Do It Anyway

"Get off me!" I yelled. I was alone on the Dark Side just picking up steam through Colon Hollow. I had to slow and turn abruptly, picking my steps through one of many small gully crossings littered with loose wet rocks. My toes cramped, curling involuntarily inside my shoes. I was yelling at the cramps. I accelerated back to my pace on the incline, pushing off across all my toes. Do it anyway I thought to myself. The cramps, the fatigue, the fitful night before, the fast guy off the front -- they just are. I could choose to use them as reasons to back off, but I redirected all my thoughts toward my purpose: to run my best for the Promise Land.

The fast guy off the front was Kalib Wilkinson: 27 year-old 2:19 marathoner and winner of the 2012 Holiday Lake and Terrapin Mountain 50Ks. Promise Land was the 3rd leg of the Lynchburg Ultra Series, and Kalib had teed it up cleanly to drive another one home. He and Jake Reed blazed ahead of me from the start to climb the 1700 feet to aid station 1 in about 22 minutes. This is how my mantra got started. I had wanted to stay relatively close to Kalib, knowing that running with someone fast is a good way to run fast yourself. But the pace was too hard. There was none of the usual early-mile banter. Jake and Kalib were out front, I was behind them, and the rest of the field quickly dropped back. My early plans foiled, I set my sites directly in front of me and determined to do it anyway. Run alone if I had to -- and it turned out I did. When Jake pulled back he walked the last pitch of the climb and let me run past. Kalib was out in front by himself -- and it would be a long time before he slowed down.

Snaking through the single track after aid station 1 I glanced up occasionally to catch sight of Kalib's bright green singlet. I was able to match his pace all the way through aid station 2. We crossed paths on the spur and exchanged greetings. I stopped to re-fill my bottle as Kalib accelerated toward the Blue Ridge at Apple Orchard Mountain. I had carried caffeinated Clif Bloks from the start so that I would have the option to give myself a fix up this difficult final pitch. My preferred plan, and the one I chose, was to wait until the second half of the race before eating any bloks. I had eaten a bowl of oatmeal at 4:30am, and had been sipping on a bottle of perpetuem. I knew the boost from the bloks would be that much better if I deferred until the course bottomed out on the dark side.

By the time I crossed the Parkway Kalib had put 1 minute on me. I matched his pace to Sunset Fields, where I picked up another bottle of perpetuem. I worked the technical downhill as hard as I could safely muster, and tried to carry my speed along the grassy double track toward Cornelius Creek. In years past I have felt like I was flying through this section, culminating in a triumphant run down the gravel and then paved forest service road. This year I felt tapped out, even as I was descending toward the lowest point of the course. I started to feel the sleeplessness of the night before. I had camped with everyone else, like I always do, but this was the first trip that included Loren -- at 2 years old -- my youngest daughter. She is an angel. When we put her in her crib for the night she smiles and goes to sleep. She is 2, though, and this was new for her. Just when I wanted to go to sleep she tapped her dramatic side and cried fitfully. Robin did convince her to quiet down eventually. By the time I settled down after that and finally sank into a real sleep she woke up and cried again. I was awake for a considerable time after that. By the time I went back to sleep a car alarm went off in the camp. And so it went. I had determined not to compound the problem by worrying over it.

At Cornelius Creek Kalib had a 4 minute lead on me. He was no longer a factor in my race plan. I would simply be running the last half of the course as fast as I could. As I headed out on the forest road I entertained the thought that as younger and faster runners decide to do ultras they will push the old guard from the podium. Maybe my success at ultras, even as a younger person, was because those fast enough to rise to the top of road racing avoid trail ultras. I don't know Kalib's motivations, but he plainly could place well at road races that offer a measure of prestige -- and even money -- that ultras don't. Although he is still unusual, our sport has seen more young and talented runners drawn toward the dark sides of mountain trails. My friend Michael Owen, who handed me my bottle at Sunset Field, was asking for advice on running ultras even as he competed on his college cross country team. He has already emerged as a top national competitor.

