Tell Me Thy Company (Western States Diary)

In the fourth installment of my Western States training diary, I explain the rationale for having pacers during 100-mile events, and describe how I came to decide on my own pacer for the night of June 28th.

When I first thought about doing Western States, I didn’t think I’d bother with having a pacer. It felt like too much of an inconvenience to ask of somebody, and I also had this notion that the point of the race was for the challenge to be undertaken alone, without external assistance of any kind.

Eventually, a couple of things changed my mind. First, every runner on the course gets some sort of external assistance, whether it’s taking fluids from aid stations, getting a blister lanced and taped, or having dry shoes transported to a drop point. It seemed silly to deny myself a pacer based on a principle that I would already have broken several times during the course of race weekend.

More importantly, there was this: ultrarunning is an extremely selfish, solitary endeavor. Very few opportunities come along where somebody else might actually benefit in some way from our obsessive athletic pursuits. It occurred to me that running the final miles of an ultra with somebody might be one of those chances.

If someone is willing to accompany me through what might be – literally and figuratively – my darkest miles, whether it’s because they want a taste of the race experience or are just extending a goodwill gesture, it just seems like bad form for me to deny such a request. There was one important stipulation, however – the person had to be a good match.

I clowned on my pacer a little bit in my Miwok race report – but honestly, I feel very good about the miles we’ve covered so far, and how we’ll work together at the end of June. And that’s the main idea I wanted this article to convey.

**

Journey of 100 Miles: A Western States Training Diary

Part 4: Tell Me Thy Company

*
“Tell me thy company, and I will tell thee what thou art”
- Cervantes, from Don Quixote

Over the previous three articles, I’ve spent a great deal of time describing all manner of potentially dangerous elements encountered at the Western States Endurance Run. As if running 100 miles wasn’t hard enough, athletes worry about becoming lost in the wilderness, getting bit by a rattlesnake or attacked by a mountain lion, suffering accidents due to sleep deprivation at night, or succumbing to any number of medical conditions that can cause an untimely end to their race.

So … you get the idea. There’s danger everywhere.

It’s all pretty intimidating stuff to novice ultrarunners – not to mention, a good number of veteran ones. Sometimes it seems like you need to be some kind of superhero just to attempt such an adventure. Either that, or you have to be delusional.

If you’re a superhero, you need a dedicated partner. If you’re a delusional nobleman, you need an agreeable squire. Either way, I knew that if I was going to take on this Western States quest, my preparation would include not just training, but also recruiting a faithful sidekick: a Sancho Panza to my Quixote; Robin to my Batman; Chewie to my Han Solo; Tennille to my Captain.

(Believe me, I could go on …but they’d just get sillier.)

At ultramarathons, sidekicks are officially referred to as “pacers”, and play a significant role in helping a runner successfully finish the race. They do not travel the entire distance with the runner, but join in the fun during the later stages of the race. At Western States, pacers are allowed beginning at mile 62, and will typically cover the final 38 miles with their designated runner.

Those miles correspond to the time that darkness envelopes the course, and when the runner’s fatigue level can potentially lead to a catastrophic error in judgment. The period of the race when a runner feels the most sluggish is also the most important time to remain mentally sharp – and that’s where a pacer comes in handy.

(As a historical sidenote, the very first pacer in a 100-mile race was one Gordy Ainsleigh, the endurance pioneer whose solo run in the Tevis Cup horse race gave birth to the Western States Endurance Run, and by extension, the sport of ultrarunning. In 1976, two years after running the WS trail for the first time, Ainsleigh paced his friend “Cowman” Shirk through the final stretches of the same course. When looking for a pacer, it’s nice to know someone who’s just as crazy as you are.)

Finding a suitable sidekick is a much harder task than it first appears. The person has to be a pretty solid runner – because although he’s only doing a portion of the 100-mile race, that portion (38 miles) is still pretty darn long. He has to be selfless, attentive, and considerate – and, as mentioned earlier, perhaps a little bit crazy.

You’d be amazed at how few people respond favorably to the following proposition: “How would you like to drive up to the mountains to run for 38 miles with me on rocky, hilly trails in the middle of the night?” OK, maybe it’s just amazing to me. People can be surprisingly rational sometimes.

Thankfully, I didn’t have to look very far to score an ideal sidekick. In fact, I didn’t even have to look at all – the right person simply volunteered.

Richard is a fellow Carmel Valley resident who runs with me on a regular basis, and is one of a group of local runners who did a 50-mile race together last fall. He and I both applied for the Western States lottery – then after I got in and he didn’t, he offered his services as my pacer.

(Richard and Me)

It seemed like a good fit: he was someone I already know and – even more importantly – get along with. (When you’re considering spending 12 tiring hours with somebody, that person had better be someone you actually like.) His volunteer gesture demonstrated a willingness to put aside his own interests on my behalf, which seemed like an impressive quality as well. So I gladly accepted his offer.

Just like that, I found my Sancho. The next step was to figure out exactly what I’ll need him to do for me on this fantastic journey.

In some ultras, a pacer can carry extra food or drink for the runner to consume along the trail – a service often referred to as “muling” (quite fittingly, since a mule is what Quixote’s Sancho rode. Who knew ultras could be so literary?). However, to my great disappointment, the Western States Run specifically prohibits this practice. So my initial plan to have Richard push a cartful of ice cream sandwiches alongside me would have to be revised.

I started to compile a list of reasons I wanted another person out on the trail with me in the middle of the night, and here’s what I came up with:

* Someone to carry extra lights to see the trail. Like, maybe 20 extra headlamps and flashlights strapped to various parts of his body.
* Someone to stand between me and any bear and/or mountain lion we might encounter on the trail. And maybe …
* Someone who can tell some good jokes.

Admittedly, it wasn’t a very thorough list – but like I said, my ice cream cart idea would be illegal. I wasn’t sure what else to consider.

