Tunnel Hill 100

Run November 12, 2016.

OK, it technically wasn't a DNF, it was a drop down. Still, the reason you enter a 100 mile race is to put yourself in a situation where continuing is hard. Responding to that by taking the easy way out at 50 miles rather misses the point. So, while September's lame result in the Mark Twain 100 still had some sting, I signed up for Tunnel Hill. Not so much for redemption as much as to remind myself that I do know how to keep going.

The "trail" leaving the campground

Tunnel Hill bills itself as an "easy" 100. It's certainly true that it requires a lot less work (as in, force times distance) to cover 100 miles on an old railway grade than technical singletrack. If I still had my pre-return-to-grad-school fitness, I'd be going for a PR (I don't, so I'm not). Still, it's a long way to run and the lack of terrain variation means that you don't get natural opportunities to vary your stride. That can lead to some serious tightening or even cramping in the second half. The monotony of a long, flat, straight trail can also be a drain on mental fortitude (though, as rails-to-trails courses go, Tunnel Hill offers more scenery than most).

Camping is allowed at the start, which is almost always my preferred way to do it. It makes the morning less stressful and provides an immediate place to lie down after finishing. More importantly, it offers the opportunity to share some time with like-minded souls. Nobody I know is camping, so I'm forced to make some new acquaintances (engineering types like me often need to be forced). As is always the case in the ultra community, outsiders are considered friends until proven otherwise and my neighbors immediately treat me as kin.

Prior to dinner, I go for a short jog on the trail. It's exactly as I expected. Six feet wide, fine gravel, woods on both sides. Most of the leaves are down, so there won't be a lot of shade. Given the cool forecast, that's not a concern. In a shorter race, the loose surface would make spikes advisable, but I don't expect to be running fast enough to worry about traction. My regular road shoes should be fine. Many of the competitors are opting for gators to keep the cinder out of their shoes. That would probably be a good idea, but I never use them and don't want to try something new in competition.

Bill & I at the start

Sleep is a little less than hoped for. I think I'm getting too old for my lightweight backpacking bed roll; a true air mattress is in order. At 4:30AM, I give up on the activity even though the 7:30 start afforded me more time if I wanted it. After my usual pre-race breakfast of oatmeal and coffee, I busy myself with getting my gear in order.

The course heads south for 13 miles and comes back. Then it goes north for 12 miles and comes back. Fifty-mile runners will stop there; the 100 crowd does the whole thing again. That means that we go through the start finish area roughly every 25 miles. That seems plenty often enough, so I don't send any drop bags to the remote aid stations. I pack my bin with a full change of clothes, plus extra layers for the night (temps are predicted to get near freezing). I'm content to rely on the aid stations for food, but do pack some electrolyte and caffeine tablets. With over 600 in the race, getting bottles refilled at aid stations might be a pain, so I give some spare bottles to Laura Langton who is crewing for her husband Bill in the 50. I don't expect congestion to be an issue in the second 50.

The southern section had a few pretty spots

The race starts on time with a short lap around the campground to string things out a bit before hitting the "trail". Bill and I run together fairly near the front. After a couple miles it's obvious that the third mug of coffee was one too many. Bill and I both stop for a quick pee. A couple minutes later, I look down and notice my number is missing. I don't pin my number to my clothes in ultras because I often end up changing at some point. Instead I use a number belt, popular with triathletes who are also changing mid-race. It must have unclipped when I stopped.

I head back, getting a lot of bewildered looks from the hundreds of oncoming runners. When I get to where we stopped, there's no sign of my number. The race is chip timed, so not having my number is probably grounds for disqualification. Still, that's not a good reason to quit. I'll know whether or not I ran regardless of what the results page says. I take one last look and then realize that I actually had the number all the time, but when I did my shorts back up, it had wound up on the inside. In the context of a 20-hour race, losing five minutes to a boneheaded mistake is not a big deal, but it's still not the start I was hoping for.

Rock cut at the start of the climb

Trying to get time back is pretty much a losing strategy. Setbacks occur and that time is gone for good. I make a point of jogging very easy the rest of the way to the first aid station. As I'm moving through the thick part of the pack, I don't really have much choice. I chat with a few folks I know as I slowly work my way through the field. Coming up on the aid station at 5 miles, the watch of a woman running next to me emits a chirp. "Hey!" she exclaims, "I've got my 10,000 steps in today!" Only 190,000 to go.

By the second aid station at mile 11, I'm back in the first 50 or so runners and things are stringing out. Laura hands me a bottle and tells me that Bill is about five minutes up the path. Not long after leaving, I meet the lead runners coming back. I see Bill coming back about a quarter mile from the turnaround. After the turn, there's A LOT more oncoming traffic. Passing isn't a big problem on a path this wide; it's just unfamiliar to see so many people in an ultra. Most of the events I run have considerably smaller fields.

I get back to the start just before noon (4:28 elapsed). While I'm not running this one for time (I'm not even wearing a watch), it's in line with expectations. All I have to do is drop my long-sleeved shirt and change bottles whereas Bill is taking a longer stop, so we head back out together.

Trestle near the top of the climb

Running with Bill has a number of advantages. First and foremost, it's just more fun to run with company. Additionally, it removes any thoughts I have of trying to push the pace. Pushing from 30-50 to chase down the leaders was what did me in at Mark Twain. I now focus on Bill's goal of getting 50 done in under 9 hours. That means keeping the pace right where it's been, with short walk breaks thrown in every 1-2 miles.