I shake my head to regain focus: do it anyway, I repeat to myself. You may be old and tired and they may be young and fresh, but so what? This is my course. I know the only place left to make up time from past years, and it is about to cue up. At 2:20 I start on the bloks. I turn off the pavement toward Colon Hollow. The track is narrow and winding, but I start pushing the pace.

I have always cruised this section, backing off the pace and collecting myself for the final push up Apple Orchard. It had become a kind of bragging right that I would make that climb in under 40 minutes. In 2011 I didn't have enough training under my belt and I had run the first half of the course too hard so I had to settle for a 42 minute climb. I went on to finish in 4:36. That's what made me think I could possibly break Clark Zealand's long standing 4:30 course record. When I first won Promise Land in 2006 in a time of 4:52 I felt I was at the apex of my ultra running and that I had absolutely flown through most of the course. Clark's 2002 record seemed completely out of reach. As Horton explained, conditions had been ideal. A stellar field had assembled to compete in the Montrail Cup event. Clark was in his prime and benefited from perfect weather and the strong early pace set by Hal Koerner. Scott Jurek, Will Harlan, William Emerson, Dink Taylor, and DeWayne Satterfield provided a perfect (if unwilling) supporting cast. Until I looked to 2012, I never even considered the record attainable. I had always looked to Promise Land, though. There is nowhere I would rather run. David Horton may be best known for the Mountain Masochist 50 mile run, but the 50K across Apple Orchard in the Blue Ridge Mountains is the real gem created by the father of ultra running in the east. The race is getting its due. Close to 400 of us assembled for the 2012 version, and for the first time since that stellar field competed in 2002, 7 of us went under 5 hours. And I had prepared.

For the first time since 2006 I had several months of good injury-free training. Since running Terrapin in March I had cut out my coffee consumption, kept my alcohol intake to a trickle, and reduced added sugar to fewer than 30 grams per day. I ran long hill climbs, track intervals, and a couple of bonk runs. I had decided to take all reasonable measures to get the most out of myself and then hope it would be enough to subtract 6 minutes from my best time. I couldn't help that the last week of my semester coincided with the week before Promise Land, or that other stresses at work were bearing down on me, or that Loren would have trouble sleeping the one night I really would like quiet. I would have to do it anyway.

And so I began to feel my race was rolling out in front of me as left the aid station at Colon Hollow. Kalib's position didn't matter. The cramps in my toes didn't matter. I charged into the Cornelius Creek aid station to refill my bottle and Horton said I was 7 minutes under my time from 2011. Those were the sweetest words I could have hoped to hear. I had earned the time I needed, and I knew I could better my pace from 2011 up Apple Orchard. That Kalib was 7 minutes ahead was immaterial -- I was running to go under 4:30, and now I knew I could do it.

Even with the strong and steady exertion, I didn't feel especially fast on the technical climb. I was genuinely surprised to suddenly come upon Kalib, shortly before the falls, walking awkwardly. I confirmed that he was cramping but otherwise OK and then passed him with a pat on the back. I did not rejoice in the suffering of a fellow competitor. I remained focused on my mission to gain the climb as best I could. As I gradually processed what it meant that Kalib had been forced to walk and had lost his hard-earned lead, I felt vindicated. I have lost speed with age, but I have gained some capacity to make the most of what's left. Younger and faster runners have entered the world of ultra running, but experience and wisdom can still prevail.

I made the climb in about 38 minutes. I barely paused to reach for my bottle at Sunset Field before I bolted into the woods for the return to our camp at Promise Land. Several times on the descent my concentration would break long enough that a brief sob would come over me. So much of my life feels constrained by forces outside of my control. I chose to race my best across Apple Orchard Mountain into Promise Land. I felt all the pieces of my life -- so often scattered and incoherent -- fit together and become whole. The silly looking core and agility exercises I do on my driveway, the long discussions I had with my coach when I was in high school, a stormy night alone in an AT shelter, limping up to receive an award from David Horton after my first Mountain Masochist. Life only makes sense when hurtling toward the fulfillment of a lofty ambition after significant effort.

When I run Promise Land again I will be at least 44 years old. Younger runners, some likely bent on their own kind of vindication, will be there. I'll still have work and family conflicts, and maybe a looming injury. There will be no guarantee of winning, and slim chance of besting the new course record. I'll do it anyway.

