Race Report: Louisville Lovin' the Hills 50k

Hang out with ultrarunners for 30 minutes and you’ll probably realize that they are the worst (best) influences. Race names and distances get rattled off in casual conversation -- Western States, Hardrock, Pine to Palm, 31 miles, 50 miles, 100 miles -- as if they were the names of Grammy winners. This kind of chatter lights a fuse in the brain leading to a single thought, “must register for next ultra.”

As endurance fiends, speedsters, and purportedly reasonable people, Jon Clinthorne and Scott Breeden are, in fact, pro dealers. They sling endorphin like crack rock in Biggie’s day, and I find myself responding “gimme the loot!” when they bring up a race. So when these two started peddling the Louisville Lovin’ the Hills 50k to me, I knew I’d be buying.

The course was originally designed by ultrarunner, Eric Grossman, who must have sought out every quad crushing hill in 20 miles of Louisville for this course. LLTH has had some course changes since he left the race director position, but the race remains one of the most difficult and beautiful 50ks in the country.

5,500 feet of elevation gain

Our band of runners gathered in Louisville and enjoyed a pre-race meal at Za’s Pizza on Bardstown Rd, which is a great Louisville neighborhood for finding food, drinks, and shopping. I never feel more relaxed than when I’m with running friends, for the conversation is always good and spirits high. The Bell’s Hopslam they had on tap didn’t hurt either.

Morning of the race, after a geriatric breakfast -- Ensure, bowl of cereal, and greek yogurt -- I was ready to run. Packet pickup was right at the race start, making for a very low stress pre-race. I skipped around to warm up in the 30F temps and made a last minute shoe choice of Rogue Fly over Peregrines because the possible muddy conditions were actually frozen and firm. The race director, Cynthia Heady, shouted out directions from atop a picnic bench to the 250ish runners doing the three different races (6mi, 15mi, 50k), which all started at the same time. Becky was doing the 15mi, and Scott and I were doing the 50k.

Feeling skippy. Photo: Jon Clinthorne

Someone yelled GO and we ran down a wide gravel road, good for seeding yourself in the pack before hitting the single track. I hung back from Scott and the leaders and found good company with Becky for a few miles before she started absolutely crushing the steep switchback hills, and although I could sort of keep up with my power hike, she was flying on the flats too. Go Becky go! We ended up going back and forth and running together for a while with some runners who were up for some smiles and laughs.

L-R: Becky, Me, Jeff, Scott. Photo: Jon Clinthorne

I was glancing at bib numbers for 6/15/50k people, and some 15mi runners were passing me along with a couple 50kers on the flats but I reminded myself to keep it easy early on. There was plenty of race to catch them and I had my secret pow hike for the late climbs.

After a 6 mile loop, I came through the start/finish area and was greeted by hearty cheers from Alaina, Cody, Jon, and Hillary. Around the 10 mile mark I'd caught up to Becky who was climbing a hill behind another 15mi guy who was super happy and positive. I passed on the uphill and kept moving, passing some 50k guys on another uphill. I thought I was in 6th or 7th now and feeling really good. The pain was lurking, but quiet.

Finishing the first 6mi loop. Photo: Jon Clinthorne

Around a few more bends, I ran up to a couple 50k guys. I started talking with Jeff Yoder who turned out to be a friend of Scott's. We shared stories and he was awesome running company. Jeff remarked on staying on top of nutrition, so I downed a couple gels. I had 6 gels with me, 3 in my handheld bottle and 3 in my shorts. There are periods in every race when I fall behind on nutrition and these times rarely coincide with aid station locations.

After a road crossing we were climbing yet again and I started pulling away from Jeff. My legs were feeling really strong on the climbs and my power hike was groovin. I hit the ridge on the Siltstone trail and took in the beauty. The views on both sides of the ridge were awesome, the ground cascading away and the lumpy horizon visible through the naked trees. Long dry grasses grazed my calves and the wind rushed over them with a shhhhhhhhhhh. It seemed I was all alone up here.

Every time the course's relentless hills started chewing into my legs and lungs and I wanted to slow down, I thought to myself, 'what if this is the last race I ever get to do?' With Jon sidelined by injury for this race, that mantra kept me in the moment, focused on this incredible experience and how lucky I was to be here.

The trail pitched back down to Scott’s Gap aid station, so I refilled my bottle and started up a steep, washed out climb that began a 3ish mile loop. I caught a 50k guy that I hadn’t seen since the start. We wished each other good running and I tried to keep up the pace and create some distance. The vistas opened up and there was large rock underfoot, reminiscent of last year's Smoky Mountain run adventures.

Back at Scott's Gap aid, I started the out-n-back section where runners heading out would be passing. Runners were telling me "good job" and "nice work" and I returned the encouragement. The level of camaraderie out there was incredible. "2nd and 3rd are just ahead!" many shouted, so on top of Siltstone, I tried to keep up 8m/m pace on the flatter stuff and bomb down the descents.

I finally saw the 3rd place runner, Harvey Lewis, at the Welcome Center with a few miles to go. The closest I got was at an aid station, but then he took off up the hills and I was cramping in my quads, groin, and hamstrings. If I pushed any harder I risked cramping to the point of walking, so I kept running where I could, pow hiking the steep climbs, and running right on that razor's edge.

As I climbed another 200'+ hill at mile 30, my legs were collapsing, nails surging into my quads, and I was breathing like a horse. Harvey was out of sight around a few corners.  At the top of the hill, I saw the RD who said I had one1 mile to go. Ok, I'm sure that was the last hill. NOPE. The trail went down to the dam and then came the final pitch upward, a 230’ hill over the last ¼ mile. I could see Harvey again up the switchbacks, but he was too far to catch. So close!

So happy to be done! Photo: Clinthorne

I crossed the line in 4th place overall at 4:42 and gave Scott a slap and then got an awesome greeting from Alaina and Cody pup. I was totally spent and couldn’t believe my legs hadn’t seized up. I went into this race with a 50 mile race mentality because I knew how hard it would be, and this race lived up to its name and reputation.

LLTH is well organized, perfectly marked, and attracts incredible runners for competition. I’d definitely head down there again. The RD said Ultrarunning Magazine would be covering the race, so I hope this brings even more runners down to experience the beautiful and challenging trails.

Scott Breeden won the 50k, destroying the course record in 4:07. Jeff Yoder finished 7th overall in the 50k. Becky Boyle won the 15 mile race and also set a course record. Katie Yoder earned 3rd OA in the 6 mile race. Jonathan Clinthorne, Hillary Woodworth, Alaina Neary Case, and Cody kept everyone in high spirits all weekend. This was an incredibly fun experience that will keep me smiling for a long long time.

Me, Becky, Scott, Alaina, and Cody. Photo: Clinthorne

Race Report: Yankee Springs 50k Trail Run

How could a race plan this good possibly go wrong? It's like going to the thrift store for an '80s theme party costume. Shoo-in.

Step 1 - Rent heated cabin at race site for the weekend with running friends.
Step 2 - Run a 50k trail race
Step 3 - Celebrate with food, bonfire, and booze.
Step 4 - Run more trail the next day and invite Cody pup along this time.

It's bulletproof. Even if the rustic cabin that sleeps five is 10' x 20' and the beds sink like hammocks. Even if the temps are in the 20s. You're with good people who like to run! Boom, win.

Putting the rustic in cabin life

Tim, Julie, and Jon arrived Friday night and set up gear in the cabin. Jon and I enjoyed some pre-race drinks, and then headed out with Cody into the night to test our shoes on the trails. Discovery: the trails were hard packed with runnable snow, so no yaktrax on the Peregrines. Tomorrow would be a fast day.

Admission: I hate race morning until the start gun goes off. But here, waking up an hour and a half before the 9am start, rolling out of bed, and knowing the start is only 1/8 mile away is fantastic. Total stress killer. We headed to the start 20 minutes before the gun, met up with a crew of BTers -- the fantastic Kimm, Kathleen, and Dave -- and then some people I'd never met IRL and tried to warm up the sticks with some butt kicker drills.

