(I obviously haven't posted here in about a year, since before my first DNF at AC100. But I have written a couple of race reports for other forums, and want to post them here just for my own archival purposes - I have no illusions that anyone reads this stuff but me. But I'd like to "catch up" so that I can post some reports from this year, which I hope to be a big one!)
Early Sunday morning, October 7th, 2018, somewhere outside Staunton, VA:
Net net is that I limped, literally, into the finish in 35:46ish. My
feet completely fell apart - blisters, macerated, likely black toenails
and possible broken pinky toe. damn near half the course was rocks. Big
rocks, small rocks, pointy rocks, round rocks, stable rocks, rocks that
move. And those rocks ate me up.
Of course I think this is all true. The last three hours out there I
was hallucinating and paranoid. Still not really sure what is real,
other than I know I’ve been awake since Friday morning.
Prerace
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| Trying to get some rest before the evening start |
Going in I knew that the biggest challenges were going to be the course
itself and the evening start. I had never run on the Beast Coast, but
knew that it would be rocky and technical, along with the advertised
23,200’ of elevation gain. And the evening start guaranteed I’d be
running through a night at the beginning with another night coming in
the latter stages of the race. But it would turn out that I severely
underestimated the impact of both factors.
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| A whole lot of up and down |
The first few miles were uneventful. I forgot to start my Garmin until
we were a couple of minutes in, no big deal. After jogging for a half
mile or so we came to a stop as we funneled onto a creek crossing and
then singletrack, but I was in no hurry with 99 ½ miles to go. A mile
or two in we leave the camp and are on state property, which the race
isn’t allowed to mark so we follow white blazes. It’s all one big giant
conga line so I just follow along, waiting for things to open up and
allow me to do my own thing. It turned out I probably should have paid
more attention through this section, more on that later. It was
probably just the excitement and buzz of the beginning of such a big
adventure. After about 5 miles we hit the first aid station, and it’s
so crowded that there is a line of people waiting to get water. Since I
knew it was about 9 ½ miles to the next one I wanted to top off my
bladder with Tailwind, but the jug was empty and the volunteer didn’t
know where the Tailwind was (“this isn’t our aid station, I’m not
sure”)! She was holding a pitcher of ice so I asked her to just pour
all of it in my bladder, and hoped that would give me enough fluids to
get to that next stop at mile 14.6. A this point only a bit over an
hour in I was already drenched, with sweat dripping down my legs. They
had warned us during the pre-race meeting that the lows would only be
down around 65 with highs 75-80 and high humidity, so to take care of
ourselves out there. And while I didn’t feel it was affecting my
perceived effort, that humidity was pretty stifling.
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| Rocks |
I’m no geologist, but my understanding is that these mountains were
formed hundreds of millions of years ago and are among some of the
oldest in North America. It’s thought that at one time parts of the
Appalachians were as high as the Rockies or the Alps, but that they have
been eroded down over millennia into not much higher than 4-5,000 foot
peaks. Where did the rest of the mountains go? They were broken down
into rocks. Millions and millions of rocks. And that’s what would make
up much of the course. We reached the top of the initial 2,500’ fire
road climb and summited up the peak of Elliot Knob, punched our bibs to
show we made it to the top, and then descended back down a bit and
turned off onto singletrack. After a mile or two winding through the
woods we hit the rocks. Much of the trail in this section were flat
rocks that slid and moved around on top of other flat rocks. It was an
odd sound hearing the rocks slide around as the dozens of runners ahead
and behind me ran and hiked over them. I was with a group moving at a
comfortable speed, which was good considering there was no way to get
around anyone – this trail made up of loose rocks was about a foot wide
with a huge drop-off of a hundred feet? A thousand feet? I had no idea
because it was dark, as it would be when I would come back up this hill
the following night. But I was feeling fresh and after about six hours
hit the Dowells Draft aid station around mile 22.
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| Hey look! More rocks! |
I had worked out a pace chart for a 32-hour finish and included a
column lining up with just making the cutoffs. I had no idea what to
expect, and the 32-hour pace was just about staying far enough ahead of
the cutoffs to not worry about them. But at this point I was close to
that 32-hour pace, and happy with how things were going. As I left the
aid station I was told it was a big climb followed by rolling downhill,
so pulled out my trekking poles for the first time and geared up. I’d
never run a race with poles before, having bought them earlier this
year and trained with them just a handful of times. But it turned out
to be a pretty benign climb, much of it “runnable” under normal
circumstances, so I ended up just carrying them in my hands before
finally stopping to stow them away again. This section of trail was
smoother than the last, and we hit the top and descended into the
Lookout Mountain aid station at mile 31 in 8:19, about 25 minutes up on
that 32-hour pace. I knew it was pretty much downhill from there to the
North River Gap aid station at mile 37, but as I headed down the hill I
would find that the rocks were back in full force.
