With earplugs was able to get to sleep around 10 p.m., but woke up at 2 a.m., perhaps from eating too much pasta. After using the bathroom, I was unable to get back to sleep. So at the start I had been up since 11 p.m., Pacific Time.
The start was delayed several minutes, since not everyone had signed the sheet to check in. OK with me because I was waiting for my Garmin Forerunner to pick up the satellite signals (which it doesn't do for more than half an hour into the race). The race start was 5 a.m. Eastern Time, which was 2 a.m. in the Pacific Time I came from. Ouch!
A guy with a long red beard darted ahead. ID'd as Stephen Godale, who won the race a few years ago in 18 hours. Except for him, I was running in front, then realized that at 5 am I couldn't see anything without a headlamp. So I let several other catch up to avoid tripping. A couple of guys doing the 50, and last year's 100 mile race winner Jay Smithberger.
I was impressed with how muggy it felt this early in the morning-- ugh. The rolling hills were bigger than I'd imagined, the scenic countryside appearing as it grew light. A few of us complained about pounding so much pavement though.
The single track of the green section is lush, green, dank. Complete opposite of the dry brown of Northern California at this time of year. I thought I should've learned what poison ivy looks like-- there were lots of the leaves brushing against my limbs in leaves of three.
Beth was fairly timid on the downhills, so even clumsy me overtook her, and then she would hammer it uphill. Sometimes I would not pay attention to the trail, so twisted my ankle a couple times, but nothing major. A few thorn bushes that drew blood (or maybe that was later). We passed South Park aid station (mile 14.3) together. No salt, no Heed, just water, which I had to pour in from gallon containers. This sort of sucked, but this sort of thing happens a lot to front runners at races. The next time around it would be fully stocked.
Perhaps realizing that navigational help was worth a slightly slower pace, Beth slowed a bit to stay with me. To this day I'm pretty sure it wasn't because she thought I was cute or funny. We climbed further until he hit a road going over a dam. Because I had seen the trail returning from the left earlier, I figure we should head left. Where are those purple plates, we wondered? After climbing a bit, arrows pointed left back into the forest. I anticipated a technical downhill, but it was actually straighter and more gradual. Then, suddenly the trail T-boned into another trail.
No arrow. No plates. No ribbons.
No clue. No way!
We deliberated a while, but using the same logic as before, I decided we should head left. We did this, and thought we could see some faint white arrows on the trail faded by the heavy rain Friday night.
We ran and ran and I started getting really nervous because the loop was only supposed to be 4 miles long-- already my Forerunner was reading 4.5 miles, though it had been under-measuring every split up to that point in the dense foliage. I remembered my Foreruner has a map function that if can zoom out to see where you've just run, and to my horror, I saw that we were basically running this convoluted route taking us back towards the road, rather than back to Covered Bridge.
Not about to retrace our steps (with no markings, we wouldn't know it even when we got back onto the right trail), I decided to bushwhack down a huge hill to the trail leading us back. Beth agreed this would minimize our being screwed over, so we went down. It was treacherous and slippery, and I wished again I knew what poison ivy looked like, but perhaps it didn't matter. We added at least a mile, but much of it rather technical and least 15 minutes and a lot of stress. --Screwed the first time.
Apparently, we would not be the only ones to get lost in a similar way, but even more apparently, we lost a lot more time than most people. For the next several miles starting the orange loop, we passed several people who got ahead of us during our long purple section diversion.
My suspicion had been that she was underhydrated (she carried no bottle) and undernourished. Selfish me-- when we entered aid stations together I was too focused on getting my stuff done to watch her. I told her I thought she had gotten behind on her fluids and advised her to hydrate up. Although it would be cool to catch the lead male now a little bit ahead (Dale Holdaway), this was optional-- and probable would be impossible if she didn't fix her fluids.
A true pleasure to run with Beth that long-- a major talent who would the next year down three more records (she came in 2nd, just a few minutes behind, and set the new women's 50 mile record). One of the perks of running at my sub-elite men's level.
The trail exited the station in the same back and forth section, so I got a sense of how many people were following close behind. Closest was Jay, only a minute or two back, and then a few others.
