Leadville 100

                                                                   Minutes b/f the start.

Marty led the team meeting the night b/f the race.  They wanted to make sure that you knew that it was okay to DNF if your Achilles was acting up.  You’d rather die than DNF.  You’d rather die ten horrible deaths.  It had, however, been your only anxiety going into this race.  You knew you could finish the things as long as your foot held up.  You told them that you would do everything and anything in your power to finish the race.  You’d tape it up and take a bottle of Tylenol, if you had to.  You didn’t want to push it until rupture, obviously.  But you’d do everything in your power. 

You were at the point of being superstitious about it.  If you went one day w/out it hurting, you’d analyze everything you did that day for it not to hurt.  Which vitamins had you taken?  Had you used compression that night?  Anti inflammatories?  Prayer?  Stretching?  Since your pacers Jessica and Marty had been out, you’d climbed four 14ers.  You’d climbed five the week b/f.  The all day ups and downs didn’t seem to bother it much.  But when Jess had suggested the two of you do a little five mile shake out run, you had to stop at one mile.  You’d been icing it in the mountain streams.  You’d been taping it w/ KT tape.  It seemed to hurt whenever it wanted to.  This was the biggest race of your life.  Four of your closest friends had driven out here to help you cross the finish line of a hundred mile mountain race.  They were getting nothing out of this.  They were here for you to finish.  And finishing looked grim.  You didn’t want to let them down.  They told you they understood if the injury prevented you from finishing.  You were grateful to have such understanding friends.  But you wanted to finish more than anything in the entire world.  You had sacrificed EVERYTHING for this race.  When you lay in your sleeping bag the night b/f, you were scared and emotional.  You knew it was possible you’d be DNFing less than five miles into the hundo.  You had no idea what would happen. 

You had two alarms set for 2:30 am and kept waking up every half hour out of nervousness of oversleeping.

Most of your crew drove you to the start of the race.  You’d decided to walk the first mile to warm up the Achilles.  Then you’d begin jogging.  Not even close to your usual approach and something you’d never normally do.  As you were waiting for the start of the race, Anton Krupicka walked by. 

Good luck Anton! / you said.

Do we have to check in? / he asked you.

No man, this is it! / you tell him. 

He looked nervous about having to check in which was kind of funny to you.  This was his fourth time doing this race.  He’d won it twice.  You’d think he’d know.  He looked clear eyed and focused though.

They counted down and said go.  There were camera crews and thousands of people up in the middle of the night, cheering.  You remained in the back of the pack, walking.  There were eight-hundred people ahead of you and about five behind you.  You walked and it felt fine.  Once out of town you began the job.  You were tentative.  You weren’t toeing off.  You baby it, knowing your other leg will suffer the brunt of the day and night.  At mile five, you run right past where you’d been camping for the last week.  Your crew was is there, covered in blankets and wearing headlamps, cheering everyone on.  You stop and hug them. 

How’s it going?

So far so good / you say, to your surprise as much as theirs.  You and them both half expected you to drop right there.  They cheer you on. 

At mile ten you decide to start passing people.  The first AS is at mile 13.5 where Marty is waiting for you.  You shed the headlamp and arm warmers.  He tells you there is a lot of runners ahead of you.  That was when you got to work. 

It was the first big climb of the day.  Sugarloaf pass.  Your power hiking skills are decent and you push.  You don’t talk to runners.  You push.  You grind.  Once at the top, you start running down, running eight minute miles.  You push it hard to National Fish Hatchery aid station at 23.5 miles.  You tell the volunteers your number so they can get your drop bag.  They look.  They look.  You help them look.  No sign of it.  They’ve lost your drop bag.  You’ll be through this AS two times.  It had extra shoes, socks, compression, Carbo-Pro, Tums.  It had everything you need to make it through this race.  The tough just got tougher.  You see your crew all together for the first time this morning and they lift you up and make you smile.  Maggie touches your face to give you positive energy.  Everyone is taking pictures and having fun.  There is a long stretch of flat road after that.  Tons of vehicles w/ crew members are going back and forth on the road and cheering for the runners.  You are gaining confidence.  The foot is feeling good.  You are passing people by the dozen.  Things are going your way.  You don’t want to get ahead of yourself though.  Remain calm and focused on the present.  Remain humble.  ANYTHING can happen over the course of a hudo.  Back to the trails w/ a four mile ascent to the Twin Lakes aid station.  You are jamming on watermelon and gels.  That is usually all your stomach allows.  Your salt and hydration intake is down to a science.  Totally flawless.  This is the aid station you began seeing people crying.  Two women and two men were bawling.  One guy was in the fetal position, wailing.  D/t injuries?  The course being too difficult?  Who knew. 