The Uphill Experiment: Two-hour-loop reprise

A couple of weeks before this year’s Iron Mountain Trail Run (IMTR) I ran “the two-hour-loop.” This is a course I scouted back in 2005 and used as a benchmark while training for the 2006 Mountain Masochist Trail Run (MMTR). The route starts near Skulls Gap and contours along the Iron Mountain on “old 84” to Hurricane Gap. It crosses the ridge of the mountain at Barton Gap and then drops to the bottom of the mountain at the trailhead for Jerry’s Creek (near the trailhead for Rowland Creek Falls). It then climbs the mountain again, following Jerry’s Creek, to near Skull’s Gap. The terrain has equal parts single track, double track, and gravel forest service road. The course climbs 2700 feet in nearly 18 miles. It took about 2 hours 20 minutes to run it at first, so I decided to come back to the course at regular intervals and see how close I could come to running it in 2 hours. Treating the run like an extended tempo workout, I began to approach the 2 hour mark after a few weeks.

About that same time, David Horton came down for a training run in preparation for the first IMTR. The middle section of that course is very similar to the two-hour-loop except that IMTR follows Rowland Creek instead of Jerry’s Creek back up the mountain. During that run Horton asked me my goal for MMTR. I told him that I wanted to break 7 hours. He quickly retorted that I couldn’t do it. Only a couple of people had done it, and when the inestimable Eric Clifton had failed to he reportedly said that he didn’t think there was anyplace he could have made up the necessary time.

My response was that I’d let my result speak for itself. I also said that my training included the two-hour-loop, and that I thought when I could break 2 hours on it, I could break 7 hours on the MMTR course. Though we quickly moved on to other topics, it is interesting to note that Horton can recall this story with more clarity than I can. Part of the reason, no doubt, is that I did ultimately break 2 hours on the loop and 7 hours at MMTR. He greeted me at the finish, as he does for all runners, and was able to witness the most special moment of my athletic life.

Horton is one of the few people who could really appreciate what reaching the finish line in Montebello meant to me. That place represented much more to me than winning a race, or meeting a goal, or proving something. That race finally brought into relief the full scale geography that is me. I had first stumbled down that same campground road in 1997 in the middle of my thru-hike of the Appalachian Trail. I was empty – destitute and alone, and slept on the wooden porch of the pavilion. My second approach to the same road was in 1998 after suffering a beating through my first ultra at MMTR. My calves had shredded by mile 37, and I had to hobble on my heels for the next 16 (?) miles to the finish. I had been sunk as low as I have ever been twice – both times across from the small general store that defines that tiny town. The contrast in 2006 could not have been more apparent. I had started to build momentum on the climb up Buck Mountain, and I didn’t let up. I blasted the final mile along the road in under six minutes and charged into David’s embrace. I cried for the only time at a race.
I retired the two-hour-loop for some time after that. It wasn’t so much the weighty feelings surrounding it, but more that it’s a tough run and shouldn’t be overdone. I’ve had one other reason to avoid the two-hour-loop. It would be too good an indicator of my fitness. I was 38 in 2006, and I’ve been getting older ever since (!). I wouldn’t necessarily want to know how my performance had declined.

That is why I was so pleasantly surprised early this spring, when after a minimal flurry of speed workouts, I was able to again go under two hours for the loop. Soon after I ran a PR at the Promise Land 50K, a race I had already ran respectably. As quickly as I had begun to run fast, though, I slowed back down because my goal for this year had been to run 100s. I slowed my training and muddled through Old Dominion and the first 70 miles of Burning River. The misery induced by these races finally caused me to reconcile the space between my aspirations and my talents. So much for 100s.

I like to run fast. I decided to keep my races at or under 62 miles this fall, and to run MMTR in November once again. In preparation I’d confront whatever the two-hour-loop had to say about my fitness. Two weeks before IMTR it said 2:05. That translated into a 7:15 two weeks later – a respectable time on a tough course. Historically runners are able to run similar times at IMTR and MMTR. Of course I’d like to run faster than 7:15 come early November. So this past Wednesday I was back on the two-hour-loop, having carefully considered what I had to do to go under two hours.

