Potawatomi Trail 100

April 11-12, 2015

Crazy descents

Still stinging from the DNF at Mark Twain 100 (the only running race I've ever failed to complete), I probably should have run Prairie Spirit or some other Rails-To-Trails event to get my confidence back. Instead, I signed up for Potawatomi. On the surface, it appears to be a modest effort in the context of this distance; 16,000 feet of elevation gain with no mountains, the 10-mile loop gives you regular access to supplies, generally cool weather, and a reputation for excellent organization and support. But, that's not the full story.

While it's certainly true that the hills aren't large, they are exceedingly steep, particularly the descents. That takes a real toll on the quads in a long event. The lack of any rock means that even a little moisture is enough to turn the trail into mudslide. Two stream crossings per lap make this is a wet-foot event, even if it's not raining (and it often is).

So, when I see Peoria getting hit by 2" of rain in the two days before the race, I prepare for a grim battle with the elements. I arrive at McNaughton Park Friday afternoon and am pleased to find that at least the start/finish area is dry so I won't have to pitch my tent in a puddle. Some have set up camp a ways off the course to be away from the noise of runners, their crews, and the aid station generator. Having grown up a block away from a railway, I usually sleep through outside noises, so I put my tent right next to the course just 100 feet shy of the finish line. That way, I can access all my stuff without adding any distance.

Finish chute shanty town.

 After getting my campsite set up, I wander over to registration to collect my race number and ask, "So, how deep are the crossings." The Race Director shrugs and says, "Just a splash, we haven't had any rain." I look for the smile and when none appears I say, "Surely, you're joking." "No, really, it all went north of us." He then points out a woman finishing a lap in the 150-mile event (which started this morning) and notes the lack of mud on her shoes and legs.

It seems too good to be true, but a short reconnaissance run to check out both crossings bears it out: the stream is less than a foot deep and the trail is fast and firm. I know better to think that will make it easy, but it certainly takes the dread out of it. I take in the provided pre-race fare (typical pasta and bread) and get off to bed.

Easy crossings

I set an alarm, but it's not needed as the entire camp decides to get moving an hour ahead of the 6AM start for the 100 and 50-mile distances. I don't know just how cold it is, but the presence of a thick frost on the grass and tent indicate that it's well below freezing. I hate setting up my tiny stove when it's this cold, so I go over to the aid station and score some coffee from them. It's not as good as the Kaldi's I brought, but it sure is more convenient. I have a Clif Bar in lieu of my usual oatmeal.

Despite the cold, I start in shorts. On the top, I have my Fleet Feet jersey covered by an old wind shirt. The sun won't appear for a few more minutes, but it's light enough that I leave my big light at my tent and just go with my tiny headlamp.

A quick check of the lap board for the two races that have already started shows that the leader in the 200 (yes, really, 200 miles) is already past half way. I decide I want to make sure I finish before him. I also decide that I don't care if I finish before Zachary Pligge, who is, without bravado, telling one of his friends that he hopes to break the course record for 100 miles today. As one who has on rare occasion set a course record, I've found them to be dangerous goals. Listen to your body and run well and you may or may not succeed. Chase an arbitrary time set by someone else in a previous year, and you're likely to go down in flames. At any rate, he'll either get it or he won't, but I will certainly not be finishing in under 17 hours, so I have no intention of trying to match his opening laps.

The opening descent is a little dicey with my tiny light, so I take it slow. At the bottom, we get about a mile of truly flat running (the only such stretch on the course) in the open fields along the stream. I settle into what feels like an easy rhythm with about a dozen runners ahead. The fastest part of the course behind us, we now transition abruptly to the steep singletrack that comprises about half the course. There's a significant climb up from the field, followed by another mile of short, steep climbs and drops to the Totem Pole aid station. I'm certainly not needing anything at this point, so I don't stop.

The Beach

From the aid, we get another fairly easy mile on doubletrack. It's very sandy in spots, which has earned it the moniker, "The Beach." This gentle cruise ends at the first stream crossing. The water is icy cold and the far bank is already pretty slick but, as stream crossings go, it's a fairly easy one. The next two miles are where the course really gets down to business. The trail oscillates between the stream and a golf course on top of the ridge. Six steep climbs (with matching descents) representing about half the total elevation change are packed into this short stretch. At the top of the last, we pop out of the woods to arrive at the Heaven's Gate aid station. We've been running for about an hour, so I do stop to grab a handful of trail mix and a cup of water.

