There and Back Again - R2R2R

Someone should run across this thing

It's midnight on June 7th, and a chill runs through my bones despite being in a desert.  It is anticipation - the feeling of excitement I get when I know what I have to do will not come as a given. That scene from Shawshank Redemption materializes in my head, where Red says (ah, Morgan Freeman's voice can inspire anyone), "I find I'm so excited I can barely sit still or hold a thought in my head. I think it is the excitement only a free man can feel, a free man at the start of a long journey whose conclusion is uncertain." I glance out, but my headlamp only illuminates the next 40 feet, and I know what lies beyond it cannot be seen by a mere torch. If I could see it, in that moment, I might turn back to the comfort of a bed.  But I am not here because it is easy. I am here because of what Emerson said about "what lies behind us and what lies before us are small matters compared to what lies within us." And I never hoped that to be more true. Because out there in that vast void, the darkness more than night, lies before me the Grand Canyon of the United States, and I am about to run across it - in summer - and turn around and do it all over again. 

18 months earlier:

Long-time running buddy Michael, as is his fashion, sends me a note about some big runs he wants to do. I have retired from the ultra, but my interest piqued at his plans, and we said, let's run across the Grand Canyon, in the summer, and then run back again - the runner's classic Rim-to-Rim-to-Rim (R2R2R).  The thought of this bucket list run kept me going for many months while I struggled to deal with pollution, living in India, and finding a purpose in running.  Michael, meanwhile, flirted with elite running while coming dangerously close to not running at all, then broke his foot at the end of the year.  Our goal was now in jeopardy and Michael wasn't able to train. We pulled the plug, but something in each of us did not want the dream to die. I tried to recruit another guy but he couldn't make it. So, March 1st came and went, our drop dead date, and I sent a hard message to Michael, one that said we can do this. His reply was, "Let's go" and it was on.

True to the title of this blog, we did not plan well.  We didn't want this huge reconnaissance of a mission down to every last detail.  We just wanted to run, and when it hurt, slow, and eat and walk when we felt like it, on our terms, not driven by competition or the clock. Our agreement was to high five at the start and head down the trail, and we would take it from there. Some say that's ill advised on a 50 mile foot journey in harsh environments like the Grand Canyon.  Others call it adventure. 

I ran two marathons in February and completed my third Two Oceans Marathon (56km) down in South Africa at the end of March. I found 35-45 mile weeks again and got very strong in the core. I padded my days with 15 milers on the weekends and threw in two 20 milers for that added push. It was the most amount of running I had done in a year, and probably years. But no training in India was really going to save me from the vicious pounding of the downhills, the uneven terrain of the trail, and the relentless uphill climbs of the Grand Canyon. I figured it didn't matter as Michael and I would just survive it together. Then I got the call.

Michael freaked out. He had done some running and put in some really significant weekends. But he struggled on a 50k and decided he was not ready.  I felt like I had talked him into this twice already and I would not be responsible for a third time. What if he got hurt? What if he needed to be hospitalized? What if he fell and died? I didn't want that hanging over me.  I told him to call it off.  But I was still going at this (after all, I bought the ticket and the hotel).

It made all the difference. Perhaps because I wasn't motivated, or maybe because someone would be there, I wasn't giving the R2R2R its fair respect. I figured we would just make it.  But when I was suddenly on my own, a fire sparked inside that I had not had for a long time. I started running. I put in a 20 miler. I upped my weekly mileage consistently to 50+ and then I turned a corner. I started running more (went 9+5, 10.3, 7.3+6, and 11+4 in just 4 week days), put in my 2nd run of the day in the Delhi heat (100-108 degrees F) and hit the gym for leg presses, weighted, lunges, and squats. I averaged a half marathon per day for a while, and hit 72.6 miles in a week (my most since South Africa four years before).

My journey begins on the South Rim at the Bright Angel Trailhead: elevation 6,860 feet (2,093 m) and descends for 9 miles to a low point of 2400ft.  After that I climb for more than 14 miles up to the North Kaibab Trailhead: elevation 8241 feet (2512m).  When I get there, I will turn around and do it all in reverse.  My body will experience 21,100 feet of elevation gain/loss over 47 miles (to put that in perspective, the Leadville 100 has 15,600 ft. over the total distance).

Survival kit - to be carried into the Grand Canyon

My watch ticks midnight and I start down the trail. In the first half I'm only worried about two things causing me a problem: mountain lions and falling off the trail. Within steps of starting I stumble and find myself dangerously close to an edge that leads into blackness and certain death. I proceeded down the twisting, turning Trail past 1 1/2 Mile Resthouse and stopping only briefly at 3 Mile Resthouse house for some water. It is very difficult going downhill this much and by the time I reach Indian Garden Campground, I have lost 3000 feet in elevation in under 5 miles. It is like doing a road race if the course was all sand and down a set of stairs.  I run into a couple of hikers almost immediately from the top and after that a guy looking for his sons who went to the river hours before. I eventually crossed them and I don't see another soul for almost three and a half hours. Just after Indian Garden, I am able to run a little bit better as the trail somewhat levels. Despite being all downhill, I am trying to save my legs and the difficulty of the course still has me running between 10 and 12 minute miles. It feels slow but I cannot see more than a few few ahead, the trail is rough, danger is high, and I know there is work to come.

