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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:
“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:
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.
I have a soft spot for timed races. Usually when I tell someone I’m doing a timed race, they react with horror and surprise. I understand that running a one-mile loop for 6, 12, or 24 hours hardly sounds appealing. But I find comfort in it.
At a timed race, I don’t have to think. I can zone out, clear my mind, and just RUN. I experience running in a very raw state. I’m not worried about falling, hydration, or supplies. I’m only focused on the trail ahead. One foot in front of the other. Forever.
This race was my longest timed event yet. Across the Years is a 72, 48, or 24-hour race over a 1.05-mile loop in Arizona. We registered for the 24-hour event, starting at 9 a.m. on December 31st, through to New Years, and ending at 9 a.m. on January 1st.
I had no idea what to expect. The longest I had run before this was 50k, and the longest time I had ever spent running continuously was eight hours. I was a newbie.
I had it in the back of my mind that the best I could aim for was 100 miles, but I really had no idea how I would feel past the 50k, or how my body would respond with lack of sleep. I have never experienced sleep deprivation while running, and I knew that 100 miles was extremely ambitious. So I decided to just do my best, put zero pressure on myself, and have as much fun as possible.
We drove up a day early with my sister Elizabeth (attempting her first ultra), Carlos (attempted 100 miles) and Shacky (attempting a distance PR). We would also be seeing my uncle Pat and Jason Robillard with his awesome wife Shelly.
We stopped by the race on the 30th and I was immediately excited by the atmosphere. Watching the runner’s circle, I wanted to start running right away. It wasn’t long before we saw Jason, who was doing well and going strong. We also caught up with Pat and chatted with him for a bit before heading back to the hotel for a good night’s sleep.
The next morning we were at the race bright and early, eager and ready to run. I started the first few miles with Shacky, running comfortable and steady 10-minute miles. It was cold at the beginning, so I started in my sweater and jammies. When it warmed up I shed my layers. I was wearing the InknBurn cherry blossom set – my favorite outfit. I got a ton of comments on my InknBurn gear, and people wanted to know where they could buy some.
I found myself feeling thirsty as it started getting hotter, and I stopped to drink at almost every mile. Shacky was stopping every five miles to have some Thrive homemade, vegan pudding (a mixture of dates, bananas, cocoa, and coconut). Brendan Brazier eats this on his races. It tasted delicious and was very easy to digest.
At the 50k mark, I was feeling unbelievable. And I wanted to go faster. For my other events, I’ve always tried to pace myself in the beginning, just as runners are supposed to. But I’ve never been able to shake the feeling at the end that I had more in me (except at Los Pinos, which damn near killed me). I usually want to run further, and I always wonder whether I could have done it better or faster.
I’ve never been injured since I started running in 2007. Sometimes I wonder if I’m really fortunate, or if I’m not pushing myself hard enough. I have made great progress as a runner, but my body doesn’t seem to understand the high injury rate it’s supposed to suffer from. It refuses to break.
Another thing I’ve noticed at my past races is that no matter how well I pace myself, I seem to always hit a wall at the same TIME, as opposed to the same distance. So if I’m going super slow, I just end up with less miles logged before I feel exhausted. In any case, I thought that this would be a good opportunity to run faster. I sped up.
Running faster felt amazing. It actually felt easier to run faster than to run slow, which is probably because my “slow” muscles had already been working for over 6 hours. Activating new parts of my legs gave me that second wind.
I did a few sub-10 minute miles until Pat warned me that I was going too fast. I figured that when Pat tells you you’re going too fast, you probably really are. But still, I didn’t listen. I paused long enough to make a Facebook update stating that I might hit 100 miles after all.
Then at mile 45, out of nowhere, I hit a wall and I hit it hard. This was a wall I hadn’t felt since the end of my first marathon. It knocked me right out. Up until that point, I had been saving my motivational messages. Now I stumbled over to my folder and yanked all those papers out to read them all at once.
I was determined to keep moving, but it took me the same amount of time to run from mile 45 to 50 as it did to run the entire first 13 miles. I was half-walking and feeling miserable.
Meanwhile, Shacky was starting to feel an old injury act up, so he opted for a beer run with Jason instead. Pat was also suffering from a recurring shin splint, and wasn’t running anymore. I walked one painful loop with Pat before he decided to sit out. I kept plugging away, and by the time I was ready to run my 50th mile, Shacky and Jason and Pat were all sitting around drinking beer. I wanted so badly to join them.
Instead, I pulled Shacky away for one more lap, so he could run in my 50th mile with me. Then I sat down.
Until this point, I had remained vegan. I was eating fruit, tons of liquids, some vegetable soup, and PB&J sandwiches. I had also brought chips and nuts from home. But dinner at Across the Years was pizza. Cheesy and meaty pizza. They had volunteers standing on the course holding it out for runners to grab as they darted past, as if it were Gatorade. Every loop I made for at least 5 miles, I could smell it.
By the time I ran my 50th mile, all I could think of was pizza. And I was HUNGRY. Although I had brought tons of vegan snacks, I didn’t really think to bring any solid food for a real meal. And that’s what I was craving. A sit-down meal. No more aid station snacks.