Seeking help, I contacted a few veteran Western States runners I know. I inquired about what tasks they request of their pacers – and their responses surprised me somewhat. They mentioned a couple of logistical details I hadn’t thought of - such as having an extra set of eyes to find the trail markings, or helping to get water bottles filled at aid stations – but the overwhelming opinion was that the benefit of having a pacer isn’t so much for physical conveniences as it is for psychological benefit.

Some of the suggestions I received about the role of a pacer were:
* Keep me entertained with conversation, or …
* Respect the silence when necessary
* Be patient with my mood swings throughout the night
* Assist me to unleash my best powers, and to find my inner strength (Hmm … is Tony Robbins available?)
* Keep me encouraged, positive, and/or distracted

It all sounded a bit strange at first – I mean, this isn’t exactly stuff you can learn from a manual. And I really enjoyed these next two items:
* Be positive or shut up
* Make me feel like a rock star

I was starting to think that instead of a runner, what I really needed was a self-help guru. However, the final e-mail I received told me this: “Training partners and good friends, the ones who know you well, make the best pacers.” That seemed to make a lot of sense.

Richard’s a good training partner, a good friend, and he knows me well. I think I’m in pretty solid company with him. As to whether he makes me unleash my inner strength or feel like a rock star … I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.

After reading those e-mails, I’m finding the idea of having a sidekick to be a pretty nice thing – and I think I’ve got the right guy to help me chase my windmills. I’m confident that Richard and I will do great together - so much, in fact, that I feel like we need some kind of catchy nickname. Unfortunately, most of the cool ones have already been claimed.

The Dynamic Duo is taken. Butch and Sundance has been used. So has Dumb and Dumber. Maybe we’ll just rip off a famous ‘80s movie, and call this whole thing “Donald and Richard’s Excellent Adventure” – or perhaps something better will come to mind at some point further down the trail.

Then again, I suppose the name we come up with doesn’t matter. What’s important is the way we’ll be focused on the same goal, and how we’ll work together to reach the finish line in Auburn on June 29th.

It also occurs to me that having a pacer alongside you during a race such as Western States might be symbolic of a larger life lesson – namely, that we all benefit at some point from the goodwill of others.

Sure, it’s possible to run a 100-mile race solo – and some people do. But it seems that doing so would make the whole process a little scarier, a lot more lonely and difficult, and potentially more dangerous. On the other hand, sharing the adventure with someone close to you makes everything more enjoyable and rewarding.

This summer I’ll be on the receiving end of generous kindness – so when the time comes for me to reciprocate similar assistance, I’ll be more than happy to provide it. Some days you’ll be the runner, other days you’re the mule – but as long as us crazy people always stick together, we’re both certain to enjoy the journey.

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Miwok 100K Race Report

“Life for you has been less than kind -
So take a number, stand in line.
We've all been sorry, we've all been hurt -
But how we survive is what makes us who we are.”
- Rise Against, “Survive”

Normally I’d tell you to click and play to hear these lyrics by my current favorite rock band … but it’s a pretty rowdy song, complete with a few big fat F-bombs for good measure. If you’re OK with that, then by all means – please click and enjoy after the post.

Or maybe you’d rather think it over for a bit – which is OK, since this is such a long report. You'll have your chance later - but for now, let’s get down to business.

* *
First things first: I’m not going to bother apologizing for the length of this post. You know how these race reports go nowadays - and it’s only going to get worse after Western States in June. So I’ve just decided not to worry about it anymore.

Truthfully, “no worries” turned out to be a pretty good theme for the day. I encountered some difficulty along the trail, but nothing that ever seriously threatened my ability to finish. I’ll explain this in more detail later – but for now, I’ll just say hakuna matata, and start telling (and showing) you the whole story.

The day started early – and cold. When you’re standing outside at 5:15AM, dressed in running clothes and shivering, there’s not much else to do but look around at the other runners huddled around you and try to guess who’s who. At ultras, this is especially fun, because in the pre-dawn darkness, the world-class folks aren’t always easily distinguishable from regular chumps like me in the crowd. For example, my friend and I had the following exchange:

Me: Hey, that’s Scott Jurek over there.

Him (squinting): I can’t tell … are you sure that’s him?

It was him. And this is how you get your picture taken with Scott Jurek if you’re too bashful to actually approach the guy and ask properly. This is also what your shirt looks like when you forget your bodyglide and have to use Vaseline on your chest instead. All things considered, this photo isn’t exactly one of my proudest moments.

Race Director Tia Bodington addressing the group just before the race. As the girl in the hat and blanket will tell you, it was still pretty cold out.

Just before the start – a glimpse of the deep talent pool who showed up for this race. My goal was to take this picture, then quickly move off to the side so I wouldn’t get trampled.

The first quarter mile is a dash across Rodeo Beach, before coming to a dead stop as the field gets bottlenecked at the start of a singletrack trail. So … why were we running so hard on the beach again? Amazingly, the leaders were already out of sight by the time I finally made my way up the trail.


Climbing the first hill, we enjoyed some stunning views of the Golden Gate Bridge at sunrise. Unfortunately, this was about the same time that I realized I hadn’t replaced the batteries in my camera. The “low battery” warning came on, and I couldn’t take any photos that required a long exposure.

I couldn’t even get a good picture of Olga, despite a few attempts. I feel really bad about this, because it was great to see her early in the race. Predictably, one of the very first things she said was, “Why are you so afraid of Western States?” before chastising me - in a friendly way, of course - about worrying too much. (By the way, if you didn’t see her comment after my previous post, go back and give it a look – it’s classic Olga.)

I wanted to spend more time chatting, but she had some other concerns bothering her (that’s her story), and I was stupidly preoccupied with fixing my camera. By the time we reached the Bunker Road aid station at mile 6, we had each diverted into our own race, and I reluctantly stuffed the camera back into my pocket.