Although it is dark I can still see tremendous rock formations and rivers winding their way down with me.  I make my way to River Resthouse which is about 8 miles down from the trail head, but I don't know this. I have left the map and the passenger seat of the car at the trail head, my first big mistake of the day. My memory tells me that the bridge is somewhere around 7 miles but in fact it is much further. I pass the last point and start to work away from the river, convinced that I am on the wrong trail. As I start to climb again, panic sets in. The 7th, 8th, and 9th mile pass and I am certain that I am going to run 15 miles, turn around, and head back up without completing my journey.  However, out of the darkness the river returns and I cross Silver Bridge, avoiding the murky waters of the Colorado River below.

At Bright Angel camp I refill water and I'm startled by deer who are mesmerized by my headlamp. Now starts a significant climb from the river's bottom and the lowest point on the course 7.2 miles up to Cottonwood Campground. It is the longest stretch on the course. However, there is only 1600 feet of elevation gain in this long stretch and I am able to run nearly all of it. With the threat of falling off the edge now removed, I turn my attention to avoid stepping on hairy spiders and scorpions. When I'm not fearing being poisoned from below, I fear disease from above. Moths are attracted to light, and and what human orifice lies just below a headlamp? I ate more than a few months. But what eats moths (besides me)? Bats. They continuously dive-bombed right in front of my face catching whatever bugs I wasn't already consuming. Since you can't see them coming, the gush of their wings inches from my nose is quite a shock in the darkness.

Just after Cottonwood Campground (~17mi) I encounter a creature on the trail, its eyes gleaming off the light from my headlamp. It is a skunk, and I throw rocks at it trying to scare it off the trail but it only becomes more aggressive, inching towards me, hissing, and turning around to spray. Not wanting to spend the next 30 miles - and several days - smelling like a skunk, I relent and climb the scree, through the cacti and around to a further point on the trail. Skunk wins this round.

Sunrise on the climb to the North Rim

The temps at the start were cool and I have left my long sleeve shirt in the car, along with my gloves. It pays off in the canyon, with temps reasonably warm (85 degrees), even at 2am.  But as I climb higher towards the north rim, the temps drop quickly and I find myself starting to get chilly, even though the sun is starting to rise. This will mark my second major mistake of the day. My GPS watch tells me that I am nearing the top of the North Rim; however, I have yet to reach the tunnel and I know this is more than 1.5 miles from the top. The trail is very sandy and difficult to walk up. I stop for water and my fingers get wet as does the cloth on my water bottles. The temps have now dropped back to almost 46 degrees Fahrenheit, and my fingers have gone numb. After 5 hours and 42 minutes, with hands freezing, I crest the North Rim at 8241 feet, having covered between 23.5 to 25.1 miles, depending on the source. My hands are shaking so badly I cannot open my pack. I quickly eat and refill my bottles. I beg a hiker to loan me his gloves which I will return as I start down the trail and catch him. While they provide little help I make a phone call home checking in with Sarah. It has taken me longer to get here and it was more difficult than I anticipated. I am at a low point and my voice crumbles in dismay. She encourages me to start down the trail where it will be warmer and mostly downhill. I do so.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dOwAlSdShmY

The morning view coming down the North Kaibab Trail

Within 2 miles of heading down, my fingers start to recover, temps rise, as does the sun. I pass many people who have started their journey from the North Rim that morning. They give me encouragement, baffled by the distance I have come already as nearly all of them will stop at the bottom of the canyon to camp for a night. Some say, "God bless you," others "Way to go," and my favorites are the ones who say nothing. The good part about this stretch now that the sun has come up is that the entire 13 miles down to the river is runnable. I question whether this is a good idea as there is still much left to do but I am okay with walking up the last part if needed. The trail winds down with high, red cliffs and green valleys lining rivers. After several hours of continuous running, my legs are growing tired, but the river marks a major milestone. It just never seems to come. By the time I pass Phantom Ranch I have had enough. The heat is excessive and my body has done its job. Refilling my bottles at Bright Angel, I make a decision. It would be my next major wrong choice on this journey, and a costly one.

