
Finally though, 4 hours and 14 minutes after I started, I cross the finish line.
It’s my slowest marathon to date. But I will have plenty of time to go even slower tomorrow.
Siamak, still on a high from having run a marathon personal best time, greets me shortly after I get my medal. As we chat, all I can think about is going home and going to bed.
– – –
To be continued…
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.
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.
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.
The drive to Lisle on Route 53 is spent listening to classic Ricky Martin tunes (La Bomba, Así Es la Vida, Perdido 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Enjoy the pain, I hear her say in my head.
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.
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.
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.)
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“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.
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…
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.
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!
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 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
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.
And then I crash.
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.
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.
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!”
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.
The 10k runners come from the opposite direction, offering more love and support.
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.
“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.
“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.
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.
It was a game-time decision. I was holding on to hope all the way up to the final countdown of the Ice Age Trail 50k race start, but ultimately, not running was the only correct decision I could make. It was my first DNS (Did Not Start).
Did nothing stupid.
Did not sulk.
Well, okay, I sulked for about 10 minutes, but sulking sucks and I didn’t want to be a baby, so I found a way to enjoy the rest of the beautiful day by hanging out with friends and cheering in runners at the finish line. There was also beer.
In a long, illustrious running career, a DNS is probably going to happen sometime. Now that my first one is out of the way, I hope to learn from it.
Running has many lessons and this week I learned that, just as in real life, nothing is for certain. Shit happens all the time and much of what constitutes one’s character comes from what he does when life doesn’t go according to plan.
On Monday I was boasting to friends about how good I felt — how after a year-long struggle with one nagging injury after the other, I was finally starting to feel like I had my fast legs again. So on Tuesday, when doing hill repeats with some guys from the gym, I thought nothing about trying to race the speedy 20-year olds up a steep incline.
It only took one overzealous bound for my left Achilles to riiiiiiiiiiiiip.
I was lucky that it didn’t rupture, but the damage was significant enough that I was left to a pathetic hobble on Wednesday, a sad limp on Thursday and a passable yet tenuous walk on Friday. On Saturday, there in the Nordic Loop parking lot with hope as my only companion, I tested out the heel using every functional aid possible: heel cups, wraps, heat, ice.
Nope. Can’t run. Hurts with every step. 31 miles on rolling terrain with a bum Achilles is a good recipe for rupture, Jeff. And a rupture would mean losing the entire season. No running. No nada.
10 minutes. I gave myself 10 minutes to feel sorry for myself.
But then I put on my big boy pants and went back out there and rang my cowbell like a boss.
A day of glorious weather with awesome people is a great day spent regardless of the activity. I had a blast, despite not being able to run, and I got to see my girlfriend conquer another ultra finish line with her trademark ear-to-ear smile.
A few more days on the mend hopefully and I’ll be back in action — lesson learned and rarin’ to go.
And no more racing kids who I already know can kick my ass.
For over a year I dreamed about what it would feel like to run in the 118th edition of the Boston Marathon. Like many others, I felt compelled to be there no matter what it took. I was inspired to stand up as part of the running community, to help New England heal, to show my compassion and my support by doing what I love to do most: run long.
The whole world would be watching.
This is my story:
Saturday, April 19, 2014
Sitting in the airport terminal, donned in a bright orange and blue Boston Marathon jacket, I see I am not alone. The head nods and thumbs ups from complete strangers come from runners and non-runners alike, but the runners are easily identified by their Boston Athletic Association gear. Hats, tech tees and of course, the iconic marathon jacket, like the one I am wearing, bring a sense of togetherness for what would otherwise be just another boring plane ride.
Once on the plane, the captain makes his welcome speech. He ends it with the following:
“And for all of our marathoners onboard today, we wish you the best of luck and hope you have a fantastic run.”
The cabin erupts with applause.
*Chills up and down my body*
Wow. This ain’t just your everyday marathon, I think to myself.
– – –
In Boston, having checked in to my hotel, I enjoy a pleasant walk along Charles Street, scoping out the perfect spot for a bowl of clam chowder. Along the way I am greeted by many a passerby and random shouts of “Good luck on Monday!”, “Hope ya have a great run!”, “Thanks for being hee-ya!”.
The street is dotted with other marathoners, coming and going along Boston’s iconic Beacon Hill neighborhood, and the sentiment throughout remains equally enthusiastic for all.
It’s not every day that strangers go out of their way to make you feel welcome. I experienced it here last year, so I’m not surprised at all. I’m relishing the moment. Bostonians love their marathon and what it does for the city. I love them for it.
Full of clam chowder and ready for more walking, I make my way to the Hynes Center for the marathon expo. The closer I get to Boylston Street, the more powerful the city’s buzz and when I finally find myself standing at the finish line I notice its reverence is like that of a Greek temple. I too pay my respects.
Sunday, April 20, 2014
I arrived in Boston on Saturday specifically so I could have all day Sunday to sit around and do nothing. For the last year or so, I have been working a lot of 13 hour days, so this break is exactly what I need. I start the day off with a nice 2-mile shake out jog along the Charles River and then spend the rest of the morning and afternoon with my feet up, napping, reading and munching on overpriced hotel fare.
In the evening, I head over to the Government Center to meet my friends Mike and Rita for the official pasta dinner. They are also from Chicagoland. In fact, Rita finished the 2013 marathon just minutes before the bombs went off, giving all of us Chicago folk quite a scare until we knew she was okay.
Now it’s a year later, and I don’t think any of us can wait much longer to toe the line for this 2014 Boston Marathon. There is a deep sense of urgency felt throughout the running community to get this race off and going, to make it the best marathon ever run. The chorus of smile accompanied chatter here at the pasta dinner serves as a grand prologue.
But to make sure this prologue is just grand enough, Mike, Rita and I find ourselves randomly sitting at a table with Lisa and Jeff, a couple from Winona, MN. This choice meeting is grand because Rita met Lisa at St. Mary’s University of Minnesota several months ago while on a college tour with her daughter. To make things even more coincidental, after some conversation we discovered that Jeff knows Rita’s brother from the mountain biking community.
In a sea of 36,000 runners, from all around the globe, we randomly sit down next to familiar ones. In gleeful unison, we stuff ourselves with pasta.
After dinner I head back to the hotel and count down the minutes before Game of Thrones Season 4, Episode 3. For a solid hour I abandon all thoughts of marathoning for the dramatic tribulations of Westeros. Fiercely satisfied, with an acute obsession for the mother of dragons, I close my eyes and find myself fast asleep.
Monday, April 21, 2014
**BEEP BEEP BEEP**
Here we go!
I shoot out of bed, hit the power button on the coffee machine and eagerly flip on the news to check the weather. Reporting live from Hopkinton, the weather man confirms what I already know from countless weather app checks over the last 24 hours: low 40 degree temps at the start with highs reaching the mid to upper 60s by the time I hit the half marathon mark.
Could I be any more excited for this race? For this day? For this moment?!?
I eat my regular breakfast (bagel, banana, Clif Bar) and go through my regular pre-race preparations, which this time includes as much sunscreen as it does Bodyglide. A quick mental and physical check-in combined with some gentle foam rolling reveals an all-systems-go status.
But when it comes to another familiar routine, that of strapping on my watch, I hesitate.
Can I really do this? I ask myself. Can I really run without a watch?
You’re going to, I answer myself. You’re going to today. And you’re going to love it.
Sometimes I’m not sure if I believe myself. Today I choose to believe.
It’s been no secret that this training cycle has been one of my worst. I know that I don’t have the legs right now to run my best race. I have long made peace with this. But as much as I declare myself acceptant of my current condition, I know that if I run with my watch I will be checking it obsessively. And if I do that, I’m quite sure my competitive self, the one who often shows up to these sorts of events regardless of physical condition, won’t like what he sees.
Leave the watch at home, I tell myself. Run by feel. Give whatever you got today, but most importantly, enjoy the moment. Be present in it. Today doesn’t have to be about you or your performance. Let it be about people, about compassion, peace.
I leave my hotel room before I can change my mind.
In the elevator, I run into another, equally giddy runner.
His name is Steve and he’s from Pennsylvania. This is his first Boston Marathon and he plans to break three hours today. We split a cab to the Boston Commons and I give him the lowdown on the course: be conservative early on; don’t let the first 10k of downhill seduce you into blowing out your quads; kiss the girls at Wellesley; be ready to suck it up in Newton; when you hit the 21 mile mark let ‘er loose; when you see the Citgo sign you’re almost there.
He’s probably heard all of this already but I still lay it out there like it’s the most important speech he’ll ever hear. He thanks me for the advice and the conversation and before we know it we’re packed into a bus on the way to Hopkinton.
I close my eyes. I sleep a little. I turn off my mind.
When it comes back on we’re at the Athlete’s Village, deboarding the bus. The sweet chill in the air is invigoratin, the adrenaline in my blood plenty. This will be my 8th marathon. I have had butterflies before. I have been nervous. But today I feel none of that. Only adrenaline.
I feel pure adrenaline.
I look down where my watch should be to see how many hours I have to wait until the start.
Oh yeah, I forgot. No watch. No time.
No worry, no obsessing.
The Athlete’s Village is at Hopkinton High School. I head towards the baseball diamond, camp out next to the backstop and, now lying prostrate with a poncho as my mattress, I calm myself back into a deep, meditative state. The noise all around slowly fades and soon all I hear is the metronome of my breath.
– – –
I wake and find that I am now surrounded by a field of runners. The one almost uncomfortably close to me says, “Hey, mate. You were sleeping mighty well right then.”
His name is Robert. He’s a ginger. And he’s from London. This is his first Boston Marathon, and he too plans to run sub-3 hours.
If only I were in shape for a sub-3 hour race… struth gov’nr, cor blimey!
