tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-60294548713080505072024-02-10T13:48:32.607-08:00Nike Told Me ToTim Gorichanazhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16304578712474887920noreply@blogger.comBlogger107125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029454871308050507.post-29667993878459687862023-08-16T05:31:00.012-07:002023-08-20T10:24:03.485-07:002023 Eastern States 100<p style="text-align: center;"> Eastern States 100: <a href="https://easternstates100.com" target="_blank">race website</a> | <a href="https://falconracetiming.com/racetimes/Eastern%20States%20100%20Overall%202023.htm" target="_blank">results</a></p><p style="text-align: center;">August 12, 2023, starting and ending at Little Pine State Park, near Waterville, PA</p><p style="text-align: center;">103 miles, 20,000+ feet of climbing, 58% finish rate</p><hr /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjenMMEfmipbpU6fdgGvCj6TN_TsP7lJilNwUTfP8o0b_XFEVhUZUkmtklw8Mi4gemcpx7cjz8B-6caKv_5ow7TRxfiw7cox_apVTllBFn1oAXjzt_-PCGd1U_5A0VpCc4coeV-dKVE25hLDTp8JahIukA5I2x1Mcl4MsS_tZJESltHtZm1Cp8BhX0rRnz3/s4032/IMG_6446.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjenMMEfmipbpU6fdgGvCj6TN_TsP7lJilNwUTfP8o0b_XFEVhUZUkmtklw8Mi4gemcpx7cjz8B-6caKv_5ow7TRxfiw7cox_apVTllBFn1oAXjzt_-PCGd1U_5A0VpCc4coeV-dKVE25hLDTp8JahIukA5I2x1Mcl4MsS_tZJESltHtZm1Cp8BhX0rRnz3/s320/IMG_6446.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<p>I don’t believe in jinxes, really, but I may have jinxed it.</p>
<p>“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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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 <a href="https://niketoldmeto.blogspot.com/2023/06/2023-laurel-highlands-ultra-705-miles.html">fatigue during Laurel Highlands</a> that left me mostly walking for the second half. </p><p>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 <a href="https://pawilds.com" target="_blank">the Pennsylvania Wilds</a>. </p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p>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.</p><p>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.)</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixFOuARgD8J7VLthFZi2wTgK2KgX9wjXaz1uSfyaUQybDRDysdqH2P8i2F03w7XIYqg6DK993gAWiOvaCCUIp3nNE1jmss3AyfYW3M-BGBohat4R4GKrOwAPR6chSGGoGs4E3jZcl0NQrqoMs1__7fg01QV1PaJNfJQdmY9XDkVR9IB6sj7QfYeXgWb-iS/s900/Pre-Race.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixFOuARgD8J7VLthFZi2wTgK2KgX9wjXaz1uSfyaUQybDRDysdqH2P8i2F03w7XIYqg6DK993gAWiOvaCCUIp3nNE1jmss3AyfYW3M-BGBohat4R4GKrOwAPR6chSGGoGs4E3jZcl0NQrqoMs1__7fg01QV1PaJNfJQdmY9XDkVR9IB6sj7QfYeXgWb-iS/s320/Pre-Race.jpeg" width="213" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pre-race photo by <a href="http://www.kaptivatephotography.com" target="_blank">Kunal Patel of Kaptivate Photography</a></td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3PlQKw-rRCqg96Lt4rb9CmDLSLHAjow_q5rp6mXqjybRLLBW_0YxDFisppJLS0VKHb3PjW8RRK6Nbe0luqdM6KlnXCVn22R-iifw8GYnGO4YOVi9hboyFkh8yyCSDZ-cJoSNNjyh3s4KmLUegYJz51QOEwcafyJ-kOKtkndJ2tuuML5dkJb0_BZpQGi5W/s1200/297A4563.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1200" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3PlQKw-rRCqg96Lt4rb9CmDLSLHAjow_q5rp6mXqjybRLLBW_0YxDFisppJLS0VKHb3PjW8RRK6Nbe0luqdM6KlnXCVn22R-iifw8GYnGO4YOVi9hboyFkh8yyCSDZ-cJoSNNjyh3s4KmLUegYJz51QOEwcafyJ-kOKtkndJ2tuuML5dkJb0_BZpQGi5W/s320/297A4563.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Deer-in-the-headlights look at (I think) the first aid station. Photo by Emily Shaffer.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkFnqfvdLgFlsCtuUs_h2GACzJxUBTqL6QIRJycS7cSBsc9bFleJhsnstD1p-S3PCBPWUuJGj1oRlz0MMx9X53KS69Sy9Q3RPDoI6hk09ZwJJtmhC9D_k3_vvPWzIZPXEAcaYtboZePcDk7UPTdJetLsseHaGU6rxolAOxrrOL1Wm1s2ZoAkhFsZP-hOt4/s4032/IMG_6440.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkFnqfvdLgFlsCtuUs_h2GACzJxUBTqL6QIRJycS7cSBsc9bFleJhsnstD1p-S3PCBPWUuJGj1oRlz0MMx9X53KS69Sy9Q3RPDoI6hk09ZwJJtmhC9D_k3_vvPWzIZPXEAcaYtboZePcDk7UPTdJetLsseHaGU6rxolAOxrrOL1Wm1s2ZoAkhFsZP-hOt4/s320/IMG_6440.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">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. </td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih5Mnbc73NfkncZABs8F_IbrYKzO3d3XSDv_iQ5bOKffk0AwzFveAHvHLdBP1AIjn-EqZUYmEBa9lPcuwCerCjXaqyg3pIC9EugrDa6IvjyBJJW3F8_gVMr8McuJz7_SivpJGwdK845Yz6NartEMajt4cB7UN1Yu9coNnMQwAmBYa3Z5DNA9WuQIAwuOLW/s2048/368705649_24446310148301699_7176374120714708265_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih5Mnbc73NfkncZABs8F_IbrYKzO3d3XSDv_iQ5bOKffk0AwzFveAHvHLdBP1AIjn-EqZUYmEBa9lPcuwCerCjXaqyg3pIC9EugrDa6IvjyBJJW3F8_gVMr8McuJz7_SivpJGwdK845Yz6NartEMajt4cB7UN1Yu9coNnMQwAmBYa3Z5DNA9WuQIAwuOLW/s320/368705649_24446310148301699_7176374120714708265_n.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Same bridge as above. Photo by <a href="https://www.kevinperaginephotography.com" target="_blank">Kevin Peragine</a>.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn4qe_3qpW3x_myjFxYLDwBnWbCcVTdTHAtBxNPjnno2at3AAp4pxdFf3SBTDq6kH7xVODUaWEUVCLVijW0nu79lDjZ4TNA2RaZgWIGt128IF4o7FkoFRGMkg-ZSWNl5zTAeQhAiKtKRsuwKSLFR9raCVIUYrXQ6bKMqc4P6Ud_O0UGmZQxdMLsYgwcCNV/s4032/IMG_6448.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn4qe_3qpW3x_myjFxYLDwBnWbCcVTdTHAtBxNPjnno2at3AAp4pxdFf3SBTDq6kH7xVODUaWEUVCLVijW0nu79lDjZ4TNA2RaZgWIGt128IF4o7FkoFRGMkg-ZSWNl5zTAeQhAiKtKRsuwKSLFR9raCVIUYrXQ6bKMqc4P6Ud_O0UGmZQxdMLsYgwcCNV/s320/IMG_6448.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Loved the <i>Barbie</i>-themed aid station. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkxwslyzg2Vgh5HgCcZxs-FoSsuJ-YiPPM7uudB9XgoNdbIa-1db2Y2nLew6TOxFRiIjJFRErX5t1LKfJEiy3JjpL7JYrfzwMFRa0XdOh9h5W0cKwaepdzvSX4gCw0rnKkk95y-h4GNOjPLPbfrPeRYn54rAT4Z7CrtcmZo80TsdMjyAJXjxF4XwhdRj4u/s1200/297A5285.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1200" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkxwslyzg2Vgh5HgCcZxs-FoSsuJ-YiPPM7uudB9XgoNdbIa-1db2Y2nLew6TOxFRiIjJFRErX5t1LKfJEiy3JjpL7JYrfzwMFRa0XdOh9h5W0cKwaepdzvSX4gCw0rnKkk95y-h4GNOjPLPbfrPeRYn54rAT4Z7CrtcmZo80TsdMjyAJXjxF4XwhdRj4u/s320/297A5285.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Emily Shaffer.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p>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? </p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p>We backtracked again and eventually wound up at the highway again. Frustration mounted, morale waned. </p><p>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.</p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p>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.</p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p>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! </p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p>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.</p><p>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 <a href="https://niketoldmeto.blogspot.com/2015/06/my-first-100-mile.html">my first 100-mile finish, in 31 hours and 40 minutes, at the 2015 Mohican</a>.)</p><p>I had finished Eastern States 100, the toughest race this side of the Mississippi, and it really was tough.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU4-1xX3PR2fFOM-V5XfInAhwp5TLKUwqUwmO3m55yxvJW0jUIoQdVePi4dO7dQHQuC-Y5G30L8O8xwa27evmMdrOjR-cnSNGnQK55hx7ZQ3okwTTXU9jKVIX_V3Ra2z_WiCKj86KcAztWvcTShgstwJwQ4hduPkWbtRc-e1RqF-HXVoJpA8HsIaxCwxrX/s2048/367734240_24446365271629520_1080581624716900764_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1292" data-original-width="2048" height="202" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU4-1xX3PR2fFOM-V5XfInAhwp5TLKUwqUwmO3m55yxvJW0jUIoQdVePi4dO7dQHQuC-Y5G30L8O8xwa27evmMdrOjR-cnSNGnQK55hx7ZQ3okwTTXU9jKVIX_V3Ra2z_WiCKj86KcAztWvcTShgstwJwQ4hduPkWbtRc-e1RqF-HXVoJpA8HsIaxCwxrX/s320/367734240_24446365271629520_1080581624716900764_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Coming in for the finish! Photo by <a href="https://www.kevinperaginephotography.com" target="_blank">Kevin Peragine</a>.<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHtcY7hEAklpMEonFSbWFaM77raZ-UQyeRQZLcq4Kn7KEIq3okbSaL34SugzkQeKhVSoFMEJPD_S4FQXaHn_pL_8FPqICqgB1N4Q0W5p_K30QV8N9WzxCYDEFeSic2HG-HJSMGqu6X4zrZ9H2LJPceFJEScgBnAXMGnR-_bNzl9PMqRUHHnrxGO7DX-euN/s1024/IMG_3395.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHtcY7hEAklpMEonFSbWFaM77raZ-UQyeRQZLcq4Kn7KEIq3okbSaL34SugzkQeKhVSoFMEJPD_S4FQXaHn_pL_8FPqICqgB1N4Q0W5p_K30QV8N9WzxCYDEFeSic2HG-HJSMGqu6X4zrZ9H2LJPceFJEScgBnAXMGnR-_bNzl9PMqRUHHnrxGO7DX-euN/s320/IMG_3395.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Finished, finally. Photo by my mom.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><hr /><p><b>Gear:</b></p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><b>For miles 0–42</b>, 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.</li><li><b>For miles 43–end</b>, 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.</li><li>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!</li></ul><p></p><p><b>Lessons Learned</b>: </p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><b>Bring a change of shorts and shoes</b>: 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.)</li><li><b>Trekking poles</b>: 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! </li></ul>Tim Gorichanazhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16304578712474887920noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029454871308050507.post-7375317920643578202023-06-15T07:35:00.004-07:002023-06-16T13:56:59.370-07:002023 Laurel Highlands Ultra – 70.5 Miles<p style="text-align: center;">Laurel Highlands Ultra: <a href="http://www.laurelultra.com" target="_blank">race website</a> | <a href="https://www.opensplittime.org/events/laurel-highlands-ultra-2023-70-5/spread" target="_blank">results</a></p><p style="text-align: center;">June 10, 2023, starting at 5:30 a.m. in Ohiopyle, PA</p><p>It was 2:35 a.m. and I unballed my only pair of socks to find that they were both lefts. And I forgot <a href="https://www.trailtoes.com" target="_blank">the cream I use to prevent blisters</a>. The day was not off to a good start. </p><p>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.</p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p>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 href="https://ultimatedirection.com/adventure-vest-6" target="_blank">a new pack with 17 liters of storage capacity</a>, so there was plenty of space for it. </p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigwaok2kYOdWyom9-jcsxzuiG2lU1hcmvBoCMShmBWdm1mH0-1GhcHYpcZglfRTZI_CN2qiPyxLpyoX8OH5yqTBq2Z3P3-7KhN-NgzIq2E_kMASsAk4E3N6cj-SQJDQBCriJQfftsjPFIxPYZlBlLTyOmR3bM61wbGL0X_NbU8zuZX6AXOSqVCa5dq2w/s4032/IMG_6104.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigwaok2kYOdWyom9-jcsxzuiG2lU1hcmvBoCMShmBWdm1mH0-1GhcHYpcZglfRTZI_CN2qiPyxLpyoX8OH5yqTBq2Z3P3-7KhN-NgzIq2E_kMASsAk4E3N6cj-SQJDQBCriJQfftsjPFIxPYZlBlLTyOmR3bM61wbGL0X_NbU8zuZX6AXOSqVCa5dq2w/s320/IMG_6104.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Horses! Somewhere along the way</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>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. </p><p>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.</p><p>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. </p><p>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.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivuvLixEbHoHdS9jIKSLw6sO-Q856MMco5FiDJmy0JqwmAfy3Pi7MFxVXFb68JGoiy7-G15ogeZQYp1cK-oZlDeD8ikBUaG2Bzq09elTiBeXRHKQHI0TXS7jTEA3aOZV_EAQAslsiBEQ-aPdOsjiF1vbxtsvHsaUKXpGmbGDOzhpTf040dZePlRxG_ig/s2048/LaurelHighlands_RPP-20230610-0730.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1366" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivuvLixEbHoHdS9jIKSLw6sO-Q856MMco5FiDJmy0JqwmAfy3Pi7MFxVXFb68JGoiy7-G15ogeZQYp1cK-oZlDeD8ikBUaG2Bzq09elTiBeXRHKQHI0TXS7jTEA3aOZV_EAQAslsiBEQ-aPdOsjiF1vbxtsvHsaUKXpGmbGDOzhpTf040dZePlRxG_ig/w400-h266/LaurelHighlands_RPP-20230610-0730.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Struggling around mile 40. <br />Photo by Ron Heerkens of <a href="https://www.goatfactorymedia.com" target="_blank">Goat Factory Media</a>.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>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 <a href="https://www.publiclands.com/blog/a/plan-a-thru-hike-at-laurel-highlands-trail" target="_blank">over five or six days</a>. 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).</p><p>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. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx0Gy0D6Ivt_saPisY0OYS1wBH9T9bOyKBnYs1eddmFklaD7_h5S6BXciyi1pPvQ2luDDwmwqNMc54JbzE-c-lL3YNgT74uwdXerTlJdQds9x85ms9yei4haPSwimJk8VHmgQ8Lh5QWsrtR-o0inXZMKrsKZb865oQd8fdfvX-5EbNgJIniL4xW-xhhw/s4032/IMG_6107.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx0Gy0D6Ivt_saPisY0OYS1wBH9T9bOyKBnYs1eddmFklaD7_h5S6BXciyi1pPvQ2luDDwmwqNMc54JbzE-c-lL3YNgT74uwdXerTlJdQds9x85ms9yei4haPSwimJk8VHmgQ8Lh5QWsrtR-o0inXZMKrsKZb865oQd8fdfvX-5EbNgJIniL4xW-xhhw/s320/IMG_6107.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaTwmWjopgdYYCMERe3fYS4wZ4pkulpdYQCcSmrLwKsUD44yvisYhWAR6WHh0iwlQ4n0yAWqe9C1X6xkFX346mWWKWRIbjlwHUJBn7wqWYh6r5uf6_yxDYVR5gd20xJ6oKDf9wO2qNGLX0FZx_ObirxapggXyGY1py2QjRYD9-7sijsDsHHlyp8uZi9A/s4032/IMG_6108.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaTwmWjopgdYYCMERe3fYS4wZ4pkulpdYQCcSmrLwKsUD44yvisYhWAR6WHh0iwlQ4n0yAWqe9C1X6xkFX346mWWKWRIbjlwHUJBn7wqWYh6r5uf6_yxDYVR5gd20xJ6oKDf9wO2qNGLX0FZx_ObirxapggXyGY1py2QjRYD9-7sijsDsHHlyp8uZi9A/s320/IMG_6108.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><p>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. </p><p>It wasn't such a bad day after all. </p><p>Things I learned: </p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>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. </li><li>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. </li><li>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. </li><li>I need to figure out how to make this pack not chafe... </li><li>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.</li></ul><p></p><p>If you get the chance to run Laurel Highlands, some suggestions: </p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>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. </li><li>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. </li><li>Beware of poison ivy. It lined pretty much the entire course. </li><li>For running after dark, I recommend a waist light (<a href="https://ultraspire.com/products/lumen-600-3-0-waist-light/" target="_blank">I use this one from UltrAspire</a>) 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. </li></ul><p></p>Tim Gorichanazhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16304578712474887920noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029454871308050507.post-63148719848837937172022-10-16T09:54:00.002-07:002022-10-16T09:54:14.617-07:00First Sub-24 Trail 100 at Indiana<p> A different me might have been anxious coming to a 100-mile run <a href="https://niketoldmeto.blogspot.com/2022/09/dnf-at-2022-pine-to-palm-100.html" target="_blank">after a DNF</a>. 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.</p><p>My A goal was to finish in 22 hours, setting a 100-mile PR (<a href="https://niketoldmeto.blogspot.com/2016/01/second-100-mile-at-pistol-ultra-run.html">I ran a 100 on pavement in 22:22 back in 2016</a>); 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.</p><p>In ultrarunning, a little confidence goes a long way, and so my morning at <a href="https://ignitetrailseries.com" target="_blank">Indiana Trail 100</a> 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. </p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p>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.</p><p>Things that worked for me: </p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><a href="https://www.trailtoes.com" target="_blank">Trail Toes cream</a> – no blisters! I applied it once at the start and then when I changed socks at mile 50.</li><li><a href="https://www.xoskin.us/Mens-Socks/">Xoskin socks</a> – toe socks!</li><li><a href="https://nakedsportsinnovations.com/products/naked-running-band?variant=40776613167284" target="_blank">Naked belt</a> – This was my first race with this belt, and I loved it. Tons of space to hold gummy bears and M&Ms.</li></ul><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgegd6xfl8ypgIdgWpGrZjUUgsdezz6Mp66Tm3EfkqDXUAZnChD2cHKtU-aosFY_Hh1Qf-cP3L-Zlowj0aI4yGchslXh1H3tWT80DJGwXLWnDwQaXOnPEAlXkttllTKm7FMhuPTFFvQo1mVFJ1f56Bn8Vl8OtpAhb7GD3jZGxUZl1C721DoOQWEMGohgA/s4032/IMG_1453.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgegd6xfl8ypgIdgWpGrZjUUgsdezz6Mp66Tm3EfkqDXUAZnChD2cHKtU-aosFY_Hh1Qf-cP3L-Zlowj0aI4yGchslXh1H3tWT80DJGwXLWnDwQaXOnPEAlXkttllTKm7FMhuPTFFvQo1mVFJ1f56Bn8Vl8OtpAhb7GD3jZGxUZl1C721DoOQWEMGohgA/s320/IMG_1453.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Getting ready to start! It was in the 30s and dark, and I didn't want to get too cold before the start</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIjiZVJRkyt0-CfXZB-qOJs6hnVg0Wfvl9RiZP0w8Kex4uwKk2a5SFwCXpaxgq3sQ86BxhQTE2h1bSA7XRWHoaQTXjDrP_zKR5DnGATiC0c1JKJh-Ux0w5Y6dZ-FqhL2Oosf2EufXycX9uLJJREr9KfB8KOubmnON94xMJjFRoxd4Lfhru6aXk4QnmXQ/s4032/IMG_4620.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIjiZVJRkyt0-CfXZB-qOJs6hnVg0Wfvl9RiZP0w8Kex4uwKk2a5SFwCXpaxgq3sQ86BxhQTE2h1bSA7XRWHoaQTXjDrP_zKR5DnGATiC0c1JKJh-Ux0w5Y6dZ-FqhL2Oosf2EufXycX9uLJJREr9KfB8KOubmnON94xMJjFRoxd4Lfhru6aXk4QnmXQ/s320/IMG_4620.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Starting line</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLFw04w66wEwnLu-iT1RuyjAil2vf7K-d8ursAjwasToLxna_k_bt9nuYgIGArRCEVDh2k0N8AIUseIc6InEh9FnnuNnlpEIFzZzvD99xVJhzN6kkePAxpn89aC2imFzBHkmCwgPh3CS1ml5ZlFTb_ClayfUAO4NlA-vzX60U0144p76Ymvz6eSM88Mg/s4032/IMG_1462.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLFw04w66wEwnLu-iT1RuyjAil2vf7K-d8ursAjwasToLxna_k_bt9nuYgIGArRCEVDh2k0N8AIUseIc6InEh9FnnuNnlpEIFzZzvD99xVJhzN6kkePAxpn89aC2imFzBHkmCwgPh3CS1ml5ZlFTb_ClayfUAO4NlA-vzX60U0144p76Ymvz6eSM88Mg/s320/IMG_1462.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Coming in at mile 50</td></tr></tbody></table></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4qBSepRCNGDXvladPz2hmFXm8fVBbY_NHX697WQ1UWtO8Oc6iQWqrGoVGHcSaNAih0za6yfLY4Gqp6Aj_Ym9j951rXOgct6JSHQHFOWjkIW49aGc5xuWtUUu9lBypdvNrLtHz_130xJjZn4W5yzkO5dVbm8F7nIVQxH92n_kGWUtLmesSkfw_NKHPfw/s4032/IMG_4621.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4qBSepRCNGDXvladPz2hmFXm8fVBbY_NHX697WQ1UWtO8Oc6iQWqrGoVGHcSaNAih0za6yfLY4Gqp6Aj_Ym9j951rXOgct6JSHQHFOWjkIW49aGc5xuWtUUu9lBypdvNrLtHz_130xJjZn4W5yzkO5dVbm8F7nIVQxH92n_kGWUtLmesSkfw_NKHPfw/s320/IMG_4621.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Typical view on the trail</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC9aZVE0BVdu3WYvGexaqiBxUProxnuAgiTrWz14zp86vRRgprHb1DTblCqZlIqdX09n4IF17mdsa4-H4xEmaJpEa8kcNC6fwfWmKLZlkRRVJbMwXJumLUTZhq5noTQ4369Sd0p0aaVy3P5w46S7dtKrkWOOzG0kYAWbGKA2x5PmaIOTF2DXDKIYGe9w/s4032/IMG_4625.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC9aZVE0BVdu3WYvGexaqiBxUProxnuAgiTrWz14zp86vRRgprHb1DTblCqZlIqdX09n4IF17mdsa4-H4xEmaJpEa8kcNC6fwfWmKLZlkRRVJbMwXJumLUTZhq5noTQ4369Sd0p0aaVy3P5w46S7dtKrkWOOzG0kYAWbGKA2x5PmaIOTF2DXDKIYGe9w/s320/IMG_4625.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the many lakes at Chain o Lakes</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4npC8wdVi9yj6I9pH4zbBg-vP34TAQFD2PbeyWdFVkKVSuRfJ7W5Fs-O603cjO7s3A4zaPIMdJkx66n42c8mY0kNizu_yXv9XwkdTVXDV2eI2VFBgiYkKhPnVFf50HpsLRDTrctCY2aSlJY8e_7ln49XOKuicXU0GUZQAl19in1QaVYXiTdfj3mi-mQ/s4032/IMG_4626.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4npC8wdVi9yj6I9pH4zbBg-vP34TAQFD2PbeyWdFVkKVSuRfJ7W5Fs-O603cjO7s3A4zaPIMdJkx66n42c8mY0kNizu_yXv9XwkdTVXDV2eI2VFBgiYkKhPnVFf50HpsLRDTrctCY2aSlJY8e_7ln49XOKuicXU0GUZQAl19in1QaVYXiTdfj3mi-mQ/s320/IMG_4626.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kept my candy supply close to hand</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinM6QeRk4JE8jNqa5U3urS7N-5yldyc1duexAWTA9UE0-_02OmWIcmKtQdpG5G2XukKLypKLI_ZRG_042v6JZtKEBl_ARsjOWNuVbiPjW4R_vYz2Dk-aN2Qfnojh8CcpX5ZKpzsh-Xu6IkoEHZewMaq5YcKp0xdzV8B856iss70dd9Xi0Ensytf-nIdA/s4032/IMG_4627.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinM6QeRk4JE8jNqa5U3urS7N-5yldyc1duexAWTA9UE0-_02OmWIcmKtQdpG5G2XukKLypKLI_ZRG_042v6JZtKEBl_ARsjOWNuVbiPjW4R_vYz2Dk-aN2Qfnojh8CcpX5ZKpzsh-Xu6IkoEHZewMaq5YcKp0xdzV8B856iss70dd9Xi0Ensytf-nIdA/s320/IMG_4627.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Especially in the evening there were lots of furry caterpillars to avoid</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoaifBSKCzb0NBco4zPcCHMEsKkMlOnMc1hpLi1yfpwU1lIX5fqLy25bdTQuvzKTlCtR1QR-wV_xoBOtyRFYkt-46yA6eOT60sxSvXxGeTRgtW0oh2BSyJRfyYFei8EaUBhJhecWObv9rwECf0QyFTGdy6Y8xnRvQYa0KsbQ_ZyjzOQ2kHJeeBHcWizA/s4032/IMG_4629.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoaifBSKCzb0NBco4zPcCHMEsKkMlOnMc1hpLi1yfpwU1lIX5fqLy25bdTQuvzKTlCtR1QR-wV_xoBOtyRFYkt-46yA6eOT60sxSvXxGeTRgtW0oh2BSyJRfyYFei8EaUBhJhecWObv9rwECf0QyFTGdy6Y8xnRvQYa0KsbQ_ZyjzOQ2kHJeeBHcWizA/s320/IMG_4629.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Late afternoon</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_pZk1OV-zLPaA13b9vCw37pO_2rhsoTOFxnHPr-p9g7ADnL50T-m5icOfn302XMhV6FVyYwq9gf7JaHEk5D8JJOTigSY-RAAdLHLUVk87IcJIX_NDile_wfcEZMTulGFu8hTgcfLw9YPar7UmEzm2CkNGPB8AKxSVOC0QGdCEA4C5Pu5XaOuY8tnpLg/s4032/IMG_4630.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_pZk1OV-zLPaA13b9vCw37pO_2rhsoTOFxnHPr-p9g7ADnL50T-m5icOfn302XMhV6FVyYwq9gf7JaHEk5D8JJOTigSY-RAAdLHLUVk87IcJIX_NDile_wfcEZMTulGFu8hTgcfLw9YPar7UmEzm2CkNGPB8AKxSVOC0QGdCEA4C5Pu5XaOuY8tnpLg/s320/IMG_4630.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The trail at night</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7ATUWEMi7_NerJ4tyIkApXCUXsO3iafid1dQIgA_PJ9FsYriNg-alY7ZjajjVN24ArYLe9gqL_2n5BbKQuOlW_oI99Eqc8gKLB8cCnsFcqmxp7lIi9zH7MYDcqv-X6AYxBnmZRw-CF3qxXLP318Yfwq8RCFpIWaIBIF0_qfiQ7omDHi6TxcN5s1do7g/s4032/IMG_4631.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7ATUWEMi7_NerJ4tyIkApXCUXsO3iafid1dQIgA_PJ9FsYriNg-alY7ZjajjVN24ArYLe9gqL_2n5BbKQuOlW_oI99Eqc8gKLB8cCnsFcqmxp7lIi9zH7MYDcqv-X6AYxBnmZRw-CF3qxXLP318Yfwq8RCFpIWaIBIF0_qfiQ7omDHi6TxcN5s1do7g/s320/IMG_4631.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View of the finish line from mile 99.5. Just a few minutes left... </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p>Tim Gorichanazhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16304578712474887920noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029454871308050507.post-76252886725874807682022-09-15T07:19:00.003-07:002022-09-15T07:28:11.613-07:00DNF at the 2022 Pine to Palm 100<p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p><a href="https://roguevalleyrunners.com/pages/pine-to-palm" target="_blank">The race</a> 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!)</p><p>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. </p><p>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 <a href="http://www.laurelultra.com" target="_blank">Laurel Highlands</a> 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). </p><p>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. </p><p>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."</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt_SUWlksOstNvS7pnCdALNiAcmZEl8_F5Jjpaq7aRhgi4GdxrdEYm6piWmBy8UC6caaE_pvx3j5k9uuiGkCxmuoGRqv-u7tmLxyQO-bRYmgr9Zj3uaHsE-wq-ujY2PzXmImyJj-hXLyRQ3aHxxW4Wt3bzIqrb4Njq1WlXXEmqDWdMG6wfH6w9WPH2EA/s4032/IMG_4406.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2347" data-original-width="4032" height="186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt_SUWlksOstNvS7pnCdALNiAcmZEl8_F5Jjpaq7aRhgi4GdxrdEYm6piWmBy8UC6caaE_pvx3j5k9uuiGkCxmuoGRqv-u7tmLxyQO-bRYmgr9Zj3uaHsE-wq-ujY2PzXmImyJj-hXLyRQ3aHxxW4Wt3bzIqrb4Njq1WlXXEmqDWdMG6wfH6w9WPH2EA/s320/IMG_4406.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Midmorning in the mountains</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLFUYBjSA5ei_c8vQpD9g9EiLGrX7CNsBt4W_MLwZP39lnez5cPX8_Tx0k34vpoHZNRQxoKRTc176Io2Rcktj-kLvQqqBVykULdlUw_4RAto11j6KlfanylrzxjA0wJ6986hhuVtdjANd0tF4rjIB4-lusVZZnPosaV5lmtHAO_nPpm5RNx1EZc6IJEQ/s4032/IMG_4412.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLFUYBjSA5ei_c8vQpD9g9EiLGrX7CNsBt4W_MLwZP39lnez5cPX8_Tx0k34vpoHZNRQxoKRTc176Io2Rcktj-kLvQqqBVykULdlUw_4RAto11j6KlfanylrzxjA0wJ6986hhuVtdjANd0tF4rjIB4-lusVZZnPosaV5lmtHAO_nPpm5RNx1EZc6IJEQ/s320/IMG_4412.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">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.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbjIoAQoUo39xmimvXMYWwHL9VgUbxgCdOqlx0CNCVyCz7lyYeK3pZcvzB8J-tZz5q41IGkTPYjydunCh6K3CetUycMK7iziaoH_BX7XPB0Tyxd_c0kRa1Zfl_RZNiEqDeFS_pRK4fiLymbUmapLjGo7usRpPIkVvRe36wrGiXDKgEJJFDA-ykGqnNNw/s4032/IMG_4414.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbjIoAQoUo39xmimvXMYWwHL9VgUbxgCdOqlx0CNCVyCz7lyYeK3pZcvzB8J-tZz5q41IGkTPYjydunCh6K3CetUycMK7iziaoH_BX7XPB0Tyxd_c0kRa1Zfl_RZNiEqDeFS_pRK4fiLymbUmapLjGo7usRpPIkVvRe36wrGiXDKgEJJFDA-ykGqnNNw/s320/IMG_4414.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the exposed climbs</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-0ZwT9U2DfAxZWjqCDX0PbfaShTvAd8PcGz4JxarUZNoFLVtDxdGUx9X84b9pXEy-nS9_5s7InASrPVB1iVrs7KMQFnL40rQ-yQm3O90tVtrblhZejFIUmvCG9_w8VoPaUOW1npBdVs4mE0iUPQ8eXF3rsjvCEMzHPayiq-mX91cV9QGZvVcSuVMAkA/s4032/IMG_4419.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-0ZwT9U2DfAxZWjqCDX0PbfaShTvAd8PcGz4JxarUZNoFLVtDxdGUx9X84b9pXEy-nS9_5s7InASrPVB1iVrs7KMQFnL40rQ-yQm3O90tVtrblhZejFIUmvCG9_w8VoPaUOW1npBdVs4mE0iUPQ8eXF3rsjvCEMzHPayiq-mX91cV9QGZvVcSuVMAkA/s320/IMG_4419.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">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.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_oXEzTPrtGDJZ7NuofznlZwRjVUc3KbMSWCkFBJ_a_sEKYOPM56iep6opEgxVYxqUxRAeFnuPfq2i6Yxnh-dvgK_AmZUnhy6dgdK3geaoEIe3576F92RS_XGkdJntreHxJqYmvUMXy16WWifZgBGdPUcezQQX96wbWF1ywSy9AHHRdTG7V-IbKCJ5wA/s4032/IMG_4405.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_oXEzTPrtGDJZ7NuofznlZwRjVUc3KbMSWCkFBJ_a_sEKYOPM56iep6opEgxVYxqUxRAeFnuPfq2i6Yxnh-dvgK_AmZUnhy6dgdK3geaoEIe3576F92RS_XGkdJntreHxJqYmvUMXy16WWifZgBGdPUcezQQX96wbWF1ywSy9AHHRdTG7V-IbKCJ5wA/s320/IMG_4405.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Morning light catching on the trees</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p>Tim Gorichanazhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16304578712474887920noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029454871308050507.post-8289278144480964952021-08-20T10:58:00.004-07:002021-08-20T11:01:22.172-07:00Lean Horse 100<p> 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. </p><p>I ran my 2020 WSER qualifier (<a href="https://www.tejastrails.com/bandera">Bandera 100k</a>) 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 <a href="http://leanhorse100.com">Lean Horse</a>.</p><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitVUXW7RZxW81dfW1jvbc3wLlAG36GttcROXcKuiQ4n05s0UH_kJOSjWxSJUc8H7KX6Y0thVoXuRA1tpk2LFLNt263syhxjVDEs47ayjt-mMucNvbh7SeEOJRYj5a9TdOo9qvSIpojBWzN/s2048/2.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1789" data-original-width="2048" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitVUXW7RZxW81dfW1jvbc3wLlAG36GttcROXcKuiQ4n05s0UH_kJOSjWxSJUc8H7KX6Y0thVoXuRA1tpk2LFLNt263syhxjVDEs47ayjt-mMucNvbh7SeEOJRYj5a9TdOo9qvSIpojBWzN/s320/2.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At packet pickup the day before the race</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><p>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. </p><p>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.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc3YexjNh5jmPqdHuXmN4XdI2Vyje-jIOXgKpJpSmj4xkENXkWeX9ANNKIA_T8V7lFTanbGJxKN09DeuRNiEIY9aZQd0Douc5UZPkp7rlM1jTaMdaM3xAxwKEfIOGQcz63VLQDRua3m9qC/s2048/3.