"There's a tremendous synergy for me between running and meditation. To be a better runner, you need to listen to your body, stay focused, be aware when emotions are pulling you away from your race or training plan, prioritize long-term goals over short-term distractions, all things that meditation specifically trains you to become better at.
At the same time, at least for me, running has helped with the meditation. It's a lot of hours per week when I'm practicing meditation rather than being busy with all the distractions of work and home life. It provides direct feedback that I'm disconnected or caught up in worries or planning, and a really simple way back towards being present. It relaxes the body and generates great energy, both of which are really important for engaging with the mind."
- John Chapin
After the rush of finishing the Vermont 50, I was left a little adrift. Ultrarunning opened up a whole new set of options, so I had more to think about while I figured out what my next goal would be.
I wasn’t really interested in the sort of work it would take to get faster in shorter races, like 5Ks and 10Ks. I had plenty of room for improvement there, but I was enjoying running long much more than I ever liked track workouts or speed intervals on the road.
I could go back to the marathon and try using my new-found endurance to run one faster. That was very tempting. I only had to beat my marathon PR by three minutes to reach 3:10, the open qualifying time for Boston. That was something I’d wanted to do for years. Who knew what else was possible? I could run 50 miles. Maybe a three hour marathon was within my reach?
Still, racing marathons was essentially the same thing I had been doing for years before I tried ultrarunning. New achievements were harder to come by, and I wasn’t getting the same kick out of them as I did when I was starting out.
I found running 50 miles to be more rewarding. I got internal satisfaction from reaching a difficult goal. I also got the sort of external recognition from my running friends that I never had before. I wasn’t slow, but I would never be fast enough in marathons or shorter races to impress our group. In ultramarathoning, I had found a way to do something that intrigued most of the other runners I knew, and I liked that.
Still, the praise I received made me a little uncomfortable. I loved getting it, and it helped me enjoy what I’d accomplished, but it also made me want to go even further to show that I really deserved it.
In a strange way, it was easier to run 50 miles than it was to run 26.2. Since my only goal was to complete the distance, I didn’t have to worry that I wasn’t as physically gifted as some of the other runners. There was no time pressure, and all I needed was persistence. That made it feel like I had more control over my ultrarunning success. Barring injury, it was up to me whether I’d keep going. So far, I had always been able to do that.
I could try for a faster 50-mile race, but that just got me back in the same rut of worrying about speed. Alternatively, I could continue to push the distance to see how far I could run. The 50-mile race was tough, but I could have run farther. I knew that there must be a limit somewhere, and I was curious what it would be.
If I was going to run farther, I wanted to do it on trails. In spite of the rain and mud, Vermont taught me that I enjoyed running long distances on the trails much more than I liked running similar distances on asphalt or concrete.
I went back online to search for my next race. I didn’t find many trail ultramarathons longer than 50 miles to choose from. Most of the choices were located outside of easy driving range, but there was a 100-mile race in Vermont in July. One hundred miles would be a big step up from fifty, but that race was by far the most convenient option.
I wasn’t sure what my training plan should be. The only change I had made to my marathon training schedule before entering the 50-mile race was to add in an extra-long run once every month or so. I never ran the entire race distance in training, but it turned out that I didn’t need to. On race day, instead of trying to go faster, I merely tried to go farther, and it worked.
I didn’t see how my training runs could get much longer. My 40-45 mile runs took eight or nine hours to complete. Longer runs would take an awful lot of time, and might require enough recovery time afterwards that I’d end up running fewer miles overall.
I knew if I kept to my current schedule, I was capable of running more than 50 miles. Hopefully, another eight or nine months of that would be enough to get me ready for a try at the Vermont 100. I was just going to have to extend my range even farther on race day in order to reach 100 miles.
My "plan" left me plenty of time to enter some short races along the way to have some fun and spend some time hanging out with my friends. Those races could also serve as speedwork for a marathon. I figured why not try to do both Boston and the Vermont 100? I knew I would definitely have plenty of endurance, and I was qualified for Boston from my finish at Cape Cod in 2002. The marathon was in April, which left plenty of time for me to recover before trying Vermont in July.
I started ultra training again in November 2003, about a month after the Vermont 50. I was in Virginia on a business trip, and I extended the trip into the weekend so I could run the Potomac Heritage Trail 50K. I knew I wanted to add more trail running to my training, and my long runs were much more fun when I could do them in a race with other people.
The 50K started and finished at a home in the Georgetown section of Washington, DC. We had to run a few miles on roads to escape the urban starting area. After that most of the course was dirt, on the Heritage Trail system and the canal path alongside the Potomac River.