The RD yelled "GO" and we took off. Jon and I were among the lead pack until the first trail crossing where someone yelled "wrong way!" and we all tried to turn back, but I was on ice, so I slipped and hit the deck. Ok, nothing hurts, keep running. Jon took the lead up the first hill, and I followed. We were moving very quickly. 7:00/mi on the downhills and only a little slower on the up. I knew it was too fast, but I was so relaxed, breathing felt great and so did my legs.

After a mile, the snow-covered gravel road hit the single track, so there was plenty of space early race to seed ourselves. Jon pulled away after a few miles and I convinced myself that I needed to run my own race and slow down to a pace that I actually had a snowball's chance in hell of holding. After a few more miles, a guy passed me like Hermes (swear he had winged feet) and took off after Jon, seeing that I wasn't interested in keeping contact with the leader.

Smooth, hardpacked snow, just a little icy:

Photo Credit: Ben VanHoose

A few miles later I glanced back down the trail to see who else is holding steady at 7:15/mi average pace. Only one guy back there in blue, so it looked like we'd be duelling it out for 3rd and 4th. Aight, keep the effort easy, breathe, talk to this guy, maybe make a friend. Turns out, dude in blue -- Noah -- is running the 25k! Hooray! I told him that was the best news I'd heard all day.

He was great company, so we chatted for a while about trail racing and miles clicked by super fast. The pace slowed since we were in the hilly back half of the 25k loop. I was almost to the 13 mile point when we hit this section with switchbacks and I could see other runners. Oh damn, time to kick it up. I pulled away from Noah and ran solo the rest of the race.

Me and Noah past 6mi aid station manned by Ben VanHoose:

Photo Credit: Ben VanHoose

Came into the start/finish mile 15.5 at 1:54. On pace for a sub-3:50. Hmmm, that's a lot fast. I swapped out my one just-finished bottle at the drop bag area, though I should've had a separate handheld with full bottle ready. I fumbled and lost 30 seconds getting the new bottle into my handheld with popsicle fingers.

I decided early-race to keep 10 mile splits on the Garmin. It seemed like a manageable distance to attack mentally. First 10 miles I was doing great, and by the next 10 miles I'd only slowed 5 seconds per minute per mile. I'm definitely bleeding pace, but it's not a hemorrhage. Put a tourniquet on that shit and let's start racing.

Photo Credit: Ryan Heidenfeld

At mile 21 I hit Ben's aid station and was feeling pretty dehydrated. I couldn't decide whether I needed my bottle filled, the thoughts wouldn't congeal, so obviously I really needed water. Took down some coke and gatorade and left with a full bottle and promised myself I'd drink often and finish that bottle. Ben said I was 4 minutes behind Jon. Didn't mention the other guy. I thanked him and pressed on.

The mileage and time were going by really slowly now. I was trapped in my brain with hurting legs, elevated heart rate, and no distraction. I wanted my ipod so bad right now! Why didn't I bring it?! Don't panic, just keep thinking, 'less than 8 miles, just one Huron River loop. You've done this a million times. You're not 23 miles into a race, you're on Huron parkway, running downhill on your favorite stretch of road.' It was a band aid. And the blood was starting to seep through.

A couple that was hiking the trail told me I was in 2nd place. Wha?! What happened to the two in front? That definitely lifted my spirits, but I know you can never trust what people tell you out there. Hang on, keep pushing it. I wondered for a spell whether this much pain was actually healthy for a person. I sang Kishi Bashi's "Bright Whites". Nothing helped. I was in the pain cave.

I wanted to throw my Garmin into the woods so I'd stop looking at it and seeing the pace shuffle backwards.  Less than 3 miles to go. Where was the surge of energy I'd stashed in my tights? Spent it long ago. Thought I was running on credit, but I always pay cash on the trail. And the green was gone.

The last mile, with its final, sinister little pitch upward, didn't give me any energy either. My legs were done, my bottle empty and gels kicked. I left everything I brought to this race out on the course. As I crossed the finish I shouted, 'Am I done?' I was half serious, half not so with it. I collapsed with hands on knees, awash with happiness and pain. I saw Jon and congratulated him on the win -- and the course record!

I got 2nd place overall! How did that happen?! And a 24 minute PR with a 3:50, just 30 seconds shy of going under the course record. That's 7:25/mi average...where in the hell did that come from?!

Neither Jon nor I knew what happened to the other guy who had taken off ahead of Jon on the first loop. Several minutes later the front runner in question, Jordan Lafreniere, came through and told us he got lost and couldn't get back. Damn, that sucks.

I picked out a sweet Montrail toque as my prize and snow globe award then headed to the cabin for warm dry clothes, celebratory whisky + beer + food. We cheered runners as they came through the cabin campground and told race and running stories. This is what it's all about. The hard work is over, the proof is in the pain, and now we celebrate.

Tim came through the camp with a strong finishing kick and we gave him hearty cheers. Then it was off to the finish to catch Alaina. She was beautiful. Just finished her first ultra. So happy for her!

Alaina on course in her first ultra:

Photo Credit: Ryan Heidenfeld

We all went to the main cabin lodge for delicious chili and two roaring fireplaces for more running stories, joined by Dave Potter and then Ben. Lots of stories and ultra talk. Man, I love this scene.

As the light faded, we moved to the outdoor bonfire pit, roasting food, celebrating with drinks and talking to cabin neighbors. Yep, this camaraderie keeps me racing.

We capped off the weekend with a 10 mile out-n-back the next day with Alaina, Jon, and Cody on the gorgeous, hilly back half of the course, going easy and stopping to enjoy the views we'd missed during the race. A fresh covering of snow was a nice treat too.

I highly recommend the Yankee Springs races. They're well organized, the events start on time, it's a fast course with some hills, and you're on awesome trails with a mix of pines and old growth hardwoods, and almost all of the course is single track. I'd definitely race here again.

Happy Running!

Jon, Me, Cody, and Alaina after our tenner

Leadville Trail 100 Run -- Race Report

The End

Midnight at 11,000 feet above sea level. I’m at mile 80 of 100, listening to the power lines above me buzz in my ears like I’m on nitrous. But I’m not laughing. I’m hiking up Sugarloaf Pass, which might as well be the Cliffs of Despair that I’m trying to climb right now. I can walk about 20 steps before getting so dizzy and out of breath that I’m coughing and I’m stopped again. Now I’m swaying side to side, even though I have trekking poles keeping me upright. Each step feels like I’m walking through waist deep water -- I’m so very slow, yet I’m moving at max speed. My legs don’t hurt, but they’re full of kryptonite, unable to tap any strength despite the fact that I have plenty left. Flippin’ altitude, man.

I say to my pacer, Mark, a friend from high school, ‘I think I’m gonna throw up.’ He tells me to just keep moving forward, one step at a time. Just put one foot in front of the other. But I’m on all fours, retching water and potato skins all over the ground over and over again. My body starts shaking violently and I’m freezing, feverish. Mark starts stripping off the extra pants he’s wearing and rubbing my arms to warm me up. Can we ever thank our pacers enough? I don’t think so.

On the ground in the fetal position, waiting for the spins to stop and my body temperature to steady, with head between my legs, and I’m starting to realize that the altitude sickness symptoms I’ve been struggling with all day are here for good and they’re going to get a lot worse. And I still have 2 miles of steep climbing to the top of the Pass, where there’s even less oxygen, and more importantly, less chance that emergency aid could get to me if my body shuts down completely, if my lungs continue to fill with whatever is causing me to cough whenever I take a gulp of air. I’m not going to make it up there. This is as far as I’m going at Leadville. 80 miles. I’ve pushed my body to its limit on this day, at this altitude, and going forward is not safe.

If this were merely pain, if this were a nutrition or digestive issue, if this were something that could’ve been remedied by giving it time or putting something different into or on my body, I would’ve done it. But my body was rejecting the altitude and shutting down in ways that scared me for my own health and safety.

And that’s ok. I went to Leadville to dig deep into myself, to see what my body and mind could do when tested to the limit. And that’s exactly what I got from the Leadville Trail 100. I didn’t regret my decision to DNF when they cut my timing chip. I didn’t regret my decision the next morning, and I still don’t regret it writing this. I had a great race, maybe even one of my best-executed races ever, and I’d seen beauty unlike anywhere else on earth. That is truly a great race.

