After my training run last weekend I was feeling pretty chipper. I figured if I could do 40 miles in 8 hours under non-race conditions, then 50 miles in 10 hours on race day was in the bag. Despite Steve’s dire warnings that I’d trained too hard too close to race day, I plotted an even faster finish.
Of course, I was tired and, unfortunately, I was limping, but injuries are a part of the long distance running game. I often say that if you don’t run injured, you won’t ever run, which is taken from my friend Steven’s maxim that if you don’t climb in the Dacks when there’s a chance of rain, you won’t ever climb in the Dacks.
I’ve always done my longest training run a week before the race and I’ve always been dealing with injuries by that point. And a week’s rest has always been sufficient for me to feel chipper and raring-to-go at the starting line. Those first few pain-free steps after weeks of painful steps are a morale booster that starts the race off right.
So I wasn’t worried about the limp on Sunday. Or Monday. Or Tuesday, at least not much. But by Thursday it was clear that the muscle strain in my left quad wasn’t healing as quickly as I’d like. Despite rest and ice and ibuprofen, it was stubbornly getting worse, not better. Saturday I was still limping. Sunday, race day, I swallowed a few Advil upon arising at 4:30 am and put my faith in my last, best hope–that it’d stop hurting once it was warmed up.
The race is 3 loops, about 15 miles each, preceded by a short spur to bring the total mileage up to 50. The loop is shaped like an 8, or a snowman. First you run the snowman’s body (about 10 miles), then his head (about 5), crossing the start/finish area at his waist twice on each lap.
The footing is generally good for a trail race–better than what I’d trained on anyway–but my gait was off. My mind was trying to protect my left leg and my stride was uneven and choppy as a result. It was too chilly for my muscles to properly warm up and I was discouraged and hurting. I was afraid the race was going to depend on my left quadricep, but ultimately it came down to people.
One of the last pieces of advice Steve gave me was to talk to the other runners. My first attempt at striking up a conversation didn’t go so well. The guy was tired and discouraged. He’d done the 50K last year and today, only six or seven miles in, was feeling worse than he had at the same point the year before. Exactly my story, exactly my feelings. I tried to make some positive remarks about our feeling better once we got into the middle of the race and weren’t focused so clearly on how far we had to go, and then I moved on. Shared misery is little comfort.
When I crossed the starting area for the first time, I’d been running around two hours and my leg hadn’t warmed up enough to stop bothering me, but it wasn’t hurting any worse than it had at the start and things were about to get better. Steve was waiting for me with a big smile and words of encouragement. From where I saw him, I ran a short distance to my drop bag and dosed myself with another handful of Advil. I was now in the head of the snowman, which is a much more runnable part of the course.
After my first experience with trying to talk to a fellow runner, and considering that I’d done all my training runs alone, I might not have tried again, but I happened to overtake two guys running together just as they were overtaking someone else and someone else was overtaking me and a slight bottleneck in the path mashed us all into a pleasant pack.
It turned out that Lou and Hans and I had a lot in common. Lou had paced his son-in-law at the Vermont 100 the year before when I’d been there crewing for Steve, and we both worked in the legal industry. Climbing came up and it turned out Hans was a long time climber and lived in North Conway where I’d just picked up Steve the evening before. Suddenly the time and path were flying by. We might have been running too quickly, but I was enjoying myself for the first time the whole race.
When we got back to the starting area again, Lou said his goodbyes. He wasn’t really in the race, just keeping company with Hans on the first lap and planning to pace his son-in-law on the last lap. Hans stopped to call his girlfriend, so Susan and I went on alone. I realized I wasn’t hurting anymore. Whether it was the mental boost from seeing Steve, the second dose of ibuprofen, the day warming up, or having my mind distracted by the company, I can’t say. I imagine it was all of the above, but I give most of the credit to the company. I don’t think I’d have made it through the race if I hadn’t fallen in with them.
Somewhere along the second lap, Hans caught back up with me and Susan, and somewhere after that I realized our pace was slowing down more than I could afford and I left them behind. I started out wearing Steve’s GPS but I couldn’t get a satellite signal so it was nothing more than a heavy watch and I ditched it. I was running naked. My only pacing clues came from random remarks by other runners pieced together with occasional glimpses of mileage markers. Despite the lack of feedback, when I did get enough information to figure out my pace it seemed that I was dead on. So when my body started telling me that Susan and Hans were moving too slowly, I regretfully pulled ahead.