I opt to carry on and go up the South Kaibab trail. I am tired and I know it is about 2.5 miles less than the route I came down, and I am now at 9.5 hours and have many miles left to go. What I don't consider is the following: 1) it is steeper with a higher elevation, 2) it is more exposed, 3) there is no water (damn map in my car), and 4) there are far fewer people on it. I cruise across the Black Bridge and BAM! I am done the moment I start the climb. Just like many times before (see TRT, Comrades 2014, and 2nd Leadville posts for the same situation). I am done running, my head spins, and I think I am going to pass out. I sit on the trail. It is about 100 degrees, and there are 7 miles and more than 5000 ft of elevation gain left. A group of guys offer me Gatorade and salt tablets which I take willingly. It is about this time where I realized that my packet of e-caps that I had with me fell out of my pack around mile 1 and I have not had any additional electrolytes other than food in 38 miles, despite hydrating well. After they feed me and put a bandanna on my head, I struggle up the hill to search for shade of which there is little. When there is some, I sit in it. Another family fills me with e-caps and water (which is gone within a mile). I manage to walk about 100m at a time before sitting when I find a shaded rock. By sit I mean crumple into a ball in the dirt with my leg muscles in full spasm. I take out my phone (no signal) and leave a final message to my wife. I feel passing out or seizure are likely outcomes and no one is here to help, not like they could do much. I fear death and get scared for the first time in any race or on any mountain. But the thought of seeing my family spurs me on and I pick myself up out of the dirt, over and over again in the hope that I will get home. The idea that I'm going to get home in time to take a shower before I need to check out of the room as long left my mind. However, I still can catch my flight home so I work my way up the hill. More than I want to shower I want to catch that flight and get home.

No refuge in the Grand Canyon

After 2.5 miles from the river I arrive at a place called Tip Off (4.4 miles and 3200 ft from the top). There is an emergency phone and I go pick it up. 911 connects me to search and rescue and I explain that I am in bad shape. They encourage me to walk briefly up the hill to a toilet shed, where there are provisions stashed. I am unable to open the box and I sit in the shade until some German hikers come. They go back down and call search and rescue and get the instructions to open the bin. I eat chips and electrolyte drinks trying to recover while lying under a toilet shed. The ranger advises me to stay there for the rest of the day until it cools down. It is about 11 o'clock so it will be many hours before that time. After a long while, I locked the crate and started up the mountain. The going was steep, the sun blistering hot, and I needed many breaks in the shade. Simply stopping, standing, or sitting would lead to muscle cramps and dizziness so I ended up laying on the rock or the dirt. My legs would often cramp and I would sip water rations knowing that there was not other water on the way up. I could take slow steps for 2-3 minutes and then rest for 5 minutes or more.  After what seemed like an eternity I reached Skeleton Point. I had 3 miles to go and another 2000 ft to climb.

The view far below Skeleton Point and just above my first respite point at Tip Off (visible in lower left)

I beg a hiker for a bottle of water which he relinquishes. I am only able to make it a minute or two at a time without stopping. It is a long, relentless climb to the next point which takes me about an hour and 40 minutes for one and a half miles. I reached Cedar Ridge which stands just 1100 feet below and 1.5 mi from the top. However I am absolutely destroyed when I get there.  No amount of reflection on past races, reading, or training can prepare you for when things go wrong.  The pain and hurt inside cannot be envisioned or shared. It remains only for the one in dire need. Empathy is not an attribute to be wasted on the ultra runner. No matter who is out there on the trail with you at any one point, when you run the ultra, you are alone. Utterly, unequivocally alone.

Sign on the trail - too real

Collapsing in a heap, I am unable to go any further. Another German couple takes interest and watches me throw up everything I have drank in the last half-hour. They consider this to be enough and walk out to the edge of the canyon and make a call to search and rescue (my phone would never work on this run other than at the North Rim). There is another dropbox and I am encouraged to drink water and eat salty snacks but I cannot do either. Instead I lay on the dry, roasting ground for two hours while flies attempt to lay larvae in my mucous membranes and ants bite me relentlessly. The couple call Sarah to tell her I am okay but struggling - the first she hears of me after being overdo in the canyon by 7 hours. It is now clear to me how people die on mountains: When the body shuts down, it seems so simple for us to say, "Just get up and move" but for the person in dire straits, it does not happen. On the mountain, wind and temps will cause a person to slowly die (perhaps oxygen too). Out here, I have never been so thirsty - I felt as if I was shriveling up, yet no water would go in.  The heat was relentless and sucking the life from me. In a few hours it would be more than 50 degrees colder than it was in the afternoon, and the exposure would surely have caused hypothermia. A body too destroyed to move would be too beaten to fight the chill, and I suspect death would follow far before the next sunrise.