It was an informal race, with trail marking to match. The group I was running with at the start of the race got lost while we were still in Georgetown. Once we found our way back on course, the pack started to split up. I decided I would drop back to run the rest of the race with the people going at a slower pace to ensure I could keep up. It was just a training run for me, and I wanted to make sure I was running with someone who knew where they were going, or at least make sure I wouldn’t be alone if we got lost again.
That paid off at the end of the race when the group I was with got lost again because of poor course marking. This time, while we were trying to get back on track, we came across the reason for the problem. It was a boy, carrying a handful of ribbons he had pulled down while walking that section of the course. Luckily, my local guides were still able to lead me to the finish.
Between the leisurely pace and getting lost twice, it took me a little over 7 hours to finish the race. I still had fun, and because of the slow pace I was able to continue training without a break, even after running over 30 miles.
The calendar turned to 2004. I did one 42-mile run on the roads at the end of January. The rest of the time I averaged about 40 miles per week, with 18-22 mile runs on the weekends.
That took me to mid-February and the Martha’s Vineyard 20 miler, part of a traditional New England race series that leads up to Boston in April. I ran Martha’s Vineyard without going all out and I still managed to run it at a 7:05 pace. It was a flat course, but I was running into the teeth of a 20-30 mph wind for half of the race, so when I was done, I felt good about my progress towards the marathon.
After the Vineyard race, I fit in one 27-mile run and a couple of other 20-mile runs. I mixed in a few rest weeks and a couple of short races. My times in those races were good enough to make me start dreaming that I might have a chance at breaking 3:10 in Boston.
The weather leading up to the marathon had been typical for spring in New England. April temperatures hovered in the 40s. But the day before the marathon, the thermometer jumped into the 60s. Race day was worse. It was hot, sunny, and humid. The temperature in Boston rose to 86, a record high for the date.
At the start, I knew that I wasn’t going to be able to run the fast time I’d hoped for, but I still thought I might be able to overcome the heat and run a time that would qualify me for next year’s race. That idea lasted for about 8 miles before the heat forced me to slow down. By the Newton hills, I was slogging along at more than 10 minutes per mile, with a bag of ice I had gotten from a spectator tied to my head to try and keep me cool.
I finished in 3:46:12, but at least I finished. I didn’t end my race with an IV in my arm the way hundreds of other runners did.
Boston was a major disappointment, but the race had still served a useful purpose by distracting me from the Vermont 100. I took two weeks to recover from the marathon, and then I put it behind me and got back to training for the ultra.
Four weeks after Boston, I went on another Virginia business trip and made a side trip to West Virginia for the Capon Valley 50k. Capon Valley was a very tough course on steep mountain trails. I was happy to reach the finish still running well after averaging a 10-minute pace, so I rewarded myself with a pleasant dip in the Capon River afterwards to cool off.
I went on another business trip at the end of May, this time to San Diego. The Rock and Roll Marathon was scheduled for the following week, which was six weeks before Vermont. I extended my stay by using some vacation time, and I used the race for one last long run.
I found plenty of people in the area to run with while I was out west. The weekend before the marathon I went with a group from the Movin’ Shoes store to the mountains north of the city where we ran 12 miles at an elevation of about 4,500 feet on the trails in the Cuyamaca Rancho State Park. San Diego has a very active Hash House Harrier community, so during the week I was able to run trail with three different hashes. I also did a little running by myself along the ocean, but mostly I enjoyed running in new places guided by friendly new people.
On marathon day I got up early and ran 11 miles before the race started. Then I jogged a mile up to the starting area and ran the marathon, making for a total of 38 miles on the day.
It was the first marathon I’d run without worrying about my time. That let me relax and enjoy the experience. I even felt free to stop running and lose 10 minutes early in the race, by ducking into a bagel shop for a bathroom break.
A mob of almost 20,000 people carried me along the course. Many of them were dressed in Team in Training purple and running their first marathon for the Leukemia Society. I finished in 3:49, which would have been about average for a typical Boston, but here among the charity runners it put me in the top 10 percent.
The last six miles of the race had been tough after the pounding from running more than 30 miles on asphalt, so instead of jogging two more miles to my hotel, I declared it a day when I reached the finish line and I took the shuttle bus back.
It would be hard to find an event more different from the trail ultramarathons I’d been doing than the Rock and Roll Marathon. The trail races were low-key events. The advertised course lengths were "close enough," but no one was surprised if the trail was a mile or two shorter or longer than advertised. Experienced runners showed up ready to go out and run alone on a tough course for long stretches. They accepted the chance that they might get lost and add an extra mile to the race while trying to get back on track. There’s camaraderie among the runners and all the necessary support from the race organizers, but most of the runners are inwardly focused and prepared to take care of themselves.
