It’s been five days since I returned home from Lutsen, Minn., and I’m still unable to make up my mind if I loved the course or hated it — or maybe the reality of actually having finished this BEAST of a race hasn’t sunk in quite yet. As I continue to ponder, there are a few things I’d like to share before I get on with what and how this race broke down for me. I’d entered the lottery for Superior 100 well aware of how difficult the course is fabled to be; the race has a reputation of being amongst the toughest and wildest of its kind, so I wanted to find out for myself if I had it in me to finish. I’d been so focused on training for Western States 100 in June that getting into the lottery for Superior 100 kind of fell on the back burner until it was July and I tried to refocus all my energy. I’d be lying if I hadn’t questioned my ability to finish Superior 100 based on everything I’d read and from talking to folks who had run it. The DNF rate is high, finish times are slower and the cutoff is 38 hours. Geeze, who’d want to be out on the trail for that long? Opening Credits Race: The Superior Fall Trail Race 100Mi, 50Mi & 26.2Mi Organizers: Ultrarunners For Ultrarunners and Rocksteady Running Race Director: John Storkamp Location/Course: The Superior Trail Race is a point-to-point (95% trail) ultramarathon that traverses the Sawtooth Mountains on the Superior Hiking Trail in the far reaches of northern Minnesota near the Canadian border. The course parallels the north shore of Lake Superior, the greatest freshwater lake in the world, climbs to near 2,000-foot peaks with breathtaking vistas of the lake and inland forests, crosses countless whitewater rivers and serene streams, and meanders through mystic boreal forests. Difficulty: Extremely hard Time Limit: 38 hours (103.3 miles) Runner: Shalini Kovach Crew & Support: Jerod Thornton and Amanda Smith. I’ve shared many hours of running trails with both Jerod and Amanda, so there was a comfort level and silent understanding that they would be able to push me through when things got tough. Even though we don’t run the same pace, the thing that mattered in this case was that both Jerod and Amanda are resilient. For Superior 100, I didn’t need fast, I needed consistent, no BS running and both my pacers delivered just that! Gear:
Goals & Training Superior 100 would be my second 100-mile race and fourth ultra for the year, and given the difficulty of the course, I figured a 32-hour finish was realistic — baring no issues. Training was a no-brainer coming off Western States 100. I tapered, then revamped my peak training weekly mileage to 70 miles leading into Superior. Three things I’ve learned from having run a few 100-mile races: less is more, terrain-specific training will take you a lot closer to the finish line than junk miles, and a three-week taper is your best friend. I only train on trails, and on each run — no matter the length — I shoot for about a 100 feet of gain per mile. This has pretty much become my rule of thumb, and it’s worked so far! Finishing the race, of course, is the ultimate goal. Race Report Gooseberry State Park Visitor Center to Silver Bay (25.0 miles) It was a calm, relaxed and uncluttered start as 250 runners lined up to tackle what lay ahead. The clock struck 8 a.m., and everyone eased into the run. It was a pretty uneventful 25 miles to Silver Bay, with lots of up and down and each climb leading to a gorgeous view of Lake Superior. A few things to mention here: There was some chatter among the runners on how that 20-percent chance of rain at the start of the race was now looking more like a 100-percent chance of rain overnight, and as the sun came out, it got hot and humid. I needed to adjust my pace. Also, the trail was extremely muddy in the “runnable” sections of the course. Nothing to freak out about, I told myself, it was still early in the race. I saw Jerod and Amanda at Silver Bay. They had ice for me, which I put in my bandana. Then, I topped off my bottles, put on my headlamp for the night section and kept moving forward. I was two hours ahead of the cutoff and holding steady. Silver Bay to Finland (51.2 miles) This was the craziest stretch of the race, as the climbs continued to come at you and the views became more and more stunning. The drops were exhilarating; the terrain became more rugged and relentless, and some stretches of the trail were nothing but a web of roots, slick and unyielding. There was a sense of freedom and wildness as I traversed through this section of the course. This was also when I realized that there would be no rushing through this race. Extreme patience and caution would be needed to get through the night. Silver Bay to Tettegouche Aid Station was a 9.9-mile stretch. This is when I got passed by Richard Plezia, a seasoned ultra-runner and a veteran at Superior 100. As I got tucked in behind him, we started to chat. Richard, come to find out, is in his 50s and had run Superior 11 times. He’d finished eight of those starts, and the immaculate pace and tenacity he was moving forward with was enough for me to hang with him until Finland, which is where I’d planned on picking up Amanda. I must add here: For anyone attempting Superior 100 for the first time, if you find a veteran runner running your pace, latch onto them, because it’s stabling and experience goes a long way on this course. As Richard and I came upon a bluff after one of the numerous climbs, he pointed at the skyline as the sun was setting and said: “It’s coming.” I could see and hear the dark clouds, thunder and lightning brewing far out in the distance. All I remember saying to Richard was, “Don’t lose me. I’m pacing with you.” We ran steady as it got dark; headlamps were turned on and Richard and I shared stories as I gingerly walked across one of the many extremely slippery wood plank “bridges.” Whoosh! BOOM! I butt-planted…hard. Not my first for the day but probably one of the worst. My left leg was knee-deep in mud and water. As I tried to pull myself up and not lose my shoe, I felt a cramp in my left calf and I just sat there in the swamp watching Richard pull away from me in the dead of the night. “Ugh! Get up! Don’t lose him,” said the little voice in my head. “Shalini are you OK? We need to keep moving forward,” I heard Richard call out. “I’m coming!” Finland to Cramer Rd (77.9 miles) Ah, Finland! This was the first time I saw Jerod and Amanda since having left Silver Bay. There was a sigh of relief in seeing familiar faces and knowing I’d have Amanda running with me for the next stretch of race. It had started to drizzle, but the temperature held steady in the mid-50s. I ate some food, refilled my bottles, restocked my gels and bars, and Amanda and I were on the trail. Richard was somewhere ahead of us at this point, as I told him not to wait on me. I was feeling pretty good, so I ran hard, passing a few runners in and out of aid stations. I even ran past Richard all the way till we hit Crosby Manitou at 62.9 miles. This is when the downpour began. I pulled my jacket from my pack and, with Amanda behind me, continued to slowly plug away at it. BOOM! Another butt-plant. I was in the mud again, and with the rain pouring down, I was drenched. My hair was dripping, and I was feeling a bit sluggish, dizzy and irritated with myself. No matter how hard I tried to run, I just couldn’t pull it, the trail was sloppy in the dark and my hands were freezing. Not a good sign, said the little voice in my head. Don’t stop. One step in front of the other is all it takes. But soon, I was shivering. I’ve never experienced hypothermia before, so this was a bit of a shock. I turned to Amanda. “I’m freezing. Can I take your jacket?” “Sure,” she said. I threw Amanda’s jacket on top of mine, pulled out my gloves and asked Amanda to run ahead of me. This was the only way to pull myself. If I sat, I’d completely shut down. So, with Amanda patiently pulling me along, we made our way to Sugarloaf Aid Station. Coffee! I need hot coffee! I stood there throwing down coffee so hot it burned my mouth. Richard came up from behind us and asked how I was doing. I think I grunted, to which he replied that I’d feel better when the sun came up. And with that, he was gone. We recommenced with a slow death march to Cramer Road Aid Station. I was way off my projected goal finish time. It was 9:40 a.m. when I picked up Jerod, who had been waiting since 6 a.m. and was amped up, ready to roll. Cramer Road to Caribou Highland Lodge (103.3 miles)
