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Credit: www.flickr.com/photos/akunamatata/
Shacky and I are engaged in an interesting debate today that I’d love to hear your opinion. It was provoked by an article by Geoff Roes, posted this morning. You can see the full text here:
Read: 100 Mile Ingrigue: Embracing the Unknown
Roes’ argument is that there is not currently, and may never be, a training plan for 100-mile races. In his opinion, the 100 experience is so unique to the individual, that it’s almost impossible to be guided with a training plan of any sort. Basically: Just go out, get the miles in, and do it.
I liked his way of thinking and very much agreed. It also reminded me of this other great post I read this morning, essentially saying the same thing in relation to barefoot running.
Read: Barefoot Running: TMI Problem
In the comments section of the irunfar.com article, Roes was asked about the value of an ultra marathon running coach. His response was:
I don’t think anyone needs a coach to reach their potential for running 100 miles, and in many cases I think aspiring 100-mile runners are held back by having a coach.
That said, I do think there are several basic things one needs to learn before they have the tools to be able to find what works best for them. In most cases, having a coach will be extremely helpful in getting you more quickly to the point of being able to figure your own thing out, but once you’re to that point I think you’ll just be holding yourself back if you continue to rely too strictly on the guidance of someone else.
It is worth noting though that I don’t think these same thoughts apply to shorter distances, and there are very few runners out there who are focused solely on the 100+ mile distances.
For most ultrarunners, I think it makes perfect sense to have a coach, but to be very aware that what your coach is having you do probably applies a lot more to shorter ultras than it does to 100s.
I found this intriguing but also a little confusing. What makes the 100 so different compared to a 100K or 50 miler? I do understand the difference in logistics (ie. sleep, etc), but wouldn’t the same basic “tools” apply?
I’ve only completed one 100-miler and my expertise on this topic is so low, it’s laughable. But I do love the 100 distance and I’m insatiably curious about it. I’ve never had a running coach for any ultra, so I can’t speak to their value either way.
My gut instinct is to think that an ultra running coach has little to offer for ANY distance. I would think that all ultra experiences are unique and therefore difficult to coach?
If that’s not true—if there truly is value in coaching a shorter ultra distance, why not coach 100 miles?
In my limited experience, I consider it an all-or-nothing type of deal. Either coaches are useful for all ultras, or they aren’t. Am I wrong?
Have you ever had an ultra running coach? What sorts of benefits do these coaches offer?
Is a coach perhaps only useful for competitive ultra marathon runners, whereas people who want to “just finish” don’t need to invest in a coach?
Would Shacky and I benefit from a coach (not competitive, but want to race a lot more 100s)?
Is this like the barefoot running coach debate all over again?
Read: Barefoot Running Coach Certification: Why It’s a Bad Idea
What are your thoughts/experience?
RELATED ARTICLES:
My Final Thoughts on 100 Miles
How to Train for Your First Ultra Marathon
Like this:
“Pushing your body past what you thought it was capable of is easy; the hard part is pushing yourself even further … past what your mind wants to let you. That’s what ultrarunning is all about; introducing you to a self you’ve never known.” – Rex Pace
Lap 6: Miles 76-90
Shacky wanted to quit. He was a walking zombie, his chaffing was intense, and if he dropped now he would still be credited for finishing 100k. It would still be a distance PR for him and there would be no shame in DNF’ing his first 100-mile attempt.
Our friend Rachel decided to DNF. Her feet were so swollen, she could no longer walk. Shacky was thinking about joining her.
Knowing Shacky was ready to drop out made me stronger. I knew that if I showed any sign of weakness he would make up his mind to stop. He was just waiting for me to say the words, “I’m done,” so he could breathe a sigh of relief and fall sleep in the car. I wouldn’t give him the pleasure.
I had run 100k before, and I wanted to push further. This was all new territory for me and I wasn’t ready to stop yet. I grabbed some food for both of us while Shacky went to the car to generously lube his chaffed parts. He wanted to sleep so badly, so I told him I’d wake him up when it was time to go. In seconds, he was out like a light.
I took 20 minutes to take off my shoes, rub my aching feet, eat as much as I could, and drink some Rockstar. “Just one more full loop…” I told myself. I was anxious about spending too much time here.
If I didn’t get back out on the course soon, maybe I never would. I was afraid to sleep because I didn’t think I would ever wake up.
I woke Shacky. “It’s time to go!” … but he didn’t want to. I set his alarm for another 30 minutes of sleep, and told him that I was heading out. I instructed him to catch up to me after he woke up, and we’d finish this together. He nodded.
I believed he’d come. My best card to play at this point was his sense of competition. I knew he didn’t want me on the course putting up miles without him, and I knew that would eat him up. I was sure he’d catch up to me.
I stepped out of the car and headed to the bathroom for one quick potty break before I started walking. My plan was to walk slowly and let Shacky catch up. I didn’t care about time, but I did want us to finish together. I was feeling better, and I felt like he might need me before the night was over.
I walked slowly. It was really cold, so I wore two sweaters and wrapped a blanket around me. My jammie pants were keeping me warm, with my skirt underneath.
I felt much better, but I didn’t want to move any faster. I imagined that every second Shacky walked by himself would be a nightmare for him. I remembered my own desperation, fear, and paranoia at being left alone in the dark, and I didn’t want him to experience that.
In the meantime back at the car, Shacky decided as soon as I left that he didn’t want to sleep. He jumped back on the course while I was in the bathroom, already running to catch up to me. He didn’t realize I was still behind him.
For several miles, he’d run faster to catch me, and I’d walk slower to wait for him. We would do this until we were hopelessly separated. And when we’d find out what had happened, my heart would drop to a new low.
I looked at my watch and estimated approximately how long it would take Shacky to catch up to me. I walked and walked, but he never seemed to come. Where was he?
The sun would be coming out soon and I was already at the second aid station. I was starting to get worried. Did he even wake up? Would he finish?
Just as I was starting to wonder if he quit, I saw Shacky coming back towards me from the turnaround point. I blinked my eyes and stared. Was I hallucinating?
When we reached each other, I was still confused. “Did you pass me??” I asked. When Shacky explained what must have happened, I didn’t know what to say.
He was running at a steady pace and he said he felt good. He said he would run to the finish, then maybe if he was feeling good, he’d run me in for my finish. Then he took off.
I just stood there with my mouth open. What was happening??? I looked back at all the time I had wasted walking slowly, and I suddenly realized how much distance he had gained on me. I wanted to cry.
MAYBE run me in for my finish?? Fuck that. I wanted to finish together.
I was at mile 80. The sun was coming out and I was still in my jammies, two sweaters and blanket. I was tired. I hadn’t slept at all and I was still a little delusional. But suddenly all I could think of was catching up to Shacky.
We hadn’t talked about finishing together, and catching up at this point seemed impossible. I knew he wasn’t slowing down, which meant I had 20 miles to run FASTER than his already-fast pace. Oh, and did I mention I had 80 miles on my legs?
It was insane, but I didn’t care. After the initial shock of watching him leave, I grabbed some food at the halfway point and took off from that aid station like a bat out of hell.
I didn’t know I had any strength in my legs. But they moved. I didn’t know I had any breath left in my body. But I inhaled. The faster I went, the better I felt. I was flying.
I remembered my Asian mentor’s words, “The race doesn’t start until mile 80.” This was it. This was mile 80. And the chase was on.
The runners that I passed would turn to clap or shout encouragement. Their surprised faces reminded me how insane my pace was. Nobody was moving this fast. Nobody was running the hills. Was I being reckless? Stupid? It didn’t matter. I had to find Shacky.
My single-track mind made the time go by quickly. The sun was coming out and I was started to get very hot in my layers. I took off my jammies, two sweaters, and blanket and tied them all around my waist.
The layers made me look like a round, chunky ball, but they didn’t slow me down. I was on a mission and failure wasn’t an option. I was running this loop faster than I had run at any point during this race.
About three miles from the start line, I still hadn’t seen Shacky. That’s when it started to occur to me that maybe this was stupid. Maybe I’d never catch him. I stopped to walk and for the first time, think about what I was doing.
I heard a car honk and turned around. It was Jeff. He was headed to the start line to pace, and seeing him immediately perked my spirits. If Jeff caught Shacky at the start, they might stop to chat and give me a brief window to make up some ground. I started running again. Maybe I could do this after all.
Steps away from the start line, I saw Shacky running back with Jeff. They were on their final 10 miles, and my heart sank. What was I thinking, I’d never catch them. I would finish alone.
When I passed Shacky, I didn’t even want to talk to him. I was too tired to explain what I wanted, plus I was afraid I would burst into tears.
