Whether and Running -- and Thunder Rock 100 preview

Sunday, May 5. Beautiful crimson sunrise this morning – something like a rose. Somehow that corner of sky had made way -- everywhere else the gray of early dawn was giving way to the heavy and darkened shadows of clouds billowy with moisture. I awakened unusually alone in the house and faced point blank the toughest aspect of being human: the whether.

Whether or not to run. That is the question, infrequently posed. Most of the time the question is settled. Each season we commit to a team or a race – and the workouts follow. Some programs are more flexible than others, but any good program will not readily yield to the predictable shifts in atmospheric conditions.

Running events, likewise, go on rain or shine – and thank goodness. We do not want to hand over our decisions to a capricious nature. I ran in the Promise Land 50K in 2006 – held in the Shenandoah Mountains of Virginia and directed by David Horton. Thunderstorms were forecast and delivered. As we climbed 2600’ up Onion Mountain before dawn the skies unleashed an absolute fury at our insolence. We reveled in it.

Last weekend I traveled to the Hiawassee drainage basin in southern TN. The precept was a 100 mile event -- called Thunder Rock 100, planned for 2014 by Rock/Creek Outfitters in Chattanooga. Randy Whorton put together a 3-day version and invited enthusiasts to preview his course. The start and finish are along the Ocoee River, and the course crosses the Hiawassee River and runs along numerous smaller waterways. The area is as lush and wild as anything on earth. The weekend got progressively wetter with rain falling much of Sunday. Of course there was never a question of whether to proceed.

Matt Hawkins, John Wiygul, Eric Loffland, and Eric Grossman after day 3 of Thunder Rock 100

When we came to the Hiawassee River crossing 18 miles in on day 1, the wide traverse was supposed to be knee deep. We scoured the steep bank for a suitable entry. Everywhere we looked the water ran deep and fast. I was with Matt Hawkins, John O’Brien, and John Wiygul. We are parents except for Wiygul, who is one fit 23-year-old. He runs for the Rock/Creek team, competing in ultras and triathlons. I’m down in waist-deep water, slowly placing my chicken-thin legs to find footing against the torrent of icy water, when Wiygul plunges past me. When the water is chest deep and sweeps him off his feet he makes 6 or 7 strong strokes to cross the channel and regain his footing to a small island in the river. Whorton has cleared a trail on the island to the launch point for crossing the main channel of the river, where a rope has been fixed.

Along with Hawkins, I try to follow Wiygul’s lead. When I get swept off my feet I flail my spindly arms through the water. As I’m being swept downstream it is instantly clear that I can’t make it to the island, so I settle for a large blown down tree extending into the channel from the island and “straining” objects, like me, out of the water. Hawkins has done the same thing and after some attempts at gymnastic maneuvers we scramble across the tree and emerge onto the island, shaken but also invigorated by the adrenaline surge that goes along with visions of being carried away in swollen rivers.

We have landed in a thorny thicket, from which we have to very gradually move to get to the cleared trail. When we finally make it we see Dawson Wheeler, the owner of Rock/Creek, who is en route to setting rope across the small channel. Smiling with excitement, he says water is being released early from the dam in anticipation of all the rain that is supposed to fall over the weekend.

We have the rope to cross the main channel, but when the river sweeps us off our feet it becomes a hand-over-hand traverse. I didn’t give too much thought to what would happen if I lost my grip, but suffice to say that swept along with the swift current was the remainder of my adrenaline as well as most of my body heat.

Our small group recollected itself and probed around for the next section of trail. The drop in core body temperature was disorienting. Wiygul had downloaded the course onto his phone and was using an app to track our progress. It wasn’t perfect though, as we had learned earlier when the indicated course took us on an extended bushwhack. When he told us this time we needed to backtrack a considerable distance, we were skeptical. We ended up asking a passing ranger about any nearby trail that went up the mountain and were quickly directed right across the road. At least the climb warmed us back up.

After running several miles, we were approaching 6 hours on the day -- and, I thought, likely getting toward the end of the 30 miles we were supposed to cover. Sure enough, we soon see Randy’s truck where the trail emerges onto a dirt road. We aren’t finished, though. When we ask how far to go, he says “some number of miles.” When pressed he says maybe 6 or 7 miles. When Wiygul says that we have already done 27 miles (according to his GPS) on a day that is supposed to be 30 miles long, he says OK, maybe it is 3 miles. (I’m not making this up). An hour and a half of survival shuffle later we finally finish. Randy finds us at the trailhead and before racing off to check on another runner locates some recovery drink in his truck for us: bottles of microbrew. I felt better almost immediately.

