Mother Road 100

With Hennepin in the immediate offing and so many first-timers running, I thought about putting together a post on what expect. Instead, I'm going to jump in the way back machine and repost a story written by a guy with my name who was trying to run his first.

Run November 13-14, 2010
Text by Eric Buckley
Photos by Jeff Carlson and John Pollihan

"Because it's there." Mallory's famous line has been used to describe all sorts of nutty pursuits. I've never really worried about it much. There's no law that says our recreational activities need to have any rationale whatsoever, much less one that makes sense. I signed up for the Mother Road 100. I don't know why and I don't really care. I just did.

And, so did 200 other folks, including fellow SLUG John Pollihan. We travel together, making the drive to Tulsa much more enjoyable. Like me, his previous long distance is about two thirds of what we'll be attempting. That means we'll be running our previous long, running for another hour or so, and still have a full marathon to go. We decide not to think about it that way.

In Catoosa (the actual finish town, just east of Tulsa), we meet my college cycling teammate, Jeff Carlson, who will be crewing for us. We pick up our race packets which are actually pretty nice gym bags stocked with all sorts of free stuff ranging from blister kits to beer. We decide to weigh in before dinner, so we can eat all we want and not have to worry about an artificially high weight in the morning. (As with getting drunk, one of the symptoms of severe dehydration is that you lose the ability to recognize the problem. Thus, some 100's have you weigh in before and during the event and pull you if you've lost too much). That out of the way, we head out for dinner at an Italian joint followed by desert at Krispy Kreme.

At 6:45 the next morning we leave for the start in Baxter Springs, Kansas (it's not even in the same state!). The trip helps drive home just how far we'll be going. We'll be running back more or less following the route of the original Route 66. Of course, not much of the original road exists anymore, a fact highlighted by the presence of one of the original bricks in each one of our race packets; certainly one of my more memorable race souvenirs.

Before the start: ignorance is bliss

Since we've already weighed in, there isn't much to do at the start except decide what to wear. The skies are overcast and there's a stiff breeze to go with the crisp fall temps. The forecast calls for clearing and a high near 60F. John and I both decide to go with a base layer under our shirts. John wears shorts while I don long pants.

We are called up a few minutes before 9AM and sent off with a surprisingly loud bang. I'm not sure what it was they fired, but it was a lot bigger than a pistol. In comical contrast, the field ambles off - the leaders laying down a pace that even the most recreational of joggers could match.

Although we have no agreement in place, John and I pair up immediately. Neither of us is harboring any aspirations beyond getting to the finish line, so we might as well keep each other company. We chat with some of the other runners and the miles go by easily. About 25 minutes in, we hit a small rise in the road. While the course has no major hills, there are many little rolls. We had already planned on taking frequent walk breaks to keep our legs from stiffening up, so we make this the first one. After 90 seconds, we start jogging again.

Making friends on the road

At 65 minutes, we make a turn and find ourselves at the Quapaw aid station (7.2 miles). Oops, we're supposed to be running 10-minute miles. It doesn't seem like we could possibly run any slower, but we try to back off. It doesn't work; despite two walk breaks the next leg (6.5 miles to Commerce) takes 61 minutes. On the next leg (4 miles to Miami) I stumble, literally, on an effective method to slow us down: I trip over a coil of wire in the shoulder and go down fairly hard. We walk for a bit while I assess the damage (all superficial) and finish the leg in 41 minutes. At the aid station we shed our base layers, (revealing a fair bit of missing skin from both knees and elbows) and give them to Jeff. It's bad enough that I've been hospital twice this year after mountain bike incidents; now it appears I can't even go for a road run without tearing myself up.

Three miles into the next leg we hit the part of the course that I've been looking forward to: a section of the original highway. I've never been much of a nostalgia buff, but I am an engineer by training and I'm always amazed at what passed for infrastructure just a century ago. When I saw roads like this in Italy, it was easy to put them in the context of "built long ago." But, my Grandparents had just bought their their shiny new Model A when this highway was built. It's not that old, but it looks like it could have been laid down by Romans (actually, the Roman roads in Italy are in a lot better shape). This crumbling, 10-foot wide track was the modern miracle that made it possible to drive a car from one coast to the other. John makes the observation that, if it hadn't rained yesterday, the passing crew vehicles would be kicking up enough dust to make this a scene from the Grapes of Wrath.

