tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23825993807507777122024-03-04T22:30:48.771-08:00The Puzzle of RunningBob Hearnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01351956832733163825noreply@blogger.comBlogger20125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2382599380750777712.post-41940997233102785932023-05-05T12:53:00.005-07:002023-05-08T08:26:05.868-07:00Spartathlon 2022 DNF Report<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjOx_bxdN5qKUvPSrG2WfaWrhEEyZNwU68KjVBMSGEF9fDrR_5-JuoxAqEULoxS9UMxle_ktdTXIPDLy2IZm-r77bM5CfR3EjaA1u4I0hKxHmpV2lJ5f7p1gqGnKfdXrbtfMh6uEArfHHPJDsNdbJg5CkUCqcGDCM5r67_W8OAn_rnK4o2aqH0vy_28-Q" style="font-size: 14.666667px; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; white-space: pre-wrap;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjOx_bxdN5qKUvPSrG2WfaWrhEEyZNwU68KjVBMSGEF9fDrR_5-JuoxAqEULoxS9UMxle_ktdTXIPDLy2IZm-r77bM5CfR3EjaA1u4I0hKxHmpV2lJ5f7p1gqGnKfdXrbtfMh6uEArfHHPJDsNdbJg5CkUCqcGDCM5r67_W8OAn_rnK4o2aqH0vy_28-Q=w640-h426" width="640" /></a></div></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">This report is long overdue. But since it was only my second DNF in about 200 marathons and ultras, and my first DNF at Spartathlon — my favorite race — I think it's still worth writing up, so I'd better do it before starting on my 6 Jours de France report. (Plus Amy Mower is still clamoring for DNF reports for her new book!) It will be a new kind of writing for me.
The short version is that I started the race injured, got a bit too confident and then started crumbling early, held on for as long as I could, but finally threw in the towel at mile 136 (of 153). Not too surprising, really. The long version is, well, a lot longer, and a lot more painful.
<h2 style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; white-space: normal;"><span style="color: #444444; font-size: 14.666667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Background</span></h2>
For background on Spartathlon, see <a href="https://bobhearn.blogspot.com/2015/10/spartathlon-2015.html" target="_blank">my 2015 report</a>.
2022 was a year of injury for me, also the first year since I started running in 2004, at age 38, with no PRs. It had to happen sometime. Still, it was a disappointment. I can't hold back Father Time forever — he is coming to call.
It began with a lower-back injury, I think left over from being overloaded with baggage at Spartathlon 2021. But that didn't resolve, and the MRI showed lots of degenerative stuff going on. I thought for a while that was it — I was done, just after my best race ever, the 2021 Vol State 500K. How cruel. But the second cortisone epidural was magic, and I could run again. 6 Jours de France, in May, left me with a foot tendon injury that took all summer to mostly resolve. I would enter Spartathlon undertrained, so it would not be a PR year, but I would still finish. The Burning Man 50K, which I always use as an indicator race, four weeks before Spartathlon, was my slowest finish there by half an hour — not good. Much worse, later in the week I pulled my hamstring (let's not discuss how). I could not run a single step. It shortly became clear that this was damage to my left hamstring upper insertion, where I had torn it nine years earlier. Since then I'd been diligent with PT exercises to prevent reinjury, but clearly it hadn't been enough. These tendon injuries take months to resolve, at a minimum. How could I even contemplate running Spartathlon now?
But after two weeks I was able to run some again, slowly and painfully. This was not as bad a tear as before. I managed a total of 31 miles in the four weeks before Spartathlon. A bit more of a taper than I'd had in mind, especially since there had been no real training to begin with! I flew to Greece feeling 50/50 on whether I should start the race, or switch to crewing someone.
<h2 style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; white-space: normal;"><span style="color: #444444; font-size: 14.666667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Pre-race</span></h2><span style="font-size: 14.666667px;">
</span>I had more than Spartathlon to look forward to this year: my friend Pantazis Houlis was organizing a puzzle conference on Kastellorizo, the easternmost Greek island, a beautiful but pretty inaccessible place. I always like to arrive in Greece early and spend some time unjetlagging and unwinding on some islands. But this time I would be hosting a puzzle table and giving a talk, and the extra travel to get there was a bit taxing, so there wasn't much chance to unwind. I did a little bit of painful running, and we had an amazing astronomy night, with some of the darkest skies I've seen outside of eastern Oregon.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEii-qcYLNsF40eCMNb-XqVfaP-zIEVMyuPNB5WOSMSf0p5k0jn6a0yPvtndc81zD1wXYHpdjPzzyCQQNf4MQyeyEVZeV0zHMF5BrCF65put9jDg9GvNtqWWmrUY2OhPLwMzUMKqQdITRflt0SCeOboAXfhFJOP2N0c62uqn-y0dAAnz0bTFOLxSjnCTPg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="2719" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEii-qcYLNsF40eCMNb-XqVfaP-zIEVMyuPNB5WOSMSf0p5k0jn6a0yPvtndc81zD1wXYHpdjPzzyCQQNf4MQyeyEVZeV0zHMF5BrCF65put9jDg9GvNtqWWmrUY2OhPLwMzUMKqQdITRflt0SCeOboAXfhFJOP2N0c62uqn-y0dAAnz0bTFOLxSjnCTPg=w640-h150" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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After that I had a couple of days on Rhodes, which I had also never been to, known for its amazing medieval old town. Then it was on to Athens. Once more I was overloaded, this time with a backpack full of mechanical puzzles. Ah well! On the flight to Athens I ran into Dean Karnazes — last year I'd run into him on Hydra before the race. Small world! But he was not running Spartathlon this year; he was here to help launch a new half-marathon on Santorini.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgw2eEqjhFn7iv_agOMRMlchkxRZMGWj_YwZbJUW9FC7mEQSfLFeR7FHJl4dNKCDqvNeeexkBki_29L-m57Subhum04eEtZR0VZVuDbmBeY0Uv2qIyyQsbx-bHsUD938dfaYNQmXWmRynXdKxdsO6rjoWf3BfAFUlr037ja7G6mljBYV3HTT_sIQ5WsiQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgw2eEqjhFn7iv_agOMRMlchkxRZMGWj_YwZbJUW9FC7mEQSfLFeR7FHJl4dNKCDqvNeeexkBki_29L-m57Subhum04eEtZR0VZVuDbmBeY0Uv2qIyyQsbx-bHsUD938dfaYNQmXWmRynXdKxdsO6rjoWf3BfAFUlr037ja7G6mljBYV3HTT_sIQ5WsiQ=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiW_m62w4Tx5ntw4ZAXkb631882sTI2COUp01-_clymhK0TENoRa9iYPxN5SC9ejXWYH1GeLW5dt4KnVS5aoA7Ypne30PVneW-MJL5qQhMBCW_5yUp1fL-yVaM0QUdn4kI05d9y2AVsexBzeXHjo9yMF9T2Q3j8N3zKq5ItCjl7vx58uN35q13dGyqz8w" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiW_m62w4Tx5ntw4ZAXkb631882sTI2COUp01-_clymhK0TENoRa9iYPxN5SC9ejXWYH1GeLW5dt4KnVS5aoA7Ypne30PVneW-MJL5qQhMBCW_5yUp1fL-yVaM0QUdn4kI05d9y2AVsexBzeXHjo9yMF9T2Q3j8N3zKq5ItCjl7vx58uN35q13dGyqz8w=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I arrived on Wednesday; the race started Friday. So I had some time to settle in and hang out with the rest of the US team, and the British team as well, in the same hotel as us this year, the Athens Coast. This was a new Spartathlon host hotel, kind of on the other end of Glyfada from the others, so it was a bit of a walk to the Oasis, where check-in was, and which seemed to be the nexus for runners.
After running Spartathlon four times previously, and crewing once, I know a lot of people, so this is valuable socializing time for me. I knew many on the US team — some from previous years, some who I had interested in coming — but there were unfamiliar faces too that I was eager to meet. We had no real podium contenders on the men's side, but among the women were Marisa Lizak (4th in 2021), Micah Morgan (US 24-hour team member), and Camille Herron (needs no introduction). Their main competition would probably be Latvian Diana Dzaviza, last year's winner. If there was a men's favorite it was probably me, having finished four times, all under 30 hours. But I was just as likely to DNF, this year. Noteworthy also was US team organizer Andrei Nana, going for his 9th consecutive finish — apparently even less trained than I was. The British team is my second family at Spartathlon, so it was great to be in the same hotel with them. I did a shake-out run with Brit David Bone on Thursday.
<br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjSlGXJbH7gvjiANVHQfWa4OlRaaomO57JqqeIyVF9odbzvQ1CobJ3bbAAnTj-WUtaQoOcSuWiTiZ4jm6suoiVyp-gEcC_JSZZwiMKmLeN6QMhdeCqjZDBero0W63vhYLB_732ZIC3qnAZSYONlt2mYaxlw7PxuAx-nc2ZiUk79zpG6LNUmkOkhMHiDCw" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjSlGXJbH7gvjiANVHQfWa4OlRaaomO57JqqeIyVF9odbzvQ1CobJ3bbAAnTj-WUtaQoOcSuWiTiZ4jm6suoiVyp-gEcC_JSZZwiMKmLeN6QMhdeCqjZDBero0W63vhYLB_732ZIC3qnAZSYONlt2mYaxlw7PxuAx-nc2ZiUk79zpG6LNUmkOkhMHiDCw=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With Spartathlon legend Seppo Leinonen</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Also this year I had the responsibility of advertising the "Spartan Mile". This is run the day after Spartathlon, on the track in Sparta, only for Spartathletes (those who started the race). It's nominally a mile, nominally naked, as the ancient Greeks ran — in practice it's one lap (400 m), in underwear (but barefoot). This was started by the Swedes several years ago. Somehow I had inherited the job of organizing it. It's not an official race function, so can't be advertised on the website, but it's become a popular tradition. I made a few trips to the Oasis to hand out info cards to those in line for check-in, and left a stack on a table.
<h2 style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; white-space: normal;"><span style="color: #444444; font-size: 14.666667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Race</span></h2>
As usual, I finagled a ride to the start line in Athens, half an hour away, on race morning — avoiding the buses — this time with Amy Mower and crew. We arrived to find that this year, there were no portapotties at the start. In a race of this caliber, that's something I can't understand!
As I have said in previous reports, this is the most dramatic start in ultramarathoning, at the Acropolis, in the shadow of the Parthenon. However the start is now a bit lower down the hill than it used to be; I'm not sure why.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgjYNYJHXIGX2-kJvWk4menftKR-KvWHKcna6NGGH3RUcOuAc_vW8ipMxciHPWg7np-dFT_ssMdxh7fHb_zolWSMBWJxBRjilNZF9OTg5F_fcbPkpk44o2MeBrDl-t_Gh9iYD280RIjz1lANtWodoumcDB-_trWyqCri3UxAyuFZsB9upepGn0MUIh3Hg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgjYNYJHXIGX2-kJvWk4menftKR-KvWHKcna6NGGH3RUcOuAc_vW8ipMxciHPWg7np-dFT_ssMdxh7fHb_zolWSMBWJxBRjilNZF9OTg5F_fcbPkpk44o2MeBrDl-t_Gh9iYD280RIjz1lANtWodoumcDB-_trWyqCri3UxAyuFZsB9upepGn0MUIh3Hg=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Incomplete US team photo</td></tr></tbody></table><br />
My plan this year was simple: run to the comfort of my hamstring. I assumed my streak of sub-30 finishes would come to an end; I would be happy with anything under the 36-hour cutoff. Nonetheless, I'd printed out nominal splits for 30 hours, just in case. I'm an eternal optimist, and wasn't going to let go of this bit of ego easily. I told myself that my experience here would be the most important factor. I know how to run this race, and I know every part of it, what to expect, very well.
I ran a mile or so with Marisa, but as she gradually drifted ahead, I knew it was unlikely I'd see her again. She disappeared for good when a train crossed the road, and I was the first person stopped. A minute lost, oh well!
<br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgzNTOj55fxJ3NUD2Y5i3_liADBYuWfoKNXUlYlSbQ8GoaldSh3zaf36jOD2iChbVQBCNnzAwzFLExj5jeTXPMz7PQwgUMJiU93k_PN8EP9mdROZnoB2bdiY1XRxvJwJEa8Xz8bf0WPElN2wHI8d9IHSHXriWN1u9di3lqr2r6Y_3dQqALuirQBjrwH7g" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgzNTOj55fxJ3NUD2Y5i3_liADBYuWfoKNXUlYlSbQ8GoaldSh3zaf36jOD2iChbVQBCNnzAwzFLExj5jeTXPMz7PQwgUMJiU93k_PN8EP9mdROZnoB2bdiY1XRxvJwJEa8Xz8bf0WPElN2wHI8d9IHSHXriWN1u9di3lqr2r6Y_3dQqALuirQBjrwH7g=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></div><br />
As the first few checkpoints flew by (there are 75 of them, each with its own cutoff, spaced a couple of miles apart), I found that my comfort level had me actually running a bit faster than my 30-hour splits. Here I made my big mistake. I kept running to feel. My best performance ever came at Vol State 2021, where I threw out explicit pacing and ran by feel. Since then I've tried to incorporate this more into my racing. My brain should know by now how I should feel at various points in Spartathlon.
About 15 miles in, I felt enormous waves of gratitude flow over me for being there then, still able to run my favorite race. It brought tears to my eyes. I ran with the flow. By the marathon point I was about 15 minutes ahead of where I should be for 30 hours, but I was not putting on the brakes. I began to have delusions of sub-29, maybe 28. My long-standing goal at Spartathlon has been to run sub-27 and/or top-10. I've run 27:01, and placed 16th. I was not so delusional today as to be thinking of those goals, at least.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj6uXhZp54pCGuggdIKQBvDOZIpIIj15ij7M3iMdqYt1Z3sJXfUCrbe0CkWeJaRz4yblvkDOoMMfy743qTwDg-9HRJ24lnVLOHCfCsCl4YhihUT4DkJIf3QNqHH5phl_dFbknfqt2JhW0st8cj4xBcxWml2wZfQrB6Eyp_cPe_Gtew52gVfiIumqHB6nw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="7426" data-original-width="4951" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj6uXhZp54pCGuggdIKQBvDOZIpIIj15ij7M3iMdqYt1Z3sJXfUCrbe0CkWeJaRz4yblvkDOoMMfy743qTwDg-9HRJ24lnVLOHCfCsCl4YhihUT4DkJIf3QNqHH5phl_dFbknfqt2JhW0st8cj4xBcxWml2wZfQrB6Eyp_cPe_Gtew52gVfiIumqHB6nw=w267-h400" width="267" /></a></div></div><br />
And then it all came crashing down. My left calf cramped around mile 29. A cramp? This early?! That was ominous at best. I slowed down and alternated walking. But things did not improve. I had made the most basic mistake of all: starting Spartathlon faster than my fitness justified. I have always started slow here and finished strong. I don't regret trying something new, but this was not the year for it. I had misjudged the situation. The weak link was not my hamstring, but my training. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
By mile 36 I'd fallen behind my 30-hour splits. Any thought of that was now out the window; it was all about survival. By Corinth, mile 50, I was in pretty bad shape. I asked for someone to tape my calf, but there was some miscommunication, and instead I got a calf massage. Which was great, but when I then asked again for taping, I was told it was too late, due to the massage oil. Oh well! Unfortunately I saw Amy and her crew here — she had already dropped, due to foot issues, and was now flitting around helping people. I asked for my phone, which I'd left in her crew car. I don't normally run Spartathlon with a phone, but this was no longer normal.
The next major phase of the race is from Corinth to the mountain, mile 100. My calf was not improving, and I continued to bleed time. Somewhere in the hills before Ancient Nemea (mile 76) — the region of the race where I generally begin to feel tired — I was really down on the thought of slogging out the rest of the race. It was now apparent I'd be running well into the heat of the second day, something I avoid by finishing in under 30 hours. And this was a hot year, with the second day supposed to be hotter. Also 30 hours is about my limit for running without sleep. I know full well that finishing in 28 hours does not present nearly the challenges that the 35-hour runners face. Well, this year that was going to be me, and I was not happy about it.
I saw that I needed to get out of this negative mindspace, so I called Amy. I had thought to ask her to start crewing me, actually, as she'd offered to earlier. When things are going well you can run Spartathlon with no crew, but things were not going well. But by then she was already in Gytheio, at the hotel, which was actually well south of Sparta. It would mean a couple hours' drive. So I didn't ask. But unloading my negativity helped. She reminded me to just keep going, that things would change. I knew that and was doing it; still, hearing it made it easier.
For a while. Fortunately, somewhere around mile 80-85, I connected with Arthur Moore, a South African runner here for his 4th finish. He was a big fan of my race reports, and we had a grand time running and walking and chatting together for a few hours. I felt I was holding him back, but he insisted not. He told me that the three runners he was sure would finish this year were myself, Andrei Nana, and Aykut Celikbas (from Turkey). Well, sorry to disappoint you, Arthur! Somewhere in here was my first puking episode — I thoroughly and completely emptied the contents of my stomach. From there on, I pretty much wasn't getting any calories in.
Arthur and I stayed together until the mountain base, then I sent him up the steep trail ahead of me while I took my time with my drop bag. The mountain ascent, a 1,000-foot climb in a mile and a half up technical trail with steep drop-offs in the dark, is known as one of the more challenging parts of the course. Balance can be tricky here on tired legs; I'm amazed there have been no serious accidents. But it has never been a real problem for me. It's a chance to walk, and generally the top arrives before I expect it.
Not this year. It took all I had to slowly, painfully make it to the top. I thought it would never end. I was totally spent, and sat down in a chair at the aid station, legs shaking. Just when I felt about ready to stand up again, someone started smoking, and that sent me over the edge. Round two of thoroughly emptying my stomach contents.
The mountain descent, down loose scree, is always my least favorite part of the course. My feet were trashed by the bottom. For the next few miles, Andrei, American Jess Hardy, and I were running near each other. Jess eventually pulled ahead; Andrei and I would play leapfrog for quite a while longer. The horizon began to lighten, far earlier along the course than it had any right to in my experience. Scarily so, promising dozens of miles of blast furnace ahead.
The 20 miles between the mountain and Alea-Tegea, on back highways, are always a no-man's land for me. I've gone off course twice here in the dark. Well, it wasn't dark this year. I slowly began baking, and began struggling to stay awake. I had to sit for five minutes at CP 56 (mile 113).
After Alea-Tegea we are on the main highway to Sparta for the rest of the race. There's an 800-foot climb over five miles, then several miles of rolling before the final climb and long 13 miles downhill into Sparta. The climb was wringing everything I had left out of me. I sat for four more minutes at CP 63 (mile 127), around the end of it. As I was now approaching the cutoffs, they urged me to be on my way.
I started down the road, but immediately emptied my stomach for the third time. That just about did it for me; I was considering turning back. But then Andrei came up behind me, still moving. I didn't see how he was doing it. But if he was still going, I would keep going too.
At this point it was one CP at a time, inching closer and closer to the cutoffs. I didn't see how I could make it to the next CP, but I did. I was baking in an oven, barely awake, my body not responding. Finally at CP 67 (mile 136), with 32 hours elapsed, I sat down in the chair and didn't get up. I could still see Andrei in the distance ahead. It was five minutes 'til the cutoff, but I told them I was done. They took my tracker, and, I'd forgotten, both bibs as well. That stung. Time expired, and a few minutes later, Americans Tom Jackson and Zandy Mangold arrived at the CP. They were over the cutoff, but allowed to continue if they wanted. I learned later that by this point in the race, the policy is to let runners continue if they want to. Tom and Zandy wanted to. I thought they were crazy — clearly from here it was impossible.
So that was that, my race was over. Funny thing, in my mind, the very next CP, 68, signals the beginning of the end. After that it's a slow hike up to CP 69, then 13 fast miles into Sparta. Did I give up just too soon? Maybe, but I don't think so. Had I continued, I think it's very likely that, like Chad Ricklefs, I'd have been pulled at CP 68, a major medical station. They gave him an IV, then sent him on to the hospital, where he was stuck for the rest of the day. That could easily have been my fate too. Or maybe not. Somehow, Andrei, Tom, and Zandy all finished.
The next order of business was to get to Sparta, so I could at least watch the others finish. I tried to call Amy, or any other American, to come get me, but the cell service was too flaky. So, it was to be the Death Bus, the fate of most who miss a cutoff. I didn't have to wait long. I boarded the bus, and we started down the highway... and stopped at CP 68. Um, how long would we be waiting here? Oh, maybe a few hours. Um. No, that was NOT OK. I was not well and needed to get back to the care of my American teammates. Thankfully, they put me in a taxi to Sparta, for which I was very appreciative.
Once in Sparta, I connected to a group at a restaurant near the finish line. But I was too hot and faint and decided I needed to see medical. Probably I needed an IV. However they didn't have time for me at medical; that was for finishers. I got hold of Amy, and she took me to her car and ran the A/C for a while. We commiserated about our DNFs. After two DNFs in a row, she told me she was now content in her awareness that Spartathlon did not suit her strengths; she wouldn't need to return. But she had finished in her first try, in 2019. (It was no surprise to me when this stance softened a day or two later — she did apply for 2023.)
I barely stayed awake, but stayed at the restaurant long enough to see the last finishers — including Andrei, Zandy, and finally Tom, who I believe now has the record for the slowest official finish at Spartathlon: 36:10:35. This is possible because the start was 15 minutes early this year, with the cutoff and finish clock times unchanged, to make up for early course detours.
<h2 style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; white-space: normal;"><span style="color: #444444; font-size: 14.666667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Post-race</span></h2>
I learned that Camille had unfortunately dropped, after a run-in with a crew vehicle. Diana had repeated her win from last year, with an incredible 25:03, the second-fastest women's time ever — in a hot year, no less. Marisa was second with 25:34, the fourth fastest woman ever at Spartathlon, and the fastest American apart from Katalin Nagy. And Micah took the bronze with a very impressive Spartathlon debut of 27:24.
On the men's side, the results were truly shocking. Not one, but two men surpassed two of Kouros' top-four finish times, for the first time ever. Like Diana, Greek runner Fotis Zisimopoulos repeated his win from 2021, but this year in an otherworldly 21:00 — which included going off course by seven kilometers! What might have happened if he had not? Kouros' best is 20:25. And Somiya Toru of Japan was not far behind in 21:18, a mark that would have easily won in any other non-Kouros year. It must be said, though, that we live in the era of super shoes, and also the course had much less support on it in Kouros' day, so a direct comparison with his performances is not possible.
Sunday morning, we headed back from our hotel in Gytheio to Sparta in time for the Spartan Mile. It was a huge success this year, I believe the biggest crowd ever. The finish was hard-fought, with Israeli Chanan El Cohen winning with a time of 1:06 (one lap), as his neck-and-neck competitor face planted just before the finish line. After that we did a full mile for the die-hards, won by American Alex Ramsey in 5:58 (he gets bonus points for doing a literal mile, literally naked!).</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjMgruXy1btpXVD-i1RvMd7feWS9Q03WYUfKKl9TlhQmfUBd0-JYZA3-UaEy0xSZmrnV245yEKFywhG9xfNKlU8uv7XbfAUeKWJMg5Iqe_mnclLTGzkxAkFdUMllM5Y-SoBJrOuGOH99V2CxuqjSSrQmLm_O3cG4tE-br7nFFppeDokiFb2XAz7dajECg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="750" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjMgruXy1btpXVD-i1RvMd7feWS9Q03WYUfKKl9TlhQmfUBd0-JYZA3-UaEy0xSZmrnV245yEKFywhG9xfNKlU8uv7XbfAUeKWJMg5Iqe_mnclLTGzkxAkFdUMllM5Y-SoBJrOuGOH99V2CxuqjSSrQmLm_O3cG4tE-br7nFFppeDokiFb2XAz7dajECg=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhInj7Nks0JPX7M6dCGXwjVvGBGJCJ0ZGUs8TsJ5eAC-Rni8twBkzcatEJPTP1_ZlJ1h7q_KsUnuq18jkFZ_ZtuU2hpk-aJn5POjOFlosY89wCaCG-KQCz6p8WuEbEBzdEJYFzDt6RkZtukubeJ81yn6F31lRuMp_WXVh6p58sCx0fOrPCFCBF0cdMZHQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhInj7Nks0JPX7M6dCGXwjVvGBGJCJ0ZGUs8TsJ5eAC-Rni8twBkzcatEJPTP1_ZlJ1h7q_KsUnuq18jkFZ_ZtuU2hpk-aJn5POjOFlosY89wCaCG-KQCz6p8WuEbEBzdEJYFzDt6RkZtukubeJ81yn6F31lRuMp_WXVh6p58sCx0fOrPCFCBF0cdMZHQ=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">It seems frivolous, but after the tremendous exertion of Spartathlon, the Spartan Mile is just the fun, light-hearted, joyful chance to connect that we all need. I rode back to Athens again with Amy and her crew, with the obligatory stop at the Isthmia Bridge Cafe (highly recommended).
Monday evening was the awards gala, always a highlight of the trip. This year would be bittersweet, as I would not be called up to receive my finisher's medal and certificate. That was going to be hard. The gala was in a new location; it changes every few years. This is a nice venue. However as we settled in and proceedings began, there was nothing to eat or drink... the buffet dinner is always after the awards, but usually there are at least cocktails and then wine. A few of the Americans got a bit impatient and went out, bringing back pizza, wine, and other drinks.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiXv6QSDfS-vIDjRdCAvxcJwrsZQw-LRbDjjQGGOONcpYsQjv4N_yANOPaEKQnu0ZxqZc6NiMkFcV-74o39BQ98LGISihWEwwOmdhaN5AGNUASgd3XKyQspYSClB_rjHHnTNieUeUoC-8LNZPrPqK5qFSKPR3nroprr2qJxmRolQj8TG-1ZRrJj2KFVtg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiXv6QSDfS-vIDjRdCAvxcJwrsZQw-LRbDjjQGGOONcpYsQjv4N_yANOPaEKQnu0ZxqZc6NiMkFcV-74o39BQ98LGISihWEwwOmdhaN5AGNUASgd3XKyQspYSClB_rjHHnTNieUeUoC-8LNZPrPqK5qFSKPR3nroprr2qJxmRolQj8TG-1ZRrJj2KFVtg=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><br />
The presenters go through each country in alphabetical order, calling up that country's finishers to the stage. It would be very strange to be a US non-finisher for once. But this year, now and then, an occasional non-finisher would be called up as well, an iconic runner from that country with several finishes, just to be part of the event, in honor of cumulative accomplishments. I began to wonder... did I have that status? It would mean a lot to me to be asked to join the team on stage.
Well, I wasn't. And somehow, as I saw the US finishers on stage, and I wasn't among them, it all finally hit me like a load of bricks. I was losing it, crying uncontrollably. This was a part of my identity that was now irrevocably lost. I had some sympathy from my table mates as they guided me up to the buffet afterwards.
After dinner, Sarah Moore (US runner) and Sarah Siskind (Julie Kheyfets' crew) plied me with some wine and a fair amount of tsipouro, an unassuming but potent Greek liquor I will have to beware of in the future. When the dancing began, the emotional rawness combined with the alcohol allowed me to participate fully and energetically — the most uninhibited dancing I've ever done. Usually here I sit on the sidelines until Zorba the Greek starts. That's relatively simple to participate in; just get in a line and jump up and down with everyone else. This year I must have danced a couple of hours, including up on the bar. It was exactly what I needed. Yes, there are videos. No, I'm not posting them here.
<h2 style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; white-space: normal;"><span style="color: #444444; font-size: 14.666667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Takeaway</span></h2><span style="font-size: 14.666667px;">
</span>There's the obvious lesson here — respect my fitness and training, and respect the race. I've said before that "The list of DNFs includes a who's-who of top ultrarunners. This is a race that can chew you up and spit you out, no matter who you are." There are never guarantees here. Perhaps I shouldn't have started at all, but clearly my greedy, too-fast start was a big part of my problems.
There's also the comparison with Tom, Zandy, and especially Andrei to contemplate. It seems they all wanted it more than I did. Or maybe my body did just give out... it's frustrating to not really know. But I do know that Andrei would have to have literally fallen over and died to not continue. I did not want it that badly, this year.
However, my experience here was really nothing unusual... it's probably closer to the norm. Historically, Spartathlon has about a 40% finish rate. Most ultrarunners have experienced this kind of failure. But not me.
So, I see it as an important part of my development, connecting me with the larger community of ultrarunners in a way I had not been before. It's one thing to see people fail and understand why, even to feel a little smug about being smarter than that. It's another to experience it. That gives one true compassion and connection, and for that I am grateful.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
Bob Hearnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01351956832733163825noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2382599380750777712.post-79824871195641680432022-05-27T09:42:00.000-07:002022-05-27T09:42:50.426-07:006 Jours de France 2022<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4vc7W5hSTg_7ma9Hf85CJGtgAvUuE8fAcZOGzeDxsAP2A6UG4NV58EjYF_DlQmDrTXYxm6n8o7CfQ8jXRU7fQQ4OiJEJNT7UfZWdcvnwSQ3e_s9as2AtCTt44thgiYDYgCVSbk_rZSVDZhk1BdMOXbAudhGHzMaW3my_ynQPLSpx3uCxo3f5MuSMEnQ/s3071/flag%20walk.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3071" data-original-width="2303" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4vc7W5hSTg_7ma9Hf85CJGtgAvUuE8fAcZOGzeDxsAP2A6UG4NV58EjYF_DlQmDrTXYxm6n8o7CfQ8jXRU7fQQ4OiJEJNT7UfZWdcvnwSQ3e_s9as2AtCTt44thgiYDYgCVSbk_rZSVDZhk1BdMOXbAudhGHzMaW3my_ynQPLSpx3uCxo3f5MuSMEnQ/w480-h640/flag%20walk.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I came into this race with big goals. I had been champing at the bit to try 6-day again since I ran 530 miles at the Dome in 2019. I learned a lot there, and I feel I've become a much better multiday runner since then. My course record at Vol State last year, especially, gave me confidence I could aim higher. So I made a plan for the American Record, Joe Fejes' 606.24 miles. I can't say I thought it was likely I'd hit it, but I thought I needed to try. The next fallback goal would be 900 km (559 miles), then PR (530+ miles), then the 55-59 age-group American Record (Joe's 501.77 from the Dome last year). Barring disaster, I felt at least the last should be possible, and likely something in the range of 900 km. In addition to mileage goals, I'd be looking to win the race. My chief competition would probably be Olivier Chaigne, who had won here several times previously. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
But the performance goals are only half the story, or maybe less than half. As I've run more multidays, I've unlocked very powerful emotional and spiritual experiences during and after races. The goals help motivate and structure the effort, but I've realized that in the end, it's the experience that counts. I was excited and curious to see what new perspectives and insights this effort would yield. One side benefit of this attitude is that I was able to continue without too much depression when all of my performance goals were gone.
6 Jours de France takes place on a pretty flat asphalt loop in a beautiful campground in the Ardèche region of southern France, near Vallon-Pont-d'Arc (it's a new course this year). Each loop is 1,131.28 meters. It features a long straightaway that you run in each direction, so you are always seeing people. The course is largely shaded, though there are some exposed patches. Overall this is the best 6-day course I've run on; I'd rate it above EMU. (If you don't mind being indoors for six days, the Dome would come out ahead. That's a very different experience.) My crew Mike Dobies and I also had a bungalow in the campground, which was almost perfect — it even had air conditioning! The only problem was that it's about 60 m off the course. So Mike set up a table right on the course, but he was always running back to the bungalow to clean bottles, prepare food, etc., and I had a little extra distance whenever I would take a long break in bed. But it wasn't bad at all.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPxTxcDZVB0SnD1Y3oS3subi3e-zgLtB-VrFpFdnXTzepthBLDgfFNM0wsgzt6D-wUZsAnKEMgudUt5oHScdaD_gpssu4Urr6KLnhpsgXgu_EPOcWa4AXUdjf35G-4xvcyDfOyslvYfZlH3WbFqPOLwYeeEb03SuabHGMj8X_3ljmVR0ZC_JzSSffvSg/s2443/course%20map.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2443" data-original-width="1274" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPxTxcDZVB0SnD1Y3oS3subi3e-zgLtB-VrFpFdnXTzepthBLDgfFNM0wsgzt6D-wUZsAnKEMgudUt5oHScdaD_gpssu4Urr6KLnhpsgXgu_EPOcWa4AXUdjf35G-4xvcyDfOyslvYfZlH3WbFqPOLwYeeEb03SuabHGMj8X_3ljmVR0ZC_JzSSffvSg/w209-h400/course%20map.jpg" width="209" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Most of the 70 entrants were French, with a handful from other countries. Ivo Majetic and I were the only Americans. Uniquely, this race distinguishes walkers from runners: there are judges to ensure that the walkers do not run, and separate awards for walkers. This actually reflects the history of 6-day races, which started as purely walking events in the late 19th century. Occasionally there were accusations that someone had cheated by running. Later, the "go as you please" style of racing predominated.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYqqmxpazwIAqbIDsA8D_x4_7O2UjjsvtqC9ObCwDxSWlGQEtqWhnVFOJHIbXLzKz5unNAkK1NxCR5JppobYnwBwzmDSDtEx5bcYlT0wBFT7d0Set4_py3VfH5cBqfTGCFukUd23qfG_6l4GBetyh_e8KV3nUFdpIRngvytz6dzzhHOTg3Ia3gzKYMQg/s4032/checkin.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYqqmxpazwIAqbIDsA8D_x4_7O2UjjsvtqC9ObCwDxSWlGQEtqWhnVFOJHIbXLzKz5unNAkK1NxCR5JppobYnwBwzmDSDtEx5bcYlT0wBFT7d0Set4_py3VfH5cBqfTGCFukUd23qfG_6l4GBetyh_e8KV3nUFdpIRngvytz6dzzhHOTg3Ia3gzKYMQg/w300-h400/checkin.jpeg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Checking in, with Mike and Olivier</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></span><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Day 1</span></h2><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>The race started at 2 pm, later than I would have preferred. It was going to get hot here in the afternoons, but today at least was overcast and not too bad. We gathered together for a start photo, all wearing the official race shirt, then we were off.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlSpiyF5QpDa4B_NG3UNeZHPfi4uO6AvibVpeKKccnHgx08t4Mej93Hr5kkQERM_lGP6ReMBdx7x6AP3v1VT9aizRz0o3BgICH_FCm235vgtwLeC0SRKFG7QdYw1jtjY-s9_9q--V6-r7i2L2kwDYt4cMiwcJuR0RNKmOb-fyU4XMrjBI27y6Y-KDCUQ/s6000/start.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="6000" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlSpiyF5QpDa4B_NG3UNeZHPfi4uO6AvibVpeKKccnHgx08t4Mej93Hr5kkQERM_lGP6ReMBdx7x6AP3v1VT9aizRz0o3BgICH_FCm235vgtwLeC0SRKFG7QdYw1jtjY-s9_9q--V6-r7i2L2kwDYt4cMiwcJuR0RNKmOb-fyU4XMrjBI27y6Y-KDCUQ/w640-h426/start.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Race director Gérard (Gégé) Ségui in front</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br />
The plan for 606 broke down into these daily mileage targets: 106, 104, 102, 100, 98, and 96 miles. I planned 19 hours of moving time each day, with 4 hours of break and an hour of overhead (bathroom, medical, gear change, etc.). If I hit my daily cumulative target early, I'd allow myself to walk, but not run, 'til the end of the day.
Today's goal of 106 miles translated to 7:33 laps (10:44 mile pace). My strategy here was to run / walk from the beginning, running as slowly as comfortable while keeping good form, and walking (quickly) just enough to get the right lap times. I've worked a lot on developing a fast, efficient walk over the past several years, and that's paid big dividends. For the first few hours, as I settled in, it seemed that both my run and my walk were becoming more efficient — I needed to walk more and more to hit 7:33s. I quickly fell to 10th place, as others went out faster, and nobody else was walking at first (except for the walkers!).</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA4ZxZYXxmlP8XkShNKbEciGODuR1SWD7Ee4rpKhkDhUwgd3_rLT2S5986W0PjTvSXxOcS1gdXOeakdIsdC1bUVt-IlpKKb5rY7UvD5MNl_A9RwoXZPQFtpAOpmZvfNSxPSBgv-WHdilzkhnYyPnbl0hMy2YSjavHh4oq7vZDUotlcH5q2q6HfQfJQlQ/s4272/garmin.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4272" data-original-width="2848" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA4ZxZYXxmlP8XkShNKbEciGODuR1SWD7Ee4rpKhkDhUwgd3_rLT2S5986W0PjTvSXxOcS1gdXOeakdIsdC1bUVt-IlpKKb5rY7UvD5MNl_A9RwoXZPQFtpAOpmZvfNSxPSBgv-WHdilzkhnYyPnbl0hMy2YSjavHh4oq7vZDUotlcH5q2q6HfQfJQlQ/w266-h400/garmin.JPG" width="266" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">I spent a bit too much time — or focus — doing this</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br />I had an issue right away, as a judge kept complaining to me about something (in French), pointing to my bib. I had it off to the side, not in front, like most of the other runners, because it didn't interfere with my stride that way. I thought needing it squarely in front was rather picky! Turns out, I'd been given a walker's bib (yellow) by mistake, instead of a runner's bib (white), and the judge was trying to DQ me for running! Fortunately, Mike figured out what was going on, and cleared things up via Google Translate. (I'd done about a month of French study on Rosetta Stone before the race, but that wasn't nearly enough.)
By about five hours in, the course no longer seemed 100% flat. There were clear areas that were "uphill" and "downhill". Even though the grade was very slight, it made sense to put the walking on the "uphills", and the running on the "downhills". Most of the other runners adopted similar patterns.
Dinner was served around 7:45. Some of it I liked, some I didn't. Mike made me a grilled cheese to supplement. By 9, as the sun had set, I was beginning to get into a negative mental and emotional space. The magnitude of what I had signed on for here was becoming more real. Evenings are always challenging for me when I run through the night, but typically it's the second evening that's the worst. I'm well aware that moods are like the weather in these kinds of races. If you wait, they will change. I soldiered on with my laps. But I was eagerly awaiting my planned four-hour sleep at 2 am, and wondering how I would make it there without significant breaks.
By 11 or so, the mental weather had changed, and I was feeling more comfortable and in control, dialed into night mode. Also around now I'd pulled into first, though I wasn't aware of it. I was mildly curious, but wouldn't pay any real attention to placing until much later in the race. I am not one who is cursed with the need to be ahead of everyone else early. When Mike told me I was in the lead, I was surprised — I'd figured Olivier would likely lead through the first day, and maybe I'd catch him by the end of the second.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLPtc9fpYlJjEhGNzbnbdHLgpFULVsPVocSJgpexn9y6Q8i8FKeU0DTbpISfxJ3rXTtb-50S8WM5cAqj2_z6ArE59zwMADaSLtppy_ElMaQ7hH7tJB8bbNPwDpGE9jQ11qSPwmNTDII92q5SLzT1rHz3DP_mrKzLdfYW2fySbmFZ6JLxsE3MR0eifwQQ/s6000/olivier.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="6000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLPtc9fpYlJjEhGNzbnbdHLgpFULVsPVocSJgpexn9y6Q8i8FKeU0DTbpISfxJ3rXTtb-50S8WM5cAqj2_z6ArE59zwMADaSLtppy_ElMaQ7hH7tJB8bbNPwDpGE9jQ11qSPwmNTDII92q5SLzT1rHz3DP_mrKzLdfYW2fySbmFZ6JLxsE3MR0eifwQQ/w400-h266/olivier.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Olivier Chaigne ran smoothly and under control the entire race</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br />
When 2 am finally arrived, I went down for my four-hour sleep. I wouldn't have this luxury the rest of the week, as I wanted to split my break time across afternoons and nights, to avoid the worst heat of the day. In my previous 6-day races, I had planned my sleep strategy in detail. It never worked as planned. This time the goal was to play it by ear, sleeping when I was tired, but actually the options were pretty constrained. I wanted two decent breaks per day, one in the afternoon, and with the "days" ending at 2 pm, that pretty much set the normal schedule at around 2-4 pm and 2-4 am for major breaks.
I slept well, and was out and running again as the sun was rising, after some foot care. I'd fallen back to fifth place while I slept. Around 9, Mike made me some scrambled eggs and cheese. I'd thought the race would provide three meals a day, but the French don't really do breakfast, and neither did the race. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjykyYaxL7WRzl1_3dQAcxJ4RebxHY9LrfReAQ1Gv0vfus1orAqdjnjKo5Z7zfbJiTn_lmpD8LSScLaBhvdoXhfhkW_ivGQq9sQSdQ8ZJdEll3fNbturJOp_A8ZBDMgt479T7Bg7aQfQnSCyWqGLl6pwW40Eb4H6ARIJBu7_X-w95rApnWupqZJTMeMlg/s1994/mikeys-diner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1994" data-original-width="1994" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjykyYaxL7WRzl1_3dQAcxJ4RebxHY9LrfReAQ1Gv0vfus1orAqdjnjKo5Z7zfbJiTn_lmpD8LSScLaBhvdoXhfhkW_ivGQq9sQSdQ8ZJdEll3fNbturJOp_A8ZBDMgt479T7Bg7aQfQnSCyWqGLl6pwW40Eb4H6ARIJBu7_X-w95rApnWupqZJTMeMlg/s320/mikeys-diner.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Mikey's diner</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br />
I was doing well, looking forward to the end of the first day and running slightly slower laps the next day. Since it was still early, I'd used little of my allocated hour of overhead for the first day, so I took 20 minutes to lie in a chair with my compression boots. And... that was basically the end of my race, though I didn't realize it until much later. I'm pretty sure I was taken out this time by stupid user error. We'll come back to that.
</span><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Day 2</span></h2><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>At 2 pm I was at the planned 106 miles. I went down for another two hours, feeling a bit sorry for myself that that was as long as I had. But I was delighted to have made it through the first day on plan with (I thought) no real issues. Of course, the real challenges would likely start around day 4.
Today's 104 miles meant 7:42 laps, theoretically more walking, but in practice slower running and walking. I'd already noticed that at night I had to run much more of the course to hit my splits. The course wasn't very well lit, and even with a headlamp, something in my perceptual world changed things to where I was just moving slower. I've noticed this before. At sunrise, all of a sudden the same effort yields much faster running and walking, and the run/walk points shift around. Attitude is really everything here, and to a large degree we are subject to what our circadian rhythm and hormones dictate.
I'd run Day 1 in Saucony Kinvaras, with a 4 mm drop. Today I switched to Brooks Hyperion Tempo, with an 8 mm drop. Both of these were new shoes for me. I'd planned to run in NB Beacon 3s, but a few weeks before the race they'd started giving me Achilles issues, and I'd had to scramble to find alternatives. Both the Saucony and the Brooks had felt great on 20-mile track runs, but this was uncharted territory for them.
As the day wore on, I began to have lots of little niggles, various things that bothered me. To a certain extent I think my brain was already looking for a way out, catastrophizing. I was tired and sore, and I knew it was only going to get worse from here. I took a HotShot to address what felt like an incipient adductor cramp. I massaged the psoas area with my hand as I ran to alleviate some tightness there. My right peroneal tendons were bothering me, I thought due to the slight down-right camber of the course. My stomach was bugging me a bit; I took a Zofran. And I began to feel some pain in my left ankle, in the tibialis anterior tendon area. That was something to pay extra-special attention to, because it had taken me out early in my first 6-day race, at EMU in 2018. Since then, I had taken many steps to ensure the problem wouldn't recur. The biggest were running in lower-drop shoes (I had Hokas with heel lifts putting the drop well over 10 mm at EMU) and diligent daily eccentric strengthening exercises for the tib. anterior. I'd had no issues there since EMU, including at Vol State, which should create similar stresses. I applied some Voltaren gel to the area, and took some Ibuprofen. One thing that was NOT giving me trouble was my lower back. No pain there, or referred pain down my left thigh. Those had shut me down for months after Spartathlon, before a second cortisone epidural had made the problems disappear — after that, I was grateful to be here at all.
So, lots of stuff was bothering me, but nothing was really at red-alert level yet. I did switch back to the Sauconys, and things felt better after that.
This afternoon I had the bright idea of sending Mike to the campground restaurant for some pizza. Turns out they were only open for takeout from 5-7 pm, so we waited until 5, then he brought me a pizza. This worked well, and I'd repeat it every evening. Just grab a piece and go. This was the beginning of a pattern — I ate a lot more real food at this race than at prior 6-days. I've tended to get most of my calories from liquid nutrition: my own sports-drink mix, Coke, Sword, etc. But at Vol State last year, running screwed, that wasn't really an option. I wasn't going to carry a ton of drink-mix packets and mix them up on the run. I ate real food when it was available, and that was enough. So I began to shift my fueling strategy here as well. Eating something I like is something to look forward to, unlike having to down another bottle of liquid calories. And at 6-day speeds, my stomach generally has no problem with it.
As the day turned to evening, it began to get mentally tough again. I was not in a good place. I felt like to be honest, I had to keep pushing for 606, but it was like staying on a knife edge. I didn't want to keep doing it. That meant I had no business being out here. I should quit now, acknowledge that I'm not a real runner, swear off running for good. Yeah yeah yeah. We've all heard and felt that before. But it was a very powerful feeling. It was worse than that: giving up on the race was like giving up on life. I might as well commit suicide. I wasn't up for what living actually entailed.
It's like solving a Zen koan trying to figure out which feelings are real, true: the ones we have during the race, when we are in it and aware of what it actually is, or the ones after the race, when the pain and suffering have faded, and we are ready to sign up for the next one? And, how the hell was I going to make it to 2 am? It was sooooooooo far away.
Well, I didn't make it to 2 am. By around 1, it felt like the left tib. anterior tendon-area pain was getting worse. I told Mike I was going to have to bag the 606 goal. To keep the pain from getting worse I was going to go down now for my sleep, early, and go down for three hours. It felt like giving up, like I'd been waiting for an excuse to quit, and I'd found it. But it also felt legitimate. The pain WAS increasing, and it wasn't something it seemed smart to try to push through. 606 had always been a stretch. Even though it would mean much, much more than any of the lesser goals, I had to listen to my body and back off.
The sleep was tortured, as I felt like I'd given up too easily. After three hours I hadn't had much actual sleep. But it was apparent then that the tendon pain was real, and it was worse. I was all too familiar with that pain, and that redness. It was a nightmare scenario: just like EMU four years ago, my race was over on the second day. What the hell. I had done MASSIVE work to prevent just this from ever happening again. I knew there was no point going back out feeling like this. My only chance was more rest, though it seemed like a slim chance. I know how these injuries go. They take weeks to resolve, and no in-race treatment can help. So, it was back to sleep for another three hours. When I woke, it was the same. I was not yet ready to hand in my timing chip: certainly, at some point, I'd do my due diligence and get back out there and see how I was actually moving, and see what medical could do for me. But there was no hurry, and I figured that realistically, my race was most likely over. Mike and I sat and discussed what had happened, and options. Laid out some potential new plans for reduced goals. I was also thinking, if I stop now, hmm, could I try again at the Dome in June? Or maybe run HOTS or Vol State? But that was getting ahead of things. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; white-space: pre-wrap;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-size: 14.666666666666666px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp2HgGTbqAQpr89Doh_AWbDnz59dQ3O2YOv5fhJwd-4lHWnXzpi1gF0UxA22tPnv64j7R-6lv7Epv6nqAtIJ2yieKis4IZ4RyXh_9GpgS4zhUNnt-zZP4MTSwV2JhOmuBDYT1wnyDuAsOjOSu_jeXVAi1LPs2a21zWPjBGfWQh2PbiyeVAKFKqG7JVMw/s4032/redness.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp2HgGTbqAQpr89Doh_AWbDnz59dQ3O2YOv5fhJwd-4lHWnXzpi1gF0UxA22tPnv64j7R-6lv7Epv6nqAtIJ2yieKis4IZ4RyXh_9GpgS4zhUNnt-zZP4MTSwV2JhOmuBDYT1wnyDuAsOjOSu_jeXVAi1LPs2a21zWPjBGfWQh2PbiyeVAKFKqG7JVMw/s320/redness.HEIC" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">I know that discoloration all too well.</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: 14.666666666666666px;">After 10 or 11 hours, Ivo's wife Laura stopped by the bungalow to see what was up, and said people were worried about me. We filled her in. Finally, after 13 and a half hours off the course, and no real improvement, I figured I might as well get back out there and see what I could do. I walked a lap, working out the unavoidable foot pain one experiences at 6-day after going down for a while. Then I began to run. It hurt. But it didn't hurt a whole lot. I kept running. The pain didn't increase. OK... I was kind of in free-pass land now. I would do what I could do. If the pain stayed manageable, great. If not, I'd have done what I could do.
As an aside... this kind of thinking I think captures what one needs to try to achieve in these kinds of races. It's rarely actual issues that take one out. It's the fear of the future, of what this pain will turn into, of how hard it will be to keep going for the rest of the race. Focusing on the present, if one can do it, is almost always a cure. I've worked hard on this over the years, not specifically for race performance, but for wider life benefits, practicing daily mindfulness meditation. But applying it in a race is still a challenge. Except that now, my fear of the future was gone, as I had already given up. Everything left was gravy.
OK. So, how is it that using the compression boots late in day one had ended my race? Here's the thing. We had tested using the boots with my shoes on before the race. It seemed to work well. The boots have six chambers, that inflate sequentially from foot to thigh, flushing fluid out of the legs. It feels like a nice massage. My new boots let me set the pressure to high levels. I set them pretty high when I used them during the race. My feet had hurt, but they had hurt anyway; I ignored that. My legs felt good. But I realized now that I had done something incredibly stupid. I had left my timing chip velcroed on around my ankle. And it had just happened to be on the left ankle, positioned over the tib. anterior tendon. The MOST VULNERABLE part of my anatomy. I hadn't been that aware at the time of localized pain there, but it was after that that the pain gradually built. I'm pretty convinced now that that stress (the compression is very powerful), jamming that chip into my tendon, hypersensitized that tissue, making it much more vulnerable to the eccentric stresses of walking and running. How to end your race with one careless mistake.
I ended the day with a measly 42.9 miles in the bank.
</span></span><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Day 3</span></h2><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>I had a plan now: 531, for a PR (and an age-group American Record). I'd mapped it out. Even with all the lost time, I could do it with somewhat reduced paces (today was 7:50 laps) and with 6 hours per day of break instead of 5. I just had to not let the pain get any worse. If it did, I could back it down further to just beat 501. With the increased break time, I began allowing myself some short breaks in a chair every few hours, 10-15 minutes each. It was quite hot and humid today (and would stay in the 80s, clear, and somewhat humid for the remaining afternoons); once, I went into the bungalow for 15 minutes of cooling.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb5ZdEOqWQk9HgsX624IdBJgs49chPXmH84HQKVejZk5KT4KF9dMCbQX2GIr6ZljtMtZIidfz9_is9Tlre9c122Yvv5Yr83apcznPPzFXas7ln3OSBuPQiAxhq91nRqVeuzb0qCye1QJDoja0ggf2VslbKFFp_78kmKxRO1bu2c_uHLnvMz1o-WnIzqQ/s996/cooler.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="996" data-original-width="996" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb5ZdEOqWQk9HgsX624IdBJgs49chPXmH84HQKVejZk5KT4KF9dMCbQX2GIr6ZljtMtZIidfz9_is9Tlre9c122Yvv5Yr83apcznPPzFXas7ln3OSBuPQiAxhq91nRqVeuzb0qCye1QJDoja0ggf2VslbKFFp_78kmKxRO1bu2c_uHLnvMz1o-WnIzqQ/s320/cooler.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Makeshift cooler, with water, Coke, sports drink, and custom "Bob drink mix" on tap</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br />
As the day wore on, I became friends with my tendon pain. I was accepting it, not fearing it. Pain is inevitable; suffering is optional. It gave me a curious kind of energy. Evening was not that intimidating. No longer being on that knife edge for 606 helped a lot.
I looked forward to 2 am without much apprehension, but again, I didn't get there. Around 12:30, all of a sudden the pain became much more intense. One walk / run transition was like a knife stabbing my ankle. Running was no longer possible. So again I went down early, for three hours. This time, when I woke, I got back out there to test it. But there was no improvement. I could walk, but could not run any amount at all without the pain increasing. After 9 laps I decided that again, the best thing I could do would be to rest it some more. So I slept for another three hours. The PR goal was now gone.
This early in the race, I didn't see any point in walking it in painfully the rest of the way. So again, it looked like my race was over. Yes I was here for more than performance goals, but I didn't think I would reach any of those magical spiritual spaces without significant running effort. The last thing to try before throwing in the towel was the medical tent. Why had I not tried that earlier? Because I was convinced there was nothing they could do. Well, they said they could tape it. OK, why not. I'd tried that last time, at EMU, without success, and honestly I saw most taping jobs as a kind of voodoo.
But. As the doctor did his work, a light bulb turned on. I saw what he was doing with the taping, and I thought, OK, maybe. This was actual structural support, designed to create an additional spring between my upper shin and my foot, essentially supplementing the eccentric work that the tib. anterior normally did. I could feel resistance when I plantarflexed. That meant less load on my tendon; the tape would absorb some of the force. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqGdJ0tjMQ86R6v5ILuxw8dCth5jA4bJaFx7ZV6fsu3A6pbzAkUM7spZUuYMle7lnG2NFG1IsjpPLcOpB21INPh51_9QvU0MvXWeH2eh2F4PxdLIEBAknJ8evtlLc1nPLpMdvJEVyWmNfdG3xwNYsAd4151DrQhqF4UO1XiJMypPMVujtK7lF7ULGyyg/s3196/taping.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2732" data-original-width="3196" height="343" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqGdJ0tjMQ86R6v5ILuxw8dCth5jA4bJaFx7ZV6fsu3A6pbzAkUM7spZUuYMle7lnG2NFG1IsjpPLcOpB21INPh51_9QvU0MvXWeH2eh2F4PxdLIEBAknJ8evtlLc1nPLpMdvJEVyWmNfdG3xwNYsAd4151DrQhqF4UO1XiJMypPMVujtK7lF7ULGyyg/w400-h343/taping.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
I walked a lap; it didn't feel much better. Then I added back some running. And... I could run again. It wasn't 7:50 laps, but it was ~8:10s, much better than the 11-12 for walk laps.
As 2 pm approached and the day wore down, I looked forward to doing the numbers at the transition to see what I now needed to hit 502. Would I have a cushion? Or would I be on the edge? Actually, my Garmin did the numbers for me; I'd written a custom pacing app. I just set the number of target laps per day and planned break time, via menus, and it told me total mileage and necessary lap splits. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV_ldjZGTzrIzq_-pOOL1l5kEhyrYIKIYLLFSEgxSlAm2_BPouEJxq1SFuY-JWxMuKssZ7WDcPS2aqSFZcePYH9daX80GbDkMxgaE61_WNbiU-lIsXU8MwFl57aYRURANPhN8Mrcz-DDqSNPFeTzfoNiXI74sgmdTPvhotJdWf_-_Bq9GXVOMpbRzHDw/s4272/running%20with%20tape.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2848" data-original-width="4272" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV_ldjZGTzrIzq_-pOOL1l5kEhyrYIKIYLLFSEgxSlAm2_BPouEJxq1SFuY-JWxMuKssZ7WDcPS2aqSFZcePYH9daX80GbDkMxgaE61_WNbiU-lIsXU8MwFl57aYRURANPhN8Mrcz-DDqSNPFeTzfoNiXI74sgmdTPvhotJdWf_-_Bq9GXVOMpbRzHDw/w400-h266/running%20with%20tape.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Running again</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br />
Day 3 ended with 81.5 miles, much better than day 2, but still pretty paltry, with a lot of time off the course.
</span><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Day 4</span></h2><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>I did the numbers, or my Garmin did, and I wasn't thrilled with what I saw. I couldn't slow much. Day 4 was going to be hard work, and if it was successful, days 5 and 6 would have to be just as good. But I did feel like the race was in a new phase, now being more than half over. The finiteness was becoming a bit more real.
Being back on a somewhat normal schedule now, I could start with my two-hour nap in the heat of the day. Unfortunately it passed in an eyeblink, without much sense of actual rest. I took an extra 15 minutes, but I don't think it helped.
I worked hard through the afternoon and early evening, holding pace with 8:20ish laps. I sat down for 10 minutes for dinner around 8, and took a 10-minute nap a couple hours later.
I was back in a challenging headspace again this evening. Again, how was I going to make it to 2 am? I didn't have much extra time for breaks. I became more and more aware that the problem was all in my head. Yes my tendon hurt, but not much. Yes everything was sore, but not too sore. Running right now, at the pace I needed, was OK. All I had to do was apply my mindfulness lessons and be present in the moment, stop worrying about the future, stop thinking about how long it was 'til my next break. But understanding this intellectually does no good.
And then... BOOM. I understood, at a direct level. It was like I had solved a complex puzzle, more than just getting my head into the right space now; I had solved it for good. I saw the foolishness of anxiety about the future. It was self-sabotaging. All I was afraid of was myself, what I would choose to do in the future. I wasn't afraid of the actual pain or injury or being forced to withdraw. I was afraid of failing for no valid reason.
I felt immense joy, energy, compassion for everyone else out there, an expanded sense of self. The emotions were overpowering, flowing out from my heart. THIS was why I was out here! I was filled with gratitude that I'd been able to push through to this point. I was now living in the present, enjoying every step, running free and happy. My lap times dropped back below 8 minutes; I had to restrain myself. As had happened late in 6 Days at the Dome, I had once again discovered the key to infinite power.
I told Mike "Well! I just had a breakthrough. Maybe I can explain it to you later.". Shortly afterwards I suggested that he set some bottles and pizza out for me and take a nap for an hour or so. I was in an internal space now, listening to music, feeling insights flow through me — I didn't want to be distracted by stopping the music and checking in every lap, and it felt like a waste for him to just be waiting for me to need something, when I knew I wouldn't need anything for a while. The music felt extra rich and deep, and appropriate for what I was experiencing. The stars were in alignment.
I began to think, why go down at 2? Why break at all? It made more sense to ride the flow state. But I was also aware that "infinite power" only means my mind is free. My body still has limitations, and ultimately my mind is also supported by my body. I still had to respect reality.
And by 2, I was feeling the physical need for some rest, so I went down for two and a half hours. When I woke, it was a new context, a new day; I wasn't quite in my same enlightened, energetic state. But I was no longer intimidated by what I had to do. Yes, I had work to do, and it would be 9 hours until my next major break. But that was OK.
At 9 am, the 48-hour race started, and we had new people on the course. Somehow I'd thought that it was going to start after the 6-day. The course was still not too crowded, but when the 24-hour started a day later, it might be.
As the "day" wore on, and 2 pm approached, the tendon pain began to increase again. I tried not to be too concerned about what that meant. I would close out the day with my planned 129 laps, still on pace for 502 and that age-group AR. After that, I'd have a long break, and we'd see.
Day 4 clocked in at 91.4 miles, not bad, running injured. And 21 miles more than Olivier ran that day. Of course, I'd had a lot of extra time off earlier.
</span><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Day 5</span></h2><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>After another two and a half hours off, unfortunately, the pain had not improved. I could no longer run my target splits; in fact, any running at all seemed not to be sustainable. So... OK, walking it was. All my performance goals were now gone. I could still look to holding on to a podium position by walking out the last two days, perhaps. But what made me sad was that I felt it would take more running to recapture the deep experiences I was after. For now at least, that was off the table.
Walking was not too painful, so I didn't see any point in stopping. I'd just do what I could do. Walking did give me the chance to chat with other runners and walkers, at least. I finally met Israeli multi-day runner Galit Birenboim-Navon, there running the 48, in preparation for EMU 6-day this fall. We walked a few laps together a few times, and had some great conversations. Later I'd walk several laps with Richard McChesney, who would go on to set the New Zealand record for 6-day walking. I never had a sustained walk with Ivo Majetic, but we exchanged status and well-wishes frequently. I walked enough with Luca Bonnal to learn that he had literally started running last November! He'd run his first 24-hour race two months ago, and there seen t-shirts for a 6-day race. "How does that work?" "It's just like 24-hour, but for 6 days." "Oh! Sign me up!" And here he was. Incredible.
As the day turned to evening, I began to realize how different was the toll of walking vs. running on my mind. Or maybe it was carryover from the previous night's breakthrough. I just wasn't getting tired, wasn't eagerly anticipating the next break. I got into a pattern of a 10-minute break about every three hours. I'd lie down by the course with eye mask and ear plugs, and get some concentrated rest. It seemed to be enough. Logically that didn't seem sustainable, but it was fine for now.
Also I began eating A TON. I was always hungry, always wanting more pizza, another grilled cheese, more pasta. Mike was kept busy in the kitchen! I weighed myself every 12 hours. My weight dropped quite a bit the first few days, but rose over the last few days.
By 3:30 am, I felt I was getting a bit loopy, so decided to go down for half an hour instead of 10 minutes. That may have been a mistake. I got no rest, and my feet were throbbing. 10 minutes off is OK, but longer than that, and the endorphins start to fade, or the blood begins to pool, or something happens anyway, and the pain that had been shut off due to activity returns with a vengeance. After another couple laps, I felt worse off than before the break. Mike and I decided OK, maybe I did need a real sleep. So I went down for 3+ hours in the bungalow.
And... that was BY FAR the most painful part of the entire race. I got zero sleep, and the pain in my feet was otherworldly. I was in a hellscape where it seemed clear that the Ibuprofen I'd been taking had actually been a pain enhancer, rather than a pain reliever. When it was time to return to the course, for the first time I was fearful of continuing. If the pain was that bad now, I could not imagine what it would be like after another day plus out there. But I got back out and started walking. After a very slow, tortured lap, I was back to 11-minute laps, and the pain had faded. For now.
Now, I began to worry, just a bit, about holding on to second place. Stéphane Leroux, in third, was 30+ miles back, but he was running with a vengeance. This had pretty much been his pattern the whole race: he was either out running full-speed, with no walking, and a huge grimace, or he was off the course. Now, for several hours without a break, he was out there running full speed. Five days in! It didn't make sense that he could keep that up long enough to catch me. But it didn't make sense that he could be doing it at all.
Mike pointed out that rather than trying to catch me, he was likely trying to hold on to third. You can see the interesting situation in the graph at the bottom of this post, around hour 114. Saïd Bourjila (who would go on to run a Moroccan national record) had been running strong for hours and had almost caught him. Now, they were pushing each other, which was a really bad dynamic for me! I thought back to my experience at the end of the Dome, when David Johnston had started running 8-minute miles with about 10 hours to go, and looked like he might catch me. I fought harder to defend second then than I had trying to catch Joe for first earlier, which is silly. But that's the endowment effect in action. We are more motivated to work to hold on to what we have than to acquire what we might want.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfku9GKLELD_w2lNxY2KWyfvSr7nKAvEx2cVhyXI-nG-RxqCUg15M9fSDCtQQwmJZhxVPWGe1jd2bfBcGSkAj2mUSSeRRIM5ikJX3TOMJShVxBdshLp4mxzW6J5NjnY5MBpol_ewKEBVkZsw_l_R0VVqwjumtPr_oOUitwoI4ZGdapf4s5936x4l1A1g/s2863/said%20leroux.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2451" data-original-width="2863" height="343" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfku9GKLELD_w2lNxY2KWyfvSr7nKAvEx2cVhyXI-nG-RxqCUg15M9fSDCtQQwmJZhxVPWGe1jd2bfBcGSkAj2mUSSeRRIM5ikJX3TOMJShVxBdshLp4mxzW6J5NjnY5MBpol_ewKEBVkZsw_l_R0VVqwjumtPr_oOUitwoI4ZGdapf4s5936x4l1A1g/w400-h343/said%20leroux.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Stéphane Leroux and Saïd Bourjila battling for third</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br />
Fortunately for me, after a few hours, they seemed to reach a détente, and spent some time walking together. Neither giving up any ground to the other, but what a relief for me! The race was now winding down, and I could think in terms of it actually ending. This was the next-to-last morning. Wow. I walked with no breaks until lunch, around 1, then sat for 10 minutes. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYPyo90NOHk_NCtL7iUqHc1UoTKbHjtmsXA4W0dB3654MSXHKdiSambb3tvc-5RgyBP1Dkfj-8yPuwFsq6ZhQ2AcTPehWKTMJiIpw-aR1-7PAVlFExRVJb7x1Ng48_HUMRerubKWyqg7STpbucXyGeAnMlPNrJWGieVW0TUhhSK4oS6fytaUjetreEew/s4272/music.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2848" data-original-width="4272" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYPyo90NOHk_NCtL7iUqHc1UoTKbHjtmsXA4W0dB3654MSXHKdiSambb3tvc-5RgyBP1Dkfj-8yPuwFsq6ZhQ2AcTPehWKTMJiIpw-aR1-7PAVlFExRVJb7x1Ng48_HUMRerubKWyqg7STpbucXyGeAnMlPNrJWGieVW0TUhhSK4oS6fytaUjetreEew/w400-h266/music.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Live music was a nice touch</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br />
I closed out day 5 with 60.5 miles, not great, but it had been all walking.
</span><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Day 6</span></h2><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>Except for the first day or two, every afternoon had been quite hot and humid; today was perhaps the worst, and for once I was not sleeping through it. At 3:15 I took a 15-minute nap in the shade, which helped.
The day turned to evening, and I sat down for 15 minutes for dinner. At this point, things began to get interesting again. Olivier was slowing; he looked potentially catchable for the win if I could somehow run again. And because of Leroux's push, I'd been gearing up mentally to try to run again if need be. Also, though no feasible amount of running at this point would help me reach even my lowest goal, nonetheless I did need to test out running again for another reason: I'd been reduced to walking the last two days at the Dome as well. There was an injury issue there too, but when I could run through the pain, I discovered that even running at a very slow pace was hugely taxing aerobically. Puzzling that out made me rethink a lot of things. I've changed my training and pacing philosophy since then; I was eager to know, apart from the tendon injury, can I still run? If not, I'd have to question ever running big numbers at 6-day.
So I tried... and quickly became aware that the little hot spot on my right heel that I'd been ignoring was much harder to ignore while running. I spent some time in the bungalow doing foot care, but I'd waited too long; it was now a deep blister under the heel pad, inaccessible. Ugh. OK, let's try to run through that. I added the running back bit by bit, not too much, not too fast, not wanting to inflame the tendon any more. I got back to decent lap times again. I could run! And my legs were fine with it; eager to run. People were surprised to see me running again. Olivier picked up the pace. My reality began to shift; oh yeah, this was a running race! Running is so different from walking. The laps flew by. My mind began to drift back towards my enlightened state of the 4th evening.
But the blister was a real pain. Mike had to get the race director to wake someone for the med tent to see what they could do. But by the time they were there, after an hour and a half of running, the tendon had suddenly become much worse. I had several little blisters treated, but the one under the heel pad didn't seem to be fixable. By that point, it didn't matter... I couldn't run anymore, and walking was now painful.
Well, I'd tried, and at least my legs had been up for it, which was encouraging for next time. But walking it was, if I could even sustain that now. The evening progressed similarly to the previous one, with no long sleep breaks. Just short breaks every few hours. And lots of food! I did nap in a chair for an hour at 2 am, and slept soundly. Fortunately, the foot pain was now not as bad, or else my body was just sufficiently tired to let me sleep through it.
As the final hours wound down, somehow, it became a real slog. I tried, but was unable to muster a rapid walk. The 11-minute laps drifted towards 13. The people that were leaning and limping were passing me. I couldn't figure out what it was. Mike figured it was just that I really had nothing whatsoever to motivate me at this point. I was tracking for 450+ miles, 725+ km, nice numbers, but those didn't require pushing, and there were no reachable bigger nice numbers. And I was now solidly in second. At 9 am the 48-hour and 24-hour races ended. Entire long races had come and gone, and here we still were! I took a few more short breaks, but they didn't seem to help.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3gMusTnoOx7y4RCRPTsM-_vIvHlUttyMBxftcT3ONpzOVnmryoYIsZEhXLkyzn3hOdGHqc8iC9IVHpNYdLifrJ-b-YCvkFXTpdLwq9REuAlwTvxZ8y0ENlbAfH2Y5XF6TzLmxMHkrJ4FSMRAayqnGqbJGyK5tMbLZb81oTR6xnSeKUW5kAvpEhQ_thQ/s1726/sleeping.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1540" data-original-width="1726" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3gMusTnoOx7y4RCRPTsM-_vIvHlUttyMBxftcT3ONpzOVnmryoYIsZEhXLkyzn3hOdGHqc8iC9IVHpNYdLifrJ-b-YCvkFXTpdLwq9REuAlwTvxZ8y0ENlbAfH2Y5XF6TzLmxMHkrJ4FSMRAayqnGqbJGyK5tMbLZb81oTR6xnSeKUW5kAvpEhQ_thQ/s320/sleeping.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL5qMpPKy11M-1pP-eOErbnhYCCakl8zD8XRDIL4MjvtdqzbK2D8AwQP_6AnwteQ451LVeltd1y2OJLJrxk6_CzyHstQU7LrwN-SkGzhneblE4L833fA9ZZwZjjDXrx7-0_jLO2h7R56Sq7AscevEB5dlAZsS4c14nC5UH4qRhaSpUhES37o3M3rjyDQ/s3377/700%20km.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3377" data-original-width="2533" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL5qMpPKy11M-1pP-eOErbnhYCCakl8zD8XRDIL4MjvtdqzbK2D8AwQP_6AnwteQ451LVeltd1y2OJLJrxk6_CzyHstQU7LrwN-SkGzhneblE4L833fA9ZZwZjjDXrx7-0_jLO2h7R56Sq7AscevEB5dlAZsS4c14nC5UH4qRhaSpUhES37o3M3rjyDQ/s320/700%20km.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
Incredibly slowly, through increasing mental fog, 2 pm finally approached. I decided I'd walk my final complete lap (partial laps are counted) carrying the American flag; there were flags for every country represented in the race by the side of the course near the timing mat. I'd seen a few others carry their flags.
As I picked up the flag, an enormous wave of emotion swept over me. There was a lot of encouragement and applause. I couldn't keep tears from my eyes, for the entire lap — this is not normal for me. I was overwhelmed. As the lap neared its end, I decided to run. I replaced the flag, and continued running, hard. My tendon hurt, but at this point I didn't care. This was going to be a partial, but I finished the lap, my fastest of the race, running smoothly and energetically, in about 6 minutes, then continued running hard for another half lap after that, until time expired. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2rOyDnEEyrMtK10gA_Wk6sbfV5cERsxWYLP4jWkccyUV6j9cgaIr4jhfzCsb5xODmEIe5vjP-JoL5JINuhNsAT6cQ0Cju62aMYL84fyigzbSlR53AqphO029PWvpWTM_ixJxa45o8ek8LUqxpDxgDZJRPX4SHO5t4cwjPtV3sYZKrf3gJIhpOaTod5g/s4272/flag%20run.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4272" data-original-width="2848" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2rOyDnEEyrMtK10gA_Wk6sbfV5cERsxWYLP4jWkccyUV6j9cgaIr4jhfzCsb5xODmEIe5vjP-JoL5JINuhNsAT6cQ0Cju62aMYL84fyigzbSlR53AqphO029PWvpWTM_ixJxa45o8ek8LUqxpDxgDZJRPX4SHO5t4cwjPtV3sYZKrf3gJIhpOaTod5g/w426-h640/flag%20run.JPG" width="426" /></a></div><br /><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvRhEl3U5oPo0pyhyKNkF2Hsvf0zmQxIpZrcm8eAISg877CeLfXK_S3bXFnIwH0MsmSifQeGr-SHkejLVrnS8othVZ7LSIUU2cxhjhpKWl4P_yDvoiC76DHWuwGdCHS9Cni75lEyKNrpSA95lt27mJ6UW_on8-uP8wTPjroYLySAV415ciWVpe23Y2Rg/s704/done.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="704" data-original-width="704" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvRhEl3U5oPo0pyhyKNkF2Hsvf0zmQxIpZrcm8eAISg877CeLfXK_S3bXFnIwH0MsmSifQeGr-SHkejLVrnS8othVZ7LSIUU2cxhjhpKWl4P_yDvoiC76DHWuwGdCHS9Cni75lEyKNrpSA95lt27mJ6UW_on8-uP8wTPjroYLySAV415ciWVpe23Y2Rg/s320/done.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Finished, timing chip dropped</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br />
Day 6 total: 70 miles, again mostly walking.
</span><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">The End</span></h2><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>I finished with 452.3 miles, or 728 km. Well below my lowest goal, but I still counted it as a success. I stuck with it when things got hard, and gave myself the opportunity to learn a lot, and to have a powerful breakthrough experience. Olivier Chaigne was first with 760.5 km, and Stéphane Leroux held on to third with just over 700 km.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjoDrYIBarbF_dpKtlO55IuXL4CdCYPOrR3Dd4ZWGkUrJELbBdqkcj3uduDzIa64TDOtv3L90yagqrOhl9G9Upoz6jKBYtji9AEHqUg3s1cgWkqVu9WtUAxMORJgezrxO-d2Ym3799a30pA9APaR9Dp-URyA_KWvDJm1K0B5SLAUa4WzK1OG-NDmhfJA/s4272/awards.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2848" data-original-width="4272" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjoDrYIBarbF_dpKtlO55IuXL4CdCYPOrR3Dd4ZWGkUrJELbBdqkcj3uduDzIa64TDOtv3L90yagqrOhl9G9Upoz6jKBYtji9AEHqUg3s1cgWkqVu9WtUAxMORJgezrxO-d2Ym3799a30pA9APaR9Dp-URyA_KWvDJm1K0B5SLAUa4WzK1OG-NDmhfJA/w400-h266/awards.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRxGKwqiu9C9kxcyFSsrI8lk-146atlB9k2lU0U_y1dh0GVk8WdwnAG1z2nHGADlV487rQ58wwykRNiWY7EDpAmm6YaI4pfjFZca9SPC6AeiAxFiHut-BMRCaXd9DAovQhNb8Rueo-DpqqrjFVcAPRc-x2jHNVDXyLlcOHPWSDJUiTCD5OrAjqjnB4Og/s1284/mike%20&%20trophy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1241" data-original-width="1284" height="309" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRxGKwqiu9C9kxcyFSsrI8lk-146atlB9k2lU0U_y1dh0GVk8WdwnAG1z2nHGADlV487rQ58wwykRNiWY7EDpAmm6YaI4pfjFZca9SPC6AeiAxFiHut-BMRCaXd9DAovQhNb8Rueo-DpqqrjFVcAPRc-x2jHNVDXyLlcOHPWSDJUiTCD5OrAjqjnB4Og/s320/mike%20&%20trophy.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">With crew par excellence Mike Dobies. <br />Pic by Galit Birenboim-Navon</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I do have to wonder... apart from the careless mistake I made that led to the injury, what about my approach for this race? I had tried to be less structured than in the past, but in the end, I was largely motivated by big numbers, a slave to my planned pacing. Whereas at Vol State last year, I consciously abandoned any attempt on the course record, and ran more freely. That liberation was enormously powerful. But I couldn't quite let myself think that way here, until my breakthrough on day 4. Why not?
Somewhat related, I'd considered running here without crew. When Mike offered, I had to make a tough decision. Running without crew at Vol State had forced me to be more self-reliant, and kicked me into a tougher, more confident mode. That was valuable. But if I wanted any shot at all at 606, I thought I needed Mike there to help optimize everything. He did a ton... he was basically my manservant for a week, making my life easier in countless ways, saving minutes here, minutes there. I'm very grateful. But I still have to wonder. What if I try a 6-day with no explicit goal, no crew, just run with my heart and trust my feelings? I guess what it comes down to is that that's a really big leap of faith, for such a training commitment, and especially time away from home. But next time... maybe?
I also came away from this race with a new respect for just what 606 miles means. On paper, it's just a number. But even though I fell off my plan for it early, already I had a much more visceral sense for what it really meant. It's hard to convey just what that kind of performance requires. Most of us can relate to digging really deep to finish a race. But how many can dig really deep, again, and again, and again, for six days, staying right on that bleeding edge, and never faltering? When the body and the mind are failing in innumerable ways? It seems super-human, requiring not just top-notch training, fitness, planning, and execution, but relentless, unquenchable drive. Joe's performance here is really under-appreciated, one of the all-time great American ultraruns. He ran it in 2015, and no one has come close since. It remains the best 6-day performance in the world since 2007. Hats off to you, Joe.
</span><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Numbers</span></h2><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>Here's a graph of the top men's pacing (including Richard McChesney, who was in the walking division). What's plotted is how far ahead or behind one is of even pacing for 500 miles, at any given time. A horizontal line would be dead-even pacing for 500 miles. Down-right diagonals are time off the course (my big hit was hours 33 to 47, hoping for my tendon to recover). You can see here how everyone's pacing slowed during the race — this is normal. Had I stayed on target for 606... well, I didn't. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbSwpPK1JhjcHvWhy6JIh3kHbOr5q8oEyY1-R5sBOj_hLH3byjSe0Gt4nJn6c5ihTyjKx2LU99nOsuH4rqLHovNvCuXliM-pAksCTNxuM16zK4c8AXIIG-pnku5vlZudacDEFaGgeF0LhS9aa-hBNWg_12Hyn-9T4_5qc5GLJzwPgSAsy5Eqgpq1nRbg/s2712/Screen%20Shot%202022-05-27%20at%208.15.35%20AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1604" data-original-width="2712" height="378" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbSwpPK1JhjcHvWhy6JIh3kHbOr5q8oEyY1-R5sBOj_hLH3byjSe0Gt4nJn6c5ihTyjKx2LU99nOsuH4rqLHovNvCuXliM-pAksCTNxuM16zK4c8AXIIG-pnku5vlZudacDEFaGgeF0LhS9aa-hBNWg_12Hyn-9T4_5qc5GLJzwPgSAsy5Eqgpq1nRbg/w640-h378/Screen%20Shot%202022-05-27%20at%208.15.35%20AM.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Graph courtesy of Mike Dobies</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br />
Here's the daily mileage for the top men.
<br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYIveivuyGVngC1ztR2nOIyLv2rxK-s6Rd22F4-L1FYgeo4rc2qQqDCHhKdJ2ewtaXHn-cy2KWlJY4JVj28KleuHPgge93JQE_SjrIZXbZNbfQpazsbfU0iitZYPShRk8Chd8Y07b0MUZS3DD0g2ss6vJlpiqZVCQ1oz-BYtiNeXyzFEO7tJN311Yl7Q/s2924/Screen%20Shot%202022-05-27%20at%207.03.59%20AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="470" data-original-width="2924" height="102" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYIveivuyGVngC1ztR2nOIyLv2rxK-s6Rd22F4-L1FYgeo4rc2qQqDCHhKdJ2ewtaXHn-cy2KWlJY4JVj28KleuHPgge93JQE_SjrIZXbZNbfQpazsbfU0iitZYPShRk8Chd8Y07b0MUZS3DD0g2ss6vJlpiqZVCQ1oz-BYtiNeXyzFEO7tJN311Yl7Q/w640-h102/Screen%20Shot%202022-05-27%20at%207.03.59%20AM.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Courtesy of Mike Dobies</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Finally, here are the top US 6-day performances for men 55-59. I didn't hit my goals, but I landed in pretty good company!
<br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-_V3hYcIsuhPIx0Cb-KcqJgdLlDGrlVO656kZ4-rJNRwDyvCUYviOA3Y0LifkqUToHapixAdOAXL7DB728ijzWFOTGeUB3ljreuwWPqbN15ub13dNqzyNTFBPR9gtdEetE10gMJ_F8Ygowv1hpY5IMGzg40D1vRX93lup535nJ2qnZk5OA1bQE2Z8MQ/s2068/top%20M55-59%20USA%20%232.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1244" data-original-width="2068" height="384" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-_V3hYcIsuhPIx0Cb-KcqJgdLlDGrlVO656kZ4-rJNRwDyvCUYviOA3Y0LifkqUToHapixAdOAXL7DB728ijzWFOTGeUB3ljreuwWPqbN15ub13dNqzyNTFBPR9gtdEetE10gMJ_F8Ygowv1hpY5IMGzg40D1vRX93lup535nJ2qnZk5OA1bQE2Z8MQ/w640-h384/top%20M55-59%20USA%20%232.png" width="640" /></a></div><br />
</span><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Thank You</span></h2><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>Thanks to race director Gérard Ségui for squeezing me into the race at the last moment, and smoothing out all the logistics for me. He even personally picked up Mike and me at the train station in Montélimar, and drove us the hour to the race site. Thank you as well to all the other race organizers and volunteers for an extremely well-organized and welcoming race! I hope to return next year (in April next time, it should be cooler!).
Enormous thanks are due to Mike Dobies for his flawless crew support. Mike knows how this all works. (He's crewed Joe several times, including at his 606.) "Mikey's Diner" had a very convenient location on the course, and was open 24 hours a day! Alas, the business model wasn't really sustainable, with only one customer, and one who doesn't even pay, at that. Mike was also an excellent traveling companion, for a few days before the race in Lyon, and a few days after in Geneva.
Thanks to Case Cantrell (scripts) and Mike (spreadsheets and charts) for extracting and graphing lap splits from the tracking page, which only showed current number of laps and distance for everyone. Mike kept me apprised of the tactical situation during the race, once it became relevant.
Thanks to my medical team for getting me to the start line in one piece, in spite of the lower-back injury that had kept me sidelined for months. This includes Manoj Mohan (back consulting and cortisone injections), Jamie Yang (PT), Angie Weinberger (massage), and Lyresa Pleskovitch and Nasim Gorgani (shockwave and chiropractic). It was a huge relief to get through this race with NO back issues!</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Thanks to the race medical team for patching me up! My race would have ended much earlier otherwise.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbmcXL90CMAlX8lEZxwW5koSawZeaHA1XsRNrVBwrMUPhNPH1sblIMNUaeUwT6pc_uTjzxsDyGdGfow3T4FG-Vuo3hftJETtbwv3kb07D55PmoSi53j4msH9TlfhN_T9LOYumtlU0TnY3z43B-RnPddxoGYe7AkTCmaJjLEpRuRm1fn7b-IGaW85mMbg/s6000/medical.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="6000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbmcXL90CMAlX8lEZxwW5koSawZeaHA1XsRNrVBwrMUPhNPH1sblIMNUaeUwT6pc_uTjzxsDyGdGfow3T4FG-Vuo3hftJETtbwv3kb07D55PmoSi53j4msH9TlfhN_T9LOYumtlU0TnY3z43B-RnPddxoGYe7AkTCmaJjLEpRuRm1fn7b-IGaW85mMbg/w400-h266/medical.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Finally, thanks to Liz for humoring me once again, with all the time away from home! I wish you could have been here too, at least before and after.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
Bob Hearnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01351956832733163825noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2382599380750777712.post-2117199219366050472021-08-09T16:50:00.007-07:002021-08-21T13:26:42.786-07:00Vol State 500K 2021: Walking the Fine Line<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXN7Acv07bZN34O5-GUsyHuD3ZebhVpsJ3qgcpU_KLmlN2mbc_o6YIl4jSRnwiESy5ID_qaXQyPK0J1Mo4eC-tGO9-IlJr00Jq8aJcYmH4DdR6Al0iL41g0UM2FBSVI1hoBicmJOhu_7SN/s1440/blue+bridge.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXN7Acv07bZN34O5-GUsyHuD3ZebhVpsJ3qgcpU_KLmlN2mbc_o6YIl4jSRnwiESy5ID_qaXQyPK0J1Mo4eC-tGO9-IlJr00Jq8aJcYmH4DdR6Al0iL41g0UM2FBSVI1hoBicmJOhu_7SN/w300-h400/blue+bridge.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">It's been four weeks since I finished Vol State, and I am still processing it. Just maybe, I've figured out how to add the one missing piece to my racing, moving me up to a new level. Or maybe this was a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence. All I know is, I consciously took a step back from the ego-oriented goals this time, aiming to focus more on the experience than the result, and as a consequence I unlocked what was far and away my best performance ever. Running without a crew ("screwed"), I topped the old screwed record by 10 hours, and the overall (crewed) record by 3 hours. I can still hardly believe it.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">
As usual, there's a lot more here than many will want to read. I try to write as much as I can remember, for my own later reference. This time I'd have preferred to emphasize the really important things about the race, but I have spent long enough now writing and editing; it is what it is. A lot is mundane, but may still be valuable to those looking to run Vol State, or who are just curious about the entire experience, and not only the highlights.
If you want to skip to the "good parts", scroll down to the evening of Day Three. Alternatively, <a href="https://soundcloud.com/user-172228713/all-hail-king-bob-hearn" target="_blank">my interview on The Adventure Jogger podcast</a> really captured the meat of the experience in a way I'm very happy with, with little fluff. I dive into different aspects of the race in my podcasts on <a href="https://www.gunksrunner.com/paincave/2021/8/4/episode-91-vol-state-extravaganza-with-bob-hearn-and-beverley-anderson-abbs" target="_blank">The Pain Cave (joint discussion with Bev Anderson-Abbs) </a>and <a href="https://anchor.fm/chasing-tomorrow/episodes/Ep--59---Transcendence--Purpose--and-More--Going-deep-with-King-Bob-Hearn-e15i1eu/a-a69r32n" target="_blank">Chasing Tomorrow</a>, and talk more about my other running experiences that led up to this on <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2rz7Q5NhMEg&t=4s" target="_blank">Inked Up Runner (video)</a>.
One more comment about my blog: I am several races behind. I've learned a lot in the past couple of years that I haven't yet found ways to clearly articulate, to my chagrin. It's a bit late now for individual reports, but I may perhaps try to summarize what I've learned in one post covering all the missed races. But mostly, what I have learned has moved me more and more towards understanding how incredibly important the mind is in ultrarunning, to a degree I would not have suspected before. This race bears out that view in spades.</span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">
</span></span><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Background</span></span></h2></div><div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><a href="http://volstate314.com" target="_blank"><blockquote><i>The Vol-State is not just another ultramarathon. It is much more than that. The Vol-State is a journey, an adventure, and an exploration of inner space. It begins with a ferry ride across the Mississippi River, from Missouri to Kentucky, and finishes at “the Rock,” high atop Sand Mountain in Northwest Georgia. What lies in between are 314 miles of the great unknown.</i></blockquote></a></span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I ran Vol State last year in 3 days 12 hours, the 4th fastest time ever on this course — but not enough to win. I chased Francesca Muccini the whole way. She destroyed her own women's course record, running 3:10:49:40, earning her second King of the Road title. It was the most incredible multiday performance I've ever witnessed. I learned a lot from that experience. I felt prepared to come back this year and challenge the overall course record, Greg Armstrong's 3 days 7 hours. But as race day approached, things changed. Greg was in the race, but withdrew. I'd been looking forward to racing him, to us pushing each other to peak performances. I began to consider the idea of running screwed instead, focusing on the journey and the experience instead of the record and my ego. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Really this stemmed from my post-race experience last year. Something about the effort left me in a state of extreme mindfulness and genuineness. For more on this see "Takeaway" in <a href="https://bobhearn.blogspot.com/2020/07/last-annual-vol-state-500k-2020.html" target="_blank">last year's report</a>. But suffice to say, I got a lot more out of the race than just a place or a time, something enormously valuable and completely unexpected. And the possibility of unlocking a similar state this year was more motivating to me than shooting for records.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Having decided to run screwed, habits took over, and I put a lot of effort into preparing to do it right. There are no official aid stations on the course; running screwed means you are entirely self-sufficient. There are, however, "road angels" — locals who know about the race and set out coolers, or sometimes have more elaborate setups. But often the road angels are not out yet for the race leaders.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I hemmed and hawed over which pack to use. I did lots of runs in the one I selected, the Nathan VaporAir 2.0 7L, stuffed the way I imagined I'd stuff it for the race. I ruthlessly shaved an ounce here and an ounce there. How about sunglasses? Normally I have to switch from my prescription sunglasses to my regular glasses at sunset, and back at sunrise. Carrying an extra pair of glasses was a bit of a pain, and took up valuable space and weight. So I got a new pair of glasses, with transitions lenses. One less thing to carry. That was typical of my mindset. As race day approached I had a pretty lean pack going, but was still undecided about some things. Poncho (1.5 oz) or lightweight rain jacket (3 oz)? Emergency blanket, yes or no? 2L bladder, yes or no? Nighttime lighting: is a headlamp and one blinky for the back sufficient? </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgth3JeiVQZWED5seTLZ8_8z34UHx9cS80jZ-V0UiC5pSbaSd1kjKhZfj05OboFb4uGw6_JhVB4sgjeTMYoMCMvcyOTrYKjHhNy6VmY85lxyQm_r4sYFVTjyZcyfLvRjv-fJguOz5AZHao2/s594/pack.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="481" data-original-width="594" height="324" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgth3JeiVQZWED5seTLZ8_8z34UHx9cS80jZ-V0UiC5pSbaSd1kjKhZfj05OboFb4uGw6_JhVB4sgjeTMYoMCMvcyOTrYKjHhNy6VmY85lxyQm_r4sYFVTjyZcyfLvRjv-fJguOz5AZHao2/w400-h324/pack.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>3.0 pounds</i></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Most importantly, I was undecided on shoes! At the last minute, I decided to go with the tried-and-true Beacon v1 (my last pair), though I knew there would be pain (last year it was not pretty). For a bit more cushioning, I added an extra layer of insoles from another pair. I glued in the first insoles with RunGoo, and taped in the second pair with double-sided tape, so I could remove them if I wanted to. All of these uncertain decisions, I'm happy to say, went the right way. In fact, the doubled insoles might even have helped with drainage in the rain, an unexpected bonus.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /></span></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-fEq7e-74j6Lw1hY-3mBYBb_zS8KTlnUjzbjqB0XnQ40wByVnt4RzS51FKrXx3NbJyRcp6O1LHUhZErg-HLeEWDquZeaB_YUURDGCNWqoRynEsTDCIBucXNnd1TUAd0lQr5AKnphpK69K/s2048/shoes.HEIC" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-fEq7e-74j6Lw1hY-3mBYBb_zS8KTlnUjzbjqB0XnQ40wByVnt4RzS51FKrXx3NbJyRcp6O1LHUhZErg-HLeEWDquZeaB_YUURDGCNWqoRynEsTDCIBucXNnd1TUAd0lQr5AKnphpK69K/s320/shoes.HEIC" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The Miata (NB Beacon v1) or the Mack Truck (NB More v3)?</i></td></tr></tbody></table><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">
One aspect of prep that worked out well this year was spending time in Tennessee before the race. I had a family reunion two weeks prior in eastern Tennessee, then just stayed with my parents in Nashville, hitting the sauna every day. I'm sure that helped a lot. Last year, I'd jumped in cold, with no heat training.
Imagine my surprise when Greg re-entered the race, about a week out! I had been thinking I was the favorite, even running screwed, and that maybe I could manage both the full screwed, self-reliant experience and the King of the Road. But now I would probably have to work a lot harder for that. Greg was running screwed as well, at least. He was now the clear favorite, but we would have a race. Also at the last minute, Bev Anderson-Abbs entered, also screwed, fresh off a DNF at HOTS with a knee injury. That seemed to have been dealt with. Bev and her husband Alan would also be definite competition, but neither had run under four days here before, and I felt reasonably confident that I could, even screwed (this reasoning got me into hot water last year, though, with Francesca!).