This was the most interesting stretch of the course! Pretty much all of the 100-mile runners were on a death march, some moving forward faster than others, but a death march none the less. Morale was low, fatigue had set in, the overnight rain had taken its toll, and the terrain just kept getting harder and harder. The climbs did not lighten up one bit; it was a mud fest. From the minute, I picked up Jerod, I was whining. I could hear myself do it, but there was no snapping out of it. Everything hurt. I was still cold and had my jacket on, and I was walking a 25-minute/mile. No amount of pushing or pulling me from Jerod’s end was helping. I hadn’t sat down once the entire race, but now I was looking for rocks to sit on. Oh! This rock looks good, and damn straight I sat on it. Jerod came up behind me and said, “REALLY?!” “I just need a few minutes,” I protested. We made our way to Temperance Aid Station (85 miles). I made a B-line for a chair, and I could see the horror in Jerod’s eyes. I just need to sit and eat. Jerod shook his head and got me food. I ate and slowly pulled myself up to start the death march again. As we made the climb past Temperance River Road, Jerod asked if I’d kept my headlamp, as he didn’t think we would make it to the finish in daylight — at least not at the pace I was moving. We came up the bluff, and my butt was on the bench once again. Jerod tried to text Amanda to meet us at Oberg Mountain Aid Station with headlamps. I felt defeated, bogged down, and I didn’t want to run anymore. I’d officially hit a major mental FUD. Everything around me was perfect. The sun was out and there was a cool breeze…the trail was begging to be run, yet here I was sitting and whining. “I can’t do this. I’m not good enough. I will never be fast enough to finish. I hate this. I just don’t get it.” Jerod shook his head and continued to type on his phone as we sat on the bench. Right at that moment, I realized I was (over)indulging in self-pity. I’d signed up for this race knowing well enough what I would be up against. One is never a product of circumstances but of the choices that we make, and I made a choice to do this. Just like that, I was done taking a beating from the trail. I was done with the death march. And I was sure as hell not going to finish in the dark. I got up and said to Jerod, “I’m going to run.” He pointed to the trail and said, “Go for it!” I did just that: I ran. I ran hard. I ran past 20 or so 100-mile runners, one of whom was Richard. I ran past 50-mile runners, and I ran past marathon runners. I should add here that about a mile to the finish, Richard shot right past me and said I should stick with him and not Jerod. I never saw Richard at the finish line and never got to thank him for pacing me. Richard finished ahead of me at 33:39:50. As for me, I didn’t stop running until the finish line. I finished at 34:00:51. I placed 66 of 138 runners overall, 10 of 22 female runners, and 3 of 8 in my age group (40-49). And it was still daylight well after I had finished! Conclusion: Difficulty is a state of mind. When you push yourself to the edge, sometimes that edge will push back. It will push back hard. And that’s when you choose to accept defeat or push even harder. I’d rather be defeated taking on a challenge than to play it safe and never explore what’s beyond that edge. To my pacers: Jerod and Amanda, thank you for gutting it out with me in the moments of distress and self-doubt. Pacing is the single most selfless thing you can do for a fellow runner, and I hope to repay the favor someday. The Mind: a beautiful servant, a dangerous master - Osho It’s been a week since I rounded the corner onto the track at Pacer High School in Auburn, California, and completed an ultra-running dream. I finished the Western States 100-Mile Endurance Run! As I hold the much-coveted buckle in my hand, as I look at my name engraved on its back, I know I ran with my heart. And that made all the difference. In order to fully explain my journey to Western States, I must take you back to June 2015, when I ran the Kettle Moraine 100, my Western States qualifying race. I ran Kettle with a few others and, at the time, didn’t really hold out hope of earning a spot in “the world’s oldest 100-mile trail race.” Putting my name into the lottery pool was more of a “why not?” The probability of me actually getting selected with a single ticket was 4.7 percent. No way I was getting in, so there was nothing to worry about. As it turns out, I was the poor, unfortunate soul whose name did actually get picked. WOWZA! And to top it all, before I could wrap my head around the news, my phone and Facebook feed were being blown up by congratulatory notes from fellow runners who had been stalking the live results while I was busy separating my dirty laundry and handling the all-important Saturday chores. It was pretty surreal to put it mildly! Anyway, what followed were six months of precise training, multiple freakouts and doubting my ability to finish. Goal & Training I’m not fast, and I don’t live in the mountains. So, Western States was uncharted territory for this flatlander. The best climb I can get over the course of a mile here in the good old St. Louis is just under 400 feet. By comparison, the Western States course caps at more than 18,000 feet of climbing and nearly 23,000 feet of descent. That’s big time, so I figured a conservative 27-hour to 28-hour finish would do me good. As for training during the six months leading into Western States, I was forever chasing vertical. I nerded out on every possible climb and decent at Chubb Trail, Rockwoods Reservation and Greensfelder County Park, along with the straight ups and downs at Castlewood State Park. Now in my third year as an ultra-runner, I’ve gotten away from pounding out miles and the long back-to-back runs that most traditional training plans call for. In fact, I haven’t followed a strict “training plan” since the end of 2014. So, for Western States I decided to stick with what I do best: in short, run trails. I focused on running by feel, training on hills, mastering downhill technique, power hiking and consistently running long, slow distances. My average weekly mileage was 55 miles, with a minimum of 8,000 feet of gain; my peak weekly mileage was 70 miles at a little over 10,000 feet of gain. During each training run I’d shoot for a minimum of 100 feet of gain per mile. One other thing that has helped me immensely is using other races as training runs leading into a goal race, so I picked Yakima Skyline 50K in March. It was a slap in the face, with 9,500 feet of ascent and 9,500 decent — but so worth the experience. In hindsight, running Yakima was the best decision I could’ve made, as it gave me a taste of what I was about to encounter and told me things I needed to work on leading into Western States. My second training race was The Ice Age Trail 50 in May. Though not quite a “mountain race,” there’s a decent bit of up and down to temper those quad and hip muscles. Race Report I’ll briefly touch on my crew and pacers before I dish out the dirt. I had Denzil pacing me for 20 miles from Green Gate to the finish. I like to call him my BFF, mostly because he hates the term. He and I have shared many miles together on the trails; not only has he been a constant presence for a few years, but we share similar philosophies on life and trail/ultra-running, and I wanted to share this epic adventure with him. Along with Denzil I gained Megan, his wife, who would be along crewing! My second pacer was Julie, which occurred by chance — or perhaps destiny. I’d never run with Julie before, though I’d known her from her participation in the races I RD. We happened to be running Ice Age together in May when I jokingly mentioned not being able to find a second pacer for Western States. One thing led to another, and the following Monday I had myself a pacer from Forest Hill to Green Gate! Yes, I was a little apprehensive about having never run with Julie before. To have her pace me with little to no knowledge of my running style or my highs and lows…well, we’ve all heard the horror stories. But I knew Julie was a strong runner and a solid advocate for trail/ultra-running, so the decision was made. Along with Julie I gained Romy, her wife, who would be along crewing! Last but not least was Brad, who had never crewed for me in the past, is not a runner, has never seen me at my worst when running a 100 miles and, to top it all off, happens to be my husband. Recipe for disaster? Not quite! Our pit crew came in from all different directions and met in Tahoe City. I had Brad, Julie and Romy with me on Friday, the night before the race, to review gear, drop bags, driving routes and what have you. Denzil and Megan were scheduled to come in late Friday/early Saturday, so I wouldn’t see them until Robinson Flat, about 30 miles into the race. Start to Robinson Flat (29.7 Miles) I was nervous, and the main culprit was the dreaded “what if I DNF?” Unable to answer the question, I found myself at the start line with Brad, Julie and Romy cheering me on. POW! The shotgun blast announced that the time had come, and we were off. The first climb to the Escarpment and over Immigrant Pass is brutal — straight up several tiers of ski slopes is as best I can describe it. As I topped the first climb, I looked behind me only to realize that I was bringing up the rear. Only eight other runners were behind me. No big deal, I told myself, the race is long and patience is the key. As we dropped into the Sierra high country, I relaxed a bit while taking in the scenery. Hot-footing the downhills, I passed several runners within the first 10 miles. I was holding a steady pace as the sun rose. Temperatures were holding in the low 70s, and I rolled through Lyon Ridge and Red Star Ridge aid stations on the way to Duncan Canyon. At Duncan Canyon, I stopped to fill up my water when the young kid at the aid station said to me, “Where’s your handler? You need to get out of here.” Handler? Huh? That’s when the woman helping me called out, “I’m here! Getting her bottles topped off.” Ah! It occurred to me that at each aid station I’d stopped at there was one person who would get me all I needed — and get me in and out of the aid station fast. That was my handler! I left Duncan Canyon with some cold water dumped on my head and a quick sponge-down. The heat was on the rise. I was feeling pretty good with 24 miles down, but as the temperatures continued to climb over the next 5 miles, I started to feel sluggish. I wasn’t sure if this was a combination of altitude and heat, or something else? By the time I got to Robinson Flat, it felt like I was in a sauna — and I knew the worst was still yet to come. I saw my crew for the first time since the start, which helped take my mind off the heat. A water