The Back Story: The last time I blogged (and wrote a race report) was November, 2013. I no longer use or can even access that blog, but that final post was a race report for the JFK 50 miler. It was my second 50, and I had run a big PR in 8:19.
The final words of that blog post were, “Up next? Yup, a 100.” However, 2014 did not start (or, as it were, end) the way I had hoped. After switching to ultras almost exclusively in 2012, which had left me injury free, I found myself, in January of 2014, needing surgery. I had developed and been running on a rare type of plantar fibroma in my right foot for about two years. This was not necessarily a running injury, and it was manageable. However, it began to impede blood flow and compromise nerves in the foot, so it had to be removed. I resumed training (one mile at a time) in March of 2014, and decided to go for JFK again that year. I started official JFK training in June of 14, and, in July (when mileage was still pretty low), developed an excruciating pain in my right groin and inner thigh down to my knee. I also could not jump. I was misdiagnosed with a femoral stress fracture (yes, really), and finally, many weeks later, correctly diagnosed as having the very rare condition of an entrapped obturator nerve. This also required surgery, which I had in November of 2014. I only rested 8 days after that surgery, and resumed running (pain free!) at that time.
After 2014 had been such a bust, I thought for a long time about what I wanted to do next. Like a lot of runners, I heard constantly, “If you’d stop running, maybe you wouldn’t have to have surgery all the time?” So, when I made the decision to focus on a 100 miler for my next race, it was kind of out of spite. My first “public” run back after the nerve surgery was a Thanksgiving 4 miler that I did with my daughter. A lot of people asked me what was next for me. “A 100,” I replied. And so it was solidified. I chose Kettle Moraine for a couple of reasons. First, it was Tim’s first 100, and I had crewed there the year previously. The course looked a bit tough, but it was very well organized, which is extremely important in a race that long. Second, I ran my first 50 miler on the same course (well, half of it). So it seemed apt to do my first 100 there as well.
The Training: Official training for this race began in January of 2015. I am self-coached, and didn’t really lay out a plan, but rather focused on hitting target total weekly mileage goals. My friend Scott is a very talented and experienced ultra runner, and he told me that total weekly mileage should be the focus, and not necessarily super long runs. So, from January to late May, I played the game of running to the point of near exhaustion, making my legs as tired as possible….but without venturing into injury and still maintaining my responsibilities as a parent of two children, a wife, and a full-time professor. When training for an ultra, you know things are going well when your legs feel like bricks, but you can still run.
100% of my runs leading up to Kettle were at low heart rate (and most were very below). I used to be plagued by injury, but found I can run many, many miles as long as I run them slowly. Using the Maffetone method, my LHR threshold is 148. I typically run with my HR under 130-135 during training runs. During this training cycle, I ran a total of 1,706 miles, including two 50Ks (one of which was on the indoor HPER track!), a 50 mile training run at the IT 100, a marathon at LBL (pacing Yancy in his 50), a 20 in DC (pacing Tim in a 50), a half marathon with my daughter, Amelia, and a ton, ton, ton of two-a-days and back to back long runs. I ran hundreds of miles with my brother, Wes, who was also prepping for Kettle, and also my best friend, Jo. Most of my runs began before sunrise, and a lot of them were solo (with audio books). Scott also advised me to practice walking at a 4 mile per hour pace on the treadmill. This was unbelievably difficult when I first started, but I did it. If you had a phone or web conference with me this winter or spring, I guarantee that I was likely walking on my treadmill during it (I have a desk on it). I did not count walking miles in my mileage totals.
I ran all the time, running multiple 100 mile weeks. I run 100 mile weeks training for 50 milers, but for this race I would run something like 105, 90, 100 instead of 100, 65, 80. It was just a ton. of. miles. The entire training cycle, my legs felt terribly tired (the entire point). I was never “injured,” but dealt with a lot of little issues, for which I had PT (from Penny), massage (from Mary at Alleviate), and active release therapy (from Dr. Pribble at Bloomington Sports and Wellness). The ART was done at least weekly, and often bi-weekly. I cannot stay healthy without it. To be honest, I never run pain free, and I don’t think anyone who runs as much as I do actually does.
Training went well for the most part, with a couple of hiccups. 1) I didn’t get in enough technical trail miles. It is very difficult for me to get in lots of trail miles because of my family/work. It’s hard enough to get in almost 15 miles a day on average without having to find a baby sitter, drive to the trail, etc. So, while I had plenty of miles under me, I was under trained in terms of trail running. 2) I was hospitalized for having seizures. I have a history of epilepsy, but have been seizure free for about 8 years. At the end of April, I had a seizure, and was kept at the hospital a couple of days for monitoring and to rule out any kind of mass in my brain. No mass, but my EEG looked pretty bad. My medication was increased, and I was put on driving restriction for 6 months. This made life quite difficult, but I still managed to get my miles in. I had several short seizures after the one in late April, and most recently had a very prolonged one the week before Kettle (I kept it on the DL so as not to be judged for running a 100 the same week as seizing). In short–my life got very stressful in the weeks leading up to this race. My husband and other family members were somewhat terrified about me running a race that required me to stay up more than 24 hours given that a major seizure trigger for me is lack of sleep. I was also a bit scared, but knew that I wasn’t going to let epilepsy keep me from starting the race. It might keep me from finishing, but not from starting.