On the other hand, the marathon was an enormous spectacle targeted towards the needs and desires of the first-timers and charity runners. There were bands and teams of cheerleaders posted every mile to provide entertainment, coaches and pace group leaders traveling the course to push runners along, frequent water stops with plenty of port-a-potties, Marines manning the finish with medals, towels soaked in refreshing ice water, food, medical care for those who needed it, shuttles to take you wherever you need to go in the city, and a big concert after the race featuring the band Live. An assortment of souvenirs was available, including photos and even video of each runner as they crossed the finish line.
Still, at the core there are similarities between the two races. Most of the entrants in both events are there in spite of the fact that they have no chance of winning. They expect to discover things about themselves by pushing to their limits. They just have very different sets of limits to push.
After the San Diego trip, I went home to finish my training and to indulge in the feverish planning that was by now part of my regular pre-race routine. Mark Bates and Karen Matteson were going to be my crew again, like they were for the 50. That was a big help to me while I was preparing my gear. I could have them carry whatever I thought I might need, rather than limiting myself to what I could pack into a few small drop bags.
Three weeks before Vermont, I set a new 10K PR at Whirlaway. That was nice, but a 10K PR was so totally irrelevant to the goal I was working on that I barely noticed it.
Two weeks before Vermont, I did one last 22-mile run. After that, I rested, running no more than six miles (usually only four) every other day. This left plenty of time for obsessive planning, and I took full advantage. The upcoming race was the only thing on my mind. I had no idea whether I had trained enough to be ready to run 100 miles, but I was going to find out.
In every race, I have a goal that I share with people and a tougher goal that I keep to myself. That’s how I try to manage expectations, especially my own. My main goal for this race was to finish. That would be challenge enough. There’s a 30-hour cutoff, so if I didn’t finish by then (or if I was behind the 30-hour pace when I reached an aid station) my race was over.
Anyone who finishes under 24 hours wins a belt buckle. I knew that if I could keep running the whole way, I’d have a reasonably good chance of "buckling," but I still wasn’t sure just how far I actually could run.
The Tuesday before the race, I went for my race haircut. I had it cut shorter than it’s been since my father was the one telling the barber what to do. I knew it was silly while I was doing it, but I still did it, and I felt a little better because of it.
Mid-July arrived and it was time to leave for Vermont. Step one of the plan was to leave from work mid-day Thursday for the trip to Woodstock. That would give me all day Friday to rest and try to relax before the start of the race early Saturday morning.
The relaxing part wasn’t going well. I was wound up, worrying about whether I was as ready as I could be, and searching for any last-minute task that might help in some slight way. I wasn’t totally satisfied with the running shoes I had on hand, so I decided to stop at the New Balance outlet on the way north and see if I could find a better pair of trail shoes. I knew it would be stupid to try a brand-new shoe out for the first time during the race, but I ended up buying a pair of model 870 trail shoes, even though they didn’t really fit that well, just so I could Do Something. Then, a little further along on the trip, I stopped the car to go on a little test run with the new shoes. I jogged back and forth, dithering about whether I should wear the shoes during the race, until I got it together enough to realize that what I needed to do most was get back in the car and finish the trip.
I got to the motel, unloaded the car, and took a look around. The motel had twelve rooms, about half of which were taken by other runners, many of whom have stayed there for the race year after year. I met the owner of the motel and her daughter. They were talking with a couple who had first stayed there 12 years ago, when the owner had just learned she was pregnant with her daughter. The couple had come back to the motel for the race every year since then.
Friday morning after breakfast I went to the start at Silver Hill Meadow to register. The organizers had mowed a wide area in the meadow for the race and the competitors to use. In the middle of the space there were a few large tents for the official race activities. To either side, runners who were camping at the start had set up a number of smaller tents and campers. There were also small grazing areas staked out for each of the horses that would be participating in the race, with the horses’ trailers and a tent or camper for the riders and their friends next to them.
I went in the main tent and picked up my number and t-shirt. Then I turned in the donations I’d collected for the race charity, Vermont Adaptive Ski & Sports. I usually don’t try to compete with other runners for donations. I know a lot of runners, and we all get lots of requests to support charity efforts, so many that we can’t respond to all of them. This time I figured that a 100-mile race was a special occasion that would stand out from the rest of the crowd, and it was for a cause that didn’t have hordes of runners already asking for money. My friends came through with $1,200 for me to pass on to VASS.
I said hello to Gaynor Bourgeois while I was registering. Ultrarunning is a fairly small world, so wherever I’m running, I’m likely to find someone I’ve run with before. Gaynor had run in the Potomac Trail and Capon Valley 50Ks. We were both in the group that had gotten lost within 2 miles of the start at Potomac Trail. It was her first 100, too. We were both hoping we’d stay on trail this time.