Being a screwed runner meant that I rode the bus from the finish to the start on Wednesday, the day before the race. We see the entire course, backwards. Normally, John Price (14-time finisher, and author of the guide book many use) calls out important landmarks, with bits of race history, and comments on especially relevant convenience stores or hotels, and stretches that are likely to be dry. I made a point to sit next to him, to learn as much as I could. Yes I already knew the course well, but only from the crewed side.</span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /></span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3-IzeXaBQV49zbKixzzln4JWKXXSOWK1i9y9_q1pQ3O2t8YlrtHEiPURl0nBA5OBTGiXPaLv2ChYQlineuN08VSV22MBlFXPpIvCA1Ldd5HbJu9LcosEYkSDZZX6SXaDSKgMqxTFjcLhs/s2048/last+supper.HEIC" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3-IzeXaBQV49zbKixzzln4JWKXXSOWK1i9y9_q1pQ3O2t8YlrtHEiPURl0nBA5OBTGiXPaLv2ChYQlineuN08VSV22MBlFXPpIvCA1Ldd5HbJu9LcosEYkSDZZX6SXaDSKgMqxTFjcLhs/w400-h300/last+supper.HEIC" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Laz and Carl at the "last supper" (China buffet, again)</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVUALtGoHzjGUYOfy9Du1OaN4M3-hLoLDomp18-QxPAVroFsm6LpK7lY-th_o3SFqH9H78HH-5Eylalnsxs5KKXIIqLHlvFJskMofcsTu2Vcie9cGvLfEC7bYPdTpd1XcSh64Fy8EfyIfp/s1798/fortune.heic" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1128" data-original-width="1798" height="201" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVUALtGoHzjGUYOfy9Du1OaN4M3-hLoLDomp18-QxPAVroFsm6LpK7lY-th_o3SFqH9H78HH-5Eylalnsxs5KKXIIqLHlvFJskMofcsTu2Vcie9cGvLfEC7bYPdTpd1XcSh64Fy8EfyIfp/s320/fortune.heic" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>My auspicious fortune</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Last year, I had a detailed plan in a spreadsheet. This year I tweaked the spreadsheet, but it represented less of a fixed plan. Initially I think it was set up for 3d 14h (Greg's screwed record); if I felt like it, I could update elapsed time at a given location during the race for an updated projection (I never did). With Greg in the race, I wasn't sure what my goal was. Also it looked like it might be cooler than I'd expected. I might have to try to take advantage of that, because Greg would. What was he shooting for? </span><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(68, 68, 68); color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666984558105px; white-space: pre-wrap;">3d 14h? </span><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(68, 68, 68); color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666984558105px; white-space: pre-wrap;">3d 7h? </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sub-3? Likely on the faster end. He looked lean and fit. As you can tell, I wasn't completely succeeding in putting ego aside and focusing on the experience. As it turned out, the ego component was useful (we would be inert lumps without it) — I just found a much better balance, putting the ego in the back seat, but still listening to it here and there.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /></span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ6s4FnoMiPpE-NXyIu766MKLQ1XRwrmhW97ejKwtEDSXPnxO1XaXeNNCoxqm0BgD7_FqYoeCKQOMONgmJAQaBEaLZS7IVyR1FrkaPhKLSRrtutK1iUlSgJNjO7xvsBpj1fkDvc3xnbOsn/s2048/map.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1054" data-original-width="2048" height="330" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ6s4FnoMiPpE-NXyIu766MKLQ1XRwrmhW97ejKwtEDSXPnxO1XaXeNNCoxqm0BgD7_FqYoeCKQOMONgmJAQaBEaLZS7IVyR1FrkaPhKLSRrtutK1iUlSgJNjO7xvsBpj1fkDvc3xnbOsn/w640-h330/map.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhibpg11L6Nqy8IbBOh_xY6u6HcObh7FbHxqiRgaksnPYUin9MPRuYhMQX05vwBqbZ6P4aV7SIYt5mW7KeI_LuIYodU1n3tuN0dnBewGzLDx4_w1hGnr7pQK-wI9Gt1B-91NdniTqUQdFyu/s3846/LAVS+profile.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="521" data-original-width="3846" height="86" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhibpg11L6Nqy8IbBOh_xY6u6HcObh7FbHxqiRgaksnPYUin9MPRuYhMQX05vwBqbZ6P4aV7SIYt5mW7KeI_LuIYodU1n3tuN0dnBewGzLDx4_w1hGnr7pQK-wI9Gt1B-91NdniTqUQdFyu/w640-h86/LAVS+profile.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Click to zoom in. This is the most accurate LAVS elevation profile you will find, calibrated to match the official course GPX.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">
</span></span><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Day One</span></span></h2><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7dNfrCBz-kWFS7_F0kIrxR4DaBtH5frYdWW8xlO_Gvv9GkmX8lg7BXvrU1qQb1bT6nDtgzuF1LOdsamLOUuiUqaYs1SUFr1u3Suhrqw3M_HtBpBYu-bxfiUi9Ex9ji5HJVnPt0UqvEBpq/s2048/garmin.HEIC" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7dNfrCBz-kWFS7_F0kIrxR4DaBtH5frYdWW8xlO_Gvv9GkmX8lg7BXvrU1qQb1bT6nDtgzuF1LOdsamLOUuiUqaYs1SUFr1u3Suhrqw3M_HtBpBYu-bxfiUi9Ex9ji5HJVnPt0UqvEBpq/s320/garmin.HEIC" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The appropriate watch face for LAVS</i></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: 14.666666666666666px;"><br /></span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: 14.666666666666666px;">It's 7:30 Thursday morning. We're standing on the Missouri side of the Mississippi river, in Dorena Landing. Laz lights his cigarette, and we pile onto the ferry back to Hickman, Kentucky (where we just came from). The race has officially started. But for the first mile and a half, and roughly 19 minutes, we're still milling around socializing, stretching, making one last portapotty stop, as the ferry slowly makes its way back.</span></span></div></span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /></span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio_Xs4DUA4Q_CzIfKa_ucH51rLqNPYTB4g3X94lV16KDNAYWeDfNiGM5QUzRd3tJDtZswv76hu-iXm69pftcSZYHtyIvnGzORcSRMd9vojYrfEfzelGmIzEp2HMTLbWNFQHvhrAgi9JsLl/s2048/ferry.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio_Xs4DUA4Q_CzIfKa_ucH51rLqNPYTB4g3X94lV16KDNAYWeDfNiGM5QUzRd3tJDtZswv76hu-iXm69pftcSZYHtyIvnGzORcSRMd9vojYrfEfzelGmIzEp2HMTLbWNFQHvhrAgi9JsLl/w400-h300/ferry.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><br /></span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA7tg8A8wXasi7pDGQdqUBb421CrmDDUlKN6tb4EriHv9eU7M79_JLN6P-UD3ulfXhkcH2iXkCG-culjDVoYgi8Qmn00C4KDmOOvScmvis2x8g_23VViSPofb7BQNCvNY47HQb7alQ3VWR/s1440/burners.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA7tg8A8wXasi7pDGQdqUBb421CrmDDUlKN6tb4EriHv9eU7M79_JLN6P-UD3ulfXhkcH2iXkCG-culjDVoYgi8Qmn00C4KDmOOvScmvis2x8g_23VViSPofb7BQNCvNY47HQb7alQ3VWR/w400-h300/burners.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The Burning Man 50K / LAVS club: Steve Landis, Bob Hearn, BJ Timoner, and the infamous Ray Krolewicz</i></td></tr></tbody></table></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoPNVLNYcTtymQcx595yl0eiRKKNlRYwmcctybgaSpLfKLJCZAi6UxRNe_c_0chPUaCs0TXwKPpveDNPxjAKNDE4JB20AAn6RLVukSAZanQ1FeIyTRIILzpk05TLAx84Jpq6I9BHhh8Cm9/s2015/Bob+and+Greg.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2015" data-original-width="1511" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoPNVLNYcTtymQcx595yl0eiRKKNlRYwmcctybgaSpLfKLJCZAi6UxRNe_c_0chPUaCs0TXwKPpveDNPxjAKNDE4JB20AAn6RLVukSAZanQ1FeIyTRIILzpk05TLAx84Jpq6I9BHhh8Cm9/w300-h400/Bob+and+Greg.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>With King Greg (pic by Jameelah Abdul-Rahim Mujaahid)</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br />The ferry docks, and we are off! Greg takes off in the lead, a small pack sticking with him but unwilling to pass. I was at the trailing end of this pack, and gradually fell farther behind, as I took frequent walk breaks. Ahead of me, I think, were Greg, Becca Joyner, Daniel and Ariela Flory, Andy Pearson, Kimberly Durst, and the Abbses.
<br /></span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg39_Up_PgjxM8v_NYctxBF0nNuuqk3I_AJNnhC-ul8_nDbI0ryOmpA2KW-fsv6Ab_S1H9EIGhp8HynSnEYbTNBY8ttCbZoppI2egTur0QOrJLE9PEHlcSnn8Lo_OSMmtLBoRhmUL4Xzuwb/s2048/leaders.HEIC" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg39_Up_PgjxM8v_NYctxBF0nNuuqk3I_AJNnhC-ul8_nDbI0ryOmpA2KW-fsv6Ab_S1H9EIGhp8HynSnEYbTNBY8ttCbZoppI2egTur0QOrJLE9PEHlcSnn8Lo_OSMmtLBoRhmUL4Xzuwb/w400-h300/leaders.HEIC" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Early leaders. Greg is in front, shirtless.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /></span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">It seemed a little cooler than last year's start, so I was moving faster and not too worried about it. Last year, I'd planned to average 4.5 mph (13:20 / mile) for most of the stretches, but it had been all I could do to go as slow as 5 mph (12:00 / mile) to start. This year, when I was fresh, an easy run / walk was much faster. For most of the race, I had an idea of about what pace I wanted to move at; I'd run more if I was slow, walk more if I was fast. But I was just running comfortably to start.
The 17 miles into Union City passed reasonably quickly. I stopped there at Marathon Gas and refilled my bottles with water and Coke. I looked to replace the PayDay bar I'd finished along the way — the perfect race candy bar; it doesn't melt — but I couldn't find one, and settled for a Zero. Time cost, 4.5 minutes. I'd had no idea, when planning, what the cost of an average stop would be. To be conservative, I'd estimated 15 minutes. But 3-4 minutes to buy fluids and food turned out to be typical, with another minute or two to transfer the fluids to my vest bottles and shuffle any remainder into the back. If I got ice, it was slower: ice fit into the bottles, but just barely; I had to feed the cubes in one by one. Still, I think I went with the right bottles, soft flasks. In the past, larger-diameter, hard-sided bottles had bruised my ribs.</span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /></span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifMEDpniGi4NHpOU60wX4aImBeGH3sZ3hyphenhyphenfJsLvg0ar-YymEKcHu2rTHYEo_OpU2o3Ep8CuZiTUQuKnjKFHPOvpSPvFyAjkt-BPqdUtUvqKREsguNwFOvr9WwfJWn4HFI7kVkUnCo0mY8F/s960/stinky+bridge.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifMEDpniGi4NHpOU60wX4aImBeGH3sZ3hyphenhyphenfJsLvg0ar-YymEKcHu2rTHYEo_OpU2o3Ep8CuZiTUQuKnjKFHPOvpSPvFyAjkt-BPqdUtUvqKREsguNwFOvr9WwfJWn4HFI7kVkUnCo0mY8F/s320/stinky+bridge.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>At the stinky bridge (pic by Laz or Carl)</i></td></tr></tbody></table>
It wasn't far from here to the "stinky bridge", mile 21, where Laz and Carl sat recording everyone's splits. When I passed, it was not too stinky this year. But I did get a few whiffs from the rendering plant a mile down the road, where the stink comes from, as I passed that. Now the day was warming up, and I was slowing. I'd averaged 10:29 pace to Union City, faster than I'd planned, but it had felt easy and under control. But by the time I got to Martin, mile 30, I was definitely feeling the heat and slowing, averaging 10:55 for the segment. A couple miles out, I passed the Abbses, looking for a hose at a church, it appeared. In Martin I stopped at McDonald's, and got a burger and fries and more water to go. Stupidly, it did not occur to me to get ice from the dispenser! I regretted that later, as the heat increased. It took a while to get the food down as I walked.
<br /></span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1oUC3V4MCaesAkVLS7PU2a58BEjIsYlPm7-mvW-7VgkMN9cfpHY3lUPnX1EaEePkYw7rdcKWh3Lcu0sK-vy_iKTue3TlVAkSPgQNzZmoKZtj3yJLbrIevHw3XOt4NvNYe4VU7jNB7f1Od/s2048/close+to+Dresden.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1oUC3V4MCaesAkVLS7PU2a58BEjIsYlPm7-mvW-7VgkMN9cfpHY3lUPnX1EaEePkYw7rdcKWh3Lcu0sK-vy_iKTue3TlVAkSPgQNzZmoKZtj3yJLbrIevHw3XOt4NvNYe4VU7jNB7f1Od/s320/close+to+Dresden.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Approaching Dresden. <br />This pic was by someone from the Farmer's Market, which, alas, I missed!</i></td></tr></tbody></table>
Martin to Dresden, mile 40, was quite hot, and my pace slowed further. To my great surprise, just outside of Dresden, I caught up with Greg! I had figured he was far ahead. But the heat was affecting him. Entering Dresden, I was out of water, hot, and tired. My calves felt on the edge of cramping. I was planning to stop and rest at the farmer's market, which somehow I had missed last year. And... somehow I missed it again. Even though I had double-checked its location on the map in advance. When I was leaving Dresden, I pulled out my phone to check, and I was 0.8 miles past it! I was not about to turn around, but neither could I make it to Gleason, another 8 miles, without water. What to do? I saw a woman in her front yard, and begged for water. She let me refill from her hose, and as a bonus, sprayed me down. Saved! I was beginning to get the screwed experience.
Just as I was stopping, I saw Andy Pearson go by. I'd assumed that after passing Greg, I'd been well in the lead, but I think Andy had been stopped at the farmer's market, so already ahead of Greg. I noticed somewhere in here that my fingers were swollen; rings wouldn't budge. Uh, that's not good. Also I hadn't been peeing, at all, though I had been drinking a lot. Signs of hyponatremia, potentially dangerous. I didn't have any disorientation, nausea, or headache, so it wasn't too bad yet. But I was going to have to do something. Most runners would reach for the salt — I've been sweating a lot, and salt is too low; add more salt! But in fact this does not alleviate exercise-associated hyponatremia (and sweating increases, not decreases, salt concentration anyway). The problem is that the stresses on the body cause an inappropriate water retention, called SIADH, disrupting the body's normal very effective homeostasis in maintaining solutes in the right range. It had been a while since I'd read the science, but I was pretty sure the best thing was simply to remove the stress. Cool off and rest. Still, I took one salt pill, as I'd realized I hadn't taken any yet.
<br /></span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpyIV1MZ6CGKc6OC_1SmBASvBkM8TpIScz3JUzvfmI-qDRrGgz-MErKWs7MBILibR_wZ5pTvh8bl1D6jKRUPTfUiz_IXkO6Rntm9CBaKdKqXfFOE6YTzSYsYJ9DYFlddGqiWzQQVIyT5lN/s960/Gleason+sign.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpyIV1MZ6CGKc6OC_1SmBASvBkM8TpIScz3JUzvfmI-qDRrGgz-MErKWs7MBILibR_wZ5pTvh8bl1D6jKRUPTfUiz_IXkO6Rntm9CBaKdKqXfFOE6YTzSYsYJ9DYFlddGqiWzQQVIyT5lN/s320/Gleason+sign.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />It was a hot trip to Gleason, but the water got me there, shortly behind Andy. The thermometer showed 90 — cooler than last year, but hotter than forecast this year. And I think it was more humid this year, very humid the whole race. I was now more than ready for my break. The Gleason Fire Department was converted into a fully stocked road angel station. Andy was relaxed with his feet up. Really, this was THE perfect place for my break. Not for the last time, what had seemed like a setback (missing the farmer's market) worked out for the best. I chugged a Dr. Pepper, geared down, selected a thick air mattress, and positioned my head in front of a fan. As I was about to put on my eye mask, Angie James, who was tending the station, asked if I needed to recharge anything. "Well, the problem is I need my phone for an alarm." "No problem — here's an extension cord!" I mean really. They had showers and bathrooms too. It doesn't get any better. As I napped, and especially as I tried to rotate to get my head out of the breeze once I'd cooled off, everything began to cramp. Legs, gut. Turning around was quite slow and challenging.
<br /></span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqxLGZPnFnUvOJJmM8Q3KPSZienfgw3EL0XLkqCp1H6qFwip9KQHRPrMfHxg6Rok6XgbUoq3pw9y5NTsGmJYrCc7wFmIE-acHZdhESzFOYZSI_bF3zS9bfDc2apS8po5ObF_ty_8c0jw9o/s960/fire+dept.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqxLGZPnFnUvOJJmM8Q3KPSZienfgw3EL0XLkqCp1H6qFwip9KQHRPrMfHxg6Rok6XgbUoq3pw9y5NTsGmJYrCc7wFmIE-acHZdhESzFOYZSI_bF3zS9bfDc2apS8po5ObF_ty_8c0jw9o/w400-h300/fire+dept.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">After an hour nap, I was up and getting ready to go, feeling much better. The taping job I'd done on my feet before the race had already come off when I'd removed my shoes and socks. I guess I need more practice! I didn't try to reapply it. It was awkward enough when I could contort my legs without cramping. Later that evening I'd regret doing nothing here, though. I wolfed a slice of pizza, and grabbed another one for the road, and a few mini PayDays, tossing the unopened and now-melted Zero bar. As I got ready to depart, I saw that the sign-in list now had several more names on it. A lot of people had come and gone while I'd napped. Alan Abbs was still here, not looking too thrilled with life, but Bev had left him behind and moved on.
Back on the road, I was feeling good. I think my stop here was good strategy. Yes, I'd gotten a little overcooked, but I'd planned an afternoon break in the heat anyway. Now my body was back in the green, plus I'd gotten in a nice nap heading into the evening. Most people had taken a shorter break and pushed through. Everyone was feeling it by now to some extent, so I think I had an advantage. (Later, at the finish, Bev would tell me that when she saw me in Gleason, she thought I might be done!)
As the sun lowered, I geared down for the evening. I put away the hat, pulled out the headlamp, and took off the white long-sleeve wicking compression shirt. It hadn't worked too well during the day. Ideally it would be stuffed with ice, or at least kept wet. But without a crew, ice was a rare luxury, and keeping it wet took lots of water that I could have been drinking. And that didn't help that much anyway, with the high humidity. I replaced it with a very light shirt cut down to the profile of my pack, to prevent chafing. Last year I'd discovered that running with as much exposed skin as possible was best for nighttime.
At the 7:30 evening check-in, I was at 55 miles. Greg and Andy were at 58, with Bev and Becca at 56-57, and the Florys also at 55. A pretty tight lead pack. In McKenzie, mile 56, I passed the Florys at their crew van, then caught up to Bev as we stopped at the same Shell station to resupply on the way out of town. (The road angel we'd both looked for by City Hall wasn't set up yet.) She left first as I shuffled fluids. When I caught up to her again, we were just turning south onto Highway 22, where we'd be most of the night. It was just open, 4-lane highway now for quite a while. Gradually it darkened, and I turned on the headlamp, to join the fireflies winking on and off. A loud chorus of frogs and cicadas completed the scene. The frogs were startling at first, them I remembered them from last year. A strange "...oh..." like someone was right behind you.
On the way to Huntingdon, for maybe the first time it occurred to me how really important it is, as a screwed runner, to mind your Ps and Qs. Most vitally, as regards water! As I looked ahead to what might be open in the next couple of towns, I realized that the answer was: nothing. I did have a list, however, of all the road angel stations people had mentioned setting up in the Facebook group. The next was 6 miles out of McKenzie, at mile 62. Supposed to be marked with glow sticks. But I saw nothing there. Maybe it was on the other side of the highway? Becca was running over there, just ahead of me (but would not need it, as she was crewed). More likely, as would become the pattern for the rest of the race, I was too early. Anyway, I was running low by the time I pulled into Huntingdon, mile 67... to see Greg lying on his back on a sidewalk. I stopped to ask how he was doing. The day had not gone to expectations for him. I lamented that there was no water... he pointed out a cooler right behind us! Saved again. He had also looked for the mile 62 cooler and not found it.
Somewhere between Huntingdon and Clarksburg, it began to rain. And rain. I pulled out my poncho. Oops — I had done nothing for my feet after the tape came off. I made a careful effort to avoid puddles. The skies lit up, and before long there was continuous lightning in every direction, sheet lightning and forks. It was a fabulous light show. Sometimes the forks would follow a crazy path halfway around the sky! I was a little uneasy, but none of the strikes seemed to be close by; the thunder always lagged by several seconds. Still, if it did reach the point where I felt I needed to take shelter, the opportunities would be few and far between. Probably most people took preemptive shelter. I saw one runner, or at least someone with a headlamp, huddled under a church as I passed. I guessed it was Andy, as I think only he and Becca were ahead at that point, and she presumably would have been sheltering in her crew van. I took this opportunity to call my wife, Liz, and describe the amazing scene. The storm went on for a couple of hours, for a while with quite strong wind, then gradually faded away.
I had a note that there would be a cooler with water and snacks halfway between Huntingdon and Clarksburg, under a shade tree. That wasn't too specific, especially in the dark, so I wasn't too hopeful. But there it was, well lit. I kept the stop short, under a minute, not bothering to refill everything. I just quickly drank a bottle of water and grabbed a couple of granola bars. That was foolish, as I was low again coming into Clarksburg, mile 76. Again, everything was closed, so I decided to try my luck with vending machines. I wasted several minutes at three successive vending machines, none of which worked. Argh! I had declined to carry any change, because of the weight, but these machines took cards and bills. One perhaps was empty, and I think the bill readers didn't work on the others because my bills were damp from the rain. They were dry in the Ziploc, but I got them wet just handling them. Oh well... on to Parker's Crossroads. Somewhere in here, I took a NoDoz.
I pulled into the Shell station at the crossroads, mile 82, at about 1 am, and reloaded with plenty of water and Gatorade. Then back on the road, moving well. It was another 10 miles to Lexington, and as the night wore on I began to get tired. Last year, I'd needed several breaks the first and second nights. I found a bench in front of a convenience store, wiped off the rain, pulled out my eye mask and earplugs, and set a timer for half an hour. It was maybe not exactly sleep, but something in that direction. I felt somewhat refreshed at the end, anyway. On to Lexington, refilling at the Little General right at the turn east onto Highway 412. This is about where my 24-hour check-in was last year, at 7:30 am. This year, I was 3 1/2 hours ahead of that pace, feeling good! This was very promising.
But the night was not over. In spite of my nap, I was very tired, and wanted to sleep. I knew that I just had to last until the first hint of dawn, and then I'd be magically invigorated. So I started shouting, yelling, singing, anything I could think of to get me through the next hour or so. I yelled some loving-kindness meditations. It was a strange mixture of energy and exhaustion. But about 5 am I could see a little light on the horizon, and boom, my brain was back in daytime mode.
My Garmin record says I only stopped in Parsons, mile 107, for 2 minutes. I must have refilled my water somehow, but I don't have a clear memory; that seems really quick. Half an hour later, it was time for check-in: I was at 109 miles. Wow, 17 miles farther than last year! And I felt great. How many people had passed me while I'd napped? The highway had clear views far ahead and behind, and I'd seen no one. Hmm. Well, now it was time to find out. The tracking sheet updated, and... the Florys were well back in second place, mile 97. Bev and Becca were at 92, Greg at 87, and Andy at 84. It wasn't over by a long shot, but this was not how I'd expected the race with Greg to go. I was now in the driver's seat. If I had no disasters, I now felt pretty confident at least of the win; I could begin to look at that screwed record.</span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">
</span></span><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Day Two</span></span></h2><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /></span></span></div>Now I began to look ahead to my daily hotel stop. The big question was, where? The next options on the course would be Linden and Hohenwald. I'd get to Linden before the heat of the day, but it would be a long way to Hohenwald, with a lot of uphill, after having mostly pushed through the night. I called the Commodore in Linden to see if they'd let me check in early — yes. OK, great; that's my next target. Knowing I didn't have to push all day made it easier to keep going.
But first, there was the Tennessee River crossing, mile 113, and Fat Man's Truckstop on the other side. I was ready for a bit of a break, so took an extended, 19-minute stop to eat a sausage muffin sitting down, and gear up for daytime running. I dug out and applied my sunscreen — I'd decided to stick with the cutoff shirt rather than going back to the long-sleeve. I thought I'd be OK if there wasn't too much direct sun. The forecast for most of the race was overcast and rain, and we'd had a fair amount of both so far, but some sun.
<br /></span></span></div><div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyfA4BRl7bF-84Z41BXY0gLyzHUGlHJph-Ct8Oh-rMMouQN3CMyxEra47WGv0Q8hXxcX7qz5mWEGOEqgPwnZCPXJFf2Xjq9v6-4RQgpXkY0ARsAzuFOvJF_ZH3dqiuYBs7VKmJ_8Az6iRg/s960/Linden+climb+2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyfA4BRl7bF-84Z41BXY0gLyzHUGlHJph-Ct8Oh-rMMouQN3CMyxEra47WGv0Q8hXxcX7qz5mWEGOEqgPwnZCPXJFf2Xjq9v6-4RQgpXkY0ARsAzuFOvJF_ZH3dqiuYBs7VKmJ_8Az6iRg/s320/Linden+climb+2.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Pic by Carl Laniak</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br />Next up, Linden, mile 125, but there was a big hill to climb on the way. As I was hiking up it, Laz and Carl drove by, took some pics, and cheered me on. "You are blowing it out of the water, man!" Thanks guys; a positive mindset is always a plus. Finally I made it to Linden, about 11 am, tired and hungry, and checked in to the Commodore. It's a cool little boutique hotel. It would be nice to go back and spend a little longer there sometime. I ordered the special from the adjoining café, mac & cheese with hot dogs, and asked them to deliver it to my room. It arrived just as I'd geared down, showered, and was getting into bed, perfect. I'd first plugged in electronics and washed my clothes in the sink, and hung them to "dry" (not likely).
Alarm set, earplugs in, eye mask on, zonk. Two hours of pretty decent "sleep". I woke a couple minutes before my alarm, and started gearing up. Toe blisters drained, check. Otherwise my feet looked pretty good! But now I was careful to slather them all over, not just the toes, with Squirrel's Nut Butter. I put on my second pair of shorts and socks, and safety-pinned the first pair, still damp, to my pack. I tossed the long-sleeve in the trash. It was a nice shirt, but it wasn't working, and I'd rather not carry it another 189 miles. Check-in to check-out, just under 3 hours, as planned. Great!
On the way out of town I hit the Shell station and reloaded with fluids. It was another 3 miles to Sanders Market (I didn't stop) and the beginning of the long, gradual climb to Hohenwald. Laz calls this "16-mile hill", but I've carefully plotted the elevation data, and I call it 11 (actually, it's very similar to the big climb before Linden, but nobody talks about that). 500 feet over 11 miles is no big deal, but it does get a bit old. It's a pretty constant low grade until it gets steeper in the last couple of miles.
As I started the slow climb, the skies opened up again. So much for drying my clothes! I put them back in the pack in a Ziploc, and pulled out the poncho again. This was great! Not as intense as last night, but enough cooling for very comfortable running. But gradually the rain died down, and then gradually the sun came out. And gradually I began to feel something in my right lateral hamstrings. And gradually it worked its way into my knee and glutes. Walking more didn't seem to help much. This was frustrating, but as Hohenwald approached, I began to look at the math for where I might be at the next check-in. If I could keep a decent pace, It looked like I might manage 41 miles, for 150 total, even with a stop for food. Now, I began to look ahead and get really excited. First, I thought 150 would be a bit of an exclamation point for those watching. But I also figured I could probably manage another 50+ during the second night; there was a lot of fast road past Hohenwald, and hopefully I could keep the breaks to another half hour or so. That would put me in Lewisburg, mile 201, by morning. Last year I had left Lewisburg just before the 2.5-day check-in! Theoretically, then, I could finish up to 12 hours faster than last year. Except that (1) I'd plan to then stop for 3 hours in Lewisburg, and (2) the last 24 hours last year were VERY fast, due to powering through thunderstorms, and giving all I had to try to catch Francesca. I didn't expect I could match that this year. Still, that suggested to me for the first time that there was a serious chance at the overall course record, 3 days 7 hours, running screwed.
So... I got a bit greedy. I pushed maybe just a bit harder than I should have through Hohenwald, mile 144 (stopping at Subway to grab a sandwich for the road). I called Liz, told her how I was doing. She said, "Bob, don't be greedy! You're there to win! Forget about these records". Yeah. Well, I hit my 150 at 36 hours. Even with the three-hour break, I'd gained another mile on the Florys, and Greg had now sadly dropped.
One of the great things about following a Lazarus Lake race online is Laz's periodic updates. They are sheer poetry. For Vol State, they came every 12 hours, some time after check-in. I wasn't taking the time to read them during the race, but Liz would read some to me. This bit made me laugh out loud:
<i>
</i></span></span></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><i>sometimes the strategy is different than you expect.</i></span></span></div><div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><i>
</i></span></span></div><div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><i>here is a strategy that works really well if you can execute it:</i></span></span></div><div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><i>
</i></span></span></div><div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><i>just blow everyone’s doors off!</i></span></span></div></blockquote><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">
From Hohenwald to Hampshire there's a big descent, a big climb, and another big descent. The descents are steep enough to where I really felt like I ought to run the whole way with no walk breaks, otherwise I'd just be wasting fast road. So I did... and my quads got pretty tired. Approaching Hampshire, things no longer felt so rosy. For one, I had neglected to stop at the Natchez Trace campground for water. It looked to be too far off the course, and not obvious where to get water anyway. I'd loaded up in Hohenwald, but not enough to get me the 29 miles to my next opportunity in Columbia. I was counting on the normal road angel spot being available in Hampshire. It wasn't guaranteed they would be there at all, let alone for the leaders. But more importantly, my quads now felt shot. I don't remember feeling that way here last year. I realized that as the race approached, I'd somewhat neglected my eccentric quad exercises. Oops. Now, my hubris had caught up with me. Why had I gotten greedy? My whole plan had been to put ego aside and just experience running the race screwed, stay in control, and see what happened.
Fortunately, there was a cooler in front of Mack's Market in Hampshire (mile 162). And neighbors with snacks. It's not wise to rely on road angels, so I got away with something here. However, I'd also been told I could probably get water from a hose at the church (which I'd have to find), so I did have a bit of a backup plan.
But coming out of Hampshire, my quads felt well and truly done. I couldn't run at all. So I walked, and walked, and tried to figure out what I could do. Nap somewhere by the side of the road? I was tempted, but didn't see any likely spots. Walk to Columbia and get a hotel there for a couple hours? Take some Advil and mask the pain? That didn't seem like a promising idea, with nearly half the race still to go. But in the end, that's what I did. Slowly, I was able to run again. I'd long since given up any hope of hitting 200 miles by 48 hours. I'd just do what I could do.
Finally, around 2 am, I pulled into Columbia, mile 178, and restocked at a very sketchy convenience store. I figured there was no guarantee of any resupply until Lewisburg, another 22 miles, so I stocked up. And realized a mile down the road that I'd left a liter bottle of water sitting on the ground, after shuffling fluids. Ugh.
Leaving Columbia, it was late, and away from the city lights, very dark. There was a new moon, so zero moonlight this year. The next 10 miles or so were the roughest part of the night. Again, it was time for singing, yelling, slapping myself, anything to stay awake until dawn. The silliest was perhaps singing "Cuuuuullleoka, Cullee-culleoka, Cuuuuullleoka, Cullee-cullee Coo", to the tune of "Alouette" (or, as Liz knows it better, "Little Bunny Foo Foo"). For some reason it didn't occur to me to take a nap for this second night, or maybe I was just intent on pushing through after losing so much time walking. But I passed on opportunities to nap at the Bench of Despair, mile 184, or the Nutt house, mile 187. The Nutt house is the most elaborate and anticipated road angel station on the course. I wasn't sure they would be set up yet this year — the Nutts were out of town for a few days, and had left it in neighbors' hands. So I was pleasantly surprised to see the tents, chairs, etc., as I arrived. I signed the logbook, opened a bin full of supplies, and replaced my headlamp batteries. Then I opened the cooler — empty! Ah well. I was a little low but not desperate. </span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /></span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIpNoQSnzjuaGnzXMJM_9erLnPshvTx2GVwLUZV2BjvenVyN5VidSNW7kxiC6RVBTv69lN313SDDbz_H9nmE4jvKcnhgNDPF6QxfLIFLUd14fnhV1_VNJnBZVxs1EdnBH30AhmKu886y79/s2048/bench.HEIC" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIpNoQSnzjuaGnzXMJM_9erLnPshvTx2GVwLUZV2BjvenVyN5VidSNW7kxiC6RVBTv69lN313SDDbz_H9nmE4jvKcnhgNDPF6QxfLIFLUd14fnhV1_VNJnBZVxs1EdnBH30AhmKu886y79/s320/bench.HEIC" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The infamous Bench of Despair</i></td></tr></tbody></table>
By Culleoka, just past the Nutt house, I was looking ahead until dawn. Not long now. And I could see that somehow, I would still get my 50+ miles, even with all that walking. I'd be in Lewisburg by morning check in! My enthusiasm rose again. Before the first crack of dawn, about a quarter to 5, the roosters were crowing. I guess they have better eyes than I do. But by 5 I could see it too. It was like a switch flipped; I was awake and alert again. I was beginning to gain a new perspective on sleep deprivation. I often say that this is my biggest weakness as a multi-day runner. Especially, making it through the second night is always hard for me. But I had just pushed through with not a single break. It was not fun, and yes it had been hard work, but I'd done it, and was now on the other side. Was it really just that I believed I needed more breaks than other runners? The mind is incredibly powerful, for better or for worse, and nowhere is this clearer than during an ultramarathon.
As I approached Lewisburg, I called ahead to the Celebration Inn, where I'd stayed last year, to try to get an early check-in. And... there was a convention, and there were no rooms. But. But. ... I needed my three-hour break! I considered alternatives. The nearest other hotel in Lewisburg was 0.8 miles off the course. Nope, not gonna take that hit, there and back. I called a 24-hour gym, to see if I could take a shower, then maybe I'd nap by the side of the road somewhere. But no, the hotel stops were valuable, an essential part of my plan. I decided to soldier on to the next option, in Shelbyville, 22 miles farther. I was really not thrilled with this plan, feeling like I had earned my break; also, Shelbyville was specifically disrecommended as a hotel option. </span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">
</span></span><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Day Three</span></span></h2><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /></span></span></div>As I came through Lewisburg (checking in at mile 201), I realized that actually, I felt fine. I was energized for the day. The weather was comfortable. I had to consider the possibility of trying to push through to the finish with no sleep, and shoot for that much-debated mark of sub-3 days. I was only 113 miles from the finish, with 24 hours to go. Surely I could manage that, with that big a goal ahead of me? Last year, I ran 111 in the final 24 hours. However, I had a hotel stop right before that push, and good conditions. Beginning that effort on no rest was very different.
Well, I'd push on to Shelbyville, and see how I felt there. In the meantime, a sausage biscuit with cheese and tomato to go from Huddle House hit the spot. I ate it slowly as I walked out of town. It wasn't long before the day started warming up. I was going to be very hot and thirsty by the time I got to Wheel, mile 212. But there was supposed to be an open market there. Fortunately, along there way, there were a couple of road angels. One set up with a canopy and a cooler, another drive-by. Had I realized how hot it would get, or that the market was actually well past Wheel, I'd have accepted more from the road angels. It was a bit silly, but this happened more than once. I had an agenda, I am going to restock at X location, and I'm probably OK 'til there. A road angel comes along, with everything I would want at X. But no, I am good, because X is coming up! As if they were interfering with my plan. But actually the interaction with the road angels was a big part of the experience, let alone the fact that it was more efficient than going into a convenience store and waiting to pay at the register.
Around 9:30, a couple of miles before Wheel, I see someone else pulled over ahead, waving to me. Another road angel? No — it's Francesca Muccini, last year's King of the Road, out on the course to cheer me on! Thanks, Francesca, great to see you!</span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /></span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='378' height='315' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwRhvyz2LVCilGy185oGRq3h_C7Jkfmm7L6zuVmVC6thLXRSQ5Yoh1yEyOvIV-PwHuuSgQxO1AwYuyx7yIW2Q' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br />Finally I get to Wheel — no market. It's another 2.4 miles before I get to the Pit Stop Market. I stocked up, sat down outside to shuffle fluids. The proprietor sat down next to me to smoke a cigarette (ugh) and chat. I was hoping we would get some rain back. She told me bad weather was coming this evening. Great! No, not great — 80 mph winds, and hail. Well, hmm. Yeah, that would not be great. I was now on a mission; I had that overall course record in my sights. Having to take shelter would suck. Well, we'd see what happened. I wasn't seeing anything about weather like that in the WhatsApp group chat the runners were using, but then they were all well behind, and the weather this year seemed to be very localized.
Wheel to Shelbyville was a real low point for me, when I most missed having a crew to restock me with ice every mile or two. The sun was directly overhead, and very hot. It felt like I was moving at a snail's pace. I'd be shocked to look at my Garmin and see I'd moved less than a mile in the eternity since the last time I'd looked. Looking back at the split data, I'm very surprised to see that I averaged a pretty typical 12:21 / mile pace over this stretch. But those were not pleasant miles. Like pushing through the night with no breaks and sleep tugging at you. Sometimes the experience is just not fun. But by staying in the moment, just handling the not-fun part now, the task eventually takes care of itself.
But when I finally pulled into Shelbyville (mile 223), a little after noon, I was more than ready for that hotel. There was no conceivable way I was going to try to push through this heat all afternoon. I checked into the Magnolia Inn with some relief, in spite of the unsavory reputation it has in LAVS lore. Fortunately, they gave me a non-smoking room immediately. It had a shower and a bed, and was maybe not the greatest, but was reasonably clean. OK then! After gearing down, it was time for my 2-hour nap. As had happened on my third-day nap last year, the state I entered into was not exactly normal sleep. It was some sort-of restful non-ordinary state of consciousness, filled mostly with elaborations on the rumors I'd heard about the Magnolia. I'll omit the details. But when I "woke", I felt ready to go.
I was a bit unhappy to see that it was still clear and sunny out. But at least the sun was lower in the sky, now at my back, and evening would arrive in a few hours. I restocked at the Exxon leaving town, being sure to get extra water, and headed off towards Wartrace. I was excited again, and felt I'd made it through a rough patch relatively unscathed. Once more, what had seemed like a disaster, the hotel in Lewisburg being full, had worked out for the best. Had I stopped there, I'd have had a much longer continuous stretch through the heat of the day. So probably, in my enthusiastic state, I worked a bit too hard over this next 10 miles. It was still hot, yet I averaged faster than 12-minute pace. In Wartrace ("the cradle of the Tennessee Walking Horse"), I stopped at Marathon Gas. I hadn't touched my extra bottle; as it turned out, I'd carry it without touching it for many more miles. Well, better too much than too little. On the way out I grabbed a corn dog and some roasted potatoes. I wolfed the corn dog quickly as I walked away, but the potatoes lasted forever. One little piece would go down very slowly, I think because I had no saliva for it.
Leaving Wartrace, there's a message painted on the road: "Bad dogs next 40 miles". OK then. Actually this stretch of road is quite pleasant this time of day. Last year, it had been the middle of the night, and I was hallucinating. But neither year did I have any dog trouble. Oh, and no 80-mph winds or hail. In fact, sadly, there was no more rain for the rest of the race for me, apart from a light drizzle a couple of times. There is a 400-foot climb here over 4 miles, but it's not too steep until the end. After that it's a long, gradual downhill for about 12 miles into Manchester. I was loving life through here, enjoying the evening and the beautiful countryside, feeling good.
When 7:30 pm rolled around, I'd run 42 miles, and was at 243. 40 miles ahead of where I was last year at 60 hours! I couldn't quite believe things were going this well. But then I still had the third night to get through, and the two big climbs.
Soon, I saw some people by the side of the road calling my name — did I know them?? No, but they knew I was coming. It was the Whispering Oaks Campground, a favorite road angel station. I'd arrived before realizing it was close. I gladly accepted a bottle of water, chugged it, tossed it back, and kept moving. Approaching Manchester, I gave Liz a call. We were deep in discussion when I realized I'd missed a turn in the middle of Manchester. OK, back on course, no problem. Then I turned too soon... it was too hard to navigate while talking, so I told Liz I'd call her back once I was out of Manchester. The problem was, I was going by the map on my Fenix, and I was now a bit off course. I had been paying so little attention that when I got back on course, I wasn't sure which direction was forward and which was backward. Now I realize that this was because both ways connected back to Highway 41; I was just on the short detour to hit the county courthouse. Embarrassingly, I lost about 6 minutes here before I was convinced I was in fact going the right way.
Leaving Manchester, at mile 251, I restocked at a Gulf station. Back onto the Hillsboro Highway, with nothing to distract me, I called Liz back. Had I adequately restocked? Yes, plenty of fluid. I think. I'm not sure how long it will have to last me, but hopefully there will be something in Monteagle or Tracy City (nope). How about food? Oh, I still have some potatoes left, and I think one more mini PayDay. What? That's all??? What about FOOD? Well, I'd already had "dinner" in Wartrace. I felt fine. Liz was not pleased.
As I headed into the third night, in a way this is where the race really began for me. My body and mind were now quite softened up from the sustained effort. I'd pushed through two nights with little to no rest. Could I do it one last time? The highway was long, straight, empty, and monotonous — it was not long before the rumble strip began to take on interesting colors and patterns. It took a real effort not to get lost in that. To avoid spacing out and weaving into traffic, I talked to Liz some more. An eternity later, the big climb up to Monteagle approached. I pulled out the big guns, a 5-Hour Energy. Boom, I was fully alert within a minute. I thought that was necessary for this steep, narrow, twisty road with lots of switchbacks and little shoulder.
Alert I may have been... but this is also where the most intense non-ordinary states of consciousness began. The Monteagle climb was the emotional and spiritual crux of my journey this year. The sheer effort, feeling 100% present and alive, opened me up, as wave after wave of insights washed over me, and I felt an enormous connection to the environment, the landscape and countryside around me, and all the people in or associated with the race. I won't try to express all of the feelings here. But the strongest was the raw, visceral sense that being here now, DOING, was what it was all about. The goals, the records, the ego, were totally beside the point. They served a purpose, but that purpose was to get me here now so that I could DO.
The climb was hard, after 270 miles, but step by step I made it. At the top, I could relax and start running again. But I was quickly disconcerted that I got nowhere near 5 hours of energy. I was fading again, and had to call Liz one more time, though it was now very late even in California. I really, really wanted a nap. But I realized that all I had to do was just push through until dawn, and I would have a very special race under my belt, the biggest accomplishment of my running career. A half-hour nap would have no guarantee of rejuvenating me, and would mean I'd then have to work harder. Eventually I decided on a 5-minute nap. That would not cost me much, and might help a bit. I remembered how much a 1-minute nap had helped Courtney at Moab 240! So I sat on a bench and set my phone for 5 minutes. It helped some, I think.
In Monteagle, everything was closed. I found a vending machine — of course, it didn't work. So I pushed on to Tracy City, another 6 miles. Another non-functional vending machine. This was beginning to annoy me. It was a long way to Jasper, and my next opportunity for water or food.
I was anticipating returning to full alertness with the dawn, and then pushing on to the finish. Dawn came, but it was not quite so straightforward this time. I was still connected to the space I'd been in on the climb to Monteagle — in fact, I was consciously trying to hold onto those insights. I was in a different kind of reality, with its own cohesion, not so simply put aside. My sense of self was expanded; I was ceasing to fully identify with my physical body. I now understood better the mental state I'd been in last year, on waking from my nap in Lewisburg. As my crew worked on my feet, I'd said "This 'race' thing... I have a body, and I have to move that body along a particular trajectory? And bodies need food and water... OK..." It sounds like simple confusion, just not being fully awake, but even after the race last year I'd realized it was more than that. Now, it was clearer. My sense of self had been expanded. I was connected to a bigger picture of reality, of the race. On a certain level, I knew that the one thing that mattered was where my body was along the course at a particular time. On another level, that seemed like a very strange, arbitrary variable to pick out as relevant; Vol State was so much more than that. I wanted to tell Laz that I didn't get the connection between "self" and "race". But OK. I slowly worked out from first principles the relationship between where I was on the course at a certain time, odd as that seemed, and the fields I had displayed on my Garmin. I knew what I had to do, not by common sense, or intuition, but only by a careful string of logic and reason. I hoped I hadn't made a mistake.
This, I believe, really captures the entirety of what this race was about for me. Walking the fine line. In the obvious sense of maintaining awareness of what was sustainable for my body and mind, not pushing too hard, not failing to give enough. But more than that: my insights and expanded sense of self were not only part of what I was seeking with this journey; they also gave me strength, and kept me from feeling the immense burden of 314 miles on a tiny, insignificant, solitary self, lost in the vast wilderness. Because I was now so much more than that. But I also had to retain enough hold on that self to function, to continue to run and stay on course and on pace. It was a delicate balance.
At one point, as I was lamenting how far I still had to go for more food and water, my brain slowly parsed the object that I was looking at by the side of the road: a sign that read "Vol State runners". With a tarp and a cooler behind it. It was exactly what I needed! As it turns out, this road angel setup would later save Bev as well, and more runners, I believe. I restocked on fluid, and eagerly chowed down on some jerky and chips.
It was another 5 miles before the big descent into Jasper began. I hung on, walking the fine line, to get there. Again I slowly parsed the object hanging in my visual field: it resolved into the Mountain Mart sign. That means I'm at the top of the descent. Cl</span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666984558105px; white-space: pre-wrap;">ick! </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I'm connected to the world again, engaged with pretty ordinary reality, modulo fatigue and excitement. And I realized I still had half an hour before morning check-in. That meant I would get more than the 50 miles I'd been shooting for. The record now seemed like a done deal. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">I cranked down the hill (not quite as fast as last year: looks like 8:52 pace over the initial, steepest 3.7 miles). At 7:30 I was at 295 miles, so 52 through the night. 19 to go. The math was now clear: I could come in under 3 days 5 hours even walking; 3 days 4 hours would be unlikely mostly running, with the climb up Sand Mountain still to come. At least a two-hour overall course record, without crew. I could hardly believe it.
</span></span><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Day Four</span></span></h2><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">
Coming into Jasper early Sunday morning, I looked for road angel Steve Smalling's house on the left, but was unsurprised to see nothing set up yet: I was now 7 miles ahead of the crewed record split, and many hours ahead of the screwed record split. And after all, only screwed runners need road angels. I pulled into the Exxon at mile 297 and restocked. Donuts for breakfast! Somehow I was in and out in 2 minutes.
<br /></span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='431' height='358' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwRVMvVPuHt1A6GCAtQovOeYkTYo54_qY34f8N8TJ105ZjEnb77VU6WXBJBuK61-UQz-E0kD1t4vNCgU-mC-Q' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br />
As I ran past the Super 8 in Kimball, mile 300.5, Laz and Carl were out front watching, recording and cheering me on. I was grinning ear-to-ear. This was now my victory lap. Mile 303: Blue Bridge! Time for my only selfie, and the call to Carl to tell them where I am (unnecessary in this case). Crossing the bridge, I drink the last of my water, but I don't care. I'm almost done! Uh... yeah.
I push on through New Hope (or as Laz calls it, No Hope). This seems a lot longer than it was last year. I'm almost done, right? I just need to get to the finish, secure my time, and claim my thrown and my glory. (It's called the "thrown" because after 80-odd filthy and stinking runners have sat in it, it's thrown away. But I would be the first filthy and stinking runner this year, so my thrown would be clean!) I pass the last opportunity for restocking, a Dollar General, at mile 305, without really registering it. I knew there was one towards the end, but wasn't clicking that this was it or that I needed it. I was still amped-up and pushing.
At mile 308, Laz is waiting at the turn up the final, big climb. Another 1,000 feet in 3 miles. He says he'll see me at the finish. OK, let's do this! Last year I walked the hill at 15-minute pace; I try to do the same. It seems a bit harder. Gradually, I realize that I'm thirsty. Also the sun is coming out, and it's warming up. I'd better get this done before it's too hot. Then, I'm very thirsty. Why had I not restocked?? I begin eyeing all the bottles lying by the side of the road. Is there anything drinkable left in any of them? Or are they all, as Ryan Ploeckelman would presume on my podcast on The Adventure Jogger, trucker urine? Yeah, that doesn't look like the right color for Dr. Pepper.
The climb is interminable this year. I am getting more and more tired, hot, and desperate for anything to drink. I pass into Alabama, yay! But the climb goes on. Much later, the climb is done, and I make the turn onto Castle Rock road. Last year I ran hard from here to the finish, in 27 minutes. That was not going to happen this year. I was now looking contemplatively at the tiny bits of water left from the rain in the rumble-strip depressions.
The road from here is rough and rolling. This section is called the "meat grinder": your feet are toast long before you get here, and it's adding insult to injury. At this point, I was getting quite angry with Laz. Why would he do this to me? Didn't he know I was out of water? What was he going to do if I just collapsed by the side of the road? How long until someone found me?
But I pushed on. I'd been tracking my Garmin's idea of when I would finish. It had gone from 12:10, in Kimball, to as early as 11:38. It never quite got to where it looked like I could push it below 11:30, the 3-days-4-hours mark. Now it was creeping back up. On and on. Into Georgia, and Castle Rock Ranch. A sign by the side of the road declared ONE MILE TO GO!! NO KIDDING. I checked my Garmin. It's 1.4 to go. Very funny, Laz. At the field where everyone parked their cars before the race, Wednesday morning, an eon ago, I turned left. Now, I knew, it was actually one mile to go. As another sign declared. A bit farther, another left turn, another sign saying one mile to go. Nice. Now I was really angry, but able to push harder, with the end so near. One final "one mile to go sign".
And then I was in the clearing, with a tree catching my hat and pulling it off as I flew past (it took a while to find the next morning). I made it to the rock, and touched it. DONE! I sat down in my thrown, as Laz told me my time: 3 days, 4 hours, 9 minutes, 10 seconds. Just over a 3-hour overall record, 10-hour screwed record. But all I cared about was water. I knew that the first thing you said when you finished was your "finisher quote", that would be recorded and go on Facebook. I'd thought about what mine should be. But before that, all I could say was "I need water". Somehow, I had envisioned a big scene at the finish. News crews for my incredible feat? Why not? But at the least, food and drink. There was nothing. There was Laz, and one chair (my thrown). "Water... ummm, I don't think I have any." I could not believe it. I was going to die without water. That was all that had pulled me towards the end. But he did manage to dig up a half-full half-liter bottle. That would do for now. And, that became my finisher quote. </span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /></span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMAm2CVj2BiBH8jo3vssccqkEv3pjaoZUEtb9rokM1ro7zO-iI9vq8ICpmlF8ctIUjPWppBz6bB2ncpBv4E30gX3LsGBr_P_mFcSLQnDPblEoFlM9P_0dYBcxjax9mNzkibkiJy6tAoslU/s2048/king+bob.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMAm2CVj2BiBH8jo3vssccqkEv3pjaoZUEtb9rokM1ro7zO-iI9vq8ICpmlF8ctIUjPWppBz6bB2ncpBv4E30gX3LsGBr_P_mFcSLQnDPblEoFlM9P_0dYBcxjax9mNzkibkiJy6tAoslU/w300-h400/king+bob.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>King Bob (pic by Lazarus Lake)</i></td></tr></tbody></table>
</span></span><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Aftermath</span></span></h2><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /></span></span></div>Laz drove me back to Kimball, treated me to McDonald's, and got me checked into the Super 8. Back in my motel room, the change in my reality was abrupt. And the first thing that hit me was the country music clearly playing... that wasn't there... again. The same thing had happened last year: I was annoyed that someone was playing loud country music late at night. I opened the door to my room... nothing outside. Huh. Finally I identified the source: my bathroom fan. Turn that off, music stops. Turn it on, it starts. Ooooookay. And it was the same this year, except this time it was the A/C noise my brain was pulling the music out of. Clearly, I was in the same kind of physiological brain state as I had been after the race last year. Would I get the same kind of overwhelming "enlightenment experience"?
Well, maybe. I knew it wouldn't be exactly the same. Every journey is different. It was the same, but different. Not as much of a shock. I've changed a lot in the past year. Some of the things that felt like insights flowing through my mind felt familiar, but I seemed to see them more clearly this time, connecting things I hadn't connected before. But I waited too long to write a lot of them down.
<br /></span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUQTP7L5nslDk7luHdqUYMARy4ZyFq9UJ_CTN_-xy2bEafbzwEBCKBdX8NLumgQ9rLuHszDxdZn9tkCoR_dBQmoH9EkisNvh1tfbwkzBU-mUvU3qurSboc2YKh5gI1xpAAE0M47iaV8WJy/s1214/nap.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="801" data-original-width="1214" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUQTP7L5nslDk7luHdqUYMARy4ZyFq9UJ_CTN_-xy2bEafbzwEBCKBdX8NLumgQ9rLuHszDxdZn9tkCoR_dBQmoH9EkisNvh1tfbwkzBU-mUvU3qurSboc2YKh5gI1xpAAE0M47iaV8WJy/w320-h211/nap.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The power of napping</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">I tried to sleep, but only managed about a half-hour actual nap, per Oura ring. Reflexively, I was looking at all the accolades flow in over Facebook, email, messaging, while also being annoyed I was distracting myself from non-ego enlightened space. But it was way too much to take in anyway. I wound up not responding to anything at all for a few days, just for sanity. I could not even make a quick "thank you" or summary or "more to come" post. I just couldn't process what had just happened.
I began to doubt whether any of this was real. Too many pieces of reality didn't seem to fit. I was sure the A/C was blasting heat, instead of cool. And still that country music. My fingers were doing weird twitchy things on their own. My phone was behaving oddly, bad cell connection maybe, but when I tried to turn on wifi its behavior just didn't seem quite consistent. Maybe I needed to charge it? I plugged it in... no charging. OK that's not right. And this thing about crushing the crewed record, screwed... that had to be a delusion, right? I began to seriously entertain the idea that I was really lying in a ditch by the side of the road somewhere, fantasizing that the race was over. Or maybe I was someone else entirely, there was no race, I was just dreaming, or psychotic. But clearly, what had seemed to be reality wasn't really cohesive enough to be real.
There was one last chance. Maybe the phone was just wet. I had a laptop in my suitcase. I plugged it in... no power to it either. OK that's very bad. Reality is broken. But then I jiggled the plug, and it started charging. I turned on wifi, and the Internet was out there and behaving consistently. Whew!
Existential crisis averted, I connected with Laz and Carl for dinner at a Mexican restaurant. Paul Heckert joined us. As Paul puts it, he finished at the same time I did. Unfortunately his finish was at mile 86, where Oprah caught him. He'd just arrived back in Kimball. I lamented that there were no rental cars available in Jasper, leaving me unable to go back along the course the next day and cheer on the other runners, as is traditional for the King. But Paul had his car and was happy to drive, cool!
Off to bed and some well-deserved sleep. But I slept a total of less than two hours, with zero REM sleep (per Oura), then was comfortably awake by 2 am, trying to mindfully surf my special mental state. This was also consistent with last year's post-race experience. I have a half-baked hypothesis here, also about the experience multi-day runners seem to share of waking up in the middle of the night for weeks after their race, being convinced that the race is still going and they have to get up and move. Aerobic exercise promotes brain plasticity. A multi-day is a LOT of aerobic exercise. What patterns do our brains wire into this newly plastic state? Well, the need to not sleep, and the reality that the world consists of an endless journey that must be continued. But I know of no research here that would confirm this idea.
It occurred to me to check with Carl about where Bev and the Florys were; they should be coming by soon. I stepped out of my room to watch the street; Laz came out and joined me. But we had just missed them. I got a ride with Carl up to the Rock to see them finish, early Monday morning. The Florys came in together, just under 4 days — wow! Both sets of parents had been crewing, and were also at the finish. Laz told Daniel and Ariela that honestly, nobody had expected that from them. That potential wasn't obvious in their UltraSignup history. I was somewhat gratified when they explained that they'd used my race report from last year as a guide! However they did it, I was impressed. Ariela was only the second woman ever to finish under 4 days, after Francesca, last year. They were all looking forward to my report from this year... yeah, I'll write one, but I'll have to think about how to make it different. Laz remarked that of course it would be completely different, because I was running alone this year. But the thing is, I never felt alone. Especially by the third night, my perception of the race was much broader. Everyone was with me.
Bev arrived an hour later, missing the sub-4 mark by a scant 49 minutes. But she had crushed her own women's screwed record by 7 hours. (Her finisher quote: "I hate crewed people even more now".) An incredible performance, especially after running 170 miles at HOTS just two weeks earlier, and getting injured. Laz was incredulous. He'd seen photos of the bruising behind her knee. Did she have a new bionic leg?</span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /></span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3XiRPRj-Iedv0EBcXOnl8ljSdWNLDVbl0iNInaae6a1F7G4A9vVcwzoUoRpiTDRkV1sqTx7pkpkaNaT4tMSfqnwHvFK05jVkTzWGe3eEdN3qTaCx0Srg2zK7eepmtgH9x5MwooanWBETX/s2048/Monday+morning.HEIC" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3XiRPRj-Iedv0EBcXOnl8ljSdWNLDVbl0iNInaae6a1F7G4A9vVcwzoUoRpiTDRkV1sqTx7pkpkaNaT4tMSfqnwHvFK05jVkTzWGe3eEdN3qTaCx0Srg2zK7eepmtgH9x5MwooanWBETX/w400-h300/Monday+morning.HEIC" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Ariela, Daniel, and Bev in their throwns</i></td></tr></tbody></table>
Back in Kimball, I met up with Paul for our trip backwards along the course. I was really looking forward to that, connecting with everyone, and encouraging them, but I was not looking forward to what would happen to my feet sitting in a car all day. That was really the worst possible thing for them. They weren't as trashed as last year, but they were not pretty, and I knew they would get worse before they got better.
First stop: Mountain Mart. I'd heard good things about it, but never been inside. It was pure Tennessee back country. Want some guns and ammo to go with your pizza? This is the place. But the pizza was INCREDIBLE. Or maybe anything would have tasted incredible to me then; I don't know.
The first runner to look for was Andy Pearson, but somehow we missed him. Next we caught Henry Lupton, then Becca Jones, then Kimberly Durst (on her way to finishing a ridiculous double, HOTS plus LAVS!), and on and on. We missed a few people, but met up with most of them, taking photos and encouraging them. While in the car, with the music off but the window down, the wind again turned into music for me. First opera, then something with trumpet. My brain was still tuned to a slightly different reality.</span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /></span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw2eJLHL7827xXMNe4IF1yWpz6tMntasx4m3J57D8tNFOQAsJaqlrVaAV4gFY9fkpbkvBM08UjUukylV3Q8ys56uUHR_FBKKY-3YCrECEec1Jk-iMMTX_U-rZF9gshtE4awIdI7znbvs27/s2048/henry.HEIC" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw2eJLHL7827xXMNe4IF1yWpz6tMntasx4m3J57D8tNFOQAsJaqlrVaAV4gFY9fkpbkvBM08UjUukylV3Q8ys56uUHR_FBKKY-3YCrECEec1Jk-iMMTX_U-rZF9gshtE4awIdI7znbvs27/s320/henry.HEIC" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Henry Lupton</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></span></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAUKQ7jDIETahI94V05JR458pcqXOHvKbUQ2emodytRokAzN3n6N0_-oIWrczBE-HH0-tKmacTw55i5vM3LUXnIjceNSE9CNUhU_P06zrzCYIQrrXd5tI6oNhy6W_SduhpG-FZD_DASVpF/s2048/last+people.HEIC" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAUKQ7jDIETahI94V05JR458pcqXOHvKbUQ2emodytRokAzN3n6N0_-oIWrczBE-HH0-tKmacTw55i5vM3LUXnIjceNSE9CNUhU_P06zrzCYIQrrXd5tI6oNhy6W_SduhpG-FZD_DASVpF/s320/last+people.HEIC" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The last people we saw: Jeff Manwaring, Hunt Brumby, and Tasha Adkins-Holland. They all finished!<br />We missed Terrie Wurzbacher, fighting off Oprah, but she finished too, with Paul's help.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"></span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">
Connecting with all the runners was a valuable part of the experience for me, and I'm grateful to Paul for enabling it. It was indeed a long day, and my feet indeed were unhappy. But by 11 pm we were in Nashville, at my parents' house, and then I could truly begin to rest and recuperate. </span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">
</span></span><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Takeaway</span></span></h2><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /></span></span></div>I don't have a tidy summary here. Was this a breakthrough? Or a fluke? Not entirely a fluke, I believe. I've taken definite positive steps both in handling sleep deprivation, and, much more importantly, in running with more joy and presence, and less structure. I'm not abandoning what I used to consider my primary strength as a runner, my analytical approach. But I've added a new (to me), important piece; the analytical part is now just a tool, not the driver. Paradoxically, caring more about the journey, the process, and less about the result, yielded enormous benefits not only in the experience itself — the part that really counts — but also in the results. Have I been running with one hand tied behind my back all these years? I can't wait to find out what comes next.<br /></span><br /></span><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Numbers</span></span></h2><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /></span></span></div>What would one of my reports be without numbers? Here are some.
• First half 37:33:00, second half 38:36:10 (49.3% / 50.7% split)
• 10.64 hours stopped, 65.51 hours moving
• 5.6 hours napping, 5.06 hours overhead
• Of the overhead, 2.5 hours essential, 2.56 stops due to no crew
• Total average pace 14:33 / mile, average moving pace 12:31 / mile
• Run / walk, by time: 45% (29h 15m) / 55% (34h 53m)
• By distance: 55% (172 miles) / 45% (140 miles)
Here are all my splits, paces, and break times along the course:
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizz_YkpJdNF0Ajz5VNdnQdjyTjxJh5XVh4kcSNaVaZh1uNquSvDwnSjRXOvpPebajfCJxU6gxZqnYKhQKyznfxZW87E1KcUh1g9dA2_Ksa-9RnNdF2eqz4sYifz6ZqD6rKpQoFgKgAeU4k/s1118/table.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1118" data-original-width="1004" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizz_YkpJdNF0Ajz5VNdnQdjyTjxJh5XVh4kcSNaVaZh1uNquSvDwnSjRXOvpPebajfCJxU6gxZqnYKhQKyznfxZW87E1KcUh1g9dA2_Ksa-9RnNdF2eqz4sYifz6ZqD6rKpQoFgKgAeU4k/w574-h640/table.png" width="574" /></a></div>
<a href="https://www.runningahead.com/logs/8da70121cbab448781c1036f54ce3cc1/workouts/df20ece41b6a42c6af8a2f389940b7db#map" target="_blank">My GPX is available here</a>.
Finally, here is a histogram of how much time I spent moving at any given pace (10-sec bins). This is the first time I've done this kind of analysis; it was cool to see those two peaks pop out.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifjRoXRPrN2DGX8drx6O11KAjre9Y_8KCcCay96vciH5HE5h0K-CtRYEDlfZnbjjjbai8e7cTHmAHS8km-ZpgUfXw3A-bKAfK_kIEwgeD-E18al9qXyJ1dZ6iT6OXBw96IhraGGwKZuZme/s2292/pace+histogram.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="920" data-original-width="2292" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifjRoXRPrN2DGX8drx6O11KAjre9Y_8KCcCay96vciH5HE5h0K-CtRYEDlfZnbjjjbai8e7cTHmAHS8km-ZpgUfXw3A-bKAfK_kIEwgeD-E18al9qXyJ1dZ6iT6OXBw96IhraGGwKZuZme/w640-h256/pace+histogram.png" width="640" /></a></div>
</span></span><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Thank You</span></span></h2><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /></span></span></div>Thank you to Laz, Carl, Jan, Sandra, and Mike, for creating the opportunity for so many of us to find things in ourselves we never knew were there. Thank you to Brian Purcell for the ride from Nashville to Kimball. Thank you to Paul for the post-race drive. Thank you to all the other runners and walkers for your inspiring efforts. Thank you to all the road angels, and to Francesca for coming out to cheer us on. Thank you to Regina and Bill for showing me the ropes last year. Thank you to Greg for leading the way, setting the bar high, and being a true sportsman all along the way, with advice, encouragement, and gracious congratulations. And thank you to Liz for the late-night phone calls, and so much more!</span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
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Bob Hearnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01351956832733163825noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2382599380750777712.post-12798374177767673582020-07-19T18:49:00.011-07:002020-07-23T11:41:21.563-07:00Last Annual Vol State 500K 2020<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I have always wanted to run the Last Annual Vol State 500K (LAVS — note that "last annual" is an inside joke), but it never works out. It's a Lazarus Lake special, like Barkley, or Big's Backyard, and I had yet to ever do a Laz race. Well, this year, 6 Days in the Dome was canceled, freeing me up. LAVS was actually happening — in one week! — but surely, getting in at the last minute would be impossible? The race sells out instantly, and has a huge wait list. However, this year so many withdrew that it was possible, provided I entered "crewed" and not "screwed". I didn't have time to assemble a crew, but that didn't matter. These somewhat confusing terms refer technically to whether you are included on the bus ride from the finish to the start, and have a hotel provided the night before the race. These are only for screwed runners. Fortunately, Ray Krolewicz stepped up with a spare hotel room, so I just had to get to the start. I worked it out so that I'd visit my parents in Nashville, then rent a car and drive down to the finish, pick up Ray and BJ Timoner, and drive together to Union City, near the start, returning the car there.
So, I was in. I was incredibly intimidated. This race is 314 miles of Tennessee heat, humidity, and hills, and I had trained for 55 degrees, super dry, and pancake flat. It was far too late to do any sauna training, nor were the saunas open anyway. So I had to immediately do my homework on how I could possibly survive this. Detailed conversations with course-record holder Greg Armstrong and former course-record holder Sue Scholl helped enormously here. Yet, I still had to deal with the logistics of running without crew, meaning I'd need to carry everything I might need, and know in advance where to get food and water along the route. But as I began assembling this information, Regina Sooey stepped up, eager to crew along with Bill Page. She had run LAVS a couple of years ago in less than 5 days, a very solid time, with Bill crewing her. I was getting comfortable and excited with the idea of doing it as a solo adventure, but I realized that given the circumstances I should gratefully accept this generous offer. Also it would let me think about performance, rather than just finishing.
The winner of LAVS is declared "King of the Road" (KOR) in an official proclamation of the Tennessee State Legislature. This kind of recognition is unique in ultrarunning, as far as I know. I wanted that KOR! Greg Armstrong was not running this year, and I looked to be potentially competitive. I would have to worry about Francesca Muccini, who had won overall in 2017, with a women's course-record time of 4 days 4 hours. (At the last minute, Josh Holmes and David Jones also entered, on the heels of Badwater's cancellation; they would definitely also be competition.) Francesca was reportedly looking to go under 4 days this year. So what was my goal? Some were telling me I should shoot for Greg's men's course record of 3 days 7 hours, but I saw that as ridiculous. Greg has studied and optimized the hell out of this course. It's his backyard. I am a comparable runner to Greg at 24-hour, and I do have some solid multi-days under my belt, but this time, I was coming in with no relevant training and no course experience, from relatively cool and dry California. Pacing for that would be arrogant and foolish. But I did gather that sub-4-days should be doable, if nothing went really wrong. Of course, a lot could go really wrong. I was most worried about my feet, but also about recurrent hamstring issues (I'd just had shockwave treatment for that last week) and torn peroneal tendons, that would never full heal without surgery. Both had impacted my training in recent weeks. However, typically the specific issues that worry me going into a race don't prove to be a factor in the race, so I wasn't deterred.
I decided that my main goal was to win, also I would like to go sub-4, and ideally go for Grant Maughan's over-50 record of 3 days 22 hours. I worked up a pacing spreadsheet, broken down by stretches between towns. For each segment I could specify average MPH, and time spent resting once I got to the town. Regina and Bill suggested that it was best to rest at hotels in the worst heat of the afternoon, around 2-6 pm, and that made sense to me. There is a problem in that hotels are not necessarily where you want them, so getting your plan right requires a bit of fiddling. I also added up to 2 hours' rest every night, knowing from my experience at the Dome last year that putting all my daily down time in one chunk makes it difficult to move continuously for the remainder. 20 hours is a really long stretch, day after day. So, I played with the pacing and the breaks until I got something that looked reasonable, and had a predicted finish time of about 3 days 20 hours. If I had to slow from that I would probably have some room. I thought surely Francesca would be at best just under 4 days (many women had tried for that over the years and failed), and anyway if she were somehow faster I could adjust my plan when we got there. Oops!</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Day One</span></h2>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">The screwed runners took the bus the 15 miles to the race start; Ray and I got a lift from Becca Joyner and her crew Scott. This would be her first race over 100 miles, and she had a plan for running 5 days. Ray and I gave her some tips and wished her well. It was an aggressive goal, but she seemed to have approached the planning wisely.</span></div>
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The race starts at Dorena Landing, MO, with the lighting of Laz's cigarette. This year that happened slightly early, at 7:24, relative to a nominal 7:30 start. Then we boarded the ferry, crossed the Mississippi to Hickman, KY, and started running.
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">I finally met Laz!</span></i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></td></tr>
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My plan called for averaging 4.5 MPH over most of the stretches. That's really very slow, 13:20 / mile pace, but included all overhead that might be required. Still, I could not move that slowly to start. I planned to alternate walking and running. My fast walk is one of my strengths at multi-day races. Greg had advised me that it might not be such a good idea here, because that meant more contact time with hot asphalt, increasing foot issues. That was disconcerting, but in the end I just had to go with it. Yet, by 8 miles, taking it very easy with a 50/50 run / walk, I was way too far ahead. I walked the next 7 miles without running a step, and got my average MPH down to 5.0. It would have to do. Meanwhile Francesca, Josh Holmes, and several others had pulled well ahead.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><br />The last I would see of Francesca (left)</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Mile 20, the "stinky bridge". The smell is indescribably bad, and stayed with me quite a while.</span></span></i></td></tr>
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As the day wore on and heated up, my crew and I got into a groove. Well, on my end it was a groove. In reality, what I was asking from them was unsustainable. To mitigate my lack of heat training, I needed Badwater-style support, meeting them about once every mile in the hottest part of the day, for a change of ice and soaked towel around the neck. This not only incurred overhead; it gave them very little time to do anything but scramble. There's a reason you typically have four-person crews at Badwater. Also Badwater lasts at most 48 hours, not four days. But the impending crisis was not yet apparent to me. On the nutrition front, we were OK. Every hour I'd get ~150 calories, from Coke, Maurten, or Sword. We'd supplement this with real food at breaks. This is another of my strengths at long races: training keto means I don't need as many calories; I can burn stored fat at a higher rate than most runners. Basically this takes GI issues off the table for me, a huge win.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>My incomparable crew, Regina Sooey and Bill Page. <br />Bonus crew member: Patty</i></span></td></tr>
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We stopped in Martin for three hours, from about 1:30 - 4:30, crashing in their hotel room from the night before. McDonald's for lunch went down well. During this afternoon break time Bill would normally re-tape my feet, but this was early, and we left the taping he'd applied the night before. Stopping here was strategic. It was too early to be really tired, but we wanted to bank some down time to run well through the night and next morning.
Leaving Martin, many had passed us. And it was still HOT! Well over 90. And humid. Gradually, it cooled off. As the sun set and I prepared to breathe a sigh of relief, it got super muggy. The cotton shirt I was wearing had worked well enough in the daytime, absorbing a ton of cold water. But now it was unbearable. Only gradually did I realize that this was because as the temperature dropped, duh, the relative humidity rose, 'til the air became super-saturated. I could not look forward to as much relief running at night as I'd hoped. Yep, ignorant westerner from a dry climate here.
Sometime during the afternoon, I'd begun to have delusions of grandeur. The early pacing was soooo easy. Those fast times Greg had run, he'd done with almost all running, and short breaks. I saw my run / walk, if my feet could handle it, as offering a distinct advantage. I asked my crew to update all the 4.5 MPHs in the spreadsheet to 5.0 (12:00 / mile). If things went really well, and I decided to try to crank it in on the last day, who knows what I might manage? I even began to think that sub-3-days really ought to be possible on this course. Not for me, not this year. But for someone, sometime. Turns out that's been a hot topic of discussion between Greg and Joe Fejes (who has the second-best time, 3 days 8 hours).
Well, this new plan did not last long. By the first evening, already the day's effort had begun to catch up with me. I could hold 12:00 pace with a very easy run / walk. However, crew stops always threw the average segment pace out of whack, and I had to run more and walk less to get the pace back down. I realized how foolish I'd been to second-guess my reasonable initial plan. I should be very happy to hold that, for 3 days 20 hours. There had only been 10 total LAVS performances under 4 days, ever. Who did I think I was?
The first night was a bit rough. I backed off the pace, but began to have chafing issues. Since I switched to compression shorts + SportShield, after Spartathlon 2015's chafing disaster, I've never had chafing. But I had never before challenged Tennessee heat and humidity in July. I gradually tried all the different lubricants we had, to no avail. This was one thing that could shut my race down, the most obvious other one being foot issues. There, I was relying on Bill's taping and foot-care skills. I'm the kind of guy whose blister "strategy" is normally to get blisters and run through them. That works for 24-hour, but no way would it work for LAVS.
So, by this point I was probably at maximum intimidation. There was a huge amount of the race left, and already I was having issues we might not be able to manage. This fed into a negative attitude, and I wound up needing an hour downtime in the back of the car earlier than planned. I was OK for a while after that, but needed another I think 15 minutes later when I was spacing out and weaving.
As dawn approached, things improved. Daylight makes an enormous difference. And the morning, for a while, was overcast. I used this to maximum advantage, and closed out the day with 92 miles. This is also where Josh Holmes was, but in contrast he was really hurting, and would stop here in Lexington for a very long time. Francesca was far ahead with 101 miles, and everyone else who might have been competition had already dropped. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Day Two</span></h2>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I started day two in good spirits, still running well. But as we lost the cloud cover and the day heated up, it got harder to manage. It appeared that our hotel alignment was not going to be great: we'd likely hit Parsons around 11:30, really too early to stop, but the next option was Linden, which might be after 3:30, too late. Plus, apparently there were no rooms available in Parsons! Running got harder and harder, both for me and for Regina and Bill, as they tried to keep up with my increasing needs for cooling. We slowed, and a room was found in Parsons. It was noon by the time we got there. We were all frazzled, and decided to stop for a full 6 hours to reset. This was huge, and probably where I ultimately lost the time I'd have needed to catch Francesca at the end. But it's where we were. (Note: Francesca's one hotel stop the entire race was 75 minutes in Linden this afternoon. Note 2: sleep deprivation is NOT one of my strengths at multi-day. It's probably my biggest weakness.)</span></div>
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After an ice bath, a shower, and more McDonald's (which this time did not want to go down), I got 4 hours' restless sleep. Then I carefully slathered on a ton of Squirrel's Nut Butter (Greg's recommendation for how he manages chafing here) and put on clean compression shorts. Well, I'd see. Then we had a crew powwow to sort out how we could all proceed sustainably. We made a few changes here and there, but we wouldn't have much more heat to run in today. Bill treated some blisters and re-taped my feet, and we were back on the road.
At LAVS, mileages are reported every 12 hours. That's when you see where your competition is. With the slow morning and the long break, I had managed a measly 26 miles since 7:30 am. Francesca had run 36, and was now a whopping 19 miles ahead, 137 to 118. When was she going to sleep? We still didn't really see how this could be sustainable for her. Well, the race was early yet. I wouldn't let myself think tactically 'til at least 48 hours.
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Gearing down for the night</span></i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></td></tr>
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As the day turned to evening, I stripped to just shorts, as I'd determined the previous night that maximizing bare skin was most comfortable. My crew was eager to get more calories in me. In Linden, the options were: Sonic. Turns out I was hungry, and due to limited places to pull over, I was getting tired and cranky by the time we managed an opportunity, well past Linden. I sat in the front seat with the AC on and ate some burger and fries. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Sonic. It's what's for dinner.</i></span></td></tr>
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The next town on the course is Hohenwald, but it's 19 miles from Linden. There's an 8-mile stretch with a very gradual climb, only 400' overall, but it's enough to notice. Apparently this is called "8-mile hill", though I didn't know that then. I was running this in the dark, waiting for the shallow "hill" to end. Or was it a hill? Perception can be wonky in the dark. I've run in places that were absolutely flat, yet I would swear they were uphill. Well, this got really tedious, so eventually I pulled up my pacing spreadsheet on my iPhone. I had made elevation notes. Sure enough! OK, not my imagination.
I now had real food in me, and was pretty comfortable temperature-wise; moreover, the chafing had not reappeared. But I was having unaccountable trouble focusing. My head was just not in the game tonight, though nominally things were going fine. I decided to call Liz and brainstorm. That helped a lot. It always does, to hear her voice. Then I realized it: we had not updated our pacing plan since the morning's issues; we’d had neither Wifi nor cell service in Parsons. My running style is always to focus on how I am running relative to my current plan. Actions have to have meaning relative to something. I tried to explain this to Regina — her attitude was "no, you can't think like that!". But I knew I was right, for me. I made a reasonable estimate on arrival in Hohenwald, plugged in the new numbers, got an answer that looked good, and then click, I'm in the game again. Problem solved.
This is, I think, a good point at which to stop and reflect. You can get through a race like this by always having a strong attitude, having the mental discipline to always "run the mile you're in", as Regina puts it. This is undeniably a critical skill. But for me, it's not something I can keep up non-stop over any long race. There will be emotional ups and downs. The one skill that IS critical in this kind of race is to identify dispassionately when something is not right and take steps to correct it. This includes mental state. If you want to quit when there is no reason, you need to fix your head, somehow. That might mean slowing down for a while, taking a nap, taking caffeine, taking calories, whatever. Or, sometimes, pushing through it a bit to give it a chance to go away on its own. In this case it meant syncing up my mind to my plan again. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Somewhere near Hohenwald</span></i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></td></tr>
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But as we got close to Hohenwald, I did begin to get very tired. I asked for some Red Bull. Two miles later, entering Hohenwald, I had begun to hallucinate and weave. I informed Bill that at the next stop it would be time to go down for an hour in the back of the car. When I next met them, the car was ready. But by then, somehow, I was alert. I think maybe it was a combination of the lights in Hohenwald, the turns to navigate engaging my mind, and the Red Bull finally kicking in. For the first time all night I felt 100% engaged, not intimidated by the remaining hours, ready to crank. So, we kept going.
The 18 miles between Hohenwald and Hampshire are mostly long, smooth descents and climbs. It was a nice, comfortable night, and I was moving well. Still, in another hour or so the hallucinations and mental wandering began to come back, so it was time for a stop. Nominally an hour, but I woke early and got back on the road.
As dawn approached, running got easier. Dusk and dawn are the magic hours at LAVS. Daytime is hell, and and at night the sleep demons come after you.
At 7:30, I'd managed 48 miles overnight, matching my first night. I'd finally gained a bit on Francesca, who'd run 43. Now she was up 14 miles, 180 to 166. I'm the faster runner, so this race was going to come down to her ability to rest less and run more in the heat vs. my speed. I still trusted I would catch up. By this point all the other runners, including Josh, were far enough behind to be out of the picture if I held pace.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Day Three</span></h2>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">The day heated up quickly, and it wasn't long before we were challenged again by the logistics of keeping me cool. Regina and Bill I think couldn't quite grasp what it felt like to me; they're from Florida. And there's a big difference between existing in this weather, as they were doing, and running in it. Regina wanted me to push while it was still "cool"; I was already cooking and needed to gear up to full daytime mode, covered head-to-toe in white, with plenty of ice stops.</span></div>
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The next "stop" was Columbia, by far the largest city on the course. It went on and on. The downtown was pretty. Somewhere in here Regina handed me a ham, egg, and cheese sandwich. Here I was visited for the second time by Greg, who'd also stopped to chat during the first night. He asked if I needed anything — I was actually thirsty, and not sure how far crew was ahead, so I said sure, I could use water. He popped into the convenience store that was right there to get me one. And then there was my crew! Ah well. Greg chatted with me a while as I power-walked. He was actually crewing for Francesca, along with her husband, but was also going up and down the course to chat with other runners. He gave me a heads-up on the upcoming sections. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Laz routes the course by every courthouse. I think this is Columbia?</i></span></td></tr>
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Somewhere in here, we finally settled on what would work pretty well in the heat for the rest of the race: long-sleeve compression top, with ice dumped in front, in back, and in each sleeve, as well as in the hat. So treated, I could run a lot farther between stops than with the cotton shirt and the ice towel around my neck (which had worked very well at Badwater). That gave Regina and Bill more time to rest and recover.
The challenge now was that, once again, the hotel spacing was far from ideal. There was no hotel opportunity before Lewisburg, but it would be very late by the time we got there. Well, so be it.
This stretch features two iconic parts of the course: first, the infamous "Bench of Despair" in Glendale, which it is considered appropriate to sign with a marker that's been helpfully left for that purpose. That's mile 184. And second, three miles later, the Nutt House. One of the special features of LAVS is that, though there is no official on-course support, "road angels" sprinkle the course, locals who are aware of the race and come out to help the runners with water, chairs, etc. By far the most elaborate road angel setup is that of Jimbo and Kim Nutt — the "Nutt House". I did not plan to stop there long, but could not decline a chair, meeting Kim, and chatting more with Greg, who was hanging out there. There was a fan pointed at the chair, and a Coke placed in my hand. I knew Francesca was getting away from me, but it was going to be a hot 15 miles to Lewisburg, and this was a welcome oasis. 15 minutes and several photos later we were on our way again.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><br />The Bench of Despair</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">At the Nutt House, with Regina, Greg Armstrong, and Kim Nutt</span></i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></td></tr>
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In the worst heat of the day, this was maybe the most brutal part of my race so far. But I managed to hold a decent pace over the rolling hills, and we eventually pulled into Lewisburg about 3:45 pm. We were at a critical juncture now. Stopping for the planned 4 hours would sacrifice some good conditions; also, we had not expected Francesca to be so far ahead. Again the ice bath and shower were critical. Then, the Subway sandwich Regina had procured was the most delicious thing I had ever eaten.
We decided I needed two hours' sleep at a minimum, so we would go from there and see how it looked. I set my alarm and was immediately in a very strange mental landscape, the moment my head hit the pillow. It was somewhat similar to my very disturbing ego-dissociation episode during EMU 6-day a couple of years ago, perhaps. Not as unpleasant, but equally confusing. When my alarm went off, I had the wherewithal to re-apply Squirrel's Nut Butter, put on fresh shorts, and let Bill in to work on my feet. But from there it was harder. I had to ask Bill to explain again just what it was we were doing here. This "race" thing... I have a body, and I have to move that body along a particular trajectory? And bodies need food and water... OK... I knew it was supposed to be simple, but I just couldn't snap my mind back into the right space. These were challenging concepts from where I sat. Bill called in Regina to help, and she told me to just breathe; they would do the rest to get me ready. Breathe. I could do that. I've done a lot of meditation over the past few years, and breathing is the way to get back to my body. Good call, Regina.
It's easy to dismiss this strange mental state as "just not quite awake", but the idea that our normal state of waking consciousness is a simple thing I think is badly mistaken. The realm of possible states of consciousness is vast, and we normally only scratch the tiniest part of the surface, as our physiology works to constrain our brain processes to a small subdomain that is effective for desirable behavior. I was slightly elsewhere in this space. Gradually, I am gaining a bit of an appreciation for its wider textures, and it's incredibly fascinating. I'll have more to say here in the post-race analysis.
By the time I was dressed and geared up, it was clear enough what I needed to do, get back to the road and start going that-a-way. Once moving, things gradually returned to normal. I was out a bit before 7:30, giving me just enough time to reach mile 203 for check in. Again, I lost a little ground, as Francesca had run 40 miles to my 37; she was now at 220. Tonight was going to have to be big.
From here it's 20 miles to Shelbyville, a very long, dark, boring stretch at night. It was a little muggier than the night before, but not too bad, and I got back into a good rhythm.
As my mind started to wander, I thought another call with Liz might help. The first thing she said was "are you hunting down poor Francesca?". Poor Francesca! What about poor me?! Here I am smack in HER turf, where she has a KOR and the CR, with no training and no course experience. She seems invincible; I need all the support I can get. Still, the call helped, as communicating where I was mentally and physically helped ground me, and reconnecting with Liz always does.
Interestingly, I learned later from Francesca that beginning around here, for the rest of the race, she felt me as a pack of wolves breathing down her neck. She dared not rest. She couldn't even walk, because then she would space out and fall over. It was just run, run, run, until I catch her, or she breaks, or she holds on.
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Still later, she had this to say:</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: , , "blinkmacsystemfont" , ".sfnstext-regular" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px; white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">There is a beautiful description in Dante’s Inferno of the damned who “ran (naked), goaded sore by wasps and hornets.” Tennessee in July may very well display the traditional god-awful traits we commonly attribute to hell. Plenty of hea</span></span><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: , , "blinkmacsystemfont" , ".sfnstext-regular" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px; white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">t, abundance of chiggers and pestering insects. And at the end, I felt like a lost soul (my eyes were void as Greg said) hunted down by what, in my fatigued mind, I perceived as a relentless war machine (Bob).</span></span></span></i></span></blockquote>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Shelbyville came and went. Passing through, the moon was just rising in the east, dead ahead, waning gibbous and blood red. It was very striking. Oddly, though the course goes basically due east from here, and the moon stayed straight ahead, in my mind I was running different directions at different times. Normally I have an absolutely perfect, or at least definite, sense of direction. This was an early sign I was starting to lose it again.
Wartrace was another 10 miles, at mile 233, and this would be a difficult stretch for me mentally. It wasn't long before I needed more Red Bull. Based on last night I figured it might take a while to kick in, so I didn't sweat the beginnings of hallucinations and meandering over the next couple of miles. But then, it didn't get any better. I frantically tried to communicate this to Regina and Bill, but through a series of misunderstandings it was a while before I could get some more Red Bull. (Earlier in the race I'd mostly been wearing a light vest that held my phone, but now I was running shirtless at night, and didn't want to risk chafing from the vest, so mostly I was running with no phone and no way to contact crew other than at the next stop.) Eventually it became clear that I needed a break. I couldn't afford an hour, so we decided on 15 minutes, in Wartrace. As I put on my mask and earplugs, Greg showed up again to chat with Regina. He was saying something about Francesca not stopping.
So about spacing out and falling over — this was definitely the problem. And like Francesca, it was an issue mostly when I was walking. Unfortunately, a core part of my multi-day race strategy is to do a lot of fast walking. That's what I was trained for, and what was comfortable. It's now clear to me that this strength can be a double-edged sword, something I am going to have to ponder on before my next multi-day.
It's a long 16 miles to Manchester. Much of this stretch, east of Wartrace, seems to be, for lack of a better word, haunted. This seems to be THE place for hallucinations, for those who come through at night. I was no exception. It was kind of confusing countryside, dark and dense and tangled. The break helped, but it wasn't long before I was hallucinating again. I don't remember whether I had more Red Bull. I do remember that my perception of the space between crew stops was very different from Regina's, and I got increasingly worried that I was going to completely lose touch with reality in here. Dawn could not come soon enough.
One hallucination was vivid and striking. I can't quite describe it, but it was a very large sculpture, maybe some kind of crouching animal or person, behind some trees. I thought, "that can't be real. What would something like that be doing here?". But I stared straight at it, and there it was, plain as day. Huh. I came around the corner, and there it wasn't. Just trees.
Somewhere in here, Regina gave me a 5-hour Energy. I had never had one before. Perhaps it helped, or perhaps it was the approaching dawn — it wasn't long before the horizon began to lighten. I woke up, and stayed alert through the end of the race. Like Francesca, there was no more time for breaks. I didn't rest for a single minute after Wartrace.
At this point in the race, one of the pieces of magic happened that contributed to Francesca's mind-boggling performance: it began to rain. Just a few drops at first; the important thing was that it was cool and overcast. I picked up the pace and stopped alternating walking. The rain grew harder. I was now in my element for the first time in the race; it was MY turn to do some running. I'd lived in Vancouver for 10 years; this was very familiar. I'd run Spartathlon 2018 in a literal hurricane, and PRed. Bill pulled up and asked if I wanted a jacket. I was still running in just shorts. "Nope! This is as good as it gets!" I just wanted to crank. The rain grew harder; there was lightning. I kept running. The harder it rained, the harder I ran. I finally had the cooling I needed. Maybe I couldn't catch Francesca, but I was going to at least scare the hell out of her with this 12-hour split. And if she wanted to hold on to the win she was going to have to fight for it.
As 7:30 approached, I was almost treating it like the end of the race. Maybe that would work well in terms of putting up a big split, but... what then? If I was completely spent, I'd have to slow way down to recover, and then I would start freezing. I had a light rain jacket, but nothing appropriate for this weather. Most runners were huddled in whatever shelter they could find. I could not afford that.
At 7:30 on the dot, I pulled under a canopy where my crew was parked. 55 miles, YES!!! I pulled on my Spartathlon t-shirt and jacket, grabbed an Egg McMuffin Bill handed me, and got moving again. I was able to actually get back to my normal run / walk comfortably, whew.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Day Four</span></h2>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I awaited the update with bated breath. When it came, I couldn't believe it. Francesca had run 48 miles, her best 12-hour split since the first day. But... how? Is she human?? I had gained 7 miles, but I had expected a lot more. I had only stopped for 15 minutes, and had hammered the last few hours. At the start of the fourth day, she was up 268 to 258. I now had to run 56 miles to her 46. It was beginning to look like I had run out of room to catch her.</span></div>
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From here it's a long, flat, open 21 miles to the first of the two big climbs on the course, up Monteagle. I kept up solid pacing, but was no longer cranking. I can't crank for 56 miles at the end of 314. The thunderstorm continued to worsen. I was slightly afraid that the lightning would necessitate taking cover for safety, which would end any chance I had, but none ever struck close by. As we approached Pelham, a few miles to the climb, the highway became completely flooded. It was impossible to run without trudging through standing water. I thought back to the Quarantine Backyard Ultra, a few months ago, where I had to withdraw after 34 hours due to badly macerated feet from running through standing water for too long. Fortunately here my entire soles were taped, which I hoped would be enough. (Thank you Bill.)
Finally, Monteagle. A 950-foot gain over three-and-a-half miles. Bill insisted on gearing me up with full night-time lighting, for safety. There were blind turns around the switchbacks. My original pacing plan had called for 3 MPH here, 20-minute miles. I was gratified to find that walking at about 15:00 pace was sustainable. Not that the plan was at all relevant anymore. I was now far ahead of it, and it was just a matter of doing the best I could do from here on in.
At the top, we meander a bit through the town of Monteagle, and the next 6 miles take us to Tracy City. I was in a bit of a strange mental space now, not spaced-out like earlier, just not exactly dialed in to race mode. It was no longer open highway, but little resort towns and complexes. Like we'd taken a time-out from the race for a while. Not good. Regina handed me another Subway sandwich and I ate it slowly as I progressed. Then, perhaps, we made a mistake. I sent Bill and Regina ahead to see how far away Francesca was. It took them a loooong time to return, and the news wasn't good. "I drove forward 12 miles to get to her, and then 9 miles back to get to you." (This makes sense because were were both moving forward.) So, still about 10 miles ahead. It seemed to be all over. Here I lost heart for a while, and just trudged forward, through the long kind of no-man's-land past Tracy City. I didn't even really have a good picture in my head anymore of where we were, which is bad. I have to have a context in terms of location and plan.
My reaction was natural, but my meta-cognitive racing skills should have alerted me that this was a bad mental state that needed to be fixed. Maybe something about three days and 280+ miles on my legs and my brain. Logically, there was every reason to keep pushing. Francesca would very likely be near the breaking point. If I push her all the way to the finish and she survives, well, she earned it. But if I give up 25 miles early? That's just crazy; it makes it 25 miles easier for her. But that's what I was doing.
Fortunately, this state did not last too long. I knew I would still have a very good finish. But how good? I pulled up my spreadsheet on my phone, which also had a list of the top-10 LAVS finishes of all time. It appeared that, just maybe, I could come in ahead of #3 John Cash, with 3 days 13 hours. Wow — 7 hours ahead of plan (largely due to not breaking at all on the fourth day). I plugged in some numbers, adjusted some planned paces. Hmm. It might be possible, but I was going to have to start pushing, and it was going to hurt. I texted Bill and Regina: "Please come back. New plan."
They were fully on board, and Regina started texting with Liz to make sure my spreadsheet was setup correctly for what we would have to do. Confident that the plan was now in capable hands, this late in the race, I was comfortable saying "OK, you're driving now; tell me what to do". Shortly ahead was the long, steep descent into Jasper. I hadn't even been aware we weren't already through that; that's how out of touch I'd gotten. The original plan, which would still work, had me doing that at 10-minute miles. Holding that average for several miles at this point was a big ask, but Regina assured me it would be doable.
One problem, though, was that the clouds had finally burned off, and the sun was coming back out. As I started the descent, I'd shed the jacket, but was not really geared up for heat again, lacking even a hat.
Man, this downhill was STEEP. I could really only run it effectively at one pace, about 8:30 / mile. My feet hurt like hell. Already, the night before, I'd had to start taking Advil for the foot pain in order to endure the pounding of running. Regina had said, I think, 5 miles, but I could see on the elevation profile on Bill's Fenix 6 I was wearing that this downgrade lasted 5.8 miles. That was a long way to push. But I held it.
I hit Jasper and turned right, still descending. Finally, there was the car, at a gas station. I pulled up, out of breath, and began gearing up in my daytime heat clothes. I couldn't do it quickly enough. "We're wasting all that time I just earned!" I was almost frantic. But Bill got me good to go in short order, loaded with ice, and I was off. I breathed a sigh of relief. I should now be in a state where my original pacing of 4.5 MPH — 13:20 / mile — would be good enough. I was keeping it closer to 12:00, alternating running and walking, though really none of it from here to the finish was as flat as I'd imagined.
The four miles to Kimball lasted a while, as now it was very hot. 300 miles! And onward. Another few miles, and it was time to make the somewhat confusing turn onto the famous Blue Bridge. I carefully followed the map display on Bill's Fenix to stay in the correct lanes.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><br />At the Blue Bridge</i></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">This was now the end stage, and I was getting excited. I asked for my phone back, to double-check the timing. I wanted to make sure I knew what I had to do. In reality I think I could have pushed harder here, but in my mind it was just about safely breaking John's mark. There was nothing to shoot for beyond that.
After 5 miles of meandering through New Hope (Regina gave me another 5-hour Energy somewhere in here), we finally made the turn onto the big hill up Sand Mountain. Apparently Francesca was also now on this hill, up ahead, but too far to reach. So, I had gained some after all.
Of course, Laz would put the biggest hill at the very end — 1,000 feet over 3.5 miles. I was constantly re-doing the math, assuming 20:00 pace up the hill: yes, I was still good. I actually tried running up the hill to see what it felt like. It was maybe sustainable, but at 15:00 pace, it wasn't any faster than walking, and was a lot more effort, so I backed it down to a walk. After a mile, we entered Alabama, our fourth state of the journey.