The last section of the orange loop went along the river back to the Covered Bridge, but not having memorized the map, I didn't know this. After an orange plate pointed into the forest, there were no course markings, except these white rectangles on trees not associated with the race. Since this was supposed to be the "orange loop" I was very nervous the whole time and stopped at several junctures to think about which way to go. I passed a couple hiking and ask if the Covered Bridge was up ahead and they told me yes, but "it's far-- several miles." I minorly freaked out, since my Forerunner suggested I should be there in about one mile, not several. But I was not motivated to turnaround and head back.
The trail emerged onto a road with campsites on the side. I saw a string of white arrows close together on the road, leading me to a grassy island on the right. Then they stopped. Huh? I guess I'd been so deprived of course markings, I was too eager to follow them to nowhere. Okay, now what?
"Straight ahead" shouted Jay Smithberger coming from behind, laughing, and so I caught up with him. He didn't know what those arrows were either, but they weren't course markings. We eventually came to the river crossing, under the Covered Bridge (mile 42.3), and I bounded across, drenching my feet for the first time since the river crossing at the beginning of the green section.
I assumed that Jay sped off ahead of me, which is fine. Next aid station, Bridle Staging Area (mile 45.0) came soon.
Bridle Staging Area aide station; photo by Robert Smithberger
The next split is 7.2 miles, the longest of the course. I had stashed an extra bottle in my drop bag at Bridle, but decided just to hydrate well and hope for smooth sailing. There were 3 river crossings. The first was at about 1.3 miles, the second about 4.5, and I forget to take note of the third, perhaps because it was the deepest, and like at McNaughton, up to my knees.
3rd river crossing. photo courtesy Kim Rapp
Felt good, but I was feeling pressure on my big toes from all the water.
The trail lacked consistently clear course markings (where were the ribbons?!), but despite several points of ambiguity, somehow I continued to progress on course. Finally I crested a small hill, turned right and gradually descended to a gate where the trail T-boned onto a paved road.
No arrow. No plate.
???
No clue.
!!!
Screw you number two.
I walked on to the road and ran up and down a bit, looking for some sort of marking, but found none. Phuck! Any hope of catching Jay soon disappeared. I decided that the safest bet was to head back from where I came. I ran about half a mile only to run into....Jay. Guess he hadn't left Covered Bridge before me. An ironic way to catch up to him.
I was disheartened, but at least I could talk with Jay, who knew the course. My hunch that my failure to find any course markings at the turn was not because I was stupid was validated by Jay who laughingly asked me how I could have missed such a well marked turn (friendly sarcasm). We ran together to Rock Point (mile 50.2). My blisters were starting to hurt, so I make the decision to take the extra time to take care of my feet.
This included changing into my
Sportiva Ultranord GTX (you can still click to see what they look like, but they've been discontinued, and I like the Wildcat GTX they now have much better). The Ultranords included a gaiters but not in the elegant attached way the Crossover GTXs do. The Ultranords are heavier than my Wildcats, but I figured that keeping my feet dry and protected needed to be new priorities. The other equipment maneuver was to turn off my Forerunner--the battery only lasts about 10 hours and I wanted to save it for the last 10 miles to the finish, especially since I hadn't been able to record the first 4-5 miles.
Although my feet felt good as I headed out, the rest of me was not. It had grown really hot, and I was a little nauseated. I couldn't run the uphills anymore. As I floundered, I suddenly heard a voice behind me, and saw a bearded runner, who I mistook intially for Steve. He introduced himself by his last name, Mongold, rather than his first name, Bradley.
This West Virginian knows me from my blog. Other cool thing is his occupation as an emergency physician. I suspected there was another ultrarunning ER doc, but hadn't met one until that day.
At least one blogger had him on the radar to win Masanutten the month prior.
Mongold holds the record for running the 292.1 mile Allegheny Trail (4 days, 13 1/2 hours)
This was his first stab at 100 miles. I tried to keep chatting with him, but he was talking and running much more easily than I. I apologized, congratulated him for running so well his first 100, and wished him luck.
The next several miles were a definite struggle. I was feeling the humidity, and continued to lag even more.
What got my ass moving finally was a fly (horsefly? deer fly? no clue-- had never been attacked by one in the Bay Area). It kept going after me, including my scalp through my visor.
