2011 In Yan Teopa 10 Mile Trail Race Report

Prologue

I didn't sleep well Wednesday night; for some reason, drinking boatloads of tea help my breathing (warm moist air?), but the caffeine made sleep a problem. Thursday night, I awoke at 3 AM, wheezing, and found I couldn't lay down and breathe, so I started my day (I read "Regeneration" by Pat Barker - a good book - by sunrise). Friday evening, I was coughing so hard, I couldn't sleep. I tossed and turned and got out of bed half a dozen times and then saw the clock said 6 AM. So I did what anyone with asthma would do... I raced! This was not exactly planned.

I had a pot of coffee in an hour, while packing the car (I wasn't thinking clearly, so I just grabbed anything I might need). I tried to remember whether In Yan Teopa allowed race-day entries, assumed it did and didn't check the website. My wallet was empty, so I grabbed my checkbook to pay whatever the fee would be and was glad that I'd just filled the gas tank.

As I pulled out of the driveway, I had to think of how to get there. It had been three years since I'd done it. Highway 61 the whole way, except for the turn toward Frontenac. Was there construction? I  vaguely recalled something being closed.

The drive down was uneventful, foggy. South of Red Wing, it becomes an unbelievably beautiful area. You just can't believe that southern Minnesota has such dramatic landscapes, but the jagged rock faces that seem to just jut out of the ground are a hint that this is a true trail race, with one memorable hill.

Prerace

I hadn't seen any of my trail running friends in months, which is why I came. I hadn't seen Carl Gammon since... 2009? I talked with a number of people, assuring them that I was not planning on racing hard (and everyone said that wouldn't last through the first quarter mile); one guy seemed to be eavesdropping and it didn't hit me until later that he was sizing up the competition and saw me as someone in his age class who looked like a serious runner - that used to be me checking out the field, and not very long ago, and now it seems foreign. I didn't bother thinking about awards; I saw Jim McDonnell and John Kendrick (who's having a great year) and knew I'd have to be in shape to beat them, so there were undoubtedly more fast old guys than awards.

We headed for the start and I took off the long-sleeved shirt I'd been wearing to stay warm and tied it to a post at the start. Looking around, I was underdressed compared to most, but it was about 50 degrees and not windy or rainy, so I thought shorts and singlet was correct.

I kept moving back in the crowd and kept finding myself close to the front, as others did the same. I really wanted to start slowly. For once. Larry gave us some pre-race instructions, including to watch for the black walnuts on the path.

Okay, so the race starts

It's hard to hold back at the start of any race, but this one's downhill for the first two miles, making it almost impossible to pick a pace one can hold for the duration. The first guys were nowhere in sight after only a few seconds and the first masters were close behind them; I found myself behind the first woman (who spent most of the first mile readjusting her shorts under her tights... that's what a warm-up's for, folks) and ahead of the second woman, which is about the position I maintained the whole race. One guy came barreling down a hill past a lot of us and I said, "He'll come back;" the first woman saying she hoped so; I did catch up to him at 5 miles, but he hadn't killed himself and ran well enough to beat me. The first two miles were about 7 min./mile, which told me I'd have to consciously back off before the big hill.

In the third mile, when the course is on a mowed path in a tall grass prairie, I started having breathing problems. I was panting, so I took short choppy steps to match my breathing rate and it kept me in position. This section of the course is rolling and not very memorable, though you do see hills in the distance and you think about them a bit. It's a loop that starts and ends at the park's entry road. I started having abdominal pain, which I hoped was just gas, but it was never more than a worry. At the road, one's just before the 5 mile mark, the second aid station, and the start of the hill.

From 5 miles, it's gradually (and sometimes not-so-gradually) uphill. At 5.8 miles, the real hill begins. The course becomes rockier and less groomed. I scared a deer. One winds past the bottom of a cliff, where one first encounters some rough footing, then the path goes up to the top of the bluff, with two sections of steps. I was quite happy that I only slowed to a walk for about five steps. It was here that I got passed by the only runner I'd see between miles 4 and 8. Just past the top of the hill (6.2 miles, for those who want to keep track), is the next aid station and every time I run it, they have to point me which way to go.

About this time, I had mucus running continuously both out of my nose and down my throat, making for an uncomfortable run. I also started coughing while running (something I was not aware I did, until it had been pointed out to me at Afton the week before by Tom Burr). After that hilltop station, there's a short stretch on asphalt and I picked up my pace. Then I saw Jim McDonnell limping ahead of me. I told him to hang tough and he said he'd rebroken a metatarsal. I've been there - it hurts like hell, but there's nothing to do until you get to the end of the race, so you just keep going, knowing adrenaline will keep the pain down until you stop. I thought two things just then: 1) After I finished, I'd go back and help him out and 2) Just how many old guys were ahead now - was I suddenly in an award position?

The next couple of miles are back to rolling hills and enough turns that it's difficult to tell where you are or to see other runners. There's one stiff uphill before 8 miles and I looked back to see if anyone was gaining. Then there's a loop, just before one crosses the road at 8 miles and you can occasionally see across it to see other runners. I saw no one ahead of me, but going up the incline to the road, I could see one guy behind me.

Crossing the road, it's more rolling hills. The sumac was in bright red patches and there's enough tight turns that I brushed against weeds and picked up some seeds and burrs. Finally, one enters woods again and one knows the end is coming. The trail along the cliff top is single-track, with enough roots to keep one's attention, though, if you look to the left, one gets views of the river from 400 feet up. The rock formation for which the race is named ("In Yan Teopa" = "Rock With Opening") is about a mile from the end; you can't see it from the race course, though you pass a sign pointing to it.

I heard voices. There's a campsite nearby and a picnic area, so I didn't assume it was runners. That's when I got passed by a guy in minimalist shoes, who asked me about Afton (I was wearing last year's Afton technical shirt). He was definitely not my age and I thought about whether I should try to race him to the end. Then I wondered about who I heard him talking to earlier and decided I'd hold back a little and make a charge if a master's runner caught me. I was really falling apart. The last mile was over ten minutes. When I made the turn out of the woods (the last little hill) and got toward the parking lot, I could see the guy ahead of me and I made a half-hearted attempt to go after him. It was too big a gap too close to the end and I didn't really push.

I crossed the line in 13th place, 6th man over 40 in 1:24:56, much slower than the 1:18 I ran in 2006 and 1:14 (?) in 2003, but more than acceptable under the circumstances.

A minute later, I started coughing. Then I thought it passed and I turned to go back on the course and find Jim. Then I started coughing hard enough that I couldn't stand and dropped to my knees, taking some deep wheezing breaths. I was soon recovered enough and I went for my cool-down along the course, about 17-18 min./mile. I cheered for those coming in and, when I saw Jim, he looked fine (except the limp) and didn't need assistance, so I went down the trail to get a look at the rock.

Photo taken from Matt Patten's blog

Results: Open men: John Storkamp 1:05:47, Kyle Kroening 1:12:05, Joe Boler 1:14:24
Masters men: Ken Hertz 1:17:54, Joe Bissen 1:19:17, John Kendrick 1:19:18
Open women: Lisa Truax 1:20:29, Leah Popp 1:27:32, Lana Lappi 1:36:46
Masters women: Lisa Messerer 1:33:19, Lonna Simanovski 1:35:59, Lynn Saari 1:42:54

Yes, every woman's name starts with "L."

2011 Afton Trail Run 50K Report

Shut up and move with me, move with me, or get out of my face. - Wombats, "Techno Fan"

Jen Pierce photo

When I announced Afton would be my last race, due to endless injuries and illness, few believed me; those who did expected I'd go out with a bang - either that I was sandbagging and ready to go for a top finish, or I'd put on an epic battle, running on when no one else would consider continuing. There was a part of me, too, buoyed by the exhilarated expectation of racing, that thought, maybe, just maybe, there was one last fight left in me.

I hadn't run in three days, as my heels and Achilles tendons had started to hurt again. The fact that we'd gone from the coldest rainiest spring to hot and humid those three days helped me feel better about this forced "taper" from three weeks of mediocre training after three weeks of illness.

This was the year of the Minnesota government shutdown. A month earlier, I had alerted the race director, John Storkamp, to the possibility of the park being closed and a need for a contingency plan. I looked at the possibility of using county parks or the Wisconsin state park across the river; moving to the local roads proved an impossibility. A week later, John said that the Afton Alps ski area adjacent to the park would let the race be held on their mountain bike course. The Alps have always been a good neighbor to the park and they deserve special recognition for making this race possible. John and his volunteers had to measure and mark a course at the very last second. Until you've worked behind the scenes at a race, you can't imagine how hard it is to make a race look seamless.

I had snuck onto the bike trails once or twice and had seen a small section of them. I'd done some training on the Battle Creek mountain bike trails and was trying to remember trying to learn how to ski at Afton some 40 years earlier. I thought I knew what to expect, but one glance at the ski hill turned "hilly" into "HILLY." It's always hot in Afton in July, but the ski hills would have no shade. The air was fairly thick with humidity, but it was expected to dry quickly that morning. I wasn't ready for the weather, but knew proper hydration and sunscreen (which I remembered for the first time in 6 or 7 Afton races) would help. I heard there'd be one aid station at 4 miles of the 7.75 mile loop and quickly figured that one 20 oz. bottle would be enough, though the number of people with hydration packs had me worried.