Finally, the last turnoff, towards Castle Rock ranch! There was now less than three miles to go, and the big hill was done. I looked at the numbers again and did a double take. If I could manage 10-minute miles to the finish, I could actually come in under 3 days 12 hours, a full hour ahead of John! 3-and-a-half days did seem like a meaningful mark to work for. My feet were done, so it took a goal of this magnitude to push me to keep running. Every step hurt. I started cranking again, probably for no apparent reason to my crew. I saw Karen Jackson and Bo Millwood, just leaving — alas, that meant they must have DNFed. I kept pushing. We entered Georgia, came to the field where the cars were parked, and turned left. At this point it was a mile to the finish. There were some hills here, so holding pace took effort, but I was doing it.
Then I realized — DOH! — the race started at 7:24. Not 7:30. I was going to come in before 7:30, but I would not have 6 minutes to spare. I checked my Garmin. It looked impossible, but I couldn't quite tell. I cranked it up as hard as I could — and ran right into a giant mud patch. Uh... WTF??? 313 miles of road, and this in the final half mile. Thanks Laz. My white shoes had stayed pristine all race. No longer. Not that that mattered; I had to slog through, and all remaining hope was lost.
I entered the final clearing, and there was Carl Laniak, waiting by The Rock. My crew were there, as was Sandra Cantrell. I reached The Rock, slowly bent down, and touched it.
DONE!
Final time: 3 days, 12 hours, 3 minutes, 12 seconds.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Numbers</span></h2>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Francesca finished in 3 days, 10 hours, 49 minutes, 40 seconds. She shattered her own course record by a whopping 17 hours, or 17%. She ran the third-fastest Vol State ever, male or female. It's an almost inconceivably incredible performance. After talking with her over lunch a few days later, and reading Greg's race report from his perspective, it's clear that this resulted from Greg's recommended strategy of getting ahead of me early, and maintaining a lead, combined with Francesca's flawless execution. They were thinking (as I was planning) that I would try to run a bit under four days, so she would potentially have to run a bit more under four days. But doing it this way would tell her exactly by how much. As it happened, I underestimated my ability here and was able to push for much better, forcing Francesca to do likewise. The rain exaggerated this even more, giving me a burst of speed she was forced to counter. Greg's account of her performance is harrowing towards the end, as she was completely lost, disoriented, reduced to speaking Italian, yet managed to hold on. It was an absolute triumph of the human spirit, and I am enormously honored to have played a part in it. I helped her create something truly great. I did not get my KOR, but you cannot ask for a more meaningful experience than this. All hail King Francesca II.</span></div>
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I believe no woman will ever come close to this mark again at Vol State. It was the result of unique circumstances optimally driving a spirit that would not yield. Paul Kentor says I am being hyperbolic, which is fair enough, so I will moderate this: yes, it's conceivable that the right woman (there are not many) with the right conditions could run faster. But I see it as unlikely that such combination will ever occur at LAVS. Therefore, I stand by my assertion. Courtney, Camille, you are welcome to prove me wrong.
Looking a little closer at the numbers... per Greg's report, Francesca spent a total of less than five hours stopped, with about 60-70 minutes of sleep. I spent over 15 hours stopped, with about 8 hours' sleep. She had to suffer a lot more than I did. Neither of us rested at all after Wartrace, for the final 81 miles of the course.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: 14.666666666666666px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: 14.666666666666666px;">Here's a table comparing various stats, and a graph of our distance vs. time.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I ran the fourth fastest Vol State ever (behind Greg, Joe Fejes, and Francesca), which I am very proud of, especially since I entered at the last minute and had no specific training. This was only possible due to the amazing and tireless efforts of Regina and Bill. They worked as hard as I did, to counter my lack of heat training.
I'm also pretty proud of my splits. I ran 111 miles in the final 24 hours, including the two big climbs. I am pretty sure no one has done that before. I substantially negative split the course (and Francesca ran very close to even splits). Obviously, in hindsight I wish I'd started faster, but I do believe I made the best decisions I could at every stage based on my knowledge. Looking over the entirety of the race, I can only point to my temporarily losing focus around Tracy City as a mistake. Had I managed to maintain focus and drive there I think I could have finished half an hour faster, maybe more, but probably still not enough to catch her.
I improved on Grant Maughan's over-50 course record by 10 hours. However, Francesca is also over 50! I will technically have the men's age-group record here, but it will come with an asterisk.
Looking ahead to next time (and how can there not be a next time?), I am very encouraged about my potential to challenge Greg's course record. Now I have a reference point in terms of this performance, and several things to optimize. The main challenge will be improving management of sleep deprivation.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(68, 68, 68); font-size: 14.666666984558105px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Oh, one final number: I'm the 314th unique person to finish this 314-mile race. Ha!</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I spent the next two nights at a hotel in Kimball recovering. After a huge brunch on Monday, I said farewell to Regina and Bill, as they headed back to Jacksonville.</span></div>
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Tuesday morning, I rented a car to drive back to Nashville for a couple more days before my return flight on Thursday. The timing was good here: I drove the course backwards from Kimball to Manchester, stopping to chat with and cheer on each of the approximately dozen runners over that stretch. Nobody else had yet finished since Francesca and me. First was Josh Holmes, who had recovered from his early issues and was continuing to push. He would wind up with a PR, in his fourth Vol State. Next, Becca Joyner. She'd had substantial ankle issues but was soldiering forward. She would not finish in under 5 days, but the time would start with a 5. An outstanding debut for her first 100+ race. Catching up with Ray Krolewicz, I walked with him quite a while, discussing a range of subjects. I could talk to Ray forever. But my feet were in agony, so eventually I let him go.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">The infamous Ray K</span></i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></td></tr>
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One week after finishing, I am home, and still bemused at the impact on my body. My feet were absolutely destroyed. I still needed Advil last night to sleep. My lips were horribly burned and chapped; I forgot to treat them at all. Funnily enough, it was the same with Francesca when I had lunch with her, her husband Mark, and Trent Rosenbloom on Thursday. Her lips were cracked and bleeding, same as mine.
And that's it. Muscle issues? Zero. My legs might as well not have run a step, for all I could tell. I can't understand it.
But the most substantial impact by far was on my mind, or maybe my spirit. I will cover that in the next section.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I learned a lot of little things that will help me in my next Vol State, or other long, hot, humid, point-to-point race. Better patterns of heat management, foot-care logistics, ice baths, etc. The critical importance of good crew communications.</span></div>
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The most important big realization is that my run / walk multi-day strategy is in direct conflict with dealing effectively with sleep deprivation. That was a rude shock, and something I am going to have to think hard about. I can only improve substantially at any multi-day race by sleeping less, somehow.
The sleep deprivation experience here was a bit different than at other races, maybe because of the long afternoon breaks. I was never tired during the day, even the last day. I was often tired at night, both in terms of needing sleep and in terms of mood and attitude. In the past I haven't noticed quite this distinction. In my first 48-hour race, it was the second day that was incredibly brutal. The second evening has been very challenging in every multi-day I've run, but I think less so in this one. I did have a rough patch, but got over it.
But now we get to the heart of the matter. Why do we run? In particular, why do we seek out experiences such as Vol State, that so dramatically tax mind, body, and spirit? There are as many answers as there are runners, but there are common themes. I do these races to challenge myself, to put myself in places I would never otherwise reach, to probe the depths of my soul, learn who I am, and grow as a person. It's intensely rewarding. Throughout history all human societies have had spiritual rituals and journeys that served the same purpose. This is my way.
Vol State is known to be transformative for almost all who do it, whether in four days or ten. I suspect a lot of that comes from the universal camaraderie exposed by shared suffering, the generous spirit of the road angels, the triumph over adversity to finish under taxing conditions after many days of living in a very circumscribed world.
I didn't get most of that. I didn't see a single other runner after the first 12 hours, and while I appreciated the stop at the Nutt House, my crew met all of my physical needs. I did have the satisfaction of pushing myself to near the limit, and achieving a result I can be very proud of, if still coming up short of the win. This, I've had many times before.
What I actually came away with was completely unexpected, and not fully apparent for a day or two after the race. And it was huge. I think I would call this experience transformative.
This gets pretty personal, and is going to be hard to communicate. And it may sound a little weird. But it's the most important part of the whole experience. It goes back to that strange, dissociative sleep in Lewisburg, and my slow return to ordinary consciousness. I've had this kind of non-ordinary-consciousness experience before. To a certain extent, my meditation practice represents an effort to develop my consciousness beyond ordinary bounds, in particular to increase mindfulness, that is, non-judgmental awareness of my thoughts, emotions, and feelings, also separation from ego. I've had limited success there.
For the two or three days after the race, though the awareness dawned on me slowly, my mind was in a very different state from normal. I was thinking differently, perceiving differently. I was able to connect, a bit, to the dissociative mental landscape of Lewisburg (and of EMU two years earlier), and perceive the vastness of the potential range of human consciousness. I have studied consciousness. In my time as an AI and neuroscience researcher, I learned a lot about the mechanisms of consciousness. But the subjective aspects are something else entirely. There is an enormous world there I was barely aware of; it's incredibly exciting.
Lest this get too airy-fairy, I was also able to connect, in the other direction, to ordinary consciousness, in a way I never had before. I had sought mindfulness... now, I simply had it. My thoughts and feelings were transparent. I could see clearly the little neuroses that shape my ordinary thoughts and behaviors. I was able to neatly sidestep them, and act and think in a way that is truly genuine, for lack of a better word.
Most people who know me would agree that I'm a "nice" guy. It's a lot easier to be nice than to be genuine. But being genuine, living in a way that is in honest accord with your true feelings and values, with full respect for others' needs, that is priceless. I have to wonder whether this insight is maybe at the core of all religions.
I could go on. I had many thoughts on the human experience which I wrote down, and still seem valid to me. But I will stop here. You could describe my state as a kind of mania, and that might not be inaccurate. Hardly surprising, after such a journey. But if so, it was the healthiest mania I've ever heard of. Our brains are wired to work within a very narrow operating range, different for all of us. The experience of LAVS somehow turned some dials to take me out of the normal range, into a very benificent regime. I don't know how. I would guess that I laid the groundwork with my study and mindfulness practice, and this experience unlocked the potential I was building up.
Gradually, my mind returned to pretty normal. But I am able to hold on to memories of the experience, and they serve as a much better guidepost for my meditation goals than I have ever had before. And I am going to try as hard as I can to carry forward the habits of living genuinely.
So... thank you, LAVS. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Thank you to Lazarus Lake, Carl Laniak, Sandra Cantrell, Jan Redmond Walker, Mike Dobies, and anyone else I'm not aware of who contributed to putting on this amazing thing called LAVS.</span></div>
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Thank you to Ray Krolewicz for bringing the possibility of a last-minute entry to my attention, and for the hotel room in Union City that made it possible.
Thank you to Greg Armstrong, Sue Scholl, Ray, BJ Timoner, and Huge Holstein for many helpful discussions about how to run LAVS. Thanks also to Greg for several on-course visits of support (though these did double duty gathering intel! 😆).
Thank you to Liz Hearn for putting up with these crazy adventures, and for the very helpful mid-race conversations.
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Thank you to Francesca Muccini for being such an incredible and inspiring competitor.
Most especially, thank you to Regina Sooey and Bill Page for incomparable crew support. I would never have asked anyone for support at this level so close to the race, especially during the pandemic. It was a miracle that you not only stepped up, but were somehow up to the much higher demands I placed on you than you had any reason to expect. Your course knowledge and experience were also invaluable. There are a million details of race execution glossed over in my report, simply because I didn't have to worry about them; Bill and Regina had everything covered. Ice baths. Foot care. Gear alternatives. Electronics recharging. Even laundry, twice! Oh, and most of the above pics (finish pics are by Carl Laniak and Sandra Cantrell). You name it, they did it. It made my task much simpler. Actually, it made my task possible. I will never forget it.
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Bob Hearnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01351956832733163825noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2382599380750777712.post-29931081545748060092020-02-05T00:21:00.001-08:002020-02-05T00:26:15.677-08:00Six Days in the Dome 2019<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">It's now been five months(!) since the Dome, and somehow I am still processing it (and also, in some ways, still recovering from it). This one race I think will be more consequential to my running future than any before it. I see at least three major changes in store for how I approach races of 24 hours or longer; I am rethinking everything. But I guess it's way past time for the blog post, so here is what I have to say. This is an expanded version of what I posted on Facebook two weeks after the race. Yes, it's long!
<b>Background</b>
Back in 2014, a six-day race was held on an indoor track in Alaska, organized by Joe Fejes — "Six Days in the Dome". Yes, it was actually an inflatable dome. The advantages are obvious: climate control, plus a perfect running surface. This apparently one-off event netted several records. Notably, Joe himself ran 580 miles, for a new modern American Record.
Modern? Yes, six-day races have an illustrious history in ultrarunning, beginning in the 19th century. James Albert Cathcart's legendary 621.75 miles is not on the modern record books, due to lack of verification to modern USATF standards. Why six days? Well, naturally, in Victorian times, six days was as long as you could do any one thing continuously, because of course you would have to rest on Sunday! Now, 48-hour and six-day are the two multiday formats recognized by the International Association of Ultrarunners for record purposes.
Fast forward to 2019, and Joe is at it again. This time the "dome" was the Pettit National Ice Center, in Milwaukee, WI — not an actual dome, but again, an ideal indoor track surface, with climate control. Steve Durbin was race directing, with Mike Melton and Brandon Wilson timing. Top-notch setup all around. THE place to be if you ever had any notion of putting up your best possible six-day performance. Which I did, thanks to Joe suckering me, telling me I could beat his record (which now stands at 606!). I tried at EMU in Hungary in 2018, but stopped halfway through with a tendon injury. This would be my chance to make amends.
But there was a problem: 24-hour Worlds, in Albi, France, would be just two months after the Dome, not leaving enough time to fully recover, train, and represent my country at 100%. Bill Schultz finally convinced me of the reality of this unfortunate fact.
<b>Prelude</b>
To explain how I got to the Dome after all, I have to take a detour. I did not write a race report for Dawn to Dusk to Dawn 24-hour (D3), in May. I tried several times to start, but it was too painful, and always came out as just whining. But for completeness in my blog, I'll summarize here. Feel free to skip ahead.
I entered the race in the 6th and final position for the 2019 US 24-hour team, with 154 miles. I expected that would not be good enough... someone else at D3 would beat that and bump me from the team. So I had to defend my spot. 155+ would put me in 4th; three guys would have to beat me. That wasn't going to happen.
Well, the lap chart shows the story. Just as happened two years previously at Run4Water, I ran perfectly through 22 hours, but was unable to hold on and put it away. There, I came up 300 feet short and was bumped from the 2017 team. This time my collapse was larger. I managed to hold on for 150, but that's it. Rich Riopel and Harvey Lewis both ran big numbers, and once again, I was bumped from the team on the last day, my goals for the previous two years' effort slipping through my fingers. It was a surreal nightmare. Once was heartbreaking. Twice? There are no words.
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Afterwards, I agonized about what had gone wrong. It seemed as if I had a death wish, some deep desire to fail as spectacularly as possible. (I've written about this previously: see "The Imp of the Perverse", in my <a href="https://bobhearn.blogspot.com/2018/10/spartathlon-2018-perfect-storm.html" target="_blank">Spartathlon 2018 report</a>.) Those present swore I had given my all, but how could they know? However, when I saw on video that I was already leaning at 22 hours, I realized they were probably right. It was all over then.
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">So, no 24-hour Worlds for me. But that freed up August for the Dome. I would have to miss Burning Man (sniff), but I could not pass up this opportunity.
<b>Goals</b>
I went in, as did several others, with an aggressive plan. I would start by pacing even for Joe Fejes' American Record, 606.24 miles, running 101+ per day. I thought that goal was unlikely to be feasible, yet I left myself options to go higher. Because, I mean, there is no more seductive thought to a male ultrarunner than the possibility (even remote) of breaking a Kouros World Record. And the six-day is generally agreed to be his softest record. So, as long as I was running well with no issues, I would add a mile each day. 101 + 102 + ... + 106 = 1,000 km, a really big number. Only six men have done that in the modern era, and none since 2007. Finally, if I somehow miraculously felt good on the last day, forgoing my sleep break with lots of caffeine and holding pace would net the WR of 644.24 miles. (See, on paper, it's easy...)
More realistically I expected I would have to slow, and I had my sights on 900 km (559.24 miles) or Joe's over-50 American Record of 551.47 (for which, however, I would also have to beat Joe!). At the low end of my goals, I thought that barring disaster I should be able to pull out 500 miles, a very respectable distance. But a million things could still go wrong, so I would have to roll with the expected punches to earn it. I was under no illusions that "just" 500 would be easy. Only a dozen Americans had ever done it.
Of course, there were reasons to set aggressive goals here, with an oversized flat track surface (443 m), controlled temperature (50-55 °F), and world-class medical and foot care available. Add to that my world-class crew (six people, including a Western States winner, a Vol State finisher, a 453-mile female 6-day runner, and an Army captain, for a little discipline!) — opportunities like this don't come every day. I'm not sure what I did to rate such a crew, but I am not complaining.
I always put a lot of work into my pacing plans, and this time I took it to the next level. I prepared a crew manual with instructions for every contingency, and details of my pacing strategy for all my different goals, from 644 miles down to 500. I wrote a custom app for my Garmin with all the pacing plans programmed into it, and facilities for adjusting on the fly in a few different ways.
The new variable to play with at six-day is sleep. Don't sleep much, and run/walk slowly? Or sleep a lot, and run faster? Both ways can yield success (cf. Geesler, Fejes!). I know that I'm not great on the sleep deprivation front at multi-day races, so I preferred to err on the side of more sleep. But setting big mileage goals puts pretty tight constraints on things. At EMU I had planned an hour and a half sleep every 12 hours, with shorter breaks every six. That had not worked well; an hour and a half was just not enough time for me to get any solid sleep. This time I decided to put all of my sleep in one block, at night, sticking to my natural circadian rhythm (even though we'd have constant lighting in the dome).
For my A plan, I would have 3 hours and 40 minutes of sleep per night, starting at 1 a.m., and 7-minute breaks every 3 hours in between. That was a total of 4:22 of break time per day, with an estimated 38 minutes of overhead (bathroom, medical, etc.), for 19 hours of moving time. I think that's probably in the typical range for big six-day performances. But I discovered that this plan was pretty challenging for me as well, and next time I will have to continue to adjust.
It's worth mentioning that even- or (gasp) negative-splitting at 24-hour or longer races is definitely not the norm. For six-day, conventional wisdom would be that it's just not possible. Moving pace aside, it was certainly not realistic to think that daily medical and other overhead would not increase throughout the race. My thinking was that I would roll unused overhead time early in the race into extra break time, front-loading the sleep, rather than use it to put more miles in the bank.
How well did this plan work? Read on to see...
<b>Day 1
</b>
After a stressful Saturday night, putting the final touches on my Garmin app, and nearly locking my phone in the rental car as I returned it to the airport after hours, Sunday morning finally arrived. Arriving at the Pettit Center, I greeted all the people I'd be sharing the next six days with. Many friends, many legends I hadn't yet met, and many friends-to-be. Among them, several rivals. This would be a hard-fought race for those looking to win or set records.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Listening to pre-race instructions. With William Sichel, Brad Compton, and Liz Bauer.</span></i></td></tr>
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The race started at noon, with Pam Smith and BJ Timoner crewing. Pam was fresh off a sub-8 100K in the 24-hour race, and had graciously offered to stick around for a few days. We quickly got into a solid routine, and the laps started clicking off. I would run one, then speed-walk most of the next one. For nutrition/hydration, I rotated every couple of hours between my own drink mix (similar to Maurten), Coke, and SWORD (the sponsoring race drink), drinking a few ounces every 20 minutes. I would sit down for real food at meal times, during my 7-minute breaks.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Running early with women's winner Connie Gardner</span></i></td></tr>
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As expected, many runners went out much faster than I did, and I settled into about 20th place out of the 66 starters. As the day turned into evening, Ray Krolewicz told me "anyone in the top 15 went out way too fast". I concurred. Later I chatted with Greg Salvesen, ultrarunner extraordinaire and all around nice guy, as well as professional astrophysicist — something I had wanted to be when I was younger. After the race Greg posted that he'd managed to have in-depth conversations with every single runner during the race. Wow! I did not come close to matching that feat. I think I'm doing it wrong.</span><br />
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Before I knew it it was after midnight, and time for my first sleep. Already, I had moved up to I think 8th. I felt so good I was tempted to push it longer, but I had sworn not to exceed my planned daily miles, minimizing early muscle damage as much as possible, so I could still run later. Many runners chose to run through the first night, to put up a big day 1.
Though everything at the Pettit was near optimal, I never managed to make the sleep setup work well for me. You could sleep by the side of the track, but it was too bright and noisy. You could sleep in a quickly accessible upstairs room, but there wasn't enough space there for people to leave cots set up. Or you could have a permanent setup in a dark, quiet room (apart from the one guy snoring LOUDLY every night), but it was a several-minute walk to get there from the track. I opted for the latter, though it cost a lot of overhead. After a couple days I had my crew relocate my setup to trackside, but that didn't work well, so we moved back. I tried going to sleep in my Normatec compression boots the first night, but they kept me awake, so I mostly didn't use them the rest of the race. It wasn't worth taking my shoes off for them during the shorter breaks. (Connie Gardner, though, I think fell in love with the boots, spending a lot of the last day in them!) I hate to be such a princess about the sleep setup, but, well, I am. Effective sleep is so critical to maximizing performance.
As expected, the first night I had a lot of unused overhead time, so I gave myself a full four-hour break. Then, up and at 'em again! Fresh shorts, socks, shirt, and rotate shoes (three pairs of New Balance Beacons). I got an early morning tune-up from Doc Lovy, loosening tight hamstrings and back muscles. Doc Lovy is 84. He's been the team doctor for the USA 24-hour team for many years. And he was here running for six days... while stopping to help all the runners. I don't know when he slept, if he ever did.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Doc Lovy gets his 100</span></i></td></tr>
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Sometime the first afternoon I'd mentioned to Pam that I was having to stop too often to pee, so I wanted to cut back on fluids. She was a little concerned that even though it was cool, the air was very dry, so likely I was more dehydrated than I felt. But we cut back from 3 oz. per drink (9 oz. per hour) to I think 2.5. This morning it was still an issue, and she pointed out that likely my bladder was irritated because it was too empty, and rubbing together. Doh! So the solution was MORE fluid, not less. And yes, I think I had been dehydrated. She also insisted on weighing me more often. When your crew is an MD, you listen to her medical suggestions.
The first race day wound down as noon approached; I hit 100 miles shortly before that. I didn't get to carry the 100-mile flag on my final lap, though: a volunteer was holding it out as I crossed the mat, but pulled it away from me?! Turns out it was for Yolanda Holder, who hit 100 on the same lap. I'm glad I didn't steal it from her: this was her first sub-24 completely walking, making her an official Centurion. Congratulations!
At noon, Dave Proctor led the way with 134.4 miles. He was nominally chasing the Canadian Record of 540 miles, but no doubt had his sights set higher than that. Joe was not far behind with 127.1, followed by Mick Thwaites (123.1), Johnny Hällneby (116.2), Budjargal Byambaa (111.9), Connie Gardner (106.7), David Johnston (104.6), and me (101.2), with my unorthodox slow start. For comparison, Joe had run 137 on day 1 when he ran that 606. Of all of us, I believe only Johnny had publicly laid out a goal of running the WR. He had even detailed his plan. (He was described thus on the Ultralist last year: "Johnny approaches these things with Bob Hearn-like planning, but with more humor, experience, and flexibility. It's tremendous to watch." And... I can't disagree.)</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Day 1 lap splits (noon to noon). Lap time is on a log scale, to show long breaks.</span></i></td></tr>
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<b>Day 2
</b>
As the second day got underway, Pam and BJ were joined by my friend Paul Erickson. Already I believe I had the largest crew! By the end of the race I would begin to feel a bit guilty here.
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Pam knows how to stay warm</span></i></td></tr>
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I still felt great, so I adjusted my pacing slightly to hit 102+. The run laps stayed at 2:40, but the walk/run laps sped up, with a bit more running. As the afternoon turned to evening, some of the early leaders began to fade. It's inevitable. The only question is, which ones will it be? And before I knew it, I was in a mini-emotional meltdown myself. It started with horrible autotune "music" blasting over the speakers. I don't know why, but anything with autotune makes me want to gouge my eyes out. However, the bigger problem was something I've experienced several times before: the second evening is always really rough for me. My sleep plan here did not help; I would be running 20+ hours between sleeps. I would not do it that way again. I had hoped that being indoors with constant lighting would help — no such luck.
But finally it was time for bed, and in the morning I was back at it with renewed vigor. The rest of day 2 passed without incident. Joe clocked a 103, now leading the way with 230.1; Dave Proctor had had sleep issues and dropped to 90.7. Johnny ran a 100.7, now in third; meanwhile Mick, Budjargal, and Dave Johnson had dropped dramatically. Budjargal in particular had looked like a perfectly smooth, light, efficient machine until well into the second day; it was easy to see him running away with it. But not this time. I hit my planned 102.5, the only runner with a negative split. Also I counted my blessings that Joe had come up a mere two miles short of reclaiming the over-50 48-hour American Record of 232 that I'd taken from him a couple years ago!</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Day 2 lap splits</span></i></td></tr>
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<b>Day 3
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So far so good, so time to up the pacing a little more. The walk laps got a little more running. I made a mistake here: I was supposed to walk less, but often I found myself running 2:30s instead of 2:40s, so I could walk a whole lap in between. My walking was actually getting faster as the race wore on: in training, I wasn't walking anywhere near a whole lap, even at my first-day (101) pacing. One of the neat things about six-day is that you can actually learn and adapt during the race, instead of having to wait for next time. And it did feel good to be running faster, as I was now passing Joe, I must admit. I'm normally pretty immune from this typically male chest-thumping behavior (women are supposed to be better pacers than men because of this), but the race with Joe was heating up, and I was excited. There is definitely a mind game that goes on during short-loop ultras, as you see your competition over and over. In fact my negative-split strategy as a whole was playing into that. I was well aware of how it would look when people saw I was running 101, 102, 103... . It ought to be intimidating. Silly me, there is no point trying to out-game Joe in a six-day.
It didn't take long for this mistake to cost me, as I hit the first real problem in my race around 6 p.m., a little before Amy Mower arrived to join the crew party. I started having pain on the top of my left foot. Pam relaced the shoe to relieve the pressure, but half an hour later I had to stop to have medical take a look at it. They did some massaging and stretching, and when my sock was off it was obvious I had some blister issues as well. John Vonhof (who literally wrote the book on foot care) had taped my little toes pre-race, but now he treated all the blisters and added some more tape. The total cost here was over half an hour, but it was worth it.
However, back on the track, it became clear that I couldn't run 2:40 laps anymore without pain. I spent the rest of the evening experimenting. 2:50 run + 3:30 run/walk seemed doable, but significantly slower than my planned pacing. We had a few crew powwows to discuss it. The one good thing about the foot issue was that dealing with it kept me from the evening emotional low; my mind was occupied elsewhere.
Finally, bedtime again. This time, Pam had to come wake me — I had a vibrating alarm on each wrist (so as not to disturb the other sleepers in the remote sleeping room), but I had slept through both of them. Oops.
Pam and Paul had been scheduled to leave when I woke, but stuck with me 'til breakfast, as we refined my pacing to get back on track. 2:50 / 3:14 seemed sustainable, and left me still theoretically on plan for a possible WR. Paul kept me honest, standing by the timing mat, making sure I wasn't pushing the run laps too fast. In hindsight, here I should have scaled the goal back to 606, at most — to have any chance at the A+ and A++ goals, things would have had to go perfectly for much longer than this. You can't keep speeding up when things start breaking.
At some point in here I developed a slight left lean, which Doc Lovy quickly corrected. I'm not sure what I would do in a long race without him.
As noon approached, it became clear I had way overspent my budgeted daily overhead time. Oversleeping hadn't helped. So, I ended the day with 97 miles, well short of the 103+ I had been pacing for. Still, that was more than anyone else ran on day 3, and I was now in second place behind Joe (325.2) with 300.7 miles. I was pretty happy to hit 300 in under 72 hours! The biggest day-three casualty was Johnny Hällneby, with 56.4. I am still not sure what happened.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">300!</span></i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Day 3 lap splits. Foot injury at 55 hours.</span></i></td></tr>
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<b>Day 4
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At this point I'd have to say my prospects looked good. My daily mileage trajectory was much more consistent than anyone else's. Joe was ahead but I was now moving faster than he was, having worked through my foot issue. I saw my slow-start strategy as beginning to pay off, as it generally does in shorter races. Somehow it did not occur to any of us to reset the pacing plan for day four: we left it at 2:50 / 3:14, which would be 103.61 miles.
I held pace through the afternoon, but then the dreaded evening arrived again. Without the foot issue to distract me, the evening was emotionally tough. Brief exchanges with Amy on my walk laps helped a lot here. She had been through this, and had lots of great mental advice.
Finally, bedtime. Then all too soon, morning again, time to run. Restarting after a sleep break can be a pretty brutal experience... your feet feel like hamburger, muscles do not want to move, mind does not want to think. The later in the race it gets, the harder it is to get yourself back out there. But miraculously (and I think it's pretty much like this for everyone), after a lap or two the pain fades, the fog clears, and you can get back to normal running.
But I had not been running long at all when left hamstring tightness turned into significant pain. I couldn't run at all. The next several hours were filled with medical stops to try to diagnose and treat it. Finally Trishul Cherns' personal chiropractor, Craig Rubenstein, determined that it was likely a partial tear in the medial gastroc upper insertion, behind the knee. In fact, Dave Proctor had told me the day before that he'd seen some bruising there, so we'd been a little concerned. (I did not remember this at the time, but afterwards, rereading my EMU race report, I recalled that I'd had the same symptoms there, a year earlier. That race had ended for other reasons before it had gotten this bad. So, this is a recurring problem I will have to fix.)</span><br />
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Unfortunately, nothing we tried seemed to help a whole lot. Day four wound down with me still walking. I had only run 83.9 miles, well off my plan. However Joe had dropped to 76.9, so I was still gaining on him, and I maintained my lead over everyone else.
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Day 4 lap splits. Calf injury at 89 hours.</i></td></tr>
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<b>Day 5
</b>
This is where it gets interesting.
Eventually we settled on just icing the injury, taping on an instant-ice pack behind the knee. By this point Tiffany Kravec had actively joined the crew: she was assistant RD, but had volunteered in advance to be backup crew when my crew needed a break. Around here she'd decided she was needed and had stepped up in a big way, giving BJ and Amy a little breathing (and sleeping!) room. And after I'd been walking with the ice for a while, she convinced me to try running again. I was skeptical, but gave it a go. And what do you know, after running through some pain for a bit, it faded and I was able to run consistent 3:15s or so.
However, I kept up the medical stops, trying anything I could to address the underlying problem. This kind of thing can get out of hand — medical breaks are very convenient excuses to rest. And after the breaks kind of jumped the shark here, Tiffany gave me a needed talking to. I was not going to hit my goals if I kept lollygagging around. That was not what I was here for. I was going to have to let my crew drive, something I had never really done before. She promised that though parts would suck, they would not break me.
And... I gave up control. For many runners this is normal: they have not just crew, but "handlers", making all the decisions. That's not the way I do it. I feel like if I'm not driving, making the decisions, doing the math, then I'm not really participating. I don't want to be just the muscle.
But there comes a point where you have to let go, and trust your crew. For me, that point was on the fifth day. I was physically, mentally, and emotionally beat. My crew knew what they were doing, and knew what was important to me, thanks in part to my detailed crew manual. So I was able to trust them and let go. The real turning point was when I TOOK OFF MY GARMIN (a good thing in more ways than one — I had developed an RSI from hitting the lap button so many times!).
And, it was miraculously liberating! I began to synthesize in my head lessons from mindfulness meditation with the task at hand. My crew now had responsibility for all the decisions. My job was just to do what they told me, and report honestly on how my body and my mind were feeling. I had to adopt a mindful posture where my only concern was monitoring my state. When thoughts crept in that were not helpful I quickly learned to tag them as "incorrect" and reject them. It made no difference whether the thought might be logically correct: some speculation on when Joe might need to break, whether it might be better for me to get a little sleep now rather than later, concern about how much longer my calf had to hold out, whatever. Those thoughts were not correct, because thoughts are actions, and those thoughts were not the correct actions to take to advance my goals. (This is very similar to the Buddhist notion of "skillful" vs. "unskillful" thoughts.) Correct thoughts were to pay attention to how I was feeling, and in addition I developed three mantras: "Now is bliss" (because actually, running at the moment was pretty pleasant, if I let it be), "My crew loves me", and "Liz is coming". This was my emotional secret weapon: my wife Liz would be here soon, straight from Burning Man, after a long day of travel.
The one downside to this state was that I completely cut myself off from the other runners; I was 100% inwardly focused. A few times someone would start to chat with me, and I would just say "I'm not here" and keep moving. I felt bad, but I didn't have the resources to spare. My self, literally, was not there. Later in the race, I apologized where I could.
After a few hours of this, well, it was hard, but it was working. I could tangibly sense the magnitude of the burden that had been lifted from me. I felt like I had discovered the key to infinite power. I felt enormous gratitude for my crew: they were doing all the work of getting me to my goal. Also the mindfulness aspect I was executing resonated with my understanding of neuroscience, and with something Amy had told me the night before: you learn the skills you need for multiday racing by doing it. And I saw now how that was happening. This was like a very intense mindfulness retreat, where the stakes are so high you can't lose focus. In a flash I saw how my mindful running was being learned by my brain. It was skill memory, muscle memory, that you learn like learning to ride a bike, automatically in the basal ganglia, not cognitive learning that you have to consciously remember. I was not only executing the current race well; I was laying the foundation for even better races in the future. Win / win!
However, the mental key to infinite power will still only take you as far as your body will go. That was none of my concern; it was for my crew to deal with. And as I began to fade and weave they made the call to put me down early for an hour and a half.
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When I awoke and was back at it, it was easier: there had still been some intimidation at how long I was going to have to maintain this mindful posture. But now I could add "It's working!" to my set of mantras. And before too much longer... Liz was there! I gave her a huge hug, and began to describe my new enlightenment. I think maybe I freaked her out a little bit. Running for six days does certainly put you into an altered state of consciousness. In fact for many, myself included, that's kind of the point. Running long distances is a way of exploring aspects of yourself, ways of experiencing reality, that would otherwise be inaccessible.
Somewhere in here running became too difficult, alas, not so much because of the calf pain as because of the aerobic cost. I realize now that my training did not support holding 101 miles for six days, and I have promising ideas on how to alter my training in the future, a step that I believe should help my 24-hour racing substantially as well. Thank you to Ray Krolewicz for an insightful conversation here. But for now, fortunately, my speed walk was still reasonably formidable.
As night became morning, I had a few more short breaks, and I began to get very cold, now that there was not much running. I'd been comfortable in just a shortsleeve so far, but for the last day plus I was fully bundled up, with two shirts, two jackets, a vest, gloves, handwarmers, and two hats! I hit a fashion milestone with the outer layer, Amy's puffy jacket. This garnered some looks, but I didn't care. Not my most daring running attire, by far.</span><br />
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As day 5 wound down, there'd been no single large sleep break as with the first four days. My crew was executing more fine-grained control, giving me short breaks when I needed them. And we'd finally brought out the big guns, Red Bull and NoDoz.
In spite of the injury, I'd run 77.8 miles on day five, well ahead of Joe's 68. Johnny, Budjargal, and Dave Johnston, to their credit, had mounted strong comebacks after their early problems, but were all still well behind. The question on everyone's mind now was, could I catch Joe? His lead was down to less than 8 miles.
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Day 5 lap splits. Crew took over driving at 102 hours.</i></td></tr>
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<b>Day 6
</b>
Day 6 is a bit of a blur. Crew put me down for an hour and half around 3:30. After this, Dr. Carolyn Smith was available to help, and did some lymphatic drainage, increasing blood flow to my legs. I made some more attempts to run for short stretches, but it was a lot of work, and I mostly settled back into the speed walk.
In the evening, my quads became very tight. Dave Proctor, who happens to be a massage therapist, was great company for many of us late in the race, after his own goals were long gone. He offered to work on me, and loosened things up nicely. He also contributed some tasty pecan pies!
As the evening wore on the looming question was, when would Joe go down for a break? I was now within striking distance. But this is Joe's part of the race. He is a tactical master when it gets to anything like this point. Finally, around midnight, when he'd passed 500 miles, Joe took a break. But by that point I needed one too, and my crew was of the opinion that I had nothing to lose by breaking as well. If I pushed through, Joe would be able to start running again fresh by the time I caught him, and I'd need a break even more. So, I went down as well (as Joe assumed I would!).
By 2 a.m. we are both back out there. To me it is clear it is all over — Joe has the cushion he needs to stay ahead. I shake his hand and we walk a lap together. But my crew is not too thrilled at this. They tell me I am moving better than Joe, and not only that, Johnny and Dave are gaining on me! I pick up the walk speed. After a few more laps it looks to me like I have a chance — Joe is moving very casually, stopping to chat with people, leaving the track to brush his teeth. He's down to 8 laps, just two miles, ahead. And Mike Dobies, his handler, is nowhere to be seen. I decide to go for it. I crank the walk laps up to 3:45, a few 3:30s in there (that's 12:42 / mile pace). I'm still not running, but I'm moving faster than many who are. Joe finally wakes up and moves alongside. I slap him on the back — "It's on!". But, this was just the way Joe wanted to play it. He was never in any danger. Once his big goals were gone he used just as much effort as needed to stay ahead of me. </span><br />
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I gave chase for an hour and a half or so. It was hard work, but I could have kept it up longer. But I didn't. Joe convinced me he could easily counter whatever I had, and I basically conceded. Joe was thoroughly in his element; I was a novice playing his game. He had outmaneuvered me, even though I literally have a Ph.D. in game theory!
But the race was not yet over. In psychology, there is a thing called the "endowment effect": we are a lot more motivated to hold on to what we already have than to acquire what we don't. Over the next few hours, I received a very strong lesson in how this manifests in racing.
With about five hours to go, the most ridiculous and amazing thing happened. Dave Johnston started chasing me from 10 miles back. It looked impossible, yet he was flying. I did the math and realized that if I didn't work hard, his pace would be enough. I mean, it was a RIDICULOUS pace for the end of a 6-day. I saw laps (443m) as low as 2:08, most around 2:15. He made it look effortless, with a constant smile on his face. I was moving at a decent 4:30ish walk pace, and could no longer run. But I had to step it up. To catch me he would have to lap me 9 times an hour, quite a lot. I sped my walk laps up to 3:45, as fast as I could manage consistently, a pretty decent speedwalk. And... 7 minutes later, he flew by. "Good work, Bob." Damn. 6 minutes later, "good work, Bob". 7 minutes. 7. 8. 6. If we both held our paces to the end, it would be very, very close. And Joe had to keep up too! If by some chance he faltered, any of the three of us could win.
Dave held what he needed for something like two and a half hours, while Joe stuck on me (as he had on Yiannis Kouros at the end of ATY, after getting a few laps up). Nobody there could believe it; it was like it was out of a dream. A nightmare for me, but Dave certainly made the finish exciting. Finally, he ran out of gas. WHEW!
The point is that though it felt like I was going to rupture my Achilles, NO WAY was I going to yield second, not after all I had been through. And yet, the difference between first and second is infinitely more than that between second and third. If I could have channeled that kind of energy earlier when I was chasing Joe, who knows what might have happened? This is the endowment effect in action.
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Men's podium and race director. Bob, Joe, Steve, Dave J.</span></i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">With Johnny Hällneby and Trishul Cherns</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">And that's basically it. The last couple of hours, the race was effectively over. I walked it in to hit 530 miles, a number I would not have managed without Dave pushing me. It's not 606; it's not 551. But it's a number I have to be very happy with. It puts me at #7 on the all-time US six-day list.
And more importantly, I now have a solid six-day finish, having worked through and survived several challenges, with the substantial help of my crew. I've learned an enormous amount. I have to be optimistic about the future.
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Day 6 lap splits. Battle with Joe and Dave towards the end.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Tiffany, Amy, BJ, Bob, and Liz. Missing Pam and Paul.</span></i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It wouldn't be the same without Ken Michal</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Summary Charts</b></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My laps splits for all 6 days</span></i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For those who understand Mike Dobies' charts, this shows<br />the race among the lead men. Note: left axis is in miles, not km.</span></i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Mike Dobies' mileage chart for top men</span></i></td></tr>
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<b>Takeaway
</b>
So what can I take away from this experience? A hell of a lot, I think. A million little things, experiences that will give me more grounding and confidence for next time. The knowledge that I can actually do this, and run with the big dogs. But the two big specific things are (1) the experience of handing over control to my crew on day 5, forcing me to run in a totally mindful state, and (2) that brief conversation with Ray Krolewicz about why it was so aerobically hard to run even very slowly late in the race.
What was it Ray said? Simply this: "Well of course it's aerobically hard. Half your muscle fibers aren't working anymore; the other half need twice as much oxygen to do the same job." Doh! Why had that never occurred to me before?! I've always thought that 24-hour and longer races should be ultimately limited by cumulative muscle damage. That's why I start slow, to defer the inevitable collapse as long as possible. But somehow it had never clicked in my head that muscle damage could in turn cause oxygen delivery and utilization to be a limiting factor.
Instantly, I understood that I was screwed. I've taken kind of a perverse pride in doing essentially no speedwork for very long, flat races. I figured any excess aerobic capacity, beyond what I need to run effortlessly at my goal pace, is wasted. There are no hills where I'd need energy bursts. Why put extra stress on my body training faster, and building a bigger, heavier engine than I would ever need? Mitochondria and capillaries make up about a third of muscle mass! I put my money instead on training specificity.
So why was I screwed? Because now I needed that excess aerobic capacity after all. The fibers that were working had to do a job they were not aerobically equipped to do. Clearly, I had reached the point in the race where I was compromised by muscle damage. I explained this to my crew... they were not amused. Actually they were quite upset with Ray, because I now seemed unmotivated to even try running. But the fact is, while I was confident (perhaps overconfident) in my assessment of the situation, I DID continue to try running, though it was very painful with the calf injury. And I could never get more than about half a lap without getting out of breath.
Now, I fully realize that the true story of what was going on in my body is not nearly as simple as the picture I've painted. The fact is, muscle damage due to overuse (aka long-lasting fatigue) is a very complex, incompletely understood phenomenon. For starters, there is both mechanical damage, due mainly to eccentric loading, and metabolic damage, due to activity beyond the muscle's capacity to sustain homeostasis. Since the race, I've done a ton of reading here, and some numerical modeling. But the basic logic still seems clear: when you have less functional muscle available, you need greater aerobic capacity to use it.
At the beginning, I said "I see at least three major changes in store for how I approach races of 24 hours or longer; I am rethinking everything." So what are those changes?</span><br />
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<li><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I have to train faster than race pace! This is obvious to most people. I'm a slow learner.</span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Even pacing is not necessarily best! I will dive into this in more detail in my next blog post. But the basic point is this: using simple numerical models of cumulative muscle damage, treating it as the limiting factor, I've realized that my intuitions are completely wrong. Starting slow potentially wastes a lot of performance. Seeing this come out of the simulations absolutely floored me. Again, this seems obvious to most who run these kinds of races. Of COURSE you have to slow down later, so you'd better start faster. Again, I'm a slow learner. So, these two changes may be quite consequential to me, but I don't think I'm spilling any big secrets here for anyone else.</span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">This one is fuzzier, but I need to work much more on mindful running, allowing only "correct" or "skillful" thoughts. I always do this to some extent, but here I entered a qualitatively new zone on day 5. Everything clicked. The fuzzy part is that here, this coincided with handing over control to my crew, but in general the relation to who is in control is something I will have to think harder about.</span></li>
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<b>Aftermath
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The cost in recovery time of a big six-day effort is not to be underestimated. I was warned, but still not really prepared. For starters, the first evening afterwards was very rough. Liz ran to the drugstore three times for bandages, ice packs, etc. By the next morning I actually felt decent, but by the time I got back to California that evening, well... you know cankles, right? We all get them after a hard 100. OK, but have you ever had cankles up to your waist? For a week? I was like the Michelin Man. I was carrying literally an extra 25 pounds of water weight. There were other unusual anatomical consequences I will spare you the details of. On the mental front, it took a solid two weeks before I could sleep through the night without being convinced I was still running laps.
But the longer-term effects can be much more systemic and subtle. I was signed up for Big's Backyard, two months after the Dome. It was hard, but I took a DNS. I was nowhere near where I needed to be physically, and more importantly, mentally. It takes a LONG time to get your head back in the game. Several Dome runners did run Big's. None but Dave Proctor (who effectively dropped early at the dome) even made it to 24 hours — truly shocking. Even now, five-plus months later, I don't think I'm completely recovered mentally. So, caveat emptor. Or more pedantically, caveat cursor.
<b>Thank You
</b>
Thank you to Joe for the impetus for putting this race together. It was a world-class venue and event that attracted world-class talent. Thank you to RD Steve Durbin, assistant RD Tiffany Kravec, and to Terri Durbin and Nation Kravec for additional help with organization and execution. Everything came off close to perfectly. Thank you to Mike Melton and Brandon Wilson for top-notch timing. Thank you to Doc Lovy and the rest of the medical staff for keeping me moving, and to John Vonhof for keeping my feet happy. Thank you to Trishul Cherns and Craig Rubinstein, and to Carolyn Smith, for additional work on my legs, and to Dave Proctor for that excellent massage (and pies!). Thank you to SWORD Nutrition for sponsoring the race.
Most of all thank you to my fabulous crew of Pam Smith, Amy Mower, BJ Timoner, Paul Erickson, Tiffany Kravec, and Liz Hearn. I COULD NOT have done it without you. It was truly a team effort.
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Bob Hearnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01351956832733163825noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2382599380750777712.post-67652748998771649612019-05-16T19:35:00.000-07:002019-05-16T19:53:25.749-07:00Lhotse 24-hour 2019<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">NOTE TO READERS:</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">For completeness I'm adding my Facebook post about Lhotse to my blog. This is not one of my typical Tolstoy-length posts, with abundant detail and analysis. The only thing new is that I've added my pace chart for reference.</span><br />
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My spring goal race, for which I’d trained very hard, sacrificed a lot, and felt in better shape than Desert Solstice, fell far short of my expectations. It’s ironic that I received this bounteous harvest of hardware (to put it mildly!) for that train wreck of a performance.
To begin with I have to thank Wyatt and Julia Hockmeyer for flawlessly organizing the race, all of the volunteers for a helpful and friendly attitude, and Mark Cunningham and Warren Wood for comprehensive, capable crew support. They all gave me every chance to hit my goals. As did the weather, which was near-ideal for big numbers. A rare opportunity, squandered.
Yes I won the race, and even set a new course record. I don't diminish the accomplishment. But 123.28 miles is not what I was there for. I was there to defend my #6 US team spot for World Championships, which meant running a minimum of 155.1. Not in the same universe. Because Jon Olsen also had a bad day, I retain my tenuous hold here for now, but after several top-level challengers take their shot at D3 in 8 weeks, I am not optimistic. (You can stop here if you want!)
I had four main problems.
1. Bad pacing. I paced for 157.6 miles, which would have put me in the #2 spot and virtually assured me of making the team. Or maybe #3 depending on how Jon did. This was 3.6 miles farther than my Desert Solstice performance, a large jump from a very solid PR effort. Alternatively I could have paced for 155.1, putting me in the #4 spot. But if Jon (a former 24-hour World Champion) ran well too that would be #5, and only two people would have to beat me at D3 to bump me from the team. Tough decision, but I chose to be aggressive. I felt confident I could improve on Desert Solstice. I also had the thought that if I could run 157+ here I could legitimately target 160 at Worlds, a number I have aspired to for years. Now I know 157.6 was not achievable for me today. By the time I realized that the damage was done, and my race was effectively over.
2. Bad stomach. I seem to have become intolerant to my carefully engineered sport-drink mix. I’m not sure what I can do about this. There's a line of thinking that you can never "solve" nutrition in a race like this, because once you find something that works you learn to associate it with pain.
3. Bad mental game. At Desert Solstice I went through a bad patch where, for no real reason, I really did not want to be there, and felt an enormous desire to quit. I persevered and succeeded. Here it was worse, and earlier. I don’t know what to do about this either. There are people who say that you only have so many good 24-hour efforts in you. Maybe they are right. It is a very tough mental challenge, and exacts a cost.
4. Bad body. This was really the clincher. After Desert Solstice, recovery was slow, finally diagnosed as right hip flexor tendinitis/tendinosis. I did a lot of PT, and was diligent with my exercises for the past couple of months. In the last few weeks of heavy training the issue seemed to be completely resolved. It wasn’t. I have no way of knowing whether the tendons would have held out had my pacing been less aggressive, but I suspect maybe not.
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEes5dDYc38gHOGZSSk0RMEX-VKrFtPjLAUL8IdwXLd7xqtcq0EhysobaN6DDmbCt5nbH6GnDX_efKvD0MX5KdrcWDGyvt4JYzWHCuYLRXIkqRtyf1a0ZXspupqaOoALOWjVxidopvmp-B/s1600/54526026_10213168650920973_3812588996316364800_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center; white-space: normal;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1554" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEes5dDYc38gHOGZSSk0RMEX-VKrFtPjLAUL8IdwXLd7xqtcq0EhysobaN6DDmbCt5nbH6GnDX_efKvD0MX5KdrcWDGyvt4JYzWHCuYLRXIkqRtyf1a0ZXspupqaOoALOWjVxidopvmp-B/s320/54526026_10213168650920973_3812588996316364800_o.jpg" width="316" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Pic by Alicia Campbell</i></td></tr>
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Here’s how it played out:
Through 8.5 hours, Jon and I each consistently held to our respective pacing plans, both moving smoothly. I had already struggled a bit mentally as the hip-flexor issue made itself known approaching 8 hours. Fortunately, after the 8-hour turnaround, the pain disappeared. By this point Jon was 17 laps (4.25 miles) ahead of me, lapping me like clockwork every half hour, on pace for 170ish miles… then, surprisingly, Jon started having issues and slowed dramatically. I did not expect the race to get interesting until maybe 16 hours in. But by about 10 hours I had already taken the lead. </span><br />
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On the one hand, this lifted a mental burden from me – it appeared that, at least, I would not get bumped today. This stilled some of those negative voices, and for a short while I was reenergized and optimistic. But on the other hand, this was not how I’d wanted Jon’s race to end. I’d hoped we could both make it to Albi for World Championships. I’d also hoped we could push each other to solid performances. Instead, with Jon out of the picture, this would become just a time trial for me, and time trials suck.
And then, it was my turn. As my stomach and my head faltered, I tried backing off the pace for a bit to regroup. Instead I needed an unprecedented second extended potty stop by 11 hours. After that I walked a few laps to try to reset my stomach and my head, pretty much giving up on my A goal of 157.6. But when I tried to start running again, I couldn’t; the hip flexor would not allow it. Jon regrouped, and retook the lead. At this point I was very close to quitting. But after various forms of treatment and a little more time walking I was able to get moving again, and once more the pain miraculously disappeared. I was now completely off of any coherent pacing plan. My only focus was to stay in the game, by whatever means necessary, on the chance that I’d eventually be able to get back to solid running and still have a shot at 155.1. It’s happened before. This meant just running at whatever pace I felt I could comfortably manage without exacerbating the tendons further.
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Becky Cunningham running by Mark Cunningham's comprehensive crew station. With Warren Wood.</i></td></tr>
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As I held this easy pace and began moving well again I retook the lead, and it became apparent that Jon’s race was indeed over. Unfortunately this easy pace never got any faster, and over the next few hours any shot I had at 155.1 slowly slipped away. Maybe, at some point, I should have made one last concerted effort to get back on a successful pace, but I just couldn’t make myself – I was pretty sure that would just end my race. My last thought was to hold solid ’til 100 miles and see where I was. I hit that at 15:51, much later than planned, but early enough to maybe salvage a “good” race. With nothing else to focus on now, I decided to give it one final shot, start running at a pace that would let me hit 150. A somewhat meaningless number here, but one I could still be proud of. No other American over 50 has ever run over 145.
But after just a few laps it was obvious that this wasn’t going to happen. Instead it now hurt to walk. I should probably have stopped here, as Jon did. With all your goals gone, sometimes it’s best to cut your losses and save it for another day. But I chose to stay… I think maybe because of all the mental effort to stay in the game earlier, I had gotten myself into the mindset that I was going to stick it out, with whatever goals were still achievable. There was holding onto the win, for one thing. I asked Wyatt what the course record was – 119. OK, plenty of time to walk it in to that if I could get walking again.
The last 8 hours were spent alternately sitting by Mark’s propane heater, waiting for the tendons to settle, and walking in the freezing cold, with all my layers on. The slower I walked the colder I was, but the faster I walked the quicker the tendons said no. There was no possibility of further running. It was uncomfortable, tedious, and pretty pointless. But eventually the race was over, and that was that.
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Bob Hearnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01351956832733163825noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2382599380750777712.post-72583181750826626782018-12-18T18:54:00.001-08:002018-12-29T10:00:30.136-08:00Desert Solstice 2018<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL3t_zldDR6ad4pnLiM6TB2EttA4GLyVM1NfQEM-1AN62-bi7nWAX8c_O5UE2TodpJSIHlDLAXx9T0llZAePG9wkDIo-wGAJFfwCrxEPtR1Y_OgSxYTk_R2q-YZ-mgQeGq-w9xucieMXyG/s1600/HStern_DS-101.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL3t_zldDR6ad4pnLiM6TB2EttA4GLyVM1NfQEM-1AN62-bi7nWAX8c_O5UE2TodpJSIHlDLAXx9T0llZAePG9wkDIo-wGAJFfwCrxEPtR1Y_OgSxYTk_R2q-YZ-mgQeGq-w9xucieMXyG/s640/HStern_DS-101.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Pic by Howie Stern</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Well, uh... wow. This is a race that will be remembered for a long time. Of course the highlight is Camille Herron's 24-hour World Record. But beyond that, the deepest field ever yielded the biggest 24-hour results ever on American soil.</span><br />
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For me personally, the day went close to perfectly, and represents the culmination of years of effort to run a good 24-hour. But others also had incredible days, and it's a little surreal to have run 154 and finished off the podium! A very disorienting mix of success and failure.
This report will be heavy on analysis, in addition to the story of my own race. There is a lot to take in and learn from.
If you don't know, Desert Solstice is an invitational 24-hour track race, put on by Aravaipa Running. You run as many laps as you can on a 400m track in 24 hours. It's limited to 30 runners (this year stretched to 33) who have put up big numbers at 24-hour or 100-mile races, and it was a big honor for me to be invited once again.
<b>My Background</b>
My primary running goal for the past four years has been to make the US national 24-hour team and represent the US at the World Championships. In 2017 I ran 152.155 miles, becoming the first American over 50 to break 150 miles, but came up just barely short of making the team. The next chance would be for the 2019 team. I had a disastrous Desert Solstice 2017, stopping early at 93 miles with a backwards lean I could not shake.
For 2018 I decided I had to branch out and try different things; it was too unsatisfying perpetually banging my head against 24 hours. I had very successful runs at Snowdrop 55-hour and Spartathlon, with EMU 6-day and Badwater 135 going less well and representing learning experiences for next time. But all year long I had my eye on Desert Solstice as my one chance for the 2019 team.
Especially, my PR at Spartathlon boded well and left me optimistic as I began my Desert Solstice-specific training. With only 10 weeks between the two races I didn't have a lot of high-mileage weeks, but what I had was solid, and Spartathlon itself represented excellent training. As well, I had focused all year on increased core work and form drills to combat the lean.
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">2018 weekly mileage. Spikes are Snowdrop 55-hour, Umstead 100, <br />EMU 6-day (2.5-day for me), Badwater, Spartathlon, Desert Solstice</span></i></td></tr>
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A few days before Desert Solstice I had a DXA body scan. Compared to just before my PR race at Run4Water, I was down two-plus pounds of fat and up one-plus pound of muscle. Again, very encouraging! Heading into my 9th 24-hour race, I felt I had a solid handle on how the race should go, and how to deal with any issues that could arise – except for the lean. There I had to cross my fingers and hope that I'd done enough work to prevent it.
My pace plan had me at 154.5 miles if I could hold even pacing throughout, something I had never before quite achieved. Nonetheless I came into the race as confident as I've ever been of a good result, feeling like I was in the best shape of my life.
As in past years, I would be joined by my wife Liz and my good friend Scott Holdaway as crew, and this time Pam Smith would be filling in as well while also crewing Maggie Guterl. What luxury!
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>The Lineup</b>
At Desert Solstice 2015, I finished second to Pete Kostelnick. In 2016 I won the men's race and finished second overall to Courtney Dauwalter. For 2018... I was ranked at the very bottom of the entrant list on Ultrasignup! This was the deepest field ever at an American 24-hour.
The men's field was headlined by Zach Bitter, 100-mile American Record holder, going for his first full 24 since 2014; and Pat Reagan, who had taken Zach's course record at Javelina Jundred, stepping up to 24 for the first time. Pete Kostelnick, who has the course record with 163+, was returning – but likely not at 100% after a 5,000-mile self-supported run from Alaska to Florida. (Originally Jon Olsen, 2013 24-hour World Champion, was also entered, but he withdrew late, insufficiently recovered from Spartathlon.)
One step down from these true elites was a plethora of runners any of whom could have a breakout race over 150. The usual suspects at 24-hour were Olaf Wasternack, Greg Soutiea, 2015 US team member Greg Armstrong, Andrew Snope, Desert Solstice 2017 winner Adrian Stanciu, James Elson (competing for a UK team spot), and myself. All of us had put up solid 24s in the past couple of years. In addition we had Badwater winners Zach Gingerich and Oswaldo Lopez, 2013 24-hour team member Nick Coury, and relative unknown Jake Jackson, who had won several races this year, with a 134-mile 24-hour. And then there were several more runners who were talented and could put up a surprise big number. Basically everyone here was a star, otherwise they would not have been invited.
The women's side, at the very top, was even more exciting and competitive. The matchup between </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666984558105px; white-space: pre-wrap;">24-hour American Record holder </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Courtney Dauwalter and </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666984558105px; white-space: pre-wrap;">100-mile World Record holder </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Camille Herron had long been anticipated, and looked to provide the real drama of the race. Both would be going for Patrycja Bereznowska's 24-hour World Record of 161.55 miles. My money was that one or maybe both would beat all the men.</span><br />
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In addition we had Maggie Guterl, 2015 24-hour team member (and 4th at Worlds); former 24-hour American Record holder Connie Gardner; and Micah Morgan, running her first 24 but very accomplished at 100-mile, and fresh off a solid third-place finish at Badwater. Adela Salt, Stacey Costa, Chavet Breslin, Suzi Swinehart, and Emily Collins rounded out the likely podium contenders.
Apart from the many World, American, and age-group records at stake, the main focus of the race would be the fight for national team spots. This is what the qualifying picture looked like heading in:
MEN
1. Olivier Leblond (AUTO) 161.5698 miles
2. Steve Slaby 157.032 miles
3. Harvey Lewis 153.49 miles
4. Jon Olsen 152.993 miles
5. Greg Armstrong 151.2 miles
6. Adrian Stanciu 150.275 miles
WOMEN
1. Katalin Nagy (AUTO) 155.729 miles
2. Megan Alvarado (AUTO) 140.569 miles (also 146.87 miles)
3. Courtney Dauwalter 159.327 miles (American Record)
4. Gina Slaby 154.271 miles
5. Pam Smith 151.372 miles
6. Whitney Richman 133.721 miles
It appeared that 153.5 was the number for me and for the other men to beat to have a decent chance of holding a team spot through the end of qualifying in May (Zach and Pat would likely be shooting higher). In spite of the substantial competition, I was confident that if I could run my goal, that would certainly net a podium spot, and quite possibly the win. It's one thing to have the talent to put up a big number; it's quite another to actually do it. I liked my chances. If I could end the day in the #3 or #4 spot I would be happy.
For the women the picture was a little more complicated. Courtney was essentially already on the team, but Camille was a legitimate threat to take a spot with a very big number. The remaining women were probably fighting for the soft #6 spot, though it was not impossible to have two or even three women (besides Courtney) over 151, bumping Pam. (Though Megan had only run 146.87 she was an auto for winning the National Championships, and could not be bumped.) Bear in mind, however, that until last year, the women's American Record at 24-hour was 152 miles. 151 is a really, really big number to beat; the level of talent now on the women's 24-hour team is nothing short of phenomenal.
In fact, 150 is a big number for men or women. In all of 2016, not a single US runner of either gender broke 150.
<b>The Race</b></span><br />
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For all the preparation I'd put into this race, my day started frantically, as I made a last-minute decision to run in tried-and-true Clayton 2s instead of the lighter NB Beacons. It was only while I was changing shoes at the track that I realized I'd left my ankle timing band in my hotel room! Scott had just enough time to run back and get it, crisis averted.
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Pic by Chris Worden</span></i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Maggie and Courtney. Pic by Tracey Outlaw</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">The first several hours of the race passed without incident, as I stuck to my slow-start splits, running 2:14s and walking one minute every six laps. As expected I quickly dropped to the back of the pack. As late as eight hours in I was 23rd overall (of 33), 15th male (of 20). Also as expected, Camille, Zach, and Pat went out fast, running 2ish-minute laps, Zach a bit faster. 2:00 laps is pace for 179 miles if they were to hold it! Most runners do not try to come anywhere close to even splits at 24-hour. We'll get back to this in some detail later in the analysis section. Less expected, Jake Jackson pretty much stuck with them through four hours. I wasn't paying that much attention to who was where at that point, but had I been, I'd have been pretty confident that Jake at least was going to have a short, painful day. Boy was I wrong.
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCWotyekoHbgzsRzeZkywduwlvxFRgeD6eWJQg81tm16odbpXCuXbsBVdFZ5eJIfSXbQB2mgWPqDFIFd5qADYgwO_5WvMk7Hi_0mLO0zy_GyKGoFWFhMRmVAPJ2rC6e2bWWIa4eVBLum3t/s1600/47682876_1310198479123150_1487741023105843200_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCWotyekoHbgzsRzeZkywduwlvxFRgeD6eWJQg81tm16odbpXCuXbsBVdFZ5eJIfSXbQB2mgWPqDFIFd5qADYgwO_5WvMk7Hi_0mLO0zy_GyKGoFWFhMRmVAPJ2rC6e2bWWIa4eVBLum3t/s400/47682876_1310198479123150_1487741023105843200_n.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Jake Jackson showing us how it's done. Pic by Tracey Outlaw</span></i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6uA75is4P6btYAqeIzslFzrvak9aZxHb-c80uKZ6u2PAT5l0FY5cCc3dtA0Y1XmJM5qqrAXcHMePZumzk9iRG0uB_0u6Y9TPl3ySXyFnGniSXhULAj3hQI1446yCeDCWoixQFT_xEvv7e/s1600/48365357_1309899885819676_2574261371243855872_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6uA75is4P6btYAqeIzslFzrvak9aZxHb-c80uKZ6u2PAT5l0FY5cCc3dtA0Y1XmJM5qqrAXcHMePZumzk9iRG0uB_0u6Y9TPl3ySXyFnGniSXhULAj3hQI1446yCeDCWoixQFT_xEvv7e/s400/48365357_1309899885819676_2574261371243855872_o.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Pic by Tracey Outlaw</span></i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9KWpmjFjhuw18ycWT7npMwTc22FN1ywm3oen0GerSN0Pxs7-ThLCQYxoHJAGwi1Agsgj9tAraJ-43OX4gfVA33eqkE15cjq2eTa2FH7NSg3dlC1S_EPH2qXRPYpb5OZNDjM2UZJWEDpGj/s1600/DuOiftBUwAA_v3A.jpg-large.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1066" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9KWpmjFjhuw18ycWT7npMwTc22FN1ywm3oen0GerSN0Pxs7-ThLCQYxoHJAGwi1Agsgj9tAraJ-43OX4gfVA33eqkE15cjq2eTa2FH7NSg3dlC1S_EPH2qXRPYpb5OZNDjM2UZJWEDpGj/s400/DuOiftBUwAA_v3A.jpg-large.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Zach motoring. Pic by Jubilee Paige</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Courtney went out a little slower. She's very experienced at 24 and didn't feel the need to start that fast even to run a World Record. Unfortunately, she was the first of the headliners to fall. By around 100K it was clear that her legs were not going to cooperate, and I was very sad to see her step off the track. She'd had a huge year, most recently running for 67 hours at Big's Backyard Ultra just six weeks prior, and it seems this was just one race too many. Courtney being Courtney, she stuck around and cheered the rest of us on for the remainder of the race.
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1NOqz5aviDDrZQeo9qN71P-ZiTRmRpNqJvqtUOI8mtNXDyVWh41tVHiP9YeuCP5Lqyn6gLVk4fG3rW4eXERWx-rSXcF8WUkNQVlsAuNmQYfs0N5X75YxIeBFarZWZi-VwqT5QcE2bBNcI/s1600/47578913_1309843265825338_1334260839229685760_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="682" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1NOqz5aviDDrZQeo9qN71P-ZiTRmRpNqJvqtUOI8mtNXDyVWh41tVHiP9YeuCP5Lqyn6gLVk4fG3rW4eXERWx-rSXcF8WUkNQVlsAuNmQYfs0N5X75YxIeBFarZWZi-VwqT5QcE2bBNcI/s400/47578913_1309843265825338_1334260839229685760_n.jpg" width="283" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Veteran Greg Armstrong and Andrew Snope, who broke his own barefoot 24-hour Guinness World Record<br />Pic by Tracey Outlaw</span></i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1SRDHTxzryjtNs_G22xJUZo-HU17CtY7OFrRFrhEqGLpj3Gsmi9tI87WnNCSC3GsGvhe3ViOyZ48S-3FC2tIg9MkOejEEJ70C-3eH9Piqv8NAioSFm8lE6UiKtNEK8CbxMqBz8L2hKVek/s1600/47687382_1310198542456477_6827305431338057728_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1SRDHTxzryjtNs_G22xJUZo-HU17CtY7OFrRFrhEqGLpj3Gsmi9tI87WnNCSC3GsGvhe3ViOyZ48S-3FC2tIg9MkOejEEJ70C-3eH9Piqv8NAioSFm8lE6UiKtNEK8CbxMqBz8L2hKVek/s400/47687382_1310198542456477_6827305431338057728_n.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Metronome Nick Coury rocking his pink Nikes. Pic by Tracey Outlaw</span></i></td></tr>
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The heat of the day arrived, but it was not too bad, high 60s, and I had done plenty of sauna training. I put on my arm sleeves to wet them, and a desert hat filled with ice. I began drinking more water.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuyDg-Ra6vawq0XPkNfWlVyaNJNz18Jp20P3jQLmzMzMVhqjXTg9wmRos-eVokV5b473npk-WHMidWDRhBbJTynA4m3aVhAxjZFzj2_5GV6hfHSaHp3RvvK3lnZRNjyVyXb5D__YBj1Xnu/s1600/IMG_1216.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuyDg-Ra6vawq0XPkNfWlVyaNJNz18Jp20P3jQLmzMzMVhqjXTg9wmRos-eVokV5b473npk-WHMidWDRhBbJTynA4m3aVhAxjZFzj2_5GV6hfHSaHp3RvvK3lnZRNjyVyXb5D__YBj1Xnu/s400/IMG_1216.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Pic by Liz Hearn</span></i></td></tr>
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By about 10 or 11 hours in I had developed a huge grin. Though I have had races go perfectly through as long as 22 hours, somehow at Desert Solstice something has always gone wrong by 9 hours or so and I've had to regroup and lower my goal. So this was a breakthrough of sorts. However, things would shortly start to turn south. I began to get a little intestinal discomfort – I wasn't really sure whether it was GI stress or tired core stabilizers from the effort to lean a little more forward. Just something in the abdominal region that wasn't quite happy. I asked my crew to switch from my custom-engineered drink mix (similar to Maurten) to 50/50 Coke and water, just for a change. Also my right hip abductors began to get a little sore; I've had problems here before and had added more glute exercises this time around.</span><br />
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXpW_N9pwRxu-tizohL4xQL4SA1OIcxfXMCW6LYBydqMMj6Q8zw_b7aONhMva57Gklm9LBDB0uOecL8VMJeNGChL5xEGy8eezzMwI3E6zIcgmDKMmUQ0VQLrmvvaraNN-YERWBYOopb2Zk/s1600/DS+2018+pete+oswaldo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="640" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXpW_N9pwRxu-tizohL4xQL4SA1OIcxfXMCW6LYBydqMMj6Q8zw_b7aONhMva57Gklm9LBDB0uOecL8VMJeNGChL5xEGy8eezzMwI3E6zIcgmDKMmUQ0VQLrmvvaraNN-YERWBYOopb2Zk/s400/DS+2018+pete+oswaldo.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.800000190734863px;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">With legends Oswaldo Lopez and Pete Kostelnick. Pic by Howie Stern</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">The net consequence was that my attitude suddenly took a nose dive. It was late enough into the race that I should have pulled ahead of most of my competition; I hadn't. It was early enough that there was a huge amount of time left to endure. It was dark; I always have a rough day/night transition. Some part of my brain was beginning to say "This is going to hurt a hell of a lot and a lot of guys will beat you anyway. It's night; you really just want to go to bed". Now, intellectually I knew that my body still felt pretty good overall, better than it had here before, and almost certainly most of the guys ahead of me would not hold steady. That's just how 24-hour works. But try telling that to your emotions. They can be immune to logic.
I held on and came through 12 hours at 77.3 miles, right on target. After an extended potty stop I hoped the abdominal comfort at least would be relieved. But by 13 hours my attitude was still in the dumps. I really, really wanted to walk, nap, or even quit, quit running for good. Because of course if I gave in and quit when nothing was really wrong I'd never be able to respect myself as a runner again. I asked Pam for advice but I think just alarmed her – "My body is good but I just want to quit. What do I do?" Still, communicating my emotional state helped me feel less alone in my suffering. By 13 hours, though, it was not going away and I decided to pull out the big guns: I took a caffeine pill. I had thought to save that until at least 16 hours.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixb_L2p9Y7GY9-LHBjercaG_mwFTyfG-Sb7UeodH22ePA7QrvNe98RbFQ5iw1XOlZRH5OW3DoirVQvRd3ZXFgqCwvKvltmaV-9jIz6hLa9SIMvf4s0EtBBbHA3ZKRLKF0-dcuMLYKnSncs/s1600/IMG_8125-1024x768.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixb_L2p9Y7GY9-LHBjercaG_mwFTyfG-Sb7UeodH22ePA7QrvNe98RbFQ5iw1XOlZRH5OW3DoirVQvRd3ZXFgqCwvKvltmaV-9jIz6hLa9SIMvf4s0EtBBbHA3ZKRLKF0-dcuMLYKnSncs/s400/IMG_8125-1024x768.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Pam wins the tights contest. Pic by Eric Schranz</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Half an hour later, out of the blue, I puked. And puked. And puked. For an entire lap. I walked two more laps to settle down and regroup. (Maybe my emotions had known best after all?) Well, here it was. At least it was a new phase of the race and I could move on; my brain was engaged in a different way. So much for Coke; back to my drink mix. I'd just drink a little less. But what was my plan now? I was "justified" in slowing down, but could I afford to? Scott was on crewing duty; I'd left him with my pacing spreadsheet that he could plug numbers into. Given where I am now, suppose I start running 6 laps in 14:00 instead of 13:50; where does that put me at the finish? Answer: 153.45. Ugh. Not good enough. But it would have to do for now. Maybe I could claw my way back over the all-important 153.5 later.
Now I was truly running on a knife edge, with no margin for further error. However, it felt sustainable. The night cooled and I got into the mental groove of night-time running, which is actually a strength of mine once I survive the transition. Rather than try to nail average 14:00 sets of six laps, I contented myself with anything between 13:50 and 14:00, eating away slightly at that deficit on 153.5.
Zach and Camille blazed through 100 miles. Camille split in 13:25, handily surpassing Gina Slaby's then-WR of 13:45:49 from 2016, which still stood as the American track record. And now, Zach began to have issues. In fact I found myself passing both Zach and Pat. This was not wholly unexpected: I think both of them can be top 24-hour runners, but there is a learning curve, and they had laid a lot on the line by going out that fast. As had Camille. Suddenly my mental picture of the rest of the race updated. If Zach and Pat faded, that would leave just Jake and Greg Armstrong ahead of me – so I thought. Actually I was confused about where Nick was. We were within a lap, but during my puking episode he had pulled ahead. Nick had run absolutely steady all day; I was very impressed. I hadn't seen him at all for hours after the start, then I think I must have gradually lapped him, running laps slightly faster but falling back on the walk breaks. But now I was a little behind and running at the same pace, having slowed slightly. (You can see this clearly in the colorful graph below. Apparently Nick was running 2:19 laps, which would put him at 13:54 per six laps, essentially identical to me now.)
Jake and Greg were gradually slowing. Jake was so far ahead now that he would have to collapse for me to catch him. Actually I thought this not unlikely. He'd been about 7 miles ahead at 12 hours; that's huge, on pace for over 168 – with a PR coming in of 134. When I see that I think, that's a debt that has to be repaid; the second half is not going to be pretty. Meanwhile Greg was about a mile and a half ahead of me, and no longer faster than me. That could go either way. Greg was very experienced and came in with a recent PR of 151. Could he bust out mid-high 150s? Again I thought it more likely he would come tumbling back, but probably with a softer landing. Maybe I could catch him.
The next milestone would be 100 miles; I looked ahead to that. And was confused when Nick split 100 miles first. I think this is a peculiarity of how the on-track display screen shows position. When we were on the same lap it showed us in the same position, even though Nick was actually ahead.
As the night progressed I got more comfortable and continued to move well. Still, I didn't dare try to speed up. Logic dictated that the best policy would be to hold steady and wait for the guys ahead of me to come back. If nobody did, well, maybe I could kick closer to the end. I really, really wanted to run solidly to the end for once, which I had never done before. Speeding up now would be reckless.
The next milestone to look forward to was 200K. Scott informed me that on current pacing I'd hit it at 19:22. Great, just what I wanted. I already had the age-group American Records for 200K both on road and track. The track record was soft, 19:37; I'd handily beat that. But I wanted to beat the road (and overall) mark as well; I'd just make it. When I did, that put me one minute ahead of where I'd been at 200K at Run4Water, when I had run 152 – after falling apart the last two hours. This time, things would be different. Liz was back on the track crewing from about 19 hours on; her smiling face helped pull me through.
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTXKoOJcuGU8zbEu1InObqhnZYsLxzxRW2OsjNbbcK5gMuvWYa6Nvrffwl8NCzFSkWOAth1OzeuxRePPKkPi_Q7oyQrBjfnzqpoo-c93w4XIxm_J5C3pf5Fkf0FP6U-p4uc8RAUSVmAVAo/s1600/IMG_1229.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTXKoOJcuGU8zbEu1InObqhnZYsLxzxRW2OsjNbbcK5gMuvWYa6Nvrffwl8NCzFSkWOAth1OzeuxRePPKkPi_Q7oyQrBjfnzqpoo-c93w4XIxm_J5C3pf5Fkf0FP6U-p4uc8RAUSVmAVAo/s400/IMG_1229.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">New 200K age-group record. Pic by Liz Hearn</span></i></td></tr>
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In the meantime, Camille had hit the open 200K American Record, previously Courtney's, but then suffered a bad patch after 18 hours. She sat on the sidelines for a while, then walked several laps. I think most of us thought she was done, but she gradually picked up the pace until she was running steady 2:30ish laps. I asked her whether the World Record was still possible – yes! And she would do it! Wow. I believed she would. She is amazingly talented and driven, but I had not been sure that all the new stuff 24 hours would throw at her would be survivable on her first run longer than 13 hours, especially after starting so fast. But she was enduring it.
Meanwhile I had my own race to run. By now Zach was long gone, and Pat had been just walking for an hour or so; I would catch him shortly. My gut was beginning to get a little unhappy again; another long portapotty stop helped relieve the discomfort. However, shortly after 20 hours, another bout of puking ensued. In my effort to ease the abdominal pain I'd taken a HotShot, again being unsure whether maybe it was incipient cramps. I made the mistake of chasing it with my drink on the following lap, I think, and that was that.
This was very demoralizing; I thought 153.5 had just gone out the window. I slowed a little further and soldiered on. Now Nick pulled to 2-3 laps ahead of me.
As the final hours wound down it became clear that holding steady was not going to be good enough. Jake and Greg were still slowing, but not quickly enough, and Nick was still absolutely solid. My body still felt good. I was tempted to speed up with an hour and half or two hours to go, but I was too scared I wouldn't be able to hold a faster pace. I looked ahead, and realized that I could still salvage 153.5 if I could run 7 miles in the last hour. I thought I could probably manage that.
At 23:00 on the clock I started running 2:00 laps, skipping walk breaks, skipping nutrition. Just run. That's how I've finished Spartathlon three times, and the past two I've been the fastest guy in the race over the last 13 miles, running 6:30ish pace – though downhill. What could I lay down here? No faster than 2:00, it turned out. I made myself run a solid half hour at 2ish laps before checking the numbers again. In that time I'd gotten a couple of laps back on Greg, but I was still four behind. And I had not seen Nick at all; he must be matching me. Most people are running on fumes by the last hour, but not Greg and Nick. So much for any hope of catching either of them.
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTnIlhOVtb8bRU1hY783xqKjtvy7zpiLen-346IZd4_RPowuC-kT_AL6i1iUkgg08NLtqxdXCNicRR2ZUwrtZmMEVhsQktmfIqVmMq1Ba71atEjtgQYmh7D6ajqNJ2YVBldSltwZmfInkh/s1600/48046394_1310371362439195_8156739513306054656_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTnIlhOVtb8bRU1hY783xqKjtvy7zpiLen-346IZd4_RPowuC-kT_AL6i1iUkgg08NLtqxdXCNicRR2ZUwrtZmMEVhsQktmfIqVmMq1Ba71atEjtgQYmh7D6ajqNJ2YVBldSltwZmfInkh/s400/48046394_1310371362439195_8156739513306054656_n.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Pushing hard for the final team spot. Pic by Tracey Outlaw</span></i></td></tr>
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The numbers showed I now had 153.5 in the bag; I eased back slightly to 2:10ish laps. Once I hit 153.5 I saw I could reach my next goal, 153.85 miles: Martin Fryer's age-group 24-hour track World Record that's on the books. It would be of academic interest only, as new World Records are not surface-specific; Martin's record is grandfathered in. (In any case Stephane Ruel of France is my age and has run 161 on the track; he would have the record if it still existed.) Still, it was something. After that I had about a minute and a half left and saw that if I kicked in the last partial lap maybe I could break 154, so I did.
Final distance: 154.051 miles. Fourth male, fifth overall, new 24-hour American Record for over 50. Nick had actually started running 1:45s towards the end, pushing as hard as he could to catch Greg. But Greg matched him and finished a scant 100m ahead.
The crowd was following our three-way battle with excitement, yelling out my splits and distance to me every lap, but the real excitement towards the end was that Camille did manage to hang on and set a new 24-hour World Record, with 162.9 miles. Incredible! I'm honored to have been a part of the same race. Okie power for the win!
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTF2DPsRMf1vOg6DxX2ncpgAzzwCiSVrOtJmU2qr72Du6tbzadC-64iwren7FPnGg218WX72OeM5KFa_NcWBwhp03rGxQImI1nzWYwcMqdNBfRlfAf16Cs2p1su-7mMJhqjOEdfhIQO0G7/s1600/46117951_307981433151999_1680989629348116209_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="640" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTF2DPsRMf1vOg6DxX2ncpgAzzwCiSVrOtJmU2qr72Du6tbzadC-64iwren7FPnGg218WX72OeM5KFa_NcWBwhp03rGxQImI1nzWYwcMqdNBfRlfAf16Cs2p1su-7mMJhqjOEdfhIQO0G7/s400/46117951_307981433151999_1680989629348116209_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Camille Herron breaks the 24-hour World Record. Pic by Howie Stern</span></i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiM4WzWVFM2LrLbtZpMVdt3_WmqKOnFsiCxOkQzvNC6ehhQIu-WYWtcTYX4DErPva8T82MVZQTELKp2PbywXNtGUEi2muUiYK_jraj05Z-i4wzVMEyt-jmqGkpH7OE2d-HcyuwCKGJl-IM/s1600/IMG_1241.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiM4WzWVFM2LrLbtZpMVdt3_WmqKOnFsiCxOkQzvNC6ehhQIu-WYWtcTYX4DErPva8T82MVZQTELKp2PbywXNtGUEi2muUiYK_jraj05Z-i4wzVMEyt-jmqGkpH7OE2d-HcyuwCKGJl-IM/s400/IMG_1241.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">He'll live. I think. With Scott Holdaway, pic by Liz Hearn</span></i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fOTgekFGQoQja5nDO56T_nspd4kiNg2qsgcAqt4fjvA08nymSR9Vtu-JGaM98tczS8zeHTj8wbw7WMjSZ_90tqy9-pi_0nrp12ZR0fHJSQMds2enBlXjT8mulh0IA0L6XonbyVqm6q-Q/s1600/IMG_1255.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fOTgekFGQoQja5nDO56T_nspd4kiNg2qsgcAqt4fjvA08nymSR9Vtu-JGaM98tczS8zeHTj8wbw7WMjSZ_90tqy9-pi_0nrp12ZR0fHJSQMds2enBlXjT8mulh0IA0L6XonbyVqm6q-Q/s400/IMG_1255.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Accidental renaissance. Pic by Liz Hearn</span></i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-2R0KIkoEorb1ZKOm77kvDp8OfaqNEpXeKc0sHSALLwyHx-4L2JXA1TaeKz9B0GaGtY1wAo3EQCcQpKozXj-viCvlvmt05-Mmr_Ufg_swlpw1cZCyw6bvh4PZLIVCP-H20OldeAtUNTpf/s1600/IMG_1258.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-2R0KIkoEorb1ZKOm77kvDp8OfaqNEpXeKc0sHSALLwyHx-4L2JXA1TaeKz9B0GaGtY1wAo3EQCcQpKozXj-viCvlvmt05-Mmr_Ufg_swlpw1cZCyw6bvh4PZLIVCP-H20OldeAtUNTpf/s400/IMG_1258.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Bill Schultz and Scott helping me back for awards. Pic by Liz Hearn</span></i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXfSxuU4OpTov8Hz2VdM7cEFqNIj9grDVavoZ9WB8MLAt1g4q6mpjYozOD5NVr41haSQsjQkHTpY2eOzEvEAxB29rUMQNoiaVnu6HbR6b01NexwVLsU__ceRJLcSgzgl24TTXzw2Ksqh7Q/s1600/IMG_2515.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXfSxuU4OpTov8Hz2VdM7cEFqNIj9grDVavoZ9WB8MLAt1g4q6mpjYozOD5NVr41haSQsjQkHTpY2eOzEvEAxB29rUMQNoiaVnu6HbR6b01NexwVLsU__ceRJLcSgzgl24TTXzw2Ksqh7Q/s400/IMG_2515.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">With Pat Reagan post-race. Pic by Eric Schranz</span></i></td></tr>
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<b>Analysis</b>
There's a lot to learn from this race, or maybe to un-learn. Let's start with the overall picture of how the top runners paced, in this graph courtesy of Mike Dobies. You can see what tends to happen when you fly too close to the sun – you crash back down to Earth. Except when you don't. Click to enlarge and read the details, but basically this tracks how far ahead of even pace for 150 miles each runner is. Even pacing would be a straight line (i.e. Nick).
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLp0Ih_KEs9ubSUc2hrYhHoNPXpq1Jh_-rspnvYETVpnKTpoYcSYhl69fJ3vcFb1GHjaxx5gSEr6uXPTLmZNJo_enEnCemh70jw929R1La-nMfY2VZXTOR4-binXv9UrjS9v5rmZlvY77U/s1600/Screen+Shot+2018-12-17+at+7.38.04+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="911" data-original-width="1600" height="364" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLp0Ih_KEs9ubSUc2hrYhHoNPXpq1Jh_-rspnvYETVpnKTpoYcSYhl69fJ3vcFb1GHjaxx5gSEr6uXPTLmZNJo_enEnCemh70jw929R1La-nMfY2VZXTOR4-binXv9UrjS9v5rmZlvY77U/s640/Screen+Shot+2018-12-17+at+7.38.04+AM.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Tracking graph by Mike Dobies</span></i></td></tr>
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Starting with Camille, you can see here that she was about 14 1/2 miles ahead of pace for 150 at 12 hours, meaning she was on pace at that point for 179. I.e., 2:00 laps. She held that until she came through 100 miles, then backed off to 2:14ish. That's clearer in this chart of lap splits (pink represents the zone where you want most of your lap splits to be, unless you are Kouros):
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4hc93Tn0AC13KaRRGKX9rSQTQnGV6xiVPrvcqWjT6R-HYNFGl1g-y-Jt_kXAB0QA_Io8XzgRLimJ0dn5KVbsySR_WboiKHeLoNsFAO2yqr8-PpkGpoIQ7okkuqvYRe5ItDBk2wSpx_Bbf/s1600/Herron.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="655" data-original-width="1600" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4hc93Tn0AC13KaRRGKX9rSQTQnGV6xiVPrvcqWjT6R-HYNFGl1g-y-Jt_kXAB0QA_Io8XzgRLimJ0dn5KVbsySR_WboiKHeLoNsFAO2yqr8-PpkGpoIQ7okkuqvYRe5ItDBk2wSpx_Bbf/s640/Herron.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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Here you can clearly see the rough patch at 18 hours, the gradual recovery, and the pretty steady grind for the last five hours to hold onto the record. Is this smart pacing? Well she's the one with yet another World Record, so it's not for me to say. But I am massively impressed that she was able to pull this off. I remain partial to the view that more even pacing would net her more miles, maybe a lot more, but a lot of pieces of my world view kind of broke during this race, so who knows.
My thought has always been that, unlike shorter races, you can't effectively run a 24-hour by feel. You peg your effort meter at the "easy" end while still running too fast. Your body doesn't really grok that you intend to hold this super-easy pace for 24 hours. Especially if you've never done it before! I've done it nine times, and I don't trust myself to pace by feel. I think this works well where it's a question of picking the right fraction of VO2Max effort to use for the race. But 24-hour is not a race that is limited by aerobic capacity, normally. Of course you are never going to run a huge number without the aerobic capacity to make your average pace feel very easy, but that is not the hard part. Plenty of world-class 100K and 100-mile runners have stepped up to 24-hour and fallen flat on their faces. It takes more than speed.
Instead, 24-hour seems to me to be limited by cumulative muscle damage and mental fatigue. In particular, cumulative muscle damage is a very nonlinear thing. Once a fraction of your muscle fibers are no longer able to participate effectively, the burden on the remainder is greater, meaning the weakest remaining ones will fail that much faster. A faster pace creates higher forces at a faster rate, a double whammy on cumulative damage. You can see that even here, a little. It took all Camille had to run 2:35ish laps towards the end, while I, a mere 3-hour marathoner, was still running 2:15s and finally 2:00s. But usually the failure is more dramatic when someone starts that fast.
Anyway, this is how I think of it. It's a different regime; you can't just jump from 100-mile to 24-hour and run by feel. So I've always said... yeah, well!
In summary, Camille split 89.5 / 73.4, or about 55% / 45%. Actually, that's a pretty typical split for a winning 24-hour performance, though it still looks too positive to me, looking at the lap chart. Let's compare to Patrycja Bereznowska's WR performance at Belfast last summer (1.027-mile laps):
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS7Aj4_SmOf3Gzt_zFz_AqFTLLB_gQX0h2dr6SnBOaeDdpAV_cz3aR8pCSklqvHLKysqvgDyojNbZZaAQKtlV5UnNe2xRFNYdmTPrq8iIgUjd3SSK-XcDjuqykdZAR6t5_b0gcx9ERj6-y/s1600/Bereznowska+belfast.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="657" data-original-width="1600" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS7Aj4_SmOf3Gzt_zFz_AqFTLLB_gQX0h2dr6SnBOaeDdpAV_cz3aR8pCSklqvHLKysqvgDyojNbZZaAQKtlV5UnNe2xRFNYdmTPrq8iIgUjd3SSK-XcDjuqykdZAR6t5_b0gcx9ERj6-y/s640/Bereznowska+belfast.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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This looks a little smoother on the whole, though rougher during the final hour. Her splits were 86.3 / 75.3, or 53.4% / 46.6%. Closer to even, with more absolute miles in the second half than Herron.
Moving on to Jake Jackson, we can see that he hit 12 hours on pace for 169. As I said above, that should not end well, unless he is an undiscovered new star. Which it appears he may be. He faded, but in a more controlled manner than Camille, running 157.6 miles, with an 84.5 / 73.1 split, or 53.6% / 46.4% – similar to Bereznowska, actually, though the first four hours were faster. I would say that with more even pacing he could be well over 160, which our team at Worlds could certainly use... but again I may be projecting my bias here. Not only is it not 100% clear what the physiologically optimal pacing strategy is, but psychology comes hugely into play. Camille broke the 100-mile track record by 20 minutes on her way to 24-hour; certainly that should have provided a boost. Runners can take comfort in banked miles. Personally, banked miles ahead of goal pace terrify me – I like to bank energy – but others are different. Even if it's a physiological negative it can be a net positive when the mind comes into play, because the mind is paramount in this kind of race. Finally, it's hard to really judge what Jake was capable of here even with the pacing he had, because he didn't have much to run for towards the end. His win and team spot were virtually assured. Actually, he took over the #2 team spot by beating Steve Slaby's 157 miles, which could theoretically matter, but I gather that he was not aware of this during the race. He did pick up the pace somewhat during the last hour.
Next, Greg Armstrong. I think this is maybe what a "typical" well-paced 24-hour performance looks like: a 79.5 / 75.6 split, or 51.2% / 48.8%, with a pace curve smoother than Camille's or Jake's, and a strong finish. Yes they both beat him, but Greg has run 16 24-hours, and this is his PR, so that's what one should look at.
And then there's Nick. I consider myself a pretty even pacer, but my GOD, I have never seen a prettier performance than Nick's. It's just absolutely smooth from start to finish, until the last hour, when he mustered a huge kick. Should it have been sooner? I'm sure Nick is torturing himself with this very question. Here's his pace chart.
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Folks, this is as good as it gets. That's a 77.1 / 77.9 split, or 49.75% / 50.25%, the legendary true negative split at 24-hour. To execute something like this requires confidence, patience, mastery of the details, and accuracy in judgment. "But", you may say, "I don't have all those things; I don't dare start that slow." But what is the risk? If you start a little slow, the worst that can happen is you run a negative split with too much left in the tank. That might cost you a mile or two. If you start just a <i>hair</i> too fast, that can cost you the whole race. I can count on zero fingers the times I have finished a 24-hour thinking "gee, I wish I'd started faster".
Coming back to Zach and Pat, I'm not sure what I can say, other than to highlight once more the risks of starting too fast. Both of them are very experienced and talented runners, and the paces they started at no doubt felt ridiculously easy. But they weren't easy enough. 24-hour can be a cruel mistress: one minute your race is going perfectly; the next it can be over. I do have high hopes for both of them on their next attempts; they can be very valuable additions to the US team, if not for 2019 (Pat has said he will now focus on Western States training), then next time.
Finally, back to my own race. Here's my pace chart:
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That's a 77.3 / 76.7 split, or 50.2% / 49.8%, as close to even as I have ever managed.
You can see the long potty stops at 12 hours and 19:30, and the puking and consequences at 13:30 and 20:15. Looking at Mike Dobies's graph above, you can see that the puking cost me both in absolute distance and in slightly reduced pace, especially after the second time. Without that, it's a real three-way race at the end; who knows how it would have turned out. As it was, I thought I had a slim chance to catch them. If we zoom in on the final four hours of Mike Dobies's graph, assume Greg and Nick hold steady, and that I can hold 2:00 laps for an hour, it looks like this:
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But kudos to Greg and Nick for instead stepping it up. Believe me, I know how hard that must have hurt!
I have a pretty good handle on how to fix the GI issues, I think. Ironically, one of my biggest strengths at 24-hour is my relative immunity to GI issues: I train low-carb, so I can burn more fat, and need fewer in-race calories. This time, I tried to go a little higher on calories. 168 / hour is not a lot for most people, but I train with no fuel at all on long runs, so my gut is pretty untrained. And honestly that is more calories than I need. I did my first 24 on 100 / hour. Second, I'm pretty sure that the actual trigger for the puking was the caffeine pills. This time I didn't use NoDoz, which I think has some buffering, but gelatin capsules with 200mg of pure caffeine powder. I think the unbuffered hit on my stomach was just too much. I'd never experienced this before; now I know not to do that again.
With this fixed I think I am at 155-156. That I think is about my ceiling, unless I change something more radically in my training. Now that I'm basically there, that's what I intend to do. It will take some thought. Certainly I'll need to do faster long runs, perhaps try harder to increase my volume, I'm not sure.
There is also the issue of my mental game, and the strong desire to quit or slow around 12-13 hours. That I am less sure what to do about. In a sense I don't have to do anything; I fought through it, which is what counts in the end, right? But it was very unpleasant, and there was a real risk I would do something stupid. Also, the slight amounts that I slowed cost me, and might not have been necessary. The mind is just too complicated – you can't beat your own mind, because it's as strong as you are! I have been doing mindfulness meditation, and episodes of mindful running, focusing intensely on all my bodily and mental sensations; I think this may be a route to further improvement here.