But I didn’t have to say anything for Shacky to figure out what I wanted. He sent Jeff to pace me, and he said he’d walk until I caught up. So Jeff and I turned and headed back to finish my loop.
Lap 7: Miles 90-100
“When you are 99 miles into a 100-mile running race, your brain is not the same brain you started with.” – Paul Huddle
I didn’t waste any time at the aid station. I dropped the layers that I had tied around my waist, filled my water bottle and took off again, barely even slowing down.
Just 10 more miles. It was so close I could taste it. It was a relief to run with someone again, and Jeff was an amazing pacer. He made sure my form was good and ran ahead of me to all the aid stations so I didn’t have to stop. He was surprised at how well I was doing and he thought we might even catch up to Carlos.
But as it turned out, Carlos kicked it into high gear himself and basically sprinted the last 10 miles. When I saw him on the home stretch, he was flying.
There’s something incredibly inspiring about seeing someone who has run over 90 miles, who has been out there for almost 30 hours, and who can still sprint to the finish with a smile. It’s a true testament to the wonder of the human body.
I smiled to see Carlos whiz past with his pacer behind him, huffing to keep up. We are so much stronger than we imagine.
As for myself, I wasn’t even sure why I was still running. Shacky would be waiting for me, so there was no need to chase. There was no time goal we wanted to meet. And before long, this would all be over.
Looking back, this was probably the most pure stretch of running I have ever experienced. There was no reason to run, but I still did. My brain was fuzzy, my belly was empty, and my legs were tired. But I ran because it was all my body knew to do.
For a long time now people have been trying to answer the question, “Why do you run?” I imagined that on this race I would have a breakthrough or a vision that would make it clear to me exactly why we DO run. And suddenly now it was obvious: There’s no fucking reason.
That’s why people come up with cheesy one-liners like, “Because I can.” Because really… there’s no reason to run at all. It’s completely senseless. And I was about to senselessly run 100 miles. It felt awesome.
Maybe we don’t always have to do things for a reason. Maybe we shouldn’t try to explain everything. Maybe we can just run fast every once in a while for no damn reason. And if people don’t understand, well that sucks for them.
When we caught up to Shacky, we all started running together. We hit 95 miles, and I was starting to cramp up. Just 5 more to go…
I had to start taking walk breaks, especially on the hills. My feet were starting to hurt and things were getting ugly fast. Whereas in most of my races I gain motivation this close to the finish, this time I broke down.
About three miles to the finish, I started to cry. I just didn’t even want to finish anymore. My body hurt and all I could think of was how much I wanted to stop. I didn’t care when I crossed the finish line or who I crossed it with.
Jeff ran ahead to announce our arrival, and I tried hard to pull myself together. My nose was running and when I blew it, it started to bleed. I was falling right apart.
As my pain grew, so did my anger. Why the hell did I run so fast back there?? I wanted to kick myself.
Shacky walked me in to the finish, and when I crossed it there was no sense of triumph or pride or satisfaction. Just an overwhelming urge to lie down.
Shacky hugged me hard and then I had to pee. I was holding it in for the past 3 miles, so I headed straight for the bathroom. Plus my nose was also still bleeding and I wanted to get cleaned up before any pictures.
When the race director came over with my buckle, I wasn’t there. So Shacky took it for me. Until the ride home, I didn’t even remember there was a buckle. I wouldn’t even look at it until I was home. It didn’t seem to matter at the time.
As soon as I stopped and sat down in the car, the pain was overwhelming. It hurt more to stop than to continue. I was hungry, sore, and sleepy and I didn’t know what to take care of first.
Trying to figure out what to do next was enough to send me into another fit of tears. I couldn’t think straight. I was exhausted, but I couldn’t sleep. I was hungry but I couldn’t get up to find food. I just sat in the car and cried.
Shacky came over to check on me and I was so mad at myself for pushing hard in the last 20 miles. I told him that it wasn’t worth it. That I should have just run my own race and finished alone. But he said he was glad we finished together, and after Jeff and Terry went to get me some hot chocolate, I felt a little better.
I was so appreciative of everyone’s support at the finish line, and I was sorry to be in such a poor state. Days later I would come to see photos of other people’s feet and realize how lucky I was to come out of this with so few battle wounds.
Later analysis with the Robillards would convince us that it was probably our minimalist/barefoot choices that has strengthened our feet enough to take this type of beating. There aren’t many people who finish 100 miles. And out of those, there are next to none who can finish without supportive shoes.
Final Thoughts From a 100-Mile Finisher
“I have met my hero, and he is me.” – George Sheehan
The day after the race I asked Shacky if he felt any different now that he had finished 100 miles. He said no, and neither did I. I feel like the same old girl. The same old runner.
I think that’s a good sign. I feel like it means this is who we were all along. This is where we belong.
For me, it was almost like a coming out. Now I have nothing to prove. It was a validation. A declaration that this is who I am and this is what I can do. And I’m going to keep doing it. Senselessly.
I don’t really know why I run. But I don’t have to explain it.
Now registered for: Nanny Goat 24-Hour & Chimera 100 Mile
RELATED ARTICLES:
My Final Thoughts on 100 Miles
Noble Canyon 50K Race Report (My First Ultra)
Los Pinos 50K Race Report (My First DNF)
Across the Years 24 Hour Race Report
Like this:
“The first 50 miles are run with the legs, the second 50 miles with the mind.” – Unknown
Lap 4: Miles 45-60
It didn’t get hard until after mile 50. At mile 49, I was running steady and happily. I felt rejuvenated after eating a good meal. But at mile 50, my body decided to close up shop.
All at once, everything started to hurt. My legs. My body. I felt tired. Exhaustion set in. And it was getting dark. Calculating our times a few days later, we would learn that this was our longest and darkest loop.
My feet were starting to kill me. I looked down and my Lunas and frustration set it. What was I thinking trying to run this in minimalist shoes? This was an insane distance, and I felt I was demanding more of my feet than other runners. I felt disadvantaged, and that put me in a foul mood.
Shacky was having trouble of his own. He had developed chaffing under his kilt so bad that he could barely run. We walked in misery together, willing ourselves to move towards the start line so I could change my shoes and Shacky could treat his chaffing.
Shacky is a faster walker than me, so I was half-speed-walking and half-running to keep up. It was as fast as I could manage, but I didn’t want to go any slower. I wanted to get this loop over with.
We tried talking to make the time go by faster. We shared stories from our childhoods, talked about our most embarrassing moments (Shacky’s story is priceless), anything I could think of to get our minds off the pain. It worked for a while, and then we fell back into silence.
A few times now I had caught sight of Stacey pounding out her miles. She ran at one pace, and I never saw her walking. She first inspired me at Across the Years where she wore a shirt that said, “Don’t be a pussy” and reminded me of my friend Kate. She wore that shirt again at this race, and I thought of it as a mantra. I also thought of Kate’s blog post, STFU And Just Do It, which I loved.
Kate wrote a rant about people who say, “I can’t do it!” and I imagined her now “kicking my arse” to the finish line. She wrote:
When I hear people say, “I can’t…” I just want to turn around and shake sense into them. I want to shout at them and make them realize what sort of life they are missing when they use… the lamest excuse in the universe.
It just annoys me when I think of all that wasted potential… Don’t they realize that they may never be their best until they “Shut the Fuck Up and just do it!”?
I tried to pull it together. It wasn’t even that late in the evening yet. How could I be falling apart so soon?
The more tired I got, the more my anxiety grew. I struggled to shuffle/speed-walk alongside Shacky and when he got only a few feet in front of me, I’d feel a wave of desperation. I imaged him getting smaller and smaller in the distance and I didn’t want to be alone.
I heard what sounded like a loud rattling in the bushes, and I grabbed Shacky’s hand.
“Is that a giant rattlesnake??” I demanded.
“No.”
I looked closer into the bushes. “Are you sure??”
“Yes.”
I stared harder. I was pretty sure it was an enormous rattlesnake.
“It’s a sprinkler,” said Shacky. He was right.
Earlier in the day I had a chat with George and he said “Don’t let anyone fool you. This isn’t an easy course.” He told me the hills would catch up to me, and he was right. But he also told me I had plenty of time, to take it easy, and to run my own race. It was these wise words that I now relied on.
It was quiet out on the course. Every once in a while, I would hear runners coming up behind me and I’d turn around to find that nobody was there. This happened several times and it was creeping me out.
Every time I stepped off a curb to cross the street, it was pain. Cars waiting impatiently for me to hobble across each intersection. Along the course there were also sandbags on some of the hills. It now seemed that the entire course was covered in sandbags. I saw sandbags were there was nothing. I saw them leaping out to trip me, and I was tired of high-stepping over them.
