While any ultramarathon is a daunting endeavor, the 100 miler is a special personal challenge. You cannot escape that it will hurt and you will be out there in the mountains for a day or more. What tacks on specific significance is knowing it might be the last one you ever run.
After more than two years (and potentially up to 5 years) of intense stomach problems due to a “bacterial imbalance” in the digestive system, I have resolved that I will not continue to run ultramarathons if I have this condition. One of two things will happen: Either I will get over this by living in a different environment by digesting different local bacteria and sorting it out, or I will visit a specialist – again – and get it rectified. Unless either of these options provide a solution to the sloshy, frothing, turbulent gut that has plagued me for years, I will no longer subject myself to discomfort and ultimate failure on the trail. The cost is too high. As a father, husband, and career man, my time on the trail is valuable, and when repeatedly it ends in pain, health problems, and failure, it is time to assess the limits of what is worth my time and effort.
Coming off a year of dedication, incredible training, and stellar racing only to have the pinnacle event – Comrades – end in failure, left me unable to be motivated through June and July. Couple that with leaving South Africa, traveling around the US and to foreign countries, living out of suitcases in crowded houses, and trying to get shopped, shipped, and sorted for a move to Qatar, it left little doubt that my “running” was merely just going through the motions. I did manage a weekend of 16/20 milers. The next week I jumped in the Volkslaufe in Frankenmuth and finished 17th overall in a barn-burning 20K. My time of 1:15:59 was not amazing but very solid for no speed. Unfortunately I missed the age-group stein, finishing 4th (when I could have won one in either the 5K or 10K).
Come race week I didn’t change my life – no added rest, no eating healthier, no more hydration than usual, didn’t abstain from beer. I just went about my business and boarded the plane. My suitcase contained, shirts, shorts, shoes, and socks. I left the Band-Aids, body glides, baby powder, sunscreen and the 1000 other items recommended for an ultra at home. This was going to be a Spartan event, just me in the woods. No tricks or gimmicks. Just relentless forward progress or bust. Throw in the fact that I had diarrhea for the 5 days prior to the race (from my typical stomach problem or my travels South of the border, I can't say), and you have a less-than-ideal pre-race plan. So be it.
My pre-race follies and preparation are not all that unusual if you consider why I was coming here in the first place. For years I have avoided the Tahoe Rim Trail (TRT). It is all but uncrewable and pacers cannot run in front of the runner. You are really alone. Perfect for a guy who wanted one last go at the 100 but no pity form family, no sympathy, no car to get into and quit. Just carry on. And do it with someone else. Enter Michael. My tried and true pacer from years back will run his first 100 with me. We will leave the wives at home, hit the line together, and embark into the great adventure of the wilderness. If one drops, he sits for a day waiting for the other as punishment. We have no bail plan.
Michael went and screwed it all up. With a new house and an uneasy job situation, his training flagged, and flagged is an understatement compared to what it had been the last few years. He didn’t do the work and although his repeated intentions to pony up were good, he admitted in May that his race was over before it started. He offered to pace but I was torn. The purpose was to go at this alone. No excuses. Would a person out there assist in finishing or assist in quitting? I didn’t want that. After a few weeks of self-debate, I relented and invited him to join. This takes us to July, 2014.
Any good runner will tell you to never check your bag on the way to a race. I didn’t, but once I landed in Chicago, they told me they were no longer accepting any bags on the plane and I would have to check. Connect to LAX and on to Reno. Sure enough, the bag is missing. Of course. It arrived a day later. Resolved to finish this no matter the walking and struggles, I set off on the morning of July 19th, my 34th birthday, at a conservative effort. I immediately walked up the first hill while everyone else ran. In fact, I walked EVERY hill in the first 35 miles. I was not leaving anything up to chance. If my body was going to fail on me, it wasn’t going to be as a result of going out too hard or not eating/drinking enough. After 7 miles and just above the first aid station (Hobart), we crested a ridge and were graced with about the most beautiful site in the world: Lake Tahoe from the East at dawn. I was so enamored that I frequently slowed to a walk just to look at the view. Snow-capped mountains in the distance gleamed pink in the early morning light, rising high above the massive blue span of the lake (I can't find an image on Google that comes close).