Before the race, I got to see a lot of people I hadn't seen in a year or two. That's why I came to the race: to see people I really should see more than once a year. Les Martisko was there, wearing his 1983 Twin Cities Marathon shirt - it didn't have a year on it, but I have the same shirt. A lot of people were good-naturally joshing me and a few introduced themselves (including one who said, "I read your stupid blog." For that, he gets an anonymous mention).

We got to the starting line and I made it a point to move back in the pack until I was with people who looked like they were in way over their heads, yet I was only a couple of steps behind Alicia Hudleson, who I expected would do fairly well. The plan was to go out slow, knowing this would be a war of attrition where my usual jackrabbit start would be suicidal.

John said "Start." There was a moment where everyone simultaneously thought: was that it? Not a gun, or "Go!" but "Start." The first quarter mile was through the parking lot and the access road and would prove to be the only flat section of the course. We headed into the woods, where a bottleneck slowed everyone to a halt. I knew it was possible to pass on single-track trail, so I banged through the brush, startling those I passed. I was instantly 30 places ahead of where I'd been, but that also meant that I was now running with people I expected to finish an hour or two ahead of me. My "start slow" plan lasted all of 5 minutes.

The very beginning of the trail had a surface I'd never previously encountered on trails - rubber. It was a section prone to erosion, but not suitable for wood to shore it up. It was my last race and I had something new! I expected my shoes, wet from a big mud puddle we had to run through, to slip on it, but I was fine. My heels hurt, though.

I found myself running behind Valeria LaRosa-Shuster - and to beat jokesters to the punch, yeah, there are worse things than running behind Val - so I told her I was behind her and that that meant I'd gone out too fast. She, of course, demurred. We nearly got trampled by two deer and I asked her what the Spanish word for "deer" is, it never being a word I needed to know and Spanish being her native language. "Ciervo..." she said, "ciervo" - though I heard "ciejo" and just now looked it up. I'd see two more deer (or the same ones) later in the first loop.

The first hill was switchbacks across open field between two shaded areas that concealed service pipes and electrical works for the chair lift, which was only occasionally noticeable. On each turn there was a choice of cutting close and going over rocks or swinging wide to go over smoother ground. With each turn, my heels hurt more. As long as there weren't many sharp turns downhill, I might be able to keep the pain tolerable. Unfortunately, there followed switchbacks down (and up and down again) before entering the open prairie.

Though I didn't think of it at the time, the humidity was already dropping as the sun became a factor. Going over the mowed prairie on the hulls, I sometimes got overwhelmed by the smell of rotting vegetation, a sour vinegary smell. I had chosen the wrong shoes for the day; after they'd get wet in the dew, my toes, making a clawing motion that happens without my thinking about it when on hills, folded the insoles over double. It was awkward, to say the least, but it'd have to right itself or I'd just live with it.

I hit the first aid station about 40-45 minutes and refilled my water bottle with HEED. I swear that I should provide races with my own homemade solution. I nearly gagged - and HEED is the least objectionable electrolyte replacement drink [that should be their motto: least objectionable] - and decided it was going to be a water-only race for me from that point for me. Shortly after that, going up another hill, Helen Lavin was taking photos and I finally got a chance to congratulate her on her Black Hills 100K victory. I was slowing 30 seconds per mile each and every mile. The course went up to the top of the ski hill, then downhill in the least memorable part of the course, up a long hill where you can see people far ahead of you going down (it's deceptive: you think you'll get there long before you do). Then it's downhill and then back up what you're sure will be the longest hardest hill of the course - just as you were sure the last one would be - then a long descent that's fast and even fun, where you see people standing at the bottom and you're sure you're about to finish the loop. Looking at my Garmin Forerunner, I saw there was almost two miles to go. It was heart-breaking. The next section is by far the steepest hill, garnering comparison to Voyageur's "power lines," and Jen Pierce was taking photos at the top, able to carry on conversations with runners for a ridiculously long time. Then there was one last downhill, with a very steep "bowl" in the middle, which tore my Achilles to shreds. I later heard that the course averaged 250-300 feet of climb per mile.

I crossed the timing mat (just over 90 minutes) and refilled my water bottle at the aid station. I considered very seriously quitting right there and then, as three more loops would be torture. I figured I could stop at any time, so starting one more loop would be okay. We'd see how it went.

The next loop was intentionally very slow. My heels and Achilles tendons were screaming on every turn. I passed 25K entrants as early as 10 miles, when they'd run 2 (starting an hour after me); there was no chance they'd finish. At 12 miles, I could hear the first 25K runner on his second lap behind me (who I was betting would be Greg Hexum) and I was marvelling that he'd done the same distance an hour faster than me - 5 minutes per mile faster! - I cheered for him, somehow, and I forget his response, except that it contained the words "Thanks, mister." Oddly formal for the occasion! Almost exactly a mile later, 2nd place Wynn Davis passed me and a mile later, the third and fourth runners went by. Karen Schoenrock, in the 50K, passed me about then and scolded me about my posture (somebody's been reading my blog!)

I finished loop 2 in 3:08, so I hadn't slowed down much, but I'd done it knowing there wouldn't be a third one. I turned in my timing chip to John Drew, got some water and headed for the picnic tables in the shade, where I had some conversations, including one with a woman who'll remain anonymous, as she works with triathletes and said snobbish triathletes are ruining trail races (I'm hoping we're slowly changing them, myself). When I felt better, I headed back into the sun to see who was around and I got asked how I was doing. "Fine," I said - and I meant it - and then I got light-headed. "Maybe not." I sat down. It got worse. I laid down. I knew the next step would be my eyes rolling back and going unconscious, so I fought it and started to sit up again, when I heard "Let's get you in the shade" and I was being carried under the arms back to the picnic tables, where I was fine again in 2-3 minutes. Heat's tricky like that. I wouldn't have survived two more loops, so I'm glad I DNF'ed - "Did Nothing Fatal."

Two days later, on the 4th of July, I started my retirement by volunteering at a race by my house I'd only learned of on the 3rd. I'd been assigned the impossible task of setting up an aid station in 5 minutes and manning it single-handedly. One of my neighbors, out for her morning jog, stopped to help me out. [Thanks, Margaret.] That's the sport of running at it's finest. That's the happy ending I 'd been waiting for.

Other reports:
Jeanette's 50K
Julie's 50K
Kel's 25K
Nate's 50K
Brad's 50K
John's 50K
Matt's 50K

Adam S-L's video near the start (I'm at 1:15):

2011 Superior Trail 25K Race Report

This was my first time doing the "kid's race" rather than the 50K. It seemed like the right choice, as last fall I had been deathly ill and even a partial recovery would take a long time. I got in some good, if not great training early in the year - and then got sick again and lost a great deal of fitness. I tried to get back to training too quickly and had a relapse, so I ended up doing only an occasional hard workout and hoped I could get by on experience and determination.

This year, the races filled for the first time and they filled very early, meaning that a lot of the serious competition wouldn't be there and the races would be wide open. I looked at the names of those signed up and there wasn't anyone unbeatable, though there were some real horses on the wait list. Just before the race, the wait list was down to two names, but the others weren't on the confirmed entrants lists, so I assumed they decided not to run it. WRONG! To spoil the 50K results, Chris Lundstrom broke his own course record in 3:48. He'll eventually have a race report here. All my training runs had been in cold rain and it was expected to be rainy at Superior; I run well in rain and in mud, so there was good news for my chances. I had managed a hard 25K at Afton the week before, but I wondered whether it was a sign that I was in better shape than I thought, or if I had unintentionally turned it into a race and killed myself before the real race.

I didn't want to announce my goal before the race, but I was thinking I could run 2:25, give or take a minute per mile. If everything worked perfectly, that'd be 2:10, guaranteeing a master's division win and, given the weakened competition, perhaps an overall win. 2:25 would probably mean a third-place master award. The worst-case scenario would be 2:40, which was my time at the 50K half-way turnaround mark last year.

I planned to awake at 4 AM, hop in the car and drive up, grabbing coffee along the way. I awoke at 2:00, unable to breathe (sinus and nasal congestion - part of recovery) and decided to make breakfast, so I wouldn't b hungry at the start. It turned out to be a mistake; I spent my time before and after the race in the men's room and spent the entire race feeling bloated and gassy.

It rained the entire way of the 4 hour drive, until I got to Lutsen, where it was unusually warm and humid. Duluth had had a much warmer spring than Minneapolis this year - freakish weather all around - but I figured further north would be cooler. WRONG! It had barely rained there and it would be quite warm and sticky by race's end.

A very uncomfortable analogy

I couldn't get up for this race. It happens to all guys sometimes, but it had never happened to me.

(Now it's really one of my reports.)

I've always been able to count on a competitive drive and an almost scary focus to get me through any race. I just didn't have it. I didn't care. If the race went as planned, all's well and good, but I didn't feel a sense of urgency.

The course

For those who haven't read my previous descriptions: the first mile is largely a gradual uphill on a gravel road, the next goes up 400 feet in elevation over roots and rocks to Mystery Mountain, the next down the mountain, the next another 400 feet up the much more difficult Moose Mountain, then 650 feet down a very perilous and steep descent, then a bit of non-descript up and down with a gradual rise to the turnaround (and then back). This year, there were a lot of blown-down trees on the Moose Mtn. summit ridge. This year, the course was prettier, more fleshed out, than previous years, due to the warmer weather; from the roads, one saw the chartreuse birches accented with the deep dark green pines and flashed of white from the trunks of the birch. This is the time of year to be in Minnesota (the weather's good and the mosquitoes aren't out).

