Adventures in New England

2011 Year in Review

2011-12-15T06:01:00.000-05:00

As 2011 draws to a close I find myself contemplating how to make a year review post while trying to avoid the narcissistic perils that seem to go with these things. It might be unavoidable but, on the other hand, this last year has been perhaps the greatest of my life and a quick step back to review makes me realize just how fortunate I am. Compare this with my life three years ago - things were very different. Back then I felt like I was circling the drain just as I started to get on my feet out of college. My job, marriage, house... all seemed at risk. And while I did end up spending five months unemployed, unable to get any company to even give me a call back, I eventually landed my dream job, mended important personal relationships, and rescued my life on many fronts. I suppose this is also a thank you of sorts to all the family, friends, and strangers who've helped and supported me along the way.

So, with that said, here's what I have to show for the last 365 days...

In January I flew to Salt Lake City for work where I managed to sneak in some pre-dawn runs (it helps to still be on east coast time) in the canyons and hills overlooking the city. Often the moon was so bright on the snow I didn't need a headlamp.

In February I set a personal record at Rocky Raccoon 100 in Texas. Later that same month I spent a few days in Baxter State Park in Maine and climbed Mount Katahdin.

In April I tried (and failed) to break 4 hours in the 50k at the TARC Spring Classic, but I happened to win the race in the process.

In May I broke 24 hours at the Massanutten Mountain Trails 100 and came in 9th place. The day after getting back I flew to the Netherlands for work, my first time in Europe. There, I got to drink a good cappuccino and watch the world go by at a sidewalk cafe...

...explore an abandoned German bunker on the beach of the English Channel near Calais, France...

...live out a lifelong dream driving over 100 MPH on the German Autobahn with the gas pedal all the way to the floor (a Citroen 3-cylinder, 0.9 liter motor turning 7,000 RPM wails like a clogged vacuum cleaner, in case you were wondering)...

...and wander the streets of Amsterdam for a day.

Most of what you've heard about Amsterdam is true.

And they do love their bicycles.

In June I managed to break the Fastest Known Time for the Pemi Loop and in July made a valiant attempt at the FKT for the Presidential Traverse.

In August I shared an epic run of the length of Maine's One Hundred Mile Wilderness with my good friend Ryan.

In September I got to explore some more of the West, through Yellowstone...

...the Beartooth Highway...

....and Grand Teton National Park.

Then, on the same trip, I placed eighth and was inducted into the Royal Order of the Crimson Cheetah at the Wasatch Front 100.

In October I ran my dog, Cooper the poodle, around the Pemi Loop (with West Bond and Galehead) in under 10 hours to finish his 4,000 footers. I also tried and failed miserably to break the 3 hour barrier at the Bay State Marathon in Lowell, Massachusetts.

November brought me to Alabama where I ran my fifth hundred miler of the year on the Pinhoti Trail.

And finally, in December I turned 30 years old and started noticing a few gray hairs, though did get carded when I went out for dinner on my birthday. I suppose it'll be easier fool people into believing I'm responsible adult now.

By the time December 31st actually rolls around I'll have run over 2600 miles for the year. This works out to an average of 50 miles per week, every week, and over 500 miles more than 2010. In races, I racked up over 700 miles which has taught me a great deal about my capabilities but also took a cumulative toll on my body that will take some time to recover from.

Re-reading this post, I have to say I'm not sure what I did to deserve such a good year. There were, of course, low spots which don't need to be mentioned here, but overall it was one of the greatest of my life and I can honestly say I did my best to enjoy and appreciate the good fortune while I've had the chance. There are plenty of adventures already planned for 2012, but 2011 will be hard to top.

2011 Pinhoti 100

2011-11-10T06:49:00.000-05:00

Most of my races I first hear about through word of mouth - Massanutten, Vermont, and Wasatch all have reputations that precede them and come with recommendations from friends. Pinhoti was a little different. Browsing the race schedule on Stan Jensen's run100s.com, I stumbled across Pinhoti and everything about it appealed to me. In early November, it fell outside the normal ultra season, so there wouldn't be any scheduling conflicts. It's in Alabama, a part of the country I've never been to before and I'm interested to see for myself. And finally, it sounded like a legitimately interesting course; 100 miles point-to-point route on the Pinhoti National Scenic Trail, with a healthy focus on single-track through the Talladega National Forest. Why not? And just like that, I committed to my fifth hundred miler of 2011.

Coming off a very strong finish at Wasatch eight weeks earlier, I have to admit that I had pretty high expectations for myself at Pinhoti. At the pre-race meeting I was a little shocked to find out that other people knew who I was and had high hopes for me as well. A bit to my chagrin, the words "18 hours" got thrown around a little. Still, visions of a podium finish were hard to ignore even though I haven't really felt 100% since coming back from Utah. In the end I just wanted to run my own race and settled on a loose goal of sub-20 hours, with lots of wiggle room for my position on the field and how I was feeling.

My good friend Nate, volunteered at the last minute to crew and pace me and I'm not sure what I would have done without him. I was originally planning on going down alone and using drop bags, but I jumped at the chance to have a familiar face along. This would speed up my aid station changes and, perhaps most importantly, provide me with a familiar face to look for. As corny as it sounds, hundred milers still tend to break me down a bit emotionally and encouragement from my crew at each aid station is sometimes the only thing that keeps me going. I've traveled with Nate for runs before and as another ultrarunner, he knows how to play the game and could relate to what I'd be going through. I had no idea how crucial he'd turn out to be later in the race.

It was 40 degrees and pitch black at the 6 am start at a campground in Heflin, Alabama. I was already feeling grateful for Nate's help, as I was able to wear my down parka right up until the very last minute before the race director said "go!" Go out easy, see where the first 25-50 miles get you, then make your move if you've got it, I told myself. I say that every damn race and it didn't work this time either. Running onto the first section of the Pinhoti Trail I was virtually on Karl Meltzer's heels, a place I didn't really have any business being. He began to pull away but I stuck in the middle of the chase pack with about 4 or 5 other guys at what honestly felt like an easy enough pace. This isn't so hard, of course I can do this all day.

We made quick work of the first few miles of trail and as it got light out, I was impressed at quality of the course. Smooth, rolling singletrack covered in leaves, and never too steep to run easily. In fact, it felt shockingly similar to the mountain bike trails I train on in southern New Hampshire, with only some odd looking plants to give it away. Every time we approached a steep hill the mountain runner in me slowed down a bit, expecting to be sent up by the steepest course possible, only to switched-backed off. Nearly every hill was like this for the duration of the race, always approached gradually, never directly, with lots of switchbacks and long traverses. One thing I found a little odd, though not unpleasant, was that the trail would often take a long, gently rising traverse for half mile or so up a drainage, cross the stream near its head, then gently traverse back down the other side. Only a couple hundred yards away through the woods, you could see the trail you'd been on nearly a mile ago.

Our pack began to lean out a bit and I was suprised to find myself in second place as we went through an area that looked like it had been clear-cut. Dead stumps and brush were everywhere, with an increasingly hot sun beating down as the temperature rose into the upper 60s. I noticed that most of the stumps had been uprooted from the ground before being chainsawed off and figured this must be the tornado area I'd read about in other race reports. The complete destruction was impressive.

The second aid station is located right next to a set of railroad tracks and as I approached I could hear the sound of a train coming. I grabbed a couple items as the volunteers urged me to get going before the train arrived. I sprinted out to the tracks where the train was only a few hundred feet away, but luckily for me it was moving slowly and I was able cross safely. Nate later told me that it was so long that it took nearly five minutes for the whole line of cars to go by, stranding a few runners for what must have felt like an eternity.

At aid station 3, I was still holding up pretty well but beginning to feel fatique creep into my legs, much earlier than I would have liked. Nate changed my bladder out like a pro, said a few encouraging words, and took the time to do the little important things, like make sure my bladder tube was routed the right way to keep it from getting kinked or chafing my back anywhere. I got a burst of adrenaline as more people began to filter into the station and tried to leave before Nate was finished. He litteraly held me in place by my hydration pack so he could finish what he was doing.

The urgency didn't last too long, as I realized that I just didn't have a stellar performance in my legs today. I'm not sure whether it was the cumulative effects of so many race miles this year, but my training was more focused on recovery from Wasatch than than actually building up my capabilities. I began to walk more and more as several people passed and didn't make any effort to chase them down. I kept reminding myself that I was damn fortunate to be where I was, even a year ago I'd have had a hard time believing that I'd ever be in the top 10 at hundred mile race. Hiking the gentle grade up to the top of Mount Cheaha brought me to a little over 2,000 feet and the highest point in Alabama, with a decent view from the top. Nate met me again and knew all the right words to say. He knew how I was beginning to struggle, but I tried my best not to externalize any specific aches or pains, mostly because I didn't want to acknowledge them to myself.

Coming down the backside of Cheaha was a notorious section of trail known as the Blue Hell. I didn't find it to be quite that exactly, moderately rocky like you'd find in the White Mountains, but pretty manageable. Still, it was easily the most rugged footing on the course. From the bottom, a stretch of pavement and some jeep roads led me back onto the Pinhoti Trail.

It got dark for me somewhere around mile 60 and I began to get lonely. At first, I hadn't anticipated needing a pacer, but by the time I got to Porters Gap at mile 68, I asked Nate to come with me. We shuffled along together in the dark, alternating between animated conversation and me being sullen and quiet, Nate took it all in stride. I was walking more and more, a little disappointed with myself, but I kept trying to remember there were a whole lot of people behind me who'd be grateful to be this far ahead. At a few points I showed more weakness than I would have liked, stopping to rest with my hands on my knees and groan for a bit. Nate responded with his peculiar method of motivation, "get moving or I'll get in front of you and fart."

We ran along for a while on some sort of ridge line as the temperatures dropped and the wind picked up and whipped through the trees. Each aid station was a little oasis in the night with, campfires, friendly faces, food, and a little shelter from the wind. I was a bit disoriented as to where we were, I hadn't memorized the names and mileages of the aid stations and I'd somehow managed to misplace my pace chart. Each time we arrived I'd get confused about how far we had to go and how badly our pace was retreating. At one station, the volunteers were actively struggling to keep their EZ-up tent from blowing away. It would flap and jump around violently, threatening to upend the food table it was anchored too, Gatorade coolers and all. We made sure to thank the guys for their time, especially on a night like this.

The miles dragged on, but eventually we came down off the ridge line and out of the wind. A long series of dirt roads brought us through the final aid station and back onto pavement where a long straight uphill stretch led into downtown Sylacagua, Alabama. There was a headlamp visible ahead of me, and one behind, but I didn't really have the wherewithal to chase one down, or run hard to escape the other, and we entered the football stadium that marked the finish. 200 meters around the track and hundred-miler number seven was in the books in 22:49:57; good enough for 10th place.

With its own little niche cut out, I can see the Pinhoti 100 going places in the future. It has the right combination of a great course, excellent organization, accessibility, and scheduling that I'd be happy to recommend the race to anyone. I'm not sure how next year will play out for me but, not feeling like I ran the best race I could run, I feel like I have unfinished business here. Maybe I'll be back to settle the score.

2011 Wasatch 100

2011-09-15T20:59:00.004-04:00

The Wasatch Front 100 Mile Endurance Run; my first western race and (almost) the most challenging course I've encountered. As a runner from low (but not flat!) New Hampshire, I really didn't know what to expect. With 27,000 feet of elevation gain, altitudes of over 10,000 feet, and steep climbs and descents called intimidating things like Chinscraper, the Grunt, the Dive, and the Plunge how would I, as an east coast lowlander fair? As it turned out, this race was right up my alley.

As with all hundred milers, a lot of people went into the race with big dreams of running a sub-24 hour pace and I knew that the majority of them would be humbled. I had those same dreams, but realized they were one hell of a stretch goal. Even more ambitiously, I secretly coveted a top 10 finish. I just hoped that my training, preparation, and planning would let me be one of the lucky ones.

The race started with little fanfare from East Mountain Wilderness Park in Kaysville, Utah. The first few miles were on the rolling double track of the Bonnevile Shoreline Trail and I found myself expiencing the same familiar feeling I get at the start of all my hundred milers. Aren't we going too fast? Why are there so many headlamps in front of me? Maybe sub-24 isn't in the cards today. Should I be worried about that little twinge in my hamstring? Do I have rocks in my shoes already? It always plays out the same way and I can do nothing but let the race come to me on it's own.

The trail we were running on was very dry and so much dust was being kicked up by the hundreds of running feet that it looked like fog in the beam of my headlamp. The dust began to cling to my skin, already damp with sweat and I was glad when we turned onto the first steep climbs of the day and the pace slowed. Just like the start of a Presidential Traverse, we went up over 4,000 feet in only a few miles, and I felt right at home.

By the time we topped out on Chinscraper it was fully light out and we were treated to a gorgeous panorama of the Salt Lake City valley below. I tried hard balance gawking at the view with running the winding singletrack through an open grassy sagebrush area. The trail was overgrown by thigh-high brush at times and I had to tolerate a lot of scratching and scraping on the bare skin of my legs. I lost a bit of blood through here but no worries, I told myself, all this dust will help things clot right up! Despite all this, I was able to make good time to the first water stop at Groebben's Corner at mile 13.

Onward to Francis Peak, where a stiff breeze made it tricky to make meaningful forward progress and I was often blown off the side of the trail. Things got a bit chilly and I was glad to have brought a thin pair of fleece gloves along. Descending the peak was a long and steep dirt road that I had been forewarned about. Many people hammer down this section in an effort to bank time, but end up frying their quads instead. I made an effort to take it easy and arrived at the bottom in good shape, having lost a few positions in the process. Oh well, it was still much too early in the race to worry about that. Quick aid station visits and some more fast singletrack would help me move up through the ranks soon enough.

The section leading up to the Boutiful B station (mile 24) was a bit of an adventure. Much of the course was on rough and overgrown deer trails. Often the brush was over my head and there were many blow-downs to clamber over, around, and under. While there was a lightly beaten footbed to follow, this was clearly an unmaintained section and some route finding skills were helpful. Again, my experience bushwhacking in the White Mountains served me well and I was able to push through without losing much time.

I reached Big Mountain aid station at mile 40 still feeling strong. This would be the first station my support crew could get to due to extensive construction and storm damage to access roads on the early part of the course. The atmosphere at the station was full of energy and noise. There were so many cowbells, airhorns, and other noisy things that it sounded like a one man band falling down a few flights of stairs. I was happy to see my family who'd flown out to Utah for vacation, but only for a few moments. Not lingering long, I was soon on my way and passed the eventual women's winner Becky Wheeler on a small uphill. Shortly afterward I caught up to Jared Campbell who I'd leapfrog with for the next 15 miles or so. He offered me some valuable advice about being conservative in the heat of the day, the layout of later parts of the course, and even saved me from taking a wrong turn at an unmarked junction on the way into Lamb's Canyon. Overall, with a few exceptions, I found the course markings to be sparse but adequate. This was rather refreshing, rather than having a glut of paper plates or surveyor's tape every few hundred yards, only trail junctions and a handful of confidence markers were set up.

From Lamb's to Millcreek Canyon was a tough climb for me over Bear Ass Pass. I hit a bit of a low spot here and ended up walking much of the paved road on the final approach to Millcreek (62 miles) not feeling so good. How could I be walking such a shallow uphill on pavement? Fast people don't do this. I'm slipping off a 24 hour pace, aren't I? When got to the station station I was surprised to learn that I was up to 8th place and over a half hour ahead of schedule. I realized I was being a bit tough on myself and I was still doing quite well.

An easy climb to Dog Lake on the Upper Big Water trail led to some more singletrack, this time through beautiful groves of aspen. I encountered a few mountain bikers, all of whom were very polite, out for an evening ride, as well as a moose off in a meadow, munching on his dinner. Mmmm... dinner. Lately I've been using GU Chomps to break up the monotony of gels, but was craving solid food. A cup of chicken noodle soup and a handful of salt and vinegar potato chips from one of the aid stations hit the spot. Popping out once again on an open ridge line, I was rewarded with a crimson red sunset over the mountains beyond the Great Salt Lake. I could see Antelope Island in the middle of the lake, as well as all the lights beginning to come on in the valley, revealing the straight grid pattern of streets that's peculiar to the west. Past a rather extensive collection of antennas, transmission towers, and maintenance sheds and I followed a long downhill jeep road, turning to pavement, which led me to the lodge at the Brighton ski area at mile 75 and 10 pm.

I departed Brighton in the dark with fresh socks, an MP3 player, and some warmer clothes. Climbing up to Catherine Pass and Point Supreme, the high point of the course at over 10,00 feet, it got a bit chilly out and I could see my breath in my headlamp. I'd been running alone for quite some time and wouldn't see my family again until the finish, so it was nice to have music to keep me company. For this race my pacer would be the soft, soothing sounds of the Dropkick Murphy's, Agriculture Club, and Tool.