Interstate highway, circa 1927

We turn back onto the main highway and hit the Narcissa aid station (25.5 miles). If this was a marathon, we might be able to see the finish line from here. Instead, we're faced with repeating what we just did three more times. Oddly, that doesn't seem particularly daunting. Getting here at 1:01PM means we're still running a bit too fast, but it's still slower than we would go on a normal long run, so we can't be tearing ourselves up too badly. (Normal is something of an oxymoron when applied to ultrarunner training; a "normal long run" is often well beyond marathon distance.) We know we'll feel differently later, but right now we both feel pretty good.

We take a bit longer at the aid station and walk a bit before getting back to running. At 9 miles, this section is one of the longest. That doesn't really bother us because Jeff is doing such a good job of supporting us between stations. What is a little dismal is that we are running on a perfectly straight road for five miles. We've run out of things to talk about, so we just stare at the I-44 overpass getting imperceptibly closer for about 45 minutes. Enduring that monotony is rewarded with another few miles of the original grade and then it's in to Affton for our first weigh-in. The sky has cleared, but it's still relatively cool so there's no danger on that front; we're both within two pounds of last evening's reading. The aid station is manned by a friendly crew and well stocked with both hot and cold items. We resist the temptation to linger and head out in good spirits.

Fun while it lasted

The next leg is another long one (9.6 miles). Jeff stops at 4 miles to hand me another water bottle. A mile after that the road turns due west. We'll be heading straight that way for the next eight miles and we'll have a bit of a breeze in our faces. We've been taking turns on the front on all the westward sections so far and just as I'm about to suggest we go single file again, John says he wants to drop off the pace. This comes as a bit of a shock to me as he seemed to be doing just fine only moments ago. He assures me he's not in any trouble; he just wants to take some longer walk breaks. We wish each other well and part. The 60 miles remaining is nearly as far as I've ever run and I'll be running it alone.

At the end of the leg is the first of the "unmanned" aid stations. It's a table with a water jug, some crackers, and gel. Minimally sufficient, yes, but I'm sure glad Jeff is there to give me something I actually want from our supplies. I wish him the best as his job is about to get a lot more difficult with John and I split. I'm glad to hear him say that John is running again and looks OK. Sometimes that first long walk break is the beginning of the end. I forget to ask Jeff how long the next leg is, but as I'm setting out I notice a sign that says, "Vinita 6". Well, that could mean anything from 5 to 7, plus, I'm not sure exactly where in Vinita the 50-mile mark is, but, it's 4:06PM, I could make it, no, that's crazy, don't try to run fast now, but really, sub-8 for 50, that would make the day a success right there, and then you'd spend the next 10 hours wishing you hadn't, but, damn. After wrestling with it for a few minutes, I decide that there will be plenty of opportunities to run a 50 under 8 and spoiling my first 100 is not the best way to achieve that. I plod on, taking my 90-second walk breaks every 20 minutes or so.

It turns out it's only five miles to the next aid station, but the 50-mile mark is a ways beyond. It's another weigh-in and I've lost 1 more pound. With night falling, there's not much chance of losing another 8 before the final check at 78 miles. I gulp down a couple cups of electrolyte drink, grab a cookie, and continue; still thinking I might just make 50 under 8. I tell Jeff to meet me at the timer and I'll take a longer break there. It's not to be as I hit the timing mat in 8:01. I'm not particularly disappointed; in fact, I'm rather proud of myself for showing a bit of restraint. With the sun about to go down, I grab a complete change of clothes from Jeff including long pants and a wind jacket. There's a fitness center right next to the timer and they are happy to let me use their locker room rather than change in the parking lot. Between that, getting some food, and putting on my lights, it's a fairly long stop, but it was a good time for a mental break. I head out into the setting sun feeling refreshed.

In contrast to the first half of the course, which was predominantly small roads, the second half is pretty much a straight shot to Catoosa on the current US66, with some contorted routes through the small towns along the way. The shoulder is generally good, but there are a few areas where there isn't much running room. Because I have to be ready to jump off into the grass in response to an oncoming car, I'm running my headlamp on high beam. It occurs to me that I've never tried to go all the way through the night with this light on full and if the batteries go, I'm in deep trouble. When I see Jeff at the next aid station (another unmanned table), I ask him to round up some AAA batteries. He's more efficient than I expect and at the next (unmanned) station just 3.5 miles later he has a pack of batteries procured from a convenience store as well as an update on John. He's slowed, but is showing no sign of quit.

