I was being eaten alive. The pain was unbearable while sweat and tears dripped down my face, attracting more of the swamp dwellers already feasting on my prone body. Locked in a v-sit position in a rigor mortis state, it was time to assess my options.
In the summer of 2008, I went for a stroll in the Ohio woods. 50 miles later, I was hunched over on a trail, throwing up, one of many bouts of vomit that day. After 30 miles of decent running, my stomach churned, food no longer was an option and I did not want to do anything other than slog on, and even that was a far cry from fun. An emergency call to my crew had them meet me in time to blow several gallons of liquid all over the road, and after limping 5 miles to the aid station, I called it quits after stiff legs and more puke determined that 50 more miles would be an awful way to spend the next night and day. Later that night while resting in a hotel room, I had a seizure from the lack of electrolytes.
Five years later I stood in front of Squire’s Castle again in the hopes of redeeming myself against this race. Coming off the best training I had ever done, I started with thoughts of a recent disappointing Comrades finish on my mind. After a 10k in the woods, all was well, though the crew would later say that I didn’t look happy and free. Something about this race from the first steps wasn’t right, a feeling I would never shake that day. The following 10K and subsequent 8k sections were full or running and road. I walked as much as I could in the attempt to reach my pacer at 55miles with lots of running left in me. At 17 miles I would never know just how impossible that would turn out to be.
The stretch from 17 miles to 41 (the next crew point) had many trails and the rain, which started after a couple of hours into the race, would not let up for the better part of the next 9 hours. A course that had seen record rains for the month was getting on its final weekend, another dousing. We navigated the mud, glad the sun was held back and temps were cool, a stark contrast to the 80 degrees the course normally sees. Humidity was still high due to the dampness but it would have been a lot worse if it had been hotter. Little did we know as we uttered those words, many would opt for the heat in comparison to the alternative.
By 41 miles, soaked and sour from the Heed energy drink at the aid stations, I mentioned to my crew, “I just wish I felt better at this point.” Nothing was wrong. I was making great time and had been fueling very well. But something was just not right. Over the next 5 miles I could not seem to work out what it was and when I arrived at 46.4 mi, I sat down and tried to really go deep with the fuel, eating lots of soup and other things to settle the stomach and fuel the body for the remaining 55 miles to the finish. Within 1 mile, all bets were off.
The section to Snowhill, 50 miles and halfway, was perhaps the worst section of running I have ever endured. The trail, if there was one, was a soupy mess of water and mud, dug deep with pockets from the shoes of runners and the hooves of horses. There was not a dry step in the house, and the amount of physical exhaustion to keep my balance in this area was rivaled only by the mental anguish of negotiating every single solitary step of the trail. Not one stride was wasted glancing around and enjoying the scenery. If an ultrarunner’s talent is to zone out to make the distance pass, we were in runner hell. A few twinges in my calf muscles earlier had prompted me to try and beat the cramps with food and salt at the previous aid station. But on the trail between a mud bog and a high log, they hit, and hit hard.
First my right leg seized. I looked down, watching the tendon that connects my ankle to my knee on the right side bulge in slow motion, like a scene from some WWII epic – grey skin, mud, no sound, but a grotesque view nonetheless. As I slowly bent and stretched my hand out to correct this muscular anomaly, the left leg shot pain up into my core and it too locked unresponsively. I hobbled club-footed for a few steps from left to right, sliding in the mud, before yelling out a feeble cry and tumbling headlong into the waist-high overgrowth. I cringed and lunged halfway to my feet, stuck in a bent over position, unable to move.
While waiting for the pain to subside, a guy came up on the trail but didn’t see me. Just as he reached my outstretched feet, he shouted in surprise, “Oh, I didn’t see you there,” and on he ran. Thanks, pal. Luckily, an elite woman who was having an off day came up on me. She asked if she needed someone to be sent back from the next aid station. Thankfully I denied her request as I ultimately would beat her there. But she did kneel and give me salt tablets and a pull from her water bottle, which was filled with coconut water. After slapping more bugs from my skin, I inched into a sitting then standing position, cramping the whole way. Soon I was walking, though the cramps threatened with every lift of the leg over mud or fallen tree. We walked and chatted for a while, surviving the leg, which never improved.
Between the bogged out mud sections I would attempt to run for a minute or two behind those that passed me. It never lasted very long but I made progress. Just when I thought it would never end, I emerged to the Snowville aid station and the 50.4 mile mark, halfway. Defeated, I sat in a chair attempting to eat and drink whatever possible. My watch read 9:30, which was a decent split despite the horrific last 4 miles. As I staggered down the road past the point where I had thrown up in 2008, I remembered just how long I had to limp before Boston store. Most people around me were now walking substantial portions of the course and I continued to attempt to run small sections as long as my cramps abated and energy sustained. This continued for a few miles, but soon it would become evident that this was no way to complete the day. I was slowly crashing and there was nothing that could be done about it. For the final two miles, I could no longer run, and I began to think of how I would handle meeting my pacer, struggling on for 10 miles, and finally admitting defeat to Sarah.