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1493" data-original-width="2048" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc3YexjNh5jmPqdHuXmN4XdI2Vyje-jIOXgKpJpSmj4xkENXkWeX9ANNKIA_T8V7lFTanbGJxKN09DeuRNiEIY9aZQd0Douc5UZPkp7rlM1jTaMdaM3xAxwKEfIOGQcz63VLQDRua3m9qC/s320/3.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and family before the start</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjInT-SkyEX_oXE7ywrb8zJO2Zbwnwc_vW1L0fVxgmfjnJLPiPrMj4iOIuJ2a6emVkrNlHhrk9cVGYHg3pvXM_7BsRBQESLATfDwdVk45kHq6X3Sm8gHtGcX4fFqarhRn294jlFAoufPM7/s2048/1.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1836" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjInT-SkyEX_oXE7ywrb8zJO2Zbwnwc_vW1L0fVxgmfjnJLPiPrMj4iOIuJ2a6emVkrNlHhrk9cVGYHg3pvXM_7BsRBQESLATfDwdVk45kHq6X3Sm8gHtGcX4fFqarhRn294jlFAoufPM7/s320/1.JPG" width="287" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Awaiting the start of the race</td></tr></tbody></table><p>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. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik6sNyFjFkBqUcol_YNgowDa17eCjSI5dtSF-3rA52L9ay8UDIFA_w9VhcESTaBOniJpsa9wQsi9uwO57hyphenhyphenkBVppkGWLYQqKMqPHkwh-5h3Xpa7XKrDQKlN8QSxQokumN48Qr2YNlVS1Fw/s2517/4.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1249" data-original-width="2517" height="159" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik6sNyFjFkBqUcol_YNgowDa17eCjSI5dtSF-3rA52L9ay8UDIFA_w9VhcESTaBOniJpsa9wQsi9uwO57hyphenhyphenkBVppkGWLYQqKMqPHkwh-5h3Xpa7XKrDQKlN8QSxQokumN48Qr2YNlVS1Fw/s320/4.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The field shortly after the start</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmCmnyL4tipQVDNzFP9u-8LvdSHtCfoXTDL0ic7OyFLzvoLOFh4n2UjjWw_r4yL2oXFg0yczKxfCMabRI-Ja9XmoV_bVfOpLRJ1E78xHem0Cv49JDnQRHWY5AJ3FneXOLKyIPnqvbe262I/s2048/5.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmCmnyL4tipQVDNzFP9u-8LvdSHtCfoXTDL0ic7OyFLzvoLOFh4n2UjjWw_r4yL2oXFg0yczKxfCMabRI-Ja9XmoV_bVfOpLRJ1E78xHem0Cv49JDnQRHWY5AJ3FneXOLKyIPnqvbe262I/s320/5.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Typical view: lots of pine trees</td></tr></tbody></table><p>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. </p><p>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). </p><p>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. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX3orzOUcHYHm1yitOg6CPUbsdrMEayvdtO085dIKb0SdUkJwYb8kicZ-qL-U7UxnMT9H0pU71vR_gXG3S0iE0mQbiOqr_r36SBKhtJiJc1IgNJ8h7wtoaE9Z_G7AMVOUE650fcqtZDOIj/s2048/6.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX3orzOUcHYHm1yitOg6CPUbsdrMEayvdtO085dIKb0SdUkJwYb8kicZ-qL-U7UxnMT9H0pU71vR_gXG3S0iE0mQbiOqr_r36SBKhtJiJc1IgNJ8h7wtoaE9Z_G7AMVOUE650fcqtZDOIj/s320/6.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The trail just after sundown</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRsiVwwKqIwzyfIxX67s4_ttGFgIsFrsnZhm5IkQOCS8xKaS-omsygUK4HLS4utet4UL5404MU6YcmBi9U-xPTAHkCYOzZ7k4JKhS-0Nk4GyMiHhRDMN1MJtc55eamicjt7esseWWnaEHy/s2048/7.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRsiVwwKqIwzyfIxX67s4_ttGFgIsFrsnZhm5IkQOCS8xKaS-omsygUK4HLS4utet4UL5404MU6YcmBi9U-xPTAHkCYOzZ7k4JKhS-0Nk4GyMiHhRDMN1MJtc55eamicjt7esseWWnaEHy/s320/7.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View in the night</td></tr></tbody></table><p>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. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6w9gOcxo5MgSKZa1v4EiQXolFCsnYPTenINfVdXbey4t-ABnzlePLisrPADhMpPx25l8rfBNQMfdlK2DGfrOg4nJ4ZZI_Nh21ORvLuOq-ofuC-I6jCeSKFQOlEy2_P1-8l56FuVtyIc2i/s2048/8.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6w9gOcxo5MgSKZa1v4EiQXolFCsnYPTenINfVdXbey4t-ABnzlePLisrPADhMpPx25l8rfBNQMfdlK2DGfrOg4nJ4ZZI_Nh21ORvLuOq-ofuC-I6jCeSKFQOlEy2_P1-8l56FuVtyIc2i/s320/8.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dawn</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4XMLeWlJd1cBe1fQeKDn6khgBVwq5MS6k35q4CmTjDPFwYt6QvQ0PXaueRzKbWXeoVK46yGmFi95A_psWKw4-nF4J-lXE3VWsKM3sfDU4J2zky41V6sqbMi5Ii0gd73JYNLe-R_uKY-zR/s2048/9.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1817" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4XMLeWlJd1cBe1fQeKDn6khgBVwq5MS6k35q4CmTjDPFwYt6QvQ0PXaueRzKbWXeoVK46yGmFi95A_psWKw4-nF4J-lXE3VWsKM3sfDU4J2zky41V6sqbMi5Ii0gd73JYNLe-R_uKY-zR/s320/9.jpeg" width="284" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me just after finishing</td></tr></tbody></table><p>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).</p><p>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. </p>Tim Gorichanazhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16304578712474887920noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029454871308050507.post-9869203333093298692019-07-24T12:05:00.004-07:002019-07-24T12:06:06.505-07:00Vermont 100 FinishThis weekend was my second attempt at Vermont 100, and I'm happy to say I finished.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvzM7I1VHe6NhhUaGn3BOda_gYa6LhkYdC5QaG1rVOEnnPAPJgFOS72_rDJa3lQLiQ5SB1EGsfsaBY4i6LUPe_E1RqyrSzXN7zKfPnyGEV_8-sC-4ZMxOYCFe-1k1cIyoB31LxELPMbXMr/s1600/IMG_9601.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvzM7I1VHe6NhhUaGn3BOda_gYa6LhkYdC5QaG1rVOEnnPAPJgFOS72_rDJa3lQLiQ5SB1EGsfsaBY4i6LUPe_E1RqyrSzXN7zKfPnyGEV_8-sC-4ZMxOYCFe-1k1cIyoB31LxELPMbXMr/s320/IMG_9601.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Solo finisher's cup, local apple cider jelly (from Mom), and buckle, atop the finisher's shorts</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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.<br />
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At the pre-race meeting, race director Amy Rusiecki shared some advice: <b>Don’t be a hero. Be a finisher</b>. 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.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6sl6SMYFBeJ2Tp21OijQ4O-NuXP1vaA1NCHeJ3UpgS85PLZ4MOZTSeGEURsPqACL2b4pktym16vuGd5DjkuASSPMZKDnTD22SnQHMxI15cO2_jUOBsGAsWHrtbvRD2m1qhyphenhyphen2kLiZhzs8s/s1600/IMG_9593+10.04.38+AM.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6sl6SMYFBeJ2Tp21OijQ4O-NuXP1vaA1NCHeJ3UpgS85PLZ4MOZTSeGEURsPqACL2b4pktym16vuGd5DjkuASSPMZKDnTD22SnQHMxI15cO2_jUOBsGAsWHrtbvRD2m1qhyphenhyphen2kLiZhzs8s/s320/IMG_9593+10.04.38+AM.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
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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 <a href="https://www.saxxunderwear.com/products/sxrs27_bgb">my usually-silver-bullet Saxx shorts</a>. Besides this, it stopped me from taking many photos, since my phone and hands were always wet.<br />
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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.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjML3BoynoyMWBIHCv_lvPfkXWkHSU-dN_pmX60Gav-s21ovt9Bx1ZbWLztvFXuXAxo1hr42LeH5XLyIKbALsIkU7CvHXDOcuUp95HG4bsVEV-ASEw7OlMOSrfz3RWcYfsQ3WjotnTXSAjv/s1600/0-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjML3BoynoyMWBIHCv_lvPfkXWkHSU-dN_pmX60Gav-s21ovt9Bx1ZbWLztvFXuXAxo1hr42LeH5XLyIKbALsIkU7CvHXDOcuUp95HG4bsVEV-ASEw7OlMOSrfz3RWcYfsQ3WjotnTXSAjv/s320/0-1.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Before the race we visited the King Arthur Flour factory and shop... and afterwards we visited the Ben & Jerry's factory. A great weekend!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2Wbhuok4KqPGn52IYow0xc-fzD6dYUEEloIlllloY0P6Xp0qlxBKEPHmhOAAPoktVpPK3TYPBNl9OrWHWsdx7CQyZsjDVSS34qspwSKuC9bKb9-_55CJAh1ydvVk9OhplH8PKI31eJkWo/s1600/0+6.37.21+PM.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2Wbhuok4KqPGn52IYow0xc-fzD6dYUEEloIlllloY0P6Xp0qlxBKEPHmhOAAPoktVpPK3TYPBNl9OrWHWsdx7CQyZsjDVSS34qspwSKuC9bKb9-_55CJAh1ydvVk9OhplH8PKI31eJkWo/s320/0+6.37.21+PM.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and a snail at Ben & Jerry's</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr1NXUh8I6-8QdOzC6_HDERd2BuEuWS8l9j7_8sK4h1zyyR83ntEU5x8yAeysJO8CTPJOVcIUctC9jM-9imXl1CSt6sqUhpms7acwVZYvVu35YbkvK5_uiK7LBQbuUgp4Npnbg-R4-fV2z/s1600/0.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1201" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr1NXUh8I6-8QdOzC6_HDERd2BuEuWS8l9j7_8sK4h1zyyR83ntEU5x8yAeysJO8CTPJOVcIUctC9jM-9imXl1CSt6sqUhpms7acwVZYvVu35YbkvK5_uiK7LBQbuUgp4Npnbg-R4-fV2z/s320/0.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At King Arthur Flour, pre-race</td></tr>
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Gear:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li><a href="https://shammasandals.com/collections/sandals-elite-collection/products/mountain-goats-sandals">Shamma Mountain Goat sandals</a></li>
<li>Reguard compression tabi socks (I put these on around mile 70, as the dust was causing the straps of the sandals to be abrasive.)</li>
<li><a href="https://www.orangemud.com/collections/running-packs/products/endurance-pack-4l-v2-0-2l-bladder-cargo-ideal-for-running-and-biking-white-lifejacket?variant=19598933786711">Orange Mud endurance pack</a> (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.)</li>
<li><a href="https://www.orangemud.com/collections/top-6-of-2017/products/running-water-bottle-handheld-hydration-pack-orange?variant=877734853">Orange Mud handheld</a> (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!)</li>
</ul>
<br />
Heat strategies:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>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!)</li>
<li>I wore a <a href="https://www.outdoorresearch.com/us/en/sun-runner-cap/p/2434330800008">desert ("sun runner") cap</a> 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. </li>
</ul>
<br />
New things:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>When I was tired, I took some peppermint essential oils—<a href="https://www.doterra.com/US/en/p/peppermint-beadlet">the Doterra beadlets</a> are great. They woke me up immediately. I was surprised! Better than coffee. New secret weapon.</li>
</ul>
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<br />
<br />Tim Gorichanazhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16304578712474887920noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029454871308050507.post-84897668025007891992018-11-02T11:09:00.004-07:002018-11-02T11:12:22.796-07:00Javelina Jundred 2018I tried my hand at the <a href="https://aravaiparunning.com/network/javelinajundred/">Javelina Jundred</a> 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.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCUoQEM_SiIzf_HeOdvw6rusWytx6GkD4QCyV8zPzo6CGuhXGkmjBpWdoXySaUfblOpMnI7RoAInw5u80rWrt6PLqaddg2dsA7JTnIl1ojPTB4i5e1Qpdt19A6zTuc4LNxooQGxWtXDMrN/s1600/IMG_7636.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCUoQEM_SiIzf_HeOdvw6rusWytx6GkD4QCyV8zPzo6CGuhXGkmjBpWdoXySaUfblOpMnI7RoAInw5u80rWrt6PLqaddg2dsA7JTnIl1ojPTB4i5e1Qpdt19A6zTuc4LNxooQGxWtXDMrN/s320/IMG_7636.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.800000190734863px;">Bourbon at an aid station. I was not so brave, but I love the idea!<br />
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<br /></div>
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</tbody></table>
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 <a href="https://harricana.info/">Ultra-Trail du Harricana</a> 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.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiX81MRO5Ph9L3m9rov_CFIIpeGGTdUudysUKCdyKksfKrSMl9NiggBa8ry0uEO9pPnspFCtlCkFEA2RMX97WiDlnQFRAlXKBMeOa9wixXm0PiZAv_v11J_f9oyStjCvk8VqF13hkc1GdB/s1600/IMG_7609.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiX81MRO5Ph9L3m9rov_CFIIpeGGTdUudysUKCdyKksfKrSMl9NiggBa8ry0uEO9pPnspFCtlCkFEA2RMX97WiDlnQFRAlXKBMeOa9wixXm0PiZAv_v11J_f9oyStjCvk8VqF13hkc1GdB/s320/IMG_7609.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.800000190734863px;">Packet pickup on Friday<br />
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<br /></div>
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</tbody></table>
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.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1NzG2Ow3RxnEcMoekEI_p_su3RCj2EfMJ7eYZaKiAtFQXxEBion6jsND8RQoEzlJf9IWorsD2oXGIIQj0MrDto1dciUfLPBT0KNR1_7EAx17YGCMTA4ucYn0rG6TxVYN0NWPsY8Xhy3mN/s1600/Screen+Shot+2018-11-02+at+2.06.33+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="498" data-original-width="897" height="177" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1NzG2Ow3RxnEcMoekEI_p_su3RCj2EfMJ7eYZaKiAtFQXxEBion6jsND8RQoEzlJf9IWorsD2oXGIIQj0MrDto1dciUfLPBT0KNR1_7EAx17YGCMTA4ucYn0rG6TxVYN0NWPsY8Xhy3mN/s320/Screen+Shot+2018-11-02+at+2.06.33+PM.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Watching Wave One start. I was going to just watch, but at the last second I joined in.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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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.<br />
<br />
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 <a href="https://www.orangemud.com/collections/running-packs/products/endurance-pack-bpvp-70-2-0?variant=5498272317471">pack I got this year from Orange Mud</a> (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.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvxGSWFvotbLiroyMjpPPlc0XOlsER4bCrFcvBxnAW-AMMReAnHKMV_znkhmqxKJWPihDBfL8K9FRRKhYwhiP8BITDCPbwF6R7V7V1s4bY6IsSnhz7e_TEXwtCVfq0zecE6SpY2OyGRpGj/s1600/IMG_7635.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvxGSWFvotbLiroyMjpPPlc0XOlsER4bCrFcvBxnAW-AMMReAnHKMV_znkhmqxKJWPihDBfL8K9FRRKhYwhiP8BITDCPbwF6R7V7V1s4bY6IsSnhz7e_TEXwtCVfq0zecE6SpY2OyGRpGj/s320/IMG_7635.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My desert running getup</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
In any case, after mile 80 every step was excruciating. It reminded me of <a href="http://niketoldmeto.blogspot.com/2016/01/second-100-mile-at-pistol-ultra-run.html">the end of the Pistol Ultra</a> 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.<br />
<br />
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!<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiyHKfJ3qCQ-Wol012D0w1jr4FG18fgO2OQ7_wYrnHR1569Tf17eNLVPhE8DGAmftYbirTSFAn77UPneqKYdlQ0h0apPycyOQAMUo2swMdoqhXrVhRoufwjbNds8rGJxjNCU4TrDnZr0Bt/s1600/IMG_7642.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiyHKfJ3qCQ-Wol012D0w1jr4FG18fgO2OQ7_wYrnHR1569Tf17eNLVPhE8DGAmftYbirTSFAn77UPneqKYdlQ0h0apPycyOQAMUo2swMdoqhXrVhRoufwjbNds8rGJxjNCU4TrDnZr0Bt/s320/IMG_7642.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Such amazing views, which smartphone cameras can't really capture</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
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!<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkDwWWYZzOms40ObxEHYwUpPKINUM-IWtbkrxYKzDFbqR5WGlOGJMZnkgmT4V4hKPvoC2ha4kNlHu7JAMLaY18OojfT6Qb44T_f3GTfe43DLetwrYAfH3-CBI1p6tNE3GXVhyf4jjZfFUT/s1600/44863286_2141258222575723_944813541498552320_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="642" data-original-width="960" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkDwWWYZzOms40ObxEHYwUpPKINUM-IWtbkrxYKzDFbqR5WGlOGJMZnkgmT4V4hKPvoC2ha4kNlHu7JAMLaY18OojfT6Qb44T_f3GTfe43DLetwrYAfH3-CBI1p6tNE3GXVhyf4jjZfFUT/s320/44863286_2141258222575723_944813541498552320_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jackie O at the turnaround. Photo by Aravaipa Running.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />Tim Gorichanazhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16304578712474887920noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029454871308050507.post-19583884078445605242017-09-18T12:05:00.004-07:002017-09-19T03:53:22.308-07:00Hallucination 100 (Hallelujah, I Finished!)I was starting to think I'd never finish another ultra. I got hurt sometime after last year's Via Marathon—too much, too soon after a hard (crash-and-burn) effort—and my 2016 season fizzled out with a DNF at Javelina Jundred and a slow-but-fun Philadelphia Marathon with Students Run in October and November, respectively.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But my heart lies with 100 mile races now, and not being able to finish Javelina was a real bummer. I had my sights set on <a href="http://www.southeasterntrailruns.com/lake-martin-100.html">Lake Martin 100</a>, but still by mid-December I couldn't run without piercing pain going up my left lower leg. I wrote the race director, and he agreed to let me defer my entry to the 2018 race. (Bless him!) In the meantime, I was signed up for <a href="https://www.blogger.com/"><span id="goog_1982524535"></span>Dawn to Dusk to Dawn 12 Hour<span id="goog_1982524536"></span></a> in May and I got myself in <a href="https://vermont100.com/">Vermont 100</a> in July. Surely I'd be healed by then... </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I wound up stopping at D3 after 8 hours (50k); pain started after two hours of blissful running, and it slowly got worse. I walked a lot so as not to break myself, but I called it quits before too much longer. By the time <a href="http://niketoldmeto.blogspot.com/2017/07/vermont-100-dnf-streak-continues.html">Vermont 100 came along</a>, I was pretty confidently running 40+ miles a week and my injury was mostly at bay, but I just didn't have enough training under my belt to finish such a hilly course. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So it'd been over a year since I finished a 100 mile, and the Western States lottery was nearing: To keep the lottery tickets I'd built up in previous years, I'd need to finish <a href="http://www.wser.org/qualifying-races/">a qualifying 100-mile race</a> before November. Time was ticking. I decided to do one in September, and settled on Hallucination 100 because it would be reasonably easy to get to and would hopefully be a doable course. It was a 16.66-mile loop course—my favorite format. It also started at 4pm on Friday, which meant I'd encounter nighttime much earlier in the race than normal—probably for the better.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Three of my siblings, a friend of theirs and I drove to Michigan on Friday morning. My sister Selena and I drove separately and got there first, so we set up camp. The others arrived and got situated before their 3–10pm aid station volunteer shift, and I went into my tent for a quick nap before the start. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Suddenly, it was time to start. It was sunny and our shadows were harsh, and then I was running into the woods with 150 other people. My plan was to take it slow, to try to stay steady through the whole race, and not finish any loop faster than 4 hours (putting me at a 24-hour finish). I walked up all the hills, and I just generally enjoyed myself. Life is good, I remember thinking. I was wearing sandals from the start, but soon I realized that I couldn't make out all the rocks and roots enough to avoid them (chalk it up to my poor eye acuity and everything down there being the same shade of drab). I switched to shoes, which offered more protection at the front but much less on the bottom—a catc-22 if there ever was one. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I saw my family at their aid station at mile 8—"So you have to go 92 more miles?" my brother said—and then again at mile 24. It's always such a fun "surprise" to see people you know after a long time in the woods. By then it was dark, and I settled in for another loop and a half of darkness. I put on some music. I was surprised how well everything was going. Maybe this would be an easy 100. At the same time, I wondered if everything would stay okay, or if I would have to DNF again. One hundred miles is a really long way to go, after all.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNzaaxloxpd9__x-OFHBJAodUiIgvyaNx-B66MgtR4QrpFpDEZjecjMSmk-yyWebuTnBDUKNtx56n-G_JoNi06zUPf_pW57P9COCOa_CDKXLc1cs-eQj8uVHGMoWzwNJHCX8fpGaWnLJUa/s1600/IMG_4715.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1334" data-original-width="750" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNzaaxloxpd9__x-OFHBJAodUiIgvyaNx-B66MgtR4QrpFpDEZjecjMSmk-yyWebuTnBDUKNtx56n-G_JoNi06zUPf_pW57P9COCOa_CDKXLc1cs-eQj8uVHGMoWzwNJHCX8fpGaWnLJUa/s400/IMG_4715.JPG" width="223" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Still feeling good... well, only 8 miles in</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGqlirIuvEmN6UIfTP-YxzdC-UPR1ABPY_G5ap1zvW7QTteRx_0dZx5tEFIhMippgcnJnjV8EAUQltA2i0-UKiR_HsYjX3HJDTg-acl00te3l0CKDtgwuAFbtuYwNUN1ZAGd5S3g9WsgQd/s1600/IMG_4717.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1334" data-original-width="750" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGqlirIuvEmN6UIfTP-YxzdC-UPR1ABPY_G5ap1zvW7QTteRx_0dZx5tEFIhMippgcnJnjV8EAUQltA2i0-UKiR_HsYjX3HJDTg-acl00te3l0CKDtgwuAFbtuYwNUN1ZAGd5S3g9WsgQd/s400/IMG_4717.JPG" width="223" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hey, 16+ miles later, and still smiling. I think that's the secret. Though this time it was just because I accidentally filled my water bottle with coffee (and possibly some Mountain Dew, though I think it was water)</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJFXtRaPfhjocJw9LUw4M70hw5-Rg01oxLqaQL8qfNk9q4uEkIfiQjOokwqPUmlAFQ04T_JJuE3PUtF0UhZ-iTwQfI31P3nM352hgG7nuoWrmmdThlTGJKzh1zAKKutO_AJMGcF_V9qPot/s1600/IMG_4719.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1334" data-original-width="750" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJFXtRaPfhjocJw9LUw4M70hw5-Rg01oxLqaQL8qfNk9q4uEkIfiQjOokwqPUmlAFQ04T_JJuE3PUtF0UhZ-iTwQfI31P3nM352hgG7nuoWrmmdThlTGJKzh1zAKKutO_AJMGcF_V9qPot/s400/IMG_4719.JPG" width="223" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My sister Christina helping at the aid station</td></tr>
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<div>
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<div>
Things stayed quite good until mile 83, around 2pm. I saw my family again when I stopped by my drop bag tent (positioned conveniently right along the course), and I perhaps inadvisably bragged that I wasn't feeling tired at all. After that, I got really drowsy and a little crabby, but I kept going. I drank coffee and had some caffeinated gel packets, and I started feeling better. I slowed down a lot. The bottoms of my feet screamed, and I thought about changing back to sandals but then remembered how much more it hurt stubbing my toes. Things were getting worse. </div>
<div>
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<div>
Somehow I persevered. I don't know how. I never do. All you can do at the time is keep going. Focus on the next aid station, the next step. Focus on where you are, don't think in terms of miles. Things are never as bad as they tend to seem. I walked less in the sixth lap than I did in the fifth, and before I knew it I was done. I finished in 26-and-a-half hours, slower than the 24 or 25 I was hoping for, but still a comfortable finish.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvnoThHYGOOzF2XJdoPQSqjRLw6bHeE6q9QnTh0GN_A5b8N5V3K7Xtf4pk5qRM5vv3abVvJVie2q6G-rD7Nr2Xwu1zhStFa8Ehzw8GFg7xhG0If6fYvP7anAk_qfHI9LgvzvNvHrm_5Y-a/s1600/IMG_4718.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1334" data-original-width="750" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvnoThHYGOOzF2XJdoPQSqjRLw6bHeE6q9QnTh0GN_A5b8N5V3K7Xtf4pk5qRM5vv3abVvJVie2q6G-rD7Nr2Xwu1zhStFa8Ehzw8GFg7xhG0If6fYvP7anAk_qfHI9LgvzvNvHrm_5Y-a/s320/IMG_4718.JPG" width="179" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What happens to feet who are not prepared to wear shoes...</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFNDqWCrXSiJ5ktRKi4F7mF2ViWpQhhVZVi-S5C2PYHrwP9HscmJblyIMX8XveBXQpuHCwZUpNUSGRH_aFTfasvcP1qZRMU5xMpModfi0nrZwsqwUmt1wn2UKhc0AJEUvxQ4PVKxHHVAAI/s1600/IMG_4723.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1334" data-original-width="750" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFNDqWCrXSiJ5ktRKi4F7mF2ViWpQhhVZVi-S5C2PYHrwP9HscmJblyIMX8XveBXQpuHCwZUpNUSGRH_aFTfasvcP1qZRMU5xMpModfi0nrZwsqwUmt1wn2UKhc0AJEUvxQ4PVKxHHVAAI/s320/IMG_4723.JPG" width="179" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Teenage siblings camping... </td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi7UpYGvHPpmLcLMWzXvw-Ql6WOB1U3NEZe0FzawM41dGLW4lXjgGf3sDIJ58zERJnDHgrdp6YidwAisw1cmuA5FqCSf3LR12Nfue0FptMwplUCT23TwfATFkIEsdUehfoY3ynh0LR4MZn/s1600/unnamed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="992" data-original-width="553" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi7UpYGvHPpmLcLMWzXvw-Ql6WOB1U3NEZe0FzawM41dGLW4lXjgGf3sDIJ58zERJnDHgrdp6YidwAisw1cmuA5FqCSf3LR12Nfue0FptMwplUCT23TwfATFkIEsdUehfoY3ynh0LR4MZn/s320/unnamed.jpg" width="178" /></a></div>
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<div>
I had some lasagna, hung out with my siblings a bit more, and then I took a hot shower (!) and changed. It got dark. Selena brought me some Chipotle, and I took a few bites before falling asleep. I finished the rest in the morning. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKJhhG8HkOjlpTzWzdfm0s3QN-HexPKLVE9pnJcOW2vFdC8AJL0bZnDwDz9snR6Lo0827KLdN717TKb_ck4davMkqHsBYj6YoroJPT84mZcf1PT5BjxVY6fynHOi7zaOLFH44MRy903GLb/s1600/HH-mile67.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="965" data-original-width="624" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKJhhG8HkOjlpTzWzdfm0s3QN-HexPKLVE9pnJcOW2vFdC8AJL0bZnDwDz9snR6Lo0827KLdN717TKb_ck4davMkqHsBYj6YoroJPT84mZcf1PT5BjxVY6fynHOi7zaOLFH44MRy903GLb/s400/HH-mile67.JPG" width="257" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Still smiling at mile 67</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAAkqkw30yzvBgg1J0kYFJZFwIIU1kRfxWBgYOLEo1vfAjsbeeuOji7rmdm1yp7WI1Sl4oQtaIq7TaxLIGi_pZhQq6PcM_N4ULm3H89F8N90TTL0myZm2-_T_cpJiUiksIJSzLG8ptAkMZ/s1600/21430614_1706356399375871_2406642247166899970_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="539" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAAkqkw30yzvBgg1J0kYFJZFwIIU1kRfxWBgYOLEo1vfAjsbeeuOji7rmdm1yp7WI1Sl4oQtaIq7TaxLIGi_pZhQq6PcM_N4ULm3H89F8N90TTL0myZm2-_T_cpJiUiksIJSzLG8ptAkMZ/s400/21430614_1706356399375871_2406642247166899970_n.jpg" width="223" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Finished!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2ZzIueveAVXughZcHiXl-MhcpDjkXiJxKY2ZneBDlETgscESg08TAkw_RyTnUfIyLNJOi3pGIZq83bJMThkK3gTxOZk82A3B3w3nRZ3g0AZgOW_eubruMLNisqlNt0fR_ENZXX5RnM1d7/s1600/21463128_1706356422709202_395599225019624549_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="539" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2ZzIueveAVXughZcHiXl-MhcpDjkXiJxKY2ZneBDlETgscESg08TAkw_RyTnUfIyLNJOi3pGIZq83bJMThkK3gTxOZk82A3B3w3nRZ3g0AZgOW_eubruMLNisqlNt0fR_ENZXX5RnM1d7/s400/21463128_1706356422709202_395599225019624549_n.jpg" width="223" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And now to eat! I had to put on a sweatshirt because I quickly got very very cold.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwgtLYvyEQhWVi7o5BYEsQ4_YtxF6g-fkIM3ZGO4oqGZMxwYhxc4hn0XTKZm6_CDukYHNi16CUxTWVjepWeVjMhfpEkaLH6ybOkUsjrE9IgLYTvG-ZlTQ_1Kv2ogwYuapMqQhZFvJp_ZBS/s1600/21430304_10209981063875319_3809751588610180877_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwgtLYvyEQhWVi7o5BYEsQ4_YtxF6g-fkIM3ZGO4oqGZMxwYhxc4hn0XTKZm6_CDukYHNi16CUxTWVjepWeVjMhfpEkaLH6ybOkUsjrE9IgLYTvG-ZlTQ_1Kv2ogwYuapMqQhZFvJp_ZBS/s400/21430304_10209981063875319_3809751588610180877_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">These things I got for finishing. The bus is because I placed (5th) in my age group!</td></tr>
