Tuesday, May 13, 2014

TARC Spring Classic 50k Race Report

Finally burdened with the task of writing a race report nearly two and a half years since my last ultramarathon, and it took me nearly two and half years to finally write this. At last, it was time to pass the grill tongs and the bottle opener to someone else and get in the game myself. I'm very thankful to have been able to do so.

The theme of my training, which I dubbed "Operation Get to the Starting Line," was to stay healthy. Easier said than done. But, I knew that pushing too much in training could only set me back once again. I went into the race with decent fitness and strength, but nothing that I would call great. Even if I got to the start line a bit underprepared, I knew it was better than not starting at all. My training was very much focused on my weekend back-to-back runs with the midweek being reserved for resting and assessing. And, above all, no speed work. My final three long runs, while not perfect, certainly gave me some confidence:
3/28: 21 miles at 8:16/mile - all road
4/3: 20 miles at 10:50/mile - all trail in 80+ degree heat. I melted.
4/12: 21.5 at 11:28/mile - all trail and crazy technical
Note that I didn't say "a lot of confidence." The amount of time running was solid, but the distance was not. On race day, I'd be running close to 50% longer than my longest run in terms of miles. That fact had me concerned. Still, with a flat course, I hoped that I wasn't in too much trouble. But, again, I wasn't injured.

On race day, I was shockingly relaxed. I had a great time pre-race sipping coffee and chatting with Michael Wade and the large contingent of Trail Monsters that were there to run the various distances (10k, half marathon, marathon and 50k). In fact, I was so relaxed that I skipped the pre-race meeting (see: sipping coffee and chatting) and missed out on the news that the race was going to start early. Suddenly, there was a howl and a whole slew of runners heading off down the trail. Well, I guess the race is starting.

Trail Monsters not attending the pre-race meeting.

Lap 1
The trail narrows fairly quickly off the starting line, so I don't think I took a running step until about 30 yards in. And, even then, with all the people--approximately 300 in the 3 races (10k had started 10 minutes prior)--I was barely jogging. My race plan called for going out easy, but when the average pace read out on my Garmin read 13:XX a half mile into the race...well, I guess I was going out easy.

In all seriousness, pre-race I believed I could run between 4:30 and 5:00, with a realistic goal of sub 4:50. I figured on an amazing day, I might be able to sneak under 4:30. Nine minutes per mile is a 4:39 50k, so my plan was to run nine-minute pace for the first two laps. From there, I would assess, with the hopes of picking it up or at least not slowing.

I was running with John in the first couple miles, and we were steadily passing people until about the two-mile mark. Then the following exchange happened:
Me: "Nice to be free of the crowd."
John: "Yup."
Me: "This pace feels about right."
John: "Yeah, I don't want to go out too fast."
Seconds later he was speeding away from me down the trail. I kept him in sight, but I kept closer watch on my Garmin: average pace 8:50ish. I didn't want to overcook things just yet. I still had John in my sights about a mile later when Ian, running the half marathon, caught and passed me. He heckled me about the "old man" beating me, but I was able to keep my ego in check. I was worried than Ian speeding by would entice John to pick up the pace, and, unfortunately, that's just what would happen.

It wasn't raining at the start of the race, which was a blessing, but it starting raining about 20 minutes in. I was feeling a bit overdressed at first, but the rain cooled me down to a reasonable temp quickly. In fact, I was very comfortable through out the race.

The average pace crept down to 8:45, but it felt very comfortable, if a touch risky. I tried not to think about it too much and just focused on staying relaxed and "no effort"--that was my mantra.

Lap 1 passed uneventfully in 54:22

Finishing the first lap. Photo by Topham Photo

Lap 2
After a flawless bottle hand off from Jamie, my crew, and more heckling about the old man, I was off for my second lap. While finishing my first, I was very surprised to see Michael on the short out and back section that starts and ends each lap. I figured he'd be long gone with the training he'd been putting in this year. I'd seen John as well. "No effort."

I ran the majority of this lap alone. Just me and the mud. It was muddy to start, and the rain added to it. But, after the tales of the TARC 100/50 that was held on some of these same trails last year, I couldn't complain. I will say that I was amazed to watch some other runners try to figure out ways around it. Not that I'm the toughest guy out there, but it is a trail race.

Squish. Photo by Topham Photo

Of note: I stopped to pee during this lap. I never do that in a race.

Another flawless bottle swap with Jamie, and I was off.

Lap 2 time: 53:02

Lap 3
I was surprised to see Michael even closer at the close of the second lap, but I assumed that he was about to pick up the pace. I stayed consistent with my splits and noticed that the average pace was now closer to 8:40. With that realization, I started to dream of my uber-reach goal of sub-4:30, but then I remembered that I still had half the race ahead of me.

On one of the twistier sections, I could see Michael and John just ahead, and with some quick math, I counted them less than a minute up. In a few clicks, I had caught up to John who was feeling the effects of his early pace. We were almost exactly halfway through, 15.5 miles, and he told me he was going to dial things back a notch. I told him not to worry and that he was right on 4:30 pace. A steady pace would get him to a fine finish. Well, he later informed me that "my skipping and frolicking" while passing him really took the wind out of his sails. Oops, sorry about that.

Less than a mile later, I caught Michael just in time to heckle him for dropping his water bottle. We ran together for a bit, and I confided in him that was feeling good but concerned I was in over my head. What I didn't tell him was that I was stoked to be running with him at this point in the race, since he's been killing it this year in preparation for the Ghost Train 100 in October. He's run twice as many miles (literally) as I have this year, so to be feeling solid and with him at this point was a big boost. Of course, shortly after I thought that, he gapped me slightly, and was a few strides in front of me as we closed out the lap.

Lap 3 time: 52:52

The handoff.

Lap 4
This was, as they say, when shit got real. Thanks to another flawless hand off from Jamie, I was able to get out of the aid station ahead of Michael. And, because I've spent so much time watching ultras, I recognized a couple guys I passed early on in this lap as fairly experienced and/or accomplished ultrarunners. Suddenly, I was feeling a lot of pressure. I felt like I was racing. No, I was racing.

Then, almost out of no where, I heard myself say out loud, "You gotta believe."

That was it. At 20 miles, I made the decision to keep it going. I could have easily backed off, conserved a bit, and not worried about blowing up. But, where's the fun in that? Plus, my competitive disorder was in high gear right now. My legs were still churning out the miles, and I needed a test. This is what I had been missing all this time. Time to take a risk, suffer a bit, and see what I could do.

It was during this lap that I also got to experience what makes ultrarunning so great. I was starting to lap a number of other 50k runners and marathoners. Everyone was so encouraging. One woman even said to me, "You're amazing." I wanted to reply, "I'm totally normal," but my communication skills had diminished to neanderthal level at this point. Another gentleman even scolded me lightly for not more fervently asking to pass: "You gotta tells us slow pokes to get out of the way!" I grunted a smile.

Lap 4 time: 53:42

Lap 5
I only have snippets of memories from this lap. I remember saying out loud on more than one occasion, "Just...keep...pushing." I remember another runner cheering me on as I ran ever step of the "steep hill." (Those who ran the race know the hill to which I'm referring.) I remember a blur of ouch.

I had been wearing gloves for the first four laps but tossed them at the aid station. Shortly into this lap, I absentmindedly pressed my thumb and forefinger together. Something felt strange. I looked down and realized that my left had was pale and swollen. Better check the right. Yup, that hand too. I tried to wiggle my fingers, and they felt like foreign objects. That process probably took three minutes, but my brain was still sharp enough to realize that I'd overdone it with my fluids. In each of the first four laps, I'd drained almost an entire 20-ounce bottle of Nuun. I was on electrolyte overload. I squirted half of my bottle out knowing that I didn't need to carry all that extra weight, and probably took 3 sips in the final 5 miles.

With that issue solved, I was able to get back to my main focus: suffering. It was a manageable level of suffering, and although the splits would later reveal that I was slowing a bit, I was hanging tough. Then, suddenly, I wasn't. I popped. It was like a switch was flipped. The risk at mile 20 hit me hard sometime after mile 29, and I was a shuffling mess. I was moving forward, but barely. Less than two miles to go, but they were by far the longest two miles of the race. In one of the muddier sections, with about a half mile to go, Michael went flying by me babbling nonsense about sub 4:30. I could barely see, and it felt like my skeleton was made of Twizzlers. It's amazing how fast a 9-minute mile can look. ;)

But, I finished. I crossed the line with a smile on my face and a high five from Michael, who was nice enough to wait for me after his finish.

Lap 5 time: 57:13


Ultrarunning is fun.

Once the results were posted, I was bummed to realize that the pass at the very end dropped me out of the top ten, but I can't complain. For my first ultramarathon back after such a long hiatus, it's a huge relief to have finished. While I'm pleased with the result, I'm more proud of the way I ran the race. I ran smart, even splits. When Michael pass me, he was the only 50k runner to pass me...period. I took a bit of a risk, and it paid off. Sure, the last two miles were gruesome, but that has more to do with training than race day tactics. Could I have backed off in the third lap or at the beginning of the fourth lap? Sure. But, I believe I was still destined to run into some trouble with the lack of training. Again, it was all about getting to the starting line healthy, so I wasn't in prime fitness. Will I get there again? Maybe. But, running an ultra was far more satisfying than watching one...two...three...

Thanks to...

Jamie for crewing. It takes a true friend to stand out in the rain and not mind me barking orders at him. Then, he gave me a beer and a sausage after I finished. He's almost as good at crewing as I am...

Dr. Jamie Raymond for keeping my parts in working order by bending and popping me in unspeakable ways.

John for holding me accountable through the winter--a couple nights per week at 8:00pm, often in sub-zero temperatures. There is absolutely no way I would have gotten the miles in without such a committed training partner.

