Watermarked photos by Mile90 Photography used with permission
Under the heading of truly bad advice is the maxim: "Shoot for the moon and you'll reach the treetops." Well, no, you won't. You'll waste all your time trying to raise several billion dollars for a rocket ship rather than doing something useful like buying a ladder. Dream big, but keep your actual goals realistic. That said, one never knows what realistic is without setting a few goals that call that into question. And it was with that in mind that I decided I would try to win the Heartland 100. I've never even won my age group in a 100, much less the overall, so this was definitely throwing one out there.
Of course, the feasibility of such a goal is highly dependent on who else shows up. Running a 100 well means tending to one's own progress and not that of others, so I build my strategy on the assumption that the winning time will be somewhere between 17:30 and 18:00. I'll run my pace to 75 and, if the leaders are in reach, join the fray. My PR is 17:50 at Mother Road which featured similar profile and slightly cooler conditions. The main difference is that all but a mile of this one is gravel, whereas MR100 was predominantly paved. I'm not sure if that's a big distinction. It's a stretch, but not crazy.
I arrive in Cassoday, KS Friday afternoon in time to catch most of the pre-race briefing. The only item of note is that we should expect to see cattle on the course. We're told to just walk calmly if they are on the road and they shouldn't be any trouble. I have an uncle with a cattle farm and have enough experience with these animals to believe that, but I'm still hoping they leave me alone. Less of a concern are the prairie chickens, of which Cassoday is the self-proclaimed world capital. I generally don't dispute such assertions, but not seeing a single chicken of any type all weekend, I feel the good folks of Cassoday (all 39 of them) may be guilty of puffery.
I've only brought one drop bag and I churn a bit over which station to send it to. I have a change of shoes (which I don't intend to use, but it's always good to have the option), some warmer clothes for the night, and my brighter light. Since we're on roads the whole way, both my lights are tiny, but the one I'll start with (and carry the whole race) is an older LED that doesn't throw quite as much light. Teterville, at 25/75 miles seems the most logical since the forecast doesn't call for anything too cold prior to the 16th hour of the race. In contrast, David Stores, who traveled with me, has a box for nearly every station. Even though he doesn't plan to use them all, he likes having options. There is probably some merit to that; it's just not the way I've ever done it.
As Cassoday makes no claims about being the lodging capitol of anywhere, we have to drive a half hour back to Emporia for the night. Once settled in, we go for a short jog to loosen up during which we observe that we'll want headlamps starting at about 7:30PM, thirteen and a half hours in. We set multiple phones and watches to alarm at 4AM and get to bed early.
The hotel breakfast doesn't start until an hour after the race is on, so I make my own oatmeal in the morning. We drive back to Cassoday and collect our timing chips. There's no wind (yet), but the 46F temperature is enough for me to opt for a full sleeve shirt on top of my racing T. My gloves and warm hat are in my drop bag, but I figure I'll be OK without those. A Thunderstorm is raging to the east, but there's nothing but stars overhead. The forecast is for clear skies well into tomorrow. Shortly before 6, we are lined up, given some last-minute instructions (none of which I remember), and sent on our way.
Thanks to my pace training runs, I have no difficulty finding the correct pace (though it still seems crazy slow). There's a fair bit of shuffling positions early on, but by mile 2, I seem to be settled into around 30th place in the field of 120. David is running alongside me as is Amy Ewing from Fort Worth. We strike up a lively conversation during which we find that this is her first 100. She also drops that she's run the Pike's Peak Marathon in 6:20, so she's clearly got some fitness.
We are running straight east and as the sky begins to lighten, we are treated to the sort of natural display one is fortunate to experience once a decade. I've seen the sun come up over distant mountains before and it's all very pretty. And if one was to see a still photo of this sunrise, one could easily believe that's what one was looking at. However, these "mountains" are really thunderclouds that are lighting up in choreographed patterns as the discharge chains back and forth along the front. Then, just before the sun breaks above the clouds, eight perfectly-spaced beams of gold pierce the sky. The show concludes with the blinding appearance of the sun just as we arrive at the Battle Creek aid station (mile 8.3).
We are now heading north and north east, which has us feeling the effects of an increasingly strong north wind. The locals insist this is their version of a light breeze, but anywhere else in the world it would be labeled "brisk" or even "howling". It's strong enough that I have to tighten the band on my cap to keep it from flying off.