There are lots of mishaps that can happen when trying to move quickly
across rocky terrain. I started giving them names. The Roll (ankle
roll). The Stub (toe stubbing). The Point (painfully stepping on a
pointy rock). The Flip (one foot flipping a loose rock up into the
ankle bone of the other foot - that’s my favorite). I started trying to
keep track of how many times each of these happened, but I couldn’t
keep up. I do know I swore out loud several times, cursing the eons of
erosion that had led to the creation of all these damned rocks.
Downhill mile splits of 18:00-20:00 miles. Ouch. Literally, as my feet
were starting to really hurt, not blisters, but a pain across the toes
and the bottoms of the feet. I started thinking about ultra/trail
runners gearing up for a road marathon talking about “hardening the
legs” by getting in some road running prior to the race, and wondering
if it was even possible to “harden the feet”. But I knew it was, as
evidenced by all of the (presumably) locals flying by me on the
downhills.
Before the race I had reached out to local runner Andy Jones-Wilkins, a
legendary member of the ultrarunning community whom I’ve crossed paths
with a few times at Western States and Hardrock, to get intel on the
race. He graciously answered my questions and confirmed that this was
one tough course. As I sat down at the North River Gap Aid station with
my drop bag to attend to my beat-up feet, I saw AJW next to me and
introduced myself again. “Sean! Great to see you, how’s it going out
there!” I mumbled something about rocks, and he told me that when he
crewed Western States RD Craig Thornley at this race a few years ago,
Craig had come into this very spot cursing those same rocks. So at
least I was in good company.
Keep it Simple, Smart Guy
In almost all the 100K and 100M races I’ve run, I’ve had stomach
issues. It’s cost me lots of time in many races, and finally led to my
first DNF this August as I was pulled by medical at mile 52 of Angeles
Crest 100 after throwing up for 2-3 hours. This has been exacerbated by
the heat in most instances, and the hope was that an October race in
Virginia I wouldn’t have to deal it. But that wasn’t the case – it
wasn’t Western States hot, but warm with humidity was taxing enough. So
my plan was to simplify things as much as possible at this race, and
stick with just Tailwind, Bonk Breakers, and gels for as long as I
could, and avoid the “real food” at the aid stations besides Coke and
broth. I also think I’ve tried to force too many calories at times in
the past, so the plan was just to keep drinking Tailwind and supplement
with at least one gel an hour, but not more than two – the combo should
give me at least 250 calories, which should be enough. To this point I
had stuck to the plan, and things were going great. But it was now
almost 4:00 AM, I hadn’t eaten dinner, and I was hungry. As I got ready
to leave the aid station I saw AJW grab a handful of tater tots, and
they looked so good that I grabbed a handful and chomped on them as I
headed out into the night.
This next section would bring both the steepest and longest climbs of
the course, about 2,600’ over 5-6 miles, beginning with a 1000’ climb in
a little over a mile. Now was definitely the time to break out the
trekking poles, and I started grinding my way up the mountain. For
really the first time during the race, I was working hard. And, of
course, I started to feel nauseous. It was such a rookie move, not only
going against my plan that had been working but even more so taking in
food right before a tough part of the course where the effort level
would be high. I had a few moments of panic, considering what had
happened to me in August. So even though the effort felt sustainable
from an aerobic and muscular standpoint, I decided to dial it way back
to try and get my stomach in check. I had no choice. Instead of
passing people, I slowed down and people started passing me. But I knew
I had to get some blood back to my gut to get that food moving. After
about an hour the nausea was gone, and I made that mental note to stick
to the plan going forward.
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| Happy to see this, and turn off the headlamp |
I finally reached the top and ran along rolling, open terrain as the
sun came up. I remember noting it was just past mile 40 that it began
to peak through the trees, and it was so nice to not be limited to that
circle of light cast by my headlamp and be able to look around. I
finally hit the Little Bald Knob aid station at mile 45, and they
pointed out the ridge line we’d be running along and down to the
Turn-around. I didn’t realize it at the time, but in looking at the map
it appears we were effectively running along the border of Virginia and
West Virginia through this section. It was warming up again a bit, but
I continued to just keep drinking Tailwind and taking in that gel an
hour, and everything was feeling pretty good. I moved pretty well
through here with miles in the teens, building up more and more cushion
against the cut offs and staying within an hour of the 32-hour pace, and
got to the turnaround in about 15:50.