Why Leadville?

A cold snap in November 2011, 9 months before Leadville. One month after going sub-3 at the Chicago marathon and setting a PR at the half-marathon. Two months after deciding that I needed a break from triathlons. A couple months after winning my first race overall, a trail half-marathon. All signs said, let’s run.

One fall morning last year, I read that BTer Dick Dime, aka Richard Paradis, who I met at Kansas 70.3, registered for the Leadville Trail 100, just two years after suffering a traumatic brain injury resulting from a bike accident. I was inspired. I thought he’d gotten into Leadville via lottery, but when I looked up the registration process, I realized that I too could sign up for the Race Across the Sky. The bike race is the only race that requires a lottery. So I proposed the idea of running Leadville to Alaina. She laid down a credit card. I told her, ‘This is dumb. We live in the flatlands at 800’ above sea level. Leadville starts at 10,200’ ASL and crosses 4 mountain passes.’ She said, “do it.” So I did.



Over the next few months, I started planning and executing my 2012 trail running season. I wanted to take on challenges that scared me into taking my run training to levels I’d never thought possible, for this might prepare me for Leadville. I started and finished three 50 milers and two (race) 50ks, cracked 110+ miles per week a few times, and discovered some of the most beautiful trails in the northern midwest. I also found all the hills in my area and feasted on them for breakfast and dinner. I was already in love with trails, but this year we moved in together.

The Numbers

Leadville’s altitude was the greatest risk for me for a first 100 miler. The race starts at 10,200’ ASL, and the town is dubbed the Two Mile High City. As a point of reference, pilots pressurize their cabins at 10,000’ ASL as there is only 70% of the oxygen available at sea level up there. The Queen’s stage of the race is the double crossing of Hope Pass, which starts at mile 40 at 9,300’ and rises to 12,600’ over 4 miles. At 12,600’ ASL, there is only 64% of the oxygen available at sea level. Really, not a good idea for this flatlander.



The backside of Hope Pass is steeper, with a 25% average grade and loose rock footing. This side bottoms out at 10,000’ over 2 miles. The Hope Pass section features the highest and lowest points of the course, with the average elevation of the Leadville Trail 100 above 10,000’ ASL. So about half way through the race, you climb and descend this mountain, run a little longer out to mile 50, turn around, and climb the same mountain again, and then run the entire course in reverse.



I was able to acclimate for two weeks in Colorado, the first week in Boulder (thanks to TriOK aka Robyn) and second week in Buena Vista before the race, and I’d hoped that would be enough. But I had my doubts. A few years ago, I camped up at 8,000’ and woke up in the middle of the night with altitude sickness, suffering nausea and the spin-zies without the fun of getting drunk beforehand. The Leadville 100 is so high that runners risk high altitude pulmonary and cerebral edema. That’s some bad ass shit that can kill you. Add that on top of the usual risks of ultrarunning: hyponatremia, hypothermia, severe cramping, blisters, dehydration, renal failure, etc. and this race becomes a really bad idea.

But that’s what I wanted to do this year. To take on a race that no matter how well I trained, no matter how smart I was on race day, I still might not finish. I’d likely find myself in a position where pushing myself even a step further would result in a trip to the emergency room or the morgue. Sure, I wasn’t climbing Everest, where hikers pass the frozen bodies of those who failed before them, but with a yearly average finishing rate of ~50%, I was willing joining the start line with hundreds of those who wouldn’t finish the race.

The Race

The Starting Line -- Race Morning

At 4am on a 35 degree Saturday morning in August, after camping out of my Element the night before, I found myself at the start line of Leadville hearing the race mantra over the loudspeaker: “You are better than you think you are. You can do more than you think you can. Dig deep.” I glanced up at the front of the race and saw Anton Krupicka join Nick Clark and Thomas Lorblanchet. The elites were ready. Around me were hundreds of runners tweaking their gear one last time, hoping we were ready too.

Start to May Queen: 12.5 miles (mile 0 - 12.5)

The shotgun blast startled me as I leapt into the mass of runners heading into darkness, down to The Boulevard, a dirt road with some rocky sections, and then onto the trail around Turquoise Lake. The race I’d been building toward all year was finally here, and I was as ready as I was going to be. Trying to hold back and not go out too hard, I was doing 8:30s and everyone around me was flying forward even faster down The Boulevard. Friends chatted with each other as they ran, catching up on the latest news like retirees at the barber shop. I enjoyed running with the packs and trying to settle into the easiest running pace I could maintain.

As we headed onto a super steep, short section of Turquoise Lake trail, I reminded myself that with 800 runners starting this race, there would be bottlenecks, so I tried to pick up a few places and get around runners going my speed. I found a chain of runners that were doing well, until we hit any kind of rocky or hilly sections, where some runners could’ve used a better headlamp. I was following this one guy with Hoka bon bon shoes, which look like moon boots and always give me a good chuckle. The dude behind me sounded like the big bad wolf, huffing down my neck the entire time and I almost turned on my music really early, but I wanted to remain focused on running for as long as I could so that I’d remember the experience. Thankfully, wolfman jack fell back after a few miles.

The sun began to rise and Turquoise Lake woke with all its beauty, mist on the water and I was finding my running groove. This section is mostly flat so I could regulate my breathing and heart rate easily and the miles ticked by nice and fast. I’d asked Alaina to bring the Assos lube to May Queen so I could toss that magic stuff on my junk before I chaffed to a leprous pulp, and she was right there waiting for me like an angel!. A mention of gear: I wore tight fitting lycra shorts, a tech tee, buff around my head + ears, arm sleeves, gloves, super thin wicking socks, and Brooks Cascadias, especially for their rock plate. Perfect choices all around.

May Queen to Fish Hatchery: 10 miles (mile 12.5 - 22.5)

Grabbed a couple salted golden potatoes at May Queen aid station from my drop bag, Alaina filled my hydration pack, and I started out on the road to the trail section. I found a guy from Ohio to chat with, and both of us were doing our first 100s. I power hiked well through the steep parts and ran easy on the flats. I was draining my hydration pack at a steady pace, taking my salt tabs on time, and mixing up the foods, from GU Chomps to potatoes to gels at regular intervals. One long buffet, just a day picnic in the mountains, right?

When I hit Hagerman, a dirt road leading up to Sugarloaf Pass, I felt my first pangs of altitude suffering. The road climbs gradually but I couldn’t run very long because my breath would catch hard in my lungs, like someone was giving me a nice long gentle bear hug from behind. The views were stunning up there, looking back toward Turquoise Lake and around to the other peaks. Took my mind off the inability to tap the strength in my legs for a while.

I mostly pow hiked up the Sugarloaf climb since running not only would’ve wasted my legs but I knew how easy it would be to spike my lungs over the threshold and get to where I couldn’t suck in enough oxygen. The descent down powerline was a fantastic three-ish miles of fun running, and I met a guy to run with for a while who has done this section in training several times. He said it was his favorite part too. weeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

Fish Hatchery to Half Pipe: 5.6 miles (mile 22.5 - 28.1)

My parents and Alaina’s parents and Alaina were waiting for me at Fish Hatchery and it was awesome to see them. I only get to see my parents a few times a year since we live so far, which makes having them as my crew that much more special. I could push on through pain and weakness because I knew they were just a few miles away, waiting and cheering for me. At the aid station, they were working so hard and fast for me, getting what I needed ready and getting me out the “door” again that I rode the high of their encouragement for miles.



This section is short and flat, but you’re running along the paved road and the sun is blazing and there’s no shade along the ranch-lined road. I thought I’d be able to zip through this stretch, but instead I started to suffer a bit mentally from all the sameness, same pounding on my legs, same heat on my shoulders, same view the whole way. My lungs wouldn’t allow me to run any faster either, which was frustrating, so I had to do a run/walk strategy already so early in the race. That kinda got me down, and I struggled to stay positive.

There’s no crew access at Half Pipe either, so I wouldn’t see my family until Twin Lakes. Time to get to work then and knock these miles out. I listened to a few All Songs Considered podcasts to take my mind off this mental lag, and that was a good move. I decided that if something isn’t working, change it now, try a new approach.