The Trail Animals Running Club, specifically the race directors Bob and Josh. They put on a helluva show.

Danielle for putting up with all my whining and believing that I could get back here. (Speaking of my lovely wife, she won the women's race. Topper.)

My Trail Monster Running teammates who encouraged me during my injuries and sent me kudos post-race. Even this athletic supporter needs support sometimes.

The obvious question, now, is: what's next? The first priorities are to recover and stay healthy. Beyond that...

Saturday, March 22, 2014

Snowshoe Season

Happily feeling saddled with the burden of updating the blog, since I'm actually fairly ambulatory these days. And, I'm even more happy to report that I completed my first snowshoe season since 2011. Granted, I wasn't able to attack it as hard as I would have liked, but two years of injuries and sporadic training will do nothing but erode one's fitness. That erosion was on display in all my races, but I made it to the start line of five races, finished each one, and survived unscathed. Here's a recap...

January 19, Bradbury Squall
After some quality early season snowfall, a prolonged and particularly aggressive January thaw put this race in serious jeopardy. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy my race director duties, but wrestling with Mother Nature is stressful. I managed to devise a course on the East side of the park that was just under three miles, but it took much more shoveling than should ever be needed to pull it off. Plus, with the icy conditions, it was more like a road race than a snowshoe race--firm and fast.

After a healthy period of sandbagging from the crew pre-race, during which we all professed our disinterest in racing that day, the race went out like a 1500 meters on the track. It was insane, and a giant mistake for me. Around the first corner and on to the first stretch of single track, I "settled" into fourth place behind gIANt, but my heart was already dangling out of the side of my mouth. We hit the Snowmobile Trail after 3/4 of a mile, and Jamie, Tyler and Scott easily moved past me a pulled away. Due to the firm conditions, I was able to keep them in sight, but by the time we reached the turn around, Chuck and Jennifer were breathing down my neck. Thankfully, fat is aided by gravity, and I was able to grunt and froth my way back down the Snowmobile Trail to the Link. I could see Jamie ahead of me, as he looked back approximately 37 times in the final quarter of a mile, but I was wide open and had no shot of getting him. I did manage to hold onto 7th place overall, but I knew that it was smoke and mirrors. The course really played into my hands being short and fast. I can handle that right now, but I know that in a real snowshoe race, I would've been toast.


February 8, Maine State Snowshoe Championships
It's no easy feat to get to Rangeley, so I was happy to have John as my driver and official MEDOT tour guide for the journey. It was cold when we arrived, but the yurt was warm and cozy. The field this day would be small, so I knew that even in my weakened condition all I needed to do was finish and I'd qualify for Nationals. As it turns out, that's exactly what would happen.

After an uneventful but beautiful warm up on a mix of groomed trail and singletrack, I made my way to the starting line in the "stadium." The race was held at Rangeley Lakes Trail Center--a Nordic skiing facility--and it was the perfect venue for a state championship. Even with the small field, the set up and course made it feel like a big deal. I could almost picture stands full of screaming fans. I was pumped to go after it...for about 100 yards...

Maine State Snowshoe Championships Race start.
The gun went off, and so did my left hamstring. It wasn't a full on pop, but I felt a significant tug only a few seconds after the start. For the next mile or so, I tried everything I could to try to make it feel normal with no success. Lengthening my stride, shortening my stride...nothing seemed to work. After turning off a lengthy singletrack section during which I shadowed Jamie, and once again, had Chuck and Jennifer on my tail, I shut it down. I knew that I just needed to finish to qualify, and I hoped that I could complete 10k without doing any real damage.

My reaction was strangely measured, since you'd think that I would be quite upset, but I after so many injuries I was nonplussed. I would have loved to have been able to race, but I was able to stay focused on the bigger picture as I have other fish to broil this year and the goal was to just get to Nationals. So, I jogged along and enjoyed the scenery. The upside was that I could enjoy the aforementioned scenery, which was stunning, and I was feeling very lucky to be able to be out in the woods on a such a winter's day...ahem. It was definitely worth the travel to be out on those trails, and I hope to find myself back there again.

At about 5k, I caught up to Tyler who was walking after realizing in only his second snowshoe race that it's really easy to go out too hard. He soon caught back up and trailed me for a bit before I decided to stop trying to race on my bum hamstring, and I let him by. Then, much to my surprise only a few minutes later, I came upon a group of seven or so all standing a trail junction totally befuddle. I quipped that it was nice of them to let me catch up, but once we confirmed we were headed down the correct path, they quickly pulled away. I was alone again and meandering along the singletrack toward the finish. As it turned out, we all stayed on the singletrack too long as the course wasn't clearly marked, but I was just as happy to enjoy the woods rather than try to run on a groomed nordic trail. I crossed the finish line with a disappointed smile, happy to have finished and hoping my hamstring wouldn't become a major issue.


February 16, Bradbury White Out
A few sessions with the ice pack and a fortuitously schedule appointment with Jamie, and my hamstring was feeling just fine as the second Bradbury Mountain Snowshoe Series race came around. I definitely dodged a bullet on this one and was pleased with myself for making the right decision during the race in Rangeley. The downside, although a few days of training wouldn't have made much of a difference, was that I was not physically ready for the conditions on this day. This was a real snowshoe race.

I wanted to make up for the easy and short course from the Bradbury Squall, and combined with the conditions, I really nailed. I still opted for the flatter East side, but I packed in the two biggest climbs I could find along with half of the dreaded O Trail. In short, this course is a keeper! Plus, Mother Nature threw a snow/rain/snow combo at us in the days leading up to the race, and breaking the trail to mark it was a Herculean task on Saturday. The crust was heavy and thick leaving chunks of various sizes on top of soft, sugary powder below. After marking, John and I ran the course together that day, and I told him, "Those are the hardest conditions I've ever run in. No fun at all." I wasn't exaggerating.

Prudently, I opted for a more leisurely start in this race, and it was necessary. My lack of strength is painfully obvious in the soft snow, and I was still leery of my hamstring. I was chasing David for most of the first two miles, but he has 20 years of experience on me...um, yeah...

Bradbury White Out start
Laurence tailed me for most of the race, and each time I offered for him to go around he declined. We did manage to pick a few people off here and there--including a few folks who went out way too hard and Scott who was having a very uncharacteristically off day. We reached the O Trail with Ben right on our tails, and I knew that I was going to get nipped eventually. I managed to keep the train moving through the O (while cursing the race director), but as soon as we turned onto the Knights Woods Trail, Ben moved around and off up the hill. I told Laurence to go after him, but he once again declined content to listen to me grunt and snort my way up the final hill (once again cursing the race director). I managed a bit of a smile near the finish, knowing that I'd gutted it out. I never attempted to really race in this one, but I didn't just go through the motions. It's tough for me to not race when I put on a number, but the stars were not aligned for me to go after it on this day. It's a strangely measured and mature attitude from me, but I think it's going to be necessary moving forward.


Almost a smile at the finish line

March 1, U.S. National Snowshoe Championship
How often do normal people get to compete in a national championship event? Measured and mature was replaced by balls to the wall. I knew that I don't have the fitness or strength to do any damage at this event, but I wanted to give it everything I had--even if I was bringing a butter knife to a gun fight.

The ride to Bennington, Vermont on Friday evening was a mix of awesome--a bacon cheeseburger with peanut butter--and less awesome--being second hand rear ended by a drunk driver. Luckily, no one was hurt by either the burger or the moron...aside from Scott's car, but it was still drivable. With the drama behind us, Saturday dawned sunny and cold, as we made our way to Prospect Mountain, which was the perfect venue for a New England snowshoe race. A retired alpine ski area turned Nordic touring center, time has stood mostly still at Prospect, but the energy for a National Championship was off the charts.

The day started with the Junior 5k, in which Chris was entered. Because he's a true American hero, he sacrificed his race to help a competitor in distress. Then, the women's 10k race went, and we were able to get some course intel from Jennifer before our start. In short, don't go out too fast, and it's hard. With an opening mile on all groomed Nordic trail and a mile long climb to the summit in the third mile, it confirmed what we already knew.

Near the mile mark. Joe Viger Photography
The race had more than 200 runners on the line making it easily double the size of the largest snowshoe race in which I'd ever competed. And, it felt like it. I was lucky to keep my snowshoes attached to my feet, but I saw a number of other runners who had to pull over to get shoes back on after being trampled. It was tricky to not get caught up in the energy of the race, but I did a good job of staying relaxed in the opening miles and was ready to go when the climbing begain. I was able to get into a good gear and just kept grinding. I passed a number of people on the climb, but I could also feel that I was pulling a group along. Shortly after the 4k mark, a runner went by, then another, then another. I was lamenting my lack of strength and was leery to start pushing, but after a few seconds, I decided to drop a gear and try to pick off those three. It was Nationals after all. I picked up the pace and was able to earn those places back. My timing was perfect as I was worked by the time I reached the summit. I was able to regroup and get into a line of other runners as we entered a tough and twisty singeltrack section in which I was running all out and just trying to stay upright. Once it flattened out, I must have relaxed and caught my snowshoe on the edge of the trough. I supermanned in spectactular fashion losing a couple places in the process. I was able to get back up and give chase. Another climb was a slap in the face, but I was charging and clipping the heels of a runner in front of me. He let me by at the top, and I kept chasing on the final, long descent to the finish. After 8k of snowshoe racing, a steep, fast downhill is pretty painful to say the least, and my legs were wobbly. A trio of runners snuck past me a few clicks before the final downhill switchback, which was severely rutted out since 300+ runners had churned it up prior to my arrival. I negotiated this stretched and was determined to catch that trio in the final quarter mile or so to the finish. The pictures will attest to the fact that I gave it everything I had. The trio and I were separated by a total of four seconds, and I didn't have enough real estate to catch them.