At Fire Tower (mile 61), I was surprised to see Jay, looking worse than even than I had earlier. He looked green like the color of the section. I asked him if he wanted any ginger, but before I can pull some out, Lloyd Thomas came up to me and asked if I need anything. He used to live in the Hayward Hills and run the trails of Garin / Dry Creek (my preferred longer trail commute to and from work). He offered to get me stuff (thanks, Lloyd), and we had a nice short chat as I tried to recuperate. (Later this year I would help him organize
a small fat-ass race in the same park he ran in as a kid.)
I soon saw Jay on the short 2.5 mile leg to Covered Bridge, with a pacer, walking. I gave him my ginger, half wondering if I might regret this later, since I was still slightly nauseated myself and had only one more candy left. However he definitely needed it then, while I only theoretically might need it later.
At Covered Bridge (mile 63.5), I swapped my visor for my hat with the ear and back flaps, dipping it into the water bucket to keep me cool and better protect my head and neck from biting insects.
At Hickory Ridge (mile 68.8), lots of friendly questions for the leader, which made me a bit nervous, since I didn't know who was behind me or how far. At Grist Mill (mile 75.4) I saw Jay, who had dropped from the race at Covered Bridge 5 miles back. He crewed me a little (thanks, Jay) and confirmed what I'd calculated with my watch-- if I didn't see anyone coming out of the forest before I reenter it, I would know I was at least 20 minutes ahead of the next runner.
Less than a minute before reentering the forest, I see the next runner, Wyatt Hornsby, coming the other way. "Great job" I told him.
In contrast to the first time, I knew I was going the right way despite the paucity of course marking. But for some reason, as the sun goes down, it grew muggier. No breeze. Ugh.
I came to a large log blocking the path. I remembered the first time around, I hoisted myself over it easily, but knew it would be trickier the second time with 40 more miles of wear and tear on my muscles. I stopped, sat on the log, lifted my left leg onto it, then to get my right leg, pushed down behind me with my arms. As I hoisted myself over, the lower part of my rotator cuff (infraspinatus, teres major and teres minor) went into spasm. AAARRGHH!! Severe pain--I could barely move. I spent a few minutes trying to breathe through it, will searching for a shoulder position that would ease the pain.
I tried to run, but it hurt too much, so supporting my arm and trying to gut through the pain, I walked. F*ck, he's going to catch up! One of my problems late in 100-milers has been muscle spasming, often my upper body, despite consciously trying to keep things loose.
I mucked through the humidity. The fairly technical trail, root-filled and cambered down to the left towards the river, along with my shoulder pain, prevented me from going very fast.
The second time returning to Covered Bridge (mile 80.9) from the orange loop, we crossed the bridge rather than the ford the river. Not sure why.
I couldn't remember if I had left a light at the next aid station, so I put one of my Petzls, and conscious of the time I lost, quickly head out for the short (2.7 mile) but mostly uphill stretch. My shoulder was almost back to normal, so I pushed the pace. At Bridle Staging (mile 83.6), I found I did have a light. Lloyd Thomas was there again and revealed to me that Wyatt spent "a lot of time" at Grist Mill and left 35 minutes after I did. This encouraged me. Armed with my light and music, I headed out toward the pavement on the remaining 7.2 miles of trail of the red section.
I was in great spirits and excited. After all the set-backs, including getting lost twice not through my own fault, and my mid-race slump probably fueled by humidity to which I could not have acclimated, I was winning the race, with a half hour gap on the next runner. As long as I could keep a decent pace, I should be able to win this thing. I started feeling elated and emotional, thought about my family and how excited my older son would be when I told him I won the race, and just missing them (this happens a lot toward the end of my 100 milers), though I reminded myself that it wasn't over yet, and it definitely was no time to slack. It actually felt great putting out decent effort, especially as the temperature started to cool a bit.
My feet stayed dry through the first river crossing. The trail and arrows on the ground were often ambiguous, but I did my best, stopping at many intersections to look and think about each turn. Maybe because I'd passed this way before, I trusted my instinct and kept going. There wasn't anything else on which to rely anyways. The second river crossing, I notice that the water was to my knees. I thought I recalled the deepest crossing being the third and last, but then I wasn't so sure, my first time in this large forest. I looked at my watch and the timing seemed right. I kept on going.