The last 25 miles of Wasatch are characterized as the hardest, with relentless ups and downs on loose, eroded ground. I struggled up the Grunt which was quite steep, even with switchbacks, and made my way to the top of the Dive and the Plunge. Dropping hundreds of feet down a series of steep ravines, these "trails" were horrendous. Imagine an eroded trench about a foot deep and a foot wide filled with fine sand and potato sized rocks and you'll get the idea. Thick brush on either side ruled out running anywhere but actually in the trench where it was impossible to get into a good rythm. Each step sprayed sand and gravel into my shoes and my already sore toes were constantly banged into the rocks. I knew I was doing damage to my feet and felt both my big toe nails start to wiggle loose. Occasionally I'd stub my toe (harder than usual) and the pain would make me howl out loud.

Soon enough, the trail flattened out a bit and I was approaching the last aid station at mile 93. But what's this? A set of lights behind me? They were perhaps a quarter mile back and despite my best efforts, gaining fast. I tried to drop them by blowing through the aid station but they continued to close. I'm not sure I can run like this for another 7 miles. Hammering down slopes I would have only cautiously walked a few miles earlier, I felt like I was redlining, and I continued to bleed ground. They're catching you too fast, just let them have it. But still I ran, even when I could hear footfalls close behind me and saw my shadow stretching out ahead from someone else's headlamp. A few flooded sections of trail came up and I didn't bother looking for a dry way to cross, I just splashed through carelessly. And then the we hit an uphill. I flew up it faster than I'd run any hill all day and the lights finally began to fade a little. Rounding a slight blind corner, I shut all my lights off, playing tricks and trying to convince my pursuer that I was farther ahead of them than I really was. It seemed to work until I tripped on a log and landed on my face. I fall a lot, but I don't remember ever getting dirt in my mouth before this. No time to worry about that, I got got back on my feet and was soon spit out of the woods and onto the final mile of pavement with no one else in sight. There was a strong moon to see by, I kept running hard with the lights out until I hit the finish line at the Homestead in Midway where my wife and family were waiting for me.

Success!

22 hours 45 minutes and eighth place on one of the hardest mountain hundred milers in the country; a result that I could have hardly dreamed of a day earlier. About two minutes later, ninth place came in and we congratulated each on other on putting up a good fight.

After a good night's sleep, I came back to the finish area to cheer the remaining finishers in. My good friends David and Norm both finished and completed a summer long series of hundred milers known as the Grand Slam. I was happy for then both.

With all that behind me, and a few days to reflect, I have to say that Wasatch has become my favorite course so far. While the Hundred Mile Wilderness was more difficult, it'll be hard for any race to make up for Wasatch's scenery, and the sheer pleasure of running for miles on open ridgeline singletrack. That being said, I sent in my Hardrock Hundred application today...

100 Mile Wilderness Run - Maine Appalachian Trail

2011-08-07T12:49:00.036-04:00

The One Hundred Mile Wilderness; a name like that is seductive to a person like me. So, when I was invited to take part in an informal run on this remote section of the Appalachian Trail in northern Maine, I jumped at the chance.

The plan was depart from Abol Bridge at the foot of Mount Katahdin and run south for 100 miles to the town of Monson. While the term "wilderness" gets loosely used here, the area is quite isolated; we'd see no pavement of buildings aside from a handful of primitive backpacker shelters. Our support crew would use the private logging roads that criss-cross the area so we could be resupplied (and kept track of) every 20 - 15 miles. Looking back now, I underestimated the difficulty of this run and my time goals were... optimistic. Coming off a strong summer of mountain running, I figured that there was at least a chance I could pull this off in under 24 hours. In any case, I was physically and mentally prepared to slug it out for as long as necessary

From the start I teamed up with my good friend, Ryan.We'd look after each other and provide some measure of safety, as well as someone to bitch to. Misery loves company, and I doubt either one of us could have done it alone.

A total of twelve runners started from Abol Bridge at 5 am, just as it was first getting light out. The trail was fairly easy, with decent footing and only mild elevation gain and we were able to cruise along at a 5 mile per hour pace that felt comfortable.

The trail wound it's way through mossy forests and over Rainbow Ledges.

There were a few outlooks from ponds and ledges, but we didn't get any views, as the humidity was high and the visibility low.

Just as we began to encounter our first hikers of the day, I felt a bug land on the back of my head, followed by a sharp stinging sensation. Swatting frantically, I let out a string of choice words which made the backpackers look at me a little funny. I haven't been sting by a bee in years, but was left with a painful welt to remind me what it felt like for the next few hours.

We reached our first checkpoint at Pollywog Gorge (mile 20) around 9 am. Things were going smoothly, except for my crew almost being run off the road by a logging truck. It's understood that these are private roads and that logging trucks have the right of way, but blitzing around a blind corner on the wrong side of the road is a bit reckless.

Photo: Ian Parlin

Next, we went up and over Nesuntabundt Mountain, our first real climb of the day, then along a river on soggy ground and past numerous lakes and ponds. Sometimes the trail went right along the shore.

By now, it was midday, the sun was out, and things were getting hot. As we ran by Jo-Mary Lake, I stopped to soak my shirt in the water. It was very tempting to go for a swim.

We hit checkpoint #2 at Jo-Mary Road (mile 41) a bit before 2 pm. After climbing over Boardman Mountain, we had a few minor river crossings to contend with.

The first 50 miles or so were a mixed bag of footing. Some sections were easy...

and some were a bit more difficult.

One of the many backpacker shelters we passed along the way.

We reached checkpoint #3, Logan Brook Road (mile 55), a bit after 6 pm. From there, it was up and over Mount Whitecap with the sun setting, then a rocky ridge run and back into the trees just as darkness fell.

After a wide, knee-deep river crossing we reached our crew again at Gulf Hagas, checkpoint #4, at 10:30 pm (mile 70). By now we were beginning to feel the miles we'd covered and we indulged in a longer than normal break to change into dry shoes and have some hot food. At this point I surrendered my camera, which I never remembered to retrieve once it got light out again. Looking at the map and elevation profile, it seemed all the remaining climbs were moderate and the hardest section was behind us. Oh, how wrong we were!

The next 15 mile leg would take us over 7 hours to complete and it would be daylight before we saw our support again. Here, we traversed the Chairback-Barren range on some of the the most rugged terrain I've ever tried to "run". The trail seemed to meander around in search of every bump on the ridge, while never really making any substantial forward progress. When the trail wasn't going up rocky, rooty ledges, it went through shoe sucking mud. To add to all this, we were both feeling the effects of sleep deprivation. While waiting for Ryan to take care of some issues, I shut off my lights to look up at the stars. For a moment I forgot how grueling things were and felt a profound appreciation for what were doing. It was a warm summer night, the weather was clear, the stars were out, and... I dozed off on my feet. Eventually the sun came up as we were making our way down the mountain to our fifth and final check point, Long Pond Stream (mile 85) at about 6:30 am.

The last 15 miles were no give away and we walked nearly all of them. Working our way up a climb that would have felt trivial the day before, I noticed a fun-size Milky Way bar on the ground, still in its wrapper. Without a second thought, I picked it up and devoured it. It was delicious. On and on, across a set of railroad tracks, another knee deep river crossing, and past more ledges and ponds. I had been hallucinating for some time now - not the trippy psychedelic kind, but I almost jumped out of my skin every time there was a root in the trail that looked vaguely like a big snake.

Eventually, we ran into Kristina, Ryan's girlfriend, who had come out looking for us, and we knew we were almost done.

With the sound of cars on the highway in the distance, we even managed to run a little bit.

And before we knew it, we had finished. Our final time was 30 hours, 48 minutes, and 30 seconds.

Some well-deserved rest.

In the end, only two other runners of the original twelve made it the whole distance. One came in about at 37 hours, and another in 42. My congratulations to both of them.

This was my fifth successful 100 mile run, and easily the hardest. I'm sure that someone will someday set a faster time, 24 hours isn't out of the question for an elite runner, but I think I've had my fill. I'm grateful to have had the chance for such an adventure and someday I hope to come back in a more leisurely style, ideally as part of a walk from Georgia to Maine. Special thanks to Miriam and Kristina for supporting us. It sounds like they had almost as much of an adventure as we did. And I also want to express my gratitude to Emma and Ian Parlin for their efforts in putting this whole thing together. It's an experience I'll remember for the rest of my life.

Pemi Loop - 6/19/2011

2011-06-20T05:39:00.012-04:00

The Pemi Loop is a 31 mile enchainment of hiking trails that circumnavigates the Pemigewasset Wilderness in New Hampshire's White Mountains. Some consider it a three to four day backpack, while others complete it in substantially less time. With 9,000 feet of elevation gain and heinous footing, the Loop is a popular test piece for New England mountain runners and hikers.

I've completed the Loop five times over the last five years, with times ranging from 14 hours to 8 hours. Summer, winter, fast and slow - I like it all. Lately, my running abilities seem to have exploded; nearly every race I enter is better than the last one. Nearly every "reach goal" I set for myself is achieved. With that in mind, I decided to run Pemi Loop number six as an all out-out race effort - leave nothing on the table. I figured that this would get me into the low 7 hour range and breaking the 6:47 "fastest known time" was a fantasy. I respect those who've come before me, bit it seemed a bit too audacious to announce any intentions of competing with their times, so I largely kept any record setting ambitions to myself.

At the Lincoln Woods footbridge I stood around for a little bit, I was nervous and had to take a few minutes to gather myself. When my watch said 7:50 I started my GPS and my wrist watch, stepped on to the bridge and started running. The Wilderness Trail is flat and easy and I was able to maintain a 7-8 minute mile pace all the way to the Bondcliff Trail, which I reached in 35:25. From here, the trail mostly takes a gradual uphill with a few stream crossings before steepening higher up. One thing I knew I could do better than on previous runs here was to jog all the shallow uphills. Often, rocky technical footing makes these sections mentally difficult to run, despite their grade. But if I focus on jogging instead of hiking them, there's much time to be saved.

I broke out above treeline to clear skies and a stiff breeze, reaching the Bondcliff summit at 1:37:29. My main strength in mountain running is technical downhills and it felt good to stretch my legs a bit on a gorgeous section of trail before resuming the uphill grind to Mount Bond. Over the top and down the other side brought me to the Twinway junction with 2:12:58 on the clock. From here, much of the trail to South Twin Mountain is runnable and I made sure to keep my effort level up. I reached South Twin's summit at 2:36:13 and then bombed the steep and rough descent to Galehead Hut, arriving at 2:50:09.

I refilled my two liter water bladder in the hut and unpacked a fresh gel flask with only a couple minutes wasted. I knew that I was in a very good position for a strong total time but the hardest section, Garfield Ridge Trail, was ahead. The initial downhills went very fast and I was pleased to find relatively dry trail conditions. On the uphills though, my hamstrings began to twitch and cramp. It was pretty humid and I was sweating alot, with salt starting to feel gritty on my face. I quickly took some more electrolyte pills and was able to fend off any severe cramping. Garfield's summit arrived at 3:46:41.

My time over to Lafayette was a bit slow as I struggled up the steep slabs that lead to the summit, arriving at 4:47:41. Fortunately, I had all the major climbs behind me and I got some physical and mental rest running above treeline on the Franconia Ridge Trail. No matter how many times I go through this place, I still get a boost from the commanding views. I reached Little Haystack in 5:09:11 and dropped back into the trees. Here, my pack began to feel awfully light as I had very little water left.

Late in an intense running effort, my mind tends to get fuzzy and I have a hard time doing math in my head; I became convinced that it was going to take me several hours under the best conditions to get to the end. I felt like I would be lucky to finish in under 8 hours which, combined with some urinary troubles, severely disheartened me. I let my mental discipline slip and began walking on flat sections and shallow uphills that I could have run. Liberty Springs Junction came at 5:39:20 and on the way down Mount Liberty my water ran dry.

I finally reached the top of Mount Flume at 5:58:53. My time was looking a bit better but I thought sub-7 hours was out of reach even though I only had downhill left. My mouth was dry and parched but I bombed down the Osseo Trail knowing that the faster I went, the sooner I could get water. The descent down this trail is the main reason I prefer to do the Pemi Loop counter clockwise, once it joins an old logging road the grade and footing are perfect. It feels almost effortless to go fast here, I just move my legs as fast as I can and let gravity do all the work. Lucky for me, my wife was on her way down from Mounts Flume and Liberty and I took some unplanned support from her in the form of a few gulps of her water.

Much sooner than I expected, the trail began to flatten out. The next thing I knew, I was back to the Wilderness Trail and my watch said about 6:35. Wait... what!? I was under the impression that the Fastest Known Time for this loop was set by Jan Wellford at 6:43. Though that seemed out of reach, I knew I could come close with only a mile of flat trail remaining. I didn't try any heroic efforts on the homestretch and I crossed the footbridge, stopping both watches when my feet hit dirt on the far side. My GPS said 6:46:08 and my watch said 6:46:10. Since I accidentally hit the stop/start button on the GPS at one point, I decided the slightly slower time was most accurate.

It was only on the car ride home that I looked up the previous record time. Last year Jan Wellford ran the opposite direction and got a 6:47:04. I cut less than a minute off that time. Also worth noting is that this is less than half the time my first Pemi-Loop took me back in 2005.

Race Report: 2011 Massanutten Mountain Trails 100

2011-05-16T21:31:00.004-04:00

The goals are always different, but the process remains the same...

This time, the goal was to cover one of the burlier hundred mile courses in less than a day. In a race where 25-50% of the field routinely fails to finish, and sub-24 hours is almost exclusively the domain of the top ten, this is no mean feat. For me, it would mean cutting at least 5 hours and 30+ finishing slots off last year's performance.

Hopes and dreams by themselves are not enough, so I began to train. Nearly 1000 miles of running since the new year, including races, back-to-back long runs, and seeking out the most brutal terrain accessible to me, left me as well prepared for any race I've ever done. Hours were spent making and adjusting a race schedule based on the splits of sub-24 finishers from last year. I fine tuned every aspect of my aid station strategy and nutrition plan. Since the moment I won the race-entry lottery, Massanutten crossed my mind at least once every single day. This may qualify as an obsession, because I never tired of sticking to the plan and every training run was tackled with enthusiasm, no matter the weather or my tired legs.

Twelve tiresome hours of navigating the from one end of the BOS-WASH megalopolis to the other got Miriam and I to the starting line in Fort Valley, Virginia. The day was finally here and I was ready, well trained, and injury free.

We started in the dark at 4 am, running across a field and up several miles of dirt road. My pace seemed fast enough and sustainable, but I couldn't help but notice how many headlamps stretched out ahead of me. Dozens of them. I reminded myself to ignore them and to do my own thing; they'll run their race and I'll run mine. I power-hiked up Short Mountain and ran across the ridge top, sometimes struggling to stay on the trail in the dark and heavy fog. It had rained the night before and conditions were extremely humid; all the foliage was dripping wet and I was soon soaked to the skin. I descended from the ridge with a group of four or five runners all going a similar pace and we arrived at the Edinburg Gap aid station right on time.

Miriam supplied me with a new water bladder, a fresh gel flask and a good luck kiss before sending me on my way. Feeling good, I worked my up and across the next ridge, through Powell's Fort and onto my favorite part of the course, a long gradual descent through a leafy green tunnel into Caroline Furnace.

Shortly after this, I began to hit a rough patch. Experiencing some mild nausea and concerned that I had not peed in a while, I upped my water intake pretty rapidly. I seemed to be sweating a lot, but wasn't experiencing any cramping, so I cut back on my salt-tablets in the hope that I'd stop retaining water and allow my body to flush some the ultrarunning nasties out of my bloodstream. Despite this, the water just seemed to stagnate and slosh around in my stomach. By the time I made it to an aid station, Indian Grave, I think, I was feeling terrible and accepted the volunteers' invitation to sit down and rest for a few minutes. I downed a cup of ginger ale and promptly vomited up the contents of my stomach onto the ground. The aid workers were very helpful and seemed to understand exactly what was going on. Within minutes I was back on my feet and feeling much better. Now armed with the knowledge that sodium depletion doesn't just cause cramps, it can also shut down your digestive system, I began taking more salt-tablets was able to continue on chasing my goal. The volunteers at this station may just have saved my race, and for that, I owe them.

Last year I arrived at Camp Roosevelt at dusk with blistered feet and limped out alone in the dark. This year there were hours to spare, my feet felt great, and I had a pacer. John, a complete stranger, responded on the VHTRC website to my pacer request and would help keep me moving for the rest of the race. I was certainly happy to have his help and we spent the next few hours getting to know each other, a welcome way to pass the time.

Rolling through the aid station at Gap Creek, we were still almost exactly on schedule. Up next was Jawbone and Kern's Ridge, one of the tougher parts of the course, and I was pleased to be in a position to do this part of the course before the sun went down. All of the abrupt twists and turns, ups and downs, and boulder hopping were far easier to do in daylight. As a bonus, we got some excellent views of the surrounding countryside as well as Bird knob up ahead.

I had some chicken noodle soup, my favorite, at Visitor Center and then were on our way up Bird Knob. By now it was completely dark and we found our way through the boulderfield here by headlamp and flashlight. Despite a difficult and swampy descent that felt very very slow, we arrived at Picnic Area with a bit of time to spare. My planning was working out, but I was also beginning to tire mentally and physically. My left achilles was making running difficult and, as it got later and later, I got very quiet. John did really well dealing with me and was attentive and helpful at all times. When I didn't want to talk, he let me just focus on chugging along. I didn't have a lot to say, but it was always comforting to have his headlamp beam behind me and hear his words of encouragement.