I weighed in while I was at registration. During the race there are three medical checks (along with an additional voluntary check). At each one, runners are weighed to ensure that they haven’t lost (due to dehydration) or gained (due to hyponatremia) a dangerous amount of weight. I was more afraid getting DQ'd because of losing too much weight, so I dressed light and left my water bottles at the hotel to minimize my starting weight. They weighed me in at 151 pounds.
I left registration and dropped by Jeff Washburn’s trailer to say hi. Jeff is a member of Gil’s Athletic Club (GAC), a trail running group in Topsfield, MA. We both belonged to an ultra mailing list, and Jeff had invited all the members to drop by if they were up in Vermont. He’s a veteran of a number of ultras, so I picked his brain (and drank his root beer) before returning to town for lunch (pasta, of course).
Back at the motel, I figured it was time to quit dithering and decide which shoes I was going to wear. I had five pairs with me, two pairs of New Balance 706 trail shoes (one 2E width, one 4E), a pair of NB 827 road shoes, a pair of Nike Skylons, and the pair of NB 870 trail shoes that I’d bought on the way to Vermont.
From the course description, I knew that about 70 miles of the race was on dirt roads and jeep paths. The remainder was mostly mountain trails, with a few small sections on paved roads. It didn’t seem like trail shoes were a necessity, and I wanted the additional cushioning of a road shoe. Unfortunately, I didn’t have confidence in any of the shoes that I had with me. I’d been running in NB 828s and 827s for a long time, but New Balance had recently discontinued them, and I didn’t like the replacement. My last pair of 827s was a bit too small, since my feet had spread some after all the training I’d been doing. I’d been having trouble finding tolerable replacements. The Skylons were the latest attempt, but I didn’t have faith in them. I wasn’t quite stupid enough to try the 870s for the first time in a 100-mile race, so I settled on the 2E 706s for the start. My crew would have the rest of the shoes with them. I could change to the road shoes when I started getting sore from the pounding or put on the 4E trail shoes if my feet swelled up.
After I finally made up my mind about the shoes, I rested until it was time to return to the start for the 4PM pre-race meeting. At the meeting, we went over the rules for crews. There were 33 aid stations along the course, where runners could pick up a variety of fluids, foods, or medical supplies. We were only allowed to meet with our crews at ten of the stations. Crews were supposed to follow specific routes to get to the stations to avoid runners and keep from annoying the locals.
A veteran ultramarathoner got up in front of the runners and treated us to a description of the course. It was not terribly useful. His 20-minute talk boiled down to telling us "and then you go up the hill, down, and then up again" over and over.
I skipped the pre-race dinner on the meadow and ate dinner in town so I’d be sure to be back at the hotel in time to meet with my crew. Mark and Karen were arriving that evening after they got out of work. They got to my hotel at about 7:30. We went over the plans for the next day and loaded their car with my gear and supplies. Then Mark and Karen went to Karen’s parents’ house in Claremont, NH to sleep.
I needed to get up at 2AM to get ready for the 4AM start. I set three alarm clocks (just in case), and then I took a sleeping pill. I was in bed and asleep by 10PM.
The first of the alarms woke me up at 2. I showered, dressed, and had a cup of coffee to finish waking up, with a PowerBar Harvest Bar and a few glasses of Gatorade to get me started on food and fluids. I started to eat a Slim Jim for some protein, but I didn’t feel like finishing it. That was a portent of things to come.
I knew it was going to be a long run, so I put on body lube and nipple caps to reduce chafing. I knew I was going to hurt, so I had two ibuprophen, along with a Sudafed to clear my sinuses. I knew it was going to be hot, so I dressed in shorts and a singlet. I knew that while I ran, I was going to repeatedly clip the inside of my shins with the sole of the shoe on the opposite foot, so I wrapped some medical tape around my shins to keep them from getting scraped raw. I knew that I was likely to get blisters, especially on the ball of my right foot, so I coated that area with tincture of benzoin and stuck on a Compeed pad to protect it. I knew the pad wouldn’t stick for 100 miles, but the longer I could keep from blistering, the better. Then I put on my socks and the trail shoes I’d picked, and at 3AM I left for the start.
It took about a half-hour to get to the dimly lit meadow. I parked and wandered over to the tent to wait for the start. It was more than warm enough already to hang out in just my running outfit, which didn’t bode well for later in the day. More than 300 runners had registered. Some had already dropped out, but that left 241 runners, the horses and riders in the endurance ride, race officials, and all of their friends milling about waiting for the gun.