While the aid station isn't much beyond half distance for the loop, all the major obstacles are in the first half. The remaining miles are mostly fields and very runnable singletrack including the delightful Heaven's Gate loop which bobs and weaves it's way along a gurgling stream. The second stream crossing comes a mile from the finish and it's a bit of a grunt back up the ridge to the camp. I walk the ascent, taking the opportunity to shed my wind shirt, hat, and gloves. As we pass through the disc golf course just before the conclusion of the lap, I note that the grass is still covered in frost, so the temps haven't risen much. I'm pretty chilly with my outer layer shed, but the sky is cloud free and I'm sure it will warm up soon.

I drop my headlamp and extra clothes at my tent and run through the timing mats at 7:46. Obviously, that pace isn't sustainable, but I don't feel like I've done any damage. I've been running at my normal long-run effort and walking the steep uphills. I haven't figured out any way to get down the descents easily, so I've been taking them fairly fast figuring, if I'm going to pay for them, I should at least get some time in exchange.

More crazy descents

A little extra time collecting food and walking out of aid stations on subsequent laps results in slightly slower splits, but I still get to the end of lap four at 1:13PM. I make a few observations along the way:

• Between the relatively short loop and the presence of runners from three other distances, it's pretty much impossible to keep track of where I am. The runners in the 200 and 150 are all moving pretty slowly, but even among the 100 and 50-mile fields there is a tremendous variance of pace. And, not just among the lapped runners. Some of the early leaders have clearly overbaked it. I decide I don't need to worry about my position just yet.
• Pancakes at Heaven's Gate aid station on lap 2! Had to pass on the syrup because I wasn't going to walk out of there carrying a plate, but they were still yummy.
• Assuming that I can't continue to run these steep descents, walking may not be that much slower. The entire passage through the toughest mile along the golf course (which includes one climb so steep, I use the provided rope to help pull myself up) is only about 15 minutes. Walking the whole mile would be more like 20. I can give up five minutes a lap and still do fine.
• Speaking of the golf course, it's really quite nice; comparable to the most exclusive links in St. Louis. A friend of mine is the son of a C-level exec at Caterpillar Tractor. His dad doesn't play golf, but lives on a golf course because he likes the view. I wonder if one of the houses I see on the other side of the fairway is his. If I was a senior exec working in Peoria, this is where I'd live.
• Two face plants while lollygagging on the Heaven's Gate loop (on laps 2 and 4, the latter garnering me praise for my tuck and roll form from Matt Hanson who was right behind me at the time) are enough to convince me that I need to remember my pre-race strategy for avoiding falls: run firm or walk, but don't run slow. It just invites disaster because your foot carriage gets sloppy. I firmly resolve to stick to that plan (as a result, I don't trip the rest of the race).
• It's not hot, but it's starting to get warm. Between that and the stream crossings, blisters are a very real threat. I start monitoring my salt intake closely, taking an S-cap each lap coming into Heaven's Gate and the Start/Finish. I generally don't get blisters if I keep my electrolyte levels where they need to be; seems to affect the way the skin reacts with water (which makes sense, since that's how sweat is regulated).
• Zachery will not be setting any course records today. After holding a firm pace through three laps, he fades on lap 4, completing the lap just a few minutes ahead of me and decides that such a precipitous drop in speed before the halfway mark is a sign to pack it in. He says he's somewhat disappointed, but he's learned a lot. He's also only 26 which makes him an infant in the ultrarunning world. He's got at least 20 good years ahead of him if he takes care of himself.

I make a pace adjustment on the next lap in deference to the heat. It's only high 70's, but there's no reason to push through it to save a couple minutes. Matt, who had taken a longer break at the end of lap 4, catches back up at the Heaven's Gate aid station. We run together for the next couple miles, but it's clear that he wants to hold onto the pace for a bit longer, so I let him go. At the second stream crossing, I pass Alec Bath, who has been ahead of me all race. I finish the loop at 3:07.

