How do trails hold up after three days of torrential downpours? That is one of the many questions we were going to have answered at the Mohican Trail Race on June 20th, 2009. Although the rain continued until the start of the race, no additional precipitation contributed to the strong humidity of central Ohio in June. Having driven the first 10 miles the day before, my buddy Rod and I resolved to take it pretty easy to start. Monster hills dominated the first two sections of the course, even though the path was all-road for 10 miles. While others pushed up the hills early, we continued to drink and walk whenever the mountainous terrain reared its ugly head.
The next 10 miles were on horse trail. It was fun to get into the woods (since I was wearing trail shoes that hurt on the roads) but we spent more time jumping the large puddles caused by hoof prints then relaxing. I stopped three times to take off my shoes and socks because I was feeling some irritation on my heals. I was convinced that a small pebble in there would cause me blisters later on. 27 miles later, I would see just how bad that would be.
Rod and I were rolling. We were in 2nd (and 3rd) place and we couldn’t have been running easier. The pace was perfect and we were feeling excellent as we moved from aid station to aid station eating and drinking what we could. Everything was looking up and then at mile 20, so was I. Just before an aid station there was a large root on the trail. The bark had been scrapped away by years of hikers, but the root was about 8 inches tall and I didn’t want to jump it. Instead, I stepped right on it. The root was wet and my trail shoes weren’t going to prevent a slip here. My feet went out from under me, there was a moment of weightlessness, and I came crashing down to earth, knee first. My kneecap landed squarely on the root and the next thing I knew I was laying face down in the mud. Reality came back with the pain and after letting go a fairly loud obscenity, I stood. I thought for sure my day was done. The first few steps were hell. I hobbled for the next few hundred meters, cursing and grunting, but by the aid station, the pain has been reduced to a dull throb. But not more than a few minutes later I was down again from slipping on a root. Things were starting to go bad.
We basically ran up a river by scaling logs, hopping on rocks, and skirting along rock walls. The infamous Lyon Falls climb proved interesting but not nearly as difficult as assumed. A few hand-over-hand moves on the wall and we were over. But at the top the trail went two ways and we had to choose. After much debate, Rod discovered a faint chalk mark on the trail. Even though the other direction was better groomed, we decided that a route with a faint marking was better than one without. So up we went. It wasn’t long before we were standing at another intersection debating where to go. We would wander one way and then the other hoping to see markings. Rod yelled into the woods asking where the trail was, but no one responded. After pushing through the trails, we finally descended down to the trail leading out, completely uncertain that we had taken the right path. As a compromise we slowed to a walk, ate some food, and hydrated. We arrived at the aid station in first place (but we didn’t enter the loop in first and hadn’t passed anyone).
After changing out of our sweaty shirts and grabbing food, we were off. Rod urged me to go ahead. I was reluctant because we were on a great pace and I felt good. 25 miles alone was a long way to go. But we discussed the night before that he would tell me to go when he was unwilling to keep the pace so I reluctantly set off solo. I left feeling very upset about the last section. I was concerned we had cut the course and I was pissed about that and what it might mean at the end, not to mention that I was now alone out there. In retrospect, this is the section I would do over again. Although I felt like I was being conservative, I arrived very quickly at the next aid station. The downhills were too fast and I walked when I could but it wasn’t often enough. I resolved to take the next section of 6.6 miles - the longest between aid stations on the course - more slowly. The problem was: there were very few hills. I backed off the pace and tired to be smart. After a series of switchbacks down a hill (where I kicked a stump, messed up my toe, and nearly tumbled down the hill), I came out of the woods for the last time on the course. But my troubles were just beginning.
I was met by a group of people setting up tents. They yelled that I needed to go straight and that where I stood was not the aid station. Sure enough, orange plates marked a path through the spongy grass. I hooked a left under the overpass and came to a parking lot where spectators were in chairs. But this wasn’t the aid station either! On up to the road again and I saw a plate pointing strait and one to the left. Utterly confused, I stood at the highway crossing with my arms raised in a shrug. The people I met coming out of the woods waved me back across the road. They told me to follow the sign to the trailhead. I stopped to confirm that I was supposed to go up there and was told yes. I asked again that this is where I, a 50 miler, was supposed to go. Again I was urged on. But I knew that the trail ended at the road and I needed to check in at the Grist Mill. This trail likely went back to the Covered Bridge aid station. I turned back against their advice and hit the road.
Nearly a mile later I arrived at the correct aid station extremely hot, tired, and frustrated. I yelled my number but when I asked where my drop bag was they pointed to it in a pile! I couldn’t believe they were having dehydrated, delusional runners go find their bags. I took off my shoes in order to change into road shoes and found why my Achilles hand been hurting. Both of my ankles were scraped raw from my trail shoes. As I gingerly put on new shoes, I had words with the aid station marshal. After explaining to him three different times that people were sending me the wrong way, he finally got on the radio. I took off disgruntled and tired.