Despite changing my socks at each of the previous drop-bag aid
stations, between the humidity and multiple muddy spots my feet had been
wet since the start. I sat down and peeled off my shoes and socks, and
my feet were just white, wrinkly, and macerated. So I decided to let
them air out for 10 minutes to try and keep them from falling apart any
more than they already had. The rocks had taken their toll, I had
several hot spots (but no blisters….yet), and they just hurt. And I
had the return trip through all those rocks still to come. I sipped
some broth and enjoyed a couple of minutes off my feet, only the third
time I’d sat in about 16 hours. Then it was time to go and I lubed up,
got my socks and shoes back on, and headed back out to start the second
half of this thing.
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| The only picture of me. And West Virginia (I think) |
A Foggy Day
With the evening start, I fully expected to be exhausted on night two.
What I didn’t expect was to start feeling it mid-day on Saturday. But
as I ran back along the rolling terrain from mile 50-59 it moved into
early afternoon, and I was beat. I’d been moving for 18 hours and awake
for almost 30, so the exceedingly tired feeling that often hits in the wee
morning hours of a typical 100 miler were hitting me mid-day. I zoned
out for hours at a time. I spent an hour or two writing in my head an amazing
blog post on the “10 Things I Learned at Grindstone”. On occasion I’d
snap out of it and realize I should be moving quicker, but then I’d zone
out again. And of course I can’t remember any of what I came up with
while out there (maybe I should record myself next time on my phone – I
just know it was great stuff!). It was surreal, moving through the peak
daylight hours of a beautiful day but feeling like I was in a fog.
At about mile 61 we started heading back down the hill in earnest, 19
hours in at around 1:00 PM. I felt like I was moving ok at the time,
but looking at my splits they were all 20-30 minute miles. I survived
the steep downhill and arrived back to North River Gap at mile 65 in a
little under 21 hours, and while I sat for a few taking care of my feet
(and not eating tater tots) I began dreading the incredibly rocky climb
facing me, but kept thinking at least I’d be hitting it in daylight
hours. And to be honest, it was a little bit better going back up as the
expectation of decent splits wasn’t weighing on me at that point and
it's almost easier to tackle rocky terrain going up than going down.
Two and half hours into it came the Lookout Mountain aid station at
mile 72, which I reached in 23:28. I was now almost two hours off the
32-hour split times, but still over two hours ahead of cutoffs so I was
somewhat satisfied with my progress.
The climb continued from there,
and as the sun went down the low light, both in angle and intensity,
started playing tricks on my senses. “What are those three cars doing
parked in the woods?” Oh, there’s nothing there. “I don’t remember a
building out here.” Because there isn’t one. “Look, campers around a
campfire, roasting s'mores.” Nope. And a lot of turning around to see
who the runner was I could hear coming up behind me, only to find nobody
trailing me. All just signs of my mind starting to slip and slide into
the grips of sleep deprivation, something that would only get worse as
darkness set in and I tackled the final 25 miles.
The Downward Spiral
I wasn’t looking forward to staring into the circle of light of my
headlamp for several hours, so I stalled on turning it on as long as I
could. But as I hit the peak of the short climb out of Lookout Mountain
and began the descent, I had to pull it back out of my pack and turn it
on. I hit the bottom of the hill at Dowell’s Draft at mile 80, and my
final access to a drop bag. My feet had gone from a few hot spots to a
few blisters starting to form between toes, on the side of my heels, and
on the outside “ball” of my left foot below the little toe. In
retrospect I should have spent a little more time here addressing these,
taping them, popping a few, but I think at the time I was just happy to
clean and lube them up and get a pair of dry socks on. I also decided
to switch shoes here, going from the Hoka Torrents I’d been running in
from the start to a pair of Altra Olympus, the model I’d worn for most
of Western States and for those 52 miles of Angeles Crest. The Altras
have more cushion, which I thought might help with my destroyed feet,
and with more room in the toe box I thought the change in where the shoe
was rubbing might give some of my problem spots a break. As I got up
to limp out of the aid station I was so hungry, but with the final two
big climbs coming I just drank a couple of extra cups of broth and Coke
and headed back into the night with a pack filled with Tailwind and
gels. Damn those quesadillas looked good….
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| I couldn't see them in the dark, but they were still there |
Going in I expected these next 10-12 miles to be a huge key -
back-to-back 1500’-1600’ climbs with a short descent in between. As I
began heading up I passed several groups of runners, some with pacers,
some just running together. I felt encouraged to be moving better than
those around me, and after about 20-30 minutes I found myself alone.