You cross a river.  Up until now, all the runners had been pretty quiet.  Not a lot of talk.  But once you all begin the climb up Hope Pass, everyone unites as brothers and sisters.  Everyone is encouraging each other and struggling to get up that massive, steep climb that can humble the worlds best ultrarunners.  Especially w/ forty miles on the legs.  One guy said it was like running forty miles and then climbing a 14er.  That sounded accurate to you.  You have no idea how long that climb took.  Hours, for sure.  You don’t take many breaks.  You break treeline.  Then there is an AS that’s so far up, it takes llama farmers to haul up all the supplies needed to man an aid station for a bunch of runners for the weekend.  You stop to put some calories in.  Someone tells you it’s only a half mile to the top.  Eff!  You thought you were at the top.  A half mile of climbing may not seem like much but this could take an hour.  You are at 12,800 feet and it’s like running w/ a sock in your mouth.  Luckily the food gives you a little boost.  This is where you see the leader of the race, Anton Krupicka and his pacer Dakota Jones bombing down as you are going up.  They are moving fast and they are ALL business.  Then you see Thomas Lorblanchet (who went on to win the race) and his pacer Anna Frost not far behind.  Nick Clark is in third.  These guys are your heros.  They are about ten miles ahead of you.  Someday.  Someday…

You run most of the way down.  This is nearly an eight mile descent.  You knees are blowing up.  You make it to Winfield and you are dehydrated and calorie depleted.  Your crew gives you Snickers, Red Bull, candy, water, anything and everything.  The good news is this is where you can pick up a pacer.  Jessica is primed and ready.  Her energy is perfect b/c you are spent.  You’d just run the hardest fifty miles of your life.  Probably the hardest thing you’d EVER done.  And now you are about to turn around and do it all over again.  But somehow your confidence is growing.  This was where you told your crew / I’ll finish no matter what.  It may take me longer than expected, but I’m going to finish.

You and Jess begin the eight mile climb.  Hours go by.  She said it was the hardest thing she’d ever done.  It starts to rain.  She tries to stop you to put on the raingear. 

No, we have to keep moving.

But shortly after that, you have to sit down for a minute b/c you are becoming confused and disoriented.  And then you keep going. 

After making it to the top, you walk the half mile down to Hope aid station.  All you can get down is chicken broth and candy.  You take down as much as you can.  It’s enough to push it hard down Hope Pass.  You both run down almost all of it.  Five steep miles down and your knees are screaming.  River crossing.  Aid station.  Switch pacers.  Four miles up.  It’s dark.  The headlamps go on.  You and Marty run a long flat section.  You chat w/ other runners who are struggling.  You puke on a gel.  It’s going to be tough getting the calories down from now on but you have no choice.  The tough just got tougher.  Your feet are trashed.  Your shoes are falling apart.  Wet socks.  Rocks and sand inside your shoes and socks.  You need to make it to the next aid so you can switch socks.  You and Marty run a half mile, then take a break.  Run a half mile, take a break.  Achilles is getting fussy.  Top of your other foot is getting fussy.  When you finally make it to the aid, you have your crew tape up your feet.  Your shoes are rotting right off of your feet.  Since the race lost your dropbag and extra shoes, you have to borrow whatever you can find.  Thankfully, Jessica’s boyfriend wears the same size as you but all he has are some cheap $35 Adidas and no one has spare socks.  You shake the sand and rocks out and wring them out and put them and the Adidas on.  The tough just got tougher.  Switch pacers.  You and Jess have one more monster climb, Sugarloaf pass.  You eat as much watermelon and drink as much chicken broth as you can and go.  You’ve been dreading this climb for hours and you just want to get it done.  You push hard.  Jess is struggling to keep up.  You are hiking faster than everyone on this climb.  All you see are headlamps going up and endless climb.  You devour it.  You have to stop to change your headlamp batteries.  There are six or eight false summits.  And what goes up, must come down.  For miles.  It’s dark.  It’s cold.  It’s quiet.  You’re grouchy.  You are not responding to Jessica’s questions.  Legs and feet are hamburger.  Gone.  You are not having fun at all.  You are in hell.  You just want to be done.  But there is absolutely no choice other than to grind it out to the final end.  You switch pacers for the last time.  Marty is going to take you home.  Thirteen more awful miles.  You hate running.  You hate runners.  You push on.  As you and Marty are hiking, you see a building off to the right, near the lake.  A boathouse.  But as you get closer, it’s gone.  Or never was there.  You see people setting up camp to your left.  That’s strange / you think / --people setting up camp at 6 am.  But when you get closer, they are gone.  Never there. 

