Wednesday, August 16, 2023

2023 Eastern States 100

 Eastern States 100: race website | results

August 12, 2023, starting and ending at Little Pine State Park, near Waterville, PA

103 miles, 20,000+ feet of climbing, 58% finish rate


I don’t believe in jinxes, really, but I may have jinxed it.

“I’m feeling really good,” I told my family when I saw them at the mile 43 aid station. “And I’m having fun!” It was true. Yes, I was running slower than I’d hoped, but it didn’t feel very difficult. I had made it through the 20s and 30s, which are usually the hardest parts of a 100 mile for me. I was on track to finish around 30 hours.

But as soon as I left that aid station, the rain started. “Remember, thunder is God’s cowbell!” one of the volunteers shouted as I took off.

Still, I was in good spirits. This race was going better than my last couple, when one issue or another popped up: a messed up ankle for the second half of Gorge Waterfalls, then fatigue during Laurel Highlands that left me mostly walking for the second half. 

But at Eastern States, I was surprising myself. I seemed to be in pretty good shape. Of course I had trained hard, but living in flat Philadelphia I don’t have much opportunity to train on long, 45-degree climbs strewn with fern-slippery flagstone. But at Eastern States, you face over 20,000 vertical feet of such climbs. Sometimes it’s like they’ve never even heard of switchbacks—they just send you straight up the mountain. There are long stretches where “trail” is a strong word for whatever this random assortment of rocks is. I guess it’s not for nothing they call this region the Pennsylvania Wilds

And, perhaps needless to say, in my training I never run in wet shoes. But at Eastern States, there are innumerable stream crossings—once we even crossed the same exact stream five times in a row, back and forth, as if the trail was designed by some kind of insane turtle. Not to mention the waist-deep river crossing over slippery, uneven rock slabs. And this year we had a bonus three-hour thunderstorm to run through, with some monsoon-like downpours to boot. Even when you’re not moving through water, the ground underfoot is squishy as you careen through the valley trails on the way to your next climb. 

All that notwithstanding, I was still having fun in this race all through the night, running with my trekking poles, my waist light and my headlamp. I can’t explain it. Usually in a 100 I think more than once about dropping out, about how much this sucks—but in this race, I basically stayed content. 

Yes, I’d forgotten to bring food at the start so I had to go the first three hours without eating. And yes, the first ten miles or so were crowded, which made the technical trail that much more difficult to navigate. And yes, when night fell I was annoyed because it was still raining and I’d have to open my pack to the elements to fish out my lights. And yes, because I was so wet, my legs and groin were chafing too much for even Squirrel’s Nut Butter to keep up with. And yes, the way my feet were perpetually wet, trenchfoot setting in, made each step painful. But somehow I was able to set all that aside and keep moving forward. If not always literally smiling, I was at least happy enough.

All I really thought about was Boris Yeltsin. The name kept coming to mind like a Hindu mantra, but I had no idea who he was. (I have since looked him up.)

Pre-race photo by Kunal Patel of Kaptivate Photography

Deer-in-the-headlights look at (I think) the first aid station. Photo by Emily Shaffer.

Just after the second aid station. I realized I only take photos when I can fish out my phone easily, meaning I hardly ever take photos of the really difficult terrain—the stuff that would be most useful to see a photo of. Rest assured, only about 2 of the 103 miles of Eastern States are this cushy. 

Same bridge as above. Photo by Kevin Peragine.

Loved the Barbie-themed aid station. 

Photo by Emily Shaffer.

What gives? This was Eastern States, billed as the toughest 100-mile race on this side of the Mississippi. I should have expected it to be grueling, not fun. 

The gruel came unexpectedly, in the stretch from mile 73 to 80. I had been running happily through the night, counting the toads I saw hopping out of my way (dozens). Some of the adults stood still and watched me leap overhead. 

At some point I realized it had been a while since I’d seen a trail marker. For most of the race, they were every 50 feet or so. I went on another quarter-mile and still didn’t see one, and then I turned around. I had been running downhill, impressed with myself by my remaining speed this far into the race. And now it was all for nothing. 