“FUCK YOU!!!” I heard a car screech past on the street with teenaged hecklers hanging out the window. They sped by a couple more times yelling mostly obscenities and things like, “YOU’RE SO SLOWWW!!”
Snobby fucking rich kids speeding around in Daddy’s car. If you’re so tough, try driving like that OUTSIDE your posh little gated community. These are your Saturday night plans? Really?
Coming down the final stretch of this lap was pitch dark. I knew the turn to the start line wasn’t far, but I couldn’t see it. I wished so badly that there was some sort of sign or illuminating arrow to give me hope. I needed to see how close I was. I put my head down and wished that so hard. Then I looked up and yelled to Shacky, “Oh look! Are those scarecrows pointing the way?”
Shacky looked up but didn’t reply.
“The scarecrows right there! Can’t you see them?” How could he be so blind??
Then we passed right beside them. They were just posts.
Crossing the start line at mile 60, I walked straight to the food guy. I later learned his name was Adam, and he had been the angel to more than one runner. Besides serving food, he had popped blisters and provided invaluable moral support and encouragement.
As soon as he saw me, Adam pulled out a hot pizza box and I have never seen a more beautiful sight in my life. I grabbed two slices and headed back to the car to change my shoes.
As soon as I put that pizza into my mouth, I felt energized. I didn’t have many shoe options left, so I changed into my Altra Lone Peaks.
The temperature was dropping fast, so I put on my warm Animal jammie pants and two sweaters. I was moving slow enough that I didn’t think I would work up much of a sweat.
Shacky treated his chaffing, and we set out for the next lap in slightly higher spirits.
Lap 5: Miles 61-75
“Every morning in Africa, a gazelle wakes up. It knows it must outrun the fastest lion or it will be killed. Every morning in Africa, a lion wakes up. It knows it must run faster than the slowest gazelle, or it will starve. It doesn’t matter whether you’re a lion or a gazelle – when the sun comes up, you’d better be running.” – Unknown
It was dark now, so Shacky carried my headlamp and we shared it. He was still keeping a fast walking speed, and I trotted along beside him.
My Altra Lone Peaks had some significant tread on them, but they weren’t as pronounced as the VIVOs. Also, they were more supportive. Compared to the Lunas, they felt like pillows for my feet and I was so thankful to have them at this point in the race.
The next few miles were a blur. I kept my head down for the most part, since the headlamps of oncoming runners would shine on my face and bother me. Every once in a while I would hear a greeting or a “Good job!” but I had no strength to reply. I barely even looked up.
The curbs seemed to be growing taller as the night wore on, and I was now fully convinced that this course was far from “easy”. My friend Paul explained it perfectly in his race report:
I would rather run in the mountains on some “hard” terrain than endure hard pack dirt with pavement… Plus, add in the danger of crossing intersections with cars zipping by (and some people looking at you like you just pissed in their cheerios… because they had to wait for you to cross the street before they could proceed down the road).
Earlier in the race, I had longed for rocks and climbs and single track and I wished for them now again. I think “easy” courses are hard for me, and “hard” courses are easier.
The endless, repetitive motions of flatter terrain take a hard toll on my body, and I’m much less mentally engaged. I need mountains to feel inspired and I seem to be at my best when I’m either climbing or descending. All I could do now was plod ahead.
I thought of Ginger. I imagined that she would want me to be running, since she also loves to run. I had seen many dogs out during the day and it made me miss her. I thought of Catra who had lost Rocky and was running this race in his memory. It’s amazing how deeply dogs can inspire us.
In my mind, I mentally ran through all the dogs I had seen that day. Most of them had been on the other side of the street under the care of considerate dog walkers, but I did have one sour memory:
Two desperate housewife-looking ladies who looked like they had just walked out of botox were speed walking together and chatting loudly, each with a large dog. They walked side by side, taking up most of the path. With their dogs running around beside them, they pretty much hogged the entire path.
It was late enough in the race that runners were either speed walking themselves, or running at a slow, shuffling pace. So these ladies were extremely hard to pass at the speed they were going. I got stuck walking behind them, and when I sped up to run past, instead of letting me go by, they passed me again. I passed them one more time. Then they passed me. Really bitches??
Thankfully they weren’t out long – they didn’t look like they were into sweating much.
A loud voice behind me brought me back to the present. It was Anastasia singing loudly to herself, dressed up like Supergirl. I smiled. Under normal circumstances, many people would call that “crazy” … but when you’re running 100 miles this is actually pretty normal. Anastasia wouldn’t be the only one singing herself through the night.
They say that the hours between 3 a.m. and 5 a.m. are the absolute hardest part of 100 miles. For me, the entire night was a dark, heavy, disheartening experience. It hurt to run, and it hurt to walk.
Every so often, different parts of my body would start hurting that have never in my life felt pain before. A few minutes later, that pain would go away and move on to a new, unexpected part of my body. Hip. Shoulder. Elbow. They all randomly hurt at one point or another.
At the turnaround aid station, one of the volunteers read us a Bible verse:
Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be terrified; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go. – Joshua 1:9
It was one of several that I had memorized as a teenager. Growing up, my dad was a minister and he was big on memorization. He once tried to get me to memorize the entire chapters of Matthew 5,6, and 7 (Sermon of the Mount) in Spanish, and I almost did. Besides that, I had hundreds of other passages committed to memory.
I haven’t read the Bible in a while, but sometimes during races relevant verses come to mind at my lowest points, like an emergency stash for my brain that I don’t even remember is there.
I repeated them in my head now like mantras, surprised at how accurately I could remember verses that had been stashed away for years when everything else in my brain was so foggy.
Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall; but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint. – Isaiah 40:30-31
My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness… I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong. – 2 Corinthians 12:9,10
I remembered the name Jehova Jireh, which translates to “the Lord will provide.” It was the name that Abraham gave to the place where God provided a ram to replace the life of his only son for sacrifice in Genesis 22. I thought of the concept of having enough. Having faith that I already had what I needed to finish this race, at a time when I seemed to have nothing at all.
Jehova Jireh. My provider. His grace is sufficient for me.
Along the way we passed little Rachel, paced by Rachel Boyd. She was having trouble with her feet swelling up and they were stopping often due to pain. Rachel said she might drop out, but for now they were just focused on getting back to the start line.
I was glad that Rachel was not alone, and it was in these hours that I understood the true value of a pacer. I’ve always been a solitary runner, happy to get lost in my own thoughts and self-motivated. I felt pacers were more about keeping you on track for a certain speed, and I didn’t care about speed here. So I didn’t think I would need one.
But pacers in a 100-miler are so much more than that. They keep you awake. They distract you from the pain. They’re motivators, nurses, and voices of reason when your mind starts to play games with you. I simply don’t know if I would have made it through the night without Shacky by my side.
Shacky was in pain himself, but he went out of his way to look out for me. He kept me moving at a steady pace, and when I started falling behind he held my hand until he couldn’t stand the pain in his shoulder. And that’s how we made it back to the start line together.
Next: A DNF, separation anxiety, and a hot pursuit
Like this:
“If one could run without getting tired I don’t think one would often want to do anything else.” – C.S. Lewis
Lap 3: Miles 31-45
At the start line, I frantically foraged through the shoes I brought and suddenly hated everything.
Altra Lone Peaks? … Those still had a lot of tread.
Vibrams? … Too tight on me. They cut into my foot at Surf City.
Kigo Drives? … My feet flop around in them too much. It’s not a perfect fit.
Lunas? … Probably not a good choice for this terrain. Although Lunas have no tread…
I worried that my feet would have to work too hard in the Lunas and that the gravel would get in between the sandal and my foot. I also worried the knot would rub and cause a blister since I hadn’t broken them in much. But I did love that they had no tread. The VIVO treads were killing me.
I decided to wear my Lunas on top of my injinjis. Shacky had run in his Lunas for the first 30 miles, but was now taking them off because his feet were hurting. Would the Lunas make my feet hurt even more? I was willing to take the chance and find out.
For the next few miles, my feet were in heaven. They had room to move and stretch and there was just enough of a barrier to protect my feet against the gravel. The Injinjis prevented any rubbing and the odd pebble that got stuck under my sandal felt more like an occasional massage. I was feeling good.
At the first aid station, I glared at the cookies. I didn’t think I could force any more down, so I grabbed some chips instead. The volunteers at the first aid station were very attentive. They watched for runners as they came, and yelled ahead to ask them what they needed. They were friendly, cheerful, and motivating at all hours of the day and night.
I wish I could say the same for the second aid station, where I had dropped off a couple of layers of clothing. When I needed to pick my clothes back up, they would be in different spots. I once spent close to five minutes looking for my sweater, only to find it trampled in the dirt, far from where I had left it. The volunteers just stood around watching me search for it.