The Race: The day before the race, my crew (Tim and JoAnna) and I headed for Wisconsin. It took us a while to get there (just ask Jo!), but we finally arrived. We ate dinner with Wes, Scott, and their (and now our) friends Glenn and Lindsey, and headed back to the hotel. I wanted to get to bed ASAP, but Tim and I also HAD to finish the latest episode of Wayward Pines. So we did that while I rolled my quads and did glute activating exercises. As I got in bed, I remember feeling a bit overwhelmed, as I always do the night before a race: there’s nothing left for me to do. I just have to show up.
And I did show up, at the Nordic start line, at about 5:30 am. Kettle is basically two out-and-backs, both starting and ending at Nordic aid station. The first out-and-back takes you through 100K (actually, about 63 miles). If you’re doing the 100 miler, you have to TURN AROUND AND GO BACK THROUGH THE FINISH LINE to finish up the second, shorter out-and-back. Yeah, ouch.
Kettle has about 11,000+ feet of vert. Their website advertises 8,000 feet, but that is untrue (and they even mention it in their runner packet). The course is a mix of wide, grassy areas and super technical single track. There are no LONG climbs, but many, many short and steep ups and downs (spoiler: these got me).
The weather was pretty good for June: High of 72 and sunny. I saw Wes before the start, put on my chip, and before I knew it we were lining up. I said hello to Guy, another runner from my county (Mitchell), and soon the gun went off. It was hard to wrap my head around the notion that I was starting a journey that would likely last longer than an entire 24 hour day. I wasn’t exactly sure what to expect in terms of finish time. I had loosely targeted anywhere from 24-25 hours, but Tim (my husband who’s done multiple 100s) told me that it’s very difficult to target something in a 100, let alone the first.
The race started on the soft, wide grassy section that I remembered so well from Ice Age. My legs, for the first time since I started tapering, felt great. I monitored my HR, which I had decided to keep under 125 for the first 10 miles. It was around 115 the first few miles, and I had to really focus on going as slowly as possible. I walked every single uphill, even the tiniest of inclines. I tried to relax and focus on going as slowly as possible. Around the 4 mile mark, Guy caught up with me. We ran together, and he shared with me a lot of his wisdom from prior 100s. We hit an aid station at mile 5 (which I call the pop up aid station, because it is in the middle of nowhere and forms a tunnel), where I stopped to fill my bottle but nothing else. Part of my strategy was to get in and out of aid stations as fast as possible. Guy and I got separated here, and this was the first time I ate. I ate the first of what would be probably 15 gels, as well as some shot blocks. I drank and drank. Tim had told me that my handheld bottle needed to be dry at every aid station, and that I should stop to drink at every station as well. Moving one foot in front of the other, eating, and drinking were my jobs.
Guy rejoined me, and I was struck by how many people were streaming past us. Now, there were two other races going on: 100K and the 100 mile relay, but it honestly felt like we must have been in the last dozen or so people. We both stayed disciplined, though, as he told me how I should expect to feel completely horrible during some parts of the race, that those sections would come without warning, and that they would also give way to portions in which I would feel like a rock star. He also explained to me how things like brushing your teeth could bring you to tears during a race this long. Before I knew it, we were at the first crew aid station–Bluff–at about 8 miles. There were Tim and Jo, wearing signs, ringing cow bells, and screaming, “WEEEENNNNNNDDDDDYYY!” It was amazing to see them. I remember saying to Jo (who was timing my aid station stops because I asked her to), “I feel great!” “You better,” she said. Always the realist. I got out of there in 90 seconds, full of water in my belly and my bottle, and eating some food I had with me.
Soon after I left Bluff, I hit the much more challenging single track trail. It was technical, windy, and full of those steep ups and downs. I watched my HR closely, and I honestly felt great. I had not run this part of the course at Ice Age, but had read enough to know what to expect. I knew it would be quite technical until the Emma Carlin aid station, where I would enter the open prairies. I also found myself annoyed with other runners. This always happens in a race, but I had to take inventory to see if it was because they truly were just annoying me (with their voices) or was it because I was working too hard. It ended up being the former, so I was okay. I’ll never forget one guy talking openly and loudly about his new dental practice, and how basically he was worth millions of dollars–very atypical behavior for a trail runner. Can it, dude.
Just before Emma, I noticed I felt warm. I’m sure it was because of the technicality and extra work, but I remember thinking I felt warmer than I had anticipated. I hit Emma feeling great, but also dreading the next section, which is often referred to as “the boggs.” It is 100% out in the open, and a soft, grassy surface. I hit Emma (mile 15.7) and saw my amazing crew (had my first bit of pickle juice), and, for the first time, asked about Wes. Jo told me that he was going so fast they literally couldn’t see him and me both. This concerned me a little. It was getting hot, and Wes and I don’t do well with heat, so I hoped he wasn’t working too hard. Everyone assured me he looked great and in control. So I headed out to the boggs with Guy. Though this was his fourth 100, Guy didn’t know much about this course. I prepared him that I would probably be slowing down in the boggs depending on my HR. To my surprise, my HR was staying pretty low in the full on sun, and I was able to run quite fast (which, btw, is completely slow in a 100) and still keep the HR <130.
The boggs portion, except for the heat, is where I felt the strongest. I passed tons of people. Guy slowed a bit, and I kept up my pace. Everyone had warned me about how awful this section would be, yet I loved it. Then I realized…it’s because 90% of the many miles I ran this cycle were flat(ish). Here, my legs were doing what they had done 100 miles/week for months.