The couple goes for a hike and when they return I throw up again, unable to have eaten or drank anything in my time there. They call for rescue again and the Rangers agree to send someone down. It will take 2 hours. I decide that two hours is far too long. It will be dark by then and cold and once the ranger gets there I will only be prompted to get up and walk out anyway. After arguing with the German man who claims I can't even stand, let alone walk, I get vertical and hobble up the trail. I figure 2 hours of moving closer to home is better than two hours of sitting there and still having a climb left to do. I am so close to finishing the run that with all that has happened it is the only saving grace I can muster. Never in the history of running has 1.5 miles seemed so long for me. Although it takes me a long time, I reach the top of the South Kaibab trail head as the sun sets. My GPS watch has long stopped working but my distance is around 45-47 miles and I have been out here on the trail for 19 hours and 39 minutes. I feel nothing - not joy or pain. I feel like the ride is still moving but I have stepped off. But I did R2R2R, even if it took me 8-9 hours longer than expected. (The first 38-40 miles took about 9 hours 10 min.  The last 6.9 miles took 10.5 hours.)

Don't just do it for yourself; run for a cause

2nd Half Video

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3-VPwwnucE4

The ranger that was dispatched to get me comes to the trail head a moment later and I introduced myself. He asked to check me out and my vitals, although low, do not alarm him. He phones in the results and the supervisor suggests we do more tests. After sitting in his car and warming up for a while, I give the Rangers a bit of more of my history. The combination of past and present suggest to him we might need a little bit more help and soon an ambulance arrives. They are reluctant to hang an IV bag but my blood test comes back and immediately they go into action. I have hyperkalemia, and they need to get me to the hospital to avoid heart attack. I am to be airlifted to Flagstaff but before we can take off my symptoms stabilized somewhat and the paramedics opted to drive me (I think they were happy to get the overtime). I have now been awake for 24 hours; we arrive at 11pm to the ER where I spend 4 hours before being admitted. Although my potassium has stabilized, my ck levels (measure of muscle breakdown in the blood that causes kidney issues) is at 11500 (just 230 times over the normal of 50), a problem called rhabdomyolysis. Over the course of a day and a half I get vitals once an hour and take more than 10 liters of fluid via IV. I sleep less than 6 hours in 3 days.

ER visit

That's Grand Canyon tan right there

The major problem is my vehicle is at the Grand Canyon, 1 hour and 45 min away. With it is my wallet, so - once released - I have no transport and no funds to get there and back. Just a guy covered in dirt with 11 bandaged holes in his arm from procedures, stinking to holy heaven, begging for a ride.  Luckily, my world travels never has me far from connections; my old friend Joe from Johannesburg popped over from his home in Flagstaff.  In between hikes he went out, retrieved my car and brought me clothes.  Why did I need clothes? Oh, that's right. All my stuff left in the hotel was missing. Sarah called and they claimed I requested a late check-out (I didn't) and was gone by noon (I never went back). Yet my items were nowhere to be found. Park Services is investigating it with a string of robberies. Items missing: 2 charger connectors and cords, Garmin charger, 4 port adapter, Timex watch, MSU Track bag, headphones, Ipad, Reef sandals (my favorite kind with the bottle opener in them), Columbia trekking pants, my shirt from climbing Mt. Elbrus in Russia, and a brand new, never worn pair of underwear.  For some reason I put the rest of my items in my car before running - I can't say why. And, thankfully, I made a last-minute decision to throw my wallet in the car before going to the trail head - otherwise that would have been a serious problem in getting gas, food, and a plane ticket home.

37 hours after pulling into the ER, I am busting out of there, against the wishes of my medical care team but no longer able to sit in a bed, pee in a cup, and be limited from the IV's in my arms.  I head south, trying to make a flight that afternoon. I call to have a friend book it as I am driving.  He does.  As I stop to enjoy an In-n-Out burger, I get the email confirmation of the flight - 7 weeks from today.  Luckily, Sarah is able to call and get this canceled, just as she was the other flights she had booked to get me out of there before knowing I was destined for the 3rd floor of Flagstaff Medical Center. After eating the price of the original ticket, we ended up paying a whopping $560 for a one-way flight out that night (again, Sarah had to get Expedia to refund me the $40 insurance I inadvertently booked), and a day and a half extra on the rental car. I had 8 hours to kill in Phoenix airport before an overnight to Chicago and a puddle jumper to GR.

What was supposed to be a scant 48 hours after I left Michigan ended up being 4.5 days, the wheels touched down again in Grand Rapids, and I had flown 3001 miles, driven 470 miles, and run 45 miles (and sat in an ambulance or hospital bed for 39 hours).  But I saw every inch of that Grand Canyon - twice - solo, in summer.