A mile into the next leg, I pass 100K. This is now officially my longest run ever. And, frankly, it's feeling like it. Nothing is in trouble, but I definitely feel off. Jeff catches up with me halfway through the leg. When I say I've lost the pace he responds, "Unless my math is wrong, you're still doing 12-minute miles." I'm sure he meant for that to cheer me up, but it has the opposite effect. I knew I had slowed, but I didn't think it was that bad. I shuffle off into the night cursing my early pace, the narrow highway, the oncoming cars, the current budget deficit, and anything else that happens to pop into my head. Mostly, I'm ticked that this new pace means I won't be done until around 4AM (and that assumes I don't slow down any further; not exactly a safe assumption at this point). I had always known that it was possible this would take 20 hours or more, but the first half had gone so well, I had set the expectation in my mind I'd finish in around 2 (17 hours) and be showered and tucked in bed by 3. I get to the Chelsea aid station (67 miles) at 8:25PM in about as foul a mood as I'm capable of.

And that's really too bad because what happens next is one of my least proud moments in 40 years of running. The signs point to the parking lot of a motel for the aid station, but I don't see any aid. I'm now feeling panic on top of frustration because I've only been memorizing the route one leg at a time and have no idea which way I should go if I can't find the station. A man in the parking lot points me to one of the rooms and says, "It's in there." I open the door. Nobody is inside, but the aid station worker comes hustling up the sidewalk and enters behind me.

"Is this a weigh in?"
"Nope, that's at 78," he says cheerfully.
"Is there any reason I'm in this room?" I ask, every bit as pissy as it sounds.
"Well, I don't know, what do you need?"
"I need to run."

And that's the thanks he gets for staying up all night to take care of my ass. What's really sad is that, from the brief look I got of it, it was a really fine aid station. There were crock pots full of hot soup and chili, cookies, sandwiches, trail mix, several types of drinks. Basically all the stuff the unmanned stations lacked. Outside I grab a bottle from Jeff and mutter something about wanting a soda. He hands me the race bible so I can look at the next leg. It's currently open to the leg I just finished. On each leg, there's a "tip" for runners. Some are helpful, some are funny, some are silly, but I really should have read this one sooner. It's a single word: "Relax."

It's certainly true that hanging out at an aid station is pretty much the worst thing you can do when you're struggling. One may have to go slow, but keep going. Stopping is a very short step from quitting. But, seriously, would it have been that big a deal to take 15 seconds to politely grab a handful of nuts and thank him for his efforts? I head on down the road wondering if I'm just too much of a jackass to be an ultrarunner.

"Coke, Diet Coke, or Mountain Dew?" asks Jeff as he hops out of his truck two miles later. It's like having a genie except that there's apparently no limit on the number of wishes. "I think I need full strength, let's go with the Dew." I don't try to chug it; I clearly need to get myself composed. I walk for about ten minutes, taking small sips until it's gone. Then I run. And run. And run.

The next aid station is unmanned, so I just grab a bottle from Jeff. "Weigh in at the next one in three miles," he reminds me. "I'm not worried about my weight, it's the three miles." But, truthfully, the worst has passed. I'm tired, but I'm not fighting it anymore. I just let myself move at whatever pace feels right. Surprisingly, that pace turns out to be 10 minutes per mile and half an hour later I arrive at the famed TATUR station.

The Tulsa Area Trail Ultra Runners are your typical bunch of nuts who think this sort of thing is a great way to spend the night. The aid station is surrounded by Tiki torches and they're playing an eclectic mix of songs loud enough to be fun without assaulting the senses of defenseless runners. As expected, the weigh in is a non-event. With the extra clothes on, I register just a pound under my baseline. I'm feeling good enough now that hanging around a bunch of kindred spirits for a few minutes doesn't seem like such a bad idea. Jeff changes the batteries in my headlamp while I put down some soup and coffee. The hosts invite me to sit by the bonfire, but I know not to cross that line. I shout goodbye to the happy group warming their hands and head back off feeling the best I've felt since, well, since the race started.