Many of the volunteers seemed to be made up of kids more interested in socializing and flirting with each other than paying attention to the runners. I didn’t mind that so much, except they’d often crowd the snack table eating chips or drinking pop, so it was hard for me to get through to refill my bottle.
As the night wore on and I grew more exhausted, I’d do silly things like forget to take the lid off my bottle before I tried to fill it. I’d have to make slow and calculating moves to get what I needed, with no help from the able-bodied kids ignoring everyone. The more I passed this aid station, the more frustrated I became.
There were chairs here, but they seemed to be for volunteers only. Exhausted runners sat on the curbs or stretched on the fence while the volunteers sat in chairs and chatted among themselves. Once I held my bottle out to a volunteer only to have her stare blankly at me until I said, “Can you please help me fill this?”
I’m not even sure if all these people were volunteers. It looked like kids were driving by just to hang out with their friends who were volunteering, and I’m not even sure they were all kids. All I know is that whenever I passed, a ton of people would stand around staring at me as I tried to self-serve.
A couple of times, I noticed the aid station had been shifted to a different location, which starts to play with your mind after a while. Chances are not everything at this aid station was terrible. But in my sleep-deprived state, I would come to think it of it as the aid station from hell. It was definitely by far the worst aid station experience at any of my ultra races yet.
At the turnaround point, there was a final aid station. This one had chairs out for the runners while the volunteers stood behind the tables and eagerly helped you fill up on what you needed. They’d recite what they had to offer, quickly fill up your bottle, and dispense motivational messages.
One volunteer was reading notes from an elementary school class who had written to the runners. Each child had made a note for a runner who was completing the 100.
As soon as a runner came into the aid station, the volunteer would grab one of the notes, explain who it was from, unfold it, and read it to them. They were unpredictable and pretty funny.
The demotivator: “My teacher told me you are running 100 miles. You’re crazy.”
A pacer’s worst nightmare: “You can do it! Run fast and don’t give up! Run really fast!”
The class clown: “You are running 100 miles, let me tell you a joke…”
The joke turned out to be a riddle, and riddles are surprisingly hard to solve when you’re running a 100-miler. Plus the kid’s writing was so bad that we thought the joke was about three taters when it was really about three fathers.
Mmmm… taters.
My stomach was growling at this point, and I was extremely concerned about getting some real food into me. I was starting to weaken from hunger.
In the meantime, Shacky was so hungry that he was struggling with nausea. I had seen Shacky not too far ahead, and he now told me they were making burgers at the start line. Could it be true??
I confirmed this at this aid station when someone said, “If you hurry up, you might get some!” OMG! Was there a limited supply??
There was another runner coming behind me, and she was also complaining of hunger. I excitedly told her about the burgers and then stopped dead – wait, if there was a limited supply I shouldn’t be spreading the word. I had to get to the start line before her. I NEEDED to eat.
For the next 7.5 miles, I picked it up and ran back as fast as I could. I didn’t stop at the other aid stations, all I could think about was the burger. Every time I felt my pace slowing down, I had a horrible vision of some volunteer giving away the last burger just as I was running in: “Sorry, we just ran out…”
I ran all the hills and finally made it to the start line, famished. Shacky was already there eating and chatting. I ran straight to the food table and was relieved to see turkey chili, veggie chili, burgers, and sandwiches. Greg (running the 50) was hanging out at the food table eyeing an avocado. The food guy offered it to him, and Greg said he’d eat half. I immediately asked for the other half.
I was ready to eat it straight off the pit, but the food guy offered to make me a grilled cheese sandwich with avocado. I eagerly agreed. I chatted for a bit while he made my sandwich, and my spirits were instantly lifted. The food guy said he’d be here all night, and I wanted to cry with joy.
That sandwich made all the difference in the world and I felt a mix of gratitude for the food, and anger that it had taken so long to get it here.
Paul ran this race so fast that he didn’t get real food for his entire 50 miles. As a vegan, there was close to nothing at the aid stations that he could eat. They didn’t even have the traditional oranges and fruit spread. Just a few bananas.
Paul grew so hungry to the point that he had to stop and throw up before his race was over, and Shacky came close to throwing up from hunger as well.
As I ate my grilled cheese, Shacky decided to wait for me so we could set out on the next loop together. Paul would probably be showered and sleeping before we crossed here again.
Next: Part 4 – Debilitating chaffing and overnight paranoid delusions
Like this:
“The people that I have met are not foolish; they are aware of how tired and cold and hungry and frightened and hurting and discouraged and disoriented and how possibly injured they will become. They know they will face great physical, mental, emotional, and possibly spiritual challenges as they make their way to the finish. This is what they are racing against. This is their challenge. This is what I admire.” – Carolyn Erdman
Lap 2: Miles 16-30
I made a point not to spend too much time at the aid stations because that’s a weakness of mine. I tend to linger longer than I need to, and those minutes can add up significantly over 100 miles.
At the start line I quickly refilled my handheld, then set out again on my own. Shacky had already passed through, and I didn’t expect to see him again for a while.
I ran along happily, and grabbed more cookies at the first aid station. Then more cookies at the second one. A small voice of reason in the back of my head asked, “How many cookies can you eat??” But I tried not to think about it.
The great thing about an out-and-back is that you get to see all your friends. I made the time pass quickly over the next few loops by counting off the runners that I knew.
First there was Andy (Catra’s partner) – moving like a speed demon. I was excited to consistently see him as my first familiar face. He would go on to finish in 20 hours, 8th place overall.
Then I saw Ed, the Jester we all know and love. Before the race Shacky told me he was thinking of using Ed as a pacer overnight because of Ed’s steady, slow pace. But Ed was aiming for a sub-24 finish so that he could be done in time to race a half marathon the next day. He would go on to kill it at 22:54.
Then Catra, a lady that needs no introduction. I looked forward to seeing her at every loop. She would finish in 22:21.
Next came Carlos, who had finished this race before and was aiming for a significant PR. He was wearing his InknBurn tuxedo shirt and carried a single red rose in his hand. I only saw him with the rose on one loop. Then the next loop, I saw it in the hand of a pretty young girl. For the next three loops after that, I saw the pretty young girl’s boyfriend running pretty closely beside her.
Shacky was next, moving smoothly. I’m always awed at how effortless he looks when he runs. I was so proud of him.
Throughout the course, people somehow figured out Shacky and I were a couple and kept giving us random updates on each other’s progress.
“Your boyfriend’s up ahead of you,” I’d hear.
“Your girlfriend’s flying those hills,” Shacky was told.
Sometimes other runners would start chatting with me because Shacky had already introduced me a few miles ahead. Other times I’d come across blog readers that I didn’t recognize right away. They’d greet me warmly like old friends and it would take me a while to figure out who they were. So I learned to just greet everyone warmly on sight.
“Did you get any naked folding?” One guy yelled as he passed.
“What??”
“Naked folding! For Valentine’s!”
(What the hell?….)
Ten minutes later it hit me: He had read my Valentine post.
After Shacky I would see Rachel. She had attempted this race before, planned out each loop in advance, and was moving at a slow but steady pace. She was so cheery that she completely lifted the spirits of anyone who passed her.
Paul was a wild card. He was running the 50-miler, so his start time was later than ours. He ran at such a quick pace that he ended up finishing his race before we hit 50 miles, even though he started later. Seeing him at any point was a pleasant surprise – I had no idea where he’d show up.
The leaders were moving smoothly and insanely fast. Watching them, I remembered a comment that Frances left on this post before the race:
We need people (to run 100 miles), just like we need people walking on the moon, and people singing with voices that can be heard over an orchestra without a microphone.
It’s part of demonstrating that there is much more to us as people and that we can go beyond the way we’re using ourselves right now. That our bodies are truly amazing.
The leaders in this race moved like artwork. Gliding effortlessly, flying over the trail as if their feet weren’t even touching the ground. It’s one thing to run a fast marathon, but watching someone run a fast 100-miler is a deeper respect. And yet these are names and faces that many won’t recognize. We admire all the wrong people.
“How many 100-milers have you run?” I heard a voice behind me. A young Asian guy was passing by.
“This is my first one,” I smiled.
“Oh no!” he gasped, “You’re going much too fast!”
Huh? But this was a comfortable pace…
“What’s your best marathon time?” he quizzed.
“Well, I’ve only run three marathons….”
I reluctantly told him my best time was 4:20, then tried to explain one of those was my very first marathon, the second one I ran the day after my first ultra, and the third was the Disney marathon were we stopped to take a ton of pictures… but it was too late.