Epilogue

1 week earlier - I work all day in India, load 7 suitcases into a van in 118 degree heat, and commence to fly 20 hours with kids, plus an added layover of 7 hours plus a 4-hour drive from Chicago - I arrive beat. Jump into a hockey game - my first in a year - that night, and roll into my new house extremely sore the next day.  I move furniture and boxes for 36 hours before driving to the airport to fly out.  I forget car seats in the car. Then realize I have no wallet. Then no paperwork for the trip. I get all this and try to start the car - it wont start. I am taken to a shop for coolant. After two hours, I am finally more than 10 min from my house.  The flight to AZ is delayed 3 times (inside, at the gate, and on the runway). I am hardly able to walk at more than a limp and I have less than 14 hours till this run. Not an ideal start.

2 weeks post race - My recovery was slow. The pain in my back from the hospital bed turned out to be the worst of my "injuries" with my legs bouncing back more quickly, though attempting a 1.5 mile run 12 days post still was indication I am not back. My energy is low and I will need weeks to be back to normal, if not longer. I am, however, very glad to be alive considering how this could have ended.

People ask if it was worth it.  The answer is not simple.  No run is worth risking your life over. I should have never been in real danger - popular trail, access to water, fit enough to do it - but if the body goes, it goes. People drown in 2 inches of water and die on jogs around their neighborhood.  And make no mistake about it - it wasn't the heat, the pace, the elevation, or the distance that did me in - I have been there before. It was my own body. I have a clear pattern of my body responding this way, no matter my preparation or pace, the altitude or the distance, and the result has been the same. It wasn't always that way, but it has been for quite some time.  I can keep doing this and the result will be the same: I will end up going from running well for hours to complete shutdown in a matter of moments.  The only question is: will I need medical care to survive the outcome? And that is not a good conundrum to be in. While I am glad I completed this epic run, I am not happy with what it took to do so.  One day, the levels will spike and I won't bounce back, and I do not choose to push that envelope anymore.  I am retiring, again, from the ultra, and I am very happy to do so. There are many other adventures out there. 

Two Oceans Marathon: Revisited

Some call it the most beautiful run in the world; it would be hard to argue. All of the mundane city streets pass by while darkness prevails, and with the coming dawn runners find themselves approaching towering rock peaks, smelling the crisp, salty air, and approaching the forests that make this diverse route a holiday bucket list run for many. However, many will also agree that it is also one of the more difficult runs out there, at least from a course that is completely on road. At 35 miles (56km), it is a long pull, but beyond this, the fact that it is 28K of flat and downhill running which is then met by 28K of mountains, climbs, and descents, your legs will be toast by the end. It's a good thing South Africa does wine well.

Prior to our visit, I hadn't done much work. I was more consistently running, though not far. We were sent on our yearly trip with high school students and I ended up in the mountains.  While I hiked everyday and was exploring at altitude, I only managed a few brief runs.  A week of touring SA left us happy and nostalgic. We missed our once family home and were happy to be back. The emergence of craft beer and the incredible quality of wine (and cheap price) made for decent consumption.  The abundance of meat meant full bellies (and a little extra weight).  I ran the days that were not packed with events: petting cheetahs, holding lions, riding (and feeding and holding and eating) ostrich, zip line rides with chameleons climbing on us, walking with penguins on the beach, and touring the winelands.  In typical fashion, I arrived to the starting line less than prepared. Let the incondite adventure continue...

With plenty of time to kill before the start, I sat in my car and listened to wave after wave of the half marathon depart. It was a cool, Easter Saturday morning, dry - rain had pelted Cape Town the previous two days and it was feared the race would be a wet one.  Once the final gun had sounded, I departed the relative safety of the car and walked to the start line.  It was a mad house, with no possible way of joining the corrals.  Although I was a "B" entry, I went to the "A" corral as about 150 people were jammed outside of the entry to the gate. I found a similar situation up front but managed to squeeze close to the gate.  I was greeted with the SA national anthem and instantly the words (well, the English ones, anyway) returned, after not having sung them in four years. After the homage, the crowd burst into Shosholoza, may favorite pre-race song. I must admit, I believed Comrades to own this tradition, but Two Oceans, perhaps because of the smaller corrals, gave it a real run for its money. Check it out here (this is 2017, and the audio does not do it justice to the rising chorus, but it does give an idea of the people stuck outside the fencing.)

The cannon blasts and we were moving. Nothing is reportable about the first 10k of this race.  It is in the dark and down city streets with shops on either side. But the views over the next 25 miles are unchallengeable, so we tolerate the inconvenience.  My legs are flat from the gun - not a good sign of things to come. I soldier on, running into members of my former club, the Fourways Road Runners. We chat and return to our own paces. I see many others who I vaguely recall from my many runs of the past, but I am running slower now than then, and I soon see no more resemblance. It is an odd feeling having run an hour and ten minutes and see you have a marathon yet to go.

Once dawn comes we are moving through the course. I split the half marathon in a reasonable 1:43:30, and feel well in control. I would like to run 8:00/mile for a long while, and not faster. I know what lies on the other side of that mountain, and I don't intend to go harder than is necessary to arrive on schedule.  Soon we are rolling though Fish Hoek, one of my favorite views in SA.

