“The question to ask right now is what’s really happening in Mexico? While they are at war, we come together to make peace here in the bottom of the Canyon.” – Micah True Just three days ago I was in Mexico’s Copper Canyon, excited beyond belief to run in what is one of the world’s most fabled ultramarathons. Then a local police commander was allegedly kidnapped and two officers executed by a drug cartel, and as a result the race was cancelled due to safety concerns. Now, as I sit here in the comfort of my home, I ponder multiple questions dealing with violence, community and self. But before I go any further in describing my experience from this past weekend, and the takeaways, there’s a thing or two you need to know about the reason I picked this race and write this blog. I turn 40 in 2015, and a lot of thought went into choosing the races I hope to run this year. I first saw a write up about ultrarunning legend Micah True in my news feed in 2013. After having read it, I found myself increasingly obsessing with the race he founded. So, as my fourth decade on this planet came around, it made sense to sign up and go find out for myself what the fuss was all about. Caballo Blanco would be my first race of the season. Once registered, I wouldn’t shut up about the race. Then, in the company of running friends, someone mentioned the book Born to Run. I don’t read, I said. I just don’t have the patience for it. This was the wrong answer, and in a matter of a week I was hooked up with an audio version of the book and told I needed to listen to it before heading to Caballo Blanco. Finally, in November of last year, I reluctantly gave it a listen. And…it all made sense! The joy of running, the fascination with pushing beyond boundaries, the spiritual connection with self, other runners and the world. I was more than certain of my decision to run the race than ever. Southbound Fast forward to February 2015. At this point I’d connected with a few other runners who were signed up and headed to Copper Canyon. I can’t stress enough that if Caballo Blanco is on your radar you need to connect with other folks headed there. It took five months of logistics and fine-tuning the details before we were confident we could get there and back in the time frame we had (roughly five days). Did I say I was beyond ecstatic? Leaving from St. Louis were Tim and I. We would meet Jason and David in Chihuahua, Mexico, and then commence with the long drive to Urique and Copper Canyon. This is no ordinary race; it’s a journey, and it’s what destination races are all about. So I thought, anyway, until my bags were packed and loaded into a van full of other runners. If you haven’t been in a van full of people on the way to an adventure, you’re missing out. Stuck in with a bunch of male ultrarunners, I was the only girl, wedged between Carlos, Don and Francisco, who we’d also picked up. The dynamic was a little strange at first, but then Don started talking. Intro to Don: As we would find out, he’s been running ultras for 35 years. This is one MOFO distance runner, and he has lived a very colorful life. I found myself wondering what it would be like to live as him for a day. The drive out to Urique was gorgeous — so scenic and peaceful — but also treacherous, with unfinished back roads and very rocky terrain. Though a couple of us felt motion sick, conversation flowed inside the van. Suddenly, we were passed by a truckload of boys, no older than 15 or 16 years old, with guns in their hands. Cartel! They leisurely waved at us as they drove by. It was a little unnerving, but I was aware of this likelihood as I’d stepped off the plane in Mexico. Not once did it make me question my decision to be there. Nine hours and multiple stops later, we finally arrived in Urique. My first impression was how remote it was. The entire town is a strip comprised of two or three miles, totally self-contained. There was something very raw and peaceful about it. Calm, untouched, beautiful! Our hotel room was nothing fancy. Actually, it was a welcome change from all the modernization and craziness that we surround ourselves with on a daily basis. Ready to Run On Friday morning Tim, David and I were up and out the door for a course preview, five miles out and five miles back. The sun was bearing down on us one mile into the hike, and I was hot. This course was no joke; it was going to be a tough race, not just the terrain but the temperature, lack of shade and all the other things factored into being in the canyon. I found myself reevaluating my strategy. I broke away from the boys and hiked for a bit with a couple on their third annual pilgrimage to Urique. They weren’t running this year but had driven from Colorado with their two kids, who were taking part in the kids’ race. The parents were both volunteering on race day and helping out with the various other projects. Done with the hike, we made our way back into town and saw two pickup trucks with armed guards pull up as we arrived. They were searching for something or someone. I can’t speak for David and Tim, but I was pretty oblivious to the scene in front of us. We walked past the trucks and the somewhat anxious scene on the street and went to our rooms. We changed and connected with Carlos over lunch, then went on to explore the town some more. By that evening, things were different in the town. It was somehow more alive, stirred from the slow, lazy slumber of the past 24 hours. I turned my head to see the strip swarming with