Satan face at the finish. SNAPacidotic

Post-race I was stunned to find out that I finished 105 out of 213. Even in my weakened condition, I never expected to be that far back. Then, I remembered that every single person in the race needed to qualify, and they came from all across the snow-covered United States and the Canadia. How cool is that? I'm honored to have been able to compete in such a great event and proud of the effort I showed.


March 9, Bradbury Blizzard
Even though it felt anti-climatic to have a race the weekend following Nationals, my race director hat was back on for the final race of the Bradbury Mountain Snowshoe Series. I had a chance to get to The Brad on Thursday to assess the conditions, and I was excited that we'd be able to race on the mountain side. Of course, it was warm on Friday and Saturday during the days and cold at night, so the course had more ice than I would have liked, but no one ever said that snowshoe race directing reduced stress. On Saturday, I had a ton of help marking the course. John and Sean had no idea that it would take two hours to mark a quarter of the course. We placed approximately eleventy billion flags on the Switchback and South Ridge Trails. Then, we ran the Beautiful Loop, 15 miles--it was a big day.

Sunday was the first day of Daylight Savings Time, and I somehow set my clock ahead two hours. At least I had extra time to get registration and the start and finish lines set up. The good part about having a race after Nationals was that I had finally really tested my fitness and strength. Granted, the results weren't entirely encouraging, but they also weren't unexpected. But, armed with the knowledge that I could actually push a bit and not explode, I was looking forward to testing myself at the Blizzard.

Bradbury Blizzard start
At the "gun" (me yelling GO!), things went out a bit faster than I expected, but I was happy settling into my pace knowing that the first part of the course was the much easier than the rest. Also, without the opportunity for a proper warmup, I really needed to take it easy to work the previous day's effort out of my legs. By the time I turned onto the Boundary Trail, I was a few strides behind the ageless David where I would remain for the remainder of the day either chasing or annoying him. I picked off a few folks along the way who didn't realize how hilly this sucker was, which gave the race director in me a point of pride. Then, while starting the South Ridge trail a few strides behind David the race director in me was terrified watching him descend with reckless abandon. The racer in me was disheartening by my complete lack of downhill ability. I resigned myself to reel him in slowly on the climb on the Switchback, which is just what I did. I pushed pretty hard up the zigzags, but took a moment to enjoy the crunching sounds of those behind me and watch the conga line move along--I love climbing the Switchback as both a racer and race director. At the top, I opened up the best I could and with each step, I was gaining a bit on David around the Tote Road. Finally, at the top of the Northern Loop, I was right on his shoulder, but then we started down the Terrace Trail. I would never see him again, and I was once again left to lament my downhill "running."

While compiling the results, I was stoked to see that I wasn't too far behind the crew I've been trailing all season. There's definitely something brewing. And, of course, it was a huge relief to complete my second consecutive Bradbury series and my first snowshoe series since the first in 2011. Above all, people loved the course--many said it was their favorite. It's clearly the hardest of the three, with 700+ feet of climbing in five miles, but the crew that comes out to run my crazy idea embraces that. I'm lucky to be supported by each and every one. Bad asses, indeed.


Finishing up snowshoe season.
Despite what the results might depict, it was a very successful snowshoe season. I made it through healthy. I competed. I had the honor of competing. I was surrounded by great competitors and, more importantly, great people. Snowshoe season is my favorite season of all, and it was tremendous to not be standing on the sidelines. Fitness-wise, I have a lot of work to do, but that will come. I'm in no rush. It's more important to be healthy than to be at top fitness. Easier written than done...

Tuesday, September 17, 2013

Bradbury Bruiser - Race Report

An actual, living, breathing race report. It's true. I finally put in an effort worthy of a report. Not the result I would have liked, but certainly the effort. But without giving away too much of the ending, here's what went down at the 2013 Bradbury Bruiser.

Since setting my sights on the Big Brad Ultra 50k, I'd basically forgotten about the Bruiser. It was on the calendar, but I didn't think about the course or race strategy or anything until the day before. I took a quick peek at my 2010 race report--the year I PR'ed in 1:38:23--to get refresh my memory on the three key splits: end of the Island Trail, the beginning of O Trail and the finish. That year, I went approximately 15:00, 60:00 and 23:00, but this year I'd hoped to get under 1:44:48 to put me a 4 hours even for the series. I thought this was a bit a stretch, but still held out hope.

What I didn't need to review pre-race was the strategy. I've learned how to best tackle this race: stay relaxed on the Island Trail, race hard until the O Trail, then hang on to the finish. It's worked well for me in the past, and this was my goal again despite my depleted fitness. While marking the course with Jeremy on Saturday, we were chatting about something that had become quite clear to me this summer: it's really hard to race, when you don't trust your fitness. It's tough to push yourself early and often, when you haven't trained and tested yourself enough to know if you're going to survive. Right now, I don't trust my fitness--what little of it there is--but I knew that if I was going to have a satisfactory day on Sunday, I needed to have a little faith.

Unfortunately, on Saturday night, I felt terrible. Not sure quite what it was, but had some aggressive gastrointestinal issues that evening that left me feeling a bit wiped out on Sunday morning. In my favor, however, was the weather. A cool September day was on tap, so I knew the weather wouldn't be holding me back. After the usual song of dance of setting up the Start/Finish area, which I feel like I have down to a science now, and the hustle and bustle of registration, Ian was giving the pre-race instructions, and we were off.

Unlike the previous races this summer, after the announcements, I moved quite a few rows back from the start line. I did not want to get pulled out too quickly, potentially sabotaging my race even before it began. My plan worked, and according to the photos I was in 36th place at the start of the Island Trail.

Feeling comfortable in 36th place at the start of the Island Trail.
Photo courtesy of hurdlingreggie/Maine Running Photos.
It was a very comfortable spot to be in and then throughout the Island Trail, while I watched others waste far too much energy jockeying for meaningless positions and wasting crucial energy so early in the proceedings. The end of the Island Trail came in 16:30, a full 90 seconds off PR pace, but just where I thought I should be, and once we made that left hand turn, I was in a good place to pick up the pace.

I say "we" because at about a mile into the race a kid in a blue shirt pulled up behind me. He would end up staring at the back of my head for a very long time. It was great to have the push, and it definitely put me into race mode. But, of course, I wouldn't have minded dropping him either. It is a race.

Exiting the Island Trail. Note the blue shirt lurking. Thirty-third place at this point.
Photo courtesy of hurdlingreggie/Maine Running Photos.
I asked him a couple times if he was interested in passing, but each time he declined. He seemed more than content to let me dictate the pace, and I know without him I probably would have backed off a bit. Either way, we would run alone--together for a bit--then catch a group, pass them...rinse and repeat.

We rolled through the first aid station which was quite spirited due to our awesome volunteers, so I decided to give them a bit a a cheer back. Or, perhaps I'm completely insane.

Photo courtesy of hurdlingreggie/Maine Running Photos.
At this point, we'd moved up to 22nd and 23rd, and I was really enjoying the stress of racing. A third runner joined our train just past the entrance to the Bat Cave due to an untied shoelace, and it felt like even more of a race. I still didn't trust my fitness, but I also knew that I needed to try to shake my blue shadow. I'm not as nimble on the technical terrain as I would like, so part of my Bruiser strategy is to hammer the Snowmobile Trail, which comes at mile 6 or so. The treadway is smoother, and no one likes to pick up the pace on an uphill, so it's a good place for me to try to break things open.

So, as soon as we hit the Snowmobile Trail, I dropped the pace considerably, and I as the trail pitched upward the footsteps behind me got quieter and quieter. I was putting myself fairly deep in the hurt locker at this point, but it was working. As an added bonus, I was catching up to two guys in front of me. A frothy and subdued thanks to the aid station crew this time, and I pushed some more. I was pretty worked by the time, I turned left off the Snowmobile Trail, but was super stoked with the risk I'd just taken. It had seemed to have paid off as I took a glance back at the left hand turn onto the next bit of singletrack: no blue shirt in sight. Plus, I was able to latch on to the two guys in front of me. I say "latch on" but I was always a few strides back of second guy who was always a few strides back of the dude in front. We were a pretty disorganized train, but we were moving pretty well. Or so I thought.

Then just before the long, superfluous mountain bike bridge, the blue shirt reappeared right on my tail. Oh, to be young and fit. Damn. Since I now had company--or more likely from fatigued--I dropped back a bit from the two dudes in front and ran along on with my blue shadow once more. As we entered the singletrack on the other side of the Snowmobile Trail, I tired to pick up the pace again, knowing that I was going to blow through the upcoming aid station and push hard up the hill on Knight's Woods--that dreaded, awful, terrible, hill on Knight's Woods. I flew through the aid station with Jeremy and Zak yelling wildly at me, and I put the hammer down going up the Knight's Woods Trail. That hill hurts like hell. It must have hurt blue shirt too because I got another gap, and actually caught back up to the other two guys in front. I was a grunting mess by the time I ran the final few yards to the O Trail, and it was at this point that the blue shirt finally went around. I managed to squeeze out a "Great job" or other such congratulatory phrase as I knew I wouldn't be seeing him again.

I enter the O Trail at 1:18:59 in a train of four other runners. The split was only about two minutes slower than my PR split from Island to O, which was encouraging. However, I knew I had pushed really hard to get to the O, and my plan of just hang on backfired somewhat.

Being the caboose in a train of five meant that it was easy to get dropped off the back. And that's exactly what happened less than a minute or so in. I couldn't--or didn't--hang on. Since my race strategy at this point has always been "hang on as best you can," I cut myself a little too much slack. If I had tried to stay with them longer, which would have been a tough task, perhaps the O would have gone a little better. As it was, I soon found myself running alone and not moving very well. Then I was moving even slower. It's really hard to know what's going on in the O Trail with its myriad twists and turns, but I could tell that a group of three or four was gaining on me. I started to see them more frequently, but at the same time, I also knew I was nearing the end. After stumbling and shuffling, I started running harder when I was afraid of getting caught, and I was somewhat ashamed at how well I was able to run as I popped out onto the Knight's Woods Trail for the final push to the finish. Then I remembered that I was about to claim my first Bad Ass hoodie in three years, and I picked up the pace another notch.

