My first official events were a 5K in 2010 and the Marine Corps Marathon in 2011. Gradually I filled in most of the intermediate metric and statute distances and then added a 50-mile trail event after noticing that, in contrast to pounding pavement, trail running is actually fun, so it makes sense to get more for your registration money.

I was missing a 50K. In addition to doing this “marathon plus 5K and change” distance for the first time, I would be doing my first event during the warmer months, making the heat an intimidating factor. The June 7 forecast called for a high of 84 degrees (29°C). These uncertainties led me to predict a pretty wide spread in my probable outcomes:

5%: DNS
10%: < 7 hours
30%: 7-8 hours
30%: 8-9 hours
10%: > 9 hours
15%: DNF

I thought it wise to carry a water pack, but wasn’t patient enough to wait for an online order. I ended up grabbing a CamelBak Sabre with a two-liter bladder at a military supply shop. I gave it a test drive on a run home from work, about nine miles, feeling a little silly since it was cool and raining. (To complete the image, I was carrying my umbrella, which I thought I might need in the morning.) Two liters did not seem too inconvenient at first, but after going up a long rise I started to notice the weight. I decided to start the 50K with the bag about half full and refill it as necessary.

The weather was great Saturday morning, and I actually felt cold on the drive out to Sterling, making a mental note of the sensation. I was at the parking area early and got some intel from veterans on the shuttle bus. The couple in front of me had done this course and Bull Run Run before and were fans of both. The guy next to me was doing his first 50K and seemed hungry for advice as his experienced running buddy had bailed out.

At the start/finish, I had 45 minutes before the 7 a.m. start to apply sunblock, adjust gear, and drop my bag. I decided to go without bug spray, figuring I should be outrunning them. I carried two caffeinated gels, three or four each of salt capsules and Advil, and a little medkit with Band-Aids and tissues. I was looking forward to a long run with empty hands and no belt.

I saw Robin and her crew; she invited me to their post-finish picnic. I told her of my eight-hour target time and said she didn’t have to wait around, but they were planning to stay and watch people come in from the 50-mile event that had started at 5 a.m.

With my gear sorted, the only remaining duty was Job Number Two: elimination. This is often a challenge so early in the morning, even with a salutary coffee. Focus, determination, and a positive attitude produced the desired output in the end.

And then we were off! I started in Wave 3 at about 7:05, my wave no doubt determined by the back-of-the-pack 8-hour finish estimate I provided during registration. Even eight hours seemed a bit optimistic; I had finished the Bull Run Run behind 77% of other finishers, while at last year’s North Face 50K 72% of finishers took less than eight hours.

I was near the front of my group and soon ran into the rear of Wave 2. The early miles were on a very narrow trail with few opportunities to pass. And because of crowding at obstacles the pace was frequently slow. Thinking I would race smarter, not harder, I found I could walk several paces at a time without losing ground to the runner in front of me. More than once I walked quickly for at least half a minute while everyone around me was running at the same speed.

I found myself behind a guy wearing a shirt with a NPS logo with some Latin on it that I couldn’t make out. He executed some daring passes, bounding through underbrush on the sides of the path, and I kept up with him. We made some small talk about his school and running on the west coast, then he made some more passes and faded ahead.

Somewhere near two miles out, we approached what looked like an old stone house. But as we passed, I saw it was a cinderblock structure under construction with stone walls that had been half completed. I decided that would be a good reminder to kick for the home stretch.

Before long we were running alongside the Potomac. This was the part of the river I had played and paddled in as a kid, though I doubt I ever saw more than a mile of the shoreline in a day. It was sometimes muddy but fairly flat as we approached Riverbend Park. The trail opened up and I made good time, trying to cover some miles in the cool morning and make up for the early walking.

Crude plank bridges spanned most of the streams that were still swollen from recent rains, but one crossing was a major obstacle. I noticed a backup while approaching and surveyed the scene while walking up. People were clambering across a thin fallen tree, getting little support from a climbing rope that had been strung parallel to the makeshift bridge. The stream was too wide to jump over and too deep to cross without getting at least one foot soaked, an invitation for blisters later.

I took my spot in line behind a young guy who was making what seemed rather delicate, whining noises about his shoes. He managed to get across without spoiling his footwear, then within ten steps slipped in the mud and executed a full-body splat into the soft brown earth. The sound was exactly the same as that of a body impacting terrain on Saturday morning cartoons. It was all I could do to postpone my grin until I had made sure that he was okay and passed ahead.

mile / minutes
1 / 13:02
2 / 9:33
3 / 10:45
4 / 11:34
5 / 13:05
6 / 12:25
7 / 11:02
8 / 10:18
9 / 13:55
10 / 10:11

I passed a group of four young guys who had stopped to roll around in the mud and apply it to their faces. I tried to think of a “Predator” reference but came up blank.

A bit farther along I was chugging along a gravel road and some runners in the woods to my right caught my eye. I spotted one of the day’s innumerable arrow signs pointing out a hard right onto the trail and made the turn and heard someone say “oops” behind me. The runner thanked me for saving him from missing the turn and we chatted a while, mostly about nutrition on long runs. He was experienced at long distances but was doing this event for the first time. I mentioned that I usually pop an Advil or two in the second half. I don’t notice that they make me feel any different, but still seem to get a performance boost. “Placebo ergo volvo” came to mind, but I didn’t say it because the tenses were all wrong. Alan told me he was shooting for six hours, and shortly after I told him my target was eight hours, he bade a kind farewell and advanced ahead. We crossed paths once or twice more with a wave and a smile. I think it was Alan Kusakabe; if so he met his goal with a finish in 5:40:56.

The hills began in Great Falls. I was expecting three good climbs, twice each, on the out and back course, but only remember two significant efforts, and only one of them as heartbreaking as the rises that come regularly at Bull Run. The aid stations were welcome breaks, though I had been told to expect rather less than the five-star buffets I had been spoiled by on the BRR 50. Sometimes I found my staple, PB&J sandwich quarters, sometimes I found a jar of peanut butter and some bread scraps. I was conserving my last remaining salt capsules, and took advantage of the “french unfries” I found at most stops. These were chunks of cold, boiled potato served in plastic baggies. Grab a few and drag them through the plate of salt and wash it down with whatever brightly-colored fluid is on offer. Sometimes it was just a can of Morton’s Iodized to dump into your hand with the potato, but the main thing was to get salt in.

At an early aid station I heard a familiar voice calling out bib numbers and recognized my neighbor G. I stopped for an extra minute to chat, while stuffing nutrients and minerals in, and asked if his wife Blair was running. He reminded me that she was five months pregnant and suggested that she is “retired,” but I don’t believe that simply having a kid is an effective cure for this hobby.

Before I knew it I was cruising through the scenic paths in Great Falls Park. I refilled my water pack and wondered how well the runners were faring that were carrying only a handheld bottle. It was warm out but the trail was almost completely shaded and largely level. I came up to a stop where a race official inscribed another checkpoint glyph on my bib. Beyond them was a nearly vertical rocky climb. “Now we go up?” I asked, pointing. No, it was the turnaround point, I was already halfway done and it was just past 10 a.m.

Confident of a finish and a PR, I hadn’t been calculating a finish time, but now realized that the first half had taken me just over three hours. I was feeling good and wondered if six hours was a remote possibility. But I also knew I had started out too fast and would undoubtably slow down in the second half. I saw the Predator guys less than a mile from the turnaround and decided that my only absolute goal was to finish before them.

I overheard a couple chatting behind me, the older guy advising the young lady on what to expect. He said there was some technical rock-hopping ahead, but it was beautiful and his favorite part of the course. I thought I wouldn’t mind an excuse to slow down a bit. We climbed some and came out on a ridge and enjoyed beautiful vistas into the gorge and islands and the water below. I walked and gawked a bit and made a mental note to come again sometime when the clock wasn’t ticking.

mile / minutes
11 / 11:17
12 / 11:04
13 / 11:34
14 / 12:26
15 / 11:26
16 / 12:58
17 / 13:16
18 / 13:04
19 / 14:58
20 / 14:02

We were on the home stretch, and I heard more than one person remark on the psychological benefit of taking steps toward the finish rather than away. I saved a second runner who cruised past a turn, shouting to her to be heard over headphones. I had started into my salt capsule supply and taken my second gel with caffeine. I picked up two more from an aid station, each loaded with 50mg of the wonder drug. All together it was the equivalent of a large coffee and gave a welcome boost. It was time to get to work and grind out the long flat miles, no excuses, knowing that Team Predator was on my heels. I leapfrogged with a very disciplined black jersey with a big white H on the back. I passed him on a pee stop and he passed me again. I passed him at an AS and he passed me again. I kept him in sight for a long time but eventually lost him ahead, and didn’t get to thank him for pulling me along.

My water pack was definitely an asset, but when full it tended to ride up on my left side and rub into my neck. It would have ground down to the collarbone if I didn’t keep adjusting the strap and pulling my shirt up. Serves me right for getting the rugged military version instead of day-glo running kit. I took my last electrolyte capsule and sucked at the tube to wash it down; they always seem to go down sideways. I heard the disheartening sound of a straw at the bottom of an empty milkshake and barely managed to get enough fluid out of the pack to get the pill down. It was nearly a worst-case-scenario — hot and sweating and running, adding salt, and out of liquid — but I hit another aid station soon and had one last fillup and one last pee stop before the final stretch.