I pushed with all I had to jog down the road to Boston store but after 80m, it was a waste of energy. I stumbled to the curb and just started walking. Just ahead, Sarah stood on the sidewalk, calling me in. Immediately the tears came to my eyes and a feeling of disappointment washed through me. She wasn’t 10 miles ahead as planned. She was here, and she knew I was in trouble.
I plopped in the grass exasperated and began to tell Mike and Sarah my troubles. Mostly, I contemplated what was wrong with me – why was I continuing to have trouble feeling good even after fueling and pacing well? Like a good crew, they pulled me up and said to just walk on. Just see what happens. Reluctantly, I ate some food and began to walk out with Mike. We had about 3.9 miles to the next aid station and I was agreeable to try and see if things would improve, even though I was persistent that they would not. We walked for a bit and I tried to show him my problem. Amazingly, no cramps came, but the sitting and walking had left my quads shot and heavy. A mile-long hill allowed us to walk uninterrupted before gingerly jogging into the trail. We continued to chat and walk, running very brief spurts of trail when I could, which was infrequently and never longer than 30 seconds or so. While the cramps had vanished, my legs now proved to be empty. Gu and Gatorade went in but the sugars were now turning the stomach and I knew that my time was limited. We arrived at the next aid station and ate some more. Like the best crew that they are, the push was to go on. My stance was this: I can keep walking. I might be able to walk to the finish from here (I had 17 hours). But did I want to? Was that how I wanted to spend my day, walking on the trail? Plus, my concern was that eventually, the body would quit, and I would not be able to walk the prerequisite 2.5 miles per hour, making the day worthless. Can you imagine walking 55 miles only to miss some cutoff by minutes? Kill me now.
But leave we did and negotiated a mile of trail before hitting a road. While a road sounds nice, the pavement pounding on tired legs was more torture, not to mention the beauty of the trail was now gone. We could see a long way and it never seemed to end. Even the short bursts of “running” (which were now sad shuffles at about 16 min/mile) left me completely winded on the flat road. Mike later said he knew this was where it would end, watching my eyes roll back in my head with the effort. But we struggled on, down a horribly monotonous bike and hike trail, with people walking ahead and people walking behind. My feet started to feel like I was walking on sandpaper. It had stopped raining hours ago. After several miles, the feeling changed from one of scraping and rawness to a dull, almost painless throb that resembled walking with blocks of ice strapped to the bottom of my feet. None of these are good signs, and I knew that even if my body held up, my feet were on a rapid demise. As we got closer to the aid station, I put in all I had left. I led a run of about 300m around a field and parking lot, the most I had run continuously in about 4 hours. Then, with only one stretch of trail to go, I gave it a go, letting all worry and pain go and just ran. This was the best I had felt in about 25 miles, and it seems like I could have gone on another section. But I could not. The effort left me completely finished – there would be no more running that day. After nearly 15 hours, most of the last 7 hours at a walk or sloppy jog, I determined that my day was done. Another DNF.
When reflecting on it, I am not disappointed or sad. Sure, I wanted to finish the race. But not like that. I have a Leadville and Western State buckle, I know I can do this. But hiking all afternoon and night to possibly struggle in, no, I have been in the hospital enough to know that isn’t worth it. That limp, that isn’t why I run. I am not some endurance junkie that loves to go longer and harder than before. I run ultras because I love to run, and ultras let you run more. But ask me if I enjoyed this race? No. I did not love the 10 hours of rain. I hated the swampy, slick, and dangerous trail. And while pain and slowing is inevitable in any long race, to be slashed at 47 miles and have to walk the rest, that isn’t my idea of enjoyment, in any sense of the word. I let my crew push me on from 55 miles. They wanted to know it wasn’t a low point – they wanted to know I did what I could. And did I at 55? No. I couldn’t be happier to have left and completed those next couple of segments. I left it all on the trail, 100%, there was no question that I had my day and my day was done. And that is a result I can live with.
A little glimpse of the feet after dropping out. The deep ridges represent blisters folded under other skin.
Is the 100 miler right for me? I am at a serious crossroads where I do not know if it is. I am becoming more and more interested in exploring other (shorter) distances and potentially other events, depending on where I end up living in this world. My immediate plans are to recover, build into shape, and take advantage of great weather and running partners in South Africa. I will do a bunch of marathons and go back to Comrades, possibly for Silver, but more just because I love the event. I might go to Boston this year. I will use my qualifier from WSER to enter Hardrock lottery, and if I get in, I will be ecstatic at the prospect of attempting and hopefully completing the toughest of the major races. Plus, I have completed those in the mountains while failing elsewhere. There will be no preconceived notions of time or place – it will be a finishing attempt, bar none. If not, well, let’s see how this all pans out.