“OH YES!” His eyes widened in horror for me, “Way, way too fast! The runners in front of you are amazing. There’s a girl who ran Badwater three times!”
I wasn’t yet convinced that I needed to change my pace.
“How many 100s have you run?” I asked him. Maybe he didn’t know what he was talking about?
“Ten,” he answered, and then went on to name his other stats.
Now I was starting to get nervous. He seemed eager to dispense advice, so I asked some questions and he had a ton to say. I tried to keep pace with him, but he was a very sporadic runner. His running was faster, but he’d stop to walk more often.
“Don’t walk for too long and don’t run for too long,” he said. “Change it up.”
But I knew from experience that wouldn’t work well for me. I need to run at a steady pace, until I’m forced to change it up. I’m more comfortable with consistency, even if I’m consistently slow.
He eyed me over and estimated the number of calories I would need to consume every hour for my weight and frame. Then he advised me on wearing more supportive shoes. The first place runner whizzed by us.
“That guy is in first place!” he exclaimed. “Don’t follow him! Don’t even look at him!”
I had to laugh. This was a very different approach to ultras. This runner had good intentions and was genuinely trying to help me, perhaps also deriving some satisfaction in being the “expert”. But his advice made me start to doubt myself.
I wasn’t counting calories. I wasn’t wearing supportive shoes. And I apparently thought I could hang with the Badwater finishers. I didn’t want doubts filling my head this early in the race, so I slowed down to let my mentor slip ahead.
But before he left, he said one thing that burned in my mind and would come back to haunt me hours later: “Remember, the race doesn’t start until mile 80!”
Shacky and I later analyzed our pace in the first three laps and wondered if a slower start would have helped us in the second half. We decided no. We weren’t exerting ourselves at the beginning, and the issues that slowed us down would have happened regardless.
I was also uncomfortable with the concept of comparing myself with “better” runners and holding back because I felt I should be behind them. After Noble Canyon, I stopped doing that. I wanted to run my own race.
Nearing the end of the second loop, I noticed that my feet were starting to hurt in the VIVOs. The grip on the Neo Trails had proved excessive on this untechnical, too-similar-to-road trail. That’s when I realized: I don’t own a road shoe. I felt a slight rush of panic. I knew that I had to get out of my VIVOs as soon as possible, but what was I supposed to wear for the rest of the race??
Next: Part 3 – Frustration at the aid stations, and I start to get really hungry.
Like this:
“I still cannot define precisely my joy in running… Who can define happiness? To some, happiness is a warm puppy or a glass of cold beer. To me, happiness is running in the hills with my mates around me.”
- Ron Clarke
One hundred miles. This distance that has been on my mind ever since I started running. Years ago, I was a newbie taking on my first race, but I was secretly thinking about this day. The 100.
In fact, every race and every distance I’ve climbed has been with 100-mile intentions. But I was always afraid to talk about this goal because:
- I didn’t always have a strong support system.
- I knew it sounded stupid for a newbie to be talking about 100 miles.
- None of the other newbies could relate to me.
- Nobody really believed I could run that far and I knew there was nothing I could say to convince them.
I was intrigued by distance, not speed. But because I wasn’t fast, nobody took me seriously as a runner. Here are my unimpressive stats:
- I have never run a 5K faster than 25 minutes.
- I have only raced three half marathons.
- My half marathon PR is about three years old at 2:04.
- I have only raced three marathons. Total.
- My marathon PR is only a 4:20.
- Out of the first three ultras I raced, I DNF’d two of them.
- I have never raced a 50 miler.
My point is: I can run ultras, so you can run ultras.
I have seen people finish ultras who are overweight. Senior citizens. Children. Teens. People who haven’t trained at all. People who have never run a marathon. People who registered by mistake. Sometimes people who don’t even really LIKE running.
We idolize speed more than we should. Speed is nothing without endurance. We admire the stereotypical “runner’s body” and we know in our hearts that we may never look that good. So we resign ourselves to shorter distances, shorter training runs, and a defeated approach to running. That is a mistake.
The ultra is an equalizer. It strips away the mystery surrounding the athletes we love, and it puts us on their level. It lets us shake their hands and pace alongside them.
Where marathons force you into corals based on your speed, the ultra slaps you on the back and says, “Stand wherever the fuck you want. Your chance is as good as any of these other poor suckers.” And when you believe that, you know you’re an ultra runner.
My love for distance was something I fed privately at first. Unlogged, unaccompanied long runs by myself. I’d disappear while it was still dark and everyone was asleep, sneaking back in as they were just waking up.
Nobody really knew how long I was out there. I’d run marathon distances on my own, or I’d cover 10K loops over and over. Or I’d disappear into the woods for hours.
When my ex-partner heard that I wanted to run my first ultra followed by a marathon the next day, he looked at me visibly upset and said, “What do you want to do, run 100 miles someday??” I was taken aback because I hadn’t discussed that distance with anyone. I didn’t even know he was aware of 100-milers. But he said it with such disgust that I knew it was a goal he would never support me in.
Still, 100 miles seemed like an unreal fantasy for a long time, kind of like the way we think of winning the lottery. It was a daydream. I wondered what kind of person I would have to be to complete 100 miles. What kind of mental focus I’d need, what kind of endurance, and what kind of people I would have to surround myself with.
In San Diego, I met the those people. Other ultra runners, other trail runners, and other 100-mile finishers. People like the Robillards and Shacky and Pat Sweeney all saw it as the next logical step in my running career. And so I started believing in myself.
This weekend, I wanted 100 miles for validation. All that time training in “secret” made me feel underestimated. I wanted to prove that I WAS the runner I imagined myself to be. That I wasn’t being reckless or “over my head” – that I really had it in me to do this. I wanted to prove that my years of running injury-free weren’t a fluke. That I knew my body, and I wasn’t a newbie anymore.
Although I’ve felt like an ultra runner for a long time, I didn’t have the stats or races to back me up. I was ready to show what I could do.
As race day approached, my confidence in finishing this distance grew. I expected that it would be more of a mental challenge than a physical one, and I expected that I would struggle with sleep deprivation. Neither of those things were true.
In fact, nothing that I expected to happen actually happened. And the things that I never saw coming were what I struggled with. Here is my story:
The Course
The Rocky Road 100 Miler consisted of seven loops: six loops of 15 miles total, and an additional 10-mile shortened loop. The course was an out-and-back in a well-groomed gated community.
The trail was a wide gravel walking path running alongside the road, separated from the street by a pretty white fence. Gorgeous homes towered over us on the opposite side.
The course was mostly flat, with small rolling hills. The hills closer to the turnaround point seemed to get steeper. Every block, we’d have to step off the curb, cross a road, and hop back on the curb onto the trails. The trail remained open to the residents.
There were three aid stations, each about 2.5 miles apart. Two along the course, and one at the turnaround point. There was one more aid station at the start line, along with most of the drop bags.
Lap 1: Miles 1-15
Shacky and I gathered at the start line chatting with a lot of great runners. We were thrilled to see so many familiar faces. I met the record-setting Yolanda Holder and Xy (Dirty Girl from Dirty Girl gaiters), a few other blog readers, some prominent Marathon Maniacs like Ed, and many of the runners we had seen at Across the Years. It was like a big reunion.
The race started in the dark. I wore my VIVOBAREFOOT Neo Trails (my favorite trail shoe) and my InknBurn Out-n-Back shirt with a black tennis skirt (cheaper than running skirts). Shacky wore his Luna sandals and his kilt. He got a ton of attention and comments about his footwear and outfit.
I stuck with Shacky for the first few miles, and then I let him drift ahead. We were both excited and although I was conscious of starting out too fast, I didn’t feel exerted by our speed. We were running steady, even on the hills. I carried a handheld and was careful to keep drinking.
Both Shacky and I had a big early dinner the night before and had been up since 3 a.m. Neither of us had been hungry in the morning and I was afraid that if I forced myself to eat, I would feel nauseous. So I figured I’d rely on the plentiful aid stations at the race to get some food into me in the early miles.
I focused on paying attention to my surroundings. I noted every curb, every street sign, every landmark that I could remember. I wanted to know when I was nearing the turnaround point, when I was close to the finish, and where the aid stations were.
Sharp right turn. Barking dog. Orange grove. Big mansion. More oranges. Pillars.
On an out-and-back, landmarks are a strong motivation for me. I run from one landmark to the next, and when I see something familiar that I know is close to the finish, that motivates me to push harder.
To be honest, I didn’t even know this was an out-and-back until the race started. And I thought it was six loops instead of seven. I actually didn’t know much about this race at all. While some runners like to plan out every detail of their races, for me it’s better if I know nothing at all. It only causes me to stress about things I can’t control and plan for things that will never turn out.