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Tim Gorichanazhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16304578712474887920noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029454871308050507.post-19356879084976514722017-07-17T04:13:00.000-07:002017-07-17T04:13:32.052-07:00Vermont 100 - The DNF Streak Continues<a href="https://vermont100.com/" target="_blank">Vermont 100</a> has been on my mind since I first started running ultras. It's one of the nation's oldest hundreds, and in my (long and slow) quest to do a race in every state it was the first one to come to mind for Vermont. I signed up in 2016 but couldn't run because a friend's wedding fell on the same day, so I aimed for 2017 instead.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw0oMjdoc7inDUIvm5dBJIMH-uF4720Eys44hmzJrVyAXAe63TMihjMeqrnyPJxef-kRqSNmH6aRbmHdUxUF5o_D_LRcusdUnSrKe0PoOWlZjtP4PFcv1fDlj-IasZ4kNRSJyXSmu_SZyw/s1600/IMG_5437.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw0oMjdoc7inDUIvm5dBJIMH-uF4720Eys44hmzJrVyAXAe63TMihjMeqrnyPJxef-kRqSNmH6aRbmHdUxUF5o_D_LRcusdUnSrKe0PoOWlZjtP4PFcv1fDlj-IasZ4kNRSJyXSmu_SZyw/s320/IMG_5437.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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For all the mythos of Vermont 100 I'd built up in my imagination, I knew nothing about the course, as it turned out. I expected it to be a bit hilly, I guess, and green. I knew it was more or less entirely on dirt roads. Understatements.<br />
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I approached Vermont 100 on a long DNF streak. The last ultras I finished were <a href="http://niketoldmeto.blogspot.com/2016/04/zion-100-mile.html" target="_blank">Zion 100 in April 2016</a>, the <a href="http://niketoldmeto.blogspot.com/2016/05/first-track-race-and-win-at-dawn-2-dusk.html">12-hour at Dawn 2 Dusk 2 Dawn</a> in May, and then a small, New Jersey 50k in June. The next month, I DNFed at Big Butts 100k (in Mississippi, due to the heat). Then in September I got a major injury that I think was a stress fracture in my left fibula, and I couldn't run for most of September and October. At the end of October I attempted Javelina Jundred, notwithstanding that I hadn't run since my marathon six weeks prior. I DNFed at mile 40 from what I described as heat exhaustion. It was in the 90s and pure sun, sure, but perhaps part of my problem was not having run sufficiently in training. I took off for a while then (except for running the Philadelphia marathon-and-a-half weekend in November), and didn't run at all in December. Starting in January I eased back into the elliptical, and then in March I started running. My next ultra was the 12-hour at Dawn 2 Dusk 2 Dawn in mid-May, where I had to call it quits after 8 hours (and I stopped running after 2 or so) because my injury was flaring up again.<br />
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Finally, starting in June, my running became consistent enough for me to go longer, and by the end of the month I was up to 50-mile weeks and I'd done two 20-mile runs. I had been focusing on building volume, and I only dedicated a very little bit of attention to hill training. I felt a bit undertrained for a 100-mile, but I thought it might be enough for a finish. To my credit, though, I'd been doing weightlifting three times a week and making consistent gains there: my one-rep max for squat is about 208 pounds; for deadlift 370; and for bench press 163.<br />
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In the last pre-race email, the race director warned of mud. It's been a wet spring in Vermont, she said. Since I run in sandals, mud is a big worry for me. If there's just a little, it's fine, but if there are long stretches of wet and unavoidable mud, all bets are off. I brought my pair of shoes just in case, but it wasn't until after I'd left all my drop bags at the pre-race meeting that I decided to actually run in them. Consequently, I didn't pack extra socks.<br />
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Anyway, I set out wearing shoes and compression socks—when I was packing, I didn't seriously expect to be running in shoes, so I didn't bring any normal socks.<br />
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Immediately, it was a lot of fun. The race begins with a long, encouraging downhill. And the fun continued for a while. I was making great time, marching with gusto up the hills and cruising like the Batmobile down.<br />
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I first started to get worried around mile 15 when my muscles were tighter and tireder than they ought to have been. But part of ultrarunning is keeping going even when your muscles are tight and tired. For a long time, things didn't get much worse.<br />
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Soon the horses were around. One thing I learned just prior to the race was that Vermont 100 is also a horse race, and it was a fun experience running alongside horses. The aid stations were great, with some of them having homemade baked goods along with the usual fare, and the volunteers were helpful, always offering to fill my bottles, etc. The countryside was gorgeous—everything deep green, tall trees, sprawling mountainside farmland.<br />
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I heard a lot of interesting conversations. Everything from, "That's not a frog, you idiot, that's a flower," to "I think Billy died last night. I got a call from Margaret and it didn't sound good, she just said there was an emergency. I don't think she wanted to say it in a text, and she couldn't get a call to go through."<br />
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The course quickly caught up to me. It was endless hills. Virtually no flat stretches along the entire course. Several climbs that took 15 minutes or more to hike up. And I kept hearing, "It's like this to the very end." As usual I wondered often if I could make it. But I could keep going, so I did.<br />
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My muscles got tighter and tireder, and by mile 50 I was in poor shape. I had to walk more, and slower. I sure wish I'd packed some <a href="https://wintercresthealth.com/product/wintercrest-healing-balm-2-oz-jar/" target="_blank">Wintercrest</a> in my mile 47 drop bag. I hoped that if I just kept going, things would loosen up.<br />
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Long story short, the next 10 miles were the same, and after mile 60 things got really bad. I could only shuffle along, my quads stabbing with each step, and the hills had me out of breath. I had to stop and take breaks. By mile 62 I was exasperated and my legs were rock solid. I had been thinking about dropping out at that aid station for the past 4 miles, but for some reason I just kept going. Shortly after tha aid station I realized that was a bad idea. I didn't think I could even make it to the next aid station. By this point even going downhill was slow and painful.<br />
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The ultrarunning ethos says to keep going until you simply can't take another step. So long as you can take at least one more step, then you should take it. Part of me wondered if I should slog onward through the night, for the next 14 hours, at this pace and in this pain. But some quick math showed me that around midnight I'd no longer be making the cutoffs at the pace I was going (which was, moreover, slowing).<br />
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But first I had to make it to somewhere I could drop out. By this time I was a mile and a half from the next aid station and the same distance from the prior. So I sat on a rock to gather the gumption to carry on. That's when a patrol van pulled up and asked if I was okay, and the rest is history.<br />
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Dropping out doesn't feel good. The student in me frets over the grand "waste" of money—if I paid for the registration, car rental, hotel and supplies and spent all this time coming up here, shouldn't I finish? Who have I let down? My friends and family, all the people on Facebook... myself? There's always the question: Mightn't it have gotten better? Couldn't I have finished? I'm not sure. It doesn't seem all that productive to think about that right now, because all it does is show that I already forgot how bad things really were out there at that time.<br />
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I'm also worried that I have preserved my long DNF streak. That is not encouraging. Will I ever finish another 100 miler?<br />
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For now, I'm going to resume training and do another one this fall. I'd like to keep myself in the Western States lottery (though that will be a whole nother horror if I get selected), so I signed up for Hallucination 100 in September. By then I will have time to bring up my mileage sufficiently. One good outcome from VT100 is that I think I can pronounce myself no longer injured, if I could make it 60 miles with no sign of a flare-up.<br />
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I did have a few successes at VT100, which are worth mentioning: It was hot and humid, but that didn't bother me. I think Philly acclimated me well, and I had a solid strategy of using ice (eating it, filling bandanas with it) to stay cool. I also didn't have any chafing, even though my Orange Mud quiver usually chafes my underarms (don't ask me why I was wearing it...). I never ran out of water (partly because the aid stations were quite plentiful!). I didn't have any stomach issues (more-than-usual bathroom breaks notwithstanding). And the shoes didn't bother me at all.Tim Gorichanazhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16304578712474887920noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029454871308050507.post-44014489556091281942017-03-01T06:09:00.000-08:002017-07-17T04:13:43.107-07:00The world of ultrarunningI have a new essay on running and the experience of flow out in <a href="https://sinkholemag.com/tim-gorichanaz-3-1-17" target="_blank">Sinkhole</a>, an online culture magazine. <a href="https://sinkholemag.com/tim-gorichanaz-3-1-17" target="_blank">Check it out</a>!Tim Gorichanazhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16304578712474887920noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029454871308050507.post-38548439509665858942017-01-24T10:49:00.001-08:002017-01-24T10:49:27.554-08:00Little moments in ultrarunning<div>
I'm a PhD student in information science, and some of my research deals with the information behavior of ultrarunners—what information we use and how we use it as part of our running. Sometimes it's a matter of solving a problem (for instance, an injury), sometimes it's about improving our performance or enjoyment, sometimes it's about planning out seasons or finding new races, and sometimes it's just about entertainment. Everything we do involves information of one kind of another.</div>
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I conducted some research at a 100 mile race last year, and one of the questions I asked the runners in a pre-race survey was: <i><b>Tell me about a recent time in training or a race when a specific piece of information came in handy.</b></i> What I got was a smattering of little moments in ultrarunning. As one participant observed, "Little tips are usually HUGE. Like having a small towel at drop points."</div>
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In that spirit, I present here a list of times where runners used information on the run. It gives a nice, kaleidoscopic view into what's involved in running an ultra. Give it a read or a skim, and you might even discover a "little tip" for yourself.</div>
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<ul>
<li>I read a blog where a guy ran a 100 mile, and he used Ensure. I tried it and it works great!</li>
<li>In training, experimenting with nutrition used information about fructose and glucose absorbsion pathways</li>
<li>Pre-running the course or part of the course, practice with the gear I will use and make tweaks</li>
<li>Dealing with fueling issues based on symptoms that I addressed quickly and moved beyond</li>
<li>Music is helpful when I'm tired or bored</li>
<li>Take care of blisters immediately—check! </li>
<li>Tailwind can replace GU and save you in the heat—that has worked for the most part</li>
<li>The personal stories I have heard actually help me through many moments. It's going to be hard.</li>
<li>I recently was pacing my husband during his 100 miler. It had rained all day and the trail conditions were muddy and washed out, meaning really horrible footing. I recalled an article I read about driving from our hips so I just focused on propelling through the mud using my glutes and hip flexors rather than small muscles in my lower leg. It really seemed to help by just switching my focus on where the effort was coming from.</li>
<li>Not taking sports drink at aid stations (stomach problems).</li>
<li>I bought Pop Tarts instead of honey stinger waffles. They're basically the same thing, but a fraction of the price and they work great!</li>
<li>Changed hydration system to a vest instead of a belt.</li>
<li>As I've started doing longer training runs, information about nutrition (especially calories per hour) has come in handy, especially that coming from online interviews with other ultra runners.</li>
<li>Eat often and intake something sweet and something salty at each aid station. Even when I'm not hungry, every ultra I run I will eat sweet/salty combo at every aid station, and I that keeps me eating and my electrolyte balance in check.</li>
<li>Listening to your body during a training plan and knowing when to dial back to avoid burnout or injury. Training plans are great, but not tailored to your lifestyle, so modification is necessary, and often.</li>
<li>Adding layers for the night leg of my last 100, based on the weather forecast.</li>
<li>I train mostly by heart rate so it's handy to know what it feels like when I'm in certain HR zones and whether or not to push hills, push downhills, etc. During a race, constant weather evaluation, coupled with body signals and time of day, is always good for determining clothing changes to ward off potential disasters, like hypothermia or heat stroke.</li>
<li>My training plan came in handy because it helped me make sure I was getting the miles I needed and staying on track.</li>
<li>Usually I find some inspiring ultrarunner's story and use it as motivation!</li>
<li>My first hundred miler, I sensed that I was chafed and experiencing hot spots around the 25th mile. I adjusted my pace accordingly until I had gotten to the next aid station at mile 30 to thoroughly assess. I found I had blistered up quite intensely, so I modified my strategy with the goal of completing the race hours after my targeted time of sub-24 hours. Understanding the true severity of my challenge and the risk I faced of not completing the remaining 70 miles on blisters with limited resources in the race was very useful.</li>
<li>Distance to next aid station so I knew how much water and nutrition I need to carry with me.</li>
<li>I carefully count calories to make sure I do not go over what my stomach has tolerated in the past.</li>
<li>Lost on a training run, had to refer to map and align with altimeter on watch and GPS track back location to get my bearings.</li>
<li>I almost never use bug spray, but everyone else was putting it on before a run last weekend, and I had some "hippie" (ie non-chemical, plant based, organic) spray in my bag. I'm glad I used it because I got a few bites, but there were clouds of mosquitoes.</li>
<li>You can throw up midrace to reset the stomach and continue on in the race.</li>
<li>During Three Days of Syllamo I was very aware of looking for course markers since I had read in several race reports that previous runners had said it was easy to get lost.</li>
<li>Self assessment, minor cramping, how to address, selectrolytes, water and slow down some. </li>
<li>In my last 50k I know how long each section should take to know if I'm on pace for a PR.</li>
<li>Getting drenched & becoming hyperthermic. I realized I needed better rain gear</li>
<li>Knowing the course helped me be able to plan my race.</li>
<li>I plan to use an article on heat training from UltraRunning Magazine for a 100 mile event I am doing in July.</li>
</ul>
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Tim Gorichanazhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16304578712474887920noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029454871308050507.post-32117375234577980932016-10-17T07:53:00.002-07:002016-10-17T07:53:40.910-07:00What can we learn from running? Like most (all?) ultrarunners, I find the sport tremendously rewarding.<br />
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There's so much that ultrarunning bestows upon its practitioners. There's fitness and weight management. There's the rush of setting a PR. There's the excitement of seeing a new part of the world.<br />
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But ultrarunning also offers other rewards that we may not always appreciate. They're simple, subtle, quiet.<br />
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I'll always remember one of the first meetings with my supervisor when I began my PhD program. She told me that doing a PhD takes a lot of time, and that I need to protect my time and be careful of how I spend my time and...—she spent an awful long time dancing around the suggestion that I should run less and work more. There's no time to run for two hours a day when research needs researching!<br />
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Perhaps needless to say (after all, when do ultrarunners listen to doctors, medical or otherwise, who tell them to stop running?), I didn't stop running. I didn't temper my mileage. And now that I've finished two years of my PhD program, running all the way through, I'm confident enough to say that the proof is in the pudding. And I'd say that I've been successful in my program not despite my running, but because of it.<br />
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I recently wrote a paper, <a href="http://doi.org/10.1177/0165551516670099" target="_blank">now out in the Journal of Information Science</a>, about how ultrarunners build understanding. I was trying to learn about the process of building understanding, and I was looking for how ultrarunners came to understand ultrarunning. But in this work I discovered that ultrarunners, in understanding ultrarunning better, also came to understand themselves better. Indeed, philosophers such as Martin Heidegger have long suggested that <i>all</i> understanding is essentially self-understanding. Long story short, I discerned three factors that go into the building of understanding in ultrarunning.<br />
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<ol>
<li><b>Time.</b> Understanding requires time, and ultrarunners aren't afraid to take the time it takes.</li>
<li><b>Struggle.</b> Understanding doesn't come easily, and ultrarunners aren't afraid to struggle and endure.</li>
<li><b>Perspective.</b> Understanding requires the seeking and reconciliation of multiple perspectives of a thing, and ultrarunners do that, too: In preparing for a race, for example, we'll look for race reports, course descriptions, maps, videos, photos, Strava data and more—all different perspectives of the same thing. </li>
</ol>
Looking back, I see how these three factors have contributed to my own understanding of ultrarunning. And this has helped me appreciate a new reward I've reaped from my running experience: practice in understanding. For as so many people have said before, the lessons you learn on the trail can be applied elsewhere. In ultrarunning, taking time, undergoing struggle, and reconciling multiple perspectives have tangible, concrete results—and so we take those skills with us as we walk through life. As an ultrarunner, I don't cower at the blank page. I don't worry about writing my dissertation. I don't get overwhelmed that easily. It's not because I'm some sort of godly specimen—it's because I've practiced. And without ultrarunning, I wouldn't have gotten that practice.<br />
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Apparently it's prime time for realizations like this: <a href="http://well.blogs.nytimes.com/2016/07/13/can-running-make-you-smarter/?_r=1" target="_blank">NYT recently reported on a study that suggests</a> endurance running stimulates a pathway that improves learning and memory, and <a href="http://time.com/3843445/exercising-higher-priority-business/?xid=time_socialflow_facebook" target="_blank">Time published a manifesto on why</a> exercising is the keystone of a successful career.<br />
<br />Tim Gorichanazhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16304578712474887920noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029454871308050507.post-67589879614469031502016-05-17T06:34:00.001-07:002016-05-17T18:18:07.154-07:00First Track Race (and Win!) at Dawn 2 Dusk 2 DawnI was trying to remember the last time I'd set foot on a track. I guess it was high school gym class, during the running unit, which I dreaded. And now, not too many years later, I voluntarily brought myself to a high school track and pledged to run around it for twelve hours straight. I was doing the 12-hour race at <a href="https://runsignup.com/Race/PA/SharonHill/DawnToDuskToDawnUltras" target="_blank">Dawn to Dusk to Dawn Ultras</a> (just the Dusk-to-Dawn portion).<br />
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Now that I've done a few 100-mile races—and only <a href="http://niketoldmeto.blogspot.com/2015/06/my-first-100-mile.html" target="_blank">the first of them</a> was truly terrible, taking almost 32 hours—running for twelve hours wasn't a big deal. The whole running-around-a-track thing might have been really bad, boring, etc., or maybe not. That's what I wanted to find out—it's why I signed up back in January.<br />
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But I really wasn't feeling great about this run, on the day of. I played capture the flag with my Students Run team on Thursday instead of our shoulda-been easy few miles, and I was embarrassingly sore from the sprinting on a hot day. Then there was the whole 7pm start, which meant I wouldn't be running shortly after waking, but rather after I'd been up the whole day. I tried taking a midday nap, but I didn't get much sleep. And with being awake comes eating—I usually toe the line basically fasted with maybe a little food in my stomach, but today I must have had all sorts of stuff along the digestive party line. I tried to stick with easily digestible stuff—collagen-infused liquids, no fiber—but you never know. And then it was raining.<br />
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Still, it's not like I was going to not run, so I packed up my duffel bag at 4 and went to catch the 5:21 trolley out west. The trolley was 15 minutes late, which made me nervous—I was downloading the Uber app when it finally came. And then it was a 20-minute walk from the Darby Transportation Center to the high school in Sharon Hill. Trolley tardiness notwithstanding, this was the easiest commute to a race start I'd ever had!<br />
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In the rain I met Bill, one of the race directors, who checked me in and showed me around, and then I sat under a canopy until the 7pm start with some of the Valley Forge Military Academy cadets who were volunteering at the race.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5zWvJjtO6IYpZyrxTccrq-KykeBU7wsiKYvo8GweN0kMF_ZHNukDvFboT3tSV4zroPKbW-sAiPOmxZypvQggfgVp1axmhA4JoU6EspaLmzeqtFCOPZNwZsr73_XSDXMx4zc5lcE8uubDA/s1600/13217253_10208288228296669_1061945262022284648_o-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5zWvJjtO6IYpZyrxTccrq-KykeBU7wsiKYvo8GweN0kMF_ZHNukDvFboT3tSV4zroPKbW-sAiPOmxZypvQggfgVp1axmhA4JoU6EspaLmzeqtFCOPZNwZsr73_XSDXMx4zc5lcE8uubDA/s320/13217253_10208288228296669_1061945262022284648_o-2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">Buckling down in the final hour. It was hard to keep myself running after I hit my goal of 100k... but there were 40 minutes to go! Photo by <a href="http://www.israeltherunner.com/" target="_blank">Israel Archuletta</a>.<br />
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At 7pm the rain stopped and the race started. The track was splashy for the first few hours, so I stopped periodically to dry off my feet and sandals (I was worried about getting blisters). And at sunset they were having some trouble getting the track lights on, so we had some wonderful peacefulness in the dark for a while.<br />
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I really loved running around in circles. Wonder what that says about me. It was relaxing, mind-emptying, wonderful. I didn't have to pick out my footsteps or watch out for anything. I didn't have to worry about getting lost. It was regular, predictable—hard to come by in a sport characterized by its irregularity and unpredictability.<br />
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The thing I didn't like was how competitive it made me. When I run ultras, I never think about place or winning or whatever. I just focus on staying comfortable and strong the whole time—or as long as I can, at any rate. But at this race I could see my stats every 400 meters: how long that lap took me, how much slower it was than my previous lap, what place I was in, how far I was behind the next guy. I was in second place from the get-go, where I stayed for a few hours. But I was only 2–3 laps behind the leader, depending when you checked. And of course I could see him across the track at any given point, so it naturally became my mission to overtake him, like it or not. Once I did, around the fifth hour, I think, I was paranoid about losing my lead, which pushed me to keep running. I barely talked to anyone—also somewhat unusual for me, when it comes to ultrarunning—because for the most part our paces were so different, and because I didn't want to slow or speed even a little bit.<br />
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Things got tough in the deep night, so I put on music. I listened to an audiobook for a while, but I couldn't pay attention to it for more than an hour. My legs gradually became sorer, and my calf muscles were threatening to strain, and my feet were getting tender. I put on my calf-compression socks and kept going. There was nothing left in my brain to try and stop me, I guess. My stomach was a bit upset, too. (Good thing I didn't go for the pizza in the first hour, or things would have been even worse!) I tried eating things and I tried not eating things, and then I decided to just ignore it.<br />
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Sunrise, as usual, was rebirth. Though I wasn't as tired in the night as I've gotten during 100-milers, I still experienced a surge of energy when I saw it getting light out, and that energy stayed with me till the end.<br />
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In the end I completed 261 laps (almost 65 miles). My final lap was my fastest—1:48. Most laps were about 2:30, but the ones where I stopped to rifle through my bag or take a bathroom break were slower. Considering I don't feel 100% yet after my last 100-mile, and how I was feeling pretty sore starting out, I'm happy! (My main goal was 100k (62 miles), and my stretch goal was 75 miles.)<br />
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In any case, my performance was enough to get first place. It was the first time I'd ever won a race!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cool handmade awards</td></tr>
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And I have to say, it was inspiring seeing the 24-hour folks out there. Some of them (world record and/or Team USA contenders) were running faster than me, and they'd been going for twelve hours longer! I've got half a mind to sign up for the 24 next year to see how far I get...<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me at the awards ceremony, awards in hand. Photo by <a href="http://www.israeltherunner.com/" target="_blank">Israel Archuletta</a>. As RD Bill Schultz keeps saying, "May your goals forever be in sight."</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZPOaGSoEwKZ2l7DP6HTLWDhyphenhyphenwSNwDsTj-JrFciNMhHOfV9t-FJrsmQQTCA_AOTR3u9glMrCygu_dy8-Rl5Ap7oZ-JzQuVfDx9tvsU6I2gZgQwOEpzfdwvyeWFvaPFjETmDt1XubhPDSIW/s1600/laps.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZPOaGSoEwKZ2l7DP6HTLWDhyphenhyphenwSNwDsTj-JrFciNMhHOfV9t-FJrsmQQTCA_AOTR3u9glMrCygu_dy8-Rl5Ap7oZ-JzQuVfDx9tvsU6I2gZgQwOEpzfdwvyeWFvaPFjETmDt1XubhPDSIW/s640/laps.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chart of my lap times. You can see where I was getting pretty tired around the 50-mile mark, as well as after I hit 100k.</td></tr>
