Double Chubb

Run April 16, 2016.

I figure anybody who reads my race reports has already figured out that I'm arrogant, so I'm going to open with a statement that will come off even more arrogant than I intend: there's not a lot about competition I don't know. There's plenty of stuff about various competitive activities that I don't know, but the essence of competition, I get that. So, when I retired from competition late last year (which then got postponed to this spring after the elite invite from The Woodlands), I felt like there was more I could have done, but not much more I could learn. That softened the blow of walking away, since much of my enjoyment of an activity comes from learning through the experience.

So here's a statement that's a little less in character: I was wrong. There are actually some very important things about competition I don't understand. But, to understand them, I need to stop competing.

Which brings us to the 18th edition of the Double Chubb. While I've only run it three times before, I've hit all three configurations of the course: the 1-lap 25K, the standard "Double" for 50K, and the infamously brutal "Quad Bypass" 50K, which is 4 laps of just the hilly section (used when the river section is flooded). As competitive efforts, they've ranged from good to great (the 2013 race on the quad course was quite possibly my best race ever). This year, however, I am very much entering it as an "event" rather than "race". Of course I'll run it firm because that's what you do, but I will not be stressing over my result, either by the watch or the finish order.

Easier said than done for someone like me, but the presence of my college roommate, Kevin Robertson, makes it a bit easier. He's running the single which will be his longest trail run ever. He's run full marathons, so I'm not worried about him finishing, but it's always better to run conservatively when you're going into new territory. Stressing that to him helps keep my own competitive urges under control.

While the start conditions are on the cool side of pleasant, the humidity is already high and the bright sky is a harbinger of warmer temps. Foliage is late this year so, even in the woods, there won't be much shade. The run up the road to the trailhead has nobody too interested in laying down a hard pace. A few firm strides would have me leading onto the singletrack. As I see no upside in that, I drop in behind the first five runners.

While there is some shuffling and spreading of the field over the next couple miles, everybody seems pretty content to take a wait and see approach with respect to conditions. We get to the high point of the course (known simply as "the picnic table" because there's a picnic table there) with a pretty good sized group strung out in a long line. There's a gap from me to the next runner ahead, so I have a clear line on the long, rocky descent to the river. Technique counts for a lot on this section and I open some distance without really putting out much effort. I get through the aid station quickly, grabbing a quick drink and some grapes while leaving one of my bottles to be refilled.

The flood plain woods

The flood plain section could not be more different than the ridges we've just run over. The fiercely steep and rocky terrain gives way to smooth dirt singletrack that winds around and through the tiny contour features created by the eddies of hundreds of floods. The forest floor is no longer stark limestone, but lush green. And, it's getting warm. With the sun now beating down on the river and meadows, the humidity isn't dropping, either.

Halfway through this section, David Pokorny and Joel Lammers both pass me. I've raced against both of them several times and, while it's always been reasonably close, they've beat me more than I've beat them. I'm not surprised that I'd be ahead through the opening ridges of West Tyson Park as that terrain plays to my strengths. But if they're just catching me now, I'm probably going just a bit harder than I should. David pushes ahead, but Joel is content to ease up for a few minutes for some conversation. He notes that he's more than a little concerned about the heat. Being from Wisconsin, he hasn't had many opportunities to acclimate this year.

The last mile through the flood plain is on a dirt road. It's the only part of the course I don't like. It's hemmed in between the railroad tracks and the high perimeter fence for Lone Elk Park (a rather necessary fence, as the Elk and Bison in the park would not mix well with passing freight trains). It's only ugly in comparison to the rest of the course but, by that standard, it's pretty bleak. The fact that it's also the only muddy portion of the course this year doesn't improve my appraisal. Then, it's back on singletrack for the steep climb up to the turnaround.

A few observations from the turnaround:

1. I'm getting my ass kicked. There are quite a few runners ahead of me and only one of them is in the 25K.
2. While that doesn't bother me, the fact that I'm deeper in the field means that the singletrack in and out of the turn is much more crowded than what I've dealt with in past years when I've made it back to the gravel road before meeting the bulk of the field head-on. I don't lose much time, but it definitely requires more attention.
3. SLUG aid stations are really good. Well stocked and staffed. I leave a bottle to pick up on lap two.
4. Kevin is doing remarkably well; nearly matching my pace for the first half of his race.

The Chinkapin

The return trip is uneventful. I run most of it alone, though I do go back and forth with Brent Haefner, who's second overall in the 25K. The only new part of trail is the Chinkapin Loop which is tacked on to the end of the lap to get the distance right. Heading straight up the ridge and then right back down, it's a very brutal way to add distance.

I get to the end of the loop in just under 2:10. The second loop is about 2 minutes longer (you have to run the park road a quarter mile from the finish back to the start) and the heat will add a few minutes more, so this is going to be a really slow time. Again, I'm fine with that (I'm retired, right?) but I do stop to consider if maybe I should just call it a day and hang with Kevin. After some cajoling from the finish line crew, I decide to head back out for the double.