After they'd broken out the calendar to record my O Trail split, I headed for the finish.
Photo courtesy of Maine Running Photos.
I crossed the line in 1:45:47, 22nd place. I made sure to seek out the guys that I ran with throughout the race, especially my blue shadow, congratulate them on their efforts and thank them for their push. It had taken me nearly 27 minutes to complete the O Trail, and I'd missed my goal of breaking four hours for the series by 59 seconds. Don't get me wrong, I'm thrilled to be healthy enough to complete the series and actually racing the Bruiser was so much fun, but there's more there. There has to be. I just have to keep working for it--both mentally and physically. I am fit enough to run the O Trail faster than that, but my mind wasn't there. Training isn't just about the body. Damn, this sport is cool.

Who's ready for the Snowshoe Series?

Friday, September 6, 2013

State of Love and Trust

I've drafted this post on countless runs over the past few months, but when it has come to putting keys to pixels, nothing has materialized. Fear of the enormity of the task was the biggest obstacle. How do I properly sum it up? Well, here's a crack at it.

In short, it's been a roller coaster. But, the up and downs have been more complicated than healthy or injured--a lot of gray area. I'll go into more details in a bit because I want to focus on the one constant. Throughout the running problems, the one constant is that I've never given up. Even when I was "All Done," I knew that I would still be running. Deep down I never gave up. I enjoy the act. I enjoy the people. And, I'm too damn competitive. I never gave up because even though I'm getting older, I believe I can still get faster. There's a 3:10 marathon PR that's begging to be lowered. There's a 3:56 50k PR that can be bested. And, there's a 50-mile puzzle that I know I can solve. Maybe I'm just too stubborn. I'm typing this with ice on one Achilles and ice on the opposite calf. Stubborn. And, stubbornly, but happily, moving forward.

Where have I been?

At the beginning of 2013, I was in the midst of a positive stretch. I wasn't putting any pressure on myself, and I was just enjoying it. I was enjoying it to the point that I could feel some fitness coming around--enough fitness that I was excited about the start of the Bradbury Mountain Snowshoe Series. Unfortunately, two days before the first race, I strained my calf. Again. (I'd rather discuss religion or politics, but I can say with relative certainty that it was the 4mm drop shoes I was running it at the time. They been shelved and no problems since. Yes, I had calf problems previously, but let's just say that minimal isn't for me.) I still started the race, but dropped at a half mile to avoid further damage. It was hurting, and running on one leg is a bad idea. I was crestfallen. Snowshoe season is my season. To that point, I had never lost to any of my Trail Monster teammates in a snowshoe race, and my goal was to keep it that way. Based on my fitness, I knew that it was a long shot with Jeremy, Scott, Jamie and more toeing the line that day. But, stubborn. No offense, fellas: I believed that I could have out-suffered anyone on that day. I wanted to make someone suffer to beat me, and suffer a lot. My only real talent is my ability to suffer. I just wish I'd had the chance to test it that day.

I took the next four weeks off from running to let the calf heal. It was a very smart decision. It killed me watching snowshoe season pass me by, but it wasn't as if I could have raced at a high level. I was starting in the basement. This point was proven in early March at the final snowshoe race six weeks later. I was healthy enough to run...er...participate...after two weeks of light running, but I finished well back. I felt like I was missing one, two, maybe even three gears as I made my way around the course. I was glad I raced, but I was a bit embarrassed by my result. The spirit was willing, but the body was weak. Very weak.

In the ensuing days, I hatched a plan. Regardless of my fitness, I've always been able to muster a bit of speed. I figured I would build off a strength--focus on speed and the rest will follow. That would become my goal for the summer. So, at 7:00am on March 15, I jumped on the computer and registered for the Beach to Beacon 10k, which would become my goal race. With August 3 circled on the calendar, I also decided to register for the Back Cove Series--a weekly 5k series, which I figured would be a great way to tune up and speed up. On top of that, a group of us started a regular Thursday night "Sufferfest," which was usually hill repeats. I was hopeful that this combination would bring it all together.

In late April, I got a tempered ego boost with a win at the TARC Spring Classic 10k. My winning time was slower than the first lap of the 50k leaders, but a win is a win, even if the pond is really small. I actually got to race: led the first mile, then trailed, took the lead at mile 3 and extended from there. Racing is fun. But again, I knew that the talent pool was limited, so I didn't put too much stock in it. However, my time of 43:22 did give me a good target for the Bradbury Scuffle in July. I figured with increased fitness, I could get down around that number on a much harder course.

With a road race as the goal, though, I decided to test the speed in a road 5k the first weekend of May. I ended up second overall in 18:37. As my training log notes: "5k's hurt!" It was a good effort, and a good baseline for the rest of the summer. I figured with the right training, I should be able to be under 18 or better by the end of the summer. Unfortunately, this would be my fastest 5k of the season, as I melted in the summer heat. At the end of May, I managed an age group win and 5th overall at the Pineland Farms Trail Challenge 5k, but much like the TARC 10k, the pond was small--the undercard for the heavyweight races the next day. Plus, I barely outkicked an 11-year-old girl and was behind a 14-year-old girl until 2.25 miles. This was telling.

I did a good job of mixing in track work, hill repeats and snappier long runs with plenty of easy runs until early June. Then, it all fell apart. The heat of the humidity of the summer were really hard on me. I barely made it through a number of long runs, and generally felt off most of June and July. Sometimes I waited until 8:00pm to go out for a run to avoid the heat, but it still didn't help. Early mornings weren't much better as I can never get in the quality first thing in the morning, since I struggle with mornings and always feel as if I'm missing a gear. The Back Cove 5ks weren't much better. My first of the season was the fastest: 18:59. On top of that, I didn't really enjoy the series--just not my particular brand of vodka. And, since my heart wasn't really in it, it was tough to motivate to get to the races and even harder to motivate myself during the races. I ended up only making three races, and even that felt like three too many. (No offense to those who work hard to put on the series, as it's a great asset to the Portland community, but I have some issues with the race organization and set up. While this may sound like sour grapes, my performances are my own issue. No one's fault but my own. Again, just not my scene.) The good side of the race management was that after getting "closed out" of one week, I jumped into a 4-mile race in Gorham the next day, clocking an optimistic 24:43, taking third place. One important note: that evening, the weather was 60 degrees and lightly raining.

By the time the Bradbury Scuffle rolled around in mid-July, I knew I wasn't where I'd hoped to be, but I still figured a sub-45 clocking was possible. Or at least, I hoped so. The notes in my training log are brief: "Awful." I felt great for the first mile, going out very easy, thinking I'd reel in people in the last 4 miles. By the time mile 2 passed, I was slowing when I should have been speeding up. The rest of the miles got slower, and I had no pop. Another humid day, and my race was a joke--even more embarrassing than the snowshoe race. I was pissed.

I'm not entirely certain when it happened, but it was around this time that I realized something else: I'd put on some weight. I'm not fat, but I'm getting close. I'd say I'm 5 pounds more than what I should be and about 12 pounds away from fast. Add this to the race results, and I wasn't feeling so rosy about my fitness, my effort or much else. Oh, and I still had Beach to Beacon on the horizon.

For once, I made a smart decision. With so many questions surrounding my fitness, I really had no idea how fast I could run 10k. I just didn't know. I decided that my goal for the Beach to Beacon was to enjoy the experience: go out comfortably quick for the first 5k, and come home in whatever. It wasn't exactly a detailed plan, but it was one that set me up for success. Although the race was a gigantic mega-production, which I usually avoid, mission accomplished. I finished in 40:49, which isn't close to the time I had hoped for when I registered in March, but I enjoyed my race. I even negative split the 5ks. It's not my style of race, but I had fun. A positive racing experience. That was the goal.

Where am I now?

With the "goal" race for the summer behind me, I used the same plan going into the Bradbury Breaker. With the extra weight and the lack of training, it was pretty clear that wouldn't be tearing it up. And, I didn't. My climbing was terrible, but I could really move on the flats--which make up 4% of the course. I finished further back than I would like, but I put in an honest effort. I wouldn't call it fun, as that course is tough, but it was another good race experience. Being as competitive as I am, it's tough to look at the results, but I can't be in PR shape at every race. I'm slowly coming around to that idea. And, that's really where I am right now.

I'm not certain if it's age or experience or sobering reality, but I'm coming around to the idea that it's fine to go to races and not be near the top of the heap in both placing and fitness. After Beach to Beacon I posted on Facebook: "Not what I'm capable of, but it's what I'm capable of right now." It's the right now that I need to focus on. I can never really be upset with a result, if I'm putting in the best effort I can. Sometimes that effort will put me near the top. Other times, that same effort will put me in the middle or bottom of the pack. Either way, I've started focusing on the experience. I've been having this same conversation with ultramarathons. Yes, they're races, but they're also something to experience. Experiences I've been missing out on.