Marty, I think I’m hallucinating. 

Marty turns around and looks at you and smiles.

Welcome / is all he says w/ a wry smile. 

The tough just got tougher.  Ten miles to go. 

It’s the longest ten miles of your life.  It feels like fifty.

Marty, I have to stop to get these rocks out of my shoes / you tell him.  Only they aren’t rocks.  They’re rock size blisters, right on the critical spots of your feet and you are rendered unable to run.  It’s going to be a hike aaaaallllllllllllll the way in from here.

The tough just got tougher.

Ten and a half years later, you and Marty make it back into town.  Tawnya meets the two of you.  You have just enough energy and pain tolerance left to run the last quarter mile.  You hear your name.  It’s 8:30 am.  Twenty-eight and a half hours.  Eight-hundred started.  Only three-hundred finished.  You are right about in the middle.  And there’s no way you could have done it w/out your crew that drove eighteen hours on their own dime and slept on the ground or in their cars to do whatever it took to see you to the finish line.  It felt so good to have them there and to hug them and thank them at the finish.  Words are never enough.  THANK YOU GUYS.  They helped you achieve something that you’ll have w/ you for the rest of your life.  And that’s that.  

two and a half weeks b/f Leadville...

8/2/12

I can’t figure out why I’m crying.  Is it because I am about to leave my hometown for a very, very long time?  Or is it b/c I just said goodbye to my closest friends and family?  Or b/c all of the above and I am listening to Tom Waits first album, Closing Time.  I am wearing shades.  I am alone except for the dog and the truck.  I am about to drive eighteen plus hours.  After the tears and after the Tom Waits, I begin to feel better. 

Illinois.

Iowa.

Nebraska. 

Rest area.

Nap.

Back on the road in 1 hour 15 minutes.

Drive for another two and a half hours. 

Rest area.

This time, four hour snooze. 

Let Rox out.

Brush teeth.

Drive into Denver and stop and the same Denny’s that I once ate at w/ Her.  Four years ago. 

I even think one of the same people is working there.  Four years later.

I drive to Idaho Springs and get a room.  I have been rushing around for months now trying to get everything organized and in order to move and make a clean break w/ no stress.  My mind free from obstruction.  No enemies.  Just love and good karma.  I have been successful.  Now I need to pull over and get a room and take a night off b/f getting to work tomorrow.  As soon as training begins, I am putting 100% of my time and effort into the Leadville 100 that is less than three weeks away.  One nights vacation won’t hurt me b/f living in the woods and training diligently to run a hundred mile mountain race.  I will be soaking my foot and Achilles in cold mountain streams twice a day and stretching and doing pushups and planks and deep knee squats and not having too much beer and slowly taking myself off caffeine and getting my mind right and getting myself ready to suffer for 24-30 hours.   

8/4/12  10:18pm  12,800 feet

Roxy and I climbed Mt. Evans today at 14,284 feet.  Wanted to take it easy on day one so we started at Summit Lake which is at 12,800.  It still took a few hours.  Altitude was a factor but I can’t complain.  All the time I’ve put in running this year helped a lot.  I was able to run some but it was mostly a hike.  Ran some on the way down as well.  On the way down, we saw over sixty mountain goats and one big horn sheep.  It was a pretty awesome day of trying to acclimate.  Camping up here at Summit Lake will help.  I always sleep great up here too.  It’s cold at night.  I have four thick layers on top and I’m in the sleeping bag and under a blanket.  I read Haruki Murakami until it got dark.  Then I put the headlamp on and got in the back and read some more…

8/5/12  7:47pm  12,800 feet

At 0700 hours, we hiked up from Summit Lake today and negotiated the sawtooth ridge from Evans to Bierstadt.  Bagged Bierstadt and then traversed back to bag Evans again.  Spent some time on the summit.  There was a family from Iowa that couldn’t believe I hiked and ran up.  Shoot man, this was an easy one compared to most.  They waited for me down at the parking lot just to see that I made it back safely.  I couldn’t believe it!  They took my picture.  Kind of funny. 

I ate some food and then drove back down the harrowing shelf roads into town.  Killed time in Idaho Springs for the day.  Not much to do.  Wanted to check out the Indian Hot Springs b/c I thought maybe I could kill a few hours there.  They said they’d let me tour the place b/f paying for a day pass.  They have a hot spring pool and a men’s and women’s “cave”.  They told me to go down and check it out.  I think the cave was some sort of gay haven for dudes.  I opened the door and saw more penis than I’ve ever seen in one place.  There was steam.  It was dark.  There were dudes in towels and there were dudes naked.  Every eye shot to me to see who was coming in.  Dudes laying around.  I felt dirty and I think they did too.  I bolted the hell out of there. 