the legendary Raramuri Runners, the local tribes people who take part in Caballo Blanco in order to receive maize, beans, rice, flour and seed corn for their families. It was surreal, lovely and daunting at the same time. Tim, David and I stood at the corner of the street, talking and taking it all in as things got real. We hung out that evening after dinner and watched the movie “Run Free: The True Story of Caballo Blanco” in the town square. As the day came to an end, the enormity of where I was and what I was part of dawned on me. I wasn’t the only fool who had travelled to Urique to try to become a small thread in this amazing tapestry. I was surrounded by nearly 100 international runners from 23 countries, 260 Mexican nationals from outside Copper Canyon and more than 500 Raramuri runners — all connected as one in that moment. It was exhilarating. I was nervous yet excited to be a part of it, and also looking forward to taking on the 50 miles of challenging race course. Saturday morning rolled around, and we were up and moving at 7 a.m. as the entire town buzzed in preparation for the kids’ run. Tim had put on the Superman costume costume he’d brought from home and was hanging with the locals, doing what Tim does best. Everyone was stopping to chat him up and take photos with him — and, yes, he was digging all the attention. It was such a great, simple, happy moment. David, Carlos and I hung around the sidelines, handing out candy as the kids ran past. Later, as we made our way to grab lunch and head to packet pickup, there was some whispering on the street about security concerns and our race cutoff time being pushed up. Someone mentioned people being dragged out of town and shot. Huh? As we sat at lunch, speculating, David suggested we find the race director and try to get some answers. We made it back to the town center and caught up with Josue, the RD, and were told that after a long discussion, they had in fact decided to cancel the race due the unrest, security concerns and the unwillingness to put the runners’ lives in danger. They were going to make the announcement at 4 p.m. in the town square, as everyone gathered for the evening’s festivities. Come again? I wasn’t sure I’d heard him right. Security concerns? Had someone really been killed? No, this is all wrong. This can’t be happening. Surely we can still run. I mean, we’re all here. We came out to run. Reacting to the News After my initial reaction, and having had a little time (and a beer) to process the decision, I saw that the situation was much bigger than me. In fact, it was bigger than all the racers. As we sat discussing our exit strategy and trying not to panic, it occurred to me that I could leave, but the situation in Mexico would remain the same. At that moment, the race being cancelled didn’t matter. This wasn’t about a race at all. What mattered was that we were in the here and now with people — athletes, organizers, parents, tibes people, townsfolk — all brought together and living a life touched by the joy of running. As it appeared to be our last night together in Urique, since we would all be going home instead of running on Sunday morning, we agreed it was going to be a celebration. A few too many drinks later, we made it the town square. Though happy, I was still restless and terribly disappointed. It was like a perfect storm had hit home. We stood there, side by side, as the cultural festivities went on per schedule, knowing that the race was not happening. Then the official cancellation announcement came. I’m not exactly sure what I was expecting, but the scene before my eyes was not one of disappointment, anger and shock but quite the contrary. Within minutes of the announcement being made, the vibe of the town center changed. It was like we were being swallowed in the comradery. People held up signs representing the part of the world they were from, singing and shouting; they hugged and held up the peace sign. Sure, there were some tears, but there were also comforting shoulders and smiles. Words can’t do justice to how I felt at that moment. It was surreal. It was the right thing to do. Cancelling a race is never an easy decision, but this one was a much harder decision to make because it impacted not only the runners who had traveled from across the globe, but also the locals who count on the race for as part of their liveilhood. But just like that, for me anyway, it made sense. This was meant to be. The race might be off, but the message of belonging to something bigger than yourself, the message of peace that Micah True had maintained, would never be cancelled. We weren’t there just to run a 50-mile race. This was bigger than us — this was bigger than everyone present — it was about being able to Run Free. Headed Home We packed up the van once more as we prepared to leave Urique on Sunday morning. The town continued the race with a modified course and mostly the locals running it. We left with a couple of other runners who had not been part of our original crew. Hello, Gerardo and the charming “Finn” (whose name is actually Mikko, unbeknownst to me for much of the day). Another nine hours of driving in the van later we, arrived in Chihuahua. We spent the next day together, all of us running at a local park as our way of honoring Caballo Blanco and what the race stands for, what it meant to each one of us. Now, as I write this, I’m not the same person I was when I left St. Louis. What I experienced has changed me not only as a runner but as an individual. I feel blessed to have met so many beautiful, complex and amazing runners. We created bonds that only running can bring.