Both last year and this year, the most difficult part for me was the steep and muddy climb between Picnic Area and Gap Creek II. This section doesn't really stand out on the elevation profile of the course, but it has taxed me like no other area. In places, the grade was so steep I felt like I was going to stall out and fall over with every step. Unlike other notorious parts of the course like Short Mountain, Jawbone, Kern's, and Bird Knob, this part doesn't have a name that I'm aware of. It deserves one.

After much suffering, we crested the top and began the long downhill road back to Gap Creek, the last aid station. Because you pass through this station twice, we encountered quite a few other runners here and things were quite busy. After Gap Creek, the course re-climbs Jawbone before splitting off toward the finish. I remember passing other runners, knowing I was over a full marathon-distance ahead of them, and being vaguely embarrassed because my shirt stank of ammonia and BO. It was so foul, they might have able to smell me coming. On the way up Jawbone I passed Gary Knipling, a 14 time MMT finisher who offered kind words of encouragement that helped keep me moving strong up the last climb.

Once we were over the top it was, quite literally, all downhill from here. It began to rain and after a few miles of slippery trail we were dropped out onto the final road section with enough time in the bank that I could walk to the finish and still break 24 hours. Just as we exited the trail head and I was feeling sorely tempted to just mosey the rest of the way, a headlamp and a solo runner appeared right behind me. John and I just exchanged a look and took off running. I was currently in 9th place and didn't really feel like dropping down, not on the homestretch. I'm glad the other runner showed up when he did, because it kept me honest and I ran hard for every remaining step. It was an exhilarating feeling, running under headlamp in the rain in the wee hours of the morning, at a pace more appropriate for a short lunch break run than the finishing miles of a hundred.

Within sight of the finish I realized that this was the moment I'd prepared for for six months. It was finally a reality; I was going to run Massanutten in under a day and finish feeling strong. I enjoyed the sensation for the next few seconds before crossing the line in 23 hours and 17 minutes.

As with all my races, I owe a lot to the people who helped me along the way. My wife, the race volunteers, my fellow runners, and especially my pacer. I'm not sure if I could have done it without their help and for that I'm grateful.

All photos by Miriam Wilcox. the rest can be found here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/hockeycrew/sets/72157626613297143/with/5727944635/

TARC Spring Classic 50K.

2011-04-18T08:06:00.027-04:00

Race Report: TARC Spring Classic 50K - Weston, MA - 4/23/2011

It's been three years since I ran my first ultramarathon, the 2008 Pineland Farms 50K. Despite the leaps and bounds I've made in running since then, my 50K personal best has stood at my original time of 5:34, mostly because I hadn't bothered to run another comparable race. In the last six months I've demolished my personal marathon, 50 mile, and 100 mile records - the time seemed right to bring my 50K record in line. Half the fun of racing, besides the intrinsic pleasure I get from pushing myself with friends, is the satisfaction of continuous improvement. I've found this to be the the case whether I was trying to run 10 miles for the first time ever, qualifying for the Boston Marathon, or pushing for a new 100 mile PR.

Being in the midst of a heavy training schedule for admittedly ambitious goals at the upcoming Massanutten 100, I can use any excuse for a structured long weekend training run. The Trail Animals Running Club (TARC) Spring Classic fit my schedule perfectly and let me scratch a couple itches at once...

Forty five degrees and overcast seems like pretty good weather for a trail race, not too hot and not too cold, but it's also supposed to rain today. As soon as that starts I know that ground conditions on the loop course we're running will deteriorate pretty quickly.

With five loops of roughly 6.54 miles in length, the course is a bit longer than 50k, but I'm told it's almost entirely flat and should make a great place for a personal best. I've decided to approach this race less like an ultra and more like an extended marathon. Instead of taking my time and saving energy, I intend to run every single step of this race. Hard. My fantasy goal is to break the four hour barrier, a tall order to be sure, but plausible given my 3:06 marathon time from last fall. I need lap times of 48 minutes or better to accomplish this.

There are several other races being held at the same time, from 10 to 50 kilometers, depending on how many loops you want to do. The 10K-ers are sent off early at 8:00 am while everyone else gets to leave at 8:15. For the first mile of so of the race this makes things a bit difficult to get a read on, somehow I'm running at the head of a pack of about a dozen people and I know that many of them are not going nearly as far today. I've never lead a race before and it's a good feeling, but when a handful of people pass me it's easy to let them go and focus on my own race. The goal today is to establish a strong 50K time - any finishing position is a bonus.

The course is indeed quite flat, except for one notable hill that's fairly steep. There's lots of winding single track with a pine needle footbed that's quite fast, it reminds me of the Rocky Raccoon course. However, to keep things interesting, there are several rocky and swampy sections that are not so easy. Mud is not too difficult to deal with, and rocks are manageable by themselves, but when combined things can get pretty tricky. There are plenty of places to

slip off a mud slicked rock and into puddle or stream crossing or ankle busting hole.

It's right around the first of these rough sections that I begin to catch the back of the 10K pack. A few of them are trying to very slowly pick their way around the sides of a muddy rock garden. I'm in a hurry so I blaze right through the center, working hard to tip-toe on the rocks without losing momentum. When I can spare the breath, I offer encouragement and "nice work" comments to those I'm passing. Positive comments have helped me since I first starting running, especially from the faster folks, so I try give people a boost when I can.

Lap 1 goes down in an even 47 minutes. As we head out for our second loop, I comment to my friend Ryan that we're just barely holding on to a 4-hour pace but if we work together and pace each other we might be able to sustain it. At this speed we're covering a mile in less than seven and a half minutes. I comment to Ryan that Ian Sharmin held this same pace for 100 miles to win this year's Rocky Raccoon 100 in under thirteen hours. I feel like we're insane trying to match that over a third of the distance. Ludicrous speed!

We complete lap 2 in 49:50, or 1:36:30 for about a half marathon, and are now 30 seconds behind schedule. With margins so tight, I'm appreciating my race strategy of a hydration pack and gel flask. I'm have everything I need to complete the race without stopping for any aid, saving a few minutes and precious momentum. As it turns out, the 2 liters of water and 6 GU packets are exactly enough to get me through all five laps.

Lap 3 passes by in 47:30, we've made a 30 second deposit back into the time bank, but now Ryan and I are both struggling. The field has begun to thin out as the 10K-ers and half marathon runners finish, and we've left many of the other distance runners behind. I know there's at least one person ahead of us, but I'm not concerning myself with him. It starts to rain and I'm glad I'm wearing a long sleeve shirt. I was hot on the first lap, but pretty comfortable now. Ryan has to stop and tie his shoe; I yell back at him to catch me, I need his help, but I don't end up seeing him again until the finish.

I complete lap 4 alone in 51:15, 26.16 miles in 3:15:25 overall. This is less than 9 minutes off my best marathon performance on a dry road. I don't really have the presence of mind to take note of anything but the fact my lap time has slipped badly. The rain has intensified to a downpour and things are getting sloppy. Normally a Brooks Cascadia man, I've chosen a pair of New Balance MT101s for this race; a mixed blessing. These shoes are feather light, easy to run fast

in, and I'm appreciating how well they drain water, but the shallow tread pattern is making things difficult. I nearly fall on my face on the one hill of the loop. Grabbing a tree I haul myself out of the pudding mud and keep going, this will be the only time I break from a running stride for the entire race.

By now I'm all alone, no one in front and no one visible behind. My only company are people who I'm lapping, some of them for the second time. I pass by a course worker who informs me that the only guy in front of me has dropped out and I'm now in first place. This lifts my spirits a great deal and I work even harder to keep my speed up. My legs are feeling like lead and the weather has gotten horrendous. There's a nasty chill trying to creep into my body from my saturated shirt and I'm sure that if I slow down I'll start shivering in short order. Making a fist, I can squeeze the water out of my fleece gloves, they're so wet. The swamps, puddles and streams are no longer a concern, I can't really get any wetter, it makes more sense to just run straight through them now. Why bother trying to step on rocks and logs that I might fall off of anyway?

Despite what feels like my fastest lap, I'm bleeding time pretty badly and it quickly becomes clear that sub-four hours won't be happening today. Still, I crank up my MP3 player and keep up an honest sprint for the last mile to the finish. Every section of trail seems to have gotten much longer than I remember from previous laps, but eventually I burst out of the woods and hammer across a field to the finish.

That's it. I've won with a final time of 4:07:51. There's no ribbon to break and only a few people hanging out in the rain. I didn't get my goal time, and to keep things in perspective I only won because several of the local speedsters weren't at this race, but it still feels damn good. I can't complain about lowering my 50K record, and I'm sure I'll try for an official sub-4 again.

Unofficially, however, the numbers tell a slightly different story. 4:07:51 over the official 32.7 mile distance works out to 7:35 per mile average pace. That same speed over 50 kilometers works out to 3:55:37, so had the course actually been 50k, I would have comfortably gotten a time starting with a 3. I'm not going to complain, I'll just have to run harder next time.

Race Report: Rocky Raccoon 100 - 2/5/2011

2011-02-07T20:08:00.050-05:00

"How fast can I run a hundred miles under ideal conditions?"

That was the question I wanted to answer when I entered the 2011 Rocky Raccoon 100 Mile Endurance Run. Because no two courses are truly equal, hundred mile finishing times vary wildly from event to event. Normally, the more mountainous and scenic ultramarathons capture my imagination the most, but Rocky appealed to me on a different level. With 5 loops of 20 miles each on gentle, soft terrain, this race is billed as being "built for speed and comfort". The loop course would make it easy to run without a support crew, the location was accessible from a major airport, and I had never been to Texas. Combined, this all made this off season race perfect for a casual three day weekend trip; fly on Friday, race on Saturday, fly home on Sunday and stagger into work on Monday morning.

The race got even more interesting when I discovered that several heavy-hitters in the world of ultrarunning would be competing. Anton Krupicka, Scott Jurek, Karl Meltzer, Hal Koerner, and several others would all be attending; making for one of the more competitive 100s in the country this year. Being a loop course with many two-way sections, I'd get to share the course with many people I admire, as well a front row seat on the action at the front of the pack.

Joining me on this adventure were my friends Rob and Larisa, both running their first hundred miler. Our trip to Texas was a bit of a nail-biter, with a fluke ice storm disrupting air travel and causing major pile-ups on the highway outside Houston. Fortunately, luck was with us this weekend; all the major obstacles were cleared up just before our arrival and we made it on time. Others entrants were not so lucky and I heard of racers being stranded at airports across the country, ultimately missing out on the race.

Once in Huntsville, we discovered that Sam Houston is big in the area, figuratively and literally, with an enourmous statue by the highway as well as his name on everything from parking garages to a nearby national forest.

While 'gators may exist in the park, I didn't get to see any. I was also hoping to encounter an armadillo but I guess they all had better things to do this weekend, though did see one raccoon scurrying around.

At the start we all shivered together in the pre-dawn darkness. Temperatures were in the mid 20s and a dusting of snow still coated the ground. This wasn't quite what I expected when planning a February run in Texas but my New Hampshire winter training had me well prepared for these conditions. As usual, my mileage numbers weren't quite what I would have liked, but on the bright side I was well rested and injury free.

At 6:00 AM we were off and running. Early on, I struggled with my pace; torn between blowing off some pent-up energy and holding back for later. In the end, I just did what I normally do and settled into whatever speed seemed comfortable, allowing people to pass me and trying to stay within myself.

The course did indeed turn out to be quite smooth and soft, with minimal elevation changes, but there were roots protruding from the trail just often enough that they could catch you off guard. I watched one girl do a full-on face plant within the first mile. Even with my technical trail running experience, I still managed to stub my toe painfully every few miles, though I never tripped. One other course challenge came from the many wooden bridges still covered in a thin layer packed snow. Though not treacherous, the slippery planks could easily send you sprawling if you weren't paying attention.

I was surprised to reach the Dam Road aid station at mile 6 in exactly one hour; ten minute miles seemed like a pretty fast pace to sustain. By now the sun was up and the temperature was beginning to rise, but I'd spent enough time in the cold to have ice form on my beard. Despite my best efforts to back off, I still hadn't slowed down by the time I reached mile 12 in 2 hours. The first loop went by in 3:12, for an average pace of 9:36 per mile, but I was feeling good and decided to just go with it.

By the time I started the second loop, temperatures were creeping into the 40s and I decided to trade my long sleeves and tights for shorts and a singlet. I remember the first few miles of this loop being pure ecstasy; the sun was out, temperatures were comfortable, I felt very strong, and life was just generally good all around. I spent much of this loop running with a new friend, Brad, from Boston. An accomplished triathlete, this would be his first 100, and he was doing quite well. We traded stories, opinions on races and compared training notes. He did seem a bit surprised by my relatively low training mileage. Again, despite my best efforts, I was still moving very fast and finished this loop in 3:22.

Loop three was not much slower at 3:34. Though I was steadily and intentionally shedding speed, I was still afraid that I was going too fast and setting myself up for a crash later. My goal at the outset was to finish in under 20 hours, something that proved to be a bit too ambitious at Vermont 100 and left me with a stinging DNF from the summer. While confident that I could keep up this pace, I was also acutely aware that I'd had a similar feeling for the first 80 miles of Vermont. Was I fit and mentally tough enough to go even faster? Should I be conservative and ensure a 20 hour finish here, or continue on the same path and try to get an even faster time? In the end, I decided to say the course and keep running hard as long as I could.

Near the end of my third lap I was passed by Ian Sharmin, who went on to win the race and destroy the course record in a time of 12:45. This works out to an average pace of 7:38 per mile. That's my normal pace for a 5 mile lunch break run. Incredible. Not knowing who he was, I was left wondering who the hell just passed me going so damn fast.

Loop 4 was the hardest for me mentally. With 40 miles to go, my quads were already feeling beat up and my hip flexors were sore. I still wanted to run as much as possible, but with so few hills to provide natural walking breaks, it wasn't as easy to rotate between different muscle groups as on a hillier course. Heading out on this loop, I saw Scott Jurek in street clothes at the first aid station. Apparently he'd had some problems and was forced to drop from the race. I got a nice boost of enthusiasm when he offered me some words of encouragement as I passed by. It was on the Dam Road Loop where I was lapped by Anton Krupicka, followed closely by Hal Koerner. Both of these elites looked like they weren't under any stress at all and quickly disappeared ahead of me. With 8 miles left in the loop it grew dark enough that I needed my headlamp again and the temperatures began to drop. I came in to the start/finish area for the second to last time with 3:57 for the loop.

As I headed out for the last time, Rob and Larisa came in from their third loop. I was happy for them as they were both looking strong and I knew they would finish well. Departing this time I was glad to be back in long sleeves, a hat, and gloves as the night time temperatures dropped back into the low thirties and I tend to get more vulnerable to the cold when I've been out for so long. I was also enjoying the success of my revised nutrition plan. For a few years I've been struggling with blood sugar crashes in ultras. This time around, I was consuming as many easily processable calories as my stomach could handle, over 250 per hour. As a rule, I was going through 6 GUs, 1 pack of GU Chomps, and one bottle of Clip 2 per lap in addition to soup and pizza I got from the aid stations occasionally. While there were times that I thought my stomach might rebel, I think this level of intake is what I need to keep from bonking. My energy levels remained high throughout the race and I was limited more by muscle fatigue and soreness than by feelings of exhaustion.

Joining me for much of the last lap was a friend I knew from an online forum, Devin from Houston. We'd been posting to the same message board for a couple years, and it was nice to finally meet and spend some time with him in person. He was running his fourth lap while I was on my fifth and our pace matched up pretty well until I had to leave him behind while he took care of some things at an aid station.

Soon enough I had only a few miles left to go and didn't have to worry about conserving energy any more. I ran as much as I could and, despite the fact that I'd covered these trails sections four times already, I was feeling so good that I was sorry to be leaving them so soon. This entire race was fun and I didn't want it to be over. Rounding the corner for the finish, I did my best sprint down the homestretch to cross the line in 18:26 for 17th place overall. And that answers the question I asked of myself, "how fast can I run a hundred miles under ideal conditions" - just under eighteen and half hours. As always, there's room for improvement, but I'm content with that for now.

One of the cooler buckles out there.

Overall, I'm quite pleased with how well things went. I set a new 100 mile personal record by over five hours and placed in the top 20, despite having a very strong field to compete with. After a few hours of napping, I got back up in time to see Rob and Larisa finish just after dawn. The trip was a success for us all and I know we're already planning our next 100 mile adventures. While laying on the ground at the finish in my sleeping bag, I found out that my name was on the list of lottery winners to run this year's Wasatch Front 100 in Utah. With Massanutten coming up in May and Wasatch in September, I've got big things to prepare for and that's just the way I like it.

Madison Gulf Ice - 12/18/2010

2011-01-09T19:08:00.014-05:00

It was mid-December and our options felt limited. Frankenstein Cliff and all the other usual crags were in marginal condition and neither one of us felt like dealing with the crowds in Huntington Ravine. Then Courtney suggested Madison Gulf. With five miles and 4000 vertical feet to cover on the approach, we could count on having the place to ourselves and, with its decent altitude, the Gulf seemed like a safe bet to find some fat ice. So, without a guide book or recent conditions report we set out on the Valley Way to have an adventure.

