 It’s the least favorite three-letter word in the ultrarunning lexicon. The cursed, the dreaded — DNF (Did Not Finish). I’ve been fortunate to have had no firsthand experience with DNF to this point in my race career. But that only makes the choice (mindset? outcome?) more fascinating to me. So, in order to understand DNF and the reasons that lead up to it, I spoke with a number of seasoned runners who have on different occasions been at the crossroads of to finish or not to finish. Fact is, as ultrarunners, we push ourselves through a lot of pain and suffering during races. Sometimes that push gets us through the finish, and sometimes it doesn’t. Why is that? Why is it that at certain times we can maintain the mental and physical toughness to cross that goal line while at other times DNF becomes us? Prepare or Perish I think most ultrarunners would agree with me that the top reason for DNF is lack of preparation; the failure to be ready for the intensity of the race you are about to undertake. This is often tied to underestimating the course and the distance. One of the most commonly heard phrases in distance running is, “Respect the distance, or the distance won’t respect you! It’ll eat you up, spit you out and make you beg for mercy.”  In some cases the lack of preparation comes from inexperience, including not eating and drinking right, going out to fast, or over-training and not giving your body enough taper time to reset. Stacking races too close to each other and not incorporating enough recovery time can also impact performance.
This dovetails with the unpredictable nature of ultrarunning. How much taper/recovery time is enough? That depends on you and your body. Other circumstances resulting in a decision to DNF happen because, well, we’re all human. Muscle cramps, blisters, dehydration, vomiting, getting lost and missing a cut-off. These things happen. If you have a broken bone or are experiencing symptoms of the three Hs (hyponatremia, hypothermia, or hypoxia), you have to make rational decisions and live to run another day. This is when DNF becomes imperative (Did Nothing Foolish). Sometimes DNFs are completely out of our control; Mother Nature can throw a curve ball at you, and extreme weather conditions can tank your race. Mind Games Ultrarunning is a sport where we push ourselves way past our physical capabilities, and this constant stress can weigh heavily on our mind and spirit. Once those turn traitor, the body follows. As ultrarunners, we must be physically strong but mentally stronger. I find that in order to successfully finish a big race, it is important to make reasonable goals and be willing to readjust those goals as the run progresses. Shooting for a sub-24-hour finish for a 100-mile race is a growing fad, and this is a good and aggressive goal to shoot for, but finishing should always be priority number one. I think a lot of people DNF because they realize their primary goal is unachievable and therefore feel it’s not worth running anymore. A runner who appears to be in decent physical condition can resign to a DNF due to lack of motivation to continue. No amount of goodwill or outside assistance will get you to the finish line once you have fallen into that mental slump, and it takes a lot to pull out of it. But a truly driven ultrarunner will persevere to finish a race even if he/she is dead last. Most runners I talked to told me that DNFing when their body could have gone on but mentally they had shut down took a toll that lasted longer than most physical injuries. Still, as much as a DNF was a hard blow to their psyche, they had grown from it. They learned to manage their mental lows and push through their perceived limits. Like most things, the first is the worst — but you are not alone. DNF happens to everyone. It is best dealt with when you don’t dwell on the past but use the memory to fuel your inner fire. Put the bad race behind, get back on the horse and keep on hoofing it! Author: Shalini Kovach is the lead organizer of Terrain Trail Runners.  The author (far right) with crew Rich and Renie KinKade and Sheila Gallagher (from left). 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.  Thumbs Up: Bethany Murray pacing the author at the Mark Twain 100. I never really thought much about having a crew and/or a pacer until I signed up for my first 100-miler. However, I have stepped up to the start line at a few races and thought to myself, “How am I going to get in and out of the aid station at 45 miles when I’ll barely be able to bend down to change my shoes?” (And, let’s face it, this is probably the least of one’s issues at that distance.)
When I’d get to the aid station, though, there would always be a friendly face — in most cases that of a stranger. “What can I do for you?” “How can I help?” “What do you need?” He or she would refresh my water and fuel, get me something to eat and, yes, even bend down and lace up my shoes for me. This is the undeterred camaraderie of trail and ultra races. This is also the reason why I personally wouldn’t entertain a pacer for a distance under 100K. But when do you need a pacer, or do you need one at all? Talking to a number of ultra running friends and acquaintances, I’ve learned there are two schools of thought on the subject. Let’s take a look at both sides. The Case Against a Pacer It’s an endurance race, and you’re supposed to do it alone, using your own strengths and abilities. The challenge lies in beating your body, your mind, the trail and whatever Mother Nature throws at you. The purity of the adventure. The solitude of solo distance running. Isn’t that why you signed up for the race in the first place? It’s because of this “all-or-nothing” mindset that many runners decide to forgo pacers. In some rare cases, your pacer has a bad day or is unprepared and needs assistance. So, guess who ends up being the babysitter? At this point, do you worry about your race or do you worry about your pacer? Do you really need that distraction, especially at a distance over a 100K, when time gets fast but everything else gets slow? Some racers argue they can just as easily find another runner on the course that they can pace with, so why bother with another body on the trail? It’s not unusual for some ultra distance runners to become grouchy or withdrawn when they’re “in the zone,” and this can become an issue as the miles add up and pain and fatigue set in. Aggressive energy could ruin a relationship between a runner and his or her pacer. The most common thing I heard was, “I’m not racing for time, so what do I need a pacer for?” Some even argue that the use of pacers is like being hand-held along the course. If the pacer weren’t there, would the runner be moving along at the same rate? Clearly, they’ve got someone else doing the thinking for them. The Case for a