Here follows the account of what it's like to do your first 50 mile mountain run. Includes some rather unprofessional clips of video for effect.
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| Crossing the Little Bighorn River (mile 18) |
Let's
first clarify that this event was actually 52 miles. A point that
may not matter to some, except for the fact that it was during the
last two miles of this run that I was finally forced to resign myself
to full-time walking. Dehydration had taken hold, and I had recently
slowed down enough to lower my circulation and thereby make myself
feel like I was about to faint... and puke (not necessarily in that
order). Fifty miles had passed, but there was still a question mark
floating before my fuzzy mind as to my ability to complete the last
two miles. Bighorn Mountain 50 Mile??? No, it was definitely 52.
The
whole story officially begins with me rolling like an egg beater in
bed. It was the night before the run, the party that had been thrown
in celebration of my bold undertaking was over, and now I was alone
with my thoughts. I was confronting the reality that I was about to
wake up at 3:30AM for the purpose of traveling twice as far on foot
as I had ever gone in a day. I tried to comfort myself, but that
voice of reality kept reminding me just how far 52 miles is. It's
the distance from Billings to Absarokee, from Livingston to Gardiner,
208 laps around a track, exactly two marathons. No matter how
optimistic I began to feel, I knew that the next day I would
experience a level of pain, struggle, and doubt that was of a higher
order than I had dealt with before. How would I handle it?
By
a miracle that should not be overlooked, I was finally able to doze
off to a night of shallow sleep (“night” here meaning 2 hours).
I awoke about 5 minutes before my alarm with a sense of delirium, and
then suddenly felt the urge to start sucking my thumb upon realizing
that I would not feel the warm and gentle hug of a bed again until
after I had been through 10 or 12 hours of aching, nausea, and mind
games.
Getting
up in this kind of situation is mostly fueled by the idea that once
you're out of bed, you won't have to do it again for quite some time.
Under a mix of emotions that were a combination of total excitement
and nauseating fear, I prepared myself for battle... a process that
lingered through breakfast and halfway through the dark drive to the
starting line.
We
arrived at the Medicine Wheel Ranger Station at 9000 feet, atop the
Bighorn Mountains and stepped out into the 35 degree air. My
Northern Cheyenne father-in-law, who had been through several,
multiple day fasts atop Bear Butte involving no food or water,
recognized that a run of this magnitude was as much a spiritual
endeavor as a physical one, and took a moment to bless me with Sweet
Grass. We then wandered up to the starting line to shiver for a
half-hour or so as we waited for everyone to get checked-in and the
race to begin.
It
was 6:02AM and after the national anthem and a quick countdown, the
herd of about 200 runners were off. We ran a mile or so up a narrow
road and soon cut across a trail through the frosted grass of a
meadow, and then spent several miles hopping snowbanks, prancing
through mud holes, and popping in and out of groves of pine trees.
We ran at an easy pace and I stayed light on my feet with a nice,
quick turnover to conserve my muscles and joints. There was a fair
amount of talk amongst us runners as we descended into Little Bighorn
Canyon. I ran with people from all over Colorado, Missoula, Dayton,
Bozeman, Pennsylvania, and places that I didn't know. We chatted
about who had done 50 milers before, what the trail running scene was
like in our respective communities, and about how nice of a day it
was for running.
It
was about 8 miles in when I got the first twinges reminding me that
what I was doing was much more than prancing down a trail in the
glistening grass and rising sun. My legs gave me a couple twinges of
fatigue from the 2000 feet of downhill I had covered, and a blister
was forming on one of my big toes. As we continued lower and lower
into the Little Bighorn Canyon, I could feel my lower back and
hamstrings getting tighter, and the first pulses of discomforting
heat. Just as things were hinting toward the unpleasant, the
Footbridge Aid Station (mile 18) popped into view.
