Ozark Trail 100

Run November 7, 2020

I imagine most people will remember 2020 for what they didn’t get to do. In an odd twist, this year’s pandemic provided me an opportunity to try something new. Not entirely new – I’ve run plenty of hundreds before – but specifically, the Ozark Trail 100. The previous eleven runnings have conflicted with a non-profit gala that Kate and I are always invited to. With big, indoor gatherings off the table, I was released from my obligation of eating and drinking at a 5-star hotel and freed to run 100 miles over fist-sized rocks buried in leaves.

This is not something I’m particularly good at. My years of heavy orienteering training made me pretty adept at moving quickly over bad footing. However, turn the pace down to 100-mile speed and I’m stumbling all over the place. I spent a few years trying to fix that with very limited success. I finally decided to just stop trying and instead resolved to not run slowly when the footing is bad. If I can’t run at least as fast as my normal training pace, I walk.

The OT provides plenty of excuses to take a walk break. The hills are incessant. They aren’t particularly large (the tallest is 400 feet of local relief; most are around half that), but you rarely go much more than a mile without encountering one. So, my strategy is fairly simple: walk this hills, run everything else at easy/long training pace, which is 11-12 minutes/mile on this terrain. Factoring in the walks and time lost at aid stations and it looks like a sub-24 is doable, but far from certain.

Oh, yeah, I forgot to mention The Abyss. We’ll get to that. But, since I’ve already tipped my hand, I’ll note that I go into this one not only expecting it, but expecting it to be so bad that I don’t just lose an hour or two, I drop out entirely. Therefore, I recruit a crew to keep me from doing just that. Matt Coriell, Emily Korsch, and Scott “Erl” Erlandson step up. Erl breaks his ankle a few weeks prior to the event, so he won’t be able to pace, but insists he still wants to be part of the effort. I invite them over for dinner a few weeks in advance and we lay out the plan. Matt will crew the first half of the race, starting to pace at 40 miles. Emily and Erl will come down Saturday afternoon with Emily taking over pacing from 65-94. I’ll run the last seven in on my own. Arithmetically-inclined readers will deduce that the course is actually a mile long.

Matt and I drive down to Bass River Resort on Friday afternoon. This pleasant campground (which is actually on the Courtois River; there is no Bass River in Missouri as far as I know) serves as race HQ and finish line. Check in takes only a few minutes, even with the COVID precautions in place. Everyone does a fine job of respecting the social distance guidelines, which is a pleasant relief given how badly much of Missouri is handling this. I place my drop bags and we go for a short run to loosen up. We spend the evening around a campfire with a few other crews. The Abyss comes up and I end up talking about it more than I’d like.

The alarm goes off at 2:50AM, but I’m already awake. I rarely sleep well the night before a race. Fortunately, I haven’t found it matters as long as I’ve had good rest in the preceding week. We pass the busses on the way to the start and I’m actually the first competitor to check in. It also means I have first dibs on the porta-john. The busses arrive a few minutes later and as I exit, I find there is now a waiting line. That’s one race I’ve won today!

Race Director Paul Schoenlaub gives us a brief sendoff and fires the horn at 6AM. The sky is starting to lighten, but we all have lamps for the opening out and back on the narrow forest road which spreads the field. Passing back through the start at 3 miles, I shed my top layer and give it to Matt. This race is notorious for being cold but, if we’re in shorts and shirts at dawn, this is just going to be one more thing that’s different in 2020.

Shortly after the out and back, we turn onto the OT. The first few miles are easy running along the ridge, but then we hit what is objectively the toughest part of the course: the five miles of steep, rocky climbs and descents heading into Sutton Bluff (with a calf-deep river crossing thrown in for good measure). This is mitigated by the fact that it’s very early in the race and we’re all feeling up to the task. I run in a group of six and we chat happily as we trudge up and down the steep bluffs between Bee Creek and the Black River.

Sutton Bluff at 14 miles is a crewed station, so Matt is there. I don’t really need much at this point as it’s still cool enough that I haven’t lost much fluid. I grab some sandwiches and refill my bottle and am on my way fairly quickly. It’s 8:40AM, so I’m a little ahead of schedule, but I attribute that to the fact that the running conditions are pretty ideal at this point.

Leaving the station, I’m on my own as all the members of our group take varying time with their crews. I cover the next two sections (classic singletrack made slightly more technical due to the leaves hiding the rocks underneath) easily and get to the Johnson Hollow aid station (24.6 miles) just before 11AM. So far, so good, but I’m beginning to notice the heat. Fellow SLUGs Tommy and Jen Doias are manning the station and give me some encouragement while warning me to keep my fluids and electrolytes topped up.

The next section starts with one of the largest climbs of the course, affording a beautiful view of the Brushy Creek valley. I’m starting to understand why, despite the tough trail, this race has such a devoted following: it’s not the majesty of the western mountains, but it is astoundingly pleasant. I’m also starting to think that my left foot is in trouble. The multiple creek crossings have left enough sand in my shoe that the bottom of the big toe is getting raw. I stop to clean out my sock as best I can. There’s no blister there, but the skin is clearly distressed. I know I have a change of socks at the next aid station, so I try to stay as light on my feet as I can until then.

The sock change at Gunstock Hollow is a game changer. I spend a few extra minutes at the aid station to let my feet dry before putting the new socks on. Everything feels good again. There is the problem of water, however. I had figured it wouldn’t get hot enough to need more than my 16oz waist bottle until mid-afternoon. With almost 9 miles between me and my pack at the next aid station, that assumption is looking a bit suspect. I throw in more walk breaks, but still run dry about 15 minutes before reaching Brooks Creek (40 miles) where Matt is waiting to pace.