I eyed the pizza and waited until there was only ONE slice left. Then I grabbed it. I wasn’t sorry, but I thought I should confess. So I went to sit over with the guys and let Pat make fun of me.
After my pizza break, I tried to keep walking laps. My legs were sore and the guys were just sitting around and chatting, making it really difficult to get back up and run alone. I really didn’t want to run anymore.
I managed to meet my sister as she was just about to complete 50k. I ran that last lap with her and took pictures. I remember when I first set my sister up with a Learn to Run program. She couldn’t even run for three minutes. Now look at her. She had a run a distance she could barely understand. I was so proud of her.
The ultra distance is an amazing thing. I told my sister: “No matter what has happened in your life before, or what will happen in your future, nobody can ever take that ultra away from you. When you’re an ultra runner, you’re a runner forever. You could go out the next day, join a gym and hire a personal trainer. And that trainer may not ever accomplish what you just did. You can flip through a magazine and pick out the most beautiful girl on those pages, and that girl’s body may never be as strong as yours. Her legs will never carry her this far. After an ultra, you are beyond beautiful. You are unbreakable.” She cried.
My sister would end up covering over 40 miles, logging over 100k during her entire stay with us over the holidays. She hadn’t trained for one single day for this. I surprised her with the flight to see us, and also with the entry to this race. Before this, she was running about five miles a week or less. But I knew she had an ultra in her. We have the same blood.
As a sat out watching the other runners, I was inspired by so many still fearlessly circling that loop. All different ages, different shapes, different goals. There were people who looked like they were 80 years old, and there was one 8-year-old boy who ended up with over 30 miles. Some people were slow, but consistent. One foot in front of the other. And they just never stopped.
I was amazed at the strength and resilience of the human spirit, and it seemed almost unfair to me that such strong souls should reside in weak bodies. Why can’t our bodies keep up with the resolve of our spirits?
Earlier on, Shacky and I met Sarah, a really pretty girl with long dreads. Sarah was running in minimalist Merrell shoes, so we stopped to ask her how long she had been running in them. She was embarrassed to say – only 12 miles.
It turned out that it was actually her husband and BRS member (username Abide) who had registered for this race, but he had become injured and could no longer run. She agreed to take his spot, even though she was only training for her first half marathon. She thought she’d take it easy, run a few laps, and see how she felt.
Sarah would take a break every so often to breastfeed her youngest child before jumping back on the course. She ended up with over 50k. Take that, half marathon.
In many of my motivational messages, people said I was an inspiration. But these are the people that inspire ME. I’ve done the training, planned the course, and eased into ultra running like an old man into a chilly pool. But these guys come up to a mountain they have never seen or imagined and look at it without the slightest fear. Then they say, “Meh… What the hell.” And dive right in.
I managed to stay awake until midnight, cheer in the New Year, and run one final lap with my Shacky, Jason and Pat. Then I crashed. I don’t remember falling asleep, but the next thing I knew I opened my eyes and it was still dark. All I could hear outside was the patter of feet – people were still running.
I crawled out of my tent, slipped on my shoes, and ran in my jammies. It was 5 a.m. The runners on the course were few but faithful. They hadn’t just crawled out of their tents like I had. They had been there for the entire night.
The vibe in the air was tired and subdued. No one spoke. All you could hear was the shuffling of feet and slow breathing. Just one foot in front of the other. Forever.
A few hours before the end, I saw one runner hunched over shaking his head violently, as if he were trying to wake up from a bad dream. We made eye contact and he exclaimed, “I’m hallucinating! I’m seeing shit that’s not there!” He hadn’t slept for two nights.
At 7 a.m. I saw Shacky. He was also still running, and hit his distance PR at the same time I hit my 100k mark. Shacky could only get a couple of laps in at a time because of his injury, but he still pulled out his longest distance.
I really wanted a Starbucks after that, so Shacky drove me to one. By the time we drove back, it was less than an hour until the finish. Jason was out padding his miles, running at an impressive pace. We hung around to watch the end of the race, and I finished with 101k (63 miles).
In the end, several people had run this event so many times in previous years that this year they hit their 1000-mile marks for overall laps on the Across the Years course. Ed Ettinghausen, who had called it quits after the first day, pulled himself back together and ended up in second place. We saw him on his last few laps with his wife.
Yolanda Holder ended up walking for 48 Hours and hit 100 miles. Kimberly Miller also earned her 100-mile belt buckle. And one girl who looked just like Kate Kift looped me about a gazillion times. I never saw her face – only her back as she kept passing me. The back of her shirt said, “Don’t be a pussy.” So I pretended she was Kate, and smiled whenever she passed, nodding at the wisdom of her shirt.
This was an unbelievable event, very well run, and a perfect way to spend the end of the year. I’m really proud of my mileage. I think I had it in me to hit 100 miles, but I definitely needed more time.
I plan to try the 48-hour race next year, or even the 72. Meh… What the hell.
Here is my video recap:
Related Links:
Jason Robillard’s Across the Years Race Report
Patrick Sweeney’s Across the Years Race Report
Carlos Frias’ Across the Years Race Report