Went to a brewery.  One of the waitresses told me she gets off work at 8:00.  That doesn’t happen to me much, so I probably should have stuck around.  I didn’t.  Some other guys asked me if I knew of any good camping and I told them the only camping I knew of.  It’s at 12,800 feet.  It’s cold.  It’s 22 miles out of town.  But I told them that they will never see beautiful camping like that again.   They looked hesitant.  They just needed a place to crash btwn Phish concerts. 

So, here I am.  Same cold spot as last night.  22 miles out of town.  The only person on Mt. Evans.  12,800 feet.  A zillion stars.  A shooting star every 10 seconds.  Massive headache tonight though.  Typing and driving seem to make it worse, so I’m checking out.  Later.

8/6/12  7:44pm  11,300 feet

Drove into Boulder today and checked the city out for the first time.  Got lost for a few hours.  As much time as I’ve spent in Colorado, I hadn’t been through Boulder.  It reminded me of Madison.  I met a possible roommate today.  He seems normal.  Student, avid tv watcher etc.  The rent for a bedroom in downtown Boulder is the same as my entire mortgage payment back home.  But I don’t get a workout room, yoga classes, pool and whirlpool back home.  There is a dog park across the way from the apartment.  I don’t know about perfect but the place seemed alright to me.  I’ll sleep on it a couple nights…

Made the drive over to Grays and Torreys peaks.  It’s raining now, so Roxy and I are camped out in the truck.  Hoping to climb them both tomorrow.  Depends on the weather, depends on how my Achilles feels etc. etc. 

I am camped in the same spot that Her and I once camped.  That was not a good couple days, from what I remember.  I’m still trying to exorcise those demons.  I am parked in the exact same spot.  The spot where I accidentally left my boots under the truck four years ago.  I checked, they’re not here.  It’s the exact spot where, when Tabor came up and joined us, we had a raging bonfire and talked into the night.  And then early in the morning, we dug into the nine mile hike and the thirty-six hundred feet of elevation gain and decent.  That’s what I’m hoping for tomorrow.  But I just heard thunder…

8/7/12

Started at 11,300 feet where I had camped for the night.  This was some beautiful camping, even in the rain! I was glad the skies were clear when I pushed out of the truck this morning at 6 am. Ate a little and Roxy and I took off. I ran what I could, power hiked the rest.  Made it to the top of Grays (14,270) in an hour and a half. I was the first one on the peak this morning. A plane literally buzzed me. I know they saw me, because they were so close, I could see them looking at me. We took off and went for Torreys (14,267) and made it there in a half hour. Took some video and pictures and then ran the entire descent down. No lie, it felt great! I shaved about three hours off my previous time on these two peaks. Stopped and talked w/ lots of hikers and just felt like I was on FIRE! 3,600 feet of elevation gain and descent.

Drove into Idaho Springs and got a room.  Did the laundry, filled the water bottles, tried replenishing the 10,000 calories I burned this morning at the Tommyknocker Brewery. 

8/8/12  8:37pm  Mile high city

Woke up and leisurely loaded up the truck.  Went to breakfast at the same spot Her and I did, four years ago.  Different people working there.  I wonder what She’s doing this morning.  Colorado just makes me think of Her more than ever.  But I know that She doesn’t have time for me anymore.  And I don’t blame Her…

I mostly just drive around all day.  Drive to Boulder.  Drive to Denver.  Potential roommate calls and says I can fill out paperwork w/ Boulders Apartment if I want.  I rush to Boulder during rush hour traffic.  Fill out a rental application.  They tell me it’s all up in the air d/t the little spec on my criminal record.  We all have a past.  Sometimes mine comes back to haunt me.  It humbles me.  I feel bad.  I feel silly.  I feel embarrassed.  I get a six pack of beer and listen to Beck.  “When I wake up, someone will sweep up my lazy bones…”