While the hills are neither large nor steep, there are a lot of them. In reality, "Flint Hills" is something of a misnomer. This area is actually a huge (as in several hundred square miles) reentrant system carved out of the plateau draining to the west. Flint Valleys would be more apt. As such, at every crest we are rewarded with an expansive view of the prairie. I had worried that seeing the road stretch out for miles ahead might be somewhat mind-numbing, but in reality I find it inspiring to find myself such a small traveler in such a large place.
Knowing that the entire profile falls within a 300-foot band of altitude, it strikes me as odd that I seem to be running uphill a lot more than down. This is always true to some degree since you obviously cover ground quicker on the descents, but the disparity is larger than expected. I finally realize that it's an optical illusion created by the fact that the road extends all the way to the horizon line. Level ground appears to be slightly uphill. On one of the longer steady grades I look behind me and confirm that the road seems to rise in that direction as well. M. C. Escher would have loved this place.
The out and back course has 18 cattle guards each way. Most of them are between Teterville and the turnaround. They aren't particularly hard to cross, though it would be an insane risk to try it at a run. My feet are big enough that I can plant my heel on one rail and my toe on the next, which makes slipping through almost impossible. Amy has to do it on tiptoes and notes it's a bit nerve-wracking to try to be precise when your legs are getting tired.
What I experience next takes chills to outright terror. To my left, I hear the rumbling of hooves that can only mean one thing: it's a STAMPEDE! Well, that's maybe overstating a bit, but when 40 head of cattle are coming right for you at full run, it's close enough. I'm sure they aren't after me, but that fact didn't save Mufasa. There's a cattle guard just 100 feet in front of me and I sprint up to it and turn to watch the herd cross the road behind me. Seems that I got them to look and, having done that, they noticed that there was fresh hay in their feed pen on the far side of the road being consumed by a smaller group. They all want some while the getting is good and there is much jostling around the rail of the pen as the larger group muscles in. You wouldn't think that hay would be such a treat in the middle of a million acres of prairie grass, but cattle aren't the brightest beings on earth.
About 20 minutes shy of the turn, I pass the first of the leaders coming back the other way. Eight more pass before I get to the Lone Tree aid station where I am enthusiastically greeted by Eric Steele of Epic Ultras. I arrive at 8:50 (nearly 3PM), which is only a bit slower than expected, but I'm concerned that my depleted fluid levels are going to make my typical third-25 trough deeper and wider than usual. It seems a stretch to hope that all nine runners ahead of me cave and I'm in no position to mount a surge, so I decide to put the thoughts of the win out of my head and just focus on getting myself back to full speed as quickly as possible.
The climb up from the turnaround is the largest on the course. I run most of it, albeit slowly. After refilling my bottles at the unmanned station at 53, I walk for a bit, sipping water and eating some potato chips. Amy passes me and is looking really good; probably well under 10:00/mi. Despite an easy shuffle back to Matfield Green, nobody else comes by.
At Matfield Green, I begin the expected wrestling match with my own demons. Because the course is shaped like a big horseshoe, I could run directly back to the finish in just a couple hours. But, even that wouldn't be necessary as many of the crew vehicles are headed back that way. With the win out of reach and even a sub-19 looking unlikely, the impulse to pack it in is almost overwhelming. Still, everything is currently working and I am able to keep fluids down (but not much else). It seems a bit premature to be throwing in the towel.
I shuffle back to Ridgeline, losing another position in the process. There, the aid station captain insists I eat some of his beans. I'm sure they're great, but I'm equally sure they'd come back up. Rather than accept that, he gets a bit pushy, explaining to me how important it is that I get some food in me. He was trying to be helpful, but arguing with a runner who's on the brink of emotional collapse is pretty much the opposite of that. I flee the aid station nearly in tears and am about a mile down the road before I realize that I failed to get my bottles filled. The sun is getting pretty low and the breeze is still providing some cooling, so there's no chance of overheating, but it means that I'm going to go further in the hole on hydration. I run another two miles until my water runs out and then walk the remaining two to Texaco Hill.
In stark contrast, the workers at Texaco Hill offer nothing but solace. As a competitive effort, my race is over, so I sit with them a bit and we talk softly and watch the western sky darken while I down several cups of noodles and broth. One of the workers even walks half a mile down the road with me while I finish a cup of hot chocolate. I pull out my little light and resume running.