At the top of the next climb, I pulled off the trail and stubbornly tried to get some life out of my Nikon. After adjusting the settings a bit, I found that I could get 10-20 seconds of function out of it, if the battery had enough time to rest in between pictures. It reminded me of the Seinfeld episode where Elaine was forced to consider whether or not a guy was spongeworthy before using items of hers that were a limited commodity. There were a lot of scenic views out there – now I just had to determine which ones were cameraworthy enough to drain the remainder of my batteries.

Here was an obvious choice: the view looking north from the top of Tennessee Valley, before heading down to Muir Beach. I was still being pretty choosy about my pictures, though – because I knew there was still a lot of race to go. However …

THIS sure seemed interesting: the wreckage of a truck, halfway down the slope in the middle of nowhere. From what I can tell, there’s not a road within about 5 miles of this spot. Somebody must have a fantastic story to tell about this – and if any of you Bay Area runners know it, I’d love to hear from you.

Looking north to Point Reyes. As the morning got warmer and the views got nicer, my camera seemed to gain some energy. Unfortunately for me, I was having the opposite sensation. In fact …

A girl named Leslie took this picture for me, and I managed to smile, but it was right about here that I was beginning to struggle (and that was before I saw that my shorts were pulled up like an old man’s trousers. So far I’m 2-for-2 in the embarrassing self-photo department). Not long after this, she pulled away from me – and she wasn’t the only one …

You have to click to enlarge … but there's a guy in a light colored shirt on the distant hillside. He’s my pacer for Western States, running at least a mile ahead of me. It occurred to me at this point that he and I might need to have a talk about the role of the pacer on race day.

Shortly after the Pan Toll station (Mile 21), I started having all kinds of stomach discomfort, which became so severe that I had difficulty running downhill because of the increased jostling and cramping. I spent most of this section walking alone, with only the occasional brief companionship of runners approaching from behind to pass me.

It continued like this all the way along the 7-mile out and back on this tree-lined fire road. I rallied briefly after the turnaround point at Randall Trail (mile 35), but it was very short lived. The nausea during miles 37-41 was so persistent that I figured it was only a matter of time before I’d be emptying my stomach contents at the side of the road.

The only problem was, it never happened. The only constant was extreme discomfort – so I decided to take matters into my own, um … fingers. I considered it a preemptive strike – and don’t worry, I wasn’t taking pictures at that point.

Once I got my bearings, that little bulimic episode turned out to be the smartest decision I made all day. It only took a few minutes before I could jog again, and when I reached the Bolinas aid station at mile 42, I was able to start over with my hydration and food intake – and my stomach didn’t really protest. However, I grabbed a few Tums on my way out just to be sure.

I picked up the pace on the long, gradual climb back to the Pan Toll station, and runners started coming back to me in droves. For example …

The guy in the gray shirt is my WS pacer. To his credit, he made it more than 40 miles before slipping back through the field, and he’s only on the hook to do 38 with me at Western States. So I guess I’m in pretty capable company with him … but we still might have that little chat I mentioned earlier.

Passing a large number of people during this stretch did wonders for my self-esteem. It took more than eight hours into the race, but it finally seemed like things were falling into place.

This part actually seemed too good to be true: at the Pan Toll station (mile 49), they were giving out ice cream sandwiches. If I thought about it for a while, I might be able to come up with some things that sound better after running 50 miles on hot, hilly trails than an ice cream sandwich … but it would be a pretty short list. Needless to say, it tasted delicious.


I ran with a group of other runners through this stretch of single track on the way out, but at mile 52 on the return, I was on my own. I kept expecting to run into Jacob's cabin or to encounter a black smoke monster, but luckily, neither of those things happened.

Miles 50 to 60 featured an incredible amount of climbing, but I stayed strong and jogged all but the steepest inclines. I was feeling awesome – and the song that introduced this post was rocking in my head the whole time. Here’s why …

(Warning: philosophical tangent ahead!)

I’ve done enough of these ultra races to realize that tough times are pretty much part of the deal – and that’s probably the biggest difference between ultras and my other passion of triathlon.

In triathlon, at any distance – up to and including the ironman – there’s reason to believe that with proper preparation and execution, everything will happen the way you want it to on race day. In fact, there are all kinds of strategies and articles out there dedicated to the goal of having the perfect race.

In ultras, there’s no sense in even hoping for such a thing.

It’s practically impossible to cover 50 to 100 miles of trail without something going wrong. Nobody will have the perfect race. We’ve all been sorry, we’ve all been hurt. What distinguishes ultrarunners is their ability to accept physical or psychological distress as part of the objective, without getting discouraged away from their overall goal. How we survive those stretches is what makes us who we are. Difficulty is inevitable; misery is optional.

(Come to think of it … that’s a pretty good 6-word memoir! Does that get me off the hook for that tag now?)

So it was with that mindset that I completed the final climb at mile 60, and soon spotted the finish area off in the distance below. I honestly felt like I did my strongest running in the last 15 miles of the race, like I could have kept rolling up and down these hills well into the night.

But that’s a race for another day. For today, I was happy to cross the finish line at 11 hours, 48 minutes and head to the food tent. They were out of hamburgers when I got there, which was a bummer, but guess what else they had?

Yahoo! I must have stood by this strawberry bowl for a good 20 minutes or so while runners lingered around swapping stories of their day on the trails. It was a classic ultra scene: the top finishers and midpack clowns like me hanging out together, with easy conversation and no pretense whatsoever.

In particular, I spent several minutes talking to some guy from the Pacific Northwest who acknowledged the difficulty of the course, and was happy have set a small PR. He was amazingly friendly, and I eventually got up the nerve to ask for a picture:

Let’s just say I’m much happier with this photo of Scott Jurek than the one taken 12 hours earlier. It feels a lot better to do things the right way, even if you have to work through a little discomfort to do it.