Eventually I made it back to a trail marker, where I found three other runners who also didn’t know where the next marker was. Was this marker erroneous? Did the other markers blow away or get taken down? What were we missing? 

The aid station was not far away—we could hear the cheering sometimes—but there didn’t seem to be any paths heading in that direction. 

One of the other runners pulled up the course description and tried to make sense of it. It sounded like the race just didn’t mark the rest of this section because there was nowhere else to go. So we carried on, perhaps another half a mile, and ended up at a trailhead on a highway. No course markers in sight. 

We backtracked again and eventually wound up at the highway again. Frustration mounted, morale waned. 

A car drove by, fortunately part of the race, and they told us the next aid station was along the road. With no other option, we decided to run to the aid station via the road—it would be a few miles, according to a road sign that said how far the next cross streets were, which seemed so far to go out of the way at that point in the race.

Soon enough we came upon a dirt road that climbed up to the left. We inferred that the trail must cross this road at some point. A car came by, and the driver confirmed that, but said it crossed about a mile and a half up the hill. So we climbed. That driver came by again soon enough and said it was another four-tenths of a mile, and we kept climbing. At some point, the three runners I was with grew impatient, worried that the driver was mistaken or that it wasn’t the right trail. It seemed too far, and by that point we had wasted over an hour wandering. 

We stopped to strategize again, combing over any information we could get with our no-service cell phones. Half-heartedly we kept climbing. The sun was well up now—I’d calculated I should have been at the mile 80 aid station around sunrise, but now I wondered if I’d ever get there. 

At some point I got a bar of service, enough to call home and ask for help. Putting up with my desperation, my mom and husband confirmed that indeed the trail crossed this road. It must have just been a little way further. 

The other three runners gave up the search. I never saw them again after that, but I think their plan was to go back to the highway and head toward the aid station.

Another quarter-mile up the hill, I found the trail—and it was marked! All said, I had been lost for about two hours, and according to my phone the wandering added an extra seven miles to the already 103-mile race. 

Eventually I made it to the mile 80 aid station with about 15 minutes before the cutoff. Before getting lost, I was in no danger of getting timed out, but now the race was on. I would really have to fight for it. 

I hauled it as hard as I could to the next aid station, but somehow I was still only doing 20-minute miles on average. I know that may sound slow—but these climbs! 

I worried. It was taking everything I had to do those 20-minute miles, and if my body slowed down much, then I wouldn’t make the cutoffs. Sleep deprivation was setting in, and I was feeling dizzy and disoriented at times. Trying to stave it off, I ate and drank as much as I could, and I took a caffeine pill every hour. 

Fortunately the next section was easier. I pushed as hard as I could and made up a lot of time. I think I came in to the mile 93 aid station with about 40 minutes before the cutoff. I was safe. But suddenly the prospect of doing another 10 miles started to get to me. I was so, so tired. 

Another fortunate thing was that my family met me at that aid station. We hadn’t planned it, but I guess after my frantic 7 a.m. call they decided to come see me at the next opportunity. It was good to see them, and their energy must have rubbed off on me because the next 6.6-mile section went by very quickly. A third fortunate thing: this section wasn’t technical at all, and I could run much of it. 

Now all that was left was the final 3.8 miles to the finish. That was the longest four miles I’d ever run. It was almost all downhill, mostly very steep and technical. Apparently part of it went through rattlesnake dens, and I was glad not to see or hear any. (Granted, I was hallucinating by then, so if I did see any I probably wouldn’t have known it.) This section wasn’t just running, but a lot of hoisting yourself down these large rock formations. It would have been fun on fresh legs, but by this point my legs were frozen. I hobbled down the steep, rocky descents. I had put my trekking poles away, but in retrospect I should have taken them out for this stretch. I was just thinking that the finish line had to be right around every bend, but it never was.

Eventually, the trail flattened out and opened onto the roadway of Little Pine State Park and sent me off toward the finish line. I came in about 25 minutes before the final race cutoff, making 35 hours and 35 minutes of running. (That is the longest I've ever run; previously, that record went to my first 100-mile finish, in 31 hours and 40 minutes, at the 2015 Mohican.)