In the summer of 2008, I went for a stroll in the Ohio woods. 50 miles later, I was hunched over on a trail, throwing up, one of many bouts of vomit that day. After 30 miles of decent running, my stomach churned, food no longer was an option and I did not want to do anything other than slog on, and even that was a far cry from fun. An emergency call to my crew had them meet me in time to blow several gallons of liquid all over the road, and after limping 5 miles to the aid station, I called it quits after stiff legs and more puke determined that 50 more miles would be an awful way to spend the next night and day. Later that night while resting in a hotel room, I had a seizure from the lack of electrolytes.
 | |
| Wouldnt it be nice to feel as good at 50 miles as you look at 0 miles? |
 |
| Feeling decent at 26.2miles |
The stretch from 17 miles to 41 (the next crew point) had many trails and the rain, which started after a couple of hours into the race, would not let up for the better part of the next 9 hours. A course that had seen record rains for the month was getting on its final weekend, another dousing. We navigated the mud, glad the sun was held back and temps were cool, a stark contrast to the 80 degrees the course normally sees. Humidity was still high due to the dampness but it would have been a lot worse if it had been hotter. Little did we know as we uttered those words, many would opt for the heat in comparison to the alternative.
By 41 miles, soaked and sour from the Heed energy drink at the aid stations, I mentioned to my crew, “I just wish I felt better at this point.” Nothing was wrong. I was making great time and had been fueling very well. But something was just not right. Over the next 5 miles I could not seem to work out what it was and when I arrived at 46.4 mi, I sat down and tried to really go deep with the fuel, eating lots of soup and other things to settle the stomach and fuel the body for the remaining 55 miles to the finish. Within 1 mile, all bets were off.
The section to Snowhill, 50 miles and halfway, was perhaps the worst section of running I have ever endured. The trail, if there was one, was a soupy mess of water and mud, dug deep with pockets from the shoes of runners and the hooves of horses. There was not a dry step in the house, and the amount of physical exhaustion to keep my balance in this area was rivaled only by the mental anguish of negotiating every single solitary step of the trail. Not one stride was wasted glancing around and enjoying the scenery. If an ultrarunner’s talent is to zone out to make the distance pass, we were in runner hell. A few twinges in my calf muscles earlier had prompted me to try and beat the cramps with food and salt at the previous aid station. But on the trail between a mud bog and a high log, they hit, and hit hard.
First my right leg seized. I looked down, watching the tendon that connects my ankle to my knee on the right side bulge in slow motion, like a scene from some WWII epic – grey skin, mud, no sound, but a grotesque view nonetheless. As I slowly bent and stretched my hand out to correct this muscular anomaly, the left leg shot pain up into my core and it too locked unresponsively. I hobbled club-footed for a few steps from left to right, sliding in the mud, before yelling out a feeble cry and tumbling headlong into the waist-high overgrowth. I cringed and lunged halfway to my feet, stuck in a bent over position, unable to move.
While waiting for the pain to subside, a guy came up on the trail but didn’t see me. Just as he reached my outstretched feet, he shouted in surprise, “Oh, I didn’t see you there,” and on he ran. Thanks, pal. Luckily, an elite woman who was having an off day came up on me. She asked if she needed someone to be sent back from the next aid station. Thankfully I denied her request as I ultimately would beat her there. But she did kneel and give me salt tablets and a pull from her water bottle, which was filled with coconut water. After slapping more bugs from my skin, I inched into a sitting then standing position, cramping the whole way. Soon I was walking, though the cramps threatened with every lift of the leg over mud or fallen tree. We walked and chatted for a while, surviving the leg, which never improved.
Between the bogged out mud sections I would attempt to run for a minute or two behind those that passed me. It never lasted very long but I made progress. Just when I thought it would never end, I emerged to the Snowville aid station and the 50.4 mile mark, halfway. Defeated, I sat in a chair attempting to eat and drink whatever possible. My watch read 9:30, which was a decent split despite the horrific last 4 miles. As I staggered down the road past the point where I had thrown up in 2008, I remembered just how long I had to limp before Boston store. Most people around me were now walking substantial portions of the course and I continued to attempt to run small sections as long as my cramps abated and energy sustained. This continued for a few miles, but soon it would become evident that this was no way to complete the day. I was slowly crashing and there was nothing that could be done about it. For the final two miles, I could no longer run, and I began to think of how I would handle meeting my pacer, struggling on for 10 miles, and finally admitting defeat to Sarah.