Since the Lookout Mountain 50 in December of 2011, I've attended 8 ultramarathons as crew or pacer. Not once have I put on a number myself. I even coined this little number: "Those who can't do, crew; those who can't race, pace." That's me! Sigh. Now, a large part of the reason I've been in this position is due to injury, but an additional piece is that I've been reticent to jump into something if I couldn't perform at my peak. (Maybe I'm really just concerned about my ranking on UltraSignUp getting too low.) In some ways, that's missing the point. But again, I can never really be upset if I give it my best effort with what I have at the time. Case in point: I'm one race away from completing my first Bradbury Mountain Trail Running Series Bad Ass since 2010 (not a typo). That's three years that I haven't been able to finish all three races. Sure, this summer will be far from my fastest clocking in the series, but I'll be proud to rock a new hoodie. However, it's another hoodie that interests me. Well, that's a lie--it's not about the hoodie. It's about going after it and having the experience. And, sadly, attending all those ultramarathons has only fueled my addiction to them. Seeing the "other side" of the race is tremendous, but I miss competing. I miss actually putting on a number. So, I've decided to run the Big Brad Ultras 50k on October 20. I know that I'll be going in a bit heavy and a little undertrained, but at least I'll be going in.

So that's the state of things. I'm still tumultuously in love with this bizarre world. And, I'm ready to trust myself to give it everything I have regardless of what I have. Who knows? I may even start blogging again on a regular basis.

Saturday, November 17, 2012

Mostly Dead Is Partly Alive

Since my last non-crew-report update, nearly 5 months ago, I wish I could report a running and fitness renaissance, but that is not the case. In general, I've either been running a little, reinjuring things or struggling with new injuries. And, for the most part, I've had a general disinterest in running. It still wasn't fun. Of course, even when it wasn't fun, I'm still competitive as hell. I was trying to get back in the game, but that was a mistake. August started to look promising, but the classic too-much-too-soon came back to bite me, and I couldn't run. I spiraled even further downward mentally. I barely ran a step in September, and I didn't care. An attempt at an 8-mile run at the end of the month nearly broke me. Nothing was working.

Looking back, it's clear the hurdle has been as much mental as physical, perhaps even more so. To illustrate that point, I started to feel a renewed interest/less hatred with the notion of running after the day of the Baystate Marathon had come and gone. That was to be my goal race for 2012, and I was going to absolutely throw down. It was never meant to be. But, in the days following the race, I began to come to grips with the fact that I wasn't part of that race. It was history. If I had raced, it would have been time to look forward, and I found myself in a similar mindset without having raced. Additionally, I'm wrestling with my inner competitive demons and have drastically scaled back my expectations. The result has been two-fold. First, it's taken a huge amount of pressure off. (All of that pressure being internal.) And, second, it has allowed me to take a rational look at how I train. And, as a result, things are looking up.

My current running has been nothing more than relaxed, 5-mile runs. I've mixed up road and trail, and I'm actually enjoying it. As a normal person, everyday life also affects running, and I recently started a new job. I've gone from a run-whenever-I-want-working-at-home-self-employed consultant to a regular-nine-to-five guy. In September, I told D that if I did get a "regular" job, I couldn't possibly see myself getting up in the morning to run. I don't believe in mornings. I figured my running would be over. Much to my (and her) surprise, I've done an amazing job of getting out the door around 6:00am most mornings. (Yesterday's sunrise was incredible.) I'm generally running 3 days on, one day off, not caring about the weekly mileage. And, if I feel like taking another day off or adding another run, I'm doing that. It seems to be working. I'm going to continue in this vein and start to mix in a little speed and hills because that sounds...well...fun. My only goal is to be healthy for snowshoe season this winter. It was really depressing to miss out on it last year. Even if I'm not in shape, I hope to at least be able to participate. I need to just put in a base of consistent, healthy running. I feel like I'm doing that. Or at least not get fat...

Thursday, July 26, 2012

The Vermont 100

To be clear, there is no possible way I can adequately sum up the weekend at the Vermont 100. I had never crewed, paced or even attended a 100-mile event, and I came away truly believing that ultrarunning is a team sport. Watching the runners, crews and pacers work together for a common goal was inspiring. It was even more inspiring to see my Trail Monster Running teammates and crews come together for some amazing results. It has also never been clearer to me that ultrarunning is about adapting, and I learned that the same is true for the crews. But, I'm getting ahead of myself... (WARNING: This may be longer than my race reports, if you can imagine that.)

My role for the weekend was to lead Zak's crew for his second attempt at completing the Vermont 100. Last year, he dropped at mile 93, unable to walk, so he was looking for redemption. Additionally, I was also slated as back-up pacer, if necessary. I met Zak and his wife, Lenka, in Portland for the ride to Vermont. We stopped in Scarborough adding to the caravan Jeremy and his crew: his girlfriend, Alison; Mindy and his pacer, David. Following an uneventful drive, we arrived at Silver Hill Meadow, the start/finish/hub of the Vermont 100, which is conveniently located in the middle of nowhere, for weigh-in and medical check.

Silver Hill Meadow
Lunch at a greasy spoon after and on to Zak's friend's house to meet the rest of the crew: Zak's friend Kevin, who would be pacing him either 30 or 19 miles, Kevin's girlfriend, Christsonthy and Zak's sister Sarah. Yes, that's a large crew. I knew that it was going to be pretty cozy in the little yellow engine that could for an entire day, so I was pleased to see from the get-go that we would all get along really well. Following an amazing dinner courtesy of Alison and Lenka, we went over last minute details and hit bed (or tent, in my case) around 9:00pm in advance of our 2:00am wake up call.

Monster Fuel!
Getting up at 2:00am is terrible. Luckily, my body didn't realize it was up for the day until a couple hours later, and by then, I was 32 oz of coffee deep and there was no going back. We followed the parade of headlights and dust along the Vermont country roads to the start and prepared to send the Trail Monster boys on their way. We had 5 guys tackling the 100—Zak, Ian, Jeremy, Joe and George—and each was ready to kill it.

Ian, Zak and Jeremy just before the start.
At 4:00am, headlamps aglow, they were off into the darkness along with 300+ other runners. We didn't have to leave Silver Hill Meadow until around 6:00am, so the ladies took the opportunity to grab a quick snooze while Kevin and I hung out in the tent, watched the horses start and talked about beer. (Along with the 100 mile and 100km runs, the Vermont 100 also features 3 horse rides of different lengths.) The first handler-allowed aid station is Pretty House at mile 22.5, but this year, due to the effects of Hurricane Irene, the runners also took a detour through Woodstock at mile 13. We saw this as an opportunity to not only provide moral support for the Trail Monsters but also grab "second" breakfast for the crew. Starting my third cup of coffee at 6:30am meant I was even more fun than usual! We saw all 5 guys in Woodstock, looking comfortable and easy, including Ian skipping. Fueled by gas station breakfast sandwiches, we jetted north to Pretty House.

High fives.

Just George.
Following a very minor navigational blunder and correction from a French-Canadian volunteer ("Dees not da waaay."), we arrived at Pretty House with plenty of time to set up Zak's personal aid station. It also gave me time to catch up with some friends from the running world, including Scott who was crewing his wife, Debbie, to a third place finish and Nick and Sarah who were crewing the eventual men's winner, Brian, and women's second place finisher, Amy. (And, yes, I just crew name dropped.) As crew, your heart rate at aid stations goes from flatline to about 329 as soon as your runner arrives. Thankfully, Zak kept things pretty simple for us, and we'd discussed our roles beforehand. Kevin and I would meet him before the aid station. I would take his pack and restock it: refill the hydration bladder with water plus a Nuun tablet or two, fill one pocket with 3 gels, fill the other pocket with 2 shot blocks and keep the s-cap pocket loaded. Meanwhile, Kevin would bring him to the table, get him eating and bring him to the crew. There, the ladies would wait on him hand and foot. Not a bad deal, really. And, this is exactly how it went at Pretty House. We had him out in a minute or two, and he was off down the road. He looked exactly as he should. His only complaint was that he felt tight and not warmed up—a good sign with nearly 80 miles to go. I couldn't wait to see him again at the next stop—Stage Road, mile 30.5.

It would take Zak about 90 minutes to Stage Road, but by car, it was only a 20-minute drive. There is no sense getting to the aid station too early because you're just taking a (very-limited) parking space and  you're in the way. We chilled for a bit at the Teago Country Store, the halfway point, between the aid stations, and I finished my third large mug of coffee for the day. So, fully caffeinated, we drove to Stage Road and set up Zak's station in the shade. Ian and Jeremy, once again, rolled in together and were out in a flash. By this time, Ian's parents had joined the fray as his crew, giving Emma some much needed support. And, of course, Alison had every little thing Jeremy could ever need. Only two or three minutes later, Zak arrived looking much more comfortable than one should after running 50k. We fueled him up, and Kevin and I walked him down the road away from the aid station.

"OK, now that we're away from everyone, you can tell us how you really feel," I said. Unless things were dire, I knew that Zak would put up a good front for Lenka and Sarah, but my job was to strip away the bullshit to make certain he had everything he needed. He said he was feeling great and running relaxed. He couldn't believe Jeremy and Ian were only a couple minutes ahead. His only complaint was a "wonky" knee, but Kevin and I told him it was probably just some weirdness from the taper working itself out and that he would forget about it after a couple more miles. He agreed, and we sent him into the woods.

Leaving Stage Rd. (Chip Tilden photo.)
The next handler-accessible aid station wasn't for another 17 miles, Camp 10 Bear at mile 47.6. It would take Zak nearly 3.5 to get there, so we stopped at the Teago Store again and hatched a new plan. We decided to head to Lincoln Covered Bridge at mile 39.6. We figured we could see the boys run through, and it would be a nice spot to have lunch. Plus, we'd still have plenty of time to get to Camp 10 Bear. It was a flawless plan.

We arrived at Lincoln Covered Bridge, parked on the opposite side from the aid station and dove into the piles and piles of food Lenka had brought for us. It was awesome. I've never eaten a bigger lunch at  11:00 in the morning. So, with bellies full we strolled up to the bridge to offer encouragement to the runners coming through. 