Now we're getting somewhere:

A shoulder of Mount Adams comes into view:

Mount Madison catches the morning sun:

A brisk day to be above treeline:

Madison Gulf Trail plunges off the edge:

Photo by Courtney Ley

Downward through unbroken snow, this trail sees sparse use in the winter:

Photo by Courtney Ley

The ice comes into view to our right:

Photo by Courtney Ley

The entry fee:

Photo by Courtney Ley

Almost there:

Wildcat and Carter Notch to the East:

Courtney leads the first pitch:

With many options, we're able choose a line to suit our desired difficulty:

Photo by Courtney Ley

Some easy terrain:

Photo by Courtney Ley

As well as some moderately steep stuff:

Photo by Courtney Ley

View over to Mount Madison:

Photo by Courtney Ley

Some dork at the last anchor:

The walk off at the top takes you through this. Don't forget to put your hood up!

Finally home free on the Buttress Trail:

Photo by Courtney Ley

Winter Presidential Traverse - In a Day -12/30/2010

2011-01-05T07:54:00.037-05:00

For quite some time the Presidential Traverse has occupied a special place in my mind. Looming large from the first time I heard about it, the traverse has been the scene of several pivotal moments in the course of my life - not the least of which being my first daylight meeting of my future wife on Mount Adams in 2005. As with many other achievements, completing such a long route once seemed like a reach goal. It was the reason I first started running on a regular basis.

While I still kick around the Whites quite a bit, one stone that had been left unturned for me was traveling the ridge in winter. For a while I bought into the traditionalist school of thought that multiple days would be required and that the going would be slow and heavily laden. Like so much other dogma, I've discarded this notion. Under the right circumstances of weather, experience, and fitness, a single day winter traverse is quite doable at an acceptable risk level. When I briefly mentioned to someone that I'd left out a few items to lighten my pack, I was met with predictable disapproval. I've been thinking about the risks I take for some time and I'd like to lay out my thoughts on them in more detail in a future post.

Anyway... On the second to last day of 2010 I found myself departing Appalachia on the Valley Way trail at six in the morning. It was still quite dark as we worked our way steadily upwards under a clear sky. The headlamp behind me was held up by my vastly more talented friend, Farmer. Though our goal was a traverse all the way to Mount Jackson, this was only a part of a much more ambitious multi-day adventure for him.

Our pace was brisk and we reached Madison Hut more quickly than I ever have before, though too late to catch the sunrise. Conditions were relatively warm, the skies were very clear, and the wind quite light. With Farmer a bit ahead of me, I dropped my pack at the hut and hurried to catch up. A 20 mile per hour breeze kept things fresh on Madison's summit; these would the highest winds we'd feel all day.

Washington and Adams from Mount Madison:

The normally rough and rocky slopes were filled in with firm snow and our return trip to the hut went much more smoothly than it does in summer. Earlier that week, winds in excess of 140 miles per hour had stripped nearly all the loose snow from the alpine zone and sent it into the collecting valleys below. What remained in most places was a firm styrofoam-like surface that made for very favorable travel conditions. However, in lee areas where the topography was sheltered from the prevailing northwest winds, we had to contend with deep and unconsolidated drifts. This slowed our progress to Mount Adams but was overcome soon enough.

Just below Adams' summit, we switched our snowshoes out for Kahtoola Microspikes. These minimalist traction devices worked quite well, being lighter and much less cumbersome than crampons.

Madison from Mount Adams:

Next stop, Mount Jefferson:

Farmer heading for sunlight on the slopes of Jefferson:

Approaching Mount Jefferson, we opted to contour around to shallower slopes on the northwest side rather than contend with the steeper pitches that the trail follows. Normally we'd stay on the trail above treeline, but with snow covering everything we were free to take whatever route we thought best. The summit came and went rather quickly and Farmer was able to pull away and put some distance on me on Monticello Lawn. Due to a combination of different fitness levels and an oncoming cold, I spent the rest of the day lallygagging behind.

Looking back toward Jefferson from the slopes of Mount Clay:

I worked my way alone up Mount Washington for my first time on the actual summit in about a year. Though I spend a lot of time within a mile of the top, I've developed a preference for avoiding the circus. Today, there were only a few people to be seen but I still didn't stay long. With ideal weather holding I worked my way in a semi-direct line down to Lakes of the Clouds Hut. There were a few steep, hard snow slopes to cross that were mildly sketchy in the Microspikes, but good French technique foot placements got me safely by without any drama.

Mountains into the distance:

The Southern Presidentials. The remainder of our route follows the crest of the ridge over Mounts Monroe, Eisenhower, and Pierce. Lakes of the Clouds Hut is visible right of center.

Seeing as Farmer was a bit pressed for time, the conditions were excellent and the hardest part of the Traverse was behind us, I had no problem with him jetting on ahead at his own pace. This left me free to move at my own speed and was probably better for both of us.

Looking back to Washington from Mount Pierce.

Upon reaching Mount Pierce, I decided that I'd had enough for the day so, while Farmer went on to bag Mount Jackson, I took the easy way down on the Crawford Path. Reaching Route 302 at 2:52 PM gave me an elapsed time of 8:52, my fastest Presisdential Traverse yet. I still have yet to really run a strong summer Traverse and I'm very much looking forward to that this coming year.

First Ice 2010/11 Season

2010-12-01T06:45:00.006-05:00

Photo by Courtney Ley

Resuming an activity after a long break is always puts me through a range of emotions. After many months without ice climbing (or motorcycling, or trad climbing, or whatever), I find myself a bit hesitant to start back up again. Not only do I feel rusty, but the time away allows me to inflate the dangers in my own mind. Fear of avalanches and falling ice, inattentive drivers, and cams zippering out of the rock grow out of proportion until I wonder why I ever did that activity in the first place. Nightmares makes this feel quite vivid at times.

I start out by going through the motions: packing my gear, walking up the trail, and racking up - anything to procrastinate a little longer. Maybe, I think, if I drag my feet enough the weather will get worse and I'll be able to save face and weasel out of this without having to admit to being such a pussy. This is where a good partner comes in - some reinforce this fear and make it easier to find an excuse - others have no mercy. Given my natural level of caution, the latter is usually just what I need. When the moment of truth comes I say, "yep, looks good to me - let's do it."

It takes a few feet of climbing before the elvis-leg starts to go away. A bit higher, I've placed a few screws and the urge to down climb with my tail between my legs is steadily fading. Each swing feels solid, I look at things more rationally, and realize how much damn fun this is. By the top I'm building an anchor and fighting through the painful rush of blood back into my cold hands. Circulation isn't the only thing coming back, and I'm now looking forward to my best season of ice climbing yet.

M-M-Marathon

2010-11-03T20:35:00.011-04:00

In the interest of being a little bit more versatile as runner, I took it upon myself to run a road marathon last year. I figured that for someone who's run 100 trail miles in a single day, a respectable time on 26.2 miles of road should be no sweat. Somewhere around mile 18, when I found myself bent over a guard rail and retching rather vocally, it dawned on me that I might have gone out a little too hard. It might have been a good idea to eat something as well, because running a 7 minute/mile pace for 3 hours will make your energy reserves run dry a lot faster than 3 hours at a 12 minute/mile pace will. After staggering to the finish in 3 hours and 45 minutes, a drooling mess, I knew I had a score to settle.

Road races, as opposed to trail, are supposed to for a needier sort of runner - the kind of person who wears a heart rate monitor and compression socks and jogs in place at traffic lights, or so I thought. Yet, somehow a mere marathon got the best of me. To salvage some of my honor, I promptly signed up for a second marathon held 7 days later and ran the exact same time, within 30 seconds. Despite pulling this off with only a week of recovery time, I still didn't feel quite right...

Fast forward to Halloween of this year and I'm waiting to start the Cape Cod Marathon, the same race I crashed and burned at last year. Coming off a strong Vermont 50 finish as well as a month of fast road training, I felt pretty good about my chances of laying down a fast time. My goal was to qualify for the Boston Marathon which is not an easy task. A male runner under 35 years old needs to do better than 3:10:59. While this is a fairly lofty standard, I've heard you need to be in the top 8% or so, I think it's still a fair and obtainable minimum. It just takes work.

As with most road races, I felt a little out of place. This time I was at least wearing road-shoes, even if they were McDonald's colored. Everyone else looked fresh and neatly groomed - I'm growing out my hair and was sporting a healthy case of bed-head. No stretching or warming up for me. Soon enough the cannon was fired and we were on our way.

I'll spare the blow by blow of this race but, suffice to say, I ran a solid race from start to finish. The halfway mark went by in 1:29 and I began reeling in many of the people who had passed me early on. Much of the race I was completely alone. At one point I couldn't see anyone ahead of or behind me and experienced a brief moment of panic when I though I might have spaced out and lost the course. The last few miles were tough, as they tend to be, but I held off a few challengers in the homestretch to finish in 3:06:18. With a 7:07 minute/mile average pace, I was quite pleased.

While I now feel good about my marathon time, each race always leads to another, and I'm wondering if breaking 3 hours is in the cards for me. Perhaps with a more training and a flatter course I could pull it off, but that will have to wait until next near.

Colorado - August 2010

2010-10-08T08:05:00.011-04:00

I'm in love with American West. One by one, over the last few years, I've been slowly ticking off each state. Rather than a simple over-and- done-with checklist, I feel like I've barely touched on each in my brief vacation-time-limited visits. This year I got to spend some time in Colorado and do a little exploring.

Our first stop was Rocky Mountain National Park. While the park doesn't have a huge concentration of high peaks, it is very accessible from the Denver area (a quick escape!) and provides an opportunity for visitors of all ambition levels to see the mountains.

Shown below is a tourist road that brings you as high as 12,000 feet. It cuts through alpine tundra where, even in August, the snow cornices of winter haven't completely melted. It also includes the requisite visitor center and gift shop, which I have mixed feelings about given the location.

Beyond the RV and tour bus staples of cheap trinket hawkers, scenic turnouts and interpretive nature trails, the park has a very dense concentration of accessible alpine climbing. Unfortunately, climbing was not in the cards for me on this trip.

We did, however, get in some light hiking on Long's Peak. Catching a sunrise like this requires an alpine start.

Later on, an approaching thunderstorm turned us around before we got too far. After a harrowing experience with lightning above treeline earlier this summer, I didn't feel like pushing my luck. Of course, once we had reversed course and gone back far enough to be committed to going down, things began to clear up. Weather patterns here are not the same as in New England.

The thunder didn't seem to bother the ptarmigan too much, though.

On our way down we stopped to scope out the fabled wall of the Diamond, in all its glory. Big wall climbing at 14,000 feet.

Back in nearby Estes Park, mule deer in an intersection resulted in a solid 20 minutes of pandemonium. I haven't decided which is more erratic, a rental ca traffic jam or a herd of semi-skittish wildlife. It was damn fun to watch from the deck of a nearby Mexican restaurant, though.

Our next stop was in Leadville where we got to check out an old ghost town near Hagerman Pass. This place was once known as Douglass City, where immigrant railroad workers were housed. Read the sign below for a description of some of the Wild West stuff that went on here.

There's not a whole lot left of the place beyond some collapsing cabins and iron bits strewn about.

A ways uphill from the ghost town was the old Hagerman Tunnel. "DANGER DON'T ENTER"...

...so of course I did, being such a rebellious free-spirit and all (or something). There was a three foot layer of ice coating the floor of the tunnel, which I thought was really cool. Not having a headlamp, I didn't go any farther than the partial collapse up ahead.

The next day we took a rather long drive to the Black Canyon of the Gunnison. To get here you drive through miles upon miles of cow-country, with no forewarning that such a huge gash in the earth is lurking somewhere up ahead. This place was nice and mellow for a national park, with no concessions and minimal development. It's also one of the more legendary climbing destinations in the U.S.

There are some pretty cool view locations in the Black Canyon that let you get right up to the edge for a peek into the bottom.

Then it was back to Leadville, where I joined up with buddy Nate for a little run up Mt. Sherman, my first Fourteener. Our route followed an old abandoned transmission line up a loose gully.

After some huffing and puffing in the altitude, we gained a ridge where the views improved.

Looking back toward the city of Leadville, at 10,200 feet it's the highest city in America.

View from the summit.

Later on, Nate and I made another run - this time up over Hope Pass on the Leadville Trail 100 course. Nate went on to finish that race in under 23 hours later in the week.

Along the way we discovered an old ruined cabin and I just had to investigate.

A bit further, we begin to break out above treeline for some sweet running on alpine single track.

Finally, we reached the top of Hope Pass and were rewarded with the view from the top.

While the scenery is gorgeous, if you're going to take it all in from your car, please remember to stay in the right hand lane. Perhaps this explains all the left-lane campers on the highway here.

Remember kids, "drive right, pass left". It's not that hard.

Though our trip seemed short, I got enough of a taste of Colorado to know that I'll be back, probably not for Leadville, but the HardRock 100 in the San Juan Range has a persistent hold on my imagination right now...

Salt Lake City - August 2010

2010-10-08T07:51:00.005-04:00

Back in August I got the chance to go to a trade show in Salt Lake City. Going through my pictures today, I though some of them should see the light of day.

Rain clouds in the Wasatch Range just outside of town.

A beautiful place.

Some sort of atmospheric effect going on with the light here.

The most intense colors I've ever see in a rainbow.

I took an early morning run into the hills on the edge of the city.

The trail I followed goes along the rolling terrain in the picture all the the way to the hill in the center. It looked a lot closer than it really was.

Looking back, I got a pretty good view of the city and the Salt Lake.

I came all the way from downtown.

The view into the Wasatch from my hill. The Wasatch Front Endurance Run is held out there. A return trip might be in order.

Back in town, I took a side trip past the Mormon Temple.

2010 Vermont 50

2010-09-30T08:08:00.006-04:00

Last weekend further solidified the Vermont 50 as my favorite race. The course is challenging yet fast, and it has miles of my favorite kind of trail; twisty mountain bike single track. The location is excellent, with gorgeous scenery and the late September date makes for beautiful foliage and ideal running temperatures.

I wore a GPS this time around, to get a good map and elevation profile of the course. I think some of the tightly winding sections of trail under tree-cover may have confused it a bit, as I came up about 1.5 miles short by the time I hit the finish. I trust Course Director Zeke Zucker's measurements more than my own, however.

Going into the race, I felt like it was time to redeem some past failures - Failure to start the race last year, a DNF at mile 95 of this year's Vermont 100, and a pacing performance at Leadville that I can't say I'm proud of. I have last year's VT50 race shirt, as well as this year's VT100 race shirt sitting in my drawer at home and I don't feel comfortable enough to wear either one. If there was ever a time to lay down a solid performance, this was it. With plenty of time to recover, a solid 2 month block of training, and no injuries, I was feeling as strong as I ever have.

I took a spot near the front of the line for the start and quickly found myself on the heels of the lead pack. With 5 miles or so of easy road to start the race, I knew I could bank some significant time. The risk of going out too fast seemed low, as I've been running fast 5 milers at lunch during the work week and I've gotten to the point where they take very little energy out of me. I did have to let my experience and better judgment take over once we began to hit the hills and focus on my own pace as other people passed me frequently. Still, I ran all but the steepest of hills throughout the race. While it was tempting to try to keep up with others, especially new friends I was enjoying conversation with, I had to let them go.

There were a few notable spots along the way that helped me keep my motivation up. The first of these was a small section of trail that's shared with some of the later miles of the Vermont 100. There's one particular section where the trail goes by a small pond, past a gate, and along a woods road. It was here, a few months ago that I was reduced to a hobbling, blubbering mess just before dropping from the Vermont 100. I felt a hell of a lot better this time and revisiting the same spot only made me more determined to make up for that failure.

The second spot was in a particularly winding section of trail that goes through a house's back yard. Right out by the trail was cooler, with a sign saying "for runners only" that contained glorious beer. At first glance, there were only a few cans of Bud Lite remaining, but my eyes caught a glimpse of a familiar bottle cap sticking out from the ice; Long Trail Blackbeary Wheat, my favorite. I downed half the bottle in a matter seconds and thought about taking the whole thing with me, but decided to leave the rest for someone else. With so little beer left, only runners who hustle would get one today.

For this race I opted to go much lighter than usual and to try some fine tuning of my nutrition strategy. Instead of a waist-pack, I carried only a single water bottle in my hand and I wore a pair of hand-me-down basketball shorts with large pockets that allowed me to carry 8 gels at a time. This provided a noticeable freedom over the larger loads I've carried in the past. Having suffered from persistent blood-sugar problems in other races, I decided to up my gel intake. It used to be 1 Gu every 60 minutes, then 45 minutes, and with this race, every 30. While my teeth felt disgusting, I never bonked and my energy level was consistently high from start to finish. At aid stations, I only took water, filling up my bottle as quickly as possible. This time around I didn't browse the food table at all, I was in too much of a hurry. At handler stations, Miriam and I performed a fast bottle and gel exchange with less than 30 seconds wasted.