Instead, my training for this race consisted of learning to fly by the seat of my pants and adapt to anything. I’d wake up in the mornings, grab the doggie leash, and run outside with Ginger just as I was. No shoes, no bra, just jammies and dog.
I wanted running to be as natural to me as breathing or peeing in the morning. I didn’t want to overthink my running, and I didn’t want to overthink this race. I just wanted to go out and do it. My only strategy for this race was:
- Finish.
- Keep moving.
- Don’t sleep.
I don’t know that it’s a strategy I would recommend for everyone, but it’s one that worked well for me on this particular race.
I had never really experienced a gated community before. I wondered how the race director managed to have a race put on here every year. It seemed like it would be a tremendous inconvenience to the residents. Extra garbage, tons of traffic, people invading their pretty path and making their dogs bark at all hours of the day and night.
Shacky and I tried to imagine under what circumstances the race director might have been able to secure this location. Maybe he lived here. Maybe he had a secret lover who lived here. Maybe he had an ex-wife who ran off with his entire fortune, then felt bad about so she let him have a race here every year. Because she bought the mansion on the corner with his money. Yeah, that was probably it.
Shacky saw one real estate agent posting an Open House sign and I chuckled to think of the poor prospective buyers who might be under the impression that this was a community full of insane ultra runners who never sleep. The real estate agent didn’t know there was a race going on, so Shacky inquired whether the property had a pool, and told the agent that if it did, he would be interested in a tour. Sadly, no pool.
I got to the first aid station. A porta-potty and a little table with drinks and cookies and chips. I glanced over, looking for the sandwiches and generous buffet-like spread that I was used to. But all I saw were cookies, M&Ms and chips. Hm. Maybe they had all the good stuff at the next station. I kept running.
Two and a half miles later, I saw the second aid station. I stopped to drop off my sweater since I was working up a good sweat, and I also wanted to look at the food. That’s strange, no sandwiches here either. Just more cookies. I grabbed some Oreos and headed back out, a little confused. Where was all the food?
At the turnaround, I was starting to get hungry. And worried. I knew I need to eat, but there was no real food here. Chips, M&Ms, and cookies. I felt a slight panic. I didn’t bring any food. I just assumed that all ultras had…. you know, food.
I was drinking a ton but that was my main source of calories, and it wouldn’t take me through 100 miles. Would it be like this the entire race? After the panic, a twinge of frustration set it. What kind of lame-o ultra was this?? And how the hell hard is it to slap together a PB&J sandwich?
I grabbed chips, cookies, and bananas. I couldn’t force down any M&Ms – candy and running don’t mix for me. I wanted to kick myself for not eating breakfast, but I felt the race had also let me down.
I worried about Shacky because he hadn’t eaten either, and I knew he hated the cookies and chips even more than I did. As it turned out, he choked down “a really disgusting bar” back at the end of the first loop when he realized there was no food he could eat. This would not be the first issue I had with the aid stations.
Since the path wasn’t closed to residents, we saw several locals walking around and asking what we were doing. One lady caught me as I was about to turn to finish a loop, and asked how long the race was.
“Um… one hundred miles.” Her response was a blank, wide-eyed stare.
“Well, I think there’s a 50 miler and a marathon as well,” I tried to make it seem more normal
“Which one are you doing?” she asked.
“One hundred miles.” Blank wide-eyed stare again.
“Do you sleep??”
“Um… no, I’m going to try to stay awake.” I shrugged. There was pretty much no way to make this sound normal now.
“I ran a marathon and I thought I was awesome!”
“That’s great!” I tried to sound enthusiastic, but I don’t think she believed me. She wished me luck, and I think she walked away feeling less-awesome about her marathon finish. I hope she tries an ultra someday.
Read Part 2: Miles 16-30, minimalist shoe issues, and an experienced 100-mile finisher gives me a stern warning.
Like this:
This weekend, I am running the Rocky Road 100-mile race. It will be my first 100-mile attempt.
I’m at a point now where all the training has subsided, and there’s nothing left to do other than try not to feel anxious and take each day as it comes.
At this point, I’m more excited than nervous. I feel this is a race that could really validate me as a runner and help put me on a level where I feel I belong.
I’ve been impatient with the progression of my races. I can’t shake the feeling of restlessness, knowing that I have more in me. One more push, one more mile, one more sprint that I never got the chance to leave on the trail. There’s a mild frustration, knowing I’m holding on to potential the world hasn’t seen yet. Faster. Longer. Stronger. I’m ready.
Across the Years had a strong effect on my psyche. I saw so many unlikely runners put up jaw-dropping distances, including my baby sister. It really made me realize that I have been holding myself back. Not because I’m injured or because my body can’t handle it, but because I know I’m not “supposed” to be running that well. Because I haven’t followed an acceptable slow, cautious progression.
I went from running in shoes to barefoot/minimalist almost overnight. I went from only street running to only trail running from one day to the next. I went from zero elevation in Toronto, to almost exclusively elevation runs in the mountains from Day 1 in San Diego. My first day on a mountain, I ran 20 miles. I had never been on a mountain in my life. I’ve broken all the rules.
These past few weeks I’ve been fueled by great company. I’ve had the privilege of hanging out with great runners such as the Robillards, Paul Hasset, and I’ll be driving up to the race with Rachel Spatz. I can’t imagine a better possy to fuel a belief in myself. These are all runners who “weren’t supposed to.”
Paul was more than 300 pounds when he found running. Jason’s “authority” as a runner was questioned when he started writing a book. Shelly just keeps knocking out ultras quietly in the background and don’t even get me started on the awesomeness of Rachel who is the youngest and most inspiring 100-mile finisher I know.
These are the Honey Badgers I need to be hanging with. The people who don’t know they’re not supposed to run with extra weight, not supposed to write a book, not supposed to try a barefoot 100-miler, not supposed to recover so fast. So they do.
And now I’ve registered for my first 100-miler. Less than 12 months ago, this was a distance that seemed like a dream. Shacky and I even discussed at one point: What would we do after we run 100 miles? What else is left?
We imagined that at that point, we’d be near-elite status. We’d be at the peak of our physical conditioning. We’d be strong beyond belief. What other challenge could possibly be harder?
But now I know better. I know that 100 miles is not a distance that belongs to the elite. One hundred miles is just ground and earth and mud and space. It is all the things that I already know, and it belongs to all of us. We can walk it, we can run it, and with enough time we can cover it. It’s public domain.
Earth and space and time will always be there. What’s after 100 miles? More miles. In different places and in different ways. Each mile better than the last.
Some have questioned the wisdom in attempting this 100, and I get that. The same questions were there when I ran my first marathon. When I ran my first ultra. When I ran a marathon the day after an ultra. My point is, those questions will ALWAYS be there. And I hope I’ll always be around to answer them with, “Yes, please.” Because we don’t say that enough. If we did, there would be more 100-mile finishers in this world.
Coming from a background where I frequently heard negativity about how unsuccessful my running career would be, these are actually the comments that light a fire under my ass. They’re the attitudes that drove me to run in the first place.
Back in Toronto, it was a constant fight to convince those closest to me that I could be a runner. I knocked out my long distances, often running 26 miles around the neighborhood on my own, fueled by the anger and doubt of others.
Since moving to San Diego, I’ve been smothered in support. I’ve blossomed in this environment as well—feeling encouraged and welcomed into a community that I didn’t know I could be a part of.
But anytime I cross a line or take on a new challenge, there are skeptics. And hearing skepticism again this week, I’ve felt that familiar old rush of motivation to “prove them wrong”—more powerful than any of the encouragement I’ve received. I’m ready to start running NOW.
I try to internalize that motivation because I don’t want to come across as cocky. I know that each race has a mind of its own. Anything can happen out there and there’s always a possibility, due to injury or other reasons that I MAY not finish. But like Paul says, “I’m not afraid to fail.” Trying is just easier that way.
And yes. I CAN do this. I believe I will. When I do, I’ll be that girl who didn’t know she wasn’t supposed to.
(Note: I went on to finish my first 100-miler in 29 hours. Read the report here.)
Like this:
Six months ago, our dog Ginger couldn’t play for more than five minutes without getting winded and lying down for the rest of the day. Today, Ginger glides through 20-mile trail runs without a sign of fatigue. We can’t keep up.
I’m not a dog trainer. I’m an ultra runner currently training for my first 100-miler with a dog that loves trails. After searching for information on how to train my dog to follow me on my ultra-long runs, I found nothing. So I decided to become my own expert.
I started training Ginger the same way I train myself: back-to-back long runs, night running, trail running, elevation training, and hills. Below are the 20 steps I followed to transform Ginger from a couch dog to an ultra dog.