It’s only 2:30, so I’m right on the pace I would have set to break 24. But, I know the heat has taken a toll and that I’m going to have some very slow sections ahead. I tell Matt we’re not clock-watching; the goal is just to keep moving best I can. I lead for the next section which, with seven climbs in 7.2 miles, is one of the hilliest of the course. Along with my pack came my poles and I put them to use. At the next aid station, I pick up my waist light from my drop bin. This should be the equipment arrangement for the rest of the night though (fortunately, as it turns out) I have contingencies.

Not long into the next section, the sun sets and the lights come on. Despite the cooler temps brought by night, my pace continues to flag. We are now walking a good bit of the level ground as well as the climbs. We have found the edge of The Abyss. Those wanting a longer treatise on The Abyss, can find it in my earlier race report from Potawatomi. The short version is that, in the third quarter of a 100, I come face to face with true despair. Part of it is physical, but it is the depth of emotion that is really staggering. Its occurance is a near certainty (I’ve had 2 hundreds where it was mild, in the other 11 it was full force) and, despite the trauma, it is much of the appeal of running 100's for me. It's a dark place that makes the light that much brighter. But, right now, it is very dark. Matt does a fine job of keeping us moving, albeit slowly, while I deal with my inner demons.

At the next aid station, Matt brings me some soup, which helps quite a bit. I stay long enough to eat that and get some other fluids down. We head out shortly before 7PM. In 16 miles, I’ve slipped from being right on expected pace to my most pessimistic projection. I tell Matt that any chance of a sub-24 is gone and we just need to be focused on forward progress. We trudge back into the woods. Then my light dies.

It’s been a bit finicky lately. I bought it used last fall and it served me well at Rocky Raccoon 100 and a few other shorter runs. At the faux Leadville this summer (about 20 of us lined up to run some or all of the course even though the race was cancelled) the switch started giving me fits. I took it apart and re-soldered some of the connections but, apparently that wasn’t enough. Now it is dead. Changing batteries makes no difference. It gives off a brief flicker and then nothing. This, of course, is why I ALWAYS have my headlamp with me in a 100. I don’t like running by headlamp, but it’s very easy to carry a 1oz headlamp on your head and they tend to be simpler by design so less likely to fail. At this speed, it really doesn’t matter. We push on.

While I’m physically a wreck, my emotions are holding up better than usual. No doubt a result of having Matt on hand. He remains upbeat, talks a bit, but not too much, and doesn’t forget to point out that this course is perhaps even more beautiful under a cloudless night sky lit by a half moon. Our progress is so slow that I worry we’ll miss my most pessimistic projection at Hazel Creek and cause some worry. We arrive at 9:50, ten minutes ahead of that. Nobody was worried; I’m only the 15th runner to arrive as just about everybody else has been slowed by the conditions as well. Emily (who has read the aforementioned Potawatomi report) asks if I’m in The Abyss. “Very much so.”

The stop at Hazel Creek is uplifting. Many of the local trail running community are there, waiting to crew or pace. They come by to offer encouragement. Meanwhile Erl springs into action (as much as one can with a cast on one’s leg) and takes care of my every need. I switch to my handheld light, which a really great light, but means I won’t be able to use poles. I change shoes and socks as the Hazel crossing was over a foot deep. I’d love to stay, but this is the time of the race when stopping is very dangerous. Emily leads back onto the trail before inertia set in.

The conversation with Emily is quite different, but no less helpful. We have a longer relationship to draw on, though it’s still not much of a dialogue as I’m not up to full sentences at this point. I do find, however, that I can run. I feel like I am coming out the other side of The Abyss. Until I’m not. Halfway through the 8-mile leg, I’m back to only being able to run for short sections. By the aid station, all the walking has left me with blisters on my right foot. Emily does a quick field dressing on them, noting that we’ll have better first aid available at crewed Berryman station in five miles.

Those five miles take quite a while and include a very frosty stream crossing followed by the big hike up the ridge to Berryman Campground. Erl is there and, as at Hazel, is quick to tend to my nourishment while Emily properly tapes up the blister.

We again set out at a decent pace only to have me go in the tank again after about 2 miles. This is by far the oddest version of The Abyss that I’ve had to deal with. It’s not as deep as it usually gets. But, it’s not going away, either. I attempt to articulate it to Emily, “I don’t know what I’m doing.” She responds with some alarm, “You don’t know where you are or what race you’re in?” As a veteran of several multi-day events, she’s familiar with the hallucinations that come with extreme distance. I calm her with the reassurance that I haven’t lost my mind, I just don’t have a good read on what’s going on in there.

At Beecher Spring, the artesian well just off the trail, we stop to refill water. Whether it’s the stop, the wonderful spring water, or just the time for it to pass, I can’t say but, as we head up the hill, I realize that this time I really am ascending the far side of The Abyss and there won’t be a subsequent relapse. We jog into the festive aid station run by Daily Run Club and the familiar faces further buoy my mood. We leave knowing we will run the bulk of the remaining 14 miles.

The sun rises during the next leg to the last aid station at 94.4 miles. For the first time in the second half of the race, we are passing people rather than being passed. At the aid station, Emily’s duties are complete other than bringing me some tater tots from the table. Erl takes my pack as my waist bottle will be plenty for the final six and a half miles.