Half Pipe to Twin Lakes: 10.4 miles. (mile 28.1 - 38.5)

Here I found another first time 100 runner to talk with, this guy from the Pacific Northwest with a rock climbing background. He was in good spirits and a very good uphill runner, so I liked staying with him and behind him to keep me moving quickly but not blowing up on the climbs. I was moving better on the flats now, so eventually I was alone again in one of the most Michigan-like sections of the trail, gentle rollers, soft pine ground, and energizing smells of the forest. On the return inbound, I’d realize that I was running gradually downhill most of the time on the back half of this section, and maybe that’s why my legs and lungs were responding better.

There’s one last, very steep pitch down to Twin Lakes which was punishing on the quads, but the roar of the crowds at the aid station was a major boost. I saw my dad right away, and he grabbed my pack to fill it while I grabbed a couple goodies from the aid.

The steep part into Twin Lakes aid

Changed shoes here from Cascadias into Peregrines because they drain water well and a water crossing was coming up, plus they’re a little lighter for going over Hope Pass. I grabbed the trekking poles and took off, ready to tackle the hardest part of the course, the double crossing of Hope Pass. But in all my excitement I forgot to grab more GU gels, so I only had a Larabar a potato, and one gel with me until I got to Hopeless Aid station at the top of Hope Pass.

Twin Lakes to Winfield: 12.5 miles (mile 38.5 - 51)

Flat trail from Twin Lakes AS to the start of Hope Pass climb

The start of this section is dead flat, with the mountains rising before you saying, ‘come on, show us what you’ve got.’ I started up the single track, planted my poles in the ground, and quickly realized that I didn’t have very much. I’ve been running hills as steep (but nowhere near as long) as this and I at least started out strong, but here I had nothing. Every time I tried to pick up the pace my lungs squeezed and my heart strained against the altitude. Of course I had more in the legs, but my body was rejecting the altitude again.

So I found a pace that I could maintain, as pathetic as it was. I pushed out the thought ‘this is not the hill runner I am’ from my mind and watched the creek fall below me to the right. I stepped over numerous piles of steaming bear scat and recognized that if a bear came upon me I was lunch.

The views became even more beautiful than I could imagine and the trail steeper than anything I’d ever hiked on, whether it be Zion, Rocky Mountain Nat’l Park, Sequoia, Yellowstone, Appalachains, man, everything I’d ever been on. Every step was steep and my heels didn’t touch the ground.



After hours of going back and forth with a couple other sufferers, we made it up to Hopeless Aid station, still a few hundred feet in elevation below the summit. I was climbing with a few other people, and at the aid, three teenagers loudly discussed who would take each “hiker.” One kid refilled my pack while I downed a couple GU gels, and then kept moving. I smiled at the llamas that brought this race saving aid up to 12,000+ feet.

I’ll always, for all my life, remember the views from the top of Hope Pass on this journey. The mountains stood solemnly, majestically, as we passed by, and after crossing the pass, I saw the bottom of the earth drop out from under my feet. I’d made it to the top, and all I needed to do was maintain a good pace downhill.



As I reached the top, Anton Krupicka and his pacer Dakota Jones passed by and I called out their first names as if I’d known them my whole life. Two of my ultra heros just ran right in front of me. Behind them by a few minutes were Thomas Lorblanchet from Salomon (and eventual race winner), with pacer and ultra studette, Anna Frost. Following them a little ways back was Brit and personal favorite ultrarunner, Nick Clark with his pacer. How friggin cool that they were running right by me, as I pulled a bit off the singletrack to let them pass. My heros within hi-five distance.

The rest of the way down I rode the fanboy high, that is until I realized how much the course change lengthened the course -- this a change that the RD made just Tuesday before the race! -- to run on this trail and not the usual Winfield road route.  By the time I’d reached Winfield I was at mile 51-ish, which meant this would be a 102+ mile trek by journey’s end.  I was not really happy about the change.

Winfield to Twin Lakes: 12.5 miles (mile 51 - 63.5)



Alaina, in very high spirits here, picked me up and improved my pissy mood from the course change and general weariness and suckitude regarding running. But her relentless positivity was a real boon, as she wished every single other runner that came toward us a “good job” or “way to go” or “looking great”. How could I not help but smile at her grace.

I know she was stunned by the beauty and difficulty of this climb. I struggled to maintain any kind of decent pace here on the 25% grade of narrow singletrack with hundreds of foot dropoffs to the side, but I kept going at relentless forward progress.

Eventually we made Hope Pass again and I saw down to Twin Lakes. My lungs, body, legs were aching now, suffering the altitude most of all, and when we reached the Hopeless aid station, I knew this was going to get really really hard. Alaina grabbed some cheese sticks, which she absolutely lurves, and admired the llamas, and then we headed downhill.

A guy from Ohio caught up to us, asked Alaina how old she was because he said her legs looked like she was 16, which was weird but kinda normal talk for running 55+ miles, and then he took off downhill, but we saw him again at the bottom on the flats. I went through the river crossing like it was a puddle, and started running across the fields.

Twin Lakes from aid station

Twin Lakes, with my parents and Alaina’s parents, was another blessing. It felt so good to see family at this point, knowing how long we had to go but how much we’d been through so far. I changed to a new pair of Cascadias and Alaina decided to go with me to the crew access point at Half Pipe.

Twin Lakes to Half Pipe: 10.4 miles (mile 63.5 - 73.9)

Alaina paces me through an ultra-big crowd at Twin Lakes

Alaina was feeling pretty good, so she stayed with me out of Twin Lakes. I told her there was some rise on this section for a mile and then it would flatten out. But that was my optimistic memory talking. It’s a 1500ish feet climb, over several miles, and although I started out hiking well, my mind and lungs started to give out post-Hope Pass. I couldn’t catch my breath even when the trail was lovely, buffed out, and flatter at the top. I was reduced to a walk on all but the downhills where I could jog, and even when other runners came by and I desperately wanted to run, I seemed to have no way of getting enough oxygen to go.

This was a really dark time, mentally, in my race, and if Alaina weren’t there with me, encouraging me and calming me down, I’m sure it would’ve been a void from which there is no return. Darkness came, and with it a kind of calm, settling into what I knew would be the grind of the race since you can’t see the gorgeous mountains or the forest.

The only thing I could do to keep moving was to turn on the power hike, which is a 13-14 m/m long stride, and with that, we made it to Half Pipe aid station where the tent was lined with ghostly runners eating broth and snacks or limp with head between legs. I ate some ramen and we got out of there before I became one of the spectres. .

Half Pipe to Fish Hatchery: 5.6 miles (mile 73.9 - 79.5)

In about a mile we reached the crew access point, where my crew was waiting with unflagging optimism, hot soup, and everything else I could possibly need. I thanked them, dropped my hydration pack off because my shoulders were destroyed at this point, and went with just the handheld for this flat, road section.

I actually started moving really well here, running for longer stretches and regaining some positivity despite the fact that this section was one of my lowest points on the outbound.

Fish Hatchery to DNF:  2-ish miles (mile 79.5 - 81.5)

My whole crew plus my pacer, Mark, were at Fish Hatchery, surprised to see me come in under expected time for this section, and that made me happy. Getting to this point was a great feeling, for I knew that historically, most people drop at this aid station, so we needed to get out of here, pronto. I was eager to see if my body had anything left to get over Sugarloaf Pass.

Mark and I headed down the road, albeit slowly, and caught up on life and races and such. He’d just done the Warrior Dash with another friend of ours, and I enjoyed hearing all the dirty details of that race. We started climbing Sugarloaf and my lungs and heart were struggling out of the gate but we were actually moving upward pretty well considering. Mark graciously took my hydration pack when I slowed, and told me to just focus on putting one foot in front of the other. I leaned into my trekking poles and could only walk about 20 feet before stopping. My heart rate was sky high and would not come down. We continued making progress until the wheels fell off, my stomach exploded, and my lungs wouldn’t allow me to breathe. It was time to call it a day. We walked back downhill, every step lower in elevation made me feel better, and we met up with my family at the road as I curled up on the ground.