Six hours was unrealistic, but I was making good time and felt confident of making seven, well ahead of my target. I remembered 50K was about 32 miles but didn’t know if this course might measure long or short. Around the time my phone announced 26 miles, someone said we had four and a half to go. That would be a nice discount and was easy to believe but would prove a lie. We did the big climb again, me leaning over with my hands below my knees, or else levering each step with both hands on my thighs. This time I had to walk down the other side too. But as we got closer I thought I might make 6:30. The Predator guys were nowhere in sight.

I kept pushing, trying to run a little faster in the sunny stretches to get them done sooner. I started looking for the stone house after six hours, sure it was just ahead. Miles passed, a quarter-hour at a time. Finally we came up on an aid station and someone told us it was 1.6 miles to the finish. This was exceedingly welcome news. I blasted through the station without a pause and began bounding with long strides, no longer avoiding puddles. I kept this up for what felt like a mile. Where was that stone house?! Was the route different on the way back? Everyone in this section was pushing hard, but it wasn’t easy to tell who was who because of the simultaneous events. Bib color indicated who was in the 50-mile event, the 50K, the marathon, and the marathon relay. Some of the relay runners were just starting and ran like 5K sprinters. I obligingly moved to the side when runners came up from behind, and ran through nettles on the left while overtaking.

Finally, the stone house. I was gassed, but kept the steam on. Then the course turned onto exposed blacktop. The last mile was like running through a pizza oven. I saw many runners forced to walk at this point. I caught up to the NPS shirt and very gradually overtook him without a comment. For the next few minutes every spectator seemed to say “good job guys” and I knew NPS was about to pass me back, but it would be someone else. I did not look back for fear of seeing Predator. Someone said “almost there,” gallingly vague. Then someone said “300 meters.” I started counting my strides but lost count. Finally we came to the green lawn and the finish chute and I opened all the valves, sprinting on my toes for a proper showoff finish. I heard the announcer say my name but was cognizant of little else as inertia carried me over the line and toward the nearest source of shade. I stood puffing for a while until I felt confident that my stomach and legs would not betray me, then walked back to the finish line to collect a medal and my prize of a water bottle. It was hot and empty.

mile / minutes
21 / 12:25
22 / 13:22
23 / 14:13
24 / 17:14
25 / 11:30
26 / 12:11
27 / 18:04
28 / 16:00
29 / 14:35
30 / 15:20

It took another twenty minutes or so to stop sweating, while I sat on the ground and recharged my phone and sucked the last water from my pack. I found the picnic and watched other finishers come in. The joke of the day was that we 50K runners were distractions from the main event. At aid stations and the finish it would be a perfunctory “good job good job” to us blue bibs and then “here comes a 50-miler what do you need water here gatorade there!” when an orange bib showed up. I met G again and he bought me a second beer after my free one, which was plenty since it was going in almost like an IV.

I heard a lot of finishers complain of cramping. I saw the guy from the bus, he was stretched out flat and said cramps had really slowed him down. I remarked on his cold hand after a congratulatory shake and he said he was back from the ice bath. Salt intake not to be neglected.

Final time 6:34:06. Runkeeper captured 29 miles before the battery died.

Preparation

Last year’s Bull Run Run 50 Miler was my first, so I was careful not to make the rookie mistake of starting out too fast. Nor did I finish too fast. In 2013 I just beat the twelve-hour mark on my first ultra, and given the weather and my utter lack of training in 2014 (one impromptu 18-mile jog in February snow), my realistic goal this year was to do no worse. My hopeful goal was to attend the 6 p.m. award ceremony, and my conservative goal was again to avoid a DNF. This despite the wisdom I had since encountered on the value of “achieving” a DNF in order to explore one’s limits.

This wisdom, and much more, appears on the ^zhurnaly, the online repository of ^z = Mark Zimmermann, an indefatigable polymath who has enlightened me on such subjects as Bayesian probability, Frog and Toad, and quantum mechanics, and also inspired me with his reflections on far more diverse subjects in the deep Zhurnaly.

I again enjoyed the gracious hospitality of dear friends, staying at Chez Ray Friday night before the event. Last year Ray calmed my nerves with a showing of “The King of Masks” which features no long-distance running. This year we started with a friendly go match in which he spotted me a handicap of at least 13 stones; the board looked something like this:

Despite what I thought the proper strategy of ceding much of the board in order to reinforce and secure a couple of corners, I failed somehow to make life and eventually offered a courtesy resignation before all my stones overflowed Ray’s bowl lid.

After the teaching game we watched a documentary on the Massanutten Mountain Trail 100, for which Ray qualified and has entered this year. The MMT is for those who find a mere double-marathon in the hills inadequate to achieve a DNF. The DVD depicted the 2006 event, in which Sim Jae Duk was the unexpected winner, setting a course record by finishing the race in less time than it took him to fly to the event (from South Korea, two days before the race, according to a New York Times profile).

Ray had invited me to join him at the MMT, but in the same spirit of generosity he showed at the go board, he would give me a 63.5-mile head start. I would meet him as a pacer for the back third of the course, an intimidating and challenging idea as much of this would be done after nightfall.

Overnight I sorted my supplies, collected using my inventory list from the year before.

I brought:

• a paperback
• chia seeds
• Starbucks poop inducer (ineffective)
• gels
• Clif Bars
• wet wipes
• medkit with athletic wrap, Body Glide, Vaseline, Chap Stick, and sunblock
• towel
• bandana (not used)
• smartphone armband
• my uniform: hat, tech shirt, swimming trunks, compression shorts, DryMax socks
• (not shown) my cleaner pair of sneakers

My belt was loaded with one 22-ounce bottle and sundries like S-Caps, Advil, Band-Aids and a sleeping pill. This last item was not like the others, and I ended up using it late Friday night. I couldn’t sleep for what felt like an hour or two, though I didn’t dare look at my watch for fear of adding deadline pressure to my restless mind. I would have plenty more opportunity to struggle against the clock.

Outbound

My accommodations included a drop-off at the start (thanks, coach!) and we made our way through the dim early light to set out our drop bags and perform final preparations. Ray spotted ^z and we exchanged greetings and good wishes. Ray then went up to the starting area for some breakfast, while I hung back to bug Mark for a celebrity photo.

Before the start, I got one more photo but didn’t see any familiar faces among the 321 starters.

The first mile is a casual loop through the parking area, spreading out the field, with most people adopting a comfortable warmup pace. I joined in somewhere in the middle of the pack. It felt good to be moving, to get into the physical rhythm that the body understands. I was already thinking about pushing just a little harder than my leisurely start last year. It seemed a good idea, as the forecast called for temperatures as high as 70 (21°C), and the weather was perfect and cool at 6:30 a.m.

My biggest mistake in 2013 was lolling about far too long in aid stations, spending perhaps as much as an hour over the day idly stuffing my face with peanut butter and jelly sandwich quarters and chasing them down with Gatorade. This year I again used my watch to time the minutes I spent stopped, with an eye to improving my finish time without spending much extra effort. Runkeeper on my phone recorded my progress, with audible announcements of my time and distance every mile.

Somewhere along the first few miles, I heard a familiar voice behind me. I turned and saw the face of Gary Knipling, who seemed omnipresent at the 2006 MMT. “I saw you on TV last night!” I called back. “You wasted twenty bucks on that thing?” he replied. I introduced myself and we chatted a bit. The dialog was frequently interrupted by greetings from seemingly every other runner, who greeted Gary by name, and he responded in kind.

I made good on my hopes of an express pit stop at the first aid station near Mile 7, pausing for just one minute and 15 seconds to load in some food before moving on. I was concerned about pushing too hard so early, so I planned to determine my position in the crowd. Before long I saw the leaders coming back from the turnaround at Mile 9 and I began counting the runners ahead of me. I also watched out for the few entrants I knew, and managed to recognize and greet Bernard and Robin as they passed going the other direction.

I was quite surprised and confused on arriving at the turn to have counted about 135 people ahead of me. I clearly remembered that my position at this point the previous year was 92. I guessed that I wasn’t going as fast as I thought, but at least I was ahead of Ray, whom I had not seen yet. We crossed ways a little bit after the turn, and his exclamatory “Dude!” with elongated vowel and falling intonation (PDF) indicated that he also thought I was setting an aggressive pace. Eventually it occurred to me that I was 92 positions from the back last year.

mile / pace / elevation (ft)
1 / 10:38 / -42
2 / 10:55 / -101
3 / 10:23 / -17
4 / 11:09 / 59
5 / 12:27 / 46
6 / 11:58 / -51
7 / 12:12 / -62
8 / 12:54 / -9
9 / 10:41 / 29
10 / 10:36 / -2

This first section seemed casual and fun, like before. I noticed that I managed ten miles without serious thoughts of quitting, which seemed an accomplishment. Not being a first-timer made a considerable difference in my confidence. I made another short stop at the Centreville Road aid station heading back, and saw Ray enter as I was leaving. I was following the protocol I established last year of walking out with my hands full, and this time paused by a trash bag to down the last of a sandwich quarter and some liquid so I wouldn’t have to carry the cup. Ray had wasted no time snacking and joined me there.