Just before 4AM the runners lined up in the field behind a banner that marked the starting line. The horses waited off to the side, since they weren’t scheduled to start until an hour later. It was still before dawn, though there was a hint of light in the eastern sky. I went to the rear of the pack where I met Chris Martin, another ultra-list denizen I was seeing in the flesh for the first time. We chatted nervously for a few minutes, keeping an eye on our watches. At 4AM the waiting was over and we were off.
I was wearing a water bottle belt that held two 20-ounce bottles, along with a pouch that held the pills and assorted supplies I was carrying (electrolytes, ibuprofen, extra body lube, blister patches, wipes for toilet stops, etc…). I had two energy gel flasks, one in front in a belt clip and a spare stored in the pouch in back.
I planned on taking a Succeed cap (electrolytes) and some carbohydrate gel every half hour, and two ibuprofen every third hour. I would drink some fluids whenever I took those, and whenever else I happened to think about drinking. I’d reload on fluids and snack on whatever food there was at the aid stations, and reload with pills and gel and get any gear I needed, like dry shoes and socks or lights for night running, from Mark and Karen at the stations where they were meeting me.
I figured I would walk up the hills and run the flats and downhills. I did the running sections at a "slow, comfortable pace" that started at about an 8:30-9 min./mile pace and slowed down some as I got tired and sore.
The race went according to plan for the first 40 miles. The hills were relentless, separated by very short "flat" sections. I was passing people while I was running, but many were passing me as we walked uphill. My walk was just my normal walk, and it wasn’t as efficient at covering ground as that of everyone around me.
I expected that at these easy paces people would spend time running together and talking. There was some of that, but most of the time people weren’t adjusting their pace to stay with other runners. I would talk with someone for a few minutes, as I (or they) slowly caught up and passed by. But as leisurely as it seemed, we were all racing, so we soon split and went on at our individual paces.
I don’t remember exactly when my stomach started bothering me, but it was sometime early in the race. Whenever I looked at food, my stomach rebelled at the idea of eating any of it. I had a bit of peanut butter sandwich early and a bit of chicken and some soup later in the race, but that was nowhere near enough solid food to make up for the energy I was using. I had to depend on my gel and sports drinks for calories. The stomach problems may have been due to the coffee, the ibuprophen, not enough electrolytes, or something else. I never did solve them, but they never got really bad either. It was just one annoyance, and a minor one compared to the others that developed.
By the aid station at mile 45, I was almost 2 hours ahead of the pace for a 24-hour finish. But that was my peak as far as my time was concerned. By then, 20-plus miles of downhills had done a job on my quads. I was still running all the downhills and flats, but now there was considerable pain involved with each step.
Mark and Karen were waiting for me at the 45-mile aid station, and I decided to make my first shoe change. I thought that additional cushioning might help with the encroaching wear and tear, so I went to the NB 827s. This turned out to be a mistake. The shoes were already a bit short, and my feet had swollen over the previous 45 miles. So my toes, especially the two big toes, took a beating over the next 11 miles, until I met my crew again at the aid station at mile 56.
At that station I sat down to rest for the first time, instead of just reloading and plugging on. It was past 2PM, and the heat of the day had taken a toll on me on top of all the miles. It was up in the 80s at times, awfully warm for running long distances. The shade from the trees helped, and I heard that thunderstorms had cooled some of the runners. Unfortunately, I never saw more than a few sprinkles and leftover puddles.
Fifty-six miles into the race, I was hot, tired, sweaty, and covered with bugs. Thoughts of dropping out began to enter my mind. My time for the 11 miles from the previous crew station had slowed behind the 24-hour pace. I was still almost two hours ahead of that pace overall, but between the pain and my reduced speed it was obvious that the second half of the race wasn’t going to go as well as I had hoped. I knew that I could keep going, but the remaining 45 miles seemed like an awful long way, especially considering how I already felt.
While I was sitting there, my left adductor began to cramp up. I thought that might be a sign that I needed more electrolytes, so I decided to take two Succeed caps every half hour and see if that helped.
Mark was talking about running along with me for few miles later in the day, starting at about 68 miles, blissfully unaware of my doubts at this point. I decided I would get going and reassess how I was doing the next time I saw my crew, which would be about five miles farther along. First, I changed into the Skylons. I still wasn’t confident in them, but I knew that at least they were longer, so I’d have more toe room. Then I continued on.
It was uphill leaving the station, so I was walking when a couple of horses passed me. One of the riders had done the race before, and he told me to look forward to the view at the end of the climb. I immediately focused on the important word there – "climb" – and began to worry. It turned out that the entire three miles to the next aid station was uphill, with no shade, in the worst heat of the day. The aid station at the top was unmanned, so there wasn’t even anyone there to cheer me up. The view was wonderful, but I couldn’t care less.