Just over 9 hours for 50 is in line with expectations, but my quads have taken a beating on the descents. I'm going to have to figure something else out because I can't keep running them. I was hoping to get to 75 miles before it got really dark so I'd only have to do the nasty technical section twice with lights. During dinner last evening I noted that's just before 8PM. Getting another 25 miles in before then is not looking feasible, especially since between here and there is

The Abyss

I know it's coming; it always does. Somewhere in the third quarter of the race will be a point where the will to continue and the desire to stop converge. There is a physical component of this; you obviously get tired after running 50 miles. At Kettle Moraine in 2012, the heat pushed the phenomenon forward and it hit at 40 miles. However, even in that extreme case, there was nothing fundamentally wrong with the body; it just needed some cooling. The Abyss is about perseverance and it's the reason that 100 miles is considered THE distance to conquer to be a true ultrarunner (though I happily admit 50K runners to the club). At 100K, or even in a 12-hour timed ultra, you get to the Abyss, but are close enough to the finish that you don't have to get through it. You just push to the finish the best you can. In a 100, you must travel the (usually dark, as it often hits just before sunset) path all the way down and, assuming you don't quit, back up the other side.

I would not say that I've had a particularly traumatic life. I've had some bad stuff, for sure: the loss of a younger sister, a divorce, an adoption that went horribly wrong but, taken as a whole, my life has been pretty awesome. And, I mean that in the true sense of the word. I am filled with awe at how fortunate I've been. The Abyss turns that completely inside out. It brings me face to face with true despair; the feeling that I simply cannot go on. And, in the hazed state of exhaustion, the brain does not make a distinction between, "The race can't go on" and "Life can't go on."

If that was all there was to it, I would agree with those that say ultrarunners are at least a bit crazy and the pursuit is an unhealthy addiction (actually, I might still agree with that, but let's move on). There's more. Unlike shorter races where things only get worse as the distance progresses, the Abyss has two sides. While the climb out of the valley is hard, the far rim is just as high as the one descended. Unless something physiological really has gone wrong, the last miles are often some of the best in the race. It is this simple fact that makes the 100 so special. Completing a 100 means going to one of the darkest corners of your existence, choosing to continue, and realizing that that one simple decision was all it took to make it better. This is life affirming in ways that our normal lives simply can't match.

That said, as I look at the transition from running as a competitive pursuit to one of holistic activity, I wouldn't mind taking a bit of the edge off these suicidal moments. So, I have come into this race with the idea that I'll not fight the decline, but rather embrace it. I'll walk more between miles 50 and 75, even before I feel like I have to, and not worry so much about the fact it might cost me a place or time that I would formerly have cared about. For a type-A like myself, this is no small thing, but I need to come to terms with it or quit the sport altogether.

All this is a long way of saying that I walk a lot of the technical sections on lap six.

At the end of the lap, I decide a shoe change is in order. My feet seem to be holding up pretty well but, with more walking in my future, the chance of blisters increases. Plus, the steep descents have caused the side of my right shoe to give out and there's now a tear where the upper joins to the sole. In another lap, that could blow out completely and, while I like barefoot running, I don't think this is the best time for it.

I'm tired, but not feeling too bad. Still, with dry feet for the first time in 11 hours, this seems like a fine time to take an extended walk break. I walk the entire technical section between the opening field and the Totem aid station. From there, I need to get back on it as I realize I forgot to pick up my light for this lap. I get back to my tent at 7:41 with the sky quickly darkening. As it's obvious that I won't even get to the technical stuff, much less through it, before dark, I decide now's a good time to find out how I'm doing.

"Eleventh," says the girl at the start/finish. Now that can't possibly be right. I know I'm not winning, but there were never more than a dozen runners ahead of me and most of them were in the 50. I ask to see the splits and am mortified to see that they don't have my split for the end of lap 6. The race director is standing just a few feet away and quickly tells me that he saw me finish 6 and they'll get it straightened out. He then calls together the 30-mile field which will start at 8PM so we have a few more folks on the trail through the night. I don't want to get mixed in with them right away, so I hustle off.

