Sitting at dinner on Friday night, Linda asked me if I had any last minute advice for her as she approached her first one hundred mile race the next day. Although I couldn’t think of any- Linda is an awesomely well-trained athlete and a very tough cookie- all I could tell her was “It hurts. A lot. Real bad.”
Ultramarathons are different from, say, 10ks. For one thing, the ultramarathons serve sports drinks like “Conquest” and “Succeed” whose orange coloring and light sweetening do little to obscure the distinct petrol flavor. Secondly, there are no mile markers, leaving runners to follow colorful plates stapled to trees - sometimes for hours between aid stations- on blind faith that they are actually making progress through the miles. Finally, and I suppose most obviously, there doesn’t seem to be a finish line where you’d think it should reasonably be placed, and by the time you’re within sight of the end, your feet are so swollen and your quads are so crystallized that if a bus drove by you’d eagerly drop out of the race and hitch a ride for the last 50 yards.
On the upside, the 100 miler offers much more than your average 10k. During these ultramarathons very nice medics monitor your blood pressure and weight along the course, prepared to ship you to a nearby hospital when you break your ankle, go into kidney failure or become delirious from dehydration or hyponatremia. Unlike the typical 10k, aid stations offer Advil, aspirin, duct tape, surgical tape, body glide, and tampons. Anticipating every last need of the runner, they provide cots for weary athletes, although I discovered that those little ditches along the side of the road are perfectly comfortable about 85 miles into your run.
Knowing all of this and more, I acted out during a memory and judgment lapse and registered for the Vermont 100. Race day I was accompanied by ample support: my crew of Jim (hubby) and Andy (friend). Andy had been busy through-hiking the Appalachian trail all spring, and had just reached Vermont two days before the race. Jim and I plucked him off the trail for a weekend get-away of crewing, pacing, and car napping. Four other Reston Runners traveled to Vermont to run, and three more friends would arrive mid-morning to provide extra encouragement, support and company.
Vermont is known as a good “entry 100 miler” with soft footing and lavish support . The course meanders through wooded countryside past grazing horses, over bucolic mountains, through maple forests and in and out of covered bridges. The trail sections- about 25% of the course- offer a gentle surface of pine needles and soft dirt and the road sections are nearly car-free with level gravel footing. Over three hundred runners lined up Saturday, July 19, 2003 at 4:00 AM to experience that beautiful terrain and generous support. I’m guessing those 300 runners were either first timers or suffered from the same memory issues I had, because no matter what the view or the footing, one hundred miles hurts. A lot.
The race started benignly enough. Runners shuffled off into the dark down a smooth gravel road. As with all ultramarathons, runners were cheerful, conversational and hopeful to start. We breezed through the early aid stations, and while most walked up the hills, almost all of us cruised down the long gentle downhill stretches. Water packs were filled and refilled with the orange “Succeed”, and runners cheerfully shared their stories of previous attempts, strategies and goals.
The first time the support crew had access to the runners was at mile 18, about 4 ½ hours into my run. Although I was in 290th place, I was not worried. I felt strong and comfortable, and the weather was perfect. Andy jogged a mile or so with me as we left the station and fed me information on the other Reston Runners. “Farouk is about an hour ahead, Linda and Dave are right behind him, and Keith just left the aid station about 20 minutes ago. Everyone looks great. I’ll see you in 10 miles- have a great run!” And then I was alone again, meandering through the lush Vermont countryside.
The day continued with a comfortable rhythm: hike up the long hills, jog down. Fill the water bottle with the orange drink and chew on potatoes and gummy bears. Catch up to the guy with the flag shorts, watch the guy with the two poles fly down the hill. Chat with the two boys from Woodstock, listen to the stories of the guy with the blue earring. Follow the Lady in Red up the trail, wave to the family sitting on the porch. Grin blissfully when Andy is spotted walking up the trail.
Life is simple when you’re running an ultra: your responsibilities include forward motion, eating, drinking, and peeing. All the people you meet are friendly and helpful. When your feet hurt a little your crew helps to change your socks and apply soothing ointments. There are no phone calls to make, no meals to prepare, no minutes to type up and no laundry to step over. You don’t even have to decide which way to go- all you do is follow the signs.