A couple of uncomfortable downhill miles later, running on what were by now quadburgers, I met my crew again at the 60-mile aid station. My feet were even more uncomfortable in the Skylons, as impossible as that seemed, so I made what turned out to be my final shoe change, to the 4E NB706s.
I also had my face wiped by Jim Gilford, one of the GAC crew. Jim is the "Gil" of the GAC, a familiar figure at races, but I didn’t learn that until later. Much earlier in the race, I’d seen him wiping off GAC runners with a terrycloth mitt soaked in ice water. I knew how good that felt from the finish of the San Diego marathon, so I asked if I could try it. He didn’t have time then, but he remembered me asking and when he saw me again, he had time to wipe me down. This was about 5:30PM. The heat of the day was fading away, and the cool, clean feeling from the ice water wash was incredible, so I found the energy to plod on.
By now, my pauses to rest at the stations where Mark and Karen were waiting for me with a chair were stretching to 15 minutes. All day long they had everything ready so I could rush through the aid station if I wanted to, but the further I got into the race, the better the option of sitting awhile seemed. The rest didn’t really allow for much recovery, but it still helped some physically. Of course, the longer I rested, the more time I had for internal discussion while I sat there panting (in spite of the slow pace) and staring off into space. I was still struggling with doubts, but I broke it down. A little over eight miles to the next crew station. That seemed do-able. Then another 8 miles with Mark, which would be a change from running by myself. Then there’d only be about 23 miles to go. None of that seemed impossible when I broke it down that way, just not very pleasant. As long as I didn’t think too much about the number of miles I’d already come. Oh well, on we go.
Another 8 miles of up and down. Time was passing fairly quickly, though the miles were not. I was getting a little sloppy with the half-hourly consumption of gel and electrolytes. The effort to keep going was taking up more of my attention, so I missed a few. Still, when the medical team checked, my weight was good, so I assumed I was doing OK.
Somewhere along this section, I met up with Gaynor Bourgeois again. That sparked my competitiveness a little. We went back and forth, passing each other through a long downhill stretch, until I led her into the crew station at mile 69, still about an hour ahead of 24-hour pace. Here I had another rest, another internal dialog, and some soup. Eating still wasn’t appealing, and the idea of dry food was nauseating, but a little soup was better than nothing.
Some of the other runners were picking up their pacers at this station. The pacers would run with them for the last 31 miles. I hadn’t arranged for a pacer, but after running almost 70 miles, I could see how assistance and moral support from someone with a clear mind could help.
It was getting towards dusk, so I put on my headlamp and packed a spare hand light and some extra batteries in the pouch in my belt. When I took off, Mark came along. He was running the next eight miles with me to the next crew station. We left about the same time as Gaynor, and we all walked together up a long stretch of rough trail. When we reached the top and started running again, Gaynor pulled away.
The course continued rolling up and down along the edge of some woods. Where the trail curved under the trees, we were running in the dark. Mark and I turned on our lights so we could see. Soon we needed our lights the whole time.
By now I was walking the uphills, and then walking on after the peak of the hill to look at the downhill section before I began to run again. Each downhill step was tearing a bit more out of my quads, muscle fiber that I didn’t have to spare. I was sneaking in more and more walking at the bottom of the hills and along what little level course there was. I went a little faster with Mark along than I might have otherwise, but I still slowed down dramatically during this leg of the race. The last horse in the field caught up and passed me during this time.
We reached a pleasantly soft horse trail and began climbing steadily again. By now it was completely dark. As we went along, moths bombarded my light. Since the light was strapped to my head, the moths were incredibly annoying. Mark had a hand light, and we could see that the moths weren’t attacking his light nearly as much. We figured that it was probably because his light was dimmer. The course was marked with glow sticks in addition to the yellow plates used during the day, so I only needed my light to see the footing. At my current pace, I didn’t need a bright light for that, so I turned my headlamp down and that helped with the moth problem.
When we finally reached the next handlers’ station at about 77 miles, I was still a few minutes ahead of 24-hour pace, but I was pretty much done. The thoughts of dropping out were much louder now, and their arguments were better. I sat down to rest, and soon I started to shiver. Karen went and got me a shirt, but I figured I’d warm back up when (if) I started up again, and changing seemed like a lot of work, so I didn’t put it on at first.
I got up to think about proceeding, but I found that my legs had stiffened up while I sat. I staggered around for a few steps and then I sat again. I tried getting up a few more times, but I didn’t get more than a few paces from the chair.