I’ve never once questioned my decision to sign up for this race, and I’m not about to do so now. This will forever be an experience I will hold dear to my heart — the laughs, the bullshit and the love. And, yes, I’ve already asked myself the question: Will I go back to run it in 2016? If you’ve been closely reading this blog, I don’t need to answer that for you. You already know the answer is Yes Indeed! Author: Shalini Kovach is the founder and lead organizer of Terrain Trail Runners. I approached the Ozark Trail 100 like it was described to me, which was “a lot tougher than the Mark Twain 100.” I’d done the MT100 14 months earlier and had gone about it all wrong. It had been my first year of running ultras, and I went from the Double Chubb 50K in March to the Berryman 50 mile in May to the MT100 in September. You name a problem, and I’m pretty sure I had it during the MT100. But it all boiled down to lack of experience. So, with another year of experience under my belt and a different approach to fueling, sodium intake and all around training, I toed the line with 62 other hopefuls. We had to be at the bus by 3:00 a.m. to check in and leave from Bass River Resort just east of Steelville, Mo. My wife, Sheila, and I had stayed the night in a cabin at the resort, so she drove me down to the departure point. We managed not to get poisoned by the carbon monoxide from the bus idling with the heaters full blast as we sat waiting for a couple of stragglers that never did show up. The temperature was right at freezing, so everyone was pretty bundled up. About 10 minutes late, we finally started our slow, bumpy, 50-mile ride to the starting point. The race began on time at 6:00 a.m. The starting line was on a gravel road, and we had to run that out 1.2 miles, around a cone, and back. Then a little jaunt down a blacktop road and a right turn, and we were in business. I had a CamelBak without the hydration pack in it. In its place was a bottle of Coke, a banana, four protein bars and five mini PayDay candy bars. I was carrying my 20-ounce Nathan bottle filled with water and a pouch that held five more mini PayDay candy bars and my dope bag. The dope bag was a baggie with a couple of Tums and 10 S-Caps. I’d run eight ultras and eight marathons up to this point and had bonked on all of them except a 50K and a 50 miler, and I’d fueled every one of them using GU. So, for this race, I did some pretty intense training using nothing but S-Caps and common ultra food. No doubt, it was going to be a test for me. The first 40 miles were pretty uneventful beside some lower back pain that started about 12 miles in. I hadn’t been training a whole lot with my CamelBak on, so I slid it off and hugged it to my chest for a few miles. That seemed to do the trick, as it didn’t bother me the rest of the run. I came into the Brooks Creek Aid Station and met my crew for the first time right at 3:40. My wife and good friends Rich and Renie KinKade told me I’d been running 13:20 minute miles through the first couple of aid stations. I was puzzled and asked them how they knew that. Rich said he was following me through the website. HAM radio operators were calling in our times at every aid station, and he’d just done the math. I knew they were going to be doing that, but I was impressed that it was working out — and that I was doing so well at this point. I had a piece of paper the aid station mileages on it, and I’d been jotting down my times as I left each station. I changed my socks, cleaned out my shoes, restocked my CamelBak, stuffed my face and was out of there at 3:50, which had me averaging 14:25 miles at that point. I knew I had to stay at less than 18-minute miles to reach my 30-hour finish time. I also knew it was about to get real rough. I’d read multiple race reports about the OT100 and was amused that the next 40 or so miles was referred to as “Murderer’s Row,” because this is where the majority of the DNFs occur. I’d run all of my previous races and training runs naked — as in no timing devices or other modern trinkets. However, I’d stopped at WalMart in Potosi on the way down and purchased a $10 watch at the last minute. Now, in my cold, miserable state of confusion, I was looking at that watch way too much. I was between Martin Road and Hazel Creek on a 9.6-mile stretch. According to my calculations, I should’ve been to the next aid station already. I stopped at a creek, the biggest one so far, and watched in amusement as a runner waded through it holding his shoes and socks, trying to navigate the rocky crossing barefoot. To each his own, I thought, and took off through the knee-deep water a little too fast, splashing it up to my crotch. I hit the very well marked entrance on the other side and said “hey” to the other runner as I went by him. I could hear his music jamming through his ear buds. Not sure he even knew I was ever there. It was cold, and now I was wet and second guessing myself. I stopped for the third or fourth time, thinking I’d somehow missed the Hazel Creek Aid Station. This stretch was probably the most runnable part of the whole course, and there I was jacking around and not going anywhere fast. I contemplated going back to the creek and seeing if I’d missed a cutoff somehow. I started getting mad at myself for not having more confidence. The mind games had begun, and I wasn’t