Shortly into the lap, I meet Kevin coming in. He's slowed, but still seems to be running OK. I encourage him to hammer the final climb on the Chinkapin. The field is more strung out and passing on the Tyson side is easier since the woods are more open, so I make good time back to the flood plain. The aid station is surprisingly busy, but some of the volunteers recognize me as going out rather than coming in and I get priority treatment. In this heat, I don't dare eat much, so it's a quick stop.

Speaking of the heat, an interesting transformation is taking place. In a contest of fitness, I am badly outmatched, but as the emphasis shifts to fortitude, I'm holding up pretty well. My pace is off from lap one, but not by much. I've already passed a few folks and I start to wonder how many ahead are crumbling. It's certainly not death-march conditions, but it's warm enough for April that this thing might be in play. I dutifully stick to my plan of just running my own race, but I also resolve to stay on pace just in case things break my way.

At the turn, the situation is revealed as I get to see the leaders coming back. Hugo Lee is out front, about 10 minutes ahead of me. That's where he was at the end of lap one, so I'm matching him, but no better. Anything short of a complete collapse will have him in first. David is next, about five minutes ahead. If it was anybody else, I might think I have a shot, but I know he's a great pacer and very unlikely to fold. Then comes Joel, another minute back followed immediately by Ryan Winter. I'm certainly not betting against either of those two, but they're close enough that I decide to keep the pace going. It's about this time that I admit to myself that I'm racing again whether I want to or not.

I could play this one of two ways: firm it up for the entire remaining hour, or keep my pace steady along the river and then unload on the Tyson section. While the latter plays to my strengths, it seems unlikely that I'd take a minute per mile out of such good runners, even if it is my best terrain. With nobody pressuring me from behind, there's really no reason to play it safe; I start pressing.

When I get to the aid station at the base of the ridge, I still can't see anybody ahead. However, I'm not on the climb for long before I spot Joel up ahead. By the picnic table, I'm only a few seconds behind. The heat has done him in and he makes no attempt to hold me off. As I pass, he offers encouragement, indicating that Ryan isn't very far ahead. Indeed, shortly before the next climb, I spot him. I push hard while passing him, hoping that he'll decide not to fight. No such luck. He hangs tough over the final mile to the trailhead. As I make the turn onto the Chinkapin, I can see that he's only about fifteen seconds back. Rats, these final few minutes are really going to hurt.

Done.

They do. It's all I can do to keep a running stride going. It would probably be faster to power walk the climb, but I don't want Ryan thinking I'm falling apart. Finally at the top, I look back and see that Ryan has, in fact, decided that chasing me is no longer worth the trouble. I've got at least half a minute. My technique is completely gone, so I back off on the descent and hit the line at 2:27 for third overall and 1st 50+. My second-half split is second only to David who finished second.

So, what were these big revelations learned from "not competing?" First and foremost, as they say in the mob, this ain't a job you're free to quit. I was quite enjoying my run up through halfway and I'm sure I would have enjoyed a leisurely second half had the conditions not changed. But, once pressed into the mix, there really wasn't much chance of not joining the battle. If you're wired for this sort of thing, it's just what you do. Fortunately, ultras are long enough that you can play them by ear. Biding your time for the first half and then deciding whether or not to go is actually pretty sound strategy. So, I think I can continue to enter and enjoy these things as events and just amp it up on the occasions when things are breaking my way. We'll see.

The second is more of a technical revelation, but an important one none the less. I've long claimed that marathon is the "hardest" distance. All races are hard if you run them right, but the marathon has always struck me as particularly insidious. I've always felt this was because the marathon is the longest race where you are really fighting for seconds each mile. I still think that's a true statement, but I now believe it's a symptom, not a cause. In short races, fitness is dominant. If I was to run a 10K against national-level age-group competition right now, I'd get demolished. In ultras, it's all about keeping your head in the game. Even without adverse conditions, I could probably run a competitive 100 right now simply because I know how to do it. The body doesn't really have to cooperate if the brain is willing to put up with the discomfort. Even at today's distance, adverse conditions (and they weren't even that bad) were enough to make fitness a secondary concern.

The marathon is where these meet. For all but the very elite, it is just past the distance where fitness and form carry you. Whether you're an olympian or weekend warrior, a little over two hours is about as far as you can go on evenly measured maximal effort (meaning, constant effort that gets you to the line with nothing to spare). Only the very elite finish faster than that. And yet, so much of the race is in the space where fitness counts for everything that you absolutely have to have run it like you would a shorter race. The only way to run your best marathon is to pace it like you can actually carry the distance and try not to think about how much the last 10K is going to suck. Willingly running yourself into that situation is a very difficult thing to do.

And, if you're wondering which road marathon I'm going to sign up for to test these ideas, I've got two words: I'm retired.