I had finished Eastern States 100, the toughest race this side of the Mississippi, and it really was tough.

Coming in for the finish! Photo by Kevin Peragine.

Finished, finally. Photo by my mom.


Gear:

  • For miles 0–42, I wore my Naked waistband and used a handheld water bottle with an extra Hydrapak bottle stored in my waistband, for a total of about 1.5 L of water. That was plenty for me. I don't mind using a handheld for water, but it means no trekking poles.
  • For miles 43–end, I used an Ultimate Direction vest pack with a 2 L water reservoir plus a 550 mL bottle. Fortunately with my new water reservoir fitted inside, I didn't have any chafing with the pack. For this race, I think the vest may not have been needed—I didn't need to carry that much stuff. That said, it was nice to switch out of the waistband just for a change. Maybe I could use a lighter-weight (less capacity) vest.
  • For future runs on this course, I think I'd ditch the shoes for sandals at mile 62, since after that it's much less technical/rocky. My feet would also be happier without the trenchfoot!

Lessons Learned

  • Bring a change of shorts and shoes: I usually change shirts and socks during a 100-mile, but never shorts. At this race, that was a mistake. I should have had a dry pair of shoes as well to change into, and more socks. It would have taken more time at aid stations, but I probably would have made it up by running faster—and I wouldn’t still be recovering from trenchfoot as I write this. (Fortunately a mild case—I’ll be fine in a couple days.)
  • Trekking poles: This was the first race I used them in, from mile 42 to 93. They were helpful for the steep, technical stretches. But outside of those, I think they may have done more harm than good. I think they help for stability, but they seem to hinder speed. I need to learn more about them. I did have some chafing on my hands from them, though—which I guess is why some people were wearing gloves! 

Thursday, June 15, 2023

2023 Laurel Highlands Ultra – 70.5 Miles

Laurel Highlands Ultra: race website | results

June 10, 2023, starting at 5:30 a.m. in Ohiopyle, PA

It was 2:35 a.m. and I unballed my only pair of socks to find that they were both lefts. And I forgot the cream I use to prevent blisters. The day was not off to a good start. 

I turned one of the socks inside out and wiggled all my toes into their homes for the next 24 hours. I finished getting dressed, ate a cookie and a handful of trail mix, and then shuffled out to my car. It was a 20-minute drive to the finish line, where I'd catch a nearly two-hour shuttle to the starting line.

These logistics shook up my usual pre-race routine. For peace of mind and predictability, I try to always do it the same. But hey, it was only going to be 70 miles. I was thinking that without any sarcasm at all. It's funny how once you've run a distance everything shorter than that can seem, well, short. 

The race started at 5:30 a.m., just as it was getting light. It wasn't quite light enough to go without a headlamp once we were in the woods, so I was glad I'd brought mine. 

Since I wasn't using any drop bags, it meant I'd have to carry it around all day, but that was fine. I was trying out a new pack with 17 liters of storage capacity, so there was plenty of space for it. 

As things got going, I started to realize my shoes and pack were heavy. I usually run with sandals, but I was wearing trail running shoes today—10 ounces on each foot may not sound like much, but it makes a difference, especially as the miles pile on. And as for the pack, since the aid stations would be sometimes over 10 miles apart, I had to carry plenty of water, meaning a few extra pounds of weight. 

But besides that, things were perfect. The weather was ideal: partly sunny (and the entire trail was shaded), starting in the high 40s and climbing into the 70s later in the day. No mud. 

Horses! Somewhere along the way

It was so idyllic I forgot the race had almost been canceled because of the air quality. For the prior week, wildfires in Canada had been sending smoke down along the eastern seaboard. That and choosing your steps between all the roots and rocks made it hard to think of anything else. 

The race felt crowded till the first aid station at mile 11. It was especially annoying since those miles included some long climbs on singletrack, and I tend to be a fast climber, relatively speaking. This meant I had to struggle to pass people on the climbs, and they had to struggle to pass me back on the descents. I tried my best to ride the escalator and not stress about it.