I
sat down, was handed my drop bag by one of the amazing volunteers, and
immediately got to work taping my blister, changing socks, and
re-lubing my feet. My sister and mother-in-law were planning on
meeting me there to help me out and encourage me along, but they had
not yet arrived. I knew the drive there was dicey, so I wasn't that
surprised when I didn't see them. Conveniently, I had no more than
pulled one shoe off and they appeared out of nowhere and helped me
get myself gathered. Even with their help, I took a ridiculous 10-15
minutes to get myself sorted and back on the trail. I was definitely
glad to see them for the familiar faces and to help me get organized
more quickly.
From
the Footbridge Aid Station, you travel less than 100 yards before the
gnarliness of the climbing begins, and for the next three miles, it's
nose-down power hiking up a pretty steep trail with limited flat
sections to run. It was during this climb that the run became an
ultramarathon. At only about 20 miles in, legs beginning to ache and
the subtle hints of nausea forming up, I began to reflect on the fact
that I still had over 30 miles left. The feelings of being
overwhelmed by the task ahead fuel the fatigue and nausea, and I was
forced to try to find a happy place. I thought only of the fact that
it would flatten out soon, and focused on any cooling breezes that
came up. I told myself that I could quit if I wanted at the Dry Fork
Aid Station, now 14 miles ahead. One step at a time. I passed some
of the trailing hundred milers and reminded myself that no matter how
bad I felt, they probably feel waaaay worse.
Eventually
the climb did level off, and I stopped at the Bear Camp Aid Station
for a brief moment to have a few pretzels and a Hammergel, which settled my stomach
nicely. I kept marching on, running downhills and flats that I came
across and walking any significant uphills. Mile after mile I kept
at it. My lower back got tighter, the aches in my legs made me feel
more stiff, and the typical slight feeling of nausea returned and remained.
Eventually the muscles in my upper body began to tighten a bit, with
an annoying side-ache coming on every time I ran a stretch.
I
reached the Cow Camp Aid Station (mile 28) and nearly wanted to cry
and hug the volunteer who was handing out the watermelon. I had
tried to eat the granola bars I had along, and they just wouldn't
swallow with my parched throat and alarmed digestive system. The
watermelon was like an encounter with the Lord Almighty Himself. I
had several pieces, chased it with a few cups of 7UP, chatted briefly
with another runner who looked like he was about to cry over the
watermelon as well, and soon set forth on my quest for the Dry Fork
Ridge Aid Station that lay six miles ahead.
We
were now off a single track trail and onto an ATV trail. The uphill
continued, and the “run the flats and downhills, walk the hills”
continued. I passed back and forth with another runner who, in an
exasperated voice, slightly raised his water bottle and said, “Good
job”, every time we saw each other. I remember that fine man so
vividly because I feel that he embodied the ultramarathon experience
perfectly... totally exhausted, but still encouraging others along.
Though levels of “peppiness” varied, the same encouraging
attitude was present in the majority of the runners I came across
that day. Honestly, it is something that gives the ultramarathon an
endearing quality. Amongst many ultramarathon runners, the “races”
are not so much races as they are quests. They are very hard, and
everyone who is on that trail knows that the others are dealing with
something so difficult that it isn't atypical for even experienced
ultra-runners to drop out on a remarkably frequent basis. In that, I
think that many people out there know that the true competition in an
ultramarathon is between each individual and the doubts and
weaknesses within themselves. How could we not want to encourage
each each other?
When
I had finally arrived to the cheers of my sister at the Dry Fork Aid
Station (mile 34.5), I was at a point in which I would normally go to
great lengths to quit. I felt more played-out than I had felt at the
end of nearly all of the biggest hikes and runs I had ever
accomplished. I downed some mountain dew and some more of the
succulent watermelon and tried to be as chipper as possible with the
crew that had met me. I laid down, stretched myself a bit, and
reflected on how easy it would be to quit. Even though the idea of
quitting sounded like the best thing ever, I knew that it simply
wasn't an option that day. I could finish, and I knew it. I also
knew that if I didn't continue, I was going to miss the best part of
this ultra... the last ten miles of soul searching and wanting to
cry.