They gave me plenty of time to change my mind as I sat there, and I was way under the cutoff time-wise but my body wouldn’t allow me to continue. There was no way I was going to make it over Sugarloaf in my condition. It was finis at Leadville, so they drove me back to Fish Hatchery to have my wristband cut.

I’ll get that 100 mile buckle yet, for I know I have it in me to finish 100 miles, but not here, not on this day. I took on Leadville to challenge myself to limits previously untested, and I got all that and them some. No regrets!

Mohican 50 Mile Trail Race Report

We begin in darkness and work our way into the light. The path ahead is unknown, relying on others to guide our way. Volunteers will point out the trail, but we also follow the herd. The goal: separate yourself, by charging out in front or gradually finding your own rhythm. Many will stumble early and draw young blood. Others are not long for this race. We "run with the hunted", says Bukowski.

The darkness takes our sight, so other senses take over. The legs feel it the most, since they’re taking the heaviest load. Mine are wobbling like a fawn’s, unused to the rocky footing, with ancient rock gulping for air at the surface of every step. The trail continues to rise and the pack stretches out, desperate mice trying to keep up with the next critter’s tail. The Mohican 50 mile trail race has begun.

Race morning 

It was a weekend of firsts. And isn’t that why I started doing ultras this year? To run new trails and take myself to places I’ve never been before?

I like lists, so here’s a list from this weekend titled ‘The first time I...’:

Started with 100 mile runners
Started a race in the pitch black
Negative split an ultra
Made like a bear in a race
Finished 2nd place overall at a 50 miler

The best thing about firsts is how deeply they engrave the memory. My DNF at Huff 50k was a first of those and I’ll always remember what it felt like to be so completely sure that I should drop out because of health/safety reasons, yet so defeated at the truth. Whereas the first time I won a race solo -- Woodstock trail half-marathon -- realizing with electricity coursing through my veins that I really held onto the lead to the finish line, well, I’ll never forget that feeling either.

Lining up for my first race among 100 milers, despite the fact that I wasn’t competing against them, is also a moment I’ll not soon forget. The gear we wore was all within the same range. Some had hydration packs, others two handheld bottles, some less, some more. Most had head torches since the race started at 5am (sidebar: said hour is for demons, only). But the real difference, as is true in so many cases, was in the eyes.

The difference between a 50 and 100 mile runner is the former comes to the start with nervous energy, while the latter has the mark of the grave reality of the trail ahead. This especially hit home because I have Leadville 100 coming in 9 weeks, plus I knew several 100 runners in the corral behind me.

When the RD counted us down, I felt more like a 100 runner. I remembered how deeply Gnaw Bone 50 miler crushed my legs and my will a month ago. This reminded me to start easier than everyone else in the front and stick to my plan. If I could stay hydrated and start easy, then I might just have a chance at running the last 10 miles strong.

Race Start

We started out through the campground and onto the flat paved greenway, then some single track, then more asphalt for the first 1.5 miles. This allowed the field to thin out and gain position before heading into the trail. My 160 lumen Petzl MYO RXP2 head torch was brighter than almost everyone else’s out there, and I felt a little over prepared, until we hit the single track and I saw 2 people eat dirt and rock, coming up with bloodied knees and dirtied shirts with 48 miles left to run.  The value of the light cannot be overestimated.

As soon as we hit the trail, we came to the hills. I was probably in top-10 at this point, and I watched most everyone haul ass, running uphill, while I set immediately into a mean power hike, only falling back a few seconds from the next guy up while saving valuable energy. But it’s hard to remember your plan, no matter how far/long the race. Too easy to get caught in the mice mentality.  Maybe it was lucky that I was held back by some terrible feeling legs.

I’ve had a great month of training over the last month since Gnaw Bone. But during the last week leading up to Mohican, my quads have been extra stiff and my knee has had some ITBS-like soreness, which I attributed to the taper week when my mind becomes a tick, waiting for some blood to latch into. So I blew it off and thought everything would be great come race day.

After 45 minutes, nothing had improved south of the hips, so I let the 5 or so front guys go, latching on to a couple 100 mile runners, one of whom, Harland, had won this race in ‘07. We chatted a bit about races they’d done and the beauty of this course. When I told them I was doing the 50, they told me I should be up there with the other guys. “No, I don’t" I quipped, "hopefully, I’ll see them at mile 45.” That got a few chuckles. A few miles later they stopped at Fire Tower aid to refuel and I never saw them again. Unfortunately, they were among the 60% of DNFs on a very hot day.

Alone now, it was time to settle into the All Songs Considered podcasts, for I had a strong sense that I wouldn’t be running with anyone over the next 7 hours. I’d fallen into the gap between the leaders and the rest of the pack. This is the nature of the trail race. It’s kind of like starting at a new school. Groups form. Sometimes you fit in. Sometimes you’re on your own.

On the trail, you can’t see more than 50 feet ahead most of the time so you never know if another runner is right around the corner or miles away. Motivation sink quickly and you feel like you’re on a raft, paddling out joyfully to the middle of the lake, only to discover a leak and the realize that the swim back is at the edge of your limits.

If I’m totally honest with myself, I was slipping into a bad mood. I should explain. I love trail running. I luff it. I lurve it. I have to make up new words to describe how deeply it makes me happy (my Annie Hall homage). I’m taking a break from triathlons because I’m sick of riding bikes near cars, of staring at the black line at the bottom of the pool, of the dullness of the asphalt beneath my running feet. Oh, I’ll come back to it, for going fast is very fun, but I needed a break.

But I was not having fun today. What was up with that? I wanted to do this race as a tuneup for Leadville 100 mile trail race in August, but as the race approached, I wanted to do really well. I’d looked at the finishing times in the past and I knew I had a shot. Today was just one of those days where it took all my energy to do either one or the other, but I couldn't seem to do both.

As I moved through the course, going from aid to aid, all of which were 5-6 miles apart, focused on draining my hydration pack, pacing well, and quickly refilling my supplies, I kept thinking, why aren’t I having fun?! Has the competitive drive sucked the fun out? Is it my crappy feeling legs? The shooting pain in my knee? The incredibly stiff quads that would cause me to ditch this if it were a training run in an instant?

The trail swerved off the single track down into this beautiful green gorge that looked just like the gorges in Ithaca, where Alaina and I lived for a summer and where Alaina went to school, so this section took me down memory lane and distracted my mind with a swirl of new and old memories for about a mile. Plus I was running back and forth across a stream, so the footing was extremely rocky, slick, and tricky. I danced, climbed over trees, and finally came upon the Queen’s stage of the race. The hand-over-hand ladder root climb that was great fun. I clambered up, thinking of how much Alaina would love this challenge.

The Root Ladder

The course climbed up out of the gorge until I reached the top of Pleasant Hill dam with some great cheering spectators, so I took a quick minute to look around at the vista of this beautiful park and appreciate the support.  Then I bombed down the stairs and grassy section to the creek below, where I was surprised to see a large group of (Amish?) people fishing quietly at this perfect spot.

But the glow of the gorge and dam sections did fade as the course afterward kept going up and down relentless hills and my legs continued to suffer. Normally my legs are ready to fire like crazy most of the way through the race, and then they crumble like overbaked birthday cake. But today they were shit from the start, and rather than warming up, they just hurt more. My right knee was in deep pain around the cap and my usual loosening strides didn’t help. I think this really got into my head and beat me down for the first 27 mile loop.

Coming into Covered Bridge aid station, the volunteers were awesome, helping me find my drop bag and refilling my hydration pack.  These guys were pro's!  I shouted out my number -- 420, man! -- and headed up a gnarly hill of switchbacks that put my hands on my quads and into a power hike.  Gradually the trail became much more runnable as I approached the Hickory Ridge aid station

As I came into the start/finish area, I had some good thoughts, knowing that even though my body wasn’t responding the way I wanted, at least I really wasn’t slowing down pace-wise according to my Garmin. And then I looked behind me and saw this guy with a yellow, 50 mile bib number come sprinting down the hills. I was crushed. What the fuck was he doing there. I haven’t slipped in effort or pace, I thought i’d gapped everyone behind and everyone in front had gapped me. This sucks.