handling them too well. I took out my aid station mileage list and saw it was nearly eight miles to Pigeon Roost. I told everyone within ear shot (nobody but me) that I must’ve missed the Hazel Creek Aid Station and I’d be damned if I was going to backtrack! I took off, totally demoralized, and came to yet another wide, knee-deep creek. I crossed that one and started climbing out of the bottomland. I got real cold real quick, so I start running to stay warm. Then I heard muffled talking drifting through the woods and saw the lights of Hazel Creek. I’ll be damned, I hadn’t miss it. I ran into Rich as I entered the aid station and he said, “You alright, bro?” I’d warned my crew earlier that I might have mood swings and get stupid late into the run. I don’t hide my anger very well, and I responded with something like, “I need some light, a seat, some coffee, my wool socks and I guess I just shot 30 hours in the ass didn’t I?” Renie and Sheila hugged me and got me seated. The next thing I knew, I was the center attention, as members of the St. Louis Ultrarunners Group (SLUG) and Terrain Trail Runners were hugging me and congratulating me on an awesome pace. I had six people helping me, and I was overwhelmed, smiling ear-to-ear and shaking like a leaf. Someone tried to get me over to the heater, and I responded with a “Hell no!” I knew I had to keep away from there, as the place was packed with runners just standing around trying to get warm — or that’s what it seemed. I recall Lee Dougherty getting my jacket out for me and Shalini and Bethany getting me some of the best potato soup and coffee I’ve ever tasted. My crew was busy helping me change my socks, putting new batteries in my light and I can’t recall what else. I knew I was getting colder the longer I sat there, so I darted out and jotted down the time at 11:10 on my paper. Later, my wife told me how impressed she was with the way everyone took care of the runners. I don’t recall going through Pigeon Roost, and I quit writing down my times after Hazel Creek. I passed through a couple minor creek crossings in ankle-deep water and then had an animal attack somewhere on this section of the trail. I was running a good pace, nice and light, water bottle in my right hand, when out of the dark came a big black object at my right foot. I jumped about three feet in the air and hopped off the trail. It took me a few seconds to realize I’d just been attacked by the shadow of my Nathan water bottle.
A little later, I came across three runners walking on a gravel road I’d just crossed. I hollered at them that the trail was over where I was. They were laughing and carrying on about how they’d lost the trail. As they filed in about 100 yard behind me, I recognized in their lights the green shirt one of them was wearing but couldn’t place who was wearing it. I’d started speed walking, as my quads were shot, and in a short time the green shirt caught up to me. “Oh, Mike, how’s it going? I thought that was you.” It was John Gobel. I’d met him on the Berryman earlier in the year. John had gotten lost getting to the start line and was 20 minutes late starting. He’d passed me hours ago, and now I’d caught back up to him. He’d done the Arkansas Traveler recently in 22 hours, so I was surprised at the problems he was having here. We ran and walked off and on until we were about a half-mile out from the Berryman Aid Station, then I had to stop to change my dead batteries and take a hike into the woods. I don’t know what time I got into Berryman, but things started getting a little clearer in my head. My crew helped me get my frozen shoelaces undone with a pair of pliers. I changed socks for the last time and restocked my PayDays and Coke. Rich informed me that not only was I going to get in under my 30-hour goal, but I had a good chance of hitting 28 hours. John headed out before I did, as he was having a hard time with the cold. I spent more time at Berryman than I did at any of the other aid stations, just getting situated for the last leg. I left there with a renewed confidence and energy. I got a half-mile or so out and realized I hadn’t had any S-Caps in a while, so I went for the pocket in my Nathan, but my dope bag wasn’t there. I stopped, and a frantic search of my CamelBak turned up nothing. Turns out I’d left it laying on the table at Berryman after Sheila restocked it and handed it back to me. No biggie, I figured. I’d been doing pretty well, so on I went. Another half-mile, and I came upon John walking up a forest road I was about to cross. Somehow, he’d lost the trail again and run down the road about a quarter-mile before turning around. It was a straight-shot crossing, and that’s when I realized he was having some major issues. We stayed together for about another mile, but he couldn’t keep up with my speed walking and started falling back. I figured I had a run to make, so I’d better get going, and that’s the last I saw of him. I was feeling real good. The miles were falling behind me. This was an 8.5-mile stretch to Billy’s Branch, and I was just about there when I felt a sugar crash coming on. I pulled three PayDays out and wolfed them down, walked another five minutes or so until I felt better, and took off running again. At some point right about there, I was looking down the trail and saw a stop sign standing right in the middle of the singletrack. I laughed, looked down and back up, and it was gone. At least I didn’t have shadows attacking me anymore. I took my headlight off