Fortunately I missed the evening libations, which I heard later included moonshine. I had proceeded directly from the finish to Knoxville to catch my son’s soccer match, take him and a friend to the Melton Dam campground, spend the night, and then return for another morning match. That concluded, (two wins) I returned to the heart of the rainforest, and joined the second stage in-progress.

I started at the finish of day 2 and ran backwards along the course so that I could turn around when I crossed paths with the runners and just finish with them. I didn’t realize that I’d be running the John Muir and Coker Creek trails twice, thereby getting a double dose of the wildest, most treacherous, and most beautiful parts of the Thunder Rock 100 course. I felt immediately rejuvenated and happily bounded upward in elevation, taking the technical stream crossings in stride and feeling no ill effects from day 1. I ran about 2 1/2 hours before crossing paths with Wiygul, who was again in the lead group. I turned and ran with them until the next turn and then reversed direction again to find the main group.

Randy was running with several others so I joined them for the long descent past Coker falls and then along the John Muir trail. We were along the Hiwassee river when the guys started showing signs of wearing down a little. They asked Randy how much running was left. He said “about a mile.” Four miles later we finished for the day.

The group had reserved cabins near the river where we retreated for showers, beer, and dinner. I’ve met some unique folks, and groups, associated with ultrarunning, but with these guys I was ready to start taking notes for a future ethnography: The Rock/Creek Tribe of the Hiwassee Basin. Before I could even get started, though, I went native: discussing the advantages of scheduling my Colorado Trail record attempt around the full moon, swapping homemade energy bar recipes, recalling Appalachian Trail thru-hiking adventures.  As soon as I’d start to think these people are crazy I’d also realize I fit right in with these people. I got up early for day 3 to cook my usual pre-run oatmeal with nuts and raisins and everybody else was doing the same thing.

So I was a bit surprised when out of the group of around 20 revelers only 4 of us actually ended up starting the 3rd and final stage from the little town of Reliance to the Ocoee Whitewater Center. I knew better than to heed any quantification of the mileage for the day. I did pay attention, though, when Randy said “follow the Benton MackayTrail the entire way.” He was, notably, not among the 4 of us. Our group from day 1 was reconstituted with one substitution: John O’brien had gone home and Eric Loffland had joined. We banded together a bit more tightly than the previous two days. We had assumed a more methodical shuffle, and the near constant rain dampened any feelings of spryness we might have still had.

One long stretch of double track had been recently bulldozed so that the exposed clay grabbed tenaciously at our shoes. We couldn’t avoid it, and as we toiled for footing I thought this would surely be the definitive difficulty posed by the final stage. As we ran through pleasantly graded single track in the Little Frog wilderness my suspicion seemed confirmed. We emerged onto Highway 64 knowing that we had one loop on the opposite side of the Ocoee to complete to arrive just a couple of miles upstream at the Whitewater Center. Kris Whorton and Wendy Parker were there to offer aid and encouragement, having finished a shorter route. Kris said the loop should be about 10 miles. That seemed long, but I was used to going further than expected.

We got a good pace going, even up the climb, and just shrugged when 2 miles up we passed a sign for a side-trail to the Whitewater Center. It said “2 miles” and we knew our loop was supposed to be longer and that we were supposed to go another 8 miles. Wiygul must have got an itch, because he started pushing the pace. He and I snaked around the wet and winding trails as fast as we could go. We splashed through creek crossings and ducked around branches. I figured we’d be done in less than an hour at that pace, so what the heck. When the trail ended at an absolutely torrential creek crossing even Wiymur hesitated, throwing his arms up and looking back at me. The he turned, spotted the trail on the opposite side, and waded in. I waded in after him, not wanting to give it too much thought. I was immediately transfixed by the necessity to stay upright despite a LOT of molecules of water bent on toppling me. We crossed the same creek 2 more times and then started climbing in earnest.

Wiymur stopped and checked his phone. He said we were way off the track shown. That had happened, before, though, even when we weren’t. We rationalized that maybe Randy had accidentally entered in a shorter route that wasn’t the intended race route. We were certainly still on the Benton Mackaye Trail -- we had been scrupulous about following the signs. I told Wiymur that if we got 1 1/2 hours out on this loop and still hadn’t starting curling around to go back downhill that we would know we were indeed off course. We kept climbing until we were 1 1/2 hours out. My altimeter said we were at 3600 feet. The Ocoee River is at around 800 feet. We were nearly to the top of Big Frog Mountain and headed toward Georgia.

