Run January 13-14, 2023
It’s not that I don’t think wind matters, it’s the whole “wind chill” thing I dislike. Yes, of course you feel colder when it’s 10 below and windy than when it’s 10 below and calm. But, how MUCH colder depends on a lot more on what you are wearing than how fast the air is moving. We’ll come back to that, but for now I’ll just say that bare skin is not a great option.
The Friday night packet pickup gives some reason for optimism. Unlike past years, the Shippey organizers have located the thermostat for the Emmerson Center and, while cool, the poorly insulated hall is providing adequate protection from the single-digit temperatures outside. (Sorry, not sorry to any international readers who disdain my use of Fahrenheit readings.) This is a good thing and I get through singing all my running songs for the dinner crowd without losing my voice.
This is the fourth Shippey and the second time I’ve camped there the night before. Unlike year one, which was held in August, the winter camping is indoors; we just pitch our tents on the tile floor of the Emmerson Center. It makes for a relatively stress-free morning though, as always, I’m scrambling a bit at the end and get to the line only a couple minutes ahead of the 6AM start.
Thirty were registered for the 100-miler, but some have already opted to drop down to the 100K. (Normally, the Shippey does not honor drop downs but made an exception this year hoping limit the number of people deciding to skip it altogether.) Though I start near the front, my thick gloves prevent me from starting my watch and by the time I decide I don’t need it anyway, I’m in last place. While I improve that position in short order, astute readers will note the deft foreshadowing.
Aggressive passing on the narrow trail that traverses the ridge isn’t worth the effort, so I walk nearly the entire first mile. Once on the ridge, the trail widens to doubletrack and I stretch out my stride. This is done more for the purpose of generating some heat than making up time. That said, I’m a bit surprised that the leaders are completely out of sight. Sure, I walked a lot, but the visibility on the ridge is very good, especially since we’re all still using headlamps. They must be flying.
Despite my deficit to the lead, I complete the first leg in 45 minutes (14-minute miles), which was about the easy pace I was hoping to start with. The plan is to leave something in the tank for the night when I’ll want to be running as much as possible to fight the cold. At the aid station, I grab a quick drink and, while I have my gloves off, get my watch started so I can make sure I don’t overcook the pace in response to what the leaders are up to.
The rest of the loop goes without incident, averaging around 12:30/mile including very short stops at aid stations. For those not familiar with the course, each 20-mile “loop” is really 5 little loops referred to as legs, varying in distance and difficulty. When running the counter-clockwise course (as we are this year), legs 1-3 are relatively short and have one big climb each (St. Louis doesn’t actually have any hills; we have valleys cut by the four rivers that converge on the city. The Shippey is run alongside the Meramec, so “big” means going most or all the way from river level to the plateau – around 100 meters vertical and often exceedingly steep). Four is the hardest leg with four significant climbs spread over 4.7 miles. At 5.2 miles, leg five is the longest, but also has the most runnable trail, so it takes about the same amount of time as four. They all come back to the same general area finishing at one of two indoor aid stations which are only a few hundred meters apart.
I haven’t made many passes on the trail but, by resisting the temptation to hang out in the warmth of the aid stations, I’ve moved up to even for second place, along with Daniel Virtue and Brian Garret. Conor Sprick is only ten minutes further up the trail so, at least for the moment, we have an actual competition going on. Of course, the three previous editions have also started with things fairly tight at 25 miles only to devolve into wars of attrition.
I run with Daniel and Brian for all of leg 2; it’s nice to have company and it’s way too early to be concerned about gaps. If Conor is going out too fast, he’ll pay for it, but I’m currently on 22-hour pace which is the on the very fast end of where I want to be right now. At the aid station, both Daniel and Brian take longer than I want to hang around, so I head back out on my own.
Not much changes over the next 25 miles. I’m on my own but moving fine. We get a light dusting of some of the tiniest snowflakes I’ve ever seen. With the late afternoon sun peaking under the clouds the entire forest shimmers. It’s a reminder of how cold it’s getting (it feels like we’re into negative territory, though I don’t have a thermometer to confirm). It’s also amazingly beautiful.
I get to 50 miles shortly before 5PM (11 hours in), having given up only another five minutes to Conor. Ordinarily, being a mere 15 minutes off the lead at halfway would have me gearing up for a fight. Today, however, that impulse is overridden by a concern regarding safety.