Looking forward to Worlds, I now sit in the sixth and last team spot, with five months left of qualifying (as does Pam Smith, thanks to Camille). Conditions here were nearly perfect, and I entered firing on all cylinders... it would be hard for me to try again and beat this. There are a handful of guys who can potentially run more than 154 and knock me out. But will they? It is not so easy. I'm crossing my fingers I can finally meet my long-term goal and represent the US at the World Championships next October in Albi, France. But of course I also want us to have the strongest team possible. We'll see what happens!
<b>Thank You</b></span><br />
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Huge thanks are due to my crew Liz Hearn, Scott Holdaway, and Pam Smith. Especially, Liz and Scott have now crewed me here three times (four for Scott), and it makes all the difference in the world. It's a team effort.
Thank you to Hayley Pollock, Jamil Coury, and everyone at Aravaipa running for once again putting on the US's premiere 24-hour race, this time with live, full-time commentary. That did NOT look like an easy job. But it was appreciated by all. You're raising the level of the sport here enormously.
Thank you to all my competitors for making Desert Solstice 2018 a race that will go down in history.
Finally, to my readers – if you made it this far, I hope you found something useful to take away!
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Bob Hearnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01351956832733163825noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2382599380750777712.post-4704842360545802102018-10-16T21:19:00.001-07:002018-10-18T15:06:43.534-07:00Spartathlon 2018: The Perfect Storm<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">This was my third Spartathlon; I previously ran in 2015 and 2016. <a href="http://bobhearn.blogspot.com/2015/10/spartathlon-2015.html" target="_blank">My 2015 race report</a> is fully detailed, if you are looking for all the intel you can get on the race, and what it's like to experience Spartathlon for the first time. This one will focus on what was new for me, and on the freakish conditions we all found ourselves in. But, warning, it is still a very long way from Athens to Sparta, both on the road and on the page! If you want to skip ahead to the good stuff, scroll down to "Disaster".
<b>Background</b>
For a full background on Spartathlon, see my 2015 report. In a nutshell, it's a 153-mile race from Athens to Sparta, with a tight 36-hour cutoff. Most years, most runners do not make the cutoff. The purpose is to recreate the fateful run of Pheidippides, as he was sent to recruit the Spartans to help defend Greece from the Persians at the battle of Marathon in 490 BC.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Spartathlon is my favorite race, and I had thought I might try to run it every year, but injury kept me from the start line in 2017. So I was chomping at the bit to get back to Greece and try to improve on what I felt had been a very solid effort last time.</span><br />
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This was a busy year of racing for me, and after my performance at Badwater did not match my expectations, I was feeling burned out. Much as I love Spartathlon, day after day I would lace up and head out only to feel that my legs were moving through molasses, and I would say screw it, turn around, and tell myself I needed a little more recovery. Whether the fundamental problems were physical or mental I'm still not sure. But with only nine weeks between Badwater and Spartathlon there was only so much time available for the real training to kick in – not to mention for losing those extra five pounds I'd carried through Badwater, something I couldn't do without high mileage.
In the end, my training cycle was pretty unsatisfactory. For Spartathlon 2016 I peaked at 110 miles per week. This time, somehow the most I managed after Badwater was a paltry 77. And those pounds weren't going away.
Add to this that I'm now 53 instead of 51, and logically I should temper my expectations for Spartathlon, right? But I was not willing to do that. Spartathlon requires a huge effort. That effort can only be put forward if there is motivation to match. In 2016 my goals had been to run under 27 hours and/or place in the top 10. I vacillated mid-race between pacing for 27 and 28 and hit it in the middle, but in 16th place. In some past years 27:33 would have been a podium spot, but with more interest and tougher qualifying criteria, the times at Spartathlon have gotten faster. It would take more than that.
I was going to have to go back with a more solid focus on sub-27 and hopefully top-10. Never mind that my training and my weight were not as good as in 2016; somehow I had a certain positive feel about these goals. Ultras are mostly run in the head. I now had twice as much personal Spartathlon data as before to draw on for my pacing plan, and twice as much familiarity with the course, as well as a significant (pre-race) nutritional improvement that I expected to alleviate the mid-race energy lows I'd had in the past. I ran a decent 50K tune-up race at Burning Man, comparable in time and effort to 2016. Moreover, as Spartathlon approached the forecast was for a cool year. This would certainly help my chances for sub-27, but probably hurt my placing: in a cool year I knew 27 would not be top-10, but I just did not dare to try for more given my fitness. My gains, if any, would come from optimizations over last time, not from running at a dramatically faster pace.
On the other side of things I also had twice as much experience with the pain and effort Spartathlon requires. Normally as runners we are good about forgetting, after the race, just how much it hurt, and our firm mid-race resolutions to never, ever, do that again. But I had made sure to get it all down on paper, and I knew that toeing the line with a challenging goal would mean a long journey through the pain cave. I think it takes a certain kind of perverse personality to do these things, knowing how much they will hurt, perhaps a kind of lack of emotional intelligence as we discount the cost involved. This helps us do incredible things, but can also be a liability. In that regard, Poe's "Imp of the Perverse" will figure prominently later in this report.
<b>Arrival</b>
As I've begun to branch out into multi-day races I've also begun to pay a lot more attention to sleep. I would not be napping at all at Spartathlon if I wanted to be anywhere near my goals, but sleep leading up to the race is very important. Last time at Spartathlon I was falling asleep on my feet towards the end; both years I was mildly hallucinating. Spartathlon starts on a Friday morning, and I normally arrive on Tuesday, a day before most do, to give myself an extra day to get over the 10-hour jet lag from California. This time I decided to get there several days earlier and maximize my effort to be fully rested and in-sync before the race.
I thought maybe I would spend a few days on an island... but which? I'd been to Santorini and Crete. My Greek friend Loukia Lili-Williams suggested Hydra ('Υδρα) and/or Spetses, both a short ferry ride from the port of Piraeus. So I spent two days on Hydra and three on Spetses. Hydra in particular I liked quite a bit; it was like stepping a century back in time. There are no cars – transportation is by foot, donkey, or boat. Even bikes are not allowed! Both Hydra and Spetses were prosperous early 19th-century naval powers, and instrumental in the Greek war of independence beginning in 1821. There were many relics and museums of their storied histories. There was also plenty of wonderful Greek food available. Sticking to my low-carb diet for the week before the race was frustratingly hard, but I managed it.
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My great friend Scott Holdaway had volunteered to crew me this year. He'd been to Greece before, but not Spartathlon, though he'd crewed me at many other races. Spartathlon is a race you can do without crew, with aid stations every couple of miles and the ability to leave drop bags anywhere you want. And indeed I'd run without crew in 2016. But having a crew definitely gives you more flexibility, as well as moral support. So I was delighted Scott had offered. He arrived in time to join me on Spetses for a day, but the day was cut short: the weather turned and all the ferries were canceled due to high winds! We had planned to take the Wednesday afternoon ferry back to Piraeus and join the rest of the US team in the Athens suburb of Glyfada that evening. Instead we had to scramble to get on a "water taxi" Wednesday morning for a short trip to the nearest mainland port, Kosta, which meant a long bus ride back to Athens. We got out just in time. Any later and we might have been stuck on Spetses for days.
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Scott in Spetses – we did get in one decent bike ride</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">We arrived in Glyfada in time for me to check in and pick up all of my race stuff, avoiding the longer lines on Thursday. I saw a few other Americans, but I guess they were slowly trickling in. But the British team, also lodged in the same hotel as us this year, was out in full force. I have many friends on the British team, and I found myself spending most of my pre-race time with them, meeting new members. The first evening I realized w</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666984558105px; white-space: pre-wrap;">ith a shock</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> that the guy across the table from me was John Volanthen, famous for being the first rescue diver to reach the Thai children trapped in a cave earlier this year.</span><br />
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I did catch American John Fegyveresi, someone I'd been wanting to meet for quite a while, </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666984558105px; white-space: pre-wrap;">as he arrived that evening</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">. He features in the Barkley documentary movie, as one of the finishers. At the time he finished I compared our ultrasignup profiles, and was delighted to see that they were very similar – except that he'd finished Barkley! That is a very, very exclusive club (and one I am still too scared to try to join). This would be his first Spartathlon, though he'd been trying to get in for a few years.</span><br />
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The American team veterans were team organizer Andrei Nana (here to run his 6th(!) consecutive Spartathlon, all successful so far), Will Rivera (who had run last year, but for Puerto Rico), Dean Karnazes (whose 2014 Spartathlon was chronicled in the movie The Road to Sparta and the unrelated book of the same name), Jon Olsen (2013 24-hour world champion, who had run Spartathlon but not finished in 2014), George Myers (who had run in 2015 but not finished), and myself.
New this year were Matt Collins (winner of the 2017 Vol State 500K), Olaf Wasternack (fast marathoner and talented 24-hour runner), Eric Spencer, Alex Anyse, Otto Lam, William Corley, Thomas Jackson, the aforementioned John Fegyveresi, and Elaine Stypula (the only US woman this year, after a couple of others withdrew).
Olaf had a clever race plan: he also wanted to run 27 hours, and decided I knew what I was doing, so he would stick with me through 100 miles! Great; that would be fun. Unfortunately he was recovering from a few weeks with bronchitis, adding an extra challenge.
Thursday was a scramble as I went out for a morning tune-up run in 30-mph winds, then made my final decisions and sorted stuff into drop bags. In the afternoon we had the team photo, which was the only time all weekend that I saw Dean Karnazes. He signed some autographs and was then off for a TV interview. It would have been nice to have seen him with the rest of the team at least at some of the post-race celebrations.
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At the pre-race briefing it was all about the impending "medicane", or Mediterranean tropical storm, dubbed Zorba. The forecast had continued to worsen and it now appeared we would face the brunt of it, running in a literal cyclone. There had been some concern that the course might be rerouted to avoid the mountain pass, or that the race might be canceled entirely. Fortunately for us, it appeared that liability issues in Greece are not the same as in the US; the show would go on.</span><br />
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After that it was dinner at George's Steakhouse with the British team, as Scott and I coordinated crew details. I had not wanted to saddle Scott with driving and navigating solo in a foreign country for potentially over 30 hours, let alone in a tropical storm. So I'd looked for other crews to team up with, and the Brits had graciously stepped up – as they also had for me and Liz in 2015. Scott would start with Darren Strachan's crew, and as the race progressed might switch to riding with Nathan Flear's crew, Tori, or possibly with Olaf's crew, James. We talked race strategy as well as crew strategy, and I met more British runners, including Nathan, who'd run in 27 hours last year, and newcomer Alastair Higgins, who'd gotten in off a 7:55 100K. He seemed well prepared to run a solid race.
Scott and I headed back to our hotel to turn in early, but then I somewhat unwisely spent another hour putting the finishing touches on my Badwater race report and posting it. I figured if I had not finished it before Spartathlon, I never would. Nonetheless I got a pretty solid 6 hours of uninterrupted sleep, per my Oura sleep-tracking ring, to cap a week of excellent sleep, with record-low resting-heart-rate numbers. I was ready.
I love almost everything about Spartathlon – the buses are probably the biggest exception. They leave when the drivers feel like it, not when they are scheduled to. Yes I understand this is "Greek time", but that just doesn't work here. In 2015 I just barely made it to the start in time, with no time to hit the portapotty or warm up. Worse, often the destination is unclear, as they seemingly wander at random and wind up in the wrong place. So I was happy Scott and I could get a lift to the start from Darren's crew of David Bone and Jeff and Jane Strachan.
<b>The Race
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Once more I found myself at the most inspiring start in the world of ultrarunning, at the Acropolis, in the shadow of the Parthenon. Once more 400 brave souls would honor Pheidippides' famous run, so critical to to the future existence of western democracy.
On a more mundane level, I did my dynamic warmups, made an unsuccessful portapotty visit, and hurried to find the US team for another group photo. We didn't get everyone, but still got some great pics. The weather was not bad at all, just a light misting, cool, not too much wind.</span><br />
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7:00 am and we were off! The first 2.4 miles passed quickly; I ran through checkpoint 1 without stopping. But I was a little slow! That was a first. Generally it's a challenge for me to run as slowly as planned for the first 50 miles. I'm a firm believer that it takes a slow start here to have a strong finish.
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As before I carried pace charts with target splits for all 75 checkpoints. Yes I know this is almost ridiculous overkill, but it works for me. Last time I'd prepared splits for 27:00, 28:00, and 29:35. This time, I was all in for 27. How do I pick my splits? This year, here's how. I had two years' worth of data to base my new splits on, with times recorded in and out of every checkpoint. I had run well both years, not running substantially too fast anywhere. So what I did was, for each checkpoint, take the minimum time I'd run that stretch previously, except I manually adjusted some: both years I'd run from CP 69 to the finish very fast, and I didn't want to have to do that to hit my goal, so I moderated that section. (If I had that kind of energy left there I wanted it to be gravy, or insurance – turns out I needed the insurance.) I hoped to run a bit more of the long uphill coming out of Alea-Tegea, so I trimmed that a little. I also assumed I'd spend the same average time in each checkpoint as in 2016, 47 seconds. All that added up to a 27:13 finish, not quite good enough. So given the expected cooler weather, somewhat against my better judgment I took a couple percent off the CP times during what would normally be the heat of the first day (CPs 6 - 33). This dialed the splits in to 27:00. Now, all I had to do was run them!
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Spartathlon course route...</span></i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">... and elevation profile</span></i></td></tr>
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I was running easy, with Olaf right behind me as per his plan. It would be great to have a running companion for 100 miles, a rare luxury here, as people vary so much in where their up and down spots are. Well, I was going to run my splits, and hopefully Olaf could run slowly enough to stay with me. It should be no problem for him to catch up if he needed a little more time anywhere. After 100 it would get interesting. For our little race-within-a-race, would Olaf reap the same benefit of a controlled start as I would, then leave me in the dust after the mountain with his superior speed? Or would it be my experience that would win the day? Well, that was a long ways off.
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Running with Olaf</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Speaking of this race-within-a-race, I need to say a word here about ego. (Yes, I promise I will get back to the actual race, in just a minute!) Perhaps this goes without saying, but I think it's important. Ultrarunning in general, and Spartathlon in particular, are about much more than finish time or place. Spartathlon is a journey we all undertake together to honor and connect to our history. We are compatriots. But as I mentioned above, an effort of this magnitude requires motivation to match. As a tool, to be able to participate meaningfully, I need the ego involved. I know nobody but me really cares whether my finish time starts with 26 or 27 or 35, or who the first American finisher is. In the grand scheme of things it makes not one whit of difference. But I have to care, at least during the race; without a measuring stick, I'm aimless. In a way I am envious of the runners that must fight to stay ahead of the cutoffs; they are battling the race, and victory for them is all the sweeter and more meaningful, more of a shared experience. But I must battle arbitrary time goals and the other runners, even as we work together.
So – yikes, a little too slow to CP 1. I picked it up a little and was back on track. I got back to the more normal pattern of gaining time on my splits if I wasn't careful. Olaf and I chatted as we ran easily, well, as I ran easily. He mentioned a 42-mile race he'd recently won, averaging a 6:20 / mile pace – faster than my marathon pace. But he was having trouble keeping up with me as I did 8s on the downhills! I could only conclude it was an aftereffect of the bronchitis, which was a real shame. After two hours I lost him at a CP.
Around this time we ran through the small coastal town of Elefsina, where normally all the children are let out of school and line the course offering high-fives to all the runners. Not this year. The weather was getting a little worse, wetter and a lot more gusty. This long stretch, from Elefsina to Corinth (at 50 miles), normally offers the best vistas on the course, out over the Saronic gulf and Salamina Island. But this year the visibility was not so great.
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My checkpoint routine was dramatically streamlined this year. Normally, I'd come into a checkpoint, sponge down, put ice in my hat and arm sleeves, refill my water bottle, and drink some Coke. This year, I was able to skip all of that except the Coke. I hadn't figured on this when I'd printed my pace charts back home, more than a week earlier. I did actually start with a bottle; I ran for the first three hours using my own drink mix for fuel, just so the Coke wouldn't be quite as tiresome by the end. But then I ditched the bottle. As before I would get almost all my calories from Coke during the bulk of the race, but in the past I'd still needed a water bottle to drink between checkpoints, and to squirt on my shirt, sleeves, and head to keep cool.
The savings in CP time quickly added up, and by the time I hit the marathon point, in Megara, at 3:47 on the clock, I found myself 10 minutes ahead of plan. OK, that's acceptable, but no more! It's nice to have a 5-10 minute buffer for those occasional longer checkpoint stops. But more would be dangerous. I would have to start walking out of the CPs as I checked my pace chart for the next section.
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Scott has my backpack at the ready</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">This was the first crew-accessible checkpoint, and Scott was waiting for me here, along with David, Jeff, and Jane, waiting for Darren; and James, waiting for Olaf. I asked him for some SportShield, left him with my bottle (the empty drop bag I had left for it earlier had not materialized at its CP), and was quickly on my way. Finally I got that successful portapotty stop on the way out that I had missed at the start. OK!
Also as I was leaving I said hi to Rob Pinnington, frequent participant and British team organizer, this year here as a kind of supporter-at-large I guess. In my first Spartathlon he'd been kind enough to share his crew with my wife Liz, relieving her of driving and navigating, as the British team was doing for us once more this year! Nick Papageorge, a member of that crew, was also a welcome presence throughout this year's race.
After Megara the course gets a little hillier for a while, and there are some definite walking stretches. Normally here the people who started too fast are already starting to slow down and pay for it as the day has become hot and humid. Today it was still cool, and in fact the rain had mostly let up, making the running quite pleasant. The winds were still gusty, but they were tailwinds more often than not. As I went through one CP a volunteer asked how I was doing. I answered "great!", because, well, it was early, so far, so good. And it was great not to have the heat to deal with at all. But she said "Wow, you're the first person who's said that". Huh. Really? In my book, if you're in a 153-mile race and you're not doing great 30 miles in, you're going to have a problem.
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Somewhere in here George Myers caught up to me. "Dammit! I was supposed to stay behind you." He was back to avenge his 2015 DNF. George is a fast runner, but was trying to be disciplined and go for a sure finish this year rather than a fast time. Nonetheless he gradually pulled ahead. Atypically, I had passed Andrei early this year; normally he starts fast and I don't see him 'til around Corinth. Likewise Bruce Choi (American running for Korea). This year Bruce, Otto Lam, and I played leapfrog for quite a while I believe. Also in this stretch Alastair Higgins came by me, looking good. He would go on to run 26:10, as the first British finisher, an outstanding debut! Olaf caught back up with me in here as well, and we ran together a while longer, but then he dropped back again, this time for good.
Approaching Corinth, there is a long uphill stretch, that for me is a walker. Many people run it. Already I am noticing that I am walking faster than I have here in the past, no doubt due to the time I put into improving my walking while preparing for my first 6-day race this past spring. So I easily keep to my planned splits here. Without them I might feel an impulse to push it more as people stream by me, but my history-backed splits keep me on a comfortable, smart pace without worry. I won't even think about what place I'm in until much, much later. I expect to pass lots of people after Corinth, and especially after Alea-Tegea (mile 121).
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Finally we cross the magnificent Corinth Canal and shortly thereafter reach CP 22, the first major checkpoint, at mile 50. I'm now 8 minutes fast, at 7:40, feeling good. I think it was here I switched out my shortsleeve for a singlet, as the weather was now a little warmer and fairly dry. Thanks Scott! Oh and Scott had now been handed off to James, Olaf's crew, as it appeared we would stay closer together than Darren and me. I told them Olaf was probably not far behind.
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<b>Corinth to the Mountain
</b>
From here we enter the Peloponnese peninsula, and a new phase of the race. We leave the coast and head inland, through farms and olive groves. Here normally people are really hurting from the heat, and this is where having done your sauna training and started slow really starts to pay off. Different rules this year! Still I was now gradually passing people, easily sticking to my splits; so far I'd had no issues whatsoever. I was beginning to get a little confidence I would be able to hold pace, though it was still early. In 2016 I stayed on 27-hour splits until the mountain, mile 100, then fell off. But I had learned from that, and my splits this year were smarter. In absolute terms I was getting farther and farther ahead of my 2016 times; I would not have to speed up as much on the long flat stretch after the mountain.
Coming into Ancient Corinth I caught up with Ian Thomas, talented British runner going for his fourth finish. Like me he had started in 2015, but he hadn't missed last year as I had. Scott and James were there waiting; I used some more SportShield and was quickly on my way. I then went through the 100K CP at 9:43 elapsed, 9 minutes ahead of plan, and 20 minutes ahead of 2016.
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Here we turn south and begin a long, gradual climb that will continue for more than 20 miles, punctuated by a few large ups and downs. In Zevgolation there are often children standing by the road looking for autographs from runners. By this point in the race the weather had cleared enough so that yes, there they were! I stopped to sign a few. Zevgolation is also another crew-access point. I don't remember what I did here, probably more SportShield (I never had any chafing issues this year, but you can't be too careful, especially with rain). But one thing I did notice is that though I thought I had managed fine last time with no crew, this time Scott was useful at every single crew checkpoint. The flexibility was a big thing, being able to swap gear whenever I wanted instead of where I had staged it in a drop bag. But the speed was also a boon. Scott had my bag of stuff ready; I didn't have to dig e.g. SportShield out of a drop bag. Also Scott could update me on how others were doing. Somewhere in here he told me four Americans were ahead of me. Jon I certainly expected, and probably Matt. Who else? Turns out Will Rivera was leading Jon?! Wow. I didn't find out who the fourth was. Probably George. I would eventually pass him, but I'm not sure where that happened. I was thinking it would be nice to run with Dean for a bit, but he was far behind. (Unfortunately he would eventually time out at CP 60.)
During this climb there are plenty of places to walk, but often I found myself wanting to take full advantage of the massive tailwind and running a bit more, letting the wind do most of the work. Perfect storm, indeed. Everything was coming together this year. The farther I got, the more sure I was that I had NAILED my pacing plan. Each segment split was close to what I should be able to run with an appropriate effort. It wasn't based on guesswork; it was based on history.
This year I staged my headlamp farther than I had previously, at CP 34, 74.7 miles in. I came through just after 12 hours on the clock, 7 pm, perfect timing. Normally I am more conservative and stage it earlier just in case. But I'd left Scott with a backup headlamp I could have picked up earlier if I were slow. Of course I could have forgone drop bags entirely and left everything with Scott, but it's never wise to assume your crew will make it to any given checkpoint, in this case especially because Scott and James also had Olaf to take care of.
Just one more CP to Ancient Nemea, a major checkpoint and basically the halfway point of the race. Now the drizzle was picking up, making me think maybe it was time for my light rain jacket. My decision was easy as by the time I got there it had become a steady rain, and would now be cooling off. At Nemea I also took a HotShot; I'd had a small calf twinge a couple of CPs ago. Surprising, but hopefully nothing to worry about. Last time I think HotShot might have saved my race: I was having severe calf tightness around 100K, that disappeared immediately with a HotShot.
The next few CPs were frustrating, as shortly after this we were slowly climbing a dirt road for a few miles. With the rain and the dark it was impossible to avoid trudging through large puddles and mud, especially when the occasional crew vehicle came through forcing me to one side. Finally we re-emerged onto pavement, and it was time for the long, steep descent into Malandreni and beyond, 1,000 feet over 4.7 miles. Here, by my pacing plan, I have to run fast, taking full advantage of the downhills. By now the rain and wind were intense, and it was often a headwind over this stretch.
In Malandreni I was up to 15 minutes ahead of plan. But I didn't worry, because now that I was past Ancient Nemea, I trusted myself a little more to run by feel. For the rest of the race I'd be watching this number and comparing it to effort. Ideally I'd continue to feel good and be able to bring it in well under 27. The next meaningful mark would be Aly Allen's time in 2015, 26:50, to become the third-fastest American Spartathlete ever, behind Scott Jurek and Katy Nagy. I lost 4 minutes right away, though, to by far my longest CP stop, as I at first couldn't find where the Cokes were (Malandreni is a large CP), then took some time to remove my rain jacket, add a fresh shortsleeve underneath on top of my singlet, and put the jacket on again. By this point I wasn't too coordinated with these non-running motions. Scott and James told me Olaf was now close behind, so I expected I might see him soon, but it wasn't to be. Scott said "I don't know how you guys are running through this crap." I had to just laugh. "Yeah, it's pretty yucky." Better than heat! At least for me. Not for crew and volunteers. Not for a lot of runners, either. Poor Andrei lives in Florida; he likes the heat and humidity. Given his five-year streak, I was sure he would finish, but it turned into a bigger challenge for him and others than I'd realized. I on the other hand had lived in Vancouver for several years; cool and wet equals fast and comfortable to me.
The screaming descent continues out of Malandreni, with increasing thunder and lightning to the south. Here comes Zorba! We bottom out at 500 feet of elevation. Only 2,000 feet to climb to the mountain base! I hope the pass will be safe.
I arrive in Lyrkia, 7 miles to the mountain, and Scott informs me that Olaf is now falling back, and they may not see me at the mountain base. They will need to wait here for Olaf first. I don't imagine it will be a problem, though, because it takes a long time to get up that big hill.
Over the next few checkpoints the grade increases. Leaving Lyrkia it's still possible to run, but the farther you get the more people are walking. Eventually I switch to a power hike. One thing I've heard about Spartathlon, which my experience bears out, is that the Japanese runners essentially never walk. They will run up the steepest hills, very slowly, and get their rest in checkpoints. This seems inefficient to me, but to each his own. One favorite this year (who would go on to win) is Japanese, 24-hour world champion Yoshihiko Ishikawa. Anyway, I pass a few runners as I walk.
In the little village of Kapareli I make a wrong turn and start to head up a steep hill. Fortunately another runner calls me back to the course, and we start chatting. He is Slovenian, and his English is not great, but it's much better than my Slovenian. I tell him that Liz and I spent a week in Ljubljana after my first Spartathlon in 2015, and that I'd love to go back. It turns out this is the third Spartathlon for both of us: I ran in 2015 and 2016; he in 2016 and 2017. My times were 29 something and 27 something; his, 28 something and 26 something. And we're both 53! How about that. But this year he says he is not feeling great, and sends me ahead. Later, looking at the results, I identify him as Mirko Bogomir Miklic. We will both wind up with all three Spartathlons sub-30 over age 50; that's a pretty small club I think.
The final approach to the mountain base is ridiculously steep, and seems to go on and on. Finally I make it. Indeed, Scott and James are there. I've left a longsleeve, hat, and gloves in a drop bag. I put the hat and gloves in my jacket pockets, but leave the longsleeve with Scott; with two shirts and a jacket I am plenty warm. But I know it can get colder after the mountain, so I want Scott to have it handy just in case.
Here we leave the road; the route to the top of the mountain pass is up a very steep, rocky, technical trail. At the pre-race briefing we were told that the trail had been improved this year and was much safer. I don't know of any severe injuries here in the past, but there are steep drop offs, and the footing can be treacherous. Indeed, it seems a little easier this year, though I am still wobbly in places. Fortunately the rain has almost completely let up now, and I don't have to cross the mountain in a thunderstorm. It's a 1,000-foot gain in only 1.4 miles, but somehow it never seems that bad. Again, I'm at the top before I even know it. Elapsed time is 17:28, 14 minutes ahead of plan, and 37 minutes ahead of 2016 – when I finished in 27:33. Looking good! Alas, for the third Spartathlon in a row, I did not encounter the god Pan crossing Mount Parthenio, unlike Pheidippides.</span><br />
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<b>Onward from the Mountain
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The mountain descent is always worse for me than the ascent, even though it is in principle runnable. This year it was especially bad: it was very misty near the top, fogging my glasses and making vision blurry, and the rocks were wet and slippery. One mistake and it would not be pretty. I was forced to move slowly. After descending a few hundred feet the visibility was better, but the surface transitioned to scree that wants to slide out from under you. But I was one of the lucky ones, it appears. After the race I learned that those who came through a few hours later had to deal with dirt, rocks, and trees blowing and sliding down the mountain, as the storm had intensified.</span><br />
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Finally I made it back to solid road, and the village of Sangas. The next 20 miles are the toughest part of the course for me mentally. They are long, flat, boring, dark, and isolated; by this point the race is very spread out. The checkpoints are mostly very small and sparsely manned, tiny oases in the ocean of night, and Leonidas waits far, far away. In 2015 I lost focus towards the end of this stretch and went off course for 15 minutes. In 2016 my focus was better, but I could not muster the energy to keep to my target splits, and I fell well behind.
The monotony is broken up early by the major checkpoint in Nestani, mile 106.6. Like many villages on the course, it sits atop a sizable hill you must climb to get there. Scott was waiting with a safety pin to secure my flapping rear bib, but I was still in and out in 50 seconds, holding a 13-minute cushion on my splits. Scott warned me that they probably would not see me at the next crew checkpoint, 9 miles later; Olaf was falling farther behind. I told him I'd be fine, but my heart sank a little. I didn't tell him that this was the toughest part of the course for me and that I could really use a boost then.
Around 19:30 elapsed I fished a NoDoz out of the baggie of pills in my belt, with fumbling fingers, and a Tylenol while I was at it. This was a simple improvement I'd made since 2016; up 'til then I'd gotten all my caffeine from Coke. A NoDoz hit was much more substantial, and would hopefully keep me more alert. Still I was gradually losing time; by CP 57 (mile 115.6) I was down to a 4-minute cushion. I wasn't worried yet. I thought I could probably hold that, and if not, I expected I could likely make up a few minutes on the big downhill from CP 69 to the finish.
<b>Disaster
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But then... oops. The road turned gradually more uphill, until I was walking. What?? I thought it was supposed to be flat here. Then I passed a field with lots of angrily barking dogs. They were behind a fence, right? ... wrong. I could see their eyes reflected, and one was coming much closer. I yelled at it and shone my light in its face. Finally I was safely past them, but the hill kept going and going, with no course markings. This was not right. There are no hills this big on this part of the course, I am sure. I must have missed a turn somehow.
Angrily, I turned around and headed back downhill. Running the gauntlet past the dogs, again. Somehow I made it safely. And yes, sure enough, I'd run straight through a T intersection where I was supposed to turn right. There was an X on the route I'd taken, but I'd missed it. Later a group of several others on the American team would miss it as well, but fortunately realize their mistake sooner than I had.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Don't do this</span></i></td></tr>
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How had I missed it? It occurred to me that my headlamp was no longer all that bright. It was supposed to last 30 hours on full brightness. Sounds crazy, I know, but it had worked well for me in the past. I pulled out my backup headlamp; I'd taken it from Scott a while back just in case. The backup only used two AAAs, but sure enough it was much brighter than my main headlamp. OK, switch made.
At the next CP I was 11 minutes behind, 15 minutes lost. Again. I didn't see how I could make that up, when I'd been working hard already just to hang on. I was FURIOUS with myself. So much work, all done perfectly, fast conditions, I was going to nail it... all that, wasted in a moment of carelessness. AGAIN. Not quite the same place I'd gone off course in 2015, but close.
The mental game was now totally different. It's one thing to work very very hard, and just make a big goal you've set for yourself. In fact it's the best thing ever! It's something else to work just as hard to miss it by 15 minutes. And yet if I didn't, if I lost heart and slacked off, well, then I wouldn't be able to blame going off course for it, would I? "If only I hadn't lost those 15 minutes, I'd have finished half an hour faster!" is not very convincing. The one bright spot was the little bit of room I'd left myself in the splits for the final 13 miles. Maybe, just maybe, if I could claw my way back a little, it would be enough. But it would be very, very tight.
The major CP of Alea-Tegea, at mile 121.4, marks a transition. I'd made up a little ground here and was now 7 minutes behind pace. Scott was here but warned me that it was getting hard to get to the crew stations, as the gap between Olaf and me was getting too large – but having gone off course would help! Ha.
Another couple of miles and we are off the back roads and onto the major highway to Sparta, beginning a long uphill stretch, 800 feet over 5 miles. By this point in the race that means walking for most runners, myself included. I had seen this as one place to potentially make some gains, as it's on the edge of runnable, and I'd factored in a speed up here in my splits. But even with the critical need to make up time I still found myself walking most of it. Yet, somehow, by the top I'd still made up a couple more minutes, now 5 minutes off pace. More thanks to my improved walking form, I guess.
Now is when, for me, the race really starts. There is a long rolling section with some fast running possible, then a big downhill to the Monument checkpoint, a long uphill walk, and a loooong steep descent into Sparta. I had to work hard just to not lose more ground, because in the past I'd been flying here. Nonetheless, after another few checkpoints I've narrowed the gap to 3 minutes. Definitely within striking distance for the final descent.
<b>The Imp of the Perverse</b>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>We have a task before us which must be speedily performed. We know that it will be ruinous to make delay. The most important crisis of our life calls, trumpet-tongued, for immediate energy and action. We glow, we are consumed with eagerness to commence the work, with the anticipation of whose glorious result our whole souls are on fire. It must, it shall be undertaken to-day, and yet we put it off until to-morrow; and why? There is no answer, except that we feel </i>perverse<i>, using the word with no comprehension of the principle. ...</i></span></blockquote>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Examine these and similar actions as we will, we shall find them resulting solely from the spirit of the </i>Perverse<i>. We perpetrate them merely because we feel that we should not. Beyond or behind this, there is no intelligible principle: and we might, indeed, deem this perverseness a direct instigation of the arch-fiend, were it not occasionally known to operate in furtherance of good.</i></span></blockquote>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Edgar Allen Poe, The Imp of the Perverse</i></span></blockquote>
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The closer we push ourselves to our limits, the more the mind rebels, and seeks a way, any way, to avoid the impending metabolic catastrophe. The cleverer we are, the more ways the mind can succeed here, to our detriment. One way out is the perverse pleasure we can attain via the narrative of a dramatic, heroic failure. A simpler way is the self-reinforcing "it's not possible, so I might as well not kill myself trying". I fought against both of these for the remainder of the race, as I ran out of steam and began to lose ground again. With the sunrise should come a reenergized mind and body; this is what had happened here in the past. But I had already borrowed against that with the caffeine, and I had already spent a bit too much catching up. I found myself walking where I should be running. Another couple of checkpoints and I was 10 minutes behind again. Was I perversely engineering my own failure? Now that I was close, I had no choice but to continue working hard – unless I adopted the view that it just wasn't possible, which a few more bouts of walking would make all too easy.
Still, I was excited for the finish. I'm the guy who runs faster than everyone else here for the last 13 miles. I have to stay latched onto the positive narrative. I ran the big descent into the Monument CP, 68, solidly. Very fortunately, Scott was there (I didn't realize at the time it had taken some creative work to manage that), and I ditched everything I could in preparation for the final assault. I'd be way too hot running fast in the jacket. As I headed down the road I suddenly remembered I had also planned to leave the belt and take a final NoDoz, so I ran back yelling for Scott. Fortunately he heard me just in time. He also told me Jon Olsen was just 12 minutes ahead, and Will was still ahead of Jon. Wow. I did not ask about my place; I knew there was no chance now of top-10. It was all about 27. Or, maybe, all about 27:15, the fallback position from which I could say that I'd have done it if not for the wrong turn.
Now I truly had a chance to recharge a bit, as it's a significant climb up to CP 69. It's possible to run it if you really want to, but I prefer to get to the top ready to fly. I walked it efficiently, passing a couple more runners.
If you run from CP 69 to the finish in under two hours you are doing really well. This year the winner, Ishikawa, ran it in 1:58. I'd run it in 1:44 in 2015, and 1:33 in 2016. Both years the stars had aligned so that I was in the right mental and physical place to leave it all out there, and I had gained several places each time, passing other runners as if they were standing still. The Imp of the Perverse had not touched me. Would I be able to repeat that performance?
At CP 69, my Garmin showed 25:23 elapsed. I'd have to do it in 1:37. And I knew that I was more spent than last time, plus I had Zorba to contend with. But my body knew what to do. As the descent began I engaged smoothly. After a while I looked down and saw 6:20 pace on my Garmin. As in past years, I stopped checking my split charts and just ran for all I was worth, blowing through the checkpoints without stopping. But looking back now, each checkpoint was a little slower than in 2016. I just didn't have as much left.
It wasn't long before I saw Jon ahead – he'd had hydration issues. But he gave me a hearty fist bump as I ran by. I passed a few more people, and kept running hard. I saw a German jersey up ahead, ran by. I looked back and did a double-take. "Florian??" "Yes." I waved. It's not every race that you pass two 24-hour world champions, and one Spartathlon winner, in your final push.
But as I got closer, and it got harder, and Zorba made his presence more fully felt, the Imp tried hard to reassert itself. I somehow convinced myself that it was 2.9 miles from CP 73 to 74, and I could see that that meant sub-27 was now impossible. I was resigned to just getting a solid finish and PR; my effort waned. But it was really 1.9. All of a sudden I was in Sparta, there was the checkpoint, and I had 11 and a half minutes to run 1.5 miles. With a huge burst of adrenaline, I frantically grabbed my American flag from the drop bag I'd left there, and desperately sprang ahead.
For a couple of miles now there had been a runner just ahead of me that I expected to pass, but every time I would start to do so my energy would falter. He was also running hard. Now there were two ahead of me; I recognized the second as Hungarian Zsuzsanna Maraz, the women's leader. Still I could not pass. Now that we are in Sparta we are done with the downhill, and there are some uphill sections. I'd resorted to walking stretches both previous years. This year I would not have that luxury. But Zorba was now in full force. Whether you call it a cyclone or a medicane, it was the equivalent of a Category 1 hurricane. In the US, the race would definitely have been canceled by now, if not before it even started. The streets of Sparta were flooded, and for large stretches we had to run through inches of standing water. I would laugh if I were not balanced on a knife's edge.
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Wind damage near Sparta. Pic by Claire Nana.</span></i></td></tr>
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<i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Video of Zorba hitting Sparta by Kat Uba Bermudez</span></i></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">As I see the penultimate turn ahead, about half a mile to go, I somehow find an extra gear, and surge forward, past both runners. But I am not thinking about places now, I am thinking about time; passing them is incidental. And then... it's gone; I have to walk and recover. The guy catches back up... it's Will! I'd had no idea. He says "what do you say we finish together?". I heartily agree. This is a fine Spartathlon tradition; we will be joint first Americans this year. But he has more left than I do, and I cannot hold him back. I need more walk breaks, and let him go. </span><br />
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And here we are back to the Imp of the Perverse. Maybe. I don't know. And that's the really hard thing. I have had excruciating misses in the past, none more so than when I came up 300 feet short of making the US National 24-hour team last year – a miss by less than a minute out of 24 hours, a truly minuscule fraction. Do I have some kind of deep psychological need to dramatically fail? I don't think so. I have never wanted anything more than I wanted to make that team. And yet, what are the odds that my absolute best would be almost exactly but not quite enough?
And now, at the moment of truth in my favorite race, with just a quarter mile left to hang on, I chose to walk. I didn't run until I fell over, as I had in that 24-hour. With 20 miles to go when you walk you can say that it's careful management of remaining resources. When you're at the finish all of the future uncertainty has evaporated; it is Do or Do Not; there is no Try. And I Did Not.
I am still immensely relieved and proud as I manage to run most of the remainder, flag draped over my shoulders, and kiss Leonidas' foot with 27:02:09 elapsed on my watch, 40 seconds behind Will. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Pic by Scott Holdaway</span></i></td></tr>
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<b>Aftermath
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The normal finish-line celebration in Sparta was missing this year: no kids escorting you to the finish on bikes, no Greek maidens offering you water from the river Evrotas. But I did receive my water (from the mayor of Sparta), my trophy, and most importantly, my olive wreath. Also some good photos, as Scott had managed to arrive just minutes before I did. I was escorted to the medical tent, where I breathed a huge sigh of relief and lay on a table warming up for an hour. Then we made our way to the bus to Githio, an hour south, where the Americans were housed this year.
I'll skip the details on all the post-race activities this year, except for some photos. Alas, the dreaded buses kept me from making it to the "Spartan Mile", held the morning after the race at the track in Sparta, where you have to run barefoot, in your underwear (theoretically naked, as in the old Greek Olympics, but accommodations must be made), and the "mile" is really just one lap. Next time!
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Luncheon with the Mayor of Sparta</span></i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Touring Athens with John Fegyveresi</span></i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Awards gala, with Scott</span></i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">With Bruce Choi and Aykut Celikbas</span></i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.800000190734863px;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">2018 US finishers. Missing Jon Olsen, George Myers.</span></i></td></tr>
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<b>Numbers and Takeaway
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It turns out that my chip time was 27:01:08 – 12 seconds behind Will. I topped Roy Pirrung's 27:08:45, the previous best American master's finish at Spartathlon, a mark that had stood since 1989. (Admittedly, in a year where the weather was, though unpleasant, a net benefit for the faster runners.) But then I discovered that Will is 48! I would not have guessed. So congratulations again to Will. I will content myself with improving on my over-50 American best, and moving into the #5 American spot all-time behind Jurek, Nagy, Allen, and Rivera. (I took over the #5 spot from Pam Smith, my friend and frequent rival. You should have come back this year, Pam!)
<a href="https://www.spartathlon.gr/en/races/races/race/38.html" target="_blank">Full Results</a>
As in 2016, I finished in 16th place, making up quite a few places in the big downhill. Given my fitness and the extra challenges posed by the conditions and my unplanned excursion, I have to be very happy with it: a half-hour PR on a course I've run very well in the past, at age 53. Also as in 2016, I was the first finisher over 50, and I ran the fastest split from CP 69 to the finish (1:39:12). Aykut Celikbas has looked further and checked the splits from CP 60 (121.4 miles) to the finish, discovering that there Ishikawa was first (5:11:53), I was second (5:20:07), Patrick Hosl was third (5:22:08), and Aykut was fourth (5:25:07). Aykut was not far behind me from 69 to the finish either, running it in 1:46:31. In his fourth Spartathlon, he ran an incredible three-and-a-half-hour PR. Congratulations!</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">The time I saved in checkpoints due to the cool conditions was a huge factor. In 2015 I spent an average of 1:06 per checkpoint; not bad. In 2016 I improved that to 47 seconds. This year it was 24 seconds. That's a total savings of 28 minutes in checkpoints alone, essentially accounting for all of my PR – except for the extra 15 minutes I had to run.
The big picture is that my planning and execution were nearly perfect (apart from the one big screwup); for the first time, I got through with no real muscular, focus, nutritional, blister, or other issues; and most importantly, when the going got tough I hung on and didn't yield. At the very end the picture is fuzzier, because minds are very complex things. There is I think no way to know whether I psyched myself out or whether I truly gave it my all. Running a race like Spartathlon is always a process of self-discovery, which is one of the main reasons I do it. I learned a little more, but ultimately the puzzle of running remains a nut I will never fully crack. Fortunately! For then, what would be the point?</span><br />
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I owe huge thanks, once again, to Scott Holdaway. He was always in the right place at the right time, making everything go smoothly. His job was in many ways harder than mine: I never had to stand around in the miserable downpour waiting, waiting, waiting, for maybe 30 seconds of contact before it was time to plan a trip to the next place.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Thank you Scott!</span></i></td></tr>
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Thank you to everyone who helped Scott crew: initially David Bone and Jeff and Jane Strachan, then James Suh for the bulk of the race, also Tori Robinson who had offered to take Scott on later if the spacing worked out (but as expected, Nathan Flear was too far ahead of me). Thanks to David, Jeff, and Jane for the lift to the start, and to Tori and Nathan for the ride back from Sparta to Athens (once more bypassing the buses).
Thank you to Andrei Nana for all the work organizing the US team, once again, and for producing our great team shirts. Under his leadership, over the past few years we have grown to a formidable force, up from years with only a few, or even no, American entrants. This year we had 15 starters and 11 finishers, our best showing ever.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Thank you to Liz for tolerating all the training and the time away, and for proofreading this report.
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Thank you to the Sparta Photography Club for all the wonderful photos, taken under challenging circumstances. </span></span><br />
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Thank you to everyone at the ISA, Kostis Papadimitriou, Nikolaos Petalas, Panagiotis Bonelis, and everyone else, for putting on the greatest footrace on Earth in extremely challenging conditions. Thank you to all the volunteers who had to endure Zorba's wrath, in exchange for brief visits with battered runners often not in the greatest of moods.
And thank you for reading!
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Post-race trip to Dubrovnik with Scott</span></i></td></tr>
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Bob Hearnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01351956832733163825noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2382599380750777712.post-27156546249483156942018-09-27T11:13:00.002-07:002018-10-08T13:53:14.436-07:00Badwater 2018: Meditation on Toughness<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Well here it is <strike>a month</strike> TWO months after Badwater and I still have not finished my race report. (Meanwhile Pam Smith made sure to inform me two weeks after Badwater that she had already written three posts all about Badwater, plus submitted an article to UR mag!) With Spartathlon imminent, I guess it's now or never. The problem is I still am not really sure what I have to say about Badwater. But I think the theme of this report needs to be toughness. What is a tough race? What is toughness in a runner, and in particular, where is the line, if any, between physical and mental toughness? </span><br />
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<b>Background
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Badwater is on many an ultrarunner's bucket list, but for years it was never on mine. I don't do well in heat, and the race always seemed to me like torture just for the sake of torture. Also, I have to admit being put off by the whole "World's Toughest Foot Race" thing. More on that later. But when I first ran Spartathlon a few years ago, almost everyone else on the US team had run Badwater. Hmm. Well I guess they are somewhat similar races: hot, very long road race. Badwater is hotter and hillier; Spartathlon is more humid and longer (and has much tighter cutoffs, as well as some short technical trail sections). But perhaps they are sort of in the same family. Gradually (based largely on my community of enablers) I came to believe that I could do well at Badwater. I should be able to finish top-10 (so I thought!); on a good day, it wasn't inconceivable that I could podium (ha ha!). And after all I do love the desert.
So finally this year I pulled the trigger. My focus for the past few years has been 24-hour, but after putting everything into making the US national team for 2017 Worlds and coming up an agonizing 300 feet short, I felt the need to branch out more this year and try different things. It's no fun continually banging your head against the same wall. Let's try a different wall!
Of course the first hurdle is getting into the race. Thousands meet the minimum entry requirements and apply, but only 100 are selected. I thought my application would probably get me in – the biggest black mark was that I hadn't crewed at Badwater, but everything else was strong. Still, as the entrants were announced (in random order), and we were down to the last few without my name being called, I was beginning to think along the lines of crewing for Pam. But then they called me.
Having gotten in, I was then hit with the reality that not only is this a very expensive race, it's also much more logistically complex than any other race I'd ever run. There is no on-course support; you need to bring your own crew, typically four people, rent a van (essentially a mobile aid station), arrange hotels for everyone before, after, and potentially during the race, figure out who needs to be where when... and then there is the gear. Staying cool is literally vital. All this was new to me; I really had no idea what I'd signed on for. I mean, 135 miles, pfft, how hard could that be? Ha! I should have crewed it first.
So my first priority was to assemble a crew that had a lot more of a clue than I did. I wound up with an awesome crew with tons of experience: crew chief Heidi Perry, Linda Huyck, Matt Hagen, and Paul Kentor (at the last minute Paul was switched out for Susan Schenberg). Heidi gave me lots of reading homework and had very clear ideas on how crew operations should work. Great!
I was setting myself up for a pretty challenging summer, with EMU 6-day in May, Badwater in July, and Spartathlon in September. Badwater got the short end of the stick. Dave Krupski warned me that if I didn't make it my top priority, it would not be pretty. But I was chasing records at EMU, and Spartathlon, well, that's my favorite race, and my goals there are simply more meaningful to me than Badwater. I had an injury to work through after EMU, and Badwater training never wound up quite hitting the level I would have liked, nor did I get my weight back to where it should really be. Yet somehow, the closer the race got, the more inclined I was to pace it aggressively. I'm known for putting a lot of planning into my races, and benefiting from my very careful pacing. So everyone told me I would kill Badwater; clearly it was in my wheelhouse! I wasn't so sure, but I began to drink the Kool-Aid. Several people told me they thought I could win. I knew that would not happen unless (1) I paced aggressively and (2) a lot of people fell apart. Theoretically possible, but pacing to win would be a sure disaster, so I put the thought well at the back of my mind.
I didn't really sit down to analyze previous performances and put together a pacing plan 'til the week before the race. The ideal template for me looked to be Charlie Engle's over-50 course record of 26:15 in 2013. I had his split times at several points along the course. Compared to typical splits, his looked very smart to me. Start slow, run steady, be in position to put the hammer down for the 50K of downhill starting at Darwin (mile 90). Very similar to how I run Spartathlon. But the problem was, 2013 had a daytime start. Due to new Park Service rules the race now starts at night. That means (1) you start already having been awake all day, and (2) you now face both the toughest parts of course and what should be the fastest parts in the heat of the day, instead of at night. So I couldn't target Charlie's exact splits; they wouldn't work for a night start. But I didn't really see any way to move the minutes around to make all the splits look good either.
Still, I came up with plans for 26:14, 28:00, and 30:00. Surely, I should be able to break 30. Which should also approximately mean top-10. But more and more I was inclined to go for the over-50 record. Almost everyone I looked at who had run both Badwater and Spartathlon was faster at Badwater, and I'd run 27:33 at Spartathlon.
<b>Toughness I
</b>
OK so far that's a lot of hand-wringing about pacing and not much about toughness. So let's talk about "The Worlds Toughest Foot Race", self-described as "the most demanding and extreme running race offered anywhere on the planet". Two things. First, it's nonsense (Barkley, anyone?). Second, I mean, really? If you're the best you don't have to proclaim it. But, let's see if we can even figure out what the claim means. The most obvious metric of toughness of a race is the finishing percentage. At Badwater it's over 80%. At Spartathlon, it's typically 40%. At Barkley, it's about 1%. Now it's true that Badwater entrants are more highly selected than at Spartathlon or, I think, Barkley for their presumed ability to finish. Spartathlon has a lottery (though the bar is high to enter, and higher to auto-place out of); I'm not privy to the logic Laz uses to pick Barkley entrants. Thus, finishing percentage can be deceptive. The lower rate at Spartathlon is also due to the much tighter cutoff: 36 hours for 153 miles, vs. 48 for 135 at Badwater. Some years half are timed out by 50 miles at Spartathlon. But then, any race can be made tougher in this sense just by tightening the cutoffs (though it's worth mentioning that Spartathlon's cutoff is not arbitrary, being based on 2,500-year-old history). Clearly something more is meant by toughness... but what?
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />Badwater vs. Spartathlon crude elevation comparison</span></i></td></tr>
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<b>Pre-race
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I rented the crew van (based on recommendations, a Dodge Grand Caravan) in the Bay Area and drove it down to Furnace Creek a couple days early to get situated, arriving midday Saturday (the race starts Monday evening). Heidi and Linda arrived that evening after picking up Susan at the Las Vegas airport, and Matt arrived the next morning, after an incomplete "Soft Rock" attempt.
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Heidi and Linda took charge of organization. I had a bunch of stuff and a bunch of bins and more or less sorted it out, but they would be the ones managing it all during the race, so what went where and how it was staged in the van was up to them. This was not their first rodeo, and I was happy to leave it in their capable hands. My large new Yeti cooler did not meet with approval. Fortunately we collectively had a cooler surplus; in the end they went with FOUR coolers in the van.</span><br />
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I did a short run along the course early Sunday morning. It was "only" 100 or so, but not exactly comfortable; it would be much hotter in the race. Ulp. Sunday afternoon, we did the runner check in. Lots of stuff I had to present to get my bib. Safety vests. Lights. "Biffy" bags (as there are very few bathroom opportunities on the course). Don't tell Chris, but as Pam's crew had not yet arrived and they had the vests, I surreptitiously lent her mine for checkin when I was through.
After that it was time for the mandatory meeting for runners and crew chiefs, to go over all the rules and safety procedures, which are extensive – both because running 135 miles in the hottest place on Earth at the hottest time of the year is kind of, well, inherently dangerous, and also because of Park Service requirements. Previous winners in this year's race were introduced: Pete Kostelnick (course record holder), Harvey Lewis, Oswaldo Lopez, Marshall Ulrich, Zach Gingerich. And I think a few others I am not remembering. A pretty tough set of competitors if I was thinking top-10! However, many of them were coming in banged-up, and it was hard to know who the favorites really were. In my over-50 set Grant Maughan and Ray Sanchez stood out. Ray has run Badwater 10 times, with some fast finishes among them, and Grant has run the fastest over-50 time since the night start was instituted. But Grant at least was also in the banged-up category, after winning the Vol State 500k less than two weeks earlier.
Next, the traditional group photo in front of the iconic Furnace Creek thermometer. 123° F on Sunday; it would be hotter Monday. The highest recorded air temperature on Earth is 134.1°. That was at Furnace Creek, in 1913.</span><br />
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And with that, for me, it was pretty much time to relax, get as much rest as possible, and let my crew finalize things. Monday, everyone made a big ice run. Then Matt and Susan left to stage his car in Lone Pine, near the finish, and return in Linda's car to spend the night and await my arrival in Stovepipe Wells, 42 miles into the race. (See, I said logistics were complicated.) I tried to nap as much as I could Monday while Heidi and Linda loaded the van. But I later learned that if you want to do Badwater right, with the night start, you will need some sort of pharmacological aid to sleep during the day on Monday. That's what the top competitors do. You can't just shift your schedule by half a day leading up to the race, because of the stuff you have to do during the day on Sunday.
My thermometer / hygrometer sitting on the deck outside my room gave me numbers that equated to a heat index of about 180! But then I realized the humidity was coming from the air conditioner venting. Still, it was forecast to be more humid than usual, after recent rain, along with what now appeared to be record-high temperatures. Heidi convinced me (I didn't need that much convincing) that with these conditions, pacing for an age-group record just wasn't smart. I decided to start on the 28:00 splits and see how they felt.
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<b>The Start
</b>
Badwater starts in three waves. As race director Chris Kostman puts it, the fast people start at 8:00. The faster people start at 9:30. And the fastest people start at 11:00. I was sorted into the 11:00 bin, which, apart from the longer prior time awake, suited me well – the start would be a little cooler, and I would have more of the finish after dark (assuming I finished before the second sunrise... uh... yeah).
As the afternoon turned into evening suddenly the endless wait became an urgent scramble. I had toe taping required, that Heidi and Linda helped with. I always get blisters on the bottoms of my little toes after 75 miles or so, and Badwater would subject my feet to more extreme conditions than they'd experienced before. I had personalized advice from John Vonhof, as I'd been fortunate to chat with him quite at bit at Western States. He offered two different solutions, and I tested each, one per foot, in a 50K. Both were fine for 50K (but then so was no taping), so I went with the simpler one. But taping your little toes in a way that will stick is still a pain, and it took longer than expected. So, I was a bit frantic after that.
Though all the pre-race stuff is in Furnace Creek, the race actually starts 17 miles south, in Badwater Basin, 280 feet below sea level: the lowest point in North America. And it ends at the top of Mount Whitney, the highest point in the lower 48. Well, it used to anyway. Now you need a Forest Service permit for the final stretch, so the race ends at the Whitney Portal, at 8,360'.
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As we drove this stretch we saw all the bobbing headlights and flashing crew-vehicle hazards from the second-wave start strung out along the highway. I saw a jester hat go by, and yelled out the window for Ed Ettinghausen. OK this was getting pretty real now!
We finally arrived, and I rushed through the final check in, verifying lights etc. Then we had the final pre-race announcements and the wave start photo, and we were off!
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My slow-start splits, even for what I thought would be top-10, had me running the first 42 miles – mostly flat – at 10:00 pace. So as expected I quickly fell to the back of of pack of the 30-odd in my wave. Pam and I are friendly rivals and had similar goals, so I thought maybe we would be running together for a while at some point, but she moved ahead early. (The difference was, she was actually a favorite to win the women's race.) I did seem to be on about the same pace as Grant Maughan. Again, it was a miracle he was here at all. I'd seen photos of his feet after Vol State. Finally I pulled ahead of him.
Over the first 17.5 miles to the Furnace Creek timing station, Heidi, Linda, and I worked out the kinks and settled into a steady rhythm. About every 1 3/4 miles they would pull over, turn on their hazards, and wait for me with a new hat full of ice, a spray bottle to wet me down, and a fresh bottle of either water or (once per hour) my custom drink mix. I hit Furnace Creek at 2:55 on the clock, bang on my pace plan. I was pretty comfortable, keeping it at an easily sustainable effort, and not too hot.
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As we continued to head north towards Stovepipe Wells it became a little more difficult. There was a decent headwind that left my shirt bone-dry pretty quickly between wettings. Also the terrain became a little more rolling. Grade perception can be deceptive in the dark, and a long, very gentle rise seemed like a big interminable uphill to me. As a result my pace began to fall off, even at what should have been such an easy effort. Also I was already tired. Around 4 am I took a NoDoz, in retrospect a mistake.
There was a bathroom in Stovepipe Wells... but I didn't quite make it. A few miles short, I got to experience first-hand the joys of using a biffy bag, with Heidi and Linda holding up a tarp for privacy. You can't just go behind a bush, no bushes. Plus, to foul the National Park is a DQ (or as Chris put it, you're allowed to water the desert, but not to fertilize it). The uncomfortable posture led to severe abdominal cramps, and I immediately took a HotShot. But it was a while before I was able to get moving again. I finally rolled into Stovepipe Wells around sunrise, 7:20 elapsed, 17 minutes behind my planned split for a 28:00 finish. Ugh.
<b>Slipping
</b>
Here we picked up Matt and Susan, fresh from a night's sleep, giving Heidi and Linda a break. And beginning here you are allowed to have a pacer. All of my crew paced me at some point; Matt started. Pacing is a little different here than at other races. For one thing, both you and your pacer must be on or left of the white line on the left side of the road, and the pacer must be strictly behind you, no running side-by-side or letting your pacer actually "pace". But on the flip side, here pacers are allowed to "mule", i.e., carry gear for you. Once Matt was carrying my bottle I could tell a big difference in how easy it was to move! Also here we started using Heidi's patented wet towel around the shoulders secured with a solid diaper pin, easy to change every stop. This helped quite a bit and mostly kept me cool and comfortable, and I think gave me a definite advantage over most of my competitors.
Also here begins the first of the three big climbs of the race, from sea level at Stovepipe up to 5,000' at Townes pass, over 17 miles. The first half of this is somewhat runnable, but the second is pure walking. The day began to heat up (though I don't think it had dipped below 100 during the night). Still tired, I took another NoDoz. Somehow I lost a lot more time here (including another bathroom stop) and crested the pass 37 minutes behind schedule. Wow. Guess I walked too much the first half of it.
Well, if 28 wasn't going to happen it wasn't going to happen. The important thing was to get to Darwin in good shape to run fast, and stay within striking distance of top-10. I wasn't asking for any position updates yet, they weren't relevant. But already I had passed Harvey Lewis, who actually took a 9:30 start, still recovering from his fast traversal of the entire Appalachian Trail, and somewhere in here I passed Pete's van, though I didn't see Pete. He was coming off a fast win at C&O 100 and I'd expected him to do well here, but obviously he was having issues.
Towards the end of this stretch Linda took over pacing from Matt. I expected that for the next stretch, 5 miles at about a 9% downgrade, I might be running alone; I'm a fast downhill runner in road races. But it turns out that, though Linda was the only non-ultrarunner of the bunch, she's MUCH faster than I am up to marathon, and had even run in the marathon Olympic trials! I'd had no idea. So she had no trouble whatsoever staying with me as I flew down the mountain, making up some of that lost time, but honestly at a faster pace than was wise at that point (mostly 7ish pace, dipping down to 6:20s here and there). The hardest stuff was still to come. But I did pass Yassine Diboun here.
I kept up a pretty quick pace over the gentler descent of the next 4 miles, but then walked the last 4 slight uphill miles into Panamint Springs. It was now after noon and very hot, and I was very tired. Took another NoDoz. Some guys were going up and down the course with an IR thermometer checking asphalt temperature, and my crew recorded that it was 168° here. Yeah, it's not just the air temperature. You are baking on that asphalt! A popular story goes that you run on the white line at Badwater because if you don't your shoes will melt. I'd thought that was a myth, but Pam did have part of her sole detach. Speaking of Pam, she'd had issues of her own, and apparently I'd passed her somewhere after Stovepipe Wells, but not noticed.
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I was no longer paying attention to splits, but by Panamint Springs, mile 72.7, I was nearly an hour behind plan. Here my crew had to restock with ice, and it turns out they were rationing it! Lesson: next time start with even more cooler space and more ice.
<b>Toughness II
</b>
Now, in the hottest part of the day, it was time for the toughest part of the course, the climb from Panamint up to Father Crowley, 2,000' over 8 miles. What makes it even tougher is that because of the narrow twisty road there are limited places where crew can pull off. With the heat and the hill you might want your crew every quarter mile here, but you are only allowed crew access at a handful of fixed spots, some of them over two miles apart. I tend to be a pretty good-natured runner and easy to crew, but Heidi will tell you I was complaining all the way up this hill. It was too damn hot and steep and long and far between crew stops.
So yeah, "toughness" here is not about cutoffs. It's just hard to make it up that hill under those conditions, even walking, with 70+ hot miles on your legs and 60+ still to come.
<b>Fading
</b>
I think really this climb was where my attitude started to go south; it didn't recover until much too late. Halfway up the climb my Garmin died. My crew were unable to get it to recharge in the van. For some reason my Garmin is like a lifeline to me, what I anchor my math around, and if I can't do splits in my head I am adrift.
Also during the climb, I guess because of the long waits between stops, I somehow fell off my hourly sports drink schedule. I had been controlling calories, and now I wasn't, and that wasn't good. My memory is fuzzy here but I'm sure my crew were trying to get calories in me, but, see attitude.
Finally, the taping on my little toes was not working. Near the top I had to take a break while my crew treated a blister. As we were doing this Pam caught back up, in and out of the crew area, moving well again.
Once you reach Father Crowley the climb is not over. There's another 1,000' feet to go, but spread over 10 miles. By this point I was starting to pay attention to my position. In Panamint I was told I was in 6th, and I think only Pam had passed me since then. But as the day wore on I found it harder and harder to stay awake and keep moving.
I needed another blister stop, this time for a blister on the front of my sole, unusual, as well as the other little toe. But there was little my crew could do about the sole blister, though both Heidi and Matt are foot experts with full kits. So I just had to deal with it. Every step became painful.
Another NoDoz. Somewhere in here I tried to restart a regular calorie schedule, with reduced quantities. I was getting more and more tired and wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep. I told myself I just had to get to Darwin still in good position and it would be OK. I would have that long downhill to energize me. Just like at Spartathlon, right?
<b>Toughness III
</b>
We got to Darwin, mile 90.6, and the switch didn't flip. It was getting dark, it still hurt to run because of the blister, and I was still fading in and out. I told my crew "Guys, I'm really sorry, but..." and didn't think what this would sound like. After the race they told me they thought I was about to drop. Ha! With a 48-hour cutoff?! No. It was "I'm sorry, but I can't keep going without a nap." I was throwing in the towel, not for finishing, but for running what I thought of as a good race. I was letting the rest of the top 10 pass me by unchallenged. So, I dozed in the van with the AC on for half an hour.
For the third goal race in a row (Snowdrop 55-hour, EMU 6-day, Badwater), the second evening killed me. Certainly part of the concept of toughness is mind over matter. Your body is screaming in agony but you push through it; that's toughness, right? The kicker (as I've also discussed in earlier blog posts) is that your brain is also part of your body; it's a false dichotomy. When my brain is that tired, it's like the motivation switch has been turned off at the source, and no amount of willpower will overcome it.
<b>No-Man's Land
</b>
Dave Krupski says that the race is won or lost on the 50K mostly downhill stretch from Darwin to Lone Pine. If you can run it in 5 hours, you win. Now that's not a fast 50K by any means, especially downhill, but it is searing hot and you have 90 miles on your legs and the final climb up Mt. Whitney still to go. Under 6 and you are usually top 5.
My 28-hour pace plan had me at 5:55 here. I figured, most competitors here are 100-mile runners; they will be severely challenged and in new territory. Whereas my strength is much longer races; I'd run well over 100 miles I think 12 times. I should be just getting started!
Well I will skip most of the details here, as they are pretty fuzzy anyway, but suffice to say my Darwin to Lone Pine split was not 5 hours, or 6, but over 11. Yeah, I lost over 5 more hours here. The biggest reason, I think, is that I'd just given up. It hurt to run, there seemed like no point, and I walked most of it. And I had a few more naps along the way. Towards the end of it Grant Maughan, who to my mind had no business being mobile at all, passed me back. (This is said of a lot of people, but he's really not human.) Everyone else I'd thought of as a competitor had either dropped or long since passed me.
What I remember most about the night is (1) Linda and Susan's limitless supplies of stories to keep me moving and (2) endless peeing. Ever since around the climb to Father Crowley I'd had to stop every 10-15 minutes. It seemed like somehow my output far outstripped my input. Actually I probably have this to thank for not sleeping even longer, as I urgently had to get up again before too long at each nap.
As we approached Lone Pine the sky gradually lightened, and my energy gradually returned. The Sierras were magical as they gradually emerged from the murk.</span><br />
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<b>Toughness IV
</b>
As many runners will tell you, and I will concur, hanging in there when your goals are gone is one of the hallmarks of toughness. Yeah so I was going to get a buckle, big deal. The distance from Darwin to the finish seemed incomprehensibly large, when I knew I would be painfully walking most of it. What was the point? To prove I could do it within 48 hours? But that's like forever, so what. But. Quitting was still unthinkable. This is a kind of toughness I generally have, and it comes from a belief, anchored in past experience, that my future self will not let me down. And it comes with a sharp edge. If you quit, you are a quitter, and you know that, and it makes it much harder to keep going next time you are in the same place, because you can't trust your future self. That's why I really, really, really hate quitting.
<b>Denouement
</b>
As we came into Lone Pine I was now all smiles. Yes there was Mt. Whitney and I was going to have to walk up it. But, that was walking for everybody, and now I was walking well, and it was a beautiful day, and the end was in sight. Matt got me a couple of Egg McMuffins and I double-fisted them coming through the Lone Pine checkpoint.
Eventually we made the turn onto the road up the mountain. And yes, it went up, up, up. 5,000' over 12 miles. Heidi walked up a bunch of it with me, pointing out local landmarks she remembered from her two finishes, and Matt took over for the last few miles.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Finally, at long last, we were there. Not in 28 hours, but 36. Hottest year ever in the hottest place on Earth; I'll take it. It was with huge relief and joy that I crossed the line with all my crew. Funny thing, I have a great finisher pic, but it was actually staged. Chris was a little slow on the camera the first time, so we had to re-do it for the photo! But I can't imagine it coming out any better.</span><br />
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<b>Toughness Conclusion
</b>
So what is toughness? I don't know. It's a bunch of things. Is Badwater the World's Toughest Footrace? I think my earlier comments stand. But I will give it this. Badwater broke me; Spartathlon has tried and (so far) failed. I'll be back for another shot.
<b>Thank You
</b>
This journey would of course not have been possible without Heidi, Linda, Matt, and Susan, and every one of them made it one of my fondest memories. Crewing Badwater is a real commitment; it's no small thing. I hope I can repay you sometime. And Chris, you throw a hell of a party.
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Bob Hearnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01351956832733163825noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2382599380750777712.post-34867863473652693282018-05-17T11:41:00.001-07:002018-05-17T18:59:29.442-07:00EMU Six-Day Race World Trophy 2018<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Now that's what I call trophies</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">As usual, there's far more detail here than most readers will be interested in. Feel free to skip ahead to The Race, at least. Day Two is where it begins to get interesting.</span><br />
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<b>Background</b>
Six days. Why would anyone want to run for six days straight? That's basically been my attitude since, well, I first became aware it was a thing. True, it is one of the three fixed-time day-plus formats for which World Records are maintained (in addition to 24-hour and 48-hour) by the IAU. And true, <a href="https://planetultramarathon.wordpress.com/2008/10/18/the-history-of-the-6-day-race/" target="_blank">it has a storied history going back to the late 19th century</a>, where six-day was the NASCAR of the era, with enormous prizes, gambling, and scandals. But I see my friends do six-day races, and I think (1) that's a really long time to take out of your life (not to mention your family's) for one race, and (2) that can't be good for you. Which, OK, you can laugh at that, coming from a guy who's run ~150 marathons and ultras, with I think 12 of those being well over 100 miles, and accumulated many injuries along the way. But this is different, because of the sleep deprivation. There's a lot of evidence that cumulative lack of sleep basically means cumulative brain damage, invisibly shortening your life and worsening your end days. Six days of that is a big hit. (In all sincerity I feel that, on balance, my running is a big net positive for my physical, mental, and emotional health, and my life expectancy.)
So what changed my mind? In a word: Joe. Joe Fejes and I have been fairly evenly matched rivals the past few years. We're only a couple months apart in age. I've edged him in over-50 records for 24-hour and 48-hour. But Joe has the overall, not just age-group, six-day American Record, 606 miles. And after I proved I could handle myself at 48-hour (at Snowdrop 55), Joe began to lobby me. "You can beat my mark. You can challenge Yiannis Kouros' World Record (644 miles)." Yeah right. After Snowdrop I was 100% positive multiday was not for me. I'd tested the waters, and they sucked. The suffering induced by the sleep deprivation on the second day... that was a kind of torture I'm just not made for. Not to mention, Yiannis Kouros?! And me at 52? Hahahaha! I couldn't help suspecting this was just Joe's way of getting a bit of revenge. Let's make Bob suffer! (He did say, "You can do it, but it will be a world of pain".)
But I did begin to think. Joe told me 48-hour was actually harder than six-day, at least on the sleep deprivation front. To do well at 48 you have to get by on little or no sleep, but at a six-day race you will have to sleep a lot more. Some do well with a couple of hours per day, others with much more. Joe slept (or at least took sleep/nap breaks, which is really not the same thing) for almost 32 hours during his record run, really quite a lot! So... hmm. Well, it's at least worth playing with the numbers, right?
Now it was a game, a challenge. There's a reason this blog is called "The Puzzle of Running". I love puzzles, and there's a big aspect of running for me that is solving puzzles. I've explored all the parameters for 24-hour; the challenge left for me there now is mostly execution. But for multiday races so many more things enter the equation, with sleep being the biggest. The main reason I am competitive, I believe, is all the analysis and planning I put into my racing and especially pacing. The greater the scope for analysis, and the less it's about pure speed, the better I do. Which generally means the longer the race, the better I do. An ounce of planning is worth a pound of VO2Max-optimized muscle. Or something like that.
So I began to put together a pacing spreadsheet, just for the sake of the game. It's hard to know what is reasonable in terms of sleep and other down time without much multiday experience, but by reading lots of race reports and looking at comparative results I could at least get some plausible starting points. And it was possible to convince myself that 644 was, theoretically, doable... on paper. Everything would have to go right. Right from the beginning, that's a very tall order; the longer the race, the more you can expect that everything will NOT go right, and you will have to roll with the punches and adapt. So I worked out pacing plans for a number of goals. First, the WR. There was a narrow set of parameters there that worked at all. The next big mark would be 1,000 km; there were a few different ways to approach that, trading speed for sleep. No American in the modern era had run that; Joe's 606 = 975 km. But in the 19th century, James Albert Cathcart had run 1,000.61 km. (This mark is not on the modern record books, due to lack of certification, etc.) After that, Joe's 606. Then the over-50 American Record, 551 (also Joe's). All in all I made a table with no less than 30 relevant marks, the lowest being 800 km, which I felt sure was within my capabilities, and would be at least a podium-competitive mark in any race. If, as expected, I had to adjust my goals during the race, I had no shortage of candidates! One thing was clear: I couldn't sleep nearly as much as Joe did, because I would not be moving as fast. Joe ran essentially every lap. I would be doing a run/walk every lap. Tradeoffs!
But so far this was just idle playing with numbers. Actually running a six-day race was something else. I asked around, and the consensus was that the EMU Six-Day Race World Trophy in Hungary was the place to go if you wanted a big number. That's where Joe ran his 606 (and later his 551). It's a flat loop, a little under a kilometer, with everything optimized for the runner. Everyone gets a cabin right on the course, with beds, kitchen, bathroom, etc. The timing is top-notch. The support is excellent, with constant ultra food and supplies at the aid station, real meals provided every six hours, and a 24-hour medical staff. But... the timing was not great for me, in early May. My wife Liz's spring adventure was being a National Park Service volunteer in Colorado during the month of April. So I also looked at Sri Chinmoy Six-Day, in late April, in New York. But (1) to put the required effort into a six-day, I really wanted the optimal venue, and (2) that would mean missing the Boston Marathon. Again. I'd run it 11 years in a row, but then missed the last two. I'd begin to feel like a bit of an idiot if I registered and then didn't run three years in a row.
Then things changed when the Park Service revised Liz's schedule, pushing everything back a couple of weeks. All of a sudden EMU made sense. (Relatively speaking! With Badwater in July and Spartathlon in September on my calendar, I was still setting myself up for a pretty challenging gauntlet.) So... I was in! Exciting!!! And certainly intimidating.</span><br />
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<b>Preparation</b></span><br />
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Now it was down to logistics, with crew being the top priority. I was extremely fortunate to line up Mike Dobies, who crewed Joe to his 606, and my best friend Scott Holdaway, who's crewed me at many races. Mike is the consummate numbers guy and race analyst, and Scott knows my mental states better than anyone except Liz. Mike also gave me tons of intel on the race, as he's crewed there several times.
The next aspect of logistics is nutrition. When I had thought about six-day in the past, which was not often, I'd thought of it as outside my wheelhouse nutritionally. I train low-carb so that I can fuel races mostly with body fat and require less calorie intake during the race. I think this is a big advantage for me at 24-hour, Spartathlon, and 48-hour. But six-day is a different regime. Marathons are about carbs, ultras are about fat; you can't store enough carbs. But for very long ultras it changes again, because you can't store enough fat either, or else you have to fat load, taking a weight penalty. So it's about getting the calories in. But this is exactly what I am not trained for. On balance, though, I decided my body fat-based fueling was still an advantage. It would last me at least a few days, and the slower overall pace, plus sleep breaks, meant that getting more calories in would not be the challenge it would be for say a 24-hour. Even so, with plausible numbers filled in it looked like I might burn ~12 pounds of body fat and another ~6 of muscle mass. I didn't have that fat to lose. So I would have to try hard to get in extra calories.
And there are so many more aspects of logistics! My experience in 24-hour and longer races would help, but 48 to six-day is a huge leap. Perhaps foot care was next on my list of concerns. My blister-management "strategy" is generally to get blisters and run through them. That is painful but works, sort of, up to 48-hour. It wouldn't work for six days. But I ran out of time to fully do my homework here, and blisters were indeed an issue.
My training leading up to the race went reasonably well, though I didn't hit my original mileage goals. I have chronic issues with left Achilles and right peroneal tendons, and the Achilles was limiting me. After having issues with leaning in a few races, I'd worked with my physiotherapist and was diligent with my core and glute exercises. Another concern was anterior calf muscle/tendon tears, which I had experienced three times after long loop ultras – and in the case of Snowdrop, during the race, limiting my performance the last several hours. Here I was crossing my fingers that the past bouts of injury had battle-hardened the tissue. These injuries were always in slightly different places, supporting this view, and Joe had had similar experiences. By this point I'd hit every major muscle on each side. Also I expected that the slower pace, with more walking and more sleep, would help. Nonetheless more eccentric anterior calf exercises would have been wise. Joe even pointed me to some. I didn't do them. There was just too much to focus on; I couldn't do everything. Unfortunately this oversight would turn out to be consequential.
For the first time I did some focused walk training, after observing in my spreadsheet the huge difference that a fast walk would make. Here I would walk on a treadmill, typically starting it at 15:00/mile pace and gradually speeding up to 13:00. I think this helped quite a bit; I had perhaps the fastest walking pace at the race except for the actual, accomplished, race walker, Ivo Majetic. (Thanks to David Holmen for the suggestion!)
As long training runs I did a local trail marathon, then Umstead 100 four weeks before EMU, with Boston the following week. I ran all of them at an appropriately low effort level, and felt that the effort and recovery were pretty positive indicators. I did have a brief scare with the Achilles during Umstead, but a little topical Voltaren gel took care of it nicely. On balance I felt well poised for a solid result.
As race day approached, I wound up with a nasty cold after my long SFO -> North Carolina (Umstead) -> Nashville -> Atlanta -> Boston -> SFO trip. Not unexpected after so much travel, but annoying nonetheless. But it should be resolved just in time.
The final week was spent perfecting my custom drink mix. I've had good luck with <a href="https://www.maurten.com/products/drink-mix-160" target="_blank">Maurten 160</a> in recent races; also Maurten was very kind in rushing me some mix gratis before Snowdrop as I had mis-planned delivery. But I'd decided I wanted something a little more concentrated, and with a little less salt. You have to mix Maurten at the right concentration, or it doesn't work correctly. My kitchen looked like a mad scientist's lab for several days as I adjusted concentrations of maltodextrin, sucrose, fructose, pectin, sodium alginate, BCAA powder, and salt until I got something that worked right, testing the magic hydrogel property with a bit of squirted lemon juice to simulate the pH change of the stomach. It was fun, but a lot more work than I'd expected. I tested it on a 20-mile track run with my planned EMU pacing and drink frequency. 20 miles isn't six days, but so far so good anyway. Then, there was the tedious work of preparing 94 drink-mix packets in little ziploc bags, each good for four 4-ounce drinks! Half my large suitcase was filled with shoes, and most of the other half with mountains of drink packets. Fearing TSA, I stuck an ingredient list in each large bag.
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Hopefully I have enough shoes</span></i></td></tr>
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<b>Arrival</b></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I got into Budapest on Monday evening; race start was Thursday noon. Scott and Mike were already there. This gave us a day and a half to play tourist before taking the train to Balatonfüred on Wednesday afternoon. I wished I'd had more time, but as it turned out I had more time to be a tourist after the race than I'd expected. In our day plus Scott and I visited the Chain Bridge, Buda Castle and the surrounding complex, the labyrinth where Count Dracula was imprisoned (really), the Terror Museum, and the shoes along the Danube. Mike clued us in to the excellent public transit system and the local food scene.
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The view from the top of Buda Castle</span></i></td></tr>
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Finally it was time, and we took the two-hour afternoon train ride to Lake Balaton, with several other runners on board. The race is held at Balatonfüred Camping, a campground on the shore of the lake. We were shuttled there from the train station. As we arrived, I met Jenő Horváth and Zoltan Ispanki, two of the race organizers. Zoltan told me "Joe says you can run one hundred kilometers!". Haha. A bit of a language issue there. But I appreciated the vote of confidence.
The competitive landscape at EMU was pretty substantial and exciting. I would get to meet several legends. The men's favorites looked to be Australian Mick Thwaites, German legend Wolfgang Schwerk, Japanese runners Shuhei Odani and Hori Tatsumaro, Hungarian Peter Molnar (2nd last year), and myself, with a few very talented French runners in the mix as well. Johan Steene (the 2017 winner) would have been the overall favorite, but he'd withdrawn because European 24-hour Championships were too close. With the exception of Schwerk, Molnar, and the Frenchmen, all of us were new to six-day. Going by just 24-hour and 48-hour performances, Thwaites would be the favorite, followed by me and Tatsumaro. Schwerk had run an incredible 1,010 km at age 52, the third-best all-time six-day (behind Kouros and Boussiquet), showing that it could be done. At 62, though, it might be a challenge for him to still compete at that level. He did run a 48-hour age-group World Record here as a split two years ago; he was not to be counted out. <a href="https://fejes6dayracecommentary.blogspot.com/2018/05/2018-emu-6-day-race-mens-preview.html" target="_blank">Joe did an extensive pre-race analysis</a>, picking Mick to win with me not far behind. Also exciting would be legend Don Winkley's attempt at the 80+ World Record. Supposedly this would be his final race.
On the women's side, Sumie Inagaki was a legend, having held the 48-hour World Record until just a few months ago. Among her many other accomplishments were multiple Badwater wins, Spartathlon wins, and 24-hour World Championship wins. My friend Charlotte Vasarhelyi, who won EMU in 2014, was also a favorite. Swedes Kristina Paltén, Lena Jensen, and Yudith Hernandez rounded out the favorites. <a href="https://fejes6dayracecommentary.blogspot.com/2018/05/2018-emu-6-day-race-womens-preview.html" target="_blank">Joe's women's analysis is here</a>.
After we got our cabin keys, I went two cabins down to introduce myself to Mick. His coach and crew was none other than Martin Fryer, a legend in his own right, who I'd finally gotten to meet at Spartathlon a couple of years ago. That fact alone spoke very well for Mick's prospects. In between us was Don Winkley's cabin; Mike would also be helping crew him. On the other side were Americans Brad Compton and Bill Heldenbrand.
Mike, Scott, and I then did our big shopping trip at the local Tesco, stocking up on everything we thought we'd need for the upcoming week. Cooler, food, water, various bits of clothing. More trips would be required (especially for ice), but this would get us started, and Mike got a good idea of what kinds of food I'd want later, to supplement my drinks and the provided food. I demonstrated the fine art of mixing and bottling my drink powder. We had a bit of a scare as all the bottled water appeared to have too much calcium, per Maurten's mixing instructions anyway. But the lemon-juice test showed that we were good.
The weather was already a bit scary. The forecast had been getting steadily worse, and now, a day before the race, it was supposed to be over 80 with thunderstorms for the first three days, and merely hot for the rest. I found it uncomfortable to be outside at all, and the thought of running in that for six days was really not appealling. However, I had done my sauna training, and that had served me well in the past at Spartathlon.
But the forecast led me once again to reconsider my goals and starting pace. I was still tentatively planning on starting with my World Record pacing plan. But the weather made it very, very tempting to back that down and shoot for 1,000 km or 606 miles. It's a risk-reward thing. But the function was unknown, and the potential reward of beating a Kouros record was enough, just, to overcome my trepidation. Even if the chance was small, the possibility was enough to make it worthwhile to attempt. It would be the running accomplishment of a lifetime.
I should say that even pacing for the WR, I would be starting at a pretty conservative pace by normal six-day standards. Joe ran 137 miles on day one on the way to 606. That was a little high but not too far out of the ordinary for big performances. My plan had me at 116.4 miles on day one pacing for 644, which if anything most would say is way too low to run a big number. (The infamous Ray Krolewicz remarked of Pete Kostelnick's 117 on day one at another six-day, "it's too bad he's given up so early on 600+".) It's certainly not aggressive. Compared to my 24-hour PR of 152, it should be a very easy effort. But my plan was to pace as evenly as possible, trying to run the same lap splits on day six as day one. I did expect there would be more overhead (medical etc.) per day as the week progressed, also I would sleep less on day one than the rest of the week. Otherwise, even. Almost all multiday runners would laugh at that, and say you can't run even. But what are the consequences of that attitude? Most start too fast because they think they need a big number on day one when they are fresh (or because they just start easy, where easy is really way too fast). Then the "inevitable slowdown" becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. My reasoning, as at shorter races, is that the easier I make it early the better I will feel late. And failure is very nonlinear: going out a little too fast can cost a huge amount later. That's why I planned a run/walk from the very first lap. I can't comfortably run slow enough to hit my planned lap splits.
In the end I didn't really expect I would run even. But trying to do so gave me a way to take a theoretical shot at the WR while still going out at a sensible pace. If I had to back off, at least I wouldn't be too overcooked. Compare that to trying to run say a marathon World Record. There, you would need to start at 4:41/mile pace. The vast majority of marathon runners would not make it even half a mile. It's a very, very different world in this regime.
But back to the story. I got everything unpacked and sorted into compartments in the cabin, US flag hung out front. Evening arrived quickly, and we all tucked in to get as much sleep as possible on the final night. Race morning, there was a meeting at 10:00 to go over rules and pick up bibs. I was told this was a waste of my time and I should sleep in and send my crew to get my stuff, so I did. But I regret this now, as this is when all the runner introductions happened. Anyway I had a leisurely breakfast.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>The Race – Day One</b>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">A word about nomenclature. The race consists of six 24-hour periods, "days", but those are exactly out of phase with solar / calendar days. During the race it was easy to get confused about what "day" it was, as the third morning was still part of the second race day. Anyway I'll label time here with race (noon to noon) days.
Finally, noon, and we were off! I was really doing it: starting a run that would, if all went well, last for SIX DAYS. What the hell was I thinking.
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For the first few laps I calibrated my walking stretch to keep the laps at 6:20. Each lap was 0.5759 miles, or 926.82 m. That's an average moving pace of 11:00/mile, but my estimated running pace was 9:20, with 2:32 walk breaks. My execution strategy was simply to run as slowly as comfortable, and walk enough to keep the laps at 6:20.
The course is asphalt, pretty flat, but with some small variations that would become more noticeable as the race wore on. There was one very short hill that already counted as such even from the beginning, next to the bathrooms. That was a walk spot. Unfortunately my cabin, where Scott and Mike were set up, was near the start of a long straightaway on a very slight downgrade, the ideal spot to be running. But I'd planned to be walking when I passed the cabin, for crew communication and for drinking. Ah well. I played with the balance here throughout the race.
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Our cabin was right where it says "Joe Fejes"</span></i></td></tr>
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From the beginning, it was hot. Frustratingly, I'd been unable to find my arm sleeves as I packed. I'd planned to put ice in them. And somehow I had not packed my desert hat with the sun flap, ideal for putting ice in. Though I'd seen the forecast, I think I'd had a bit of weather denial. I was going to run a big number, therefore it wouldn't be that hot. Oops. The same mentality led me to not pack a cotton t-shirt. This is ideal for hot if it's not too humid: you keep it soaked, and it cools you very effectively. Here, it was humid (t-storms supposedly coming), but it still would have worked. I started in a singlet, but soon switched to short-sleeve as it held more water. I tried ice under the hat but it didn't work that well. Fortunately there was a sponge station on the course (right where it says "Julia"). You grab a sponge (I often grabbed two), soak yourself, and toss it in a bucket around the corner. Once I got into a groove here I actually stayed pretty comfortable, though it was frustrating when occasionally the station would be unmanned for a while and I'd go several laps with no sponges available.
The afternoon unwound at a leisurely pace. Every third lap I'd grab a bottle of drink mix, giving me about 160 calories per hour. That's more than I usually get, but with the new drink mix I could tolerate it well. Other laps I'd grab a bottle of water to thirst. The 6:20 laps made tracking easy. I just kept the cumulative laps at multiples of 6:20, a whole minute every three laps, just when it was time to drink. Any time I stopped I stopped my watch. This way, it's easy to keep average moving pace calibrated to within a fraction of a second of goal pace. Overkill to be sure, but reassuring. The system is nice for as long as it lasts. But as I learned at Snowdrop, when it doesn't, you have to adapt and not mentally fall apart just because things aren't neat and tidy anymore. Other programmed tasks: every three hours, supplements; every 12, weight check.
You can't win a six-day race on day one, but you can certainly lose it. I had my eye on who was lapping me frequently. Odani, as expected. Molnar. Thwaites occasionally, but not too often. Joe had predicted that Odani would go out fast and lead after the first day, and falter after that. I don't wish my competitors ill, but I do feel much more comfortable when I am several places back well into the race. That means that if I'm running even for a good mark, my competitors are either running faster than necessary and will pay for it later, my advantage, or they will do better than I could do anyway. Given that I was pacing for the WR, the latter was not a big risk. Others have a different attitude. Joe is very type-A, and likes to lead throughout. It's easy for me to see this as bad strategy, but the fact is, the mental game is everything in these races, and anything you can do to keep yourself engaged and positive is good. Nonetheless I think I'm fortunate that I get a visceral feel of comfort when others are ahead early. I'm where I want to be. Let my competitors have the pressure of holding on to their leads, while I hang back, take it easy, and wait patiently.
For several hours I was looking for Schwerk; I had yet to identify him. In addition to having a large pile of incredible results, he's famed as a very tactical runner. He'd been in a tight race with Joe two years earlier. Eventually I saw him, I guess running a similar pace to me. But it wasn't long before he slowed quite a bit and acquired a large rightward lean, and was running with his arm in a sling! Mike would say he was playing possum, poor slow me, I'm no threat. I didn't see how he could last long running like that. But he kept going, and going, and going, rarely stopping at all. He's one of those who get by on very little sleep, catching you while you are down. I was shocked at one point to discover he was ahead of me.
Sometime the first afternoon I got some walking form tips from Ivo Majetic, who was walking the entire race, at a good clip, going for an unofficial walking World Record (there were no walking form judges present). Using my arms more effectively, my walk got a bit better. (Charlotte later told me, "your walk is f-ing awesome", as I fretted about my pace.)
At 7:00 pm, it was time for "dinner", and my first scheduled break. I planned major breaks (an hour and 40 minutes) every noon and midnight, except of course for noon at race start, and minor breaks (20 minutes) every six hours, or actually spaced about five hours between the major breaks. That way I'd have a break every meal time. The first day was special, because lunch was at 2:00 and dinner at 7:00 to accommodate the late breakfast and noon start. Anyway the provided meal didn't look that appealling, so I asked Mike to make me a grilled cheese sandwich, which was delicious. 20 minutes down was a nice respite.
At some point in here it began to rain a bit, but it was never more than a light drizzle; the forecast thunderstorms never materialized. Otherwise, the evening progressed without incident. It was a bit of a relief when the sun went down, but it stayed warm and humid for quite a while longer. As it got dark I took my first NoDoz (200 mg caffeine), then another half of one a couple hours later. The effect of the caffeine was very noticeable. The loop got a lot shorter! I had to walk much more of it to keep the laps at 6:20.
Finally it was midnight, another "meal", and my first chance to try to actually get significant sleep. For this I took my shoes off, and put my eye mask on and my earplugs in. I don't think I got much if any sleep. There's inevitable overhead, and it takes a while to get to sleep; it's hard to get comfortable as your body starts to let through those pain signals that are masked while you're running. It wasn't long before Scott was shaking me awake. Ugh. Time to rotate shoes (I had three primary pairs of Hoka Clayton 2s, and four backup pairs of different shoes). Another NoDoz. And... now, finally, at 2:00 am, it was perfect conditions. Back to my thin singlet. I found it almost impossible to run as slow as 6:20; I'd be walking a huge amount. I hemmed and hawed, consulted with Mike. Should I take advantage of the conditions, run 6:15s for a while, then make it up with slower laps in the heat of the day? I was determined not to get ahead of my pacing plan. But there was a problem. I can't easily count off three-lap blocks while adding multiples of 6:15. So I ran 6:10 laps, still very easy, for several hours. Then when the sum was X:30 or X:00 I knew it was time to drink.
At 7:00 am it was time for breakfast and my next 20-minute break. Mike made me some bacon and eggs. Up again, more NoDoz, back at it, 6:20s again. The day warmed up quickly, back to short-sleeve to hold more water, lots of sponges. So far so good.
As the race progressed I met and chatted with several runners on the course. The atmosphere was very supportive and energizing, from the other runners as well as their crews. Diana Kämpe saw my Spartathlon shirt: she'd run it last year, and would be running again this year. See you there! I eventually worked up the nerve to try to chat with Wolfgang Schwerk. I asked him about two of his records that are somehow not on the official IAU records list, most notably his 1,010-km 6-day at 52. That was significantly better than the recorded age-group World Record of 981 (609 miles). Which put me in an awkward spot. If I somehow managed to run 609, should I submit it to IAU as a record? This needs to get resolved. He was very frustrated at all of the "bullshit" he blamed "them" for, but I couldn't quite figure out who "they" were, race organizers, IAU, or someone else.</span><br />
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<b>Day Two</b></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: 14.666666666666666px;">Noon arrived, lunch, major break. I'd done well on overhead on day one, budgeting 20 minutes but only using 10, and I'd run those 6:10s. So I was a bit ahead of plan, at 117.5 miles, a number still well within reason. If I was able to keep the overhead low (I factored in more each day) eventually I would start to use that time for more breaks.</span></span></span><br />
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This time I took an Advil before going down, expecting that otherwise it would be difficult to lie comfortably. Again, I don't think I got much sleep. The idea behind the 1:40 breaks is that you really need about an hour and a half of good sleep to get much benefit, one sleep cycle. But with overhead, plus time to get to sleep, I really wasn't getting that. Scott wanted me to shorten the midnight breaks and lengthen the noon breaks, to run less in the heat of the day, but I was reluctant to make it even harder to get enough sleep during one of my major breaks. And really the heat wasn't bothering me that much as long as I stayed wet, at least perceptually. But no doubt it was taking an additional physical toll.
On being roused, now I was feeling pretty beat up, and not very refreshed. It was time to switch socks as well as rotate shoes, and I could tell my feet weren't in great shape. I drained some blisters, but thought maybe I'd better let medical treat them and tape the problem spots (mostly the little toes). I'd taped them before the race but had done a lousy job. I also gave the New Balances a try to change things up from the Hokas.
So, right away, I took a 20-minute overhead hit for foot care and massage. Boom. Most of my day-two budget. Well, I knew that the overhead in my pacing plan was optimistic. I would not worry unduly if I had to back off my WR goal. I'd just wanted to give myself the chance.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Ouchie</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Still, I think that set the tone for the day; I was in a bit more of a negative space. The NBs weren't feeling great and I switched back to Hokas. It's pretty silly to be in day one of a six-day race and think "things are great; I'm going to run a World Record!". Like the bowler who was so excited about his perfect game that he blew the second frame. Yet, that's the state of mind I'd been in, and losing it was a change. Also, I've run several 24-hour races; my body and brain know what to expect there. Spartathlon takes a bit longer, but not much. But at Snowdrop, I'd had a dramatic change at the start of the second day. My Garmin died. I tried to actually speed up to try to hit the American Record. My head was very fuzzy and I just couldn't think straight. Day one, everything had been very regimented, and gone off like clockwork. Day two was a totally different world. Here I would have SIX days. And already I could sense the same kind of change. I was out of my comfort zone.