The last leg is pretty much how anybody would want to finish a race. I’m running well, the morning weather is again perfect, and I pick off one more position for good measure. Despite the presence of three significant climbs, it’s my fastest leg of the entire race (roughly 10-minute miles) except for the opening miles on the road. I finish in 17th place at 9:23AM (27 hours, 23 minutes). I would have liked to have done a bit better but I can’t say that I’m disappointed. It was a tough day and nearly half the field dropped. While my ride through The Abyss was a bit wilder than usual, I think that was largely because Matt and Emily kept doing such a good job of arresting my fall. I’m pretty sure I would have quit if I had been on my own.

The OT 100 is a great race. I’m glad I did it. I’m also about as beat up as I’ve ever been after a race right now. So, if I have to wait for the next 100-year pandemic to run it again, I think I’m OK with that.

Oh, you wanted pictures? Well, then, you have to listen to the song.

Hennepin 100

Run October 5, 2019
Watermarked Photos by Mile90 Photography
Other photos by Jenny El Tee and me

It was love at first sight. Shortly before the 2018 running of the Hennepin Hundred, a picture of the finisher buckle was posted on Facebook. Most 100-mile buckles are cool in their own way, but this one was more than that. It was beautiful. I wanted one. That’s a pretty vain reason to run 100 miles, but I’ve never claimed that ultrarunning is a noble pursuit.

Adding to the appeal was the presence of a larger buckle, boldly proclaiming "sub-24" for all who get the task done in less than a day. While there’s no such thing as certainty in an ultra, running a flat 100 on a gravel path in under 24 hours is in the category of “reasonable expectations” for me. As I had just spent six months preparing for a sub-3 effort at Chicago, to be held on the same weekend as Hennepin, I had to defer love for a year. I signed up for the 2019 edition as soon as registration opened.

The original plan was to simply cover the course and collect my buckle, perhaps making some new friends along the way. However, a string of really good results (starting with Chicago) had me thinking maybe I should take a crack at my Personal Record. That was set 9 years ago on a fairly flat road course in excellent conditions. To have any chance of beating that, I'll need every advantage I can get. Specifically, I'll need a crew.

Fast food at mile 40

The difference between walking through an aid station while someone hands you exactly what you want versus having to refill bottles and pick out food from the table can save 1-2 minutes at each station. In a fast ultra like this, that’s a difference that matters. As the race falls on one of the busiest race weekends of the year, none of the locals volunteer (either that or I’ve just been more of a jackass than usual lately, but we’ll go with the first explanation). I put out a call to the Hennepin training group and find a couple pacers who are willing to pass the daytime crewing me for the first 54 miles. That’s good enough as I usually have to stop to drink broth at the nighttime stations anyway.

I arrive just before the pre-race meeting at 5PM Friday. After getting my number, I go for a quick jog on the canal path to get a read on the surface. It turns out the path is paved (albeit badly) near the finish, so I don’t get any help in deciding whether to run in trail shoes. The consensus among veterans is that road shoes are fine, so I decide I’ll go with my road shoes and leave my trail shoes at the 31-mile aid station in case the first third of the race changes my mind.

By the time I get back, my impromptu crew of Jenny and Jeremy have arrived. We sort through supplies and then grab dinner at a local brew pub. There’s a campground a few miles away, but no camping allowed at the finish. In my view, the only advantage of camping is having a place to crash right when I’m done. If I have to drive, I might as well enjoy the comfort of a real bed. After dinner, I cross the river to Iowa and spend the night at a hotel in Le Claire.

I get back to the finish well ahead of the 5AM bus departure, happily snagging a parking spot very close to the line. While technically point to point, the course is shaped more like a “T” with the stem pointing north. We’ll run south from Sterling for 32 miles, then do an out-and-back to the east getting back to the junction at 69 miles. Then the final 31 west to the finish. Since the bus is taking the direct route, the ride to the start takes less than an hour.

The race starts promptly at 7 and, after a mile of sorting, I find myself around 20 deep in the field of 500. Two hundred of those are in the 50 and I have no way of knowing how many of them are ahead, but I also don’t care. I am running this one purely for time. The goal is to be under my PR of 17 hours, 50 minutes. To do that, I’ll need to be focusing exclusively on my own progress.

After another mile or so along the north side of the Rock River, we cross on a dam and start our journey south on the actual canal. As at the far end, the path is old asphalt with chip seal. I hate to squander a fast surface, so I don’t take any walk breaks prior to aid station 1. That has me hitting the station a couple minutes ahead of my most optimistic pacing.

While I'll need to start taking walk breaks soon, I'm not worried about starting just a bit quick. However, I might be outrunning my crew. They were planning on getting to aid station 2 (the first crew accessible station) at 8:30, figuring I'd arrive about five minutes later. At current pace, I’ll cover the first 10 miles in under 90 minutes. Indeed, I roll into station 2 at 8:28 and leave just as they are getting out of the car. It’s not a big deal as the weather is cool enough that I still have a fair bit of water with me so I don’t have to refill a bottle.

The path is now a mix of dirt and gravel and I start taking my regular walk breaks. Since the aid station spacing is pretty consistently 4-6 miles, my plan is to walk out of each aid station swapping supplies with crew (where accessible) and eating and drinking. I also take another minute or two in the middle of each leg. I also take the opportunity to text my crew and tell them not to worry about the missed exchange.