We descended a lot faster than we had climbed. We picked up Hawkins and Loffland and turned them around as well. We crossed the creek, now raging even more swiftly, 3 more times. A little over an hour later, when we finally crossed the bridge to the Ocoee Whitewater Center, we were spent, cold, and hungry. Hawkins and I had been fantasizing about Chicago style deep dish pizzas, and now we sped off in opposite directions to find the closest high-calorie joint. I settled for McDonalds. It was getting late in the day and I didn’t want to do a lot of driving after dark. I can be pragmatic -- just not about whether to run. So of course I will run today, and simply soak up whatever the weather throws at me.

9 Ways to Make Your Next 37-mile Training Run in the Mountains Bizarrely Easy. Seriously.

I just got back from a 37-mile training run in the mountains that was literally the easiest 37 miles I have ever run. Because most people do not automatically associate “37-mile training run” and “easy” I have decided to create a list for you. This is what serious people do. I know I’m a serious person because I distinctly remember my 7^th grade teach saying as I entered the room one day: “Eric, you are the most serious 7^th grader I have ever seen.” And then just last year my wife said to me: “Lighten up dude.” Part of my serious persona is a certain approach to things, my father-in-law calls it “the German method.” I have a German name. So here is how you do it:

This is what serious looks like

     1.    Play Mumford & Sons as loud as you possibly can on your car stereo on the way to the mountain. I’m pretty sure that Marcus Mumford is God’s vessel on earth and here’s why I think so. He had me wailing at the top of my lungs -- my voice strained and cracking with sincerity -- as I pulled up to my daughter’s elementary school to drop off supplies she had forgotten at home. The quizzical looks of young children arriving at school turned into true puzzlement as I emerged from the car in my 80s styled running shorts to deliver my package.
 
2.       Put your pot of anger on the back burner and let it simmer. OK, I’m being metaphorical here. But not about the anger. On occasion there is an event in the news that brings into focus the mostly vague and widely dispersed threats to our freedom. And NOTHING pisses me off more than threats to our freedom. Anger, like other passions, is a source of energy if properly managed. That’s why I suggest you cook with it (see #3).
 
3.       Bake a pair. This is quicker and more satisfying than to grow a pair. If you follow my recipe you will have Ultra Balls ^TM, the formula for maintaining vigor mile after mile. Unfortunately I cannot fully disclose the recipe to you. I can tell you that it involves grinding nuts – almonds and walnuts, and swirling with honey and, of course, baking. It also involves a dried fruit and one other mystery ingredient that – obviously – I cannot tell you. But you get the idea. You need sustenance of the kind that Ultra Balls^TM will deliver.
 
4.       Grab a pair. The potency of Ultra Balls^TM makes them difficult to swallow, so to speak, so you need to grab a pair of apples to go along with them. Using the apple as food on the run is a little trick I picked up in high school. I was both hungry and ready to run so I grabbed an apple and headed out. This food is nearly magical in its perfection. It has an edible wrapper and comes packaged with its own water. In combination with the protein and fat rich Ultra Balls^TM you will have everything you need.
 
5.       Swing sticks. Also called trekking poles. Use these mainly for the purpose of slowing yourself down. Going slower will not only make the run last longer, but will prevent the strain and potential injury associated with speed. Because poles are long and awkward, you will need to bring foods that can be handled easily such as those in ball form (see #3 and #4). Because poles are long and awkward, you will need a lot of practice prior to your 37 miles of bliss. For this you will need hike the Appalachian Trail (see #6).
 
6.       Hike the Appalachian Trail. While on the trail it is important that you have the following experience. Having spent the night alone at the Flint Mountain Shelter on the border of North Carolina and Tennessee you wake up to a pummeling all-day rain. You have too little food left to wait it out so you make a run for Erwin. Based on previous running experience (in which 7 min/mile pace is “average”) you loosely estimate that going “all out” to compensate for the difficult terrain you can run the 35 miles in 4 hours. You proceed to go all out, romping through the pouring rain and splashing through the river that used to be the trail at maximum cardiac output for 4 hours straight. You have to walk at this point because the skin has basically separated from the flesh on your feet. Also you still have 15 miles to go. After another 5 hours of limping you arrive at the campground in Erwin. You get a ride to Kentucky Fried Chicken, which still sounds good especially since it is AYCE. Because you do not yet have Ultra Balls^TM you eat enough to cause the establishment to consider changes to both its name and its pricing structure.
 
7.       Volunteer to coach your son’s middle school track team. The day before your 37 miler try to arrange for a track workout in which your young son concludes a full set of intervals by literally breezing through 200m in 29s, clearly demonstrating a genetic endowment in which you are implicated.
 