Also by now I was beginning to second-guess my caffeine strategy. Was it really doing me any good? Or just keeping me from getting decent sleep, by borrowing time that would just have to be repaid shortly anyway? The caffeine lows were bad.
I got back into a good groove and held it together through the afternoon, still on comfortable 6:20s, staying wet and cool in the heat. I'm not sure whether I forgot I had those 6:10s to make up for with 6:30s, or what; maybe I just lumped that together with the unused overhead from day one.
Somewhere in here Odani had begun to have problems, just as Joe had predicted, and was gone from the course. Molnar had slowed quite a bit. I'm not sure exactly when, but Thwaites and I took over solid 1-2 positions. This wasn't really where I expected or wanted to be so early in the race. But from here on, I got more and more supportive comments about how strong I looked and how inspiring I was, which certainly helped my attitude. There is of course a certain amount of "renormalization" one has to apply here – I know my running form looks slightly silly, for example – and I'm sure everyone else received many compliments as well. As well they should have. They were running for six days!
The 7:00 pm break was again a nice respite, and I did feel it helped. But things would very shortly go south. I started the next lap without my chip. Fortunately someone pointed it out before I'd gone too far; I went back to get it. Then on the very next lap, I happened to see an older gentleman take a bad fall by the side of the course, and stopped to help him up. I didn't think to stop my watch to count it as overhead. Which meant that I then had to hurry to catch up to pace. The lap was only 20 seconds slow, but I'd run too fast, and when I ran the next one at 5:46, I was working too hard. Somehow from there things quickly spiraled out of control. This was a price I was paying for being a slave to my watch; my careful pacing is a double-edged sword. I tried running 6:30 laps; that was no longer easy. What could I do??? This was ridiculous. I was not even halfway through day two. I'd been much farther ahead at this point at Snowdrop with no problem, running faster. But the difference is, I didn't have four more days ahead of me at Snowdrop, and my brain knew that.
Endurance is enormously about anticipatory regulation. If you think you can't hold pace, then you can't. I was getting into a bad mental space, and it was having a huge impact on my sense of effort. I could recognize this fact, but do little about it. I found myself walking, asking Charlotte for advice. She told me what I knew: I just had to get hold of myself; it was just a bad emotional state that would pass. I knew that. But I didn't "know" that. Mike walked with me as well for a bit, and the three of us decided it would be wise to reset my goal back two steps, to the 606 American Record, skipping over 1,000 km. I don't recall now why that skip seemed reasonable, but it did, to all of us. 1,000 km still seemed too intimidating to me. A lap or so later I dove into the cabin to select a new pacing plan from my list on my spreadsheet and plug it in, on Mike's laptop. Now I would run 6:30 laps, take 25-minute and an hour 50-minute breaks, and get much more allocated overhead time per day. That decided, running was easy again. My brain could relax, with all that extra room.
(As an aside, I think I understand a little better now what happened to me at 24-hour Worlds in Belfast last summer. I was pacing aggressively for a big PR. Everything was great, until 15 hours in, I began to sense I was using a bit too much effort. I backed off my pace, which didn't help; I backed off again, still it was no easier. Eventually I was walking, to try to get a reset. But for the first time in a 24-hour, I never really recovered. I think now that this was much more about my lack of confidence once I felt a bit tired becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy than it was anything physical. The brain is by far the most important organ involved in ultrarunning.)
Then things were OK... for a while. As the second evening wore on I found myself more challenged. This was just like at Snowdrop. I just could not face the impending second night. All the little problems seemed to happen at once and add up. Adding 6:30s while keeping track of which laps to drink took more effort. I was constipated. The bathroom was swarmed with little bugs at night. I grabbed my MP3 player to get an energy boost, but it had the opposite effect. It was a new one I'd bought just before the race, and while it was very light and had lots of memory, the interface SUCKED. I could not use it at all in the dark, and the bone-conduction headphones cut out too much sound from the environment. Again, just like Snowdrop, when I'd gotten frustrated with my iPod shuffle the second night because it would only play stuff I wasn't in the mood for, or stuff I'd already heard. Thus the larger memory on the new player. But eventually I just tossed it in frustration. Not only was it not working; it was making the cognitive task of tracking lap splits plus drink times impossible.
Finally, at 10:30, I just couldn't take it anymore. This was a much bigger meltdown. I stopped and told Mike and Scott what was up. Something had to change. I wasn't getting any quality sleep, maybe because of the caffeine, maybe because the breaks were too short. It was too early for my midnight break, but we decided I should go down for a few hours anyway. We could sort things out after that. Again, just like Snowdrop, where I had to take an unplanned hour-long nap – a huge hit relative to my goals there – before I could face the second night.
It's funny. Navigating these mental and emotional spaces is really, to me, what ultrarunning is all about. You experience reality in ways you never do otherwise; you learn things about yourself you wouldn't otherwise. I've experienced the lows firsthand several times; generally, the knowledge that they will pass is enough to keep me going until they do. And every time this happens adds more confidence for the next time. It's much easier to keep going if you can trust your future self to keep going as well. Yet, here I was failing to do so in exactly the same way, in my second multi-day race. Knowledge wasn't doing me any good. The thing is, the brain is a physical thing too; it has physical needs, and I think they just weren't being met. Plus, the second-night sleep deficit is something I just don't have a lot of experience handling yet, and the thought that I might not be able to handle it adds in to the self-sabotaging expectation of failure on succeeding nights.
The "sleep" break this time was one of the most bizarre, dissociative, and unpleasant experiences I've ever had, perhaps like a bad drug trip. First, I began to convince myself that I was done, that I was giving up and just couldn't continue. I felt enormous shame at this, especially in light of everything Mike and Scott were doing for me. But even more, I had totally lost my sense of identity and reality. I imagined conversations with Scott and Mike where I was trying to explain that I just couldn't reconnect to my brain or to reality; I couldn't figure out how. Who, what was I? There was a piece of existence I just couldn't get a handle on. Was I sleeping? How would I know? How does one sleep?
In hindsight, I find this very fascinating, and perhaps a positive development. It reminds me very much of states I'd get into in college when I would be learning a new programming language and pulling lots of all-nighters. I'd begin to think in that language, badly, and for example be unable to sleep because I couldn't figure out how to evaluate the sleep function. This always indicated some kind of learning and consolidation taking place. This time, if I was learning more about how to handle these tough mental states, that's good news going forward. It's been a very long time since I've had such an episode. In a way it makes me feel more alive, to still be learning like that, in a way that fundamentally affects my brain.
At the time, though, it was pretty horrible. When I "awoke", I was slow getting started. My feet hurt quite a bit; while I'd been "sleeping" I was thinking one reason my race was over was extreme plantar fasciitis. I applied some Voltaren gel, but already they didn't hurt quite so much. I had some food, and got going again. I'd been down for about three and a half hours.
And... whether it felt like I'd slept or not, I'd definitely gotten a good reset. I realized that I felt fine; my mind and my body were back in the game. Of course it was the cool part of the night again, and it was hard not to run fast. I think this time I'd also forgone the NoDoz, feeling that it was just sabotaging my sleep. Mike had to slow me down as I was logging laps in the 5:40s. I guess at this point I was running without a plan, having already fallen off the sleep schedule for 606, but I don't recall now what I was thinking beyond just keep moving forward. I did actually have a buffer on 606, because the first day was run at 644 pace, so maybe I was thinking I was still on track for 606 here? I wish I could remember. I do remember that starting this morning, Mike and Scott kept track of my drink lap parity for me. So I wasn't tracking or counting; I was just running, and drinking when told to. That was a lot easier, though normally I'm much more comfortable when I know exactly where I am – I prefer to be mentally engaged with my pacing. Not this time.
Around 5:00 am my left popliteus, or maybe hamstrings, anyway something behind the left knee that had been bugging me, became a big enough issue to try to get massaged out. It was tight and painful. But I don't think the work helped any. After that I ran 6:30ish laps for a couple more hours, until it was time for my midmorning break.
I can see all the lap split data, but I don't remember anything about this break now. It was 50 minutes, not sure where that came from, certainly longer than it should have been. Maybe a leisurely breakfast. Alas, I didn't make notes soon enough after the race, traveling without my laptop.
But right after this break was when my race ended, though that played out in slow motion. Just one lap after the break, I noticed an all-too-familiar pain in my left anterior calf. I stopped to look at the area with Mike, and uh-oh, there was a red patch there, just above the ankle timing band. I'd had this kind of thing too many times, but I'd never seen that bruising/discoloration <i>during</i> a race before, only the day after. To me this indicated a muscle tear, probably lower tibialis anterior. It wasn't something I could run through, with four days left, and trying to do so would just increase the damage and risk complete rupture. I walked to medical, expecting they would likely pull me. But they didn't. First they applied some cream and gave me some kind of anti-inflammatory cocktail. Then I was told I had to have it iced for 15 minutes. I tried to explain that I was in second place, and I couldn't afford that. There was a language barrier, but the response was clear: "If you go out like that, race ended. 15 minutes is nothing in this kind of race." Well OK then, 15 more minutes it was. Total cost, though, 38 minutes.
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Not good</span></i></td></tr>
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And sure enough, 15 minutes later, the pain was mostly gone. But I had to come back in two hours for them to look again. In the meantime, running was easy again. After an hour I was chatting with Charlotte – she was getting close to a 48-hour Canadian age-group record, but she was very tired, on almost no sleep, and was also operating without a crew! She didn't even know how many more laps she needed. I ran ahead to recruit Mike to help her out on the tracking front. Somehow in here I ran six sub-6 laps in a row, with Mike asking what the hell was up after a 5:36. I think at this point I had a pretty care-free mentality – part of my brain knew that medical advice aside, my leg would not last the rest of the race, and I didn't have that much longer to run. Also it was energizing encouraging Charlotte. Part of that I think was seeing how hard she was working, how much worse shape she was in than I was, and SHE was still going. So of course I could too.
Eventually I dialed it back. 9:00 am rolled around, time to go back to medical. This time it was more cream, five minutes of icing, and instructions to come back again in two hours. Wait, what? EVERY two hours, for the rest of the race? I can't do that. Well, it was do that or quit, so medical every two hours it was. And this time, the medical overhead was 23 minutes. Ouch.
Easy running for another two hours, trying to help keep Charlotte moving. It sounded to me like she had a big cushion, but she still thought she might come up short. But eventually we were counting down a small number of laps, and she hit the mark, 173 miles, with an hour and a half to spare. Yes! Still, this was energizing my own race. I had just set the American 48-hour age-group record at Snowdrop a few months prior, so this was very close to home for me.
11:30, back to medical. The treatments were still working, miraculously. One of these times, Charlotte came in at the same time; she helped translate. I had not realized she's actually Hungarian. This time the hit was only 14 minutes, getting a little more streamlined.</span><br />
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<b style="font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Day Three</b><span style="font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Noon again, time for a major break. Since the long, contorted break, this day had been quite different. No caffeine, and I felt fine, not tired at all. I think the forced medical breaks were giving me some useful rest, as I just lay on my back on the table. I napped for an hour 50, still on my sleep schedule for 606, though the medical breaks pretty clearly were taking that off the table.
When I woke, I checked the numbers. Day one, 117.5 miles; day two, 82.5. Ugh. If I wanted to hit even 551, the age-group American Record, I'd have to average 88 miles for the remaining four days. Or for 900 km, 90 miles per day. It seemed unlikely. Yet, there'd been two big medical hits on day two, plus the extra-long sleep. If I could avoid any more major problems maybe it was still possible. It's not uncommon to see big day ones, low day twos, and then some recovery.
Back to medical, more cream and icing, but now the cost was only eight and a half minutes. It was becoming routine. And as the afternoon wore on, miraculously, I stayed in great shape. No caffeine, and I wasn't tired at all. I had Mike run some numbers for me to catch up to the new reality. What do I have to do to hit 551 miles, or to hit 900 km (559)? A few laps later he handed me several options on a sheet of paper. The numbers were encouraging. If I averaged 6:43 laps while moving I'd have six and a half hours of down time per day. That broke down to about two hours mandatory in medical to treat the leg, three hours of sleep per night (as that seemed to work better than two shorter breaks), an hour of unknown medical overhead for new issues, and half an hour for miscellaneous overhead (bathroom etc.). Total down time on my initial plan was only about four and a half hours per day. Given that the medical breaks were double-duty, as I got useful rest then, this seemed eminently reasonable, downright luxurious. OK, 900 km it was. That would still be an age-group record, and likely competitive for the win.
By day three the strain was showing on Mick Thwaites as well. I observed a pattern, which Mike confirmed. (Mike had sophisticated tracking spreadsheets set up, that did much more analysis than just who was ahead by how much.) When Mick would restart after a nap, he'd run very fast, sub-6 laps. These would gradually slow, to the point where I'd be catching up. Then he'd go down for a break again. At one point during the afternoon I lapped him four times in a single hour! And evidently at one point I caught up to just four laps down, in spite of my issues and slowing. So yes, if I could hang on, I was still very much in contention.
I was somewhat dumbstruck by my newfound energy and attitude. Joe says day three is the toughest in a six-day, but for me it was the easiest (so far!), except for my injury. Mentally and emotionally I felt great, still not at all tired.
4:00 pm, back to medical. By this point, towards the end of my two-hour run periods the leg was beginning to hurt again. Kati, who treated me, asked what the pain level was on a scale of 1-10. 3-4, I said. I was supposed to go back at 5:00 for my next anti-inflammatory cocktail. OK, done, but no icing this time, so no real break... and now she didn't want me back for another two hours? Hmmm. I'd wanted that break! But I was still not very tired, feeling pretty good, apart from the gradually worsening leg.
7:00 pm, and now the process was too streamlined, in and out with cream and ice in only six minutes. And the pain level was greater.
Here I began to try to get my laps a little more consistent, to get a feel for what 6:43 looked like. I walked exactly the same stretches for four laps, then asked Mike to average the splits. 6:52, that's what I'd been afraid of. OK, let's try running some of that... a few more laps... what, 6:22s? That couldn't be right; I'd only walked slightly less. Unfortunately those few faster laps had hurt quite a bit.
So I had to go back to medical a little early, before 9:00 pm. This time, after the treatment, it was no better, and I stopped back in on the very next lap. What more could she do? Nothing. What do I do if I can't run? Rest. Will that help? Yes. I was doubtful, knowing how this kind of injury progresses. Resting just accelerates the inflammation as fluid is allowed to build up. But I had no other options at this point, so I took an hour and 15-minute nap. Back to medical on the next lap, more treatment, no effect. I tried to run, and was immediately hopping on one leg, the pain was so intense. It was painful just to walk the rest of the loop back to my cabin.
Mike and I deliberated. What more could I do? One question remained: if I had to walk the rest of the race, was 800 km on the table? I walked a lap and timed it, just under 10 minutes. To hit 800 km at that pace I'd have only about three hours of down time per day total, including the required medical overhead. Not realistic. Plus, even walking was getting progressively more painful.
It looked like my race was over. Trying to move through that injury would almost certainly increase the damage, putting Badwater and Spartathlon at risk, and would still not even let me reach my minimum goal. But I might as well sleep on it and see what it felt like in the morning. There was nothing more to be accomplished now. As I went to bed I updated Facebook to let people following know what was up, and that I was likely done. I slept all night, and when I woke up, I had a few Facebook suggestions. Why had I not tried taping? Why indeed. I had some Kinesio tape with me. After a little YouTube research Mike and I tried one taping method and I walked another lap. Still very painful. I thought about it a little more and realized that that taping was actually designed to <i>enhance</i> tibialis anterior activation, which was exactly the wrong thing. After poking around a little more we found a more appropriate taping, and tried that. There was an immediate effect as I walked around the cabin. But walking another lap was still just as painful, if not more so.
That was basically that. I didn't hand in my chip yet, but I saw no effective way to continue. I went back to bed for a bit, then got up to watch the race go by.</span></span><br />
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<b>Day Four</b>
Mostly I just sat by the side of the course and watched, taking some photographs. Around 3:30 I tried walking another lap, just in case. Nope, hurt even worse.
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Mike says Wolfgang is smiling because he knows he's beaten me</span></i></td></tr>
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Scott and I decided to go back to Budapest a couple of days early, taking the train back the next afternoon. I could enjoy being a spectator for the the rest of the race, but it would be pretty boring for Scott; there was plenty to see in Budapest. I do regret missing the awards ceremony, though. I enjoyed meeting and chatting with the other runners quite a bit, but there's only so much of that you can do during the race, as you're generally moving at different paces.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Congratulations to Mick and Kristina. Pic by Szilvia <span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129;">Őszi</span></span></i></td></tr>
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<b>Aftermath</b>
And that's the end, as far as my race goes. With my withdrawal, Mick was pretty much guaranteed the win as long as he didn't completely blow up. When I left, the walker, Ivo Majetic, was actually in second! But Didier Sessegolo was close behind, and as Mike pointed out, if he was close at the end he could run, and Ivo couldn't. Eventually Sessegolo closed the gap and finished second, with Ivo a very impressive third. Schwerk hung on for fifth. Mick's total was 837.6 km. Who knows what he could have done if he'd been challenged towards the end.
The women's race was getting very interesting as I left. Charlotte and Sumie Inagaki had been trading the lead for the entire race, but now both were slowing, and the Swedes Lena Jensen and Kristina Paltén were catching up. At one point all four of them were within a few laps. Ultimately the Swedes pulled ahead, with Paltén winning. Mike was happy, as he'd given her some pacing and scheduling advice after last year's race. After hitting not just the 48-hour but also the 72-hour Canadian age-group record (something that does not, alas, exist in the US), Charlotte was suffering and reduced to a walk due to a quad issue. So she fell behind, and Inagaki took third. She still managed to better her own six-day age-group record, though.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Kristina Paltén showing how you win a six-day race. </span></i></span><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Pic by Szilvia <span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129;">Őszi</span></span></i></td></tr>
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Back in Budapest, Scott and I tracked down an ankle brace, which let me at least walk slowly without too much pain. Over the next few days we saw many more sights. But I probably walked more than I should have; the leg was not getting any better, maybe worse. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">At Memento Park, the world's only cubist statue of Marx and Engels</span></i></td></tr>
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Before the race was even over, I was already applying what I'd learned to look at pacing plans for next time. I wanted a do-over! I understood so much more now. I had actually expected that for me six-day would be one and done. But, well, this one wasn't done. Besides, I'm kind of hooked now. Unfortunately scheduling will not allow another six-day for at least another year.
Back home, I started consulting anatomy charts, and realized that it would have to be the tibialis anterior tendon, not muscle. I didn't realize torn tendon would bruise the same as torn muscle. But if so, that would mean a much longer healing process. A few days later I got in to see my foot doctor. He confirmed tibialis anterior tendon, but the damage is actually to the tendon sheath (and the adjacent retinaculum), not the tendon itself. That should heal much faster. Whew! Not that the knowledge would have helped during the race. By then there was nothing I could do. And my doc did confirm that continuing would have done more damage. Probably I should have stopped when I discovered the injury. But I’m glad I didn’t, because I got to experience most of that third day.
One thing I've realized is that these anterior calf injuries (which only ever happen to me on flat, hard surfaces, where the eccentric stress of landing is strong and very repetitive) are exacerbated by high-drop shoes, which make the muscle and tendon have to stretch a greater distance. But I have heel lifts in my Hokas because of my Achilles problems, catch-22.
What makes me really shake my head is the possibility that the injury was enhanced or even caused by a too-tight timing band on my left ankle. The first day I wore it on the right, the second on the left. But I wore it a little tighter on the left, because it had been sliding around a little. Did that create extra pressure and friction for the tendon as it passed under the retinaculum? To end a race over something so trivial is just sad. But the reality is that there are a million things that can go wrong in a six-day race, and finishing is never guaranteed. You have to roll with the punches, but sometimes by the time you realize you've been punched it's already too late.</span><br />
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<b>Takeaway</b>
Of course I didn’t plan on my race ending less than halfway through. And of course I feel angry and frustrated after so much time, effort, and expense. But I don't feel it was a waste, at all. I learned an enormous amount. The amazing thing about six-day is that you have time not only to learn during the race, but even to apply what you have learned – in the same race! In only two and a half days, my strategy (mental, pacing, nutritional, sleep...) evolved significantly. I went through a very rough patch on the second night, but by the third day I was in a much better place, with execution that felt sustainable. I wasn't a bit tired all day. I was solidly in second, with prospects of competing for the win, and hitting some records. I felt like I'd been tested and passed, giving me more confidence for next time.
The real disappointment is not that I didn't reach my goals, but that I didn't get to experience how sustainable my new attitude and plan actually were. Possibly every day is a totally different world? I will have to wait 'til next time to find out.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I was gratified that so many potential problem areas were non-issues. Nutrition. Chafing. Cramping. Overall muscle fatigue. Leaning. Achilles. Peroneals. But it just takes one thing...</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I did come away with a much better appreciation for what these numbers mean. On paper they are just numbers, but after running they become real. 644 miles, that's just another planet. 900 km seems to me like it should be within reach barring this type of catastrophic injury; there's a ton of room there for easy pacing and lots of down time (easy to say for someone who didn't even make it halfway this time, true!). But there is HUGE daylight between that and 606 miles. Of course it's the American Record, it should be tough, but I am now much more impressed with it. Kudos, Joe.</span><br />
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Back to my original question: why would anyone want to run for six days straight? I'm a little ashamed to have presented a picture where I tried it only for a shot at records and glory. The reality is a little more complicated. I love running, I love meeting new and interesting people, and I love exploring reality from new and challenging perspectives. But to take on something of this magnitude, I needed a little more, a little push. The goals, the records, are part of the meta-game for me. I use them to motivate my training and frame my races, but the payoff is actually the experience itself, not the prizes.</span><br />
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<b>Thank You</b>
I’m incredibly thankful and indebted for the support of Scott Holdaway and Mike Dobies in traveling halfway around the world to crew me for so long. Anything I needed, it materialized. Any calculation I required, it was done and in my hands on a slip of paper. I must say we made a formidable team.
Thank you to Liz for allowing this crazy adventure, and more generally all the training and focus these races require.
Thank you to Joe Fejes for all the encouragement and advice, and for pushing me kicking and screaming into this new world. Maybe next time I'll live up to your predictions.
Thank you to Mark Dorion for pre-race advice and a care package of backup shoes! And thank you to everyone else who offered advice and tips for moving up to six-day. I appreciate it.
Thank you to Jenő Horváth, Zoltan Ispanki, and the rest of the EMU team for an incredible race experience. Thank you to Katalin Kiss and the rest of the medical staff for holding things together for a bit longer as I started to fall apart. Experiencing that third day was very valuable to me.
EMU is truly the place to be for six-day. I'll be back.
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Bob Hearnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01351956832733163825noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2382599380750777712.post-18530846086449003502018-01-14T11:29:00.001-08:002018-01-16T16:35:57.209-08:00Snowdrop 55-Hour 2017-2018<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwQG6rGWXa6NJKDDpSz99sqSmKYRAJdRoYX3GxKn9pBaznaZFXMeDgTFJCxz0tYmMP0ZImXtfKxGHzH7pdJdhPtW6L5nVz5iQL8slO18-dnvblRYl9rDaCeNqyBlSg1njsC5u68xJ9dtu-/s1600/26116136_10210263097963965_3112486576646768181_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1240" data-original-width="1600" height="494" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwQG6rGWXa6NJKDDpSz99sqSmKYRAJdRoYX3GxKn9pBaznaZFXMeDgTFJCxz0tYmMP0ZImXtfKxGHzH7pdJdhPtW6L5nVz5iQL8slO18-dnvblRYl9rDaCeNqyBlSg1njsC5u68xJ9dtu-/s640/26116136_10210263097963965_3112486576646768181_o.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: 14.666666666666666px;">The usual disclaimer applies: I write these reports mostly for myself, to get down everything relevant I can remember, for future reference. Sometimes they are useful or entertaining to others as well; that's a bonus. </span></span><br />
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This was the longest race I've ever run, and I learned a lot entering a new regime, so the report is long. So, feel free to skim! No seriously. It maybe gets interesting on day two. My first Spartathlon report clocked in at a massive 5,000 words... this one is twice as long. Technically that would make it "novelette" length, though it's not fiction. I don't know why anyone would want to read this. I just had to write it.
<b>Background</b>
I came into Snowdrop with my two previous major races, 24-hour Worlds and Desert Solstice 24-hour, being disappointing failures. I thought I'd had 24-hour figured out, but I was wrong. I do believe I have the mental game working pretty well now – though every race is different – but there are endless complications your body can throw at you, especially as you get older.
I stopped at Desert Solstice after only 93 miles, with a backwards lean that would not go away. The next day I was kicking myself for giving up so easily. What was I thinking? I'd put in all the training and 15 hours of race-day effort, but I had not collected the payoff: the experience of completing the 24 hours to the best of my ability, to learn more. Those are hard-earned data points, and here I'd failed to claim them. What's more, the same thing had happened last year, and I had finally recovered and come back to win the men's race.
Yet, it was really the right decision. I have to take a step back from 24-hour and figure out this lean. I'm working with a physiotherapist. Also, for quite a while I had wanted to try 48-hour, and this gave me the chance. I know that sounds crazy – 24 is too hard, why not try 48? – but I thought getting a different, larger, perspective on what happens to my body running for a very long time could be useful. Also, for quite a while I'd thought I had an outside chance at Phil McCarthy's 48-hour overall American Record of 257 miles. On paper it looked easy. I knew that was deceptive. Still, it would be the only overall record I would have any shot at at all, and everything I have learned at 24-hour tells me my strengths as a runner should improve relative to my competition the longer the race. However, Olivier Leblond raised the bar, running 262 miles in November. That moved my chances from slim to pretty nearly nil. Yet, there was still the over-50 record of 230.41, and plenty of room in between those two numbers for intermediate goals.
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The spectrum of 48-hour goals</span></i></td></tr>
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There were two options for 48-hour in the immediate future, three weeks out, over New Years: Across the Years (24, 48, 72, and 6-day), in Phoenix, and Snowdrop 55-hour, in Houston. ATY is an Aravaipa race (as is Desert Solstice), excellently organized, and a huge New Year's party that dozens of my friends would be attending. But I have rarely seen big numbers from ATY (even counting Kelly Agnew's recently vacated wins), and I've heard stories of unrelenting, shoe-begriming dust and freezing conditions. I had seen big numbers at Snowdrop from Joe Fejes, Connie Gardner, and Jon Olsen. Snowdrop had filled 8 hours after opening, but Kevin Kline, the organizer, had let me know earlier that he'd love to have me there. So after waiting a week to gauge my recovery from my aborted effort – pretty good, I judged – I reached out, and Kevin not only gave me a spot, but comped my entry and hotel, and brought me in as an elite, joining Joe, Connie, and Adrian Stanciu. (Phil McCarthy had had to pull out earlier.) Wow!
<b>Snowdrop 55</b>
The first thing that must be said about Snowdrop is that it's much more than just a race. <a href="http://snowdropfoundation.org/" target="_blank">The Snowdrop Foundation</a> exists to fund pediatric cancer research and scholarships for pediatric cancer patients and survivors. The race (one of many the foundation sponsors) is a fundraiser, with most participants helping to raise thousands of dollars that will be put to vital use. The unusual length of 55 hours <a href="http://snowdropfoundation.org/why-55-hours/" target="_blank">honors Chelsey Campbell's record-setting surgery</a> at Texas Children's Cancer Center, that inspired the formation of the Snowdrop Foundation.
So I felt a little guilty showing up at Snowdrop "just" to race. But I was welcomed with open arms. I flew in late Wednesday, giving me a couple of days before the Saturday morning start. Thursday afternoon I went out for an easy run, and when I got back to the hotel there was Adrian checking in. He reminded me of the mental training seminar that evening, that I'd totally forgotten. It started in an hour, but was a 40-minute drive away! I arranged to meet back in the lobby after a quick shower to ride with Adrian. As I got in the elevator I heard him tell his daughters "that's my nemesis!". At the seminar I finally met Kevin Kline; he introduced us to the attendees. I even signed an autograph! I was gratified to have a lot of resonance and familiarity with most of what was said about mental training; I might have taken away a few new tidbits. After that was a pizza dinner organized by Snowdrop. I met Patty Godfrey (the race director), Brian Anderson (who wore many hats in the race), and several participants. No pizza for me, though – I had learned that I had to maintain my strict low-carb training diet up until race start, or pay the price when I had to slowly transition back to fat-burning mid-race. So I settled for a salad.
Friday disappeared in a blur, as I made final preparations. I had hemmed and hawed over my pacing spreadsheet since long before I'd signed up for Snowdrop, but I had still not made my final decision. I thought the 50+ record of 230.41 was soft. In fact Joe Fejes had set that mark as a 48-hour split in a 6-day race! So it was almost soft by definition. But of course this was my first time out, and Joe is the master of US multi-day running. So caution was warranted. On the other hand, how many chances would I get to put up a big number at 48-hour? This might be my best chance for a long time, and certainly I'd be at my youngest. If I had any chance at all at the overall record, shouldn't I take my shot?
I tried to have my cake and eat it too. 186 laps, or 128.42 miles, on day one would mean 7:30 laps, after subtracting 45 minutes of time stopped for nap, portapotty, gear, medical, etc. That should be an easy effort, and would be easy to track. Then if I happened to feel great after 24 hours (ha!), I left myself a shot at 262: I'd have to speed up to 7:10 laps on day two, putting me at 262.371. Or, I could slow to 8:00 laps on day two and still run over John Geesler's 400 km (248.5 miles), which would put me at #3 all-time US, behind Olivier and Phil. That seemed legitimately feasible – on paper! Finally I could slow all the way to 9:15 laps on day two and still run over 232. Of course, if I wanted that record, I was going to have to also beat Joe, not just his existing mark. That might mean some tactical racing, but not until at least halfway through day two. Yet, having to beat Joe did support not starting too slow, i.e. even pacing for 232, and potentially having to run much farther with a big negative split to catch him. So on balance I was happy with this plan. Note that running pace didn't enter my calculations anywhere above. I had penciled in estimated running paces, and walking times per lap, but the execution strategy would be to run as slowly as comfortable, and walk just enough to keep the laps the right duration.
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The estimated nap time and stopped time were a real shot in the dark, however. How much sleep did I need? I planned for 15-minute naps every 10 hours. I'd asked Phil how to run 48 hours; he said "it's just like 24!". Well, maybe for him! From <a href="http://longdistancevoyager.blogspot.com/2011/05/" target="_blank">his race report</a> it appears he spent a total of about half an hour for rest stops, with no sleep, in his record-setting run. I thought I would need more, but I didn't know how much more. Likewise the stopped time was a guess. I usually budget 5 minutes of stopped time for a 24-hour. Here I gave myself a generous 15 minutes per day, expecting more issues to be dealt with. It turned out that both of these guesses were underestimates. I needed more sleep, and spent more time in medical, portapotties, etc., than I'd allowed. Live and learn.
Friday afternoon I toured the race course, ran a couple of easy laps, and picked up my bib. Then I finalized my crew instructions back at the hotel. I didn't have Liz and Scott with me this time, as I had at Worlds and Desert Solstice. They had done plenty of crew duty lately already! Plus this was a last-minute race decision. Instead this was another perk of being an invited elite: we had our own crew tent, near the timing mat, with a dedicated crew team, and a side tent with heater and cot. Couldn't ask for more.
Friday evening we had an elite panel session, featuring Joe, Adrian, me, and Doc Lovy. Doc Lovy has been the team doctor for the national teams at World Championships forever. He is 82. His knowledge and experience are invaluable. He and his hand-picked team would man the medical tent for the duration of the race; we couldn't be in better hands. Connie Gardner was supposed to join us, but she'd had to withdraw at the last minute. I would certainly miss her presence out on the course (though she found a way to join me anyway...).
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Snowdrop founder Kevin Kline and some crazy runners</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Kevin was an excellent MC for the session, which was no surprise, as he is a popular Houston radio host on the 93Q Morning Zoo show (and no ultrarunning slouch himself, having completed the 175-mile UltraMilano-Sanremo). After flattering introductions, he engaged us all well, and we also took plenty of questions from the audience. Joe, Adrian, and I all judged ourselves to be fairly evenly matched for the race, and I think we all learned a lot from each other, as I hope the audience did. It was great to hear Joe and Adrian's thoughtful responses. You don't (with rare exceptions) get to this level by talent alone. It takes the right mindset and attitude, and respect for the distance, and I think we all had it. And the stories and advice from Doc Lovy were priceless. There was one area of disagreement: frequency of racing. Joe and Adrian are big proponents of using races as training runs. I am too, but at training-run effort. Not Joe and Adrian. Witness Adrian's 18:01 Javelina Jundred six weeks before winning Desert Solstice, or more obviously, his big PR effort at Desert Solstice to win (150+), and being here three weeks later for his first multiday?! That's just crazy to me. A 24-hour PR-level effort would take me months to recover from to be at full fitness. Granted Adrian is younger, but just by 4 years. And Joe had run three 24-hours since late October, plus a 16:24 100 three weeks before Snowdrop! I get that it seems to work for some people. But I don't see the logic.
Final question for me: "Who's going to be first to 100 miles?" "Not me!" I was there for 48. Well 55, in the end, but the 48 split was the focus. I was certainly not going to race anyone out of the gate. I'm never first to 100 in a 24-hour, let alone 48. Well, I had missed the small fact that there's a $500 prize for first to 100. Interesting. This was advantage Bob, insofar as it motivated Joe and Adrian, which in fact it did. There was also a $500 prize for the overall winner.
Finally we had a group dinner after the panel. Adrian wisely skipped this and went to bed early; Joe, his wife Kelley, and I were lamenting the late (after 9) bedtime when we got back to the hotel. I slept poorly, though of course was sound asleep when my alarm went off at 4:45.
<b>Day One – Day</b>
I woke groggy, but got myself in gear quickly enough, and was in the lobby to ride to the start with Joe and Kelley at 6:00. Everything seemed hectic... it always seems like there should be plenty of time before race start, but there never is. The portapotties were a hike away from our crew tent. There was a timing chip to be picked up. Warmup exercises to do. Lacing to be adjusted to perfection. The National Anthem to be observed. Group photos to be taken. The most important thing for me was getting on the same page with my crew. But my crew contact, Nicole Berglund, was going to arrive later. So I hastily described my plans to the people in the crew tent, and showed them the printed instructions. A surprise participant was Scott Rabb, who said he was going for 200 miles. I hadn't seen his name on the entry list. I'd run with his wife Melanie many times at 24-hour. It would be good to see another familiar face out there. We wound up running pretty close together for quite a while.
As the sky lightened enough to see, we were off, at 7:00. Within 20 feet I called out "Adrian, you're going too fast", as he edged ahead, and got a few laughs. Yet, he did pull ahead, and was out of sight before long.
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUIx735SUth41wiLUqa5rNaxzLNP-MnVbjWzHBY0JdQQToyMRXuBYIGSOch8Y9XdQToyP47wUtMkpCP3IWAmOSNgAFWHCm1cO-YlyfsVWMwkveX5i121UC2adENjGgf_90cFoILRxWAx_w/s1600/26231945_10210288594481362_68874675279344693_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1144" data-original-width="1600" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUIx735SUth41wiLUqa5rNaxzLNP-MnVbjWzHBY0JdQQToyMRXuBYIGSOch8Y9XdQToyP47wUtMkpCP3IWAmOSNgAFWHCm1cO-YlyfsVWMwkveX5i121UC2adENjGgf_90cFoILRxWAx_w/s400/26231945_10210288594481362_68874675279344693_o.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Pic by Don Davis</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">The course is a certified 0.69045-mile loop, about 40% concrete, the rest dirt. The timing mat was near the middle of the concrete section. After a bit we turned left onto the dirt to circle a lake. This one turn was the only slight blemish in an otherwise nearly perfect, flat course; you had to accept a little right downward camber, and a very slight hill, if you wanted to run the tangent. That would add up quickly for my poor right peroneal tendons if I wasn't careful. (I had torn them at Run4Water last spring, as well as the anterior talo-fibular ligament, and been told by two doctors they would never heal without surgery. But they had not limited my training.) As I reached the concrete again later in the loop, I started walking, as I planned to walk the stretch by the crew tent every time, for ease of communication and access. First lap: 7:05. OK, too fast, walk more. I adjusted quickly, keeping my cumulative splits near 7:30, 15:00, 22:30, 30:00, 37:30, 45:00, 52:30, and on the hour. It was an easy pattern to keep in sync with. I timed the walks... and was shocked to see that I had to walk about 2:30 per lap to keep them the right length. I had figured half that, 1:15, in my spreadsheet, which meant a 10:08 running pace. But it appeared I couldn't run that slowly. Over the last few years of 24-hour focus I have dialed 9ish-minute miles into my brain and legs pretty well, it seems. I expected the walk breaks to shorten the farther we got into the race as I naturally slowed, but surprisingly that never happened. It was a side benefit that my pattern had me walking the majority of the concrete, which would be harder on my feet to run on.
Starting on the second lap, and every other lap, I did my fueling and hydration. I grabbed a 4-ounce bottle of Maurten, the new sports drink used for the Nike 2-hour marathon attempt. Previously I would fuel mostly with Coke or Dr. Pepper, but I think Maurten is better, because it has more glucose and less fructose, and also because of the special property it has of forming a hydrogel when it hits your stomach, which is supposed to make absorption easier. And it had worked well for me at Javelina and Desert Solstice. Here I would be getting 16 oz. of fluid and 151 calories per hour (using the Maurten 160 mix), more calories than I'm accustomed to (typically 100-125), but made easier by the special mixture. I could supplement with water if it got warm. Maurten does have a lot of sodium, though, more than I would be losing to sweat on a cool day like this. I wish they made a lower-sodium blend. Speaking of Maurten, I had ordered more of it before the race, but when I realized it wouldn't get to my house in time, I frantically tried to change shipping to Houston, explaining the situation. It was too late, but Maurten sent two more packages on to Houston, gratis. Thank you!</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiio48gdJNA1iShC8SU_NU_at7LHGXa9VZ7Ws-r3TkD6rEIaFzs_K5AVU4ObgGxZkte6q6rGoUMFvikO8dicu6No6m3QrTuhatmKvLQumfl-SVc-5P2Z0dvGqOgi9PIxxyHY2tk1yIFq8LL/s1600/26232906_10214675927394813_10266577872994912_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="864" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiio48gdJNA1iShC8SU_NU_at7LHGXa9VZ7Ws-r3TkD6rEIaFzs_K5AVU4ObgGxZkte6q6rGoUMFvikO8dicu6No6m3QrTuhatmKvLQumfl-SVc-5P2Z0dvGqOgi9PIxxyHY2tk1yIFq8LL/s400/26232906_10214675927394813_10266577872994912_o.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Pic by Deborah Scharpff Sexton</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">The day unfolded quickly as I settled into an easy rhythm. I actually thought the race might be over within the first hour, as Joe and Adrian had both already lapped me! I saw no reason to go out that fast, unless they were going for the $500 prize for first to 100, or perhaps were going for a 24-hour team qualifier with the first-day split. Joe in particular pulled well ahead, and after a few hours I judged his pace to be on track for mid-150s at 24 hours. I had wondered if he might try this. It made some sense: conditions were good, cool and overcast, and the course was pretty fast. Why not try? It's rare to get really good conditions for a 24-hour. If it looked good, great, a mid-150s qualifier would be gold (and would also eclipse my 50+ 24-hour record!). If not, there would be plenty of time to back off and still run a decent 48, and 55. It was very tempting to try this myself. But I held back, because I was here for 48. I had consciously decided to step back from 24-hour and take my best shot at 48. Had I wanted to try again soon at 24-hour I'd have run FASTtrack in Florida. So, be consistent.
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWezcCZOV21DOVMElSIQNYEUgM7iXF2UdJ4Cc4kWhJw531kPkobuqXxe0vRHuLuoxn0L7jkG0pYGqCiZh-NX0E0Z_ah5g69eIq_5YgyG1YRlgpirtu7i4Eo8Auq_mNyk8U2UKSU5087fK2/s1600/DSC_5561.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1065" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWezcCZOV21DOVMElSIQNYEUgM7iXF2UdJ4Cc4kWhJw531kPkobuqXxe0vRHuLuoxn0L7jkG0pYGqCiZh-NX0E0Z_ah5g69eIq_5YgyG1YRlgpirtu7i4Eo8Auq_mNyk8U2UKSU5087fK2/s400/DSC_5561.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">One of many times Adrian lapped me. Pic by Don Davis.</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">After a few hours, Kelley Fejes came up behind me – about to lap me. She had also run all those recent 24-hours along with Joe. She'd been looking forward to challenging Connie for the win; with Connie gone, she was the women's favorite. But she looked sheepish: "Joe told me no matter what, DO NOT PASS BOB HEARN." Hahaha! It was a struggle for her not to for several laps, I think, especially on my walk breaks. She might have briefly pulled ahead, actually, when I dived into a portapotty, but eventually I crept back ahead and accumulated a lead.
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ9l9fEfnM1LpOS0Zsz3khJqOoLrkBZ9Fy7S-AlFPhAvkFKGQYWRj2RwbWXubqbSNv-9gnAHWL0HT2jg1uuT3bjNfK6K7WbVQeG7XlsY-NwqdtgEH3kzsWBlsi2ModrU78qlFGUem353z-/s1600/DSC_5554.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1065" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ9l9fEfnM1LpOS0Zsz3khJqOoLrkBZ9Fy7S-AlFPhAvkFKGQYWRj2RwbWXubqbSNv-9gnAHWL0HT2jg1uuT3bjNfK6K7WbVQeG7XlsY-NwqdtgEH3kzsWBlsi2ModrU78qlFGUem353z-/s400/DSC_5554.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Joe and Kelley moving well. Pic by Don Davis.</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I began to develop quite a familiarity with the course, and with the other runners. The most prominent aspect of the course is that it was lined with photos of children, most of them cancer victims, a few survivors. It was hard not to be motivated by thinking of what they and their families had gone through, so much in comparison to a little race pain. I got to know most of them by name and location. In particular I latched onto Sean, wearing a Superman outfit, who happened to be right where I would switch from walking to running every lap. He became my anchor in more ways than one. I drew strength from him every lap. Along the long concrete straightaway were a very large number of crosses. I didn't learn until after the race that these represented the number of children who would die from cancer during 55 hours. That knowledge would have added a huge emotional impact to this stretch.
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbIpbtaiWjXEHrhZtAU2E1NaznC5VZQoB4Fg8KIGu1eIuPU5lfKj2IadUQfYNzwcgtA5SwveHbSkx-Gg5FRXQ3kuNmmOYoEfL9RudMT0YNoKZeKAbN3a7HrKXfR5APODoVp372c2irpImz/s1600/26233324_10210288595121378_9172052951017003002_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1413" data-original-width="1600" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbIpbtaiWjXEHrhZtAU2E1NaznC5VZQoB4Fg8KIGu1eIuPU5lfKj2IadUQfYNzwcgtA5SwveHbSkx-Gg5FRXQ3kuNmmOYoEfL9RudMT0YNoKZeKAbN3a7HrKXfR5APODoVp372c2irpImz/s320/26233324_10210288595121378_9172052951017003002_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My anchor</span></i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVtGTYrgFC43vtjWPn5VPCJRjWaED2k3E1IUpT_DPaVQs4Lj0Jf25PNazXosQ5yacpeTaEDqZvtyQ7yGyENYUKt300vUZrqC38TFwIBHz23JqxKHOHCxY10WqPPeWLu8wmuMch2vvhPIoj/s1600/lovy+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVtGTYrgFC43vtjWPn5VPCJRjWaED2k3E1IUpT_DPaVQs4Lj0Jf25PNazXosQ5yacpeTaEDqZvtyQ7yGyENYUKt300vUZrqC38TFwIBHz23JqxKHOHCxY10WqPPeWLu8wmuMch2vvhPIoj/s320/lovy+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">With Doc Lovy and John Surdyk</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">In terms of the other runners, Joe, Adrian, and I were treated like celebrities. Many of the runners were familiar with our previous races, had watched them live, and read our race reports. And they were all incredibly supportive. It was kind of surreal to be treated as such royalty. I tried to be supportive in return, learning as many names as I could, but no doubt I got some wrong; my apologies if I called you by the wrong name. (John Surdyk, I'm pretty sure I repeatedly called you Brian. Sorry!)
A few I could not mess up. Becky Cunningham, from Oklahoma, has the same name as my sister. And I grew up in Tulsa. Her husband Mark was on the course and super supportive the entire time, and also posted photos with live updates during the race. Thank you! Becky went on to run over 163 miles, a PR. Robert Key ("grandpa"), like Becky, had run in every Snowdrop. He was also a solid and motivating presence. And it's hard to forget your own name.
Sam Benjamin (representing the Wisconsin branch of the Snowdrop Foundation) had never gone over 100, so was taking a big step up. He looked smooth and strong the whole way, and was always encouraging – including pointing out later in the race when my right arm was flapping uselessly. Sam ran 152 miles, an excellent multi-day debut.
Deborah, Susan, Chisolm, and several others I knew from Facebook but had not met in person; it was great to put names to actual faces and cheer each other on. Adrian's wife Brenda was also a big supporter throughout, as were their daughters Kirstyn and Amy. I got a "Go Bob!" from them almost every lap.
Time passed. After 4 hours I decided I was needing too many portapotty stops. Even 16 oz. per hour of fluid was more than I needed in these cool conditions. But with the Maurten, I couldn't drop that without also losing planned calories. So for hour 5 I ate a donut instead, and drank little water. And again at 8 hours. Later in the afternoon I switched to Coke for a while, as it was more calorie dense, and I could get enough calories with less fluid.
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC7R6-kva6Dq_mYt3cKES34UC8_KZOVWUtFNaVxerKRNAo2ZZQAOahwQYNdMSyKOrLpa6yxpM2Nzv0c_bAG_RvUlZ9RkP2icAm8oTYIg37Y1KiiWsyKsKHRM2w5wy4mYJeCjVm0ueU-EsZ/s1600/bad+porg.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1366" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC7R6-kva6Dq_mYt3cKES34UC8_KZOVWUtFNaVxerKRNAo2ZZQAOahwQYNdMSyKOrLpa6yxpM2Nzv0c_bAG_RvUlZ9RkP2icAm8oTYIg37Y1KiiWsyKsKHRM2w5wy4mYJeCjVm0ueU-EsZ/s320/bad+porg.JPG" width="273" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">After a few hours, I could only read this sign as BAD PORG</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I should say a word about accounting. Time management and accounting are critical skills for fixed-time, short-loop courses, but they are underappreciated and underused. They are very easy for me, and reap huge rewards. Which is kind of strange, because in the real world I am lousy at both skills. But in the simple, restricted world of a race, it's different. I allocated 45 minutes of stop time per day, including naps and potty stops, but I wanted to hit 7:30 laps while moving. So all I did is stop my Garmin whenever I stopped. That might sound sacrilegious – you can't stop your clock in a race, it keeps going! – but the Garmin is just a tool, to be used however is best. Doing it this way, I could keep the cumulative laps at very easy to figure times on my Garmin, and additionally I could compare time of day to Garmin elapsed time to see exactly how much time I'd spent stopped. And I wouldn't be sprinting to catch up to planned splits after a potty stop.
Now, this only works if you are planning to run even splits, or at least it's more complicated if you don't. Most runners will not try to run even for 24 hours, let alone 48, figuring that they will naturally slow, and will have to account for that by "building a cushion". I'm in the opposite philosophical camp, which says that starting easier means you have more left over when the going gets hard and you need it. If you run "by effort" or "by feel" that might work up to say a marathon. But much longer, and "very easy" might still be way too fast to start. You only know this by thinking about it beforehand, and doing the math. If your easy starting pace would put you over the World Record for your event if you held it, you might want to rethink. Run a 24-hour by feel, let alone a 48-hour, and you are guaranteed to have an unpleasant day.
As the day wore on, my right foot began to bother me. Actually it had bothered me almost from the start, with too much pressure on top of the foot. I had already stopped and relaced twice. This was the same symptom as at Run4Water, when I had begrudged the time to stop and relace, and wound up with all that damage in the right foot. But relacing didn't help. So I was keeping a careful eye on it. Otherwise I had remained pretty comfortable so far. No leaning, yay! Right glutes a little sore but not bad.
At 6 hours, and every 6 hours thereafter, I took my supplements: one Endurolyte, one Endurance Amino, and two HMB pills (supposed to help preserve muscle tissue). Did they help? I have no idea. But they probably couldn't hurt. Endurolytes are low in sodium, but I was getting more than enough sodium from the Maurten, especially as I normally take little to none.
Sometime in the afternoon I tried to grab a bottle of water at the crew tent, but there wasn't one ready. No problem, I said, I'll get it next lap. Well, about three-quarters of the way around I hear huffing and puffing and approaching footsteps. One of the kids in the crew tent, Marcus (who I would later learn was Sam Benjamin's son), had run behind me with a water bottle to try to catch me! "Do you still want this?" Thank you Marcus! "I was going to go back, but I think I'll just keep going."
5 pm came, 10 hours, time for my first 15-minute nap. I'd thought I'd be ahead of the game here, going down for a nap so early, but lo and behold Joe and Adrian were already asleep in the tent! And they were still there after my nap. (Maybe that should have told me something about reasonable sleep time.) The only problem with the nap was that being so close to the timing mat, we were also close to the live entertainment. An excellent mariachi band was playing. Wonderful, but hard to sleep through! Fortunately Nicole had managed to procure some earplugs for me (I think courtesy of Kelley Fejes). Not something I had thought to pack! Next time I will know. Earlier entertainment included Irish dancers, and a live rock band with all-around incredibly useful person Brain Anderson performing.
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsnGhHVmwZTM5qGz6LE5LK63WKC0CylK-0UIJeeKEIElpFB0F9C0i9KFuAiKY1bmXLJbK2Zx-NJKo4_ZQazBlbU6kHFmi_rdJo6mscMpanOnaDTCdO4SjC2mNzuK42MdJJXn-qJ-H5dmkH/s1600/26055942_1573895582718535_2468159361509808831_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="677" data-original-width="699" height="386" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsnGhHVmwZTM5qGz6LE5LK63WKC0CylK-0UIJeeKEIElpFB0F9C0i9KFuAiKY1bmXLJbK2Zx-NJKo4_ZQazBlbU6kHFmi_rdJo6mscMpanOnaDTCdO4SjC2mNzuK42MdJJXn-qJ-H5dmkH/s400/26055942_1573895582718535_2468159361509808831_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Pic by Don Davis</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">My legs had been great so far, but after the nap everything was super stiff and tight. Fortunately it didn't take long to loosen up again. By this point Joe had begun to fade. He told me later he'd thought it would take 16:00 for the 100-mile prize, and had gone through 50 miles at 8 hours, but paid for it after that. At 6 pm, 11 hours in, I was in 4th, behind Adrian (by 6 miles), Joe, and Scott Rabb. Gradually I caught up to and passed Scott and Joe.
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7spXmWqrYJJZSC5vHePrsrbV9KKEwfAF_svQVImp72zlUvq_eRQBbcKCeQiz57qkFjVWYAJ-uAhpSSjsawaAi_JNOsfEPRZFJp2IFJ0yb-M8n0-3GVIY7EsFG-G6YClHi5F77jF8kR-QK/s1600/DSC_7118.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1065" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7spXmWqrYJJZSC5vHePrsrbV9KKEwfAF_svQVImp72zlUvq_eRQBbcKCeQiz57qkFjVWYAJ-uAhpSSjsawaAi_JNOsfEPRZFJp2IFJ0yb-M8n0-3GVIY7EsFG-G6YClHi5F77jF8kR-QK/s400/DSC_7118.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Scott and Joe. Pic by Don Davis.</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">There was pasta for dinner. I grabbed a plate, nibbled some, and left the rest at the crew tent to nibble more later.
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<b>Day One – Night</b>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWGCUrsaCOXEp4f6r-poJVJ6B0CsQ386ychXXWhT0AJTMqcYYxJMb50XV6XugvZMJf7uB4FXYmnpjLDlE4cMaruwF4S2pE_3L4jmPetBq3rFXrOcTrK3gA9jQi5D1DJCZsMyfAfdMJ_xsm/s1600/night.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWGCUrsaCOXEp4f6r-poJVJ6B0CsQ386ychXXWhT0AJTMqcYYxJMb50XV6XugvZMJf7uB4FXYmnpjLDlE4cMaruwF4S2pE_3L4jmPetBq3rFXrOcTrK3gA9jQi5D1DJCZsMyfAfdMJ_xsm/s400/night.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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At 7 pm, 12 hours in, we switched directions. I stopped briefly to record my weight. Still Sean was my anchor, but now I would start walking at his photo, rather than start running. As the evening wore on and things quieted down I pulled out the big guns: i.e., my iPod shuffle. OK, Liz's iPod shuffle. I never run with music. I'd tried a couple of years ago at Desert Solstice, but it was too annoying, as I couldn't hear anyone, especially my crew. But this loop was much longer, and I could just hit pause whenever I came by my crew. It reenergized me, and worked well. I should say there was also loud, energizing music at the timing mats, still a lively scene.
We had been spared rain so far, at least anything worse than light drizzle, but throughout most of the night the drizzle / mist made vision challenging on the dirt, especially heading into the glare of some of the brighter lamps on the far turn. My rain hat helped little, and I had to wipe my glasses frequently.
I'd ordered a fancy new headlamp, the Black Diamond ReVolt, based on an Ultrarunning Mag review that said it would last 30 hours on full power, 300 lumens. Shipped straight to the hotel. Imagine my annoyance when it began to fade after a few hours, when the misting was bad. I could tell everyone else's headlamps were much brighter. Argh. I switched batteries, but had not brought enough to get me through the race at this rate.
Somewhere in here I decided I was spending too long stopped. Too many potty stops, too much overhead around the nap, whatever. But it looked like I'd go over my allotted stopped time the first day, meaning I'd be short on mileage. What to do? I changed my accounting procedure, and started charging potty stops to moving time instead of stopped time. So I did have a little time to make up for each stop, but with such long walk breaks it was easy to just walk a little less.
The next race milestone would be the 100-mile mark. I'd said I would not sacrifice my 48-hour pacing for it, but naturally I was curious how we stood. It might be worth just a little surge! The closer we got, the more Adrian's lead shrank. By this point, the only runners who ever passed me were relayers. I passed Adrian repeatedly as he walked, which I hadn't seen him do earlier. Kevin kept a whiteboard updated with distances. But Adrian wisely stayed just far enough ahead to make it never worth my while to try to catch him. Later he thanked me for pushing him to 100. Maybe from his point of view! I was still bang on 7:30 laps. He hit it around 18:10, I think, two miles ahead of me. And then went down for a looooong nap, which I didn't realize for a while.
After this it was not long 'til 20 hours, 3 am, and my second nap. Woohoo! I was trepidatious about how I would feel afterward, given how stiff I'd been after the 10-hour nap. But this time somehow I was less stiff, and got right back to it.
Over the next hour, though, the right foot got worse. The pain moved from the top towards the lateral side, and was very sensitive to any unevenness, anything that made the peroneal tendons work. Eventually it reached the point where I thought I'd better have medical look at it. I wasn't sure what they could do, but with my background of torn tendons and ligament, I did not want to be heading towards a rupture. I hoped my race was not over. I was out of stopped time to spare, but so be it. Chris took a look, and a feel, and mostly noted that my foot was super tight. After a good massage and loosening, he sent me on my way. Not much concern about the tendons. Well, OK then. And indeed, after a lap or so, it was much better. Thank you Chris!
Kelley caught up to me, wanting help with a math problem: how fast did she have to run to claim the women's $500 prize for first to 100? She was a few miles behind the leader. Alas, by this point, it was mathematically impossible. I reminded her that she was here for 55 hours; that should be the goal. But she'd wanted both prizes.
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYxs6sYW12GIUh1TTuhhz1AjISdVhjG2feILPntBMO3Vby7GsUvtgLSZx3f-UeG5ogPvBA-Lw6GvSt0pnZZcw4ez8FwjekUF8zBcDMfiL-3V0WA1TSU76PApwhpUfEgs8kf175KG3KGsBf/s1600/DSC_6318.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1065" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYxs6sYW12GIUh1TTuhhz1AjISdVhjG2feILPntBMO3Vby7GsUvtgLSZx3f-UeG5ogPvBA-Lw6GvSt0pnZZcw4ez8FwjekUF8zBcDMfiL-3V0WA1TSU76PApwhpUfEgs8kf175KG3KGsBf/s400/DSC_6318.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">With Kelley Fejes. Pic by Don Davis.</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">As dawn, and the 24-hour mark, approached, I was short on laps due to the extra stopped time. I was still going to have to decide whether to speed up and try to run 7:10s for the second day for the American Record. I thought at this point that was pretty unlikely, given that I was already behind, and I'd get 45 seconds less of walking every lap (what the math required to keep the running pace constant), or I'd have to run faster. Well, I might as well speed up a little early, see what it felt like, and try to squeeze in one more lap in the first 24. I closed out the first day with a 6:48 and a 6:23. Felt fine. Wow. This put me at 185 laps, just one short of my planned 186. I wasn't paying attention, but I'd now pulled to 13 miles ahead of Joe, 15 ahead of Scott, and 25 ahead of Adrian, who had I think just started running again.
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<i>Day one stats:
Laps: 185
Miles: 127.7
Time napping: 36:03 (counting overhead)
Time in medical: 8:09
Other time stopped: 9:02
Total time stopped: 53:14
Average moving pace: 10:52 / mile</i>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeI154qxfaznooslRnq7jQMSXlEnDXGkGvDj3B-uUKAxmjiB8glyvNVOvCXydvbrmJS7h7_tJszCWPylylPsYjkV1T9w08wZChXWJhh-V-QZzhJl5r1E-TT0rWBcjNhCySocZhDAjJ7eJw/s1600/snowdrop+splits.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="742" data-original-width="1600" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeI154qxfaznooslRnq7jQMSXlEnDXGkGvDj3B-uUKAxmjiB8glyvNVOvCXydvbrmJS7h7_tJszCWPylylPsYjkV1T9w08wZChXWJhh-V-QZzhJl5r1E-TT0rWBcjNhCySocZhDAjJ7eJw/s640/snowdrop+splits.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Snowdrop lap splits. Green = naps, pink = medical.</span></i></td></tr>
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<b style="font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Day Two – Day</b><span style="font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMCaBBKi2_1blA8hV3pvNMIbOsqNwMi025mvvvIttCitSb-LjzPbQaPGto-Gk8bU5JNT5VLnZ_2VuX7WH9KhdykkZg4bTVvqsbextjoGmVWjVFKEAadjm629ww7Mu5CxH7mSKmCbGufEJL/s1600/DSC_6379.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1065" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMCaBBKi2_1blA8hV3pvNMIbOsqNwMi025mvvvIttCitSb-LjzPbQaPGto-Gk8bU5JNT5VLnZ_2VuX7WH9KhdykkZg4bTVvqsbextjoGmVWjVFKEAadjm629ww7Mu5CxH7mSKmCbGufEJL/s400/DSC_6379.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">There goes my Garmin. Pic by Don Davis.</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">24 hours, turn around again, record my weight. And... boom. The Garmin battery died. What??? I had GPS and Bluetooth turned off. It was just a dumb running watch with lap-split history. It should have lasted forever. Well, this threw a wrench into my accounting. So much for stopping my Garmin when I wasn't moving. I had no choice now but to do all the accounting in my head. And 7:10 laps aren't as easy to add as 7:30 laps, exactly 8 per hour. You get distracted, it's harder to remember where you were supposed to be, as the numbers don't repeat. And by now my brain was getting pretty fuzzy. Not the time you want your support tools to fail, when you haven't thought about backup.
So... I picked a reference time on the race clock, started adding 7:10s to it every lap, and tracked my progress. I was careful at first to walk less. But the clock time kept drifting earlier and earlier relative to my reference time. Meaning I was running too fast. I walked more... and more... and finally got it to stabilize. A few minutes cumulative ahead. But looking back at the official splits now, for the first two hours they were all sub-7. Too fast. And I was walking little if any less than I'd been walking on day one! This means I was somehow running around 8:30 / mile pace instead of the 9:10ish from day one. Way too fast. Why, how?
But as the hours ticked off and I was holding faster than my reference 7:10s with not a lot of effort, I began to get drunk with excitement. Or maybe it was the real food, bacon and eggs, for breakfast. I was on the path to an American Record! Yes, it was still a long way away, but I was doing it! It was possible! This still felt easy. I thought ahead to what it would mean, redemption not just from Desert Solstice but from EVERYTHING, from missing the team, from my lousy performance at Worlds. An overall AR, at age 52... but whoa now, let's not get ahead of ourselves.
Gradually the excitement was replaced by intimidation at the time remaining, and especially the feeling that I had no margin for error, that I was now on the razor's edge and would stay that way for as long as I could hold it. After a few hours I asked Nicole to walk with me, tried to fill her in on the situation. I had an American Record at risk here! I needed help! But I had neglected to share my pacing spreadsheet with my crew, as I generally try to do. Well, she could access it on my phone. I began to tell her what I needed... then slowly realized that it was just too complicated to try to explain midrace. Especially since this pacing spreadsheet actually had four separate sections, for day one and three possible day twos, all with parameters that had to be set right for anything to make sense.
It was disorienting and a little terrifying for a while to be running in such an out-of-control fashion, with so much of the race left. I couldn't keep exact track of where I was supposed to be, and worse, as I thought ahead to my next nap, I couldn't figure out how to deal with the time I was now ahead of reference time after the nap... simple math, but beginning to be beyond me. It was like when I'd learn a new programming language in college, then enter very weird mental states when trying to sleep, being unable to without solving some simple yet impossible problem using the new language concepts.
Very gradually I came to accept my new mental state and not be intimidated by it. It didn't matter if I couldn't figure out the new accounting. I knew that I was running at least as fast as I needed to, and that every hour that passed put me that much closer to the end. So I would just ride this wave. I could take my phone and enter the parameters into my spreadsheet myself later if need be and recalibrate. I'd been gripped by the fear that I just didn't have the couple of minutes that would take to spare, thus my thought to get Nicole managing the spreadsheet. If you don't jealously guard your minutes of stopped time, they will add up quickly. But here it would be worth it.</span></span><br />
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As the day wore on I began to realize I was tired. I decided to take my 30-hour nap an hour early. How would I make up for that down the road? I didn't know. But I needed sleep. I was afraid that after the nap I'd have lost my mojo, and all of a sudden it would take a lot of effort to run 7:10s instead of being easy. But I needed that nap NOW. Maybe this is a problem with having a heated tent with cot and gravity chair available every lap? It's just too tempting.
Somewhere in here Traci Duck seemed to take over for Nicole as my primary crewperson, though I was seeing both of them throughout (as Nicole also ran some relay legs). Their service was incredible and invaluable; I would have been adrift, not just logistically but psychologically, without their steady support. Never a hint of tiredness or any need on their part, though they must have been very tired.
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSVn0PjgQ1wfIs3nRZ-uT7SVuNcTlE51nF-KQyB4suc9xfjuhDQiUBH9QHStqq8wTBHh7ABf_v4RRRrndfCVxT6VfmAGjARFEdHjA_MvtsBUQ7hUSW1yOK8NgGFN4VBCW0RrsnxJ5qXgft/s1600/26168304_10210298039757488_430133002339449353_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSVn0PjgQ1wfIs3nRZ-uT7SVuNcTlE51nF-KQyB4suc9xfjuhDQiUBH9QHStqq8wTBHh7ABf_v4RRRrndfCVxT6VfmAGjARFEdHjA_MvtsBUQ7hUSW1yOK8NgGFN4VBCW0RrsnxJ5qXgft/s400/26168304_10210298039757488_430133002339449353_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.800000190734863px;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Elite crew tents, with Traci Duck (center). Pic by Deborah Scharpff Sexton.</span></i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh9g8gyDmFKo1CBAs1iTiM0LQU_9CB60DJI0dQghVjVSnvROJ5ome5sZoPyDxcIf0CsC8RPdUKrmhs4AUjy6l59IiYcpQIuqZ4hwFjUF7gZ-ZuViaYjAYnoNaCLU7TcEXeAXcKAoX_ONvL/s1600/DSC_6993.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1065" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh9g8gyDmFKo1CBAs1iTiM0LQU_9CB60DJI0dQghVjVSnvROJ5ome5sZoPyDxcIf0CsC8RPdUKrmhs4AUjy6l59IiYcpQIuqZ4hwFjUF7gZ-ZuViaYjAYnoNaCLU7TcEXeAXcKAoX_ONvL/s400/DSC_6993.JPG" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Nicole Berglund. Pic by Don Davis.</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">After the nap, it was around noon. I ran 7:10s for another hour and a half, but I was beginning to get incredibly intimidated by the sheer weight of remaining time. It was all too clear to me now how multi-day differs from 24-hour. It's all about ability to suffer endlessly with not enough sleep. Screw that. This was not for me. Now I knew. I would get my result, whatever it was, and never do this again. Or maybe it would cap my career and I could call myself done with running. I'd have moved up to my limit and found it, nothing left to do.
I couldn't take it anymore. I pulled into the crew tent planning to go down for a much longer nap, recalibrate afterwards, and run what I could from there. I was going to give up on 262. But as I explained myself to Traci I was clearly in agony about the decision. Was I giving up because I was mentally weak? Physically I was still pretty good, though my foot was hurting again. Or was I being rational? Time to ditch the unreasonable goal and save the very good goal? It was just too hard to know. It wasn't the goal itself that mattered most to me; it was doing my best, not giving up when I was capable of actually reaching my goal. I would hate myself afterward for that; it would make the entire endeavor pointless.
Traci handed me her phone. Connie was on the other end. Uh oh. I was not going to get off easy. I don't usually swear, but I explained to Connie that 24-hour was one thing, but 48-hour was some bullshit (sorry Mom). There was simply no way I could hold this for the rest of the race. Yes, you can, and WILL. My foot still hurts. Well get it looked at. But that takes more time that I don't have! Am I getting enough calories? I think so...
It took about 15 minutes (that's the one big spike on the pace chart that's not pink or green), but she talked me down from immediately giving up on 262 and taking a long nap. Which of course meant that now, it would be 15 minutes harder. We reached a compromise. I would run a few laps now on pace for a backup goal, see how it felt. If it felt good, keep going, maybe speed up. Just think about now, not the long night ahead. Mental skills I am supposed to be good at, but that had gotten much harder to execute on day two. I handed the phone back to Traci and headed out.
I ran three more laps at an easy pace, then decided to let medical have another go at my foot. Another 13 minutes spent, but it was worth it; it felt better again. After another hour of uncalibrated running I grabbed my phone and stopped at the timing stand to enter my elapsed laps and elapsed time into my spreadsheet, making the appropriate corrections for expected stopped time. That was the part that would have been too hard to communicate to someone else.
The verdict was that even now, 262 was still possible, but I would have to run 7:00s, not 7:10s. Ha! OK whatever. Let's do it. I ran another hour and a half of sub-7s. Then Traci flagged me down. I was leaning left. Oh crap. Well, Doc Lovy said he knew how to fix it, so back to the medical tent. You realize, Traci, this means the end of any chance at 262, right? Yeah right, let's just fix this. OK. Paige, I think, with Doc Lovy's commentary, fixed it with a skilled application of elbow to right glutes, plus some stretching. Doc asked how I was doing... stupidly I replied that I was on the edge of the American Record for 48-hour, but didn't think I could hold it. Not only can you hold it, you WILL hold it, he said. There are are 212 people out there, and 211 of them are running for YOU. You are #212. Don't you let them all down. Well crap. What can you say to that?
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXeWt-UKdj7Zo1tESYribiB1OXEnZQmqflnTuMEH5qycE4uV3j6ja5t8WsmuxB3vNkeV_uL5InhKbzW2JlJqY6e_DgNs4s177-dmlPalWzwHLAFg3ruuWNWGBzL__eHvuza1BtaZXgsIGR/s1600/usa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXeWt-UKdj7Zo1tESYribiB1OXEnZQmqflnTuMEH5qycE4uV3j6ja5t8WsmuxB3vNkeV_uL5InhKbzW2JlJqY6e_DgNs4s177-dmlPalWzwHLAFg3ruuWNWGBzL__eHvuza1BtaZXgsIGR/s400/usa.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Oh, and Doc was getting his laps in too. 48.3 miles over the course of the race. Yes, at 82. While spending most of his time in the med tent helping runners. Did I mention that he also has a Purple Heart?
Amazingly this trip to the med tent only cost 4 minutes. Back out there, keep running, can't let Connie and Doc Lovy down. And indeed the lean was gone.
However, just 6 laps later, I was no longer holding sub-7s. As I came into the crew tent, tired, Adrian and Traci suggested maybe it was time for a nap. At 34 hours, it was much too early for my 40-hour nap. I tried to explain to Adrian that I didn't have time if I wanted to hit the AR... he seemed shocked that I was still considering it. Why would you sacrifice a potential 250+ 48-hour for an unreasonable goal? I did not protest. In fact I was gratified that I'd essentially been given permission, via an outside voice of reason, to step back, regroup, and refocus on something more reachable. But as I went down for the nap I was thinking "Traci is going to be pissed at Adrian for messing up Connie's motivation".
After the nap it took me a while to get back into a good groove. But over the next two-and-a-half hours I gradually sped up, until I was running sub-7s again.
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoVAIGV827WBE7rBfx3jpCdXu-GhGcNTWRt5dYUXgvSDuRheg4duwYJtNmCEiaGDzz7IG93XEw3EQurGD-c2M6Z_ysj8HblNIo58sbVafP_Q38zzHW3BOc79apILHX-XYE5iCM5tumU_4q/s1600/mark.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1199" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoVAIGV827WBE7rBfx3jpCdXu-GhGcNTWRt5dYUXgvSDuRheg4duwYJtNmCEiaGDzz7IG93XEw3EQurGD-c2M6Z_ysj8HblNIo58sbVafP_Q38zzHW3BOc79apILHX-XYE5iCM5tumU_4q/s400/mark.jpg" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Approaching the second evening. Pic by Mark Cunningham.</span></i></td></tr>
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<b>Day Two – Night</b>
At 36 hours (7 pm) we turned around again, and it got dark. I pulled out the iPod, but it seemed to be stuck on one playlist, 3/4 of which was not good for running, and the rest I'd already heard. I gave up and took it off. Not long after I was at a sufficiently low point (no Garmin, no iPod, no specific pace plan, getting cold and windy, still very tired, speakers out at the timing mat so no music there) that I felt completely unable to face the long night. I decided I could not continue without a much longer nap. By this point the race had completely broken me down.
So I went down for a full hour. It felt like 10 minutes, and was filled with very strange dreams, and pulsing pain in my soles from relentless pounding. When I woke, Brian Anderson checked in with me, "so your goal now is the age-group record, right?". Uh... I guess so, right. That was my minimum goal. I hadn't figured what it would take for any intermediate goals since abandoning 262. But clearly the extra hour of sleep had cost a lot. At this point I would just run until I hit the age-group record, and then see what else I could do. At 48 hours I'd take another hour nap, then walk it in, if need be, to 250 miles in 55 hours, for the exclusive 250-mile buckle (of which Joe Fejes had the only one to date). Brian did some math and told me I needed 52 more laps. It was now very cold and windy, sub-freezing. As I headed out I had on my warmup pants, two shirts, three jackets, hat, and gloves. Oh, and a magically revitalized ReVolt headlamp. Turns out with only the main light on, and not the secondary one as well, it did last essentially forever on three batteries. And without the mist, vision was much better the second night.
OK then. 52 laps, 10 hours left... nothing to it. I'd have plenty of time to pad the record. Let's count them off in chunks of 10. Before the first 10 I hit 200 miles, to much fanfare, at 38:50 on the clock. The hour nap seemed to have done the trick. I was no longer daunted, and felt I could last through the night. During the next chunk of 10 Traci stopped me... leaning left again. OK, back to medical. Fixed again. And on.
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Standings late Sunday night. Pic by Don Davis.</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Approaching 41 hours, during the third chunk, there were lots of fireworks. Slowly my tired brain made a connection. Oh right. It was New Year's Eve, and almost midnight. Huh! I stopped and sat in the crew tent for a few minutes as midnight struck to drink Champagne with Traci and Cindy Waylon, assistant executive director of Snowdrop.
At 42 hours I was at 214 miles, to Joe's 175. Scott Rabb was at 160, working towards that 200. And Adrian had stopped at 151 (for the 150 buckle), but he stuck around to cheer on the other runners. In my mind, and I think everyone else's, I had long since taken over this race... that's a dangerous attitude, when you think it's a done deal. You have to have a challenge to motivate you. I lacked a concrete goal beyond the age-group record plus whatever I could run, and had already "won the race" – at least I'd come away with that $500 overall prize. Totally the wrong mindset to perform well. You want running to be a positive, rather than lack of running being a negative.
A little later I decided I had plenty of cushion for another 10-minute nap. After that I double checked my spreadsheet. I actually wanted to beat Roy Pirrung's 231.44 track record, not just Joe's 230.41 road record. Why? This would after all be a road record. But I wanted to have the best overall 48-hour by anyone over 50. That extra mile meant two more laps. OK, no big deal. Reset the count... 22 laps to go.
As I counted down, I looked forward to taking another nap with 10 laps to go. Plenty of time! But then wham, with 14 laps left, all of a sudden I could not run. The left leg had pain in the tib. anterior or maybe extensor digitorum longus, the right in the peroneal muscles. I walked a lap. Man, that lap took forever, with no running. Here I decided I'd better take that nap early, and hope my legs would recover a bit.
But, no such luck. I just could not run. I needed to go back to medical, but if I might to have to walk the rest of the way, I wasn't sure I could afford the time and still hit even the age-group record. So I took an Advil instead. But the next lap I paid attention to the time: 12 minutes. Wow, felt more like half an hour. But that meant I had plenty of time for medical.
Paige took a look, tried some things, asked how many laps I needed, sent me back out with instructions to come back if it wasn't better. And, it wasn't better. Even walking I was afraid I was doing some permanent damage. The cold and wind were really no fun at all when I couldn't even run. Joe was now powering through, running strong, lapping me as I limped along. I was pretty sure he was just trying to hit 200, to get the buckle, since obviously I could not be caught.
Two laps later, back to medical, Chris was there and tried some different stuff. But again no dice. I was just going to have to grit this out and walk it in. Nine more slow laps, and I'd done it: I was at 231.9912 miles, with 47:03 on the clock.
Brian announced that I'd set the record, asked if I was ready for my buckle – uh, yeah – and led me to the big banner and handed me my 200-mile buckle. Which by the way is the most beautiful, and rare, buckle I've ever received. Only a handful of these have ever been issued. Patty took my timing chip. Kelley came through just then and gave me a big hug and congratulated me. Traci had packed up all my stuff, so I was ready to go. In the back of my mind I had wondered whether if Joe really, really wanted it, and was willing to work hard for another 8 hours, he might catch me within the overall 55 hours. It kind of didn't matter, because my legs were shot.</span><br />
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But as Patty and Brian helped me to her car, I asked Brian if he thought Joe would keep going once he hit 200. "Oh yes, he's going to keep going." I should have asked for my chip back, and announced that I was going down for a nap and would continue later. But I didn't. I could probably have limped in a few more laps if need be, and surely motivation for Joe would have been tougher in the first place without the knowledge that I was done. But it felt more honest, not to mention a hell of a lot easier, to call it a race.
Joe kept going, all morning and into the afternoon, and eventually hit 236 miles to take the overall win and the $500 prize. And Scott stuck it out for his 200 mile buckle. Once again we see why Joe is the master of multi-day. Congratulations, Joe. And also congratulations Kelley, who did hold on to take the overall women's win.
<i>Day two stats (through 47:03):
Laps: 151
Miles: 104.26
Time napping: 2:00:52
Time in medical: 0:44:35
Other time stopped: 0:34:10
Total time stopped: 3:19:37
Average moving pace: 11:21 / mile
Total stats (through 47:03):
Laps: 336
Miles: 231.9912
Time napping: 2:36:55
Time in medical: 0:52:44
Other time stopped: 0:46:30
Total time stopped: 4:16:09
Average moving pace: 11:04 / mile</i>
<b>Aftermath</b>
I'd left myself a day to recover before flying home, but come Tuesday morning, the leg pain was so severe I needed help packing and getting to the airport, and had to take wheelchairs through the airports. That's a first on both counts. Thank you Traci for dealing with my call for help, and Mark and Becky Cunningham and Cynthia Lowery for all the assistance.
My legs were already turning interesting colors. Definitely some tearing in the left anterior compartment. I'd had that before, but only on the right. And only after running longer (first 24 hour) or faster (best 24 hour) than ever before. It should be no surprise I was so beat up here, after my first 48.
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Recovery was far worse than I'd ever had before. I couldn't make it through the night without Advil for a solid week. Finally the DOMS and swelling faded, eventually the left anterior and Achilles pain went away, and it was down to the right extensor digitorum longus tendons, where I'd had pain on top of my foot the whole race, and the peroneals. Which after all I had been told would need surgery. Now, two weeks later, it's still hard to evaluate the damage. It will take another week or two. If it doesn't resolve it's probably time for another MRI, and maybe I will have to bite the bullet with that surgery. We'll see.
<b>Takeaway</b>
So – wow. What an experience. Overall I achieved my primary goal of breaking the over-50 American Record for 48-hour, and I have to be happy with my planning and execution for my first multi-day. My 232 also earns me #7 on the <a href="http://www.ultrarunning.com/featured/ultrarunning-magazine-all-time-lists/" target="_blank">All-Time North American Top-10 List for 48-hour</a>; I had wanted to make one of these lists for a long time.
I'm not sure how to feel about the mental struggles I went through deciding whether to try to hang on for the overall American Record. Clearly it was in fact well beyond my physical capabilities, at least on this weekend, as I was reduced to a walk at the end even after falling far behind that goal. Still, it's not clear whether there was a proximal mental failure, or whether I was accurately gauging my inability to hang on. I get the sense that this is a harder thing to know in a multi-day than it is in shorter races.
I was convinced during the race, and for a while afterwards, that I'd satisfied my curiosity about multi-day, and had no need to try again. Now I am not so sure. Joe says I can challenge his 6-day overall American Record of 606 miles and even potentially Kouros' World Record of 644 miles. On the one hand this sounds crazy, especially as I feel I need more sleep than most successful multiday runners. On the other hand, I showed that I can hang with Joe at multi-day, and I think I have the edge on pace management. So... I'm going to have to think about this. Anyway it's very flattering to hear. But then Joe and Connie are crazy enablers! On the other side of this equation is the cost not just during the event, but after it. I'm not comfortable being an invalid for a week, and it's not fair to my wife. Is it really worth what we do to our bodies and our lives? Not to mention, for multi-day, the cumulative damage to our brains of sleep deprivation, which in recent years has been shown to be a far more serious health issue than previously recognized.
All that said, I did learn a lot that I could carry forward to improve next time, at 48-hour and more broadly. Most obviously, I need to sleep more. This means I have to run faster (or walk less) to compensate, but I did not really feel physically challenged, as opposed to mentally tired, until very late in the race. And I think there I have specific issues to work on with my physical therapist. More focused glute med. work for the lean (plus, per Doc Lovy, pre-race potassium supplements). The lower-leg issues I think ultimately are down to poor ankle flexibility and Achilles tightness; this forces the anterior muscles to work harder. Again, stuff I can work on. Remove a roadblock, and who knows how much farther you can go. Certainly I was nowhere near aerobically challenged at any point, nor did I ever have anything like the massive whole-body fatigue one gets by the end of a 24-hour, which I must say surprised me. So it seems possible to sleep more and run faster.
Much of that is relevant for 24-hour as well. Which is what I wanted: a broader perspective on my physical hindrances. I think I got that. So I can now move forward again there as well.
<b>Thank You</b>
Beyond the race itself as such, the Snowdrop experience as a whole was incredible, from the much larger purpose of the event, to the way I was so warmly welcomed into the Snowdrop family and supported in my effort. I'm sure Joe and Adrian feel the same way.
Enormous thanks are due to Kevin Kline for the invitation and handling as an elite, and to Traci Duck and Nicole Berglund for invaluable primary crew support, and Bob Mulligan, Stefanie Benjamin, Julie Stoffel, Autumn Farmer, and Marcus Benjamin for additional crew support – and I regret that I am likely missing some names there. Huge thanks also to Patty Godfrey for directing the race, to Brian Anderson for all of the many hats he wore before, during, and after the race, and to everyone else involved with the Snowdrop Foundation that I've left out, and to all the volunteers. Finally Doc Lovy, Paige, Chris, and the rest of his team definitely saved my race several times as it veered off course. I'm not sure how I would cope at a multiday without them there.
Thank you for reading! I hope you found something useful to take away, or were at least more entertained than not.
<b>THE END</b>
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Bob Hearnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01351956832733163825noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2382599380750777712.post-33021781652317970972018-01-11T21:27:00.000-08:002018-01-12T11:50:06.943-08:0024-Hour World Championships 2017 and Desert Solstice 2017<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">This one is a two-fer. I tried several times to write a report for Worlds, but it always came out as just whining, so I gave up. Then Desert Solstice... that didn't go so well either. But I need to say something about both of these races before posting my Snowdrop report. I was going to include this material in that report, but it's already a monster and I think should stand on its own. </span><br />
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</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Background</b></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">
When I last left off in my blog, I had just finished Run4Water 24-hour on April 1, 2017. I ran 152.1555 miles, missing making the US National 24-Hour Team for 2017 Worlds by a scant 300 feet – less than one minute out of 24 hours. It was the culmination of two-and-a-half years of effort.
Nonetheless I ended that post on an upbeat note, because I had run my absolute best, had inspired many people, and was looking forward to running at Worlds even as an alternate, to compete for an age-group world title (open to all participants).
Well, things went downhill quickly from there. Recovery from Run4Water was very slow. It eventually became clear I had done some real damage to the right foot. Peroneal tendonitis, I thought. But MRI revealed torn peroneal tendons (brevis and longus), and a torn anterior talo-fibular ligament. When I saw the report I thought, game over. But my foot doctor was more sanguine. He brushed off the ligament, calling the injury a "license to kill" for your typical surgeon, though many cases are asymptomatic. But the peroneals, he said, would never heal without surgery. I got a second opinion from another doctor; it was worse. Yet, oddly, both doctors cleared me to train for and run Worlds. But I would then need the surgery, or it would keep deteriorating. I withdrew from Spartathlon (September), my favorite race, as it did not seem realistic, and I thought it only fair to give someone on the waitlist a chance. Had I not come up just short for the team, I'd have faced an agonizing decision on whether to yield my spot to the first alternate. At least I was spared that.
I had only 13 weeks between Run4Water and Worlds, with several already shot, so training was not going to be optimal. But I did what I could. I ran for a while in an ankle brace, then with just tape. Pretty much every run had to be on the track, in the outside lanes, to keep it totally flat and minimize turning. The week before leaving for Ireland I saw the doctor again, and mentioned that it was frustrating looking ahead to surgery, because I felt I was improving: I'd just run a 120-mile week with little pain. "Oh, well maybe you don't need surgery after all." What????!!
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>2017 24-Hour World Championships, Belfast, Ireland
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Worlds was both an incredible experience and a huge disappointment. It was incredible just to be there on the world stage, with the best 24-hour runners on the planet. I was accustomed to being among the favorites in a 24-hour race; the worst I had ever finished was third. Here, if I had a perfect day, I might make the top 20. It was incredible to be a virtual part of the team, in the same hotel, with the same meetings and team staff and in-race support. I would get the Worlds experience; I just wouldn't be wearing the official US team jersey, and my distance would not count for the team. Which of course was kind of the whole point. But, it was something. It was incredible to have the crew support of my wife Liz and my friend Scott, who had traveled with me. Thank you!
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkLr3uHN_E-qbHV6w1ZMUJqptqjXFRwoR49OxJUr8wojsgbdXv3H7o-n-EhC0KcRMQ44hZWm0eM3ir7Z6O8iq5topLqpoS7UBgfIOEce58EtO2nSf_EWQGCnd6468yYhRu1j5z0qcwfLto/s1600/19691175_10209051201907321_1053621175_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkLr3uHN_E-qbHV6w1ZMUJqptqjXFRwoR49OxJUr8wojsgbdXv3H7o-n-EhC0KcRMQ44hZWm0eM3ir7Z6O8iq5topLqpoS7UBgfIOEce58EtO2nSf_EWQGCnd6468yYhRu1j5z0qcwfLto/s400/19691175_10209051201907321_1053621175_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">US alternates Dymond, Hearn, Stanciu</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But my performance was a huge disappointment. I still don't know exactly what went wrong. I paced evenly, and was solid through 15 hours. Then it just began to unravel. I deliberately slowed my pace when I realized the effort was too high; that didn't help. I slowed again. And again. Eventually I walked a few laps trying to get a reset. Generally a 24-hour has its ups and downs, but I had always, so far, found a way to recover and finish strong. Not this time. By the end I had a huge sideways lean. And I had no idea how I was doing, because the timing system went out mid-race – inexcusable for a World Championship race! </span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Everybody needs someone to lean on.</span></i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrnryleZfC7rn5KaruedIU0sad-C_SrYz0KWfshIVIAjKc_Vzm2oPDhOvXVkIgL5KUrr8tReq5SbiQfJQaqs08-LJOaASIzcqjMGVuaLamnbF7XxIuMoA_DAJurKG_HUqIviziEzEFWyFB/s1600/Screen+Shot+2018-01-11+at+8.14.49+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="649" data-original-width="1600" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrnryleZfC7rn5KaruedIU0sad-C_SrYz0KWfshIVIAjKc_Vzm2oPDhOvXVkIgL5KUrr8tReq5SbiQfJQaqs08-LJOaASIzcqjMGVuaLamnbF7XxIuMoA_DAJurKG_HUqIviziEzEFWyFB/s640/Screen+Shot+2018-01-11+at+8.14.49+PM.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Belfast splits. 1.027-mile laps.</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I ended with 138 miles. I had targeted 158. Probably that was the problem: I had overreached. I'd thought I had no choice, for a shot at the age-group world title, because I had studied my competition, and it was formidable. And that was all I really had to run for (or so I thought – later it turned out that Belfast would count for 2019 team qualification purposes, something that would have changed my thinking). So, I can't say I regret anything. I took my shot, and didn't succeed. Stephane Ruel of France, also 51, and my chief competitor, ran an otherwordly 161.6 miles (beating everyone on the US team). I would not have matched that no matter what. But ironically, he'd neglected to register for the age-group competition! (See that green dot on my bib at the top? He didn't have one.) 153 miles would have taken gold (though with a big asterisk), and 145 bronze. Ah well.
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.800000190734863px;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">US women took gold, US men bronze. </span></i></td></tr>
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On the bright side, Liz, Scott, and I had a nice Irish vacation. I'd always wanted to see Ireland. And the US women took gold – by 600 meters! – and the men bronze. Neither of those would have happened without the strong performances by Gina Slaby, Jon Olsen, and Steve Slaby at Run4Water, that put them on the teams and bumped me off. And Katy Nagy ran a new American Record of 155.7. Finally, I got to witness Poland's Patrycja Bereznowska break the World Record, becoming the first woman ever to run over 160, with 161.55 miles.
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Giant's Causeway</span></i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Cliffs of Moher</span></i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjuMrg8yoAQYZ4eXoHj5FXIRcFIPq72RDX86QAIo8X5X-FSltIcphtu7sWPdc3chpFtX_sWOZTBIL866YB7GFHDMYgcV3MA43NfYNfiwGCNQAD8PVwj5bj1QJrP_Yhb6NdBvsw7aODZgxK/s1600/19702091_10209069667808957_8607469593698707584_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjuMrg8yoAQYZ4eXoHj5FXIRcFIPq72RDX86QAIo8X5X-FSltIcphtu7sWPdc3chpFtX_sWOZTBIL866YB7GFHDMYgcV3MA43NfYNfiwGCNQAD8PVwj5bj1QJrP_Yhb6NdBvsw7aODZgxK/s320/19702091_10209069667808957_8607469593698707584_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The Burren</span></i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMwxkRczFd-a-yg3uDlFYsYMbrGx73wGVVJ1wY1FqsFVH5clWvUgk0eF3Ixcsoa0itV_2y3Tvb7DOx4YA6oSn5QCkBsbXYZc0_WqNXp4xpNgt7Tn0a1v_82y9X_is6MTkT_pkQjcIwIF6X/s1600/19702365_10209073932475571_1405422385375806657_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMwxkRczFd-a-yg3uDlFYsYMbrGx73wGVVJ1wY1FqsFVH5clWvUgk0eF3Ixcsoa0itV_2y3Tvb7DOx4YA6oSn5QCkBsbXYZc0_WqNXp4xpNgt7Tn0a1v_82y9X_is6MTkT_pkQjcIwIF6X/s320/19702365_10209073932475571_1405422385375806657_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">With Irish star Eoin Keith, who had the race I was after!</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Thanks go to Howard Nippert and Zane Holscher for organizing the team, to Doc Lovy and his medical staff, to Tracey Outlaw and Bill Schultz for live, on-site coverage and encouragement, and to Mike Dobies for sophisticated in-race tracking and tactical analysis.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Recovery from Worlds was again slow. As I'd had zero issues with the peroneals during the race, I canceled the surgery. It would have meant three months of no running, and realistically a year to get back to 100% – except I'd be a year older. I'm setting age-group American records; I am not going to give up a year of competition unless I'm positive I have to. So I declined.
The peroneals were OK, or not limiting my training anyway, but it still took quite a while to really get my mojo back. The whole experience of focusing my life on making the team, then failing, and running a bad race at Worlds anyway, had taken a lot out of me, and kind of closed a long chapter in my life. I'd run four team qualifiers (plus one for 2015). My 152 was 7 miles more than it had ever taken to make the team before 2017. But it wasn't good enough. I now had to look ahead to 2019 for my next chance, but two years older, with even more competition. I just wasn't sure I had it in me.
On the physical side, both Achilles were holding me back. I finally went back to my foot doctor for more EPAT treatments, which I'd had before, and was then able to build back my mileage again.