At the third station, we hook up. The exchange is very efficient as we walk the whole time. I take enough that I won’t have to stop at all at the fourth station (which is not accessible to crew). The leg to 5 is only 3 miles, so I skip the midway walk break. We have another efficient exchange, though Jenny insists I take a few seconds as I’m leaving so she can get a shot of me going through the “Sharknado”. Station 6 is also closed to crew and this time I do stop to fill a bottle as the sun is out and it’s getting a bit warm.

On the way to 7, I’m caught by Tracy Kilvinger who is leading the women’s field in the 50. I’ve been running by myself pretty much the whole way, so I match her speed and we chat for a bit. The conversation is a welcome respite. With its tree-lined sides and rustic path, the canal is pleasant enough, but it looks pretty much the same the whole way. After staring at it for four hours, a distraction is welcome.

Station 7 is the junction of the T. The routing in and out is a little convoluted, so the organizers have planted lots of directional signs to keep people from missing the station or heading out on the wrong path. We arrive right at noon, which means I’m still about five minutes ahead of my best predicted pace of 9:30/mile. The early morning was ideal running conditions and, even at midday, it’s pretty nice. There’s also been quite a bit more paved trail than I was expecting and even the dirt/gravel sections are a fairly fast surface. Still, this pace definitely carries some risk. There are two choices: 1) start taking some extended walk breaks in hopes of getting some recovery or 2) go all in. It’s actually a pretty easy choice. I’ve never been able to “fix” overcooking the early part of a race. If I’ve really gone out to fast, I’m going to get clobbered tonight no matter what. Might as well see if there’s a super special result in there.

Tracy doesn’t take a walk break out of the station, so I’m back on my own. Of course, since there are no hills and hardly any turns, I can still see her even as her lead over me grows to a quarter mile. While my body is holding up just fine, I start feeling a bit depressed. It’s early for that; I usually don’t wrestle with negative thoughts until nightfall. Unlike a trail 100, I don’t really have to pay much attention to where I’m putting my feet, so I decide I can let my mind wander a bit. I start writing my race song.

I usually wait until after a race to write a song about it. Most of them are pathetically silly. The only one I’ll perform in public is the one I wrote for Leadville. But, this one starts to come together pretty quickly with a quick beat that matches my cadence. In just a few miles, I’ve got a chorus worked out and some decent rhymes for the verses. Singing it to myself buoys my spirits. The miles pass quickly and, since all the aid stations on this part of the course are crew accessible, I zip through them losing no time at all. I arrive at the 50-mile finish at 2:25PM, still a few minutes ahead of expectations.

Uh oh

We’ve actually only covered 47 miles so far. Both the 50 and 100 continue the out-and-back for a bit longer. The 50 turn comes first and I give Tracy a cheer as she passes me heading to the line for her win. The turnaround for the 100 runners is another 2 miles out and there’s a small aid station at the turn. I take my usual walk break and take a look at the sky. I’m no meteorologist, but I’ve lived in the Midwest long enough to know that when the clouds have holes in the bottoms, you might want to think about moving your picnic inside. I put my phone in a plastic bag but first use it to make a rough recording my song so I won’t forget it in the hazy miles to come.

The rain is light at first, though the distant rumbling of thunder erases any doubts that heavier stuff is coming. Back at the 50-mile finish (now 54 miles for me), I get my last exchange from Jenny and Jeremy. We stop and take a minute to check I have everything I need since anything I leave here will be unavailable for the rest of the race. We wish each other well and I am off on my own for the miles remaining.

Laura, about the time we passed.

Well, sort of. As I’m now heading back towards the junction, I’m passing lots of runners coming the other way. A few of them I know, but I exchange greetings with all of them. Laura Eriks (who will go on to run her first sub-24) gives me a hug. The rain is quite heavy now and there's a bit of a wind. It’s a bit chilly on my increasingly depleted body. I could get out my jacket, but I want to keep that dry for the night when I might really need it. I’m hoping the forecast holds and the rain clears before 6PM because I know I have a dry shirt waiting at the junction and I should get there shortly after that.

The rain does abate, but the path, which had been excellent footing in the dry is now covered in a thin layer of green ooze that is just about the slipperiest surface short of an ice rink. Fortunately, having recognized it after the first couple slips (neither resulting in a fall), it’s easy to spot and I just run in the grass when I get to a mossy section.

Between the cold rain, the slick surface, having to stop at aid stations, and just general fatigue, my trip back to the junction is about a minute per mile slower than the trip out to the turnaround. This doesn’t alarm me as I always slow down in the third quarter of a hundred. In fact, I’m quite surprised by how good I feel as I don my dry shirt and clip on my light. The PR is still very much in reach; 12-minute miles will do it. That’s not slow in the context of late-race miles at night, but it’s a lot slower than I’ve been going.

By the next aid station at 74.7 miles it’s completely dark. It’s taken over an hour to cover the nearly six miles, so my pace is still slipping. The next leg is five miles and it takes nearly an hour. I’m a bit surprised that I’m still keeping food down (I’m usually reduced to just fluids after 100K) and happily take a grilled cheese sandwich as I walk out of the station.

It’s only four miles to the aid at 83.8, but I’m finding I have to take walk breaks every 15 minutes now and the breaks are getting longer. I can feel the PR slipping away and rather than think it through clearly and collecting myself, I panic and go through the station too quickly, leaving my sugar foods (some clif blocks and a gel) on the table as I get a fresh battery out of my pockets. I haven’t been eating much sugar, mainly because it tends to come right back up at this point in the race. However, the cold has had me burning calories quicker than usual and I can feel my blood sugar levels getting low.