Of course, the same thing could be said about ultrarunning – as I’m learning better with each passing race.

**
“All smiles and sunshine … a perfect world on a perfect day.
Everything always works out … I have never felt so great.”
- Rise Against, “Survive”

(Click to play … same disclaimer as above)

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Wild Western Medicine (Western States Diary)

As I was writing the latest installment of my Western States series, one pervading thought stuck in my mind: Olga's going to hate this.

She and I have exchanged enough blog posts and comments and emails for me to understand that she’s about as tough an ultrarunner as you’ll find anywhere. It must have something to do with her being Russian; in all likelihood, while I was growing up watching Bugs Bunny cartoons and eating Fruity Pebbles, she was doing … I’m not sure what, exactly, but probably something much more strenuous and character-building. Probably in the snow.

By now I’m used to her race reports describing determination and perseverance through conditions that would leave most of us curled up on the ground. And every time I write something about how difficult Western States might be, she slaps me with a comment like, “Stop complaining – it’s not that bad.” Her experiences have helped me temper the impending sense of doom I sometimes feel when thinking about all the things that could possibly go wrong on my journey from Squaw Valley to Auburn.

But I also felt that the topic of this article was an important one: namely, the staggering degree to which ultrarunners depend on countless medical personnel and other volunteers to provide a safety net around what frequently amounts to a 100-mile tightrope walk.

The runners need the medical folks – but in recent years, the medical community has also come to rely upon ultrarunners as a valuable source of information to enhance their learning. That’s why it’s unfortunate when members of the two groups find themselves in adversarial positions – as sometimes happens in the middle of an ultra.

If nothing else, I thought it was an interesting story to tell.

As for Olga’s reaction – I can’t tell you for sure what it’s going to be, but I’m happy to say that she and I will be able to discuss it in person. We’ll both be running at Miwok this weekend, and we’ll have a lot of miles to talk it over.

One final note before today’s article: instead of linking back and forth at the end of each post, I’ve started keeping an archive of this series on the sidebar at right. Check there to see previous installments, today or anytime.

**

Journey of 100 Miles: A Western States Training Diary

Part 3: Wild Western Medicine

“You look into their eyes and see if the soul is separating from the body.”
- Bob Lind, Western States Endurance Run physician, commenting on when to pull a runner from the race

*
One major distinction between road racing and ultrarunning, besides the obvious difference of race distance, is the degree of danger that competitors encounter on a regular basis.

All road racers, from 5K runners to marathoners, contemplate risk from time to time. We all know stories of runners who have suffered dehydration, heat stroke, or even heart attacks during the course of competition. Fortunately, the occurrence of severe incidents at road races is somewhat on par with the odds of getting struck by lightning.

Nearly every runner lining up at the start of a road race is reasonably certain that he (or she) will make it to the finish line; the only questions are how long it will take, and what condition he’ll be in once he gets there. Marathoners are often aware that something life-threatening can potentially occur, but such danger is typically only a small whisper in the back of their minds once the starting gun sounds.

For ultrarunners, on the other hand, that danger is a full-throated roar. It’s a threat that competitors have to stare directly in the face for hours on end, and one that frequently gets the better of many runners by the time the race is done.

At last year’s Western States run, more than 30 percent of the runners who started the race in Squaw Valley were unable to make it to the finish line in Auburn. The year before that, only 53% of the starters finished the race. Any year that sees a finisher percentage greater than 70% is considered a “good” year. These numbers aren’t unique to Western States – in fact, some ultras have drop rates approaching 50% annually.

Throughout the Western States course, there are medical checkpoints where runners are weighed and examined, and they must be deemed suitable to continue the event. This is another remnant of the race’s origin as a horse race; the Tevis Cup features veterinarians stationed at regular intervals to inspect the well-being of the horses.

(Interestingly, the annual dropout rate is slightly higher for the horse event than it is for the human one – which probably speaks both to the sensibility of horse owners, and the mule-headedness of ultrarunners.)

Running 100 miles in temperatures that frequently top 100 degrees isn’t something the human body is normally equipped to perform. There are countless physical maladies that can befall athletes attempting the feat – so many, in fact, that all manner of healthcare professionals are utilized to ensure runner safety. On race weekend, approximately 50 physicians and 100 nurses are available on the course along with podiatrists, paramedics, EMTs, chiropractors, physical therapists and massage therapists.

On a related note – if you’re a healthcare provider looking to drum up a little extra business, you’d be well advised to hang out in the Sierras during the last weekend in June. New clients might literally crawl out of the woodwork.

While the runners are in extremely capable hands during their 100-mile adventure, there’s definitely an element of frontier medicine practiced on the dusty trails during race weekend. Take blisters, for example – the bane of any ultrarunner’s existence, sometimes growing so large as to span the entire length of the foot or ankle. At Western States, the tried-and-true remedy is to: 1) lance and drain the blister, 2) squeeze a tube of super glue into the blister to fill the space once occupied by fluid, and 3) cover the whole thing with a big piece of duct tape. Isn’t that just how Doc Holliday would have done it?

(Before you laugh, consider this – it’s effective, and a lot cheaper this way. I mean … who needs medical supplies when you can accomplish the same result for $3.95 from the local hardware store?)

Speaking of blisters - Western States runners also make for such unusual case presentations that the race is included as part of graduate school study. Podiatry students monitor the course at various stations to witness all the disgusting injury manifestations that can result from running for multiple hours under scorching heat, through river crossings and across rocky trails. So I guess if the bottom layers of my feet start peeling off, my agony will be somewhat comforted by the knowledge that I’m making a small contribution to science.

Over the years, word has gotten around that common sense-challenged ultrarunners make for good lab rats. Consequently, many medical researchers have jumped at the opportunity to attend these races and conduct studies documenting how the body responds to various types of extraordinary stress.