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>2017 Desert Solstice
</b></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">
My next target was the Desert Solstice 24-Hour Invitational in December, with a chance to qualify for the 2019 team. On the way I ran the Javelina Jundred six weeks prior, as an "easy" training run. (I needed a Western States qualifier anyway, because I'd missed running Umstead in April to run Run4Water.) I ran a pretty smart, I thought, 23:32 at Javelina – and also won the, ah, special award that I was after, which made it even more worthwhile. Meanwhile Adrian Stanciu ran 18:01. Adrian had also run at Worlds as a US alternate. Prior to Worlds he had always run smart 24-hour races, but never held on to finish really strong. Well, at Worlds he ran a magnificent 148 miles, a PR. And he was running Desert Solstice too. There were others in the race with better Ultrasignup scores, but in my mind Adrian was my chief competition both at Desert Solstice and also for what will likely be one available slot on the 2019 men's team, with such strong qualifiers already on the books from Worlds. So, I was somewhat taken aback to see him put out such an effort at Javelina. I thought this gave me a big advantage heading into Desert Solstice. I could train through Javelina; he would have to recover.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Thank you to Natalie Larson for pacing me at Javelina! And to Aravaipa for another excellent production, and to Jubilee for that award selection.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzviqq-FKeyBQTpscl6h4p7vqbiuLiA7D1qIarjCH3YejfLH4YfZ4mQd4U8GZQDEz06wcXHyu50Ju2PfaIvalQbcnckCBvdCCNCWSAXWlx6X-MwDZslQdWkqIzeo1KtBk1yEtjjMtABxAK/s1600/23215617_10209884919949751_7223093189823758881_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzviqq-FKeyBQTpscl6h4p7vqbiuLiA7D1qIarjCH3YejfLH4YfZ4mQd4U8GZQDEz06wcXHyu50Ju2PfaIvalQbcnckCBvdCCNCWSAXWlx6X-MwDZslQdWkqIzeo1KtBk1yEtjjMtABxAK/s400/23215617_10209884919949751_7223093189823758881_o.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Javelina Jundred – before my wardrobe change. Pic by Howie Stern.</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But Desert Solstice was another big disappointment, my worst 24-hour ever. I learn something at every race, and after seven 24-hours and two Spartathlons, I had learned a lot about this type of racing, and I was dialed in. My pacing was smarter than before; I paced for 154, more conservative than I'd tried at the previous two Desert Solstices. My nutrition was smarter than before; I'd just completed a sports nutrition course at Stanford. Again Liz and Scott were there to crew me; they were more experienced than before. Thank you! </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But I completely fell apart. Probably one factor was that just the week before the race I had unexpectedly lost one of my closest friends, in the prime of his life. I ran Desert Solstice in his honor, but was unable to do his memory justice.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU3h7sZ4fGJjNE9VKeYESmP96pb3GP1g6kmZeYFqNU5-EixeAbd0TFVsiyVlmvGI855QoeVzQMcfCdeSThHTcTESQwDq6IxPKIOvIgT4rbadWEbArHVaGzfI7Ae461lMj8QBonWp_kudjf/s1600/24955344_10210118500429117_6970617435603153800_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU3h7sZ4fGJjNE9VKeYESmP96pb3GP1g6kmZeYFqNU5-EixeAbd0TFVsiyVlmvGI855QoeVzQMcfCdeSThHTcTESQwDq6IxPKIOvIgT4rbadWEbArHVaGzfI7Ae461lMj8QBonWp_kudjf/s320/24955344_10210118500429117_6970617435603153800_o.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I finally met Camille Herron</span></i></td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMTPG4o540tqDd_MohIFU2412KD-4RtMc6lbX9xbCFveGblRTfE_qhsBh23X0v2moera8zWtQMTlvSNN0G_m6bbCtpyXCxDjrt1YT3VBKoIxkHfGG3YO7y6IRbxHM3Yej60N-vY62Tz5tn/s1600/25310933_10213353833258994_510041705802353497_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMTPG4o540tqDd_MohIFU2412KD-4RtMc6lbX9xbCFveGblRTfE_qhsBh23X0v2moera8zWtQMTlvSNN0G_m6bbCtpyXCxDjrt1YT3VBKoIxkHfGG3YO7y6IRbxHM3Yej60N-vY62Tz5tn/s320/25310933_10213353833258994_510041705802353497_o.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinVhImisc4ZiS4GualVcZoPEQPvZ4DjUTajmSMSCRv7mLtq2bZc_Am6srSoG_ewzJjqb5irG6D9cq7ot3_L2TkQTxi04_TAvvbZfXokm-Br-90pYPlfzTgBYbjtn2SdcfIGWN8zf2xWxCX/s1600/25352261_10213353833659004_5351160171183132128_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinVhImisc4ZiS4GualVcZoPEQPvZ4DjUTajmSMSCRv7mLtq2bZc_Am6srSoG_ewzJjqb5irG6D9cq7ot3_L2TkQTxi04_TAvvbZfXokm-Br-90pYPlfzTgBYbjtn2SdcfIGWN8zf2xWxCX/s640/25352261_10213353833659004_5351160171183132128_o.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Adrian and I starting just behind Camille and Zach</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">The problems started early, with glute pain around 9 hours. I took an Advil and it was manageable. But the effort gradually increased. Eventually Liz told me I was leaning backwards again. This had also happened to me last year at Desert Solstice. You can't run efficiently leaning backwards. Finally it had gone away last year, and I had come from behind to win the men's race, though with only 144.71 miles. This year, I was not that patient. The minimum qualifying distance for the 2019 team had been raised to 145 miles; anything less would be a meaningless result. I tried several times to regroup to at least hit 145, but finally gave up. This year there were five guys well ahead of me; it would take some luck to even podium. So I stopped very early, with 93 miles, thinking I might as well save it for another shot. (It turns out I'd have had that luck; had I stayed I'd have likely finished 3rd.) And Adrian? Adrian ran 150.275 miles to win. Wow. Yep, now firmly in "nemesis" category. Isaiah Janzen, member of the 2015 National 24-Hour Team, had said he was going for the overall American Record of 172 miles, but stopped at 109. Other excitement involved Zach Bitter trying again for the 100-mile World Record (he collapsed on the field after 61 miles, on a pretty hot day), and Camille Herron entering her first fixed-time race, going for as many records as she could knock out: she got the track 50-mile and 100K American Records (though short of Ann Trason's road records) and the 12-hour World Record, to go alongside her 100-mile WR from Tunnel Hill.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8USft4p3HkjVVwnLBaRd-v_e0BE37NcI7GJ6De4l0rNBtMNovI2vxETqzzR7WcCyKar9WvUZIxCptBZ25Thg4uQkY9SYQgitViVdc5SToUmYSeL2iJsUsFmbtUhr8j16dIp43VezbiRsi/s1600/Screen+Shot+2018-01-11+at+9.03.56+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="662" data-original-width="1600" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8USft4p3HkjVVwnLBaRd-v_e0BE37NcI7GJ6De4l0rNBtMNovI2vxETqzzR7WcCyKar9WvUZIxCptBZ25Thg4uQkY9SYQgitViVdc5SToUmYSeL2iJsUsFmbtUhr8j16dIp43VezbiRsi/s640/Screen+Shot+2018-01-11+at+9.03.56+PM.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Desert Solstice splits</span></i></td></tr>
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When I got back to the hotel room I could barely move a muscle without something cramping. That was something new. I think I'd managed to get very dehydrated, somehow, though it hadn't felt like it at the time.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">But the next day I was kicking myself. What was I thinking? I'd put in all the training and 15 hours of race-day effort, but I had not collected the payoff: the experience of completing the 24 hours to the best of my ability, to learn more. Those are hard-earned data points, and here I'd failed to claim them.</span><br />
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</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>BUT... it really was the right decision. To be continued!
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Bob Hearnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01351956832733163825noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2382599380750777712.post-73543788353583403762017-04-09T14:29:00.000-07:002017-04-13T17:53:42.429-07:00Run4Water 2017: My Masterpiece<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOsuRLLGykI-4jMBvp9m_9Biw5RsbfjPuGnnDjHTtOfHo6rQjjaKIwdDqWtxxZiyN5cZZ7bf7ZraTL9IldikfgHg97Awq-T2sLZhtFHdY-iBzU-GTRhQXe-Va-7rW78f_vvgQej0AdBQA7/s1600/done.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOsuRLLGykI-4jMBvp9m_9Biw5RsbfjPuGnnDjHTtOfHo6rQjjaKIwdDqWtxxZiyN5cZZ7bf7ZraTL9IldikfgHg97Awq-T2sLZhtFHdY-iBzU-GTRhQXe-Va-7rW78f_vvgQej0AdBQA7/s640/done.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>With Greg Armstrong and Sue Scholl. Pic by James Suh</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In the world of the game Go, there is the concept of a player's "masterpiece" – a game where you play flawlessly, yet lose by a single point. This race was my masterpiece. For once, I executed it absolutely perfectly, in my opinion. I would not change a thing. But it was not quite enough.
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Background
</b></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">
For the past two and a half years, my primary running goal has been to make the U.S. national 24-hour team and represent my country at the World Championships. I was originally inspired by my friend Mike Henze, who helped pull the 2010 team to bronze in Brive, France.
My first attempt in December 2014 yielded 139.5 miles, 5.5 short of making the 2015 team. But it did show that I had potential, at least. I looked forward to 2016. But then, the IAU switched the World Championships to every other year – I would have to wait two more years. At Desert Solstice in December 2015, I ran 149.24, putting me in the number four spot, of six, for 2017. But there was over a year left to qualify, and I thought that likely would not hold. The two-year wait meant more interest for fewer (average) slots. As well, the level of U.S. 24-hour talent seemed to be on the rise.
Since then it has been a constant game of learning what I can from the previous race, and applying the lessons to the next race. It's a slow way to learn, with a pretty big cost per data point. But as an older runner (now 51) without a surplus of natural talent, my only chance here is to run smarter and execute better than my competitors. Anything shorter, I am just too slow to be competitive at the national level. But 24-hour is about a lot more than talent and speed.
Gradually, I have been able to put together races that go perfectly for longer and longer into the race. At Riverbank, five weeks ago, I was perfect through 16 hours, hitting 100 miles at 15:30 (a big PR), exactly on my planned paces. And I still felt good; nothing hurt at all. But then I suddenly became very mentally fatigued. I walked a few laps to try to get a reset, giving up some of my possible upside. I hung on through 20 hours with some effort, but by then the difficulty in focusing was extreme – though still with no real physical pain, which seemed remarkable to me. That, at least, was a first. I thought a shot of more sugar might help jolt me awake, but instead it made me puke, which sapped all my remaining mental reserves. I mostly walked it in after that. Rich Riopel ran 152.21, finally bumping me from number four to number five. Well, I was amazed my spot had held for over a year.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnGqRdyAstv6nAtxv02ZNSI7VHbScKh-sp1q6LrU_qz6soeRykwh1ehZSE4ns_4MHdqODGZiMXj9VoGyAu98NZJ_O_HNHYIIntmvhYRDJf-tvp02pPjnktvRQcRVcgnj16dQeC6U4EfSzc/s1600/Hearn+Riverbank+2017.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnGqRdyAstv6nAtxv02ZNSI7VHbScKh-sp1q6LrU_qz6soeRykwh1ehZSE4ns_4MHdqODGZiMXj9VoGyAu98NZJ_O_HNHYIIntmvhYRDJf-tvp02pPjnktvRQcRVcgnj16dQeC6U4EfSzc/s640/Hearn+Riverbank+2017.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.800000190734863px;"><i>I didn't write a race report for Riverbank. So for completeness, here's the lap profile.</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Riverbank had been, I thought, my last chance. There were only five weeks left to qualify, too close to try again after an all-out effort. But my performance there had left a bad taste in my mouth. Not because I didn't hit my goal, but because I couldn't convince myself that I hadn't given up too easily. The going got tough, and I didn't handle it. Those are the moments when we are supposed to truly live as runners, and test our souls. It had been crystal clear to me that here it was, right in front of me, everything I had worked hard for for years, on the line. All I had to do was hold it NOW, for just a few more hours. I would be the first American over 50 to break 150 miles. I would virtually secure my team spot. And yet, I really, really wanted an excuse to quit. And I got the excuse, when I puked.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">After that experience, my identity and validity as a runner were in question. That's what really hurt. And yet – where is the line between physical failure and mental failure? The brain is not immune from the laws of physics. My feeling was that this was largely nutritional. I'm not supposed to be that tired and unfocused at any point in a 24-hour. I'm very good at the objective, analytical part of running, at least for certain types of events. And I generally feel like I'm good at the subjective part too; I'm tough when I need to be. But your brain can only do what it can do, too.
Over the next couple of weeks, my recovery went quicker than expected; everything felt great. I had obvious nutritional and other tweaks to make after Riverbank – again, I wanted a do-over. (Riverbank had been my do-over from Desert Solstice in December.) And Greg Armstrong let me know there was still a space for me at Run4Water. The line-up of real challengers there was growing, and I couldn't help but feel my #5 spot was at serious risk. I went so far as to write a little program to estimate the chances that at least two guys ran over 149.24: it said 64%. Hmm. Well, what did I have to lose? So I made the decision to give it one final shot.
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>The Race
</b></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">
Run4Water is run on a .508-mile road loop in Lebanon, TN, around a middle school. It's not 100% flat, but pretty close. The slight variation might serve to change it up a bit for our muscles. The weather in Tennessee on April 1st could be anything, but would likely be warm and humid, maybe with rain. That's what I should have hoped for to secure my spot! It generally takes good conditions to see good performances. Nobody in the U.S. broke 150 for all of 2016, primarily I think because no race had really good conditions.
But I was torn. I had really wanted a solid performance over 150 to give me confidence to shoot higher at Worlds. I was getting pretty tired of coming up short. Fortunately, or unfortunately, the closer race day got, the better the forecast looked. With the likes of Jon Olsen, Steve Slaby, Phil McCarthy, Greg Soutiea, Josh Finger, Olaf Wasternack, Joe Fejes, Adrian Stanciu, and a few other fast guys toeing the line, it looked like a day for potentially big numbers. One day later, and it would have been high 70s and thunderstorms.
So, I had made the right decision. I had to step up here to keep my spot. If I finished in the top two I was guaranteed at least the 6th slot. If two people beat me, then I would have to pass Rich's 152.21. I dialed in my pacing plan so that if all went smoothly, I'd hit 153.43. If I felt great towards the end I could go for more, but that was not the priority. If three people beat me... well, let's not go there.
</span></span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWjrZG9eLltc_6dn1cJoaI2rkHa5Spp8nh3lL2slUUOteIo37N6CMPiRS7OR77WsX8RD0ruVddch1tjevx29M8xGaIhCfCPS1_irv4UDiWWmOCHZRwuM3BfrmHKTYtYXw3To0nVlKyzqD6/s1600/start2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWjrZG9eLltc_6dn1cJoaI2rkHa5Spp8nh3lL2slUUOteIo37N6CMPiRS7OR77WsX8RD0ruVddch1tjevx29M8xGaIhCfCPS1_irv4UDiWWmOCHZRwuM3BfrmHKTYtYXw3To0nVlKyzqD6/s400/start2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Pic by Cheryl Renee Crowe</i></td></tr>
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<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">8 am, and we were off. With this concentration of talent, I'd been hoping to see a fast start, with nobody wanting to get too far behind. That would work very well for me, as I waited patiently for the inevitable attrition. Almost everyone goes out too fast at 24-hour. But if I'd hoped all my competition would blow up early, I was out of luck. A few shot off way too fast, but others reined it in instead. Olsen was completely out of my equations – his talent and experience were far above everyone else's. (Incidentally Olsen was also the race director at Riverbank.) If he had no injury issues or bad luck, he would easily make the team; he was in charge of his own fate. Everyone else had to have a very good day, and were racing each other for that 6th spot.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_8BEkmO4-KGoC6lz21h9BCyCh090xki7uFtP641a5HwjyYrHyzo1ZVniMndXNaKcrKCWBvym0XdzrZnCagqOIwqz2e1xGJYaXvPxAcyLXMjFX6HBdVOMgbbD4Oq5c5OIP1nBYp_X7kikB/s1600/olaf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="351" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_8BEkmO4-KGoC6lz21h9BCyCh090xki7uFtP641a5HwjyYrHyzo1ZVniMndXNaKcrKCWBvym0XdzrZnCagqOIwqz2e1xGJYaXvPxAcyLXMjFX6HBdVOMgbbD4Oq5c5OIP1nBYp_X7kikB/s400/olaf.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Running early with Olaf. Pic by Joseph Nance</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Still, after a couple of hours the order settled down, and I found myself 11th man, with all of my expected competition ahead of me. Perfect, exactly where I wanted to be. Most people in this position would feel scared, especially as the early pacing feels soooooo easy. But I knew that I was not going too slow. If I held this pace I'd hit a big PR, and a number almost certainly good enough to make the team. Any faster would be unnecessary risk. Ergo, most of my competition were taking unnecessary risks; advantage Bob.
</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">In the week or so before the race, after I'd decided I felt good and committed to it, a few of my chronic muscle issues had begun to rear their heads again, so I was just a bit concerned about that. Indeed, in the first several hours lots of things felt not quite right. The worst was the left hamstring, where I tore the tendons a few years ago. But I know that this tends to settle down after 30 miles or so in races, so I just sat back on my pacing and didn't sweat it. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">
This is the kind of thing that can mess with your head if you let it. 24 hours is a long time to stay focused, especially when your margin for success is so razor thin. It's all too easy to convince yourself that it's just not going to be your day, and that feeling can become a self-fulfilling prophecy. This is true in any long ultra, but it's magnified at 24-hour, because you know that there's not going to be any change of terrain to mix things up, and you have to fight the sheer boredom and repetitiveness of a short loop. Unlike a fixed-distance race, the finish does not get any closer no matter how fast you run, and there's no such thing as a black-and-white finish vs. DNF to motivate you – your result is simply however far you ran. It adds up to a unique set of mental challenges.
And really, mental toughness was my biggest concern coming into Run4Water. I had gone all out in very long races way too much recently: this was my third 24-hour in four months, with Spartathlon just a couple of months prior, all of them A races. You can only go to the well so often. Especially as I thought I had not been tough enough at Riverbank, I was afraid I just wouldn't be able to step up here. But the edge I had this time was the sure knowledge that this was it; it would all be determined here this weekend.
</span></span><br />
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglq7kvj5-WdfCOXi7x819F0ulaM6HpvqkbLzXTIx28Cj4UosqazwA1_V-XE4NxnCAAUiOuvFZpQoJypXxKiZGev9AokezmlZAsZ8iw2A-khl4ulZkVYQFB3LOI3Rjp9yeFvFW3UuAFrA0E/s1600/shirt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglq7kvj5-WdfCOXi7x819F0ulaM6HpvqkbLzXTIx28Cj4UosqazwA1_V-XE4NxnCAAUiOuvFZpQoJypXxKiZGev9AokezmlZAsZ8iw2A-khl4ulZkVYQFB3LOI3Rjp9yeFvFW3UuAFrA0E/s400/shirt.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.800000190734863px;"><i>Shirt swap! Pic by Cheryl Renee Crowe</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The laps clicked off, and the day progressed. Early on we heard what sounded like a tornado alarm. Tornado?? Well that would save my team spot! No such luck, though. I should mention here the perfect logistics Greg had arranged. Portapotties were immediately alongside the course, and crew access was ideal, near the timing mat. Volunteers were available for anything you might need. My morning crew of Tanya and Cheryl made things easy for me. My pattern was to run 4:36 laps (9:03 mile pace), and walk one minute every third lap. During the walk breaks I would drink and fuel. I'd grab a small bottle from my crew, then toss it in a bin just before running again, whence my crew would retrieve and refill it. Maximally efficient. Also the tracking page had a way to send messages to the runners; my crew called them out to me again and again. I went back and looked, as the messages are logged with the results. It seems I had a lot more support messages than anyone else. I had no idea I was so popular! Thank you, RunningAhead crew, Facebook friends, and Liz!</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIb-eRXC7M7mG1IU5h9kmhXaFyGCUkexgHAPPqQWr5QoTqjx_SADdCVjzB_ttm4gQhW9WokZpK3VpPUhZVZJTPgP0muOxymOxnryqYuW0awCyaB8fhmZsNMNP0ZNV1b-7Xj5ngfOvXa20A/s1600/greg+joe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIb-eRXC7M7mG1IU5h9kmhXaFyGCUkexgHAPPqQWr5QoTqjx_SADdCVjzB_ttm4gQhW9WokZpK3VpPUhZVZJTPgP0muOxymOxnryqYuW0awCyaB8fhmZsNMNP0ZNV1b-7Xj5ngfOvXa20A/s400/greg+joe.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.800000190734863px;"><i>Greg Soutiea and Joe Fejes – strong competitors. Pic by The Wilson Post</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">
Around 2 pm my afternoon crew of Kara and Tim showed up to relieve Tanya and Cheryl, as we switched direction from clockwise to counter-clockwise. The six-hour switches helped keep things fresh; it's like running a new course. Things were still going smoothly for me. The day was cool and overcast. We were supposed to get clear skies and mid-60s in the afternoon, but when we finally did, we still had a brisk breeze to offset the sun. A few people did seem to be affected by the heat, but I guess my sauna training plus the breeze meant that I barely noticed it. I came prepared with lots of ice and sponges, but didn't use them.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg87ILb6n0S05JNG3bZdtUT3FE8v-_SZpeEWxl3r1zoGU9uc9CeXX3A_iiFiYgprs5aV_w7Ho928dAJRuetFGq7m9HC85kpn5pS25iKCqd5Cp_ijiKdzlRkwPo4ymOuCtPmoWFSBXwcKpYx/s1600/handoff.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="398" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg87ILb6n0S05JNG3bZdtUT3FE8v-_SZpeEWxl3r1zoGU9uc9CeXX3A_iiFiYgprs5aV_w7Ho928dAJRuetFGq7m9HC85kpn5pS25iKCqd5Cp_ijiKdzlRkwPo4ymOuCtPmoWFSBXwcKpYx/s400/handoff.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>With Kara Dudek Teacoach and Tim Walters. Pic by Tracey Outlaw</i></td></tr>
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<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I enjoyed chatting with friends and getting to know new people throughout the day; the first hours of a 24-hour are comfortable and social for everyone. Before the race I had finally met Roy Pirrung, an ultrarunning legend, with many age-group records, and also one of the first Americans to have run Spartathlon.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSPG4OPmkjD3wTVcikmZMFEXNXa8CWDJOl7SCpA1IFZoJmbJInrTqf5aDdsT1Q8cXlE5Ilm41IC9PtN0txFI3GzWibCkWgT6dnhuF-tTFAtqx1_AieDjlTb51uPSitchsVGMZnf52vOvS7/s1600/phil.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSPG4OPmkjD3wTVcikmZMFEXNXa8CWDJOl7SCpA1IFZoJmbJInrTqf5aDdsT1Q8cXlE5Ilm41IC9PtN0txFI3GzWibCkWgT6dnhuF-tTFAtqx1_AieDjlTb51uPSitchsVGMZnf52vOvS7/s400/phil.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>With Phil McCarthy, American record holder for 48-hour. Pic by Sinclaire Sparkman, Lebanon Democrat</i> </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">
</span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">After 8 or so hours the early leaders started to drop off, and I gradually began climbing through the ranks. My 12-hour split was about 77 miles, right on target. Before much longer it was down to Jon Olsen, Steve Slaby, and Greg Soutiea ahead of me. All of them still had several laps on me; I wouldn't be catching anyone else soon. I had promised myself I would run my own race until at least 16 hours before considering the tactical situation with the other runners, but it was hard not to look ahead. Yes, it was still early, but... if everyone stayed strong, 153 would not be enough. I would instead have to hit Harvey Lewis' mark of 157.91 to stay on the team if I finished in 4th. That would be a huge challenge, even pacing to hit it from here – a 77 / 81 split. It would be virtually impossible if I waited until 16 hours to speed up. I considered asking Tracey Outlaw to run the numbers for me; I'd left him with my magic pacing spreadsheet. But then I came to my senses. It was very unlikely for all three ahead of me to hit 158. In fact Greg had already slowed and was now maintaining his 8-lap lead on me, not gaining further. He was no longer on pace to pass Harvey. Whereas if I sped up substantially now, the risk would be high that I'd blow up. As far as I can tell, actually, there had never been a single race in U.S. history with three men over 150, let alone 158. (Desert Solstice 2014 had three total over 150, but that included Katalin Nagy.)
So, I just had to hang tight for now, and make sure I eventually caught somebody, probably Greg. Jon was in his own world, but I'd thought both Steve and Greg had gone out faster than necessary. Steve was only running his second 24-hour, and had loads of talent and speed that was yet to be optimally applied here, so it was hard to know what his potential was. But Greg had run several, with a big PR of 143+ at Desert Solstice in December. That race had seemed to go very smoothly for him, and he'd had to work hard for it; he had no obvious mistakes to correct, or untapped reserves to apply here, at least that I was aware of. To have a shot at the team he had no choice but to attempt another huge PR, but he was actually aiming much higher. He just had to beat Rich's 152.21, and beat me. The four miles he was ahead of me here would have to be paid for, I was increasingly sure.
At 10 pm Kara and Tim headed back to Alabama (thank you!), and Sue Scholl, veteran of many ultras, took over as crew. She hadn't planned to stay all night, but wound up helping me through the end of the race, and beyond. Thank you, Sue! As a very experienced ultrarunner and crewperson, she anticipated my every need.
As we approached 16 hours, still easy and smooth for me, I looked back to Riverbank, where it seemed a switch had flipped at that point. Here I took a preventative NoDoz, the first time I'd tried that in a race. Normally I get my caffeine from Coke, but that's not as much, or as big a hit at once. I think I have a natural advantage in this kind of race due to my programming background. I pulled tons of all nighters in college, and even much more recently at startups. I'm good running through the night, and also good focusing on tasks that would mentally exhaust others. However, lately I've begun to struggle more with tiredness; the years are beginning to add up. So I took no chances.
So far, so good, still holding steady. Now I was in new terrain, farther into the race still completely on track than I'd ever been before. It had been dark now for several hours, and this hit me harder than I had expected. There were street lights, but long stretches of the loop were pretty dark. Not dark enough not to see where to run – you had to watch out for the occasional speed bumps, but that wasn't too hard. However, I was accustomed to more light, having run most of my 24s on a track. I had to fight a bit mentally not to be slowed by this. When you run through the night in a trail race, you naturally slow; no big deal, everyone does. But I didn't have the margin in my pacing plan here to slow any.
From here on out, I know, it gets increasingly difficult. More than once I thought back to the words of Mike Henze, my friend from the 2010 team:
</span></span><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>The two decent races I ran - They would have to pulled me off in a hearse to stop my focus and drive toward my goals. I did not care if I died - Nothing was going to get in my way.</i></span></span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">
I could hope that the pace would feel easy the rest of the way, and the only question would be how much extra to go for, but realistically I would probably have to dig deep at some point, and I wanted to be ready to step up when the time came. Besides, there's how your body feels, and how your mind feels. The mind looks for excuses, even when the body is fine. I had already gone through many emotional ups and downs during the race, but that is normal, and habit kept me moving forward steadily.
Very gradually, I began to catch up to Greg. It took maybe an hour per lap to catch up. At this rate I would just catch him by the end of the race, but I could tell he was already struggling to hold on, whereas I was still holding back, prepared to speed up if necessary. And by about 18 hours it was all over for him.
So – endgame. Everything was now clear. Jon and Steve looked good to stay ahead of me and qualify. Steve could still falter, but it was looking unlikely. Nobody else was within reach of Rich's mark, so all that was left in the qualification picture, on the men's side, was whether or not I could catch Rich. For the one race that mattered, the guy I had to catch wasn't even physically in the race. But his presence was certainly felt. On the women's side, it was already settled. Gina Slaby would easily clear 140, bumping Megan Alvarado from her 6th-place spot. Megan was also in the race, as was #8 Laurie Dymond, but they had struggled early and were now out of contention. Unprecedented, shocking, that 140 was not good enough to make the women's team, or 150 the men's team.
At 19:23, I broke my own age-group 200-km record by over 13 minutes – or so I thought. Later I remembered that USATF only recognizes a track, not road, record here.
20 hours – I take another NoDoz. 21 hours – now I am beginning to feel it. I do some mental math, and decide it's time to use a bit of my cushion for safety. I will finally break that magic 150, at least, but there will be no padding of my record this time. I walk a little longer on the walk breaks. All is still well... until 22 hours.
I have always believed that 24-hour performance is ultimately limited by cumulative muscle damage. You think you are in a steady state, running a "forever" pace, no lactate accumulation to worry about. But it doesn't work that way. Eventually all the microtrauma even from the forever pace adds up, and you have to slow down. By starting at as slow a pace as possible for my goals, with walk breaks as well, I had deferred this point as long as possible. But here it was. Gradually, my legs began to fail. I had to take increasingly frequent walk breaks. If I didn't, my legs would buckle. My model of what was going on here is that my pool of muscle fibers able to perform at the level of my demand had dipped below a critical threshold. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>(Addendum – Trent Rosenbloom points out that the level of muscle damage I describe here ought to be accompanied by extreme muscle pain and rhabdomyolysis, neither of which I had. So, maybe it's back to the drawing board for other explanations. Fatigue is such a complex phenomenon.)</i></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">
The pace chart shows the rest of the story. The tail there probably tracks some theoretical physiological curve of progressive muscle failure. I was now relying on that inspiration from Mike Henze, to keep pushing myself to the physiological limit. Everything was on the line here: I succeed, and the past years of work will all have been justified, all the failures wiped away in an instant. I fail, and it's all for nothing. It doesn't get any more stark than that.
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNeCoYOB6NOB710rjXReNDsjkTr0Fm6-bhrUErSGJ3_sga4aiqjjGMRbZw4VsE2sqTLOXPYmPuiTET6DRC02-IzSGiorGXN-wECXYvGU2xdQ0PQM8ZwwpGecogjs92UwsM7VlLOD86k-Bs/s1600/R4W.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNeCoYOB6NOB710rjXReNDsjkTr0Fm6-bhrUErSGJ3_sga4aiqjjGMRbZw4VsE2sqTLOXPYmPuiTET6DRC02-IzSGiorGXN-wECXYvGU2xdQ0PQM8ZwwpGecogjs92UwsM7VlLOD86k-Bs/s640/R4W.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>My masterpiece.</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Everyone else now knows what's going on; everyone is following as it appears my race is on a knife edge, and cheering loudly for me. Greg, Tracey Outlaw, Mike Dobies, and Bill Schultz are calling out lap splits I need to hit.
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVnCZthid8Ge39WE9tZgENn7qzORmWUuM9nsrWZibn-qhbK1tq8IoD9Mon7blI4bktqYcZAlazXqBdtZU493kpSwzWKiHfemdDjqi5n6IcjRSU4ZyZvk92DssBZYEePwNQW8JQ5jCWfgFf/s1600/tired.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVnCZthid8Ge39WE9tZgENn7qzORmWUuM9nsrWZibn-qhbK1tq8IoD9Mon7blI4bktqYcZAlazXqBdtZU493kpSwzWKiHfemdDjqi5n6IcjRSU4ZyZvk92DssBZYEePwNQW8JQ5jCWfgFf/s400/tired.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Pic by Karen Jackson</i></td></tr>
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With maybe 20 minutes left, as I hit the timing mat and slow for a walk break, I collapse and grab the timing structure, just about taking it down with me. Back on my feet, keep pushing. Now, finally, I am beginning to lose faith that I will make it. I need at least 300 laps, and I'm going to be short. Greg tries to tell me no, you don't have to complete the 300th lap; a partial lap will do. But I don't believe him. I'd put all the relevant marks in a spreadsheet; I was sure 152.21 miles was 299.9 something laps. It was actually 299.34. So for the last two laps I think I am just fighting on principle, with no real chance, but Greg knows I still have a shot.
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYurcBogQnnzq0o6RgVeZyOeIEtZGdIagTl-la5vsPMSsC1rbLhfV9yZqphQQL-O2tSibQn0iRxzQ_nL6PhLwSfIqfhH_XNbc1Nb5qWL04r2tSLu34fM3KtIEzfFYiG_VDPYkbB1i7K8CX/s1600/ed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYurcBogQnnzq0o6RgVeZyOeIEtZGdIagTl-la5vsPMSsC1rbLhfV9yZqphQQL-O2tSibQn0iRxzQ_nL6PhLwSfIqfhH_XNbc1Nb5qWL04r2tSLu34fM3KtIEzfFYiG_VDPYkbB1i7K8CX/s400/ed.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>With Jester Ed Ettinghausen, who ran 133 for his 133rd 100+. Pic by Karen Jackson</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As I cross the mat for the last time, 299 done, I have about a minute and a half left. It's not enough. Even knowing two laps earlier where the actual mark was would have made no difference. I am confident I gave it everything I had – and I think anyone watching would agree.
The alarm sounds, and I collapse onto the grass. Greg goes back to wheel the partial lap, but there is really no need.
I finish with 152.155 miles, 300 feet short.
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidaG6QNGNDtzPBACvApyAR6EjsRQP_LUokSZmzJC6x2wDpSQmPXlSECiPl-ZDNLxh3f-KR-pQio9IwazoGoldKvZO1RZlFxFaoG7DIdtE7yz8tZsJEa4RSkXm73OuUq7UQxj5x3wm9RtNH/s1600/adrian.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidaG6QNGNDtzPBACvApyAR6EjsRQP_LUokSZmzJC6x2wDpSQmPXlSECiPl-ZDNLxh3f-KR-pQio9IwazoGoldKvZO1RZlFxFaoG7DIdtE7yz8tZsJEa4RSkXm73OuUq7UQxj5x3wm9RtNH/s400/adrian.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Pic by Adrian Stanciu</i></td></tr>
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</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Aftermath
</b></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">
Greg, Sue, and others hover over me to make sure I'm OK. I just want to sleep. But people are worried about me, so after 10 or so minutes I let myself be helped up and back to the school. I am surprised to see a large crowd applauding as I enter, and am given a cot to recover on. I'm surprisingly unemotional about what has just happened; it's all too much to process. But there are a lot of not-dry eyes around me. It's humbling to have affected so many people.
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1RpHRDZ-aV4mQpE7ijnWzGa7FRGPjauT6zZtjXAUp6MwuaH8unZdeln06X32pqI7XF8KDiaQCLd79P19DGG47fnfOyFGy_Z65XtW_E6eZ_Oun8TnR6fKPOxspAwkOI5lhdbZob13Pui4H/s1600/help.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="372" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1RpHRDZ-aV4mQpE7ijnWzGa7FRGPjauT6zZtjXAUp6MwuaH8unZdeln06X32pqI7XF8KDiaQCLd79P19DGG47fnfOyFGy_Z65XtW_E6eZ_Oun8TnR6fKPOxspAwkOI5lhdbZob13Pui4H/s400/help.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>With Case Cantrell and Bo Millwood. Pic by James Suh</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfc_TL3spp_PatNqIQBZXOTufUuaMY5L1KSTIDleEpvsM8bas0-S_aL5wQMlTxFEPbmrtYQczAKbtdPPHvbJVW1HxxmaHu8gS0lkqEC-dYmm6PV_x-MxRL8FcptcYxxC-sNc-zJZbSlRrp/s1600/recover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfc_TL3spp_PatNqIQBZXOTufUuaMY5L1KSTIDleEpvsM8bas0-S_aL5wQMlTxFEPbmrtYQczAKbtdPPHvbJVW1HxxmaHu8gS0lkqEC-dYmm6PV_x-MxRL8FcptcYxxC-sNc-zJZbSlRrp/s400/recover.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Recovering with Olaf Wasternack. Pic by James Suh</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px;">How do I feel now about the years of effort, and coming up short in the end by the tiniest of margins? Above I said "I succeed, and the past years of work will all have been justified, all the failures wiped away in an instant. I fail, and it's all for nothing."</span>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">
But in the end, it wasn't for nothing; I somehow found a third way. The unique circumstances here formed a crucible in which I was pushed to my absolute limits. And I didn't give up. If Rich's mark had been a hair higher, it would have been clearly out of reach sooner. A hair lower, and I'd have reached it, not really knowing if I had plumbed the absolute depths. But now I know. In a strange way, I feel fortunate to have been given this rare opportunity to create my "masterpiece".
Moreover, running is usually a selfish activity for me, but in this case it seems clear that I had a big effect on many other people, not just at the race but watching online, providing a source of motivation for their own races going forward. And that is immensely gratifying. I've been overwhelmed with the outpouring of thanks for my performance.
Finally, though it wasn't my primary goal, I did become the first American over 50 to break 150 miles. That is something I worked hard for and can be proud of.
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Thank You
</b></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">
Thank you to my wonderful crew of Tanya Savory, Cheryl Renee Crowe, Kara Dudek Teacoach, Timothy Walters, and Sue Scholl (with further assistance from Tracey Outlaw and Bill Schultz) for your invaluable support. I'm indebted to all of you; you helped me execute this perfect race.
Thank you to everyone who was there and cheered me on. Thank you to everyone who watched online and was inspired. Thank you to my family and friends, especially Liz and Scott, who have supported me in this endeavor over the long haul.
Thank you to Greg Armstrong, for organizing an absolutely top-notch event in which to provide serious competitors one final shot to make the national team. Everything about the race was outstanding. Greg is a veteran of the 2015 team himself, and thoroughly understands all the concerns relevant to 24-hour runners. Race logistics issues were completely off the table for runners to have to worry about; everything just worked. And someone was always there for anything you needed. Moreover, I'm very appreciative of the personal interest Greg displayed in trying to give me every opportunity to solidify my spot. Here is my 3rd-place plaque, which Greg obtained on his recent trip to improve water access for 5,000 people in Uganda.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ8qWjVjsfa5zxd1ID8Koj40VvkIlgdJDpZEhi0Xc3EeeYbhso6FENXvWPHxb7-0YXviDusKqUzl-5KXcfWraVr-F40wrshUhLvjLoi8IukEipH0M9Oyxn76ueLgI6PC7IRwD-fJHjFJi1/s1600/plaque.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ8qWjVjsfa5zxd1ID8Koj40VvkIlgdJDpZEhi0Xc3EeeYbhso6FENXvWPHxb7-0YXviDusKqUzl-5KXcfWraVr-F40wrshUhLvjLoi8IukEipH0M9Oyxn76ueLgI6PC7IRwD-fJHjFJi1/s320/plaque.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "san francisco" , , "blinkmacsystemfont" , ".sfnstext-regular" , sans-serif; letter-spacing: -0.23999999463558197px; text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">From Jinja, Uganda (source of the Nile)</span></i></span></td></tr>
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</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>What's Next?
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I'm going to Worlds in Ireland. What? Yes, I was short, and didn't make the team. I'm first alternate. Possibly a spot will open up, probably not. But alternates are allowed to run in the race as well, just not as team members. And for the first time this year, the World Master's Association is hosting competition for world age-group titles. I can now compete on a more level playing field, with the best 50-54 year olds in the world.
Realistically, I would have been at best a strong backup member on the team anyway. Six are on the team, but only the top three scores count. With the amazing, unprecedented strength of this year's team (men and women), that was unlikely to be me. The age-group title is something I can get behind. I will have some serious competition there, but I am definitely going to be in the mix. And I'm incredibly excited about that.
I'll close with these words from Mike Henze, who independently arrived at the "masterpiece" metaphor.
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<i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Speed and Endurance and the amount you have of each is the baseline for performance or the canvas.</span></span></i> </blockquote>
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<i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The race strategy and sticking to it gives you brushes and technique.</span></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The problem solving on the fly are the choice of colors.</span></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></span></i> </blockquote>
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<i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The true beauty is in how you put everything together and the human spirit and effort you give to the race.</span></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></span></i> </blockquote>
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<i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sometimes you paint a crappy picture and sometimes a good picture - But each time you race it is a beautiful experience of self discovery.</span></span></i><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Then if the stars align and you find that absolute conviction ... You paint a masterpiece.</i></span></span></blockquote>
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Bob Hearnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01351956832733163825noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2382599380750777712.post-50532023400181050682016-12-24T13:06:00.000-08:002017-04-14T07:20:25.406-07:00Desert Solstice 2016<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijlMN7VACNTcpM15P98YhKn2jPF2432doQbrXIdDQsb1lpySneJtBfHq1FjqKUPQtTiC2oAG_CBJHN1Am8_n5FUPLedW4Rb4c7tW7xLBj-2_DahEnanouKKTOSrADSKzdddG-E1jM8-GtM/s1600/aravaipa+awards.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijlMN7VACNTcpM15P98YhKn2jPF2432doQbrXIdDQsb1lpySneJtBfHq1FjqKUPQtTiC2oAG_CBJHN1Am8_n5FUPLedW4Rb4c7tW7xLBj-2_DahEnanouKKTOSrADSKzdddG-E1jM8-GtM/s640/aravaipa+awards.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">With Greg Soutiea (L) and John Cash (R). Pics by Aravaipa Running unless noted.</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">The usual disclaimers apply: I write these reports mostly for myself, to get down in as much detail as I can remember everything relevant that happened, for later reference. Others will hopefully find them useful as well, but there's probably more than you'd want here for a casual read.</span><br />
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Well. I managed to win perhaps the most prestigious 24-hour in the U.S. (at least, the men's division!), so I should be happy, right? Yes and no. Winning was not easy, and I'm proud that I was able to fight hard enough for it. Most importantly, I've preserved my #4 spot on the qualifying list for the U.S. national team for 24-hour world championships. It's not a lock – there are still three months left in the qualifying window – but it's looking a lot safer than it did before Desert Solstice. Three guys would have to run over 149.24 miles to kick me out, and nobody has managed that for all of 2016. Also, I've now run four 24-hour races, won three of them, placed second in the other (Desert Solstice 2015) behind Pete Kostelnick's incredible 163.68, set one course record, and set two American age-group records. That's all great!
But. I came into this race feeling like I was in the best shape of my life. Yes, at 51, I am not getting any younger. But I was coming off a Spartathlon performance in September that was two hours better than last year's, and last year's was already pretty damn good, if I may say so. I hit higher training mileage this cycle than ever before. I had more experience under my belt, so I could dial this in to an optimal performance. My weight was good. I felt strong, with no weak links. Anything can happen in a 24-hour, but I was very confident of at least low 150s, possibly high 150s. I ran 144.71, four and a half miles less than last year.
But I'm g</span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">etting ahead of myself. Let me set the stage.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Prelude</span></h2>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Desert Solstice is an invitational track race, in Phoenix, Arizona, in December, with both 24-hour and 100-mile results and awards. It's limited to 30 people; you have to run a pretty decent time or distance to get in. It's become THE place to try to qualify for the national 24-hour team. Many records have been set here. Aravaipa Running puts on a top-notch event, optimized to give the runners their best possible opportunity to put up big numbers.
This year's line-up looked especially intimidating to me. There were at least half a dozen guys who could plausibly run over 150. It was my job to make sure that if they did, I ran more. It was also a reunion, of sorts: several runners I ran with at Dawn 2 Dusk 2 Dawn (D3) in May, and/or Desert Solstice 2015, were here. It was a great pleasure to see them all again (as well as D3 race director Bill Schultz).
It was also a great pleasure and luxury to have dual crew support this year, from both my wife, Liz, and my good friend Scott Holdaway (who also crewed me last year). They'd be able to spell each other.
Pre-race, things went smoothly. We got into Phoenix on Thursday, to have a solid Friday to relax before the race on Saturday. I got in an easy shake-out run. So did Liz, and she happened to meet Bill Schultz at the track. I'd been looking forward to introducing them. Leave it to Bill to beat me to it! He finds a way to get to know everyone.
Friday evening we had the traditional meet-and-greet dinner at a pizza and pasta place, and picked up our bibs. I got to meet several of the unfamiliar faces, whose qualifications I well knew from stalking their UltraSignup profiles. But it turned out that a few of the big guns (Zach Bitter, Anders Tysk, and Olaf Wasternack) had pulled out at the last minute, and would not be joining us. Huh. Joe Fejes had handicapped the race, placing me in 4th, behind John Cash (Joe's prohibitive favorite), Anders, and Olaf. So now I had "moved up" to 2nd before the race, I guess. Others I was worried about included Josh Finger, Greg Soutiea, and David Huss. Josh I had run with at Desert Solstice last year, and at D3. He's way faster than me, and it seemed like just a matter of time before he put together a solid 24. I got to know David a bit at dinner. Joe himself had the course record here of 156+, until Pete shattered it last year. Joe insisted he was not at racing weight to make a good showing this year, but I was not counting him out either. (We had quite a duel last year.) I also knew several of the women, but didn't meet race favorites Gina Slaby and Courtney Dauwalter until during the race. It was a pleasure to finally meet Tracey Outlaw, 24-hour enthusiast extraordinaire, and manager of the U.S. National 24-Hour Team Facebook group.
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyo7I9SiKX13twk7uiT11n0Be8yAwkHedECxsweAXzjVdZCeFNOeWSIGHhGLxLU3TDS-Yk_bbdqujc3zW_VFsrg6Ta8U8HeSgOzu_BsTO4mHBTepr5KIqk_fUSdooi3wmgfJAibEPt62gF/s1600/IMG_9853.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyo7I9SiKX13twk7uiT11n0Be8yAwkHedECxsweAXzjVdZCeFNOeWSIGHhGLxLU3TDS-Yk_bbdqujc3zW_VFsrg6Ta8U8HeSgOzu_BsTO4mHBTepr5KIqk_fUSdooi3wmgfJAibEPt62gF/s400/IMG_9853.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>With Bill Schultz and Tracey Outlaw. Pic by Liz Hearn</i></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Before I get to the race itself, let me digress some more. The story of a 24-hour race is told, in broad strokes, by its lap-split chart. A perfect chart would be a horizontal line, totally even splits. Most actual 24-hours, even when races are won and records are set, have pretty substantial positive splits, with significant slowing.
This is the chart from my first 24-hour, New Year's One Day 2014. Here the laps are 1.065 miles. The pink band is where most of the splits should be to run a really good 24-hour, good enough to make the U.S. team. As this was my first, I didn't have high hopes there, but gave it a shot. You can see I gave up on this after about 8 hours. I then held steady for quite a while, but backed off a couple more times late. Still a solid run, 139.5 miles, course record by 12 miles, and good enough to get me into Desert Solstice. The only other noteworthy feature here is the slightly spiky alternation. That's because I had no crew, and stopped briefly every other lap to drink some Coke. A pretty simple story.
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhobAPtRtr6NJQ7WPi74mYqQ01PcG2sWhGfkv5N98wa1UI7pqz7Lzx-1aHKmiUihjWM9VCA3AtMT3Cn7lm5xae-M8sQzLAKKLRUiR7HUa8s8Z0MWUzGfBm9iwozAWbBy9uoY8ntj048yV_n/s1600/nyod.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhobAPtRtr6NJQ7WPi74mYqQ01PcG2sWhGfkv5N98wa1UI7pqz7Lzx-1aHKmiUihjWM9VCA3AtMT3Cn7lm5xae-M8sQzLAKKLRUiR7HUa8s8Z0MWUzGfBm9iwozAWbBy9uoY8ntj048yV_n/s640/nyod.png" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Next chart, Desert Solstice 2015, run on a 400m track. The spikes are due to my planned periodic walk breaks. This chart would be great, apart from that big problem about 10 hours in. Stuff happens in these kinds of races. Sometimes you recover. Here, I ran solidly for the rest of the race, at a slower pace. The dip back to a faster pace 18 hours in is where Joe Fejes challenged me, and I responded. As he faded, I eased back to my steady post-crash pace. Still a pretty comprehensible chart, right? The story of the race is right there; it's pretty clear.
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Next, D3 2016, another track race. This is somewhat similar to Desert Solstice, with a big crash 8.5 hours in, walking 15 laps. This time, I was able to get back to exactly my original pace, and hold it... until I hit 200K, just setting an over-50 American Record. At that point, no men could catch me for the win (though three women did, led by Pam Smith!), and my original goals were gone because of the crash, so I lacked sufficient motivation to continue. (Did I mention, these things are really, really hard?)
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Now. What does the chart for Desert Solstice 2016 look like? Hold onto your hats. Here it is:
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WTF is that???!! If this is a story, it looks like a tale told by an idiot. What happened, and what does it all mean? Well, I am still trying to figure it out.
But now let's get to the race, using this chart as a reference.
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">... And Fugue</span></h2>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Conditions were great on race morning, about 49°. We got there early and set up our table, and I meandered about chatting with old friends and making new ones. 8 am, and we were off. My plan this time was to run 2:13 laps (slightly slower than last year), walking one minute every 8 laps, during which I'd drink a 5-oz flask of water, Coke, or Dr. Pepper. Liz and Scott would keep a supply filled and chilling in a cooler. To try to avert the bonk in the heat of the day, I planned to back off 10 seconds per lap after 7 or 8 hours, for a few 8-laps sets, then revert to 2:13s. That would cost me 4-5 minutes, but that would be much better than having to walk several laps. This plan would put me at 78 miles at 12 hours. Then, if I still felt good, I was going to try to increase the pace to 2:11s, in the cool of the night, and gun for Harvey Lewis' team-qualifier mark of 157.9. If I could beat that, I'd be essentially a lock for the team. If not, I had a whole range of shorter goals. But I'm getting ahead of myself again...
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2GVin0pC48oPAETunH0g2LmkPeK4ipkKuWsSwiAzNLfv7ompyikaYHviH1YYwIYmwF9SLx7KQ9AItIvsaJbACAuyYfcAaILe91oIidf8lKbdUkK53VQjJmX3jmQ6L2Sl9qLEnQEyirWxN/s1600/IMG_9854.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2GVin0pC48oPAETunH0g2LmkPeK4ipkKuWsSwiAzNLfv7ompyikaYHviH1YYwIYmwF9SLx7KQ9AItIvsaJbACAuyYfcAaILe91oIidf8lKbdUkK53VQjJmX3jmQ6L2Sl9qLEnQEyirWxN/s400/IMG_9854.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Setup with Scott. Pic by Liz Hearn</i></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikCewU9XPfIQ8Sj1cE58ZN7VIZiXu_n6-bPceUARd_WC7rmFUyWEF0gKhqtYAQDcVt-tGQs-vh0PnHBhZllfVlSlSY2AhGisjIdJ0cFFFZZXgvQxIqReKKK5soH2t7D-hlSOl9cIhD5lxE/s1600/IMG_9855.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikCewU9XPfIQ8Sj1cE58ZN7VIZiXu_n6-bPceUARd_WC7rmFUyWEF0gKhqtYAQDcVt-tGQs-vh0PnHBhZllfVlSlSY2AhGisjIdJ0cFFFZZXgvQxIqReKKK5soH2t7D-hlSOl9cIhD5lxE/s400/IMG_9855.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Pic by Liz Hearn</i></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Early on, it was apparent that this year's race was going to be very different from last year's. In most 24-hour races, most people start far too fast. Last year, a group of six or so men were on pace for 170+ after a few hours. Of course they didn't plan to hold that pace (I presume!), but still, it was way too fast. Indeed, they all fell apart except for Pete (ran 163+). There's a psychological dynamic here that it's hard to avoid. You see all these other guys who know what they are doing (or they wouldn't be here) running like they want to hit 160+. You think, oh my God, it's going to take 160 to make the team this year; I'd better keep with them! But that's a really bad idea. I am able to resist that pull and run my own race. That race dynamic works to my advantage. This year, I thought the roster looked even more intimidating; thus, I was expecting another race out of the gates. But that didn't happen. Whether it was because the last-minute drops left us short of critical mass, or because everyone was simply running smarter this year, I'm not sure. Anyway, there went one source of competitive advantage!
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQeQC_gAqAlg7shn1uUjKarVndTGXa1vAT5qw1Y_6FYRVsHTtEhf95LXUWAIzM-F-f4CvY2gFEsNtzcuAFd7IEqi_s5R9Cd6Re97hzBGWlOmoBhk3aAZEkuZeUVjXntVy-i1kw3J9rDtvu/s1600/snope.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="357" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQeQC_gAqAlg7shn1uUjKarVndTGXa1vAT5qw1Y_6FYRVsHTtEhf95LXUWAIzM-F-f4CvY2gFEsNtzcuAFd7IEqi_s5R9Cd6Re97hzBGWlOmoBhk3aAZEkuZeUVjXntVy-i1kw3J9rDtvu/s400/snope.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>With Andrew Snope. Pic by Liz Hearn</i></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Indeed, the only people running fast (lapping us all frequently) were Kristina Pham (going for several short-distance records), Jay Aldous (going for an age-group 100-mile record), and Gina Slaby (whom we will come back to!). I had my eyes especially on John Cash and Josh Finger. They were both running slightly faster than I was, but well within the bounds of what I'd see as smart racing. John, I knew well, is a smart pacer. How he did was probably going to be a function of how his stomach held up, assuming he came in in good shape with no injuries. Josh has tended to go out too fast, but he's aware of this and working to fix it.
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1YBrXsCRaIK5Mic5D4tZcFSyQCDBxnuCKlRvzDXVBZ8Qr2zRY8VchHIFAMvYmMwdxod5bFgHZfKljzH59ELgDfFfSJcvF1Vvl9RvZWAQmPOBJLaZ6sHvoea9NKLL4MtRlYS9-0IHtNTfm/s1600/liz+ds.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1YBrXsCRaIK5Mic5D4tZcFSyQCDBxnuCKlRvzDXVBZ8Qr2zRY8VchHIFAMvYmMwdxod5bFgHZfKljzH59ELgDfFfSJcvF1Vvl9RvZWAQmPOBJLaZ6sHvoea9NKLL4MtRlYS9-0IHtNTfm/s400/liz+ds.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Crewing is hard work. Pic by Scott Holdaway</i></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">The first several hours passed without incident, as we all became more familiar with each other's faces (or backs at least), paces, and running styles. I had a few more bathroom breaks (extra spikes in the chart) than I'd have liked, but that settled down. The main thing now was to deal with the impending heat of the day. Last year, the high had been 66, which was already enough to contribute to my early crash. This year it would hit 72. So I got ahead of that early and aggressively, by switching to an absorbent cotton t-shirt and reflective armbands, and keeping them soaked with ice-water sponges that the volunteers were ready to provide. Plus I had done sauna training for the past few weeks. Josh meanwhile donned an actual ice vest, something with some kind of cooling material that you pre-chilled in ice. Also I upped my water consumption. I never felt hot, but it can sneak up on you, so I took the cooling job seriously.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicTCXB_RnGbCPzkxQ3kYcLP_IVX7X9x7NJpw3uiLqSnJHGdtbM-7aUzmduA1QqxGPFAeXJA7tdxq99LKsK0FXvc88E__mua88o1HxgAurNuKnKxsFHLPc-wLyZ0DaIquLfdf2CzifFc0mw/s1600/DS+at+61.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicTCXB_RnGbCPzkxQ3kYcLP_IVX7X9x7NJpw3uiLqSnJHGdtbM-7aUzmduA1QqxGPFAeXJA7tdxq99LKsK0FXvc88E__mua88o1HxgAurNuKnKxsFHLPc-wLyZ0DaIquLfdf2CzifFc0mw/s400/DS+at+61.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Keeping cool</i></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Though I never felt hot, I was beginning to get tired by about 7 hours in. We seemed to have already hit peak temperature, as the sky was becoming overcast. So I figured it was time for the planned slowdown, from 2:13 laps to 2:23s. I'd been thinking 24 laps (three 8-lap sets). But I didn't feel especially reinvigorated after that, so I ran one more set before speeding up again. Total cost 320 seconds. It would be well worth it if it averted my characteristic big crash.
But alas, it seems to have just deferred the crash. 2:13s got harder; I decided I'd back off to 2:20s for a while and hope to get some energy back. But those got harder as well. Eventually I was in another full-on crash, walking several laps. I guess, now, this was a low-glycogen bonk, not just an effect of pushing a bit too hard in the heat. It seems I have a rough transition from carb burning to fat burning, even though I'm very adapted to fat burning. After walking 7 laps I was able to start running again, but now was unable to hold even 2:30s; each laps was progressively slower. This went on a while longer until I gave up and walked some more (second crash, 13 hours in). Surely, that would be enough to get a solid reset, as had happened in my other races?
Another strange thing going on here was that I developed a ridiculous backward lean. Everyone noticed it; even my crew Scott, who is not a runner, asked me what was going on. Of course, it's hard to run efficiently if you're leaning backwards. But I didn't seem to be able to do anything about it. I did feel a bit dizzy at the run/walk transitions, again suggestive of a bonk. And maybe the dizziness contributed to lack of postural control? I don't know.
By this point my race goals were beginning to look not so reachable. But on the men's side, at least, nobody else seemed to be having a great day either. This is about when Josh dropped. I saw him sitting in a chair: "Taking a break?" "Yeah, for about 11 hours." I'd pulled to as much as 11 laps ahead of John, as he'd suffered through stomach issues. Now, after two extended walk breaks, that lead was down to one lap. Padraig Mullins was well ahead of all of us. But (1) he's Irish, so couldn't kick me out of a U.S. team slot, and (2) his 24-hour PR was 133. He was shooting for 140ish. So I expected him to slow later. And Jay Aldous was still leading the men, but he was going to stop at 100.
For the first time, I switched to a fresh pair shoes during a race. (That's the big spike at 14 hours, an 8-minute lap.) It wasn't easy. I tried to sit down and bend over to do it, but cramped up. I had to have Scott change them for me while I was standing. My feet felt better after this, but again I couldn't hold even a 2:30 lap. This kind of collapse was unprecedented for me, and very puzzling. During this third extended walk break, I began to get apathetic. I chatted with Joe here (also not having a great day) while walking, discussed just walking it in to get a 100-mile time and stopping.
On the women's side, things were different. Gina was still moving like a machine, lapping everyone else like clockwork. What was she trying to do? It wasn't until she was close to 100 that I heard she was going for the 100-mile world record. Wow! And apparently she went in shooting to make the 24-hour team, but switched goals when her pace was so easy. She made it by two minutes, running 13:45. I had a ringside seat to see history being made. Ann Trason's record had stood since 1991. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhksZBj0v9BelMq2V-1bZjSMedTO4lSF9c4RTfh9HY6wqMDg06VGbsn4BEbJ05xuFSUjQBDVtlcQUr1pN4KYGM90KEz9Choa1g9T_lWac7Q4AURF_Is6mYhgkJPX1CiiPwpIYMT98p-2E7W/s1600/slaby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhksZBj0v9BelMq2V-1bZjSMedTO4lSF9c4RTfh9HY6wqMDg06VGbsn4BEbJ05xuFSUjQBDVtlcQUr1pN4KYGM90KEz9Choa1g9T_lWac7Q4AURF_Is6mYhgkJPX1CiiPwpIYMT98p-2E7W/s400/slaby.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Machine!</i></td></tr>
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Besides Gina, Courtney Dauwalter was also ahead of all of the men, including Jay. She also looked very strong and steady, and was here for the full 24. If she didn't collapse she'd have a huge number, and a team spot for sure. But by and large, the rest of the women were having a day more like the men were having. Several were trying to defend or post team-qualifying marks, but it just wasn't the day for it. Melanie Rabb managed to turn in a solid 100 miles on a broken foot(!), but couldn't continue. I was glad I helped talk Dennene Huntley into continuing for the learning experience when her 200km goal slipped out of reach.
As I approached my own 100-mile mark, much later than planned, I realized there was something else here to run for – the 100-mile podium. The trophies were on a table we could see from the track, and looked pretty nice. Jay had the win locked up (he managed to set the U.S. record for 55-59, missing the WR). Greg Soutiea had passed me a while back. And Padraig was also still ahead of me. Could I beat Greg or Padraig to 100? By the time I looked at the lap counts, there was too much ground to make up. Not only that, just then John passed me as well, so I'd be 5th to 100. Ah well. With that I lost a little more oomph and slowed again (16:30 on the chart).
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyHwGEknstrIZNZdhoLLpoafDCD1AiXC3hyDiS6EsUS4TwiFbGOp67qgepm0qByi2k2pVWfGEGWZrs6kr2T9RHzYD-8fyp8RpejTpJa-qzrcQqp_52O7Vq4dR5xKwOvLVZhLtKPxFnqQSM/s1600/DS+at+100.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyHwGEknstrIZNZdhoLLpoafDCD1AiXC3hyDiS6EsUS4TwiFbGOp67qgepm0qByi2k2pVWfGEGWZrs6kr2T9RHzYD-8fyp8RpejTpJa-qzrcQqp_52O7Vq4dR5xKwOvLVZhLtKPxFnqQSM/s400/DS+at+100.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Yay, 100!</i></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">After hitting 100, I again walked a few laps while I sorted out what, if anything, I wanted to accomplish during the rest of the race. I had a nice long conversation with Melanie. She'd been in the 6th and final team slot, but Courtney looked pretty solid to knock her out. Padraig stopped at 100. That left me in 3rd for the men's 24 behind Greg and John. Did I want to suffer for another 7+ hours for a third-place trophy? And Andrew Snope (running barefoot, and bettering his own Guinness World Record for barefoot 24-hour) was not too far behind me, so I would have to work. But there was still a chance I could get my mojo back, and no guarantee whatsoever that John and Greg would stay strong. Indeed, John must have puked 20 times already. Then he would walk trying to get some food down, then he'd be back to running strong laps with perfect form. Again and again. it was surreal. Earlier in the day, more than once, I'd counted him out. But he doesn't give up.
And now is when it gets weird (17 hours on the chart). When I finally started jogging again, not too optimistic or enthusiastic about the rest of the race, the magic and mystery started. Now, finally, 2:30 laps were easy, and I found each lap split faster than the last. Now, one other change here was that I went to walk breaks every 7 laps, instead of 8; perhaps that helped? But I think it was mostly that my body had finally recovered enough, and had fully transitioned to fat burning. My eyes widened as I saw 2:20, 2:15... 2:07?? And I wasn't pushing the pace. Finally a 1:59. This was beginning to become alarming. There was no reason to run this fast, and certainly it would not be sustainable for the rest of the race. But that was the only speed I seemed to be able to run.
I caught up to Greg and John, and passed them. I was repeatedly lapping them quickly now, not by choice. As good competitors, they were both encouraging and complimentary. You have to admire triumph of the human spirit over adversity and exhaustion wherever you see it. Still, I'm sure it must have been disheartening for them. For me, it was confusing. I COULD NOT slow down. Instead, I gradually lengthened the walk breaks. When Liz relieved Scott on crew duty around 4:30 am, I pressed her for advice on my predicament. She told me I had to find a way to slow down. I lengthened a walk break to a whole lap. After that, I was able to run a few 2:10s or so, better. But I couldn't really sustain it. Without intense focus it would shift back to 2:04 or faster. It really was magical. I would be walking painfully (but, by the pace chart, much more quickly than my earlier walking spells), then when it was time to run, a switch flipped, and it was smooth and effortless; I was in a zone. I always do best in the deep of the night, when it's coolest. It was effortless, but still hurt like hell. I could easily tell my body to run, and it would, fast, but painfully. The whole-body fatigue you get after running for 20+ hours is just something you have to accept and deal with in these kinds of races.
But with my distance goals gone, I didn't want to have to deal with it any more than necessary to hold on for the men's win. I wasn't paying attention to where Courtney was, but she was still well ahead of all the men. She did have a rough last few hours, when I was lapping her quickly as well, but not enough to catch her. Had I tried, perhaps I could have kept the effort level up enough, perhaps not. Once again I was destined to win the men's race, with a woman winning overall. I just didn't care at all. (In the end she ran an outstanding 147.49, the 5th-best ever by an American woman.)
Anyway, once Liz told me I was 10 laps up on John, and 12 on Greg, I started walking more and more. That was my only means of pace control. I went to walking a whole lap every 6 laps, then eventually every 5. I started walking the first 100 meters of every lap. So that's all the mess towards the end of the pace chart. It looks confusing, but is pretty much explained by my motivational and tactical state. I had hoped that after I'd established a large enough lead, John and Greg might call it a day, with at least John's distance goals also unreachable. It takes an enormous amount of mental strength to keep running when there is nothing worthwhile to accomplish, and every single lap is a fresh opportunity to take advantage of a welcoming chair. Whether they might otherwise have stopped or not, though, they were locked in a tight battle for second, and neither would yield. So, I couldn't let up either. Indeed, John was now running sub-2 laps as well, when he wasn't puking or walking. Greg, amazingly, seemed to have kept a steady pace and a positive, energetic attitude for the entire race. That's how you do it, in an ideal world.
I'm told that the last several hours made for very entertaining race viewing, as John, Greg, and I gutted it out. Not only can the spectators see the battle unfold, but from the inside, we competitors can all see exactly how we are all doing, as the lap differences move up and down. Only on a long track race can you get something like this. But from my perspective, at least, it was a special kind of hell. Which of us can hold our hand in the fire the longest?
With about an hour and a half left, my lead was down to 7 laps, and it became clear to me that at this rate John would catch me. I had just about resigned myself to that. You get stuck in a mindset that what you are doing is the best you can possibly do. I didn't want to accept that I might be able to, and have to, work harder to hold onto the lead. But Liz told me to just keep running. And with an hour left, I realized that if I ran at all, he wouldn't be able to lap me quickly enough. I cut out the whole-lap walks, and that was enough. As the sun rose, it began to sink in that I had done it. The day had not gone at all according to plan, but I had persevered and would come away with the win. Finally, with 10 minutes to go, and my lead at 5 laps, I allowed myself to walk the rest of the way. If I stood still, John would have to run five sub-2s to catch me. Wasn't going to happen.
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqbjn8v0vgaCniarH8O7QlfByai0UASmA-pRCRwdGcyQprl5uIVuZ5XFwm_NM-6dUIOkyScpXapeD7_a2gI9IqhfNy7FFHAiLl-SCyOnfcrp1YSU0L-7m_fjnnlOtaQWMiYHHHPYIWaR0D/s1600/end.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqbjn8v0vgaCniarH8O7QlfByai0UASmA-pRCRwdGcyQprl5uIVuZ5XFwm_NM-6dUIOkyScpXapeD7_a2gI9IqhfNy7FFHAiLl-SCyOnfcrp1YSU0L-7m_fjnnlOtaQWMiYHHHPYIWaR0D/s400/end.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Pic by Tracey Outlaw</i></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Coda</span></h2>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So that's that! I survived. 24 hours will eventually get there, though it seems like it won't. But though the race was over, my body was not done throwing me some curveballs. After the awards, Aravaipa wanted to do a video interview with me. But I could barely talk. My tongue felt like it was made of cotton; I had a huge lisp. The really odd thing is, Scott reminded me that the exact same thing happened after Desert Solstice last year. Some weird depletion thing, I guess; of what, I don't know.</span><br />
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Dorky!</span></i></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">So, n</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">ow what? I think it's pretty likely now that my 149 will hold up to make the team. The next best chance for people to put up big numbers is probably Jon Olsen's race in late February, Riverbank One Day. If I get bumped down there, there are a few options in March for me to take another shot. Of course I'd have to be trained, and I'd rather not peak until June. But I am signed up for Umstead 100 on April 1, planned as a training run for 24-hour worlds, so it's not like I'd be completely detrained for March.</span><br />
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In the meantime, I have to sort out all the weird things that happened to me this race. The two thoughts that seem most likely are (1) doing a one-day carb load before a race like this is a really bad idea, making my transition back to fat burning during the race really rough, and (2) maybe 100 calories / hour is really not enough after all. I'm working with a sports nutritionist, and we're putting together a plan to test various ideas here. From that perspective, I would like to have another try before worlds anyway, but really, training for and racing a goal 24-hour are both very draining things to do, not just for me but for others around me. So I think probably I will base my decision on whatever happens at Riverbank.
A hearty THANK YOU again to Liz, Scott, Aravaipa Running, Bill Schultz, Tracey Outlaw, and everyone else who was out there supporting us all. It was much appreciated!
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Bob Hearnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01351956832733163825noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2382599380750777712.post-56212773656326395022016-10-16T10:04:00.000-07:002016-10-17T11:16:07.738-07:00Spartathlon 2: The Quickening<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzw8pyPSWaTvWJkqT2e7dbqpq_R6rl1l8fL_cX9HqRQYP1bzZTls5DThHNUG4EE5iWbmRLHKGw-19SJg6msTVcPBtqCHeuDyQxySNwmHSzWeP-01omnVi3Gte4ktzGelHEIxolGU0EaOp0/s1600/Screen+Shot+2016-10-16+at+8.38.08+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzw8pyPSWaTvWJkqT2e7dbqpq_R6rl1l8fL_cX9HqRQYP1bzZTls5DThHNUG4EE5iWbmRLHKGw-19SJg6msTVcPBtqCHeuDyQxySNwmHSzWeP-01omnVi3Gte4ktzGelHEIxolGU0EaOp0/s640/Screen+Shot+2016-10-16+at+8.38.08+AM.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Pic by Sparta Photography Club</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A note to the reader: I write these reports mostly for myself, to get down everything I can remember that might be relevant to me in the future. Hopefully the detail is also useful to others preparing for the same race. But as an entertaining read, they tend to come up short. Or, rather, long. If you want to skip ahead to the good stuff, start reading at <b>It Seems Like a Hundred Years</b>. And if you want to know more about the history of Spartathlon, and what it's like to run it, see <a href="http://bobhearn.blogspot.com/2015/10/spartathlon-2015.html" target="_blank">my Tolstoy-length race report from last year</a> (twice as long as this one). The essentials are that it's a 153.4-mile race from Athens to Sparta, following the route that Pheidippides ran in 490 BC, as he recruited the Spartans to help defend Greece from the Persians at the battle of Marathon – a turning point in the history of democracy. The race respects the day and a half that he ran it in with a 36-hour time limit, which in most years the majority of the highly qualified field is not able to meet.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This report is more about my goals and mental states, and less about the scenery and experience, which I think I covered pretty well last year. Also pardon the Highlander puns. I couldn't resist.
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">There Can Be Only One</span></h2>
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There is nothing else like Spartathlon. Last year, I ran it for the first time. It was an incredible experience, and I knew almost before it even started that I would have to come back. It is, indeed, The Greatest Footrace on Earth. Last year, I set an aggressive best-case goal of under 30 hours. I had some rough patches, but managed to pull it together and run 29:35, which I was absolutely thrilled with. Only a small handful of Americans have ever run under 30 hours.
Problem: now what? How do I improve on what went better than I could possibly have imagined? Well, a lot has happened in the past year. I think I've improved as a runner. I've set two age-group American records (24-hour and 200K, for over 50), and my Spartathlon training peaked at 110 miles per week this year, vs. 90 last year. I wrapped up my training without even the slightest niggle or iffy muscle anywhere, for perhaps the first time ever, thanks to more diligent core and strength work (and a fair amount of luck, no doubt). Also there were things I did wrong last year I could try to fix. My dream race, this year, would be sub-27, and/or a top-10 finish.
However, on the down side, I had Achilles' surgery in December, and a long slow recovery. I felt completely healthy, but my running had been limited to mostly flats, per doctor's orders. I didn't have the hill training I did last year, and success at Spartathlon relies on downhill speed and especially endurance. Added to that, I developed a blood clot in my calf after the surgery, which was still there. I'd been symptom-free all year, after starting on blood thinners, but still, it was in my mind.
On balance, I decided 27:00 was really too optimistic. I worked up pace charts for 27:00, 28:00, and 29:35, based on the splits I ran last year, and what I thought I might tweak. My plan was to start by following the splits for 28:00, re-evaluate around halfway (Ancient Nemea), and speed up or (more likely) slow down. Of course, finishing at all is the main goal at Spartathlon, but my training motivation all year long had been to go back and run faster.
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So – what did I do differently? Last year, I had a big low spot halfway through. Then when I was tired, I got blisters and had to stop and treat them. I lost a lot of time. But then I recovered and ran strongly for the rest of the race, with lots of positive energy to carry me through. This year I wanted to avoid or mitigate that early bonk if possible. I thought maybe it was a combination of dehydration and getting a little behind on calories. So I made more of an effort to drink, stay cool, and get enough calories (though still much less than typical for ultrarunners – my training to fuel primarily with body fat is a big advantage for me here). Also last year I chafed badly; this year I wore compression shorts. For shoes, I went with the Hoka Clayton, vs. Clifton 2 last year. The Claytons are lighter, but more importantly, wider in the forefoot; hopefully I could avoid last year's toe blisters. Also lots of little things, aimed at minimizing time messing with gear and running as unencumbered as possible. One big change was that last year I had a crew; this year, I would be without. I would miss the moral support, and the sense of shared experience, and the help they could provide if something went wrong. But looking at last year's split data, I saw I could also perhaps shave some time in checkpoints chatting with crew. Finally, last year I went off course and lost about 15 minutes; I'd be more attentive this time.
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As before, I arrived in Athens on the Tuesday before the race, which starts on Friday; most people arrive Wednesday. This is a bit of a catch-22. Coming from the U.S., I wanted an extra day to get over the 10-hour jet lag. But arriving earlier also allows more time for a cold caught on the plane or in a new location to incubate. As it turns out, I probably was fighting off a cold during the race, though I didn't realize it until afterwards.
Lacking a crew, I was put in a shared room this time in our hotel, the London, in Glyfada. As chance would have it, one of my two roommates was Rob Pinnington, a British runner, who had graciously offered to share his crew with me last year. This year he too would be going without crew; we would both miss Nick and Yiannis, and I'd miss Liz as well. My other roommate, also British, was Paul Rowlinson. I think I caused a bit of amusement with my pre-race prep of using my NormaTec compression pants (aka "The Wrong Trousers"). Eventually Rob had to try as well.
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Pic by Paul Rowlinson</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I met the rest of the US team over the next few days, those I didn't already know. One addition to the team this year was Pam Smith, whom I'd helped interest in coming. I expected her to certainly podium, and perhaps win. It depended on Katy Nagy, who had shattered the course record last year. She was back, but returning from injury, so a bit of a question mark. The previous women's record holder, Szilvia Lubics, was not running this year. That meant a likely 1-2 placing for the U.S. women again (last year it was Katy and Aly Venti). On the men's side, the pre-race U.S. favorites were Phil McCarthy and myself! Phil holds the U.S. record for 48-hour, and has been on the national 24-hour team five times. He's someone I very much looked forward to meeting. I don't have anywhere near those bona fides, but I was the top American male last year, and I had the course experience. Also returning from last year were Andrei Nana, going for his fourth consecutive finish (and an attempt at sub-30), and Chris Benjamin and Amy Costa, who had run but not finished last year. New were Regina Sooey, David Niblack, Mosi Smith, Paul Schoenlaub, Scott McCreight, Wyatt Hockmeyer, and Bradford Lombardi. Finally Brenda Guajardo was returning after finishing in 2014, and skipping last year. Somehow I never wound up meeting her.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">With Mac and Pam at the Temple of Poseidon</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">At Last. The Gathering...</span></h2>
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Race morning finally arrived, and we bused up to the Acropolis for what is far and away the most impressive and inspiring start in ultrarunning, in the shadow of the Parthenon. This is no ordinary race. Here we celebrate the birth of democracy 2,500 years ago, by recreating Pheidippides' incredible run before the fateful Battle of Marathon. You can't help but feel a part of the history yourself.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Pic by Mac Smith</span></i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Pic by Shannon MacGregor</span></i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Pic by Sparta Photography Club</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A year had been a long time to wait since last time. Yet it also seemed like I'd just been here. 7:00 am, and we were off through the streets of Athens. As planned, I started by following my 28:00 splits. That would be an hour and a half improvement if I could hold it, really quite a lot to aim for. But I found it hard to run that slowly. Pam was nominally following splits for 26:00, and I caught up to her after a few checkpoints. She was running a bit slow, because her Garmin was off, and she was going by its indicated pace – something that, I admit, shocked me; she's a world-class runner, whose top strength is running smart. I have to sometimes remind myself that not everyone is as anal about pacing as I am. Running by pace and feel, and checking splits say at only major checkpoints, as I think Pam was doing, seems a lot more reasonable than trying to stick to a pace chart for 75 individual checkpoints. But I take comfort in the mechanical details here. I know the precision that I feel is illusory, but it still gives me a system that works, and also helps keep my mind occupied and engaged.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> I was a bit fast here. But it was much cooler than last year, or so it seemed anyway, so I wasn't enormously worried. (Later I was told this year was typical, maybe slightly on the warm side, and that last year had been "very slightly" warmer the first day. Seemed like night and day to me. I thought it hit mid-80s this year, mid-90s last year.) Pam soon pulled away. I found myself close to the 27:00 splits, feeling great, having to take every opportunity to walk even to go that slowly. I know how easy it is to get sucked into starting too fast. But the cool day made me eventually decide that sticking with the 27:00 splits was reasonable. I tried to be diligent about keeping cool, even though it was cooler than last year. Unlike last year I didn't put ice down the front of my shirt. Last year it melted and ran into my shorts, aggravating the chafing. So I kept my checkpoint routine to squeezing a sponge down the back of the neck, eventually down the chest as well, on my arm sleeves, ice in hat, sometimes ice in sleeves. It was enough to stay cool.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">One of us is not where we're supposed to be!</span></i></td></tr>
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The first 50 miles it's mostly a game of not running too fast, where too fast means you will pay for it the rest of the race. Of course you won't know until you get there, so it's a little nerve-wracking. Most people run the first 50 too fast, in an unwise attempt to build a buffer on the tight early cutoffs. But I was cautiously optimistic of my pacing.
Early I met Eoin Keith, Irish 24-hour runner, and ran with him a bit, chatting about 24-hour races and the upcoming World Championships in Belfast, where I hope to represent the U.S. Then I pulled away. Later he caught up and passed me, never to be seen again (he ran an impressive 26:37, finishing 8th).
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At Megara, the marathon point, Pam's husband Mac was there; Pam was 5-6 minutes ahead of me. He said maybe he'd see me again at Corinth. I was pleased here to note that I had not a hint of chafing. Last year, it had been beginning to get bad already.
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Pic by Kati Bell</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A bit later, I met Australian Martin Fryer, and ran with him for an enjoyable few miles, also talking about 24-hour (and longer) races. Martin was also someone I'd been really looking forward to meeting. He holds the over-50 world record for track 24-hour, and is a prolific multi-day runner as well. I was pleased to discover some consonance in our approaches to pacing. Paul Beechey from the UK was running with us for a while here. I think he said he was following Paul Ali's splits for 32-33 hours. Then he pulled away! (He finished in 33:37.) Well, my pacing plan does have me starting much slower than most runners, relative to my planned finish.
This is one of the best things about Spartathlon – it brings together talented runners from all over the world, and offers the perfect format to get to know them.
Andrei and I then played leapfrog for a while, running together a bit before coming into Corinth. I walked the big hill approaching it; he ran it. Funny, last year I commented that the grade was so shallow it was hard to walk. This year it definitely felt like a walker, apart from the fact that my pacing chart had me walk it.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">This will help the report make a bit more sense.</span></i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Ditto</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I hit Corinth (mile 49.7) a couple minutes ahead of pace, about 7:53. Much faster than last year. Would I pay for it? I was still feeling good. Time to evaluate. Andrei was ahead, but not much. Pam and Katy were ahead. Also Brenda, whom I'd still never met, was supposedly ahead, though I might have passed her. Phil McCarthy I had not seen since the start. He'd been secretive about his goals and pacing. ("Can I ask what you're thinking for 50 miles?" "I'm thinking about Corinth for 50 miles.") And David Niblack had pulled ahead of me a while back. I had no idea how he would do, but my expectation was that most people ahead of me at this point I would eventually reel in. So maybe five Americans ahead of me, wow. I'd had hopes of repeating as first American male again, at least, with Phil the big unknown there. He certainly had the background and skills to be able to run a fast Spartathlon. But I had the Spartathlon experience, and recent results. So that would be interesting. I was also kind of racing Pam – it was a rematch from a 24-hour race in May, where she beat me – though if we each ran what we planned, she'd be way ahead. Katy was an unknown this year. So there was an outside chance I'd be first American overall. But at this point all that was outside my control; I just had to hold steady with my pacing.</span><br />
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In Corinth David's crew were there. Somewhere before Corinth it had occurred to me that there was an interesting goal under 27, if I was having a great race: Aly Venti's time from last year, which I think put her third behind Jurek and Nagy as the fastest Americans ever at Spartathlon. But I didn't remember the time. 26 high. I was going to ask Mac at Corinth if he could find out before I saw him again, but he was already gone – Pam had pulled too far ahead. Later, I realized I could have asked David's crew. I saw them again in Ancient Corinth. They were so positive and supportive all day. But I didn't see them again after that until much later. So, David was doing well!
Coming out of Corinth I soon passed Andrei, stopped with Claire working on some gear or something. This was the part of the course last year that was the hottest, where people started really suffering. It was definitely still cooler, but I was trying to be diligent about keeping cool anyway. Any heat at all means an increase in effort. Andrei caught up, and we ran together again for a while, into the Peloponnese countryside, through olive groves.
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Eventually we hit 100K, Assos, and began the long, gradual climb, over the next 15 miles. This is where I started slowing last year. How would it go this year? Here I left Andrei behind again. In Zevgolation, where I'd left my headlamp last year, I signed a few autographs for children. Kept moving well. I was getting tired, but not as tired as last year, still holding closely to my splits.
But I did have one problem. For a while now, my right calf had been getting increasingly tight and sore. I didn't worry much at first, but eventually, on the long climb, it reached the point where I thought it would cramp. Logic said to slow down, I guess, but I didn't at first. Then I began to imagine that the right calf was swollen, or that the blood vessels were protruding more than on the left. That's where I got my blood clot in January, and it was still there, as per ultrasound a week before. Was this a sign of a problem? I was getting worried that if there was really something going on related to the blood clot, I would have to stop to be safe. A pulmonary embolism can kill you, and at the least would be supremely painful. I had taken a single salt pill earlier, hoping it might somehow help the calf; it hadn't. It might have helped prevent dehydration a bit?
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It's a Kind of Magic</span></h2>
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Finally I hit my first drop bag, in Soulinari, two stops later than last year. By now I was beginning to fall behind my 27-hour splits by a few minutes. Here I had my headlamp, but also the first of four staged HotShots, a new supposed cramp preventer. I don't generally cramp, but I like to be prepared. I downed it, and within a minute, the calf pain and tightness were gone. Wow! Maybe it was the result of sitting for a minute to deal with my drop bag? But no. It stayed fine. In fact it was fine the rest of the race. I did drink the other three as well. Thank you, HotShot. Your marketing sucks, but your product may have saved my race.
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Andrei caught up again somewhere in here, and we had a conversation about neurons and cramping. Finally, somewhere between there and Ancient Nemea, I left him behind for good. I saw Kostis Papadimitriou, president of the International Spartathlon Association, at one of these checkpoints, and high-fived him. Saw him again at Ancient Nemea (mile 76.6), a major checkpoint. Here I was feeling good and was in and out quickly. I finally turned on my headlamp (so again, staged too early). Last year I'd turned it on in Halkion, three checkpoints earlier. So far, so good!
This is where I was really hurting last year, chafing, tired, and about to blister, losing lots of time. I think I began to catch back up to 27:00 splits here this year. This is when the mental game starts to get pretty important. Last year after I recovered, I was energized, flying down the hills. How would that work this year? I got through the next downhill stretch OK, started the long uphill on dirt road. Definitely tired. Was I ready to start cranking? Finally the big downhill into and past Malandreni started. I was running OK, pretty fast, but I didn't have the same energy as last year. This worried me. I would need that energy if I wanted to hold to the 27:00 or even the 28:00 splits. Looking back now at the data, I was actually running faster here this year. Huh!
By this point I had another problem as well. I was fueling just with Coke, as I did last year. But starting even before Ancient Nemea, I was having to pee every mile or two. This didn't start until the last 20 miles or so last year, and had never been an issue in 24-hour races. What was going on??? I was wasting a lot of time. I figured it was the caffeine, though I didn't know why the effect was different this time. But I started taking some crackers for my calories every 2-3 checkpoints instead of Coke. It might have helped a little. In the end I think I spent 20-30 minutes just heeding nature's call.
Also somewhere in here I caught up to Ian Thomas, 57, running strong. Again, he said, he had started too fast, after swearing he wouldn't. But he would go on to run a sterling 29:14, the first British finisher.
Coming into Lyrkia (mile 92), and especially from there to the mountain, I definitely felt slower than last year. But the splits were actually pretty close. However, I was supposed to be running faster this year, so I did begin losing time on my 27-hour splits; I was 7 minutes behind by the mountain base. There, I had staged trail shoes, with more Hokas on the other side, because the descent last year had been brutal in the Hokas. But the Claytons were working well for me; I had no real issues, and kind of didn't want to spend the 4-5 minutes it would probably take to swap shoes, and timing chip, twice. So I just kept on the Hokas. I regretted that pretty quickly going up; parts were slippery in the Hokas. I had grabbed a longsleeve and tied it around my waist, but didn't feel the need to wear it. Also I switched headlamps at the mountain base – faster than swapping batteries, which I'd done last year. I hit the mountain top, 100.5 miles, at 18:05, vs 19:44 last year. Coming down the mountain on loose scree, it was not fun, but somehow not nearly as bad as I'd remembered. Last year I had toe blisters, which hurt like hell. I felt like I ran faster this time, but again, the data doesn't back me up; I was a minute and a half slower from the mountain top to Sangas! Odd. On balance I probably would not have saved enough time in the trail shoes to make up for switching twice.
At Sangas, I made a mistake, ditching the longsleeve. Why not? The mountain was warmer than last year, and the second day was supposed to be warmer, and I had been comfortable last year even in the rain in just my singlet. Oops.
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It Seems Like a Hundred Years</span></h2>
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Now the tough part of the race, for me, begins. You've had an exciting, and social, first day, all leading up to the big challenge of the mountain. Now, that's past, and it's a long, flat, dark, boring, isolated 20 miles from Sangas to Alea-Tegea, and you already have more than 100 miles on your legs. It is hard to hold focus, with no stimulation and no imminent goal beyond the next nondescript checkpoint. I did not run this stretch as well as last year; I walked more. I was tired. I fell farther and farther behind the 27:00 splits. Well, those were supposed to be unrealistic anyway. I was just hoping I could keep ahead of the 28:00 splits. Even those would require me to run the last 13 miles pretty fast. The stars kept me company here, as I watched Orion rise.
I became a little philosophical about how the race was going. I was ahead of last year, but I might finish "only" an hour ahead. I figured the weather alone was good for that. I had trained so hard to improve, and be in better shape, this year. Yet I did not have the energy in the second half that I had last year, especially past the mountain. This race is a hell of a lot of work and pain and suffering to go through; there needs to be a reward. Maintaining the status quo was not enough. Also, I was lacking something of the excitement of last year. It was all new then. This year, I felt like, wait, I already ran this stretch. I already did all this hard stuff; I remember it like it was yesterday. I already earned it. I have to do it again? Why on Earth would I choose to do that? And this is something I'd been thinking I'd have to do <i>every year</i>?! These were negative thoughts creeping in that had not crept in last year. Well, different negative thoughts, in different places, I guess. No race of 100 or more miles is without them. You just have to not let them hurt you.
I decided that my pacing plan was crap. I'd taken the splits I ran last year, tweaked them to make them a bit more sensible, and then just scaled them down from 29:35 to 27:00 and 28:00. But you can't really do that. Not all paces or terrains scale equally. In particular, one big change is how many hills you run vs. walk. Easy flat running was not that much faster this year than last year, so I was falling behind. Pam was following my 26:00 splits, scaled the same way, which would be even worse. She was going to kill me.
The Garmin got low battery at 20:00 this year, vs. 22:00 last year. 40 hours in ultra-trac mode, yeah right. I turned off the GPS. Still slipping. There was one checkpoint where I somehow lost 5 minutes on my target splits! Damn. That would be a problem if it became a pattern. At this point, with the checkpoint numbers up in the 50s, I could afford to give up a minute or two per checkpoint and still do well.
At about 115 miles, I finally caught Phil, sitting in a chair. I had thought he was out, actually, because the guy at the mountain top was asking everyone's nationality. He told me I was the second American man, and the first one had a white shirt (must be David). Phil had a green shirt. Well, here he was, not out! But he was having his calves worked on, and didn't look like he would be catching me. I wished him luck and moved on. OK. Now where was David? Pam? Katy? I was assuming here I'd passed Brenda somewhere, but still wasn't sure.
Finally, coming into the major checkpoint of Alea-Tegea, I made sure to pay careful attention to the course markings, as this is where I'd gone off course last year. I stayed on the course this year, though oddly, I couldn't identify the intersection where I'd gone wrong, even though it was burned into my brain. I had strong, but not completely accurate, memories. (This would become a pattern after the race; just ask Pam and Mac.)
Last year it was almost dawn here, and I'd dumped my headlamp. Not this year! I had ditched my water bottle when it got dark, also my belt and hat, running unencumbered. It was time to start re-encumbering. I picked up a new bottle in preparation for heat the second day. During the night I'd attached my clip-on shades to the back of my headlamp band. I think this un-encumbering strategy worked well. The problem is there was uncertainty about where I'd be when it got light. So I had one drop bag here with a bottle and a hat, and another later with a visor. I was running towards the fast end of projected, so I wouldn't need a hat for a while, and left it there.
Now, about mile 121, I was in a sense already smelling the finish. I know the course very well. I had to just walk up a big, long hill, then start picking people off on the long rollers, then downhill into Monument, one more big uphill, then fast finish all the way to Sparta. If I could hold it. It was a lot thinner here than last year; I was seeing very few people. I thought maybe that meant I was in the top 15ish? (No.) Again, I walked the entire long uphill, though I was afraid I would lose more time. Indeed, 27:00 was now far out of reach, and I was rapidly losing my cushion on 28:00.
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Don't Lose Your Head</span></h2>
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As I walked up the long hill, about 800 feet of gain over five miles, it was still dark. And now very, very cold. With just my singlet, I was freezing, wishing for dawn to come. I had no warm clothes staged past the mountain. My breath was visible, hands were numb. The problem was the long stretch of walking, which last year had been in daylight. I began to lose mental focus, and to hallucinate. Again, the same road signs looked like runners, and even knowing this, it was very hard to shut down the perception. I was definitely mentally not as together here as last year. Why not? Pushed myself harder? Effects of low blood sugar, that I was supposed to be immune to? I didn't know.
The most interesting hallucination was the white line on the road. If I looked straight down, it was clearly a hugely intricate artistic creation, with overflowing filigree and detail. It was marvelous, with exuberant colors. How amazing, that Greek public works would go to all that effort. Looking ahead, it was a painted white line, chipped, with dirt and stuff on it. It took a lot of concentration not to get lost in that beauty, and keep my grip on reality. This was kind of scary. I needed to hold it together for quite a while longer yet.
Finally, the top of the hill! A guy in a car made sure I knew it was the top. "Downhill now! Run!" "I'm working up to it!" This was I guess my low point this year, though not nearly as low as last year. Because this was where I was supposed to unleash it, start flying on the flats and downhills and pick people off left and right. Well, first of all there were no people to pick off. But the real problem was, the instant I started to run, the right TFL screamed in agony. It said, no way. You cannot do that. I limped along for a bit, trying to ignore the pain, but to not much avail. It looked like my race might be over. Oh, I would finish, which is after all what counts, but if I had to walk it in I could forget about even beating last year's time, or sub-30, let alone 27 or 28.
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Why Does the Sun Come Up, or are the Stars Just Pinholes in the Curtain of Night?</span></h2>
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So yeah, I can't run. A little later, and the right tib. anterior also begins to hurt quite a bit when I try to run. What can I do? Finally a lightbulb goes off. I have Advil in the pocket of my handheld! I'd never used it in a race before, but now would be the time. Unfortunately I came to this realization just after leaving a checkpoint. My bottle was empty, because it was still dark, and I was getting enough fluid at the checkpoints. So I had to wait another couple miles for water to get the pills down. Maybe I should have tried to choke them down dry. Now, maybe I was already feeling a bit better, but somewhere in here, before or after the Advil, I began to be able to run again. So run I did. Gradually, I ran faster and faster. The sun finally rose. Almost immediately, it was blasting heat. This was going to be a hot day.
On the rollers here, when I started running, I kept expecting to see David, as I'd caught Ken Zemach last year. Nope. I did pass one or two people, but not the hordes I was passing last year.
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Eventually, I reach the downhill into Monument checkpoint, 68. I am excited now, but mentally starting to lose it. Thoughts are becoming uncoordinated. This is way beyond the simple visual hallucinations I had last year. I was TIRED. This does not happen to me in races. I was going places, mentally, I'd never been before. Well, that's what ultrarunning is all about, right?</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">At Monument, the volunteer told me I was #22. Huh. I'd thought I was higher up than that. Definitely faster performances this year, all around. Time to hike up the last big hill. Now I was feeling good, physically and emotionally, if not mentally, but still not sure about times. Tracking the 28:00 splits, I'd been steadily losing time. 12 minutes ahead, 10 minutes ahead... as I'd started running again, the leak had slowed and turned around. Yes!!!! But I still had to earn it by running the last 13 miles fast.
Here, my Garmin appeared to die for good. But evidently it just restarted. So I could still track my splits. But it began giving me low battery alerts increasingly frequently. On the uphill, I passed at least one guy. Finally, the top of the hill. About half a mile before checkpoint 69, I think. 13 miles to go, almost all downhill! But as I reached the top of the hill, I was terrified, because my mind could not hold onto the logic of the simple mechanism of checking my splits. Lap in, lap out, compare lap in time to 28:00 split on my pace chart for that checkpoint, note how far ahead or behind. I was falling asleep, and my mind was wandering into dreamland. This simple task became enormously complicated, and I couldn't figure out what to do. Fortunately, when I started running again, it was better, for a while.
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">You Have Power Beyond Imagination</span></h2>
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It appeared that I could hold my 28:00 splits if I could run 9-minute miles to the finish. Last year I'd needed to hold 10-minute miles. Downhill, yes, but with 140 miles on their legs, most runners are not running anything like 9- or 10-minute miles at this point. If I could actually run faster, as I did last year, I had a shot at beating last year's time by two hours, 27:35. I would be pretty happy with that. But after another couple of checkpoints, the Garmin died for good. I was flying blind now. I'd put so much work into this, I couldn't risk not accomplishing my main goal, sub-28. I figured that meant I just had to run as hard as I could for the finish. So I did. Like last year, I was skipping checkpoints here, in and out, no time to stop. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Pic by Τούμπουρα Βάσω</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Once the Garmin died I started losing it again. I thought I was at least keeping track of which checkpoint was which. But I was wrong. I flew down the hill, passing a couple more people. Finally I came into a checkpoint and saw David's crew. I asked how he'd done. "He's just a few minutes ahead of you!" "Oh, wow! I'd better go then!" I grabbed a Coke and was off, feeling like a jerk, as his crew had just aided the competition. Well, it didn't really matter, I was going to be pushing hard as long as I could anyway. I was still flying. It felt like even faster than last year. Now, I noted that this was checkpoint 73. That meant just one more, in Sparta, then the finish. That's what my brain perceived, and that's what it told my body. That's how it measured out remaining resources. A few minutes later, sure enough, there's David, running with someone else. I fly by both of them, giving him a hearty congratulations on an excellent race. Really, I don't think he was on anyone's radar, and here he is running a sub-28! Fantastic. But, will he try to catch me? No. No one here can move anywhere near as fast as I am running, it seems. And 20 miles earlier I'd thought my race was over, unable to run at all.
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This is the most mysterious thing to me about this year's race. Where did that come from? I was pretty much toast, physically and mentally. Muscles had been pushed too far; no amount of willpower could overcome that. Well, I guess the Advil probably helped. Still, boom, I was ON. I was 100%. I was FLYING. After feeling more drained, more damaged, than last year, I was outrunning even those very fast splits. Looking at the splits now, I averaged 7:06 pace down the hill. There is nothing like the glory and sense of accomplishment of finishing Spartathlon. And I was feeling it, reveling in it.
But. After I passed David, the road kept going... and going... and going. Sparta didn't look any closer. I knew the last checkpoint was in Sparta, in the flat. Something wasn't right here. Finally, after a very long way, I came into the next checkpoint. But it was still not in Sparta. "How far to the finish?" "5.5k." "WHAT??? This is checkpoint 74, right?" "Yes." And the sign said 74. I swear it did. Leaving, I was incredibly confused and frustrated. I know how this race ends; I've run it before. This was not right. I know the checkpoints didn't move this year; I'd checked every single one in my spreadsheet vs. the official checkpoint plan. Was I hallucinating so badly that I couldn't read 74, that I heard them say 74, when it wasn't true? My perceived reality was inconsistent. Was I even awake at all, running Spartathlon? Was I lying in a ditch somewhere, dreaming? All I knew was here I was expecting to crank it in and FINISH, and I had to run another three miles. Well so much for my goals. I began to lose motivation, and slow down and walk here and there. I'd given it all I had, and expected to be done. Eventually I came into Sparta, and there was ANOTHER checkpoint 74. They swore that no, the previous one was 73. Well. Obviously something was really wrong, but here at least I recognized where I was. There was just one thing. How much time had I lost running through the Twilight Zone? I asked the time: 10:18 am. OK. 2.5k to go before 11:00. I have my sub-28. I couldn't even do the simple math beyond that to think about 27:35, though I was thinking that was gone.