There’s not much I can do about that until the next aid station at 88. Once there, I shed my pack, figuring I can go with just a single bottle for the remainder of the race. I then spend a minute trying to attach it to my drop bag as best I can so it will get returned to the finish. I also shed my jacket as there’s no further chance of rain and the night air is cool, but not cold. And, I head on my way.

It’s the sort of mistake you make when you’ve been running for 15 hours. But, 100’s don’t forgive such errors. It takes two miles before I realize that I forgot to do the ONE THING that I absolutely had to do: eat some sugar. I have no food on me and, at 6.6 miles, this is one of the longest legs. I try taking walk breaks every 10 minutes to ward off the crash that will certainly come. Perhaps it helps but, at mile 92, I’m toast. My vision blurs and I’m no longer able to even walk a straight line much less run. It takes 45 minutes to stagger the remaining 2.5 miles into the aid station.

The PR is gone but, with only a bit over five miles to go, there’s really no decision to be made. I simply need to eat and hang here until my sugar levels come back and then finish the race. I collapse into a chair while a woman named Leanne who is waiting to pace another runner runs and gets me things to eat. I drink several cups of soda and also eat some gummy bears. Knowing how dangerous it is to sit too long by a fire at an aid station, I ask Leanne to make sure I get up in five minutes. I then rest my head in my hands and hope that my sugar levels will come back in that amount of time.

In five minutes, Leanne gives me a nudge and offers to run alongside me for a bit. I immediately accept the offer. We walk the first couple hundred yards as I unstiffen my legs and then break into an easy jog. A mile out, she says she has to get back to meet her runner and wishes me luck the rest of the way.

The dizziness and blurred vision is gone and I feel like I’m thinking a bit more clearly. I try to remember my song, but I keep getting it wrong. I'm glad I recorded it back at mile 55, because I seem to recall thinking it was one of my better ones. (Having re-recorded it in my basement, I still think that. granted, it's a low bar, but it's here if you want to give it a listen: WARNING, depending on your browser, this link might start playing immediately). I start to look for landmarks from yesterday’s reconnaissance run, but I’m still too far out for that. With about three miles to go, I spot a headlamp ahead. I’ve been catching 50K walkers all night as that distance started from the junction an hour before I came through. However, this runner seems to be moving too well to be a 7-hour 50K’er. If I’m just seeing them now, I must be gaining. It’s time to see if there’s anything left. This is a race, after all.

The increase in pace is remarkably painless. I can feel the effort, of course, but that’s all it is: effort. None of the agony that usually goes with a race gone bad. I start to realize that this race never went bad. The legs were always there, my pacing was aggressive but not overly so. I just missed refueling at a really bad time. I’m now recognizing the trail from yesterday; there’s less than fifteen minutes to go. I catch and pass the runner just before we go under the interstate which is a mile from the finish. I continue to press all the way to the line crossing in 18:17:59. I’m officially fifth overall, first “master” (master has become a somewhat ambiguous term; it used to mean 40+ but here, as with several other races I’ve done lately, it means 50+).


In contrast with the monolithic path just completed, the finish area has so many options, it’s hard to decide what to do first. There’s hot food in the pavilion, showers and cots at the firehouse, clean clothes in my car, and PEOPLE. One of the best parts of finishing an ultra is the feeling of rejoining a community. You perceive it on the course, where aid is freely given and received from strangers simply because that's what the task requires. But, at the finish, you wrap yourself in it. It is the warm joy of being with those who understand that to be truly full one must first be truly empty. It really is so much more than a buckle. But, I still love that buckle.

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.

Silver Rush 50

Run July 6, 2019

I don’t believe in omens. I don’t think bad things come in threes (at least, not any more than they come in pairs or quadruplets). Good is not always rewarded and bad is not always punished. Sure, there are things you can do to move the odds in your favor but, at the end of the day, stuff just happens and we’re much less in control than we like to think.

That said…

I probably should have seen it coming.

In the last 12 months, I’ve run 4400 miles, completed two marathon prep cycles, run a sub-3, PR’d at 13.1 and 50 miles, and finished several other ultras. That’s a lot, even for a high-volume trainer like myself. Some downtime is clearly in order.

Instead, I’m signed up for my second go at the Silver Rush 50 in Leadville. It’s a qualifier for the Leadville 100 and I’m very much hoping to repeat my performance from three years ago when I scored an invite to the big dance.

The fact that I get horribly sick 10 days prior doesn’t dissuade me. Nor does the fact that I get better just in time to get sick again four days out. Or that I’ve worked 60 hours in the prior week. Or that I lose the transmission in my car the morning I’m supposed to leave.

I wrap things up at work midday on July 3, feeling like my cold is improving and that I’ve left my work tasks in good enough shape that I can take a couple days off without stressing over them. The Camry I’ve rented for the trip is comfortable and gets remarkably good gas mileage (41 for the entire trip, including the mountains). I spend an enjoyable evening in Lawrence, KS with Mike Eglinski and Mary Jones. The remaining drive on the fourth is, well, not super interesting, but otherwise pleasant and I convince myself that things are looking up. In Denver I’m greeted with the typical afternoon hail storm that gets me EVERY SINGLE TIME I drive there. At least I get a pretty sunset on my evening jog. The next morning I find time to round up some more cold medicine and finally head into the mountains.