Pacer The harder the race is, the better your case for having a pacer — and the better your overall chances for success are, no matter your goal. I can’t speak to the exact stats for runners finishing 100-mile races with pacers versus those without, but I’d be willing to bet it’s a big difference. And even if a runner finishes an ultra without a pacer, they probably would’ve finished with a better time and had a lot more fun had they used a pacer. When you bring on a pacer after 50 miles of solo running, it’s not so he or she can hold your hand. Nor is a pacer a dog or a cat that’s there for companionship. A pacer keeps you safe. He or she is of sound mind and body. Trail conditions can be hazardous at the best of times, and when you’re running in a state of delirium, that snake on the trail can look like a cool stick that you just have to stop and pick up. There’s truth in the saying “safety in numbers.” In a pacer you have someone who focuses on your personal finish goals when perhaps you can’t. A smart pacer will zero in on signs of distress when a runner might be struggling. They will look for fluctuations in pace, dexterity and general energy levels. They will keep the runner eating and drinking even when their appetite is shot. A pacer can help you push through the pain and overcome those mental blocks that occur beyond 50 miles. They can think logically with their head — instead of with their heart, like a disoriented runner — when important decisions need to be made during a race. A pacer also understands how to capitalize when a runner is feeling strong, pushing the pace and the positive emotions. Final Thoughts So, should you use a pacer or not? Well, the simple answer isn’t so simple — it’s really just a personal choice. In my opinion, no matter what your goals are, you should take advantage of every way to get to that finish line as quickly as possible. I don’t agree with the “all-or-nothing” approach, and while not all 100-mile races will require a pacer, I think that for certain races a pacer can be critical. However, I also disagree with the statement that “a pacer can make or break your race.” In the end, it’s your run and yours alone. Others can run it with you, but no one can run it for you. Looking back at my first experience with pacers at the Mark Twain 100, I fully enjoyed it. The laughs, the stories, the pain, the success — none of it would’ve been the same had I not gotten to share it with my fabulous girls (you know who you are). So, for me, I say “yes” to pacers. Author: Shalini Kovach is a trail junkie and ultra distance runner living in Ballwin, Mo., and is the lead organizer of Terrain Trail Runners.  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.  (L to R) Meghan, Bethany and the author. 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.  I write this with a very strong — some will say overinflated — sense of pride in being called an ultra runner. And while the past five years or so have seen such a boom in trail and long-distance running that most folks these days at least know the term, understanding has not spontaneously followed.
I can tell you that quite often the words “utlra” and “ultra runner,” especially when paired with a description of the distances we cover, still cause a lot of raised eyebrows, pointed questions and even name-calling — running freak, ultra nut, extremist, egomaniac, or just plain old crazy. Like most of us who log “insane” miles, I’ve gotten past the point of taking these remarks to heart. I mostly chalk them up to a lack of understanding of what calls people to run long distances in the first place. And without understanding, acceptance is much more difficult. But then there are those I know who are also runners; sometimes their jibes and questions can be the most pointed of all. This brings me to my central question: Are we truly accepted within the running community, or are we destined to be always on the fringe? ---------------------------------- fringe /frinj/ adjective 1. not part of the mainstream; marginal wing of a group or sphere of activity 2. unconventional, peripheral, or extreme. ---------------------------------- Hear me out on this before you take a stab at me. The general population views a marathoner as an ascetic, a person who pushes him or herself in an attempt to reach running perfection. It’s a lifestyle many “ooh” and “ahh” at. But the reaction isn’t as friendly when you tell folks you’re training to run 100 miles. Rather, it’s one of shock, disbelief, and dismay that usually ends in the question-slash-accusation, “Why?!” We all have our personal reasons of “why.” For me, it’s that one-of-a-kind, exquisite feeling of pushing myself not just beyond the comfort zone but to the very edge of my endurance, only to discover that the edge can be pushed even further. This belief that there’s a superior version of me is what propels me forward in races. It has sustained me during the long months of training and, in the end, reinstates my passion for running. There’s a pleasure to be found in the overindulgence that is distance running, the peace and conformity in nature that comes from it. Quite simply, it’s my happy place, my free-your-mind destination that can only be reached beyond 26.2. In the end, it’s what I learn about myself during my long runs that makes me a better person when I return home. Does that sound so different than the “traditional” runner? Of course, all of the above comes with a price. It’s not that we deprive ourselves of life’s pleasures, but sacrifices must be made — especially for those who must train extra long to run extra distances. If that means forgoing opportunities to mingle and make new friends because we need to be in bed at 8:30 p.m. for that 3:30 a.m. wake-up run, then so be it. It's not that we don't like to have fun or that we’re not social people; it's just that our priorities shift. Between balancing a life of work, home, kids, and everything else, we barely have time to run as it is. No, we ultra runners aren’t crazy, selfish, or conceited. We simply have our own goals, goals that require that we’re forever looking at the big picture. It’s the journey beyond what most folks perceive as “the end” that matters to us. It’s the pursuit of adventure and self discovery that comes from pushing our limits to the extreme, and then even further. Quite simply, to quote William James, “the strenuous life tastes better.” So, if that makes me “fringe,” that’s OK. I think most people who know me understand that I prefer it this way. Out here on the fringe, you see all kinds of things that you can’t see anywhere else. Author: Shalini Kovach is a trail junkie and ultra distance runner living in Ballwin, Mo., who is in the midst of training for her first 100-mile race. |
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