We proceeded together a while, both revealing the intel that a more insistent pit stop would probably be required before the day was done. He gave an enthusiastic recommendation of the loo we would pass after Mile 16, at the start/finish where our drop bags were waiting, but I was wary of even going a little off course only to have to wait in line. When Ray suddenly fell silent and disappeared, I concluded that it was this duty and not a root that had awarded me the lead again.

He didn’t linger long, though, and pulled on ahead before we got to the drop bag stop. I then saw him there briefly as he slipped on fresh shoes and set out, looking strong. I tried to chug a lot of the water with chia seeds I had prepared in the morning and grabbed some more gels and two Clif Bars. I decided to leave my spare battery pack behind, making it a race between me and my phone to see which had more juice.

By now the warmth was beginning to tell, and I was finding it hard not to think about the magnitude of the physical task ahead. Another two or three hours would make it a marathon, yet it was still far too soon to start counting down miles to the finish. I alternated greeting other runners with a cheery “Good morning” and the hopeful witticism “Got it in the bag.” At some point I asked someone if it was still morning and was assured that it was. I did the math and concluded that it was not yet 10 a.m. We reached the soccer fields and I spotted a proper Porta Potty. Another 90 seconds on the stoppage clock and I was on my way again, lighter and more comfortable.

mile / pace / elevation (ft)
11 / 10:30 / -15
12 / 15:11 / 34
13 / 12:46 / -9
14 / 14:25 / 107
15 / 13:44 / -128
16 / 15:50 / 140
17 / 17:46 / -38
18 / 15:30 / -36
19 / 16:20 / -88
20 / 16:01 / 32

The middle fifth was the one I’d just as soon forget, and mostly did. I was still keeping to my promise of maintaining some kind of running gait over level ground most of the time, but with some cheating now and then. Somehow I managed not to worry about my speed very much, often not even paying attention to my phone’s time and distance announcements. I was usually low on fluid entering aid stations but never felt overheated or sick. I was confident of a finish, and the only motivational struggle was over the goal of beating my previous time.

I remembered the White Loop as a ruinous walk of 20-minute miles, and determined to do better this year. What I didn’t remember was that it is actually pretty hilly. But a chance encounter led to some conversation that helped the miles pass. I caught up to someone with a T-shirt from Le Marathon du Médoc: “le Marathon le plus long du monde.”

“So how long is the Médoc marathon?”

“Oh, it’s a regular marathon, it just seems long.”

“Is it because of the metric system?”

“No, it’s a standard 42 kilometers, but it’s like a big party. Every year there is a theme, and everyone dresses up in costume. When I was there, the theme was space. My buddy and I got some shirts with a steampunk motif, but a lot of people took it farther. There were robots, aliens, stormtroopers. A Chewbacca. I got a photo of a line of ten supermen before the start, all peeing. The aid stations are châteaux and they serve wine and cheese, everything. And I don’t mean a little sip of wine, you can get a whole glass if you want. People who usually finish in three or four hours take six or seven there. It’s great. Toward the end one of the châteaux was serving raw oysters. It was actually really good race food. Feel free to go on ahead if you want. Some of the costumes we couldn’t figure out what they were. We saw these guys running and pushing a giant bowl. They were all dressed up in yellow with red on their heads. We asked them if they were chickens. “Non, non, super shoe!” They didn’t speak any English, and we couldn’t figure it out, they kept saying “Super shoe!” After the race we asked our hosts if they knew what the Super Shoe was about, they didn’t know either. We came back home and tried to look it up. Asked friends and relatives. Nobody had any idea. Finally we found someone who recognized it. Soupe aux choux, it means cabbage soup, it was the name of a movie. It’s about these two old men who spend all day sitting on their porch getting drunk and farting. One day an alien comes and visits them and offers to take them back to his planet in exchange for their cabbage soup. But the men don’t want to go. The alien makes promises and gives them gold and says they can have whatever they want. One of them men asks for his wife back; she died long ago. So the alien brings the wife back to life, but she is still 20 years old and she immediately runs off with a young man to Paris. So the men continue drinking and farting on their porch. But eventually the town changes and becomes more developed and they don’t like it anymore. So they decide to go with the alien to his planet. It’s a well-known movie.”

Then he said something about having to “plant a seed” or “water a tree” and stopped, then later passed me and I lost sight of him ahead.

[Update: Ken Swab’s report from Médoc, including Supermen photo.]

mile / pace / elevation (ft)
21 / 20:14 / 17
22 / 18:05 / 41
23 / 17:32 / 81
24 / 17:21 / -104
25 / 20:57 / -21
26 / 17:04 / 81
27 / 19:04 / -17
28 / 17:28 / 25
29 / 15:31 / 7
30 / 17:48 / -71

How to carry two Clif Bars for 30 miles and despise them the whole time

It was a little farther on to the Do Loop, where I anticipated a popsicle at the aid station that greets runners before and after that circuit of grueling elevation change. Ray was on his way out as I arrived, some three miles behind him. The spark of competition had faded, but I was motivated by the approaching point at which the shortest way to get to the finish would be to go directly to the finish. There was a small line for a frozen treat but I didn’t mind waiting, using the time to drain some of my freshly-filled bottle to make space for more. They also had stacks of pizza boxes, but a hot greasy mess was the last thing I wanted to take with me. I strolled out with my popsicle and took the loop at its word; it was neither less nor more than anticipated.

On the way out I thought I should appreciate the pizza; it is really an amazing job that the volunteers do all day. I had run out of Gatorade by the time I came back so that was a priority, but I grabbed a couple of thin slices of pizza to go and worked on them as I walked out. I had been taking S-Caps every couple of hours but wondered if they would make me drink more. I had also taken an Advil by now and a caffeinated gel, hoping to spark another kick like the one that carried me in in 2013.

The kick was not as dramatic, but it came at a good time. The miles after the Do Loop are long, dull, and fairly flat. Since my fast start, I had been getting passed pretty regularly all day, but now I started pulling people in. Many of them were still running, but I managed to keep up a pace just fast enough to overtake, and each time I passed one there would be another runner in sight ahead to keep me going. I leapfrogged with a lady in an “Alaska” shirt several times, mainly thanks to her longer stays in the aid stations.

I ran low on fluid again, and applied the motorist’s ill logic of going even faster to the next station to get there before running dry. Seeing the “10 Miles to Hemlock” sign gave me almost as much of a boost as it did last year, when it seemed an impossible lifesaver.

By now walking was very little less unpleasant than running, so I continued to try and make time. I had started the race with a thin pair of Injinji toe socks under my trusty Drymax trail socks, but the toes of my right foot seemed cramped and I had removed the Injinji sock on that side. A root caught that foot pretty good, and I cut the corner off a turn demonstrating that most ungainly of human gaits, the pre-faceplant: hunched over, stomping and windmilling, but somehow managed not to fall down.

mile / pace / elevation (ft)
31 / 18:59 / 47
32 / 16:44 / -39
33 / 20:27 / 56
34 / 19:45 / 27
35 / 17:00 / -7
36 / 16:44 / -21
37 / 12:46 / -94
38 / 20:24 / 45
39 / 16:11 / 74
40 / 17:04 / -95

At some point my phone emitted a plaintive buzz and then ceased announcing my mile times. I was likewise pretty well used up but sensed that the job was going to get done. The aid stations were frequent and refreshing, with iced Gatorade tasting as good as something can taste. There were cold wet washcloths, also uncommonly pleasant. I would drape one over my head during the whole of my brief respites from forward progress, trying not to drip onto the doughnuts, chips and cookies spread out.

PBJ and Gatorade was not the only awkward combination made palatable by exertion. Pizza and popsicle went together surprisingly well. At a station toward the end I heard someone say there was coffee, and while waiting for a cup I spotted a tray of stuffed grape leaves, delicious-looking dolma. A volunteer said they were popular and I grabbed a serving, but it didn’t quite hit the spot. Washing it down with tepid black coffee didn’t help. I finished it off, though, and managed to get through the day with no tummy trouble. I hated the thought of those Clif Bars in my pocket though. I was afraid to throw them away for fear of regret, but they are hard enough to get down with a drink and I never had any desire to open them.

mile / pace / elevation (ft)
41 / 18:33 / -28
42 / 21:36 / -3
43 / 13:41 / 7
44 / 22:18 / 3

With no smartphone updates, I thought I might still be able to beat my previous time, but didn’t feel much urgency about it. Then I remembered that my stopwatch was also a watch. I switched it to clock mode, having timed just under 30 minutes spent not in motion since the start. I wasn’t sure how far I had to go, but it looked like I would finish well past 12 hours. I gave it a good push though, and only walked the incontrovertibly upward-sloping hills during the last miles.

The finish was no less sweet for having seen a “12” on the clock. I sprinted in the last stone’s throw for show, then gathered my loot and plugged my phone in to stop the recording and get a shot of ^z coming in. Among those who finished in both 2013 and 2014, he was one of the few who managed to improve his time this year. I was happy to see that I was only about 1% slower, a little better than the average change, and my overall average time was still just under half a day.