1. Assess your dog’s physical features.
We don’t know what Ginger’s breed is, so the dog articles that discussed breeds were useless. Ginger was adopted when she was just days old. She’s a mutt. Some people say she looks part Dalmatian or part German Shorthaired Pointer. We just say she’s Mexican (she was abandoned in Tijuana), and have no interest in learning her breed.
Ginger is physically built like a running dog. Her dog-care experts say she has the traits of a hunter. She’s quick, long, lean, and sharp. She’s an amazing sprinter, and her hair is short so she doesn’t overheat easily. Her size and shape compliment distance running.
If Ginger were smaller, or if she had thick fur, she might not have been able to run as long. Keep that in mind when establishing the limits of your own dog.
Not all breeds are physically built for efficient long-distance trail running. But then again, not all humans are training for ultras. So chances are there’s a happy medium where you and your dog can run together.
2. Establish an interest.
It’s easy to project our own interests onto the things or people we love. I love trail running, so my dog must love it too, right? Not necessarily. It’s important to make sure this is something your dog enjoys.
Does your dog like to run? Does your dog love trails? Much like humans, you’re not likely to convince someone to train for an ultra if they hate running. Dogs are usually great at showing us what they enjoy. Get their paws on a trail and see how they react.
Sometimes when we drive Ginger home from a trail, she doesn’t want to get out of the car. She thinks the next stop might be another trail.
Trail love
3. Start slow.
It takes time to train a dog. It took us six months to get Ginger in ultra shape, but it may take much longer. On a positive note, it takes a long time to train a human as well. So patience is important for you both.
Do not ever rush the process. Dogs want so badly to please their owners, and that’s a strong motivation for them. Don’t make your dog “push” to please you, or make them feel that they’ve failed you by not running far enough.
Your dog doesn’t need to be mentally pushed the same way that you do. Dog-hearts in it 100 percent and they always give their best. They’re not stressing over speed or goals or race fears. So if your dog is showing signs of wanting to stop, take it seriously.
4. Build a base with play-training.
Ginger loves chasing her ball, but six months ago she would get winded after five minutes. I started playing with Ginger until she got tired, then I would let her recover before playing again.
At first, it took Ginger half a day to recover and we’d only get in two or three play sessions. As time passed, her recovery times got much shorter. We play-trained for 30 to 60 minutes, two days a week until Ginger was able to play for one hour without stopping. Only then did I start to run with her.
5. Watch for cues.
Dogs are less complicated than humans. If they’re tired, they flop on the ground. If they’re thirsty, they drink. If they want to stop running, they will show cues. They may dawdle or just walk. Being receptive to their cues is crucial. Your dog knows what it needs.
My friend Cynthia recently started running with her dog. She knows when her dog Penny is ready for a rest when she stops often to pee:
For the past month, we have gone out about three to five times a week on this little 2K stroll and we do running pickups. Sometimes we do 2.5K depending on how she feels. If I see she is stopping often to do her business, I know it’s not a good day so we take it easy.
6. Start with short, local loops.
I started Ginger with a single run around the block, letting her rest when she got tired. When she recovered, we’d go back out. As time passed, her distances got longer (more loops, less recovery).
When we got to the point where she could run steady for an hour or more without getting tired, we started taking her out to the trails.
7. Keep track.
As silly as it sounds, Ginger has a Dailymile account where I track her mileage. This helps tremendously as far as knowing what she’s capable of and how far she’s come. It helps me determine what types of distances and conditions she’s ready for, and I note her mood and energy as well.
Every once in a while, tracking her progress also helps me call out and celebrate her milestones. We celebrated her highest elevation run. Her roughest terrain. We even note which wildlife she sees and how she responds.
I record Ginger’s mileage in “Ginger-speak,” typing about the run through her eyes. Here are some examples of her entries:
“I SEEN THE DEER AND I HUNT HIM. IMA WOLF.”
“I RUNNED FAST AND THEN I STOP TO PEE.”
“I SEEN A CAT I TRY TO EAT IT.”
“TIME TO GET SERIOUS ABOUT MY TRAININ….. SQUIRREL!!!!!!”
Ginger has had “Friends” add her and encourage her on her journey. I translate their messages by patting her head. You can add Ginger as a friend here.
All the benefits you get from tracking your own workouts apply to your dog as well. I strongly suggest keeping a log.
8. Open a line of communication.
The dog-master relationship is precious and your dog will often be bonded to you more strongly than what you imagine. Communicate with them about running, and you’ll be surprised at how much they actually understand and can share in your passion.
Tell your dog they’re going for a run. They’ll probably know exactly what you mean. This is my friend Cynthia’s experience:
I tell Penny the night before that we are going for a run in the morning and she knows what it means. Since (my husband) wakes up before me, she knows she still has some sleeping time until I wake up and we go.
When I get out of the bedroom, I ask her: ‘Are you ready for your run?’ and she gets so excited! Funny thing is she actually stretches before we leave. She does Downward Dog.
The book How to Talk to Your Animals describes how one dog owner started speaking English to his dog, and was shocked to find that his dog understood what he was saying.
“He speaks English!” he exclaimed to his wife. She looked at him in disgust, “Of course he speaks English! What’s he going to speak, German?!”
The author goes on to describe how many words dogs have been known to retain, and tells stories of dogs in Mexico who understand Spanish. According to this book, it’s easier for dogs to understand our language than for us to understand theirs.
Talk to your dog about running. This can keep you accountable as well. If you promised your dog a morning run the night before, you have to get up and do it.
9. Introduce trail running.
We started with a group trail run of 6 miles, then slowly incorporated other mid-week runs when we could no longer tire her out. Trail running adds a different dynamic to your dog’s experience, so it’s important to monitor this transition.
For Ginger, running in a group was a huge distraction. She hated to be in last place, and would often lunge forward to cut people off. It took some time for her to understand this was not acceptable.
There are also cyclists and wildlife to deal with. There’s a lot of stimulation for a dog. Take your time on this transition until your dog is comfortable with trails.
I found it helped Ginger to have some time off-leash (where possible) to sniff her new surroundings and explore a little. This prevented her from stopping dead in the middle of a single track trail to sniff some poop while tripping the person behind her.
We are still trying to perfect Ginger’s trail manners, especially when it comes to running with strangers and spotting other animals. She recently tried to take down an entire herd of deer by herself. Hunter, much? It’s an on-going process with her.
Some basic obedience training could go a long way here as far as following basic commands. Ginger is learning:
- “Slow down”
- “Stop”
- “Walking”
- “Come on”
- “Let’s go”
- “This way”
Ginger and I on the trails
10. Pick a side on pooping.
Ultra trail runners are well known for pooping on the side of the trail. In fact, I’ve heard people say that you’re not a true trail runner until you’ve pooped in the woods. I know that not all runners do this, but when you’re training to run 100 miles, any bush looks like a toilet.
The doggie bags I carry for Ginger are attached to her leash. On one trail run, it dawned on me: Why the hell and I shitting in the woods yet carefully carrying my dog’s poop around?? I picked a side: the Non-Doggie Bag Side.
Depending on your distance and your trails, you may pick the Doggie Bag Side. Maybe wood-pooping isn’t something you or your dog want to get into right now. It’s your call.
I always make sure Ginger goes off-trail and if she doesn’t, I’ll move it somewhere I’d poop myself, or slide it over the side of a cliff. She usually tries to bury it herself.
11. Train for danger.
Trail dangers include things like wildlife and rattlesnakes. We put Ginger through a rattlesnake avoidance training class once a year. It costs $70 and lasts under ten minutes. She learns to recognize and avoid snakes, and it gives us tremendous peace of mind when she’s out on the trails.
HERE is the training resource that we use, and below is a video of Ginger’s last training session. She’s great at avoiding snakes, but sometimes has trouble spotting them.
It’s best to do this at the beginning of the year, to coincide with rattlesnake season. It’s also best to refresh this training once a year. This is an important point to follow. One of our trail running friends lost her dog when it was bitten by a rattlesnake.
12. Make running fun, not work.
Dogs and humans both appreciate variety. On our shorter runs, I like to shake things up with Ginger. Sometimes we run “people pace”, and sometimes we run “Ginger pace”.
Ginger pace is where she gets a turn to lead. Instead of following me, I follow her. My pace is always steady and slow, but at Ginger pace we’re either running a mad dash, or stopping dead so she can sniff some pee-mail. This puts some fun into our routine, and keeps both of us engaged and smiling (yes, she smiles).
Does it get much more fun than this? Hellz no.