Over the past few years, no fewer than 10 published medical studies have focused on Western States runners, featuring such ominous topics as immune system suppression, respiratory tract cell destruction, muscle wasting and severe inflammatory syndromes, and cardiac damage incurred during the course of running 100 miles. Researchers invariably find runners with physiological markers which under normal circumstances – say, if they wandered into an emergency room - would get them admitted to the hospital with IV fluids, a full metabolic workup, and a surgical consult.

The potential medical conditions that can develop are almost too numerous to mention - but a list of the most prominent concerns would include heat stroke, altitude sickness, renal (kidney) shutdown, dehydration and hyponatremia (low sodium balance), persistent nausea and vomiting, heart failure, hypothermia, and injuries from falling. Fortunately, most of these conditions are easily preventable if symptoms are treated quickly; the problem is that ultrarunners tend to ignore small problems – or for that matter, very large ones - even if their overall well-being is jeopardized.

The concern is magnified after darkness descends upon the race, when minor complications can rapidly escalate into threatening situations due to the runner’s increasing fatigue (both physical and mental), and the added difficulty of locating a runner in the darkness should assistance be needed. Therefore, medical personnel often find themselves with very difficult decisions to make when it comes to deciding whether to pull an athlete from the race. Usually, the person who argues against them the loudest is the runner.

Keep in mind that the folks who sign up for 100-mile events aren’t usually the type to withdraw from a race simply because they feel tired. Remember, these are crazy people we’re talking about. More likely, they are so driven and focused on reaching their goal that they will overlook or ignore potentially harmful symptoms in order to press ahead at all costs.

They’re used to dealing with pain. They can handle an enormous amount of physical discomfort. More than likely, they are willing to trade several days or weeks of recuperation for the chance of reaching the finish line under their own power. And when they get tired, they don’t often think rationally about the consequences of refusing the intervention that’s offered on the course.

Further complicating the issue is that most doctors who work the race have been shocked by the runners more times than they can remember. Nearly every aid station volunteer has a story of some runner who looked like death warmed over somehow finding the ability to rebound, gain strength, and finish the race after everybody had recommended a dropout. Ultrarunners are typically of the mindset that “it doesn’t always get worse” – meaning, if they can somehow ride out an extremely rough patch, they’ll feel better at some point further down the trail.

This philosophy is often a direct contradiction to a physician’s conservative instincts in protecting his or her patient from harm. So how do they determine when to pull a runner?

The introductory quote is about as accurate, specific, and scientific as you’ll find – which is to say, not very much. I guess they hope they’ll know it when they see it. And I hope I won’t find myself on the receiving end of such a decision.

A friend of mine is an emergency medicine physician. We’ve commented to each other that while it’s nice to have each other’s acquaintance, we hope to never encounter one another in an official capacity. When it comes to the medical personnel at Western States, I tend to feel the same way.

I’m thankful and grateful that those folks are out there, and I’m indebted to them for providing an environment that’s as safe as possible for runners under such unusual circumstances. Beyond that, I hope to never have the pleasure of benefiting from their expertise.

After all, I’ve got a race I need to finish.

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Big Sur Marathon Relay Report

One of the nice things about maintaining a regular training habit is that you can change your plans on short notice in order to jump into an event you weren’t otherwise expecting to participate in. That’s exactly what happened to me last weekend.

Three days before the Big Sur Marathon, a co-worker asked if I’d be available to take the place of a relay team member who had to back out. Basically, I’d have the opportunity to do a little speedwork during my leg of the race, then stay out on the course to jog some easy miles for as long as I wanted. On scenic Highway 1. In the midst of one of the best races in the world. On what was forecast to be one of the most beautiful days of the year.

In other words, he had me at hello. I gladly accepted the invitation, even though the last minute notice meant I didn’t have time to properly shave my legs beforehand. When you’re on a team, you have to make sacrifices.

On the plus side, I thought it would be a fairly casual run for me, and you know what that means … I brought my Nikon!

My leg of the relay started at mile 9 near the base of Hurricane Point, so I had some time to watch the taiko drummers and take the video from yesterday’s post before warming up and waiting for the lead runners to come by. Otherwise, I spent my sunrise looking at this:

I can think of worse places to start the day.

My teammate soon arrived, and I flew past the taiko drummers and charged up the 2-mile climb to Hurricane Point. There are also several powerwalk events during the race, so a few hundred people were already making their way up the hill.

If you ever want to feel really fast, try this: start a run someday blasting up a steep hill with a bunch of walkers, or marathoners who have already run 9 miles. I almost felt guilty hearing people say “whoa!” or “great job!” while I blew past them - so I slowed down a bit and started offering help to any marathoners who might benefit from a minute or two of drafting behind me.

It wasn’t very long before I found the main person I was looking for: a friend of mine who was doing the marathon, and looking to break 3 hours for the first time. He caught me about a half-mile up the hill, and I spent the rest of the climb keeping his pace, until we finally found ourselves cruising down the backside of the hill.

We ran together for the next few miles, clocking 6:30s or 6:40s on the uphills, and 6:10s-6:20s on the downhills. I soon got to wondering just how long I might be able to keep that pace, so - you knew this was coming - I decided to find out.

After 7 miles (Mile 16 on the course), we reached the end of my relay leg, and I made my formal handoff. Thereafter, I was officially “off the clock” and free to run wherever I wanted - so naturally I tried to continue along with my friend some more. It was during those miles that I remembered a couple of things:


First, taking pictures is much harder when you’re running 6:20 miles on a crowded road than when you’re standing on the side of a trail and actually looking through the viewfinder. This was the best self-portrait I could manage. It's, um ... not flattering.

The other thing I remembered is just how difficult it is to run at sub-3 hour pace – especially when you haven’t specifically trained your body that way for almost 12 months. Needless to say, the miles were becoming quite a grind, and my speed was running out.