Coda

Probably I am not the only person who finds it difficult to give satisfying answers to the questions posed after an event like this. How could anything be worth that much effort and discomfort? After it’s done, it doesn’t seem like any effort at all. It is really just a matter of not doing one very specific thing from the time you start until the time you finish. After last year’s unlikely success, this time I never had serious thoughts of quitting. And another answer: were the things I did on the previous and following Saturdays worth the effort I put into them, now that I have forgotten what they were?

Maybe it is simplest to focus on the little pleasures. It’s one thing to extol the charms of a rag soaked in ice water. How much more appealing is the idea of spending hours in the woods, hardly ever hearing an engine or seeing a house. Being among people who are all in an improbably good mood. Absolutely no distraction from any thoughts of the outside world, just one single task upon which all attention is focused. And now and then you look up and see a stretch of gorgeous single-track smooth dirt path surrounded by wooded scenery.

I was immersed in this effortful reverie about 15 miles in, trying to experience the moments and not dwell on the challenges ahead. I happened to be on my own, just running through the forest. Suddenly there was a grand mechanical roar and an Amtrak train appeared, racing by on unseen tracks atop an embankment. Like something from a film, resplendent with power and momentum. Nothing more natural for that body than to keep moving. The image carried me through the day.

After the final chow of burgers and soda, the beginning of a couple of days in which food and liquid would disappear into some internal void, it was time to go home. I looked up directions on my phone, to avoid getting turned around in the dark, and headed out on the country roads. It was strangely exhilarating to travel with such speed and so little effort. To move while seated, a little miracle.

At a red light, I pulled up beside a car with IRUN100 vanity plates and bumper stickers to confirm that we were both coming from the same place. I tooted the horn.

She didn’t put her window down and gave me but a brief glance. “How was your race?” I said aloud, but mostly to myself as the driver stared straight ahead. This wouldn’t do, but I would have to double down before it got any better. I pulled out my finisher’s premium, a large beach towel, and honked again. She looked over, and I held the navy blue towel up, the full moon doing little to illuminate the dark lettering, and gestured at it. Hey, I’m the jerk in the car again, and I have a towel! Fortunately the message was received, she held her own towel up, we exchanged thumbs-up, and then I stared straight ahead until the light changed.

The drive home was 24.7 miles. I am no Sim Jae Duk; the race took me a good deal longer than the commute.

BRR 50 Report from 2015

BRR 50 Report from 2013

La Soupe aux choux

HYNER Pennsylvania, April 26 2014

If you are looking for Δz, Hyner is your course. The 25k race has some 4200 feet of climb, and the 50k adds another 3300 or so, for a total of 7500. Almost a mile and a half of total up.

The 50k race subsumes all of the 25k course and adds a separate 25k loop in the middle. I’ve done the 25k version three times before, so I knew what to expect for the first 8 miles and the last 8, but the middle 15 was going to be new ground.

The 50k started at 0700, two hours before the shorter race. The start is a mile over road to the trail head, followed by a mile or so of easy, flat trail. It lulls you. It sets you up.

Around mile 2 you see a sign: “Humble Hill”, and the path turns up. And up. And up. Nearly a mile of hands-on-knees, nose-to-dirt, sweaty, wheezing trudge gets you to a brief respite where you can run a little before round two – another near mile of death march up to AS1 on top of the mountain.

When I ran the 25k they always had somebody ringing a cowbell up there, but I reckon the ringer hadn’t gotten set up yet, or maybe they figured that the 50k runners were more serious and didn’t need the encouragement. I don’t mind saying, I’d’ve liked to hear some cowbell. The aid station volunteers were great, though.

I headed out of AS1 pretty quick, and on down the first descent, almost back to the level we started at. A few more small ups and downs brought us to Johnson Run, with its myriad stream crossings. Don’t bother to try to keep your feet dry, just slosh through and roll on.

Halfway through this section was the split-off for the 50k course. We turned right and went up a mild, muddy hill before turning left onto Sledgehammer. This was a monster. Not quite as steep as Humble Hill, and it was nice, smooth double-track, but it just doesn’t ever end. It was a straight line to infinity. I kept thinking of a passage from that children’s book, The Phantom Tollbooth – “‘Just follow that line forever,’ said the Mathemagician, ‘and when you reach the end, turn left.'”

“Does this hill even have a top?” I asked a woman I had caught up with, exasperated. She grinned and expressed her own doubt of the proposition. I got a little frustrated at this point and set off at a strong hike, passing several tiring racers. It felt like we’d been on this hill for hours, but finally we took a right turn and a little more climbing brought us up to AS2.

There was a little more climbing here, though gentle, then quite a bit of easy downhill running. Around mile 11, some three miles past the aid station, there was a simple cache of water on the ground. Just a few cases of bottled Deer Park or something. Someone said that it was seven miles to the next AS, so I filled my carry bottle and took a deep draught from the cache. A few more miles of down brought us out to Ritchie Run.

This was basically a mirror of Johnson Run. Many, many foot-soaking stream crossings followed by a long upward grind. I was ready to be done with it long before it ended.

We finally came out to the next AS, but they were out of water! They had a few drops of Gatorade, some oyster crackers, and three tiny cups of soup. The soup was nice, but, dudes, when you are 10 miles past the last real aid you really hadn’t ought to run out of water. At least the weather was cool.

After this was some easy trail running and then a few tenths of a mile of road. Back on the trail again and up to the aid station at the top of Sledgehammer. It was only about a mile and a half from the previous, waterless AS, and I was a little concerned that maybe I’d missed a turn somewhere. All the runners I was with seemed to think we’d stayed on course, though, so I eventually accepted that I hadn’t missed anything and set off to get my revenge on Sledgehammer.

Now this was more like it. It was great to pound this downhill, though it still felt like it took all day to traverse. I was psyched to join back up with the 25k course, and I was passing suckers all the way down that hill. Near the bottom I said to a woman near me “Man, how did I ever get up this hill?” “I know, right?” she replied, smiling.

Back through the muddy section and then I could see some of the slower 25k runners down below on the course. I dropped back onto the Johnson Run section of trail and started picking my way forwards through the hikers.

I enjoyed giving out advice to the 25k runners as I passed them. Many of them wanted to know whether we were already on the second big hill shown on the elevation chart, and I felt very elder-statesmanlike handing out reassurances that this was the case. A lot of people were stopping to rest on the last push out of Johnson Run, but I kept up a pretty good power hike. I admit to getting a little vicious glee from telling people what was waiting for them on the following climb. Then out to a short runnable section before another aid station at the top.

Then there is a long, rocky downhill where I must have gone around like 30 people. Very few of the 25k racers were running here, so I was constantly calling out to pass. I made sure to express gratitude to those yielding the trail for me.

This section eventually bottomed out and it was time for the SOB. This is a killer at mile 11 of the 25k; I learned that it is much worse at mile 27. There is a long steep approach, riddled with switchbacks, that just grinds you down. I was still passing many people here, but I was really dreading the short, sharp shock of the SOB proper. It’s steeper than it looks. I had to stop to rest halfway up.

One more aid station at the top of this monster, then out for the final push. I saw a few 50k runners here – passing some, getting passed by some – but mostly I was reeling in the 25k people. I passed one perky-looking couple and couldn’t resist tweaking their spirits a little: “Only eight miles to go!” I called out. “Nooooooooooo!” said the woman, and I immediately relented, “No, no, it’s only three and change.” I think she forgave me.

A little more dorking around on some fire roads and a little single track, and then I hit the final grinding, quad-shredding downhill of Huff Run. This punishing section always seems to go on forever, but at least it’s mostly runnable. I continued passing a few people here and there.

At the bottom of Huff Run is a bridge, and from there I know it’s less than half a mile out to the road and then a mile back home. At the intersection with the main road back to the finish there are some cars coming from my right, but I think I can get across in front of them. I power out into the road, and some lady yells “Watch it!” “I got them, they see me,” I reply, and make it safely across. Probably a little risky, but I didn’t want to give back even a few seconds waiting to cross.

If I hustle I can make it in under eight hours. The slowest 50k I’ve ever run, but also by far the hilliest. I manage a weak jog down the road and up the final hill, and finish in 7:58:xx. I accept my finisher’s medal and collapse on the ground in the finish area.

Eventually I get up and partake of the excellent food and beverages this race always provides. As I’m gathering my strength to head home, Steve C., whom I met at the VHTRC’s Magnus Gluteus Maximus 50k in December, comes and sits beside me. We had talked about this race at the MGM, and I’d been wondering if I’d see him here. He’d finished in some 7:20 and was waiting for his buddy who’d come up with him. We talked a little about MMT, where he will be volunteering this year.

I also saw Gary P., whom I’d met earlier this year at the 모자, but I didn’t talk to him. He is also registered for MMT.

This race was a great experience, but it felt a little unsatisfying traveling there and back alone. I don’t think I’ll return unless I can convince The Boss and/or some friends to go with me, although if I lived closer I’d never miss this event.

Miles this race: 31
Miles raced this year: 185.8

CLIFTON Virginia, April 12 2014.