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<br />Tim Gorichanazhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16304578712474887920noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029454871308050507.post-6154505465337796282016-04-11T06:02:00.000-07:002017-02-16T05:19:07.323-08:00Zion 100 MileThe thing about reading someone's race report is you can skip parts, jump around, skim. If you were actually running the race, on the other hand, you'd have no choice but to take every, last, step—in order, one at a time.<br />
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If I were a good enough writer, I'd be able to help you feel what it's like to run 100 miles. Sometimes I think it'd be possible to do such a thing. Not right now, though.<br />
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Of course, I could tell you about some things that happened on the run. I could relay the facts, give you the play-by-play.<br />
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To be sure, some really terrible things happened: In the first two miles—it was still dark, and I didn't have my headlamp—I nicked my big toe on a rock. I didn't think anything of it until I felt an unusual slippery warmth underfoot. I looked down and saw blood everywhere. I quickly stanched the wound with my bandana and carried on. The bandage came loose and I retied it, again and again. Later, around mile 20, I thought I was going to have to throw in the towel after experiencing a throbbing headache, debilitating leg cramps and the kind of drowsiness that rarely manifests at 10 a.m. I was on a 7.5-mile section of petrified sand dunes,<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6029454871308050507#one" name="fromone">*</a> and the sun was beating down. And then I ran out of water.<br />
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As all ultrarunners know, though, things always get better. Some hilarious things happened. I tried taking a selfie once and I ran into a prickly pear bush (deservedly). Later I got to pee off a cliff, fulfilling the dreams of every 10-year-old boy. At one point I thought I was gaining on my friend Shaina, who was also running the race, and I said coolly, "Well, fancy seeing you here," to a young woman who turned out to be a complete stranger. She turned around and said, "Oh, hey! How's it going?" To which I, still coolly, just said, "Oh, good. See you later!" and cruised on ahead. Around mile 52 my mom showed up with McDonald's, which I hadn't eaten in years, and so I had part of a cheeseburger because why not. One of the best parts of the race was running a six-mile dirt road in the dark; the terrain was easy enough that I didn't need to see, so I turned off my headlamp for a while and walked among the stars. It was incredible.<br />
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But still, it probably took you like one or two minutes to read those paragraphs.<br />
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Based on that, can you really wrap your head around what it's like to keep moving, from dawn to dusk to dawn, climbing mesa after mesa in the southern Utah desert? Being subject to the whims of the desert weather, knowing you need to eat but worrying it'll upset your stomach even more, trying to remember, again, why you do this to yourself. Stopping at an aid station at mile 85 and, from under the canopy, feeling the rain evolve into a torrential downpour and waiting to see if it'll let up soon or if you'll have to go out in it—when that cot in the corner is calling your name.<br />
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Maybe the only way you can really know what that's like is by doing it.<br />
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But why? I think there's tremendous value in ultrarunning, the nature of which I am still trying to unravel. (Indeed, it's part of my academic research.) I have to concede that it's probably not for everyone, but I do think virtually everyone can do it. (As much as I get lambasted for suggesting as much.) 100 miles is far, but it's not that far. It's hard, but it's not that hard. It doesn't take great athletic ability, per se, but rather a peculiar mix of smarts and idiocy. You have to be dumb enough to sign up but smart enough to finish. If you want to be reductionistic about it, running 100 miles is a series of thousands of micro-decisions. It's cognitively taxing, probably more than it is physically taxing. It's not about exerting yourself physically—rather, it's a practice in coming to grips with a seemingly-endless low-level discomfort. It's hard, but it's not that hard. This paragraph probably seems absurd to people who aren't already ultrarunners, so I'll stop it here.<br />
<br />
On that note, I'm not sure where this "race report" is going, so I'll wrap it up. I'd like to give huge thanks to my mom who came out to support me on this little adventure. And to Max and Shaina, who it was great hanging out with before, during and after the run.<br />
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P.S.: If you want to get something of the ultrarunning experience without leaving your seat, just keep rereading this post for the next 26 hours. For added depth of experience, go outside, preferably while it's raining.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
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<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="one">*</a>The locals call this "slickrock," but I call it "spacerock." It's found on top of some of the mesas. It's basically an enormous undulating rock with holes and chasms all over the place. Like running on an asteroid. (<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6029454871308050507#fromone">Go back up</a>.)<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Click photos to embiggen.</i></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix2qdaFmzDwrowBemw1IhwCMq9tNwHpGBgPm1mIIyrR7KBqKK8e_bLRUN4JKe1ufyKZEMe5zXHtVRJvl7FyLFpoF85P0JF5KBhM8qyJGAqeu2V2mag6sKb1FaOIb-8AFcEO-W1bw1TN_Sr/s1600/IMG_1659.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix2qdaFmzDwrowBemw1IhwCMq9tNwHpGBgPm1mIIyrR7KBqKK8e_bLRUN4JKe1ufyKZEMe5zXHtVRJvl7FyLFpoF85P0JF5KBhM8qyJGAqeu2V2mag6sKb1FaOIb-8AFcEO-W1bw1TN_Sr/s640/IMG_1659.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The expo</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzDW506fiV_GNR3bnTayELgeq-nVQcCKo-2KPgQBT04pDrVDxGcxNfrXMy0LdOFukIaE2EpkEcywUnlXWvpUmF2imSnDstB4EcluP25QFvWnCumiPEftj1At0X5hNY0UuE7DcpCxTsDUma/s1600/IMG_1664.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzDW506fiV_GNR3bnTayELgeq-nVQcCKo-2KPgQBT04pDrVDxGcxNfrXMy0LdOFukIaE2EpkEcywUnlXWvpUmF2imSnDstB4EcluP25QFvWnCumiPEftj1At0X5hNY0UuE7DcpCxTsDUma/s640/IMG_1664.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ascending the Flying Monkey mesa at dawn. Even with my toe bleeding prodigiously, I couldn't help but ogle at the view. Sprawling mesas in every direction, and a parade of headlamps like fireflies.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieFQEv-5i1HQ1fRbz3JZUw8RYFuboLKK70QteottSB8hjjAxDHLHKlM5-9KeEQkTutmbzwMuLQjpydhKhOcG913SZ_kZD1t6ArnjpVFw3zGPkyqJ0IK45wd-FQO5p61rtpu0RM528JfEi-/s1600/IMG_1668.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieFQEv-5i1HQ1fRbz3JZUw8RYFuboLKK70QteottSB8hjjAxDHLHKlM5-9KeEQkTutmbzwMuLQjpydhKhOcG913SZ_kZD1t6ArnjpVFw3zGPkyqJ0IK45wd-FQO5p61rtpu0RM528JfEi-/s640/IMG_1668.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A bit higher up Flying Monkey</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6br2CtESx90rN5pchSGekW4Du2Guj6cwyE8pxomltoiTVFveCXPlID6e3b446CfHUpbmYVW1icCJ0ssInax1o4UkmTcTYL87cSJ-QYAfGSPBK6NoRMQHneUUnWm1wC16jL0w-jMHr68SJ/s1600/IMG_1674.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6br2CtESx90rN5pchSGekW4Du2Guj6cwyE8pxomltoiTVFveCXPlID6e3b446CfHUpbmYVW1icCJ0ssInax1o4UkmTcTYL87cSJ-QYAfGSPBK6NoRMQHneUUnWm1wC16jL0w-jMHr68SJ/s640/IMG_1674.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fortunately it was cloudy for most of the day. The high-sun parts were barely tolerable. If it were sunny the whole day, I'm not sure I would have finished.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_Zz_8JKM8j7W0xf3VsMqZBOc7PBrXAiRlEd_7r3TeSm27sbdBaPQaGA5FVQEFP9Mcp5O9DxmGscnXAmkmcamzUPqlxPzIin62xss6kXMDhyphenhyphenABKgDntRLiyw-MlOTsNFRIIQ56CoQq9Jyj/s1600/IMG_1676.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_Zz_8JKM8j7W0xf3VsMqZBOc7PBrXAiRlEd_7r3TeSm27sbdBaPQaGA5FVQEFP9Mcp5O9DxmGscnXAmkmcamzUPqlxPzIin62xss6kXMDhyphenhyphenABKgDntRLiyw-MlOTsNFRIIQ56CoQq9Jyj/s640/IMG_1676.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Around mile 14 cruising on some flat areas</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEistD9GNWYlRMR45pJpkutg-sHD9PJdDgKfoZN-q5owF0Kf6irahcUkD00IgHD8KflvhnVKql1j8fAHEf6uRIZHWuQvdyjd7IwXUa49RA1g0gNQvPnJDj5RchbbVwqCg0biakoKel4zoBcy/s1600/IMG_1677.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEistD9GNWYlRMR45pJpkutg-sHD9PJdDgKfoZN-q5owF0Kf6irahcUkD00IgHD8KflvhnVKql1j8fAHEf6uRIZHWuQvdyjd7IwXUa49RA1g0gNQvPnJDj5RchbbVwqCg0biakoKel4zoBcy/s640/IMG_1677.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the course's smaller ascents</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQpMLDexR1ynacpqnkL6eJ9ncK0XuzBdYXaByr9O3AYkvn9NMgsXPqCkLn792soQlo1vF8pTfu6D1qBhsA7FZJYa6PC8RXuOcILA2hFxM6MUmBF4TIZgs8P5m2VRncI8RB5dvcD20T3FKw/s1600/IMG_1679.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQpMLDexR1ynacpqnkL6eJ9ncK0XuzBdYXaByr9O3AYkvn9NMgsXPqCkLn792soQlo1vF8pTfu6D1qBhsA7FZJYa6PC8RXuOcILA2hFxM6MUmBF4TIZgs8P5m2VRncI8RB5dvcD20T3FKw/s640/IMG_1679.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thought I should have a self-portrait from the race. Shortly after taking this photo was my run-in with the nopal.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV-u-x6JLysNzpKhKmmXYAIrxrJBGcry8eDGxCwcNbf2j31n51OuoSGvoHxDK7wkT9bqp_u6gYTeHTSTbLISTtrjS4LcTohWmh2JphVWGNIMaLly9e2S6ewANTqZolwuNv7Vcgi16gCY0s/s1600/IMG_1682.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV-u-x6JLysNzpKhKmmXYAIrxrJBGcry8eDGxCwcNbf2j31n51OuoSGvoHxDK7wkT9bqp_u6gYTeHTSTbLISTtrjS4LcTohWmh2JphVWGNIMaLly9e2S6ewANTqZolwuNv7Vcgi16gCY0s/s640/IMG_1682.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The photos don't do justice to the striking scenery. We were running among these ancient mesas for the whole course—perhaps that's why I was so out of breath.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt8EGJn9G3C2OaEe5Igy5zpjOw49W65QEFBuk5dxl0Ey5O2nYub82HFTeZCug9hkxuIZQIiiEJjlDkSZXWBL6moFX4LGMkIS70QZYxfpqhab3vYJ8cDnwM6c03FeIo4-9eAhyphenhyphenBvuAao31c/s1600/IMG_1683.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt8EGJn9G3C2OaEe5Igy5zpjOw49W65QEFBuk5dxl0Ey5O2nYub82HFTeZCug9hkxuIZQIiiEJjlDkSZXWBL6moFX4LGMkIS70QZYxfpqhab3vYJ8cDnwM6c03FeIo4-9eAhyphenhyphenBvuAao31c/s640/IMG_1683.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The race was right in time for the first wildflower blooms. Amidst the red clay and greenish shrubbery were here-and-there explosions of yellow, red and purple flowers.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh82xcfHoLYECbAsw5BI-NR7yCqtltnwoSf3THMgBKUji-MOk7cxRqgsBg-LvVf6Ui2JGex1EI-BWXtReYIN5Z_oTaOF4wfB_zQyOYe-l7xVUnPy4nLnZvuAp3tCJ4lK198UrklrkEx1aVz/s1600/IMG_1687.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh82xcfHoLYECbAsw5BI-NR7yCqtltnwoSf3THMgBKUji-MOk7cxRqgsBg-LvVf6Ui2JGex1EI-BWXtReYIN5Z_oTaOF4wfB_zQyOYe-l7xVUnPy4nLnZvuAp3tCJ4lK198UrklrkEx1aVz/s640/IMG_1687.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking down from the edge of Guacamole Trail</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0H5tnsz7oA4_VaicIDtExA9E-bskC-JqqtvfEyoI7LSyM1h9mOjuMPq1BYz7yZyuUKIL5x5fB2krcHMbsZuTWyCr0Nj4fltLQ7S0v_sNWerqb9tGp-knwFwQmmdCFNxkTmR81cxNnHdGP/s1600/IMG_1688.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0H5tnsz7oA4_VaicIDtExA9E-bskC-JqqtvfEyoI7LSyM1h9mOjuMPq1BYz7yZyuUKIL5x5fB2krcHMbsZuTWyCr0Nj4fltLQ7S0v_sNWerqb9tGp-knwFwQmmdCFNxkTmR81cxNnHdGP/s640/IMG_1688.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I used to be down there, but now I'm up here!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTlp8oNM2kWJMI5AdzD_Hgj3cJ3891KG8xMIMHbPcsis-keCxpjMaYPusM65anGg51R_MIYiO123R5IJ7BDr_VZjCx_UMNc4FRo9yVZj1m0foxPRE_Q7qv5M0HW0XqtHaDqCLZU1pG4Lrt/s1600/IMG_1689.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTlp8oNM2kWJMI5AdzD_Hgj3cJ3891KG8xMIMHbPcsis-keCxpjMaYPusM65anGg51R_MIYiO123R5IJ7BDr_VZjCx_UMNc4FRo9yVZj1m0foxPRE_Q7qv5M0HW0XqtHaDqCLZU1pG4Lrt/s640/IMG_1689.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A decent view of slickrock. This is the Guacamole Trail. Look for the teeny tiny people in the center of the photograph for scale.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzmltdmMPDhE3zk93Ub4kWXDcAsEYq6eZ1Rj0QnY_0VdeJZQmZU8KOEmF6Y-rok-wbGo-ACt5YaE9UocZpSPphzxe_r8oSwFB7evmJFLtvc1aV406O0fVtg7HrOzqdbNmBLadqxlzYouEy/s1600/IMG_1691.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzmltdmMPDhE3zk93Ub4kWXDcAsEYq6eZ1Rj0QnY_0VdeJZQmZU8KOEmF6Y-rok-wbGo-ACt5YaE9UocZpSPphzxe_r8oSwFB7evmJFLtvc1aV406O0fVtg7HrOzqdbNmBLadqxlzYouEy/s640/IMG_1691.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Red rocks!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6uOj8jS34tk9W9gIM2PMA8brsH3Gd6K0L_lEpb44BvHN-_BzIwnqaGQmt_TQ4omHoYWuITA0YnkuaMd_9xxvM6hxiUHz4rP4Z33LQygNscSX40856tHyuJHItQhiSRhhEWd8D-Clp7Jhr/s1600/IMG_1695.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6uOj8jS34tk9W9gIM2PMA8brsH3Gd6K0L_lEpb44BvHN-_BzIwnqaGQmt_TQ4omHoYWuITA0YnkuaMd_9xxvM6hxiUHz4rP4Z33LQygNscSX40856tHyuJHItQhiSRhhEWd8D-Clp7Jhr/s640/IMG_1695.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ascending Goosebump. This was the steepest and longest climb of the race. It made me so grateful I'd been doing barbell squats and deadlifts. Again, look for the tiny person up the trail.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnKWsS2sEeXVsJ7FVvQkC4TO-xdL5nJMAedRXy-31mYs8Kb3U8mm893VdY3Ra5weAQ3e8xPz9zMYt9AeXbB0sdcuKIZyOOrOVt-6mMsAM_iqq0Fu5EcWeqaaTfbbEYVWrOQUlj7yAYyNyh/s1600/IMG_1697.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnKWsS2sEeXVsJ7FVvQkC4TO-xdL5nJMAedRXy-31mYs8Kb3U8mm893VdY3Ra5weAQ3e8xPz9zMYt9AeXbB0sdcuKIZyOOrOVt-6mMsAM_iqq0Fu5EcWeqaaTfbbEYVWrOQUlj7yAYyNyh/s640/IMG_1697.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking down from the Goosebump climb (Gooseberry Mesa), and this isn't even all the way up!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRNVuBegz2_sl8U1WM6grQSQ0XYpy7DSiIDbbxCCuucPU9Vy3dPcSIF2jQCwlP4C6V7NyM4I7H60FgtOb7IAAh-kRN4DAka8t3ZT2J_YdDTIFLi3s2xODBMsmi4ocPj6wZQJ2TTpvWrDeX/s1600/IMG_1699.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRNVuBegz2_sl8U1WM6grQSQ0XYpy7DSiIDbbxCCuucPU9Vy3dPcSIF2jQCwlP4C6V7NyM4I7H60FgtOb7IAAh-kRN4DAka8t3ZT2J_YdDTIFLi3s2xODBMsmi4ocPj6wZQJ2TTpvWrDeX/s640/IMG_1699.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Same view as the previous picture, but now from all the way up. This gives you a sense of the climb. Yowza. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSGEAQRM2KDZrpFdww6Uqbn_Bk7cqvj7biA6gglSNIducifHc2EBgmfysqfC9tAMTPMvj8Bk-brtcIOHQN7mIMqeM2gMpJgg0SvyIlZLiOuc8vvluzNl1_I9yxlxoy-VFPeR7srBfH3Uqx/s1600/IMG_1701.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSGEAQRM2KDZrpFdww6Uqbn_Bk7cqvj7biA6gglSNIducifHc2EBgmfysqfC9tAMTPMvj8Bk-brtcIOHQN7mIMqeM2gMpJgg0SvyIlZLiOuc8vvluzNl1_I9yxlxoy-VFPeR7srBfH3Uqx/s640/IMG_1701.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After ascending Goosebump, we ran a 12-mile roundtrip trail out to Gooseberry Point. A.k.a. more spacerock. This view made me feel like I was in Jurassic Park. So not only did I have to be afraid of running into elk or mountain lions, but I was afraid of velociraptors.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCb07-LS8M92rwzU3r5Zw9ozKxM2BjebMpS87cY8BB81R2BVKtI_qXCfQSLSooqox88PUxzJ0f9Hdr4miWUgVQYPVrAMsXIE34VWAAw0NHvFiUDGJVJxcXwBZEbLWy0dbBw_NDMrwCtTx-/s1600/IMG_1705.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCb07-LS8M92rwzU3r5Zw9ozKxM2BjebMpS87cY8BB81R2BVKtI_qXCfQSLSooqox88PUxzJ0f9Hdr4miWUgVQYPVrAMsXIE34VWAAw0NHvFiUDGJVJxcXwBZEbLWy0dbBw_NDMrwCtTx-/s640/IMG_1705.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cool tree!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqH7xLBmr_7CZ2BnXTkBgWz_zqRdWFk5Ju04jbSc3OBRahBbbGtlktguzZ6xIiUH7azTToB5nFrHbFMCRHHSiW2qhl05FmKSSW7Tta9DRz3yck7ZI9UAV_8lj4rnlEbYB1MNpJKcnTjQCd/s1600/IMG_1707.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqH7xLBmr_7CZ2BnXTkBgWz_zqRdWFk5Ju04jbSc3OBRahBbbGtlktguzZ6xIiUH7azTToB5nFrHbFMCRHHSiW2qhl05FmKSSW7Tta9DRz3yck7ZI9UAV_8lj4rnlEbYB1MNpJKcnTjQCd/s640/IMG_1707.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At the very edge of Gooseberry. Hey, it's <a href="https://twitter.com/cannibalsox" target="_blank">Clare</a>!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3OV-yBOg2Jl4FnNcfRVr6QDV04jJ5P6xjJDene142A3Bf50anj8b7T3xvZ5tpKOlbn7XQK5d7jPfKb5mpTaL61vS1Wa7MBLihMG1gFEBZx8OyFD3EzFroXVdrqCigEqXnQh_pkBOum-ZZ/s1600/IMG_1716.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3OV-yBOg2Jl4FnNcfRVr6QDV04jJ5P6xjJDene142A3Bf50anj8b7T3xvZ5tpKOlbn7XQK5d7jPfKb5mpTaL61vS1Wa7MBLihMG1gFEBZx8OyFD3EzFroXVdrqCigEqXnQh_pkBOum-ZZ/s640/IMG_1716.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hanging out at Gooseberry. Stopped for the photo this time to avoid any cactus encounters.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzrj4sAa3aUxsKxV8fVqUhDbpAwv90z7Zpp5f2p7KTRQ0nYyezG7kCuOI6NPq0PTeFUhAhR8BT_unrBor4a_d1Oc-5zcB6SFa4wYx0HnyQafNfZdwaNVda2QIpGUvTnE9HALBUH2wu26JT/s1600/IMG_1721.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzrj4sAa3aUxsKxV8fVqUhDbpAwv90z7Zpp5f2p7KTRQ0nYyezG7kCuOI6NPq0PTeFUhAhR8BT_unrBor4a_d1Oc-5zcB6SFa4wYx0HnyQafNfZdwaNVda2QIpGUvTnE9HALBUH2wu26JT/s640/IMG_1721.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another view from Gooseberry</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpxh14aQyK1kw3XhjrDlQYwXyQLXxcDnESpwbFs6N98OYkkg-32mM_xHVfC7ay-S-l9hUoRZ-kGgZBersVoOzXf09fZBX3Ze5AV2EZ2qVq7QOcDs7v0kcrwPvgZUyde2GCfpUVl_bv5BMK/s1600/IMG_1724.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpxh14aQyK1kw3XhjrDlQYwXyQLXxcDnESpwbFs6N98OYkkg-32mM_xHVfC7ay-S-l9hUoRZ-kGgZBersVoOzXf09fZBX3Ze5AV2EZ2qVq7QOcDs7v0kcrwPvgZUyde2GCfpUVl_bv5BMK/s640/IMG_1724.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Near the end of the Gooseberry loop, heading back to the Goosebump aid station, around mile 46. Came across a random windmill. Made me think I was going crazy like Don Quixote.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwOCaU1WBIZjURJvzHhJ7eeq8j1Gx1ffidnbVwGq05QW7NpinAch3a-01W8_DRdZjTijfnvgPHyA3K09oEGaKtsXNJjsYCVDCwpUbAao4dDNciJDxv7h3sH-u32KVYUwsADi9osul5D3F7/s1600/IMG_1727.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwOCaU1WBIZjURJvzHhJ7eeq8j1Gx1ffidnbVwGq05QW7NpinAch3a-01W8_DRdZjTijfnvgPHyA3K09oEGaKtsXNJjsYCVDCwpUbAao4dDNciJDxv7h3sH-u32KVYUwsADi9osul5D3F7/s640/IMG_1727.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking toward Zion around mile 50. The sun is setting.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsok4zbRpxZQeI3q2Z50NhvnteBJYm0XMyQ97k7arGHkrkaj4WLAAYY8784WTWvYN0feOeqKuvWe_eV-e9eew5JzVV3J4MsbhGTj18qYctmZEPc3UcPe4gdMgxKCwwUovuUZNRHAH4B_BB/s1600/IMG_1732.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsok4zbRpxZQeI3q2Z50NhvnteBJYm0XMyQ97k7arGHkrkaj4WLAAYY8784WTWvYN0feOeqKuvWe_eV-e9eew5JzVV3J4MsbhGTj18qYctmZEPc3UcPe4gdMgxKCwwUovuUZNRHAH4B_BB/s640/IMG_1732.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is what it's like running at night. Picture running like this for 9 hours when you're already tired. Some of those rocks look quite like pillows. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU3-NcGJnMpCRLiaiARO1PIfO7HVSqtqsFp26QyQHiY0o1rlCIWImojDZmcrFulWSPIcbiNUW9HJcjM4N1VngCm3wxrTaa6tfCafEEAQ565ZT-pNHgdBgCFW9jlQsdVCVKAHE6vV2reEi6/s1600/IMG_1735.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU3-NcGJnMpCRLiaiARO1PIfO7HVSqtqsFp26QyQHiY0o1rlCIWImojDZmcrFulWSPIcbiNUW9HJcjM4N1VngCm3wxrTaa6tfCafEEAQ565ZT-pNHgdBgCFW9jlQsdVCVKAHE6vV2reEi6/s640/IMG_1735.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After the maddening nighttime rains, the final six-mile stretch was a muddy mess. </td></tr>
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Tim Gorichanazhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16304578712474887920noreply@blogger.com0Virgin, UT, USA37.208316 -113.1882792000000137.107153000000004 -113.34964070000001 37.309479 -113.02691770000001tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029454871308050507.post-1463317262048505392016-02-28T12:55:00.002-08:002016-02-28T18:24:29.627-08:00Running as information<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizMegfTuzdTKvq8d-ipCdzoNg922zkKpFjfv8FjlK7f4hekrNH4gemb-7T9Pbjduu9EjHbXD3XU5UJbzfzj3jtFyCpCHxUHL6IywUpb1ohDJb2VSr80975ZCQMi9KathkLSRqkpT87e_-X/s1600/IMG_1018.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizMegfTuzdTKvq8d-ipCdzoNg922zkKpFjfv8FjlK7f4hekrNH4gemb-7T9Pbjduu9EjHbXD3XU5UJbzfzj3jtFyCpCHxUHL6IywUpb1ohDJb2VSr80975ZCQMi9KathkLSRqkpT87e_-X/s320/IMG_1018.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
We're in the heyday of the concept of information. We talk about almost everything these days in terms of information. And this can be a useful perspective sometimes. For instance, a longstanding maxim equated food with fuel; but over the past few years, there's been a shift toward seeing food as information instead. This view helps us see food not simply as uniform calories, but as conglomerations of <a href="http://www.precisionnutrition.com/food-is-not-fuel" target="_blank">macronutrients, micronutrients, phytochemicals and zoochemicals</a>. This view also helps us understand food as a <a href="http://www.mindbodygreen.com/0-2645/Food-IsAs-Information.html" target="_blank">political statement, emotional tanner and intimacy substitute</a>.<br />
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What if we thought of running as information? What might this perspective help us to see?<br />
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In a recent research paper, I did just that. (When I'm not running, I'm a PhD student in information science.) My paper <a href="http://www.informationr.net/ir/20-4/paper697.html#.VtNZMDZLDdg" target="_blank">Information on the Run: Experiencing Information During an Ultramarathon</a>, published in the open-access, peer-reviewed journal <i>Information Research</i>, explores the information processes at play that I experienced while running <a href="http://niketoldmeto.blogspot.com/2015/06/my-first-100-mile.html">my first 100-mile race</a>. Here's what I found:<br />
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<ul>
<li><b>Though ultrarunning is an individual sport, it has an important social component</b>. Things like trail etiquette and appropriate gear are socially controlled. The ultrarunning community is orally-based, is centered around public performances (races), recognizes a few key information sources (e.g., UltraRunning Magazine, Trail Runner Nation podcast, the ULTRA listserv, Hal Koerner's and Bryan Powell's guides, Garmins, etc.), and above all seems to value perseverance. These shared characteristics offer cohesion to the ultrarunning community, making it much more than an individual pursuit. </li>
<li><b>During an ultra, the key information source is the body</b>. In the research literature, this type of information is known as corporeal information. This includes, for instance, gauging my hunger and thirst, deciding whether I can run through a cramp and detecting blisters. Working with corporal information can be understood as a kind of "literacy" that ultrarunners cultivate as they gain expertise in the sport. Though it may be the case that external technologies can support this process (e.g., some runners set their watch to beep every 30 minutes, cueing them to take a sip of water), much corporeal information management seems to be unconscious and internal. Future research should tease apart these processes more.</li>
<li><b>Another key information source is the runner's knowledge base</b>, in which memories of training runs and internalized books, podcasts, advice, plans, etc., coexist and are called up in response to any number of stimuli during a run. For instance, I felt nauseous and disoriented during my first 100-mile run, and I searched my knowledge base for possible solutions. </li>
<li><b>On the run, corporeal information and the knowledge base interface in a feedback system of outcomes and mental states</b>. For example, I might sense some calf pain (corporeal information), which makes me worried (mental state); I recall how it was previously injured but that even so in a recent race I felt this same pain and it ended up being a false alarm (knowledge base), which causes me to keep going despite the pain (outcome), and also makes me feel a little better (mental state). If the pain persists, I might check in again a little later, running through the process again. </li>
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In this way, seeing running as information helped uncover some interesting aspects of ultrarunning: the importance of the social aspect of running, and the processes that help and athlete cope with covering such long distances. And, most importantly, this brings up a number of questions for future study. For me, the most interesting has to do with novices versus experts—<i>how do beginners manage information differently from more experienced ultrarunners, and how can that knowledge help us teach or coach beginner runners?</i><br />
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My future research will continue to explore these questions, and I invite others to join me.<br />
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<br />Tim Gorichanazhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16304578712474887920noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029454871308050507.post-28951239388029202482016-01-08T11:52:00.002-08:002016-01-08T14:32:05.586-08:00Second 100 Mile at the Pistol Ultra RunThis weekend I ran my second 100-mile at the <a href="http://pistolultra.com/" target="_blank">Pistol Ultra Run</a> near Knoxville, Tennessee. It went almost better than I could have hoped, in some respects. I finished in 22 hours, 22 minutes, which was somewhat slower than I was hoping... but considering I wasn't feeling 100% going into it, I'm satisfied. More importantly, I felt pretty much even energy the whole way, with no real downs. In that respect, it was perfect.<br />
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This post tells a bit of the story, along with key lessons and strategies.<br />
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<h3>
Lead-up: Marathons As Training Runs</h3>