I'm reminded of something the Car Talk guys once said about used cars. People see their repair bills going up each year and want to sell the car before they get too high. What they don't realize is that they don't keep going up, after a while they level off and the old car can be kept quite cheaply for a really long time. It seems my body is doing the same thing. Everything hurts a bit, but nothing is getting worse. The miles keep going by at about a 10-minute pace with 90-second walk breaks thrown in every 20 minutes or so. Jeff shows up every few miles to offer assistance, then hurries back to John who is experiencing a similar recovery.

At the Claymore aid station (86.5 miles) I find two people manning the table. Then, I realize they aren't volunteers, they're wearing race numbers. It's been so long since I've seen another competitor, I'd almost forgotten that this is a race. They don't look particularly concerned about losing a position, but I decide to give one final push out of the aid station just to be sure, covering the next four miles in under 40 minutes. That's pretty much the last straw for my body and I take the Coke from Jeff and walk a bit. I'm going to fall off the pace again, but I'm close enough now that I know I can deal with it.

The final aid station at Verdigris comes 6.9 miles from the finish. It's yet another unmanned station and I again think of how truly dismal the second half of this race would have been without Jeff. It's not that I can't subsist on crackers and water; it's the complete lack of human contact that would have had me spiraling into depression. I look at the final leg and I simply can't keep it in my head. There are only ten turns, but as soon as I look away from the map, I forget them. The first 4 miles follow the highway, so I tell Jeff to go check on John then meet me at the first turn. He'll have to lead me in from there.

The highway crosses three bridges en route to the first turn, one of which is quite long. There's no shoulder to speak of and a thick fog has rolled in. At 2AM, only a few cars pass, but it's still right up against my safety threshold. My recreational activities result in periodic injuries, some of which are quite serious, but all these pale compared to what happens to you if you get hit by a car. On the far side of the last bridge is Jeff. He says John is power walking and in decent spirits, so he's got time to get me in before going back to him.

The plan is simple and works well. Jeff drives ahead to the next turn and waits for me to arrive, pointing me the right way. It seems silly, but this is about all the complexity my brain can handle at this point. The course markings are adequate, but having him at each turn relieves a lot of anxiety. I'm down to just 10 minutes of running between walk breaks, but still making reasonable time. Cresting the last hill with a mile to go, I can see Catoosa High School. A lap around the track and under the finish banner completes the odyssey. My time is 17 hours and 50 minutes, putting me in sixth place overall, about 2 hours behind the winner.

Inside the school there's a decent spread and they offer to cook me something hot if I want it. I'm just happy to be done in time that I can get some use out of my hotel room, so I pass on the food. Even though it's only a couple hundred meters, Jeff drives me over to the hotel and carries my bags upstairs before heading back out to tend to John. I take a quick shower and lie down, but I'm too sore to sleep. John arrives at the room around 5AM, having also met both our "official" goal of finishing and "unofficial" goal of finishing under 20 hours. Since I can't sleep anyway, I decide to get up to leave the bed for Jeff (he declines, saying he's too wired) and head downstairs to soak in the hot tub. Despite the sign clearly stating the pool opens at 8AM, the manager happily turns the lights on for me. I have to say the service we got at the Hampton was quite outstanding all weekend.

The trip home is a happy one as both John and I admire our new belt buckles. John, who did manage some sleep, does most of the driving. There are some comical moments as we pry ourselves out of the car to switch seats.

I'm still getting my arms around the whole experience. In terms of the activity itself, it's probably the hardest physical thing I've done. If one includes the preparation, a competitive marathon is considerably tougher. The miles between 60 and 70 were not much fun, but the rest of the race was. It was particularly interesting to see that a nearly complete recovery was possible after feeling like I'd gone in the tank for good. A valuable lesson there. I'd rather do long runs on trail, but I think doing this as a first try was a good call, especially with a crew as good as Jeff.

At any rate, while I still have no idea why I do this stuff, I'm glad I did.

Heart of America

Run September 2, 2019 - see note at bottom for photo credits

For me, the marathon is the longest “paced” race. By that, I mean a race where I run the entire distance at basically the same speed. In ultras, I make frequent pace adjustments depending on the terrain, conditions, and how my body is responding. At marathon distance or less, I decide the pace and force my body to either deal with it or collapse. Given that ultimatum, the legs and lungs go with the first option for around two and a half hours. That means I’m dealing with a body that is in outright revolt for the last half hour of a marathon and my pace usually does falter a bit, but my times for the first and second halves are usually within a minute of each other.