After about 20 miles my pack started chafing at my lower back. In training, it chafed at the top, and I'd found a solution to that (letting my water reservoir sag rather than pinning it up). Sometimes solving one problem creates another. My solution now was to use my shirt as a double barrier between the pack and my back. By midday it was hot enough out anyway, and the shade meant I didn't have to worry about sunburn. 

My legs were pretty tired after mile 30 or so. The longest climbs may have been behind me, but the trail would continue with ups and downs through to the finish. I walked a lot, pushing myself to run as much as I could, and always just focused on getting to the next aid station. I was happy to have music for a distraction.

Struggling around mile 40.
Photo by Ron Heerkens of Goat Factory Media.

Along the way I passed numerous hikers, including some who looked like thru-hikers. It was funny to think that I was covering in one day what they might do over five or six days. It's probably more lovely if you take your time. Among the thru-hikers were families (which warmed my heart) and a few crews of young guys in college or maybe fresh out of high school (which made me nostalgic).

The mile markers ticked by. I tripped many times but only fell once (yay). And I slowed and slowed but after mile 60 was able to pick things up a bit again. Of course, it was dark then, which brings its own challenges. 


Most trail ultras seem to finish in the open at a park or campground or school, so the final mile or two are often on roads or grass. But in this race, you hit the 70 mile marker and then plop into the finishing chute—where finally the roots and rocks don't follow you. 

It wasn't such a bad day after all. 

Things I learned: 

  • I need to do more race-specific training, specifically on descents and on technical trail. I'm great on the climbs, I think from weightlifting, but I'm slow on the other parts. I do the vast majority of my running on city sidewalks, which doesn't do me any favors in training for races like this. 
  • I need to train more in shoes to get my feet used to the weight. Maybe I'll get some ankle weights to wear sometimes. 
  • I need to put to practice my cooling strategies, even on races like this where it doesn't seem too hot objectively, but it's still a lot of miles and warmer weather than most of my training has been in. Ice early and often. 
  • I need to figure out how to make this pack not chafe... 
  • Wearing toe socks, I didn't actually need to use Trail Toes. I only ended up with one blister, on the outside of my big toe, and I didn't know it was there till I took my shoes off.

If you get the chance to run Laurel Highlands, some suggestions: 

  • Go with someone who can drive you to the start. That makes the logistics so much easier. And the start is right in town, so they can get a coffee and breakfast and hang out a while before chasing you down. 
  • Plan for no cell reception. There were one or two patches of reception on the course, but don't plan on being able to call or text. 
  • Beware of poison ivy. It lined pretty much the entire course. 
  • For running after dark, I recommend a waist light (I use this one from UltrAspire) for this race rather than a headlamp. The light being lower means the shadows of roots and rocks stick out more, making them easier to see. 

Sunday, October 16, 2022

First Sub-24 Trail 100 at Indiana

 A different me might have been anxious coming to a 100-mile run after a DNF. But I was only excited and confident. After all, running a race with only 6,000 feet of gain in mild fall weather ought to be much easier than climbing 20,000 feet in the mountains on a hot day.

My A goal was to finish in 22 hours, setting a 100-mile PR (I ran a 100 on pavement in 22:22 back in 2016); my B goal was to finish in 24 hours, being my first sub-24 trail 100; and my C goal was just to finish. If everything went to hell, I'd just crawl across the finish line. After all, the whole reason I was here was to get a Western States qualifier. It hadn't been the best of years: DNS at Laurel Highlands due to an injury, DNF at Pine to Palm... But I'd finish this one. I was confident and ready.

In ultrarunning, a little confidence goes a long way, and so my morning at Indiana Trail 100 started out well. I was enduringly grateful that it continued that way. All along, my only real let-down was falling off my 22-hour pace at mile 60 or so, slowing down a bit. But I was determined to dig deep and run my best and try to hit my next target: a sub-24 finish. 

The story is a little bit boring. Everything went well, really, as far as ultras go. I jogged happily for hours down the woodland path with a pouch full of candy like a fairytale child. My legs started feeling heavy around mile 30. For a little while I was worried that four weeks' recovery wasn't enough since my last race. Soon I had a slight twinge in my left IT band. By mile 50, my legs were tired, but I could still run if I focused. I slowed a bit but kept going. By mile 75, my right Achilles tendon started hurting, but not enough to stop me. In the end, miles 75–100 were faster than miles 50–75. I passed a handful of people in the final 20 miles. I ran with goblin form but also determination. 