Stopping for aid makes me so ANGRY! I'm not sure what prompted this facial expression.

For footwear I wore my trusty Brooks Cascadias, though I may have kept them laced a little too loosely as I suffered from toe-bang throughout the race. I didn't get any blisters, but two of my toenails are turning black. Other than that, they performed superbly whether we were running steep downhill trail, or pounding out stretches of dirt road. As much as the whole minimalism trend is fashionable among running shoes, and I agree with much of the thinking behind it, my relatively heavy Cascadias continue to get me through races.

With only 5 miles to go, I found myself in a very strong position, and I began to see that an 8 hour finish was within reach. Many of the people who had looked so fresh when they passed me early on were now looking a little worse for wear. I smelled blood in the water and kicked it up a notch, picking them off one by one. I left them a few words of encouragement, but then did my best to leave them behind.

The last few miles were tough. Despite my best efforts, I had to walk some of the final hills, all while watching my watch tick closer to the 8 hour mark. Just as it was looking like I might not make it, the course made its final downhill turn and I was able to blast to the finish as fast as my legs would carry me.

Final time: 7:56:35, a new personal best for the 50 mile distance by over a half hour, as well as a new PR on the the VT50 course by over 90 minutes. This works out to an average pace of 9:31 minutes per mile. Thinking back, had I used a more leisurely aid station strategy I might not have gotten a time starting with a 7. Also, as an unexpected bonus, I somehow managed to win the men's 20-29 age group. Looking at the results, I pulled this off only by passing a handful of other people my age in the last few miles. For my trouble I was awarded a plaque and a jar of honey, the first prizes I've ever truly won.

While there was no mud, the course was very dusty. My stolen, I mean borrowed, gaiters worked wonderfully for keeping my feet clean.

At this point I'd like to think that I've fully redeemed my most recent shortcomings. With recovery going well, I'm psyched up and trying to decided what to do next.

Tired but happy family showed up just in time to see me finish.

AMC Huts Traverse 7/3/2010

2010-07-04T12:05:00.024-04:00

In the White Mountain National Forest of New Hampshire the Appalachian Mountain Club operates a chain of eight mountain refuges known as huts. They extend from East to West across the highest parts of the range including the famous Mount Washington Massif and the Franconia Ridge and are situated roughly "a day's hike apart". Dating back to the 1930s it has been a traditional challenge for strong AMC Croo members to enchain all the huts into a single monster day hike in under 24 hours. With roughly 50 miles and 15,000 feet of elevation gain over extremely rugged terrain, the traverse has also become a fun challenge for hikers looking for something beyond the Presidential Traverse and Pemi-Loop.

When I first heard about the Huts Traverse I was just beginning my hiking career and I had almost no way to fathom what it really meant. Traveling that far, that fast seemed inconceivable to the point where I wrote it off as something I would never subject myself to. As time went on and I got stronger and more experienced, I began to wonder. The turning point came with a vote of confidence from someone experienced in these sorts of things that I both admire and respect, though it would take a few years and false starts before I finally got around to attempting the traverse for myself.

I've been debating whether to post a report of the traverse for some time, but ultimately decided to because I've been unable to find a complete published account of a summer Huts Traverse anywhere and it's something I would enjoy reading if someone else did it.

At 12:15 AM I finished my final preparations and set off alone in the dark at a leisurely pace up the Nineteen Mile Brook Trail to Carter Notch Hut. I was equipped very lightly with the following items:

Gregory Stimulus hydration pack with a 2 liter water bladder
GoLite hand-held bottle with Succeed Clip2 sports drink
Brooks Cascadia 3 trail running shoes
synthetic material running shorts and t-shirt
Drymax socks
Wild Things Epic wind shirt
Dirty Girl gaiters
lycra arm sleeves
wool skull cap
LED headlamp
1 bagel and about a dozen gels
a handful of electrolyte tablets
digital point-and-shoot camera

I borrowed the gaiters... They're not mine! I swear!

My past experiences have shown me that this is all I need to for this sort occasion. I never was cold enough that I required my wind shirt or hat and my plan for an unforcasted weather change was to simply bail down one of the many side trails and hitchhike back to the car.

I arrived to a dark and quiet Carter Notch Hut where I topped up my fluids, and rested with my light off for a few minutes. Judging by the squeaking and scurrying noises around me, the hut seems to have a sizable rodent population.

Just before 2:00 am I stepped outside and stood looking up at the stars and moon through a partly cloudy sky. The hulking dark masses of Carter Dome and the Wildcats bracketed me on either side. At 2 on the dot I started my watch timer, stepped away from the door and jogged down the trail back toward route 16. The trail wassomewhat rocky but descended at a moderate grade and I was able to make good time by running most of it. 45 minutes later I ran past my car at the trail head and took off down the centerline of the deserted highway.

The Great Gulf Trail came quickly and I took it to the Osgood Trail which runs steeply up to Mount Madison. The night time critters were out and I saw a lot of big toads hopping around on the trail. Many of the rocks were covered in slugs and I accidentally smashed one with the palm of my hand while clambering over a boulder. Gross.

Breaking out above tree line I got a wonderful view of the lights of Goreham. The Eastern horizon began to lighten and turn red while the birds began to tweet as they do at dawn. There was a bit of a breeze but I was able to stay comfortable with just my arm sleeves which are very warm considering their size and weight. On a bit of an impulse I opted to take the Parapet trail, bypassing the summit cone of Mount Madison. The popular advice I heard was the the Parapet is so rough that the extra 500 vertical feet over Madison's summit is worth while. I didn't find the trail too bad at all and, after exploring the over-the-top variation last weekend, I'm firmly convinced that the Parapet is the faster way to go.

I arrived at Madison Springs hut in 3:01, at 5:01 AM according to the time stamp from my camera, signed the guest log, refilled my water and stowed my headlamp before quickly heading out the door on the Gulfside Trail.

By now it was fully light out and I made quick progress past Mount Adams, Jefferson, Clay and Washington, bypassing each summit.

I was particularly impressed with the Westside Trail, which I'd never been on before. At a mostly level grade, the footing better than nearly any other trail in the Presidential range.

As I descended Mount Washington I began to see other hikers, the first of many I'd see on this holiday beautiful weekend. I made it to Lakes of the Clouds Hut from Madison in 2:10 at 7:11 AM where I again signed in and refilled. The Croo was busy giving their morning spiel to the guests and paid me no mind. Gone as quickly as I came, I jogged down the Crawford Path past the summits of Madison, Franklin and Eisenhower. I didn't feel bad bypassing the summit loops as my goal today was huts, not summits, and I've been to each many times before.

Two and a half hours later, after passing over the top of Mount Pierce, I arrived at Mitzpah Hut at 8:31 in the morning. One of the croo members noticed my entry in the log and congratulated me on my fast pace so far. We talked about the traverse for a few minutes, he told me he was planning one of his own for Monday, before he wished me good luck and I was on my way again. The Mitzpah Cutoff quickly deposited me back on the Crawford Path where I began to run into a bit more traffic. Fortunately, every encounter was mutually polite, a pattern that mercifully held true for the entire day. Running a bit too fast over one rough section of trail I stubbed my toe pretty hard which threw me off balance. Trying to catch myself I accidentally kicked my ankle with other other foot before toppling headfirst into a dead tree on the side of the trail. Its branches snapped off against my rib cage and made a crashing sound which I found rather comical. Laughing a bit to myself, I gathered my water bottle and hat from the ground, before resuming my descent at a more moderated pace.

Once at Crawford Notch I retrieved my roadside stash of food and dry socks out of the bushes. I took a minor breather here, re-lubing my feet and eating a granola bar before remembering to check the time. It was 9:18 in the morning, or ~7 hours elapsed. Not bad for a Presi Traverse (minus summits, plus Mitzpah Hut).

Avalon to the A-Z trail was where things began to fall apart a bit. Distance-wise, this was the halfway point of my trek. However, I found that hard part was just getting started. I'd been on the A-Z trail a few times before, but it seemed to have gotten much steeper since my last visit and I struggled a bit with heat of the day now making its presence felt. I sweat like a slob and felt a little woozy with the beginnings of a bonk coming on. After cresting the Willey Range and heading back downhill, I still made slow progress as the trail here was very muddy and overgrown. What runnable sections there were, I struggled to take advantage of. At one point I made a minor misstep and was rewarded with an unexpected dunk into a stream. So much for dry feet. My only comfort was knowing that I'd been through this before, low spots are just a part of all day exertions and I can wait them out.

At 11:07 I arrived at Zealand Hut to a very accommodating member of the croo. He provided me with lemonade and offered me my choice of any of the snacks they had. Other than the water and lemonade, I stuck to my own supplies. The Twinway turned out to be another trail that was more rugged that I remembered and I began to think that with the Garfield Ridge coming up, the second half of this traverse must be the more difficult of the two; not what I anticipated while planning.

The brief open sections on Guyot and South Twin offered a refreshing breeze despite the lack of shade and I made my way down to Galehead Hut at 1:55 PM. This section was a bit of a time-eater but I was still making very good progress. Next up: the infamous Garfield Ridge. It was here where I began to have minor hallucinations. Nothing crazy, mind you. No talking to non-existent people or anything, but I was 100% convinced that I saw yellow lab in the trail in front of me. I stared at it for a minute then shook my head and blinked. When I looked again, there was only a tree stump. I suppose 3 hours of sleep will do that do you. I've never had my eyes play tricks on me quite so well in all my races. Nonetheless, I still felt fully competent and was beginning to get some of my mojo back.

Garfield Ridge never feels easy, but I've traveled it enough times in the last couple years to know exactly how many more hills I have to go over before reaching Garfield and Lafayette. The pointless ups and downs aren't so discouraging when they're expected. Soon enough I had powered up the long climb to treeline on Lafayette and was at the Skookumchuck Trail junction. I stopped for a moment to call my wife and let her know that I was going to finish and that I would need a ride soon.

From Lafayette's summit, looking back where I came from on the far horizon...

...and where I'm going. Lonesome Lake Hut is on the pond in the center of the picture.:

Lafayette's summit was as busy as you would expect for a holiday weekend but I was able to easily weave my way through the crowds on the trail. At Greenleaf Hut at 5:53 I ate my last gel, downed my last electrolyte tablets and plunged down the Old Bridle Path. I knew that if I pushed I might make it to Lonesome Lake in under 17 Hours, which would be almost on par with the times of some heavy hitters that have run the traverse in recent years. While I had to be very careful in a few places, I found the path quite runnable and I was at the trail head in no time.

I crossed through the tunnel under I93 and nearly sprinted across the parking lot to the Lonesome Lake trail head. With the temperatures once again back to comfortable evening levels I was able to push hard up the trail, despite my aching legs. 17 hours was drawing close and I wanted to finish badly. I finally crested the top of the trail at the lake and began to run the boardwalks around the shoreline with the hut in sight. Dodging a few muddy spots, I got to the last uphill and ran up the door where I could finally stop my watch at 6:48 PM and sit down. 16:48:10, I'd done it!

Shortly thereafter my wife, Miriam, arrived with my dog. The croo all gave me their congratulations and, after the guests had been served dinner, plied me with leftover turkey pot pie, rice, and peas. After 17 hours of gels, I fairly devoured that, as well a turkey sandwich Miriam had brought me.

I lounged around on the porch for a bit, reflecting on all the wonderful places I'd been in one day. Rather than a senseless blitz, this run made me appreciate these mountains even more. I feel immensely fortunate to have such a wonderful place virtually in my back yard.

China - May 2010

2010-06-25T07:58:00.036-04:00

This spring I was presented with a rather abrupt opportunity to spend two weeks in China for work. I of course jumped at the chance. Despite having been to foreign and exotic places like Canada, I wasn't so sure how things would go for me. After all, I'd be disoriented in a place that doesn't even use an alphabet that I'm familiar with. Fortunately for me, I was able to manage just fine with the assistance of many helpful people and the trip largely went off without a hitch. There were times when I loved it, and times when I was quite ready to leave. Even after having been home for a month, I'm still digesting the experience and I suspect I will for some time.

After a 15 hour flight over the Arctic, my traveling partner and I arrived in Hong Kong. While we immediately left the city for our other more pressing destinations, I got the impression that it was a beautiful place. This is the only picture I got, as we left the city in a hired minivan.

Upon waking the next day, I decided to venture out into the streets on my own for an early morning run. I largely had the place to myself.

There were some familiar things to encounter right away...

And some not so familiar.

Most cities I went to had wide open public places with interesting artwork.

This was a nearly constant sight; new construction was everywhere I looked.

They're usually building large apartment and office buildings like this.

The streets and highways were deserted in the morning...

Which was a bit of a contrast to later in the day. Chinese traffic and driving habits are never dull.

This was the main street in a smaller town that I visited. German luxury cars shared the road with scooters and strange farm truck contraptions.

Chinese industry has frequently been noted for copying other designs. This BYD looks an awful lot like a Toyota Corolla. You can even buy a Toyota badge right at the dealership, should you wish to complete the impression.

Many of the Taxis I saw were Volkswagen Jettas. This particular body style was last sold in the U.S. in the early 90s. I want one.

Motorbikes and scooter are very popular modes of transportation. This is an employee parking area at a factory.

Various forms of motorbike are used to transport nearly everything. Here, we have a recycling delivery. The cardboard, not the person.

Luckily there are many signs to assist hapless foreigners in their travels.

I was going to send a loogie onto the subway platform until I saw this one.

Traveling from place to place, there were always cool things to look at. Some of them were natural...

...and some of them were not. The smog was terrible at times.

A cool monument of some sort.

One of the more adventurous things I got to do was try new foods. Would you care for a pickled snake?

Or perhaps some octopus. This guy was particularly good.

I'm not sure what these are. Some sort of sea worm?

Apparently they also serve dinosaur.

While waiting in a bus station, I tried a local version of an American snack. Despite the cool looking dude on the front, the chips were terrible.

These shrimp crackers, on the other hand, were alright.

Should you wish for a taste of home, there are many familiar fast food joints.

Some even have a fleet of bicycles ready to deliver!

Or perhaps your tastes run a little more local.

In one city we got to walk around at a really nice local park.

There were many pathways through the bamboo.

Many of them had rather intricate stone work.

We were able to catch a bit of a view of the city from a hill top.

While waiting one of my flights to take off I was able to count 25 cranes out my window. There should be 9 in just this picture.

Traveling between cities we passed this enormous power plant. Those smoke stacks are well over 500 feet tall.

At one point we took a ferry and went by this cargo container terminal.

The last city on our trip was Shanghai. We spent some time at night on a river walk known as the Bund. The view across the river was spectacular.

Our side of the river was equipped with light-up waterfalls and search lights.

The riverbank in the other direction.

This is the Peace Hotel, a Western building left over from colonial times.

The boats light up too.

Even the old-style ones.

Space needles and gigantic bat buildings: they just go together.

Walking a bit further down the Bund...

...we ran across this monument of sorts.

I'm not sure what the specifics of it are...

...but I suspect it was a tribute to the communist revolution.

One of the few explicit signs of communism that remember encountering in China.

Looking up from directly beneath the monument was pretty cool too.

On the last day of the trip we visited the Shanghai Expo. It was essentially a modern day world's fair. With over 400,000 people per day visiting, the line to get in was very long.

Each country had it's own pavilion. In the interest of international peace and brotherhood, I visited Iran first.

Iran's glorious rulers.

I even bought some Iranian ice cream and had a brief but pleasant conversation with the Iranian girl who served me.

Conveniently next door was North Korea.

It was a popular place.

"Paradise for People" - nope, no gulags here.

I hoping to see a bit more propaganda.

I'm pretty sure this was Taiwan's pavilion. There was this enormous spherical television screen inside.

The United Kingdom's building was the most impressive. It's too bad that this was the best picture I was able to get. Shortly after this it started raining.

I sought shelter inside of Slovenia, which was kind of rave-like.

Too long of a line to get into Kazakhstan. No sign of Borat either.

China's exhibit was characteristically over-the-top.

Saudi Arabia came complete with palms trees and a light up camel banner.

There were elaborate sculptures nearly everywhere.

No World's Fair would be complete without a gigantic flying saucer.

On our way to the airport in Shanghai, we took an electric rickshaw to the metro station. I think the yellow sign in the upper right is telling me to watch out for someone struggling to open an umbrella.

Then we took the MagLev train to the airport. It went over 180 miles per hour, and goes even faster at other times of the day.

On the flight home I got to see Japan from 30,000 feet. It looks very mountainous.

While I did get to see about a dozen different cities in my two weeks in China, I of course only scratched the surface. This shouldn't be surprising for a country of 1.4 billion people and thousands of years of recorded history. In the end I left in much the same state as I arrived - rather confused.

Race Report: 2010 Massanutten Mountain Trails 100 Miler

2010-06-05T18:46:00.022-04:00

After running my first 100 miler last year in Vermont I slacked off. I felt like I’d reached the top. I had it made. What else was there to do? A combination of needed recovery time and self-satisfaction allowed me to coast through the rest of the summer without much in the way of running discipline. This came back to haunt me in the fall when I was taught a hard lesson in preparation at the Cape Cod Marathon.