Clydesdale Division.
Just before noon, Jeremy and Ian rolled through the bridge and knowing Zak left Stage Road only minutes behind them, the countdown was on. I figured he'd probably be about 15 minutes behind them. Fifteen minutes came and went—no Zak. A half hour went by—no Zak. I was standing alone inside the covered bridge to stay out of the sun, and Lenka walked up to me noticeably concerned.

"Zak could finish two hours behind Jeremy and still have an awesome race. He's fine."

I barely believed this lie, but I think she bought it. I knew something was up. Best case scenario was that he had stopped a couple times with stomach...err...pooping issues that he had mentioned to me at the start. And, I tried not to think about the worst case scenarios as Joe rolled past looking great 45 minutes after Jeremy and Ian. Once an hour had passed I walked to the other side of the bridge to give me a view down the road in the direction from which the runners were coming. Soon after, I saw Zak. I walked to the other end of the bridge to let the crew know he was coming. As soon as I saw him shuffle onto the bridge, I knew his day was done. His head was down, and he barely looked at me. Lenka walked with him the 100 meters to the aid station, while Kevin and I hung back. Not knowing exactly what was wrong, I said, "Let's let Lenka make him feel better, then we can swoop in with the tough love." Kevin was thinking the same thing, so we walked to the aid station where Zak was icing his left knee.

Since I'm having trouble recounting this part of the day, let's just say that I let Zak make his own decision to drop. I walked with him for about 200 yards out of the aid station before he let the reality of what was happening to him set in. He couldn't put any weight on his left leg and continuing would have been foolish at best. I wanted to take his number and run for him, but all I could do was give him a hug and cry with him. It was so unfair. He was fit enough to run an amazing race. A sub-24 hour buckle was practically a given. He was on his way early. After dropping at mile 93 of this race last year, I couldn't understand why it was happening to him again. I still don't understand it. I went to back to the aid station and said "316 is a drop." It was the worst thing I think I've ever said.

We piled the crew and Zak into the car and drove in silence to Camp 10 Bear. I know that another aid station or anywhere near the race was the last place Zak wanted to be, but his parents were there volunteering (because they're awesome!), and we had to deliver the news. We also dropped Zak's sister off here since her parents were also watching her dog. We got out of there as fast as we could so Kevin and Christsonthy could drive Zak back to the house to shower, eat and try to feel human again. The day was just beginning for me.

We had fortuitously decided to bring two cars to Silver Hill Meadow in case we needed to split up the crew for supplies. But, as it turned out, it allowed me to jump right back into the fray and lend a hand to Jeremy and Ian's crews. Beyond that, it allowed me to crew Joe, who in typical Joe fashion was running solo. I felt bad leaving Zak, as I was there for him, but as an ultrarunner, I knew he understood that I had to get out there and help our Trail Monster teammates any way that I could. I'm not certain everyone else did, but I knew Zak did. If the roles were reversed, I would have sent him out there, too. So, at 3:30pm, I was at Margaritaville, mile 62.5, awaiting the arrivals of Jeremy and Ian.

Not to be overly dramatic, especially in the face of Zak's situation, but I had a really tough time making the shift from lead crew man to menial task crew gimp. I didn't know Jeremy or Ian's plans or gear. I didn't know their expected times. I just knew that I was a pair of hands. I even had to check with the timers at Margaritaville to see if they had come through yet. I was a bit lost. I wanted to help, but I didn't know if I'd just be in the way. Not long after I arrived, Alison, Mindy and David appeared, and not a moment too soon. Jeremy came into the aid station before they were really set up. He'd just run 100k in 12 hours flat and was looking amazing.

Jeremy at Margaritaville. Time to eat!
I helped out where I could and after some food and a sock change, he was gone. As he was rolling out, Emma, Bob and Ann arrived for Ian, and he also arrived just as they were setting up. Ian plopped into a chair about 10 minutes after Jeremy did the same, and I've never seen anyone so excited to eat pickles.

Where dem pickles at?!?!?!
I offered my water bottle to wash his dusty feet. Emma popped a couple blisters. He changed his shoes and socks, and he was gone. It was really impressive to see both of these guys' attitudes at this point. No whining, no complaining. Just focus. They were polite to their crews, which is hard to do and many runners are not. In those brief moments, I gained even more respect than I already had for these guys, and I knew they were both on their ways to amazing days. I was still sad that Zak wasn't out there with them, and I hated delivering that news to them. But, the race must go on, and, suddenly, I was back in it.

The runners pass through Camp 10 Bear twice, and mile 70.5 was the next stop for our guys. Camp 10 Bear is ridiculous. It's far too small an area to accomodate all the runners and crews. For one weekend, it's the most ridiculous place on earth. The runners come through here twice, but each time they approach from a different angle. (I think.) It's wildly confusing. After arriving early enough to watch enough befuddled runners come down the hill to the medical check in, I decided that even though it would be more fun to hang with the crews, I would go a ways up the hill to catch the guys as they were coming in, take their bottles and run them right to the scale. The crews could get everything ready, and I could get them to the right place. Seriously, this place is a madhouse.

Camp 10 Bear
The good part about Camp 10 Bear is that it is the point at which the runners pick up their pacers for the final 30 miles. Having a pacer is a huge psychological boost for the runner. In fact, the race organizers actually connect runners who don't have pacers with volunteer pacers, if the runner would like one. And, while I ripped on Camp 10 Bear in the previous paragraph, the Vermont 100 is an astounding organizational achievement. The race director, Julia, and her team do a fantastic job. The problem with Camp 10 Bear is really geography. They do the best they can in an extremely limited space.

Jeremy arrived looking relaxed and feeling not that bad, you know, for running 70 miles. I could tell he was ready to pick up David for the mental boost. I got him to the scale. His weight was dead on—78 pounds. ;) Then, we loaded him up with fuel, and he and David took off moments later. One down. More to go.

Ian arrived looking better than he had at Margaritaville and raised his hands in celebration as I met him on the hill.

Welcome to Camp 10 Bear!
I grabbed his bottles and pointed him to the scale. He'd actually gained weight, a cause for celebration—every little boost counts. His parents, who are a stellar crew—seriously, they should crew for hire—got him everything he needed, all of which came out of the Husky, think of a giant fishing tackle box on wheels, complete with multiple, segmented compartments, stocked with everything an ultrarunner could need. Emma was dressed and ready to pace, and off they went to an ovation prompted by the Camp 10 Bear master of ceremonies complete with a microphone who was part air traffic controller, part carnival barker, part safety monitor. "Look out for the cars!" (Personally, I would have been yelling at the cars, "Look out for the runners!" Dear people driving to Camp 10 Bear: this race is for runners. It's not a mall parking lot. Slow down and yield to the runners. While bringing Ian to the crew, I had to walk centimeters away from a bumper in order to get the car with Massachusetts plates to stop. Obnoxious.)

While driving from Margaritaville to Camp 10 Bear, I had made the decision to wait for Joe at Camp 10 Bear. Joe has a tendency to fly solo. (Understatement of the year.) He had neither a crew or pacer for the race. In addition, he wasn't exactly fresh. Joe just completed the Western States 100 last month. Barely a month away from his last buckle, he was looking for another sub-24 hour finish. Joe is one tough dude. He hadn't asked for any help, but I was available. I hiked back up the hill to my car to wait for him.

I should point out that by now it was about 6:00pm. I was polishing off my first Red Bull of the day. I was finishing my third BLT, courtesy of Zak's parents. I was also head first into the giant cooler Lenka had packed. I'd asked them to let me keep the food, since I knew I'd be wandering around for a while. I didn't know how long exactly, but that bounty really saved me. While waiting for Jeremy and Ian, I tore through a entire quart bag of raw veggies—something I wouldn't have been smart enough to pack for myself. Lenka had the crew set up, and I was extremely thankful to be well fed.

I hadn't seen Joe since Lincoln Covered Bridge—30 miles earlier—so I wasn't certain how long it would take him to arrive. I was sitting on the cooler next to car devouring a BLT when I saw Joe coming my way only about 30 minutes after Ian had left. I tossed half my sandwich on the driver's seat and jumped up to run him to the scale.

"Hey, Joe! Zak dropped. I'm your new crew."
I had no idea how he would react. This is the same guy that completed Maine's 100 Mile Wilderness solo, using only 5 gallon buckets he'd placed the day before as crew. He declined a pacer (or even a ride to the airport) for Western States. I honestly didn't know what to expect. However, without hesitation, he held out his hand and said, "Great. Take this. Fill it with ice, then water."

I was lead crew once again! I ran him to the scale and took his bottle to a volunteer at the aid station. I ran back to Joe to take him to his drop bag. He was downing an Ensure, when I asked him if he'd like company for the final 11 miles. His response was exactly what I expected: he was noncommittal because I could tell that he didn't want to inconvenience me.

"I was planning to run with Zak, so I'm ready if you need me."
"Sure, that'd be great."

It was never completely established between Kevin and myself whether or not I would be pacing. Kevin was to pick up Zak at Camp 10 Bear, and hopefully take him 30 miles to the finish. But, since Kevin's life had been unrealistically busy of late, he hadn't been able to train as much as he would have liked. If he was faltering, I was prepared to jump in. So, now I was definitely pacing. But, before that, I needed to get to Spirit of 76 to meet Joe with his lights. I had crew duties again!

Navigating from aid station to aid station at the Vermont 100 is difficult. It's not impossible, but it's tricky. Kevin had done a terrific job of reading the directions to me early, and all went smoothly. Now, I was on my own. With the logistics of shuttling people around after Zak dropped, I'd seen a little more of the course, so I was becoming more familiar with the roads, but navigating the Vermont 100 solo is hilarious. It was me, the direction sheet, the Vermont gazetteer and Smashing Pumpkins—cranked. So much for the quiet countryside.