before I got to Billy’s Branch Aid Station and put it away. I’m guessing I’d run maybe six of the last eight miles, and I was feeling real good. I passed maybe four runners in that stretch. In and out of Billy’s Branch in just a few minutes after mooching some Endurolites, and onto some real nice trails. I passed the runner from Japan right before I got to Hen Peck. I ran into Hen Peck high as a kite. I was excited, checking my $10 watch and trying to do the math. I think I jumped up and clicked my heels together going into the aid station. I gave a couple of quick hugs to my crew and fired a few questions at Rich to check my math and make sure I was thinking clearly. I tossed my CamelBak to Renie and grabbed a PB&J while someone filled my Nathan bottle, and off I ran a little too fast. This station was run by Terrain Trail Runners of St Louis, my running buddies, and I didn’t even take time to greet them all or check out their buffet or anything. I felt bad about that a few miles down the trail. I passed a real young fella walking and having some major issues with cramping. Then I passed another runner, Scott Poling, who I found out later was a pastor out of Oswego, Ill. I was starting to fade quickly when out of the woods appeared this mountain. It may not have been a mountain, but it sure looked like one to me at that point. I speed walked up that monstrosity and ran the best I could when I got to the top. I was thinking there should be only a half mile left when I came to a sign that said, “Congratulations, only two more miles.” Back down the mountain, only to have to climb it again and run back down again. “What sadistic bastard put this mountain at the last two miles of a 100-mile run,” I thought. Not much later, I came to a horse pasture and a sign that said one more mile. I couldn’t run or speed walk. I was just totally shot. I staggered through campsites and over a concrete bridge and past the cozy cabin I’d slept in for a few hours on Friday night. Checking my watch, I realized I might make it in under 28:30 if I could run the last quarter mile. I did, and I crossed the finish at 28:25 — and immediately started falling apart. All the blogs and OT100 run reports I’d read, all the running I’d done in the Valmeyer, Ill., bluffs, the training I’d done with Terrain Trail Runners and the SLUGs around St Louis, the experimenting with different foods, the hundreds of pushups (sometimes 200 a day) and all the local running around my hometown had all paid off in the end. With the help of my crew and over 100 aid station workers, I beat my goal by an hour and 35 minutes. And, yes, it was a lot tougher than the MT100! Author: Mike Gallagher is a 56-year-old runner that thinks he's 30. He's a pie aficionado, with coconut cream being his favorite, and when he's not running or at work, he has a flock of chickens that keeps him busy. They all start out about the same. Laughing, joking, chatting with old and new friends in the dark at the beginning of a very long journey. There are no guarantees as to who will finish. You’re just out there so long, and anything can happen. And usually does.
Arkansas Traveller is a well-oiled machine. I ran the 24th edition of the race, and it lacks for nothing. There are 12,000 feet up and 12,000 feet down on singletrack, forest, jeep and gravel roads. And there’s no shortage of rocks. They come in many varieties of shapes and sizes to keep you company all along the way. Aid stations are spaced no further than 6.6 miles apart, so food, drink and TLC are always close at hand. The first miles tick away in the cool autumn darkness. The sun slowly rises, and a breeze blows gently. I’ve been running with a group for a while and feel great. Aid stations have been offering up pancakes, sandwiches and many other yummy treats. I eat often and a lot. I know eventually my stomach will protest, so I keep the calorie train going. I meet some awesome runners from Texas and hang with them on and off for a while. There are nice rolling hills, and the terrain changes from easy to a bit more technical to keep things interesting. The temperatures rise, and the sun shines bright. It’s a beautiful day. I come and go quickly through the aid stations. At mile 48, Powerline Aid Station, I have my light and warm clothes in a drop bag. It’s not even close to cool, but I wrap a shirt around my waist and shove my light in my pack. The sun will set at 7 p.m., and temps will drop quickly. I know I’ll get cold. I wanted to be at this aid station at 12:30 or 6:30 p.m. I was through at 10:56 a.m. or 4:56 p.m. Saaaaaa-weeeeeeet! I felt happy and continued to run with small groups of runners. Passing through mile 53, Copperhead Aid Station, you start an out-and-back that I find brutal. It’s about a 12-mile push altogether and just seems incredibly long. I make the turn right after dark and activate my headlamp and tutu. I’m starting to have upper back pain, and my stomach is nearing the end of solid food consumption. Arriving back at Copperhead Aid Station, I feel horrible. I need to lie down and throw up. Aid station workers quickly start bringing food and drink. I don’t even get my head down when the Texas runners show up. It goes something like this: “You are not laying down! You’re coming with us!” “I don’t want tooooooo....” They each grab an arm, and I’m up and going. “But...I'm not...ready....” “We’re taking you to the next aid station with us.” So, arm in arm up the hill we go. Max and Butch had each completed the Traveller