While the first 6 miles were largely uphill, the next 5 were mostly downhill. I attached to a group of 10 or so people and we worked our way down the single track trail. Arriving in Tunnel Creak, all systems were go. My next few miles proved difficult as we rolled downhill quickly over the course of a couple of miles. Finally reaching the basin and lowest point of the course (6,800FT), we climbed up a step grade. Most people elected to slam the downhill only to die on the climb. I opted for a conservative descent with 89 miles to go and climbed well, catching back up to those who left the aid station earlier than myself. Once we hit the Red House, we climbed again before running out a few miles to the final climb: the ascent back up the sandy path to Tunnel Creak. The temps were rising and I drank a 24oz bottle on the way to the Red House and half another on the way out.
Arriving back at 17 miles, I was down about 5 lbs from my pre-race weight. Determined to not let this be a problem, I drank 16 oz and ate on the undulating path to Bull Wheel at the top of the ski mountain. We were now 20 miles in and had 10 miles to the next aid spot. The trail climbed up and around the mountain and then dropped very heavily back to the lake. Much of the last 7 miles of this leg were downhill, mostly with hard switchbacks and large rock jumps for mountain bikers. My legs and body were growing tired of the descent, though the loss in altitude brought more oxygen (and higher temps). Rolling into Diamond Peak aid station (mile 30), I met Michael for the first time. Not feeling 100% but optimistic that my pace had been relatively safe (6 hours for 30 miles) I was looking forward to the next 20 before meeting Michael again. My weight was only down ½ lb from 13 miles previous, a great testament to my efforts to hydrate and eat.
How quickly the tide turns. From the lodge, we immediately started up. The next segment gained more than 1800ft in 2 miles. It was a hellish ski mountain that started steep (everyone walked) and got more intense in the second half. My early pace was conservative as I received beta to not push the hike. 50 min was the average estimate for the climb. I tucked in. Within 10-15 min, I was slaughtered. As the slope steepened, I began to grow weary. I stopped to rest before soldiering on. Soon I was weaving on the climb, losing ground in the sandy path with each step. To stop on the climb meant a sudden dizzy feeling and a leg twinge of crap on its way. After reaching about 2/3 of the climb, I sat on a rock in the shade, hoping my heart rate would return to normal before continuing. My head started spinning and I had to lower myself to the ground to prevent rolling down the mountain and hitting my head if I passed out, which almost happened. Clearly I needed to keep moving. Each false summit yielded a huge climb ahead with runners strewn about the climb, some going up, others hunched over. I could barely move and about 50 people passed me. In the final 100 meters of the climb I was unable to speak. The climb had taken me 68 minutes to travel 2 miles – the hardest 2 miles I have ever encountered outside of mountaineering. I stumbled over the top and inched down the short trail from the top of the ski lift to the aid station. My answer was a mute groan with the volunteer asked my number upon entering.
Offered a seat in the shade, walked over and inadvertently kicked a root or rock. Instantly my right calf muscle locked up and I went stumbling forward. My water bottle flew in the air, pack thudded to the ground, and I lunged for the Tupperware box housing supplies. I screamed and tried to set my leg in a position it would release but I could not get the leg to relax. Nearly in tears I inched it back over the course of a minute and it relented eventually. Exhausted, I stumbled into a chair and lowered my head. A physiotherapist was there and she helped to refuel me. I explained my history and she put me on the cot to tape my leg. Determined that the climb was a low point, I agreed to soldier on. I had been in the aid station 30 min. My pace for the last two miles was 45 min/mile.
Limping down the trail, I remained optimistic. My leg did feel better and I figured an easy 3 miles to Tunnel Creek would reward me. Running was difficult on tired legs and soon the uphills were killing me. Heat would wash over my face and I slowed to a crawl. At 1 mile into the 3 mile leg, I vomited. Running was done. It was the beginning of my issues. The legs cramp because they are not getting the nutrients. The liquids I take in just sit and when trying to add the salts and electrolytes to avoid the cramping, the stomach goes sloshy and vomiting occurs. It is the same every time. Inching along, I vomited again at mile 2 of the leg. Things were hurting and going poorly. I tried to drink and threw up again. People were very helpful, always asking what I needed and offering help. Most I waived on but a few I accepted their tablets and pills. Stumbling into Tunnel Creek, I had covered 35 miles and was in deep, deep trouble. The previous 5 miles (including aid station and the ski mountain) took me 2 hours and 40 minutes, meaning I salvaged 3 miles per hour for the last hour, the only real “downhill” segment of the course so far.