The race begins

We started off following Donnie (if you're a trailrunner here, you know him) in his cart up the road to the trail. There were two guys who took the lead and I was just behind them. I took a glance at my Garmin and we were running 7:22 pace, which was the same as how I started the 50K last year, so I wasn't going out very hard. I cut across the road to run the shortest distance, but the first guys didn't, meaning they had some weaknesses to exploit; they were running more easily than I was, chatting, and were young and fit. It was a question of whether or not they could run hills.

Going up the first climb, I was taking it easy, knowing that pushing too hard here would make the second half of the race difficult. I didn't feel good. Very quickly I decided it'd be the next downhill and next climb that would determine whether I was really in this to race. I let a few more pass me and noted that they were mostly masters runners; already I figured it would take a hard finish from me and faltering by them for me to get anything from this race.

The downhill was pleasant compared to previous years. The course was less crowded (being up front) and I didn't have to worry about braking to avoid others who couldn't run downhills well. There was still hope.

Going up Moose Mountain, though, I was struggling and even had to stop and walk. This was the pits. Fast training run, then, not a race. Just get through it without injury and see what kind of (bad) shape I was in. I started to look at the terrain to see if I could pinpoint the exact spot that always trips me on the way back: there's two trees that form a "V" and you can go between them or around them and it's just beyond that - but where?

The race for me ends

People were passing, but there were some who seemed content to follow my lead. I could hear a woman and a man talking behind me and I started chatting with them. Sometimes in a race, I'll talk with someone to guage how they're feeling and get a sense of how to beat them, but this was just escapism - I didn't want to think about the race. I'm an "associative" racer, constantly checking how my body is doing and where I am in the race, whereas others are "dissociative" and just zone out, not recalling much of what happens; I had changed camps.

I told the woman behind me about the course ahead - how far to the top, the length of the downhill, the easy-to-miss right turn at the bottom and the guy was asking "Is this Moose or Oberg?" Not looking back to see who I was runing with, I asked - and it was Jan Guenther behind me. We've met at least 10 times (I was wearing shoes she sold me, for example) and maybe 30 times, but she had no idea who I was and it was obvious that she wouldn't remember this meeting either; perhaps she only pays attention to female competition or perhaps only to those in her favorite sport (cross-country skiing). Knowing she also does triathlons, I decided to say some things that I knew would stick with her, e.g. "In a triathlon, you're laying down for the first section and sitting for the next, before you finally stand up and run." Triathletes hate that. She tried to counter with how boring it would be to be an ultrarunner who always goes at the same slow pace. "You obviously don't know me very well," I countered, adding that I went from first place to last in my first 100 miler. I mentioned knowing Erika, who works with her at Gear West and she asked me how I knew her - I considered saying, "I'm her biological father," or "I gave her a kidney," but decided on the dull truth.

In shorter trail races, you need more landmarks per mile than in long ones. For the Superior 100, you think in terms of aid stations and only a few, very difficult obstacles. In trying to recall this course from memory of previous runs, it was a blank from the first rise past Rollins Creek to just before the Oberg parking lot. It was all familiar again as I ran it, but sharp turns with short ups and downs just blend together. I tried to pick out features to recall for the next time, but to no avail.

The way back

I hit the halfway mark in 1:12, so I was exactly on the pace I'd hoped, but there was no way I was going to keep it up, so I refilled my water bottle and reluctantly started back, letting Jan and about 6 others hit the trail well before me. I was starting to have trouble with the heat and I'm more of a hot weather runner than cold, so nothing was right.

I was passed by a steady stream of runners and I didn't care if they were in the 50K or 25K, whether they were my age or not. I didn't really converse with anyone, though at least one woman seemed to try, going up the long Moose Mountain climb, where I slowed to a 17 minute per mile crawl - exactly the same as in the 50K last year. A lot of people gave me encouragement if they were meeting me as they were still on the way out and I thanked them, but though the thanks were meant, I was... not discouraged... blasé (and yes, I can type accent marks, I just usually choose not to)... and I didn't feel tired or sore or anything, I didn't really feel anything but numb. And old. I felt old for the first time in my life.

Perhaps this is the real end of racing. With a whimper, not a bang. No last hurrah. No career-ending injury. Just apathy, time to move on and do something else. The chorus to Foster the People's "Pumped-Up Kicks" started repeating in my head:

"All the other kids with the pumped up kicks you'd better run, better run, outrun my gun. All the other kids with the pumped up kicks you'd better run, better run, faster than my bullet."

This was not motivating, but annoying.

As I got to the top of Mystery Mountain, I remembered that I wanted to pick out the point where you can first hear the Poplar River, as crossing that bridge is the point to make a final kick. It turns out that on that day at least, it was possible to hear it faintly from the very top and it just gets louder as one goes. My original race plan had been to push hard down this hill, but I didn't, and I let more people pass me without a challenge. As I got to the road, Leslie Semler (first woman, and nearly overall winner) was there to cheer. This is where I always shine - I have a great kick, I rely on it, I love to use it.

I let two more people pass me instead. I just didn't care.

Finishing time 2:43:27.  34th place of 132 finishers (Yawn.)

As I drove home, it rained for three hours.
................................
Other reports:
Chad's 25K
Chris' 50K
Dave's 50K
Matt's 50K
Brian's 50K

2010 Wildwoods Challenge 25K Race Report

I awoke at 4, had a cup of coffee, packed the car and checked the weather: 70 degrees, 100% humidity. I was really hoping the latest surge of hot humid air wouldn't make it to the race before it was over; I needed to get in a long run, or a fast run, heck... any run over 20 minutes and I was willing to drive all day to do it.

Driving along Highway 10, I passed a jail, a drug rehab center, an old girlfriend's house and the old State Mental Hospital, all of which held bad memories for me. Lots of bad juju on that road. Going into Big Lake, Julie Berg's hometown, I scanned the radio for Black Sabbath as a tribute, but the closest I could find was Alice Cooper. Big Lake is the middle of nowhere, a nice town if you have to live in that stretch of exurb, but nowhere. And that's maybe a fourth of the way to my destination. I kept listening for songs that spoke to the day to come, but even the music is different in the "heartland," not just the politics, the sources of information or the food.

"Oink Joint Road" was one sign I'd take a picture of, if I did that sort of thing. The one for the town of Nimrod would be another. Of the towns on the way, the one I like is Staples, which has some repurposed old buildings and some maintained in the hopes of future use; there's also a lot of ugly prefab, so it'll be interesting to see what the future holds there. Poor Aldrich has dropped to only 53 residents (2000 census).

I hadn't done a search to see what kind of terrain I was going to be running, so I was looking for clues on the way. The highways run along farmland, which was originally oak savanna, but as one goes north, there's more glacial rocks and thus pastureland replaces crops; planted pines line the road. Itasca could be eastern softwoods or northern hardwoods or pine barrens or aspen parkland - it could be all of these (which was my hope). Getting closer, it appeared it was going to be mostly pine and not even my favorite White Pine, which was logged to all but extinction 100 years ago - but even white pines grow well in a century.

I pulled into the park and quickly got registered. The race director said, "You're Steve Quick!" and then realised he had nowhere to go after that, but it's nice to be recognized. Duke Rembleski showed and we discussed how it must be an easy course, given last year's times; I soon learned that this was because the first runners last year didn't do the whole course and I went out to tell Duke (who by this time was talking to a guy from the TCRC team whose name I can never remember). I went back to where there was a stack of course maps to see what the problem could be - the course map looked a little like transfer RNA.














The race director was calling people to follow him to where there was a tricky spot on the course and I wanted to go, but I was also trying to get my Garmin to lock onto satellites. When it refused and asked if I'd moved hundreds of kilometers, I mistakenly said no (habit) and it couldn't reconcile my location with my last run. I deleted the last run, shut it off, restarted it, wandered around for a while looking for a spot not in a ravine... and got a lock after 25 minutes and 3 before race time.

We got corralled to the start line and I saw Duke, TCRC guy, Kori Mortenson, a guy with a St. Cloud State team jersey. Okay, fifth place for me, maybe. I thought for a moment about the glory days when I'd show up, step into the front line and hear someone say, "oh crap," as they knew that I'd pounce on any little mistake they might make and would force them into an honest all-out race. I still had a shot at first old guy, though I spotted one I knew was fast and, though 43, looks 35.


I hate that. Fast or youthful I can take. Both? Unfair.


The director described the course. "... then you cross over the deer path to the Cross-Over Path, which leads to the Deer Path, but going the opposite way from when you started..." and other giggle-inducing confusion. I got: "single-track," "minimal maintenance trail" and "fire tower." After about 8 minutes of description, someone asked, "Is it marked?" Assured that it was, we were ready.

I intentionally started slower than I'd like, but somehow still got pulled through the first mile in 7:09. The first part is quite easy and I knew I needed to make time here, as I'd lose it on the more technical parts. There's a lot of boardwalk at the start - handicap accessible, not the two 2x6's nailed together that usually constitutes boardwalks in trail runs. The next two miles, I was passing guys who obviously went out way too hard, but I was going too fast myself and was trying to slow. We approached the start/finish line and I was waved the right direction (away from the aid station I could see) and was back in the woods without water. Missing the first aid station was not a big deal, I thought, though I was probably not properly hydrated. Almost immediately there was the first confusing intersection and a guy asked "which way?" - it was my main age-class competition - and I directed him the correct way. 25 years ago, I might not have.