Pre-race
I attend the pre-race briefing on Friday evening, but skip the pasta dinner this time. At the briefing I meet a dude named Pete who will be going for his 10th BRR finish. As per developing tradition, Steve stays over at our place and The Boss drives both of us to the race. I am running for the South; I tell Steve that if I break 10 hours I will holler out a rebel yell when I cross the finish line.

I chat briefly with Caroline W., who is injured but planning to run anyway. Steve and I try to start a conversation with ^z, but he peels off to talk to someone he knows. I enjoy the anticipation before the start, but I am not nervous or overly excited. This is not my first time around the barn, after all.

Start to Centreville Road
I lose sight of Steve before the start and I assume he’s behind me. I feel comfortable the first few miles. I see Pete from the briefing early on; he’s moving faster than I am.

It’s cool, but very humid. I can’t keep my glasses from fogging up. I wind up stashing them in the pocket of my shorts. Somewhere after the second set of stream-spanning pylons I catch up with Gary K. and we chat for a minute or two. I tell him I picked him in my office pool to win the 70+ division, and he chuckles heartily. “What’s the Vegas line on me?” he asks. “They’ve got you at 3:2, Frank P. at 2:1 and Bill W. at 20:1,” I tell him. I’d’ve put Frank higher but it was projected to be hot. Frank fares poorly in heat.

I tell Gary that I am in the MMT 100 miler coming up in a few weeks. I hope that I’ll be able to draw from his experience some during that race.

I am very pleased to see my friend Paul P. hanging out at the aid station. He hands me a Gatorade and agrees to hold my water bottle until I get back from the upcoming out-and-back section.

Centreville Road (back) to Centreville Road
Two miles out and two miles back. Last year I saw the leaders coming back just before I reached the first aid station; this year it’s just after. Maybe I’m faster, maybe they’re slower, maybe both. It’s starting to warm up. I am approached by a steady stream of runners, most of whom apparently feel compelled to offer an encouraging word. I appreciate the sentiment, but I wish people would put a little more effort into originality. I very quickly tire of hearing a pro forma “Good job” every time I encounter another runner. I occasionally offer encouragement of my own, but I try to change it up a little – “Looking good”, “Tear it up, man”, “Stay strong, buddy”. I recognize a lot of runners coming towards me, and I greet a few by name even though they don’t know me.

I am surprised to see Steve coming back about one minute before I reach the turnaround. He looks pretty strong. Maybe The Boss was right about him training hard on the sly.

There are still plenty of people behind me. I’m surprised to see that Caroline is in last place. It turns out she is more injured than she thought and will drop soon. I see Steve leaving the aid station as I arrive. He asks me to teach him the sub-10-hour rebel yell, and I let one rip as I climb the stairs up to the AS – “WAWWAWWAWWAWWAWWAWWAWWAWWAW!”

I collect my water bottle from Paul and offer him hearty thanks in exchange.

Centreville Road to Hemlock
Steve has stopped to dump some trash in a bag set out for that purpose some short distance past the AS. I catch him up and we run together for a while until I decide to run down a side trail to take care of certain biological necessities. I catch back up to him shortly before AS3 and take the opportunity to practice my rebel yell once again. I expect that we will run together at least back to the AS, but Steve seems to need a little time to recover from his early fast pace, so I trot on ahead.

Back at Hemlock I swap my shoes for the pair I’d left in my drop bag. I think this is the first time I’ve done this during a race.

Hemlock to Bull Run Marina
I catch up with and pass Pete early on in this segment. It’s heating up, and most of the humidity has burned off. I’ve put my glasses back on.

The soccer fields are exposed and the mounting heat starts to make a statement. Just past the fields there is a muddy area, but there are cut logs and bridges across the worst parts.

AS4 has cold, wet towels, which are amazingly refreshing in the still-building heat. They also have V8 and Yoo-Hoo. Outstanding.

Bull Run Marina to Wolf Run Shoals
Heat … growing. Legs … tiring. Must … not … drop.

The theme of the Wolf Run Shoals this year is Christmas. The costumes look hot. I recognize Alex P. and call to him: “Hey Alex! You got any sunblock?” He recognizes me instantly from last year’s incident. He has the sunblock ready, and informs me that he’d be honored to anoint my noggin with it. “On the way back,” I tell him, a plan to which he accedes.

Wolf Run Shoals to Fountainhead
A short two miles. I see the leader heading back, and the second place runner not far behind him. “You’ve got 30 seconds to the lead,” I inform this latter guy. The final gap would turn out to be some five minutes.

There are more cold towels at the Fountainhead AS. They also have pierogies.

Fountainhead to Do Loop
Just after the white loop I hear a woman behind me say to her companion “These Altra people have yellow feet on the bottom of their feet.” While I am trying to parse this surreal locution she continues “You have a foot on the bottom of your feet!” I eventually realize she is talking to me – she is referencing the design Altra puts on the bottom of their shoes to highlight the anatomical shape of the forefoot – but I don’t know how to respond. I just run on.

I catch up to Frank P. just before the Do Loop AS. Last year I didn’t catch him until after the second pass through the Marina, and he came back to beat me by a few seconds. Frank is 70 years old and had finished the BRR every previous year. I knew he was hurting in the heat, and I offered him an encouraging word as I went by. I hoped he would make it to the finish.

I’d been hoping all day that the Do Loop AS would have popsicles, as it did last year, and they did not disappoint. Thanks, guys, you are the best.

Do Loop (back) to Do Loop
Once you leave the Do Loop aid station you are kind of committed to finishing the race. You are still heading outbound, but you’re on a loop to come back around to the Do Loop AS in about three miles. I like to measure out a mile and a half by my watch; I get a boost out of knowing I’m on the way home.

The Do Loop proper is really only about two miles long. There is a half mile approach from the aid station which is an out and back section. Once you hit this section on the return trip, the people coming towards you are behind you in the race instead of ahead of you.

I saw Steve at the AS, he outbound and I inbound. This was very similar to our positions at this point last year.

I grabbed another popsicle and headed on.

Do Loop to Fountainhead
I saw a steady stream of people here on this section. I met ^z on his way out and advised him that he was roughly half a mile from popsicles. He expressed gratitude for this news.

A few miles further on I met a young lady who must have been flirting with the cutoffs, but was still keeping a good attitude. She asked me if there was any water up ahead she could jump in, and allowed as how it would not be the first time today she’d done so. I told her she had about a mile to go to find some. It really was getting oppressively hot. My water bottle seemed to have a hole in it.

The stream of runners coming towards me petered out as I approached Fountainhead. Anyone still going outbound would have missed the cutoff by the time I got back there.

Fountainhead to Wolf Run Shoals
I did pass one more outbound runner, though, just over a mile past Fountainhead. He looked to be in OK shape, but he was way past the cutoff. I said something to him, intended to be kind. I don’t remember what it was, but it wasn’t “Good job”.

Back at Wolf Run Shoals I accept Alex’s offer of sunblock. We get a picture of me with it slathered all over my head.

Wolf Run Shoals to Bull Run Marina
A fair number of people pass me from behind during this segment. I am walking a lot. I am reduced by the heat.

I linger at the marina aid station. I drape one of their cold towels over my head and just sit and rest for a while. This is the final stop for aid; time to head out for the last push. There is a volunteer hosing down runners as they leave, and I take full advantage of this kindness.

Bull Run Marina to Finish
I know I will be slower than last year, but I also know I will get it done. I run very little, but I still bust out a few hundred yards of ballistic motion here and there. I keep looking over my shoulder for Steve, expecting him to loom up behind me, intent on evening the score from last year.

After I pass the soccer fields I notice that I am starting to get significant chafing of the inner thighs. There are still some four miles to go, so I know this will be painful. I try re-applying some Body Glide, but once chafing starts it doesn’t really help much.

I lose a lot of places during this last stretch, but I am just jazzed to be on the show, man. I still worry that Steve will come up and pass me in the last mile.

The last hill is brutal. It’s always brutal, but this year’s heat has been beating me down all day and I have very little left. Race director Toni is cheering runners in at the finish line. She comes out to slap my hand as I cross.

Just freakin’ beautiful to be done.

Post-race
The food is outstanding. I just eat whatever they can put on my plate.

The Boss is a sublime sight. I tell her I’d like to hang around and watch people finish, and she graciously agrees. Steve comes in about a half hour after me. Everyone is slower this year in the heat, but he only lost some eight or so minutes.

I learn that Tim S., one of the three people who’ve completed all prior BRRs, had to drop with medical issues. Tom G. and Frank P. are still on the course. Tom comes in with some 15 minutes to spare. Now everyone is waiting for Frank.

Ten minutes to go. No Frank. Anstr D. walks down a ways to try to try to see a little further down the course.

Eight minutes. Six. Five. I start to consider for the first time that he might not make it.

But then a form comes around the final bend, a form with Frank’s characteristic rightward lean. The crowd goes wild. They love him.

The only thing going through my mind is the last bit of Tennyson’s Ulysses. It’s clichéd and overly sentimental, but then, so am I, so I don’t mind reproducing it here:

Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Frank finishes his 22nd consecutive Bull Run Run with less than five minutes to spare. God bless you, sir.