The southern part of the course was less than inspiring, but this section is more interesting. After the aid station at mile 30, we climb steadily towards the tunnel for which the race is named. As it's an old railroad grade, it never gets steeper than 2%, but even that amount of climb is enough to bring relief to my glutes and hamstrings which were getting mighty tired of flat terrain. As we climb up the ridge, we're also treated to a number of interesting rock cuts and trestles and then, finally, the tunnel.

Laura is at the aid station at the far side of the tunnel. We get through it quickly and do the short out and back to the turnaround. Back at the aid station, I check the time. We're 7:11 in, so we have to cover the remaining 10 miles in just under 110 minutes. That seems pretty doable to me, but I have no idea how Bill is really feeling. We talk a lot on the way back down, making sure he's not overcooking things. He decides to blow through the aid station at 47 so he doesn't stiffen up. I get a bottle refilled for him and that's enough to get him home for a sub-9 PR with six minutes to spare.

The tunnel

I cheer him across the line and then collect my stuff for the next quarter of the race. This is always the toughest section for me. It's not just that physical fatigue becomes very real at this point, there's also a mental letdown exacerbated by the fact that the daylight is vanishing. As I head out, I'm still feeling fairly good so I try to stay somewhere near the pace I've been running.

That pace fades over the next few hours and I'm now taking two walk breaks between each aid station rather than one. I'm also spending more time at the aid stations because I can no longer keep solid food down. That limits me to soup broth. Leaving the station at 55 miles, I try to carry a cup with me and end up spilling most of it. Aside from defeating the purpose, that makes my hands really cold as my gloves aren't waterproof. At subsequent stops, I take an extra couple minutes to finish the broth before heading back out.

As usual at this point in the race, I'm alone. Often, that can be depressing. Tonight, it is not. Sure, I'm tired (sleepy more than exhausted) and my stride is getting pretty stiff, but it is a truly beautiful night to be out. Approaching the southern turn, the path leaves the woods and crosses some misty fields. A full moon has risen and bathes everything in eerie blue made all the more surreal by the forlorn howl of a lone wolf off to the west.

While the southern loop takes nearly an hour longer than it did in the morning, there's never a point at which I have to wrestle with quitting. In fact, I get back feeling good enough to start caring about breaking 20 hours.

That goal isn't helped by spending a whopping 15 minutes in the transition. I'm really not sure why it takes so long. Yes, I have two cups of soup, and I'm messing around a bit with clothing (basically putting on everything I have as it's obviously going to get much colder than freezing before I finish), but that should still only be a 5-7 minute stop. I guess my brain is just not up for doing these things quickly. At any rate, I leave with 14:40 on the clock, which means I've got time, but can't do too much walking.

Heading up the grade to the tunnel, I take walk breaks every mile. At the aid station, I linger a bit and make sure I get enough broth down to hold me the rest of the way. I push a bit on the out and back and return at 1:33AM. I am exactly on 20-hour pace and it's ten mostly downhill miles to the finish. I decide I'll run the descent easy and then put everything I've got left into the final four miles.

The LED bulb and the lithium batteries in my headlamp are having more trouble with the cold than I. The trail is devoid of trip hazards, but it's still preferable to have some idea where you're putting your feet. Fortunately, it's a clear sky and the moon is still pretty close to the zenith so, except for a few shaded patches, I can see the trail fine even with my light significantly dimmed.

I plan to skip the final aid station. Food won't help me at this point and I've got enough water. Unfortunately, as I go for a drink I find that it's no longer in liquid form; my bottle has frozen solid. I stop at the final aid station just long enough to grab a gulp of water and then start pushing for the finish.

The finish push in a 100 is probably pretty comical when viewed by an impartial observer. It certainly feels like I'm running fast. In reality, I cover the last three miles in around 26 minutes which won't likely take home age-group hardware in a local 5K, but it does get me to the line in 19:51. There's no particular significance to finishing under 20 hours; it just sounds better. Also under the heading of results that don't matter: I pass three people right near the end to move into the top 20 (19th) overall.

I haven't been sweating since mid-afternoon, so I don't bother cleaning up before getting into my tent and getting some sleep. I don't sleep for long. Partly because I'm too sore to sleep well and partly because the sun comes up only three hours after I tucked in. Fortunately, one of my newfound friends from Friday night needs a ride back the the St. Louis airport, so I have company to keep me awake for the drive.

The goal coming in was simply to cover the distance so I wasn't going out to Leadville next summer wondering if I even had the discipline to finish. Granted, this course is considerably easier than Leadville, but the physical challenges of a 100 are secondary to keeping your head in the game. In that respect, this was probably the best 100 I've ever run. I backed off when I needed to, pushed when I needed to, and never had a period where I just stopped caring or trying altogether.

Empirical evidence would indicate that the course was only easy if you made it hard. Basically, your options were run or freeze. 23 finished under 20 hours, which is a lot given 209 starters. But, if instead of telling you that, I just said that a quarter of the field was under 24 and less than half covered the full distance, that would indicate a moderately tough course. Runners typically regard heat as the ultimate enemy but, in ultras, cold can be far more devastating. It's hard to stay warm when your body is depleted.

As I mentioned earlier, if I had the form of several years ago, this is a course where I would have been trying for a PR. The fact that I ran well and was still two hours off my best is an indication that my fitness is probably gone for good. However, the fact that I ran that much slower and never felt like quitting is an indication that I'm finally getting to the far side of the bridge from competition to participation. I hope so, because my glory days are clearly behind, but I still love to run.