The course has a little of everything and is quite scenic. There's the annoying pothole lakes that all look alike, the annoying glacial ridges that all look alike, the annoying dense woods that all looks alike (except here and there there are green metal fences to protect individual saplings, an odd thing to see in the woods). We got onto some single-track that had poison ivy about the ankles and raspberry bushes about the thighs and something that made my skin break out in hives about knee height. We got to the "minimal maintenance" section, which always means fallen trees and the guys ahead of me were vaulting them - damned show-offs. The first woman caught me, went under a tree, scraped her back and said "ow" in that tone that means "I've hurt myself, it's not serious, don't offer to help, I just want you to hear me complain," not the "ow" that means "I've hurt myself, don't just stand there, DO something!" and which sounds exactly the same to male ears. I decided to limbo under the tree belly up so I could see the scraping bits (risking disembowelment, I suppose) and did it slowly enough to exasperate a guy in blue waiting behind me. Over one tree, under one, around one - the tree trifecta.

There was a trail branching off to the right, but everyone stayed going straight, so I assumed that someone saw a marking I didn't or the adage "if in doubt, go straight" was in play. Soon, a group of eight of us were standing at an intersection we'd been at before, comparing maps. We were supposed to take the unmarked turn. We headed back and I was thinking it'd been about 8 miles since I'd had water and I needed it badly.

I was the last of 8-10 of us to hit the next aid station in a loose pack. To keep the bugs out of the cups, the guy had only put out a few at a time and there was nothing when I got there, as the others had drained them. I stood there, had 4 cups of HEED and took off again. I soon had a horrible pain in my abdomen, which turned out to be gas (and had me thinking of all the odd foods I'd eaten on my birthday the day before). In one spot, there was a cold breeze, which made me look to see if a storm was coming (blue sky) and I saw I had gooseflesh. My skin was cold and clammy and the color was off - my deep summer tan notwithstanding. Great; heat exhaustion was on the way.

I was following exasperated blue guy and later, a teenager. Exasperated blue guy was about 20 yards ahead and I kept gaining on him on each turn, as I cut the tangents. I gained on him as I bombed the downhills. I gained on him on the uphills. Yet, he remained 20 yards ahead of me, until I was tired enough he lost me. I'm not sure how that happened.

I was really in need of that next aid station. The guy in charge of that one never got out of his truck. We came back to this point, but I skipped the aid again, which was a huge mistake.

There was a lollipop out-and-back and I didn't see the first runners, so I figured they must be a very long way ahead. On the way back, I saw no one, so there wasn't going to be a race for the oldsters to worry about and I backed off some more. There was another odd intersection, with a sign pointing the way "after the fire tower," and, with a little searching, "To fire tower." I headed for the fire tower, knowing they're always on top of a nasty hill and suddenly remembering race reports from last year, which I really should've reread before the race, telling of the hill. It's a hill. Not awful, but memorable, especially late in a race. No one coming back was my age, a glance behind showed no one, so I slowed some more. At the top, there was an aid station and I asked how far to the end. "You're in the 25K? About a mile and a half, I think." Crap. Though I need about a quart of fluid, if it's only 15 minutes from the end, better to take just a bit now and load up at the end.

The next guy pointing the way said it was 2 miles. The next said 2.5. I was hoping there wouldn't be another to say it was 3. My mouth was sticky and I was very fatigued, more than just "running tired", it was heat impairment, but it was close to the end of the race. I was nearly walking even slight inclines, thinking the next guy was the teenager I'd passed and I might have to outsprint him at the end if he caught me. Then I saw familiar ground, including the boardwalks and I knew it was close. I didn't bother trying to put on a show, I just crossed the finish and headed to the aid table, where the two water jugs were... empty.

I was dizzy and about to dry heave and I needed water immediately. One of the containers felt heavier than the other and I (correctly) guessed that it held liquid, but the top wasn't loosened to let in air, so it couldn't flow. I opened it and had 12-15 (dixie) cups and had to drop to a sitting position for a bit. A walk to the race headquarter building and I could get more to drink and eat.

No one stayed for the awards. The top guys had only run 12 miles, I had done 17, one poor guy did almost a marathon. In the records, I'll be listed as the third old guy, but I was the first who actually ran all of the course (plus a bit extra).


Having come this far, I had to go to the headwaters of the Mississippi, so I got in the car and headed there. There's, of course, an interpretive center; the source of the big river is an indoor experience. I wasn't even amused.

[Here's someone else's picture of the source. No underage redhead present - I checked.]

The park is beautiful; the best parts can be seen by driving, and it would make a nice place for a road race. I needed gas and there was a sign pointing the way to the nearest station, so I went and found the pumps marked "Non-oxygenated gas: for the use in collectible vehicles, boats and farm equipment." Okay. It's not going to eat up the catalytic converter like leaded gas, but can I put it in the car? If I had slept, wasn't dehydrated, hadn't driven for several hours and run a trail race, maybe I could remember. I put in enough to get to the next station.


















[No picture of the actual tree, of course.]


The trip home took longer than the trip up and I spent 25 minutes at a stop light in Clear Lake. I drank a gallon of water I had in the car. At 10 that night, I urinated for the first time all day. That was the high point of the day for me.

Oh, right, finish time.... 2:31:11. Personal worst for a 25K.

2010 Superior Trail 50K Race Report

"We were running to find meaning - to feel something different for just a little while." - Cloud Cult, "Running With the Wolves"

Prerace

The impossible is boring, but the nearly impossible can be fascinating. When I signed up for the Superior 50K, I felt that with the fast running I'd been doing, I could build up my endurance in time to run a very fast time there. Not running 5 ultras in the weeks prior to the race meant I'd be cutting time by hours, rather than minutes. I'd planned to run three races in preparation, starting with the Ron Daws 25K to test myself; two miles into that race, I pulled up lame with a serious injury. The next two times I ran I developed more injuries and I decided to call it quits and stop racing altogether. After a 25K run at Afton on the first of May, I only managed two runs (8 and 12 miles, both slower than 9 min./mile) and five days before race day, I walked with a decided limp, couldn't walk uphill and couldn't stand on my toes. Running a tough 50K in five days would be nearly impossible.

THERE was the challenge I needed! My interest piqued, I poured myself into preparing to finish the 50K under the cut-off of 8 hours. The Spanish Inquisition could've learned from the tortures I put myself through for those days.

I awoke at 1:28 AM, having set my alarm for 1:30, my inexplicable inner clock working well. As I got out of bed, I stepped on a carpet tack - pulling it out, I wondered how it got where it was and whether this was a sign of how the whole day would go or if this was the worst that would happen. I hobbled to the bathroom and disinfected the wound, then got dressed for the race. I made myself a breakfast of coffee and oatmeal and tried to use the bathroom before heading out, but my body was insisting 2 AM is not morning. The 4 hour drive was uneventful and I stopped in two Harbors to buy gas, stretch my legs, try unsuccessfully to use the restroom and bought more coffee. I turned the radio to the local classic rock station (something I only do on race days) and chuckled as I sang along to Molly Hatchet and Dr. Hook. Just before arriving at Lutsen, they played REM's "It's the End of the World As We Know It (and I Feel Fine)" and I cranked the volume to standing-next-to-the-stage-amp level. My ears rang for about an hour.

There was a line at the restroom at the start and I still wasn't ready, so I knew I'd be making a stop at the facilities at the Sawbill aid station. I hadn't had this problem since last year's Trail Mix. Fortunately, my legs felt good - I could run, I just didn't know how far. Deciding what to wear was a problem; those up front were in shirts and shorts, those in back were in tights and jackets and I decided to wear a heavy long-sleeved technical tee over a short-sleeve and toss it at the first aid station (also relieving myself of the one shirt I had from a race I didn't run in the process).

And so it begins

The strategy was to start easy and save something for the end. The course is not amenable to that, as there are two monster hills at the start, but I backed off as much as I could, thinking of it as the start of a very long training run. I was behind a guy who kept stumbling on rocks on the way up Mystery Mountain and laughing to himself, as he said, "I'm from the Cities. We don't have anything like this there." I knew how he felt; I was in exactly the same place as him two years ago. I tried to reassure him that there was at least some runnable sections. On the first long downhill, I found myself unable to run as I wanted, there being too many people in the way that far back in the pack, and I had to keep braking rather than running free - that would turn out to be important later.

When we reached bottom, I pointed out some marsh marigolds to another runner and also pointed out that, whenever you see them, you're about to go up a steep hill, as they only grow in the water that collects in the bottoms. On the climb up Moose Mountain I intentionally power-walked the steep sections, still keeping pace with those who were running, but saving energy - perhaps the one thing I've learned in trail running in the past year. One runner wondered aloud how many hills there were and I told him there were only 5 bad ones. He said, "This IS one of the bad ones, isn't it?" I had to laugh. Yes, Moose Mountain is not a negligible hill.

I knew there was a sharp turn at the bottom just before Rollins Creek that I'd missed both previous years, so I looked for it... and followed the runners ahead of me the wrong way yet again!... but it's only a mistake of seconds in a race of hours. The miles cranked out smoothly, comfortably, my heart rate averaging 159 thus far (I wanted about 153 for the whole race, but those first hills took their toll; if I had started with the heart rate I'd planned, I would've had to walk the first 5 miles. The average for the whole race ended up being 150).