And going. And going. Seemed like I'd been out there a while-- wasn't I supposed to have ascended and hit the paved roads by now?
Suddenly after a turn, I saw three lamped runners heading towards me. Volunteers checking the course? I asked to verify I were headed toward Rock Point. One shouted back "You're headed the wrong way!"
Crap, did I get lost again? Pattern recognition. No surprise that
I was screwed the third and biggest time. It didn't dawn on me that this runner was Wyatt Hornsby, now armed with two pacers (until the following summer, I had never used one.) I only figured out his identity later.
Rather than follow them, I tried to figure out where I was. I turned on my Forerunner in an attempt to get the map of the route I ran already, but in the dense forest, it couldn't pick up the satellite signal. After several minutes, another lone runner came alone. He oriented me both in terms of route and race standings.
As it turned out, I was at this point maybe 15 minutes from Bridle, and somehow, I had made a huge loop and was headed back from where I came. Bonus miles, and my half hour lead lost.
I figured it made more sense to just follow him out of this mess.
I was so-o-o-o bummed. I stayed with him, Matt Aro from Minnesota. I figured it would be better-- two lights, two brains.
Only post-race did I learn he was the previous year's PCTR Headlands Hundred winner, and
had placed 1st and 2nd in the two double Ironman distance triathlons he'd completed (that's 4.8 miles swimming, 224 miles biking and then 52 miles running). We talked. I try to be upbeat, while debating how hard I was going to try to catch up with Wyatt. Near the end of the stretch, which for me had turned from 7 into 10-11 miles, I suggested to Matt that if I gave up on catching Wyatt, maybe we could finish together (wtf was I thinking) but told me he wanted to give it a go for 1st himself.
At the Rock Point aid station (mile 90.8-- note all these mileages are assuming you don't get repeated lost), any previous idea of changing shoes went out the window. Apparently Wyatt had just left, so Matt and I were probably holding or gaining on him as we ran together.
I would have to make my move now.
I dumped my iPod, which I'd turned off since I ran into and started talking to Matt, had my bottle filled up, grabbed a couple of Hammer gels and then headed out.
Shortly after I left, a couple of people sprinted past me. Were these the number 4 and 5 guys? They told me they were pacing, and only later did I realize that maybe they were holding back intentionally so they could tell Wyatt how far behind I was (hopefully they weren't muling). So even as I upped my pace, I was having trouble remaining optimistic. Wyatt was on the upswing, had 2 people helping and hanging back like spies, and knew the course. And he didn't whack himself like I did running 3 to 4 extra miles on the last segment, drained of fluids. Plus, I was as nervous about getting off course on this 10 mile paved section with its many turns as I had been on the trails. I kept looking ahead to see if I could catch sight of their lights. None. I became more and more discouraged, apathetic, and irritated that I had to keep making up for one disadvantage or screw-over after another.
I had actually had some doubts about the organization of the course due to last minute changes that weren't clearly communicated to runners, and in fact, I ended up taking matters into my own hands and revised a chart of mileage and elevation change so that it reflected those changes about 4 days before the race.
Here is a link to a another blog that talks about some of the pre-race information frustration. So, my pre-race apprehensions turned out to be on target. The race director told everyone a few days ago earlier that all drop bags had to be in extra large zip-lock bags or they wouldn't be allowed, which got a lot of people upset. He tried to make it seem like it was a suggestion later, but they way it was phrased was that is was mandatory, not optional.
Back to the race:
Finally, I decided that a continued heroic effort was not what I cared about, especially with unsure dividends. In less than 16 hours I would be back at my parents with my younger son, wanting to ride me piggy-back around the house and up and down the stairs. Call it a cop-out, but this became a greater priority.
I also tried to rationalize that I couldn't really use much of the grand prize for the overall male and female winner, which included free entry to the December Northface 50 mile in the Marin Headlands plus $300 for airfare. I think I would drive to that race. I was still the first master's finisher, and probably would still get some plaque.
Though tainted, this was was still a memorable, worthwhile experience. Don't you love my smile and my positive attitude? Great! Now let me rag on the race director!I have run ultras mostly because I love being out there. The competitive aspect is great, but it's the pushing myself in the midst of natural beauty that I care about the most. I had always been a little critical of elite runners, who, when things get a little tough, decide it's beneath them to run any farther back in the pack than they are used to. (Though, not too critical-- it is a free country, and they may set their own priorities.) While on some level, I respect their decision, on another level, they are all super-talented pussies. Just put down your ego, suck it up, and finish.