I ran the Philadelphia Marathon on November 22. I was hoping to BQ, but hills, wind and tremendous blood blisters made sure that didn't happen. I started out well, but my pace slipped: at the 10k, my average pace was 6:53/mi; by the half, it was 7:05; by 30k, 7:17; and at the finish, 7:37. Finishing in 3:19 was still a PR, but I couldn't help but feel a little bummed because I knew I could have done better if I hadn't gotten the blisters. So I signed up for the Kiawah Island Marathon on the coast of South Carolina a few weeks later, on December 12. (The blisters boggled me because I never get them. Then again, I never run that fast for that long...)<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpBU7n4CaQLSWzuvmkLYcFcWMU7_0y3WqrzR_1tdrhGmSOec8ObDt0I7dFLIFnGZYaTx1ygI81PMY0euUQk-4kbKRwqC9jPC8k8bwpUgA05eg2XUXbGH-UVKPbd5DNGxdNshhFsYZ-oObK/s1600/IMG_0455.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpBU7n4CaQLSWzuvmkLYcFcWMU7_0y3WqrzR_1tdrhGmSOec8ObDt0I7dFLIFnGZYaTx1ygI81PMY0euUQk-4kbKRwqC9jPC8k8bwpUgA05eg2XUXbGH-UVKPbd5DNGxdNshhFsYZ-oObK/s320/IMG_0455.jpg" width="240" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaIaEwAB6E1ULtKPaJivXdZvfAEwgRk6xOEl7VSfD5chP4ihDSqAfI6V8LpEtiMaigVJbYiBUahsLurUZJT5Jh8yTWGfSSO34CjiJj01v_k0Sea2P876FL3n22ReVak3nID8WmKODlfv5Q/s1600/IMG_0450.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaIaEwAB6E1ULtKPaJivXdZvfAEwgRk6xOEl7VSfD5chP4ihDSqAfI6V8LpEtiMaigVJbYiBUahsLurUZJT5Jh8yTWGfSSO34CjiJj01v_k0Sea2P876FL3n22ReVak3nID8WmKODlfv5Q/s320/IMG_0450.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Post–Philadelphia Marathon. Just so you can see I'm not kidding about those blood blisters. Look at the size of that one!</td></tr>
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In the meantime I managed to screw up my calf: A quarter-mile into one of my training runs, I felt a sudden, sharp pain deep in my calf, and then I could barely walk for a few minutes. Great. It got better over the following days, but I wasn't sure how the next marathon would go. So I worked on my recovery, wore calf sleeves and hoped for the best.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb9MGg9iohStijJ2Uan6ACz9iLVnDiHLa2AA2EXg5hQAxTTNBp7QmgQoFTHklfIKsPG1tH8u_IneusLgdniUm4ljNWOLfYjU2l_wmNAuquCFT87UuQkrLH7cLolWmxiJutCA1rT139wBeE/s1600/IMG_0536.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb9MGg9iohStijJ2Uan6ACz9iLVnDiHLa2AA2EXg5hQAxTTNBp7QmgQoFTHklfIKsPG1tH8u_IneusLgdniUm4ljNWOLfYjU2l_wmNAuquCFT87UuQkrLH7cLolWmxiJutCA1rT139wBeE/s320/IMG_0536.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lunch on the half-shell at Amen Street in Charleston</td></tr>
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The Kiawah Island Marathon went okay. I forgot to factor the weather into my ambitions, so there was no chance of PRing again: I'd been training in the 30s–40s, and it was 75 on race day in South Carolina. Whoops! Anyway, I got another state off my list and got to eat some oysters in Charleston. So slurpable.<br />
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I treated that marathon as my last big effort leading up to my 100-mile, so my mileage tapered down. In early November I was running 70–80-mile weeks, and they got down to the 20s–40s as I went into the 100. With my running volume down (conveniently over Christmas, when I was at home with family), I focused on rehabbing my calf.<br />
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It got better, to the point where I could run comfortably for 10ish miles, and I was feeling confident. Until, of course, the day before my 100-mile, when the pain and tenderness resurged out of nowhere. A phantom pain, I guess, but it didn't help my sleep. I was up late into the night with my heart pounding. I didn't think I was nervous, but the heart speaketh.<br />
<br />
Race morning, the pain was lingering, though only slightly. I came to terms with the fact that I might have to DNF, and I decided I'd just run easy until I couldn't anymore. Then I'd walk until I couldn't anymore. And then I'd drop out, because crawling really doesn't sound that fun except in that slogan ("crawl if you must...").<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfbIWosrd1GuRJhKuuOfd9yqo8jXJth4mBYdRtf1Q2dqrKHoweHG-uPXiuUdjfFgHY9mdIpaVcMW5VNDDXMKNUBXMXQXCz7l9JcrP2y6PaPBeoz_meAAbTbwYIv2jploVQe5Cdp4xt2uPG/s1600/IMG_0662.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfbIWosrd1GuRJhKuuOfd9yqo8jXJth4mBYdRtf1Q2dqrKHoweHG-uPXiuUdjfFgHY9mdIpaVcMW5VNDDXMKNUBXMXQXCz7l9JcrP2y6PaPBeoz_meAAbTbwYIv2jploVQe5Cdp4xt2uPG/s320/IMG_0662.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Race morning. Don't I look well-rested!?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<h3>
An Easy Run</h3>
I swear running 100 miles is not that hard. I'd say it's easy, actually. I tell everyone this, but no one believes me. You run incredibly slow, just for a rather long time. For the most part, you don't really feel like you're exerting yourself. Sure, you get a little sore eventually, but it's still not that bad. And in terms of process, it's dead simple: Keep moving.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIgonfzqGML6s3umPjK1JDg1TF-WenRklea8yBq3d1dyhjeXgfDC2vAQb744KCn6HLECRmkTKDEBaXG1lPDw99U2EE97XoVQrHsoTLcQv_AjYRIpqCRmj1q3OCfMJEYs2wNkmxb076R3ml/s1600/IMG_0705.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIgonfzqGML6s3umPjK1JDg1TF-WenRklea8yBq3d1dyhjeXgfDC2vAQb744KCn6HLECRmkTKDEBaXG1lPDw99U2EE97XoVQrHsoTLcQv_AjYRIpqCRmj1q3OCfMJEYs2wNkmxb076R3ml/s320/IMG_0705.jpg" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and some other goofballs milling about prior to running 100 miles</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The race format made it even easier. The Pistol is held on a paved parkway trail about 10 feet wide. The course is a 10-mile loop that includes some road running. This was my first real road ultra, and I found it much easier to run, seeing as I didn't have to watch out for obstacles in the path.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbRC8QjlUNPm5_BuhLtO7imy5cJs6jl_k05Yy20yEHW1N08Fvxl0j-XHT3vb0Bm_-VKn-oA1CSpfnVlNzB1U6p7Vy69gGDAroN-WZ1DMzZQR0YJrfFnHZt7r5Y6sZcJbhvdanVabMwjrNI/s1600/IMG_0707.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbRC8QjlUNPm5_BuhLtO7imy5cJs6jl_k05Yy20yEHW1N08Fvxl0j-XHT3vb0Bm_-VKn-oA1CSpfnVlNzB1U6p7Vy69gGDAroN-WZ1DMzZQR0YJrfFnHZt7r5Y6sZcJbhvdanVabMwjrNI/s320/IMG_0707.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Trail runners might scoff at road races as unbeautiful, but this course was really nice. Most of it ran along this little river thing. Here's a view in the morning, when a lovely layer of mist was hovering over the water.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Another factor in the race's easiness was that there were always people around. The Pistol has a 50k, 50-mile, 100k and 100-mile; the 50k, 100k and 100-mile all start Saturday morning, and then the 50-mile starts Saturday night. I never went more than 5 minutes or so without seeing another runner. In the daytime, it was more like 30 seconds, if that. I was grateful to meet some wonderful new friends and have long conversations on the run.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjicvENUjV5EWAthlg1k1qRb-KvpRUYBb_GuPN1FBIX-DyJJxUPH8rFmU424aCHhEVjAMvLrj_VNQTbDV0OxabPi8ln-cRBDO7XaQ92J5reY-hGWqtcWX7Auzb1C672RFQmmRctsRYMS_yV/s1600/64043107-1R0A5681.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjicvENUjV5EWAthlg1k1qRb-KvpRUYBb_GuPN1FBIX-DyJJxUPH8rFmU424aCHhEVjAMvLrj_VNQTbDV0OxabPi8ln-cRBDO7XaQ92J5reY-hGWqtcWX7Auzb1C672RFQmmRctsRYMS_yV/s640/64043107-1R0A5681.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Finally, this was a race I had trained well for in terms of specificity. I do all my training on sidewalks and Philadelphia's paved asphalt trail, which is mostly flat. This course was virtually identical, so my feet were well used to it. This is, I'm sure, one of the reasons my race went so well. Not only that, but lately I've been doing heavy lifting twice a week (Starting Strength routine of squat, bench press or standing press, and deadlift). Notably, I didn't experience any lower back tiredness during the race, which I directly attribute to deadlifting.<br />
<br />
<br />
<h3>
Mind Games</h3>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYRwm_2zM9AFeJ0Es3dbvyyfUnbP9-BUdYdObxqS-yk0mo-ROrfgOkCKmclfFUtAESYrCUA3eY3LRkMJBOYxy0FA9sKP6jfdf7UHeJzsT1AqPLs_KZRRdWNzQiZWRzlkm6SLa8uwJqcR8G/s1600/IMG_0712.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYRwm_2zM9AFeJ0Es3dbvyyfUnbP9-BUdYdObxqS-yk0mo-ROrfgOkCKmclfFUtAESYrCUA3eY3LRkMJBOYxy0FA9sKP6jfdf7UHeJzsT1AqPLs_KZRRdWNzQiZWRzlkm6SLa8uwJqcR8G/s320/IMG_0712.jpg" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Running is the most funnest thing! <br />
At least that's what you can tell<br />
yourself when it doesn't feel like it.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Eventually the conversations subsided, and I geared up for the rest of the race. My calf stayed fine, for which I was grateful, so I let go of worrying about that. It was unlikely that it would flare up suddenly—but if it did, then oh well.<br />
<br />
I adopted two fun mind games to get me through the middle stretch of the race. First, I wanted to see how far I could get by nightfall. Sunset was around 5:30, and I was around 50 miles by that point. After that, I decided to see how far I could get by 8pm, when the 50-mile race started. I told myself that I was really signed up for the 50-mile, but all the miles I put in before 8pm would count toward making my race shorter. This proved surprisingly effective: I was around mile 60 at that time, which meant I only had to run 40 miles whereas everyone else in the race had to do 50.<br />
<br />
<h3>
Nutrition</h3>
Typically I eat high-fat and spend a lot of time in ketosis. I do about half my runs fasted, and I never eat on the run unless it's more than 22ish miles. Lately, though, I've been eating like a clown (blame Christmas), so I was a bit worried on how my body would react.<br />
<br />
During my last 100, I spent many hours with a clenched stomach and low-level nausea. I wanted to work on my in-race nutrition this time, with the goal of having even energy and no gastric upsets. I'm proud to say that this went extremely well! Last time I felt I didn't eat enough, early enough, so this time I consciously ate a little more than I would have normally. (Though I didn't eat for the first two-and-a-half hours.) I just had a bite or two of whatever looked good. At first I was focusing on the trail bars and cookies, but for most of the race I was taking in mostly broth, salted potatoes and these little egg burritos they had. I also had a chlorella packet and Vespa at the start and every 20 miles, as well as periodic vitamin C, vitamin D, CoQ10 and fish oil. (I haven't heard of others using such supplements during races, but I'd love to hear from anyone who does.)<br />
<br />
This was related to one of the things I wanted to improve on from my last 100: drop bag strategy. In my last 100, I wasted a cumulative 3+ hours stopped, and I wanted to reduce that as much as I could. Luckily this race was set up so that I could stop at my car twice every loop, so pre-race I organized all the things I'd need to grab and go so I didn't have to stop that long. Clothes arrayed on the front seat, ziploc bags for rationed nutrition, and a bag of treats. For posterity, here are the ziploc bags I had:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li><i>Morning of: </i><a href="http://www.vespapower.com/" target="_blank">Vespa Ultra Concentrate</a>, 1 cap CoQ10, 1 packet <a href="https://www.sunchlorellausa.com/" target="_blank">Sun Chlorella</a></li>
<ul>
<li>I also had a coffee with coconut milk, along with some goat colostrum and my green drink (Vitamineral Green + Vitamineral Earth) and later a big dose of Master Amino Pattern amino acids (8 tablets)</li>
</ul>
<li><i>Start: </i>Vespa Ultra Concentrate, 1 cap CoQ10, 15k IU vitamin D3+K2, 1 packet Sun Chlorella</li>
<li><i>20 miles in: </i>Vespa Ultra Concentrate, 1 cap CoQ10, 5g BCAAs, 1 packet Sun Chlorella</li>
<li><i>40 miles in: </i>Vespa Ultra Concentrate, 1 cap fish oil, 1g vitamin C, 5g BCAAs, 1 packet Sun Chlorella</li>
<li><i>60 miles in: </i>Vespa Ultra Concentrate, 1 cap fish oil, 1g vitamin C, 15k IU vitamin D3+K2, 1 packet Sun Chlorella</li>
<li><i>80 miles in:</i> Vespa Ultra Concentrate, 1 cap fish oil, 1g vitamin C, 5g BCAAs, 1 cap CoQ10, 1 packet Sun Chlorella</li>
<li>(I should have had a post-race bag, but didn't for some stupid reason)</li>
</ul>
<div>
A note on amino acids: By the time I finished my last 100, I had mostly withered away. Not this time. Partly it was because this race was 10 hours shorter, but also because I consciously took in much more amino acids, which prevented my body from having to metabolize its muscle stores.</div>
<br />
<h3>
After Dark</h3>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgql8p3YbOSAkGhpCaqk3JmE5rcjPvoFTWb2X-eLivW48GkoN60siaR_s8odVLzJgX07UvmVdglkiHrrsWTNZakWseCkUvn26-9oUv0EWLSJnUgQg389_kqyePwpyn9iaehEoG85WStBSDP/s1600/IMG_0716.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgql8p3YbOSAkGhpCaqk3JmE5rcjPvoFTWb2X-eLivW48GkoN60siaR_s8odVLzJgX07UvmVdglkiHrrsWTNZakWseCkUvn26-9oUv0EWLSJnUgQg389_kqyePwpyn9iaehEoG85WStBSDP/s320/IMG_0716.jpg" width="180" /></a>Sunset was around 5:30pm. I wasn't particularly looking forward to the nighttime because I have not-so-fond memories of the night during my last 100. Not to mention the night in January would be almost twice as long as it was in my last race (June). Luckily the course was lit with streetlights, so the darkness wasn't as psychologically damaging as it can be on a trail. There wasn't even a need for a headlamp.<br />
<br />
What was a problem, though, was the dropping temperature that came with the darkness. During the day it was in the 40s, and it got down to the high-20s overnight. Normally I'm really comfortable down to about 20 degrees, so I didn't bring much in the way of layers. But I didn't take into account how incapable the body is of regulating its temperature during the second half of an ultra. I was absolutely freezing. I put on every layer I had (crowned by this amazing cat shirt). The biggest problem was my hands: I'd only brought a thin pair of wool gloves, but I needed more. Luckily my Chicago Marathon jacket has thumbholes and a pullout knuckle covering, which gave my hands a little extra shelter.<br />
<br />
Layered up, I was comfortable for the most part. Until I had to start walking more. During this race, I ran for most of the first 60 miles. (Before that, I took a few walking breaks/stops that probably added up to 20 minutes total.) Now, both as a sustainability strategy and a way to mix it up for my mental benefit, I began alternating running and walking every 5 minutes. The problem was during my walking breaks, I got way too cold. I dealt with this the only way I could: By just running more. This probably helped me finish faster, whereas my lazy self would have just leisurely strolled for the final 15 miles had it been warmer out. So, I guess, it was a good thing.<br />
<br />
<h3>
Sandal Straps and the Final Horrible Miles</h3>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHJE5Ywiy3NG_OqJQt3ZAZP-wH15Z4cyB6AY1LJN7RPNCV5Pe9_cAvWzGoTfam3lNvUE40tlzn63b9Cq71Wur1hzNydeQdu2uJ4f5VFmOmQn-gOCSnWMNHY4PGsF4pj2eUTUdwfRCYjh-S/s1600/IMG_0717.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHJE5Ywiy3NG_OqJQt3ZAZP-wH15Z4cyB6AY1LJN7RPNCV5Pe9_cAvWzGoTfam3lNvUE40tlzn63b9Cq71Wur1hzNydeQdu2uJ4f5VFmOmQn-gOCSnWMNHY4PGsF4pj2eUTUdwfRCYjh-S/s320/IMG_0717.jpg" width="180" /></a>
As the race wound down, things got much harder. My race had really surprised me because, for the first 75 miles, it was actually easy. But eventually my feet started hurting. It felt like the bones—something similar to a stress fracture—and I thought it was the impact from running on asphalt and concrete for 16+ hours. Sure I'd trained exclusively on such terrain, but I'd never run on road for that long. As the pain worsened, though, I realized it was in the areas around my sandal straps: I looked down and saw my feet were terribly swollen around the straps, which were evidently causing some damaging pressure. I needed to loosen the straps, but they were already as loose as they'd go (you may know that I have ginormous feet)—curse you, Luna Sandals, for making this custom pair so tight! I considered shedding them and doing the final miles barefoot, but worried that could be even worse, so I just carried on.<br />
<br />
<br />
The pain in my feet got worse and worse. Every step felt like someone dropped a rock on both feet. I changed my gait to a flat-foot strike and later a heel strike to distribute the impact, which helped somewhat, but in the final 10 miles I was really hurting—and really going slow. Incidentally I found that it hurt more to walk than to run, so I ran (albeit turtlefully) most of the final miles. I just wanted to get it over with. For the last lap I put on toe socks (note: toe socks are nigh-impossible to put on when you've just run 90 miles and they're a size too small to begin with) hoping it would distribute the strap pressure, but it didn't really help any.<br />
<br />
Eventually, though, finally, and not a minute too soon, the finish line came, and I was so grateful to get off my feet. I hung out in the heated tent for a while, had some chocolate milk and then drove home.<br />
<br />
<h3>
Aftermath and Readjusting</h3>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikuJc8ZUYn5dZgJlP8zVZcBjJPC2L50EKZryu6C2CvDkLOFUu-h_bj6m3HkgKsJ0mfEJ5uA3ILtKttHkOd7ArOAE_OJr2LQituF7Ght6fq7jJ5j3f5mdAFIc416va_xXZE-CCKXfT43N5r/s1600/IMG_0741.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikuJc8ZUYn5dZgJlP8zVZcBjJPC2L50EKZryu6C2CvDkLOFUu-h_bj6m3HkgKsJ0mfEJ5uA3ILtKttHkOd7ArOAE_OJr2LQituF7Ght6fq7jJ5j3f5mdAFIc416va_xXZE-CCKXfT43N5r/s200/IMG_0741.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I flew home Tuesday afternoon. <br />
TSA was so not a fan of this belt buckle. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I got home around 7:30 a.m. and wasn't feeling particularly tired, but I blacked out my hotel room and was able to promptly fall asleep. I woke up around 2 p.m. feeling completely rested, ate a crapload of eggs and salad and then basically watched Star Wars documentaries until 10:30 p.m., when I went to bed again. I woke up around 7 the next morning, and I was already back on my normal sleeping schedule.<br />
<br />
This was much easier than after my last 100, which took almost 32 hours and completely messed me up.<br />
<br />
Also after my last race I had a hard time reintegrating myself into society. That may sound strange. But I'd come to regard the trail, and the act of running, as the real world, whereas my life in the city was a constructed falsity. My apartment, my work... none of it seemed really real. And that malaise stuck with me for over a week. This time, I felt twinges of that, but I was able to bounce back mentally pretty quick. I'm not sure if it was because of the urban nature of the run, or because it was much shorter, timewise, or because it was my second one.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkciHPrLwUFYLf_AWZb037feKF3ekAUvbG0aojUa6CRbXxRTOYCR4pwvXP0CqyGxRwvIlxVFA2sRJ2607OPfCf7RUO2iLVk9bKca3BPpCSAY1FKGlcHPNRG3s5se-qSGE-Osaf5zZtZdZ_/s1600/IMG_0711.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkciHPrLwUFYLf_AWZb037feKF3ekAUvbG0aojUa6CRbXxRTOYCR4pwvXP0CqyGxRwvIlxVFA2sRJ2607OPfCf7RUO2iLVk9bKca3BPpCSAY1FKGlcHPNRG3s5se-qSGE-Osaf5zZtZdZ_/s320/IMG_0711.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKMeEnmRtJadypELWQ8276LypCJy4_hJco-ts4D6J4Te0sUYNeMKQwetwz5gOvey1S6NUVE4JhmXO_k5ZUMlCcbcLbZf55GjwiTdlby6bvinjGMpU4oQa8VWv1iC23fR6HoZxIRLS6QV_d/s1600/IMG_0715.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKMeEnmRtJadypELWQ8276LypCJy4_hJco-ts4D6J4Te0sUYNeMKQwetwz5gOvey1S6NUVE4JhmXO_k5ZUMlCcbcLbZf55GjwiTdlby6bvinjGMpU4oQa8VWv1iC23fR6HoZxIRLS6QV_d/s320/IMG_0715.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">This race was brought to us in part by this giant belighted cow, spokesanimal for a dairy company whose name is presently escaping me but which you could conceivably look up by going to the race website if you really wanted to. It started with M.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<h3>
Recovery</h3>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgcKOJotPw0oBD6nIspkAxauf4PwTwrEqhNz0Qu5S5fjMwL31g4xZxZ-LEQQdYf7oDVvokz30ENhGRZJxm-gNc9dmQlhlI2Y7s9DvsfruekxYsMN3R4FjuXyGel3RDxH7EFNfduF02AtAw/s1600/IMG_0744.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgcKOJotPw0oBD6nIspkAxauf4PwTwrEqhNz0Qu5S5fjMwL31g4xZxZ-LEQQdYf7oDVvokz30ENhGRZJxm-gNc9dmQlhlI2Y7s9DvsfruekxYsMN3R4FjuXyGel3RDxH7EFNfduF02AtAw/s320/IMG_0744.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Treating myself at the airport. Only $5 for 26 minutes!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I'm writing this on the Friday after the race, and I'm happy to say I never experienced any soreness, really. That was unexpected. Previous ultras had me in gollum-like hobbles for days sometimes. However, that's not to say I recovered immediately: For the first few days, my feet were still so swollen and pained that I couldn't walk. The first day I was about to buy a set of crutches, but luckily it didn't get any worse (on the contrary, it got slightly better each day). I had to travel for a conference on Tuesday, so I donned compression socks, which allowed me to walk more or less painlessly, albeit with a slight limp. Today (Friday) is the first day I'm not wearing the socks, and I can walk without pain, though my feet are still red and puffy. I can also move my toes again, which I couldn't before.<br />
<br />
I attribute some of my quick recovery to a high-fat, low-carb anti-inflammatory diet. I've been consuming chlorella and buttloads of other green things, along with plenty of butter from grass-fed cows. Also, herbs: my own herbal product <a href="http://getbackupsupplement.com/" target="_blank">Get Back Up</a>, <a href="https://www.yogiproducts.com/teas/green-tea-muscle-recovery/" target="_blank">Yogi Muscle Recovery green tea</a> (which includes a number of herbal extracts), and a slew of other herbs (mostly as tea). I didn't have any fish oil on hand, but I would have taken that as well.<br />
<br />
<h3>
Conclusion</h3>
I loved this race! The 8 a.m. start was perfect because I got to sleep in compared to other races. It was great having other runners around the whole way for those words of encouragement. The course was lovely. The aid stations were stacked (I loved me those egg burritos) and the volunteers were delightful and helpful. Finally, let it be known that this race gives more free stuff out than any other I'm aware of. The photo below shows most of the spoils.<br />
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Tim Gorichanazhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16304578712474887920noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029454871308050507.post-26858861935446370882015-09-23T05:21:00.004-07:002015-09-23T05:22:54.185-07:00Pacer to Racer at Virgil CrestMany weeks back, my mom asked me if I'd heard of "that guy Jake Brown." I hadn't. He was, she told me, this guy who was <a href="http://www.thebaresoleproject.com/transcon-2015.html" target="_blank">running barefoot across the United States</a>, and that I should check out <a href="https://www.facebook.com/bfjakebrown" target="_blank">his Facebook page</a>. I clicked Like but never saw any updates in my News Feed, thanks to Facebook's algorithmic assumptions, and then mostly forgot about the whole thing. Just a few weeks ago, though, my mom reminded me when she said that "that Jake Brown guy" was running <a href="http://www.virgilcrestultras.com/" target="_blank">a 100</a> and wanted pacers and that I should message him. So I did, and all of a sudden it was September 17—time to go!<br />
<br />
I picked up my rental car and made the drive up to Rhinebeck, New York, a small town where, apparently, Paul Rudd and Uma Thurman, among others, go to hang out. It's also where that Jake Brown guy's mom lives, and that's where I was meeting him. He'd put his transcontinental run on pause to run the race this weekend, which required him to take a train from Columbus, Ohio, where he left off, up to New York. After the race, he'd gingerly make his way back to Columbus and finish up his trek—less than 600 miles to go. Which sounds like a lot, until you consider that he'd already gone 2,500. Lots of stories.<br />
<br />
But it's not about him. He made that clear. It's about all of us. His project isn't about one guy running across the United States—<a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/tinotridemosbur/" target="_blank">any idiot can do that</a> if they don't have anything better to do—but rather it's about fostering community. He's not running alone; strangers join him for stretches along the way, strangers drive his pack ahead for him, strangers give him money and food and a place to stay (having nothing, he's essentially a panhandler). As Jake was explaining this to me, over bacon-wrapped steak and a healthy side of sweet potato, I couldn't help but think of Zen monks (of course, with me, everything goes back to Zen monks). These monks relinquish their worldly belongings in order to meditate mu-gen—that is, infinitely—and <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alms#Buddhism" target="_blank">they beg rice</a> from the townspeople. The townspeople give the rice not because they find the monks so admirable, but because they see what's deeper: that the monks are rooting for all of us, that they connect all of us, that they show us there's another way to live in the world.<br />
<br />
The next day, Friday, we made our way northwest toward the Finger Lakes. Along the way we passed what Jake promised was the best pizza place in the whole world—<a href="http://www.bennyspizzeriany.com/" target="_blank">Benny's Pizzeria in Stone Ridge, New York</a>—so of course we stopped and of course it delivered (I got a slice of classic sausage and then a slice of breaded eggplant, which was amazing—and I don't even really like eggplant). A few more hours and we made it to Hope Lake Park, in Cortland, where we checked in and Jake set up <a href="http://www.thebaresoleproject.com/inside-the-pack.html" target="_blank">his camp</a>—I'd sleep in the car. We finalized our plans, talked a bit with other runners, and then went to bed.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jake and me, the night before the race</td></tr>
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<br />
The race started at 6 a.m. It was my first time being at the starting line of an ultra and not running, so I got to appreciate the spectacle from the other side.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Headlamps across the lake, only 99.5 miles to go!</td></tr>
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<br />
The plan was I'd meet Jake at mile 25 (the endpoint of the out-and-back) with some gear, then again at 50 (the start), and then at mile 75 (the endpoint of the out-and-back) I'd join him for the final 25 miles to the finish (the start). I was excited to get some night running practice in and to help coax a 100-miler-to-be out of the typical mile-75 misery.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Leading up to the mile-25 turnaround, the trail was marked with magazines</td></tr>
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<br />
I got to the mile 25 aid station around 10 a.m., which was super early, and I got to see the first runners come through. I didn't expect Jake till after noon, so I hung out and tried to read sometimes but mostly sat. There was a wonderful view from up here:<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view from the Rock Pile</td></tr>
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<br />
Shortly after noon, I got a text from Jake saying his ankle was messed up, that several people had looked at it, and that he was having trouble even walking. He wasn't far past the mile 20 aid station, but he wanted to make sure it was a legitimate injury before throwing in the towel, so he was making his way toward mile 25, and he'd keep me posted. Yikes. Long story short, I picked him up around mile 24 at a road crossing about two hours later, and we drove back to the start (the finish), where he officially dropped out of the race.<br />
<br />