About Leveaux, I had to make an emergency pit stop; I couldn't wait any longer. About 5 people passed and I was about to start up again when I had to go again. Another 3-4 people went by and I got back to running. For about 100 yards. Then another potty break. And another. In my mind rang the words "so this is how the day's going to go..." Eventually I felt empty enough (but not empty) to run again and thought it was about the time I'd usually be in the bathroom in the morning. Stupid internal clock... I'd lost time, but perhaps it was a blessing in disguise, as that rest might be a needed help later. That's as optimistic as I could get.

I ran with a couple for maybe two miles and we did the typical runner intros, when the guy said, "You're Steve Quick? Oh no, that means I went out too fast!" I laughed and told him that he probably hadn't (I did retire from racing, after all). I lost them when I had to make one more break for nature's call (I'm running out of euphemisms).

There's a long "runnable" section before the Sawbill aid station, very muddy after the past week's rains and I thought about how much worse it would be on the way back. I also thought about how it wouldn't matter; the last hours of an ultra are like the last hours at a bar - your thoughts of what's acceptable become more relaxed. I knew where I'd seen Chris Lundstrom on his way back last year, so I started looking for runners returning at that point. I saw Alicia Hudleson cheering for the runners - ya gotta love anyone who'll watch an ultra - and then saw Chris Gardner leading the pack. From that point it was possible to distract myself from my own race by watching for various runners on their return. After Sawbill, I was surprised to see the order of the women and checked my watch when Helen Lavin passed (2:31, so she was well under 5:00 pace... and I was most definitely not, though I was certainly closer than I thought I'd be that morning).

I climbed Carlton Peak, thinking how much easier it was without running Ice Age the week prior as I had the previous two years (Zach Pierce will probably concur, having done both this year). I said hello to Chuck Hubbard, standing guard as usual at the turn-around, but forgot to check my watch for my split - probably 2:40-2:45. Much faster than I expected, but I was feeling as I expected. This...was...just a training run - I had to convince myself of that.

The beginning of the return trip was, as expected, a bit slower, even though it seemed easy enough. I was starting to run through the mud rather than try to run around it, which I knew would be impossible when we reached the parts the 25K runners had run. Mud + many runners = MUD! I can run well in mud, but I had to wonder if the technicality of the course would change that, just as "I run very well downhill" became ludicrously untrue when I started running trails.

I was just ahead of Ron from North Woods and behind another guy in a green shirt, who walked the hills and the puddles but pounded the downhills and never seemed to get closer. A familiar voice from behind - Dick Bjork, who I ran with in high school 30 years ago. We ran as a loose pack for a while, but I could tell the lack of training was starting to take a toll and when we reached one of the two "sticking points" of the course for me - there's a spur trail for an overlook and a wooden sign that I swear says Cascade Creek, even though there's no creek there, nor a creek by that name anywhere nearby - I stopped to remove rocks from my shoes and let them go. It...was...just...a TRAINING run; no need to try to race them.

I guess I "hit the wall" there, at about the marathon mark, maybe 4 1/2 hours. Perhaps if I'd walked the hills at the start, I wouldn't have to walk them here. Perhaps if I'd done at least one long run, finished one race, had monkeys fly out of my... The race is what it is; take it at face value and forget all the "what if's."

I caught the guy in the green shirt going up Moose Mountain. He said, "That mud just sucked all the energy out of my legs." I told him all but the first few runners have to walk that hill. Then I hiked it as fast as I could, just to make a point (though whether to him or to me is debatable). I myself was passed by a couple, who I told that they looked like they were having an easy time of it (he was, at any rate, judging by the non-stop chatter).

There's a spot I was looking for on the downside of Moose Mountain, a spot where I've nearly wiped out each time I've run there. I recognized it when I got there and thought it didn't look too bad, just another slope. Then I was grabbing for a fallen tree as if my life depended on it. Mid-air pirouette, slueing around, trying to stay vertical. I had to extend my left leg fully, toes pointed and landing on tiptoe... the very manouever I could not do two days before the race and which seemed a silly complaint. I did it, but could feel a severe strain in my groin. I stopped for a second and checked that I hadn't seriously hurt myself, then continued.

I'd reached that point where my muscles were depleted. The braking on the downhills had taken a toll on my quads (or perhaps it was all that squatting). The diarrhea had been dehydrating, as was the surprise warmth of the day and the wearing of too much clothing at the start; I'd been draining my water bottle miles before aid stations. I started stumbling over rocks, once crashing through the woods on Mystery Mountain like a moose, causing a woman running the 25K about 200 yards ahead of me to turn around and look - that must've been loud!

Kami Holtz passed me on Mystery, saying she hoped to break 6 hours. I checked my watch and told her it would be close; she might have to kick at the end. Then I cursed inwardly; she's always so damned cheerful - if she ran harder, she wouldn't have that much energy at the end (my usual wrong-headed gripe at race end). I passed a number of 25K runners and tried to speed up just a little on the downhill. When I heard the roar of the Poplar River, I looked at my watch and knew I could break 6 hours if I pushed very hard.

So the last 3/4 of a mile became a race. I passed Nancy Griffiths just past the bridge and started to race for the first time. I didn't want to look at my watch to see how close it was going to be, so I just kept going faster and faster on that last gravel road downhill (according to my Garmin, the last mile was 7:55). I hit the finish in 5:56:16 (49th place overall, 12th man over 40), an hour slower than I planned in February, more than an hour faster than last year.

I feel the love

Thanks to all the people who wished me well in cyberspace and to all I met at the race, including the Fargo crew and Lindsey, who I now get to put in my blog roll and Joe Jameson, who extends the UMTR members into Michigan (and who's tearing up the 50 year-old age class!). I really felt people were behind me on this one and it made a difference.

And for one special person who reads this blog: I carried your picture on me during the race. So you were there, too.

[Best photo of me in race]
[Rachel's report, with video and elevation chart]
[Lundo's report]
[Kurt's report]
[Ron's report]
[Shane's report]
[Best anecdote from race: Guy dropped out after losing shoe]
[Lindsey's 25K report]
[Todd's report]

2009 Voyageur Trail 50 Mile Race Report

"It's a matter of instinct, it's a matter of conditioning, it's a matter of fact... well, I'm lying in bed just like Brian Wilson did." - Barenaked Ladies, "Brian Wilson"

I'd been sick for a week before Voyageur and every day my expectations for the race dwindled. Then my knee started to hurt mysteriously; on one of the rare occasions I left my bedroom, I tested it and found I could walk uphill and downhill and I jogged across an intersection, so I felt I could be ready to run in two days. Probing around, I found the iliotibial band was tender, as were the hip flexors and glutes and there was an ache all along the sciatic nerve - four times a day I worked out the kinks and it seemed to be healing. I didn't sleep for even a minute the night before the race, so there wasn't any morning stiffness. A mixed blessing.

I drove up to Carlton and started making the rounds of greeting people. There are a lot of friends I seem only to see at races and people I wanted to meet and there were a lot of people I didn't know who wanted to meet me. Through my blog I've become sort of a medium-sized fish in a miniscule pond. I was disappointed that the Danish couple, Rasmus and Tracy Hoeg, were nowhere to be seen, as this seemed like the only chance to meet them. The Bunks weren't there, marking the end of an era (Tom has over 20 finishes here).

In races I hope to run well, I take a mental stance something akin to a man going to war or an animal on the hunt. Others, I take a taoist approach of trying to be relaxed, part of the scenery, flowing like water through the course. Once in a while, I'll take the "let's have a party" approach. At Voyageur, I just seemed to be there; it was another day at the office.

I made it a point to start slowly, but I was behind Matt Patten for a bit and told him I left a present in one of his dropbags (hours later he'd tell me that he thought the wolf trap was funny). I backed off a bit and found myself with Doug Hansel (who's won the Superior 100), which meant I was still too fast and slowed down some more.

The first few miles are technical, but nothing difficult that early, just awful on the way back. I hit the first aid station at 36 minutes (compared to 34 the previous two years), but I couldn't get my heart rate to drop to where I wanted it. Slow AND labored - not a good sign. My white technical tee felt hot and wet (it was a humid day), so I took it off. I ran the Power Line hills with Scott Turi, who mentioned that I didn't do any of the things I said on the blog that one should when running hills. Busted! I'm a bad hill runner, I know it, I work on it, I ignore it.

I ran much of the rest of the first half with a guy whose name I never learned and told him what to expect; 15 miles later, when we met again, he said I saved him with my help. That makes the whole day worthwhile. I got caught by Rasmus, who told me he and Tracy had started late and that she had started the race running 7 minute miles, trying to make up for lost time (deadly in ultras). It would've taken a longer conversation for me to place his accent; my first thought was "Yooper." Only minutes later, Tracy caught me and we had an enjoyable chat, which ranged from baby names to the side effects of prednisone - odd, the things that come up.

Shortly before the turnaround, I had an urgent need to urinate and was surprised to see I was badly dehydrated. I grabbed a shirt from my drop bag, drank about 30 ounces of water at once and headed out at 4:50 (compared to 4:23 and 4:32 the past years). On the way back, I developed sudden diarrhea and jumped into the woods, seeing Julie Treder, Kami Holtz, Julie Berg and Connie Lutkevich pass. I ended up running with Julie Treder, who I hadn't met before (She has the thickest midwest accent you've ever heard. Val, Helen, Rasmus and Herb may have their exotic accents, but Julie's is amazing. And delightful.)

