By the early part of 2010, Will had run a few marathons. Somewhere in the neighborhood of eight or ten. The toughest according to him was Pike's Peak. (See the "Marathon Man" page.) I'm assuming it's tough because you run uphill for five hours, but that's just a guess. Half of the race is downhill so it can't be that hard. Just saying.
I, on the other hand, had run no marathons, but I was running a lot. And I was really into CrossFit {more on this later, but doing CrossFit workouts (or WODs, because CF loves acronyms) give you the false impression that you can do anything}. But most importantly for preparation, I just finished a book. You may have heard of it: Born to Run by Christopher McDougall.
That book should come with a warning label.
I also recently acquired a certain pair of shoes - you may have heard of those, too. They're made by Vibram (runners in-the-know say "Vee'-bruhm" but ever since I first noticed the small yellow logo on my Red Wing work boots I pronounced this company's name "Vy'-bruhm", and Vy-bruhm sounds cooler and tougher than Vee-bruhm). They're called "FiveFingers" and some will swear they'll change your life. http://www.vibram.com/
So, Will signed up for this race: http://www.nttr.org/grasslands/. 50 miles. Horse Trails. A good "beginner ultramarathon." Flat terrain, dirt trails, sea-level Northeast Texas. And the best news of all: you can pitch a tent and camp 100 yards from the starting line!
We pull into the campground just before dark and pitch our tent. Seventy-or-so degrees, not a cloud in the sky. Eat some dinner (again with the Born to Run book) consisting of black beans and quinoa. The Tarahumara eat this way, so should I, right? I can be just like them! I can run 50 miles, too!
On really long runs, you eat during the race. So in preparation for the next day's event, Will and I sit around the campfire and get a 2-man assembly line going. We make some peanut butter and honey sandwiches, some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and put them in ziplocks. We went through an entire loaf of bread making these sandwiches. Probably had 15 in all. Like either one of us could consume more than 4 PBJs in a day. We tend to overdo everything.
Get in the tent, go to bed. Will stays up a little later and reads Born to Run.
By midnight, it's raining. Pouring. Very few tents are "waterproof" during a thunderstorm and this tent was no exception. It kept us dry enough . . . but sleeping outdoors in torrential rainfall and thunder is somewhat difficult. We've done this before . . . not our first rodeo sleeping in the rain . . . nothing we can't handle . . . all about the adventure, right? Seems to be getting colder.
Out of bed by 6:30, race starts at 7 or 7:30, it's totally black outside. It's also about 25 degrees. There was a temperature drop of over 30-degrees since we parked the truck.
Completely dark. What to wear for a 50 mile run? Where's my Body Glide? It's cold, should I wear a jacket? Which of the 4 pairs of shoes shall I wear for my first ultramarathon? It really is cold. I wonder if the trail is going to be muddy? I'm getting dressed halfway-in and halfway-out of the Avalanche, in the rain. Long SmartWool socks. I'm actually putting on my "baselayer" that I wear when snowboarding. And a light fleece. And a waterproof ski jacket. Except for the shorts, I'm wearing exactly what I wear when I'm boarding on a mountain. It's that cold.
Head to the starting line where a group of freezing people in very technical looking running gear have gathered around a table serving HOT COFFEE. The best and most necessary coffee I've ever had. Hmm, that rain sure is coming down. People have headlamps, flashlights, shoes that look waterproof, jackets that look like they're not meant to ski in. Like running jackets, for rainy days. Beanies on their heads - I mean these people came prepared. Runner-people have a certain look about them, too. These people all had that look. Some came for the half-marathon, some for the full marathon, and then of course there were the 50-milers. These were runner-people.
I go to the goodie bag table - one (1) long sleeve dry-fit t-shirt. That's what I get for driving 4 hours, sleeping in the rain, and running a 50-mile race. 1 long sleeve t-shirt. But it's Patagonia, and it looks really cool. So whatever.
Runners are allowed to bring a "drop bag" and place it around the Start/Finish line. This race has five "loops" and every loop starts and finishes in the same location. The first loop is a 5-mile "correction loop" to make the race a full 50-miler, and the next four loops are anywhere between 8 and 15 miles.
So your drop bag needs to have all the necessary stuff in it that you might need (change of socks/shoes, extra food, shirts, shorts, etc.). Again, these people came prepared - there were some waterproof bags out there. Nope, not mine. I put my drop bag where I was told - in the middle of the rain on a tarp. No cover.
Nervous excitement. Runner people laughing, smiling, anticipation of the coming kick-off. Will says he's got to run to the port-a-potty before the start. He takes the flashlight with him.
In the most unofficial, nonchalant manner I have ever witnessed, the race director tells the 50-miler group that it's time to start. The starting "gun" was actually a guy saying "OK, 50-milers, GO!" Everyone takes off. There is no Will. It's pitch-black dark outside. There are 3 clusters of port-a-potties near the start line, each cluster separated by about 100 yards. I start banging on the doors.
"WILL! WILL! YOU IN THERE?" On every single port-a-potty out there. Run to the next cluster of potties: "WILL! WILL! YOU IN THERE? THE RACE JUST STARTED. DUDE. WHERE ARE YOU?"
Will has the flashlight. Will is nowhere to be seen. 5 minutes after the start of the race, I start without him. And without a flashlight. And it's raining.