Alaina and Cody were waiting at the start/finish before the 2nd loop, and they got my gear together in record time. She told me I was in 5th, and I grimaced, knowing I was about to fall back to 6th. I headed out to the greenway, and then to the single track. I remembered the long climb over the first 3 miles of the course from the dark hours of the morning, and I’m here as witness to say they didn’t get any easier in the light.

My mind reeled in frustration. The training was there. The taper was there. I’m in better shape than in Gnaw Bone but there was no pop in my body. I looked back to see the same dude running 100 feet behind me. I slowly climbed the next hill and he caught me. I pulled off the side of the trail and let him pass, keeping my back to him. This completely sucked. I was now in 6th and he was trotting off uphill. My body hurt, my mind was blown and I was thinking of quitting at mile 31, in like 1 mile.

But then I said to myself, you weak little asshat. You’re going to let this kid punk you like that? You’re going to just pull off and die at the side of the trail like some diseased animal? Don’t be a bitch, man, get back into this thing, catch that dude, and run your ass off. You only have 20 miles to go!

So that’s just what I did. I took a pack of GU chomps, struck off to catch this guy, and found his heels in about a mile. Yes, I was back into the race. He was hiking most of the climbs, and I noticed he didn’t have any hydration with him. It was getting into the 80s now, I was wearing my Ultimate Direction 64oz pack and barely staying on top of my system’s needs. I knew he wasn’t going to make it. So I put the hurt on, ticking the legs over as I’d been practicing for months now on every single hilly trail in my area. I wanted him to know that he’d have to crush himself to keep up.

And I never saw him again. I was all alone, back in 5th place, and gunning for the next guy. A Springsteen line rang in my ears, "Got a head-on collision, smashin in my guts man".  At mile 35, a distance that usually breaks me, I noted that my effort and my legs felt stronger than ever. My mind said to hell with the knee pain and all that whining. You’ve trained your ass off for this race, you’ve figured out your weakness -- going out too hard (not today!), and falling behind on fluids (nope!) -- and this is YOUR day, so fuck that noise.

At the start of the Breakwater half-Ironman triathlon in '09, I witnessed a beautiful moment between a father and his 7 year old daughter just before we got into the water. He, in his swim cap and goggles, took her face gently in his hands, pressed their foreheads together, looked her in the eyes, and said to her, “Never Give Up”. She screamed back at him in her tiny kid voice, “Never Give Up!” and then he took off for the water.  I now have the phrase on my Road ID and I wear it every single day. I glanced at it now and took off down the trail.

As I approached the Covered Bridge aid station, I prepped my gear to get light and fast for the last 14 miles.  I dropped the hydration pack in my drop bag, grabbed my handheld bottle with GU brew, shucked my shirt, and loaded my pockets with GU chomps.  It was time to fly on home.

Covered Bridge

I started coming up on the marathon runners who started at 8am, and I was feeling the adrenaline of passing and encouraging them. At mile 40, a spot of red appeared up on the next hill. A red I remembered from those early dark hours, and he was cracked. His entire body was slumped. I heard a voice higher up the trail, a spectator, that shouted something down to the red guy, who responded “I’m going at max speed!” The moment was mine, as I passed and hustled on, driven by the thought that he might find his second wind as I had found mine.

The miles started turning over now that I was in 4th place and gaining momentum. The hills, the rocks, the roots, all were floating under my feet which were running on muscle memory now. Two miles passed without seeing anyone else.  Maybe everyone else was too far away.  Nope.  The next guy I saw brought some lysergic flashbacks of the early morning when I joined the 100 milers and he passed me to catch the lead pack. I hung on his heels for a few minutes, watching him desperately try to hold me off, but I knew the hills were my home, Brer Rabbit thrown to the briar patch.

I overtook him for 3rd place and figured that was it for me. A podium spot and a dream come true. Mile 45 buzzed on my watch and I remembered the conversation I’d had at 7am about seeing the leaders at this point. "It's all happening" says Penny Lane from Almost Famous. At this point, my old friends, the deerflies, came out along the unshaded areas and distracted me from recognizing another yellow bib at mile 47 just up ahead. It wasn’t until I cleared his wake along another uphill that I realized I was now in 2nd place.

A fiery cartoon head appeared at my shoulder, reminding me of what happened at this point in the course on the first loop. This is when the unexpected competitor caught me with my guard down. Don’t let that happen again. I targeted 8-9 minute per mile pace, running well outside my comfort zone for a trail this hard. The downhills back into the campground were pounding my quads, yet I remembered how much worse my legs were at the end of Gnaw Bone. I’d paced this right! The finish was less than a mile away!

The heat had driven spectators away from their campsites now, and the last mile was one of quiet, desperate pain. Keep going, never give up. Just ahead I could see the finish banner. As I made my final turn, the only voice I could hear was in my own head. ‘You did it.’ I saw Alaina stand up quickly alongside the finish line, obviously shocked by my arrival. The announcer said, “here comes our 2nd place 50 mile finisher” and I was a firework, ready to burst into color. I screamed “YES!” as I crossed and reached down to hug Cody and Alaina, overwhelmed at the realization that I’d overcome my lowest point in perhaps any race and my greatest triumph in defeating my own desire to quit and admit defeat.

Mohican 50 mile trail race: 7:54 for 2nd place overall.  9:29 minute per mile average pace.

50 miles!

Pure happiness at the finish

The race organizers had free, open taps of Great Lakes Brewing beer for everyone, racers and spectators alike, and after enough recovery and food, I grabbed myself a Doppelbock and soaked in the emotion.

I caught up with Jon’s crew and waited for him to come through the aid station to wish him the best, as he would be finishing his 2nd loop of 4 in the 100 mile race. Chatting with other finishers, we congratulated each other and shared war stories from an absolutely brutal course that was at least as hard as Gnaw Bone, with the Garmin showing 8,000+ feet of elevation gain and my memory reminding me of the jarring terrain.

2nd overall with a $150 paycheck in hand

Eventually, after seeing Jon come through and sending him on his way -- to a 3rd place overall finish for the 100 mile(!) -- we picked up some pizza and my drop bag and went back to the campsite for a quick nap. Awards were at 7pm, so we went back to the start/finish and found some shade and for me a few more beers before the announcements. Cody kept trying to say hi to this guy lying in the grass who turned out to be Peter Hogg, the 50 mile winner (beating me by 30 minutes no less), and we chatted for a while before the awards. I’ve never met a more humble and unassuming fast guy in my life. Hoping for plenty more good results for him, he deserves them.

We finished the night off with a great campfire and a good night’s sleep, unfortunately not being able to see all the 100 mile finishers being just too tired. Congrats to all the runners at the unrelenting Mohican trail: Jon, Jason, Matt, Mark, Chris, Kai, Melissa, Farra, and everyone else I’m forgetting.

Bring it Leadville, I'm ready for anything!

DWD Gnaw Bone 50 Mile Race Report

Gnaw Bone 50 miler is the first race where I reached the finish line and felt neither relief, nor happiness, nor a sense of accomplishment. Instead, I felt broken and spent, physically and mentally. There was nothing left to give or to get from this race. I gave it all I had and it took what it wanted. I left blood on the trees, sweat on the dirt, and curses in the air. To put it plainly, I got everything I paid for at Dances with Dirt.

The race organizers claim that this race has “a few stupid parts” and “crying is allowed”. A vignette to illustrate: At mile 49, my quads were the latest muscle group to cramp, sidling up with the clique of ‘mean parts’, along with the catty hamstrings and groin. I’d reached The Plunge, a (now-defunct) blue-square-rated ski slope that dropped 200 feet in elevation -- no trail cut -- just slippery mud and grass for ¼ mile. Though the finish line was neither within sight or earshot, I convinced myself that if I could suffer down this hill, the end was right around the corner. 

The Plunge: Yet un-ripened by runners here

When I hit the bottom, only shoulder-high grass and a narrow path spread out before me. My knees were blown and ‘trotting’ is a kind way to phrase what I was doing. The path dipped down into the creek, and I was running through ankle-to-knee deep water, my killswitch engaged, my body a “foul rag and bone-shop”, to steal a W.B. Yeats phrase. I came out on the other side of the creek and saw the finish. A smile forced its way into my mouth, eyes a-glazed, shark-dead. Finally, I crossed the finish line. I exhaled, put hands on knees, shook my head, and tried to delete the pain, like a 3am nightmare that upon waking, seemed like a repressed fantasy.