The course here follows the shoreline and the mountains in the distance bring a unique dichotomy to the landscape of the country.  Just past town we cross my second favorite portion of the course: we drop, seemingly toward the beach but then angle away off into the land. Every year, the theme from The Chariots of Fire is played on a loop at this exact location. In one of my previous runnings there was a mist over the road and the runners in the fog, beach background, theme music, you get the picture....

Crusin' just outside of Fish Hoek

Those without a run under their belt enjoy the next portion. The veterans know the fun is soon over.  The last of the flat portions lie ahead, and then the halfway point marks the end of the beginning, or the beginning of the end, however it helps to see it.  I cross 28K, halfway, in 2:18, a reasonable pace yet slower than ever before and far off the split required for "Silver," the hardest silver in the country to earn.  We meandered up Little Chappies and embraced the view as a drop in the road here could only mean the climb was near.

My climb up Chapman's was steady. I had been in check for 2.5 hours. Now, I wouldn't say I let the dog off the chain because that would imply that I had any aggression in me, but I ran with a purpose and clawed back a few runners.  It is quite a long climb with many turns and false summits, but it was lovely running.

Heading up Chapman's with a Fourways runner

Runners heading up through the "tunnels" on Chapman's Peak (previous year)

That is, until the top.  Greeted by the usual band of crazies dressed all in green at the summit, I rounded the corner and saw about 60 people in front of me walking. I was puzzled only for about a second when the force of a huge wind blasted me sideways.  It was impossible to run, and people were weaving over to the aid station to get a drink.  I soldiered on, dealing with the wind as it slowed my pace to 9:30-10:00 per mile on the descent!  The first couple of kilometers off Chapman's is a relief, but after about 20 minutes I grew very sick of the relentless downhill.  The lay of the road is such that your hips and knees are way out of alignment as you slam down the steep pavement and most people pay for this section of the course, no matter how they run it. You are, after all, more than 20 miles in and it is a mountain you climbed and ran down.  Finally, the amazing town of Hout Bay, which had been below me for a long time, became level.  Crowds are great here (being the only point to drive to for quite some time) and it is flat.

Fighting the wind (hat backward) with runners blowing all over the road

My body held up as I worked through town and soon the 42K mark appeared. I crossed my marathon in 3:29:30, exactly the pace I wanted, but within a minute I knew that it was not to be. It was as if my body agreed to be cooperative for a marathon and not a step more.  My legs got really tired and heavy, the course was exposed and the sun got to me. The mix of Energade and Coke was starting to take its toll on my stomach which had gone sour.  I began the climb up Constantia Nek and planned to run it (less steep than Chapman's) but that didn't last long. I walked for the first time at about 44k, and it didn't seem to make a difference. People around me didn't pull away or catch up. It was just negative returns.  I alternated walking and running for a while but the running was less and the walking more. I turned in a 14:00 min mile. Yep. Legit. I crested the top and started down but the groin muscles were so shot that I had to be very cautious.  When I was running, I was back down in the 8:00-8:30 range, but anything up or down (and there is a lot of that from the top of Constantia to the end) and I would have to break it up with walks.  My body just quit.  People were going by me in waves and I cared not at all.  Looking at my watch again, I saw that I had lost most of the 90 minute cushion I had with 9 miles to go.

After the downhills, suffering on my way into Cape Town

After a murderous section of the forest behind me (I always have run poorly on that stretch and I think many would join me in that statement) I got out on the roads on the way to the university. I had about 30 minutes to run 5k to break the 5 hour mark and get the medal for doing so.  I could not have cared less, so I took it easy. Then I decided, nah, I can run this and would go again until a hill or the pain got too much. Then I would say, "Screw it!" and walk. Lather, rinse, repeat.  The pain was at its pinnacle, the will to push its lowest. It was haunting to think that I could no longer turn in a sub-30 min 5K.  Something in me said I could, and that this was more mind over body, so I limped back up to a run.  With 600m to go, I had 5 minutes in hand, and I turned to the guy next to me and said, "I have lost control of all other faculties. I think bladder control is next." It was a joke anyway, as there was nothing left to piss out.

Down the hill and into the lawn the guy said, "Relax, you got this." I laughed because I wasn't surging - I was unable to break because my quads were shot. The finish chute was a blur of noise but I managed to see my girls hanging on the fence.  I crossed the line and nearly collapsed, and grabbed a fence to hold myself up. The volunteers shouted for me to move on but I ignored them and the humming in my ears took over.  After a moment I waddled away and grabbed another fence and watched the last finisher before the 5-hour gun scramble across the line.  Many more were denied the Sainsbury medal, which I then collected.  Never had I suffered this much at a finish line. I found my family and crumbled into the grass - the pain was so intense I kept my eyes squeezed shut. It took several minutes before I could breathe without huge discomfort in my chest, and many more before I could sit up.  We wandered out of the stadium and up stairs (with breaks) to the bus. Sitting there, waiting to depart to the cars, I reached a new low. The hurt was so intense I thought I would puke.  Tears were close and I didnt see an end in sight.