I briefly ran with Julie Berg and Doug Hansel, before Doug took off like a flash and Julie pulled ahead gradually. Julie (Treder) and I got caught by Scott, Larry Pederson's nephew (did I just mix the names of Larry's son and nephew again?), and the three of us had an enjoyable time, especially given where we were at the time. After Fon du Lac, where I discovered the shirt I wanted to wear (white, rather than the dark blue I had on) was missing, my heart rate was down to where it should be at last, as I climbed through the endless boardwalks and steps. On the power lines, my legs were already gone and I did the halting tiptoe dance downhill that tells me that the death march will come. The sun broke through the clouds and steam rose from everything - still, better than if they were rain-slicked!

Scott and I walked almost the entire next section, which is gradual uphill to the Peterson station, where he left me for good. Julie left me soon after, followed by... well, half of the field. At this point, I was peeing almost continuously, even though I was drinking little. I also had nausea for the first time ever in a race; it was mild and brief. It was a slow slog until I got to the last section, where I would've settled for slow. It had started raining and the technical section's rocks were slippery. In between the rocks was mud, which had streaks where shoes had slipped and water-filled footprints, whose depths were hard to gauge. In two particularly bad spots, I went bushwhacking off course, just for better footing; seeing Carl after the race covered in mud, I learned I made the right choice (and he said, "That's what I get for listening to your advice!")

I had nothing left, even for the final yards, where thankfully, not everyone had stayed indoors to be out of the rain. I crossed in 11:22. I checked the average heart rate on the Garmin and it was exactly what I'd expect for 11-12 hours; I just didn't expect to take that long, nor to have slowed so much.

The lesson learned: I'm not a good runner who had a bad day or even a bad year. I'm badly out of shape. I'm a 11:22 50 Miler and I have to live with it. If all had gone well, I might've shaved off 20 minutes, but the 10:09 of 2007 is truly just history now (and I walked 20 miles that year). I can't blame being sick or bad weather. The question is: what'll I do about it? It'll take a year or two to make a comeback. Will I? Do I want to? How many near cut-off finishes will I have to have before I call it quits or get angry enough to fight back?


The best photos of me, courtesy of Jen Pierce:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/23571151@N07/3757711681/in/set-72157621841844040/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/23571151@N07/3757819781/in/set-72157621841844040/

2009 Afton Trail 50K Race Report

"It (Independence Day) ought to be solemnized with pomp and parade, with shows, games, sports, guns, bells, bonfires and illuminations, from one end of this continent to the other, from this day forward forevermore." - John Adams

I've always raced on the 4th of July. Last year, it meant racing the day before Afton; this year Afton conveniently fell on the 4th. If I were to have a great race this year, Afton would be my best shot at it - my shortest race (at 50K) with my longest recovery (4 weeks) between races and I'd even be able to sleep in my own bed the night before. I ran Trail Mix in 5 hours flat the week after a 100 miler, so there was a chance that I could run 5 at Afton, even though it's a much more difficult course. The back-up goal was to break my previous best time on the course of 5:29.

Between fireworks noise and mosquitos in the bedroom, I managed 5 hours sleep. I was up early enough to have breakfast before the race, a luxury 6:30 start times usually preclude. I headed out early, remembering having arrived late last year. A deer ran in front of the car and, instead of standing still or crossing the road, it ran in front of the car for half a mile. This was an interesting start to the day. As usual, I listened to the radio, searching superstitiously for lyrics that would describe the day: "Purple Rain," "Zombie"... "Ain't No Rest For the Wicked."

I got to the park too early, allowing me time to worry. John Maas parked next to me and we talked for what seemed forever and turned out to be minutes. I'd made two trips to the portable toilets and wondered if I'd make it through the race before I had to go again. It was warm, so I took off my hat, then my shirt; I had decided to do the race without a water bottle (or gels or electrolytes) as it was only a 50K, but I was starting to second guess myself.

I started well back in the pack, as I'd need a reasonably slow start. The race starts with a long open downhill, so I figured I'd be able to pick out who I wanted to run with ahead of me; this did not work at all. The first downhill is immediately followed with a tough uphill; I've always laughed at people who walked this hill on the first lap, but a check of my heart rate monitor told me I should slow down, so I walked. I could see I was gaining on Paul Holovnia, even though I was powerwalking; Paul was one of the runners I expected to run with, but not this early.

We entered the Africa loop (prairie shaped like Africa on a course map) and I started gaining on people as everyone makes the same tactical error. The path consists of two wheel ruts and runners always stick to one of them; by switching back and forth, I gained 100-150 yards. I was now up with Kurt and Sonya Decker and Helen Lavin. This was faster than planned - knowing Helen planned to run 4:45, I hoped to be with her at the start of the snowshoe loop, where she excels and I fail miserably and that would put me at the half-way mark on pace. I backed off a little and we went downhill to the first aid station. I could see Helen 50 yards ahead, skipping the aid. I had traded the added weight of a water bottle for having to pause at every aid station for fluids, but it was maybe 30 seconds at this point.

The Back 40 loop returns to that same aid station. People remember it as very hilly, but there are some flat runnable sections and I made the most of them. After the second aid stop, I realized that I'd forgotten to check my time at either stop and that was what I was counting on for figuring out my pace, so now I only knew I was out faster than planned, but not by how much. The next stop would be 10.1 kilometers and I was racking my brain trying to think of what time I wanted when I got there. After another tough hill, it was back to the Africa loop prairie and I felt remarkably good. Others would complain of the humidity, but I felt happy, free, unburdened. This just might be the day... just maybe; I'd have to run flawlessly.

I saw Helen ahead of me and I was gaining on her. I looked for any sign of weakness, but she appeared to be running effortlessly. Cage the Elephant's song ("Ain't No Rest...") came back to me. "I know I can't slow down. I can't hold back. Though you know, I wish I could." The lyrics kept repeating in my head and they could be taken two different ways: I mustn't slow down and I should slow down. I laughed. Both ways were true.

I caught Helen and told her I had a song stuck in my head. She did too. "Almost Lover." Wow, that's a bad one. At least I knew that she tends to dissociate during runs (associative running, where one notices every single thing, works well for me in short races, but dissociating is a must when a race has gone badly for hours). I'd run with Helen before, but we've never really had a conversation; we always seem to be on different wavelengths. My hair, already soaked, started flicking across my face and I scheduled a haircut in my head right then - short by Voyageur. I felt good on the downhill to the beach aid station, which Helen skipped again; I hadn't seen her drink yet, but she must've sometime. My soaked shorts were chafing already, so I lubed up.

The gravel road after the aid station is a long hill and after I caught Helen again, we caught up to Dan Kasper, who was walking. It appeared Dan and Helen had met (later I learned it was that morning) and we went uphill together. Helen asked if I was going to run the whole hill and I said I was playing it by ear; we were slow enough that I powerwalked a few strides a couple of times and kept up, but I couldn't maintain it. Dan's a smart, experienced racer and we sometimes run similar times; I thought about staying with him so that I wouldn't be out too far ahead of my goal, but the fact that he was walking and I felt really good kept me running with Helen.

Going down Nigel's hill to the river, I was skipping along, but trying intentionally to hold back, knowing I'd have a flat easy section next. I expected Helen to fly by, but she didn't. She hung just behind me along the river and then up the toughest hill of the course. I'd used that hill for training, but it seemed harder than it should this early and I said so - I was thinking out loud - but I thought Helen looked like it was harder for her than it was for me. As we went through the campgrounds, she was breathing harder than I was and I was still talking, feeling like it was just a training run. It occurred to me that some people had trained all year for this, that it was their goal race, and I was thinking it just #7 of 12; I hadn't thought of it as a serious race.

Going down the campground hill to the beach aid station, I was starting to pick my steps carefully. This was the first sign that everything wasn't perfect. Someone, I could hear, was coming down very fast behind me; the steps didn't sound like Helen's (and there was a slight "click" missing - like a race number tugging on a safety pin - I had noticed earlier). A guy passed me at lightning speed. When Helen caught me, we both said it was fun to watch him. After the aid station, there's a 2 mile flat section and I made a decision: time to make a move. The reasoning was "I'm going to slow on the Meatgrinder hill and I'm going to need the outhouse at the group camp (It's the Taj Mahal of outhouses). I want a lead long enough that that break won't mean I have no idea who's passed in the time I'm in there." I went by Downhill Dude and sped up as much as was reasonable. My hips started to hurt mysteriously. There's a part of the Meatgrinder where you can see part of the path by the riverflats behind you and I could see both Downhill Dude and Helen. I had gained no distance. They had stuck with me.

[added much later: "Downhill Dude" was Jordan Hanlon]

That was the moment when the race ended for me. Downhill Dude became Uphill Dude; he said "I can't run flats." I managed to stay with Helen for a bit and stayed cheerful and hopeful. I chose to skip the outhouse. My hips ached. They ached, but they didn't hurt and aches tend to go away.

I started slowing, but not much, until I hit the single track of the Snowshoe Loop and there I always slow way down. I desperately needed that outhouse right then. I made it to the half-way mark in 2:18:36, which is almost the same as the past two years - in other words, much too fast. I spent a few minutes using the facilities and would not know who passed me, but it meant less to me now. Now the plan was to score well in the Fab 5 series and try to hang on as long as possible.

In the second loop, my hips stopped hurting, but my right knee acted up. A lot. I'd mangled it early in the year, but it hurt on the outside, which would be the only ligament I had not damaged yet. I hoped it was just another ache that would go away - a getting old ache. It hurt most of the race. People started streaming by me, not many I knew well, but enough with grey hair to eliminate any last thought of an age class award. Worst of all, I developed dead quads, probably from babying the knee on the downhills and that slowed me even more. I now planned only to get through the Snowshoe Loop without falling and then speed into the finish.