Bummer notwithstanding, I kinda still wanted to get in a long run over the weekend. I was thinking about going for a 20-mile run the next morning on the streets, but how stupid would that be when I was already at a race with a beautiful course... If only there were a way... And then I realized that the race weekend had a 50k the next day. (The 50 mile and 100 mile both started together on Saturday, and the 50k started on Sunday morning.) I spoke to <a href="http://www.rednewtracing.com/Home/About" target="_blank">the race director</a>, and he awesomely let me register for the 50k. Which meant I'd be able to mark New York off my states-to-race list.<br />
<br />
Now that I was racing, I went to the grocery store for an avocado and some dark chocolate, and that night I found a more comfortable way to sleep in the car (the trunk). I woke up the next morning SO EXCITED. And the race didn't start till 8, which is super late by ultra standards, so I had plenty of time to drink coffee and get ready.<br />
<br />
The race itself was super fun. It was a small field, about 25 runners, and we quickly spread out. For long stretches (and virtually all of the second half) I didn't see anyone else. It was super tough. I hadn't been training on trails at all recently, and I almost forgot how mentally taxing it is having to pick out your steps. And then the elevation: The 50k course had about 6,500 feet of elevation gain and the same amount of loss. A lot of this was cruelly near the turnaround, where we had to climb up two ski slopes, including one black diamond–rated one. Still, I was really happy with my performance. I pushed myself to keep flying down the hills when I could, to make up for the long, slow climbs. All said, I finished around 6:24, which seems slow (slower than 12-minute miles) but it put me in 8th place overall.<br />
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<br />
It was such a great weekend. Mostly, being out of the city and in a wonderful, remote place. Then, the ultra atmosphere, which is always... nice. Then, all the awesome people I got to meet. It always strikes me as amazing how ultrarunning can bring people together.<br />
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ウルトラねTim Gorichanazhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16304578712474887920noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029454871308050507.post-14347172341362077542015-06-23T09:55:00.001-07:002015-06-29T07:57:49.248-07:00A Hundred Miles<blockquote class="tr_bq">
If you start snapping your fingers now and continue snapping 98,463,077 times without stopping, the sun will rise and the sun will set, and the sky will grow dark and the night will deepen, and everyone will sleep while you are still snapping, until finally, sometime after daybreak, when you finish up your 98,463,077th snap, you will experience the truly intimate awareness of knowing exactly how you spent every single moment of a single day of your life.<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
—Ruth Ozeki, <i>A Tale for the Time Being</i></div>
</blockquote>
<br />
There are some things you can only learn by running 100 miles. I'm not yet sure what those things are, exactly, but maybe I'll figure them out next time I run 100 miles. All I know is that, even now, sitting at my desk, when I think back to that final stretch, my throat chokes up and I can feel tears welling behind my eyes. So, <i>something</i> happened here, but it might be a while before I figure out what.<br />
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I'm currently working on my Fulbright Student Research Fellowship application, and my personal statement is centered around (1) running and (2) my family. Because of this, I've been thinking about both these themes a lot, and how they intertwine.<br />
<br />
I started running after my mom signed herself and most of my siblings up for a 5K at the county zoo. Before training for that, I'd never run more than a mile (before college, I could never even run an actual mile). And that wasn't too long ago—just 2010. I don't know why she signed us up, and I don't know why I took it so seriously, but I suspect it had something to do with finding a way to bring our family closer together after a long string of estranging events. Running has brought our family closer—along with the wider family of the ultrarunning community, but I'd be hard pressed to believe my mom could see exactly where that little neighborhood 5K would lead us.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tropical Depression Bill came to Ohio to make<br />
the Mohican 100 as depressive as possible. Photo<br />
by <a href="https://www.facebook.com/NASA/videos/vb.54971236771/10153344992061772/" target="_blank">Nasa</a>. Finder's fee of $0.00 goes to <a href="http://www.michaelmassie.com/blog/" target="_blank">Mike Massie</a>.</td></tr>
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<br />
Camping in The Middle of Nowhere, Ohio, in the rain. My family and some of our friends were sprawled across four campsites. Things weren't going exactly well, and I couldn't help but feel selfish for dragging everyone along for such a dismal "vacation" just so I could do something stupid. There was plenty of tension: I tried playing a board game with some of my siblings, but my tent was leaking and I didn't want it to get ruined so I made us stop. The first night we almost couldn't eat because the rain precluded making a fire and all the restaurants in town closed rural-early. Setting up a canopy, I accidentally smashed my sister's French press with a propane tank.<br />
<br />
I was plenty crabby, too, but not because I was stressed about the prospect of running 100 miles, per se. Rather, I was on edge because we couldn't manage to come up with a plan for pacing me (we had an assortment of people who offered to pace for segments of 4 to 24 miles, but the details were all TBD up until the night before). Also, we faced a deadline of leaving at noon on Sunday, which was an hour before the cutoff for running the 100 mile. I had initially agreed to this plan because I didn't think there was any chance I'd need that long. I figured 24 hours at the most. But especially after I got started and saw how slow going the run was, trying to finish in time for everyone was a key stress point for me. I was frustrated because I couldn't get my body to move any faster, and I knew that the longer I took the more I'd be stressing everyone else out. I thought about quitting countless times—which is normal, I hear. If I dropped out, then they wouldn't have to wait for me to take forever to finish, and I wouldn't stress them out. But they'd probably be disappointed. If I continued, at least I'd finish, but at what cost? Again, running 100 miles seemed like the most selfish thing to do. I came really close to quitting a few times.<br />
<br />
When it really came down to it, none of us knew what we were getting into. <a href="http://zachbitter.com/" target="_blank">Zach</a> told me to imagine a 100 Mile as more like three 50 Miles in a row, but I guess I didn't really understand what that meant. Maybe I was imagining a nice jaunt through some casual trails, only for an extended period of time. Running 100 miles in 24 hours is like 14-minute miles. Anyone can do that, right? So I was pretty casual about the whole thing. Until, a few days out from the race, I relented to look at the weather forecast. Here's what it said:<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
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<br />
Indeed, the weather was about as bad as seasonably possible. It had been raining in Loudonville all week, and it was slated to continue through Saturday (the race was Saturday to Sunday). This would be a problem for many reasons: First, camping in the rain is the worst. Second, rain meant muddy trails, which meant there was no chance of me finishing if I were to wear my <a href="http://lunasandals.com/" target="_blank">Luna Sandals</a>. They're great for almost everything, but mud is their kryptonite. So what was I supposed to do? I ordered a pair of shoes and a raincoat.<br />
<br />
Before I knew it, I was standing at the start of the Mohican Trail 100 Mile, wearing those shoes and that raincoat for the first time. What was that thing they say about trying something new on race day?<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A few minutes before the start. Photo by my mom.</td></tr>
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<br />
All things considered, I felt pretty serene. I found starting a 100 Mile less stressful than starting a marathon, because in a marathon you need to put in a more acute effort. I guess because the effort in an ultra is distributed over such a long period of time, there's less performance anxiety. Probably not so for the elites... I was just looking to finish. (Although I did have some notions of being a breakout and placing in my age group; these notions were quickly dashed.) I think I was also calm because I had already put in the pre-first-100 jitters at <a href="http://niketoldmeto.blogspot.com/2015/03/my-first-dnf-at-lake-martin-100.html" target="_blank">Lake Martin 100</a>, where I DNF'd. Anyway, I waved past my mom and sister, who had lovingly dropped me off at the starting line, and tried not to think about all the hours ahead. Just think about now, I told myself. By the time we left the camp ground and entered the trail, I had settled into my place in the conga line and just relaxed.<br />
<br />
The first few miles were calm. And, because the race started at 5 a.m., dark. I used a handheld flashlight through the first two aid stations, by which time it was light enough to see, even beneath the forest canopy. Not that you needed light, necessarily, to tell what was there: mud—sloppy and slimy. Boy, was I glad to be wearing shoes. Until a few miles had passed, when I realized that my feet were going to be soaked, sloshing and wrinkling, for a very, very long time. I had a couple of changes of socks (as an all-weather sandal-wearer, I have very few socks to begin with), and I changed them when I could and simply wrung them out when I ran out of fresh ones. Either way, the relief didn't last long—there was ankle-deep mud waiting around every corner.<br />
<br />
My feet were quickly converted into misshapen, white raisins. Not appetizing. Maybe I will never eat raisins again. Blisters sprouted as decorations and then popped with painful flourishes. That's when I gritted my teeth and pretended that it wasn't happening. Same with the pain that smacked of a stress fracture coming from the top of my left foot. Same with all the times I stubbed my toes.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjP5b42Hnz-rB6TO9paAJr5MQPJ35ujlUdxKVuUf6vVeAeYavV8BcR_E7bNN8Hb5zYMJB9Kwp1g0yyhh0WvGGwFeXtGBqrQYsFwFH3ueuZ_34jSOniY-jA8Z_i5d5PVw23Vp_pEWfBpoTe/s1600/11391595_10153416482187342_6075251496543472846_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjP5b42Hnz-rB6TO9paAJr5MQPJ35ujlUdxKVuUf6vVeAeYavV8BcR_E7bNN8Hb5zYMJB9Kwp1g0yyhh0WvGGwFeXtGBqrQYsFwFH3ueuZ_34jSOniY-jA8Z_i5d5PVw23Vp_pEWfBpoTe/s400/11391595_10153416482187342_6075251496543472846_n.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A good look at the bottoms of my feet after the run.<br />
Photo by <a href="http://www.michaelmassie.com/blog/" target="_blank">Mike Massie</a>.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKlED8UrOZF5aj6Gd2Rdz1B4a2zGKNuU6Nx1A1TCX0Q-4g5mwrHqC_GG3ot3Gmj3oNLwS6mtFo6uRSnLDrAcbppZEPrUTHp8xjfdpZ-iWeunMAhbzddkjnGADn9GCHGuKpFiYmZK9s3MIF/s1600/IMG_0827.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKlED8UrOZF5aj6Gd2Rdz1B4a2zGKNuU6Nx1A1TCX0Q-4g5mwrHqC_GG3ot3Gmj3oNLwS6mtFo6uRSnLDrAcbppZEPrUTHp8xjfdpZ-iWeunMAhbzddkjnGADn9GCHGuKpFiYmZK9s3MIF/s400/IMG_0827.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Never thought feet could look this good. Voyeurism by <a href="http://www.michaelmassie.com/blog/" target="_blank">Mike Massie</a>.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Now, about 48 hours after taking my socks off for good, my feet have mostly de-wrinkled, but each toe is still hanging onto the two or three blisters that have called it home. Some are your classic oval blisters, and others are shaped more like the hat of a garden gnome. Overnight some blood seems to have seeped out from around the corners of a few of my toenails. My left foot has been slightly numb. Wearing sandals, I never had to deal with any of this stuff before—but maybe, to some extent, it just comes with the 100-mile territory.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"So that'll be like... an hour and a half maybe. And that's the first loop done. Can't imagine doing three more. But I'll just go a little bit at a time. So, yeah." (Voice memo at 4 hours, 46 minutes)</blockquote>
My running didn't go as well as I'd hoped. I had gotten over my calf strain that plagued me for the first third of this year, thankfully, and I'd gotten in all my training. So I had high hopes. But it just wasn't there for me. Maybe I pushed myself too hard at my half marathon the previous Sunday. I was sore for several days afterwards, after all, which isn't normal. I might have also had some sort of infection; I had some sort of blistery rash on one of my feet that looked like poison ivy. In short order, it spread to my other foot, my arms and my hands. That was four days prior to the race. I was feeling overly fatigued (I needed a nap every day, which isn't normal for me), and my muscles were sore. I don't know if poison ivy can cause fatigue like that, but who knows. On top of that, I had moved the previous week, which was an insane few-days workout and a lot of stress. Anyway, even though I felt fine on race day, I probably wasn't at my 100%. And it quickly showed. After only 25 miles I started cramping up, which was basically my worst nightmare—way too early for that to be happening. After mile 60 or so I basically couldn't run anymore. Oh, also, my ears plugged up somewhere around 3 hours into the race—again, way too early for such alarming things to be happening—and they stayed plugged up for 9+ hours after that. All that time I felt like I was underwater. I couldn't hear anyone that well, so I didn't want to talk to other runners, which didn't help the situation. (Talking on the trails usually helps cheer me up.)<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"I had a scare a little while ago. I had what <a href="http://www.michaelmassie.com/blog/" target="_blank">Michael Massie</a> would describe as a slight stabbing pain in my lung. So that was a little scary because I was like, 'Well, I might die. And then on my grave they would have to write DNF.' But then I was thinking that that's funny because, when you're dead, you kinda did finish. That's, like, the definition of finishing." (Voice memo at 9 hours, 18 minutes)</blockquote>
<br />
The experience of running 100 miles was, in a word, humbling. In the most literal sense: <i>lowering one's estimate of his own importance, dignity and ability; feeling decisively defeated</i>. I'm not sure if I can describe this in a manner sufficient for a reader who has not done this to imagine it. When you run 100 miles, you break yourself down so far that even going as fast as you can you're going slower than you ever imagined possible. It's not that you're in all that much pain, but you just can't make your body do what you want it to. I got a sense of this in <a href="http://niketoldmeto.blogspot.com/2011/10/i-guess-that-makes-me-marathoner.html">my first marathon</a>, but that was only five hours. This time it was almost 32. That number is only two digits long, so you can read it in an instant. Maybe it doesn't seem all that long. But stop and think about that: Thirty-two hours. Thirty-two hours and you're getting slower and slower, getting more and more broken, just trying not to think about how much farther you have left to go, wondering if your body will really hold out that long. It was the longest I'd ever been awake in my life.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Half a mile from the finish line.<br />
A jovial spectator: Hey, now! That doesn't look like running! I thought this was a run!<br />
Me: (Laughter) I—<br />
Jovial spectator: <i>But it feels like running</i>, he says. (Laughter) <i>Sure feels like I'm running!</i> You're almost there, just keep going. </blockquote>
<br />
The biggest problem I faced during the run was being overwhelmed by the number of miles I had left. For example, it took me about 14 hours to finish the first two loops, meaning I had run 52 miles. It had been raining for the first 9 hours, but it finally stopped. I was exhausted. I'd already run so far. And I had another 50 to go. Everything I had just done, I had to do it again. It was too much. To quell these feelings, I tried to think of the event not as a race, but as a sort of stone-age migration. Something that was normal for early nomadic humans. I just took it one step at a time. I looked for distractions—trains of thought, looking around at the natural beauty. When it got really bad, I put on some music; I didn't have any headphones, so I just played it from my phone's speaker, which may have annoyed some other runners but at those points I just couldn't care.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQG6onDpGCfV5sEj7JJtGvBVam5cl3X_QPjVh0YyNG8X9ZhyZTekjt6c-N_l5ZOIFQdaPHCdrsg5sPnFJiDBSZqt_fZbNeYidhucQByVc8H20g3i3FF6hqgSuNbmiYD5SKR8CNatXXTAf0/s1600/IMG_5809.JPG.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQG6onDpGCfV5sEj7JJtGvBVam5cl3X_QPjVh0YyNG8X9ZhyZTekjt6c-N_l5ZOIFQdaPHCdrsg5sPnFJiDBSZqt_fZbNeYidhucQByVc8H20g3i3FF6hqgSuNbmiYD5SKR8CNatXXTAf0/s400/IMG_5809.JPG.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The course brought me past our campsite on every loop. This is me<br />
climbing the steep hill toward the end of my first loop. Photo by my mom.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Aid stations were 4 to 7 miles apart, and passing them really reinvigorated me. Hopeless though I might have been, I almost always felt like a million bucks once I left an aid station. The feeling tended not to last long, but at least it was there. The best was when I passed an aid station where I had a drop bag, which meant I could change my shirt or shorts. After doing so, especially while it was raining, it felt like I had just scored the most decadent luxury imaginable. When you're running an ultra, it's the simple things.<br />
<br />
The climbs were killer. The course has about 12,000 feet of elevation gain (and equal elevation loss). That's over two miles, straight up, and then over two miles, straight down. Think about that. It's the same elevation gain/loss, roughly, as the Leadville 100, the granddaddy of punishing 100-mile events, but this one had the added fun of every climb and descent being a mudslide. I wasn't prepared for this. Even though I got some hill training in the Wissahickon leading up to the race, you just can't find those sorts of climbs in Philadelphia. And I hadn't run in mud <a href="http://niketoldmeto.blogspot.com/2014/01/a-muddy-welcome-to-trail-running.html">since my last trail marathon in January 2014</a>.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Climbing that hill is really hard. It makes me think of having to do it again, and that makes me want to quit." (Voice memo at 14 hours, 6 minutes)</blockquote>
<br />
Toward the end of my second lap, I was looking forward to meeting my sister at the aid station. That's when we could begin having pacers, so she was going to run with me for about 9 miles. Then I'd have to make it 14 miles by myself, and finally Mike would join me for the last 24. Looking at it like that, it didn't seem so bad. Au contraire.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTCeFDBkLJfPXkCiSV7xFgySBodmeVui6L_hBZBK_C7nvDPX7UM6WMjvBxMpmBGlwq4RtqsWm50REqHcwe-vsStE33JZtuTaBdU-xOlUYTr0R1ieYQLA-HMG6S0AMjX4mKSEEKEJCq5zst/s1600/20150620_202926.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTCeFDBkLJfPXkCiSV7xFgySBodmeVui6L_hBZBK_C7nvDPX7UM6WMjvBxMpmBGlwq4RtqsWm50REqHcwe-vsStE33JZtuTaBdU-xOlUYTr0R1ieYQLA-HMG6S0AMjX4mKSEEKEJCq5zst/s400/20150620_202926.jpg" width="225" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nearing mile 60, hiking up a hill.<br />
Photo by my sister Kim.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
When my sister joined me, the sun was starting to set but we still had an enjoyable run. It was a pleasure to share with her my world of ultrarunning, and we got to talk. She also gave me some coffee and peppermint oil, which helped reawaken me a bit. Even with her there, though, I was starting to get overwhelmed and really crabby. I shudder to think of what it would have been like to be alone for that time.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"I'm going so slow. And it's so hard. I feel vaguely nauseous. And then I stopped, and then my head was spinning when I stopped." (Voice memo at 15 hours, 19 minutes)</blockquote>
<br />
Eventually my sister left me. I continued on shortly behind an older Irish guy and his Irish pacer. Listening to them talk was a pleasant diversion, and they also gave me a lot of good tips on night running and running ultras in general. They told me that if I could finish this course, there were loads of other 100s I'd have no trouble with. Apparently it wasn't a very gentle course to choose for one's first 100 Mile. Ah...<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5O7HAaBu_pJF8aY0AyCOmXQ5914z8MYthK96i7Ei_Q0sDDfleX8RmAMwALdOX8ohA8HN9Em5AbPTqgbAnNYxyTE7qXsdAibrxmZu5cCmVXYNJyjcRHtCqewQIH99MjuO2DM7KCyPD1wow/s1600/IMG_0794.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5O7HAaBu_pJF8aY0AyCOmXQ5914z8MYthK96i7Ei_Q0sDDfleX8RmAMwALdOX8ohA8HN9Em5AbPTqgbAnNYxyTE7qXsdAibrxmZu5cCmVXYNJyjcRHtCqewQIH99MjuO2DM7KCyPD1wow/s400/IMG_0794.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The night. Photo by <a href="http://www.michaelmassie.com/blog/" target="_blank">Mike Massie</a>.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
But soon the Irishmen had a shoe issue and told me to go on ahead. (They went on to finish about 10 minutes after me.) I ran alone then for a long time, and it wasn't easy. By then it was pitch black. Ultrarunning in general is characterized by unknowns, and night running epitomizes that. Imagine spending six hours alone at night in the forest, trying to run through the mud, with only the little light of your headlamp to see by. Not only that, but it's foggy, so you can't see that well even with the light. And not only that, but you're wearing glasses and have poor night vision to begin with. And not only that, but you've been running for 17 hours and you are so, so tired. More than once I fantasized about going to sleep under a tree until sunrise. I didn't do it, but only because I didn't want to get wet. If I wasn't going to sleep under a tree, I thought, I should at least drop out. Then it would all be over. Then I could stop running. The nausea would pass, the disorientation would pass, my feet could get out of their sopping prisons... Everything would be better. But for some reason, I didn't stop. I just kept shuffling along, mostly in misery, looking forward to sunrise. Everyone was telling me that when the sun came back up, it would get better.<br />
<br />
More than once I had the fleeting sensation that I might fall asleep right there, still in motion. Something was wrong. Moving, I felt sick. When I stopped, everything I saw was still in motion, and I felt dizzy. I thought I was going to puke. I was tripping on all kinds of things—even air. Sometimes I stepped sideways instead of forwards. I felt like I was slowly fading away. That's how I passed the final two hours or more of the third lap. Not fun. It was a long time coming, but eventually I finished my third loop. Only one left. It was about 3 a.m., and I was feeling dismal and nauseous. I didn't know if I could go on like this, so I determined to get myself better at the aid station before setting out on my final lap. I ended up spending over 90 minutes there. I changed socks, tentatively ate some potatoes and ramen, and waited to feel better.<br />
<br />
I was also waiting because this is where I was supposed to meet Mike, who would pace me through the final lap. But there was a communication snafu and I was taking much longer than anticipated, so he wasn't there. The aid station volunteer helped me look for his car in the parking lot, which he was supposedly sleeping in, but it was nowhere to be seen. So this all made me feel worse. And I just sat there. Should I stop, I wondered. I wasn't feeling great, and I didn't want to go out there alone and risk passing out and falling down a hill somewhere, never to be seen again. I waited, hoping things would get better. Eventually my sister appeared from nowhere, and that was a relief. She brought me more coffee and we talked a bit. That cheered me up enough to get off my butt and back out there. I still wasn't feeling great—I was still lightly nauseous, very disoriented, and very tired. I left with a small group of other runners who were starting their final lap, and we sort of leap-frogged each other for the ensuing 24 miles, which took about eight hours.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Okay, we're at 27 hours, 14 minutes, and I'm actually feeling good. Right now we're just bringing it home. Can't really run anymore, so I am sort of hobbling. I call it hiking uphill, power-walking downhill and gremlin-running the flats." (Voice memo)</blockquote>
<br />
The hallucinations. I wasn't prepared for that. It started during the night, when I would look ahead and see, for example, a life-size Nativity scene or a little crouching Chinaman. The illusion would last a second or two, and then I would see that it was just a fallen tree or some foliage. When the sun finally rose, the hallucinations got worse. At that point, and through the remainder of the race, virtually everything I saw was actually not what it looked like. I saw aid stations and phantom runners, but I also saw concrete walls, garbage cans, carriages for Medieval Japanese royalty, lots of crouching people... Even when I looked down at the mud, I saw toy soldiers, tiny medallions, wooden toys, swords... Usually the illusion would only last a second or less, but there were several times when I saw someone up ahead leaning against a tree, and I'd say to myself, "Okay, that for sure is a person." As I got closer, I'd be about to say hello or something, and then it would turn out that they were just a tree stump. It sounds funny, but it was more frustrating than anything—especially when it came to seeing aid stations. I couldn't trust my eyes anymore. As I mentioned, the hallucinations lasted to the very end. In the final quarter-mile, I thought I saw a little kid crouching along the path, watching me run. I waved, but the little kid turned out to be a fire hydrant.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj29QtxwbDVdNA8JAoqFjDIfmBrXyU0RyeW6T9xrFT2oAvfzfNwUjstHYRJgjtJ5k_2isaA4KXRZqNYLcUZwa6qNapac7HTPDbElCCHQgh7UtnfzAtGQ4MBDnCVfo8AqJ-TIxEQwC0qFPhM/s1600/20150620_152228.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj29QtxwbDVdNA8JAoqFjDIfmBrXyU0RyeW6T9xrFT2oAvfzfNwUjstHYRJgjtJ5k_2isaA4KXRZqNYLcUZwa6qNapac7HTPDbElCCHQgh7UtnfzAtGQ4MBDnCVfo8AqJ-TIxEQwC0qFPhM/s400/20150620_152228.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After the race, my sister revealed to me that she, perhaps unwittingly,<br />
added some Essence of Spider to my coffee. She thinks this might have<br />
contributed to the hallucinations.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It took absolutely forever, but the final miles approached. The stretch from the final aid station to the finish was particularly brutal; it was mostly downhill, and going downhill hurt the most at that point. Those last seven miles felt like the longest marathon of my life (well, probably because they took about as long as a marathon...). Approaching the finish line, I could feel my body trying to cry, but it couldn't. I was almost there. Almost there. Finally.