After
a 10 minute break to recharge and have my lovely wife refill my backpack with water,
I set off down the road. Folks, my body did not want to run. So I
decided to walk for a spell to get things working again. Eventually,
I got back into my “run the downhills and flats, walk the uphills”
routine, although now I had to take the occasional break in the
middle due to my horrendous side ache that started every time I ran (
must have been due to the cumulative dehydration I was working on).
After five miles, I arrived at the Upper Sheep Creek Aid Station and
I, of course, enjoyed some more of that sweet nectar of the gods,
known commonly as watermelon.
I
finished the watermelon, and set forth, knowing that the five miles
to the next aid station was going to involve a real “son of a gun”
of a downhill. The downhill would come in a mile or so, though, as
the first order of business was to get my sorry hind end up a 400
foot tall hill with a real blast of a steep trail straight up it.
Folks, normally I tear into uphills with the enthusiasm of a prancing
gazelle, but after the last 40 miles of mountain trail, I quickly
learned that the prancing gazelle within had been replaced by a
pregnant, obese Wiener Dog.
I
willed my way to the top of that hill with every ounce of my being.
The watermelon within had grown legs and was crawling up my
esophagus. I prepped for the first upchuck since I was in the 8th
grade, but was saved by a cool breeze and a brief rest. I took a
quick video as I gathered myself, and soon set forth down the
ginormous, 2500 feet of downhill that was taunting me from below.
That's
when things got bad. A knee pinch that I had been feeling since
before Dryfork was not impressed by the downhill, and to make matters
worse, both of my quads began feeling like the muscle cells were
separating from each other. I gingerly made my way downhill, hoping
the tearing and twinging feelings would go away. Alas... they
didn't. Folks, I was movin' slow! I got passed by the multitudes as
I picked my way down the 3.5 miles of hill at a speed that was
probably less than 2 miles per hour. The only people I passed were a
group of older people who were hiking the 30k race that was being
held at the same time. Between the continued feeling of nausea, the
aching legs, and the realization that several of my ailments were
being caused by the dehydration I had inadvertently allowed, I had a
major soul searching session take place. I realized that I had at
least five miles to go before I could quit, and that it would be
tricky and embarrassing for me to stop and to have to be rescued from
my current location.
Holy
smokes I didn't want to be there! At that moment, my legs were
acting so messed up that I figured there was no way I could finish,
so I just set my mind on getting out. As far as I was concerned, I
would get to the Tongue River Canyon Trailhead over the course of the
next few hours, and then I would quit.
Well,
let's just say that I was a bit of an alarmist (as usual???). After
picking my way down for an hour our so, I began to realize that,
though I was moving embarrassingly slow, I actually was doing okay.
It wasn't too long before I made it to the Lower Sheep Creek Aid
Station (mile 44ish), and the terrain leveled out to a much more
manageable downhill. My legs loosened up and my knee felt better,
and I was even able to run a bit again. By the time I had arrived at
the Tongue River Canyon Trailhead Aid Station, the tone of the day
had changed for me, and I was pretty confident that I could finish!
I
said hello to my wife, Sarah, who had ridden her bike up to meet me,
got sprayed by a nice man with a water sprayer, and grabbed a couple
more slices of friendly watermelon. I didn't linger, because I
really was excited about the idea of being done, so I set off down
the five miles of gravel road to Dayton. Sarah rode along beside me,
which was a real nice boost for morale. Then, I rounded a bend and
my mother, who had apparently walked four miles up the road to meet
me, suddenly appeared charging up the road in her power-walking mode.
I have to admit that part of me was not the least bit surprised to
see her walking up that road... when she gets excited and determined
about something, it's remarkable what she will do. The situation
that presented itself that day of the ultramarathon was the optimum
conditions for seeing something impressive emerge from Mother
Marilyn.