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So Now it Ends...</span></h2>
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I ran what I could the rest of the way, but there are some hills here that I walked, flanked by kids on bikes who couldn't comprehend why I'd be walking there. Finally, at long last, the final turn. 400m to Leonidas!!! Now I had it, I was thrilled beyond words. Everything had started to come together as I flew down the hill; I'd been thinking now, if I could only catch David, that would be icing on the cake. Oh well. Yet there he was; I'd caught him. Catching Pam would be too much to hope... plus I was thinking she had a very good shot at winning, depending on how Katy fared coming back from injury, and I really was pulling for her to do well.
There is nothing like that final 400 meters. Finishing the Boston Marathon doesn't even come close. Like last year, I finished strong. I kissed Leonidas' foot and I was DONE. Mac was there, taking photographs. I received my olive wreath; I drank my water from the river Evrotas. The finisher award this year turned out to be golden olive leaves on an acrylic base. I guess they are changing it every year now, after doing medals for so long. I hadn't heard my finish time or place, and asked. After I got to the medical tent, I was told 27:33, 16th place. I had thought 16th, if 22nd had been right, and I'd counted correctly as I passed people. 27:33!!! After all that, I JUST beat last year's time by two hours. In the end, a nearly perfect result. It sure didn't feel that way when it was happening. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Pic by Sparta Photography Club</span></i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Pic by Sparta Photography Club</span></i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Pic by Mac Smith</span></i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Pic by Ina van Delden</span></i></td></tr>
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Pam was there in the medical tent too. How did she do? Turns out she'd come in just 20 minutes ahead of me, 27:13. So, no 26:00. Katy had won again resoundingly, though not quite as fast as last year. Pam was second. Podium!!! Also the sixth-fastest female finish ever.
I tried to express to Pam and Mac what I had just gone through, but failed. My mind was well and truly gone here. The race officials put me in a taxi all the way to Githio, even though Mac was also driving Pam – I was not allowed to go with them. I was fading in and out of consciousness the entire way.
About those checkpoints. I think what must have happened, suggested by Pam or Mac, is this. Every checkpoint has lots of info on the board. The checkpoint number in large digits, distance to the next checkpoint, and the next checkpoint number, smaller. So somewhere around 72-73 I must have latched onto the next checkpoint number on the signs, instead of the current one. That's the kind of lapse in focus I can plausibly see happening. I still don't think I can have completely hallucinated the wrong numbers -- or being told I was in checkpoint 74 when it was really 73. Maybe a language issue there.
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Patience, Highlander. You Have Done Well. </span></h2>
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I told Mac and Pam that this was my biggest race effort ever. It felt like 3-4 races, or 3-4 lifetimes. "Hardest" race ever? In a sense I guess. But overall the thing is that it was just a huge effort. I've had lower lows, I think. I just didn't give up. I put a massive amount of energy and suffering into it, and I survived, and got the payoff. Pam said it was the hardest thing she'd ever done. And yeah, was not happy with those splits I'd given her for after the mountain either. But then, it turns out she'd actually picked up to 25:00 pace at some point – she hadn't told me she'd even generated those splits. I made up a lot of time on her after the mountain. A little longer and I'd have caught her. You're up 2-0 now, Pam. Bring your A game to Belfast (if I can get there!).
Martin and Phil finished 41st and 44th, with solid times, under 31. I'm still not sure where I passed Martin. The whole way, I was thinking first finisher over 50 was out, as he was ahead. But no – I was the first finisher over 50. This is a race I have to be really happy with. Still, there's not much glory for 16th place. I'm a different runner than I was a year ago. I see myself in a higher tier at this kind of race, when I make it my training focus for the year. But I'm still 50. Well, 51, now. I'm probably kidding myself if I think I could ever, e.g., podium here.
Yet I still have to ask myself, how did 27 slip away? Did I run the best race I could? The race has three roughly 50-mile stages: start to Corinth, Corinth to the mountain, mountain to finish. In comparison to last year, this year I ran those stretches 40 minutes, one hour, and 20 minutes faster than last year, respectively. The middle segment is where my down patch was last year, so that's no surprise. But the most important number is that 20-minute improvement over the last 53. Last year I went off course here 15 minutes, so it's really only 5 minutes faster. Also, as fast as I flew down the hill last year, faster than all but one other runner, this year I ran it 11 minutes faster: 1:44 vs. 1:33, from checkpoint 69 to the finish. I really cannot comprehend where that came from. But what that means is that apart from going off course last year, I was actually 6 minutes <i>slower</i> this year from the mountain to the top of the final hill. That's not good. What can I do about that? I think it comes down to focus, attitude, and mental toughness. I just wasn't as positive here this year as I was last year, and it showed. Finally when I could run it in, and I had the solid result in my grasp, that made enough of a difference.
But there's a simpler, more mundane, answer as well. Why did I have to pee so much? Why was I so tired and unfocused, more than I have been in any other race? Why did I lack the energy I had last year, until I could smell the finish? All of this is explained by the fact that I was evidently fighting off a cold, which hit me hard after the race. It's not always all about grit and deep soul-searching. Sometimes it's just something stupid.
Other than that... if I want to do significantly better here, say an hour faster, I think there's nothing for it but to train harder. A better mental game, or not being sick, might have gotten me 27:00, but I think not much more. Fortunately, I don't think I've yet hit my limit in training volume. It's all about not getting injured, and stringing together enough high-mileage weeks. Well, it's not all about that, but that's a direction I can move in and aspire to further progress, anyway.
I can't wait 'til next time.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">With Martin Fryer and Phil McCarthy</span></i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">With ISA president Kostis Papadimitriou and Pam Smith. One of my favorite pics.</span></i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #545454; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; text-align: left;">ΜΟΛΩΝ ΛΑΒΕ</span>!</span></i></td></tr>
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Bob Hearnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01351956832733163825noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2382599380750777712.post-33848182995943066412016-05-25T16:32:00.003-07:002016-05-25T16:38:12.435-07:00Dawn 2 Dusk 2 Dawn (D3) 2016<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">200K American Record for over 50. <i>Pic by Maggie Guterl</i></td></tr>
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This report will be a little different. Normally, I write these things for two main reasons: first, to get down on "paper" everything I can remember, for my own benefit, so I can refer back later; and second, in the hope that others training for similar events can find something useful in my story. Telling an entertaining story is, sad to say, generally a distant third. (Hey, it's my blog; I can use it however I want.) However, the narrative structure is still generally in terms of a story, from training, to start, to finish.
This time the focus is squarely on analysis: what happened, what went right, what went wrong, and most importantly, what can I (and perhaps others) learn from my experience? The "race report" itself is only a single paragraph. Really, everything else is a lot of angsty navel gazing. You've been warned. However, if you do make it through this, I would very much appreciate any feedback and thoughts on my conclusions. 24-hour is a tough game, that I'm still trying to learn how to play. And as I learned for the first time, it can be brutal, and it doesn't always end well.
Before diving into the nitty gritty, I would be remiss if I didn't thank the race organizers, Bill Schultz and Josh Irvan, for putting on a top-notch race. Their dedication to the race shows throughout the year, and results in everything going right on race day, with tons of positive energy. On a personal level, this race was a real high point. I cannot remember any other race, ever, that I've gone into looking forward to meeting so many people. And I was not disappointed. I met a lot of ultrarunning legends, and made several new friends. Also, sincere thanks to Maggie Guterl and Mike Daigeaun for crewing, and to Pam Smith for sharing her crew with me. They made an enormous difference. And of course, huge thanks to Liz for putting up with my training.
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Background</span></h2>
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Some background is necessary, to compare this performance to. You'll see why. In December 2015, I ran Desert Solstice track 24-hour. My long-shot goal was 159 miles, though really I thought I had to break 150, for a decent shot at making the 24-hour National Team. Also I wanted the 24-hour American Record for over 50, which meant breaking 144.6, and also beating Ed Ettinghausen and Joe Fejes, who were in the same race. Had I hit 159, it would have been evenly paced: 2:12 laps, with a one-minute walk every 8 laps. Well, I held that pacing plan for about 8.5 hours, as everybody else slowed, and I started catching up and passing people. Then, I blew up. I could tell the effort was increasing, but before I could decide that I'd really better back off, my body made the decision for me; an adductor cramped badly. I walked several laps, and almost dropped, but was finally able to start running again, albeit at a slower pace. Something like 2:23 laps, with 1:10 walk breaks every 8 laps. Surprisingly, I was able to hold this pace for the entire rest of the race, and even increase back to my original pace for about an hour when I was challenged by Joe late in the race. I finished with 149.23 miles, missing 150, but setting the age-group AR. This put me in the #4 spot on the National Team qualifying list, with, unfortunately, over a year left in the qualifying window for 2017 Worlds. (The top six make the team.) I would have to try again.
Immediately after Desert Solstice, I had a minor Achilles surgery (Tenex procedure, or more technically, percutaneous tenotomy). This meant six weeks off, the first two or three in a boot. I thought I was being smart here; I planned to take several weeks off anyway – I was overdue for a break. Might as well kill two birds with one stone. Unfortunately I gained 15 pounds in the first four weeks; more unfortunately, I developed a blood clot in my calf towards the end. (This was scary, as it could easily detach and become a pulmonary embolism. That would at the least be excruciatingly painful, and could potentially kill me without warning. Fortunately, I caught it in time, and escaped the PE.) Recovery and weight loss were much slower than I had hoped for; several times, I just about decided that it was unreasonable to try again at D3 on May 14th. Ultimately I didn't hit the training volume or paces I had hoped for, but the final several weeks did go well; I peaked at 100 mpw, my highest-mileage week ever. I still really had no idea whether I was in shape to improve on Desert Solstice, but I was willing to try.
So, D3. Like Desert Solstice, it's a track 24-hour. I had scaled back my ambitions somewhat, and tweaked my pacing plan. This time I would run 2:15 laps, with 1:00 walk breaks every 7 laps. If I could hold that, that would be 154.5 miles, putting me in third place on the qualifying list (likely good enough to make the team), and also beating the 24-hour track World Record for over 50 (though I think that wouldn't have counted anyway... to be discussed in my next blog post). I didn't really have a B goal, other than to PR, and break 150, which is admittedly kind of an arbitrary number. I'd say maybe it's like breaking 3 hours for a marathon, except that far more people can do that. (Joe says you aren't shit if you haven't broken 150.) Along the way, I would almost necessarily also set the 200K AR for over 50 if I made even my B goal: I'd missed it by just 5 minutes at Desert Solstice.
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Race hasn't even started, and I'm already checking my Garmin. <i>Pic by Jeremy Fountain</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So far, so good. With legend Connie Gardner. <i>Pic by Jeremy Fountain</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRzSY7-ZOpxhw9oJYv0C4E7yue05OLTcQGae37Va4D3zbRQ0m_hMDTRhNgJefEplExChCQstxl9txAvtB4Y1KiLPxfL4LHKdELgL9sr_WUEZXXPYf0G7bQ2U3GsZ6bi2uMfPWZKmc68WBP/s1600/pam+josh.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRzSY7-ZOpxhw9oJYv0C4E7yue05OLTcQGae37Va4D3zbRQ0m_hMDTRhNgJefEplExChCQstxl9txAvtB4Y1KiLPxfL4LHKdELgL9sr_WUEZXXPYf0G7bQ2U3GsZ6bi2uMfPWZKmc68WBP/s320/pam+josh.jpg" width="278" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pam and Josh killing it. <i>Pic by Jeremy Fountain</i></td></tr>
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<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Remarkably, D3 started almost exactly like Desert Solstice. I held pace for 8.5 hours, beginning to catch those that had been way ahead early, and then blew up and walked 15 laps. When I restarted running, I was behind where I had been at a comparable point in Desert Solstice, because my running pace had been slower, also I'd walked longer. Again, I almost dropped; I came closer than I'd ever come to dropping from a race early. Thanks to everyone who helped talk me out of it. My prospects were not good. I did the math (with help from Maggie and Mike), checked it three times, and concluded that I could still hit the 200K record if I could get back to exactly my original pace, and hold it for 10 hours. (My brain stubbornly refused to think about anything beyond that.) Given that I hadn't even held it for 9 hours, starting fresh, that seemed extremely unlikely. It would be a big negative split. But I had to do my due diligence and try. And lo and behold, I managed it, setting the record by just two minutes, at 19:44:20 (sorry, Ed!). And then... without even consciously deciding to, I stopped. I had my record, and I also had the (men's) win, as all of my competition who could possibly catch me had already dropped. I walked a few more laps, and called it a day at 126 miles. (In the end, three women finished ahead of me, leading to a lot of Internet discussion on how the women had dominated this race.)</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0PGVL845J3kABcIEhYUWTmvbGD7bIhei-SESg-rcR3pFRQJAtS6FD9XHmPoWkQh1oEhLvHP7AQ9aRLgT203UX7u1LP1K0gapDgJ6NQZoWkXzhUSPr-7rSa92-CU9i-TNv3lIyXgkJs5Ev/s1600/award.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0PGVL845J3kABcIEhYUWTmvbGD7bIhei-SESg-rcR3pFRQJAtS6FD9XHmPoWkQh1oEhLvHP7AQ9aRLgT203UX7u1LP1K0gapDgJ6NQZoWkXzhUSPr-7rSa92-CU9i-TNv3lIyXgkJs5Ev/s400/award.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Awesome handmade awards! <i>Pic by Israel Archuletta</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYq76V0Il-OB70QNt46tQW_eFe0i5ZZl7BozLUG6ixVWHDf6y0qfOdOSJAY9F2Oa3xGMLx5UVgxO_bCWu3aRAqxILQy47ZY8b0jdTkCcPXmSNHv5V05ri9w_EHqloqs5cj0yDWOvL-c-_9/s1600/D3podium+Pam.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYq76V0Il-OB70QNt46tQW_eFe0i5ZZl7BozLUG6ixVWHDf6y0qfOdOSJAY9F2Oa3xGMLx5UVgxO_bCWu3aRAqxILQy47ZY8b0jdTkCcPXmSNHv5V05ri9w_EHqloqs5cj0yDWOvL-c-_9/s400/D3podium+Pam.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chicked! <i>Pic stolen from Pam Smith</i></td></tr>
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<h2>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Analysis</span></h2>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjauApW58PdG3g2-TlwXkGTMT27gObG7pHYAotZkhsXNnX9a0udKW6jK4xkYbe2fAcEaD9AVMX2ehUD0dGD1SiGuum9VfNx0ff5vM7HX50Y-6KIu3VMOoG8gJh-ZcDukAsT7khXNQALQixo/s1600/splits.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjauApW58PdG3g2-TlwXkGTMT27gObG7pHYAotZkhsXNnX9a0udKW6jK4xkYbe2fAcEaD9AVMX2ehUD0dGD1SiGuum9VfNx0ff5vM7HX50Y-6KIu3VMOoG8gJh-ZcDukAsT7khXNQALQixo/s640/splits.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Laps splits in seconds, start to 19:44.</td></tr>
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There are three things I need to understand here. First, what is with this crash at 8.5 hours in?! That's a pattern I have to break. Second, there was the mental game from when I restarted running until I hit the record. This was very, very hard, in marked contrast to when I restarted running at Desert Solstice; that was a walk in the park by comparison. Third, and most important, I have to figure out what it means that I quit at 200K. I am not a quitter. At least, I never have been, and it's an important part of my identity as an ultrarunner that I don't quit. This was a 24-hour race; I just stopped. To take these in order:</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">
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<h2>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">1. The crash</span></h2>
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This was clearly something physical, certainly at Desert Solstice, and almost certainly at D3. Am I crazy for trying to run even splits for a 24-hour? I start slower than almost everyone, hold pace, and start picking them off... then, boom. What happened? Well, in both races, I crashed in the worst heat of the day. It wasn't actually very hot at Desert Solstice; Weather Underground says the high was 66. At D3, it was high 70s. We started in with the ice bandanas early. I'd actually done some sauna training to prepare for the heat and humidity. Still, denial of actual weather conditions is not smart. You'd think I'd know that by now (I learned it the hard way at my first Boston, in 2005). But I had a kind of macho mentality that I could just hold the line. Really, I could tell I was not drinking to thirst, or dumping water on myself often enough, or using enough ice. But somehow it wasn't bothering me. Stupid. Also my pacing plan basically required that I hold pace, and I wasn't going to let a little heat get in the way of my goal. Clearly, what would have been better than walking 15 laps, costing me about half an hour, would be just SLOWING DOWN while it was hot. OK, I would have been short of 154.5. So maybe I should have factored in slowing down in the heat of the day when I made my pacing plan. Also, the #3 spot on the qualifying list is currently 153.2, so I had a little margin anyway.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeA5Wv1ewRdPqfHsPpzTblVLBqtTZhlxBvKLlW0N9PeQPpkbz1LwurTNpPEK_3Qqj3xcqnCVOV-unvpd90XO-Z9WJusxhu6NlweSOVrhPnChNHZVPwSFpTZFhtATeaxegvJawgePDfn5JC/s1600/heat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeA5Wv1ewRdPqfHsPpzTblVLBqtTZhlxBvKLlW0N9PeQPpkbz1LwurTNpPEK_3Qqj3xcqnCVOV-unvpd90XO-Z9WJusxhu6NlweSOVrhPnChNHZVPwSFpTZFhtATeaxegvJawgePDfn5JC/s320/heat.jpg" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Heat? What heat? La, la, la... <i>Pic by Ray Krolewicz</i></td></tr>
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A very important thing to think about here is what happens when you walk. My one-minute walk breaks (due originally to a suggestion by Mike Henze) I think work well. It is true that late in a race, the transitions between walking and running become rough. But they structure my run, and give me something to focus on and look forward to. My world becomes just the next 7 laps. The physiological effect of this pattern is hard to evaluate, I guess, but it seems to work well for me. But... I think something very different happens, at least to me, when I walk for substantially longer. Both at Desert Solstice and at D3, I tried to resume running at a slower pace, after a few laps of walking. My body said no way; it took several more laps. I think there was a real transition involved, that in the future I must avoid at all costs. I don't know exactly what happens, but it is not good. Yes, I got overcooked, but surely I could have cooled off just by slowing down, or taking slightly longer walk breaks, without losing half an hour. (Something similar happened to me at Spartathlon, as well.) I'll come back to this topic in point 3.
Another question I have to seriously consider here is: was this a bonk? At D3, it kind of felt like it. It's worth asking, because of my fueling strategy. I train low-carb high-fat, to maximize fat burning ability, and get by in races on about 100 calories an hour, entirely from Coke. This gives me a huge advantage. I tell myself that's good enough, but it is really? The thing is... in both races, after recovering from the crash, I ran a steady pace for the entire rest of the race, still on 100 cal. / hour. If it was good enough then, surely it was good enough for the first 9 hours. Except, maybe there's something that happens when I initially run out of glycogen? I do a mini-carb load, eating a fair amount of carbs starting the day before the race. Maybe my body undergoes a rough transition from carb-burning to fat-burning? Would I do better with no carb load, just starting out on fat? It's something to think about. If nothing else, I'd toe the line a few pounds lighter.
Also, I suppose, there is salt. I follow the school that says you don't need extra salt; in particular it has nothing to do with cramps. But when your race is falling apart, you will try anything. Both at Desert Solstice and at D3, I took a salt pill when I crashed. Did it help any? I don't know. Many top ultrarunners will tell you "yes, I've seen the science about salt, but it still works".
But I think my main takeaway for point 1 is that I need to pay attention to the conditions, and factor in slowdowns in my pacing plan. Typically, this would lead to a negative-split race, as I start at one pace, slow down in the heat of the day, then speed back up when it cools off, for the second half of the race. It's true that nobody (Maggie excepted) runs negative splits for 24 hours. That doesn't mean it's not the right way to run them.
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></h2>
<h2>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">2. The mental game from 9.5 hours to 200K</span></h2>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">
As I mentioned, this was a striking contrast from Desert Solstice. There, in my race report, I said that after I'd crashed and restarted,
</span><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Having this happen was like a free pass, in an interesting way. This type of event is mostly mind over body. You want to find the pace your body is capable of running basically indefinitely, but the real challenge is making your mind hold it for 24 hours. It's hard. But here, I mostly escaped that hard work after the first 8-9 hours. It just made no sense to try to hold something that was any kind of challenge. I had to go by what my body said was comfortable, or risk taking myself out of the race. I was now playing a different, easier, game.</i></span></blockquote>
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Well, this time, I didn't have that option. If I ran "what my body said was comfortable" – more on that shortly – I would have missed the 200K record, and also come up short of my previous performance. In terms of race goals, there would be no point in continuing. It was conceivable I could still have won the race, but at the time both Joshua Finger and John Cash were well ahead of me and looking strong; they would both have to falter. That's not at all unlikely in a 24-hour race, and in fact they did both falter, later on. Still, I was there to improve my standing on the qualifier list.
I let myself get into such a bad mental space that I was really ready to just say screw it, and be done with it. I didn't care about all the months of training and sacrifice. I </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>did</i></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, however, care about how I would feel afterward. I knew that I would not be able to call myself a runner if I quit when I was uninjured, capable of running, and still had some shot at a meaningful result. So I eventually concluded, reluctantly, that I would have to try to hit the 200K record. I had every expectation that I would suffer for hours, and then eventually fail. I also had a ready excuse to quit early: I was registered for the San Diego 100, three weeks after D3. Why not cut my losses here and save it? The net result was that, though I pushed back to my original pace, and began to hold it, I was praying for a cramp to take me out. I really, really wanted a legitimate excuse to quit. This is not the right way to run, willing your body to fail.
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvm-B-3tWGmPzZYyzWmVbgVhHL-p9XX9uky0XafUIU9P6eugf_gNPM21thze-4UdUGkixqD7I3xjCMS3S51SMI7LaSD0C6bCtQaHOegQ-NAq7aK9hM8qfYuZCVR9je9O-xjzSe74MRcvtB/s1600/rain.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvm-B-3tWGmPzZYyzWmVbgVhHL-p9XX9uky0XafUIU9P6eugf_gNPM21thze-4UdUGkixqD7I3xjCMS3S51SMI7LaSD0C6bCtQaHOegQ-NAq7aK9hM8qfYuZCVR9je9O-xjzSe74MRcvtB/s320/rain.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cooling rain! <i>Pic by Jeremy Fountain</i></td></tr>
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<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Fortunately, my body had its own ideas of what was possible. It didn't cooperate at all in my mental efforts to make it give out. In fact, as it cooled off, I could tell that the physical effort was decreasing; the pace was getting easier. This was extremely frustrating; I would have to continue. Those 10 hours were among the hardest I have endured as a runner. I wish I could understand why, or what to do about it. I just had the wrong attitude. Gradually, very gradually, as I got closer to 200K, my attitude changed, until with maybe two hours to go I was actually rooting for rather than against my body. I began to feel a sense of optimism and accomplishment. No doubt this was aided by the fact that I was catching Josh Finger and John Cash. Somewhere in there they both stopped. As fellow runners, I wished them both the best; nonetheless, it is empowering to outlast your competition, especially competition of that caliber. So now I had the potential of winning the race, and setting the 200K record. But, what then? My brain still refused to think about it. It took every ounce of willpower I had just to continue to 200K... so I told myself. More about willpower later.
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih_iTeGvAdcO3KhMR5A9I-DP4XnHN5pYHSPXSrpe1anYDeqbqBOZgt0A8hpZoB_OMP314WhJzf1ezo_41KuuceJTTnhwmzvfZViofrx822kcWUKg-J5OUfKfGodqqMJeprJOkLHTH6Rl3M/s1600/frank.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih_iTeGvAdcO3KhMR5A9I-DP4XnHN5pYHSPXSrpe1anYDeqbqBOZgt0A8hpZoB_OMP314WhJzf1ezo_41KuuceJTTnhwmzvfZViofrx822kcWUKg-J5OUfKfGodqqMJeprJOkLHTH6Rl3M/s320/frank.jpg" width="294" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With legend Frank Bozanich. <i>Pic by Jeremy Fountain</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ1agXTl1YmBJt7eGvBiaOHE1tvzMz6BfNLQysNWN1mFVV0W80YYvFByu_OiaR4bJHFh7O0CD12g52KnihWAheYloPig8Lxihip1ElOsbsjkVur8XXuYyV7Qk6DXj8-xOUwSPLSqkR33yg/s1600/dark.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ1agXTl1YmBJt7eGvBiaOHE1tvzMz6BfNLQysNWN1mFVV0W80YYvFByu_OiaR4bJHFh7O0CD12g52KnihWAheYloPig8Lxihip1ElOsbsjkVur8XXuYyV7Qk6DXj8-xOUwSPLSqkR33yg/s320/dark.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hanging in there... <i>Pic by Israel Archuletta</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZYxQTgxx8Ru59sElb2brcSqxR5IeHVTVyYWntFEFUiLDYN2uUTf6-8GDEyQNHqqJeKcLRfgbVOU9qAifTVucCrE-m2HuqvQOrxQwYD6m_0UgIMzVlUWfjHZ1cB15v4zPscIMbzpifjD7F/s1600/tired.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZYxQTgxx8Ru59sElb2brcSqxR5IeHVTVyYWntFEFUiLDYN2uUTf6-8GDEyQNHqqJeKcLRfgbVOU9qAifTVucCrE-m2HuqvQOrxQwYD6m_0UgIMzVlUWfjHZ1cB15v4zPscIMbzpifjD7F/s320/tired.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">OK, now I'm tired. <i>Pic by Israel Archuletta</i></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But now, back to "what my body said was comfortable". Had I not had to run faster than what was comfortable in order to hit the 200K record, I wouldn't have. But clearly, what I thought was comfortable bore little relation to what my body was actually capable of. Here, I was limited by my mind. How much was I limited? How much faster could I have run, physically? I hit my physical limit earlier, when it was hot. But when it was cool? I don't think I was really on the edge of any kind of physical failure. This is really eye-opening for me. Everyone knows that ultras, especially 24-hour and longer, are mostly mental. But man... if I could actually access anywhere near my physical limit... Of course, one big effect of training is that the mind learns better how to interpret signals from the body, and predict what the body is going to do. That's what creates your sense of effort. Gradually, you calibrate, so you are able to push closer to the edge. But here, my sense of effort was way off. Just as it had been off, the other way, before I crashed.
The conclusion here is that, well, I survived this part of the race by being tough, but it would have been much better to have survived it by having the right attitude. How do I improve my attitude? Meditation? I don't know.
Finally I want to emphasize that I don't judge anyone else for a decision to drop. If you drop, nobody can judge you but you. Only you really know whether you're stopping because you have to, or it makes sense to, or because you just gave up. If even you know. Which brings me to...
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This is by far the most disturbing part of my race. I am still not sure exactly what happened. As I approached 200K, I decided that after I hit it, I would do the math on the remaining time and paces, and figure out what to do then. But I didn't have to do any math to know that I would be 7 minutes ahead of where I'd been at Desert Solstice at 200K, and that I had been running slower at Desert Solstice than I'd run here for the past 10 hours. So I could slow down, and still run a PR.
Yet... I didn't. I didn't even try. I let myself be overwhelmed by a series of events that culminated in me sitting in a chair, done. First, I had skipped my last walk break as I approached 200K. Why not? I could walk later. So first on the agenda was to walk a lap or two while I figured things out. As I hit 200K, there was a big sense of accomplishment and release. Not that, in the grand scheme of things, anybody cares about the 200K record; it's kind of obscure. 200K only ever seems to occur as a split in a longer race. But that was what had driven me for the past 10 hours; it was all I'd had to hang on to. Then, I started walking. But the longer I walked, the more it hurt, and the harder it got. As I mentioned above about walking, I think some kind of transition happens when you walk for too long. Your body starts to realize that it's been overtaxed, and it sees a chance to convince its stupid brain that hey, obviously the emergency is over; don't you realize, dummy, that we're kind of hurting? Maybe it would really be best to give it a rest? Well, that wasn't something I'd factored into my plan. The more I walked, the more it hurt, I mean really hurt. Then, my Garmin died. I still don't know why. I was sure I had disabled GPS; it should have lasted forever. All I really needed it for was a lap timer. You'd think I wouldn't even need that, but because I was counting in 7-lap sets, actually I did. Everything had hinged on hitting every 7 laps in about 16:10. Now, I had brought a spare basic running watch, just in case. I could have asked my crew to dig it out. But that was one more small hurdle. Finally, after walking a few laps, I began to get really cold. It had dipped into the 40s, and was windy. I'd run through the night so far in a singlet, and been comfortable, running. But not walking. Oh, and at 20:00, we reversed direction. This put an extra whole lap between me and my crew. When I finally got back around to them, I guess four or five laps after 200K, I just fell into the chair. I was given a sleeping bag to get warm. A little later Bill Schultz wandered up, and we discussed how I had already won; no men left in the race could catch me. Pretty soon, de facto, I was done. I eventually worked up the energy to walk to a little building where it was warm inside, and there was lots of food, and people to talk to. The rest of the race was out of sight, out of mind.
So, there wasn't any single, easily identifiable moment at which I went wrong and gave up, but the net effect was that I had just quit. I was given one too many convenient excuses. Also, there's this notion of willpower. I felt like it had taken all I'd had to get to 200K. To think of continuing for another 4 hours was just ridiculous. But this is fallacious reasoning. Willpower is only a finite resource if you let it be. If it were something you could just use up, I would never have made it to 200K. I only did that by managing to focus on the current lap, or the current 7-lap chunk. Every set was the same. It didn't matter whether it was the first one or the last one; each individual lap was just one lap, which never seemed impossible. I </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>knew</i></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> this; at a certain level I knew that I had a very good shot at still running a PR. Later in my hotel room, I did the math in my head, and realized that I could have gone from 2:15 laps and 1:00 walk breaks every 7 laps to 2:20 laps and 1:15 walk breaks, and still run over 150. It was insane not to even try.
I didn't beat myself up too much about this at first; I was too wrapped up in the glow of a new record, and a win. But over time it gnawed at me more and more. I was there to run a 24-hour race. I had a legitimate shot at a PR (and incidentally a new 24-hour AR for over 50), and I just... gave up.
Not only did I fail in this particular race, but now I have messed up my model of myself as someone who doesn't quit. When the going gets tough, and I start to think "there's no way I can hold this for X more hours", one thing that makes it much easier is the sure knowledge that I can count on my future self not to quit. I just have to hold it </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>now</i></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, and the future will take care of itself, because I know empirically that I'm not a quitter. Well, now, I don't.
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I hate to end on a down note. As Pam says, when you fail, that's fuel for the fire. I hope so. Because I'm going to have to try again. I don't think 149 miles is likely to cut it to make the team, and that is my top running goal. The good news is that I think I can actually learn a lot from what happened at D3, and run a better race next time. Also I have a definite sense that I was very close here to a very good performance, even on suboptimal training. It felt like I was starting over from scratch after my surgery, clawing my way back to fitness, but I was definitely in there. In particular, that I was able to hold my orignal pace without slipping at all to hit the 200K record, when I wanted nothing more than to quit, I find very encouraging. My body and my mind did their job. Had the weather been just a little better, who knows. One of these days, I do believe I'm going to knock it out of the park.
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Bob Hearnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01351956832733163825noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2382599380750777712.post-85733845507197344252016-02-28T10:22:00.000-08:002016-03-07T16:12:53.464-08:00Desert Solstice 2015<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmETdNppz_smuAEdEDbxb50SKZiRxcG3UPSnlxrFPmgsxNxRzNArhLSVO_fX5SpzaGVfpWmdT4ujYd1kCZIYq8T582j1RfVGRaAdBUDl34Jxnq1y28us4u4-Nx-0NEQGTnK_Li9JNCE1bT/s1600/bob+ds.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmETdNppz_smuAEdEDbxb50SKZiRxcG3UPSnlxrFPmgsxNxRzNArhLSVO_fX5SpzaGVfpWmdT4ujYd1kCZIYq8T582j1RfVGRaAdBUDl34Jxnq1y28us4u4-Nx-0NEQGTnK_Li9JNCE1bT/s640/bob+ds.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It's been ten weeks since Desert Solstice, and somehow, I still have not managed to write my race report. OK, here it is! As is usual, I've written far more than most will want to read (but hey, it's much shorter than my Spartathlon report). It's mostly for me, but aspiring 24-hour runners may find some useful tidbits here as well.</span><br />
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Desert Solstice is a small invitational race: 100 miles and/or 24 hours, on a track, put on by Aravaipa Running. It's oriented towards runners trying to set records and qualify for the USATF national 24-hour team. I've watched friends run Desert Solstice via the live tracking for the past few years, as they set American and World Records and earned spots on the team. It's always very exciting. This year, it was my turn. I qualified to be there with my first 24-hour race, New Year's Eve 24-hour, in San Francisco last year. I made the big leagues!<br />
The story actually starts with that previous 24-hour, where I was trying to qualify for the national team for the 2015 World Championships. I ran 139.5 miles, but it took 145 to make the team. (They take the top six performances over the qualifying window. Mine was 10th.) It was still a solid debut, though, and I was hopeful I could improve and make the 2016 team. Alas, that's when the Powers That Be decided that 24-hour World Championships would go to every other year, alternating with 100K World Championships. So I would have to wait until 2017, a real disappointment. I'd just found something I was pretty good at, but now I had to wait two years! I guess I should be glad there are no Olympic ultramarathon events; I'd have to wait even longer (and have even more competition). World Championships are the next best thing. If you're on the national team, you are representing your country, wearing the same Team USA gear as the Olympians. I would be enormously thrilled and proud to manage that, and 24-hour is the only event at which I have any shot at all. Anything shorter, I'm too slow, and anything longer, there are no World Championships. So, I was eagerly awaiting Desert Solstice, as my best chance to qualify.<br />
Along the way, I spent most of the year training for the Spartathlon, a 153-mile road race in Greece. What an incredible experience! I would have three months between Spartathlon and Desert Solstice. I wasn't exactly sure how that would go, recovery- and training-wise, but I was very encouraged by the example of Katy Nagy, who had run a fabulous 2014 Spartathlon, followed by 151+ miles at Desert Solstice (and then gone on to win the 2015 World Championships, as well as the 2015 Spartathlon!). At Spartathlon, I had the good fortune to run and chat with Connie Gardner, a veteran of many national 24-hour teams. She gave me great training advice, and encouraged me to aim high. Whatever mark I was going to make, she said, I would make it now, not in five years. You only get so many shots. At 50, I know, my time is running out, especially for things like the national team, where age is not considered. I was competing against everyone.<br />
Training between Spartathlon and Desert Solstice had a few speed bumps – I managed my first sub-7 50 miler, but paid for it in recovery (damn Achilles). But thanks largely to Connie's advice, I still got there feeling pretty well prepared. I had dialed in my pacing, walking, and drinking strategy, and practiced it on the track to the point where my body knew exactly what to do. I had the confidence of a successful Spartathlon run behind me. I'd also gotten over my fear of running in small circles for so long. I can't stand treadmills; five miles feels like 20. Would the track be the same? No! Maybe I wouldn't have the Greek countryside to keep me entertained, but I would have plenty of people to chat with, whether they were far ahead or far behind, and logistics couldn't be easier.<br />
As race day approached, the entry list filled with a veritable who's-who of road ultrarunning. Zach Bitter, US 100-mile record holder, this time going for the 100-mile World Record (11:28!). Pete Kostelnick, winner of Badwater. Katy Nagy, back to go for the US 24-hour record, which she had narrowly missed at Worlds in Torino. Ed "Jester" Ettinghausen, hugely prolific ultrarunner, and US 24-hour record holder for over 50. And on and on. Everybody there was elite – what was I doing there?? One name, though, was conspicuously absent: Joe Fejes, famed, and feared, multi-day runner. Who had beaten Yiannis Kouros, the Running God, at 6-day. Who was far out of my league, and who would likely be competing with me for a spot on the 2017 team. And who, by a strange twist of fate, would turn 50 just a few days before the race. (Strange, because Desert Solstice was a week later this year than normal.) I had turned 50 in October, and I definitely had my eye on Ed's 50+ 24-hour record of 144.623 miles. Was Joe going to give me a free shot at it? Well, as I had suspected, the answer was no. Sure enough, just two days before the race, after all the press releases etc. describing all the participants and their goals, Joe's name quietly appeared on the entrant list. Surprise, surprise.</span><br />
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I flew into Phoenix two days before the race, wanting to have a stress-free day to relax and mentally prepare. The next morning my good friend Scott Holdaway arrived, there to crew me, as he had at my two Western States runs. I did a short shakeout run to the track, wanting to check it out, but it was occupied with a football game. The evening before the race all the participants and supporters got together for dinner at a pizza restaurant, and got our bibs (with names, not numbers), timing chips, etc. It was a thrill to finally meet everybody!</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">All photos by Israel Archuletta</td></tr>
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Finally, race morning dawned, and Scott and I made our way to the venue, and set up shop. They had tables set up for every runner; Aravaipa bends over backwards to cater to the runners here, and optimize the potential performances. I'd brought the kitchen sink, every kind of gear I thought I might possibly need. For fueling, I had a simple plan. I would drink 5 ounces of Coke, Dr. Pepper, or water every two miles, aiming for about 100 cal. / hour. I can get away with that because I've trained low-carb high-fat for the past year and a half, and dialed in my race nutrition to what works. With the track setup, this plan was easily achieved: I had about a dozen 5-ounce flasks, each labeled with what should go in it. I'd just grab whichever flask I wanted every eighth lap, timed with my walk breaks, and dump it on the next lap. Scott's job would be to keep them filled, and hand me the flasks and any other gear I requested. I learned from Pam Smith's Desert Solstice blog post that the right way to do this is to tell your crew on one lap what you would like, then they can hand it to you on the next lap, with no stopping required. Yeah, kind of a boring job for Scott. But he did get to witness some pretty amazing racing.</span><br />
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As the race started, I quickly found myself towards the back of the pack. My pacing plan was to start at a pace that was easy, but would be aggressive if I could hold it – though really nobody holds an even pace for 24 hours – and would leave room for lots of goals if I (probably) had to back off. 2:12 laps, plus a minute walk every eighth lap. That works out to 9-minute "miles", counting 4 laps as a mile, but actually it's a hair short. Or 159 miles for 24 hours. Kind of a ridiculous number, given my 139.5-mile previous run, in which I thought I had done everything right. Actually it was a number that totally intimidated me. Thinking in terms of my marathon PR of 2:58, that kind of jump was like suddenly running a 2:36. Yeah, not gonna happen. It would be insane to try. Thing is, that's not really a valid comparison. A 2:36 marathon would far exceed my lactate threshold. But a 9-minute mile is not remotely taxing cardiovascularly. Long ultras are mostly a mental game, and the effect, positive or negative, of the right frame of mind can be enormous. If I had a perfect day, 159 was not out of the question, or so I told myself. Aim high!</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So far so good...</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hungarian superstars Nagy and Fejes. Are you intimidated? I'm intimidated.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXmUEI8jwfg9ZS_1RXPx51gRbIkO0l95CTM7grV07eowPWsZ7pKJI36RTqZl1D1_nBsog4Mvbz1iAu5DUVHCCmSP9O5uUIzb6EDDB6VzBT9ldOsSkT3P_mhpxTG-iDLcBC1Nbl0dc14ybe/s1600/12377599_10207097864618321_3810133842028500196_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXmUEI8jwfg9ZS_1RXPx51gRbIkO0l95CTM7grV07eowPWsZ7pKJI36RTqZl1D1_nBsog4Mvbz1iAu5DUVHCCmSP9O5uUIzb6EDDB6VzBT9ldOsSkT3P_mhpxTG-iDLcBC1Nbl0dc14ybe/s320/12377599_10207097864618321_3810133842028500196_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jester on!</td></tr>
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But as I said, I quickly found myself trailing, even at this "ridiculous" pace. Of course, Zach was lapping everybody pretty quickly, clicking off 6:50 miles (always with a "good job" or some other motivation as he passed). Not far behind were Mark Richtman, as he knocked off one American Record after another for 60+ (looked more like 45), culminating in a 50K 60+ World Record; and Dave Carver, going for a 50-mile age-group record. Kristina Pham was on pace to beat Pam Smith's 100-mile track record. Katy went flying by again and again. I was a bit surprised at this – she had a guaranteed spot on the 24-hour team. To set the US record, she didn't need to run as fast as I was running. But then, different people have different pacing strategies. I am definitely in the start-slow-and-don't-fade camp. It wasn't long before all of my team-qualifier competition had pulled well ahead. Now, a 24-hour race doesn't really start until at least 100 miles in. If someone is on record pace after 6 or 8 hours, that just means they're setting themselves up to crash and burn. Still, it's surprisingly hard to avoid the mindset that, wow, there's going to be four or five guys in the neighborhood of 160 miles, what can I do? I mean, there they were, I knew their backgrounds, and they looked solid. Never mind that the course record here was Joe's 156.6!</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pete running away with it</td></tr>
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<h2>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Afternoon – uh-oh</span></h2>
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But slowly, surely, I started to make up ground, as most people slowed, and I held steady. I passed Ed; I was closing in on Joe. One or two of the young rockets started to burn out. And then, disaster struck. I was dividing the race into 20-mile, 3-hour blocks, units I had done on the track many times in training. I'd finished the second block, and was winding down the third, when the going started to get a little tough. I had to make a decision on whether to dial it back or try to hold pace a little longer. In my previous 24-hour, I had also backed off 7 or so hours in, and that had basically cost me any chance of making the 2015 team. I wanted to be sure this time that it wasn't just a feeling that would pass. This was the heat of the day; that would certainly get better. So I decided to hold until 60 miles, and make a call then. But before I could get there, wham, my left adductor cramped. OK, game over, as far as any shot at 160ish. Wow, I'd thought I would have more warning. I walked a lap while I did some math. The next important goal was 154 miles, which would be the 50+ World Record for track 24-hour. (I later discovered this would not have counted anyway, as <a href="http://www.iau-ultramarathon.org/images/file/Rationale_for_combined_WABP.pdf" target="_blank">the IAU stopped distinguishing surface for records in 2015</a>. The actual record to beat would be Kouros' totally ridiculous 165 road miles.) I started running again at a more conservative pace, still leaving room to hit 154. But not very many laps later, the same thing happened again, only worse. My muscles would not work at all to run.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Moving in slow motion for a while</td></tr>
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I walked several laps. There went Joe; there went Ed; there went everyone. I thought my race was over at mile 55; I almost dropped. Part of me certainly wanted to. I'd had a great year; I had nothing to prove. I'd tried, my body had said no; too bad. But I wouldn't quite let myself drop without trying everything. I ate some solid food (grilled cheese made for me by request!). I took a salt pill, though I don't believe salt has anything to do with cramps. I took a Tylenol, the first time I've ever taken a pain reliever during a race. I was just about to get a massage (yes, this race does offer everything), when all of a sudden, poof, I could run again. Just as a switch had flipped off, now it had flipped on again. Don't ask me how or why.<br />
Having this happen was like a free pass, in an interesting way. This type of event is mostly mind over body. You want to find the pace your body is capable of running basically indefinitely, but the real challenge is making your mind hold it for 24 hours. It's hard. But here, I mostly escaped that hard work after the first 8-9 hours. It just made no sense to try to hold something that was any kind of challenge. I had to go by what my body said was comfortable, or risk taking myself out of the race. I was now playing a different, easier, game.</span><br />
<h2>
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<h2>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">E</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">ve</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">ning</span></h2>
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After this, the rest of the race was almost a breeze, with one big exception, which I'll get to. For a long time I didn't even think about possible total mileage; I was just doing what I could do. But I knew my big goals were gone. I started gaining on people again; I was holding steady at my new pace, 2:23ish laps with 1:20ish walk breaks. More people dropped. Zach finished his 100 miles, missing the World Record, but bettering his own American Record. It's not every day you get to witness, let alone participate alongside, an 11:40 100-mile run. Wow! When he hit 100 I was not far behind him on the track. He stopped and bent over. I was going to give him a congratulatory pat on the back as I passed, but he'd collapsed by then. He stayed lying on the track for quite a while, with lots of attention. At 12 hours, I was at 76 miles. A PR, but not good enough. I knew the second half would be much lower.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zach after throwing down a 11:40:55</td></tr>
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Time passed. By now Pete was clearly running away with it; everyone else had significantly slowed. I re-passed Ed, and was gradually gaining on Joe again. (I should say here that, as is typical, Ed was coming in on just a few weeks' recovery from a record-setting 6-day race. That he was moving at all was pretty amazing.) The approaching 100-mile mark would be a critical juncture. If someone is ahead of you and looking solid, are they really solid to keep going? Or have they decided to focus on a good 100-mile time and stop there? You never know. Several people beat me to 100. That wasn't my race. And quite a few stopped then. It was down to just Pete, Katy, and Joe ahead of me who had kept going. As my own 100-mile mark approached, that gave me a little burst of enthusiasm. I was looking at about 15:55, or about an hour PR. What's more, I finally realized that I was still in pretty decent position. With 8 hours left, 10-minute miles would get me to 148. Not quite the at least 150 I thought I probably needed to make the team, but well ahead of Ed's 50+ AR. That would be a big PR, and a solid performance. Could I hold 10-minute miles? I was now running 9:45 or so pace, including walk breaks, and it hadn't gotten any harder in the past several hours.<br />
Joe was now just a couple of laps ahead of me. It wasn't long before I caught up and finally passed him. I was still anticipating some interesting race tactics from him – really, I was apprehensive, based on what I had read – and as it turns out I was not to be disappointed. But in the meantime, there was still a long stretch of race ahead of me I had to hold on through. It was dark now, fewer people on the track, less conversation. Most people were wearing headphones. I never run with music, but this time I'd brought an iPod anyway, just in case. I never quite got to the point where I felt I needed to break it out, though. Intermediate mileposts are your friend here. It's the same track over and over, so you need something more than that. I started to do the math in my head on whether I could still hit Ed's 200K 50+ AR of 19:46. It looked maybe possible. But then Scott told me (he had access to a board showing progress toward all the potential records) that I was looking great for the 24-hour record, but I'd have to speed up a bit for the 200K record. Damn. How much? Too much. OK, so be it. That wasn't what I was here for, but there went a potential carrot; too bad. A little later I asked him what lap pace I'd need to hit 150. He asked the organizers, who quickly ran the numbers and gave him the answer. Again, I would have to speed up more than I was willing to. Damn again. I had really, really wanted to hit 150. But I was still thinking 148+ was doable, at least.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">200K in 19:51. Missed the record by 5 minutes!</td></tr>
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<h2>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Uh-oh again</span></h2>
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With about 5 1/2 hours to go, things were looking pretty good. I was still holding on. I'd pulled to 8 laps ahead of Joe. I was now un-lapping Katy, who had put literally dozens of laps on me. At some point I realized with a shock that I had caught up, and so she wasn't going to make the AR, which was a real shame. Turns out she'd had a hamstring issue. Scott was still hanging in there crewing; I'd expected him to go get some sleep at some point, but he stuck through the entire race. Wow!<br />
And at this point it's time for the "big exception" I mentioned. There's a display board by the timing mat, so you can see your lap splits as you pass, and everyone else's splits and total laps too. Joe had been running 2:40s or so for quite a while. But then it occurred to me that I hadn't lapped him in a while, so I checked his splits. I saw a 2:27. Then a 2:23. A 2:15. And he wasn't taking walk breaks, either, like I was. Uh oh. This was an actual surge, a challenge. The glove had been thrown down, and I had to respond. My first thought, of course, was "you've got to be kidding me". I'd survived almost falling apart, come back, and held on to where I'd thought everything was settled: I'd get the 50+ AR, and a decent team qualifier, ahead of Joe. Now those were both in jeopardy, and I had to step up my game. I'm pretty good at doing math while running, but I couldn't quite work out how rapidly he would make up ground if we each held pace. How hard did I have to work to stay ahead? One option I considered was to just hold my pace until he got within maybe 4 laps, see how long that took, and then try to stick right behind him, at the same lap differential, for the rest of the race. This is actually a tactic Joe is known for; it messes with the stuck-to guy's head. So it was kind of an appealing thought to turn that around. But I was afraid that letting him get that close would be encouraging, and we'd wind up pushing each other to dangerous levels. Also I'd have to abandon my walk breaks, which were working well for me.<br />
Instead I decided to draw the line right here: maintain my 8-lap lead. I figured the longer I could hold that, the more insurmountable the gap would appear as time wound down; at some point he'd have to give up. I kept up the walk breaks, but I sped up to 2:12ish laps. Back to basically my original pace, which had not been sustainable. I was terrified I'd cramp up again, and that would be that; I was walking a very fine line here. But I held it. Back to mind over body, crossing my fingers. I got a comment from the sidelines: "Bob! You're speeding up?!" "I have to!". Zach was back and watching the rest of the race unfold, and cheered me on here.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hanging in there</td></tr>
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We stayed like this for about an hour. During our entire "battle" we never spoke, and barely even saw each other; we were mostly on opposite sides of the track. The game was played via the changing numbers on the lap screen. Early, though, I thought Joe was going to lap me during a walk break. Later he said "I was laughing my ass off in the beginning of our "race" because you looked back a couple times and I thought you would falter." For a big chunk of this Pete and I were actually running together; he'd now slowed to my initial pace. Finally, I saw Joe's lap times slow again; I matched them, breathing a big sigh of relief. I wasn't sure how much longer I could have held that. Shortly thereafter he dropped. I totally respect that: he had little left to gain in this race (already being on the team qualifier list with a 145), but he had a 55-hour race coming up two weeks later. It was the smart move.</span><br />
<h2>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></h2>
<h2>
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And then, it was back to smooth sailing for the rest of the race, as I said above. Well, not quite. Connie had told me it would be hardest from about 16 to 20 hours, but towards the end it would get easier again. But this time, for me, it was the opposite. The battle with Joe had kept me focused during the "hard" hours. But I guess I'd paid a price. Now, with three hours left, at 131 miles, it was really hard. At this point I had 149 miles in sight if I didn't fall apart, and I was not going to let go of that. The worst thing here was my feet. I was wearing Hoka Cliftons 2s, same as at Spartathlon (but now with holes cut in the toebox). That had been enough cushioning for 153 road miles. Surely it was good enough for 24 hours on a track? But no, it felt like they were made of cement. Every step hurt.<br />
Connie had told me to get to where I knew I could always knock out 20 miles in three hours, no matter how tired I was. And here I was. Three hours left; if I could run my original pace I'd hit 151. But I just couldn't make myself do it, in spite of all the training I had done exactly for this situation. This was I think my one mental failing in the race. It's funny how a challenge from a competitor can be more motivating than your primary race goal. I had to beat Joe, but 150 was just a number. I did get a few calf twinges in the last few hours, so perhaps I was closer to the edge than I thought. Of course, it always looks different in hindsight.<br />
I tried hard here to think back to the last few hours of the Spartathlon, where I had flown down the long descent into Sparta. Over the last 13 miles, I had a faster split than winner Florian Reus, faster than Dawson, than Nagy – faster than everyone except Kim Hansen, the third-place finisher, who just edged me. (He gained nearly 40 minutes on second-place Dan Lawson over that stretch, clearly giving it his all, but still came up one minute short.) So I knew I had the ability to rally and push toward the finish. I always have a good kick. But try as I might, I could not recapture that feeling here. I couldn't pretend I was running toward King Leonidas and the glory of finishing the Spartathlon. I was just running the same damn circle over and over, with nothing waiting for me at the finish.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">OK, I'm tired now.</td></tr>
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And this is the real way timed races screw with your head. There is no finish line. It doesn't matter how fast or slow you run; 24 hours is still going to arrive at exactly the same time. (If I can nerd out here for a moment: in time-based races, performance scales linearly with fitness, but in distance-based races, it scales quadratically. By that I mean the following. If runner A runs 10% faster than runner B with the same effort, A should run 10% farther in a 24-hour race. But suppose they were running a marathon. A would be 10% faster for the same duration, but would finish faster, and therefore be able to run at a higher effort level for that shorter duration. A double win in performance as fitness improves. Meb may run marathons at a much faster pace than I can, but he only has to do it for 2/3 as long! You don't get that with time-based races.)</span><br />
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As time wound down, Pete and I were again running together. There were now few people left on the track: Ed was still hanging in with a power walk, also Stacey Costa. And that was it. With 20 minutes to go, Pete told me "Bob, I've seen a lot of crazy shit in the ultrarunning world. But I've never seen anything like the guts you've shown for the last 10 hours." Coming from him, I take that as a great compliment; it was the highlight of my race.</span><br />
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I finished with 149.24 miles, <a href="http://www.usatf.org/statistics/records/byEvent.asp?division=american&location=outdoor%20track%20%26%20field&age=masters&distance=24&distanceUnits=hr&distanceType=run" target="_blank">a new American Record for 50+</a> by 4.6 miles. A 76/73 split – a lot closer to even than I'd have ever guessed halfway through. Good enough for <a href="http://www.usatf.org/Sports/MUT/Team-USA/2017-Qualification-Standards.aspx" target="_blank">4th place on the team qualifier list</a>, but I have a feeling that won't hold, and I'll have to try to improve it. Pete ran an incredible 163.7 miles, the second-best performance in the world in 2015, and <a href="http://www.ultrarunning.com/featured/ultrarunning-magazine-all-time-lists/" target="_blank">fifth-best ever by an American</a>. Also I will boast here just a little bit more: it turns out that, age-graded, my distance just edged Scott Jurek's former AR of 165.7 miles. I still remember the excitement when he accomplished that in 2010. Of course that's how age-group records should work; they should all be close when age-graded. Still, it's kind of hard for me to fathom. But I don't expect to hold this record long. Joe will have several more shots to make the team and take the record, and of course Ed would like it back as well. I'm going to be on the edge of my seat following all the 24-hour races for the rest of the year. Jon Olsen is taking his first shot shortly; I think he is a lock for the team. Joshua Finger, who didn't have a great race at Desert Solstice, I think is also very likely to make the team. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; white-space: pre-wrap;">But here's the thing. There are several guys out there capable of breaking 150 miles, but being capable and making it actually happen are two very different things. A lot can go wrong in a 24-hour, and pretty much everything has to come together to get a big number. Even Joe, with all his dominant performances, has only done it twice. We will see what happens!</span><br />
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So... what did I learn? Well first of all, I need more strength work for my adductors! Fix the weak link. And I was a little greedy with my initial goal. Helpful hint: if you're setting your sights well above a World Record, maybe that's a little too high. If I'd started on pace for 155 instead of 159, what would have happened? Actually, I doubt I could have done much better. Overall I think my planning and execution were pretty good. It's hard to say you went out too fast when you started slower than everyone else, and you finished with 51%/49% splits. Shoes, I am going to have to do something, but I'm not sure what. The most interesting thing was the motivational change that occurred when Joe challenged me, and I stepped it up to what I'd already decided was unsustainable, and then again when the challenge was gone, and I backed off. I had already reconciled myself to accepting 149, instead of the 151 I "should" have been able to hit then. Parts of the brain outside of conscious control have their own priorities, and figuring out how to influence them and navigate the pain / reward space is really what makes ultras interesting to me. I still have a lot to learn.<br />
Thanks again to Aravaipa Running for hosting such a wonderful event, to Scott Holdaway for crewing and encouragement for the whole 24 hours, and to Connie Gardner, Traci Falbo, Pam Smith, Jen Aradi, and Mike Henze for invaluable training and racing advice. And special thanks to Liz, for putting up with all the training.<br />
Full results are here:<br />
<a href="http://www.aravaiparunning.com/results/2015DSResults24H.htm">http://www.aravaiparunning.com/results/2015DSResults24H.htm</a>
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<a href="http://www.aravaiparunning.com/results/2015DSLapTimes.html">http://www.aravaiparunning.com/results/2015DSLapTimes.html</a>
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Bob Hearnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01351956832733163825noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2382599380750777712.post-78880543578923932552015-10-08T17:26:00.000-07:002019-09-12T12:01:01.788-07:00Spartathlon 2015<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I hardly know where to begin with this race report. The Spartathlon has been my training focus for the entire year; I have been totally obsessed with it. I've read maybe 50-60 race reports, all of them I could find. When I ran out of English ones, I ran the others on the Spartathlon website through Google Translate. So, having read some really thorough and excellent reports, I feel like anything I write will just be an echo. But my experience was still my own, and nobody else's, so I will put it down, at least for my own benefit. And hopefully my readers will not have the Spartathlon report fatigue that I do at this point.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">But I am afraid that like the race, this report is also of epic length. Everything about this race is just... big. Really big. I mean, you have seriously never seen a race report this long. I literally wrote down everything I can remember; I felt compelled to. I'm not saying this is a good thing; I wrote it for myself, or for completist potential Spartathletes looking for as much insight as they can get into the race. At least, it's different from all the other reports. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Feel free to skip to the end. (Spoiler: it went well.) Or, at least down to the actual race, starting with </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Athens to Corinth</b></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. Or for the ultra-concise version, you can read <a href="http://www.dallasnews.com/sports/more-sports/running/headlines/20151005-bob-hearn-american-pheidippides.ece">this piece in the Dallas Morning News</a> by my friend Spareribs LaMothe.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Greatest Footrace on Earth</span></h2>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">Well, let's start with this: what is the Spartathlon? By the numbers, it's a 153.4-mile race, from Athens to Sparta, Greece, mostly road, though there is some technical trail as you cross a mountain 100 miles in. What makes this challenging (if that sounds easy!) is the strict time cutoffs. In addition to the overall 36-hour cutoff, each of 74 checkpoints along the way has its own cutoff, and the early ones seem sadistically designed to force you to start too fast. When I first read about the race, a couple of years ago, these stats alone were enough to deter me from serious interest. That's like running Western States sub-24 for the silver buckle, something most don't accomplish, and then continuing that pace for another 50+ miles, just to beat the cutoffs?! Yeah right. Except no, not really. It's not a trail race, and there's far less elevation change. That places it into the realm of the possible. Theoretically.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But. The numbers don't scratch the surface of what this race is about. Why this distance, why this time? Those are not arbitrary. If you're a runner, or even if you're not, you probably know the basics of the history of the marathon race. The Persians invaded Greece in 490 BC, the Greeks defeated them at the Battle of Marathon, and they sent Pheidippides to run back to Athens to deliver the good news. Having done so, he promptly died. Thus, the marathon. Except – it turns out that probably never happened. What <i>did</i> happen, actually documented in Herodotus, based on eyewitness accounts, is this. Before the Battle of Marathon, the Athenians sent Pheidippides from Athens to Sparta, to try to recruit the Spartans to help defend Greece. Herodotus records that "</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">he reached Sparta on the very next day after quitting the city of Athens" – so, within about 36 hours</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. Is this really possible? In 1982, some RAF officers, led by John Foden, decided to find out. After researching Pheidippides' most likely route, they attempted it themselves, and three of them succeeded within the approximately day-and-a-half time limit. The following year, it became an official race.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Spartathlon was born. Since then it has become one of the premier ultramarathons in the world, and an event that the Greek people along the course celebrate and honor. <a href="http://www.markhines.org/The-Worlds-Toughest-Ultra(2921940).htm" target="_blank">It's been said</a> that the Spartathlon should be considered "the greatest footrace on Earth, due to the historical underpinnings of the event, the professionalism of the organisers, and the atmosphere of the race". I will not disagree. OK – I was now hooked.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Getting There</span></h2>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">To run the Spartathlon, you first have to qualify. There are a variety of ways to do so, none of them easy; only runners with solid credentials are admitted. Even so, typically only about a third of the 300-odd starters finish within the cutoffs. I qualified with 139.5 miles at the New Year's One Day in San Francisco. Actually, lucky for me, I "auto-qualified": if you beat a qualification standard by 20%, you are automatically in; otherwise, you are in the lottery. This year, that made a big difference. Each country (with a few exceptions) is limited to 25 participants – the race has a very international flavor. We've never had more than 10 before from the U.S. This year, we had 38 qualified applicants, and 23 of them auto-qualified. So if you didn't auto-qualify, you had very little chance of getting in.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Knowing in January that I was in, I mapped out my training year around Spartathlon. I had only one other goal race this year, Umstead 100, in April, which was also Spartathlon training. Besides that, I ran two marathons, six 50Ks, and one 100K (Miwok), but all of them were run as long training runs, fitting into my training plan. Other long runs included the Western States Training Camp, and pacing friends at Western States and the San Francisco 100. My last long run was the Burning Man 50K, which was an absolute blast.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Ultimately I did not quite hit my training mileage goals. I've had two persistent issues, that limited me. First, I tore my left hamstring tendons two years ago, and I still have to be careful with that. Second, I have chronic issues with my right Achilles. Fortunately, as the race approached, I was able to ramp up my mileage without either issue becoming worse. My last five weeks of training were 75, 75, 80, 85, and 90 miles. Many ultrarunners (and especially Spartathletes) run much higher mileage, but this is high for me; my peak training weeks prior to this had been 80 miles. I felt good at the end of this, heading into taper.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Besides mileage, there are a ton of logistics to consider for this race, and nutrition would have to be a huge one, as really it is for any long ultra. Almost every Spartathlon report I've read features some kind of stomach issues. Actually, GI issues are the #1 reason for DNFs in ultramarathons more generally. With the strict time limits at Spartathlon, there is even less room for error. If you get behind on calories, there's likely not going to be time to slow down and rebuild. But here, I was prepared. For the past year, I've trained low-carb high-fat, essentially not eating carbs during training. This sounds counterintuitive for running long – isn't it all about the carbs? But actually, it's an increasingly popular training regimen these days, followed by many of the top runners. The basic idea is that you train your body to burn fat more efficiently. You can only store about 2,000 calories worth of carbs in your muscles and liver, but you carry essentially unlimited fat reserves. Normally you can't burn this fat fast enough, so the typical ultrarunner will try to take in something like 300 calories per hour in a race. This can get challenging after 50 or so miles, especially if it's hot, and more blood is diverted to the skin for cooling. The stomach and gut can't keep up; nausea is common. But since becoming adapted to this training, having experimented in many races, I've discovered I can get by just fine on 75-100 calories per hour, which I can easily get from just drinking a bit of Coke now and then – a totally minimal load on my digestive system. Really this is perfect for the Spartathlon: there are aid stations about every two miles (unheard of for ultras), and all of them have Coke! This training has really taken nutrition off the table for me as an issue in races, which is a huge benefit.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Another factor you have to prepare for is the heat and humidity. The race is held in late September, because that's when Pheidippides ran it. But Greece is typically hot and humid this time of year. Some years it is so bad that two-thirds of the field has already dropped by the 50-mile mark! Living in the SF Bay Area, I did get plenty of hot days to train in this summer. But humidity is another matter; it's unheard of here. That destroys me, and really it was my biggest concern heading into the race. So I followed the same sauna-training protocol used by Badwater runners, that I had done twice before for Western States. I planned to build from half an hour up to an hour in the sauna, drinking a lot of water, and running in place a bit at the end. This time, I added in a few days in the steam room; that was really tough. Fortunately you can get the full benefit of sauna training after only 10 or so sessions; I started this when I began my taper. Even so, this time I found the sauna especially challenging, and I didn't make it up to a full hour. I think I was fighting off a cold towards the end, so I backed off. But the training did pay off in the end.</span></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qL0B6lB0O5sy6m7Ap52u65mmUwN1_8BfYYr4L-lhG8Y-Uv4qmIWLtphD8RhT0ESsCn_dOwggCYNxbmZshwDMCJt_61hbGtNvhkJ32X6M1nBotc7eNXpRL7kw7ZNvwdw8A" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="255" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qL0B6lB0O5sy6m7Ap52u65mmUwN1_8BfYYr4L-lhG8Y-Uv4qmIWLtphD8RhT0ESsCn_dOwggCYNxbmZshwDMCJt_61hbGtNvhkJ32X6M1nBotc7eNXpRL7kw7ZNvwdw8A" width="320" /></a><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So, it's a hot race; that means you have to drink a ton and take a lot of salt, right? Wrong. I won't digress much here; I'll just post this slide from the 2014 Medicine & Science in Ultra-Endurance Sports conference.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Yes, it really is that simple. No, I never take any salt. No, I don't cramp. That's a myth.</span></div>
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<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Now, about pacing. I worked up a detailed plan before leaving for Greece. At a race like this, so long and with strict cutoffs, getting this right is critical. And so many people totally screw it up. I just can't comprehend that. The first thing to note is that though the overall cutoff is 36 hours for 150+ miles, the 50-mile cutoff is 9:30. Uh. What?? You are seemingly forced to go out too fast. I like to run even to negative splits where possible, yes, even in ultras. Here, with the mountain at 100 miles, that's maybe less possible, but with the cutoffs it's just a nonstarter, at least if you're going to be anywhere close to 36 hours. And yet – I read so many race reports where people try to build large cushions on the cutoff even by 50 miles. That seems like a recipe for how to DNF. Now, you don't want to be riding the cutoffs too closely, with no room for error; I tell myself that 9ish at 50 is a good target.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But really pacing has to be driven by the overall time goal, right? What was my goal? Given that historically, two-thirds don't finish, it seems reasonable – especially my first time out – to make finishing my goal. But it's hard not to have higher aspirations as well. Thirty hours seems like a benchmark for a really good race. Only a small handful of Americans have ever done this, and typically that would put you in maybe the top 20, in a highly competitive international field. So, sub-30 would be my dream race. It would be nice to leave the door open for that possibility, while not committing to it so early that I risked starting too fast. "Realistically" I was thinking maybe 32-34, based on all the reports I'd read and performances I'd seen, comparing my ultrasignup stats with other runners'. I put that in quotes because, again, most don't even finish within the 36-hour cutoff, and it seemed presumptuous to think of faster as realistic. It's not just the unprepared and inexperienced that don't finish here. They won't even qualify to make it to the start line. T</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; white-space: pre-wrap;">he list of DNFs includes a who's-who of top ultrarunners. This is a race that can chew you up and spit you out, no matter who you are.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But. On paper, this is a race that plays to my strengths as a runner. Though I love trails, I do better on roads, the longer the better. But I also have the trail experience for the mountain, and good quad strength and endurance to take full advantage of the long downhills towards the end. Plus I'm a smart pacer, and I don't have to fret too much about nutrition. So yes, I leave the door open for sub-30. I can see it happening if everything clicks.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So, I sat down to make a detailed pacing plan. I started with two things: first, a gpx file of the course, from the British Spartathlon Facebook page, and second, a spreadsheet incorporating all the checkpoint distances and cutoffs, again from the British page. (They are really organized, and also have great artwork and team shirts.) With much further processing, I produced a detailed elevation profile from the gpx file, better than I had been able to find online. I mapped out the checkpoint locations using the official map on the Spartathlon site, correlating key elevation features to checkpoints, recording them in the spreadsheet, and marking key checkpoints on the elevation profile. I think the exercise itself here was perhaps even more valuable than the product, because it got all the course details firmly into my mind. I had read tons of race reports, but a lot of that had been months prior, and the details had faded. I hemmed and hawed, but decided to go with miles instead of kilometers everywhere. The checkpoints all have signs with tons of information on them, in metric, so I'd be making them less useful, but I had to accept that I just think in miles and minutes / mile.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinQOXy592MTRrj_Kq8UYKci91Kuqf47Khr8uToVVAzBqIKeUlO0i0qPxZIbXArZiGfmUCVF35_H1Hg5g3UD_WaRBT9GEuecfgsY4lwaQ12RAz7NvMFaViwBzEJ6UM-OLJHrhpdgNrqyFvu/s1600/12028803_10204654534633387_6969173037154762180_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinQOXy592MTRrj_Kq8UYKci91Kuqf47Khr8uToVVAzBqIKeUlO0i0qPxZIbXArZiGfmUCVF35_H1Hg5g3UD_WaRBT9GEuecfgsY4lwaQ12RAz7NvMFaViwBzEJ6UM-OLJHrhpdgNrqyFvu/s640/12028803_10204654534633387_6969173037154762180_o.jpg" width="740" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Now, the pace targets. How to choose those? My strategy, which seemed smart at the time, was this: place two anchors, say 29:30 at the finish for the fastest possible time, and 8:45 at mile 50 for the fastest possible time. (I knew it would be hard to run as slow as 9:00 to 50, given the early energy and excitement.) Those anchors meant being 6:30 ahead of the cutoffs at the finish, and 0:45 ahead at mile 50, Corinth. So I'd have to "speed up" quite a bit after Corinth, in terms of building cushion. (However, the cutoffs are also most aggressive at Corinth; they get much easier later, and are also adjusted for elevation profile.) Then, I just interpolated the cutoff buffer by distance between the anchors, and subtracted from the cutoff to arrive at a goal time per checkpoint. Again, this was for "fastest possible" time. A time Liz would not need to arrive at any crew access points before, and a time I could hopefully keep myself from running faster than too early. I would not hesitate (so I told myself!) to run much slower if it felt like I was pushing it at the fastest paces; the overriding goal was still to finish. As I said, this plan seemed smart at the time, but the race exposed some flaws in my reasoning here.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaDgDRJ-SOWGm360uTNzBbo2H5GpDV7NFuZ1ZVp69tdqy-W_5WcwzDvWzUO1M4_BFd7xC6kt8rEiXQeIaYncvsPuW0jD-blUWZK2gOCHpKWnxtQtkzAuxFpzrPlftJ0Dgyhsiv50Lx-Qwb/s1600/2015-10-08+15.34.21.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="289" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaDgDRJ-SOWGm360uTNzBbo2H5GpDV7NFuZ1ZVp69tdqy-W_5WcwzDvWzUO1M4_BFd7xC6kt8rEiXQeIaYncvsPuW0jD-blUWZK2gOCHpKWnxtQtkzAuxFpzrPlftJ0Dgyhsiv50Lx-Qwb/s640/2015-10-08+15.34.21.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Overall, though, I think this was the right approach: start with what seems like a best-possible goal, based on all the evidence, and work backwards to get splits, which lead to paces. Others I saw using the reverse approach: figure out per segment, based on the elevation profile, what a reasonable pace seems like for that segment, and then see what that adds up to. My feeling was that what a reasonable pace was on race day, on the actual course, might be very different from what it looked like on paper. I preferred to go based on what the history said.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Actually, having said all this, until a week before the race I was leaning towards a much simpler, but still I think sensible plan: hit Corinth around nine hours, and try to minimize the fade after that. Really, that might have been good enough, though having concrete numbers in front of me showing what it would realistically take for sub-30 was useful and motivating.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Finally, I need to talk about gear. This is a very long race run in possibly dramatically varying conditions. Bad gear selection can shut you down, and it turns out I did have big gear issues; others had worse issues, and DNFed because of them. The good thing is that, with checkpoints about every two miles, and the ability to leave drop bags at any of them, you can really go pretty light. There's no need for a hydration vest. A single 20-oz. handheld almost seems like overkill. However, I went with one, instead of a smaller bottle (or none at all, an actual possibility), so that I'd be able to put ice in the bottle, and squirt myself to keep cool between checkpoints. I also wore a minimal belt, the Ultimate Direction Jurek Essential Waist Pack. (Appropriate, as Scott Jurek is the only American to have ever won Spartathlon, which he did three years in a row, 2006-2008. Only the immortal Yiannis Kouros has run it faster.) I used this to hold my clip-on sunglasses, my runner ID card (which you're required to carry with you), my pace charts, and for a while my headlamp and spare batteries. I struggled with shirt selection, not having really run in humid weather. Others I knew wore a longsleeve compression shirt, but I decided to just go with singlet, plus the Way2Cool arm sleeves that had worked well for me at Western States. Shorts were the Asics Men's Distance Short, which have worked well for me for years, never chafing as long as I use BodyGlide. Well, there's a first time for everything.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Shoes were my real dilemma. My favorite shoe, the Saucony Fastwitch 4, is long discontinued, and I've run out of dregs via eBay. This would be my first major race without them. In the end I settled on the Hoka Clifton 2, not really thrilled about the weight or the fit, but wanting some substantial cushion for a 153-mile road race. If I had it to do over I think I'd go with the Fastwitch 7 (a poor substitute for the 4, but maybe better than any alternative), possibly doubling the insoles and switching to a fresh pair midway. Anyway, suffice to say, if your feet are not seriously abused by the end of this race, you must be really tight with the Shoe Gods. So it's worth thinking over shoe selection carefully, to try to limit the damage to serious abuse, as opposed to DNF.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Rounding out the gear: socks – as always, Injinji lightweight socks. Hat – ZombieRunner desert hat, with a sun flap. This was fine, and also helped with the rain on the second day.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">With my fueling plan (drink Coke at every checkpoint), I didn't need to stage gels or any other food in drop bags. I did leave four bags, though. One with headlamp and spare batteries, one with warm clothes for the mountain, one with a change of Hokas for after the mountain, and one for a bit later to drop the warm clothes in. In each I also left spare Injinjis and BodyGlide.</span><br />
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<h2>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Pre-Race</span></h2>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">Coming from California, Liz and I decided to arrive early, to allow extra time for jet lag. Most people arrive Wednesday. Pre-race logistics are Thursday, and the race starts Friday morning, September 25. We got in late Tuesday afternoon, just in time for an easy shake-out run. Yes, it was going to be humid. Glad I did that sauna training. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The race starts at the Acropolis, but the host hotels for pre- and post-race are in a coastal suburb of Athens, Glyfada. Here I should mention how incredible a bargain the Spartathlon is in terms of cost, compared to other races. For 450 euros, you get food and lodging for six nights, the race, with 75 fully stocked aid stations, a post-race celebration lunch with the mayor of Sparta, and a gala awards dinner in Athens. Not to mention the large quantity of swag. I mean, you can't even just </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>stay</i></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> in Europe for that amount for a week, let alone everything else. The actual cost to the organizers must be much greater than this; they get a lot of additional funding from a foundation. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">Now, you will be sharing a room in Glyfada. I've heard that they used to put three or four to a room, but now it is two. Because Liz joined me as an official supporter, we had our own room.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Each country is assigned a hotel for its team; the U.S. team was in the Fenix this year, along with Japan and a few other countries. Also the Fenix was where race registration and the pre-race briefing occurred, so we didn't have to walk for that. It is the northernmost of the host hotels, though, and everything in Glyfada you might want to walk to (restaurants, shopping) is a ways south. But the beach is nearby.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I'd been looking forward to meeting the rest of the U.S. team. Of the 24 still on the list – one had dropped form the original 25, after the cutoff for alternate selection – I only knew Traci Falbo (not counting meeting Mike Wardian and Elaine Stypula briefly at Western States). She was one of the stars on the team this year, along with Katy Nagy, Aly Venti, Connie Gardner, and Mike Wardian. The women were all on the U.S. National 24-hour Team this spring at the World Championships in Turin. Nagy took gold and Falbo silver, in dominant performances. On the women's side, it was shaping up to be a contest between our 24-hour women and Szilvia Lubics, the course-record holder and winner for three of the past four years, from Hungary. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">Wardian is famous for his incredible frequency of high-level racing. To take just one example, recently he decided to go for the 50K treadmill world record. He ran hard and beat it, only to learn that the actual record was slightly faster than he'd thought, so he'd just missed it. So – he turned around and tried again the next day, this time beating the actual record. He has inhuman recuperative powers. He'd said earlier this year he was hoping to win the Spartathlon, so I was very eager to see how he would do.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Over the next couple of days I also met Dave Krupski, Eduardo Enrique Aguilar, and Andrei Nana (finishers of last year's Spartathlon, in Andrei's case the past two), George Myers, Bill Zdon (missed a cutoff last year, back for revenge), Chris Roman, Lara Zoeller (narrowly missed the 24-hour team this year), Amy Costa, Mark Matyazic, Chris Benjamin, Jason Romero (a legally blind runner, running with a single guide the entire way!), and as it turns out my Bay Area neighbors that I had to travel halfway around the world to meet, Ken Zemach and Karl Schnaitter. I heard Eric Clifton, also a running legend, was seen, but I didn't see him. In the end we only had 20 starters, as some of the entrants pulled out late. Still, a record U.S. contingent. There have been years – as recently as 2011 – with no U.S. finishers at all. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; white-space: pre-wrap;">It was great to get to know the rest of the team, swap war stories, pick brains about pacing plans. </span></span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; white-space: pre-wrap;">It seemed like almost everyone but me had run Badwater, many of them multiple times. Well, I'd just have to muddle through without that background. </span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Almost everyone seemed to agree with me that it was smart to aim for hitting Corinth in about 9 hours, and hang on from there. (I am excepting here the top women and Wardian, who were in it to place or win.) </span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Surprise, surprise – almost nobody did this.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Wednesday, I waited in the interminable registration line, where we handed in our medical form, if we hadn't already, signed various release forms, and got all our stuff. Bibs (one for front and one for back), chip, participation certificate, shirt, runner ID, supporter badge for Liz, various tickets. Also (very flimsy plastic) drop bags, if we hadn't brought our own, and stickers for the drop bags (nice). It seemed like everyone was using 10-20 drop bags, crazy. </span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; white-space: pre-wrap;">It's starting to get real!</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgazlw27_nDndNbwC3BbTstLit9OU4WhAujkOcLoxg14tggZtEQC0ChXt3bxbiwOFgl99PyZNDlMj6WJQhBWxppz3C7vxuWC4UKsVOcELGwgqghya_Td1ztua7aOz5K_-fxG917QWasf1-G/s1600/12071412_10204717736653398_377838952_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgazlw27_nDndNbwC3BbTstLit9OU4WhAujkOcLoxg14tggZtEQC0ChXt3bxbiwOFgl99PyZNDlMj6WJQhBWxppz3C7vxuWC4UKsVOcELGwgqghya_Td1ztua7aOz5K_-fxG917QWasf1-G/s320/12071412_10204717736653398_377838952_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Across the street from dinner with Nick. <br />
Just a little too odd not to share. </td></tr>
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Liz had wanted to come and see me finish, and see me along the course if possible as well, but driving in Greece, trying to find checkpoints in the middle of nowhere when our phones don't even work there... well, she was not up for that, and I don't blame her. I asked around, and British runner Rob Pinnington thought his crew might not mind a passenger. Indeed, Nick Papageorge and Yiannis Spiliotakis were very accommodating. But we had no idea just yet how lucky we'd gotten here. To connect and work out logistics, we met Nick for dinner Wednesday night, along with a couple of members of the British team, Laurence Eccles and Ian Thomas. I knew Laurence's name, because I'd read of his DNF the previous year in Rob's race report. He was back for another go. The first thing that struck us about Nick is that he is the spitting image of two of Liz's brothers, added up and divided by two. It's really quite amazing. Over dinner we learned that he had run here a few years ago, and not finished; since then he'd been prevented from trying again due to chronic plantar fasciitis. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; white-space: pre-wrap;">During the race Liz would learn that (1) Nick knew everybody associated with the race, and (2) he had as long a history of involvement with the race as possible. That first Spartathlon run by the RAF officers, in 1982? Nick had been a high-school student then in Greece, one of I think two kids selected to run stretches of the course with John Foden. Wow! More, Nick and Yiannis were extremely gracious during the entire race, making for an absolutely ideal crewing experience for Liz, and for me as well, as they zipped back and forth between me and Rob. (Yiannis says, "This is the first time I've spent the night with another man's wife and got thanked by the husband!") Rob himself was back for his fourth attempt, having not finished the previous three years. He was another runner who agreed with me that shooting for 9 hours at Corinth made sense... and then didn't quite do this on race day. But we'll get to that.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Crew Nick (left) with John Foden, 1982</td></tr>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Thursday went by in a blur. I assembled my drop bags, and dropped them off in the numbered bins. You can literally leave a bag at any of 75 checkpoints. Wow. I read a race report a while back where someone had actually made 75 drop bags – all identical. Then, he would never have to worry about which things he had left where! That's taking things a bit too far in my book.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; white-space: pre-wrap;">After this, Andrei distributed the team shirts he'd had made, featuring artwork designed for the team in a contest. We each got one participant shirt and two crew shirts. Thanks, Andrei!</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Finally, we had the mandatory race briefing. First in Greek, then French, and English last. No real surprises, but there was a bit of comedy of misunderstanding between some questioners and race director Kostis Papadimitriou, as neither side spoke English as a first language. One thing that is banned here is any sort of "advertising" on our clothes. It was never clear to me what exactly counted as advertising. You're not supposed to show anything but country and running club name. Was a shirt from another race OK? </span></span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; white-space: pre-wrap;">To be sure, I wore my Western States singlet inside-out. And I taped over the logo on my hat (sorry, ZombieRunner!).</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; white-space: pre-wrap;">After that it was an early dinner in the hotel, and off to bed early. Friday morning, up at 4:15, plenty of time for the 7 am start. The buses left the hotel at 6... in principle. Overall the race is organized incredibly well. But the buses, here and the rest of the weekend, are an area that could definitely use improvement. The drivers don't seem to be aware of any sort of timeline. Eventually an enterprising soul asked when we could get on. Oh, you're ready? OK, get on. Later... oh, you'd actually like to leave now? OK. As someone who typically likes to arrive at a race an hour before the start, this was stressing me out. I needed time for the porta-potty lines, and to do my warmup drills, and for the team photo. It was becoming clear there would not be time, and it would be a scramble just to start on time.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Indeed, no time for the porta-potty line. Ouch. Well, surely there'd be porta-potties at each aid station, right? (Wrong.) Very abbreviated warmup. And I never found the team photo group, bummer! Also I seemed to have forgotten my chocolate milk, that I chug just before race start, back in my hotel room. </span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; white-space: pre-wrap;">After preparing for a huge race for an entire year, messing up the start really rankles. But there was nothing I could do.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Race, Part I: Athens to Corinth</span></span></h2>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The start is actually at the Acropolis, in the shadow of the Parthenon. Very cool. It was a mob scene here, people milling to and fro, eventually jockeying for position – if I could figure out which way the start was! I left Liz at the very front, hopefully able to find Nick after the start. Then I found Nick, and pointed him towards her. (Still they had a hard time connecting!)</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ready or not, time to go!</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And we're off!</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">7 am, and we're off!!! This is it: the biggest running challenge of my life. The sun had not quite risen yet, but it was light enough. Leaving the Acropolis, it was downhill for a while. I'd read about the cobblestones here, how you had to be careful not to turn your ankle, but to me there was nothing that rose to the level of "cobblestone". Also I'd read about how Athens rush-hour traffic was stopped, drivers honking in either support or frustration, never clear which, but I didn't really experience much of this either. I do tend to zone out on my environment in races, focusing on pacing, which often leaves me missing interesting things. Here especially, I really wanted to appreciate my environment. Well, not so much in Athens, apart from the very start, but later in the race, as it became pretty, and we passed through ancient cities.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; text-align: center; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Right away, I was struggling to run slowly enough, and people were gradually flowing past me. It was cool (though very humid), shaded, downhill. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; line-height: 1.38; text-align: center; white-space: pre-wrap;">For a short while I was with Amy (Costa) and Mark (Matyazic), then they were gone. I saw Andrei (Nana) go by. After a few miles we turned north to follow the coast, and we had an actual, sizable hill over a couple miles. Not a steep grade at all, easily runnable, but to go as slowly as I needed to I walked some here anyway. If they'd been flowing past before, they were flying past now. I was actually just the barest bit concerned I'd do something stupid and miss one of the very first cutoffs. But after a few checkpoints passed I could stop worrying about that.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">Headphones are not allowed at Spartathlon, something I appreciate. I never use them anyway; I much prefer to be connected to my environment (which does sort of contradict what I said above about zoning out; hmm!). Also I appreciate it when those around me are available for conversation instead of tuned-out, though here there are language barriers. However, I usually have some sort of soundtrack playing in my head, whatever my brain has latched on to. This time, for whatever reason, it happened to be a ringtone; ugh! Must be from somebody's phone right before the race. That lasted quite a while, and was eventually replaced with some 80s pop I've now forgotten.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">Early in the race I had a lot of nice, if brief, conversations with runners as we ran together before they gradually pulled ahead. Paul Ali from the British team – I was using his spreadsheet. Mimi Anderson, also British. I'd read her report from a couple years ago. She'd been planning to run the race, then turn around and do the return trip as well (as Pheidippides had done)! Unfortunately she hadn't quite finished the outbound trip that year. Was she trying for out-and-back again? Yes! Good luck. And see you later, maybe. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">Somewhere in here I caught up to Connie (Gardner), or vice-versa. I told her I was very tempted by the running camp she and Mike Morton are leading in the Cinque Terre region of Italy next spring. I'm trying to talk Liz into it too, but she's not sure about all the hills. Oh, Connie says, she can hike the hills with me, you run ahead with Mike! Then we start talking 24-hour strategy, as my goal is to make the U.S. National 24-Hour Team for 2017. (World Championships have unfortunately gone to every other year, so there will be no 2016 team.) Connie is a veteran of many national 24-hour teams, and a former U.S. record holder at 24-hour. Of course, she's wearing her team USA shirt, like an Olympian; the World Championships are the equivalent of the Olympics for ultrarunners. I would kill for one of those shirts! I came close to making the team this year, with 139.5 miles; 145 would have done it. But I think it will be harder for 2017. There is a lot of interested talent, now crammed into half the space (because no even years). Also the men's qualification standard was bumped from 135 to 140. That doesn't matter much, because they only take the top six for the team, and I think it will likely take 150+ miles to make the cut for 2017. Possibly beyond my capabilities.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">Connie is very supportive, and suggests North Coast 24, the U.S. National Championships, says she and/or friends will come out to crew me... unfortunately it's just a couple weeks before Spartathlon, and I kind of have a feeling Spartathlon may be something I have to keep coming back to. Like the Boston Marathon has been (coming up on 12 in a row, but that is kind of getting old now), and later Western States. I can't get in to Western States every year, but since I first ran it in 2012, I have to go back every year one way or another. I paced in 2013, got in again in 2014, and paced again this year. It's a race with a special history and culture. As is Spartathlon. Anyway... Connie also suggests 24 The Hard Way, in Oklahoma, as another great place to qualify for the team. But that's in October, also too close to Spartathlon. I am running Desert Solstice 24 this December; that will be my first shot. She says, you have to go for 150 miles. Yes, I do. It may be beyond me, but even if I miss it, I have a shot at the U.S. 50+ record for 24-hour, 144.623 miles (Ed Ettinghausen). Before long Connie pulls away as well; I won't see her again for a long time.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">A few checkpoints later, the sun is up, but it's still not too warm yet. Ken (Zemach) comes up from behind (I think), and we run together for a while, then play leapfrog for a while longer. I finally lose him just before the marathon point, I think. Somewhere in here I was also running with Chris Roman. He has a hip issue, genetic, that's he'll be treating surgically soon, just trying to get through this under the cutoffs today. He seems to be running smart. For quite a while I see Amy just ahead. Eventually I catch up, and we as well play leapfrog for a while. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">We are running past refineries now. Reports all complain of the stench, but it doesn't bother me much. Reports also all mention all the wild dogs. There are some, but fewer than I expected, and they don't bother me at all. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">Throughout the race, I have to keep pinching myself. I am really here. I have read so much, I have a fully detailed model in my head of the whole experience, from pre-race hotels to post-race gala. There is a little bit of cognitive dissonance as sometimes the reality is not quite the same as the model, and ludicrously, I feel that reality is not quite getting it right. It's kind of surreal.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">As expected, my left hamstring begins complaining around mile 10. This is the pattern. It ought to quiet down after 30 miles or so. I poke my finger under my butt and feel a tight knot in there that's binding with every stride, and try to massage it loose.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">Around 15 miles in, we reach a less industrial part of the course. For a long while now we will be running along the coast, with gorgeous views out over the Saronic Gulf and the island of Salamis. It was here that the Greeks destroyed the Persian fleet in 480 BC, in </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.38;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Salamis" target="_blank">one of the most significant battles in human history</a></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">. I think about this as I remember reading about how hot it can get here, with the sun beating down from above, as well as reflecting off the asphalt, the ocean, and the cliff faces to the right. It's not too bad this year... yet.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">As we pass through the small coastal towns, children line the route offering high fives. I think they have been let out of school for this. Throughout the course, the locals are all enthusiastic; cries of "Bravo!" fill the air. You get this at Boston too, perhaps the best marathon crowd support anywhere, but here it is different and special. The Greeks feel a lot of pride in this race, and respect that we are honoring their culture and history by participating. This helps give the race an extra substance and depth. It really means something; it's not just running X miles for the sake of running. You feel anchored to the ancient past, and the foundations of the Western world.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">A few miles before the marathon point, Liz and Nick wave from the car as they drive by, having first had a leisurely coffee in Athens after the start. They yell, "slow down! You're going too fast!" "I'm trying! I'm only 5 minutes fast." Evidently Rob (Pinnington) is ahead of me... they are trying to get him to slow down. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">Somewhere in here, it did warm up. I put on my arm sleeves. I don't recall where, but in one of the small towns along the coast I saw a bank temperature screen that read 33° C. I did the math... 91° F. Wow. It didn't feel that hot. Either it wasn't really, or the sauna training had worked well. Once it got warm, I was taking full advantage of the checkpoint resources. Sponges over arms, head, shirt at every stop. Ice where I could get it, which was most of the checkpoints, in my bottle, in my hat, and down my shirt. The belt helped here, holding the ice in, something I had planned. More water in my bottle than I could possibly want to drink over the roughly two miles between aid stations; I was liberal in squirting myself to stay wet and cool. Also I was now drinking a cup of Coke at every checkpoint. That would be my primary fuel for the rest of the race, but I had started with four gels, taking one per hour, just so I'd have a bit of variety. And I figured at some point I might want some real food as well; I hadn't run longer than 24 hours before on mostly fat.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">I hit checkpoint 11, </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Megara, </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">the marathon point, at 4:15 on the clock (11:15 am). Eight minutes ahead of my "fastest possible" splits, but that was as slow as I could go. Liz and Nick were here; I took my time catching up. They were worried that Rob was going out way too fast; he'd been several minutes ahead of me here. I didn't understand... he was 0 and 3, and we'd agreed that 9ish was smart at Corinth; I was ahead of that...? I re-applied BodyGlide; shortly this would become a serious issue.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVz9WGLMu20IyXEbDuXj2JyPrT09TxKpbs8yar-eb1fQVt4euLBSrJeG6zaH667n9nJ1kZrBQlQU99NtxG3woPGf60s7Cwl7gQkaL6u8icS_8U2NJps38tPdyE8E4cVJNYZqPUEhRSmXL0/s1600/2015-09-25+11.17.19.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVz9WGLMu20IyXEbDuXj2JyPrT09TxKpbs8yar-eb1fQVt4euLBSrJeG6zaH667n9nJ1kZrBQlQU99NtxG3woPGf60s7Cwl7gQkaL6u8icS_8U2NJps38tPdyE8E4cVJNYZqPUEhRSmXL0/s320/2015-09-25+11.17.19.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A small quarter sandwich – <br />
I think the only solid food I ate.</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">After Megara the course became more rolling; we actually had a decent climb, so lots of walking. I caught up to Martin Ilott, of the British Team. I recognized his name from race reports, and struck up a conversation. This was his 11th time here; his record was 5 and 5. He said this year would determine whether he came back... if he didn't finish this year, that would be a sign it was time to hang it up. (Alas, I later learned he didn't finish.) We ran together for a bit, then I pulled ahead. With the hills, I was now slowing down to match my "fastest" splits, even a bit slower.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">It was now getting quite hot, and I was passing a lot of people. Early, everyone had passed me. But since the marathon point, nobody had; in fact, I believe literally not a single person passed me between there and around mile 70. Everyone was now paying the price for having started too fast. In my opinion, in a race like this, if you don't feel like you're crawling at the beginning, you're going too fast. I never like to bank time – I like to bank energy.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">A few more checkpoints, and I see Mark ahead of me. He's not doing well, says he started too fast. In the end his problem will be the same as mine, chafing, but even worse. He says Dave (Krupski) is just ahead. I catch up to Dave, and we chat for a bit. He had gone out with Mike Wardian and Florian Reus (the eventual winner). Dave has plenty of experience, in particular he finished here last year, so it's not for me to question his strategy. But he was also not doing great now. In his case I think it was because he'd already run eight or so races of 100 or more miles this year, and had hardly run since Badwater. Spartathlon, if he finished it, would be a bonus. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">We are running a bit faster than my fastest splits; I try extra hard to slow down, and Dave pulls ahead. But the "big hill" heading into Corinth, that the cutoff times assume you will walk, is really almost too shallow a grade to walk. I'm bleeding time the wrong way. This is the first time I realize that perhaps I should have examined the cutoff times more critically, instead of assuming they were reasonable splits for 36 hours – which actually I knew they weren't, as 9:30 at mile 50 is way too fast for that. Anyway from the start to Corinth, it works out that I'm supposed to be gaining no more than about two minutes on the cutoffs per checkpoint, and some of these it's much more than that, as slow as I can go.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">As we get near Corinth there's again a big refinery. But the really amazing thing is the Corinth canal, which cuts through the Isthmus of Corinth, separating the Peloponnese peninsula from the Greek mainland. An attempt had been made to cut this passage in the 1st century AD, but it wasn't successfully completed until 1893. It's very deep and sheer, very striking. I have to stop in the middle of the pedestrian bridge and look down.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yiannis, Liz, and Nick</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">Finally I reach checkpoint 22, mile 49.7, in Corinth, at 8:33 elapsed. I'm 12 minutes fast. Yeah, shame on me, but it's nothing too crazy. Liz and Nick are waiting, and tell me I'm doing great. Rob went through quite a while ago. I take my time here too, reapplying BodyGlide. This time I take it with me in my belt; I'm going to need it frequently. The chafing is beginning to get bad. But finally, at least the hamstring discomfort has eased up. The first porta-potty I've seen at any checkpoint is here. This is the first major checkpoint, with massage tables, medical, etc. It's huge. There is one porta-potty. It's occupied. I keep going.</span><br />