<br />
<br />
I saw Danijela when I passed by our campsite, about a mile and a half from the finish, and then my mom and brother were waiting at the bottom of the next hill. I was happy to see them, but I probably snapped at them because I didn't know what was going on.<br />
<br />
And then, finally, I turned down the finish chute, into a final stretch of mud, along some lawn, and across the finish line. That's when I stopped running.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFXcQQCOxUG6Y2ULoEAIPTrw_bq2fYMx_yS3Y3txU0BS4o3AyqKOCeZn3wRtE8VtNhtP12EyRZEUV5JNJM71lJFE036E4jm3NJ5z5gwnCuwGuuYLUBml5MzwGdGJzbift0LSLraV3A9bDo/s1600/IMG_0808-ANIMATION.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFXcQQCOxUG6Y2ULoEAIPTrw_bq2fYMx_yS3Y3txU0BS4o3AyqKOCeZn3wRtE8VtNhtP12EyRZEUV5JNJM71lJFE036E4jm3NJ5z5gwnCuwGuuYLUBml5MzwGdGJzbift0LSLraV3A9bDo/s400/IMG_0808-ANIMATION.gif" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Crossing the finish line. By <a href="http://www.michaelmassie.com/blog/" target="_blank">Mike Massie</a>.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMVXiP6wTxBcaDxAAOH0SbuTYLtUZ_yG_nXbDoNuGt41nyMDjMzwa7Z5U_wcL9IhZUSIkKyIdxFLSVecV8PKgQy64gMmY8-z8E3dznQADP-s_0hccfF14-KaYdvpVy3TKocqCX_a_QlRYS/s1600/IMG_0821.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMVXiP6wTxBcaDxAAOH0SbuTYLtUZ_yG_nXbDoNuGt41nyMDjMzwa7Z5U_wcL9IhZUSIkKyIdxFLSVecV8PKgQy64gMmY8-z8E3dznQADP-s_0hccfF14-KaYdvpVy3TKocqCX_a_QlRYS/s400/IMG_0821.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo0Z6Pvvd0EqK74fv8oz8nSDH-4TGOqi3weSFPNBTI-8rZn5ujNwivyGOA_zUuY6GPikzaayf77owai44WTkQbetC7yQlQthj6uZIK6_vbC9ir21a4ozWDeC5wcgcSs_j89IuiT3wsT1oU/s1600/Mohican-100-Buckle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="337" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo0Z6Pvvd0EqK74fv8oz8nSDH-4TGOqi3weSFPNBTI-8rZn5ujNwivyGOA_zUuY6GPikzaayf77owai44WTkQbetC7yQlQthj6uZIK6_vbC9ir21a4ozWDeC5wcgcSs_j89IuiT3wsT1oU/s400/Mohican-100-Buckle.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oh, look. Another one of those thingies to put in that box in my closet...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I lay down, put my feet up and drank a few bottles of water. The last few runners came in, the 32-hour time limit passed and the course closed. Only 45% of the runners finished the 100-mile course. I'm glad to count myself among them. Only the top ten finished in under 24 hours (the winner was just under 18 hours).<br />
<br />
About an hour after I finished, my body had had enough, and it involuntarily shut down into a long, dreamless sleep.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3byGS0Vl9uVx4PQwYuuaIjOwogMFQpYVDViMsSUUscotpennQKte5SVnY8qVjLVhSMGZ63LitUdHoM0dQiZbEq8cpOD2NB1y-qIKjhUBEs1gUWAb-85H3YnpnMxQhnuuGOnL-w4OelCjJ/s1600/IMG_0822.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3byGS0Vl9uVx4PQwYuuaIjOwogMFQpYVDViMsSUUscotpennQKte5SVnY8qVjLVhSMGZ63LitUdHoM0dQiZbEq8cpOD2NB1y-qIKjhUBEs1gUWAb-85H3YnpnMxQhnuuGOnL-w4OelCjJ/s400/IMG_0822.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At the finish line. Photo by <a href="http://www.michaelmassie.com/blog/" target="_blank">Mike Massie</a>. Sculpture<br />
presumably by someone who was not running.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<buckle .="" another="" box="" closet.="" in="" look.="" my="" of="" oh="" one="" put="" that="" things="" those="" to=""></buckle>
Running 100 miles doesn't really register on a scale from easy to difficult. Nor can I say that it went "well" or "poorly." Words like that don't even begin to describe it. In some ways, it wasn't hard at all. I was never in terrible pain, really, and there were only a couple of times when I questioned my physical ability to cross the finish line. But in other ways, it was the hardest thing I've done in my life. I thought of quitting more times than there were miles.<br />
<br />
I got through mostly by thinking of my family—to make them proud (as proud as someone can be of a pathetic and hobbling brother/son), but also to make good on my promise to run 100 miles and thereby make their trip to Ohio worthwhile. (Since, given the weather, I'm sure it wasn't all that pleasant for anyone. But maybe it was. I didn't get much of a chance to talk to them after the run.) It also helped to recall how upset I was with myself after dropping out of the Lake Martin 100 back in March. And sometimes I even thought about that stupid buckle.<br />
<br />
I wish I could give a big hug to all the volunteers who helped me, especially during the night. The care and personal attention I received during this race was unlike anything I've experienced before. I know I wouldn't have finished without them. And also a huge thank-you to my family who came to Ohio to support me—before, during and after. Especially to my sister Kim for bringing me some well-timed cups of coffee and staying up throughout the night, beyond the call of duty.<br />
<br />
Finally, super kudos to my little brother Ricky who ran his first marathon at this event! He did the entire thing in the rain.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY88NKTF12D9XxkPaVP1aJIfwUx-vxIcfS7LX6HjmvB7MSMNRegLs_LcVF759eWsHvB5UeBrBUA6Jk1mnIvXeQRQl_9qR5u9dqpkEJ0ezfiZ2r9x-vfkiwr6ELrdoCsa7FGJwUECVfyP4Z/s1600/IMG_4145.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="311" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY88NKTF12D9XxkPaVP1aJIfwUx-vxIcfS7LX6HjmvB7MSMNRegLs_LcVF759eWsHvB5UeBrBUA6Jk1mnIvXeQRQl_9qR5u9dqpkEJ0ezfiZ2r9x-vfkiwr6ELrdoCsa7FGJwUECVfyP4Z/s400/IMG_4145.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br />
There are plenty of things I can improve upon for next time. Here are a few:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li><b>Not taking so long at drop bags and aid stations.</b> If I plan and organize my things better, I could save a lot of time. I calculated that I spent over two hours at aid stations (not counting the 90 minutes before my final lap), doing things like changing socks and rummaging for things. Having a crew would also expedite all that.</li>
<li><b>Not consuming only acidic foods.</b> I think this was a big cause of my stomach issues. Along the way I was drinking fizzy ginger ale and Heed, and I was eating only chocolate and oranges. I guess I should have balanced out the acidic stuff with some more alkalinizing foods, which would have helped the nausea. </li>
<li><b>Getting more caffeine.</b> Every time I had some coffee, I felt better shortly afterwards. Immediately for the warmth, and then for the effects of the caffeine. I wish I had some more at some of the mid-loop aid stations. For this race, I cut out caffeine in the days prior to the race (though I usually only have one cup of coffee in the morning), with the hopes that caffeine would be more effective during the race. I'm not sure this was very helpful. And, worse, it threw off my digestive cycle, so things were not off to a good start. (Not having to take so many bathroom breaks would also save time.)</li>
<li><b>Better course-specific training.</b> Well, to the extent that it's possible. </li>
<li><b>Practicing night running. </b>Or taking some measures to improve my alertness and vision.</li>
<li><b>Avoiding muddy courses at all costs. </b>Or figure out a better footwear situation.</li>
</ul>
Tim Gorichanazhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16304578712474887920noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029454871308050507.post-44924011379907007682015-06-01T04:17:00.000-07:002015-06-01T04:17:01.121-07:00Gearing Up for a Good 100Oh, it's June already. Which means I'll be running my first 100 Mile this month. If you're a regular visitor (lol), you'll know <a href="http://niketoldmeto.blogspot.com/2015/03/my-first-dnf-at-lake-martin-100.html">I was slotted to run Lake Martin 100</a> as my first 100 Mile, back in March. But sadly I got injured in January and was barely able to run leading up to it, and decided to stop at 50.<br />
<br />
But my brain was sufficiently infected, so I sought out another 100 Mile to do later in the year. I was already signed up for Ice Age Trail 50 Mile, so I figured I could use that as my peak training run. I found <a href="http://mohican100.org/" target="_blank">Mohican 100 Mile</a> on June 20, which was just about perfect timing, and I didn't hesitate to sign up. Look for a race report later this month.<br />
<br />
My injury wasn't clearing up like it should, so I bit the bullet and went to see a PT. That was a wonderful experience, actually. Mike at Drexel PT & Rehab Services assessed my strength and mobility and prescribed a medley of stretches and band exercises to do every day. Et voila: Little by little things got better.<br />
<br />
Ice Age Trail 50 Mile went great. I wore a goat shirt. I ran with <a href="http://happytrails.ghost.io/" target="_blank">my friend Mike</a>, who was doing it as his first 50 Mile. We took it nice and slow, and when we were done I felt as though I'd only spent a few hours hiking. I think this means I'm ready for the 100! Since then I put on an 83-mile week (my highest mileage to date), followed by a 73-mile week (a hardy follow-up). My calf (the source of injury) is a tiny bit weird still, but the injury has largely gone away even while I've been piling up miles. I'm confident that as I start tapering now into June 20, it'll heal completely. The swelling is finally gone. Some simple daily PT exercises go a long way!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Ai8YkwGm1Kviua1Ih8nNmYRIbJhln2b2D31eiQTS9d1ncngJet8DPIO5m64S2MwnbjkmhHEJMDobNmZdMpU2wZvA0vxiBaAMRX-Y29lTm5eL1FwFinYXsvpOIgYcK0wWlhHwHZLED4Kx/s1600/11244944_10155448271845332_611421940831702041_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Ai8YkwGm1Kviua1Ih8nNmYRIbJhln2b2D31eiQTS9d1ncngJet8DPIO5m64S2MwnbjkmhHEJMDobNmZdMpU2wZvA0vxiBaAMRX-Y29lTm5eL1FwFinYXsvpOIgYcK0wWlhHwHZLED4Kx/s320/11244944_10155448271845332_611421940831702041_o.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Before the race. Mike and I were running the 50 mile, and my mom and Mike's wife Danijela were running the 50k.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr4LdAXLt4LSOIf3lApOhAeKVpQvK3NQaVvRFlaDv3hH69G7r23je4dZuiwLs5RHYRMNe5a-Ri2mdjyCTiRtxZzha9rJCqdiSzNOoKJQdtU3mDHBr12rYnMBOWnWyoRRm1IdZBzdTL2jdP/s1600/11118813_10204138040323382_5045352945814845553_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr4LdAXLt4LSOIf3lApOhAeKVpQvK3NQaVvRFlaDv3hH69G7r23je4dZuiwLs5RHYRMNe5a-Ri2mdjyCTiRtxZzha9rJCqdiSzNOoKJQdtU3mDHBr12rYnMBOWnWyoRRm1IdZBzdTL2jdP/s320/11118813_10204138040323382_5045352945814845553_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At mile 37!</td></tr>
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<br />Tim Gorichanazhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16304578712474887920noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029454871308050507.post-70226866622297438642015-05-20T05:06:00.004-07:002015-05-20T05:06:36.456-07:00What Running an Ultramarathon Feels Like: My Experience<br />
<div>
Twenty-five miles in. I’ve been running for five hours. Slow and steady, but still: five hours. My legs are heavier than they used to be. I got tired a while ago, but I won’t be stopping any time soon: I’ve got 75 miles to go. The distance is unthinkable. The farthest I’ve run before was only 50. Even that was a long way. A really long way. And here I am, pacing towards 100. Everything past 50 miles is unknown territory. What will happen?</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Now and then my ankle stiffens or my calf muscle fires a warning shot. Fear. Will it get worse? Can I run through it? I question everything. Should I have eaten that yesterday? Was my training enough? Did I set out too fast? How’s my form? I’ve never run 100 miles before, so I have no idea what a reasonable pace is. Run too slow and I won’t realize my potential. But even worse, I won’t make the checkpoints, which means DNF—Did Not Finish. But run too fast and I’ll putter out before the finish line. DNF. The three most terrifying letters.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Running this long is no fun. In fact, it’s horrible. My stomach has been clenched for hours now, a braced against tides of nausea. I’m hungry, but eating might just make it worse. My ears are plugged. Something beneath my arm has been chafing, and it’s getting worse. I’m seasick but nowhere near water. It’s so hot out and the sweat is making my eyes burn and all I have is my little handheld bottle, which doesn’t hold quite enough water to last me from aid station to aid station, so I’m always flirting with dehydration. I’m so bored. I’m sick of dirt and rocks and roots. Every now and then I remember how many miles—hours—I have left. The number discourages me. I’m already so tired. All I can do is get comfortable with the discomfort and look forward to the next aid station. Maybe they’ll have potatoes. Small goals. One aid station at a time. You can’t think about all 100 miles at once or you’ll get overwhelmed. But sometimes you can’t help it. One hundred miles is a long way, and there’s no getting around that. It makes it worse being all alone out here. When was the last time I saw a person who wasn’t actually a pine tree? And now I think: Why am I doing this, anyway? Whose idea was it to sign up for this stupid thing? I’m dropping out at the next aid station. It’s pointless. Who cares about a DNF? I’m never running again.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The next aid station comes. The volunteers there, many of whom are ultrarunners themselves, encourage me. “You look great,” they say. “You’re making awesome time.” I refill my water bottle, swig some ginger ale, munch on a handful of M&M’s and exchange a few smiles, and then I’m back on the trail. I wipe the crusted salt from my eyes and take in the scenery. Tall pines, sweeping trails, a slight breeze. It’s a beautiful day, and I’m so grateful to be outside, able to enjoy it. I’m feeling better. By now I’ve forgotten all about my decision to drop out. Running is too much fun.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I’m running, I’ve been running, and I’ll keep running. It’s like breathing, only breathing isn’t difficult. Well, running isn’t difficult, either. Except sometimes. Same with breathing. Running I become small. So small. A tiny person in a great, big universe. But big, too, because there’s nothing left in the world that can tempt me. Only one thing: sitting down. I’ve been racking my brain for the past 10 miles and I can’t think of anything in the whole world I want except that. Can you imagine it? Breaking yourself down so much that all you want is something you’ve always taken for granted. And it’s the one thing you can’t have. Because sitting means stopping, and I can’t stop. I’ll never stop running. Because to stop running is to stop breathing—to stop living.</div>
Tim Gorichanazhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16304578712474887920noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029454871308050507.post-5599132971847855762015-03-24T10:44:00.001-07:002015-03-24T13:01:54.175-07:00My First DNF at Lake Martin 100Last summer I started seriously kicking around the idea of running a hundred-mile race. This came as a surprise because it was something I assumed I'd never do. Granted, there was a time not too many years ago when I assumed I'd never be bothered to even attempt a half marathon.
<br />
<br />
In October I signed up for <a href="http://lakemartin100mile.homestead.com/" target="_blank">Lake Martin 100</a>, and I started counting down the days to March 21, 2015. In the interim I had <a href="http://niketoldmeto.blogspot.com/2014/10/25-minute-marathon-pr-for-my-25th.html">another marathon</a> and <a href="http://niketoldmeto.blogspot.com/2014/11/my-second-50-mile-run.html">50 mile</a> to think about, and I'd likely want to find another 50 mile as a training stimulus in late January or February.<br />
<br />
I had a great fall season, even jumping into <a href="http://niketoldmeto.blogspot.com/2014/12/rocky-50k-in-philadelphia.html" target="">a community 50k</a>, and then I went to Japan and Hong Kong for two weeks, during which time I only ran two or three times. I thought I could use a little break, anyway. But then around Christmastime I jumped back into 70-mile-a-week training... and quickly found myself with a severe shin splint in my right leg. I powered through a 14-mile run when I thought it was just a little nagging pain, and then the next day I couldn't run at all.<br />
<br />
The next several weeks were pretty dismal. I could only manage to run 5 miles at a time, and the injury showed no signs of clearing up. I stopped running completely for a few several-day stretches, but nothing. I dialed in my diet, slept excessively, worked on mobility... doing everything I could think of short of seeing a physical therapist (which probably would have been wise, but not wallet-friendly, especially given that mine is empty).<br />
<br />
In the eight weeks leading up to the race, I averaged 30 miles per week. The day I was supposed to do a 50-mile training run, I couldn't run at all, and instead went for a 7-hour walk (I was hoping to go longer, but it started snowing). Finally, a week out from Lake Martin 100, my shin splint started to clear up. I credit this to my last-ditch recovery effort: taking high doses of fish oil, to the tune of 15-20 grams per day. But I was still woefully undertrained.<br />
<br />
I discussed my options with <a href="http://zachbitter.com/" target="_blank">my coach</a>. He was confident that I'd be able to finish the race if I was feeling 100% on race day morning and, importantly, wanted to. (Wanting to finish, and reminding yourself why and that you want to finish, especially when you're feeling horrible, seems to be the key to finishing a hundred miler.) This lifted my spirits. Hearing a finisher from the previous year talking to me after the pre-race dinner about how horrible it is to run a hundred miles and how you probably won't finish without a pacer and how you should rethink your drop bag strategy, etc., in turn lowered my spirits.<br />
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<a href="https://instagram.com/p/0dgfBrBGWD/" style="color: black; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px; text-decoration: none; word-wrap: break-word;" target="_top">Feet don't fail me now! 16 hours to the start.</a></div>
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A photo posted by Tim Gorichanaz (@timgorichanaz) on <time datetime="2015-03-20T19:21:21+00:00" style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px;">Mar 20, 2015 at 12:21pm PDT</time></div>
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<br />
On race morning I wasn't feeling quite 100%, but I thought I'd give it a try.<br />
<br />
I should also mention for posterity that I was feeling extremely nervous the week leading up to the race. It's been a long time since I had the pre-race jitters! And on the morning of the race I was almost nauseous, just feeling so miserable about all the unknowns. As soon as I started running, through, that went away. Running is a nice feeling.<br />
<br />
Since I could still feel my shin splint, I wore a brand new pair of calf compression sleeves and reminded myself that I would just go until I felt that I couldn't or shouldn't anymore. This was a double-edged sword: I gave myself an out that I'd surely take even if I didn't necessarily need to.<br />
<br />
Normally I'm pretty determined and tenacious when it comes to this kind of thing, but in this case I couldn't fall back on the comfort that I'd trained sufficiently. I also had to think about the future: I was signed up for another 50 mile in about a month, and I'm planning to run a BQ marathon this fall. If I were to further injure myself running a hundred miles, then all bets would be off for the rest of the season.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibjnJJlIK9k2ctO6xVbVFWP1piSPx5ki1vf9Blj5NjLMoqxqTEwABaKWq4EXGzM_h5bIM2mCKqkG4_Qwwo-v-k0XU11tc2dQVer84o8oWbcIaYDWjhzdWffn4s85g_aYsCnavBe6CKMjnq/s1600/10431699_10205345495749523_5922360537519457931_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibjnJJlIK9k2ctO6xVbVFWP1piSPx5ki1vf9Blj5NjLMoqxqTEwABaKWq4EXGzM_h5bIM2mCKqkG4_Qwwo-v-k0XU11tc2dQVer84o8oWbcIaYDWjhzdWffn4s85g_aYsCnavBe6CKMjnq/s1600/10431699_10205345495749523_5922360537519457931_n.jpg" height="267" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo courtesy of Tiki Merritt Curry on Facebook (BUTS member)</td></tr>
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<br />
Running, I took it easy. I walked up all the hills, ran at an easy pace, and chatted with other runners. There weren't too many of us on the course. However, my mental outlook was totally different during this race—solemnified by the prospect of going 100 miles. Since I'd only ever run 50 total, I couldn't wrap my head around going twice that. When I was around mile 25, it really hit me: I was almost at the end of a marathon (and by this distance my mom and our friends, who were running the 27-mile race, would be wrapping up), and if I were running 50 miles I'd be halfway done, but since I was going for 100 I was nowhere near done. To have run for more than five hours and be nowhere near done is a pretty extraordinary feeling. It's easy to connect the dots and feel utterly hopeless.<br />
<br />
For a long stretch around this time I was by myself; at an aid station I'd gotten disconnected from the guy I'd been running with, and human contact was at a premium. I tried listening to an audiobook but that just stressed me out. I settled on listening to Kanye West's "All Day" on repeat, which I kept going for a few hours. I checked behind me frequently and pulled out the headphones any time I encountered another runner and usually we exchanged a few words.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Found a snake on the course</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Red gravel and ashen leaves. Awesome combo.</td></tr>
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<br />
At some point I was feeling pretty meh and was walking, and two other hundred-runners passed by and asked how I was doing. "Ehh," I said. "You're doing better than you think," said the woman. That simple sentence was really encouraging, somehow. Shortly thereafter, I found another wind. (The woman went on to be the second female finisher. She's awesome!)<br />
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<a href="https://instagram.com/p/0iieALhGb1/" style="color: black; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px; text-decoration: none; word-wrap: break-word;" target="_top">These red hills are burned in my memory</a></div>
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A photo posted by Tim Gorichanaz (@timgorichanaz) on <time datetime="2015-03-22T18:14:53+00:00" style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px;">Mar 22, 2015 at 11:14am PDT</time></div>
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When I hit the mile 43 aid station, my mom and our friends were there hanging out, and it was nice to see them. I also got sent on a fun errand: to deliver a headlamp to two elderly women who were ahead a bit on the 27-mile run and were worried about not finishing before sunset. I was really excited and flew off at an extraordinary clip. Maybe this was actually my downfall, in retrospect.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZvHPB5UxD6Q_NDLLLfkq7AgWjU521zzAxkk_wwn3zGhUIuh2VJWm5j9pNYh5YzvD2kd24C68hb4b5au8HfIMNdjgKCFRHZRW87rwrnu8ApkOZJ9hLnAB0VRyheNckMIFRhHjfFeoBKolW/s1600/IMG_3150.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZvHPB5UxD6Q_NDLLLfkq7AgWjU521zzAxkk_wwn3zGhUIuh2VJWm5j9pNYh5YzvD2kd24C68hb4b5au8HfIMNdjgKCFRHZRW87rwrnu8ApkOZJ9hLnAB0VRyheNckMIFRhHjfFeoBKolW/s1600/IMG_3150.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Here's a pretty typical image of what the trail looked like</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNxPRfLKjzsgb5QfDrBVjb8Dd18_INlGeatAeBdR3zYgQCzJMhRewbYeT1RqOHpqDYvq77zvOtVB9lEESoeJgE06PkuefnbY47Wtg2fT2osltcUm07bvFWFMJC-mmRv5wyfcxjG6GQ1Heo/s1600/FullSizeRender-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNxPRfLKjzsgb5QfDrBVjb8Dd18_INlGeatAeBdR3zYgQCzJMhRewbYeT1RqOHpqDYvq77zvOtVB9lEESoeJgE06PkuefnbY47Wtg2fT2osltcUm07bvFWFMJC-mmRv5wyfcxjG6GQ1Heo/s1600/FullSizeRender-1.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Furry forest</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLfvshsCrGcMlGehh8oNMseEjEFbXWIMWQnBmW5KBNDh_uQrRjhD84n1ml8Dbd94Ch1qfJJ6v9mZ0HQyO8InTTVw2l4j378_4-bzLIS5z1Cuq4JnkQZEqd0zUDEqxHd5bz_oSLv4X0A5XY/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLfvshsCrGcMlGehh8oNMseEjEFbXWIMWQnBmW5KBNDh_uQrRjhD84n1ml8Dbd94Ch1qfJJ6v9mZ0HQyO8InTTVw2l4j378_4-bzLIS5z1Cuq4JnkQZEqd0zUDEqxHd5bz_oSLv4X0A5XY/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" height="276" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view from atop Heaven Hill</td></tr>
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Not long after I gave the women their headlamp, my legs started cramping up a bit in the lower quads, and I could feel everything beginning to seize. I could feel things getting progressively worse, and by mile 47 or so I had to walk all the way to 50 (which I hit at almost exactly the 12-hour mark).<br />
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Oh, I was taking little notes as I went along. I'll reproduce them here:<br />
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<ul>
<li>Mile 10: Yay! I love running!</li>
<li>Mile 15: Okay 100 miles is a long way...</li>
<li>Mile 16: New running buddy</li>
<li>Mile 25: Cabin yay! First lap done!</li>
<li>Mile 25.5: Can't keep up with running buddy, goodbye </li>
<li>Mile 27: It's too hot for this crap</li>
<li>Mile 27.5: I'm dropping out</li>
<li>Mile 28: Okay I'm out of water I'm going to die</li>
<li>Mile 29: Nice guy gives me water. Salvation!</li>
<li>Mile 31: I'm dropping out.</li>
<li>Mile 32: Aid station! Thank you Jesus</li>
<li>Mile 33: Deer sighting. They can run way faster than me.</li>
<li>Mile 34: Found new friend and we're running to Heaven Hill together</li>
<li>Mile 40: I FOUND ENERGY!</li>
<li>Mile 43: It's starting to drizzle. Forecast: till forever.</li>
<li>Mile 45: Starting to feel a bit tired </li>
<li>Mile 45.5: Some cramps thighs and above knees </li>
<li>Mile 46: Delivered headlamp!</li>
<li>Mile 48: Where are all the humans?</li>
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Approaching the 50-mile mark I was feeling extremely tired and a bit nauseous and had decided to drop out. Even if I could possibly finish, I thought I'd be completely broken by the time I did and would have to throw out the rest of my season. I'd already decided it wasn't the end of the world, and I was proud of myself for even making it 50 miles with little training and an injury.<br />
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<a href="https://instagram.com/p/0iiM_8hGbJ/" style="color: black; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px; text-decoration: none; word-wrap: break-word;" target="_top">Along the Lake Martin 100 course, wowow weewow</a></div>
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A photo posted by Tim Gorichanaz (@timgorichanaz) on <time datetime="2015-03-22T18:12:34+00:00" style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px;">Mar 22, 2015 at 11:12am PDT</time></div>
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But that wasn't quite the end of it:<br />
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The awesome race director David Tosch wanted me to keep going (possibly at the behest of my mother?). He told me he'd never seen someone look so good at mile 50 (this may have been a lie, but it was nice), and that I was on track to finish in 24 hours and not many people could run 100 miles in 24 hours. He assured me that in 100 milers you go through high highs and low lows, and I just had to push through. He told me to walk—not even try to run—to the next aid station, and then reassess. If I couldn't make it, he said he'd personally come and pick me up. What an amazing guy. An older woman, a seasoned ultrarunner, came to his side and echoed his sentiments. They all wanted me to keep going. Even if I walked the entire rest of the course, I'd likely still make the cutoff. (Of course, walking 18 hours did not seem appetizing at that point.)<br />
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Now, this was unexpectedly inspirational. Directly at odds with me already deciding to drop. But then I saw, for a glimmer of a second, that I could finish. That I <i>should</i> finish! But I'd already decided to drop, and who could change that? And did I really want to go back out for potentially 18 more hours? But hey, that buckle... I didn't know what to do. I relaxed at the aid station for a little while... Had some chili, put my legs up, sat by the fire, and then decided to go out and see how it was. It was the first time "running" at night with a headlamp, and it was drizzling. More than anything I just wanted to go past 50 miles for the sake of going farther than ever before. And, somehow, I was actually terrified that I might start feeling better and have no excuse not to finish the race. It was a whole confusing assortment of different feelings. Could I actually finish? Would I get hurt? Should I try to finish? I was told multiple times by other people that there's no shame in DNF—heck, I hadn't even seriously started the day thinking I would come close to finishing—but all the same I couldn't help but feel a distinct sense of cowardice.<br />