Robert and I chat, helping tick away the time that I can’t keep.
After a thorough comparison of races past and bucket lists to come, he finally notices, “You forget your watch?”
“Yeah, on purpose.”
“Wow, that would be hard for me.”
“Might be hard for me too.”
Nature calls Robert away while the PA announcer calls me and the rest of Wave 1 to our corrals.
Here we go…
With 15,000 more participants this year, I feel like a tuna fish tightly packed inside his school. During this long march from the Athelete’s Village out to the corrals I am hit by a cacophony of smells — from Icy Hot to Starbucks to b.o. — it’s a mixture specifically attune to running culture.
Once in line for my corral, I follow the leader even further down a long road towards Main Street (Route 135) in Hopkinton. It is here that I shed my warm-up clothing and feel that first skipping heart beat — nothing a short series of concentrated deep breaths can’t fix.
Here the crowds are already deep in support. On one lawn in particular stands a man with a sign yelling “Free Donuts, Cigarettes and Beer!” Like everyone else, I enjoy a laugh, but immediately after, the mood grows somber, reflective.
As we draw closer and closer to Main Street, the crowd of runners grows eerily quiet. This is the direct opposite of what I experienced last year. This is the group mind understanding the implications of this moment, the group mind preparing itself for an epic day.
– – –
Packed deep inside my corral now, squeezing elbow to elbow with my fellow tuna runners, I bump into Robert again.
“Hey, mate. Have a good run.”
“You too,” I say as the National Anthem begins.
Hat in my hand, hand on my heart, every hair on my body stands on end.
A massive cheer is followed by a Blackhawk helicopter flyover and finally…
Miles 1 – 6
I cross the first timing mat and instinctively try to start the timer on the watch that isn’t there. Whoops. Laughing at myself and feeling somewhat liberated as I go watchless, I begin the long descent out of Hopkinton. Already the crowd is loud, boisterous and Boston strong.
The adrenaline runs thick so I remind myself to not let my emotions dictate a fast pace. From experience, I already know that it is here, in these first 10 kilometers, where most people ruin their Boston Marathon. For we go down, down, down, banging our quadriceps in the opposite way mother nature designed them. If one goes too hard early on and blows out his quads, when he reaches Newton and really needs them to get up the longer climbs, he is going to feel a lot of pain and suffering.
Knowing this and having the good sense to reel myself in, last year I managed to run my one and only negative split marathon. Maybe today will yield similar results.
Still, it’s pretty demoralizing to have so many people pass by me — correction: FLY BY ME — so early on in the race. To avoid getting stomped to death, I straddle the center line of the narrow roadway and let everyone fight to go around me.
I step over the first 5k timing mat and think about all my friends and loved ones who are receiving a text message as a result. Technology is pretty sweet. I look down at my wrist to check my split but oh wait, yeah, never mind.
Look around you, I remind myself. You will never live this moment again. Soak it in!
Oh, man. I apologize for my rough language here, but How fucking cool is this?!?! I repeat to myself. This is just so fucking cool: the deep, cheering crowds; the speedsters; the gentle downhill making me feel like I’m floating on air.
And BAM, just like that, I’m over the 10k timing mat, texting my mom and dad again.
I finally break my habit of looking at my invisible watch.
Miles 6 – 12
After the initial 10k of quad thrashing, I do a full mind-body scan to take inventory. I feel great. My breathing is consistent and calculated. I’m running on feel, adjusting pace and cadence based on the course. My smile is about as big as it can get. If anything, my cheeks are beginning to hurt.
But most importantly, my quadriceps are perfectly fine. And they should be. I spent a lot of time over the last 18 weeks working and building my quads, just for this moment. Since I was confined to a treadmill for 90% of my training runs this winter, one of my favorite workouts was warming up for 10 minutes followed by 5 minutes at 6:30/mile pace, followed by 1 minute of air squats, 1 minute of lunges and a 1 minute wall-sit before going back to 5 minutes at 6:30/pace. I would repeat the 8 minute segment 3-8 times, depending on where I was in my training cycle. I typically like to think of myself as a pretty humble guy, but I can’t stop myself from saying I have big ass horse legs right now as a result of all the hard work.
They are coming in handy now.
As my mind drifts from those treadmill workouts to right this second to what kind of beer I’m going to drink after this, I try to always come back to right now. This moment. This little bit of history. This awesomeness.
I pass Team Hoyt and I give them a “WAY TO GO, TEAM HOYT!” while marveling at all those two have accomplished. Just thinking about how many people they’ve inspired the last 30 years makes me feel extremely appreciative to share the road with them. The crowd reacts to their presence appropriately and I am happy to be along for the ride.
Despite the roaring support, there are a couple of quiet spots in between Framingham and Natick. Just before mile 11 now, we hit another brief quiet spot before Wellesley when I feel a man approaching fast on my left side. As he sails by me I take one look at him from behind and immediately yell: “DEAN!”
It’s Dean Karnazes. No one has a body composition like that besides Dean. He’s also ridiculously tan, wearing his famous North Face singlet and visor.
“Hey, bro,” he replies looking back but not slowing down one bit, “how’s it going?”
“Wow! Going great!” I say, suddenly finding the energy and the turnover to keep up with him. I park myself on his right and match him stride for stride. “This is awesome, Dean,” I gush. “I gotta tell you, my name is Jeff and you’re the reason I run ultras! ”
“Cool, that means a lot to me to hear that. I’m glad to see you’re still running marathons too.”
“Yes, sir. In fact, I was training for my first marathon a few years ago when I wondered if people were crazy enough to ever run more than 26.2.”
“So I Googled it and up came your book, Ultramarathon Man. I bought it, read it in one day and about halfway through the book I said to myself ‘I’m doin’ that.'”
“That’s a great story,” he says, smiling almost as big as me. “Thanks for sharing that with me.”
We chat on about upcoming ultras and about how awesome this Boston Marathon is. But just as I start to hear the screaming women of Wellesley off in the distance, I realize there’s no way I can keep up this pace much longer without crashing hard. So I tell Dean as much and wish him an awesome second half of the race.
“Thanks, Jeff. You too, man. Take it all in. Today is special.”
Indeed, today is special. I just ran with one of my running idols in one of the biggest races of my life!
And now I’m in Wellesley, where hoards of women are screaming, asking me to kiss them! Woo hoo!
Admittedly, I don’t spend as much time with the Wellesley women as I did last year. It’s tradition here to kiss the girls, but I am in a happy relationship now and don’t need the attention nor the flattery. What I do need is the boost of energy their voracious cheering provides, so I tuck in close to the guard rail and sail on the power of their collective voices.
Miles 12 – 17
In the town of Wellesley I am greeted by “Sweeeeeeeeet Caroline…. BAH BAH BAHHHH!”
Oh boy the chill I get when that song comes on is a great boost to my psyche. And now that I cross the halfway mark (thus texting my friends and family again) I know I am going to need it. It’s getting warm, the sun is bright and high in the sky and yes, I’m starting to get a little tired.
I know the infamous Newton Hills are coming. Thinking about them, my mind begins to drift towards thoughts of suffering.
Now, Jeff! Stay in the now! Stay in the now!
That’s right. Stay in the now. After all, my love affair with running long is deeply rooted in being able to stay in the now for as long as I’m in motion.
Don’t think about mile 18 or 25 or the finish, just think about RIGHT NOW… then RIGHT NOW… then RIGHT NOW.
I do. I stay right here, right in this magical moment at the center of the world. I hug the left side of the road and high five as many hands as I can, riding on the cheers of countless strangers intent on making right now as special as it can be.
The more I begin to suffer, the more I hear my name. “Go Lung!” “You can do it, Lung!” “Pump those arms, Lung!”
My last name is prominently displayed across my chest specifically for tough times like these as I enter the town of Newton. Each time I hear my name I’m able to focus on the now, eschewing thoughts of discomfort.
Miles 17 – 21
As I embark on arguably the toughest part of the race, I fight back a brief bout of nausea. For some reason, I feel like I am going to throw up a the top of the first big Newton climb, but I remind myself that it’s just a phase and I’ll feel better soon.
I take water and Gatorade at every aid station, just as I have been doing all throughout the race, and after a half mile or so I feel much better. Dumping cold water on my head every chance I get helps. The sun is really shining on me now. I’m getting burned but there’s not much else I can do about it.
My heels are stiff and sore too, but running by some blade runners reminds me how lucky I am to be able-bodied, so I tell myself to suck it up and focus on the glory all around me.
“Go Lung! Get up that hill, Lung! You can do it!”
Good god these people are awesome!
While all day long the crowd has featured an array of wicked smaht signs, one seemingly boring one grabs my attention now. It reads: HAVE FUN. MEB WON.
WHAAAAAT???? MEB WON????
“Did Meb really win?” I yell back, corkscrewing my body into an awkward position not meant for marathoning.
“Yes!” the gentleman holding the sign says. “U.S.A.! U.S.A.!”
Wow, that is really cool. Meb Keflezighi won the marathon. This declaration provides me with even more untapped energy — enough to take me all the way up to Heartbreak Hill.
This spot, famous for its place in Boston Marathon lore, is also one where the crowds really provide a boost. Though my body is aching, I am happy knowing it’s simply fatigue and nothing else. My pace has slowed considerably, but I have not stopped running. I will NOT stop running, especially now. I will conquer this hill on the shoulders of this animated and positive crowd. While I shorten my stride to get to the top, I high-five little kids and blow kisses to those cheering me on.
At the top, finally, I think to myself, now that wasn’t so bad.
Miles 21 – 25.6
My reward for cresting the last of the Newton Hills is a nice, long downhill. Recovered and feeling the excitement of almost being done, I decide to let ‘er rip down this one.