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<h2 style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Race, Part II: Corinth to the Mountain</span></span></h2>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">On to the next phase of the race! </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">The industrial areas were behind me; I was on to the mostly rural and agricultural Peloponnese, with olive groves, vineyards, and ancient ruins. Over the next few checkpoints I caught up to several more people I knew. First I think was Dave. He told me that Chris Roman had unfortunately dropped. Indeed, there he was at the next checkpoint, now crewing for Dave. I felt bad for him, but what can you do? I'd see him again at the next few checkpoints, as Dave and I ran close together for a while. Shortly afterwards we passed George (Myers), stopping to stretch. The heat was getting to him. Indeed, over the past few miles it seemed to me to have gotten significantly more hot and humid. I caught back up to Mimi Anderson; s</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; white-space: pre-wrap;">he looked tired and hot</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">. Her watch said it was now 35° C... that meant 95° F. Again, not sure I believe it – the forecast high near Corinth was only in the 80s – but it was definitely hot. Somewhere in here I also passed Sung Ho "Bruce" Choi, American, but running for Korea. He was #331, I was #330; as I approached, another runner told me "hey, you're out of order, you need to pass him". Heh. Also in here I passed Lara (Zoeller). She said she was reduced to running the flats and downhills, and walking the uphills – well, that sounds like a good plan to me here, anyway!</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Alas, I think this is not quite in view of the course. Or else I'm blind.</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">After a fast downhill segment, I hit the 100K mark, checkpoint 28, at 10:52 elapsed. Still six minutes ahead of my "fastest" splits. Staying near these splits now means building a cushion of six or seven minutes on the cutoffs every checkpoint, instead of two minutes, prior to Corinth. So, I'm curious to see how that's going to feel. I'd pledged not to push it – it's still way too early to be working hard. But I was starting to think that sub-30 would be really, really nice. An extra benefit of that would be finishing before the worst heat of the day on Saturday.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">At this point we turn inland, and begin a long, slow climb of about 1,500 feet over 20 miles, interrupted by a significant bump and a more significant dip. Or maybe the hill is only 1,300 feet over 15 miles, depending on how you look at it. It seems I am done with catching people I know, for quite a while. Who is ahead of me, among the Americans? Andrei, Connie, and Ken, at least; I have not seen Bill (Zdon), Jason (Romero), Chris Benjamin, Ed (Aguilar), or Karl (Schnaitter). I am assuming based on pre-race conversations that of these all but Karl are likely behind me, but I'm not sure. And I'm assuming that Katy (Nagy), Traci (Falbo), Aly (Venti), and Mike (Wardian) are far ahead.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">At checkpoint 29 I have my first drop bag. I quickly retrieve my headlamp and spare batteries, and tuck them in my belt; I won't need them for a while yet. I guess I was a bit conservative in putting them here, but for all I knew I could be riding the cutoffs at this point. This is nominally a crew access checkpoint, but I don't see Liz and Nick; either I was too fast for them here, or they are jumping ahead to catch Rob.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As the afternoon wears on and approaches evening, finally it begins to cool somewhat. This should be good... but I am beginning to get tired. I see a group of three people ahead of me that I am only gaining on at a minuscule rate, if at all; this is a new thing. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Finally we reach the big "bump" in the elevation profile, as we approach the village of Halkion. This is most definitely a walking stretch, very steep. Halkion is checkpoint 32, mile 70.2. It's 12:27 elapsed, still five minutes ahead of my splits, but I can tell I am fading. There are goats wandering in the streets. Leaving, i</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">t is sunset. Soon I put on my headlamp. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Now I am losing a few minutes per checkpoint on my "fast" splits. Funny, I have run through the night many times... there is a natural loss of energy as daylight disappears and you have to face the reality that you will be running instead of sleeping all night. But I had been taking it easy, or so I thought, and the cooler temperatures should help. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Over one long stretch in here, someone ran slightly behind me with no headlamp, using mine. I wasn't bothered; I had spare batteries. Whether he was just saving his, or had a malfunction, I didn't know. We didn't talk. The funny thing is, I later saw <a href="http://rubbishrunner.blogspot.com/2015/10/the-iliad-spartathlon-part-i.html" target="_blank">his race report</a>, where he mentioned me by name, noting that I never said a word. (We all have our names on our bibs, front and back.) Not recognizing him as an American or a Brit, I mistakenly assumed he didn't speak English. Or maybe I was just struggling too much at this point to be conversational. Turns out he's Irish. Maybe I just never looked back at him at all?</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Ancient Nemea, at mile 76.6, is a major checkpoint (35). I'm now at 13:51, six minutes behind my splits. Liz and Nick and Yiannis are here, ready to help. I tell them I'm throwing in the towel on sub-30. If I keep trying to track the splits for 29:30, I'll blow up. I need to slow down and regroup. I remind myself that really sub-30 was only a dream goal anyway, and as long as I don't fall apart, I should still be able to finish in a decent time. But</span></span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> the chafing is getting really bad. I realized some time ago that putting ice cubes down the front of my shirt caused the melt to run into my shorts, accelerating the chafing, so I stopped doing that. But the shorts have not dried off. I try to leave my hat with Liz until morning – it's been strapped to my belt, but the extra weight and awkwardness is making that chafe as well – but Yiannis points out that rain is expected, and I might want it later. I grudgingly agree.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Karl is sitting here, nursing an issue with a shin muscle. I wish him luck. Also I see Kostis Papadimitriou, the race director. I compliment him on a wonderful race, but mention that I'm fading. Oh, are you continuing, or dropping? Continuing, of course! I have never yet DNFed a race, after 80 marathons and 40 ultras. There has to be a first time for everything, and this would be the one, but so far the thought of dropping has never entered my mind. Indeed, the single most important quality in an ultrarunner is determination to finish, no matter what. I know that I have this, so I am not worried. I am not subject to the slippery slope of rationalizations. At least I never have been. I can't say that it hadn't occurred to me that Spartathlon would test me as never before, though.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Rob had left the checkpoint shortly before I arrived, but I spent some time there, and I was not moving quickly when I left. So, I was not surprised not to catch him. Soon we began the big dip that I mentioned. Normally this would reinvigorate me, but I was in a bad place mentally due to the fade and the chafing, and to make matters worse, suddenly there was a rock in my shoe, under my left little toe. I couldn't take advantage of the downhill. At the next checkpoint I did what I had to do: sat in a chair, to deal with it. I really hate sitting down in a race. Not only is it time not moving, but I use my muscles in unaccustomed ways, and they complain. And it takes extra energy to get moving again. I get my shoe off... there's no rock. It's the corn/callus under my toe, possibly compounded by a blister. Damn Hokas. They put extra pressure on my little toes. I knew I should have gone with the Fastwitch. Too late now. </span></span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; white-space: pre-wrap;">It doesn't feel like there's anything I can drain. I put the shoe back on and get moving. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; white-space: pre-wrap;">But I soon realize that I am going to have to do better than this. I can barely run, the way the toe feels. So at the next checkpoint, 37, I again sit down. This time I have to take off my sock as well as my shoe, and this is where I pay a price for choosing Injinjis (toe socks). Rather, I will pay a price putting the sock on again, getting my toes back in. The bottom of your little toe is the most inaccessible spot on your foot, if you've never tried to pop a blister there. I used a safety pin from my bib, and tediously did the best I could, not really seeing what I was doing. As I sat, I saw Karl go by, moving well, good! Then I saw Connie go by. "I thought you were ahead of me!" I must have passed her in a checkpoint. She asks how I'm doing – "I've been better". She's gone. I've done what I can; putting my sock back on, my legs begin to cramp. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; white-space: pre-wrap;">This is the low point of my race, though of course I can't know that at the time.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Leaving the checkpoint, now I'm climbing out of the big dip. A 500-foot climb over maybe four miles. Also we are now on rough dirt roads for a ways, the only non-paved stretch of the course other than the mountain. The next few miles are kind of a blur, as I plod slowly, mostly walking, thinking maybe there is some slight improvement in my toe. I realize that I've gotten sucked into a downward spiral: as my time between checkpoints grows, my fuel rate slows. The 50ish-calorie hits of Coke are coming farther apart. So I begin to drink a bit more to compensate. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Finally the grade levels, completing the long climb that began 20 miles ago. In my mind this ends a phase of the race – really the hardest phase of the race; I'm not intimidated by the mountain, which is just a lot of walking – and this is a good thing. I can try to put my troubles behind me and move on (or as Dave Krupski put it in the very first Spartathlon report I read, "flip the script"). It's time for a 1,000-foot drop over the next five miles, preparatory to climbing the mountain. I'm not a super-fast road runner – I can run a sub-3 marathon on a good day, but not much faster – but as ultrarunners go, I have some leg speed to take advantage of the downhills. Also I have trained my quads to be very resilient. These hills are nothing compared to Western States. So in spite of the chafing, the blister, and the tiredness, I'm excited about this stretch. The blister is definitely better now (or maybe I'm just becoming numb to it). The chafing I will have to address, but I can last until the next major checkpoint, I think, where hopefully they can bandage it. And much as I hate to sit, I think perhaps the time in the chairs helped.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I come into Malandreni, checkpoint 40, at mile 86.9, fairly flying. Liz and Nick are surprised to see me moving so well. Rob is just leaving; I've finally caught him. I tell them I'm much better, but I will have to deal with the chafing at Lyrkia. I spend a few minutes here.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yiannis and Nick waiting in (I think) Malandreni</td></tr>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Leaving Malandreni, I'm moving faster than I have the entire race. This is optimal downhill, and now it is fully cool, and I'm engaged in night mode. I fly by several people like they are standing still. Eventually I catch Rob, but he is not in a mood to chat; I wish him well and move on. I think he must now be close to as far as he has gotten here before. </span></span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Somewhere in here I also pass Karl and Connie. </span></span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; white-space: pre-wrap;">At checkpoint 41, I see I averaged 7:58 pace for the segment. I've finally run out of downhill. It's flat to gradually uphill to checkpoint 42, but I am still energized and running quickly.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Liz and Nick surprise me at checkpoint 42 – they have bandages. This means more sitting in a chair, alas, but it's worth it. Liz holds my headlamp as I carefully apply four or five bandages on each side. I think probably they won't last, but for now at least this should give me quite a bit of relief.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Lyrkia (checkpoint 43, mile 92.1) also sits on a bit of a bump in the elevation profile; as I approach, I suddenly must switch from fast running to power hiking. But I'm still energized going through the checkpoint. This is the gateway to the mountain; I've been told it's all walking from here to the top of the mountain. I grab some Coke and get going quickly. Just as I'm leaving I see Nick, who tells me Liz and Yiannis are in the car just ahead, but I don't manage to see them.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Over the next couple of checkpoints, there is some walking, but much of it is an easy grade and I can't help but run it. I'm thoroughly psyched to have gotten my mojo back. Finally around checkpoint 45 the grade becomes quite steep, and it's now power hiking to the mountain base. I'm still passing people at this pace. The bottom of the hill past Malandreni was at 500 feet; we have to gain 2,000 feet just to the mountain base, then another 1,000 feet to the mountain top.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; white-space: pre-wrap;">For a while now I've seen lightning in the distance to the south, and I know thunderstorms are due. I hope the mountain weather is not going to be too brutal. I'm now running parallel to and below the highway, which is all lit up. Gradually by switchbacks it gets closer, and I pass under it. The wind is picking up as I get higher. Finally, I reach the mountain base, mile 99.1. I haven't been checking my splits since Ancient Nemea, but looking back at the data as I write this, I see that I was half an hour behind my target splits here, at 19:09, even after all the fast running. I guess I was really moving slowly for a long time.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Liz and Nick are here, eager to help get me ready. I have a drop bag full of warm clothes. I was hoping for some intel on the mountain weather conditions, but nobody knows what it's like up top. Nick says he went up the trail a ways, and it was quite windy. They convince me to bundle up, somewhat against my better judgment. Longsleeve, hat, gloves. Also they convince me to switch headlamp batteries. I agree, though I grudge the time spent.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Finally leaving the checkpoint, I instinctively start to continue up the road. No, I'm told – it's straight up, up the rough trail to the left. I knew this; I'd read it many times. But continuing straight is habit. I wobble a bit as I start up the trail, that looks more like just a vertical wall. I'm asked if I'm OK, and I think not quite believed as I say yes. Also I had to be reminded to take my water bottle on the way out. Maybe I pushed myself a bit too much with all that fast running?</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; white-space: pre-wrap;">But the trail is fine once I get going. It's slow hiking, no two ways about it, technical, with sheer dropoffs. You have to be careful. It's pretty well lit, and there are photographers at a couple of points. I pass one person early, then see nobody else on the ascent. I've been told parts of this are hands-and-knees, but it never reached that point for me. I was, however, too hot, right from the start, and I never felt any wind or chill. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; white-space: pre-wrap;">In relatively short order, I reached the top. All downhill from here! Haha. Yeah, just the small matter of an easy 53 miles to the finish, after running 100. Here I should mention that this mountain, Parthenion, is where Pheidippides is said to have encountered the god Pan on his journey. Pan called him by name, and asked him why the Athenians paid him no attention, in spite of his friendliness to them. They took this message quite seriously on Pheidippides' return, built a temple to Pan, and instituted annual ceremonies and sacrifices.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I did not encounter Pan. But I well believe that a person here could see anything imaginable. As I wondered, not for the first time, about how Pheidippides could possibly have accomplished his feat, I was again baffled. I couldn't imagine that ascent without a headlamp. Tonight, we also had a full moon. Pheidippides did not. How do I know this? Because when he got to Sparta, the Spartans, though sympathetic, by law could not send help during their religious festival of Carneia. "It was the ninth day of the month, and they said they could not take the field until the moon was full."</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Yes, we are nominally recreating Pheidippides' epic mission by running the Spartathlon, but it is kind of a joke. Pheidippides did not have paved roads. He didn't have a headlamp. He didn't have a GPS watch. He didn't have a marked course. He didn't have tech fabrics and cushioned running shoes. Most importantly, perhaps, he didn't have aid stations every two miles. His is still a mind-boggling accomplishment. Last year, famed ultrarunner Dean Karnazes attempted to run the course eating just what had been available to Pheidippides: olives, figs, and cured meats. He finished, but had to abandon the diet at some point, and still said it was the hardest thing he'd ever done.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Race, Part III: The Mountain to Sparta</span></span></span></h2>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial";"><span style="background-color: white; color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">The rain started just as I left the mountain-top checkpoint, though for now it was just drizzling. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">As I had feared, the mountain descent was much worse than the ascent. It was steep and technical, with loose scree. With my poor abused toes, just walking down this was quite painful, and that would take intolerably long. But to run it quickly would be to court disaster. I finally settled on a slow, careful trot. I was dumbfounded as immediately, someone went flying by me. I wished I'd had his feet and shoes at that point. Well, at least my legs still felt good.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #373737; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">To add insult to injury, the trail descent was even longer than the ascent. Finally, with immense relief, I saw road ahead. Shortly, I arrived at Sangas Pass, checkpoint 49. There was a woman sitting in a chair with a glazed expression. But as I drank my Coke, she left just ahead of me. I was running well again, and decided to stay with her, as otherwise the road was empty and lonely at 3 am. But she was running better, and gradually left me behind. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">The last 50 miles of the course is supposed to be relatively fast, if you have saved energy for it. It's 20 miles of mostly flat over the plains of Tegea, the flattest part of the course, then a big hill, several miles of rolling, and a long, fast downhill 12 or 13 miles to Sparta. So after just a bit more downhill, I was onto the flat section, down to about 2,100 feet of elevation. I might have hoped this would pass quickly, but it did not. The next 40 miles were interminable, as I kept expecting to be farther along than I was whenever I would check the distance. The problem is that flat and isolated is boring. The only thing there was to break up the monotony was the slight chill and rain, and of course the pain in my feet and increasing chafing at every possible fabric / skin surface. The right little toe had now decided to follow suit with the left, and the left big toenail felt like it was sliding around freely. Every 50 feet so or I would adjust the rotation of my belt, trying futilely to minimize the chafing.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">Compounding the challenges of fatigue, boredom, and aches and pains was the simple fact that this race is just... <i>big</i>. That's really the only word for it. I've run lots of 100s, and though it's hard to really conceptualize what running 100 miles means except when you are doing it, nonetheless you can conceptualize the course, and the major landmarks and aid stations along the way. Here I was experiencing a kind of overload in my mental representation of the race. I'd already run 100 miles, and though I had the rest of the course in my head... it just kept going, and going, and going. It's not just the extra length. I've come close to that before at 24-hour; this is different. It's the sheer quantity of different features. You're running through different parts of Greece, and this year, through very different weather conditions. It's too many contexts.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">The next major checkpoint (52) was Nestani, at mile 106.6. Like so many other villages, it was sitting on a hill, so there was a bit of walking heading in. Here I'd left a drop bag with a fresh pair of Hokas. But there was nothing really wrong with the pair I had on, other than that they sucked, and a new pair of the same wouldn't help that. However, I eagerly dumped all my warm clothes into the bag, stripping back to singlet. Of course, the moment I left the checkpoint, the sky opened up and started pouring. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">I hadn't known it then, but Traci Falbo must have been in very bad condition in the medical section at Nestani when I arrived. She'd been ahead of me, and Liz saw her and her husband there when she arrived too late to meet me. Traci is as tough as they come, but her stomach and the mountain descent had done her in. Over her objections, her crew had to pull her here for medical reasons; they were waiting for the ambulance when Liz arrived.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">By this point I must have been back into the mindset of thinking of sub-30 as a possibility again, because I remember checking my splits and leaving quickly, when the volunteers had tried to talk me into a chair and a blanket. For a long while now I would be tracking about 30 minutes off my "fastest" splits, which would put me in right at 30 hours if I could hold it. A big "if", but with the carrot there, my motivation was back.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">Lots of the next long stretch were dismal, as the rain poured, everything chafed, my feet hurt, and my energy tried to wane. My bandages had fallen off. I think the worst was the roads where you couldn't see well enough in the dark to avoid the deep puddles, or there was no avoiding them; everywhere you stepped was tromping through lots of water.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">Several checkpoints later, during one of these running-through-a-river stretches, my Garmin gave me a low battery alert. Really?? My fancy new 920, which was supposed to get 40 hours in ultra-trac mode? I got 22? That was the last straw; everything about the watch was more annoying than my trusty old 310. I was ready to write Garmin a nasty letter. I turned off the GPS, hoping the watch itself would last for a while longer. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">Well, nothing for it but to soldier on. But a checkpoint or two later I noticed that the Garmin still claimed to be accumulating mileage. Then I remembered it had accelerometers, and was tracking inertially. I compared to my split charts, and actually it seemed to be tracking quite well. That meant I could still use it to check my pace and progress. Cool!</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">Checkpoint 57, Zevgolatio, at mile 115.6, was marked as a crew access point, but again I didn't see my crew. I assumed they were dealing with Rob, which was after all only fair; they were really his crew. Somewhere in here, the belt chafing got too be too much, and I draped it over my shoulder like a bandolier. Much better! The groin chafing, sans-bandages, was still an issue, but the cold was helping there. Also in the rain, it was now so wet that it was more lubricated.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">An eternity later, I was finally approaching the next major checkpoint, Alea-Tegea, which would also herald the next phase of the race. Here, disaster struck. In a daze, I guess, I'd blown through an intersection, missing the marked turn. I didn't realize it until quite a while later, when I saw a yellow arrow pointing <i>towards</i> me. That wasn't right. The course was marked with yellow arrows. What was that doing there? I still don't know, but eventually I backtracked to the intersection and found my mistake. If the arrow hadn't been there, who knows how much farther off course I'd have gone. But now I made an even worse mistake. Just as I reached the intersection, my crew vehicle drove through it. I yelled out that I'd just gone way off course. In the confusion, my recalibration with the proper direction was disrupted. I followed the car out of the intersection as they headed on to Alea-Tegea, but I hadn't made absolutely certain I was now following the arrow. After going a long way not seeing any course markings, I eventually decided I (and my crew) must <i>still</i> have taken the wrong way out of the intersection, and turned around. It was a long way back. And of course, no, we'd been going the right way after all. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">Finally, very angry with myself, I reached Alea-Tegea, mile 121.4. It was not quite dawn, but just light enough for me to be able to dump my headlamp with Liz. Also I dumped my belt, after transferring my runner ID to the pocket on my handheld, and strapping my clip-on shades to the back of my hat (as if I would need them again, ha!).</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">Leaving, it felt great to be unencumbered, but I was in a foul mood because I was sure I'd just blown any chance I had left at sub-30, for no good reason whatsoever. The Garmin said I'd just added 1.5 miles to my trip, call it 15 minutes. I had been right on the edge; I didn't see how I could make that up.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">A couple of miles later, and we were running along the shoulder of the highway to Sparta, where we'd stay for the rest of the race. Cars whizzed by, usually with a shouted "bravo!" out the window. It was time for the long climb, about 800 feet over five miles. I'd been told to just walk this, and I mostly did, but it was a bit frustrating, just on the edge of something you think you should be running. A Japanese runner (of which there were 60 in the race!) passed me, running very slowly. I had heard, and it seemed to be the case, that the Japanese tend to avoid ever walking, instead getting their recovery in time spent at checkpoints. Different strokes.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">Here more problems with my pacing plan became apparent. I was supposed to be making up 6-7 minutes of cushion on the cutoffs per checkpoint, but walking is walking, and it's hard to walk 6 minutes faster than the walking pace assumed by the cutoffs on the hills. I appeared to be losing time on my target splits. After I saw that I was 46 minutes behind at one point, or 16 minutes behind 30-hour pace, I stopped paying close attention; I would run what I could run, but sub-30 appeared to be gone.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">Finally the long climb was over, and we began about seven miles of rolling hills. I kept thinking I was farther ahead than I was, anticipating the long descent into the Monument checkpoint. But that was still a ways off. Regardless, I was now taking full advantage of the downhills, running them very fast.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">In the daylight, I still didn't see Pan, but I did begin to hallucinate a bit. Specifically, road signs and other objects by the side of the road insisted on being perceived as people, runners to pass, bent over in odd postures. Even when I consciously realized one particular kind of sign was always a sign and not a runner, I couldn't help seeing them as runners.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">But there were real runners as well, and I was still passing them. Finally I caught up to one who looked familiar. Was that Ken? My tired brain refused to quite make the connection, though we had spent a lot of time talking over the past few days. Indeed it was. I had wondered how he was doing, for quite a while. Either he was doing well, or he'd dropped. Here he was, so he was doing well. He yelled at me to go get that sub-30. I replied that I maybe could have, if I hadn't gone off course. But I was moving much faster than he was at this point, so the conversation didn't last long. Somewhere over this stretch the crew car is parked by the side of the road, and Liz and Nick wave, and say I look good. Well, of course I do. I'm running fast, with plenty of energy in my legs!</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">Finally I reach the actual long downhill to Monument. This is a huge relief. There's still one more climb, but the rest of the race is now very simple: run downhill fast, walk up a big hill, run downhill fast all the way to Sparta. Now, I can smell the finish. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">I'm now passing people left and right. I recognize British runner Debbie Martin-Consani; she's doing great. I pass Paul Ali as I near Monument. Like most runners at this point, he's protected from the rain and cold, with a poncho. I am loving it in just a singlet. Having lived in Vancouver for 10 years, I'm quite comfortable running in the cold and wet, and it's fast conditions. It would be horrible if I weren't moving well, though. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">After leaving Monument, it's a 300-foot climb over maybe a mile and a half. It feels steeper. Anyway, I'm happy to walk it and give my lungs, heart, and legs a break. Now, finally, almost 140 miles into the race... I really need that porta-potty. No pre-race porta-potty, nothing for 140 miles; that must be some kind of record. I find a convenient place behind a bush, and lighten my load. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">Now, the top of the hill: checkpoint 69, only five more to go, then the finish. It's time to turn it loose! I think I'm supposed to be able to look down into the valley ahead and see Sparta off in the distance, but it's totally fogged in, and I can't see a thing.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">After running a little bit, I realize that I no longer have to check my target splits to see how I'm doing. I know how far I am from the finish, and what time it is, and that essentially everything on the way is fast terrain. And... I have about two hours to run something less than 12 miles. !!! Really, I can get a sub-30 by running 10-minute miles, downhill?!!! How did that happen? Something about my target splits based on the cutoffs is clearly messed up in the later part of the race.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">Now I am really excited. For the next few checkpoints I run at about 7:30 pace, and don't stop for Coke or water. I'm on a mission. I am still afraid something will go wrong; the elevation profile looks smooth and downhill, but there are always little bumps, and walking even a short stretch will mess up my average pace. Also I'm not entirely sure I trust my brain to do calculations at this point. Indeed, there is one sizable stretch that's slightly uphill. </span></span><span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">But every time I check, the numbers get better. Now I have to run 12-minute miles to make it. Now 15.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">The weather has become truly abysmal, and even the side of the highway is a river, with no way to avoid trudging through it. But nothing can dampen my enthusiasm now. I pass a few last people, trying to get them to come with me for sub-30. They won't make it. But then a few miles from the finish, I pass an Italian who is moving well. We exchange a high-five. As I pass, he's clearly conflicted. "Is there anyone close behind me?" "No!" To me that means I don't have to worry he will try to catch me. Not that that matters much, but a place is a place. (Actually in the end he almost caught me!)</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">So finally, as I get closer and the grade levels off, and I am clearly going to make it, I allow myself some short breaks. As I enter Sparta, the downhill is done. It's finally sinking in, I am finishing the Spartathlon, and in a very good time. Wow. I reach the last checkpoint, 74, 1.5 miles to go. From this point I am escorted by a teenager on a bike. He lets me know the course ahead, wants to know where I'm from, my running history. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">We turn right; that means there's only one turn to go. I don't realize it until later, but now I am running on Lycurgus Street. Lycurgus was the legendary early Spartan lawgiver, who instituted many of the militarily-oriented reforms that made Sparta Sparta. My great-grandfather was Charles Lycurgus Hearn. He hated the name.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">Finally my bike pacer points out the final turn ahead, and I let out a cry of joy. I know that after that, it's just 400 meters to King Leonidas and the finish. </span></span><span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">You finish the Spartathlon when you touch (most people kiss) the foot of the huge statue of Leonidas at the end of the street.</span><span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;"> </span><span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">Leonidas was not, in fact, the king when Pheidippides arrived in 490 BC. He was the king in 480 BC, when the Persians were back for a second try; he led the famous Spartan 300 at the Battle of Thermopylae. The plaque on the statue reads ΜΟΛΩΝ ΛΑΒΕ – "come and take them". This is what Leonidas, vastly outnumbered by the enormous Persian army, replied to Xerxes when ordered to lay down their weapons. The Spartans eventually fell, but not before inflicting severe casualties, and critically delaying the invading army. In the end the Greeks won. Had things gone differently, we would not have Classical Greek philosophy and democracy as part of our cultural history.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">We make the turn. Dave Krupski cheers for me as I go by – which means, unfortunately, that he's DNFed. I see there are other Americans with him, but I am not coherent enough to identify them.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">Coming down the final quarter mile was unbelievably emotional. I had imagined this so many times, read so many race reports, seen so many photos. Finally, here I was. The city was cheering, pulling me in, sharing in my triumph. As I got closer, a huge crowd of children joined me, all offering high fives. </span></span><span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">My name was announced.</span><span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;"> </span><span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">Where is Leonidas? Finally, the view opened, and there he was. I had made it. I sprang up the steps with a huge grin, and kissed his foot. Done!</span><br />
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">After I caught my breath, everything happened at once. Liz was there, I was surrounded by photographers, and I was offered a drink of water from the river Evrotas from a chalice. Then, I received my olive wreath. There was some confusion, as it had not quite occurred to me that my hat was in the way. Next, I was given a bag, prepared for me by schoolchildren, with hand-drawn artwork and a ceramic medal with number on it. After more photos, and soaking it in, I was led away to the medical tent, as is every finisher. Vangelis was playing on the loudspeakers. Not Chariots of Fire, but Come to Me, from the album Voices. Later I think I heard something from Rapsodies, rather obscure. I approved.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">In the medical tent my shoes were removed, and my feet cleaned. I hated to look. My muscles were checked and massaged; actually they felt fine. I was really in pretty good shape. A handful of kids appeared, wanting my autograph.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">I learned that I somehow had finished in 29:35(!), in 28th place. I don't know where those extra 25 minutes came from, when I'd been so sure sub-30 was out of reach. Also Liz says they'd announced me as the third American finisher, and first American man. I was dumbfounded. I guess that would mean Mike Wardian had DNFed.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">I saw Traci's crew, and yelled out for information on how she'd done. Turns out she was lying right across from me, and I got the whole story then. She'd just arrived here from the hospital.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">As we got into the provided cab to our hotel – a quarter mile away, at the corner of the final turn, obviously not walkable for someone who'd just run 153 miles! – the music had switched to Zorba the Greek. At the celebration that evening in the main square of Sparta, the live band also played Zorba the Greek. As I finish this report it is 12 days later. And in that entire time, NOT ONCE has Zorba the Greek left my head. I wake in the middle of the night, and it is still playing. I know races like this can change you permanently, but this wasn't the kind of change I expected. Well, at least it's not a ringtone.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">After a few hours' crash in the hotel room, Liz and I wandered down to the street, found an outdoor seat at a restaurant, and watched the rest of the finishers come in. There was Mimi Anderson! (And yes – she did it. After sleeping for 12 hours, she turned around and ran all the way back. Amazing.) And Connie! And Ed! And yes, Rob! He finally got his revenge on the course. Of the Americans, in the end 9 of 20 starters finished. The first two were Katy, who ran an unbelievable 25:09, beating the course record by nearly two hours, and placing 4th overall; and Aly, who also managed to beat the old course record. Incredible. If I thought my sub-30 was an accomplishment, I need look no further to regain some humility. But it turns out I had almost caught Szilvia Lubics, the former women's record holder.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">The next day we had a big luncheon with the mayor of Sparta, and were given individualized gift bags, with wine, olive soap, and other local products, and a DVD with our personal finish photos. T</span></span><span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">hen, we were bused back to Athens. Or would have been – instead, Nick and Yiannis offered us a ride in their car, as Rob chose to ride the bus. This made for a much more pleasant trip, with great conversation, and none of the bus mishaps the others endured. We stopped for a break at a little cafe on the Corinth canal; a large Greek wedding was going on on the opposite side. Here we also watched a very unusual bridge in operation. When a boat approached, the bridge descended <i>under</i> the water to make room, then rose up again. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">On Monday, we saw some sights in Athens, then attended the gala awards celebration dinner.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">I finished in 29:35:12, 28th place overall, and 3rd place for 50 and over, of which I'm particularly proud. (Actually I was two weeks shy of turning 50, but in Europe it seems you're listed by the age you will turn that year.)</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">My strategy of starting slow and trying to minimize the fade paid off well. Here's a graph of my race position at each of the timing mats; once past the marathon mark, I passed people throughout the race. Everyone that finished ahead of me was at least half an hour faster to Corinth. My segment splits to Corinth / Mountain Top / Sparta were about 8:35 / 11:10 / 9:50. </span></span><span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">Still not exactly negative splits, but about as close as you can come at Spartathlon, I think.</span><span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;"> </span><span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">I love it when a plan comes together!</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc820wFMu0aFLSX-czZE_t2sKXvPjmER0u-Yv3fljwlxN1D18Xuh5wkfcWEQupjICZRJOFxkbI4qZ_F8HyWwTtsDynx5gpZLOdJx4tqkjhssIHIZCxLMFKr5LMbCjXTU1XxHEPyo5iyUsP/s1600/Screen+Shot+2015-10-08+at+5.02.33+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc820wFMu0aFLSX-czZE_t2sKXvPjmER0u-Yv3fljwlxN1D18Xuh5wkfcWEQupjICZRJOFxkbI4qZ_F8HyWwTtsDynx5gpZLOdJx4tqkjhssIHIZCxLMFKr5LMbCjXTU1XxHEPyo5iyUsP/s640/Screen+Shot+2015-10-08+at+5.02.33+PM.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span></span><span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">Overall there were 374 starters and 174 finishers, for a finish rate of 46.5%. That's on the high side of the historical average, which is about a third, though not as high as last year, when over half finished. The cold rain on the second day probably made for faster conditions than heat, though it was hotter than forecast on the first day, and no doubt the dramatically variable weather conditions were challenging for many. Overall I think the finish percentage is trending higher in recent years (with exceptions for particularly hot years), because the level of ultrarunning is rising worldwide, and the entrants are on average at a higher level. This year in particular, the introduction of auto-qualifiers must have made a difference. And for next year, the general qualification standards are being tightened.</span><br />
<span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span></span><span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">Here are all the American finishers (9 / 20 starters):</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">25:07:12 Katalin Nagy</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">26:50:51 Alyson Venti</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">29:35:12 Bob Hearn</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">30:58:54 Ken Zemach</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">31:44:46 Andrei Nana</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">32:22:47 Karl Schnaitter</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">34:06:14 Lara Zoeller</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">35:10:03 Connie Gardner</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">35:40:19 Eduardo Enrique Aguilar</span><span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">Finally <a href="http://www.runningahead.com/logs/8da70121cbab448781c1036f54ce3cc1/workouts/6e08ce3387b0475cac279dec3ca18187" target="_blank">here is a link to my RunningAhead race entry</a>, with all of the checkpoint splits, and <a href="https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/11DknPoNJCTZWFmtHpURPhJ0-6hEDgidqaZpXpjKKNlI/edit?usp=sharing" target="_blank">here is a link to my pacing spreadsheet</a>.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">As I write this it's almost two weeks later, and the fact that the race is over, that I accomplished all my goals, is still sinking in. It will take a while longer to figure out exactly what it means to me. Certainly, it's my biggest running accomplishment to date. I was tested; I passed. However, others were tested harder than I was. I had one major low point, and a pretty solid rest of the race after that. I attribute that mostly to careful planning, preparation, and pacing, moral support from my crew, and of course determination. </span></span><span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">I still have never had to face the task of finishing a race while pushing the cutoffs, or under extreme physical duress, where every step is painful. It's only when you truly push your limits that you learn who you really are, and I think I did not come as close to my limits here as I might have anticipated. You learn more from failure than success (a silver lining for those of you reading this who did not finish).</span><br />
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">Having said that... memory is selective. You don't remember all the hard parts you had to push through, or the details of the pain, because your brain is smart enough to know that's not a good idea. But I do know this. In every 100-mile race I've run, there has always been some point in the race where I not only wanted to quit, but was convinced that I was done with running, period. Of course that disappears quickly after the race. But at Spartathlon, I never once felt that way. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span></span><span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">Looking back on the experience, I guess I am somewhat surprised that the finish rate is as high as it is. Again, this race is just <i>big</i>. It's a very long way for one of a dozen or so things not to go wrong and take you out. I suppose that reflects the level of ultrarunner selected by the qualification standards, but most of those standards really can't remotely prepare you for Spartathlon. Maybe it's a testament to the value the participants place on this race, seeing a finish as something worth truly fighting for.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">Looking forward to next time – and who am I kidding, how can there not be a next time? – I have to ask myself what I can improve. Somehow, I have to address the chafing. Maybe this year was special; lots of people had horrible chafing, who, like me, never do. But it will take some investigation. And of course shoes. I knew I wasn't happy with my selection; when your favorite shoe disappears, what can you do? My pacing plan worked well, though next I time I would more carefully tweak the planned splits. I have to say, the thought of going back and trying to improve on this year is intimidating. I'd likely not get lucky again with cool weather on the second day, or with a million other little things. But at the same time, I am chomping at the bit. I can't believe that it's over, and I now have to wait a whole year.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">Finally, a big THANK YOU to Liz, Nick, Yiannis, Rob, and of course Kostis, and everyone else who helped put on the greatest footrace on Earth.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">Thank you for reading.</span></span><br />
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Bob Hearnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01351956832733163825noreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2382599380750777712.post-45484772641447078722015-01-06T19:04:00.000-08:002015-01-10T17:03:47.379-08:00New Year's One Day 2014-2015<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">The New Year's One Day is a 24-hour race held in San Francisco, starting at 9am on New Year's Eve, ending at 9am on New Year's Day. You run as many miles as you can in one day. I'd been wanting to do this race for a few years. I was inspired to think about the 24-hour format by my friends Mike Henze, who was on the 2010 US National Team (and did phenomenally at worlds), and Jen Aradi, who has several times been an alternate. But circumstances kept me from being ready to give it a shot, until now. Having three 12-hours and five 100-milers under my belt, and being mostly healthy, I figured it is finally time.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I was especially interested to see what the effects of my recent low-carb, high-fat training would be. In principle, I could burn much more fat during the race, reducing the need to take in lots of carbs. Fueling is a big deal in ultras; GI issues are the #1 reason for DNFs in 100-mile races. Also this training should make me more fatigue-resistant. In the few races I've done since starting the diet, signs have been positive. Most recently I ran a sub-3 marathon 3 1/2 weeks before the 24-hour, just shy of a PR. I didn't carb load, and I didn't take many in-race carbs. But really the marathon is not the right race to maximize the benefits of fat burning; it's a bit too fast-paced. The 24-hour should be perfect.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Heading into the race I was feeling pretty good. I was a trifle worried about my left hamstring tendons, that I tore a year and a half ago. They'd fully healed, but lately I'd felt them a bit on my long runs. My massage therapist had worked over my hamstrings thoroughly a few days before the race, but that actually left them more tender. So that was a potential race buster. There's always a last-minute scare heading into a big race, but so far (knock on wood), my fears have never materialized. The weather would be mid-40s to mid-50s, pretty ideal. But as race morning dawned, there was a high-wind advisory in SF; my weather app reported 36-mph winds. Ouch.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I had a range of goals for the race. Ultimately, I would be ecstatic to make the US National Team, and go to the 24-hour world championships this year in Turin. But for that I thought I needed 145-147 miles. That seemed pretty unlikely, but I had a pacing plan that would give me a shot at it, without going out too crazy fast and blowing my race. Next below that that, 135 miles would meet the national team qualification standard. I'd get my name on the list, but not in the top six to actually make the team. And my baseline goal was 200km (124+ miles). That, I believed, should be achievable, if nothing went really wrong. Oh, and the course record was 127.8, so that would be the next incremental goal.</span><br />
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<img alt="" aria-busy="false" aria-describedby="fbPhotosSnowliftCaption" class="spotlight" height="298" src="https://fbcdn-sphotos-f-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-xpa1/v/t1.0-9/10885452_10203033608391244_8102322756249341562_n.jpg?oh=8712d25bd8229ed4a2734c31458af59b&oe=55292345&__gda__=1430222163_0749f62627d2033260229856837a839f" width="400" /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">As 9am approached we all lined up – not only the 24-hour runners, but a lot of 6-hour and 12-hour runners as well. I would be getting lapped a lot. The course is a 1.061- (later revised to 1.065-) mile loop, at Crissy Field, right on the bay under the Golden Gate Bridge. The views are to die for. Bridge, Marin Headlands, Angel Island, Alcatraz, Palace of Fine Arts (which as the race wore on my mind kept spoonerizing to Phallus of Pine Arts, or Alice of Pine Farts), to name a few. You couldn't ask for a more pleasant setting. And the course was fast, almost totally flat, 40% asphalt, 60% dirt.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Ready to go, sporting my Cascade Crest hoodie</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">With little fanfare, we were off. I ran the first hour easy, a little faster than ideal, low 9ish pace, sub-10 minute laps. But about as slow as was comfortable. The wind was a big issue, but only for the first three hours. I was bundled up for a while, warm-up pants, longsleeve, jacket, hoodie, hat and gloves. They came off gradually.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">After the first hour (per Mike Henze's recommendation) I started walking. The perfect place was making the return-trip turn, heading into the wind, also where there was a short bit of sand. I kept my walk breaks there the rest of the race. I tweaked the walk time, about 1:00-1:30 per lap, to keep me at 10:30 laps running as easy as I could. That would put me at 145.36 if I could hold it, plus a 5-minute cushion on that pace from the first hour. I held that pretty well for several hours, but the walks were getting down to less than a minute by about 7 hours in, and I made the difficult decision to back off. I really wanted to work for 145+ if there was any chance, but I knew it was remote, and I had to be realistic. I wasn't going to hold that the rest of the way. So better to switch early to something more sustainable.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I backed off to 11:00 laps (still conservative for hitting 135 miles, next meaningful goal), which felt pretty good for a while. More cushion in the walk segments, not having to worry as much about my every-other-lap half a gel and water. I'd set up a table and cooler, with lots of water bottles and gel flasks. It did cost maybe 10-15 seconds. But better than carrying stuff, I thought. I guess if I had a really dedicated crew they could stage my next hit on the table, take it from me 50 feet later, and re-stage it. But what a thankless job that would be. The first gel flask (6 gels) lasted 24 laps, or something over 4 hours. Then I went through a can of Coke for the next 6 laps, then on to the next gel flask.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">But after only a few hours at 11:00 laps I began to feel like maybe that was too fast as well. I think this was my roughest time, 10ish hours in. Soooooo long left to run, and already pretty tired. I could see these progressive slowdowns happening until it was just a slog, missing even my reasonable 200km goal. Very depressing. And then a funny thing happened. I'm not sure what triggered it, but I just got into a different headspace. It had been dark for a while, but it cooled off, the people (participants and mundanes) thinned out, and I realized that I was actually holding 11:00 just fine... and I began to see the race differently. It was going to be a long night. Each lap was the same as the next, with little external stimulus to distinguish them... if I was running sustainably, what difference did it make if it was this lap, at 9pm, or one just before dawn? They were all the same. This one might just as well be that one. In other words, there is not an ungodly X hours left, there is only now, and now is not too bad. Which is the kind of trick I usually use, but here it was a bit different. In a marathon I might think "I just have to hold pace for one more mile, that's all that matters". Now, it was "I just have to hold pace for one more hour". And the hours clicked off. I realized that if I held 11:00 until 2am, then by symmetry, having run 10:30s for 7 hours to start, I could back off to 11:30, and still comfortably clear 135.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Pic by Keith Blom</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Oh, and along the way, New Years happened. My on-the-minute lap timing had me finishing a lap exactly at midnight. There was a big celebration. As well, a lot of the 6- and 12-hour runners were finishing their runs (they started at different times throughout the day). I didn't linger long, but there was champagne, so I grabbed a cup, as that lap's fuel. Then the fireworks started!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Also along the way, after 8 hours or so I finally went through the aid station chute instead of the lane with our personal tables, just to see what was there, and saw that there was a leaderboard. I was in 3rd. Huh. Then a bit later I was in second, three laps back. Then later, two laps back. OK, leader is fading, he is mine. A bit silly to even bother thinking about who's ahead this early, but I was surprised not to already be in the lead. My battle was not with the other runners, it was with big miles. Hard to imagine multiple of us hitting big course records. But then the next update he was 5 laps ahead, huh?? And a couple updates later he was gone, and I was 9 laps ahead of the next guy. OK, whatever. (Turns out he switched to the 12-hour event mid-race.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Approaching 2am, I set a 4-hour PR for 100 miles with a 16:50:47 split. I still felt good. Around 3:00 I spent 15 seconds or so digging up my pacing cheat sheet, which told me that 132 laps was just over 140 miles. I'd been doing the math in my head, and wasn't sure. 132 looked iffy. 130-131, if all went well, seemed reasonable. But 140 miles sure would be nice. I'd been hoping 132 would be just under, so it wouldn't matter. Anyway, I forget the calculations now, but around 3:30 I decided it would be best to back off again.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">So 11:30 laps it was. Again, lots of extra breathing room, extended walk breaks. And here I really had to wonder. How much of this really is mental? A hell of a lot, I know. But when I am making these pacing tradeoffs... am I basing that on my expectations of what's physically possible for me, or what's mentally possible? It's very different from marathon pacing. This far into a 24-hour, everything is going to hurt. It's a given. So I'm going to want to slow down or stop, no matter how fast or slow I'm running. 11:00, 11:30, does it really make any difference? Couldn't I have just toughed it out? I don't know, maybe.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Anyway, so yeah, 11:30s. I was counting off the hours now until sunrise. I hadn't checked, I thought 7ish, surely I should get some twilight by 6ish... it took forever.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">As 6am approached, how the final laps might play out became clearer. 6am was a lap boundary. That meant I could hit exactly 15 more laps at 12:00 per, for 131. Holding 11:30 laps would only save me seven and a half minutes. So to get 132 I'd have to not only hold, but speed up. I just didn't want it badly enough. I backed off to 12:00 laps, and now the walk breaks were luxurious, 2:00-2:30. The sun came up; every lap now I was counting down to the finish, visualizing painting over the big "8" laid out ahead of me with a "7" behind me as I passed, etc.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">With the daylight I was suddenly a celebrity. The other runners had been complimenting me for some time, as I lapped them over and over doing a steady pace as they almost all walked. But now I was getting kudos at the start/finish for hitting 130 miles, etc. Everyone was cheering me on to keep going. It was empowering. I did feel a little guilty for coasting in at 12-minute laps, not really gutting it out for 140, but damn, I had worked hard, and I would be quite proud with the result. It was happening, I hadn't crashed, I'd done everything right, crushed the CR, handily surpassed the national team qualifying standard. What a feeling. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Finally, 9am came. Game over, I win! Huge congratulations, everyone had to shake my hand. 15 minutes to relax, call my wife, then awards. More congratulations. Kind of surreal. Then, I painfully ferried all my crap back to my Jeep, crashed in the back for a couple hours in my sleeping bag, then drove home, in time to watch Oregon (a semi-alma mater) crush Florida State. And eat a ton of PIZZA. Screw low carb for a while.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">My final total was 131 laps, 139.5 miles. A course record by almost 12 miles, and good enough for 10th place on the list of best performances by US men in the past 15 months. But four people will have to decline or pull out for me to make the team. Most painfully, I'm just half a mile behind #9, Joe Fejes, with 140. If only I had been a little stronger and pushed for that one extra lap! But regardless, I am shocked and humbled. I'm not remotely a national-class runner, at least I never have been before, at any distance. How did this happen? I think most people are just not stupid enough to run this far.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Other stuff... fueling, as the race wore on the gels got less palatable, even at only half a gel every 22 or so minutes, and I drank more Coke instead. I'd planned 150 cal / hour, but in the end I averaged almost exactly 100. Unbelievable. Prior to going low-carb, I'd normally try to get in 300 / hour. No GI issues, and all that blood that would normally go to digestion could go to my muscles instead. Really the low-carb training just about made nutrition a non-issue. No salt either.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Gear... really no issues. I stuck with the same pair of shoes (Saucony Fastwitch 4) and socks (Injinji lightweight) throughout. After chucking all the outer layers, I stayed in shorts and longsleeve throughout the day and night, no hat/gloves. Everyone else bundled up at night; it was a bit chilly. But the chill was bracing; it helped keep me awake.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Average pace... 10:18 / mile; factoring in walk breaks, a bit under 10 minute miles while running. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Event... I can't say enough good things about Wendell Doman and Coastal Trail Runs. This was an awesome event. I don't know why it didn't sell out months in advance. You couldn't ask for a better setup to run big miles, with full support, in an incredibly beautiful setting.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Really I count myself fortunate that all the stars aligned here: fast course, great conditions, pretty healthy going in, smart pacing, enough guts, no nutrition or gear trouble. And already all the thoughts about how stupid running is and how I would never, ever do this again – that I know for a fact I was thinking most of the night – are fading away like vanished dreams when you awake. I guess I will never learn.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Messages sent to me during the race. Thank you!!!</i></td></tr>
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Bob Hearnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01351956832733163825noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2382599380750777712.post-63269375557005364922014-07-09T13:00:00.001-07:002014-07-12T08:56:20.868-07:00Western States 2014 Race Report<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.15; white-space: pre-wrap;">This race was the culmination for me of years of dreams, failure, second chances, setbacks, obsession, drive, planning, and lots and lots of training. So I must apologize for this report's ridiculous verbosity. Honestly, you won't want to read it. It's more for my own benefit, to get the whole experience down. Feel free to skip to the end, maybe look at some of the pretty pictures. Most pics are by Matt Hagen if not otherwise attributed.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1155cc; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="http://www.wser.org/" target="_blank">Western States</a> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">(properly, the </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Western_States_Endurance_Run" style="text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1155cc; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Western States Endurance Run</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, or WSER – but often just "Western", or "States", depending maybe on where you're from; I still haven't quite figured that out) is the granddaddy of all 100-mile races. Rich with history, tradition, and pageantry, it's the one 100 that everyone wants to do. Comparing to the world of marathons, it's like the Boston of ultramarathons. But unlike Boston, there are only 369 slots available. Therefore, it's become very difficult to get in to; for 2014 a typical qualified applicant had only a 6.5% chance in the lottery. I was incredibly fortunate to get in again, after running it two years ago and missing my goal. That goal, of course, was the coveted </span><a href="http://www.sacbee.com/2014/06/26/6508986/bucklin-down-at-western-states.html" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1155cc; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">silver buckle</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, awarded for finishing in under 24 hours. The absolute cutoff is 30 hours, for which you receive a bronze buckle.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Anyone who is interested in running Western States someday (or crewing or pacing) would be well served by reading Joe Uhan's excellent articles on irunfar.com:</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></div>
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<a href="http://www.irunfar.com/2014/06/the-western-states-killing-machine-part-one.html" style="text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1155cc; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Western States Killing Machine, Part One</span></a></div>
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<a href="http://www.irunfar.com/2014/06/the-western-states-killing-machine-part-two.html" style="text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1155cc; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Western States Killing Machine, Part Two: The Marble in the Groove</span></a></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Even more than those, my bible for this year's race was Pam Smith's detailed description of how she won in 2013:</span></div>
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<a href="http://www.irunfar.com/2013/08/how-the-western-was-won.html" style="text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1155cc; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">How the West(ern) was Won</span></a></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But in a nutshell – Western States is a trail race, starting at Squaw Valley, Lake Tahoe, and ending in Auburn, CA, on </span><a href="http://www.wser.org/ws-trail-history/" style="text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1155cc; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">historic trails</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> through the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Some relevant numbers are 18,090 feet of gain and 22,970 feet of descent, but those numbers obscure the actual challenge posed by how they are distributed, as well as by the often rocky, technical terrain, and the typically hot weather. One clear factor, though, is that all that descent inflicts a huge cumulative damage on your quads. There is some very runnable trail in the second half, for those that have legs left. But more often, runners are reduced to slowly poking their way down the gentle downhills in later miles, with nonfunctional quads.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/WQcXZyUMelMnES452KNILwUyOTZ0U4RFtfN3HiwK_PbMCHHxA_RVzKVzp7v5swo_0y7bNllvu-RMpdAwz5RloyMappx2r7lA7dRWuBHiZgy31SY5tlEARpbzZEkF3Grd5A" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="260" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/WQcXZyUMelMnES452KNILwUyOTZ0U4RFtfN3HiwK_PbMCHHxA_RVzKVzp7v5swo_0y7bNllvu-RMpdAwz5RloyMappx2r7lA7dRWuBHiZgy31SY5tlEARpbzZEkF3Grd5A" style="-webkit-transform: rotate(0rad); border: none;" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; font-style: italic; line-height: 17px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Western States elevation profile. Read right (east) to left.</span></td></tr>
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<h2 dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 10pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 17px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Prologue: Western States 2012</span></h2>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I was lucky enough to get into Western States via the lottery on my first try for 2012. I'd been so sure I wouldn't, I had totally forgotten when the day of the drawing arrived. I happened to be at a conference in the Virgin Islands at the time. When I got back to my room at the end of the day, it took me a minute to realize what all my Facebook friends were congratulating me for. Woohoo!!!</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Based on running 20:42 at my first hundred, Javelina Jundred – which I ran almost on a whim, somewhat conservatively – and comparison of course difficulty, I thought I should be able to comfortably run sub-24 at Western States, for the silver buckle. (Javelina also served to qualify me for Western States, on the last day possible.)</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But training was not perfect. Boston (two months before WSER) was a goal race; I was following a marathon training plan, with little to no WSER-specific training. I thought I'd have time to get in some hill training afterwards. But it was 90 degrees at Boston, so I decided to run it easy, and save it for Big Sur, two weeks later. I ran hard at Big Sur, did OK, but it's not a PR course. That left me two weeks fewer to train, and I never quite managed to get my mileage back where it needed to be. I did get in what I thought (ha) were sufficient hills, but as the race got closer, I had Achilles issues, and had to back off. In the end, in retrospect, my training was woefully inadequate, though I didn't realize how much so at the time. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The weather is always a huge factor at Western States; often it is brutally hot. As race day approached, it appeared we would have near-record-low temperatures, removing heat from the equation. Well, so much for all that sauna training! (There, at least, I'd been diligent.) In fact, it was far colder than anyone expected, with rain, sleet, hail, and big headwinds for the first 35 miles or so. A lot of people dropped early with hypothermia. Nobody was prepared for those conditions at Western States.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="589px;" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/5p0epNGhjxUv8QDx8kxj9JMS_TtMgFxNqbLxXSN1jHCYDpKOPkIPRHmJ42mqp19LWnaG6JV2owL5c36owtFDArFl0tPitGxo_6bIvdXlyw0TpEsiuTtsCMPwwhjW8eIlKw" style="-webkit-transform: rotate(0rad); border: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="394px;" /></td></tr>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Coming into Duncan Canyon, 2012. Pic by Keith Blom.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I got through this stretch OK – sort of. I weathered the conditions, but I kept falling farther and farther behind the </span><a href="http://www.wser.org/course/aid-stations/" style="text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1155cc; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">nominal 24-hour splits</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, and I wasn't exactly slacking. I was a little surprised and annoyed by this, but I held out some hope, figuring that those times (helpfully posted at every aid station) were based on actual performances, by runners who had gone out too fast and crashed. I was going to be smarter, and save it for after Foresthill, mile 62. But by Foresthill I was an hour and a half behind, too far. (Some of this was due to blister treatment.) My pacer, however, thought I was running well out of Foresthill, and told me he could still bring me in under 24. I was skeptical, but let him drive. We flew through the next few aid stations. Around 10 miles later I dared to ask how we were doing. OK, he said – if we hold this pace to the end. Uh – no. That was the fastest part of the course, and I had actually used up just about everything over those 10 miles. So, that was that. I could relax, and run it in easy for 25 hours or so, right? I was pretty bummed about missing the silver buckle, but at least the pain could end. Well, no. There was still the small matter of the remaining 30ish miles, on legs that were now totally done. I had spent too much. I also had no more motivation: 24 hours was gone; the 30-hour cutoff was not going to be an issue. Those were the longest, hardest 30 miles of my life. Finally, I crossed the line at 27:17. A bronze buckle it would be.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Lessons learned... first, I had massively underestimated this course. I needed much more, and more specific training. Second, I had to manage my nutrition better. I had way overhydrated, and (according to the post-race blood test) was borderline hyponatremic at the finish. I'd carried two handhelds most of the way, filled with Gu2O, and drunk a lot. But I had no way to quantify that, or the food I'd additionally eaten grazing at the aid stations. My pacer recommended the new book </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Waterlogged-Serious-Problem-Overhydration-Endurance/dp/145042497X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1404860318&sr=8-1&keywords=waterlogged" style="text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1155cc; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Waterlogged</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, by Timothy Noakes. I read it promptly after the race. Since then, I have been very disciplined about my hydration and fueling (more on this below).</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I had unfinished business. I needed redemption. But realistically, it would probably take several years to get in again, and at 46, I wasn't getting any younger.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 17px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Surprise – In Again!</span></h2>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I loved the whole Western States experience so much, I had to find a way to go back for 2013. I wound up pacing Terry Sentinella. Just before the pre-race briefing, on a whim I bought 10 raffle tickets. The odds here are much lower than in the regular lottery, but hey, why not. And lo and behold, the very first number called was my first ticket. I was in again! Oh yeah!</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The other way in to Western States</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 17px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Uh Oh</span></h2>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Since late 2012, I'd had some issues with my left hamstrings. I'd thought they were mostly resolved, but – nope. After pacing 40 miles at Western States, I was kind of beat up. Then I did something stupid. Four days later, I ran a "quadzilla": four marathons in four days. I'd never done this before, but was pretty sure I could do it. In fact, my goal was to run a Boston-qualifying time (< 3:25) each day. And just maybe, win (lowest combined time). Well, winning was out, because two ringers showed up, Chuck Engle and Charlie Johnston. Chuck dropped during the second day, but Charlie stuck it out and ran sub-3 each day. Wow! I ran an easy 3:24 the first day. The second day was pretty painful at first, but not so bad overall, another 3:24. The third day... I was limping badly off the line, with extreme high hamstring pain with every step. I should have DNSed. But I thought that maybe it would settle down, as it had the previous day. Indeed, after a few miles the pain became manageable, and I ran another 3:24. The fourth day seemed to be headed the same way. Very, very painful start, bad limp, gradually resolving. Things were going great; I was thinking 3:20 or even 3:15 to wrap it up, no reason to save anything now. Then, around mile 10 or so, boom, it was back, worse than ever. I walked in the rest of that loop, thought about dropping at the half, should have. But having come that far, I wanted to complete the quadzilla, even it it meant walking the rest of the way (which was pretty painful in itself). I managed to gradually add a little running back towards the end, and finished with a big PW, 4:29, which was actually much faster than it had looked to be for a while.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Little did I then know what that would cost me. I'd torn my hamstring tendons. Tendons take forever to heal, due to poor blood supply. Once I had the diagnosis, it was lots of physical therapy for me. When it was not improving as quickly as I'd like, I opted for PRP (platelet-rich plasma) treatment. I don't know just how much the PRP helped, but gradually I healed, and could start running again. But I had lost several months.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">You don't want your tendons to look like this.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 17px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Training</span></h2>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">After missing the mark so badly in 2012, when I got in for 2014, I had planned to go all-out on my training, get myself in shape for 20-21 hours, so the silver-buckle goal would be conservative. But I got such a late start due to the torn tendons, there was only so much I could do. My return to long distance was the Napa Valley Marathon, March 2nd. I ran it very easy, just to test the tendons over that kind of distance. I had some pain in the second half, but not too bad. Then, Pac Rim One-Day (as far as you can run in 24 hours). I called it good at 42 miles in 7 hours, again easy. Here I had the chance to pick Pam Smith's brain. (She was there running with her daughter, but now and then her daughter would take a break, and Pam would do a lap or two with me or other friends.) So far so good. Then, Umstead 100. What? Another 100, just like that? Well, I had registered back when I'd been more optimistic about my recovery time, thinking Umstead would be great training for Western States. And in fact, it's often used as just that. And Umstead might have gone OK... had I not pulled a glute min a couple weeks earlier, I think hauling a large suitcase. I had to drop down to the 50, and even that was a bad idea; I had to take two weeks completely off in early April for the glute to fully resolve, which should have been prime time to build towards peak mileage. Not good.</span></div>
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<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But from mid-April until race day, June 28, training went just about perfectly. Again, I ran Boston and Big Sur, but both as easy training runs. Then I built the mileage back to where it needed to be, 65, 70, 75, and finally three weeks just over 80 before tapering. Not a lot by elite standards, but a lot for me. May was my highest-mileage month ever. I got in TONS of hill work this time. Almost every run was on hilly trails. At least once a week I'd run to the top of Windy Hill, 1,500' straight up. Often I did repeats. It's the downhill you really have to train for; everybody's quads are shot by the end of Western States. I made a point to bomb the downhills as often as I could. I did the first day of the WSER training camp, covering the middle 32 miles of the course, with the big canyons. Again, I bombed the downhills (which is pretty exhilarating; those are technical trails). Three weeks out I raced a trail 50K with 5,800' of descent. No problem (and 10-minute improvement over last year, on a hot day, for third place overall). Nine days out I did my last real workout: three times up and down (fast) Windy Hill via the steepest route, 15 miles total. No pain. My quads were READY. There was a slight problem here, though; the third descent gave me heel blisters. That's not something you want to start the race with.</span></div>
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<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Again, I was diligent about my sauna training. Starting a few weeks out, I hit the sauna every other day, starting at half an hour and building up to 50 minutes, while drinking up to three liters of water (with electrolytes), to train gut absorption in the heat. When I had the sauna to myself I'd also jog in place for a few minutes.</span></div>
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<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In addition to the above, I did daily supplementary workouts: strength twice / week, stretching twice / week, core three times / week. Lots of squats, lunges, etc., plus additional exercises prescribed by my PT for the hamstrings. I'll be doing deadlifts for the rest of my life to keep those tendons healthy.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The other relevant training factor was weight. I'd gained a fair amount while unable to run. But I'd worked hard to burn it off, and managed to get just below 160, to my lowest weight since I think 1988. (I'm not sure how much of this was due to my half-assed attempt to emulate Pam's carb backloading diet strategy.) I was as light and fit as I'd ever been. Game on!</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 17px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Race Week</span></h2>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It all starts here!</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I arrived in Squaw Valley on Monday, five days before the race. I wanted a few days to help acclimate to the altitude, and also to attend the </span><a href="http://www.irunfar.com/2014/06/2014-medicine-science-in-ultra-endurance-sports-conference-report.html" style="text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1155cc; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Medicine & Science in Ultra-Endurance Sports conference</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #423228; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. There was a wealth of useful and interesting information presented. This is my favorite slide, the official recommendations on hydration and salt intake for Western States:</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="362px;" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-qL0B6lB0O5sy6m7Ap52u65mmUwN1_8BfYYr4L-lhG8Y-Uv4qmIWLtphD8RhT0ESsCn_dOwggCYNxbmZshwDMCJt_61hbGtNvhkJ32X6M1nBotc7eNXpRL7kw7ZNvwdw8A" style="-webkit-transform: rotate(0rad); border: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="453px;" /></td></tr>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Yes, it really is this simple.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Pam Smith continued to be a great friend and offer me advice right up to the race. When I expressed trepidation over how I'd felt ready last time, and blown it, she said </span></div>
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<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">You can run <22 easily with average temps and <24 is not a problem on a hot day. You just have to be smart. I know you had a bad one, but so did I. Doesn't say anything about what you are capable of.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I took this to heart – and began to think, 22, hmm...</span></div>
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<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As race day approached, I began to worry more about my blisters, which it didn't appear would heal in time. Also I was concerned with my right Achilles / calf, which for the past month had been extremely tight, to the point of painful walking, when I got up every morning. So far it had not impacted my running, but I had expected it to resolve during my taper, and instead it seemed to be getting worse. So for the last few days all my free time was spent with my feet in a bucket: alternately warm water with Epsom salts, for the blisters, and ice water, for the Achilles / calf.</span></div>
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<br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Pacer Matt and crew Scott arrived on Thursday, and it was starting to get real. All the pre-race events started Thursday; the traditional trip up the mountain to Emigrant Pass for flag-raising ceremony kicked it off. This year the morning was uncharacteristically cold, windy, and rainy, so we didn't quite make it to the top. But I never miss this chance to connect with the early history of the race, with some of the original organizers.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="561px;" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/lqo67mKIkhsQmVWvuJ7q0l6QfNADk8oA7lOqcLl9FFLFzKTVOm-prTaG0QZ_jCZ1XklBvlpjCXO28Wh54F2Tm89Qx_Tn_vxEggERfEMosRURJyOYb_kFn5HVotBCoylWSw" style="-webkit-transform: rotate(0rad); border: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="547px;" /></td></tr>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The start line, with crew Scott and pacer Matt</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Then, on to the trail briefing, crew briefing, veteran's panel (Q & A with some of the best WSER runners ever), and more. (Striking takeaway from the veteran's panel: in contrast to the message pushed at the conference, that you really don't need any electrolyte supplementation, without exception the veterans all take lots of salt pills.) The whole experience creates a shared bond between the runners (and crew and pacers) that goes beyond just running a race together. We all become part of the Western States family here.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Matt with The Queen, Meghan Arbogast. Bonus Tom Green and Craig Thornley photobomb!</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Friday morning, and it's going to be a busy day. It's time for the official weigh in, jump through a lot of hoops, and more hoops for me, because I signed up for all of the associated medical research projects. So I had a couple of different ECGs. These confirmed what I had learned last year: my heart is great, except for a left-axis deviation, which is perfectly normal for ultrarunners (or really anyone) my age. Then, on to my one-day carb load. Yes, I really </span><a href="http://www.active.com/a3_articles/12e372d7-0759-4a8e-bf75-2ad4ecd690b0/1?page=2" style="text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1155cc; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">cram in all those carbs in one day</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. The protocol starts with a short but intense workout – I was concerned about upsetting the Achilles. But it was fine.</span></div>
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<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">For months I'd been meticulously analyzing what I had done wrong last time, comparing my splits to those of others. Lots of charts and graphs. And I'd come to the conclusion that the nominal 24-hour splits were actually pretty reasonable; they looked aggressive, but matched well what successful runners actually did, even the very experienced successful runners. This would make my pacing job easy. Just check the posted 24-hour split at every aid station, and see where I was.</span></div>
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<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In conjunction with my pacing schedule, I was still putting the finishing touches on my crew and drop-bag plan, up to the last minute. (I don't recommend this.) The drop bags had to be left on Friday morning, so I was scrambling. The one thing that made this slightly tricky for me was my fueling strategy. Since reading Waterlogged, I've adopted Noakes' recommended fueling and hydration plan: consume 60 g of carbs with 600 ml of water per hour (or to thirst). This translates to about half a gel and 1/6th of a 20 oz. bottle every 10 minutes. I carry gels in 6-gel flasks, so a flask lasts exactly two hours, a bottle one hour. Neat, and I always know where I should be in my fueling by comparing the clock and the level in my current flask. It keeps me totally honest and calibrated in my calories. Usually I go with straight vanilla Hammer gel, low sodium, but recently I've been adding in one Hüma gel per flask. Hammer gel is all maltodextrin, but the Hüma adds some fructose, which is absorbed in the gut by an independent pathway. The problem with fueling completely from gel flasks, though, is making sure I have them when I need them. It was a complicated puzzle working out which drop bags and crew access points to place them at optimally. Matt made fun of me for my ridiculously detailed crew plan. Of course, it would all go out the window on race day, as things never go exactly as predicted.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">72 gels, ready to go</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Heading into the weekend, it was looking as if we were in for pretty typical Western States weather. High of 89 in Auburn on Saturday. It would be much hotter for much of the race, especially in the canyons. But last year it hit 102 in Auburn, and there was a lot of carnage on the course. And of course, two years ago we had the freak winter storm.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">'Twas the night before Western, and my blisters still had me worried. So Matt did a bang-up job taping them up. I'd never run any significant distance with taped feet, so I hoped it would hold.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I slept reasonably well, given the incredible excitement and anticipation. I was awake and fresh promptly when my 2:30 alarm went off. Some final foot prep, and on with my midweight Injinjis and shoes: after some indecision, I'd settled on my trusty Saucony Fastwitch 4s. These are road flats. Kind of crazy for a technical trail race, but I had faith in them, and I am a total pansy about shoe weight. They fit me like a glove, and are pretty cushioned for such lightweight shoes. These have been discontinued for a few years, but I stocked up, and have been finding more on eBay. This is my 20th pair!</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Next it's over to the final weigh-in and bib handout. Also, because I'd signed up for all the research stuff, I again had more hoops to jump through. GI pre-interview, blood draw, and I swallowed a pill which would record my core temperature and transmit it to receivers at various points in the race. Also I donned a portable ECG recorder.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="561px;" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/hBbLXS4-qUyWdHiaHCBOiZtCkh-63E7eX0VeDbGEMEk8tPPakPWCYAKdLh3Dvwa4MkEtDLtTzsh2r2sS2_fGxBKOL53SOE-JVcrMo4r8f5yxyu5FFthlnYpi5wm3g9zopQ" style="-webkit-transform: rotate(0rad); border: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="421px;" /></td></tr>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">For Science!</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As the start approached, I bore in mind what a friend from RunningAhead had told me.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This race burns in so many people. Remember that when you are out there. This is the king of trail races. Do whatever you can to bring home the silver buckle.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 17px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Race!</span></h2>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Race morning was cool and pleasant. I toed the line in longsleeve, fleece hat, and single-bottle belt, and we were off with Dr. Bob Lind's shotgun blast at 5:00 am sharp. The race starts with a 2,500' climb in the first 3.5 miles. This is mostly walking for all but the leaders. There were a few short runnable stretches, but otherwise I power hiked it. At the first aid station, I had my first time check. Nominal 24-hour pace here is 55 minutes. In 2012 I was eight minutes over. I was very curious what it would be this year... it didn't seem to me that I'd run any more. This would set the tone for the day. Time? 52 minutes. Yes!!!</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="395px;" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/_dNvfc794XqTnFnv_e6p2suzdGkmMbRN_KYfUlX7RGdFd1kQupEopTmvuCdXHri2piehWvxMMsWDNWEZ5hKjoVqVIOgQjMrOKBM_wTGBoMcpBRlHOmuDE_xW7iCMqixmIw" style="-webkit-transform: rotate(0rad); border: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="423px;" /></td></tr>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So far so good...</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">After that, it was up and over Emigrant Pass, then onto long, descending single track along a ridge. This stretch was annoyingly crowded for me last time. Lots of people going slowly, and not much room to pass. I guess being just that much ahead made all the difference. I think I passed one person, and was not passed, en route to the next aid station, Lyon Ridge, at mile 10.5. Time check: still three minutes ahead. OK. I was doing my best not to work hard, saving it for Foresthill, but I still really wanted to be beating those 24-hour splits. Ideally, I'd build up a cushion, and come in around 22 or 23 hours (after all, Pam said I should be sub-22 easy!), but I'd have to see what the day brought.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7cR6a0iHLJJIzLj696WW7gos08H8uWne6av0S3bGmxjwwWxcsbnjx2eVkZEEmTDH-5GvcYx6Qpi5LS9gfVuchtdsgkRXZrRdbtnh_dgTAzcreaAI5xjHFrmcVTmD2tSUjX67uj6_Ea_sd/s1600/126065-01-193+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7cR6a0iHLJJIzLj696WW7gos08H8uWne6av0S3bGmxjwwWxcsbnjx2eVkZEEmTDH-5GvcYx6Qpi5LS9gfVuchtdsgkRXZrRdbtnh_dgTAzcreaAI5xjHFrmcVTmD2tSUjX67uj6_Ea_sd/s1600/126065-01-193+copy.jpg" height="553" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; font-style: italic; line-height: 18px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Starting to warm up a bit. Pic by Facchino Photography.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Into Red Star Ridge, mile 16, five minutes early. Here I had a long transition, because I switched all my gear, preparing for the heat of the day: cotton t-shirt, AK vest (two bottles), Way2Cool reflective/wicking arm sleeves, bandana, hat with rear flap, extra handheld bottle for dousing. What, you say, a cotton shirt?! That was Pam's brilliant discovery. The air is dry; cotton holds a lot of water, and keeps you cool if you keep it wet.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI3hvXCxcWZ3tv272T030xvo6S_fkw0B-Po7QdrB-tz3RCf2G6EiySJZGx-niJoGDf8mhY383BfF9KfKGLD6lqwzf1p75TYD_XPd3pH9wBV_sF1SlfGVZ0FZ3X-HhPCCD__cqKo_CYhJ5P/s1600/126065-02-095.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI3hvXCxcWZ3tv272T030xvo6S_fkw0B-Po7QdrB-tz3RCf2G6EiySJZGx-niJoGDf8mhY383BfF9KfKGLD6lqwzf1p75TYD_XPd3pH9wBV_sF1SlfGVZ0FZ3X-HhPCCD__cqKo_CYhJ5P/s1600/126065-02-095.jpg" height="640" width="424" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; font-style: italic; line-height: 18px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Ready for heat. Bring it on! </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; font-style: italic; line-height: 18px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Pic by Facchino Photography.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Next stop, Duncan Canyon aid station, mile 23.8. Three minutes under. Chalk that up to the gear change. The Western States aid stations and volunteers are second to none. You are ridiculously pampered, accompanied by your own personal attendant from entry to exit, to make sure you have everything you need. There are several times as many volunteers as runners. Most aid stations I just wanted water, ice, a sponge down, and a little cup of Coke (caffeine and a bit more fructose). Here, they warned us it was about to get hot and exposed. OK, time to get this cooling-suit show on the road. Ice in both vest bottles, to keep my chest cool, ice in the bandana, ice in the hat, ice down the back of the vest, fill the spare handheld, good dousing with sponges, cotton shirt being appropriately absorbent. I was COOL.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">From here we descended into Duncan Canyon proper. Somewhere in here I felt a little rock or something in my shoe. Last time, a small rock in my shoe early turned into a big, painful heel blister, because I didn't address it immediately. I'd learned my lesson. You take care of foot issues NOW. So here I pulled over promptly, took off my shoe, and cleaned it out. But my right leg didn't like these strange non-running motions... one of the adductors was actually beginning to cramp! Scary, so early in the race. I'd had some issues off and on with this muscle, going back over a year. When I started up again I had to walk it off, annoying, as this was very runnable trail. I'd been gradually calibrating my idea of what the canonical 24-hour runner would be doing on any given stretch, based on my decisions and time checks. And the answer was that, at least at this point in the race, the 24-hour runner runs everything that's runnable, flats and downhills, as well as the easy uphills. So I was losing time.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This was my first real down point. But I knew there would be plenty of those, and I just had to roll with it. 100 miles is long enough for quite a few changes. As we went through the bottom of the canyon, I was remembering all the rocks I'd kicked here last time. I kicked a few this time as well, but not nearly as many. Still, it always hurts, especially in lightweight racing flats. Crossing the stream at the bottom, I refilled my dousing bottle. The cotton shirt held water well, but elsewhere I was drying off; the extra bottle helped quite a bit (thanks, Pam!).</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The long climb up to Robinson Flat was something I'd been anticipating, and it was indeed a slog, and exposed and hot. Made worse by the fire damage. (After the enormous damage caused by the </span><a href="http://www.wser.org/category/trail-preservation/" style="text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1155cc; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">2013 American Fire</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, we were lucky to have a race at all. The community really stepped up in getting the trails usable.) I thought I must be losing time here, but when I finally came into Robinson Flat I was six minutes under. Here was my first weight check: 158, down almost 4% from 164 at the start. Whoa. No real cause for alarm yet, but more than I'd been expecting. Then, while I was refilling bottles etc., I answered lots of questions for the GI study. I'd eaten 18 gels, no solid food, no salt pills. No bad GI issues, though I had come close to having to make an off-trail pit stop.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Here I met my crew, Scott, for the first time, and pacer Matt with him. More ice, swap gel flasks, how did I feel? Tired. More tired than I should be 30 miles in. And then I was off. But it was a slow transition. And immediately I was walking again, lots of uphill, walking more of it than I would have liked. But I had to keep it easy, and save it for later. Coming over Little Bald Mountain, it was now a long, long downhill over the next several miles, heading into the first big canyon.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="509px;" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/W5gYJ8iIQuRH5GWxZgh126hsbwR_ssE8PRNkAu-SimELGPu2VDux_IfGje27x70iSIl_u4rmZbliRwPaDtm3RXSeiAnfmAiPIka_KYu2T21BkhkvDmBolo8wibkuN5zsHA" style="-webkit-transform: rotate(0rad); border: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="541px;" /></td></tr>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Somewhere around mile 38? Pic by Glenn Tachiyama.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">On the way to the next aid station, a guy passed me – I asked if he knew the next split distance, which I'd forgotten to note. He wasn't tracking distance, but 24-hour split times; he told me the next goal split time. Wait... that couldn't be right, we still had a ways to go, I was sure, and I would wind up losing at least 10 minutes. I couldn't have been that slow??? Then the urge came again, and I had to dive behind a bush and take care of business. Load lightened, finally into Miller's Defeat, mile 34.4, I was seven minutes behind 24-hour pace, ouch. I had indeed lost 13 minutes! Slow transition at Robinson, too much walking, and the pit stop. Still, it was a little hard to believe, and disconcerting.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="401px;" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/5o4L1yuJEOIDGSLqrZ6bFtI9PtjcTUyCXfRRd9uH-PwZpwxL6ikXBmf-sc4nYTn-MyJalMNWLUFQVcoHYBtil_9PbqxXm7kw0Y6lLM5Vlr_zXvguRMFt5TRerYnH7rjYVg" style="-webkit-transform: rotate(0rad); border: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="602px;" /></td></tr>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Cooling off at Last Chance. Pic by Allen Lucas.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I held steady for the next few aid stations. The day was heating up, but I wasn't really getting hot, thanks to all the ice, dousing, and clothing. At Last Chance (mile 43.3), the thermometer read 106! About to head into Deadwood Canyon, I sat down to change socks, sure I'd left a pair in my drop bag. Nope. My socks were really gritty, but I'd just have to wait.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvDTBX2gARfx5YOi_Wn9cYbViASjJ6byyxhBi9mWM1OzkhbWsxjDwrtAbvfwOb6Y3AIUO1ncvGbSdzoMI3Zelyl0gH69LjmBDWdGvBbsVYU0cT9fw2Ikdk16belPWNwA_4dcGG0y1ws_iM/s1600/IMG_7946.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvDTBX2gARfx5YOi_Wn9cYbViASjJ6byyxhBi9mWM1OzkhbWsxjDwrtAbvfwOb6Y3AIUO1ncvGbSdzoMI3Zelyl0gH69LjmBDWdGvBbsVYU0cT9fw2Ikdk16belPWNwA_4dcGG0y1ws_iM/s1600/IMG_7946.jpg" height="345" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; font-style: italic; line-height: 18px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Pic by Allen Lucas.</span></td></tr>
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<br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Now the fun part. This descent is pretty steep, over a couple of miles, and is somewhat technical, rocky, with lots of switchbacks. This is where, if you haven't trashed your quads already, you really start to do so. Also, it's all too easy here to trip and take a really nasty header. As mentioned, I kick a lot of rocks. But I never fall. There has to be a first time, though, so I am always very careful in situations like this. I managed to get all the way down to the river only kicking one rock. And hopefully with the right balance of speed and quad preservation. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">At the bottom, the landmark Swinging Bridge was out, burned in the fire, so we crossed the river holding on to a cable. This was beneficial to everybody; it's the perfect chance to soak yourself and get cool for the upcoming monster climb. Across the river is the steepest major ascent of the race, up to Devil's Thumb: about 1,600' over a mile and a half, 36 switchbacks. Knowing this is helpful; I counted them off. My power hike has improved lately, thanks to advice from my PTs; I've learned to use my glutes more. I passed several people on the way up, feeling pretty decent. (One guy was commenting, shocked, that his Garmin had him at a 45:00 pace.) Often this ascent is a furnace. This year it was hot, but not nearly as bad as last year. In my ice suit, and soaked cotton, I was fine. At Devil's Thumb, I was still six minutes behind. Oh well; it was still early. At least I wasn't hemorrhaging time. Here I met my friend (and speedy ultrarunner, who didn't get in this year) Joe Uhan, working medical. Later he would also be a pacer, after performing some race-saving PT for one of the lead women.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Then, after a bit more uphill, it was down, down, down into the second big canyon, El Dorado. This descent is longer and deeper than Deadwood, but not quite as steep or (for the most part) technical. Still, it takes energy and concentration to run it well, and if you have not done tons of quad training, you will really be hurting here. I passed a lot of people. At the bottom, it's a long climb up to Michigan Bluff, mile 55.7.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Into Michigan Bluff, three minutes over. Here I saw Scott and Matt again. Another weight check (I held steady at 157-159 throughout the day), another GI interview, more ice, swap some gear, talk to Scott and Matt. Michigan Bluff is a cool old mining town, a nice place for the crews to hang out and watch the leaders come through, good burgers. It’s also all too easy to just walk the short distance through town talking to your crew. Another slow transition. By the time I was on the way out, I realized I’d forgotten to douse with water. And I was heading into the hottest, most exposed canyon! Oops. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="565px;" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/YM60tPZP7-T1XBVLX1jnJC3gD0HxsW1qpi6W0hEye3Boc-W6cy2zy91AGzBDshlhczAlBukwy5D_uyLvXt56LTlxDtTWk9qGwqvgJLA56YgonKU8FiTQaGWcXZvIVNHhKw" style="-webkit-transform: rotate(0rad); border: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="422px;" /></td></tr>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Scott cools</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; font-style: italic; line-height: 1.15; white-space: pre-wrap;"> his heels in Michigan Bluff</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Volcano Canyon is like adding insult to injury. Somewhat steep and technical, rocky; most likely your quads are really complaining here, if they're still working at all, and your toes are in pain. At least it's not as deep as the previous two canyons. Fortunately it wasn't too bad for me this time; I had really done my downhill homework. It's a long hike out, up to Bath Road. After leaving the trail, the road keeps going up. Here pacer, friends, and crew are allowed to accompany you for the short trip into Foresthill. I met Scott here, walking down. I'd forgotten to check the time at Bath Road – coming into Foresthill was a big transition, on to the "fast" part of the course. How was I doing? Scott said the 24-hour time at Foresthill was 6:40 pm. No!!! That would put me more than 10 minutes over. I thought I'd done well in the canyon. So I was pretty dismayed coming in. But Liz and Matt were waiting for me, which was a boost. I hadn't seen Liz since leaving for Squaw Valley. Another weight check, kind of a slow transition. Finally I could get out of my ice suit. No more cotton shirt, two-bottle vest, handheld, sleeves. I felt so unencumbered with just a singlet and one-bottle belt. And the best part? A volunteer told me no, the 24-hour time here is 7:00! So I was nine minutes under. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Yes!!!</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Matt and I headed down Cal Street.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">From here I figured it was just a matter of running well and not pushing it, to see how far under 24 I could come in. I'd read a race report from last year by a woman who was seven minutes behind at Foresthill, and ran 22:56 (</span><a href="http://nefkaontherun.blogspot.com/2013/07/2013-western-states-100-race-report.html" style="text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1155cc; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">this is a great report </span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">– but even longer than this one, believe it or not!). The trail here is a nice, gradual descent, pretty smooth and fast. I was chatting away with Matt, really psyched to be where I was in the race. Then we came into Dardanelles (Cal-1)... 9 minutes over?! That couldn't be right. I double checked with the aid-station chief. Yep. ??? On the way to Peachstone (Cal-2) Matt figured it out. The Foresthill time was actually 6:45, not 6:40, not 7:00. So I was six minutes over there, and lost three more minutes, presumably with the slow transition. A few minutes one way or the other here should be no big deal, especially given the approximation of the 24-hour splits, but for me at this point, this was a huge emotional roller coaster. Ahead is good, elation, celebration; I'll get farther ahead. Behind is bad, despair, depression; I'll get farther behind! I didn't know what I'd do if I missed the silver buckle again, after putting everything into this race.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I could see the rest of the race laid out ahead of me. It was going to be a long, grinding effort, possibly pushing the splits right up to the finish. Dramatic, perhaps, but very stressful and taxing. So I was eager to start picking off time. I still felt good. And BAM, at Cal-2, I was right on pace, caught up to the target split! We turned on our headlamps and kept on trucking. Then I realized... this measurement I was making, comparing my splits to "ideal" 24-hour splits, was very noisy, because those estimated splits are rounded to the nearest five minutes. Some rounded up, some down, which superimposed a ton of noise onto the difference "signal" I was observing. Oh well, so be it. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBBJjYeVogZaVyf3V3LK_IDkBlKw8WxJLkZaBprtcYURgoLAvvUri-ZBQwijJmCfNdFS0IHQHW-Mwd0V5Vv8EqLwW5f9VT6Dr41LeWsUs68AYMydRa5SRwNDnQ19McyNzrSEgTU-NeWRkb/s1600/126065-04-027.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBBJjYeVogZaVyf3V3LK_IDkBlKw8WxJLkZaBprtcYURgoLAvvUri-ZBQwijJmCfNdFS0IHQHW-Mwd0V5Vv8EqLwW5f9VT6Dr41LeWsUs68AYMydRa5SRwNDnQ19McyNzrSEgTU-NeWRkb/s1600/126065-04-027.jpg" height="640" width="424" /></a></td></tr>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Crossing the river. One of these years I will get here in daylight.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Pic by Facchino Photography.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But the gain held. I was getting pretty tired, of course, and (as expected) even the gradual downhills were beginning to really hurt, but slowly but surely, we built up a cushion on the 24-hour splits. At the Rucky Chucky river crossing, mile 78, Scott and Liz were waiting for me, more gear swapping. Across the river... brr!... and into the last segment of the race. The game I'd been playing all day was to try to run easy but honest to the next aid station, and check my split against the 24-hour time. When my cushion/deficit improved, that was my reward. I earned those two minutes! But Matt didn't see it that way. He was always telling me no, you don't have 12 minutes, I'm only going to give you five. No!!!! It became the source of some disagreement. As did the overall view of how we were doing... Matt would do some math and say, we're good, we just need to average 14-minute miles, or something. But no, I said, you just can't think that way here. Every segment is different, some have tons of uphill, and the nominal 24-hour splits are the only useful indicator. It's all about beating the split at the next aid station. Our differences in what kinds of things we focus on as we race became very clear. I'm very analytical and split-tracking oriented (as you might have gathered!). Matt, not so much. Time and again he would point out something I was completely filtering out – the sounds of frogs, crickets. Things that should have been part of the experience, that I was sacrificing in the interest of maximizing my chance at that silver buckle. It's a little ironic that my tendency is to miss the race for the sake of the race. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">At Auburn Lake Trails, mile 85, we were 17 minutes under (by MY accounting!). Finally I began to breathe easy. I just had to not crash and burn, and that silver buckle was mine. Into Brown's Bar, mile 89.9, and (two-time WSER winner) Hal Koerner was manning the aid station. With that much cushion, we stopped for a quick photo op. (I'd first encountered Hal at my first 100, Javelina, where he set a course record. I had the distinction of being the last runner not to be lapped by him.)</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="408px;" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/ZDRFc_aemr8dvQSCJYv7lUtxlCccRnuUhOn237mtYSV4EkDqsvBiCpploUdtjy9QUGhnsJuik9sDUZlxp6L0zKsZaUdA36NnxX01oPzNVL9Sum3dBsfFXA70XfeThcN97Q" style="-webkit-transform: rotate(0rad); border: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="545px;" /></td></tr>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Brown's Bar is the party aid station. You can't help but celebrate, heading into the home stretch.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Getting down the gels was becoming difficult, but if I stopped eating, I could well crash before the finish. I still needed that fuel. So I forced them down, ever more slowly. Finally, on the way to Highway 49, mile 93.5, I gagged and dry heaved after forcing down a half gel, and that was it. I couldn't swallow any more. Maybe it would be enough. At the aid station (hi Scott and Liz!) I tried real food, a quarter grilled-cheese sandwich. Delicious, but it sat like a lump in my mouth, and I was well down the trail by the time it was all swallowed.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Now I was well and truly smelling the barn. There was only one tough part left – and then a steep 900-foot climb into Auburn. No, that wasn't the tough part. It was the long descent to No Hands Bridge. That's fast (but rocky) trail if you're fresh. But this was 95 miles in. Every downhill step hurt. I'd known it was coming, and I worked through it, making pretty good time, passing more people.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Across No Hands, and finally, we began the climb towards the finish. At Robie Point, mile 98.9, Liz and Scott were waiting for me. Matt ran on ahead, letting Liz run the last mile with me. Coming through Auburn in the dark was a novel experience! But we just followed the painted footprints to the stadium. Th</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">ere, </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">we ran around the track hand in hand</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, and I c</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">rossed the line in 23:33:48. I had done it!</span><br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxumO19qiq5kS8WTCufh58x3vwxv8Xvrp380zDl7SSN7RwNhLdKXz439p01POaD3WwmA2oDFsB6HgmQkWDztw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG8bWzD1Xq68hyUtHPEsEB2iceR3VTcKgxtOI0dU5pDV1SrleOpjrNZsacLMf9xnIJ4Z9OqnAsbqJJNlQFCjx4VVzIlq_STXuIrVCQ526uRYzvh62VgjZT5VbDpjbQCiSYEVmjqsDgi2TO/s1600/126065-05-289.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG8bWzD1Xq68hyUtHPEsEB2iceR3VTcKgxtOI0dU5pDV1SrleOpjrNZsacLMf9xnIJ4Z9OqnAsbqJJNlQFCjx4VVzIlq_STXuIrVCQ526uRYzvh62VgjZT5VbDpjbQCiSYEVmjqsDgi2TO/s1600/126065-05-289.jpg" height="425" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; font-style: italic; line-height: 17px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Done!
</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; font-style: italic; line-height: 18px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Pic by Facchino Photography.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 17px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Aftermath</span></h2>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I felt pretty good after finishing – until I got into the post-race medical research stuff. More blood drawn, more GI interviews, another ECG, which took a while. Contorting myself on the table so the electrodes could be attached, my left quad started cramping badly, then after I could finally stretch it, kept spasming for quite a while. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Yes, I ate 60 gels...</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKboRYzzrXCo1_IvcK7t63S4Z2TFjEuG3GDIIPhS57SMBIb3JuCL8pc8DaqpfhOXmk-mv_CX8UB_X6q_dS4IjE51B8o2PRWJlZtH8vgs336tA6UM15UwAYoMTc-C7qw7LEGRo0QecfzvzM/s1600/wires.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKboRYzzrXCo1_IvcK7t63S4Z2TFjEuG3GDIIPhS57SMBIb3JuCL8pc8DaqpfhOXmk-mv_CX8UB_X6q_dS4IjE51B8o2PRWJlZtH8vgs336tA6UM15UwAYoMTc-C7qw7LEGRo0QecfzvzM/s1600/wires.JPG" height="345" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 18px; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;"><i>We can rebuild him. We have the technology. We can make him better than he was. <br />Better, stronger, faster.</i></span></span></td></tr>
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<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Finally, I could relax in a comfy chair; by then I was shivering uncontrollably. Liz was not too thrilled at my state. Eventually I dragged myself up and we all headed to the car, and to the hotel for a nap. The worst part was, with all the medical stuff going on, I completely spaced getting my official finisher photo! Phooey. Well, here's the one from 2012.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="494px;" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/UDIuFCqTFWord6d3ykKJ0SNjqgmxkSvUhi72O38CAka3LNPt8rqRksQbiMZjn24i2WXrM32cV33PjM9HJpBkfcDUBFODZX2DiYpGJSmAhOisXPNmsowqe9VwYzCRb9q6sA" style="-webkit-transform: rotate(0rad); border: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="438px;" /></td></tr>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">2012 finisher pic, by Joe McCladdie.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I wanted to be back to the finish line before 11:00, to see the last finishers come in. Liz and Scott kept napping, and Matt accompanied me. As is often the case, the end this time was dramatic. The last finisher, with two and a half minutes to spare, was Tom Green. Tom was the first person to complete the </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grand_Slam_of_Ultrarunning" style="text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1155cc; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Grand Slam of Ultrarunning</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> (the four most prestigious 100s, in the same year, separated by a few weeks), back in 1986. Tom is 63 now, and is attempting another Grand Slam this year. One race down! This was also Tom's 10th Western States finish, earning him the special 1000-mile buckle.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Pacer Matt, chilling at the awards ceremony</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">After a big breakfast of bacon, eggs, pancakes, sausage, and hash browns, finally it was time for the awards ceremony. All the finishers are called up by name and time to receive their buckles, in order from fastest to slowest. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And, here it is – the coveted silver buckle, that I put so much of my life into earning, physically, mentally, and emotionally.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Receiving my buckle, with Tim Twietmeyer and Donn Zea</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="493px;" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/k9M67f43u4NYf8ftu9N5iRSSCYqLiSYdxvRN2F9sXZkCrRjZ9LKGr0tCyRw1Gw49DfF8E0OdHPDfBlKE5f_2US7x84w3SOYoCBYSlcxzTSHHOZYOuZEDir9wrxH9qD_xAw" style="-webkit-transform: rotate(0rad); border: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="493px;" /></td></tr>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">With Liz</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="529px;" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/5rNIhRIebnIhUjAu2fy85G4NJHvpbCYyLGz-DIzdmIz28Ma718mvbdySUO0WUahFarXvX4kgiXKdR1T7CeFRHB-V7-2IYhuTtpCgBVfja4CjG25gGYqMXcw_8vJQNTDdLA" style="-webkit-transform: rotate(0rad); border: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="530px;" /></td></tr>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Shiny!</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The trip home was uneventful, and over the next few days I expected a fair amount of DOMS, foot pain, etc. Amazingly, nothing hurt. At all. Not even any blisters. This is in stark contrast to what my post-race blood work might suggest (a CPK level of 24,661 indicates significant muscle damage; normal range is 50-200).</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It's hard to believe it's all over.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Thanks again so much to Scott for crewing, to Matt for pacing, to Betsy for sparing him, and most especially to Liz, for putting up with all this nonsense for so many months.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And thanks for reading!</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Oh – bonus, totally gratuitous kitten pic. This is our brand new kitty, that we took home the day after Western States. She hasn't told us her name yet. (Does the Western States cougar have a name?)</span></div>
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Bob Hearnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01351956832733163825noreply@blogger.com4