After flying down the road in my new shoes for a few minutes, the hills started again. What started as a nice morning of overcast and wind, the sun now beat down. I was running a bit slower than before and certainly walking the hills, but things were still moving forward despite the presence of cramps. When I reached Landoll’s Castle, the next aid station, the castle was deserted. I remembered cars there in the morning. I yelled into the woods and shivered at the thought of moving on without water. I stumbled on and then realized the aid station was BEFORE the castle on the way out. It was just spectators I had seen earlier at the actual castle. The nice old folks at the station cheered me on, “Just 9 miles to go.” I laughed and stumbled away.
For another mile, things went forward. But then the cramping really started. At first, I would get a tight knot in my calf. I would jog till it pulled, then walk till it stopped. This ritual was repeated for a while but soon my tendon on the outer part of my lower leg would pull causing my foot to supinate to the point where I couldn’t take a step. So I would stop till the spasm ceased. Then I would jog again but the cramps kept coming. I would pull the right calf muscle, stop, run, pull the left, stop, run, pull the right outer shin, stop, run, and then the left outer shin, stop, run. This cycle went on for a mile or two and I kept looking back thinking someone would come up but no one did. What was worse was that I was also getting a cramp in the ribs from the shallow breathing and one in the collarbone. These cramps left me hobbling down the road in the hot sun. Vultures circled overhead and I felt a sense of doom but they were only interested in the road kill ahead. However, I felt like road kill and my pace meant that I was still going to be out here for some time. I would convince myself to run to the start of the next hill and then walk but the body kept deteriorating and I found myself unable to jog more than 40-50 meters without seizing up. Walking was faster overall than feebly jogging for a bit only to stop dead while my body shut down. So I walked mostly, managing to run the final 400 meters downhill to the Last Gasp aid station. They told me I was the first one but I thought I would be lucky to finish in fifth.
Some sadistic race director thought that instead of letting runners cruise about a mile and a half up a paved road to the finish, they would instead turn them up a rutted dirt road with a series of climbs that would humble any runner in the first mile. This was mile 46. I struggled up the hills and found that the body would no longer respond. It was over. At the summit of each hill I would glance over my shoulder expecting to see someone. At 47.5 miles, there she was. Struggling up the hill behind me finally came a runner. I applauded her and as she drew near, asked her what had happened since she had been ahead of me. She had gotten lost on the purple loop. We chatted and jogged for a moment and then I had to let her go. No sooner had she pulled away then another guy came up. He said he was going to vomit but I urged him to catch the first place runner. Again all alone, I went over the final hill only to hobble in pain down the monstrous slope that lead back to the road. What normally would have taken two minutes took me ten. But I was back on the road, waddling to the finish which I reached in 3rd place. At 25 miles I was on pace for 7:40. I ran 8:40 so I know how much damage I did in the 2nd half. But I finished, and that was goal number one today.
After chatting with people, I started vomiting at the finish line. Ice water tasted good but I couldn’t keep it down. I wasn’t at all disappointed to find that the top 2 runners had all expenses paid to the national race in California. I didn’t feel like I had earned it. Rod finally came in and we talked about various parts of the course. But soon I was in the grass again barfing. The next thing I know I am laying in the fetal position in a pool of my own spew. I just couldn’t keep the water down. Rod went to get his lunch and I barely cleared the pavilion before letting it fly again. Something was very wrong. My legs were cramping badly as was my back and arms. I decided I needed to get some help. So we asked the director to radio for a medic. About an hour later, I was still sitting on the ground. They told us the medic was at the Covered Bridge, the furthest aid station from the finish. We had a drop bag at the Grist Mill so they told us to meet the medics there. After handing us some papers to deliver and asking us if we would bring back anyone that dropped out, we were off. At the Mill, they had no idea what we were talking about regarding the medic and directed us to another aid station. But the medics at that station said they were not allowed to hang IV bags. They said they could “sit me in the shade and encourage me to drink.” Rod argued that a runner would likely die getting out of a cool car to sit in that environment. Very frustrated with this poor treatment, we headed to the hospital a half hour away.
I used a drop bag to barf in again on the car ride over and finally I was in the emergency room. After waiting for a while, Rod mentioned that the last time I struggled with this I ended up passing out and seizing. The nurse hurriedly checked me in. After answering the same questions for about five people, I finally had a tube in my arm. My blood work was very bad and they wanted me to take 2.5 liters in. After 3 hours, I was sent home. The IV brought me right back, ended the nausea, and eased the cramps.
If I just hadn’t pushed from 25-30 miles I might have been fine. I might have held on to win or I might have stayed out of the hospital. There was no reason to take off that fast when I was already winning. But I learned some very important things. When there is heat and humidity, I can run well if I take it very easy in the beginning and don’t push too hard, too fast. This race really helped me see how I need to run Leadville 100 this year. For that, I am thankful. But I am quite disappointed that I lead a race for 22.5 of the last 25 miles only to be passed just at the end. I can run better and smarter than this.