As I mentioned in my remarks at the pre-race meeting last night, stopping on the trail in these temps when you’re already tired can turn into a survival situation very quickly. While it’s easy enough to simply resolve not to stop (and, I’m pretty good at keeping such resolutions), the cold weather has sufficiently messed with my motor control that I’ve already fallen quite a few times, tripping on roots or small rocks. In 30 years of serious off-road running, I’ve only knocked myself out in a fall once, but that would be about all it would take tonight. Without a pacer, running hard in these plummeting temps is pushing beyond the level of risk that I’m willing to take for what, after all, is a pursuit of no great consequence. So, I grab my poles and head out expecting to hike all the technical sections of leg 4 (of which there are plenty).
I continue the strategy through leg 5, though there’s a lot more smooth running to be had there, ending loop three at 8PM. While I’ve managed to stay upright, I’m getting really cold due to the extended walking. I take a fairly long break at the next three aid stations to warm up. It’s another four hours to get to 70 miles and I’ve pretty much decided that this won’t be a competitive outing but the game is about to change again.
Frank Evans texted me last evening asking if I needed a pacer. I didn’t read the text until I was in scramble mode at the start, so I quickly replied that I’d love his help but didn’t wait for a response. I now get it in the flesh as he is at the aid station and ready to go. I keep my poles but resolve to do more running on the flat sections (even on leg 4, there is a fair bit of runnable trail). Frank is leading and I notice that he’s doing a lot of walking when I’m running. It feels like I’m trying, but this is the part of the race where my pace generally goes to pieces. I try to push as best I can and we finish the leg in a bit over 80 minutes, which isn’t great, but any forward progress is good at this stage.
I haven’t even got all the way through the door to the aid station when Race Director Jeff Bell looks at me and says, “We have to pull you, you’re getting frostbite.”
I knew my nose was getting very cold and I had been trying to remember to only breathe out through it, but apparently that wasn’t enough. A lot of emotions hit at once. On the one hand, this is a mercy killing of sorts. Getting pulled isn’t really a DNF because you wanted to continue; it was the race organization that made you stop. On the other hand, the whole reason I did this race at all was because I’m the only person who’s finished the 100 every year. I’m not thrilled that I put myself through this for nothing.
A quick look in the bathroom mirror confirms Jeff’s assessment: my nose is white to the point of being colorless, almost translucent. Another 30 minutes out there and I’d probably be looking at skin grafts at the very least if not reconstructive surgery. I sit down by the fire and sip broth.
Meanwhile, Frank is negotiating my return. Yes, the nose is in bad shape now, but the color is already returning, which generally indicates that no permanent damage has been done. Jeff asks my opinion on the matter but I’m in no shape to engage in a coherent discussion at this stage of the race. It’s -7 degrees at 2AM and the low for the day is forecast for -10 at 7AM. The wind is howling. Going back out now would definitely risk a relapse that might end with serious consequences. I suggest that we head out on leg 5 but, instead of turning to climb the ridge a quarter mile in, we make a hard left and go into the Emmerson Center where my tent and sleeping bag are still set up. I’ll sleep until sunrise and, if the nose feels OK, I’ll head back out and promise to find some piece of fabric to cover it. This sounds reasonable to Jeff and we get clearance to leave.
The run to the Emmerson Center is twice as long as it has to be because we follow the route for leg 5 rather than cutting straight across the field, but we’re still there in less than five minutes. Frank and I agree to be ready to run by 7 and I slide into my sleeping bag.
Normally, I don’t sleep very well right after an ultra, but I’m able to nod off quickly and get some decent rest before waking at 6:30. That’s a good thing because I’m now in last place. And not by a few yards. By a lot. Just about everybody who was struggling took the 100K drop down. The result is that there are only six people left in the race and the closest to me is an hour ahead.
I’ve been last male twice before in this event. Of course, the sting of that was mitigated by the fact that I was also first overall both of those years. I’d like to have more wins than DFL’s in this race. But, that’s not really what’s on my mind as we head up the ridge on leg 5. I’m more concerned with whether I’ll be able to run. I had taken a small gamble in leaving my poles behind last night figuring if I couldn’t run in the morning, there would be no chance of a competitive finish. But, I’m usually pretty stiff the day after running 75 miles.