8/9/12  mile high

Wake up in a hotel room and since checkout time isn’t until noon, I know I’m going to milk it out until noon.  Watch tv, do a little exercising etc.  Then I am pretty much just waiting around all day for my 3pm interview w/ Boulder Running Company.  I sit outside a Starbucks w/ Roxy and look online for apartments.  I make about a million calls.  No luck.  I interview.  The woman who interviews me asks you if I’d like to join the trail runners tonight.  I have nothing better to do so I say I’d be delighted to.  More waiting.  I wander over to a park and watch some crossfitters exercising.  Roxy and I meet the run group at 5:30.  We run about six miles, nice and easy pace.  My Achilles bothers me some.  It kind depresses me but I try not to let it get me TOO down.  The redrock trails were amazing! We have a beer afterwards in the parking lot.  There is a North Face rep there demo-ing some shoes and raffling off some stuff.  I win a stellar half zip.  I was kind of half hoping someone would ask me my situation and offer me a couch to sleep on but no such luck.   I drive to Idaho Springs and eat at the brewery.  Again, I’m kind of half hoping a female bartender will ask me my situation and offer me a warm bed to sleep in.  No such luck.  I did have some interesting conversations w/ a waitress and a married woman who just dropped her husband off at an airport.  Beautiful woman.  It’s dark out.  I take my leftovers out to the truck for Roxy and she plows them down.  I drive out of town to Echo Lake and camp w/out paying, knowing I’ll have to be at 5 am to be out of there b/f the rangers catch me.  I’m tired.  I wake up a few times when I hear various noises but mainly I sleep like a log. 

8/10/12  7,524 feet                  

I’m starting to worry about not being able to find a place to live.  I go to a Starbucks and use their internet service and jot down a zillion numbers of people that have been looking for roommates in Boulder w/in the last few months.  That kills a few hours.  I look at the people who come in and out of the coffee shop.  The people who have jobs and agendas.  They have nice vehicles, professional jobs, wives and husbands.  This life is foreign to me.  I take Roxy for a long walk and then we hang out at a park.  We run 2.15 miles to shake the dust off.  Achilles hurts.  It depresses me intensely.  I wonder if I’ll be able to run Leadville.  I’ve never DNF’d anything.  We make the drive to Frisco, then Breckenridge.  We drive to the McCullough spill flume where I’ve camped several times.  Rox and I scope it out and set up camp.  It’s 3pm.  I have nothing to do.  No phone reception.  I’m tired.  I read.  I eat.  We have a fire.  We go to bed early. 

8/11/12  10,850 feet

I wake up and head into Breckenridge.  When my phone reception comes back, I realize my friends and pacers that are here to help me through the Leadville 100 are in town and ready to meet up!  We meet at the 7/11 and head to breakfast.  Hugs all around and they are as excited as I am to be in Colorado.  They are both avid runners and in good shape but have no experience w/ altitude or mountains and as good of shape as they’re in, this is going to be a new ball of yarn for them.  But they are anxious and eager and the best pacers in the world and are here to run and acclimate ASAP and they want to get out in some mountains TODAY!  We opt for Quandary peak as their first teener.  We claim a camp spot and start gearing up for the days climb.  We are definitely getting a late start but as long as we keep an eye on the skies, we should be good.  We climb up to treeline and we are not the only ones that got a late start on this fine Saturday.  Marty and Jessica have a little trepidation and wonder if they’ll be able to make it.  They were at sea level yesterday, so this is no joke.  They are both tough as nails and fight through altitude sickness and doubt to top out at 14,000 plus feet.  It’s cold and windy on top so we snap pictures for documented proof and then head down.  As soon as we are coming down, they are feeling better and in fact feeling GREAT b/c they made it.  I couldn’t be more proud and I know I have the best pacers around. 

We camp.  We have a fire.  We have a beer.  We have some laughs.  It’s good to have some friends here to enjoy Life w/ again…

8/12/12

I want a double / Marty says. 

Double shot of espresso? / I ask.

No, a double 14er. 

That is when I know I have the best pacers and crew in the entire world. 

We head to Grays and Torreys.  Again, a late start but the skies look stellar.  We head up and they already feel better than the day b/f.  They march gamely on.  We make both peaks and they are loving life.  We head into town to a brewery afterwards for burgers and beer.  And this is how the next week goes.  There are more 14ers.  There are more breweries.  There is camping and living outside for days at a time.  I have a couple of job interviews.  I find an apartment.  I find a part time job.  I worry incessantly about my Achilles and wonder if I’ll be able to complete the Leadville 100.  Hell, I wonder if I’ll make it ten miles into the race.  I have no idea.  There are hotels and a shower every other day or so.  There is music.  There is laughter.  There is training.  The rest of your crew arrives the day b/f the race.  And then…there is Leadville…

skydive!