With my second Red Bull in hand, I was thrilled to arrive at Spirit of 76 before Jeremy and Ian. I really wanted to keep helping them, even just by offering encouragement, as long as I could. My presence was fairly inconsequential as their crews and pacers had it covered, but I was there as an extra set of hands and for a snarky comment or two. I barely remember Jeremy's stop, as he and David were in and out. Of course, Jeremy put down 4,000 calories in that time. He basically ate his way through 100 miles. As he left, I knew his buckle was in the bag as he was right around 21-hour pace and looking incredibly strong. Plus, I knew David would push him if need be.

Jeremy and David leaving the Spirit of 76.
Ian arrived about 30 minutes later in fantastic spirits. It was clear that picking up Emma had done wonders for him. They're an amazing team, and while his quads were shot, I knew he was also going to buckle. His mom applied a generous amount of muscle rub to his legs, Emma popped a blister, he changed his shirt and off they went. It was a bit of a tiptoe out of the aid station due to his feet and quads, but it was done with a smile and positivity. I couldn't have been more impressed with my teammates.

Pit stop and the HUSKY!
The crews packed up and headed for the next stop, while I waited for Joe. Compared to Alison's wagon and the Parlins' Husky, I felt a bit silly waiting for Joe with nothing but his drop bag from Camp 10 Bear. All it contained was a long sleeve shirt, a small ziplock bag with a couple gels and a Clif bar and his hydration pack stuffed only with his lights and a lightweight jacket. Let's call this approach minimalist. While staring down the hill cheering for each runner that trudged into the Spirit of 76, I found myself standing near a runner seated in a chair, his pacer and his crew—his mother and wife/sister/friend (not sure which). While slowly sipping his soup, he looked at his pacer and said, "I think I'm gonna call it." He looked fine. A bit tired, but he should after completing 77.4 miles. Each member of his team cajoled him to press on, and when they were done I looked at him and said, "I don't know you, but there's a buckle waiting for you, so get your ass out of that chair." A few moments later he was on his way. I'd see him a number of hours later at the finish, hobbling with a smile on his face. He'd finished in under 24 hours, and I told him I was really glad he got his ass out of that chair. He said he was to. Sometimes, you have to be reminded that you believe.

Joe arrived like clockwork at 8:00pm—exactly when I expected him. He looked strong and had closed the gap on Ian. I was certain he was going to catch him. He was talking about sub-22 or better as I slipped his pack on him. He was soon going to need those lights. We walked to the aid station table, and he ate a few items, including a hot cup of ramen noodles. It was an efficient and great stop, and I sent him off down the trail with our spirits high. He was running so well. I couldn't wait to start pacing him in 11 miles, as I knew he was going to kill it. Then again, a lot can happen in 100 miles.

The sun begins to set over the Vermont 100.
The one trick about pacing Joe was the logistics involving my car. Sure, I could drive around and crew, but I would need to leave it someplace while pacing. I had spoken with Zak before they left, and he had decided to come out and cheer on the guys. It showed a lot of heart and class for him to do this, since I knew that the last place he wanted to be was anywhere near the Vermont 100 course. But, he knew that he'd be able to give the guys a boost by coming out. I really admire him for doing that. It also helped me a great deal because it meant that someone could drive my car back to the finish from Bill's—the aid station at which I would start pacing Joe. Even ultracrews need to be flexible, but this was a decent plan. However, as I was driving away from Spirit of 76 (and decent cell coverage) and past the road to Silver Hill Meadow, I thought of a better plan. Zak & crew could meet me at Silver Hill Meadow and drive me to Bill's. This way, they wouldn't have to return to Silver Hill Meadow just to shuttle my car, and my car with all my clothes would be waiting for me at the finish. Unfortunately, I didn't know where they were in transit as they had hoped to be at Bill's by 9:00pm. And, without good/any cell coverage, I couldn't relay my genius plan. So, I kept driving towards Bill's until I had coverage, which was 10+ minutes past Silver Hill Meadow. When I finally connected with them, they were headed down the highway, so they could meet me at Silver Hill Meadow. Off I went back the way I came at a rapid pace with more Pumpkins. I quickly had to shift from crew mode to pacer mode, which also meant a change of clothes—my first since 30 hours prior. They arrived moments after I did, so I had to hustle. And, amazingly, I remembered everything that Joe and I would need.

It was dark as we made our way to Bill's, mile 88.6. Now, the roles were reversed with Kevin driving and me navigating. Despite the directions making the navigation sound tricky, we made it to Bill's without issue. Although, I'm not certain I could have done it that smoothly solo. Upon arriving, I moved quickly down to the barn that houses the aid station, but before I got there I came upon Alison and Mindy. We had just missed Jeremy and David. I was too slow changing at Silver Hill Meadow, and I felt really awful that Zak had hobbled down the hill with ice wrapped around his knee and missed him. He could still see him at Polly's at mile 95.9, which they did end up doing. They were able to see Ian and Emma come in, however, so the trip wasn't a total bust.

Bill's is a crazy, crazy place. The aid station is actually inside a barn. Runners come down the road, down a small incline, onto the scale for a med check, over to the picnic tables for sustenance and back out again. It seems simple enough, but then you realize that these people have just run more than 88 miles. It's a place full of skinny zombies, thousand yard stares, headlamp blindness and shivering crews. Thankfully, everyone is moving slowly enough that people don't crash into each other too hard. Although, while I was there, one runner vomited, passed out and hit his head on the concrete floor of the barn. I'll never forget that sound. Ultrarunning is fun.

Ian and Emma arrived shortly after 10:00, once again with spirits high. Ian was in a terrific mood, even though his quads were not. I snapped off his light and waist pack, so he could hop on the scale. His weight was fine, and he plopped down at a picnic table. His mom applied more muscle rub to his ailing quads while I resnapped his waist pack on. Needless to say, that position put me a little too close to the muscle rub, and if my third Red Bull hadn't woken me up that full assault on my nostrils certainly did. After a few minutes, they were off. He had a buckle to get, and Emma was going to push him to the finish.

It was time to wait for Joe, and Ian's father, Bob, was nice enough to hang out with me for a while. Based on how he looked at Spirit of 76, I was surprised that he hadn't come in ahead of Ian, and I was more surprised when at 10:45, he still hadn't appeared. Bob had to get up the road so as not to miss Ian at Polly's, so I thanked him for waiting with me and keeping me company. It was a little unsettling being left alone with the zombies. 11:00pm. No Joe. 11:15pm. No Joe. Then finally, I recognized the headlamp that was bobbing down the road. He'd made it.

"How ya doin', buddy."
"Not good. Really bad. My stomach."

Joe put on a great poker face at the aid station. He was calm and cool on the scale and while talking with the med staff. Knowing his stomach wasn't great, I didn't push any food on him, but I did recommend some watermelon and ginger ale. He had both, and shortly before 11:30pm, we walked out of the barn.

Here's what Joe didn't know: I had never paced anyone before. I had averaged about 10 miles per week for the last 6 weeks. The last time I ran 11 miles was more than 6 weeks ago, and my right Achilles blew up on that run. I have probably run a total of 30 miles at night in my entire life. In short, I was not the model pacer. All I knew was that I was going to do everything I could to help Joe to the finish. I really just hoped that he wouldn't drop me.

Once we were out of the light and earshot of Bill's, Joe said, "We're going to have to walk for a while."  It became quite clear very quickly that running really upset his stomach. We did chat a bit, but he was feeling generally horrible. We reached a wide open field with a beautiful look at the starry sky. I shut off my headlamp and took it in, but I don't think Joe was able to enjoy it. The field sloped downhill and got progressively steeper. Joe was also feeling worse and worse. He was dizzy and at one point, I thought he was going to hit the deck. He stayed upright, and we reached the end of the field to begin the never ending climbing on dirt roads. We climbed 500+ feet in the next mile, and it was nothing but hiking. Slow, slow hiking. A downhill mile ticked by in 17:30, followed by a 20:50 uphill mile. And, it felt like he was slowing. He voiced what I was thinking: at this rate, 24 hours was in doubt.

It took us more than an hour to reach Keating's at mile 92.4, and Joe hadn't said much for the last 20 minutes. He was also breathing much heavier than the pace would dictate. Frankly, I was stunned he hadn't vomited yet. At Keating's, I mentioned to the volunteers that it would be best if they didn't mention food. Joe leaned on the tent post sipping a ginger ale while I filled his water bottle. I forced him to take another cup of ginger ale before we left.

"But, then I have to deal with the cup."
"I carry it. That's how we deal with it."

He was reluctant, but off we went. A few strides down the road, he realized he wasn't carrying his water bottle. Fearful he forgot it, he stopped, but I assured him that I was still carrying it. His hands were full: cup of ginger ale in one, flashlight in the other. He was perplexed. And, then came the exchange that sums up Joe.

"It's OK. Drink your ginger ale. I've got it."
"No, you're not supposed to mule at any time."

There we were alone on a dirt road in the dark, him feeling like complete and utter shit, and he was worried about breaking the rules. Or even the spirit of the rule. I handed him his bottle. He took a final swig of ginger ale, and I swiped the cup from him as he was looking for a place to put it. We moved forward in silence, and I knew at that point that we would get to the finish. I didn't know how, and I didn't know when. I just knew that he was far too strong to not get there. I was just along for the ride.

We moved along in silence for a while, only broken by me pointing out a turn or to offer a bit of encouragement. He actually apologized at one point for being quiet. I knew that speaking was making him sicker. He said, "I just need to concentrate." And, focus he did. The glow sticks marking the trail became our goals. He'd see a glow stick, and he'd run to it. Then stop. He'd see another one and run to it. Now, I'm using the word "run" here liberally as he was really barely shuffling. Yet, it was obvious to me that he wasn't shuffling because of his legs, but because of his stomach. I felt terrible for him because it was unfair that his stomach would betray him, when his legs were still strong with Western States only a few short weeks behind him. Then, suddenly, it happened.