The next 10 miles were on horse trail. It was fun to get into the woods (since I was wearing trail shoes that hurt on the roads) but we spent more time jumping the large puddles caused by hoof prints then relaxing. I stopped three times to take off my shoes and socks because I was feeling some irritation on my heals. I was convinced that a small pebble in there would cause me blisters later on. 27 miles later, I would see just how bad that would be.
Rod and I were rolling. We were in 2nd (and 3rd) place and we couldn’t have been running easier. The pace was perfect and we were feeling excellent as we moved from aid station to aid station eating and drinking what we could. Everything was looking up and then at mile 20, so was I. Just before an aid station there was a large root on the trail. The bark had been scrapped away by years of hikers, but the root was about 8 inches tall and I didn’t want to jump it. Instead, I stepped right on it. The root was wet and my trail shoes weren’t going to prevent a slip here. My feet went out from under me, there was a moment of weightlessness, and I came crashing down to earth, knee first. My kneecap landed squarely on the root and the next thing I knew I was laying face down in the mud. Reality came back with the pain and after letting go a fairly loud obscenity, I stood. I thought for sure my day was done. The first few steps were hell. I hobbled for the next few hundred meters, cursing and grunting, but by the aid station, the pain has been reduced to a dull throb. But not more than a few minutes later I was down again from slipping on a root. Things were starting to go bad.
We basically ran up a river by scaling logs, hopping on rocks, and skirting along rock walls. The infamous Lyon Falls climb proved interesting but not nearly as difficult as assumed. A few hand-over-hand moves on the wall and we were over. But at the top the trail went two ways and we had to choose. After much debate, Rod discovered a faint chalk mark on the trail. Even though the other direction was better groomed, we decided that a route with a faint marking was better than one without. So up we went. It wasn’t long before we were standing at another intersection debating where to go. We would wander one way and then the other hoping to see markings. Rod yelled into the woods asking where the trail was, but no one responded. After pushing through the trails, we finally descended down to the trail leading out, completely uncertain that we had taken the right path. As a compromise we slowed to a walk, ate some food, and hydrated. We arrived at the aid station in first place (but we didn’t enter the loop in first and hadn’t passed anyone).
After changing out of our sweaty shirts and grabbing food, we were off. Rod urged me to go ahead. I was reluctant because we were on a great pace and I felt good. 25 miles alone was a long way to go. But we discussed the night before that he would tell me to go when he was unwilling to keep the pace so I reluctantly set off solo. I left feeling very upset about the last section. I was concerned we had cut the course and I was pissed about that and what it might mean at the end, not to mention that I was now alone out there. In retrospect, this is the section I would do over again. Although I felt like I was being conservative, I arrived very quickly at the next aid station. The downhills were too fast and I walked when I could but it wasn’t often enough. I resolved to take the next section of 6.6 miles - the longest between aid stations on the course - more slowly. The problem was: there were very few hills. I backed off the pace and tired to be smart. After a series of switchbacks down a hill (where I kicked a stump, messed up my toe, and nearly tumbled down the hill), I came out of the woods for the last time on the course. But my troubles were just beginning.
I was met by a group of people setting up tents. They yelled that I needed to go straight and that where I stood was not the aid station. Sure enough, orange plates marked a path through the spongy grass. I hooked a left under the overpass and came to a parking lot where spectators were in chairs. But this wasn’t the aid station either! On up to the road again and I saw a plate pointing strait and one to the left. Utterly confused, I stood at the highway crossing with my arms raised in a shrug. The people I met coming out of the woods waved me back across the road. They told me to follow the sign to the trailhead. I stopped to confirm that I was supposed to go up there and was told yes. I asked again that this is where I, a 50 miler, was supposed to go. Again I was urged on. But I knew that the trail ended at the road and I needed to check in at the Grist Mill. This trail likely went back to the Covered Bridge aid station. I turned back against their advice and hit the road.
Nearly a mile later I arrived at the correct aid station extremely hot, tired, and frustrated. I yelled my number but when I asked where my drop bag was they pointed to it in a pile! I couldn’t believe they were having dehydrated, delusional runners go find their bags. I took off my shoes in order to change into road shoes and found why my Achilles hand been hurting. Both of my ankles were scraped raw from my trail shoes. As I gingerly put on new shoes, I had words with the aid station marshal. After explaining to him three different times that people were sending me the wrong way, he finally got on the radio. I took off disgruntled and tired.
