Fourteen loops across 4.5 miles of
sandhill trails hacked up by knobby-gnarled pine roots, fast descents
dog-legging offa' redmud ascents, water-carved cuts of earth and pine
needled miles padding the distance ahead, and the endless need to
disregard the screaming quads, the setting sun, the runner that has now
lapped you twice, the left knee, the right calve, the lumbar tug,
the cold hands, and the massive rush of physicality thrusting you
forward. Disregard the ultrarunner concerns with kidney damage,
cardiac swelling, hypnotania, and know that ultrarunning deals as
much with stamina and endurance as it does pain management. And know
you are stronger than pain as you shuffle like a cinderblock
mistakenly thrown as a bowling ball. It is only mile 52 and you
still have 10.58 miles to go.
I am already excited for the next one.
ii. schwag and logistics.
The rd, Marie Lewis, put a helluva fine
shirt (a printed patagonia capilene LS) and a printed sports bag
together. She also secured a chip system to record splits and count
loops when you were incompetent to do so (which I was for about 80%
of the run). Professional quality, top-shelf stuff from a fellow
ultrarunner.
Two aid stations divided the 14 loops
into halves, as Marie's husband manned the grills and stocked
the main aid station, where vegans and carnivores alike had their
fill of options. (If you starved during this ultra, its 'cause you
cracked your head open on the trail between aid stations and slowly
succumbed. . . . no other excuse was valid. The food was downright
luxurious-- especially the chicken noodle soup.) The frostbitten aid
station in the middle of the trail loop offered rotating options,
including peanut butter smores, pizza, and some of the best grits
around. A well-marked course, good schwag, good volunteers, good management, and a full day in the park makes for a great 100k.
iii. The basics, the course, the
folks.
77 runners suited up for the ultra. mtc (mangum track club) was a major player, as was rfh (runner from
hell). the calender put it on a saturday january 14th,
and the starting temperature was a wintery upper 20's. A brief opening, a
passecaglia of about 1/3 mile, allowed the runners to position
themselves before entering the narrow trail where we would spend our
day. The first half of the trail sort of leaned into some 4x4 steps
carved into a hill and then slithered down a soft decline for a mile
or so before tacking up some pined slopes and cutting into a narrow
single-track which hovered above marshland. This area was so
still and quiet, a tranquility point. A few
foot-bridges kicked you across a gurgling brook and deposited you
back at the foot of an incline which shot up towards an abandoned
platoon, or a home, before eventually edging back around to skirt
the road.
Coming down into a tunneled area of
woods was the sign “3 minute hostel,” and a chunk of my race
was dominated by this sign.
A.) they kept moving the sign.
Slightly, but they moved it.
B.) was it mile 3? was it a 3 minute
pause? Was this the midpoint or a slightly advanced position, or
neither. both. . . . awwhhh hell.
But this AS group made my run work-- their grits (sans buerre
s'il te plait), and the generous portions of hot cocoa spiked with
dark coffee kept me in the calories for the last 18 miles. If the
loops were a single sine curve, the three minute hostel would be the -1 point from
which the curve goes back into positive zone. a point to start over and invigorate.
The second half was the gnarl,
continually wrecking me with sharp upshoots stepped by roots and
tight turns, weighing against knees, hips, the sides of swelling
feet, the arms moving and sculpting balance across the strides. The
straighter passages, the few & the cruel, deceived the inner-competitor
into accelerations, pushing long kicks through brief lunges of red
clay hills, dodging the skree-clogged rivulets and collapses of sand
and stone and pine-root steps, and then quad-busting declines that
would make Kupricka a heel-striker.
The final bend, which I kept looking
for well in advance of its appearance, allowed a view of the
weymouth woods park building and museum. It was a morale boost to see
that geometric form lift from the tree-line. You then jam up the gnarliest
part of the course, a steep ascent of mixed steps and roots,
everything being just spread out enough to force leg-lunges to clear
necessary distance, or force a tight-gape powerhike. either way you were getting burned up at the joints. then came the final hill to a curve that brought you into the home chute and the main body of event.
All of these terrains and their
exclusive challenges served to beat a body up, to pulp down a
runner's guts, back, neck, legs, ankles, and to render them a
jellyful thing lurking as a number on a leader board kept by the aid
station. It was enthralling, a perfect combination of challenges.
Again, I can't wait to sign back up.
iv. my experience as a runner doing
his first 100k.
I had never run beyond 32 miles. my long runs during training were 2 to 3 hours, with a higher concentration on back-to-back mileage. but my legs felt strong enough for the distance, and fast enough to compete on a racing scale.