By December, the urge to challenge myself once again began to crop up and I decided that there had been something missing from the Vermont 100. I hadn’t found everything I was looking for. One hundred milers are supposed to be grueling. You’re supposed to want to quit, or so I was told. All I’d heard about were gruesome blisters, hallucinations, and stories of triumph over agony. I expected to be tested to my very limits, to break through impossible walls of endurance. But, to be blunt, I was a little let down. I blew away every single time goal I had and, while my feet were mincemeat and the rest of my body felt like it had been worked over with a hammer, I never truly had to scrape the bottom of the barrel. Time to turn it up a notch.

I’d heard only good things about the Massanutten Mountain Trails 100 Miler in Virginia. I’d also heard it was substantially more difficult than Vermont, so I signed up. I’d be adding another 4,000 feet of cumulative elevation gain, plus another 1.8 miles of distance. Compared to the Vermont 100, I traded smooth dirt roads for ankle-rolling rocky single track and expected to be on the move through the night and well into the next day.

Still, I found myself at the starting line on race day without the same sense of fear as before. I never heard the race director say “go”, but the mob around me started to move so I just went with the flow. From the very start I hooked up with David Snipes, a Virginia local and 6 time MMT finisher. He informed me that we were now “married” and would have to stick together and look after each other for as long as possible. He’d guide me, an MMT rookie, and have the pleasure of my always-sunny disposition in return.

We covered the first few miles on a dirt road under headlamp, then turned off into the woods at Moreland Gap on our first trail section of the day. The footing here was a taste of things to come, with rocks jumbled haphazardly about the trail. They required a bit of attention to foot-placement, especially with dead leaves concealing some of the holes, but were nothing I hadn’t experienced before. We hiked up Short Mountain, which was steep and long by running standards, but moderate by hiking standards. I was a bit surprised when we arrived on the top of the ridge so quickly.

The Massanutten Mountains are a series of long, mostly smooth, ridgelines with an isolated valley in between them. Once atop Short Mountain, we ran along the top of one of these ridgelines for several miles with only minor elevation changes before a long descent back down to a road in the valley and the next aid station. This was a pattern that would become very familiar throughout the day. Snipes made an excellent tour guide, pointing out the remnants of a stone wall that was built along the ridge top under orders from George Washington to fortify the central valley against the Red Coats during the Revolutionary War.

My wife, Miriam, had traveled down to Virginia with me and was waiting at Edinburg Gap, the first crew accessible aid station. She snapped a few pictures, swapped out my empty bottles for full ones, and resupplied me with gels before we were back on our way. Miriam works hard to support me at my races and I always appreciate her help. During the course of the event, she would stay awake for 36 hours and drive over 150 miles to keep me taken care of.

Another climb and ridge run brought us through Woodstock Tower, where a powerline swath is cut through the trees. We could hear quite a racket ahead and, as it turned out, there was a helicopter buzzing around doing tree work to maintain the area around the lines. The rocks through here were a bit technical to run and I felt my legs being worked in unusual ways. I hoped I’d be able to withstand another 75 miles of this. Somewhere around five hours, thirty minutes in, we passed the marathon mark. It was 10:30 in the morning and just starting to warm up. Though the high temperature for the day would only be in the 70s, I was beginning to feel the heat. I don’t normally enjoy hot weather and the humidity made me wish I’d evolved a set of gills, though it didn’t seem to bother the locals at all. I felt the familiar sensation of a bonk coming on; the cloudy psychological state, flagging energy levels, and a general grouchiness. I’ve always written this off to a deficient nutrition plan, but I’d been eating a gel every 45 minutes without fail since the start and I now think there must be more to it. I got my usual bags under my eyes and starting staring off into space, something Dave noticed as well.

We found ourselves running a dirt road section next to the winding Shenandoah River, with little shade. Though we were able to make good time here, I hoped we’d be back on the trail and under tree cover soon. At the mile 53 aid station, Habron Gap, they had a grill set up and I scarfed down hot dogs and tater-tots as quickly as they could be set in front of me. I was starving and growing very sick of gels. Here, I ran into Bob Ayers, a familiar face from Vermont. He’d stubbed his toe pretty badly early in the race; it was swollen and red and he wasn’t sure he could make it to the next aid station before dark. Having brought a plethora of headlamps, I lent him one of mine and convinced him to at least get himself to the next aid station. He made it there, where he was pulled from the race and sent to the hospital, his toe broken in three places.

David and I arrived at Camp Roosevelt, mile 63, at dusk after having been running for over 15 hours. Here, he’d pick up a friend to pace him through the night. I intended to stick with them, not having a pacer of my own. While David ate and took a breather, I took my shoes off to take care of some developing blisters. Generally, in a race this long I keep my shoes laced rather loosely. On the rocks this had caused some blistering on the outer sides of my feet, which I felt needed to be drained. Immediately after puncturing the dead skin, I thought I’d made a colossal mistake. The dull throb of the full blisters was replaced with sharp, acute pain. It was painful to even stand. I told David that I was going to start walking and that I was sure he would catch up soon.

I hobbled out of the aid station into the dark, a bit angry at myself, but it wasn’t long before the pain in my feet began to fade. My blisters went numb, and with the evening temperatures back to a comfortable level, I actually starting feeling rather energetic. My head cleared, my muscles felt little fatigue, and I was actually enjoying myself again. I cruised through the woods at a comfortable pace, passing a group of boy scouts around a large campfire at one point. They’d figured out that a race was going on right through their campsite and they cheered me on as I flew by.

Here, things began to blur a little bit. I went up a climb known as Jawbone, then across Kern’s Ridge in the dark, reputed to be the rockiest section of course. I was slowing down to a more reasonable speed and feeling rather sleepy. Miles blended into each other and I got a bit jumpy. On top of Bird Knob I felt like I needed a short nap, so I began looking for a suitable spot to sit down and close my eyes. One rock the size of an office chair on the side of the trail looked inviting, but when I put my hand on it, it turned out to be an enormous anthill. I frantically brushed all the bugs off my arm, which woke me up for a bit, but I finally just settled on lying down on the ground in the middle of the trail for five minutes. It wasn’t very refreshing, but there were no ants, and it helped a bit.

Eventually, the sky began to lighten and I was able to put away my headlamp. I found myself walking more and more - not so much because of crippling fatigue, but because I was having a lot of stiffness in the crotch of my knees where the calves and hamstrings connect. I was also developing so healthy blister pain on both pinky toes where my feet had swollen up. I wore the same pair of Cascadias for the entire race, even though I have a half size larger pair in my aid kit. Next time I’ll have to remember to changes shoes before my feet swell up and cause additional blistering.

I arrived at the last aid station, Gap Creek II, and only had 6 miles to go. Miriam, who wanted to experience a portion of the course for herself as well as witness what the last bit of a hundred miler is like, decided to accompany me for the last few miles. We ascended slowly up and over the last climb and came out on the last section of road. By this point I knew I was going to finish well under my 30 hour goal and I decided that I didn’t really care whether my time was 28 hours or 29 hours, so I walked much of it. Had I been able to motivate myself I’m sure I would have been able to run this entire section and cut some time off. I was feeling a little out-of-sorts. My legs itched furiously and I’d suddenly lose focus and become fixated on checking myself for ticks, with only a mile to go. Looking back, this seems like a ridiculous waste of time, even though I found three of the little buggers.

We turned off the road and onto the final 0.6 mile section of trail and I looked behind me. The first runners I’d seen in over an hour we’re catching me and I was determined not to get passed on the home stretch. My focus came back and I began to run everything, even the uphills. With only a few hundred yards to go I found the pain in my legs begin to fade, as it always does, and I was able to sprint away from Miriam. The trail took a few sharp bends within sight of the finish and I was going so fast that I almost ran off into the trees. I made it through the gate and finally was able to stop. Spectators clapped and the race director shook my hand and congratulated me. My final time was 28:50, which I was more than satisfied with.

Photo by Bobby Gill

After the race, it was good to get some food and well deserved sleep before heading back to the finish area to welcome other runners in. I was particularly impressed with the very last finisher, who finally succeeded at Massanutten on her fourth attempt. Despite the fact that she finished seven hours behind me, I had to wonder if I’d have the same determination, given similar circumstances. I don’t even know her name, but I admire her strength.

With my new buckle in hand, I look back on Massanutten as a very enjoyable race but I must say, I still haven’t found that impenetrable wall I’ve been looking for. I have a few ideas for where to look next, but in the mean time I have to wonder whether it even exists.

Photo by Bobby Gill

Grand Canyon Rim-to-Rim-to-Rim Run

2010-05-04T21:31:00.018-04:00

Trip report: Grand Canyon Rim-to-Rim-to-Rim run
Date: April 25, 2010
Distance: 46 miles + ~2 miles to trailhead
Elevation gain: 11,000 feet
Elapsed time: 14:50

Below, our route generally follows the gorge in the center of the photo all the way to the horizon.

It's almost 3 am and I'm tired of waiting for my watch to alarm. I haven't slept all that well and I want to get up, but it's cold out and my sleeping bag is warm. Nate makes a little noise in his nearby tent and I know it's time. After a breakfast of coffee and oatmeal and a few last minute preparations, we jog away from our campsite in the dark. He and I share a sense of excitement; after 4 months of planning and waiting Nate and I are finally ticking another one off the life-list. We intend to savor it.

Two miles of paved bike paths bring us to a stone wall on the South Rim of the Grand Canyon. Beyond the wall in the dark lies the most famous abyss in the world. We're both wearing shorts even though it's 28 degrees out, but occasional warm drafts breathe out of the canyon, letting us know we won't be cold for long. With a little bit of starlight we can make out some of the featured terrain ahead of us and a dim speck of light marks our destination on the North Rim 10 miles away in a direct line. Lacking wings, our route, will take us 9 miles and over 5000 vertical feet down the Bright Angel Trail to the Colorado River, then another 14 miles and 6000 vertical feet up the North Kaibab Trail. From there we'll turn around and run it all again on the return trip, all in the same day. Nate and I are both well prepared for this adventure, with countless training miles and dozens of challenging mountain ultramarathons under our belt.

Do not, under any circumstances, attempt to hike from the rim to the river and back in a single day. ;-) I'm tired already.

At almost exactly 4 am we pass though a break in the rim wall and start our run down the Bright Angel Trail under headlamp. The footbed is a well worn mix of water bars, rocks, mud and the occasional mule turd that keeps us on our toes. The grade is fairly easy by New England standards as the trail switchbacks back and forth where it's carved out of a steep cliff face, even passing through an occasional tunnel.
We exchange our usual juvenile jokes and insults with each other as we make fast progress and the sheer walls grow ever higher above us.

Around 5 am we pass through Indian Garden Campground where a few people are stirring, but most are still asleep. It's just starting to get light out and we put our headlamps away. The trail levels out a bit on the Tonto Platform and with the daylight we're able to stretch our legs out a bit and really run. Everything here is foreign to us, cacti and cottonwood, sandstone and giant squirrels with tufted ears. We're constantly stopping to take pictures and point things out to each other. This is the most fun I've had in a long time. Soon the trail resumes its plummeting descent and we enter a section of switchbacks known as the Devil's Corkscrew.

We zig-zag crazily back and forth for a few miles, then bottom out in a section with a bunch of stream crossings. The water is low and we easily hop across the rocks, keeping our feet dry. Rounding a corner, we get our first sight of the mighty Colorado River. Here, it's a hundred yards wide, brown and slow moving. The river used to be more clear and fast, but that's been altered by the dams that throttle it far upstream.
We followed along the edge of the river for a few minutes until we arrive at a beautifully constructed suspension bridge.

An older gentleman with an enormous pack steps off the bridge and we jog past him on a wide section of trail. He scowls at us and quips "You win", as if we were running a race in his canyon. I feel a brief burst of anger that quickly gives way to pity. I could explain to him that I've spent plenty of time hiking and backpacking at a leisurely pace, enough to know that I like my way of doing things better, but I also suspect it would be a wasted to effort to someone set in their ways. Nate and I will enjoy our adventure through the canyon on our own terms and see it in ways this man may never conceive of. I give the grouch an over-enthusiastic smile, wish him a good day, and run away from him across the bridge.

Quickly deposited on the other side, we wind our way through Bright Angel Campground where we pause for a minute to eat and top off our water. At only 2 hours in we're feeling strong and the day is still quite cool. It will be some time before the sun rises high enough to shine directly into the depths of the canyon and really heat things up. We pass through famous Phantom Ranch and are on our way up the North Kaibab Trail along Bright Angel Creek.

From here, the trail takes a very gradual uphill grade through a narrow box canyon for the next 7 miles. It is wide and flat and we're able to maintain a steady jog. The scenery is spectacular as we're surrounded by dark towering walls on all sides. This place reminds me of the entrance to Mordor. A few miles later the walls part a bit and we're out in relatively open scrub land.

At one section we have to wade across Wall Creek, which is running a bit high. It's no use trying to keep our feet dry on this one and we carefully make our way across in shin-deep water. We can see the trail winding far ahead over many twists and turns which lead to Cottonwood Campground and shortly thereafter, Ranger Cabin.

The Ranger Cabin is nestled in a small grove of trees and is a nice spot for a brief rest. We have a 10 mile round trip to the North Rim and this will be our last water stop before the North Rim, so we're sure to fill everything up.

From this point on the trail begins to climb in earnest, another 4,000 feet in the next 5 miles. Our path leaves the creek we've been following since Phantom Ranch and switchbacks steeply up the gorge walls. On the other side of the tributary canyon we're in, water rushes out of the steep rock wall and crashes down several hundred feet to the creek below. This is Roaring Springs and it lives up to its name.

Climbing ever higher, by now the steepness of the trail has reduced us to a fast hiking pace, we pass through several sections where the trail has been blasted out of the cliff face, leaving a very steep drop-off on one side. We're careful not to stumble here.

In a few places water cascades down onto the pathway from high above and we have to walk through it. The temperature is rising and all the uphill is making us sweat, so the cool shower these spots offer is much appreciated. Standing under a small waterfall, I can hardly believe how lucky we are to be doing this.

We continue on covering lots of distance, but the canyon rim never seems to get any closer. Finally the climbing relents a little and we pass through the Supai Tunnel, before encountering our first patches snow.
The trees have changed over to ponderosa pine and I know we must be getting close.

Finally, I see the trailhead sign and I know we've reached the halfway part on our journey at the North Rim. It's about 10:30 in the morning, sunny, the temperature is hovering in the 60s, and there's almost 3 feet of snowpack on the ground. What a difference a few thousand feet of elevation makes.

We break for a few minutes, then turn around and begin our long descent back to the Colorado River. 14 miles and 5000 feet of downhill lie before us, all at a very reasonable grade, and we're both itching to stretch our legs and run. All the downhill switchbacks are a blast and we cover ground in a fraction of the time it took us to ascend. The sun is out, the scenery is breathtaking, and the running is fast. Life is good.

We know we're thrashing our quad muscles pretty thoroughly, but we won't really feel the effects until tomorrow. On our way down we pass a dispersed group of three other runners, all doing the Rim-to-Rim-to-Rim as well. It's fun to share something like this with strangers from across the country.

The 7 miles to Cottonwood goes by in a flash and we've consumed only part of our water supply, so I just refill my handheld bottle, but don't bother to top off my camelback. The 7 additional miles from here to Phantom Ranch are at a much lower elevation and this is the hottest part of the day. The open section of canyon offers little shade and the temperature must be in the 90s in the sun. We sweat and drink water rapidly to keep cool. Back at Wall Creek again, the water is very cold and it feels good to linger in the middle for a bit.

On a short uphill rise, one of my calves begins to twitch, signaling the imminent onset of a cramp that could shut down all running. I've been taking salt tablets, GU gels, and a sports drink, but my body is now forcefully telling me that it's losing electrolytes faster than I'm replacing them. I've been through this before so I start popping the salt tablets at a faster rate and I'm able to fend of the cramp before it fully materializes. An indirect result of upping my salt intake is that I'm also drinking more water and my hydration pack is starting to feel awfully light. The water in it runs dry, and shortly thereafter I'm down to a few sips in my handheld bottle. The ranch and its water spigot are a few miles away yet and I'll need to ration my remaining water. I know that if it really comes down to it I can get water out of the creek next to us, but I'd rather not.

This little guy seems quite at home.

We run the last two miles to Phantom waterless and are feeling a bit parched by the time we get there. The Ranch has a small snack bar where we buy lemonade and pretzels; very refreshing. We take almost an hour rehydrating, resting, and doing some repair work on our feet. Nate is suffering from some difficult blister problems as result of the stream crossings and the sand that has worked it's way into his shoes. My mini-gaiters have kept out the majority of debris, but I have a few developing problems of my own. It's roughly 2 in the afternoon and I know the final 9 miles out of the canyon won't be easy in the heat. Soon enough though, we've collected ourselves and are on our way.