Weaving though other runners and volunteers, I crashed down onto the medical cot. Five minutes later a doctor came by and asked how I was. We discussed my downfall and my history, including the repeated cramping, failures, seizure, and dehydration. He was concerned and started the testing. My pulse was 98 after walking most of the last 3 hours and my blood pressure revealed why: 86/50. This was the lowest I have every tested. Due to not peeing in 6-7 hours, the doctor took blood and ran some tests. My kidney functions were non-existent. I was informed that I would need to eat, drink, and pee before being allowed to leave. Two Dixie cups of Coke/Water (4 oz) were manageable but I couldn’t drink my bottle. An anti-nausea med was administered but I wasn’t nauseous so much as empty. I lay in that tent for an hour and the doctor said I was looking pretty bad. He said he wanted me started on an IV. Of course, this is grounds for disqualification.
I had promised myself I would not quit. I would have to be pulled by aid stations or a doctor and I was. The thought that I couldn’t walk on the entire way and finish the race in the time frame is inconceivable to the normal mind. But once the body has gone this far into the hurt locker, even the most ridiculously slow paces cannot be managed. The body refuses. The mind cannot overcome the failure of its carrier. They wouldn’t pull me at Bull Wheel (not that I wanted to walk down that stupid mountain again) but they did at Tunnel Creek). It is a good thing too as it was 5 more miles to Hobart and from there, an additional 6 to the start (or 10 the long way to 50). I took in a litre of saline solution but really didn’t feel any better. The reassessment showed my pulse at 62 (8000feet) and my BP at 105/71, a significant improvement. I was deemed suitable to live and just had to remain in the aid station for 90 min until a transport could be arranged. Thankful to be alive, I bounced down the road in an SUV for 30 min back to the start. The next few hours and days brought the normal sorness after an ultra. The IV sure helped the head and stomach, but the legs had that familiar tenderized feeling. However, considering it was the slowest 35 miles I have ever run, the question was, why was I so sore? The answer is obvious when looking at each of the failures over the past few years.
Disappointed? Yes, but not with the result. I am devastated there is something wrong with me, something that does not seem to be clearing itself nor responding to medication. This has to change. If this is my retirement from ultra running, so be it. As a Leadville and Western States finisher, I can live with that. But what I cannot accept is that this problem will limit every endeavor from now on. What if this keeps happening earlier and earlier as it has? Soon it will affect my marathon. I want to climb mountains and ride bicycles. Both will require me to go over 5 hours. I cannot afford to let this go unchecked.
After more than two years (and potentially up to 5 years) of intense stomach problems due to a “bacterial imbalance” in the digestive system, I have resolved that I will not continue to run ultramarathons if I have this condition. One of two things will happen: Either I will get over this by living in a different environment by digesting different local bacteria and sorting it out, or I will visit a specialist – again – and get it rectified. Unless either of these options provide a solution to the sloshy, frothing, turbulent gut that has plagued me for years, I will no longer subject myself to discomfort and ultimate failure on the trail. The cost is too high. As a father, husband, and career man, my time on the trail is valuable, and when repeatedly it ends in pain, health problems, and failure, it is time to assess the limits of what is worth my time and effort.
Coming off a year of dedication, incredible training, and stellar racing only to have the pinnacle event – Comrades – end in failure, left me unable to be motivated through June and July. Couple that with leaving South Africa, traveling around the US and to foreign countries, living out of suitcases in crowded houses, and trying to get shopped, shipped, and sorted for a move to Qatar, it left little doubt that my “running” was merely just going through the motions. I did manage a weekend of 16/20 milers. The next week I jumped in the Volkslaufe in Frankenmuth and finished 17th overall in a barn-burning 20K. My time of 1:15:59 was not amazing but very solid for no speed. Unfortunately I missed the age-group stein, finishing 4th (when I could have won one in either the 5K or 10K).
Come race week I didn’t change my life – no added rest, no eating healthier, no more hydration than usual, didn’t abstain from beer. I just went about my business and boarded the plane. My suitcase contained, shirts, shorts, shoes, and socks. I left the Band-Aids, body glides, baby powder, sunscreen and the 1000 other items recommended for an ultra at home. This was going to be a Spartan event, just me in the woods. No tricks or gimmicks. Just relentless forward progress or bust. Throw in the fact that I had diarrhea for the 5 days prior to the race (from my typical stomach problem or my travels South of the border, I can't say), and you have a less-than-ideal pre-race plan. So be it.