After the boggs, it was time to run Scuppernong. Scuppernong was the point at which I got to turn around and head back to the start/finish area. I was struck immediately by the technicality of this section. After coming off of the smooth prairie, I was suddenly having to navigate rocks, roots, twists, and turns. I was aggravated that I hadn’t anticipated this. I kept my pace very respectable here, and felt good when I saw Tim and Jo. They alerted me that I should be seeing Wes (on his way back from the turn around) very soon. That gave me some energy–I wanted to see him. Lots and lots of people fell at Scuppernong. I, unbelievably, was not one of them. Most of what I remember from the Scuppernong section is fuzzy–all I remember is that I hated it, and was pissed that I had to run it twice. I was continuing with my hydration and nutrition–my only issue was that I was having to stop and pee copious amounts about every 3 miles. I figured this was a good thing.
I would run and hold my bladder as long as possible, until it got to the point that I would ask myself, “What is making you so uncomfortable right now?” Inevitably, it was my bladder. I refused to use the porta potties at the aid stations–they are disgusting and hot. I would much rather go in the woods. Somewhere on the Scuppernong section, I ducked behind a tree and let loose a major pee. Then I heard my name. OMG–someone sees me. To my surprise, it was Wes! I had been looking forward to seeing him this whole time, and right before we crossed paths is the time I jumped off trail to pee. He asked me how I was, and I told him fine except I couldn’t stop peeing. I asked how he was, and he said “I’m good but a little ehhh” and pointed to his stomach. I tried to figure out how many miles he was in front of me, and figured it had to be at least 12.
I knew I was approaching the turn around, and saw Guy again briefly. I told him the last section was hard for me. We talked about the importance of specificity in training–his training was pretty much 100% trail running, while mine was 90% roads. He was much more comfortable on the technical sections, while I sailed through the grassy ones. He again impressed upon me that there would be sections in which I felt awful, but that I should be careful not to convince myself I felt worse than I actually did, and that I should ride out the bad sections–good ones were on the other side. We soon were separated again, and this would last the rest of the race. But it was so good to run with Guy on and off for the first 50K.
I came into the turn around aid station, and for the first time mentioned to Tim that the top of my left foot was starting to hurt. I had felt it for a while, but now it was becoming more difficult to ignore. It was kind of the top of my foot and front of my ankle. He told me I needed to adjust my shoe laces. I did so, but I was too hasty. I felt very good and I wanted to keep going. I also adjusted my right shoe, and found that that foot and ankle were also sore. I remember he said to me, “You need to take time to deal with that now.” I had untied and retied my shoes, and thought that would be enough. This is also the first place I said to Tim, “Am I doing okay? Can I do this?” It wasn’t because I felt bad. It was because I just didn’t know what to expect. Some people around me looked horrible–like corpses. Others looked fantastic. I needed to know if I was looking “normal.” He explained that, yes, I would be fine, and to just keep moving forward. I complained about the technicality of the course, gave them hugs, and took off.
After hitting 50K, I still felt very good. My running was virtually effortless. Despite having to pee constantly and my feet/ankles hurting a bit, I felt fantastic, if a bit overheated. I hated Scuppernong on the way back just as much as I did on the way out. I also found myself strangely alone during this section. Guy had dropped back, and I honestly went miles without seeing anyone (other than those going the opposite direction). Around 35 or so is the first time I remember feeling kind of negative. It was getting very warm, the steep up and downs would not stop, and my ankles and feet were hurting more. Then, I made it back to the boggs. They were not as fun as they were the first time through (it was much sunnier and warmer), but I still picked up my pace and it felt like quite easy running compared to the trails. It did, though, get very hot. I was completely alone, but could see the dots of people up ahead of me. I focused on my HR, keeping it under 135 now. I was amazed and entertained at watching it drop every time I went into one of the brief shaded areas, and then rise again as soon as I went back into the sun.
Coming out of the boggs, I remember feeling two things: confident and thirsty. I had been drinking as much as I possibly could, and still peeing at an annoyingly high rate, but made an effort to increase my fluid intake after having been through a section that made me feel like a rotisserie chicken. I felt very confident, too. I had made it through the technical part, and running was still fun and easy! I felt on top of the world when I got back to the Emma aid station. There were Tim and Jo, with signs, pinwheels (inside joke), and all my things. “How’s Wes?” I asked when I got to them. Their faces fell, and I knew before they said it. “He dropped. Started puking and couldn’t stop.” That was a mental blow for me. Wes and I trained for this race together, and he had a shot of winning or at least being in the top few runners. I was very disappointed that this happened for him, mostly because I know him as well as I know myself, and knew how it would be affecting him.
I tried to shake off the bad news, mentioned again that my feet felt swollen/sore, again ignored Tim’s advice to spend a few minutes tending to my feet, explained that I felt no hot spots or blisters, and took off. The next time I would see them would be mile 55.7, at Bluff.
When I left that aid station, something happened. Suddenly, everything got hard. Out of nowhere, I was struggling. I was keeping my pace the same, but the effort level was much higher, though my HR monitor didn’t show it. I also lost complete interest in food, and my stomach felt tight and made it feel difficult to breathe. I stopped to walk for a moment, and realized that walking felt far, far worse than running, so I ran again. I took inventory: what was the cause of this? I was hydrated, I was nourished to the point of wanting to puke, and my HR was in a good range. My feet and ankles hurt, yes, but I’ve run through much, much worse. I became frustrated with my inability to pinpoint what was wrong and why it was wrong. My frustration increased, around mile 50, almost to anger and rage. I tried to think back to the Emma station, where I had felt so good. I tried to recapture it. I could not. Demons began to surface, and all I could think was that I was in over my head.