After flying down the road in my new shoes for a few minutes, the hills started again. What started as a nice morning of overcast and wind, the sun now beat down. I was running a bit slower than before and certainly walking the hills, but things were still moving forward despite the presence of cramps. When I reached Landoll’s Castle, the next aid station, the castle was deserted. I remembered cars there in the morning. I yelled into the woods and shivered at the thought of moving on without water. I stumbled on and then realized the aid station was BEFORE the castle on the way out. It was just spectators I had seen earlier at the actual castle. The nice old folks at the station cheered me on, “Just 9 miles to go.” I laughed and stumbled away.
For another mile, things went forward. But then the cramping really started. At first, I would get a tight knot in my calf. I would jog till it pulled, then walk till it stopped. This ritual was repeated for a while but soon my tendon on the outer part of my lower leg would pull causing my foot to supinate to the point where I couldn’t take a step. So I would stop till the spasm ceased. Then I would jog again but the cramps kept coming. I would pull the right calf muscle, stop, run, pull the left, stop, run, pull the right outer shin, stop, run, and then the left outer shin, stop, run. This cycle went on for a mile or two and I kept looking back thinking someone would come up but no one did. What was worse was that I was also getting a cramp in the ribs from the shallow breathing and one in the collarbone. These cramps left me hobbling down the road in the hot sun. Vultures circled overhead and I felt a sense of doom but they were only interested in the road kill ahead. However, I felt like road kill and my pace meant that I was still going to be out here for some time. I would convince myself to run to the start of the next hill and then walk but the body kept deteriorating and I found myself unable to jog more than 40-50 meters without seizing up. Walking was faster overall than feebly jogging for a bit only to stop dead while my body shut down. So I walked mostly, managing to run the final 400 meters downhill to the Last Gasp aid station. They told me I was the first one but I thought I would be lucky to finish in fifth.
Some sadistic race director thought that instead of letting runners cruise about a mile and a half up a paved road to the finish, they would instead turn them up a rutted dirt road with a series of climbs that would humble any runner in the first mile. This was mile 46. I struggled up the hills and found that the body would no longer respond. It was over. At the summit of each hill I would glance over my shoulder expecting to see someone. At 47.5 miles, there she was. Struggling up the hill behind me finally came a runner. I applauded her and as she drew near, asked her what had happened since she had been ahead of me. She had gotten lost on the purple loop. We chatted and jogged for a moment and then I had to let her go. No sooner had she pulled away then another guy came up. He said he was going to vomit but I urged him to catch the first place runner. Again all alone, I went over the final hill only to hobble in pain down the monstrous slope that lead back to the road. What normally would have taken two minutes took me ten. But I was back on the road, waddling to the finish which I reached in 3rd place. At 25 miles I was on pace for 7:40. I ran 8:40 so I know how much damage I did in the 2nd half. But I finished, and that was goal number one today.
After chatting with people, I started vomiting at the finish line. Ice water tasted good but I couldn’t keep it down. I wasn’t at all disappointed to find that the top 2 runners had all expenses paid to the national race in California. I didn’t feel like I had earned it. Rod finally came in and we talked about various parts of the course. But soon I was in the grass again barfing. The next thing I know I am laying in the fetal position in a pool of my own spew. I just couldn’t keep the water down. Rod went to get his lunch and I barely cleared the pavilion before letting it fly again. Something was very wrong. My legs were cramping badly as was my back and arms. I decided I needed to get some help. So we asked the director to radio for a medic. About an hour later, I was still sitting on the ground. They told us the medic was at the Covered Bridge, the furthest aid station from the finish. We had a drop bag at the Grist Mill so they told us to meet the medics there. After handing us some papers to deliver and asking us if we would bring back anyone that dropped out, we were off. At the Mill, they had no idea what we were talking about regarding the medic and directed us to another aid station. But the medics at that station said they were not allowed to hang IV bags. They said they could “sit me in the shade and encourage me to drink.” Rod argued that a runner would likely die getting out of a cool car to sit in that environment. Very frustrated with this poor treatment, we headed to the hospital a half hour away.
I used a drop bag to barf in again on the car ride over and finally I was in the emergency room. After waiting for a while, Rod mentioned that the last time I struggled with this I ended up passing out and seizing. The nurse hurriedly checked me in. After answering the same questions for about five people, I finally had a tube in my arm. My blood work was very bad and they wanted me to take 2.5 liters in. After 3 hours, I was sent home. The IV brought me right back, ended the nausea, and eased the cramps.
If I just hadn’t pushed from 25-30 miles I might have been fine. I might have held on to win or I might have stayed out of the hospital. There was no reason to take off that fast when I was already winning. But I learned some very important things. When there is heat and humidity, I can run well if I take it very easy in the beginning and don’t push too hard, too fast. This race really helped me see how I need to run Leadville 100 this year. For that, I am thankful. But I am quite disappointed that I lead a race for 22.5 of the last 25 miles only to be passed just at the end. I can run better and smarter than this.
No comments:
Post a Comment