refill, banana and Coke later, I turned to Denzil and said, “This feels like Yakima all over again, just hotter.” And I was off running. Devil’s Thumb (47.8 Miles) The next few miles were a blur. All I remember is stopping at every water crossing, no matter how big or small, and pouring water on my head. I continued to move forward, the sun bearing down, drinking purely to thirst. Things that ran through my head were “don’t over hydrate,” “keep yourself cool” and “drop pace to lower internally produced heat.” It was HOT, and I didn’t want to find myself in a situation that required fixing. I ran steady until I hit Last Chance Aid Station. My handler here was a 70-plus-year-young lady who totally rocked. She filled my bottles while we chatted about where I was and I was being sprayed down with ice-cold water. My Handler: Did you get something to eat? Me: No, I’m feeling a bit blah. My Handler: You should eat a potato or two. It will help with the acid in your stomach. I reluctantly took two bites out of the potato that was handed to me. I remember giving this woman a hug and thanking her for all her help as I turned towards the trail again. My Handler: Do you know what’s coming next? Me: Nope, tell me. My Handler: Couple of miles or rollers, then you’ll drop into the canyon and there’s a steep climb till Devil’s Thumb Aid Station. Me: (completely involuntary) Ugh! My Handler: You better finish. I’ll be tracking you 227! The next 4 miles were a rude awakening. I remember running when out of nowhere I was suddenly spiraling down technical, single-track trail with a steep drop on one side. From behind me, I heard a runner approaching — fast. I stepped to the side to let him pass, and he turned to me and said “First time running Western States?” “Yeah!” “All hell is about to break loose, and you’re not going to like it.” Before I could say anything, he was gone. “How bad could it be,” I asked to myself. My quads were screaming from the decent as I reached the bottom of the canyon. Along with a couple of other runners, I doused myself with water from the creek, then started to make the climb up Devil’s Thumb. HOLY F**K! Let me try again to explain the climb. Imagine yourself being thrown down into a fiery pit and the only way out is to make an ascent that spirals, steep and relentless all the way to the top, which, by the way, you can’t see or even imagine reaching. This is when I reminded myself not to rush and to take my time. And take my time I did — all 28 minutes of it to climb 1 mile to Devil’s Thumb Aid Station. I focused on my heart rate and stopped to regulate my breathing multiple times before I started to hike up again. Finally, I found myself at the aid station, and I wasn’t sure what had hit me. A little disoriented, I made a B-line for a chair. Wow! I sat there collecting myself as more runners made their way to where I was. One female runner came up and sat to my right while two volunteers huddled over her. All I heard was this woman bawling uncontrollably and refusing to continue as the volunteers tried to calm her down. That was my cue. I got myself up and took off running before my handler came back to check on me. A quote I’d heard earlier rang strong in my head, “You have to run with your heart if you want to finish Western States.” Michigan Bluff (55.7 Miles) to Foresthill (62 Miles) As I left El Dorado Creek Aid Station, the thing that pushed me forward was knowing I’d get to see my crew again soon. But first I had to run a section of trail infested with mosquitoes and gnats. Adding to the misery (challenge, I mean) was a nasty climb to get to Michigan Bluff — not as bad as Devil’s Lake, but you won’t be running up it, therefore becoming a dinner buffet. I was hiking as fast as I could while swatting at the bugs on my arms and legs, and I guess I was cussing at them, because the runner behind me called out, “I have bug spray in my pack.” Say what?! I ran back to get the bug spray out from his pack, sprayed myself and him, placed the spray back in his pack and was soon hiking up the trail with a thank you and good luck. As I pulled into Michigan Bluff, all I remember saying was “those stupid mosquitoes.” Next thing I know, I was being sprayed down with bug spray, getting hooked up with some soup and bread and checking in with my crew. It was three minutes past 8 p.m., which meant I could pick up my first pacer if I chose to do so. I slapped on my headlamp, and with Julie by my side, started up again. We’d see my crew again at Forest Hill (62 Miles). I got an update from Julie on who was leading and where all the other elite runners were in the race. I ran every downhill with Julie close behind me. A couple of miles later, it was time to turn on the headlamp. I cruised through the last canyon before making the climb up Bath Road. We came to a fork in the road, and Julie and I went right, completely missing the course marker. Thankfully, a voice behind us called, “Ladies, you’re going the wrong way!” Major mishap averted, we turned to get back on course and hiked up Bath Road while admiring the clear starlit night. As we hiked further along, I noticed writing on the road in the light of our headlamps. There were cheers, funny sayings and inspirational quotes written in chalk. The one that stuck with me was “Run With Your Heart,” a déjà vu moment for sure. Rounding out on to the pavement as we made our way to Forest Hill, I was feeling a bit sluggish again. I had some soup and bread, refilled my water and gels and grabbed two portable chargers for my lamp instead of a portable charger and an extra battery — a mistake that would cost me before I’d get to see my crew again at Green Gate (78.9 Miles). Rucky Chucky (78 Miles) to Green Gate (79.8Miles) Between 60 and 80 miles into a 100-mile race is typically the worst period for me. I get sluggish, and slowing down is inevitable, as was the case here. Somewhere around 70 miles, my headlamp began to flash, signaling a low battery. This is when I realized my mistake. I’d forgotten to grab the extra battery pack at Forest Hill and instead had grabbed two portable chargers. Panic set in. I turned to Julie, explaining what had happened. She calmly replied that she had a flashlight that would get us to Green Gate. Unsettled, I decided to run hard until my headlamp gave out, Julie following close behind me. Neither of us missed a beat as we powered through the next 3 miles. Then, my headlamp finally went dark. How could I be so stupid? How could I have forgotten to grab my battery pack? I had two extra battery packs. Gah! As fatigue and frustration set in, I was reduced to hiking and jogging here and there in the low glow of the flashlight. When you go from 575 lumens of light to 250 lumens which felt more like 10 lumens, running becomes more treacherous, especially in the thick of the night on a trail with loose rocks, roots and dirt. I was so caught up getting mad at myself that I barely noticed our arrival at Rucky Chucky. Within seconds, we were put in life vests, given glow stick necklaces and told to hold on tight to the rope spanning the American River. Julie led the way as the volunteers guided us across. I can’t say for sure if it was a combination of fatigue and the shock of stepping into the cold water that came up to my ribs, but I was overcome with emotion. For the first time it became real. I was 78 miles in, crossing the iconic river at Rucky Chucky. I was freakin’ running Western States! Everything else was a blur until we got to Green Gate. Green Gate (79.8 Miles) to Robie Point (98.9 Miles) I swapped the dead battery in my headlamp, changed out my wet shoes and socks, ate some food, refilled everything and swapped pacers before getting on with the final 20 miles, this time with Denzil leading the way. I felt like crap! I was on a mental low as Denzil and I powered through a couple of miles, catching up and recounting the rest of the race. Denzil was so chipper that I was getting a bit irritated. I just needed a few miles to get back on the high. Having run with me before, Denzil caught on to my mental state and immediately decided to run behind me instead of running ahead of me. I was in and out of the run for the next 10 miles, with Denzil picking up on my highs and helping me power through, then edging me forward during my lows and enticing me to run the downhills. It was daylight again, and I was starting to feel a little better. With Denzil still behind me, we fast approached the Highway 49 Aid Station (93.5 Miles). Denzil: Look, a downhill all the way to the aid station. Me: Ugh! Denzil: C’mon lets run this. You love downhills. Besides, how many runners do you think they see at this aid station at this hour actually running? Me: Gah! Just like that, Denzil was ahead of me and we were running as fast as we could down that hill. I grabbed a pancake, and we kept moving forward somewhere between a run and a hike as I tried to focus all my energy on pushing through the last few miles. Denzil: Let’s see, what flavor of gel I should have next? Oooh, salted caramel! Me: WTF? Denzil: C’mon this is the best part of running ultras, trying out all the different foods and flavors. I was laughing. I’ve never met a runner that savors his gels like Denzil. We came out of the trail onto No Hands Bridge Aid Station (96.8 miles). I grabbed some Coke and we were on our way, with lots of cheering from the volunteers. As Denzil and I ran over the bridge, I was once again overcome by emotions as the realization that I was going to finish completely washed over me. I was crying. But it was starting to get hot again. I could feel the sun on my head and shoulders. I poured some water