Then I had the thought that Tim warned me about. “If I feel this bad at mile 52. What am I going to feel like at 80?” It kept replaying in my head as I navigated the maddening steep up, down, up, down of this section. All I wanted to do was to make it to Bluff. I ran a lot of the hills in this section because it felt better to do so. That probably cost me some time later, but it was easier to go faster than slower at this point.
I got to Bluff, saw Tim and Jo, and promptly started bawling. I sat in the chair (first time I had sat down), and basically blathered on about how I didn’t know if I could do this. I never considered quitting–ever–but I just could not understand why I felt so bad. I said irrational things–I might not make the cut off, I’m in last place, etc. I tore off my HR monitor, as it was making it feel hard to breathe. Tim took my shoes off, adjusted the laces, and said, “This is completely normal. This is NORMAL.” Tim tried his hardest to keep me calm, but I was throwing a tantrum. “I’m only at 56! I feel like shit! How can you say you know I can do this?!” He and Jo told me that I looked so good, so strong, and he assured me that it was not too early to be feeling this way. I admitted to them that I had run up all the hills in the last section, and it felt like I was confessing to some horrible sin. “It just felt easier to run,” I said. Tim understood. Then, on my right, surfaced another spectator. I do not remember her face, but do remember her words. “Listen, I don’t know you, but I’ve been watching you come through these all day. You look so strong, so good. I have been wishing and hoping that my husband will look as good as you every time he comes through.” Ultra people…they just get it! I needed to hear what this stranger had to say.
I stood up, feeling absolutely zero shame for the scene I’d just made, and started off. I remember seeing a guy bending over vomiting, and another curled up into a ball under a blanket. Okay, at least I’m not them. Tim jogged next to me for a moment. “Walk if you have to. Just get back to Nordic, and I’ll join you.” I exited the station, started running, and once again felt great. My ankles and feet were hurting quite a lot, but I was once again in control. How bizarre–from crying in a lawn chair to passing people right and left.
It was 7.6 miles from Bluff to Nordic, and I wanted to get there so badly that I ran about 95% of this section. I felt like I had bled soooo much time from Emma to Bluff, that I needed to make that time up (spoiler: you shouldn’t try to do this in a 100). I also just felt better running a bit faster than slower, and walking was very hard. The steep downhills began to cause some fairly severe pain in the front of my ankles. I began to realize that, before long, I may not be able to run downhill any longer. With my renewed energy, I focused on getting back to Nordic so that Tim could run with me. I was getting so excited to see him and Jo, so that I could show them that I was no longer a crying mess. I can’t begin to estimate how many people I passed, but it had to be at least 20. I hit the 100K mark feeling very good, if, of course, tired. I was completely confused by this part of the course–the aid station is beyond the finish line for both the 100K and 100 mile. Everyone cheered as I came in, and I announced, “But I’M NOT DONE.”
I knew I had to get in and out of this aid station fast. Our car was about 50 meters away. I could be done with a 14 hour 100K and go back to the hotel and sleep. I could take off my shoes and deal with my increasingly painful ankles and feet. I didn’t even look around me. I didn’t look at any runner who was sitting down, or eating, or doing anything that signified being done. Jo got me some food, which I stuffed into my full stomach (bleh), and Tim got all the supplies we would need for the night–flashlights and head lamps. He asked me if I was ready. I told him I was, and we headed out to the RD’s fanfare of, “100 miler, goin’ out!”
Click here to see vid of leaving Nordic
Having Tim with me was like having new life breathed into me. We started running immediately, and I noticed the pain in my feet and ankles was getting more severe. The fronts of my knees hurt as well. I’m no stranger to running through some pain, but the foot problem was becoming, well, a problem, as it was impeding me from being able to run downhill. I mentioned to this Tim. “I know it sounds crazy but I have to walk the DOWNhills.” I could, at this point, still run up hills. That was never a problem for me the entire race (though I tried not to run them all, as I knew it would take it out of me), but running down became impossible during this section. I also felt like I really, really wanted to vomit. I could feel my stomach squeezing in on itself, attempting to relieve some of the pressure caused by the god-knows-how-many calories I had stuffed into it.
“I need to stop and puke,” I said to Tim. He urged me not to. “Try to keep it down. We should stop and walk if it means you can keep it down.” So we did. It was also getting dark, so he took this opportunity took get my head and belt lamps on me, and handed me my flash light. After about 3 minutes of walking, I felt like the stomach had settled enough to run, and I took off. I felt like I was running about 8 minute pace, but my watch read 12 minutes/mile. Whatever: I was running.
We were passing people going the opposite direction–100Kers and “fun runners” (38 miles) who were about to finish, and 100 milers who were about to make the decision about turning around for 38 more miles of this. People kept commenting on our lights, how bright they were. Oddly, I took great offense to this. The peak of my ire hit when a fun runner said I looked like a metro train coming at him. Well, fun runner, I’m going to be out here ALL NIGHT LONG. In the pitch black, on legs tired to a degree you CANNOT EVEN FATHOM. I said none of this, but thought it really hard.