But let’s go back to the start.

My morning started at 4:20am, waking from the back of my Honda Element at my campsite in Brown County State Park, sleeping in the cab of my futon-cushioned car rather than the tent because, frankly, it was easier. This proved a fine choice since a large group of loud, obnoxious dudes played music and partied all night just a few sites over.Morning came and with it my camping treat: French press coffee. I boiled water in the camp stove, poured it into the press with Seattle’s Best, and enjoyed the steaming cup with Corn Flakes and a Greek Yogurt, and then drove to the race start.

I saw Jon, whom I’d met running the Poto as well as at Winona Lake 50M and Trail Marathon 50k, and he talked about the shoe-sucking muddy miles at the beginning of the race, so I made a last-minute decision to change shoes at the car into my trusty 350+ mile Saucony Xodus 2.0 runners, laced tight. After hitting the loo, I headed to the start, hearing the RD call out 5, 4, 3, 2, WTF! I gotta get to the start! I hopped the flags, crossed the start chip timers, and tried to find my running pals, Jonathan Clinthore and Jason Robertson.

We chatted up the first hill, a mud sucking rise where we climbed over a few downed trees, one of which took its first blood (Rambo-style!) from my knee. When we’d reached the ridge line, back on single-track trail, we continued to climb, rather steadily but not steeply up to Playground aid station. At this point, Jon pointed out that we were 1-2 in the race, which cracked me up a bit.  Turned out that the guy who won here last year, Joshua Wopata, got to the start last minute to register and would pass us later on, despite the delay.  He'd go on to win like 30 minutes ahead of everyone.

For the next several miles, we ran with an echelon of 4-5 runners, two 50kers and three 50Mers. The conversation centered on whether we were still on course, since every race report I’d read was about how EVERYONE got lost at some point. Jon and I seemed to be the only ones who wanted to talk out on course, so we chatted running, work, and everything in between. I knew I was running too fast, but this stretch of 8 miles was highly runnable and I felt great and I wanted to run with other people because it helps the miles fly by.  Ogle Lake was gorgeous, with mist rising off it and air perfectly still.

Ogle Lake dam

At Hesitation Point (10 miles), a few in our group stopped off to their drop bags, but I didn’t need anything, so I kept going down a long, steep downhill, which also featured our first bush-whacking section, leaving the perfect single trail and darting into the raw, unbroken woods. This was just a teaser of what’s to come, quickly connecting back to single-track MTB trails that were relentlessly up-and-down along this gorgeous ridge-line, but incessantly taxing on the legs with the up and down.

This other 50M guy was tailing me the entire time, quickly catching back up to me after I dusted the aid stations, then hanging off my coattails, never passing, so I thought we’d be running together the entire race. He said nothing, just sat there tapping out the miles. Well, ok, everyone has their style, but this guy seemed like the sniper in Full Metal Jacket.

Around mile 13, we hit this section where the trail markings showed a pink arrow to the left, but our pink flags to the right, plus there was this other guy running back toward us, everyone confused about where to go. Dude running toward us said he’d go up this other way to find pink flags, but then we saw Jon and a couple 50k guys going the other way so we joined up with them. It’s all part of trail running, I get that, but damn it was confusing.

Anyway, after we caught back up with Jon and the other guys we got to the first major bush-whacking section. The trail went straight up an unimproved, raw-woods section on this hill that was no longer runable. We’re talking about briars, branches, poison ivy covered ground, straight into the forest, using hands and feet to get up. The power hike was a dear friend here on the way to Aynes House.

Aynes House to North Tower is foggy in my mind, so I’ll refer to the course description.

“Difficulty is all in your attitude: A - Solid mountain bike trails with exceptional views or B- Feels like there is no way out and no relief.” First time through this section I felt like A, second time through I felt like death, er, B.

From North Tower to Hoosier’s East aid station (and 2nd drop bag) brought us to mile 20 and through another one of the toughest parts of the course. More bush-whacking, no footing since it’s running through the middle of the woods, and ridiculously steep hills. I knew this was draining my legs, but there was no way around it because it was so steep even a slow hike was tough. Good news: somewhere along the way here I found a crusty folded up $20 bill that looked like it had been there for years -- I’m rich!

Finally we reached the ridgeline and Hoosier’s East. Jon and I were running together now and I’m not sure what happened to everyone else, just that it was the two of us left. We were feeling pretty confident, chatting away and saying that the RD, Randy Step, puts on a good show, etc when we missed the turn, of course. We’d run down this long steep gravel road and got to an intersection with no flags. Shit. So we turned around and ran back uphill, almost all the way back to the road at the ridgeline, where we saw the flags head back into the brush, off the nice trail we were following. 

Brutal. More climbing over fallen trees, terrible footing, steep pitches that were hardly runnable, even being downhill, and you had to keep your eyes on the pink ribbons tied to trees or get lost in the middle of nowhere. All this in order to reach what I thought of as Jacob’s Ladder, a set of 160 stairs that climb back up to another ridgeline at the Nature Center, where we were treated to a mile or so of paved road before heading back into the hills and reaching Playground aid station. Now I’m betraying this first loop, where I was having fun, sharing some laughs with Jon and feeling really good, just thinking ‘man, this is really hard’.

Playground (mile 25) is where 50 milers could drop down to 50k, and according to the Running Fit volunteers, many people took this option. But we flew through there and onto the 2nd loop, talking and running and enjoying the woods. I noticed I wasn’t peeing enough, so I started taking down a lot more fluids, but in the end, I was too late on this. Should’ve gone with two handheld bottles rather than one because of the humidity and temps rising into the 70s, which isn’t scalding, but hotter than what I’ve been running in lately.

At Hesitation Point, Jon and I both switched shoes “to get some new and different hot spots for a while” as he put it, and I grabbed salt tabs and GU brew to nix the dehydration issue arising. We headed downhill, through the brushy section, and back to the roller coaster MTB section. And here’s where I learned the most about running long. It can all change in an instant. At around mile 34 I was having more trouble on the climbs staying with Jon. My heart rate and RPE were way too high for even easy hills, and I couldn’t get my breathing down. I knew it was dehydration, and I’d been trying to stave it off, but by mile 36 I pulled the plug and told Jon I was falling off and I’d see him at the finish line.

Hesitation Point

At this point, I went into training mode, telling myself, ‘just keep moving forward, control your breathing, and take in as much fluid as you can.’ The smallest hills were a struggle, and I actually looked forward to the really steep stuff so I could power hike and not feel so bad about not running like I knew I was capable. My Garmin was mocking me and I was glad to see it die at mile 44 so I didn’t have to watch my pace slow to a crawl.

The aid station volunteers were awesome; they were so encouraging and helpful, filling my bottle and asking what I needed, but for some reason they didn’t have a new pair of legs and lungs hiding behind the GU gels. Dudes, come on, I need you here.

By mile 40 my breathing was better but now the cramps were setting up camp in my groin, so I could only climb the downed trees by leading with my left leg, but the front of my right ankle was in pain, so I could only land hard on the downhills with my left leg, so I hobbled about in this manner for the next 5 miles. I was on the section of the course that I knew from the first loop, so I didn’t make any navigational mistakes, but I also knew all the terrible sections that were coming.

The heat had risen and the deer flies were out, circling my head and dive bombing my flesh while I trudged up the mud-and-shoe-slicked hills, hamstrings and calves cramping along with my groin, death march in full effect.

At the Playground aid station, they told me I had 6 miles left, and when I gave the volunteer a look of horror, he said, “um, just under 6 miles, like 5.6 miles! Oh, and you’re in third!” I thanked him for that courtesy, but the race finale was playing out like a Puccini opera -- I’m thinking Tosca here -- where everyone gets killed, and even though Scarpia gets the knife, you know Cavaradossi is going down too, and Tosca is not making it out of the tower alive. Um, *spoiler alert* there I guess (from like 1900).