As I hobble to my car, still trying to pamper my chafed legs, I see Gary K. heading to his truck and I tell him that I’m dropping out of MMT. I don’t think I have the stones to make it 100 miles. “Nooooo,” he says, and looks crestfallen. I am chastened, and promise him I’ll wait a few days before making a decision.

It turns out that a few days was long enough for ultramnesia to set in, and I’ll be toeing the start line of MMT early in the morning of May 17th. If I die it’s Gary’s fault.

Miles this race: 50
Miles raced in 2014: 155.8

GARDNERS Pennsylvania, April 6 2014

In 2013 I ran a half marathon six days before the Bull Run Run 50 miler. The Run for the Animals turned out to be one of my favorite races ever – the course was great, the volunteers were friendly, the cause was righteous, the post-race food and music were outstanding, I set a half marathon PR and got an age group award. There was no feature of that race that was less than top-notch.

Since I believe in doing what works, and I attributed my much-better-than-expected performance at BRR 2013 to my experience at the RftA, I decided to run a half marathon six days before the 2014 BRR as well.

I strongly considered going back to Onancock to run the RftA again, but it’s a little too far for a day trip and staying overnight for a mere half seems a little excessive.

So I chose this charming little trail half instead. It was still a couple hours drive, but that is easily day-trippable.

I enjoyed the race. The course abutted the Appalachian Trail; I’m not sure whether any of it actually joined up with the AT or not. There was more delta-z than I expected, some 1600 feet of gain according to my GPS record. The organization was impeccable. I am a little late in writing up this report, so I may be mixing up the post-race spread with some other event’s, but in my memory there was this outstanding vegan curry that really hit the spot.

I don’t have much to say about the actual running. The aforementioned delta-z caused me to walk a fair bit of the course. A shamefully large bit, it must be said. The trail was beautiful, though, and the weather was great. I did my share of passing, I did my share of getting passed. Near the end of the course, in the last mile, I sloshed through a small stream and started climbing a good-sized hill. About three quarters of the way up I heard something behind me and looked back to see a woman determinedly hiking the rise. I got the feeling she had it in mind to pick me off before the finish, and I picked up the pace to stay ahead of her.

This turned out to be a challenge.

I wasn’t sure how far we had left to go, so I was hesitant to go all out, but I kept hearing footsteps closing the gap behind me. Finally I came off the trail onto the road leading back to the finish, and I felt comfortable starting a strong kick. I held a good pace through the finish and held off my rival by four seconds.

This race was great, but all-in-all I think I’d rather do the the RftA again. Maybe I’ll make that trip again next year.

Miles this race: 13.1
Miles raced this year: 105.8

HAVRE DE GRACE Maryland, March 22 2014

The HAT Run or, as it’s known in our house, the 모자 is a very popular 50k race. Entry is capped at 500 and fills up within a few hours. The race is popular for good reason.

The course is beautiful, mostly single track trail but with some road and open, grassy field sections thrown in. There is a fair amount of elevation gain (the website claims almost 10,000 feet, but my watch recorded a paltry half mile or so).

I had been concerned that the trails would be a sloppy mess. There had been several inches of snow just five days earlier, on top of many similar accumulations throughout the winter. Amazingly, though, a few days of bright sun and warm temperatures had dried the trail out beautifully – there was only a very few small muddy patches, and the stream crossings were not more than ankle deep.

As I was receiving my packet from a kind volunteer I saw someone reaching across me to grab some bib-pinning safety pins. This turned out to be the famed zhurnalist Mark Zimmermann, whose site is one of my favorite places to read race reports (and more!). I would see Mark again at the finish, just as I was leaving. I called out “Looking good, Mark!”, and he expressed appreciation for the sentiment although I’m sure he had no clue who I was.

The HAT Run course consists of one small loop of about 3.6 miles followed by two identical longer loops measuring some 13.7 miles each. At the end of the first loop I noticed that we were running directly under the finishing arch. “That’s a little too much of a tease,” I complained to the woman beside me, earning a grin and a nod. In the end we would go under that arch three times, with only the last time counting.

There was an aid station set up in the start/finish area, since we’d be through there three times, but I skipped this the first time through. It was only some four miles to the next AS, and since the weather started out cool I had plenty of water left in my bottle.

There were three aid stations on the big loop, the last one being a couple of simple, unmanned jugs of water. The first two were actually only some 50 feet apart as the crow flies, although separated on the course by some 4.1 miles. The GPS track from my watch shows the pinch in the course in the northernmost area. Both of these aid stations were serving up what instantly became by far my favorite ultra food ever: freshly cooked french fries. They were hot, crisp, salty, and invigorating. I just completely fell in love with those fries.

I learned in this race that every ultra runner in the area loves the VHTRC races. It seemed like everyone I spoke with had run BRR or MMT, or was planning to run at least one of them this year.

I got to talking for a while with G. when I noticed that he and I were wearing the same model shoe – the Altra Olympus. G. will be running his second MMT this year, and I tried to pick his brain a little in support of my own first attempt on it. He warned me that there were very few runnable sections, but then he went on to say that he probably ran about 50% of the course. He also told me that he was planning to run 45 miles around his native Philly the day after the 31 miles of the HAT. Up until that point I’d been pleased with myself for planning a half marathon as a HAT follow-up; now I started to doubt whether I had anywhere near the training needed to achieve an MMT finish.

G. got up ahead of me for a while, and with about four miles left to go I found myself running alone for some time. I eventually caught up to S., a guy with a French-sounding accent who I later learned had finished shortly behind me at last year’s BRR. We ran together for a couple miles, eventually falling in at the end of a conga line of some 5 or 6 runners muddling their way up a hill. We stayed with that line for a little while, hiking a few ups and running a few flats, but it was moving just a little slow for my taste. I finally took an opportunity to zip around to the left as we went up yet another hill, noting with some surprise that G. was one of the conga line constituents.

I picked off a few more runners as the trail opened up into a sunny, grassy field. Then came a screaming, paved downhill where I really opened up the pace, moving up another place or two.

Then a little more single track before the course opened up and headed out through fields and road to the finish. Third time though the arch was the charm, and I finished in 6:38:45. I was pretty close to finishing in the top half of the results; I was in the top half if you include DNFs.

As long as they keep serving those french fries this will be a hard race for me to skip.

Miles this race: 31
Miles raced this year: 79.6

CHESTERFIELD Virginia, March 15 2014

“I’m like a bad penny,” I said to Columbia as I came up behind, “I keep turning up.”

I’d met him in the first quarter mile of the race, before the field got separated out. I was asking someone else if they knew what the trails were like. That person didn’t know, but I heard someone call out that he thought they were mainly fire roads. I made my way over to chat with that latter guy a little more. We discussed the race course for a little while, then he asked where I was from. “Manassas,” I said, “you?” “Columbia Maryland.”

We ran and chatted for the next couple miles. The brutal winter had destroyed my already questionable fitness, and I knew I needed to keep a slow pace if I wanted to have any hope of a strong finish. The race’s elevation chart tended to confirm this analysis.

The trails actually turned out to be a mix of fire roads, double track and a couple miles of gorgeous, flowy single track, which put me in mind of the good old BROT and was by far the most joyful section to run.

We started out running in the 8:30 to 9:00 range. I knew I needed to back off of this pace, but the weather was perfect, and the course was beautiful. I could never have imagined it during my sedentary years, the idea of running being too pleasurable to stop or even moderate my pace, but the legs will have their way and so I spent a few miles telling Columbia to go on ahead, as I was going to slow down a bit, but never actually following through.

Eventually we got to the first truly hilly area, and I was finally able to persuade my legs that I needed them to walk the ups. Columbia got up ahead here, but the walking break had the desired revitalizing effect, and I caught him again before too long.

This pattern repeated itself several times over the next six or seven miles. I’d get dropped on the ups, and then catch up where the course was flat or down. He’d always greet me with a hearty “Manassas!” He was usually running with a group when I caught him and there’d be introductions all around. I met D., who was running this race as part of a double this weekend – he would go on to run sub-four at the Shamrock Virginia Beach Marathon the next day. I met a young lady from Northern Virginia, apparently running her first 26.2, who was introduced to me as “Prancer”.

After mile 9 or 10 Columbia put enough of a gap on me that I couldn’t catch him before the next uphill. At around mile 11.5 I saw him at the race’s sole out-and-back section, he some 50 yards past the turnaround, and I the same distance short of it. Then he was gone.

I chatted with several other interesting runners, though. Most of them were ultra runners. One young woman had recently run all three days of the West Virginia Trilogy – a 50k on Friday, 50 miles on Saturday, and a half marathon on Sunday. She said the trails were breathtaking. Several people I spoke with had run the Bull Run Run, or were planning to. I pimped it every chance I got.

I continued walking the ups and running the downs. Through the first 15 miles I was keeping just over a 10 minutes per mile average, which would put me under my ambitious goal time. I was at 18 miles in the neighborhood of 3:04, and was cautiously optimistic about a sub-4:30 finish.

In every previous marathon I’ve run, I’ve found myself crashing in the last 6 miles and getting passed by huge waves of runners. Today was the opposite. Buoyed by my run-walk strategy, I was passed by no one after about mile 12. In fact I was methodically picking off exhausted runners ahead of me. I must have passed around ten or twelve people in the last ten miles, in a race with fewer than 100 finishers.