In Brookline now and I am simply amazed at how the crowd just grows more and more intense the closer I get to the finish. My ears are ringing!
Do these people lover their marathon or what?!?!
My constant mind-body feedback loop yields the familiar aches and pains associated with three hours of continuous running but it’s all masked by the enormous amount of love I feel radiating through my every cell. My emotions are starting to come out. It’s a good thing I’m wearing sunglasses.
I have run in a lot of marathons, including three Chicago Marathons where I thought the crowds simply couldn’t be beat. I am being proved wrong. This moment, right here, in Hopkinton-Ashland-Framingham-Natick-Wellesley-Newton-Brookline and now BOSTON, MASSACHUSSETS is the most alive I’ve ever felt. This is history! Like 36,000 of my brothers and sisters, I am an integral part of this celebration of life, this festival of compassion, this party of love.
The Citgo sign greets me and I know I’m almost done.
My god, what am I going to do when I get to the finish line, I ask myself. Am I going to cry like a baby? Am I going to pass out?
STAY IN THE NOW, JEFF, IN THE NOW.
In the now. High-fiving this kid. In the now. Blowing kisses to that crowd. In the now. Being uplifted by the sound of my own name “GO LUNG GO!”
Miles 25.6 – 26.2
I turn right on Hereford, left on Boylston and there it is: the finish line. In all its glory, in all its majesty, there stands the finish line, drawing me near. It’s only 600 meters from here to the finish — one and a half times around the track.
This is where I usually sprint my heart out, pumping my arms and my legs to the beat of the fastest drummer I can summon.
But not today. Today I’m taking my sweet ass time. I’m soaking this in — this love, this peace. I’m right in the middle of it all and I’m not going to miss a second of it.
I let the wave of warmth and emotion flow over and through me. I know that this is one of the most special moments of my life.
I am in the now. I did it. I am right here, right here in Boston where I’m supposed to be.
I cross the finish line in 3 hours 38 minutes on the dot and can’t hold back the tears of joy any longer.
1968 Boston Marathon champion and longtime Runner’s World fixture Amby Burfoot described the 118th Boston Marathon as “the best day in running history”. I really can’t argue with that.
For me, it goes even further. The 2014 Boston Marathon was a celebration in motion, an honest tour of compassion and a testament to the love deep down inside us all. Whether we ran, we cheered or we watched via text messages at home, we were all together as one, running through the center of the world.
“What is thaaaaaaat?” asked Edna with a slurred voice somewhere between transcendence and delirium. “Look at thaaaaaaat! Why are there so many houses?”
It was 6:30 in the morning. We were approaching an open field covered with frost, and save for three twenty minute cat naps spread throughout, she had been awake and on her feet running for over 43 hours.
There were no houses.
“You’re seeing things, babe. You’re tired. Stay on my arm and let’s keep moving.” I said.
She looked at me with big, wild eyes. The fatigue forced upon her by 30 degree temps, two sleepless nights and 99 miles on the Potawatomi Trail — a trail that leaves you feeling like you’re being eaten alive by piranhas, one little vicious bite at a time — left her speech and reaction time slow. Her behavior reminded me of Paul Krendler as Hannibal Lecter fed him his last meal.
I was overwhelmed with the desire to take away all her pain, to snap my fingers and have us be in a warm hotel, fresh and clean, discussing dinner plans or a book we just read. But before my mind could wander further off into those pleasant thoughts, she was digging deep. Again. Fighting with every bit of her being.
She pushed and pushed and pushed.
I was in complete awe of her ability to fight through myriad discomforts to prove she could do what she set out to do. She inspired me with her indomitable will, her mental toughness, her humility and her never ceasing smile.
Man, I love this girl.
Upon completing 100 miles, we (Team Edna) decided it was best to rest. With only 8 hours left, we knew there wasn’t enough time to complete another five 10-mile loops. In fact, of the 44 registered to run the 150 mile race, only 14 managed to finish it, many of them my friends. To them, I bow down with admiration. What a feat.
Edna’s 100 mile finish was an equally enlivening triumph. Life got in her way a lot the last six months, but just like in the race, she put her head down and soldiered forward despite the hardships. She never once complained. She never once considered giving up. She had zero regrets.
THAT is what living is all about.
That’s how the race as metaphor keeps forcing me to go bigger, to be better.
Edna did that. She does that. And I couldn’t be more proud.
– – –
Special thanks to Team Edna members Robin Platt, Siamak Mostoufi and Raul Cervantes, Jr., all of whom played big roles in a smooth operation. Your loyalty and dedication to helping Edna get through the tough times will not be forgotten.
And to all of the runners, pacers, crew members, volunteers and race staff at the Potawatomi Trail Runs, I wish to give you all a great big virtual hug. The ultra community is family to me and having a front row seat to some of the most selfless acts of kindness and daring athletic performances is a pleasure I will always cherish.
During the three hour plus ordeal, every single muscle ached at some point. My legs were heavy. My pace was slow. My mind was adrift.
Runs like that don’t happen often for me, but when they do, I now know enough to pay attention. I ran a little bit on Tuesday, but again, didn’t feel all too great. An overwhelming sense of blah has seemed to take over my body. The crummy weather, lack of sleep and 16 weeks of primarily being stuck on a treadmill are probably the usual suspects.
Instead of dwelling on it and feeling sorry for myself (like I would have done in the not too distant past) I will just stick this one in the “deal with it” file and focus on recovery.
And what better way to focus on recovery than to watch my friends and loved ones torture themselves on 150 miles of trail?
Yes, you read that right.
ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY MILES.
Starting Friday at noon, my girlfriend, Edna*, and a whole host of other dear friends from the New Leaf and M.U.D.D. groups will descend upon the Potawatomi 150 at Pekin, IL’s McNaughton Park for 150 miles of… Fun? Exploration? Masochism? Transcendence?
I assume it will be some combination of all of the above. As Edna’s crew chief, I will have a front row seat to the type of pure guts and determination it takes to even attempt something like this, let alone conquer it. And I have no doubt in my mind that once this expedition comes to a close, the minor aches and pains I felt last Saturday will be but a silentious memory.
*To read Edna’s blog in English, check out THIS PAGE.
The last time I raced to my maximum potential, I set a personal best in the half marathon. In the aftermath of that hard effort though, I also found myself crippled by the apex of bilateral Achilles tendonosis, an injury that would bury the rest of my lofty 2013 race plans and humble me to reevaluate my training.
That was six months ago.
Now I’m ready to give it another go when I toe the line this weekend at the Armadillo Dash Half Marathon in College Station, TX. I have been Boston Marathon training for ten and a half weeks now, slowly building back up to quality speed work and long, slow distance runs. I still don’t feel like I am in optimum speed running shape, but I do feel good. I feel strong. I feel focused.
And I feel like it’s time to see what I can do right now. But I also know that this feeling comes with a conscious finger hovering just above the abort button.
After my experience the last six months, my ultimate conclusion is that I would rather run slow than not run at all. To me, running is a gift. It’s a privilege. I am not guaranteed the ability to run, to have full use of my legs, to live this spry wonderlife each and every day. So each day that I get deserves my respect. If something goes wrong, I need to address it, immediately, and not just keep running anyway, just because. Like Stan Lee reminds us: “With great power comes great responsibility.”
I don’t expect to be swinging from building to building this weekend, using wrist-projected webbing and spidey sense, but I do expect to give my best race effort, using every bit of what is in the tank on that day.
Here’s to hoping I don’t run into any Green Goblins.
Or achy Achilles.
No matter how bad I feel a run or race went, there is always a part of running where I am smiling from ear to ear. If running can keep me smiling like that, it will always be a part of my life.
I put a lot of pressure on myself to make 2013 the year I accomplished my ultimate marathon goal of running under three hours. In doing so I developed chronic Achilles tendonitis and spent a lot of time on the bike, neither of which got me any closer to my goal.
In the three weeks leading up to the Chicago Marathon, it became very clear that sub-3 was not going to happen on October 13. I made peace with that, and hung on to the hope that I could fight my way to a 3:10 finish.
The running gods, in all their ironic glory, would have a little something to say about that.
Sunday, October 13, 2013
It’s race morning and I’ve been up since I went to bed. Did I ever sleep? Not really. And all this tossing and turning through the night has left me achy, nervous and cranky. I better eat.
A banana, a bagel and a half a cup of coffee later, and I feel much better. Being up on my feet and totally awake now has slowed the constant loop of worry that was going through my head: Will my heels hold up? Am I fit enough for the distance? Have I set myself up for failure?
Now it’s just a matter of going through my regular routine and getting to the start line.
It’s a tad chilly, but perfect for running. I suspect the temperature is hovering around 50 degrees, and though I’m wearing sweats while I wait for the corrals to open, I have to keep moving to keep warm.
I got here early, in anticipation of large crowds and heightened security, and now all I can do it is wait. And think.
My game plan for today is to start with the 3:10 pace team and just stick with them through 20 miles, then see what happens. Over the last several days, I have convinced myself I can indeed run a 3:10 marathon despite not having done any speed work since mid-September. I have convinced myself that my long hours in the gym and muscle memory from races past will be enough to propel me towards the finish line at 7 minutes, 15 seconds per mile.
I mean, c’mon, it’s 7:15 pace. That’s easy.
Oh Mr. Confidence, sometimes you can be a sly, deceiving little punk.
I’ve hit the head four times now, so surely there’s nothing left. I make my way to A Corral and slip myself into the warm-up loop circling with svelte, uber fast specimens. After a couple of revolutions, I see John Kiser and immediately say hello.
My newly coiffed mohawk must be throwing him because he squints and tilts his head to the side questioningly.
“Hi, John, it’s me, Jeff.” I say.
“Yes! Hi! How are ya?”
We both give each other the look. The look is: I don’t really know but we’re gonna find out soon.