The Colorado passes under our feet on the bridge and we give it one last look before heading up the Pipe Creek drainage for the South Rim. The flatter sections of trail are being sun baked, but we feel lucky that the steeper sections are all the shade. With the sun going down at this time of year, most of the switchbacks on Devil's Corkscrew are shielded by the high canyon walls. Nate is dealing with his foot issues and I'm still feeling a little out of sorts from the heat earlier in the day. Conversation grows more sparse between us and we both go through brief grouchy phases. Finally we stop in a shaded area and sit down on a rock. Nate and I agree to take a step back and look at things, how fortunate we are and how we should appreciate all we've accomplished so far, how we'll miss this place after the trip is over. We call this our "chill-the-hell-out" break and it goes a long way toward lifting our spirits. Once we're on the move again, things seem to go much better and we're back to laughing and joking.

The final climb to the rim is steep and we walk nearly all of it. It seems to go on for quite a long time, but soon enough we're recognizing landmarks we passed in the dark that morning.

Nearing the very top, we look back on all we've covered. I'm not really sure how to describe the feeling.

Finally, the last few switchbacks come into sight. We're running into more and more casual tourists out for a short walk, so we know the top must be close. All too soon, our adventure comes to an end.

Feeling a little beat, Nate and I opt to take a shuttle bus back to our camp rather than run like we did in the morning. We don't really need to outwardly advertise what we've just pulled off, but when the bus driver asks where we've been, the rest of the passengers gives us congratulations and bombard us with questions. Still, we smell bad enough, and my shirt is encrusted with enough dust and dried salt that nobody wants to sit too close to us.

We spent the entire next day being as lazy as possible. Nate and I are highly trained athletes, you see. We take our recovery and rehydration very seriously.

Also, our campsite got invaded by mule deer. They approached us and we had a stare down. I think I won because the deer backed down.

Nate pours a 40' out on the curb for our dead homies. Not that we have any dead homies... But if we did, we'd pour out a 40' for them.

When Nate and I first discussed the idea of the RRR back in December we agreed that we would be going out for an adventure, not a race, time be damned, and that's exactly what we made for ourselves. I'm sure we could shave hours off our time fairly easily, but that just wasn't the point this time. In fact, two days before our run, the Double Crossing was completed in less than half our time. We had everything from cold, to heat exhaustion, to dehydration, to blisters and fatigue thrown at us and we successfully dealt with it all. In terms of pure difficulty, I would rate the RRR as the hardest 50 mile run I've ever done, and that's saying something.

All told, the Grand Canyon Double Crossing blew away every expectation I ever had for it. Perhaps my standards are too high, but I find most things to be exaggerated once I actually experience them. This, however, was a most pleasant surprise and is an experience I'll remember for the rest of my life. The sheer scale of the canyon, the variety of climates, and the landscape are not something I can really describe adequately. You'll just have to experience it for yourself.

Damnation Gully

2010-01-17T12:03:00.002-05:00

The excuses are there. You could use them and no one would blame you, but you'd still feel regret. You know because you've been down that road and you'll probably travel it again at some point. But not today. Butterflies keep you on edge the night before, on the drive up, and while you lace your boots.

The doubts fade for a bit as your competitive instinct sets in. There are a handful of parties already signed in for the Ravine, some of them left shortly before you. With a little effort, you might be able to catch them and your chosen route will more likely be free. You know you have the advantage as a soloist, there's no rope to weigh you down. Shirtless in the cold, you can push harder up the hill and still arrive with dry clothing.

This is the last flat ground you'll experience for a while. The self doubt floods back as you pause to suit up. Harness goes on, mechanical trinkets adorn, crampons snap into place reassuringly. You check everything, wouldn't want any unpleasant surprises later. The avalanche danger is low and the skies are blue and clear, as expected, so there's no help there. The wind howls up high and, in person, the route looks so...big. Well, no shit, what did you expect? The name - Damnation Gully - and the fact that people have died here are almost enough to send you packing, but the urge is shelved. Feeling almost detached, you crampon your way up the steeping snow slope. I'll just have a look, there's no harm in looking.

Soon, you realize you are going more up than forward and you've transitioned to climbing. Both ice tools come out and you stab them into styrofoam snow. Being a uniform surface the outwash of the gully is easy and there's a simple, calming rhythm to moving upward on it. Rock walls close in around you in a steep slot canyon. A steady stream of ice-pebbles flows down the gully, making a funny maraca noise. The angle tips back as the first ice bulge is reached. In the sun, the frozen water is soft and plastic; hero ice. A pause and a look over the shoulder reveals only sky. To look at the ground you've already covered you have to look down, between your the boots. This is the point of no return. A fall from here would send you rocketing down the slope for several hundred feet into the rocks below, merely crippling you if you get off easy.

The world shrinks into a 15 foot bubble of focus and upward progress resumes. As if on cue, the wind gusts down the gully and buffets your body around. With two sunken ice picks you brace for a moment, your head down as spindrift and ice pellets shower you from above. A clunking sound gets louder and louder and then a loud crack dominates your senses. A hunk of ice the size of a coffee cup ricochets off your helmet and continues it's plunge down the gully. Then another, and another. While waiting it out you notice your shadow is crisply cast onto the snow, and you smile. This is what you came for, this is the real thing. The wind ebbs and you claw upward in a surge of pleasure. Ice picks are scratched around on rock until they find secure hooks, boots break through an icy crust and paddle through unconsolidated snow, but the climbing continues. The wind gusts still come intermittently, along with their rain of debris, and the pauses take their toll on strained calf muscles.

The horizon changes as you round a corner and your upward field of view is perfectly split between blue and solid white. The wind is getting louder and small puffy clouds shriek by overhead. The lip of the ravine is very close. However, it's not over yet. The abrupt transition from the flat weather-ravaged expanse of the Alpine Garden to the downward-plunging gully has done odd things to the wind. As the stream of air passes the lip, it curls back on itself in a vortex. Through the intricacies of compressible fluid dynamics, snow has been deposited at the very top of the gully, forming a cornice. The upshot of all this is that there's a five foot wall of vertical to overhanging snow guarding the top out - a very distinct demarcation of where climbing ends and walking begins. You know you can't take this obstacle head on, it likely would collapse if you asked it to hold your weight. Tunneling through it might be a possibility, but again the threat of collapse is too great. Retreat is also an unattractive option.

Looking out to the left, the cornice appears much smaller. Snow and ice, the primary mediums of your method of travel, rapidly give way to rock and moss in this direction. You move more cautiously now. Ice axes are swung gently, and even then they sometimes are rejected by rock underneath. You hook features when you can and stick your picks into frozen blobs off moss that turn out to be almost as solid as the ice itself. Now your head is high enough that you can peer over the top. To a bystander you might look like a kind of hooded, helmet-wearing gopher. One tool is placed on something hopefully solid, while you holster the other to free your hand. Palming downward on a rime-encrusted rock, you place your crampons points on tiny indentations and stand up. A single forward step deposits you back into the land of the upright and evolved.

Success! Though not a boisterous person, you allow a quick whoop only because no one else is around. No one can hear you scream. A feeling of fulfillment floods through your body, even though you're already getting back to business. Hood cinched down and ice axes stowed, you walk though the whiteout, leaning sharply into the freeway-speed wind that tries to blow you back over the edge. Though your route was of moderate difficulty, the dangers were exaggerated in your own mind, and you're keenly aware of your status as a mediocre dilettante, none of this can undermine an intense feeling of personal satisfaction. No one can take this from you.

The Prow, Cathedral Ledge

2009-12-03T18:21:00.021-05:00

It's no secret that someday I want to climb a big wall - El Capitan in Yosemite Valley, to be specific. After toying with the idea for a few years and pulling inspiration from a variety of sources, I finally managed to wrap my mind around the idea that this could really happen. So, last year I began to practice the skills that I'll need to claw my way up over a vertical half-mile of stone. After making a fool of myself in the gym in a tangle of ropes and miscellaneous mechanical trinkets, I finally began to pull together some semblence of competency. Enough to convince my friend, Lee, to do a few practice aid climbs with me over the summer.

The next step forward was to make things a little harder, so I settled on aid-soloing the Prow on Cathedral Ledge as a logical improvement. This 400 foot climb takes a fairly direct line up a prominent buttress on the highest part of the cliff. It tops out directly below the railing of the tourist overlook.

Though Lee and I climbed up the Prow together back in July, taking the climb on solo would demand an extra dimension of competency and self-sufficiency from me, plus almost tripling the amount of physical labor required. When rope-soloing, the climber passes over each inch of the route three times; once when leading up the pitch, once when rappeling back down, and a third time when ascending the rope and collecting all the gear left in place from the first trip up. This is repeated in increments of roughly 100 feet until the climber reaches the top.

I arrived at the cliff early in the morning, just after first light, and made the five minute approach to the base. Along the way I found an interesting artifact that had apparently made the long trip down from the top. You stay classy, North Conway.
Looking up at the route. The top looks so close, yet so far.
I carried roughly 40 pounds of equipment with me, including 2 ropes, an assortment of cams, nuts, carabiners and hardware, a backpack, some water, and a few other items. I used everything at least once.Though a bit wet in places, I made short work of the 5.7 first pitch. Being an aid climb, I didn't feel bound by normal rules of free-climbing style, and I liberally used my gear as artificial handholds to speed my progress. After reaching the bolted belay anchor, I fixed both my ropes and rappelled back to the ground. After exchanging goodbyes with my wife, I began to ascend my lead line and collect my gear.

Getting above the tree tops:
I took a moment to reorganize my things, drink, and switch over to self-belay mode before starting the second pitch. This one starts off with a somewhat awkward free-move onto a ledge at about chest height. From here, you can reach up, clip a bolt, and revert to aid climbing. After moving up past a few more bolts, I made slightly tricky nut placement, and then up a crack with an occasional piton in it. Passing another bolted anchor, which I skipped, I made long reach around the very edge of the Prow itself before I could pull myself onto a narrow, slimy, wet foot ledge. The first time I went up this route, I was terrified at this spot. This day, I felt casual and in control. A few moves on pitons led to two loose looking flakes, which I climbed by lassoing them with slings so as to avoid any outward force which might rip them off the wall. A narrow crack led back over the crest of the Prow and I was soon at the next belay anchor.

By this time, some free-climbers who were moving much faster had caught up to me and I was courteous and let them pass. While I rapped on my second rope, they climbed the pitch I had just led, being careful to work around my gear. Since the previous pitch had traversed a bit, rappelling directly downward left me well off to the side of my lower anchor. To get back to it I had to do a pendulum traverse where I swung myself back and forth along the wall until I built up enough momentum to reach my previous anchor. On my way back up, I had to wait a little bit for the other party to finish up, so I stopped to chat with one of them and take a few pictures.
Looking North past the Thin Air Face:
My shadowed silhouette sticking out from the edge of the Prow's shadow:
Soon, I was on my way and starting the third pitch. After leaving the belay anchor, I made an easy move onto a bolt, then saw the next one was nearly 6 feet higher, an absurdly long distance to reach. Fortunately, I was expecting this and had a plan. I clipped my harness directly to the lower bolt with a quickdraw, left both aid ladders on the lower bolt, and detached one of my daisy chains from its ladder. I stepped wayyyyyy up in my aider to the very top step, not normally used. This put the previous bolt roughly at my shins, while the quickdraw pulled down on my harness, so I could use the tension to stay fairly stable and balanced. I reach way up, stretched, and was just able to clip the bolt with my free daisy chain. Easy as pie.

From here, a shallow wet corner led up, then dead-ended, where I made a bit of a reach to the left and into the next crack. This led up into the corner below the famous triangular roof. Here, the gear placements got a little more tenuous. A few nuts, a brass-offset, and awkward movements in the corner got my to more solid gear in the roof. I breathed a sigh of relief.

Looking down:
Looking out:
This is what confidence and fearlessness looks like:
By this time, Miriam had returned and was taking pictures from the ground. I had also attracted something of an audience; I could see a small throng of people gawking up at me, alone, in the middle of the cliff.
Mir also walked up to the base and took some shots looking up:
After awkwardly surmounting the lip of the roof, I had to build a gear anchor. This creeped me out a little bit, as I had to creatively make a solid anchor with the few remaining pieces of gear I had left that would fit. With a little imagination and an excessive amount of time, I was able to make something adequate. Rapping back down over the roof left me hanging and spinning in mid air for a few feet, a little thrilling, to say the least. Jugging back up was a bit awkward when I got to the roof as I had to unweight the rope from each piece of gear before removing it. My ascending method of using a single mechanical ascender and a Gri-Gri came in handy here. I struggled up to the anchor, reorganized everything, drank the last of my water, and cast off on the last pitch.

This pitch is supposed to be pretty easy for aid climbing, but I found that it took some thought. I had left many of my most desirable pieces of gear back in the anchor, so I had to make do with what I had. Being stingy with what I left behind, there were times when my potential fall distance was a bit more than I would have liked. One cam that shifted abruptly when I weighted it brought this concern into sharp focus. Luckily, I was soon on to better gear and making rapid progress toward the top.The tree at the top grew closer and closer until I was finally able to grab it in a bear hug and heave myself on flat ground like a beached whale.
But I was not done yet, I still had to rap back down one more time to retrieve my gear. In the mean time, I had a more urgent priority and ran off into the woods to relieve myself. No peeing in a bottle today.

I borrowed a headlamp from my wife as it was getting dark and mine was 100 feet below in the bottom of my pack. The cleaning went fairly quickly, as did the climb back up. By now I felt like a well oiled machine. I finally topped out just as it got dark and gathered all my things.
My knuckles were a little worse for wear. A week later they look worse than they did 5 minutes after I finished.
A bright moon led us down the auto road without the need for headlamps and, for a short while, all was right with the world. One step closer to a big wall.

Miata Update

2009-08-31T17:28:00.003-04:00

Miata reconstruction surgery is in full swing now. I've cut away the rusted quarter panels, evaluated the damage to the frame underneath, and pronounced it fix-able. This project will involve a new paint job, so I'm taking the opportunity to fix all the little dings, dents, scratches, and holes that have been bugging me on this car for the last ten years. It's hard to believe I've owned this car for that long. I've thought about this before, but it's only now that I have the space to work. My Miata will no longer be a daily driver, subjected to the horrors of parking lots and New Hampshire winters. On the other hand, she won't be a garage queen either.My intention is to get her looking decent again, and then proceed to squeeze as much enjoyment out of this car as I possibly can.

Here's a few pictures.

Holy rusted metal, Batman!

Junk in the trunk.
So sad.

Meet Charlene

2009-08-09T09:36:00.000-04:00

It seems like almost everyone has a car guy or two in their life. The familiar story goes something like this: Father/uncle/neighbor obtains a muscle car/sports car in their youth and is the envy of those around them. They love the car, identify with it, maybe hot-rod or race it, but eventually part ways when the responsibilities of adulthood loom on the horizon. Now, years later, they lament to you how short sighted it was to sell, and how much they wish they'd kept that Mustang/GTO/MG or whatever it was.

I went through something similar. In high school I wanted a Miata in the worst way. People tried to talk me out of it.
"It's impractical, and a bad choice for a daily driver. "
"It'll be unreliable and you'd be taking your life in your hands with it in the snow."
"You'll never afford one, and if you do you'll never be able to afford the insurance."
And my favorite: "What are you, gay?"

I did my research, though, and I was able to either discredit everything negative they said, or rationalize it away in the way I used be able to do when I was 17. After scraping together money from bagging groceries and mowing lawns, I pounced on the first car I found. She was a 1990 Mazda Miata in Mariner Blue and in need of a little TLC. The top was torn, the tires were worn out, and the brakes needed some work. I had to smuggle the car home with some spare license plates because the dealer wouldn't give me temporary ones with the car being uninspectable.

I dubbed my little car Charlene, fixed a few things up, and proceeded to drive the hell out of it. It fit me perfectly; I loved the color, cruising with the top down, and even the way it seemed to wrap itself around me. It wasn't fast but damn could it handle. I installed snow tires and drove it through several winters. Never one to leave things be, I also began to tinker. Soon I had super-grippy summer tires, a roll cage, lowering springs, and some minor power mods. I also began to modify myself. I read everything I could on performance driving, took a few classes, and began racing in local autocross competitions. While I was never a true contender, I could certainly hold my own. There was a special satisfaction with being able to turn better race times than inexperienced people driving Corvettes and STIs with triple the power and ten times the expense.

Inevitably, my interest began to fade after a few years. Charlene was taken off of daily driver duty and I began to spend more time on a motorcycle. A few problems cropped up that I neglected, she got rusty, mildewy on the interior, and had problems starting. I was afraid the car was doomed for the scrapyard, but the dismal book-value kept me from parting with the car voluntarily. Charlene was and is worth too much to me personally for me to ever part with, so I stored the car and just sat tight. Then I bought a house with a garage and Charlene had a new home and I had a dry place to work.

I've decided to bite the bullet and start working on the car again, restore some of it's former glory. It won't be easy, as I want to do things the right way, and that'll involve body work and a new paint job. Lots of parts will have to be replaced, and there will be some cutting, drilling, and welding involved. It's not my intention to restore the car to any kind of show-queen, but from now on it will be garaged and driven in nice weather. I just want to get her back to respectable condition so I can do what I've always done with the car. I'm going to drive it and get as much enjoyment for as long as possible.

I've already started the body work and I may post updates as things progress.