Here's an experiment I would like to do: get a bunch of runners to do a hilly 8K time trial. Tell all of them to go for the fastest time they can without killing themselves. Then break them into two random groups. Tell one group to push the uphills, and explain that will help them keep the best overall pace. Tell the other group to slow down on the uphills and pick it up on the downhills, and explain how that will help them to even out their effort and yield the best overall pace. I’ve given contradictory advice – I can’t have been truthful to both groups.

I’d like to do the experiment because I know now how it works for me – and how I’ve been lied to.

There are two distinct models for understanding how fatigue limits performance, and they predict different outcomes for the experiment. A "peripheral fatigue" model says -- and this is oversimplified -- that pushing the uphills will fatigue the muscles and therefore (eventually) cause runners to slow down. It would predict that maintaining a constant threshold effort (by slowing down on uphills and speeding up on downhills) limits fatigue and therefore maximizes exertion across the whole exercise. According to this model the advice is simple – DON’T push the uphills.

In contrast, a "central governor" model says that runners (perhaps subconsciously) anticipate what is ahead and experience fatigue depending on how they interpret their current exertion relative to how much is left to run. This model at least leaves open the possibility that pushing the uphills could result in a better time, because performance depends on how the runner interprets what he or she is doing. So, while not the advice is not as clear, we can at least advise: PUSH the uphills if you can.

When I was in college heart rate monitors were just coming into use. Our team bought one and rotated it among team members during training. The idea was to make sure we were not over-exerting. The theory was built on a peripheral-fatigue model. One inescapable conclusion was that the best pacing strategies tend to even out effort across the run. In other words, all else being equal, slow down on uphills so that your heart rate remains relatively constant. We didn’t apply this to races, because in a race all else is not equal. Relative place matters much more than time, and maintaining place on climbs surely trumped maximizing overall pace.

My tempo runs are generally alone, though, and so I have tended to fall back on the theory that I should slow down on the uphills in order to get the best out of the total distance. That is the lie. And I think I know why.

On Wednesday I ran just under 1:58 for the two-hour-loop. I worked the uphills pretty hard. Part of the reason I have to do that now may be that I can’t run downhills as hard as I used to, but I think there is another reason. When we charge uphill we raise the threshold for perceived effort. We breathe hard and our hearts pound and we go for it knowing that the climb will top out and we’ll continue on an easier course. Because of the raised threshold, however, we tend to pick up the pace on the downs and flats compared to what we would have if we had backed off on the climb.

I don’t really know if this is a personal quirk – perhaps shaped by my own way of thinking about running or just my unique physiology – or a generalizable finding that would help corroborate a central governor model of fatigue. That’s a good reason to run the experiment. In the meantime, I’m going to push the uphills.

Iron Mountain

My soaked shirt is pasted, once again, across my torso. I have to flick the sweat off my eyebrows because when I use the shoulder of my shirt I just rub caked on salt into my eyes. Once again, my stomach protests as I try to pour enough fuel and fluid through it. Twice this summer I have been simmered into a soggy lump -- all will to carry on boiled out of me. This time, though, I know exactly what lies ahead. This is MY race. I'm not staring down fifty miles of uncharted territory in the middle of a hundred mile race. I'm on the climb past Rowland Falls, the scenic backdrop for the shirt I designed years ago for the race I started in Damascus, Virginia. This is the first time I have been able to compete on the course I laid out soon after moving here in 2005. I'm on the return trip, and I know I'll make it even if I have to stop eating.

Eventually I do stop eating. I don't take a bite of food after VA 600, 36 miles into the run. Jim Cobb is there and tells me I'm 8 minutes ahead of course record pace. I know it's a lot hotter than last year when the record was set, though, and the cushion feels small. When I reach FS 90, 43 miles into the run, Tammy Redman tells me I am 5 minutes ahead of course record pace. I fill up my handheld with Gatorade and get out of there.

The final 7 miles, like many other parts of the course, triggers multiple memories. I cross FS90 at the top of a hill climb that I used to run along with my buddy Nick. The climb portion alone took upwards of fifteen minutes, so that I equated my time up it with a quality finishing time for 5K. The looping descent took a longer path through Buzzard Den and so also took close to 15 minutes. We typically ran 3 loops, in addition to the warm-up and cool-down.