A few days ago, I emailed John, a friend I met through the New Leaf and M.U.D.D. groups, to see if he would be leading the 3:10 Nike Pace team as he has done in years past. He assured me he was, but that he had been dealing with some aggravating tendonitis in his knee that may limit his abilities. Of course, I told him about my Achilles tendonitis, and we bonded as only extremely competitive, marathon maniacs on the mend are wont to do.
Now, here we are, just a few minutes from the start, exchanging the look with nervous undertones disguised as light conversation.
“Did you see the Bradley/Marquez fight last night?” I asked.
“Nah, did you see the Michigan/Penn State game?”
We carry conversation to quell the anticipation.
Joined by John are two other pacers, Dale and Brian — both skinny and fast, looking the part. I remind myself to just tuck in with these guys and hold on. Whatever happens, happens.
The elites are introduced, the Star Spangled Banner is sung, a fly over misses its mark and then…
Um… why is it so quiet? I think to myself.
Ordinarily, the beginning of the Chicago Marathon is a raucous roar of people down Columbus Drive. But due to the increased security measures brought on by two lunatics earlier this year, no spectators have been allowed at this traditionally jam-packed part of the course. And it sucks.
As my legs move underneath my feet and the pace set by our leaders begins to set in, the eery quiet makes me think: Oh boy, we got a looooong way to go. And this might be too much.
Doubt. I knew it would pop up eventually. It usually does and I’m usually ready for it. But I didn’t expect it to pop up before we reach the first mile marker.
When I began marathoning, a wise runner told me to “always respect the distance.” Running 26.2 miles is never easy. The distance makes sure of that. So running it at a particular, fast pace is never easy either. To think that I’ve reached a level where I can just go through the motions to accomplish what I consider a relatively speedy finish is as dangerous as it is foolish.
Respect the distance, or it will beat your ass.
Pretty sure today is gonna be one of those ass beatin’ days, regardless.
After the symphony of Garmin beeps signals the first mile, I look down to see I never even started my watch. Oh, nice move, Jeff.
All the more reason to stick with John, Dale and Brian.
Our group is probably 15-20 people but I can’t tell for sure because we are all spread out, still trying to get through the early maze of runners bunched.
As we approach Lincoln Park around mile 5, I realize I haven’t looked up from the ground hardly at all. I am so intent on staying with the pace group that the only way I feel comfortable is by not paying attention to everything around me. In some ways, this is a shame, because the Chicago Marathon is one of the most supported races I’ve ever run, with exuberant crowds lining the streets. It’s also a fantastic tour of the city I love so much. But today I am giving up aesthetics for performance, and right now all I can do to hang on is watch the feet in front of me.
Surprisingly, I feel pretty good.
In fact, 7.5 miles in and I’m still feeling pretty good. Except… I have to pee.
It must be nerves still because I’ve never peed so many times just before a race. Plus, other than a half cup of coffee, I haven’t had anything to drink since 7 p.m. last night!
Too bad, bladder. I’m not stopping.
I can’t believe I’m holding pace as well as I am right now. If I stop to pee I’ll never catch up.
As we zip through Boystown and the rest of Lakeview, our even split pace and building camaraderie in the 3:10 group is enough to silence my bladder. As long as I concentrate on staying with the pacers, I am able to forget about what ails me. Watching Dale’s feet — one step in front of the other, over and over and over again — has hypnotized me into a time trance. I’m totally focused on breathing and breathing alone.
The miles go by. The crowds continue to cheer. I’m completely oblivious.
This holds true until we reach the halfway mark about 30 seconds faster than goal pace. The celebrations within our group wake me from my trance, just as both Achilles remind me they are not having much fun.
I knew I was gonna take a beating, I was just hoping it wouldn’t be this soon into the race. But it is.
Keeping pace isn’t so much of an issue, but keeping pace with the annoyance of Achilles pain is. With each compounded step I can feel the calcaneal bursa sacs rubbing against the back of my shoes — tender and inflamed. I try to convince myself that it will all go away, but I’m not as stupid as I think I am, and the convincing doesn’t succeed.
This is where I should be sucking it up. This is where I should be lowering my head and digging deep.
Instead, this is where I begin to think about alternative goals.
But why!?! some part of my conscience interjects. You’re right with the 3:10 group. You’re fine! Just keep going! You can rest your heels when you’re done!
Every time this voice encourages me, its mirror opposite gets in the way:
You’re not in 3:10 shape, dude. You’re not gonna make it. Just take it easy. No use fighting. You’re gonna conk out any minute now. Just wait and see.
Back and forth they go, those voices in my head.
Don’t lose the group!
You’re gonna lose the group.
Don’t listen to that asshole!
This asshole wants you to be able to walk tomorrow.
As the argument builds, so too do my efforts to stay with the group. It becomes increasingly difficult with each step. The latter asshole voice gets louder. Still, I hang on.
Everythiiiiiiiing sloooooooooooows dooooooooooooooooowwwwwwn.
Boom. Just like that. The wheels fall off and there is no question: 3:10 pace is too much.
Yes, my heels hurt, but it’s not my heels that shut me down, it’s my cardiovascular system.
My body has had enough of that pace and it refuses to go any further unless I slow it down. Every muscle, every breath is against running another step at that pace.
Before giving in completely, I put forth one last valiant effort to catch back up to the 3:10 team now quickly disappearing before my eyes and… I… struggle… to…
Fuck it. Just not gonna happen today.
I take about 30 seconds to feel sorry for myself, to wallow in my shattered hopes. And then I recall Ali Tremaine’s words:
No matter how bad I feel a run or race went, there is always a part of running where I am smiling from ear to ear.
Hot damn, yes! That’s the perspective I was looking for! Mentally, I put on my big boy pants, hold myself a little taller, and keep on moving.
I’m still RUNNING! In the CHICAGO MARATHON! And all these strangers are cheering for me, so let’s go!
Suddenly 8:30 pace doesn’t feel so bad, in fact, it feels GREAT!
I go through Pilsen on 18th street screaming “Viva Mexico!”
I turn right onto Halsted and high five my buddy Omar.
I turn left onto Archer and stop to give my girlfriend a great big hug and kiss.
Before I get to Chinatown, I stop to take a piss.
Feeling infinitely better now that my bladder is empty, I charge down Wentworth, tucked in close to the crowd for support, smiling ear to ear.
At mile 23 I see my friend Alison, so I stop to give her a big hug, and now I’m really feeling good. Well, I’m feeling as good as a fatigued, wonky-heeled runner with 23 miles in his legs can feel.
I’m still movin’ ain’t I!?!?
Ah, yes, here we are on the home stretch down Michigan Avenue. This part of the race sure does feel different knowing that I won’t accomplish my goal for the day, but the warmth from the enthusiastic crowd cheering me regardless and the perfectly blue skies above remind me that I am indeed lucky to be where I am right now.
Be glad you can run, period.
And eat some humble pie, dude.
Enjoy the last few miles to the finish.
Absolutely. I make eye contact with volunteers. I high five random kids. I smile big and cheesy.
Then someone pinches my butt.
I turn around to see it’s John, my pacer friend. Apparently his knee issues came up and slowed him down too. But he’s smiling! And moving relatively well (faster than me) as he darts on by.
“Wasn’t expecting a butt pinch 2 miles from the finish line, John, but I’ll take it!” I yell as he speeds on by.
I laugh to myself all the way to Mt. Roosevelt before I make the last left turn towards the finish line. It’s a good day after all. It’s a good day indeed.
3 hours and 20 minutes after I took off on this journey, I am humbled and finally done.
One minute later, I have a beer in my hand.
Two minutes later, I’m thinking about the next marathon.
A very wise person once told me that I should learn something from every race, regardless of the outcome. Well, I learned a whole lot in this one.
I learned that, just like anything else in life, a race is what you make of it. If you want to feel sorry for yourself and miss the beauty of reality, then that’s on you. Attitude is paramount. And with the right perspective, one can truly find joy, even in defeat.
I also learned that it’s okay to give myself a break every once in a while. Setting goals and being productive towards achieving them is great, but it shouldn’t come at the expense of my health.
But most of all, I was reminded that running is what matters for me. It’s not speed, not distance. It’s not splits or weather or terrain.
Running brings me to the state of now.
And that’s where I always want to be.
The Peapod Half Madness Half Marathon in Batavia, IL keeps bringing me back. I PR’d there in 2011. I did it again in 2012. And since the quaint little town is so welcoming with its serene course and opulent post-race party, I couldn’t help but toe the line for a third year in a row. Besides, the race fits quite well with my Chicago Marathon training and, for the last two years, has accurately projected where I can expect to finish in an all-things-being equal mid-October 26.2 mile contest.
Pre-Race, 4:15 a.m.
I am up and stuffing my face with bananas, toast and coffee. Despite the early morning butterflies, I actually slept pretty well last night. But now, just a few hours from the start, I begin to go through my regular cycle of self-doubt and reassuring affirmation. With this year’s Chicago Marathon goal being the loftiest I’ve ever imagined, the plan for today is to run all 13.1 at marathon pace, somewhere between 6:50-6:52 minute miles, finishing in 1 hour 30 minutes, which would be a new personal record by more than two minutes.
The weather doesn’t look too bad. It will be in the low 70s for most of my race with the type of humidity one can expect for the Midwest in August. If I can pull off a 1:30 finish in today’s summery conditions, I will spend the next 6 weeks feeling pretty confident about what I can do on October 13. Luckily, there will be a 1:30 pace group for today’s half, and having run this race twice before, I know the last two miles are essentially all downhill. As long as I can get to the 11-mile marker without dying, I should be able to accomplish my goal.
But 90 minutes at sub-7 minute pace… Jeff, you’ve NEVER done that before. You hear me? NEVER.