When we left Nordic, we had about 7.6 miles back to Bluff. As we ran, and I did run most of this section, I tried to focus on getting to the next aid station. I began to walk to downhills, and Tim commented on how great it was that I was stringing together such long running segments. We passed many, many people during this section (including Guy)–both those coming toward us and those in front of us. I began to see people who were completely falling apart. Many were barely managing a shuffle. I found that walking was again more difficult than running, so I tried to run as much as possible.
As we neared Bluff (mile 71), I took inventory once again. I felt fairly miserable–stomach bad, ankles/feet killing me, knees hurting, and quads trashed, but, given what I’d just done, I was pretty pleased with how I felt physically. We went to the aid station, I grabbed some food I didn’t want, and Tim filled up our bottles as I went ahead, walking. I decided to walk until he caught me. Then, though, I decided to run. And I ran for several minutes before he caught me. People I passed noted how “fast” (ha!) I was running. I just focused on that–running. Something I do every day, often multiple times a day. When Tim caught me, I told him I thought I needed a bit of caffeine. I had had some Mountain Dew at the last aid station, but found myself yawning. We stopped briefly so that he could get a caffeinated salt tab out of his pack. He handed it to me, I took it, and started running again.
But now everything felt impossibly hard again. It was like, if I had to do anything but run in a straight line, like pass someone, take a pill, stop to pee…ANYTHING. It threw me totally off my game and it felt like I had to start over. Soon, we were at confusion corner, where we took a very sharp left to begin the new part of the course–the second out and back. This is the section I had run twice before–once during Ice Age in 2013, and again last year when I paced Tim. It was much harder this time.
It began with a very steep descent that was covered with roots and rocks. Technical and downhill was the last thing that my feet and ankles could handle. At this point, I hit another mental low point. I didn’t say anything to Tim, but all I could think was, “You’ve gotten in over your head. How are you going to get out of this mess?” I was walking slowly and gingerly over the rocks, doing all I could to avoid a fall. I was sure that, if I were to fall, I would likely cramp and not be able to get up.
Tim kept almost falling. I would hear his shoes scuff the rocks, and it kept making me panic. What if he fell and fell into me? I became obsessed with the notion that this might happen. He kept apologizing, but it kept happening. He played music on my phone to distract me. This helped temporarily, but I soon wanted it off. I became fixated on aid stations. We came to the bottom of a hill, and there was an unmanned aid stations (I hate those and they don’t count as real ones). I read the sign, which said 4.2 miles til the next (real) aid station.
We walked some more–at our extremely tedious rock-avoiding pace, and then finally popped out onto some open meadow. I began to run. The first ten or so steps were excruciating in my feet and ankles, but it would soon settle into a manageable ache/throb. I ran and ran until I had to do something else, like pass another human being, and then I’d have to stop a minute and get my bearings. I’ve never had that experience before…one in which doing simple movements like veering ever-so-slightly to the right to pass someone…completely threw me off.
My memory gets a bit fuzzy here, but what I do remember is that I kept willing that aid station, Hwy 12, to appear. I didn’t have my watch on (it was charging), so I didn’t know how long it had been since the last aid station, but it felt like a hell of a lot longer than 4.2 miles. “Where is it?” I asked Tim. He kept telling me it was close. He kept saying it and saying it, and still I never saw it. I entered a really dark place in my head. I knew I wasn’t going to quit, but I just didn’t know how I was actually going to do this. Fatigue and utter exhaustion were enveloping me, and I wanted to puke again. I broke the rule of not thinking too far ahead. I had 25 more miles left…almost a marathon?
We were finally convinced we were nearing the aid station when we began to smell the porta potties–yes, I’m serious. We smelled that familiar, pungent scent, and expected the Hwy 12 aid station at any moment. What seemed like an hour later, we finally reached it. This aid station was HIGHLY active. There were people everywhere–aid workers, crew members (seemed like hundreds), and then there were the runners. None of the runners looked good. Few of them even looked human. It was here that I saw the lead woman (she was 8+ miles ahead of me, heading to the finish). She had several crew members around her, and it appeared they were holding her up. She looked awful. I felt a pang of empathy for her–she had made it this far, and now she might not even finish. She looked that bad. I was convinced, at least, that she would not win.
I got in and out of the station fast, and Tim tended to our needs as I walked ahead. My ankles and feet had reached a critical level of pain, and now dysfunction. I was no longer able to dorsiflex my feet (point toes upward), and I could actively feel them swelling in my shoes. I scolded myself for not having listened to Tim WAY earlier about changing my shoes, or at least re-tying them. I decided I’d start running until Tim caught up with me. Each step, my feet would scream, but I was running.
He caught me, and we talked about how we were headed to Rice Lake–the final turn around. I said that I would feel better when we got there, so that we could turn around and be headed TOWARD the finish line. It is a very difficult thing to be, at almost mile 80, running away from where you want to go.
This section was the worst, and probably my slowest. Extremely technical with rocks and roots, but also STAIRS. Yes, there were stairs. Not normal stairs, but stairs that were clearly built for giants. I had a fleeting memory of these from Ice Age, but I felt WAY better at that point in that race. I whimpered, and braced myself to climb them. It was as though my mind and body were not fully connected. I wanted, and intended, to take a step up the stairs, but it was as though my body were a few seconds behind; I moved up them in slow motion. We kind of laughed a little bit, as I noted that I dreaded, more than anything, having to go back DOWN these stairs on the way back.