Aside from failing to hook up with fellow SLUGs Eric Strand and John Sheppard, number pickup goes without a hitch. I’m told I missed a pretty good dinner with them, but I had a good time chatting with some other runners and mountain bikers at Periodic Brewery. After dinner, I do manage to find Eric’s place in Breckenridge and get a decent night’s sleep ahead of an early wakeup.

Eric, John, and I drive together to the start. We’re there in plenty of time to get ready. I tell Eric and John that, if either of them are ahead of me coming back, I’ll give them the car keys. They both laugh saying that’s not likely. I have no idea why they think that but, even if they're right, contingency plans are good.

Spectators trudge up the start hill to watch the sprint

I stash my trekking poles in my pack since the trail isn’t very steep until the first aid station. Well, except for the first 100 meters. That part is insanely steep. There’s a prize for the first person to the top but you can only claim it if you go on to finish the race. Even if I was in possession of that kind of uphill sprint, I wouldn’t trash the rest of my race by going for it. I hike up the hill like just about everybody else.

The next four miles are fairly flat, then we begin the big ascent from 10,000 to 12,000 feet. I run most of the way to the first aid station at seven miles, get out my poles, and hike the remaining three miles to the top. This part of the course used to be a loop, but the excessive snowmelt this year has washed out the lower trail, so this year it’s an out-and-back. I keep a rough count of runners coming back until it becomes clear that I’m well outside of the top 100. Last time I was around 60th at this point in the race, so I appear to be taking it out a bit soft. That’s not necessarily a bad thing; I stay on my pace.

From the turnaround, it’s all downhill to the next aid station. I make it a quick stop; just long enough to refill my bottle and grab a quick bite. We descend a bit more (allowing me to get in my obligatory fall – only superficial damage) and then we start the next big ascent which brings us back to around 12,000 feet. Although I have to hike almost all of it, I feel pretty good on the climb. I’m not gaining many positions, but it seems like a strong second half is possible. From the next aid station, there’s just a bit more climbing and then the interminable long descent to halfway.

I don’t know why this part of the course is so tedious. It should be fun; mostly easy downhill on very runnable gravel roads. It just seems like it goes on forever. I got frustrated on this section last time and ended up pushing way too hard. I don’t make that mistake this time, but I do find that, by the turn, I’m not feeling great. It’s almost as if I have an inverted reaction to altitude: I always feel good at the top of the passes, but in the valleys I go soft.

As I’m entering the aid station, Zach Strand (Eric’s son) is exiting. He stops me and introduces himself. I recognized him from pictures on Facebook, but it is our first actual meeting. He seems to be going quite well. I’m starting to feel like my race might be about to take a turn for the worse.

I’m not wrong.

Although I’ve taken my time getting to the halfway mark (30 minutes slower than three years ago), the trudge back up is, if anything, tougher going. I even have my poles with me this time, but they aren’t helping much.

Some clouds move in, bringing a light rain and even a little snow (!) and, suddenly, I’m moving well again. The clouds pass on and I’m back to dragging. That’s not a good sign at all; it indicates I’m overheating and probably behind on hydration as well. There’s not a lot I can do about that until the next aid station on the far side of the pass. Except, there is. This is a trail race and the usual zero-sum rules of sports do not apply. There are other “runners” (everybody’s walking this climb) and a few spectators sprinkled along the course. They don’t know me and have no reason to help except that that’s just what we do in these things. I bum enough fluids off of others to get me over the top.

Just prior to the aid station, John passes me and I give him the car keys. At the aid station, Eric comes through and I tell him I already gave John the car keys. If nothing else, this may serve as a lesson for them to take contingency plans seriously.

After a fairly long stop (20 minutes?), I head back out. The next leg is back down the really steep descent. While I don’t run it hard, it’s so steep that it’s easier to run it than walk. I take a shorter break at the next aid station. I’m feeling just a bit better but I also know what lies ahead: the three mile climb back up to 12,000 that crushed me last time.

Since it’s an out and back this year, the temptation to simply make a hard right and head straight down to the finish is pretty overwhelming. I mention to the course marshals that it would be much simpler to go that way. They aren’t particularly impressed with my logic.

I head up the grade. It’s only 5% on a gravel road; it really shouldn’t be that big of a deal, but I don’t even try to fight it. I just walk. About a mile into it, Zach comes by the other way. He asks if I want to know how much farther. “Not really, I’ll just keep walking till I get there.” He wishes me well. John comes by and then Eric. Lots of other folks come by. I wonder if I’m even in the top half of the field (I’m not). At the turnaround, I don’t feel like running back down. I suppose I could, but it would be horribly unpleasant and it’s not like I’m going to save a great finish. I decide to walk it in.

At least it's a pretty walk

Eleven miles is a long way to walk it in. Still, it’s beautiful countryside and I’m not in any real duress; I just don’t have much of an engine and even less motivation right now. With eight miles to go, I’m back at the turn to the finish. I point out to the marshals that I was right: I went all the way up there only to be told to turn around. Again, this fails to convince them that they are doing something terribly wrong.

With four miles to go, we’re back at 10,000 feet. Not that I care much, but the flat terrain actually has me passing people who were able to run downhill, but can only walk on the level. I pass maybe 20 people before arriving at the finish in 12:49 (nearly two and a half hours slower than last time and not remotely in the running for a qualifying spot).