We stayed together until mile 22 in Carmel Highlands, at which point I wished him well and hoped he’d finish strong. Then I dialed my speed down, and decided to double back and forth a few times to log some extra mileage. Since I’m always looking for more hill training, I figured the Highlands would be the perfect place to hang out for a while.

The other thing I wanted to do was start taking some better pictures. Have I mentioned before that Big Sur is a beautiful course?

A few miles back down the road, I saw Eric coming towards me. He was part of our dinner group the night before (separate post sometime), and I was hoping to run some miles with him on Sunday. I was especially glad for his company when we got here:

The strawberry aid station! Of course, I had already stopped here once my first time through, and again on my way back – but Eric didn’t need to know that.

It occurred to me recently that some people might suspect I was making up these stories of the strawberry station, like it was a figment of my glycogen-depleted imagination when I’m in my most delirious state. But Eric saw them – so he’s a witness now. And here’s another picture:

I mean … how awesome does that look? I can assure you, they tasted even better – even after my 6th stop there later in the morning.

Once Eric passed the “free hugs” station at mile 24 without stopping, I figured he wasn’t in need of significant emotional support, so I left him to continue, and doubled back again to find another friend (after making another stop at a certain aid station, of course). I eventually found him struggling through mile 21, and accompanied him the rest of the way in – and I also kept taking pictures.

You know, if there were 9000 horses running together somewhere, you can bet that any people close by would be interested to watch. When the roles are reversed … not so much. This seemed like some kind of Far Side situation to me.

This monastery (click to enlarge) is almost 100 years old, sits on a majestic piece of land, and overlooks a beautiful beachfront vista at mile 25 … yet most people have never heard of it. The Carmel Mission totally hogs all of the “historic Catholic” attention around here, but it’s not even on the marathon course. Score one for the nuns.

The final mile begins at the base of a long, frequently spirit-crushing climb for weary runners – and this band plays uptempo, carefree music all the while. It always reminds me of those Titanic musicians defiantly playing amidst the chaos and destruction of their final minutes. But maybe that’s just me.

We finally crossed the finish line, and I was in for a rude discovery – I couldn’t get a massage! Apparently they’re only offered to “real” marathoners, not clowns who run around for three and a half hours just for fun. Not only that …

We had a separate food tent as well. It was a fraction of the size of the marathoner’s tent, and I had to pile up the strawberries by hand, instead of carrying a whole crate out. What an indignity.

In the final analysis, though, I didn’t have much to complain about – because the day turned out to be wonderful on virtually all accounts.

By the time I was done, I had racked up almost 24 miles for the day, and got a chance to participate in an event I thought I’d be sorry to miss. My friend broke 3 hours with plenty of room to spare, and I got to share some miles and experience the race through other people’s eyes for a change.

There was only one thing to do before heading home …

Power size Jamba Juice. You can guess what flavor. It just felt like the perfect way to end the morning.

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Hurricane Drums: Listening Post

Guess where I was this morning! ...



I've written about the taiko drummers at the Big Sur Marathon before; on Sunday, I had the pleasure of watching them for several minutes, part of which is shown above.

It was an unusual day for me, but a good one - as I'll explain in my next post.

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Hi, Nuun!

You might recall – but if you don’t, I honestly wouldn’t blame you – a post I wrote last month describing a brief non-conversation I had with a cute girl at our local running store. In that post, I mentioned that I was stocking up on Nuun tablets and Sport Beans, which have become staples of my training.

The following week, I received the following e-mail to my blog inbox:

*
hey donald,

you’re exactly the kind of athlete we love to support! you’re sporty, passionate about what you do, and, obviously, very smart about managing your hydration effectively. plus, you have just the look we’re after… it looks like you’re going to have a ton of fun this year and we’d love to get you set up with some nuun for the season, so here’s what to do …
*

Once I overcame a temporary blindness caused by the lack of capitalization or any other discernible punctuation (I’m kind of a grammar wonk, which reminds me – it’s Spelling Bee season! More on this later.), I realized what I had before me: a sponsorship offer!


Truthfully, it’s a very, VERY limited sponsorship offer – primarily an opportunity to buy discounted products from the Nuun website. They do have a sponsored ultrarunning team, but in order to be on that, you have to actually be, you know … good. Like these two.

(And before we go any further, allow me to put a question to rest: according to the website, the name of the product is pronounced like the time of day when it’s 12 O’clock, and not like the term for a woman who lives in a monastery. No need to thank me – I’m here to help.)

I’m fully aware that the e-mail I received was a complete copy and paste job probably sent to hundreds of other athletes - but occasionally it’s nice just to be noticed, even if it’s in an arbitrary, “throw a handful of darts at the wall and see what sticks” manner. Plus, they called me sporty, passionate, and obviously smart – and I’m very easily flattered sometimes.

Besides - as I explained earlier – I was already buying and using this stuff anyway, so grabbing myself a discount seemed like a no-brainer. I ordered my products from the website - for the record, my favorite flavor is Kona Kola - and also received some water bottles and stickers with the delivery. (I was supposed to get a visor, too – but apparently that got lost in the mail or something.) Ever since then, Nuun has been my primary means of hydration during workouts.

In light of that, I thought I’d offer a very quick primer on its use – as well as a couple of quirky drawbacks.

Nuun is basically a calorie-free electrolyte replacement supplement that is added to plain water. The tablets are effervescent, and dissolve within a minute or so after being dropped in a water bottle.

The zero-calorie thing threw me initially; after all, one of the primary reasons I used sports drinks was to replace calories burned during exercise. Or so I thought.

After using Nuun for several weeks, I’ve realized a couple of things: first, for shorter runs (less than 2 hours), I’m really more concerned about replacing fluids than calories. Whereas dehydration would definitely impact my workout, calorie depletion in this amount of time is somewhat negligible. (Eliminating caloric intake during workouts would theoretically enhance weight loss as well, but since I can’t seem to lay off the cookies or ice cream this month, I’m not really in a position to make that observation yet.)