Eventually I saw a familiar figure just rounding a curve up ahead. I upped my cadence a little and eventually caught up to Columbia for the last time around mile 20 or 21. He had had to take a pit stop at the last aid station, and was complaining of fatigue and cramps. I was slowing too, but I tried to convince him we could still bring it in under four and a half. He wasn’t buying in to this plan though. We ran and chatted a little, and then I got up ahead.

I got to the last aid station and declared “This must be the finish line!” This got a chuckle from the volunteers. “No, but you’re getting close. A mile to go, or maybe 1.2.” “It’s 1.13 according to this,” I replied, pointing to a helpful sign nearby. “I’ll take every hundredth I can get.”

I generally hate walking in the last mile of a race, no matter the distance, and I tried to adhere to this philosophy today. They’d thrown some of the nastiest hills in the last few tenths here, however, and I wound up giving in and trudging up them. Soon enough I found myself crossing the bridge back to the finish area and spied the finish line up ahead. With a few hundred feet to go there was one runner between me and the arch, and I set out to take him. He looked a little beat, and I passed him pretty quickly, but as I started my finishing kick across the field my calves started seizing up with cramps. I managed to grit my teeth and hold off the cramps for the 100 or so yards to the finish, and the pass was not reversed.

I missed my ambitious goal, but did better than I expected to. My time was 4:37:10, 38th out of 94 finishers, and the first time I’ve finished in the top half of a marathon field.

I hung around to watch the later finishers. Columbia came across the line some ten minutes after me. “My name’s McArdleRay,” I said, offering him my hand, “What’s yours?” “DavisSteve,” he replied, shaking it.

There were several noteworthy things about this race. Among them:

• Before the marathon started, the race director announced that we had a Guinness world record holder in the field. Laurence Macon holds the record for most marathons run in one year with 157(!). Laurence finished DFL today, but he’s got nothing at all to prove.
• The signage was amazing. At every turn – and at occasional places with no turns – there was a laminated sign on a tree or stuck in the ground with the current distance to the hundredth of a mile for both the full and (where applicable) the half marathon.
• They had an unusual chip timing system. You crossed the finish line, then walked down to the end of the chute, where a volunteer waved a sensor on a paddle over your bib. This added some 20 seconds to my net time, but, meh, it’s not a PR type of race anyway.

This race is beautiful, well organized, and very well supported for its size. The marathon field is small, but there were around 2 or 3 times as many in the half. I hope to come back in the future.

Miles this race: 26.2
Miles raced this year: 48.6

BOALSBURG Pennsylvania, October 20 2013

• • Fallback goal: Finish
  • Ambitious goal: Don’t be the last finisher
  • Dream goal: Finish in under 11 hours

“Nuh-uh, they don’t have races that long!” says co-worker K. when I explain why I’m gimping down the hall. “Oh, I assure you,” I reply, “they do.”

I was undertrained going into the Tussey mOUnTaiNBACK 50 miler, as I always am for marathons and ultras. I was a little concerned about the 12 hour time limit, but I had done some research into comparative finishing times at this race versus the BRR 50, and it looked like people who’d run both tended to finish a little faster at Tussey. I’d finished BRR in 11:07, so I figured I should be able to sneak in under the time limit even given my questionable fitness.

Pre-race

The weather is perfect on race day. The day before the weather report had been showing rain all morning for Sunday, but when the sun rose there was nary a drop to be seen, and this condition held throughout the day. The temperature was in the low 40s, maybe even dipping down into the 30s, but it was slated to rise up to maybe 55 or so. I thought I might wear two shirts while running, but just before the gun I ditched the long sleeves and went with just a very thin tech t-shirt. This turned out to be the right decision; I was comfortable most of the day.

Tussey Mountain is a little unusual in that it is both a relay race and an ultra. All of the relay teams and many of the ultra runners had support vehicles, which shared the course with us, each vehicle leapfrogging ahead of its runner to meet them at the next aid station/transition zone. This got annoying very quickly, but mostly was not a big hindrance. The support crews also felt the need to shout encouragement at all the runners, which was nice, but having to acknowledge each “whoo, go ultra!” with a wave or a fist pump or a salute got old in short order. This would go on throughout the race.

As we line up to start I spot a sixty-something-looking Asian lady and I think “as long as you don’t pass me I am good”. Then I see a kind of hippie-looking dude, probably late fifties, pony tail, skinny legs. “I’m beating you for sure.” The Asian lady would pass me at around mile 25, loping along at a steady pace as I suffered through an extended walking spell. It would be ten miles more before the hippie dude was to pass me.

Leg 1

After a brief downhill start, the next three miles were all uphill. At each mile marker I stopped and walked for one minute – this was my new strategy for preserving my legs, which always fail me in the latter half of long races. I felt a little goofy when I was the only one walking 10 minutes into the race, but I found that I didn’t lose any net position to any other runners. When I started back running I would leapfrog all of those who had passed me during the walk breaks. The first mile passed very quickly, and the next two only slightly less so. I had barely broken a sweat when we crested the hill and arrived at AS 1.

Leg 2

An easy four mile downhill. Time to get some cushion in the bank. I do easy mid-eights all the way down. I chat for a while with a couple young men who I think were doing their first ultra, or at least their first 50M. They tell me it looks like I’ve done this before, and ask me about my run/walk strategy. “One minute walk at every mile marker,” I tell them, “but I’ll probably skip it on this downhill.” I run past them and don’t look back. I am on pace to finish in eight hours, but I have no illusions that this will last. The fastest time I will let myself dream about is 10 hours, but I don’t really give this number any credence either.

Leg 3

There is a short out-and-back section to get to AS2. On the way in I get a hand slap from some random guy. On the way back out I spot the two young men I’d chatted with earlier. The rest of this section is not very memorable, just flat and easy. I saw a small snake, long dead and its body driven down level with the surface of the road by passing cars. This made me sad; it seemed so improper, undignified. I wanted to grab the body up and at least fling it off to the side of the road where it could rest a little more peacefully. I wound up just running on.

Leg 4

This was the leg where I’d planned to start doing some extended walking, and I adhered to this plan. I think it was on this leg that I met J., a very nice young woman from Ottawa whom I’d wind up leapfrogging most of the rest of the way. We chatted for a while. I asked her her time goal and she told me she was hoping to use this race as a qualifier for Western States. “So, eleven hours, then?” I asked her, and she nodded, looking a bit startled that I was nerdy enough to know this off the top of my head. I mentioned that at least the cool weather must be comfortable for her, given her origins, but she said it had been a warm year so far, so she was not really acclimated to the cold.

The first wave of relay runners had started an hour behind us, and I had predicted I’d see the first one passing me around mile 15. This turns out to be very close; a guy with the white bib indicating relay teams barrels past me at about mile 15.3.

Leg 5

I don’t remember much at all about this leg. The splits from my watch show that I was keeping a fairly decent pace, even though I was probably continuing my “run one mile, walk one minute” strategy. I think it was somewhere in here, or maybe the previous leg, where the two young men from the early legs pass me. I offer them an encouraging word as they go by. I felt OK pulling into AS 5.

Leg 6

Going into this leg I expected to walk the whole thing, and this is pretty much what I did, aside from a little running near the beginning, and a brief pride-jog into AS 6 at the end. I dropped J. near the beginning of this climb, but she’d catch me before too long. For most of the three miles of this hill I chatted with A., a nice guy who had done some three or four 50 milers, but was here for the first time. He claimed time goals that were similar to mine, but he’d wind up beating me by a little over an hour. When the grade of the hill started to level off he was ready to run before I was, and we wished each other well as he trotted up ahead. “That sucked!” I advise the volunteers when I finally reach the aid station, and we exchange grins.

Leg 7

Most of the scenery so far has been undifferentiated – gravel road with trees lining both sides. Pleasant, but far from spectacular. This changes here in this leg. About midway through the trees open up onto fantastic vistas on either side. A volunteer whom I recognize from some previous aid stations is standing here near her parked car, admiring the view. “This makes it all worthwhile,” I say to her, and she indicates agreement.

I think it’s somewhere early in this leg where U., the lady I’d picked out as an easy mark at the start line, catches me then drops me like a hot squat. I want to try to hang with her, but I have no response. She trots easily ahead and disappears around the next bend.

But somewhere before the vista and the volunteer my legs start to wake up a little. I have a habit of counting steps when I get tired – usually I will count them in bundles of 100, but I don’t keep strict track of how many bundles I’ve notched. It’s just a way to pass the time while dividing the race up into very short segments. During this stretch, though, my focus narrowed down to sets of only four steps. “ONE two THREE four, ONE two THREE four,” over and over and over again. This had an almost hypnotic effect, and I kept up a steady running rhythm without stopping much to walk. Somewhere in this leg we pass the marathon distance and transition into ultra runners.

Leg 8

I am starting to flag. J. catches up to me again and says I must be sick of seeing her. I smile and say she’ll drop me for good before too long. she expresses polite doubt.