I was more than halfway through the second lap and starting to feel it. The pain relief had been short-lived. Although the injured quad was keeping quiet, general fatigue with its hundreds of minor aches had set in. I was back on the nice side of the snowman, but all I could think about was that if I were doing the 50K I’d be nearly done by now. I briefly ran with someone from the 25K race who said “We’re almost there” to which I replied “You’re almost there.” I wanted to be almost there and I strongly considered making this lap my last lap.
It was then that the long training run, however ill-advised, demonstrated its true worth. I knew I could run 40 miles because I’d just run 40 miles last week, and I hadn’t yet run 40 miles today. I couldn’t let myself off the hook without at least getting to the 40 mile marker, and, once there, it would be ridiculous not to finish, even if I had to walk the whole way.
I had a bit of luck at this point too. It started to rain. I like running in the rain and run faster when I’m cold. Steve met me just before the starting line and gave me another boost of encouragement and I crossed the line into my third lap, committed. I knew the third lap would be easier mentally if I could only get there, and it was. The rain picked up my pace. For half an hour while it rained and I had the initial high of embarking on my final lap, I fairly flew. Just as the rain stopped and the sun came out, Steve appeared on the course in front of me with an extra layer. I didn’t need it now, but I was glad to see him. I was on my last lap so I was allowed to have a pacer and I forced him to run with me for a few minutes, although he was hardly dressed for it.
My last hurdle was my last time through the fields. Much of the course is on pleasant, twisting paths through the woods, but a longish section is through hay fields that have had a swath mowed through them to run on. The grass is still deep enough to slow you down and on my last lap it was holding all the water that had just been dumped on it. I was glad to put the fields behind me for the last time, knowing that I didn’t have far to go before crossing over to the nicer side of the road.
Once on the head of the snowman for the last time I knew I’d make it. I also knew I wasn’t going to make 10 hours. I had two choices: I could give up and walk the rest of the way–after all, what was the difference?–or I could finish strong, even if I was a little off. If Steve hadn’t been waiting for me, I think I’d have walked. But I knew he’d be watching the time and rooting for me, so I tried to pick up the pace. I did pick up the pace, but it’s hard to make up time 45 miles into a 50 mile race and I didn’t pick up much. I finished in 10:05, a slow time for 50 miles but very near what I wanted to do.
As I turned onto what they call The Final Mile (blissfully much shorter than a mile), I felt tears welling up. I don’t know if I was happy or just relieved. Even now, I’m not sure how I feel. I’m proud to have done what few people will ever do. I’m pleased with the evenness of my pacing. I’m disappointed at not being a better long distance runner naturally and unsure whether I’m willing to put the time into becoming a better one through training. I’m glad to have met some interesting people, and I’m deeply grateful to Steve for all he did.
In some ways the moment of crossing the finish line is anti-climactic (despite hugs from Steve and nice finisher prizes from the race). Since I’m not good enough to compete in the races, the real point of running them is to hold a carrot in front of myself to keep the training aggressive and purposeful. I could never run 50 miles if I hadn’t trained to run 50 miles, and I’d never have trained to run 50 miles if I hadn’t been planning to run a 50 mile race. Now I’m a stronger person, and most of that strength is somewhere in my head, not in my legs at all. The race is won before the race is run.
Today I’m stiff but not as sore as you might expect. Strangely, the pain in my left thigh hasn’t come back yet. Steve assures me that I “worked it out” yesterday, but it’s hard to imagine that you can cure a running injury with a ridiculous amount of running. I have blisters, which I blame mostly on the soaking my feet got from running on wet grass, but they only hurt when you poke them and I’ve mostly refrained. I could run today, if I had to. One thing I learned during training for this race is that running doesn’t hurt much more than walking and it gets you there a lot faster. Luckily, I have nowhere to go.
Pineland Farms is a well-run race with amply stocked aid stations (even ibuprofen and sun screen) and a great finishing barbecue that includes a keg and, thoughtfully, veggie burgers, but I don’t expect to be back. Five times through those fields is enough and Memorial Day is a big weekend to sacrifice. I do see another ultra in my future, though I don’t know when and I don’t know how long. For now I’d like to get faster. You can’t run fast in an ultramarathon, but not-fast is a relative speed, and I’d like mine to be a lot faster.
To everyone who organized the race and volunteered at the aid stations, to my fellow runners who chatted with me along the way, and to my friends who thought of me on race day, thanks for making this new experience possible. And to Steve, who first formed the idea and saw it through to the end, thanks aren’t enough.