Dances With Dirt

Alarm at 4:20 am.  You slept in the back of the truck at the start finish, camping w/ buddies.  You felt bad and awkward being the one who said / Okay guys, it’s 9:30 pm now and I’ve really got to get to bed…

You are at the start line.  Everything in your life is falling away and you are becoming intensely focused on the job at hand.  You’re not thinking about how the day will turn out.  You’re focused on the present moment and doing what needs to be done to continue running all day.  You look around and see your competition.  Some strong guys.  Ryan Dexter puts his hand out for you to shake and he’s grinning ear to ear.  Darren Fortney is right behind him.  These guys have STELLAR ultra resumes.  They’ve run races, set course records and run distances you could only dream of.  No matter what the outcome of the day, you remind yourself to be thankful just to stand on a starting line w/ guys like these.  It’s 5:30 am and the temps are already in the 80’s and climbing.  Most people are shirtless and focused.  You plan to run w/ Dexter and Fortney for a few miles and chat w/ them but when the gun goes off, something happens.  You take off.  Not a break-neck speed.  You make sure it’s not a pace that you can’t manage ALL DAY.  But you are booking.  The only people ahead of you are some 50k runners.  You attack the climbs.  You attack the descents.  Your plan is no different than most races…run hard for ten miles or so to get ahead of folks, then back off and conserve energy the rest of the day.  You blow right through the first few aids.  One salt tablet and one gel every half hour.  The crowd thins out.  You are definitely near the front.  When you finally stop at an aid, someone tells you you’re the first 50 miler to come through. 

That’s good news / is all you can say.  You try not to get excited.  There’s a LONG ways to go and anything can happen.  You find yourself a little panic stricken.  Your breathing isn’t relaxed, it’s shallow.  You’re putting unnecessary pressure on yourself.  You have to talk yourself into the meditation in motion that normally just comes to you after a mile or so.  You chant mantras to yourself:

Get comfortable w/ being uncomfortable. 

There is no pressure to perform today. 

No matter what happens, in a couple weeks you’ll be climbing your favorite mountains. 

And it works.  Eventually you level out.  You chat w/ folks.  You begin bumping into your friends who are running the marathon that started an hour after you.  You bump into Logan Polfuss who is running the 50k (and you are thankful b/c he’s moving at a good pace).  You chat w/ him about the course and he assures you that the 20 mile aid station is coming up.  The course is completely different this year and they have you running a hot out and back through the sunny meadows.  You push on.  And on.  And on. 

             Logan and I, coming into the 20 mile aid station.

There are climbs.  There is heat.  There are quad killing descents.  Your clothes are soaked.  You refill your hydration pack up at every couple of aid stations and drink heavily while stopped.  You power hike the monster climbs.  People cheer you on and tell you you’re killing it but you can’t quite accept their gracious compliments.  It’s too early to get hung up on how well you are or aren’t doing.  Anything can happen.  ANYTHING.   Whenever anyone tells you you’re the first 50 miler to come through you simply reply / That’s good news / and keep moving forward.  On the second loop you are feeling better about things.  There is an out and back stretch where you can see who’s behind you and how far.  There are a couple of guys who are close.  They are both bigger than you (almost 200 lb dudes) and b/c of this, you underestimate them.  No way they are going to be able to keep up to me in this heat / you think.  You soldier on.  Every time you turn around, there is no one there.  At the 35 mile mark, things start to slow down.  You are just wanting to be done.  You are becoming physically and mentally fatigued.  Legs are jacked.  Brain is mush.  At 40 miles you can’t talk.  Aid station volunteers ask if you’re ok and you nod.  But you literally can’t formulate a sentence.  You try and again they ask you / Are you okay?

Every step is beginning to hurt.  Your quads are screaming on the downhills and the downhills are your only friends at this point.  You have to hammer them as hard as your body will let you to make up time.  You have no choice.  You’re moaning w/ every step.  You begin passing people who are struggling w/ the 50k and marathon.  They tell you that you look strong.  But you feel weaker than ever.  It’s all mental at this point.  You try to push the demons out.  At the mile 45 aid station, you drop off your hydration pack and just take a handheld water bottle w/ water and ice.  You put ice down your shirt.  And you have the hardest 5 miles of the day ahead of you.  Up and down and brutal ski slopes of Devil’s Head ski resort.  At this point you’re talking to yourself.  Swearing at yourself.  Crying.  Laughing.  Wondering what you’re doing out here.  You have lived w/out an air conditioner, tv, junk food, girlfriends and caffeine for way too long in preparation for this moment.  You are finishing almost an hour later than you had hoped because it’s almost a million degrees but somehow you are here.  And they are back there.  This is your time to hammer it out w/ every single ounce of strength and passion in your body.  If you don’t give it a hundred percent…it’s all a failure.  These are the moments you live for.  This is how you learn the most about yourself.  This is how you get stronger.  This is how you become a better person.  This is your time…