I didn’t know if I was going to continue, but if I went on, clearly there’d be little, if any, running. Walking 23 miles when I was already beat was not something I was looking forward to at all. I was still shivering. Fuzzily, I realized that whether or not I went on, I’d want the shirt. Also, putting it on was another way to stall before I had to decide what to do.
My internal debate was pretty obvious to my external observers. Mark said that he and Karen weren’t going to be the ones to say I should quit. That didn’t help much. I kept the debate going while I stumbled around more, and then Mark said something that did help. He told me that anyone could sign up for a race, but that the glory went to those who finished. That was trite, but it was enough to inspire me to make up my mind to keep going, in spite of the long, tedious effort continuing would require.
So I left. Unfortunately, the route through the aid station and back on the course led gently downhill, and I found it most uncomfortable. As I weaved through the crowd at the station, I listed a bit to one side and then the other. A few people asked if I needed anything with a "he doesn’t look so good" look on their faces, but they didn’t have any spare legs on hand, and my responses seemed coherent enough, so they let me go on.
After I walked some, I loosened up a tiny bit and settled into a steady pace. I could still climb the hills about as well as I had been doing, but I was reduced to an uncomfortable semi-stagger going downhill. I tried running a few times on the flatter parts of the course, but I went no more than a few steps before I gave up on that idea.
What came next was a very long, lonely 12-mile walk through the night on almost totally empty roads and trails, broken up a couple of times by aid stations and a couple of times as someone went by. There didn’t seem like there was any danger that I’d collapse, but I definitely wasn’t catching anyone! A runner named Vince Devlin passed me during that time. We were both walking, but he was walking a little faster. However, every time we reached an aid station he stayed a little longer that I did, so he’d have to pass me again. We kept exchanging positions for the rest of the race. Going back and forth with him helped keep me going.
Vince stuck with me to talk a little before we reached the crew station at 89 miles, but as we approached the barn where the station was located, he pulled ahead again. The last medical check was at this station. Mark was there, sitting alone in a chair. I said "hi" to him as I went to the scale but he was zoned out and didn’t notice me. Karen was napping in their car. It had been a very long day for them too.
I had stayed within two pounds of my starting weight at all of the medical checks, and I was still at a good weight at this one even though I’d pretty much stopped taking my electrolytes. I figured I wasn’t sweating that much while I was walking in the dark, so I didn’t need them. That was not a good decision, but by now I was totally focused on finishing, with little spare capacity left for rational thought.
My feet had begun to blister uncomfortably in a few spots, so I slowly took off my shoes, emptied out some trail crud, and put them back on, hoping that’d help. It was a challenging task, but emptying my shoes did allow me to sneak in some sitting time before I moved on.
I left the station and was soon slogging along alone. Somewhere along the way I had stopped thinking about dropping out. I knew I could make it to the finish if I could find the patience to keep going at my glacial pace, so I was looking for ways to mentally frame the remaining part of the race to make it palatable. I had a little less than 11 miles to go, and that distance was broken up by three aid stations, including one more crew station at mile 95. The next aid station was three miles away. I was used to taking 20 minutes to race that distance. Today it would take me an hour, more or less, to travel those three miles. At best, the finish was over three hours away, but I was trying not to think that far ahead. I knew if I just kept drifting along, the time and miles would pass by at their own rate and eventually drop me off at the finish.
I was lost in my thoughts when I was startled by something jumping at me out of the corner of my eye. I stopped and turned my head to point my light at whatever it was, but all I could see were some bushes. So I started walking – and there it was again! This happened a few more times and I started to work myself into a panic. I began to walk faster, keeping my head turned while I was moving so I could watch for whatever it was that was stalking me. That’s when I realized that all I was seeing was the shadows of the bushes moving as my headlamp bobbed up and down. I calmed down and moved on.
It was still dark when Jeff Washburn passed me. His slow, steady trot demonstrated once again that pacing is the key to success.
Dawn broke. That helped my head clear some. I picked up the pace a little and found some company temporarily when I managed to slowly pass a woman and her pacer on a climb. That little success felt good. I hope that they enjoyed it just as much when, soon afterwards, they passed me back and left me behind.
I reached the top of another hill, and there was a woman standing there, directing us to take a left turn to go to the next aid station. I was glad to see her. Normally, there weren’t people out on the course directing traffic so I assumed her presence meant that the aid station was nearby. As I passed her, I joked that I must still have to go over another mountain to get to the station. Unfortunately, that was true. Given that what little brainpower I had left was totally consumed in generating Relentless Forward Motion, when the time that I thought it "should" take to get to the next station had passed, I began to get anxious. I managed to convince myself that I must be lost, even though I was regularly passing course markers. So I stopped, and yelled "hello" a few times, looking for help. Luckily, another runner came along and got me moving forward again before I did anything too stupid.