on my head, and we to pushed forward to the final aid station at Robie Point (98.9 miles). This is where we picked up Julie again, as the plan was for her and Denzil both to run me to the finish line at Placer High School. We chatted excitedly about the race, the wins and where I was in the running. Robie Point (98.9miles) to Placer High School (100.2 Miles) This was probably the most dreamlike stretch of the race for me. We ran through a neighborhood with tons of people, some sitting, others standing in the middle of the road, excitedly cheering on the runners. The scene before my eyes was completely overwhelming, and not just because of what I was seeing. To hear complete strangers call out your name and your bib number, rooting for you to bring it home…. There was no stopping the water works. What if I DNF? That was a day-old question as I ran with Denzil and Julie all the way to the finish and stopped the clock at 28:35:57. Conclusion There are many 100-mile races, but there is only one Western States 100-Mile Endurance Run. I finished thanks to the solid and unconditional support of my crew and pacers, without whom running this race would not have held much meaning. It was a journey that I will cherish forever! As I reflect on my run and finish time, I find myself wanting to go back, armed with experience and confident that I can run it better. In my desire to get my rear to the finish, I ran a conservative race. That much I know. The technicality of the course is every bit as relentless as advertised. Add heat and altitude to the mix, and you have a sure shot at a DNF. But the Grand Slam is calling my name, be it 2017 or 2018 or thereafter. Let the lottery stalking begin! A heartfelt thank you to the unwavering support of my crew, Brad Kovach, Romy Bolton and Megan Jennings, and thanks also to Denzil Jennings and Julie Moffitt for selflessly pacing me. And thank you to my sponsors, Hammer Nutrition and INKnBURN. None of this is possible without all of you. Gear List Garmin Fenix 3, Pearl Izumi EM N2 V2 Shoes, Injinji Trail 2.0 Midweight Micro Toe Socks, Petzl NAO Headlamp, Oakley Crunch and Burn Training Shorts, Hammer Nutrition Women’s Running Singlet, Hammer Buff, Oakley Radarlock Path Prizm Sunglasses, Orange Mud – HydraQuiver Vest Pack 2 Hydration Vest, INKnBURN Calavera Singlet, Hammer Nutrition Purist Water Bottles and Mission Enduracool Microfiber Towel. Nutrition Here’s a breakdown of the fuel and supplements I used before, during and after the race: Pre-Race Hammer Nutrition Race Day Boost During Hammer Heed and Perpetuem mixed equal parts in one 25-ounce bottle; Hammer Gels (Tropical and Espresso flavors); banana and orange slices at aid stations Every three hours, I took Hammer Endurance Amino, Anti-Fatigue Caps, Endurolytes and a Ginger Root Pill. After the first 50 miles, I was fueling on a cup of soup with two slices of white bread at every aid station, supplementing with a gel or two as needed. I also dropped the intake of the above-listed supplements. Post-Race Hammer Recoverite and Tissue Rejuvenator Author: Shalini Kovach is the founder and lead organizer of Terrain Trail Runners.
This was my third hundy of the year, precisely five weeks after the Flagstaff to Grand Canyon Stagecoach Line 100-Mile in September. As race week approached, I grew extremely restless and nervous, and for good reason. Everyone I spoke to who had run the race had worrying things to say: “This is NOT a course to go for a PR on.” “If the course itself doesn’t shred you, the creek crossings, cold and wet weather will haunt you through the entire race.” Well, fair enough! I was also told that if I had a pacer or crew available to me, I needed to use them and not try to hammer through this race solo, as was my original plan. So, reluctantly, I decided to save being “super woman” for another race and take advantage of the strong support that was available to me at this “home race.” I recruited Mike Gallagher to pace me from Hazel Creek (65.4 miles) to Berryman (78.6 miles). I chose Mike for this section because he had run OT 100 last year and was familiar with the course and what it would take to get me through “Murderers Row,” as this section of the course is affectionately known. My second pacer would be Tim Landewe, who would join me from Berryman to the finish at Bass River Resort (100.9 miles). I chose Tim to pace me to the finish quite simply for the comfort and understanding. Tim and I train together quite a bit; we’ve logged many long and unpleasant miles together during runs that required us to be up and going at 4 a.m., or out in 100-degree heat. So, I knew that Tim would recognize when I needed to push and when I needed a reality check to get my rear to the finish and accomplish my goal. Ah! That brings me to my goal for this race: On the surface, I was looking at a conservative, 28-hour finish given all the logistics, terrain and elevation for this race — assuming that nothing broke down on me. (There are no guarantees EVER when running 100 miles.) Below the surface, I secretly wanted to push for the First Female Overall finish. But the only people aware of this goal were me and Tim. Opening Credits Race: Ozark Trail 100 Mile Endurance Run Organizers: Paul Schoenlaub and Stuart Johnson Location/Course: The race headquarters and finish line are located at Bass River Resort. This is a point-to-point, 100.9-mile ultramarathon on the Ozark Trail through the Mark Twain National Forest in south-central Missouri. The race is mostly single track trail with several water creek crossings, some as deep as your knees or more depending on how much rain there has been. There is an elevation gain of approximately 12,000 to 15,000 feet. The trail surface varies from smooth dirt to technical rocks and roots. Adding to the challenge are lots of leaves covering the trail this time of year. Difficulty: Hard Time Limit: 32 hours (100.9 miles) Runner: Shalini Kovach Gear:
Nutrition (approximately 2,200 calories):
Race Report A couple of us were staying at Bass River Resort the night before the race, so we could get up and catch the shuttle at 3:30 a.m. to be at the start of the race at 6:00 a.m. I had set out all of my gear and was in bed at 8:30 p.m., only to roll from side to side pretty much all night long. I was wide awake at 2:00 a.m. and, long story short, didn’t sleep well. I finally got up at 2:45 a.m. and started to get dressed. Did I tell you I was nervous? On the shuttle, I sat with a few fellow runners and anxiously chatted for two hours until we came to a halt at the start line. “Just focus” was all I kept telling myself, repeating in my head to hold pace, start slow and keep that up until it was time. Time for what you ask? Time to make a break for it, time to start flagging the competition. One thing to relay here: I’m normally not a competitive runner, so this was a whole new game plan for me. I had set out with a goal and was on a mission. Strategically, what this amounted to was trying to stay focused on pace and be aware of my surroundings and my competition. And not to stop and chat at aid stations or sightsee, as I am notorious for doing, something my pacers Mike and Tim reminded me about numerous times. So, get in and get out of the aid stations — that was also part of the plan. Go time! It was 6 a.m., and I was running. I started at the back of the pack and decided to be patient and go out slow, not to rush. My iPod was playing “Fight for Your Mind” by Ben Harper, which was relevant to me because the lyrics reflected the state of mind I was in at the time: Now, if you’re gonna step, step on in If you’re gonna finish, you got to begin Don’t you fear, what you don’t know Just let that be, your room to grow Grasshopper Hollow (4.5 miles) to Gunstock Hollow (31.3 miles) From the start of the race until I hit Gunstock Hollow was pretty uneventful. I ran steady, held pace…then took a tumble and landed smack on my left kneecap. I sat there on the trail for a moment, shocked, and finally had to pull myself up by holding onto a tree. My knee hurt like a mofo. I walked and tried to shake it off. Was my race over before it had even really got started? After about a mile of tenderly testing my gait, I realized it was only when I stopped running that my knee locked up. As long as I kept moving, it felt fine — even with the ever-so-slight “click” I could hear at each knee bend. I told myself it was all in my head and continued onward. Brooks Creek (40.0 Miles) This is where my brain turned. I pulled into the aid station, refilled and turned to ask race director, Stuart Johnson, who happened to be there, what place I was in. He said I was the sixth female runner but should be able to catch the fifth-place female, as she had just left the aid station. Cool! I was in and out of the aid station, on a mission. I ran hard past the fifth place female runner and then, later on, past the fourth place female runner. I was in third place and holding steady when I hit Martin Road aid station at 55.8 miles. I had 9.6 miles to go until I hit Hazel Creek, which is where I would pick up Mike for the night stretch. I was hoping to catch up to the lead female runners overnight, although I had no idea how far ahead of me they were and if I realistically had a chance at it. Hazel Creek (65.4 miles) For multiple reasons, the 9.6 miles from Martin Road to Hazel Creek were the worst. It got dark, it got cold, and my shoes and socks were soaking wet. And, to top it off, I lost a glove on the trail somewhere during this stretch, so I only had one. My hands were freezing to the point of being numb. I don’t operate well in cold weather, and I came close to mentally