I crossed the finish line at 23:56, a few minutes ahead of the 24-hour mark. I was stunned. "Are you okay?" the race director asked me. "Yeah," I said. "I just never did that before." I almost teared up. 

I was proud of myself for pushing so consistently, and not to mention for getting everything else right that day: moving through aid stations quickly, navigating my drop bag like a Nascar pit crew, remembering to tell my mom I was happy to see her when I did. I had just the right amount of clothing, and I even had spare batteries for my lights. 

The race was fantastic, and fantastically managed. I'd recommend it, particularly as a first 100 for anyone. The 25-mile loops were beautiful and the trail was smooth sailing—beautifully maintained. The aid stations were well-placed (about every 4 miles) and well-stocked, and the volunteers were so helpful. My only source of stress, if you can call it that, was trying to find a patch of cell signal to send my sister a Snap so we wouldn't lose our streak. And once I managed that, the rest of the day was a breeze. 

I finished 37th of 130 finishers. I'm writing this a week after finishing, and I feel good. My right Achilles is still a little swollen, but I was able to go for an easy recovery run yesterday and today. Already dreaming of the next one.

Things that worked for me: 

  • Trail Toes cream – no blisters! I applied it once at the start and then when I changed socks at mile 50.
  • Xoskin socks – toe socks!
  • Naked belt – This was my first race with this belt, and I loved it. Tons of space to hold gummy bears and M&Ms.

Getting ready to start! It was in the 30s and dark, and I didn't want to get too cold before the start


Starting line


Coming in at mile 50

Typical view on the trail



One of the many lakes at Chain o Lakes

Kept my candy supply close to hand

Especially in the evening there were lots of furry caterpillars to avoid

Late afternoon

The trail at night

View of the finish line from mile 99.5. Just a few minutes left... 


Thursday, September 15, 2022

DNF at the 2022 Pine to Palm 100

Twenty miles in and I'm already exhausted. It's not supposed to be like this, but I guess a 10-mile-long climb to start the race will do that. What kind of stupid hobby is this? I think back to the first 100 Mile I finished back in 2015—then I was exhausted by mile 25 and went on to finish (granted, it took almost 32 hours), and so maybe I can do it again. 

It wasn't to be. Though I did the first 28 miles at a comfortable pace just under 14 minutes a mile, I gradually slowed. The cutoffs caught up to me: I cleared the mile 41 aid station two hours ahead of the cutoff; I left the mile 52 aid station an hour ahead of the cutoff; and then I came into the mile 66 aid station five minutes after the cutoff. 

The race was a grueling, if beautiful, 20 hours in the mountains. I have to say, with a little shame, that I didn't enjoy much of any of it. There were a couple moments of brilliance: the way, at sunrise, the light threw orange patches across the pine forest floor; the relief of seeing a food tent after an interminable climb; the full red moon. But mostly it was misery. The highest temperatures ever recorded in the area, a bit of smoke lingering in the air from a nearby forest fire, long exposed stretches in the sun, the dry air and altitude I'm not used to (coming from humid, sea-level Philadelphia), and of course the climbing—the race had 20,000 feet of vertical, nearly all in the first 66 miles. (So I'm glad to say that, even if I didn't finish all 100 miles, I did get all the climbing under my belt!)

I thought about dropping out all along the way, particularly during those long climbs. Funny how once I hit level ground I started to think I'd be okay. But in the end the decision got made for me. Or did it? Now, days later, I find myself wondering if I could have just pushed a little harder, gone just a little faster, made that cutoff, and then gone on to finish. The distance of time makes you forget. 

Some regrets: My brother Charlie was planning to pace me, and I was meeting him at mile 66. Because I was by then hours behind schedule, he jogged down the mountain to find me around mile 62, and we walked up together. So he did get some nighttime mountain "running" in, but I still feel bad that things didn't go as planned. And then there's the fact that I probably won't get a Western States qualifier in this year. I DNS'd Laurel Highlands back in June because of an injury, and now I DNF'd Pine to Palm. The only remaining qualifiers I could conceivably do have a long waitlist (but of course I still added myself to two of them). 