I reached the crew station at mile 95, where Mark and Karen were waiting. We were all eager to get this over with and get some real rest, so I dropped my light and visor off with them and headed right back out again.
A mile or two into my latest stroll, I noticed that my hands and fingers had swollen and turned a dark purplish color out as far as the middle knuckle. My fingertips were still quite pale. I knew somewhere in the back of my head that there was something that I could do about that, but it wasn’t popping up, so I admired the evidence that what I was doing was difficult enough to cause mysterious physical issues, and wandered on.
Vince passed me one last time. Then I remembered. Edema (swelling) in extremities = not enough electrolytes, and I hadn’t been taking my capsules. I took a couple of Succeed caps, and luckily, I was right. The extra electrolytes helped quickly. The next time I thought to check my hands, the swelling had disappeared.
I passed the last (unmanned) aid station, which meant there was only 2.1 miles to go. There weren’t any real mountains left, but there was some dirt trail. The horses had churned it up a bit, which made the footing a little treacherous. I would have liked to have been there earlier, on pace for a 24-hour finish, but I was glad that I wasn’t trying to run it in the dark.
After that, there was a loop through a meadow. The open space was large enough to let me see some other runners. Vince Devlin was still in sight, though he continued to pull away. Ray Mount was staggering so badly that I knew I’d pass him. However, while I was reeling him in, I was passed by another runner and his pacer who were jogging along happily, chatting, and looking way too fresh to be in the same race as the rest of us. Good for them, I thought, but if they could still run that well, what were they doing back here with me?
There was someone waiting at the end of the meadow, where we got back onto forest trail. I was close enough to the pair who were still running to hear them ask him how far it was to the finish. He told them 10 minutes walking, or four at their pace. It ended up being closer to 15 minutes for me, after some bizarre twists in the trail that must have been added just to bug me, but finally I could see the banner at the finish through a gap in the trees. The ground was soft enough, and I found I still had a little adrenaline left to give me a lift. I managed to run the last 20 yards or so, and I was done!
My time of 27:29:24 put me in 134th place. I wasn’t even the first Charbonneau to finish, but I made it, something that a third of the starters didn’t do. I had started running with a time in the back of my mind, but I ended just happy to survive. The last 23 miles had taken over 9 hours. On this day, that was fast enough for me.
I lost the race by over 12 hours. The winner finished his race the previous day, in just under 15 hours. He was from Massachusetts, but to me he was a Kenyan. Anyone who was running to win was running in an entirely different race from me.
It was quiet at the finish at 7:30 in the morning. A few of the faster runners were waiting there, wrapped in blankets, applauding as others straggled in. I actually made it to the finish a little before Mark and Karen. Due to my confusion in the woods while I was finding my way to mile 95, it appeared like I was slowing down, so they didn’t rush to meet me. But they arrived soon after I did, took some pictures, and shared in the joy and relief.
I was toast. It would have been nice to hang around and socialize, and maybe stay for brunch and the awards ceremony, but the idea of lying down on my motel room bed was just too appealing. Mark and Karen were ready to take me back and drop me off so they could get some sleep, but I made them wait while I took advantage of the free massage in the medical tent. I apologized to Mark for the delay, and I explained that I could never turn down a massage from a young, pretty girl. He gave me an odd look. Later there was photographic evidence that indicated my judgment might have been impaired at the time.
We got into the car and drove back to the motel. Mark and Karen unloaded my gear. All weekend long, they had been the foundation upon which everything rested. Mark and Karen were always at the crew stations on time waiting for me, not an easy task on the indirect routes on unmarked roads that they had to use to avoid the runners. Everything I needed that was possible to get was provided cheerfully. They were familiar faces in an intimidating new environment, encouraging without being saccharine. It was time to say goodbye, but I was sad to see them go.
I went in my room and fell down on the bed. Sleep would have been nice, but dozing was the best I could do. I was so sore that any movement woke me up again.
After a while I got up, showered, and assessed the damage. There was some chafing and a few blisters, but nothing so bad that it really affected my race. My feet were battered, but I had expected that. I was going to lose the nails on both big toes. The right toenail angled up in the air, supported by an enormous blister that I had to be drain before I could put my shoes on again. My kneecaps were both tender and sore. My quads were the worst. For the next few days, every time I stood up, I had to wobble for a minute before I loosened up enough to be sure I wouldn’t fall down.
By Tuesday, the worst of that was over. My quads, along with my knees and feet, were still a little sore, but I was on my way to recovering.
I considered my race a success. I didn’t buckle, but I did finish, after a mighty struggle. It was probably too soon to worry about whether I would try again, but I already knew in the back of my mind that I would.