The quads joined the ‘mean parts’ clique, and I made it to the final aid station at mile 47.2, running along a ridge line horse trail with mud sucking sections, more fallen trees that I would get halfway over and bear-hug for a while, then plop back into the mud. Then came The Plunge ski slope and I was totally wrecked, dragging my sad sack to the finish where I congratulated Jon on a great run and great 2nd place OA finish for him.

I headed to the creek for an ice bath and Jon brought me the champagne of beers, which no doubt was the best tasting Miller High Life I've ever had. After cooling off for a spell and sharing war stories with other finishers, I sat at the finish line and cheered athletes into the finish while enjoying several Sierra Nevadas and Bell’s Kalamazoo Stouts. 

Perhaps the best part of the whole event for me was sitting at the finish line with a great group of trail runners, enjoying pulled pork sandwiches and beer under the sun and having some laughs while yelling encouragement for the muddied, bloodied ultrarunners and the wacky, costume-donning relay teams coming across the finish line, and especially for those coming in close to the cutoff with looks of pain much more severe than my own. That was awesome.

The Shot-Ski: Relay-ers finishing the race together

Thanks to Jon for running 36 miles with me, to Jason Robertson and his wife Arden for the campfire and the stories, to the guys from Kentucky at the site across from me for jump starting my car at 9pm the night before the race, to Leslie and Lori from RUT for the entertaining stories, to Scott and Chris for cheering everyone in with me, and to everyone at Running Fit for putting on a real good show at Dances with Dirt Gnaw Bone.

 

50k Race Report: The Trail Marathon

As I imagine it, the Poto is a trail that feeds on the blood of those that run and ride its spine. It is a monster that must be fed. And I’ve given up my share of vino through MTB crashes and cartoonish stumbles over gnarly roots and rocks. But not today.

Today I bounded over the rocks, catapulted myself off the roots, and took the serpentine trails for a nearly perfect run. I fueled perfectly, paced perfectly, and aside from one wrong turn that added a mile and might have cost me a chance at 3rd place overall, I beat that sumbeetch Poto trail to the teeth. What I know is that today, for just one day, I smote the monster that has taken my lungs, my legs, and my spirit on previous adventures.

For the last week before the race, I’ve been totally calm about this 50k, recognizing that I was still recovering from my first 50 miler two weeks ago, and I wouldn’t be in top form. Also, I’m doing a hard 50 miler two weeks from now called Gnaw Bone, so I should be prepping for that. I decided that I’d do the race completely for fun and forget what place I got, whether I got a PR or set a good time or whatever. And then I had a couple short runs, on Friday and Saturday, that were “super smashing”, as my Scottish co-worker says.

Which leads to the night before the race, when I started getting nervous. It noodled into my head that I wanted to do well at the race and still have big fun. How do I balance the two? Can I still laugh and make jokes with other racers, bounce off rocks, play air drums, and go for a good time. Well, yeah, of course I can!

That morning, I woke up with the cutest note from my wife, Alaina, in my bag of gear. It reminded me that the most important thing today is that I love running, and if I just focused on that, I’d have a great race. Best wife ever, can we agree?

After a 20 minute drive to the race site -- love local races! -- I went around and met up with almost 10 people I knew from training runs and races. For me, that’s unheard of, since at tri’s I know 2 people at most. I’ve started to feel like part of a community in a way that I never felt doing triathlons. Maybe it’s my attitude, but I think it’s the laid-back atmosphere of the ultra community and a general desire at these events to hear and share stories with other like-minded people. A celebration of running, just because it’s awesome.

The lake had this mystical steam rising into the 29 degree air as we lined up at the start. I inched toward the front, but since marathon and 50k runners were seeded together, I didn’t get too far up, ceding that area to the marathoners. Aaaaand, go!

My plan was to hit 8:30/mi steadily for the entire race, focus on taking enough fluids and live off GUs for carbs. The course is 2 loops of 13.1, followed by a 5 mile loop. There were around 20 people ahead of me from the gun, and I had no idea who was marathon or 50k, because it really didn’t matter. If my plan to run steady and fairly easy worked, then I’d either reel them in late in the race when they faded, or I wouldn’t.

After passing almost no one and only being passed by a couple guys for the first 4 miles, I tapped out a steady rhythm and shot off a few boulders along the way to keep the sticks limber. I power hiked the steep as ascents and went conservatively downhill. And then around mile 8, I actually caught a group of three guys, one of whom was fading off the back pretty hard. So I hung off the coattails of these two guys talking about ultra races they’d done and their schedules coming up.

I listened contentedly to their stories and really enjoyed the company. When one guy fell off the pace to run with his buddy, it was me and this guy from the RUT group, Mark ‘Doc’ Ott. I introduced myself and we shared a bit about our lives before getting into how we got started in ultras, and what we do for a living, and where we like to run. Mark is only a few years old than me, but his ultra and marathon experience is 10x as deep as mine. He’s a sub 2:50 marathoner, and a few weeks ago he won a 100 mile race in Philly. I enjoyed hearing his tips and mistakes, where he feels he is now and where he’d like to be.

At the 13.1 point, aka the start/finish area, I swapped out my depleted GU brew bottle for water, which I wanted to use the rest of the race. My legs were feeling really strong, so I took the first chance of the race, and let them loose up the first climb. Yep, turbo boosters are ready to fire, but I must not flip that switch until the last 5 miles. Instead, I steadily pulled away from Mark and this Canadian guy who’d caught back up, and I settled into a pace that felt pretty easy. I didn’t check my Garmin until mile 17, when I was startled to see 7:44/mi on the watch. Where the hell was this coming from?

I’ve done enough training runs on this trail to know that if I’m not careful, it can make the pain machine from Princess Bride look like a soothing massage. But my legs and lungs felt great, so I decided to sit on this pace and get through the 2nd hardest stretch of this trail, from miles 18 - 22. The miles kept ticking by and I thought of Alaina’s note to me again. You love running trails, be there now. I told the woods how much I love that woman, and they continued to smile on me.

The hardest section of this trail is undoubtedly the last 3 miles before the start/finish area, aka miles 23 - 26 on this loop. It features the longest climb of the course, with several steep sections along the way. The quads and calves were finally starting to get roughed up, but if I could hang on here with petrol in the tank, I could let it rip and open up the stride on the last lap. I’d ticked the pace down to 7:41/mi and felt great. Too bad I was so focused on finishing that I forgot to pay attention to the flags.

I flipped the boosters on the last lap, a 5 mile loop on a totally different section of trail than the 13.1 loops. These flags were yellow, so I tracked them up to the parking lot, where they disappeared, but came back on the other side of the lot. Then they went through a short trail, and up to a dirt road. Now I always cross this road and continue onto the trail on the other side when I run here in training, so I did just that today, not realizing that the flags turned down the road to the Crooked Lake trail. I was hauling with everything I had left, thinking about how well I knew this section of trail and how great I felt today. But it all came crashing down at the map post where there were no flags. I realized I’d gone the wrong way for ~1/2 mile and I was going to lose a mile getting back to the yellow flags. Ok, what do I do? GO HARDER. Make up time, catch the people I’d already passed and pass them again. And that’s what I did.

That last loop was white lightning and fury. I saw my coworker and her husband hiking the trail along this stretch, and they gave me a huge unexpected boost of mojo, shouting “Go Banana!” which has become the go-to encouragement for me.

I buried myself in my chest up that terrible climb from miles 28-30 and totally killed it. I averaged 7:21/mi for the last (now) 6 miles, and came in at 4:11:59, a ~10 minute PR, for 4th place Overall and 1st place in my Age Group. I was 6+ minutes behind the 3rd place guy, so who knows if I could’ve caught him, but in the end it doesn’t really matter.  I ran 32.2 miles in 4:11:59 or 7:50/mi, but my mistake brought me down to 8:08/mi which is still WAY better than I thought I'd run.  In fact,  I ran my best ultra so far, paced it perfectly, and fueled exactly right. Great day on the trails!

After standing in the ice bath that is Crooked Lake, chatting with the 2nd and 3rd place finishers, I celebrated with a Two Hearted IPA from Bell’s Brewery, and then watched and congratulated the other finishers as they came across the line on this brilliantly sunny Spring day. Trails rule.