From the stairs to the Rice Lake (turnaround) aid station was a relatively good section for me. We hit some stretches of pine needles and beautiful trees (I remember it being odd that I was able to appreciate the beauty in my current state). I ran very consistently during these sections, only to be abruptly stopped by more steps and rocks. Again, each time I had to do anything but run straight ahead, it was like starting all over. I so wanted to be at Rice Lake. I wanted to turn around and head to the finish. I began to ask runners the same question so many were asking me, “How far to the next aid station?” That is a beauty of an out-and-back–you can ask and answer these questions. We came to a bridge over the lake, which meant we were almost there. And then I heard it.
A loud, very close by, SPLASH. I gasped, and Tim and I stopped. “What was that?” I asked. In my mind, it was some killer fish. Then I wondered if the bridge had collapsed? Tim guessed that someone had to have jumped into the lake and started walking across it instead of traversing the bridge and stairs. We couldn’t see anything or anyone, just the water moving where whatever it was had jumped in. I yelled, “Are you okay?” No response, so we kept moving. In retrospect, I can’t believe I didn’t insist we stop and look further. Someone could have fallen into that water unconscious…but I wasn’t thinking clearly. We never did find out who/what it was.
Though I could see Rice Lake aid station, smell the porta potties, and hear the generators, I wanted to WEEP at the sight of the set of stairs that separated me from it. With non-functioning ankles and knees, I basically crawled up them. And then I saw the aid station. I remember that they had a huge digital clock hanging over the aid station, and I remember it was past 1 in the morning. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out what that meant, like how long had I been going? How long did I have left? All I knew was that I was at mile 81. I remember the aid station workers there seemed completely unfazed by the moans and groans I made as I attempted to loosen my shoes.
Rice Lake aid station is known for being a grave yard. Runners were sprawled out on the ground. Some sleeping, some moaning, others vomiting. I saw their crew members pouring soup and pickle juice into the corners of their mouths. Interestingly, in the midst of this, there were people (not runners) laughing and talking, even drinking, around fires, as they waited for their runners to come in. That is to say–THIS WAS NORMAL. Take any person not familiar with ultras, and especially 100s, and drop them in the middle of that? They would be calling 911. I’ve never seen such carnage in a race of any other distance. Sure, I’ve seen people fall apart in 50s and marathons, but not like this. Every time I looked at them as I shoved (very unwanted) food into my mouth, I kept feeling sad for them that their journeys had ended, and at 81 miles! I saw another man that I had passed way earlier enter the aid station, and he promptly collapse. They were dropping like flies. I wanted out of there. I told Tim I would go ahead while he got water, and I headed toward that dreaded stair case.
I got to the top of it and stopped for a second–I truly didn’t know how I was going to get down. I considered scooting on my butt (I’m not kidding), but finally was able to manage going down almost backwards. Each step caused me to moan, but I still felt like I was mostly together mentally at this point. Tim rejoined me, and I told him, “We just have 19 miles to go. How many times in my life have I run 19 miles?” The answer is: Many…MANY, MANY. But none of them felt like these were about to.
It felt like there were more rocks on the way back than there had been on the way out, and navigating them was excruciating. I ran when I could, which wasn’t very often in many stretches, but soon we saw a woman up ahead doing what kind of looked like a run. She was in bad shape. I knew who she was–her name was Rachel, and I watched her run this race last year. This year, she had been in first and second place early in the race, but had clearly imploded. She did the same last year-for a long time, she was in front of Tim, and then fell back. It gave me a tiny bit of a thrill (and I mean tiny) to see her, and I passed her. I tried to look really strong when I passed her, but she was in such a state she couldn’t have cared any less. As I did, she almost fell over into the woods. We asked if she was okay. She told us she was just very, very sick. I told her to take care of herself and to be careful.
Soon after this, I hit another low point. For a few seconds, I got incredibly dizzy and thought I might faint. The trees whirred around, and my vision went away briefly. I told Tim, and he stopped me and made me eat some more. The tightness in my stomach returned, and it felt like a drum ready to burst. I walked some, and ran a little. “Am I doing okay?” I kept asking him. I had no idea if any of this was normal. What I did know, though, was that he could keep up with my “runs” by just walking. I don’t think I ever even said it out loud to him, but I kept trying to increase my pace to the point that he’d have to break into a run. Then I’d try to hold that for 10 seconds, then have to slow down. It was not even a matter of being tired that made me need to slow down. I still don’t know that I can describe it other than to say my body was at a high level of dysfunction. Things were not working properly, and I was forcing them to go anyway.
Soon, Tim told me that, when we got to Hwy 12, he was going to text Jo and Wes. Then I just had to make it to Hwy 12. I did, and didn’t even stop. The degree of my misery was exquisite at this point, and it was both mental and physical. It was nothing that sitting in a chair or writhing on the ground could remedy. Only being done–100% done–could help me. Even then, I knew I would be suffering for many hours after I stopped. I tore through the aid station, Tim filling up bottles behind me. I began to try to consider why I ever wanted to do this. I wanted to find my reasons. I felt so bad, so helpless, so slow, so overwhelmed, so out of control…why was it that I did this? I remember thinking about the 50 milers I’ve done, where I finished strong. I told myself that I could go back to 50s if I would just finish this race. 15 more miles of hell, and you can go back to 50s. That was the deal I made.