After the snowshoe loop, one passes under a bridge and the terrain becomes much easier at that point. There's one more long hill, in two separate climbs and I planned to save energy for that if anyone challenged me at the end. At the top of the first climb, I could hear someone coming from behind, which meant he was going faster than I was. I hit the open prairie and glanced back to see how much of a lead I had. That spurred him on to run faster (most of us have been taught that anyone who looks back is dying). I pushed a bit harder, but the last climb was tougher than I wanted it to be. I glanced back and he was still there. I sped up again as I hit the final stretch. I had two more gears, if needed (there's a third, but not on uneven terrain). Someone shouted that he was right behind me, so I gave another burst of speed. I crossed the line in 5:28:29.

And forgot to shut off my watch.

People were congratulating me and commenting on my lack of dirt and blood (I stopped counting after 35 remarks and was getting annoyed). I hadn't run the race I planned, but I had a feeling it wasn't too bad. When the results got posted, I saw I outkicked Paul Hasse (winner of 2007 FANS and Badwater finisher), so I felt better. Then I noticed that I'd done very well in the Fab 5 runners, though John Gustafson was uncomfortably close. After I got home, I looked up my time from 2007 and found I had beaten it by 42 seconds, when I thought I'd missed it. Lastly, I did a little heart rate analysis; I managed a heart rate of 148 for 5.5 hours and that, by my standards, was slightly better than my win at the 2008 Trail Mix.

The cumulation of miles raced did me in. Voyageur's next and it'll be slow, not raced.

2009 Kettle Moraine 100 Mile Race Report

"Oh! Got to have a hundred. Yeah, got to have a hundred. Oh! Got to have a hundred. Too right. Got to have a hundred now." - Wilson Pickett, et. al., "Ninety-Nine and a Half (Won't Do)"
"Now this man acquired a field with the reward of his wickedness; and falling headlong, he burst open in the middle and all his bowels gushed out." Acts 1:18.


I went out to the Kettle Moraine with Matt Patten and his crew, Bill Pomerenke. Matt was seeking revenge for his DNF last year and had prepared for every contingency, from laminated instructions for Bill on a station-by-station basis to a tent (apparently in case the shelter at the finish burned down). His careful planning and perfect execution resulted in the race of a lifetime.

This is not that story.

I brought drop bags and a bag with what I'd wear race day, a water bottle, a change of clothes for after the race and some toiletries. I was prepared for a weekend getaway at a hotel. When I picked up my race number, I realized that I didn't have a long-sleeved technical shirt, so I bought one that they had left over from the 2003 race; then I got this year's shirt and saw I could've used that. See? Whatever you really need is just waiting for you at the race.

The weather was perfect. I was expecting course records from Wynn Davis in the 100K (record by 40 minutes!) and Zach Gingerich (I'd forgotten Clifton and Tanaka had run this). I knew Matt would have a great race. I expected to crawl over the finish line in 28.5 hours.

I've said some nasty things about how ugly I thought the Ice Age 50 Mile course is and this race covers most of the same ground, but what a difference! In four weeks, the course went from a burned over pile of rocks to a lush verdant wonderland filled with flowers. I didn't know I was running up Bald Bluff until I was nearly at the top; it was unrecognizable (and easier to run at 10 miles than at 30).

I started the race running with Kathleen Yarger (and Michael and Jeremy, who I hadn't met before). Kat had done the race many times and said she DNFed last year and was looking for revenge (a familiar theme that day); she seemed to know what she was doing, so I followed her lead until I asked what her finish times were. "Oh, I got lucky one year and everything went right. 23:30." She said she was aiming for 24-26 and I knew I'd gone out too fast (though not as bad as usual) and my heart rate monitor agreed. Still, this was perfect weather... maybe that's the difference; I play these delusional mindgames, trying to convince myself I really can run like I'm still 20 years old.

I fell about 5 miles into the race. If having both hands out in front is the "Superman," I'm naming this one "Hailing the Taxi," as I had one arm out. The fall wasn't as bad as the sliding after it. I'd ripped skin off both knees, my right thigh and right elbow and a rock had gored me in the groin. I got up quickly, said I was okay and kept moving as the guy behind me pulled twigs out of the back of my shirt. "Well, I got THAT out of the way," I said, as I hoped the rest of the race would be incident free. Then I rolled an ankle at 6 miles. This was going to be a long, long day, as I hadn't yet made it to the second aid station.

I got to the aid station at Emma Carlin (15.5 miles) in 2:49. Bill was there, as Matt had left only a short time earlier and he filled my water bottle and asked if there was anything I wanted from my drop bag [actually, in my mind, I see both him and Jim Wilson asking; it was one or the other]. I didn't think there was, but I opened it and saw stuff that reminded me I had a plan for food and hydration; perhaps I should follow it.

The next 30 miles is all trail I'd never run before. I knew it was mostly flat open prairie with one nasty hill. This was my kind of trail! I could run this all day (come to think of it, I did). I was moving well, feeling good... and then I had to take a dump. Urgently. Without woods for privacy. I was glad that I'd packed toilet paper (along with Aleve and batteries) in the compartment on my handheld and figured I could make it to some bushes ahead. The bushes were filled with poison ivy, as were the next ones and the ones after that. I found a safe place, pulled down my shorts (seeing one of my wounds for the first time) and went. The toilet paper was saturated with blood - a problem I first had at the 100 miler in the Zumbro River Bottoms and which I've named "Zumbro Bottom." I saw Daryl Saari run by and I wanted to run with him, so I hurried up and joined him, while my butt burned away and I had Johnny Cash's "Ring of Fire" stuck in my head. He was having a good day, so I had to let him go quickly.

On a small muddy decline in a field, I fell again. When I saw smooth dirt, I wasn't thinking rocks and I caught one. This fall wasn't bad at all, but it was messy. Rain later washed some of it off, but I was still dirty a day later. When we finally got back into the woods, I was looking for the Scuppernong hill; before I reached it, there was some rolling tiny hills with a lot of rocks.

I fell. This time, straight forward, knees cracking on rocks, pitching forward and banging my face on another rock. My hat flew 6 feet, my bottle 15. I was seeing stars and wondered if I'd knocked myself out; I decided that there'd be another runner standing over me if I'd been there more than a few seconds. I didn't think I could stand, as both knees were shot, but I got up anyway and checked my jaw, which felt like it might be broken.

I started running (after a fashion), finding my right knee ached on uphills, the left on downhills. I got to the next aid station, Hwy ZZ, where I told Tom Bunk I'd done a face plant. "I can see that," he said. I grabbed some stuff to eat and found that I couldn't chew. Interesting - can one run an ultra without food? I was an hour ahead of schedule and no one was pulling me off the course, so I went on.

The scuppernong hill is long and steep enough that there's switchbacks, but it's nothing to write home about. It's a little technical, so I carefully studied every foot placement. If I fell again, not only would my race be over, so would my season. I'd slowed way down and (in hindsight) was now running the pace I'd planned. At this pace, one can enjoy the scenery more and I was distracting myself with it.

I hit the turn-around (31.4 miles) in 6:17. I had planned 7:16. I remember nothing else about this section. Apparently, I switched shirts. It started to rain as I went down the scuppernong hill; it being suddenly slick just seemed par for this course and this day.

The way back to the Nordic start/100K/finish line was, thankfully, largely uneventful. My jaw was improving and I was able to eat again. I was still running, though being passed regularly and I was feeling okay for having been through hell on earth, so my mind dissociated and snippets of random songs ("I'm not going to teach your boyfriend how to dance with you.") and cartoons ("She says things like 'whole 'nother' and 'all of the sudden.'") filled my head. I was urinating every two hours - exactly - and my hands weren't swelling, so I had my hydration right.

Though the only conversation I really had on this stretch was with Steve Grabowski, it's a good place for me to thank all of the Wisconsinites for adopting me. Steve and his brother Kevin have introduced my sordid running exploits to several people and I finally got to meet a few more of the Lapham Peak runners, like Angela Barbera (who really does look that fresh and happy late in races; it's not just in pictures). Others knew me from Ice Age, where word was spread that I was doing 5 ultras in 6 weeks; Ken Plumb, on seeing me said, "So you haven't learned yet, eh?"

My main thought was that I walked the last 50 of Zumbro, but I couldn't do that here. I ran for a while with a woman named Hillary from Virginia and told her I'd be teased mercilessly if we got to the 100K together, explaining that those who knew me would comment on my finding the only redhead on the course. I wasn't forced to start walking more than steep uphills until the Nordic Loop, about 60 miles. I was now 90 minutes ahead of schedule, so I didn't need the headlamp I'd been wearing since Emma Carlin (47 miles). I saw Kathleen Rytman on her way back out from the Nordic station and she said she thought I'd catch up to her. I knew better, but the fact that she and I have run together in several races gave me hope. Knowing that people tend to drop at the 100K mark, I made sure I didn't sit (physically impossible anyway) and got back out on the trail. When they cheered for "100 miler headed out!" I pumped my fist in the air, though I'm not sure why.

On the Nordic section for the third time - it's 30% of the course - I saw a lot of 100K runners heading in, each looking worse than the one before. Many were walking in complete darkness without lights. Four of them were on their cell phones! The last one I passed at 11:54 and she was still a mile from the Tamarack stop; I hope she arrived there before they shut down for the night. I needed to do 30 miles at 25 minutes per mile to finish.