When a race goes this badly, my practice is to avoid introspection and just put it behind me. It’s clearly an outlier. That said, there is a pattern: I really don’t run well in the mountains. The problem isn’t altitude. I’ve done just fine at short races at altitude (by short, I mean 2-4 hours). I’ve also gone to pieces in long mountain races in the Appalachians where altitude isn’t an issue. I’m not sure what I’m doing wrong on these things, but there’s some very important skill that I don’t appear to possess. Practice is the obvious answer, but that’s not an easy thing to do when you live in Missouri (the Ozarks are great, but they are NOT mountains). I think the only hope of fixing it is to spend some extended time hiking above tree line. That probably won’t go over big on the home front, so I’ll probably just continue to suck at mountain ultras.

I’m actually OK with that. At least I’ll see it coming.

Shippey 100

Run August 2, 2016.

Just to be clear, it was three beers. But, two probably would have done it. After the disappointment of Silver Rush (yes, the race report for that one is coming), I really wanted to get a more happy experience in my rearview mirror. How 100 miles in St. Louis summer satisfies that is something you can only fathom when you've had a few.

So, there I was, outside Melvin Brewery (which is really good, by the way) registering for the Shippey 100 much to the delight of the Arch City runners who had just sampled the Beaumont trails (and Melvin's beers) with me.

This is the inaugural running of the Shippey, named for the trail system at Beaumont Boy Scout Ranch in Eureka, MO, and the organizers have made several good decisions to maximize the chances it won't be the last. Each 20-mile loop of the course is really five little loops which start and finish at one of just two aid stations that are located less than a quarter mile apart. This greatly reduces logistics and also makes it a bit more interesting for the volunteers since runners will be coming through much more often.

Several distances are offered including a 100K that will run through the night and a 20-miler Saturday morning. The idea is to have other people on the trail during the latter part of the 100 mile (solo and relay) which starts Friday morning. At the pub, Jaime Maher asks if I'm signing up for the 20. I'm not sure what expression I shot her, but she immediately bursts into laughter and says, "I can't believe I just asked you that!" Not surprisingly, there aren't many other takers for the hundred. I'm the seventh and final person to register. Race director Ryan Maher assures me that he has enough buckles if we all finish. I don't think he needs to worry about that happening.

Dawn of the Shippey

The Friday start comes less than 12 hours after the first event in the Alpine Shop/Castlewood series, which is always a favorite of mine. A 4-mile trail race on steep terrain isn't the usual shakeout run for a 100, but I do it anyway. I keep my effort at around marathon pace and don't feel like I did anything to hurt my chances.

I camp just a few feet from the start line and am up well before the 7AM start. That's partly because I never sleep very well the night before a big race and partly because I think the race starts at 6 (I have it confused with the 100K start, which is 6PM). At 5:50, I observe that nobody else seems very ready to go and get Ryan to clarify the start time.

The morning is downright chilly by August standards but, it's still August. Plus, I can see my breath, which means the dew point is at least in the low 60's, if not higher. I decide I'll stick to my plan of running the first loop firm while it's still cool and then back way off as the afternoon heat fills in.

The chapel

At the gun, the first few relay teams blast off at 10K speed. That actually makes sense as the first leg is just over five miles long. I settle in with some of the slower teams with the rest of the solo field close behind. The first mile is mostly uphill, but I have no trouble running all except a steep section near the top. Then it's a mile of easy running along the top of the ridge before dropping down to my favorite part of the course, about a mile of very narrow trail through thick forest along a stream. Then it's another long climb back up the ridge, a bit more along the top and the final, very steep descent to the Chapel aid station which, as the name implies, is set up in the beautiful outdoor chapel surrounded by towering cedars.

With the exception of leg 1, the start of each leg heads back the way the previous leg came in. As I trudge back up the steep ridge, I see the rest of the 100-mile field come by before leg 2 splits off onto its own trail. After some more running atop the ridge, we have a steep down and up crossing over to another ridge. We then run along the far eastern edge of the ranch (we can easily see the houses just outside the woods) before getting to the toughest part of the course; a series of short, but steep climbs that lead back to the Chapel. While this leg is a mile shorter than the first, it takes almost as long due to the climbs.

Powerline

The next two legs are the shortest and least hilly of the loop. I decide to treat them as a single leg, taking enough food and water that I can blow through the next aid station, which is at the Start/Finish. On my way out on leg four, I'm dismayed to find that I apparently have a hole in one of my pockets and the gels I had taken for lap four are no longer there. Fortunately, I spot one of them on the side of the trail before leg 4 separates from the end of leg 3, so I don't have to go through the leg with nothing to eat. Halfway through the leg, we leave the woods and climb along a powerline. Aside from the Start/Finish area, it's the only part of the course that's exposed to the sun. It's not hot yet, but it will be. Fortunately, the trail heads back into the woods after just a few hundred yards. Leg 4 ends with a long descent down the spur from the ridge terminating at a rockface that is sufficiently steep that a rope is provided. From there, it's an intentionally circuitous route through the campground to the finish which gives support crews and relay team members a better chance to see who's coming in.

Alpinist skills optional

Leg 5 heads right back up the spur, the rope again proving useful. The trail doesn't branch off from leg 4 until the very top, which means I see most of the solo field coming in. It's way too early to care, but it looks like we have a real race on our hands. The next three are all less than 10 minutes behind me. After the big climb, the rest of the leg is all easy running along the ridge or gently descending. Just for fun, they route us back up above the rockface at the end so we get to use the rope a third time and then come in through the campground as with leg 4.