The second thing I’ve found is that during longer runs, I prefer to take in calories by eating food rather than relying on a sports drink. I kind of always knew this, as I invariably grow sick of the taste of Gatorade by the end of a 6-hour bike ride or 10-hour trail race.

On my long training runs, I’m partial to Clif Bars, Sport Beans, peanut butter & jelly sandwiches, and so on. It’s worth noting, though, that my intensity level during these runs is fairly low – obviously, I wouldn’t try eating a sandwich in the middle of a hard bike ride or an 8-mile tempo run. But for what I’m doing now, it works quite well.

At the Diablo race, I carried a tube of Nuun tabs in my waist pack, and popped one into each of my two water bottles at each aid station, then filled the bottles with water. I ate sandwiches, potato chips, and cookies at the stations, and drank Coke at each station during the second half of the race. Even though it was a hot day, and even though I was losing a lot of salt (remember this picture?), I never felt overly dehydrated on the course.

In fact, my biggest error was not bringing enough tabs with me: I only carried one full tube of 12, but didn’t figure that I’d go through two whole water bottles (44 oz total) per hour between aid stations, so I ran out of tabs at the mile 37 aid station. Carrying an additional tube wouldn’t have been a big deal – I just didn’t think of it. Next time I’ll know better.

Now for the drawbacks I’ve found – both of which are logistical in nature, not performance-related.

First, the tablets are formulated to provide perfect electrolyte balance in 16oz of water. Now … what size bottle do you normally carry? It’s probably either a 20/24oz bottle that fits in a bike cage, or a set of 8oz bottles used on Fuel Belt-type holsters. So you have the same problem as when hot dogs are sold in packs of 8, and buns in packs of 10: the math doesn’t work out in any compatible manner.

The solution I’ve employed is to use 20oz bottles filled just below capacity, but I still wonder if I’m making it too diluted for the intended electrolyte balance. As for the Fuel Belt users, I suppose they could buy and use one of those pill-cutter things from the geriatric section of their local pharmacy – but that seems like an awful lot of trouble to go through just to get a workout in. (Not to mention … is sharing equipment with nursing home residents really how you Ironmen want to roll?)

The other downside I’ve found is that the “fizziness” of the tablets can be an annoyance. When the mixture is bouncing around in my waist pack, it’s somewhat like shaking a can of soda before opening it for a drink. If your bottle has a very firm seal, it’s not that big of an issue – but if there’s any minor air leak in the valve (like on the first bottles I used), pressure inside the bottle will push water out of that opening throughout the entire run.

Overall, though, I have to say that I’m pretty satisfied with using the Nuun tabs recently. I don’t think I’d use them in shorter, more intense workouts or races; during a marathon or Olympic tri, I’d probably just grab whatever drink is offered on the course and blow through the aid station. However, for the ultra training I’m doing, it’s really a great product.

Finally, on a similar note: this whole sponsorship thing started with a blog post I wrote – so if there is anybody reading this who is affiliated with Sport Beans, be on notice that Nuun is totally making you guys look bad. It’s not too late to make amends, though. My mailbox is always open.

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How We Got Here (Western States Diary)

A few random notes before today’s post …

*I got hit by Thomas to do the 6-word-memoir post that’s going around – but seeing as how I haven’t followed through yet on the last tag (in particular, my promise to do a random post about a well-known comic strip), I’m going to file this one under “things to do later”, and come back to it when I run out of things to say. In other words, it could take a while.

*It’s neither here nor there, but … everyone realizes that the little Archuleta kid is going to win American Idol, right? He’s not the one I originally predicted in January (that would be Kristy Lee Cook, who’s now hopefully riding her old horse again somewhere in Oregon), or the one I’m currently cheering for (David Cook, who seems to have compromised himself the least throughout this whole silly process) – but it just feels like there’s an inevitability about this season. Don’t ever underestimate the power of millions of preteen girls armed with cellphones.

*Finally, on the sidebar … The Bravery. For no reason other than I’m digging this song a lot lately. Besides – doesn’t a song called “Believe” by a band called The Bravery seem like the perfect accompaniment to an ultrarunner’s blog? I thought so, too.

**

On the same day I ran Diablo, the Monterey Herald printed the second installment of my Western States training diary – but since I was in such a hurry to post a race report, I felt like I had to let the WS article sit on the blog’s back burner for several days.

Until now. This one is subtitled “How We Got Here”, and was written to address the predictable choruses of “100 miles? Are you crazy?” reactions that the first article triggered among my everyday acquaintances who didn’t know I was doing Western States (as I’ve said before, I typically keep these things pretty close to the vest.)

My goal here was to explain in general terms how it is that someone evolves into an ultrarunner, but it turned out to be a nice recap of my personal training and racing over the past several years as well. I also managed to sneak in a couple of analogies about Britney Spears and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, which really shouldn’t surprise anyone by this point. The last few paragraphs might sound familiar, as they're basically a retelling of a post I wrote immediately after the WS lottery in December. And of course, I spent far longer than I should have getting all introspective - I swear, sometimes I can’t help myself.

**
Journey of 100 Miles: A Western States Training Diary
Part 2 – How We Got Here

“Any idiot can run a marathon … it takes a SPECIAL kind of idiot to do an ultra.”
- Popular ultrarunning expression

*
A guy doesn’t just wake up one morning and decide he wants to run 100 miles. That would be crazy.

Instead, the decision evolves gradually. It’s a succession of minor goals that become progressively more ambitious from year to year, as each small accomplishment lays the foundation for a larger one to follow. Keep this up long enough, and actions that once seemed unthinkable eventually enter the realm of possibility.

Think of it this way: even Britney Spears was normal once. She was simply a cute girl who sang catchy songs and became famous for her, uh … precociousness. Then she started making questionable life decisions, her behavior grew increasingly irrational, and before we knew it, she was shaving her head and flunking out of rehab. It seems obvious now that she went completely off the rails – but we forget that it took her quite a while to get there.