There’s even entertainment along the trail. The Woodstock Twins twirled with outstretched arms in a joyful Julie Andrews imitation atop the “Sound of Music Hill” complete with a far-as-the-eye-could-see view of green mountains. When Pole Man soured on the taste of straight Succeed, he poured coke into his half-filled camelback and, grinning, called it “research.” When my feet started feeling the first pangs of overheating, Richard filled a pan with ice water which my toes blissfully enjoyed as I munched on Snickers and melon. I’m telling you, the first day of an ultra is worth the cost of the entry fee.
My first signs of trouble were subtle: I spotted Andy just before the “Margaritaville” aid station at mile 60. We exchanged pleasantries: he chatted about the unique flavor of each stop, and how this one seemed to have a lot of loud Jimi Hendrix music and drunk (but happy) volunteers. He then asked me how I was feeling, and before I could assure him I was well I was overcome by a sudden wave of nausea. Having only enough time to turn slightly away from him I leaned over for a few minutes. Between heaves I looked up to see unconcerned runners shuffle by and cars politely avoiding hitting me as they cruised down the road. You know you’re in an ultramarathon when a girl puking by the side of the road is as unremarkable as a kid playing in the front yard. Andy, however, vowed never to ask me again how I was feeling.
Since the sun was about to set, Jim opted to join me for the next section. It was 8pm and I had been running for 16 hours. About 40 runners had dropped but I was still on target for my goal pace. Although I had enjoyed the peacefulness of running my own race, the day and my energy were beginning to wear thin. We shuffled stiff-legged down the first long quad-busting hill together, and Jim wondered out loud why I wasn’t taking advantage of the down-hill to make up some time... I don’t believe I actually said much in response, but he picked up pretty quickly that such observations weren’t earning him any points.
As the sun set and we lit up our flashlights I noticed a distinct whine begin to enter my voice. Without the distractions of the fields and tall maple trees and quaint log cabins and other runners around I began to focus on what was hurting. My quads were weak and my feet had new blisters and my head was tired and I wanted a nap. The hills were getting steeper in the dark, and those soft trails were sprouting rocks that stabbed my puffy feet. The glow sticks marking the course seemed to be getting farther and farther apart and our pace was waning. I began to question the rationale of entering the 100 miler, at first to myself, and then out loud and with great frequency. Jim had learned to refrain from speaking his mind. Instead he held out his hand and we shuffled along together.
Some hours later we reached the 68 mile aid station where Andy stood ready to pace me through the night; Keith - a Reston Runner friend- had caught up and gladly joined us for the hike. Andy had signed up for the toughest section of the event- the 10:30pm to 4:30am dark, depressing, exhausting and sluggish section. His runners were sullen and groggy. When they spoke they complained about the terrain or the apparently missing aid stations or the foul taste of that orange scuzz they made us drink. Around mile 75 we stumbled into an aid station complete with a bright campfire, hot dogs, lots of chairs to lounge in and several runners enjoying a relaxing break. It was becoming less and less clear what we were accomplishing by pressing on ahead into the dark away from the campfire and chairs and hotdogs.
But press on we did. Andy managed to keep us awake and moving forward by telling us stories of the trail. We heard about the Healer and Little Mermaid and Mr. Ed (apparently no one uses real names on the AT) and he rambled on about a trip he took in a van with some friends to some event while trying to avoid some guy with an attitude. He kept his stories going for so long it was hard to tell where they ended and my dreams began, because I am quite certain I was sleep-walking for a few of those hours. Without Andy I would have curled up blissful and happy on the trail; instead at 5am I found myself staggering into “Bills,” mile 83.
Our pace had suffered greatly over night. It didn’t seem likely that we were going to be able to speed up in order to make the finish time cut off, but I was determined to try. Suddenly, everything and everyone annoyed me. The soup was too hot and the bananas were not peeled. My extra clothes weren’t in the right place. Every minute in that aid station was a minute I had to run faster later, and I couldn’t figure out what I should do to get out of there. Should I re-tape my toes? Restock my pack? Are you asking me if I want pizza? Stop bugging me and get OUT of my WAY. I took off at a jog down the trail and Keith pulled himself together to follow along.
The sun began to rise and I expected to be infused by the energy of a new day. I had done this before and I remembered the miracle of that light offering hope and joy and bliss and all those things I wasn’t even remotely feeling. Instead, it seemed the light only illuminated the uneven surface of the trail which was heading straight up into the clouds, then so sharply downhill that my swollen toes were smashing into the jagged fronts of my shoes with each baby step. I began to feel desperate: the harder I pushed the slower I went. The hostile sun made me squint and made everything fuzzy.