I’m only warming up and already my subconscious Debbie Downer is picking a fight.
And you don’t have the miles this year. Your heels are still wonky. Your speed work has sucked. Remember last week when you couldn’t hold 6:50 for two miles in a row!? And the week before where your legs just felt heavy and non-responsive? Yeah, good luck with that.
My subconscious Debbie Downer can be a real drag sometimes. I vow to shut it up. I’m coming in today off a mini-taper, feeling strong, feeling determined. I’m going to stick with the pace group as long as my body allows — and that means grinding through the pain.
“Pain is inevitable, suffering is optional.”
I read that off someone’s Facebook feed this morning. I’m going to use that mantra when the going gets tough.
And it will get tough.
“Hi, my name is Jeff,” I say as I enter the chute and position myself next to two fluorescent yellow clad men holding the 1:30 pace sign.
“Hi, I’m Eric,” says the side burned leader, “and this is Kyle” he says motioning to his younger counterpart. I shake both of their hands and size them up. Both appear confident and svelte — two characteristics I usually look for in pace leaders.
“Do you plan on running even splits today?” I ask.
“Yes, 6:52 pace the whole way. Even splits,” says Eric. “I will be keeping track of the average per mile pace and Kyle will keep track of the actual mile splits each mile. If it makes you feel any better, we came in last year at 1:30:01.”
Awesome, I think to myself. Not only do these guys seem confident about their plan of attack, but they have also done this before, with success. I’m game.
“Okay, well I’m going to stick with you as long as I can,” I reply. “I just hope the heat and humidity don’t get to me.”
As soon as I say this I realize I’ve just given myself an excuse to abort if the going gets tough — an excuse my more determined self can’t accept right now.
Stick with them, Jeff. The whole way. The only thing that is going to stop you from achieving this goal today is a broken body part or a trip in an ambulance.
3… 2… 1… GO!
This is my third running of the race and the third variation to the start line I’ve experienced. In 2011 we began by going up a big hill. In 2012, that hill was gone. Today, there is another hill at the start but it’s in a different location. I think. Hell, I don’t know. I just know that we’re starting up an incline and it’s time to wedge myself into the group and get comfortable.
Eric and Kyle are in front. I tuck in directly behind. All around me are about 15-20 individuals who seem determined to hold pace.
This is your team, Jeff. Look around. Get used to these people. Stick with this group. Do NOT lose this group.
My subconscious voice is obnoxiously loud, but equally determined. Who am I to argue with what it wants?
The first couple of miles are a blur. We’re moving along right on pace and the folks in this peloton are focused. No ones seems to be huffing and puffing yet. Our footfalls create a natural, appealing rhythm. No one smells particularly awful.
This is work in motion — a thing of beauty.
Other than Eric and Kyle’s casual conversation, there isn’t much chit-chat. I can’t hold a conversation going this fast. I definitely admire those who can and the fact that our pacers seem to do so without losing a breath or a step is extremely comforting.
As we weave through the quiet neighborhoods of Batavia that remind me of the small town where I grew up, I notice everyone seems to know our pace leader, Eric. Course marshals, aid station volunteers and excited race observers alike are quick to shout out his name and wave a friendly hand.
This, combined with his detailed course preview assures me that Eric knows what he’s doing and that I should just stick on his heels. Right now, with the temperature still hovering right around the low 70s, I feel okay, but I am sweating a lot.
So when the first two aid stations only offer water and no sports drink, I begin to panic just a bit.
DOH! I need carbohydrate!
I recall this being an issue last year, that not all the aid stations offered sports drink and I had to just deal with it. I don’t know why I assumed that would change this year, but it didn’t. Am I being too snobbish by expecting that in a half marathon? I don’t know. I just know that the best fueling strategy for me is to take in carbohydrate and electrolytes from the very first aid station on through.
But a key element in distance running is adjusting to problems on the fly. I try to relax and know that I’ll get my electrolytes soon enough.
We get through the first 5k under 21 minutes and as I look around I see that our numbers are already dropping off. And so it goes with pace groups. Some days ya just don’t have it. I hone in on my constant mind-body feedback loop, keen to check my breathing, legs, feet, ankles. My wonky heels are aching a bit but that’s just going to be how it goes today. It’s nothing I haven’t dealt with before. For now, I feel about as comfortable as I can expect to feel considering what I’m doing.
Somewhere around the 5-mile mark, we hit the steep downhill into downtown Batavia where the crowds are big, loud and supportive. The easiness of running decline combined with the cheering support and a MUCH needed Gatorade-rich aid station make the left turn on to the bike path a great relief to my tiring body.
We tuck in a little closer now as our path narrows, running alongside the picturesque Fox River. This well-shaded portion of the race is a welcome relief from the rising sun, and now that we find ourselves closer together, I marvel at the fact that no one has tripped yet. We are so close together that one slight misstep from anyone could cause a colossal crash and burn.
This is so cool, I think to myself.
But what is it specifically about running fast within a group that gives me goosebumps? Is it the sense of togetherness, the creation of community that is born of it? Maybe it’s the notion that I wouldn’t be able to sustain this type of movement just on my own. Or, perhaps it’s simply benefiting from less drag and focusing on the heels of the guy in front of me.
No matter what, I’m in the zone now. My only concern is right now. Right. This. Minute. Staying with the group. Sticking to Eric and Kyle.
“Eric and Kyle,” I say. “All we need now is Stan and Kenny to be complete.”
No one gets my bad Southpark joke/reference, but that’s okay, because we got work to do. A quick look around and I see we’re still about 8 strong. There are several fluorescent green and yellow shirts. There are also a few women among us and everyone is FOCUSED.
We pass the halfway mark and Eric briefs us on what is to come in the last half, which includes a couple of climbs.
Only 6.5 miles to go now, I tell myself. Just hang on. You’re doing great.
Oh yeah, you’re doing great, says my mischievous Debbie Downer self, if you consider feeling like shit doing great. You really think you can hold on to this pace? Ha!
I take a much needed gel, feel a bit more energized, and remind myself to pump my arms when the legs seem unresponsive.
The love and support our group gets from the people who came out to cheer us on along the course does wonders for my mind and body, but somewhere around mile 9, both start to suffer.
I don’t want to do this anymore.
No one cares if you run a 1:30 or a 1:35 or a 1:anything. No one cares. You can stop now.
It’s too warm. Too humid. You can chill out now, man. It’s okay. Seriously.
My Debbie Downer side bombards me just as my body starts to slow down. As we charge up an incline, I begin to fall off the pace. Actually, our whole group starts to fall apart. And while I entertain negative thoughts and consider just taking it easy from here to the end, Eric heads to the rear of the group, motivating those of us struggling to survive to stick to it, to pump our arms. His words and actions encourage me to dig a little deeper.
Pain is inevitable, suffering is optional.
And it’s only 4 more miles… the last two are downhill so just stick with it. STICK WITH IT, JEFF! NOW IS NO TIME TO GIVE UP!
The old adage of holding on through the rough spots because they’ll go away soon comes to mind as I find a little something inside to chase down Kyle up in front of me. My 30 meter surge is matched by a few others in the group and slowly, we come together again. By the time we crest the last of the inclines and hit the bike path for the last section, including the pacers we are a strong group of six. Eric and Kyle resume their leader spots, giving us much needed encouragement and support.
Holy cow, I can’t believe I just got through that, I think to myself.
“Isn’t this great?” Eric asks aloud. “A nice, steady decline here.”
Great? I think to myself. This is effing brilliant!
Properly shaded again and moving along the gradual downhill path, I look at my watch to see we’re less than two miles from the finish line and for the first time today it hits me: I am going to make that 1:30 mark. I’m going to PR and I’m going to finish this day satisfied that my marathon training is right where it needs to be to do exactly what I want to do.
The hairs on my arm stand up and I feel a cool breeze of satisfaction wash over me.
“You guys, this is going to be a huge, 4 minute PR for me today,” says the woman to my right, arms pumping, legs turning over at the high cadence which has locked in to all four of us surviving runners.
This is awesome, I think. This is simply awesome.
“If anyone is feeling good and wants to get by, just let us know,” says Eric. I definitely consider it, but when I try to accelerate, I got nothin’.
Nah, just stay right on their heels, Jeff. Just ride this out to the end and save that jolt for the finish line.
It takes all the concentration I have to just stick with the pacers. They look back every now and then to see how we survivors are doing and I can’t help but think the face I’m making must be a scary mess. I feel terrible.
But I’m almost done.
We exit the bike path and are close to the finish line because I can hear the crowd and a PA system. We turn left and run under a bridge of some sorts where we are forced to run single file.
Eric drops back and gives me one last “go get em!” as I slide by, steadily chasing the speedy Kyle in front of me. 300 meters from the finish, I feel euphoric — all the pain in my legs and lungs ceases. I feel myself well up as I thank Kyle for his help.
“Dude, thank you so much. I never would have been able to do this on my own,” I tell him.
“You’re welcome, man, awesome job,” he says as he motions me past him for my final sprint.
As I come down the finishing stretch I pass one of the guys who was in our pace group and suddenly I don’t feel my legs at all.
Am I flying? Gliding? Where am I?
I’m at the end. I cross the finish line, arms raised in proud triumph.
Holy shit I just ran a 1:30:10 half marathon.
I take a few seconds to catch my breath from the last sprint before I turn around and look for the rest of the group members. Kyle comes across and I immediately give him a hug, whether he wants it or not.
“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your help. Thank you. Thank you so much,” I gush.
The last woman standing from our group comes across too and I give her a radiant high five for her huge PR. The smile on her face is one that I won’t forget. Those types of highlight smiles don’t wane easily.
Two other guys come through and I greet them with high fives.
Finally, Eric arrives at the back of the group and I make a beeline towards him, celebratory hug included.