With 15 to go, Tim told me I could come in right around 25 hours, maybe break 25. “Just keep doing what you’re doing.” I’m not sure what that was, but I kept hiking when I had to, and running (kind of?) when I could. Every step I took, I said, in my mind, “closer.” All I cared about…exclusively…was crossing the finish line. Not my place, not my time, but being done. “I want it to end,” I kept saying. “It’s like it just won’t end.” 15 miles is nothing to me, but yet it felt like it might as well have been another 50.
We made it to the next (unmanned) aid station, about mile 87, and this is the point at which I really feel like the race began to take control of me. Before, though it had gotten very, very ugly, I was making my own decisions; I was the driver. No more. I have never reached this point in any athletic endeavor. Apparently, it takes me 87 technical miles to get there. I was no longer making choices. Was I running some? Yes. But I could not make a choice as to how long or how fast. I was vomiting in my mouth, no stopping it. Talking became difficult, and I’m pretty sure I just grunted. It is only in retrospect that I can recognize this as the place when it became a different experience for me. Of course, the amount of fatigue I had felt to this point was worse than in any other race, but that complete loss of control, the inability to will your body to do things it doesn’t want to do, that was new to me.
Out of nowhere, Rachel (girl who almost fell into the woods) passed me. She was running (sort of). We told her good job, and I said she looked strong. She did not, but it’s all relative at that point. I couldn’t go with her. It was impossible.
I knew that I was going to finish. I was positive. But I didn’t know what it would look like or how long it would take. So many rocks. More stairs. All I wanted was to get back on the grassy part that would lead me to Bluff, where Jo was waiting for me. We were nearly there, and a man and his pacer came up behind us. He was so chipper. He was also a 100 miler. He is the only person I saw out there, this late in the race, who was laughing, smiling, talking, and running what looked like a normal run. I didn’t understand it. Even Tim, last year, who had looked strong at the end, wasn’t doing this nonsense. Tim told him it was my first 100 miler. I can’t remember what he said, but he said something like, “stay with us.” I told him I would if my body could. Yes, not me, but my body. I was dissociating.
Then, there was Rachel again, just in front of me. She was crying. I wanted to join her in that, but I passed her. She said she was going to make it to the next aid station (93), and decide whether to go on. I said something like, “Oh you can do it,” but I had no idea if she could. I wanted her to, though. I did not feel competitive at all, which is strange. I wanted her to get it together and finish, but she looked so bad this time. I kept moving.
Just get to Jo, just get to Jo. Finally, I saw the pink flamingos in the grass that signaled we were almost to Bluff. I couldn’t wait to see her, but I was somewhat ashamed of how slowly I was going. We came in and she let out her huge WEEEENNNNNDDDY! And so did a few other people I didn’t even know; she had prepped them for our arrival. I took one drink of water and was OUT of that aid station, with Jo by my side. This was the last section. THE LAST SECTION. I told Jo I needed to walk a bit, so I did.
As I did, my ankles got so, so tight. Almost unbearable. It began to get light out. Everyone told me that I would experience some sort of rebirth when the sun came up. I kept waiting, and it didn’t happen. I would say to Jo, “Let’s run for 30 seconds.” And we would, and then I’d say “10 more seconds.” We did this over and over. I could tell, by watching her, that our pace was unbelievably slow, but it was still the running motion. We then hit the steep ups and downs, and these killed me. It would take me a full minute to get down a hill given my feet and ankles. Going up them hurt, but not like going down. Despite all my pain, it was so nice to be with my best friend, my running partner, on a beautiful morning on the trails.
My brother, Wes, called her. I talked to him and started crying. “I can’t run!” It’s okay, he said. You just have to focus on moving forward. I felt a wave of guilt, like I was letting people down. For walking some of the last 7 miles of a 100? I guess so. We soon got to the aid station that marked 5 miles to go. I ate a stale pretzel, but could handle no more food, and we headed out. My left foot was so painful, and Jo and I stopped to work on it. She untied and retied the shoe. It helped some. Then I had to use the bathroom. It’s like I couldn’t get going again, but eventually I did.
Up and down those horribly steep inclines and declines. It was torture on my body. I kept telling her the race would never end. She promised me that it would, and tried to put it into perspective–5 miles is the daily run she does with me. That helped, but I was moving so slowly.
Then, here came Rachel. She passed me…running, almost like a normal person. Strangely, she said, “Are you doing the 100 miler?” I told her yes and good job. I assume she had some competitive juices left (I did not, as I had no control over what I was doing), and was seeing if she was moving up a place. I watched her make it to the top of the next hill, and I told Jo, “She has come back from the dead.” It’s true. If any of you had seen her the last time I did, you’d have bet there was no way she could pass me, and that she might not even be able to finish. It happened again–one of the men I saw writhing on the ground at the aid station? He eventually passed and finished right in front of me. These are things you don’t see in shorter races. These are things I’ve never seen before. And maybe I was doing it, too…I had so many low moments, but here I was, moving.
I’m fuzzy on the next couple of miles; all I know is that it started to rain, and we kept up our little walk/run routine. I began to complain that Tim wasn’t there yet–he was to run out to meet us and then run in. Just then, we saw him coming toward us. I BAWLED. The sight of him made me cry uncontrollably. I do not know why. “It’s so hard,” I told him over and over. He told me I was doing great. I just kept crying. Jo told him that our plan was to run as much as we could the last mile. We had about two to go at this point. There were still some steep up and downs to navigate, and I think Tim noticed how much worse I was on these than the last time he’d seen me. I wanted to see that “one mile to go” sign so badly. I was willing it to appear.