I finish the loop in just under four hours, which is about what I was expecting. I stay on that pace for leg 1 of lap 2 (getting to the chapel right at noon) and decide it's time to adjust pace for the afternoon heat. Since leg 2 is the hilliest, I stashed my trekking poles at the chapel figuring I could turn a tough leg into a recovery section by walking most of it. This is a strategy on which there is some disagreement. Some runners prefer to push hard on the tough sections to limit the time they're going really slow. I used to be in that camp, but I've found that deep efforts, even for short periods of time don't work well for me in ultras, so I've taken to using hills for eating, drinking, and recovery and try to keep a decent pace up everywhere else.

Despite the slow hike up to the up the ridge, the next 100 runner, Tim Landewere, doesn't come the other way until just before the split, 12 minutes after I leave the aid station. It's still too early to be reacting to others, but it does relax me a bit knowing that I can do a fair bit of hiking this leg without giving away all of my lead. I walk about a third of the leg. Back at Chapel, I ditch the poles and again grab enough food and water to skip the station between 3 and 4.

It's quite warm now and I've soaked all my clothing through. At the start/finish, I take a slightly longer stop to get enough to drink. The trudge up the ridge on leg 5 is quite slow, but I have no trouble on the rest of the leg. I end the lap at 3:23 PM (4:25 split for the lap) which is, again, pretty much what I was expecting. There's just one problem.

I'm not feeling well.

My legs are fine, but I can tell my insides are shutting down. It's awfully early in the run to be experiencing that. I'm going to have to slow down even more because I won't be able to go the rest of the race without eating (and, if I keep pushing, I might lose the ability to keep water down as well, which puts a quick end to any forward progress).

I have a decision to make. While I rarely set time goals for ultras (there are just too many weird things that can happen to let the watch dictate your pace), there is a certain cachet in finishing under 24 hours. Particularly with such a small field, it seems like that would give the win a bit more validity. The problem is, pushing for a sub-24 could result in a complete meltdown and I end up failing at both. I've run sub-24's. I've never won a 100. I'm at least two hours in the lead (nobody else has even started leg 4). I decide to forget about the time and make sure I don't go to pieces.

I walk more of leg 1 and much more of leg 2, trying to take in fluids and food in small quantities. Nothing comes back up, but not much goes down, either and my forward progress is certainly slow. Legs 3-5 feel better as temperatures are dropping, but I'm still way off the pace. By the time I finish the lap, it's getting dark. Fortunately, my pacer, Brandon Tiek, has arrived. After forcing down some noodles and broth, I take the risky step of sitting down to let my stomach settle. I tell Brandon that he absolutely has to pull me back out of the chair in five minutes regardless of what I say when that time arrives.

It's a very long walk up the ridge on leg 1. We do run the ridgeline as well as the trail along the creek, but the rest of the lap is walked. At Chapel, I again take my time getting down some more broth and sit for a few minutes while it settles.

Leg 2 seems to take forever. Aside from running the ridge after the first climb, we walk pretty much all of it. I feel bad that Brandon, who is quite capable of knocking out fast miles on trails, has been reduced to a hiking companion, but he seems quite happy to serve in whatever way is helpful. Back at Chapel, I'm only able to sip some ginger ale. I hate these long stops, but I learned at Heartland a few years back that, while forward progress is always the goal, if you know you're in trouble and leave too soon, really bad things can happen.

We're now at 70 miles. This is usually the low spot for me and today is not the exception. I ditch my poles for my big handheld light and we do manage an easy jog for most of leg 3. Brandon has to work in the morning and had promised to stay with me until 2:15AM. We get to the end of the leg at 1:15 and I tell him I doubt I'll get the next leg done in under an hour. He decides to press on regardless. I'm glad he stays because, after trudging up the powerline, I actually manage something that passes for running down the spur to end the leg. It's 2:30 and he's not going to get much more than a nap before getting up for work, but at least he got some real running in.

Back on my own for leg 5, I take it easy up the big climb but again manage to find a decent jog the rest of the lap. It's been an atrocious loop, taking over seven hours, but it's done, I'm still in the lead, and I know the worst is behind me.

Leg 1 is still slow, but the nausea is gone. My improvement on leg 2 is significant enough that the aid station workers at Chapel comment on how much better I'm looking. With the sun coming up, the three remaining legs flow easily. Since I'm not carrying lights, I keep my poles which help not only on the climbs, but also add some confidence on the descents as my motor skills are getting a bit vague.

As I wind my way around the campground for the last time, I try to let out some sort of victory shout but, twenty six hours of heavy breathing have taken a toll on my voice and I can barely manage a whisper. Nonetheless, I'm spotted a ways off and get a hearty round of applause and cowbells as I approach the line.

I underestimated the course. While the total climb is not particularly high, it comes at you in pretty severe chunks. The excessive rainfall we've had this year resulted in a lot of downed trees. They weren't hard to hop over, but when you're doing that a dozen times per mile, the effect adds up. And, while it was a perfect day for a picnic, it is summer in St. Louis and the humidity was noticeable anytime I moved faster than a walk. At any rate, I was pretty happy with the effort even if the clock wasn't in the mood for flattery.

Adding to the pleasure of a well-fought win was the fact that the race organization was spot on. I tried to come up with some constructive criticism but really couldn't think of anything. It's a low-key local event for sure, but one that is exceptionally well run. It all adds up to the happy experience I was looking for.

That said, it might take more than three beers to get me to run it again.