The next section of the course takes me past Buzzard Den on the Iron Mountain Trail. This marks my return route for a 90 minute loop I do from Widener Valley. I've seen many black bear on the spur the trail follows down the mountain. As I continue on the gradual descent toward the top of the Beech Grove trail, I'm reminded of the run I did with JJ Jessee in 12 inches of fresh snow. I tried out some new snow booties and wore blisters on my heels until I took off the booties and carried them along this same section.

The richest set of memories come at the top of Beech Grove, where I have been many times. The intersection helps to connect loops that the Iron Mountain Trail Runners use in training. One year when I was still directing IMTR I dashed from the finish along the course backwards re-marking the course all along the way because the markings had been removed clear to this intersection. I then turned around and ran back to the start, passing several runners, including Kevin Townsend.

This year Kevin waits at the finish line to greet me. Fortunately for all of us he stepped up to direct the event 3 years ago and together with his wife and volunteers has made the Iron Mountain Trail Run a truly special day for all involved. I finish in 7:16, about 10 minutes ahead of the course record set by Sean Pope last year. For the rest of the afternoon I enjoy just hanging around and watching as other runners create memories for themselves and those who help them. I am grateful to be able to reflect on my day, and on all the experiences that have coalesced for me around Iron Mountain.

This is your brain... on heat training?

This is pretty embarassing, but too instructive to keep to myself.

I'm in Louisville for a few days. I spent most of my life here before moving to Virginia six years ago. I decided to stay on after bringing my kids to spend two weeks with their grandparents. Burning River 100 is a week from Saturday. Like any summer ultra, it will test participants' ability to manage heat stress. Louisville in summer is a heat sink. It lies low in the Ohio valley trapping all the radiating heat in thickly humid air. The city is currently under an extreme heat warning with a heat index around 110. I figured spending a few days here would help me prepare for Burning River.

Now I've been here since Saturday evening, and today's noontime excursion was my sixth run. On Monday I ran for 2 1/2 hours starting at noon. My run today couldn't have been simpler. I drove to Eva Bandman, a park along the river that I know well from the days when I launched rafts full of schoolkids from its mucky river access. I ran west toward downtown paralleling the river on the riverwalk, a paved recreational trail. The run was exposed, but flat. I went past downtown, checking out the new pedestrian access to the old railroad bridge, the new Yum! sports arena, and the approach to the locks. After 30 minutes I turned around to head back to the car.

I was carrying a water bottle that I had already finished. I refilled it at Waterfront Park downtown and continued running. Extra-hot air off the pavement washed over me in waves, making me want to avoid inhaling. My soaked shirt was pasted against my body and sweat flung from my fingertips with every swing of my arms. I wiped my finger across my brow every minute or so just to keep the burn-inducing liquid from pooling in my eyes. A few expletives started to leak from my mouth (as in, "this is f*ing hot.") And that's not the embarassing part.

Get this: I'm 61 minutes into the run and wondering why the h*ll I'm not back yet, and why I'm running along Beargrass Creek. (Note: Beargrass Creek is a tributary to the Ohio River, and so basically perpindicular to it. My route was supposed to be simple: out and back along the river) So I find a path back to the riverwalk and proceed with what should have been a couple hundred yards of running back to Eva Bandman (Second note: Eva Bandman, where I started, is at the confluence of Beargrass Creek and the Ohio river). I run for an endless couple of minutes and then notice the "future Louisville Botanical Gardens," a landmark I had ALREADY PASSED. I look up and see the downtown Louisville skyline back in front of me. Holy sh*t! I did a 180 by accident on an out-and-back with unmistakable linear geographic features for handrails in an area I'm intimately familiar with!

Let's just say when I turned around (again) I took the last couple minutes of running VERY easy. I immediately thought of "into thin air" when some of the descending climbers got lost only hundreds of yards from base camp. They had a lot better excuse than I had! I can only say, on my own behalf, that the pavement along Beargrass Creek was not there when I was using the park years ago (still no excuse for not noticing that I passed under River Road!!), and that I was starting to flirt with hyperthermia. Heat, apparently, is not good for brain function. If nothing else, at least I learned that. On the slim chance that northern Ohio achieves Louisville heat next Saturday, I'm going to go slow.