“Dude! Eric! Thank you! That was awesome. I really appreciate your help. Two minute PR for me today. Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
This enthusiasm, this cheer, this ecstasy… it always seems to find its way into my running adventures.
So I just keep coming back.
The good folks in Batavia host one hell of a post-race party. After my emotions calmed down, I had my share of all you can eat pizza and all you can drink beer. I was quick to thank all of the volunteers who made the event a special one.
Watching this race grow over the last few years has been a real treat. In talking with some of my friends at the post-race party, I learned that the race organizers and volunteers had to fight hard to keep the course winding through the neighborhoods like it does. Apparently there was some opposition. Some entity wanted to restrict the entire race to just the bike patch, which, in my opinion would totally kill the charming vibe of this race.
I love going through the actual town, seeing folks on their front lawns with signs and cowbells and high fives. If I wanted to run on a bike path the whole time I’d just stay in Chicago.
Hopefully, this race will continue its awesome streak and I won’t ever have to worry about that.
In thinking about my performance post-race, I realize it would have been nice to break that 1:30 barrier; however, my goal for the day was to run a 1:30 and considering the conditions, where the race fell within my training plan and the fact that I really gave it all I had, I have no regrets.
All I have is a sore face from smiling so much.
Long have I been a sucker for classic training montages, the cheesier the better. Whether it’s Rocky Balboa racing a boat, Daniel-san whipping crane kicks to get the girl or Frank Dux redefining ninjitsu, I just can’t help but get pumped up watching that all-or-nothing training mentality in superlative action.
And, of course, a nice score doesn’t hurt.
It could be said that race day is just the exclamation point on the process, whether one reaches his goal or not. Hours and hours of training are logged so that race day simply comes down to execution. We reach our goals with compounded hard work, not by a one-day luck of the draw.
The process of training — the long, drawn out montage in real time — is what the whole experience is about for me. It’s about getting up before light to log a lactate threshold run. It’s about strict attention to clean diet while my friends pack away the pints. It’s about daily massage, supplemental strength training and lots of sleep.
It’s about doing everything in my power to make myself as good as I can be, to (as Survivor would suggest) rise up to the challenge of my rival.
My rival is me — the old me, the me who couldn’t run a block, let alone speed through 26.2 miles all in one shot.
And while that old rival self may not exist in the flesh anymore, the doubt and negativity inherent to his being still lingers. The challenge of rising up against it is still very real. I want to put it to rest forever.
My target is the Chicago Marathon; the goal is to break three hours. It’s my hometown course. It’s built for speed. And I know every tangent, every turn, every double-sided aid station.
On August 4th, backed by a summer of long, slow base mileage, I began marathon training in earnest. Right now I have eight and a half weeks to get tuned into high turnover and to make October 13 one of the most memorable days of my life.
Of course, with high expectation comes the risk of major heartbreak. If it’s 80 degrees on race day then I will have to ditch the effort and just survive. If I go out only to blow up halfway through, I’ll have to suck up defeat and look forward to the next opportunity. Or I could get injured, I could get ill, I could spontaneously combust. Any number of detrimental things lurks, ready to stop me from achieving my ultimate running goal.
But one thing is for certain: even if I do get knocked down, I’m gettin’ my ass right back up.
I’m not going to quit. I’m going to achieve this goal.
It’s going to happen.
And by putting this declaration out into the universe for all to see I feel even more driven to get the job done, one 6 minute and 50 second paced step at a time.
It’s the eye of the tiger
It’s the thrill of the fight
Rising up to the challenge of our rival
And the last known survivor
Stalks his prey in the night
And he’s watching us all with the eye of the tiger
In this year’s comeback from last fall’s IT band injury, I have been doing a lot of sparring at the gym. It’s a good thing I have been doing so, because the only thing that properly prepared me for the type of beating I would take at the Minnesota Voyageur 50 Mile Race on July 27, 2013 was getting punched over and over again by dudes bigger and stronger than me.
And just as it goes in the ring, sometimes getting your bell rung can be the most beautiful thing in the world.
Pre-Race, Friday, July 26, 2013
First thing in the morning and my heels hit the ground pain free.
This is good. This is very good, I say to myself.
I haven’t run a step since Saturday and the extra rest has given me full motion in my ankles and heels, something I am going to need as I mentally and physically prepare myself for Minnesota Voyageur. The Achilles pain that scared me most of the week seems to be absent and with this added rest I feel confident about tackling the tough, gnarly course.
My friend, Kirsten, who I met last year at Clinton Lake, shows up at my house with Jim, another ultrarunner from central Illinois, and all three of us exude excitement with a hint of anxiety as we load the car and begin the 8-hour trek north towards the Minnesota wilderness.
The drive is long and confusing — long because it’s 480 miles from my house to Carlton, Minnesota; and confusing because it’s 55 degrees and pouring rain most of the way. Between the spry conversation and the giddy storytelling of ultra-adventures past, I make sure to look at my watch every now and then just to remind myself that it really is late July.
We arrive in Carlton and walk to packet pick-up shivering in the cold, wet rain.
The high for tomorrow is 57, says Jim as I pinch myself hoping to wake up in a warmer state. Supposed to be 42 at the start.
With our race shirts and bibs in hand, we get news that this year’s course will be different than the original one. Due to some washed out areas and bridge construction, the course has been modified from the one that made it famous, but we are assured that all the familiar Voyageur sections will still be there, including the infamous power line section of steep, brutal climbs.
We head back to the hotel, eat dinner and then commiserate on the less-than-summery skies mother nature will provide us tomorrow. We all agree that the cooler temps will make for nice running weather, but the chilly rain will make things quite sloppy. This isn’t going to be an easy fifty (are any of them really?), but the good news is: we are all prepared for a fight.
Jim, you ready to finish your first 50 miler? I ask.
Yes, I am, he emphatically replies.
More than satisfied with his confident answer, I wish he and Kirsten both a good night, turn off the lights and fall fast asleep.
Pre-Race, Saturday, July 27, 2013
*BEEP BEEP BEEP*
WAKE THE HELL UP, JEFF! says my brain to my body as I desperately reach for the “off” button on my smartphone’s alarm clock. I look around to see Kirsten and Jim are rising along with me.
Who thought it was a good idea to run 50 miles this morning? Jim asks.
Excellent. We’re cracking jokes well before the crack of dawn and that’s a great sign. Unfortunately, the weather report has jokes too, unwavering from its estimated high of 57 degrees. And right now, as I shove two bananas and a Clif Bar down my throat in the black of morning, it’s a balmy 43 degrees.
Armed with this bit of irony, the three of us ready ourselves with our own pre-race rituals. I take some time to get my head right, to focus my mental game on pushing my physical.
There is no question that I am stronger, right now, than I ever have been before. This increased muscle mass was born out of less miles and more rounds in the gym, so while I know the body is there for a full-on physical adventure through the woods, I still have questions about my endurance, especially over the course of a demanding, difficult race like I will face today.
The only other question mark entering my psyche this morning is whether or not my heels will hold up on this challenging terrain. I won’t know until I get going, so it’s no use worrying about it now.
Instead, I focus on being confident, and sometimes, that’s all it takes to get my stubborn ass moving the way I want.
After a 25-minute drive and some nasty, watered down gas station coffee, Jim, Kirsten and I find ourselves shivering together in the Carlton High School parking lot, still scratching our heads at the unorthodox July chill. It’s 47 degrees as we prepare to toe the start line and I overhear another runner say it was 80-something last year.
What a difference a year makes, I say as I stick my hand down my shorts to slather Vaseline all over my nether region, further exemplifying why I love the ultra community so much. Here I am coating my crack with grease mid-conversation and no one seems to notice, or care. It’s just part of the game.
So too is putting yourself in arduous predicaments. In fact, THIS is what I live for — the challenge of NOW — and I know that, no matter what, this entire day is going to be an adventurous exercise in taming doubt and experiencing the present, through every possible channel.
We pose for a final pre-race picture before the race director gives his speech.
A couple of good-luck fist bumps later and…
Slow, slow, slow.
Let’s go slow.
I repeat the above mantra as I settle somewhere in the middle of the pack.
My goal for today is to FINISH, of course. That’s always my first goal of any ultra distance race. But I would be a liar if I didn’t admit my sincere desire to run a sub-11 hour race today. After my dreamlike Western States pacing experience last month, I really want to start putting my name in the Western States lottery, and to do so I need to qualify with a sub-11 hour 50 miler. Because I plan to focus on Chicago Marathon training after this, I likely won’t be running any more 50s this year, so this is my one and only shot.
But considering how tough this course is, combined with the elements of rain and chill, I know that it is going to be nothing short of a fight to achieve that.
I’m also unsure about my heels. And as we start the short jog on paved bike path toward the trail head, my left Achilles starts giving me that wonky, sharp-YOW-YOW-give-out sensation. It’s not as serious as it was before, but it’s there, so each step seems like a question mark. For now, I try to be aware but not obsessive.
Once we turn onto the trail, the conga line of runners keeps my pace in check. Here there are jagged rocks and technical terrain alongside the gorgeously flowing St. Louis River. My heart rate is low. I’m just getting warm. Enjoying the slow.
You have all damn day out here, Jeff. No need to waste yourself now, I tell myself.
By the time we reach the multi-track leading to the first aid station at Leimer Road, my heels are all warmed up and won’t be an issue the rest of the day. Halle-ultra-lujah!!!
At the aid station, I grab a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and some chips that I wash down with a half-water-half-blue-Powerade mix. My most successful fueling strategy for ultras thus far has been to go on the “see food” diet, eating whatever I see that looks/sounds good at the time, favoring savory over sweet as much as possible. Yesterday I made sure to avoid all dairy products (they tend to make my gut a crap-shoot *rimshot*), so as long as I eat a little bit of real food at every station, supplemented with the occasional gel when I need it, I should be okay.