The decline is very steep now. I'm tired. There's no chance of winning. There's no chance of breaking 20 hours (rats - one of my many odd preferences is that I like the first digit of my time to match that of the winner and from the reports I'm getting at aid stations, Matt is looking pretty good to go sub-20). So, again, I choose not to fight it and walk the entire technical section leading into the Totem aid station. The night is absolutely beautiful; clear sky filled with stars, mid 50's, no wind. A few of the 30-milers pass me, but mostly I have the trail to myself. It's almost the opposite of the Abyss - it is the embodiment of serene and contentment. Still, at this pace, I'll still be out here midday tomorrow, and I don't want that, so I get back to jogging after the aid station.

I'm immediately joined by three others running the 30. These guys are so Chicago, they could stand in on a Saturday Night Live Superfans skit. They are everything I'm not right now. Jocular, excited, and very, very loud. It's fun to run with them and they pull me through the tough two miles in pretty good order. At Heaven's Gate, I decide to let them go because the aid station is serving my favorite late race food: chicken noodle soup. Despite the objections from my lower body, I run the Heaven's Gate loop firm since all of my body would very much object to another fall right now. Once back in the fields, I finish out the lap at an easy jog with a couple walk breaks thrown in for good measure. The lap split is a whopping 2:51, but I am definitely climbing up the other side and not once have I truly wished to quit (or that I didn't enter, or that I hadn't been born).

Buoyed by that success, I walk the technical section into Totem again on lap 9. I had purposely not put my wind shirt back on because I wanted the cool to keep me alert. At walking pace, it's getting downright frigid, but at least I'm not sleepy.

Alex catches me just as I arrive accompanied by his wife who is pacing him. She's a little surprised to find that I'm on the same lap as she had been told he was in the lead at 40 miles. Indeed he was, but I guess she missed that Matt and I went by at the end of lap 5. Alex remembers me passing but not Matt. Hard to imagine not noticing Matt; he and Eric Steele are the biggest ultrarunners of any quality that I've ever met. Both are a few inches taller than me with massive shoulders and arms. I have no idea how anyone with that much upper body weight can run distance so well, but they make it work. At any rate, Alex sets off at a determined pace to hunt him down. While I'm feeling better, I'm not up for a fight yet, so I settle back into an easy jog. They are a minute up the trail when we get to the stream crossing. I'm walking descents and climbs now, so soon they are out of sight entirely.

At the Heaven's Gate aid station, I again stop long enough to down a bowl of soup. As I'm finishing up, I see headlamps moving towards us through the field. I haven't passed anybody this lap, so this is a catch from behind. It's time to end this vacation and get back to the business of finishing a race. A podium finish is worth fighting for. I head out determined that I will keep my foot on the gas for the remaining 15 miles.

And, I do. It's not the morning's pace, but it is definitely running with just the usual walk breaks thrown in. Aside from my quads, which are completely trashed from the descents, everything is working fine. Matt and Alex also find some push at the end, so I continue to lose ground to them, but I gain on everybody else, closing out lap 10 at 3:44AM to take third overall. Turns out that wasn't ever in doubt. The runner catching me must have been in the 30-mile because I'm a full lap up on the fourth place finisher. I'm glad I didn't know that, because the perceived challenge did help get me back in the game at a time I might have decided to just coast it in. My split on six has been added back in so I am given an official finish time of 21:44:37. Thanks to the good conditions this year, that turns out to be the 9th fastest time ever for this course. Matt's winning time is 19:36:20 and Alex slots in at 21:17:36.

While this is my first time finishing a 100 in the top 3, I'd still say that my 9th at Kettle Moraine in 2012 was a better result. The field was stronger there and I did a better job of maintaining a good pace through the night. Still, this was a really good run for me. Certainly a huge improvement over the last two (which were so bad, I was seriously wondering if I might be done with these things for good).

Far more importantly, I really enjoyed this race. It was long and hard as hundreds always are. In fact, those crazy descents probably make it the toughest 100 course I've ever run. It succeeded in bringing me to a place where I had to ask some serious questions about whether to keep going. But, the answer was always an unequivocal yes. I knew with conviction that forward progress was all that was needed. And, when it did pass, the last three hours were among the best I've ever spent on trail, as they often are in these things. There is a calmness that comes from having passed through the Abyss and knowing that you will be able to run the rest of the way and it won't even hurt (well, my quads were barking a bit from the descents, but it wasn't bad).

That said, once I've confirmed that they have me for all 10 laps, I don't linger. I'm very glad that I only have to cover another 100 feet to get to my tent. Once there, I sleep.