many times — 10 times and 8 times if, I remember correctly. We walk and trot the 4.1 miles to the next aid station. I want to go with them, but they’re gunning for sub-24 hours and I don’t want to hurt their chances. Instead, I sit for a while, throw up and then have some soup. I need to go because I’m freezing. Quotes and advice play through my head as I put on a warmer jacket and gloves: “It doesn’t always get worse. You’ll feel better soon.” Out into the dark I go. Moving. Slowly. The pain in my back is horrible. I’d been carrying my water bottle in the same hand until then. Maybe that caused it. With this revelation, I change hands and press on. I’d filled my pack with licorice and someone gives me ginger chews. I’m managing about 2 mph but have to stop and vomit about once every 30 minutes. It’s gonna be a long night. Caffeine tabs and red Twizzlers are my diet for the next eight hours. A pacer for another runner picks me up sometime in the dark. He chats. I don’t. The moon shines bright and big through the trees. I pray for a second sunrise. Keep moving. Any pace is better then no pace. A borrowed iPod plays new music and keeps me awake. The night takes its time. Deer run in front of me, and owls hoot in the trees. I enjoy those fleeting moments. The push back over Smith Mountain is long and slow. But I’m moving. I keep finding positives when and where I can. At mile 87 I have a few saltines with peanut butter and a Sprite. It isn’t much, but it’s enough. A half-marathon to go. I start running again and pass a few racers along the way. I feel I’m biding my time with my stomach. I make the last aid station, but can’t eat or drink anything. I realize at that point that my back has stopped hurting. I hug an aid station worker who remembers me from my other Travellers and she says, “You know what you need to do, so go do it!” Only 6.6 miles to go. I could crawl and still make it. I’m really hoping not to have to crawl. As I run down onto the paved road, I can smell the barn. Emotion washes over me. It’s been a long night getting to this point. I cross under the finish banner at 28:03. Happy. Reflections about the race: Was it worth it? YES! Will I do it again? HELL YES! Maybe it didn’t hurt that bad after all, or maybe I just can't remember. Author: Laura Range lives in Oakville, Mo. Ultrarunner, mom and defender of the universe. This is my third year of racing and my first year of running trails and ultra distances. My journey to the Mark Twain 100 really started in January, and during the year I raced two 50Ks and a 50-miler. I probably should have stopped at that, but who doesn’t love a good challenge? So, I figured a 100K was in the cards. I had yet another chance to call it in, but conversations with my coach took a left turn, and what do I do? I sign up for my first 100-miler! Opening Credits Race: Mark Twain 100 Mile Endurance Run Organizers: St. Louis Ultrarunners Group Location: Berryman Trail in Potosi, Mo. Distance: 100 miles (25-mile loop four times) or 50 miles (25-mile loop two times), run counter clockwise Elevation: 10,000 feet ascent/descent (100 mile) or 5,000 feet ascent/descent (50 mile) Terrain: 98 percent singletrack with lots of loose rocks and roots; mostly rolling hills that keep coming at you; no steep or long climbs; one creek crossing. If you are properly trained, uninjured, and rested, the course is completely runnable. Difficulty: Intermediate. Time Limit: 32 hours (100 mile) or 16 hours (50 mile) Runner: Shalini Kovach Coach & Mentor: Paul Shimondle Pacers, Crew & Support: Meghan McCarrick and Bethany Murray Why choose this race as your first 100M: The terrain is impeccable, and the temperature this time of the year is typically favorable. The race has the perfect “vibe” that one becomes accustomed to (and spoiled by) while running ultras. It’s a very well put together race, with great organizers, volunteers, swag, and a kick-ass finisher buckle. The race 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. Lights, Camera, Action! Pre-Race: A bunch of us were running this race, some tackling the 100M distance and some in for the 50M option. My coach (a.k.a. Hula Hula) drove from Rockford, Ill., to run the race with me and see me “conquer the ultra beast,” as he says. We stayed at the Berryman Campground on Friday night. There was a light drizzle off and on pretty much throughout the day and night, with unseasonably cooler temperatures. We pitched the tent, hung out, went for the pre-race dinner held at the Huzzah Valley Resort, and then came back and slept — if you can call it that. I was surprisingly calm, with no flutters or questioning if I was ready or not. I’d raced the trail before and had done a couple of training runs there, so knowing what to expect was settling. Two things nagged at the back of my head though. First, 40 miles of the 100-mile distance would be uncharted territory for me. I’d raced a 100K before, but I had no idea as to what my body would do beyond 60 miles. Second, I’d been nursing some issues with my left IT band, which had gotten better with tapering, but I’d packed Kinesio Tape knowing it would flare up with the distance I was about to tackle. At this point you may ask, “Did I have a finish time goal in mind?” Why, yes, I did. I’m not the fastest thing in town, so I figured a 28-hour finish was pretty legit. If shit fell apart, a 30-hour finish was satisfactory, seeing as this was my first attempt at 100M and I can only learn and improve. I won’t bore you with