So it might have been this race that made me more sympathetic to their wussiness. They want to win. That's what's important to them. If you are that good, that makes sense. I'm okay with them now.
Though I was happy enough to finish, a large part of me really wanted to win. Finisher me was still happy I ran the thing and put it out there, but part of me, the would-be winner me was kicked in the balls, stabbed in the heart and then decapitated.
Or least to set the record straight, which I guess I finally have, two years later.
Matt eventually caught up with me. I told him my new priorities, thought to myself he might consider me a wussy, but couldn't care less as I watched him run ahead in 2nd place. I walked up slopes that I knew I could have run, had I had the motivation. I regret having stashed my iPod, but took advantage of the quiet, the new moon, and a few times cut my light to check out the stars of the country sky.
As I approached the campground, I actually stopped for a few seconds to figure out how to stop my watch. Had I noticed my time, I might have waited seven more seconds to finish in 20:20:20, which, though not nearly as cool as winning, would have still been cooler in a geeky-cool way.
photo by Mike Keller
Ate some, but couldn't get the chicken breast down. Made it to the shower. Climbed into my tent. Woken early due to the sun and heat.
So, Wyatt ran a great race, ran legally, and crossed the finish line first, so he got the win.
I ran the farthest, and even including the deceleration at the end mostly due to loss of motivation, ran the fastest pace per mile. I also won on getting screwed, both the in number and depth.
Maybe just as well-- I live in the Bay Area, and Sportiva sponsored, so maybe not supposed to be wearing lots of North Face garb (also part of the grand prize package). From a the point of greatest good in the universe, maybe it was better that Wyatt got to enjoy the prize package. (As it turned out, he couldn't make the North Face race. But I was trying to feel good about everything.)
Still, it hurt. Not being a super fast elite runner, there are only so many races that I have a good shot at winning. On top of that, being 42, I figured I only a few more years to find them. Had I been in 5th place and ended up coming in 7th, I would have hardly cared. To be in first, to really have deserved finishing in first, and to have been kicked in the balls not even just once, but three times, and all of them preventable if the course were marked like almost every other that I'd run-- really sucked. I might as well of had the RD greet me in the finish by landing his toe right in my nuts.
most negligent RD I have encountered in my career
as far as I can tell, he's not a runner, but a cyclist
someone help me here
I never got any honest requests for feedback or an apology. Lots of others complained post-race about the course markings, but I found your response less than adequate. Don't tell me you had no idea it was going to rain buckets. Buddy, until you apologize properly to me and change your ways, I will reserve my not nice opinion of you.
Even if you've fixed the problem since, you sucked then.
Okay, readers, I feel much better now, thank you for bearing with me. (and maybe I'll edit this post a little later. soften it up a bit. to be a nice guy...)
Regardless about my gripes, thanks to all the volunteers. And the friends who at times gave me special help. You were all awesome.
The pain of my blisters was nothing compared to the pain of being screwed repeatedly.
play with my feet anytime, podiatry angel!
All med students should have the experience of being carted away in an ambulance. Though I refused transport when it was offered to me after a swim race in the SF Bay more than a decade ago cuz I wasn't sure if it would be covered by my medical coverage (maybe a little ironic).
Garmin Forerunner 305 partial map of my run
official results-- not sure these work still. I can't find the results of this run on line currently.
50 mile
or try the
results and reports page from website.
race website (a little confusing to navigate, as it the Mohican running races are on a semi-obscured subset of links on the "Ohio Mountain Bike Championship Series" website). Go figure.
super-volunteer Colleen Theusch's race report. note, I didn't try to correct her story to include the navigational problems not of my fault.
other blogged reports (due to unfamiliarity with the midwestern ultrarunning scene, am probably missing lots, please tell me of others I can add)
100 mile
Kimberly Rapp
Michelle Bichsel
Wyatt Hornsby
Nick Longworth
50 mile
Mike Keller
Crews/Spectators
Rob Powell
If you understand what this mysterious sign means, please tell me via a comment!