We went through a short section with some high grass and around a gate around mile 94. The trail pitched upward on some doubletrack. We started hiking. Then, he started hiking faster. Then faster and faster. He kept shifting gears, moving better and better until we reached the top. Then, we started running. The trail was a bit technical, but he moved over the roots and rocks with ease. We were now passing people. Something we hadn't done since Bill's. I encouraged him as we moved along, and I could feel a real rally coming on. He still wasn't speaking, but he was moving. That was just fine with me.

We reached the end of the trail and turned left onto an uphill dirt road. He stopped running. I was stunned and deflated. He'd been moving so well, but the roads were killing him. I think that mentally he couldn't handle any more roads. I didn't let him know how I was feeling, but as soon as the road flattened I suggested we pick off that next glow stick. He started running. And running well. Something had clearly changed. I knew his stomach was still terrible. I'd glance at him every now and then, and he was green. Really green. He was sick. Sick, but moving forward. His running pace was solid, though, and he even started passing glow sticks without stopping. He wasn't quite alive, but the buckle was back in play.

The lights of Polly's at mile 95.9 were a welcome sight. For my part, I was hungry. With Joe being so nauseous, I didn't want to eat near him. I snuck a couple gels while stopping for pee breaks, but I'd had nothing else in almost two hours of running. You know, running that started at 11:30pm after being awake for 21.5 hours. So, yah, hungry. I downed a whole PBJ, a cup of soup and finally a Honey Stinger waffle, as we headed down the road. At the aid station, I knew the drill: fill his bottle with ice and then water. I pointed to the watermelon and he ate 2 or 3 small pieces. But, really, my job at the aid station was to keep him upright. He was wobbly and unstable, but he once again checked in with composure. After only a few seconds, we were gone. No sense hanging around with 4 miles to go. Plus, some of the Bill's zombies had made their way to Polly's, and I didn't think it was a good idea to have that visual around Joe.

About a hundred yards down the road from Polly's we missed a turn. Bad pacing on my part. I was following another runner/pacer duo and a car down the road. I wasn't looking for the yellow paper plates and glow sticks that pointed us to the left. We only went a few extra feet, but it was downhill. We had to climb back up. Big momentum loss. I felt terrible. Luckily, Joe couldn't speak to cuss me out. It worked out OK, though, because we took the opportunity to stop and change out Joe's fading headlamp. But, then again, looking back, maybe it was the perfect mistake. Joe took off. It was time to get this sucker done.

I will never forget what I witnessed over the next 4 miles. Joe was a machine. We passed dozens of people. Joe was back from the dead and cranking. He still wasn't speaking, but he didn't need to. My role had now changed. First, each time we passed someone, I had to say to them, "Good job!" And, second, I needed to run between Joe and the ditch on the side of the road. Although wobbly, he was running so well, and there was no way I was going to lose him in a ditch now. Mile 97 ticked off. I looked at my Garmin: 10:34! I told Joe the split, and he kept running. Downhill, flat and even uphill. He ran it all. I can't do justice to his rally in this blog post. It was beyond impressive. I wanted to jump up and down, yell and scream, slap him on the back, high five. I didn't do any of that. I offered quiet encouragement, but I was exploding inside. I was so happy for him. The buckle was his his. Two sub-24 hour 100 mile finishes in month!

We passed the final, unmanned aid station at mile 98 and turned onto some trail. Joe said, "I remember this." He was speaking again. Moments later, he was chatting. Then, he was yelling, cursing at the trail, singing the Clash and laughing. It was awesome. We passed the one mile to go sign. We passed the giant congratulations sign. We started passing the "toxic waste" jugs (green glow sticks in the water). Then, we saw the finish line. I dropped back to let Joe cross the line. 22 hours and 14 minutes! He'd done it. I walked up to him and gave him a huge hug. We laughed and cried. Then, in the happiest of voices, we said in unison, "Let's go to the medical tent!"

Home sweet home.
I won't go into all the details of our time in the medical tent, but as it would turn out, I wouldn't head out of there until about 6:15am—four hours later. I will say this: Paula, wherever you are—thank you. She was amazing. She delivered the perfect balance of caring and tough love. I was planning to stay awake just in case Joe needed anything else, but once he fell asleep/passed out around 4:00am, she threatened me with bodily harm if I didn't also get some shuteye. I felt bad about taking a cot from a runner. After all, I'd only run 11 miles, but Paula insisted. I did go to Joe's tent to get his sleeping bag. (I'd already been there to get his clothes. Finding his tent in the dark, when I'd never laid eyes on it before was an interesting task.) As I half-heartedly laid down on the cot next to Joe's, Paula came over and wrapped me up and basically told me, "Sleep or else." I did manage to get about a half hour sleep despite the French-Canadian crew looking over their snoozing runner by drinking beer and talking loudly to a woman who had finished the 100 who was enthralled by her own awesomeness and wasn't nearly as hot as she thought she was.

Joe woke up about 5:30am, and we wandered over to the food table. Joe was hungry, which as a great sign. As he ate we recounted the events of the previous hours, and his stomach issues came into focus. The soup at Spirit of 76 was the culprit. Joe is a vegetarian, and he and I both mistakenly assumed that the ramen he ate was vegetarian. It was not. The chicken stock combined with the effort of running 77 had ravaged his stomach. He said he started to feel bad less than a mile after the aid station and had considered dropping at Cow Shed at mile 83.4. I felt a little guilty as I'd mentioned that the soup was an option at the aid station. He was back among the living now, and I felt comfortable enough to be released of my pacing duties. I had no idea they would extend well beyond the finish line, but I was glad he was feeling better. He looked like hell propped up in a chair in his hooded jacket with a blanket wrapped around him, but he was alive. Then again, I probably didn't look much better.

I headed for my car and my plan was to head back to the house for a nap before returning for the awards ceremony. My tent was still set up on the lawn, so I wouldn't disturb the rest of the crew who was no doubt snoring comfortably. I plopped down in the front seat and paused to collect myself. I was hungry, so I pounded a Larabar and some watermelon. I started the car and headed in the only direction that seemed appropriate: back into the fray to meet George at Polly's.

I hadn't seen George since 24 hours earlier in Woodstock. I wasn't even certain which side of Polly's he was on. If he was having a great race, he'd already be gone. If he wasn't, I'd hopefully be able to give him a boost. Shifting gears once again, I switched from pacer to cheerleader and tore off down the road wishing I had some coffee, knowing that the half hour nap was going to be all the sleep I would get for the weekend. Open windows and Thievery Corporation would have to do.

Arriving at Polly's was surreal. I'd been there a few hours prior, but I barely recognized it now bathed in early morning light. I parked and went to the volunteers at the aid table to see if George had passed through yet. I was pleased to hear that George had not yet come through, yet at the same time, I hoped that he hadn't dropped (they didn't have that information) and that his day was going well. I had until 8:40am to find out as that was the time that the aid station closed, and no runners would be allowed to continue after that point. I grabbed a few vittles from the car and laid down in the grass. The sun rejuvenated me as I waited and watched the back of the pack come through. The cutoff for the Vermont 100 is 30 hours, and each of the people now passing through needed to be aware of that number.

I wasn't worried about George's well-being, since Val was pacing him. I can't think of a better pacer in any capacity. George's spirit alone could carry him, but with Val on board, I knew he could do anything. Of course, waiting is still tough to do. But, a few minutes before 8:00am, I saw George and Val headed towards the aid station. I walked out to meet them to Val yelling, "DON'T TOUCH HIM!!!" At first, I thought she was kidding, but as I approached, I realized she was dead serious. In fact, George held out his hand to shake mine, and I thought Val was going to kill me. George's neck was shot. He couldn't move his head, and he could barely lift his arms. It had been like that for 50 miles. You'd never it know if from his smile, however. Seriously, he'd barely been able to move for 46 miles, but he was all smiles and laughs as he made his way down the road. He's amazing. He had two hours to finish under the cutoff, and I knew he'd get there. I grabbed Val's hydration pack and filled it with water as they continued. When I caught back up to them, George chatted me up for so long, I was a good ways down the road from the aid station. I think he wanted me to come the rest of the way with them. I bid them farewell and ran back up to my car as my most important crew duty of the weekend was up next.

I drove back to Silver Hill Meadow and made my way to the finish line. It took me a minute, but I found her just as I knew I would: sitting in her chair facing the finish line. I told Ann, George's wife, that I had seen George. His neck hurt, but he was moving. He was going to make it under the 30-hour cutoff. I gave her a hug, and felt like the weekend had come full circle. George, holding hands with Val, arrived at the the finish shortly after 9:15am. The race for the Trail Monsters was over.

George and Ann at the finish.
Here are the final numbers:
Jeremy Bonnett - 20:05:07, 34th
gIANt Parlin - 21:03:47, 48th
Joe Wrobleski - 22:14:36, 70th
George Alexion - 29:24:41, 212th
Zak Wieluns - DNF
306 starters / 218 finishers

I snuck away to get some breakfast but returned for the awards and barbecue. A lot of hobbling figures around that tent, but they were hobbling with pride. It was great to see the three guys get there buckles, but it was just as hard to see Zak sit there without his and ice on his knee. I know he'll be back some year and get that buckle. Personally, I don't think he needs it to validate his badassery, but I know he feels like he has a score to settle.

For my part, the Vermont 100 was an unforgettable experience. Perhaps most surprisingly of all, even with all the energy, I didn't come away feeling an overwhelming urge to run 100 miles. Watching everyone go through their races, I know I'm not ready for that challenge both physically and mentally. Not even close. Prior to Lookout Mountain, I put myself on the wait list. I was number 23. I would have certainly gotten in. I'm really glad I couldn't run. I'm not ready, and I won't be ready next year. The 100k is intriguing, however...