Nutrition was a concern, but I had heed, gu gels, and a pretty good stomach, as well as some extra padding. As far as pace, I started conservative, and then realized I was running well (within a 1/2 mile), and I really wanted to keep the lead pack in my sights. I began passing clusters of folks who were watching me with a quiet wisdom, a wise reserve. I wanted to keep a competitive and aggressive pace, for my level of running, and my garmin read 8min- 8min30s miles for the first 25km. I felt strong and determined as I reached my marathon point, though I thought 3h45min was a little extended from my goal time. Reaching 50k, I was around twenty minutes behind my gator trail 50k time, which I thought I would match in my current fitness. Privately, I thought I might better the time actually. Slight buzzkill.
Nutrition was a concern, but I had heed, gu gels, and a pretty good stomach, as well as some extra padding. As far as pace, I started conservative, and then realized I was running well (within a 1/2 mile), and I really wanted to keep the lead pack in my sights. I began passing clusters of folks who were watching me with a quiet wisdom, a wise reserve. I wanted to keep a competitive and aggressive pace, for my level of running, and my garmin read 8min- 8min30s miles for the first 25km. I felt strong and determined as I reached my marathon point, though I thought 3h45min was a little extended from my goal time. Reaching 50k, I was around twenty minutes behind my gator trail 50k time, which I thought I would match in my current fitness. Privately, I thought I might better the time actually. Slight buzzkill.
Middle miles are my weak point: there
is little to anticipate but more running. Reviewing your
accomplished miles does little to encourage; everything goes grey and melancholy. Factory miles, shift miles, inattentive and grinding. Whether a tuesday ten
miler or a sunday 18 miler, my psyche is the same. But when my left
knee went tweaky about mile 40, I was even more lost. This was when I considered the possibility of a drop. My good friend
Mark Long (and a helluva runner himself-- besting the Boogie twice
and killing it across many marathons and ultras) recommended
ibuprofen. I was wary, but after forcing out a painful powerhike across the
total distance of a loop, I took his advice. Then a fellow runner offered me an S-Cap, repeating, “don't eat the brown acid.” my
drowsy, somewhat defeated mind appreciated his humor, even if it took
about two miles to do so. the combination of ibuprofen and restored
electrolytes (ultra-ball (patent pending)) got everything rebalanced
and runnable and off I kicked to clear some good loops out, trying to
beat the sundown/moonup, try to reclaim some time. Strangely, I ran alone much of this middle distance. I rarely encountered someone, and when I did it was momentary and peripheral. My quads cemented up around
mile 54 and running slacked to a horror-hike, hands on quads on the
uphills. My head was throbbing. I had long ago 86'd the ipod, and
launched mental diatribes against anything that crossed my mind. Charlie Sheen had nothing on my rage as I kept jogging awkwardly through
the woods to mark one more notch out. Night fell (enter another totally new experience: nighttime trail running), and my headlamp was
surreal and fantastic and I jogged/ran 60% of my final two laps in
good spirit with an appreciation of the life-experience. I tumbled once, and that was in the last 100 yards of the race.
A combination of nighttime running, fat roots on a steepish ascent, tired legs, and an
effort to rush to the finish resulted in a fine allfours type roll. .
. . no harm. My finish was 11h34 mins, a seventh place finish and a
first for mangum track club, which earned me two fine pieces of
pottery by a local potter and ultrarunner, Irene Russell. The time
was enough to be proud of while also leaving a great gap for
improvement. For a premiere 100k, I am pleased.
Ultimately the race was superb, while
the actual work of the thing was neither good nor bad, just grueling
in the middle miles. For sure, running 100 kilometers on trailed earth
is something of a bitch. Meanwhile my body is still reconnecting the
fissures and tears and thoughts and reabsorbing the swelling. My feet are no longer alligatorish, but I still have some bruising across the top of my feet from my shoe laces. My lungs are less fatigued, and my abdomen seems
to be relaxing again. my shoulders feel like i got a beatdown and my energy-level is still off, but I can honestly say I
have ran 62.58 miles. And regarding weymouth woods 100k, I can
honeslty say i will do it again.
Bravo to the volunteers, to the organizers, to the cooks, to the runners, to the support crews and families, to the dogs, and to the park rangers who made this all work. Marie Lewis was extremely supportive and positive-- she brought a good vibe to her race. Thanks to Mark Long, whom I would readily hire as an ultracoach if I weren't too far away. Thanks to my wife (who took all of the above pictures also-- quite the photographer!) and my little man and my dog maya for showing up and cheering me every loop, and for not laughing at me, no matter how much snot or pizza or confusion or hate was on my face. And thanks to the higher power that put me in a body that can accomplish such a thing, without chemicals and madness, and who lets me discover the joy in running this great golden earth.