13. Leash wisely.
The leash that works well for road running with Ginger doesn’t work on trails. Most of the trails we’re running are single track, which means that if Ginger is leashed, she can’t run right beside me—she has be in front or behind. She needs a longer extension.
Also, technical trails can have sudden drops or rocks we have to scale. A shorter leash will start to choke her and severely limits her movement. If she has to leap off a rock and I’m still on it, a short leash is a disaster waiting to happen.
We have opted to let Ginger go off-leash as much as possible, and we often choose our trails based on their seclusion so she doesn’t bother anyone. Ginger is actually much better behaved and obedient when she’s off-leash than when I have her leashed.
If there’s a biker up ahead or another dog that might be aggressive, we’ll hold her until the threat has passed. If we spot other people on the trail, we’ll leash her until we pass them.
14. Trust your dog.
Letting your dog off-leash can be scary, but in some ways in comes down to trusting your dog. I knew that Ginger’s nature was very submissive, and she wasn’t one to run away. When we decided to trust her off-leash, we found that she became more protective of us and careful.
Instead of charging ahead like she tends to do on her leash, she would run close to the side of the person who was leading. Then she’d keep looking back to check that the other person wasn’t being left behind.
When we put enough distance between us that we could no longer see the next runner on the trails, Ginger would run back and forth to check on both runners. At one point, I stopped to take off my sweater and adjust my pack. Ginger sat beside me and nudged for me to catch up.
Last weekend Shacky hid behind a bush to see what she’d do if she lost one of us. She ran up and down the trail in search of him until he came out of hiding. She refused to leave him behind.
Miss Ginger checking over her shoulder for Shacky
15. Encourage hydration.
Your dog needs water just as much as you do. Encourage drinking at the end of every run and make it a routine. As your runs get longer, you should encourage your dog to drink mid-run.
We have Ginger drink every 6 to 8 miles, but some dogs may need to drink more frequently. When we’re on the trail, Ginger is great at drinking from creeks or streams when she needs it.
We keep an eye out for good water sources for Ginger and if there’s nothing appropriate, we pull out her collapsible doggie dish that hooks onto my own hydration pack. If we’re travelling long, she carries her own doggie pack with her own water dish.
Ginger has never gotten sick from stream or creek water, although if the water source doesn’t look clean, we give her water from our own hydration packs.
When we first started running trails, Ginger was so excited that it was difficult for her to settle down and drink. Now she is better at understanding when we want her to hydrate.
16. Do night runs.
Night (especially trail) running adds a different dimension. You may find that your dog behaves strangely under the moon. I have a small doggie light that I attach to Ginger’s collar when we run trails at night, more for my benefit than for hers. It doesn’t do much to light her way, but it ensures that I can spot her easily.
Running in the dark with a leash could take some practice as well. Your dog probably has better vision than you do, and it may take them some time to adjust to your more cautious form and speed. Humans should always wear headlamps.
17. Introduce elevation and hills.
This is the same process as introducing trails. Monitor the transition closely, and listen to your dog’s body (bet you never heard that one before). Stop if your dog needs to stop. Chances are your dog will probably adjust faster than you can.
18. Introduce higher mileage.
I used the same endurance-focused technique to build Ginger’s mileage. Speed didn’t matter, only time on her feet. When she got tired, we recovered and continued. We did this until she was comfortable running 20-mile distances without stopping.
19. Consider nutrition.
If you’re going to be on the trail long enough, your dog may need to eat. We are still experimenting with different foods for Ginger, but we try to give her some mix of carbs and protein. I have read of dogs eating anything and everything on a trail, from Cheezits to beef jerkey.
For the most part, we let Ginger tell us what she likes and doesn’t like. Interestingly, she loves pizza (hard to carry on a trail) but will also eat whatever we’re eating, from sandwiches to burritos.
On our last long run, I shared a bean and rice burrito with Ginger. At home, we feed her raw meat as well as high-quality, grain-free dog food. Sometimes Ginger’s diet is healthier than our own.
Mexicans love burritos.
20. Introduce back-to-back runs.
Back-to-back long runs were key for my own ultra training, so that’s where we headed with Ginger. Her recovery is impressive, and she has now caught up to my own training. We start to break down at about the same mileage, and we recover at around the same time. I’ve created the perfect running partner.
Immeasurable Benefits
1. BFF-status
Your dog can become your most loyal running buddy and bring out the fiercest loyalty in you. You’ll look out for each other and understand each other’s needs. I’ve passed up races because I didn’t want to put Ginger up in a doggie-hotel. Sometimes I’d rather bust out a long run with her.
2. Safety
Any run that I do with Ginger is safer. She’s not an aggressive dog, but I know that if danger calls, she’d step up and defend me. I also know that her mere presence is a deterrent.
I am never approached when Ginger is with me, whereas when I run alone I sometimes get comments, cars slowing down, or some lingering. Recently I was running in the dark with Ginger and I saw a man cross to the other side of the road to avoid us.
3. Fun and Enjoyment
Dogs know how to appreciate trails. They frolic. They sprint. They stand out over a lookout and gaze. Watching them teaches you to appreciate the trails. It reminds you where you are and why you’re here.
On roads, Ginger can be clumsy and careless (she once ran into a brick wall), but on the trails she moves with grace while I stumble along.
Here’s an exerpt from the book How to Talk to Your Animals, which outlines the similarities between wolves and dogs as far as movement and behavior in a natural setting:
In the woods I need not ask him to sit when we come to the top of the hill in view of the glorious Hudson. He glances at me, then the vista, sits down, and, like myself, gazes across the river valley. Only a few weeks ago we were on a new trail that opened up over a lake. Qimmiq lanced back at me, ran to the ridge, and sat down.
‘You’re right, it is beautiful,’ I said. He wagged is tail.
His wild kin, the wolves of Mount McKinley, dig their dens high on hills in view of gray-green valleys and snow-covered peaks. And they, like Qimmiq and me, sit and enjoy the magnificence.
At such moments the glance from either of us will say a volume, and the abyss between species is crossed from both sides.
If you’re thinking about getting a dog, please consider adoption
I cringe a little when people ask me how many layers they should wear in the winter. How the hell should I know how cold you feel??
I try to be helpful and polite and direct people to resources on Active like these great posts by Christian Peterson:
What to Bring on Your Winter Run
Your Guide to Winter Running Gear
I write and edit articles like this and I try to remember that when I was a newbie runner, I didn’t know a damn thing either. I’m also a huge consumer of running articles on topics that I have never experienced.
But ultimately, I didn’t start growing as a runner until I stopped listening and started doing. And neither will you.
So put down those running magazines and get your ass outdoors. Try a few layers. If you’re hot, learn something and do better next time. If you’re cold, learn something and do better next time.
Try everything. Run barefoot. Run in clunky shoes. Run in jammies. Run with your hair up. Run with your hair down. Run in the day. Run at night. Run without underwear. Run without a bra. Eat veggies. Eat meat. Eat junk food.
It doesn’t matter what you do, just try it differently. Become your own expert and don’t live within a plan that somebody else created.
This is not to bash the validity of training plans or expert tips. But every year I am more shocked by the ignorance of the questions that come through. Is there ANYTHING we do by ourselves anymore?
There’s a fear associated with going off on our own and trying something unusual, and that upsets me.
Don’t be afraid to switch up your diet. Or to run faster or slower or longer or shorter than what you’re “supposed to”.
There is no right or wrong. You’re not going to die at your next race. If you feel like crap or shit your pants, tweak your routine and learn from it.
I’m personally a knowledge-glutton. If I’m interested in a topic (like running), I want to read everything out there on that topic. But I also found that I was using research as a crutch for masking my fears:
Excuse: “I want to run an ultra, but I haven’t researched it enough…”
Truth: You’re just scared shitless to run an ultra. I’ve been there.
I recommend Jason Robillard’s recent post, Stop Letting Dumb-Ass Excuses Keep You From Your Dreams. It definitely inspired me.
So to practice what I’m preaching, I did something recently that I’ve been “researching” for a while:
I registered for my first 100-miler, Rocky Road. It’s only four weeks away.
I’m probably (ok, definitely) way over my head. I haven’t even raced a 50-miler (though I’ve run the distance at Across the Years).
I’m not 100% on nutrition or sleep or the mental strength it will take to pull past 80 miles. I haven’t read enough articles or asked enough questions. I don’t have any pacers.
Many could argue that I’m wasting my money. But goddammit, I’m registered.
Am I scared shitless? Hell ya.
Do I have what it takes? Who knows.
Will I learn something? Probably a thing or two…
Regrets? Ask me later.
But at least I’m not going to sit around asking how to wipe my own ass. I’m just gonna grab me some soft leaves and hope to God it’s not poison oak.
See you on the trails.