shutting down with just 4 more miles to get to Hazel Creek. Two things kept me moving forward: First, I was really looking forward to seeing Mike and having company on my run. Second, I had a change of winter gear, dry shoes, socks and heavier mittens in my drop bag, so I could change out of my soggy clothes and continue forward in dry, warm ones. Oh, the things that you look forward to when running 100 miles! Soon enough I was at Hazel Creek. I sat down and had Mike, John Goble and Kathy Brennan hovering around me to help with food, water and whatever else I needed. Me: Where’s my drop bag? Mike: It’s not here. Sure you packed one for Hazel Creek? Me: WTF? Where’s my drop bag? I had all my winter gear in it. I need dry clothes and shoes. I’m freezing cold, and I can’t do this. Where the hell is it? What the F happened to my drop bag??!! Yeah, I had a mini-meltdown. Shortly after I caught myself, as I realized what a brat I was being. Shit happens, and I needed to quit freaking out and get my head back in the zone. Just then, it dawned on me that I had an extra pair of dry socks in my vest, so I pulled those out and John and Kathy helped me change. Me: I need a heavier jacket. I’m freezing…. John: Here, you take this micro-fleece. He literally took the shirt off his back and gave it to me, so I could stay warm during the night. Me: Gloves, I lost one and I don’t have…. Before I could finish my sentence, another runner came up behind me and handed me my lost glove. He had picked it off the trail on his way to Hazel Creek. Kathy quickly added hand warmers to my gloves and filled up my bladder. Despite the fact that my shoes were still soaking wet, I was now comfortable enough to hammer through the night stretch of the race. As I sat there eating, I asked one of the volunteers what place I was in. He told me that when I had pulled into Hazel Creek I was holding third — and the second-place and first-place female runners were still there, too. In an instant I had forgotten how cold and miserable I felt and was telling Mike that we needed to get the hell out of the aid station! Berryman Campground (78.6 miles) The stretch from Hazel Creek to Berryman had a few creek crossings, one with knee-deep water, but Mike kept me running steady and I was holding my new position as first-place female. It wasn’t until we reached Pigeon Roast Road aid station at 73.3 miles that I realized I was being hunted. The second-place female runner was right on my heels. Every time we’d pull into an aid station, she was there with her pacer, so there was no room for trial and error on my part. I couldn’t just plod along; I needed to be aware and disciplined if I was going to hold first. So, we began to play a cat and mouse game. I was flying in and out of aid stations, with Mike edging me forward even when I wanted to slow down. We made our way to Berryman aid station, where the plan was to pick up Tim, but when we arrived Tim wasn’t there yet. I shoveled food into my mouth and I took out my trekking poles. I had also placed an extra pair of shoes and socks in my drop bag here, so I was able to change those out. As I stood up, the second place female pulled into the aid station with her pacer. Me: I need to go. Mike: Tim’s not here…. I’ll go with you. Just like that we were on the trail and running hard. It was about 10 minutes after we had left the aid station that we started to see a runner flying downhill behind us, almost as though they were trying to catch up to us. Me: WTF? I can’t run any faster. They’ll pass us. Mike: That’s not the girl and her pacer. It’s a single headlamp. That’s Tim! I sighed in relief. Me: Tim is that you?! Tim: Yeah! We switched pacers and Mike went back to Berryman while Tim continued to run with me. As we moved forward, I filled Tim in on what was going on and how I needed to put enough distance between me and the second-place runner. Henpeck Hollow (94.4 miles) As Tim and I left Billy’s Branch aid station at 84.1 miles, the second-place female was holding steady right behind me, so I grabbed two slices of PB&J and pushed forward hard. It was about 90 miles into the race that I started to feel really sluggish and was slowing down, starving and whining and not running at all. Tim tried to motivate me to run, but I just wasn’t having it. I asked Tim if it was possible for me to finish in under 27 hours, as last year’s first overall female finished in 27:07 hours. “NO, not at the rate you’re moving,” came his blatant reply. I was a little irritated, but one thing I’ve learned about Tim is that he’s a no BS kind of guy. And I needed the reality check. I was barely pushing a 19 minute/mile, and Tim was no miracle worker. So, we pushed harder and made our way to Henpeck Hollow, the aid station I had captained last year. Our group was taking it on again this year, and I was greeted with a lot of cheers, smiles and positive reinforcement. A shot of bourbon and coke later, Tim and I were off to the finish. But it wasn’t easy. In fact, my entire 100-mile run boiled down to this last 6.2-mile stretch. We were about 95.6 miles in when I pulled over to take a piss. As I walked back to Tim, who was standing 15 paces ahead of me and waiting patiently while I pulled the draw strings on my tights, from the corner of my eye I saw the second-place female runner with her pacer. “Good work,” she said, passing me on the trail. She was maybe five steps ahead of me, and I shot past her straight to where Tim was. All I remember saying was, “Let’s go! Run fast. Don’t stop, and hold the pace.” Tim did just that. We ran hard for the next mile or so, until we came to a turn in the trail and I got impatient, so I jumped in front of Tim and we ran a negative split all the way to the finish. We were about a quarter-mile from the finish line when the conversation went something like this: Me: My legs are going to hate me tomorrow. I am going to hate me tomorrow. It hurts! Tim: That was freakin’ awesome! Did you think you would finish in under 27 hours? Me: What!?! Conclusion:
First female overall, 16th runner at the finish line, 26:55 hours. Not only that, but this was my 100-mile PR, on a very technical and hilly course. Things I learned about myself: I don’t quite enjoy playing the cat and mouse game, as it takes the joy out of the “run free” concept. Now, don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t change a thing about OT 100, and I did enjoy the adrenaline rush of winning and all that comes with it. I wouldn’t have pushed myself as hard if I hadn’t set out with a definitive goal and had pacers that understood that and pushed my rear. But, there is something about being the frontrunner that just isn’t me. I run to free my mind and will continue to do so without the added pressure of placing in a race. So, to the year 2015, I say thank you and goodbye. Bring on 2016! Author: Shalini Kovach is the founder and lead organizer of Terrain Trail Runners. This was my second 100-mile race of the year, falling on the heels of Kettle Moraine in June. As race week approached, I was nervous. This one would take me completely out of my comfort zone; not only would this be my first race outside of the Midwest, but it was a point-to-point race and much of it took place above 7,000 feet. (When you live 614 feet above sea level, the odds aren’t exactly in your favor.) I would also be flying solo for this time, as two days prior to race day I found myself without a pacer. So, assuming I finished in one piece, I had no means of transportation to get me back to my car. Panic! After freaking out just a little (read: a LOT) I saddled up for Flagstaff and headed out alone. Opening Credits Race: Flagstaff to Grand Canyon Stagecoach Line 100-Mile Ultra and Relay Organizers: Ian Torrence and Arizona Trail Association Location/Course: The race begins at Hotshots Ranch, north of Flagstaff. The course passes under Arizona’s highest mountain, Humphrey’s Peak, through the high alpine meadows of the Hart Prairie Preserve, across 422-square-mile Babbitt Ranch and along the Coconino Rim, with gorgeous views of the Grand Canyon, Painted Desert and Navajo Mountain. Finish is near the entrance of Grand Canyon National Park in the small gateway community of Tusayan, Arizona. Distance: 100 miles point to point Elevation: The course starts at 7,400 feet, reaches a maximum elevation of 8,800, (most of which is concentrated in the first 6 miles) and finishes at 6,600 feet with approximately 7,000 feet of climbing. Terrain: The course ranges from single track to varying degrees of double track and forest dirt roads. Sections of the trails are covered with heavily vegetated ponderosa pine and alpine aspen forests to sparsely vegetated pinion-juniper grasslands and back again. The terrain is mountainous and rocky. Difficulty: Intermediate Time Limit: 30 hours (100 mile) Runner: Shalini Kovach Gear:
Nutrition (approximately 2,200 calories):