Nothing but pain on the faces of this group

Ouch

Pain like I havent had in a LONG time

Finally in a sitting position

It was a long bus ride to the car, upstairs to an apartment, shower, and down to the waterfront. After nearly an hour there, my food came, at which point I was so destroyed I was laying on the bench. I couldn't order a beer or wine I was so messed up. But a bit of walking and hydrating and I resumed some form.  My overnight flight (17 hours) back to India does not rank among my more comfortable transportation moments either.   But, as Kirsten would say, it was job done.

I now realize that I can fake a marathon but I can't fake an ultra, and you can never be prepared enough for Two Oceans. I will do more consistent running and hope to add a couple of 20 milers before June 7th, the day I venture into the great unknown.



Promotional Video with clips from the 21k and 56k (in my opinion the people in this film are having too much fun).

From O to Ultra in 30 Days - The First Race in the Middle East

After 2.5 months off, I resumed running but for the first time in the Middle East. An opportunity to run an ultra presented itself so I signed up. Time to start running. The first day I went out for a 40 min run, the minimum allowable time for my normal run. Things went well for the first 15 minutes, then I got a bit tired, then I got downright shuffling. The next few days I was so sore with shin splints (those things beginning runners get) that I had to bike, use the elliptical and treadmill. After a week I worked up a few more decent runs. I went over an hour twice. Overall, 21 days of running leading up to the race.

21 days. And now I had a 50K. 31 miles. In one day.

31 miles, 11 miles more than I ran together in any of the first 3 weeks. I did crack an epic 34 mile week (with a 10 miler) in week 4. But it was go time.

No info came out on the race. My plan was to get up on Halloween, suffer through this race, nap, and take the kids trick or treating. Then, 4 days before the race, I get the packet, and find the race starts at 6, at night! This was a blow to the plan. But dropping the kids off at the Halloween party, I went to the race, collected my number, and milled around. I headed to the start line and, with about 150 others, set off into the night. It was 86 degrees Fahrenheit with 68% humidity.

The course was 10 x 5K loops with little elevation gain. I set off at a reasonable pace with the invited athletes (this was a world 50K trophy race) blasting out. I settled in with Hugh Hunter, a worldwide known ultra runner (who runs most races in a kilt – he has done the Sahara, Paris to London (run Paris marathon, run to London, run London), Badwater, Ironman, Mont Blanc, and 160 or more marathons), chatting the whole way. He started to flag after 3 laps but I really wanted to get through a lot of the run with my mind elsewhere so we stayed together though most of lap 4 before he walked. After dropping the pace and getting done with 5 laps, I was halfway there in about 2:13 but now alone. If I had jumped into a pool and came out, I would not have been dripping as much as I was during this run. When it cools about ½ a degree per hour, hot is hot and mid-80s is hot.

From here, the difficulties started to come in. I was tired. By 28K my quads really hurt. It was that dull hurt that gets only subtlety worse with each step, whether you go fast, slow, or just walk, so might as just go. The course had a decent amount of brick walkway which really made the feet ache and the ankles scream. While the course was closed, there were a few sections of annoyance, like the fat local kids roller blading on the course, or when women in full abaya wander into the course, either oblivious or indifferent to the many barriers crossed and runners coming their way. Another sad moment was when I saw locals throwing large rocks on the course as runners went by. There is just that lack of empathy here that is frustrating. And then when I saw flowers uprooted and tossed on the pavement– so sad to destroy the little plant life put here for our enjoyment. In true Doha fashion, this was cleaned up soon after, though.

Dead legged and struggling, I pushed through the marathon in 3:45 – slower than I ever thought I would run, but yet somehow faster than I should go with no running. From here, the last 2.5 laps put me in the hurt locker. I gritted through it and made the most of my last lap, hanging on with the best I could muster. My time was just less than a minute off last year’s winner, and I could have raced him for it. Hell, even a bit of training could have saved me 10 minutes. I wobbled after crossing the line and headed to medical. My legs were shot – nothing like the sudden shutdown of my previous ultra follies – this was a slow, steady demise of the body as a result of not training very much. I tried to get into an ice bath but it was too cold. Instead I sat and chatted with other lost souls, glad to see the vomit come from someone else for a change.