The
boost of getting to see both Sarah and my mom got me back to mixing
in some running again, and before long I had emerged from Tongue
River Canyon and had made a friend named Brad who was also 26 years
old, but who had completed almost 40 ultramarathons. I got in a
couple of miles of power-walking with Brad and found out that he had
ran some pretty high profile Ultras, including completing the
legendary Western States 100 in 26 hours. He hadn't trained much in
the last month, and was just doing the Bighorn Mountain 50 Mile for
fun... hence why he was back in the middle of the pack with me rather
than busting the run out in eight or nine hours. Regardless, I
enjoyed gleaning some good information out of him.
Before
long, I was at mile 50, the location of the last aid station, and the
home of the notorious Otterpops. I took an Otterpop, had several
succulent bites, and then the bottom dropped out (of my performance,
not the Otterpop). As I previously mentioned, I like to emphasize
that the Bighorn Mountain 50 Mile is actually 52 miles because those
last two miles were probably the worst all day. Between the Otterpop
and a bit of a slow down in pace, I suddenly became extremely
light-headed and nauseous. I ended up with so little energy that all
I could do was walk, and I could barely respond to what people were
saying to me. I began to realize that dehydration was the culprit,
as my now molasses-like blood was probably not making it to where it
needed to go (my brain) after I had slowed the pace and lowered my
heart rate. I sprayed water on myself and drank at least a bottle
during the last stretch.
I
wish I could have been more exciting when I saw my family (including
my mother who had hitch-hiked back), but I was so tired and worried
that I was going to pass out and puke (again, not necessarily in that
order), that I could barely acknowledge their presence. I really
wish I could have ran into the park and across the finish line, but I
was a bit concerned that if I upset the current balance, I might
suddenly be down and out... 100 yards short of finishing. Boy, that
would be a disappointment!
With
almost no reaction, I walked across the finish line 12½ hours after
I had started. I really have no idea if the people were cheering for
me or for someone else, but I do remember people cheering and
clapping as I came down the last stretch. All I did to acknowledge
was grin a really dumb-looking grin. After crossing the finish line as one of a group that would become about 140 finishers (~60 dropped out),
I was asked whether I wanted a medium or large finisher's coat. Boy,
that was a monumental decision. When I stopped, my head was
spinning. Someone handed me a cup of water, and I drank a drink, and
then I think I dumped it all over my head. I began looking around
the park for somewhere to sit in a reasonably graceful manner, before
I passed out and was swarmed by paramedics... that would cause undue
panic in my mind. Soon, I found a picnic table and I could barely
get to it quickly enough. I sat down and almost immediately my
entire body began tingling like crazy. Within just a couple of
minutes, I felt entirely better. I suppose that it makes sense that
when your blood is the consistency of honey, your heart would have a
little more manageable job when sitting down.
Eventually
the tingling ended and Sarah went and fetched my family. Finally I
could talk to them and actually acknowledge their existence! We hung
out and chatted for a bit, got some video and pictures of my
gray-looking face, sunken eyes, and bizarre smile, and I got some
good drinking in to begin the road to recovery. Finally, now that I
was feeling a bit normal again, I was able to begin to fully
appreciate what I had accomplished.
Given
my dehydration issues, my less than optimal training, and the fact
that I had never consistently ran even as far as ten miles until 6
months ago, I hadn't finished as fast as I had hoped. Quite frankly,
I can try to go for my arbitrary time goal some other time. In my
mind, I had achieved something of much greater value to me. An
ultramarathon is something of legend to me... it's something I've
fantasized about doing for the last three years. I've read about
them in books and watched videos and read blogs about them for quite
some time. I always had the lingering question in me... could I keep
going past that point at which everything in me is screaming to stop?
Could I complete a distance that I couldn't even conceive of as
possible only five years ago? A distance that many people still view
as impossible?
I
guess the answer is yes, and now when I look in the mirror, I see an
entirely different person. I look forward to seeing what it's like
to be him.