Goals & Training After having run and successfully finished a 100-miler in June, I was looking for a challenge, something that would take me a step forward yet not completely shred me mentally and physically. Flagstaff had been on the list, and as mentioned above, the race presented what I would call a “scenic challenge.” Now, 100 miles is a long way to run, and it seems like my last two 100-mile races have come with issues during and post-race. So, the goal for this race was to try and run without issues and let the trail dictate what kind of experience I was going to have — something I think I’ve gotten really good with is running by feel. Leading up to Flagstaff, my peak training was 78 miles a week. Thereafter, I consistently dropped my mileage all the way to a three-week taper before the race. Four things I incorporated into my training for this race were hill repeats, power hiking, working on my decent/down-hill running technique and pacing (80% of my running was done at a pace well below my threshold). Seeing as I wouldn’t be able to train for altitude, I consistently pushed for that vertical; my average weekly elevation gain was 6,500 to 8,500 feet. Now, for some of you, that elevation gain is attainable in a day’s trot of 5 to 7 miles, but for flatlander standards, that elevation gain sometimes required hours of running on the same hills (“cardiac hill” was my bestie). As for power hiking, I wanted to be able to maintain at least a steady pace of 15 minutes/mile on the terrain I was running. Why the concentration on power hiking? Quite simply because when shit breaks down and your primary goal becomes to get your rear to the finish line before cutoff, there’s nothing that’s going to save you like power hiking. It helps break up the constant running motion and shake off some of the fatigue and lets you continue to move forward without having to completely stop. Race Report The night before the race I’d connected with a couple of other runners who were also going to Flagstaff, so race morning I had a ride to get me to the start line. How I was going to get back after I finished was still up in the air. I needed to clear my head, so I focused on getting through the finish, then dealing with the rest. It was a crisp morning. The sun was out, and I was surrounded by gorgeous mountain peaks. I smelled the pine needles in the air and took it all in. It dawned on me that I was going to be on my own. It seemed like everyone else around me had a crew, friends, family or pacers cheering them on. “Time to make friends with yourself,” said the little voice in my head as Ian Torrence, the RD, finished the pre-race briefing. We hit the trail running, and just like that it was go time. Kelly Tank (Mile 21) It was a pretty uneventful first mile following behind the front of the pack. I was right where I always am: the mid-packer. As we made our way under Arizona’s highest mountain, Humphrey’s Peak, which is the longest climb of the race and the most beautiful section of the course, we ran through the high alpine meadows of the Hart Prairie Preserve towards Bismark Lake and made our way downhill through some switchbacks surrounded by gorgeous spruce, fir, ponderosa and aspens along the course to Kelly Tank aid station. I stopped numerous times in the first 12-mile section at the start of the race, sometimes to take photos and capture what my eyes and mind were seeing, and other times simply to catch my breath. As I ran this section of the course, I noticed ever so slightly a bit of vertigo and a lingering headache that would stay with me for the next 30 miles. As soon as I would try and push pace, it would hit me even harder. My heart rate was elevated, and I could barely hold a conversation without grasping for breath. WTH? I was getting frustrated with myself, as I wasn’t even running that hard yet. I was unable to regulate my breathing, and I was being passed by all these runners who seemed to be moving along smoothly without any issues. Soon enough, I fell towards the back of the pack. I tried to clear my head as I continued to run/hike simply to catch my breath and drop my heart rate. If this was what the day had in store for me, not only would it make for a long and miserable 100 miles, but there was no telling if I would make the cutoff. My legs felt fine — in fact, I wanted to push pace if only I could steady my breathing and the headache would go away — and with a slight panic I left Kelly Tank aid station at 21 miles into the race only 1.5 hours ahead of the cutoff. “Just hold pace and keep it steady. As long as you’re moving, you’ll be fine. Focus,” said the little voice in my head. Cedar Ranch (Mile 33) The next section of the race took us through multiple ranches, road junctions and little to no tree cover. As we made our way to Cedar Ranch aid station, it was mid-afternoon and the sun was bearing down on us. It got hot, the kind of hot where you don’t even notice you’re sweating because the moisture gets sucked out of your pores. I could feel the sun on my shoulders. I was parched, and I could feel the dryness as I swallowed. I was drinking a ton of water and dumping some on my head and face as I continued to move forward. My breathing had regulated, and my head had finally caught up to my legs, so running felt more natural. Except now I was dealing with the heat. I passed three runners in this section; two were doing the death march and one was stalled due to cramping. I stopped to check on him and then moved forward. I noticed a pickup truck and two volunteers with water. Water! I ran up to them; they had driven back, as it was getting hot and they wanted to make sure runners had enough water. I filled up my handheld, drank some and threw some on my head. I mentioned the guys behind me and kept on running. A couple of miles later, I saw another pickup truck. They stopped and gave me ice that was a life saver! Before I knew it, I was at Cedar Ranch, starving but felt pretty good. I refilled everything and grabbed my headlamp. The next drop bag access would be at 54 miles, and it was going to get dark between now and then. “What’s there to eat,” I asked? Someone said chili and cheese quesadillas, but you probably don’t want chili. Whaaaaaaat? To heck with that! I poured myself a bowl of chili, grabbed a cheese quesadilla and ate to my heart’s content, then made my way out. Boundary (Mile 55) This next section of the course was brutal on many levels. First, there was no tree cover at all. Sections of the course were flat, dirt/gravel road with dust slapping you in the face and a head wind that made it hard to push forward. I was starting to lose my cool a bit. Up ahead, I could see a female runner disappearing into the cloud of dirt. I stopped to look around me; it was vast. I was surrounded by mountains, and despite the nuisance of having to run this section, I was able to take in how beautiful my surroundings were. When I came up on the next aid station, all I remember saying to the volunteers was, “That was f**ked up.” They laughed and said the next section had some switchbacks and varied terrain, so it would get better. Onward I went, repeating to myself, “Just wait for the sun to go down. It will get better.” And so it did! I watched the sun going down as I ran, and a full moon hung over the sky as the crystal blue grew darker. I quickly noticed the change in temperature. It was getting cool, and I was actually digging the run as I made my way to Boundary aid station. Quite a few runners were just camped out at this aid station. I made a B-line for my drop bag, waited for the Porta Potty to open up, then shuffled my way to a complete gear change. I went from running in shorts and T-shirt to long running tights, long-sleeve shirt, lightweight jacket, gloves and a beanie. As I sat there, digging through my bag, making sure I had everything for the night stretch of the run, I could smell cigar. It smelled so good that I had to ask who was smoking. Someone spoke up and said they’d get me one if I’d like a boost for the next section of trail. I laughed and continued on. This was an interesting stretch, and I passed five more runners. I was feeling pretty good and digging the run in the cool, moonlit sky. Later, as I looked at my GPS data, I had spent 25 minutes at this aid station. Who cares, right?! Russell Tank (Mile 68) This stretch of the run was pretty uneventful, other than the fact that I was running steady and singing out loud to my iPod. I felt better than I had the entire day. There were two other runners about a half-mile behind me, holding steady. My goal was to stay ahead and not let anyone pass me. I rolled into the Russell Tank aid station, and there was music and disco lights. Music was welcoming — the disco lights, not so much. I filled up my handheld, ate and was up and out. I dropped the two other runners who were at my heels the entire time. The next stretch of the course until we hit Hull Cabin at mile 80 had one water drop and no other aid or support. It was going to be the longest 13 miles I’d ever run. As I made my way out from the aid station, about 2 miles into the run, I took a drink of water and could feel my stomach turn. The water tasted like burnt plastic. Ugh! I dumped it out. Luckily, I had another mile to the water drop and sufficient Heed/Perpetuem in my bladder. At the water drop, I rinsed my handheld, drank some water and filled up. I reached back to feel my bladder, and it had enough fluid in it. “This should last me the next 10 miles,” I said to myself. This section of the course was absolutely beautiful, but also challenging, with some steep climbs, switchbacks and drops to rolling hills and technical terrain. I wished I was running this section in daylight and could see everything around me. It was the Kaibab National Forest section, and the tall pines stood towering above my head as I cruised through the single track in the company of my own shadow as the moon hung low and peered through the gaps in the trees. In the middle of the single track, I saw two tiny eyes reflect in the light of my headlamp, and as I got near I saw something fly lopsided to my left and then across. The two eyes landed on a fallen tree limb. Is that a bat? I stopped and turned to look. It was a bird of some kind. Burrowing owl? I reached for my camera, but when I turned it was gone. (Later, I found out it was a poorwill.) I continued to run forward and saw two