The trail narrowed and got rockier, and it was those flat, sliding rocks
again which while tricky from miles 10-20 the day before now just
seemed downright treacherous. I just kept thinking, “grind it out,
grind it out,” while pushing off on the trekking poles which I hadn’t
put away since the steep descent back at mile 58. My left thumb had
started to go numb, as the strap of the pole pushing into the soft flesh
between the thumb and finger apparently irritated a nerve. And the
climb just kept going on and on, slowly working our way up Crawford
Mountain.
Every once in a while I would catch my toe, or a rock would slide under
my foot. On occasion one would fall off the side of the 1-2’ wide
trail, and I’d hear it tumble down into the darkness below. Was the
drop off 50, 100, 1000 feet? I had no idea, and it really didn’t
matter. I was by myself in the middle of the night in middle of nowhere
Virginia, and I’d been awake for going on 40 hours and moving on this
damned trail for 28 of them. I really started doubting myself and why I
was doing this, and at one point said out loud, “What are you doing out
here? You have a kid!” I had no choice but to keep grinding away,
reaching the top and then moving down the other side – there was no way out other than forward.
I started the final climb at mile 87, and the pain in my feet was
getting unbearable. I realized I had been leaning slightly to the left,
into the hill and away from the drop off (Subconsciously?
Consciously? Was there a difference at this point?), so the blister on
the outside ball of my left foot was killing me. And the roomier
Altras had turned out to be a poor choice on this uneven terrain as my
feet just slid around, slamming back and forth into the sides of the
shoes. After 2 ½ hours or so of being alone, I thought I saw a light up
ahead of me finally. But it wasn’t moving, and it would disappear or
fade, so I figured I was imagining that as well. But as I got up close I
found it was the one other runner from Northern California that was out
here, leaning against a tree throwing up. I paused to check on him then kept on going, alone again.
After a few minutes I caught up to a group of 4-5 runners moving
together up the trail. Finally, some company! It wasn’t that I wanted
to talk or anything, I just hadn’t felt very safe being out there by
myself on that trail. So I happily fell into the little conga line as
we made the final push up Great North Mountain. My mental state started
to turn around a little, as for the first time I allowed myself to
think about the finish of this beast. I remembered from nearly 32 hours
earlier that the trail would eventually dump us out onto a steep fire
road, although a runner near me said he didn’t think so. I started
questioning myself but sure enough, right around mile 91 we hit that
fire road. I took off down that thing, leaving everyone I’d been with
behind. Of course I look at my splits now, and it was 22:xx for the
next two miles! But at this point, that felt like I was moving.
The Home Stretch? Or Just a Descent Into Madness?
In my head it was a few miles down to the Falls Hollow Aid Station,
then a few miles through some state land near the finish. But after
about two miles on the fire road the markings took us off onto a
singletrack trail to the side. Hmmm, I didn’t remember this at all. I
caught two other runners here, and together we crossed a creek…then
crossed it again….then crossed it again….wtf, were they messing with
us? I realized that they must route us through a different section
here, instead of running all the way down the road to the aid station,
and seemingly remembered some reference to this in the pre-race meeting
that hadn’t made sense to me at the time. The former RD is known for
that kind of thing, and adding bonus miles, so I figured it was a Horty
Special. I said something to the guys I was running with about it and
cursed myself for not studying the course more beforehand. They were
talking to each other, and as they pulled away I became convinced that
this was all a big practical joke on me, and they were in on it! My
mental state continued to slide as I realized instead of having a couple easy
hours left, it was going to be more like four. This part of the course
wasn’t difficult compared to what we’d done, but it wasn’t just running
down a fire road.
I finally arrived at Falls Hollow Aid Station, mile 97, in 33:17. I
had less than 5 miles to go (yes, the course is measured at 101.85
miles) and almost 5 hours to finish before the cutoff. I had told
myself once I got here I would allow myself some real food for the first
time since those ill-fated tater tots the day before (or was it two
days before?), and I downed three quesadillas with some broth. Could I
finish in 90 minutes and be done with this thing before 5:00 AM? Sure I
could! The aid station volunteers reminded us that we’d be entering
state land so we’d be following white blazes for the next three miles,
with no other course markings. It sure hadn’t been a problem on the way
out, so I limped out ready to finish this thing.