The aid station personnel kick ass with their awesomeness and before I head out, I tell them I can’t wait to see them again, some 44 miles down the road.
The Minnesota Voyageur is a wild, picturesque out-and-back course from Carlton to Duluth. I know I need to average 12-13 minute miles the best I can to finish under 11 hours; and while this seems like it should be no sweat for a three-hour marathoner who averages 7-minute mile pace in a road marathon, maintaining a 13-minute mile pace over this rugged terrain is going to be tough.
There are going to be spots along the course where running is just not possible. Hell, after hearing grizzled vets talk about what was in store for us this morning, I know that there are going to be spots along the course where even power hiking will be impossible — spots where we’ll be lucky to put one foot in front of the other without breaking something!
This is why instead of darting up ahead and through the conga line of mid-packers like I normally would, I just stay right here, somewhere in the middle, letting the natural pace of things rule. I am in no hurry. In fact, at Ice Age and Howl at the Moon last year, I suffered greatly from running too fast too early, so I know better and do my best to keep my heart rate low and my smile wide as I take in the beautiful forest all around me.
In every direction I see the greenest green. Luscious leaves of birch and pine soar high above me, the woodsy waft of nature fills my nose. This section out of Leimer Road is quite runnable, so I find a nice, easy, comfortable gear and just ride it steady, happy to be alive. I cruise along with other runners until there is a sudden halt in the line.
What’s going on? I ask, leaning my head to the side to see if I can see what the hold-up is. Before anyone can answer I see we have reached a shin deep stream crossing and some people up front are trying to figure out how to best get across.
It’s drizzling, it’s chilly. The trail is soaked, soggy and sloppy. It’s an absolute given that the feet are going to get and stay wet all day, so I bust out of the line and charge to the front, happy to jump in and out of the stream, off and running on the other side. Besides, my feet are protected with 2Toms BlisterShield Powder and Injinji socks, a combination that hasn’t let me down yet, so YEEEEEE HAAAAAW!
After another good stretch of running on flat, grassy trail, I cross another stream in much the same way — banging on through without a care in the world, happy to be a part of this lovely forest. I am leap frogging with several friendly faces, but unlike most other races, I am not in a real talkative mood. I’m feeling more introspective, happy to live this particular adventure with my thoughts to myself.
This is pretty suiting, since I’m thinking about a lot of people today, especially my friends running the Burning River 100 Mile Race in Ohio. Thinking of them doubling the distance in similar rainy conditions motivates me to move along the best I can, to pace myself responsibly and to enjoy the experience.
During an ultra, it’s pretty common for me to question myself, to wonder why I keep going out on these long, time-consuming, muscle-busting journeys that test my physical and mental abilities unlike anything else. When such doubt enters the mind I remind myself how much my face hurts from SMILING.
I absolutely love it. What other reason do I need?
The Bull Run aid station greets me at the 8.1 mile mark. I grab some more peanut butter and jelly, some bananas and an orange slice before I kick out down the road.
And yes, it is a road. A long, welcoming downhill, road. My instinct is to bomb down it, but I’m working smart today, so I just take it easy, chilling on the ride down.
What’s really cool is that I can see, about a mile down the road, all of the runners ahead of me. What’s not cool is that I know I’ll have to traverse UP this damn thing later in the race, with 39 miles in my legs.
But today we’re working with the NOW, and that’s all that matters. Right now, I’m having a great time. Legs feel good. Heels feel good. Head feels good. Out on the open road it’s a bit chilly with the breeze, but otherwise I’m quite comfortable in my long sleeve technical tee and trademark short-shorts. Best of all, I’m right on time with my splits as I reach the end of the road and say hello to the good folks at the Chambers Grove aid station. More peanut butter and jelly. More half-water-half-blue-Powerade mix. More bananas and oranges.
Nom nom nom.
A quick thank you and cap tip later and I’m off to tackle the first of the infamous power line sections.
Now begins the climbing. Seriously.
Minnesota Voyageur and the power lines might as well be synonymous, because in my course study before the race, I couldn’t find any source that didn’t mention them both. Notoriously steep climbs equipped with the loud background buzz of high voltage, these hills test my patience as much as my body. But I am ready for both.
After I crest and coast down the last one I turn back to the nice woman behind me and say, Well, that wasn’t so tough.
Ha! she replies, we haven’t even gotten to the big ones yet.
Before we get there, we still have to travel through some more winding up-and-down trail. The ground is wet. It’s still drizzling off and on. But the footing is still pretty good and I make sure to take the downhills easy as opposed to trucking right down. With the grade as high as it is on some of these downhills, bombing them just isn’t possible and my quads probably couldn’t take it later on, even if I could. Caution ain’t a bad idea.
Several times we reach a point where the trail has been “closed” for “our safety”, except that the course markings lead us right through said signs and accompanying fence blockage, not bothered by whatever possible danger may lurk beyond.
The race director has jokes too! Ha! I love it!
As I reach Peterson’s aid station (where they have Ginger Snaps, holy-effing-YES!), I notice my right hip is aching pretty loudly. I stuff my face with cookies, bananas and oranges while I gently massage the bursa sac that likes to get inflamed sometimes during these crazy outings. It’s a nuisance, yes, but a nuisance I can and WILL overcome.
I go through more runnable, grassy trail before I hit the second section of power lines. I know I’ve reached the second section because I’m now looking straight up at the beasts I have to climb and my neck is not a fan.
Here’s where all those pistol squats are going to pay off, Jeff. Here’s where Kettle Moraine and Western States and Big Bertha repeats are going to pay off. Keep your head down, your confidence high and just get the job done.
Up, up, up.
Gingerly. Carefully. Slow enough not to tumble and break my face… down, down, down.
Up, up, up. Down, down, down.
Over and over.
As I cautiously crest a climb, clinging to some foliage to keep from teetering back towards my death, I hear off in the distance RUNNER COMING THROUGH!
What the —
It’s the youthful race leader, coming towards me, blazing by with ease and the most patriotic red, white and blue short-shorts.
Stars and stripes forever!!! I holler as I wave him through. He smiles and thanks me. Wow, the dude isn’t even sweating. He’s 10 miles ahead of me and not even sweating!
TEN MILES! HOLY SHIT! I’M NOT WORTHY, I’M NOT WORTHY!
I will say this to myself again as the rest of the leaders come through behind him. Meanwhile, it’s all I can do to keep moving forward, up and down the last power line before I make it to the Beck’s Road aid station at mile 21.
I have a drop bag here, and while the idea of changing socks and clothes sounds good right now, I’m going to wait until I get back at mile 28 to consider any of that. I still have to get to the turnaround before 11:30 a.m. to be on target with my sub-11 goal, and I have lots of hard work to do before that so I can’t waste any time.
I grab some grub, refill my handheld bottle and boom, I’m off.
Here is a mile and a half section that is flat as a pancake. From studying the course beforehand, I know that this is a place I really gotta push the pace because it’s the calm before the storm that is Jarrow Beach (pronounced JAH-row) — a section I’m told will “chew me up and spit me out”.
I try to run fast, pumping my arms as hard as I can to see if that will get my motor running. The problem is, I’ve been stuck in low gear all day long and now anything more than a steady jog seems impossible. Just as I work myself up to feeling good and speedy, I reach a defunct railroad bridge reminiscent of a Stephen King novel.
As I cautiously tip toe my way across, all the momentum I just built up on the flat ceases. The rain starts to come down a little harder too, further insulting my efforts.
But as soon as I get over the bridge, I have more fast moving terrain to spring me forward, making me feel pretty confident as I cruise along, taking in the sights and sounds. I’ll be at the turnaround soon and it looks like I will get there before 11:30.
My head is filled with happy thoughts.
I’m having a blast.
I’m enjoying the ride of life…
Until I find myself at Jarrow Beach.
Jarrow-effing-Beach. Where the hell is the sand? Where are the bikinis? Can’t I even get a mai-tai?
This ain’t no damn beach, this is a bone-breaking ankle trap intent on taking me down! If the power lines slowed me to a power hike and the dilapidated railroad crossing slowed me to a tip toe, the jaggedly edged boulders protruding through the earth at Jarrow Beach force me to a crawl.
No hyperbole here. I’m definitely crawling over the rocks. Sometimes I can stand enough to tepidly place one foot on another rock while I desperately search for a place to safely put the other, but it’s raining and the rocks are all covered in slippery moss making this traverse quite a challenge on my entire body.
Two guys I’ve been yo-yo-ing with in the race have caught up to me now and the three of us curse like sailors as we try to get through Jarrow without killing ourselves. I can’t help but slip and fall a couple of times. I twist an ankle — not badly, but enough to notice. I slip and land on a jagged edge, bruising my arches, toes, elbows, wrists and heels.
There is no running here. There is only surviving.
For the first time all race, I am extremely hot and sweaty. But we must soldier on.
Together, the three of us — me and two strangers who must like pushing themselves just as much as I do — fight through this section, one rock and misplaced foot at a time.
Our reward for getting through Jarrow Beach is some more flat terrain before the turnaround. I try to bust out with some speed, but my bruised and achy feet aren’t so excited about that, so I just move the best I can.
I reach the Magney aid station, halfway through the race, at 11:15 a.m. Right on target, but not without damage.
Most of all, I’m feeling pretty tired — an all-body tired, the kind you get from being on your feet all day climbing insane hills and picking your way through a boulder laced killing field. But my left arch is particularly achy from a poor landing and my right hip bursitis is really aggravating now. Besides that, both of my piriformis muscles are inflamed, causing that all too familiar butt ache to pulse to the rhythm of my heart.