other sets of eyes that took flight. I assumed more poorwill. It was at about 73 miles into the run that I sat down on a tree stump to replace my dying headlamp battery and realized I was all out of fluids. I looked around me. The forest was great and unforgiving. I felt the soft breeze flow through the ground vegetation. I felt insignificant, small. “What is the purpose of this?” It was the voice in my head, and just like that I was crying. It was completely involuntary. I could hear my subconscious mind asking, “WTF? Get up, get up you need to run.” I pulled my sorry butt up and I started to run. It was, in a way, liberating. I ran the next 7 miles without water and didn’t stop until I got to Hull Cabin. Hull Cabin (mile 80) Ah, Hull Cabin! This is where I spent 25 minutes talking to Neil Weintraub. Seriously!?! I had the run in 26 hours, but I didn’t care. It was the best conversation I’d had in the past 20 hours. You know how sometimes you meet a complete stranger and you just connect? Yeah, this was it! We talked about races. We talked about trails. We talked about everything in between. Come to find out after I finished the race that Neil is the original Arizona Trail Runner and “the Godfather” of the Flagstaff Trail Running community. I was so busy talking that I completely forgot I was racing and had another 20 miles to go. I turned to look outside and saw I wouldn’t need the headlamp anymore. The sun was up. Dang, I’d better get moving! So, I said goodbye to Neil. As I was leaving, he pointed out that I should look over to my left and catch the sun come up on the south rim. I did just that! I walked over to the edge and looked down at the Grand Canyon, took a deep breath and kept moving forward. Watson Tank (mile 88) I pulled into the Watson Tank aid station and saw three runners that I’d been playing catch with. At each aid station I pulled into, they were headed out. I didn’t think I would ever catch them, but here they were. Something in my brain clicked. I grabbed a banana, threw down some Coke and was running. I ran hard for the next 3 miles. I needed to put enough distance between me and the other three runners. This is where I meet Luis; he had been running in the wrong direction for the last 3 miles, so after we talked, he started to pace with me. I tried to lose him, but he was always there, hobbling along, so finally I gave in and decided if we were going to pace together the rest of the way I might as well get to know the guy. Me: How many ultras have you run. Luis: This is my third. Me: What have you run before this? Luis: Bigfoot 200 and Tahoe 200. Me: WTF? Who does that? We laughed so hard at that. Right there and then I decided to run to the finish with him, no matter what my finish time ended up being. So, we started to walk. I could tell he was hurting and was unable to keep up with me running or power hiking. We talked about racing, kids, family. Come to find out Luis had gotten off course twice; he should have finished at 4 a.m. Instead, he took a hour and a half nap at Russell Tank and was hurt bad, but quitting was not an option, as his family was cheering him on and waiting for him to finish. Luis: You should keep running and finish ahead of me. Me: No, I’ll hang with you and we cross the finish together. Now, if you were a girl, I’d be leaving you in the dirt to finish this damn thing. Tusayan/Reed Tank (mile 97.5) Luis and I both stopped to fill up our water, ate some food and I threw some ice in my buff. I was starting to get hot again, and I was in cool weather gear, making it even hotter. We started our last trek to the finish, and as we approached, Luis’s kids ran towards us all excited and talking a mile a minute, wanting to run us into the finish. And just like that, we were at the finish line! Done! My time was 27:16:33, making this my 100-mile PR by an hour. I finished 10th Overall, 4th Female and 1st in my Age Group! Conclusion So, yes, 100 miles is a long way to run, especially when doing it alone. But it’s what you learn about yourself that’s more important than how far you ran and what time you got. It’s about the people you meet, places you get to go on your own two feet and the connections you make along the way that you cherish — not so much the bling, although the buckle is pretty sweet! I ended up hitching a ride back to town with the infamous Ian Torrence. Not only did I get to hang with the Flagstaff to Grand Canyon crew post-race, I sat in Ian’s truck and talked my ass off as he drove me right to my hotel room! (I was star struck just a little bit.) In conclusion, this race was absolutely breathtaking during both the day and night. It’s very well done, with great organizers, volunteers, swag and a kick-ass finisher buckle. It has a homegrown and organic feel to it, where the ultra community comes together to truly inspire each other and see you through the finish. Definitely worth doing! Author: Shalini Kovach is the founder and lead organizer of Terrain Trail Runners.
This is my second 100-mile race and also my second year of running ultra distances. Due to unforeseen events, my first race of the year was cancelled, so Kettle Moraine became my first race for the 2015 running season. It was much anticipated, since the last time I found myself at the start line for a race was in October of 2014. Opening Credits Race: Kettle Moraine 100 Mile Endurance Run Organizers: Jason Dorgan and Tim Yanacheck Location: La Grange, Wisconsin / Kettle Moraine State Park on the Ice Age National Scenic Trail (IAT) Distance: 100 miles, with the course consisting of two different out-and-back sections Elevation: 8,801 feet ascent/decent (100 mile) as listed on the race page; my GPS came in just under 10,000 feet Terrain: 80-percent wooded terrain, with the rest meandering through prairie or marsh areas. Part of the course is a rollercoaster of hills featuring rocks and roots scattered about to various degrees. Other sections are gently rolling, with relatively smooth running surfaces and pine sections that give you a soft bed of pine needles to run on. Though the hills are not long and/or especially steep, they can take a tremendous toll on the quads. Difficulty: Intermediate. Time Limit: 32 hours (100 mile) Runner: Shalini Kovach Pacers, Crew & Support: Nicole Correnti and Pat Graves Gear:
Nutrition (Approximately 2,200 Calories):
Goals & Training I ran the 100K at Kettle Moraine last year and loved it! So, I had a certain comfort level of those 62 miles of the course. I’d heard some stories (good and bad) about the last 38 miles and was curious to find out for myself. Aside from the above, I wanted to beat my 100K time from last year and also wanted to knock down some time from my last 100-mile race, though I didn’t have an exact finish time in my head. Lastly, I wanted a ticket into Western States, and since Kettle Moraine is a qualifier, signing up was a no-brainer. I totally over-trained for my last 100-miler, and heading into the race I had recurring overuse issues. By all means I wanted to avoid that this time around, so leading up to Kettle Moraine my peak training mileage was 85 miles a week, and thereafter I consistently maintained a weekly average of 62 to 65 miles. My longest training run was 38 miles, one month before the race, and then I followed a three-week taper. Two things I incorporated into my training this year were hill repeats and power hiking. Although was a little inconsistent with hill repeats, I maintained an average weekly elevation gain of 5,500 to 6,200. Now, for some of you, that elevation gain is attainable in a day’s trot of 5 to 7 miles, but for flatlander standards that elevation gain required a lot of work. As for power hiking, I wanted to be able to maintain at least a steady pace of 15 minutes/mile on the terrain I was running. Why the concentration on power hiking? Quite simply because when shit breaks down and your primary goal becomes to get your rear to the finish line before cutoff, there’s nothing that’s going to save you like power hiking. I was noticing some tightness in my left hip after my long runs but, nothing alarming, so I continued to train and see my massage therapist on a monthly basis to keep things fluid. I’m not a gym rat, so my cross training consisted of logging cycling miles on my roadie in between my runs, as and when I could find time. Race Report I was surprisingly calm on race morning. There was never a doubt in my mind that I wouldn’t be able to finish. I was running the logistics in my head, and my race strategy really just consisted of picking up on the highs and running it out until I hit a low and then working my way through that until I hit a high again. It’s a vicious cycle, and you’re almost always guaranteed to get sucked into it. The key for me was not to let the lows tank my race and recognize those highs and use them to my advantage. Nagging at the back of my head was the question I’d been avoiding: What if your hip gave out? Doesn’t matter until it happens, so on I rolled. I started the race with my running partner Tim L. We’d been training together for little over a year, and most training runs I’d just follow his lead with a twinge of jealousy because I wished I could run as gracefully as he does, tiptoeing and gliding over the single track. Along with a few others from STL, we trotted along and waited for the crowd to thin out; somewhere along the way, I lost Tim. I felt good; I was confident in my training and was in much better shape than I was when I last undertook a 100-mile race. After a pretty uneventful 15 miles, I hit Emma Carlin, stocked up on Hammer gels, added another Hammer bar to my pack, threw back some Coke