8.       Use self-talk. [You can indicate self-talk in writing later with brackets like this]. The easiest 37 miler ever will still take most of the day, and you will be alone. [Because nobody will want to go with you.] When you have got the hang of staying upright and not tripping on your own poles, you will find your mind wandering onto ideas that under normal circumstances would not seem worth exploring [like “why does this run seem so easy?” or “Should I write a list to my blog?”] Your inner voice will be gentle and encouraging as you explore these “crazy” ideas, as well as stern and ironically condescending when you nearly fall because you got lost in your daydreams [Everyone will be after your recipe - you are so creative…aacK! PAY ATTENTION YOU JACK*SS]
 
9.       Did I say 9 ways? Now that I’ve listed them I think it’s plain that those 8 pretty well cover it. As long as I have you, though, I feel I should tell you I’d probably recommend against applying any of the previous ideas. The problem is that to the extent that you actually pull them off you will become me. You don’t need to be that serious, and I don’t need that kind of competition. 

The Profile

Elevation Profile of the "Bizarrely Easy 37-mile Training Run in the Mountains." Start and finish at Skulls Gap. 1. Shaw Gap. 2. Beartree Lake. 3. Creek Junction. 4. Buzzard Rock. 5. Elk Garden. 6. Rt. 603

Going for the Colorado Trail Speed Record -- 100th Post

I finally banged my trekking pole as loudly as I could on a rock. At first I had just said “hey,” as I approached. Then “how’s it going?” a little louder. Then “HELLO!” at the top of my lungs.  I could tell the guy was a thru-hiker. He had well-worn sandals strapped to the back of this pack. Now that I was practically on top of him I could see his ear buds. This is why people in the woods shouldn’t listen to iPods, I thought to myself.  He doesn’t know what is going on around him. I could be a starving and rabid bear and he’d never see it coming.

The loud clank of my pole must have been enough, because he turned and greeted me with a sheepish smile. He apologized for being into his tunes. My real concern when I had approached was that I would startle him. I could see now that he was too easy going for that. Trekking alone grooving to his music, pausing to talk easily with a complete stranger, he gushed with the kind of energy I associate with those who will make it clear to Maine.

In the summer of 1998 I hiked the northern half of the Appalachian Trail, interviewing every thru-hiker I caught up with. Although each hiker story is unique, one attribute that resonated across many people I talked with was flow. To thru-hike from Georgia to Maine you literally have to be able to take it in stride. That’s not to say that successful hikers don’t experience obstacles. You can’t take some 5 million steps and not get tripped up. Flow doesn’t imply avoiding obstacles, it means successfully navigating them. The people who do well on the trail (and likely everywhere else!) accept and even embrace the challenges they face. They like to be on the trail.

This past weekend marked my first consecutive days back on the trail. I traversed the spectacular high country of southwest Virginia, first going south through the Grayson Highlands on the AT and into Damascus, and then coming back north on Sunday. Although I didn’t stay out overnight, crossing paths with many thru-hikers reminded me of that sense of immersion and flow that I experience most deeply when I am on the trail.
 

Being on the trail means experiencing a steady series of tough but manageable challenges. The most immediate problem is upright locomotion (not a gimme on the AT), followed closely by hydration and fueling. There could be other problems, I suppose, but they seem minor in comparison. The shelter of the southeastern US forests reduces most serious threats of exposure. The bears don’t pose any significant threat. For some people the opportunities to form or cement social relationships is real and potentially exciting. Thru-hiking doesn’t demand knowing others so much as it demands knowing yourself, however.

When you start your first 2200-mile journey on foot you will be wrong about something. Maybe you will overestimate how much weight you can carry. Maybe you will underestimate how many miles you can walk in a day. There are countless decisions you will have to make for yourself and you will have to change your mind about some things. And here’s what I love about big, physical challenges: to finish you will eventually have to get it right.

We live with bloated minds infected with bad ideas that fester like unhelpful gut bacteria. The cushiness of our lives provides the margins needed to keep fooling ourselves and others. We can think, and say, almost anything. You’re entitled to your opinion (we like to say). There are many ways to convince others of your opinions, but having the facts on your side is low on the list. We all need a periodic reality check. Think of long distance events as a colon cleanse for the mind.

When you strip away the margin for error by tackling something physically difficult you demand a level of honesty with yourself that is otherwise absent in contemporary culture. Traversing long distances on foot within challenging parameters requires a full and accurate appraisal of what you can do – because, of course, the question will be settled. The more demanding the challenge the more rectitude you get to claim.