all the other details, just know that at 4:20 a.m. on Saturday I was up, in my gear, and eating breakfast. At about 5:30 a.m., I had my drop bags and other crap loaded onto my shoulders and was walking to the start line. Loop 1: Did I mention before that it was cold? It was cold. I stood beside my coach, and not a whole lot of words were exchanged — just random BS floating around as we all gathered at the start line. There was a quiet understanding and comfort in having Paul by my side as I stepped over the start line, hit all cylinders, and GO! The first five miles of the loop were rocky and technical, and a few runners bit the dirt only about three miles in. We were running in a B line, probably 14- to 15-minute pace at about two miles, when I broke away from the pack with Paul right behind me. I ran a little faster just to put some distance between us and the rest of the runners. The focus for me throughout this race was not to fall and not to hang out and chat at the aid stations, something I’m notorious for doing. So, “keep moving forward no matter what” was the plan. As we kept moving forward, we turned a rocky corner going uphill and suddenly I saw Paul on his knees. I stopped to check if he was OK. I could see he had banged up his knee pretty bad and was bleeding. He waved me on with an “I’m fine.” My brain was focused on covering as much distance I could while it was daylight, so listening to my coach, I kept running. I came and went through the aid stations, throwing back some Coke. I ate every four miles while power-walking, rotating between bananas, PBnJ, and salted potatoes, all of which I’d packed in my vest along with my bladder, which had Tailwind in it. I popped SCaps every three hours. Five-and-a-half pretty uneventful hours later, I pulled into the start/finish again. Twenty-five miles done. Loop 2: I refueled, swapped my bladder, stashed more food, and was off as quickly as I’d rolled in. My goal for this loop was to run a bit slower — six hours for 25 miles. As long as I had the 50 miles done in less then 12 hours, I was golden. As I headed out, I wondered where Paul was and if he was doing alright. “No time to waste now,” said his voice in my head. Gotta keep moving forward. I ran another uneventful 15 miles, then caught up to a runner named Scotty. He was struggling. I started to walk with him as we chatted. It was his first 50M. He was from Tennessee and wanted to finish in 12 hours but was pretty much shot. After exchanging pleasantries, I ran past him a mile or so, then I looked at my GPS. I turned my head to see Scotty walking not far behind me. I thought, “Why the heck am I in such a rush? I’ll be here all day and night and quite possibly well into the next day.” I turned to Scotty gave him a breakdown of time and pace and how he could still make it to the finish in under 12 hours. We chatted a little more, and then I started to pace with him, keeping a steady run of 14 minutes per mile. As I paced him, we talked about future goals, tattoos, what I was eating, etc. At this point, I realized that his finishing goal had become my challenge. About two miles out, Scotty could smell the sub-12 hours finish, so he took off like he stole something. With a pat on my shoulder, he was gone in a blur. I rolled into finish loop two at about 12:05 hours. There was Scotty, with a big smile and thank you. His finish time was 11:56:43. Loop 3: Before I started this loop, some weird shit happened, and it just got weirder as the evening went on. But I have to tell you that this was the best and probably the worst loop at the same time. Both of my pacers, Bethany and Meghan, were waiting for me at the start/finish. As requested, Meghan had brought me a crispy chicken sandwich and fries from McDonald’s. At this point, I was sick of eating PBnJ and potatoes, though I could stomach bananas still. I ducked into a buddy’s camper and woofed down the food, which I now recall as being the worst food I’ve ever eaten. It tasted like leather. But I knew I had to eat. As I quietly sat and ate, I heard an “Aha!” Paul was right there. I was so glad to see him! He had been following my trail from aid station to aid station, hoping to catch me. Instead, he’d caught me in the act of scarfing down some fast food. Anyhow, I threw on a long-sleeve tech shirt, adding two layers of clothing and gloves, and swapped my water and food. My IT band was starting to act up, so I taped it as best as I could before heading out. I turned to ask Paul if he was coming, and he said he’d catch up. So, with Bethany breathing down my neck and telling me to get a move on, we were on the trail for loop three. After about five miles, it got dark and cold — bitterly cold. As the night progressed, we were shivering and chattering our teeth. We could see our breath in our headlamps, and no amount of running warmed us up. There was a light drizzle and mist (borderline frost) that was making it impossible to run, so there was nothing else to do but jam to some tunes, and by “jam” I mean we were loud. Both Bethany and I were singing in the dead of the night, not a soul to be seen for miles and miles. We were making coyote calls, and to our surprise, someone answered! Bethany asked, “Who was that?” and I smiled, because I knew it was Paul catching up to us. Before I knew it, he was right behind me. “Aaaooooohhhh!” My stomach felt like shit, and I had to pull over quick to barely miss crapping my pants. Let’s just say it wasn’t pretty or pleasant. My stomach was