Race Report: 2009 Vermont 100 Mile Endurance Run

2009-07-31T09:17:00.001-04:00

The Vermont One Hundred Mile Endurance Run is an ultramathon, a foot race through the hills and mountains of rural Vermont. The course is comprised of 70 miles of dirt roads, 27 miles of trails, and 3 miles of pavement. While the footing is mostly good, competitors must contend with 14,000 feet of elevation gain, heat, humidity, horse flies, and sheer distance. Most of the hills in Vermont are not very tall, but the terrain is rolling and several of the inclines are steep and sustained for miles on end. Very little of the course is on flat ground, one is almost always going up or down hill. Runners are allowed 30 hours to complete the race, and a special award is given to those who finish in under 24 hours. In 2009, 259 people started, 173 made it to the finish line, and 87 made it in under 24 hours.

Of the few dozen such races in the United States, the Vermont 100 is the only one that still includes a horse race on the same course at the same time. This is a tradition that goes back to the seminal 100 mile race, the Western States 100. In the early 70s Gordon Ansleigh was to compete in a 100 mile horse race in California. When his horse came up lame before the race, he ran the course on foot instead, and crossed the finish line in under 24 hours, planting the seeds for the modern ultramarathon. The award for finishing the Vermont 100 in under 24 hours is a belt buckle, a carryover from the sport's early roots.

A LITTLE ABOUT ME:

I'm a 27 year old mechanical engineer from New Hampshire. I'm 5' 8" tall and I weigh 160 pounds. I'm married and I have a mortgage. Though I have a small-time sponsorship from Brooks, I'm not a professional athlete by any stretch of the imagination. I have a life outside of running, and I think I look like a regular guy. I'm not tall and lanky and I don't have a six-pack.

Last year I served as a pacer for a friend who was running the Vermont 100. I kept him company and looked after him for the last 30 miles of the race as he struggled through the night to finish in just under 24 hours. Inspired by the determination he showed, and his joy on finishing, I resolved that I would run the race next year.

I ran a few 50 mile races in 2008, and took November and December off from running in order to rest and give a few nagging injuries time to heal. I wanted a clean slate to start my training on the new year. I gradually began to build my weekly mileage back up and competed in a series of three 50 mile races in a span of 5 weeks to prove to myself that I had the endurance I would need for 100 miles. I tried to focus on running smooth, consistent races, with good fueling, and strong finishes. Included in my training was a lot of hiking and running in the White Mountains to give my legs the strength they'd need for long climbs and descents. Despite all this, I went into the race not knowing what to expect. Would I have what it takes? Would weather and injuries conspire against me?

THE RACE:

I caught a ride up to Vermont with my good friend John. He's an experienced ultrarunner with a sponsorship from Long Trail Beer. We stopped at the brewery for lunch, where we picked up two cases of beer and lunch in the pub. The brewmaster was a super nice guy and even picked up our tab.

After arriving at the start-finish area we set up camp and went through a short medical check-in. A volunteer weighed me, took my blood pressure and asked a few medical history questions. A runner's weight is checked at several different point during the race to guard against severe dehydration and to monitor for possible kidney malfunction. Lose 5% of your body weight and you'll be held at the aid station while you re-hydrate. Lose 7% and you'll be pulled from the race. Similarly, if you gain too much weight, your body is assumed to be retaining water and you'll be removed.

I got a few fitful hours of sleep, interrupted by a car alarm, before crawling out of my tent in the dark and gathering with the others at the start line. The mood was energetic as people milled around while Chariots of Fire was played on the PA system. At 4:00 AM the starting gun went off and we all headed into the night, trying not to think about how much lay ahead. We jogged down a dirt road in a mob and soon were soon turned off on to a muddy Jeep track. It had rained all night and there was still some drizzle coming down, so the road was a slick greasy mess. Some people you could tell were not used to mud, as soon as a foot slipped in a direction they weren't expecting, they'd slow to a crawl and I would have to pass them by going into the bushes.

John and I stuck together for moral support for much of the first half of the race. We jogged down hills and power walked the ups, conserving our energy as best we could. The sky slowly lightened and the field began to spread out a bit, giving us a little more breathing room. We wound our way through dirt roads and small villages in the middle of nowhere. I remember an old man came out to sit on his porch and watch us all go by. We waved to him and he clapped for us.

Right around 6am the first of the horses began to catch us. They're started an hour later than the runners avoid congestion on the early part of the course. We'd hear them them clippety-clopping along behind us and we'd move to the side to let them pass. There's a mutual respect between the runners and riders for the abilities of one another, and we exchanged greetings and encouragement. I've never been much of a horse-person, but I could appreciate how beautiful some of these animals were. They had huge muscles visible underneath their skin and looked to be supported by ankles that are smaller than mine. The way then trotted by made them seem effortless.

After about 15 miles we crossed Vermont Route 4 in Taftsville and went through a long covered bridge over a quiet, smooth river. We ran along it's banks and things were peaceful until we encountered the Breather. There's a lot of strange people who run ultras, but this guy stood out a bit. He ran with his arms flailing wildly to his sides and would exhale rapidly and forcefully through his nose. He sounded like a steam engine running at full tilt and we could hear him from several hundred feet away. We'd repeatedly speed up or slow down and put him out of earshot, only to hear him coming up behind us an hour later. This got annoying pretty quickly, but I eventually lost track of him around mile 25 and didn't hear him for the rest of the race.

There are something like 30 aid stations at Vermont, with 9 of them being handler stations. At handler stations, a runner may have a crew waiting for him to assist with any needs and provide a quick resupply and moral support. I met my crew, my father and wife, for the first time at mile 21, at the Pretty House aid station. The course had been wet from the rain and dew, but things were starting to clear up, so I decided to do a shoe change. While my father refilled my water bottles and my wife replenished my supply of gels and drink mix, I quickly threw off my wet shoes and put on a dry pair with fresh socks along with some Vaseline to repel water. My feet were in good shape and I wanted to keep them that way. My crew advised me that we were roughly 4:15 into the race and ahead of schedule. Within minutes John and I were back on our feet and moving again. I grabbed a banana and a handful chips to eat on the move, though I had to carry them until we got to a hill were I could eat them while I walked.

John and I roll into Pretty House with Eric:

After the Pretty House aid station the course runs through a long series of trails. Most of them were not very difficult as far as trail running goes and I was able to maintain a steady pace. We wound up and down through mowed pathways cut through fields and climbed a long incline on the Sound of Music Hill. This hill has a field on the top and a 360 degree view of the Vermont countryside which is supposed to be breathtaking. Today, however, it was mostly overcast and we could only catch glimpses of the surrounding farmland though gaps in the clouds. Luckily for us, it had stopped raining. One of my biggest fears was that the weather forecast would be true and we'd get rain all day. At one point there was sign marking 26.2 miles, the marathon mark; I was 5:05 in by my watch.

Gettin' resupplied:

Heading out of Stage Rd.:

I was feeling good up to this point but began to have some troubles. My left shoe felt really tight on the top of my foot and it seemed be radiating pins and needles up my shin. My right IT band was acting up and I began to have difficulty running downhill on uneven ground, especially where the horses had churned things up a little bit. I carefully hobbled down and continued on my way to the next handler station, Stage Rd at mile 30, where I was careful to conceal any signs of a limp, though I did ask to take some ibuprofen with me. My pain was not at all bad, but I was worried it could develop into something worse and the last thing I needed was to externalize any doubts. I'm normally hesitant to take any medication during a race, especially one this long, since my kidneys would already be working hard to filter out the products of muscle breakdown, but I made an exception. On the long climb up the old Suicide Six ski area I took the meds and my leg began to feel better. I also loosened my shoe a bit, which eliminated the foot and shin pain, though my foot did slide around in my shoe a little. Then, I began to bonk.

Bonking was something I'd encountered many times in my 50 mile races, so I was able to recognize the signs early. My mind was cloudy, my energy level was low, and I was feeling discouraged, having physical troubles only a third of the way through the race. I now think that even though I ate lots of solid food at Stage Road, my blood sugar may have been low because I hadn't eaten a gel recently and the solid food was still digesting. I took out a Gu packet, which I normally eat roughly every 45 minutes, and within a mile was feeling much better. John said it was as quick as he'd seen me ever bounce back from a low spot. For anyone considering an ultra, this is a critical thing to be aware of. Low spots are inevitable, you simply need to recognize them and make a plan to recover, all while never stopping your forward progress.

Our next aid station was Camp 10 Bears at mile 47, and our first medical check. The sun had come out and I began to sweat profusely. It was only in the 70s, but the humidity was very high. Worried about weight loss from sweat, I took a few S-cap electrolyte tablets like I normally do throughout an ultra, and guzzled as much water as I could. We came into the aid station to cheers from everyone, and I stepped onto the medical scale while my crew took care of refilling my waist pack. How much weight would I have lost, I wondered? I turned out to be up 6 pounds from the start, which drew some concern from the medical volunteers. I was alert and feeling great though, so they let me continue on with some cautions.

John and I roll into Camp Ten Bears for the first time:

After Camp 10 Bears is a 23 mile loop with several aid stations along the way. We struggled up a steep eroded ATV trail and through a recently logged area. Old foundations and stone walls littered the area and I occupied myself by thinking about who might have lived there in the past. Some people sped up, others slowed down, and I found myself alone. I had left John behind at the last aid station as he was having trouble keeping up. We've agreed to stick together during a race as long as it's mutually beneficial, but there's no hard feelings if either one of us wants to pick up the pace.

Several sections of the course here were clearly on private land. We ran trails past "no trespassing" signs that frequently emerged behind someone's house and ran down their driveway. The race maintains good relations with over 140 private landowners in order to have special permission to be able to knit together a continuous 100 mile course with only a mile or two of repeated ground.

I arrived at Tracer Brook aid station feeling well, though my father had learned about my weight gain. He was concerned, as he had a right to be, and tried to get me to sit down and take a break. I was still feeling fine, so I refused, and pushed on through after a quick resupply. After Tracer Brook comes one of the longest uphill sections on the course on the aptly named Agony Hill Road. I steadily walked up and up for miles on the hill that seemed like it would never end. It was the hot part of the day and I was grateful when I passed by a farmhouse with a garden hose left out by the road. I sprayed myself down and felt the accumulated salt grains rinse off my face. Feeling like a new man, I continued onwards, somewhere passing the 54 mile mark, my previous distance record.

At the Margaritaville station, at mile 60 something-or-other, I ran in looking and feeling strong. Margaritaville is an easy place to get stuck as they have music, burgers, tequila, and festive volunteers, but I was in a hurry. My crew was enthusiastic to see me and helped maintain my good mood. There had been some pre-blister pain coming from my feet and figured it was time to change socks, though I kept the same shoes. I left on a good note, but I was really beginning to feel the fatigue. Running took more sustained concentration and my IT band issues were starting to come back. I took two more ibuprofen. On the longer flats and downhills I could find a rhythm to zone out on, jogging slowly and steadily, but the shorter sections interrupted by short uphills made things hard to do consistently.

Starting to look and feel tired:

I arrived back in camp 10 Bears at mile 70 where I was weighed again. It was about 7pm and we still had plenty of daylight left; I knew I was well ahead of a 24 hour schedule. I had reduced my salt intake and deliberately cut back on my fluids, hoping to get closer to my starting weight, but I still came in at 165.5 pounds. Still up, but not dangerously so, I grabbed my headlamp and my pacer, Keith, and off we went. Keith is good friend I know from the climbing world, who's also a talented marathoner and triathlete. He has his own interest in doing the Vermont 100 some day, and being a pacer is one of the best ways to preview the race.

Keith's company helped greatly and our conversation kept my spirits up. I ran more than I would have alone and he kept me from missing a few turns. Though I wasn't feeling too bad mentally, I'm often the last to know. We ran by some beautiful farm houses on a hill with views through pastures to the sun setting in the West. A group of brown cows was out in a field and they followed us on their side of the fence as we went by.

A long downhill trail section followed by winding dirt roads got us to West Winds aid station at mile 77. I've frequently been told that getting to West Winds before sundown puts you in a good position for a 24 hour finish. We got there with time to spare and I had two cups of the chicken soup this station is famous for. It's probably the cheapest powdered soup mix in the grocery store, but it tasted like heaven to me. I swilled the soup down a little too fast and it nearly came back up.

Double fistin' it:

My feet were getting sore by this point, especially on the ball of my right foot. In hindsight, it might have been a good idea to change socks and shoes again at West Winds, but I didn't. This part of the course involves long stretches of dirt road running, which I began to struggle to take advantage of. Normally I walk the hills and run the flats and the downs, but my legs were starting to be uncooperative. Keith was a godsend and kept encouraging me to run. My foot got worse and I altered my foot falls a little to lessen some of the pain. It felt a blister was developing where my toes join my foot, but there was little I thought I could do about it other than just suck it up. Darkness fell, hours passed, and a long long uphill grind led us into Bill's Barn at mile 88.6 at 11PM or so.

At Bill's there's another weigh-in, and I was still at 165.5. Still up almost 6 pounds, but holding steady. I knew that Bill's was an easy place to get stuck at, as the medical volunteers are really on the look out for any signs of disorientation or injury this late in the race. I made sure to be cheerful with them and steadily stood on the scale with no wobbling or stumbling. We got what we needed and exited the aid station as quickly as possible.

I knew that the next station where I'd see my crew was at mile 95.5 but it seemed to take forever to get there. The worst section was on Blood Hill Road, yet another steep never-ending hill. In the dark, the edges of my vision swam a little bit in the light of my headlamp and flashlight. As we ran past trees, the shadows would shift suddenly and the motion in my peripheral vision would startle me. I kept thinking there was an animal darting through the woods next to us, though I had no severe hallucinations like some people report. I did almost fall asleep a few times. One time, I was running with my head down, just looking at Keith's heels, when I closed my eyes for a second and felt my grip on my flashlight start to loosen. I quickly snapped back awake but it happened more than once.

We largely stayed in a cluster of people, leap-frogging each other. By this point I could only run for a few minutes at a time before giving in and taking a walking break. My quads were shot, my IT band flaring, and my foot screamed at me every time it hit the ground. I grew clumsy and dropped my flashlight. My legs were so stiff that I had a hard time reaching it to pick it up again. Polly's aid station finally came and my crew was slapping me on the back, they knew I had it in the bag. We'd come though the hardest part, and though our pace was slowing we still had a large time buffer on 24 hours.

I had thought before the race that I could probably run the last 4.5 miles on adrenaline alone. This wasn't true, I had to fight for every step. I could feel my blister getting huge, like a small water balloon in my shoe. My running could scarcely be called that; I'd pick my foot up an inch off the ground, swing it forward, and fall onto it. I hobbled down hills with my back arched forward and my arms flailing around to balance the weird gate I was able to manage. My uphill walk, once long powerful strides, were short and weak.

Finally, we passed the one mile to go sign. I got a little more energy and I tried to run faster but was only able to get short bursts of speed out. I swear that was the longest mile I have ever run. Just when I though we should see the finish at any time, we found my wife waiting on the side of the trail...at the .5 mile to go sign. I didn't recognize her until she spoke to me. She ran ahead to tell people I was coming, but shortly after she left I got my final wind. I could hear people cheering at the finish, the pain faded, and broke into a real run. Keith and I flew past my wife. My breathing came in ragged gasps, and then there it was. I got a little choked up, thinking about everything I'd put behind me, but I just ran harder.

Keith cried out my number to the officials at the finish and people clapped and cheered me in. And then it was over. They told me my time: 22 hours, 40 minutes, and some-odd seconds. I tried not to cry as I hugged my crew and my pacer. It was over, and we finally did it. A dream I've had for several years now was a reality. I didn't really know what to say.

I managed to hobble over to the medical tent for some food and to get my shoes off. Strangely, all my energy was gone. I'd just run 100 miles, but the next few hundred feet were a chore. After taking a seat, we took a look at my feet. The blister on the ball of my foot was larger than most cell-phones. It extended up between my big and index toes. I made my way over to a cot, intending to stay just long enough to have my feet looked at. A medical volunteer covered me in a blanket while a podiatrist lanced my mega-blister and bandaged me up. As soon as he was done I began to shiver and cramp, and was glad for the blanket. I lay there for another hour, semi-sleeping, until John came in, with his own sub-24 finish. Eventually I managed to get out of the cot with some help and hobbled very slowly to my tent. It took me 20 minutes to go 200 yards.

The buckle and race shirt:

POST-RACE:

I'm thankful to all who helped me with the greatest athletic achievement of my life. My wife for supporting me when I had doubts. My father for crewing me and for his enthusiasm. John for guidance, friendship, and trusted advice. Keith for sacrificing his weekend to make the drive to Vermont to wait for hours on end and then doing an impeccable pacing job. And all the other friends who've believed in me, suffered with me, and helped in a myriad of other ways. I couldn't have done it without all of you.

If anyone's still reading this far, there's one last point I'd like to make. I am no one special. My natural talents are limited and running 100 miles makes me no superman. This was a dream I had that took years to realize and it's the product of millions of small steps. The biggest thing that the Vermont 100 taught me is that you really can do anything you want to.

Never give up and take it one step at a time.