But that little burst of quesadilla and “let’s finish this thing”
energy would quickly fade, and the sleep deprivation had now officially
taken over. From here to the finish I honestly can’t be 100% sure of
what happened. But here’s what I remember……
I came out of the trees to find railroad tracks, and a runner ran by me
and seemingly disappeared into the woods. I saw a couple of headlamps in the trees on
the other side and headed that way. But I couldn’t find the trail. I
was a few hundred yards out of the aid station and already lost! I back
tracked to the other side of the tracks again, and this time went
straight across and found a small opening with a little white square
painted on a rock. Ok, it was going to be like this, then. It was
largely fire road for the next mile or so, with the white squares
painted on trees on the side of the road. I was alone again, and
stopped every several hundred yards to shine the light ahead, looking
for the next blaze. The markers then led me off the fire road and onto a
trail, and I caught up to a runner and pacer who were struggling with
navigation as well. The runner was limping worse than I was, with an
audible grunt or moan that I was all too familiar with whenever his feet
would hit a rock or root in the wrong way. And we kept trying to find
those white blazes, which seemed to be getting smaller and more hidden.
The pacer pulled out a phone or walkie talkie and started talking to
somebody that was coming from the other direction who could help us find
the way. We dropped down into a creek, and together tried to find
where to cross, all the while the guy on the other end trying to talk us
through. We eventually came upon someone, and they teamed up and began
to quickly pull away, the light from their headlamps disappearing. I
stopped, looking for a marking, but could find none. I called out to
them, “which way do I go?”, but got no answer. I back tracked a bit,
found another marker, but was basically moving through a drainage of
some sort. I think it was at this point that I started thinking that
none of this made sense, and that I must be asleep on the side of the
trail somewhere, imagining all of this. I remember thinking that I
hoped I wouldn’t fall off the trail I was sleeping on, that I had found a
safe, flat spot. But what if I hadn’t? I needed to wake up…..
Two runners that I had dropped when we first hit the fire road several
hours ago then caught up to me. One of us would find a blaze, we’d get
to it, then we’d look for the next. That went on for another mile or
so, but this just wasn’t making sense. I couldn’t believe they were
having us run through creeks so near the finish, and that markers were
so hard to find.
We finally came out onto a wider road, and there were the familiar pink
markings we’d been following all race. Thank god! But how do we get
back to the start/finish? We were all confused, and as we kept trying
to find the next marker the confusion grew. I was convinced we had gone
in a circle, and told them as much. But I also said, “my mind isn’t
working right now.” A few runners passed us, and some of them seemed
confident we were going the right way. I just kept feeling like we were
looping around and around on ourselves. What if I got lost, a mile
from the finish, and wandered around for 4 hours missing the cutoff? My
unfortunate mantra became, “This just doesn’t make sense. This just
doesn’t make sense.”
We were passed quickly by two runners saying, “this is it!” and sure
enough I recognized the dam we had crossed about a quarter mile from the
start all those hours ago. Up the gravel road, onto the Boy Scout Camp
lawn, and finally across the finish.
35:52:54. 180th out of 257 starters, 208 finishers.
It was a surreal state I was in at the finish, like a daze but also
mostly aware that I was in a daze and just deeply sleep deprived. I
pondered whether I should get medical attention, but knew I was going to
be alright with a nap. I limped to my car, limped back up to the camp
showers where the chaffing covering most of my back and groin area made
me scream a bit, and then limped back to the car again where I climbed
in the back and finally laid down at about 7:00 AM and closed my eyes.
Later that morning I drove to a CVS, bought a cooler, Epsom salts, and a
couple of gallons of water and soaked my blistered, torn up feet. I
held that belt buckle in my hand and the emotion of it all hit me in a
wave. There I sat, by myself in a CVS parking lot across the country
from home, feet in a cooler, exhausted and crying.
Post script
Recovery has been decent. Mentally, I was in a brain fog until at
least Wednesday, despite multiple naps each day. As for my legs it was
such slow going, even downhill, that my quads weren’t that bad at all.
My feet were another story, and it was a few days before I could get
shoes on. I have two black toenails on my left foot, and all of the
toes are a little numb but feeling is coming back. The same is true of
my thumb, which I literally couldn’t feel at all until about Wednesday
after the race (it’s a weird sensation not knowing how much pressure you
are putting on something you are holding), but feeling is coming back
day by day, it's just kind of tingly now two weeks out.
It was really an experience unlike any other race I’ve done, including
the three other 100s I’ve completed. Being out there that long, on that
terrain, over two nights…..I definitely don’t want to do that again
without a pacer. But despite the slow time I’m as proud of this as
anything I’ve done in this crazy sport, no doubt. I'm not sure what's
next, although I've started looking into possibilities for next year.
Of course the Western States and Hardrock lotteries on December 1st are
first, but with selection in either highly unlikely I'll have to figure
it out from there.
On Wednesday after the race I finally looked at the Strava entry, to see specifically where the course had been different on the way
back in those last few miles that caused me so much confusion. Turns out, it wasn’t! I was just so
mentally screwed that I didn’t recognize any of it and convinced myself
it must be different. Mind blown.