You’ve never been so happy to see a finish line.  You hear screams and they announce your name.  You hear / First place 50 miler / and you run right into the arms of your friends and family.  There is nothing left.  You have no words.  You have no energy.  Everything is perfect and you smile for a long, long time.  You celebrate.  But we all know…none of it really means much.  At least not in the grand scheme of things.  Life can be a funny thing sometime.  W/ funny little lessons.  W/ funny little ups and downs.  And today was definitely an up :)

Rock Roll and Run

Bells at 4:20 am.  Eat.  Go the bathroom as many times as possible.  And then I head off to the park, on a bike, w/ a backpack full of triathlon gear.  Set up my transition area.  Try to go to the bathroom some more.  Chat w/ folks.  And then make the half mile barefoot walk down to the start.  

You wait in line.  You’re not nervous.  You just wait.  You’re just ready to get going.  You have family and friends watching you.  Even though it’s a “sprint” you still need to “hold back”.  It’s far too hot to wear a wetsuit.  I mean…doable but unnecessary.  You ditched the idea weeks ago, w/ how hot it’s been.  So that would make your already pathetic swim, abysmal.  But…you dog paddled it in.  You controlled your breathing and just took it nice and easy.  Once out of the water…it was time to party. 

You ran to transition.  Changed in a minute and some change.  Ran the bike out of transition and hopped on.  The plan was to peddle hard for a mile or so.  Slow down enough to take in some nutrition.  And then hammer.  And you stuck to your plan w/out fault.  Once you took down a gel and some Nuun, you immediately felt better and passed EVERYONE w/in sight.  Now we’re not talking Tour De France pace, but I was moving through time and space at a fast speed.   Made it back to T2.  Changed shoes and exchanged the helmet for a hat and took off running.  You wanted to sprint but you could tell that was not happening.  After a couple minutes, you slowed down.  Caught your  breath.  It was 95 degrees at 8 am and you felt every degree.  You grabbed a water at an aid station (something you weren’t planning to do), slugged it down and took (what felt like) a moderate pace.  You knew there was a big ol hill waiting for you only a few blocks away.  When you got there, you just looked down at the ground (and not the top of the hill) and moved steadily ahead.  When you got to the top, you’re friends were there, yelling and cheering.  It gave you a boost and set you off.  The majority of the run ahead of you was downhill.  So you tried to pick it up.  It felt slow to you.  Your legs just weren’t turning over.  You mostly attributed it to the heat, rather than the bike ride.  It felt like you were running 8:30 miles (you found out you averaged 6:24 miles) so you just decided to do what you could and clunk your way to the finish.  The distance is never a problem for you.  You just don’t do enough speed work and it hurts.  Waah.  You’d rather do a 50 miler and moderate pace than a sprint triathlon at balls out pace.  But you made it.  You came across the finish line with a smile.  Your family was there and you wound up 11^th overall.  Not bad for not having done a triathlon in ten months.  Your friends put this little triathlon on, and it just feels like home.  The volunteers and crowd support make it all worth while.  You talked w/ people afterwards.  You ate, when your stomach allowed.  And then you rushed off to work :)

6 27 12

Kettle Moraine 100

When I first signed up for the Kettle Moraine 100, I was injured.  I had just come from the doctor’s office and was feeling optimistic about the Achilles and about racing in a month or so.  The doctor told me I could bike as much as I wanted and the injury would work itself out, as long as I wasn’t running.  I biked a hundred and fifty miles in a week or so and it made it worse.  I was out for a few more weeks b/f desperately getting a shot of cortisone.  I hadn’t run in seven weeks.  I hadn’t run more than forty consecutive miles all year.  So if I was going to do this race, it was going to be about 35% physical and 65% mental. 

To run with no mind / is how I wanted to run the whole thing.  I didn’t want to think about mileage.  It's impossible to wrap your head around running a hundred miles.  I didn’t want to think about time I was going to be spending on the trail.  I didn’t want to think about the unknown.  B/c these are the things that scare me.  I was about to spend the day (and night) doing what I love…I was just going to be doing it longer than I ever had b/f. 

I started off at a modest pace.  I planned to run all of the first ten miles and then start to back off and power-hike some of the uphills, to conserve energy.  I chatted w/ some folks.  Found Jason Penticoff and Ryan Dexter and fell in w/ them for quite a few miles.  It’s a solid fact that running w/ someone makes the miles click by faster.  I really enjoy running by myself but when you’re running a hundred miles, you should run w/ some folks to put some miles in the bank. 