In other words, craziness is very much a slippery slope - one I’ve been sliding down for a number of years. And now I’m the special kind of idiot who thinks that running 100 miles seems perfectly reasonable – but it took me a while to get here, too.

Sure, I was normal once. In my younger days, I started running to lose some weight, and soon thereafter thought that a marathon would be the ultimate challenge I could set for myself.

One marathon turned into several per year, which eventually became more than 40 overall. For the last decade I’ve also branched into triathlons of increasing length, including the ironman distance. My marathon habit slowly gave way to 50K and 50-mile trail races, which I’ve done on a regular basis for the past few years.

So while entering a 100-mile race seems like the athletic equivalent of a pop star shaving her head, to me, it just seems like the next step. (I almost used the phrase “logical next step”, but didn’t think I could sell it there. See? I haven’t totally lost it.) I’ve known about the Western States Endurance Run for many years, and always knew that I’d try to enter it one of these days.

Having said that, there were two other critical criteria I used to determine whether I was ready to enter Western States. They are decent guidelines for anyone to use as a general rule of thumb.

First and foremost is that you have to enjoy trail running. This sounds obvious, but it’s absolutely essential. In fact, I should emphasize it better: you can’t just like trail running, or even love it – you have to LOVE it. Here’s what I mean …

Picture your favorite activity. Maybe it’s golfing, or playing cards, or watching TV – it really doesn’t matter. Chances are, the longest continuous duration you’ve ever done this activity is somewhere in the neighborhood of several hours. In those situations, you’d probably take short breaks for meals, or (if it’s an outdoor activity) turn in when it gets dark outside, or call it quits when you feel like grabbing a few hours of sleep.

100 miles of trail running takes most people somewhere between 24 to 30 hours. Those hours are straight through - taking meals on the go, adapting to nightfall and whatever extreme weather conditions you encounter, and without sleeping. There will undoubtedly come a point (more likely, several) where any rational person would decide to simply call it a day - unless he is doing the one thing he would rather be doing than anything else in the world. And that’s where love comes into play.

Over the past few years, trail running has gently crept its way into my soul. There’s almost nothing I enjoy more than experiencing the beauty of nature while testing the capacities of my body on a remote, secluded trail through the wilderness. On the trail, I feel an inner peace and serenity that make each run a spiritual revival. It’s addicting, compelling, and empowering - and hopefully, it’s the kind of love that will get me through 100 miles.

By comparison, the second criterion for running 100 miles is much simpler, and much more trivial: namely, you have to pass the laugh test.

Politicians use this to determine whether they have a realistic chance of winning public office. They mention their plans to a casual acquaintance, then gauge that person’s response. If you tell somebody “I’m running for President,” and his first reaction is to laugh, you probably shouldn’t consider yourself a legitimate candidate.

As I described, I’ve participated in endurance events for many years. I’ve built up my activity tolerance to the point where 50-mile runs are relatively unthreatening. And to my delight, when I finally started discussing my Western States aspirations with my training partners, none of them burst out laughing. So I took that as a sign that maybe the time was right to give this thing a shot.

Obviously, it took an abundance of preparation over an extended period of time to convince myself that I was ready to enter Western States. However, even after all those pieces fell into place, I still needed to tackle what is becoming one of the greatest challenges of all in regards to the event: getting selected in the race lottery.

With a handful of exceptions, everybody who runs Western States gets in by the same method: their name is selected in a random drawing held on the first Saturday in December. However, two issues have become increasingly problematic over the years: 1) the race is limited in the number of runners it can allow (typically about 400), and 2) each year, more and more people enter the lottery.

Consequently, a runner’s odds of being selected grow smaller every year. So I wasn’t really surprised when my first attempt to enter the race (for 2007’s edition) was unsuccessful. Then once I learned that over 1300 runners had applied for the 2008 race, and after a friend of mine calculated my chance of acceptance at roughly 16% (factoring in a number of automatic entrants), I didn’t exactly have high hopes this time around, either.

Somehow, my name was pulled from the hat – and now I feel like Charlie Bucket holding Willy Wonka’s golden ticket. After years of waiting, this summer I’ll finally get to see the place I’ve heard so many magical stories about.

Have you ever had something happen to you that was so great, you halfway expected to find out that there was some sort of mistake? In the aftermath of the Western States lottery, that’s exactly how I felt.

Even after seeing my name on the online list, I must have hit the “refresh” button at least 20 times over that first weekend, just to make sure there hadn’t been one final update where I got bumped in favor of somebody else. It hadn’t quite sunk in yet that this whole process was actually starting.

Those thoughts were quickly put to rest the following Monday, when a large envelope from the race committee arrived on my doorstep. Inside it were a little bit of swag (a pair of arm warmers), and the race participant’s guide.

It was less than 2 days after the lottery. I guess no one will ever accuse the race committee of procrastination.

As far as the participant’s guide goes, it’s a 42-page affair with trail descriptions, pacer and crew guidelines, and about 100 different variations of saying, “This is a very dangerous race.” Some of the topic headings include Altitude Sickness, Getting Lost, Signs of Renal Failure, Leaving the Canyons on a Medevac Helicopter, and How Will I Know If I’m Getting Heat Stroke, as well as the overly descriptive title Why Can’t I Stop Puking?

All of this in addition to the race logo displayed prominently on the front cover: a mountain lion perched on a rock, as if waiting for the next weary runner to drop.

Well ... OK then. Message received. It’s a dangerous race.

If nothing else, flipping through the participant’s guide helped reassure me, finally, that this thing is actually happening.

Yes, it’s a crazy event, and it puts the fear of God in me, but there’s no turning back now – I’m fully committed.

Now all I have to do is train like a lunatic between now and race day.

Read Part 1 of this series here.

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