But my stomach is doing well. I’m pissing clear and often. And I’M HALFWAY DONE, HUZZAH!
Off I go, knowing that I have to go through that damn Jarrow Beach again. Having done it once, I now have the confidence that I will get through it no matter what, and that my reward will be another mile and a half section of fast, flat terrain where I can really make up some time.
While I make the second pass through the boulders, I start to see all the other runners coming back towards me on their way to the turnaround. This offers me some delight. It’s always nice to see friendly, encouraging faces on the trail during a long effort. It’s even nicer to know I don’t have to do the boulder field again.
I get through with just minor scrapes and bruises this time and bust ass over the railroad crossing and back onto the long stretch of runnable trail. I’m moving much faster this time, despite the aches and pains, because I can’t wait to get to Beck’s aid station where I have the ultra-cocktail of Ibuprofen and Red Bull waiting for me. I also plan to change socks, shirt and hat, because the ones I’m in now are disgustingly soaked.
Sometimes, just putting on a dry shirt can make all the difference.
I reach Beck’s and as soon as I locate my drop bag, the sky opens up and, as if to laugh at my plan of getting into drier clothes, it begins to POUR RAIN!
What can I do but laugh?
Haha, you got me, Minnesota Voyageur. I know this wasn’t ever gonna be easy. Trust me, I get it. I get the joke now.
I’m in the middle of changing socks anyway, so I complete the change as planned and top it all off with my ultra-cocktail and some Icy Hot on my hip. I kick out down the trail as the heavens continue to rain down.
I don’t really mind the weather since I’m under canopy for the first part after Beck’s. But when I reach the bottom of the first power line section on the way back I realize what kind of test I’m really in for.
Mud, mud and more mud.
How could we possibly make a terrifying climb harder than it already is? Add pouring rain and a slick, muddy surface so that with every step forward you take at least two or three slip-and-slide ones back.
At first, I move forth daintily, trying to avoid a complete fall into the mud as I cautiously attempt to climb along the best line I can find. The problem is, mother nature don’t give a shit and before I know it I’m falling face down in the mud, clinging to the slanted earth with my fingers deeply embedded into the mud.
The nozzle on my water bottle is all but caked over in the rich, red clay and my new, clean (ha!) shirt is a pretty shade of filth. I’m lucky that one of the women I’ve been leap frogging with today is alongside for this section, because multiple times she has to push my ass up while I attempt to pull myself forward.
The pouring rain makes each step a dangerous one. And once I finally get to the top, I still have to go down.
Only way but one, the woman says as she butt slides her way down ahead of me. She’s totally right. I try to take soft, easy, calculated steps, but the ground is so sloppy and loose that it just gives way, sucking me down with it.
With mud on my face, in my ears and up my ass crack under the pouring rain, I wonder if I’m in an Oliver Stone film or in a 50 miler. Either way, this is the path I chose.
How often do you get to play in the mud? I ask myself.
Obviously, not often enough! YEEEEEE HAAAAAW!
Like a prize fighter just off his stool for the 12th round, I stumble into the Peterson’s aid station, rain and sweat streaking down my body.
Boy, am I happy to see you! I shout. I’ve been thinking about those Ginger Snaps for longer than I’d like to admit!
I grab a couple of them, even though they’re soggy and gross, and I force them down my throat while I get my bottle refilled. I look at my watch and know it’s going to be a struggle. I lost a lot of time on both Jarrow Beach sections and this last set of power lines. What’s worse is that the steepest climb of them all is yet to come and the rain is not letting up. If I want to get in under 11 hours I’m going to have to run all the runnable stuff as hard as I can.
At least the Red Bull and Ibuprofen are kicking in. My left arch and right hip are quieting, but my quads and butt, neck and shoulders are all taking a beating now too. In this tired, downtrodden state, the rest of the run will be an aid-station-to-aid-station test, and I won’t know if I can make the time until I inch a bit closer.
For now, all I can do is get through the aid stations as quickly as possible and give my best effort no matter the terrain.
I bust out of Peterson’s and take advantage of the rolling hills where I can, but once I get to the last power line section, I can’t help but think my time goal is doomed. Under all this rain, on top of all this slippery mud, there is simply no footing. I have no choice but to lie flat on my belly, in a leaning bear crawl position, and dig my hands into the side of the earth to pull myself up the hill.
The last and steepest of the climbs does all it can to knock me out, to put me out of my happy-misery. But it can’t. I signed up for this and I don’t care how much things hurt right now, I’m getting over this hill.
On the peak of the last climb I take a second to stretch my arms out wide, head pointed up towards the pounding rain. I laugh in the face of hardship and beat my chest before I mudslide down on my butt like a little kid.
I look at my watch and know I need to get to Chambers Grove soon. There, in my other drop bag, is another Red Bull. That, combined with the knowledge that I’ll only be 11 miles from the finish line might be enough to get me under 11 hours. But I gotta hurry.
Ahh, yes, but stupid me forgot about that ROAD CLIMB!!!
What was a long, happy, stretched out downhill coast the first time around is now a dooming, massive, impregnable power hike up what looks like forever.
I won’t make eleven hours. Shit. It’s just too much at this point.
*BIG FAT DEFEATED SIGH*
Oh well. I’ll still finish…
I’LL STILL FINISH.
Up, up, up I go.
Waaaaay ahead of me I see the silhouette of a girl who passed me around mile 5. I’m going to go catch her. I’m coming for ya, girl who passed me at mile 5! Here I come.
Head down, arms pumping.
Forget about the rain. Forget about the aches. Forget about the discomfort. You’re going to finish this thing and you’re going to feel so good about it for so long so just… keep… MOVING.
After what seems like forever, I’m finally at the top of the road and back on trail.
Oh yes how I love you, sweet, sweet trail!
I run as fast as I can (which, let’s admit, ain’t that fast really), taking advantage of every single downhill, despite the poor footing, while power hiking my ass off on every significant uphill section. It’s all or nothing now, only 8 miles to the finish.
And I have… (looking at my watch) an hour and thirty minutes to get in under 11?
Hot dog! I holler as I push through the pain and concentrate on high cadence and lots of arm pumping.
I quickly grab some grub at the Bull Run aid station, thank everyone there and move quickly through the rolling terrain. The rain continues to fall, but it’s less violent now and almost undetectable considering I’m nothing short of a muddy, soggy, sweaty mess.
A muddy, soggy, sweaty mess with a SMILE on his face and a pain in his ass! Ha!
She eluded me on the road, but ironically now just five miles from the finish, I see that same girl who passed me at mile five up ahead. I decide I have to pass her now.
Head down, arms pumping.
A few minutes later I’m cruising on by, exchanging happy salutations with her as she keeps her slower pace. I look down at my watch again and know that if I can get to Leimer Road with at least 40 minutes left, I might be able to break 11 hours. I say, “might” because the last three miles include a lot of technical terrain and another jagged rock field that will definitely slow my pace.
You’ll never know if you never try, I tell myself, and we know that the only thing worse than missing your goal is knowing you didn’t give your best effort.
HEAD DOWN. ARMS PUMPING.
I whiz through the Leimer Road aid station, falling just short of telling the volunteers I want to make love to you all! I don’t have time to tell them exactly how much I appreciate their being out here today, so a quick “THANKS I LOVE YOU” will have to do. No doubt, this race features grade-A race personnel. Every single volunteer I have come in to contact with today has been as helpful as he/she has been kind.
And let’s not forget, standing outside in the cold, pouring rain isn’t very fun if you’re not running over gorgeous terrain. I blow them all a kiss and charge down the multi-track trail which turns left and back on to the technical stuff along the St. Louis River.
I have about 30 minutes to get to the finish line now as I slowly and deliberately pick my way over rocky trail. I haven’t been using the GPS function at all today, knowing it would kill my battery, so I have no clue really how far I have yet to go. My body throbs and aches with each slowed step and when I squat down to go under a fallen tree blocking the trail, I realize just how seriously messed up my body is.
Getting back out of the squat takes all the effort I can find — serving as one final joke from mother nature and the Minnesota Voyageur before I am able to push on towards the final stretch.
Ha! Too bad the joke’s not on me today!
I bust out of the trail and onto the paved bike path in Carlton. The finish line is less than a mile away. I have fifteen minutes to make it there.
Oh boy, here it comes.
Why this happens to me so often on the longer, more spirited efforts I’ll never know, but I do know that I can’t fight it anymore.
Fucking cry, who cares. You deserve a good cry every now and then anyway.
I follow the yellow ribbons toward the right hand turn to Carlton High School.
And there it is.
There is that beautiful, glorious, triumphant finish line.
I did it.
I ran the Minnesota Voyageur 50 in 10 hours 51 minutes. I open up my arms, point my head to the sky and enjoy every last drop of rain falling on my face.
After the race I grabbed a quick shower inside Carlton High School (a great race bonus by the way!) and changed clothes so I could wait outside for Kirsten and Jim to finish. Seeing them on the out-and-back section was a real boost to my morale and I wanted to be sure I got to see them finish.
They came in at 12 hours and 40 minutes and we all shared a good hug, especially celebrating Jim’s first 50.
In fact, I hugged just about anyone who would hug me as they came across the finish line. There’s nothing quite like being witness to one’s ultra victory. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, spend some time at a finish line and watch the range of ecstasy flowing through the faces. You won’t regret it.
That night, back at our hotel, celebratory beers in hand, the three of us reminisced over our individual battles. Every single muscle in my body ached. For two whole days! Including muscles that have never ached during a run before (forearms, biceps, neck!)
Admittedly, I’ve never been beat up so badly by a race. But I was doing the Frankenstein walk like a champ.
As every enlightened sage and holy man has ever attested, to be whole, you must be broken.
Right now I’m about as whole as I can get.
Or at least I am until…
The next adventure…