Starting here, I encountered old nemeses: foot problems, hydration problems, chafing. My headlamp's batteries died 5 minutes after I turned it on; I had been wondering why everyone else seemed to have better lights than I did. I was certain that I had put in fresh batteries, but I used my back-up (always have a back-up!) to allow me to see enough to put in replacements (always have spares!) and it was fine again.

The first runners were already coming back. Matt was, by my count, 6th; what a fantastic day he was having! I was not going to risk a fall by running over roots and rocks in the dark, but I had forgotten how many long runnable sections there actually are in this second out-and-back. I was now peeing every 30 minutes, yet was thirsty, a sign of too much salt and fluid intake, and my hands were swelling; I was also very hungry and tired - my one profound thought of the night: This must be what it's like to be diabetic (I even had sores that wouldn't heal).

I put on my famous blue raincoat at Hwy 12 and found to my surprise and delight that I now had pockets to store food. Unfortunately, nothing looked good. The way to the Rice Lake turn-around is my least favorite part of this course: endless, sneakily tough in places and uphill in both directions (actually downhill coming back, but by then I'd been doing it for hours). At Rice Lake, I was only 40 minutes ahead of schedule. The bullfrogs were not happy; they sounded like a cross between a cow lowing and a vacuum cleaner. I asked at that station for food that wasn't salty, as I had too much in me already. Here's what they had: chicken soup, miso soup, peanut butter sandwiches, pickles, olives, pretzels and maybe some dried meat. Eventually, someone found me a banana.

I kept slowing. At Hwy 12, there was 15 miles to go and I could do the math and found I still needed to do 24 minute miles. Perhaps I couldn't do the math. I took off the blue jacket and the headlamp (it was now day) and stowed them; the jacket wouldn't fit in the drop bag because it was full - if I hadn't bought the extra shirt, I wouldn't have the extra shirt here taking up space - so I tied the arms around it in a knot.

I forced myself to speed up. Daylight meant I could run again, though a faster shuffle would have to suffice. By 90 miles, I had built a cushion and now needed 27 minute miles. I was still stopping to urinate all the time and the mosquitos were everywhere; in swatting one, I ended up peeing all over myself. "I'll kill anyone who takes a picture of me," I thought. Urine and blood make chafing even worse.

I have a tendency to hunch my back when tired, so I kept forcing myself to straighten and throw my shoulders back, which caused loud knuckle-cracking sounds. By the end, I was doing this every half mile or less. My back (longissimus thoracis) started to spasm. It was excruciating. It wasn't until here that my feet swelling in a new untried pair of shoes caused blisters, but when they came, they came with a vengeance. And then I heard thunder. It rained again before the end, but it wasn't bad and didn't make the blisters much worse.

At the Tamarack stop, there's only 5 miles to go and I knew I'd finish. There really had never been any doubt in my mind that I would, except maybe from 75-85 miles. Knowing I'd finish caused me to slow, like the runners you see who collapse just before the finish of marathons or triathlons. There are markers for 4,3,2 and 1 mile left. Even though this was the fourth time through these roller coaster hills, I could not remember when to expect any of them. I was passed by 4-6 runners in the last 3 miles, each who were looking for someone to run with them and each of whom I told, "I would if I could."

I crossed the line in 29:06:42. Believe it or not, a personal record.

2009 Superior Trail 50K Race Report

My bedroom is warm and dry and the air is filled with the sounds of songbirds and the scent of blooming lilacs, yet I chose to wake at 1:30 AM and drive north for hours, to run for more hours in mud during a snowstorm. It's these "bad" decisions that define our characters, that make us individuals, rather than one more person who slept. I was out the door and behind the wheel in 10 minutes, too soon to change my mind or my clothes.

I turned on the radio to be greeted with "Road Runner" by the Modern Lovers, my all-time favorite song for running, though it's about driving at night with the radio cranked. So, I cranked the radio. I pounded the first Red Bull of the drive and roared into the night. Three hours and three more Red Bulls later, I was careering through small towns on the North Shore, jittery and anxious to the point of paranoia of getting caught speeding. I arrived two hours early.

Oh, and I saw a wolf. The trip already had its reward.


I made the rounds of greeting friends, well-wishers, admirers of this blog and a few men who actually came to race, then it was time to begin. My plan was to start much more slowly than last year and hope the accumulation of 250 miles of races in the past six weeks wouldn't force me to walk before the last few climbs. The race has two four hundred foot climbs right at the start, Mystery and Moose Mountains, so pacing, even by heart rate, is entirely subjective. I found myself running with a couple (with interesting accents I couldn't place); she was running her first ultra and, though punishing her quads by braking too much on the downhills, would go on to take second place through attrition; one of the first women disappeared and must've quit and another got lost.

Keith Krone, in his VFFs (minimalist footwear with separated toes), passed me, leaving footprints that looked like a giant deformed raccoon was on the trail. He said he knew he'd gone out too fast since he was up with me - actually, I was back with him - and he skimmed over the roots and rocks as if it were second nature, reminiscent of some of the best in the sport.

Zach Pierce and I ran together for a while, he in shorts (too little clothing for the windy mountain tops) and me in plastic windpants (too much for the rest of the course). He joked, "So this is what it takes for me to catch you," mentioning the five ultras in six weeks. I couldn't help adding that I also drove up and was wearing a complete track suit. Then I reminded him that he'd beaten me at the Zumbro 100. "Well," he said, "We all just checked the box on that one." There may be a lot of reports of this race where people mention beating me and then mention that I wasn't at the top of my game. It reminds me that I still tell people that I beat Barney Klecker in a race, though it was the week after he set the world record for 50 miles and I beat Dick Beardsley in a race when he arrived too late to take off his sweatpants. It still counts.

There was still patchy snow at the base of LeVeaux Mountain, but no snowman this year. Although spring is in full stride in the Twin Cities, the trees hadn't leafed out here, so the wind roared over the bluffs. And then the first snowflakes fell; later there'd be horizontal snow pellets - nothing stuck - making the already soggy course a quagmire in the low spots. Early in the day, some of the numerous boardwalks were slippery; one comes to recognize different types of these: beside corduroy, there are old ones that shift on their supports, long ones that bend at the joins and thick hewn logs which roll. That makes three axes of rotation with which to contend.

Kevin Martin joined me for a while and i was surprised to find out he's not the expert at this that I expected; this was his first time on the Superior Hiking Trail. He seemed to catch his size 14 shoes on every rock and didn't even try to squeeze under the fallen trees, saying, "I'm not built for this sport." I have to mention that, had volunteers not spent hundreds of man-hours clearing ice storm-damaged trees, the course would've been impassible.

It was then that Chris Lundstrom passed us on his way back. Chris is simply the best runner I've ever met. Not only is he phenomenally talented, he has a deep understanding of the sport of running. He's the only person I can think of that I'd accept as a coach. He made 2nd place finisher Andy Holak, who was having a great day, look slow.

Between LeVeaux Mountain and Britton Peak are two peaks I always forget, as they are to me unnamed. This is the region that people are always saying is runnable and, I guess, by comparison to much of the trail, it is. I did note the variety of wildflowers, so my attention wasn't glued to the trail and that must be the difference.

I was being passed regularly between Britton and the turn-around on Carlton Peak. I tried to convince myself that I was saving something for that next climb. It's a long way to the top and the trail gets ever more steep, narrow and technical. The trail turns enough here that Lake Superior seems to be on the wrong side. Chuck Hubbard was stationed at the turn-around; his long-standing course record would last less than an hour as I got there in 3:05.

On the way down the peak, I saw Julie Berg, who I hadn't seen at the start. I'd told her a week ago that she'd beat me by an hour. When she passed me 5 hours into the race, she pointed out that she wouldn't beat me by an hour. It was to be about half an hour. I had to ask her about her blog; when I started ultras two years ago, everyone knew who she was and now everyone knows me and she'd prefer more anonymity. She has 87 followers to my 7. Not that I'm competing, mind you.

I had a nice chat with Carl gammon as he passed me; I can't wait to see what he says about that. Maria Barton and I stopped for Pepsi at the same time at the last aid station. She only wanted 1/3 of a cup. I asked for more, saying, "I'm bigger." That's what passed for humor at that point.

People kept telling me I looked good. I told one guy, "Thanks for lying," and he responded, "You might feel like crap, but you really do look good." At five hours - about when Julie and Carl passed me - my right Achilles tendon started to hurt like it was getting hit by a cattle prod. Forty minutes later, the left one joined it. At 6 1/2 hours, my left hamstring cramped. I also had a pain in the bottom of my right heel. You don't go through ordeals unscathed, you just learn what's tolerable and what's serious and this was kid's stuff.

Pierre Ostor passed me going up the last rise, Mystery Mountain. We talked about Kettle Moraine, as both of us are doing it in three weeks. I was worried about the 30 hour cut-off and he said it's the only race he's never finished. "Just don't go out too fast." Oh, like that could ever happen! [For the sarcasm-impaired, I was in the lead in the Zumbro 100, only to finish dead last.]

As I got onto the asphalt at the very end, I checked my watch. 6:57. If I kicked it, I could break 7 hours... but who would care? I looked back, and true to Satchel Page, someone was gaining on me, so I picked up the pace considerably. Finished in 7:01, one hour slower than in 2008.

I have climbed highest mountains
I have run through the fields
...
I have run. I have crawled.
...
Well, yes, I'm still running.
-U2, "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For"