Old Dominion 100 -- Full

Me: You’re the man! Roll through here and you’ll make up ground over Sherman.

The Mountain:

Me: Just keep an eye out for the turn. Don’t miss the turn. That will really screw you up. Where is that turn? For that matter, why haven’t I seen any course markings?

The Mountain:

Me: Now I’m really pissed. I am going tear through this thing!

The Mountain:

Me: Where is this little climb over Sherman? I’m going to kill it!

The Mountain:

Me: The sweat is pouring off me. My legs are completely hammered. This mountain has no end.

The Mountain:

Me:

Most of us live completely suspended in self-delusional fabrications. We are the disembodied characters at the center of the stories that others know of us. That bugs me. My best reason for running a 100 mile race through the mountains is that the activity inherently resists the kinds of contortions most of us can insert into our narratives. 100s are bluff proof. At some point in every 100 that I’ve run I’ve had to let go of my preconceived notions of how it would go, and how I would handle it, and just accept the circumstance as presented to me. The 2011 Old Dominion 100 unfolded in just this way.

I was in reasonable, but not top, shape. I had gotten in some long days, and some good heat runs. I have a lot of ultra experience behind me. The OD 100 was the first of four 100s I scheduled for this year. My goal was to run in such a way as to win. I guessed it would take me 16 hours if the weather was cool and 17 hours if the weather was hot. I had never been on the course, but I had looked at the stats and asked others who were familiar. I was glad that other established ultra runners entered and that the race looked to be competitive. I exchanged messages with both Neal Gorman and Jon Allen before the race. Keith Knipling was running, as well as Jeremy Pade and Karsten Brown.

The first 50 miles went as well as I could have hoped. I spent many early miles with Jon, and then a bit later with Neal. Both runners make good company, and I look forward to running with them again. I was by myself in 2nd place when I passed the 50 mile mark in 7:29. I felt the time was appropriate considering the cool morning temperatures and the easy running terrain of the first half of the course.

Both those variables changed considerably in the afternoon. Temperatures rose steadily and the protracted technical trail sections took a big toll on me. I was losing time to Neal, who had been at or near the lead from early on. I wasn’t concerned, however, because I knew that the miles from 70-85 would likely determine the race. I was biding time, trying to keep up with my fueling and hydration, and trying to stay efficient.

After mud-hole aid station at mile 70 I began to pick it up again. I ran uphill on an open double track section and by the time it turned downhill I was really moving. This was just the momentum I was hoping to build, and at just the right time. I stayed very alert to course markings. It didn’t help. After mile 73 the course flagging stopped. I followed the double track until I came to a road at about mile 75. I knew I was close to Elizabeth furnace, and that I could access it from the road. I also knew that the course followed a trail into that aid station, not the road. If I wanted to find and follow the prescribed course I would have to backtrack. Fuming, I ran back up the long slope up the double track. I scanned both sides, looking for any sign or course marking. Nothing. Finally, I came to the last of the orange flagging. I felt relief and anger at the same time. I felt relieved that I hadn’t missed a marked turn. I felt angry that someone screwed up my race. I didn’t have time to worry over that much, though, because my biggest problem was still navigating to a place I had never been with no course markings.

I ran down the double track for the second time. I was 80% sure that the turn was an “abrupt left” that I recalled from the course directions. I came to the first left turn and scouted it out. It led to a small campsite and then narrowed into an unpromising track. I abandoned it. Continuing downhill, the only other reasonable possibility was a trail marked by a sign that said simply “hiking trail.” I went for it. It had no flagging, but it contoured around the mountain a bit and headed downhill. That fit with my recollection of the course map. Just before I came to the road on that trail, I ran into fresh flagging. It led to a crossing that in turn led to the Elizabeth Furnace Aid Station.


photo by Bobby Gill

I was seething mad. How did Neal get through that section? Why was no one out on the course replacing the flagging that so obviously was missing? I certainly wasn’t going to pass the aid station without ensuring that someone got out to the critical turn and marked it. I stormed in to the pavilion and hastily convened the pow wow. Once I felt I had been heard I tried to gather myself to get what I needed for the “charge” over Sherman’s. I knew I had lost my head, had lost at least 25 minutes, and had lost valuable energy at a critical time. I gathered my hydration pack, trekking poles, and stuffed a mouth full of noodle soup into my mouth, chomping as I stormed out of the aid station.

