Pere Marquette 2016

Run December 10, 2016.

I had my cry. I had it a year ago when I crossed the finish line at Pere Marquette. It wasn't a terrible run by any means. But, it wasn't what I had done before. And, at my age, the decline is typically permanent.

Since then, I've been trying to get myself to a point where I can enjoy the event without worrying about the result. That attitude ended up resulting in a couple of pretty decent results in the spring (Woodlands, Double Chubb) where relaxing in the first half of the race allowed me to find some push in the second. But, by summer, the residual fitness was wearing off quickly. I struggled through the Silver Rush 50, running my worst time for the distance by over an hour. By Mark Twain, I was toast. It was time to do some serious re-evaluation. It wasn't enough to pretend I didn't care; I would always care. I had to redefine what it meant to succeed.

Yes, yes, I'll get to the race report in a minute. Indulge me a diversion.

When Yaya was five, she won her first orienteering meet. When she was eight, she won her first national championship (US Primary School Orienteering Championships). Then, she quit. "It's just not my thing," she said. Obviously, it was her thing, but what she didn't want was to turn into me. She didn't want to be someone who was always expected to do well. She wanted to just do whatever she was doing and let the result be what it was. Between the national coaching staff taking an interest, constant attention at local meets, and, of course, me, that just wasn't going to happen. So, she quit.

I think I get that. But, I probably don't. It's just not the way I'm wired.

Which brings us to the starting line of Pere Marquette in 2016 (told you I'd get there). And the question is not can I win (I already know the answer to that one) but can I even do this in a way that isn't completely depressing? Can I find some meaning in the effort independent of the result? If I can't, there really isn't much point in coming here every year. On yet another tangent; this is my 16th entry at Pere Marquette, which moves it out of a tie with the Possum Trot as my most attended race ever (not counting weekly training-race type things).

Wave zero is called to the line. Yes, that includes me, wearing bib #14. The top 25 runners shuffle up. It's pretty hard to say you don't care when you're toeing the line with some of the best trail runners in the midwest. At exactly 9:30AM, we get the gun. For the next 15 minutes, another 25 runners will start every 30 seconds. Wave 1 contains the top 15 women and ten more fast guys. The next 10 (or so) waves contain runners who have been seeded based on results in this event from the preceding three years. After that are the waves of runners who have indicated potential, but have yet to prove it on Pere Marquette's tortured slopes. Finally, a few waves of folks who openly admit that they are just happy to complete the course.

Top of first climb

After a couple hundred meters of flat, we hit the first of four major climbs. The first climb is actually three short steep climbs punctuated by two short level sections. I go right to the back of the wave on the first ascent. This always happens; I don't like taking the first climb out too hard. What's different is that I don't move up many spots on the level section heading into "The Squeeze". The Squeeze is a narrow crack through a rock face that forces the field to go single file. That's no big deal in wave zero, since six minutes of running is plenty of time to string things out. For later waves, it can be a bottleneck.

On the second part of the climb, I do manage to pass a couple people, but I'm very aware that I'm pushing much harder than I usually would. On the next level section, I compose myself and try to focus only on my own effort. That's not easy to do as the top 2 over-50 runners (Rick Barnes and Dan Rooney) are still in sight about 30 seconds up the trail. I forcibly remove them from my thoughts. Run your own race. Breathe, push, stride.

By the top of the climb, the fastest wave 1 runners have caught me. This is clearly going to be the year I get kicked out of wave zero. In some ways, that's a relief. If I'm not in wave zero next year, I'll be able to just kick back, not get up at 6AM for my pre-run, eat the big breakfast buffet at the Lodge, and not have to worry about defending a seed I can't possibly live up to. But, this year, I'm still in wave zero. There's no shame in losing, but there's plenty in not trying. I know how to descend technical trails. I crank it up and, while I only pass one runner, I open a pretty good gap to those behind.

The Steps on Climb 4

That leaves the little matter of the second climb, which is quite steep. However, I've always run this one well and this year turns out not to be the exception. Then comes half an hour of meandering trail with lots of little obstacles, but nothing to break your stride if you run it right. By the base of the third climb, I'm pretty much on my own.

The third climb is similar to the second, except that you're half an hour more tired so the grade really hurts. I run the whole thing, passing three people who have decided to walk it. One of them, Chad Silker - who I know quite well from the SLUGs, takes one look at me passing him and decides that he needs to be moving faster (he's right, even at my best, I rarely beat him; of course, he has a 3-month-old at home, so he's probably not been too focused on running lately). He blows by me just past the summit and stretches it out on the descent.

The fourth climb at Pere Marquette truly is the stuff of legends. It's not that big, a little over 100m tall, but at 3/4 of the way in, it comes right when a properly run race is really starting to hurt. The first few hundred meters are a stiff grade. Then it gets crazy steep. Then, even that isn't enough, so they built steps. Not just normal stadium-style steps that you might do repeats on. Crazy, weird-spaced steps made from whatever stones happened to be nearby. Some steps are 6" high, others over a foot. It's pretty much the death knell to any rhythm you were trying to carry into the last few minutes of the race.

Descending below The Squeeze

This is the sort of obstacle where experience counts as much as fitness. I've run these steps enough times that I know how to do it without losing my stride. It would probably be just as fast to walk them, but by running them, I get right back on my pace at the top. Then comes the long descent to the finish (which is really just running back down the first climb). I try to keep a good turnover, and do a pretty good job of getting through The Squeeze quickly, but I still get caught right at the bottom. There's nothing I can do about it; I have no legs left for a 200m sprint to the line. I finish as firm as I can.

I'm 22nd across the line, but a couple more from later waves have better elapsed times to put me in 24th overall; 3rd in my age group (oh crap, top 25, they might still put me in wave zero next year). While my time is rather slow compared to previous results, it's a respectable 1:01:47. Objectively, it's a pretty good result. So, how to respond to the vexing question that will be asked dozens of times over the next hour at the post-race party in the Lodge, "How did you do?"

The total jerk response would be to say I did terrible; that I used to be so much faster; that I just don't really put any effort into this sort of thing anymore. OK, I'm not quite that much of a jackass.

The completely insincere response would be, "Good!" No, this is the group of people with which I have the closest bond of experience. I have to do better than that.

It strikes me that the honest answer is perhaps also the best. "I gave it a good run. I'm happy."