This brings me (finally) to the real subject of this post. I’m planning, with Troy Shellhamer (and joined by Mike Ambrose), an attempt at the speed record of the 480 mile Colorado Trail (CT). Although I don’t yet want to post exact details about our plan, by definition we will have to go faster than all previous runs in order to claim the record. By all accounts, the margin for error is exceptionally small. This is a difficult trail at high elevation with towering climbs and damaging descents. Before I provide more detail about the CT and previous speed record attempts, however, let me interject a few words about long distance speed records generally.

Training for the Colorado Trail speed record attempt in the highest country available in Virginia . Photo: Jenny Nichols

It looks to me like the frontier for long-distance challenges is the pursuit of fastest known times (FKTs) on established trails. I could write a book about what motivates people to do better (oh wait, I am writing a book about what motivates people to do better!), but for now I’ll distill it down to this: we use our pursuits to define ourselves. So in a sense it is intrapersonal. You have to push your own limits in order to know what they are. Our pursuits are also interpersonal. Your pursuits have to be social and public enough to give others a sense of who you are. Organized competition – as in a race – has surely been a long-standing feature of human social interaction. It makes for a simple and ready comparison between people to define for everyone who is the fastest.

The differences between people are more complex and interesting than the results of a sprint could ever demonstrate, however, so we have evolved a slew of running events and running intensive sports. New sports are being spawned all the time, but trail running and even ultramarathoning have grown rapidly. These events place a premium on a number of personal attributes that are wholly ignored in a typical 5K. There is the staying upright problem that is added by roots and rocks, and as the distances grow, there are a host of management problems that are tested as well. You have to be able to hydrate and fuel yourself over many hours – a problem similar to that posed to thru-hikers. We generally don’t try to use thru-hiking as a sport. A well-known mantra among those on the AT is HYOH or Hike Your Own Hike. As ultramarathons evolve into ever-longer events, however, the overlap between competitive ultras and thru-hikes increases. The use of GPS and internet has allowed for the publication of performances and therefore ready comparisons of contestants who weren’t in the same place at the same time.

Many of us in the ultrarunning community were compelled by the most recent speed record attempt for the AT. In 2011 Jennifer Pharr Davis completed the 2181 mile trail in 46 days, becoming the fastest person to have traversed the AT. The story, well documented in her forthcoming book Called Again, is compelling because it demonstrates the attributes required to set this mark – attributes that many people will likely find surprising. Let’s face it, most races favor guys. People unfamiliar with ultrarunning may assume that a woman who can compete with (and beat) guys has to be more masculine than a typical woman. Imagine a woman boxer, for example, who could legitimately fight against guys. By contrast the only remotely masculine trait that Jen possesses is her height. Jen surpassed the overall AT record on her terms. She got on the trail by being persistent – not impulsive, and stayed on the trail by being steady -- not ballistic.  Jen didn’t pretend to be self-sufficient or emotionally independent. She enlisted help from the most capable people available, and accepted the complete dedication of her husband toward reaching her goal. Most tellingly, Jen walked nearly every step of her record. The men who have held the record ran the runnable parts, giving themselves more downtime each night to recover. Jen simply slept less, walking from before dawn to after dark every day. Her record is a not just a personal triumph but a triumph of female strategy in long distance treks.

Jen and her husband Brew effectively used media -- online as well as traditional print and broadcast media – to convey the record attempt and also to define who Jen is as a long-distance hiker.  Because of the media landscape we live in I think this kind of self-defining activity will continue to increase. Although it is due for an update, there is a website maintained by Peter Bakwin for the indexing of the fastest known times on established trails (fastestknowntime.proboards.com). Troy, Mike, and I will use that website to post our intentions and our results relative to our attempt at the speed record of the Colorado Trail.

According to previous posts to that website, Paul Pomeroy traversed the CT in 8 days, 12 hours, and 14 minutes in 2008, and that remains the fastest known time for a supported run of the CT.  Paul barely eclipsed the record held by Jonathan Basham, a fellow ultrarunning friend of mine from Virginia. David Horton, a legend in long distance running – and my ultrarunning mentor, then made an unsuccessful attempt at the speed record in 2009. Here’s an excerpt of what he wrote in his blog about the experience:

Going after the CT record might have been my most difficult multi-day attempt so far. The CT record is very TOUGH. The trail itself was tougher than I thought it would be. I averaged 40 miles per day on the PCT and AT and 45 miles per day running across America. Averaging over 54 miles per day on the CT was VERY tough. I started every day before daylight, usually around 4:00 AM and finished every day after dark. My average time on the trail was around 17 hours per day. This left very little time for anything. I was usually in bed 30 to 45 minutes after finishing each day. Each day, the last section ATE my lunch. It took everything that I had to finish each day. I never knew at night if I would be able to go again the next day... Could I have run the next day? Yes. Could I have caused myself or others some serious problems? Yes…

Does reading that make me nervous about attempting the CT speed record? Yes. This will be the most challenging thing I have ever done. My concern has two important benefits, though. First, the need to get more fit has prompted me to get back on the trail -- and that is where I love to be. Second, I get to cross paths with those younger than me who are discovering themselves for the first time. Their spirit is refreshing. When I passed the young thru-hiker who had been so absorbed with his music, I informed him about the big climb he faced going up Iron Mountain. “Oh good,” he remarked with complete sincerity, “I love big climbs!”

He’s especially going to enjoy the final climb up Mt Katahdin in Maine. And I’m happy to be reminded of the spirit that gets us over our biggest obstacles.

Lance Armstrong on Above Grade

This season I'm writing more than running. My work is focused on motivation in schools. I've started a new blog called Above Grade. Of course I see things from an athlete's perspective, so there considerable overlap. I'm curious to know if you find the comparison of sports-related motivation and school-related motivation as compelling as I do. It was too hard not to write about Lance this week. The fifth post since I started the new blog, therefore, begins with this topical tidbit. I hope you'll check it out and help get a discussion going over there -- not too many people know about it yet! The address is: http://abovegrade.blogspot.com/

The Hard Core

Squishiness has proven a persistently annoying aspect of life on earth. Sure it made sense when all of us were buoyed in that great wet womb of our genesis. And we have made considerable strides with shells, plates, and bones now that we dwell on desiccating and gravity-ruled terra firma. Still, poke or gash us with even a meagre stick and we bleed.

My vulnerabilities have been all too apparent in the five weeks since I ran the Mountain Masochist 50 mile trail run. Hurricane Sandy, itself a mere droplet cast off from Mother Nature's sneeze, had spawned a system of storms that spanned the entire East coast. The Blue Ridge Mountain range in Southwest Virginia was lightly brushed as if by a passing coat tail. It was still enough to cause considerable trevail. By the time of the race on November 3 several inches of snow remained on the parts of the course above 2400' and front runners would have to break trail through some knee-deep snow drifts.

My plans to prepare for the Hellgate 100K were foiled by the fallout. Inflammation of the peroneal tendon on my left ankle cast a shadow over any training I tried. The pain was significant and only manageable by staying on my toes and keeping that ankle rigid when climbing. This might explain the continuous soreness of my left achilles tendon -- not an injury to be toyed with. Finally, a sharp pain at the top of my hamstring was eerily reminiscent of the “deep butt” high hamstring tendon syndrome that can be a multi-year injury for distance runners. The pain plagued me for the last several weeks and prevented me from running at speeds faster than six miles per hour. I kept expecting the pain to pass and to be healed enough to run one of the toughest ultras around.

I considered withdrawing. As the race approached it became clear that if I did start, I was just as likely to have to quit due to injury as to finish, and even if I did manage to limp through I would not be performing at peak fitness -- not only because I was injured, but because injuries had prevented me from training as I would have when healthy. A plethora of personal and professional responsibilities vie for my attention all the time. I could spend the weekend grading final exams, working on the house, or playing with my kids. The scale was perched right on the line between “go” and “don’t go.” The slightest additional weight would have made all the difference.

And there the scale remained even as we rode to event headquarters in Staunton, VA on Friday evening. JJ Jessee drove my van with Micah McFaddin riding shotgun. They were coming to crew for Beth Minnick, who rode in the back with me. We had our feet propped up and our heads resting on our pillows. I dreamily imagined that we were driving through the night toward a distant destination. And then I wished it really was so. Had JJ said he changed plans and was going to drive us through the night to New York City I would have readily gone gone along.

Not even the race director’s public provocations at the pre-race briefing could snap my head back into it. He announced that I had the current course record [11:03] and taunted that I wouldn’t be able to break 11 hours. I didn’t want to say out loud that I had serious doubts about my ability to complete the course at all. That I was getting ready to start anyway seemed completely surreal.

Even a sense of dread would have been better than the escapist fantasies I was turning to. I was about to be abandoned 66 miles from the safety of the finish, in the mountains, at midnight, and I was starting lame.