I pushed with all I had to jog down the road to Boston store but after 80m, it was a waste of energy. I stumbled to the curb and just started walking. Just ahead, Sarah stood on the sidewalk, calling me in. Immediately the tears came to my eyes and a feeling of disappointment washed through me. She wasn’t 10 miles ahead as planned. She was here, and she knew I was in trouble.
I plopped in the grass exasperated and began to tell Mike and Sarah my troubles. Mostly, I contemplated what was wrong with me – why was I continuing to have trouble feeling good even after fueling and pacing well? Like a good crew, they pulled me up and said to just walk on. Just see what happens. Reluctantly, I ate some food and began to walk out with Mike. We had about 3.9 miles to the next aid station and I was agreeable to try and see if things would improve, even though I was persistent that they would not. We walked for a bit and I tried to show him my problem. Amazingly, no cramps came, but the sitting and walking had left my quads shot and heavy. A mile-long hill allowed us to walk uninterrupted before gingerly jogging into the trail. We continued to chat and walk, running very brief spurts of trail when I could, which was infrequently and never longer than 30 seconds or so. While the cramps had vanished, my legs now proved to be empty. Gu and Gatorade went in but the sugars were now turning the stomach and I knew that my time was limited. We arrived at the next aid station and ate some more. Like the best crew that they are, the push was to go on. My stance was this: I can keep walking. I might be able to walk to the finish from here (I had 17 hours). But did I want to? Was that how I wanted to spend my day, walking on the trail? Plus, my concern was that eventually, the body would quit, and I would not be able to walk the prerequisite 2.5 miles per hour, making the day worthless. Can you imagine walking 55 miles only to miss some cutoff by minutes? Kill me now.
But leave we did and negotiated a mile of trail before hitting a road. While a road sounds nice, the pavement pounding on tired legs was more torture, not to mention the beauty of the trail was now gone. We could see a long way and it never seemed to end. Even the short bursts of “running” (which were now sad shuffles at about 16 min/mile) left me completely winded on the flat road. Mike later said he knew this was where it would end, watching my eyes roll back in my head with the effort. But we struggled on, down a horribly monotonous bike and hike trail, with people walking ahead and people walking behind. My feet started to feel like I was walking on sandpaper. It had stopped raining hours ago. After several miles, the feeling changed from one of scraping and rawness to a dull, almost painless throb that resembled walking with blocks of ice strapped to the bottom of my feet. None of these are good signs, and I knew that even if my body held up, my feet were on a rapid demise. As we got closer to the aid station, I put in all I had left. I led a run of about 300m around a field and parking lot, the most I had run continuously in about 4 hours. Then, with only one stretch of trail to go, I gave it a go, letting all worry and pain go and just ran. This was the best I had felt in about 25 miles, and it seems like I could have gone on another section. But I could not. The effort left me completely finished – there would be no more running that day. After nearly 15 hours, most of the last 7 hours at a walk or sloppy jog, I determined that my day was done. Another DNF.
When reflecting on it, I am not disappointed or sad. Sure, I wanted to finish the race. But not like that. I have a Leadville and Western State buckle, I know I can do this. But hiking all afternoon and night to possibly struggle in, no, I have been in the hospital enough to know that isn’t worth it. That limp, that isn’t why I run. I am not some endurance junkie that loves to go longer and harder than before. I run ultras because I love to run, and ultras let you run more. But ask me if I enjoyed this race? No. I did not love the 10 hours of rain. I hated the swampy, slick, and dangerous trail. And while pain and slowing is inevitable in any long race, to be slashed at 47 miles and have to walk the rest, that isn’t my idea of enjoyment, in any sense of the word. I let my crew push me on from 55 miles. They wanted to know it wasn’t a low point – they wanted to know I did what I could. And did I at 55? No. I couldn’t be happier to have left and completed those next couple of segments. I left it all on the trail, 100%, there was no question that I had my day and my day was done. And that is a result I can live with.
A little glimpse of the feet after dropping out. The deep ridges represent blisters folded under other skin.
Is the 100 miler right for me? I am at a serious crossroads where I do not know if it is. I am becoming more and more interested in exploring other (shorter) distances and potentially other events, depending on where I end up living in this world. My immediate plans are to recover, build into shape, and take advantage of great weather and running partners in South Africa. I will do a bunch of marathons and go back to Comrades, possibly for Silver, but more just because I love the event. I might go to Boston this year. I will use my qualifier from WSER to enter Hardrock lottery, and if I get in, I will be ecstatic at the prospect of attempting and hopefully completing the toughest of the major races. Plus, I have completed those in the mountains while failing elsewhere. There will be no preconceived notions of time or place – it will be a finishing attempt, bar none. If not, well, let’s see how this all pans out.