Miles 0 - 4.8 / Rain becomes Sleet
Loop 1 is an out-and-back. I start the race 5 minutes behind everyone else, feeling guilty that somehow I left Will in a port-a-potty, thinking he's probably pretty angry with me right now.
The trail is slick. Light brown mud, and "horse trails" is evidently slang for "ditch that collects water and has steep sides." The mud was cold and the area on either side of the trail was full of thorny bushes and tangled brier. Your options were to either (a) run along side the trail and expend copious amounts of energy on strategic foot placement, or (b) run in the middle of the ditch and get your feet soaking wet with freezing cold muddy water. For over 2 miles, I opted for "a". Slow pace, moving at about 10 minute miles. Eventually I switched to "b" but in the last twelve months I have not yet decided which of the 2 options was best. They were both miserable options.
By this time, the front-runners were heading back to home base (they had run the "out" and were now heading "back" on the out-and-back course). I'm still running the "out".
I see Will's bright yellow jacket that he got in the Pike's Peak Marathon goodie bag. "DUDE. You left me!"
"Well I opened the door to the port-a-potty and all these runners were going by, so I figured the race had started. I jumped in with them."
"Wait for me back at the drop-bags."
Almost an hour after the race started, we're back at home base. "That 5 mile run just took us 50 minutes."
"Those trails suck."
"It's sleeting. Or snowing. It's freezing. My feet are freezing."
It was at this moment I decided to wear gloves. The only gloves I brought. They were white tuxedo gloves that I bought for $10.00 and had to wear for a Mardi Gras ball a few years earlier. They were not the super-duper technical waterproof/breathable running gloves donned by so many of the runner-people on that miserable March morning. They looked like Mickey Mouse hands.
Miles 4.8 - 18.3 / Sleet becomes Snow
Will and I agreed to stick together for the next loop. We were caught here in the same picture:
At some point, we were running with a pack of guys, many of whom had run ultras before. They were telling us that there's no need to go fast on a 50-mile race, you're going to be out there all day regardless of your pace. I heed the warning.
Will speeds up, and I slow down. Somewhere in that second loop I remember yelling "Will, we've got 40 miles to go, man. There's no need to get in a hurry." Will leaves me.
Option "b" : run right through the middle of the ditch.
The snow is pretty in this picture, but this photo conjures some bad memories:
Great guy, cannot remember his name. He had the right idea, though. Slow and steady. He was run/walking very early on but had every intention on finishing the race. This was not his first rodeo:
Horrible memories here:
Miles 18.3 - 31.1
Loop 3: Let the walking begin. By the third loop I was miserable. Very few people were on the trail (the first couple of loops included the full- and half-marathoners so you weren't all alone in the abyss of the Texas landscape). So it's sleeting/snowing, it's cold. You're on your 2nd pair of socks and your 2nd pair of shoes. You've been running this race for about 5 hours and you're not even half-way finished.
Outlook of finishing is bleak at best. Misery sets in. The pictures on the website showed windmills and sunshine. The reality was stark grey. Flat land. And cold.
I have made up my mind that I am not running anymore. My feet are ice blocks. I cannot feel my feet. They are swollen and they feel round. They wouldn't flex and move and my ankles felt as if they were locked into place. This was no longer a "run" . . . it was a forced march through a watery and cold ditch.
I might not even go tell the race directors that I quit. I might go straight to the camp site and get a beer. I want to go to sleep. So terribly miserable. I am not running the remaining 19 miles. I am done.
I haven't seen Will since the midway point of Loop 2. He was running fast enough and looked to be in good enough spirits and shape to finish this godawful race. I just knew he was going to finish it and I was going to be the quitter. Felt terrible. I had been on the trails for 9 hours and I knew that Will was going to be on his fourth loop, dead-set on getting through it and moving on to the last loop, and that I was going to be forced to await his arrival while sitting in the cold at the campsite.
I come out of the woods and onto the road nearing the end of loop 3. Maybe a quarter mile from the home base. I see a Chevy Avalanche with its lights on, pointing directly at the trail. Almost a "too good to be true" moment, kind of like spotting an oasis in the desert, I think "that can't be Will, that can't be Will, no way."
"Aw man I'm glad to see you. I've been waiting here for you for an hour. I thought somehow I missed you and that you'd started the 4th loop." It's Will. He quit at mile 31. Thank God. "I was about to put on my running shoes again and get on the 4th loop. I just knew you had kept going."
"No, I'm done. Let's pack up that camp site and get the hell out of here." Nine hours after the start of the race, Will brought me to the base camp and I told the directors that I quit (they were not surprised).
Fifty people signed up for the 50-mile race at Grasslands that year. Six people finished. Forty-four quit the race.
On the way back to Shreveport that night, Will said out loud what was in both of our heads: "You know, that's the first thing I've ever really tried to do and failed. I mean . . . I just couldn't do it."
That thought lingered in my head for months.
Twelve months later it was raining at the start of the Rouge/Orleans 126.2-mile relay from Baton Rouge to New Orleans, along the Mississippi River levee. This time, it wasn't a cold muddy ditch that hurt our feet, it was big jagged gravel.
Again, Will and I attempt to run an ultra-marathon. But this time we finished.
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