About the only thing that registered true at the start was the prayer offered by Frank Gonzales for David Horton. Though Horton seemed himself in every respect this weekend, he will be undergoing major surgery today [He is likely registering at the hospital as I post this]. The normal commotion of the start line gave way to complete quiet. While running ultras may be something people do for recreation, it would be hard to overstate the impact that Horton has had on peoples’ lives. He started the “ultra scene” in the East, and Hellgate is perhaps most representative of what an ultra means to him: huge withering climbs, brilliant wide-open vistas, plenty of brutal technical terrain but also miles of free running. More than that, though, Hellgate is intimate. Entries are capped to keep the numbers low -- 140 runners this year. Horton knows you. And he wants you to face your demons, even if it takes Forever to do it.

Many times, including at Hellgate in 2005, I have started a race with grand plans that were gradually worn down until I had to surrender and accept that my fate is subject to forces beyond my control. Hellgate 2012 is the first time I have started a race already surrendered.  I had no pretense that I could control the outcome. Of course that didn’t relieve me of the need to prepare -- just the opposite. I outfitted myself with great gear from The Aid Station. I got an amazingly bright Princeton Tec Headlamp and carefully arranged to swap out batteries. And I also left my clothes in the van so that if I did drop on the course I’d be able to get them from JJ and Micah.

As it turns out my fears were well founded.

The ankle and the hamstring hurt enough that I wondered what the other runners would make out of my visible limp. I stayed well behind the front runners. Despite the very easy pace I almost immediately started having stomach trouble. My dinner had not digested and my stomach became painfully distended. I drank water at the first aid station but it just made me more bloated. I picked up my hydration pack and gels at the second aid station but didn’t touch either until 2:30 am when my stomach finally started to empty.

I broke the race into thirds. Two warmup marathons and then the race. The first marathon (OK, 22 miles) ends at Headforemost Mountain and I hoped to be there before 4 am. The second marathon ends at Bearwallow Gap and I hoped to be there before 8 am. The first marathon was nearly all miserable. I started to feel moderately better on the final climb to the Headforemost aid station. I had been able to eat and drink some. As long as I stayed on my toes and didn’t flex my ankle that pain was manageable. The hamstring only hurt when I opened up my stride. I was surprised to find myself in third place leaving the aid station. Jason Bryant had dropped and returned to Camping Gap. Frank Gonzales had apparently taken even longer than I at the aid station. That left Troy Shellhamer (my comrade on many recent adventures) and “some guy way out front” who turned out to be Alister Gardner. Despite my tutelage, which frequently includes sincerely offered tips on how to beat me, Troy was sporting a headlamp that included a blinking red light on the back. This is no doubt a great safety feature for road cycling but for a mountain ultra run through the night this better suited the purposes of his competitors. Unwittingly, Troy helped carry me through two critical periods of the race: the entire first third when I just wanted to shuffle past the miles in meditative oblivion (focused on the blinking red light), and the final third that I’ll detail below.




I fully recognize how bizarre this is going to sound and I myself am tempted to attribute to me some special strength of will or character but the truth is that we just don’t have the right model for how the human body works.

I was injured and feeling unwell. I started running at midnight by the light of my headlamp in the mountains. Four hours later I was being HEALED.  At 4 am I started the second marathon feeling the way I “should” have felt had I trained optimally, stayed healthy, and then tapered down to a complete rest and (of course) skipped the first marathon. One has to wonder -- would “go run in the mountains” be a better generic prescription for what ails you than “just take it easy”?

So I ran the second marathon with alacrity. After Jennings Creek (27 miles)  there are two long sustained climbs and descents on gravel and double track that allowed me to open up my stride and blow out the old carburetor barrels. I passed Troy and gapped him by what I thought would be an insurmountable distance. I had apparently suppressed the memory of all the technical single-track in the approach to Bearwallow Gap. I have an edge over Troy on open terrain, but he is very strong and, for a midwesterner, remarkably able to maintain his speed over rocks.

The race starts at Bearwallow Gap. I was about 16 minutes behind Alister and maybe two minutes in front of Troy. More importantly I was one minute ahead of my pace from 2006 when I set the course record. Considering that I had been as much as 23 minutes behind Alister, I thought both the course record and the win were still in play. It sure wasn’t going to be easy. After 44 miles through the night the running was work. Completely gone was the euphoria of the middle marathon. I gritted my teeth and almost felt myself pull at my legs to get them to keep running on the climb out of Bearwallow. Contouring around the mountain I caught occasional glimpses of Troy behind me.