Then, there’s Heart of America. Nominally a road marathon, in that it’s an accurately measured course on roads and bike paths, it runs more like an ultra. I’ve run it twice before, both times finishing around 20th overall and second in my age group with times of 3:20 and 3:18. That apparent consistency is belied by mile splits ranging from low 6’s to over 9 minutes. As the finisher medal proudly proclaims: “Heat, Humidity, Hills. No extra charge.”

Fog descending on the start area

The Columbia Track Club has mounted a feeble defense against the heat by setting the start time at 6AM. The early hour crimps my normal pre-race routine a bit. I usually like to be up at least three hours before the start, but decide I’ll make do with two and get out of bed just before 4AM for my 30-minute pre-run. For Labor Day in Missouri, it’s downright chilly; not even 70 degrees. The humidity, on the other hand, is within a point or two of 100%. There’s a thin layer of fog hovering about 15 feet off the ground.

At 5:30, I jog the half mile from the meet hotel to the start and run another mile or so to get loose. The fog layer is both thicker and closer to the ground than an hour ago. In an oddity unique to this race, nobody wants to toe the line. Maybe it’s some sort of weird Columbia thing and I’ve missed the memo, but in all three years I’ve run this, there’s been a gap between the field and the start banner. I know there are faster runners in the field, but I wind up on the front row with only three others and even we are a couple feet shy of the line. I suppose, in this age of chip timing, you could make a case that it’s objectively faster to take a running start at the line than to be right on it, but, c’mon, that’s just silly in the context of a three hour race.

A handful of runners shoot off at well under 3-hour pace. I settle in with the next group which includes perennial finisher Andy Emerson of Columbia. Andy has the longest active streak of finishes. That streak is the only reason he’s in the race this year. He ran 148 miles in a 48-hour ultra last weekend and doesn’t think it’s very likely he’ll repeat last year’s 3rd place performance. As he’s about my speed and over 50, I’d normally be keeping an eye on him but, if he beats me a week after that effort, I’m just going to quit running altogether. I’m surprised he’s even taking it out this fast. Then again, it’s pretty hard to argue finishing strategy with someone who’s brought it home 16 years in a row.

By mile 4, the fog has descended all the way to the ground. I had brought my clip-on light to avoid stepping in a pothole in the dark. Now, I decide to leave it on in hopes it makes me a bit more visible to cars. This might not have been the best day to go with the grey and black outfit.

Our group has been reduced to four. Now heading south, the undulations begin. Andy drops off on one of the rolls. The first big climb comes at mile 7 and our remaining trio shatters entirely with me in the middle. While I don’t generally fret over positions in the first half of a race, I decide that keeping the next runner in sight will help with motivation. The fog is quite thick at the top of the hill, so even his 100m lead means I only catch the occasional glimpse of his outline.

Mile 9 comes at 66 minutes, which is in line with my rough target of 3:10-3:15. The second hour of a marathon is usually my best running and the next couple miles are gentle downhill on gravel, which is good terrain for me. It seems a good time to push a bit. I close the gap to the runner ahead at the base of the descent and keep the pace firm to make the pass stick.

We follow the Missouri River for half a mile, passing a campground where a good number of spectators have decided to stop to cheer. Among them are a few SMUT (Sunday Morning Ultra Training; Columbia’s ultrarunning club) runners who recognize me and give some encouragement. While certainly appreciated, it’s not really necessary. I’m in remarkably good spirits for this stage of the race. Knocking out a couple 6:40 miles on a long descent can have that effect. The course moves from the gravel road to the Katy Trail (also gravel, but actually a lot smoother than the road) for a mile. I pull back on the reigns just a bit knowing what follows the trail: Easley Hill.

The field trudges up Easley

Boston’s Heartbreak Hill is rightly enshrined as the most famous ascent in running. It’s placement at the most critical point in such a prestigious race is unrivaled. However, if you are talking to someone who really knows running and drop the name “Easley Hill”, there’s a good chance they’ll know you’re referring to the climb off the river at Heart of America. This race is small, but it’s been going for 60 consecutive years and word of this sort of thing does get out. Twice the height and slightly steeper than Heartbreak, there are three plausible approaches: 1) walk it, 2) run it very slowly, 3) run it right and hope you don’t pay too much for it later.