Somewhere along those 66 miles I told myself I'd never run again. It's no fun, anyway. That must have been during one of the climbs. Of course I'm going to run another 100 as soon as I can. 

I recall the words of the grizzly, seasoned ultrarunner, an older guy, who drove me and my brother down the mountain after my DNF. "Yeah, you never know how it's gonna go," he said. "Every day is a new adventure."

Midmorning in the mountains

Poison oak along most of the trails. I did my best to avoid it, but as I learned a few days after the race, I failed at that.

One of the exposed climbs

At the mile 50 aid station, instead of just letting me die like a normal person, they made me run a mile up the mountain, retrieve one of these flags, and then run back down to the aid station.

Morning light catching on the trees


Friday, August 20, 2021

Lean Horse 100

 A couple years ago, a friend told me about an out-and-back 100-mile race in South Dakota, a slow incline on the way out and then a slow decline on the way back. Sounds good, I always thought. But the race wasn't a Western States qualifier, and I never managed to make it a priority. 

I ran my 2020 WSER qualifier (Bandera 100k) just before the pandemic, and because of how things unfolded, that same race will be my qualifier for 2021's lottery. With that, I looked to non-qualifier races to run this year—and in states I hadn't run in before. I attempted a 100-mile in North Carolina in March but DNFed, and I was looking for a race to run in summer. Finally, it was time for Lean Horse.


At packet pickup the day before the race

Training for this one went well. Back in May I started getting an Achilles injury, so I dialed down the mileage for about a week and then wore shoes for some runs rather than my usual sandals. After that, I was able to build up to 70+ miles a week and maintain that without trouble, taking down weeks every so often. 

Planning was another sort of endurance quest. Sometimes I make a short weekend trip out of a race, but this one turned into a weeklong family vacation. There was a lot of confusion around who was coming, how much things cost, etc., but we got through that. In the end, thirteen of us moved into a big, remote cabin on a bison ranch in the Black Hills just in time to see the Perseid meteor shower after dinner on the first night, and we had a few days for sightseeing before the race.

Me and family before the start

Awaiting the start of the race

The Lean Horse course wasn't exactly as my friend advertised it. It was an out-and-back, and it wasn't technical, but the climbs were up and down in both directions. Even though the climbs are all at about a 2-percent grade, it starts to gnaw at you after 10 miles of ascent, especially when you've already run 50+ miles. 

The field shortly after the start

Typical view: lots of pine trees

One thing I really appreciated about the race was its noon start. I'm a creature of habit, and being able to wake up naturally in the morning and enjoy my normal routine helped keep me calm. The downside of the noon start: The first segment of the race was out in the heat of the day. It was sunny and in the high 80s, and I was feeling it. Not to mention the elevation (only one mile above sea level, but I live and train at sea level) and the dry air (I'm used to humidity). But I made do with my sun runner cap, ice in my neckerchief and lots of water. 

It's usual for me that miles 20–30 are the hardest. It feels like I've run a long way, and there's still unimaginably long to go... and it gets to me. On this race, this was compounded by the heat, and the blues came as early as mile 15. But I saw my family unexpectedly around mile 20, and that was a big cheer-up. After that, I played race-the-sun to hit the mile 38 aid station before nightfall (where I had my nice new waistlight). 

As the race progressed, I made pretty good time. My stretch goal of a 20-hour finish became quickly unrealistic, but through mile 60 or so I was on track for a 22-hour finish. I saw my family once again near nightfall, and I was leapfrogging with a fellow runner throughout practically the whole race. I had coffee a few times and put peppermint oil near my nose to help wake me up... but by 3 o'clock in the morning I was pretty drowsy. Shortly after that, the extended inclines started getting to me, and by mile 70 I could run very little. I tried to hang on for dear life, but I had to walk more and more as the temperature climbed. I felt disoriented and desperate for sleep. 

The trail just after sundown

View in the night

My family visited me again at mile 90, by which time I was reduced to a slow but steady walk. My mom volunteered to walk it in with me—and though I was crabby at the time, I appreciated it. A couple hours later, I made it across the finish line, just past hour 25. 