and saw my crew. Pat gave me a wild “aaaawwwwoooo,” something we do in a group that I belong to, so we know that a Coyote Runner is on the trail or in sight. On I rolled, ready to embrace the dreaded meadows towards Hwy 67. As I started to walk to across the road, I heard a familiar voice call out to me, “You doggin’ it?” That was all the boost I needed. It was Tim, and we paced the entire meadows all the way out to our next big drop bag, crew access aid station, Scuppernong, at 31.6 miles into the race. I refilled my bladder with some Heed and Perpetuem, threw down some Coke, ate some oranges and banana, and we were off again. I was booking it, yeah, hitting a sub-10 minute/mile. I’d lost Tim again as I continued to lope along, keeping a group of four runners ahead of me in sight. I heard some yelling behind me, but I was on a high and didn’t bother to stop. Then, a few minutes later, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around to see a young guy no more than 23 years old standing there. The Guy: “Are you in the race?” Me: “Umm, yeah.” The Guy: “You’re going the wrong way. You had to make a left about half a mile back. Some guys called for you, but you kept running. Since you were still in sight, I figured I’d come after you.” Me: “F**K! I was just following those runners ahead.” We both turned to look — no runners were in sight. I cussed a few more times and then thanked the guy for coming out to get me. I was about ¾-mile off course by the time we made it back to the turnaround. I paced with the guy for the next 2 miles or so, to the next aid station, and thanked him a million times for coming after me. As I continued to run, I picked up Tim somewhere along the way just in time to hit the freakin’ meadows again. It was starting to get hot, and the sun was bearing down on us. We approached an aid station, threw ice into our packs and bottles, and I wrapped some in my bandana around my neck and wrapped a cool-off towel on my head with more ice in there. All I remember at that point was telling Tim I had to sit my ass down, so I did. Then I recall some conversation that went along like this: Tim: “You look like Aunt Jemima with that wrap on your head.” Me: “So?” As I stuffed my face with food. Pat: “She probably doesn’t even know who Aunt Jemima is.” Me: “I do too know who she is. It’s the syrup lady.” We laughed so hard at that. Then it was off my rear and onto the trails with an affirming “aawwwooo” from Pat. Tim and I paced through the meadows once more on our way back to Bluff aid station. Somewhere along the way, Tim hit a high and took off. As I ran the next 2 miles to Bluff aid station, I felt a bit like I was going to bonk, 55.6 miles into the race. I pulled into the aid station and once again was greeted with an “aawwwooo!” Boy, was I glad to see Pat there. I sat down and needed to eat. I saw Tim refuel, and he turned to me and said he had to keep moving, so onwards he went. I called out that I’d catch up or see him at Nordic. In reality, I didn’t think I was going to catch up to Tim, seeing as I was sitting down to gather myself and he was already on his way to Nordic. I ate quite a bit of food as I sat down at Bluff aid station, threw back some Coke, and as Pat helped me with my pack and pulled out my headlamp, all I remember saying to her was, “I’m not using this lamp. I have to run to Nordic while it’s still light out, I just do.” Pat’s reply was, “You need to slow down. You’re pushing your pace hard.” Just like that, I was off again. I’m not sure what came over me, but I ran the entire 7 miles to Nordic. Much to my surprise, I caught up to Tim about 3 miles out of Nordic and as I ran past him I said, “Let’s go!” Tim just mumbled something as I continued to run. At 63.2 miles — boom! — I was at Nordic in 14 hours and 41 minutes (without having to use my headlamp). I’d beaten my 100K time of 15 hours and 54 minutes. As I came across the finish line, I was greeted with lots of “aawwooos” from my crew and my pacer Nicole, who patiently waited for me as I swapped my shoes and socks, refilled my pack and ate some more food. Then, we headed out for the last out-and-back to the finish. “Last stretch” was what my brain was telling me. I started to do the math in my head, thinking even at my worst I could wrap up this race in 25 to 26 hours. I felt I needed to push for it, as my left hip was feeling a bit wonky. I couldn’t let it tank my pace. Onward we went as I paced with Nicole, slow but steady. The night set in, and I remember stopping to look up at the sky through a clearing in the trees. It was blazing with stars. It was a gorgeous night to be out running, with a cool breeze and perfect temperature. I felt good despite 70 miles on my legs. Then, just like that, I hit a high and ran with it all the way out to Rice Lake. I remember looking over to see the moon reflected in the water as it shimmered; it truly was a breathtaking sight, and I was coherent enough to enjoy the view before my eyes. I was 81.5 miles in when, you know, shit broke down. Yep, I remember it precisely because I knew then and there it would be a hard push to the finish — and that time goal I was hoping to nail was not going to happen. I stopped my GPS and just focused on keeping a steady pace. My left hip flexor was starting to lock up on me, and my quads were pretty much shot from all the up and down hills, which at first don’t appear too bad but later in the race come back to bite you in the rear. This was my “bad news never has good timing” moment. I told myself I couldn’t shut down mentally, I just couldn’t. As we made our way back to the Hwy 12 aid station, I was 86.3 miles into the race. We stopped to eat and fuel. I dropped my pack and swapped it for a handheld, threw in some gels and a couple of Hammer Endurolyte Fizz tabs in my pocket. Nicole taped my left quad, as I was starting to feel a sharp pain in my hip down to my quad. “What time is it,” I asked. Not quite 5 a.m. someone replied. Doing the math again in my head, I still had a chance to beat my time for the last 100-mile race. Let’s go! We power hiked between short bursts of runs, and repeat. I remember hitting every root and rock on the trail as we made our way back to the finish — my feet where on stupid mode. We came around the corner to the lake once again, and it was light out, the early hours of the morning. It was cloudy, and the sky threatened rain any minute. Nicole and I both looked over to the lake. She pointed out the two cranes that sat in the middle of the water on a small piece of land. While we ran by, they both took flight into the dawn, the fog and the trickling rain. It was raining. Gah! We ran the next two hours in the rain, soaking wet, and we hit a few muddy spots as we made our way to Tamarack aid station. This was the last aid station before finish. “Five more miles to go,” I heard Nicole say to me. I dreaded those 5 miles, 5 miles of constant up and down and then up again, seemingly never-ending hills that I’d already run three times before. “I don’t want to do this,” I said. “Umm, yes you do,” said Nicole. I wanted so badly for her to feel sorry for me because I felt sorry for myself, but there was no time for mercy as Nicole kept edging me forward. I can honestly tell you that I’ve never hit so many highs and lows as I did in the last 5 miles to the finish. I questioned everything from why I chose to run a 100-miler, to maybe ultra running just isn’t for me, to maybe my body is shot seeing as how something always breaks down (on my last 100-mile race it was my IT band and now my hip flexor. WTH!?!) I found myself standing at the bottom of a hill that I had no desire to climb. I was 3 miles out to the finish. Nicole was already at the top of the hill. I just stood there at the bottom and said, “I can’t climb up this shit anymore.” I was beginning to complain, getting really edgy and not enjoying it. I wished I had trekking poles to give me that little uphill push. Still no mercy from Nicole. All I heard as she continued forward was, “Don’t look at how far up you have to climb. Just look at one step ahead of you and get your ass up here.” OK, simple enough. I made it up to the top of the hill. Now how the hell was I going to go down with a blow up hip flexor and completely shot quads? This was when things got interesting. We started to invent ways to go downhill: sideways shuffle failed, as it hurts my hips; zigzag the downhill, not a smooth move. Ah, let’s go downhill backwards! This helped, but I couldn’t see jack, and wiping out on your ass when you have 98 miles on your legs isn’t a good idea. So, back to forward progress. At this point, Pat met up with us, and I now had two pacers heckling me to the finish. I was annoyed with myself, and all I did was grumble and power hike to the finish. Done! 28:11:51 was my finish time. Conclusion My second hundy in the books! I did the best I could with what the day dealt me, and despite all the issues in the last 14 miles I managed to shave off 2 hours and 14 minutes from my last 100-mile finish time. I’m still grumbling over “could have” and “should have” as I write this. I’m not going to lie: I’m a little disappointed with my finish time, but I know what I need to change with my training to better tackle the hills. What’s done is done, and now it’s on to Flagstaff and the Grand Canyon Stagecoach Line 100-Mile Ultra on September 26, 2015. Author: Shalini Kovach is the founder and lead organizer of Terrain Trail Runners.
|
AuthorsOur blog writers are members of Terrain Trail Runners, local athletes just like you, who want to share their love and knowledge of the sport. Archives
March 2023
Categories
All
|