Most choose option 1. In a race where the second half heat can be crippling, this is the sensible choice. Option 2 doesn’t get many takers, but it worked fine for me in both of my previous outings. Today is going well and, while the humidity is crazy high, it’s still fairly cool. This seems like a day where taking a chance is in order.

I’ve found I can get away with 2 or 3 tempo surges in a marathon as long as I get back to m-pace after five minutes or so (Daniels, the training manual I pull most of my ideas from has a bunch of workouts specifically designed to enhance this ability). The problem is that it takes more like 8 minutes to run Easley. I’ve already put in a 10-minute push on the descent. As the second half has no major obstacles, another long surge seems risky but feasible.

I switch to tempo pace for the climb, passing the only relay team still ahead of me. Nobody comes by! With half the race to go, there’s no particular reason to be excited about this fact. However, given the drubbing I took on the first climb, it is something of a confidence builder to hold my own on the big one. History suggests that I have somewhere between 30 and 45 minutes of solid running before my pace degrades to “whatever’s left”. It’s time to start running this like a real marathon.

The next six miles are me in my sweet spot. Aside from a nasty valley between 17 and 18, the road is gently rolling. I’m tired enough that the pace feels solid but it doesn’t really hurt yet. Temperatures are still in the 70’s despite the fact the fog is completely gone and the sun is starting to break through. I knock out one 7:10 mile after another; never deviating by more than a few seconds, picking off another place in the process. Stretches like this are what keep me coming back to the marathon. There’s nothing euphoric about it. It’s the simple satisfaction of doing a hard thing well.

At mile 19 the course returns to gravel. This is a change from previous years when we stayed on the highway. While I’m delighted that we’ve traded the dreadful run-in on the shoulder of a busy highway for a picturesque trip through the woods on a country road, it does call my shoe choice into question. In total, nearly a third of the course is off pavement and the Zoom Flys are definitely road shoes. In addition to having crappy grip on the loose surface, they offer very little rock protection and my feet are getting a bit beat up. It doesn’t cost me much time, but a stiffer sole and a bit more tread would have been worth an extra ounce on each foot.

Leaving the gravel at 22, we then get an out and back section around Phillips Lake. I catch one of the runners ahead of me before the turn and see only two more on their way back, the closest being a couple minutes ahead. There’s not much chance of closing that in the three miles remaining and nobody behind is moving faster than me, so I just focus on staying as close to my pace as I can.  Leaving the lake, I pass Andy coming the other way. It looks like he’ll finish under 3:30. 8-minute miles on this course a week after a 2-day ultra. I give him a shout out for turning in what has to be the most impressive performance of the day.

Running up the hill from the lake, the various members of my body have finally taken to torches and pitchforks in protest of the effort. Something in my side lets go. It feels like a stitch, but it’s way too high on the rib cage. Knowing I have some cushion behind, I back off and run an 8:10 for mile 25. The pain relents, giving me the face-saving pleasure of getting back on pace for the final mile rather than staggering in.

I cross the line in 3:12:49, good for seventh overall and first in my age group. I had hoped for the Masters win, but the sixth place runner was 41, so no luck there. That small frustration does not spoil the day for me. While the new course is a bit easier than the old one and the weather was unseasonably nice, there’s no question that this was the best I’ve ever run this race. In fact, one could look at my half marathon splits (96:36/96:13) and conclude I ran this “longest paced race” darn near perfectly. And, I’ll just delete the mile splits from my watch and let one believe that.

Note on photography (Race Directors Please Read!)

The opening photo is from SMUT runner Abigail Rolbiecki-Adams who was roaming the course on bike. The medal shot is by me. The rest are by Mile 90 Photography. They’ve been the official photographers at many races I’ve done and they always do a great job. Furthermore, they get the fact that many of us simply want some pictures to show friends and put on blog posts. If you want a nice print in frame, they are happy to have that business but, unlike many race photographers, they aren’t going to gouge you for a digital image. They also don’t insist that the organizer cordon off the start and finish so you can’t even get friends or family to take their own pictures for you. They charge the race a shooting fee and you can download the digital photos for personal use for free. EVERY runner I have ever talked to about this would happily pay an extra $5-10 on the entry fee to have this arrangement. I, personally, have signed up for more than one race simply because the info page mentioned Mile 90 would be there. It indicates more than good photos. It shows the race director would rather pay for a service that the runners want than get a kickback from a provider that just wants to fleece them. Hire these folks and I’ll come to your race. Others will, too.