I sat down to fix my shoes- maybe that would help. I tried to jog to loosen up my muscles but the legs wouldn’t jog. I swatted my face. I swatted the bugs. I swatted the air. What was I thinking? I couldn’t finish this stupid race. If I kept up this pace I’d finish sometime around noon, which was a couple hours after all the aid stations would be closed and long after the breakfast for which I had paid $15. And that was assuming I could actually move forward for another 5 hours. I looked at Keith who had been thinking the same thing and we immediately knew it was over. We would make it to the 90 mile aid station where our crew was waiting, and be proud of what we had accomplished.
But then the strangest thing happened. As soon as I decided I wasn’t trying for the 100 miles, I suddenly realized I couldn’t make it the next 2 miles to the aid station. I was delirious, confused, shivering cold, and frustratingly unable to focus my eyes. I had, in the most graphic way, hit the wall.
Until everything became clear again. Duh! I was on a road, and that road led to the aid station. Cars travel on roads and cars can pick up people. I decided that I would flag down the next car that drove by and be done with this charade. Ok...no cars. I tried peeing right in the middle of the road (that always seems to draw cars out)... no cars. Finally, I decided that if I looked like I was dead on the side of the road, surely a car would stop and pick up my rotting carcass. Keith and I loved that idea. We took off our packs and flopped down beside the road- I was asleep immediately.
When I awoke my eyes were focused and the day seemed remarkably friendly. I was amazed that during the past hour or two not a single car had driven by, until Keith informed me we had only slept about 15 minutes. I started ambling down the road again, and was astonished to discover that I was feeling pretty good. Keith, on the other hand, had improved very little with his nap.
Some minutes later we spotted Jim walking toward us, aware that we were aware that we had missed the time cut off for the 90 mile aid station. “They told me they would keep it open for you if you wanted to keep going. You really aren’t that far behind. Teresa is ready to go with you.” And that was all I needed. My head was clear, there were only 10 miles to go, and I had fresh support. At mile 90 I applied my special “energy oil” that had been created for me by a running friend and was back in the game.
The next 6 miles were a blissful reminder of what it means to run an ultra. When you run an ultra, all feelings are augmented ten-fold. The excitement in the beginning is a joyful, connected, hopeful excitement. The peaceful routine mid day is a blessed reminder of one’s own strength and confidence and of the good order in the world. Later when you feel tired and discouraged you feel sickly tired, and desperately discouraged. And when you get that second wind, it’s as if the whole world is working to make things right for you. That’s what it was like to have Teresa along. She offered encouragement and praise, stories and youthful energy.
The hours flew by and suddenly we had 4 miles to go. Keith sat down and began to take off his shoes. He claimed that even his male ego wouldn’t carry him the last 4 miles. I rolled my eyes, glared at him and told him to get up already. Keith complied, but he said he wasn’t happy about it. Although the last four miles of this race felt like fifteen, they eventually led us to the finish line where our proud and happy crew awaited us with chairs and food and water and cameras. The medical team deemed us fit enough to avoid medical intervention. We had missed the official finish by an hour, but we had completed one hundred miles.
And thus it ended. Thirty one hours and 4 minutes after the adventure began, it was over. One hundred miles is a very very long way, and offers ample opportunity to discover just what you have in you. Sometimes what we discover about ourselves can be a bit disquieting, although maybe it is that discovery that allows us to move forward. One thing I discovered is that I really am a quitter. As I experienced the depths of disillusionment and discouragement, I had to finally stop fighting and do what I most hate doing in life: give up. But then somehow, in the becoming-one-with-the-wall, a door opened just enough to let me get to the other side. And that’s when I discovered the next thing: I am a fighter, even after I’ve given up. Funny thing is, minutes after our nap, a race official drove by- the first car in an hour- clearly searching for our carcasses. I guess I was meant to discover that I could fight back rather than be rescued.
At lunch after the race, Linda (who ran 26:52) told me she had considered my pre-race words of wisdom at 2:00 AM as she lay prone on a cot, contemplating whether she could continue for the last ten miles. What she thought was, “Man, Anna was really holding back when she described how this would feel.” But she glowed a little as she said that. Later that afternoon we dropped Andy off at the Appalachian Trail. It’s always important to keep our own lives and struggles in perspective, and while I napped on the car ride home, Andy was marching on through the last 400 miles of his 2100 mile trek.