Dawn

Me just after finishing

I was disappointed with myself for losing track of my pace toward the end and having to walk so much, so it was difficult to be happy with the fact that I finished and didn't DNF. And this in perhaps Lean Horse's most difficult year: Historically, Lean Horse has few DNFs compared to most races; this year, though, nearly half the field dropped (37 of 90 registered runners either DNF or DNS).

In all, it was a full experience: highs, lows, beauty, pain, friendship, love... everything you'd want from a 100-mile race. I'm proud to have this base to continue my training, and I look forward to the next race. 

Wednesday, July 24, 2019

Vermont 100 Finish

This weekend was my second attempt at Vermont 100, and I'm happy to say I finished.

Solo finisher's cup, local apple cider jelly (from Mom), and buckle, atop the finisher's shorts
Vermont is not a technical race by any stretch (I'm not sure if it even properly counts as a trail race, as most of it is on dirt roads), but it's a punishing course. 17,000 feet of ascent (and descent) is nothing to snivel at, and Vermont is humid. And this year, we had the added benefit of the race occurring on the hottest day of the year. The temperatures were in the upper 90s, with a heat index over 100. And there wasn't much reprieve at night, though the temperature ostensibly dropped 20 degrees.

At the pre-race meeting, race director Amy Rusiecki shared some advice: Don’t be a hero. Be a finisher. It's something I've heard before—we all have—but I found it especially inspirational on this day, in the heat. My dreams of finishing under 24 hours went out the window by midday, and it would have been easy to get discouraged. Or, on the flipside, to try to catch up and burn myself out. Both would have led to another DNF, and I didn't want that.



That said, besides slowing down, I didn't face too many difficulties in this race. It definitely went better than my last attempt at VT. I didn't think about dropping out at all, which is unusual for me. The biggest problem was being wet for 27+ hours, which caused chafing in every unspeakable place, even in my usually-silver-bullet Saxx shorts. Besides this, it stopped me from taking many photos, since my phone and hands were always wet.

For my training this time around, I did the 12-hour at Dawn 2 Dusk 2 Dawn again back in May, where I covered 58 miles on the track. After recovering from that, I did 20 miles and 10 miles almost every Saturday and Sunday. I made sure to work in some hill training (difficult here in Philadelphia), which I did in West Fairmount Park (repeats up and down a 1/2-mile hill) and on the treadmill (hiking for 30 minutes at a time with the incline at the max of 15 degrees). And of course strength training (power lifts) 2–3 times a week, as usual.



Big thanks to my mom, my sister, and her boyfriend Erik for coming to see me a couple times along the route. That was unexpected! It's always heartening to see friendly faces... even if I don't always act like I appreciate it in the moment.

Before the race we visited the King Arthur Flour factory and shop... and afterwards we visited the Ben & Jerry's factory. A great weekend!

Me and a snail at Ben & Jerry's

At King Arthur Flour, pre-race


Gear:

  • Shamma Mountain Goat sandals
  • Reguard compression tabi socks (I put these on around mile 70, as the dust was causing the straps of the sandals to be abrasive.)
  • Orange Mud endurance pack (Overall I like this pack, though the straps are a bit uncomfortable at times, and it feels heavy and wet on my back after a while.)
  • Orange Mud handheld (I switched to this at mile 88, since I needed less water at that point, and it was such a relief to have the pack off my back!)

Heat strategies:

  • My biggest thing in this race was wrapping a handful of ice in a bandana, and keeping this around my neck. VT has pretty frequent aid stations, so I was able to replenish this every 4 miles or so. It took extra time, but it was necessary. (Though one aid station, Stage Road, was out of ice when I got there!)
  • I wore a desert ("sun runner") cap with curtains on the back and side to create some shade. While this was a bit uncomfortable at times with the humidity—it felt pretty stuffy—it definitely kept me cooler under the sun. It had the added benefit of keeping away the deer flies, which were bothering everyone else. 

New things:

  • When I was tired, I took some peppermint essential oils—the Doterra beadlets are great. They woke me up immediately. I was surprised! Better than coffee. New secret weapon.