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On my walk after 50 I heard some rustling in the bushes beside the trail, which really freaked me out. It turned out to be an armadillo. That was cool; I'd never seen one before. We saw another later on, which was a 100% increase. Bonus!<br />
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The next day was pretty depressing. It was gray and raining outside, and even a delicious brunch couldn't lift my spirits much. By this time the 30-hour cutoff had gone, and I hadn't been among the finishers. These were feelings that my logical mind, which ultimately convinced me to drop out, couldn't have anticipated. I felt then that I really should have kept going, and I was regretting my decision to DNF. I'm going to think back to that feeling in the future, though, if I'm ever thinking about dropping out of a race. I don't think DNF should ever be discretionary—it should only be done out of medical necessity.<br />
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The malaise continues to this day (writing this has helped). Should I have finished, or was it prudent to drop out when I did? I'll never know, really. But luckily it's not the end of the world. I've already signed up for my next 100 mile race—June 20 in Ohio.<br />
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And I had so much fun in Alabama that I can't wait to be back. I'm looking for a trail marathon to do yet in 2015, or maybe I'll have to settle for doing Lake Martin next March (hopefully I can wait that long).<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrWBB6ZDTu8_UEV9dYVizdUp-8tKEU0d6R6007xmxA1iUtfwVRolYvbnZ5EkKoT_TU731BjhlHKNq4gb51dhGF4xxzCG2Woa-1LNtAmdwFNtaIhSmcv8XgA5NJsvjX00h1uidb2QY97_LR/s1600/FullSizeRender-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrWBB6ZDTu8_UEV9dYVizdUp-8tKEU0d6R6007xmxA1iUtfwVRolYvbnZ5EkKoT_TU731BjhlHKNq4gb51dhGF4xxzCG2Woa-1LNtAmdwFNtaIhSmcv8XgA5NJsvjX00h1uidb2QY97_LR/s1600/FullSizeRender-3.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At Russell Crossroads</td></tr>
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<br />Tim Gorichanazhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16304578712474887920noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029454871308050507.post-59048413814061056892014-12-08T08:59:00.001-08:002014-12-08T09:01:50.900-08:00Rocky 50K in Philadelphia<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJNxcfYEOtLHTee2WbBq4NWNSDLjyPlrgvyUNeR25BykpGFHt-eHIOHbA-ZUHPeNggvA69GP5KlJRV-1DGU0nPoRZ2bezMhpwGjgWnw6QOOfISD_vo4MISW2v_W4hz4sfFYwkL-mjzW0W3/s1600/IMG_1782.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img style="max-width:100%" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJNxcfYEOtLHTee2WbBq4NWNSDLjyPlrgvyUNeR25BykpGFHt-eHIOHbA-ZUHPeNggvA69GP5KlJRV-1DGU0nPoRZ2bezMhpwGjgWnw6QOOfISD_vo4MISW2v_W4hz4sfFYwkL-mjzW0W3/s1600/IMG_1782.JPG" height="356" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rebecca telling everyone to quiet down because people are sleeping</td></tr>
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Sure, it was only two weeks since <a href="http://niketoldmeto.blogspot.com/2014/11/my-second-50-mile-run.html" target="">my 50 mile at JFK</a>, but I wasn't about to pass up a free, local ultra. In college I'd never pass up an opportunity for free food (okay, I'm technically still in college and I still don't pass up such opportunities). Anyway, now that I run a lot, I'm never going to pass up the opportunity for a free race. But this was so much more than a free race. It was a community event for a good cause, a chance to meet a bunch of fellow crazy Philadelphians, a fun way to see more of my new city, an opportunity to take part in a budding Philly institution (this was the Rocky 50k's second year), etc. </div>
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As you might surmise from the name, this run is named after Rocky Balboa from the <i>Rocky </i>series, and it traces his absurd route from the training montage in <i>Rocky II, </i>in which the Italian Stallion is seen running from his home in South Philly, along railroad tracks in North Philly, back through the Italian Market in South Philly, back in Northeast Philly, out west, in Old City, etc., finally ending with a rush up the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art. See below.<br />
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Last year a writer for <i>Philadelphia</i> magazine <a href="http://www.phillymag.com/news/2013/09/18/rocky-training-run-rocky-ii/" target="_blank">traced the route on a map</a>, and the awesome local <a href="http://www.runnerwithanappetite.com/" target="_blank">Rebecca Schaefer</a> decided to put the run on for real last December. It was apparently successful, and so it was back for Round Two this year. After some <a href="http://www.phillymag.com/be-well-philly/2014/09/23/rocky-balboa-50k-name-change-mgm-lawsuit-threat/" target="_blank">legal scuffles with MGM</a>, that is.<br />
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About a hundred of us met in South Philly near Rocky's "home" before 7 a.m., and at the count of three we were off. Almost right away a fellow sandal-runner I'd met briefly during the Steamtown Marathon caught up with me, and we chatted for most of the first half, along with some of his friends from <a href="http://www.rocky50k.com/" target="_blank">Pineland Striders</a>, a South Jersey running club. This aspect of the run proved to be the best: The whole time I was around at least one other person, which made the whole absurd thing a lot more enjoyable, especially when my foot was hurting to the point where I contemplated dropping out and, of course, when it started <i>pouring</i> from mile 20 to the finish.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJz8p1rsnIkHuOBnyKLvma2Lm53WS3fxD3-b14G2YCA0tSofQLUYtSVNEdFxJvGK2NnpW-nXmFe9iZpllNtEDLPwkiMv3vIQXzisAW0JGK4PJs33VpXiXo0buaCnVu2_TaV9_suQqttffX/s1600/10846189_1568760586671680_4534306138840594048_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img style="max-width:100%" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJz8p1rsnIkHuOBnyKLvma2Lm53WS3fxD3-b14G2YCA0tSofQLUYtSVNEdFxJvGK2NnpW-nXmFe9iZpllNtEDLPwkiMv3vIQXzisAW0JGK4PJs33VpXiXo0buaCnVu2_TaV9_suQqttffX/s1600/10846189_1568760586671680_4534306138840594048_n.jpg" height="360" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Passing Geno's. I'm on the right. Photo by Everett Scull</td></tr>
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<a href="https://instagram.com/p/wRKaTuhGV6/" style="color: black; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px; text-decoration: none; word-wrap: break-word;" target="_top">Quick stop at the market! #rocky50k</a></div>
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A photo posted by Tim Gorichanaz (@timgorichanaz) on <time datetime="2014-12-06T14:12:00+00:00" style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px;">Dec 12, 2014 at 6:12am PST</time></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitvoYuZSvSJ4Zi1qBH-YhwCLE8dQR2yehIbMXUIiTPRaaEXzFMTE2LwpRVZFGnaYky5kUemQgmQQce1nEzou2gpYcAePbjD5043dxCx3kTCu9I_2GIvoOE58xBbksPfyHqjssiEADG6Q9P/s1600/10845994_1568534920027580_8739547798997135322_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img style="max-width:100%" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitvoYuZSvSJ4Zi1qBH-YhwCLE8dQR2yehIbMXUIiTPRaaEXzFMTE2LwpRVZFGnaYky5kUemQgmQQce1nEzou2gpYcAePbjD5043dxCx3kTCu9I_2GIvoOE58xBbksPfyHqjssiEADG6Q9P/s1600/10845994_1568534920027580_8739547798997135322_n.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The fire hazard is real.</td></tr>
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The route took us all over the place. Past Geno's famous cheesesteak joint, past the flaming barrel in the Italian Market, all over North Philly (twice), through Fairmount Park, including the cemetery where Adrian's fictional gravestone is, through Center City and Old City and up the Ben Franklin Parkway to the museum. All along the way, there was a nice mix of people who knew what we were up to and people who were wondering what the hell we were up to, which got us cheers and jeers and question marks.<br />
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<a href="https://instagram.com/p/wRIHfkBGX6/" style="color: black; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px; text-decoration: none; word-wrap: break-word;" target="_top">Back in town</a></div>
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A photo posted by Tim Gorichanaz (@timgorichanaz) on <time datetime="2014-12-06T13:51:57+00:00" style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px;">Dec 12, 2014 at 5:51am PST</time></div>
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A photo posted by Tim Gorichanaz (@timgorichanaz) on <time datetime="2014-12-06T15:48:58+00:00" style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px;">Dec 12, 2014 at 7:48am PST</time></div>
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Anyway, two new friends and I kept it together for the final 10 miles or so and brought it in to the top of the museum steps. I had to dig for some perseverance during the final miles, but it was such a rush finishing, as usual. Once we stopped running it was super cold, though (given the rain), and then I had to bike home, which was funny. I guess I finished around five-and-a-half hours, which isn't half bad given I was taking it super easy and we had to deal with the heavy rain and lots of stoplights. First road ultra in the books!<br />
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I was overjoyed to be part of such an awesome new tradition... The whole thing brought my appreciation of Philadelphia to another level. Can't wait for next year!<br />
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A video posted by Tim Gorichanaz (@timgorichanaz) on <time datetime="2014-12-06T18:29:27+00:00" style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px;">Dec 12, 2014 at 10:29am PST</time></div>
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<script async="" defer="" src="//platform.instagram.com/en_US/embeds.js"></script>Tim Gorichanazhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16304578712474887920noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029454871308050507.post-28080104002972291172014-11-24T06:38:00.001-08:002014-11-24T06:39:01.668-08:00Four Years of Running ProgressThis month marks my fourth anniversary of running. It was back in November 2010 that I ran my first 5K at the behest of my mother, who got most of our family to run around the Milwaukee County Zoo. Back in those days I couldn't run a 5K without taking a walking break, and it was only a few months before that that I ever ran more than a mile at once. We've come a long way, baby.<br />
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I put together the chart below to see my progress at various distances over the years. Phew!<br />
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<br />Tim Gorichanazhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16304578712474887920noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029454871308050507.post-36356720074076552332014-11-23T17:01:00.000-08:002014-11-25T04:20:06.206-08:00My Second 50-Mile RunYesterday I faced the 50-mile distance again. "Face" isn't quite the right word; I was super excited for it. There wasn't a hint of nervousness... Most of all I was grateful for the opportunity (and luxury!) of spending the whole day outside doing something I love to do. (Of course, the "love" part of it comes in waves...)<br />
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The weather was perfect: The day started out a bit chilly (okay, quite chilly... my toes were numb while I was waiting to start), but immediately once we got started, I felt great. The temperature slowly climbed up to the mid-40s, and it was sunny or partly cloudy the whole way. Couldn't have hoped for better weather!<br />
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The course was challenging in so many ways. The first two miles were uphill country roads, and then we entered the Appalachian Trail and went uphill some more. The biggest climbs happened in the first five miles, but the next ten miles had some solid ups and downs. Since the rest of the course was flatter, I wasn't sure how I should pace myself: Do I go out really easy and pick up speed on the easier terrain? What happens if I poop out or cramp up—will I wish I went fast while I could? I decided to just follow my breath, doing my usual four-steps-in-four-steps-out, nose only. I told myself I'd allow mouth-breathing after mile 25, but in the end I didn't really need to at all. I think I paced it pretty perfectly.<br />
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The Appalachian Trail was crazy. It was entirely obscured by dead leaves, and here and there you could see the rocks jutting out from beneath. It took a lot of focus to choose my steps, but it was a lot of fun for the first 10 miles or so. After that it was a bit mentally taxing, but at least it wasn't boring. The first three hours just whizzed by. Toward the end of the trail segment the rocks got crazier, and the final half-mile or so was switchback trail going down the side of a cliff that was virtually entirely made of rocks. Trying to keep going fast while stepping prudently while not flying off the edge of the cliff was exhilarating. And I didn't fall once! I was proud of myself for that, especially because I saw plenty of other people take dives, and I also got an unfair share of heckling for wearing sandals. Yes, heckling: Usually people make amused comments, but people at JFK50 tended toward the rude side, which was surprising. But joke's on them, because it turns out sandals are the perfect footwear for treacherous trail running ;).<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">End of the Appalachian Trail portion. Photo by <a href="https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=970416606320439&set=gm.10152784540939765&type=1&theater" target="_blank">Joseph Stretanski on Facebook</a>.</td></tr>
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After the trail was the Canal Towpath. Somehow I was woefully misinformed in thinking this was a three-mile portion of the race, but it turned out that it was 26.3 miles. Lol. The towpath is about 10 feet wide and runs perfectly flat on a ridge between the Chesapeake & Ohio Canal and the Potomac River. At first it was a nice break from the crazy focus required on the Appalachian Trail, but it quickly became monotonous. It all looked exactly the same, so it was sort of like running on a weird twilight zone treadmill or something. Luckily I had some captive conversational partners to pass the time with. I met a guy from the D.C. area who was running his first 50 and we talked from about mile 20 to 27 and then we ran into each other again after mile 42, and we finished together. I met another Luna Sandals wearer, and a handful of other people whose conversations punctuated the crunch crunch crunch of the dead leaves that coated the path. I hit the marathon mark around 4:30, which was a good sign for a sub-9-hour finish.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Near the start of the endless towpath. Photo by <a href="https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10204334627223163&set=gm.10152784043809765&type=1&theater" target="_blank">Stalina Gibson on Facebook</a>.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Somewhere along the towpath. Photo by PA Sports Lens</td></tr>
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Finally at mile 42 we pulled off the towpath and onto the country roads. This was nice because it broke up the monotony, but it was not nice because it meant hills. Normally I like hills, but after already having run 42 miles they bring mixed feelings. So I walked up the big ones. I probably would have walked a lot more, in fact, if I hadn't re-run into my D.C. friend, since I am super lazy and really good at talking myself into walking. But I'm so glad we kept each other in check, because it meant finishing faster.<br />
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Eventually I finished in 8:48:43, averaging about 10:30/mile. I finished 163/789. I was so happy! My previous (first) 50 mile <a href="http://niketoldmeto.blogspot.com/2014/05/50-miles.html">did not go well</a>; I cramped up halfway through and had to hobble onward, finishing in 10:30, so this was nearly 2 hours better.<br />
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A photo posted by Tim Gorichanaz (@timgorichanaz) on <time datetime="2014-11-22T20:52:46+00:00" style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px;">Nov 11, 2014 at 12:52pm PST</time></div>
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All in all, this performance was almost perfect, I guess. My pace was sustainable (and I think I did that part well, since I kept seeing the same people throughout the entire 50 miles). I didn't have any stomach cramping (I made a conscious effort to eat slightly more than I felt I should, which still wasn't terribly much... I'm discovering Coke and M&M's work well for me). My muscles didn't cramp up at all either. And though there were plenty of struggles, the struggles were merely mental. Well, not "merely." Mental struggles are the worst. I felt tired after about mile 10, and just slogged on for the next 40 miles. I constantly wondered whether I started out too fast and if I would make it. I briefly entertained the idea of dropping out at an aid station because I was too tired to keep going (and also it would mean, presumably, unlimited access to cookies and Coke). But somehow I put those thoughts away long enough to dupe myself into finishing, and I'm so glad for that. I didn't have any let-me-die-already or I'm-never-running-again feelings on this one, so maybe that means I didn't push it hard enough. Whatever... What I wanted at this race was to beat my previous time and to finish feeling good, and I achieved that. Knowing that I can finish a 50-mile feeling good is tremendously important, and I think it's an important milestone into fine-tuning my performance in future outings.<br />
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The best part about JFK 50 Mile was the volunteers! The aid stations were plentiful (just frequent enough, in my opinion), and the volunteers were helpful and ebullient. There were always the old standbys you could count on (water, Coke, M&M's), and then enough variety here and there to mix it up (hot soup, potatoes, homemade cookies). It was always a treat hitting an aid station (literally).<br />
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Course highlights: Beautiful trail. Volunteers!<br />
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Course lowlights: Having people right on my butt on the single-track was stressful! It kept me on edge, even though they didn't really want to pass. I also found myself in close proximity for most of the race to this manic middle-aged woman who shouted and screeched the whole time about random stuff, which was annoying...<br />
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Right now I can't conceive of running 100 miles, but I guess we'll see what happens when I give that a go in March. Right now I'm thinking I like marathons best of all and 50 Miles are alright by me, but I'm skeptical of 100s. But we'll see! After all, my first marathon experience was objectively horrible, but I've been coming back for more and more.<br />
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PS: I discovered after I got home that I got my first blood blister! Nothing serious... just a little "growth" on the middle toe of my left foot.Tim Gorichanazhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16304578712474887920noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029454871308050507.post-21148085523054756592014-10-13T09:05:00.000-07:002014-10-17T04:54:57.997-07:0025-Minute Marathon PR for my 25th Birthday<p>A day later, I still can't believe it.</p>
I still remember clearly the long, seemingly endless struggle to finish a marathon in under four hours. The disappointment that always shaded the should-be joyous accomplishment of finishing a marathon. Of finishing my first marathon—then my second, third, fourth. And, of course, I still remember the first 17 years of my life, when I couldn't manage to run a mile, and the few years after that when all I could run was a mile.</p>
<p>The four-hour wall crumbled for me <a href="https://www.blogger.com/"><span id="goog_1777905810"></span>last October when I ran a 3:45 marathon<span id="goog_1777905811"></span></a>. That was a 28-minute marathon PR for me. I did <a href="http://niketoldmeto.blogspot.com/2013/11/marine-corps-marathon.html">another marathon a few weeks later</a>, which left me injured for several weeks (oops). After that, I did a <a href="http://niketoldmeto.blogspot.com/2014/01/a-muddy-welcome-to-trail-running.html">winter trail marathon</a>, <a href="http://niketoldmeto.blogspot.com/2014/02/welcome-to-ultrarunning.html">a winter 50K</a> (my first ultra) and then <a href="http://niketoldmeto.blogspot.com/2014/05/50-miles.html">my first 50 mile</a>, so it's been a while since I took the opportunity to have a go at a road marathon.</p>
<p>Going into the race, I vaguely figured I was in even better shape than I was last October, so I should have no trouble beating my 3:45 time. And yet, there was something in my mind suggesting that 3:45 could have been a fluke... After all, I'd only done it once, and my eight-marathon average finishing time was 4:30. Looking back at my training also made me a bit skeptical of myself: My pace during my long runs averaged 9:30/mile or so, on a good day (though I made a point of running them at a casual, relaxed pace), and my easy runs often dipped slower than 10:00/mile. In order to beat my marathon PR, I'd have to exceed about 8:30/mile on average. It seemed like a tall order.</p>
<p>There were a couple redeeming aspects of my training, though, that gave me hope that I could quash my 3:45 PR: I did speedwork twice a week—usually an interval session and a tempo session every week. And I was doing very high (for me) mileage, averaging 70 miles a week for the past few months. My tapering for this marathon took me down to 50 miles a week, which about a year ago was my mileage on peak week. Finally, this summer I ran two road 5Ks that resulted in two big PRs: First, I ran 20:30, then I ran 19:48—achieving my longstanding goal of beating 20 minutes. Later in the summer I ran a neighborhood half marathon where I made a point to run casually and not exert myself in the first 8 or 9 miles, and I finished in 1:45—nearly beating the PR that I had worked <i>so hard</i> to earn last year, almost hurling in the final mile.</p>
<p>So I made my way up to Scranton for the <a href="http://www.steamtownmarathon.com/" target="_blank">Steamtown Marathon</a>, slept in a smoky motel room and sat on the bus to the starting line. Talking to a few people pre-race (people love approaching me to talk about <a href="http://www.lunasandals.com/" target="_blank">the sandals</a>...), the majority of the advice was to run conservatively the first half, which was mostly downhill, to save up for the second half, which had some climbs. I think this advice (which was mirrored in countless emails from the race director) caused a lot of people to go way too slow on the downhills. Thinking back, I remember passing <i>a lot</i> of people on the long downhill stretches (some were a few miles long), and then in the final three miles of the race I also passed a lot of people—and only one person passed me, and that was in the final half-mile.</p>
<p>Still, I heeded the wisdom of not going out too fast, and I made sure that for the first half of the run I would only breath through my nose, and make every inhalation last at least four steps—same with every exhalation. This is my way of keeping my heart rate (and, by proxy, pace) in check without having to use a watch or anything. Another innovation I practiced during this race was to not look at my watch for the first half, and then only after mile 20.</p>
<p>The course was stunning. As a point-to-point race in hilly northeastern Pennsylvania, it was pretty rural. And at this time of year, the foliage was gorgeous. The course took us through a few towns with lots of interesting architecture in their centers, and there were plenty of cheering spectators along the way. (Which meant shouts of, "Flip flops!?")</p>
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The course was so beautiful! Such autumn! Forgive the awful photo; I didn't want to stop. But you get the idea.</div>
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<p>I was nervous coming into the half. I knew I was trying not to push it, and I felt relaxed. If I was going to beat my 3:45 marathon, I needed to hit the halfway mark around 1:52. What would I do if I got to the half and I was way behind? My problem turned out to be the opposite: I got to the half at 1:39, which was better than my previous half marathon PR. Now I was a bit nervous: What if I couldn't keep it up?</p>
<p>The next several miles whizzed by. Literally, I guess, because I was going faster than I thought I had any business going. I decided to keep up my conservative breathing routine till mile 15, when I would allow myself to take only three steps per inhalation. Around mile 18, I allowed myself the occasional mouth-breath. I knew I was almost done, but the final six miles of a marathon can be brutal if you didn't save up gas.</p>
<p>When I hit 20 miles, I was astounded. My time then was 2:33, meaning I could take 12 minutes per mile for the rest of the race and still beat my 3:45 PR. (If I did my math right in my semi-crazed state.) That was very comforting. And now that that was in the bag, I decided to be a bit more ambitious: I only had 6 miles left, and I was feeling good. Since I knew I'd beat my PR, I was the king of the world. The question was how much further behind me the next guy in line would be. So I decided to ramp it up and see what happened. The idea popped into my head that I might be able to finish in 3:20, which would put me at 25 minutes better than my previous PR. Considering it was my 25th birthday, I couldn't resist.</p>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMG4FaSBdR9Yr2uFGlcyTDcc-Czof3Nu6ecCD7An6HadWL4qd28iR4rIER_SzHOHNQayGX16-svnqXa2ynOzO0S0mc9KqNA7AcfMZrF_lXMnLM0IvD5OsHfXh_DLbpzxs56YOmrlWUpxzA/s1600/nearfinish.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" style="float: left; max-width: 48%" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMG4FaSBdR9Yr2uFGlcyTDcc-Czof3Nu6ecCD7An6HadWL4qd28iR4rIER_SzHOHNQayGX16-svnqXa2ynOzO0S0mc9KqNA7AcfMZrF_lXMnLM0IvD5OsHfXh_DLbpzxs56YOmrlWUpxzA/s320/nearfinish.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDHN9a1YmjMzQ9F8vJHMM1usvhvfxWMdSqADDT67dU8CUtllCxZBSdUVLefRbLfrZsiDICerWWCmDwODK4jyKPV7URV_I4KX4Qcj67hlFxHBkfopMPXd36GB_o9WpoU_vKkvoKOyFIskUE/s1600/eye.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" style="float: right; max-width: 48%" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDHN9a1YmjMzQ9F8vJHMM1usvhvfxWMdSqADDT67dU8CUtllCxZBSdUVLefRbLfrZsiDICerWWCmDwODK4jyKPV7URV_I4KX4Qcj67hlFxHBkfopMPXd36GB_o9WpoU_vKkvoKOyFIskUE/s320/eye.jpg" /></a>
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<p>I started inhaling through my nose and exhaling through my mouth, consciously increasing my turnover. I felt a few twinges in my calf muscles, which really scared me—should I back off? When the twinges came I did back off for a few minutes, but then I forgot about it and my speed crept back up. In the end, I had no cramping or pains or anything to speak of. In the final miles, I made a game of reeling in the runners ahead of me. I passed so many people! I kind of felt bad (but kind of not) for all the people who were struggling up the hills, because I was just cruising. I was on Cloud 99999999 and nothing could have been better.</p>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtxrgX1QeQKCyqouzhqJZf6T-94FqkKc8O6C565UHlbxqkHE7X7HB13dBFTN-POoT9wUUxhqKZ2wC8z_7MbdUP6IAoi_8-BHYtllAORMVPYIozjWfDoCB3-hLKk5zHI1W2ldfVPLYC82G2/s1600/finishlow.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" style="float: left; max-width: 48%" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtxrgX1QeQKCyqouzhqJZf6T-94FqkKc8O6C565UHlbxqkHE7X7HB13dBFTN-POoT9wUUxhqKZ2wC8z_7MbdUP6IAoi_8-BHYtllAORMVPYIozjWfDoCB3-hLKk5zHI1W2ldfVPLYC82G2/s320/finishlow.jpg" /></a>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSv0ghU5IGpwPQlwGdrtTaiwf8Za454sInEFegYJpG1iAfta38zWnVzZZbA1q9qD7RnIj9s8zbKY08w2gFCmqwaQUM2Tvay1OJM6bZPUbTsIpcdLwSrVd0nw_0Qezhq8sNcZSkpWCOigvH/s1600/finishhigh.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" style="float: right; max-width: 48%" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSv0ghU5IGpwPQlwGdrtTaiwf8Za454sInEFegYJpG1iAfta38zWnVzZZbA1q9qD7RnIj9s8zbKY08w2gFCmqwaQUM2Tvay1OJM6bZPUbTsIpcdLwSrVd0nw_0Qezhq8sNcZSkpWCOigvH/s320/finishhigh.jpg" /></a>
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<p>I finished in 3:20:35, making my 25-minute PR. I gathered up some food from the post-race feast (it was seriously plentiful) and went to lie down in the grass. What a great birthday present. </p>
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<script async="" defer="" src="//platform.instagram.com/en_US/embeds.js"></script></p>Tim Gorichanazhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16304578712474887920noreply@blogger.com0