To my relief, once on top of the ridge I find it fairly easy to run. When we get to the fastest part of the leg (a one-mile gentle downhill on an ATV track), I open it up enough that Frank exclaims that the rest has certainly done me good. We obviously won’t get all the time back, but we’re certainly going to be moving a lot faster than we would have if I’d continued straight through. We finish the leg in 75 minutes or six and a half hours, depending on how you want to look at it. At any rate, I’m racing again.
Leg 1 of the last loop sends us along the westernmost ridge, which is to say straight into the laminar flow of cold air that hasn’t been interrupted since it left Kansas City. Even with the face mask that I borrowed from Frank, it’s brutally cold. Fortunately, my nose is not objecting. The covering is uncomfortable, but it’s doing its job.
We stop only long enough to get some fluids at the end of the leg and head back up the ridge. The climb on leg 2 is somewhat more protected and once on top of the ridge we only have to run with a cross wind for about half a mile before turning east and getting the wind at our backs. As a result, I don’t feel like I need to stop to warm up at all at the aid station. I tell Frank I want to run leg 3 hard and he can sit out until leg 4, where I’ll want his help again.
I’m now moving at close to the pace I was 24 hours ago on loop 1. It’s definitely harder, but I’ve found my rhythm and the knowledge that there are only 12 miles to go gives me the motivation to push up the powerline climb on 3 which is the steepest on the course. I’ve been passing a fair number of people, but with the staggered starts across different distances, I have no idea whether I’m moving up in the 100 field. Truthfully, I don’t care that much at this point; I’m just happy to be getting it done.
Back at the aid station, I decide I’m running well enough to tackle 4 without poles. I take a little time to make sure I’m topped up on fluids and food as I don’t usually bother with aid stations in the last 10 miles. Frank and I trade leads and we get through it in under 70 minutes, more than 3 minutes/mile faster than loop 4. As we’re coming in, I see Duncan Naylor heading out his last leg. Assuming Conor finished several hours ago (an assumption that proves correct), that’s my chance to get out of the basement of the standings.
Frank has read the final chapter of this book before and decides he’ll just meet me at the finish rather than busting his ass to keep up with a runner that doesn’t need him anymore. I’m happy to be on my own since I’m now singularly focused on getting to the line as quickly as possible.
I catch Duncan at the base of the long ATV descent. He doesn’t seem to be moving that well, but he’s also only 18 and sometimes those young guys can unleash a ridiculous surge to the finish. I decide not to take any chances and hammer for all I’m worth for the next mile. I have no choice but to walk the big climb back up the ridge but, as I near the top, I’m relieved to see that he’s still not in view. It appears he’s not interested in a fight. Still, no point in taking chances, I run almost all of the last two miles except for the really slick rocks coming off the ridge.
There’s a fair contingent to greet me at the finish. Aside from Frank, Race Director Jake Grossbauer is there along with a photographer and a few spectators (the temperature is back into positive numbers, so a few more people are venturing outside). Much to my surprise, I’ve managed to pass all the women to finish second overall. I only saw one of them, so I must have passed the other two at aid stations.
At 31:37, this is the slowest 100 I’ve ever done. Even subtracting off the break, it would still be one of my slowest (and, obviously, I wouldn’t have been able to do the last 25 miles so quickly without the rest). The cold was simply debilitating. Even Conor ran the second half six hours slower than his first half (though, the fact that nobody was challenging him might have had something to do with that).
I’ve run four other ultras that started in colder conditions. However, they were all daytime events that warmed up as the race went on. Here we had slightly rising temps until about 1PM on Saturday, but it was all downhill from there. All of Sunday was colder than the start. And none of the previous efforts had the wind we had to deal with here. I’ve only encountered that combination once before, at a cross-country ski race in Rochester, NY where it was -15 with winds gusting from 20-30 miles an hour. And, I got frostbite for real at that one; I had a sliver of exposed skin on the ankle between the sock and tights that still has no feeling 40 years later. So, whether I use wind chill readings or keep the temp and wind speed as separate metrics, there’s far simpler appraisal: it was too damn cold.
Did you miss the song?