pretty sour, and as we came to the last aid station, about five miles from the finish, I realized I wasn’t eating much. Paul, Bethany, and I all huddled around the fire. I had some soup and a couple of Ibuprofen. I was feeling completely out of sorts, and the pain from my IT band was making it impossible to move. I heard Bethany say to me, “It’s a new milestone for you. Seventy miles! You beat your distance PR!” I had to get up and keep moving forward. I just had to. I had “Hotel California” by The Eagles stuck in my head, “You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.” That’s what aid stations do to you when your body breaks down and your mind starts to go. I turned to Paul, who I could tell was hurting from his fall. His knee wasn’t looking so good. Still, I said “Let’s go.” All he said to me was, “I need to stay a bit. You guy’s carry on.” And I remember him saying to Bethany as we dragged our asses out of there, “Take care of Shalini.” The rest of the way in was a blur. I was freezing, and I just wanted to be done. But, wait, I had another loop to get through. We reached the start/finish line, and Bethany handed me over to Meghan, who asked if I needed to fill up my water and food. That’s when I realized that not only was I not eating as I should’ve been, but I’d barely run through the water in my bladder. I didn’t want to stop — at this point I knew I had to keep moving — so I threw on my hoodie and got going. As I started to leave the start/finish one last time, I asked if anyone had seen Paul. They said he’d decided to pull out at 70 miles. I really didn’t have much time to process this information. All I could think was, “How could he have just quit?” Loop 4: As I started loop four, I knew I had to finish. Meghan and I talked as she ran ahead of me and I struggled to stay upright. I was running hurt. My IT band was shot, and finally I couldn’t keep up anymore, so I power-walked with Meghan edging me forward. I was shivering again as we got to the first aid station. Meghan pushed some chicken noodle soup on me. Then, we kept moving. The sun was starting to peer over the hills, and I knew the 28-hour finish wasn’t going to happen. As we made our way from aid station to aid station, Meghan made sure I ate and kept hydrated. As we approached the third aid station, about nine or so miles out from the finish, I was starting to get dizzy and my power-hiking pace was not much of a pace. I was dragging. I noticed swelling on the top of my right foot from where my Hokas were digging on my instep. With another nine miles to go, every inch of my body was screaming. On Meghan’s suggestion, I decided to swap my shoes at the aid station. Then, I ate a ginormous pancake, ditched my vest, and carried on with a handheld. I started to feel better as we logged another two miles. At this point, I noticed that the food and water was just running through my system. I bounced between feeling hot and then cold, but we kept moving forward. As we approached the last aid station, I told Meghan I was really dizzy and needed to eat, so I sat down and ate something — I honestly don’t remember what it was — and I asked for more Ibuprofen. Huge mistake! A quick piece of advise to anyone running an endurance race: DO NOT TAKE ANTI-INFLAMMATORIES. I got up, and we were off again. I was worried that I’d be nearing the time limit, but Meghan said we could still make a 30-hour finish if I picked up the pace and ran. Did she just tell me to RUN!? I told her I couldn’t run without causing further injury to my IT band, so we power-walked, with Meghan shoving water into my hands to drink. The Ibuprofen I’d taken dulled the pain, but as a side effect, I was having to stop and pee every quarter of a mile or so. Five more miles. I can so do this. Despite all the issues, I felt alright. My spirit had not broken at any point. Never did I say to myself, “I can’t go on.” DNF was not an option. Having come this far, I could deal, but the pain in my knee due to the busted IT band just won’t go away. My mind kept pressing on it, so I stopped and said to Meghan, “Stay a few steps ahead of me and don’t stop talking, and we’ll power-walk to the finish.” Right on! Oh, the conversations to be had in the longest five miles of my life. Meghan: “So, how are the vegetables in your garden?” Me: WTF!? Did she really just ask me about my stupid vegetable garden? Oh well! Not like there was anything better to talk about, and it kept my mind off the pain! And, so, we kept moving forward. I’m not sure what came over me as I approached the finish, but I was my stupid self again. I saw my husband, Brad, and my three little girl’s waiting for me, and then I saw Paul and Bethany, along with other friends who were there waiting on my slow ass to finish. I was happy again! Conclusion: I finished my first 100-miler and “conquered the ultra beast.” I was grateful for my family, my coach, my pacers, and all of the friends who were there to see me in. I’ve been humbled by this experience and what I learned about myself going through the process. When you take on a challenge of running 100 miles, there’s no greater outcome than that of finishing on you own two feet. And while I didn’t make my finish time goal, I somehow managed this finish 30:25:32, #2 Overall Female, #1 Age Group 30-39.
What’s up next? Who knows, a free spirit cannot be bound by anything. Author: Shalini Kovach is the lead organizer of Terrain Trail Runners. |
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