Ryan Dexter is a multiple course record holder and has done two-hundred mile races!  He’s a tough dude.  He said he was just there for fun and not to compete but he seemed to be in a bigger hurry at aid stations than Jason and I.  It was cool to watch him constantly moving and an honor to run w/ him. 

I somehow lost the guys and ran it in to the Scuppernong aid station by myself.  It was a long stretch and I just wanted to get there and start making my way back.  It’s such a relief to come into an aid and have Brother John there w/ full water bottles and ready to help w/ whatever you need.  He’ll get you some Tums, he’ll Vaseline your feet, he’d take the shirt off his back if you needed him to.  I’m always glad to have him in my corner.  He takes crewing very seriously and somehow has the ability to make you feel extremely peaceful.  About yourself and about everything.

I caught up w/ Jason who was struggling and needed some positive talk to keep him moving.  I ran w/ him all the way back through the hot meadows which put a hurtin on both of us.  It’s a long fifteen mile stretch w/ no shade and nothing but the sun beating down on you.  We both needed a break after that and hiked for a while through the woods to let our heart rates recover and core temperatures come down.  It cost us a pretty good deal of time and we both got passed by other runners multiple times.  It was a pretty low point and probably the lowest point of the day.  We were both suffering.  Moving forward was a real struggle and I was trying NOT to think about the miles ahead of me.  When we made it to the aid station, my crew was worried and commented that I’d slowed down some.  I let them know that everything was under control and I just needed a little break if I was going to be running all night.  The break helped a lot and pretty soon I was back to feeling normal.  Jason was having a hard time too but we both came back from the dead after that checkpoint and pretty much crushed the next ten miles.  We caught back up to where we had previously been.  That ten mile stretch was probably the best part of the day.  The two of us weren’t running.  We were racing and we passed tons of people and just destroyed it.  It felt so perfect. 

Back from the dead!  This was after a serious low point.

I ended up running by myself back to the Nordic aid station.  It was very uplifting to get there and have my entire crew finally there together, to have a pacer ready to run w/ me, to have my family that surprised me and traveled from home to see me for about ten minutes at a checkpoint.  I knew I could have called it a day right then and there.  100 kilometers is a pretty good day.  But I never considered it.  Not w/ all the support I had there.  I forced some food down and changed clothes and took off with my pacer.  I’d never run w/ Marty KC b/f but I knew he’d get me to the finish.  I knew he was mentally tough and yet sensitive to my needs.  What I didn’t know is that he knew the trails we were going to be running in the dark like the back of his hand.  He knew when the technical parts were coming up, he knew when the long climbs were coming up and he knew how to talk me into eating when I didn’t feel like it.  There’s no doubt in my mind there wasn’t a better pacer fit for me on that day in the entire world.  His knowledge and expertise were absolutely perfect.  

 

 Time slipped away.  There was no more time.  It was only light or dark.  Right now it was dark.  We put our headlamps on and ran.  We power hiked the ups and ran the rest.  We took little breaks.  At one of the aids, Brother John told me I only had a marathon to go.  And for some reason, this was very comforting to me.  That was when I knew I was going to complete a hundred miles.  Even if I walked the rest, I would probably finish before the thirty hour cutoff.  But I wasn’t walking.  I always wondered how I would feel at eighty miles into a hundred mile race.  But I felt good.  I was still running.  I was still thinking clearly.  I never had any serious doubts.  Even when my right foot began to give me some grief, I knew I wasn’t going to quit.  I hobbled into the HWY 12 aid station and took some ibuprofen and my crew taped my ankle up and sent me on my way.  It helped a lot.  My confidence began to grow.  I knew I would finish.  I knew it.  I felt like I was getting stronger at that very moment.  I felt like I was getting taller, broader.  Then we ran some more, into the middle of the woods, into the middle of the night. 

                                                About to get the ankle taped up.  Mile 80.  1 am.

Tawnya was going to run the last seven miles in with me.  Marty had done such a good job getting me to mile ninety-three that I was almost afraid to run w/ anyone else.  But her patience, knowledge and energy were perfect.  I was having trouble w/ the uphills AND the downhills at this point.  She was patient and encouraged me on the flats.  As we ran the last two miles in I realized I’ve never felt so good about feeling so much pain.  My legs and my entire body were pretty much destroyed.  But I could finally say it.  One hundred miles.  The sun was just about to come up.  It couldn’t have been more beautiful.  When we saw the finish line, she said / Go get it / and I did.  I was surged w/ energy and felt fantastic.  My entire crew was there to greet me and they cheered like crazy.  These people had stayed up all night long to make sure I met my goal.  They were all so positive and I know for a fact I couldn’t have done it w/out them.