On the technical descent before Bobblet’s Gap (about 50 miles) the wear of the run began to show. Cramps in my feet and calves made navigating rocks difficult. My knees hurt. I hadn’t refilled my hydration pack at Bearwallow and ran dry, which kept me from eating. My energy reached a low point just before the aid station. As I refilled and grabbed several chunks of boiled potato Troy arrived. He hooted at his sister who was crewing for him and I knew he’d be excited to be racing me once again so close to the end of an ultra. I overheard her say something about his “double espresso shot” and I figured he was getting ready to get even more amped up.

Sure enough he came cruising by me on the road descent after Bobblet’s Gap. I might have smiled to myself if I felt I had the luxury. This would be Troy’s first trip through the Forever section. It doesn’t help for someone to tell you about it -- you have to go through it. Taking it alone is tough. Leading someone may be tougher. Troy runs strong and steady -- I’ve learned that across the many miles we have now put in together. I was happy to once again tuck in behind him.

During a training run three weeks prior I had warned Troy that he shouldn’t wait until the last aid station to make his move on me. So I was just thinking “way to go!” after he had surged on the first downhill of the Forever section when I caught back up to him because he had tripped and fallen. He got right back up and shook it off but the surge was over. He led the full distance of that section with me right behind him. As my energy severely ebbed -- as it must -- so did his. Our pace ground down to a shuffle on those final climbs before the Day Creek aid station. When at last we emerged from the Forever section Troy looked like, well, Hell.

I had taken my caffeinated Clif Shot about 10 minutes before, and at the aid station I chugged a small cup of Mountain Dew. Alister had been through 10 minutes before so I knew he was no longer within reach. It was 10:10 and I knew exactly what I had to do to break 11 hours: run every step of the final three mile climb to the parkway. The last three downhill miles are a given -- I could run those fast regardless of what I had been through.

My body -- the squishy part -- did protest. Everything possible had been squeezed from it. “Nothing left here,” it said and just for proof my legs became leaden weights. “Good,” I replied, “then there is nothing left here to care.” And in fact I did feel that everything soft had been stripped away. All that was left was one simple commandment “run every step.”

No doubt we are fleshy beings held fast to the physical world. Our freedom waves in the breeze like a flag run up a tall pole. We mount ourselves to an infinitesimally thin yet absolutely liberating hard core. We must stake our claim, make our promise, and then hold fast no matter what. That is the essence of human freedom and the greatest joy of our longest runs.

Hellgate 2012 Results: http://www.extremeultrarunning.com/2012_hellgate/results.pdf

Back to Real Life?

I spent the first two weeks of July trekking with a small group from Damascus to Harper's Ferry on the AT. You could call it vacation -- it had that immersive quality that allowed most of my routine "life" to temporarily evaporate. For an average of about 10 hours per day I was consumed with the task of locomoting myself across beautiful - but difficult - terrain as quickly and efficiently as possible. Even the downtime was demanding: hydrating, re-fueling, packing for the next day, pitching camp, and finally recovering. All that focus is quite compelling. I asked one of my comrades in the adventure, Troy, why we put ourselves through so much difficulty. His response? This is when I feel most alive.

Maybe that's why coming back to regular life requires some adjustment -- and not just because I'm gimpy from tendinitis. So far I've just tried to switch modes completely. I haven't even tried to reconcile the world I lived in for the past two weeks with the world I normally live in. Like my son after his "Summer Scholars" camp, I am wishing it was next year already and I was in the midst of the 2013 Tour De Virginia. I keep wanting to tweak the stages and get the plan laid out, even though I have more pressing things to do. I want to process the 2012 Tour and write some kind of report, but I haven't been able to get the distance to even begin to really assimilate the experience. So let me just say that will be forthcoming...

For now -- I think I can say that I'm well enough. Nearly every required system responded to the demands I placed on it. I felt better than anticipated. My energy stayed high throughout almost every day. That has to be thanks in part to the help of my brother James who had everything we needed ready for us at the end of each stage. My feet did remarkably well. My other comrade Anne had horrific blisters starting from the first day. I had no blister issues (thanks to top-quality socks from Swiftwick and trail shoes from TheAidStation). I did fall more than I would have thought -- 5 times -- with some painful scrapes and bruises. Troy fell once, but he fell hard. Anne fell 13 times, with obvious and painful abrasions to show for it. I think we will all heal in short order and get on track for our next round of adventures -- whether they are escapes from, or approaches to -- real life.

Tour de Virginia ends at Harper's Ferry!

We're at TeaHorse Hostel finishing up breakfast Sunday morning and getting ready for our press conference (with Adam as moderator).  More details on the last few days to come soon, but for now, here are the times for the last 3 stages.