Friday, November 2, 2018

Javelina Jundred 2018

I tried my hand at the Javelina Jundred 100 Mile back in 2016, but I DNFd after two loops (about 40 miles) because of the heat. I remember walking the 10 miles from Jackass Junction back to the start/finish area, very slowly, with my heart beating like it would for a tempo run. I was exhausted.

Bourbon at an aid station. I was not so brave, but I love the idea!

After trying a few other hot-hot ultras, I decided that running in the heat wasn't for me. I didn't plan on coming back to Javelina. But this year I needed to do a Western States qualifier ("needed"), and I DNFd at Quebec's Ultra-Trail du Harricana because I was going too slow for the cutoffs. Comparing the remaining qualifying races of 2018 with my personal schedule, it turned out that returning to Javelina was my only hope.

Packet pickup on Friday

I was more or less well trained, but I was also extremely stressed out from my new teaching job and fall travel schedule, and I went for it. I arrived in Phoenix on Friday, checked in to the race, and then ate as much as I could and walked as little as possible while hanging out with my friend Jake, and then hoped for the best on Saturday morning. I planned to go out with Wave Two (expecting slower than 24 hours), but at the last second I joined in with the back of the pack of Wave One.

Watching Wave One start. I was going to just watch, but at the last second I joined in.

In the race, I started feeling fatigued earlier than usual, around mile 10. Whenever this happens, I think back to my first 100 mile finish, where I was dead-tired by mile 25 yet still managed to finish. If I could do it then, I could do it again, I thought. I was determined to finish.

I've grown as a runner since 2016, particularly when it comes to heat. This time I came in with a good heat management strategy. I wore arm sleeves, a bandana around my neck, and a microfiber towel over my head, all of which I stuffed with ice at every aid station. I drank as much water as I could, which was aided by the wonderful pack I got this year from Orange Mud (holds 2 liters!). As a result of all this, I never actually felt hot, and I never ran out of water. It was great. The only downside was how heavy all this was—but I couldn't do without it.

My desert running getup

Exceeding my expectations, I was on track to finish in under 24 hours for most of the race. I hit 50 miles in around 11 hours, and I felt as good as I did at mile 10—and things seemed like they'd stay well enough at that pace.

Then around mile 75, something bad happened. I managed to get a sizable blister on the ball of my foot, edging toward my toes. It popped of course, as it bore my whole body weight with every step, but that only made it hurt more. I changed socks, but I think that actually made the pain worse. I'm not sure what caused this, but it may have been the combination of compression socks and sandals that I was wearing. I'm starting to wonder if sandals may not be the best idea for a 100-mile run—at least the whole thing. I'm pretty heavy as far as far as runners go (usually around 190 pounds, plus my gear), and having that weight pounding down, especially when it's rocky, with no padding can add up after a while.

In any case, after mile 80 every step was excruciating. It reminded me of the end of the Pistol Ultra a few years back, where my feet were extremely swollen and I felt like I had a stress fracture in my metatarsals. Each step was the kind of pain that makes you feel like you might pass out. It made me scowl and tear up a bit. I tried to enter into the pain, and it wasn't really all that bad after all. I could deal with it. Again, I was determined to finish.

Alas, with the blister issue and my increasingly tightening muscles, I could run very little of the last loop—maybe only one mile of it in total. As a consequence my time slipped, and I ended up finishing in 25 hours, 38 minutes. Still not so bad!

Such amazing views, which smartphone cameras can't really capture

All in all, I loved this race. The desert was surprisingly beautiful. My friend Sonya said it was because they'd been having a lot of rain recently (and unseasonably), which made everything green again. There were even some flowers. The sunrises and sunset were gorgeous—the deepest marbling of unexpected colors. I heard songs from crickets, birds and coyotes at various points throughout the race, and I loved watching the constellations trek across the sky (in Philadelphia you can see about three stars on a clear night). I also loved Jackie O, who was dancing at the turnaround point all day and all night, giving ice-water sponge hugs and encouragement throughout the race. Yay!

Jackie O at the turnaround. Photo by Aravaipa Running.