It's slow at first, but the break has done the trick. Within a mile I'm back on pace. My stomach is settled, my legs are fine, and I appear to be gaining on fluid (though I'm still a bit in debt on that front). The only significant problem is my feet. During the day it was pretty easy to miss the bigger stones. Now that my light source is a wimpy LED mounted half an inch above my eyes, the road is just a uniform gray blur. I'm wearing my Montrails with the beefy rock plate in the midsole, but I'm still taking some bruises.
I arrive at Teterville (75 miles) at 14:31 (8:31 PM). While I'm feeling OK, I decide another long stop is in order. I have several more cups of noodles and broth and also dig out my hat, gloves, wind shirt, and good light from my drop bag.
Between the better light and the gravel being a bit finer grain, I have less trouble with my feet on the eight miles to Lapland. There are several other runners at the station in various degrees of distress. My stomach is still not completely back and I don't want to take another long break, so I just grab some pretzels and eat them while walking out of the station. The next few miles are hilly, but I don't find it necessary to walk much. The hill up to the water drop midway to Battle Creek is a lot longer than I remember from the morning. After refilling my bottles, I walk for a bit. I run for another three miles, almost to the aid station and go to pieces.
Anybody who's been doing endurance sports for more than a few years knows what it feels like to bonk. The mechanism is fairly well understood. The liver turns on the low fuel light and the brain, which unlike muscles has no alternative fuel source says, "If I go, y'all go" and pulls the keys out of the ignition. There's no real discomfort, you just don't go anywhere fast.
That's not what this is. I'm sure it's some sort of hypoglycemic shock, but both the suddenness and the severity are unlike anything I've experienced in 42 years of running and cycling. I stagger wildly from one side of the road to the other, barely able to keep my balance. My vision is wavy and tunneled. The feeling leaves my hands, ears, and feet (that last part I'm OK with). I force down a gel packet and try to make sure I don't turn around and start going the wrong way (a mistake that happens more frequently than you might think in longer ultras and I now understand why). At the aid station I can recover or I can drop, but out here on the road things can only get worse. It takes half an hour to cover the mile to Battle Creek and the reaction from the aid station workers indicates that I look every bit as bad as I feel.
Abandoning all pretense, I drop into a chair in the aid tent. The fire on the far side of the road is inviting, but it's also more exposed to the wind. I'm not at all confident of my body's ability to heat itself right now. This station doesn't have noodles and broth, but they do have a good potato soup which my stomach is happy to pass forward rather than back. Knowing it's over eight miles to the finish with only an unmanned drop en route, I need to be absolutely sure I'm stable before heading out again. I spend a full half hour in the aid station. Amazingly, the only runner that comes through in that time is the leader of the 50-mile event that started at 6PM. I start to leave but don't get more than 100m down the road before I begin to shake from the cold. My wind shirt does a fine job of blocking the wind, but doesn't offer much insulation. I walk back to the aid station where I'm offered a long-sleeved cotton T. If it was raining or I was sweaty, that would just make things worse. Since neither of those are true, I take it and it does help quite a bit.
I walk the first half mile to get loosened up again, then move into an easy jog. Then a firm jog. Then I'm running again. By the water drop at 95.3, I'm moving comfortably and decide to salvage a little dignity by finishing strong. Remarkably, the legs respond without complaint (actually, my legs never gave me any trouble this run - it was the rest of my body that was in outright revolt). I run the final 4.7 miles in 44 minutes, picking off a place right near the end.
Lessons? Well, the obvious one I already knew: little things become big things the longer the race goes. I simply missed that I was getting salt depleted. In a shorter event, I would have got away with it; in a 100, you pay. It also appears I took my recovery too much for granted. A longer stop for another cup of noodles at Lapland may well have been all that was needed to avoid the meltdown at 91. Never assume all your debts are paid until you cross the finish line.
Regrets? None whatsoever. That said, I think I'm going to step back from 100's for a while. They're just a bit too far for me to find them enjoyable. I know that most people would regard that as comically understated, but it's a distinction that matters to me. I simply find it much more interesting to be knocking out 8:30 miles in a 50 than 10:30's in a 100. Maybe I'd like the distance more if I backed way off so I didn't experience so much duress. Or, maybe it would be fun if I could run 8:30's for 100 miles. But those two options strike me as the ground and the moon. I'm still aiming for treetops.
Note 10/2015: now that I'm in grad school, the ground is sounding like a better target. As such, I've started running 100's again; not as races, but to stay connected with the sport and people who are such a big part of my life.