The terrain here is not too challenging, but the cumulative distance is. I see a couple woolly caterpillars blundering across the road, and I toss them back off to the side – I don’t mind taking the time now. We pass the 50K distance before we get to the aid station. I am hurting pretty bad. My goals have been tempered – I vacillate between thinking I’ll be lucky to finish and thinking I may be able to eke out 11:30 and maybe avoid DFL. After partaking of the aid station I ask the volunteers how far to AS 9 and they tell me it’s only 2.9 miles. “That’s it? Pfft, hardly worth doing!” I am trying to keep my game face on.

Leg 9

Death march. I am lit up, I am done. Nobody can run 50 miles. I’ll drop at AS 9. No, I have enough cushion that I can easily make the last cutoff at AS 10, but I’ll time out before I get to the finish. Maybe I’ll sit at AS 10 and rest for a while, maybe 30 or 40 minutes. Maybe I won’t want to get up and continue on.

I stop a few times and lean on my knees. I can’t finish this race, I am done. I pluck a few more woolly caterpillars out of harm’s way. I think not all of them are living.

This race has 12 legs and a time limit of 12 hours. One hour per leg, I had thought when planning my strategy. I figured I could probably build a two hour cushion over the first 4 or 5 legs and then try to hold on over the second half. I never got up to two, but I was hovering around 1.25 to 1.5 for a long time. I was still in that range when I staggered into AS 9, but this had been the shortest segment of the whole race. A volunteer calls out “What can we get you?” and I reply “You got an IV and a gurney?” She laughs, heartily and sincerely, and offers me a nurse instead. I later think I should have replied “That doesn’t sound too comfortable, but if that’s all you’ve got I’ll lie down on her,” but I am not that quick-witted even when I haven’t just run 35 miles.

The hippie dude I’d targeted at the start line passes me by while I am trying to snarf some calories and electrolytes. He looks pretty fresh, at least compared to me. He rolls on.

I ask the volunteer to confirm that the cutoff for AS 10 is 10 hours, but she is not sure.

Leg 10

J. drops me for good somewhere early in this leg. We leapfrog for a little bit, she complaining of IT band issues and I of calf cramps, but I also have dead quads and soon I can’t answer when she pulls ahead. This section is mostly downhill, but it is a long, slow slog on my useless, dead legs. In desperation I take a couple of ibuprofen tablets – I’ve never gotten much benefit from them in the past, but I am willing to try anything to reduce the suffering.

The last mile or two comes out on paved road, and there are homes and lawns and fences. The change of scenery gives a sense of progress, and I start to feel marginally better. I meet up with guy who is also complaining of IT band problems, and I offer to swap him mine for a pair of quads, which garners a laugh.

As I hobble into AS 10 there are cheers from the volunteers and the relay teams waiting for their runners to arrive. I do what is becoming my standard trick: I extend my arms low, palms up, and wave them up and down in the universal “come on, let’s hear it!” gesture. Works every time – they cheer louder, and I pump my fists over my head in response. My mood improves another notch. I also realize that the mile markers now start with a “4”. Yet another notch.

A girl in her early teens is manning the aid station. I try to one-up my gurney joke by asking her if she has a coffin I can use, but this falls kind of flat. She offers me a chair instead. Avoiding my premonition I decline. “Thanks, but I have to keep moving.” This AS has Apple Cinnamon Hammer gel and it tastes like the sweetest nectar imaginable. I suck one down and take another for the road.

I am a little over nine hours into the race – I’ve got an hour cushion left on the “one hour per leg” schedule, and I think I’ll need all of it.

Leg 11

“Oh come on!” Most of the aid stations have the elevation chart for the next leg posted on their table, and this is not what I want to see. A hefty 5.3 miles to AS 11, most of it uphill. “Yeah, but then it’s all downhill from there,” a volunteer reminds me, and I head out with a resigned “okayyyyyy”.

The volunteer checking numbers at the front of the aid station directs me back onto the course and says “see if you can catch up to that next guy and give him some encouragement; he looked pretty rough.” I accede to this plan and trot off after the guy. Having a target in my sights improves my mood yet further, and I catch up to the guy in short order. “How you feeling, brother?” “Mumble wumble PAIN,” is all I hear in response. “Uh, well, hang in there buddy!” Lame, but it’s all I can muster.

I am able to do a little running here and there. I catch up to a relay runner and mention that I think she has the worst leg of the race – she gets the nasty uphill and the next runner gets four miles of down and the glory of crossing the finish line. She doesn’t seem to mind. We chat for a while, then she gets up ahead. I catch another relay runner, though, and I give her the same line about drawing the short straw and winding up with leg 11. She says that she mostly does half marathon distance or below, but she got talked into the 2014 Hyner View trail Challenge 25k. “Watch out for the first hill,” I warn her, “it will change your world.”

Something strange happens right about this time. We’re at mile 41 or 42. The upward trend of this leg is interrupted by a brief downhill. Without much hope or expectation, I try my running legs as the road starts to slope down and I find that somehow they’ve risen from the dead. I feel fresh, like I just stepped out the door. Was it the ibuprofen, the cheering crowd at AS 10, the Apple Cinnamon gel? Was it the ego boost from catching the relay runners? The good conversation? The paved road after so much dirt and gravel? I’ll never be able to say for sure, but I felt fantastic. I lean into the hill. “A wise man told me ‘don’t waste the downs’!” I call over my shoulder to the girl I’d been running with, and I am gone.

I know I will finish. Eleven and a half hours seems very doable. I am running even much of the ups, and power-hiking the rest. I catch up to and pass the relay runner I’d chatted with early in the leg. “You’re digging deep, sir!” she calls after me. “Got my fifth wind!” I run on.

There’s a long climb near the end, and I walk all the way up it, trying to save my energy for the final push. My legs are tiring only slightly; I still feel good. I might even beat 11:15. I run into AS 11 determined to just grab some water and go.

Leg 12

I linger a little, grabbing water and some pretzels. My watch reads 10:15! There’s 4.2 miles to go, almost all downhill. Amazingly, the eleven hour goal is back on the table. It’ll take a gutty effort, but this can be done.

The attempt on 11 hours starts inauspiciously as I head the wrong way out of the aid station. I get some 20 yards away before I hear the volunteers calling me back. Oops. Reoriented and chastened, I head out the right way. I see the second relay runner I’d chatted with and call out “See you at Hyner next year!”

Near the top of the brief uphill that starts the leg I catch sight up ahead of Mr. Natural, the hippie dude I thought had dropped me for good. I steadily close the gap on him and catch him shortly before the mile 47 marker. “This is about to be the slowest 5k I’ve ever run,” I tell him, earning a hearty chuckle. “That’s right, man, but we’re getting there!” “Git ‘er done!” is the dopey thing that comes out of my mouth; I am giddy with having a goal, and from the effort required to meet it. “Gettin’ it done!” replies Mr. Natural to Mr. Clean.

Very soon we hit pavement. Two and a half miles or so to go. I can run this all the way in, I have to run this all the way in. The phrase that keeps running through my head is one I hate: “gut check”. But it keeps me focused somehow. Up ahead there is a cluster of three ultra runners that I might catch before the end. Stay under 10 minute miles and this is in the bag.

Two miles of down to go. Less than twenty minutes. I haven’t caught the cluster yet, but the distance is closing. Don’t stop to walk, you may not be able to start again.

One mile left. You can’t walk in the last mile, no matter what. It’s a done deal, I’ll finish under 11. The cluster is just up ahead. I converge on them and a female runner as we reach the last turn back to the finish. The woman is momentarily confused by two conflicting arrows at this turn, but I tell her that one of them is the one we followed at the start this morning. “Hey, you can do another loop if you want,” says one of the cluster runners to general laughter. The cluster and I are moving faster than the woman at this point, but as we pass I encourage her to push and get in under 11 hours. “I don’t need it,” she says. I’m not sure if she means that she has her WS qualifier already, or if she is just not hung up on arbitrary round number goals. She will go on to finish under 11 anyway.

Just ahead I catch up to the two young runners from early in the race. One of them is obviously hurting, stiff-leggedly hobbling down the course. “Been a while since I’ve seen you guys,” I call out, and they allow as how that’s the case.

There’s a short rise at the end, but we can see the banner over the finish line. The cluster pulls ahead and I let them go – I have my goal in hand. There are people lining the finish area, cheering. In the last 50 yards I break into huge, goofy strides, mugging for the crowd, which roars its approval. Then I sprint across the line, finishing in 10:56:20. I have met every one of my goals – including (by 2 seconds!) my standard goal of finishing in less than double the time of the winner – which means I set them too low. I’ll adjust them next time.

The aftermath

“Can I get a fist bump?” One of the cluster is walking over to me, and I offer him a clumsy bro fist. “Man, where did that come from? We thought you were dead!” I didn’t recognize them, but they must have passed me during my death march miles and seen how bad I was struggling.

I meet J. in the food tent. “How’d you do?!?” we ask each other. She finished in something like 10:46, achieving her WS qualifier. She congratulates me on my time and reminds me that I am now WS qualified as well. I tell her that I don’t want to run it, but she seems to think I should give it a try anyway. I will probably put my name into the lottery – there’s usually less than a 10% chance to get in, so I should be pretty safe.

The post-race food was delicious.

Back in my car, I took my time changing my clothes and shoes as the last few finishers straggled in.

It was a pleasant drive back to Manassas.