The energy carried me about a quarter of the way up that monumental climb. By the time I got to the jug of water at the bottom of the other side, I was little more than a deflated heap. I trotted painfully along the gravel road. When the next technical ascent started I had little to give to it. Karston passed me on that, and I didn’t have the energy to care. I didn’t see much reason to continue at all. I hadn’t come here to death march and just finish in 19 hours. The last half-mile of trail before the 87 mile aid station is slightly downhill and runnable. I started to trot again, and softened a bit on my conviction to quit.

I came into the aid station and announced what I had been considering. My family, who had been following and supporting me all along, was there. Robin gave me “the pep talk.” Gavin just said, “Don’t quit Daddy.”

I just said, “OK, I’m going.” I wasn’t happy about it, but the race was bigger than me. My family is bigger than me. The mountain is bigger than me. I picked up the pace to a survival shuffle that carried me the final 13 long miles into Woodstock.

photo by Bobby Gill

Old Dominion -- short

Just a quick update while I have a minute...

3rd place, 17:40

7:30 thru 50 miles. Slowed as temperature rose. Started to roll at mile 70. No course markings into Elizabeth Furnace. Went off course for 25 minutes. Eventually guessed correctly about the trail. Suffered over Shermans. Felt like dropping at 85. Regrouped at 87 and ran into Woodstock.

More later!

Bring The Heat

When I run from home I can go left or right out of my drive onto a gravel road. After a half mile I am faced with the same choice again. Either way I’ll soon be running alongside cow pastures. I enjoy running occasionally on these country roads. Every few minutes a vehicle will come along, usually a pickup truck. Everyone I pass gives me a wave, whether I know them or not. During my runs the last two days, folks paused a moment when they saw me. Instead of all four fingers lifting from the steering wheel, for a moment just the index finger rose, pointing, before the other three fingers followed. One woman couldn’t help but stare as her car drifted straight toward me.

We finally had got some heat around here. After weeks of cold drizzly wet weather, the sun shone and the afternoon temperature reached (barely) into the eighties. So naturally I jumped on the chance to get out, in the late afternoon, when the temperature had peaked and the pavement had stored up maximum solar energy. My family watched as I donned long sleeves, nylon pants and vest, and a black cap. I took a water bottle in each hand and headed out, yelling “bring the heat!” I ran comfortably for about twenty minutes. Then I started the feel the sweat dripping down my back. I smiled, and my face started to glow with the kind of radiance that only comes this time of year.

This is the time when I am looking forward to races that last all day – on days that will be hot. I’ll be running the Old Dominion 100 on June 4th. It will be uncomfortable, and much of that discomfort will be due to the temperature. I’m not a glutton for punishment. I want to run as fast as possible, and that means staying comfortable as long as possible. And that means preparing for the heat. Heat management lies right at the core of our success as runners. Better than any other animal, we can cool ourselves by sweating. Still, our bodies can tolerate very little deviation from 98.6 degrees. Even the sense that we are heating up faster than we can cool off will cause us to feel more fatigued and slow down. And that happens before any change in core body temperature! The volume of water that has to be moved by osmosis through our skin during a summer 100 mile race is staggering. Creating the osmotic pressure to move that water requires sodium. Of course we have to drink water all along the way and consume ample sodium as well. Calibrating those variables with the effort and the heat and the need for fuel (!) is what makes running 100 miles possible. I’ve missed more than I’ve hit.

Fortunately, we get better with practice. That’s what the next few months are about – I’m going to do everything I can to get better at the 100 mile distance. My neighbors – even some members of my family – may look on, dumbfounded, at the bearded figure loping down the blazing highway dressed for winter. My mindset, if twisted, is simple: “bring the heat.”