A woman walks in and asks me to wait 10 min before going to the ceremony. I had no idea what she was talking about. Turns out, there were two races – the invited Championship race and an open version. Despite running about 40 min slower than I would have in top shape, I took 2nd place! I hobbled over to the podium to accept my prize – a miniature trophy of the Torch Hotel and a bouquet of flowers, and was invited back the next day for a ceremony at the hotel. Full press conference, all of the big wigs of athletics in Qatar were there. Photos, cake cutting, speeches. I then found out that not only was there the trophy and open race, there was a Golf Coast Countries (GGC) Championship. Being a resident of Qatar, I then won the GCC 50K Championship! There may be better people out there, but for one day, I am the top ultra runner in Qatar and the Middle East!

Still sweating 1 hour after the finish

GCC Champion!

It was my original resolution to move away from running and focus on other things. But there is something special about running, about pushing yourself to your limit. There is something, after all, life affirming about almost dying. I would prefer, however, to be in a little bit better shape the next time around.

2nd Open Male, 1st GCC, and the fun little Torch Hotel trophy to go with it

Getting the championship trophy from a big shot in Doha

TRT 100 - Retirement Race

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.

Comrades 2014

or the race that never happened in my book...

The story of my latest 100 miler attempt starts with Comrades. After all, Comrades 2014 was what this year was supposed to be all about. I had trained so hard, sacrificed so much, all in the attempt for the elusive silver medal. My prep and arrival were ideal, but it was not to be. My entry is late to come due to not wanting to relive the tragedy. But in order to prepare for the future, we must study the past.

Roused by the typical start line energy and experiencing lower temps than 2013, everything started according to plan. Fearing too fast of a start, I began splitting each kilometer on my watch to be certain I did not burn out. In the dark of Pietermaritzburg, this proved to be a daunting reminder of how long the race actually is, but I was hitting just under my desired pace, so all was according to plan. Resolute not to let anyone run my race for me, I still managed to hook up with a man from Israel. He, too, was attempting his 4th Comrades and did not yet get silver.

No problems at table 1 as I take my water bottle from a club member.  See Israel in the back ground (blue).

We rolled on, hitting the desired pace. I was determined to walk at prescribed points and did while he preferred to run straight on (perhaps his problem), which caused some chase games for a while. I continued to be on pace although we separated in the run into halfway when I walked up part of Inchanga, catching and passing him at the top when he stopped to pee. From then on, I was alone. My halfway split of 3:37 proved to be a bit faster than I wanted but not too fast, and it allowed me to walk much of the nasty climb out of Durmmond. I passed 50K with no problems, still well on pace. Coming over Botha’s Hill, I felt funny, and pulled up to speak with Lindsey Parry, Comrades Coach and one of my training partners, expressing my fear that it wouldn’t hold up. He assured me it would and sent me on.

Within 2K I was suffering. A small hill left me in pain and feeling heat flashes. I was weaving as I walked. I soldiered on but running was becoming a chore. I went from sailing along at under 5 min/K to barely running a few hundred meters before stopping to walk. The more I did, the less I could run. By the Green Mile – the point on the course with perhaps the most energy from the spectators - I was taking ice massages and walks through the whole thing. My jogs shortened from a few minutes to a few seconds, and the cramping in my legs was incessant. Stumbling through Kloof I hit the pavement and had to be stretched by volunteers for about 10 min. Barely able to stand, I was encouraged to keep moving, though I wanted to bail. For the next kilometer, the course meandered slightly downhill – a feature welcomed by most but for me it was unrunable. I couldn’t even jog without cramping. I stopped with 24K to go. In my mind I knew that at the 23K mark the road dropped for 3K down Field’s Hill which is torture even on a good day. For me, it would be the end.

I hitchhiked a ride to the finish and despite two massages, still looked and felt like death. I was in worse shape after my 39 mile effort than I had been in any of the previous 54/56 mile efforts. Something was seriously wrong with me. It seems as though any running past 35 miles or 4.5 hours does me in. Has it always been this way? No, I could do WSER on tri training. So what has happened? Since the stomach issues of Victoria Falls two and a half years ago, I have been unable to go weeks without stomach pain, liquid fecal matter, or finish a long race (well). Last year’s Comrades was total muscle failure around 60K. I DNF’ed at Burning River 100 at 65 miles (but effectively stopped running around 50). This year the problems hit hard 55K in and that was it. My fatigue and reaction are nearly instantaneous. One expects the body to go through highs and lows in an ultra, but what I am experiencing is not a cycle but a shutdown and it happens much faster than a normal depletion of energy and onset of muscle fatigue should. I am now seeing that many of my struggles in the past 2 years are due to this issue, and question if it doesn’t date all the way back to the onset of the 2nd Leadville 100 I attempted. What I do know is that unless it clears, this is a futile journey.

Burning River 100

 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.

Wouldnt it be nice to feel as good at  50 miles as you look at 0 miles?

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.

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.