My pre-race follies and preparation are not all that unusual if you consider why I was coming here in the first place. For years I have avoided the Tahoe Rim Trail (TRT). It is all but uncrewable and pacers cannot run in front of the runner. You are really alone. Perfect for a guy who wanted one last go at the 100 but no pity form family, no sympathy, no car to get into and quit. Just carry on. And do it with someone else. Enter Michael. My tried and true pacer from years back will run his first 100 with me. We will leave the wives at home, hit the line together, and embark into the great adventure of the wilderness. If one drops, he sits for a day waiting for the other as punishment. We have no bail plan.
Michael went and screwed it all up. With a new house and an uneasy job situation, his training flagged, and flagged is an understatement compared to what it had been the last few years. He didn’t do the work and although his repeated intentions to pony up were good, he admitted in May that his race was over before it started. He offered to pace but I was torn. The purpose was to go at this alone. No excuses. Would a person out there assist in finishing or assist in quitting? I didn’t want that. After a few weeks of self-debate, I relented and invited him to join. This takes us to July, 2014.
Any good runner will tell you to never check your bag on the way to a race. I didn’t, but once I landed in Chicago, they told me they were no longer accepting any bags on the plane and I would have to check. Connect to LAX and on to Reno. Sure enough, the bag is missing. Of course. It arrived a day later. Resolved to finish this no matter the walking and struggles, I set off on the morning of July 19th, my 34th birthday, at a conservative effort. I immediately walked up the first hill while everyone else ran. In fact, I walked EVERY hill in the first 35 miles. I was not leaving anything up to chance. If my body was going to fail on me, it wasn’t going to be as a result of going out too hard or not eating/drinking enough. After 7 miles and just above the first aid station (Hobart), we crested a ridge and were graced with about the most beautiful site in the world: Lake Tahoe from the East at dawn. I was so enamored that I frequently slowed to a walk just to look at the view. Snow-capped mountains in the distance gleamed pink in the early morning light, rising high above the massive blue span of the lake (I can't find an image on Google that comes close).
While the first 6 miles were largely uphill, the next 5 were mostly downhill. I attached to a group of 10 or so people and we worked our way down the single track trail. Arriving in Tunnel Creak, all systems were go. My next few miles proved difficult as we rolled downhill quickly over the course of a couple of miles. Finally reaching the basin and lowest point of the course (6,800FT), we climbed up a step grade. Most people elected to slam the downhill only to die on the climb. I opted for a conservative descent with 89 miles to go and climbed well, catching back up to those who left the aid station earlier than myself. Once we hit the Red House, we climbed again before running out a few miles to the final climb: the ascent back up the sandy path to Tunnel Creak. The temps were rising and I drank a 24oz bottle on the way to the Red House and half another on the way out.
Arriving back at 17 miles, I was down about 5 lbs from my pre-race weight. Determined to not let this be a problem, I drank 16 oz and ate on the undulating path to Bull Wheel at the top of the ski mountain. We were now 20 miles in and had 10 miles to the next aid spot. The trail climbed up and around the mountain and then dropped very heavily back to the lake. Much of the last 7 miles of this leg were downhill, mostly with hard switchbacks and large rock jumps for mountain bikers. My legs and body were growing tired of the descent, though the loss in altitude brought more oxygen (and higher temps). Rolling into Diamond Peak aid station (mile 30), I met Michael for the first time. Not feeling 100% but optimistic that my pace had been relatively safe (6 hours for 30 miles) I was looking forward to the next 20 before meeting Michael again. My weight was only down ½ lb from 13 miles previous, a great testament to my efforts to hydrate and eat.
How quickly the tide turns. From the lodge, we immediately started up. The next segment gained more than 1800ft in 2 miles. It was a hellish ski mountain that started steep (everyone walked) and got more intense in the second half. My early pace was conservative as I received beta to not push the hike. 50 min was the average estimate for the climb. I tucked in. Within 10-15 min, I was slaughtered. As the slope steepened, I began to grow weary. I stopped to rest before soldiering on. Soon I was weaving on the climb, losing ground in the sandy path with each step. To stop on the climb meant a sudden dizzy feeling and a leg twinge of crap on its way. After reaching about 2/3 of the climb, I sat on a rock in the shade, hoping my heart rate would return to normal before continuing. My head started spinning and I had to lower myself to the ground to prevent rolling down the mountain and hitting my head if I passed out, which almost happened. Clearly I needed to keep moving. Each false summit yielded a huge climb ahead with runners strewn about the climb, some going up, others hunched over. I could barely move and about 50 people passed me. In the final 100 meters of the climb I was unable to speak. The climb had taken me 68 minutes to travel 2 miles – the hardest 2 miles I have ever encountered outside of mountaineering. I stumbled over the top and inched down the short trail from the top of the ski lift to the aid station. My answer was a mute groan with the volunteer asked my number upon entering.