Finally, it did. I made a big announcement, “When we get to that sign, I’m running for as long as I can.” We hit it, and I began to run. It was maybe a 13 minute pace, and it was excruciating…beyond excruciating…it was like running with a body that wasn’t attached to a brain. Jo had been telling me how many track laps I had left. Just four. “Tell me when I get to three.” And then I’d say “Am I not to three yet?”
I kept running, even managing to throw myself down some of those hills (I screamed). What was driving me, I’m not sure, but very heavy in the equation was that I WANTED TO SIT DOWN. In that last mile, I thought about epilepsy. I thought about being a female athlete, a female scholar, and how I was representing women. I thought about how I was representing my small home town, and my university. Maybe they didn’t think of it as that way, but I did. I thought all kinds of things that surprised me, didn’t make sense, or came out of nowhere, but I kept running.
“We are to my house!” Jo said. Jo’s house is 0.40 miles from mine. “Tell me when we’re to BMS,” I ordered. I had been running this entire mile, and it hurt so much that I thought my legs might just stop, and I’d fall face first. I passed some people (I think they were fun runners), and Jo said, “WE ARE AT BMS.” BMS is 0.20 miles from my house. Oh, god, it’s almost over.
But I couldn’t see the line. Every piece of me was in 10/10 pain. Every. single. fiber. “Tell me when I’m to Larry Lafferty’s house!” He’s my neighbor, and lives half a block away. The energy in our little group was growing, higher and higher. “We are to LARRY’S HOUSE!” she screamed. “THEN WHY CAN’T I SEE THE FINISH LINE? I CAN SEE MY HOUSE FROM LARRY’S HOUSE!!” Looking back, it had to have been comical. “Because we have to make this turn up here,” she explained.
We veered slightly right, and there was the line. And my brother, and my friend Scott. There, ladies and gentleman, was the end. I grabbed hands with Tim and Jo, and I “sprinted” to that line, finishing 100.6 miles in 25 hours, 25 minutes, and 57 seconds. I was overcome with raw emotion. I cried and cried, and when I crossed I stopped and sobbed. Many people who have seen the video of this have asked me why I was crying–was it from pain? joy? pride? None of those, but maybe all of them? It was a guttural reaction, and not something I could control. Seeing my brother waiting for me was such an emotional experience. Seeing the letters F-I-N-I-S-H all together, and knowing that I could STOP was such a joyful thought. I wish that I could explain to you what that moment felt like, or why I was crying, but I cannot. The only way to feel that way is to do what I did. Was it worth it? Yes. A thousand times…yes.
I got my shoes off, and my BLACK AND BLUE feet began to swell immediately. I felt terrible. I couldn’t sleep. All I could do was lie there and throb in pain. But I was also able to reflect. This was the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life, and I tend to do a lot of hard things. I never wanted to quit. I wanted it to end, but I didn’t want to stop until it was over. I learned some things about myself that surprised me, and other things that didn’t. At least for me, my first 100 miler was not about getting a buckle (kettle, actually) or a sticker for my car (though I totally did), or even being able to say I’ve run that far. It honestly was about me, just me. I don’t mean that in a narcissistic way. There were plenty of people without whom I could never have done this, but I mean the experience was deeply personal, and that includes the training. I’m a very driven person, and I have a compulsion to run. It is not normal, and is likely pathological. But, clearly, there are others like me. Otherwise, there wouldn’t be races this long. So, I was able to find my place.
Some things I learned in this race that I’d like to pass on:
1. When something hurts, stop and deal with it. The problems I had with my feet were due to my shoe laces impinging on my feet and ankles. I could have at least lessened this, but I was too hasty. My feet are STILL swollen from this.
2. Drink and eat ungodly amounts. I had no hydration or nutrition issues, but I felt like I was stuffing myself. However, I think I did it just right.
3. You need a pacer(s). It would be exponentially more difficult to run through the night by yourself.
4. 100s are very difficult to pace. It is very, very hard to figure out what pace to run. I think next time I will go solely on HR.
5. People who look like they’re done can come back and pass you. In fact, the woman I saw who was in the lead that I thought may have to drop out? SHE WON. Looks are deceiving in 100s. People die, then the resurrect and come back. It is amazing to see.
6. There will be very good and very, very, very bad stretches. Ride out the bad ones, and know (because I promise you it’s true) that they will give way to, if not good, better stretches. When you’re having a good stretch, like through the night? Run as much as you can. When you’re in a bad spot, just move forward.
7. Train on race-specific terrain. I wasn’t able to do this, as I can’t drive given my seizures, and I have kids, etc. But I was woefully unprepared for the hills and technical sections. I can fake this in a 50. In a 100? It really beat me up.
8. Practice walking. Because you will be walking. I actually did do this, and it helped a lot. When I walked, I walked fast. A lot of people who were walking were going much more slowly.
9. Expect to love/hate/love/hate it. That’s what it’s all about.
10. Savor the finish, because, to get that feeling again, you have to run another 100 miles!
My next (yes, next) 100 will be the IT 100 in April of 2016. I’m racing Tunnel Hill 50 in November, just like I promised myself in the dead of the night on the Ice Age Trail.
Ultra Musings 