Offered a seat in the shade, walked over and inadvertently kicked a root or rock. Instantly my right calf muscle locked up and I went stumbling forward. My water bottle flew in the air, pack thudded to the ground, and I lunged for the Tupperware box housing supplies. I screamed and tried to set my leg in a position it would release but I could not get the leg to relax. Nearly in tears I inched it back over the course of a minute and it relented eventually. Exhausted, I stumbled into a chair and lowered my head. A physiotherapist was there and she helped to refuel me. I explained my history and she put me on the cot to tape my leg. Determined that the climb was a low point, I agreed to soldier on. I had been in the aid station 30 min. My pace for the last two miles was 45 min/mile.
Limping down the trail, I remained optimistic. My leg did feel better and I figured an easy 3 miles to Tunnel Creek would reward me. Running was difficult on tired legs and soon the uphills were killing me. Heat would wash over my face and I slowed to a crawl. At 1 mile into the 3 mile leg, I vomited. Running was done. It was the beginning of my issues. The legs cramp because they are not getting the nutrients. The liquids I take in just sit and when trying to add the salts and electrolytes to avoid the cramping, the stomach goes sloshy and vomiting occurs. It is the same every time. Inching along, I vomited again at mile 2 of the leg. Things were hurting and going poorly. I tried to drink and threw up again. People were very helpful, always asking what I needed and offering help. Most I waived on but a few I accepted their tablets and pills. Stumbling into Tunnel Creek, I had covered 35 miles and was in deep, deep trouble. The previous 5 miles (including aid station and the ski mountain) took me 2 hours and 40 minutes, meaning I salvaged 3 miles per hour for the last hour, the only real “downhill” segment of the course so far.
Weaving though other runners and volunteers, I crashed down onto the medical cot. Five minutes later a doctor came by and asked how I was. We discussed my downfall and my history, including the repeated cramping, failures, seizure, and dehydration. He was concerned and started the testing. My pulse was 98 after walking most of the last 3 hours and my blood pressure revealed why: 86/50. This was the lowest I have every tested. Due to not peeing in 6-7 hours, the doctor took blood and ran some tests. My kidney functions were non-existent. I was informed that I would need to eat, drink, and pee before being allowed to leave. Two Dixie cups of Coke/Water (4 oz) were manageable but I couldn’t drink my bottle. An anti-nausea med was administered but I wasn’t nauseous so much as empty. I lay in that tent for an hour and the doctor said I was looking pretty bad. He said he wanted me started on an IV. Of course, this is grounds for disqualification.
I had promised myself I would not quit. I would have to be pulled by aid stations or a doctor and I was. The thought that I couldn’t walk on the entire way and finish the race in the time frame is inconceivable to the normal mind. But once the body has gone this far into the hurt locker, even the most ridiculously slow paces cannot be managed. The body refuses. The mind cannot overcome the failure of its carrier. They wouldn’t pull me at Bull Wheel (not that I wanted to walk down that stupid mountain again) but they did at Tunnel Creek). It is a good thing too as it was 5 more miles to Hobart and from there, an additional 6 to the start (or 10 the long way to 50). I took in a litre of saline solution but really didn’t feel any better. The reassessment showed my pulse at 62 (8000feet) and my BP at 105/71, a significant improvement. I was deemed suitable to live and just had to remain in the aid station for 90 min until a transport could be arranged. Thankful to be alive, I bounced down the road in an SUV for 30 min back to the start. The next few hours and days brought the normal sorness after an ultra. The IV sure helped the head and stomach, but the legs had that familiar tenderized feeling. However, considering it was the slowest 35 miles I have ever run, the question was, why was I so sore? The answer is obvious when looking at each of the failures over the past few years.
Disappointed? Yes, but not with the result. I am devastated there is something wrong with me, something that does not seem to be clearing itself nor responding to medication. This has to change. If this is my retirement from ultra running, so be it. As a Leadville and Western States finisher, I can live with that. But what I cannot accept is that this problem will limit every endeavor from now on. What if this keeps happening earlier and earlier as it has? Soon it will affect my marathon. I want to climb mountains and ride bicycles. Both will require me to go over 5 hours. I cannot afford to let this go unchecked.
